Moore was born in Dublin, his father having kept a wine-shop there; and his mother (he tells us) was always anxious about the quality of his companions, and eager to build up his social standing--an anxiety which was grafted upon the poet himself, and which made him one of the wariest, and most coy and successful of society-seekers--all his life. He was at the Dublin University--took easily to languages, and began spinning off some of _Anacreon’s_ numbers into graceful English, even before he went up to London--on his old mother’s savings--to study law at the Temple. He was charmingly presentable in those days; very small, to be sure, but natty, courteous, with a pretty modesty, and a voice that bubbled over into music whenever he recited one of his engaging snatches of melody. He has letters to Lords, too, and the most winning of tender speeches and smiles for great ladies. He comes to an early interview with the Prince of Wales--who rather likes the graceful Irish singer, and flatters him by accepting the dedication of _Anacreon_ with smiles of condescension--which Mr. Moore perhaps counted too largely upon. Never had a young literary fellow of humble birth a better launch upon London society. His Lords’ letters, and his pretty conciliatory ways, get him a place of value (when scarce twenty-four) in Bermuda. But he is not the man to lose his hold on London; so he goes over seas only to put a deputy in place, and then, with a swift run through our Atlantic cities, is back again. It is rather interesting to read now what the young poet says of us in those green days:--In Philadelphia, it appears, the people quite ran after him: “I was much caressed while there.… and two or three little poems, of a very flattering kind, some of their choicest men addressed to me.” [And again.] “Philadelphia is the only place in America which can boast any literary society.” [Boston people, I believe, never admired Moore overmuch.] Here again is a bit from his diary at Ballston--which was the Saratoga of that day:-- “There were about four hundred people--all stowed in a miserable boarding-house. They were astonished at our asking for basons and towels in our rooms; and thought we might condescend to come down to the Public Wash, with the other gentlemen, in the morning.” Poor, dainty, Moore! But he is all right when he comes back to London, and gives himself to old occupations of drawing-room service, and to the coining of new, and certainly very sweet and tender, Irish melodies. He loved to be tapped on the shoulder by great Dowagers, sparkling in diamonds, and to be entreated--“Now, dear Mr. Moore, _do_ sing us one more song.” And it was pretty sure to come: he delighted in giving his very feeling and musical voice range over the heads of fine-feathered women. The peacock’s plumes, the shiver of the crystal, the glitter of Babylon, always charmed him.