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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/lifeofjohnboyleoOOroch 
 

 
 
 
 
LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY, 
 
 JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 TOGETHER WITH HIS 
 
 COMPLETE POEMS AND SPEECHES, 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 MRS. JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY HIS EMINENCE 
 
 JAMES CARDINAL GIBBONS, 
 
 ARCHBISHOP OF BALTIMORE. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 31 East 17th St. (Union Square) 
 
Copyright, 1891, 
 
 BY 
 
 MBS. JOHN BOYLE O’REILLYo 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 THE MER8HON COMPANY PRESS, 
 RAHWAT, N. 3 . 
 
) l 5 k 2. > \ 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
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 3 
 
 £ 
 
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 The best monument to a great and good man are the 
 works with which his hand and his head have enriched the 
 
 world. 
 
 More fittingly than by towering shaft of granite or of 
 marble will the name of John Boyle O’Reilly be immortal- 
 ized by this collection of his writings. On this, his ceno- 
 taph, aere perennius, I dutifully, though sorrowfully, lay 
 this wreath of admiration for the genius — of love for the 
 man. 
 
 Few men have felt so powerfully the divinus afflatus 
 of Poesy ; few natures have been so fitted to give it worthy 
 response. As strong as it was delicate and tender, as sym- 
 pathetic and tearful as it was bold, his soul was a harp of 
 truest tone, which felt the touch of the ideal everywhere, 
 and spontaneously breathed responsive music, joyous or 
 mournful, vehement or soft. Such a nature needed an 
 environment of romance, and romantic indeed was his 
 career throughout. In boyhood his imagination feasts on 
 the weird songs and legends of the Celt ; in youth his 
 heart agonizes over that saddest and strangest romance in 
 all history, — the wrongs and woes of his mother-land, that 
 Niobe of the nations ; in manhood, because he dared to 
 wish her free, he finds himself a doomed felon, an exiled 
 convict in what he calls himself “ the nether world ” ; then, 
 bursting his prison bars, a hunted fugitive, reaching the 
 haven of this land of liberty penniless and unknown, but 
 rising by the sheer force of his genius and his worth, till 
 the best and the noblest in our country vie in doing honor 
 to his name. 
 
 With surroundings and a career like these, a man of his 
 make could not but be a poet, and a poet he became of 
 truest mould ; wooed to the summits of Parnassus by his 
 love of the beautiful, his fiery spirit was calmed on its stilly 
 heights, and grew into that poise and restfulness and self- 
 
 V 
 
VI 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 control, without which poetry would lack dignity and 
 grace. No writer understood better than he that the face 
 and form of Poesy to be beautiful must be tranquil, that 
 violent movements rob her of her charm — that even in the 
 tempest of her love or wrath her mien must breathe the 
 comeliness and harmony of the Divine. 
 
 This lesson of the Muses gave grace and charm to more 
 than his poetry, it gradually pervaded all the movement of 
 his life. Seldom did he lose sight of what he has himself 
 so beautifully expressed : 
 
 Nature’s gospel never changes, 
 
 Every sudden force deranges, 
 
 Blind endeavor is not wise. 
 
 Many a time was he subjected to trials calling for super- 
 human self-control, and seldom was he found wanting 
 under the test. Instances without number are related of 
 his generous magnanimity toward those who deserved it 
 least, of his patienee under insult and injustice, of his 
 quickness to atone for any momentary, unguarded flash. 
 There was a rhythm and a harmony in all his life like to 
 that of his thoughts and of his style. 
 
 But in all this there was more than nature. The Divine 
 Faith, implanted in his soul in childhood, flourished there 
 undyingly, pervaded his whole being with its blessed influ- 
 ences, furnished his noblest ideals of thought and conduct. 
 Even when not explicitly adverted to, Faith’s sweet and 
 holy inspirations were there to shape his thought and direct 
 his life. They had made his mind their sanctuary before 
 its work began, and all its imagery during life instinctively 
 bore the impress of their presence. 
 
 Thus was he fitted to fulfill worthily the vocation of a 
 poet. For it is not aimlessly that Divine Providence 
 endows a human being with qualities so exceptional and 
 exalted. 
 
 The poet is one endowed with ken so piercing as through 
 the veil of sense to gaze upon the world of the ideal, and 
 through all ideals to penetrate to the archetypal ideal of 
 all things ; — endowed with heart so sensitive as to thrill with 
 unwonted tlirobbings at this vision of the true, the beauti- 
 ful, and the good endowed with speech so subtle that it 
 can fit itself to thoughts and emotions like these, so rhyth- 
 mical and sweet that, falling on ears dulled by the hard 
 din of life, it may charm them, and lift up earthly minds 
 and hearts to thought and love of better things. The true 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Vll 
 
 poet realizes what O’Reilly sung in one of his latest and 
 best productions : 
 
 Those who sail from land afar, 
 
 Leap from mountain-top to star ; 
 
 Higher still, from star to God, 
 
 Have the Spirit-Pilots trod, 
 
 Setting lights for mind and soul, 
 
 That the ships may reach their goal. 
 
 The vocation of the poet is close akin to that of the 
 priest, and it is not to be wondered at that during most of 
 his life our poet’.s nearest and dearest friends were clergy- 
 men. 
 
 In his career as a journalist, the magnanimity and self- 
 control thus variously impressed upon him and infused 
 into him were especially manifested. Constantly obliged 
 to deal with burning questions, he usually handled them 
 wdth a conservative prudence scarcely to be expected in 
 one so vehement by nature. 
 
 Accustomed by long experience to have his most cher- 
 ished convictions resisted and assailed, he met all oppo- 
 nents with a chivalrous courtesy, as well as with a daunt- 
 less courage, that instantly won respect, and often ended 
 by winning them over to his side. 
 
 No wonder, then, that he, far beyond the bulk of men, 
 verified his own touching lines : 
 
 The work men do is not their test alone, 
 
 The love they win is far the better chart. 
 
 Who can recall an outburst of grief so universal and so 
 genuine as that evoked by his all too early and sudden 
 death ? At the sad news numberless hearts in all the lands 
 which speak our English tongue stood still as in anguish 
 for the loss of a brother or a friend. In accents trembling 
 with the eloquence of emotion, countless tongues in our 
 own and in other climes have paid unwonted tribute to his 
 worth ; great thinkers and writers have lauded his genius ; 
 the lowly and unlettered are mourning him who was ever 
 humanity’s friend. 
 
 The country of his adoption vies with the land of his 
 birth in testifying to the uprightness of his life, the useful- 
 ness of his career and his example, the gentleness of his 
 character, the nobleness of his soul. The bitterest preju- 
 dices of race and of creed seem to have been utterly con- 
 quered by the masterful goodness of his heart and the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Vlll 
 
 winning sweetness of his tongue, and to have turned into 
 all the greater admiration for the man. 
 
 With all these voices I blend my own, and in their 
 name I say that the world is brighter for having possessed 
 him, and mankind will be the better for this treasury of 
 pure and generous and noble thoughts which he has left us 
 in his works. 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 HE following pages have been written in the scant 
 
 leisure of a busy life, made doubly so by the loss which 
 called them forth. They make no pretension to being a 
 critical study of their subject or a minute history of his 
 life. I have aimed to present, concisely and truthfully, 
 the leading events in a career as full of dramatic incident 
 and striking change as the pages of a romance ; letting the 
 story tell itself, wherever it has been possible, in the words 
 of its illustrious subject. 
 
 Having the advantages of access to his printed and 
 private papers, as well as of a close personal friendship of 
 twenty years, I have been able, I think, to draw a faithful 
 picture of John Boyle O’Reilly as he was in public and 
 private. The picture has not been overcolored by the 
 hand of friendship. If there appear to be more of eulogy 
 than of criticism in the work, the fact is not to be 
 wondered at. It would be impossible for anybody who 
 knew John Boyle O’Reilly intimately to think or write 
 of him in any other strain. 
 
 His public life and literary labors will be judged by pos- 
 terity on their merits. I believe that the judgment will be 
 even more favorable than that passed by his contem- 
 poraries. Of his personal character there can be but one 
 judgment. Those nearest him are best able to testify to 
 its unvarying heroism, tenderness, and beauty; but no 
 earthly chronicler can ever tell the whole story of his 
 kindly thoughts and words and deeds. A few of them are 
 here recorded ; the greater number are written on the 
 hearts of the thousands whose lives he brightened and 
 blessed ; the whole are known only to the God whose mercy 
 gave such a life to the world — whose inscrutable wisdom 
 recalled the gift so soon. 
 
 James Jeffrey Roche. 
 
 ix 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 TA«E 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY CARDINAL GIBBONS, . v 
 
 PREFACE, ix 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Birthplace — Childhood and Youth — Early Apprenticeship-Sojourn 
 in England— Enlists in “ The Prince of Wales’ Own ” — Conspiracy, Detec- 
 tion, and Arrest — “ The Old School Clock,” 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Trial by Court-martial — A Prisoner’s Rights before a British Military 
 Tribunal — The Stories of Two Informers— Found Guilty and Sentenced to 
 Death— Commutation of Sentence — Mountjoy Prison— How O’Reilly Re- 
 paid a Traitor, 22 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Solitary Confinement — An Autobiographical Sketch — Pentonville, Mill- 
 bank, Chatham, Dartmoor — Three Bold Attempts to Escape — Realities of 
 Prison Life— The Convict Ship Hougoumont — The Exiles and their Paper, 
 
 The Wild Goose, 48 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 Prison Life in Australia— O’Reilly Transferred from Fremantle to Bun- 
 bury — Cruel Punishment for a Technical Offense — Daring Plan to Es- 
 cape — Free at Last Under the American Flag, 69 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Narrow Escape from a “ Bad ” Whale— He Feigns Suicide in Order 
 to Avoid Recapture at Roderique — Transferred to the Sapphire off Cape of 
 Good Hope — Arrival at Liverpool — Takes Passage for America — Lands at 
 Philadelphia, . 84 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Arrival in Boston — Untoward Experience in a Steamship Office — Pub- 
 lic Lectures — His Personal A ppearance — Characteristic Letters— Employed 
 on The Pilot — At the Front with the Fenians — The Orange Riots in New 
 York— O’Reilly Sharply Condemns the Rioters— A Notable Editorial, . 101 
 
 xi 
 
xii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Civilian Prisoners in Australia Set Free — The Story of Thomas Has- 
 sett — O’Reilly’s Narrative Poems — His Love of Country and Denunciation 
 of Sham Patriots — Death of His Father— Speech for the Press— His Mar- 
 riage, and Home Life — Pilot Burned Out in the Great Boston Fire — The 
 Papyrus Club Founded, • 122 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 His Public Life — Editorial Condemnation of Bigotry — He Speaks for 
 the Indian and the Negro — “ Songs of the Southern Seas ” — Death of Cap- 
 tain Gifford — Poem on the Death of John Mitchell— Controversy with Dr. 
 Brownson — His Poem for the O’Connell Centenary— O’Reilly Becomes 
 Part Owner of the Pilot, 140 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Cruise of the Gatalpa — The English Government Rejects the Peti- 
 tion of One Hundred and Forty Members of Parliament for the Pardon of 
 the Soldier Convicts — John Devoy and John Breslin Plan their Rescue — 
 Good Work of the Clan-na-Gael — The Dream of O’Reilly and Hathaway 
 Fulfilled — The Gatalpa Defies a British Gunboat, and Bears the Men in 
 Safety to America, . 156 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Death of John O’Mahony — O’Reilly’s Tribute to the Head-Center— 
 Prison Sufferings of Corporal Chambers — He is Set Free at Last — O’Reilly 
 on Denis Kearney — “ Moondyne,” and its Critics — “ Number 406,” . . 174 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Elected President of the Papyrus Club, and also of the Boston Press 
 Club — Interesting Addresses Delivered Before Both — Speech at the Moore 
 Centenary— Letter to the Papyrus Club— His Home at Hull— Visit of Par- 
 nell to America — Founding of the St. Botolph Club and the “ Cribb 
 dub , Justin McCarthy Describes the Poet- Athlete— Russell Sullivan’s 
 
 “ Here and Hereafter,” 191 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 His Editorials and Public Utterances— Honored by Dartmouth College 
 and Notre Dame— The “Statues in the Block Ireland’s Opportu- 
 nity Erin ”— Tribute to Longfellow— His Great Poem, “America,” 
 
 Read Before the Veterans— The Phoenix Park Tragedy— Death of Fanny 
 Parnell— “ To Those Who Have Not Yet Been President,” . . .204 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 His Kindness to Young Writers— Versatile Editorial Work— Irish Na- 
 tional Affairs — Speech Before the League — His Canoeing Trips — A Papy- 
 rus Reunion — Death of Wendell Phillips, and O’Reilly’s Poem — Presiden- 
 tial Campaign of 1884— “ The King’s Men”— Another Papyrus Poem- 
 Touching Letter to Father Anderson, 223 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 O’Reilly’s Case in the House of Commons— Refused Permission to Visit 
 Canada— Slander About “Breaking Parole” Refuted— A Characteristic 
 Letter in 1869— His Editorial “Is it Too Late ? ’’—Bayard, Lowell, and 
 Phelps— Another Speech in Faneuil Hall— Hanging of Riel— “ In Bo- 
 hemia ’’—Farewell Poem to Underwood— “ Hanged, Drawn, and Quar- 
 tered,” 247 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Article in North American Review , “At Last ’’—Address Before the 
 Beacon Club of Boston— Defense of the Colored Men— The Five Dollar Par- 
 liamentary Fund— “The American Citizen Soldier The Cry of the 
 Dreamer ” — Another Characteristic Letter, 272 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 “ Boyle’s Log ” — No Memory for Dates — A Western Publisher’s Offer — 
 Speech of Welcome to Justin McCarthy — Poem on “Liberty”— He De- 
 fends his Democracy — “The Exile of the Gael” — Speech at William 
 O’Brien’s Reception— Crispus Attucks — The British in Faneuil Hall, . 293 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Public Addresses — Author’s Reading— The Irish Flag in New York — 
 “Athletics and Manly Sport” Published— His Cruise in the Dismal 
 Swamp— Interesting Letters to E. A. Moseley — Speech at the C. T. A. U. 
 Banquet — Bayard, Chamberlain, and Sackville-West — Presidential Elec- 
 tion — Poem on Crispus Attucks — Death of Corporal Chambers — Speech 
 for the Heroes of Hull, 310 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Another Author’s Reading, “A Philistine’s Views” on Erotic Litera- 
 ture — Poem on the Pilgrim Fathers — Another, “ From the Heights,” for 
 the Catholic University — Attacked by La Grippe — Hopes of Another Canoe 
 Cruise — Brave Words for the Negro and the Hebrew — “The Useless 
 Ones,” his Last Poem — Lecturing Tour to the Pacific Coast — Definition of 
 Democracy — Views on the Catholic Congress — His Last Canoeing Paper 
 and Last Editorials— A Characteristic Deed of Kindness— His Death, . 333 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Profound Sorrow of the Nation and of the Irish People — Tributes of 
 Respect to his Memory — “ A Loss to the Country, to the Church, and to 
 Humanity in General ” — Remarkable Funeral Honors — Resolutions of Na- 
 tional and Catholic Societies — The Papyrus Club and the Grand Army of 
 the Republic—" The Truest of all the True is Dead,” .... 354 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The City of Boston Honors his Memory — Great Citizens’ Meeting in 
 Tremont Temple — Liberal Subscriptions to a Public Monument — Memorial 
 Meetings in New York and Elsewhere — The “ Month’s Mind ” — Eloquent 
 Sermon of Bishop Healy— The Poets Grave in Holyhood, , . . 366 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Early Traits of Character — Letters from Prison — His Religious Nature 
 Exemplified— An Ideal Comrade — Love of Nature and of Art — His First 
 Poem— His Lavish Charity and Kindness— A Child’s Tribute — The End, . 375 
 
POEMS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 THE WONDERFUL COUNTRY, .395 
 
 WHAT IS GOOD, 396 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS, 397 
 
 FROM THE HEIGHTS, 405 
 
 MAYFLOWER, . 407 
 
 CRISPUS ATTUCKS, 408 
 
 THE EXILE OF THE GAEL, . . . . * . . . .414 
 
 THREE GRAVES, 418 
 
 AN ART MASTER, 420 
 
 LIBERTY LIGHTING THE WORLD, 420 
 
 THE PRESS EVANGEL, 423 
 
 THE USELESS ONES, 424 
 
 LOVE WAS TRUE TO ME, 429 
 
 TO MY LITTLE BLANID, 430 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF KEATS, .... 430 
 
 AN OLD PICTURE, 431 
 
 AT SCHOOL, 432 
 
 UNDER THE SURFACE, 433 
 
 CONSCIENCE, . . 433 
 
 TO MY DEAR OLD FRIEND, MR. A. SHUMAN, ... 434 
 
 TO A. S., ON HIS DAUGHTER’S WEDDING, .... 434 
 
 TWO LIVES, 435 
 
 MY TROUBLES ! 435 
 
 VIGNETTES, 436 
 
 A MESSAGE OF PEACE, 437 
 
 A MAN, 438 
 
 FOREVER, . 441 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND, 441 
 
 A YEAR, 443 
 
 THE FAME OF THE CITY, ........ 443 
 
 xv 
 
XVI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW, 444 
 
 IN BOHEMIA, 445 
 
 SONGS THAT ARE NOT SUNG, 446 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS, 449 
 
 A SEED, 452 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 452 
 
 DISTANCE, ; 452 
 
 ERIN, 453 
 
 POET AND LORD, . 455 
 
 SPRING FLOWERS, 455 
 
 THE LOVING CUP OF THE PAPYRUS, 456 
 
 UNDER THE RIVER, 458 
 
 GRANT— 1885, 458 
 
 AT BEST, 459 
 
 THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES, 460 
 
 ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR-BEARER, 462 
 
 THE CRY OF THE DREAMER, 463 
 
 MY MOTHER’S MEMORY, 465 
 
 THE SHADOW, 465 
 
 AT FREDERICKSBURG,— DECEMBER 13, 1862, ... 466 
 
 THE DEAD SINGER, 469 
 
 THE PRIESTS OF IRELAND, 471 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN, 475 
 
 RELEASED,— JANUARY, 1878, 476 
 
 JOHN MITCHEL, DIED MARCH 20, 1875, 478 
 
 A DEAD MAN, 479 
 
 A NATION’S TEST, 481 
 
 LOVE, AND BE WISE, 486 
 
 WHEAT GRAINS, 487 
 
 THE PRICELESS THINGS, 489 
 
 THE RAINBOW’S TREASURE, 491 
 
 A WHITE ROSE, 492 
 
 YES? 492 
 
 WAITING, 493 
 
 CHUNDER ALPS WIFE, 494 
 
 A KISS, 496 
 
 JACQUEMINOTS, 496 
 
 THE CELEBES, 497 
 
 LOVE’S SACRIFICE, 497 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 xvii 
 
 nsE 
 
 HER REFRAIN, 499 
 
 GOLU, 499 
 
 LOVE’S SECRET, 501 
 
 A PASSAGE, . 501 
 
 A LOST FRIEND. 502 
 
 CONSTANCY, 503 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP, 504 
 
 THE VALUE OF GOLD, ,507 
 
 TO-DAY, 508 
 
 A BUILDER’S LESSON, ,509 
 
 THE KING’S EVIL, 510 
 
 30NE AND SINEW AND BRAIN, 511 
 
 THE CITY STREETS, 513 
 
 THE INFINITE, 517 
 
 FROM THE EARTH, A CRY, 518 
 
 PROMETHEUS— CHRIST 522 
 
 UNSPOKEN WORDS, .525 
 
 STAR-GAZING, 526 
 
 A DISAPPOINTMENT, 528 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK, ,528 
 
 WITHERED SNOWDROPS, ........ 530 
 
 A SAVAGE, 531 
 
 RULES OF THE ROAD, 532 
 
 LOVE IS DREAMING, 
 
 * AMERICA 534 
 
 THE POISON FLOWER, 539 
 
 PEACE AND PAIN, 
 
 HIDDEN SINS, 541 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE EMIGRANTS, 542 
 
 TRUST, 
 
 THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD, 544 
 
 THE WELL’S SECRET, 547 
 
 LIFE IS A CONFLUENCE, 548 
 
 THE PATRIOT’S GRAVE, 549 
 
 THE FEAST OF THE GAEL, 553 
 
 MARY, 
 
 THE WAIL OF TWO CITIES, 556 
 
 MULEY MALEK, THE KING, .558 
 
 HEART-HUNGER, 
 
XV111 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SILENCE, NOT DEATH, 563 
 
 RESURGITE !— JUNE, 1877, 564 
 
 IRELAND— 1882, 565 
 
 THE EMPTY NICHE, 568 
 
 MIDNIGHT— SEPTEMBER 19, 1881, 570 
 
 THE TRIAL OF THE GODS, 572 
 
 DYING IN HARNESS, 574 
 
 DOLORES, 575 
 
 THE TREASURE OF ABRAM, 577 
 
 THERE IS BLOOD ON THE EARTH, 580 
 
 LIVING, . 582 
 
 MACARIUS, THE MONK, 583 
 
 THE UNHAPPY ONE, 585 
 
 DESTINY, 588 
 
 A SONG FOR THE SOLDIERS 588 
 
 AN OLD VAGABOND, . 592 
 
 THE STATUES IN THE BLOCK, 594 
 
 THE THREE QUEENS, 600 
 
 THE LAST OF THE NARWHALE, 604 
 
 THE LURE, 609 
 
 THE FLYING DUTCHMAN, 610 
 
 UNCLE NED’S TALE— AN OLD DRAGOON’S STORY, . . 616 
 
 UNCLE NED’S TALE-HOW THE FLAG WAS SAVED, . . 625 
 
 HAUNTED BY TIGERS, 635 
 
 THE WORD AND THE DEED, . . 641 
 
 WESTERN AUSTRALIA, 647 
 
 THE DUKITE SNAKE, 648 
 
 THE MONSTER DIAMOND, 653 
 
 THE DOG GUARD, 658 
 
 THE AMBER WHALE, 665 
 
 THE MUTINY OF THE CHAINS, 677 
 
 THE KING OF THE VASSE, 685 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XIX 
 
 SPEECHES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE COMMON CITIZEN-SOLDIER, 713 
 
 A PATRIOT’S MONUMENT, 781 
 
 THE NEGRO-AMERICAN, 738 
 
 MOORE CENTENARY, 743 
 
 THE IRISH NATIONAL CAUSE, 747 
 
 IRELAND’S COMMERCIAL AND INDUSTRIAL RESOURCES, 758 
 ADDRESS ON HENRY GRATTAN, 780 
 
 INDEX, . 787 
 
LIFE OF 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 BY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 
 
LIFE OF 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Birthplace— Childhood and Youth— Early Apprenticeship— Sojourn in 
 England— Enlists in “The Prince of Wales’ Own ’’—Conspiracy, 
 Detection, and Arrest — “The Old School Clock.” 
 
 ROGHEDA is a town with a history, and, as it is an 
 
 Irish town, the history is mainly a tragedy. Tradi- 
 tion says that it was the landing place of the Milesians, the 
 last and greatest of the early invaders of Ireland. A more 
 enduring glory attaches to it as the place where St. Patrick 
 landed wdien he came down from the North country to 
 brave the power of the Druids, at the royal seat of Tara. 
 Its name, “ Drochead-atha,” signifies the Bridge of the 
 Ford, or, as it was Latinized, “Urbs Pontana.” Danes 
 and Normans successively conquered and occupied the old 
 town. It lies on both sides of the river Boyne, about four 
 miles from its mouth, and two and one-half miles from Old- 
 Bridge, the scene of the famous battle between the forces 
 of King James and those of William of Orange. 
 
 Forty years before that disastrous fight, Drogheda had 
 suffered at the hands of a conqueror more ruthless than 
 Dane or Norman. In 1649 the English nation kept public 
 fast to invoke God’s blessing upon Cromwell’s forces, 
 “ Against the Papists and others, the enemies of the Par- 
 liament of England in Ireland.” The Protector came with 
 the Bible in one hand and the sword in the other, not, as a 
 Mohammed, to offer the choice of religion or death, but in 
 the name of the one to inflict the other. He laid siege to 
 the town on September 2. At five o’clock on the afternoon 
 
2 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 of the 10th he effected a breach, and, after being twice 
 repulsed, carried the place by assault. The defenders laid 
 down their arms, on promise of quarter, whereupon the 
 victors fell upon the defenseless people, massacring in cold 
 blood twenty-eight hundred men, women, and children. 
 Thirty persons were taken prisoners, to be eventually sold 
 as slaves in the Barbadoes. The horrible massacre lasted 
 during five days. The Irish vocabulary is not wanting in 
 maledictory forms, but its bitterest imprecation is “The 
 curse of Cromwell !” Banishment and confiscation were 
 the mildest punishments inflicted on the vanquished. The 
 Irish fought with desperate valor, but did not forget to be 
 generous, even to a merciless foe. 
 
 Conspicuous among them for generous and chivalrous 
 acts was one chieftain, O’ Reilly of Cavan,, who not only 
 gave quarter to his enemy in battle, but even sent his 
 prisoners in safety within the English lines. The O’ Reillys 
 were lords of Cavan for over a thousand years. They 
 traced their descent from Milesius, through O’Ragheal- 
 laigh, whose name is Anglicized into O’Rahilly, O’Riellv, 
 
 ¥ < Wf^isay<! a 5^B.’ 
 
 tMe’a gri&gtfM.’ 
 
 authority says it is 
 
 from Radii, ' ' le tWfd ftSSRlbf nTO Wi!lfIfed, ' ’ “skill- 
 ful.” The nio^t6%$?ii5? l r?ii < rfi]^ u T^ le,r f' 1 6'i4iiudo et pfudentia,” 
 ,«lftc^,Vifb e ArsB9i®le,iW)i]i,Cirowned on 
 
 aPKft>Ai?ftldSP ins are sti11 found. In 
 later times ^Mm9SS, an . above tlle 
 
 town of CattaT^'iandl.adQf tedrlAbft i&i.bal name of Muintir 
 
 fa^ptifti iwm i a i t0»% -py heRV nn Mfe* 
 
 RbHjStMtterPwmife 
 
 iHei'^afiiaslwvp ahdssWIWRbi^dfflii lgo^^ryj,^ 
 
 town of Cavan, and adopted the tribal name of Muintir 
 Maolmordha, the people of Milesius,— Milesius, or Miles, 
 being a favorite name in the family. One of them, “Miles 
 the Slasher,” was probably the last of the regular chiefs, 
 lie was a brave and skillful soldier, and did good service 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 3 
 
 under Owen Roe O’Neil, at the battle of Benburb. The 
 family had its share of traditionary myths. In the County 
 Cavan, near the old seat of their sovereignty, there still 
 stands a tree on which one of their beloved chiefs was 
 hanged in an ancient “ rising.” It is withered and leaf- 
 less — tradition says it never bore foliage again after that 
 day. The fortune of war overcame this race of gallant 
 fighters. Many of them sought in foreign lands the career 
 denied them at home, and the name, illustrious for centu- 
 ries, gained new renown in France, Spain, Austria, and the 
 wide domains of Spanish America. The O’Reillys were 
 ever distinguished as soldiers, prelates, and scholars. 
 
 Four miles above the town of Drogheda, on the south 
 bank of the beautiful Boyne, in the center of a vast basin 
 of the most fertile and storied land in Ireland, stands 
 Dowth Castle, where John Boyle O’Reilly was born, on 
 June 28, 1844. Within three hundred yards of it is the 
 Moat of Dowth, built in the pre-historic period. Four 
 miles to the west rises the hill of Tara, while three miles to 
 the north is the hill of Slane, where St. Patrick lit his 
 fire on Beltanes night.. 1 One! mile further; to The north are 
 Jh e mafe slid r u in& i Mel lif onfe Ahhe^p <Miksi$q;l¥g 
 
 Mimiriv^r Mnw^li^ilfKXrfel^ 
 
 tfatbess \kast him^traiirih^ tA 
 
 <vfo^Jm§e9l ^hepn||t.g®®ai&k)fliRM%- 
 ffosnree, BihteJdesifci^M richest ^e^ogfiitotheohdtbh idsthrio^l 
 ItheaBBiestic ruins of Mellifont Abbey ; and two miles down 
 the Dbwtha^adi>ldsdate^J back hdgthenal^ss ttoi ^etBn|$igh 
 IPsate, J amM&oshM stordiaiiea Merii <b Mlt; lbi^e sH>t ghe IDgdLaqjL. 
 lEtol^o ik etteOpreshnfrriMHi^ hYisuonpi^ rNieMerfii lUp *&n 
 
 leeoe^rih JMfcnbhlBinanji<i^a^B4)hhdrj4]^ cMkle MBlo8i&t£ 
 tO'faMs'elands for the charitable object of educating and 
 malhiaiining avi&e wk tadM^atos.th (ThhiNettidrviille Rngtifet* - 
 Kate, aaditiswasi (fcatldedhi embraced) ial$ol% NMifinsO) eSikoyl, 
 IhudlJ ohi it&igrcpradep bf ewMchvWhiram iDavM^QlR^y was 
 d&&Makt<iriik^ the castle and some 
 
 of UTer&ithh yfonn^) <padhtspieriti (thdijrst elh veaki ly e&mgofi Ms 
 iliim talflie^^ to wlay iabon|) lhalf . a ihMe Nromitlife! trilveii,i ttfie 
 tion, as it was called, embraced also a National School, 
 built on its grounds, of which William David O’Reilly was 
 the master for thirty-five years. 
 
 Here the young poet spent the first eleven years of his 
 life. The Castle lay about half a mile from the river, the 
 
4 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY". 
 
 intervening ground being a rich, flat plain, known as the 
 Boyne Meadow. The river here is not over one hundred 
 feet wide, moderately rapid, and shallow. On the further 
 side the land rises sheer from the water, and is covered with 
 dark young fir trees. It was a favorite swimming ground 
 for the boys of the neighborhood, among whom none was 
 more daring or skillful than the handsome, rosy-cheeked, 
 curly-haired, and dark-eyed boy, whose home was in 
 Dowth Castle. 
 
 William David O’Reilly, the father, was a fine scholar, 
 and an able educator. The boy was fortunate in having 
 parents who were both remarkable for literary culture and 
 talent. TIis mother, Eliza Boyle, was a near relative of the 
 famous Colonel John Allen, who distinguished himself in 
 the Rebellion of ’98, and subsequently in the French Legion, 
 winning renown at the head of his regiment in the battle of 
 Astorga and in Napoleon’s many later campaigns. 
 
 Mrs. O’ Reilly was a woman of rare intellectual gifts, com- 
 bined with a generous, hospitable, kindly heart, which made 
 her beloved by the beneficiaries of the Institution. The 
 elder O’Reilly and his wife came to Dowth Castle from Dub- 
 lin ; they had five daughters and three sons, all of whom dis- 
 played, in a lesser degree, the poetic qualities which at- 
 tained full growth in the case of John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 John was the second son of the family. He inherited 
 a good constitution, and from childhood was passionately 
 devoted to out-door sports. He swam the Boyne, and 
 roamed among the ruins and old underground passages of 
 the neighborhood, unconsciously absorbing the poetry and 
 romance whose atmosphere was all around. He was a 
 brave, good-humored lad, not easily made angry, and 
 quicker to resent an injury done a small playfellow than 
 one offered himself. An unpublished sketch from his pen 
 has this autobiographical bit : “ When I was about nine 
 years of age, some friend had gratified a craving which I 
 had then (and have not lost yet) to own a dog, by present- 
 ing me with a brown, broad-backed, thick- legged, round- 
 bodied, spaniel puppy, about a month old. Its possession 
 
DOWTH CASTLE, COUNTY MEATH, IRELAND, BIRTH-PLACE OP JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 5 
 
 was one of the delicious incidents, and is now one of the 
 delicious memories of my life. That little brown, fat dog, 
 that could not walk through the meadow, but had to jump 
 over every tangled spot, and miss five times out of six, and 
 fall and roll over when at last he succeeded, and have to be 
 taken up then and carried^that little brown, fat dog, with 
 his flapping ears and hard belly, and straight, short tail, — 
 who wore the hair off his back with lying on it to play with 
 the big dogs, or with me ; who never could trot, he was so 
 fat and round ; who always galloped or walked like an Aus- 
 tralian horse ; who was always so hungry that he never 
 could take his milk quietly, but must gallop up to it, and 
 charge into it, and make himself cough,— the possession of 
 that little brown spaniel puppy made me one of the hap- 
 piest and proudest boys in Ireland.” 
 
 With such parents, and such surroundings, the lad 
 assimilated knowledge, and imbibed the profounder learn- 
 ing that is not found in books, that indefinable something 
 which makes all the difference between a scholar and a 
 poet. His education could not be said to have been com- 
 pleted when he left school. They, only, have nothing more 
 to learn who have nothing at all to teach in after life. 
 
 But he had a good education in having learned how to 
 handle the tools of knowledge, when, at about the age of 
 eleven, he left home to enter the printing office of the 
 Drogheda Argus , in the humble capacity of apprentice, 
 and on the still more humble salary of two shillings and 
 sixpence a week, which did not include board or lodging. 
 The circumstances under which he was induced to begin 
 the struggle of life at such a tender age were these : His 
 brother, William, two and a half years his senior, had been 
 bound as an apprentice in the Argus establishment. He 
 was a delicate youth, and after six months’ service was 
 obliged by ill-health to give up his place. John, then a 
 fine, manly little fellow, hearing his mother lament the 
 loss of the premium, which amounted to fifty pounds, 
 offered to take his brother’s place, and the offer was ulti- 
 mately accepted. His salary was increased at the rate of 
 
6 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 sixpence a week every year, the Argus in this respect not 
 differing from other printing-offices in the country. A 
 certain stint of work had to be done in return, and extra 
 pay was allowed for all in excess thereof. Young O’Reilly 
 was so apt a pupil that he very soon was in receipt of twice 
 his nominal wages. His parents, of course, provided for 
 whatever deficit might exist between his income and out- 
 lay. The work was not hard, but the hours were long, — 
 six to nine o’clock before breakfast, ten to two before din- 
 ner, and three to seven or eight before supper. The boy 
 was a prime favorite in the work-room, his handsome face, 
 courteous manners, and kindly disposition making him the 
 pet rather than the butt which the printer’s “devil” often 
 is. He was full of good-humor and fun that was some- 
 times mischievous, but never malicious. Probably his first 
 poetic effort (if it may be so called) was the New Year’s 
 Day song written for the paper-carriers, and addressed to 
 their patrons, with a view to obtaining gratuities. Here, 
 as elsewhere, he was an omnivorous reader and an inces- 
 sant dabbler in rhymes. 
 
 The death of the proprietor of the Argus discharged 
 the indentures of young O’Reilly when he had served 
 nearly four years of his time. 
 
 While enjoying a period of enforced idleness at home, 
 the ship Caledonian , owned and commanded by his 
 uncle, Capt. James Watkinson, of Preston, England, came 
 to Drogheda, and loaded with a cargo of barley for Pres- 
 ton. Capt. Watkinson was an Englishman, who had mar- 
 ried a sister of Mrs. O’Reilly. John accepted his invita- 
 tion to make a voyage and visit to his aunt, Mrs. Wat- 
 kinson, and accordingly set sail for Preston in August or 
 September, 1859. 
 
 At the suggestion of his relatives, he secured a situation 
 as apprentice in the office of the Guardian , then pub- 
 lished in Cannon Street, Preston, ultimately graduating 
 from the printer’s case to the reporter’s desk. He learned 
 shorthand, and otherwise equipped himself for the busi- 
 ness of a journalist. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 7 
 
 Owing in part tp its proximity to Ireland, and in part 
 to the fact that it has always kept the old Faith, Preston 
 is an English stronghold of Catholicity, with a large Irish 
 population, sustaining its original name of “ Priest Town.” 
 
 He took part in the trade procession of the Guilds in 
 September, 1862. This jubilee is one of the institutions of 
 Preston which dates back to the reign of Henry the Sec- 
 ond, and is celebrated every twenty years. During its 
 progress, which lasts some ten days, the whole town 
 enjoys a holiday with daily processions and nightly illumi- 
 nations, attracting thousands of visitors from all parts of 
 the country. 
 
 About a year after his arrival he became a member, and 
 later a non-commissioned officer, of Company 2, Eleventh 
 Lancashire Rifle Volunteers. He was an enthusiastic sol- 
 dier, and an especial favorite in his company. 
 
 The three and a half years of his life in Preston were 
 among the happiest he was ever to know. Writing to a 
 friend in 1881, he said : 
 
 It is pleasant to be remembered kindly through nearly twenty years 
 of absence. To me every impression of Preston has kept its sharp out- 
 line. Yet I have been very busy and very unsettled during that time. 
 .... But all the years and events fade when I think of dear old Pres- 
 ton — and I find myself on the Ribble in an outrigger, striking away 
 
 under Walton heights, or pulling a race with Mr. P between the 
 
 bridges. . . . 
 
 Do you remember the day we went to Ribchester, and then walked 
 up along the river to Stonyhurst ? Somehow that day stands out as 
 one of the happiest and brightest in my life. I remember every inci- 
 dent as if it were yesterday. Though I lived only a few years in Pres- 
 ton, I love it and the friends I made there better than any I have since 
 known. In worldly way I have prospered ; and in literary repute I 
 stand well in this country. I am busy from morning till night. But 
 under all the changed appearances and surroundings the stream of my 
 old friendships and pleasures flows steadily along. 
 
 During all the time of his residence at Preston he dwelt 
 at the house of his aunt, at 81 Barton Terrace, Deepdale 
 Road, leading a quiet, studious life. During the winter 
 months he got up amateur theatricals. At Christmas he 
 
8 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 prepared a splendid performance, with a stage erected in the 
 back parlor, and an audience of little children, with one or 
 two older friends from the Guardian office. 
 
 This happy, tranquil, care-free life, eminently congenial 
 to the poet, did not satisfy the aspirations of the youth who 
 was much more than a poet. Nevertheless, it was with 
 many a heartache and some tears that he obeyed a call 
 from his father to return home on the expiration of his term 
 of apprenticeship, and seek employment on some Irish 
 paper. There was something besides filial obedience im- 
 pelling him when he left Preston, forever, about the end of 
 March, 1863. He had become deeply imbued with the 
 revolutionary principles, then so freely adopted by patriotic 
 Irishmen in all parts of the world. He dreamed of mak- 
 ing his country free — not merely independent of the Brit, 
 ish connection, but absolutely free— in short, a republic. 
 
 The Fenian movement was the crystallization of national 
 discontent and aspiration for liberty, which had remained 
 latent, but not dead, ever since the disastrous rising of 
 1798. O’Connell had failed to secure the repeal of the 
 Union through agitation. The brilliant and daring spirits 
 of * ‘ Young Ireland ’ ’ had appealed to force, in 1848. Noth- 
 ing came of it but defeat and humiliation. Irish orators 
 have fervently characterized the condition of their country- 
 men as one of slavery. The phrase is unjust and misleading. 
 The slave-master has a personal, selfish interest in the wel- 
 fare of his bondman. The death of a slave means pecun- 
 iary loss to his owner ; the escape of one is something to be 
 prevented at any cost. It is business policy to keep the 
 unpaid worker well and strong. Unfortunately for the 
 wretched people of Ireland they were not slaves. When 
 they died by thousands in the dark year of famine, when 
 they fled the country by millions in the following years, 
 their masters were unmoved by the one calamity ; they 
 rejoiced at the other. The vacant places were filled less 
 expensively than by purchase at the auction-block. The 
 sharp goad of hunger sent its victims to the human mart 
 more surely than the slave-driver’s whip. And political 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 9 
 
 economy, which knows no sentiment, had decided that cat- 
 tle were more profitable dwellers on the soil than men and 
 women. 
 
 Ireland was “pacified.” There was less discontent in 
 1860 than there had been twenty years before ; because 
 there were fewer men and women, by three millions, to be 
 discontented. Order reigned in Ireland, as it had reigned 
 in Warsaw. And so the country was desperately ripe for 
 insurrection. 
 
 The Fenians had planned a far-reaching scheme of revo- 
 lution. Popular discontent with misgovernment could be 
 relied upon as one agency ; for the Irishman is ever a rebel 
 against tyranny. Centuries of bitter experience have not 
 broken his spirit, nor checked his aspirations. 
 
 The American Civil War was another element. The 
 leaders counted on sympathy and aid from the people of 
 the North, sorely grieved by the conduct of England in 
 abetting the South. They counted on the more active sup- 
 port of thousands of Irisli-American soldiers who owed a 
 double debt of vengeance to the oppressors of their native 
 land and the enemy of their adopted country. 
 
 But their shrewdest expectation was based on the dis- 
 affection which they hoped, and not in vain, to be able to 
 sow in the ranks of the British army itself. More than 
 thirty-one per cent, of the rank and file of that army, in 
 1860, were Irishmen. 
 
 The proportion of potential rebels was morally increased 
 when John Boyle O’Reilly went over to Ireland, in May, 
 1863, to enlist as a trooper in the Tenth Hussars. One 
 does not weigh dangerous consequences against generous 
 impulses, at nineteen years of age. No more does he in- 
 quire with minute casuistry into the exact moral values of 
 the deed. In entering the military service of the British 
 Government, with the object of overthrowing' the monarchy, 
 he was guilty of treason, in the eye of the law. 
 
 But the penalty of treason, in any form, was death. 
 There is no higher penalty ; if there were it would have 
 been decreed for such offenses. Whether he plotted against 
 
10 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 the Crown within the ranks of the army, or defied its power 
 in open futile insurrection, the rebel’s life was equally 
 forfeit. The government puts no premium upon open 
 hostility; it sets no special ban upon secret conspiracy. 
 George Washington would have been hanged as ruthlessly 
 as Robert Emmet had his scheme of treason failed. 
 
 As the event proved, the boldness of the conspirators 
 was their salvation. The government, terrified at the extent 
 to which disloyalty had pervaded the ranks, dared not 
 be very severe in administering punishment. Rebellious 
 Sepoys might be blown from the cannon’s mouth, but there 
 were too many Irishmen in the army to make such a measure 
 wise in dealing with Fenians. 
 
 Young O’Reilly was not the man to weigh all these scru- 
 ples or chances. Like Nathan Hale and Major Andre, he 
 risked his life, but not his honor, when he entered the 
 enemy’ s lines. He would have accepted their fate without a 
 murmur, as the fortune of war, but when he joined the Tenth 
 Hussars for the express purpose of recruiting the ranks of 
 republicanism, he was animated by no motive more complex 
 than that described by himself in after years : “ They said 
 
 to us : ‘ Come on, boys, it is for Ireland,’— and we came.” 
 
 Never did dark conspirator bear lighter heart than did 
 this brilliant boy when he donned the handsome uniform of 
 the Tenth. Valentine Baker was its colonel, then a brave, 
 dashing, petted soldier ; later a just victim of British pro- 
 priety, and, later yet, the denationalized servant of the un- 
 speakable Turk. “ O’ Reilly was a good soldier,” testified 
 Baker at the trial of the rebellious Hussar. More than 
 once he had received petty promotion, which he always 
 took care to have canceled by some breach of discipline, for 
 he did not wish to owe over- much to the service. 
 
 The life of the trooper had many charms for him. He 
 loved its splendid glamour, being a soldier by inheritance 
 and instinct. He rejoiced in martial pastimes, and he 
 was young and comely enough to take a pleasure in the 4 gay 
 trappings of a cavalryman. It delighted him, as he after- 
 ward confessed, to go out of his way, when sent on a mes- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 11 
 
 sage of duty, in order to pass a certain great plate-glass 
 window, in which he could behold the dazzling proportions 
 of himself and his steed. But the boyish pride had in it 
 nothing to spoil his manliness. He coveted, and easily 
 won, the truer happiness of knowing that he was beloved 
 by his fellows. The qualities which had made him the 
 favorite of the printing-office and the Volunteer barracks, 
 which were destined to win the hearts of thousands in every 
 rank of life, in a strange land, gave him a high place in the 
 hearts of the rough troopers of the Tenth. By his personal 
 magnetism, as much as by the force of his eloquence, he 
 turned many a stout fellow from allegiance to the Queen, 
 to the more dangerous path of devotion to country. 
 
 Before coming to the abrupt close of his service as a 
 trooper in the “Prince of Wales’ Own,” it is worth while 
 to dwell for a moment on the life which he loved so well. 
 Among his unpublished papers I find some interesting frag- 
 mentary sketches of military life, which show what his 
 possibilities were had he possessed the leisure or inclination 
 to amplify them into pictures. 
 
 One is a delightful view of a passing regiment entitled : 
 
 THE PICKET OF DRAGOONS. 
 
 On a bright March morning, about ten o’clock, the loungers on the 
 quay along the river Liffey, that flows peacefully through the center of 
 Dublin, turned their indolent backs to the low wall and gazed at the 
 mounted picket of dragoons on its way to the “ Castle.” The soldiers 
 were going to relieve the picket from another cavalry regiment that 
 had been on guard since the day before. The picket was composed of 
 a sergeant, a corporal, and twelve troopers. The sun glittered on their 
 burnished bits, stirrups, and swords, and on the silk-like coats of their 
 well-groomed horses. They rode leisurely, in perfect order. 
 
 The sergeant, old, white-mustached, red-nosed, and very corpulent, 
 rode in front, his right hand planted jauntily on his thigh, and his 
 wicked eye raking the sidewalk for 'female admiration, and glancing 
 into the large shop windows, where he caught a passing reflection of 
 his graceful self. 
 
 “ Old Jock is in no hurry this morning,” said one of the drummers, 
 with a low laugh, to the comrade next him. “ Hurry ! old peacock ! ” 
 grumbled the other ; “he would like to parade here all day. Just 
 look ! ” A lady who had been approaching on the almost deserted 
 
12 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 sidewalk had stopped a little ahead, with the evident intention of 
 taking a good look at the soldiers. Oh ! the subtle influence of the 
 sex. Every man in the picket sat a little straighter, and even the 
 horses seemed to curve their necks until their lips kissed the brazen 
 boss of the breastplate. 
 
 It was a sweet moment for the sergeant. He leaned forward, taking 
 the reins in his right hand a moment to pat the horse’s neck with his 
 left white-gauntleted hand, which was next the sidewalk. Then he 
 sat easily back, right hand on thigh again, and blandly turned to beam 
 on the admiring divinity. Rare moment ! Only he who has worn 
 war-paint knows the meaning of it. The foam-fleck on the bit, the 
 shining color of the chain on the horse’s neck, the reminding touch of 
 the hilt against the thigh, — all these common, daily things are felt anew, 
 with a fresh significance known to the recruit, when they are mirrored 
 in the admiring, ignorant eyes of womanhood. 
 
 The Tenth Hussars were picked men, at least physically. 
 Morally and mentally they were also above the average, 
 w T hich was not high, of the army. A youth like O’ Reilly, 
 full of generous impulses and lofty aspirations, would have 
 been strangely out of place among the men whom the latest 
 novelist has given to the world as representative British 
 soldiers. But the troopers of the Tenth were far above 
 such ruthless swashbucklers. Types of the latter were to 
 be met with at the great military musters of Aldershot and 
 the Curragh. “ Are Mulvaney and Learoyd and Ortheris 
 fair representatives of the British private ? ’ ’ was a question 
 put to the ex-private of Troop D, of the Tenth Hussars, 
 shortly after the appearance on the literary stage of these 
 Anglo-Indian musketeers. “They are not average sol- 
 diers,” he replied, “but they are not caricatures. I have 
 seen men fully as depraved as Mr. Kipling’s hero, who 
 boasted of having ‘ put his foot through every one of the 
 Ten Commandments between “ reveille” and “ lights out.” ’ 
 I met one at a review on the Curragh, who told me, with- 
 out the slightest apparent thought of the atrocity of the 
 deed, how he and his comrades had once roasted a Hindoo 
 gentleman to death, out of pure, wanton savagery. He did 
 not consider it a crime to be ashamed of, nor a feat to boast 
 of. It was simply an incident in his campaign experience.” 
 
 It would be a gross libel to say that the British army is 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 13 
 
 mainly, or even largely, made up of such truculent ruffians 
 as these, or that even the milder villainies chronicled by 
 Kipling are fairly characteristic of them. It is neverthe- 
 less true that few men of good character enter the ranks, 
 unless impelled by stern necessity, or by such a higher 
 motive as that which sent O’Reilly and scores of other 
 incipient rebels thither. Thirty years ago, the British 
 private soldier was looked upon as a moral outcast by even 
 the humblest of honest folk in civil life. Characteris- 
 tically enough, the same people, as well as their “ betters,’’ 
 had nothing but envious admiration for the commissioned 
 officer, whose morals were not a whit choicer than those of 
 the enlisted man. But that inconsistency of human nature 
 is as old as the noble trade of war itself. 
 
 There were good men as well as good soldiers, thousands 
 of them, in the rank and file. It was always the good men 
 and good soldiers among the Irishmen who were most 
 easily converted to the doctrines of Fenianism. This is one 
 of the commonest fruits of misgovernment. 
 
 O’ Reilly was a model soldier, quick to learn and punc- 
 tual to obey the rules of military discipline. He was the 
 life of the barracks, infecting his comrades with something 
 of his own gay and cheery nature. He was foremost in 
 every amusement, lightening the dullness of life in quarters 
 with concerts and dramatic performances, sometimes of his 
 own composition, a strong Nationalist tone pervading all 
 his work. Treasonable songs and ballads were chanted in 
 the quarters of troop D, and spread among the other com- 
 panies. With boyish recklessness . he embroidered rebel 
 devices on the under side of his saddle-cloth, and in the 
 lining of his military overcoat. 
 
 Yet when the Government, alarmed at the spread of 
 disaffection, sent its secret agents to investigate, the con- 
 spirators hoodwinked and baffled all the minor spies, and 
 laughed in their sleeves at the dullness of Scotland Yard. 
 Treason continued to flourish, and, but for counter-treason, 
 might have flourished indefinitely. Talbot, the arch- 
 informer, was detailed to work up the case. He was a use- 
 
14 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 ful agent of Government, a smooth, insidious scoundrel, 
 who ingratiated himself into the confidence of the most 
 wary, professing the warmest patriotic sentiments, and 
 carrying his deception even to the extent of assuming to be 
 a devout Catholic. As such he went to Confession and 
 Communion with pious punctuality. 
 
 This utterly depraved scoundrel deserves more than 
 passing mention. His other deserts he received when, in 
 open day, on a crowded Dublin street, he was shot dead by 
 an illegal agent of righteous retribution. In the year 1864, 
 under the assumed name of Kelly, and the disguise of a 
 zealous Catholic and patriot, he presented himself to the 
 Fenian conspirators at Clonmel, Tipperary, and showed so 
 much enthusiasm in the cause that he was speedily ap- 
 pointed an officer and authorized to organize a “ circle.” 
 His zeal was so great that he made many converts among 
 young men who, but for his exhortations, would never 
 have dreamed of entering upon such a dangerous adven- 
 ture. He personally administered the Fenian oath to a 
 large number of soldiers. 
 
 When the collapse came, the chief witness for the Gov- 
 ernment was the oily “ Mr. Kelly,” water-bailiff of Clon- 
 mel, alias Head Constable Talbot. This Government agent 
 was the lay figure from which Boucicault drew one of 
 his greatest studies, Harvey Buff , the informer in “The 
 Shaughraun.” 
 
 Ten years after Talbot’s betrayal of the Fenians, and 
 two years after the informer had gone to his account, one 
 of his victims wrote as follows in his paper, the Boston 
 Pilot : 
 
 “There is underlying the character of ‘ The Shaughraun,’ 
 one rigid and terrible line — a line typical and national — 
 hatred of an informer . Mr. Boucicault, an Irishman him- 
 self, must have carefully studied the devilish character of 
 Talbot before he drew that of Harvey Buff . Here, too, 
 we find a man — coward at heart, but confident and cun- 
 ning— who wins the trust of the peasantry, and then swears 
 their lives away. Villainy added to villainy fills the trai- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 15 
 
 tor’s cup at last, and the awful hour comes when the in- 
 former cowers like a cur at the feet of the Shaughraun , and 
 gasps in terror at the cries of the country people coming 
 down the hillside in pursuit. Here stands out the rigid 
 line that subtends the character of laughter-loving, but 
 now terrible Conn. The drollery dies out of his face and 
 the light freezes in his eye. Seizing the kneeling wretch 
 by the throat, he laughs in his agonized face, as pitiless as 
 Fate. 
 
 Listen to them,’ he cries, pointing to the hillside ; 
 * look at them ! They are coming for you ! Do you see 
 that old man with the spade ? That’s Andy Donovan, 
 whose son you sent to prison. And that old woman with 
 the hatchet? That’s Bridget Madigan, whose boys you 
 sent across the sea. Pity ! you dog ! I’ll have pity on 
 you, as you had 'pity on them / ’ ” 
 
 On the one side was pitted the might, and money, and 
 influence of a great Empire ; on the other, the reckless 
 courage and uncalculating patriotism of the few and friend- 
 less, but generous-hearted dreamers like Boyle O’ Reilly. 
 
 John Devoy, the indefatigable agent of the revolutionary 
 party, tells how he first met the young Hussar who was to 
 play such a prominent part in the after history of his coun- 
 try : 
 
 “ I met him first in October, 1865, and the circumstances 
 were characteristic of that troubled period of Irish history. 
 The Tenth was quartered at Island Bridge Barracks, in the 
 western outskirts of Dublin. There was a warrant for my 
 arrest as a Fenian at the time, and I could not go home or 
 attend to business. I had some acquaintance with the 
 army, through living near the Curraghcamp, and, when all 
 the ‘ organizers ’ for the army had been arrested or forced 
 to remain ‘ on their keeping,’ James Stephens, the chief 
 executive of the Irish republic that was to be, appointed 
 me ‘ chief organizer ’ for the British army. The position 
 involved some risks, but I undertook it, and in a few months 
 laid up sufficient evidence to procure myself a sentence of 
 fifteen years’ penal servitude. 
 
16 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “ I succeeded very well with all the regiments of the 
 Dublin garrison except the Tenth Hussars, and I wanted to 
 do the best I could with it, on account of the location of 
 the barracks. The men were mainly English, but there 
 were about a hundred Irishmen among them. Those I 
 had met were mostly worthless, and I could make no head- 
 way. At last a young veterinary surgeon from Drogheda, 
 named Harry Byrne, now dead — all the men of that period 
 are dying off — was introduced to me by Colonel Kelly, the 
 man afterward rescued in Manchester. He told me there 
 was a young fellow of his acquaintance in the Tenth who 
 would just fill the bill. In half an hour we were on our way 
 to Island Bridge on an outside car. We dismissed it some 
 distance away and went into the barracks. The regiment 
 had been stationed in Drogheda, and Byrne knew many of 
 the officers and sergeants through his profession. In the 
 barrack square we met a bluff, hearty sergeant major, an 
 Englishman of the best type, whom Byrne knew. He told 
 us O’Reilly was on picket at the royal barracks. There 
 were heavy pickets of cavalry and infantry kept in readi- 
 ness for emergencies at certain points in Dublin during these 
 exciting times. We went into the canteen and had a drink 
 and a chat with the old veteran, and he praised O’Reilly to 
 the skies. He pronounced him the best young soldier in 
 the regiment, and evidently thought there was a great 
 future before him. ‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said he, 4 if in 
 five or six years that young fellow’ d be a troop sawjent 
 majah.’ 
 
 “We went to the royal barracks, not far away, and, 
 meeting some Fenian troopers of the Fifth Dragoon Guards, 
 were soon piloted to where the picket of the Tenth was 
 stationed. O’Reilly was in the stable tightening his saddle 
 girths and getting ready to mount and start off to the 
 viceregal lodge with a dispatch for the lord lieutenant from 
 Sir Hugh Rose, the commander of the forces in Ireland. 
 Byrne had just time to introduce us, and O’Reilly and I to 
 make an appointment for the next evening, when he brought 
 out his horse, sprang into the saddle, and was off. O’ Reilly 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 17 
 
 was then a handsome, lithely built young fellow of twenty, 
 with the down of a future black mustache on his lip. He 
 had a pair of beautiful dark eyes, that changed in expres- 
 sion with his varying emotions. He wore the full-dress 
 dark blue hussar uniform, with its mass of braiding across 
 the breast, and the busby, with its tossing plume, was set 
 jauntily on the head and held by a linked brass strap, 
 catching under the lower lip. 
 
 “ From that time till the following February, when we 
 were both arrested within a few days of each other, I saw 
 him almost every day. When on guard or picket duty he 
 never failed to communicate to me, through William Curry, 
 a furloughed corporal of the Eighty-seventh Foot, — the 
 famous ‘Faugh a Ballaghs,’ — who could go in and out of 
 the barracks, every change worth knowing in the location 
 and strength of the guards and pickets. He brought in 
 some eighty men to be sworn in, had them divided into 
 two .prospective troops, obtained possession of the key of 
 an unused postern gate, and had everything ready to take 
 his men, armed and mounted, out of the barracks at a given 
 signal. The signal never came, and all his and other men’s 
 risks and sacrifices were thrown away through incompetent 
 and nerveless leadership.” 
 
 It was time for the Government to exert itself, as fifteen 
 thousand British soldiers had been enrolled in the ranks of 
 the revolutionists. On the 15th of September, 1865, the 
 blow fell. The Irish People newspaper, which had been 
 for two years the organ of the physical force party, was 
 seized by the police, and its editors, Thomas Clark Luby, 
 John O’Leary, and Jeremiah O’ Donovan Rossa, were put 
 under arrest. This action of the Government was wholly 
 unexpected on the part of the conspirators, who had, very 
 unwisely, foreborne to destroy hundreds of letters of an 
 incriminating nature from fellow- conspirators in all parts 
 of the country. The authorities, by one stroke, were thus 
 given the key to the whole revolutionary scheme. In the 
 following November, Charles Joseph Kickham, another 
 editor of The Irish People, was arrested, together with 
 
18 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 James Stephens, the great “ Head Center’’ of the Fenian 
 movement. Stephens escaped from Richmond prison be- 
 fore he could be brought to trial. The man through whose 
 skill and daring he was rescued from the very lion’s jaws 
 was John Breslin, of whom we shall hear again in a still 
 more audacious, successful exploit. By a curious coinci- 
 dence, John Boyle O’Reilly was one of the soldiers detailed 
 to guard the court room on the occasion of O’ Donovan 
 Rossa’s trial. The famous “dynamiter” recognized his 
 former guard when they met, years afterward, in New 
 York. 
 
 O’Reilly was looking out of the barrack windows at 
 Island Bridge, in the city of Dublin, on the afternoon of 
 February 12, 1866, when he saw one of his fellow-conspira- 
 tors arrested and led to the guard-house. “My turn will 
 come next,” he said quietly. His prediction was verified ; 
 he was arrested within forty-eight hours. As he traversed 
 the barrack-yard, in charge of a detective, his colonel met 
 him, and shaking his fist in the prisoner’s face, exclaimed, 
 “Damn you, O’Reilly! you have ruined the finest regi- 
 ment in the service.” There was perhaps as much of regret 
 as of anger in the imprecation ; for Valentine Baker liked 
 the bright and handsome young Hussar, whom he had once 
 saved from an ignominious punishment, and the feeling 
 was reciprocated. Years afterwards, when their situations 
 were reversed, and O’ Reilly, prosperous and honored, read 
 of the shame that had come upon his old commander, he 
 was moved by genuine sorrow and sympathy for the fallen 
 soldier. 
 
 While he lay in Arbor Hill military prison, closely 
 guarded, as was each of the accused, pressure was brought 
 to bear upon him to inform against his comrades. He was 
 assured that others had secured immunity for themselves by 
 making a clean breast of their connection with the conspiracy. 
 Certain weak men to whom a similar assurance had been given 
 had, indeed, been duped into becoming informers. Isol- 
 ation, silence, the grim uncertainty that hung over all, and 
 especially the seed of suspicion so carefully sown, that he 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 19 
 
 who held out longest would suffer the worst, were argu- 
 ments strong enough to weaken many a man who would 
 not have wavered if ordered to charge a battery. The 
 warden who had immediate charge of O’Reilly was an old 
 soldier and an Englishman. As a loyal subject he hated 
 treason ; but, as a soldier, he bore no love for a traitor to 
 his fellows. As in duty bound he officially countenanced 
 the efforts of the authorities to secure evidence by any and 
 all means. One day, just before that fixed for the trial, 
 another official labored for the last time long and earnestly 
 to extort a confession from O’Reilly, assuring him that 
 others had owned up and that it would be suicidal folly in 
 him to remain silent when he could secure pardon by tell- 
 ing all he knew. The warden, who was present, threw in 
 an occasional perfunctory remark to the same effect. As 
 the prisoner continued obdurate, the official took his leave, 
 with a parting warning of the dread consequences. The 
 warden accompanied him to the door, adding his word of 
 advice: “ Yes, you’d better do as he says, O’Reilly. It 
 will be better for you to save your own neck, my boy.” 
 Then closing the door on the visitor and wheeling sharply 
 round, “ And, damme ! I’d like to choke you with my own 
 hands if you do ! ” 
 
 Another interesting story of this period attaches to one 
 of the very few of his early poems which he judged worthy 
 of preservation in his collected work — “The Old School 
 Clock.” The manuscripts of that and some other verses 
 were discovered hidden in the ventilator of the cell occu- 
 pied by a fellow -prisoner, after his trial and deportation to 
 England. It fell into the hands of Mr. Vere Foster, the 
 celebrated philanthropist, who sent copies to the young 
 poet’ s family, and took such an especial liking to ‘ 4 The Old 
 School Clock,” that he printed it, with a picture of the old 
 and the new clocks, as described in the poem, on the back 
 of the National School copy-books, which were manufac- 
 tured by him. The original clock was one which hung on 
 the wall of the Netterville schoolroom. On revisiting home, 
 while serving in the Tenth Hussars, O’ Reilly missed the old 
 
20 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. 
 
 clock, its place being usurped, as he tells in the poem, by 
 “ a new-fashioned Yankee” intruder. 
 
 The fellow-prisoner was Captain James Murphy, a vete- 
 ran of the American Civil War, who had been arrested, 
 while traveling in Ireland, on the false charge of being a 
 deserter from the British army. When Captain Murphy 
 was transferred from Arbor Hill, his person and clothing 
 were searched rigorously, but nothing contraband was 
 found, as he had hidden the poems, written in pencil, and 
 the following letter from their author, in the ventilator of 
 his cell : 
 
 My Dear Old Fellow : I have a good many more bits of poetry of 
 my own manufacture, but they are of a nature which would not serve 
 you were they discovered going to you. I also was cautioned about 
 this courier, but I think he is true. If you get this, and can depend on 
 any one to call, I’ll give you a long letter and more poems. I wrote 
 “ The Old Clock ” to-day. If you can possibly give a copy of it to my 
 father, do. He or my brother will tell you all about the “ Old Clock,” 
 etc. I was reminded of it by looking at the prison clock this morning. 
 
 Mr. Foster was compelled to withdraw the poem from 
 the copy-books, as the National School Board objected to 
 sanctioning the production, however innocent, of a Fenian. 
 Some years afterwards Mr. Foster visited America, and on 
 his return told the following interesting sequel to the inci- 
 dent : 
 
 “ On my arrival at Boston, I called on the proprietor of 
 the Pilot . He said : ‘ To-morrow morning I shall send a 
 young man from this office to call on you. He will ques- 
 tion you as to the object of your present visit to America, 
 and I will print a paragraph which may be the means of 
 bringing some of your old friends about you.’ 
 
 “ Next morning a handsome young man of good address 
 called on me at my hotel, and after some conversation, I 
 asked him his name. 
 
 “ ‘John Boyle O’Reilly,’ said he. 
 
 “ ‘Are you the author of a little poem called “The Old 
 School Clock” V 
 
 “ ‘I am,’ he replied. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 21 
 
 “He didn’t know that the poem had been found, and a 
 copy of it given, as he had desired, to his parents, whom I 
 had hunted up in Dublin, and at length found lodging in 
 the same street as myself, or that the poem had been pub- 
 lished. 
 
 “I had but one copy with me, which he was greatly 
 delighted to possess. He entertained me at dinner, and 
 showed me all over the city.” 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Trial by Court-martial — A Prisoner’s Rights before a British Military 
 Tribunal — The Stories of Two Informers— Found Guilty and Sen- 
 tenced to Death— Commutation of Sentence — Mountjoy Prison — 
 How O’Reilly repaid a Traitor. 
 
 O H Wednesday, June 27, 1866, the eve of his twenty- 
 second birthday, his trial by court-martial began in 
 the mess-room of the Eighty- fifth Regiment at Royal Bar- 
 racks. The charge was, ‘‘Having at Dublin, in January, 
 1866, come to the knowledge of an intended mutiny in 
 Her Majesty’s Forces in Ireland, and not giving informa- 
 tion of said intended mutiny to his commanding officer.” 
 His fellow prisoners were Color- Sergeant Charles Mc- 
 Carthy, Privates Patrick Keating, Michael Harrington, 
 Thomas Darragh, and Capt. James Murphy, the last named 
 being the American soldier who was charged with having 
 deserted from the British camp at Aldershot at a time 
 when, as he was happily able to prove, he was serving his 
 country in Western Virginia. 
 
 The court-martial was constituted as follows : Presi- 
 dent, Colonel Sawyer, Sixth Dragoon Guards. Prose- 
 cutor, Captain Whelan, Eighth Regiment, assisted by Mr. 
 Landy, Q. C. The Judge Advocate was advised by Mr. 
 Johnson. The prisoner was defended by Mr. O’Loughlen, 
 advised by Mr. John Lawless, solicitor. 
 
 The other officers of the court were : Lieut. -Col. Maun- 
 sell, Major Drew, and Capt. Gladstone, Seventy-fifth Foot ; 
 Capt. Wallace and Lieut. Caryvell, Ninety-second Gordon 
 Highlanders ; Capt. Skinner, Military Train ; Capt. Kings- 
 ton and Lieut. Garnett, Fifth Dragoons ; Capt. Bartliorp, 
 Tenth Hussars ; Capt. Telford and Lieut. Meade, Sixtieth 
 Rifles ; Capt. Taylor, Eighty-eighth Foot ; Capt. Fox and 
 Ensign Parkinson, Sixty-first Foot. 
 
 32 
 
23 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 The prisoner pleaded “not guilty.” Capt. Whelan, 
 the prosecutor, opened the case against Private O’Reilly, 
 as follows : 
 
 4 ‘ The enormity of the offense with which the prisoner is 
 charged is such that it is difficult to find language by 
 which to describe it. It strikes at the root of all military 
 discipline, and, if allowed to escape punishment which it 
 entails, would render her Majesty’s forces, who ought to 
 be the guardians of our lives and liberty, and the bulwark 
 and protection of the constitution under which we live, a 
 source of danger to the state and all its loyal citizens and 
 subjects, and her Majesty’s faithful subjects would become 
 the prey and victims of military despotism, licentiousness, 
 and violence. Our standing army would then be a terror 
 to the throne, and a curse, not a blessing, to the commu- 
 nity ; but at the same time, as is the gravity of the offense, 
 so in proportion should the evidence by which such a 
 charge is to be sustained, be carefully and sedulously 
 weighed. It will be for you, gentlemen, to say whether 
 the evidence which will be adduced before you, leaves 
 upon your mind any reasonable doubt of the prisoner’s 
 guilt.” 
 
 The prosecutor, in continuation, said that evidence 
 would be laid before them to show that the prisoner was 
 an active member of the Fenian conspiracy, and that he 
 had endeavored to induce other soldiers to join it. 
 
 The first witness called was Lance-Corporal Fitz- 
 gerald, Tenth Hussars. He said : 
 
 I know the prisoner. I know Hoey’s public house in Bridgeport 
 Street. I was in it in the month of November, 1865, with the prisoner. 
 He brought me there. I was introduced by the prisoner to a man 
 named Devoy. There were then present, Tierney, Rorreson, Bergin, 
 and Sinclair of the Tenth Hussars. 
 
 Prosecutor. Was there any conversation in presence of the pris- 
 oner ? If so, state what it was. 
 
 Prisoner. I object, sir, to that question. It relates to a conversa- 
 tion previous to the date of the charge, and can have no reference to it. 
 
 The court ruled that the evidence was admissible, and the question 
 was put. 
 
24 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Witness. Prisoner introduced me to Devoy and said : “ This is Cor- 
 poral Fitzgerald,” and I spoke to him. Devoy said O’Reilly had spoken 
 to him several times about me, and said he should like to get me. We 
 three sat down together and I asked Devoy who was carrying on this 
 affair. He said Stephens. I asked, were there any arms or ammunition. 
 He said there was, and they were getting lots every day from America. 
 I asked who were to be their officers. He said there would be plenty 
 of officers. He said it was so carried on that privates did not know 
 their non-commissioned officers, nor they their officers. Devoy then 
 left the room and the prisoner went after him. After a few minutes 
 prisoner came and told me that Devoy wanted to speak to me. I went 
 down to the yard and found Devoy there. He said, ‘ ‘ I suppose O’Reilly 
 has told you what I want with you.” 
 
 . Prisoner. I respectfully object, sir. What the witness now states 
 to have taken place, was not in my presence. 
 
 Court decided that the answer should be given. 
 
 Witness. I said that I did not know. He said that it was for the 
 purpose of joining them he wanted me, and that there was an oath 
 necessary to be taken. I said I would not take the oath, and he then 
 said that he would not trust any man that did not take the oath. We 
 then returned upstairs. Nothing further took place. 
 
 President. What did you mean by using the words, “This busi- 
 ness ” ? 
 
 Witness. I meant the Fenian conspiracy. When I went upstairs 
 I saw the prisoner, who bade me good-night. The next time I saw him 
 was one evening I met him in town coming from the barracks. Some 
 arrests took place that day, and I said, ‘ ‘ This business is getting 
 serious.” He said it was, and that my name had been mentioned at a 
 meeting a few nights before. I asked what meeting, and he said a 
 military meeting. I asked him who mentioned my name, and he said 
 he did not know exactly, but that it was a man of the Fifth Dragoon 
 Guards. He added, “ If you come home to-night I will take you to a 
 similar meeting.” I gave him no decided answer. I afterwards met 
 him in the barracks. This all occurred before the meeting at Hoey’s, of 
 which I stated. When I met him in the barracks he asked me was I 
 going out. I replied that I was. He said, “Will you meet me at the 
 sign of the ‘ Two Soldiers ’ ? ” I said yes, and went there and waited 
 until O’Reilly came in. He called for some drink, and after we drank 
 we left the house, but came back again to get my gloves, and he said, 
 “ I want to introduce you to a person.” I said that I had no time and 
 should go, but he said, “ I shall not detain you a minute.” I then went 
 with him to Hoey’s public house. It was on that occasion that I had 
 the interview with Devoy of which I have given evidence. 
 
 Here the court adjourned for half an hour. 
 
 On its reassembling Corporal Fitzgerald continued ids testimony : 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 25 
 
 The conversation of which I have last spoken took place either 
 toward the end of November or the beginning of December, 1865. 
 Prisoner never told me the object of the military meetings of which he 
 spoke. I know Pilsworth’s public house, James’s Street. I met prisoner 
 in that house on the 13th of January, 1866. There were with him 
 Denny, Mullarchy, Hood, Loftus, Crosby, and Sinclair, all Tenth Hus- 
 sars, and two deserters from Fifth Dragoon Guards. They were in 
 civilian clothes. There was a man named Williams present, and also 
 Devoy. On that occasion I had no conversation with O’Reilly, nor 
 with any other person in his hearing. I never had any further conver- 
 sation with the prisoner about Fenianism. 
 
 To the Court : 
 
 Prisoner never asked me the result of my conversation with Devoy. 
 
 On cross-examination by the prisoner, witness said : 
 
 When I was in Hoey’s public house there were no soldiers of any 
 other regiment but the Tenth Hussars present. That was the only 
 time I met the prisoner at Hoey’s. It was a few days after the con- 
 versation which took place when I met the prisoner coming from the 
 barracks, that he introduced me to Devoy. I am twelve years in the 
 army. The prisoner was in the army only three years. 
 
 To the Court : 
 
 I made no report to my commanding officer of my conversation with 
 Devoy or the other meeting at Pilsworth’s. I never took the Fenian 
 oath. 
 
 The next witness, Private McDonald, Tenth Hussars, testified : 
 
 I know Pilsworth’s house. I was there about Christmas last with 
 the prisoner. I went with him to the house. There were other per- 
 sons there but I cannot say who they were. There were some civilians, 
 but I did not know their names. Since then I heard that Devoy was 
 one of them. The prisoner did not introduce me to any one on that 
 occasion. Any drink the soldiers had they paid for themselves. There 
 was no conversation relating to Fenianism in the presence of the 
 prisoner. 
 
 Here the President deemed it advisable to give the wit- 
 ness a hint that his evidence was not satisfactory. 
 
 President. Remember that you are on your oath. 
 
 Witness. Prisoner was sitting near me for a quarter of an hour or 
 more ; he was not far away from me. He was sitting alongside me, 
 close as one person sits to another. I knew prisoner before that night. 
 
 I had some conversation with O’Reilly while he was sitting by me. I 
 cannot now tell what it was about, but it was not about Fenianism. 
 
 Devoy was not sitting near me that night; he was sitting at the same 
 table, but I did not speak to him, nor he to me. I know Fortune’s 
 
26 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 public house in Golden Lane. I have been once in that house with 
 O’Reilly, but I cannot say in what month. It was after Christmas, I 
 think. There were some civilians and soldiers there ; the soldiers were 
 infantry men. Devoy was one of the civilians, but I knew no one 
 else’s name. 
 
 Here the President again interjected a threatening hint. 
 
 President . Is it impossible to know an infantry man’s name ? 
 
 Witness. I did not know their names. 
 
 President. What regiments did they belong to ? 
 
 Witness. Some of Sixty -first, some of Eighty-seventh; there were no 
 other cavalrymen but prisoner and myself. The prisoner did not 
 introduce me to any one on that occasion. We were in Fortune’s for 
 an hour and a half. I had no conversation with the prisoner on that 
 occasion ; the people who were there were talking to themselves and 
 I did not hear any conversation that night. Some of the civilians 
 treated me to some drink. Devoy treated both me and the prisoner. 
 I have met a man known by the name of Davis. He was not in 
 Fortune’s that night. Devoy, prisoner, and myself all drank together 
 that night. After leaving Fortune’s we went to Doyle’s public house. 
 Devoy came with two other civilians and some infantry soldiers. I 
 was in Doyle’s from half-past eight until after nine. In Doyle’s we 
 were again treated to drink by the civilians and by Devoy ; it was he 
 asked us to go there. O’Reilly was in the room when he asked me to 
 do so, but I could not say how near he was to us when Devoy was 
 speaking. I think prisoner might have heard Devoy speaking. When 
 Devoy asked us to go to Doyle’s he said it was quieter than Fortune’s. 
 In Doyle’s we were not exactly sitting together, there were some civil- 
 ians between me and Devoy. I do not know their names. 
 
 Here the Court adjourned to next morning. 
 
 McDonald’s examination resumed : 
 
 When I was in Doyle’s, prisoner was not sitting ; he was standing 
 between me and Devoy. He was in front of me. I had no conver- 
 sation with the prisoner or with any person in his hearing. I was with 
 the prisoner in Barclay’s public house about a fortnight after I was in 
 Doyle’s with him. There were some soldiers and civilians there. 
 Devoy was there. I don’t know any other names, but I know their 
 faces. They were the same men who had been at Doyle’s. We 
 remained at Barclay’s from seven till nine o’clock. On that occasion I 
 had no conversation with the prisoner, I had no conversation in pres- 
 ence of prisoner. I went to Barclay’s with John O’Reilly. The next 
 public house I was in with him was Hoey’s, in Bridgeport Street, about 
 a week after. I went there with prisoner. Same civilians were there 
 that I met before, and some infantry soldiers. Prisoner did not remain ; 
 he went away after I went into the house. I had no conversation with 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 27 
 
 O’Reilly that night. I afterwards, in the same month, went with 
 prisoner to Bergin’s, James’s Street ; remained there from half-past eight 
 to quarter-past nine ; did not know any persons present, they were all 
 strangers ; there were four infantry soldiers, one of them, I think, of 
 the Fifty-third. Prisoner was there the whole time ; there was no con- 
 versation between prisoner and those present. There was singing. 
 
 President. No conversation ! 
 
 Witness. None. 
 
 President. Public houses must be mortal slow places according to 
 your account. 
 
 Witness. Singing was in presence and hearing of prisoner. Pris- 
 oner did not join in the singing ; he was sitting down ; we were both 
 drinking some beer. Some civilians asked us to drink, but we treated 
 ourselves. Prisoner told me that he belonged to the Fenian brother- 
 hood in Cahir. He told me so in conversation as we were coming 
 down from Island Bridge Barracks, in April, twelve months ago. 
 Cross-examined by Prisoner : 
 
 At Pilsworth’s there were three or four sitting at the same table 
 with us and Devoy. When I said there was no conversation between 
 me and the prisoner at Fortune’s I meant no conversation about 
 Fenianism. When Devoy asked me to go to Doyle’s, prisoner might 
 not have heard him do so. We went upstairs at Barclay’s. When I said 
 I had no conversation with the prisoner at Hoey’s, I meant none about 
 Fenianism. I think I saw Corporal Fitzgerald at Hoey’s one night, 
 but I can’t tell the date. I never was in company with Fitzgerald at 
 Hoey’s public house ; it is over twelve months and more since the 
 Tenth Hussars were quartered in Cahir ; I had no conversation with 
 prisoner in Pilsworth’s about Fenianism. Strange civilians often asked 
 me to take a drink in public houses. I never was a Fenian. The 
 Tenth Hussars were quartered in Cahir for nine months. 
 
 To the Court : 
 
 The prisoner told me who Devoy was in Pilsworth’s. I have known 
 the prisoner since he enlisted, three years ago. It was in Pilsworth’s I 
 met the man called Davis, that was in January ; I never saw him 
 before or since. I cannot recollect the subjects of which we talked in 
 the various public houses. 
 
 To the Prisoner : 
 
 Was not in Hoey’s when Fitzgerald was there. I cannot tell pris- 
 oner’s motive in asking me to go to the various public houses with him. 
 In Fortune’s there were civilians present. We left it to go to Doyle’s, as 
 we did not like to talk before them. There was nobody in the room at 
 Doyle’s when we went in. There were seven or eight of us came from 
 Fortune’s to Doyle’s. I do not know who the civilians were that were 
 left behind. 
 
28 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 President. Why were you so confidential with some of the civilians 
 you met at Fortune’s for the first time, and not with all ? And what 
 was the mysterious conversation about ? 
 
 Witness. It was the civilians proposed to go to Doyle’s and it was 
 they who held the conversation. I do not remember any of the songs 
 that were sung at Bergin’s. Davis was a low-sized man whose hair was 
 cut like a soldier’s. When the prisoner told me to go to the public 
 houses at night, he used to say, “ Go to such a house and you will meet 
 John there, and tell him I am on duty.” 
 
 President. Who was John ? 
 
 Witness. Devoy. 
 
 President. Then Devoy was a great friend of the prisoner ? 
 
 Witness. He appeared to be. 
 
 President. Now answer a direct question : Were the songs sung 
 Fenian songs ? 
 
 Witness. No, sir ; they were not. 
 
 Prisoner. Were the songs chiefly love songs ? 
 
 Witness. I don’t know. 
 
 Prisoner. Did I ever tell you Devoy was an old friend of my 
 family ? 
 
 Witness. No, he did not. John O’Reilly never spoke to me about 
 Fenianism, and I never heard Fenian songs in his company. 
 
 President . Recollect what you say : Did you not swear that pris- 
 oner told you he was a Fenian ? 
 
 Witness. He said he was one at Cahir. 
 
 President. How do you know what a Fenian song is ? 
 
 Witness. I don’t know. I suppose they are Irish songs. 
 
 Prisoner. Did you not state to the President that I told you I had 
 been a member of the Fenian Brotherhood while I was at Cahir ? 
 
 Witness. Yes, that you had been a Fenian at Cahir. 
 
 The unprejudiced reader, accustomed to the rigid im- 
 partiality of an American court, will be surprised at the 
 hardly concealed hostility of this court-martial president 
 toward his prisoner. Private MacDonald’s testimony is so 
 favorable to the accused that it does not please the Court 
 at all. The President accordingly reminds him that he is 
 “under oath,” sneers at his refusal to “identify” men 
 whom he does not know, and makes it generally clear to 
 succeeding witnesses that evidence tending to prove the 
 prisoner’s innocence- is not of the kind wanted in that 
 court. 
 
 The next witness was Private Dennis Denny, Tenth Hussars : 
 
 I remember the evening of the 1st January, last. I was in the “Two 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 29 
 
 Soldiers ” public house with the prisoner. He told me that if I went 
 to Hoey’s with him he would show me the finest set of Irishmen I 
 ever saw in my life. We went there and found a number of civilians 
 assembled. The prisoner, after some time, took me out of the room and 
 told me that the Fenians were going to beat the English army and 
 make this country their own. He ask me to take an oath to join the 
 Fenians. I answered that I had already taken an oath to serve my queen 
 and country and that was enough for me. I then came down and went 
 into the yard and he again asked me to be a Fenian. I told him no. 
 He then went away and a civilian came and said — 
 
 Prisoner. I object to anything being put in evidence relative to a 
 Conversation at which I was not present. 
 
 Court adjourned for half an hour to consider the objection. 
 
 On its reassembling, Private Denny continued : 
 
 After returning upstairs prisoner was there and I saw him. I had 
 no conversation with him. I met O’Reilly in Island Bridge Barracks 
 about a week before I was in Hoey’s with him. I had then no conver- 
 sation with him. 
 
 Cross-examined by Prisoner : 
 
 I am eight years in the Tenth Hussars. I had spoken before that 
 evening with the prisoner, but nothing about Fenianism. I cannot say 
 at what period of the day on the first of January this took place, but 
 it was in the evening, about seven or eight, I think. There was nobody 
 but the prisoner with me when I went to Hoey’s. Lance-Corporal 
 Fitzgerald was not in our company. I never, so far as I know, was in 
 Fitzgerald’s company at Hoey 7 s. We went back to the “Two Soldiers ” 
 that evening by ourselves. We went back to have a glass of beer. I 
 had been drinking before that evening. I was arrested at Island Bridge 
 Barracks and confined in the regiment cells at Richmond Barracks. I 
 was taken on duty to Dublin Castle in aid of the civil power. 
 
 Prisoner withdrew this last question. 
 
 Witness. I made no report to my superior officers of what took place 
 at Hoey’s before my arrest. I was arrested on the 5th of March. I 
 made a statement of what took place before I was transferred to Rich- 
 mond barracks. I was arrested on a charge of Fenianism and was for 
 two days in the cells at Island Bridge, during which time I was visited 
 by Provost-Sergeant Del worth. He did not tell me what I was charged 
 with. It was told to me by my commanding officer on 5th of March, 
 when I was arrested. I did not know O’Reilly was arrested until he 
 spoke to me through the wall of the cells ; that was the first time I knew 
 he was arrested. Sergeant Delworth came to visit me, but I cannot say 
 if it was before then that prisoner spoke through the wall to me. I was 
 only once at Hoey’s public house that I am aware of — that was on 1st 
 of January, 1866. I made no statement to the provost sergeant at all. 
 
30 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY, 
 
 I made none while in the cells. I swear that the conversation at Hoey’s 
 took place on 1st January, 1866. 
 
 By the Court : 
 
 Before prisoner told you that the Fenians were going to beat the 
 English army out of the country and make it free, had there been no 
 conversation about Fenianism in presence of the prisoner ? 
 
 Witness. No. 
 
 President. What reason had you for not reporting this conversa- 
 tion ? 
 
 Witness. I did not wish to get myself or any one else into trouble 
 by doing so. 
 
 The next witness was Private John Smith, Tenth Hussars : 
 
 I was in Hoey’s with prisoner some time after Christmas, about 1st 
 January, 1866. I went there by myself ; no one took me. When I went 
 there I was directed into a room where I saw the prisoner. Room was 
 full of soldiers playing cards. There were some civilians there, but I 
 knew none of them but O’Reilly. I since learnt that a man named 
 Doyle, of the Sixty-first, was there. I saw him just now outside this 
 room. Prisoner introduced me as a friend to a civilian. 
 
 Here Court adjourned to reassemble next morning, when Private 
 Smith continued his evidence : 
 
 I left the room with the civilian and he spoke to me. 
 
 The prisoner objected to the question and the objection was allowed. 
 
 Witness. I had some conversation with the civilian, but I do not 
 know if the prisoner was near enough to hear it. After I left the room 
 with the prisoner he said the movement had been going on some time, 
 but he did not say what movement. After that he returned into the 
 room, and when I went back I found him there. There was no con- 
 versation louder than your breath among those who were in the 
 room. When I left the room with the civilian he asked me to do so. 
 When I left the room I went to the back of the house with him, but the 
 prisoner did not come out at all while we were there. It was on the 
 lobby that the prisoner told me that he had known of the movement 
 for some time. That was said before I went into the yard with the 
 civilian. There was no one else but the civilian present at the time 
 with us. The observation was made in the course of conversation 
 between me and the civilian. We were all standing on the lobby at 
 the time. 
 
 President. What was the conversation about, at the time the ob- 
 servation was made ? 
 
 Prisoner. I beg to object to that question, sir. The witness lias 
 already said that he cannot say whether I heard the conversation or 
 not. 
 
 The Judge- Advocate said that the question was a legal one. The 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 31 
 
 prisoner had introduced the civilian to the witness and the conversation 
 took place when the three were standing within a yard of one another. 
 The observation was part of the conversation. 
 
 Witness. I cannot say what the conversation was about. It was 
 the civilian that asked me to go down to the yard. I don’t know 
 whether prisoner left before he asked me to go. About three days 
 after, I met the prisoner at Walshe’s public house. No one took me 
 there. The house was full of soldiers. I did not know any of the 
 civilians, but there were some men of my regiment there. 
 
 President. Do you know the names of any of the soldiers ? 
 
 Witness. I did, but I cannot now recollect what their names 
 were. 
 
 Prisoner. I think that the witness said, sir, that Walshe’s is a sing- 
 ing saloon. 
 
 President. Is it a public house or a music hall exclusively ? 
 
 Witness. It is both ; none of the civilians present had been in Hoey’s 
 when I was there ; the prisoner told me that he wanted to see me the 
 next night at Pilsworth’s public house ; he said that he wanted to see 
 some friends and to bring me to them ; I met him as he appointed ; 
 there were two of the Sixty-first there when we got to Pilsworth’s, 
 neither of whose names I know ; there was nobody else there during the 
 time we stopped ; the prisoner and I had some conversation, but I for- 
 get what it was ; we left the room shortly after ; the only conversation 
 that took place was that we asked each other to drink ; O’Reilly came 
 away with me, and we went to Hoey’s ; it was the prisoner who asked 
 me to go there ; he said, “ Perhaps we will meet the friends who 
 promised to meet us at Pilsworth’s he told me that some of them were 
 the same that we had to meet at Hoey’s before ; on our way he spoke 
 about different men who used to meet him at Hoey’s ; he told 
 me that those he was in the habit of meeting there were Fenian 
 agents, and men from America, who had been sent here to carry on 
 business ; that is the purport of what the prisoner said ; nothing else 
 that I can recollect passed between us ; the prisoner told me the business 
 the American agents came to carry on ; Fenian business, he said, of 
 course. 
 
 President. Why, “of course” ? You give us credit for knowing 
 more than we do. 
 
 Witness. When we got to Hoey’s we met the same civilian that we 
 had met there before, and some more strangers ; we stayed in Hoey’s 
 about three-quarters of an hour ; I had no conversation there with the 
 prisoner ; we separated, I to play cards and he to talk with some 
 civilians ; there was none but ordinary conversation going on ; when 
 we left Hoey’s we went back to Pilsworth’s ; a civilian asked us both to 
 go to Pilsworth’s along with some other soldiers ; some civilians were 
 there, Americans, I think ; I cannot remember what the conversation 
 
32 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 was about ; it was no louder than a whisper ; when we left we called 
 into a public house near the barracks ; we had some talk about the 
 civilians we had left. 
 
 President. It is not about the civilians you are asked, but about the 
 conversation. 
 
 V/itness. I met prisoner without any appointment in Barclay’s 
 public house in James’s Street in about a week ; there were some sol- 
 diers and civilians there. Among the soldiers was Private Foley, of 
 the Fifth Dragoon Guards. The civilians were those I had met at 
 Hoey’s. I had no conversation with the prisoner. I left Barclay’s first 
 that night. At Barclay’s the prisoner was sitting at a table with some 
 soldiers and civilians. I had seen some of the civilians before at Hoey’s, 
 I do not know the names of the civilians I met at Hoey’s. The prisoner 
 never told me the object of ‘ ‘ the movement. ” O’Reilly never spoke to 
 me about “the movement,” except what he said at Pilsworth’s and at 
 Hoey’s. 
 
 Cross-examined by the Prisoner : 
 
 The night I went to Hoey’s and Pilsworth’s was, I think, in January. 
 I cannot say what time in January. It might have been in February. 
 I cannot say. I know Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald ; he is in my troop. 
 1 know Private Denny, Tenth Hussars ; he is in my troop. I cannot 
 say if I was in his company on New Year’s night ; I spent that night 
 partly in Mount Pleasant Square and partly at the ‘ ‘ Bleeding House ” 
 in Camden Lane. I am not able to say whether I ever saw Denny at 
 Hoey’s. I was speaking to him fifteen minutes ago ; I am not able to 
 say if I spoke to him to-day or yesterday, about the trial ; I did speak 
 to him about it ; I have spoken to him about his evidence or he to me. 
 I don’t know which. It was after I read the paper and I don’t think 
 any one heard us. 
 
