Curiously enough, a second proposal of the same kind came to him from a very different quarter. Lord Anglesey, then Viceroy, conveyed through a third person his wish that Moore should stand for Dublin University, and promised him all the Government support. In declining this offer on the same grounds as he had alleged to the Limerick electors, Moore added a very plain statement that, with the views he entertained, he could not enter parliament under the sanction of that Government. The Whigs had resorted to coercion, and "As long," he wrote, "as the principle on which Ireland is at present governed shall continue to be acted on, I can never consent to couple my name, humble as it is, with theirs."

The matter dropped then, so far as Government was concerned. But the Limerick const.i.tuency was not so easily put off, although Moore had explained to O'Connell--who was anxious to have the poet's support--that he should never think of entering parliament except as a purely unfettered representative. Such was the eagerness, that a scheme was formed of purchasing an estate worth 300 a year in the county, and presenting it to the poet; and after this proposal had been communicated by letter, Gerald Griffin, author of _The Collegians_, came, along with his brother, in person to Sloperton to urge its acceptance.

Moore was not prepared for the visit, but welcomed his guests. Part of Gerald Griffin's account may be cited as showing an exceedingly able young Irishman's att.i.tude of mind towards the poet (_the_ poet), and the impression which Moore left on him:--

"Oh, my dear L----, I saw the poet! and I spoke to him and he spoke to me, and it was not to bid me 'get out of his way,' as the King of France did to the man who boasted that his majesty had spoken to him; but it was to shake hands with me and to ask me 'How I did, Mr. Griffin?' and to speak of 'my fame.' _My_ fame! Tom Moore talk of my fame! Ah the rogue, he was humbugging, L----, I'm afraid. He knew the soft side of an author's heart, and perhaps he had pity on my long, melancholy-looking figure, and said to himself, 'I will make this poor fellow feel pleasant if I can,' for which, with all his roguery, who could help liking and being grateful to him?...

..."We found our hero in his study, a table before him, covered with books and papers, a draw half opened and stuffed with letters, a piano also open at a little distance; and the thief himself, a little man, but full of spirits, with eyes, hands, feet, and frame for ever in motion, looking as if it would be a feat for him to sit for three minutes quiet in his chair. I am no great observer of proportions, but he seemed to me to be a neat-made little fellow, tidily b.u.t.toned up, young as fifteen at heart, though with hair that reminded me of 'Alps in the sunset'; not handsome perhaps, but something in the whole cut of him that pleased me; finished as an actor, but without an actor's affectation; easy as a gentleman, but without _some_ gentlemen's formality; in a word, as people say when they find their brains begin to run aground at the f.a.g-end of a magnificent period, we found him a hospitable, warm-hearted Irishman, as pleasant as could be himself, and disposed to make others so."

Nothing but civilities resulted from the interview. We learn from Moore's Diary that he gave them dinner, and told them his opinion of Repeal--which was, that separation must be considered as its inevitable consequence. This startled his guests, and they disclaimed "all thoughts and apprehensions" of such a result. "What strange short-sightedness!"

Moore exclaims. It may be noted that Moore was always exaggerated in his estimate of consequences, and foretold the most prodigious upheavals as a result of the Reform Bill. It is also to be noted, that in his opinion, "so hopeless appeared the fate of Ireland under English government, whether of Whigs or Tories," that he "would be almost inclined to run the risk of Repeal even with separation as its too certain consequence, being convinced that Ireland must go through some violent and convulsive process before the anomalies of her present position can be got rid of, and thinking such riddance well worth the price, however dreadful would be the pain of it." So far was Moore from thinking that Catholic Emanc.i.p.ation settled Ireland's claims in full.

His refusal to represent an Irish const.i.tuency was however definitely conveyed to the envoys in a letter, written for publication, which after grateful acknowledgment of the honour done him, and of the kindness which had proposed a national subscription to provide him with the necessary qualification, ended as follows:--

"Were I obliged to choose which should be my direct paymaster, the government or the people, I should say without hesitation, the people; but I prefer holding on my free course, humble as it is, unpurchased by either; nor shall I the less continue, as far as my limited sphere of action extends, to devote such powers as G.o.d has gifted me with to that cause which has always been uppermost in my heart, which was my first inspiration, and shall be my last--the cause of Irish freedom."

