It would no doubt be interesting to the public to know the fortunes and the fate of one so qualified for distinction, but whose name accident alone seems to have rescued from total obscurity. His tale is simple and melancholy. He was, I believe, a native of the County Kildare, in Ireland, and had been sent over to this country early, by some of his friends, and educated as Winchester College, preparatory to his entrance in the University of Dublin. His classical attainments distinguished him when very young. The facility and elegance with which he wrote Latin verse excited admiration. With most boys it is a mechanical labour, and it is indeed absurd to make it a general practice at our schools. But the mind of Wolfe was keenly sensitive of the charms of the Augustan Age of Composition. He was such a master of Latin expression, and had so much of the spirit of the Bard in him, that his thoughts shaped themselves with a grace and vigour, like those of his native tongue, into the language of the Roman Muse. But he only wrote to comply with the forms of an examination. He had also oratorical powers in an eminent degree. His style was original, imaginative, and vigorous, and he was voted the gold medal, which was the highest honour for eloquence in the Historical Society of Trinity College—that institution which trained such as Grattan, Hood, Burgh, Curran, and Plunkett, for the contentions of public life, and which the intolerance of a Minister, and the bigotry of a Provost, conspired to destroy, to prevent the diffusion of too much liberality among the educated youth of Ireland. In the exact sciences Wolfe made the very first character in his under-graduated course. On taking his degree, he had no prospect so inviting to look to in the world as that which was likely to arise from academic promotion. His friends pressed him to secure an independence by reading for a fellowship. No doubt was entertained that a moderate period of steady industry would carry him with eclat through the very severe examination which the candidate for that office must undergo in the College of Dublin, where the course extends to every branch of moral and mathematical science. He commenced his studies, and gave them for some time the intense application which is absolutely requisite, and by which the most vigorous constitutions are often impaired. Wolfe seemed to be endowed with both strength and talent to ensure the most brilliant success, yet, after a time, his industry visibly relaxed. His books were only taken up at intervals; read with something like distaste, and laid aside without regret. It was soon understood, or imagined, that the mind of the mathematician had been subdued by the heart of the poet. He was said to give himself up to softer inspirations than those of science. He was observed to enjoy a moonlight walk more then the calculation of the lunar mountains, and to derive more pleasure from the perusal of the romantic devotion of Abelard and Eloise, than he ever received from the philosophy of Reid or the fluxions at Newton. His health declined; his spirits became depressed, it was suspected that he indulged a passion, which, though of the most honourable nature, was likely to lead to hopeless disappointment. However that may he, he lost all taste for a fellowship, which according to the absurd and monastic statutes of the University, is incompatible with the matrimonial state, though not with that of concubinage, which such laws seem expressly framed to encourage, and thereby prevent the seats of learning from the fame of too high a character for morality. Wolfe renounced the unsocial obligation; he closed his books, which might lead to wealth and distinction, but not to happiness, and never returned to the path of academic ambition. He soon after entered the church, and accepted a curacy in the North of Ireland, in a poor and populous neighbourhood, where he devoted himself with the most singular assiduity to the duties of his ministry, unlike many who enjoy the fruits of the vine-yard without contributing to its cultivation. He partook of none of the luxuries, sat in none of the sunshine of the modern Sion; but, wherever there was sorrow to be assuaged, misery to he relieved, consolation to be administered, there he was to be found. His zeal, unaffected benevolence, and freedom from every thing like clerical ambition, made him realize Goldsmith’s clergyman, in all but the internal happiness which the latter is said to have enjoyed. Labouring for the welfare of the poor and friendless who were under his charge, and continually traversing the bogs and mountains of a dreary region in the pursuit of the objects of his charity, his frame, naturally vigorous and robust, at length bore the visible traces of the wasting of deep and silent sorrow, and incessant exertion. Residing in another country, I had not seen him for some time; but every account which I heard of him bore testimony to the life of active usefulness, but gradual martyrdom, which he had chosen. The melancholy predictions of his friends were too soon accomplished; about two years ago I heard that death had closed the story of his misfortunes, his talents, and his virtues. I could not omit this opportunity of vindicating the name of a man so deserving of honour and regret-of giving to his memory the fame so justly his due—I could not allow the one solitary but everlasting laurel which ought to ornament his urn to be torn from the tomb of his departed genius; what could enhance the reputation of Byron, would be capable of conferring distinction an any Poet. It is also right that the Public should know who it really was that visited, with the homage of the finest inspiration, the neglected grave of the gallant Moore, and consecrated it with Poetic glory.—I am, Sir, your humble servant, . . .