 Prisoner. Were you by yourself ? ... . If the Deputy Judge 
 Advocate would be kind enough to read the last two questions and 
 replies. 
 
 The questions and replies were read over. 
 
 Prisoner. Do you not know whether you and Denny were by your- 
 selves ? 
 
 President. You must know, in a matter that only occurred fifteen 
 minutes ago. 
 
 Witness. I only spoke to him as we were coming across here at two 
 o’clock. When I was speaking to Denny, there were some other men 
 in the room, but I cannot say if we were by ourselves. 
 
 President. That makes the thing worse. When did you read the 
 newspaper — this morning ? Did you talk to Denny then about the 
 evidence ? 
 
 Witness. About nine o’clock, when I was preparing to come here, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 83 
 
 I might have spoken to him. The paper was read. I spoke to him at 
 the bottom of the stairs. There were other men in the room at the time. 
 I again spoke to him when coming here at two o’clock. I can read 
 ‘ ‘ some ” print, but not writing. I have never tried to read a paper. It 
 was Denny who read the paper this morning ; he read it out for me. 
 
 President. What paper was it ? 
 
 Witness. The paper in Sackville Street. 
 
 President. That is the Irish Times. 
 
 Capt. Whelan. Oh no, it is the Freeman’s Journal ! 
 
 Witness. When Denny read the paper, there were two men pres- 
 ent ; it was after this we had the conversation about the evidence. 
 
 Here the court adjourned, and having reconvened on the following 
 day, Private Dennis Denny was recalled and examined relative to a 
 statement made by Private Smith, the prisoner’s witness, that they had 
 a conversation the previous day concerning the evidence he had given. 
 
 Witness. I had no conversation yesterday about the evidence with 
 Private Smith. 
 
 To the Prosecutor: 
 
 I was not aware that I read the paper yesterday in presence of 
 Smith. He may have been there when I was reading it. I have no 
 knowledge of having had any conversation with anybody about the 
 evidence of Smith. Before I was recalled into court I had no conversa- 
 tion with any one relative to the evidence I had given previously. I 
 am not aware that I had any conversation with Private Smith with 
 reference to my evidence. I read a paper yesterday morning. I would 
 not swear what men were present. I cannot say if Smith was in the 
 room when I read it. 
 
 To the President : 
 
 I do not recollect a man who was in the room. 
 
 Prisoner. With your leave, sir, I would wish to ask Private Denny 
 a few questions in the absence of Private Smith. 
 
 President. Leave the room, Smith. 
 
 Private Denny to Prisoner. I did not buy the paper that I read. 
 I took it out of Private Robert Good’s bed. 
 
 President. We have decided, prisoner, not to put these questions 
 yet. You will reserve them. 
 
 Prisoner. Very well, sir. 
 
 President (to witness). Were there any persons in the room ? 
 
 Witness. Four or five. 
 
 President. Were you reading aloud ? 
 
 Witness. No, sir ; I cannot read aloud, because I have to spell the 
 words. 
 
 President. Have you had no conversation with any one about 
 Smith since you read the paper ? 
 
34 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. 
 
 Witness. I spoke to Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald, I now recollect, 
 about Smith. 
 
 President. What did you say about him ? 
 
 Witness. I was talking to him about the time Smith and I were 
 arrested. He might have been in the room when the paper was read- 
 ing, but no one read aloud when I was in the room. 
 
 President. What did you and Smith talk about yesterday ? 
 
 Witness. I did not talk to him yesterday, unless I might have 
 spoken to him outside the door, while we were waiting. 
 
 President. If Private Smith swore yesterday that you had told him 
 your previous evidence, would it be true ? 
 
 Witness. No, sir. 
 
 Private Smith {recalled). The two Sixty-first men we met at Pils- 
 worth’s did not come to Hoey’s. Private Denny never spoke to me 
 about Fenianism. I have often played cards for drink in public 
 houses. When the prisoner introduced me to the civilian at Hoey’s it 
 was as a friend of his in the regiment. My regiment turned out for 
 the field yesterday at half -past seven. It was about nine o’clock when 
 Denny made out the paper for me. 
 
 Court. If Denny swore that he did not read the paper aloud, would 
 he be swearing what was true ? 
 
 Witness. I say again that Denny read the paper aloud ; if he did 
 not I could not hear him. 
 
 President. You must answer “Yes or no.” 
 
 Witness. It would not be true, sir. 
 
 To the Court : 
 
 I have heard Denny reading the newspaper aloud on other occa- 
 sions ; I do not know what part of the paper Denny read, but it was 
 about this trial; when speaking to Denny yesterday it was about 
 the trial ; about his evidence and mine ; when the prisoner introduced 
 me to the civilian at Hoey’s, he merely said that I was a friend of his ; 
 I cannot repeat the precise words used in introducing me ; Denny and I 
 had only a few words about this trial when we spoke together yesterday. 
 
 President. The civilians to whom you were introduced you said yes- 
 terday were Fenian agents; did they ever ask you to become a Fenian ? 
 
 Witness. They did . 
 
 President. As a rule did you always pay for your drink or were you 
 treated ? 
 
 Witness. As a rule I was treated. 
 
 President. Were those civilians that you met Americans and 
 Fenians ? 
 
 Witness. I was told so. 
 
 President. What were they talking about when the prisoner spoke 
 of the movement ? 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 35 
 
 Witness. About the Fenians. 
 
 President. You said that a civilian asked you to go down to the 
 yard at Hoey’s house ; did he assign any reason ? 
 
 Witness. He asked me to go with him ; and said that he belonged 
 to the Fenians, and wished me to join them. 
 
 President. Did you notice at any time that the prisoner had more 
 money than you would expect a soldier to have ? 
 
 Witness. No. 
 
 President. Did you take the Fenian oath ? 
 
 Witness. I did not ; I never was asked to take an oath or join the 
 Fenians in the prisoner’s hearing. 
 
 Prosecutor. Was it after your interview with the prisoner on the 
 lobby at Hoey’s that you were asked to take the oath ? 
 
 Witness. It was. 
 
 Colonel Baker, Tenth Hussars, being sworn, testified : I know 
 the prisoner. He never gave me any information of an intended mu- 
 tiny in her Majesty’s force in Ireland. 
 
 Prisoner. Did any private of the Tenth communicate with you in 
 reference to an intended mutiny, before the first of March ? 
 
 Col. Baker. No. 
 
 Prisoner. What character do I bear in the regiment ? 
 
 Witness. A good character. 
 
 Colonel Cass, sworn and examined. I never received information 
 from the prisoner with reference to an intended mutiny. I believe his 
 character is good. 
 
 Head Constable Talbot, the notorious informer, was the 
 next witness. He was not called upon to furnish evidence 
 of the prisoner’ s direct complicity in the conspiracy, but 
 only of the fact that a conspiracy existed. He had testified 
 on the trial of Color- Sergeant McCarthy, that the latter had 
 agreed to furnish the Fenians with countersigns, barrack 
 and magazine keys, maps and plans of the Clonmel Bar- 
 racks, and other aid necessary for the surprise of the gar- 
 rison. 
 
 He also testified that not a single regiment in the service 
 was free from the same taint of rebellion, and that part of 
 the conspirators’ scheme was the enlistment of revolution- 
 ary agents in the various branches of the British service. 
 O’ Reilly was such an agent. 
 
 His testimony was brief. In reply to a question by the 
 prisoner, he said : 
 
36 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 My real name is Talbot, and I joined the constablery in 1846. 
 
 The arch-informer was succeeded by Private Mullar- 
 chy, Tenth Hussars. 
 
 In January last I was in a public house, in James’s Street, with 
 the prisoner. He took me there to see a friend of mine, as he said 
 that about a fortnight or three weeks previously a young man was 
 inquiring after me. There were present there two civilians to whom 
 he introduced me as two of his friends, but whose names I don’t know. 
 From the room we first entered we went into a larger one, where there 
 were three or four soldiers belonging to the Sixty-first Regiment and 
 Tenth Hussars, another civilian, and a young woman. 
 
 Prosecutor. Did you see the prisoner stand up and whisper to one 
 of the civilians ? 
 
 Witness. Yes, to the civilian sitting opposite to him. Very shortly 
 afterwards the prisoner left the room and did not return. I then had 
 a few words with the civilian to whom the prisoner had whispered. 
 
 Prosecutor. Did you see a book on that occasion ? 
 
 Witness. Nothing more than the book the civilian to whom the 
 prisoner introduced me had taken out of his pocket ; the prisoner was 
 not then present. I had no conversation afterwards with the prisoner 
 as to what occurred in the public house, or about the friend of mine 
 of whom he spoke. I never ascertained who that friend was. 
 Cross-examined by the Prisoner : 
 
 Witness. I did ask you to go to the theater on the night in question. 
 I told you I had got paid my wages, that I was going to the theater, and 
 that I should like to go and see the friend of whom you had spoken. 
 
 Prisoner. Is that what you call my taking you to Pilsworth’s. 
 
 President. We have not got as far as Pilsworth’s yet, as far as I can 
 see. 
 
 Prisoner. Is that what you call my taking you to the public house 
 in James’s Street ? 
 
 Witness. It is ; I asked you to show me where this friend was, and 
 you said you would take me to the public house, which was the last 
 place where you had seen him. 
 
 To the Court : 
 
 I returned to the barracks at twelve o’clock that night. The friend 
 of whom the prisoner spoke was a civilian, so he told me. The civilian 
 who spoke to me in the public house asked me if I was an Irishman and 
 I said I was. He asked me if I was going to join this society. I asked 
 what society. He said, the Fenian society. I did not know what that 
 was. Since I was in the public house with the prisoner no one spoke 
 to me of the evidence I was to give here or at this trial. 
 
 Private Rorreson, Tenth Hussars : I was in Private Bergin’s com- 
 pany at Hoey’s public house in January last. On that occasion there 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 37 
 
 were present besides Private Bergin and myself a number of foot- 
 soldiers and two civilians, none of whose names I know. The pris- 
 oner was also present, but I cannot say if he was in the room when I 
 entered or whether he came in afterwards. I saw Lance-Corporal 
 Fitzgerald, of the Tenth Hussars, there too. He was in the prisoner’s 
 company. 
 
 Prosecutor. Did you see anything occur on that occcasion between 
 prisoner and the civilians ? 
 
 Witness. I saw prisoner go up to Fitzgerald, and immediately the 
 latter and the civilians went out. Previous to this I also saw him 
 whispering to the civilians. Any time he did speak it was in a whisper. 
 
 Prosecutor. Did you see the prisoner go out of the room on that 
 occasion ? 
 
 Witness. Yes ; the three of them left at the same time. I did not 
 see the prisoner go out of the room more than once. When the three 
 left they were absent for about ten or fifteen minutes, and they returned 
 one after the other. When they returned, one of them spoke to a foot- 
 soldier, said good-by to his comrade, and then left the room. There 
 was singing in the room that evening. A foot-soldier sung one of 
 Moore’s melodies. I particularly remember the words of one of the 
 songs — 
 
 We’ll drive the Sassenach from our soil. 
 
 Cross-examined by the Prisoner : 
 
 I have been at Hoey’s since the occasion in question, but I cannot 
 say how often. I never saw Private Denny there. 
 
 Question. If Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald swore that on the occasion 
 in question there were no soldiers at Hoey’s but those belonging to 
 Tenth Hussars, would he be swearing what was true ? 
 
 Witness. No, there were infantry there. I can’t say that I was at 
 Hoey’s with Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald in November last. 
 
 Here the court adjourned, and the examination of Private Rorreson 
 was resumed on the following day. 
 
 In reply to the Court : 
 
 The infantry soldiers were sitting alongside of me in Hoey’s . There 
 were not thirty of the Sixty-first Regiment there. The civilians were 
 sitting at my right. I cannot say whether the soldiers came in first, or 
 whether they were in the room when I went in . I will not swear what 
 time the meeting took place; it was in January. No one spoke to me 
 about my evidence. I was not asked to become a Fenian at Hoey’s. 
 Bergin spoke to me elsewhere of it, but never in the prisoner’s presence. 
 Any time I ever went to Hoey’s it was with Bergin, and the civilians 
 always paid for the drink. I never heard the names of the civilians, 
 but afterwards I heard one was named Devoy. I never heard the 
 names of the others. Devoy appeared to be a born Irishman. I never 
 
38 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 heard any singing but on that occasion, and the prisoner took no part 
 in it. I think it was before the night in January that Bergin spoke to 
 me of being a Fenian, on the way to the barracks going home. We 
 had been in Hoey’s ; the prisoner was there. Bergin had been speaking 
 of Fenianism on the way to the barracks. He said there was such a 
 thing “ coming off.” 
 
 President. What do you mean by “ such a thing coming off” ? 
 
 Witness. Like a rebellion breaking out. 
 
 Prisoner . When you say you since heard one of the civilians was 
 called Devoy, when did you hear it, and who told you ? 
 
 Witness. I cannot tell who told me; Bergin told me he was em- 
 ployed at Guiness’s, but I cannot say who told me his name. 
 
 Prisoner. I respectfully submit that all evidence given by the last 
 witness relative to Bergin should be expunged. I did not object during 
 his examination, as the questions were put by the Court, but I do 
 now. 
 
 The court did not accept this view of the case. In ad- 
 mitting the hearsay evidence it indorsed the following 
 astounding propositions made by the Deputy Judge Advo- 
 cate : 
 
 Deputy Judge Advocate : 
 
 It is too late to object. The prisoner should not have allowed the 
 examination to go on and taken his chance of something favorable to 
 him being elicited by it. For the rest, I submit that the acts or conver- 
 sations of co-conspirators are admissible as evidence against each other, 
 even though one of them on his trial was not present at those acts or 
 conversations. All the matters of fact sworn to, show that the pris- 
 oner and Bergin were participators in the Fenian plot. Therefore the 
 prisoner’s objection is unsustainable, particularly after the examination 
 of the witness. 
 
 Having thus summarily disposed of the prisoner’s few 
 nominal rights, the prosecution took hold of the case in the 
 good old-fashioned way, by putting on the stand an in- 
 former of the regulation Irish character — one who had 
 taken the Fenian oath in order to betray his comrades, and 
 excused himself for the perjury by saying, that, although 
 he had a Testament in his hand and went through the 
 motion of kissing it, he had not really done so. The testi- 
 mony of this peculiarly conscientious witness is interest- 
 ing, because it is typical. He can juggle with the Testa- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 39 
 
 ment, in the hope of cheating the Devil ; but when pressed 
 he owns up : “ Most decidedly I took the oath with the 
 intention of breaking it. I cannot see how that was per- 
 jury.” And again, “I told the truth on both trials, as far 
 as I can remember Without further preface the reader 
 is introduced to the delectable company of 
 
 Private Patrick Foley, Fifth Dragoon Guards. I know the pris- 
 oner. I saw him in Hoey’s public house about the 14th of January. 
 He was confined, and they were asking about him at Hoey’s. The 
 waiter asked — 
 
 Prisoner. X object to this evidence. I was not in the house when 
 the questions were asked. 
 
 The objection was admitted. 
 
 Witness. At the time I saw the prisoner at Hoey’s, there were a 
 number of people there, principally civilians. Devoy was one, Wil- 
 liams was another, and Corporal Chambers, who used at that time to 
 appear in civilian’s clothes. Hogan and Wilson, both deserters from 
 Fifth Dragoon Guards, were also there in colored clothes. There were 
 many others whose names I do not know. I took part in a conversa- 
 tion that night, but I cannot say whether prisoner was present. 
 
 To the Court : 
 
 The prisoner spoke twice to me during January and February. 
 
 President. The question refers only to one occasion. 
 
 Witness. I spoxe to the prisoner in February at Barclay’s public 
 house. I do not know on what day. I went to the bar and found the 
 prisoner there. He asked me to drink. We both then went into a 
 room, and the prisoner sat at a table with some of his own men. The 
 conversation was among themselves, but it could be heard at the off 
 side of the room. It was on Fenianism and the probable fate of the 
 state prisoners who were on trial at that time. There was also some- 
 thing said about electing a president as soon as they had a free repub- 
 lic. They were all paying attention to what was being said, but I can- 
 not tell if the prisoner said more than the remainder. Devoy was there, 
 and Williams. There were other civilians present whose names I do 
 not know. I had a previous conversation in January with the prisoner 
 at Hoey’s, but I cannot remember what it was about. It was regarding 
 Fenianism, but I cannot tell the words made use of. I met the prisoner 
 at Waugh’s public house some time toward the end of 1865. The civ- 
 ilians I have mentioned were there and some soldiers. In all these 
 places the conversation was relating to Fenianism, but I cannot say if 
 they were in hearing of the prisoner, but everybody heard them. 
 Devoy was at Waugh’s, I think. 1 frequently met Devoy in company 
 with O’Reilly. I have heard Devoy speak in presence of the prisoner 
 
40 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 about Fenianisra, but I cannot remember that he said anything about 
 what was to be done in connection with it. 
 
 Prosecutor. Was there at any of these meetings of which you spoke, 
 and at which the prisoner was present, any conversation of an intended 
 outbreak or mutiny ? 
 
 Prisoner. I object to that question, because the witness has already 
 stated the substance of the conversations as far as he can remember. 
 The prosecutor had no right to lead the witness, and put into his mouth 
 the very words of the charge. 
 
 The prosecutor submitted that the question was perfectly fair and 
 legal. 
 
 The Deputy Judge Advocate ruled that the question should be so 
 framed as not to suggest the answer to it. 
 
 Witness. There was a conversation of an intended mutiny that was 
 to take place in January or the latter end of February. The prisoner 
 could have heard the conversation that took place in Hoey’s, in January, 
 and in Barclay’s, in February. I reported to my colonel in February 
 the subject of the conversation. 
 
 Court adjourned for half an hour. 
 
 Cross-examination of Private Foley : 
 
 I can read and write. I took the Fenian oath. I did not call God to 
 witness I would keep it. I know the nature of an oath. It is to tell the 
 truth, and the whole truth. I had a Testament in my hand and I went 
 through the motion of kissing it, but I did not do so. I swore on two 
 previous occasions I took the Fenian oath. Most decidedly I took the 
 oath with the intention of breaking it. I cannot see how that was 
 perjury. I had to take the oath, in a way, or I would have known 
 nothing about the Fenian movement. I was examined on the trial of 
 Corporal Chambers. I was sworn on the trial to tell the whole truth. 
 I was sworn by the president. I told the whole truth on both trials, as 
 far as I can remember. I know Private Denny of Tenth Hussars by 
 appearance. I know Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald of the Tenth, also 
 by appearance. I know Fitzgerald personally. I only knew him 
 at these places of meeting. I think I knew him in January. I 
 knew him to speak to him. I know Private Smith, Tenth Hussars, by 
 appearance. I know him only by speaking to him in the month of 
 February. I cannot say whether I ever saw Private Denny in Hoey’s 
 public house or at Barclay’s or Bailey’s. I cannot say how often I was 
 at meetings in these houses in February. When I took the Fenian 
 oath, most decidedly I intended to become an informer. I kept no 
 memoranda of the meetings I attended, as I reported them all to my 
 commanding officer in the mornings after they took place. My reports 
 were verbal ones, and I never took down the names of those I met at 
 the meetings. 
 
41 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Question. Have you met Corporal Fitzgerald at any of those meet- 
 ings ? 
 
 Witness (to President) : I am very near tired, sir, answering ques- 
 tions. 
 
 President. If you are tired standing, you may sit down. 
 
 Witness. I met Fitzgerald at Barclay’s and at Hoey’s, but I cannot 
 say how often ; prisoner was present when I saw Fitzgerald at Bar- 
 clay’s. I knew him personally at the time. I cannot say whether I 
 then spoke to him. At Corporal Chambers’s trial I was asked to state, 
 and did so, who were present at the meeting at Hoey’s. I did name 
 the prisoner as having been there. 
 
 Court here adjourned for the day. 
 
 Cross-examination of Private Foley resumed , on July 5. 
 
 Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald was present on the occasion when I 
 said he was at Barclay’s, at the time the conversation about Fenianism 
 took place. 
 
 Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald was here confronted with the witness, 
 and stated that he did swear that he met the prisoner at Hoey’s and at 
 Pilsworth’s, but not at Barclay’s. Private Foley would not be swear- 
 ing what was true if he swore that he (Fitzgerald) made a speech on 
 Fenianism at Barclay’s, or was present at a conversation there about 
 electing a president, “ when we would have a free republic.” 
 
 To the President : 
 
 I was never at Hoey’s public house in the prisoner’s company, but 
 I was there two or three days after his arrest, when a man named' Wil- 
 liams came up to the barracks and told me there was to be a Fenian 
 meeting at Barclay’s. On the 13th of January, prisoner absented him- 
 self, and on the 14th inst. (Sunday) he was taken from the barracks by 
 a detective policeman. 
 
 To the Prosecutor : 
 
 I have never made a speech on Fenianism to my recollection, at 
 Barclay’s. I might have said things when I was drunk that I would 
 not answer for afterwards. I swear positively that I was never present 
 on any occasion when there was talk of electing a president of a repub- 
 lic. I might have been present at such conversation and not know any- 
 thing about it. 
 
 Prisoner contended that this evidence should have been given in 
 direct examination but was not admissible in cross-examination. 
 
 The prosecutor contended that the witness, who was recalled by the 
 prisoner, for the purpose of confronting him with another, was not 
 asked anything that was not perfectly fair and proper for the purpose 
 of eliciting the truth. 
 
42 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Deputy Judge Advocate ruled that the evidence was legal and 
 proper. 
 
 Witness to Prosecutor : 
 
 I never made a speech on Fenianism, to my recollection, at any 
 place. I might have said things when I was drunk that I would not 
 answer for afterwards. I was drunk every time I went there after- 
 wards. I swear positively I was never present on an occasion when 
 there was a conversation about electing a president of a republic. I 
 might have been present at such conversation when drunk, and not 
 know anything about it. 
 
 The Court. Why was Williams sent to tell you of the Fenian meet- 
 ing if, as you say, you had previously refused to become a Fenian ? 
 
 Witness. He was sent, I don’t know by whom, but he used to go 
 round to Island Bridge and Richmond Barracks for that purpose. 
 Private Foley ( re-examined by prosecutor ) : 
 
 Having heard the evidence of Lance-Corporal Fitzgerald, I have not 
 the least doubt that I met him at Barclay’s in February last. The 
 reason I did not, on Corporal Chambers’s trial, mention prisoner as 
 being present at Barclay’s in February, was that I had some doubts of 
 his name. I have now no doubt that he was present. 
 
 To the Prisoner : 
 
 I did mention your name to the prosecution about a fortnight ago. 
 
 This ended the examination of Informer Foley. He 
 was followed by a duller, but more malicious knave, Private 
 Meara, who boasted, with low cunning, that he had taken 
 the Fenian oath out of curiosity, and with the intention of 
 betraying his fellows ; repeated his own smart repartees, 
 and put into the mouth of the prisoner the wholly imaginary 
 atrocious promise, that he would hamstring the cavalry 
 horses in case of emergency. One can almost form a pic- 
 ture of this ruffian from his own words. The official 
 report reads : 
 
 Private Meara, First Battalion, Eighth Regiment, deposed : He 
 was a member of the Fenian Society and attended several meetings of 
 that body, at which were present other soldiers. He saw the prisoner 
 at a meeting in Hoey’s public-house in January, in company with 
 Devoy and Williams, whom he knew to be Fenians, and with other 
 soldiers, as also with Baines, Rynd, and others. On that occasion he 
 saw a sketch of Island Bridge Barracks in the prisoner’s hand, which 
 he was explaining to Devoy. 
 
 The President, You are asked what was said. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 48 
 
 Witness. Devoy said he wanted a few men out of the Hussars to 
 give them instruction what to do, and he wanted about ten men out of 
 each regiment in Dublin. The prisoner spoke of cutting the hamstrings 
 of the horses in the stables in case of any emergency. The conversa- 
 tion then turned on a rising in the army and how the men would act. 
 I said the Irishmen in the army saw no prospect before them, and they 
 would be great fools to commit themselves. Devoy said they would 
 not be asked until a force came from America. I said it was all moon- 
 shine, and that they were a long time coming. He told me I seemed 
 chicken-hearted, and that they required no men but those who were 
 willing and brave. I told him I was as brave as himself, and that he 
 should not form soldiers in a room for the purpose of discussing 
 Fenianism. That is all the conversation I can remember on that 
 occasion. 
 
 Cross-examined by the Prisoner: 
 
 I was examined on Corporal Chambers’s trial. I am not sure whether 
 I namfed you as one of the soldiers present on the occasion referred to 
 in my evidence. I took the Fenian oath, out of curiosity to see what 
 the Irish conspiracy or republic, as they called it, was. If any serious 
 consequences would arise I would have given information of the move- 
 ment. I had an opportunity of seeing into the Fenian movement, and 
 I saw that nothing serious was going to happen. If there was I would 
 have known it days before, and then given information. I heard 
 Stephens himself say at Bergin’s, that the excitement should be kept up 
 while aid from America was expected. In last March I made a state- 
 ment affecting you. 
 
 This closed the case for the prosecution. 
 
 At the request of the prisoner the Court adjourned to Saturday, 
 July 7, to give him time to prepare his defense. 
 
 Court having assembled on that date, the prisoner requested that 
 some member of it be appointed to read his defense. 
 
 Lieutenant Parkinson, Sixty-first Regiment, was then requested to 
 do so. 
 
 The defense commenced by thanking the Court for the patient and 
 candid consideration which had been bestowed by the members through- 
 out the trial, and stated that the prisoner had no doubt but that the 
 same qualities would be exhibited in consideration of the points which 
 would be submitted to them for his defense. The charge against him 
 was one involving terrible consequences, and he had no doubt the 
 greater would be the anxiety of the Court in testing the evidence 
 brought against him. 
 
 There was only one charge which the Court had to consider, and 
 that was: “ Having come to the knowledge of an intended mutiny.” 
 To sustain that charge the prosecutor should prove, first, that there 
 
44 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 was a mutiny actually intended ; second, that he (the prisoner) had a 
 knowledge of that intention, and third, that he possessed that knowl- 
 edge in January, 1866, and did not communicate it to his commanding 
 officer. The prosecutor was bound to prove each and every one of 
 those allegations, by evidence on which the court might safely act. 
 After referring to his services he asked the court to bear in mind his 
 good reputation, while considering the evidence against him, as it must 
 have observed that, from the character of some of the proofs upon 
 which the prosecutor relied, in conversations with no third person 
 present, and no date fixed, it was impossible to displace such testimony 
 by direct evidence. 
 
 The defense then pointed out various discrepancies between various 
 witnesses and the contradiction between the evidence of Privates Denny 
 and Smith, where Denny had clearly committed perjury. But even if 
 these men’s evidence were true, it would not bring home to him one 
 fact to bear out the charge. 
 
 None of these witnesses can say that in his presence one word was 
 ever said respecting the designs or the plans of the Fenians, and it 
 only amounted to this, that one day, in a casual conversation, he said 
 to Smith that some persons they had met were Americans and Fenian 
 agents. In the whole evidence, which, in the cases of Foley and 
 Meara was that of informers, there was much to which the addition or 
 omission of a word would give a very different color to what it had 
 got. What was the amount of credit to be given to those men, when 
 it was remembered that they both took the Fenian oath, the one, as 
 he said, through curiosity, the other with the deliberate design of 
 informing ? 
 
 Meara’s oath, on his own admission, had not been believed by a civil 
 court of justice ; and would this court believe it and convict a man of 
 crime upon such testimony ? He (the prisoner) asked the court to 
 reject this testimony and rely upon that of his commanding officer, 
 Col. Baker, who had deposed to his good character as a soldier. In 
 conclusion, the prisoner appealed to the Deputy Judge Advocate, to 
 direct the court that unless he had personal knowledge of an intended 
 mutiny in January, he was entitled to an acquittal. Guilt was never 
 to be assumed, it should be proved ; for suspicion, no matter how 
 accumulated, could never amount to the mental conviction on which 
 alone the court should act. 
 
 The defense having concluded, prisoner called Capt. Barthorp, 
 Tenth Hussars, who was a member of the court. In reply to questions 
 put, Capt. Barthorp said : 
 
 He was captain of the prisoner’s troop, and had known him for 
 three years. His character was good . 
 
 Mr. Anderson, Crown Solicitor, was sworn and examined by 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 45 
 
 prisoner with regard to a portion of Private Meara’s evidence on Cor- 
 poral Chambers’s trial, relative to the alleged meeting. Meara did not 
 mention the prisoner as having been present at the alleged meeting, 
 when giving evidence at Chambers’s trial : but on the present one he 
 swore that he was present. 
 
 In reply to the Prosecutor : 
 
 Deputy Judge Advocate said he could not state whether the meeting 
 of which Meara had deposed at Chambers’s trial was the same men- 
 tioned on this. 
 
 Prisoner. I would wish to ask the Deputy Judge Advocate a ques- 
 tion which arises out of his answer : Did you not hear Private Meara 
 
 asked on my trial to name the persons he had met at the meeting which 
 he deposed to at Corporal Chambers’s trial, and did he not do so ? 
 
 Deputy Judge Advocate. I did hear that evidence given; I did 
 hear him state the names. 
 
 Adjutant Russell, Tenth Hussars, in answer to prisoner, said: 
 He (prisoner) was put under arrest on the 14th of February. The 
 prisoner was in hospital for several days in February, from 19th to 
 26th. 
 
 President. I do not wish to interrupt the prisoner, but I wish to 
 point out that these dates are all subsequent to the charge. 
 
 At this point court adjourned to eleven o’clock Monday morning. 
 
 At the reopening of the court, Capt. Whelan (the prosecutor) pro- 
 ceeded to answer the defense of the prisoner. His reply entered elabor- 
 ately into the whole evidence that had been given, and commented on 
 the various points raised for the defense. Capt. Whelan defended 
 strongly the various witnesses from the charge brought against them 
 by the prisoner, of being informers, and insisted that they were all 
 trustworthy and credible, and that the discrepancies pointed out in the 
 defense were such as would naturally arise. 
 
 The Deputy Judge Advocate then proceeded to sum up the whole 
 evidence. In doing so, he said : 
 
 The court should bear in mind that the existence of an intended 
 mutiny should be proved before the prisoner should be found guilty of 
 the charges upon which he was arraigned. The court should also bear 
 in mind that it was for it to prove charges and not for the prisoner to 
 disprove them. To experienced officers, like those composing the court, 
 it was not necessary for him (the Judge- Advocate) to state what the 
 law was, bearing on those charges. He might say, however, that if the 
 prisoner did come to the knowledge of an intended mutiny, it would 
 be for them to say whether the prisoner had given notice of any such 
 intended mutiny to his commanding officer. This, his commanding 
 officers state, he did not do ; so that it became the subject of inquiry 
 whether any such mutiny was intended: They had the evidence of 
 
46 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 Head Constable Talbot on that point, and they should attentively weigh 
 it. Assuming that it was intended, and that the prisoner was aware of 
 it and an accomplice in the design, they had then no less than eight 
 witnesses to prove that complicity. The Deputy Judge Advocate then 
 went minutely through the whole evidence, which he recapitulated in 
 a lucid manner, pointing out to the court where it was favorable for 
 the prisoner or bore against him. 
 
 The Judge Advocate concluded by saying: “ Now, on a calm and fair 
 review of the evidence, determining in favor of the prisoner every, 
 thing of which there was reasonable doubt, straining nothing against 
 him, is the court satisfied that the facts are inconsistent with any other 
 conclusion than the prisoner’s guilt ? Is the court satisfied that the 
 Fenians intended mutiny as one of the essentials of that plot ? 
 
 ‘ 4 Are they satisfied that the prisoner knew of that intention ? If you 
 are not satisfied that the evidence adduced for the prosecution has 
 brought home to the prisoner the charges on which he is indicted ; if 
 you can fairly and honestly see your way to put an innocent construc- 
 tion on the prisoner’s acts, it is your duty to do so. 
 
 “ But, on the other hand, if the court has no rational doubt of the 
 prisoner’s guilt, then it is bound, without favor, partiality, or affection, 
 to find their verdict accordingly. Remember, though, that although 
 you may feel very great suspicion of the prisoner’s guilt, yet if you are 
 not satisfied that the charge is proved home to him beyond rational 
 doubt, no amount of suspicion will justify conviction. Apply to your 
 consideration of the evidence, the same calm, deliberate, and faithful 
 attention and judgment which you would apply to your own most 
 serious affairs, if all you value most and hold most dear, your lives and 
 honor, were in peril. The law demands no more, and your duty will 
 be satisfied with no less.” 
 
 At the conclusion of the Judge Advocate’s address, the court was 
 made private, to consider their finding. After a short time it was 
 reopened, and 
 
 Adjutant Russell, Tenth Hussars, was called to give testimony to 
 the prisoner’s character. He said that it had been good during his 
 three years and thirty-one days of service. 
 
 The court was then again cleared and the result was not known 
 until officially promulgated by the Horse Guards. 
 
 On July 9, 1866, formal sentence of death was passed upon all the 
 military prisoners. It was only a formality. The same day, it was 
 commuted to life imprisonment in the cases of O’Reilly, McCarthy, 
 Chambers, Keating, and Darragh. The sentence of O’Reilly was 
 subsequently commuted to twenty years penal servitude. 
 
 Adjutant Russell, referred to in .the preceding report, 
 better known as Lord Odo Russell, liad pleaded successfully 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 47 
 
 for leniency in behalf of the youthful prisoner. The first 
 step in execution of the sentence was taken on Monday 
 afternoon, September 3, in the Royal Square, Royal Bar- 
 racks, in the presence of the Fifth Dragoon Guards, Sec- 
 ond Battalion, Third Regiment, Seventy- fifth Regiment, 
 Ninety-second Highlanders, and Eighty-fifth Light Infan- 
 try. The prisoner was then and there made listen to the 
 reading of his sentence, stripped of his military uniform, 
 clothed in the convict’s dress, and escorted to Mountjoy 
 prison. 
 
 Before dismissing the story of his trial, I may here 
 relate a curious sequel, which occurred some six or seven 
 years later in the city of Boston. O’Reilly had many 
 strange visitors in his newspaper office, but perhaps the 
 strangest of all was one of the two informers before men- 
 tioned. This fellow, after O’Reilly’s conviction, found 
 himself so despised and shunned by his fellow-soldiers, 
 both English and Irish, that his life became unendurable. 
 He deserted the army and fled to America, where the story 
 of his treachery had preceded him. He was starving in 
 the streets of Boston when he met his former victim, and 
 threw himself upon his mercy. Almost any other man 
 would have enjoyed the spectacle of the traitor’s misery. 
 O’ Reilly saw only the pity of it all, and gave the wretch 
 enough money to supply his immediate wants, and pay 
 his way to some more propitious spot. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 
 Solitary Confinement — An Autobiographical Sketch — Pentonville, 
 Millbank, Chatham, Dartmoor — Three Bold Attempts to Escape — 
 Realities of Prison Life — The Convict Ship Hougoumont — The 
 Exiles and their Paper, The Wild Goose. 
 
 T HREE characteristic poems were written by O’Reilly 
 on the walls of his prison cell at this time : “The 
 
 Irish Flag,” a short patriotic outburst ; “ For Life,” com- 
 posed on hearing that his comrade Color- Sergeant Mc- 
 Carthy had received a life sentence, and “The Irish 
 Soldiers,” this last having a foot-note appended as follows : 
 “ Written on the wall of my cell with a nail, July 17, 1866. 
 Once an English soldier ; now an Irish felon ; and proud of 
 the exchange.” 
 
 Of the three poems, the second is the best, though all 
 are so lacking in finish and strength that he wisely forebore 
 including any of them in his published volumes. It begins 
 with a strong stanza, suggestive of the poet’s later and 
 better work, but its merit may be said to end there. 
 
 Of all charges guilty ! he knew it before ; 
 
 But it’s now read aloud in the scarlet-clad square, — 
 Formality’s farce must be played out once more — 
 
 May it sink in the heart of his countrymen there ! 
 
 After a short detention at Mountjov, O’Reilly, Mc- 
 Carthy, and Chambers were marched through the streets, 
 chained together by the arms, and shipped over to Eng- 
 land, to begin their long term of suffering. They were at 
 first confined in Pentonville, where they were allowed but 
 one hour of exercise a day, the “exercise” consisting in 
 pacing to and fro in a cell without a roof. The rest of the 
 day they were locked up in their separate cells. 
 
 In a few days they were transferred to Millbank to 
 undergo a term of solitary confinement, preliminary to the 
 
 48 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 49 
 
 severe physical punishment ordained in their sentence. 
 Every reader of Dickens remembers the description in his 
 “American Notes,” of the Eastern Penitentiary at Phila- 
 delphia, and its “ Solitary System.” It was the same 
 system, in its absolute seclusion of the prisoner from his 
 fellows, as that which prevailed in Millbank. All that 
 Dickens says of the prison in Philadelphia applies equally 
 to Millbank : 
 
 ‘ ‘ I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mys- 
 teries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any 
 torture of the body ; and because its ghastly signs and 
 tokens are not so palpable to the eye and sense of touch as 
 scars upon the flesh ; because its wounds are not upon the 
 surface, and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear ; 
 therefore, I the more denounce it, as a secret punishment 
 which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay. I 
 hesitated once, debating with myself, whether, if I had the 
 power of saying ‘Yes' or ‘No,’ I would allow it to be 
 tried in certain cases, where the terms of imprisonment were 
 short ; but now, I solemnly declare, that with no rewards 
 or honors could I walk a happy man beneath the open sky 
 by day, or lie me down upon my bed at night, with the 
 consciousness that one human creature, for any length of 
 time, no matter what, lay suffering this unknown punish- 
 ment in his silent cell, and I the cause, or I consenting to it 
 in the least degree.” 
 
 The condemnation of the great novelist is sweeping, the 
 words which I have italicized above showing that he did not 
 measure the horror of the punishment by its duration. 
 Self-satisfied reformers have pooh-poohed his verdict as 
 that of a sentimentalist who had enjoyed no personal ex- 
 perience of the system. That their experience of it had 
 been wholly impersonal also, made no difference in their 
 judgment of its merits. Other supporters of the system 
 have pointed triumphantly to the fact that the convict 
 Charles Langheimer, — “Dickens’s Dutchman,” as he was 
 called,— whom the author of the “Notes” had described 
 dramatically among the victims of the system, served his 
 
50 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 sentence of five years, and various other sentences after- 
 wards, aggregating altogether some forty- two years, and 
 died in prison at last at the age of seventy. He became 
 such a confirmed jail-bird that on the expiration of one 
 term of imprisonment, he would immediately commit some 
 new theft, in order that he might be returned to his old 
 quarters. Which is a complete demonstration of the value 
 of the system, as a reformatory agent, in the eyes of its 
 worshipers. 
 
 Happily we are not without the evidence of better au- 
 thorities on the subject than either the humane novelist, 
 who studied it as a mere visitor, or the poor debased and 
 brutalized “ Dutchman,” whom it so successfully unfitted 
 for a life of freedom. John Mitchell, the iron- willed 
 patriot, whom no physical torture could subdue, confesses 
 that when the door of his cell first closed on him, and he 
 realized the full meaning of “ solitary confinement,” he 
 flung himself upon his bed and 4 6 broke into a raging pas- 
 sion of tears — tears bitter and salt, but not of base lamenta- 
 tion for my own fate. The thoughts and feelings that have 
 so shaken me for this once, language was never made to 
 describe.” 
 
 Michael Davitt says : 
 
 The vagrant sunbeam that finds its way to the lonely occupant of a 
 prison cell, but speaks of the liberty which others enjoy, of the happi- 
 ness that falls to the lot of those whom misfortune has not dragged 
 from the pleasures of life ; the cries, the noise, and uproar of London 
 which penetrate the silent corridors, and re-echo in the cheerless cells 
 of Mill bank, are so many mocking voices that come to laugh at the 
 misery their walls inclose, and arouse the recollection of happier days 
 to probe the wounds of present sorrow. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A circumstance in connection with the situation of Millbank may 
 (taken with what I have already said on that prison) give some faint 
 idea of what confinement there really means. Westminster Tower 
 clock is not far distant from the penitentiary, so that its every stroke is 
 as distinctly heard in each cell as if it were situated in one of the prison 
 yards. At each quarter of an hour, day and night, it chimes a bar of 
 “ 01d Hundredth,” and those solemn tones strike on the ears of the 
 
51 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 lonely listeners like the voice of some monster singing the funeral dirge 
 of time. 
 
 Oft in the lonely watches of the night has it reminded me of the 
 number of strokes I was doomed to listen to, and of how slowly those 
 minutes were creeping along ! The weird chant of Westminster clock 
 will ever haunt my memory, and recall that period of my imprison- 
 ment when I first had to implore Divine Providence to preserve my 
 reason and save me from the madness which seemed inevitable, through 
 mental and corporal tortures combined. 
 
 That human reason should give way under such adverse influences 
 is not, I think, to be wondered at ; and many a still living wreck of 
 manhood can refer to the silent system of Millbank and its pernicious 
 surroundings as the cause of his debilitated mind. 
 
 It was here that Edward Duffy died, and where Rickard Burke and 
 Martin Hanly Carey were for a time oblivious of their sufferings from 
 temporary insanity, and where Daniel Reddin was paralyzed. It was 
 here where Thomas Ahern first showed symptoms of madness, and was 
 put in dark cells and strait-jacket for a “test ” as to the reality of these 
 symptoms. 
 
 Davitt further avers that during all his confinement at 
 Millbank, — 
 
 My conversation with prisoners, — at the risk of being punished, of 
 course, — and also with warders and chaplains, would not occupy me 
 twenty minutes to repeat, could I collect all the scattered words spoken 
 by me in the whole of that ten months. I recollect many weeks going 
 by without exchanging a single word with a human being. 
 
 Corporal Thomas Chambers says : 
 
 I was confined in a ward by myself, was never allowed to be near 
 other prisoners. Even in chapel I was compelled to kneel apart from 
 the others and had a jailer close to me. I was removed from one cell 
 to another every morning and evening. All through the winter I was 
 forced to either sit on a bucket or stand up, but would not be allowed 
 to move about in my cell. 
 
 The cells, in which poor Chambers complained he was 
 not allowed to walk about, were not spacious, being nine 
 or ten feet long by about eight feet wide, with stone floors, 
 bare walls, and, for sole furniture, a bedstead of three planks 
 a few inches from the floor, and a water bucket which had 
 to serve as a chair when the prisoner was at work picking 
 oakum or coir. There was no fire; walking in the cells 
 was prohibited ; and the scanty bed-clothing barely suf- 
 
52 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 ficed to keep the occupant from freezing. An hour’s exer- 
 cise in the yard was allowed every day, the only other 
 variation of the monotonous regime being the daily work of 
 washing and scrubbing his cell, which each prisoner had 
 to do immediately on getting up. 
 
 The food was in keeping with the lodgings ; sufficient to 
 sustain life, but nothing more. 
 
 The severest punishment of Millbank was the silence 
 and solitude, almost unbearable to anybody whose mind 
 was not exceptionally strong or exceptionally stolid. 
 O’ Reilly had the blessing and the curse of genius, an active, 
 vivid imagination. He found solace in his thoughts and in 
 the pages of “ The Imitation of Christ,” which he was al- 
 lowed to read ; but he endured many hours of the keenest 
 anguish. At times his mind was abnormally active ; he 
 felt an exaltation of the soul such as an anchorite knows ; 
 he had ecstatic visions. Again, his vigorous physical 
 nature asserted itself, and he yearned for freedom, as the 
 healthy, natural man must ever do in confinement. 
 
 But he had made up his mind, on entering the prison, 
 to conquer circumstances, to preserve his brain and body 
 sound, and to bear with patience the ills which he could not 
 escape. He took an interest in studying the fellow prison- 
 ers with whom he was forbidden to hold the slightest inter- 
 course. The prohibition did not always avail, for human 
 ingenuity can ever circumvent the most rigid of rules. The 
 political convicts in the early days of their imprisonment 
 in Arbor Hill had devised a rude system of telegraphy by 
 tapping on the iron pipes running through all the cells. It 
 was a slow and cumbrous device, but time was then of 
 the least importance to them. There were also occasional 
 chances of exchanging a whisper as they filed to prayers, or 
 meals, or marched in the hour of daily exercise. 
 
 Among O’Reilly’s MSS. is the following fragment, 
 written several years ago— a curious study of prison life 
 from the inside : 
 
 One meets strange characters in prison, characters which are at 
 once recognized as being natural to the place, as are bats or owls to a 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 53 
 
 cave. Prison characters, like all others, are seen by different men in 
 different lights. For instance, a visitor passing along a corridor, and 
 glancing through the iron gates or observation-holes of the cells, sees 
 only the quiet, and, to him, sullen-looking convict, with all the crime- 
 suggesting bumps largely developed on his shaven head. The same 
 man will be looked upon by the officer who has charge of him as one 
 of the best, most obedient, and industrious of the prisoners, which con- 
 clusion he comes to by a closer acquaintance than that of the visitor ; 
 although his observations are still only of exteriors. No man sees the 
 true nature of the convict but his fellow-convict. He looks at him 
 with a level glance and sees him in a common atmosphere. However 
 convicts deceive their prison officers and chaplains, which they do in 
 the majority of cases, they never deceive their fellows. 
 
 I was a convict in an English prison four years ago, and, before the 
 impressions then received are weakened or rubbed out by time, it may 
 be of interest to recall a few reminiscences. First, let me remove all 
 fears of those who are thinking that, where they least expect it, they 
 have fallen among thieves. I was not in the true sense of the word a 
 criminal, although classed with them and treated precisely the same as 
 they were. My offense against the law was political. I had been a 
 soldier in a cavalry regiment, and had been convicted of being a repub- 
 lican and trying to make other men the same ; and so, in the winter of 
 1867, it came about that I occupied Cell 32, in Pentagon 5, Millbank 
 prison, London, on the iron-barred door of which cell hung a small 
 white card bearing this inscription, “John Boyle O’Reilly, 20 years.” 
 
 Some people would think it strange that I should still regard that 
 cell — in which I spent nearly a year of solitary confinement — with 
 affection ; but it is true. Man is a domestic animal, and to a prisoner, 
 with “20 years” on his door, the cell is Home. I look back with 
 fond regard to a great many cells and a great many prisons in England 
 and Australia, which are associated to my mind in a way not to be 
 wholly understood by any one but myself. And if ever I should go 
 back to England (which is doubtful, for I escaped from prison in 
 Australia in 1869, and so permanently ended the 20 years), the first 
 place I would visit would be one of the old prisons. Remember, my 
 name and many a passing thought are scratched and written on many 
 a small place within those cells which I perfectly well recollect, and it 
 would be a great treat to go back some day and read them. And then, 
 during the time I was in prison, I got acquainted with thousands of 
 professional criminals, old and young, who will be the occupants of 
 the English jails for the next twenty years ; and I confess it would be 
 of great interest to me to go back and walk the corridor with all the 
 brimming respectability of a visitor, and stop when I saw a face I knew 
 of old, and observe how time and villainy had dealt with it. 
 
54 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 I had been in prison about eight months— all the time in solitary 
 confinement — before I was brought “cheek by jowl” with the regu- 
 lar criminals. I confess I had a fear of the first plunge into the sea 
 of villainous association ; but my army experience rendered the immer- 
 sion easier for me than for many others who had been dragged to con- 
 finement from the purity of a happy home. I was in separate confine- 
 ment in Millbank, and I suppose it is necessary to explain, for the 
 benefit of those who never had the good fortune to live in a prison, 
 that separate confinement means that the convict so sentenced is to be 
 shut up in his cell with light work, sewing or picking coir, and to have 
 one hour’s exercise per day, which consists in walking in single 
 file, with long distances between the prisoners, around the exercise 
 yard, and then turning an immense crank, which pumps water 
 into the corridors. The men stood at this crank facing each other, 
 and the man facing me was a perfect type of the brutal English 
 jail-bird. I had noticed the fellow in the chapel for three morn- 
 ings previously, but this was the first day I had taken the regular exer- 
 cise. 
 
 He was a man about thirty-five years of age, with a yellowish- white, 
 corpse-like face, one of those faces on which whiskers never grow, and 
 only a few long hairs in place of a mustache. Of course he was closely 
 shaven, but I felt that that was the nature of his whiskers when 
 “outside.” I had noticed, sitting behind this man as I did in chapel, 
 almost directly in the rear of him, that I could see his eyes. He had a 
 narrow, straight face, and there was a deep scoop, as it were, taken out 
 of each bone where the forehead joined the cheek, and through this 
 scoop I saw the eye from behind even more clearly than when standing 
 in front of the man, for his brows overhung in a most forbidding 
 way. 
 
 We had marched, Indian file, from our cells on my first morning’s 
 exercise, and had taken about three circuits of the yard when the 
 officer shouted in a harsh, unfriendly tone, the prison order, — “Halt ! 
 File on to crank, No. 1.” 
 
 No. 1 turned toward the center of the yard, where ran the series of 
 cranks arranged with one handle for two men facing each other. 
 When I got to my place I was face to face with the Corpse-man, and 
 when he turned his head sideways, I saw his left eye through the scoop 
 in his cheekbone. The officers stood behind me. There were three of 
 them to the gang of twenty men, and their duty was to watch so that 
 no communication took place between the prisoners. I felt that the 
 Corpse-man wanted to talk to me, but he kept his hidden eyes on the 
 officers behind me and turned the crank without the movement of a 
 muscle of his face. Presently, I heard a whisper, “Mate,” and I knew 
 it must be he who spoke, although still not a muscle seemed to move. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 55 
 
 I looked at him and waited. He said again in the same mysterious 
 manner : “ Mate, what’s your sentence ? ” 
 
 ***** 
 
 Millbank, which O’Reilly in his “Moondyne” calls “a 
 hideous hive of order and commonplace severity, where the 
 flooding sunlight is a derision,” was more terrible to a man 
 of his nature, in its grim regularity, than the old-fashioned 
 dungeon. It was pulled down in 1875. 
 
 On the expiration of their term of solitary confinement, 
 in April, 1867, O’ Reilly, Sergeant McCarthy, and Corporal 
 Chambers were sent to work with common criminals in the 
 prison brickyards at Chatham. They were chained together, 
 as before, and marched through the streets for the delecta- 
 tion of the populace. At Chatham they occupied cells 
 known as “end cells,” which receive ventilation from the 
 hall only, where the sanitary arrangements of the prison 
 are situated. The ordinary cells are ventilated from the 
 outside. 
 
 Here O’ Reilly and two others attempted to escape, and, 
 being recaptured, were put on bread and water for a month, 
 and, after that, chained together and sent to Portsmouth. 
 They were put into gangs, with the worst wretches, to do 
 the hardest of work. They had to wheel brick for machines. 
 Each machine will make a great many in an hour, and their 
 time and numbers were so arranged that from morning till 
 night they could rest only when the machine did. In 
 Portsmouth he again attempted to escape ; but failed, and 
 got thirty days more on bread and water. 
 
 He and his companions were next removed in chains to 
 Dartmoor — a place that has associations with American 
 history. There, on April 6, 1815, occurred the infamous 
 massacre of American prisoners, shot down by their guards 
 because of an imaginary plot to break jail. Dartmoor is 
 the worst of all the English prisons. Only a man of 
 the strongest constitution can hope to survive the rigor- 
 ous climate and unremitting hard labor of the dreary prison, 
 planted in the middle of the bleak Devonshire moor. Two 
 of the Irish convicts died of the hardships and cruelties there 
 
56 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 endured by them. McCarthy and Chambers underwent 
 twelve years of torture in this and other prisons. They 
 were released in 1878 ; the former to die in the arms of his 
 friends within a few days ; the latter, less fortunate, to drag 
 out eleven years of broken health and unceasing pain. 
 Both had been typical specimens of manly strength when 
 they exchanged the British uniform for the convict’s garb. 
 O’Reilly, little given to talk of his own sufferings, could 
 not restrain his indignation when speaking of the studied 
 brutality inflicted upon his comrades. Writing of Chaim 
 bers’s death, which occurred on December 2, 1888, he thus 
 recalls the Dartmoor days : 
 
 Here they were set to work on the marsh, digging deep drains, and 
 carrying the wet peat in their arms, stacking it near the roadways for 
 removal. For months they toiled in the drains, which were only two 
 feet wide, and sunk ten feet in the morass. It was a labor too hard for 
 brutes, the half-starved men, weakened by long confinement, standing 
 in water from a foot to two feet deep, and spading the heavy peat out 
 of the narrow cutting over their heads. Here it was that Chambers 
 and McCarthy contracted the rheumatic and heart diseases which fol- 
 lowed them to the end. McCarthy had left a wife and children out in 
 the world, whose woes and wanderings through all the years had racked 
 his heart even more than disease had his limbs. When at last the cell 
 door was opened, and he was told that he was free, the unfortunate 
 man, reaching toward his weeping wife, and his children grown out 
 of his recollection, fell dead almost at the threshold of the prison. 
 
 Chambers lingered till Sunday morning, his body a mass of aches 
 and diseases that agonized every moment and defied and puzzled all the 
 skill of the doctors. “ They don’t know what is the matter with me,” 
 he said with a smile, a few days ago, to a friend who called at the hos- 
 pital to see him, “but I can tell them. They never saw a man before 
 who was suffering from the drains of Dartmoor.” 
 
 O’Reilly paints the same dark picture again in a ficti- 
 tious work, whose most striking feature is the truthful 
 sketch of prison life contributed by the ex-convict. 
 
 In 1884, in conjunction with Robert Grant, Fred. J. 
 Stimson(“ J. S. Dale”), and John T. Wheelwright, he wrote 
 the clever, prophetical novel entitled, “The King’s Men: 
 a Tale of To-morrow.” It was a story of the reign of 
 “George the Fifth,” and of the coming century. There 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 57 
 
 was plenty of humor, and a good deal of wisdom disguised 
 as humor, in the extravagant pictures drawn by the four 
 young authors. George the Fifth had fled from his rebel- 
 lious subjects and taken refuge in America. The French 
 republic, “over seventy years old,” and the common- 
 wealths of Germany, thirty- three years old, the aristocratic 
 republic of Russia, and the other democratic governments 
 of the world were prosperous, as the British republic, also, 
 had been under “ O’ Donovan Rourke, the first president, 
 and his two famous ministers, Jonathan Sims and Richard 
 Lincoln.” Some belated royalists plotted to overthrow the 
 republic and restore the monarchy. Their conspiracy 
 came to naught, and they were sent into penal servitude. 
 O’Reilly thus sketches the fate of the conspirators : 
 
 It was part of the policy of Bagshaw’s government thus to march 
 them through the streets, a spectacle, like a caravan of caged beasts, for 
 the populace. Geoffrey thought to himself, curiously, of the old tri- 
 umphs of the Roman emperors he had read about as a school-boy. 
 Then, as now, the people needed bread and loved a show. But the 
 people, even then, had caught something of the dignity of power. 
 Silently they pressed upon the sidewalks and thronged the gardens by 
 the river. Not a voice was raised in mockery of these few men ; there 
 is something in the last extremity of misfortune which commands 
 respect, even from the multitude. And, perhaps, even then, the first 
 fruits of freedom might have been marked in their manner ; and mag- 
 nanimity, the first virtue of liberty, kept the London rabble hushed. 
 
 The convicts were sent to Dartmoor Prison, which is 
 graphically described by its old inmate. The picture is 
 accurate, barring the slight poetical license appropriate to 
 a fiction of the future : 
 
 In the center of its wide waste of barren hills, huge granite outcrop- 
 pings, and swampy valleys, the gloomy prison of Dartmoor stood 
 wrapped in mist, one dismal morning in the March following the Roy- 
 alist outbreak. Its two centuries of unloved existence in the midst of 
 a wild land and fitful climate, had seared every wall-tower and gate- 
 way with lines and patches of decay and discoloration. Originally 
 built of brown stone, the years had deepened the tint almost to black- 
 ness in the larger stretches of outer wall and unwindowed gable. 
 
 On this morning the dark walls dripped with the weeping atmos- 
 phere, and the voice of the huge prison bell in the main yard sounded 
 distant and strange, like a storm-bell in a fog at sea. 
 
58 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Through the thick drizzle of the early morning the convicts were 
 marched in gangs to their daily tasks ; some to build new walls within 
 the prison precincts, some to break stone in the round yard, encircled 
 by enormous iron railings fifteen feet high, some to the great kitchen 
 of the prison, and to the different workshops. About one third of the 
 prisoners marched outside the walls by the lower entrance; for the 
 prison stands on a hill, at the foot of which stretches the most forsaken 
 and grisly waste in all Dartmoor. 
 
 The task of the convicts for two hundred years had been the recla- 
 mation of this wide waste, which was called “The Farm.” The French 
 prisoners of war, taken in the Napoleonic wars that ended with Waterloo, 
 had dug trenches to drain the waste. The American prisoners of the 
 War of 1812 had laid roadways through the marsh. ‘ The Irish rebels 
 of six generations had toiled in the tear-scalded footsteps of the French 
 and American captives. And all the time the main or “stock ” supply 
 of English criminals, numbering usually about four hundred men, had 
 spent their weary years in toiling and broiling at “ The Farm.” 
 
 Standing at the lower gate of the prison, from which a steep road 
 descended to the marsh looking over “ The Farm,” it was hard to see 
 anything like a fair return for such continued and patient labor. Deep 
 trenches filled with claret-colored water drained innumerable patches 
 of sickly vegetation. About a hundred stunted fruit trees and as many 
 bedraggled haystacks were all that broke the surface line. 
 
 To the left of the gate, on the sloping side of the hill, was a quad- 
 rangular space of about thirty by twenty yards, round which was built 
 a low wall of evidently great antiquity. The few courses of stones 
 were huge granite bowlders and slabs torn and rolled from the hillside. 
 There was no gateway or break in the square ; to enter the inclosure 
 one must climb over the wall, which was easy enough to do. 
 
 Inside the square was a rough heap of granite, a cairn, gray with 
 lichens, in the center of which stood, or rather leaned, a tall, square 
 block of granite, like a dolmen. So great was the age of this strange 
 obelisk that the lichens had encrusted it to the top. The stone had 
 once stood upright; but it now leaned toward the marsh, the cairn 
 having slowly yielded on the lower side. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Geoffrey, who had been employed in the office of the Governor of 
 the prison, and who had, on hearing this old monument was to be re- 
 paired, volunteered on behalf of the three others to do the work, now 
 told the story of the old monument as he had learned it from the prison 
 records which he had been transcribing : 
 
 “In the wars of the Great Napoleon,” Geoffrey said, “the French 
 prisoners captured by England were confined in hulks on the seacoast 
 till the hulks overflowed. Then this prison was built, and filled with 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 59 
 
 unfortunate Frenchmen. In 1812 the young republic of America went 
 to war with England, and hundreds of American captives were added 
 to the Frenchmen. During the years of their confinement scores of 
 these poor fellows died, and one day the Americans mutinied, and then 
 other scores were shot down in the main yard. This field was the 
 graveyard of those prisoners, and here the strangers slept for over half 
 a century, till their bones were washed out of the hillside by the rain- 
 storms. There happened to be in Dartmoor at that time a party of 
 Irish rebels, and they asked permission to collect the bones and bury 
 them securely. The Irishmen raised this cairn and obelisk to the 
 Americans and Frenchmen, and now, after another hundred years, we 
 are sent to repair their loving testimonial.” 
 
 “ It is an interesting story,” said Featherstone. 
 
 “ A sad story for old men,” said the Duke. 
 
 “ A brave story for boys,” said Mr. Sydney ; “I could lift this obe- 
 lisk itself for sympathy.” 
 
 They went on, working and chatting in low tones, till an exclama- 
 tion from Sydney made them look up. Sydney was on top of the cairn, 
 scraping the lichens from the obelisk. The moss was hard to cut, and 
 had formed a crust, layer on layer, half an inch in thickness. 
 
 “ What is it, my dear Sydney ? ” asked the Duke. 
 
 “ An inscription !” cried Sydney, scraping away. “ An inscription 
 nearly a hundred years old. I have uncovered the year — see, 1867.” 
 “Ay,” said Geoffrey, “ that was the year the Irish were here.” 
 Featherstone had gone to Sydney’s assistance, and with the aid of a 
 sharp flint soon uncovered the whole inscription. It ran thus : 
 
 Sacred to the Memory of the 
 
 FRENCH AND AMERICAN PRISONERS 
 OF WAR, 
 
 Who died in Dartmoor Prison during the 
 Years 1811—1 6. 
 
 Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. 
 
 Underneath were the words, “ Erected 1867.” 
 
 There is no fiction in this last incident. O’Reilly and 
 his fellow-prisoners actually erected such a cairn over the 
 bones of the massacred Americans, which the prison pigs 
 were rooting up. 
 
00 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Again he recalls his Dartmoor life in the letter from 
 “ James Sydney,” one of the royalist prisoners, who 
 remains behind in Dartmoor after his comrades have 
 escaped. The letter reads : 
 
 Since your escape I have been under the strictest surveillance, and 
 as I have recovered from my gout I have been set to work upon the 
 ignoble task of breaking stones into small bits with a hammer. I am 
 known as No. 5, and am called by no other name. Imagine me, who 
 found it so difficult to look out for Number One, having to care for 
 No. 5. Indeed, I should find it well-nigh impossible were it not for 
 the assistance which I have from the warders and turnkeys, who look 
 after me with a touching solicitude. No physician could have kept me 
 to a regimen so suitable for my health as strictly as they. You remem- 
 ber how I used to enjoy lying abed in the morning. What a pleasure 
 it was to wake up, to feel that the busy world was astir around you, 
 and lie half awake, half asleep, stretching your toes into cool recesses 
 of a soft, luxurious bed. But it made me idle, very idle. But now I 
 must be off my hard cot, be dressed and have my cot made up by half- 
 past five ; then I breakfast off a piece of bread, washed down with a pint 
 of unsweetened rye coffee, innocent of milk, drunk au naturel out of a 
 tin pail. And how I wish for my after-breakfast cigar and the Times , 
 as I put my hands upon a fellow-convict’s shoulder and march in slow 
 procession to my task. The work of breaking a large piece of stone 
 into smaller bits with a hammer is not an intellectual one ; but it has 
 got me into tolerable training ; I have lost twenty pounds already, and 
 am, as we used to say at the university, as “hard as nails.” I am 
 afraid that my old trousers, which my tailor used to let out year by 
 year, would be a world too large for my shrunk shanks now. I dine at 
 noon, as you remember, and for the first time in my life I do not dress 
 for dinner ; indeed, a white cravat and a dress coat would be inappro- 
 priate when one sits down to bean porridge and boiled beef served in 
 the same tin plate. But I have a good appetite after my pulverizing of 
 the morning, and I am not compelled to set the table in a roar under 
 duress. I am surprised what good things I think of now that I am not 
 expected to and have no one to whom to say them. Jawkins would 
 double my salary could he get me out. Rye coffee is a poor substitute 
 for Chambertin, but it does not aggravate my gout. After dinner I 
 return to my stone-breaking, and feel with delight my growing biceps 
 muscle, and after my supper, which is monotonously like my breakfast, 
 I tackle the tracts which are left with me by kindly souls. They are of 
 a class of literature which I have neglected since childhood, having, as 
 you may remember, a leaning toward “ facetiae.” In fact, since my 
 great-aunt’s withdrawal to another world, where it may be hoped that 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 61 
 
 the stones are more brittle and the coffee better, I have seen none. I 
 cannot say that I have been comforted by the tracts, but I have been 
 interested by them, and I spend the brief hours of leisure which are 
 vouchsafed to me in annotating my editions. 
 
 Few who read this light and good-humored complaint 
 of the imaginary royalist conspirator can have conceived 
 any idea of the horrors actually endured and silently for- 
 given by its victim. I would gladly dismiss the painful 
 story, but other pens have told it all ; and the world that 
 knew John Boyle O’Reilly as the refined, courtly gentle- 
 man and the magnanimous Christian, should know also in 
 what a rough school he learned to be gentle — through what 
 cruel tortures he learned to be merciful. 
 
 If Dartmoor had been deliberately chosen and systemati- 
 cally conducted as an engine of torture, it could not have 
 better served its purpose of breaking body and mind, 
 heart and soul. The prison cells were of iron, seven feet 
 long by four feet wide, and a little over seven feet high : 
 ventilated by an opening of two or three inches at the bot- 
 tom of the door, some of them having a few holes for the 
 escape of foul air at the top of the cell walls. They were 
 oppressively warm in summer, and dismally cold in winter. 
 “Fresh” air came from the corridors, whence also came 
 the only light enjoyed by the inmates, through a pane of 
 thick, semi-opaque glass. 
 
 The food was so bad that only starving men, such as they 
 were, could stomach it. It was often too filthy even for 
 their appetites. “It was quite a common occurrence in 
 Dartmoor,” says Michael Davitt, “ for men to be reported 
 and punished for eating candles, boot-oil, and other repul- 
 sive articles ; but, notwithstanding that a highly offensive 
 smell is purposely given to prison candles to prevent their 
 being eaten instead of burnt, men are driven by a system 
 of half-starvation into animal-like voracity, and anything 
 that a dog could eat is nowise repugnant to their taste. I 
 have even seen men eating — ” but the heart sickens at the 
 relation of what Mr. Davitt has seen, and we cannot but 
 think with horror of such a degradation being set before 
 
62 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 such men as these, — before any creature made in God’s 
 image and likeness. 
 
 The work was hard enough at best. It was wantonly 
 made more repulsive by the inhumanity of the jailers ; and 
 the jailers did not act without authority. The putrefying 
 bones— refuse of the prison — had to be pounded into dust ; 
 and the place chosen for this offensive work was a shed on 
 the brink of the prison cesspool. The floor of the “bone- 
 shed,” as it was called, was some three feet below the 
 outside ground, and on a level with the noisome cesspool. 
 The stench of this work-room and the foul air of the 
 cells, combined with the bad and insufficient food, tended 
 to undermine the health of the wretched prisoners ; for, 
 observe, they were set to work on the wet moors outside, 
 during the cold winter, and in the foul bone-shed during 
 the stifling summer days ! Siberia may have sharper 
 tortures, but none more revolting in cold, deliberate 
 cruelty, than those of Dartmoor. 
 
 There was other work, plenty of it, in the Dartmoor 
 institution, delving, building, and toiling in various ways. 
 The men were not allowed to be idle as long as they were 
 able to lift a hand or foot. When Davitt came out of Dart- 
 moor, having entered prison a healthy man of normal 
 weight, he weighed 122 pounds. “Not, I think,” he says, 
 “ a proper weight for a man six feet high and at the age of 
 thirty-one.” 
 
 McCarthy came out to die, and Chambers to linger a 
 wreck for the remainder of his wasted life. 
 
 In short, the political prisoners were systematically sub- 
 jected to harsher treatment than the hardened criminals 
 with whom they were associated ; and this was done as a 
 fixed policy of the Government, to make treason odious. 
 Being men of natural refinement, they felt more keenly than 
 the common felon the indignity of having to strip and be 
 searched four times a day ; and, as they were unwise 
 enough to show this reluctance, the coarse warders of the 
 prison took an especial delight in inflicting it upon them. 
 
 O’Reilly was a “good” prisoner ; that is, he took care 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 63 
 
 to save himself as far as possible from the indignities of 
 his condition by paying strict obedience to the prison rules ; 
 but he never despaired of effecting his escape, nor neglected 
 any promising opportunity to that end. During his Dart- 
 moor term he made his third break for freedom. 
 
 The authorities were accustomed to station sentries at 
 certain elevated points on the moor, to watch the drain- 
 cutting parties of prisoners, and to signal the approach of 
 a fog which they could see rolling in from seaward. Upon 
 the signals being given, the warders would summon the 
 working parties in the drains and gather them all within the 
 prison walls. O’Reilly was working in a gang of drain- 
 diggers in charge of one Captain Hodges. With him was 
 another Fenian ex-soldier, Michael Lavin, who tells an in- 
 teresting story of his comrade’ s desperate break for liberty. 
 O’ Reilly had secretly made himself a suit of clothes from 
 one of the coarse sheets with which each prisoner was sup- 
 plied, skillfully arranging his bundle of bedding so that the 
 sheet was not missed. He told Lavin one day that he had 
 made up his mind to escape. Accordingly, on the first ap- 
 pearance of an opportune fog, he hid himself in the drain 
 when his fellow-prisoners obeyed the warders’ summons to 
 return to the prison yard. Before his absence was discov- 
 ered he had made his way well out of the bounds. Search 
 was immediately instituted, but he evaded pursuit during 
 two days and nights. 
 
 Once he was so closely followed that he took refuge on 
 the top of an old house, and lay concealed behind the 
 smoke-stack until the guards had gone by. Thence he 
 dropped into a dyke communicating with the river, intend- 
 ing at nightfall to swim the latter in the hope of making his 
 way to the seacoast. For a long time he lay thus hidden, 
 holding to the bank by one hand, while the guards patrolled 
 overhead without perceiving him. An officer stationed 
 some distance off closely watched the place with a field- 
 glass. His suspicions were aroused by perceiving a ripple 
 on the water, and he communicated with the guards, who 
 thereupon discovered the fugitive and brought him back to 
 
64 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 prison. For this offense he was given twenty-eight days in 
 the punishment cells, his only nourishment being bread and 
 water, save on every fourth day, when full rations were 
 served. During all the time of his flight he had not eaten 
 an ounce of food. 
 
 Four months were spent by O’Reilly in this dismal 
 prison-house. Then came the welcome order of transfer to 
 Portland, preparatory to transportation beyond the seas. 
 While any change from the living hell of Dartmoor could 
 not but be welcome to its inmates, the decree of transpor- 
 tation did not apply to all of the Irish convicts. McCarthy 
 and Chambers were doomed to fret their souls away under 
 the great and petty tortures of their English dungeons. 
 For O’Reilly there was the boon of banishment to the 
 furthest end of the earth, an inhospitable wilderness ; and 
 separation, probably forever, from the land of his birth and 
 love, from the comrades whom a community of suffering 
 had endeared to him. But it was a boon, for it was a 
 change, and any change was welcome to one in such a 
 plight as his. In an interview, published a few years ago, 
 he thus told of how the good news came to him : 
 
 In October, ’67, there were in Dartmoor prison six convicts, who, 
 to judge from their treatment, must have been infinitely darker crimi- 
 nals than even the murderous-looking wretches around them. These 
 men were distinguished by being allotted an extra amount of work, 
 hunger, cold, and curses, together with the thousand bitter aids that 
 are brought to bear in the enforcement of English prison discipline. 
 At the time I now recall, three of those men were down in the social 
 depths — indeed, with one exception, they were in prison for life ; and 
 even in prison were considered as the most guilty and degraded there. 
 This unusually hard course was the result of a dream they had been 
 dreaming for years, — dreaming as they wheeled the heavy brick cars, 
 dreaming as they hewed the frozen granite, dreaming as they breathed 
 on their cold fingers in the dark penal cells, dreaming in the deep 
 swamp-drain, dreaming awake and asleep, always dreaming of Lib- 
 erty ! That thought had never left them. They had attempted to 
 realize it, and had failed. But the wild, stealthy thought would come 
 back into their hearts and be cherished there. This was the result, — 
 hunger, cold, and curses. The excitement was dead. There was nought 
 left now but patience and submission. I have said that the excitement, 
 
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HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 65 
 
 even of failure, was dead ; but another and stronger excitement took 
 its place. A rumor went through the prison, — in the weirdly mysteri- 
 ous way in which rumors do go through a prison. However it came is 
 a mystery, but there did come a rumor to the prison, even to the dark 
 cells, of a ship sailing for Australia ! 
 
 Australia ! the ship ! Another chance for the old dreams ; and the 
 wild thought was wilder than ever, and not half so stealthy. Down the 
 corridor came the footsteps again. The keys rattled, doors opened, and 
 in five minutes we had double irons on our arms, and were chained 
 together by a bright, strong chain. We did not look into each other’s 
 faces ; we had learned to know what the others were thinking of with- 
 out speaking. We had a long ride to the railway station, in a villain- 
 ous Dartmoor conveyance, and then a long ride in the railway cars to 
 Portland. It was late at night when we arrived there, and got out of 
 harness. The ceremony of receiving convicts from another prison is 
 amusing and “racy of the soil.” To give an idea of it, it is enough to 
 say that every article of clothing which a prisoner wears must at once 
 go back to the prison whence he came. It may be an hour, or two, or 
 more, before a single article is drawn from the stores of the receiving 
 prison, — during which time the felon is supremely primitive. To the 
 prison officials this seems highly amusing ; but to me, looking at it 
 with the convict’s eye and feelings, the point of the joke was rather 
 obscure. 
 
 Next day we went to exercise, not to work. We joined a party of 
 twenty of our countrymen, who had arrived in Portland one day before 
 us. They had come from Ireland — had only been in prison for a few 
 months. They had news for us. One of them, an old friend, told me 
 he had left my brother in prison in Ireland, waiting trial as a Fenian.* 
 Many others got news just as cheering. A week passed away. Then 
 came the old routine, — old to us, but new and terrible to the men from 
 Ireland, — double irons and chains. This time there were twenty men 
 on each chain, the political prisoners separate from the criminals. 
 “Forward there ! ” and we dragged each other to the esplanade of the 
 prison. It was a gala day,— a grand parade of the convicts. They 
 were drawn up in line, — a horrible and insulting libel on an army,— 
 and the governor, and the doctors of the prison and ship reviewed 
 them. There were two or three lounging in the prison yard that day, 
 who, I remember well, looked strangely out of place there. They had 
 honest, bronzed faces and careless sailor’s dress, — the mates and boat- 
 swain of the Hougoumont , who had come ashore to superintend the 
 embarkation. 
 
 * This brother was William, the eldest of the family ; he died ere John had 
 made his escape. 
 
66 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The review was over. The troops — Heaven forgive me ! — formed in 
 columns of chains, and marched to the steamer which was waiting to 
 convey them to the transport. Our chain was in the extreme rear. 
 Just as we reached the gangway to go on board, a woman’s piercing 
 shriek rose up from the crowd on the wharf; a young girl rushed 
 wildly out, and threw herself, weeping and sobbing, on the breast of a 
 man in our chain, poor Thomas Dunne. She was his sister. She had 
 come from Dublin to see him before he sailed away. They would not 
 let her see him in prison, so she had come there to see him in his 
 chains. Oh ! may God keep me from ever seeing another scene like 
 that which we all stood still to gaze at; even the merciless officials for 
 a moment hesitated to interfere. Poor Dunne could only stoop his head 
 and kiss his sister — his arms were chained ; and that loving, heart-broken 
 girl, worn out by grief, clung to his arms and his chains, as they dragged 
 her away ; and when she saw him pushed rudely to the gangway, 
 she raised her voice in a wild cry : “ Oh, God ! oh, God ! ” as if reproach- 
 ing Him who willed such things to pass. Prom the steamer’s deck we 
 saw her still watching tirelessly, and we tried to say words of comfort 
 to that brother — her brother and ours. He knew she was alone, and 
 had no friends in wide England. Thank God, he is a free man now in 
 a free country ! 
 
 The steamer backed her paddles alongside the high ship and we went 
 on board, the criminals having gone first. Our chains were knocked 
 off on the soldier-lined decks, and we were ordered to go below. The 
 sides of the main hatchway were composed of massive iron bars, and, 
 as we went down, the prisoners within clutched the bars and looked 
 eagerly through, hoping, perhaps, to see a familiar face. As I stood in 
 that hatchway, looking at the wretches glaring out, I realized more 
 than ever before the terrible truth that a convict ship is a floating hell. 
 The forward hold was dark, save the yellow light of a few ship’s lamps. 
 There were 320 criminal convicts in there, and the sickening thought 
 occurred to us, are our friends in there among them? There swelled 
 up a hideous diapason from that crowd of wretches ; the usual prison 
 restraint was removed, and the reaction was at its fiercest pitch. 
 
 Such a din of diabolical sounds no man ever heard. We hesitated 
 before entering the low-barred door to the hold, unwilling to plunge 
 into the seething den. As we stood thus, a tall, gaunt man pushed his 
 way through the criminal crowd to the door. He stood within, and, 
 stretching out his arms, said: “ Come, we are waiting for you.” I did 
 not know the face ; I knew the voice. It was my old friend and com- 
 rade, Keating. 
 
 We followed him through the crowd to a door leading amidships 
 from the criminal part of the ship. This door was opened by another 
 gaunt man within, and we entered. Then the door was closed and we 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 67 
 
 were with our friends— our brothers. Great God! what a scene that 
 was, and how vividly it arises to my mind now ! 
 
 The sixty-three political prisoners on the Hougoumont 
 were the first lot that had been sent to Australia since the 
 Irish uprising of 1848, nor have any others been sent since 
 her voyage. Of these prisoners some fifteen had been sol- 
 diers and were, therefore, classed and placed among the 
 criminals. This would have been a greater hardship but 
 for the fact that some of the soldiers in the ship’s guard 
 belonged to regiments in which certain of the prisoners had 
 served, and, with comrade sympathy, alleviated their lot 
 as far as possible. 
 
 All but one or two of the guards were friendly to the ex- 
 soldiers, who were allowed to occupy the quarters of the 
 political prisoners by day, but forced to pass tho night with 
 the criminals in the fore part of the ship. O’ Reilly was 
 made an exception, through the good-nature of the guards, 
 who always allowed him, though against the rules, to 
 sling his hammock in the compartment on the lower deck 
 below the cabin, where the political prisoners slept. He 
 received many kindnesses also from the ship’s chaplain, 
 Father Delaney, who furnished the paper and writing 
 materials for a remarkable periodical entitled “ The Wild 
 Goose.” The name had a significance for Irishmen. The 
 soldiers of Sarsfield, who took service in the French and 
 other foreign armies on the failure of their country’s 
 effort for liberty, w’ere called “ The Wild Geese.” Many 
 a sad or stirring song has told the story of their exile, and 
 their valor. “The Wild Goose” was edited by John 
 Boyle O’Reilly, John Flood, Denis B. Cashman, and J. 
 Edward O’ Kelly. It was a weekly publication, Mr. Cash- 
 man writing the ornamental heading entwined with sham- 
 rocks, and the various sub-heads, as well as contributing to 
 its contents. Saturday was publishing day. On Sunday 
 afternoon O’ Reilly read it aloud to his comrades as they 
 sat around their berths below decks. In its columns first 
 appeared his stirring narrative poem, “ The Flying Dutch- 
 man,” written off the Cape of Good Hope. “We pub- 
 
68 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 lislied seven weekly numbers of it,” he says. “ Amid the 
 dim glare of the lamp the men, at night, would group 
 strangely on extemporized seats. The yellow light fell 
 down on the dark forms, throwing a ghastly glare on the 
 pale faces of the men as they listened with blazing eyes to 
 Davis’s ‘Fontenoy,’ or the ‘ Clansman’s Wild Address to 
 Shane’s Head’ ! Ah, that is another of the grand picture 
 memories that come only to those who deal with life’s 
 stern realities ! ” 
 
 Every night the exiles, Catholic and Protestant, for 
 there were men of both faiths in their ranks, joined in one 
 prayer, which ran as follows : 
 
 “ O God, who art the arbiter of the destiny of nations, 
 and who rulest the world in Thy great wisdom, look down, 
 we beseech Thee, from Thy holy place, on the sufferings of 
 our poor country. Scatter her enemies, O Lord, and con- 
 found their evil projects. Hear us, O God, hear the earnest 
 cry of our people, and give them strength and fortitude to 
 dare and suffer in their holy cause. Send her help, O Lord ! 
 from Thy holy place. And from Zion protect her. Amen.” 
 
 But if the political prisoners were able to forget their 
 misery for a time in this way, there was no such surcease for 
 the seething mass of crime that peopled the forward hold. 
 
 “Only those,” says O’Reilly in “Moondyne,” “who 
 have stood within the bars, and heard the din of devils and 
 the appalling sounds of despair, blended in a diapason 
 that made every hatch-mouth a vent of hell, can imagine 
 the horrors of the hold of a convict ship.” 
 
 The punishment cell was seldom empty ; its occupants as 
 they looked through its bars at the deck “saw, strapped 
 to the foremast, a black gaff or spar with iron rings, which, 
 when the spar was lowered horizontally, corresponded to 
 rings screwed into the deck. This was the triangle, where 
 the unruly convicts were triced up and flogged every morn- 
 ing. Above this triangle, tied round the foremast, was a 
 new and very fine hempen rope, leading away to the end of 
 the foreyard. This was the ultimate appeal, the law’s last 
 terrible engine — the halter — which swung mutineers and 
 murderers out over the hissing sea to eternity.” 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Prison life in Australia — O’Reilly Transferred from Fremantle to Bun- 
 bury — Cruel Punishment for a Technical Offense — Daring Plan to 
 Escape — Free at Last under the American Flag. 
 
 A T length, the long and dreary voyage ended, and the 
 old Hougoumont dropped anchor in the roadstead of 
 Fremantle at three o’clock in the morning of January 10, 
 1868. Her passengers could see, high above the little town 
 and the woodland about it, the great white stone prison 
 which represents Fremantle’s reason for existence. It 
 was “The Establishment” ; that is to say, the Govern- 
 ment; that is to say, the advanced guard of Christian 
 civilization in the wild Bush. The native beauty of the 
 place is marred by the straggling irregularity of the town, 
 as it is blighted by the sight, and defiled by the touch, of 
 the great criminal establishment. 
 
 The first official function was the reading of the rules. 
 What struck O’ Reilly most in that long code was the start- 
 ling peroration to the enumeration of so many offenses, — 
 “ the penalty of which is Death ! ” 
 
 After this ceremony the prisoners were separated, the 
 sheep from the goats, the criminals going ashore first to 
 swell the population of four or five hundred of their kind 
 already there. Curiously enough, the arrival of the Hou- 
 goumont was made the subject of a quasi-religious contro- 
 versy in the settlement, the Protestants murmuring at the 
 arrival of so many political prisoners. They did not com- 
 plain so much of the criminal convicts ; but their aversion 
 to the Irishmen was reconsidered on better acquaintance. 
 
 Father Lynch was the Catholic chaplain of Fremantle 
 prison, and one of the many who took an immediate liking 
 to young O’Reilly. Although the latter, like the other 
 
 69 
 
70 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 military convicts, had been separated from his fellows and 
 assigned to the gang of criminals, Father Lynch managed 
 to have him detailed as an assistant in the library. The 
 political prisoners who had not been soldiers were sent to 
 Perth, twelve miles away, to work in the road-gangs or 
 quarries. 
 
 One day, four weeks thereafter, O’Reilly was sum- 
 moned by the officer in whose immediate charge he was, 
 who said to him, “ You will go down to the vessel (men- 
 tioning her name), and deliver the articles named in this 
 bill of lading ; read it ! ” 
 
 O’Reilly read it. It called for the delivery, in good 
 order and condition, of three articles ; to wit : One convict, 
 No. 9843, one bag, and one hammock or bed. O’Reilly 
 was No. 9843 ; his destination was the convict settlement 
 of Bunbury, thirty miles along the coast, west of Fre- 
 mantle. 
 
 Arrived there he was assigned to one of the road parties 
 and began the dreary life of a convict, which, however, was 
 relieved from the utter woe of Millbank’s solitary days, or 
 the revolting cruelties of Chatham and Dartmoor. Still it 
 was bad enough. Among the criminals with whom he was 
 forced to associate were some of the most degraded of 
 human kind, — murderers, burglars, sinners of every grade 
 and color of vice. They were the poison flower of civiliza- 
 tion’ s corruption, more depraved than the savage, as they 
 were able to misuse the advantages of superior knowledge. 
 They were the overflow of society’s cesspool, the irreclaim- 
 able victims of sin — too often the wretched fruits of he- 
 redity or environment. Happily for the young, generous, 
 clean- minded rebel, who had been doomed to herd with 
 this prison scum, God had given him the instincts of pure 
 humanity ; and ill-fortune, instead of blighting, had nour- 
 ished their growth. He looked upon his fellow-sufferers 
 with eyes of mercy, seeing how many of them were the 
 victims, directly or indirectly, of cruel, selfish, social condi- 
 tions. In the Australian Bush he saw humanity in two 
 naked aspects : the savage, utterly ignorant of civilized vir- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 71 
 
 tues as of civilized vices ; and the white convict, stripped of 
 all social hypocrisies, revealing the worst traits of depraved 
 humanity. Both were “ naked and not ashamed.” For 
 the savages, so-called, he entertained a sincere and abiding 
 admiration. “ Why,” he said, years afterwards, “I found 
 that those creatures were men and women, just like the 
 rest of us ; the difference between those poor black boys 
 and the men of the Somerset Club was only external. I 
 have good friends among those Australian savages, to-day, 
 that I would be as glad to meet as any man I know.” 
 
 We know from his own “Moondyne,” and other works, 
 how tenderly and how charitably he regarded even the 
 lowest of his convict associates. It would be worth much 
 to a student of human nature could we know how they 
 regarded him. How strange a sojourner in their logging- 
 camps and prison cells must have been this young, hand- 
 some, daring, generous, kindly poet, who wore their con- 
 vict’s garb, toiled beside them with axe and shovel, and 
 dreamed dreams, while they cursed their hard fate or 
 obscenely mocked at their enemy, Mankind ! 
 
 He soon won the respect of the officer under whose 
 immediate charge he was, a man named Woodman, who, 
 appreciating O’Reilly’s ability, gladly availed himself of 
 his help in making out his monthly reports and other 
 clerical work. He also appointed him a “ constable,” as 
 those prisoners were called, who, for good conduct, were 
 detailed as aids to the officer in charge of each working 
 party. The constable wears a red stripe on his sleeve, as a 
 badge of his office ; he is employed to carry dispatches 
 from station to station, and is usually sent to conduct to 
 prison any convict on the road-gang who may prove refrac- 
 tory or mutinous. The constables must not be confounded 
 with the ticket-of-leave men. They were under no legal or 
 moral parole ; on the contrary, they were held to the 
 strictest account, and punished more severely than ordi- 
 nary criminals if they failed in their duties. O’Reilly had 
 good reason to know this, as a slight involuntary breach of 
 the rules once brought down upon him a most heartless 
 
72 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 and inhuman punishment. The story has a double interest, 
 both as showing the opportunities for malicious cruelty 
 possessed by even a subordinate prison officer, and the 
 infinite charity with which O’ Reilly was able to forgive an 
 atrocious wrong. 
 
 At one of the stations to which he was occasionally sent 
 with messages there was an overseer, warden, or watch- dog 
 of some sort, who chose to be an exception to all human 
 kind, by conceiving, at sight, a bitter dislike to young 
 O’Reilly. On their very first meeting he looked hard at the 
 new-comer, and said : 
 
 “ Young man, you know what you are here for add- 
 ing, with an oath, “ I will help you to know it.” From 
 that time on he watched his victim sharply, hoping to catch 
 him in some infraction of the many regulations governing 
 the convict settlement. 
 
 At last his time came. O’Reilly, one day, was a few 
 minutes late in making his trip. He found the overseer 
 waiting for him, watch in hand. “ You are late, — so many 
 minutes,” he said ; “you are reported.” Among the pen- 
 alties of being “ reported,” one was that the offender should 
 not be allowed to send or receive a letter for six months. 
 A few days after this incident, the overseer called O’Reilly 
 into his office. He held in his hand a letter, heavily bor- 
 dered in black, which he had just perused. O’Reilly knew 
 that his mother, at home in Ireland, had been dangerously 
 ill for some time. The letter probably bore the news of her 
 death, but it might contain tidings of a less bitter loss. 
 Nobody in the place, except the overseer, knew its con- 
 tents. He said: “O’Reilly, here is a letter for you.” 
 
 The prisoner said, “Thank you,” and held out his hand 
 for it. The overseer looked at him for a moment, then, 
 tossing the letter into a drawer, said, “ You will get it in 
 six months ! ” 
 
 When at the end of six months he received the letter, he 
 found that it confirmed his worst fears. The mother whom 
 he had loved and idolized was dead. 
 
 Listening to this story, years afterwards, from the lips 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 73 
 
 of its victim, I asked him why he had never published the 
 name of the cold-blooded wretch, for the execration of hu- 
 manity. He smiled and said that he did not bear the fellow 
 any malice ; that a man who would do a deed of that kind 
 must be insane and irresponsible, — a being toward whom 
 one could not cherish animosity. To a request that the 
 name might be given to somebody of less magnanimous 
 soul, he replied, “ I do not know his name now; I have 
 forgotten it.” For that reason the name does not appear 
 in these pages. 
 
 But life in the Bush was not all made up of tragedy, or 
 even of misery. To the poet there was consolation, and al- 
 most happiness, in the glorious open air, amid the grand 
 primeval trees, and the strange birds and beasts of the an- 
 tipodes. The land about him lay at the world’s threshold. 
 Strange monsters of pre-historic form still peopled the for- 
 est, monsters of the vegetable as well as of the animal king- 
 dom. 
 
 One incident will illustrate his love of nature, which, 
 curiously enough, found more frequent expression in his 
 prose than in his verse, and was still more a part of his life 
 than of his writings. For, wdiile he passionately loved and 
 keenly enjoyed all the delights of communion with nature, 
 his joy and love were personal pleasures. They formed no 
 part of the sermon which it was his mission to preach. The 
 text of that sermon was Humanity. To that he subordi- 
 nated every impulse of mere sentiment. This long preface 
 to a short story is excusable, because the criticism has been 
 made, and with justice, that O’Reilly’s poetry is strangely 
 wanting in the purely descriptive element. The only long 
 poem to which that criticism least applies is his “ King of 
 the Vasse,” in which are many wonderfully strong and 
 beautiful pictures of nature. 
 
