This surely is an ideal character—no true flesh and blood—so somebody may object. What! a man in the prime of middle age, eminently handsome, accomplished and fascinating, the idol of his friends, the darling of his country, well off as to worldly goods, with still in all probability a magnificent career before him—that such a man, when deeply in love, should pause to view the question simply and solely with regard to the girl’s happiness, not to his own—that he should humbly question whether, though he might fairly hope then and there to win her, she might not in later years regret her action and wish herself free! This is such a hero, no doubt, as has sometimes figured in fiction. An ideal hero—but——
But the whole is true. There is no idealising at all here. John Moore, actually and literally, without any varnishing, less than one hundred years ago, loved and decided thus, thought and acted and was the same that I have tried, however ineffectively, to picture for the present generation.
Such a story of one in the first decade of the nineteenth century may well serve as an inspiration in unselfishness for those who live in the last decade of the same century. The grandeur of this man was that he thought always of others before himself—that he lived for Duty. Where Duty pointed or seemed to point down a pathway, no matter how hard and thorny the road, there unhesitatingly Moore walked.
Yet there is another side to the question, which must not be ignored. Grandly as Moore acted, in obedience to his own convictions, it may well be that he made a mistake here. His very unselfishness and humility, both of which are an example for us, may none the less have led him into a course of action which, while one admires it, one dares not hold up for general imitation.
For it is, to say the least, conceivable that Caroline Fox might herself have been by that time deeply in love with Moore—that already the happiness of her whole life might have hung upon his speaking. True, he had not sought her, and he did not seek her. But he was intimate in the house; he was a man of extraordinary attractive power; and his personal fascinations might well have taken captive her girlish heart, without the slightest conscious effort on his part. If things were so, or had been so, how sad it would have been that, from a sense of duty most nobly carried out, he should have denied happiness to her as well as to himself! In such cases it does seem—at least, from the woman’s point of view—that the choice ought to have been given to her; that she ought to have been allowed to say for herself either Yea or Nay. If he thought her too young to know her own mind, he still might have simply declared his passion, and have insisted upon leaving her ample time for consideration.
He never did propose for that young girl.[1] Moore was not a man to decide one way and to drift another. Had he lived, he might no doubt have spoken in the end. But in 1806 he had less than three years of his fair life remaining.
The Queen of Sicily, an odd fantastic woman, took dire offence at him, finding that she could not bend him to her will. An attempt made by her to draw General Fox into steps which could only have resulted in disaster, was strongly discountenanced by Moore, to whom the General appealed for advice, and she wrote a torrent of abuse of him to the English Government.
At about this time General Fox, on account of failing health, was recalled, and the supreme command was given to Moore. He soon after saw the Queen, and explained to her the falsity of certain reports which had been told her about things he was supposed to have said.
A little later, fresh Napoleonic successes drove her to despair, and she then sent for him again. He found her weeping over a copy of the Peace of Tilsit, just signed between France, Russia and Prussia; and he stayed nearly two hours, doing his best to raise her spirits. When he took leave she said, graciously enough—
“Great pains have been taken to prejudice me against you, and not without effect; but your plain frank manners have removed every unfavourable impression, and nothing shall make me think ill of you again. For I perceive, Monsieur Moore, that you are an upright man who flatters nobody. You are a little reserved, and do not give confidence easily. I esteem you on that account the more. I hope, however, at last to acquire your confidence, and I shall be flattered by it.”