disagreed with him, and he returned home, leaving the business in the
hands of a confidential clerk, who embezzled eight thousand pounds in
the course of a few months and absconded. Moore's politics had made
him obnoxious to the government, and he was called to account with
unusual severity; while Theodore Hook, who had been recalled at this
very time from some foreign appointment, for a deficit of twenty
thousand pounds in his accounts, was never molested, being of the
ruling party, Moore's misfortune awakened a great sympathy among his
friends. Lord Lansdowne was the first to offer his aid. He wrote to
Moore, that for many years he had been in the habit of laying aside
from his income eight thousand pounds, for the encouragement of the
arts and literature, and that he should feel that it was well disposed
of for that year, if Moore would accept it, to free him from his
difficulties. It was offered in the most delicate and noble manner,
but Moore declined it. The members of "White's" (mostly noblemen)
called a meeting, and (not knowing the amount of the deficit)
subscribed in one morning twenty-five thousand pounds and wrote to the
poet, that they would cover the sum, whatever it might be. This was
declined. Longman and Murray then offered to pay it, and wait for
their remuneration from his works. He declined even this, and went to
Passy with his family, where he economized and worked hard till it was
cancelled."
This was certainly a story most creditable to the poet, and it was
told with an eloquent enthusiasm, that did the heart of the beautiful
narrator infinite credit. I have given only the skeleton of it. Lady
Blessington went on to mention another circumstance, very honorable to
Moore, of which I had never before heard. "At one time two different
counties of Ireland had sent committees to him, to offer him a seat in
parliament; and as he depended on his writings for a subsistence,
offering him at the same time twelve hundred pounds a year, while he
continued to represent them. Moore was deeply touched with it, and
said no circumstance of his life had ever gratified him so much. He
admitted, that the honor they proposed him had been his most cherished
ambition, but the necessity of receiving a pecuniary support at the
same time, was an insuperable obstacle. He could never enter
parliament with his hands tied, and his opinions and speech fettered,
as they would be irresistibly in such circumstances." This does not
sound like "jump-up-and-kiss-me Tom Moore," as the Irish ladies call
him; but her ladyship vouched for the truth of it. It was worthy of an
old Roman.
By what transition I know not, the conversation turned on Platonism,
and D'Israeli, (who seemed to have remembered the shelf on which
Vivian Grey was to find "the latter Platonists" in his father's
library) "flared up," as a dandy would say, immediately. His wild,
black eyes glistened, and his nervous lips quivered and poured out
eloquence; and a German professor, who had entered late, and the
Russian Charge d'affaires who had entered later, and a whole
ottoman-full of noble exquisites, listened with wonder. He gave us an
account of Taylor, almost the last of the celebrated Platonists, who
worshipped Jupiter, in a back parlor in London a few years ago, with
undoubted sincerity. He had an altar and a brazen figure of the
Thunderer, and performed his devotions as regularly as the most pious
_sacerdos_ of the ancients. In his old age he was turned out of the
lodgings he had occupied for a great number of years, and went to a
friend in much distress to complain of the injustice. He had "only
attempted to worship his gods, according to the dictates of his
conscience." "Did you pay your bills?" asked the friend. "Certainly."
"Then what is the reason?" "His landlady had taken offence at his
_sacrificing a bull to Jupiter in his back parlor_!"
The story sounded very Vivian-Greyish, and everybody laughed at it as
a very good invention; but D'Israeli quoted his father as his
authority, and it may appear in the Curiosities of Literature--where,
however, it will never be so well told, as by the extraordinary
creature from whom we had heard it.
* * * * *
_February 22d, 1835._--The excitement in London about the choice of a
Speaker is something startling. It took place yesterday, and the party
are thunderstruck at the non-election of Sir Manners Sutton. This is a
terrible blow upon them, for it was a defeat at the outset; and if
they failed in a question where they had the immense personal
popularity of the late Speaker to assist them, what will they do on
general questions? The House of Commons was surrounded all day with an
excited mob. Lady ---- told me last night that she drove down toward
evening, to ascertain the result (Sir C. M. Sutton is her
brother-in-law), and the crowd surrounded her carriage, recognizing
her as the sister of the tory Speaker, and threatened to tear the
coronet from the panels. "We'll soon put an end to your coronets,"
said a rapscallion in the mob. The tories were so confident of success
that Sir Robert Peel gave out cards a week ago, for a soiree to meet
Speaker Sutton, on the night of the election. There is a general
report in town that the whigs will impeach the Duke of Wellington!
