c 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,
Wh