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And even yet, after the lapse of twenty years, there are many who, admiring the fine moral of "Paradise and the Peri," or melted by the delicate pathos of the "Fireworshippers," own the soft seductions of "Lalla Rookh," and in their hearts, if not in their understandings, prefer it to the chaster and more powerful poetry of the age.

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The "Loves of the Angels" was a bolder but not a more successful flight. It was a tale of the “ Arabian heaven ;' and there is nothing certainly, in these wondrous "thousand and one nights," more rich, beautiful, and dream-like in its imagination and pathos, as in those impassioned stories. But it was only a castle in the clouds after all-one of those brilliant but fading pomps which the eye of the young dreamer sees 66 for ever flushing round a summer's sky." Its angels were mere winged dolls compared to the "celestial ardours" whom Milton has portrayed, or even to those proud and impassioned beings whom Byron has drawn. In fact, the poem was unfortunate in appearing about the same time with Byron's "Heaven and Earth," which many besides us consider his finest production as a piece of art. Mere atoms of the rainbow fluttering round were the pinions of Moore's angels compared to the mighty wings of those burning ones who came down over Ararat, drawn by the loadstars which shone in the eyes of the "daughters of men," and for which, without a sigh, they "lost eternity." And what comparison between the female characters in the one poem and the two whom we see in the other, waiting with uplifted eyes and clasped hands for the descent of their celestial lovers, like angels for the advent of angels? And what scene in Moore can be named beside the deluge in Byron; with the gloomy silence of suspense which precedes it-the earnest whispers heard among the hills at dead of night, which tell of its coming-the waters rising solemnly to their work of judgment, as if conscious of its justice and grandeur-the cries heard of despair, of fury, of blasphemy, as if the poet himself were drowning

in the surge the milder and softer wail of resignation mingling with the sterner exclamations-the ark in the distance the lost angels clasping their lost loves, and ascending with them from the doom of the waters to what we feel and know must be a direr doom?

We have spoken already of Moore's character as a witty poet, and need only now refer to the titles of his principal humorous compositions, such as the "Fudge Family in Paris;" the "Twopenny Post-Bag;" "Cash, Corn, Currency, and Catholics," &c. They constitute a perfect gallery of fun without ferocity, without indecency, and without more malice than serves to give them poignancy and point.

From Moore's "Life of Sheridan" we might almost fancy that, though he had lisped in numbers, and early obtained a perfect command of the language and versification of poetry, yet that he was only beginning, or had but recently begun, to write prose. The juvenility, the immaturity, the false glare, the load of useless figure, the ambition and effort of that production, are amazing in such a man at such an age. It contains, of course, much fine and forcible writing; but even Sheridan himself, in his most ornate and adventurous prose, which was invariably his worst, is never more unsuccessful than is sometimes his biographer. Perhaps it was but fitting that the life of such a heartless, faithless, though brilliant charlatan, should be written in a style of elaborate falsetto and fudge.

We have a very different opinion indeed of his "Life of Byron." It is not, we fear, a faithful or an honest record of that miserable and guilty mistake the life of Byron. We have heard that Dr MacGinn, by no means a squeamish man, who was at first employed by Murray to write his biography, and had the materials put into his hands, refused, shrinking back disgusted at the masses of falsehood, treachery, heartlessness, malignity, and pollution which they revealed. The same materials were submitted to

Moore, and from them he has constructed an image of his hero, bearing, we suspect, as correct a resemblance to his character as the ideal busts which abound do to his face. When will biographers learn that their business, their sole business, is to tell the truth or to be silent? How long will the public continue to be deceived by such gilded falsehoods as form the staple of obituaries and memoirs? It is high time that such were confined to the corners of newspapers and of churchyards. We like Moore's "Byron," not for its subject or its moral tone, but solely for its literary execution. It is written throughout in a clear, chaste, dignified, and manly manner; the criticism it contains is eloquent and discriminating, and the friendship it discovers for Byron, if genuine, speaks much for its author's generosity and heart.

