Almost simultaneous with the above affair was the publication of Mr. Moore's "Memoirs of Captain Rock, the celebrated Irish Chieftain,"—a work of political, humorous, and satirical character, turning upon the wrongs and riots of Ireland, with which, as our readers will allow, we have here little to do. It contains great historical research, and had its day; but the gratification in the perusal is of a very mixed character. Its success, however, was sufficient to induce the publication of an imitative work entitled "Captain Rock's Letters to the King," which was "certainly not written by Mr. Moore, to whom, while the publication was suspended, they were so positively ascribed."

In the following year, Mr. Moore published the "Memoirs of the Right Hon. R.B. Sheridan," having previously edited an edition of his works. In these Memoirs, Mr. Moore has done justice to the character of Sheridan, neither concealing his follies and vices, nor magnifying his good qualities. We quote a paragraph from this work for the purpose of introducing a portion of some very beautiful lines by Mr. Moore, which first appeared in the Morning Chronicle, immediately after Sheridan's death.

"There appeared some verses at the time, which, however intemperate in their satire and careless in their style, came, evidently, warm from the heart of the writer, and contained sentiments to which, even in his cooler moments he needs not hesitate to subscribe:—

"Oh it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, And friendships so false in the great and high-born;— To think what a long line of titles may follow The relics of him who died, friendless and lorn! "How proud they can press to the funeral array Of him whom they shunn'd,in his sickness and sorrow— How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by Nobles to-morrow!"

The anonymous writer thus characterises the talents of Sheridan:—

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall— The orator, dramatist, minstrel,—who ran Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all? "Whose mind was an essence, compounded, with art. From the finest and best of all other men's powers; Who rul'd, like a wizard, the world of the heart, And could call up its sunshine, or draw down its showers; "Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd; Whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade,— "Whose eloquence, brightening whatever it tried, Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, Was as rapid as deep, and as brilliant a tide, As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!" 1

In 1827, appeared "The Epicurean," a tale of extreme grace and feeling, and conveying the sublime lessons of Epicurus, in one of the most attractive of poetico-prosaic forms. In picturesque knowledge, splendid descriptions, startling and mysterious incidents, and intellectual riches, this work is almost unparalleled in our language; and, observes an elegant critic, "the narrative sweeps along, like a mild and glassy river winding through banks of the most brilliant verdure, sometimes sparkling and bubbling to the sunshine of fancy, and at intervals solemnly gliding on with a deep under-current of philosophy."

The contributions of Mr. Moore to one of the most powerful of the London journals are too well recognised by the public to require further than a passing notice of their being recently published in an elegant little volume, entitled "Odes upon Cash, Corn, Catholics, and other Matters;" and we believe them to be entitled by their raciness and humour to a niche in the library, beyond the destructible form of a newspaper.

In this brief Memoir, we have little more than glanced at Mr. Moore's several works, and the periods of their publication; although we could crowd our pages with the highest testimonials of their poetical and literary merits. Much as we admire "his wit, his festive merriment, and inimitable satires, and the ingenious imagery, and the elaborate melody and finish of every period of his prose"—we are disposed to think him pre-eminently successful in delineating the plaintive and pensive woes of deep and settled melancholy: thus—

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow, While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below; So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

We have already noticed the taste of Mr. Moore for music. "Nor has he neglected those more solid attainments which should ever distinguish the well-bred gentleman, for he is an excellent general scholar, and particularly well-read in the literature of the middle ages. His conversational powers are great, and his modest and unassuming manners have placed him in the highest rank of cultivated society." Although his reputation is so well established, he speaks of himself with his wonted modesty. "Whatever fame he might have acquired he attributed principally to the verses which he had adapted to the delicious strains of Irish melody. His verses, in themselves, could boast of but little merit; but like flies preserved in amber, they were esteemed in consequence of the precious material by which they were surrounded."

Sheridan, in speaking of the subject of this memoir, said "That there was no man who put so much of his heart into his fancy as Tom Moore; that his soul seemed as if it were a particle of fire separated from the sun; and was always fluttering to get back to that source of light and heat." Lord Byron, too, distinguished Moore as "a name consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted and various talents."

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 349, Supplement to Volume 12.

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