gotiation was, from time to time, reported, had, upon finding that there appeared, at last, some chance of an arrangement, and learning also the amount of the advance made by my deputy's relative, immediately deposited in the hands of a banker the remaining portion (7507.) of the required sum, to be there in readiness for the final settlement of the demand.

Though still adhering to my original purpose of owing to my own exertions alone the means of relief from these difficulties, I yet felt a pleasure in allowing this thoughtful deposite to be applied to the generous purpose for which it was destined; and having employed in this manner the 7507., I then transmitted to my kind friend,-I need hardly say with what feelings of thankfulness, a check on my publishers for the amount.

Though this effort of the poet's purse was but, as usual, a new launch into the Future, a new anticipation of yet unborn means,--the result showed that, at least in this instance, I had not counted on my bank "in nubibus" too sanguinely; for, on receiving my publishers' account, in the month of June following, I found 1000l. placed to my credit from the sale of the Loves of the Angels, and 5007. from the Fables of the Holy Alliance.

I must not omit to mention, that, among the resources at that time placed at my disposal, was one small and sacred sum, which had been set apart by its young possessor for some such beneficient purpose. This fund, amounting to about 3007., arose from the proceeds of the sale of the first edition of a biographical work, then recently published, which will long be memorable, as well from its own merits and subject, as from the lustre that has been since shed back upon it from the public career of its noble author. To a gift from such hands might well have been applied the words of Ovid,

acceptissima semper

Munera sunt, auctor quæ pretiosa facit.

That, being by nature so little prone to spleen or bitterness, I should yet have frequented so much the thorny paths of satire, has always, to myself and those best acquainted with me, been a matter of surprise. By supposing the imagination, however, to be, in such cases, the sole

or chief prompter of the satire-which, in my own instance, I must say, it has generally been -an easy solution is found for the difficulty. The same readiness of fancy which, with but little help from reality, can deck out "the Cynthia of the minute" with all possible attractions, will likewise be able, when in the vein, to shower ridicule on a political adversary, without allowing a single feeling of real bitterness to mix itself with the operation. Even that sternest of all satirists, Dante, who, not content with the penal fire of the pen, kept · an Inferno ever ready to receive the victims of his wrath,-even Dante, on becoming acquainted with some of the persons whom he had thus doomed, not only revoked their awful sentence, but even honored them with warm praise ;102 and probably, on a little fur her acquaintance, would have admitted them into his Paradiso. When thus loosely and shallowly even the sublime satire of Dante could strike its roots in his own heart and memory, it is easy to conceive how light and passing may be the feeling of hostility with which a partisan in the field of satire plies his laughing warfare; and how often it may happen that even the pride of hitting his mark outlives but a short time the flight of the shaft.

I cannot dismiss from my hands these political trifles,—

"This swarm of themes that settled on my pen,

Which I, like summer-flies, shake off again,”—

without venturing to add that I have now to connect with them one mournful recollectionone loss from among the circle of those I have longest looked up to with affection and admiration-which I little thought, when I began this series of prefatory sketches, I should have to mourn before their close. I need hardly add, that, in thus alluding to a great light of the social and political world recently gone out, I mean the late Lord Holland.

It may be recollected, perhaps, that, in mentioning some particulars respecting an early squib of mine,-the Parody on the Prince Regent's Letter,-I spoke of a dinner at which I was present on the very day of the first publication of that Parody, when it was the subject of much conversation at table, and none of the

party, except our host, had any suspicion that I was the author of it. This host was Lord Holland; and as such a name could not but lend value to any anecdote connected with literature, I only forbore the pleasure of adding such an ornament to my page, from knowing that Lord Holland had long viewed with disapprobation and regret much of that conduct of the Whig party towards the Regent in 1812-13,1 of the history of which this squib, and the welcome reception it met with, forms an humble episode.

Lord Holland himself, in addition to his higher intellectual accomplishments, possessed in no ordinary degree the talent of writing easy and playful vers de société; and, among the instances I could give of the lightness of his hand at such trifles, there is one no less characteristic of his good-nature than his wit, as it accompanied a copy of the octavo edition of Bayle, which, on hearing me rejoice one day that so agreeable an author had been at last made portable, he kindly ordered for me from Paris.

101

So late, indeed, as only a month or two before his lordship's death, he was employing himself, with all his usual cheerful eagerness, in translating some verses of Metastasio; and occasionally consulted both Mr. Rogers and myself as to different readings of some of the lines. In one of the letters which I received from him while thus occupied, I find the following postscript :—

"Tis thus I turn th' Italian's song,
Nor deem I read his meaning wrong.
But with rough English to combine
The sweetness that's in every line,
Asks for your Muse, and not for mine,
Sense only will not quit the score;

We must have that, and-little More."

