TOM MOORE.

Preface

In this book the author has endeavored to give to the reading public an intimate presentation of one of the more famous of the literary giants who made the beginning of the last century the most brilliant period in the history of English Letters since the days of the Elizabethan authors.

Of Tom Moore's rank and attainments as a poet of the finest gifts very little need be said. Posterity has placed the seal of everlasting approval upon the best of his work and in the main is admirably ignorant of his few less worthy productions. So it need not be feared that the memory of the author of "Lalla Rookh," "The Last Rose of Summer,"

"Love's Young Dream," and, lastly, the most tender and touching of all love songs, "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms," will ever be less brightly preserved, less tenderly treasured, than it has been in the years that have intervened since his death.

"_Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents--poetry, music, voice, all his own; and an expression in each, which never was, nor will be, possessed by another.... There is nothing Moore may not do, if he will but seriously set about it.... To me some of his Irish Melodies are worth all the epics that ever were composed,_" wrote the hapless Lord Byron, who was one of the gifted Irishman's most intimate and faithful friends.

"_The poet of all circles and the idol of his own._"

No other words could so fitly describe the position of Moore in the esteem of the public. His ballads are sung by peer and peasant, in drawing-room and below stairs, and long ago the world at large began to rival the affection and admiration with which the life work and memory of the sweetest singer of them all has been cherished by the little green island which so proudly proclaims itself as the birthplace of this, its favorite son. But of the brilliant poet's early struggles, failures, successes and ambitions little is known. From his own writings and those of Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, Leigh Hunt and Captain Trelawney, it has been gleaned that there never was a more faithful friend, a more patient or devoted lover, a truer husband and fonder father than Thomas Moore. His married life was as sweet and tender as one of his own poems. Much is known of the happy years that followed his wedding, but till now no attempt has been made to picture the days of love and doubt that preceded the union which was destined to prove so splendid an example of true connubial content. In regard to historical accuracy, it is admitted that a certain amount of license has been used. For the sake of gaining continuity, events spread over a s.p.a.ce of years have been brought within the compa.s.s of months, but aside from this concentration of action, if it may be so described, the happenings are in the main not incorrect.

While it is true that Moore was never actually ejected from society by the Prince of Wales, he did forfeit for a time the favor of that royal gentleman until the authorship of certain offensive verses was generously acknowledged by Lord Byron. The incident wherein Moore sells his life-work to McDermot is pure fiction, but in truth he did succeed in obtaining from Longmans an advance of 3,000 for "Lalla Rookh" before it was even planned, an event which in this chronicle is supposed to occur subsequent to his rescue from McDermot by Lord Brooking. Since the advance really obtained was three times the amount he is made to demand of the Scotch publisher the possibility of this particular part of the occurrence is not to be questioned.

For certain definite and easily comprehended reasons the real degree of Moore's poverty when he arrived in London and previous to his talent's recognition by the Regent, who did accept the dedication and thus insure the success of his first volume of verses, has been exaggerated, but in regard to his possession of the Laureateship of England the story deals with fact. Nevertheless the correctness of this bestowal of favor by the Prince of Wales was publicly denied in the columns of an influential New York newspaper at the time of the play's first presentation in the metropolis. For the enlightenment of those who may have been led into error by this misstatement, at the time overlooked by the author, they are referred to letter No. 63, from Moore to his mother, dated Friday, May 20th, 1803, in the first volume of the "Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence of Thomas Moore," edited by Lord John Russell, in which the poet gives his exact reasons for having recently relinquished the post in question.

It is also true that the first notable success of Bessie d.y.k.e as an actress was scored at Kilkenny, Ireland, instead of London. As her elder sister, Mary, has no part in this story, she has been omitted altogether, though her long and successful career upon the American stage is a part of the national theatrical history.

So far as the characters herein set forth are concerned but little explanation is required. Those historical have been sketched in accordance with the accounts of their peculiarities furnished by the literature of the times. Several of the most important people are entirely imaginary, or have been constructed by combining a number of single individuals into one personage.

In reply to the antic.i.p.ated charge that the author cannot prove that the incidents described in the progress of Moore's wooing ever happened, he makes bold to answer that it is equally as impossible to prove that they did not.

With this explanation, necessary or unnecessary, as the future will no doubt prove, the book "Tom Moore" is confided to the mercy of the public which has so generously welcomed the play.

