Such has been his position for ages; and my firm belief is, that his sufferings would not have been so long borne, but for the hope which has been, from time to time, kept alive in him. Alas, how delusively! In "Emancipation"—he was taught to see deliverance from his miseries—mayhap, remission of his rent. In "Repeal"—"plenty of work and plenty of money; and the cattle kept at home, and the pigs to be eaten by himself, in place of by the Saxon."
Unhappy designation, and unhappy delusion, which have held the countries asunder, in place of being one and the same in all things. But he has lived upon that hope, until now, when it has vanished from him for ever. And with his hope, the food that kept life barely in him has gone too. He is bereft of all that holds existence and soul together, and sees nought before him, even if he do live, but ceaseless struggle and ceaseless misery. Can such a being aid himself? No more can he, than the invalid, weakened and powerless from sickness. Aid must be given him by those who have strength and knowledge, or he will sink, if not into death, to that which will be worse,—hopeless, helpless degradation.
And will Ireland then be "the right arm of England?" No; she will be the blot upon her noble scutcheon—mayhap the "millstone" to sink her in that ocean over which she now so proudly and gloriously rules.
It has been proved that above 4,000,000 of the peasantry of Ireland live upon the potato, which they receive as payment for their labour—about, or nearly one half of the population of the country, and from whom should, and now does spring its almost entire wealth. Their hands, with God's permission and will, produce the means to feed themselves; to feed the remaining half of the population, and to give to England many millions' worth yearly; which supports the aristocracy of Ireland, and pays the taxes to the nation. Humanity and justice, then, are not the only claims upon us; self-interest, nay, self-preservation demand, that they who yield us food and comfort, should have ample food and comfort themselves—that they who aid to clothe us should have at least sufficient covering to protect them from the rigour and humidity of the climate in which they labour—that they should have houses fitted for the inhabitants of a civilized country, not wigwams worse than those of the savage—that they should be taught and led and fostered till they understand and can practise at home the arts of proper industry—to give not only blessings to themselves but the nation at large. Then would Ireland be in truth "England's right arm;" but more, she would have her heart, which now lies open, yearning to receive and give affection. I know my country and its feelings well—I mean its people's feelings; and there exists not elsewhere more genuine gratitude than in its heart. Causes and circumstances already explained have encased it in icy doubt towards England; but now England has proved her heartfelt pity; not alone her money, but the kind and high and noble-minded have risked their lives to distribute food and help and covering to the wretched beings as they lingered between life and death. And I know the people not, if I may not vouch, as a man and Christian, that every mouthful given (not through public works), every comfort yielded, every gentle and kind and consoling word uttered, is indelibly impressed upon their feelings, and will live there. Seize, then, the opportunity to amalgamate as one, Ireland with England's people. Fear not the idle stories of the past; look but upon the present, and think of the glorious future which the guidance and help of England may accomplish. England has laboured for, and won her glories by her labour. Teach Ireland, and she will win glories too—not for herself alone, but for the general weal. Lead her kindly now, and she will rush to your foremost ranks in the hour of danger—not pray for that hour, that it may give her chance of rescue from her misery.
Shall I conclude, and rest in hope of general sympathy? No; although it has magnificently proved itself.
History gives some thousand facts to shew that man is led to good by woman; deprived of her gentle guidance towards that good, he usually sinks to evil. Unchecked by the example of her patience, gentleness, and faith, he often revels in thoughtless wantonness,—while, resting under the beaming influence of her love and sympathy, he melts and is moulded into a form approaching her own. Happily for Great Britain, this peaceful, blissful influence sheds its beams over almost all men's destinies, hence its public virtues, its private happiness; and hence the cause of my present appeal to the Ladies of Great Britain!
Pardon me, fair Ladies! if I approach you on that which may be deemed "a matter of business;" but I am not of those who consider woman's mind unfitted for the toils and difficulties of life and only made for its pleasures—far the reverse. Nor shall I yet approach you under the sweet incense of flattery, said to be a cloud which gives to you a grateful odour—I believe it not. Nor shall I, to tell you of the prowess of man in his deeds of arms; nor of his glories midst the slain or dying; for, thanks to God! the heart of an Englishwoman shudders at the thought. Man shall not be my theme. I come to tell you of the ills and sufferings of unhappy Women!—beings like to yourselves, in gentle and good feelings, though poor—like to yourselves in love and affection, though wretched—Woman, in truth, kind, affectionate, and good; blessings to their own—Woman in all things, but in that which is her due and right in Great Britain—care and respect for her sex and virtues. Those whose cause I plead are blessed with as pure and spotless bosoms as your own—though one may be cased in russet or in rags, the other enshrouded in lace—and they die, not through the horrors of war, or of plague, but of starvation and of cold.
In my description of the cottage of the general peasantry, you will have seen, and I doubt not recollect the fact, that upon some 2,000,000 of your sex in Ireland is entailed the degradation of passing the hours of her rest with the family, all in one resting-place, and getting warmth by being forced "to herd with the beast of the field." Think of this indignity and say shall it longer exist?
To you is due the final accomplishment of one of the noblest acts of England—the abolition of West Indian slavery. The battle was commenced by man, and fought manfully; but without your aid he could not have conquered as he did. Your generous voices cheered him on, and he became invincible. And so will it ever be in Great Britain. O! give but the same aid now, and you will accomplish at least an equal good.