Moore's friends with one accord congratulated him not only on the taste of his letter, but on his decision. And indeed, quite apart from considerations of money, his position in Parliament would have been impossible. In agreement neither with Whigs nor Tories, he was hardly more in sympathy with O'Connell's party; and he gave strong expression to his feelings in a remarkable lyric included in the tenth and last number of the _Irish Melodies_, published in 1834:--

"The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore; And ev'n of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

"Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd.

"Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread!

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane."

A footnote pointed the meaning in these words.

"Written in one of those moods of hopelessness and disgust which come occasionally over the mind, in contemplating the present state of Irish patriotism."

Not unnaturally, O'Connell was angry, and his friend Con Lyne wrote to Moore, entreating "an alleviating word." Moore replied, the Journal notes--

"that I was not surprised at O'Connell's feeling those verses, as I had felt them deeply myself in writing them; but that they were wrung from me by a desire to put on record (in the only work of mine likely to reach after-times) that though going along, heart and soul, with the great cause of Ireland, I by no means went with the spirit or the manner in which that cause had been for a long time conducted."

He admitted that, though the verses were addressed to Ireland, O'Connell had a right to take them to himself, "as he is and has been for a long time, to all public intents and purposes, Ireland." That was just what Moore complained of. He disliked the removal of "all independent and really public-spirited co-operators"; he regarded the position of this "mighty unit of a legion of ciphers" as a threat to freedom, certain to lead to an abuse of power. "Against such abuse of power, let it be placed in what hands it might," he "had all his life revolted and would to the last revolt." From the dignity of this really serious criticism he detracted somewhat by adding that O'Connell's resolution against duelling had done much "to lower the once high tone of feeling in Ireland"; for he omitted to make the necessary observation that, when O'Connell forswore duelling, he by no means forswore personal vituperation. The letter contained no allusion to a feeling which certainly was in Moore's mind when he wrote the verses--namely, his dislike of the "annual stipend from the begging-box." But even without this, it was an explanation ill calculated to alleviate, and Moore thought that public feeling in Ireland might probably run strong against him.

Ireland, however, was constant to her poet. In the next summer (1835) he crossed to Dublin, when the British a.s.sociation was meeting there, and the demonstration when he was first seen in the theatre went beyond all customary bounds and was not to be checked without a brief speech from the box. But a more ceremonious ovation was to come. Moore decided to go to Wexford to visit the home of his grand-parents, and he was to be the guest of a Mr. Boyse who lived at Bannow. On the approach to this town from Wexford--where Moore was met by his host--the party was encountered by a cavalcade bearing green banners, and so escorted formally to a series of triumphal arches, where a decorated car awaited the poet, with Nine Muses ("some of them remarkably pretty girls") ready to place a crown on his head. It had been arranged that the Muses should follow on foot; but as the crowd pressed in, Moore made three of them get up on the car. As they proceeded slowly along, with a band playing Irish melodies, and the tune set to Byron's "Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore," the hero turned to the pretty Muse behind him and said, "This is a long journey for you." "'Oh, sir,' she exclaimed, with a sweetness and kindness of look not to be found in more artificial life, 'I wish it was more than three hundred miles.'"

Speeches followed, with dancing in the evening, and a green balloon floated over the dancers, bearing to the skies, "Welcome, Tom Moore."

That evening there came an express from the Lady Superior of the Presentation Convent at Wexford, begging for a visit to her community.

Thither accordingly Moore was taken next day, and, for a crowning ceremony, planted with his own hands--"Oh Cupid, prince of G.o.ds and men!"--a myrtle in the convent garden. No sooner was the plant in the earth, than the gardener proclaimed, while filling up the hole, "This will not be called _myrtle_ any longer, but the _Star of Airin_!" Well may Moore ask, "Where is the English gardener chat would have been capable of such a flight?"

