CHAPTER XIII.
‘On the night of the storming of Roderigo,’ said he, ‘I was one, among others, who pressed forward on the French, up to the market-place, after they had abandoned the defence of the walls. They had ceased to make resistance, and the town was completely in our possession, when I was induced, along with three more of the regiment, to turn down one of the streets for the purpose of searching the houses for articles of value. Having entered two or three which were already filled by our soldiers, we ran farther on from the noise and riot, and stopped at a house which seemed to be superior to those around it. The first place we entered was the kitchen, where a few emberswere glowing on the hearth, and emitting a faint light on the surrounding walls. An awful silence reigned through the house, which was only interrupted by the distant huzzas and riot of our troops. On throwing some wood on the fire, we were enabled by its light to find a lamp, with which we proceeded to search the other apartments of the house. Every thing was in order—no sign of confusion more than if the family had gone to bed in perfect security. This and the stillness that reigned around, altered the complexion of our minds, and tinged them with a feeling of solemnity which we could not account for. Had there been noise or disorder, or the appearance of any one having been there on the same errand as ourselves, we would have begun plundering without a thought; as it was, we had gone through several apartments filled with articles of value, without touching anything. On reaching the upper flat of the house, we were startled by hearing some one sobbing; and proceeding towards the apartment from whence it issued, we discovered the door ajar, and a light in the room. We hesitated a moment, doubting whether it might not be some of the French soldiers who had fled from the ramparts; and preparing ourselves for defence, should such be the case, we pushed up the door, and entered together. But the scene which presented itself arrested our steps at the entrance. Stretched on a couch lay a young female apparently dying. Her mother—for such we understood her to be—sat supporting her head upon her breast; while the father, kneeling by her side, held a crucifix before her,—a female domestic kneeling at her feet, bathed in tears, completed the group, and all were busily employed in prayer. No notice was taken of our entrance, except a slight start when we first appeared; their feelings were too intensely bent on the one object to attend to anything else. Life seemed to be ebbing imperceptibly; her eye was fixed and glazed; but ere her soul fled its earthly tenement for ever, a strong convulsion seized her: this appearance of acute suffering wrought up the minds of her parents to thehighest pitch of agony. We were so powerfully affected by the scene, that we forgot every thing else—forgot the exultation and excitement of victory—forgot the errand which we had come on. Nature claimed an undivided sway, and, wrapped in solemn and softened feeling, we stood rooted to the spot, gazing, with the tear of pity glistening in our eyes, on the lovely being who was expiring before us. The struggle was short, and the fearfully suspended groan which burst from the agonised father, proclaimed that all was over—the mother sat gazing on the dead, lovely even in death, with a vacant stupor in her eye, that told the unutterable nature of her grief.
‘We were making a motion to depart, when the father, for the first time, seemed to observe our presence, and going over to a box, he took from it a purse filled with money and offered it to us; but we refused—for worlds we would not have touched anything in the house. We shook hands in silence with the inmates, retraced our steps slowly down the stairs, and were soon involved in riot and confusion; but we were not now in the mood for mixing in such scenes, and we regained our column on the rampart, with our minds filled with the solemn and affecting scene we had witnessed.’
We had now reached the cottage, and as I intended to return to my detachment that night, I was preparing to depart, but they pressed me so warmly to pass another evening with them that I could not refuse, and a happier evening I never spent. After much varied conversation, kept up with great spirit by the family, we insensibly returned to our old topic, the state of Ireland, and canvassing the motives and lawless proceedings of the people in the neighbourhood.
