AN AFFECTING SCENE.
‘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 embers were 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 the highest 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 are
associated 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
many _lazy_ good 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 their own, 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!
‘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.
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 it were 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.