A RHAPSODY ON THE NOBLE PROFESSION OF NOVEL READING
It must have been at about the good-bye age of forty that Thomas Moore, that choleric and pompous yet genial little Irish gentleman, turned a sigh into good marketable "copy" for Grub Street and with shrewd economy got two full pecuniary bites out of one melancholy apple of reflection:
"Kind friends around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather,"
—he sang of his...
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