This looks like a revolution, does it not? It is very certain that the
Duke and Sir Robert Peel have advised the King to dissolve parliament
again, if there is any difficulty in getting on with the government.
The Duke was dining with Lord Aberdeen the other day, when some one at
table ventured to wonder, at his accepting a subordinate office in the
cabinet he had himself formed. "If I could serve his majesty better,"
said the patrician soldier, "I would ride as king's messenger
to-morrow!" He certainly is a remarkable old fellow.
Perhaps, however, literary news would interest you more. Bulwer is
publishing in a volume, his papers from the New Monthly. I met him an
hour ago in Regent-street, looking what is called in London,
"_uncommon seedy_!" He is either the worst or the best dressed man in
London, according to the time of day or night you see him. D'Israeli,
the author of Vivian Grey, drives about in an open carriage, with Lady
S----, looking more melancholy than usual. The absent baronet, whose
place he fills, is about bringing an action against him, which will
finish his career, unless he can coin the damages in his brain. Mrs.
Hemans is dying of consumption in Ireland. I have been passing a week
at a country house, where Miss Jane Porter, Miss Pardoe, and Count
Krazinsky (author of the Court of Sigismund), are domiciliated for the
present. Miss Porter is one of her own heroines, grown old--a still
handsome and noble wreck of beauty. Miss Pardoe is nineteen,
fair-haired, sentimental, and has the smallest feet and is the best
waltzer I ever saw, but she is not otherwise pretty. The Polish Count
is writing the life of his grandmother, whom I should think he
strongly resembled in person. He is an excellent fellow, for all that.
I dined last week with Joanna Baillie, at Hampstead--the most charming
old lady I ever saw. To-day I dine with Longman to meet Tom Moore, who
is living _incog._ near this Nestor of publishers at Hampstead. Moore
is fagging hard on his history of Ireland. I shall give you the
particulars of all these things in my letters hereafter.
Poor Elia--my old favorite--is dead. I consider it one of the most
fortunate things that ever happened to me, to have seen him. I think
I sent you in one of my letters an account of my breakfasting in
company with Charles Lamb and his sister ("Bridget Elia") at the
Temple. The exquisite papers on his life and letters in the Athenaeum,
are by Barry Cornwall.
Lady Blessington's new book makes a great noise. Living as she does,
twelve hours out of the twenty-four, in the midst of the most
brilliant and mind-exhausting circle in London, I only wonder how she
found the time. Yet it was written in six weeks. Her novels sell for a
hundred pounds more than any other author's except Bulwer. Do you know
the _real_ prices of books? Bulwer gets _fifteen_ hundred pounds--Lady
B. _four_ hundred, Honorable Mrs. Norton _two_ hundred and fifty, Lady
Charlotte Bury _two_ hundred, Grattan _three_ hundred and most others
below this. D'Israeli can not sell a book _at all_, I hear. Is not
that odd? I would give more for one of his novels, than for forty of
the common _saleable_ things about town.
The authoress of the powerful book called Two Old Men's Tales, is an
old unitarian lady, a Mrs. Marsh. She declares she will never write
another book. The other was a glorious one, though!
LETTER LXXV.
LONDON--THE POET MOORE--LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT--MOORE'S
OPINION OF O'CONNELL--ANACREON AT THE PIANO--DEATH OF BYRON--A
SUPPRESSED ANECDOTE.
I called on Moore with a letter of introduction, and met him at the
door of his lodgings. I knew him instantly from the pictures I had
seen of him, but was surprised at the diminutiveness of his person. He
is much below the middle size, and with his white hat and long
chocolate frock-coat, was far from prepossessing in his appearance.
With this material disadvantage, however, his address is
gentleman-like to a very marked degree, and, I should think no one
could see Moore without conceiving a strong liking for him. As I was
to meet him at dinner, I did not detain him. In the moment's
conversation that passed, he inquired very particularly after
Washington Irving, expressing for him the warmest friendship, and
asked what Cooper was doing.
