MORE ABOUT SIR JOHN MOORE.
Another backward glance is needful here to bring the story of Sir John
Moore up to the present date of my tale.
In the year 1806 about twelve thousand British troops, under the
command of Sir John Stuart, had in hand the task of saving Sicily
from the grip of Napoleon; but the tortuous policy of their Sicilian
majesties, the lack of honesty and of public spirit, and the underhand
cabals and oppositions there, hindered far more from being done than
was done.
A short time after the English victory at Maida, in which and in the
retreat following the French lost in killed and wounded over five
thousand, while the English lost only about two hundred and fifty, Sir
John Stuart was recalled, and old General Fox, brother of Mr. Charles
Fox, then Prime Minister of England, was sent out. _Why_ the brave
Stuart should have been thus set aside does not appear, except that, as
quaintly remarked by one of Moore’s brothers, “it was a strong proof of
fraternal affection” on the part of Mr. Fox.
Sir John Moore, who superseded Stuart, was appointed second in command
under General Fox. And at this date occurred his one love affair.
Some mistaken reports on this subject have gained currency. Even lately
the assertion has been freshly made that Moore, when he died, was
engaged to Lady Hester Stanhope, niece of Mr. Pitt. This was not the
case. Lady Hester was his friend; the most intimate woman-friend—though
by no means the only one—that he had outside his own home circle; but
though he both admired and loved her, it was as a friend only, not
as a lover. He seems never to have thought of marrying her. On the
conclusive authority of General Anderson, who for twenty-one years was
with him constantly in the closest possible intercourse, and from whom
Moore appears to have had no secrets, there was but one whom Moore ever
seriously wished to marry, and this was Caroline Fox, daughter of the
old General in command at Sicily.
That the niece of Mr. Pitt should have been his most intimate
woman-friend, and the niece of Mr. Fox his one and only love, reads
curiously in the light of party politics. But Sir John was no party
man. The great Minister, Pitt, had for him an unbounded esteem and
affection, on the one side. And Fox, on the other, at a time when a
movement was in progress to make Moore Commander-in-Chief in India,
sent for him, and frankly informed him that “he could not give his
consent” to this scheme. “It was impossible for him,” he said, “in the
state in which Europe then was, to send to such a distance a General in
whom he had such entire confidence.” Moore stood outside mere political
warfare, grandly and simply, as representative of his country.
Amid the fighting, the difficulties, the perplexities, of Sicilian
politics and struggles, he found time to fall profoundly in love. And
he did not marry. He did not even let the girl know that he loved her.
Why not?
Well, the matter stood thus. Caroline Fox was very young—not yet
eighteen. And Moore was already in his forty-sixth year. There was a
discrepancy of nearly thirty years between the two, and Sir John did
not think it right, at her early age, even to give her the choice.
He was not of a nature to love lightly, or to give up his wishes
easily, and it was a hard fight. Harder far this conflict than all his
battles with the soldiers of Napoleon. Yet he conquered, and to the
young girl herself he spoke not a word which might have opened her
eyes. To Anderson he explained his reasons, with a frank and touching
simplicity, the echo of which comes down to us now through ninety years
and more.
“She is so young,” he said. “Her judgment may be overpowered. The
disparity of age is not perhaps at present very apparent, and my
position here, my reputation as a soldier of service, and my intimacy
with her father, may influence her to an irretrievable error for her
own future contentment. My feelings therefore must be suppressed, that
she may not have to suppress hers hereafter with loss of happiness.”
Can anything surpass the quiet grandeur of that “must”?
This surely is an ideal character—no true flesh and blood—so somebody
may object. What! a man in the prime of middle age, eminently handsome,
accomplished and fascinating, the idol of his friends, the darling
of his country, well off as to worldly goods, with still in all
probability a magnificent career before him—that such a man, when
deeply in love, should pause to view the question simply and solely
with regard to the girl’s happiness, not to his own—that _he_ should
humbly question whether, though he might fairly hope then and there
to win her, she might not in later years regret her action and wish
herself free! This is such a hero, no doubt, as has sometimes figured
in fiction. An ideal hero—but——
But the whole is true. There is no idealising at all here. John Moore,
actually and literally, without any varnishing, less than one hundred
years ago, loved and decided thus, thought and acted and was the same
that I have tried, however ineffectively, to picture for the present
generation.
