career is an example of genius that rises into the highest ranks of life as an associate and a friend, without acquiring, or indeed caring for, that wealth which all expect to be the natural concomitant. This contempt for wealth, however, was never carried by Moore to a reckless disregard of decency, and to a reliance on his character and position to shield him from the consequences of extravagance. Moore had a nobler idea of the dignity of the poet and the man of literature. And if the sight of the just man struggling against adversity be worthy of the regard of the gods, those circumstances under which Scott and Moore were placed, and against which both fought so manfully, honestly, and proudly, present pictures, which cannot but elevate and ennoble all who shall hereafter either possess or admire high intellectual power. Our literary history, or rather the lives of our great literary men, in the age just elapsed, go far indeed to contradict the long-received opinion of the weakness of men of letters as men of the world, and their inability doubly to preserve or observe self-respect. The mistake may be owing to things, as well as men, to the larger prizes and profits which a wealthy and extensive public can now hold out to the writer who pleases them, as well as to the many varieties of literary earning, unknown in the days of Goldsmith and Johnson. But men, like Moore, have also their claim to the merit. To the last he laboured, and when poetic inspiration grew more rare, with advancing years, he gave himself to the composition of a History of Ireland, for the Cabinet Cyclopædia. In the commencement of this he lingered too long upon antiquity, and was thus obliged to curtail or hurry through the more interesting period of later times. But as even this work advanced too slowly to keep the poet's humble pot au feu regularly boiling at Sloperton, her Majesty, through Lord John Russell, was pleased to confer upon him a pension, out of the Civil List, of three hundred pounds per annum. A part of this is settled on his widow. Moore, in his latter days had no children left to cheer his domestic fireside. His eldest son died in Algeria; his second son at the Charter House. Four daughters also went to the grave before their parents. The intellect of the poet himself, as was the case with Southey, had given way some time before his death. The health of his bodily frame survived his mental, and occasioned his seclusion at Sloperton, for these few years past. He expired at the advanced age of seventy-one.

We should not have omitted to mention, that in making choice of Sloperton for residence, the poet had been greatly influenced by its vicinity to Bowood, the seat of the Marquis of Lansdowne, where, in the English villegiatura he was sure to meet all his old and eminent friends of the liberal party and the intellectual world. The Rev. Lisle Bowles also was a neighbour, being rector of a neighbouring parish. In those days the distance to London had not been shortened by a railway, but Bath was but a drive's distance, and placed the poet as near to the busy haunts of men as he desired.

It is seen that Moore has left copious memoirs, consisting of a diary when at home, and correspondence with his family when from home. It seems a prudent legacy laid up by his care, and as good a policy of life assurance as a man of his eminence could effect. Moore will have thus taken as good care of his own memory as he did of his friends whom he biographized; and the world will learn something interesting of the workings of his muse, the struggles of his life, and somewhat, no doubt, of its gaieties and pleasures.

EVERY MAN HIS OWN MONUMENT.

"In truth your worship," said Sancho Panza, "I could think of dying with more patience, were it not for being buried."

WELL, we confess that honest Sancho is right. There is something provoking in the idea of being crammed into an ugly damp corner anywhere, and all because one just happens to be dead. It is so like getting rid of us. We seem to suffer another loss-a loss after death too, as though by dying we forget the world, but when we are buried, the world returns the compliment and forgets us.

Now while we admit, that there may be tolerable good reasons for burying us after we are dead, yet there are equally good reasons to be given, why we should not be forgotten. Indeed it is our distinct opinion, that but few men ought to submit to oblivion tamely; and we propose, without noticing any of the sterling and enduring bases of renown, to say a few words on the comparative value of those small investments in which many of us may trust the precarious fortunes of our after-lives and dignities.

We might go off into any amount of enthusiasm about that mighty passion of high and low-that love of notoriety-that thirst for fame, which works its way with a diamond-point upon a tavern window, and loads the earth with pyramids-founds new creeds like Mahomet, and invents infernal machines like Guillotin and Fieschi— converts a wilderness into a flourishing state, like Penn; or manufactures a Bowie knife, a Paixhan gun, a Congreve rocket, or a Colt's revolver we might, we repeat, go off into any amount of rhetoric on a subject so subtle in its workings, but we will restrain ourselves within the narrow bounds of our project, which we will elucidate in a few sentences.

The part of the scheme we most pride ourselves upon is, that it is not necessary to have a monument made expressly for oneself, with an immediate reference in all its parts and intentions to our persons and merits. For, by the consent and courtesy of society, it often happens that some of the ready-made monuments of "still life' are appended to us. Or rather, by the transference of our names, we may adopt and identify ourselves with a popular idea-a navigable river-a tasty dish-a tight little island-a new creed-a queer hummock-or a bluff headland, and so go halves with them in the notice of the world. At the same time it must be admitted, that monuments of this class are not so personal as a Statue," or even as an "Epitaph," but then they can be strongly recommended for cheapness and durability. But to those who have not sufficient interest to get such honours conferred upon them, we would recommend more perishable objects to their consideration, taking care that they compensate for their greater frailty by their increased liveliness, and their more constant and intimate communnion with the eyes, tongues, and thoughts of our fellow men.

