CHAPTER X.
Little rest could be allowed in those days to England's most gallant sons. Moore had a short time with those whom he loved best—with the mother especially, who was more to him than all the world beside—and again he was called away. In this year, 1797, a French invasion was already looked for, and he had to go, with an engineer officer, to survey the eastern coast, and to decide on preparations for such an invasion. After which he was despatched against Irish rebels in our unquiet sister-isle, there to be once more laid low with a severe illness.
Despite this attack he made himself so invaluable to the Lord-Lieutenant, Earl Cornwallis, one of his many personal friends, that when needed on the Continent by Sir Ralph Abercrombie, he could not at once be ordered thither. However, the need for his services became urgent, and English ministers appealed to Cornwallis, whose reply was:—
"I am sure you know me too well to suspect that any selfish consideration can weigh a moment with me against the general interests of the country. You shall have all the troops you ask, and General Moore, who is a greater loss to me than the troops. But he will be of infinite service to Abercrombie; and I likewise think it an object of the state that an officer of his talents and character should have every opportunity of acquiring knowledge and experience in his profession."
This was 1799, and ten thousand British troops were sent to Holland under Abercrombie. On October 2nd that engagement took place, to which the letters copied by Jack Keene bore reference. Moore received two wounds in the course of five hours' determined fighting. The first, in his leg, he quietly ignored; the second, in his face, felled him to the ground in a stunned condition. He and his men were then nearly surrounded by a strong body of the enemy, and Moore would have been made prisoner but that his men carried him off. He was assisted to the rear, and when his wounds had been dressed he rode ten miles back to his quarters, so faint with loss of blood that his horse had to be led, and he could barely keep his seat.
A few days later he very nearly put an end to his own life by accidentally drinking a strong sugar-of-lead lotion, used to bathe his cheek. Happily he kept his self-command, and the measures instantly taken prevented any ill result.
The letter from Sir Ralph Abercrombie to Dr. Moore had been written on the field of battle, which the commanding officer never left that night.
In the year 1800 Moore was again in the Mediterranean, and then came the memorable "Expedition to Egypt" under Abercrombie, Moore being once more under his old commander; and this time Ivor was again under Moore.
In a desperate action, which took place on March 20th, 1801, Moore was a second time wounded in the leg, and, as before, he fought resolutely on, disregarding it. Abercrombie, too, was shot in the thigh, but paid no heed, not even mentioning the fact until, the battle ended, he turned faint, and fell from his horse. The two friends never met again, for Abercrombie died of his wound before Moore was able to go to him. Moore's especial companion, Anderson, was also severely wounded, nearly losing his arm in consequence. Moore, writing home afterwards, said, "I never saw a field so covered with dead." But victory was with the English.
Then came the Peace of Amiens, and Moore returned to England in time to see once more his father, who was dying of old age and heart-disease. The Doctor's property was left between his wife and his six children, and Moore, not satisfied with his mother's jointure, insisted on giving her an additional annuity.
Thus for years the name of John Moore had been incessantly before the English public as the bravest of the brave, having become by this time the name beyond any other to which his countrymen would instinctively turn in any hour of national peril.
What was it about this remarkable man which so riveted the hearts of others to him? Not the hearts of women only, though his mother and sister idolised him, but vigorous men, stern soldiers, poured upon him a passion of devotion.
Buonaparte was adored and followed unto death by his soldiers, as a great Captain. Moore, in addition to this, was loved intensely as a man, with that love which strong men only give to strong men, and not to many of them. Wherever Moore turned he found this love. His own brothers lavished it upon him. The Duke of Hamilton was his ardent friend for life. Anderson was to him as Jonathan to David. The three gallant Napiers, Charles, George, and William, absolutely worshipped him. His French servant, François, forgot home and country for his sake. Private soldiers were ready to rush upon certain death if so they might save his life. Officers of rank, working with him, became almost inevitably his personal friends. The younger officers, under his command and training, so caught the infection of his high spirit, so responded to the influence of "their Hero," that by scores in after years they became prominent characters in the Army and leaders in the nation. He has been truly called "a king among men."
No doubt his striking personal appearance, his indescribable charm of manner—perhaps too his brilliant and witty conversational powers—had something to do with the matter. At the date when war again broke out, Moore, already a General, was only in his forty-third year—a man of commanding presence, tall and graceful, with a countenance of rare beauty. But those things which really lay at the foundation of this extraordinary control over others were,—the force of his character, the vivid enthusiasm of his purpose, the loftiness of his ideals, the simple grandeur of his life.
He had no doubt his enemies. What truly great man, who does not pander to the littlenesses of truly little men, ever fails to make some enemies? It could not be otherwise. His inviolable integrity, his blameless name, the splendid disdain with which he spurned everything false and mean—such qualities as these in Moore made some of a baser type turn from and even turn against one so infinitely more noble than themselves. But to men of a higher and purer stamp Moore was as the Bayard of the Middle Ages had been to a former generation, a knight sans peur et sans reproche, a model upon which they might seek to shape themselves.
