Born at Musselburgh, 1798; died 1851; a modern poet and prose writer, who was educated for and practiced the medical profession. He made his first appearance as an author in 1812, by publishing a small volume of poems. He next wrote for some local magazines and journals, and at the commencement of “Blackwood’s Magazine,” he became a contributor to its pages and remained so until his death. For the same magazine he also wrote the “Autobiography of Mansie Wauch.” In 1831 he published the “Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine,” and, in the same year, exerted himself energetically while the cholera raged in Musselburgh, where he practiced his profession, and subsequently he published a pamphlet entitled “Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera.” In 1851 he delivered a course of lectures upon the “Poetical Literature of the Past Half-Century,” at the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution. As a poet, he was tender and pathetic rather than forcible and original. His poetic works were collected in 1852 and to them was prefixed his life. Dr. Moir was a graceful essayist, and competent man of science, and was moreover a kind and excellent man.

Personal

  Although we never met him in private, we can testify with perfect certainty, that a better man, or a lovelier specimen of the literary character, did not exist: he had many of its merits, and none of its defects; he used literature as a “staff, not a crutch”—it was the elegant evening pastime of one vigorously occupied through the day in the work of soothing human anguish, and going about doing good. Hence he preserved to the last his child-like love of letters; hence he died without a single enemy; hence his personal friends—and they were the elite of Scotland—admired and loved him with emulous enthusiasm.

  Professional reputation is a desirable thing, and literary honor is not to be despised; but all distinctions fade away as comparatively cheap to those who had the privilege of knowing Mr. Moir in the “mild majesty of private life.” Constituted and composed of so many harmonious excellencies, the Christian gentleman, in the bosom of his beautiful family, was the consummation of them all.

  In person Moir was tall, well-formed and erect, of sanguine complexion and with hair tending to the “sandy” hue, his keen sense of humour, during friendly intercourse, being particularly manifest in his countenance. In private life, he was amiable and exemplary, and much beloved by many friends.

General

  I consider him the most monotonous and the least original of all poets, barring his harmony of numbers, which is delightful.

  Of Moir, our own “delightful Delta,” as we love to call him—and the epithet now by right appertains to his name—we shall now say simply this, that he has produced many original pieces which will possess a permanent place in the poetry of Scotland. Delicacy and grace characterize his happiest compositions; some of them are beautiful in a cheerful spirit that has only to look on nature to be happy; and others breathe the simplest and purest pathos. His scenery, whether sea-coast or inland, is always truly Scottish; and at times his pen drops touches of light on minute objects, that till then had slumbered in the shade, but now “shine well where they stand” or lie, as component and characteristic parts of our lowland landscapes. Let others labour away at long poems, and for their pains get neglect or oblivion; Moir is seen as he is in many short ones, which the Scottish Muses may “not willingly let die.”

  His book [“Poetical Literature”] is not only worthy of his reputation, but is really one of the heartiest, sincerest, and most delightful works of criticism we have read for many a long year.

  In Delta’s earlier strains there are general fancy, and feeling, and musical rhythm, but not much thought. His love of poetry, however, never suffered abatement, and as “a maker,” he was improving to the very last. To unfaded freshness of heart he was adding riper thought; such was one of the prime blessings of his pure nature and life. Reserve and patience were what he wanted, in order to be a greater name in song than he is.

  In 1851, he delivered a course of “Six Lectures at the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution on the Poetical Literature of the Past Half Century,” which were soon after published. It would be difficult to speak of these in terms of too high praise, for I know not where, in so small a compass, may be found so much sound criticism and judicious reflections upon the Poets of Great Britain of the Nineteenth Century.

  A gentle melancholy is the ruling spirit of his works; but from his novel of “Mansie Wauch,” a mellow Scottish humor shines softly out.

  The eulogies of “Delta” by the “Blackwood” coterie will probably not be accepted by present-day critics. His verse will be commended for its study of nature and its pleasant rhythm. His humorous pieces, though sprightly, have, for the most part, a solely contemporary interest. His reputation now rests on his novel, “Mansie Wauch,” written in the manner of Galt.

  It is as an elegiac poet—if as a poet at all—that the author is now remembered, and one of these elegies—called by the self-conferred name of one of the babes, “Casa Wappy”—has enjoyed great popularity and is still included in anthologies, though in my own opinion a less meritorious composition than the second of the three poems on the same subject, entitled “Casa’s Dirge.”