He then adds, "I send you, too, a melancholy Epigram of mine, of which I have seen many, alas, witness the truth :

-

A minister's answer is always so kind!

I starve, and he tells me he'll keep me in mind.
Half his promise, God knows, would my spirits restore :
Let him keep me-and, faith, I will ask for no more."

The only portion of the mass of trifles that first found its way to the public eye through any more responsible channel than a newspaper, was the Letters of the Fudge Family

in England,—a work which was sure, from its very nature, to encounter the double risk of being thought dull as a mere sequel, and light and unsafe as touching on follies connected with the name of Religion. Into the question of the comparative dulness of any of my productions, it is not for me, of course, to enter; but to the charge of treating religious subjects irreverently, I shall content myself with replying in the words of Pascal,-" Il a bien de la différence entre rire de la religion et rire de ceux qui la profanent par leurs opinions extravagantes."

The story of the Epicurean was intended originally to be told in verse; and a great portion of it was at first written in that form. This fact, as well as the character, perhaps, of the whole work, which a good deal partakes of the cast and coloring of poetry, have been thought sufficient to entitle it to a place in this general collection of my poetical writings.

How little akin to romance or poesy were some of the circumstances under which the Epicurean was first projected by me, the reader may have seen from the preceding pages; and the following rough outline, which I have found among my papers, dated Paris, July 25, 1820, will show both my first general conception, or foreshadowing of the story, and likewise the extent to which I thought right, in afterwards working out this design, to reject or modify some of its details.

"Began my Egyptian poem, and wrote about thirteen or fourteen lines of it. The story to be told in letters from a young Epicurean philosopher, who, in the second century of the Christian era, goes to Egypt for the purpose of discovering the elixir of immortality, which is supposed to be one of the secrets of the Egyptian priests. During the Festival on the Nile, he meets with a beautiful maiden, the daughter of one of the priests lately dead. She enters the catacombs, and disappears. He hovers around the spot, and at last finds the well and secret passages, &c., by which those who are initiated enter. He sees this maiden in one of those theatrical spectacles which formed a part of the subterranean Elysium of the Pyramids-finds opportunities of conver

In a little volume of excessive rarity, entitled the Private Theatre of Kilkenny, privately printed by Mr. Richard Power, the chronicle of the companies alone is a curious record. These amateur performances were established in 1802, and continued annually without interruption to 1811. They were occasionally and irregularly repeated in 1812, 1817, 1818, and 1819. Mr. Power died on the 18th of December, 1824, and in 1825, copies, accompanied by some introductory observations, were presented to his personal friends. These copies contain portraits of Power, of Grattan, of Apollo Crampton, (Sir Philip Crampton's brother,) of Sir William Wrixon Becher, of Bushe, of Thomas Moore, and three other gentlemen whose features we do not recognise, as all the plates in the only copy we have seen are unlettered. The two female portraits we conjecture to have been intended for Miss Walstein and Miss O'Neil, now Lady Becher.

Moore appears to have been a member of the Amateur Kilkenny Theatrical Company in October, 1808. On the 19th, Mr. Moore, as he was called in the bills, enacted David, in the Rivals, and Mungo, in the Padlock; and on the 28th of October, the tenth night of the season, Moore played Spado, in the Castle of Andalusia. The Kilkenny season of 1809, commenced on the 2d of October, with a prologue written and spoken by Moore, and among the ladies engaged to perform, the names of Miss Dyke, Miss E. Dyke, and Miss A. Dyke, appear, one of whom is the present Mrs. Thomas Moore; and Moore again appeared as Spado. On the second night he played Tom, in the Farce of Peeping Tom; and on the third night, personified Sadi, in the Mountaineers, which character he repeated on the sixth night of the Kilkenny season, (15th October, 1809,) with his original part of Spado. On the eighth night, Moore played Risk, in Love Laughs at Locksmiths, and on the ninth night, (20th October,) again appeared as Peeping Tom.

Moore rejoined the Kilkenny Theatricals in 1810, among the acting company of which association, the names of Miss Dyke, and Miss A. Dyke appear, and also that of Sir John Stevenson. Moore then recited twice his

Melologue on National Music, (3d and 19th October,) which was termed, in the bills, an Occasional Address. In the Surrender of Calais, on the 5th, he personified La Gloire, and Sam, in the afterpiece of Raising the Wind. On the 8th, Moore again appeared as Spado, and on the 12th, (the sixth night's performance,) as Robin Roughhead, in Fortune's Frolics. On the 19th, an Occasional Epilogue, written by Moore, was spoken by Mr. Corry after the play of the Dramatist, in the character of Vapid. Moore, on the eighth night, personified Walter, in the Children of the Wood, and on the ninth, repeated his representation of Risk. In Macbeth, on the twelfth night, he appeared as the First Witch, Sir John Steven son performing one of the Singing Witches. And on the last night of this glorious theatri cal meeting, (20th Oct.,) Moore played once. more his favorite part of Peeping Tom.