With Ivor, as with many another, to have known Moore was to have been imbued for life with new aims, new ideals, new views of duty, new thoughts of self-abnegation. Not so much from what Moore might here or there have said, as from what he always was. To be under the man was in itself an inspiration.
Soon after Jack's departure for Sandgate, Admiral Peirce was called away on duty, and then the Bryces decided to flit eastward. Mrs. Bryce, who loved sensation, talked of a visit to Folkestone, a very tiny watering-place in those days, but within easy reach of Sandgate, and of Moore's Camp at Shorncliffe.
As a next move she offered to take Polly with her. Mrs. Fairbank demurred, and Mrs. Bryce insisted. Polly had kept up bravely under her separation from Ivor, but her pretty face had lost some of its colour, and no one could deny that the change might do her good. Mrs. Fairbank, thus advised, yielded, and Polly of course was charmed. Who would not have been so in her place? She would see Jack again, also Jack's Commander and England's Hero, General Moore. She would be distinctly nearer to France, and therefore to Denham. She would be in the thick of all that was going on, and would hear the news of the hour at first hand. Moreover, Polly was young and loved variety. But what about Molly?
"Molly has her lessons to learn. She and I will be companions each to the other," Mrs. Fairbank decided.
Nobody saw aught to find fault with in the plan except Molly herself, and Molly said nothing. Under the circumstances no other seemed open, unless Polly were made to give up the change which she much needed.
But in later years Molly often looked back with a shudder to those lonely autumn weeks.
Those were days of far severer imprisonment than are these, dungeons and chains being everyday matters. Molly had heard enough, even in her short life, of fettered and half-starved prisoners to cause her to be haunted by doleful visions.
In the daytime, when, by Mrs. Fairbank's desire, she was always fully occupied, it was easier to take a cheerful view of life; but Molly's time of misery began with nightfall. Often she would start out of a restless sleep, fancying that she saw Roy deep in some noisome underground cavern, with chains clanking on his wrists, while his big grey eyes appealed pitifully to her for help. Then she would hide her face, and would sob for an hour, and in the midst of her woe would come the sound of the old watchman shaking his rattle as he passed down the street, and calling out monotonously in sing-song tones, "Past one o'clock, and a fine starlight night." Or it might be, "Past three o'clock, and a rainy morning." Those old watchmen—"Charleys," as they were called—were the forerunners of our present police.
But of all this Molly said not a word to any human being. The only person whom she could have told was Polly.
In time a delightful letter arrived from Polly, written to Molly, telling how she and Mrs. Bryce had driven over from Folkestone to Sandgate, and had seen General Moore and Jack, and had inspected the preparations there made for a due welcome to Napoleon, when he should choose to make his appearance on British shores.
"And do but think, Molly," wrote Polly, "General Moore's dear old mother is down now at Sandgate, where she and her daughter have come to see again the General. For if Napoleon comes—and some say he will, and some say he will not—there must surely be hard fighting, and what that may mean none can tell beforehand. For sure it is, whatever happens, that General Moore will be in the thickest of the fight. And Jack tells me that when first Mrs. Moore arriv'd 'twas a touching sight indeed. She took her son into her arms, before all the Officers who were gather'd together, and burst into tears, doubtless thinking of the danger he must soon be in, and the many times he has been wounded. And not one present, Jack says, who did not testify his respect for her, nor his sympathy in her love for her heroic son.
"She has been at Sandgate for many weeks, and the General now urges her return home. For any day the French may make a move, and he wou'd fain have her away in a place of safety. But Mrs. Bryce and I have no fear, though all the world is in a great stir, waiting for the invaders to come. Jack wou'd love nothing better than to see the fleet of flat-bottomed boats approaching, that he might have a chance of fighting them and driving them back.
"I must tell you a story of Mr. William Pitt, who, being Warden of the Cinque Ports, has lately raised two regiments in this district, consisting of a thousand men each. He has often ridden over to General Moore's camp at Shorncliffe, and the two have talked together, General Moore telling his plans to Mr. Pitt. And one day Mr. Pitt said to General Moore, 'Well, Moore, but on the very first alarm of the enemy's coming, I shall march to aid you with my Cinque Port regiments, and you have not told me where you will place us.' Whereupon General Moore answered, 'Do you see that hill? You and yours shall be drawn up upon it, where you will make a most formidable appearance to the enemy, while I, with the soldiers, shall be fighting on the beach.' Mr. Pitt was excessively entertained with this reply, and laughed heartily.