I was at Lady Blessington's at eight. Moore had not arrived, but the
other persons of the party--a Russian count, who spoke all the
languages of Europe as well as his own; a Roman banker, whose dynasty
is more powerful than the pope's; a clever English nobleman, and the
"observed of all observers," Count D'Orsay, stood in the window upon
the park, killing, as they might, the melancholy twilight half hour
preceding dinner.
"Mr. Moore!" cried the footman at the bottom of the staircase, "Mr.
Moore!" cried the footman at the top. And with his glass at his eye,
stumbling over an ottoman between his near-sightedness and the
darkness of the room, enter the poet. Half a glance tells you that he
is at home on a carpet. Sliding his little feet up to Lady Blessington
(of whom he was a lover when she was sixteen, and to whom some of the
sweetest of his songs were written), he made his compliments, with a
gayety and an ease combined with a kind of worshipping deference, that
was worthy of a prime-minister at the court of love. With the
gentlemen, all of whom he knew, he had the frank merry manner of a
confident favorite, and he was greeted like one. He went from one to
the other, straining back his head to look up at them (for, singularly
enough, every gentleman in the room was six feet high and upward), and
to every one he said something which, from any one else, would have
seemed peculiarly felicitous, but which fell from his lips, as if his
breath was not more spontaneous.
Dinner was announced, the Russian handed down "milady," and I found
myself seated opposite Moore, with a blaze of light on his Bacchus
head, and the mirrors, with which the superb octagonal room is
pannelled, reflecting every motion. To see him only at table, you
would think him not a small man. His principal length is in his body,
and his head and shoulders are those of a much larger person.
Consequently he _sits tall_, and with the peculiar erectness of head
and neck, his diminutiveness disappears.
The soup vanished in the busy silence that beseems it, and as the
courses commenced their procession, Lady Blessington led the
conversation with the brilliancy and ease, for which she is remarkable
over all the women of her time. She had received from Sir William
Gell, at Naples, the manuscript of a volume upon the last days of Sir
Walter Scott. It was a melancholy chronicle of imbecility, and the
book was suppressed, but there were two or three circumstances
narrated in its pages which were interesting. Soon after his arrival
at Naples, Sir Walter went with his physician and one or two friends
to the great museum. It happened that on the same day a large
collection of students and Italian literati were assembled, in one of
the rooms, to discuss some newly-discovered manuscripts. It was soon
known that the "Wizard of the North" was there, and a deputation was
sent immediately, to request him to honor them by presiding at their
session. At this time Scott was a wreck, with a memory that retained
nothing for a moment, and limbs almost as helpless as an infant's. He
was dragging about among the relics of Pompeii, taking no interest in
anything he saw, when their request was made known to him through his
physician. "No, no," said he, "I know nothing of their lingo. Tell
them I am not well enough to come." He loitered on, and in about half
an hour after, he turned to Dr. H. and said, "who was that you said
wanted to see me?" The doctor explained. "I'll go," said he, "they
shall see me if they wish it;" and, against the advice of his friends,
who feared it would be too much for his strength, he mounted the
staircase, and made his appearance at the door. A burst of
enthusiastic cheers welcomed him on the threshold, and forming in two
lines, many of them on their knees, they seized his hands as he
passed, kissed them, thanked him in their passionate language for the
delight with which he had filled the world, and placed him in the
chair with the most fervent expressions of gratitude for his
condescension. The discussion went on, but not understanding a
syllable of the language, Scott was soon wearied, and his friends
observed it, pleaded the state of his health as an apology, and he
rose to take his leave. These enthusiastic children of the south
crowded once more around him, and with exclamations of affection and
even tears, kissed his hands once more, assisting his tottering steps,
and sent after him a confused murmur of blessings as the door closed
on his retiring form. It is described by the writer as the most
affecting scene he had ever witnessed.
Some other remarks were made upon Scott, but the _parole_ was soon
yielded to Moore, who gave us an account of a visit he made to
Abbotsford when its illustrious owner was in his pride and prime.