Here ends Moore's history as preserved in the records of the Private Theatre of Kilkenny.

In contemplating the long and varied life of Moore, it is no less delightful to mark the noble appreciation unstained by envy, with which he regarded his distinguished competi tors in the world of letters, than to observe how cordially and, in many cases, ardently it was reciprocated; especially did the generous heart of Byron, casting aside all cold conventionalities, throw itself at once into his bosom with all the trust and confidence of a brother, The splendor of genius, the wild warfare of passion, and the ever visible consciousness of some deep devouring regret, mingling, but never coming in collision, with the deep and devoted friendship which steadily maintained, and glowingly expressed, does honor to both. How pleasurable must have been the perusal of the sentiments thus expressed in various letters from Byron. In one of Sept., 1813, he says, "It may be, and would appear to a third person, an incredible thing, but I know you will believe me when I say that I am as anxious for your success as one human being can be for another, as much as if I had never scribbled a line. Surely the field of fame is wide enough for all; and if it were not, I would not willingly rob my neighbor of a rood of it."

upon

On Sept. 5, 1813, he says, "you stand greatly. in need of a 'lift with Mackintosh. My dear Moore, you strangely underrate yourself; I should conceive it an affectation in any other; but I think I know you well enough to believe that you don't know your own value. However, 'tis a fault that generally mends; and in your case it really ought. I have heard him speak of you as highly as your wife could wish; and enough to give all your friends the jaundice." The following extract is too interesting and characteristic of both, to need apology for inserting it in a notice of the life of one to whom it so nearly relates. Dec. 8, 1813: "Your letter, like all the best and even kindest things in this world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to what sits nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate to you, not in a formal inscription, as to one's elders, but through a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your intimate, and held forth the prospect of your Poem; when, lo, the recollection of your strict injunctions of secresy as to the said Poem, more than once repeated by word and letter, flashed me, and marred my intents. I could have no motive for repressing my own desire of alluding to you, (and not a day passes that I do not think and talk of you,) but an idea that you might, yourself, dislike it. You cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waiving personal friendship for the present, which, by the by, is not less sincere and deep-rooted. I have you by note and by heart; of which 'ecce signum.' When I was at ***, on my first visit, I had a habit (in passing my time a good deal alone) of, I won't call it singing, for that I never attempt except to myself, but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your 'Oh breathe not,'When the last glimpse,' and 'When he who adores thee,' with others of the same minstrel; they are my matins and vespers. I assuredly did not intend them to be overheard; but one morning in comes, not La Donna, but Il Marito, with a very grave face, saying, ‘Byron, I must request you won't sing any more, at least of those songs.' I started, and said, 'Certainly, but why? To tell you the truth,' quoth he, 'they make my wife cry, and so melancholy, that I wish her to hear no

more of them.' Now, my dear Moore, the effect must have been from your words, and certainly not my music. I merely mention. this foolish story, to show you how much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases-at least in composition. Though I think no one equal to you in that department, or in satire, and surely no one was ever so popular in both,— I certainly am of opinion that you have not yet done all you can do, though more than enough for any one else. I want, and the world expects, a longer work from you; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, a strange diffidence of your own powers, which I cannot account for, and which must be unaccountable, when a Cossack like me can appal a Cuirassier."

These genuine outpourings of one of the most frank and affectionate hearts that ever breathed, must, we think, be always considered as among the most precious and illustrious testimonies to the worth and genius that has called them forth. The friendship of Scott, though less demonstrative, was equally sterling and sincere: the manner in which he received Moore on his first visit to Abbotsford well accords with that innate goodness which formed the staple of his character. frankness was met as it should have been by the brother poet; and when he entered Scott's room next morning, "he laid his hand," says Mr. Moore, "with a sort of cordial earnestness on my breast, and said, 'Now, my dear Moore, we are friends for life.' Words like these from such a man as Sir Walter Scott were priceless.

This

In striking contrast to the bright recollection of those palmy days of literature when Byron, Scott, Moore, Campbell, and Rogers shone together in the meridian of their fame, lighting up men's minds from time to time with thoughts of power and beauty, noble sentiments, and brilliant flashes of wit and humor that refined away half the dross of their lives,

is the melancholy thought that, excepting in their works, no traces of these once worldworshipped beings themselves (save in the last feeble indications of existence still faintly