-Causa latet, vis est notissima. The Examiner newspaper gave the subjoice! statement, which, if it were properly authesticated, would at once set the matter at rest, 1 the entire justification of the Bard of Erin. We were going to allude again this week!: the question between Mr Moore and the pubic respecting the destruction of Lord Byron's Memoirs. We have received several letters express fessing to wonder what other point of any consequence could possibly have been in discussion, save that of preserving or destroying the manuscript. They could not see, or were incapable of feeling, what paramount sense of delicacy or duty could operate upon a mind like Mr Moore's to counterbalance the delicacy and duty due to his dead friend's fame, which, according to them, he had thus abandoned to a sea of idle speculation. Moreover they were, unable to comprehend what business Mr Murraying the extreme mortification of the writers the bookseller, or any of the gentlemen present, learning the fact, and venting their indignation i had with the business, when Mr Moore had reno very measured terms against the perpetrators deemed the MS., with interest, etc.," and with and we should not have concealed our own op his own money (that is the sum he borrowed for nion that, however nobly Mr Thomas Moore mr the purpose). Finally, it was past their under- have acted as regards his own interest, his pa standing to conceive, how any person could allow lished letters make out no justification either his own fair, just, and honourabiy-acquired pro- regard to his late illustrious friend, whose repoperty to be burnt and destroyed before his eyes, tation was thus abandoned without that defence and against his own protested opinion, even if, which probably his own pen could alone furnish, from an honest but too sensitive deference for of many misrepresented passages in his conduct. others, he had conceded so far as to withhold its or in regard to the world, which is thus robbed publication to « a more convenient season; or sim- of a treasure that can never be replaced. Be ply to preserve it as a precious relic in his family. we have learnt one fact, which puts a different To this, the firm supporters of church and face upon the whole matter. It is, that Lor state-the pure sticklers for public morals—the | Byron himself did not wish the Memoirs publisher. friends of decorum and decency-the respecters How they came into the hands of Mr Moore and of the inviolability of domestic privacy-the foes to unlicensed wit and poetic license-the disinterested and tender regarders of Lord Byron's character itself,-one and all, proudly replied, that Mr Moore had performed one of the most difficult and most delicate duties that ever fell to the This is indeed an explanation « devoutly to be lot of man, friend, citizen, or christian to per-wished, nor can we conceive why it should be form, in the most manly, friendly, patriotic, and christian-like manner. As a man, he had nobly sacrificed his private interest and opinion, out of respect to Lord Byron's living connexions; as a friend, he had evinced a real and rare friendship by withholding, at his own personal loss, those self-and-thoughtlessly-intruded specks and deformities of a great character from the popular gaze, which delights too much to feast on the infirmities of noble minds. As a citizen, he had forborne to display sparkling wit at the expense of sound morality; and, finally, as a christian, he had acted like a good and faithful servant of the church, in leaving his friend's memory, and exposing his own reputation, to martyrdom, from the most religious and exalted motives. The private and particular friends of Mr Moore briefly and triumphantly referred to his unspotted character, Which never yet the breath of calumny had tainted, and they properly condemned uncharitable conjecture on a subject of which the most that could be said was the bookseller - for what purpose and under what reservations-we shall probably be at liberty to explain at a future time; for the present, we can only say that such is the fact, as the noble poet's intimate friends can testify." still delayed. It is highly probable, however, that Mr Moore will himself fully and satisfactorily elucidate the affair, in the life he is writing of Lord Byron. Such were the conflicting opinions of the time relative to this mysterious and painfully delicate subject) on which, we are bound to offer a few summary remarks. When Lord Byron's death was once ascertained. the whole interest of society seemed centered in his Memoirs. Curiosity swallowed up grief; and people, becoming wearied by the comments of other writers on him who was no more, turned with unexampled anxiety to know what he had written upon himself. Whether or not the public had a right to these Memoirs, is a question which it is not, perhaps, quite useless to discuss. It is, at any rate, our opinion that they had the right; and that the depository of the manuscript was no more than a trustee for the public, however his individual