"Who hawk their country's wrongs as beggars do their sores."
While sojourning at Paris upon that occasion Moore received a very remarkable offer. Barnes, the editor of the Times, became severely ill, and was obliged to recruit his health by a year's rest, and the editorship of the Times was actually offered to Moore, who, in telling the story to a brilliant living Irishman, said, "I had great difficulty in refusing. The offer was so tempting—to be the Times for a twelvemonth!" The offering him the editorship of "the daily miracle" (as Mr. Justice Talfourd called it) might, however, have been only a ruse de guerre of his aristocratic and political friends to bring him back to London, where, for a variety of reasons social and political, his company was then very desirable.
There is a very interesting circumstance connected with the birth of Moore, which deserves record. The fact of the birth, as every one knows, took place at Aungier-street, and its occasion was at a moment singularly appropriate for the lyric poet being ushered into the world. Jerry Keller, the wit and humorist, rented apartments in the house of Moore's brother, in Aungier-street, and had a dinner-party on the very day of the poet's birth. Just as the guests were assembled, and the dinner on the table, it was announced to them that Mrs. Moore's accouchement had taken place, and that she was in a precarious state, the physicians particularly enjoining that no noise should be made in the house: a difficult matter, when Keller, Lysaght, and other convivial spirits were assembled. What was to be done? One of the company, who lodged near him, solved the difficulty by proposing that the feast should be adjourned to his house close by, and that the viands and wine should be transferred thither. "Ay!" cried Jerry Keller, "be it so; let us adjourn pro re nata." Thus, in the hour of feasting, just as Keller dropped one of his best witticisms, was Moore's birth registered by a classic pun.
Moore had few friends whom he loved more than Mr. Corry, and he has left upon record an exquisite proof of his friendship in the following lines, which are very affecting to read at the present time.
On one occasion, Moore and Corry were ordered, by medical advice, to drink port wine, while they were sojourning for their health at Brighton. The idem velle atque idem nolle was perfectly applicable to their friendship, and they detested port wine with perfect antipathy. However, they were under advice which required obedience. Moore got the port-wine from his wine-merchant, Ewart; but in traveling from London it had been shaken about so much, and was so muddy, that it required a strainer. Mr. Corry bought a very handsome wine-strainer, prettily ornamented with Bacchanalian emblems, and presented it, with a friendly inscription, to Moore, who wrote in reply, the following lines, never, we believe, before printed:
TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.,
ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE-STRAINER.
This life, dear Corry, who can doubt,
Resembles much friend Ewart's wine—
When first the rosy drops come out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus, a while they keep their tint
So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would ever come.
But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each moment makes the sad truth plainer—
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.
This friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass—
If not as bright as once they were,
At least unclouded through the glass.
Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine,
Of which my heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grew like old wine,
To have thy friendship for its strainer!