"And that reminds me of another little tale which Jack told to me—not as to Mr. Pitt, but as to Mr. Fox. He was playing a game of cards one day, no long time agone, and on overhearing some story that was told, he threw his cards down, and cried out, 'Tell that again! I hear a good deal of General Moore, and everything good. Tell me that again.' But Jack could not say what it was that had been told, only he liked to know that Mr. Fox could so speak of one who is Mr. Pitt's friend. And though Mr. Pitt and General Moore be so intimate, yet General Moore will have it that he cares little which side shall be in power, so long only as the country is well governed. But some say that 'tis like to be no long time before we see Mr. Pitt once more at the head of the Government."
To this letter Molly sent a reply in her childish round handwriting, letting a little of her loneliness slip out, despite herself; and Mrs. Fairbank, much disturbed in mind on Polly's behalf, wrote also, suggesting arrangements for the greater safety of the people concerned.
(To be continued.)
[VARIETIES.]
Recipes for Mental Ailments.
Against fits of fury.—Go at once into the open air, far away from your neighbours, and shout to the wind, and tell it how foolish you are.
Against attacks of discontent.—Set out for the homes of the poor. Look at their narrow rooms, their hard beds, their poor clothes and shoes. Observe what is put on their breakfast, dinner and supper table. Ask what their earnings are, and calculate how you would fare with the same amount. When you get home again you will be no longer discontented.
Against despair.—Look at the good things God has given you in this world and remember the better things He has promised for the next. She who looks for cobwebs in the garden will find not only them but spiders as well. But she who goes to find flowers will return with perfumed roses.—From the German.
Thought and Action.
The ancestor of every action is a thought. Our dreams are the sequel of our waking knowledge.—Emerson.
A Lesson for a Choir-Singer.
One of the finest choral conductors whom this country has ever produced was Henry Leslie, whose choir was for many years one of the prominent features of musical London.
He was an autocrat, very difficult to satisfy, particular to nicety in regard to every phrase and mark of expression. He did not like to hear individual voices; the blending of the voices was his aim. There was a lady with a very rich contralto who gave him trouble in this way—her voice was heard separately. Mr. Josiah Booth, who was one of the members of the choir, says that he thinks Mr. Leslie had spoken to the lady privately, but without result. However, one day he said to her—
"You may have a very fine voice, but I don't want to hear it. I want to hear the choir."
"We went on singing," says Mr. Booth. "Sitting behind, I could not see the lady's face, but I guessed she was looking daggers at Mr. Leslie. At the next pause he fixed her with those searching eyes of his and said—
"'I've a great deal more reason to look like that than you have.'"
Chinese Doctors.
No pharmacopœia is more comprehensive than the Chinese, and no English physician can surpass the Chinese in the easy confidence with which he will diagnose symptoms that he does not understand. The Chinese physician who witnesses the unfortunate effect of placing a drug of which he knows little into a body of which he knows less, is not much put out: he retires sententiously observing, "there is medicine for sickness, but none for fate." "Medicine," says a Chinese proverb, "cures the man who is fated not to die." Another saying has it that "when Yenwang (the King of Hell) has decreed a man to die at the third watch no power will detain him to the fifth."
Doctors in China dispense their own medicines. In their shops you see an amazing variety of drugs; you will occasionally also see tethered a live stag which on a certain day, to be decided by the priests, will be pounded whole in a pestle and mortar. "Pills manufactured out of a whole stag slaughtered with purity of purpose on a propitious day" is a common announcement in dispensaries in China.
[BURNT WOOD DRAWING.]
SUNSET OVER THE SEA.
(Burnt wood drawing in oak frame, by E. M. Jessop.)
Of all the graphic arts this is probably the most useful and durable. Under its old but ridiculous title of "poker work" it has flourished from time immemorial; gifted by some unknown genius with the modern name of Pyrography, it bids fair to become a universal favourite among the amusements of art-loving amateurs, but, owing to want of support, has not hitherto been much adopted by the professional artist who alone possesses the graphic skill, the power of technique and the breadth of execution which would do justice to such a beautiful art.
When we consider that nothing but fire or wanton mischief can really damage the pictures which may be produced in this work, and that the original cost of the materials for its production is so very slight, one marvels that so fine a medium for wall and furniture decoration has been so much neglected.
A SUMMER IDYLL.
(Burnt wood drawing in oak frame, by E. M. Jessop.)
In the specimens which I have recently had the honour to submit to H.R.H. The Princess of Wales, and which she was pleased to greatly admire, the materials used were of the very simplest. To be epigrammatic, were I asked how I did them, I could only reply, "With a few boards, two old chisels and a little intelligence."