Demonstrations of this organised character did not recur; but the spontaneous outbursts of feeling manifested themselves, publicly and privately, in ways often a little ridiculous, but not less often really touching. When Moore next visited Ireland (in 1838) he went to the theatre evidently with the purpose of making a speech, and the opportunity was furnished with eclat: "There exists no t.i.tle of honour or distinction," he told them, "to which I could attach half so much value as that of being called your poet--the poet of the people of Ireland." Certainly the t.i.tle was not grudged; and the people of Ireland claimed a sort of proprietary right in their bard, as he found when he embarked at Kingstown for his return.

"The packet was full of people coming to see friends off, and amongst others was a party of ladies, who, I should think, had dined on board, and who, on my being made known to them, almost devoured me with kindness, and at length proceeded so far as to insist on, each of them, _kissing_ me. At this time I was beginning to feel the first rudiments of coming _sickness_, and the effort to respond to all this enthusiasm, in such a state of stomach, was not a little awkward and trying. However, I kissed the whole party (about five, I think) in succession, two or three of them being, for my comfort, young and good-looking, and was most glad to get away from them to my berth, which through the kindness of the captain (Emerson) was in his own cabin. But I had hardly shut the door, feeling very qualmish, and most glad to have got over this osculatory operation, when there came a gentle tap at the door, and an elderly lady made her appearance, who said that having heard of all that had been going on, she could not rest easy without being also kissed as well as the rest. So, in the most respectful manner possible, I complied with the lady's request, and then betook myself with a heaving stomach to my berth."

A more modest and less embarra.s.sing act of homage was brought to Moore's notice in London by Panizzi. Among the labourers at work on the buildings of the British Museum was a poor Irishman, who, learning that Moore was sometimes to be seen there, offered a pot of ale to any one who would point him out. Accordingly, next time Moore came, the Irishman was taken to where he could get a sight of the poet, as he sat reading.

Such was his pleasure at being able to say "I have seen," that he doubled the pot of ale to his conductor. Again, in 1842 Moore was coming away from a public dinner with Washington Irving, and they found rain falling and themselves in sore need of cab or umbrella.

"As we were provided with neither," Moore writes, "our plight was becoming serious, when a common cad ran up to me and said: 'Shall I get you a cab, Mr. Moore? Sure, ain't _I_ the man that patronises your Melodies?' He then ran off in search of a vehicle, while Irving and I stood close up, like a pair of male Caryatides under the very narrow projection of a hall door-ledge, and thought at last that we were quite forgotten by my patron. But he came faithfully back, and while putting me into the cab (without minding at all the trifle that I gave him for his trouble) he said confidentially in my ear: 'Now mind, whenever you want a cab, Misthur Moore, just call for Tim Flaherty, I'm your man.' Now this I call _fame_, and of somewhat a more agreeable kind than that of Dante, when the women in the street found him out by the marks of h.e.l.lfire on his beard."

Green balloons, effusive elderly spinsters and the rest, all had their ridiculous side, and Moore was not slow to see it. But, taking these merely as symptoms of a very genuine affection, one may conclude that he had a fair right to feel in his country's grat.i.tude a deep source of strength and consolation. For the rest, the pleasures of friendship and of society never failed him so long as he was able to enjoy them; and his English friends, in the time when he most needed it, did him a real service.

We have seen that he neither liked the measures of the Whig administration--which included two of his intimates, Lord Lansdowne and Lord John Russell, with many others of his friends--nor was in the least disposed to conceal his dislike of them. Lord John wrote to say that he was glad of Moore's decision not to enter Parliament, as it would pain him to find his friend going into the opposite lobby. But he was none the less inclined to serve Moore, and his first step showed an extreme anxiety to propitiate the poet's easily alarmed scruples. He approached Lord Melbourne, then Premier, with a proposal to bestow a pension on Moore's sons. Melbourne replied, with great justice, that to make a small provision for young men was only an encouragement to idleness, and that whatever was done, should be done for Moore himself. When the administration was reconstructed in July 1835, Lord John offered his friend a place in the State Paper Office, which was declined, and Lord Lansdowne then wrote, approving this refusal, but urging in the strongest terms Moore's acceptance of a pension, "which," he said, "no human being can blame the government for giving or you for accepting.

