On a short tour he visited Venice, where he received, as a gift from Lord Byron, his autobiographical memoirs, which contained so much that was compromising to others, that they were never published—­at least in that form.  They were withdrawn from the Murrays, in whose hands he had placed them, upon the death of Byron in 1824, and destroyed.  A short visit to Ireland led to his writing the Memoirs of Captain Rock, a work which attained an unprecedented popularity in Ireland.

In 1825 he published his Life of Sheridan, which is rather a friendly panegyric than a truthful biography.

During three years—­from 1827 to 1830—­he was engaged upon the Life of Byron, which concealed more truth than it divulged.  But in all these years, his chief dependence for daily bread was upon his songs and glees, squibs for newspapers and magazines, and review articles.

In 1831 he made another successful hit in his Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, a rebel of ’98, which was followed in 1833 by The Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Religion.

In 1835, through the agency of Lord John Russel, the improvident poet received a pension of L300.  It came in a time of need; for he was getting old, and his mind moved more sluggishly.  His infirmities made him more domestic; but his greater trials were still before him.  His sons were frivolous spendthrifts; one for whom he had secured a commission in the army behaved ill, and drew upon his impoverished father again and again for money:  both died young.  This cumulation of troubles broke him down; he had a cerebral attack in December, 1849, and lived helpless and broken until the 26th of February, 1852, when he expired without suffering.

HIS POETRY.—­In most cases, the concurrence of what an author has written will present to us the mental and moral features of the man.  It is particularly true in the case of Moore.  He appears to us in Protean shapes, indeed, but not without an affinity between them.  Small in stature, of jovial appearance; devoted to the gayest society; not very earnest in politics; a Roman Catholic in name, with but little practical religion, he pandered at first to a frivolous public taste, and was even more corrupt than the public morals.

Not so apparently as Pope an artificial poet, he had few touches of nature.  Of lyric sentiment he has but little; but we must differ from those who deny to him rare lyrical expression, and happy musical adaptations.  His songs one can hardly read; we feel that they must be sung.  He has been accused, too violently, by Maginn of plagiarism:  this, of course, means of phrases and ideas.  In our estimate of Moore, it counts but little; his rare rhythm and exquisite cadences are not plagiarized; they are his own, and his chief merit.