BOOKS.

MOORE'S MEMOIRS, JOURNAL, AND CORRESPONDENCE.* IN the preface to the sixth volume of this longwinded publication, Lord John Russell observes, that, " as we approach nearer the present day, the duty of omission becomes at once difficult and in- dispensable " ' • and he prefaces this observation with the somewhat naïve remark, considering the number of volumes to which he has allowed the diary already to extend, " the constant repetition of daily engagements becomes at length wearisome." This very sensible and perfectly true judgment manifests, unfortunately for Moore himself and the readers of his diary, only that sort of wis- dom which prompted the proprietor to slant the stable-door after his horse was stolen. A year ago, had Lord John been as alive to the wearisomeness of a daily record spread over thirty years, and filled with little else than engagements to dinners, breakfasts, balls, and suppers, and the insipid lees of gossip thereunto belong- ing, we might have had a pleasant collection of letters, a sprinkling of witty sayings and anecdotes, interesting from the persons they were told of—a single volume, in fact, or at most two, giving us all we cared to know of Moore's manner of life and familiar friends, and forming an illustrative companion to his collected poems. What we have, it is the less needful to characterize, as the literary world has seldom evinced more unanimity than in its opinion of

the impolicy and injustice of publishing Moore's diary almost in extenso.

Weary, however, as we are, in common with all our acquaint- ance, of a journal which may yet, if it survive, have some in- terest in the year 2854, we had intended to protest against the malignant misconstruction that has been founded on it of Moore's family relations. Even had the fact been that Moore neglected his wife to pursue his own pleasures, and gratify his own thirst for flattery and fine company, no man who was not heartlessly care- less of the pain he was inflicting, would have brought this charge against him in an influential public journal, and have endeavoured to establish it by the most perverse ingenuity, so long as Mrs. Moore was living, and almost certain to be made aware of what was written about her husband. The task of vindicating Moore in this respect, however, has been so successfully performed by the Examiner, that it is needless to argue the subject further. We have said before, that the deepest thing in Moore's oharacter was his heart ; that his healthy flow of affection towards his mother and father, his sister, his admirable wife, and his children, atoned for many a weakness, and preserved him from falling before the temptations of fashionable life and dissipation. A gay and soda man he was ; but we have yet to learn that a disposition for en- joyment, and the faculty of shining in society, are blemishes in a man's character. They enhance whatever sterner virtue he may possess, while they form the fitting and natural accompaniment of poetic genius. That poets should be gloomy and misanthropieal, or even staid and austere, seems to us to be the paradox. We will merely enforce what has been elsewhere said of Moore's affec- tionate and loving disposition by quoting his record of the last days of his daughter's life.