 It happened that the road-gang with which he was 
 working, in following the course laid out by the surveyors, 
 came upon a magnificent tree, a giant among its fellows, 
 the growth of centuries, towering aloft to the sky and 
 spreading enormous arms on every side. The wealth of an 
 
74 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 empire could not buy this peerless work of nature. The 
 word of an unlettered ruler of a convict gang was potent 
 enough for its destruction ; for it lay right in the middle of 
 the surveyed road. The order was given to cut it down. 
 O’ Reilly argued and pleaded for its preservation, but in 
 vain. All that he could obtain was a reluctantly granted 
 reprieve, and appeal to a higher power. He went — this 
 absurd poet in a striped suit — to the commander of the dis- 
 trict, and pleaded for the tree. The official was so amused 
 at his astounding audacity that he told his wife, who, being 
 a woman, had a soul above surveys and rights of way. She 
 insisted on visiting the tree, and the result of her visit was 
 a phenomenon. The imperial road was turned from its 
 course, and a grand work of nature stands in the West 
 Australian forests as a monument to the convict poet. 
 
 The scum of civilization amid which O’Reilly was 
 anchored lay just above the depths of primitive savagery ; 
 there was no intermediate layer. But there was one im- 
 measurable gulf between the naked savage and the branded 
 outcast of civilization. The savage was free. The white 
 man envied him, as one who drowns may envy him who 
 swims in the dangerous waves. The savage was free, 
 because he could live in the Bush. 
 
 There was no need of fetters or warders to prevent the 
 criminal’s escape. Nature had provided a wall absolutely 
 impassable in the boundless Bush, in whose thorny depths 
 the fugitive was lost at the first plunge. Could he bury 
 himself in its recesses, and hide his trail from the keen 
 scent of the native trackers, employed as sleuth-hounds by 
 the Government, he would still be almost as helpless as a 
 traveler lost in the desert, or a mariner on a plank in mid- 
 ocean. He had no weapons with which to kill game ; he 
 was ignorant of the country and liable to perish of thirst 
 or hunger ; above all he had no definite goal in sight. The 
 pathless Bush lay before him, thousands of miles in one 
 direction, — the wide, deserted Indian Ocean in the other. 
 He might eke out a precarious existence for a while in the 
 Bush, living a life lower than that of the lowest savage, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 75 
 
 whose wood- craft could procure him a living ; but he had 
 no hope of freedom, near or remote. Of the two alterna- 
 tives left him (outside that of penal servitude), suicide was 
 rather better than flight to the Bush. 
 
 So said the good priest, Father McCabe, when O’ Reilly, 
 consumed with the mad passion for liberty, told him his 
 crude plans of escape. Perhaps flight was worse than sui- 
 cide, in an earthly sense, because its inevitable failure 
 carried with it a penalty, that of enrollment in the chain- 
 gangs. The horrors of this punishment are not to be 
 understood by free men. Something of them may be 
 gleaned from O’Reilly’s poem, “The Mutiny of the 
 Chains,” in which he says : 
 
 Woe to the weak, to the mutineers ! 
 
 The bolt of their death is driven ; 
 
 A mercy waits on all other tears, 
 
 But the Chains are never forgiven. 
 
 He had been a little over a year in the convict settle- 
 ment before the long-sought opportunity came of break- 
 ing his bonds forever. The story of his escape would 
 be deeply interesting had he been nothing more than a 
 mere adventurer like Baron Trenck, or a poor court intriguer 
 like Latude ; for the world — we are all only prisoners under 
 a life sentence — is ever stirred by the story of a bondman 
 breaking his fetters ; but a warmer sympathy is evoked by 
 the tale of this young hero of a romantic revolutionary 
 movement, — this poet whose whole life was a poem. 
 
 The true account was not given to the world for many 
 years, as its premature publication would have entailed 
 serious consequences on some of the agents in Australia 
 through whose devotion and courage the young convict 
 had effected his escape. The first authentic story, as pub- 
 lished with his sanction by his brother author and warm 
 friend, Mr. Alexander Young, of Boston, in the Philadel- 
 phia Times of June 25, 1881, is as follows : 
 
 O’Reilly had made preparations for his escape several months before 
 attempting it. He had told no one of his intention, because he had 
 
76 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 witnessed so many failures that he decided the safest way was to trust 
 to himself alone. A chance occurrence led him to change his mind. 
 One day while in camp with a convict road party, he had a call from 
 the Rev. Patrick McCabe, a Catholic priest, whose “parish” extended 
 over hundreds of miles of wild Bush country, and whose only parish- 
 ioners were convicts and ticket-of -leave men. This scholarly, accom- 
 plished gentleman had at that time passed fifteen years in ministering 
 to the spiritual needs of convicts, upon whom he exerted a very benefi- 
 cial influence. His days were almost wholly spent in the saddle, 
 riding alone from camp to camp, and the nights found him wrapped in 
 his blanket under the trees. He was kind to all men, whatever their 
 creed, and a sincere Christian worker. O’Reilly, who had found him 
 a warm friend during his stay in the penal colony, thus bears witness 
 to his usefulness : “He was the bes,t influence ; indeed, in my time, he 
 was the only good influence, on the convicts in the whole district of 
 Bunbury.” O’Reilly told him his plans of escape as they walked 
 together in the Bush. “It is an excellent way to commit suicide,” 
 said the thoughtful priest, who refused to talk about or countenance it. 
 He mounted his horse to say good-by, and, leaning from the saddle 
 toward O’Reilly, he said : 1 ‘ Don’t think of that again. Let me think 
 out a plan for you. You’ll hear from me before long.” Weeks and 
 months passed, and O’Reilly never heard from him. It was a weary 
 waiting, but the convict, though tortured by the uncertainty which 
 kept him from working his own plan, and even hindered him from 
 sleep, still had confidence in his absent and silent friend and adviser. 
 
 O’Reilly was exempt from the hardships of labor with the criminal 
 gang on the roads, but had charge of their stores and carried the war- 
 den’s weekly report to the Bunbury depot. While trudging along 
 with this report one day he reached a plain called the “Race Course.” 
 As he was crossing it he heard a “ coo-ee,” or bush-cry. Looking wist- 
 fully in the direction of the sound, he saw a stalwart man coming 
 toward him with an axe on his shoulder. There was a pleasant smile 
 on his handsome face as he approached O'Reilly and said : “ My name 
 is Maguire ; I’m a friend of Father Mac’s, and lie’s been speaking about 
 you.” Having learned the importance of distrusting strangers in con- 
 vict land, O’Reilly said but a few words and those such as could not 
 reveal his relations with the priest. Observing his hesitation, the 
 stranger took a card from his wallet on which was a message addressed 
 to O’Reilly in the handwriting of Father McCabe. This set at rest all 
 doubts and fears of the man’s intentions. O’Reilly eagerly listened to 
 what he had to say, for he had come to carry out the good priest’s plan • 
 of escape. He said he was clearing the race course, and would be at 
 work there for a month. In February— it was then December — Ameri- 
 can whalers would touch at Bunbury for water, and he should arrange 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 77 
 
 with one of them to secrete O’Reilly on board and take him out of 
 danger. This was cheering news, but, during the week which passed 
 before he again saw Maguire, O’Reilly could hardly sleep for fear that 
 the man would shrink, when the time came, from the danger to his own 
 life of helping him to escape. But Maguire’s hearty and confident 
 manner when he next saw him helped to dispel these fears. “You’ll 
 be a free man in February,” he said, “ as sure as my name is 
 Maguire,” 
 
 December and January passed away, and a wood-cutter chancing to 
 go to the convict-road camp mentioned the fact that three American 
 whaling barks had put into Bunbury. The news made O’Reilly terribly 
 anxious lest the plan for his escape should fall through. He deter- 
 mined to venture out by himself if he heard nothing from his friends. 
 On returning from the depot, to which he had carried his weekly 
 report, as usual, O’Reilly found Maguire waiting for him at the race 
 course. “Are you ready ? ” were the faithful fellow’s first words. He 
 then said that one of the whalers, the bark Vigilant , of New Bedford, 
 was to sail in four days and that Captain Baker had agreed to take 
 O’Reilly on board if he fell in with him outside Australian waters, and 
 had even promised to cruise for two or three days and keep a lookout 
 for him. Maguire had arranged all the details of the escape. O’Reilly 
 was to leave his hut at eight o’clock in the evening of February 18, and 
 take a cut through the Bash on a line which was likely to mislead the 
 native trackers. He had obtained a pair of freeman’s shoes, as the 
 mark left by the convict’s boot could be easily traced. After leaving 
 the camp he was to push on through the Bush in a straight course 
 toward a convict* station on the Yasse road. There he was to lie till he 
 heard some one on the road whistle the first bars of ‘ ‘ Patrick’s Day.” 
 The plan was gone over carefully between Maguire and O’Reilly, every 
 point being repeated till there could be no doubt of their mutual agree- 
 ment. The two men then separated. 
 
 On the evening of February 18 O’Reilly wrote a letter to his father 
 about his intended escape that night, and his purpose, if successful, to go 
 to the United States. Two months afterwards this letter found its way 
 into the Dublin newspapers. At seven o’clock that evening the warden 
 of the convict party went his rounds and looked in upon all the criminals. 
 He saw O’Reilly sitting in his hut as he passed on his return. Soon after 
 a convict came to the hut to borrow some tobacco and remained so long 
 that the host became very nervous. Fortunately the convict went 
 away before eight. As soon as he had gone O’Reilly changed his boots, 
 put out the light, and started on his desperate venture through the 
 Bush. 
 
 Though the woods were dark the stars shone brightly overhead. 
 Before he had gone two hundred yards he was startled by discovering 
 
78 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 that a man was following him. It was a moment of terrible strain for 
 O’Reilly, but with admirable nerve he coolly waited for the fellow to 
 come up. He proved to be a mahogany sawyer named Kelly, whose 
 saw-pit was close to the fugitive’s hut. He was a criminal who had been 
 transported for life. “ Are you off ? ” he whispered hoarsely. “ I knew 
 you meant it. I saw you talking to Maguire a month ago, and I knew 
 it all.” These words filled O’Reilly with astonishment and alarm, so 
 that he could not speak. He felt that he was in the man’s power. He 
 might have already put the police on his track, or he could do so the 
 next day. But the criminal showed a manly sympathy with the youth 
 who had risked so much for freedom. Holding out his hand to O’Reilly 
 he gave him a strong grip, saying, with a quivering, husky voice : 
 “God speed you. I’ll put them on the wrong scent to-morrow.” The 
 fugitive could not speak the gratitude he felt, so, silently pressing the 
 manly hand, he pushed on again through the woods. 
 
 It was eleven o’clock when he reached the old convict station and 
 lay down beneath a great gum tree at the roadside. From his dusky 
 hiding-place he kept an anxious lookout for friends or foes. In about 
 half an hour two men rode by. They seemed to be farmers, but they may 
 have been a patrol of mounted police. Soon after, the sound of horses 
 coming at a sharp trot was heard by the fugitive. They stopped near 
 his resting place, and he heard ‘ ‘ Patrick’s Day ” whistled in low but 
 clear tones. In an instant O’Reilly ran up to the horsemen, who proved 
 
 to be Maguire and another friend, M . They had another horse with 
 
 them, which O’Reilly mounted, and then, without saying a word, the 
 three started off at a gallop for the woods. They rode on in silence for 
 several hours. At last, Maguire, who led the way, reined in his horse, 
 dismounted, and whistled. He was answered by another whistle. In 
 a few minutes three men came up, two of whom turned out to be cousins 
 of Maguire. The third man took the horses and galloped off, but not 
 till he had given O’Reilly a warm shake of the hand, expressive of his 
 good wishes. The three men then formed in Indian file and, to prevent 
 the discQvery*of their number, the two behind covered the footprints of 
 the leader. After walking for about an hour they reached a dry swamp 
 near the sea. 
 
 O’Reilly remained at this place with M , while the other men -went 
 
 on. He was told that Bunbury was near by and that they had gone 
 for the boat. After waiting half an hour in anxiety lest the plan of 
 escape had been thwarted at the last moment, a light was seen about 
 half a mile away. This disappeared, only to flash out three more times. 
 It was the signal for O’Reilly and his companion to go forward. They 
 went along the road till they came to a bridge where Maguire was wait- 
 ing for them. The boat was all ready, but the tide being out they had 
 to wade knee-deep through the mud to reach the water. Maguire, who 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 79 
 
 led the way, was soon aboard with O’Reilly. M meanwhile remained 
 
 on the shore, and, when appealed to by Maguire in a whisper to ‘ ‘ come 
 on,” answered in a trembling voice : “ No, I promised my wife not to 
 go in the boat.” This led one of Maguire’s cousins, who had come 
 aboard before the others, to answer back in a sneering tone : “All 
 
 right, go home to your wife.” Yet M did not deserve this taunt of 
 
 cowardice. He was brave enough when duty called him, as he after- 
 wards showed. 
 
 The four men in the boat were careful to pull quietly till there was 
 no danger of their being overheard. Then they bent vigorously to the 
 oars, as if rowing for life. Little was said, but thoughts of what they 
 had at stake were all the deeper for not finding vent in words. By sun- 
 rise the boat had got almost out of sight of land, only the tops of the 
 high sand-hills being visible. The course was a straight line of forty 
 miles across Geographe Bay. It had been arranged to lie in wait for 
 the Vigilant on the further shore, and row toward her as she passed the 
 northern head of the bay. After pulling strongly till near noon the 
 mefL began to feel the need of food and drink, which from some reason 
 or other had not been provided for their cruise. O’Reilly, who had 
 eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, suffered dreadfully from thirst. 
 Accordingly the boat was run ashore through the surf and pulled high 
 and dry on the beach. The drenching which the men got in doing this 
 gave them temporary relief from thirst. But this soon became so in- 
 tense that they wandered for hours through the dried swamps in search 
 of water. Hundreds of paper-bark trees were examined for the wished 
 for drink, but not a drop could be found. O’Reilly became alarmed at 
 the burning pain in his chest, which seemed as if its whole inner sur- 
 face were covered with a blister. As night was coming on they came 
 to a cattle-track, which led to a shallow and muddy pool. But the 
 water was too foul to drink, so they had to content themselves with 
 cooling their faces in it. 
 
 As the whaler would not put to sea till morning or, perhaps, the fol- 
 lowing evening, O’Reilly was in sore need of sustenance to keep up his 
 strength. Fortunately there was a man living in a log house a few 
 miles away whom the Maguires knew and thought well of. He was an 
 Englishman named Johnson, and lived on this lonely expanse of coast 
 with no neighbor nearer than forty miles, as keeper of a large herd of 
 buffalo cows. The three men started for his house, leaving O’Reilly in 
 the Bush for safety, but promising that one should return with food and 
 drink as soon as he could get away unobserved. The poor sufferer 
 whom they left behind watched them winding in and out among the 
 sand-hills till they were lost to view. Then he lay down on the sand 
 in a shady spot and tried to sleep. But the terrible blistering pain in 
 his chest made it impossible for him to remain in a reclining position, 
 
80 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. 
 
 and he was obliged to get up and walk about. Hours passed and his 
 friends did not return. O’Reilly’s sufferings at this time were the 
 worst he ever experienced. In his desperate straits his knowledge and 
 judgment of woodcraft served him in good stead. Recollecting that the 
 natives lived on freshly killed meat when they could get no water, he 
 sought for a tree with ’possum marks. This he soon found and on 
 climbing it secured a large possum by pulling it out of its hole by the 
 tail and striking its head against the tree. He then learned what his 
 subsequent experience confirmed, that this meat was the very best sub- 
 stitute for water. Maguire returned at nightfall, bringing food and a 
 bottle of water. He remained but a short time, thinking it best to go 
 back to the Englishman’s house to avoid exciting suspicion. Soon after 
 his departure, O’Reilly made a bed with boughs and leaves on the 
 sand, using the young branches of the peppermint tree in order to keep 
 away ants, snakes, and centipedes. He soon fell into a sound sleep and 
 did not awake till his friends called him the next morning. Yet all 
 this time he was in danger of being tracked by the police. 
 
 The party soon started for the beach, which was reached at about 
 nine o’clock. One of the men was sent with a strong glass, which 
 Maguire had brought, to the top of a high hill to keep a lookout for the 
 Vigilant. At about one o’clock he came running down with the wel- 
 come news that the vessel was steering north, with all sails spread. As 
 no time was to be lost the boat was quickly run out through the surf. 
 The men pulled cheerily toward the headland, for they were confident 
 of reaching it before the bark passed. They had rowed about a couple 
 of hours when she was seen steering straight toward the boat. The 
 men therefore stopped pulling and waited for her to come up. To their 
 intense disappointment she changed her course slightly when within 
 two miles of the boat, as if to avoid them. The men looked on amazed. 
 Maguire repeatedly said that Captain Baker had pledged his word to 
 take them on board, and he could not believe him mean enough to 
 break it. To settle the question one of the men stood up in the boat 
 and hailed the vessel loudly enough to be heard on board. There was 
 no answer. Again the man hailed her, his companions joining in the 
 shout. No sound came back, and the Vigilant seemed to be moving a 
 little further off. At last she brought up abreast of the boat, at about 
 three miles distant. As a last resort, Maguire fixed a white shirt on 
 the top of an oar and the men all shouted again. But the Vigilant 
 passed on, leaving the boat to its fate. 
 
 As the bark gradually receded in the distance, the bitterness of 
 O’Reilly’s disappointment was increased by the sense of danger. What 
 could now be done to save him was the thought of every one in the 
 boat, as she was put about and pulled slowly for the shore. Maguire 
 proposed that the boat should be hauled on to the beach and then 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 81 
 
 O’Reilly should be left in the Bush, as before, while the others went on 
 to Johnson’s. It was necessary to trust the Englishman with the 
 secret and let him know the hiding-place of the fugitive, for his friends 
 were obliged to go home and arrange for his escape by one of the other 
 whale-ships. This plan was agreed to by the whole party as the best 
 way out of the difficulty. It was evening when they reached the shore. 
 As his three friends left O’Reilly in the secluded sand valley they shook 
 him by the hand and told him to keep up a good heart. They promised 
 that one of them would come from Bunbury in the course of a week to 
 tell him when the whalers would sail. They also said that they should 
 communicate with old Johnson and ask him to bring food and water 
 to the sand valley, which the old man did. 
 
 In his nervous desire to get away as soon as possible from the penal 
 colony, O’Reilly brooded over Captain Baker’s promise to cruise for his 
 boat if it was not sighted when the Vigilant came out. He thought 
 that the captain might not have seen the boat and might be still cruis- 
 ing along the coast on the lookout for it. This idea made him eager to 
 row out again and take the chance of falling in with the vessel. But 
 the boat in which he had ventured before was too heavy for one person 
 to set afloat or row. He asked J ohnson’s boy, who came the third 
 night, in place of the old man, if his father had a boat. The lad said 
 there was an old dory at the horse range further up the coast, buried 
 in the sand. When the boy had gone O’Reilly walked along the beach 
 for six or seven miles, and at last found the boat. The heat and dry 
 weather had warped her badly, but O’Reilly pulled her carefully into 
 the water and fastened her by a rope of paper bark to a stake driven 
 into the sand, and went back to his hiding-place for the night. 
 
 Next morning he ventured out to sea in this frail craft, which he 
 had made water tight by the use of paper bark. In order to keep his 
 stock of meat from spoiling in the hot sun he let it float in the water, 
 fastened by a rope of paper bark to the stern of the boat. The light 
 craft went rapidly forward under his vigorous rowing, and before night 
 had passed the headland and was on the Indian Ocean. 
 
 That night on an unknown sea in a mere shell had a strange, weird 
 interest, heightened by the anxious expectations of the seeker for 
 liberty. O’Reilly ceased rowing the next morning, trusting to the 
 northward current to bring him within view of the whale-ship. He 
 suffered a good deal from the blazing rays of the sun and their scorch- 
 ing reflection from the water. To add to his troubles, the meat towing 
 in the water was becoming putrid, and he found that some of the ’pos- 
 sums and kangaroo rats had been taken by sharks in the night. 
 Toward noon he saw a vessel under sail which he knew must be the 
 Vigilant and his hopes ran high, as she drew so near to the boat that 
 he could hear voices on her deck. He saw a man aloft on the lookout ; 
 
82 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 but there was no answer to the cry from the boat, and the vessel again 
 sailed off, leaving O’Reilly to sadly watch her fade away into the night. 
 He afterward heard from Captain Baker that, strangely enough, the 
 boat was not seen from the ship. 
 
 Being refreshed by the dew and the cool night air, O’Reilly bent to 
 the work of rowing back to shore. There was nothing to do but to get 
 to his hiding-place and await Maguire’s return. He tugged at the oars 
 pretty steadily through the night, and when morning came he was 
 within sight of the sand-hills on the headland of Geographe Bay. He 
 reached land by noon and then walked on wearily to Johnson’s, where 
 he arrived the same night. The fatigue and anxiety which he had 
 gone through had thoroughly exhausted him. He cared for nothing 
 but sleep, and this he could have without stint in the secluded sand 
 valley. There he remained for five days, when he was cheered by the 
 
 arrival of Maguire and M , who said that they had come to see him 
 
 through. This time Maguire brought a brief letter from Father 
 McCabe, asking O’Reilly to remember him. He had arranged with 
 Captain Gifford, of the bark Gazelle , of New Bedford, one of the 
 whalers that were to sail next day, to take O’Reilly on board. In 
 order to insure the fulfillment of this agreement the good Father had 
 paid the captain ten pounds to carry his friend as far as Java. Unfor- 
 tunately there was one serious danger ahead. This was the presence 
 of a criminal convict, one of the worst characters in the penal colony, 
 Martin Bowman, or Beaumont, a ticket-of -leave man. This fellow had 
 discovered O’Reilly’s plan of escape and had threatened to reveal the 
 whole affair to the police if Maguire did not take him on board the 
 whale-ship also. As it was unsafe to refuse this demand, Bowman was 
 unwillingly included in the party. 
 
 Soon after daybreak the next morning the men went down to the 
 beach. Old Johnson and his boy were there to see them off. They got 
 afloat without delay, and rowed vigorously toward the headland, accord- 
 ing to Captain Gifford’s directions. By noon they saw the two whale- 
 ships under full headway. Toward evening they were hailed by one 
 of the vessels, and a voice shouted O’Reilly’s name and cried out : 
 “ Come on board ! ” The men were delighted at this call. They 
 pulled alongside and O’Reilly was helped out of the boat by the strong 
 arms of Henry C. Hathaway, the third mate. He was warmly wel- 
 comed by Captain Gifford, who gave him accommodations in his cabin. 
 Martin Bowman, the escaped criminal, was quartered in the forecastle 
 with the crew. As the boat pushed off from the ship, Maguire stood up 
 and cried : ‘ ‘ God bless you ; don’t forget us, and don’t mention our 
 
 names till you know it’s all over.” M , also, who had so well 
 
 proved his courage, shouted a kind farewell, which moved the grateful 
 O’Reilly to tears. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 83 
 
 The official narrative is briefer. It is found in the 
 Police Gazette of the District of W estern Australia in the 
 form of the following advertisement : 
 
 ABSCONDERS. 
 
 20 — John B. O’Reilly, registered No. 9843, imperial convict ; arrived 
 in the colony per convict ship Hougoumont in 1868 ; sentenced to 
 twenty years, 9th July, 1866. Description — Healthy appearance ; pres- 
 ent age 25 years ; 5 feet 7i inches high, black hair, brown eyes, oval 
 visage, dark complexion : an Irishman. Absconded from Convict Road 
 Party, Bunbury, on the 18tli of February, 1869. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Narrow Escape from a ‘ ‘ Bad ” Whale — He Feigns Suicide in Order 
 to Avoid Recapture at Roderique — Transferred to the Sapphire 
 off Cape of Good Hope — Arrival at Liverpool — Takes Passage for 
 America — Lands at Philadelphia. 
 
 D R. JOHNSON, wlio knew little about jails and less 
 about ships, said that 4 ‘being in a ship is being in a 
 jail with a chance of being drowned.” To the man who 
 had spent three years in penal servitude, the deck of the 
 Gazelle was the illimitable world of freedom. Captain 
 Gifford was a kindly man. In Henry Hathaway, O’Reilly 
 found a loving friend and messmate, who gave the half of 
 his little state-room and the whole of his big heart to the 
 young Irishman. The friendship thus contracted on board 
 the Gazelle lasted throughout life. On O’Reilly’s part it 
 was reinforced by an undying sense of gratitude for his 
 freedom, twice conferred, and his life once saved, by the 
 generous American sailor. 
 
 Hathaway had what, to a noble nature, is the best of 
 reasons for loving O’Reilly, the right of a benefactor. He 
 had helped him to escape from bondage, he was yet to 
 protect him from recapture, and he had saved him from 
 death itself. 
 
 Here is the story of the last-named good deed, as 
 modestly told by Hathaway, and as I have heard it con- 
 iirmed from the grateful lips of O’ Reilly. 
 
 New Bedford, Mass., 1877. 
 
 My Dear Friend : According to your wish, I will now endeavor 
 to give you a brief account of what happened on the day when Mr. 
 O’Reilly was with me in pursuit of a “ bad ” whale on the northwest 
 coast of Australia. I don’t exactly remember the date, but think it 
 was in May, 1869. We lowered away our boats for whales, and 
 O’Reilly was very anxious to go in my boat • I told him that he had 
 
 84 
 
BARK “ GAZELLE," CAPT. GIFFORD. THE NEW BEDFORD WHALER THAT PICKED UP JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY OFF THE 
 
 COAST OF WEST AUSTRALIA. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 85 
 
 better stay by the ship, but he insisted on going. I finally consented, 
 and he went. Mr. Hussey, in another boat, struck the whale first. I 
 noticed the whale, as soon as he struck him, make for Hussey’s boat, 
 but didn’t think at the time he was a bad one. We then started for 
 him, and just before we reached him he “ settled,” and the next thing 
 I saw was his back close to our boat. I told Lambert, the boat-steerer, 
 to “give it to him.” As soon as he struck him the whale raised his 
 flukes and struck our boat four successive times, knocking her to atoms. 
 The first time he struck her he stove her badly, and she began to fill. 
 I noticed O’Reilly’s head drop as though he was hurt. The rest of the 
 crew jumped into the sea away from the boat, and clung to their oars ; 
 I clung to the stern part of the boat, that being the only piece left large 
 enough to hold a man up ; this, I think, was about ten feet long. I 
 missed O’Reilly, and thought he must have drowned, as I knew he 
 was hurt. When the whale left us the men swam back to the shattered 
 boat. I remember saying, “ 0 my God ! where is Mr. O’Reilly ? ” and 
 Bolter, who was close by my side, said, ‘ ‘ There he is, on the other side, 
 under water.” I looked, and sure enough, there he was, about two 
 feet from the surface of the water, bobbing up and down like a cork. 
 I threw myself over, and by clinging to the broken keel with my left 
 hand, reached him by the hair of the head with my right hand, and 
 hauled him on the stoven boat. I thought then he was dead, as the 
 froth was running from his nostrils and mouth ; but a thought struck 
 me, if he was dead he would have sunk : so I raised him up on my 
 shoulder. As I lay on the side of the boat, with his stomach across my 
 shoulder, I kept punching him as much as possible to get the salt 
 water out of him. It was several hours before he realized anything, 
 as the ship was about twelve miles from us to the windward, and we 
 lay on the stoven boat a long time before we were picked up by Mr. 
 Bryan, the fourth mate. The next day after this happened, as Mr. 
 O’Reilly was lying in his bunk, suffering from the blow of the whale’s 
 flukes, he said, “ Oh, Hathaway, why didn’t you let me go ?” I told 
 him to keep quiet— that he would live to see better days ; but he 
 couldn’t see it. We don’t see far ahead, after all, — do we ? The next 
 time we saw whales he came to me and said he would like to go with 
 me again. I told him, “No, he had got out of one scrape, and had 
 better rest contented.” But he insisted on going, and I consented, as 
 he said he wanted revenge. We were lucky enough that day to get a 
 good big fellow, and I think he had his revenge, as we minced him up 
 pretty well. I think it was the death of that whale that suggested his 
 poem of ‘ ‘ The Amber Whale.” 
 
 What Hathaway modestly omits from this narrative is 
 the fact that, after bravely holding his friend so long above 
 
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 water, in that heavy sea, the terrible strain overcame him 
 when relief arrived. He fainted away after seeing that 
 O’ Reilly was safe, and lay insensible for four hours. 
 
 Two months later the Gazelle put into the harbor of 
 Roderique, a small British island in the Indian Ocean, to 
 take in a supply of fresh water. O’Reilly’s escape had 
 been telegraphed to that and other quarters. Just before 
 sunset on the day of her arrival, a boat came alongside with 
 the Governor of the island and a guard of police on board. 
 Hathaway was on the ship’s deck ; beside him stood 
 O’Reilly. 
 
 “ Have you a man on board named John Boyle O’Reil- 
 ly was the officer’s first question. Hathaway knew no- 
 body of that name, but, on the official’s describing him, 
 remembered that a man answering such a description, but 
 named Brown, had been on board, and died two months 
 before in the Straits of Sunda. “Brown” was the name 
 by which O’ Reilly went, on board the Gazelle . 
 
 The Governor thereupon demanded that the crew be 
 mustered for inspection, and the men were accordingly 
 drawn up in a row. One stowaway was promptly recog- 
 nized as a fugitive from justice, and put under arrest, but 
 the officers found nobody answering to the description of 
 No. 9843. The convict Martin Bowman would have es- 
 caped, too, but for his own savage conduct. Ever since his 
 arrival on the ship he had been the bully of the forecastle. 
 
 Among the sufferers from his brutality was a young 
 English sailor who could not lose so good a chance of get- 
 ting rid of, and even with, his tormentor. The officers had 
 passed Bowman by when this young sailor, with a jerk of 
 his thumb and a knowing look, indicated him as a suspi- 
 cious character. He was accordingly subjected to a closer 
 examination, recognized, put under arrest and taken to the 
 gangway. As he went over the side he turned to O’ Reilly, 
 and with a wicked leer said, “ Good-by, shipmate.” The 
 action and words were marked. O’Reilly well knew what 
 they meant,— that Bowman had singled him out so that 
 the officers would remember him, when, a f ter reaching 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 87 
 
 shore, the convict should offer to compound for his own 
 absconding by giving up the other and more important 
 fugitive.* 
 
 As soon as the boat had departed Hathaway and O’ Reilly 
 held a council of war. Capt. Gifford was fortunately on 
 shore. It would have been a serious thing for him to risk 
 his ship, and perhaps his freedom, by protecting a fugitive 
 felon from recapture. O’Reilly was desperate, but firm 
 in his determination not to be taken alive. He had ob- 
 tained a revolver, and was prepared to sell his life dearly 
 rather than be taken back to the penal settlement and the 
 inevitable horrors of the chain-gang. Hathaway was deeply 
 stirred, but retained his coolness, as the Yankee sailor 
 does in every emergency. 
 
 “Leave this thing to me,” he said, “ and I think I can 
 study out some better way of settling it.” 
 
 By this time it had become dark. The men were all be- 
 low except the anchor watch. There was a kind of locker 
 under the cabin companion-way, which was used sometimes 
 by the steward to store dishes, etc. It was large enough to 
 hold a man, with some squeezing, and was covered by one 
 of the stair boards. The Dartmoor cells were more roomy, 
 but less comfortable. 
 
 Hathaway quickly formed his plan and unfolded it to 
 O’Reilly. It was for the latter to walk aft with a small 
 grindstone, which happened to be at hand, lean over the 
 rail, and, at the first favorable opportunity, throw the 
 grindstone and his hat overboard, then slipping down the 
 companion-way take refuge in the locker. 
 
 Hathaway went forward and engaged the watch in talk, 
 standing so as to obstruct the view of O’Reilly, at the same 
 time that he gave the watch instructions to keep a sharp 
 eye on the latter, who, he said, was desperate, and might 
 try to do away with himself; “for,” he continued, “he 
 tried to kill himself in Australia, before we took him off.” 
 
 * It may be worth noting here, that, in writing his Moondyne,” O’Reilly 
 gave the name of Bowman to the villain of the story, even as he remembered 
 his generous friends, the Maguires, by name in the same book. 
 
88 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Just then there was a loud splash in the water. 
 4 4 What’ s that ? ’ ’ exclaimed Hathaway. u It’ s O’ Reilly, ’ ’ 
 cried the watch; “he has thrown himself overboard.” 
 “ Man overboard,” was instantly shouted, and brought the 
 crew on deck. Four boats were lowered and searched the 
 water for an hour. They found only O’ Reilly’ s hat, though 
 one of the crew, with a sailor’s vivid imagination, swore 
 that he had caught a glimpse of a drowning man’s face, and 
 knew it to be O’Reilly’s. When Hathaway’s boat came 
 back from its fruitless quest, he found the second mate 
 leaning over the side, and crying bitterly: “He’s gone, 
 poor fellow ! here’s his hat. The men have just picked it 
 up. We’ll never see him again.” 
 
 Next morning there was grief on board the Gazelle. The 
 flag at half-mast brought out the captain in a shore boat 
 to learn the sad news. O’Reilly’s wet hat lay on the 
 hatch-way. Immediately afterward came the police boat 
 with the Governor, and Convict Bowman ready to identify 
 his prey. The unmistakable sincerity of the men’s grief 
 satisfied the officials. On the evening of the same day the 
 Gazelle went to sea unmolested. As soon as they were 
 well clear of the land, Hathaway said to the captain (I 
 give his own story) : 
 
 “ 4 I guess I’ll go below and get a cigar.’ I went and 
 hauled the step away, and there was O’Reilly all in a heap. 
 I can see his face right before me now, white as chalk ; eyes 
 as black as night. He looked like a wild man. 
 
 4 4 4 What now 1 ’ says he, trembling all over. 
 
 4 4 4 Come out of that,’ says I. 
 
 4 4 4 What do you mean? ’ says he. 
 
 4 4 4 * Don’t stop to ask questions, man,’ says I ; 4 get out 
 of that and come up ; you’re safe for this time. Land is 
 almost out of sight.’ 
 
 44 He crawled out, and we went on deck together. 
 
 4 4 4 Now,’ says I, 4 go and shake hands with the captain.’ 
 
 44 1 went to the side of the ship and stood there smok- 
 ing, and pretending to be scanning the horizon. I saw the 
 captain give one look at him, a kind of scared look. He 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 89 
 
 thought it was his ghost. Then he wrung O’Reilly’s hand, 
 and burst out crying, just like a baby. 
 
 “ Pretty soon he looked at me. I never said a word. 
 
 “ ‘Did that fellow have anything to do with it?’ says 
 he.” 
 
 Capt. Frederick Hussey, who was first officer of the 
 Gazelle at the time, expresses his belief that the Governor 
 was “not so badly fooled as we thought. When Bowman 
 was arraigned in court, he commenced to tell the story of 
 O’Reilly, when the Governor commanded : ‘ Be silent, sir.’ 
 Again he attempted to speak, when the Governor arose and 
 said : 4 If you speak again, I’ll have you gagged.’ When 
 he saw our flag at half mast, he inquired the reason for it, 
 and ordered it down. I believe he wished to prevent div- 
 ing or dragging for the body, for I have since heard that 
 his wife was a loyal Irish woman.” 
 
 The much-abused word “loyal ” is for once well applied, 
 if Capt. Hussey’s information was correct as to the nation- 
 ality of the Governor’s wife. 
 
 The Gazelle" s next landfall was to be made at the Island 
 of St. Helena, the prison-rock on which the British nation 
 chained, and tortured, and fretted to death the great sol- 
 dier who had weakly trusted to their magnanimity. It was 
 not to be expected that the secret of O’Reilly’s identity 
 could be kept by the whole ship’s crew, especially after 
 the Roderique episode ; so Captain Gifford reluctantly de- 
 termined to part with his passenger ere reaching that port. 
 The American bark Sapphire, of Boston, bound from Bom- 
 bay to Liverpool, commanded by Captain E. J. Seiders, 
 was spoken on July 29, off the Cape of Good Hope, and 
 agreed to give a passage home to seaman “John Soule,” 
 O’Reilly having adopted for the nonce the name and papers 
 of a man who had deserted from the Gazelle. Honest sail- 
 ors soon learn to trust one another, and Captain Seiders 
 was taken into the confidence of his countryman, repay- 
 ing it by giving O’Reilly a state-room in his cabin and treat- 
 ing him with every kindness. 
 
 The generosity of Gifford did not stop with commend- 
 
90 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 ing the fugitive to his countryman ; all the ready money 
 that he had in his possession he put into O’Reilly’s hands 
 at parting, and when the young man, deeply touched by 
 such generous confidence, would have remonstrated, say- 
 ing : “I may never reach America ; I may never be able to 
 repay you”— the big-hearted sailor merely replied : 
 
 “ If you never reach America, I shall be very sorry for 
 you ; if you are never able to repay me, I shall not be much 
 the poorer ; but I hope you will reach America, and I am 
 sure you will pay me if you can.” His confidence was not 
 misplaced. Four years later O’Reilly’s first book of poems 
 was published, and bore this dedication : 
 
 TO 
 
 CAPTAIN DAVID R GIFFORD, 
 
 Of the whaling bark Gazelle, of New Bedford, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 
 
 In February, 1869, I left the coast of Western Australia in a small 
 boat without a sail. Peculiar circumstances rendered it impossible 
 that I should return. My only path lay across the Indian Ocean. It 
 pleased God that my boat was seen from the masthead of the Gazelle , 
 commanded by Captain Gifford, who picked me up and treated me 
 with all kindness during a seven months’ whaling cruise. On parting 
 with me at the Cape of Good Hope he lent me twenty guineas to help 
 me on my way to America. One of the greatest pleasures this little 
 book can ever afford me is the writing of this dedication. 
 
 Captain Gifford never saw this grateful tribute. He 
 died ere the volume could reach him, but not ere his trust 
 in the author’s gratitude had been amply justified. 
 
 O’ Reilly found it even a harder task to part with his 
 warm friend and messmate Hathaway. The two were 
 almost equal in years, with kindred buoyancy of spirits, 
 and a deeper undercurrent of earnestness which made each 
 respect and love the other. Between them existed that 
 love, 4 4 passing the love of women,” which only men of 
 noblest mould may feel or understand. 
 
 In the poet’s well stocked library were many volumes, 
 the gifts of admiring friends of all degrees of life. Some 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 91 
 
 were autograph copies from men of world- wide fame ; but 
 the volume which he cherished most fondly was an old, 
 sea-flavored, weather-beaten manuscript book, the private 
 “log” of Henry Hathaway. A few months before his 
 death he showed it to me, with such a look of fond pride 
 and pleasure as only he could wear when testifying to the 
 love and tenderness of another. * Truly it was a volume on 
 whose pages any man might be proud to be chronicled as 
 he is. A few extracts will show the character of this 
 singular record, which was begun three hours after the 
 parting of the friends and continued to the end of the 
 voyage : 
 
 Ship Gazelle , July 29, 1869. 
 
 Dear Old Fellow : 
 
 I am now seated at the old donkey, where we’ve sat side by side 
 for the last five months, more or less, and have been reading over some 
 of your pieces of poetry, and it makes me lonesome, although we have 
 not been parted as yet hardly three hours, and thank God we have 
 lived and parted as friends ; and thinking, perhaps, in after years you 
 would like to know the transactions of the remainder of this voyage, I 
 shall endeavor to write a little, once in a while, hoping it may prove 
 interesting to you. Most everybody on board is talking about you, and 
 they all wish you good luck in your undertaking, and all that I have 
 got to say is, ‘ ‘ Good speed, and God bless you ! ” 
 
 Friday Evening, July 80. — Again I am seated, to add another line 
 or two. This morning there were six sails in sight, and I suppose the 
 Sapphire was one of the six. The old man told me this morning that 
 he thought you would go home with us yet. He says that if we get to 
 St. Helena first he will take you on board again, and as much as I 
 would like to have you here, I hope and trust that you are safe where 
 you are ; God bless you, old fellow ! Good-night ! 
 
 Saturday Evening, 31st. — It is now blowing a gale from the west- 
 ward, and the old ship is lying to under reefed foresail and close reefed 
 main topsail, and I have got the blues the worst kind, and am as home- 
 sick as can be : 
 
 Friend after friend departs ; 
 
 Who hath not lost a friend ? 
 
 There is no union here of hearts 
 
 That finds not here an end. — J. Montgomery. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, August 3.— Yesterday I did not write, as it was 
 blowing a gale of wind ; but this evening, as it is fine weather, I will add 
 another line or two. Since this head wind commenced we have lost 
 
92 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 about fifty miles of our course, but I think the prospects are good now 
 to get it back again, and perhaps a little more. Everybody on board 
 seems to be in good spirits to-day, except myself. There are four ships 
 in sight, and if either of them is the Sapphire I wish she would come 
 close to us, for I would really like to know how you are getting along. 
 I told Captain G. that I felt confident that you are all right with that 
 captain, as I liked the looks of him the moment I set eyes on him. 
 
 Wednesday Evening, 4th. — Well, John, evening has once more 
 thrown her sable mantle around us, and I am seated once more in my 
 little nine-by-seven to add another line to this puzzle. This is the 
 thirteenth anniversary of my seafaring life, and I hope (if God spares 
 my life) before the next thirteen expires, I shall be in better circumstances 
 than at present, although I suppose it is folly to think of the hereafter 
 (in regard to worldly things) ; yet it is but natural, if we have a mind of 
 our own, and wish to gain fame. There are but two sails in sight to-day, 
 and I think the old Sapphire is out of sight and I hope ahead of us, as 
 I wish you good speed. Lat. 34 deg. 50 min. S., long. 27 deg. 12 min. E. 
 
 Thursday, 5 th. — All this day fine breezes from the N.N. W. We are 
 now within about five degrees of longitude of the Cape, and I hope and 
 pray that this breeze will take us around, and I should like to arrive at 
 St. Helena one or two days ahead of you, so that you may come back 
 to us again, as I think you will be much safer here. 
 
 Everybody on board seems to be in good spirits, except Mr. Bryan, 
 and he has been groaning all day about his old friend, you know who it 
 is, therefore I will call no names. There is but one sail in sight to-day, 
 and he is close to us, and I think is an Englishman ; therefore I know 
 that the old Sapphire is out of sight. Good-night, old boy ! May the 
 good spirit that has watched over you so far still continue to do so. 
 Our latitude by observation is 35 deg. 33 min., and longitude 23 deg. 
 37 min. E. 
 
 Saturday, 7th. — To-day we have a fair wind again, and are scud- 
 ding off at the rapid rate of about three knots per hour, but I think the 
 prospects are fair for a strong breeze to-night. 
 
 Wednesday, 11th. — This has been a beautiful day, such a one as you 
 used to like when you were on board. The wind has been very light, 
 but fair. We find ourselves, by observation, about two miles from the 
 Cape, and I hope and trust we may pass it before morning. I have 
 thought a great deal about you to-day, and wonder how you are get- 
 ting along, and something tells me that you are all right. God grant 
 that it is so, old fellow ; and may the Being whose ever watchful eye 
 is upon us watch over and comfort you in all your troubles ; and don’t, 
 for Heaven’s sake, John (whatever your troubles may be), give up 
 your evening practice. Good-night, old boy ! God bless you ! Our 
 latitude is about 35 deg. 45 min. S., and longitude 18 deg. 42 min. E. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 93 
 
 Friday, 13th.— The biggest part of this day we have had strong 
 breezes from the W.S.W., and have been steering by the wind on the 
 port tack, and heading from N.N.W. to N.W. by N. There is one 
 sail in sight astern of us, and I have wondered several times to-day 
 whether it is the Sapphire or not. I hope it is, and wish we could 
 have good weather to gain. Our latitude is 34 deg. 55 min. S., and 
 longitude 17 deg. 53 min. E., so, as you see, we have passed the Cape 
 of Good Hope. 
 
 Saturday, 14th.— This has been a beautiful day, with light breezes 
 from the S.E., and we have been engaged sending aloft our mizzen top- 
 sail and yards. There are two ships in sight, one of them close to us 
 and the other about fifteen miles distant. The one that is close to us is 
 a large Englishman, that was close to us the day after you went on 
 board the Sapphire ; but the other we can’t tell what he is, but I hope 
 it is the Sapphire ; if it is, I think we will get to St. Helena about the 
 same time. Our latitude is about 33 deg. 40 min. S., but the longitude I 
 have not yet ascertained. 
 
 Sunday, 15th. — This has been another beautiful day, and we have 
 had a nice little breeze from the south. There is but one ship in sight, 
 and he is nearly out of sight ahead of us. Our latitude is 33 deg. S., 
 and longitude 13 deg. 55 min. E. 
 
 Monday Evening, 16th. — All of this day we have had a strong 
 breeze from the south, and have made a good distance toward our 
 destination. There are two ships in sight, one astern, and the other on 
 the port quarter, but so far away that we cannot make out whether 
 either of them is the Sapphire , or not. Everybody on board 
 seems to be in good spirits to-day, as is generally the case when 
 we have a fair wind. Our latitude is 31 deg. 35 min. S., and longitude 
 12 deg. E. 
 
 Wednesday, 18th. — The fore part of this day we had beautiful 
 weather and light breezes from the S.E., and this afternoon we have 
 had a good breeze, and a thick fog, and everything looks as gloomy as 
 old boots. The same two ships that have been in sight for the last two 
 days are still in sight, two points on our starboard bow, and another one 
 on the port quarter. Lambert just came in and asked me if I did not 
 feel well, as he noticed I looked downhearted, and I had to turn him 
 off with, “Oh, well enough,” but I have got the blues like smoke, so — 
 Good-night ! Latitude 29 deg. 30 min. S., longitude about 9 deg. E. 
 
 Monday, 23d. — I did not write yesterday, as I had the blues the 
 worst kind ; but this evening, as I feel a little better, I will scratch a 
 line or two. We have had strong breezes all day and the old ship is 
 trotting along about eight knots per hour. If this breeze lasts until 
 Friday, I think we will be at St. Helena. Every one on board is 
 enjoying good health, and most of us are in good spirits, and I hope 
 
94 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 and pray that you are enjoying the same blessing. Good-night, old 
 boy ! Latitude 21 deg. 50 min. S., longitude 1 deg. E. 
 
 Thursday, 26th. — All of this day we have light airs and calms, and 
 have made but little distance. There are but two sails in sight to-day ; 
 one of them is the same one that we gained on the 20th. The land, by 
 our reckoning, is about sixty miles distant, and I hope that we will 
 come to anchor to-morrow. Everybody seems to be in good spirits to- 
 day. I suppose it is because we are close to port, and I would give 
 considerable if it were New Bedford instead of St. Helena, and that you 
 were here with us ; but perhaps it is all for the best as it is, and I trust 
 God that it is, old fellow. Good-night and God bless you ! Our lati- 
 tude is about 16 deg. 20 min., and longitude 5 deg. W. 
 
 Saturday, 28th. — This morning we came at anchor, and we find 
 that the Sapphire has not been here as yet, and as everything is quiet 
 
 and no danger, I hope she will come in before we leave The 
 
 day that we came at anchor there were fifteen ships anchored here, 
 thirteen merchantmen, the whaling bark Ohio , and )he old Gazelle ; 
 and now, old fellow, as I cannot think of anything else to write that 
 will interest you, I will bid you adieu, and lay this book aside for the 
 present, for it makes me lonesome every time that I write in it. My 
 prayer is that the old Sapphire will have favorable winds and make a 
 speedy passage, and that you may be fortunate enough when you 
 arrive in England to get a ship bound direct to America. Good-by, old 
 fellow, and may God in his infinite mercy watch over and bless you ! 
 
 November 9. — Dear old fellow, it is my dog watch below, and I 
 have spent most of it in playing the flutina, and reading over some of 
 your poetry, but I will improve the few moments that are left me in 
 adding another line or two to this. I hope and pray, old boy, that 
 before this time you have sodded your hoof on Yankee shores, and I 
 wish that I were there with you (yet, Thy will be done, O God ! not 
 mine). The old man has been in here this evening, showing me some 
 abstract of a right whale voyage, and he has asked for my opinion 
 about going there, but I gave him no encouragement, knowing that if 
 we leave here we will lose our letters again. Oh, dear, I wish this 
 voyage was over ! I haven’t had a letter from home for sixteen months, 
 and I have got the blues like old boots, so I will bid you a good-night, 
 and light a cigar and go on deck, and tramp, tramp, tramp away, and 
 build castles. Lat. 34 deg. S., long. 50 deg. W. 
 
 November 25. — Again I am seated by my old donkey, with pen in 
 hand, to scratch another line or two. I have been reading to Mr. 
 Bryan a political piece which I found in an English paper, and I tell 
 you what, he is raving mad. He has got one of his old political fits on, 
 and I would that you might see him now. The piece is about a Mr. 
 Roebuck, an English orator, and, when I left Mr. Bryan on deck about 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 95 
 
 ten minutes ago, he was calling him everything that he could lay his 
 tongue to. It is four months to-morrow since you left us, and I hope 
 and trust that you are quietly settled down in Yankee town.* Since 
 you left we have not seen the spout of a sperm whale, which makes the 
 time naturally hang rather heavy. For pastime I have taken the rig- 
 ging off from my little vessel, and am going to rig her again, and have 
 also made about half a dozen canes. By the way, I was looking at 
 your cane yesterday, and I must shortly polish it, and if I am unfor- 
 tunate enough not to meet you again, I shall certainly send it to your 
 father as I promised you. The tress of hair is also safe, and if I do not 
 see you again I will do with it as I told you I would. The old man has 
 made his schooner for Jimmy, and has got her all rigged, and the sails 
 on. Mariano, Mr. Joseph, John Vitrene, Bill Malay, and the boy 
 Andrew are each building a vessel ; but I have seen none yet equal to 
 the one that poor Carpenter built, and which I have in my possession. 
 No doubt you often think of the night that we lost him, and of the 
 narrow escape that you had but a short time after, and I have been 
 thankful a great many times that I did not leave the boat, for if I had 
 you certainly would have perished. Now as it is about time to shorten 
 sail for the night, I will bid you good-night and go on deck. Long. 
 38 deg. 50 min. W., lat. 23 deg. 20 min. S. 
 
 Saturday, December 18 I often think of you and ask my- 
 
 self if there is any doubt about your safety, and while others think 
 there is, Paterson, for instance, I think there is no doubt, old boy, but 
 you are on Yankee soil, and, with the help of God, I will soon be with 
 you; and I hope the time is not far hence when some of your old 
 friends from Australia will be with you, enjoying freedom instead of 
 bondage. Bondage, do I call it ! Worse than bondage, for the slave 
 in bondage has no one to scorn him but his master, while those gentle- 
 men are suffering the scorn of a whole nation, and what is it for ? 
 Just for upholding their rights. God bless them ! and may the time 
 soon arrive when they will have a helping hand to assist them in escap- 
 ing.! There goes eight bells. 
 
 Sunday, January 30, 1870. — Another week has passed away, and 
 the shades of evening are once more gathered over us. It is my dog 
 watch below, and I have been reading the Bible, and playing hymn 
 tunes on the flutina ; and now, as I have a few leisure moments before 
 going on duty, I will improve them in writing to you, hoping that, by 
 and by, when you come to peruse these pages, you may be interested, 
 for I know that you will want to know some of the proceedings of your 
 
 * O’Reilly had then been just two days in the ‘ ‘ Yankee town” of Philadelphia, 
 t O’Reilly and Hathaway had even then planned, among their other air- 
 castles, the one which they were to carry out successfully seven years later — of 
 rescuing the other forlorn captives in Australia. 
 
96 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 old shipmates. The old man is as dry as ever, and once in a while he 
 repeats over his old whaling stories, but he always turns out to be the 
 hero himself, although he seldom speaks evil of any one. I have not 
 had a talk with him about you for a long time ; but, whenever I have, 
 he has always spoken well of you. Mr. Bryan is the same old stick, 
 and as hot in political affairs as ever, and is about as sick of this voyage 
 as I am. The remainder of the officers and all the crew are well ; some 
 appear to be content, while others look blue enough. It is about time 
 for me to go on deck ; so I will offer up a prayer to the Maker of all 
 things for your success, and go to duty. Good-night. 
 
 Sunday Evening, third month, sixth day. — Once more I am seated 
 to pen another line or two. Since I last wrote, we have been engaged 
 fitting ship for home, and I think we will start for home about the 20th 
 of this month. We have gained with two ships lately, and have got 
 papers as late as January 15. I am as homesick as old boots, and wish 
 for the time to fly. We are all as well as common, and I hope, old 
 fellow, that you are enjoying the same blessing. I hope things are 
 properly arranged by this time for the expedition that we were talking 
 about, for I will be ready in a short time to start on that errand of 
 mercy.* Good-night, old hoy ! 
 
 Wednesday, fourth month, fifth day.— It is my watch below and I 
 have been trying to sleep, but I find it impossible to do so, as I am con- 
 tinually thinking about home and friends. We have been lying here, 
 within a thousand miles of home, for the last four or five days, with 
 head wfinds and calms, but I have no doubt but that it is all for the 
 best. The wind is fair now, but quite light. There are three sails in 
 sight, all homeward bound. May God speed the plow ! Good-by. 
 
 Tuesday, fourth month, sixth day. — I am once more seated in my 
 little eight-by-six, to add a few more lines to this puzzle, and I think 
 this must be the last, as I expect to be at home in a few days. We are 
 now off Cape Hatteras, and it is blowing a gale from the N. W. , but I 
 hope it will soon change and give us a fair wind, for most of us have 
 got the blues like old boots. Yet it is all for the best. I hope that you 
 will correct the many mistakes which you will be likely to find in pe- 
 rusing these pages, and excuse the hand-writing, for I have written it in 
 haste, doubting whether you would ever get it or not. And now, old 
 boy, I will bid you a good-night, and hope to find you safe and sound 
 in a few days. Our latitude by observation 35 deg. 20 min. N., and 
 longitude 70 deg . 5 min. W. 
 
 This same old log-book is rich in autograph treasures of 
 the boyish poet ; for he had rioted all over its pages while 
 
 * The “ expedition ” was that referred to in preceding note. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 97 
 
 on board the Gazelle. There, penciled in a bold, handsome 
 hand, is the first draft of his “ Withered Snowdrops,” with 
 several pages of his “ Uncle Ned’s Tales,” and a rather 
 weak effusion which never grew any stronger, and which he 
 gravely introduces with the words : “The following little 
 poem is an exquisite bit of — rubbish.” 
 
 Over the nom de plume of u Old Blowhard, Mariner,” 
 he writes a lot of breezy fun, such as the following, which 
 will be enjoyed less for its humor than as an indication of 
 the author’ s light-lieartedness and ready touch with the 
 spirit of his surroundings. It follows a serious signal code 
 in Hathaway’s writing, and is entitled : 
 
 WHALING SIGNALS-LAST EDITION. 
 
 BY OLD BLOWHARD. 
 
 Flag at main — Whales up. 
 
 Flag at mizzen — Whales down. 
 
 Jib hauled up and down — Can't see any whales. 
 
 Foretopsail hauled up and down — Look out. 
 
 All the sails on the ship hauled up and down — Whales somewhere. 
 
 Steward at the main — Go farther off. 
 
 Steward waves his hat — Whales all round the ship. 
 
 Lee clew of spanker boom hauled up — Whales going to windward. 
 
 In another place he writes the following : 
 
 RULES TO BE OBSERVED BY WHALE SHIPS IN CASE OF 
 FIRE BY NIGHT. 
 
 1. When the officer on deck discovers that there is fire in the ship, 
 he will wait with patience until he sees the flames, which will show him 
 exactly where the fire is. He will then proceed at once to call the 
 cook. 
 
 2. He will call the captain and officers by shouting down the cabin : 
 “I think the ship is on fire.” 
 
 3. He will then shake the reefs out of the foresail, and haul up the 
 bunt of the mizzen topmast staysail, at the same time letting the ship 
 luff about seventeen points. 
 
 4. He will then ring the bell, shout, and fire bomb-lances down the 
 cabin stairs, to bring every one to a sense of danger. 
 
 5. When the captain comes on deck, he will at once send two men 
 to each masthead to cry “ Fire ! ” then he will take off the fore and 
 
98 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 main hatches to give the wind a good chance of blowing out the fire. 
 He will also cast off the lashings from the casks on deck, and hoist the 
 weather clew of the vise-bench to steady the ship. 
 
 6. The cooper’s chest should be thrown overboard, as it might ex- 
 plode. 
 
 7. The first and second officers should see that the port anchor be 
 taken in from the bow, carried aft, and thrown down the main hatch- 
 way. It is easy to see the good effect this may have. If necessary, the 
 starboard anchor may be thrown down the fore hold. 
 
 8. The third and fourth officers, at the same time, will fire bomb- 
 lances down the lower hold, and when they have fired away all on- 
 board, they will see that the crew extinguish the fire down there by 
 pouring buckets of Stockholm tar on the flames. They will also tar 
 the deck pot to prevent its catching fire. 
 
 9. The cook will throw the windlass overboard, and then capsize the 
 slush barrel in the waist, to prevent the men from slipping on the wet 
 decks. 
 
 10. The captain will cut away all the fore and main rigging, and, 
 when that is done, he will call the men down from aloft. They may 
 come down the flying jib-stay. 
 
 11. When the fire is nearly extinguished by these means, cut away 
 the masts and rig a jury mast at the end of the flying jib-boom. 
 
 12. Send five men and two officers to the wheel, and let her luff. 
 When she gets round so that the wind is dead ahead, then hoist the 
 spanker and let her scud. 
 
 13. Throw all the cargo overboard to make her light, and head for 
 home. 
 
 N. B.— If those rules are carefully observed, it will be found that a 
 fire on board a ship is as harmless as if it were in a large gunpowder 
 magazine on shore. 
 
 DIMENSIONS OF VARIOUS PARTS OF A SHIP. 
 
 BY OLD BLOWHARD. 
 
 The main top-gallant cross-tree is twice as long as the flying jib- 
 boom. 
 
 The jib-boom should be half as long again as the steer oar of the 
 larboard boat. If the larboard boat has no steer oar, make the jib-boom 
 short accordingly. 
 
 The mainyard, in all fast sailing vessels, should be about as long as 
 a rope. 
 
 The foreyard is half as long as the mainyard, and three times as 
 thick. 
 
 In large ships, where brown paper is used instead of canvas for top- 
 sails, it is not necessary to lace the back-stays. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 99 
 
 The right bower anchor should be as heavy as a large stone, and 
 should always be kept warm. 
 
 The chimney of the cook’s galley should be eight times as long as 
 the spanker boom. In clipper ships this length may be doubled. 
 
 Mizzen top-gallant yard should be a little larger than a log of wood, 
 and heavy in proportion. 
 
 On board the Sapphire O’ Reilly fell in with another 
 passenger, an English gentleman named Bailey, who, on 
 learning his story, took a warm interest in the exile, and 
 aided him in securing passage for America, after arriving 
 at Liverpool, on October 13. Mr. Soule, for so O’Reilly 
 was known to the crew, went into a safe retreat at that 
 port. Capt. Seiders and his mate, John Bursley, with the 
 assistance of a generous English family, provided him with 
 a secure hiding-place until he could obtain passage on an 
 American ship, homeward bound. 
 
 The opportunity was found in the ship Bombay , of 
 Bath, Maine. Captain Jordan made a place for him as 
 third mate of the Bombay . He would have opened his 
 
 heart and purse to any fugitive from tyranny. He was not 
 disposed to shut either against a victim of English injustice ; 
 for he was one of the many American shipmasters who had 
 been robbed and ruined by the Anglo-Confederate privateer 
 Alabama. Never did exile meet with warmer welcome to 
 freedom than O’ Reilly received from the great-hearted sea- 
 men sailing under the flag of the United States. On the 
 evening of the second day after sailing from Liverpool, 
 Captain Jordan called O’Reilly on deck, and told him they 
 were near the coast of Ireland, and would see it before the 
 sun went down. The sun was very low, and a heavy bank 
 of cloud had risen up from the horizon, and underneath it 
 the sun’s rays fell down upon the sea. 
 
 “Where is the nearest part of Ireland ? ” he asked of 
 the pilot. 
 
 “There it is, sir ; under the sun.” 
 
 Recalling this incident, in a lecture delivered at Music 
 Hall, Boston, in January, 1870, O’Reilly said: 
 
 “ They were sad words ; Ireland was there, under the 
 
100 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 sun ; but under the dark cloud also. The rays of golden 
 glory fell down from behind the dark cloud — fell down like 
 God’s pity on the beautiful, tear-stained face of Ireland — 
 fell down on the dear familiar faces of my old home, on 
 the hill, the wood, the river, lighting them all once more 
 with the same lieaven-tint that I loved to watch long ago. 
 Oh ! how vividly did that long ago rise up before me then ! 
 the happy home, the merry playmates, the faces, the voices 
 of dear ones who are there still, and the hallowed words of 
 dearest ones who are dead, — down on all fell the great 
 glory of the setting sun, lighting that holy spot that I 
 might never see, a mother’s grave, and lighting the heart 
 with sorrow-shaded devotion. Home, friends, all that I 
 loved in the world were there, almost beside me, — there, 
 ‘under the sun,’ and I, for loving them, a hunted, out- 
 lawed fugitive, an escaped convict, was sailing away from 
 all I treasured, — perhaps, forever.” 
 
 After a safe and uneventful voyage he landed at Phila- 
 delphia on the twenty-third day of November, 1869, just 
 two years from the date of his taking passage on the Hou- 
 goumont for the Australian penal colony. His first act 
 after landing was to make a votive offering to Liberty. He 
 presented himself before the United States District Court 
 and took out his first papers of naturalization. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Arrival in Boston — Untoward Experience in a Steamship office— Pub- 
 lic Lectures — His Personal Appearance — Characteristic Letters— 
 Employed on The Pilot — At the Front with the Fenians— The 
 Orange Riots in New York— O’Reilly sharply condemns the 
 Rioters — A notable Editorial. 
 
 H E had not, so far as he knew, a single friend in all 
 America, but the Fenians had not forgotten him. 
 They had eagerly read the news of his escape, and were 
 advised, through their correspondents in England, of his 
 having taken passage on the Bombay. On the day after 
 her arrival, as he was working on the deck, a Fenian dele- 
 gate came on board and accosted him, whereupon ensued 
 the following dialogue, as substantially told afterward: 
 “They tell me that Boyle O’ Reilly’ s on this ship.” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “The poet V 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “The man that got away from Australia ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 His visitor had grown visibly excited. At last he 
 clutched O’Reilly’s sleeve, and asked : 
 
 “ Where is he? ” 
 
 “Here.” 
 
 “ But where ? ” 
 
 “I’m the man.” 
 
 His youthful appearance and unassuming manner were 
 so out of keeping with his romantic career that the dele- 
 gate was inclined to set him down as an impostor, but, to 
 make sure, he invited the young man to meet some fellow 
 Fenians. O’Reilly readily complied, going attired as he 
 was in his sailor clothes. The Fenians, before whom he 
 presented himself, cross- questioned him sharply, and were 
 
 101 
 
102 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 so obviously incredulous that he grew a little impatient and 
 indignantly said : 
 
 “ Gentlemen, I have not come here to ask any favor of 
 you nor to make inquiries about your personal affairs ; I 
 came at your request. I have answered your questions 
 truthfully. If you do not choose to believe me, I cannot 
 help it ; but as I did not seek this interview, I will take my 
 leave.” The frankness and independence of the youth told 
 with his inquirers, and they no longer doubted him. 
 
 The identification, however, did not prove of any great 
 service to him. Nor was this remarkable. Fenianism was 
 a losing — all but a lost, cause. Its enthusiastic support- 
 ers had given their money and their labors, as most of them 
 would have gladly given their lives, in its behalf. Natur- 
 ally they were poor men ; he that hath the envied talent of 
 money-making seldom invests his cash in sentiment. 
 
 There was no field for his ambition in Philadelphia. 
 He went to New York, and was warmly received at the 
 headquarters of the Fenians in that city. By their invita- 
 tion he delivered a lecture in the Cooper Institute, on the 
 16th of December, 1869. John Savage presided, and the 
 platform was occupied by leading spirits of the Fenian 
 movement. Over two thousand people greeted him with 
 enthusiastic applause, as he told of the sufferings and 
 wrongs endured by himself and his fellow prisoners. He 
 assured his hearers that the revolutionary movement had 
 permeated every branch of the British army. He then 
 modestly recounted the incidents of his escape, and told, 
 with eloquent gratitude, of the part taken in it by the 
 American captains of the Gazelle and Sapphire. 
 
 Successful as the meeting was, and gratifying to the 
 feelings of the young lecturer, it did not give him any 
 promise, either in his ambition to be of material service to 
 the Irish revolutionary cause, or in the more prosaic and 
 pressing need of earning his daily bread. He thought, as 
 a practical man, though a poet, that both ends might be 
 attained without the sacrifice of either, and he quickly saw 
 that New York did not offer any field for that ambition. 
 
103 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 He was advised to go to Boston, and accordingly did so, 
 arriving on the 2d of January, 1870, and bearing letters of 
 introduction to Mr. Thomas Manning and Dr. Robert 
 Dwyer Joyce ; he had no other friends or acquaintances in 
 all New England. Mr. Manning invited him to the hospi- 
 tality of his house. Dr. Joyce, himself a rare poet, and a 
 genial, kindly man, took a warm interest in him from the 
 beginning. 
 
 One of the most prominent and ablest of the young 
 Irish- Americans of Boston at that time was Patrick A. 
 Collins, a lawyer just entering on his professional career, 
 an orator of mark, and a man of affairs with a promising 
 future. He was a friend of Joyce, and soon became a 
 friend of O’Reilly. The two consulted earnestly over the 
 matter, and agreed that O’Reilly was altogether too bright 
 a man to be wasted in the barren career of a public lecturer, 
 or the still less satisfactory field of politics. The first thing 
 to be done was to secure for him the comparative inde- 
 pendence which comes from steady employment. The Bos- 
 ton Manager of the Inman Line Steamship Company at that 
 period was an Irishman, Merrick S. Creagh, an intimate 
 friend of both Collins and Joyce. 
 
 On their recommendation, O’Reilly was given a situa- 
 tion as clerk in the company’ s office, filling the place with 
 perfect satisfaction to his employers for four or five weeks. 
 At the end of that time Mr. Creagh received a communica- 
 tion from the general office at home in England, to the 
 effect that information had been received that he had in 
 his employment an escaped convict named O’Reilly. The 
 company did not desire this young man retained any longer 
 in their service. Some zealous Briton had doubtless sent 
 this information across the Atlantic. Mr. Creagh could do 
 nothing but obey his orders. 
 
 In the mean time, O’Reilly had made himself fairly 
 well known to his fellow-countrymen in Boston. He 
 lectured before a large audience in Music Hall, on Monday 
 evening, January 31, on “England’s Political Prisoners,” 
 and won the immediate regard of his hearers. His hand- 
 
104 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 some face and charming manner would have atoned for any 
 defects in his oratory, even with an audience more critical 
 and less sympathetic than his. The personality which was 
 to captivate thousands in after life, was reinforced by the 
 grace and enthusiasm of fervid youth. 
 
 Recalling him as he then was, the abiding memory of 
 him is that of his marvelously sweet smile, and his strik- 
 ingly clear and frank gaze. The beauty of his face lay 
 chiefly in his eyes. The official advertisement of his escape 
 says that those eyes were brown, and prison descriptions 
 are generally more accurate than flattering. Almost any- 
 body, looking at him less closely, would have said that his 
 eyes were black. As a matter of fact they were hazel, but 
 his dark skin, and jet-black eyebrows and hair, gave an 
 impression of blackness to the large, well -formed eyes 
 beneath. They were very expressive, whether flashing 
 with some sudden fancy, or glowing with a deeper, 
 burning thought, or sparkling with pure, boyish fun. 
 There was another expression, which they sometimes wore 
 at this period of his life, and which may be described, for 
 lack of a better word, as a hunted look — not a frightened 
 or furtive, but an alert, watchful expression, which made it 
 easy to understand how he could have deliberately armed 
 himself, at Roderique, and again at Liverpool, with the 
 firm intention of surrendering his liberty only with his 
 life. 
 
 Yet with that determined look went the gay, good- 
 humored, fun-loving soul which is the Irishman’s one 
 gift from Pandora’s box. Even in Liverpool, when a 
 fugitive for life and liberty, he could not resist the temp- 
 tation of indulginghis English friend’s rather British sense 
 of humor by occasionally stopping a policeman on the 
 street, and asking to be directed to some imaginary destin- 
 ation. “ The idea of an escaped convict asking a bobby to 
 show him the way,” furnished an innocent source of de- 
 light to his companion, who, in his turn, supplied amuse- 
 ment enough to O’Reilly. No portrait ever made of him 
 does justice to that which was the great charm of his coun- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 105 
 
 tenance, its wonderful light and life. His eyes had the 
 depth, and fire, and mobile color of glowing carbuncle. 
 
 For the rest, he had the rich brown complexion, so 
 familiar in after years, a small black mustache, only half 
 concealing his finely cut mouth, and revealing a set of 
 perfectly white, regular teeth. 
 
 His form was slight, but erect and soldier like. He 
 carried his head well raised, and a little thrown back. 
 He was a man whom not one would pass without a second 
 glance. 
 
 His lecture was successful, and he immediately received 
 invitations to repeat it in Providence, Salem, Lawrence, 
 and other towns. Precarious as were his means of support 
 at this time, he never parted with his independence, as the 
 following characteristic letter will show. It is dated : 
 
 Boston, February 23, 1870. 
 
 Colonel John O’Mahony: 
 
 Dear Sir : I am sorry that your letter has remained unanswered 
 until now. I was absent from Boston and did not receive it. Will 
 you, in returning this check for ten pounds to the Ladies 1 Committee 
 in Ireland, express my deep gratitude for their thoughtful kindness? 
 Of course, I cannot accept it. There are many in Ireland— many who 
 suffer from the loss of their bread-winners in the old cause — they want 
 it ; let them have it. It is enough — more than enough — for me to know 
 that I have been remembered in Ireland, and that still, in the old land, 
 the spirit of our cause and the energies of our people are living and 
 acting. I remain, dear Colonel, 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 J. Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 Less than two months later, we find him writing in this 
 cheerful strain to his aunt, in Preston, England : 
 
 “Boston Pilot” Office, 
 
 Franklin Street, Boston, April 5, 1870. 
 
 My own dear Aunt : How happy I was made by seeing your let- 
 ter. I am truly glad that you and Willy and Uncle are so well. I 
 was thinking of you when I was in Liverpool. I dared not go to Pres- 
 ton. It is strange how I love Preston— I felt it then, and I feel it now. 
 I am a very fortunate fellow to pull clear through. X am likely to 
 
106 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 become a prosperous man in America. I write for the magazines and 
 report for the Pilot, drill the Irish Legion, make speeches at public 
 meetings, lecture for charities, etc., etc. This course in the old coun- 
 tries would soon make a fortune: and, after a time, here it will have 
 the same off ect ; but, at present, all this must be done to establish a 
 reputation. I just manage to live as a gentleman. I have paid my 
 debts to the captains who brought me here. In a few years it will be 
 my own fault if I do not make a name worth bearing. 
 
 And how are all my friends in Preston? .... I am glad you liked 
 Mr. Bursley. He is a noble fellow. He knew who I was from the first 
 
 day I went on the ship Send on your pictures, Aunt, dear, I’m 
 
 eager to see you all again. 
 
 Tell me all about the Preston people whom I knew. I will order 
 some cartes to-day. I don’t like the style of the present ones — they 
 
 will do for people I don’t care about I am proud of Willy. He 
 
 will be a fine fellow — a prosperous, able man, I know, whenever I see 
 him again. Does Uncle James go to sea yet? It’s time he gave up; 
 he has lots of money made now. And do you sit down quietly and rest 
 yourself? or do you still go on with the old, old toil? Now, Aunt, you 
 must write me long, very long letters. A lady correspondent of your 
 ability and taste is invaluable to a literary man. Now, don’t laugh — 
 I’m in earnest. Write often. I’ll send you some papers. I lecture 
 to-night in a city called Quincy, near Boston. I have four lectures this 
 week. I inclose a ticket for one. I wish I could see you there. Good- 
 by, dear Aunt, Uncle, and Willy. I am, always, 
 
 Truly yours, 
 
 J. Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 As he had given sufficient evidence of his literary skill 
 and journalistic instincts, his steadfast friends, Mr. Collins 
 and Dr. Joyce, addressed themselves to the editor and pro- 
 prietor of the Boston Pilot , an old established newspaper 
 devoted to the interests of Irish -American Catholics, of 
 whom it had been the recognized organ for more than thirty 
 years. Mr. Donahoe recognized the ability of the young 
 man and gave him a temporary engagement as reporter and 
 general writer on the Pilot. This was early in the spring 
 of 1870. 
 
 The moment was propitious, occurring as it did at the 
 time of the second Fenian invasion of Canada under the 
 leadership of General John O’Neill. O’Neill had made a 
 successful foray across the border, near Buffalo, in 1866, and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 107 
 
 had everything his own way with the Canadian militiamen, 
 until the United States forces under General Grant, cutting 
 off his supplies and reinforcements, compelled him to 
 retreat. In June, 1870, he made his second attempt at the 
 conquest of Canada by way of St. Albans, Yt. O’Reilly 
 went with the invaders to the front as 4 ‘war correspon- 
 dent” of the Pilot. 
 
 Coincidently with, the date of his first bulletin in that 
 brief and inglorious campaign, in the Pilot of May 28, 
 1870, there appeared a little poem, written by him in prison 
 and entitled “Pondering.” It is interesting for its hopeful 
 spirit, if not for its poetic worth. 
 
 Have I no future left to me ? ' 
 
 Is there no struggling ray 
 
 From the sun of my life outshining 
 Down on my darksome way ? 
 
 Will there no gleam of sunshine 
 Cast o’er my path its light ? 
 
 Will there no star of hope arise 
 Out of this gloom of night ? 
 
 Have I ’gainst Heaven’s warnings 
 Sinfully, madly rushed ? 
 
 Else why were my heart-strings severed ? 
 
 Why was my love-light crushed ? 
 
 Oh, I have hopes and yearnings — 
 
 Hopes that I know are vain ; 
 
 And the knowledge robs Life of beauty, 
 
 And Death of its only pain. 
 
 On May 28, he wrote his first dispatch as a special 
 correspondent from the “seat of war.” On the 80th he 
 telegraphed from St. Albans, Yt. : “I have just been 
 arrested by the United States marshal. I shall not have a 
 hearing until to-morrow.” 
 
 His first dispatches and letters were terse summaries of 
 the events which he had witnessed. On the following week 
 appeared his full report, as follows : 
 
 Your reporter left Boston on Tuesday evening, 26th inst., en route 
 for St. Albans, Yt., and having provided himself with divers morning 
 
108 
 
 JOHN BOYLE 0 7 KEILLY. 
 
 papers had his imagination inflated to extreme tightness before his 
 second cigar was finished. Each paper had distinct and detailed 
 accounts of thousands of men and trains of war material ; and so pre- 
 cise were they in their statements, that even the officers commanding 
 were named. These statements were all false. There were no thou- 
 sands of men moving on St. Albans, nor on any other point, as the 
 sequel shows. The best way to give a correct idea of the numbers 
 of the Fenian “armies,” is simply to state what was seen by a man who 
 was there. 
 
 At six o’clock on the morning of the 25th, I arrived in St. Albans. 
 There were about sixty Fenians on the train — forty from Boston under 
 command of Major Hugh McGuinness, and about twenty who were 
 taken in at the various stations. When the train arrived at St. Albans 
 these men passed quietly through the town, and proceeded to the front, 
 beyond Franklin, which is seventeen miles beyond St. Albans. Along 
 the road between St. Albans and Franklin were scattered groups of 
 men, principally hurrying to the front, but some, even at that early 
 stage, turning their faces and steps homeward, and excusing their 
 cowardice by tales of mismanagement and discontent. However, these 
 dispirited ones grew fewer as we went on, the hurrying men seeming 
 to lose their weariness as they neared the front. About ten o’clock we 
 arrived in the village of Franklin, and found the solitary street filled 
 with wagons and teams of every description, and a large crowd of men, 
 composed principally of citizens, attracted by curiosity. For the first 
 time, we saw the uniformed Fenians here in very considerable num- 
 bers. The uniform was a capital one for service, and, in mass, most 
 attractive, — a green cavalry jacket, faced with yellow, army blue pan- 
 taloons, and a blue cap with green band. 
 
 General O’Neill commanded in person. He walked up and down 
 the road conversing with his chief of staff, Gen. J. J. Donnelly, 
 observing the occupation of the men, and now and then making some 
 remark to aid a waverer in his choice of two rifles with perhaps equally 
 bright barrels. Gen. O’Neill was dressed in a light gray suit, and 
 wore a staff -sword and spurs. His horse, a small bay, stood by the 
 roadside, held by a green-coated orderly. When informed of the 
 arrival of the United States Marshal, he merely smiled and continued 
 his walk. He said to your reporter that he -meant to fight, and he 
 would have a fight. Among the officers present was Major Daniel 
 Murphy, of Bridgeport, Conn., in command of a very fine body of men. 
 Major Murphy had his men formed up on the road, and minutely 
 inspected them to see if every man’s equipment was complete. He 
 looked a fine, soldierly fellow, and throughout the whole day, and 
 since then, no officer or man deserves higher notice than he for con- 
 spicuous bravery or clear-headed projects, Capt. Wm. Cronan, of 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 109 
 
 Burlington, Vt., also commanded a splendid company, in perfect uni- 
 form and equipment. His men had asked to be given the front in the 
 advance on the enemy, and their request was granted. They were 
 in line farther on the road, going through their manual and platoon 
 drills, and showing by their motions that they were well disciplined 
 soldiers. Another company, under command of Capt. J. J. Monahan, 
 was still nearer the Canadian front. Col. Humphrey Sullivan, of 
 Boston ; Col. Brown, of Lawrence, Mass. ; Major Chas. Carlton of Bur- 
 lington, Yt. ; Capt. John Fitzpatrick, of Bridgeport, Conn. ; Capt. Carey 
 of Fort Edward, and many others were also present. Of the above- 
 named officers the name of Capt. John Fitzpatrick should be espe- 
 cially mentioned for personal bravery, shown in the course of the day. 
 
 General O’Neill told your reporter that he knew that the Canadians 
 had taken up a position, and were prepared for him in force. He said he 
 meant to draw their fire, and find their strength and position ; and then 
 he would know whether a project he entertained was feasible or not. 
 
 At eleven o’clock, Gen. George P. Foster, United States Marshal 
 for Vermont, arrived at the encampment. The guard which the 
 Fenians had posted had orders to stop all carriages and traffic on the 
 road ; and according to orders the Fenian sentinel told the marshal to 
 “halt.” Gen. Foster immediately told Gen. Donnelly that this must 
 not continue, as they were breaking the laws of the United States. 
 The guard was accordingly withdrawn, and the teams were allowed to 
 pass. General Foster then formally ordered O’Neill to desist from his 
 “unlawful proceeding.” The order was coolly received by Gen. 
 O’Neill, who then, in a low tone, spoke a few words to Gen. Donnelly. 
 Donnelly went forward and ordered the men to “fall in.” In a few 
 minutes the entire Fenian force was in column of fours, with fixed 
 bayonets and shouldered rifles, ready for their general to give the 
 word “Advance ! ” 
 
 General O’Neill, putting himself at the head of his troops, addressed 
 them. 
 
 The line of road which the column had to march was narrow and 
 hilly. The distance to the line was about a mile, but the Canadian 
 front would not be visible until they had ascended the last hill, at the 
 base of which ran a small brook. About eighteen rods on the Ameri- 
 can side of the brook was a post marking the boundary line. The 
 troops marched steadily and well, but they certainly did not think that 
 they would be engaged as soon as they were. Gen. Foster, the United 
 States Marshal, who had driven over the line and visited the Canadian 
 forces, now returned, meeting the Fenians on their advance. He told 
 them as soon as they cleared the hill the Canadians would fire on them. 
 Many teams were on the road, but at this news they disappeared very 
 quickly. The Fenians were in good spirits, and when they heard the 
 
110 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 fight was so near, they flung down their knapsacks and took off their 
 great coats to be ready for it. Up to this time everything was orderly 
 and soldierly. The men kept their places, and the officers held them 
 in strict command. Col. Brown, who had no definite command, 
 shouldered a breech-loading rifle, and went forward with Cronan’s 
 skirmishers. Gen. O’Neill rode at the head of the column, which 
 presented a fine appearance, with its steady line of bayonets and the 
 green flag in the front. 
 
 As soon as the column had reached the brow of the hill overlooking 
 the line, Capt. Cronan’s and Capt. Cary’s companies were sent forward 
 by the road as skirmishers, with orders to deploy when they had reached 
 the base of the hill where stood Alvah Richards’s farm-house. This 
 house is about fifty rods from the line. On the Canadian side of the 
 line, for about five hundred yards, the ground is flat, and then rises 
 abruptly into a steep, rocky hill, on which the Volunteers were strongly 
 posted. From Richards’s farm on the west side of the road, rose another 
 abrupt hill covered with trees. On this side O’Neill had determined to 
 take position, and, while his men were under cover, draw the fire of 
 the enemy, and find their exact position. His object was to make a 
 flank movement on the Canadian right, and advance on Cooks Cor- 
 ners, a village about two miles to the west. 
 
 Capt. Cronan’s company advanced steadily to Richards’s farm, and 
 on passing it, dashed with a cheer along the road to the bridge. 
 When the first files had crossed the line, and before the company could 
 deploy, the Canadians opened a heavy fife on them. Almost at the 
 first discharge, Private John Rowe, of Burlington, Vt., was shot 
 through the head, and fell dead in the center of the road. The Fenian 
 troops, without deploying, returned the fire for a short time, and then fell 
 back in rear of Richards’s house, where General Donnelly commanded 
 a reserve of about fifty men. The Canadians then turned their fire on 
 the troops, which were taking up positions on the hill. The men were 
 filing over the exposed ground between the road and the hill, when the 
 heaviest firing of the day was opened on them. Francis Carraher fell 
 by the roadside, shot through the groin, and, in an instant after, Lieu- 
 tenant Edward Hope went down in the field, and Mr. O’Brien fell dead, 
 with a Canadian bullet through his heart. When the troops gained the 
 hill, they got the order to advance to the front and open fire. They ad- 
 vanced, but before they had reached the position which General O’Neill 
 wished them to occupy, they fell back again under the close, steady fire 
 of the Canadians. The Fenians also kept up a steady fire, but all the 
 energies of their officers could not get them to advance. Major Mur- 
 phy, Col. Sullivan, and Capt. Fitzpatrick did all that brave men could 
 do to inspire the men with confidence. It was evident then that the 
 troops were too few to achieve anything. The men felt that they had 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. Ill 
 
 no support to fall back upon, and that even if they drove the Canadians 
 back, they were too weak to hold a position against any considerable 
 force. Gen. O’Neill, who had been in their front under the hottest fire, 
 cheering and rallying the men, then formed them up under cover and 
 addressed them. 
 
 After some ineffective attempts by the officers to rally the men and 
 lead them to the position on the hill which O’Neill wanted, the men 
 fell back in rear of the hill. 
 
 This was virtually the end of the fighting. The Canadians still kept 
 up a close fire on the hill, and the road leading to Alvah Richards’s 
 house, where they knew that General Donnelly, with the reserve, was 
 posted. The bullets of the volunteers swept every approach to the 
 house, and Donnelly determined to hold it until night, and then 
 evacuate. 
 
 The news of Gen. O’Neill’s arrest* was a crushing blow to Gen. 
 Donnelly and Col. Brown. Donnelly was so much affected that he 
 walked away from his men some fifty yards, and bowing his face in 
 his hands cried bitterly for several minutes. He returned to his men, 
 calm and collected, and told them he would hold the place until night. 
 
 At about half-past three, a flag of truce was observed coming from 
 the Canadian lines, and Gen. Donnelly ordered his men at once to 
 cease firing. The volunteers who carried the flag came down to the 
 line, and General Donnelly went to meet them. At first they asked 
 Donnelly if he did not want to take away the body of Rowe, which lay 
 in the center of the road about ten rods on the Canadian side of the 
 line. They proposed some conditions to Gen. Donnelly, which your 
 reporter, who accompanied him, could not hear. Gen. Donnelly drew 
 himself up, proudly, and said: “Sir, go back and say that on those 
 conditions I will never treat with you.” He then turned and walked 
 back to the farm-house, and the Canadians returned to their lines, the 
 body of Rowe remaining on the road where he had fallen. 
 
 The Fenian troops on the hill, under command of Maj. Murphy, fell 
 back to the old encampment, where a reinforcement of about fifty men 
 had arrived from New York. They held a council of war, when the 
 majority of officers decided to go to Malone, N. Y., but before doing so 
 they would move to the assistance of Gen. Donnelly. 
 
 At six o’clock the solitary field-piece which represented the “ parks 
 of artillery ” of the Fenians, was brought into position on the hill over- 
 looking Richards’s farm. Col. McGuinness of Boston directed its opera- 
 tions. The piece was loaded with round shot, and three or four missiles 
 
 * O’Neill was arrested by the United States Marshal near the house of Farmer 
 Richards. He turned the command over to O’Reilly, who was also in turn 
 arrested. Both were released after a brief detention. 
 
112 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 were sent whizzing into the Canadian lines. This was done to draw the 
 attention of the volunteers from the farm-house, and so enable Donnelly 
 and his men to escape. Gen. Donnelly immediately took advantage of 
 the ruse , and led his men, by the left, into the low ground, where, after 
 a short distance, he would be under cover. The Canadians, however, 
 saw the movement, and opened a tremendous fire on the retreating men. 
 Maj. Charles Carleton, of Burlington, a brave and handsome young 
 officer, was wounded, a bullet passing through his leg, but his men 
 carried him off. Another man was shot badly in the foot. When 
 nearly out of range, a bullet struck Gen. Donnelly above the hip, pass- 
 ing into his body. Some time afterward two gentlemen who were re- 
 turning from the Canadian side in a carriage brought Gen. Donnelly 
 to the Franklin House, where he now lies. The report of his death is 
 incorrect. A physician, who saw him on Saturday afternoon, says he 
 is progressing favorably. 
 
 In the evening the men deserted the encampment and strayed off 
 toward St. Albans, utterly demoralized and disheartened. 
 
 On the next morning, when your reporter visited the encampment, 
 not a vestige of the immense quantity of stores was left — not even the 
 empty boxes or broken cartridge tins remained. All was gone. Ah, 
 me ! ah, me ! all was “gobbled up ” ! 
 
 The citizens here all feel for the poor fellows who are thus left des- 
 titute in their towns. It is a universal theme of wonder that the men 
 are so respectful and well-conducted. They may be seen in groups of 
 from ten to a hundred, sitting on the side path or lying under the trees ; 
 and, if a question be asked them, they invariably answer it cheerfully 
 and politely. A United States officer yesterday asked a Fenian officer 
 how in the world they kept their men, disorganized as they were, in 
 such splendid order, and the Fenian major only smiled sadly, and 
 went over among his poor boys. 
 
 It is a grand truth, spoken of here by every citizen, and your re- 
 porter is very proud to write it, that not one outrage, of any sort what- 
 ever, has been committed by a Fenian, either in St. Albans or Malone. 
 
 ‘ When the “thousands” of Fenians who had been sent to Malone 
 (by telegraph) had arrived there, they numbered about 400 or 500. 
 This was the strength on the morning of the 27th, when the attack, or, 
 rather, the attempt at an attack was made by the Fenians. For two days 
 previously their camp had been pitched in the enemy’s country, but on 
 the evening of the 27th, when “General” Starr took command, he 
 wisely recrossed the line to the safe side, fearing the proximity of a 
 fight, and, like all the other “generals,” I suppose not knowing what 
 to do with the spreading wings of the army under his command, in 
 case of a breach of the peace. Taking a mean from all the conflicting 
 accounts, the troops under his command, on the morning of the 27th. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 113 
 
 numbered 450 men. Rumor in the Fenian camp had swelled the Cana- 
 dian force to about 4000 men and three regiments of cavalry. Although 
 tlie poor fellows believed this, and believed, also, that the Canadians 
 had artillery, they were not disheartened. They were older and stead- 
 ier soldiers than the men who had been engaged at Richards’s farm, and 
 they were eager for a fight and sanguine of results, even against supe- 
 rior numbers. They were in uniform, and armed with the breech 
 loader. In passing, we may remark that this weapon is, perhaps, as 
 good a service rifle as any in the world, and the cartridge supplied was 
 of the best material. 
 
 About nine o’clock, a.m., the advance commenced. A strong skir- 
 mish line was thrown out, and the men acted in a steady, soldierly 
 manner. The Canadian troops were posted strongly on elevated 
 ground, with good shelter, and their skirmishers well advanced. There 
 were fears among the Fenian ranks of the much talked of American 
 guns, but, if they were there, they were silent. The skirmishers had 
 not passed the line twenty rods when the Volunteers opened fire, 
 which was steadily answered by the Fenians for a short time. Their 
 main body had not reached the line when the Canadian troops were 
 seen advancing. The Fenian skirmish line fell back in first-rate order. 
 The Canadians then fired some heavy volleys, and made so rapid an 
 advance that it was thought they meant to cross the line. This, how- 
 ever, they did not do. They followed the retiring Fenians to the line, 
 sent some triumphant bullets whizzing after them, took three prison- 
 er's, wounded two men slightly, and fell back, to indulge in mutual 
 admiration on account of their victory. 
 