"Scott," he said, "was the most manly and natural character in the
world. You felt when with him, that he was the soul of truth and
heartiness. His hospitality was as simple and open as the day, and he
lived freely himself, and expected his guests to do so. I remember him
giving us whiskey at dinner, and Lady Scott met my look of surprise
with the assurance that Sir Walter seldom dined without it. He never
ate or drank to excess, but he had no system, his constitution was
herculean, and he denied himself nothing. I went once from a dinner
party with Sir Thomas Lawrence to meet Scott at Lockhart's. We had
hardly entered the room when we were set down to a hot supper of roast
chickens, salmon, punch, etc., etc., and Sir Walter ate immensely of
everything. What a contrast between this and the last time I saw him
in London! He had come down to embark for Italy--broken quite down in
mind and body. He gave Mrs. Moore a book, and I asked him if he would
make it more valuable by writing in it. He thought I meant that he
should write some verses, and said, 'Oh I never write poetry now.' I
asked him to write only his own name and hers, and he attempted it,
but it was quite illegible."
Some one remarked that Scott's life of Napoleon was a failure.
"I think little of it," said Moore; "but after all, it was an
embarrassing task, and Scott did what a wise man would do--made as
much of his subject as was politic and necessary, and no more."
"It will not live," said some one else; "as much because it is a bad
book, as because it is the life of an individual."
"But _what_ an individual!" Moore replied. "Voltaire's life of Charles
the Twelfth was the life of an individual, yet that will live and be
read as long as there is a book in the world, and what was he to
Napoleon?"
O'Connell was mentioned.
"He is a powerful creature," said Moore, "but his eloquence has done
great harm both to England and Ireland. There is nothing so powerful
as oratory. The faculty of '_thinking on his legs_,' is a tremendous
engine in the hands of any man. There is an undue admiration for this
faculty, and a sway permitted to it, which was always more dangerous
to a country than anything else. Lord Althorp is a wonderful instance
of what a man may do _without_ talking. There is a general confidence
in him--a universal belief in his honesty, which serves him instead.
Peel is a fine speaker, but, admirable as he had been as an
oppositionist, he failed, when he came to lead the house. O'Connell
would be irresistible were it not for the two blots on his
character--the contributions in Ireland for his support, and his
refusal to give satisfaction to the man he is still coward enough to
attack. They may say what they will of duelling, it is the great
preserver of the decencies of society. The old school, which made a
man responsible for his words, was the better. I must confess I think
so. Then, in O'Connell's case, he had not made his vow against
duelling when Peel challenged him. He accepted the challenge, and Peel
went to Dover on his way to France, where they were to meet; and
O'Connell pleaded his wife's illness, and delayed till the law
interfered. Some other Irish patriot, about the same time, refused a
challenge on account of the illness of his daughter, and one of the
Dublin wits made a good epigram on the two:--
"'Some men, with a horror of slaughter,
Improve on the scripture command,
And 'honor their'----wife and daughter--
That their days may be long in the land.'
"The great period of Ireland's glory was between '82 and '98, and it
was a time when a man almost lived with a pistol in his hand.
Grattan's dying advice to his son, was, 'Be always ready with the
pistol!' He, himself never hesitated a moment. At one time, there was
a kind of conspiracy to fight him out of the world. On some famous
question, Corrie was employed purposely to bully him, and made a
personal attack of the grossest virulence. Grattan was so ill, at the
time, as to be supported into the house between two friends. He rose
to reply; and first, without alluding to Corrie at all, clearly and
entirely overturned every argument he had advanced, that bore upon the
question. He then paused a moment, and stretching out his arm, as if
he would reach across the house, said, 'For the assertions the
gentleman has been pleased to make with regard to myself, my answer
_here_, is _they are false_! elsewhere, it would be--_a blow!_ They
met, and Grattan shot him through the arm. Corrie proposed another
shot, but Grattan said, 'No! let the curs fight it out!' and they were
friends ever after. I like the old story of the Irishman, who was
challenged by some desperate blackguard. 'Fight _him_!' said he, 'I
would sooner go to my grave without a fight! Talking of Grattan, is it
not wonderful that, with all the agitation in Ireland, we have had no
such men since his time? Look at the Irish newspapers. The whole
country in convulsions--people's lives, fortunes, and religion, at
stake, and not a gleam of talent from one year's end to the other. It
is natural for sparks to be struck out in a time of violence, like
this--but Ireland, for all that is worth living for, _is dead_! You
can scarcely reckon Shiel of the calibre of her spirits of old, and
O'Connell, with all his faults, stands 'alone in his glory.'"