"March 1st to 12th.—Towards the end of this week she began to have accesses of extra weakness in the mornings, so much so as to make me think, each time, that her last moment was come ; but she revived from them after taking some refreshment, and the strong cheerful tone of her voice on her recovering from what had appeared to be death seemed wonderful, and even startling. On Thursday evening (5th) I looked over with her Pinelli's prints, and she was much amused with and made remarks on most of the subjects. When she used to close her eyes from weakness, she would Bay, I can't talk, but do you and mamma go on talking, for I like to hear you.' On Friday, she was again alarmingly weak in the morning, and her sweet face still more sadly altered. That evening she played a game of draughts with me ; but her exhaustion was so great on getting to bed, that Bessy (who for the last month has slept, or rather lain down, on a sofa in herroorn) sat up the greater part of the night. The dear chili, indeed, had often said, It is odd, mamma, I never wake in the night, but there I see you and Hannah with your eyes fixed on me, and looking so cheerful and nice.' Poor child, she little knew what those cheerful looks cost. On Saturday morning she was so weary that we thought it better not to move her from her bed ; and she dozed away most of the day, occasionally teazed by her cough, but with- out any other suffering. That evening she expressed a wish that mamma and I should play a game at cribbage together, and she would listen to us ; but she remained in a drowsy state the whole of the time. As she did not appear to be much weaker than last night, I entreated Bessy to take a little sleep, that she might be better able to go through what was yet before her : but, though she did not Bay so, I saw that she would sit up. Next morning (Sunday, 8th) I rose early, and on approaching the room heard the dear child's voice as strong, I thought, as usual ; but, on entering, I saw death plainly in her face. When I asked her how she had slept, she said, ' Pretty well,' in her usual courteous manner ; but her voice had a sort of hollow and distant softness not to be described. When I took her hand on leaving her, she said, (I thought significantly,) 'Good bye, papa.' I will not attempt to tell what I felt at all this. I went occasionally to listen at the door of the room, but'did not go in, as Bossy, knowing what an effect (through my whole future life) such a scene would have upon me, implored me not to be present at it. Thus passed the first of the morning. About eleven o'clock, (as Beery told me afterwards,) the poor child, with an appearance rather of wandering in her mind, said, somewhat wildly, I shall die, I shall die !'—to which her mamma answered, ' We pray to God continually for you, ray dear Anasta- sia ; and I am sure God must love you, for you have always been a good girl: Have I ? ' she said ; thought I was a very naughty girl ; but I am glad to hear you say that I have been good ; for others would perhaps say it out of compliment, but you know me, and must therefore think so, or you would not say it.' But everybody thinks the same, my love. All your young friends love you. Lady Lansdowne thinks you a very good girl.' Deee she, mummy ? ' said the dear child; and then added, 4.Do you think I shall • Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas mom*. Edited by the Right Honourable Lord John Russell, M.P. Volumes V.ead-VL Potblisbed by Long man and Co.

go to Lady Lansdowne's party this year ? ' I don't know what poor Bessy said to this. In about three quarters of an hour or less she called for me, and I came and took her hand for a few seconds, during which Bessy leaned down her head between the poor dying child and me, that I might not see her countenance. As I left the room, too, agonized as her own mind was, my sweet, thoughtful Bessy ran anxiously after me, and giving me a smelling- bottle, exclaimed, 'For God's sake, don't you get ill !' In about a quarter of an hour afterwards she came to me, and I saw that all was over. I could no longer restrain myself ; the feelings I had been so: long suppressing found vent, and a fit of loud violent sobbing seized me, in which I felt as if my chest was coming asunder. The last words of my dear child were, 'Papa, papa!' Her mother had said, ' My dear, I think I could place you more com- fortably; shall I?' to which she answered, 'Yes,' and Bessy, placing her hand under her back, gently raised her. That moment was her last. She exclaimed suddenly, am dying, I am dying ! papa! papa !' and expired.

"On the 12th our darling child was conveyed to Bromham churchyard ; poor Deasy having gone the night before to see where she was to be laid. Al- most all those offices towards the dead which are usually left to others to perform the mother on this occasion would perform herself ; and the last thing she did before the coffin was closed, Wednesday night, was to pull some snowdrops herself and place them within it. She had already, indeed, laid on her dead darling's bosom a bunch of cowslips, which she had smelled to (and with such eagerness) the day before her death ; and it was singular enough, and seemed to give Bessy pleasure, that though lying there three days they were scarcely at all faded. I had ordered a chaise on the morning of the funeral, to take us out of the way of this most dreadful ceremony, (well remembering how it harrowed up all our feelings in following my poor father to the grave) ; and a most melancholy drive we had of it for two long hours, each bearing up for the sake of the other, but all the worse, in reality, for the effort.

"And such is the end of so many years of fondness and hope ; and nothing is now left us but the dream (which may God in his mercy realize !) that we shall see our pure child again in a world more worthy of her."

Then again, three months after the sad loss, Mrs. Moore writes to her husband in London letters which a neglected and unhappy wife would scarcely have written to the man who so neglected her. They appear to us to breathe mutual tenderness and mutual sorrow. That Moore should transcribe them in his journal, which is very scantily devoted to records of feeling and inner life, tells in the same direction.

