  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover Here's a health to thee, Tom Moore!--BYRON [image] THE DESIRED IDEA FAILED TO MATERIALIZE. TOM MOORE An Unhistorical Romance, Founded By THEODORE BURT SAYRE Author of "Two Summer Girls and I" ILLUSTRATED THE MUSSON CO., LIMITED Copyright, 1902 Published in September 1902 FOURTH EDITION To With the author's grateful acknowledgment and appreciation 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 space of years have been brought within the compass 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 Dyke 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 anticipated 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. CONTENTS BOOK ONE ONE AFTERNOON IN IRELAND CHAPTER
BOOK TWO ONE AFTERNOON IN ENGLAND
BOOK THREE TWO EVENINGS IN HIGH SOCIETY
BOOK FOUR A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE
The Play, founded by Mr. Sayre on the same incidents as the novel, was produced by Messrs. Rich and Harris, with great success at the Herald Square Theatre, New York, on the evening of the Thirty-first of August, 1901, with the following cast: TOM MOORE, Ireland's favorite poet . . . . . . . . . ANDREW MACK PRINCE OF WALES, Regent of England . . . . . . . . . MYRON CALICE SIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE, Boon Companion to the Prince GEORGE F. NASH LORD MOIRA, Moore's friend and patron . . . . . . . THEODORE BABCOCK ROBIN DYKE, an Irish minor poet . . . . . . . . . . GEORGE W. DEYO SHERIDAN, the famous wit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . GILES SHINE BEAU BRUMMELL, a leader of society . . . . . . . . . HARRY P. STONE TERENCE FARRELL, a young Irishman . . . . . . . . . FRANK MAYNE BUSTER, Moore's servant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . EDWARD J. HERON MCDERMOTT, a publisher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . RICHARD J. DILLON SERVANT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . JOHN NAPIER MICKEY } { JOHNNY COOKE WILLIE } { WILLIE COOKE PATSEY } { AUGUSTUS WILKES DICKY } { GEORGIE CADIEUX JOHNNY } { JOHNNY WILKES TOMMY } School { HAROLD GRAU LIZZIE } Children { VIVIAN MARTIN NELLIE } { ETHEL CLIFTON MAGGIE } { MARY McMANUS KATIE } { SYLVIA CASHIN BRIDGET } { ISABEL BARRCACOLE MARY } { LORETTA RUGE BESSIE DYKE, an Irish girl . . . . . . . . . . JOSEPHINE LOVETT WINNIE FARRELL, an heiress . . . . . . . . . . SUSIE WILKERSON MRS. FITZ-HERBERT, the Prince's favorite . . . JANE PEYTON MRS. MALONE, Moore's landlady . . . . . . . . MAGGIE FIELDING Courtiers, Ladies, Footmen, Servants, etc. 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 cocked on one side, waited with ill-concealed impatience for his rival to afford him the opportunity of entering into competition. 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 institution of learning presided over by Mistress Elizabeth Dyke.
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 passed 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-. [image] 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 altitude 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 identity," 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. "Well, we will let it go at that. You seem to be in a great hurry, Micky." "So do you, sir." "Humph!" said Moore. "I perceive you are blessed with an observing mind. Have you observed the whereabouts of a trout brook that is located somewhere in this neighborhood?" "Yis," replied Micky, himself an enthusiastic fisherman. "I have that. Don't ye know the place, Mr. Moore?" "Not I, my lad, but, since Providence has sent you along to show me the way, I 'll speedily be possessed of that knowledge." Micky looked doubtfully in the direction of the schoolhouse. It was almost time for the afternoon session, but the day was too beautiful to be spent in the dull depths of the school without regret. "I 'd show you the way, sir, gladly, but it 'll make me late." "Are you afraid of Mistress Dyke?" queried Moore, noticing the boy's hesitation. "Yis, sir." "So am I, my lad." Micky looked surprised. That this dashing young blade in whose person were apparently embodied all the manly virtues, at least from the lad's point of view, should stand in dread of such a soft-eyed, red-cheeked little bundle of femininity as his schoolmistress was a matter beyond his juvenile comprehension. "And why, sir?" asked the boy curiously. "She 's very pretty," replied Moore. "When you are older you will understand what it is to be in awe of a trim little miss with the blue sky in her eyes and a ripple of red merriment for a mouth. In the meantime you shall show me the way to the brook." "But she 'll lick me," objected Micky, numerous ferulings keenly in mind. "Not she, my laddybuck. To-day I 'm coming to visit the school. Tell her that and she 'll not whack you at all." "Won't she?" "No, she will be so pleased, she will more than likely kiss you." "Then why don't you go and tell her yourself? You would like the kiss, would n't you?" "Micky," said Moore solemnly, "you have discovered my secret. I would. Ah me! my lad, how little we appreciate such