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"But mind, whatever copy you may have read me in, the one that you must go to sleep upon (when inclined for a doze) must be a portable octavo presented by myself.

"You deserve ten times more than this, not only for our old friendship, but for the use you have been to the said volume, by the very interesting and (in the present state of the patrimonial question) apropos contributions you have furnished.

"I was sorry, some time ago, to see that the pretty verses to you had found their way into some French periodicals, and from them into ours; but I trust most sincerely that the same accident will not occur to the lines about Lady Byron.

"They gave me some hope at the speaker's that we might soon see you in England. Is there any chance?

"Ever yours most truly,


"Sloperton Cottage, April 15th, 1832. "DEAR LADY BLESSINGTON,-You were one of the very first persons, during my late short and busy visit to London, whom it was my intention, as soon as I discovered you were in town, to call upon; but just as I was about to have that pleasure, your letter, forwarded from home, reached me; and the tone of it, I confess, so much surprised and pained me, that I had not courage to run the risk of such a reception as it seemed to threaten. I can only say that, had I the least idea that the very harmless allusions in Byron's letter to the very harmless pursuits of Lord Blessington's youth could have given him (had he been alive) or yourself the slightest uneasiness, I most certainly would not have suffered those passages to remain; nor can I now understand, with all allowance for the sensitiveness which affliction generates, either the annoyance or displeasure which (you will, at least, believe more from wrong judgment than any intention) I have been so unfortunate as to excite in you.

"I have lost no time in searching both for the letters and MS. book which you wished for, but, as yet, have been unable to find only the latter, and rather think that the letters of Lord Blessington, to which you allude, shared the fate of many others on the same subject, which I tore up when done with them. Again expressing my sincere regret for the pain I have given, I am, dear Lady Blessington, very truly yours, THOMAS MOORE."

Those who only knew Moore in fashionable circles, or through his Diaries, are very unlikely to be acquainted with the best part of his character, and what was most estimable and deserving of honor in his principles. The following letter, expressive of his views respecting slavery, is so creditable to his sentiments, that I presume it may be subjoined, without impropriety, to the preceding letters.


"Sloperton, March 8th, 1840. "DEAR MR. MADDEN,-I have but time to acknowledge and thank you for the very interesting paper on slavery which you were so kind as to send me through the hands of my sister. I am not surprised that you should have returned bursting with indignation, more especially against those fellow-countrymen of ours (and fellow-Catholics), who, by their advocacy of slavery, bring so much disgrace both upon their country and creed.


Wishing you every success in your benevolent efforts, I am very truly THOMAS MOORE."



In the spring of 1832 I introduced Campbell to Lady Blessington. The acquaintance commenced inauspiciously. There was a coolness in it from the beginning, which soon made it very evident to both parties there was no cordiality between them to be expected. The lady, who was disappointed with Byron at her first interview with him, was not very likely to be delighted with Campbell-a most shivery person in the presence of strangers-or to have her beau ideal of the poetic character and outward appearance of a bard realized by an elderly gentleman in a curly wig, with a blue coat and brass buttons, very like an ancient mariner out of uniform, and his native element being on shore.

Campbell, on the other hand, had a sort of instinctive apprehension of any person who was supposed to be an admirer of Byron, and he could not divest his mind of the idea that Lady Blessington did not duly appreciate his own merits. After dining at Seamore place twice, I believe, and freezing her ladyship with the chilliness of his humor, the acquaintance dropped, and left no pleasing recollections on the minds of either of the parties. Lady Blessington occasionally indulged in strictures on the vanity and the selfishness of Byron; Campbell frequently broke out into violent invective and very unmeasured abuse of his brother bard after his death. But Lady Blessington could not bear any one to speak disparagingly of Byron in any respect but herself; and there was always a large quantity of eulogy mingled with her small amount of censure. But that was not

the case with Campbell. He could see nothing to admire, to pity, or to spare in Byron.

LETTER FROM THOMAS CAMPBELL TO LADY BLESSINGTON. "May 19th, 1832. Sussex Chambers, Duke Street, St. James's Square. "DEAR MADAM,-I have no engagements for a month to come, excepting for Monday and Thursday next. On Monday I have a very long-standing and particular engagement, otherwise I should break it with no scruple to accept your ladyship's invitation. How unfortunate it is for me to have been engaged. I must not be too pathetic over my misfortune, for that might seem to be saying, 'I pray you ask me some other day,' and that would be very saucy, though it would be very sincere.