"Two letters from my sweet Bessy within these few days, of which I cannot help transcribing some passages. I had told her in one of mine how much deeper every day the memory of our sad loss sunk into my heart. 'How exactly (she says) your feeling about our sweet girl resembles mine. All last night I was with her, and had hopes of her recovery ; but the light of the morning again told the same sad truth, that she was gone, and in this world we should never meet but in dreams.' In another part of the same letter she says—' There are -three sisters here (Cheltenham) that always remind me of what our dear girls might have been. It is not that they are at all like any of our dears, but they are three in number, and about a year or so between them, dressed alike, and full of the life and happiness so beau- tiful at that age. There are, indeed, many other children here, that often make me sigh ; and there are times when the sweet music and their happy faces and firm step make me feel most sad and lonely in the midst of all the gayety; ; but I do not indulge more than is quite necessary to me, and I trust shall meet you improved and strengthened both in mind and body.' In the second letter, announcing her coming, she says—' I am already, thank God, better; but it is my mind that prevents me from going on as well as you could wish. Every day only adds to the loneliness of the future, and the happy face of that sweet child is for ever before me, as she used to sit at the other side of the table. But I will try and only think of her as I trust she is,—happy, and often looking down on those she so tenderly loved. How she thought of and loved you ! Her dear eyes were always full of light if you but went up-stairs, and she thought there was a chance of your com- ing into the parlour. Though my thoughts are melancholy, and my heart sad, still I have great, very great blessings ; and if God but allows me to live for and with the three beings that are still left, I must be happy.' Bless her admirable heart !"

This is, as we said, the best and most loveable side of Moore's character: we have culled two or three passages which illustrate other sides of that character, as showing the man to have those qualities and tastes that make men favourites in society, especially with women, but far enough from being traits that are either blameable or ridiculous.

MOORE'S TASTE IN WOMEN.

Sharpe full of praise of my book ; said he was " downright in love with Alethe, and could hardly tell why, for she did little more than raise her beautiful eyes and let them fall again." This, as I told him, was what I aimed at; to make my heroine interesting with as little effort as possible, keeping her down to the gentle simple tone which I myself like in Amen. Had once an idea of putting as a motto to the book, two lines from Crashaw's verses on St. Theresa- " Yet, though she cannot tell you why,

She can love, and she can die."

ENJOYMENT OF GIRLS' TALK.

Dined at the Lord Chancellor's, at Wimbledon ; Luttrell and I went together, having clubbed for a job : found the party out in the grounds, which are very pretty : company, besides ourselves, Lord Alvanley, Mon- tague, Dawson, Miss Fitzelarence, General and Mrs. Macdonald and a very pretty daughter, Lady Clare and her daughter. Did not like the appearance of things at first, so many dandies being a portentous prospect ; but got placed at dinner between Miss Macdonald and Miss Fitzclarence, both very pretty and amusing, and enjoyed the time exceedingly : the girls dating their ages and standing by their seasons at Almack's ; Miss Macdonald con- sidering herself an old woman from this being her second year at Almack's ; Miss F.'s first. Talked of the rosiere dress at the fete ; the pattern given by the Miss de Rooses, who said it was to be pretty and cheap, but it turned out neither; cost twelve guineas, and good for nothing afterwards : all these de- tails very amusing.

No doubt, both these passages would stamp Moore as a fool in some men's eyes. Slow men require stronger stimulants than

these, and cold-hearted clever men cannot interest themselves in trifles. Especially to a person accustomed to the spicy society to be met with in certain London circles must such women and such talk appear inconceivably stupid. But Moore lived amongst vir- tuous and highbred women, and liked their manners and their modes of life. Perhaps a bilious or an exclusively intellectual man would not enjoy such a day as this-

" Not a bad day altogether. Walter Scott, Rogers, and Chantrey, at breakfast ; music and Miss Bailey at luncheon time ; dinner at Lansdowne House, with the Venus of Canova before my eyes, and Sontag in the evening. Taking it with all its et ceteras of genius, beauty, feeling, and magnificence, no other country but England could furnish out such a day."

