Chapter VI: Part 6

Miss Tyler had sternly prohibited her charge being breeched, like other juveniles of the day; and though he was six years old, and tall for his age, she had forced him to wear a childish, fantastic dress. It was now gladly exchanged for a garb befitting the dignity of ambitious boyhood; and the youthful dramatist was placed at a day-school, kept by a Baptist minister. There, though a docile boy, he received somewhat harsh treatment, and the only flogging on record that he ever underwent at the hands of a teacher; but he did not profit, to any extent, by the tuition. In twelve months the reverend pedagogue died; and Southey was sent to a boarding-school about nine miles from Bristol, at a house which, in other days, had been the seat of a provincial family of consequence. The broken and ruinous gateways about which the urchins sported, the walled garden transformed into a play-ground, the oaken staircase on which they aspiringly scrawled their names, and the tapestry which covered the old walls of the school-room, conveyed to the heart of the young rhymer mournful impressions and associations, and produced an impression on his memory not soon effaced. When in the pride of youthful and eccentric intellect, he visited the spot in company with a versifying friend, and described it in his early poem, the “Retrospect.” He knew well how to appreciate the ideas suggested by such a scene.

Meantime, at this educational institution he managed, rather by assisting his comrades than any guidance he himself had the advantage of, to acquire some knowledge of Latin, which was only taught occasionally by a Frenchman who came from Bristol for the purpose. Southey and his fellow-imps were rather meanly fed; and their ablutions, performed chiefly in a stream that passed through the grounds, were conducted with much less precision and completeness than would have satisfied the scrupulous cleanliness of the fastidious Miss Tyler. Indeed, the carelessness habitually permitted and practiced in this respect would with some reason have driven her into one of her boiling passions, which such an event as the wedding of a servant-maid never failed to raise. The seminary was, besides, much too disorderly to be in any degree comfortable; yet the boys were not without days and seasons of juvenile enjoyment. In spring each was allowed to cultivate a small allotment of garden-ground, on which was grown salad, which served for a frugal supper; and in the autumn there was a plentiful and animating crop of apples and other fruit to gather from the adjoining orchards. On one occasion they unfortunately exceeded all discretion, and appropriated so liberally those set apart for the master’s use, that grave suspicions were excited and acted on, their drawers and boxes searched, and the whole plunder recaptured. The youthful band knew well that a moderate extent of pocketing would not have been inquired into. As it was, every apple was taken from them, and _Inopem me copia fecit_ might have been the exclamation of each votary of mischief, as he hung his head and reflected on the vexatious incident. They were dressed in their best, Southey, doubtless, wearing his cocked hat, when Rodney went from Bath to Bristol, to be entertained by the corporation of the great commercial emporium; and they were marched to a convenient spot on the wayside, to give him three cheers as he passed. They exerted their lungs with no small effect, and the gallant admiral returned the salute with right hearty good-will.

At this not very advantageous seminary Southey remained for twelve months, but at the end of that period a panic occurred, in consequence of some disease prevailing in the establishment; and the future Laureate was withdrawn from its precincts in tremulous haste, and given again into the safe custody of his irascible but affectionate aunt.

Miss Tyler had by this time deserted Bath and all its social and theatrical delights. On the death of her mother she had taken possession of the latter’s house at Bedminster; and it was deemed expedient to deliver Southey over to her tender mercies, while his father looked out from his linens and broadcloth for a proper school at which to place the clever youth. In this old-fashioned retreat, the successful biographer of the greatest of English admirals confesses to having spent some of the happiest days of his boyhood. Even at that early age his pleasure seems to have been in retirement, and his satisfaction in secluded labor; he had little relish for boyish games, and he found so much amusement in the garden among flowers and insects, that, had his taste in this branch of study been encouraged and taken advantage of, he might, perhaps, have figured as a distinguished naturalist. But that was not his destiny. His pen, wielded by a willing hand and directed by a suggestive brain, was his weapon; and before thirteen he had indulged his young ambition by compositions of various kinds, and his imagination by perusing and devouring the pages of Tasso, Ariosto, and Spenser.

Meantime, as early as assorted with his worthy father’s convenience, Southey was placed as a day-boarder at a school in his native city, where he appears to have been tolerably well taught. He had already, as has been intimated, aspiringly commenced composition in verse. Wordsworth dated his love of rhyme, and the tendency which colored his manhood, from his tenth year; but his future friend and eulogist seems to have received the “poetic impulse” at a much less mature time of life, and to have commenced gratifying his sensations and prepossessions by practicing the “art divine” at an age when he could hardly have learned to hold or handle his pen with any degree of facility. Owing to his aunt’s histrionic predilections, Shakspeare, as the prince of dramatists, had been put into his little hands almost as soon as he could read; and he went through the historical plays with rapture. It then occurred to him that there would, in all probability, be civil wars in his day, similar to those of which he read; and he conceived the ambitious desire of rivaling the valorous feats and lofty fame of Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, the setter-up and puller-down of kings. So imbued did his mind and spirit become with this notion, that he began nightly to dream of tents, battle-fields, beating drums, clashing spears, and all the “pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” Besides perusing with avidity the works of Shakspeare, he had read those of Beaumont and Fletcher before he was eight years old; and his fancy, thus stimulated, glowed with romantic thoughts and charming visions. Moreover, he had already been present at numerous plays, and listened with awakened and lively curiosity to interminable conversations about their writers and actors, whom he regarded as the greatest of men. In this way his first aspirations after authorship naturally took the dramatic form; and he did not hesitate to express his opinion on the subject with great confidence and complacency.

“It is the easiest thing in the world to write a play,” observed he one day, at this period, to a female friend of his aunt, with whom he happened to be on a journey.

“Is it, indeed?” she said, not a little surprised.

“Yes,” replied Southey; “for you have only to think what you would say if you were in the place of the characters, and make them say it.”

Acting on this not very correct principle, he not only produced pieces himself, but endeavored to persuade his puerile associates to do likewise. In the latter attempt he, of course, found his zealous efforts altogether futile, but experienced much consolation from the pride derived by his gentle mother, when she discovered that her boy was so highly gifted. These were not the days of popular literature; and the worthy draper’s dusty shelf did not present to his son’s keen appetite for knowledge any very various or interesting collection of books; but Southey about this time had the good fortune to meet with Spenser’s “Faëry Queen,” which charmed him much with its sweetness. He was soon, however, removed once more from under the paternal roof into more congenial company.

His aunt, Miss Tyler, took a small house near Bristol; and he was once more handed over to her care. A brother of the restless spinster also went to live with her――a strange, half-witted man, whose enormous consumption of ale and tobacco astonished his young kinsman, and brought on himself a premature old age. He had a strong affection for Southey, and loved well to have a game at marbles with him when an opportunity presented itself; though apparently, he was better pleased to smoke a pipe and drink beer in the shady arbor during summer, or by the kitchen chimney in colder and less agreeable seasons. Some of his wise, old-world saws, his nephew did not soon forget.

During his twelfth and thirteenth years Southey, ever eager in his beloved pursuit, exercised his poetic powers with much industry and enthusiastic perseverance. When writing, he searched and labored diligently to make himself master of the necessary historic facts and information relating to the particular subject with which he happened, from inclination, to be occupied. Even at this date he was fitting and accomplishing himself, by solitary and unaided study, and by practice in the coining and structure of sentences, for the career which circumstances and a genuine love of such matters led and incited him to select; and which he afterward did follow with an ardor, patience, and resolution in the highest degree creditable to himself, though rarely if ever equaled, and never surpassed by others. It was perfectly natural that the members of his family and their relations should experience a very justifiable elation at talents which were thus, perhaps, a little too precociously displayed; and Miss Tyler, flushed with pride at the acquirements of her clever nursling, insisted on his being educated to one of the learned professions. In this proposal she was, luckily, supported by Southey’s maternal uncle, a clergyman, who handsomely offered to defray the expenses which this otherwise satisfactory scheme would entail. Accordingly, in the spring of 1788, it was resolved that the young prodigy should be sent to Westminster School. His gayly-disposed aunt was rejoiced at so favorable an opportunity for going to London――then no such easy business as at present; and he was conveyed thither under her protecting wing.

After a short time spent in visiting some of the imperious lady’s friends and acquaintances he was duly entered, and soon after had the task of writing some Latin verses from Thomson’s “Seasons,” which was a process quite new to him, and productive of some trouble and perplexity. However, he surmounted the difficulties, and even practiced himself so far as to produce about fifty verses on the “Death of Fair Rosamond” from choice. But that classical effort satisfied his ambition, and he never afterward strove to excel save in his native tongue. At this period the success of the “Microcosm,” and the reputation it won for its institutors, the Eton boys, set the ambition of the Westminster scholars on fire, and a weekly paper, entitled the “Trifler,” was speedily commenced among them. In this little periodical Southey requested the insertion of some verses of his on the death of a dear sister, but he was balked in his wish by a mortifying neglect. He next, in conjunction with several of his new associates, projected a paper bearing the title of the “Flagellant,” which only reached nine numbers, when a fierce attack on corporal punishments annoyed and enraged the head-master of Westminster so highly that he commenced a prosecution for libel against the more responsible parties. Southey at once confessed himself to be the author of the obnoxious article, and he was, in consequence, compelled to leave the school. In the age of boy-periodicals this was certainly a most provoking consequence of his first effort at furnishing contributions, and misfortunes, according to the proverb, seldom come singly. His expulsion from Westminster was speedily followed by circumstances still more adverse and distressing. His father who, behind the counter, had languished, like an animal transplanted to an uncongenial climate, became bankrupt and died.

Southey was now sent to matriculate at Oxford. It had been intended that he should enter at Christ Church, and his name had accordingly been put down there. But the Westminster mishap having reached the dean’s ears, that dignitary, alarmed at the idea of insubordination, refused him admittance, and he consequently entered at Balliol College in 1792. His views and opinions, in regard to the forms and discipline of the place, were not such as to favor his profiting much by his residence there; and, though destined by his well-meaning relations for the Church, he seems never to have cherished the prospect of clerical honors with any degree of mental satisfaction. Yet, with all his eccentric tenets and sentiments, he was staid and decorous in demeanor, and meritoriously refrained from the excesses which he too frequently witnessed.

Southey was, by this time, animated and deluded by all the too sanguine credulity and glowing enthusiasm which so often mark and cloud the morning of genius, and lead its possessor astray. While in a state of intellectual fever and political excitement he made the acquaintance of Coleridge, with whom he soon devised the fanciful and bubble-like scheme since known and ridiculed as “Pantisocracy.” This consisted of fantastic plans for collecting a number of discontented youths, as brother-adventurers, and forming a colony in the New World, on a thoroughly social basis. Southey wasted much time and care on this chimerical idea; and it was decided that the aspirants to perfect earthly content and felicity should commence operations by purchasing, with their common contributions, a quantity of land, which they were all to spend their labor in cultivating. Each was to have a fair share of work assigned to him, while it was arranged that the female emigrants――for one important regulation provided that they were, without exception, to be married men――should manage all domestic matters. Southey luxuriated in golden dreams and visionary anticipations; his ardent spirit swelled and rose high. All obstacles disappeared before his enthusiastic gaze, and he engaged the hand and affections of a dowerless but captivating damsel in his native place, who rejoiced in the very romantic name of Edith, and had no insuperable objections to accompany him to the land of promise, which lay sweetly, as his fancy pictured it, ready to receive them on the banks of the Susquehannah River, flowing with milk and honey. So far all went as smoothly with Southey as a total inexperience of the real world, and full and entire confidence in his own untried powers of action, could render matters to a strong imagination. But there was yet a lioness of no ordinary ferocity in the way. Miss Tyler had still to be informed, and the startling intelligence that her hopeful nephew had, without consulting her wishes, selected a partner for life, was instantly productive of one most inconvenient result. It brought upon him the sudden and rebounding torrents of her wrath. The night was rainy, but she was cut to the heart; and, mercilessly turning him out of doors, she never condescended to see his face again. This was a sufficiently portentous commencement for the Pantisocratic form of society; and the scheme, as might have been foreseen, proving utterly impracticable, the day-dream vanished into thin air when the most distant effort was made to realize it.

Southey was now, for the first time, thrown entirely on his own resources, and that struggle for existence by exertion, which invigorates the mind and influences the understanding, began in earnest. Under no circumstances could his ambitious spirit have been still at this date. The stream was still near its rise, and fretted itself into foam against each opposing rock; but the time was approaching when its course was to be more smooth, and its waters not less clear. His first step was to arrange with Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, for the publication of “Joan of Arc,” with which he had been for a considerable time occupied, and the next to deliver a course of historical lectures, which were numerously attended. Nevertheless, it appears that his pecuniary affairs were not by any means in a flourishing condition at this crisis.

In 1794 he had, in conjunction with his friend Mr. Lovell, under the names of Moschus and Bion, published a volume of poems; and about the same period Southey, then glowing with revolutionary zeal, composed his “Wat Tyler.” It is spoken of as a production of no merit, and utterly harmless from its weakness. Long after the author had recanted his early heresies, it was published surreptitiously to annoy him, and he, in self-defense, applied for an injunction against the printers. But the Chancellor refused to interfere in the matter, on the ground of the peculiarly objectionable principles which the book contained. The writer of this hapless――and, as it turned out, perplexing――revolutionary _brochure_, in after life thus accounted for its unwelcome existence:

“In my youth, when my stock of knowledge consisted of such an acquaintance with Greek and Roman history as is acquired in the course of a scholastic education, when my heart was full of poetry and romance, and Lucan and Akenside were at my tongue’s end, I fell into the political opinions which the French revolution was then scattering throughout Europe; and, following those opinions with ardor, wherever they led, I soon perceived that inequalities of rank were a light evil compared to the inequalities of property, and those more fearful distinctions which the want of moral and intellectual culture occasions between man and man. At that time, and with those opinions, or rather feelings (for the root was in the heart, and not in the understanding), I wrote ‘Wat Tyler,’ as one who was impatient of all the oppressions that are done under the sun. The subject was injudiciously chosen; and it was treated as might be expected by a youth of twenty, in such times, who regarded only one side of the question. Were I to dramatize the same story now, there would be much to add, but little to alter; I should write as a man, not as a stripling; with the same heart and the same desires, but with a ripened understanding, and competent stores of knowledge.”

Next year, while “Joan of Arc” was still in the press, Southey was, with a view to his welfare, urged and persuaded to accompany his uncle, Mr. Hill, to Lisbon, where that gentleman was chaplain to the factory. Consequently, when the epic poem appeared, its author had left the country; but not until he had contracted a matrimonial alliance, under circumstances so romantic as to put to shame the inventive faculty of novelists, and furnish another instance of truth being often stranger than fiction. His reverend friend and patron was under the impression that a change of scene and society would effectually dissipate and banish all fine visions of love, emigration, and social perfection on the banks of a North American river: but Southey clung to the object of his affection with poetic indiscretion and disinterestedness, and took a very conclusive precaution that the first part of this anticipation should be falsified. On the eve of departure for the continental excursion, he took the bold and irretrievable course of privately leading the adored Edith to the altar, where he received her hand as his bride, and united their earthly fortunes forever. It is stated that they parted immediately after their marriage, at the portico of the church; and the bridegroom set off on his travels. Doubtless, in subsequent years he had no cause to repent of having thus baffled the well-meant designs of his relative, anxious as the latter unquestionably was to promote his interests; and many, as well as Southey, who have, after a similar fashion, defied the fears of the wise, and rushed desperately on matrimony, have found in the duties which attend it, the best incitements to exertion, and the elements of honorable success in life. Yet early marriages in circumstances like his are extremely unsafe to stand upon; and Southey’s kinsman was quite justified in telling him to beware.

In the year 1796 Southey joyfully returned to England where his poem had in his absence been published; and he began to form the notes he had made while abroad into “Letters from Spain and Portugal.” He found it necessary to accept the fulfillment of an old promise of pecuniary assistance from a very intimate college friend; and then he proceeded to London, with the grand intention of studying and accomplishing himself in the laws of the realm. He was duly entered as a student at Gray’s Inn, and made an attempt to combine legal studies with poetical prepossessions; but this, as might have been expected, proved quite futile. Law and poetry――the perusal of Blackstone and the writing of “Madoc”――were not very harmonious conjunctions, as he soon discovered, to the neglect of the former.

Sometime afterward Southey took a small house at Westbury, a beautiful village, where, in the society of his beloved wife, he resided about twelve months, and spent some of his most satisfactory days. He then produced more poetry than he ever did in the same space of time before or after; and he enjoyed the particular intimacy of Sir Humphry Davy, whose ardent genius was then making itself felt at Bristol. The rising man of science took a deep interest in, and heard passages read from, “Madoc,” as its composition was proceeded with by the aspiring and painstaking author.

Southey was likewise employed, at this time, in preparing a volume of minor poems, and a new edition of his “Letters from Spain and Portugal,” to which he had paid a second visit; besides editing the “Annual Anthology,” the first portion of which then appeared. His literary occupations were so decidedly and undeniably to his taste, and became so much “the life of his life,” that the idea of being chained to the law, and harassed by the beckonings of conscience in the direction of dry and dusty volumes, was gradually found to be more irksome and intolerable. Thus his attention was wisely and deliberately withdrawn from the concerns of a profession for which he was not calculated, and wholly concentrated on literature. Indeed the law is, of all others, a jealous mistress, and will accept of no divided allegiance; and such a result as that at which the poet arrived might easily have been foretold, in the case of one who commenced the marvelous achievement of “eating terms,” with indulging in the prospective pleasure of burning his law-books after he should, by their aid, have amassed a magnificent fortune, and retired to enjoy it in Christmas festivities among lakes and mountains.

Trusting now chiefly for support and distinction to his literary effusions, Southey speedily became one of the most industrious of living mortals. His devotion to his pursuits was intense and unparalleled, and indeed so great, that he considered the correcting of proof-sheets as a luxury of the highest kind. In fact, he seems to have regarded literature as the most agreeable of worldly concerns, and the fame arising from its successful cultivation as that kind of which a wise man should be principally ambitious, because the most permanent. This principle regulated his conduct and stimulated his exertions in his chosen field. He guided himself by it with singular resolution; his actions became extremely uniform; and the eccentric workings of his youthful spirit having ceased, his life was as calm and cheerful as could have been desired.

In 1801 Southey had the good fortune to obtain the appointment of private secretary to the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom he accompanied to Dublin; and in the same year published “Thalaba the Destroyer,” an Arabian fiction of considerable power, beauty, and magnificence. Soon after this, a pension was bestowed upon him by Government.

Southey now deemed it advisable to settle on the banks of the Greta, near Keswick, and pursued his avocations with keen and constant diligence. He wrote perpetually. Each day, and each hour of the day, had their appropriate tasks. He secluded himself much from society, but found consolation in the company of his pretty numerous household, and the well-stocked library which it was his fortune to collect and possess. He now sent into the world, from his agreeable retreat, a volume of “Metrical Tales,” and “Madoc.” After them appeared “The Curse of Kehama,” considered as the most meritorious of his poetic works, but founded on the Hindoo mythology, and therefore not peculiarly interesting to general readers. Some years later he published “Roderick, the last of the Goths,” a noble and pathetic poem.

In the mean time, Southey had not disdained the less pretending species of composition. His “Life of Nelson” is considered the best of his admirable prose works. When published, in 1813, it instantly rose into popular favor, and was recognized by the public as a standard biography. It was originally issued in two small volumes, since compressed into one. He subsequently contributed to “Lardner’s Cyclopædia” a series of lives of British admirals. Besides, he again testified his biographic skill by a “Life of Wesley,” the celebrated founder of Methodism. He evinced therein a minute acquaintance with the religious controversies of the day, and presented curious and interesting sketches of field-preachers and their performances. There were successively other works, less generally admired, relating to history, politics, morals, and philosophy. His numerous writings are characterized by an easy and flowing style, yet they did not secure him much real popularity; but this must, in a great measure, be attributed to the nature of the subjects. His prose was described as perfect by Lord Byron, who styled him “the only existing entire man of letters.”

Southey had, long ere this, relinquished the opinions which prompted him to produce “Wat Tyler;” and when the “Quarterly Review” was established in 1809, he became connected with the enterprise which was then entered upon, and furnished several of the prominent articles to that distinguished periodical in the earlier stage of its career.

Though not enjoying that measure of popular favor to which, as an author of merit and a man of worth and prudence, he was justly entitled, Southey ranked high among the writers of his day; and he was fully appreciated by those most capable of judging critically.

In 1821, the degree of LL.D. was conferred on him by the University of Oxford; and other marks of distinction were within his grasp, if he had chosen to accept them. He was unambitious of public celebrity, and cared little for going into the world. In fact, he is pronounced to have mixed too little with his fellow men, and was therefore wanting in that particular kind of intelligence and information which can only be obtained by a free and familiar intercourse with the world. That “the proper study of mankind is man,” is a doctrine with which he appears to have had little or no sympathy, so long as he had it in his power to say with truth:

“Around me I behold,
Where’er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse night and day.”

One of Southey’s latest prose compositions consisted of his “Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society,” in which Montesinos is made to converse with the ghost of Sir Thomas More.

On the death of Mr. Pye, the poet-laureate, the vacant dignity had been offered to Sir Walter Scott; but the great Border Minstrel declining to accept of it, used his influence in favor of Southey, who was accordingly appointed. In this capacity he composed his “Carmen Triumphale” and “The Vision of Judgment,” which, like the productions of other laureates, encountered much ridicule. His latest poetical emanations were, “All for Love,” and “The Pilgrim of Compostella.”

Southey’s repute as an author and political writer rose so high, that he was offered a baronetcy, and election to the representation in Parliament of a ministerial borough. However, his knowledge was rather of books than human affairs; he was by no means qualified to “make himself formidable” as a senator; he was ever in extremes, and had no experience of that middle path which can alone be permanently maintained in dealing with public affairs, and which is ever chosen by those not incapacitated by nature to learn from the past, and meet the shadowy future with prescience. Under these circumstances he acted with wisdom and prudence: he considered that his fame and prosperity could only be preserved by a resolute adherence to his studious occupations; and he declined both distinctions, continuing his habits of ceaseless reading and composition. It seems that, in his entranced devotion to his literary projects, he had neglected that exercise which he had declared so essential to health, and during his three last years he became the victim of disease. The early partner of his joys and sorrows had already sunk into the grave; and Southey had contracted a second union with a lady known for her poetic accomplishments. He is said to have left a considerable fortune――the result of his industry――at his death, which took place on the 21st of March, 1843. He was buried in the church-yard at Crosthwaite, in the neighborhood of his residence by lake and mountain; and an inscription for the tablet to his memory was furnished by the venerable Bard of Rydal Mount, who succeeded him in the laureateship, and was, ere long, laid at rest at no great distance from his former compeer.

THOMAS MOORE.

The original genius, exquisite sensibility, independent spirit, and incorruptible integrity, which the greatest scholar of his age ascribed in his will to this bright and fanciful bard from the “Emerald Isle,” have been generally admired and acknowledged. Indeed, notwithstanding his multitudinous and peculiar temptations to love patrician personages not wisely, but too well, few men of genius have ever excelled or equaled Moore in these important and laudable qualities for which Dr. Parr gave him credit, any more than in the brilliancy of his intellect or the strength of his domestic affections. That he passed through a severe ordeal, and was exposed to many trials, can hardly be doubted. The early recognition of rare talent is too frequently fatal to its possessor; and the celerity of Moore’s transit from the humble parlors in the Irish capital to fashionable saloons and the banquets of princes was quite amazing, and well-nigh unprecedented. Yet he appears, without ostentatiously and perpetually proving the fact by bellowing it into the public ear, to have maintained his freedom of thought and action almost unimpaired to the end of his life. The career of such a man is necessarily fraught with interest and instruction; and the boyhood of a poet is always a subject especially worthy of being dwelt upon, as being replete with profit to the young and information to all. Who, indeed, can read without emotion of the gentle Cowper, being maltreated by his school-fellows at Westminster, and not daring to lift his eyes above the shoe-buckles of the elder boys; or of Scott, seated by some ruined edifice devouring ancient ballads, and gazing with rapture on the landscape in view; or of Byron, stretched on the old tombstone of Harrow, with the strong ambition in his mind and the bitter disappointment in his heart that were destined to unite and bring forth glorious but melancholy fruits; or of Wordsworth, the Bard of Contemplation, receiving the poetic impulse while led to and fro on the romantic banks of the Derwent? In a different and less attractive scene must we look for the earliest aspirations and exploits of the gifted youth whose songs, so gay, rich, and choice in their language, afterward held the fair and courtly in mute attention――whose sparkling wit proved so effective a weapon in political controversy; and whose spirit qualified him so perfectly to unite his national music to immortal verse.

Thomas Moore was born on the 28th of May, 1779, in the city of Dublin, where his father, a decent and respectable tradesman, at that time carried on a limited business as a wine-merchant. His mother appears to have been a rollicking Irish woman, with much honest humor, and no particular indisposition to indulge occasionally in an expletive, indicating any thing rather than Asiatic repose or excessive respect for the third commandment. This worthy dame, joyous and dashing, was fond of all such festivities as came in her way, and of all such society as she could obtain access to. She could, doubtless, sing delightfully at the supper-parties she frequented, enjoy herself without stint, when “the mirth and fun grew fast and furious,” and let care and all its horrid concomitants wait for her attention till the morning. In fact, she was blessed with no small portion of Hibernian indifference as to the future. Moreover, she had the advantage of being a strict and sincere Roman Catholic; and her husband also “held the ancient faith,” though with a philosophical moderation which his decorous spouse by no means approved of. Though a genuine Irishman by parentage and nativity, Moore, strangely, advanced no imaginary claim to estates confiscated for centuries, to wealth dissipated before he entered the vale of tears, or to ancestral honors. He even declined the distinction of having aristocratic kindred; and it must be admitted, that without these aids to inspiration he contrived to do “excellently well,” and leave a brilliant name. In one quality he assuredly was not deficient, that of fervid nationality and warm love of his country.

Almost in the earliest stage of his existence the prophetic eye of Mrs. Moore discerned signs of her little Tom being a marvelous child, and he was nursed and reared with a view to his attaining due and enviable eminence ere his sun set. The happy days of the boy have, perhaps, too often no certain existence save in the imagination of the same being when grown into a man, and looking on past scenes with that enchantment which distance lends to the view. Gibbon remarks, that while the poet gaily describes the short hours of juvenile recreation he forgets the tedious daily labors of the school, which is approached each morning with anxious and reluctant step. He declares that he never knew the boasted happiness of boyhood, against the existence of which, as a general luxury, he therefore enters a feeling protest; but in this respect the experience of the fanciful Irish poet was quite the opposite of that confessed to by the skeptical historian of the Roman Empire. Moore was sent, with all convenient haste, to a day-school, kept by a person who “quaffed his noggin of poteen” with much less than proper consideration for his tutorial avocations. He was afterward placed under Mr. Samuel White, who had been the preceptor of Sheridan, and proved his want of prophetic skill by pronouncing the future wit and orator an incorrigible dunce. At this seminary Moore displayed a remarkable taste for music, poetry and recitation. This was much strengthened by the master of the school, who encouraged a habit of acting which was not in any degree relished by the majority of his pupils. However, Moore speedily became a favorite “show scholar,” and in that capacity had the gratification of seeing his name in print at the age of ten, as one of the juvenile performers who were to contribute to an evening’s entertainment at the private theatre of a lady of rank. He began forthwith to compose in numbers, and became more and more the delight of his mother’s eye. She watched with tender anxiety and sanguine hope his extraordinary ascent, step by step, of the social ladder; and he repaid her solicitude by a filial devotion which no poetic triumphs were ever in subsequent life allowed to interfere with. Being extremely ambitious in regard to his worldly prospects, she early, despite the disabilities then attaching to those of her religious faith, destined him for the bar, and afforded him every opportunity of cultivating his mind and extending his knowledge which her means and position permitted. He soon gave cheering indications of being not unworthy of such anxious care, and was highly applauded by his teacher, who, while doing so, did not neglect so opportune an occasion of saying a good word for himself; and he signalized his precocious powers at the age of fourteen by contributing verses to the pages of a Dublin Magazine. “Master Moore” was already a sort of celebrity on the banks of the Liffey.

The friends and relatives among whom the melodist was brought up were, without exception, ardent in their Irish patriotism; and in 1792 he was carried by his father to one of the demonstrative gatherings held in welcome of the French Revolution, and was perched on the chairman’s knee. The excitement of the festive scene, and the hallucination of those who took part in it, may be judged from such toasts as that recorded by him as having been enthusiastically sent round: “May the breezes from France fan our Irish oak into verdure.” Surely, Donnybrook Fair must ever afterward have seemed tame to those who were present at such assemblies.

The young poet espoused these principles with warmth and sympathy; and having been entered at Trinity College in 1795, supported his opinions with a lively eloquence, which, as matters stood, might have caused danger. He passed through the academic course with much credit, was distinguished for his classical acquirements, took part in the debates of the Historical Society, and was much admired for the wit and playfulness he exhibited among his associates. Having brought his collegiate studies to a termination, taken the degree of bachelor of arts, and won the character of a most pleasant companion, he proceeded to London in 1799, and had the happiness of being enrolled as a student of law at the Middle Temple.

Meantime he had been prompt to seize every means of improvement, and his innate talent for music had been cultivated with assiduity and effect; he had gained no inconsiderable amount of classical learning; and he had acquired some knowledge of the French and Italian languages. In the middle of the year following his arrival in England, the translation of Anacreon’s Odes, with which he had been engaged for some time, was published by subscription. This work had been contemplated by the eager and aspiring boy even in his school days, and it now appeared, with a dedication to the Prince of Wales, to whom the poet had already been presented. Its reception was most flattering; public favor was bestowed in abundance, and it elicited this complimentary impromptu――

“Ah, mourn not for Anacreon dead!
Ah, mourn not for Anacreon fled!
The lyre still breathes he touched before,
For we have one Anacreon Moore!”

The rhyming adventurer from the “Green Isle”――small in form but sprightly in mind――was introduced to fashionable circles, excited the curiosity and interest of royal personages, and charmed patrician assemblies with his vocal powers. He had, moreover, the distinction of dining twice at Carlton House with the Prince of Wales, and of being admitted to a grand _fête_ given by his royal highness on becoming regent. At a subsequent period he was one of the same exalted individual’s keenest assailants and sharpest satirists.

In 1803, Moore, through the influence of his friend Lord Moira, to whom he had been introduced by a Dublin Mæcenas, obtained an official appointment at Bermuda, and went thither to undertake the duties attached to it. The novelty of the situation might, for a brief season, lend it some slight charm and attraction; but after a year’s trial of the island he considered it intolerable, as might have been anticipated in the case of one who had revelled in all the joys of poetic celebrity, and whose delightful singing had been rewarded in glittering halls with the dazzling and fascinating smiles of aristocratic beauty. He therefore resolved on fulfilling its functions, in future, by deputy; and after a flying visit to America, returned to England.

Moore, soon after this brief absence from the world of wit and fashion, published his “Odes and Epistles,” suggested by this rambling excursion. In these poems, as in the volume given to the world under the assumed name of “Thomas Little,” the glowing and irresistible imagination of the bard led him to commit what were very generally regarded as nothing less than most objectional offenses against delicacy and decorum. Accordingly he was attacked in the “Edinburgh Review,” with, as he conceived, so much and undeserved severity, that he thought himself called on to challenge Jeffrey, as the responsible editor, to mortal combat. In consequence, the poet and critic met at Chalk Farm to enjoy the doubtful luxury of being fired at by each other; but, fortunately, the interference of lurking police-officers stopped the matter in time to prevent mischief, otherwise it is not improbable――so great was their awkwardness――that it might have resulted in involuntary suicide; at all events, the seconds seem to have been in a position of no slight peril. If any thing could have added to the absurdity of the affair, it would have been the report, which asserted that the pistols, on examination, were found to contain paper pellets, substituted in place of leaden bullets. This proved to have been erroneous; but the whole transaction exposed the actors to much tantalizing but well-merited ridicule. “A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind,” and the parties principally implicated formed a close and lasting friendship.

Having already essayed dramatic composition, in a piece entitled the “Gipsy Prince,” Moore, in 1811, made a second attempt in an opera, “M.P., or the Blue Stocking,” which was produced at the Lyceum theatre with partial success. He was infinitely more fortunate in a matrimonial adventure, made about the same period; after which he removed from the metropolis, and chose a residence in Dorsetshire. Then appeared the “Twopenny Post-bag,” a political effusion, in which several eminent persons, holding opinions at variance with those of the author’s patrons, were lashed with sparkling wit, sharp sarcasm, and humorous pleasantry: but he was not unoccupied with projects more worthy of his fine taste and beaming fancy. He now came forth with his “Irish Melodies,” which are replete with real feeling and true delicacy, and fully entitle him to be rewarded, as he desired, with the proud title of “the Poet of the Irish people.” They are the happiest emanations of his gay and fanciful muse. Among song-writers he is almost unrivaled. No matter what may be the theme――playful or pathetic, light or impassioned, his verse flows onward like a “shining river” with graceful fluency; and his cadences tell how exquisitely the ear was tuned to the expression of the sentiment, which had its origin in the mind. It is as the producer of lyrics for the ancient music of his country that he gave proof of his peculiar and felicitous combination of power, and achieved so wide a reputation. He poured out these verses with unexampled readiness and fertility. In some he appeared not only as poet, but musical composer also; and his delicious words and graceful music thrilled and captivated the public ear and heart. His popularity had now risen high, but it soon appeared that his name had not yet gathered all the fame which was to enrich it, when, in 1817, “Lalla Rookh” made its appearance. This Oriental romance, rich, brilliant, and gorgeous, was his most elaborate poem. It had been produced in frost and snow, yet his potent imagination had conjured before him the sunniest of Eastern scenes, with all their splendor and magnificence; and, what was a most important part of the business, the manuscript is said to have brought him three thousand guineas. When presented to the public, it was found to unite the purest and softest tenderness with poetic fervor and lofty dignity. Its effect was immediate and extensive; it was received with eager enthusiasm; and the readers showed their appreciation by committing large portions to memory. No doubt the English public were, at the time, athirst for verse; but even under such circumstances nothing but high merit, taste, fancy, feeling, and delicacy, could have ensured such rapturous approval, and wrought such enchantment as Moore’s poem, rich with imagery and ornament, now did, though on a subject by no means calculated to interest the bulk of the community.

His next work, “The Fudge Family in Paris,” saw the light in 1818, and was one of those brilliant trifles in which its author was considered to be altogether unrivaled in his day and generation. It arose from a passing visit made by the poet to the Continent, and ran through successive editions. He afterward reproduced the actors in “The Fudge Family in England;” but with a felicity and success utterly unequal to the original effort.

Moore had now, as a poet, achieved splendid triumphs, and excited immense admiration.

“Crowned with perennial flowers,
By wit and genius wove,
He wandered through the bowers
Of fancy and of love;”

while, in social points of view, few men, similarly situated, were more courted by persons of rank and distinction. He had made comparatively few enemies, for his satirical shafts, sparkling with wit, were discharged with so much sportiveness, that they rarely created much venomous feeling. The kindness of the heart from which they emanated was naturally too great to admit of that being very frequently the case. He continued, though tried by vicissitudes of fortune, to retain all his amiable and domestic feelings in full vigor; his rural dwelling seems to have had greater attraction than the gay and glittering drawing-rooms, which he still now and then enlivened with the flashes of his graceful wit and refined genius. He was a man of the world as well as a poet and scholar, and he relished the taste of sparkling glasses of “liquid ruby,” as well as the sight of bright eyes and brilliant glances. He seems to have generally enjoyed himself with little restraint; and ministered to the amusement of others without compromising his personal dignity, or in any degree violating the independence of his spirit. His wit and cheerfulness, when exerted, were fascinating in the extreme, and he could at pleasure “set the table in a roar.” One day, at a dinner-party where he was, the absence of game having been lamented, one of the guests, struck with his fine display, remarked――

“Why, gentlemen, what better game could you wish than ‘Moore game?’ Surely you have that in abundance.”

In the circles he frequented it was his lot to become intimate with Lord Byron, to whom he had introduced himself by something resembling a challenge; and when, in 1819, he made that journey to the Continent which furnished him with matter for his “Rhymes on the Road,” Moore visited the great, but erring and unhappy, author of “Childe Harold,” then residing near Venice. It was then that the noble and long-descended bard confided to his charge the autobiography, which was ultimately consigned to the flames, after it had entailed on the Irish melodist infinite trouble, anxiety, and annoyance, and that shortly after the time when the conduct of the individual who acted as his deputy at Bermuda had driven him from England, and involved him in serious pecuniary difficulties and embarrassments. On leaving Italy, Moore betook himself to Paris, where he was treated with high honor and distinguished by a public dinner, which, as a mark of esteem and admiration, was particularly grateful to the heart and feelings of the accomplished exile. While there, he wrote the “Loves of the Angels,” containing passages of great beauty, passion, and tenderness, but considered inferior to the former effusions of his versatile muse. This may be accounted for by its publication having been hastened by the announcement of Lord Byron’s “Heaven and Earth,” understood to be founded on the same passage of Scripture――a very sufficient explanation of its holding a secondary place among its author’s productions. His latest work of imagination was the “Epicurean,” an Eastern tale in prose, and in a spirit of pure romance.

In 1825, Moore visited Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and was entertained with wonted hospitality by the mighty novelist, who did not fail to conduct his charming and interesting visitor to the Rhymer’s Glen, and all the spots renowned in Border history and tradition, which he was accustomed daily to haunt and draw inspiration from. Yet it may fairly be questioned whether the sunny heart and voluptuous imagination of the sentimental love-singer, which had luxuriated in all the gorgeousness of Oriental scenery, and in the meeting of “bright waters” in sweet and happy valleys, would be very deeply impressed while viewing the purple peaks of Eildon, or crossing the “Leader’s silver tide,” which were the pride and consolation of the “last minstrel’s” checkered existence.

In 1825, Moore appeared before the public in the character of a biographer, with the “Life of Sheridan,” which, though valuable and amusing, was not considered fully to establish his reputation in his new literary field. Indeed, it was the fashion of the day to say that Moore had murdered the marvelous and witty orator, whose skillfully-prepared and dexterously-delivered jokes had so often made the walls of St. Stephen shake and resound with laughter and merriment. “No!” exclaimed George IV., on hearing this grave charge; “but he has certainly attempted his life.” Lord Brougham says, that the frankness with which Moore gave the secret note-books of the famous wit to the world, must almost have made their author shake in his grave.

Four years later, Moore was again an aspirant to public favor, with “Notices of the Life of Lord Byron.” From the large space which the poetic peer had during life filled in the eye of the world, and the extraordinary reputation he had left behind him, this work was, and could hardly fail to be, extremely interesting. Much had been expected, however, on account of the close friendship that had existed, and the frank intercourse that had taken place, between the distinguished writer and the hero whose sayings and doings his pen aspired to immortalize. Moreover, the mystery attached to the autobiography that had been destroyed was not forgotten. The literary enterprise, when executed, was not deemed quite satisfactory; it was encompassed with perplexing and insuperable difficulties, and the book was necessarily the reverse of faultless. In fact, even if he had the inclination, it was almost impossible for him to comment with any degree of freedom or severity on the failings and follies of a man with whom he had been long on terms so intimate; even if the danger and delicacy of the arduous task had not been indefinitely increased by respect and consideration for the feelings of many persons then still living.

The notices of Byron’s life were followed by “Memoirs of Lord Edward Fitzgerald,” whose career had attracted Moore’s ardent and most consecrated sympathies. The life of this ill-fated nobleman was written throughout with heart and feeling; and, perhaps, may be taken as the most favorable specimen of its author’s prose style. Besides, he had shown his prowess in political and religious controversy, in the “Life of Captain Rock,” as also in the “Travels of an Irish Gentleman;” and he contributed a history of Ireland to “Lardner’s Cyclopædia.” These emanations are characterized by much of the beauty of language, liveliness of remark, and tenderness of sentiment, displayed in his metrical writings, but without being received with similar tokens of approbation. The surpassing charms of his happy and exuberant verse, ever displaying a fancy rich, spirited, elegant, and impassioned, though not sublime, or always immortal, have been universally felt and confessed; the enchantment they produced for a time on the public mind and imagination, was beyond all dispute or question: but with his prose works it was widely different. Whatever their intrinsic merits, they have failed to rank in public interest or estimation with his poetic compositions.

Nevertheless, the nature of some of them, the subjects to which they related, and the principles they sought to maintain, support, and vindicate, were such, that the Irish patriots of the period conceived their author fairly entitled to share in the glories they were acquiring, and the laurels they were reaping in the British Parliament. This conclusion being arrived at, Moore was graciously requested to leave his quiet and peaceful abode in Wiltshire, and appear as a candidate for the representation of Limerick, in order that he might “pursue the triumph and partake the gale.” He was not, however, so ambitious of senatorial rank as to accept of an honor, which the peculiar circumstances under which it could have been conferred, and the conditions on which it would have been held, rendered, to say the least, equivocal in character.

Moore, by the favor of his political friends, enjoyed a pension from the crown during the latter years of his life; but they were darkened, and his beaming intellect clouded, by the domestic losses and calamities, which, at this period, he had to endure.

The once gay, vivacious, and captivating poet, died at his residence, Slopperton Cottage, near Devizes, on the 26th of February, 1852, and he was laid at rest in the green church-yard at Bonham.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.