a bravo.  “That like Mat Lewis?” said Duke Henry, to whom it had passed in turn; “why, that is like a MAN!” Imagine the effect!  Lewis was at his elbow.[11] Now Moore has none of this insignificance; to be sure his person is much stouter than that of M.G.L., his countenance is decidedly plain, but the expression is so very animated, especially in speaking or singing, that it is far more interesting than the finest features could have rendered it.

I was aware that Byron had often spoken, both in private society and in his Journal, of Moore and myself in the same breath, and with the same sort of regard; so I was curious to see what there could be in common betwixt us, Moore having lived so much in the gay world, I in the country, and with people of business, and sometimes with politicians; Moore a scholar, I none; he a musician and artist, I without knowledge of a note; he a democrat, I an aristocrat—­with many other points of difference; besides his being an Irishman, I a Scotchman, and both tolerably national.  Yet there is a point of resemblance, and a strong one.  We are both good-humoured fellows, who rather seek to enjoy what is going forward than to maintain our dignity as lions; and we have both seen the world too widely and too well not to contemn in our souls the imaginary consequence of literary people, who walk with their noses in the air, and remind me always of the fellow whom Johnson met in an alehouse, and who called himself “the great Twalmley—­inventor of the floodgate iron for smoothing linen.”  He also enjoys the mot pour rire, and so do I.

Moore has, I think, been ill-treated about Byron’s Memoirs; he surrendered them to the family (Lord Byron’s executors) and thus lost L2000 which he had raised upon them at a most distressing moment of his life.  It is true they offered and pressed the money on him afterwards, but they ought to have settled it with the booksellers and not put poor Tom’s spirit in arms against his interest.[12] I think at least it might have been so managed.  At any rate there must be an authentic life of Byron by somebody.  Why should they not give the benefit of their materials to Tom Moore, whom Byron had made the depositary of his own Memoirs?—­but T.M. thinks that Cam Hobhouse has the purpose of writing Byron’s life himself.  He and Moore were at sharp words during the negotiation, and there was some explanation necessary before the affair ended.  It was a pity that nothing save the total destruction of Byron’s Memoirs would satisfy his executors.[13] But there was a reason—­Premat nox alta.

It would be a delightful addition to life, if T.M. had a cottage within two miles of one.  We went to the theatre together, and the house, being luckily a good one, received T.M. with rapture.  I could have hugged them, for it paid back the debt of the kind reception I met with in Ireland.[14]