We heartily appreciate Moore's enjoyment of such a day, and like him none the worse for his avowal of his taste. Add to the qualities displayed in these quotations, that Moore sang with exquisite taste and deep feeling, so as to charm and move the hearts of those for whom scientific music would perhaps have had little attraction—that his conversation was radiant with wit, rich in anecdote and felicitous quotation, and totally devoid of malice— that his songs are perhaps the finest drawingroom songs in our language, and will not only be immortal themselves, but will im- mortalize much prose and verse of his writing not very precious on their own account,—can we wonder that he was a favourite ? Can we be surprised that he was vain, and loved to repeat and record his own praises ? Allowing that these are weaknesses, they are at any rate weaknesses that injure no one, and go some way to make their owners happy. How many of us can say what Moore says to Sydney Smith ?

" Walked with Sydney Smith ; told me his age ; turned sixty. Asked me how I felt about dying. Answered, that if my mind was but at ease about the comfort of those I left behind, I should leave the world without much regret, having passed a very happy life, and enjoyed (as much, perhaps, as ever man did yet) all that is enjoyable in it ; the only single thing I have had to complain of being want of money. I could therefore die with the same words that Jortin died, I have had enough of everything.' "

To attain this state of mind has been deemed the highest accom- plishment of philosophy. If in Moore's case it was rather the result of a happy temperament, still a sensible and industrious life was needed to maintain it up to the age of fifty-three, when these words were uttered. We by no means think the world would be better if all men were as lighthearted and ornamental as Moore, but it can be none the worse for a plentiful sprinkling of such men ; and if we were called upon to decide whether Moore or his morose critics could be best spared from this nether world, we really should have no hesitation in voting to retain Moore, even though our "finest hands at a slasher" lost their employment by the verdict.

We hope Lord John Russell will not accuse us of pedantry, if we point out two slight blunders in Latin and Greek in these volumes, which though alight tell a significant story as to the scholarship of the Holland House coterie. A. statesman who as- pires to reform Universities should at least show himself master of the elements of those branches of knowledge taught in UniverL sities, or impertinent people may hint that he is meddling in mat- ters he does not understand. At page 210 of volume Y, Moore re- cords his contemplation of the " portrait of Galileo with his head leaning so thoughtfully on his hand, and seeming to say, with a sort of mournful resolution, ' et tamen 'novel.'" This may pass at Edinburgh and Dublin for Roman Latin ; at Eton and Oxford movetur would be preferred. Again, at page 48 of the same volume, Moore writes—" One of the Duncans to breakfast; said it was the principle of such men as Lord Eldon sn Kamm. Is there any such a word? There is KaweapvEgw; but Koala°, I think, is to kill." Afoot-note to this wonderful specimen of philo- logical knowledge—whether by. the journalist or the editor seems uncertain—informs us, " There is Kaivow, to make new." We think that if Lord John would consult his friend Mr. Macaulay, who undoubtedly is a good scholar though he did. frequent Holland House, he would be told that Lord Eldon's principle was !An Kwau ; which answers to the Latin proverb " quieta non movere," and to the English proverb " let well alone." Lord Holland's knowledge of French has been shown in Fraser's Magazine to be of an equally suspicious character; and here we have two of the brightest planets of that Whig system showing schoolboy ignorance of Latin and Greek. Yet Moore quotes Latin and Greek like any learned pundit, and Lord John has translated a portion of the Odyssey. We fear the carping public will be apt to put down the scholastic accomplishments of the coterie as something very like a sham. Moore supplies a hint about Lord John Russell that goes far to account for his failures both as author and editor. He says, (vo- lume V. page 316,) "Some weeks since, I had a letter from Lord John Russell from Woburn, sending me some verses he had written about the Duke of Newcastle and Lord Kenyon : very good, at least for the first twenty lines, but after that, from his usual lazi- ness, falling into doggerel, and spoiling a good thought and lively commencement by a most unworthy ending."