Such a story of one in the first decade of the nineteenth century may
well serve as an inspiration in unselfishness for those who live in the
last decade of the same century. The grandeur of this man was that he
thought always of others before himself—that he lived for Duty. Where
Duty pointed or seemed to point down a pathway, no matter how hard and
thorny the road, there unhesitatingly Moore walked.
Yet there is another side to the question, which must not be ignored.
Grandly as Moore acted, in obedience to his own convictions, it
may well be that he made a mistake here. His very unselfishness and
humility, both of which are an example for us, may none the less have
led him into a course of action which, while one admires it, one dares
not hold up for general imitation.
For it is, to say the least, conceivable that Caroline Fox might
herself have been by that time deeply in love with Moore—that already
the happiness of her whole life might have hung upon his speaking.
True, he had not sought her, and he did not seek her. But he was
intimate in the house; he was a man of extraordinary attractive power;
and his personal fascinations might well have taken captive her girlish
heart, without the slightest conscious effort on his part. If things
were so, or had been so, how sad it would have been that, from a sense
of duty most nobly carried out, he should have denied happiness to her
as well as to himself! In such cases it does seem—at least, from the
woman’s point of view—that the choice ought to have been given to her;
that she ought to have been allowed to say for herself either Yea or
Nay. If he thought her too young to know her own mind, he still might
have simply declared his passion, and have insisted upon leaving her
ample time for consideration.
He never did propose for that young girl.[1] Moore was not a man to
decide one way and to drift another. Had he lived, he might no doubt
have spoken in the end. But in 1806 he had less than three years of his
fair life remaining.
The Queen of Sicily, an odd fantastic woman, took dire offence at him,
finding that she could not bend him to her will. An attempt made by
her to draw General Fox into steps which could only have resulted in
disaster, was strongly discountenanced by Moore, to whom the General
appealed for advice, and she wrote a torrent of abuse of him to the
English Government.
At about this time General Fox, on account of failing health, was
recalled, and the supreme command was given to Moore. He soon after saw
the Queen, and explained to her the falsity of certain reports which
had been told her about things he was supposed to have said.
A little later, fresh Napoleonic successes drove her to despair, and
she then sent for him again. He found her weeping over a copy of the
Peace of Tilsit, just signed between France, Russia and Prussia; and he
stayed nearly two hours, doing his best to raise her spirits. When he
took leave she said, graciously enough—
“Great pains have been taken to prejudice me against you, and not
without effect; but your plain frank manners have removed every
unfavourable impression, and nothing shall make me think ill of you
again. For I perceive, Monsieur Moore, that you are an upright man who
flatters nobody. You are a little reserved, and do not give confidence
easily. I esteem you on that account the more. I hope, however, at last
to acquire your confidence, and I shall be flattered by it.”
This is all very well, but apparently the Queen made no effort to undo
her harsh misrepresentations of him to the English Government.
Early in 1808 Moore reached England, and then he had his last holiday.
Four months of rest were granted to the hard-worked warrior, who
during thirty years had held himself utterly at his country’s service,
fighting for her in all parts of the world almost without intermission,
and being at least four times wounded. At this date he was looked upon
by competent judges as the foremost man in the whole British Army—as
the one to whom above all others England, in her hour of need, would
turn.[2]
The chief part of his holiday was spent at the quiet Surrey home of his
brother, with his mother and sister, and one is glad to know that he
had that peaceful break before the end.
It was towards the close of the four months that Roy Baron reached the
Bryces’ London house, after his adventurous escape from Bitche; and
so soon as the first excitement of his arrival was over, his thoughts
turned in the old direction—towards the Army.