We must not speak of his other prose productions-his "Epicurean," "History of Ireland," &c. The wittiest thing of his in prose we have read is an article in the "Edinburgh Review" on "Boyd's Lives of the Fathers," where, as in Gibbon, jests lurk under loads of learning, double-entendres disguise themselves in Greek, puns mount and crackle upon the backs of huge folios, and where you are at a loss whether most to chuckle at the wit, to detest the animus, or to admire the erudition.

We had nearly omitted, which had been unpardonable, all mention of the "Irish Melodies"-those sweet and luscious strains which have hushed ten thousand drawingrooms and drawn millions of such tears as drawing-rooms shed, but which have seldom won their way to the breasts of simple unsophisticated humanity-which are to the songs of Burns what the lute is to the linnet-and which, in their title, are thus far unfortunate that, however melodious, they are not the melodies of Ireland. It was not Moore but Campbell who wrote "Erin Mavourneen." "He," says Hazlitt, "has changed the wild harp of Erin into a musical snuff-box."

Such is our ideal of Thomas Moore. If it do not come up to the estimate of some of his admirers, it is faithful to our own impressions, and what more from a critic can be required? We only add, that admired by many as a poet, by all as a wit, he is as a man the object of universal regard; and we believe there is not one who knows him but would be ready to join in the words

"Were it the last drop in the well,

'Tis to thee that I would drink ;

In that water as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Would be peace to thee and thine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore."

ISAAC TAYLOR.

CHRISTIANITY has been much indebted to its lay supporters and defenders. Without professing to give a complete list of the illustrious laymen who have either advocated its evidences or expounded its doctrines, we may simply remind the reader of the names of Milton, Newton, Boyle, Locke, Addison, Lord Lyttelton, Charles Leslie, Soame, Jenyns, Dr Johnson, and Cowper, which belong to other ages than the present; while, as respects our own times, may be enough to mention Coleridge, Southey, Douglas of Cavers, Robert Ainslie, Thomas Erskine of Linlathan, Bowdler, Wilberforce, and Isaac Taylor. Of this latter list, Coleridge, partly in his other writings, but chiefly in his "Table-talk," illustrated the general and more remote

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bearings of Christianity, the points where it touches upon the other sciences. Southey has stood up bravely for its external bulwarks, and exemplified its consistent morals. Douglas, to use the language of another, "eagle-eyed and eloquent, has anticipated time, and, surveying the world, has laid down the laws of general amelioration." Ainslie has broken down the great leading principles of religion into simple, portable, and pathetic forms, and from the "strong" has educed "sweetness." Erskine has admirably expounded the internal evidences of Christianity. Bowdler has strewn chaste flowers and Addisonian graces around its softer and more spiritual aspects. Wilberforce has laid bare its deep practical bearings. And Isaac Taylor has applied to the exposure of its corruptions and counterfeits, the vigour of a more original genius, and the splendour of a richer, more varied, and more dazzling eloquence, as well as entered with a firm yet gentle tread on some of its more mysterious provinces.

Isaac Taylor styles himself in the title of one of his own chapters, the "Recluse." He has long ago retired from the world into the sanctuary of his own family and his own soul. There aloft, but not aloof-apart, but not askance separate, but not utterly secluded-regarding the distant crowd more in sorrow than in anger, and more in love than in sorrow-he passes the "noiseless tenor" of his serene and busy days. "He hears the tumult and is still." His mind dwells habitually in a lone and lofty sphere. The cell of his soul is curiously constructed, elaborately adorned, hung with antique tapestry, decked with the rich paintings of the past, and steeped through its gorgeous windows in a dim religious light. There seated, he now muses with half-shut eye upon the history of bygone ages-now erects himself to lift the large folios of the fathers-now swells with righteous indignation as he remembers the corruption and degeneracy which so soon and so long supplanted the first faith and

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