Almost simultaneous with the above affair was the publication of Mr. Moore’s “Memoirs of Captain Rock, the celebrated Irish Chieftain,”—­a work of political, humorous, and satirical character, turning upon the wrongs and riots of Ireland, with which, as our readers will allow, we have here little to do.  It contains great historical research, and had its day; but the gratification in the perusal is of a very mixed character.  Its success, however, was sufficient to induce the publication of an imitative work entitled “Captain Rock’s Letters to the King,” which was “certainly not written by Mr. Moore, to whom, while the publication was suspended, they were so positively ascribed.”

In the following year, Mr. Moore published the “Memoirs of the Right Hon. R.B.  Sheridan,” having previously edited an edition of his works.  In these Memoirs, Mr. Moore has done justice to the character of Sheridan, neither concealing his follies and vices, nor magnifying his good qualities.  We quote a paragraph from this work for the purpose of introducing a portion of some very beautiful lines by Mr. Moore, which first appeared in the Morning Chronicle, immediately after Sheridan’s death.

“There appeared some verses at the time, which, however intemperate in their satire and careless in their style, came, evidently, warm from the heart of the writer, and contained sentiments to which, even in his cooler moments he needs not hesitate to subscribe:—­

  “Oh it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow,
    And friendships so false in the great and high-born;—­
  To think what a long line of titles may follow
    The relics of him who died, friendless and lorn!

  “How proud they can press to the funeral array
    Of him whom they shunn’d,in his sickness and sorrow—­
  How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day,
    Whose pall shall be held up by Nobles to-morrow!”

The anonymous writer thus characterises the talents of Sheridan:—­

  “Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man,
    The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall—­
  The orator, dramatist, minstrel,—­who ran
    Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all?

  “Whose mind was an essence, compounded, with art. 
    From the finest and best of all other men’s powers;
  Who rul’d, like a wizard, the world of the heart,
    And could call up its sunshine, or draw down its showers;

  “Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly’s light,
    Play’d round every subject, and shone as it play’d;
  Whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright,
    Ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade,—­

  “Whose eloquence, brightening whatever it tried,
    Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave,
  Was as rapid as deep, and as brilliant a tide,
    As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!"[1]