Those were not days of competitive examinations or of lengthy
preparation. Boys were taken straight from school, commissions were
given to them, they were put into uniforms and drilled—sharply
drilled too, if they happened to be anywhere within touch of Moore’s
influence—and in the majority of cases Nature was expected to do the
rest. On the whole, Nature did not perform her task badly, with such
material as she had to work upon in these plucky English lads.
Mr. Bryce took upon himself to act as he knew that the Colonel would
have acted if able, and a very brief space of time saw Roy being
transformed into a smart young subaltern, in the same regiment of
infantry where Jack had lately obtained command of a company.
Meanwhile, at the close of Sir John Moore’s holiday, he was sent off on
another expedition, this time to Sweden, then an ally of England. He
had over eleven thousand men under his command, all as eager as himself
to help the Swedes. But the expedition was rendered abortive by the
extraordinary conduct of the King of Sweden, who already began to show
signs of the madness, for which he was afterwards deposed.
On the arrival of the English fleet, he flatly refused permission to
Sir John to land any of the troops, unless they were placed entirely
under his own control, to be used how and where he chose. This, of
course, Moore at once refused, and for two months, while he waited for
directions from the home Government, the eleven thousand soldiers had
to remain cooped up on board the vessels. Then came an attempt on the
part of the crazy king to arrest Moore himself when on shore. Moore
evaded the attempt, and at once set sail with his whole force for
England. He wrote to his mother, “This campaign in Sweden has proved
the most painful to me I ever served. It is, however, now nearly over.”
Many criticisms were passed on his conduct by those who did not know
the ins and outs of the whole affair. But the Duke of York expressed
hearty approval, congratulating himself and the country on having sent
a chief who could be firm to resist such unreasonable demands as those
of the Swedish King.
In the autumn of 1807, when Italy, Holland, Prussia, Austria and
Russia were one and all either conquered, or at the least humiliated
and helpless, Portugal next fell a victim to the rapacious conqueror,
and was made a stepping-stone to the conquest of Spain. In the quaint
language of one of Moore’s brothers, “being wont to eke out his martial
feats with wily stratagems,” Napoleon plotted himself into a position
of power there. Before the end of May, 1808, the French Army entered
Madrid, declaring the whole country subject to the Emperor of the
French, and proclaiming Joseph Buonaparte king.
Then it was that the tide of Napoleon’s successes reached their
high-water mark. From this date, it may be said, the retreat of the
waters began upon land, as earlier their retreat had begun upon the
ocean, at first imperceptibly, for a long while fitfully, yet with
accelerating speed.
Again and again the Spaniards had fought on the side of the French
against the English. But now, at last, the spell seemed to be broken;
now, at last; their eyes were opened. “As a man,” it was declared,
Spain had risen against the Emperor, and a burst of enthusiasm, of
vehement sympathy, rushed through the length and breadth of England.
The Army was mad to fight.
By the time that Moore got home from Sweden, Sir Arthur Wellesley had
already been despatched to Portugal, with a force of nine thousand
men, and the eleven thousand who had been on this fruitless errand to
Sweden were not even allowed to disembark, but were at once ordered to
Portsmouth, Moore being summoned to an interview with Lord Castlereagh.
An evening or two later, Jack rushed in upon the Bryce circle in hot
haste.
“Jack! Hallo, man! What’s up now? Something out of the common by the
looks of you,” declared Mr. Bryce, as he sat near the open window; a
small and ugly and genial man, in flowered waistcoat, velvet tights,
and silver-buckled shoes. “You’re just in time, my good fellow. In
three days we’re off to Brighthelmstone.”
“And if I might but have had my will, we should be there already,”
added his “better-half” discontentedly.
“How d’you all do? How do you do, ma’am? Find yourself well, Polly?
Heard the news? I suppose not.”
“What news?” at the same moment from Mr. and Mrs. Bryce, Polly and
Molly.
