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The humblest article a buckle for a lady's girdle, a seal, a locket, a brooch, a ring, or a button became in his hands a beautiful work of art. Cellini was remarkable for his readiness and dexterity in handicraft. One day a surgeon entered the shop of Raffaello del Moro, the goldsmith, to perform an operation on his daughter's hand.
Fine little lads they were, all being of Moro, Chinese, or Filipino stock, with here and there a fascinating combination of the three nationalities in one.
The greater part of the regulars leaped to the top of the trench wall to meet the shock. That move, however, soon carried them beyond the entrenchments. Some of the regulars found themselves fighting three or more of the enemy at once. Lieutenant Prescott shot one Moro dead, but as he did so Sergeant Hal saw another Moro, armed with a sword, rush at the lieutenant from behind.
This picture has been called by many names, and ascribed to many different hands. It has been described in turn as a portrait of Maximilian, of the short-lived Duke Giangaleazzo, and of Lodovico Moro himself.
On New Year's morning the presidente and secretario of Misamis, accompanied by their respective families and a young Moro slave, the property of the secretario, came aboard the Burnside to return our call.
Far away in Florence, one artist, who had lived in close intimacy with the Moro for many a long year, who had discussed a hundred problems and planned all manner of mighty works with him, heard the news with a pang of regret. Leonardo had been in Venice with Lorenzo da Pavia, the great organ-master, when the wonderful tidings of the duke's return had come.
Lodovico's ambassador, Belgiojoso, accompanied the French king to Senlis, and kept his master fully informed of all that happened at court. But while the Moro had repeatedly assured Charles of his friendly intentions, he had hitherto prudently abstained from offering any device as to the young king's warlike designs against Naples, and had, it was well known, opposed them.
And, like a true courtier, he contrives to make everything, decorations, music, and processions, redound to the praise of the great Moro, the author of all the glories of Milan. But we have an equally minute and perhaps more interesting description of the scene from Beatrice's own pen, in a letter which she sent to her sister Isabella from Vigevano on the 29th of December.
The entrance to the harbour is very narrow, and looked from my perch like a zig zag chasm in the rock, inlaid at the bottom with polished blue steel; so clear, and cahn, and pellucid was the still water, wherein the frowning rocks, and magnificent trees on the banks, and the white Moro, rising with its grinning tiers of cannon, battery above battery, were reflected veluti in speculum, as if it had been in a mirror.
From Balambing of bloody memory comes a Moro love story of some interest and no little humour. It appears that a rich woman there fell in love with a handsome young slave belonging to a man in a neighbouring town. After some difficulty she effected his purchase and married him, despite the fact of his being so far beneath her in the social scale.
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