rge and radiant enough to
transport a phrenologist. His eyes are as dark and fine as you would
wish to see under a set of vine-leaves; his mouth generous and
good-humored, with dimples." He adds,--"He was lively, polite, bustling,
full of amenities and acquiescences, into which he contrived to throw a
sort of roughening cordiality, like the crust of old Port. It seemed a
happiness to him to say 'Yes.'" Jeffrey, in one of his letters, says of
him,--"He is the sweetest-blooded, warmest-hearted, happiest,
hopefullest creature that ever set Fortune at defiance"; he speaks also
of "the buoyancy of his spirits and the inward light of his mind"; and
adds,--"There is nothing gloomy or bitter in his ordinary talk, but,
rather, a wild, rough, boyish pleasantry, much more like Nature than his
poetry."

"The light that surrounds him is all from within."

He had but little voice; yet he sang with a depth of sweetness that
charmed all hearers: it was true melody, and told upon the heart as well
as the ear. No doubt much of this charm was derived from association;
for it was only his own "Melodies" he sang. It would be difficult to
describe the effect of his singing. I remember some one saying to me, it
conveyed an idea of what a mermaid's song might be. Thrice I heard him
sing, "As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,"--once in 1822,
once at Lady Blessington's, and once in my own house. Those who can
recall the touching words of that song, and unite them with the deep,
yet tender pathos of the music, will be at no loss to conceive the
intense delight of his auditors.

I occasionally met Moore in public, and once or twice at public dinners.
One of the most agreeable evenings I ever passed was in 1830, at a
dinner given to him by the members of "The Literary Union." This club
was founded in 1829 by the poet Campbell. I shall have to speak of it
when I write a "Memory" of him. Moore was in strong health at that time,
and in the zenith of his fame. There were many men of mark about
him,--leading wits and men of letters of the age. He was full of life,
sparkling and brilliant in all he said, rising every now and then to say
something that gave the hearers delight, and looking as if "dull care"
had been ever powerless to check the overflowing of his soul. But
although no bard of any age knew better how to

"Wreathe the bowl with flowers of the soul,"

he had acquired the power of self-restraint, and could stop when the