interest was concerned or consulted. Lord Byron bequeathed his Memoirs to the world. The profits of their sale were alone meant for Mr Moore. Lord Byron's family had no pretensions whatever to the monopoly. And though the delicate consideration of Mr Moore prompted his offer of having the manuscript perused and purified, if such be the proper word, by the nearest surviving relative of Lord Byron, we maintain that he was right, strictly right, in protesting against its unconditional destruction. For ourselves, we think that, in respect to the burning, Mr Moore's conduct is not clearly understood or appreciated. Some blame, as we have shown, appears to have been attached to his share in the matter, not only in Great Britain, but on the continent, where the subject excited an interest quite as lively as in England. But it is our opinion that Mr Moore's conduct in the affair has been too hastily condemned. One duty, we think, remains for his performance-but one, and that most imperative: it is to give to the world the genuine work of Lord Byron, if it be in his power to do so. The opinion is at all events wide spread, if not well founded, that one copy at least of the original work is in existence. That opinion is afloat, and nothing will sink it. If the Life which Mr Moore is supposed to be preparing come out as his own production, it will be difficult, if not impossible, to convince the public that it is not a compilation from the copy which we allude to, or from a memory powerfully tenacious of the original. If it be not avowed as such, its genuineness will be doubted, and a dozen spurious lives will probably appear, professing to be that identical copy, of whose existence no one will consent to doubt. No reasoning, nothing, in fact, short of Mr Moore's positive assertion to the contrary, will persuade people that he could, for years, have run the risk of leaving so interesting a manuscript, or that he could have entrusted it, without possessing a duplicate, in the hands of any one. And, at all events, it will be thought morally certain, that more than one of those to whom it was entrusted had curiosity enough to copy it; and very improLable that any one had honesty enough to con fess it. Besides these reasons for the publication of the real Memoirs, supposing a copy to exist, there is one of such paramount importance, that we are sure it must have struck every body who has thought at all upon the subject. We mean the retrospective injury done to the character of the deceased, by the conjectures which are abroad, as to the nature of the Memoirs he left behind. We do not pretend to be in the secret of their contents, but we are quite sure they can be in no way so reprehensible, as the public imagination, and the enemies of Lord Byron, have figured them to be; and there is one notion concerning them, of a nature too delicate to touch upon, and for the removal of which no sacrifice of individual or family vanity would be a price too high. We have, moreover, good authority for believing that the Memoirs might and ought to have been published, with perfect safety to public morals, and with a very considerable gratification to public anxiety. Curiosity, which is so contemptible in individuals, assumes a very different aspect when it is shared by society at large; and a satisfaction which may be, in most instances, withheld from the one, ought very rarely to be refused to the other. Nothing has ever had such power of excitement upon the mass of mankind as private details of illustrious individuals, and, most of all, what may be called their confessions; and if those individuals chuse to make their opinions as much the property of the world after their death, as their conduct and their works had been before, we repeat, that it is nothing short of a fraud upon the public to snatch away the treasure of which they were the just inheritors. Nor must it be said that the property in question is of no intrinsic value. Every thing which ministers to the public indulgence is of wealth proportioned to its rarityand in this point of view Lord Byron's Memoirs were beyond price. If they contain gross scandal, or indecent disclosure, let such parts be suppressed; and enough will remain amply to satisfy all readers. But we say this merely for the sake of supposition, and for the purpose of refuting an argument founded in an extreme case; we have great pleasure in believing that the only pretence for such an imputation on the manuscript, was the selfish or squeamish act of its suppression. We trust that Mr Moore will yet consider well the part he has to perform; that he is not insensible to the narrow scrutiny which the public displays in this affair, and which posterity will confirm; and that he will, on this occasion, uphold the character for integrity and frankness which is so pre-eminently his. We speak with certitude of his disinterested and upright feelings throughout; we only hope his delicacy towards others may not lead him too far towards the risk of his own popularity, or