‘Poor wretches!’ said Eugene, ‘they know not what they are doing; they feel themselves oppressed and miserable, and, like the inferior animals, they kick in the direction the pain is inflicted, but political aim they have none. In fact, the poor creatures who areassociated with these parties by choice or compulsion, are invariably the most ignorant part of the community, and I believe have not sufficient ability among them to carry any organised measure into execution. I have had opportunities of knowing them more accurately than many, for I have been once or twice at their meetings; and whatever interested or designing men may advance to the contrary, I assure you they are only actuated by one feeling—revenge on their oppressors; and such a thing as an attempt to overturn the government was never agitated amongst them. That sufficient misery exists among the Irish to spur them on to desperation, I believe few people who know anything of the country will deny. Much of this misery is too deeply seated to yield to any of the nostrums prescribed for its cure; it is, like some of the diseases of the body, which are best cured by supporting the system, withdrawing all cause of irritation, and leaving the rest to nature. But the most prominent and apparent cause of it is, that there is no adequate employment for the inhabitants, no extensive manufactures among them; the people, therefore, are obliged to revert to the land for support, which, from being let at a rack-rent, to supply the extravagance of the proprietors in another country, barely yields a subsistence; and the poor cottar, even when he submits to live on potatoes three times a-day, exists in continual dread of being turned out, or having his effects distrained for the rent, which, with all his efforts, he is unable to raise. Living thus in continual dread of utter starvation, is it to be wondered at that they should feel irritable; and that, when they see their hard-earned gains rapaciously forced from them, under colour of law, to support clergymen of a different persuasion, or the non-resident landlord, who, “like the barren sand, imbibes the shower,” but yields no return—is it to be wondered at that the poor peasant, thus goaded on to destruction, should turn upon his drivers, and, overlooking the primary agents in his miseries, vent his blind fury on those who, from their subordinate situation,come in closer contact with him? Thus the tithe-proctor, the middle-man, or the stranger who is introduced to occupy the land from which he has been ejected, and has now no refuge left him from famine, are the common objects of his resentment. All these evils which I have described, are acknowledged and lamented, and lectured upon at great length by manylazygood people, who do not put forth a finger to ease the burden, if we except the exertions of certain Societies, who, with the best motives, I have no doubt, distribute Bibles and Tracts among our starving countrymen; but some security against actual want is necessary before a man can cultivate his mind, or make any great improvement in morality: and a religious tract, however useful it may be in its proper place, is but an indifferent substitute for bread.
‘There exists a strong desire to convert the Catholics from the error of their ways; but what benefit could accrue from unsettling their faith, without improving their conduct, I am at a loss to know. Judging from that of the lower class of Protestants in Ireland, I do not think they would benefit much by the exchange. Whatever may be the difference between the two sects, the morality they teach is the same: therefore I think the better plan would be, to endeavour, by proper instruction, and humane usage, to make them good Catholics.’
‘I perfectly agree with you on that point,’ said I; ‘for if some miraculous change does not take place in human nature, there must ever be a difference of opinion in religious matters; and that which has most influence on the conduct of its members must be the best. A man’s belief ought to be left to his own conscience. The mind in process of improvement, where it is left free and unbiassed, gradually opens on the truth, and spurns its former error; but force or undue influence creates prejudice, and raises an insurmountable barrier to its farther progress. All that seems wanting to your countrymen is relief from present misery, and instruction—then, if Protestantism is a better religion than theirown, they will soon find it out. The energies of the Irish are at present dormant—they are enveloped, as it were, in the haze of morning; but when the sun does burst forth, theirs will be a glorious day.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary, ‘they have in them the elements of a great people, and I am sure, were they used as they ought to be, they would be submissive and loyal to a fault.
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,More form’d to be grateful and blest than ours!
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,More form’d to be grateful and blest than ours!
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,More form’d to be grateful and blest than ours!
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form’d to be grateful and blest than ours!
‘It gives me the highest pleasure,—it does my heart good, to hear any one speak in liberal or kindly terms of my poor country.’ Struggling with the feelings which filled her bosom, unsolicited and spontaneously she burst forth into the melody of,
Remember thee! yes, while there’s life in this heart,It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art:More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers,Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.Wert thou all that I wish thee—great, glorious, and free,First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,But, oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?No! thy chains as they torture, thy blood as it runs,But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest,Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
Remember thee! yes, while there’s life in this heart,It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art:More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers,Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.Wert thou all that I wish thee—great, glorious, and free,First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,But, oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?No! thy chains as they torture, thy blood as it runs,But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest,Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
Remember thee! yes, while there’s life in this heart,It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art:More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers,Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Remember thee! yes, while there’s life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art:
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee—great, glorious, and free,First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,But, oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?
Wert thou all that I wish thee—great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But, oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?
No! thy chains as they torture, thy blood as it runs,But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest,Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
No! thy chains as they torture, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
There was something peculiarly thrilling in her voice—its low tones breathed the sigh of a broken heart—the higher notes, wild and energetic enthusiasm. She appeared to have sung the first two stanzas unconsciously; for as she finished them, observing us listening, she blushed and stopped short. Through our persuasion she was induced to continue; but the glow of feeling which had before animated her was gone, the spell was broken, and although she still sung in a superior manner, her voice had lost much of its former heart-searching effect.
With feelings of sorrow that I cannot express, I took leave of this happy family, whose existence, as itwere by enchantment, in the midst of misery and crime, put me in mind of those green and fertile spots which we sometimes found embosomed among the wild and rugged Pyrenees.