"But it can not be forwardness to thank you most gratefully for speaking so kindly of my works.

"With great respect, I remain, your ladyship's obliged and faithful servant, "THOMAS CAMPBELL."

"If poets only were allowed to pronounce sentence on poets, we are afraid the public would often endeavor to apply to a higher court for a new trial, on the ground of the misdirection of the judge, or on the verdict brought against the evidence; and this will be found to be the case, even when very high powers and capabilities are found on the judgment-seat." Those very truthful words were spoken by a generous-minded and a manlythinking writer-Eliot Warburton-in relation of some disparaging remarks of Goldsmith on the odes of Gray.*


A variety of detached poems, of various merit, and many of them of the highest, constitute the claims of this most amiable and accomplished man to literary reputation. Some years ago he was appointed to the office of Commissioner of Lunatic Asylums.

A lady well acquainted with him, whose observations on some others of the celebrities of Gore House I have already quoted, thus speaks of Barry Cornwall: "One of the kindest, gentlest, and most amiable of natures; a warm, true, and indefatigable friend; an excellent family-man, and in all his rela* Memoirs of H. Walpole, &c., vol. ii., p. 150.

tions guileless and simple as a child. His writings, principally in verse, and some charming prose sketches of his, likewise partake, for the most part, of the gentle spirit of the man, with much of playfulness and phantasy; but at times they rise into a tragic force and graphic energy. Some of his descriptions, of scenes in the dark dens of London crime and vice, are very forcible and dramatic.”

The English epitaph on the tomb of Lady Blessington was written by Barry Cornwall.


"28th January, 1833.

"Your little letters always find me grateful to them. They (little paper angels, as they are) put devils of all kinds, from blue down to black, to speedy flight."

"4th February, 1836.

"Your little notes come into my Cimmerian cell here like starlits shot from a brighter region-pretty and pleasant disturbers of the darkness about me. I imprison them (my Ariels) in a drawer, with conveyances and wills, &c., and such sublunary things, which seem very proud of their society. Yet, if your notes to me be skyey visitors, what must this my note be to you? It must, I fear, be an evil genius."

"17th April, 1836.

"I am vexed-more than I can express-at the hurry of your publishers. I do not like that a book of yours should go to press without some contribution from me; yet I am so circumstanced as literally to be unable, for some days, to do any thing that is worth your acceptance. I have tried once or twice to hammer out some verse for you, but I am generally so jaded by my day's work as to be unfit for any thing except stupid sleep. I am not visited even by a dream."

[No date.]

"So poor Miss Landon is dead! What a fate! She went to certain death. No one ever lived on that dreadful coast, except men of iron, who have been dipped and tempered in every atmosphere till nothing could touch them.”

[No date.]

"I am glad to hear that you enjoy in prospect your garden. You may safely do so. Nature is a friend that never deceives us. You may depend

upon it that her roses will be genuine, and that the whisper of your trees will contain neither flattery nor slander."

"18th December, 1839.

"How is it that you continue to go on with so untiring a pen? I hope you will not continue to give up your nights to literary undertakings. Believe me (who have suffered bitterly for this imprudence), that nothing in the world of letters is worth the sacrifice of health, and strength, and animal spirits, which will certainly follow this excess of labor."



Ir is passing strange how little is to be known, a few years after their decease, of persons greatly celebrated for their wit and humor while flourishing in society, and courted and petted by the literary circles and coteries of their time. The reputation of a mere man of wit, without any concomitant claims to distinction, whether as an author, an artist, an orator, in the senate, at the bar, or in the pulpit, is of small value. There is no element of immortality in it. It is more than strange, it is truly surprising, how men of wit, genuine, exuberant, irrepressible, spirituel men, who in society eclipse all other men of letters and remarkable intelligence by the brilliancy of their conversation, the smartness of their repartees, and the extraordinary quickness of their apprehension, once they cease to throw intellectual somersaults for society to divert it, and make fun for its lords and ladies, and other celebrities, their services are forgotten, all interest in their personal concerns are lost; there is no obligation to their memories; the privileged people of fashion and literature à la mode, who thronged round them with admiration in their days of triumph, are missing when they are borne to the tomb, or cease to be funny or prosperous, or in vogue. No man of wit of his time was more talked of and admired than Jekyll. The court that was paid to him, the homage that was yielded to him, were sufficient to lead one to believe that his memory would live long after him; yet a few years had not elapsed after his decease before he was forgotten.

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