“Sir John Moore is ordered off to Spain, and our regiment is under
orders too.”
“Oh!”—from Molly, under her breath. “And if Roy should be taken
prisoner——”
“Or if he should not!” suggested Mr. Bryce. “Nay, child, we’ll permit
no doleful foretellings. What’s up, Jack? ’Tis no ill news to you to be
ordered to the seat of war?”
“Ill news? No!”—with sufficient energy.
“Yet you look uncommon like to a thunder-cloud—ready to burst. Hey,
what’s wrong?”
“Could wish nothing better than to go, sir. Every man in the Army is
wild to be off. But I’m angry, I’ll admit. ’Tis inconceivable that
such a man as Sir John should have enemies, yet there’s no other
explanation.”
“Enemies where?”
“I’m not so bold as to say. But ’tis a fact that, after serving in
Sicily and in Sweden as chief in command, he’s now to be placed in a
subordinate position as third. I’ve heard Major Napier declaim against
the shame it was that they didn’t make him from the first supreme
Commander in Sicily; but this—why, ’tis infinitely greater shame. The
thing is beyond comprehension!”
“Yet the King and the Duke of York are ever his friends,” mused Mr.
Bryce, passing a meditative hand over his chin. “And Lord Castlereagh
esteems him highly.”
“So all say; but the chopping and the changing that’s to take
place—’tis amazing! There’s Sir Arthur Wellesley in command of one army
gone to Spain, and Sir John till now in command of another, and both of
’em to be under Sir Hew Dalrymple when he can get to Portugal, and till
he does, Sir Harry Burrard is to act for him. Moore—the foremost and
most brilliant officer England has ever owned—to be under Burrard and
Dalrymple! Has the world gone crazed?”
“For what reason are the changes?” asked Mr. Bryce.
“I know not, sir, and I care not! Sir John has done nothing to merit
such treatment. ’Tis a base shame, and that’s about all that can be
said. But he’ll rise to the top—small fear! When the need arises, he
will be the man whom all will turn unto.”
“Jack, shall we see Roy?” inquired Molly.
Jack had little doubt that Roy would look in. Everything was to be done
in a terrific hurry, and he had come himself to say good-bye there and
then; but Roy would certainly appear. A few minutes later he called
Polly away into the girls’ little boudoir, and said approvingly—
“That is a brave Polly! No tears and no wailings. ’Tis as should be.”
“Dear Jack, I know well how glad you are to be going, and I would not
hold you back.” Polly spoke courageously, though she looked white.
“And when I come again—a battered soldier, maybe, with some part of me
missing—— Nay, I did not mean to make things harder for you, Polly. I
was but jesting.”
Polly had difficulty in controlling her shudder.
“Come, come, that was nothing; that was but a foolish jest. You will
bid me God-speed, I know; and you will think of us. Roy is frantic to
be off. Polly, no letter from Verdun?”
She shook her head.
“If I were Denham—kept there all these long years in a purposeless
captivity—and, it may be, never a letter from Polly to cheer him——”
Polly looked sadly at her brother.
“I have not writ to him lately,” she said. “I cannot tell how to write.
What should I do? I have none but you to advise me, and you, too, will
now be gone. Tell me what I should do, Jack?”
“Write again; write often. One letter among many may get to him.”
“But if he should no longer care? If he should by now have forgot me?”
“He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly; be sure he is trusting you.”
Something of a gleam came to her face.
“You think that? You think I may trust him yet, and not be over bold?
It is so long—over five years!—and no letter from him of later date
than the summer of 1806. May he not have forgot?”
“He will not forget. Roy is convinced on that point.”
“But does Roy know? Jack, sometimes I wonder—if indeed Captain Ivor
loves me still, as once he did—I wonder why does he not ask me to go
out to him there? If he asked me, I would go—I would indeed! And he has
never from the first said any such word; and I cannot say it. It is not
for me to offer to go; but sure, if he wished it, he might send some
words—by some private hand——”
Jack was silent—thinking.