the sacrifice of what we designate once more the public property. If credit may be given to Captain Medwin, Lord Byron was most desirous for the posthumous publication of his Memoirs; and he seems, indeed, to have intrusted them to Mr Moore, as a safeguard against that very accident into which the high-wrought notions of delicacy of the trustee, and his deference to the relations and friends of the illustrious deceased, actually betrayed them. Lord Byron seems to have been aware of the prudery of his own immediate connexions; and in the way in b which he bestowed the manuscript, to have consulted at once his generous disposition towards a friend, and his desire of security against mutilation or suppression. On this subject Captain Medwin's Journal makes him speak as follows:I am sorry not to have a copy of my Memoirs to show you. I gave them to Moore, or rather to Moore's little boy." a « I remember saying, 'Here are two thousand pounds for you, my young friend.' I made one reservation in the gift-that they were not to be published till after my death.» « I have not the least objection to their being circulated; in fact they have been read by some of mine and several of Moore's friends and acquaintances; among others they were lent to Lady Burghersh. On returning the manuscript, her ladyship told Moore that she had transcribed the whole work. This was un peu fort, and he suggested the propriety of her destroying the copy. She did so, by putting it into the fire in his presence. Ever since this happened, Douglas Kinnaird has been recommending me to resume possession of the manuscript, thinking to frighten me by saying, that a spurious or a real copy, surreptitiously obtained, may go forth to the world. I am quite indifferent about the world knowing all that they contain. There are very few licentious adventures of my own, or scandalous anecdotes that will affect others, in the book. It is taken up from my earliest recollections, almost from childhood-very incoherent, written in a very loose and familiar style. The second part will prove a good lesson to young men ; for it treats of the irregular life I led at one period, | and the fatal consequences of dissipation. There are few parts that may not, and none that will not, be read by women. »> In this particular, Lord Byron's fate has been singular; and a superstitious person might be startled at the coincidence of so many causes, all tending to hide his character from the public. That scandal and envy should have been at work with such a man is not very extraordinary; but the burning of his Memoirs, and the subsequent injunction on the publication of his Letters to his Mother, seem as if something more than mere chance had operated to preserve unconfuted the calumnies of the day, for the benefit of future biographers. Of these Letters a friend of ours was fortunate enough to obtain a glimpse, and never, he told us, was more innocent, and at the same time more valuable matter, so withheld There is some trifling inaccuracy in this, as Moore's son was not with him in Italy. It is nevertheless true, as we are assured, that this was the turn which Lord Byron gave to his present, in order to make it more acceptable to his friend. from the world. It were, he observed, but an act of cold justice to the memory of Lord Byron to state, publicly, that they appear the reflections of as generous a mind as ever committed its expression to paper: for though, indeed, the traces of his temperament, and of his false position in society, are there, still the sentiments are lofty and enthusiastic; and every line betrays the warmest sympathy with human suffering, and a scornful indignation against mean and disgraceful vice. The extempore song, addressed by Lord Byron to Mr Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy, proves the familiar intercourse and friendship that subsisted between him and the subject of this memoir. The following stanzas are very expressive : Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd upon the brink, 'T is to thee that I would drink. And a health to thee, Tom Moore! 39 When Lord Byron had published his celebrated satire of « English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, in which our poet, in common with most of his distinguished contemporaries was visited rather « too roughly by the noble modern Juvenal, his lordship expected to be called out, » as the fashionable phrase is; but no one had courage to try his prowess in the field, save Mr Moore, who did not relish the joke about « Little's leadless pistols,» and sent a letter to his lordship in the nature of a challenge, but which he, by his leaving the country, did not receive. On Byron's return, Mr Moore made inquiry if he had received the epistle, and stated that, on account of certain changes in his circumstances, he wished to recal it, and become the friend of Byron, through Rogers, the author of The Pleasures of Memory, and who was intimate with both the distinguished bards. The letter, addressed to the care of Mr