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For this reason we would prefer being a "street," or a "town," rather than mope out our immortality as an "island," or even as an active "volcano in some desolate and unfrequented sea, where our grandest eruptions would be exhibited to empty benches. We should have our difficulties to contend with as a "street," no doubt. We might be

"burnt out," or "expunged" by an improvement committee; but then while we did live, we should have more homage done to our name in a month, than would be bestowed upon us as an "island" in a century.

account.

A town (think of Romulus and Washington) is sometimes a sound investment of our after fame; for, independent of mere durability, a city is associated with a sentiment, and becomes dear to our feelings on that But in the old world it is now a very difficult affair to start in this way. One's only chance consists in commencing in the locality of some of the new lines of railway, or in America, where people go ahead in this particular walk of fame in a most remarkable manner. That seems to be the land where a man of limited attainments can raise a

respectable fame with bricks and mortar. Indeed it is nearly impossible to predict any limits to the duration of Washington's renown, if our transatlantic brethren go on naming city after city after their great founder, as they have done. The same may be be said of Franklin, Penn, Jefferson, Adams, and scores of others. But we enter our distinct and solemn protest against all such doings such puzzling anomalies such vicarious representation of ourselves. It is unfair to allow a man, even a Washington-and we admit his to be a hallowed name-to stand proxy for himself in so many places. His fame is secure on another pedestal, and it is but justice to others to make a little standing room.

A ship is a good official, particularly a man-of-war, and any man might be proud to confide his name to a British one. How long will the "Arethusa" be remembered, doubly immortalised as she is by Dibden's song, and one of the most dashing frigate fights on record? Like the "Shannon," and brave Sir Philip Broke, she is mixed up with the great events of history, and booked, as we say of a parcel, to the end of time at least.

The days of coaches are already nuinbered, and we do not remember one that is likely to have a durable fame. It is true that visions of the "Berkeley Hunt" and the "Shrewsbury Tally Ho," occasionally flit across one's memory, but their admirers are in the main restricted to a narrow circle of "cut-a-way" coats, top boots, and brass buttons, and will be quite forgotten when the present generation has passed away. Nevertheless while a coach lasted, it was a jolly, rattling sort of proxy, and was as capable of making a man notorious over some hundred miles or so of country as a "stable mind" could desire. But in the nature of things it could not be lasting, not to mention the wear and tear of wheels, there could be no comfortable reliance in the fidelity of coach proprietors, who were ever prone to be truckling to every flashy novelty of the passing hour. Paradoxical as it may seem, a man must not trust himself upon wheels if he wishes to roll down to posterity in safety.

But

At first a portrait, or a bust, seems a ready mode of adding a few years to the natural term of life, and within the reach of common men. Besides, it gratifies one's vanity in leaving our fame in the hands of a representative so exclusively personal. We leave our very smile behind us, as well as the cut of our coat and the tie of our neckcloth. really this is a most deceitful case, and one which is more likely to swindle us out of our time and money than any other mode we know of. There is no security to be had in these sort of trustees, for while they preserve one's face, they are apt to forget our name. Go into any picturedealer's, or into that "charnel house" for deceased portraits, the marine store-shop, and look at the shadowy host of melancholy individuals in

court suits, regimentals, bag wigs, and canonicals, and after that if you trust yourself to canvas or stone, you deserve to be forgotten.

"All very well," somebody says, "with respect to portraits painted, and busts chiselled by artists of no great reputation-go to a Lawrence, a Canova, or a Flaxman, and you are sure of a distinguished fame at once." That we contend is an error. The artist will carry you to posterity it is true. But how? Why as a Lawrence, a Canova, or a Flaxman, as the case may be. His name will be so prominent and absorbing, as to swallow up yours. In a century, or perhaps half that time, your identity will be clean gone, and then you will be mortified to find, that you have only let your face out for the benefit of another. And in the majority of cases, this is only fair, for in general, a portrait or a bust, is a memorial more for domestic affection than public fame. Round the family hearth, it may give a man a sort of immortality, at least hold him in preservation to the end of colour and canvas, as a curious looking old quiz, worth something for the cut of his nose, the set of his pigtail, or the blink of his eye. But once out of doors, and at large, once cut your family ties and connexions, and you are no longer a portrait, but a painting; no longer a bust, but a piece of sculpture. You become a fine piece of colour, a glorious conception, a magnificent head, or a noble design.

