completed and published in 1825. In it he fearlessly maintained his own political views, and did not shrink from questioning the policy of the Whigs, or blaming their leader, Fox. Up to this time Scott and Moore had met but once, just after the publication of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." A cordial respect and esteem were established between them: it needed but the long-promised visit to Abbotsford to make them affectionate friends. Accordingly, in October, 1825, Moore found himself seated at the board of his Scottish friend; and as they pledged one another in whisky out of a quaigh, and the genial spirit of the Wizard of the North shone out in all its splendour, he told the Irish poet the secrets of his life-how he had passed the early part of it with a set of clever, rattling, drinking fellows-how his love of old ballads led to his poems-and, last of all, avowing the great secret, how he had hit on those novels which proved a mine of wealth to him; and two days more had not passed before Scott, laying his hand cordially on the breast of Moore, said, "Now, my dear Moore, we are friends for life." Of this delightful intercourse both host and guest have preserved some recollections with which the world is familiar.

During the next two years the events of the poet's life may be comprised in a few words. Entries in his journal constantly recurring such as these-—" Worked at my Egyptian story"—" Wrote two songs for Power"-" Sent off a squib to the Times”— "At my Greek work "—with records of pleasant walks to and from Bowood, and talks with its noble proprietor-dinners, and songs, and bon mots-with now and then a benediction or an eulogy from his very heart of hearts for " my noble Bess " -tell that he varied work and relaxation as happily and as heartily as ever. A passing cloud for a moment obscured his sunshine, when good John Moore in December, 1825, went to his rest, and the loving son was there to comfort his mother and sister. It was in June, 1827, that the "Epicurean" was launched on the world, just at the same moment as the great war-ship Napoleon" of Scott; and Moore feared that his "little cockboat would be run down." But his fears were groundless. The charms of this beautiful romance, prose in its form, but as thoroughly poetic as anything he had written, secured it an enthusiastic welcome. Amongst the many compliments which poured in upon the author, none was more characteristic than that of Lady Holland. Queer, blunt things she used to say, not the more palatable for the sound sense that often lay at the bottom of them. "I am so sorry," said she once to a noble author, "to hear that you are going to publish a poem; can't you suppress it?" "I am delighted," said she of Moore's "Epicurean," "to find that there are no rhymes in his book." Others there were who were

sorry that he had not made a poem of it." But he did make a poem of it. Poem it is a work which none but a poet could write. Yet is its poetry perhaps not its highest merit; it abounds with learning, and shows a mind deeply acquainted with the philosophic sects and the mythology of ancient Egypt. In the preface to the last edition of the tale, Moore tells us that he had seen two translations of it in French, two in Italian, one in German, and one in Dutch. In 1824 Byron died, and Moore was now free to publish the memoirs which his friend had placed in his hands. A few months before he had deposited them with Murray as a security for £2000. For this work he had been making preparation, and had entered into arrangements with Murray. The family of Lord Byron were unwilling that the memoirs should be published, and after some unpleasant discussion Moore again obtained possession of the manuscript on

paying Murray the £2000, and handed it over to the representatives of Mrs. Leigh, by whom it was destroyed. In the whole of the transaction Moore behaved with delicacy and honour, declining to be reimbursed the money which he paid to Murray. Of the manuscript itself, Lord Russell, who had perused it, declares that it contained little traces of Lord Byron's genius, and no interesting details of his life, and that, or the whole, the world is no loser by its destruction. In November of that year Moore communicated to Lady Byron and Mrs. Leigh his intention to write a life of Byron, in accordance with the wish of the latter; and adding that he thought it must be equally the wish of his own family that a hand upon whose delicacy they could rely should undertake the task, rather than leave his memory at the mercy of scribblers who dishonour alike the living and the dead. With this task he accordingly row occupied himself, collecting such materials as he could procure, and published the first volume early in 1830, and the second in a year after. Of that work Lord Macaulay observes, "It deserves to be classed amongst the best specimens of English prose which any age has produced," ," and that, "it would be difficult to name a book which exhibits more kindness, fairness, and modesty." This last testimony is the more valuable, as Moore was most unjustly assailed as having reflected upon the character of Lady Byron.

In September, 1830, Moore visited Dublin, and took part in the meeting held there to celebrate the "Trois jours glorieux" of the French revolution. His speech on the occasion told, as might be expected, on the auditory he had to address, and was received with shouts of applause. Sheil said with much warmth, "He is a mos{ beautiful speaker." The "Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald" appeared in 1831, a work which demanded great judgment, moderation, and temper. To one of Moore's temperament and politics the task was beset with peculiar dangers; but it is alike to his honour and his manliness, that while he did not fail to condemn where condemnation was deserved, he compromised neither truth nor principle. A blow, heavy though not unexpected, fell upon him in May, 1832, in the death of his mother. How he loved and honoured her his whole life bears witness, and his constant habit of writing to her at least once a week. "The difference it makes in life," he writes in his journal, "to have lost such a mother, those only who have had that blessing and have lost it can feel it is like part of one's life going out of one." In this year he published "The Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion," a polemical work full of theological learning, of which Dr. Doyle said, "If St. Augustine were more orthodox, and Scratchinbach less plausible, it is a book of which any of us might be proud."