The administration is one of a more popular character as respects your Irish opinions than any which has existed or is likely to exist; and your literary reputation is so established that there is not a country under the sun where literary rewards or distinctions exist in which you would not be recognised as the first and most deserving object of them."

To this Moore replied that he would trust himself entirely to Lord Lansdowne's guidance, and accordingly a letter reached him in Dublin, saying that a pension of 300 a year had been granted him--the first granted by the Administration. On his return from the festivities in Bannow, a letter from Bessy awaited him, which is copied in the Journal:--

"My dearest Tom,--Can it _really_ be true that you have a pension of 300 a year? Mrs., Mr., two Misses and young Longman were here to-day, and tell me it is really the case, and that they have seen it in two papers. Should it turn out true, I know not how we can be thankful enough to those who gave it, or to a Higher Power. The Longmans were very kind and nice and so was _I_, and I invited them _all five_ to come at some future time. At present I can think of nothing but 300 a year, and dear Russell jumps and claps his hands for joy.... If the story is true of the 300, pray give dear Ellen 20, and _insist_ on her drinking 5 worth of wine _yearly_ to be paid out of the 300 a year.... Is it true? I am in a fear of hope and anxiety and feel very oddly. No one to talk to but sweet Buss, who says, 'Now, Papa will not have to work so hard, and will be able to go out a little.' ... _N.B._--If this good news be true, it will make a great difference in my _eating_. I shall then indulge in b.u.t.ter to potatoes. _Mind_ you do not tell this piece of gluttony to _any_ one."

It is pleasant to think of this climax to all the exultation of the Wexford processions. Moore was ent.i.tled to say to himself that he had done yeoman's service to the principles for which a Whig administration then stood, and yet had shown his complete independence of persons. What he received, no man could say had been gained by any compromise with his convictions; and it came at a time when it was much needed, for his power of literary production had largely spent itself. The comic inspiration had not indeed wholly run dry, for in 1835 Moore published _The Fudges in England_ (a work even more unworthy of its predecessor than most sequels); and in 1836 he entered into an agreement to supply the _Morning Chronicle_ with squibs--his _Times_ connection having long dropped. But except for this, and the furbishing up in 1839 of _Alciphron_, his first draft in verse of the Egyptian story, nothing more appears to have been produced by him, except the volumes of his _History of Ireland_, which appeared respectively in 1835, 1836, 1840, and 1846.

In fact, within the last seventeen years of his existence, Moore wrote little or nothing but these volumes of history, for which he appears to have received 500 apiece. It will be seen how timely was the succour of the pension.

One other resource, however, and a considerable one, was afforded by a project on which Moore's heart had long been set, and which finally matured in 1837--that of collecting his poetical works into a complete edition. The copyrights of his early Poems had returned to him, but the great bulk of his lyrics was held by Power's widow--for the little publisher had died in 1836, not before disputed accounts had altered the long and friendly relation between him and the author of the _Irish Melodies_. Longmans now bought out her rights for 1000, and paid Moore another thousand for the task of collecting and arranging the poems and writing prefaces, many of which contain interesting biographic detail.

It was a long labour, but the edition was finally completed in 1841.

Unhappily in that year, he was in no case to be concerned for its success or failure; the Diary hardly refers to this event, of such importance in a man's literary life. Troubles, which had long been heavy and insistent upon him, then fairly culminated.

In spite of his love and talent for society, Moore was essentially a domestic animal; and, as he advanced in life, his home ties were stronger and stronger. The welfare of his children and their health--for they were all delicate--preoccupied him with a constant and painful anxiety, which was, however, more than compensated by the pleasure which he derived from them as they grew up.