So now to our wood-work's foundation. In the first place never commence a drawing on any but sound, well-seasoned wood, as nothing could well be more trying to the temper than seeing the result of a month's work curling up like a roll of paper or splitting across in a manner which places it beyond repair. Any good whitish wood is suitable for burnt drawing; holly on account of its close grain being the best, but, like the best of everything, holly of the width required is also the rarest of woods. Next to holly comes sycamore, a fine hard wood; then chestnut. In one of the specimens here illustrated (the child's head) I have used an old drawing-board made of poplar with beech clamps at either end. Never use wood of less than three-eighths of an inch in thickness, the thin plaques sold by most shops being quite useless for works of any size on account of their liability to split and cockle. By the way, the cockling of a wood drawing can to a certain extent be remedied by exposing the concave side to heat and leaving it to cool between two flat surfaces with heavy weights on top.
And now to our tools. For drawings of any size suitable for the doors of cabinets or rooms, plaques to insert in oak dadoes, etc. (and it is in these we shall get our finest effects), the little machines heated by spirits of wine and other mediums are not of much use. It is, in fact, like using the smallest sable brushes for fresco painting. For my own work I mainly use wood-carving tools. The broadest chisels and gouges are the best, and the thicker the steel the better the tool, as it retains the heat for a longer period. Again, I always heat my tools in an ordinary coal fire, but it should be quite possible to get a small gas stove to give all the heat required in a perhaps more convenient manner.
I might here mention that your most used tool, which should be a broad blunt chisel, say three-quarters of an inch in width, ought to have its sharp corners carefully ground down before using it, as it is otherwise liable to burn ugly little black spots on the drawing.
With these explanations we will now proceed to the drawing itself, and here it is necessary to give a very strong caution at the outset; this is, always bear in mind that whatever marks you burn on your wood must absolutely remain there. There is no way of rubbing out, and to erase with a knife is to spoil the surface of your wood, as you cannot draw properly over a scratched surface. For this reason also you can only copy either your own or other people's drawings in burnt wood-work.
Having selected your copy first draw a careful pencil outline from it on the wood plaque. We will here, for example, say it is the drawing of the child's head reproduced. Heat a small tool sufficiently to mark a very light brown line on the wood (to ascertain heat keep a small piece of waste wood by your side), then carefully go over the outline of the head and mark in all the features. Now with soft india-rubber erase all pencil marks from the parts you have burnt, and make a fresh pencil indication of the shape of your shadows, and proceed slowly and carefully with the hot tool to build up coat by coat from the lightest to the darkest these same shadows, never forgetting that lights cannot be applied afterwards, but must be left out. A darker shade can always be added, but a light never. Now once more remove your pencil-marks and proceed to draw in your figure in the same manner as above described. Next comes the background to be lightly sketched in by the hot irons; and, after this, all pencil-marks may be removed and the picture carefully worked up tone by tone from the copy.
FRIVOLITY.
(Burnt wood drawing in ebony frame, by E. M. Jessop.)
In holding the tools (the handles of which may be covered with cork, or some non-conductor), it is necessary to remember that they should never be used to make pen-like strokes, but more of a pastel effect must be sought, as the soft-blurred appearance produced by gently drawing them along the wood gives the effect of old carved ivory, which is one of the chief charms of a fine burnt wood drawing. For instance, in the drawing of "Sunset over the Sea," I spent many hours in simply drawing a heated chisel slowly along the wood from end to end until I got the yellowish tone which now goes so well with its green oak frame. Here and there a white light had to be left. Its position was indicated to me by a pencil outline. For this drawing I had no sketch, it being entirely executed from memory. The main difficulty was to get the flat tones, without which it is impossible to indicate atmosphere and distance.
In the "Summer Idyll," given on the opposite page which is in size some thirty-six by ten inches, a great deal of the background effect was produced by using a small gas flame. This has to be done very slowly and carefully, as one is apt, if at all careless, to burn too deeply into the surface.
In conclusion, I may say that burnt wood drawing to be properly done requires both time and thought, it being a much more satisfactory result to produce one fine specimen by a month's labour than several odds and ends, which can only be compared with the daubs so often exhibited in shops as "painted by hand."
As to the applications of burnt wood work they are practically endless. Look, for instance at the mouldy, rickety, ill-designed, so-called antique chests so often sold at four times their original cost. For a very small sum a good carpenter will make you a really serviceable article with a framework of oak and white wood panels, which you can decorate with hot irons in such a manner as to make a truly beautiful piece of furniture. Again, for corner cupboards and cosy corners, panels of doors, etc., where is its peer to be found?
My last word is try but one carefully executed plaque, and I feel sure that you will not rest until you are making your home truly beautiful.
Ernest M. Jessop.
⁂ The original drawings from which these illustrations are taken were recently exhibited by desire to H. R. H. The Princess of Wales at Marlborough House, and H. R. H. was pleased to say that she had derived great pleasure from her inspection of them.
(All copyrights of drawings reserved by the artist.)
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of "Sisters Three," etc.