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
On such occasions,

had somehow disappeared. The cause was this:
One of the balls had fallen out in the carriage,
and the seconds, with a laudable anxiety to pre-
serve the public peace, to save the shedding of
such valuable blood, and to make both equal,
drew the other ball.

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,
You'll never write any thing wise;
For wine is the horse of Parnassus,
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 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?»

糕

At another time, after the pleasures of the evening had been extended to a pretty late hour, Mr D. proposed, as a concluding bumper, the health of Mr Moore; a toast which, having been twice drunk in the course of the evening, was objected to as unnecessary. Mr D., however,

For death may come with brow unpleasant,
May come when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,

" Let

It was not till after the Prince of Wales's in-persisted in giving the toast; and quoted in supvestment with regal power, that Mr Moore level- port of it the following passage from Mr Moore's led the keen shafts of his grey goose quill» translation of the eighth ode of Anacreon. against that illustrious personage. He had pre- us drink it now," said he, viously 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, perhaps, thought as one of his predecessors had done on this subject, of whom the following anecdote is recorded. Pope, dining one day with Frederic, Prince of Wales, paid the prince many compliments. I wonder,» said His Royal High

And grimly bid us-drink no More!

We here terminate the Biographical part of our sketch; and, after a few introductory and general remarks, shall proceed to take a critical 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 asFormerly, people were content with estimating sertion is taken for granted-that genius is but books-persons are the present objects universally. great natural power directed towards a particuIt is not the pleasure or information a volume lar object: thus all are reduced to the same affords, which is taken into consideration, but scale, and measured by the same standard. This the genius which it indicates. Each person is fury of comparison knows no bounds; its abetanxious to form his scale of excellence, and to tors, at the same time that they reserve to themrange great names, living or dead, at certain in-selves the full advantage of dormant merit, make tervals and in different grades, self being the no such allowance to established authors. They hidden centre whither all the comparisons verge. [judge them rigidly by their pages, assume that In former times works of authors were composed their love of fame and emolument would not alwith ideal or ancient models,-the humble crowd low them to let any talent lie idle, and will not of readers were content to peruse and admire. hear any arguments advanced for their unexAt 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,

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. Yet no productions have met with such success ;is the language of the age, and the most insigni- what authors can compete, as to popularity, with ficant calculate on the wonders they might have Montaigne, Byron, Rousseau? Yet we cannot effected, had chance thrown a pen in their way. but believe that there have been thousands of -The literary character has, in fact, extended men in the world who could have walked the itself over the whole face of society, with all the same path, and perhaps met with the same sucevils that d'Israeli has enumerated, and ten times cess, if they had had the same confidence. Pasmore—it has spread its fibres through all ranks, sionate and reflecting minds are not so rare as sexes, and ages. There no longer exists what we suppose, but the boldness that sets at nought writers used to call a public-that disinterested society is. Nor could want of courage be the tribunal has long since merged in the body it only obstacle: there are, and have been, we used to try. Put your finger on any head in a trust, many who would not exchange the privacy crowd-it belongs to an author, or the friend of of their mental sanctuary, for the indulgence of one, and your great authors are supposed to pos- spleen, or the feverish dream of popular celebrity. sess a quantity of communicable celebrity: an And if we can give credit for this power to the intimacy with one of them is a sort of principality, many who have lived unknown and shunned and a stray anecdote picked up rather a valuable publicity, how much more must we not be insort of possession. These people are always cry-clined to allow to him of acknowledged genius, ing out against personality, and personality is and who has manifested it in works of equal the whole business of their lives. They can con- beauty, and of greater merit, inasmuch as they sider nothing as it is by itself; the cry is, who are removed from self? It has been said by a wrote it?»« what manner of man is he?». great living author and poet,' that the choice of where did he borrow it? They make pup- a subject removed from self is the test of genius. »

pets 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,

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.