He was indeed no baby-worshipper, and notes profanely after one birth: "Bessy doing marvellously well, and the little fright, as all such young things are, prospering also." The first death in his household, that of an infant girl, Byron's G.o.ddaughter, affected him mainly as a cause of grief to his wife; and even when he lost his eldest daughter in 1817, truly and deeply though he sorrowed, it is evident enough that the weight of the blow fell on Bessy rather than on him. He was then the one of the two to take thought for the other; not perhaps that he cared less, but that his temperament was then more natural and healthy.

Eight years later he notes the first symptom of what was doubtless a growing infirmity. About a fortnight after his father's death he spent the evening in Dublin with some old friends, and sang a good deal for them.--"In singing 'There's a song of the Olden Time,' the feeling which I had so long suppressed" (for he had been active in endeavouring to keep up his mother's spirits) "broke out; I was obliged to leave the room, and continued sobbing hysterically on the stairs for several minutes." From this onward, the same proclivity manifested itself at intervals with growing vehemence. After any stress of emotion, the plangent quality of his own voice in singing tended to produce one of these outbursts, when it seemed as if his chest must burst under the strain. Yet he always fought against the weakness, and notes more than once how, after a sudden collapse of this kind, he made an effort, and returned to the piano, laughing at himself, while he rattled off gay songs.

But the wrench which of all others seems to have done most to shatter him, came not long after this first breakdown (which dates from the end of 1826, his forty-seventh year); and it found a man strangely altered from what he had been ten or twelve years earlier. His eldest girl's death had left the second, Anastasia, to inherit a double share of affection, and her chronic delicacy kept her parents continually anxious. At last the beginning of the end came early in 1829, just at the moment when Moore was receiving news that Catholic emanc.i.p.ation was a certainty. "Could I ever have thought," he writes, "that such an event would, under any circ.u.mstances, find me indifferent to it? Yet such is almost the case at present." Even when he wrote this, he did not realise the worst; the truth was not forced on him till his wife had been "wasting away on the knowledge of it" for three weeks. We have his detailed account of the last fortnight, during which the parents could do nothing but make their child's last days as happy as they could--spending the evenings together with the girl, playing little games, reading aloud and so forth. His description of the end must be quoted:--

"Next morning (Sunday 8th) I rose early, and, on approaching the room, heard the dear child's voice as strong, I thought, as usual; but on entering, I saw death plainly in her face. When I asked her how she had slept, she said 'Pretty well,' in her usual courteous manner; but her voice had a sort of hollow and distant softness, not to be described. When I took her hand on leaving her, she said (I thought significantly), 'Good-bye, papa.' I will not attempt to tell what I felt at all this. I went occasionally to listen at the door of the room, but did not go in, as Bessy, knowing what an effect (through my whole future life) such a scene would have on me, implored me not to be present at it.... In about three quarters of an hour or less, she called for me, and I came and took her hand for a few seconds, during which Bessy leaned down her head between the poor dying child and me, that I might not see her countenance.

As I left the room, too, agonised as her own mind was, my sweet thoughtful Bessy ran anxiously after me, and, giving me a smelling-bottle, exclaimed, 'For G.o.d's sake, don't you get ill.' In about a quarter of an hour afterwards, she came to me, and I saw that all was over. I could no longer restrain myself; the feelings I had been so long suppressing found vent, and a fit of loud violent sobbing seized me, in which I felt as if my chest were coming asunder."

Avoiding, after his habit, the actual sensations of horror, Moore took his wife out for a drive while the funeral was going on. There is no doubt, as I have said already, something unmasculine in all this shrinking from the physical impression, and one may trace something of the luxury of grief in the detailed recital. But the note with which it closes has the true accent of tragedy:--

"And such is the end of so many years of fondness and of hope; and nothing is left us but the dream (which may G.o.d in his mercy realise), that we shall see our pure child again in a world more worthy of her."