 Your reporter is sorry to have to write it, but this is what the Fenian 
 officers (not the men) call “ the fight at Trout River.” 
 
 As soon as the direful strife was over, “ Generals ” Starr, O’Leary, 
 and several other generals (we use the word general as a mean — there 
 might have been a colonel, and there probably was a field-marshal) 
 ordered their carriages, which, like prudent soldiers, they had kept in 
 readiness, in case of failure, and left the men to look after themselves, 
 they starting for Malone. There they held a council of war- -a favor- 
 ite occupation of Fenian officers, it would seem. A great Bashaw of 
 their organization, and, of course, a general, named Gleason, was here, 
 holding a court at the Ferguson House. He vociferously expressed his 
 “ disgust ” with affairs in general, and interlarded said expression with 
 Munchausen assertions of what could be done, were things after his 
 way of thinking, and especially of what he himself could do. 
 
 Along the road from Malone to Trout River the poor, disheartened 
 fellows came straggling. Unlike the men at Richards’s farm, they kept 
 their rifles and equipments, and, notwithstanding the intense heat of 
 the day, great numbers of them still carried their knapsacks and great 
 
114 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 coats. When they gathered in large groups they imitated their officers 
 so far as to express disgust at existing generalities, and especially were 
 they disgusted with the man of the Munchausen proclivities. 
 
 Your reporter drove out to Trout River, where the encampment had 
 been formed, and a repetition of the scene at Hubbard’s Corner was 
 presented — an immense quantity of military stores, piled there await- 
 ing the men who were not coming ; hundreds of young men grouped 
 around in utter disorder ; very little noise or bustle for so large a gath- 
 ering, and when the voices of the men were heard in passing through 
 the camp, their tenor was an emphatic and stern condemnation of their 
 officers. Many of the men, in describing the events of the day to your 
 reporter, burst into tears at what they termed their disgrace, and said 
 that they only wanted a man to lead them, and they would go any- 
 where with him. Judging from the military physique of the greater 
 number, there can be no doubt that, with qualified officers, these men 
 would prove that they did not merit the name they now feared — cow- 
 ards. The officer in command, when Starr and O’Leary went away, 
 was Maj. Lindsey, but his men declared that they had no confidence 
 in his ability to lead them. 
 
 Sitting on a log by the roadside we saw a group of officers, among 
 whom were Col. W. B. Smith, of Buffalo, and Maj. Robert Cullen, 
 both, we believe, brave and accomplished soldiers. Their faith in the 
 success of the movement was gone, as the men were hopelessly demor- 
 alized; Col. Smith had arrived that morning. He had started from 
 Norfolk, Westchester County, for Trout River, on Tuesday, in com- 
 mand of 280 men from Buffalo, armed and equipped. His command 
 formed an escort for a train of 130 wagons, loaded with arms, ammu- 
 nition, and provisions. He had accompanied the wagons to within 
 seven miles of Trout River camp. When the state of affairs existing 
 there became known it was deemed best to send the wagons back to the 
 places from which they came, and where they have been held in secret 
 by friends of the Brotherhood. It was reported that the Government 
 had seized six of the wagons, but the remainder had disappeared. 
 
 On the afternoon of the 27th a number of the demoralized Fenians 
 were addressed by Surgeon Donnelly, of Pittsburgh, Pa. He urged 
 them to march to the front again, and by a sudden and unexpected 
 attack they might retrieve in part, at least, their former defeat. He 
 said that he was not a soldier, but if they could not find one to lead 
 them, he would lead them again across the lines, and would do all he 
 could to guide them to success. About forty men fell into rank and 
 followed him for some distance, but, rightly appreciating their insig- 
 nificance, they melted away among the demoralized crowd again. 
 
 On the 27th, and following day, men continued to arrive in Malone 
 from various places. They met with a sorry reception from the mass 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 115 
 
 of weary men who crowded the depot ; but, as a rule, they expressed 
 their disbelief in the statements of failure, and would go to the front 
 and see for themselves ; and go they did, and came back sadder and 
 wiser men. 
 
 Immediately after Gen. O’Neill’s arrest at St. Albans, 
 O’Reilly bad attempted to assume the command verbally 
 delegated to him by the former, but the men were demor- 
 alized, and one officer, to whom he had issued a command, 
 refused with an oath to obey. Another, who had seen real 
 lighting, was so chagrined with the insubordination of his 
 comrades, that he broke his sword, and so surrendered his 
 brief commission. Among the trustworthy friends of 
 O’Reilly in this wretched fiasco was Mr. (now Rev.) P. B. 
 Murphy, who had with him attended an enthusiastic rally 
 at the Sherman House in Boston, and had gone forward 
 full of bright anticipations. He and Mr. Chas. E. Hurd, 
 representing the Boston Journal , saw the ignominious end 
 of the campaign, and the arrest of O’Reilly and Maj. 
 McGuinness, both of whom were released after a detention 
 of a day or two. 
 
 The Fenian leaders had been egregiously misled by 
 lofty promises of support from various quarters. O’Neill 
 was undoubtedly an honest man, but his followers, equally 
 honest, were for the most part untrained and undisciplined 
 raw recruits ; some were so unacquainted with warfare 
 that they did not know how to load their guns ! They 
 were brave enough, unskilled as they were, to have over- 
 come the forces confronting them, had they been well 
 handled and assured of reinforcement. The United States 
 Government would not have been very sorry had they 
 been able to carry out their scheme of invasion successfully ; 
 but, as.it was, it interposed at the proper time and ended 
 the tragical farce. 
 
 O’Reilly’s correspondence from Canada was his first ex- 
 tended work on the Pilot. It created a marked impression 
 both on account of the writer’s revolutionary antecedents, 
 and because of the frankness with which he had criticized 
 the whole ill-judged and ill-managed undertaking. Still 
 
116 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 more frank and daring was liis criticism of some of his 
 countrymen in the matter of the Orange riots in New York 
 a month later. 
 
 On the 12th of July, the Orangemen of that city held a 
 picnic, and paraded the streets with insulting flags and 
 music, to which they added, on entering the Irish quarter, 
 delicate shouts of, “ To hell with the Pope,” “ Croppies lie 
 down,” etc. The natural, if not justifiable, consequence 
 ensued ; and some three or four men were killed and 
 several others wounded. It is almost impossible for an 
 American to understand the bitter anger with which Irish 
 Catholics resent these taunts from the party of Protestant 
 ascendency, or the tragic memories of two hundred years 
 of persecution wliicli they evoke. O’Reilly was born on 
 the banks of the Boyne, ill-fated scene of Irish disaster ; he 
 had suffered every insult, torture, brutality, that his ene- 
 mies could inflict, as punishment for the crime of patriot- 
 ism. If any man would have been justified in feeling the 
 bitterness of party spirit to the uttermost, it would have 
 been he. 
 
 Instead of extenuating or defending the action of those 
 Irish Catholics, who had resented the insults of the Orange- 
 men, he looked upon the whole affair with the eyes of a 
 patriot, ashamed of the disgrace which his countrymen of 
 either class had brought upon their name. In the Pilot 
 of July 23, he wrote this strong and scathing rebuke : 
 
 Events have at intervals occurred in the history of this country 
 which have justly called up a blush of shame on the faces of patriotic 
 Irishmen ; but we doubt if they ever have received so great a reason 
 for deep humiliation as during the past week. On the 12th of July the 
 “American Protestant Association,” — in other words, the Orange 
 Lodges of New York, had advertised their intention of celebrating the 
 anniversai’y of the Battle of the Boyne. Accordingly on that morning, 
 with colors flying and bands playing, they paraded to the number of 
 3000, and marched to the scene of their celebration, Elm Park. On the 
 line of march they lost no opportunity of goading to intensity the bitter 
 feelings of their Catholic fellow-countrymen whom they passed. This 
 resulted in a general banding of the laborers of the vicinity, who set 
 upon the Orangemen with sticks and stones, which were answered by 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 117 
 
 them with pistol bullets. A terrible melee was the consequence, in 
 which four lives were lost, and numbers endangered. 
 
 Is not this cause for deep humiliation ? Earnest men have labored 
 for years to remove that bitter old taunt of our enemies — “ You cannot 
 unite.” Patient workers have tried to teach the world, and even our- 
 selves, that this reproach was not the truth. This is the reward of 
 their labor. Our own people, in a strange land, have insultingly turned 
 on their benefactors and flung their labor in their faces. Oh, what a 
 national degradation is this ! We talk of patriotism and independence ! 
 We prate and boast of our “ national will ” ! What evidence is this ? 
 What are we to-day in the eyes of Americans ? Aliens from a petty 
 island in the Atlantic, boasting of our patriotism and fraternity, and 
 showing at the same moment the deadly hatred that rankles against 
 our brethren and fellow-countrymen. Why must we carry, wherever 
 we go, those accursed and contemptible island feuds ? Shall we never 
 be shamed into the knowledge of the brazen impudence of allowing our 
 national hatreds to disturb the peace and the safety of the respectable 
 citizens of this country ? Must the day come when the degrading 
 truth cannot be muffled up, that the murderous animosity of Irish 
 party ism has become a public nuisance in almost every corner of the 
 w r orld ? We cannot dwell on this subject. We cannot, and we care 
 not to analyze this mountain of disgrace, to find out to which party the 
 blame is attached. Both parties are to be blamed and condemned ; for 
 both have joined in making the name of Irishmen a scoff and a by- 
 word this day in America. 
 
 Thus, almost his first word as a journalist was one of re- 
 buke to the wretched spirit of faction which has ever been 
 the bane, and shame, and ruin of Ireland. So also, the 
 last words that he ever penned for the Pilot , after twenty 
 years of untiring service as the guide and friend and coun- 
 selor of his people, were in condemnation of the foolish, 
 futile, dangerous dissensions among men who, enlisted in 
 the service of their country, would forget the enemy be- 
 fore them, to turn their arms against one another. 
 
 A year after the Orange demonstration of 1870, the same 
 organization again paraded in New York, and again another 
 disgraceful riot ensued. In the Pilot of July 29, 1871, 
 O’Reilly wrote these wise ^nd temperate words concern- 
 ing — “The Orange Parade — and Other Parades.” 
 
 On both sides of the question there have been made about enough 
 wild and intemperate assertions, charges, and countercharges. Let us 
 
118 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 now try to clear away the vapor from the subject and look at it in its 
 nakedness, not through mere curiosity, but with a view to the removal 
 of the bitter feelings which are kept living in this country by parades. 
 We do not speak to either party in the late riots — we have neither 
 Orange subscribers nor rowdy readers : but we speak to the great class — 
 the Irish in America — who are made to bear the blame and the shame 
 of the disgraceful proceedings that have marked the 12th of July in 
 New York for two years past. 
 
 After reviewing the comments of the press on the riots 
 the article continues : 
 
 But let us return to the main consideration. How is a recurrence 
 of this disaster to be avoided ? Let us look at the matter all round, and 
 with coolness ; other people look at it so, and we should also. It will 
 help us to examine fairly, if we remember that a few months ago we — 
 the Catholics of America — held monster meetings of a semi-religious 
 nature, whereat we protested strongly against the Italian occupation of 
 Rome— an usurpation which appears just in the eyes of many of our 
 Protestant fellow-citizens. And later, on the 16th of June last, we 
 celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of Pius IX. in many cities, 
 with immense processions, in which we carried the Papal colors. We 
 were not interfered with on either occasion. With this as a stand- 
 point let us proceed. Let us, in the first place, express our firm convic- 
 tion that the action of many of the Irish- American journals is both in- 
 considerate and unwise. If the Irish people will act judiciously on this 
 matter, they will not widen still more the temporary gulf that a few 
 scheming politicians have placed, or attempted to place, between them 
 and the natives of this country. The intemperate course of a part of 
 the Irish- American press tends to widen that gulf. The question is, 
 Do we or do we not defend the New York rioters ? As Irish- American 
 Catholic citizens, we answer, we condemn the rioters, and ignore them 
 both as Irishmen and Catholics. By making ourselves responsible for 
 their acts, which we do by a vain attempt to justify them, we give the 
 200 Orangemen who walked in New York the satisfaction of knowing 
 that they have destroyed all friendly feeling between Irish Catholics 
 and native Americans ; in a word, we play into their hands, and give 
 them more than they could ever have hoped for. 
 
 It may appear very strange to some of us that all men do not see at 
 once that the Orangemen have no right to parade. They cannot be 
 citizens of this country so long as they remain citizens of England, to 
 which their oath as Orangemen binds them. But the Irish people here 
 could talk with more weight on this subject if they could show that 
 more than a tithe of their own number evinced such an interest in the 
 welfare of the Commonwealth as to secure the power of a vote. Such 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 119 
 
 a time as this is too serious for flattery. It may be outside the track of 
 Irish- American journals to say harsh things to their readers, or venture 
 to attack old beliefs. But there are things to be said on this question 
 that must be said some time ; and it is better that a friendly hand should 
 pull down our old rookeries than that an enemy’s torch should be ap- 
 plied to them. Plain talk is like spring medicine— unpalatable, but 
 necessary. 
 
 If the Orangemen determine to parade, they have a right to parade ; 
 that is, they have as much right to parade with orange scarfs and ban- 
 ners, as a Fenian regiment has with green scarfs and sunbursts. 
 it may be that neither party has a right to parade ; that they have 
 simply been tolerated by the authorities. If it be found that such tol- 
 eration is detrimental to public security, we think that every reflecting 
 Irish-American citizen will at once say that both processions should be 
 proscribed. The very ablest defenders of the mob say that they do not 
 quarrel with the Orangemen simply because they are Protestants. 
 What do they quarrel with them for ? They have no right to quarrel 
 with them for their colors, for the Fenian Legion of St. Patrick, organ- 
 ized with a view to make war on England, flaunts the green flag of 
 Ireland in the faces of thousands of Englishmen in New York City. 
 Really, we are almost forced to the conclusion that the whole ground 
 of objection consists in the fact that the Orangemen play, “ Croppies Lie 
 Down.” We admit that this is, and should be considered, an insulting 
 tune by the Irish people ; and we should deeply regret to see them lose 
 their detestation of it. But, let us ask, is it sufficient cause to warrant 
 a violation of the law and a sacrifice of life ? 
 
 We have written this article with a most oppressive feeling of its 
 necessity. Thousands of people who are too intelligent to put their 
 individual opinions against the decree of the State of New York, still 
 allow their sympathy to run away with them, and thus leave it in the 
 power of their enemies to say that they are in all things in unison with 
 the New York mob. This is a sad mistake. Certain it is that the 
 Orange procession is not a pleasant sight to any Irish Catholic, how- 
 ever unprejudiced ; but it is just as certain that the Irish Catholics of 
 this country, as a body, condemn all breach of the law in attacking an 
 Orange procession, just as honestly as they would condemn a riot of any 
 other criminal nature. 
 
 There are two ways of getting rid of this apple of discord. The first 
 is, by an agreement between the general Irish population and the 
 Orangemen foregoing all right to parade, and expressing their deter- 
 mination never to hold processions for Irish political objects alone. 
 This we may rest assured, will not be easily agreed to. The second one 
 is the best, and the one that must come in the end, when America, tired 
 out and indignant with her squabbling population, puts her foot down 
 
120 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 with a will and tells them all — Germans, French, Irish, Orange — “You 
 have had enough now. There is only one flag to be raised in future in 
 this country and that flag is the Stars and Stripes.” 
 
 Such bold and frank expressions elicited, as might have 
 been expected, comments of approbation as well as of cen- 
 sure. The unpartisan press commended the honesty and 
 courage of the young journalist. Some of his countrymen 
 criticized his sharp rebuke of hot-headed Irishmen, who 
 had allowed their natural indignation against the oppres- 
 sors of their native country to make them forget their duty 
 to the land of their adoption. To one such critic he replied 
 as follows, defending the right of an honest man to change 
 his opinion, or, as he expressed it, “It is better to be 
 Eight than Stubborn. 5 ’ 
 
 On our third page will be found a letter signed “ Corcoran,” pur- 
 porting to be an expression of Fenian dissatisfaction with our editorial 
 on the New York riot. When we wrote that editorial we were fully 
 aware that it would not be acceptable to certain people in the com- 
 munity. But we knew that therein we expressed the opinions of the 
 calm, rational, and respectable Irish Catholics of America. Least of all 
 did we expect dissatisfaction from the Fenians, whose temperate action 
 in New York, during the excitement immediately preceding the riot, 
 won for them the well-merited praise of every class in the community. 
 
 We must, as a friend, remind the writer of this letter that his asser- 
 tion that we “sneer at the Sunburst” is extremely unjust — and he 
 knows it. Boasting is not our trade, but none of them all loves the 
 Sunburst better than we do. The writer also says, “The Pilot has 
 entirely changed its tone on Fenianism, and, from being friendly, 
 adopted directly the opposite course.” 
 
 The Pilot has done no such thing. The Pilot is as true a friend to 
 all organizations aiming at Ireland’s good, now, as it ever has been, 
 and ever shall be. Still, we must reserve our right to criticise unfav- 
 orably as well as the opposite. It is said that “there has been no 
 change in the circumstances of Ireland, nor in the principles or policy 
 of the Fenian Brotherhood,” but that all the change has been in our- 
 selves. This is incorrect. There has been a very great change in the 
 circumstances of Ireland since the Fenian Brotherhood was a great 
 organization, and, whether in its policy or not, there has been a vast 
 change in the organization. On the column next to that in which is 
 “ Corcoran’s ” letter, is something that tells of a change in Ireland, and 
 something well worthy of every intelligent Irishman’s consideration. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 121 
 
 We don’t believe in that ignorant old prejudice that sneers at every 
 man who changes his opinions. There is much of Ireland’s bane in the 
 habit. The man who has the courage to honestly change his opinions 
 is the best man. If convinced that we were pursuing a wrong course, 
 or that a better one was open, we would change every day in the year. 
 The world is all change. Every thinker is a changer — every discovery 
 is a change. Only an ignorant or thoughtless person can believe 
 that a man who changes is a bad man ; such a belief would sink the 
 world in stagnation in a day. Our friends may rest assured that, with 
 God’s assistance, we shall never change from the Eight or turn our 
 back on the Truth : but in all debatable questions our motto is — “ It is 
 better to be Right than Stubborn.” 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Civilian Prisoners in Australia Set Free — The Story of Thomas 
 Hassett— O’Beilly’s Narrative Poems— His Love of Country and 
 Denunciation of Sham Patriots — Death of his Father— Speech for 
 the Press — His Marriage, and Home Life — Pilot Burned Out in 
 the Great Boston Fire — The Papyrus Club Founded. 
 
 TIN addition to his daily editorial work, O’Reilly filled 
 “L several engagements to lecture during this and subse- 
 quent years. His first lecture, after the collapse of the 
 Fenian invasion of Canada, was given in Liberty Hall, New 
 Bedford, Mass., on the 20th of June, 1870, for the benefit 
 of Captain Gifford of the Gazelle. The Captain and Mr. 
 Hathaway occupied seats on the stage, and heard the story 
 of their kindness told with all the eloquence of gratitude, 
 and received with all the enthusiasm of an Irish audience. 
 
 On the 29th of October, he lectured in Boston Music 
 Hall, for the benefit of the Engineer Corps of the Ninth 
 Regiment, and again, on December 11, for the benefit of 
 St. Stephen’s Church, Boston. During all this time, amid 
 professional and public cares, he found leisure for constant 
 study, for the rewriting and revising of some of his earlier 
 poems, and for a ceaseless, active interest in the fate of his 
 fellow-prisoners. To the end of his life, any man who had 
 worn the badge of honor as a penal convict, for his devotion 
 to Ireland, held a lien on the affection and good services of 
 Boyle O’Reilly. In the early part of 1870, the British 
 Government granted conditional pardon to such political 
 convicts in Australia as had been civilians at the time of 
 their offense. The act of clemency carried little with it, be- 
 yond the mere boon of liberty. Their prison doors were 
 opened, and they were turned loose to make what use they 
 
 122 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 123 
 
 might of their only capital, freedom. Thanks to the kind- 
 ness of Irish residents in the colony, they were provided 
 for, and aided in making their way, some to their homes in 
 Ireland, and others to the Mecca of all aspirants for 
 liberty— the United States. 
 
 Eight civilians and fifteen military prisoners were ex- 
 empted from the amnesty. One of these, writing to the 
 more fortunate man who had amnestied himself, said : “It 
 is my birthday as I write this, and I know I am turning it 
 to the best account by writing to such a dear old friend. 
 Who knows, perhaps I may be able to spend the next one 
 with you ; if not, then we will hope for the following one. 
 At all events, we must not despair. I would count the 
 time I spend here as nothing if I could only see the factions 
 in America and elsewhere all united in one grand organi- 
 zation. This is a something to hope for. Let such a thing 
 once become un fait accompli , and then it is but a little 
 more time, a little more patience, and— what % The thought 
 sends a thrill through my whole frame like an electric 
 shock.” “Poor fellow!” commented O’Reilly, in the 
 Pilot , “how much pain is he not saved by the rigor which 
 excludes news from the prison. That sweet old dream of 
 unity can bear him up under all clouds of fate, giving a 
 young and talented man, like the writer of the above letter, 
 patience to write calmly — ‘ If not next year, perhaps the 
 following. We must not despair ! ’ To him who would 
 breed dissension among Irishmen, are not those words of 
 this imprisoned man as terrible as the ‘Mane, Tliecel, 
 Pliares 5 which chilled the heart of the Assyrian ?” 
 
 One of the HougoumonV s life convicts, Thomas Hassett, 
 rightly despairing of amnesty, made his escape from the road 
 party early in June, and, like O’Reilly, penetrated through 
 the bush to the sea, taking refuge on board ship at Bun- 
 bury. There he was recaptured, on the very threshold of 
 freedom, and sentenced to three years’ hard labor in the 
 chain-gang at Swan River, with six months’ solitary confine- 
 ment. Hassett was a remarkably daring man. He, with 
 James Wrenn and other Fenians, had served through two 
 
124 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 campaigns in the Papal Brigade. Returning to Ireland he 
 joined the Twenty-fourth Infantry, and immediately began 
 organizing a revolutionary movement. He was doing sen- 
 try duty at the Royal Hospital, Dublin, in December, 1865, 
 when he received timely warning that a guard had arrived 
 at the picket room to arrest him. O’ Reilly tells the pic- 
 turesque sequel as follows : 
 
 “ Private Hassett walked off his post, and, shouldering 
 his rifle, proceeded confidently through the streets of 
 Dublin, in which a soldier with arms is never questioned. 
 It was ten o’clock at night, and it so happened that Hassett 
 knew of a certain meeting of organizers and other ‘ boys on 
 their keepin,’ which was being held that evening. Thither 
 he bent his steps, reached the house, and, knowing how it 
 was done, gained admission. The rebels sat in council up 
 stairs : faces grew dark, teeth were set close, and revolvers 
 grasped when they heard the steady stamj) on the stairs, 
 and the ‘ground arms,’ at their door. A moment after, the 
 door opened and the man in scarlet walked into the room — 
 all there knew him well. With full equipments, knapsack, 
 rifle, and bayonet, and sixty rounds of ammunition, Hassett 
 had deserted from his post, and walked straight into the 
 ranks of rebellion. He was quickly divested of his military 
 accoutrements ; scouts went out to a neighboring clothing 
 store, and soon returned with every requisite for a full- 
 fledged ‘ civilian.’ The red coat was voted to the fire, and 
 the belt and arms were stored away with a religious hope in 
 the coming fight for an Irish Republic. The next evening 
 one more was added to the group of strangely dressed men 
 who smoked and drank their ‘ pots o’ porter ’ in a certain 
 house in Thomas Street. The new-comer was closely shaven 
 and had the appearance of a muscular Methodist minister. 
 The men there were all deserters, and the last arrival was 
 Hassett. Vainly watching for the coming fight, the poor 
 fellows lived in mysterious misery for several weeks. It is 
 hard to realize here now the feeling that was rife in Dublin 
 then. At last one of the deserters was recognized in th« 
 streets by the military informer, — Private Foley, of the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 125 
 
 Fifth Dragoons,— tracked to the rendezvous, surrounded by 
 the police, and every one captured.” 
 
 Hassett and his comrades were not forgotten, as we shall 
 see in relating the romantic story of their rescue by the 
 American whaling bark Catalpa , in 1876. 
 
 The partial amnesty was extended also to certain Fenian 
 prisoners in Ireland, including John Flood, Thomas Clarke 
 Luby, John O’Leary, O’ Donovan Rossa, John Devoy, 
 O’Meagher Condon, and others, who arrived in New York 
 in January, 1871. 
 
 During this year, the Uncle Ned’s Tales, and other early 
 poems were reprinted in the Pilot , and attracted a good 
 deal of attention to their author. There was an element of 
 strength underlying their occasional crudities, which gave 
 promise of something better in the young poet. The 
 appearance of his “ Amber Whale,” “ Dukite Snake,” and 
 other narrative poems confirmed that promise. They were 
 original in conception and dramatic in form. Although he 
 was to achieve his greater, enduring fame in a far different 
 field of poetry, his first popular success was made as a 
 writer of narrative verse. The popular taste is not to be 
 despised ; for, undoubtedly, the versified story is the natu- 
 ral poem — if anything so artificial in form as a poem can 
 be said to have a natural character. The world loves a 
 story ; and it is the bard’s chronicle, from the tale of Troy 
 Town, down to the latest ballad, that is committed to mem- 
 ory when loftier and more elevated flights of the Muse are 
 admired and forgotten. In this respect the world of twenty 
 years ago was very like the world of two thousand years ago. 
 It craved for something new, and the demand created a sup- 
 ply of brilliant young writers, who brought novel wares to 
 the literary market. Bret Harte and Joaquin Miller came 
 from California with widely differing, but equally striking, 
 lyrics of wild life. John Hay and Will Carleton struck 
 other notes of the people’s heart. There was a renaissance 
 of natural poetry. 
 
 O’ Reilly, fresh from a newer, stranger land of songless 
 birds and scentless flowers, sung not of birds, nor of flowers, 
 
1 26 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 but of mankind. The setting of his stories was doubly 
 foreign — the social, as well as geographical antipodes. The 
 dullest reader could not fail to see that the story, however 
 fanciful it might be, bore the stamp of truth to nature, atid 
 that the teller spoke only of what he himself had seen, or 
 felt, or been. The “ Dukite Snake” might be as unreal as 
 the phoenix ; but the Bush and its inmates were taken from 
 the life. The “ Amber Whale’’ was redolent of the sea — 
 nobody but a sailor-man could have given its nautical flavor 
 and technical lore with such perfect fidelity. 
 
 These long narrative poems were not distinguished for 
 analysis or character study. They were anything but sub- 
 jective. They gave no hint of the philosophical quality 
 which was to mark his later verse ; but they were pictur- 
 esque, dramatic, virile, and achieved their only purpose, 
 that of telling a strong story in direct, forcible fashion. 
 He had not as yet learned the finer art of pruning away 
 extraneous matter, and presenting a powerful tale in a 
 terse, concrete form, as he afterward could do with such a 
 story as that of “ Ensign Epps.” 
 
 The “ Dukite Snake ’’appeared in the Christmas supple- 
 ment of the Boston Journal for 1871. O’Reilly wrote but 
 once over a pseudonym. It was a short poem contributed, 
 I think, to the Boston Traveler , and signed with the pun- 
 ning name “Boilea.u.’’ 
 
 Shortly after the publication of the “ Amber Whale” 
 in the New York Tribune , the author received a tempting 
 offer from Horace Greeley to join the staff of that paper. 
 The proffered salary was large compared with that which 
 he was then receiving ; but it was met by a counter offer 
 from the proprietor of the Pilot, which induced him, 
 wisely, to remain where he was. He was making a repu- 
 tation in the American city which was the literary center 
 of the country. The circle of his personal friendship was 
 large, and steadily growing. More than all, he was in a 
 position to be of incalculable service to the cause of his 
 native country ; and it is the simplest of truths to say that 
 this consideration would have outweighed, at any period of 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 127 
 
 his life, every prospect of personal gain or literary honors. 
 Love of country was with him not merely a strong senti- 
 ment, — it was the ruling passion, to which he would have 
 sacrificed any and every other ambition or possession. 
 
 It was in this spirit of absolutely unselfish patriotism 
 that he sharply arraigned the demagogues and self-seekers 
 who endeavored to mislead his countrymen by posing as 
 Irish- American ‘ ‘ leaders. ’ ’ 
 
 “If the Irish people in this country,’’ he said, “were 
 to utter one prayer with more devotion than another, we 
 think it should be, ‘ Save us from our leaders ! ’ The 
 consideration of the mysterious union between an acknowl- 
 edged impostor, imbecile, or fire-eater, and the people who 
 are affected by his words and acts, is full of interest to any 
 one who looks beneath the surface at men and things. The 
 authority of the demagogue, or, rather, the toleration with 
 which people bear his noisy assumption of authority, 
 springs from some metaphysical mystery far beyond the 
 ken of common mortals. 
 
 “We have noticed in one of the most prominent of the 
 demagogic journals, lately, an editorial call for ‘ An Irish- 
 Ainerican Party,’ for which the dangerous demagogue says 
 ‘the necessity is forced upon us.’ We can tell him that 
 the day is surely coming when the necessity of punishing 
 the author of such criminal folly will be forced upon the 
 Irish people of America. Day after day we see sheets 
 called ‘ Irish- American journals ’ filled with such blatant 
 nonsense or suicidal advice. Thank Heaven, these produc- 
 tions are not very numerous, nor do they compete in influ- 
 ence with our respectable Irish -American press. But their 
 existence is a sore, which will spread, as all sores do, if 
 neglected. The Irish people should keep their eyes on 
 these fellows who sway the passions of the most ignorant 
 portion of the community. On every occasion that arises, 
 it is the duty of Irish- American Catholics, in view of their 
 own respectability, to protest shortly and decisively against 
 these would-be ‘representative Irish leaders,’ or ‘Irish’ 
 newspapers.” 
 
128 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 It would be hard for the most critical of native Ameri- 
 cans to find fault with the Americanism of the foregoing 
 advice, or with the editoral appeal to his fellow-country- 
 men, in the following issue, to “Think it out” — to reflect 
 and reason, before indorsing every well-meant, but ill- 
 directed, project proposed to them. 
 
 The cause of Home Rule, then being discussed in Ire- 
 land, received his earnest support, as “ a greater effort for 
 political equality than any that Ireland has yet seen, not 
 even excepting the agitation of Daniel O’Connell.” The 
 Irish Republican Brotherhood and the Fenian movement 
 had done admirable service for the Irish cause, but the 
 Home Rule movement was distinctly of home origin. Then 
 says O’Reilly: “Why in the name of wonder is it that 
 
 the Irish in America who profess to have such intense 
 sympathy with Ireland’s politics, are so silent or so ignorant 
 of this great but quiet movement? Surely the people in 
 Ireland have greater rights to decide what sort of govern- 
 ment Ireland wants than the Irish people in America. Those 
 who have left the motherland may love her as well as those 
 who have remained ; but the people there have more right 
 to choose their government than the people here to choose 
 it for them. There is a great deal that wants consideration 
 in this question, and we earnestly advise our Irish- American 
 journals, politicians, and people to quietly think it out !” 
 
 Again, he excoriates the blatant demagogue who asks for 
 support in American politics, on the ground that, “ He’s a 
 friend to an Irishman/ 
 
 Of all the offensive sayings that are habitually uttered in this coun- 
 try, we are of opinion that this sentence is, or should be considered, the 
 most offensive. And yet it has evident 1 v originated from the very 
 people it should insult. The Irish people have introduced it ; they use 
 it daily in their criticisms on public men ; and it is no wonder that it 
 should have become a ‘ ‘ plank in the platform ” of every one who seeks 
 for Irish favor. If the phrase w T ere used in England, or in any 
 country where men were debarred from equality, we should commend 
 it as a healthy rallying cry. But in this republic, where men, if they 
 only will, can be “free and equal,” the word becomes a confession of 
 inferiority, an utterance of acknowledged childishness that should be 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 129 
 
 resented by every man of the Irish race as an insult. ‘ ‘ He’s a friend to 
 an Irishman ! ” The poor, helpless Irishman ! The man who is not 
 allowed to vote ; the man who can’t look after his affairs ; the man who 
 has not sense to judge who is the best man to be elected ; in a word, the 
 poor, blind foreigner, who stands all alone with every man’s hand 
 against him, is expected to rally to this call, and support the man who 
 is “ a friend to an Irishman ! ” What does it mean, this worn-out rant? 
 
 Are we debarred from equality? Have we not got the ballot? Have 
 we not got reason enough to judge as American citizens what American 
 citizen we should vote for ? There are certain men to whom this char- 
 acter is commonly given, and with some justice. In the days of old 
 bad feeling, when we were not so strong that we could walk entirely 
 alone, we did want friends, and the men who showed the brotherly feel- 
 ing then should not be forgotten now. But the idea of allowing every 
 new candidate for office, every raw youth from the country, every cun- 
 ning fellow who aspires to anything, between the offices of President of 
 the United States and that of policeman, to bid for the Irish vote by 
 sending it out in large letters, “ He’s a friend to an Irishman,” is simply 
 an insult, and should be resented accordingly. 
 
 There was need just then of a public censor like this 
 young man, who had no selfish or political ends to gain, 
 and who struck boldly and untiringly at everything openly 
 or secretly inimical to the welfare of his race. He broke no 
 lances against wind- mills. When he saw an abuse, he 
 attacked it with all his might, and never abandoned the 
 fight until the abuse was ended. The ‘ ‘ comic ’ ’ Irishman of 
 stage and novel was mercilessly criticised by him, at the same 
 time that he recognized where the responsibility primarily 
 lay. “We do not dream,” he said, in speaking of a par- 
 ticularly offensive performance by a troop of so-called 
 “ Hibernian Minstrels,” “that the people who have estab- 
 lished them will remove them ; these people are too igno- 
 rant or too selfish. But they depend on the public, — and 
 the Irish- American public, — for support. Let us laugh at 
 the good-natured attempts of Englishmen or Americans to 
 portray Irish humorous character ; but if we want to see 
 the truth, let us do it ourselves and do it truthfully. But 
 this copying of the worst attempts of people who do not 
 understand the Irish character, and this exaggeration by 
 our own people of the most offensive misrepresentations of 
 
130 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’R-EILLY. 
 
 the others, is unworthy of rational and respectable beings. 
 No wonder that people who do not know us, who only see 
 us as we represent ourselves on the stage, should judge us 
 harshly and wrongly. It is in the power of every person, 
 and of every family, especially of Irish extraction, to do 
 something toward the removal of this evil by refusing sup- 
 port to these vulgar libel ers of our national character.” 
 
 In February of this year (1871), O’ Reilly received the 
 sad news of the death of his father, who had survived his 
 beloved wife but two years. He was buried beside her 
 in Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin, the following inscription 
 being placed on his coffin plate : 
 
 WILLIAM DAVID O’REILLY, 
 
 Aged sixty-three years. 
 
 Died February 17, 1871. 
 
 DECEASED WAS FATHER OF 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly, 
 
 A good Irish Soldier. 
 
 Convicted by English court-martial, and self-amnestied 
 by escaping from Western Australia to America. 
 
 May the brave son live long, and may the 
 remains of the noble father rest 
 in peace ! 
 
 O’Reilly’s place was soon allotted him among the jour- 
 nalists of Boston. He appreciated the grave responsibili- 
 ties of his profession as few men have done. Replying to 
 a toast for the Press at a banquet given to the Irish Band 
 which attended the great Peace Jubilee at Boston, in July, 
 1872, he said : 
 
 To me, at times, the daily newspaper has an interest almost pathetic. 
 Very often we read the biography of a man who was born, lived, 
 worked, and died, and we put the book on our shelves out of respect 
 for his memory. But the newspaper is a biography of something greater 
 than a man. It is the biography of a Day. It is a photograph, of 
 twenty-four hours’ length, of the mysterious river of time that is sweep- 
 ing past us forever. And yet we take our year’s newspapers, which 
 contain more tales of sorrow and suffering, and joy and success, and 
 ambition and defeat, and villainy and virtue, than the greatest book 
 ever written, and we give them to the girl to light the fire. It is a 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 131 
 
 strange fact that nobody prizes a newspaper for its abstract value until 
 it is about a century out of date. It would seem that newspapers are 
 like wine ; the older they are, the more valuable. If we go into a library 
 piled with books, old and new, we may find it hard to select one to suit 
 our taste. But let a man lay his hand on a newspaper of a hundred 
 years ago, with its stained yellow pages and its old-fashioned type, and 
 he is interested at once. He sits down and reads it all through, adver- 
 tisements and news and editorials — only, fortunately for the people of 
 the olden times, there were very few editorials written then. And why 
 does he do this ? Because he recognizes the true nature of the news- 
 paper. He sees in the yellow paper and small page what he probably 
 fails to see in his splendidly printed daily or weekly newspaper of to- 
 day. He realizes as he reads that the newspaper is indeed the truest 
 biography of a day. Its paragraphs and articles are a mosaic of men’s 
 daily actions ; and his heart feels the touch of the wonderful human 
 sympathy that makes us brethren of the men of all climes and all ages. 
 
 But I will not generalize further. I was led into this train of thought 
 by a something that I know will be interesting to every man here, and 
 to thousands of those who are not here. A short time ago I held in my 
 hand a Boston paper printed seventy-six years ago. It was the first 
 daily paper ever printed in Boston — please to remember, the first daily 
 paper ever printed in Boston. It was called the Boston Daily Advertiser, 
 a name which has a highly respectable representative to-day. And 
 why, gentlemen, did this old paper interest me ; and why do I say it 
 will interest you to hear of it ? Because the editor of this paper, the 
 first daily of Boston, was an Irishman ; and not only an Irishman by 
 birth, but a man who was a fugitive from his native land, because he 
 had been a friend of Napper Tandy, and a United Irishman. This 
 talented Irish exile, whose name was John Burke, had been expelled 
 from Trinity College, Dublin, because the Government found that he 
 was the author of a series of articles on republicanism which had 
 appeared in the Dublin Evening Post. Buckingham tells us, in his 
 “ Reminiscences,” that the paper published by this Irishman was one of 
 unusual ability, moderation of language, and broadness of view. I will 
 read you a short extract from his opening address, which will touch 
 many a heart here to-night, and which will show what sort of man was 
 this John Burke : 
 
 * ‘ I call you fellow-citizens ! for I, too, am a citizen of these States. 
 From the moment a stranger puts his foot on the soil of America, his 
 fetters are rent to pieces, and the scales of servitude which he had con- 
 tracted under European tyrannies fall off ; he becomes a free man ; 
 and though civil regulations may refuse him the immediate exercise of 
 his right, he is virtually a citizen ; .... he resigns his prejudices on 
 the threshold of the temple of liberty ; they are melted down in the 
 
132 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 great crucible of public opinion. This I take to be the way in which 
 all men are affected when they enter these States ; that I am so will be 
 little doubted when it is known how much I am indebted to their 
 liberality ; I shall give better proof of it than words ; there is nothing 
 that I would not resign for your service but my gratitude and love of 
 liberty.” 
 
 These words were written seventy-six years ago by an Irishman, and 
 although men of our race, and of the religious belief of our majority, have 
 lived down many prejudices and many injustices since then, there still 
 remains a mountain to be removed by us and our descendants. But 
 with the help of an enlightened and unprejudiced press, we can succeed 
 where our forerunners failed ; and to the daily press of Boston — 
 especially to that able paper which bears the name of the first of the 
 family — I offer the words of John Burke, the first editor of a daily paper 
 in Boston. 
 
 Such was O’Reilly, the editor, lecturer, and rapidly 
 growing leader of the Irish- American people. In private 
 life he was an earnest student, yet, at the same time, one 
 who could and did relax with boyish abandon . His bach- 
 elor’s den on the top floor of a lodging-house in Stamford 
 Street became the nightly resort of a group of young men 
 of kindred tastes. Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, the Irish poet, 
 was the oldest member of the nameless club, to which also 
 gathered Charles E. Hurd, the scholarly journalist ; Edward 
 Mitchell, Dr. Dennett, and two or three other congenial 
 spirits, to smoke and read and discuss, and sometimes dis- 
 member, the newest works from their own and other pens. 
 Out of this informal coterie grew the almost equally 
 informal, but famous literary and social organization, the 
 “Papyrus Club,” of which more anon. 
 
 He had been over two years and a half in Boston when 
 he vacated his bachelor’s den, and took upon himself the 
 responsibilities of married life. In the Pilot of August 24, 
 1872, appeared the modest announcement: “Married, on 
 
 Thursday, August 15, the Feast of the Assumption, in St. 
 Mary’s Church, Charlestown, by Rev. George A. Hamilton, 
 Mr. John Boyle O’Reilly, of Boston, to Miss Mary Murphy, 
 of Charlestown.” The romance of love thus happily culmi- 
 nating had existed for over two years. The young poet first 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 133 
 
 heard of his future wife through reading a little story writ- 
 ten by her in Tlie Young Crusader , a very successful 
 juvenile magazine edited by Rev. William Byrne, the pres- 
 ent Vicar-General of Boston. Something in the little story 
 took his fancy ; he made inquiries about the writer, whose 
 nom de plume was “ Agnes Smiley,” and sought and 
 obtained an introduction to her. A mutual love soon grew 
 up between them. Miss Murphy was born in Charlestown on 
 the 5th of May, 1850. Her parents were John Murphy, who 
 was born in County Fermanagh, Ireland, in 1823, and died 
 in Charlestown June 28, 1861, and Jane Smiley, born in 
 County Donegal, Ireland, 1830, who came to Charlestown 
 in early life, and still lives, a widowed mother with her wid- 
 owed daughter. 
 
 O’ Reilly and his bride made a brief wedding trip through 
 New Hampshire and Maine, and on returning began the 
 joys and cares of domestic life at their home on Winthrop 
 Street, Charlestown. There were born to them four daugh- 
 ters : Mollie, on May 18, 1873 ; Eliza Boyle, July 25, 1874; 
 Agnes Smiley, May 19, 1877, and Blanid, June 18, 1880. In 
 naming the children, the first was called after her mother, 
 the second after the poet’s own mother, the third by the 
 pretty name to which such tender associations were at- 
 tached, and the fourth after the heroine of Dr. Joyce’s 
 Irish epic. The following letter, written two years later, 
 gives a charming picture of the quiet, happy home which he 
 had made for himself in a strange land : 
 
 The “Pilot” Editorial Rooms, 
 
 September 7, 1874. 
 
 My Dear Aunt Crissy: 
 
 It was like listening to you and looking at you, to read your kind 
 letter. It has made me so happy and yet so sad that I do not know 
 which feeling is uppermost. I know you were pleased to see my poor 
 book ; but what would my own dear patient mother have felt when she 
 saw me winning praise from men ? Thank God! I have her picture — 
 the girls and Edward were kind enough to send it to me — and I have it 
 grandly framed, and hung in our parlor. My little Mollie loves to kiss 
 it, and I can only allow her to kiss the frame for fear of injuring the 
 picture. Mary loves to look at it as much as I do, and she loves you, 
 
134 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 dear Aunt, from your one or two letters. Please write her a letter as 
 soon as you can. She is getting strong again,* from the birth of our 
 second baby — our Eliza Boyle O’Reilly. Is it not strangely touching 
 to see this new generation with the old names — springing up in a new 
 land, and cherishing as traditions all that we knew as facts? Somehow, 
 I feel as old as you and Uncle James. It seems so long since I was a 
 boy that I really do not, cannot, accept young men or their ways of 
 thinking. It gives me thesincerest pleasure to know that Uncle James 
 is doing so well. He has a good book-keeper when he has you ; but I 
 am sure he knows that God has blessed him with that greatest of all 
 blessings — a good wife. Willy’s good fortune is as dear to me as if he 
 were my own brother. I always knew he would be a clever chemist, 
 and I am sure he is. Please God, sometime, when the Government lets 
 me, I shall walk into his shop and ask for a bottle of medicine. He 
 would never know the bearded man, with streaks of gray, from the 
 thoughtless boy he knew long ago. Nobody in England would know 
 me but you : you could see the Boyle in me. 
 
 It will please you, I know, to know just how I am doing. I inclose 
 a lot of extracts from the leading papers of America, which will show 
 you that I do not lack literary reputation. My position in Boston — 
 which is the chief city in this country for literature and general cul- 
 ture — is quite good. I am chief editor of the Pilot — which is the most 
 influential Catholic paper in America, probably in the world. My 
 salary is $3,000 a year (£2 a day); $4,000 next year. Besides, I write 
 when I please for the leading magazines and literary papers— which 
 also adds to my income. Of course, $3,000 a year does not represent its 
 equivalent in English money in England. Everything is sold at a 
 higher rate here. However, Mary, who is a wonderful manager, has 
 saved a few thousand dollars (I give her all the money), and we are pre- 
 pared for a rainy day. My health is excellent. I have just returned 
 from a vacation, which I spent in the glorious Southern States of Marj^- 
 land and Virginia. I visited Baltimore and Washington, and had an 
 invitation to stay with the President of the Jesuit University, at George- 
 town. I do not know what you think of America, Aunt, but it may 
 surprise you to hear that the cities here are far greater and grander than 
 those in the Old World, always excepting London for size, of course. 
 Washington is the most magnificent city I ever saw. But what do you 
 care for America! Give my love to all, and believe me, dear Aunt, 
 to be, 
 
 Always your affectionate nephew, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 The great fire of Boston, beginning on Saturday even- 
 ing, November 9, wiped out of existence the richest portion 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 135 
 
 of the business quarter, destroying eighty -five million 
 dollars’ worth of property. The large granite building 
 owned and occupied by the Pilot , on Franklin Street, was 
 entirely consumed. As soon as possible, new quarters 
 were taken on Cornhill, in the building of Rand & Avery, 
 which, by a strange fatality, was also burned to the ground 
 eleven days later. Nothing daunted, the Pilot resumed 
 business again at No. 360 Washington Street. A little im- 
 patience was excusable in it when called upon to announce, 
 early in the following June, that the paper had been burnt 
 out for the third time on May 30. “ When a firq comes to 
 
 Boston nowadays,” it said, “ it comes looking round all the 
 corners for its old friend the Pilot. It is evident that the 
 fire has a rare appreciation of a good newspaper and a good 
 
 companion to pass a brilliant hour Nevertheless, 
 
 we do not want to appear too light-hearted on this occa- 
 sion : it might lead people to think that a fire was not of 
 much account anyway. Of course we are used to being 
 burnt out, and it does not affect us much after the first 
 mouthful of smoke and cinders. But when it comes to 
 three times in seven months, we protest. We are not sala- 
 manders ; the oldest phoenix of them all would get sick of 
 such a gaudy dissipation. For the remainder of our lives 
 in Boston we want the fire to let us severely alone.” 
 The Pilot ’ s stock was totally destroyed in this last fire, 
 and though it was well insured the loss was hard to bear, 
 following the greater preceding calamities. By these Mr. 
 Donahoe had been made poorer to the extent of $350,000, a 
 loss which, with other reverses, ultimately brought on 
 financial failure. The friends of the paper showed their 
 timely good feeling by doing their utmost for it in its hour 
 of adversity ; some old subscribers paying arrears of fifteen 
 years or more, others subscribing for ten years in advance, 
 and a few requesting to have their names put down as sub- 
 scribers “for life.” 
 
 O’Reilly’s “Wail of Two Cities” (Chicago and Boston) 
 appeared in the number of the Pilot issued immediately 
 after the great fire of November 9, 1872. 
 
136 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The Papyrus Club was the outcome of a reception given 
 by the newspaper men of Boston to Henry M. Stanley, the 
 famous African explorer, on Saturday afternoon, Decem- 
 ber 14, 1872. About thirty of Stanley’s fellow- journalists 
 assembled at the Parker House, W. B. Smart, President 
 of the Boston Press Club, presiding, and John Boyle 
 O’Reilly delivering the address of welcome. He paid a 
 tribute to the “ reportorial ” profession, and especially to 
 the representative of it, “a man, a young man, trained 
 only as all present had been, who had yet been able to 
 lead an expeditiondnto the heart of Africa, and succeed 
 where the Old World, with all its resources, had failed.” 
 After the formal reception and dinner, half a dozen of the 
 young newspaper men present continued the post-prandial 
 exercises at a then famous old chop-house known as “Billy 
 Park’s,” in Central Court, on Washington Street, in the 
 rear of Jordan & Marsh’s dry -goods establishment. The 
 march of commerce has wiped out the hostelry, and built 
 over the Court, but it was on that night, and in “.Billy 
 Park’s ” Tavern, that the Papyrus Club was born. Its 
 christening did not take place until some weeks later. 
 The men who met that night at Park’s were O’Reilly, 
 Stanley, Edward King, Charles Eyre Pascoe, William A. 
 Hovey (“Causeur”), Francis H. Underwood, first editor 
 of the Atlantic Monthly , Alexander Young, the historian, 
 and W. W. Messer, Jr. The second meeting of the club 
 occurred on the following Saturday at the same place. Its 
 object, as stated in the newspaper reports at the time, was 
 that of “ organizing the leading writers of the daily, weekly, 
 and periodical press of the city in a club, for the purpose 
 of promoting better acquaintance, one with another, and 
 affording headquarters to which gentlemen of reputation 
 in literature and art may be invited while on visits to 
 Boston.” 
 
 At this meeting, besides those who had attended the 
 first, were present, Geo. M. Towle, the historian ; N. S. 
 Dodge, and Benjamin Woolf, who gave the club its name. 
 It was quickly organized, with N. S. Dodge as president. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 137 
 
 and Charles E. Pascoe as secretary. Its early history is 
 shrouded with some of the mystery appropriate to all great 
 institutions. O’Reilly was one of the executive committee. 
 A printed call, dated February 26, 1873, says : 
 
 The Papyrus Club having at its last meeting effected a complete 
 organization, it is very desirable that at its next dinner, which will take 
 place at Park’s Hotel, on Saturday, March 1, every person who has 
 heretofore been connected with the movement to establish the club 
 should be present. 
 
 I am requested by the president and members of the executive com- 
 mittee to suggest that the opportunity will be a favorable one for pre- 
 senting the names of persons who desire to join the club,^and'that it 
 will materially add to the pleasure of the occasion, and afford members 
 an opportunity to vote intelligently upon the admission of candidates, 
 if gentlemen see fit to bring with them, as their guests, those whose 
 names they intend proposing. 
 
 As it is necessary that exact information as to the number to be pres- 
 ent should be in the hands of the caterer for the evening prior to Friday, 
 the 28th inst., you are requested to inform Mr. Benjamin Woolf, Globe 
 office, by note or otherwise, and not later than Thursday, 27th inst., 
 whether you intend to participate, and if so, whether a guest will 
 accompany you. 
 
 As the organized existence of the club will in a great measure date 
 from the meeting in question, it is hoped that every member will make 
 an effort to be present. 
 
 Very respectfully yours, 
 
 Chas. F. Pascoe, 
 
 Secretary. 
 
 Among the other early members of the club were J. 
 Cheever Goodwin, Nat. Childs, Geo. F. Babbitt, Robert G. 
 Fitch, Henry M. Rogers, Edgar Parker, Edwin P. Whipple, 
 Dr. George B. Loring, E. A. Sothern (“Lord Dundreary”), 
 Benjamin H. Ticknor, T. B. Ticknor, Howard M. Ticknor, 
 James R. Osgood, George M. Baker, Dr. W. S. Dennett, 
 William T. Adams (“Oliver Optic”), Dr. R. D. Joyce, 
 Lambert Hollis, Dr. F. A. Harris, William M. Hunt, the 
 famous artist, and several other men distinguished in art 
 and literature. 
 
 It goes without saying that none of the members were 
 blessed with worldly wealth. At first the club was a pure 
 
138 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 democracy, unfettered by law or precedent, the only 
 authority ever invoked by the kindly ruler, President 
 Dodge, consisting in a vague threat to “name” any mem- 
 ber whose boisterousness exceeded the bounds of decorum. 
 The dinner was simple, consisting of chops, steaks, or 
 joints, its austerity being mitigated by beer. 
 
 In due time, as the club prospered, an attempt was 
 made, which never wholly succeeded, to introduce evening 
 costume. The president had always appeared thus arrayed, 
 and it was voted, by way of compromise, that his dignified 
 44 swallow-tail ” should be considered the “club coat.” 
 At an early stage in its career the club voted to increase 
 its membership and finances, simultaneously, by admitting 
 a certain number of gentlemen, not exceeding one third of 
 the whole, as “non-literary members.” There was a hazy 
 expectation that wealth would thence flow into the coffers 
 of the club, which should be thereby enabled to build a 
 house and live up to its reputation. Bonds were to be 
 issued, but those securities were never listed on the Stock 
 Exchange. When it came to the election of 4 4 non-literary ’ 5 
 millionaires, the club insisted on choosing candidates pos- 
 sessed of qualities not usually concomitant with wealth. 
 The non-literary members chosen were 4 4 good fellows” to 
 a man : the literary members were of the same character 
 ipso facto. On one historic evening there were elected 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich, William Dean Howells, Charles 
 Gaylord, and Dr. George B. Loring. Such non-literary 
 men as E. E. Bice, of “Evangeline,” George Boberts, W. 
 A. Means, F. V. Parker, and a score of others, did not 
 detract from the gayety of the genial Bohemian crowd. 
 
 There was something more than mere pleasure asso- 
 ciated with those meetings. As George M. Towle has well 
 said : 44 Pleasant as are its literary features, its habit of hos- 
 pitality to prominent strangers, its brilliant ladies’ nights, its 
 occasional music and fitful eloquence, to me its most grate- 
 ful use is the freedom, the enlivenment, and I may per- 
 haps even add, the affectionateness of its social sphere. 
 I suppose most of us feel a kindlier interest in a man when 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 139 
 
 we know he is a Papyrus man. I think we are more ready 
 to help him when he is trouble, to regret his calamities, to 
 rejoice in his good fortune. I think any Papyrus man 
 who has suffered some worldly grief may come here to this 
 board in the absolute certainty that he will be surrounded 
 by such an atmosphere of brotherly sympathy and encour- 
 agement as will enable him to carry away revived spirits 
 and renewed hopes. These genial customs, these monthly 
 greetings, soften the harshness of life, encourage the kind- 
 liness, tolerance, and generosity of feeling which serve us 
 in good and noble stead in our daily battles with the outer 
 world.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 His Public Life — Editorial Condemnation oT Bigotry — He Speaks for 
 the Indian and the Negro — “ Songs of the Southern Seas” — Death 
 of Captain Gifford — Poem on the Death of John Mitchell —Contro- 
 versy with Dr. Brownson — His Poem for the O’Connell Centenary 
 — O’Reilly Becomes Part Owner of the Pilot. 
 
 E ARLY in February, 1873, the Orangemen of Boston, 
 with the flexible loyalty which has ever distinguished 
 the order, became suddenly and vociferously American, 
 and announced their intention of celebrating Washington’s 
 birthday by a parade. Whether they paraded or not is a 
 matter only of small-beer chronicles. O’Reilly, true to his 
 principles of tolerance and conciliation, wrote : 
 
 Last year the Orange and Green were twined on the Pilot building, 
 on Franklin Street. Will the Orangemen carry both colors in their 
 precession ? Come, now, that’s the way to kill bad feeling. Don’t let 
 a few sore-headed bigots keep us apart. No matter if we do differ in 
 religious belief : that is no reason why we should be enemies and ready 
 to fly at each other’s throat. The best Irishmen in our country’s 
 history were North of Ireland Protestants. Twine the flags — they are 
 both Irish. The Orange is the oldest national color. Let us be sensi- 
 ble, friends on both sides, and not carry our island bickerings into the 
 view of America’s friendly cities. 
 
 He was just as prompt to condemn the introduction of 
 foreign issues into American politics by Catholics as by 
 Protestants. 
 
 Announcements had been made in various papers that a 
 convention of a proposed “Irish” party would be held at 
 Cleveland, O., in July of the same year. Quoting these 
 announcements O’ Reilly commented : 
 
 We do not know the men who have originated the idea, or those who 
 have called this convention ; we do not know their purposes, save what 
 we learn from such notices as the above. But we know that, whoever 
 
 140 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 141 
 
 they are, they are men of worthless account, unknown and unrespected, 
 and we have no fear that their influence will corrupt the mass of our 
 people. They belong and appeal to that portion of the Irish in America 
 of which true Ireland has least reason to be proud. But no matter how 
 small the snake that wriggles through your garden, the only safe way 
 is to take a switch and break its back. 
 
 The Irishmen who would form or join such an order as that described 
 above, stand in the same relation to us as the members of the O. A. P. 
 or O. U. A. M., or any other order of Know-nothings in the country; 
 nay, the Irishman who would join such a party is even more our enemy 
 than they are, for not only does he adopt their shameful course, but he 
 throws the discredit of his conduct on the people to whom he belongs. 
 
 The Irishman who would proscribe a native American, and the native 
 American who would proscribe an Irishman, are guilty of the same 
 crime against the principles of the Constitution. But the Irishman is 
 guilty of more than the other : when he joins a secret society he is recre- 
 ant to his religion ; when he joins a proscriptive society he is recreant to 
 his citizenship. 
 
 5jC 4* 
 
 All that was good and beautiful in our dear native island, we should 
 cherish forever. We have her faith and her honor to preserve and to 
 make respected. We have sympathy with her trials and her efforts to 
 be free. But we cannot, as honest men, band together in American 
 politics under the shadow of an Irish flag. 
 
 ****** 
 
 We do not know whether this Cleveland Convention is designed to 
 affect Irish or American politics. The heads of it have taken care not 
 to let us know anything of their movements. But we shall follow their 
 track with a lantern at all times ; and we advise our people in Cleve- 
 land and elsewhere to treat them as a pack of miserable Know-nothings. 
 
 Reviewing the editorial work of John Boyle O’Reilly 
 during twenty years, and understanding, as only newspaper 
 men can understand, the difficulties under which such work 
 is performed, especially the necessity which it involves of 
 deciding quickly on matters, often of gravest importance, 
 the unerring instinct with which O’Reilly decided rightly in 
 almost every case is little short of marvelous. The editor 
 of the ordinary weekly paper is supposed to have abun- 
 dance of leisure for forming and expressing his opinions. 
 Such was not the case with O’ Reilly. He preferred writing 
 his articles at the last moment ; he was as scrupulous as the 
 most enterprising of “ night editors ” in getting the latest 
 
142 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 news, and in supplying the final editions of his paper with 
 everything of importance chronicled up to the moment of 
 going to press. 
 
 Yet, reading through those editorials of twenty years, 
 with the light of subsequent events to guide, I am amazed 
 at the sure ness of his instinct, the accuracy of his judg- 
 ment, and the terse vigor of his pronouncements on every 
 event of more than ephemeral interest. His political fore- 
 casts were often as erroneous as those of other editorial 
 prophets ; but his instincts never once failed on a definite 
 question of right and wrong. There he was infallible. 
 
 When the treacherous murder of General Canby by the 
 Modoc Indians, in the lava beds of Oregon, aroused a 
 clamor for vengeance throughout the country, he took the 
 part of the poor savages who had no newspaper organ to 
 advocate their cause, saying : 
 
 We have too much and too old a sympathy with people badly gov- 
 erned, to join in this shameful cry for Modoc blood. We grant that 
 they have committed murder, and that they are unstable, treacherous, 
 and dangerous. Who would not be so, with the robberies and out- 
 rages of generations boiling in their blood ? If they are ignorant and 
 debased they cannot be cured by corn whisky and fire-arms ; and these 
 the only mission-books they have received from our government or our 
 settlers. 
 
 He was a Democrat, imbued with the best spirit of his 
 party, but he was never a blind partisan. On the negro 
 question he stood beside his friend, Wendell Philipps, on 
 the platform of Daniel O’Connell. Here is one of his early 
 pleas in behalf of the Southern negro, written at a time 
 when the rascally rule of the carpet-baggers in the South 
 had made even the Republicans in the North lose much 
 of their sympathy for the freedmen. 
 
 . . , . The destiny of the colored American is one of the big prob- 
 lems to be worked out in the life of this Republic. The day is fast com- 
 ing when this man’s claim cannot be answered by a jest or a sneer. The 
 colored American of to-day may not be equal to his position as an 
 enfranchised man. He has still about him something of the easy sub- 
 mission and confessed inferiority of a race held long in ignorance and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 143 
 
 bondage. But this man’s children and grandchildren are coming, and 
 they are receiving the same education in the same schools as the white 
 man’s children. In all things material before God and man, they will 
 feel that they are the white man’s equal. They are growing above the 
 prejudice, even before the prejudice dies : and herein is the opening of 
 the problem. . . . 
 
 The year 1873 saw the practical inception of the move- 
 ment for Irish Home Rale. O’ Reilly, wise from experience, 
 advised the Fenians to give the new scheme a fair hearing. 
 “They,” he said, “had done their work. Their move- 
 ment, whatever its faults, aroused the national sentiment 
 and forced the people into the study of their country’s posi- 
 tion. Nobody in the world has clearer grounds of objec- 
 tion to Fenianism than we have : we have known it all 
 through, root and branch, its faults, its weaknesses, and its 
 virtues : but we are not quite sure that had it not been at 
 all, there would be no such hopeful movement as there is 
 in Ireland to-day.” 
 
 He, of all men, might have been justified in declaring war 
 to the knife against the oppressors of his native land, but 
 he did not think of his own wrongs when the best interests 
 of his country were to be considered. He sincerely es- 
 poused the cause of Home Rule, and urged the wisdom 
 and charity of forgetting past grievances. “ That measure 
 once attained,” he said : “ Let both neighbors combine for 
 every neighborly purpose, and pull together, if need be, 
 against the rest of the world, as good neighbors should ; 
 but let each give up, once for all, the arrogant, mischievous 
 pretension of lording it over the hearthstone and dictating 
 the domestic economy of the other. Thus will be combined 
 national freedom with national strength.” 
 
 Thenceforward, and to the end of his life, he remained 
 an unwavering advocate of the pacific policy, an unshaken 
 believer in its ultimate success. In his sanguine way he 
 made, in 1886, one of the predictions which failed of fulfill- 
 ment, that Home Rule would be achieved in the year 1889. 
 He had not reckoned on the treachery of Chamberlain, and 
 the selfish ambition of the English Unionists. 
 
144 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 In March, 1873, the Catholic Union of Boston was 
 founded, with Theodore Metcalf as President, and John 
 Boyle O’Reilly as Recording Secretary. He remained a 
 member of the organization until his death. 
 
 Two interesting events marked this year in the poet’s 
 life. The first, a pleasant one, was the appearance of his 
 book of poems, “ Songs of the Southern Seas,” published 
 by Roberts Bros., of Boston. The second, a sad one, was 
 the death of the man to whom that book was gratefully 
 dedicated. Captain David R. Gifford died on board his 
 ship, off Mahe, Seychelle Islands, on August 26, without 
 having seen the tribute paid him by the Irish exile whom 
 he had befriended. 
 
 The ‘ ‘ Songs ’ ’ were favorably received by American 
 readers. Most of them had appeared in the weekly or 
 monthly publications of the country. Two had first seen 
 the light in the Dark Blue Magazine , of Oxford Univer- 
 versity, England, where the new contributor was welcomed, 
 until his political status became known, when the magazine, 
 like a loyal Conservative, declined to accept further con- 
 tributions from the rebel poet. The press and scholars of 
 America, having no such scruples, took his work at its just 
 value, and their verdict was indorsed in due time by the 
 best critics of England. The modesty of the young poet, 
 and the spontaneous and unconventional spirit of his verse, 
 won immediate appreciation and praise. Edwin P. Whip- 
 ple, profound scholar and judicious critic, commended the 
 “Occasional Poems” in the book as “very tender, fanci- 
 ful, earnest, individual, and manly, claiming nothing which 
 they do not win by their inherent force, grace, melody, and 
 ‘sweet reasonableness,’ or, it may be at times, their passion- 
 ate unreasonableness. Nobody can read the volume with- 
 out being drawn to its author. He is so thoroughly honest 
 and sincere that he insists that his imaginations are but 
 memories.” The versatility of his work invited compari- 
 sons, which were seldom aught but favorable, with many 
 older and more distinguished poets. “ There is the flow of 
 Scott in his narrative power, and the fire of Macaulay in 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 145 
 
 his trumpet- toned tales of war,” said the Chicago Inter - 
 ocean. “The “Dog Guard,’ leaves an impression on the 
 mind like Coleridge’s ‘ Ancient Mariner,’ ” said the Boston 
 Advertiser. R. H. Stoddart, in Scribner's Monthly , 
 wrote: “William Morris could have spun off The verse 
 more fluently, and Longfellow could have imparted to it 
 his usual grace ; still, we are glad it is not from them 
 
 but from Mr. O’ Reilly that we receive it He is as 
 
 good a balladist as Walter Thornbury, who is the only 
 other living poet who could have written 4 The Old Dra- 
 goon’s story.’ ” The Atlantic Monthly commended espe- 
 cially the discretion with which inanimate nature is subor- 
 dinated to human interest in the “King of the Vasse” : 
 “ The Australian scenery, and air, and natural life are every- 
 where summoned around the story without being forced 
 upon the reader. Here, for instance, is a picture at once 
 vivid and intelligible — which is not always the case with 
 the vivid pictures of the word painters. .... There are 
 deep springs of familiar feeling (as the mother’ s grief for 
 the estrangement of her savage- hearted son), also, touched 
 in this poem, in which there is due artistic sense and enjoy- 
 ment of the weirdness of the motive ; and, in short, we 
 could imagine ourselves recurring more than once to the 
 story, and liking it better and better. The ‘ Dog Guard ’ is 
 the next best story in the book, — a horrible fact treated 
 with tragic realism, and skillfully kept from being merely 
 horrible. ’ ’ 
 
 The “Songs of the Southern Seas” were subsequently 
 incorporated in a volume, published in 1878 and entitled, 
 “Songs, Legends, and Ballads,” which reached a seventh 
 edition, and will have attained its eighth in the present 
 compilation. 
 
 It was dedicated as follows : 
 
 TO 
 
 My Dear Wife, 
 
 WHOSE RARE AND LOVING JUDGMENT HAS BEEN A STANDARD 
 I HAVE TRIED TO REACH. 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK. 
 
146 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 On Saturday morning, May 16, 1874, occurred the great 
 flood at Mill River Valley, Hampshire County, Mass., 
 caused by the breaking of a mill-dam. Four villages were 
 swept away and nearly two hundred lives lost in the ca- 
 lamity. Collins Graves, a milkman, mounted his horse and 
 spurred through the villages, warning the inhabitants and 
 saving hundreds of lives. O’Reilly’s ringing ballad, “ The 
 Ride of Collins Graves,” inspired by this incident, has 
 taken a permanent place in the literature of heroic verse. 
 
 In the Pilot of July 11, of the same year, O’Reilly 
 printed a poem of about sixty lines, into which he had com- 
 pressed all the pent-up fierce democracy of his nature. In 
 it he reaches his highest point of thought, if not of expres- 
 sion. It is the poem, “Bone and Sinew and Brain.” His 
 figures are bold and strikingly original ; Manhood is its 
 theme — Manhood, and its corelative, Womanhood — before 
 which all else must give way in the battle for the survival 
 of the fittest. Inveighing like a Hebrew prophet against 
 the effeminacy of the time, and the cant of the ‘ ‘ march of 
 mind,” — 
 
 Till the head grows large and the vampire face, 
 
 Is gorged on the limbs so thin — 
 
 and still more fiercely against “ the sterile and worthless 
 life” of the childless woman, he cries out : 
 
 Ho, white-maned waves of the Western Sea 
 That ride and roll to the strand ! 
 
 Ho, strong-winged birds never blown a-lee 
 By the gales that sweep toward land ! 
 
 Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves, 
 
 As ye swoop in your strength and grace, 
 
 As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves 
 Of a suicidal race. 
 
 You have hoarded your strength in equal parts ; 
 
 For the men of the future reign 
 
 Must have faithful souls and kindly hearts, 
 
 And bone and sinew and brain. 
 
 On the 20th of March, 1875, John Mitchell, the sturdy 
 Irish patriot, breathed his last atDromolane, County Down, 
 Ireland. O’Reilly’s poem on the dead patriot was pub- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 147 
 
 lished in the following week. It contains this striking 
 figure, among others : 
 
 Dead ! but the death was fitting : 
 
 His life to the latest breath, 
 
 Was poured like wax on the Chart of Right, 
 
 And is sealed by the stamp of Death ! 
 
 Within twenty days Ireland lost three of her most loyal 
 sons, John Mitchell, John Martin, and Sir John Gray. Of 
 them O’Reilly wrote : “All three were Protestants: and 
 their death draws attention to the truth that no people in 
 the world are so utterly without religious bigotry as the 
 Irish. These three Protestants were the most beloved and 
 trusted men in Ireland, and by the Irish Catholics and 
 Protestants throughout the world. The only question Ire- 
 land asks her public men is — Are you true to my cause % 
 England has tried with inhuman cunning to put the wedge 
 between Protestant and Catholic in Ireland : she planted 
 the seeds of Orangeism and Ribbonism, and watched and 
 watered them to make them grow. But, thank God ! the 
 weed of religious hate will not spread on Irish soil. It is 
 never the difference of religion that makes the bad blood ; 
 it is the taint of English money and English sympathy.’’ 
 
 To this broad-minded editor nothing was more odious 
 than the narrow bigotry which would array sect against 
 sect, especially when displayed by Catholics. In this year, 
 1875, the Lord Mayor of Dublin, Mr. Peter Paul McSwiney, 
 issued a circular calling for the formation of an “ Irish 
 Catholic party,” saying : “To make a united Ireland, our 
 
 motto must be ‘ Faith and Fatherland.’ ’’ The Irish Catho- 
 lics indignantly repudiated the bigoted appeal, which 
 O’Reilly stigmatized as “Catholic Know-nothingism.” 
 
 He crossed swords with a foeman more worthy of his 
 steel when Dr. Orestes A. Brownson, a convert to Catho- 
 licity, and, as converts sometimes are, one rather more 
 zealous than discreet, took exception to the Pilot's honor- 
 able praise of the Irish Protestants who had served their 
 country with a loyalty that redeems their class from the 
 
148 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 disgrace even of Orangeism. O’Reilly’s answer to Brown- 
 son is eloquent with the indignation of a man who had 
 suffered from intolerance enough to detest it in every 
 form. He says : 
 
 Dr. Brownson — angry Dr. Brownson — in reviewing an unfortunate 
 book by a clever Irishman (Shelton McKenzie), steps off the path to take a 
 howl in the primeval savagery of his nature. Of course, the first Irish 
 head he meets — he is looking for Irish heads — is the Pilot's ; after that 
 come the Irish generally — and with the full force of his ancient Know- 
 nothingism, the Doctor “ goes for ” them. He says : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Mr. McKenzie is a man of considerable literary ability and reputa- 
 tion, and, though a Protestant, we believe a genuine Irishman. Per- 
 haps, we ought not to say though a Protestant , for our poetical friend 
 of the Boston Pilot — a high authority in such matters — assured the 
 public, not long since, that the truest and best Irishmen going are 
 Protestants. Why, then, complain of ‘ Protestant ascendancy,’ and 
 denounce the Irish parliament of 1800, that sold the Irish nationality 
 for British gold, every member of which was a Protestant ? Grattan, 
 Flood, Plunkett, Curran, and a few others, were, no doubt, able and 
 eloquent, and regarded Ireland as their country, but they were power- 
 less against the mass of their Protestant countrymen ; and we have 
 never seen, and never expect to see, any good come to Catholic Ireland 
 from following Protestant and infidel leaders. We have much more 
 confidence in the Catholic bishops and clergy than in Protestant and 
 infidel ‘ head centers.’ We have no confidence in those Catholics even 
 who sink the religious in the national question, for no nation can be 
 really free and independent that is not Catholic. 
 
 * * Protestant Irishmen are for us neither more nor less than the 
 Protestants of any other nationality ; and Catholic Ireland has suffered 
 far more from Protestant Irishmen than from Englishmen. Our 
 interest is in Catholic Ireland ; and Irish politics, save so far as they 
 affect the Church, "are no more to us than the politics of any other foreign 
 nation. We have very little respect for those Irish patriots who think 
 they can serve their country by leaving their religion in abeyance and 
 acting under the lead of its enemies. If the Boston Pilot insists in glory- 
 ing in ‘ our element, ’ let it visit our prisons, penitentiaries, almshouses, 
 etc. ; above all, let it look into the reports of our police courts and mark 
 the frequency with which ‘ our element ’ is brought up for drunken- 
 ness, and husbands of the same element for brutally beating and kick- 
 ing their wives, not seldom even to death. It may also count the 
 ‘ street arabs, ’ belonging to the same ‘ element ’ that swarm in our cities 
 and live only by begging and stealing — chiefly by stealing. There it 
 can find ‘ our element,’ as also in the emigrants from remote Irish dis- 
 
IIIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 149 
 
 tricts, who have never been instructed in the first principles of religion 
 and morality, and hardly know how to bless themselves.” 
 
 To this intemperate onslaught O’ Reilly replied : 
 
 A good deal of this is true, we are sorry to say ; no one ever denied 
 it. A good deal of it is untrue ; and the remainder is discreditable to 
 Doctor Brownson. First, “our poetical friend of the Pilot ” never said 
 that “ the truest and best Irishmen going are Protestants but he did 
 say, not once but often, and he says it again, that a great many of the 
 best Irishmen — the men whose memories are respected by their country- 
 men the world over, were Protestants. Dr. Brownson knows enough 
 about Ireland to pick out from the end of the last century the names of 
 four Protestants who loved their country. Perhaps he thinks there 
 were no more. We, being Irish and knowing something about the 
 subject, take the liberty of presenting the doctor with a list of twenty 
 times four Protestant Irishmen from the same period of Ireland’s his- 
 tory, whose names will be revered by millions of Catholics when Dr. 
 Brownson and his Review are forgotten : 
 
 Church of England Protestants. —Thomas A. Emmet, barrister ; 
 Arthur O’Connor, barrister ; Roger O’Connor, barrister ; Thomas Rus- 
 sel, John Chambers, Mathew Dowling, Edward Hudson, Hugh Wilson 
 William Dowdall, Robert Hunter, Matthew Keogh, Joseph Holt’ 
 Thomas Corbett, William Corbett, Hon. Simon Butler, A. H. Rowan’ 
 James Napper Tandy, Lord Edw. Fitzgerald, Henry Sheares, barrister ; 
 John Sheares, barrister; Oliver Bond, Leonard McNally, B. B. Har- 
 vey, barrister; William Weir, John Allen, * Thomas Bacon, Anthony 
 Perry, Theobald Wolf Tone, Barthol Tone, Thomas Wright, Wm. 
 Livingstone Webb, William Hamilton, Richard Kernan, James Rey- 
 nolds, M.D., Deane Swift, barrister ; Robert Emmet. 
 
 Presbyterians. — William Tennant, M.D., Robert Simms, Samuel 
 Neilson, George Cumming, Rev. Mr. Warwick, Joseph Cuthbert, Rev. 
 W. Steele Dickson, William Drennan, M.D., William Orr, Samuel 
 Orr, William Putnam McCabe, Rev. William Porter, Henry Monroe, 
 James Dickey, attorney ; Henry Haslett, William Sampson, barrister ; 
 Henry Joy McCracken, Rev. Mr. Barber, William Sinclair, J. Sinclair, 
 Rev. Mr. Mahon, James Hope, Robert McGee, M.D., Gilbert Mcllvain, 
 Robert Byers, Henry Byers, Rev. Mr. Birch, Rev. Mr. Warde, S. Ken- 
 nedy, Robert Hunter, Robert Orr, Rev. Mr. Smith, Rev. Mr. Sinclair, 
 
 * Here O’Reilly makes a curious lapse, according to the testimony of a rela- 
 tive of his own, and, like himself, a direct descendant of Patrick Allen ; of whom 
 the John Allen above mentioned was the grandson and a steadfast Catholic ; in 
 fact, the Colonel Allen of Napoleon’s army, referred to in Chapter I. of this 
 biography. 
 
150 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Hugh Grimes, William Kean, Rev. Mr. Stevelly, James Burnside, 
 James Green, Rowley Osborne, Mr. Turner, Rev. Mr. McNeil, William 
 Simms, John Rabb, Rev. Mr. Simpson, Israel Milliken. 
 
 It may interest Dr. Brownson to know that eighteen of the above 
 named Protestants loved Ireland so well that they were hanged for 
 their affection. It was to these men, when speaking to Irishmen who 
 understood him, that “ our poetical friend” alluded. 
 
 Shall Irishmen forget these men because they were Protestants ? 
 Dr. Brownson says he takes no interest in anything but Catholic poli- 
 tics and Catholic leaders. In the name of God he is preaching the 
 devil’s own doctrine — the old English doctrine of dissension. Are the 
 Catholic citizens of this country to repudiate the deeds of all Protestant 
 Americans, and scout the memory of the Protestant Washington ? Are 
 Irish Catholics, at Dr. Brownson’s bidding, to forget the name and fame 
 of such a Protestant Irishman as Edmund Burke, who was addressed 
 by Pope Pius YI. as a “noble man ’’and a benefactor to the world? 
 Dr. Brownson, we suppose, would reject the services of Warren and 
 Putnam at Bunker Hill because they were Protestants ; he would de- 
 pose Washington, Clay, Henry, and the others from their high place 
 in the national memory ; he would reject Grant, Sherman, and Thomas, 
 because they were Protestants, and fling Sheridan after them because 
 he was only a middling Catholic. Dr. Brownson mixes too much re- 
 ligion in his politics. His intolerant meddling can bring nothing but 
 discredit on Catholicity. He has made a reputation for literary pugil- 
 ism by knocking his own straw men to smithereens ; but now, in his 
 old age, he forgets himself and strikes at living men, with other results. 
 When Dr. Brownson says that Ireland suffered more from Protestant 
 Irishmen than from England — he is doting. Irishmen know better. 
 They remember whole centuries of wrong — 
 
 “Strongbow’s force, and Henry’s wile, 
 
 Tudor’s wrath, and Stuart’s guile, 
 
 Iron Stafford’s tiger jaws, 
 
 And brutal Brunswick’s penal laws ; 
 
 Not forgetting Saxon faith, 
 
 Not forgetting Norman scaith, 
 
 Not forgetting William’s word, 
 
 Not forgetting Cromwell’s sword.” 
 
 Such a spirit as that shown by Dr. Brownson in this article is scanda- 
 lous and abominable. 
 
 As to the Irish in the prisons, and the Irish children in the peni- 
 tentiaries, it comes with a bad grace from a converted Anglo-American 
 Protestant to cast them in our teeth. They were prepared for prison 
 and penitentiary by English law that enforced generations of ignorance 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 151 
 
 on Ireland. There is no blame attached to the Irish “street arabs ” 
 for their poverty,— not an atom. Nobody but an exasperated and im- 
 potent old man would scoff at them. God help them, and God pity 
 their forefathers, who lived under the penal laws, who could not help 
 leaving after them a legacy of poverty and crime ! 
 
 When Brownson" s Review passed out of existence in 
 the following October, with some sharp denunciations of 
 the Pilot, in its valedictory, O’ Reilly, always generous to 
 a foernan, wrote : 
 
 Farewell, stanch and fearless old man! You have done a large 
 labor, and have done it in full manhood and good faiths Those who 
 objected shall be the first to praise. Your life has been a success, as 
 every life must be that follows principle through light and darkness. 
 Not mockingly do we write these words of respect, but with all sincerity, 
 admiring an individualized, noble nature. Not in any belittling spirit 
 do we say that the death of Brownson 1 s Review reminds us of the last 
 hour of the old pagan bard converted by St. Patrick ! 
 
 “ I give glory to God for our battles won 
 By wood or river, by bay or creek ; 
 
 For Norna who died ; for my father Conn ; 
 
 For feasts and the chase on the mountain bleak. 
 
 I bewail my sins, both known and unknown, 
 
 And of those I have injured forgiveness seek. 
 
 The men that were wicked to me and mine 
 (Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine) 
 
 I forgive and absolve them all, save three , 
 
 And may Christ in his mercy be kind to me. ” 
 
 Nobody could better appreciate a vigorous antagonist 
 than Dr. Brownson himself, of whom a characteristic anec- 
 dote is told, during his early life, when he was a Unitarian 
 minister. Being in a bookstore on a certain occasion, he 
 had a controversy with Mr. Trask, the famous anti-tobacco 
 apostle. Mr. Brownson became irritated at some remark of 
 Mr. Trask, and promptly knocked him down. The by-stand- 
 ers protested earnestly, and Mr. Brownson as promptly 
 made a humble and complete apology for his loss of self- 
 control. The apology was accepted and the conversation 
 resumed, but Mr. Trask overdid his magnanimity by say- 
 ing, once or twice afterward, “I forgive you.” At last 
 
152 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Brownson became enraged a second time and said, “ 1 have 
 knocked you down and I have apologized for it. If you say 
 anything more about forgiving me, I will knock you down 
 again.” Dr. Brownson should not have been so severe on 
 the Irish people, with whom, as this anecdote shows, he had 
 a very kindred spirit. Another good anecdote was told of 
 him by the late Bishop Fitzpatrick. Brownson had a mar- 
 velous memory, and a corresponding fluency in presenting 
 facts with which his mind was so richly stored. Added to 
 this was “ a certain dogmatic way of enlightening the com- 
 pany on every subject. The Bishop, who was known to 
 have been fond of a quiet joke, agreed with the rest to take 
 him, for once, off his guard. They decided to study well 
 some subject which Brownson would be least apt to think 
 of, and accordingly fixed on Iceland. At the next gather- 
 ing they caused the conversation gradually to slide into Ice- 
 land, directing it in a manner to set forth all their knowl- 
 edge of the subject, and quietly ignoring the doctor as one 
 out of his latitude. The latter, however, soon broke the 
 ice, set them right on various points, and wound up with an 
 elaborate array of facts. He afterward disclosed that he had 
 recently been studying an extensive work on the subject, 
 just issued ; and the company despaired ever after of over- 
 shadowing Brownson on any subject whatever.” The ven- 
 erable controversialist died in April, 1876, heartily re- 
 gretted even by those with whom he had broken lances in 
 many a sharp encounter. 
 
 On the 6th of August, 1875, the centenary of O’ Connell’s 
 birthday was celebrated by the Irish people throughout the 
 world. In Dublin it was especially commemorated by the 
 inauguration of a noble statue to the Liberator from the 
 hand of the Irish sculptor, John Henry Foley, R. A. The 
 celebration in Boston was a notable event. Wendell Phil- 
 lips was the orator, and John Boyle O’Reilly the poet. 
 Fully four thousand people crowded Music Hall ; Patrick 
 Donahoe presided. Governor Gaston, William Lloyd Gar- 
 rison, General Banks, Charles Francis Adams, Jr., and lead- 
 ing clergymen of all denominations, with white and colored 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 153 
 
 citizens, occupied the platform. Whittier, who could not 
 attend in person, sent a letter in which he recalled the fact 
 that : 
 
 “More than thirty years ago, in an elaborate and care- 
 fully prepared paper, I defended him from the unjust attacks 
 of some of my countrymen ; and I have seen no reason 
 since to retract a word of the very high praise which I then 
 awarded him. 
 
 “He was a consistent Christian reformer. TcTuse his 
 own words, ‘ He hated all tyranny and intolerance, social, 
 political, or ecclesiastical.’ By birth and conviction a faith- 
 ful member of the ancient Church, he asked nothing for 
 Catholics which he was not ready to ask for Protestants. 
 He was no reactionist. He believed it his privilege to co-op- 
 erate with Divine Providence in making the world better 
 and happier ; and held with his brother religionist, Lamar- 
 tine, that to oppose the progress of civilization and human- 
 ity was to sin against the Holy Ghost. His philanthropy 
 was logical, and therefore universal.” 
 
 The oration of Phillips was worthy of orator and sub- 
 ject. O'Reilly’s poem was entitled “A Nation’s Test.” 
 Nothing truer has been said in panegyric of the great 
 Liberator than is conveyed in these four lines : 
 
 Races and sects were to him a profanity : 
 
 Hindoo, and negro, and Celt were as one ; 
 
 Large as Mankind was his splendid humanity, 
 
 Large in its record the work he has done. 
 
 The poet was unconsciously foreshadowing the world’s 
 verdict on his own life. On October 20 of this year he 
 read his grand poem “Fredericksburg,” at the inaugura- 
 tion of the armory of the Second Regiment, Illinois 
 State Guards, Chicago, taking as his text the words of 
 General Meagher — “The Irishman never fights so well as 
 when he has an Irishman for his comrade. An Irishman 
 going into the field has this as the strongest impulse and 
 his richest reward, that his conduct in the field will reflect 
 honor on the old land he will see no more. He therefore 
 wishes that if he falls it will be into the arms of one of the 
 
154 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 same nativity, that all may hear that he died in a manner 
 worthy of the cause in which he fell, and of the country 
 which gave him birth.” 
 
 O’Reilly’s reputation as a poet was fully established by 
 this time. The Atlantic Monthly for December, 1875, 
 contained his poem “ Macarius the Monk.” Scribner' s for 
 the same month had “ The Last of the Narwhale,” a nauti- 
 cal story in his old vigorous vein. 
 
 All this time, amid the press of daily editorial duties, 
 the manifold calls of public life, and the steady pursuit of 
 literature, O’Reilly had time to listen to any story of wrong 
 done to the humblest of his countrymen, and to espouse the 
 cause of the wronged man until the injustice was repaired. 
 Was it a sailor refused enlistment in a government ship 
 “ because he was an Irishman,” or a victim, half of circum- 
 stances and half of prejudice, like Thomas Cahill, extra- 
 dited from Ireland on a false charge of murder in Massa- 
 chusetts, or a shop boy confronted with the offensive 
 shibboleth, “No Irish need apply ’’—O’Reilly was ever 
 ready to take up as a personal quarrel the cause of the in- 
 jured one. And when he did so, the quarrel did not end 
 until the offender had amply repented. He literally fol- 
 lowed his own creed of the brotherhood of mankind, and 
 carried out his mission of helping the helpless ones among 
 his brothers. 
 
 Early in February, 1876, Mr. Donahoe’s misfortunes 
 forced him to suspend. He had lost a fortune in the fires 
 of 1872. The failure of insurance companies prevented his 
 partial recovery from that disaster. He had, furthermore, 
 indorsed heavily for a friend, who failed in business, leav- 
 ing him responsible for the sum of $170,000. The paper 
 was prosperous, but its gains were insufficient to meet those 
 tremendous losses. Property which he held had sadly de- 
 preciated in value, and business depression prevailed every- 
 where, until the shrinkage on his real estate left no equity 
 beyond the mortgage. He was indebted to the extent of 
 $300,000, of which some $73,000 was due to poor depositors. 
 In this crisis he was compelled to make an assignment. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 155 
 
 The trustees of the property decided that the Pilot should 
 be kept intact, and accordingly disposed of it by sale to the 
 Archbishop of Boston, and John Boyle O’Reilly. In an- 
 nouncing this transfer the Pilot made the further gratify- 
 ing announcement: 
 
 “ The Most Rev. Archbishop Williams and Mr. O’Reilly, 
 the future proprietors, hope to be enabled to prevent this 
 terrible loss from falling too heavily on the poor people. 
 With continued success for the Pilots the purchasers intend 
 to pay the depositors every dollar on their books.” 
 
 This voluntary obligation was carried out to the letter, 
 the $73,000 being paid, in ten annual installments, to the 
 depositors. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Cruise of the Catalpa — The English Government Rejects the Peti- 
 tion of One Hundred and Forty Members of Parliament for the 
 Pardon of the Soldier Convicts — John Devoy and John Breslin 
 Plan their Rescue— Good Work of the Clan-na-Gael — The Dream 
 of O’Reilly and Hathaway Fulfilled — The Catalpa Defies a British 
 Gunboat, and Bears the Men in Safety to America. 
 
 J OHN BOYLE O’ REILLY was now (1876), in his thirty. 
 
 second year, happily blest with wife and children, enter- 
 ing on the sure road of literary fame and worldly prosperity. 
 Under such conditions the shrewd man becomes conservative, 
 the selfish man ungrateful, the weak man cowardly. But 
 “the wise of Bohemia”— thank God — “are never shrewd.” 
 They do not become conservative, in the sense of abandon- 
 ing the generous aspirations of their youth. Wiser he 
 certainly grew with advancing years and responsibilities. 
 He recognized, albeit with sufficient humility, that he 
 stood as a representative of his countrymen in the eyes of 
 a friendly but critical people. He perceived, also, and 
 profited by, the mistakes of his ardent youth. 
 
 But he never used this clearer vision to see the errors of 
 another with unkind eyes. He passed no harsh judgment 
 on those who honestly differed with him as to the best 
 method of righting the wrongs of his countrymen. He 
 never faltered in comrade loyalty to the associates of his 
 revolutionary days. 
 
 Six of those fellow rebels, less fortunate than himself, 
 still wore the convict’s garb, and toiled in the penal gangs 
 of Western Australia. 
 
 Let it be set down to the credit of the Fenian cause, 
 especially to that much abused body, the Clan-na-Gael, 
 that half a score of years of change, discouragement, and 
 
 156 
 
157 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 defeat had not sufficed to make these forlorn men forgotten 
 by their comrades. John Devoy, the whilom organizer of 
 treason in the British army ; John Breslin, the rescuer of 
 James Stephens from Richmond Prison, and several other 
 bold spirits on both sides of the Atlantic, remembered the 
 men in bondage, held clandestine communication with 
 them, and patiently awaited the chance of proving their 
 devotion in the most practical way. O’ Reilly was not a 
 member of the Clan ; but the Clan trusted him, as every- 
 body did. 
 