Book One

"_The time I've lost in wooing,_ _In watching and pursuing_ _The light, that lies_ _In woman's eyes,_ _Has been my heart's undoing_"

TOM MOORE

Chapter One

TOM MOORE GOES ANGLING

Mr. Thomas Moore was certainly in a very cheerful mood. This was evidenced by the merry tune with which he was delighting himself, and a jealous-minded thrush, with head c.o.c.ked on one side, waited with ill-concealed impatience for his rival to afford him the opportunity of entering into compet.i.tion. As this was not forthcoming, the bird took wing with an angry flirt of the tail and mental objurgation levelled at the unconscious head of the dapper young Irishman, who lilted gayly as he wandered along the path worn in the sward of the meadow by the school children on their way to and from the inst.i.tution of learning presided over by Mistress Elizabeth d.y.k.e.

"The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing."

Moore paused in his ditty and sat down on a convenient stone, while he wiped his brow with a ragged silk handkerchief which, though of unmistakably ancient origin, was immaculately clean.

"Faith," he murmured, "there's no fiction in that last stanza. It's broken-hearted I am, or as near it as an Irishman can be without too much exertion."

He sighed almost unhappily, and drawing a knife from his breeches pocket proceeded to manufacture a whistle from the bark on the end of the long willow wand he had cut a few moments before to serve as a fishing-rod.

This last was accomplished after some little effort accompanied by much pursing of lips and knitting of brows.

His labors completed, Moore regarded the whistle with the critical approval of an expert, and putting it to his mouth blew a shrill blast.

As the result was eminently satisfactory, he bestowed the toy in the crown of his beaver and, crossing his legs comfortably, proceeded to take his ease.

His appearance was decidedly attractive. While quite a little below middle size, his wiry figure was so well proportioned that in the absence of other men nearer the ordinary standard of height, he would have pa.s.sed as a fine figure of a lad. He carried himself with easy grace, but affected none of the mincing, studied mannerisms of the dandy of the period. He had a round, jolly face, a pleasing though slightly satirical mouth, an impudent nose, and a pair of fine eyes, so brightly good-humored and laughingly intelligent, that no one could have looked into their clear depths without realizing that this was no ordinary youth. And yet at the period in his career from which dates the beginning of this chronicle Tom Moore's fortunes were at a decidedly low ebb. Disgusted and angry at the ill success which attended his attempts to sell his verses to the magazines and papers of Dublin, for at this time it was the exception, not the rule, when a poem from his pen was printed and paid for, Moore gathered together his few traps, kissed his mother and sisters good-bye, shook the hand of his father, then barrackmaster of an English regiment resident in Ireland, and hied himself to the sylvan beauties of the little town of Dalky. Here he secured lodgings for little more than a trifle and began the revision of his translation of the Odes of Anacreon, a task he had undertaken with great enthusiasm a year previous. Thus it was that he chanced to be wandering through the fields on fishing bent this bright and beautiful morning in the year of our Lord 179-.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tom Moore]

A small boy, barefooted and shock-headed, came across the meadow in the direction of the schoolhouse visible in the distance on the crest of a long, slowly rising hill. He carried a bundle of books and an old slate tightly clutched under one arm, while from the hand left disengaged swung a long switch with which he smartly decapitated the various weeds which had achieved alt.i.tude sufficient to make them worthy of his attention.

Noticing Moore for the first time, the boy's face brightened and lost its crafty look of prematurely developed cunning and anxiety, as he approached with a perceptible quickening of his gait.

"Is it you, Mr. Moore?" he said, a rich brogue flavoring his utterance.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, Micky, you have guessed my ident.i.ty,"

admitted the young man, making a playful slap with his rod at the new-comer's bare shins, which the lad evaded with an agility that bespoke practice, at the same time skilfully parrying with his switch.

"Goin' fishin'?"

"Shooting, my boy. Don't you perceive my fowling-piece?" replied Moore, waving his fish-pole in the air.

"Sure," said Micky, grinning broadly, "you will have your joke."

"None of the editors will, so, if I did n't, who would?" responded Moore, with a smile not altogether untinged by bitterness. "Where are you going, Micky?"

"To school, sir, bad cess to it."

"Such enthusiasm in the pursuit of education is worthy of the highest commendation, my lad."

"Is it?" said Micky doubtfully. "What's that, Mr. Moore?"

"Commendation?"

"Yis."

"Well, if I said you were a good boy, what would that be?"

"Father would say it was a d--n lie."

Moore chuckled.