‘Oh! I do not go to such an extravagant length as to take in all; but look at the names that fame has written in golden letters on her annals.’ ‘Have we not a Wellington, a Grattan, a Sheridan, and a Cast——?’ said Eugene. ‘Name him not,’ said she hastily, putting her hand on his mouth. ‘At present,’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘we see all his actions through the haze of prejudice—posterity will judge better of his character, and say whether he deserves the odium which has been cast upon it.’ ‘By the by, you served with our countryman, Wellington, whose fame has sounded through the world,—what character does he hold among the soldiers?’ ‘That is a question I am scarcely prepared to answer; but I will give you my own opinion, which may after all be nearly the sense of the army on the subject. I admit that he has many of the qualities which constitute a great general, such as valour, prudence, discrimination, &c., but there is one which, in my opinion, he fell short of.’ ‘Indeed!’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘what is it?’ ‘He had not the art of gaining the men’s affections,—he never identified himself with his army, and being either above or below human sympathy, he was the same cold, stern individual when they performed feats of valour as when they committed faults. In short, he was a being removed from all our associations, who might be admired at a distance, feared or respected on the spot; but never loved.’ ‘You seem determined to put me out of conceit with my countrymen,’ said Mary; ‘I need not speak of Moore, our great national poet, you will have some drawback on his fame also.’ ‘He has been accused,’ said Mrs M’Carthy, ‘of loose and voluptuous sentiment. I can say nothing of the minor poems, said to be his, for I never read them; but in reading his Lalla Rookh, and his Irish Melodies, I have caught a portion of the inspiration and enthusiasm which he must have possessed when writing them.’ ‘His own apology for his venal errors,’ said Mary, ‘who can withstand!’ Then blame not the bard if in pleasure’s soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal: Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he’ll feel! 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.