dispensations of Providence when we are favored with them. Now you, you raparee--you would much rather she did n't practise osculation upon you." Micky nodded. He did not understand what his companion meant, but he was quite convinced that the assertion made by him was absolutely correct. What a beautiful thing is faith! "A pretty teacher beats the devil, Micky, and you have the prettiest in Ireland. I wish I could be taught by such a preceptress. I 'd need instruction both day and night, and that last is no lie, even at this day, if the lesson were to be in love," he added, a twinkle in his eyes, though his face was perfectly sober. "Sure," said Micky, "she don't think you nade lessons. I heard her tell Squire Farrell's daughter blarney ran off your tongue like water off a duck's back." "What is that?" said Moore. "I 'll have to investigate this matter thoroughly." At this moment the metallic clang of an old fashioned hand-bell sounded faintly down the hillside mellowed into comparative melodiousness by the intervening distance. "Ah," said Moore, "your absence has been reported to Mistress Dyke, and she has tolled the bell." It seemed as though the young Irishman's execrable pun decided the ragged urchin that the way of the transgressor might be hard, for, without further hesitation, he took to his heels and fled in the direction of the schoolhouse. After a moment's thought Moore followed him, beating time with the willow fishing-rod to the song which half unconsciously issued from his lips as he turned his steps in the direction of the headquarters of Mistress Bessie Dyke. Tom Moore was going angling, but not for trout. Chapter Two CERTAIN HAPPENINGS IN MISTRESS DYKE'S SCHOOL Over her desk, waiting for developments, leaned Mistress Dyke. A moment passed, then the tousled head of the tardy Micky appeared above the level of the bench behind which he had secured shelter after carefully crawling on hands and knees from the door, having by extreme good fortune, made the hazardous journey undetected. Only the fatally unwelcome interest displayed in this performance by the red-headed boy on the front row prevented the success of Micky's strategy. As it was, the blue eyes of Bessie met his with a glance of reproof as he slid noiselessly into his place. "Micky." The boy rose reluctantly to his feet. Bessie looked at him severely. To his youthful mind she appeared very stern indeed; but, if the truth were known, to the ordinary adult eye she presented no fiercer exterior than that ordinarily produced by a slight feeling of irritation upon the aspect of a kitten of tender age. Smiles always lurked in Bessie's big blue eyes, and little waves of mirth were ever ready to ripple out from the corners of her mouth at the slightest provocation, so it can readily be understood that it was no easy task for her to sternly interrogate the freckle-faced youth who, beneath her disapproving gaze, shifted uneasily from one bare foot to the other. Mistress Dyke ruled by love, and if she did not love by rule, it is merely another instance where exception can be taken to the old saw which so boldly and incorrectly states that a good maxim must of necessity be reversible. "Why are you late, Micky?" demanded Bessie. "Sure, mistress, I dunno," was the hopeless response. "You don't know, Micky? How foolish!" "Yis 'm," assented Micky. "I was foolish to be late." Bessie smiled and then tried to deceive the school into the belief that it was only the beginning of a yawn by patting her mouth with a dimpled palm. The school knew better and anxiety grew less. "But there must be some reason for it," she persisted. "I know," said a little lad with long yellow curls, which were made doubly brilliant by the red flannel shirt that enveloped him, materially assisted by diminutive trousers, with a patch of goodly proportions upon the bosom. "I saw him goin' fishin' wid Mr. Moore." "Tattle-tale! Tattle-tale," came in reprimanding chorus from the other pupils. Dicky, quite unabashed by this disapproval, made a gesture of defiance and returned to his place. Unfortunately the copper-tipped brogan of one Willy Donohue, who chanced to be sitting immediately in the rear of the youthful informer, was deftly inserted beneath Dicky as he started to seat himself. The result of this was that the cherubic Richard arose, with an exclamation of pain and surprise, much more quickly than he sat down. "Dicky, you may remain after school. I want no tell-tales here," said Bessie. "Teacher, Willy Donohue put his foot in me seat," expostulated Dicky, on whom the lesson was quite thrown away. "Willy shall stay after school, also." "Ah-h-h!" remarked Dicky, mollified at the prospect of his unkind fate being shared by an old-time enemy. "I wish you wuz big enough to lick," growled Willy, under his breath. "Your own mother would n't know you after the flakin' I 'd give you. I 'd snatch you baldheaded, baby." Dicky turned his head far enough over his shoulder to prevent Mistress Dyke from observing the protrusion of his tongue, and was so unlucky as to be hit fairly in the eye with a paper pellet, amply moistened, propelled