That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, &c.
‘Whatever may be his faults, his deep and fervent love of country, his enthusiasm in the cause of liberty, and the magic strains in which he “pours the full tide of a patriot’s song,” must endear him to every Irish heart—must endear him to the world.’
‘I’m afraid my sister will make an Irishman of you, before you leave us,’ said Eugene.
‘On that subject her opinion is mine,’ said I, ‘and I am sure it would be no ordinary gratification to Thomas Moore, to hear his praise poured forth so eloquently from the lips of a fair countrywoman. The works of Moore and Byron excite my feelings in reading them, more than those of any modern poet; different in their style, yet each in that style excelling all others. I cannot find a better simile to express my opinion of their powers, than one drawn from the fairy legend of O’Donoghue. The poetry of Moore may be compared to the band of youths and maidens who skim over the lake, to the sound of heavenly music, scattering flowers on every side,—that of Byron to the spectre chief, who, mounted on his resistless spirit-horse, prances through the foam-crested waves.’
‘Well,’ said Eugene, ‘I suppose you have heard enough of Ireland for one night; we may as well retire to rest, for we rise earlier here than you do in town. This is a busy time with us, and we must be all at work by four in the morning.’
‘At work,’ said I, ‘so early?’
‘Yes,’ said Eugene, ‘for although we generally spend our evenings in this manner, we find it necessary to assist in the labours of the farm during the day. Many of the higher class of society laugh at the idea of individuals who earn their bread by manual labour, possessing refined taste or imagination; they consider it as incongruous and unnatural. Not content with engrossing all the pleasures of sense, they seek to rob them of those which a cultivated mind afford; and any attempt of their poorer brethren to soar into the regions of science or imagination, is met by them with the most supercilious contempt and sneering ridicule. The novel writers of our day have contributed much towards this false and unjust association,—all their dramatis personæ are dukes, lords, and squires, rich as Crœsus, with nothing to do but gad about the country. In proportion to the mental powers, intellectual cultivation has the same effect upon the poor man and the rich,—the want of it equally debases them. But knowledge does not altogether depend on going through a certain routine of education. The man of keen observation, who has his eyes and ears open, and compares and draws conclusions from all that comes within his notice, who thinks for himself, and reasons fearlessly on all subjects, that man will gain knowledge under very unfavourable circumstances.’
When I got up next morning, I found them all a-field working at the hay. It was a beautiful morning, and Eugene conducted me round his little estate, which was finely situated, compact, and advantageously laid out. The cottage lay on the top of a small rise in the centre of the farm; before it was a lawn of about an acre, skirted on each side by trees, beyond which lay his pasture ground and meadows, divided from the adjoining farm by a stream, whose margin was fringed with the birch, the hazel, and the willow. Behind the cottage was his orchard and garden; the house itself consisted of one story, with what is commonly called the loft, formed into bed-rooms, the windows being raised in the neatly-thatched roof; outside it was dashed and white-washed, and around the door and windows was trained a profusion of honeysuckle, whose flowers shed a delightful fragrance through every apartment. The interior corresponded with its appearance outside; without any gaudy superfluity there was every thing conducive to comfort, and the greatest regularity and neatness was apparent throughout the whole. But all this was nothing to the pure affection that reigned in the bosom of its inmates towards each other. Whatever trouble Eugene’s mother might have had with her family when young, she was now richly repaid; they hung on every word she said as if it were the precepts of an angel—they anticipated every wish, shunned every subject which would cause her disquiet, while she treated them with all the affection of a mother and all the confidence of a friend.
The surrounding commotions touched them not. Mrs M’Carthy was almost adored among her neighbours for her benevolence, and, what they termed, her true Irish spirit; and Eugene, though a young man, had more influence over the members of the lawless associations in his neighbourhood than almost any individual in the county, which he never failed to exert on all occasions when it was in his power to prevent their atrocities.