 To him in due time came John Devoy with a scheme so 
 audacious and romantic as to seem wildly impossible. 
 Not only was the plan extravagant in its conception, but 
 for its execution it needed the confidence and assistance of 
 thousands of men belonging to a race who are said to be 
 unable to keep a secret, and incapable of conspiring with- 
 out betraying. Nevertheless, five thousand men of the Clan- 
 na-Gael were taken into the confidence of the plotters. A 
 large amount of money was needed, and it had to be raised 
 by the contributions of these thousands. The plot was 
 known to them for more than a twelvemonth, yet never a 
 whisper of it reached any but friendly ears. 
 
 The plan, in brief, was to buy a ship, man her with 
 hardy fellows who did not fear the consequences, and, sail- 
 ing to Western Australia, rescue the life prisoners from 
 their captivity. It meant, at the least calculation, an out- 
 lay of twenty thousand dollars, a voyage of thirty thousand 
 miles, a forlorn hope, and a possible gibbet at the end. 
 
 O’Reilly proposed an amendment and it was adopted. 
 It was to buy a whaling vessel, and send her ostensibly on a 
 whaling cruise, thus averting the suspicion which would be 
 sure to attach to a ship of any other description cruising in 
 Western Australian waters. There was one man in all the 
 world best fitted to give counsel and aid in such an enter- 
 prise, O’Reilly’s old-time benefactor and friend, Captain 
 Henry C. Hathaway, of New Bedford, Mass. He had retired 
 from the perilous adventures of his youth, and, giving 
 hostages to Fortune, had begun to receive the favors of 
 
158 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Fortune in return ; only his loyalty and courage had not 
 changed with years. He entered into the plan with zeal, 
 bringing to the council the best attributes of an American 
 sailor, a warm heart and a cool head. 
 
 In the Pilot of May 27, 1876, appeared an editorial 
 entitled, “ Who are the Irish Political Prisoners?” It 
 answered that, “ There are seventeen Irishmen still in prison 
 for the attempted revolution of ’66 and ’67. The leaders 
 and organizers of that movement have been long at liberty, 
 pardoned by the British Government. The men still con- 
 fined were not leaders in the revolutionary movement, and 
 the cruelty of their imprisonment was all the more inhuman 
 when their subordinate position was considered. Thirteen 
 of the seventeen prisoners were soldiers in the English army, 
 and in a few months these men will have completed their 
 tenth year in prison. The other four, Michael Davit t, 
 John Wilson, Edward O’ Meagher Condon, and Patrick 
 Meledy, were civilians. 
 
 “Of the thirteen soldiers, ten were privates, one a 
 corporal, and two color-sergeants. Five or six other sol- 
 diers were condemned but are now free — some by pardon, 
 one by escape from Western Australia, and one by the 
 hand of the great emancipator Death.” The article goes 
 on to say that among these soldiers were four especially 
 distinguished, Color- Sergeant Charles Heapy McCarthy, a 
 brave soldier who had served for thirteen years, and wore 
 two medals for bravery in the Indian mutiny ; Color- Ser- 
 geant Darragli, who was on the rolls for a commission for 
 brave service during the Chinese war, and was a Protestant 
 and an Orangeman ; Corporal Thomas Chambers, confined 
 in England, and Private James Wilson, in Western Austra- 
 lia, intellectually the best men of the military prison- 
 ers. Patrick Keating, of the Fifth Dragoons, had died in 
 Western Australia. 
 
 One hundred and forty members of Parliament, includ- 
 ing Mr. Bright, Mr. Plimsoll, Mr. Mundella, Mr. Fawcett, 
 and many others of the ablest men of the House, presented 
 a petition for the pardon of these men on the occasion of 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 159 
 
 the Queen’s accession to the title of Empress of India. It 
 was rejected. 
 
 The next news of the unpardoned prisoners was con- 
 tained in a cable message from London, dated June 6, 1876. 
 “ A dispatch from Melbourne, Australia, states that all 
 the political prisoners confined in Western Australia have 
 escaped on the American whale-ship Catalpa .” 
 
 Commenting on this fact, the Pilot of June 17 said : 
 “To one devoted man, more than to any other, the whole 
 affair is creditable. He it was who, with the pitiful letters 
 received from the prisoners in his hand, excited the sym- 
 pathy of Irish conventions and individual men. The 
 event proves the truth and devotedness of the man. We 
 have asked him for permission to publish his name, but he 
 will not allow us until the men are absolutely safe.” That 
 man was John Devoy. 
 
 Among Devoy’ s first confidants were John Kenneally 
 and James McCarthy Fennell, two political prisoners who 
 had been released in 1869. The Clan-na-Gael convention at 
 Baltimore, in 1874, appointed as a committee to carry out 
 the project, John Devoy, John W. Goff, Patrick Mahon, 
 James Reynolds, and John C. Talbot. The dangerous role 
 of active agent in the case was assigned to John Breslin, 
 associated with whom was Thomas Desmond of San Fran- 
 cisco. The two sailed from that port for Sydney, New 
 South Wales, September 13, 1875, arriving on October 
 16, and at once placing themselves in communication 
 with friends of the prisoners. One of these was John King, 
 another J. Edward Kelly, an ex-prisoner, who died after- 
 ward in Boston. Sympathizing miners in New Zealand, 
 canvassed by the friends of King, contributed $4000, which 
 proved very timely at an important crisis of the enterprise. 
 Two other agents sent out by the revolutionary organization 
 in Ireland also appeared on the scene. They were Denis 
 F. McCarthy of Cork, Ireland, and John Walsh of Dur- 
 ham, England. They had $5000 capital with them, and 
 were surprised and delighted on learning that a much more 
 feasible scheme had been planned by the Americans. They 
 
160 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 volunteered their assistance and were assigned the duty of 
 cutting the telegraph wires after the escape should be 
 effected. King was given the post of rear guard, to ride 
 behind the rescued prisoners and notify them in case of 
 pursuit. Breslin and Desmond, under the respective aliases 
 of “Mr. Collins” and “ Mr. Jones,” arrived at Fremantle 
 in November, 1875. They traveled, one first and the other 
 second class, and did not appear to be acquainted with each 
 other. Both men were well supplied with funds, and both 
 showed good taste in horse flesh ; regularly, once a week, or 
 oftener, during the summer season, between November and 
 April, hiring carriages and driving about the suburbs of 
 the town. “ Mr. Collins” appeared to be a capitalist, and 
 interested himself in studying the resources of the country 
 with a view to investment. The Governor of the place 
 showed him the only lion in Fremantle, the great penal 
 institution, which “Mr. Collins” visited more than once 
 during his stay. During one of his visits he conveyed a 
 letter to the six political prisoners, and soon after met James 
 Wilson, with whom he arranged the details of the escape. 
 Wilson was to have his party ready on a certain day, with 
 a pass to take them through the sentry lines, after achiev- 
 ing which they would find horses, weapons, and allies. The 
 medium of communication was William Foley, ex-private 
 of the Fifth Dragoon Guards. He had been found guilty of 
 complicity in the Fenian movement and sent to Western 
 Australia, where ill-treatment, insufficient food, and hard 
 work shattered his strong constitution long before the 
 expiration of his seven years’ sentence. Just before the 
 rescue was effected he was sent to England by his friends ; 
 thence he traveled to New York, where he died of his 
 sufferings on the 1st of November following. 
 
 In the mean time the bark Catalpa , purchased by the 
 Clan-na-Gael men, had sailed from New Bedford, the 29th 
 of April, 1875. It was commanded by Captain Anthony, a 
 native of Nantucket, and a cool, brave man. His first 
 officer, Smith, was an American, of Scotch parentage ; only 
 one Irishman was among the crew, which was purposely 
 
161 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 selected by Captain Hathaway to consist of Malays, Kana- 
 kas, and Portuguese negroes, with one or two whites. It 
 was necessary that the ship should present in every respect 
 the appearance of a genuine whaler. Captain Anthony had 
 a roving charter, “To go where I liked, stay as long as I 
 pleased, and return home when I got ready. I was to be at 
 Australia in the spring of 1876 to co-operate with Fenian 
 agents for the release of six prisoners confined at Fre- 
 mantle.” 
 
 The Catalpa cruised for a year, capturing one whale in 
 the North Atlantic, from which $11,000 were realized, and 
 on the 1st of March, 1876, arrived at Bunbury, Western 
 Australia. Captain Anthony’s story is as terse as a log 
 book : “We cleared at Teneriffe on the 10th of November 
 for River La Platte and other places beyond the seas ; did 
 not go to the river, but sailed direct for Bunbury on the 
 west coast of Australia, arriving the last of March. The 
 day after arrival, received a telegram from Fremantle, 
 signed J. Collins, as followed : ‘ Any news from New Bed- 
 ford? When are you going to Fremantle.’ I answered, 
 ‘No news from New Bedford; shall not go to Fre- 
 mantle.’ ” 
 
 Two days later “Collins” came from Fremantle and 
 took lodgings in the hotel at which Captain Anthony was 
 staying. He was introduced to the latter, who invited him 
 on board his ship. There Breslin and Anthony studied the 
 chart of the coast and decided upon their plans. The next 
 day the coasting steamer Georgette stopped at Bunbury on 
 her way to Fremantle. Anthony and Breslin went as 
 passengers ; the former, as a fellow sailor, made acquain- 
 tance with the Captain of the Georgette , who gave him all 
 the information he desired in regard to the course taken by 
 vessels in those waters, the soundings, etc. On arriving at 
 Fremantle they were surprised to find a British gunboat in 
 the harbor, and decided to defer operations until her depar- 
 ture. Anthony remained at Fremantle five days, driving 
 with Breslin over the twenty-three miles of road between 
 that place and Rockingham, which was to be their point of 
 
162 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 departure. At Rockingham they planted stakes to mark 
 the spot at which Anthony's whaleboat was to land in the 
 night for the prisoners. Before parting they arranged a 
 cipher code for telegraphing. 44 When the ship was ready 
 for sea,” continues Captain Anthony, “I telegraphed the 
 fact to Collins, stating that I should leave the next day. 
 The next day there was a fierce storm and I could not 
 leave, but I thought I would get away in time to carry out 
 the plans, and so did not communicate with Collins. The 
 day following I found that I could not get away ; attempted 
 to telegraph to Collins, but it was Good Friday, and the 
 telegraph offices were not open. Found the female opera- 
 tor, who said that the office could not be opened unless it 
 was a case of 4 life or death.’ Told her it was more important 
 than either, and she decided to send the message. As good 
 luck would have it, the office at Fremantle was open, and 
 the dispatch was received. Saturday morning I telegraphed 
 to Collins, 4 1 shall certainly leave Bunbury for the whaling 
 ground to-morrow ; I suppose you and your friends start 
 for York on Monday morning.’ 
 
 44 York is a small village, and according to our cipher it 
 was to mean Bunbury. ‘Collins’ telegraphed back 4 1 
 wish you flood luck ; I wish you would strike oil ; au 
 rewir .’ ” 
 
 The Cat alp a sailed on Saturday afternoon, and on Sun- 
 day noon was thirty miles southwest of Rottennest light- 
 house, when Captain Anthony, with six of his best men, 
 started in his whaleboat for the shore. The boat was 
 manned with a third mate, two Portuguese, two Malays, 
 and a native of St. Helena. “None of them,” says Cap- 
 tain Anthony, 4 4 knew my errand, nor did any one on 
 board the ship except my mate, who was informed when the 
 ship was six months out ; told the boat’s crew I was going 
 to Fremantle for an anchor to supply the place of one that 
 was broken in the gale at Bunbury. I kept it a secret 
 from my boat’s crew, for their own good, knowing that 
 there was a great chance of our being caught, and feeling 
 that in such a case their ignorance would clear them.” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 163 
 
 (There is a good deal of unassuming chivalry in this last 
 simple statement.) 
 
 The boat arrived at the Rockingham shore at eight 
 o’clock Sunday evening. At daylight next morning they 
 saw a party of five men working at a jetty about a quarter 
 of a mile away. 
 
 “One of them came down and began questioning me; 
 told him the same as I had told the men, that I was bound 
 to Fremantle for an anchor to supply the place of one 
 broken ; had got so far and had stopped to^resk He did 
 not appear satisfied, and intimated that we were deserters. 
 Convinced him that we were not by showing him that I 
 was master of the ship. On inquiry, I found that the men 
 at work at the quay went there to load timber on the 
 steamer Georgette , which was hourly expected to take it 
 on board. Things now looked slightly squally ; my boat’s 
 crew began to grow uneasy at remaining so long on shore 
 without any apparent object. I told them to obey my 
 orders and no harm would come to them. I told them, 
 also, that when I gave the order to man the boat and pull 
 off, they must do it in a hurry. This seemed to cause them 
 more uneasiness than before ; but it was now after ten 
 o’clock, and I knew the men would be alongside soon.” 
 
 Leaving Captain Anthony and his uneasy miscellaneous 
 crew for the moment, we will let John Breslin take up his 
 story. The following is his graphic narrative : 
 
 At 7 o’clock a.m., I went to Albert’s stables and found the pair of 
 horses I wanted, and a nice light four-wheeled trap already harnessed 
 up and waiting. I told the hostler to let them stand for about twenty 
 minutes, and then went and told Desmond to get his horses harnessed 
 up and be ready to leave at 7.30 A.M. I had arranged with Desmond 
 for him to leave Fremantle by a side street, which, after a few turns, 
 took him on to the Rockingham road, while I drove up High Street, as 
 if going to Perth, turning sharp round by the prison and on to the 
 same road. King, being well mounted, was to remain after we started, 
 for a reasonable time, and then to follow and let us know if the alarm 
 was given. At 7.30 a.m. I drove slowly up the principal street, and, 
 turning to the right, walked my horses by the warden's quarters and 
 pensioners’ barracks. The men were beginning to assemble for parade, 
 
164 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O* REILLY. 
 
 I had arranged with our men that I would have the traps in position 
 on the road at a quarter to eight, and would remain so, the nearest one 
 being within five minutes run of the prison, until 9 o’clock a.m. Being 
 ahead of my time, I drove slowly along the Rockingham road, and 
 Desmond, coming up shortly after, drove by me. Coming to a shaded 
 part of the road, we halted, and having divided the hats and coats, 
 three of each to each trap, I commenced to drive back to Fremantle, 
 Desmond following ; time, five minutes to eight. A few moments 
 after, I saw three men in the prison dress wheel round and march down 
 the Rockingham road. Driving up to them, I found the men were 
 Wilson, Cranston, and Harrington. I directed them to pass on and 
 get into the trap with Desmond and drive away. Desmond wheeled 
 his horses around and they were only seated and ready to start when 
 the other three came in sight, and on driving up to them I found one 
 man carrying a spade, and another a large tin kerosene can. As soon 
 as I came near enough to be recognized, he who carried the spade flung 
 it with vim into the bush, and the holder of the kerosene can bestowed 
 a strong kick upon it in good football fashion. I found the men were 
 Darragh, Hogan, and Hassett. I now had all the men I wanted, and 
 felt glad. My horses got restive and refused to wheel around. Darragh 
 caught one by the head, but he jibed and kicked so I was afraid he 
 would break the harness. I told Darragh to let him go, and, whipping 
 both of them up smartly, they started fairly together, and when I got 
 them on a wider part of the road they wheeled around nicely. I now 
 drove back and took up my men. Desmond was already well out of 
 sight, and King shortly after rode up and told me all was quiet when 
 he left. 
 
 With regard to the method or plan of communication between the 
 prisoners themselves, it may be well to state that their good conduct 
 and length of imprisonment had entitled them to the rank of constable, 
 which enabled them to communicate with each other with greater ease 
 and freedom than the other prisoners. Wilson and Harrington worked 
 in the same party at the construction of harbor works in Fremantle. 
 Hogan was a painter by trade, and on the morning of the escape was 
 employed painting the house of Mr. Fauntleroy, outside the prison 
 wails. Cranston was employed in the stores, and as messenger occa- 
 sionally. Darragh was clerk and attendant to the Church of England 
 chaplain, and enjoyed considerable facilities for communicating with 
 the other prisoners, and on the morning of the escape took Hassett with 
 him to plant potatoes in the garden of Mr. Broomhole, the clerk of 
 works for the convict department. 
 
 After breakfast on the morning of the 17th of April, all the political 
 prisoners were engaged outside the prison wall. Cranston passed out 
 as if going on a message, and, having overtaken the warder who was 
 
165 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 marching the working party in which Wilson and Harrington worked, 
 showed him a key, and told him he had been sent to take Wilson and 
 Harrington to move some furniture in the Governor’s house, which 
 was the nearest point to where they expected to meet me. The warder 
 told Wilson and Harrington to go with Cranston, and they marched 
 off. Darragh took Hassett, as if going to work, in the same direction, 
 and was joined by Hogan, who made an excuse for temporary absence 
 to the warder who had charge of him. Both parties meb^tUthe Rock- 
 ingham road. 
 
 I now drove on, letting King fall behind, and in half an hour was 
 close behind Desmond. We held on without accident or incident until 
 we reached the Rocking Hotel, when Somers, the proprietor, who knew 
 me, called out to know what time the Georgette was expected to be at 
 the timber jetty. I told him the Georgette was at the jetty in Freman- 
 tle when I left, but I did not know when she would be at Rockingham. 
 At 10.30 a.m. we made the beach and got aboard the whale-boat. The 
 men had been instructed to stow themselves in the smallest possible 
 space, so as not to interfere with the men at the oars, and in a few mo- 
 ments all was ready and the word was given to shove off. Under the 
 powerful strokes of the whalemen the boat had made two miles out to 
 sea before the mounted police, who had promptly taken the alarm, had 
 arrived at the spot to recover the horses and wagons used in the escape. 
 
 In the mean time the wind and sea had arisen, the boat’s 
 course was dead to windward, and the ship invisible below 
 the horizon. Presently the wind changed a little and the 
 crew hoisted a small sail. They soon sighted the ship and 
 were fast overhauling her when a squall struck them, carry- 
 ing away their mast and sail. They pulled wearily ahead 
 for two hours longer ; then set the jib on an oar. The 
 heavily laden boat continually shipped seas over the stern, 
 keeping the men engaged in baling her out. So they 
 worked all through the stormy night, hungry, tired, and 
 soaking wet. At daylight they sighted the ship again and 
 tried to signal her, bkt in vain. Fortunately for them- 
 selves, as it proved, their little boat was not visible in the 
 waste of waters, for the Government steamer Georgette came 
 presently out of Fremantle harbor, steering straight for 
 the Catalpa. The men in the boat took in the small jib 
 which they had hoisted and again resumed their work at 
 the oars. The Georgette was seen to go out to the Catalpa , 
 
166 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 parley awhile with her, then steam in toward the shore, 
 making a complete circuit around the boat without perceiv- 
 ing it. 
 
 Another enemy was also in sight, the coast-guard boat, 
 which went out toward the Catalpa as the Georgette came 
 back from her, thus intending to head off the fugitives 
 wherever they might be. The men in the whaleboat again 
 hoisted their little sail and made for the ship, which at last 
 sighted and bore down toward them. As it did so, the 
 coast-guard boat also discovered the boat and made sail 
 in the hope of intercepting it. So close was the race that 
 the Caialpa , reaching the boat first, did not wait for the 
 passengers to swarm up the sides, but lowering the falls, 
 grappled it fore and aft, and hoisted boat, men, and all on 
 board. 
 
 Immediately Breslin and his men went below, where 
 they armed themselves, with the full determination not to 
 be taken alive. The coast-guard boat drew off after wit- 
 nessing the escape and identifying several of the prisoners. 
 
 “We have not done with you yet,” shouted the inspec- 
 tor of the water police, as Captain Anthony, turning to 
 Breslin, said, “What now, Mr. Collins?” “Put to sea,” 
 was the answer, and the captain thundered out, “’Bout 
 ship ; put to sea.” 
 
 At 6.30 on the following morning the Catalpa was over- 
 hauled by the Georgette , which fired a shot across her 
 bows. 
 
 The captain of the Georgette spoke through his trumpet, 
 “Heave to.” 
 
 Captain Anthony answered, “ What for \ ” 
 
 The steamer replied, “ You have six Crown prisoners on 
 board.” 
 
 Anthony answered, “ I have no prisoners here.” 
 
 “ May I come on' board ? ” was the next question from 
 the Georgette. 
 
 Anthony quickly sent back the answer, “No, sir.” 
 
 “I see the prisoners on the deck,” came from the 
 steamer 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 167 
 
 Captain Anthony ordered his men to stand up to show 
 there were no prisoners there (the prisoners were at this 
 time below). 
 
 Colonel Harvest, who was in command of the troops, 
 then spoke to the Catalpa: “ You are amenable to British 
 laws. Heave to, or I’ll blow your mast out.” 
 
 “I know no British laws,” said the captain of the 
 whaler. 
 
 “I have telegraphed to your Government, and I find 
 you are amenable to me,” said Harvest. 
 
 Anthony replied, “I’m bound for sea ; I cannotwait.’ ’ 
 
 Colonel Harvest then shouted, “I’ 11 give you fifteen 
 minutes to surrender. May I come on board, sir ? ” 
 
 “No, sir!” said Anthony, so decidedly as not to be 
 mistaken. 
 
 During the altercation between the bark and the steamer, 
 “ Collins ” called the men, and said, “ What had we better 
 do, men ? ” 
 
 They replied resolutely, “ Sink or swim, no surrender ! ” 
 
 The mate, Mr. Smith, then deliberately said, “By 
 
 we’ll sink under that flag before we’ll give it up.” 
 
 He got his rifles, whale lances, and harpoons ready, and 
 also some heavy logs to sink any boat coming alongside ; 
 the whale-guns were loaded, and every man had fifty 
 rounds of rifle and pistol cartridges, and stood ready. 
 
 After an interval Colonel Harvest again asked : “ May 
 we come on board ?” 
 
 Then Anthony’ s clear voice again rang out, but louder 
 than before, “ No, sir ! ” 
 
 “Collins ” observed by this time that the Georgette was 
 following up the Catalpa and trying to hedge her in to the 
 land. He communicated his suspicions to the captain, 
 who cried out, “ ’Bout ship, keep off to sea.” 
 
 The Catalpa' s sails filled, and her bow was directed 
 amidships of the Georgette. As she gathered way, the 
 police boat, being in some danger of being cut in two, 
 backed hastily out. Then, after following the Catalpa a 
 short distance, she swung around slowly and went home 
 
168 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 to report the failure of a very vain attempt, that of beating 
 an American in the national game of “ bluff.” 
 
 There was one incident of this daring enterprise which 
 completed its dramatic intensity. The soldier convicts in 
 Fremantle numbered one more than those who were rescued. 
 That one was purposely left behind, because of an act of 
 treachery which he had attempted against his fellows ten 
 long years before. He was tried with the others, by court- 
 martial, and found guilty of treason ; but before his sen- 
 tence received the approval of the Commander-in-Chief he 
 had offered to divulge the names of certain of his comrades 
 not yet arrested, though implicated in the Fenian con- 
 spiracy. His offer was not accepted. The Government 
 punished him for his treason, and his comrades, half a 
 score of years afterward, punished him more cruelly for 
 the treason which he had contemplated against them. 
 
 There was also an interesting sequel to the affair. The 
 city marshal of New Bedford, some time in August, 
 received a formidable document bearing the following 
 address : 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 169 
 
 On Public Service Only, 
 
 Via San Francisco and Sidney. 
 
 The Officer in charge of Police Department , 
 New Bedford , 
 
 Police Department. 
 
 Massachusetts , 
 
 United States America. 
 
 The contents were as follows : 
 
 Police Department, 
 
 Chief Office, Perth, Western Australia, 
 
 
 April 18, 1876. 
 
 Sir : 
 
 James Darragh,9707, life sen- 
 tence, 2d March, 1866, aged 
 42, Fenian, absconded from 
 Fremantle, 8:30 a.m., April 
 17, 1876. 
 
 Martin Hogan, 9767, sentence, 
 life, August 21, 1866, aged 37, 
 Fenian, absconded asabove. 
 Michael Harrington, 9757, life 
 sentence, July 7, 1866, 48 
 years, Fenian, absconded, 
 as above. 
 
 Thomas Hassett, 9758, life 
 sentence, August 15, 1866, 
 age 36, Fenian, etc. 
 
 Robert Cranston. 9702, life 
 sentence, June 26, 1866, Fe- 
 nian, absconded, etc. 
 
 Jfames Wilson, 9915, life sen- 
 tence, August 20, 1866, age 40, 
 absconded, etc. 
 
 N. B. — Martin Hogan’s 
 marks include the letter D 
 v/ii his left side ; so do those 
 if Michael Harrington, 
 Thomas Hassett, and James 
 Wilson. 
 
 I beg to inform you that on the 17th inst. 
 the imperial convicts named in the margin ab- 
 sconded from the convict settlement at Fre- 
 mantle in this colony, and escaped from the col- 
 ony in the American whaling bark Catalpa, G. 
 Anthony, master. This bark is from New Bed- 
 ford, Massachusetts, U. S. A. The convicts were 
 taken from the shore in a whale-boat belong- 
 ing to the Catalpa , manned by Captain An- 
 thony and six of the crew. The abettors were 
 Collins, Jones, and Johnson. 
 
 I attach a description of each of the abscon- 
 ders, and have to request that you will be good 
 enough to furnish me with any particulars you 
 may be able to gather concerning them. 
 
 I have the honor to be, sir, 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 M. A. Smith, Supt. of Police. 
 
 To the Officer in charge of the Police Department , 
 
 New Bedford , Massachusetts, XJ. S. A. 
 
170 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Now, the officer in charge of “ Police Department, New 
 Bedford, Massachusetts, U. S. A.,” at this period was one 
 Henry C. Hathaway, the same who had rescued John 
 Boyle O’ Reilly from captivity and who had helped to fit 
 out the Catalpa. It is surmised that he did not show any 
 undue zeal in aiding the Australian authorities to recover 
 possession of the fugitives. 
 
 The Catalpa arrived at New York on Saturday, August 
 19. Five days later she came into the port of New Bed- 
 ford, a great crowd assembling on the wharves to welcome 
 her with cheers and booming of cannon. Next day a 
 public reception was given to the heroes. John Boyle 
 O’ Reilly was the orator of the occasion. The following sum- 
 mary of his speech was published at the time. He said it 
 was with no ordinary feelings that he was there. That he 
 owed to New Bedford no ordinary debt, and would gladly 
 have come a thousand miles to do honor to the New Bedford 
 whalemen. Seven years of liberty and a happy home in a 
 free country were his debt of gratitude, and when the close 
 of his sentence came, in 1886, his debt to New Bedford 
 might be grown too heavy to bear. 
 
 “They were there,” he said, “to do honor and to show 
 their gratitude to the man who had done a brave and won- 
 derful deed. The self sacrifice and unfailing devotion of 
 him who had taken his life in his hand and beached his 
 whaleboat on the penal colony, defying its fearful laws, 
 defying the gallows and the chain-gang, in order to keep 
 faith with the men who had placed their trust in him — this 
 is almost beyond belief in our selfish and commonplace 
 time. 
 
 “ There are sides to this question worth looking at. To 
 Irishmen it was significant in manifold ways, one of which 
 was that these men, being soldiers, could not be left in prison 
 without demoralizing the Irishmen in the English army, 
 who would not forget that their comrades had been forsaken 
 and left to die in confinement when the civilian leaders of 
 the movement had been set free. But the spirit that 
 prompted their release was larger and nobler than this, and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 171 
 
 its beauty could be appreciated by all men, partaking as it 
 did of the universal instinct of humanity to love their race 
 and their native land. 
 
 “ England said that the rescue was a lawless and dis- 
 graceful filibustering raid. Not so ; if these men were 
 criminals the rescue would be criminal, but they were politi- 
 cal offenders against England, not against law, or order, 
 or religion. They had lain in prison for ten years, with 
 millions of their countrymen asking their release, imploring 
 England, against their will to beg, to set these men at 
 liberty. Had England done so it would have partially dis- 
 armed Ireland. A generous act by England would be 
 reciprocated instantly by millions of the warmest hearts in 
 the world. But she is blind as of old ; blind, and arrogant, 
 and cruel. She would not release the men ; she scorned to 
 give Ireland an answer. She called the prisoners cowardly 
 criminals, not political offenders 
 
 “ When the ship sailed and was a long time at sea, 
 doubts and fears for the safety of the enterprise were sure 
 to come, but Captain Hathaway said once and always, 
 - 6 the man who engaged to do this will keep that engage- 
 ment, or he wont come out of the penal colony.’ ” 
 
 After describing some of his experiences in the penal 
 colony, Mr. O’Reilly pointed to the bronzed and worn face 
 of Mr. Hassett, one of the rescued prisoners, and said : 
 “ Look at that man sitting there. Six years ago he escaped 
 from his prison in the penal colony and fled into the bush, 
 and lived there like a wild beast for a whole year, hunted 
 from district to district, in a blind, but manful attempt to 
 win his liberty. When England said the rescue was illegal, 
 America could answer, as the Anti-Slavery men answered 
 when they attacked the Constitution, as England herself 
 answered in the cause of Poland : ‘We have acted from a 
 higher law than your written constitution and treaties — the 
 law of God and humanity.’ It was in obedience to this 
 supreme law that Captain Anthony rescued the prisoners, 
 and pointed his finger at the Stars and Stripes when the 
 English vessel threatened to fire on his ship. 
 
172 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “The Irishman,” concluded Mr. O’ Reilly “who could 
 forget what the Stars and Stripes have done for his country- 
 men, deserves that in the time of need that flag shall for- 
 get him.” 
 
 In the Pilot he gave the following sketch of the daring 
 leader of the Catalpa exploit : 
 
 JOHN J. BRESLIN-THE MAN OF TWO RESCUES. 
 
 Out of all the incidents of the so-called “Fenian Movement,” the 
 most brilliantly daring have been two rescues of prisoners — namely, 
 that of the Chief Organizer, James Stephens, from Richmond Prison, 
 Dublin, in 1865, and of the six military prisoners from Western Australia 
 last April. These two rescues are in many ways remarkable. Unlike 
 almost every other enterprise of Fenianism, they have been completely 
 successful ; and, when completed, have been commented on in the same 
 way, as “ well done.” Every other attempt or proposal has fallen 
 through or ended with loss. The rescue of Kelly and Deasy from the 
 police van in Manchester was successful so far as the release of the 
 prisoners went ; but it was bought with the lives of Allen, Larkin, and 
 O’Brien, and the nine years’ misery of Condon. The proposed attack 
 on Chester Castle was discovered and prevented by the English govern- 
 ment. The seizure of the Pigeon House Fort, with its armory, at Dub- 
 lin, never emerged from the stage of dreamland. The attempt to blow 
 up Clerkenwell Prison, London, to release Rickard Burke, was a dis- 
 astrous failure, by which nothing was accomplished, by which many 
 suffered, the lives of several poor working people were sacrificed, and 
 the wretched lodging-house homes of others destroyed. 
 
 But the rescue of James Stephens, even while the government was 
 gloating over his capture, was as unexpected and thorough as if the 
 man had vanished in smoke. No one suffered from it — at least from 
 English law — no one was arrested ; neither the government nor the 
 public ever knew how or by whom it was accomplished. The man or 
 men who did the work claimed no recompense either of money or 
 notoriety. Two thousand pounds reward failed to elicit the slightest 
 clew. The thing was cleverly, cleanly, bravely done, and those who 
 knew of it knew how to keep the secret. 
 
 The recent rescue of the six military prisoners from the penal colony 
 of West Australia was performed in a similar manner, as to daring, 
 silence, and complete success. Looking back on it, no one can say that 
 aught was forgotten or left to chance. With admirable deliberation 
 every inch of the train was laid, every sporadic interest was attended 
 to, and the eventful rescue was carried out to the prearranged letter 
 with scientific precision. As in the escape of Stephens, no trail re- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 173 
 
 mained ; no one left in the trap ; no price paid in human life or suffer- 
 ing. It was a clean thing from beginning to end ; it was “ well done.” 
 
 They have a resemblance, these two rescues, and so they ought to 
 have — for the same mind planned and the same hands carried both to 
 a conclusion. 
 
 In both these desperate undertakings, John Breslin was “the man 
 in the gap.” In both John Devoy was his careful, patient, fore- 
 thoughtful fellow- worker. Such men are not paid in words, — they are 
 of that mold that draw their reward from the inner consciousness of 
 achievement. But there is a public good in upholding the deed of 
 bravery, modesty, and devotion ; there is the highest teaching in silent, 
 manly purpose ; and Mr. Breslin and Mr. Devoy must pardon us for 
 criticising their work without their consent. John J. Breslin has lived 
 in Boston for many years. A man of few words, of small acquaint’ 
 ance, earning his bread in unassuming ways— few knew, and to fevi 
 were shown, the culture and refinement behind the modest exterior. In 
 thought and appearance eminently a gentleman ; in demeanor dignified 
 and reserved ; in observance, rather distrustful, as if disappointed in hia 
 ideal man ; somewhat cynical, perhaps, and often stubbornly prejudiced 
 and unjust ; a lover of and a successful worker in literature, — such is 
 an outline of a character that may indeed be called extraordinary, — of 
 a man who, if he break down the barrier of reserve that has hitherto 
 hedged him round, has it in his hands to win brilliant distinction in 
 any public career he may select. 
 
 The Irish nationalists, owners of the bark Catalpa , 
 disposed of the vessel in a generous and highly creditable 
 way. Mr. John Devoy, of New York, and Mr. Reynolds 
 of New Haven, Conn., in w T hose name the Catalpa was 
 entered, visited New Bedford in February, 1877, and pre- 
 sented the vessel, as she stood, with her whaling inventory, 
 to the three men who best deserved her, namely, John E. 
 Richardson, the agent; George S. Anthony, the captain, 
 and Henry C. Hathaway, the Chief of Police, whose fidelity 
 and sagacity had so much to do with the success of the 
 rescue. Devoy and Reynolds also settled with the crew on 
 most liberal terms. The total expense of the expedition 
 was about $25,000. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Death of John O’Mahony — O’Reilly’s Tribute to the Head-Center — 
 Prison Sufferings of Corporal Chambers —He is Set Free at Last 
 — O’Reilly on Denis Kearney — “Moondyne,” and its Critics — 
 ‘‘ Number 406.” 
 
 T HE Catalpa rescue was as gallant and chivalrous a 
 deed as ever loyal knights had dared for suffering 
 comrades. There was not a taint of sordid or selfish pur- 
 pose in it, from beginning to end. Any nation might be 
 proud of the sons who had so boldly conceived and so 
 shrewdly carried it to success ; but the world has no laurels 
 for the heroes of a defeated cause. Fenianism in Ireland 
 had been a tragedy : in America it was a wretched farce. 
 And the world looking at the stricken gladiator, turned 
 its thumbs downward. 
 
 Among the men whom disaster had crushed and sad- 
 dened was John O’Mahony, the once famous Head-Center. 
 He came of revolutionary stock, his ancestors having been 
 concerned in every rising against the English for genera- 
 tions. His father and uncle were rebels in ’98 ; he him- 
 self had to fly the country on the failure of the insurrection 
 of ’48. He organized the Fenian Brotherhood in 1860. 
 Although hundreds of thousands of dollars had passed 
 through his hands, he died absolutely poor, on the 7th of 
 February, 1877. When the news of his mortal illness in 
 New York became known, O’Reilly paid this just tribute 
 to the dying enthusiast, who had suffered that bitterest 
 penalty of failure, unjust reproach and undeserved dis- 
 trust. 
 
 John O’Mahony was the first “ Head-Center ” of the Fenian move- 
 ment in America, and he is the Head-Center still in its decadence. He 
 watched beside its cradle ; he rose with it in its sudden strength ; he 
 
 174 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 175 
 
 was its head when it assumed the extraordinary attitude of a foreign 
 national government with headquarters in New York ; its copious 
 stream of gold passed through his hands ; the scores of thousands of its 
 builders, looking to their Center, beheld and believed in the rapt face, 
 the solemn figure, and the streaming hair of their chosen leader. He 
 was not merely the guide or fabricator of Fenianism. He, more than 
 any man alive or dead, was the spirit and subtending principle of the 
 movement. Its single-heartedness and devotion were his, no matter 
 whose its narrowness and shortcoming. Stephens was the “ Chief Or- 
 ganizer,” but John O’Mahony was the “ Head-Center.” His whole life 
 and aspirations were bound up in one word — Fenianism. It was he who 
 christened the movement with this title, which was objectionable to 
 most of its members. Only of late years, when they saw that the world 
 knew them only by this name, did they accept the ancient word im- 
 posed on them by their leader. 
 
 The fate of too many Irish leaders followed O’Mahony. Dissen- 
 sions came, and doubts, and divisions ; the walls crumbled, the floors 
 shook, and the antique figure descended in sorrow from its place in 
 the Moffat mansion. The aim of the movement was broken ; other 
 minds than O’Mahony’s entered in and were averse to the old style. 
 As Young Ireland departed from O’Connell and followed the brilliant 
 youths of the Sword, so Fenianism swerved from O’Mahony and half 
 its supporters faced toward Canada. Col. William R. Roberts, a natu- 
 ral leader of men, sanguine, intellectual, eloquent, replaced O’Mahony 
 in their hearts. Lower and lower went his Fenianism, till the only 
 men who clung to it in a practical way were a few severe or simple 
 natures, those who stand by a solitary idea for a lifetime, whose grasp 
 and hope are coeval with their existence. With these was John 
 O’Mahony. The gilded palaces were gone ; and he was the same 
 antique Fenian still. Years went by, and the name of the man was 
 rarely mentioned ; and when spoken, even in assemblies of Irishmen, 
 too often the taint of suspicion was said or insinuated, and left uncon- 
 tradicted. The money sent to him in the heyday of Fenianism was 
 remembered, and the old charge was made — he had duped the people. 
 
 If any man who made this charge had met John O’Mahony in New 
 York for the past seven years, he would have begged the old man’s 
 pardon. A tall, gaunt figure — the mere framework of a mighty man ; 
 a large, lusterless face, with deep-sunken, introverted eyes ; faded, 
 lightish hair, worn long to the shoulders ; an overcoat always but- 
 toned, as if to hide the ravages of wear and tear on the inner garments ; 
 something of this, and something too of gentleness and knightlihood, 
 not easily described, were in the awkward and slow-moving figure, 
 with melancholy and abstracted gaze, so well known to the Irishmen 
 of New York as John O’Mahony, the Head-Center. 
 
176 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Leaving aside the faults and failures of Fenianism for the sake of 
 its honest and sacrificial patriotism, and for the sake of poor John 
 O’Mahony, whose whole life was a sacrifice, we say that this man’s 
 existence and work, though both were darkened by disappointment, 
 were on the whole of good service to Ireland. Unquestionably the 
 movement of 1865-66 kindled the dead wood of Irish nationality. 
 There was sore need of a torch and a hand to fire the stubble. There 
 was actual danger of national death in Ireland. The new generation 
 had been brought up under a system of apparent lenity, and educated 
 in “national schools,” cunningly designed to make Irish children West 
 Britons. It may be that no patriotic light from above, no open politi- 
 cal teaching could avert the danger. Be that as it may, the light came 
 from below — it was carried in secret through the country, from town to 
 town, by James Stephens. The peasant and mechanic lit their lamps 
 at the sacrificial flame — and carried it years after, in loving care, 
 though it scorched them to the bone, in English dungeons. He organ- 
 ized Fenianism on this continent ; and all of him that was in it was 
 pure and devoted and good. 
 
 The life of a good and pure man — a life held in his hand and daily 
 offered up with pagan simplicity for one unselfish object — for his 
 country — can never do that country aught but good. We do not think 
 he was a great man : we never thought him a wise man ; but that he 
 was a faithful and unflinching son and servant and slave to Ireland, no 
 one who knew him will deny above his grave. God send more men as 
 lovable and unselfish as he ! A gentleman born and bred, he chose 
 to live in poverty, putting all things aside that might interfere with his 
 dream of a free Ireland. He never stained his white hand with one 
 unworthy coin from the treasury of Fenianism. 
 
 O’Mahony was the incarnation of his cause, sincere, 
 honest, unselfish, and uncalculating — not wise as the world 
 judges, but wiser, perhaps, than he or the world knew, in 
 cherishing a dream : 
 
 For a dreamer lives forever, 
 
 But a toiler dies in a day. 
 
 The body of the dead chieftain was borne to Ireland and 
 buried in Dublin, being followed to the grave by thousands 
 of his mourning countrymen. 
 
 There were other Fenians less fortunate than the dead 
 O’Mahony, in that their graves held living men. Sergeant 
 McCarthy and Corporal Chambers, O'Reilly’s fellow- 
 prisoners in Pentonville, Chatham, Portsmouth, and Dart- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 177 
 
 moor, still wore the felon’s garb and chains. O’Connor 
 Power moved in the House of Commons, on June 5, for an 
 inquiry into the treatment of the political prisoners, and 
 presented a communication from Michael Davitt, who had 
 then been in prison for seven years, detailing some of the 
 hardships which himself and his comrades had endured. 
 McCarthy was then within a year of the release which was 
 to come to him only through the clemency of death. Davitt 
 gave a minute account, as follows, of the indignities and 
 cruelties heaped upon poor Chambers : 
 
 Corporal Chambers, for five months during which he was 
 
 in custody before Jrial, was treated far worse than a convict. I make 
 every allowance for the prejudice of the members of the court-martial 
 in daily expectation of Fenian disturbances, but having found him 
 guilty of treason, why not shoot him ? It would have been mercy 
 itself compared with sending him to herd with the common thief and 
 murderer. Perhaps a living example is required. Therefore, my poor 
 comrades, the military men, were not included in the amnesty five and 
 a half years ago, though the leaders of Fenianism and men who had 
 borne arms against the government in 1867 were. Well, if they are 
 intended as an example to their countrymen in the army, they may 
 also serve as an example to their countrymen out of the army when 
 England wants Irish soldiers again. “ Imprisonment for the term of 
 his natural life,” signed by her most gracious Majesty. So ran his 
 sentence, and he was removed from the Irish jails, where there is some 
 humanity, to the English jails, where humanity and the Ten Com- 
 mandments are set aside by the “Abstract of Prison Rules.” Those 
 rules, ambiguous and elastic as they are, are stretched and tortured in 
 every way, in order to inflict extra punishments on us, or deprive us 
 of the few privileges granted to the ordinary convict. On the 4th of 
 J une, 1868, he was told by the director that the Secretary of State had 
 ordered him to be treated with greater severity than an ordinary 
 prisoner. This order is still in force, although he has several times 
 petitioned the Secretary of State about the injustice of it, and begged 
 for an inquiry. He has always received “no grounds ” for an answer. 
 Nor would they produce him before the Inquiry Commission in 1870. 
 Nor is he allowed a visit, although he applies within the rules. The 
 last quibble is that he must give proof that those whom he applies to 
 see him are blood relatives. Not a word about proof is mentioned to 
 the thieves when they ask for a visit. He has very little better fortune 
 with his letters. Thus every possible means are taken, to prevent us 
 
178 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 from exposing the horrors of the last ten years. The prison regulations 
 say that the authorities are to instill into the minds of convicts “sound 
 moral and religious principles ” — very nice to read, but if the authorities 
 have neither moral nor religious principles themselves, how then ? In 
 June or July, 1868, Chambers received “no grounds ” as an answer to 
 a petition that he had sent to the Secretary of State, begging to be 
 allowed to attend to his religious obligations, a privilege of which he 
 was deprived by a “ moral and religious” director for six months. At 
 present he is daily driven in and out of chapel by officers brandishing 
 bludgeons, and shouting like cattle-drovers ; even in chapel he is not 
 quite free from their rudeness. Dozens of times those officers have 
 stripped him naked in presence of thieves, and subjected him to insults 
 too disgusting to describe. He is :uade to open his clothes five times a 
 day while an officer feels over his body. He has been several times 
 separated from other political prisoners— although our being together 
 was within the rules — and forced to associate with picked ruffians. He 
 has been for six months in constant contact with lunatics. He has been 
 forced to mop out filthy dens of dirt with a small piece of a rag, to carry 
 a portable water-closet on the public road and across the fields for the 
 use of common malefactors. He has often been sick, but, except on a 
 few occasions, was not taken to hospital. On one occasion he was sent 
 to the dungeons for applying for relief after he had met with a severe 
 hurt by falling from the gangway of a building. Last year, while laid 
 up with rheumatism, they kept him sixteen days on ten ounces of food 
 daily, two months on half diet, and then put him out of hospital far 
 worse than when he was taken in. He is weekly forced to act as char- 
 woman to a lot of very dirty creatures. He has had punishment diet 
 (sixteen ounces of bread and water), penal class diet, and dungeons — 
 dark, cold, wet, and dirty — in abundance. A smile, a movement of the 
 lips — aye, even a glance of the eye — is often condemned as a crime in 
 Dartmoor. We have been frequently insulted by thieves and even 
 struck by them. Chambers has been held by a jailer while another jailer 
 was ill-using him. Worthy sons of worthy sires, who shot down the 
 poor prisoners of war here ! Their scattered bones were collected lately, 
 and “’Tis good to die for one’s country” written over them. When 
 Chambers’s sentence of imprisonment for the term of his natural life is 
 brought to a close by unnatural means, the jailers will write “ No. 36, 
 Felon Chambers,” over him. No fine epitaph shall mark his murdered 
 bones. Nevertheless, the only difference between the French and 
 American prisoners and him is that while they were shot down, he will 
 be slowly tortured to death. 
 
 In December of this year O’Reilly received a “letter” 
 from Chambers, i.e. y a printed document in which the 
 
179 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 prisoner had been allowed to write exactly four words, or 
 five, if we include the word “ friend.” 
 
 The following is the letter, with the prisoner’s part of 
 the composition italicized : 
 
 Woking Prison, England, November 29, 1877. 
 
 Dear Friend. I was transferred from Dartmoor on the 26th inst., 
 and am now in this prison ; I am in worse health, and if I do not for- 
 feit the privilege I shall be allowed to write a longer letter afterward, 
 and then receive one from you in reply. 
 
 T. Chambers. 
 
 This is the answering message of cheer sent in the happy 
 Christmas time, and gratefully preserved by the receiver as 
 long as he lived. When both sender and receiver had 
 passed away, a loyal comrade, Mr. James Wrenn, to whom 
 Chambers had bequeathed it, brought me the paper. It 
 was well worn with many readings, for this terrible “rebel,” 
 who had been so severely punished, was the simplest and 
 kindliest of men, and loved O’ Reilly with the trustful love 
 of a dog or a child : 
 
 Boston, U. S. A., December 22, 1877. 
 
 John Boyle O'Reilly 
 to 
 
 Corporal Thomas Chambers , Sixty-First Foot; in prison. 
 
 My Dear Old Friend : I cannot go to my home to-night without 
 writing to you and actually saying the words, “ May you have a happy 
 Christmas, dear boy,” as happy as you may have in your sad surround- 
 ings. 
 
 _ Your last letter was more a grief to me than a pleasure. I see your 
 familiar hand in only four hearty words. I am glad, however, that 
 the prison authorities allowed you to have my letter. I feared that it 
 would go the unknown road of many previous ones. 
 
 Eleven years ago — and what a long lifetime it seems — we were both 
 young and enthusiastic boys, and I am impressed to-day, somehow, 
 with the vast changes worked on men by time ; you in your prison, and 
 I in the world, have both equally changed. When ten more years 
 have passed we shall both look back with pleasure — yes, as sure as you 
 live, old friend — at the dark shadow. * When your time comes, as it 
 
 *The ten years had become eleven when O’Reilly closed the dead eyes of 
 the dear comrade, whom he was soon to follow. 
 
180 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 surely will before long, the revulsion of feeling will in itself- be so deep 
 a joy that whole years of suffering will be swallowed up. 
 
 I grieve to hear of your declining health. Dear Tom, a stout heart 
 keeps a man healthy. Bear up ; remember you have a hearty welcome 
 in the home of one friend, I might say of very many,— and now, at the 
 eleventh hour, do not despond nor sink. You must come to us, rugged 
 and strong; come a boy, to begin the world anew, and to work out 
 your manly way in the New World. 
 
 I know that if I were to write news it would break the prison rules 
 and nullify my letter, and I must confine myself to mere words, but 
 believe me, there is a heart behind every sentence. 
 
 I do not believe you will be long a prisoner, but, long or short, hus- 
 band your health for the time of delivery. When you write me, I 
 trust in God you will tell me you are gaining strength. I wish I might 
 write you a newspaper full. 
 
 Sincerely yours, 
 
 J. B. O’Reilly. 
 
 578 Washington Street, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 This letter was indorsed : 
 
 To the Governor of Woking Prison : 
 
 Sir : I respectfully beg that this letter be handed to the person to 
 whom it is addressed. His health may be affected by despondency 
 which a friendly message may arrest or dispel. I have tried to avoid 
 breaking your rules or discipline. 
 
 Respectfully, 
 
 J. B. O’Reilly. 
 
 On the 27th of August, 1877, Mr. John O’ Kane, a schol- 
 arly gentleman who had been assistant editor of the Pilot 
 for some years, died of pneumonia, at the age of forty years. 
 He left one son, Daniel P. O’ Kane, whom Mr. O’Reilly took 
 into the office and made his confidential clerk. “ Dan ” — 
 it seems impossible to speak of him save by the familiar 
 name by which he was known and loved — was an amiable, 
 kindly youth, warmly devoted to his chief and dearly loved 
 in return. The fatal seeds of consumption were in his sys- 
 tem, and developed such alarming symptoms in the year 
 1890 that he was forced to give up his work on the Pilot 
 and go to the Boston City Hospital for treatment. His de- 
 clining health was the cause of heartfelt grief to O’Reilly. 
 While the latter was away on his lecturing tour on the 
 
181 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Pacific Coast, he telegraphed to the writer from San Fran- 
 cisco for news of the sick lad. It was one of those little 
 things which, somehow, find lodgment only in big hearts. 
 Dan survived his chief but one week ; the strong, lusty man 
 died, after all, before his frail 'protege . 
 
 In this year, 1877, O’ Reilly was called upon to write an 
 obituary notice of another great journalist, Samuel Bowles, 
 founder and editor of the Springfield Republican . His 
 eulogy of the dead editor may be fitly applied to himself, 
 even as his warning against overwork is sadly prophetic of 
 his own fate : 
 
 Mr. Bowles was a bora editor — a comprehender of facts, a compeller 
 of circumstances. Mr. Bowles had the clearest perception of what was 
 of immediate interest ; and his readers were spared the trouble of sifting* 
 the chaff to find the grain of daily wheat. He trained his young men 
 so admirably that his whole paper was a mosaic of equal excellence, 
 every paragraph having the mint-stamp of journalism. He dies of the 
 great American disease, — overwork. The brain had too much to do; 
 like a patient beast of burden it obeyed the untiring will, laboriously 
 breasting the collar, till at last the tension grew rigid; the ceaseless 
 pressure had worn the line — something snapped — the strained attention 
 lost its aim — the whole organism collapsed — the toil was done forever— 
 the editor was stricken down with paralysis of the brain ! Is there a les- 
 son in this story? Who heeds? Pshaw! there is no time to moralize. 
 Slacken the traces for a minute, till the funeral passes — then to work 
 again. Time is very short. Strong men love vigorous labor. And 
 wives and children, — ah, well ! — they must fall back on the insurance 
 companies. 
 
 Writing in the last month of the year 1890, it is not hard 
 to understand the pain and chagrin with which Irish patri- 
 ots, thirteen years ago, confessed the utter failure of Isaac 
 Butt’s parliamentary efforts to secure Home Rule for his 
 country. But the inefficient leader was supplanted and a 
 new one chosen, and Ireland— God help her ! — saw another 
 dawn breaking in the east. Mr. Butt was hopelessly ami- 
 able : 
 
 “ Whenever a motion trenching on Irish nationality was 
 brought forward,” wrote O’Reilly, “it was beaten with 
 nothing short of contumely. Still not a severe word from 
 
182 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’kEILLY. 
 
 Mr. Butt. As soon as one bill was squelched, he smilingly 
 sat down to draw up another, and courteously awaited its 
 extinction. It was plain that such a character was badly 
 suited for his place ; but the country waited and trusted 
 that ‘ at the right moment ’ their chosen leader would 
 rise up in virtuous indignation, and for the sake of Ire- 
 land’s very manhood utter a statesman’s reproof and pro- 
 test. 
 
 “ There is no such mettle in Isaac Butt, we are sorry to 
 believe. He has been tried and found wanting. The coun- 
 try is disappointed and sick of him. He has been deposed 
 
 and supplanted by a younger and bolder man The 
 
 actual policy of the new leader it is not easy to foreshadow ; 
 but it will doubtless be a vigorous one. The young blood 
 of Ireland will assuredly be with him, and the old blood 
 that has not stagnated. The peace policy has been misun- 
 derstood by Irish leaders like Butt. To these it means 
 peace at any price — peace in legislative action as well as in 
 arms. They do not see that peace everywhere means decay. 
 If Ireland does not fight in the field, she must fight all the 
 harder in the British Parliament. She has never received 
 anything from England for the humble asking. These 
 young and strong men, disgusted with the decent humility 
 of Isaac Butt when his face was slapped and his country 
 sneered at, have adopted a more virile course. They know 
 the lesson of Irish history : The best prophet of the Future 
 is the Past.” 
 
 Never did Ireland need the comfort of a prophet of good 
 more sorely than she does to-day. 
 
 On January 5, 1878, a special cable dispatch an- 
 nounced that three of the Irish political prisoners, viz., 
 McCarthy, Chambers, and O’Brien, who had been confined 
 since 1866, were set at liberty. O’ Reilly wrote for this oc- 
 casion his poem 4 4 Released : ’ ’ 
 
 Haggard and broken and seared with pain, 
 
 They seek the remembered friends and places ; 
 
 Men shuddering turn, and gaze again 
 At the deep-drawn lines on their altered faces. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 183 
 
 She offers a bribe — Ah, God above ! 
 
 Behold the price of the desecration : 
 
 The hearts she has tortured for Irish love 
 She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation ! 
 
 We know her — our Sister ! Come on the storm ! 
 
 God send it soon and sudden upon her : 
 
 The race she has scattered and sought to deform 
 Shall laugh as she drinks the black dishonor. 
 
 To his fellow-soldier and friend, Corporal Chambers, he 
 sent this wise and kindly letter of welcome to freedom : 
 
 Boston, U. S. A., February 6, 1878. 
 
 Dear Chambers : 
 
 I shall not weary you with many words just now. Welcome, my 
 dear, dear old fellow, welcome a thousand times. You mention a long 
 letter you wrote me in November; I never received it, or any other 
 real letter from you during the eight years that I have written to you. 
 When you have time to sit down and write me at length, do so. 
 
 McCarthy’s death was a great shock to me ; God rest the poor mur- 
 dered old fellow. 
 
 I sent you a book the other day ; I shall publish another in a month 
 or two and shall send that also. Tell me precisely how you are situated 
 and what you propose doing. 
 
 I beg of you to avoid the kindly-meant demonstrations in your honor, 
 either at home or here, should you come here. It is frothy excitement ; 
 there is nothing of it left after a few weeks. It has a good moral effect, 
 perhaps; but the same effect can be better secured in another way. 
 You will have to look around now for the means of earning a good 
 livelihood. Pardon my prosaic suggestions, Tom, but I have seen so 
 many men lionized that I have learned to fear the effect on them and 
 to regret it on the behalf of those who make the noise. 
 
 Should you'decide to come to America, come straight to me, and I 
 will put a stouter chain on you than ever you saw in Dartmoor. 
 
 O’Reilly had written a noble poem for the O’Connell 
 Centenary in the year 1875. The hundredth birthday of 
 another, and even more beloved, because more unfortunate, 
 Irish patriot, Robert Emmet, was celebrated on March 4, 
 1878. The exercises at Tremont Temple, Boston, consisted 
 of an oration by Mr. Anthony A. Griffin, of New York, and 
 a poem, “The Patriot’s Grave,” by John Boyle O’Reilly, 
 
184 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 who succeeded in drawing an original thought from the 
 touching, but well-quoted, demand of Emmet, ‘‘Let no 
 man write my epitaph.” 
 
 Tear down the crape from the column ! Let the shaft stand 
 white and fair ! 
 
 Be silent the wailing music — there is no death in the air! 
 
 We come not in plaint or sorrow — no tears may dim our sight: 
 
 We dare not weep o’er the epitaph we have not dared to write. 
 ******* 
 
 He teaches the secret of manhood — the watchword of those 
 who aspire — 
 
 That men must follow freedom though it lead through blood 
 and fire ; 
 
 That sacrifice is the bitter draught which freemen still must 
 quaff — 
 
 That every patriotic life is the patriot’s epitaph. 
 
 The lesson of Emmet’s life, as read by O’ Reilly, who 
 much resembled him, was this : 
 
 A life such as his is never wasted. Often it is the price that is paid 
 for justice. Despots never concede a right until it is forced from them. 
 All that Ireland has ever gained was the fruit of effort. England has 
 given nothing voluntarily. She resisted Catholic emancipation till 
 Wellington saw that to refuse longer would be to invite revolution. 
 The brilliant Forty-eight movement prepared the way for further con- 
 cessions. Fenianism produced Disestablishment and Land Reform. 
 Not one single step has Ireland taken toward enlarged rights without 
 forcing her way. Not a single step has she been allowed to take till 
 England had fully realized the danger of resisting. Generosity is a vir- 
 tue that England has never known, and one for which the world will 
 never make the mistake of giving her credit. Ireland has received 
 nothing from her till she was compelled to give it. To the example of 
 Emmet much of what has been gained is due. 
 
 In tbe summer of this- year, the laboring people of 
 America were stirred by a crusade against capital, led by an 
 Irish- American, Dennis Kearney of San Francisco, a noisy 
 agitator, who had more than a kernel of right to his bushel 
 of chaff, but his strength lay in denunciation, his weakness 
 in lack of constructive ability. When he came to Boston 
 to harangue the people, some short-sighted conservatives 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 185 
 
 wished to have him silenced. Wiser counsels prevailed. 
 He was allowed full freedom of speech and he talked him- 
 self out. O’Reilly, who refused no man a hearing, de- 
 manded only a coherent formulation of his principles by 
 Kearney. In a cogent editorial of August 17, he wrote : 
 
 Because the Pilot is a workingman’s paper, because eighty per cent, 
 of our readers are in the truest sense “honest, horny-fisted sons of 
 toil,” we feel bound to ask Dennis Kearney two questions : First 
 Does he believe that profanity and abuse are argument ? Second. 
 Where are the facts or issues upon which he came to the East to agitate 
 the workingmen ? 
 
 The workingmen of this country need wise leaders. There are half 
 a score of burning questions for their consideration and action. Has 
 Dennis Kearney any message to deliver on any of these subjects ? The 
 workingmen are all divided on their issues. In another column we 
 give sixty remedies proposed by workingmen to the Hewitt Committee, 
 ranging all the way from the abolition of labor and property to the 
 abolition of money and government. On which of these, or on what 
 else are the workingmen to agree ? 
 
 Let us say to Dennis Kearney that he had, and has still, if he have 
 brain and principle, a rare and splendid opportunity. There is no 
 grander fame than that of a trusted leader of workmen. This is the 
 country for the production of such leaders. Labor is free, and respected, 
 and enfranchised. Turn to the study, man, before it is too late. Seize 
 the deep wishes and hopes; take hold of the strong lines; be wise, and 
 powerful, and gentle. Be faithful, and able to lead the masses to better 
 laws and greater happiness. Be Rienzi, if you can ; be Masaniello, if you 
 fail ; but for the honor of toil, be even a decent Wat Tyler or Jack Cade. 
 
 Remember, Kearney, it is no enemy who speaks. Every word we 
 say here will reach the eyes or ears of a million workingmen. 
 
 In their name, for their interests, we condemn your intemperate 
 course. You commit a crime when your furious and blind utterances 
 hold up the cause of Labor to derision. 
 
 On the 30th of November, 1878, O’Reilly began a serial 
 story in the Pilot, entitled “ Moondyne Joe,” the latter part 
 of the name being dropped after the issue of the following 
 February 1. It was published in book form, under its new 
 title, by Roberts Bros., in 1880, and has reached twelve 
 editions. The book, “ Dedicated to all who are in prison,” 
 since so widely read and generally admired, evoked on its 
 appearance some remarkably harsh criticisms from ultra 
 
186 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Catholics, who objected to what they called its pagan spirit. 
 It was not enough that the author had imbued his hero 
 with the principles of Catholic Christianity, his critics were 
 dissatisfied because the artist had failed to label his work 
 in large letters. They were unquestionably sincere, and 
 unquestionably narrow in their judgment. . No better 
 answer to such strictures could be given than this of the 
 author himself, replying to the question : 
 
 IS “ MOONDYNE ” A BAD BOOK ? 
 
 Mr. J. A. McMaster, editor of the New York Freeman's Journal , 
 says that when he had read “ Moondyne ” he threw it down, saying to 
 one that admired the author, and had been charmed with the story : 
 “That is a bad book!” “Why?” cried the guileless one, “was it 
 wrong for me to have read it? ” “ Oh, not a bit ! It is a weird romance 
 of impossible characters, and set off with keen and quick perception of 
 nature. It is faultless in regard to those sickly, twaddling love passages 
 that offend in plenty of stories passed off as Catholic. The poison in 
 this book finds nothing in you to take hold of, because you do not 
 understand it. It is worse than pagan. Under the glamour borrowed 
 from the results of Christian civilization, it breathes out principles that 
 are not un-Christian only, but anti-Christian ! ” 
 
 This is a grave charge for one Catholic editor to make against 
 another ; but it loses in effect when we remember that he who makes it 
 is given to such startling accusations, and has from time to time 
 hurled condemnation on bishops, priests, and laymen, indiscriminately, 
 and has himself received numerous serious reproofs for his unruly and 
 aggressive disposition. We admire and respect Mr. McMaster’s faith 
 and intention ; but we have very little regard for his perception, judg- 
 ment, and temper. He speaks to the author of “ Moondyne” as to a 
 friend, and he pays him the respect of saying that he handles him 
 roughly because he knows he can bear it. But the proof of friendship 
 is the deed, not the word. Mr. McMaster refers to the serpent in Eden 
 (which, by the way, he boldly says was not a serpent, “as vulgar 
 stories tell ”), saying : 
 
 “He deluded our poor dear old foolish grandmother Eve — and 
 terribly she did penance for it. But he deluded her,— and his cry was 
 precisely that of Boyle O’Reilly’s ‘Moondyne,’ ‘Away with Law! 
 Liberty ! Liberty of the colt of the wild ass ! ’ ‘ Mankind ! Yes, Man- 
 kind is older than the Birth of Jesus Christ! If Jesus Christ will be- 
 come a republican we will adopt him ! If not — ’ ” 
 
 One would think, on reading these shocking words, that they were 
 from Boyle O’Reilly’s book ; that this was actually the cry of ‘ ‘ Moon- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 187 
 
 dyne,” and the dreadful spirit of the work. It is not so; God forbid! 
 Those words are wholly McMaster’s, evolved from the phantasy of an 
 excited brain and a hatred of republicanism, for he believes firmly that 
 republicanism is anti-Christian and damnable. Here are Moondyne’s 
 words (page 119, first edition), which Mr. McMaster has so horribly- 
 misrepresented : 
 
 “ Society could have a better existence with better laws. At present 
 the laws of civilization, especially of England, are based on and framed 
 
 by Property Human laws should be founded on God’s law and 
 
 human right, and not on the narrow interests of land and gold.” 
 
 These are widely different words from those used by McMaster, and 
 have a wholly different meaning. On what can good law be ultimately 
 founded, if not on ‘ ‘ God’s law and human right ? ” 
 
 Hasty and harsh and unjust judgment is not proof of good will; yet 
 we are willing to believe that Mr. McMaster means every friendly word 
 he has written. That “ Moondyne ” should be mistaken fora pagan 
 does not seem to be possible ; but from the testimony of friendly critics 
 we are willing to conclude that his silence on the matter of creed may 
 be misconstrued. It was not the author’s intention that ‘ ‘ Moondyne ” 
 should be so mistaken : it was directly opposite to his intention. To 
 demand of a Catholic author that his chief character shall be a Catholic 
 is absurd. A novelist must study types as they exist. The author of 
 “ Moondyne ” made a study of a man who might be typical of the Penal 
 Colony, evolved by the pressure of unjust laws on erring but human 
 lives. To have put a Catholic or Protestant preacher in the position 
 might have pleased some ; but he saw fit to put the man there who 
 actually belonged to the place. The leading traits of “ Moondyne” 
 were mainly studied from the life. The author had before him a strong, 
 virtuous, silent man, cognizant of all the wrongs of the law, sympa- 
 thetic with all the suffering, saying nothing, but doing , so far as his 
 power enabled him, the full duty of a wise, honest, and Christian man. 
 He saw the injustice of existing laws, and he foretold the day when all 
 human codes should be tested, not by the needs of a government, but 
 by the expressed and immutable law of God. 
 
 There is not, could not be, an anti-Christian word in “ Moondyne.” 
 If there were, it should not stand one moment. The words put up and 
 knocked down by Mr. McMaster are not in “Moondyne.” They are 
 his own. 
 
 Mr. McMaster calls on the author of “Moondyne” to submit to 
 authority. It is impertinent to speak so to one who has not rebelled 
 against authority, who respects the law and the author as profoundly 
 as the editor of the Freeman. We must remind Mr. McMaster, in a 
 friendly but firm way, that he is not “ authority,” nor must all who 
 dare to write a book submit to him for approval. 
 
188 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The book which had provoked criticism on account of 
 imaginary theological defects might well have been expected 
 to show faults of a literary character ; for it was composed 
 from week to week to meet the printer’s demand for copy. 
 Oftentimes the copy was written while the press was wait- 
 ing. Literary polish was scarcely to be looked for under 
 such circumstances, and yet the story abounds with pas- 
 sages of beauty and strength. The narrative flows smoothly, 
 and the evolution of character is equally worked out from 
 beginning to end. 
 
 In “ Moondyne,” O’Reilly revealed his inner self as the 
 dreamer of an ideal social condition in which Kindness was 
 to be the only ruler. It is easy to understand how only one 
 who had come through the ordeal of convict life unscathed 
 could have built the air-castle of reform in which the ex- 
 convict “Moondyne,” or “ Wyville,” should be an all- 
 powerful but benignant autocrat. O’ Reilly, witnessing the 
 harsh yet ineffectual prison discipline when the mutinous 
 “ Chains” were quelled into temporary submission at the 
 cannon’s mouth, must have often let his boyish fancy carry 
 him to a time when, invested with full power, he should be 
 able to dismiss the soldiers and surprise the convicts as his 
 own comptroller-general does. Mr. Wyville confronts the 
 convicts and calls out the names of twelve men to whom, as 
 a reward for previous good conduct, he grants full pardon. 
 To others he bears the glad news of material reductions in 
 their sentences. Then addressing the astonished throng, 
 he says : 
 
 “ Men ! we have heard the last sound of mutiny in the Colony.” 
 
 Mr. Wyville’s voice thrilled the convicts like deep-sounded music ; 
 they looked at him with awe-struck faces. Every heart was filled with 
 the conviction that he was their friend ; that it was well to listen to 
 him and obey him. 
 
 “ From this day, every man is earning his freedom, and an interest 
 in this Colony. Your rights are written down, and you shall know 
 them. You must regard the rights of others as yours shall be regarded. 
 This law trusts to your manhood, and offers you a reward for your 
 labor ; let every man be heedful that it is not disgraced nor weakened 
 by unmanly conduct. See to it, each for himself, and each helping his 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 189 
 
 fellow, that you return as speedily as you may to the freedom and inde- 
 pendence which this Colony offers you.” 
 
 Among the warders, opposition disappeared the moment the gold 
 band of the deputy’s cap was seen under the Comptroller’s foot. 
 Among the convicts, disorder hid its wild head as soon as they realized 
 that the blind system of work without reward had been replaced by one 
 that made every day count for a hope not only of liberty, but inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 In a word, from that day the Colony "ceased to be stagnant and 
 began to progress. 
 
 Quite unconsciously lie invested “ Moondyne,” not only 
 with his own mental characteristics, but even with his phys- 
 ical features : 
 
 In strength and proportion of body the man was magnificent — a 
 model for a gladiator. He was of middle height, young, but so stern 
 and massively featured, and so browned and beaten by exposure, it was 
 hard to determine his age. A large, finely-shaped head, with crisp, 
 black hair and beard, a broad, square forehead, and an air of power and 
 self-command, — this was the prisoner, — this was Moondyne Joe. 
 
 Moondyne, masquerading later on as Mr.Wyville, is still 
 O’ Reilly, in person and dress : 
 
 He was dressed in such a way that one would say he never could be 
 dressed otherwise. Dress was forgotten in the man. But he wore a 
 short walking or shooting coat, of strong, dark cloth. The strength 
 and roughness of the cloth were seen, rather than the style, for it 
 seemed appropriate that so strangely powerful a figure should be 
 strongly clad. 
 
 His face was bronzed to the darkness of a Greek’s. His voice, as he 
 spoke on entering the room, came easily from his lips, yet with a deep 
 resonance that was pleasant to hear, suggesting a possible tenderness 
 or terror that would shake the soul. It was a voice in absolutely per- 
 fect accord with the striking face and physique. 
 
 Finally, Moondyne’ s prison number was “406,” a num- 
 ber to which two or three odd coincidences had given a certain 
 half-superstitious significance. I think it was the number 
 borne by the author in one of his several prisons, but of 
 this I am not sure. O’ Reilly spoke of it more than once. 
 It was the number of the room assigned him in the first 
 hotel at which he stopped in America. Ten years later, on 
 
190 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 visiting New York, he was given a room, with the same 
 number, in another hotel. 
 
 In his scrap book, written on a sheet of hotel note paper, 
 under the date of February 24, 1880, is an unfinished poem, 
 in blank verse, entitled : 
 
 “ 406 .” 
 
 I do not know the meaning of the sign, 
 
 But bend before its power, as a reed bends 
 When the black tornado fills the valley to the lips. 
 
 Three times in twenty years its shape has come 
 In lines of fire on the black veil of mystery ; 
 
 At first, tho’ strange, it seemed familiar, 
 
 And lingered on the mind as if at rest ; 
 
 The second time it flashed a thrill came, too, 
 
 For supernature spoke, or tried to speak ; 
 
 The third time, like a blow upon the eyes, 
 
 It stood before me, as a page might say : 
 
 “ Read, read, — and do not call for other warning.” 
 
 I do not know, — O Mystery, the word 
 
 Is lost on senses too impure. I stand 
 
 And shrink subdued before the voice that speaks, 
 
 And know not that its word is light or gloom. 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 The fancy seems to have been nothing more than a fancy 
 born of three singular coincidences. Most men of vivid 
 imagination are apt to look for presentiments in coinci- 
 dences, and to laugh with satisfaction, as he did, when the 
 foreboding proved to be false. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Elected President of the Papyrus Club, and also of the Boston Press 
 Club — Interesting Addresses Delivered before Both— Speech at the 
 Moore Centenary — Letter to the Papyrus Club — His Home at 
 Hull — Visit of Parnell to America — Founding of the St. Botolph 
 Club and the “ Cribb Club” — Justin McCarthy Describes the 
 Poet-athlete— Russell Sullivan’s “ Here and Hereafter.” 
 
 O ’REILLY had the distinction of holding the office of 
 president in two organizations during the year 1879, 
 the Papyrus Club and the Boston Press Club ; he was 
 elected to the former on the 4th of January. In his inau- 
 gural address he said : 
 
 To be made the president of this club would be an honor to any lit- 
 erary man in the country. The charm of the Papyrus is that it is 
 essentially an ideal club. The charm of the club to its members will 
 be proportionate to our enthusiasm to work for this ideal ; this is our 
 pride. Dining, wining, the patronage of millionaires and politicians, 
 the gorgeous service and elaborate style, are as vapor and mud beside 
 the beauty of standing up for our independent, brotherly, anti-shoddy, 
 aesthetic, and ideal Papyrus. Better for us the expression of a single 
 thought, or the admiration of a high ideal, than all the gold-plated 
 enjoyment of other orders of clubs. 
 
 Two years before, at the dinner of the Papyrus, on Feb- 
 ruary 8, Mr. William A. Hovey presented the club with a 
 beautiful crystal loving cup. O’Reilly wrote for the 
 occasion his beautiful poem, “The Loving Cup of the 
 Papyrus.” 
 
 For brotherhood, not wine, this cup should pass ; 
 
 Its depths should ne’er reflect the eye of malice ; 
 
 Drink toasts to strangers with the social glass, 
 
 But drink to brothers with this loving chalice. 
 
 The first “ ladies’ night ” of the Papyrus Club was held 
 on February 22, 1879, during his presidency, and was one 
 
 191 
 
192 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 of the most brilliant in the club’s history. O’Reilly’s 
 opening address was in his best vein, and ran as follows : 
 
 Like one called upon to sing who is almost certain to strike the 
 wrong note of accompaniment, I rise to speak for the Papyrus to-night. 
 The right word fitly spoken is a precious rarity. Could I gather the 
 thoughts that tremble to-night toward the lip of every member of the 
 club, I should assuredly speak a sweet word of our own gratification, 
 and of welcome to our distinguished guests. 
 
 On this, our annual ladies’ night, it seemed right to this club, com- 
 posed of men who work in or who love literature and art, to make a 
 public testament of our respect for those who have won eminence in 
 these branches, — our gifted writers and sweet singers whom all men 
 honor, because they ‘ ‘ can make the thing that is not, as the thing 
 that is.” 
 
 To express this appreciation and respect, we invited to our dinner a 
 few of those chosen ones. We welcome them with cordial warmth, 
 with pleasure and with pride. In bringing together even so many as 
 are here of the brightest and sweetest flowers of our time and country, 
 we feel that we have done something honorable to the Papyrus, and 
 beseeming the intellectual renown of Boston. 
 
 We are proud to say that their presence is a compliment to us and 
 to Boston. A hundred years ago, ever body patronized distinguished 
 literary people, and in doing so displeased and degraded them. To- 
 day, the distinguished literary people patronize everybody else, and in so 
 doing delight and elevate them — so that no questions can be raised as to 
 whom the natural right of patronage belongs. 
 
 Perhaps some future historian of literature, seeking for the period 
 of the change, will stop at the record of this reception, to read over the 
 names of our guests, and he will write it down that the Papyrus 
 belonged completely to the new order of things. 
 
 The author is no longer “ one whom the strong sons of the world 
 despise.” The tables are turned on “ the strong sons ” so heavily that 
 one kind-hearted poet, looking down from his secure seat on the heights, 
 is moved to apologize or plead for the million, “ whose work is great 
 and hard while his is great and sweet.” You all know the tender lines 
 of that gentle heart that is with us to-night : 
 
 ‘ ‘ A few can touch the magic string, 
 
 And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 
 
 Alas, for those that never sing, 
 
 But die with all their music in them ! ” 
 
 But there is something particular to be said about our guests — some 
 cunning word to establish reciprocity between them and us ; and I 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 193 
 
 know not where to find nor how to say it. It is related of the Egyptians, 
 as a social custom, that the head of the house always left his seat and 
 gave it to an honored guest. Following out the Egyptian symbolism 
 of the Papyrus it would give me much pleasure to vacate this uneasy 
 chair in favor of Dr. Holmes or Mr. Stedman, whose fertile fancies 
 would flash ideas where others could find only prosy sentences. 
 
 But the word is still to be said : ‘ ‘ These twenty times beginning I 
 have come to the same point and stopped.” You know the story of the 
 Danish astronomer, Tycho Brahe, who, after many years spent with 
 students, at length found himself in a great domed hall, called upon to 
 address the most eminent astronomers of Europe. The roof of the hall 
 was painted like the sky at night. The astronomers sat expectant, and 
 Tycho Brahe stood before them silent. At length one old man said : 
 “ Why don’t you begin, Tycho ? ” “I don’t know where to begin for 
 these .” “Begin as if we were students, ” said another. Tycho raised 
 his wand and pointed to a star. “ That,” he said, “is the third star in 
 the claw of the Scorpion ; this is Sirius ; here is Arcturus, and yonder 
 are the Pleiades.” “O, that is tiresome,” said the old man. “ Well, 
 then,” said Tycho, “since you all know their places and names as well 
 as I, let me introduce you, brethren, in one word— to the Stars ! ” 
 
 I stand here in the very blaze of the galaxy, ‘ ‘ tangled in the silver 
 braid ” of the Pleiades. Tycho might have foreseen through these 
 centuries the use I should make to-night of his general introduction. 
 
 The note we wished to strike at this dinner was one that may or may 
 not have been struck before ; — its sounding is certainly not too common 
 as it will be— namely, that sex is forgotten in literary distinction ; that, 
 if in no other profession, at least in literature and art, bright minds 
 cease to be classed as men and women, and are seen only in the rich 
 neutral light of authorship. 
 
 To-night we have with us several ladies whose names are nationally 
 and internationally known and honored. We, who read their books, 
 are delighted to have an opportunity of reading their faces, to thank 
 them for coming to us, some from great distances, and to say to them 
 how proud we are of their pure and honorable fame. 
 
 Another great Irish centenary, that of the birthday of 
 Thomas Moore, was commemorated in Boston on the 29 th 
 of May, by a banquet at the Parker House, Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes reading with genuine feeling a grand poem in 
 memory of the Irish bard. Among the other guests dis- 
 tinguished in literature, were John T. Trowbridge, George 
 Parsons Lathrop, Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, William 
 Winter, Francis H. Underwood, William A. Hovey, and 
 
194 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 James T. Fields. O’Reilly presided, and delivered the 
 eloquent address which is published among his speeches in 
 the present volume. 
 
 O’ Reilly was never so winsome as when making an off- 
 hand speech at his club, giving free rein to the fun which 
 found such infrequent expression in his written work, and 
 piling hyperbole upon exaggeration, until the orator him- 
 self would break down in a merry laugh at the work of his 
 own fancy. A typical utterance of this kind was his 
 answer to somebody who had challenged some startling 
 assertion of his, saying, “ That is not right, — that is Irish.” 
 “Sir,” replied O’Reilly, assuming an air of Johnsonian 
 dogmatism, “it is better to be Irish than right ! ” 
 
 In half fanciful, half serious mood he glorified the 
 newspaper profession, in his presidential address, at the 
 dinner of the Boston Press Club, in Young’s Hotel, on 
 November 8, 1879 : 
 
 Gentlemen of the Press Club : It is a pleasant duty to congrat- 
 ulate men who have feasted after a laborious campaign ; who have 
 wiped their swords and broken bread together as cheerfully and lov- 
 ingly as if their hands had never penned a hard word or reeked in a 
 contemporary’s reputation. 
 
 To-night we occupy a unique and consoling position. We alone 
 are the unreported. We speak as we feel, and we don’t tremble for 
 to-morrow. Throughout the year we set down the words and deeds of 
 the public, but on this day of our own meeting we shut out the public. 
 We are, — and I say it after due consideration, — we are a privileged 
 class. 
 
 We are reminded by meetings like this that there is no profession so 
 complete and rounded as ours, and none so far-reaching in its scope. 
 We have no hangers-on that do not come into the general circulation. 
 He who has no relation to type, except to read what he buys, is indeed 
 a hopeless outsider, belonging wholly to the unregenerate. From the 
 smallest printer’s devil up to Horace Greeley, the chain is unbroken. 
 The rawest youth who pens a police report is one end of a line which 
 extends, still vibrating, until it becomes radiant in the editorial room of 
 the Atlantic Monthly ; and which goes beyond, still growing finer, 
 uniting such essences as Whittier, Holmes, and Longfellow, and van- 
 ishing into utter sublimation in the neighborhood of Concord. 
 
 All who teach are ours. The priests of all future dispensations shall 
 be members of the press. Ours is the newest and greatest of the pro- 
 
195 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 fessions, involving wider work and heavier responsibilities than any 
 other. For all time to come, the freedom and purity of the press are 
 the test of national virtue and independence. 
 
 No writer for the press, however humble, is free from the burden of 
 keeping his purpose high and his integrity white. 
 
 The dignity of communities is largely intrusted to our keeping ; 
 and while we sway in the struggle or relax in the rest-hour, we must 
 let no buzzards roost on the public shield in our charge. 
 
 Reunions like this are necessary and wholesome. They are very 
 pleasant, — and yet they have one side shaded with sadness. Looking 
 down this board we miss some well-remembered faces of past years. 
 Our profession changes its units as rapidly as an army in the field. It 
 is a machine always in strong revolution ; its pieces are violently tried, 
 and many drop out unable or unwilling to bear the ceaseless strain. 
 Some of our old members die, and are transported to that Nirvana 
 where the angels are not allowed to use their wings for quills — where 
 there are no nights, and, therefore, neither morning nor evening 
 papers. 
 
 And then there is that other and more perplexing change which we 
 see come over our living members, who change their papers, or whose 
 papers change their principles. It is necessary to meet in this fashion 
 once a year, to assure ourselves that whatever else changes, the hearts 
 of our men do not, but still beat in kindly and brotherly sympathy and 
 good-will. 
 
 As I stand here to-night, I am struck with the prevailing character- 
 istics of the faces around the board — they are unlike the faces of any 
 other professional gathering. They are dissimilar among themselves 
 as the pebbles of the sea, but have lines of similarity, lines that are 
 typical of our observant, reflective, shrewd, sagacious, persistent, enter- 
 prising, humbug-hating, and yet modest calling/ 
 
 I am reminded by this prevalence of types ( I do not mean to pun) of 
 the experiment of an English scientist in making a typical portrait, 
 not of a man, but of a class. He visited the great prison of Millbank, 
 in London. He found that the convicts are photographed on entering, 
 and that all photographs are made under similar circumstances ; that 
 is, each convict sits before the camera at the same distance and in 
 precisely the same position — so that the photographs are equal in size, 
 and if a dozen were taken in a pack, and the portrait on top pierced 
 through the right eye with a wire, it would also pierce the right eye of 
 those below. The scientist took with him a lot of these photographs 
 for experiment. He proposed to make a negative from tliem. It takes, 
 say sixty seconds, to make a good negative from one picture. Well, he 
 placed one in position, and opened his camera ; in six seconds he 
 dropped another in front of it ; in six seconds more another ; in six 
 
196 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 seconds more another ; and so on, till he had used up ten photographs 
 in the sixty seconds. He then had a portrait made from the ten, which 
 was unlike any one of them. It was that of a typical criminal ; lines 
 which were common to all the faces were deeply impressed, while those 
 which were individual were not emphasized. 
 
 Now, suppose we should take the photographic portraits of the 
 men around this table, and from them select ten, and from these ten 
 make a typical portrait. What a noble presentment that would be! 
 
 A combination and a form indeed, 
 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal 
 To give the world assurance of a man. 
 
 This noble type brings me to the summit-house of my powers. 
 There being no farther height to climb, no more exalted possibility 
 than this great typical face of the press, I must pause. I would ask 
 you, however, to become the camera, and let all who speak to-night be 
 the slides that go to make up the negative. And if you do this, you 
 will each carry round with you for the coming year, in the busy streets 
 and noisy places, an ideal of strength and beauty that will be joyful 
 and consoling. 
 
 His term of office as president of the Papyrus Club 
 ended on the 3d of January, 1880. He was succeeded by 
 Vice-President George M. Towle, the well-known historian 
 and essayist. O’Reilly was absent in New York on elec- 
 tion night, and sent the following letter, in which raillery 
 and kindness are blended in such admirable proportions, 
 like vinegar and oil, that the result is the most graceful 
 of sauces to the palate : 
 
 January 3, 1880. 
 
 To the Papyrus Club. 
 
 Gentlemen : I am grieved (no lesser word will do) at my enforced 
 absence from the club to-night. I wanted to cast my vote, solid and 
 early, for “ Towle and the Constitution .” I wanted to drink the wine 
 of the country of the treasurer. I wanted to move a timely vote that 
 Towle should be restrained from meddling with our chief instrument, 
 the constitution, which he now has in his power even to carry home 
 with him, by virtue of his office. Friends, I am with you in spirit (you 
 are in spirits; I am in New York). May our loving-cup mean “all 
 that its name implies,” as it moves “in love’s festoons, from lip to lip.” 
 (I quote from Hovey, from memory.) 
 
 And now, dear boys, under this veneer of light words lies a well of 
 deep feeling that I almost fear to tap. Face to face with you I could 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 197 
 
 say my say, as boldly as Rogers, as eloquently as Young. But in 
 leaving the head of your board, where you have allowed my crude 
 ruling to pass for a year, I must say to one and all, from my heart, 
 Thank you for your kindness and courtesy. The more I learn of par- 
 liamentary law, the deeper becomes my affection for those who sat 
 silent and heard my wonderful rulings. To Towle, and Crocker, and 
 Scaife, especially, this consideration is doubly endearing. What they 
 must have suffered I shall only know when I study Hoyle. 
 
 The only consolation I draw from my year of office is this— the 
 Papyrus has not declined in vigor or promise. Its face is full to the 
 front. For this, I earnestly thank, and ask you to thank, the gentle- 
 men who compose the executive committee. 
 
 And now I retire to a private station — at the end of the table, left side 
 from the president, near Joyce and Harris, and those who, with 
 kindred blood, rejoice in anarchy. 
 
 Farewell my official distinction ! Henceforward I carry a musket, 
 at the end of the table, left side, near Joyce. Good night, and a Happy 
 New Year to the Papyrus ! 
 
 Faithfully and affectionately, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 In the summer of 1879, O’Reilly bought the house in 
 Hull, Boston Harbor, which was to be thenceforth his sum- 
 mer residence, and in which he died. It was a very old 
 house, perhaps the oldest in Massachusetts. It was built 
 in 1644 by Rev. Marmaduke Matthews, the pastor of Nan- 
 tasket, and was used as a parsonage by some of his succes- 
 sors. An English revenue officer, Lieutenant William 
 Haswell, occupied it prior to the Revolution. His claim 
 to remembrance rests on the fact that he was the father of 
 Susanna Haswell, afterward Mrs. Rowson, well known in 
 England and America, as actress, author, and editor, and 
 best known by her novel of ‘ ‘ Charlotte Temple. ’ ’ O’ Reill y 
 bought the property from Amos A. Lawrence, it being then 
 known as the Hunt estate. In 1889, the old house became 
 uninhabitable by reason of general debility and decay, and 
 he had the falling structure demolished, and set about 
 building a new and handsome house on the old site. The 
 plans were made by his wife and carried out under their 
 joint supervision, with careful attention to every detail. 
 In the front yard stood an old cannon rescued from some 
 
198 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 forgotten wreck in the early days of Hull. In another 
 place was a sun-dial made by one of the poet’s admirers. 
 He planted his little estate with wild vines and creepers 
 gathered by himself in the woods of Hingham, bordering 
 his garden walks with sea- worn pebbles and boulders that 
 he had gathered on the beach. He took a pathetic interest 
 in beautifying the home which he had built for himself, in 
 which he was to die. 
 
 The year 1880 opened for Ireland as the year 1890 did, 
 with famine, actual or impending. Charles Stewart Par- 
 nell, the young leader of the Irish party, visited America 
 to seek help for his suffering countrymen, and support for 
 their leaders in Parliament. He arrived at Hew York on 
 January 2, and was met by delegates from all parts of the 
 United States. On the day following his arrival he was 
 presented with an address from natives of his own county, 
 Meath. Mr. John D. Holan, the chairman of the committee 
 of Meath men, recognized O’Reilly among the Boston dele- 
 gates, and immediately called that delegation to order, and 
 said : 
 
 Fellow Meath Men: I notice that Mr. John Boyle O’Reilly has 
 entered the room. He is a native of the County Meath, a fervent Irish- 
 man, an author of recognized ability, who has passed into not only the 
 literature of America, but of the world. He is a journalist, and a recog- 
 nized leader among our countrymen. He is a representative Irishman 
 in every sense of the word, and I move that he be selected to deliver 
 this address to Mr. Parnell, instead of myself. 
 
 The motion was unanimously carried. Mr. O’Reilly 
 thanked the men of Meath, and read the address. Parnell’s 
 reply was a just tribute to the fidelity of the priests and 
 people of Meath under every trial. 
 
 The distress in Ireland evoked, as it has always done, 
 the profound sympathy and substantial aid of the Ameri- 
 can people. In addition to the other relief organizations 
 the Hew York Herald inaugurated a fund of its own, head- 
 ing the contributions with a subscription of $100,000, and 
 inviting Mr. Parnell to become a member of the committee 
 for its distribution. The invitation was accepted on con- 
 
.TOTTIST BOYLE O’REILLY’S COTTAGE, HULL, MASS., WHERE HE DIED. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 199 
 
 dition that Parnell should be allowed to appoint a proxy 
 during his necessary absence in America. This condition 
 th % Herald refused to accept, saying, “What we desired 
 was his (Parnell’s) personal services.” 
 
 “ Certainly,” commented O’Reilly ; “ why, not only the 
 Herald , but the English government would give $100,000 
 to send back the man who has dared to answer the one, 
 and hold the other up to shame in this country. It would 
 be worth a million dollars to England to stop Parnell’s 
 
 mouth in America The week he sailed from Ireland, 
 
 England officially denied that there was a famine, or danger 
 of one, in Ireland.” 
 