“And there is that French girl—whom Roy is so fond of—always with them
as one of themselves—always near Captain Ivor.”
“But trust him still, Polly dear,” urged Jack. “I cannot know, neither
can you, how things are yet awhile; only I do truly believe that Ivor
is no man to change, or to be fickle in his likings. Whether you write
or do not write, trust him still.”
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Caroline Fox became later the wife of Sir William Napier, historian
of the Peninsular War.
[2] “Then the most honoured military character of the day.”—Sir W.
Napier.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: LENT LILIES AND DOCK LEAVES.]
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.
STUDY AND STUDIO.
K. BARTLETT.—We have attentively read the verses of your friend. It
is always a difficult matter to decide from two or three specimens
whether a girl should “give up writing altogether.” We cannot, however,
say that there are indications here of poetic merit so great as to
afford you the hope she may one day become a poet. The phrasing is
that of a cultured woman, but there is no originality of thought or
expression, and the form needs improvement. In “Springtime,” the best
of the three poems, the author uses the second person singular and
plural indiscriminately (“thee” and “your”). In the third poem, the
conjunction “under unkind” is unmusical. “Flows” in the first poem, is
not an apt expression for the outburst of the song of birds at dawn. No
doubt the study of good poetry, and practice, would do much to improve
your friend’s capacity for verse-writing, and there can be no reason,
if she has leisure, why she should not persevere. While we cannot
prophesy triumphant success, we can at least say that a measure of
success in writing pleasant lyrics is fully possible.
THISTLE.—Your lines are unequal, and the form is incorrect. Compare
these two extracts—
“The fourth of the sisters there
Her own mind knows not yet,”
and
“Outside that little summer-house
On the lawn so smooth and green.”
Both occupy the same place in the verse, and should therefore
correspond in metre. It is no easy task to write verse that will find
acceptance.
“BILL.”—1. Some friend of yours with a knowledge of musical composition
might set “Marie” to music for you. The lines are very irregular,
and would need special treatment.—2. Your writing is vigorous and
distinctive, but you are inclined to write untidily, omitting fragments
of words and scrawling now and again. If you never allowed yourself to
scribble, and were very careful, you would write well by-and-by.
SESAME.—We advise you to write to the Secretary of Girton College, Miss
Shore Nightingale, 11, Queensborough Terrace, Bayswater, London; and
to the Secretary of Newnham, Miss M. G. Kennedy, Shenstone, Cambridge.
From these ladies you will obtain full particulars. With regard to
scholarships, we refer you to Mrs. Watson’s articles on “What are the
County Councils doing for Girls?” in THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER for March,
July, August, and September, 1897.
INTERNATIONAL CORRESPONDENCE.
MARJORY INGLE, aged sixteen, Denmark House, Ely, Cambridgeshire, would
like a French correspondent about her own age. She would much prefer
one well educated and interested in study.
MISS A. NICHOLLS, Laburnum Villa, Leamington, MISS L. JONES, c/o Morris
Hughes, Castle Street, Llangollen, N. Wales, MADEMOISELLE DÉSIRÉE
TUFFLI, Châlet à Monruz, Neuchâtel, Switzerland, and MISS MARGUERITE
FITZROY DIXON, 19, IX Florence Street, Ottawa, wish to correspond
with Miss Anice Cress, Mysore, S. India, and inquire if that address
is sufficient. Miss Dixon would also like to write to Miss Marguerite
Rahier.
MADEMOISELLE VILMA TUFFLI, Châlet à Monruz, Neuchâtel, Switzerland,
would like to exchange illustrated post-cards with anyone who collects
them.
MISS MARY KLEYNTJENS, Maastricht, Holland, wishes to exchange view
post-cards with O MIMOSA SAN.
EDELWEISS AT INNSBRUCK would like to correspond with a French girl of
about her own age (19). She knows French pretty well, but has not much
opportunity of writing French letters.