with all the force the vigorous lungs of the prettiest girl in school, aided by a tube of paper torn from the back of her geography, could impart to it. "Teacher, Milly O'Connor hit me in the eye wid a spit ball," snivelled Dicky, who, being of tender years, did not share in the general masculine scholastic worship of the youthful belle, who was admired and fought over by the larger boys, on whom she bestowed her favors quite impartially. "Oh dear!" sighed Bessie. "Was there ever such a lot of children? Milly, rise." Milly stood up without any visible sign of contrition or embarrassment. She was a pretty, dark-curled lassie of ten, dressed neatly and becomingly, which made her doubly prominent in her present surroundings, for most of the children were of such poverty-stricken parentage that the virtue possessed by their wearing apparel consisted almost entirely in sheltering and hiding rather than ornamenting their small persons. "What shall I do to punish you?" asked Bessie, wearily. "You might ferule her, teacher," suggested Dicky, good-humoredly coming to the rescue. "Dicky, mind your own business," said Bessie severely, "or I 'll ferule you. Now I shall punish you both. Milly, kiss Dicky immediately." "I don't want to kiss a tattle-tale," said Milly, who placed fully the proper valuation on her caresses. "Exactly," said Bessie. "This is a punishment, not a reward of merit." "Not for Dicky," corrected Milly. "He will like it, teacher." But here the little lady was in grievous error, for when she, resignedly obedient, approached the small rascal, he promptly burst into tears and, dropping on the floor, hid his head under the bench. This was more than Bessie had bargained for, and she was about to motion Milly to return to her seat when Patsy, a youth with carroty red locks already mentioned, rose from his place on the front bench, burning with the noble flame of self-sacrifice. "She can kiss me instead, teacher," he announced heroically, "and you can let Dicky off this time." Bessie laughed outright in spite of herself, but Milly, regarding Patsy's suggestion as nothing short of positive insult, turned her back on the admiring gaze of the gallant youth. "I think we will excuse you, Patsy. Dicky is punished sufficiently, and I fancy Milly will behave herself in the future." Patsy sat down with a gulp of regret, not comforted by Milly's whisper: "I 'd do anything rather than kiss that red-headed monkey." Micky, to whom she had imparted this welcome information, nodded approval. "Wait till I catch him after school," he murmured hostilely. "I 'll dust his jacket for him." Meanwhile Bessie had rescued Dicky from his grief and apprehension, and, when the curly-headed youth had had his nose blown and resumed his seat, school assumed its wonted quiet until the sight of a tiny mouse nibbling a bit of cracker under an unoccupied bench drew forth a scream of terror from Milly, who considered herself entitled by age to the enjoyment of all the follies peculiar to her sex. "A mouse!" she shrieked. "Oh, teacher, teacher, save me!" And she immediately sought a position of safety upon the seat. Pandemonium broke loose. The other little girls not to be outdone became equally as frightened, and followed Milly in her ascent, an example which was most shamefully emulated by Bessie herself, with her desk as the base of operations. Patsy plunged headlong in the direction of the small disturber bent on demolishing it with his geography. The other boys were equally prompt in following the chase, with the exception of Micky, who, realizing this was an excellent opportunity for administering a rebuke to his latest rival's amatory ambition, stepped quickly behind his enemy and kicked him in the place handiest at the time with an enthusiasm worthy of a better cause. Patsy, justly aggrieved, abandoned the pursuit, and, rising to his feet, smote Micky in the neck with a force that jarred him mentally as well as physically. Retaliation followed in a swinging blow on Patsy's snub nose, and a clinch ensued which continued in spite of Bessie's desperate remonstrances until Tom Moore put his head in the window, realized the necessity for prompt action, ran to the door, entered, and, seizing the combatants by their collars, tore them apart by main strength. Chapter Three TOM MOORE ENTERTAINS TEACHER AND PUPILS Moore held the boys at arm's length, thus frustrating their desperate attempts to continue the battle, and glancing up at Bessie, who was still perched on the desk, favored her with a look of mingled astonishment and admiration. "What a nice quiet time you have been having! Quite like a baby Donnybrook," he remarked cheerfully. "Are you trying to fly, Bessie, that you are up so high?" "Oh, Tom, you came just in time." "That is a habit of mine," replied Moore, and then, turning his attention to his prisoners, he continued: "Now, my bully gladiators, what is the cause of this gentle argument?" "Misther Moore, he said I looked like a monkey the other day," answered Micky, harking back to an insult that had long rankled in his memory. "He kicked me, he did," said Patsy, "and I gave him