It is not surprising that one of Moore's politics, added to his genius and popular talents as a speaker, should have been looked to as a fitting representative for the Irish Catholics in Parliament. When in Limerick in 1830, Sheil told him he should have no difficulty whatever in getting into Parliament for an Irish constituency if he desired it. More than one seat, we believe, would have been at bis service; and Lord Anglesey, then viceroy of Ireland, was anxious that he should start for Trinity College, promising him the support of the government. In November, 1832, a deputation from Limerick, consisting of Gerald Griffin, the author of "The Collegians,” and his brother, waited on Moore at Sloperton, conveying the earnest wish of the electors of that city that he would permit himself to be put in nomination, and

"Were I

proposing to remove the obstacle that would arise from the sacrifice of his time and means, by purchasing a property for him of £400 a-year. Though the request was supported by the influence of O'Connell, Moore declined to accede to it. obliged to choose," he wrote, "which should be my direct paymaster, the government or the people, I should say without hesitation, the people; but I prefer holding on my free course, humble as it is, unpurchased by either." In truth Moore was too honest, and too independent in his notions, to bend his political views to any one, and in many respects he disagreed with the great Irish leader. "Thus," says Lord Russell, "in the midst of an agitation purely Irish, the most gifted of Irish patriots held aloof, foregoing the applause in which he would have delighted, and the political distinction for which he often sighed, that he might not sully the white robe of his independence, or defile his soul for any object of ambition or of vanity." A proposal had been made to Moore to write a History of Ireland for Lardner's "Cabinet Cyclopædia," which after some consideration he accepted, and on this he was much occupied for many years. It was a task little suited to his taste, and for which he was by no means qualified by his previous studies. In prosecution of these labours he visited Dublin in 1835, at the time that the British Association was holding its session there. His reception was as enthusiastic as ever. A courted guest at the table of the viceroy and the salons of the aristocracy, he found the climax of his popularity at the theatre. If the Edinburgh audience were demonstrative, that of Dublin was uproarious, and shouts of applause greeted his first appearance. The Whigs, upon their accession to office, obtained for Moore a pension of £300 a year.

The limits assigned to our memoir force as to be brief, and the remaining events of the life of the great Irish poet are not of importance to require us to dwell on them. "The Songs of Greece" and "The Fudge Family in England" had been published, and but the one work remained dragging its weary length along till it was finished. And as years passed over him the cloud began to grow larger and darker. Troubles came from a quarter that tried him most severely. His two surviving sons, to whom he had given the best education, were both in the army-Russell, the younger, in India, where his health broke down, and he returned home to die in November, 1842. Thomas, the elder, was long a subject of great anxiety to his father. A youth of a high spirit and a genial nature, he had little restraint over himself, and in the indulgence of expensive habits he contracted debts which his father more than once contrived to liquidate; but at last in a thoughtless moment he sold his commission. A sum of £400 would have saved it to hin, but Moore was unable to give it, and too independent in spirit to put himself under an obligation to friends to advance it. The young man obtained a commission in the Foreign Legion of Algiers, where he soon fell a victim to exposure and fatigue, and died in March, 1846. A month previously his sister Ellen, to whom he was tenderly attached, died, so that, as he wrote in his journal, "We are left desolate and alone. Not a single relative have I now left in the world!" His diary had for some time back given evidence of failure of memory, health, and spirits. A long and dangerous illness prostrated him in body and mind. A slow recovery left but the wreck of Thomas Moore; the brilliant conversationist, the ready wit, the fine fancy, the noble intellect, all but the mockery of what they had beensmouldering embers on a hearth now cold and dark. Let us not look in upon Moore aging, failing, dying out. We would prefer ever to think of him as in his vigour of

mind and body, in the immortal youth of his verse. Enough for us to know that his last years were not without consolations, and were full of peace. Friends whom he loved, and who loved him to the last, cheered him with their converse; and she, the tenderest, the truest, the noblest of all, ministered to his wants, the sunshine of his life even to the valley of the shadow of death. And so he passed away, leaning upon her and "leaning upon God," as he exhorted her to do. On the 26th of February, 1852, he died calmly and without pain. With four of his children and that faithful wife, who rejoined him in 1865, he now rests in the little churchyard of Bromham.

What need of an elaborate criticism of one whose genius won its own way to the highest fame? As a lyrist, what age or nation has produced his superior? The vigour of Burns has not Moore's exquisite polish; the grace and glow of Berenger has not half his wit. Both masters in political satire, that of Moore was at times wrapped up in figures with inimitable skill. As a patriot he was independent, honest, uncompromising; and his opinions, whether right or wrong, he maintained at all hazards. He stooped for no favours; he fettered his free action by no obligations. He loved aristocratic society, but it was for the refinement and accomplishments to be found in that order; and let us remember that the strength and purity of his affections for his own kin were neither weakened or sullied by his intercourse with the great, and that he could decline a dinner with the viceroy to dine at home with his sister Ellen on "salt fish and biscuit." He was an idolizing father and a fond husband; and though the records in his journal tell of frequent visits, which the quieter tastes of his wife declined, yet the numerous entries, spreading over days and weeks, of "worked at home," are volumes of calm and happy domesticity. Perhaps, after all, the wonder is that the worship of his intellect, the flatteries and fascinations of men and women, did not utterly spoil him. That they did not is a proof of a heart sound at the core, of a nature noble and self-respecting.

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER