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at last, and found the dinner so meagre and bad, that he did not get a bit to eat. When the dishes were removing, the host said, 'Well, now the ice is broken; I suppose, you will ask me to dine with you, some day.' 'Most willingly.' 'Name your day then.' 'Aujourd'hui par exemple,' answered the dinnerless guest."

On same date.-"Luttrel told of a good phrase of an attorney's, in speaking of a reconciliation that had taken place between two persons whom he wished to set by the ears, 'I am sorry to tell you, sir, that a compromise has broken out between the parties.""

12th Aug., 1821.-"In talking to Rogers about my living in Paris, I said, 'One would not enjoy even Paradise, if one was obliged to live in it.' 'No,' says he; 'I dare say, when Adam and Eve were turned out, they were very happy."

13th Oct., 1821.-"Story of a man asking a servant, 'Is your master at home?' 'No sir, he's out.' 'Your mistress?' 'No sir, she's out.' 'Well, I'll just go in and take an air of the fire till they come.' 'Faith, sir, that's out too!""

When on a visit to London, incog., on Oct. 22, 1821, we find the following entry in his diary:-"Letters from Bess, in which, alluding to what I had communicated to her of Lord Lansdowne's friendship, and the probability of my being soon liberated from exile, she says:-'God bless you, my own free, fortunate, happy bird (what she generally calls me), but remember that your cage is in Paris, and that your mate longs for you.'

June 3d, 1822.-"Harry Erskine said to a man who found him digging potatoes in his garden, 'This is what you call otium cum diggin' a tate!'"

17th Aug., 1822. - "Received to-day a letter from

Brougham, inclosing one from Barnes (the editor of The Times), proposing that, as he is ill, I shall take his place for some time in writing the leading articles of that paper; the pay to be £100 a month. This is flattering. To be thought capable of wielding so powerful a political machine as The Times newspaper is a tribute the more flattering (as is usually the case) from my feeling conscious that I do not deserve it.

18th." Wrote to decline the proposal of The Times." And, on Sept. 1st, 1822, he notes a curious illustration of French liberty. When dining with the Bryans, "a Frenchman of the party, a Royalist, told of a girl he walked with last year, at the bal masqué, being arrested while with him for having a tricolor ribbon on her gown; and (as he since found out) imprisoned six months; no other offence, and it was by chance the poor girl put on the ribbon."

Moore was in seven different lodgings in or near Paris; but the dwelling which he liked best was a cottage belonging to their friends the Villamils, at La Butte Coaslin, near Sevres, which they occupied for some time. It reminded him of Sloperton, and he happily defined it by a quotation from Pope—

"A little cot with trees a row,

And, like its master, very low."

Here he used to wander in the park of St. Cloud, writing verses, planning chapters of the Epicurean, and closing the evening by practising duets with the lady of his Spanish friend, or listening to her guitar. Kenney, the dramatic writer, lived near them, and Washington Irving visited him there.

At length, in September, 1822, he received a letter from Rees, of Longmans, informing him that the Ber

muda defalcation had been arranged, and that he might now safely return to England when he pleased.

The claims of the American merchants had been reduced from £6000 to £1000 or £1200. Mr. Sheddon, a merchant in London, and the uncle of the delinquent, contributed £300; and the Marquis of Lansdowne the remainder. There was afterwards a further and final claim of £200, which Lord John Russell advanced. The two latter sums, however, were repaid in full, by Moore, from the balance which was placed to his credit by the Messrs. Longmans during the following summer.

CHAPTER IX.

RETURN FROM THE CONTINENT-RHYMES FOR THE ROAD FABLES FOR THE HOLY ALLIANCE-LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

In the end of November, 1822, Moore returned to Sloperton Cottage, in Wiltshire; and, in 1823, published Rhymes for the Road, with Fables for the Holy Alliance, and Loves of the Angels, which he had written when in exile. In June of this year, his publishers placed £1000 to his credit from the sale of the last-named work; and £500 from the Fables for the Holy Alliance, so that he was able not only to clear himself from debt, but to continue to assist his relatives.

Rhymes on the Road is a series of clever trifles—often graceful and pleasing, but occasionally indelicate-conversational and unstudied, and often "little better," to use Moore's own words, than " prose fringed with rhyme." We select the following four from Rhymes on the Road:

DIFFERENT ATTITUDES IN WHICH AUTHORS COMPOSE.

What various attitudes, and ways,

And tricks, we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some, like BAYES,
Usually stand, while they're inditing.
Poets there are, who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;

While some, like HENRY STEPHENS, pour out
Rhymes by the dozen, while they ride.
HERODOTUS wrote most in bed;

And RICHERAND, a French physician,
Declares the clock-work of the head
Goes best in that reclin'd position.
If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on
The subject, 'tis their joint opinion
That Thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad, among the woods and fields;
That bards, who deal in small retail,
At home may, at their counters, stop;
But that the grove, the hill, the vale,
Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.
And, verily, I think they're right—

For, many a time, on summer eves,

Just at that closing hour of light,

When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves
For distant war his Harem bow'rs,

The Sun bids farewell to the flow'rs,

Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing

Mid all the glory of his going!—

Ev'n I have felt, beneath those beams,

When wand'ring through the fields alone,

Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,

Which, far too bright to be my own,

Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Pow'r,
That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must they feel,
The few, whom genuine Genius warms;

Upon whose souls he stamps his seal,
Graven with Beauty's countless forms;-
The few upon this earth, who seem
Born to give truth to PLATO's dream,
Since in their thoughts, as in a glass,
Shadows of heavenly things appear,
Reflections of bright shapes that pass

Through other worlds, above our sphere!

Some bards there are who cannot scribble
Without a glove, to tear or nibble;
Or a small twig to whisk about—

As if the hidden founts of Fancy,

Like wells of old, were thus found out
By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
Such was the little feathery wand,
That, held for ever in the hand
Of her, who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down
Those words of lightning to her page.
As for myself to come, at last,

To the odd way in which I write—
Having employ'd these few months past
Chiefly in travelling, day and night,
I've got into the easy mode,

Of rhyming thus along the road-
Making a way-bill of my pages,
Counting my stanzas by my stages,
'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost-
In short, in two words, writing post.

EXTRACT I.

'Twas late-the sun had almost shone
His last and best, when I ran on,
Anxious to reach that splendid view,
Before the day-beams quite withdrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first

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