MISS RUBY TIZAREL, Trosse House School, Neumark, Germany, will be glad
to write in French, German, or English, and receive answers in either
language from a young lady of about her own age (17).
MISS NELLY POLLAK, a German girl, wishes to correspond with an English
girl, aged about sixteen, living in England, or any British colony. Her
address is Vienna, I., Reichsrathstrasse 3.
“CINTRA,” aged sixteen, would like a French correspondent.
MISS WYNNIE L. MOORE JONES, Ladies’ College, Portland Road, Remuera,
Auckland, N.Z., and MISS L. SALMON, c/o E. L. Thornton, Esq., Fonte
da Moura, Oporto, Portugal, would like to exchange New Zealand and
Portuguese stamps for others.
VIOLET M. and FLORENCE VIOLET (not Voilet) FOSTER.—In view of the
increasing applications for foreign correspondents, we cannot undertake
to insert requests from English girls for English correspondents,
unless some special reason is given for their employing the medium of a
magazine. F. V. Foster must not be offended if we say she should try to
improve her writing and spelling. Violet M.’s letter is a pleasant one,
and if she is lonely through circumstances and unable to find friends,
we will consider her application.
GERALDINE wishes to correspond with a Swiss-French or French lady of
good family and education in French. The latter writing in English will
have all letters returned corrected, and the correspondent will require
her French letters corrected and returned also.
MISCELLANEOUS.
JAPONICA.—We do not see how “Japonica” can require _advice_ on such a
subject. Most girls of eighteen have some knowledge of the rules of
propriety; and if in doubt as to allowing stray young men to kiss her,
ignorance which we do not believe, she can consult any older person—her
mother, or one of her brothers—as to how far it is permissible. We
often think that such letters as “Japonica’s” are written by foolish
and vain girls to show off, not to obtain advice. There could be no
other motive in writing to us on the subject.
WINNIE has probably not consulted her parents on this point, or she
might find that there is really some very strong objection, of which
she is in ignorance, to the “good Christian young man” whom she says
“she has found.” Tell your parents all about it, and do not try to
persuade us to counsel you to be disobedient to their wishes.
ESMERALDA.—Why not take _The Boy’s Own Paper_, 56, Paternoster Row,
E.C. You might purchase a number and see how you liked it.
PUZZLED.—The smell of which you complain arises from the skins being
only partially cured and not thoroughly dried. Skunk, however, retains
an unpleasant odour in most cases. Drying the skins in a brick oven for
a little time, taking care not to burn them, might do good. But we fear
there is little help for this trouble.
THREEPENCE.—There is no royal road to handwriting. It is an art which
must be carefully acquired; and if you wish to improve yours, you
must get some copies and set to work in a painstaking way. Select a
handwriting you admire and proceed to copy it, letter by letter, word
by word. If you persevere, you will succeed in about a month’s time in
making a total change.
CHADBAND.—1. The Rev. Mr. Chadband is a character in Dickens’s
_Bleak House_. He was a religious hypocrite. The word “Chadbandism”
is a novelty, applied as it has been lately, in the daily press.—2.
_Chauvinism_ means a blind idolatry of Napoleon I. Just now it seems to
mean a warlike spirit, a blind patriotism. The word _Chauvin_ is taken
from _Les Aides de Camp_, by Bayard and Dumanoir; and was made popular
by Charet’s _Conscrit Chauvin_. _Conspuez_, which is the word most
heard in Paris of to-day, is from the verb _conspuer_, which means to
spit upon or to despise. A _Bordereau_ is a memorandum, or account of
some occurrence, event, or conversation. _Dossier_ means a barrister’s
brief, and also a bundle of papers. In the way used, it means what we
should call “the case” against a prisoner. We do not wonder that you
are puzzled if you do not understand French.
* * * * *
[Transcriber’s Note—the following corrections have been made to the
text:
Page 426: dignatatem changed to dignitatem—“infra dignitatem”.]