 The fact that the Herald had persistently endeavored 
 to discredit the mission of Parnell in America, and had 
 taken the landlord’s side in the political contest, made its 
 charity, generous as it was, seem like a contribution from 
 the gift-bearing Greeks. “ If he (Mr. Bennett) was wrong 
 before,” wrote O’Reilly, “he does not become right by 
 giving a hundred thousand dollars to the famine fund, 
 especially if he hands it over for distribution to the English 
 official committee. Mr. Bennett’s paper has been the voice 
 of the landlords who have caused this famine. He cannot 
 argue himself right by the brutal force of wealth. If the 
 Irish people had reason to detest his policy, they cannot 
 sell their principles for a hundred thousand or a hundred 
 million dollars. Nevertheless,” he continues, “we await 
 further action before we judge the motives of the man who 
 indorses his belief with a gift forty times as great as that 
 of the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland.” 
 
 On the 3d of January, 1880, the St. Botolph Club of 
 Boston was established on the model of the famous Cen- 
 tury Club of New York. O’Reilly was one of the original 
 members, among whom were included the leading authors, 
 artists, and other men of distinction in the city. It was a 
 much more imposing club than the Papyrus, starting with 
 a house of its own and a list of 260 members. Its success 
 was assured from the beginning, for it possessed the happy 
 combination, so seldom found, of brains and money. 
 
200 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In the same year another club was founded, possessing, 
 in addition to these two, a third valuable attribute, that 
 of muscle. The “ Cribb Club,” named after the famous 
 English boxer, Tom Cribb, was organized on November 27. 
 Its number of members was limited to twenty-five active 
 and one hundred and twenty-five honorary or associate 
 members. O’ Reilly belonged to the former. The officers 
 of the club consisted of a u Boss ” and an executive com- 
 mittee of three. Mr. E. C. Ellis was the first “Boss,” 
 and John Boyle O’Reilly the second. During the admin- 
 istration of the latter, the title was changed to the more 
 dignified one of president, and honorary members of the 
 club were classed as active. The Cribb Club, founded for 
 the encouragement of the “manly art,” was one of the most 
 exclusive in the exclusive city of Boston, numbering among 
 its membership men distinguished in art, literature, and 
 statesmanship. They were strong, brave, honorable men, 
 who loved the natural virtue of courage as much as they 
 hated the cowardly custom which has made the use of 
 the knife and pistol a reproach to the American name. 
 O’ Reilly had all the qualifications to win him popularity 
 in the company of courageous gentlemen. Here is how 
 the athletic side of his nature appealed to the admiration 
 of refined and scholarly Justin McCarthy: 
 
 Although he is not more than common tall, he has the breadth and 
 the thews of a Viking of the days when Olaf Tryggveson dwelt by the 
 Liffey in Dublin town and wooed and won the fair daughter of an Irish 
 royal house. He excels in all manly arts and accomplishments in a way 
 that we are almost afraid to chronicle, so like a hero of romance the 
 list would make him seem. 
 
 Who among amateurs can ride better, row better, walk better ? above 
 all, who can box better ? If such a man is red-hot in his enthusiasm for 
 the brawn and biceps of a famous pugilist, it is not with the sham enthu- 
 siasm of the dandies of old Rome who pinched the muscles of gladiators 
 with slim feminine fingers. In the society of the physically strong, 
 of the physically skillful, Boyle O’Reilly is among his peers, and if he 
 finds a man stronger or more skillful than himself it is scarcely wonder- 
 ful if he accords him his highest admiration. 
 
 It is one of the curious privileges of John Boyle O’Reilly to be uni- 
 versally liked. That he should be liked by his own people is only 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 201 
 
 natural. He is one of the brightest ornaments of the Irish race abroad ; 
 he lives in exile for his service to his country ; he has enriched its na- 
 tional literature with exquisite prose and yet more exquisite verse ; he 
 renders daily service to the national cause. That such a man should be 
 popular with his own countrymen is scarcely surprising. But Boyle 
 O’Reilly’s popularity is not limited to the children of his own race. 
 Strangers come to Boston, strangers often enough hostile, if not to Ire- 
 land, at least to Ireland’s national cause and the men who guide and 
 direct it. The strangers meet John Boyle O’Reilly and they come away 
 with a common tale — enthusiastic praise, unqualified admiration of the 
 exiled Irishman. It has happened time and again that travelers in New 
 England meeting elsewhere, and running over their joint stock of rec- 
 ollections, have each begun to speak with warmth of the man they 
 most admired of all they met, and to find immediately that the name of 
 Boyle O’Reilly was on both their lips. 
 
 Once a very gifted man, a stranger to Boston, met one day a friend, 
 a distinguished Bostonian. Said the stranger to the Bostonian: “I 
 have just met the most remarkable, the most delightful man in all the 
 world.” “I know whom you mean,” said the Bostonian, “ you mean 
 John Boyle O’Reilly.” And the Bostonian was right, of course. 
 
 Ancl here, from the pen of a rare poet and novelist, Mr. 
 T. Russell Sullivan, is a versified tribute to the best loved 
 son of Papyrus, the first contribution of the authoi after 
 his admission to the club : 
 
 HERE AND HEREAFTER. 
 
 When the youngest of all is the oldest, 
 
 When the bell for our Prexy shall toll: 
 
 When death’s optic transfixes the boldest, 
 
 When the iron has entered our soul ; 
 
 When adversity’s saccharine uses 
 Shall no longer watch over our gold, 
 
 And when Howard takes tea with the muses, 
 
 Leaving Tennyson out in the cold ; 
 
 With earth’s greatest grown sadder and wiser, 
 
 Old palaces let to new lodgers, 
 
 Albert Edward, Gambetta, the Kaiser, 
 
 All dust — with ex-President Rogers ; 
 
 Still the dark dial hand shall go flitting 
 Till the smallest wee numbers shall chime 
 Round some dinner committee., left sitting, 
 
 On my honor, twelve hours at a time, 
 
202 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 While our youngsters — or theirs, as it may be — 
 
 Gather here when a banquet is toward, 
 
 All as merry as we are shall they be, 
 
 And the saddle shall smoke on the board. 
 
 And the mirth shall wax deeper and broader 
 Round the cup we have emptied and filled, 
 
 Till the hammer shall knock down disorder, 
 
 And the shriek of the hawk shall be stilled. 
 
 Then the dusty Papyrus leaves turning, 
 
 Says some juvenile bard of the time: 
 
 “ Let us pick out a brand from the burning, 
 
 Let us see what these roosters called rhyme ! ” 
 
 Drawn apart from those time-honored pages 
 By the hand of good fortune alone, 
 
 Falls a leaf of the earlier ages 
 By the only O’Reilly — our own. 
 
 And the voice of the scoffer that reads it 
 Takes a tremulous turn in our cause ; 
 
 More expressive the silence that heeds it 
 Than the loudest and wildest applause. 
 
 Then the cherub that once was O’Reilly, 
 
 On his cloud in the mystical land, 
 
 Shall aslant from his halo peep slyly, 
 
 And his harp shall slide out of his hand. 
 
 He shall linger a moment to listen, 
 
 Looking down from perpetual joys, 
 
 And a tear on his eyelids shall glisten 
 As benignly he whispers : ‘ ‘ Dear boys ! ” 
 
 December 4, 1880. 
 
 This apostle of muscular Christianity could forgive an 
 injury, no matter how grievous ; but an insult he resented 
 promptly with pen or hand, as occasion seemed to require. 
 Such an occasion presented itself one day in the fall of 
 1874 , when a fellow, who had sought the Pilot's counte- 
 nance in aid of a certain object for which he was canvassing, 
 resented the editor’s refusal by circulating some slanders 
 about him. When he next called at the Pilot office, 
 O’Reilly demanded an explanation and retraction. The 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 203 
 
 fellow denied the story ; but on being asked to put his 
 denial in writing, he quibbled and shirked the act ; “ upon 
 which,” says the Pilot, ingenuously, “Mr. O’Reilly gave 
 him a sound thrashing and kicked him out of the editorial 
 
 rooms. When Mr. speaks about the Pilot in 
 
 future, people will understand his motive.” 
 
 O’ Reilly, ever a loyal Democrat, waged gallant war for 
 his party’s ticket in the presidential election of 1880. 
 When the contest ended in the enemy’s favor he took the 
 defeat manfully, like the gladiator that he was, and 
 acknowledged it in the next issue of his paper under the 
 caption, 
 
 WHIPPED. 
 
 Well, we made a great fight. That is enough for honest Democrats. 
 We fling no reproach on the victors. We wrestled, and have been 
 thrown. Curs whine ; we don’t. 
 
 There is no decadence of Democratic health when a tremendous 
 struggle has wavered long in the balance. The controversy of the 
 campaign has been terrible ; but it has been magnificent. Out of the 
 seething vortex the country comes tired, — but cleansed. The victors 
 breathe hard ; they have had a lesson of fire. Centralization' has not 
 yet been killed— never will be killed till the Democrats elect their 
 President ; but Garfield does not attempt the policy of Grant. 
 
 Great principles and parties are solidified and strengthened by 
 defeat. Why has the Democratic party failed to carry the country ? 
 
 It is disgraceful to say that the national will has been decided by 
 corruption. It certainly has been influenced by the rapacity and 
 deliberate wickedness of the office-holding organization. But this 
 must always be true of a national election. Outside of this are the 
 people — and the people have elected Garfield. 
 
 ****** 
 
 And now, let us draw breath and return to business. The country 
 is Republican for four years more ; but it is safe. There is no room for 
 wild exultation in the other camp. Every thew was strained before we 
 were thrown. The victor respects the vanquished. We are all one 
 people — just a leetle more than half on the other side this time. 
 
 But the grand old Democratic principles still live ; and next time 
 we wont be whipped. 
 
 And they were not. 
 
CHAPTER XIL 
 
 His Editorials and Public Utterances — Honored by Dartmouth College 
 and Notre Dame — The “ Statues in the Block ” — “ Ireland’s Oppor- 
 tunity ” — “ Erin ” — Tribute to Longfellow — His Great Poem, 
 “America,” Read before the Veterans — The Phoenix Park 
 Tragedy— Death of Fanny Parnell — “ To those who have not yet 
 been President.” 
 
 I N April, 1881 , died the great Tory Prime Minister of 
 England, Benjamin Disraeli, less well known as Lord 
 Beaconsfield. Through all his life, from the day when he 
 first brought down upon his rash head the caustic scorn of 
 O’Connell, to the end of his glittering career, he had been 
 the enemy of the Irish cause, — not from any bigotry, — he 
 was not sincere enough to be a bigot, — but because such 
 was the policy favored by the Tory party. O’Reilly thus 
 summed up the character of the greatest of modern political 
 charlatans : 
 
 The place of an able political showman is made vacant in England 
 by the death of Lord Beaconsfield. It was peculiarly his own, and it 
 probably will not be filled again as he filled it. A showman, whether 
 political or otherwise, needs more than common talent to achieve great 
 success. Benjamin Disraeli certainly possessed a high order of talent, 
 and it is equally certain that his success was of no common sort. He 
 employed the arts and tricks of the charlatan ; but it was the hand of a 
 master that used them. 
 
 It was a great thing for a man inheriting the disadvantages of race, 
 and — at least nominally — of creed, which beset Disraeli at the begin- 
 ning of his career, to conquer in spite of them. England was still full 
 of intolerance toward Jews when the son of the Jew, Isaac Disraeli, 
 began to attract attention. He had to fight his way against that 
 intolerance, and he fought it well. The barriers which obstructed his 
 progress were overcome, one after another, by persistent, undeviating 
 effort. The obscure son of the Jew, whose only claim to distinction 
 
 204 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 205 
 
 was that he wrote the “Curiosities of Literature,” advanced by sure 
 degrees, till he gained the place of Prime Minister of England. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Some other man will step into his place as a party leader. The same 
 “ideas” which constituted his policy will, no doubt, continue to com- 
 mand approval in the Tory ranks. Although he occupied an important 
 position in it, the world goes on to-day just as it would if Benjamin 
 Disraeli had never taken part in its affairs. That he possessed signal 
 ability is not to be denied. He gained by it a place on the roll of English 
 statesmen. He tried to do much for mere power. It cannot be said 
 that he did anything for humanity. The world is none the better for 
 the part he played in it for nearly fifty years. 
 
 O’Reilly’s place in literature had been safely assured 
 by this time ; it was recognized by two great centers of 
 learning almost simultaneously. At the thirty- seventh 
 annual commencement exercises of the University of Notre 
 Dame, Indiana, on June 21, 22, and 23, 1881, he received 
 the degree of Doctor of Laws ; in the same week, he was 
 elected an honorary member of the Phi Beta Kappa, of 
 Dartmouth College, before which he read his poem of 4 4 The 
 Three Queens.” In April of the same year he published 
 his second volume of poems, through Roberts Bros., 44 The 
 Statues in the Block,” dedicated 44 To the Memory of Eliza 
 Boyle, my Mother.” The little volume of only 110 pages 
 ran through four editions. It contained some of the most 
 finely finished and musical verses that he ever wrote ; 
 among them 44 Her Refrain,” 44 Love’s Secret,” 44 Wait- 
 ing,” 44 The Well’s Secret,” and that most tender and 
 melodious of all his songs, 44 Jacqueminots.” In it also 
 appeared his powerful denunciation of social wrong, 
 44 From the Earth, a Cry,” 44 Prometheus-Christ,” and his 
 most dramatic Australian poem, 44 The Mutiny of the 
 Chains.” 44 The Statues in the Block,” his best effort in 
 blank verse, and the poem which gave the book its title, 
 contained two lines which were the author’s favorites, for 
 he most frequently quoted them when requested to write an 
 autograph sentiment : 
 
 When God gives to us the clearest sight, 
 
 He does not touch our eyes with love but sorrow. 
 
206 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The new volume added to the poet’s already great fame ; 
 on all sides it received the highest praise. The technical 
 faults of his earlier work had been pruned and polished 
 away, without impairing the strength of his verse. His 
 head was not turned by the praise he had won. He was 
 keenly delighted to receive the admiration of his fellow- 
 men, but he was no churl, hugging to his bosom the prizes 
 of fame. No man was quicker to recognize merit in 
 another, and to extend encouragement and praise to every 
 promising aspirant in literature. To young poets he was 
 especially kind and considerate ; the Pilot being the 
 theater on which a score of bards, afterward more or less 
 distinguished, made their first bow. Transatlantic poets, 
 chiefly Irish, also sought his counsel and friendship, 
 usually making their first American reputation through the 
 columns of his paper. Oscar Wilde wrote him : “I esteem 
 it a great honor that the first American paper I appeared 
 in should be your admirable Pilot P T. W. Rolleston, 
 Douglas Hyde, Lady Wilde, Katherine Tynan, William 
 B. Yeats, and a dozen other Irish poets were regular con- 
 tributors to the Pilot. He paid his writers well, never 
 withholding the guerdon, dearest to the poetic soul, of 
 generous helpful praise. He was the kindliest of critics, 
 for he was utterly incapable of saying a harsh word con- 
 cerning a book whose offenses were only literary. He 
 would not give undeserved praise, but he mercifully with- 
 held deserved condemnation. When a book submitted to 
 him for review was absolutely outside the pale of toleration, 
 he preferred to let it die of its own demerits instead of 
 putting it out of pain. He was totally devoid of that ten- 
 der literary conscience, which impels its owners to flay 
 alive the criminal who has rushed into print without a per- 
 mit from Parnassus. 
 
 O’Reilly at this period looked much older than his 
 years. A well-known picture represents him with the 
 long hair and full beard, which he wore from 1874 to 1880. 
 It was some throat trouble, probably a legacy of the old 
 Dartmoor drains, that compelled him to wear a beard for 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 207 
 
 several years. When he shaved it off in 1880, and clipped 
 his flowing locks, he looked five years younger. Dr. Edgar 
 Parker, the portrait painter, made a fine picture of him in 
 the latter aspect; it hangs in the library of O’Reilly’s 
 house in Charlestown, where also is a striking bust of him 
 by John Donoghue. 
 
 In October, 1881, the strained relations of Gladstone and 
 Parnell reached a crisis. Mr. Gladstone had the Irish 
 chieftain and other nationalist leaders arrested and 
 imprisoned in Kilmainham jail. The arrest was as arbi- 
 trary as their subsequent release was illogical ; the attempt 
 to intimidate the Irish people recoiled upon its authors. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The precedent of O’ Connell’ s arrest, with the conse- 
 quent decay of the repeal movement,” wrote O’Reilly, 
 “may be remembered by the English government. But 
 the world has changed since then ; the very contrary will 
 be the result now. The millions of expatriated Irishmen, 
 three times as numerous as the population of Ireland, send 
 to ‘ the men in the gap ’ a courage and firmness that will 
 defy all pressure. 
 
 ‘ 4 The world is so united nowadays that every thrill cir- 
 culates. Things can no more be done in a corner. Nations 
 cannot in these times be strangled in secret. When Eng- 
 land strikes Ireland with a sword to-day, or fells her to 
 the earth and manacles her, throat and limb, humanity 
 looks on — and amid that humanity are millions of strong, 
 indignant men who belong by blood to the suffering 
 country. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 “ England may imprison every public representative in 
 Ireland. She may break up every public meeting of the 
 Land League. V-ery well. Then she drives the people to 
 secret organization — she plays into the hands of the revolu- 
 tionists.” 
 
 In January, 1882, there appeared in the American 
 Catholic Quarterly Review a thoughtful article by 
 O’Reilly, entitled “Ireland’s Opportunity — Will it be 
 Lost ? ” In a few sentences he reviewed the various efforts 
 
208 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 of Irish nationalists in recent times — the Young Ireland 
 rising in ’48, the Repeal movement of O’Connell, the Fe- 
 nian revolutionary scheme, and, lastly, the Land League, 
 
 4 4 conceived in the brain of an Irish political prisoner in a 
 Dartmoor cell, Michael Davitt, — a man of great natural 
 power, with a conscientious hunger for thoroughness of 
 work and understanding, who admitted to his own heart 
 that Irish movements had failed to affect England because 
 they had first failed to enlist Ireland. ” Referring to the 
 famine of 1880 and the coercive policy of the Government, 
 he said : 
 
 The arrest of Parnell and the other leaders — and even the lawless 
 shattering of the Land League in Ireland by armed and ruffianly force, 
 have been futile work for the English Government. The arrest of Par- 
 nell differs from the arrest of O’Connell, because there are now, in this 
 country alone, more organized Irish societies, and twice as many Irish- 
 men as there are in Ireland. 
 
 And every thousand Irishmen exercising in America the power of 
 their moral force are a leaven to be heeded more by English statesmen 
 than the armed rebellion of the same men or their fathers in Ireland. 
 
 The Land League has succeeded. It has compelled the passage of a 
 law that will lower rents, more or less. It has raised the Irish question 
 into cosmopolitan attention. It has crystalized the national sentiment 
 of the Irish people and their descendants in America, Australia, Canada 
 and other countries. But above all its good results, it has nationalized 
 the Irish farmers, traders, priests and well-to-do classes, and they stand 
 now ready and waiting for the next act in the national drama. 
 
 It is time for the curtain to rise again. When the Land League, 
 aided fearfully by the famine, began its agitation, its timeliness and 
 force were acknowledged by all Irish parties. The Home Rulers vir- 
 tually subsided, giving the newcomers their place. The Revolutionists 
 looked on with unfriendly eyes, at first fearing that the land movement, 
 which only aimed at a detail, would distract attention from the National 
 idea. But as they watched, they saw that the new agitation was raising 
 the farmers and tradesmen into activity, and after a time the Land 
 League was left alone in the field to work out its purpose as best it 
 could. 
 
 Now, it must be asked and answered : Where does the Land League 
 propose to end ? 
 
 Mr. Parnell’s object for the organization, expressed more than a year 
 ago, was the expropriation of Irish landlords — which means the pur- 
 chase of the land by the government and its re-sale on easy terms to the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 209 
 
 Irish farmers. Ireland does not want this to-day, and would be most 
 unwise to accept it. If England during the past two years had had 
 statesmen of first-rate quality, she would have speedily offered this 
 settlement ; and had the people of Ireland accepted her offer, they would 
 now find themselves more inextricably bound to Great Britain than 
 ever the act of Union bound them. 
 
 If the English Government purchase the land from the landlords 
 and resell it to the farmers of Ireland, the world’s opinion will hold 
 these men bound to their contract. The legitimate outcome of the Land 
 League is therefore not national. It was never meant to be national. 
 On the contrary, it would be the doom of Irish nationality, at least for 
 a full generation, until the debt of the farmers to the English Govern- 
 ment had been repaid. 
 
 Some, and many, will say that Ireland — even in the case of such a 
 sale— would owe England nothing, in view of the centuries of wrong 
 and robbery. This is doubtless true in equity ; but why make a con- 
 tract at all? It will not help matters any way. Better to preserve the 
 integrity of the Irish farmer, even though he should starve. If the 
 present 630,000 tenant farmers, augmented by at least a million mo**e, 
 as they would be, were to agree to buy from England the land of Ire- 
 land, meaning to break the bargain by a revolution next year, their 
 conduct would be, in the mildest judgment of other nations, deceitful 
 and discreditable. 
 
 It is not necessary to do this. For the best interests of Ireland it 
 must not be done. 
 
 “ But,” it will be said by some Irishmen, “ the Land League means 
 to abolish rent altogether.” It means no such thing. It has never said 
 so, nor has it ever so intended. Such a proposition is absurd, so far at 
 least as the present Irish question is concerned. It is a social theory 
 which no country has yet accepted. No sensible person expects poor 
 Ireland, struggling for very life, to voluntarily burden herself also 
 with a socialistic mill-stone that would probably sink the United 
 States. 
 
 Therefore, if the Land League has only one legitimate purpose, and 
 if Ireland has reason to reconsider that purpose, it is time to look ahead 
 and take new bearings. 
 
 The aim of Irek nd in doing this is fortunately assisted by time and 
 tradition. The year 1882 is the centennial of the Irish Parliament ob- 
 tained by the agitation of Henry Grattan. The progressive issue of the 
 land agitation is a demand for a government of Ireland by the Irish 
 themselves. 
 
 Circumstances never worked more fortuitously to an end than here. 
 The Land League has accomplished its work so far as it can safely and 
 wisely be accomplished. The whole people are aroused. The English 
 
210 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Government, at its wit’s end, is apparently ready to listen to a proposi- 
 tion from Ireland that will restore peace without dismembering the 
 empire. The present Prime Minister and many other leading English- 
 men have clearly so expressed themselves, and without damnatory criti- 
 cism by any English class or party. 
 
 Ireland in 1882 ought to agitate for and demand her own govern- 
 ment. No matter by what name the movement is called, whether 
 Home Rule, Repeal or Federation. The result will be practically the 
 same. The natural resources of the country will be worked and cher- 
 ished by its own people. The official life will no longer be an alien and 
 inimical network spread over the island. The insolent presence of sol- 
 diery and armed constablery will disappear. The dignity of a people 
 upholding a nationality they are proud of will take the place of the 
 servile helplessness of an almost pauper population. 
 
 We do not fear for Ireland’s future in a federal union with England. 
 Nature has given the lesser country inestimable advantages. The anti- 
 trade laws passed by England in the last century are proof that even 
 then she feared mercantile and manufacturing competition with Ireland. 
 The intelligence of commerce will steer its merchant ships into Ireland’s 
 southern and western ports, to avoid the dangers of the fatal English 
 Channel. The unrivaled water power of the rivers — from whose tum- 
 bling streams even the flour mills have disappeared — will drive the 
 wheels of manufacture into competition with Lancashire. 
 
 If the landlords of Ireland are to be bought out — and we see no other 
 way for the farmers to become proprietors, unless the government drive 
 the people into revolution — it is better that they should be bought out 
 by an Irish rather than an English Parliament. 
 
 And if, after a fair trial of the Federal union, it were found that 
 Ireland suffered by the bond, that she was outnumbered in council, 
 harassed and injured by imperial enactments, that in fact it was an 
 unequal and unbearable contract, then still there remains the ultimate 
 appeal of an oppressed people — separation — even by the sharp edge of 
 violence. 
 
 The next step for Ireland is obviously not revolution. She has been 
 for the past four years a model to the world of intelligent, peaceful 
 agitation. Her people have pursued their legal purpose with marvelous 
 patience, tenacity and temper. They have not broken the law, under 
 terrible excitements and constant presence of the flaunted arrogance 
 and ruffianism of unnecessary military power. They have achieved 
 the greatest of all triumphs in compelling their powerful opponent 
 either to yield or to break all the laws that it had itself invented to 
 oppress and hamper the weaker country. 
 
 A people with such political intelligence and fertility need not fear 
 federation with England. If Ireland can beat her even under present 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 211 
 
 disadvantages, she will assuredly hold her own under a fairer relation- 
 ship. 
 
 The men who recently issued a Home Rule manifesto in Ireland 
 were undoubtedly right. They struck the proper note exactly ; but 
 they did it with uncertain hand, for their utterance has already faded 
 into silence, though it met with no serious opposition. 
 
 The people of Ireland are to-day without a national policy. The 
 splendid Land League organization goes on grinding, but it is not 
 grinding toward nationality. Its great-hearted work for the present 
 winter is to protect the evicted families of farmers who refuse to pay 
 rent because England has outraged even her own laws. But Ireland 
 cannot go on forever fighting with all her forces against a minor evil. 
 If she go on for six months longer, England will open her eyes to her 
 opportunity, and bind Ireland in new hemp by the sale of the country 
 to the farmers. 
 
 The late Irish -American Convention in Chicago might well have 
 started the national proposition. Had that meeting spoken for an 
 Irish Government in Ireland, with the Union repealed, and a federal 
 union substituted, Ireland would have answered like one man. That 
 meeting did not so speak because a few men antagonized the Home Rule 
 idea, and declare that they will have nothing less than utter separation 
 from England, with a republican and socialistic government for Ireland. 
 
 To obtain these two objects, Ireland must fight England with arms. 
 She must seize all the strong places, at present occupied by fifty thou- 
 sand armed men. She must, in one month, put in the field an army of 
 at least one hundred thousand men, equipped with engineers and artil- 
 lery ; England in the same time will land on her shores at least that 
 number of soldiers. She must establish a fleet, to keep herself from 
 suffocation, if not starvation. And she must fight out a desperate con- 
 flict for existence, without a hope of borrowing fifty dollars in foreign 
 markets on her national promissory note. 
 
 What sensible Irishman favors this policy ? What earnest revolu- 
 tionist is prepared to wait until all this can be done before Ireland 
 obtains a Parliament of her own ? 
 
 The sooner Ireland in America speaks on this point the better. 
 Many earnest Irishmen, among the leaders in Ireland, firmly believe 
 that Irish -Americans are all blood-and-thunder radicals. One of the 
 ablest of the leaders now in prison, recently wrote the writer that the 
 belief is widespread in Ireland that the Irish- Americans will have noth- 
 ing less than absolute “ no rent ” and ultimate revolution. 
 
 Such a belief is utterly wrong. Even the revolutionary party in 
 America condemn as absurd the ‘ ‘ No Rent ” proposition. This party, 
 too, sees that Irish Home Rule in no way conflicts with their own 
 more consummate settlement. 
 
212 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Another, and a very grave reason for an expression of policy, is 
 that the best intelligence, both in Ireland and America, will withdraw 
 from a movement that either cloaks its ultimate purpose, or has none. 
 Already the Land League has suffered deep loss by the vagueness of its 
 drift. One American bishop has publicly uttered his disapproval of an 
 organization which he could not understand ; and the Catholic clergy 
 generally have, it is believed, a secret and a growing feeling in regard 
 to the Land League, that they are dealing with an occult and uncer- 
 tain organism. 
 
 To allow so great an organization to collapse through blind manage- 
 ment and lack of purpose would be calamitous. To fight the landlords 
 and support the evicted tenants is not a national policy — it is not 
 enough. When the land question is settled, the question of an Irish 
 Government for Ireland will be no nearer a solution than at present. 
 
 A demand for Home Rule by the Irish people, supported by their 
 representatives in Parliament, will obtain sympathy in all countries, 
 and particularly in America. The Land League has demonstrated its 
 necessity to the world. It will give life* to the magnificent organiza- 
 tion which now has nothing to do but raise money. It will receive 
 instant and thorough approval and support from the Catholic hierarchy 
 and priests, both in Ireland and America, and from intelligent and 
 conservative men, who have hitherto avoided all Irish national move- 
 ments. 
 
 Unless this demand is made, and soon made, the Land League 
 organization will dwindle into insignificance, and an opportunity such 
 as Ireland has not seen for a century will be lost. 
 
 This frank treatment of the Irish question won the 
 approval of the author’s countrymen, with very few ex- 
 ceptions. The extreme nationalists appreciated the sin- 
 cerity of his words, even while they did not agree with his 
 policy. A few — they were very few — denounced the article 
 as “ traitorous.” Of these O’Reilly said in the Pilot: 
 
 The Irish people are too deeply in earnest to be quite calm when 
 their national sentiments are on the table. We do not regret the heat, 
 because by it we perceive the earnestness. The man who wants to be 
 treated with gloves should never leap into a crowd of enthusiastic 
 strugglers. Some of the personalities and angry expressions called out 
 by the article are absurd, and the writers either are, or will soon be, 
 ashamed of them. Out of all, one or two only were unjust or offen- 
 sive ; and these Mr. O’Reilly can well afford to pass, not, however, 
 without regret that any Irishmen could be found to so easily disrespect 
 themselves and others. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 213 
 
 At the St. Patrick’s Day dinner of the Charitable Irish 
 Society of Boston, in this year, O’Reilly read his poem, 
 “ Erin,” with its tender Irish words of endearment : 
 
 What need of new tongues ! sure the Gaelic is clearest, 
 
 Like nature’s own voice every word ; 
 
 “Ahagur ! acushla ! savourneen!” the dearest 
 The ear of a girl ever heard. 
 
 The death of Longfellow, in March, 1882, evoked this 
 tribute from his brother poet : 
 
 Why should we mourn for the beautiful completion of a beautiful 
 life. He died in the later autumn of his grand life. It is well that he 
 was spared the winter. The spreading tree went down in full leafage 
 and rich maturity. We have not seen any signs of decay; and inevi- 
 table decay is sadder than death . Our Longfellow’s death, like his life, 
 was a noble and quiet poem It was and will remain an illus- 
 
 tration of the permanent appreciation of mankind for the beautiful, 
 un-trade-like, spiritual work of the poet. When he succeeds in reach- 
 ing men’s hearts, all other successes are as nought to the poet’s. All 
 other honors, emoluments, distinctions, are chips and tinsel compared 
 with the separated and beloved light which surrounds him in the eyes 
 and hearts of the people. 
 
 The admiration of O’ Reilly for Longfellow was sincere 
 and abiding, for the gentle American poet had been his 
 warm friend and admirer. To another friend, the genial 
 essayist, “ Taverner,” of the Boston Post , lam indebted 
 for the following anecdote : 
 
 I heard of an incident the other day which has a peculiar interest 
 from its association with a man to whose memory tributes of respect 
 and affection have been paid in remarkable measure here in Boston 
 and elsewhere. A lady residing in the suburbs, the wife of a well- 
 known clergyman, was in Westminster Abbey, July 5, 1885. She 
 noticed particularly that the bust of Longfellow in Poets’ Corner was 
 ornamented with a wreath which, it occurred to her, had been placed 
 there the day before in recognition of the association of Longfellow’s 
 poetry with the patriotic spirit emphasized by the anniversary of the 
 Declaration of Independence. There was a card attached to this wreath, 
 and the visitor’s curiosity was excited to know the name of the person 
 inscribed on it, who had paid so thoughful a tribute to the memory of 
 the beloved American poet. The name proved to be that of a man 
 who, prevented by proscription from setting foot on the soil of the 
 
214 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’KEILLY. 
 
 British Islands of which he was a native, had deputed a friend to do 
 what he could not — place a memorial tribute on the bust of Longfellow. 
 The poet who had stretched his hand across the ocean to do this kindly 
 act was John Boyle O’Reilly. It was his name that marked the card. 
 
 On June 14, this year, O’Reilly read his great national 
 poem “ America,” at the reunion of the Army of the 
 Potomac at Detroit. In it he honored, as no other poet 
 has done, the pre-eminent virtue of the American people, 
 magnanimity in victory. Recalling the merciless triumphs 
 of other conquerors, he wrote : 
 
 Not thus, O South ! when thy proud head was low, 
 
 Thy passionate heart laid open to the foe — 
 
 Not thus, Virginia, did thy victors meet 
 At Appomattox him who bore defeat ; 
 
 No brutal show abased thine honored State : 
 
 Grant turned from Richmond at the very gate. 
 
 Every passage of the patriotic poem was greeted with 
 applause by the veterans. Even the impassive Grant 
 himself, clutching the arms of his chair, leaned forward and 
 smiled his delight. When the poet had ceased, Grant 
 spoke to President Devens, saying, ‘ ‘ That is the grandest 
 poem I have ever heard.” “ General Grant, I would say 
 so to O’Reilly in person,” replied General Devens. He 
 immediately did so, shaking the poet warmly by the hand 
 and saying, “I thank you.” This demonstration, of 
 course, redoubled the applause of the witnesses. 
 
 Among the many tributes of praise paid him for this 
 great poem were the following letters : 
 
 Danvers, Mass., June 19, 1882. 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly, Esq. 
 
 Dear Friend : I have read with great satisfaction thy noble poem 
 “ America.” The great theme is strongly handled. It has much poetic 
 beauty as well as a noble enthusiasm of patriotism. 
 
 Thanking thee for sending it, I am very truly thy friend, 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 Amesbury, July 7, 1882. 
 
 296 Beacon Street, July 2, 1882. 
 
 My Dear Mr. O’Reilly : 
 
 I have never thanked you for your spirited and patriotic poem, which 
 was indeed worthy of the occasion. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 215 
 
 All I have done was to send you a lecture which you need not ac- 
 knowledge, above all, need not feel it your duty to read. 
 
 I am thankful that you are with us as a representative American- 
 ized Irishman. 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 O. W. Holmes. 
 
 O’Reilly’s prediction of the consequence of coercion in 
 Ireland was literally verified. Early in March, Secretary 
 Forster had made the foolish threat, “ When outrages 
 cease the suspects will be released.” The “outrages,” 
 usually the most trifling of technical offenses, such as 
 whistling ‘ ‘ Harvey Duff ’ ’ and other treasonable airs, did 
 not cease ; there was nobody, their leaders being in jail, to 
 repress the discontent of the people. Unfortunately for 
 the Irish cause, the inflamed people, hunted and harassed 
 by the petty tyranny of constables and magistrates, were 
 driven into secret conspiracy, the result of which was the 
 awful tragedy of the Phoenix Park murders. Before that 
 dire crime was committed, Gladstone had recognized the 
 futility of his coercive policy, and ordered the release of 
 Parnell, Dillon, and O’ Kelly. They were set free on the 2d 
 of May, 1882. Lord-Lieutenant Cowper and Chief Sec- 
 retary Forster resigned their offices, Earl Spencer and Lord 
 Frederick Cavendish being respectively appointed to suc- 
 ceed them. An era of conciliation seemed to have opened ; 
 the true friends of peace rejoiced ; but there were some 
 reckless spirits to whom peace was the least welcome of con- 
 ditions. Their leader and subsequent betrayer was James 
 Carey, a man who had held the office of Town Councilor in 
 Dublin and was for a time locally prominent in the Land 
 League movement. Half a dozen desperate, unthinking 
 fanatics plotted and carried out a scheme for the murder of 
 Under- Secretary Burke, an official who had made himself 
 especially odious to the people. On the afternoon of May 
 6, the day of his installation as Chief Secretary, Lord Fred- 
 erick Cavendish, in company with Burke, left Dublin Castle 
 and walked through Phoenix Park, to the Chief Secretary’s 
 Lodge. As they were crossing the path, a common hack- 
 
216 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 car drove up, and four rough-looking fellows jumping from 
 their seats, rushed on the two men with drawn knives and 
 stabbed them to death. They then leaped upon the car 
 and drove rapidly toward Chapelizod Gate, where they dis- 
 appeared. It subsequently transpired that the assassins 
 had intended to kill only one victim, and that Lord Fred- 
 erick was murdered either to silence him, or because he had 
 defended his companion. 
 
 When the news of the crime reached America, nothing 
 was heard but horror and detestation of the act. The Irish- 
 Americans of Boston held a mass meeting in Faneuil Hall ; 
 it was called to order by Mr. P. J. Flatley, Hon. P. A. 
 Collins as chairman. O’Reilly spoke as follows : 
 
 Fellow-Citizens and Fellow-Countrymen : There is to me more 
 of sorrow in this meeting than of indignation — sorrow and grief for the 
 innocent hearts that are afflicted by the murderous blows of these 
 assassins, and these include every Irish heart that throbs in Ireland to- 
 day. The hearts and hands of the Irish people are innocent of this 
 crime. There is not an Irish mark upon it. There is no indication 
 here of hot Irish blood — of the sudden unpremeditated blow of passion 
 — of the hasty vengeance which ever marks the awful presence of 
 bloodshed in Ireland. No Irishman ever killed his enemy with a dag- 
 ger. In all the history of the Irish people you cannot find an instance 
 in which Irishmen premeditatedly killed each other with knives or dag- 
 gers. The dagger never was and never shall be an Irishman’s weapon. 
 This assassination was coolly planned and was carried out with intellec- 
 tual precaution and cruelty. It was perpetrated within shadow of the 
 Lord-Lieutenant’s house, the Viceregal Lodge, and within a few hundred 
 yards of the Chief Constabulary barracks in Ireland. I declare here 
 to-night, and confidently appeal to the future for the verifi- 
 cation of the assertion, that the deed was not committed by the 
 Irish people. I say that it was committed by the class known as gentle- 
 men. It was perpetrated by the class whose power and livelihood were 
 threatened by the death of coercion. Who were these men ? The 
 office-holders in Dublin Castle, the paid magistrates who commanded 
 the military power, the officers of the brutal constabulary the virulent 
 “ emergency men.” These were the people to whom Lord Cavendish 
 brought the message of doom. To these men his mission said, “ Back! 
 hold off your whips and bayonets from the people ! Back with your 
 constabulary bludgeons and swords ! Your occupation, if not forever 
 gone, is to be held in abeyance.” This was the meaning of the new 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 217 
 
 policy of the office-holders and the Dublin Castle crowd. These men, 
 hereditary office-holders, thriftless, largely profligate, in danger of ab- 
 solute beggary and arrest if dismissed from office — these men, I say, 
 were the only men in Ireland whose direct interest it was to retain Co- 
 ercion, to destroy the new order of Conciliation. How could this be 
 done ? How could they achieve this purpose ? By the commission of 
 an outrage that would be laid at the door of the people. By the mur- 
 der of a high official. I say, here is a powerful motive for this awful 
 crime — the only motive to be found in all the complex elements of Irish 
 life. I say there is a charge from us against this class — a charge that 
 must be investigated and settled — and we are ready to abide by the 
 settlement. And now for a word of indignation — not as an Irishman 
 so much as an American. The infamous charge has been made by a 
 portion of the English press and the coercion agents in Ireland that 
 this assassination was traceable to the Irish people in America. I read in 
 the papers this morning that the English Minister at Washington and 
 the English Consul in Boston and other American cities had publicly 
 offered rewards in this country for information relative to this fearful 
 crime. As a citizen of Boston, I indignantly protest against this in- 
 famous implication that some of the citizens of our proud city have a 
 guilty knowledge of this horrible thing. I indignantly protest against 
 the shameful implication. It is for us Irishmen to offer rewards not in 
 this country, but among the English coercion agents in Ireland. De- 
 pend on it that the Irish people will have to buy justice in this matter. 
 The constablery will make no arrests among the official class, unless 
 urged to do so by enormous rewards. Why should they arrest men 
 and destroy their own power and prestige ? They see that this crime 
 has served their own purpose. It is for us to offer rewards, and resolve, 
 as we do here to-night, never to rest until we have hunted down these 
 assassins, and cleared the stain from the name of Ireland. 
 
 Resolutions in accordance with the spirit of this de- 
 claration were passed, and a letter was read from Wendell 
 Phillips, saying : 
 
 Boston, May 9, 1882. 
 
 Gentlemen : I am very sorry I cannot join you to-night in express- 
 ing our profound regret for the disastrous eclipse which has come over 
 Ireland’s proudest hour, and our detestation and horror for this cruel, 
 cowardly, and brutal murder. No words can adequately tell my sor- 
 row for the injury our cause has suffered or my abhorrence of this hid- 
 eous crime — a disgrace to civilization. But it is by no means clear 
 whether this black act comes from some maddened friend of Ireland or 
 is the cunning and desperate device of her worst enemies. Let us wait 
 for further evidence before we consent to believe that any Irishman 
 
218 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 has been stung, even by the intolerable wrongs of the last twenty 
 months, to such an atrocious crime. Ireland’s marvelous patience dur- 
 ing the last twenty years entitles her to the benefit of such a doubt. 
 Meanwhile, let us work patiently and earnestly to discover the real 
 state of the case. It will be ample time then to analyze the occurrence 
 and lay the blame where it belongs. 
 
 Very respectfully yours, 
 
 Wendell Phillips. 
 
 An informal meeting of well-known Irish-Americans of 
 Boston had been held on the preceding day, at which it 
 was decided to offer a reward for the arrest of the assas- 
 sins, and the following cablegram was sent to Mr. Parnell : 
 
 To Charles Stewart Parnell , House of Commons , London : 
 
 A reward of $5000 (£1000) is hereby offered by the Irishmen of Bos- 
 ton for the apprehension of the murderers, or any of them, of Lord 
 Cavendish and Mr. Burke, on Saturday, May 6. 
 
 On behalf of the Irishmen of Boston, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly, 
 Patrick A. Collins. 
 
 O’Reilly’s instincts were at fault, unfortunately, when 
 he supposed that the dastardly deed had been the work of 
 emergency men, or other Government tools. It seemed 
 incredible to him that any men of Nationalist feeling could 
 have been blindly infatuated enough to commit such a 
 crime at such a time. The patriotic papers of Ireland were 
 equally mistaken ; the crime, like the murder of President 
 Garfield a year before, was so utterly devoid of reason, 
 viewed from the Nationalist standpoint, that the theory of 
 its perpetration by emergency men seemed the only one 
 conceivable. England’s response was the immediate pas- 
 sage of a coercion law, although Mr. Gladstone himself had 
 said two days after the tragedy, “ The object of this black 
 act is plainly to arouse indignant passions, and embitter 
 the relations between Great Britain and Ireland.” Michael 
 Davitt, who had been released conditionally, after fifteen 
 months of imprisonment without trial, offered to go to Ire- 
 land and do whatever he could “ to further the peaceful 
 doctrines I have always advocated,” and received as his 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 219 
 
 only reply from Sir William Yernon Harcourt, “ The 
 Queen will not accord a full pardon to Michael Davitt.” 
 The following July Mr. Gladstone carried his warfare 
 on the Irish members to the extent of expelling Mr. Par- 
 nell and twenty-three others from the House of Commons, 
 because they had “obstructed” the passage of his Co- 
 ercion bill. The act was prearranged and the victims 
 singled out. One of them at least, Mr. O’Donnell, had 
 been absent from the House all night, and was therefore 
 absolutely innocent of the alleged offense. Sir Lyon Play- 
 fair, when challenged to show in what way Mr. Parnell had 
 obstructed the proceedings, said: “I admit, Mr. Parnell, 
 that you have not obstructed the bill, or spoken much dur- 
 ing its progress, but you belong to the party ; I have 
 therefore considered myself entitled to include you in the 
 suspension.” The Coercion bill was one of the most atro- 
 cious ever passed, even by the English Parliament ; one of 
 its clauses gave power to a judge, without a jury, to pass 
 sentence of death on any person or persons for writing or 
 speaking what he (the judge) might be pleased to consider 
 treason. Mr. Gladstone sought to have some slight modifi- 
 cation incorporated in the bill, but the Tories united with 
 the English Whigs in defeating him. O’ Reilly placed the 
 responsibility where it belonged, when he wrote : 
 
 There will be a day of reckoning for this, and when it comes England 
 shall vainly invoke the pity she so ruthlessly denies her victims now 
 in the insolence of her power. Coercion will fail as it has failed before, 
 but the spirit that dictated it will be remembered ; for it is the voice of 
 England, not of this or that party ; or, to speak more accurately, it is 
 the voice of England’s rulers. 
 
 The English may be misled by their rulers in this matter, for to-day 
 it is the peasantry of Ireland who are to be dragooned into silence. 
 To-morrow it may be those of England or Scotland. Always it is the 
 people who must be kept in their place, that their r ‘ betters ” may be 
 left in luxury and idleness. God speed the day when the people shall 
 know and take their true place ! That day will come all the sooner 
 when Englishmen and Scotchmen learn that the cause of Ireland is 
 their cause. 
 
 On July 20 the cause of Irish patriotism lost as devoted 
 
220 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 a lover as had ever lived, and sung, and literally consumed 
 her heart away in its service, Fanny Parnell, sister of the 
 Home Rule leader. Nearly a year previously she had 
 written her greatest verse, prophetic in its spirit, entitled 
 “After Death.” O’Reilly, who had been her warm friend, 
 wrote for her his beautiful poem, “ The Dead Singer.” 
 In his paper he wrote : 
 
 There was something almost mystical in her nature and her life. 
 Like the sacred Pythoness, unlike her own slight physical self, she drew 
 her songs quivering with force and passion. Thinking of Ireland 
 made her soul so tremulous with grief, and love, and hatred of the 
 brutal hand on her country’s throat, that her body long ago began to 
 suffer from the terrible strain. Her friends warned her that she must 
 stop writing, stop thinking ; that she must go away from those who 
 talked to her of Ireland, or brought her newspapers with Irish reports. 
 She knew, too, herself, that her strength was giving way. It is not 
 quite a year ago since the poem ‘ ‘ Post Mortem ” was written. She 
 was measuring then with her soul’s eye the distance to be traveled to 
 the consummation — to Ireland free — and measuring, too, her own 
 
 strength for the journey We shall never be able to read these 
 
 lines without streaming eyes ; this unequaled picture of national love. 
 
 “Ah, the tramp of feet victorious ! I should hear them 
 ’Mid the shamrocks and the mosses. 
 
 My heart should toss within the shroud and quiver 
 As a captive dreamer tosses ; 
 
 I should turn and rend the cere clothes round me, 
 
 Giant sinews I should borrow 
 
 Crying, ‘ Oh, my brothers, I have also loved her, 
 
 In her lowliness and sorrow. 
 
 Let me join with you the jubilant procession, 
 
 Let me chant with you her story ; 
 
 Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, 
 
 Now mine eyes have seen her glory.’” 
 
 The Papyrus Club was old enough in this year to begin 
 to indulge in reminiscences. Since its foundation, in 1872, 
 it had had seven presidents, of whom one, its first and long- 
 mourned ruler, Mr. N. S. Dodge, was dead. The surviving 
 ex-presidents were Francis H. Underwood, Henry M. Rog- 
 ers, John Boyle O’Reilly, William A. Hovey, George M. 
 Towle, and Alexander Young. To these poetically styled 
 
221 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 “ veterans,” the club gave a reception and dinner on Sat- 
 urday, April 1. O’Reilly read on that occasion one of his 
 brightest humorous effusions : 
 
 TO THOSE WHO HAVE NOT YET BEEN PRESIDENT. 
 
 We who have worn the crown salute you ! Hail ! 
 
 The dawn is yours, and ours the sunset pale ; 
 
 You are the undiscovered land, while we 
 Are stubble-fields of old fertility. 
 
 We who have worn the purple! Ah, my friends, 
 
 We are the symbols of your latter ends. 
 
 We are the yesterdays ; all our glory’s scenes 
 Are pigeon-holed just o’er the might-have-beens. 
 
 We are the yellow leaves, the new year’s vows 
 Left withering, yellow, on the young spring’s brows, 
 
 Ours the glad sadness of the crown unmissed, 
 
 The rich wine drunken, the sweet kisses kissed. 
 
 Therefore, we hail you, who in turn shall wear 
 The heavy crown that left our temples bare! 
 
 You are the mine in which the gold-vein sleeps ; 
 
 You are the cloud from which the lightning leaps. 
 
 Yes, friends, this honor comes to each in time — 
 
 I see the faces changing in my rhyme, 
 
 I see the wire-strung meetings year by year, 
 
 From which in turn the chosen ones appear. 
 
 First, pushing forth like corn in August days 
 Shoots the soft cone of Babbitt’s budding bays. 
 
 Then follows one, pressed forward — modest man— 
 
 Our Sullivan — (American for Soolivari). 
 
 Two years, at least, he rules the noisy whirl 
 Ere to his chair he leads the “ Frivolous Girl.” 
 
 Then Crocker comes to rule our board with law, 
 
 And Chadwick knocks to order, with a saw. 
 
 Here Dodd presides, a lily at his throat, 
 
 Here Parker sounds his mellow Gloucester note ; 
 
 Here Howard, dusty from the Board of Trade, 
 
 Wields the deft gavel his own hands have made. 
 
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Here ‘ ‘ Rollo ” comes from Cambridge, led by Soule 
 And so they come, a long and loving roll. 
 
 Forward, like fishes to be fed, they press, 
 
 Some must be first — the last are not the less. 
 
 Down years remote the brilliant line I see, 
 
 And every face turns hitherward — ah me! 
 
 How shining baits lure man as well as maid, 
 
 How hearts will hanker for the things that fade ! 
 
 Across the coming century, thy line 
 Is stretched, Papyrus, and I see it shine 
 From that far end, while this end curtains drape, 
 For here stands Time, and winds the golden tape. 
 
 To you then, brethren, is our message sent 
 To every embryo ex-President : 
 
 “We salute you. While yet you have us here 
 Treat us full tenderly, and hold us dear. 
 
 Receive us often at the banquet gay, 
 
 For our poor cup of wine, be proud to pay. 
 
 We are your veterans, scarred on breast and brow; 
 Let us run this Club’s business — we know how.” 
 
 And when thro’ Time, — say forty years and nine,— 
 We get full fifty Presidents in line, 
 
 Behold, we can outvote the younger men ; 
 
 And we shall bind them to our service then. 
 
 In their white faces on that day we’ll shake 
 The rule and precedent that now we make ; 
 
 And we the old presiders, then shall speak, 
 
 Saying, “ Young men, receive us every week” 
 
 And they will gnash their teeth, but eke be dumb, 
 While we enjoy our soft millenmm. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 His Kindness to Young Writers — Versatile Editorial Work — Irish 
 National Affairs — Speech before the League — His Canoeing Trips 
 — A Papyrus Reunion — Death of Wendell Phillips, and O'Reilly's 
 Poem — Presidential Campaign of 1884 — “The King’s Men” — 
 Another Papyrus Poem — Touching Letter to Father Anderson. 
 
 I N December, 1882 , a promising young poet, whose life 
 was cut short in early manhood, James Berry Bensell, 
 wrote this touching sonnet to the older poet, who had given 
 him aid and encouragement : 
 
 TO JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 As when a man along piano keys 
 Trails a slow hand, and then with touch grown bold 
 Strikes pealing chords, by some great master old 
 Woven into a gem of melodies, 
 
 All full of summer and the shout of seas, — 
 
 So do thy rhythmic songs my soul enfold. 
 
 First some sweet love-note, full as it can hold 
 Of daintiness, comes like the hum of bees ; 
 
 Then, rising grandly, thou dost sound a chord 
 That rings and clamors in the heart of hearts, 
 
 And dying as receding waves, departs 
 Leaving us richer by a lusty hoard 
 Of noble thoughts. 
 
 O poet ! would that we 
 
 Might strike one note like thine — but just for thee ! 
 
 I do not know just how many poets of his own time have 
 given formal expression to the grateful love which all who 
 knew him bore toward John Boyle O’Reilly ; but among 
 those who dedicated volumes of verses to him were David 
 Proudfit (“Peleg Arkwright”), Louise Imogen Guiney, 
 and Dr. R. D. Joyce. 
 
 223 
 
224 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In January, 1883, he wrote another of his great poems, 
 challenging the inequalities and injustices of the social 
 system, “ The City Streets.” It is full of lines that fairly 
 burn with indignation against the wrongs of the helpless 
 ones. 
 
 God pity them all ! God pity the worst ! for the worst are lawless and 
 need it most. 
 
 The briefest summary of a few months of his life at this 
 period shows the marvelous versatility and working power 
 of the man. His Pilot work was more than that of the 
 mere editor, for he was also the leader and teacher of his 
 people ; not only did he gravely weigh and discuss the 
 interests of the struggling patriots at home, but he devoted 
 himself with minute zeal to the defense and advancement 
 of his fellow-exiles. It was a critical, painful period. The 
 confession of the informer, James Carey, had proved to 
 O’Reilly’s grief and chagrin, that the “ murder club” of 
 the Phoenix Park tragedy was not a fiction of Dublin 
 Castle’s imagination, nor its act the work of emergency 
 men. He wrote : 
 
 The wretched men who committed these crimes have no perception 
 of the injury they have inflicted on the cause of Ireland. The Irish 
 people throughout the world have raised voices of horror at the atro- 
 cious deed. The police murder of Irishmen and women and children 
 by English law, occurring simultaneously with the Phoenix Park 
 crimes, was forgotten. Ireland and her people, with one heart, repudi- 
 ated the assassination of the Secretaries. We ourselves refused to believe 
 that Irishmen had committed a crime so dreadful and so purposeless. 
 ****** 
 
 There is an awful lesson both for Ireland and England in the dis- 
 covery of these murderers. It is no victory for England to lay bare 
 the abominations of her own misrule. She may use the appalling fact 
 to justify still further coercion. Blind, cruel, and fatuous, will she 
 never learn that such measures cannot have other effect than to increase 
 secret retaliation ? 
 
 The lesson for Ireland is one that has been taught before. Secret 
 organization to commit violent crime is an accursed disease. It has 
 blighted Ireland, under the names of Ribbonism, Orangeism, and 
 Whiteboyism. It has blasted every country that ever resorted to it. 
 It is the poison of patriotic action. Passion and ignorance are its 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 225 
 
 parents, and its children are murder and cruel crime. The voice of 
 the Church is always against it, and the wise leaders of the people have 
 everywhere abhorred it. The country that allows it to become rife, 
 which sympathizes with its dark deeds, is not fit for freedom. Ire- 
 land has not so sympathized. 
 
 It is heroic to prepare for war with a tyrant power. Patriots will 
 always win the admiration of mankind for daring to meet the blood- 
 shed of battle for their country’s liberty. But the patriot who is will- 
 ing to go to that sacrifice will be the first to condemn the aimless and 
 secret shedding of blood in time of peace. 
 
 Since the Land League was put down in Ireland, the discontent of 
 the suffering people has had no vent. Such a state of things is always 
 full of danger. A smoldering fire only needs a breath to leap to 
 flame. There is the greater need of precaution. Irishmen must be 
 doubly patient and watchful. The moment passion becomes the guide 
 and leader, there is danger ahead, and probably disgrace and death. 
 When we knew not who committed these murders, we condemned 
 them. Now that it appears that the assassins were a few passionate 
 and desperate men, acting out their own blind fury, regardless of the 
 honor of their country, our condemnation is increased. Men who com- 
 mit crime cannot suffer and be silent as patriots can who endure for a 
 principle ; as soon as danger reaches them they become informers on 
 the men they led into the bloody business. Such men as Carey, stub- 
 born, unruly, and ferocious, are the leaders in these dark projects, and 
 they are sure to shrink from the consequences, and buy their vile lives 
 at last by the blood of their dupes. 
 
 A week later we find him writing with almost equal 
 earnestness on a subject concerning which his attitude was 
 often either ignorantly or willfully misunderstood. His 
 own words, both then, and subsequently in his great work 
 on “ Athletics and Manly Sport,” show just how O’Reilly 
 looked upon pugilism. Referring to the Sullivan-Ryan 
 prize fight at New Orleans, he said : 
 
 It is undoubtedly true that a wide and lively, if not a deep interest 
 was taken by the men of America in the fight at New Orleans, last 
 week, between Sullivan and Ryan, Every paper in the country pub- 
 lished a detailed report of the contest, even though the editorial columns 
 condemned the affair as brutal and degrading. Therefore, it is worth 
 considering why did respectable and intelligent people feel an interest 
 in so unworthy a struggle, and if there be an element of health in pugil- 
 ism, how may it be separated from the brutality and ruffianism which 
 have always characterized the English ‘ ‘ prize ring ? ” 
 
226 
 
 JOHN BOYLE 0*REILLY. 
 
 A man familiar with the “ science ” of the ring said last week that 
 the three elements of a good boxer were courage, skill, and endurance. 
 There certainly is no exercise more splendidly fitted than boxing to 
 develop these qualities ; and this being granted, the popular instinct is 
 easily explained. 
 
 But the interest of respectable men in boxing is strictly confined to 
 these elements, which may be seen and judged without beastly and 
 bloody struggles. All that is worth seeing in good boxing can best be 
 witnessed in a contest with soft gloves. Every value is called out, 
 quickness, force, precision, foresight, readiness, pluck, and endurance. 
 With these the rowdy and “rough ” are not satisfied. To please their 
 taste, they must be smeared with blood, served up with furious temper, 
 mashed features, and surrounded by a reeking and sanguinary crowd. 
 
 The prize fight with bare hands could only have been developed in 
 England. It is fit only for brutalized men. It belies and belittles real 
 skill, which has never been and never can be its test. No prize fight 
 with bare hands was ever decided on the merits of the boxing alone. 
 The end of the controversy is to “ knock the other man out.” One 
 accidental or lucky blow with the bare fist has often spoiled the chances 
 of the superior boxer, and gained the prize of his opponent. 
 
 We trust that the fight in New Orleans will be the last ever seen in 
 America without gloves. It is highly to the credit of the winning 
 man, John L. Sullivan, that he wished to fight with gloves. Months 
 ago, both men were asked to do so ; and we are glad that the better 
 man at once agreed. The other refused, casting a slur on Sullivan’s 
 courage, and it has turned out to his bitter cost. 
 
 Again he pronounces his opinion on a widely different 
 subject, that of woman suffrage, to which he was unal- 
 terably opposed, thereby bringing down upon his head 
 the following comment from The Woman's Journal: 
 
 A poem, written by Minnie Gilmore and addressed to women, has 
 appeared in the Boston Pilot. It contains the following couplet : 
 
 “We need not the poll, nor the platform ! Strong words may 
 ring out from the pen, 
 
 And leave us still shrined on our hearthstones, the ideal women 
 of men ! ” 
 
 Fifty years ago, women who wrote and published poetry were con- 
 sidered as “ Amazonian,” and as far removed from the “ ideal women 
 of men ” as the most ardent advocate of suffrage is to-day. The ghost 
 of Wendell Phillips and the living presence of Miss McCarthy and Mrs. 
 Parnell ought to rise up and remonstrate with Mr. Boyle O’Reilly 
 against the attitude of his paper on the woman question. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 227 
 
 O’Reilly called this rebuke “ A Blow from a Slipper,” 
 and his answer is one of the best ever given to the argu- 
 ments of the woman suffragists : 
 
 We do not surely deserve this harshness. We only agree with 
 Miss Gilmore and Mrs. Parnell, and, if we knew who Miss McCarthy 
 was, we have no doubt that we should agree with her, too. 
 
 We are surprised that our e. c. should say so wild a thing as that a 
 woman-poet of fifty years ago was looked upon as an unsexed creature. 
 We need not go into details ; the names of a score of brilliant women, 
 in English literature alone, arise without call to smile down the asser- 
 tion. 
 
 We sincerely respect the women who are leading the suffrage move- 
 ment ; but our respect is for the purity and beauty of their characters 
 and lives, and not for their social or political judgment. As socialists, 
 they do not think scientifically or philosophically. As pleaders, they 
 fly to special arguments, and shirk, with amusing openness, the physical 
 distinction which underlies the relations of the sexes. 
 
 Miss Gilmore is right: “ the ideal women of men ” are not practical 
 politicians ; and so long as men think as they do, they never will be. 
 
 Women ought to be fully guarded by law in all rights of property, 
 labor, profession, etc. ; but, roughly stated, the voting population 
 ought to represent the fighting population. 
 
 A vote, like a law, is no good unless there is an arm behind it ; it 
 cannot be enforced. This is a shameful truth, perhaps, but it is true. 
 Women might change the world on paper ; but the men would run it 
 just the same, if they wanted to, and then we should only have the 
 law disregarded and broken, and no consequent punishment. And the 
 name of that condition is Anarchy. 
 
 Women are at once the guardians and the well-spring of the world’s 
 faith, morality, and tenderness ; and if ever they are degraded to a 
 commonplace level with men, this fine essential quality will be impaired, 
 and their weakness will have to beg and follow where now it guides 
 and controls. 
 
 Woman suffrage is an unjust, unreasonable, unspiritual abnor- 
 mality. It is a hard, undigested, tasteless, devitalized proposition. It 
 is a half-fledged, unmusical, Promethean abomination. It is a quack 
 bolus to reduce masculinity even by the obliteration of femininity. It 
 would quadruple the tongue- wh angers at a convention, without increas- 
 ing the minds capable of originating and operating legislation. It 
 would declare war on the devil and all wickedness, and leave the citi- 
 zens in shirts to do the fighting. It would injure women physically. 
 Who shall say that at all times they are equal to the excitements of 
 caucus rows, campaign slanders, briberies, inflammable speeches, torch- 
 
228 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’EEILLY. 
 
 parades, and balloting on stormy days ? How shall the poor workman’s 
 wife leave home to go to the polls ? The success of the suffrage move- 
 ment would injure women spiritually and intellectually, for they would 
 be assuming a burden though they knew themselves unable to bear it. 
 It is the sediment, not the wave of a sex. It is the antithesis of that 
 highest and sweetest mystery — conviction by submission, and conquest 
 by sacrifice. It is the 
 
 But there, there — we do not agree with the suffragists ; and we have 
 our reasons ; no use getting into a flutter over it. We want no contest 
 with women ; they are higher, truer, nobler, smaller, meaner, more 
 faithful, more frail, gentler, more envious, less philosophic, more 
 merciful — oh, far more merciful and kind and lovable and good than 
 men are. Those of them that are Catholics, are better Catholics than 
 their husbands and sons ; those who are Protestants are better Chris- 
 tians than theirs. 
 
 Women have all the necessary qualities to make good men ; but 
 they must give their time and attention to it while the men are boys. 
 If the rich ones don’t, they will have to hand their work over to poor 
 ones ; and in either case in a suffrage era voters would be kept from 
 die polls, and from the caucus, and the foul vapors and vagaries of the 
 campaign. 
 
 Fie upon it ! What do they want with a ballot they can’t defend ? 
 with a bludgeon they can’t wield ? with a flaming sword that would 
 make them scream if they once saw its naked edge and understood its 
 symbolic meaning ? 
 
 Manifold and various as his labors were, he found time 
 in June of this year to perform one more labor of love, in 
 writing a noble tribute to his friend, Wendell Phillips. It 
 took the form of a letter to the Republican of Scranton, 
 Pa. Incidentally he speaks his warm praise of the city 
 which was his home. A great city, he calls it, “ because 
 
 any day you can meet great men on its streets It 
 
 is only one year ago, it seems, although it must be four, 
 that I saw Mr. Emerson and his daughter, who was always 
 beside him, come into a liorse-car that was rather crowded. 
 There was probably not a soul on the car who did not 
 know him. And it is sweet to remember the face of the 
 great old philosopher and poet as he looked up and met 
 
 the loving and respectful eyes around him And 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes— every Bostonian knows him. 
 The wise, the witty, the many-ideaed philosopher, poet, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 229 
 
 physician, novelist, essayist, and professor ; but, best of 
 
 all, the kind, the warm heart Much as I love 
 
 Boston, I am glad I was not born in it ; for then I could 
 not brag of it to strangers ; at least not with good taste ; 
 
 being foreign born I can — and I do Boston 
 
 deserves good things, but Wendell Phillips is too good for 
 Boston just yet. The city will grow to him in time. But 
 to this day he is like an orange given to a baby — Boston 
 
 can only taste the rind of him From his first speech 
 
 in Faneuil Hall, forty-six years ago, to this day, Wendell 
 Phillips has never struck a note discordant with the rights 
 and interests of the people. And, mind you, he was born 
 and bred a class man, an aristocrat. He had the position, 
 the personal attributes, that bind men to the higher life 
 and delightful intercourse of the reserved and select. All 
 
 distinction was his But if one begins to quote from 
 
 Wendell Phillips’s speeches it becomes a kind of intoxi- 
 cation and must be abandoned.” I find the same danger 
 in attempting to quote from this masterly tribute of one 
 great man to another. It touched the great-hearted Aboli- 
 tionist, who replied : 
 
 June 18 , 1888 . 
 
 My Dear O’Reilly: 
 
 What shall I say for all these pleasant things your kindness 
 has made you write about me ? 
 
 If I were younger, I would fall back on what Windham said to old 
 Sam Johnson’s praise, “ to be remembered not as having deserved it, 
 but that I may.” 
 
 Three score and ten, though, cannot indulge in much hope of 
 improvement, even with such gracious stimulus. 
 
 The thing I can frankly say is, how glad I am that you thought of 
 bringing in the old letter of 1882 ; I very much like to have my word go 
 on record with the rest of you against Gladstone and Bright. 
 
 But this is so far from being the first time you have brought me into 
 your debt that I may as well stop trying to pay. 
 
 Yours cordially, 
 
 Wendell Phillips. 
 
 u The old letter of 1882,” to which he refers, was one 
 written by him to express his horror at the murder of 
 
230 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Cavendish and Burke, the keynote of which was the 
 characteristic declaration: “Othello was deeply guilty; 
 but the devilish Iago who crazed him was more guilty 
 still.” 
 
 There had been a recurrence of the dynamite outrages 
 in London during the month of March. Several men were 
 arrested, — some probably guilty, many certainly innocent. 
 “Why does not the Pilot sternly denounce the dreadful 
 Irish dynamite policy?” asked a correspondent, and 
 O’Reilly answered that he was tired of “sternly de- 
 nouncing,” especially when his denunciations were used 
 to justify and intensify the still more dreadful English 
 policies applied to Ireland. He continued : 
 
 Where are the men who always denounced violence and could do 
 it more effectively than any other ? Where is Michael Davitt to-day, 
 that his voice is not heard ? Where is T. M. Healy, one of the best 
 Irish representatives ? Where is Timothy Harrington, M.P. for West- 
 meath, a man whose word was respected throughout Ireland ? 
 
 These men are all in English prisons, treated like dogs, compelled 
 to perform the lowest servile labor, herded with criminals and “pun- 
 ished ” with days of bread and water for protesting against the “dread- 
 ful ” outrages perpetrated on them, and through them on the nation 
 they represent. 
 
 We are sick of denouncing our own people. The English papers 
 threaten a race war against the Irish in England. Bah ! let them try 
 it. There are a million English and their friends in Ireland who are 
 dearer to the English Government than the two or three million Irish 
 in England. If retaliation is going to be legitimized, and necks are 
 going to be wrung on either side, Ireland has a decided advantage. 
 
 But we do not believe the English “ people” are so bitterly stirred 
 up against the Irish for their agitation nor even for their loudest pro- 
 tests. The English aristocracy are just brainless enough to attempt to 
 ferment passionate divisions among the races. But they will only 
 bring sorrow on their own heads. 
 
 For a dozen years past, we have done our share of ‘ ‘ denouncing ” 
 violence ; and we have always been in earnest. We have tried to gener- 
 ate a public Irish- American sentiment of conservative and moral agita- 
 tion. What good has been done by it ? Every indication of quietude 
 on the Irish side has been seized on by the English as a sign of yielding. 
 Coercion on top of coercion has been the answer to Irish mildness. 
 
 Irishmen of the conservative and moral-force idea have had the 
 leading word for years ; and the response of England has been, and is, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 231 
 
 the most wicked, destructive, and “dreadful policy” she has ever 
 pursued toward Ireland. 
 
 England has made O’Donovan Rossa and all the rest of the dyna- 
 miters, and now she must make the best of them. We refuse to help 
 her by any more “ denunciation.” When she had Rossa chained like 
 a wild beast in the dark cells of Millbank and Portland she was sowing 
 the seeds of the dreadful “policy of dynamite ” that scares her now for 
 her palaces. 
 
 She is sowing similar seed to-day. She will reap the harvest of the 
 hatred and despair she is planting in the hearts of unjustly imprisoned 
 men like Davitt, Healy, Harrington, and Quinn. 
 
 A convention of the Irish National League of America, 
 the greatest of its kind ever held in this country, took 
 place at Philadelphia, on April 25, nearly twelve hundred 
 delegates being present, representing all the States and 
 Territories of the Union, and also the provinces of Canada. 
 O’ Reilly attended the convention unofficially ; he never 
 sought or held any office in the various national organiza- 
 tions which he supported so warmly with pen and purse. 
 He was equally averse to accepting political honors. 
 He had been offered the nomination as auditor on the 
 •Democratic ticket in Massachusetts in 1878, but declined 
 the honor. In the national election of 1888 he did accept 
 the honorary position of elector-at-large. He showed his 
 independence in politics by advocating the re-election 
 of Governor Butler, despite the secession of many Demo- 
 crats, as he had previously favored the nomination of Dr. 
 Green, for Mayor of Boston. He was not always regarded 
 as a “ safe ” man by politicians ; he had a conscience. 
 
 On the 12th of July of this year, dear to the hearts of 
 Orangemen as the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, 
 a new significance was given to the day by the Irisli-Amer- 
 icans of Massachusetts, who held their State convention in 
 Faneuil Hall. The meeting was called to order by John 
 Boyle O’ Reilly, who said, among other things : 
 
 I recognize in this meeting a symbolic and a unique purpose. 
 Twelve years ago this day, in a great American city, about this time in 
 the morning, the militia regiments were called out to protect the peace, 
 because the lives and property of the great city were in danger from an 
 
232 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 imported Irish abomination and nuisance. On that day, about this 
 hour, three regiments in New York fired on the people, and forty-four 
 persons were killed and two hundred and twenty men and women 
 were wounded. If it be asked in America, What is the National Irish 
 agitation doing, or what it has done ? I answer that, for one thing, it 
 has forever prevented the possibility of the recurrence of such a 
 dreadful and disgraceful event as that. Within a dozen years the old 
 rancor and evil blood have been obliterated from our national life, 
 and whatever we import from Ireland in the future will not be divided 
 and hateful as it has been in the past. The County Monaghan election 
 the other day saw the men who were opposed to each other in New 
 York twelve years ago go to the polls to vote for the national candi- 
 date as brothers. The selection of this day is symbolic. On the 12th 
 of July, it used to be the English custom to inflame the religious divi- 
 sions invented by themselves, to show they ruled us by our differ- 
 ences. For hundreds of years they kept up the inflammation ; but the 
 old wound is cured forever. 
 
 It may be asked why hundreds of business men should leave their 
 own business to come to this great American Hall, whose very walls 
 are holy with traditions of liberty; it may be wondered that hundreds 
 of business men should come here to this busy center, with the markets 
 roaring outside the windows, to discuss Irish politics. I say, if we 
 came here only for Irish purposes we should have no business in 
 Farieuil Hall— but we have come here for great American and humani- 
 tarian purposes. We have come here to prevent the repetition of such 
 a scene of shame as that which happened in New York on the 12th of 
 July, 1871; to prevent such an iniquity as that of importing paupers 
 from the Irish subject country; to destroy the wicked and ruinous 
 drain on the finances of the people of this country, which are sent 
 every year to fill the pockets of the rack-renting landlords of Ireland ; 
 and to take such measures as are best calculated to win to our cause 
 our fellow-citizens and the entire American race. We can do this 
 by appealing to the justice and to the intelligence of our fellow- 
 citizens. It will be our first duty to prevent American citizens 
 from misunderstanding the purposes of the Irish National move- 
 ment, and from believing the misrepresentations of the English papers 
 and their agents in this country. It is our duty to make it known to 
 America that the National League is based on a reverence for law and 
 order, and we hope to win for our cause the conscientious conviction 
 of every good man in America, no matter of what race. 
 
 The old intolerant spirit which had found expression in 
 the shibboleth, “No Irish need apply,” was not yet quite 
 dead in Massachusetts ; indeed, it had rather become inten- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 233 
 
 sified this year by the fact that the Irish- Americans had 
 so generally supported Governor Butler. There were two 
 or three conspicuous instances in which O’Reilly’s direct 
 interference prevented the perpetration of rank injustice. 
 One of these was the case of a child, daughter of a poor 
 Irish woman, whom a rich business man attempted to steal 
 from her mother under the legal fiction of “ adoption.” A 
 society, which should have protected the mother in her 
 rights, used its influence to aid the wrong. The law itself 
 was invoked and misused. As a last resort, some friends 
 of the mother laid the case before the editor of the Pilot , 
 who investigated the matter personally, and compelled the 
 charitable society and the rich man whose claim it had sup- 
 ported, to recede from their iniquitous attempt, and restore 
 the child to its mother. There were other cases, many of 
 them, which cannot be rehearsed without inflicting needless 
 punishment upon those who had perpetrated the acts of in- 
 tolerance, only to repent when called to account before 
 the informal court of justice which was held in the Pilot 
 editorial room. 
 
 O’Reilly made his first extended canoe cruise in July of 
 this year. During the previous summer he had made a 
 short trip down the Merrimac River, from Lawrence to New- 
 buryport, Mass., thence through Plum Island and Anis- 
 quam rivers to Gloucester. Previous to that his boating 
 had all been done in an outrigger on the Charles River. 
 The canoe, unquestionably the most delightful of all pleas- 
 ure craft, won his instant admiration. With his friend 
 Dr. Guiteras, he started for the headwaters of the Connec- 
 ticut River, on the 15th of July, 1883. They had made 
 their preparations for a long and enjoyable voyage down to 
 the mouth of the river ; but they had not reckoned on the 
 timber rafts, whose peculiarities he humorously describes 
 in the account of his trip incorporated in his book of Ath- 
 letics. The day after his departure from Boston, I received 
 the following laconic telegram : 
 
 Spilled. Send two double paddles to Holyoke, first express, Don’t 
 mention. 
 
234 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Nobody, on this side of the water, has ever written such 
 charming books about this charming sport as O’Reilly. 
 English readers had learned something of its delights 
 through the pleasant books of Mr. MacGregor, and Robert 
 Louis Stevenson’s incomparable ‘‘Inland Voyage” has 
 made the sport immortal ^n literature. O’Reilly’s enjoy- 
 ment of canoeing was almost as intensely mental as physi- 
 cal. There only was he absolutely free ; away from all 
 the stifling conventionalities of life ; divested of profes- 
 sional cares ; joyful in the simplest of raiment ; more joyful 
 yet when he could shed even that for hours, swimming be- 
 hind his canoe, or, as he called it, “coasting ” down the long 
 stretch of swift-running water ; sleeping on the softest of 
 all beds, the mossy carpet of a pine grove ; basking 
 bareheaded in the sun, half a day at a stretch, letting the 
 tense nerves relax, and the overworked brain lie fallow ; 
 drinking in the pure air of the glorious country ; 
 living, in short, for a brief, sweet hour, the natural life 
 which all sane men love. There is no other joy in life 
 equal to this ; neither honor, nor fame, nor riches ; for to a 
 properly constituted mind there is pleasure even in its dis- 
 comforts. This, perhaps, needs a qualification ; the pleas- 
 ure is found only by those to whom the joys are a rare 
 luxury. 
 
 O’Reilly canoed the Merrimac, the Connecticut, the 
 Delaware, the Susquehanna, and the wild depths of the 
 Dismal Swamp. He wrote of his adventures with what 
 some thought poetic exaggeration ; but this was an injus- 
 tice. All canoeists feel the same delight, according to 
 their capacity for feeling ; but he had the gift of express- 
 ing it. 
 
 His Papyrus Club had another red-letter night in this 
 year, when the ex-presidents held a memorial festival at 
 the old place of its birth, Park’s Tavern, on Saturday, May 
 19. O’Reilly read a poem, which he entitled “ Alexander 
 Young’s Feast,” beginning: 
 
 Why are we here, we graybeards ? what is this ? 
 
 What Faust among us brings this old-time bliss, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 235 
 
 This dish of dear old memories long gone by, 
 
 And sets it here before us, — like that pie, 
 
 That dainty dish whose every blackbird sings. 
 
 Ah me ! It minds us we have all been kings. 
 
 After some mock-heroic references to the Papyrian 
 dynasty, he continues : 
 
 Aye, aye, we wander ! we are garrulous grown ! 
 How strange — in Billy Park’s — we eight alone — 
 (“ Alone ” is Irish for no more, to-night ; 
 
 ’Tis better to be Irish than be right.) 
 
 “All are here,” he says ; then, as if remembering for 
 the first time their well-beloved first president, Dodge, he 
 says : 
 
 Hush ! One 
 
 Is absent, — he the merriest, he the youngest. Where 
 Is that dear friend who filled this empty chair ? 
 
 One vacant place ! Alas, the years have sped ! 
 
 That gulf was bridged with rainbow and ’tis fled. 
 
 Ah, boys, we can’t go back ! that chair forbids— 
 
 But to his memory now, with brimming lids, 
 
 We drink a toast, — “May he with genii dwell ! ” 
 And when we go may we be loved as well. 
 ****** 
 We have been generals, — what is now our style I 
 Old stagers we to form new rank and file ; 
 
 Or have we any meaning, but to meet, 
 
 Like ancient villagers, with tottering feet, 
 
 Who love to sit together in the sun, 
 
 With senile gossip till their day is done ? 
 
 And so the verses run on, through good-humored non- 
 sense and banter, all of a personal character, and ‘ ‘ not 
 intended for publication,” winding up with an absurd 
 transition to plain prose. 
 
 On Friday, January 18, 1884, John Edward Kelly, one 
 of the Hougoumont political convicts, died in the City 
 Hospital, Boston, in the prime of his manhood. He was 
 one of the Irish Protestants who had fought bravely in the 
 brief Fenian uprising. A native of Kinsale, Ireland, he 
 had emigrated with his parents to Nova Scotia in early 
 youth, and, while still a lad, came to Boston. In 1863 he 
 
236 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 connected himself with the Fenian movement in that city, 
 and three years later went over to Ireland and, together 
 with Peter O’ Neil Crowley and Captain McClure, headed 
 the revolt in the County Limerick. He and his two asso- 
 ciates were at last surrounded by three hundred English 
 soldiers in Kilclooney Wood, where Crowley was shot dead 
 and the two others made prisoners. . He was tried for high 
 treason and received the barbarous sentence, which only 
 one civilized country had retained on its statute books, — 
 “ to be hanged, drawn, and quartered,” — which meant to 
 be drawn on a hurdle to the gallows, to be hanged, but 
 not “ hanged to death.” The half -strangled man was to 
 be cut down, disemboweled, and his entrails burned while 
 he was yet alive, after which he was to be beheaded and 
 his body cut into quarters. Kelly’s sentence was com- 
 muted to life imprisonment, and he was sent with the other 
 political prisoners to Western Australia. The hardships 
 which he had to endure while working in the road-parties 
 of the penal settlement broke down his health, and in 
 March, 1871, he and other political prisoners were set free. 
 The National League of Boston erected a monument, in the 
 shape of an Irish round tower, over liis grave in Mt. Hope 
 Cemetery, and formally dedicated it on November 23, 1885. 
 O’Reilly delivered one of his noblest orations on that 
 occasion, the full text of which will be found elsewhere in 
 this volume. 
 
 The death of Wendell Phillips, on Saturday evening, 
 February 2, 1884, was a personal bereavement to O’Reilly. 
 As the death of the Fenian hero, Kelly, was to evoke one 
 of O’Reilly’s greatest orations, so that of Wendell Phillips 
 became the inspiration of a poem so full of tender feeling 
 and noble eulogy as to rank among the best of its kind in 
 the language. He wrote it within six hours. It came from 
 his brain, or rather from his heart, full-formed and per- 
 fect, so that he made scarcely a single change in republish- 
 ing it with his last collection. 
 
 The poem received well-merited i>raise from critics who 
 had not unlearned the Id-fashioned principle of deeming 
 
237 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 the poetic thought more valuable than its verbal clothing. 
 Whittier wrote : 
 
 Danvers, February 7, 1884. 
 
 Dear Friend : 
 
 I heartily thank thee for thy noble verse on Wendell Phillips. It 
 is worthy of the great orator. 
 
 Thine truly, 
 
 John G. Whittier. 
 
 Geo. W. Cable, the great Southern novelist, sent him 
 his meed of praise from : 
 
 Hartford, Conn., February 11, 1884. 
 
 My Dear Mr. O’Reilly : 
 
 I am confined to a sick chamber, and for the most of the time to my 
 bed, though daily recovering ; but I cannot refrain from writing you 
 to thank you for and to congratulate you on your superb poem on 
 Wendell Phillips. I had the pleasure to see it this morning copied in 
 the Hartford Courant and read it to Mark Twain, who was at my bed- 
 side, — or rather whom I called from the next room to my bedside to 
 hear it. Once, while I was reading it, he made an actual outcry of 
 admiration, and again and again interjected his commendations. I am 
 proud to know the man who wrote it ; he can quit now, his lasting 
 fame is assured.* 
 
 I must stop this letter — have not much head as yet. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Geo. W. Cable. 
 
 Judge Chamberlain, the scholarly librarian of the Boston 
 Public Library, wrote at a later date : 
 
 Of “Wendell Phillips” I had formed a high opinion. The copy — 
 a newspaper cutting — is ever by my side. The more I see it the more 
 I think it a great poem. 
 
 It is an interesting fact that only one of Phillips’s mar- 
 velous lectures had ever been fully written out. That was 
 in its author’s opinion “the best he could do,” — his great 
 tribute to Daniel O’ Connell. He gave the manuscript of it 
 to O’ Reilly, in 1875, immediately after its delivery at the 
 O’Connell Centenary celebration in Boston. Perhaps the 
 
 * The asterisk refers to the following foot-note : “ Doubtless it was assured 
 before, but this poem will always shoot above your usual work like the great 
 spire in the cathedral town.” 
 
238 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 most remarkable tribute, in its way, paid to O’Reilly’s 
 poem on Phillips, was the invitation gravely extended to 
 him by the city government of Boston to write another 
 poem on the same subject for the memorial services held 
 by the city in the following April ! 
 
 A great mass meeting of Irish- Americans was held in 
 the Boston Theater on Sunday evening, February 17, 1884, 
 to hear an address from John E. Redmond, M.P. for New 
 Ross, County Wexford. Rev. P. A. McKenna, of Hudson, 
 Mass., opened the meeting and introduced John Boyle 
 O’Reilly as chairman, who commenced his address by 
 saying : 
 
 I am compelled to remember that the last time an Irish member of 
 the English Parliament addressed a Boston audience, an illustrious 
 man filled the place that I now occupy, —a man of true heart and elo- 
 quent lips, whom we looked upon dead in Faneuil Hall the other day. 
 We laid flowers beside his beautiful dead face that evening ; but from 
 this, the first great meeting of Irish-Americans since his death, we can 
 take another tribute and lay it on his grave in the Granary burial- 
 ground, an offering that will be richer and sweeter than floral tributes — 
 our love, our sorrow, and our gratitude. You remember, when he 
 addressed the leader of the Irish National party on a Boston platform 
 a few years ago, how he impressively said : “I have come to see the 
 man who has made John Bull listen.” 
 
 One man needs men behind him to make John Bull listen, and 
 Parnell has had a few men — but all of them true men and young men — 
 from the beginning of his national agitation. A great man has said, 
 “Give me nine young men and I will make or unmake an empire.” 
 Parnell has had less than nine men at a time, rarely more than twice 
 nine, but they were all young men. Ireland is now showing the world 
 that her young men cannot only lead regiments, but compel senates. 
 It is remarkable that never before in the history of nations has there 
 been a great political national agitation, a great intellectual movement 
 against an oppressive government, impelled and controlled by young 
 men. It is a wonderful thing that hardly a single man who leads or is 
 foremost in the movement of the Irish National party has yet seen 
 forty years, and many of them have not seen thirty years. An easy 
 task, it may be said, they have undertaken ; but not so. They have 
 undertaken a task of ultimate statesmanship — that of winning with the 
 minority, and they have won. Ireland has learned the golden lesson 
 that what she lacks in the weight of her sword, she must put into 
 its temper. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 239 
 
 The presidential campaign this year was conducted 
 with more than common vigor on both sides. The Repub- 
 lican National Convention, held at Chicago early in June, 
 had nominated Blaine and Logan. O’Reilly warmly advo- 
 cated the selection by the Democrats of General Butler as 
 the head of their ticket. Mr. Blaine’s popularity with 
 Irish-Americans, though much overrated, was strong 
 enough, as it seemed to O’Reilly, to make the nomination 
 of any Democrat, not especially popular with that element, 
 a dangerous thing for the party. Grover Cleveland had 
 given offense to many people while Governor of New 
 York ; heliad made powerful enemies in the local Demo- 
 cratic organizations ; it was feared they would take their 
 revenge should he be made the party’s candidate in the 
 general election. O’Reilly’s preference was for Butler or 
 Bayard, the latter statesman not having as yet appeared 
 on any stage large enough to display his own littleness. 
 The Convention nominated Cleveland, whereupon O’Reilly, 
 who had opposed his selection up to the last moment, and 
 still thought it an unwise one, accepted the situation 
 frankly and loyally, saying : 
 
 We opposed the nomination of Cleveland, the candidate ; we shall 
 faithfully and earnestly work for the election of Cleveland, the Demo- 
 cratic standard bearer. 
 
 The Democratic principle is the Democratic party ; and this is 
 infinitely greater than the men it selects or rejects. It involves much 
 more than the personal likes or dislikes of individuals. Not the 
 interests of present men alone, but the future of American liberty is 
 bound up with the preservation of the Democratic party. Those who 
 
 wish to abide by its principles must not follow wandering fires 
 
 To the dissatisfied ones we say, as we have said to ourselves : “ Look 
 round and see where you are going if you leave the Democratic 
 fold.” 
 
 If his political prescience had been at fault, as it assur- 
 edly was in the case of Mr. Bayard, his party fealty was 
 firm and sincere. He combated the efforts of Mr. Blaine’s 
 supporters to capture the “ Irish vote” by representing 
 that statesman in the role of “ a friend to an Irishman.” 
 Mr. Blaine’s besetting sin of indecision helped as much as 
 
240 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 anything else to avert the threatened stampede of Irish 
 voters and insured his defeat at almost the last moment, 
 when he did not dare rebuke the bigoted minister Bur- 
 chard for his famous utterance concerning “ Rum, Roman- 
 ism, and Rebellion.” 
 
 Courage, moral and physical, was never lacking in the 
 make-up of John Boyle O’Reilly. He had conscientiously 
 opposed the nomination of Mr. Cleveland ; he as conscien- 
 tiously supported the nomination when made, and, as we 
 shall see, no critic was more severe or outspoken in de- 
 nouncing the mistakes and faults of Mr. Cleveland’s admin- 
 istration. That which he wrote in the middle of the cam- 
 paign of 1884 is a good explanation of why Irish-Americans 
 are mainly Democrats in politics. The question of race had 
 not been introduced into the contest by him nor by the 
 Democratic party ; but as the issue had been raised, 
 O’Reilly justly defended the party to which his country- 
 men owed gratitude for past friendship. 
 
 “ Irish-Americans have been Democrats,” he said, “not 
 by chance, but by good judgment. Tried in the fires of 
 foreign tyranny, their instincts as well as their historical 
 knowledge of Jeffersonian Democracy, led them to the 
 American party that expressed and supported the true 
 principles of Republican Government. Experience has 
 shown them that their selection was good. Every assault 
 on their rights as citizens in this country has come from the 
 Republican party and its predecessors in opposition, and in 
 all these assaults the Democracy has been their shield and 
 vindication We do not want to see Irish-Ameri- 
 
 cans all on one side ; but we want to see them following 
 principles and not will-o’-the-wisps. We want to see them 
 conscientiously and intelligently right, whichever side they 
 take.” 
 
 Intelligent Democrats everywhere admitted that to John 
 Boyle O’Reilly and Hon. Patrick A. Collins was due the 
 frustration of a very able attempt to turn Irish- American 
 voters to the Republican party. 
 
 The regular Irish National League Convention was held 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 241 
 
 in Faneuil Hall, on August 13, President Alexander Sul- 
 livan, of Chicago, presiding. Two Irish parliamentary 
 delegates, Thomas Sexton and William E. Redmond, were 
 present, both at the convention and at the monster meeting 
 held on the 15th in the hall of the New England Manufac- 
 turers’ Institute, where nearly 20,000 people assembled. 
 O’ Reilly took an active but unofficial part in the organiza- 
 tion of both meetings. Patrick Egan was elected to suc- 
 ceed Mr. Sullivan as President of the League. 
 
 In the same month appeared a curious novel, from which 
 I have quoted in the account of his prison life at Dartmoor, 
 “ The King’s Men,” written by four authors, John Boyle 
 O’Reilly, Robert Grant, Frederic J. Stimson (“ J. S. of 
 Dale”), and John T. Wheelwright. The authors received 
 $5000 for the work, which was said to have increased the 
 circulation of the Boston Globe , in which it appeared seri- 
 ally, to the extent of thirty thousand subscribers. The 
 book was a literary curiosity, but so well had the several 
 authors done their parts that a reader, not in the secret, 
 would have failed to perceive that it was not all the work 
 of a single writer. It was published in book form by 
 Charles Scribner & Sons, of New York. 
 
 Another of the delightful poems, unpolished and unpre- 
 tentious, with which he used to entertain the Papyrus 
 Club, was read at its regular meeting, on October 4 of 
 this year. It is entitled u The Fierce Light,” and refers, 
 of course, to that which beats upon the throne of Pa- 
 pyrus. 
 
 THE FIERCE LIGHT. 
 
