of self-love to turn them to account, and without enough of intellect to compensate for an utter absence of heart, in preserving the man from total ruin. This is Zeluco-a very disagreeable sort of man to meet with in the world, and not particularly enticing in a novel. If he were all the book, we should not spend this ink upon its pages; but happily for the reader, he is but a vehicle for the introduction of the noblest sentiments of morality and virtue, and a foil for the most cheering exhibitions of tenderness and humanity. In his work of unmasking false prosperity, and stripping the gold plating from the corruptions of luxury, the author brings us acquainted with the patient, suffering victims of this license and disorder. Zeluco occupies two relations which afford an opportunity, not neglected, to aid in a reformation which, begun in Moore's day, has happily gone on ripening in virtue to the present. Zeluco enters the army, and, for some slight mistake in duty, inflicts a cruel imprisonment upon a soldier. For this he is rebuked in a lecture by his commanding officer, on the true nature and real humanity of military discipline-a commentary on the articles of war which every gentleman in authority in the service must read with admiration. The second opportunity is when Zeluco, becoming a West-India proprietor, -the book, it will be remembered, was published a hundred years ago, -comes into contact with negroslavery in that region, in the height of its ascendency. Need we say, that our humane physician unerringly and resolutely exhibits the inevitable evils of the system, and strongly pleads for humanity to the slave? Unlimited power and the thirst for gain in this hotbed of the vices, bring forth their speedy fruits in the life of Zeluco. The natural history of cruelty on a plantation is sketched by a master-hand. There is a touching picture of the death of

a poor slave, the victim of oppres sion, which is relieved by an Irishman's humorous circumvention of a a priest at the death-bed. It is curious to note the defence of slavery on the ground of the interest of the master being a sufficient protection, combated so long ago, even as moralists pointed out the old fallacy it is only three or four years ago, but happily that space of time is now the interval of an age-in our own country.

It must not be supposed that this representation of Zeluco by the novelist is simply an exhibition of evil. The story is constructed with much art, with sudden unexpected turns, with ingenious contrivances of incident, making at once the evil deeds of the hero minister to the cause of virtue and to his own punishment. The discovery of the crime of Zeluco by his resemblance to a figure in a painting of the "Murder of the Innocents," is an instance; and there are entire sequences of actions which would be drawn out by Wilkie Collins with great effect in his mathematical and demonstrative way. Then there are the varied dramatis persona, the scheming women of Neapolitan society, the pure, gentle, loveworthy Laura, a Griselda in patience, whose reluctant marriage with Zeluco has doubtless sent a thrilling pang through the hearts of thousands of novel readers; the well-drawn gentleman, and, not least, the humours of the two Scottish serving-men, one a Whig, the other a Tory, whose sympathetic discovery of one another's nationality is so suddenly disturbed by a duel growing out of an unhappy discussion of the character of Mary Queen of Scots-an altercation reminding us of the alienation which grew up between Aytoun and Thackeray on the same subject, when the latter, at Edinburgh, after his censorious lectures on "the Georges," received the intimation that "he had better stick to the Jeamses "—a mot which

the English novelist, biding his time, rather awkwardly repaid in a savage criticism of an ode his Scottish brother unfortunately published.

Moore's scenes between Duncan Targe and George Buchanan are, we believe, favourites with Scotchmen. They are as good as anything in Macklin's comedies, or any others in which the character has been introduced on the stage. The clannishness of the race has never been more happily portrayed.

When Buchanan is wounded in the duel, he is quite willing to run the risk of dying while waiting for the professional services of one of his countrymen at a distance, rather than employ a French surgeon at hand. "It was always a maxim with me," says he, "and shall be to my dying-day, that we should give our own fish-guts to our own seamews."