Poets, he might perhaps have written the best | be this—that the partial conception and confined parts of Childe Harold—and had he the disposition knowledge which they naturally possessed of a or the whim to be egotistical, he might lay bare a country, so opposed in the character of its inhamind of his own as proudly and as passionately bitants and the aspect of its scenery to their own, organized as the great lord did, whom some one occasioned them, after the manner of all imperdescribes to have gutted himself body and soul, fect apprehenders, to seize upon its prominent for all the world to walk in and see the show. » features and obvious characteristics, without enSo much for the preliminary cavils which are tering more deeply into its spirit, or catching its thrown in the teeth of Moore's admirers. They retired and less palpable beauties. The sudden have been picked up by the small fry of critics, transplantation of a European mind into Asiatic who commenced their career with a furious at- scenes can seldom be favourable to its well-being tack on him, Pope, and Campbell, but have since and progress; at least none but those of the first thought it becoming to grow out of their early order would be enabled to keep their imaginalikings. And at present they profess to prefer tions from degenerating into inconsistency and the great works which they have never read, and bombast, amid the swarms of novelties which which they will never be able to read, to those start up at every step. Thus it is that, in nearly classic poems, of which they have been the most all the oriental poems added to our literature, destructive enemies, by bethumbing and quoting we had the same monotonous assemblage of intheir beauties into triteness and common-place. sipid images, drawn from the peculiar phenomena The merits of Pope and of Moore have suffer- and natural appearances of the country. ed depreciation from the same cause—the facility of being imitated to a certain degree. And as vulgar admiration seldom penetrates beyond this degree, the conclusion is that nothing can be easier than to write like, and even equal to, either of these poets. In the universal self-comparison, which is above mentioned, as the foundation of modern criticism, feeling is assumed to be genius-the passive is considered to imply the active power. No opinion is more common or more fallacious-it is the « flattering unction» which has inundated the world with versifiers, and which seems to under-rate the merit of compositions, in which there is more ingenuity and elegance than passion. Genius is considered to be little more than a capability of excitementthe greater the passion the greater the merit ; and the school-boy key on which Mr Moore's love and heroism are usually set, is not considered by any reader beyond his reach. This is certainly Moore's great defect; but it is more that of his taste than of any superior faculty.

We shall now proceed to notice the most laboured and most splendid of Mr Moore's productions- Lalla Rookh » :

Then if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride, for thine own dear land,

Should haply be stealing o'er thee;

Oh! let grief come first,

We have always considered Asia as naturally the home of poetry, and the creator of poets. What makes Greece so poetical a country is, that at every step we stumble over recollections of departed grandeur, and behold the scenes where the human mind has glorified itself for ever, and played a part, the records of which can never die. But in Asia, to the same charm of viewing the places of former power-of comparing the present with the past—there is added a luxuriance of climate, and an unrivalled beauty of external nature, which, ever according with the poet's soul,

Temper, and do befit him to obey
High inspiration.

It was reserved for Mr Moore to redeem the character of oriental poetry, in a work which stands distinct, alone, and proudly pre-eminent above all that had preceded it on the same subject.

Never, indeed, has the land of the sun shone out so brightly on the children of the north-nor the sweets of Asia been poured forth-nor her gorgeousness displayed so profusely to the delighted senses of Europe, as in the fine oriental romance of Lalla Rookh. The beauteous forms, the dazzling splendours, the breathing odours of the East, found, at last, a kindred poet in that Green Isle of the West, whose genius has long been suspected to be derived from a warmer clime, and here wantons and luxuriates in these voluptuous regions, as if it felt that it had at Several of our modern poets had already cho-length recognised its native abode. It is amazing, sen the luxuriant climate of the East for their ima- indeed, how much at home Mr Moore seems to be ginations to revel in, and body forth their shapes in India, Persia, and Arabia; and how purely of light; but it is no less observable that they and strictly Asiatic all the colouring and imagery had generally failed, and the cause we believe to of his poem appears. He is thoroughly imbued

O'er pride itself victorious,

To think how man hath curst

What Heaven hath made so glorious.