Hanson, had been mislaid; search was made for it, and Byron, who at first did not like this offer, of one hand with a pistol, and the other to shake in fellowship, felt very awkward. the letter being recovered, however, he delivered it unopened to Mr Moore, and they afterwards continued to the last most particular friends. On It is but justice to the unquestionable courage and spirited conduct of the Bard of Erin, to observe here, that, though Byron had stated the truth about the said leadless pistols, he had not stated the whole truth. The facts were these: Mr Jeffrey, the celebrated critic, and editor of the Edinburgh Review, had, in « good set phrase,» abused the Poems of Thomas Little, Esq., alias | lated the odes of the Teian bard, as from the Thomas Moore, Esq.; and the latter, not chusing social qualities which he is known to possess, and to put up with the flagellation of the then mo- the convivial spirit of his muse. Mr Moore seems dern Aristarchus, challenged him. When they to be of opinion, that arrived at Chalk Farm, the place fixed on for the duel, the police were ready, and deprived them of their fire-arms. On drawing their contents, the compound of « villanous saltpetre » was found, but the cold lead, The pious metal most in requisition had somehow disappeared. The cause was this: In his youth Mr Moore was in the high road to court favour, and had his spirit been less independent, we might even have had a Sir Thomas More in our days. It is said that when the juvenile Anacreon was introduced to the then Prince of Wales, His Royal Highness inquired of him whether he was a son of Dr Moore, the celebrated author of Zeluco; and that the bard promptly replied, « No, Sir; I am the son of a grocer at Dublin!» The following anecdote shows that His Majesty King George the Fourth did not forget to pay off the Prince of Wales's old score with our poet: -In the king's presence, a critic, speaking of the Life of Sheridan,» declared that Moore had murdered his friend. You are too severe," said his Majesty, I cannot admit that Mr Moore has murdered Sheridan, but he has certainly attempted his life." If with water you fill up your glasses, Which hurries a bard to the skies. He is not, however, ungrateful for whatever share conviviality may have had in inspiring his muse, but has amply acknowledged it in the elegant and glowing terms in which he has celebrated its praises. No individual presides with more grace at the convivial board, nor is there one whose absence is more liable to be regretted by his friends. Being on one occasion prevented from attending a banquet where he was an expected guest, and where, in consequence, every thing seemed (to use a familiar phrase) out of sorts, a gentleman, in the fervour of his disappointment, exclaimed, Give us but one Anacreon more, ye gods, whatever else you deny us.» Presiding once at a tavern dinner, where some of the company were complaining that there was no game at the table, a gentleman present, alluding to the fascinating manners of Mr Moore, who kept the table in a roar," said, « Why, gentlemen, what better game would you wish than moor game, of which I am sure you have abundance?» At another time, after the pleasures of the even- For death may come with brow unpleasant, And grimly bid us-drink no More! « Let It was not till after the Prince of Wales's investment with regal power, that Mr Moore levelled the keen shafts of his grey goose quill» against that illustrious personage. He had previously dedicated the translation of Anacreon to His Royal Highness, by whom, it is said, his poetry was much admired. We question, though, if his verse was as palatable to the Prince Regent as it had been to the Prince of Wales. Mr Moore, We here terminate the Biographical part of perhaps, thought as one of his predecessors had our sketch; and, after a few introductory and done on this subject, of whom the following anec-general remarks, shall proceed to take a critical dote is recorded. Pope, dining one day with Frederic, Prince of Wales, paid the prince many compliments. «I wonder,» said His Royal Highthat you, who are so severe on kings, should be so complaisant to me.» It is," replied the witty bard, because I like the lion before his claws are grown." ness, The name of Anacreon Moore, by which our author is distinguished, is not so much his due from the mere circumstance of his having trans review of our author's principal works, including some interesting sketches aud anecdotes of ancient minstrelsy, illustrative of the « Irish Melodies. >> Moore is not, like Wordsworth or Coleridge, the poet's poet; nor is it necessary, in order to enjoy his writings, that we should create a taste for them other than what we receive from nature and education. Yet his style is contemned as tinsel and artificial, whereas the great praise bestowed on those preferred to it is, that they are the only true natural.