e, neighbor the poet's humble dwelling. The spire of the
village church, beside the portals of which the poet now sleeps, is seen
above adjacent trees. Laborers' cottages are scattered all about. They
are a heavy and unimaginative race, those peasants of Wiltshire; and,
knowing their neighbor had written books, they could by no means get rid
of the idea that he was the writer of _Moore's Almanac_, and
perpetually, greeted him with a salutation, in hopes to receive in
return some prognostic of the weather, which might guide them in
arrangements for seedtime and harvest. Once, when he had lost his
way,--wandering till midnight,--he roused up the inmates of a cottage,
in search of a guide to Sloperton, and, to his astonishment, found he
was close to his own gate. "Ah, Sir," said the peasant, "that comes of
yer skyscraping!"

He was fond of telling of himself such simple anecdotes as this; indeed,
I remember his saying that no applause he ever obtained gave him so much
pleasure as a compliment from a half-wild countryman, who stood right in
his path on a quay in Dublin, and exclaimed, slightly altering the words
of Byron,--"Three cheers for Tommy Moore, the pote of all circles, and
the _darlint_ of his own!"

I recall him at this moment,--his small form and intellectual face, rich
in expression, and that expression the sweetest, the most gentle, and
the kindliest. He had still in age the same bright and clear eye, the
same gracious smile, the same suave and winning manner I had noticed as
the attributes of his comparative youth; a forehead not remarkably broad
or high, but singularly impressive, firm, and full,--with the organ of
gayety large, and those of benevolence and veneration greatly
preponderating. Ternerani, when making his bust, praised the form of his
ears. The nose, as observed in all his portraits, was somewhat upturned.
Standing or sitting, his head was invariably upraised, owing, perhaps,
mainly to his shortness of stature, with so much bodily activity as to
give him the character of restlessness; and no doubt that usual
accompaniment of genius was eminently his. His hair, at the time I speak
of, was thin and very gray; and he wore his hat with the jaunty air that
has been often remarked as a peculiarity of the Irish. In dress,
although far from slovenly, he was by no means particular. Leigh Hunt,
speaking of him in the prime of life, says,--"His forehead is bony and
full of character, with 'bumps' of wit la