There is one mode of introducing a name to the public, that seems to us rather strange is not more frequently adopted. We allude to a tasty dish, such as the cotelette de Maintenon, or picquant sauce, such as "Harvey's," for one of the best secrets for bequeathing a lasting memorial of ourselves is to connect our name with pleasing associations. Let us see now, what has been done in this branch. How old is the Chelsea Bun, or the Banbury Cake? we believe that both are lost in the vapours of culinary antiquity. But as these toothsome compounds are nained after towns, that is of no consequence, otherwise than depriving some ingenious cook of a lasting fame. Then, again, there is "Sally Lunn," and we wonder who she was.

This, to say the least of it, is a cheerful sort of proxy. We should always be making our appearance at joyous tea-parties, where we should be toasted and buttered, and made the vehicle of sweet compliments to the still sweeter ladies. Made of the best flour and the freshest eggs, only think of that! Why our own name would then be literally, in everybody's mouth, and more homage would be done to us in this way at a single tea meeting, than would be rendered to us, if we carried our heads ever so high as a "mountain," in a thousand years. Surely there is room for a good spicy "Gingerbread nut," or toothsome "Bun," well adapted to carry a masculine reputation of heavy weight over the obscuring mists of the next half-dozen centuries. To speak the truth, we once thought of doing a little in this department of Fame ourselves. We tried our hand at a "biscuit” and burnt our fingers. Abernethy," however, has succeeded better, and we confidently reckon upon his reputation, depending more upon his farinaceous compound than upon his Blue Pill.

Indeed, we know not what may be thought of our tastes in so important a matter, but we confess we do not fancy an extended period to our existence, through the agency of mere physic. We mean such a distinction does not seem the way to glory. Hobb's Gout Pills, and Dobb's Antibilious ditto, don't make pleasant proxies, they convey

a notion of suffering unsuited to our taste. We have no wish to go down to posterity on the lid of a pill box. However, we should have no objection to be known as a physician, as Esculapius, or Galen, or Harvey, or Jenner, or any other great benefactor of our species.

Some people have an odd notion of stowing themselves away for centuries; hoarding up their fame, as it were, under the foundation stone of a hospital, or a church, as the case may be. They literally bury themselves, in the hope of turning up again among some remote generations of men. Well, and yet, even this mode of reminiscence has its merits, for on some of the walls of the buried town of Pompeii, the rude scrawlings of the Roman soldiers are still visible. How strange that these insignificant scratches, made perhaps with a nail, during the monotony of military duty, the labour of an idle moment,-these mere hints of ambition-should have lived through more centuries than the proudest productions of human toil!

And is it not strange, knowing how universal this desire for posthumous fame is, that the inventors and discoverers of printing, the steam engine, gas, the electric telegraph, and hosts of others, should not have had the wit to bind their names to their discoveries? Ten to one, but in the course of time they will be forgotten, for it is all very well to talk about that great gossip, the press, keeping the names of these worthies fresh in our memories. It really does no such thing. It preserves them perhaps, in those great pickle jars of knowledge, our Encyclopedias. But what a miserable renown is that! Our notion is, that the thing invented should be chained to the inventor's name. Be bound to it, like a captive to a victor's car, and ought always to be at hand to grace his triumphs. In many instances, this has been done. Everybody knows, that Jacquard's loom was invented by Jacquard, and there is an end of the matter. In like manner Volta and Galvani have bequeathed their names to posterity. MacAdam has paved his way to a respectable fame. Lundyfoot is not to be sneezed at. Mesmer has tacked his name to a notion, that will tickle the fancies of coming generations. Sir Humphrey Davy's lamp will burn for ever, and Daguerre also is safe as long as the sun shines.

It would be easy to go on multiplying instances of similar contracts between individuals and posterity, but that would be beside our purpose. Our end is gained by showing its practicability. However, we never think of this subject with patience, and as a rule when "Gravitation," is mentioned, we bow our head in reverence to Sir Isaac Newton. We should be happy every time we look at our watch, to couple the act with the mention of the inventor's name, if we knew it. And when at sea, in a dreary winter's night, near some dangerous but fog-hidden shore, when "howling winds and gathered blasts" are urging the plunging vessel through a boiling sea, we never think of that unceasing wonder, the "mariner's compass," with any other feelings than veneration, and a secret determination to discover the discoverer's name, if possible.

This sort of forgetfulness and ingratitude, in not keeping the names of the greatest benefactors of mankind constantly before us, is the more annoying, when we know, that immortality is sometimes thrust upon a man, as an auctioneer would say, "in two places." Thus the Cæsarian operation will preserve great Caesar's name, when his military exploits are forgotten, and probably Wellington and Blucher, aided by a posthumous Day and Martin, will shine in their Boots and Shoes to the end of leather at least.