Moore a scholar, I none; he a musician and artist, I without knowledge
of a note; he a democrat, I an aristocrat--with many other points of
difference; besides his being an Irishman, I a Scotchman, and both
tolerably national. Yet there is a point of resemblance, and a strong
one. We are both good-humoured fellows, who rather seek to enjoy what is
going forward than to maintain our dignity as lions; and we have both
seen the world too widely and too well not to contemn in our souls the
imaginary consequence of literary people, who walk with their noses in
the air, and remind me always of the fellow whom Johnson met in an
alehouse, and who called himself "the _great_ Twalmley--inventor of the
floodgate iron for smoothing linen." He also enjoys the _mot pour rire_,
and so do I.

Moore has, I think, been ill-treated about Byron's Memoirs; he
surrendered them to the family (Lord Byron's executors) and thus lost
£2000 which he had raised upon them at a most distressing moment of his
life. It is true they offered and pressed the money on him afterwards,
but they ought to have settled it with the booksellers and not put poor
Tom's spirit in arms against his interest.[12] I think at least it
might have been so managed. At any rate there must be an authentic life
of Byron by somebody. Why should they not give the benefit of their
materials to Tom Moore, whom Byron had made the depositary of his own
Memoirs?--but T.M. thinks that Cam Hobhouse has the purpose of writing
Byron's life himself. He and Moore were at sharp words during the
negotiation, and there was some explanation necessary before the affair
ended. It was a pity that nothing save the total destruction of Byron's
Memoirs would satisfy his executors.[13] But there was a reason--_Premat
nox alta_.

It would be a delightful addition to life, if T.M. had a cottage within