a oner in the neck for it, I did." "Red-head!" ejaculated Micky in tones of scorn. "He wanted Milly to kiss him, the puckorn!" "Which is Milly?" inquired Moore, scanning the other scholars interrogatively. "I am," answered that young lady, delightfully free from embarrassment. "I don't blame you at all, Patsy," observed the poet regarding the youthful belle with approval. "Are you desperately fond of her?" "To be sure," responded Patsy, valiantly. "I 'm going to marry her." "As though I 'd marry that," remarked Milly, in accents by no means admiring. "Never mind that, Miss Milly! An honest man's love is not to be scorned even when it's in short breeches," said Moore, reprovingly. "So it is jealousy that is at the bottom of this quarrel? Faith, I 'll settle it right here. Neither of you lads shall have Milly. I 'll marry her myself." "All right," said Milly, cocking her eye at Bessie, "if teacher has no objection, I haven't." "What an idea!" ejaculated the schoolmistress, descending from her desk. "Tom, how can you talk such nonsense?" "Don't mind her, Milly. It's only jealousy," said Moore. "Boys, this fight is postponed till after hours." Then he added, in a whisper, "I 'll referee it myself. Go to your seats." "Each of you boys will remain in an hour after school is dismissed," said Bessie, severely. Moore stepped quickly to the desk where she had seated herself preparatory to continuing the session. "Oh murder, no!" he expostulated in an undertone. "How can I talk to you, Bessie, if they are here?" "Do you wish to talk to me, Mr. Moore?" asked the guileless maiden, as though surprised. "I am dying to, Bessie," said he. "On second thoughts, boys," she announced, "since Mr. Moore has interceded for you, you need not stay in, but there is to be no more fighting after school. I don't like quarrelling." "Then you have made up your mind to be an old maid, have you?" murmured Moore. Bessie tossed her head disdainfully. "Are you sure the mouse is gone?" she asked, evading the question. "I think I see it there," exclaimed Moore. "Look out, Bessie!" "Oh!" cried the girl, relapsing into fright and seizing hold of her companion for safety's sake. "Don't let the horrid thing come near me!" Moore chuckled and released himself from her appealing grasp. "Please be more respectful, Mistress Dyke," he said reprovingly. "I 'll not have you seizing hold of me like this. It is entirely too familiar treatment for a young unmarried man to submit to at such short notice and unchaperoned. Have you no bringing up at all? What do you suppose my mother would say if she thought I permitted you to take such liberties?" "Oh, never mind your mother," said Bessie pettishly, deciding that she was in no particular danger at the present moment. "That is nice advice to give a young lad," commented Moore, drawing a rose from his button-hole. "See, Bessie, I have brought you a posey, the last blossom on the bush. Some day, if I have the time, I shall write a poem on the subject." "Thank you, Tom." As she spoke, Bessie put the flower in a glass of water on the desk that already held a bunch of clover plucked for her by the grimy fingers of one of her pupils. Dicky stood up and raised his hand. "Please, teacher," he lisped, "is Mr. Moore going to sing for us?" "Sure as life," said Moore, his vanity tickled. A murmur of approval came from the children. The young Irishman had amused them with his fine voice more than once, extracting in return from their evident enjoyment quite as much pleasure as his music afforded them. "What shall it be, teacher?" he asked, turning to Bessie. "Oh, anything but one of those odes from Anacreon, Tom. They are simply terrible." "But you read them all." "I blush to admit it," answered the girl, frowning at his lack of tact in recalling such an indiscreet proceeding. "Ah, Bessie," he murmured tenderly, "I'd admit anything for the sake of seeing the roses steal in and out of your dear cheeks. Why, it is like watching the sunset sweeping over the clouds in the west on a summer evening." "Sing, Thomas Moore," commanded the girl, but a softer look came into her eyes as she settled comfortably back in her chair to listen. "I 'd like to pass my life singing to you, Bessie." "That's all very well, Tom, but the notes from your throat are not taken at the bank." "Well," retorted he, cheerily, "to get even, it is not many bank-notes I take." Moore, after fetching a high stool from a distant corner of the room, perched himself upon it and began to sing, the school-room echoing with the clear ringing voice that was destined in after years to be the delight of the most fashionable circle in Europe. He had selected an old ballad setting forth the emotions felt by a world-worn traveller as he threaded the streets of his native village after years of wandering abroad, and, as the chorus was composed of the various song-game rhymes sung by the children in their play, it was quite familiar to the pupils of Mistress Dyke, who joined in heartily. "Ready," cried Moore, beckoning the children from their places. "Now, all together.
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