CHAPTER II.

MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THOMAS MOORE, THE POET-VISIT TO THE PRISON OF MARIE ANTOINETTE-LETTER TO BREVOORT-REASONS FOR REMAINING ABROAD MOORE-CANNING-MOORE'S HINT OF THE ORIGIN OF BRACEBRIDGE HALL ANOTHER GLIMPSE OF IRVING FROM MOORE-JOHN HOWARD PAYNETALMA-HIS PERFORMANCE OF HAMLET-LETTER TO LESLIE-KENNEY, AUTHOR OF RAISING THE WIND, ETC.-LUTTREL-INTRODUCED TO THE HOLLANDS -MURRAY BEGS HIS ACCEPTANCE OF AN ADDITIONAL ONE HUNDRED POUNDS - FOR THE SKETCH BOOK-THE AUTHOR'S LETTER THEREUPON-READS MANUSCRIPT TO MOORE-BANCROFT SETS OFF FOR ENGLAND JULY 11TH, HOPING TO HAVE SOMETHING READY FOR THE PRESS BY AUTUMN.

T

IT

I was at the close of this year that Mr. Irving made the acquaintance of one of the most brilliant and delightful of his contemporaries, Thomas Moore, the a Irish poet, then an absentee in Paris, on account of some pending liabilities of government against him, arising out of the defalcation of his deputy at Bermuda, which he was hoping to adjust. Moore has this entry on the subject in his diary:

December 21, 1820.-Dined with McKay at the table d'hôte at Meurice's for the purpose of being made known to Mr. Washington Irving, the author of the work which has lately had success, the "Sketch Book"; a good-looking and intelligent-mannered man.

McKay, who brought the two authors together, was an Irish gentleman who had come to the French capital from England on a mission to inspect the prisons; and two days after (Dec. 23) he, Lord John Russell, Moore, and Mr. Irving, were visiting in company the room in which the ill-fated Marie Antoinette was confined.

I find loose among his papers this brief record of the visit to a place seldom open to a stranger's inspection.

I have just returned from the prison of Marie Antoinette. Under the palace of Justice is a range of cavernous dungeons, called the Conciergerie, the last prison in which criminals are confined previous to execution. We were admitted through grated doors, and conducted along damp dark passages, lighted in some places by dim windows, in others by lamps. On these passages opened the grates of several dungeons in which victims were thrown during the revolution, to indulge in the hor rible anticipation of certain death. My flesh crept on my bones. as I passed through these regions of despair, and fancied these dens peopled with their wretched inhabitants. I fancied their worn and wasted faces glaring through the grates, to catch, if possible, some ray of hope or mitigation of horror, but seeing nothing except the sentinel pacing up and down the passage, or perhaps some predecessor in misery, dragged along to execution. In this were confined the victims of Robespierre, and finally Robespierre himself.

From this corridor we were led through a small chapel into what at present forms the sacristy, but which was once the

dungeon of the unhappy Queen of France. It is low and arched; the walls of prodigious thickness, lighted dimly by a small window. The walls have been plastered and altered, and the whole is fitted up with an air of decency; nothing remains of the old dungeon but the pavement. In one part is a monument placed by Louis XVIII., and around the dungeon are paintings illustrating some of the latest prison scenes of her unhappy life. The place is shown where her bed stood, divided simply by a screen from the rest of the dungeon in which a guard of soldiers was constantly stationed; beside this dungeon ist the black hole-I can give it no better term-in which the Princess Elizabeth was thrust a few hours prior to her execution.

Never have I felt my heart melting with pity more, than in beholding this last abode of wretchedness. What a place for a queen, and such a queen! one brought up so delicately, fostered, admired, adored.

The next scene in which I trace an association of the two authors, was at Moore's cottage in the Champs Elysées, where Mr. Irving and Lord John Russell took dinner with the poet on the 28th. Moore pronounces "the evening very agreeable," but gives no particulars, except this mention of his new acquaintance. "Mr. Irving complains grievously of the last thing Lord Byron has sent, as unworthy of himself, and likely to injure Murray's property in the former works."

The acquaintance with Moore thus commenced grew speedily into intimacy, as will be seen by the following letter to Brevoort, in answer to one urging his return to New York.

DEAR BREVOORT:

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*

PARIS, March 10, 1821.

You urge me to return to New York; and say, many ask whether I mean to renounce my country. For this last question I have no reply to make, and yet I will make a reply. As far as my precarious and imperfect abilities enable me, I am endeavoring to serve my country. Whatever I have written. has been written with the feelings and published as the writing of an American. Is that renouncing my country? How else am I to serve my country? by coming home and begging an office of it; which I should not have the kind of talent or the business habits requisite to fill? If I can do any good in this world it is with my pen. I feel that even with that I can do very little, but if I do that little and do it as an American, I think my exertions ought to guarantee me from so unkind a question as that which you say is generally made.

As to coming home, I should at this moment be abandoning my literary plans, such as they are. I should lose my labor in various literary materials which I have in hand, and to work up which I must be among the scenes where they were conceived. I should arrive at home at a time when my slender finances require an immediate exercise of my talents, but should be so agitated and discomposed in my feelings by the meetings with my friends, the revival of many distressing circumstances and trains of thought, and should be so hurried by the mere attentions of society, that months would elapse before I could take pen in hand, and then I would have to strike out some entirely new plan and begin ab ovo. As to the idea you hold out of being provided for sooner or later in our fortunate city, I can only say that I see no way in which I

could be provided for, not being a man of business, a man of science, or, in fact, any thing but a mere belles-lettres writer. And as to the fortunate character of our city; to me and mine it has been a very disastrous one. I have written on this point at some length, as I wish to have done with it. My return home must depend upon circumstances, not upon inclinations. I have, by patient and persevering labor of my most uncertain pen, and by catching the gleams of sunshine in my cloudy mind, managed to open to myself an avenue to some degree of profit and reputation. I value it the more highly because it is entirely independent and self-created; and I must use my best endeavors to turn it to account. In remaining, therefore, abroad, I do it with the idea that I can best exert my talents, for the present, where I am; and that, I trust, will be admitted as a sufficient reply from a man who has but his talents to feed and clothe him.

I have not been able to call on L'Herbette; the fact is, I am harassed by company and engagements which it is impossible to avoid, and which take up more of my time than I like to spare; as well as dissipating my thoughts. I shall be obliged to quit Paris on that very account, though I intend to see L'Herbette before I leave this.

I have become very intimate with Anacreon Moore, who is living here with his family. Scarce a day passes without our seeing each other, and he has made me acquainted with many of his friends here. He is a charming, joyous fellow; full of frank, generous, manly feeling. I am happy to say he expresses himself in the fullest and strongest manner on the subject of his writings in America, which he pronounces the great sin of his early life. He is busy upon the life of Sheridan and upon a poem. His acquaintance is one of the most