with the character of the scenes to which he trans- consisting of many pages, should have detached ports us; and yet the extent of his knowledge is and distinguishable beauties in every one of them. less wonderful than the dexterity and apparent No great work, indeed, should have many beaufacility with which he has turned it to account, ties: if it were perfect it would have but one, and in the elucidation and embellishment of his poetry. that but faintly perceptible, except on a view of There is not a simile, a description, a name, a the whole. Look, for example, at what is the trait of history, or allusion of romance, which most finished and exquisite production of human belongs to European experience, or does not in-art-the design and elevation of a Grecian temple, dicate entire familiarity with the life, nature, and in its old severe simplicity. What penury of orlearning of the East.

nament - what neglect of beauties of detailwhat masses of plain surface-what rigid economical limitation to the useful and the necessary! The cottage of a peasant is scarcely more simple in its structure, and has not fewer parts that are superfluous. Yet what grandeur—what elegance

what grace and completeness in the effect!— The whole is beautiful-because the beauty is in the whole; but there is little merit in any of the

Nor are the barbaric ornaments thinly scattered to make up a show. They are showered lavishly over the whole work; and form, perhaps, too much the staple of the poetry, and the riches of that which is chiefly distinguished for its richness. We would confine this remark, however, to the descriptions of external objects, and the allusions to literature and history-to what may be termed the matériel of the poetry we are speak-parts except that of fitness and careful finishing. ing of. The characters and sentiments are of a different order. They cannot, indeed, be said to be copies of a European nature; but still less like that of any other region. They are, in truth, poetical imaginations;-but it is to the poetry of rational, honourable, considerate, and humane Europe that they belong and not to the childishness, cruelty, and profligacy of Asia.

There is something very extraordinary, we think, in this work-and something which indicates in the author, not only a great exuberance of talent, but a very singular constitution of genius. While it is more splendid in imagery-and for the most part in very good taste-more rich in sparkling thoughts and original conceptions, and more full indeed of exquisite pictures both of all sorts of beauties, and all sorts of virtues, and all sorts of sufferings and crimes, than any other poem we know of; we rather think we speak the sense of all classes of readers, when we add, that the effect of the whole is to mingle a certain feeling of disappointment with that of admiration, to excite admiration rather than any warmer sentiment of delight—to dazzle more than to enchant and, in the end, more frequently to startle the fancy, and fatigue the attention, with the constant succession of glittering images and highstrained emotions, than to maintain a rising interest, or win a growing sympathy, by a less profuse or more systematic display of attractions.

The style is, on the whole, rather diffuse, and too unvaried in its character. But its greatest fault is the uniformity of its brilliancy-the want of occasional plainness, simplicity, and repose. We have heard it observed by some very zealous admirers of Mr Moore's genius, that you cannot open this book without finding a cluster of beauties in every page. Now, this is only another way of expressing what we think its greatest defect. No work,

Contrast this with a Dutch or a Chinese pleasurehouse, where every part is meant to be beautiful, and the result is deformity-where there is not an inch of the surface that is not brilliant with colour, and rough with curves and angles,-and where the effect of the whole is displeasing to the eye and the taste. We are as far as possible from meaning to insinuate that Mr Moore's poetry is of this description; on the contrary, we think his ornaments are, for the most part, truly and exquisitely beautiful, and the general design of his pieces extremely elegant and ingenious: all that we mean to say is, that there is too much ornament-too many isolated and independent beauties-and that the notice and the very admiration they excite, hurt the interest of the general design, and withdraw our attention too importunately from it.

Mr Moore, it appears to us, is too lavish of his gems and sweets; and it may truly be said of him, in his poetical capacity, that he would be richer with half his wealth. His works are not only of rich materials and graceful design, but they are everywhere glistening with small beauties and transitory inspirations-sudden flashes of fancy that blaze out and perish; like earthborn meteors that crackle in the lower sky, and unseasonably divert our eyes from the great and lofty bodies which pursue their harmonious courses in a serener region.

We have spoken of these as faults of stylebut they could scarcely have existed without going deeper; and though they first strike us as qualities of the composition only, we find, upon a little reflection, that the same general character belongs to the fable, the characters, and the sentiments-that they all are alike in the excess of their means of attraction-and fail to interest, chiefly by being too interesting.