 A town there was, and lo ! it had a Club— 
 
 A special set, each hubhier than the Hub ; 
 
 Selection’s own survival of the fit, 
 
 As rubies gleam ere gathered from the pit, 
 
 These rare ones shone amid the outer horde 
 
 Till picked and gathered for the club’s bright board. 
 
 Oh ! but they made a nosegay for the soul, 
 
 Tied with a silken by-law, knit by Towle. 
 
242 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’kEILLY. 
 
 ’Twould do you good with spiritual nose 
 To sniff the odor of the psychic rose, 
 Historic musk, and philosophic pea, 
 
 Poetic pansy, legal rosemary ; 
 
 To smell the sweet infusion, pills and paint, 
 And law, and music, shaded with a taint 
 Of science, politics, and trade. 
 
 And so 
 
 It came to pass, they could no longer go, 
 
 Until from out their brilliant rank was led 
 A man to stand as capstone, ruler, head. 
 
 They cast their eyes around to choose them one , 
 
 But closed them quick, as they had seen the sun. 
 
 The faces of their fellow-members blazed 
 
 Till none could look, but all stood blind and dazed, 
 
 With thoughtful brows and introverted eyes ; 
 
 And thus it was that each one in surprise, 
 
 Beheld himself the center of his sight, 
 
 And wrote his own proud name from left to right 
 Across his ballot, even as one inspired. 
 
 Then came the count of votes ; a clerk was hired 
 To sort the ballots, while the members sat 
 In silent hope, each heart going pit a-pat ; 
 
 Swift worked that clerk till all his work was done, 
 Then called the vote : each member there had one ! 
 
 They thanked each other for the compliment, 
 
 While round the room their gloomy looks were sent. 
 They knew that now a choice of one must come ; 
 They asked for names ; but all the crowd was dumb. 
 At last one said : ‘ ‘ Let' s take no other test , 
 
 But vote for him whom each one loves the best ! ” 
 
 A moment later were the ballots cast : 
 
 Each wrote one name e’en swifter than the last ; 
 
 The votes were counted, sorted, and the clerk 
 Was seen to smile when closing up his work. 
 
 “ One name alone,” he cried, “ has here been sent. 
 And N. S. Dodge is your first president ! ” 
 
 Lord ! how we cheered him, and how he cheered too, 
 The kindly soul — the childlike and the true ; 
 
243 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 The loving heart that fed the merry eye, 
 
 The genial wit whose well ran never dry. 
 
 Lord ! how he ruled us with an iron rod 
 That melted into laughter with his nod ! 
 
 Just hear him scold that ribald songster’s note, 
 
 With fun all beaming from his dear “ club coat,” 
 
 Just see the smiling thunder on his brow 
 At some persistent rebel. Hear him: “ Now 
 This club must come to order. Boys, for shame ! 
 
 I say there, Pascoe ! I shall call your name. ” 
 
 Oh, dear old friend ! Death could not take away 
 The fragrant memory of that happy day ! 
 
 We speak not sadly, when we speak of you : 
 
 Nay, rather smile, as you would have us do. 
 
 We think you do not quite forget us here ; 
 
 We feel to-night your kindred spirit near, 
 
 We pray “ God rest you, loving soul ! ” and pray 
 Such love to have when we have passed away. 
 
 Old joys, no doubt, are magnified through tears 
 But God be with those unpretentious years ! 
 
 Fast spins the top ! That golden time outran 
 Too swift, too soon. And now another man 
 To head the board must from the board be drawn. 
 
 Oh, varied choice ! Some vote for brain, some brawn ; 
 Some, skill to rule ; some, eloquence to speak ; 
 
 Some, moral excellence, some, zeal ; some, cheek : 
 That one an artist wants — a poet, this ; 
 
 And each proposal met with cheer and hiss — 
 
 Till from the table rose a sightly head, 
 
 A Jove-like dignity, white beard outspread. 
 
 He spoke for hours — an d while he spoke they wrote, 
 Their choice unanimous — he got the vote ! 
 
 Dear Underwood ! they chose him for his beard : 
 
 He ruled for years, and each year more endeared. 
 
 Then came another gulf without a bridge : 
 
 And who shall stretch from annual ridge to ridge ? 
 
 A sound was heard — the Club with searching stare 
 Beheld a figure standing on a chair : 
 
 ’Twas Rogers — Henry M. ; well posed he stood, 
 
 Head bent, lips pursed, — a studious attitude. 
 
244 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 No word was said ; but each man wrote his name, 
 And hailed him President with loud acclaim. 
 
 He stepped him down: “You know me like a book,” 
 He said, “ I am the friend of Joseph Cook ! ” 
 
 While Rogers reigned the club climbed high in air; 
 Then paused to help O’Reilly fill the chair. 
 
 Selected he for neither gift nor grace, 
 
 But just a make-shift for the vacant place. 
 
 Twelve months the club considered then its choice, 
 And, like a trained Calliope, one voice 
 Announced that Alexander Young was Mayor ; 
 They chose him for his grave, benignant air : 
 
 “We want historians ! ” they proudly said : 
 
 “ The Netherlands,” by Young, they had not read, 
 Nor had he writ ; but their prophetic rage, 
 
 Could see the writing in him, every page ! 
 
 Then grew they weary of the serious minds, 
 
 As children long for candy’s varied kinds. 
 
 They cried: We want a man to please the eye; 
 
 A sensuous, soft, mellifluent harmony ! ” 
 
 And all eyes centered with direct accord 
 On Towle, the gentle wrangler of the board. 
 
 He swayed the gavel with a graceful pose 
 And wore a wreath of sweet poetic prose. 
 
 Wide swings the pendulum in one brief year : 
 
 The fickle-hearted Club cries : ‘ ‘ Bring us here 
 A man who knows not poetry nor prose ; 
 
 Nor art nor grace, yet all these graceful knows ; 
 Bring us a brusque, rude gentleman of parts ! ” 
 
 They brought in Hovey, who won all their hearts. 
 
 Next year, the Club said : “Now, we cannot choose; 
 Goodness, we’ve had, and beauty, and the muse ; 
 Religion’s friend and Holland’s guardian, too : 
 
 Go — nominate — we know not what to do.” 
 
 And forth they brought a man, and cried : “Behold! 
 A balanced virtue, neither young nor old ; 
 
 A pure negation, scientific, cold — 
 
 Yet not too cold — caloric, just enough — 
 
 Simple and pure in soul, yet up to snuff. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 245 
 
 In mind and body, — doctor, artist, wit, 
 
 Author and politician, — he, and she, and it! ” 
 “Enough ! ” they shouted : “ Harris, take the bun ! ” 
 And all were sorry when his year was done. 
 
 Then with the confidence of years and looks, 
 
 The Club cried gayly : “ We’ve had lots of books, 
 
 And beards, and piety, and science. Now — 
 
 We want a ruler with ambrosial brow — 
 
 A jovial tra-la-la ! A debonnaire — 
 
 A handsome blue-eyed boy with yellow hair ! ” 
 
 And forth stepped Babbitt, with a little laugh, 
 
 And blushed to feel the gavel’s rounded staff. 
 
 He scored a high success — a fairy’s wand, 
 
 The bright good nature of our handsome blonde. 
 
 And then the Club cried : ‘ ‘ Go ; we make no test. 
 They all are fit to rule. Give us a rest ! ” 
 
 So went they out, committee-like, to find 
 A likely candidate with restful mind. 
 
 They found him, weeping, hand on graceful hip, 
 Because a fly had bit a lily’s lip. 
 
 They cheered him up, and bade him lift his eye : 
 
 “ Nay, nay,” he said, “I look not at the sky 
 On un aesthetic week-days ! Go your way ; 
 
 I seek a plaintive soul ! Alack and well-a-day ! ” 
 
 They heard no more, but seized him as a prize, 
 
 And bore him club wards, heeding not his cries. 
 Behold him now still looking in his glass, 
 Narcissus-like, not Bacchus ; and, “Alas!” 
 
 He sighs betimes, 1 1 1 would my lady were 
 Sitting with me upon this weary chair ! ” 
 
 And so we fill the album and the mind 
 With jokes all simple, faces true and kind. 
 
 And so the years go on and we grow old ; 
 
 These are our pleasant tales to be retold. 
 
 These in our little life will have large place, 
 
 And fool is he who wipes out jest or face. 
 
 Men love too seldom in their three-score years, 
 
 And each must bear his burden, dry his tears; 
 
 But when the harvest smiles, let us be wise 
 And garner friends and flowery memories. 
 
246 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In the antnmn of this year the exiled poet enjoyed a 
 welcome visit from Father Anderson, of Drogheda, a typi- 
 cal Irish patriot priest. On the latter’s return to Ireland, 
 O’Reilly wrote him the following tender and touching 
 letter : 
 
 November 7, 1884. 
 
 Dear Father Anderson: 
 
 God speed you on your home voyage. I am glad I have met you, 
 and I hope to meet you again. I may never go to Drogheda, but I send 
 my love to the very fields and trees along the Boyne from Drogheda 
 to Slane. Some time, for my sake, go out to Dowth, alone , and go up 
 on the moat, and look across the Boyne, over to Rossnaree to the Hill 
 of Tara; and turn eyes all round from Tara to New Grange, and 
 Knowth, and Slane, and Mellifont, and Oldbridge, and you will see 
 there the pictures that I carry forever in my brain and heart— vivid as 
 the last day I looked on them. If you go into the old grave-yard at 
 Dowth, you will find my initials cut on a stone on the wall of the old 
 church. Let me draw you a diagram. (Here follows a diagram of 
 church, with place marked.) This is from the side of the church 
 nearest the Boyne. I remember cutting “ J. B. O’R .” on a stone, with 
 a nail, thirty years ago. I should like to be buried just under that spot ; 
 and, please God, perhaps I may be. God bless you. Good-by! 
 Fidelity to the old cause has its pains ; but it has its rewards, too — the 
 love and trust of Irishmen everywhere. You have learned this, and 
 you have it. I will send you photographs of all my girls when you 
 get home. Always tell me what you want done in America and 
 it shall be done if it be in my power. 
 
 I am faithfully yours, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 Rev. J. A. Anderson, O.S.A. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 O’Reilly’s Case in the House of Commons— Refused Permission to Visit 
 Canada— Slander about ‘ ‘ Breaking* Parole ” Refuted— A Charac- 
 teristic Letter in 1869 — His Editorial “Is it Too Late ? ’’—Bayard, 
 Lowell, and Phelps — Another Speech in Faneuil Hall — Hanging of 
 Riel — “ Jn Bohemia ” — Farewell Poem to Underwood — “ Hanged, 
 Drawn, and Quartered.” 
 
 T HE case of the “ self -amnestied ” convict became the 
 subject of diplomatic correspondence and parliamen- 
 tary discussion in the winter of 1884-85. The circum- 
 stances were as follows : In December, 1884, O’ Reilly was 
 
 invited to deliver an oration in Ottawa, Canada, on the 
 following St. Patrick’s Day, being assured of protection 
 from arrest in that part of her Majesty’s Dominions. The 
 assurance, though verbal, was doubtless sincere and valid, 
 so far as the Dominion authorities were concerned, but 
 how far it would go in protecting him from the Imperial 
 Government, should anybody choose to denounce him as 
 an escaped convict, was very uncertain. He, consequently, 
 declined the invitation, but sent the letter to Secretary of 
 State Frelinghuysen, asking if his citizenship would pro- 
 tect him from arrest, in case he went to Canada. Mr. 
 Frelinghuysen offered to send the question to the Eng- 
 lish Government through Minister Lowell. O’ Reilly then 
 Avrote to Mr. Sexton, M.P., acquainting him with his ac- 
 tion, and asking his advice and that of the other Irish 
 Nationalist members. They advised him to write his 
 request directly to the English Home Secretary, alluding, 
 of course, to the action of the American Secretary of 
 State. This he did ; and the matter rested for several 
 weeks. 
 
 847 
 
248 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 Meanwhile the St. Patrick Society of Montreal, through 
 its President, Mr. D. Barry, had sent a deputation to 
 Ottawa, to interview the members of the Government. 
 Their report showed that Sir Alexander Campbell, the 
 Minister of Justice, and Sir John A. Macdonald, the 
 Premier, saw no reason why O’Reilly should not visit 
 Canada. They promised that the Government would take 
 no action against him. On receipt of the news, O’ Reilly 
 accepted the invitation to speak in Montreal on St. 
 Patrick’s Day. 
 
 Subsequently, however, he received the following reply 
 to his letter to the English Home Secretary : 
 
 Secretary of State, Home Department, 
 
 Whitehall, January 29, 1885. 
 
 Sir : With reference to your letter of the 19tli inst., asking per- 
 mission to visit Canada, England and Ireland, I am directed by the 
 Secretary of State to inform you that he has already received an appli- 
 cation to a like effect from the American Minister, to which he has 
 replied that having regard to the circumstances of your case he cannot 
 accede to the request. 
 
 I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 Godfrey Lushington. 
 
 Mr. J. B. O'Reilly, Pilot Editorial Rooms , Boston , Mass. 
 
 The following is the official dispatch sent by Minister 
 Lowell to Secretary Frelinghuysen : 
 
 Legation of the United States, 
 
 London, January 29, 1885. 
 
 Sir : Referring to your instruction, No. 1046, of December 16 
 last, I have the honor to acquaint you that immediately after its recep- 
 tion I went to see Lord Granville, and inquired formally, as directed 
 by you, whether this Government would molest Mr. J. B. O’Reilly, in 
 the event of his entering the British Dominions. Lord Granville 
 promised to bring the matter before the Home Secretary, and to send 
 me an answer as soon as possible. 
 
 I have just received his Lordship’s reply to my inquiry, and lose no 
 time in transmitting to you a copy of same herewith. Yon will observe 
 that the British Government do not feel justified in allowing Mr. 
 O’Reilly to visit the British Dominions. 
 
 I have the honor to be, etc., 
 
 J. R. Lowell, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 249 
 
 Lord Granville’s letter to Minister Lowell was as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 Foreign Office, January 27, 1885. 
 
 Sir : I referred to Her Majesty’s Secretary for the Home Depart- 
 
 ment the request which you made to me personally when calling’ at 
 this office on the 9th inst., in favor of Boyle O’Reilly, one of the per- 
 sons convicted for complicity in the Fenian Rebellion of 1866. 
 
 I have now the honor to acquaint you that a reply has been received 
 from Sir W. Y. Harcourt, in which he states that application had 
 already been made from other quarters on behalf of O’Reilly, which 
 had been refused, and, having regard to the circumstances of the case, 
 he regrets that your request is one which cannot safely be granted. 
 
 I have the honor to be, etc., 
 
 Granville. 
 
 In February, 1885, Mr. T. Harrington, M.P., intro- 
 duced a petition in the British Parliament asking amnesty 
 for James Stephens and John Boyle O’Reilly. The petition 
 was supported by Mr. Sexton in an able speech. He called 
 attention to the fact that not only had every civilian, sen- 
 tenced at the same time as O’Reilly, been released, but 
 every military offender had also secured his liberty ; that 
 many civilians had been set free on condition they should 
 never return to the Queen’s Dominions, while similar con- 
 ditions had not been imposed upon the military offenders. 
 Whatever else might be alleged, he said, it could not be 
 maintained that there was any moral distinction between 
 the case of John Boyle O’Reilly and those members of the 
 British army tried, convicted, and sentenced at the same 
 time : 
 
 There was, however, one point of difference. When Mr. Boyle 
 O’Reilly had endured some part of his sentence of penal servitude, he 
 escaped from the penal settlement in Australia. His escape was accom- 
 plished under circumstances of daring which attracted very general 
 sympathy. The right honorable gentleman (Sir W. Harcourt) smiled, 
 but he would try to escape himself. Mr. O’Reilly made his way to the 
 coast of Australia with the help of some devoted friends ; he put out to 
 sea in an open boat, floated alone upon the surface of the ocean for three 
 days and three nights, then had the good fortune to be taken on board 
 an American ship, and, under the shelter of the American flag, he 
 made good his escape to the United States. With regard to the smile of 
 
250 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 the Home Secretary, he (Mr. Sexton) asked whether it was not a univer- 
 sal principle that a man suffering a sentence of penal servitude would 
 make an effort to escape ? If by any conceivable turn of fortune the 
 Home Secretary came to suffer penal servitude himself, would he not 
 make an attempt to escape ? He (the Home Secretary) might have 
 shown as much ingenuity as Mr. Boyle O’Reilly, but it was doubtful if 
 he would have shown as much courage. 
 
 Sir William Harcourt. — I should have been shot by the sentries. 
 
 Mr. Sexton. — If Mr. Boyle O’Reilly was shot they would not have 
 been considering his case. The point was that his guilt was not in- 
 creased by his effort to escape. Mr. Boyle O’Reilly, whom he had the 
 pleasure to meet lately at Boston, was a gentleman of very high per- 
 sonal qualities and of the rarest intellectual gifts, and during the years 
 of his residence in America he had made such good use of his powers that 
 he now filled the position of co-proprietor with the Archbishop of Boston 
 and some other prelates, of one of the most important journals in the 
 United States. Mr. O’Reilly was one of the most influential men in the 
 State of Massachusetts, and one of the most honored citizens in 
 the United States, and might long ago have occupied a seat in Con- 
 gress if he could have spared from his literary labors, and the duties of 
 journalism, the time to devote himself to public life in that capacity. 
 He (Mr. Sexton) might go so far as to say that one of the English 
 gentlemen who met him lately in Boston, Sir Lyon Playfair, who oc- 
 cupied the position of chairman of the Ways and Means Committee of 
 this House, was so impressed with the personal qualities and gifts of 
 Mr. O’Reilly that he was one of the gentlemen who pressed upon the 
 British Government the propriety and the duty of extending to Mr. 
 Boyle O’Reilly the terms freely given to the men convicted under sim- 
 ilar conditions. In December last, the Irish residents of the city of 
 Ottawa, intending to hold a celebration on St. Patrick’s Day, invited 
 Mr. Boyle O’Reilly to join them. The celebration of St. Patrick’s Day 
 was held in so much respect that it was the custom for the Parliament 
 of the Dominion to adjourn on St. Patrick’s Day, so as to allow the 
 members of Parliament of Irish birth or sympathy to attend the cele- 
 bration. Mr. O’Reilly replied to the invitation that he did not feel at 
 liberty to accept it, in consequence of the uncertainty which he felt of 
 what the action of the British Government might be toward him. He 
 put himself into communication with the American Secretary on the 
 matter, and such was the sense entertained by the American Secretary 
 of the position of Mr. Boyle O’Reilly that he put himself into commu- 
 nication with the American Minister in London, who had an interview 
 with Lord Granville, and on the part of his government put the matter 
 before the Queen’s Minister in due form. At this stage the matter 
 dropped for some time, and he (Mr. Sexton) received a letter from Mr. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 251 
 
 O’Reilly informing him what had been done and asking his advice. 
 He (Mr. Sexton) conceived that the case was one in which the Govern- 
 ment would have no hesitation in granting the request. The interest 
 of the Government so clearly lay in wiping out any violent or vindic- 
 tive memories of the time of Mr. O’Reilly’s trial, that he had no doubt 
 that the case was one in which there was no necessity for diplomatic 
 circumlocution, and he advised Mr. O’Reilly to address himself directly 
 to the Home Secretary if the application to the American Minister did 
 not immediately result in a satisfactory decision. The interview of the 
 American Minister with Lord Granville took place on January 9, 
 and on the 29th Lord Granville’s decision was communicated 
 to those concerned. Lord Granville wrote: “Your request is one 
 
 that cannot safely be granted.” Mr. O’Reilly was a public politician in 
 America, who freely and frankly expressed, in the press and on the 
 platform, his opinions on the Irish political question, and on any other 
 question that came within the range of his duty, and his public position 
 alone would surely be a sufficient security for his conduct. The first 
 error the Government committed in the matter was that through vin- 
 dictiveness against a man because he happened, nearly twenty years 
 ago, to escape from their custody, they had refused a request made in 
 true diplomatic form by the Minister of a great government with which 
 they claim to be on friendly terms. He was bound to describe that as 
 a gross diplomatic error. Mr. Lowell, the American Minister, in his 
 letter to the American Secretary, said : “The British Government do 
 not feel justified in allowing Mr. O’Reilly to visit the British Do- 
 minions.” Whereas the Foreign Secretary appeared to believe that the 
 safety of the realm was concerned with the question of whether Mr. 
 O’Reilly went to Canada, the American Minister appeared to think that 
 Lord Granville thought there was some moral objection. What was 
 the language of the Home Secretary himself ? He wrote on the 29th of 
 January, to Mr. Boyle O’Reilly’s application, saying that he had already 
 received a like application from the American Minister, and had replied 
 that having regard to the circumstances of the case he could not ac- 
 cede to his request. Here it was not a question of the safety of 
 the realm, or of moral justification, but merely the word of 
 the right honorable gentleman. Meanwhile, what was happening in 
 America in the interval between Mr. O’Reilly’s application and the 
 reply of the right honorable gentleman? The Irish residents of Mon- 
 treal gave an invitation to Mr. O’Reilly to visit them, and Mr. O’Reilly 
 replied that he would be unable to go, in consequence of the action of 
 the British Government. Thereupon the Irish residents sent a deputa- 
 tion to the Government of Canada, at Ottawa, and upon their return 
 made a public report that Sir A. Campbell, the Minister of Justice, 
 and Sir John Macdonald, the Premier, saw no reason why Mr. 
 
252 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 O’Reilly should not visit Canada. Did the right honorable gentleman 
 know more about Canada than its Premier and its Minister of Justice ? 
 One Government decided in one way, and the other in a different way. 
 Which decision was right? A constitutional question of the gravest im- 
 port was involved. If a Canadian Government allowed a man to visit the 
 Dominion, did the Home Secretary mean to say that the Home Gov- 
 ernment could interfere ? Then, again, the prerogative of the Crown 
 in England was the prerogative of mercy. The Crown sometimes in- 
 terfered for the purpose of releasing a man, but it was new to him (Mr. 
 Sexton) that the Crown should interfere to imprison a man whom 
 the right honorable gentleman and the Government had determined not 
 to molest. The right honorable gentleman betrayed an indifferent 
 knowledge of the correspondence of his own department. Here was a 
 letter signed “Godfrey Lushington,” and dated the 29th of January, 
 which said that the Home Secretary had received an application, but 
 could not accede to the request. 
 
 Sir Wm. Harcourt. — I could not give him leave to go to Canada. 
 
 Mr. Sexton. — But the right honorable gentleman has assumed to 
 himself the right tp refuse leave. His (Mr. Sexton’s) object was not to 
 appeal on behalf of Mr. O’Reilly, who would probably never repeat his 
 request — indeed , it was doubtful if he would now accept the permission 
 if it were offered to him. He (Mr. Sexton) wished to protest against the 
 course which the Home Secretary had pursued, and to point out to the 
 Government that they 'were exposing themselves to ridicule and con- 
 tempt throughout America. They were worse than the Bourbons, for 
 they learnt nothing, forgot nothing, and forgave nothing. He would 
 ask the right honorable gentleman for his decision on the constitutional 
 question. 
 
 Sir Wm. Harcourt said that he had never heard of O’Reilly before, 
 and his case certainly could not be dealt with in any exceptional way. 
 The case had come before him as that of a man who had committed the 
 offense known as “ prison breach,” and he could only deal with it on 
 the ordinary line of prison discipline. He (the Home Secretary) had 
 not interfered with the Government of Canada. O’Reilly might be a 
 very much respected and distinguished person, but that would not pre- 
 vent him from being, in regard to his offense, dealt with as any other 
 prisoner. 
 
 Mr. T. P. O’Connor said that in politics there was nothing so good 
 in the long run as a forgivingtemper, but the Home Secretary, after an 
 interval of twenty years since the conviction of Mr. O’Reilly, could 
 only speak of that gentleman’s case in so far as it concerned “ prison 
 discipline.” The member for Stockport, in bringing forward his plea 
 for the establishment of a court of criminal appeal, had not supported 
 his arguments by reference to any Irish cases, though there were many 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 253 
 
 that would have served his purpose much better than those English 
 ones of which he had availed himself. The honorable gentleman had 
 gone back to some very ancient cases, but he need not have looked 
 further than a case which was only six or twelve months old, namely, 
 that of Bryan Kilmartin. He might have pointed out as an argument 
 for his court of appeal, that though this man was quite innocent of the 
 offense with which he was charged, he was allowed by the Lord Lieu- 
 tenant to remain under an atrocious and undeserved stigma. Alluding 
 to the treatment of Irish political prisoners, the honorable member said 
 that it was the treatment which was largely responsible for the main- 
 tenance of that temper between the two races which was such a con- 
 stant cause of alarm. The Home Secretary had said that he knew 
 nothing of Mr. O’Reilly. Well, the right honorable gentleman was the 
 only educated man in the world who did not know that gentleman. He 
 heard derisive cheers, but right honorable gentlemen opposite should 
 recollect the proviso that he had made. He had said the right honor- 
 able gentleman was the only “ educated ” man. Mr. O’Reilly was one of 
 the best known, most respected, and most eminent citizens of the United 
 States. He (Mr. O’Connor) complained of Mr. O’Reilly being con- 
 stantly referred to as “ O’Reilly.” It was the tone of insolence, of arro- 
 gance, of mean and snobbish contemptuousness which in a great meas- 
 ure accounted for the acrimony which unfortunately characterized 
 Irish discussions in that house. The Home Secretary would live in 
 history, but what would be thought of him, the honorable member, if he 
 were constantly to describe the right honorable gentleman as “ Har- 
 court,” or as “ William Harcourt,” or as “ the man Historicus.” Then, 
 with reference to the right honorable gentleman’s observations on 
 prison breach, he complained again of that style of speech. Would the 
 Ambassador of the United States interest himself on behalf of a com- 
 mon burglar ? This was a diplomatic question in which a great govern- 
 ment addressed another great government, and the attempt of the right 
 honorable gentleman to reduce it to the contemptible proportions of a 
 common law matter was really not worthy of him. In conclusion he 
 said it would do no harm to any great government to show that it 
 could forget and forgive offenses. As a colleague of the right honor- 
 able member for Midlothian he (Mr. O’Connor) would ask the Home 
 Secretary to remember that but for men like John Boyle O’Reilly 
 Liberal governments would not have had the glory of passing measures 
 for the benefit of Ireland. If the application should be renewed, he 
 hoped that the right honorable gentleman would have learned to have 
 some regard for the feelings of Irishmen, and some admiration for 
 those who had done and suffered in their country’s cause. These sen- 
 timents animated all governments and all peoples, except in the single 
 melancholy instance of the demeanor of England toward Ireland. 
 
254 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY, 
 
 Mr. Harrington had included O’Reilly’s name with that 
 of Stephens in the petition for amnesty, at the request of 
 the Drogheda National League, but when that body, 
 through its executive, communicated the fact of its petition 
 to O’Reilly in the previous December, he had at once tele- 
 graphed back, “ Kindly withdraw my name.” 
 
 The debate in the House of Commons attracted much 
 attention on both sides of the ocean. Sir William Vernon 
 Harcourt’s reference to his escape as a crime of prison 
 breach, seems to have furnished the very flimsy foundation 
 for a slander which, in keeping with its character, did not 
 find voice until the subject of it was dead ; it was that in 
 escaping from the penal settlement as he did, O’Reilly 
 broke his “ parole.” Searching inquiry has failed to dis- 
 cover anybody willing to stand sponsor to the lie ; but the 
 nameless and fatherless foundling was received on terms of 
 social equality by some in whom envy or prejudice out- 
 weighed respect for the dead. They did not stop to 
 inquire into the inherent absurdity of the statement that a 
 criminal convict, for that was O’Reilly’s status in the eyes 
 of the British law, would have been likely to be put upon 
 his word of honor not to effect his escape. Such a pre- 
 posterous charge should be sufficiently answered by the 
 negative evidence that there is no corroborative testi- 
 mony supporting it. Happily, however, there are those 
 living who, of all men, are best qualified to speak posi- 
 tively on the question. They are honorable men whose 
 word will not be doubted by men of honor ; men of the 
 other kind it is not necessary to address. In reply to a 
 direct question on the subject, Captain Henry C. Hath- 
 away, of New Bedford, Mass., the rescuer of O’Reilly, 
 writes : 
 
 New Bedford, November 11 , 1890 . 
 
 Dear Friend Roche : 
 
 Yours at hand and noted, and in answer will state that the people 
 who are talking against my dear old departed friend, John Boyle 
 O’Reilly, were either strangers to him, or else through jealousy or 
 cowardice seek for means to destroy the reputation of a man against 
 whom, while living, they could not or did not dare to utter such a 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 255 
 
 charge. O’Reilly was a true and a brave man ; this I have always said 
 of him while living, and now that he is dead I say the same without 
 fear ; for no one, in my judgment, can point his finger to a mean act 
 that he ever did. Perhaps no one in America knew him (outside of 
 his own immediate family) better than I. We roomed seven long 
 months together on board the good old bark Gazelle ; we had every 
 confidence in each other, and would stake our lives for each other. 
 The story of his escape, he often told me, was that he used to deal out 
 provisions to the chain-gang ; he never was on parole. This he told 
 me, and it was so, for John Boyle O’Reilly never lied to me. 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 Henry C. Hathaway. 
 
 The other witness writes in equal indignation against 
 the slanderers, and specifically refutes the slander itself. 
 It is the priest, Rev. Patrick McCabe, through whose good 
 services O’ Reilly made his escape. Father McCabe is now 
 a resident of the United States ; his letter is as follows : 
 
 St. Mary, Wasseca County, Minn., 
 
 November 19, 1890. 
 
 My Dear Mr. Roche : 
 
 I have your letter of the 6th inst. Absence from home prevented an 
 earlier reply. John Boyle O’Reilly never broke his parole, never hav- 
 ing one to break. Prom the day that he landed from the convict ship 
 Hougoumont, in Fremantle, up to the day of his escape from Bunbury, 
 he had been under strict surveillance, and was looked upon as a very 
 dangerous man and treated as such. No man living knows this better 
 than I do. Silence the vile wretch that dares to slander the name of 
 our dear departed friend, and you will have my blessing. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 P. McCabe. 
 
 As illustrating the character of the young fugitive from 
 British justice, I will here introduce a letter (received since 
 the first chapters of this book went to press), written by 
 him to an Irish paper at a time when he was in danger of 
 recapture ; and when his chief fear was lest the generous 
 American who had befriended him might never be repaid 
 for that kindness : 
 
 Island of Ascension, August 27, 1869. 
 
 To the Editor of the ‘ ‘ Irishman ” : 
 
 Dear Sir : I doubt not that your readers will be glad to hear thai 
 one of their countrymen who had the honor to suffer for Ireland, had 
 
256 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 also the good fortune to escape from his Western Australian prison 
 and the terrible perspective of twenty years’ imprisonment. 
 
 On the 18 th of February I escaped, seized a boat and went to sea, 
 but had to return to land in the morning. I then lived in the “ bush ” 
 for some time, and eventually put to sea again, and before long was 
 picked up by an American whaler. The captain knew who and what 
 I was, and installed me as a cabin passenger, and as he was on a six 
 months’ cruise for whales, I remained on board for that time, and 
 every day had a fresh instance of his kindness, and that of the officers, 
 and all on board. I had some very close escapes from being retaken 
 when on board, but the officers determined I should not. In one Eng- 
 lish island at which we touched the governor came on board and de- 
 manded me to be given up, as he had instructions that I was on board. 
 The chief mate answered him by pointing to the “ Stars and Stripes,” 
 which floated at the “half-mast” (in sign of mourning), and said, “ I 
 know nothing of any convict named O’Reilly who escaped from New 
 Holland ; but I did know Mr. O’Reilly who was a political prisoner 
 there, and he was on board this ship, but you cannot see him — he is 
 dead.” And he was forced to be content with that. Since then I have 
 received help in money, when it was found that I could not escape 
 without it, and now, sir, I presume to ask that should anything hap- 
 pen to me, that gentleman who assisted me shall not lose his money. 
 (I give his name, but not for publication.) I know my countrymen 
 will not misconstrue my motive in writing this. T send this to Eng- 
 land by a safe means, where it will be posted for you. The captain’s 
 name is Captain David R. Gifford, Bonny Street, New Bedford, Mass. 
 I am not in his ship now. 
 
 Thanks for publishing my “Old School Clock.” * I saw it a day or 
 two since. I am making my way to America. I am hurried in writ- 
 ing. Good-by ! God speed you all at home in the good cause. 
 
 Ever truly yours, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 I am going where I am unknown and friendless. Please let me 
 have an introduction through your paper to my countrymen in 
 America. 
 
 O’R. 
 
 To return to chronological sequence, the year 1885 
 opened with a renewal of so-called dynamite outrages in 
 London. Westminster Hall, the Houses of Parliament, 
 
 * Mr. Vere Foster’s memory was evidently at fault when he reported the 
 poet as having said that he had not known of the publication until informed by 
 Mr. Foster. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 257 
 
 and the Tower of London were the three points of attack. 
 Buildings were shattered, but not a human life was lost ; 
 the dynamiters had selected a day and hour, two o’clock 
 Saturday afternoon, when few people would be likely to be 
 visiting those places. O’ Reilly thus commented on the 
 outrages : 
 
 That the explosions were intended as a warning voice is obvious 
 from the selection of places — the Tower of London, the symbol of Eng- 
 lish strength, antiquity, and pride ; the House of Commons and West- 
 minster Hall, the sacred and famous rooms of the national councils. 
 It would be easy to destroy private property or national property of 
 lesser importance ; the dockyards are accessible ; the governmental 
 offices are not difficult of entrance ; the palaces of royalty cannot be 
 guarded at every door. But all these were passed by the dynamiters as 
 of small significance, and the very heart and lungs of Britain, watched 
 and guarded and fenced round with steel and suspicion, were selected 
 as the point of attack. 
 
 The world cries out indignantly against the destroyers, the passion- 
 ate rebels against injustice who would reduce all order to chaos in their 
 furious impatience. But the world should at the same time appeal to 
 the oppressor to lighten his hand, to remember that the harvest of 
 wrong is desolation. 
 
 If England’s pride is too great to yield under compulsion, what shall 
 be said of Ireland’s pride ? Are the scourgings, exile, starvation, mis- 
 report of nearly a thousand years to be obliterated at the order of an act 
 of Parliament ? The nations that prize civilization and appreciate the 
 force and limit of human statutes should urge justice and amity on 
 England as well as Ireland. The evil cannot be stamped out ; it must 
 be soothed out by Christian gentleness and generosity. The social 
 dangers of our time can only be averted by a higher order of law. The 
 relations of men and nations must be made equitable or they will be 
 shattered by the wrath of the injured, who can so readily appeal to de- 
 structive agencies hitherto unknown. 
 
 Since the Phoenix Park assassinations England’s course in Ireland 
 has been, as before, persistently and stolidly tyrannous. The most 
 virtuous and peaceful country in Europe, by England’s own showing, 
 is ruled by armed force. Its chief governing officers are abominable 
 criminals, exposed by Irish indignation and shielded by English arro- 
 gance. The Irish population is disarmed and gagged ; popular meet- 
 ings for discussion forbidden. Paid magistrates and English police- 
 chiefs govern, instead of the natural authorities, among the people 
 themselves. The cities and towns are wasting away. The farmers on 
 the lands of English absentee landlords are bankrupt, and there are no 
 
258 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 industries on the rushing streams to employ their children. The fertile 
 country, unsurpassed in the world for natural wealth, supports a mis- 
 erable, unhappy, rebellious people, whose children are scattered in all 
 lands. 
 
 Ireland is a victim in the hands of its destroyer. While we con- 
 demn the dynamiters who trample under foot the laws of God and 
 man, we ask all who have power to speak to urge justice on the strong 
 as well as forbearance on the weak. 
 
 A few days afterward, on January 31, an Englishwoman, 
 giving the name of Yseult Dudley, called on the famous 
 “ dynamiter,” O’ Donovan Eossa, at his office in New York, 
 and professed herself anxious to help along his operations 
 against England. Meeting him by appointment the follow- 
 ing Monday, she walked with him along Chambers Street, 
 then suddenly drawing a revolver, stepped behind him, and 
 fired five shots, one of which took effect in his back. 
 When asked why she had committed the crime, she an- 
 swered, “ Because he is O’ Donovan Eossa.” The exploit 
 evoked admiration from the Englishmen who had just been 
 raving over the dynamite outrages. The London Standard 
 advised Mr. Parnell to take the shooting of Eossa well to 
 heart: “Stranger things have happened than that the 
 leader should share the fate of the subordinate.” The 
 Times compared Mrs. Dudley to Charlotte Corday. She 
 was in danger of becoming a national heroine ; but she was 
 sent to a lunatic asylum, and soon afterward released. 
 
 It was while this frenzy of race hatred was at its height 
 that O’Eeilly, always ready to speak the wise word in the 
 right time, wrote a strong appeal — u Is it Too Late % ” 
 
 The startling news from Egypt has diverted attention, for the hour, 
 from the dreadful relations fast growing between England and Ireland. 
 The madmen were at the helm a week ago, and the nations seemed to 
 be rapidly drifting into a war of races more appalling than the world 
 has ever seen, for the limits of such a conflict, should it ever come, will 
 extend round the planet, wherever there are Irishmen and English in- 
 terests. 
 
 The madmen are at the helm yet. When thirty million English 
 people wildly cheer a half insane and wholly disreputable murderess, 
 and thirty million people of Irish blood half sympathize with the des- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 259 
 
 perate lunatics who would burn down London — it is time for both sides 
 to pause. 
 
 It is time for both England and Ireland to answer this question : Is 
 it too late to be friends f 
 
 In the present hour of her calamity and grief, we say to England that 
 she can steal the exultation out of Irishmen’s hearts by granting the 
 justice that they now ask, but will soon demand, from her. A hundred 
 years ago, when she had to grant Ireland a free Parliament, the 
 position of England was not so perilous as it is now, nor had the Irish 
 people then one tenth of their present strength. 
 
 One magnanimous statesman in England, one leader with the cour- 
 age and wisdom of genius, would solidify the British Empire to-day 
 with a master stroke of politics. He would abolish the Union, and 
 leave Ireland as she stood eighty-five years ago, a happy, free, confed- 
 erated part of the Empire. 
 
 Such a policy would silence the dynamiters and radicals, satisfy and 
 gratify the Irish people throughout the world, strengthen the British 
 Empire, and make America thoroughly sympathetic. There are twenty 
 million people in the United States who as kindred feel the rise and fall 
 of the Irish barometer ; and the policy of America must largely respond 
 to their influence in the future. 
 
 It is only a question of a few years till Ireland obtains all that she 
 now asks, and more, without England’s consent. Nothing can stop the 
 wave of Irish nationality that is now moving. At the first rattle of the 
 conflict in India or Europe, Ireland’s action may mean the ruin or sal- 
 vation of the British Empire. 
 
 England may think that an offer of friendship from her would now 
 come too late. She knows her own earning in Ireland, and may well 
 doubt that her bloody hand would be taken in amity by the people she 
 has so deeply wronged. But let her offer. She is dealing with a gen- 
 erous and proud and warm-hearted race. We know the Irish people; 
 we gauge their hatred and measure their hope; and we profoundly 
 believe that the hour is not yet too late for England to disarm and con- 
 quer them by the greatness of her spirit, as she has never been able to 
 subdue them by the force of her armies. 
 
 Again, a fortnight later, he wrote, “It is not too late,” 
 expressing his belief that the people of England were even 
 more ready for the word of peace than those of Ireland, 
 only that the selfishness of their rulers stood in the way. 
 “ Send an olive branch to Ireland, Mr. Gladstone,” he said, 
 “ before it is too late. Let the end of a great life become 
 sublime in the history of Great Britain and Ireland by a 
 
260 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 deed of magnanimity and wisdom. It is not too late to win 
 Irish loyalty for a union which leaves her as free as Eng- 
 land — the only union that can satisfy Ireland and make 
 the British Empire more powerful than ever.” 
 
 England did not heed the warning of Irishmen at home 
 and in America. They asked for the bread of justice, and 
 she sent them a stone idol, His Royal Highness the Prince 
 of Wales. The answer came in the action of the Parnellite 
 members voting with the Conservatives in the House of 
 Commons on the 8th of June, and so turning the scale 
 against the Gladstonians. 
 
 O’Reilly advocated Home Rule for his adopted home as 
 vigorously as for the land of his birth. When the Legisla- 
 ture of Massachusetts in May, 1885, passed a bill taking 
 away from the city of Boston the appointment of its own 
 police, he condemned the act as a departure from the old 
 Puritan system of the town meeting, the greatest safeguard 
 
 of public representation “ Their descendants were 
 
 of the same mind ; but they are destructive, while the 
 fathers were constructive ; the men of old made the town 
 
 meeting, the men of to-day would destroy it The 
 
 Puritan element proves itself unworthy of life by attempt- 
 ing to cut its own throat ! ” This nucleus of all liberty, 
 the town meeting, he subsequently glorified in his great 
 poem at the celebration of the Landing of the Pilgrims. 
 
 Mr. Bayard, who had been appointed Secretary of State 
 by President Cleveland, was the conspicuously w T eak ele- 
 ment in the new administration. James Russell Lowell had 
 made himself obnoxious to every patriotic American by 
 utterly ignoring the rights of citizens unjustly imprisoned 
 by the British Government during his term of office as Min- 
 ister to England. On his return to America in June, he was 
 represented as having said to a newspaper interviewer : 
 “There is nothing but English blood in my veins, and I 
 have often remarked that I was just as much an Englishman 
 as they were ; ” and that he thoroughly approved of the 
 treatment given to Ireland by the Gladstone administration. 
 “We had earnestly hoped,” says O’Reilly, “to see Mr. 
 
261 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Lowell come back to America to be honored as a great 
 American poet and a man of letters ; and we now as earn- 
 estly protest against his new character of a shallow English 
 politician. We want his other self, his old self, his higher 
 self, redeemed from this weak and bastardizing influence. 
 Let him love England ; it is right that Americans of Eng- 
 lish blood should love their kindred so far as their kindred 
 deserve. But spare us the sight of a great American poet 
 singing his love for the hoary evils of English social classi- 
 fication, which true Englishmen mean to cure or cut out ; 
 and the atrocities of English misrule, which honest English- 
 men condemn and apologize for 0 Mr. Lowell, you 
 
 of all men to speak lightly of an oppressed race ! Do you 
 remember these lines addressed to the terrible sisters, ‘ Hun- 
 ger and Cold,’ and when you wrote them % 
 
 “ ‘ Let sleek statesmen temporize ; 
 
 Palsied are their shifts and lies 
 When they meet your blood-shot eyes 
 Grim and bold ; 
 
 Policy you set at naught, 
 
 In their traps you’ll not be caught, 
 
 You’re too honest to be bought, 
 
 Hunger and cold. ’ ” 
 
 The successor of Mr. Lowell in the English mission was 
 a Vermont lawyer, Mr. E. J. Phelps, who excelled the for- 
 mer in love for English institutions, and by his conduct 
 abroad succeeded in alienating a large section of the Demo- 
 cratic party from the administration. This and other ap- 
 pointments of Mr. Bayard, coupled with his singular disre- 
 gard of American interests wherever they conflicted with 
 those of England, aided largely in the defeat of President 
 Cleveland in 1888. 
 
 The death of General Grant, on July 23, called out an- 
 other fine poem by O’Reilly, who admired the simple 
 straightforward conduct of the soldier, although he had 
 frankly opposed the hero’s policy as a President. 
 
 A soldier of a very different type, and another race, died 
 in October of the same year. His title was Lord Strath- 
 
262 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 nairn, his name Hugh Rose. Rose had been a general in 
 the English army at the time of the Indian mutiny ; he was 
 subsequently commander-in-chief of the forces in Ireland, 
 at the time when O’ Reilly was a soldier in the Tenth Hus- 
 sars. Of him O’ Reilly wrote : 
 
 This was the cold-blooded wretch who adopted or originated the 
 dreadful plan of blowing the Sepoy prisoners from the mouths of 
 cannon. Thousands of brave men were thus destroyed. The deepest 
 devilishness of the thing consisted not in the horror of the death, but 
 in the fact that the Hindoos regarded such a death as barring the soul 
 from heaven forever. The process of the wholesale murder was as 
 follows, as described by eye-witnesses : A man was chained facing 
 
 the muzzle of the cannon, the mouth of the piece against the center of 
 his body ; and behind him were bound nine men, close together, all 
 facing toward the gun. At one horrible day’s slaughter, forty pieces 
 of artillery were occupied for hours. The discharge of the gun blew 
 the ten men to shreds ; and the assembled multitude of Indian 
 witnesses had an illustration of English vengeance that was calculated 
 to insure submission. 
 
 In the days of the Fenian excitement in Ireland, Sir Hugh Rose 
 was transferred from India to that country ; and in 1865, when the 
 Fenian insurrection w T as daily looked for, this military ruffian publicly 
 paraded his brutal request to be “ allowed to deal with the Irish as he 
 had dealt with the Sepoys.” Had an opportunity offered, the meaning 
 of his transfer from ravaged India would have been made as clear as 
 blood in Ireland. But he has died without this added glory, and the 
 days are fast passing when in the name of civilization such a monster 
 could be let loose on a patriotic people defending their lives and homes. 
 
 A great meeting was held in Faneuil Hall on October 
 20, in aid of the Irish Nationalist cause, Governor Robin- 
 son, Mayor O’Brien, Hon. F. 0. Prince, and several other 
 distinguished citizens making speeches. John Boyle 
 O’Reilly delivered a spirited impromptu address as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 Sir, centuries before Christopher Columbus was born, this Irish 
 cause was as vivid and as well defined as it is to-day. Speeches and 
 meetings of Irishmen at any time, for nearly a thousand years, were 
 representations of this meeting and our speeches to-night, and nothing 
 could have kept that alive in our hearts but the repeated scattering of 
 the life blood of our men over the soil of our country. We have made 
 the soil of Ii’eland fat with sacrifice, and, thank the Lord, we are seeing 
 
263 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 the harvest here. No more can the Cromwellian system be applied to 
 Ireland. Why ? Because of the expatriated millions, because of the 
 great moral and political force the Irish and their descendants have in 
 many great countries, because we are England’s enemies until she 
 makes us her friends — enemies in trade, enemies in politics, enemies in 
 social life. 
 
 If I believed, sir, that the words of Mr. Chamberlain were meant by 
 England, if I believed it to-day — and I am a citizen of America and my 
 children will be always American people — I say, if Mr. Chamberlain’s 
 words were true, that Ireland would never get what she wanted, I 
 would not only subscribe to dynamite, I would be a dynamiter. 
 
 I want to say, for my own self-respect, and for the self-respect of my 
 countrymen, that behind all their constitutional effort is the purpose to 
 fight, if they don’t get what they now ask for. 
 
 I believe now, to come down from that sort of talking to a quieter 
 sort, that our process here is purely American ; that our purpose here 
 is as purely and practically American as Irish ; and that we have here a 
 terrible reason for continuing this Irish fight in this State and over all 
 the Union, and this Boston merchant’s letter * suggests a word to me. 
 Here is a man employing hundreds of men and women, and he says 
 that nine tenths of them are Irish or Irish- Americans, and he says that 
 they have to give, sir, a large proportion of their earnings to pay rents 
 in Ireland, and save relatives there from eviction and starvation. 
 
 We complain with reason that the Chinese go back to China when 
 they save money. Ah, there is a pathetic and a terrible truth in the 
 fact that the same charge might be made against us — that we send 
 millions upon millions of American money, earned by our hard work, 
 to Ireland. We send it year after year to Ireland, to pay the landlords, 
 to save our kindred ; and it ought to be kept here ; Ireland ought to be 
 able to support herself. 
 
 There is another American reason why we should continue this 
 Irish agitation. The elements of our population are mainly in the East 
 descended from England and Ireland, and they inherit a prejudice, an 
 unfriendliness — an unnatural, artificial, ignorant antipathy on both 
 sides. That unnatural condition of distrust and dislike should cease in 
 America, and we should amalgamate into one race, one great unified, 
 self-loving American people ; but that condition will never come until 
 peace is made between the sources of the two races. Their descendants 
 in this country will always be facing each other in antagonism, dis- 
 content, and distrust, until England sits down and shakes hands freely 
 with Ireland. 
 
 Louis Kiel, tlie French-Canadian “ rebel” of the Red 
 
 *From A. Shuman, Esq., inclosing a contribution of $100. 
 
264 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 River country, was hanged at Regina, N. W. T., on No- 
 vember 16. O’Reilly, who sympathized with the half-breeds 
 in their brave resistance to injustice, and who had met Riel 
 after his first outbreak, some fifteen years previously, 
 could not believe that the Government of England would 
 be unwise enough to make a martyr of him. But when the 
 cowardly deed was done he said : 
 
 England’s enemies in Canada, the United States, and Ireland may 
 well smile at the blood-stained blunder. Forever the red line is drawn 
 between French and English in Canada. Riel will be a Canadian 
 Emmet. The Canadians needed a hero, a cause, and a hatred. They 
 have them now, and, if the people be worthy, they possess the secret and 
 the seed of a nation. 
 
 There was much virtue in that “if.” The French 
 Canadians took their only revenge by burning their ene- 
 mies in effigy, the Orangemen with equal dignity fighting 
 to prevent the harmless cremation, and all the national 
 anger seemed to have oozed out in the smoke and stench 
 of burning rags. 
 
 In March of this year O’Reilly wrote the poem, which 
 has had perhaps more admirers than any single lyric from 
 his pen, “ In Bohemia.” He first read it to his brothers of 
 the Papyrus Club, who only anticipated the verdict of all 
 readers in accepting it as the national anthem of the bound- 
 less realm of Bohemia. In the Outing magazine for Decem- 
 ber appeared his best as well as his shortest narrative poem, 
 “Ensign Epps, the Color Bearer.” The humble hero of 
 the 4 4 Battle of Flanders ’ ’ had been commemorated in 
 prose by some musty chronicler, but his fame will last as 
 long as that of the poet who has embalmed his deed in such 
 noble verse : 
 
 Where are the lessons your kinglings teach ? 
 
 And what is the text of your proud commanders ? 
 
 Out of the centuries heroes reach 
 
 With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story 
 
 Of one man’s truth and of all men’s glory, 
 
 Like Ensign Epps at the Battle of Flanders. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 265 
 
 These two, with other poems, appeared in his last col- 
 lection, to which he gave the title “ In Bohemia.” An- 
 other Papyrus president, Col. T. A. Bodge, son of the first 
 of that royal line, visited geographical Bohemia a few 
 years ago, and brought home as a trophy for the club a 
 beautiful silver salver, on which is engraved in Bohemian 
 and English characters the text, u I’d rather live in Bohe- 
 mia than in any other land.” 
 
 Another ex-president, the distinguished author, Mr. 
 Francis H. Underwood, had been appointed United States 
 Consul to Glasgow, and his departure was celebrated by 
 a dinner at “Taft’s,” in Boston Harbor, on August 5. 
 O’Reilly wrote an amusing farewell poem for the occasion, 
 of which a few extracts will show the character : 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 When men possess one secret or one creed, 
 
 Or love one land, or struggle for one need, 
 
 They draw together brotherly and human — 
 
 (Those only fly apart who love one woman). 
 
 So we, with one dear picture in our heart 
 Draw closer still with years, and grieve to part. 
 ****** 
 
 And now, old Glasgow totters to its fall, 
 
 And Underwood is called to prop the wall. 
 
 We smile to him — and we congratulate 
 The Nation that has stolen a march on Fate. 
 
 We say to him : O Brother, go ye forth, 
 
 And bear good tidings to the misty North : 
 
 Show them to write a book or taste a dish, 
 
 To sell a cargo or to cook a fish : 
 
 Teach them that scholars can be guides of trade, 
 
 When men of letters are our consuls made ; 
 
 That those who write what all acknowledge true 
 Can act as well when duty calls to do. 
 
 And when they cry with wonder: “ What a man ! ” 
 
 Answer: “ Go to ! I am no other than 
 A simple citizen from out the Hub, 
 
 A member of the quaint Papyrus Club ! ” 
 
 ****** 
 
 Some dreamer called the earth an apple — well, 
 
 The Celt dares all the cycles have to tell ; 
 
266 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 To call the globe a fruit is rash and risky ; 
 
 But if it be, its juice is Irish whisky ! 
 
 Stick well to this, old friend, and you will take 
 With graceful ease the Consul’s largest cake. 
 
 Good-by ! God speed you ! On the other side 
 We know that you will take no bastard pride 
 In aping foreign manners, but will show 
 That Democrats are Gentlemen, who know 
 Their due to others and what others owe 
 To them and to their country — that you will, 
 
 When years bring out our Mugwumps, turn your face 
 Toward home and friends to fill your old-time place 
 The same old-time Papyrus- Yankee still. 
 
 O’Reilly’s speech at the dedication of the monument to 
 J. Edward O’ Kelly, on November 23, attracted wide atten- 
 tion, and provoked a brief but spirited controversy. A 
 rash critic, who yet was not rash enough to write over his 
 own name, wrote to the Boston Herald , informing “ the 
 editor of the Pilot that long before his day the sentence 
 of hanged, drawn, and quartered was done away with ; and, 
 although it may not be a matter to be pleased about, the 
 writer can to-day say where are to be found the 4 gallows- 
 irons ’ in which hung the corpse of the last man so con- 
 demned in Great Britain. That was long before Mr. John 
 Boyle O’ Reilly became a Fenian Such an unchris- 
 
 tian style of sentence as that of the culprit being hanged, 
 drawn and quartered had ceased to exist before Mr. 
 O’Reilly was born ; and I can only say that I believe he 
 indited that epitaph for the same purpose he addressed the 
 audience at the meeting of the National Land League 
 recently, that is, to stir up dissent, if his power could do it, 
 between the two greatest countries upon the earth.” 
 
 O’Reilly replied very conclusively to this critic, who 
 had signed himself “ Mancenium ” : 
 
 To the Editor of the Herald : 
 
 A writer in your paper of to-day questions the accuracy of my defi- 
 nition of the English capital sentence for high treason. The writer is 
 evidently ignorant of the question, and is only filled with a desire to 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 267 
 
 defend England from the charge of brutality which such an execution 
 illustrates. 
 
 Allow me to give your readers some facts bearing on the matter. 
 Many Boston readers were shocked by the meaning of the sentence as 
 stated by me in a speech at Edward Kelly’s grave — a man who, in 
 1867, with other Irishmen, was convicted of “ high treason,” and sen- 
 tenced to be “ hanged, drawn, and quartered,” according to English law. 
 
 I did not state the sentence fully, I admit : I shrank from speaking 
 the words to American ears, or writing them for American eyes. The 
 whole horrible truth is dragged out now by the challenge of a zealous 
 champion. 
 
 The person adjudged guilty, by English law, of high treason for- 
 feited his property to the crown, was drawn on a hurdle to the gallows, 
 there hanged, then cut down, disemboweled, and his entrails burned 
 before life was extinct ; and the body was then beheaded and quartered. 
 
 This sentence has never been changed since it was passed and per- 
 petrated on Robert Emmet, in 1803. 
 
 In the thirtieth year of George III., when the American “rebels” 
 were guilty of high treason by wholesale, it was enacted that the exe- 
 cution for this offense might be carried out without the full perpetra- 
 tion of these enormities. But the horrors were by no means abrogated 
 or forbidden, nor were they always discontinued in practice, as we 
 shall see. 
 
 The procedure at a rebel’s execution under this sentence is briefly 
 but clearly recorded in an English official paper, the Dublin Courant, 
 published at Dublin, in 1745. Three Scottish rebels of that time were 
 executed in London. This official organ says : 
 
 “Yesterday, between eleven and twelve o’clock, the three rebels, 
 Donald McDonald, James Nicholson, and Walter Ogilvie, were drawn 
 in one sledge from the new jail in Southwark to Kennington Common. 
 Alexander McGromber, who was to have suffered with them, received, 
 the night before, a reprieve for twenty-one days. When they came to 
 the gallows they behaved with decency and composure of mind. Before 
 they were tied up, they prayed nearly an hour without any clergymen 
 attending them ; and when the halters, which were red and white, 
 were put on them and fixed to the gallows, they prayed a few minutes 
 before they were turned off. Walter Ogilvie delivered a paper to the 
 officers of the guard, though none of them spoke to the populace, but 
 referred to the accounts by them delivered. After hanging fourteen 
 minutes, Donald McDonald was cut down, and, being disemboweled, 
 his entrails were flung into the fire, and the others were served in a 
 like manner ; after which their heads and bodies were put into shells, 
 and carried back to the new jail.” 
 
 Twenty years later than the execution of these three Scottish patri- 
 
268 
 
 OHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 crts, two Irish gentlemen, relatives, one of them a Catholic priest, Rev. 
 Nicholas Sheehy, parish priest of Newcastle, Tipperary, and Edmund 
 Sheehy, were sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. On the 
 15th of March, 1766 (nine years before the Battle of Bunker Hill), 
 Father Sheehy underwent this barbarous sentence at Clonmel. The 
 head of the murdered priest was stuck on a pike and placed over the 
 porch of the old jail at Clonmel, and there it was allowed to remain 
 for twenty years (till 1786) — ten years after the declaration of American 
 independence ; till at length the dead priest’s sister was allowed to take 
 it away and bury it with his remains at Shandraghan. 
 
 On the 3d of May, in that year (1766), Edmund Sheehy, James Bux- 
 ton, and James Farrell underwent the same sentence at the town of 
 Clogheen. Some of the vile details were omitted, however. In the 
 Gentleman’s and London Magazine of May, 1766, there is an account of 
 their execution, evidently written by an eye-witness. I take this extract : 
 
 “Sheehy met his fate with the most undaunted courage, and 
 delivered his declaration (of innocence of crime) with as much com- 
 posure of mind as if he had been repeating a prayer. When this awful 
 scene was finished, they were turned off upon a signal given by Sheehy, 
 who seemed in a sort of exultation, and sprang from the car. He was 
 dead immediately. They were cut down, and the executioner severed 
 their heads from their bodies, which were delivered to their friends. 
 Sheehy left a widow and five children ; Buxton, three children ; Far- 
 rell, one.” 
 
 To prove that the barbarous sentence has long been abandoned, the 
 writer in the Herald says rashly, that “ there have been men put to 
 death,” within recent years, for “ offenses against the crown,” but they 
 were not “hanged, drawn, and quartered.” He says he can, to-day, 
 say where are to be found the “gallows irons” in which hung the 
 corpse of the last man so condemned in Great Britain. 
 
 The nameless gentleman is thinking of men who were “ hanged in 
 chains ” — a totally different sentence and execution, and for a wholly 
 different crime. 
 
 There were no “gallows irons” needed when a man was only to be 
 hanged a few minutes and then cut down and carved. Gallows irons 
 were used not to kill but to suspend the corpse, sometimes for weeks, 
 on the gallows, so that it could not be cut down by friends of the 
 criminal. This was the punishment of robbers and pirates ; but no 
 man condemned for high treason was ever “hung in chains.” Indeed, 
 no man “in his day or mine” has been put to death for high treason 
 in Great Britain or Ireland. No man in those countries received the 
 capital sentence for high treason between Robert Emmet in 1803 and 
 Edward Kelly, Gen. Thomas Francis Bourke, now of New York, and 
 other Irishmen of the revolutionary movement of 1867. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 269 
 
 In the year 1798 two Irish gentlemen, brothers, distinguished mem- 
 bers of the bar, named John and Henry Sheares, were tried for high 
 treason, and sentenced to be “ hanged, drawn, and quartered.” In the 
 Cork Evening Post , July 23, 1798, there is a graphic account of their 
 execution: On the gallows, standing hand in hand, both declared that 
 
 they had only tried to reform the oppressive laws which bound Ireland. 
 The report says : 
 
 “ After hanging about twenty minutes, they were let down into the 
 street, where the hangman separated their heads from their bodies, 
 and, taking the heads severally up, proclaimed, ‘ Behold the head of a 
 traitor ! ’ In the evening the trunks and heads were taken away in 
 two shells.” The complete enormity of the sentence, if not actually 
 omitted, is not further described in this case. 
 
 In the case of Robert Emmet the details are left out of the official 
 report, with the significant words, ‘ ‘ after hanging until he was dead, 
 the remaining part of the sentence was executed upon him.” 
 
 Between Robert Emmet and Edward Kelly the sentence for high 
 treason was never used, and never altered. 
 
 Let us see how Robert Emmet was killed. An eye-witness, Mr. 
 John Fisher, of Dublin, a well-known man, wrote the following words : 
 
 “ I saw Robert Emmet executed The execution took place at 
 
 the corner of the lane at St. Catherine’s Church, in Thomas Street, and 
 he died without a struggle. He was immediately beheaded upon a table 
 lying on the temporary scaffold. The table was then brought down to 
 market house, opposite John Street, and left there against the wall, ex- 
 posed to public view for about two days. It was a deal table, like a 
 common kitchen table.” A short time after the execution, within an 
 hour or so, Mrs. McCready, daughter of Mr. James Moore, a well 
 known Dublin citizen, in passing through that part of Thomas Street, 
 observed near the scaffold, where the blood of Robert Emmet had 
 fallen on the pavement from between the planks of the platform, some 
 dogs collected lapping up the blood. She called the attention of the 
 -soldiers, who were left to guard the scaffold, to this appalling sight. 
 The soldiers, who belonged to a Scottish highland regiment, manifested 
 their horror at it ; the dogs were chased away. “ More than one spec- 
 tator,” says Dr. Madden, repeating the words of eye-witnesses, “ap- 
 proached the scaffold when the back of the sentinel was turned to 
 it, dipped his handkerchief in the blood, and thrust it into his 
 bosom.” 
 
 The official English report of the execution of Robert Emmet, pub- 
 lished in the Dublin Freeman's Journal of September 22, 1803, says : 
 
 ‘ * After hanging until dead, the remaining part of the sentence of the 
 law was executed upon him” 
 
 If the question of these atrocities be one of humanity, and not of 
 
270 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 mere technical knowledge, I may here quote the words on another, but 
 kindred subject, of an eminent Protestant historian of Ireland, Robert 
 R. Madden, F.R.C.S. of England, M.R.I.A., etc., who is still living, 
 describing the tortures inflicted on Annie Devlin, the faithful servant 
 of Robert Emmet, to make her betray the patriot leader. Dr. Madden 
 says : ‘ ‘ Annie Devlin, the servant of Robert Emmet, was half hanged 
 from the back band of a car, the shafts being elevated for the purpose 
 of making a temporary gallows — a common contrivance of terrorists of 
 those times. The account of her sufferings I had from her own lips, 
 on the spot where those atrocities were perpetrated. When she was 
 taken down, her shoulders and the upper parts of her arms were 
 pricked with bayonets, the cicatrized marks of which I have seen 
 and felt.” 
 
 I can give, if necessary, hundreds, yea, thousands, of instances of 
 legal murder, maiming, mutilation, and torture, perpetrated by English 
 officials and their subordinates in Ireland. My object in mentioning 
 the sentence of Edward Kelly was historical and humanitarian. I 
 should expect the sympathy and indorsement of every honest man, 
 and especially of every independent and manly Englishman. In his 
 name, and the name of his race, these abominations have been com- 
 mitted by a government of aristocrats and royal rascals, who have mis- 
 used and impoverished the people of their own country as well as of 
 Ireland. The Englishman who thinks it his duty to defend or deny 
 these things must choose one of two despicable positions. 
 
 Edward Kelly, Gen. T. F. Bourke, and other Irishmen, in 1867, were 
 tried for high treason, and received exactly the same legal sentence as 
 that passed on William Orr, the brothers Sheares, Thomas Russell, 
 and Robert Emmet, in 1798 and 1803 — “to be hanged, drawn, and 
 quartered.” 
 
 In the year 1798, the following Irishmen, all of the class of gentle- 
 men, were “hanged, drawn, and quartered” for what England called 
 high treason. 
 
 I separate them according to their religious beliefs : 
 
 ESTABLISHED CHURCH. 
 
 Henry Sheares, 
 John Sheares, 
 
 Bartholomew Tone, 
 Matthew Keough, 
 
 B. B. Harvey. 
 
 PRESBYTERIANS. 
 
 William Orr, 
 
 Henry Monroe, 
 
 James Dickey, 
 
 Henry J. McCracken, 
 
 Henry Byers, 
 
 Rev. Mr. Warwick, 
 Rev. Wm. Porter, 
 Rev. Mr. Stevelly. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 271 
 
 CATHOLICS. 
 
 William M. Byrne, John McCann, 
 
 J. Esmond, M.D., 
 Walter Devereux, 
 Felix Rourke, 
 
 Col. O’Doude, 
 
 John Clinch, 
 
 Rev. Moses Kearns, 
 Rev. Mr. Redmond, 
 Rev. Mr. Prendergast, 
 
 William Byrne, 
 Esmond Ryan, 
 
 S. Barrett, 
 
 John Kelly, 
 Harvey Hay, 
 
 Rev. John Murphy, 
 Rev. P. Roche, 
 
 Rev. J. Quigley. 
 
 On the whole, I am obliged to the writer in the Herald who has 
 drawn out these facts, every one of which deserves — not the destructive 
 sentence for high treason, but its English sister monstrosity — “ to be 
 hanged in chains.” 
 
 I am respectfully yours, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 Boston, November 26, 1885. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Article in North American Review , “ At Last Address before the 
 Beacon Club of Boston — Defense of the Colored Men — The Five 
 Dollar Parliamentary Fund — “The American Citizen Soldier” — 
 “ The Cry of the Dreamer” — Another Characteristic Letter. 
 
 T HE general election in Ireland, toward the end of the 
 year 1885, resulted in the return of eighty -six Nation- 
 alist, against seventeen Tory members of Parliament from 
 that country. England, Scotland, and Wales had as yet 
 hardly begun to consider Home Rule as a practical ques- 
 tion, until it was brought home to them by this remarkable 
 expression of Ireland’s will. 
 
 To a keen observer and sanguine patriot like O’Reilly, 
 its success now seemed to be only a question of time. In 
 the North American Review for January, 1886, he wrote a 
 graphic summary of Ireland’s long struggle for nationality, 
 with a prediction of its approaching success, under the 
 heading “ At Last.” Reviewing briefly the conquest and 
 spoliation of the country by Henry the Second and his suc- 
 cessors, he showed how England, in putting the school- 
 master and the priest on -an equal felonious footing, had 
 struck at the brain and heart of the conquered people, in 
 order the better to despoil their pockets : 
 
 England had resolved to make the Irish forget that they were Irish, 
 trusting that when this had been achieved she could teach them that 
 they were in truth not Irish, but West Britons, and had never had na- 
 tional freedom, or traditions, or glory, or great men, or wise laws, or 
 famous schools, or a high civilization, and the honor of other nations, 
 but had always been a poor, broken, restless, miserable, quarrelsome 
 people, dreaming about ancient greatness that was all a lie, and about 
 future freedom and honor that were all a delusion ; and that God and 
 nature had made them, past and future, subjects to the wise, good, 
 
 272 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 273 
 
 unselfish, gentle English nation, that went about the world helping 
 weak countries to be free and civilized and Christian ! 
 
 Three hundred years ago, when Henry VIII. became a Protestant, 
 he resolved that the Irish should be Protestant, too ; and for the next 
 hundred years the reforming process never rested — the chief means 
 being the bullet, the rope, and the slave-ship. 
 
 A gentleman from Jamaica told me last year, as a curious fact, that 
 the negroes in that country used a great many Gaelic words. No won- 
 der ; about 60,000 Irish boys and girls were sold to the tobacco planters 
 of the West Indies 300 years ago, as Sir William Petty and other Eng- 
 lish historians of the time relate. 
 
 Two hundred years ago — and still the deathless fight, the Irish grow- 
 ing weaker, the English stronger. It had now become ‘ ‘ the religious 
 duty” of the Englishman to subdue the Irish “for their own sakes.” 
 Cromwell went over and slaughtered every man in the first garrisoned 
 town he captured, Drogheda. “ By God’s grace,” he wrote to the Par- 
 liament, “I believe that not one escaped,” and he added that, when the 
 officers capitulated and surrendered : “ They were knocked on the head, 
 too.” 
 
 Cromwell “ made peace and silence” in Ireland; his troopers ruled 
 the whole country for the first time. Then came an unexampled 
 atrocity in the name of ‘ ‘ civilization ” ; four fifths of the entire island, 
 every acre held by the native Irish, who were Catholics, was confis- 
 cated and handed over to Cromwell’s disbanded army. 
 
 This was the beginning of the Irish Land Question, that Michael 
 Davitt has been hammering at for years, and which he is going to see 
 settled. 
 
 A hundred years ago, Ireland was in the most deplorable condition 
 that any civilized nation ever descended to. Six centuries of a violent 
 struggle had wasted her blood, money, and resources ; her people were 
 disfranchised — no man voted in Ireland except those of the English 
 colony*. For a hundred preceding years the teacher and priest had been 
 hunted felons. There were only four million Irish altogether, and they 
 were nearly all in Ireland, friendless, voiceless, voteless, landless, 
 powerless, disarmed, disorganized, ignorant, forgotten by the world, 
 misreported and misrepresented by their rich and powerful enemy, and 
 held up in English books, newspapers, schools, at home and abroad, as 
 a race of wild, weak, witty, brave, quarrelsome, purposeless incapa- 
 bles. 
 
 But in his blood, and mud, and rags, and wretchedness, the Irish- 
 man was still unsubdued, still a free man in soul and a foeman in act. 
 The Irishman then was, as he still is, the most intense Nationalist in 
 the world. 
 
 Grattan abolished the Poyning’s Law ; and the Irish Parliament, 
 
274 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 from 1785 to 1800, made the laws for Ireland. In that time the 
 country advanced like a released giant. Lord Clare said in 1798 : 
 “No country in the world has advanced like Ireland, in trade, manu- 
 facture, and agriculture, since 1782.” 
 
 Then England began to fear the Irish revival, and the demands of 
 the English mercantile, manufacturing, and shipping classes -were 
 marvels of cowardly and jealous feeling. (See Lecky, “ Public Life in 
 England in the Eighteenth Century.”) They demanded that Ireland be 
 destroyed as a competing power. “ Make the Irish remember that they 
 are conquered, ” were the words of one petition to the English Parliament. 
 
 The rebellion of ’98 was fomented by the English Government, and 
 a fearful slaughter of fifty thousand Irishmen ensued. This was the 
 pretext wanted. The English colony in Ireland were instructed to 
 raise the cry of “ Our lives and religion in danger ! ” A majority of 
 the Anglicans who composed the ‘ ‘ Irish Parliament ” were bought off 
 by Castlereagh, who paid them, as the Irish red and black lists show, 
 nearly £3,000,000 for their votes ; and so the union with England was 
 carried. 
 
 Three years later another rebellion broke out, organized and led by 
 a Protestant gentleman, Robert Emmet, who was ‘ ‘ hanged, drawn, 
 and quartered,” and the dogs lapped his blood, as an eye-witness re- 
 lates, from the gallows-foot in Thomas Street. 
 
 Then the pall was pulled over the face of Ireland, and she lay down 
 in the ashes and abasement of her loneliness and misery. She had no 
 earthly friends ; she was weak to death from struggle, outrage, and 
 despair. Even God had apparently forgotten her in the night. 
 
 But a new voice called to her in the darkness, and she listened — 
 Daniel O’Connell, a strong man, full of courage and purpose. After 
 thirty years of agitation he won with his minority. He had trained 
 them superlatively. He won the franchise for the Catholics. 
 
 For eighteen years more he worked to get the Act of Union 
 repealed ; but England, when he touched that point, arrested and 
 imprisoned him. This stopped the agitation. The people had no 
 leader and no outside moral support. It was O’Connell and the Irish 
 people ; not the Irish people and O’Connell. 
 
 The Young Ireland party in 1848, impatient, maddened, broke into 
 premature rebellion— were crushed, condemned, banished. 
 
 Then the famine, and the swelling of the Irish emigration stream 
 into a torrent ! Thousands died on the soil, and literally millions fled 
 to other countries — to England, Scotland, America, Canada, Australia, 
 South Africa, the Argentine Republic. 
 
 Twenty years later, 1865-67, the first warning movement of the 
 exiles — Fenianism ; a marvelous crystallization of sentiment, heroism, 
 and sacrifice. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 275 
 
 Again, the abrogation of law in Ireland — the rule of the dragoon, 
 the glutted prison, the crowded emigrant fleets, the chained men on 
 convict ships ; and again, “ silence and peace in Ireland.” 
 
 England had now realized the important fact that the commercial 
 development of the Western World had placed Ireland in an objective 
 position of the highest value. She lay in the high stream of progress. 
 Her western and southern shores were indented with deep and safe 
 bays and harbors. A ship-canal from Galway to Dublin would capture 
 every ship on the Atlantic bound for Liverpool, saving two days in 
 sailing time ; and the Irish were bent on cutting such a canal. The 
 great fall of the Irish rivers was an inestimable treasure, greater 
 even than the mineral wealth of the island and the fisheries on the 
 coast. 
 
 Every ship going through an Irish canal was in danger of forget- 
 ting the southern English ports, Bristol and Southampton. Every 
 mill built on .an Irish stream would deduct from the profits of Lanca- 
 shire. Every ton of coal or other mineral dug in Ireland lowered the 
 prices in Nottingham, Sheffield, and the Black Country. If the Irish 
 farmers’ children could get work in mills and mines and shops, their 
 earnings would make their parents independent of the landlords, and 
 rents would have to be lowered. 
 
 It was clear that Ireland’s advance must be stopped, or she would 
 become a dangerous competitor and a democratic example for Great 
 Britain. 
 
 After the abortive Fenian rising, fruit of oppression’s 
 seed, followed the advent of Parnell, “fresh from Ox- 
 ford, with his cold English training, his Yankee blood, 
 and Irish patriotic traditionary feeling.” His wonderful 
 success had made it clear that England must either grant 
 Home Rule or send a new Cromwell to do the work of 
 extermination more thoroughly. But before the latter 
 could be done England would have to reckon with the 
 Irish outside of Ireland, and : 
 
 Ireland is saved by the twenty million Irish-blooded Americans ; by 
 the five million Irish and their descendants in England, Scotland, and 
 Wales; by the vast numbers of Irish sympathizers in Australia, New 
 Zealand, Canada, and other countries. It would be highly dangerous 
 to slaughter the kindred of such a people. 
 
 It is not likely that Ireland will gain much from the coming Parlia- 
 ment. The Parliament cannot last long ; it is too evenly balanced. 
 Besides, England has not yet realized that Home Rule for Ireland is 
 
276 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 inevitable. It will take three years to vaccinate her with the idea and 
 allow it to “ take ! ” 
 
 In conclusion, lie said : 
 
 There are three stages in specific reform— agitation, controversy, 
 and legislation. The Irish have passed through the first, and are enter- 
 ing the second. 
 
 Parnell, with fifteen or twenty votes, was not a power ; he was only 
 a voice, an emphasis, an appeal. He was an agitational influence. 
 With eighty-six votes he is a controversial force. “ He has compelled 
 John Bull to listen,” as Wendell Phillips said of him. 
 
 In 1889, I predict, the legislative stage of the Irish question will 
 have arrived; and the union with England, which shall then have 
 cursed Ireland for nine tenths of a century, will be repealed. 
 
 Ere this article had appeared, the London Times, in its 
 issue of Christmas Eve, advised the alternative of a Crom- 
 wellian policy, the expulsion of the Irish members from 
 Parliament, and the proclamation of martial law in Ireland. 
 O’Reilly commented : 
 
 There are classes in England that remember nothing and learn 
 nothing. But the bloody experiment of Cromwell, which failed, must 
 never be tried again. Forty millions of men solemnly declare that 
 IT— MUST— NOT — BE— TRIED— AGAIN. 
 
 Ireland has won by England’s own laws : and now if England 
 trample on her own laws, and outrage Ireland with violence and law- 
 lessness, she is a revolutionist and a criminal, to be treated by the Irish 
 as a pirate and robber on land and sea. 
 
 Cromwell had to deal with less than four million Irishmen, who 
 were all in Ireland. Gladstone has to deal with five millions in Ireland, 
 five millions in Great Britain, and thirty millions elsewhere. 
 
 Let martial law be proclaimed in Ireland, and at once the Irish in 
 America, Canada, and Australia are a solid body in retaliation. Their 
 vast organizations would merge into one tremendous will, to boycott 
 everything English. 
 
 * ***** 
 
 If to martial law and disfranchisement be added imprisonment and 
 murder of the people in Ireland, England will surely find a violent 
 answer from Irishmen. She will not be allowed to break all laws of 
 God and man with impunity. She will have to watch and defend with 
 a knife every parcel of property she possesses. Her ships will be 
 avoided by all travelers, for they shall be in danger on every sea. 
 Her aristocrats will have to stay at home, or risk reprisals on their 
 treasured lives for the slaughter of humble people in Ireland. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 277 
 
 Men who are conservative and law-abiding, who love peace, and 
 desire good-will between Ireland and England, will be compelled to 
 agree with those who are sure to urge the policy of desperation and 
 despair. 
 
 In a word, England will wantonly and stupidly and criminally 
 create a condition of things which cannot possibly be for her good, and 
 which will insure the endless detestation of Ireland. 
 
 Martial law will not settle the Irish question, and no wise English- 
 man would advise it. 
 
 “ The Irish question is mainly an Irish- American question,” says the 
 London Times , sneeringly. And is it not all the more significant ? 
 The Irish in America send millions on millions of dollars a year to pay 
 the rents and feed their suffering kindred in Ireland. This is reason 
 enough, without the natural desire for freedom. 
 
 If England dream that the Irish in America can be tired out she 
 makes a woeful mistake. For every thousand dollars sent to-day, we 
 can send Ireland a million for the next ten years if she need it. 
 
 The Irish demand for Home Rule must be granted. If it be refused, 
 and if the London Times dictate the English policy, the evil-doer will 
 suffer more than the victim. And in the end, Ireland will have Home 
 Rule. 
 
 Parliament met in January, and the Queen, a stuffed 
 simalacrum of royal authority, read the message written 
 for her by an intelligent secretary, advising coercion as a 
 panacea for Ireland’s woes. In the debate that followed, 
 Mr. Sexton, M.P., announced that the member for Mid- 
 lothian, Mr. Gladstone, had expressed his approval of a 
 Home Rule measure, and the announcement was greeted 
 with an affirmative nod from the great English Liberal. 
 This simple motion of Gladstone’s head caused those of 
 all England to wag in approval or denial. By the friends 
 of Home Rule it was justly interpreted as a sign of unqual- 
 ified adherence to their cause. “ Mr. Gladstone’s nod,” 
 wrote O’ Reilly, “ was more potent than the Queen’s speech, 
 and the royal Tory flummery. Ireland has scored her 
 highest mark during this week.” But the Tories had more 
 than one arrow in their quiver ; they had the barbed shaft 
 of bigotry, and the poisoned one of treachery. Lord Ran- 
 dolph Churchill was to discharge the first, Mr. Joseph 
 Chamberlain the second. Churchill, a free lance and free- 
 
278 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 booter in politics, went over to Ireland in February to sow 
 in the blood-clotted Orange brain the seed of civil war. 
 Churchill was a light weight, a “ Sim Tappertit” in relig- 
 ious warfare, but O’ Reilly scented the more serious danger 
 in the disaffection of Chamberlain. He said : 
 
 With Chamberlain’s aid, if Chamberlain is as false as we believe him 
 to be, they may defeat the Liberals at the next general election, which 
 will possibly come this year. But Churchill’s present policy tells against 
 himself. It is not clever. It shows the selfish and desperate gambler 
 with the stocked sleeve. It calls out a stern sentiment in England and 
 sets Mr. Gladstone and all honest Liberals on guard. It will deter even 
 Chamberlain from trusting his future to such allies as Tappertit and the 
 Orangemen. 
 
 There was a “bread riot” in London, in January, and 
 some people thought they saw in it the beginning of the 
 long-delayed English commune. O’ Reilly knew the British 
 animal better. He wrote : 
 
 The Parisian or Russian rioter is urged by his heart and soul and 
 head, but the English rioter only obeys his stomach. 
 
 The masses in England are, with all the boasted freedom of England, 
 more deficient in the spirit of liberty, in the dignity of humanity, than 
 the common people of any other country. In France, in the last 
 century, and in Russia and Germany in this, the people knew that the 
 luxurious, immoral, overbearing aristocrats had more than a just share 
 of the national wealth. In England, the aristocrat, though greedier 
 and more intolerant than all other “ noblemen,” is accepted, fawned- 
 upon, almost worshiped by the whole landless, shop-keeping, pen- 
 driving, hard-handed community. 
 
 But the worm will turn at the cruel foot. Where oppression fails to 
 provoke rebellion, scorn may succeed. Oppression is the heaving of the 
 sea ; insult the breaking of the billow. Oppression is the whip that 
 bruises ; scorn the lash that cuts. “ Drive over the dogs ! ” cried a titled 
 lady to her coachman, in the beginning of the late London riots. She 
 was allowed to pass. But a few hours later the carriage of a great lady, 
 sister of the Duke of Abercorn, was stopped in Piccadilly, and when 
 the Countess showed her imperious temper (men do not act like this 
 without provocation), one of the mob, says a correspondent, advanced 
 to the side of the carriage and deliberately slapped her face, exclaiming, 
 “We will hang you yet ! ” 
 
 But, after all, the symptoms are only premonitory, even if they be 
 indeed earthquakes of society and not the mere shivering of the social 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 279 
 
 skin. To the lower-class English mob a riot is as natural as a boil on a 
 half-starved beggar. It is a constitutional sign, meaning poverty of the 
 blood, — and ignorance. 
 
 We hear of no demands by the rioters — except for bread. No word 
 has been said about the extravagances of royalty, the vast robbery of 
 hereditary pensions, the limitless plunder of the land of Great Britain 
 by a few thousand titled and untitled lords of men, the sale of the 
 daughters of the poor to wealthy debauchees. Bread, bread, bread, — and 
 to the dogs with liberty and dignity and manhood ! 
 
 There is no man to lead in England. Where was the atheist Brad- 
 laugh and the philistine Chamberlain ? Where was Arch, the pure- 
 minded, tenant-helping insect? At the head of the 50,000 were only a 
 few blatherskites who had nothing to demand, nothing to reform ! 
 
 The broad-minded humanity of the man made him sym- 
 pathize even with the poor-spirited heirs of traditionary 
 servility, but his patriotic pride forced him to add : 
 
 It is a pity to see a spiritual and intelligent nation like Ireland tied 
 to such a dull and soulless bullock-mass, and “governed ” by it ! But, 
 perhaps there is no other way by which the inert heap can be vivified, 
 except by the chained lightning of Ireland’s struggle and aspiration. 
 
 The ancients were right when they held the words poet 
 and seer to be synonymous. John Boyle O’Reilly was a 
 man so many-sided that it was hard for one who knew but 
 one or two of those sides to understand the others which 
 they did not know. I have considered chronology rather 
 than affinity in presenting the varied aspects of his life. 
 To attempt anything else would be to assure failure. He 
 was too great and versatile to be classified and labeled as 
 common men may be, and I have chosen to show him as he 
 was, from day to day, yet always feeling how painfully 
 deficient is that panorama of his life. For, this man, who 
 could be at one moment absorbed in dreamy poesy, at the 
 next fired with patriotic fervor, and again boyishly inter- 
 ested in athletic sport or social enjoyment, was through- 
 out all, and above all, a thoughtful, earnest student of 
 social and even of industrial problems. To-day he would 
 delight his gay comrades of “ Bohemia’ ’ with playful wit 
 and wild fancy ; to-morrow he would attract the admiration 
 and compel the conviction of a group of grave business men 
 
280 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 by his forcible presentation of an industrial question, 
 behind which lay the ruling aspiration of his life — the 
 welfare of his native land. 
 
 To make a paradox, those who knew him best thought 
 they knew him least when, as constantly happened, he 
 surprised them anew by some fresh revelation of his 
 wonderful versatility. “ He is a poet, a dreamer,” said the 
 prosaic people, impatient when his honesty stood like a 
 stone wall before this or that political scheme. “ He talks 
 eloquently of Ireland’s sufferings,” said others ; “ but what 
 has he to say about Ireland’s real needs ?” He had this 
 to say, and when he said it before the Beacon Club of 
 Boston, shrewd, practical business men that they were, they 
 listened entranced to his masterly, sensible plea, couched 
 in the language of cold truth. 
 
 The occasion was the regular monthly dinner of the club 
 at the Revere House, on Saturday, February 21, 1886 ; liis 
 subject: “The Industrial and Commercial Aspects of the 
 Irish Question.” 
 
 I was asked to speak on a question which has no fun in it. How- 
 ever much humor there may be attached to the general characteristics 
 of my countrymen, there is nothing but tragedy connected with the 
 industrial and commercial questions of Ireland. The general view of 
 Ireland and the Irish question is relegated to the sentimental. In truth, 
 it is one of the most material and practical of questions. Very few 
 men take the trouble of questioning the statement that has been given 
 to the world by the interested party for 100 or 200 years. The state- 
 ment has been made that the Irish people are simply a troublesome, 
 purposeless, quarrelsome people, who could not govern themselves if 
 they had an opportunity. That is the tribute which injustice pays in 
 all cases to morality. If a man injure another man he must also in- 
 jure his character, in order to stand well in the community, to justify 
 his own action, for if he did not, his fellow-men would drive him out. 
 England has injured the Irish people with a set purpose, and also in- 
 jured their industrial and commercial interests. The sentimental ques- 
 tion is simply the natural desire of men to rule their own country and 
 make their own laws. The Greeks were applauded in London the 
 other day when they said: “We want to work out the Greek purpose 
 among Greeks.” The Greeks are no more a distinct nationality than 
 the Irish. A fight that has gone on. 750 years between a weak 
 
IIIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 281 
 
 country and a very strong one is assuredly a fight based on no weak or 
 worthless sentiment. The Irish have never compromised. They have 
 been beaten because they were weaker, but they have never compro- 
 mised. They have been rebellious and troublesome. They have been 
 nationalists all the time. They claimed 700, 600, 500 years ago pre- 
 cisely what they claim to-day, the right to their own country, to make 
 their own laws, to work out their own individual nationality among 
 men. If there is to be credit or discredit given them, they want to earn 
 it, and to tell their own faults or virtues to the world. They do not 
 want another nation, and an unfriendly one, to tell the world what 
 Ireland and its people are. The ear of the world has been held by 
 England with regard to Ireland, particularly in this country, since the 
 foundation of it. Very few men in America who were not Irish have 
 realized that the Irish question is, as I have said, more largely material 
 than sentimental. In 1696, the King of England sent to Ireland a 
 commission of five men to examine the country and report to the king 
 and council as to the best means of holding the Irish in subjection. 
 They had then had 500 years of continuous Irish war. They had real- 
 ized the enormous advantage that Ireland possessed in position. If 
 Ireland were on the other side of England, there would be no Irish 
 question. Ireland is on the Atlantic side of England. The question 
 has always been a geographical one. Ireland controls the main points 
 for commerce with Northern Europe ; and she has in her own self such 
 a treasury of possible wealth as no other nation has in Europe. This 
 commission, sent in 1696, remained in Ireland a year, and reported to the 
 king in 1697. The report was summarized in these words : “There 
 
 are two ways of holding Ireland in subjection : By a standing army in 
 the hands of Englishmen ; and by checking the growth of the country 
 in trade and wealth, that it may never become dangerous to England 
 anywhere.” That was two centuries ago. The policy was adopted by 
 king and council; and, no matter what change of Whig or Tory, Lib- 
 eral or Conservative since came, for Great Britain there was no 
 change for Ireland. That fearful and atrocious policy continued until 
 the appointment of one of the best Englishmen, and one of the ablest, 
 as Secretary for Ireland, Mr. John Morley, a few weeks ago. There has 
 not been a rift in that cloud between those two dates. 
 
 Three hundred years ago, the illustrious English poet, Spenser, who 
 had lived for years in Ireland, thus described the country : 
 
 “And sure it is a most beautiful and sweet country as any under 
 heaven, being stored throughout with many goodly rivers, replenished 
 with all sorts of fish abundantly ; sprinkled with many very sweet 
 islands and goodly lakes, like little inland seas, that will carry even 
 shippes upon their waters ; adorned with goodly woods ; also filled 
 with good ports and havens ; besides the soyle itself most fertile, fit to 
 
282 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 yield all kind of fruit that shall be committed thereto. And lastly, 
 the climate most mild and temperate.” 
 
 Two hundred and fifty years ago, Sir John Davies, another eminent 
 Englishman, wrote about Ireland as follows : 
 
 ‘ ‘ I have visited all the provinces of that kingdom in sundry jour- 
 neys and circuits, wherein I have observed the good temperature of 
 the air, the fruitfulness of the soil, the pleasant and commodious seats 
 for habitations, the safe and large ports and havens lying open for 
 traffic into all the west parts of the world ; the long inlets of many 
 navigable rivers, and so many great lakes and fresh ponds within the 
 land, as the like are not to be seen in any part of Europe ; the rich 
 fishings and wild fowl of all kinds ; and, lastly, the bodies and minds of 
 the people endued with extraordinary abilities by nature.” 
 
 In Brown’s “ Essays on Trade,” published in London in the year 
 1728, this is the report of Ireland : 
 
 “ Ireland is in respect of its situation, the number of its commodi- 
 ous harbors, and the natural wealth which it produces, the fittest island 
 to acquire wealth of any in the European seas ; for, as by its situation it 
 lies the most commodious for the West Indies, Spain, and the Northern 
 and Eastern countries, so it is not only supplied by nature with all 
 the necessaries of life, but can over and above export large quantities 
 to foreign countries, insomuch that, had it been mistress of its trade, no 
 nation in Europe of its extent could in an equal number of years 
 acquire greater wealth.” 
 