Gradually, however, time healed the rawness of the wound, and in June of the same year, a new interest was added to Moore's London visits. His eldest boy, Tom, was installed at the Charterhouse, on a nomination secured through Lord Grey, and from this onward the Diary is full of references to the boy's charming (but idle) ways. Moore records dinners with Master Tom,--"who, bless the dear fellow, was more amusing than any of the _beaux esprits_,"--compliments on his beauty, valued all the more because a likeness was noted to his mother, and, in short, gives every instance of parental fondness. We read less perhaps about the other boy, Lord John Russell's G.o.dson and namesake, who entered the same school a year or two later, Sir Robert Peel this time giving the nomination. But of both his boys Moore was mighty fond and proud, and it was a moment of great happiness in his life when, in 1830, he conveyed Bessy and the pair of them to Dublin for a visit to his other home in Abbey Street.

"My sweet sister Nell, just the same gentle spirit as ever; both in great delight with our boys; and my dear Bess never looked so handsome as she did sitting by my mother, with a face bearing the utmost sweetness and affection, all for my sake. Had a most happy family dinner."

The happiness lasted through the visit of six weeks. It was fifteen years since Bessy Moore had been in Ireland, and then she had not lived in the same house with her husband's folk, who consequently knew her mainly by report. "They have now, however," Moore writes, "had her with them as one of themselves, and the result has been what I never could doubt it would be."

Six months later an urgent summons from his sister prepared him for the severing of the closest and oldest of all ties. But when he reached Dublin he found his mother rallied, and her doctor (Crampton) quoting Mother Hubbard at her. After three or four days her strength was so far restored that he felt able to return. But her parting from her son was that of one taking the last farewell. She told him--and indeed she had good right to--that he had always done his duty, and more than his duty, by her and hers. Twelve months later she died, and the news was announced by letter. The effect upon Moore was not that of shock, but rather of deep and saddening depression, which continued for some days and seemed more to be a bodily indisposition than any mental affliction.

"To lose such a mother was," he said, "like a part of one's life going out of one."

There was, however, one consolation for this great loss. Moore's sister, Ellen, became a yearly visitor to the Sloperton household, and was drawn fairly into the home circle. Meanwhile, the enthusiasm of his countrymen, and the good help of the pension, brightened matters; and, as the boys grew up, Moore's pleasure in their society increased steadily.

He had procured, under the most distinguished auspices, their admission to a first-rate school; and, fond as he was, he enforced in some matters a standard of conduct more rigid than usual. He set his face against their taking money from any one but their parents, and expressed righteous indignation when Lord Holland defended to him the practice of tipping. Still more indignant was he when the head master represented to him that the elder boy could get an exhibition worth about 100 a year to take him to college, and that Moore need only add an allowance of 150! It seems, however, that exhortations against extravagance prevailed less than the example of spending money freely, which was set to the young Tom by those with whom his father led him to a.s.sociate. The younger son, Russell, was steadier in character, but decided, like his brother, for the army; and Moore was accordingly put to the heavy expense of outfitting both and launching them in this costly profession.

Once launched, however, he was sanguine enough to expect that they could live on their pay.

Tom was gazetted to the 22nd regiment in 1837, and was given six months to study French in Paris, where his father established him under pleasant conditions. Having joined his regiment in 1838 at Cork, he was shortly transferred to Dublin, and here his presence was a pleasure to his aunt, Moore's favourite sister; the news of this made a happy break in the anxieties at Sloperton, where Bessy Moore, always delicate, had just come through a severe illness. In the summer, Moore joined his son and his sister, and was, as we have seen, enormously applauded by his countrymen at the theatre. Next day the father and son were to have dined with Lord Morpeth, the Irish Chief Secretary, but by one of the lapses of memory which began to be habitual with Moore, they presented themselves instead at the Vice-Regal Lodge and were half through dinner before the guest realised what he had done, only to be overwhelmed with expressions of delight at the mistake. It was no doubt a little difficult for a young man with a father who was on such terms with both the people and the rulers of Ireland to realise that he was only the son of a needy and struggling worker, always at straits to make ends meet: and probably Tom himself took the view, expressed to Moore by a friend newly come from Ireland, that such an allowance should be made to the young soldier as would enable him to "live like a gentleman." Moore was angry, and it is easy to sympathise with his disappointment; easy also to condemn his want of foresight.