—Now if it requires study and progressive taste to arrive at a sense of the natural, and but common feeling to enjoy the beauties of the artificial, then certainly these names have changed places since we met them in the dictionary. are viewed under this one aspect. The man, the poet, the philosopher, are blended, and the attributes of each applied to all without distinction. One person inquires the name of a poet, because he is a reasoner; another, because he is mad; another, because he is conceited. Johnson's assertion is taken for granted—that genius is but great natural power directed towards a particular object: thus all are reduced to the same scale, and measured by the same standard. This fury of comparison knows no bounds; its abettors, at the same time that they reserve to them Formerly, people were content with estimating books-persons are the present objects universally. It is not the pleasure or information a volume affords, which is taken into consideration, but the genius which it indicates. Each person is anxious to form his scale of excellence, and to range great names, living or dead, at certain in-selves the full advantage of dormant merit, make tervals and in different grades, self being the hidden centre whither all the comparisons verge. In former times works of authors were composed with ideal or ancient models,—the humble crowd of readers were content to peruse and admire. At present it is otherwise, every one is con-pected capabilities. scious of having either written, or at least having been able to write a book, and consequently all literary decisions affect them personally:— Scribendi nihil a me alienum puto, no such allowance to established authors. They judge them rigidly by their pages, assume that their love of fame and emolument would not allow them to let any talent lie idle, and will not hear any arguments advanced for their unex Yet The simplest and easiest effort of the mind is egotism,—it is but baring one's own breast, disclosing its curious mechanism, and giving exaggerated expressions to every-day feeling. no productions have met with such success ;what authors can compete, as to popularity, with Montaigne, Byron, Rousseau ? Yet we cannot but believe that there have been thousands of men in the world who could have walked the same path, and perhaps met with the same success, if they had had the same confidence. Passionate and reflecting minds are not so rare as we suppose, but the boldness that sets at nought society is. Nor could want of courage be the only obstacle: there are, and have been, we trust, many who would not exchange the privacy of their mental sanctuary, for the indulgence of spleen, or the feverish dream of popular celebrity. And if we can give credit for this power to the many who have lived unknown and shunned publicity, how much more must we not be in is the language of the age, and the most insignificant calculate on the wonders they might have effected, had chance thrown a pen in their way. -The literary character has, in fact, extended itself over the whole face of society, with all the evils that d'Israeli has enumerated, and ten times more—it has spread its fibres through all ranks, sexes, and ages. There no longer exists what writers used to call a public—that disinterested tribunal has long since merged in the body it used to try. Put your finger on any head in a crowd-it belongs to an author, or the friend of one, and your great authors are supposed to possess a quantity of communicable celebrity: an intimacy with one of them is a sort of principality, and a stray anecdote picked up rather a valuable sort of possession. These people are always cry-clined to allow to him of acknowledged genius, ing out against personality, and personality is the whole business of their lives. They can consider nothing as it is by itself; the cry is, who wrote it?»« what manner of man is he?»<< where did he borrow it? They make puppets of literary men by their impatient curiosity; and when one of themselves is dragged from his malign obscurity in banter or whimsical revenge, he calls upon all the gods to bear witness to the malignity he is made to suffer. It is this spirit which has perverted criticism, and reduced it to a play of words. To favour this vain eagerness of comparison, all powers and faculties are resolved at once into genius-that vague quality, the supposition of which is at every one's command; and characters, sublime in one respect as they are contemptible in another, and who has manifested it in works of equal beauty, and of greater merit, inasmuch as they are removed from self? It has been said by a great living author and poet,' that « the choice of a subject removed from self is the test of genius. » These considerations ought, at least, to prevent us from altogether merging a writer's genius in his works, and from using the name of the poem and that of the poet indifferently. For our part, we think that if Thomas Moore had the misfortune to be metaphysical, he might have written such a poem as the Excursion,that had he condescended to borrow, and at the same time disguise the feelings of the great Lake ■ Coleridge. |