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"I am quite sure," laughed Vaura, "he will go through the bill of fare just as Moore's Bob, of one pate of larks, just to tune up the throat; one's small limbs of chickens, done en papillote, one's erudite cutlets dressed all ways but plain, &c. Oh, dear, he fatigues one," she added gaily; "yes, an ice, Sir Tilton."
Otherwise ethics itself tends to grow narrow, strident, and fanatical; as may be observed in asceticism and puritanism, or, for the matter of that, in Mr. Moore's uncivilised leaning towards the doctrine of retributive punishment, or in Mr. Russell's intolerance of selfishness and patriotism, and in his refusal to entertain any pious reverence for the nature of things.
Accordingly, Viscount Noailles and Lieutenant-Colonel Laurens, whose father was then a prisoner in the Tower of London, on the 18th met Colonel Dundas and Major Ross of the British army at Moore's house, in the rear of the first parallel. They prepared a rough draft, but were unable definitively to arrange the terms of capitulation.
The line drums lightly in the ears when the bushes are high and it grows taut; it makes a telephone for the rush of flowers under the stress of your easy power. The active delights of one who is not athletic are few, like the joys of "feeling hearts" according to the erroneous sentiment of a verse of Moore's. The joys of sensitive hearts are many; but the joys of sensitive hands are few.
This fact is very practically brought out in Mr. Moore's "Confessions." In reading them we do not feel the presence of a clean-cut personality like that of Thackeray and Matthew Arnold. We only read a number of quite clever and largely conflicting opinions which might be uttered by any clever person, but which we are called upon to admire specifically, because they are uttered by Mr. Moore.
A little later I came to know other verses, ballads nearer to the tradition of the country than Moore's faint sentiment.
"I've studied the song-writers more than the histories and geographies," I said, "so I should like to go to Bray and look up the Vicar, then to Coleraine to see where Kitty broke the famous pitcher; or to Tara, where the harp that once, or to Athlone, where dwelt Widow Malone, ochone, and so on; just start with an armful of Tom Moore's poems and Lover's and Ferguson's, and, yes," I added generously, "some of the nice moderns, and visit the scenes they've written about."
"You've been 'ere afore?" she said, pointing one skinny finger at Calton, "and you wanted to find out all about 'er; but you didn't. She wouldn't let me tell, for she was always a proud jade, a-flouncin' round while 'er pore mother was a-starvin'." "Her mother! Are you Rosanna Moore's mother?" cried Calton, considerably astonished. "May I die if I ain't," croaked the hag.
Moore's hobbled ankles up behind to meet his hobbled wrists. "Ah ha! Villain! I have you in me power at last. I go; but I shall return!" And the son of Tarzan skipped across the room, slipped through the open window, and slid to liberty by way of the down spout from an eaves trough. Mr. Moore wriggled and struggled about the bed. He was sure that he should suffocate unless aid came quickly.
Moore was a member of the board, he criticised me for the way I had the little ones read; for instance, in the sentence, "I saw a man," I had them use the short a instead of the long a, and so with the article a; having them read it as we would speak it naturally. He made this serious objection, and I lost my place and Dr. Moore's niece got my room as teacher.
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