It was about the time of the publication of Zeluco that Dr. Moore became engaged in an interesting correspondence with Robert Burns, by which, perhaps, he is known to a greater number than by the many volumes of his "works." Moore's acquaintance with the poet's writings seems to have followed upon the publication of the first collection, the Kilmarnock edition of 1786, admiration of which he expressed in a letter to a friend of the author, Mrs. Dunlop, who communicated the complimentary expressions to Burns. Moore also interested himself in procuring subscribers for the forthcoming second edition, to be issued at Edinburgh. This led Burns to address a letter to Dr. Moore, for whose literary reputation and position he seems to have had a regard approaching to reverence-a word which he himself uses in the epistle, in speaking of his reception of Moore's criticisms. With his accustomed candour and manliness, Burns" "" admits his possession of "some poetical abilities," states his desire in his poems to please his

"compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet," an intimate acquaintance with whose manners may have " assisted originality of thought," and attributes the greater share of “the learned and polite notice" he had received to the novelty of his character. "In a language," he concludes, "where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame." Moore, who was then residing in London, answered immediately with great cordiality, paying the poet one of the highest compliments at his command, in attributing to him the "ease and curious felicity of expression" of Horace. He also handsomely recognised the patriotic glow, the "feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and the independent spirit which breathes through the whole." In his reply to this, Burns, deprecating any embarrassment from "mere greatness," willingly acknowledges his use of "genius polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world," and again asserts, with his former qualification, his consciousness of some poetic merit. The latter trait pleased Moore, who writes in return, “I am glad to perceive that you disdain the nauseous affectation of decrying your own merit as a poet, an affectation which is displayed with most ostentation by those who have the greatest share of self-conceit, and which only adds undeceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity!" With this Moore sent a copy of his "Travels." Burns thanks the author warmly, while professing himself "ill-skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of gratitude." A copy of "Zeluco" in due time is forwarded, with a desire to receive the poet's opinion of the

work. The book is after Burns' own heart. He reads it many times, and plans a "comparative view" of the author, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, in their "different qualities and merits as novel writers. I never take it up (he continues), without at the same time taking my pencil and marking with asterisms, parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an original thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkable, wellturned period, or a character sketched with uncommon precision." Returning to the book in another letter, à propos to his own "Lament" of Queen Mary, he says, in reference to the championship of that lady, by her earlier Highland defender, "how much is every honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe? 'Twas an unequivocal proof of your royal gallantry of soul giving Targe the victory. I should have been mortified to the ground if you had not."

Moore, Scotchman though he was, thought Burns was losing an advantage he might possess, by too exclusive devotion to "the provincial dialect." He probably did not fully estimate the genius of the poet, for Burns was in advance of the taste of his times; it is greatly to his credit that he admired him as he did. The genius of Burns had much to overcome in the high places of London society, where the more superficial muse of Thomas Moore afterwards entered with greater facility. The best claim Dr. Moore has upon our regard in connection with Burns is, that the sympathy which grew up between them induced the poet voluntarily to send to his friend the autobiographical sketch which forms the basis of all narratives of his life.

"Edward" and "Mordaunt," the closing labours of Dr. Moore's literary career, without the vigour of "Zeluco," have much that is cha

racteristic of their author, and may be read with pleasure by that leisurely class, if such exist now-a days, who, without the stimulus of an exciting plot in a story, are content with just and ingenious sentiments, and a truthful and pleasing exhibition of manners. Edward, a poor-house foundling, adopted by a benevolent lady, whose husband is an impersonation of the humours of gluttony, is carried on through various scenes of English life, till his virtue in all relations is crowned by the discovery of his high birth. This simple and well-worn device gives opportunity for the introduction of various characters, such as figure in the plays of of the period. Indeed, a talent for genteel comedy is Moore's forte, and it is a marvel how, in those days of dramatic production, he escaped writing for the stage. "Mordaunt,"

in a series of letters-for the story is altogether cast in this form-carries us over the author's familiar ground of Continental travel, in sketches of humorous scenes and national characteristics, with an episode of romance in the " Memoirs of a French Lady of Quality," the turn of events carrying us into the thick of English fashionable life in the last century.

Novel writing appears with Moore rather an accident than an essential element of his literary life. It is hardly more than a vehicle for his tourist observations, and his philosophical studies of society. He is to be regarded as an essayist, enlivening his reflections by constant anecdote, and a humorous exhibition of character. This, which may at first sight appear to detract from his excellence as a novelist, who requires, before all things, plot and intrigue of consummate interest, is at the present day a prevailing source of attraction to his writings. Many better stories of his time have been eagerly devoured, and then thrown aside for ever; but to Moore's pages we may continually