Among those who paid their visits of condolence to Leigh Hunt in the days of his prisonhood, was Moore[51] the author of Lalla Rookh and of The Loves of the Angels. He was not used to paying visits in such quarters, for he had an instinctive dislike for all uncanny things and disagreeable places; nor was he ever a great friend of Hunt; but he must have had a good deal of sympathy with him in that attack upon the Prince Regent which brought about Hunt’s conviction. Moore, too, had his gibes at the Prince—thinking that great gentleman had been altogether too neglectful of the dignities of his high estate; but he was very careful that his gibes should be so modulated as not to put their author in danger.
Lalla Rookh may be little read nowadays; but not many years have passed since this poem and others of the author’s used to get into the finest of bindings, and have great currency for bridal and birthday gifts. Indeed, there is a witching melody in Moore’s Eastern tales, and a delightful shimmer and glitter of language, which none but the most cunning of our present craft-masters in verse could reach.
Moore was born in Dublin, his father having kept a wine-shop there; and his mother (he tells us) was always anxious about the quality of his companions, and eager to build up his social standing—an anxiety which was grafted upon the poet himself, and which made him one of the wariest, and most coy and successful of society-seekers—all his life.
He was at the Dublin University—took easily to languages, and began spinning off some of Anacreon’s numbers into graceful English, even before he went up to London—on his old mother’s savings—to study law at the Temple. He was charmingly presentable in those days; very small, to be sure, but natty, courteous, with a pretty modesty, and a voice that bubbled over into music whenever he recited one of his engaging snatches of melody. He has letters to Lords, too, and the most winning of tender speeches and smiles for great ladies. He comes to an early interview with the Prince of Wales—who rather likes the graceful Irish singer, and flatters him by accepting the dedication of Anacreon with smiles of condescension—which Mr. Moore perhaps counted too largely upon. Never had a young literary fellow of humble birth a better launch upon London society. His Lords’ letters, and his pretty conciliatory ways, get him a place of value (when scarce twenty-four) in Bermuda. But he is not the man to lose his hold on London; so he goes over seas only to put a deputy in place, and then, with a swift run through our Atlantic cities, is back again. It is rather interesting to read now what the young poet says of us in those green days:—In Philadelphia, it appears, the people quite ran after him:
“I was much caressed while there.… and two or three little poems, of a very flattering kind, some of their choicest men addressed to me.” [And again.] “Philadelphia is the only place in America which can boast any literary society.” [Boston people, I believe, never admired Moore overmuch.]
Here again is a bit from his diary at Ballston—which was the Saratoga of that day:—
“There were about four hundred people—all stowed in a miserable boarding-house. They were astonished at our asking for basons and towels in our rooms; and thought we might condescend to come down to the Public Wash, with the other gentlemen, in the morning.”
Poor, dainty, Moore! But he is all right when he comes back to London, and gives himself to old occupations of drawing-room service, and to the coining of new, and certainly very sweet and tender, Irish melodies. He loved to be tapped on the shoulder by great Dowagers, sparkling in diamonds, and to be entreated—“Now, dear Mr. Moore, do sing us one more song.”