The conversation I have thus run together is a mere skeleton, of
course. Nothing but a short-hand report could retain the delicacy and
elegance of Moore's language, and memory itself cannot embody again
the kind of frost-work of imagery, which was formed and melted on his
lips. His voice is soft or firm as the subject requires, but perhaps
the word _gentlemanly_ describes it better than any other. It is upon
a natural key, but, if I may so phrase it, it is _fused_ with a
high-bred affectation, expressing deference and courtesy, at the same
time, that its pauses are constructed peculiarly to catch the ear. It
would be difficult not to attend to him while he is talking, though
the subject were but the shape of a wine-glass.
Moore's head is distinctly before me while I write, but I shall find
it difficult to describe. His hair, which curled once all over it in
long tendrils, unlike anybody else's in the world, and which probably
suggested his _sobriquet_ of "Bacchus," is diminished now to a few
curls sprinkled with gray, and scattered in a single ring above his
ears. His forehead is wrinkled, with the exception of a most prominent
development of the organ of gayety, which, singularly enough, shines
with the lustre and smooth polish of a pearl, and is surrounded by a
semicircle of lines drawn close about it, like entrenchments against
Time. His eyes still sparkle like a champaign bubble, though the
invader has drawn his pencillings about the corners; and there is a
kind of wintry red, of the tinge of an October leaf, that seems
enamelled on his cheek, the eloquent record of the claret his wit has
brightened. His mouth is the most characteristic feature of all. The
lips are delicately cut, slight and changeable as an aspen; but there
is a set-up look about the lower lip, a determination of the muscle to
a particular expression, and you fancy that you can almost see wit
astride upon it. It is written legibly with the imprint of habitual
success. It is arch, confident, and half diffident, as if he were
disguising his pleasure at applause, while another bright gleam of
fancy was breaking on him. The slightly-tossed nose confirms the fun
of the expression, and altogether it is a face that sparkles, beams,
radiates,--everything but _feels_. Fascinating beyond all men as he
is, Moore looks like a worldling.
This description may be supposed to have occupied the hour after Lady
Blessington retired from the table; for, with her, vanished Moore's
excitement, and everybody else seemed to feel, that light had gone out
of the room. Her excessive beauty is less an inspiration than the
wondrous talent with which she draws from every person around her his
peculiar excellence. Talking better than anybody else, and narrating,
particularly, with a graphic power that I never saw excelled, this
distinguished woman seems striving only to make others unfold
themselves; and never had diffidence a more apprehensive and
encouraging listener. But this is a subject with which I should never
be done.
We went up to coffee, and Moore brightened again over his
_chasse-cafe_, and went glittering on with criticisms on Grisi, the
delicious songstress now ravishing the world, whom he placed above all
but Pasta; and whom he thought, with the exception that her legs were
too short, an incomparable creature. This introduced music very
naturally, and with a great deal of difficulty he was taken to the
piano. My letter is getting long, and I have no time to describe his
singing. It is well known, however, that its effect is only equalled
by the beauty of his own words; and, for one, I could have taken him
into my heart with my delight. He makes no attempt at music. It is a
kind of admirable recitative, in which every shade of thought is
syllabled and dwelt upon, and the sentiment of the song goes through
your blood, warming you to the very eyelids, and starting your tears,
if you have soul or sense in you. I have heard of women's fainting at
a song of Moore's; and if the burden of it answered by chance, to a
secret in the bosom of the listener, I should think, from its
comparative effect upon so old a stager as myself, that the heart
would break with it.
We all sat around the piano, and after two or three songs of Lady
Blessington's choice, he rambled over the keys awhile, and sang "When
first I met thee," with a pathos that beggars description. When the
last word had faltered out, he rose and took Lady Blessington's hand,
said good-night, and was gone before a word was uttered. For a full
minute after he had closed the door, no one spoke. I could have
wished, for myself, to drop silently asleep where I sat, with the
tears in my eyes and the softness upon my heart.