Luigi. - My prospects are a blank, Giorgio; my prospects are a
blank. I propose nothing but to die in Coruna, perhaps in the
hospital, if they will admit me. Years ago I thought of fleeing,
even if I left all behind me, and either returning to England, or
betaking myself to America; but it is too late now, Giorgio, it is
too late. When I first lost all hope, I took to drinking, to which
I was never before inclined, and I am now what I suppose you see.
"There is hope in the Gospel," said I, "even for you. I will send
you one."
There is a small battery of the old town which fronts the east, and
whose wall is washed by the waters of the bay. It is a sweet spot,
and the prospect which opens from it is extensive. The battery
itself may be about eighty yards square; some young trees are
springing up about it, and it is rather a favourite resort of the
people of Coruna.
In the centre of this battery stands the tomb of Moore, built by
the chivalrous French, in commemoration of the fall of their heroic
antagonist. It is oblong and surmounted by a slab, and on either
side bears one of the simple and sublime epitaphs for which our
rivals are celebrated, and which stand in such powerful contrast
with the bloated and bombastic inscriptions which deform the walls
of Westminster Abbey:
"JOHN MOORE,
LEADER OF THE ENGLISH ARMIES,
SLAIN IN BATTLE,
1809."
The tomb itself is of marble, and around it is a quadrangular wall,
breast high, of rough Gallegan granite; close to each corner rises
from the earth the breech of an immense brass cannon, intended to
keep the wall compact and close. These outer erections are,
however, not the work of the French, but of the English government.
Yes, there lies the hero, almost within sight of the glorious hill
where he turned upon his pursuers like a lion at bay and terminated
his career. Many acquire immortality without seeking it, and die
before its first ray has gilded their name; of these was Moore.
The harassed general, flying through Castile with his dispirited
troops before a fierce and terrible enemy, little dreamed that he
was on the point of attaining that for which many a better,
greater, though certainly not braver man, had sighed in vain. His
very misfortunes were the means which secured him immortal fame;
his disastrous route, bloody death, and finally his tomb on a
foreign strand, far from kin and friends. There is scarcely a
Spaniard but has heard of this tomb, and speaks of it with a
strange kind of awe. Immense treasures are said to have been
buried with the heretic general, though for what purpose no one
pretends to guess. The demons of the clouds, if we may trust the
Gallegans, followed the English in their flight, and assailed them
with water-spouts as they toiled up the steep winding paths of
Fuencebadon; whilst legends the most wild are related of the manner
in which the stout soldier fell.