 “ Ireland,” says Newenham, writing seventy years ago, on industrial 
 topics, “greatly surpasses her sister country, England, in the aggre- 
 gate of the endowments of nature England, abounding in 
 
 wealth beyond any other country in Europe, cannot boast of one natu- 
 ral advantage which Ireland does not possess in a superior degree.” 
 
 All this has been said about a country that is so poverty-stricken and 
 so unhappy, that the like of it is not seen in any part of the world. I 
 sent reporters to four houses in Boston, a short time ago, to ask how 
 much money they had sold on Ireland during the month of December, 
 and from the 1st of December to the 20th, those four houses had sold 
 over $100,000, in sums averaging $35. Now, in three weeks, four 
 houses in one city sold that much, and I can assure you that there is not 
 a city in the United States, not a town or hamlet, whence that drain is 
 not constantly going away to Ireland. It is going from the mills, from 
 the mines, from the farms, from the shops, from the servant girls. The 
 only advantage from that terrible loss — a loss which must reach from 
 $50,000,000 to $70,000,000 a year, which is the lowest computation you 
 can put on it, — the only value we have in return is in the devoted and 
 affectionate natures that could spare from their earnings so much to 
 their poor relatives in Ireland — for they sent it to save their people from 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 283 
 
 eviction and starvation ; not to make them happy and comfortable, but 
 to pay the rents to the English aristocrats, for whom England has 
 legislated. The landlords have a mortgage on the Irish in America, 
 through their affections. This question has never been between the 
 people of the two countries, but always between the Irish people and 
 the English aristocrat, the idle, profligate fellow who owns the land and 
 stands between the two peoples. For him and by him has all the legis- 
 lation for Ireland been made, and for England, too. When the people 
 of the two countries come to settle the question between them, depend 
 on it, they will find a solution. It was only last year for the first time 
 in England that the common people became a factor in politics, when 
 2,000,000 working men were admitted to this franchise ; and it was only 
 by their exercise of that power that the Tory government was prevented 
 from putting another coercion act in force in Ireland, when Lord Salis- 
 bury threatened, four weeks ago, to introduce another coercion act for 
 a country which was in peace, without any reason whatever but the 
 will of the landlord class. The only issue for Ireland, if the Tories had 
 remained in power and Lord Salisbury had carried out his intention, 
 would have been rebellion. Unquestionably, Ireland would have been 
 driven into another hopeless rebellion, the meaning of which it would 
 have been hard to explain to the outer world. I believe that when the 
 two peoples can settle this question between themselves they are going 
 to work out the morality of their relations, and that the Irish people 
 have nothing to fear, but everything to hope, from the common people 
 of Great Britain. It is not the sea, but the separated pool that rots ; and 
 so it is not the common people, but the separated class of humanity that 
 rots — the aristocrat, the idle man, the man on horseback, the fellow 
 who has ruled Europe for centuries. 
 
 Now, let me go into detail over that statement as to the industrial 
 possibilities of Ireland. The soil of Ireland is so fertile that it is abso- 
 lutely unparalleled. Labor and skill are the only things necessary to 
 produce all over the country. The soil needs no fertilizer that is not 
 at the hands of the farmer all over the country . In many extensive 
 parts of the country fertilizers applied to the soil kill the crops, for the 
 soil will only bear a certain amount of nutrition, and beyond that it 
 refuses to grow, unless left fallow for a year. 
 
 The climate is so mild that the cattle, in the winter, are pastured in 
 the field, even in the north. They are not taken in, probably, an aver- 
 age of seven days in the year. 
 
 There are 136 safe and deep harbors in the island, a number not 
 possessed by any other country. 
 
 The rivers are so deep and numerous that almost every parish 
 might enjoy the advantages of internal navigation. Ireland has nine- 
 teen navigable rivers, with which none of the English rivers can 
 compare. 
 
284 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The fisheries are probably the richest in the world ; and to-day the 
 fishermen of the western coast are kept from death by starvation by 
 American charitable subscriptions. 
 
 With regard to mines and minerals, this sentence from Mr. Carey, 
 grandfather of Henry Carey Baird, of Philadelphia, will suffice : 
 “There is probably not a country in the world, which, for its extent, 
 is one half so abundantly supplied with the most precious minerals 
 and fossils as Ireland.” 
 
 “ In Tyrone, Waterford, Cork, Down, Antrim, and throughout Con- 
 naught,” says an eminent British authority, Mr. T. F. Henderson, writ- 
 ing a few years ago, “ are immense stores of iron that remain unutil- 
 ized. ” The same writer says that from ivhat can be seen , Ireland has 
 at least 180,000,000 tons of available coal, from which she raises yearly 
 only 130,000 tons. Yet she imports over 2,000,000 tons yearly from 
 England. 
 
 Ireland has 3,000,000 acres of bog-land, which supplies an enormous 
 quantity of admirable fuel. The average depth of peat on this is 
 twenty-five feet — in some cases over forty feet. 
 
 The following summary of Irish mineral treasures is made from 
 official and other surveys and reports. The figures prefixed to the dif- - 
 ferent minerals and fossils denote the number of counties in which 
 they have been discovered : 
 
 2 Amethysts. 
 
 16 Lead. 
 
 1 Antimony. 
 
 2 Manganese. 
 
 15 Coal. 
 
 19 Marble. 
 
 1 Cobalt. 
 
 15 Ochres. 
 
 17 Copper. 
 
 2 Pearls. 
 
 1 Chalcedony. 
 
 4 Pebbles. 
 
 8 Crystals. 
 
 2 Petrifactions. 
 
 9 Clays of various sorts. 
 
 1 Porphyry. 
 
 5 Fuller’s earth. 
 
 1 Sillicious sand. 
 
 1 Gold. 
 
 3 Silver. 
 
 2 Garnites (decayed granite 
 
 6 Slate. 
 
 used in porcelain). 
 
 1 Soapstone. 
 
 7 Granite. 
 
 1 Spars. 
 
 1 Gypsum. 
 
 2 Sulphur. 
 
 19 Iron. 
 
 2 Talc. 
 
 2 Jasper. 
 
 
 A century ago, Mr. Lawson, an English miner, stated in evidence 
 before the Irish House of Commons that the iron-stone at Arigna lay in 
 beds of from three to twelve fathoms deep, and that it could be raised 
 for two shillings and sixpence a ton, which was five shillings cheaper 
 than in Cumberland ; that the coal in the neighborhood was better than 
 any in England, and could be raised for three shillings and sixpence a 
 
285 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 ton, and that it extended six miles in length and five in breadth. He 
 also stated that fire-brick clay and freestone of the best qualities were 
 in the neighborhood, and that a bed of potter’s clay extended there two 
 miles in length and one in breadth. Mr. Clark, on the same occasion, 
 declared that the iron ore was inexhaustible. And a distinguished Irish 
 authority on mineralogical subjects, Mr. Kirwan, affirmed that the 
 Arigna iron was better than any iron made from any species of single 
 ore in England. 
 
 There is not a pound of iron dug out of the earth in Arigna, and 
 there never will be till Ireland controls her own resources and can pro- 
 tect them by a proper tariff till they are in full productiveness. 
 
 As to water power — Dr. Kane, of the Royal Dublin Society and other 
 eminent scientific bodies, summarizes the surveys and reports: “The 
 water from the rivers of Ireland have an average fall of 129 yards. 
 The average daily fall of water (falling 129 yards) into the sea is 
 68,500,000 tons. As 884 tons falling 24 feet in 24 hours is ahorse power, 
 Ireland has an available water power, acting day and night, from Janu- 
 ary to December, amounting to 1,800,000 horse power — or, reduced to 
 300 working days of 12 hours each, the available waterfall for industry 
 represents over 3,000,000 horse power.” 
 
 But remember, there is hardly a wheel turning in Ireland. All this 
 must go to waste, the people must starve and the land decay, that the 
 mill-owners of Lancashire may thrive. What would the world say of 
 New England, had we the power, were we to suppress all manufactur- 
 ing and mining industry in the Southern States ? New England would 
 earn the execrations of the country and the world for her avaricious 
 selfishness. 
 
 So marvelous is the water power of Ireland, that windmills are un- 
 known. A hundred years ago, immediately after the freeing of her 
 Parliament, there sprang up on all the falling streams mills of various 
 kinds— among them, according to Dr. Kane, 240 flour mills. There was 
 not one windmill erected during all this time. 
 
 The Parliament of Ireland was free from 1782 to 1801 — and during 
 this short period the country advanced like a released giant in every 
 field of industry and commerce. Then the selfishness of England was 
 appealed to by the landlords and the traders, the former leading, and 
 demanding that Irish industry be stopped, suppressed, murdered by act 
 of Parliament. The landlords wished no resource for their rack-rented 
 tenants. If the children of the farmer could go into the mills and 
 shops to work and earn, the father would become independent of the 
 landlord and agent. 
 
 In 1729, there were, according to evidence given before the Irish 
 House of Commons, 800 silk-looms at work in Ireland. An act was 
 passed in that year in favor of English silks ; and thirty years after, 
 
286 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 there were but fifty looms in Ireland. When the Union was passed, the 
 silk manufacture was utterly killed. 
 
 One hundred years ago the Irish found that they could reclaim 
 their peat land by cutting a ship canal through the country from 
 Galway to Dublin. They have shown since that the cost would be 
 more than four times repaid by the price of the land. They showed 
 that they could save sailing ships seventy hours in passing to and 
 from Northern Europe, and save them from the dangers of the Chan- 
 nel. They showed that ships sailing from the West of Ireland ob- 
 tained an offing so soon that they often reached America before vessels, 
 leaving England on the same day, had beaten their way out of the 
 English channel. But the merchants of the Southern ports of England 
 — Bristol, Southampton, and London — said that that canal, if cut, would 
 be disastrous to them, and the Parliament refused to allow it to be 
 done. Nineteen times the Irish people have tried to cut that canal ; 
 but the Irish people cannot build a wharf or do anything else that a 
 civilized community usually does at its own option, without going to 
 the English House of Commons for permission to do it. 
 
 In the last century Ireland made the best woolen cloth in Europe. 
 It was said they competed with England, and the Parliament put it 
 down. The same law was enacted against the leather trade, and then 
 against the trade in raw hides. Ireland obtained prominence in the 
 manufacture of glass. English glassmakers petitioned Parliament, 
 and an act of Parliament was passed stopping the glass trade. 
 
 Every means of industry in Iceland has been killed by act of Parlia- 
 ment. Every means of honest development in the country has been 
 suppressed by act of Parliament or by the possession of the land given 
 silently into the hands of English capitalists. The coming question in 
 Ireland is purely commercial and industrial. The absentee landlord 
 wants no alternative but one — pay the back rent or emigrate. Men 
 like Hartington, a Liberal in name but a Whig at heart, a man 
 of hereditary possession and no hereditary production, will be joined 
 by others, and depend on it they will appeal to the worst passions and 
 prejudices and the worst interests of the middle classes of trading Eng- 
 lishmen. 
 
 There are about forty-six thousand owners of land in Ireland. 
 They own the whole country. They are largely Englishmen who live 
 out of Ireland and have never seen it. They obtained possession in the 
 main by confiscation. In the County of Derry, fourteen London com- 
 panies, such as the vintners, drysalters, haberdashers, etc., obtained 
 from King James most of the land of the country. These companies 
 of London traders have never seen the land ; they have kept their 
 agents there, though, to raise the rents, generation after generation, as 
 the poor people reclaimed the soil from moor and mountain. In two 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 287 
 
 centuries the rental has been raised from a few hundred pounds a year 
 to over a hundred thousand pounds a year, the people doing all the 
 improvement and losing in proportion to their labor, and the avari- 
 cious corporations in London drawing all the profits. 
 
 Ireland asks for the moral support of all good men of all nations in 
 her effort to secure Home Rule. Surely, the Government that has no 
 other answer to give to an industrious, moral people, living in so rich 
 a land, than starvation or emigration, is arraigned and condemned in 
 the sight of God and man, and ought to be wiped out. The Govern- 
 ment of England ought to be taken from the hands of the cruel and 
 senseless aristocracy that has misruled so long ; and it ought to be 
 passed into the hands of the English and Irish people, to whom it 
 belongs. 
 
 Mr. O’Reilly closed his address amid applause, followed 
 by the whole company rising and drinking a toast to ‘ ‘ The 
 success of the industrial and commercial questions of Ire- 
 land, and their great exponent, John Boyle O’Reilly.” 
 
 On April 8, Mr. Gladstone introduced his Home Rule 
 Bill in the British House of Commons. On the following 
 night, Mr. Chamberlain sealed his treason by bitterly at- 
 tacking the measure and its author. O’Reilly did not give 
 an unqualified approval to the bill, which deprived Ireland 
 of representation in the Imperial Parliament, and kept the 
 excise and the constablery under the control of the latter. 
 “ It is full of faults and dangers,” he said ; “it is Home 
 Rule only in name as at present developed. The marks of 
 conceding and temporizing in Cabinet council are on every 
 clause outlined. It says Life, and it enacts Death.” But 
 it gave the grand central idea of Home Rule, and, “ for 
 this inestimable boon Irishmen are willing to accept imper- 
 fections with the hope of ultimate reform. For this offer- 
 ing and the eloquent admission of its moral right, Irishmen 
 throughout the world return to Mr. Gladstone their pro- 
 found gratitude, admiration, and respect.” 
 
 The bill was defeated, on its second reading, in the House 
 of Commons, on June 17, by a vote of 341 to 311, where- 
 upon the Gladstone ministry was dissolved and went to the 
 country for its verdict. 
 
 In championing Ireland’s cause, O’Reilly did not forget 
 
288 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 that of other oppressed peoples. “The color line” had 
 been drawn offensively at the same time in different parts 
 of the United States. Policemen in New York had threat- 
 ened to strike if a negro were appointed on the force. A 
 High School in Indianapolis had dispensed with com- 
 mencement exercises, because eight girls of the graduating 
 class refused to appear on the platform with a colored girl. 
 “ To insult and degrade a free man and tie his hands with 
 social and statute wires, that cut and burn as well as 
 restrain,” wrote O’Reilly, “is worse than to seize him 
 
 bodily and yoke him to a dray as a slave The girls 
 
 who have disgraced themselves and their city ought to be 
 marked with a scarlet letter. 
 
 “ Every fair-minded man and woman and child in 
 America ought to seize these shameful facts as a reason to 
 make up their minds on the negro question. They ought 
 to say that every policeman in New York or elsewhere, who 
 dared to say he was better than his colored fellow-citizen, 
 was unfit to wear the uniform of an American city ; and 
 that every school-girl who was so un-Christian and so un- 
 ladylike as to ostracize a fellow-student because her skin 
 was dark, was utterly unworthy of a diploma from the 
 public schools.” 
 
 The massacre of colored men at Carrolton, Miss., in 
 April, called out an indignation meeting of the colored 
 citizens of Boston, who assembled in the Phillips Street 
 Baptist Church on the evening of April 12. O’Reilly 
 vented his righteous indignation at the perpetrators of the 
 atrocity, and uttered this timely word of sympathy and 
 encouragement to his colored hearers : 
 
 I know nothing and care nothing about your politics or party pref- 
 erences ; but I know that if I were a colored man I should use political 
 parties, as I would a club or a hatchet, to smash the prejudice that dared 
 to exclude my children from a public school, or myself from a public 
 hall, theater, or hotel. The interest you have to protect and defend is 
 not that of a party, but of your own manhood. Use party as they use 
 you— for your own best interests. 
 
 But the thing that most deeply afflicts the colored American is not 
 going to be cured by politics. You have received from politics already 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 289 
 
 about all it can give you. You may change the law by politics ; but it 
 is not the law that is going to insult and outrage and excommunicate 
 every colored American for generations to come. You can’t cure the 
 conceit of the white people that they are better than you by politics, nor 
 their ignorance, nor their prejudice, nor their bigotry, nor any of the 
 insolences which they cherish against their colored fellow-citizens. 
 
 Politics is the snare and delusion of white men as well as black. 
 Politics tickles the skin of the social order ; but the disease lies deep in 
 the internal organs. Social equity is based on justice ; politics change 
 on the opinion of the time. The black man’s skin will be a mark of 
 social -inferiority so long as white men are conceited, ignorant, unjust, 
 and prejudiced. You cannot legislate these qualities out of the white — 
 you must steal them out by teaching, illustration, and example. 
 
 No man ever came into the world with so grand an opportunity as 
 the American negro. He is like new metal dug out of the mine. He 
 stands on the threshold of history, with everything to learn and less to 
 unlearn than any civilized man in the world. In his heart still ring 
 the free sounds of the desert. In his mind he carries the traditions of 
 Africa. The songs with which he charms American ears are refrains 
 from the tropical deserts, from the inland seas and rivers of the dark 
 continent. 
 
 At worst, the colored American has only a century of degrading 
 civilized tradition, habit, and inferiority to forget and unlearn. His 
 nature has only been injured on the outside by these late circumstances. 
 Inside he is a new man, fresh from nature, — a color-lover, an enthusiast, 
 a believer by the heart, a philosopher, a cheerful, natural, good-natured 
 man. He has all the qualities that fit him to be a good Christian citi- 
 zen of any country ; he does not worry his soul to-day with the fear of 
 next week or next year. He has feelings and convictions, and he loves 
 to show them. He sees no reason why he should hide them. 
 
 The negro is the only graceful, musical, color-loving American. He 
 is the only American who has written new songs and composed new 
 music. He is the most spiritual of Americans, for he worships with 
 his soul and not with his narrow mind. For him, religion is to be be- 
 lieved, accepted, like the very voice of God, and not invented, con- 
 trived, reasoned about, shaded, altered, and made fashionably lucrative 
 and marketable, as it is made by too many white Americans. As Mr. 
 Downing, who preceded me, has referred to the Catholic religion, I 
 may be pardoned for saying that there is one religion that knows neither 
 race, nor class, nor color ; that offers God unstintedly the riches and 
 glories of this world in architecture, in painting, in marble, and in 
 music and in grand ceremony. There is no other way to worship God 
 with the whole soul ; though there are many other ways of worshiping 
 him with the intellect at so many dollars an hour, in an economical 
 
290 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 church, a hand-organ in the gallery, and a careful committee to keep 
 down the expenses. The negro is a new man, a free man, a spiritual 
 man, a hearty man ; and he can be a great man if he will avoid model- 
 ing himself on the whites. No race or nation is great or illustrious ex- 
 cept by one test — the breeding of great men. Not great merchants or 
 traders, not rich men, bankers, insurance mongers, or directors of gas 
 companies. But great thinkers, great seers of the world through their 
 own eyes, great tellers of the truth and beauties and colors and equities 
 as they alone see them. Great poets — ah ! great poets above all — and 
 their brothers, great painters and musicians and fashioners of God’s 
 beautiful shapes in clay and marble and bronze. 
 
 The negro will never take his stand beside or above the white man 
 till he has given the world proof of the truth and beauty and heroism 
 and power that are in his soul. And only by the organs of the soul are 
 these delivered ; by the self-respect and self-reflection, by philosophy, 
 religion, poetry, art, sacrifice, and love. One poet will be worth a 
 hundred bankers and brokers, worth ten presidents of the United 
 States to the negro race. One great musician will speak to the world 
 for the black man as no thousand editors or politicians can. 
 
 Toward the middle of February of this year a number 
 of Boston citizens, interested in the cause of Irish Home 
 Buie, had formed a committee for the purpose of soliciting 
 subscriptions for a parliamentary fund to aid the Irish 
 members in their political battle. Subscriptions were 
 nominally limited to five dollars. Other cities and towns 
 in the State joined in the canvass with such good effect that 
 when the Boston committee held its final meeting on July 
 17, John Boyle O’Beilly presiding, they were able to re- 
 port a total sum collected of nearly $24,000. Men and 
 women of all classes and creeds contributed generously to 
 the fund. A large part of its success was due to the untir- 
 ing efforts of O’ Reilly, who addressed meetings night after 
 night in various towns and labored without rest for the 
 cause, until even his sturdy health broke down. While 
 speaking at a meeting at Watertown, in June, he was seized 
 with vertigo and compelled to leave the platform. His 
 physician forbade him to continue the incessant and ex- 
 haustive work. 
 
 His reputation as a public speaker had steadily en- 
 hanced. As a lecturer he had always many more offers 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 291 
 
 of engagements than he could possibly accept. His 
 duties as editor and manager of a great paper prevented 
 him from giving more time to the platform. When he did 
 accept an offer to deliver an oration he threw his whole 
 soul into the work, and the result was both original and 
 striking. “ You are the orators of Decoration Day, no 
 matter who may be the speakers,’’ he began his address to 
 the Grand Army veterans at Everett, Mass., on May 31. 
 Who but this clear-sighted prophet could have so well dis- 
 cerned the sophism of the Secession argument. “ Secession 
 was a national and constitutional right,” said Jefferson 
 Davis, twenty years after the death of the Confederacy. 
 
 u When men talk so much about rights,” answers 
 O’Reilly, “they must be willing to go to the foundation. 
 The bottom right is the right of a man, not of a State. If 
 the general Government had no right to oppress States, 
 States had no right to oppress men.” 
 
 “ The Cry of the Dreamer,” one of the most touching of 
 all his poems, was first published on May 8, 1886. It is a 
 veritable cry of a natural man for the natural life, u heart- 
 weary of building and spoiling, and spoiling and building 
 again.” By a strange coincidence there has come to me, 
 at the moment of writing about this heart-touching poem, 
 a copy of a letter written by the poet, eight years ago, to 
 his friend, Charles Warren Stoddard, then a happy dweller 
 and dreamer by the summer seas of the far-away Hawaiian 
 Islands. It anticipates almost the very words of his poet’s 
 cry : 
 
 The ‘ ‘ Pilot ” Editorial Rooms, 
 
 Boston, June 21, 1882. 
 
 Dear Stoddard : 
 
 Your letter was kind, and sweet, and welcome. Thank you. It 
 came like a smile, when I was in a turmoil of work and care. I envy 
 you the laziness, and the islands, and the sun, and the vague future. 
 
 Men who dream can be tortured by the clear-lined definitions that 
 make the paradise of the business Philistine. 
 
 I am not any longer a poet ; I am a city pack-horse, with an ab- 
 stract, sun-bottled attachment. I long to go and lie down in the clover- 
 fields of my boyhood. I long to be listless and dreamy, and idle, and 
 
292 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 regardless of conventionalism. I long to sit down and let the busy 
 world go past. But this longing must be meant as a chastening influ- 
 ence. It can never be. I am chained to the wheel. I shall never lie 
 down in the sunny grass till I lie in the churchyard. 
 
 Never come back, if you can help it. Stay where men live, and raise 
 your hands forbiddingly against business, and thrift, and shop respect- 
 ability. 
 
 Good-by to you ; but write to me now and again. I have your little 
 book of idyls. I send you a poem I read last week which was rather 
 successful. I am, 
 
 Yours very truly, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 “ Boyle’s Log ” — No Memory for Dates — A Western Publisher’s Offer — 
 Speech of Welcome to Justin McCarthy — Poem on “Liberty ” — He 
 Defends his Democracy — “The Exile of the Gael ’’—Speech at 
 William O’Brien’s Reception — Crispus Attucks— The British in 
 Faneuil Hall. 
 
 A BOUT the middle of June he made another and shorter 
 canoe cruise on the beautiful Merrimac River, pay- 
 ing a brief visit to the home of his friend, Richard S. Spof- 
 ford, on Deer Isle, thence continuing his voyage down to 
 Newburyport and Plum Island. There, at the summer 
 residence of his friend, Rev. Arthur J. Teeling, he spent a 
 quiet, happy week with occasional visits from his fellow- 
 canoeist, Edward A. Moseley, Father Teeling, and others. 
 
 On the wall of the staircase he wrote a journal which he 
 entitled : 
 
 “BOYLE’S LOG.” 
 
 Alone in the Domus Tranquilla. 
 
 June 17, 1886.— Came in canoe— three days’ run. No books— no 
 newspapers — no bores. Thank God, and Fr. Teeling ! 
 
 June 19 —2 P.M.— Still alone — five tranquil and delicious days — fish- 
 ing, shooting, canoeing— am now waiting for my eels to fry — and one 
 flounder, which I caught with fifty sculpins. Dear old Ned Moseley is 
 coming to-night to stay to-morrow. 
 
 June 21. — Red Letter Day. Alone in Domus Tranquilla — twenty 
 years ago to-day I was sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment by the 
 English Government. Had I not escaped in 1869, they would to-day 
 open my cell door and say, “You are free!” This is a good place to 
 celebrate the day — alone — thinking over the changes — the men — the 
 events of the twenty years ! 
 
 Evening, June 21. — Celebrated day of sentence by a delightful din- 
 ner in Domus Tranquilla ; Fr. Teeling, Miss Teeling, Miss O’Keeffe, and 
 
 293 
 
294 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 J. B. O’R. Presented with twenty roses, “one for each year of the 
 sentence.” 
 
 June 22. — Attended school exhibition — paddled up and down. In 
 the evening Fr. Teeling came and stopped all night; a delightful even- 
 ing’s chat. 
 
 J une 23. — Alone again — not a soul on the Point — raining and chilly 
 — longing for home and the dear ones there —will start for Gloucester in 
 the canoe on Tuesday morning and go home by rail. 
 
 God bless dear Domus Tranquilla and its occupants ! May they all 
 enjoy as charming and invigorating a stay in it as mine has been ! 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 It. will be seen that he writes “ June 21 ” as the date of 
 his sentence, which is incorrect. The real date was July 9. 
 I find similar chronological mistakes made by him on mat- 
 ters wherein men of prosaic minds would have been pro- 
 saically accurate. In regard, for instance, to the founding 
 of the Papyrus Club, he makes a similar mistake when he 
 dates his poem, “Alexander Young’s Feast,” as having 
 been read “at Park’s, where the club first met in 1870.’’ 
 The fact was, his memory was unreliable in the matter of 
 dates, and such, to him, unimportant details. On this sub- 
 ject he once wrote to a friend in the following amusingly 
 frank strain : 
 
 You grieve me about the biography. I am so tired of it, and it is 
 such a hopelessly mixed biography, with every kind hand taking a 
 whack at it. I read it in each new phase with a new sensation of hor- 
 ror and admiration. I will not send you any part of the Oriental 
 story — and I lay upon you the Geasa (which is a spell from the remote 
 darknesses held by all seers of the Gael) not to search for it elsewhere. 
 And, as for your “ necessary dates,” all such things are unnecessary. 
 Dates are only fit for clerks, and facts are the opposite of truths. Facts 
 are mere pebbles ; unrelated accretions of the insignificant. 
 
 If you want necessary truths — here, I am a man. I have written a 
 poor little book of poems, and I have sent it out to be chopped into 
 mince-meat. 
 
 Seriously, I do not like the biographical notice. I know how kindly 
 your thought was, but if you had to read so many “stories of your 
 life ” that you yourself got mixed on the truth and the fabricated, you 
 would hate it as I do. 
 
 In September, 1886, he wrote his “Three Graves,” and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 295 
 
 in the same month his ringing cheer for the victory of the 
 American yacht Mayflower : 
 
 Thunder our thanks to her — guns, hearts, and lips ! 
 
 Cheer from the ranks to her, 
 
 Shout from the banks to her — 
 
 “ Mayflower ! ” Foremost and best of our ships. 
 
 In this month also appeared the last collection of his 
 poems, the little volume, “In Bohemia,” previously re- 
 ferred to. Small as it is, there is enough in it to have 
 given the author a place among the foremost poets of his 
 age, had he never written anything else. 
 
 An unexpected recognition of his literary fame came to 
 him in the form of the following communication from a 
 short-lived periodical, entitled Literary Life , printed in 
 Chicago, by a publisher with the average publisher’s appre- 
 ciation of literary values : 
 
 Dear Sir : 
 
 We desire you to contribute a short article of from 1000 to 2000 
 words for Miss Cleveland’s Magazine, Literary Life , on any subject 
 of interest to our readers. Our terms for this series of articles is one 
 cent a word. You may possibly consider this a small remuneration, 
 but as Literary Life is a young magazine it will, we think, grow into a 
 better market for writers in the near future. While devoted to the 
 cause of literature in the West, we know that to succeed in an eminent 
 degree we must enlist the services of the ablest writers, and hence 
 address you this letter. Please let us have your article on time for our 
 October issue. Payment will be made on receipt of article. 
 
 Out of respect for literary people, and to expose hum- 
 bug and meanness, O’ Reilly published this flattering offer 
 in his paper, with his sharp reply : 
 
 I cannot see why you should appeal to the charity of literary people 
 for the benefit of your magazine. If your letter is not an appeal for 
 charity it is a humiliation and a disgrace to the literary profession. 
 
 He added this comment : 
 
 The Elder Publishing Company have advertised their magazine by 
 using the name of Miss Cleveland as its editor, and by dazzling 
 accounts of the enterprise of the firm in undertaking so expensive an 
 arrangement. To buy articles from ‘ ‘ the ablest writers ” (generous 
 
296 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 flattery) at the rate of $10 a thousand words, is the unseen part of the 
 publishers’ dizzy extravagance. The average payment for such an 
 amount of literary work, from respectable publishers, is $40 to $75. 
 Literary Life is “a young magazine,” and if this be its method of 
 living it is to be hoped that it may be spared the burden of old age. 
 
 Justin McCarthy, M.P., the distinguished Irish patriot 
 and author, delivered an eloquent address on the “ Cause 
 of Ireland,” in the Boston Theater, on Sunday evening, 
 October 10. A reception and banquet were given him, the 
 next evening, in the Parker House. O’Reilly presided 
 and made the following speech of welcome to the guest : 
 
 Gentlemen : You have confided to me the sweetest duty of my 
 life — that of welcoming in your name, as our guest and friend, a gen- 
 tleman whose genius and character have won the respect of the world, 
 one who has held high, among strangers, the ancient name and honor 
 of the Irish race. 
 
 In the name of the Irish- American citizens of Boston and Massa- 
 chusetts, Mr. Justin McCarthy, I express to you the deep pride we feel 
 in the fame and eminence you have achieved in the high and arduous 
 field of letters, the admiration we cherish for your genius, and the 
 gratitude and affection we offer for your unselfish loyalty to Ireland. 
 You are one who need not stand on national or race lines in receiving 
 a welcome. Wherever men are cultured and intellectual, your welcome 
 awaits you. But for your own gratification we place you on the line 
 of nationality and race — a line that we ourselves are voluntarily oblit- 
 erating and writing anew as Americans. We are done with Ireland, 
 except in the love and hope we and our children have for her. Were 
 Ireland free, to-morrow, we would continue our lives as Americans. 
 Our numbers and interests are so great and so deep here that, para- 
 phrasing the words of your distinguished national leader, we can’t spare 
 a single Irish- American. But, nevertheless, we leave others to greet 
 you as a cosmopolitan, as a poet, as a novelist, as a historian ; and we 
 speak the welcome of the heart, because we Irish- Americans are proud 
 of you as an Irishman. We know how hard it is for one living under 
 the British Crown to be at once an Irish patriot and a successful man 
 of letters. Men of other professions may harmonize their callings with 
 this deadly sin, and succeed; but the author is allowed no concealment; 
 he lives by his individuality, more than other professional men; be- 
 tween the lines he cannot help telling the secret of his own profound 
 convictions ; he must either write himself or a lie — and lies are failures, 
 and shall be forever. 
 
 Impoverished and oppressed, Ireland is no field for literary fame or 
 
297 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 fortune. Poor Ireland is a fruitful mother of genius, but a barren 
 nurse. Irishmen who write books must gravitate to London. Ireland 
 deplores her absentee landlords ; but she has reason as deep to deplore 
 her absent men of genius. England has gathered brilliant Irishmen as 
 she would have gathered diamonds in Irish fields, and set them in her 
 own diadem. She left no door open to them in Ireland. She threw 
 down the schools and made the teacher a felon, in the last century, to 
 insure that Irishmen should read and write English books, or give up 
 reading and writing altogether. She frowned the name of Ireland out 
 of Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village she emasculated Tom Moore; she 
 starved out Edmund Burke till he gave her his life-long splendid service. 
 She seduced many able Irishmen and* hid them away under English 
 titles of nobility, so that their very names were lost — forgotten ; as the 
 brilliant grandson of Brinsley Sheridan is lost in Lord Dufferin ; as 
 Henry Temple was forgotten in Lord Palmerston ; or as Margaret Power 
 of Tipperary was transformed into the illustrious Countess of Blessing- 
 ton. This is the bitterest pang of conquest. The conqueror does not 
 utterly destroy. He does not say to the victim, “I will kill you and 
 take all you have.” He says, “You may go on living, working, and 
 producing. But all of good, and great, and illustrious that you pro- 
 duce are mine and me ; all of evil, and passionate, and futile you pro- 
 duce are yours and you ! ” 
 
 This was the spirit that swept from Ireland all the honor and profit 
 of such illustrious sons as Berkeley, Steele, Sheridan, Burke, Balfe, 
 Wallace, Maclise, Macready, Hamilton, Tyndall, Wellington, Wol- 
 seley (a voice — “And O’Reilly ’’) and the hundreds and thousands of 
 Irish men and women who have won distinction in letters, art, law, war, 
 and statesmanship. 
 
 Honor and emolument, pay and pension, were only to be earned by 
 Irishmen at the price of denationalization. The marvel is that under 
 such a system Ireland could go on producing great men. “ National 
 enthusiasm is the great nursery of genius.” When you destroy national 
 enthusiasm and pride, you have killed a nation. To destroy Ireland as 
 a nation, she must not only be conquered, she must be obliterated. 
 Her people must be swept away and the land filled with Englishmen. 
 And even then the latent life in the soil, the traditions, the sacrifices, 
 the buried patriotism, would come out like an atmosphere and be 
 breathed into the blood of the newcomers, until in a generation or two 
 they would be as Irish and as distinct as the original Celtic people. 
 Irishmen cannot become provincials. Everything about them indi- 
 cates distinct nationality. They may consent to change, as we are 
 doing in America, joyfully and with pride ; but the Irishman in Ire- 
 land can never be made a West Briton. 
 
 The world knows it now. No matter what odds are against Ireland, 
 
298 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 she must win. “ Depend upon it,” said Burke, a century ago, speaking 
 of the Americans, “depend upon it, the lovers of freedom will be free.” 
 Twenty years ago the illustrious Englishman who is now the leader of 
 the English people, no matter who may be the Prime Minister, — the 
 great and good man who has proved to the world that Irishmen and 
 Englishmen can forget and forgive and live as loving friends, — this 
 noble statesman who is bent on strengthening England by the friend- 
 ship of Ireland — Mr. Gladstone — twenty years ago, defending a reform 
 bill, said to the Tories, what he says to-day for Ireland, “ You cannot 
 fight against the future. Time is on our side ! ” How profoundly Ire- 
 land is moved by her love of freedom is proved by such men as Justin 
 McCarthy, tested by their ability and illustrated by their poverty. Sir, 
 we know that you are a poor man ; and we love and honor you for 
 your poverty, for we know that it is the price of your principle. In- 
 stead of being the governor of a great British province, or of sitting in 
 high imperial office, with the title of Lord or Earl, as so many pur- 
 chasable and weaker men have done, Justin McCarthy comes to 
 America, with the simple title of his own genius, — and we recognize it 
 as a prouder coronet than that conferred by king or kaiser. In his 
 young manhood, he came to where the two roads met, the one leading 
 to affluence and title and the friendship of his country’s oppressor, and 
 the other to the poverty and trial and the love of his own oppressed 
 people ; and without hesitation or regret he went down into the valley 
 with the struggling masses. This is the test of a noble man. 
 
 “ Then to side with Truth is noble, when we share her wretched 
 crust, 
 
 Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and ’tis prosperous to be 
 just ; 
 
 Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, 
 
 Doubting in his abject spirit, while his Lord is crucified, 
 
 And the multitude make virtue of the faith they' have denied.” 
 
 Justin McCarthy has not only written “The History of Our Own 
 Times,” but he has done much to make it. On his leaving home for 
 America, the leader of the Irish people, Mr. Parnell, spoke of him as 
 “the most distinguished Irishman in the world.” Mr. Parnell can 
 afford to praise ; but he could only afford to praise one man in such 
 terms. For all the triumphs of his genius, we honor Justin McCarthy; 
 for his unselfishness, we respect him ; for his poverty, we reverence him ; 
 but for his love of Ireland, and his devotion to the national cause and 
 the welfare of her people, we love him. And I ask you, gentlemen, to 
 drink, “ Long life and happiness to Justin McCarthy 1 ” 
 
 It was the rare privilege of O’Reilly to be appreciated 
 and loved during liis life as few men have ever been loved. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 299 
 
 The praise which he received never spoiled his simple, 
 manly nature. Men could speak to him and write of him 
 from the fullness of their hearts without fearing to be mis- 
 taken for flatterers, or to sow any seed of vanity in his 
 healthy mind. So it was that such words of frank praise 
 as the following could be written of him while he was yet 
 among us. The first extract is from the Boston PosPs 
 kindly essayist, heretofore quoted in these pages, “ Tav- 
 erner’ ’ : 
 
 Boyle O’Reilly’s speech of welcome to Justin McCarthy made me 
 almost sorry that I had not come to my Americanism by the way of 
 “ Sweet Erin.” His heart is so warm, his words so well chosen and 
 charming, his feelings so true, and all that he says or writes so instinct 
 with human earnestness, that he always carries his audience with him. 
 He is one whom children would choose for their friend, women for 
 their lover, and men for their hero. 
 
 Probably no man among us has had more of real romance and 
 adventure, more of patriotic sacrifice and suffering, more of heroic 
 achievement in real life than he, from which he draws his inspiration. 
 To very few is it given to be the poet or patriot above his fellows, and 
 he is both. 
 
 It was a strange juxtaposition that gave him, an Irishman, pro- 
 scribed and outlawed from England, the opportunity of welcoming in 
 America, from a place of honor, a man who stood in Parliament, one 
 of the foremost statesmen and historians of the British empire. Few, if 
 any, could have made the address O’Reilly made; no man not born 
 with the heritage of Irish blood could have compassed its peculiar 
 poetry ; no man not in the enjoyment of political freedom could have 
 equaled its proud independence. He was as good an American as he 
 was an Irishman, and linked freedom and poetry. His quotation from 
 Burke, “the lovers of freedom will be free,” suggested the words of 
 another poet, Swinburne: 
 
 “Free — and I know not another as infinite word.” 
 
 He has shown the kinship of nature, for not only does American 
 pride inspire in his Irish heart, but his poetry and fervor have fairly 
 made Irish blood tingle in the veins of a true Yankee. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 To the Editor of the Post : 
 
 I cannot say that I am an admirer of “Taverner,” and his work, as 
 a rule. But will you allow me to express my thorough appreciation of 
 his reference to one of Erin’s dearest sons— Boyle O’Reilly— in your 
 issue of to-day ? 
 
300 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 I don’t know where one could look, even in Thackeray, for so per- 
 fect a pen -picture of the manly man. It was my great pleasure to know 
 Mr. O’Reilly somewhat intimately for several years ; and it has often 
 been my still greater pleasure to speak most warmly of him ; but in the 
 future, in referring to him, I shall only quote “Taverner’s” descrip- 
 tion, “ He is one whom children would choose for their friend, women 
 for their lover, and men for their hero.” 
 
 Was the sanspeur et sans reproche , which has characterized another 
 knight for centuries, worth more than this ? C. 
 
 And here is another graceful tribute from a brother 
 poet on the occasion of u In Bohemia” reaching its 
 second edition : 
 
 WRITTEN IN JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY’S “IN BOHEMIA.” 
 
 Singers there are of courtly themes — 
 
 Drapers in verse — who would dress their rhymes 
 In robes of ermine ; and singers of dreams 
 Of gods high-throned in the classic times ; 
 
 Singers of nymphs, in their dim retreats — 
 
 Satyrs, with scepter and diadem ; 
 
 But the singer who sings as a man’s heart beats 
 Well may blush for the rest of them. 
 
 I like the thrill of such poems as these — 
 
 All spirit and fervor of splendid fact — 
 
 Pulse and muscle and arteries 
 Of living, heroic thought and act, 
 
 Where every line is a vein of red 
 And rapturous blood, all unconfined, 
 
 As it leaps from a heart that has joyed and bled 
 With the rights and the wrongs of all mankind. 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 The unveiling of Bartholdi’ s great statue of “ Liberty ” 
 took place in New York Harbor, on October 28. O’Reilly 
 wrote for the New York World, on this occasion, his poem 
 “Liberty Lighting the World.” In it he propounds, in 
 capital letters, the creed of Liberty : 
 
 Nature is higher than Progress or Knowledge, whose need is 
 ninety enslaved for ten ; 
 
 My words shall stand against mart and college : The planet 
 BELONGS TO ITS LIVING MEN 1 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 301 
 
 The independent attitude taken by O’Reilly in his 
 journal toward the un-American policy of Secretary Bay- 
 ard left the editor open to misconstruction as an enemy of 
 the Administration, if not a virtual opponent of the Demo- 
 cratic party. Nothing could be further from the truth, 
 especially in regard to the last of these charges. His 
 Democracy was as much a part of him as the blood in his 
 veins. He opposed the un-Democratic conduct of men like 
 Secretary Bayard, Minister Phelps, and others whom Presi- 
 dent Cleveland had unwisely placed and retained in high 
 office. O’ Reilly criticized his party because he was loyal 
 to it ; a time-server would have flattered it, right or wrong. 
 
 But because of this misunderstanding, it happened that 
 at a Republican meeting in Lynn, in October, 1886 , the 
 Pilof s remarks on Secretary Bayard were quoted by ex- 
 Governor John D. Long and Mr. Henry Cabot Lodge. 
 The former said, “I have been listening with very much 
 interest to the address of your next representative in Con- 
 gress, and to his candid speech. I do not find the diffi- 
 culty that he seems to find in interpreting the utterance 
 of that brave, true, conscientious Irishman, John Boyle 
 O’Reilly, the editor of the Pilot ; and, while he writes for 
 the Democratic party, you would find that those are not 
 his true sentiments ; that he is with us and would vote for 
 that which would protect the honor of the country and the 
 honor of our flag, even with Blaine at the head.” O’ Reilly 
 replied : 
 
 Mr. Long did not, we believe, mean to be offensive, but he was so. 
 How could he place such adjectives as ‘ ‘ brave, true, conscientious ” 
 before the name of a man whom he believed to be writing for one party 
 words that “ were not his true sentiments,” while he was secretly in 
 sympathy with the opposing party? It was hasty speaking, Mr. Long; 
 but that is not sufficient explanation. It was taking a liberty that sur- 
 prised us from such a source. However, it gives the editor of the Pilot 
 an opportunity for saying that he has known the Republican party to 
 be attentive to Irish-American views only since it lost power, and 
 wanted to regain it. For twenty years it had power, and during that 
 time “ the honor of our flag,” so far as it was involved in the imprison- 
 ment of American citizens in Ireland, without trial or charge, was 
 
302 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 deliberately and offensively ignored. He knows that up to a year or so 
 ago the usual Republican phrase for citizens of Irish birth or extraction 
 was, “ the dangerous classes.” He knows that, because in the City of 
 Boston, where the majority of the population is now, or is rapidly be- 
 coming, Irish- American, the Republican Legislature has trampled on 
 the first principle of our government — local self-government — admit- 
 tedly to prevent these citizens from exercising their rightful powers. 
 He knows that the Republican machine has been annually used to pre- 
 vent the naturalization of aliens. These are a few of the local reasons 
 why Mr. O’Reilly is not a Republican. 
 
 O’Reilly presided at Justin McCarthy’s farewell lecture 
 in the Boston Theater, February 27, and five days later 
 delivered his own great lecture on ‘ ‘ Illustrious Irishmen 
 of One Century,” before an audience of 3000, in Grand 
 Army Hall, Brooklyn, 1ST. Y. Justin McCarthy was on 
 the stage and received another graceful tribute from the 
 lecturer. 
 
 On St. Patrick’s Bay, 1887, the poet read his “ Exile 
 of the Gael,” before the Charitable Irish Society of Boston, 
 on the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the found- 
 ing of the association. It is a noble tribute to the expa- 
 triated children of Ireland, its best passage being that in 
 which he tells what the exiles have brought with them to 
 the new country: 
 
 No treason we bring from Erin — nor bring we shame nor 
 guilt ! 
 
 The sword we hold may be broken, but we have not dropped 
 the hilt ! 
 
 The wreath we bear to Columbia is twisted of thorns, not 
 bays ; 
 
 And the songs we sing are saddened by thoughts of desolate 
 days. 
 
 But the hearts we bring for Freedom are washed in the surge 
 of tears ; 
 
 And we claim our right by a People’s fight, outliving a thou- 
 sand years. 
 
 In introducing the poem, he uttered one of his pithy 
 sayings: “We can do Ireland more good by our Ameri- 
 canism than by our Irishism.” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 303 
 
 In response to a request from the New York World, 
 O’Reilly wrote his poem “ The Press Evangel,” for an an- 
 niversary number of that journal, which had then attained 
 a daily circulation of a quarter of a million copies. 
 
 Queen Victoria celebrated, in 1887, the jubilee anniversary 
 of her accession to the throne. “ Why should not Ireland 
 jubilate over Queen Victoria’s benignant rule?” asked 
 O’Reilly. 
 
 According to the eminent statistician, Mulhall, quoted by Mr. Glad- 
 stone recently in the House of Commons, the following figures attest 
 the blessings enjoyed by Ireland during the past glorious fifty years : 
 
 Died of famine, . 1,225,000 persons. 
 
 Evicted, . 3,568,000 persons. 
 
 Exiled, 4,185,000 persons. 
 
 The bulk of the exiles came to America, where they have produced, 
 according to the same statistician, wealth to the amount of $3,275,000,- 
 000. Let us do Her Avaricious Majesty the justice to say that the last 
 item will strike her soul with genuine regret. For the rest, Irishmen 
 should be as thankful for the reign of Victoria as they might be for the 
 plagues of Egypt. 
 
 William O’Brien, M.P., paid a visit to America in May, 
 being warmly received throughout the United States, and 
 having his life attempted in Canada. On his arrival in 
 Boston he was given a public reception in the Boston 
 Theater, on Sunday evening, May 29. Nearly 5000 people 
 were present. John Boyle O’Reilly presided and intro- 
 duced the Irish patriot in the following speech : 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen : This immense meeting of the people of 
 Boston is the first note of the American celebration of the Queen of 
 England’s jubilee. It is a meeting of welcome and honor — and also of 
 indignation and protest. We honor a distinguished and devoted patriot, 
 who came to this continent in the interests of a poor and oppressed 
 people, and who has told in burning words their woeful story to every 
 heart in two English-speaking nations, appealing against their oppressor, 
 not in passion or violence, but in the spirit of true reform, of argument 
 and public morality. We protest, as Massachusetts citizens, against the 
 legalized degradation of men, by which a single aristocrat has power to 
 sweep from their homes hundreds, aye, thousands of industrious and 
 virtuous people and banish them from their native land forever. We 
 
304 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’EEILLY. 
 
 protest, as Americans, against a ruler on this continent, in the adjoin- 
 ing country, who tramples upon the law of the land, who smiles appro- 
 bation upon passionate mobs, bent upon outrage and murder — who 
 openly congratulates the country he rules because lawless violence has 
 suppressed the rights of public meeting and free speech — who has no 
 other answer to a criminal charge against himself than hisses and yells 
 and paving stones and pistols. Not in one Canadian city, nor on one 
 sudden and unexpected day, was this resort to anarchy and mob rule 
 allowed and approved, but in many of the chief cities of Canada, one 
 by one, — day after day. 
 
 We tell this ruler that it is our interest and duty, as Americans and 
 lovers of liberty and order, to protest against lawlessness and revolution 
 on this continent in every country north of the Isthmus. We tell him 
 that when a ruler breaks the law and depends for his defense on the 
 bludgeons and revolvers of a besotted mob, he has taken the manacles 
 off anarchy ; he has appealed to the flames for protection ; he has let 
 revolution loose ! 
 
 We want no mobs or revolutions in America, — and least of all revo- 
 lutions in the interests of privilege and caste and foreign power. Bos- 
 ton knows the difference between mobs and revolutions. Her history 
 tells her that a mob is a disease, while a revolution is a cure ; that a mob 
 has only passion and ignorance, while a revolution has conviction and 
 a soul ; that a mob is barren, while a revolution is fruitful ; that the 
 leaders of a mob are miscreants to be condemned, while the leaders of 
 a revolution are heroes to be honored forever. 
 
 Here in Boston, 117 years ago, a crowd of citizens attempted to 
 drive out of the streets the foreign soldiers, whose presence was an in- 
 sult and outrage. The leader of the crowd was a brave colored man 
 named Crispus Attucks, who was the first American killed by an Euglish 
 bullet in the Revolution. The Tories said then, and they kept saying it 
 still, that that crowd of patriotic citizens was a mob ; and that Crispus 
 Attucks and Maverick and Gray and Patrick Carr, who were killed 
 with him, were rioters and criminals. But the State of Massachusetts 
 says : “ Not so ! They were heroes and martyrs, and this year a mon- 
 ument to their deathless memory shall be raised on the spot where their 
 blood was shed.” Compare this result with the pro-slavery mobs of 
 half a century ago — the well-dressed and respectable mobs of Phila- 
 delphia and Boston — the mobs composed of “our first famiHes.” 
 
 Half a century ago a pro-slavery mob howled down the eloquent 
 voice of Birney in Cincinnati, and threw his presses and type into the 
 Ohio River. About the same time a Philadelphia mob burned the hall 
 of the Abolitionists in that city ; an aristocratic first-family mob 
 publicly flogged the benevolent Amos Dresser in the streets of Nash- 
 ville ; a respectable Beacon Street mob dragged William Lloyd Garri- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 305 
 
 son to a lamp-post in Boston. Where are slavery and pro-slavery 
 now ? And on which side are the leaders and the respectable people of 
 the pro-slavery mobs now ? The seed sown by Garrison and Birney 
 and Wendell Phillips was God’s own seed, and it took only a quarter of 
 a century to bring it to God’s own harvest. The seed sown in Ireland 
 and in Canada by the devoted Irish leaders will ripen in less time . 
 
 The American Abolitionists were lawless men, according to the 
 statutes. The Irish Nationalists are not even lawless according to 
 English statutes until a new and atrocious statute has to be invented 
 to make them so. In their resistance to this lawless law every Ameri- 
 can heart is with them. “ I pity a slave,” said Wendell Phillips, “ but 
 a rebellious slave I respect.” The rebellious slave always succeeds — the 
 future fights for him. Let us suppose for a moment that the riotous 
 Boston of fifty years ago has returned ; that a howling mob is rushing 
 up Washington Street yelling for the blood of Garrison and Phillips. 
 With the light of the last half century upon us, let us suppose that into 
 this hall, into this great meeting, those hunted men should rush for 
 protection — Garrison and the young Wendell Phillips — bareheaded, 
 wounded, stricken by stones, followed by curses and revolver shots. 
 What a welcome would await them here ! How the great throbbing 
 heart of Boston would cover and shield them like a mother! How the 
 manhood of Boston would respect and love them ! What a shout of 
 horror and indignation would arise to warn their brutal and cowardly 
 aggressors ! 
 
 We are here to welcome one who embodies the spirit of Garrison and 
 Phillips ; one who went unarmed and clear-eyed to face the danger, to 
 attack the wrong-doer in his high place, for the sake of the poor and 
 oppressed ; one who represents in perfection the manly and moral side 
 of a great question and a brave nation ; one who has come to us wounded 
 and breathless from the fury of the mob, in whose ears still ring the 
 death -yell and the crack of the revolver ; a man who is the very type 
 and idol of his nation — the fearless editor and patriot, William O’Brien. 
 
 The Massachusetts Legislature having voted to erect a 
 monument in Boston, in honor of Crispus Attucks and the 
 other victims of the Boston Massacre, a vigorous attempt 
 was made by certain gentlemen of Tory proclivities to pre- 
 vent the carrying out of the measure, by showing that 
 Attucks and his comrades were “rioters” and “rebels.” 
 The Massachusetts Historical Society petitioned Governor 
 Ames to refuse his sanction to the bill, and made a bitter 
 attack on the memory of the Be volutionary martyrs. 
 O’Beilly, true to his democratic instincts, ranged himself 
 
306 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 on the side of those who desired to honor the colored pa- 
 triot and his humble fellows, and with voice and pen de- 
 fended the cause until it was carried to a successful issue. 
 His great poem, “ Crispus Attucks,” was written in the 
 following year, on the occasion of the dedication of the 
 monument. 
 
 On the 21st of June, the British Americans of Boston 
 celebrated the Queen’s Jubilee by a banquet in the cradle 
 of the American Revolution, Faneuil Hall. On the pre- 
 ceding evening an indignation meeting of citizens, opposed 
 to this desecration, assembled in the same building, and 
 passed resolutions of protest against the celebration, in 
 Faneuil Hall, “of a reign of tyranny and crime.” Ad- 
 dresses were made by Mr. E. M. Chamberlain, Rev. P. A. 
 McKenna, Mr. Philip J. Doherty, and others. As he says 
 in his own report of the meeting : 
 
 Mr. O’Reilly had attended the meeting without thought of taking 
 part. In the rush up-stairs, when the doors were opened, he went with 
 the stream ; and almost before he could take breath he was rushed for- 
 ward till he found himself presiding over the meeting, with the hall 
 quivering with excitement and cheers, the air filled with waving hats 
 and handkerchiefs. When order was restored, he said : 
 
 Fellow-Citizens : I did not come here to-night to make a speech. 
 I came here as a citizen to listen to men, speaking in a protest that I 
 wished to keep out of, because I know there are men small enough and 
 mean enough to say that I could only speak in that protest from the 
 obvious motive of being an Irishman. 
 
 I stand here now in a desecrated Faneuil Hall, in a hall from which 
 we were barred out until the dread of public indignation made them 
 open the doors, — in a hall which those fellow-citizens outside (referring 
 to the out-door meeting still in progress) repudiate and refuse to enter. 
 There is even a larger meeting outside Faneuil Hall to-night than there 
 is in, and the men there say, “We will never go into Faneuil Hall 
 again. ” 
 
 I do not speak as an Irishman. I would as soon speak, God knows, 
 against the Czar of Russia if they jubilated in his honor, with the pris- 
 ons and mines of Siberia filled with Poles; I would as soon come here 
 in the interests of negroes, if their rights were attacked in any part of 
 the Union. 
 
 I come, as a fellow-citizen of yours, to protest against the murder of 
 a tradition. Men say, when their selfish interests are in the market, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 307 
 
 “ It will not do Faneuil Hall any harm to hold this royalist meeting 
 within its walls.” They say, “ We take no sentiment out by the viola' 
 tion of a tradition.” 
 
 But I say those men do not understand the meaning of the awful 
 words “ violation ” and “pollution.” They would say the same things 
 against the violation and pollution of those dearest and nearest to 
 them — that no injury had been done to them by the crime. There is 
 no crime so terrible as pollution. There is no death so awful and so 
 hopeless as the death of violated honor. 
 
 Faneuil Hall could stand against the waves of centuries, could stand 
 against fire, could stand even against folly, but it can never stand 
 against the smoke of its own violated altar. I do not wish to bar the 
 doors of this hall against the royalists. We have let them in by the 
 order of those whom we have elected to represent us ; and if we open 
 the doors we must bear the burden. On our heads is the shame. Isay 
 now, that after the fumes of their baked meats and after the spirits of 
 their royalist speeches intended to desecrate and destroy a holy tradi- 
 tion — after that, this is not Faneuil Hall. 
 
 I speak for myself so honestly and faithfully to my own conscience 
 that I know I must represent the hearts of many men in Boston, and I 
 say that hereafter we must remember against this pile what has been 
 done in it. 
 
 Well, let the Englishmen have Faneuil Hall. (Voices: “No, 
 no!”) I say you cannot prevent it. (Voices: “We will; we can!”) 
 No, no, the opposition is too late. The opposition would be undignified, 
 and would be unworthy of us. The man who would raise a finger 
 against an Englishman to-morrow in Boston, is unworthy to be present 
 here to-night. There is a greater opposition than the opposition of 
 paving-stones and bludgeons. Let that be Lansdowne’s method. It is 
 not ours. It isn’t worthy of B.oston. It isn’t worthy of the Faneuil 
 Hall of the past. 
 
 But I say for myself — what I came to say — that after to-morrow 
 night I trust we shall have a hall in Boston, into which men may go 
 for sanctuary, and causes may go for sanctuary ; as in the olden time, 
 a hunted cause, or a weak man running from the King’s oppression, 
 running even from the law officers, if he could lay his hands on the 
 sanctuary he was safe for a time. And all hunted causes in America 
 and in the world have come here. Kossuth came here from Hungary, 
 O’Connor came here from Ireland, Parnell came here from Ireland. 
 Here is a hall made holy with great men’s words and spirits. We 
 must have a hall unpolluted by the breath of Toryism and royalty in 
 Boston. And I say this as one humble man, who was always proud to 
 come and speak here— that I will never enter the walls of this hall 
 again. I will never, so help me God, I will never — may my tongue 
 
308 JOHN BOYLE O' REILLY. 
 
 cleave to my mouth if I ever speak a word for man or cause in Faneuil 
 Hall again. 
 
 I do not know that there is any man any more formally prepared to 
 speak to you than I have been ; but I would, in this instance and in 
 this cause, call on any Boston man to speak and know that he would 
 have to speak. 
 
 No single act or utterance of O’ Reilly’s life was so 
 harshly criticized as this. He was accused of seeking to 
 proscribe free speech. He was told sneeringly that Boston 
 could survive such a catastrophe as that of O’Reilly and 
 Father McKenna declining to speak in Faneuil Hall again ; 
 that their refusal would not affect anybody half so much 
 as it would themselves. He replied, “That is true; and 
 no one knew it so well as the men who made the reso- 
 lution. They did not speak boastfully, but humbly and 
 sorrowfully ; it is their loss wholly. The gain of raising 
 the Union Jack in Faneuil Hall is the gain of flunkeys and 
 Tories in Boston, just as it was in the last century.” 
 
 It was not necessary for him to repudiate the charge of 
 intolerance. In joining those who protested against the 
 desecration of Faneuil Hall he had acted as an adopted 
 citizen, to whom Revolutionary traditions were as dear as 
 they should have been to all citizens of Revolutionary 
 descent. It would undoubtedly have been better if to these 
 latter had been left the whole duty of protesting. They 
 failed to look at the matter in the same light as he did. 
 There is always a strong leaven of T jryism in the old rebel 
 town of Boston . It was shown in the strenuous opposition to 
 the erection of the Attucks monument ; it was displayed 
 again by members of the Bunker Hill Monument Associa- 
 tion, who objected to the erection of tablets commemorating 
 the patriot soldiers who died in that fight ; one high officer 
 of the association asserting that it would be a falsification 
 of history to glorify, from an American standpoint, an 
 event which was really an English victory. 
 
 As a matter of policy it would have been wiser to have 
 wholly ignored the British- American admirers of Queen 
 Victoria: They were not a representative body of any 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 309 
 
 standing. There were among them few English-born men, 
 and none of any repute in the community. They were, for 
 the most part, Canadians or Nova Scotians of the more igno- 
 rant class, with a few Scotchmen, and a sprinkling of North 
 of Ireland Orangemen, all loyal subjects of Queen Victoria, 
 and all equally ready to trade their loyalty at a moment’s 
 notice when there seemed to be a probability of political 
 gain thereby. They were reinforced by the usual crowd of 
 No-Popery fanatics, and their introduction into American 
 politics, a year or two later, did not tend to elevate the 
 standard of political virtue. They were given undue promi- 
 nence by the notice of an earnest patriot like O’Reilly. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 
 Public Addresses — Author’s Beading — The Irish Flag in New York— 
 “Athletics and Manly Sport ” Published — His Cruise in the Dis- 
 mal Swamp— Interesting Letters to E. A. Moseley — Speech at the 
 C. T. A. U. Banquet — Bayard, Chamberlain, and Sack ville- West — 
 Presidential Election — Poem on Crispus Attucks — Death of Cor- 
 poral Chambers — Speech for the Heroes of Hull. 
 
 T HERE was no trait of O’Reilly’s character more gra- 
 cious than the genuine delight which he felt in the 
 discovery and recognition of any talent, literary or artistic, 
 in a young neophyte . The delight was manifoldly enhanced 
 when the candidate was one of his own race. He was one 
 of the first to recognize and the most generous to encourage 
 any aspirant for fame whose credentials bore the Gaelic 
 stamp. More than half a score of poets and litterateurs in 
 Boston alone, received their first welcome plaudits and sub- 
 stantial rewards from the kindly editor of the Pilot. 
 
 Toward the close of 1887 John Donoghue, a young 
 sculptor, whom Oscar Wilde had “ discovered” three or 
 four years previously in Chicago, and who had successfully 
 exhibited his works in the Paris salon, took up his resi- 
 dence in Boston. He exhibited three of his works in 
 Boston in January, 1888, “ The Young Sopliokles,” “The 
 Hunting Nymph,” and “The Boxer,” this last being a 
 statue from the life. His model was the famous pugilist, 
 John L. Sullivan. O’Reilly wrote of it as follows : 
 
 In the exhibition of statues by John Donoghue, now open in Horti- 
 cultural Hall, Boston, the tremendous figure of ‘ ‘ The Boxer ” stands in 
 the center, between the wonderful “Young Sophokles ” and ‘ ‘ The Hunt- 
 ing Nymph.” These two are noble sculptures, varied in grace, beauty 
 and eloquent action. 
 
 But the latest work of John Donoghue is held by many— and cer- 
 tainly I am one of them— to be the greatest of the three. This is “ The 
 
 310 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 311 
 
 Boxer,” which stands in the central carmine arch, filling the whole hall 
 with its colossal strength, calmness and beauty. A beauty higher than 
 that of the “ Nymph,” lovely as she is; more potent than that of “The 
 Sophokles, ” with all his marvelous grace and eloquence. The others 
 are imaginatively great ; this is profoundly so. Not merely because it 
 is an ambitious modernism, though this is much ; nor that it is more or 
 less a portrait of a world-renowned subject, which matters nothing for 
 to-day, though it is likely to become a real value a hundred or a 
 thousand years hence. But because it is, as all noble art must be, a 
 symbol that is higher than a mere fact, or any thousand facts. It is 
 absurd to say that this is a statue of Sullivan, the boxer, even though 
 he posed for it. It is a hundred Sullivans in one. It is the essential 
 meaning and expression of all such men as Sullivan. It is just what 
 the great sculptor who conceived it calls it : “ The Boxer,” a person- 
 
 ification of the power, will, grace, beauty, brutality, and majesty of the 
 perfect pugilist of modern times. 
 
 It is a statue which, once seen, can never be forgotten. It is unlike 
 all other statues in the world — as unlike the glorious “ David ” of An- 
 gelo as the “ David ” is unlike the “ Discobulus ” of the Athenian master. 
 
 One of the wonders of the exhibition is that the same man could 
 produce all three statues. The ‘ ‘ Nymph ” no more resembles ‘ ‘ The Box- 
 er ” than flowing water resembles ironstone. One illustrates the airy 
 lightness of grace, peace, and freedom; the other the heavy purpose of 
 violence, force, and domination. But as Nature is equally beautiful in 
 every phase, so are these antipodal figures equal in beauty. The lily- 
 bends of the “ Nymph,” the lovely feet, hands, and throat, are not more 
 beautiful of line or curve than the vast limbs of the athlete. Standing 
 at the farther end of the hall this may be clearly seen. At this distance 
 the fell purpose of mouth and level eye is modified, and the dreadful 
 threat of the brutal hands (the only brutal feature of the statue) is con- 
 siderably lessened ; but the grace of the muscular torso, the band-like 
 muscles of neck, shoulders, and sides, and the wonderful modeling of 
 the legs are seen with striking distinctness. 
 
 This statue stands for nineteenth century boxing for all time. There 
 is no gloss of savagery in the dreadful hands and lowered frontal ; but 
 the truth is grandly told of the strength, quality, and physical perfec- 
 tion. It is the statue of a magnificent athlete, worthy of ancient 
 Athens, and distinctly and proudly true of modern Boston. 
 
 Strangers visiting Boston will ask for years to come: “Where is 
 the statue of “The Boxer ” ? And should the city be fortunate enough 
 and wise enough to keep this great work in immortal bronze in one of 
 our halls or galleries, it is as sure to win international renown as the 
 towering “Young David” in Florence. 
 
 Two Gladstonian envoys, Sir Thomas H. G. Esmonde 
 
312 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 and Mr. John Stuart, were given a public reception at the 
 Hollis Street Theater, Boston, on the evening of January 
 29. O’ Reilly, who was one of- the speakers, said ( I quote 
 the reported synopsis of his speech) : 
 
 He was glad of the opportunity of standing on the platform with an 
 Englishman like Mr. Stuart, and declaring that between Irishmen and 
 such Englishmen there was no quarrel. He was reminded by Mr. 
 Stuart’s speech that there were two Englands, one composed of a few 
 thousand people and the other of tens of millions ; but the thousands 
 had all the glory and the power and the wealth, while the millions had 
 all the darkness, the crowding, the suffering, and the labor. He was re- 
 minded of the Jewish boy in England sixty years ago, who, when a Jew 
 had no rights or standing in the nation, resolved to become a great and 
 powerful man. But the upper class, who held all the avenues to dis- 
 tinction, would have nothing to do with him. They rejected him ; and 
 he retaliated. He wrote a book — a terrible book for them ; and he called 
 it “The Two Nations.” He painted in burning words the luxurious 
 dwellers in the castles, and the degraded and overworked slaves in the 
 outer night of ignorance, poverty, and labor. The upper nation, the 
 castle dwellers, the aristocrats, who had grown inhuman with irrespon- 
 sible power, recognized at once the danger of allowing this man to be 
 their enemy. His book was a threat, and they saw it. He was adopted 
 into their ranks, and he accepted their honors. Step by step he com- 
 pelled them to elevate him, a poor literary hack-writer, until'in the end 
 of his days they pressed a jeweled coronet on his withered brows, 
 raised him to the supreme seat among their titled ranks, rechristened 
 him, whose name was Benjamin of Israel, by a lordly title, and 
 showered on him such golden honors as his poor old frame could hardly 
 stand up under. That was the aristocrats’ bribe to an able man to tie up 
 his tongue and his pen from exposing the wickedness of their power and 
 defending the rights of an outraged nation. 
 
 An Author’s Reading was given in aid of the Longfellow 
 Memorial Fund at Saunder’s Theater, Cambridge, Mass., 
 on Monday evening, February 28. Among those who par- 
 ticipated were Julia Ward Howe, Edward Everett Hale, 
 Thomas Wentworth Higginson, William Winter, Louise 
 Chandler Moulton, John Boyle O’Reilly, George Parsons 
 Lathrop, Charles Follen Adams, and Charlotte Fiske Bates. 
 
 O’Reilly’s appearance on the occasion was thus happily 
 referred to in the Boston Transcript : 
 
 But the man of all present who struck fire was Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 313 
 
 Mr. O’Reilly seemed a bit nervous as he stepped forward, eschewing the 
 desk and its preachy suggestions, and he bent uneasily from side to side 
 for a moment, as he read, apparently from written sheets, a number of 
 keen epigrammatic verses, full of humanity and sharp satire of wealthy 
 pretense. It seemed rather a trait of audacity for him to read “In 
 Bohemia,” too, before an audience which must have included very few 
 Bohemians, and where he could hardly expect a favorable reception for 
 his sentiments regarding organized charity and statistical Christianity ; 
 but how the audience did cheer when he was done ! It was perfectly 
 plain that he had accomplished his poet’s mission in touching hearers’ 
 hearts rather than their reason, or even the reflected sentiment that 
 comes from an intellectual conception as to what sentiment ought to be, 
 and which often passes for genuine sentiment until somebody comes 
 along who was endowed at his birth, as Boyle O’Reilly was, with the 
 art of getting at the real sentiment of human beings. How such a 
 thrill as he gave with “In Bohemia” sweeps away artificial sentiment, 
 even when it is as cleverly conceived as they are able to conceive it in 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Something of a tempest in a teapot was stirred np in 
 New York on St. Patrick’s Day of this year, when Mayor 
 Abram Hewitt refused to let the Irish flag be floated over 
 City Hall, a courtesy which had been practiced for over 
 ninety years. Mr. Hewitt had decorated the same building 
 with bunting on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s jubilee, as 
 he had shown himself a pronounced Anglomaniac on many 
 other occasions. The Irish- Americans, of course, did not 
 claim as a right that which they had so long enjoyed as a 
 courtesy. Mr. Hewitt’s animus was unmistakable ; but 
 when a branch of the Irish National League in Dublin, 
 Ireland, passed a resolution condemning the conduct of the 
 New York Mayor, O’Reilly pronounced their action “a 
 folly and an impertinence, also.” He said : 
 
 The city of Dublin, whether represented by British or Irish senti- 
 ment, commits an intolerable error when it assumes to lecture the city 
 of New York or any other American city on its relation to the Irish 
 people or flag. The first to resent such interference are Irish- Ameri- 
 cans, who are quite able to speak for themselves. 
 
 Mayor Hewitt, sneaking into the office of the British Minister at 
 Washington to explain why he had moved an anti-British resolution 
 in Congress, proved himself to be an unreliable and unfriendly man, 
 to be distrusted particularly by Irish- Americans. 
 
314 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But when a resolution is passed in Ireland demanding that the 
 Mayor of New York should hoist the Irish flag on the City Hall, as a 
 right of “the Irish race throughout the world,” we take sides with 
 Mayor Hewitt ; and we advise the Dublin branch of the National 
 League that it has made a grave mistake that ought to be amended ; 
 and that the person who drafted the above resolution ought not to be 
 trusted with the wording of its withdrawal. 
 
 Mr. Hewitt failed of re-election, not because the Dublin 
 National League had disapproved of his conduct, but be- 
 cause sensible Americans regarded him as a fidgety nui- 
 sance. 
 
 “In the month of May, 1888 , two sunburned white 
 men, in cedar canoes, turned at right angles from the 
 broad waters of the Dismal Swamp Canal, and entered the 
 dark and narrow channel, called the Feeder, that pierces 
 the very heart of the swamp.” 
 
 The two sunburned white men, thus mentioned by one 
 of them, were Edward A. Moseley and John Boyle O’ Reilly. 
 It was their last canoeing trip together, and is pictur- 
 esquely chronicled by O’ Reilly’s pen and Moseley’s camera 
 in the former’s volume on “Athletics and Manly Sport,” 
 published in the same year by Ticknor & Co., Boston, and 
 republished in a second edition, two years later, by the 
 Pilot Publishing Co. It has a frontispiece portrait of 
 Donoghue’s statue, “The Boxer,” and is dedicated : 
 
 TO THOSE WHO BELIEVE THAT A LOVE FOR 
 INNOCENT SPORT, PLAYFUL EXERCISE, 
 
 AND ENJOYMENT OF NATURE, 
 
 IS A BLESSING INTENDED NOT ONLY FOR 
 THE YEARS OF BOYHOOD, BUT FOR 
 THE WHOLE LIFE OF A MAN. 
 
 In his introduction, recognizing the prejudice which 
 exists against boxing, he quoted Bunyan’s lines : 
 
 Some said, John, print it ; others said, Not so , 
 
 Some said, It might do good ; others said, No. 
 
 The book is a cyclopaedia of the history and evolution 
 of pugilism, defending the exercise for its value as a 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 315 
 
 developer of health and courage, and not extenuating the 
 brutality, which too often accompanies the so-called 
 “ prize-fight.” His directions concerning health and ex- 
 ercise have the advantage of being drawn from personal 
 experience, for he was an “ all-round” athlete, a fine 
 boxer, a skilled and graceful fencer, and all but an amphib- 
 ian in the water. Three short rules may be quoted at 
 random, for their common sense quality : 
 
 The best exercise for a man, training for a boxing-match, is boxing ; 
 the next best is running. 
 
 The best exercise for a crew, training for a rowing-race, is rowing ; 
 the next best is running. 
 
 The best exercise for a man, training for a swimming-match, is swim- 
 ming ; the next best is running. 
 
 And so with other contests ; running is not only second best, but is 
 absolutely necessary in each, for running excels all exercises for devel- 
 oping “ the wind.” 
 
 Seventy pages of the book are devoted to a well- written 
 and copiously illustrated article on ‘ ‘ Ancient Irish Athletic 
 Games, Exercises, and Weapons.” But the part which 
 will most interest the general reader is that, consisting of 
 over two hundred pages, in which he narrates his canoeing 
 trips on the Connecticut, the Susquehanna, the Delaware, 
 and the Dismal Swamp. The shortsighted greed of man 
 has prevented the reclamation of the Swamp. O’Reilly 
 was a firm believer in the great resources of that region, 
 now given over to the wild beast and the moccasin snake. 
 He took pains on his return to makes its possibilities 
 known to the world, and cherished hopes of living to see 
 this rich, neglected Virginia tract converted into a beauti- 
 ful, fertile, and healthful region. 
 
 His Dismal Swamp cruise was the last of the delightful 
 outings that he was ever to enjoy. His companion and 
 dear friend, Mr. Edward A. Moseley, of Washington, has 
 kindly supplied me with some characteristic letters, writ- 
 ten at this period, from which I take these interesting 
 specimens : 
 
316 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 The “ Pilot,” Boston, March 1, 1888 
 
 Dear Ned‘: 
 
 Get as much information as you can about the Swamp. I am 
 with you . Always, 
 
 Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 April 5, 1888. 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 Please let me know — are you going with me to the Dismal Swamp 
 or not ? I must make arrangements. I wrote you two weeks ago. 
 Perhaps my letter has miscarried. Write, like a good old boy. 
 
 Faithfully, 
 
 J. B. O’R. 
 
 April 10, 1888. 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 I may have to ask you to start a week before the 7th of May ; but I 
 am trying to arrange it as I wrote last week. I have learned all about 
 the Swamp. It is absolutely free from malaria. The water is wonder- 
 fully pure. Gen. Butler tells me it is the sweetest water in the country. 
 We shall probably have to take a negro lad, who knows the Swamp, 
 with us. 
 
 Be sure and have the camera in fine order, and lay in a complete 
 stock of dry plates. The expense, dear Ned, must be more fairly 
 divided this time. If you will send me word what plates to get, I will 
 bring with me a hundred or more of the right kind. Don’t delay ; just 
 write me the things to buy. 
 
 I will bring my gun ; you get one also. Do you want any paddles, 
 etc. ? Find out at Norfolk, as early as you can, whether or not we can 
 camp in the Swamp. 
 
 Good-by, dear old Mr. McGarvey.* 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 J. B. O’R. 
 
 We will have a glorious time. 
 
 April 27, 1888. 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 I shall start on Saturday, May 5, arriving in Norfolk on Monday, 
 7th. I have got the plates (Seeds 5x8 — four dozen). I shall bring your 
 cushion along. Be sure and get long rubber boots, and better bring a 
 gun — a light rifle if you can get it, as there are deer in the Swamp. 
 
 We want a reliable negro who knows the whole Swamp, — with a 
 
 * Evidently a playful nickname of Mr. Moseley. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 817 
 
 boat. If you are down there in time, look out for this fellow. Per- 
 haps it would be well to go to the Swamp to get him. It is only an 
 hour’s ride there from Norfolk. 
 
 We will have a memorable time, old man. 
 
 Bring lots of good quinine. I will bring some also. 
 
 Faithfully, 
 
 Boyle. 
 
 June 6, 1888. 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 If there be a map of the Dismal Swamp anywhere in Washington, 
 please get it for our article. We need it badly . 
 
 Send me any other notes you may think of. 
 
 Send for the map at once. It must be engraved here. 
 
 Faithfully, 
 
 J. B. O’R. 
 
 June 27, 1888. 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 .... Please see King and thank him for the antlers and maps 
 (which I shall return safely in a week or two). Also ask him if he 
 sent or instructed any one to send me a keg of wine. A keg of 
 delicious wine came to me last week — no letter, no bill. I want to 
 pay for it. 
 
 My article (four pages of Herald and Sun) will appear on Sunday, 
 July 1 — copious illustrations. I shall reproduce all the good plates in 
 my book directly from the negatives. Send me everything you can 
 about the Swamp. 
 
 My little Blanid has been very ill, dying almost, for two weeks. I 
 could not write. I was up day and night. She is better now, thank 
 God. 
 
 My love to you, dear Ned. 
 
 Faithfully, 
 
 Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 He enjoyed his trip through the Swamp amazingly, 
 and was especially interested in its quaint human inhabi- 
 tants, nearly all fugitive slaves or their descendants. 
 
 “His wonderful ability to place himself en rapport 
 with all classes of men, and adapt himself to the capacity 
 of others to understand him,” writes his companion, Mr. 
 Moseley, “ was well illustrated in our Dismal Swamp trip, 
 when the half-civilized blacks of that lonely region, many 
 of whom had never been outside the dark recesses of the 
 
318 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 Swamp, — poor unfortunates, whose mentality was about as 
 low as it is possible to imagine in a human being, — used to 
 gather around our camp fire, and listen with bated breath 
 while Boyle related to them, as only he could, the story of 
 the wrongs and sufferings of Ireland, and told of the eight 
 hundred years of oppression which yet had failed to de- 
 stroy the Irish nationality and the Irish spirit and tradi- 
 tions ; and so well did he present his theme, and so per- 
 fectly did he measure the language with which he clothed 
 his eloquence by the rude intellectual standard of his audi- 
 ence, that he held them speechless and amazed at what was 
 to them a wonderful romance.” 
 
 The following clever parody on Moore’s “Lake of the 
 Dismal Swamp ’ ’ went the rounds of the press apropos of 
 O’Reilly’s cruise : 
 
 He’s off for a place rather cold and damp 
 For a soul so warm to woo ; 
 
 He goes to explore the Dismal Swamp, 
 
 So weirdly sung by a poet-tramp 
 When the century was new . 
 
 And some sonorous song we soon may hear, 
 
 Or malarial lines may see, 
 
 For the Miasmatic Muse may bear 
 
 Some offspring meet for the laurel’s wear, 
 
 Though derived from the cypress tree. 
 
 So the brakes among ! Though the way is long 
 And no primrose path it be ; 
 
 And what is there wrong in a plaintive song 
 
 For the juice of the grateful scuppernong 
 And the juniper jamboree ? 
 
 No rill Heliconian to inspirate, 
 
 Nor fount of fair Castaly ; 
 
 And the exhalations that exhalate 
 
 Are not the sort that invigorate 
 Or animate Poesie. 
 
 And yet to the fancy that sways supreme 
 These poetic, aesthetic souls 
 
319 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Here might haply seem Scamander’s stream, 
 
 Or in rhapsodic dream where the waveless gleam 
 And my native Simois rolls. 
 
 O Pilot ! there is a peril dread 
 Where the ignis fatuus lured, 
 
 And the wolf unfed and the copperhead 
 With the poisonous growth hung over head 
 Like a Damocletian sword ! 
 
 But bon Voyage , and no longer enlarge 
 On the terrors above defined. 
 
 We’ll rout the band with Prospero’s wand 
 And banish them (in our mind) ; 
 
 With carbolic hand disinfect the land 
 Nor leave a germ behind. 
 
 So in birchen boat, a bark of his own, 
 
 On that lake of somber hue, 
 
 Or on life’s broad stream, wherever blown, 
 
 J. B. is quite able — so lave him alone — 
 
 To paddle his own canoe. 
 
 H. Moro. 
 
 He received a more dainty compliment from far-away 
 South America, about the same time. The charming love 
 poem “Jacqueminots,” has been set to music by two or 
 three American composers. It had the honor of transla- 
 tion into the Spanish language by a Buenos Ayres author, 
 who introduced it under the title “Yankee Poetry” as 
 follows : 
 
 A North-American resident in Buenos Ayres has translated into 
 Spanish verse a poetical composition already published in one of our 
 dailies, but accredited to one of the most popular weekly newspapers in 
 the United States, the Pilot of Boston. The circumstance of a stranger’s 
 so easily overcoming the great difficulties of rendering this English 
 poem, beautifully and musically, into the Spanish idiom, united to the 
 great merit of the original composition, whose author holds high rank 
 in the literary world of North America, induces us to transfer it to our 
 columns : 
 
 Poeias Yankee. — Un norte-americano residente en Buenos Aires 
 ha traducido en verso espanol una composicion poetica publicada hace 
 
320 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 poco por uno de los diarios mas acreditados y populares de los Estados 
 Unidos: the Pilot de Boston. 
 
 La circumstancia de haber sido vertido a nuestro idioma por un 
 extranjero, venciende dificultades que facilmente se adivinan, unida al 
 merito relativo de la composicion, que lleva al pie un nombre venta- 
 josamente conocido en el mundo literario norte-americano, nos induce 
 a darle un lugar en nuestras columnas. 
 
 Hela aqui : 
 
 JACQUEMINOTS. 
 
 [Traduccion del Ingles, por E. R.] 
 
 Yo no quiero, mi vida, con palabras 
 Manifestarle mi ansiedad de amores ; 
 
 Pero deja que expresen lo que siento, 
 
 Con lenguaje de aromas, esas flores. 
 
 Que sus hojas purpureas te revelen 
 De mis deseos el prof undo arcano; 
 
 Que rueguen por sonrisas y por besos 
 Cual los campos por lluvia en el verano. 
 
 Ah ! mi querida, que tu faz trasluzca 
 El brillo de una tierna confesion ; 
 
 Da a mis rosassiquiera una esperanza, 
 
 La esperanza que anhela el corazon. 
 
 Llevalas a tu seno, mi querida, 
 
 Despues que aspires su fragante olor ; 
 
 Bebe en sue caliz mi pasion ardiente, 
 
 Su aroma es el perfume de mi amor. 
 
 Oh ! mis rosas decidia, supplicantes, 
 
 Con lenguaje de aromas, sin alino, 
 
 Cuantos son los suspiros y las ansias 
 De un corazon sediento de carino. 
 
 Decidle, rosas, que en mi picho vense 
 Los lindos rasgos de su rostro impresos, 
 
 Que mis ojos la buscan, y mis labios 
 Estan pidiendo sus amantes besos. 
 
 The eighteenth annual convention of the Catholic Total 
 Abstinence Union in America was held in Tremont Tem- 
 ple, Boston, on Wednesday and Thursday, August 1 and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 321 
 
 2. Addresses were delivered by Rev. Father Thomas J. 
 Conaty, of Worcester, Right Rev. Bishop Keane, rector of 
 the American Catholic University, and other great temper- 
 ance advocates. A banquet was given to the delegates by 
 the Boston Arch-Diocesan Union, at the Waverly House, 
 Charlestown, on the last evening of the convention. John 
 Boyle O’ Reilly responded for the press as follows : 
 
 I have learned that it does not need wine to give eloquence to your 
 orators. I was to respond to the Catholic Total Abstinence press of 
 America, I regret that I was limited to that. There is no press in 
 America to-day that is not wholly yours. There is no American, 
 Catholic or Protestant, who has any adverse criticism to offer to your 
 convention. Before you, prejudice of class and party drops its arms; 
 even the man of the three It’s could not find fault with your rum and 
 Romanism. And your only “ rebellion ” is against want and woe and 
 wickedness. Your practices and parades give special pride to Catholic 
 Americans. You speak the very essence of Catholic faith and Ameri- 
 can patriotism in your zeal without coercion, your example without 
 denunciation. You appeal to the goodness and not to the shrewdness 
 or tyranny that is in men. One of the speakers at the convention — I 
 think it was my wise and honored friend Fr. Wm. Byrne, the Vicar- 
 General of Boston — truly said that you ought not to count or measure 
 your influence by your organized numbers. He was right. As you 
 delegates are to your organization, so is your organization to its moral 
 example and influence. 
 
 To Americans of Irish extraction, particularly, your organization is a 
 source of pride and pleasure, for those who are of Irish extraction or 
 birth, and who are American citizens, know that your mission is neces- 
 sarily largely directed to their people. Yet they come from no dissi- 
 pated or immoral stock. They come from a country whose morals 
 compare favorably with those of any country in the world. 
 
 Why it is that the slur of intemperance should be so constantly cast 
 on the expatriated or emigrated Irish is a question of deep interest to 
 men outside of your body. In the times of freedom, in their own 
 country, they were never a drunken people. No missionary to Ireland 
 has reported them as being a drunken or intemperate people, until 
 comparatively recent times. And yet, because of their hospitable and 
 warm-hearted natures, they may have been open to that charge. 
 
 But in the days of their freedom, when they made their mead, ale, 
 and whisky, the Irish people were a sober people. When the Govern- 
 ment took away from the people, and placed in the hands of distillers, 
 the manufacture of these drinks, and imposed licenses upon it, the 
 
322 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 people got their drinks only when they went to the market, and at 
 those times they took too much liquor. That was the real beginning of 
 intemperance in Ireland. Intemperance went into Ireland with foreign 
 rule and prohibition. The law of man sent intemperance among the 
 Irish, and you are trying to take it out of them by a higher law than 
 that of man — by the law of God. 
 
 Again, when they came to this country with all their home ties 
 broken, with no money in many instances, strangers in uncongenial 
 communities, the desire of the Irish for fraternity, for meeting their 
 kindred and friends when they could, furnished the great opportunity 
 for the liquor seller ; his saloon became the accustomed place of meet- 
 ing. You will find (and I say it as an outsider who has given the subject 
 some consideration) that the saloon-keeper among the Irish people in 
 this country is nearly always an emigrant. There are very few Irish- 
 Americans born in this country who have gone into the liquor trade. 
 The people coming here from Ireland were unskilled. The thousands 
 or tens of thousand industries which enter into the life of a prosperous 
 nation were taken away from Ireland. The ship-building, the mining, 
 the iron works, the carriage-building, the potteries, the mills, and the 
 weaving, all those industries that Ireland had even up to one hundred 
 years ago, were swept away and the manual skill of the people was 
 deliberately stolen from them. They were left with no opportunities 
 whatever of acquiring knowledge other than that which pertained to 
 the servile work of tilling the land, while the land was held by 
 strangers. In Ireland a man with seven sons had seven farm laborers 
 in his house ; in Boston, for instance, the same man would have seven 
 sons at useful and perhaps different occupations. That is the reason 
 why many of the men coming from Ireland, notwithstanding they 
 were provident, thrifty and ambitious, were tempted to go into the 
 liquor business as a means of acquiring money rapidly. That is one of 
 the considerations which I think ought to be remembered by your or- 
 ganization as a reason for dealing leniently with men in that traffic. 
 But I believe that of all the classes affected by it, the first to relieve 
 itself from the influence of the saloon is going to be the Irish- American 
 class, because of these two facts : That we are not drunkards ; that we 
 come from no degraded or immoral stock ; and because we are learning 
 all the manifold industries and means of making an honorable living 
 which are open to us in our American business centers. 
 
 Secretary Bayard’s novel attempt to settle the fisheries 
 disputes between the United States and England, on the 
 basis of giving the latter country all that she asked and some- 
 thing more, resulted in the appointment of a commission 
 by the +wo governments. The commissioner selected to 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 323 
 
 represent the British Government was Joseph Chamberlain, 
 M.P. The reference to arbitration was made against the 
 wishes of Congress, and of the people whose interests were 
 most immediately concerned, the American fishermen. 
 These facts alone would have been sufficient to endanger the 
 success of the mission ; the appointment of such a man as 
 Chamberlain insured its failure. O’Reilly predicted: 
 “ When the farce is over, no doubt the Senate will quietly 
 shelve Mr. Bayard’s new treaty and that will be the end of 
 the matter until the humiliating experiences of 1886 and 
 1887 are repeated in the season of 1888. After which the 
 deluge, and a presidential election.” 
 
 Whatever hope there might have been for the treaty was 
 dispelled by Mr. Chamberlain himself, who, on the eve of 
 his departure for the field of his mission, made a flippant 
 and foolish speech, in which he insulted Irish-Americans 
 and sneered at the people of Canada, whose interests he was 
 supposed to champion. “ A foreign commissioner,” wrote 
 O’Reilly, “ who begins by wantonly offending twenty mill- 
 ions of sensitive, active Americans, may be let alone to work 
 his own cure.” To complete the offensiveness of his con- 
 duct, the commissioner was escorted by a bodyguard of 
 detectives on landing in the United States, professing to fear 
 personal violence from the Irish-Americans. “Mr. Cham- 
 berlain need have no fear for his life,” said O’Reilly ; “ it 
 is only the public or spiritual part of Mr. Chamberlain that 
 excites aversion, and that he is surely killing himself. 
 The bodily part can live on, carrying the suicidal corpse of 
 his reputation as an example and a warning to other 
 ‘radical statesmen.’ ” Mr. Chamberlain was not killed, he 
 was not even insulted. His advent would have been of very 
 little importance, one way or another, save for the fact that 
 it contributed materially to the killing of something infin- 
 itely more valuable than himself, a Democratic Administra- 
 tion. 
 
 In the heat and fury of the national election, an inci- 
 dent occurred which came very near turning the scales in 
 favor of President Cleveland’s re-election. The British 
 
324 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Minister to Washington, Lord Sackville-West, received in 
 September, from Pomona, Cal., a letter signed “ Charles F. 
 Murchison,” which purported to be the inquiry of a 
 naturalized British-American, asking the representative of 
 the Government which he, the writer, had sworn to abjure, 
 for instruction as to how he should vote in the pending elec- 
 tion. The letter was a forgery, but it achieved its end by 
 entrapping the stupid Minister into replying as follows : 
 
 Beverly, Mass., September 13, 1888. 
 
 Sir: 
 
 I am in receipt of your letter of the 4th inst. and beg to say that I 
 fully appreciate the difficulty in which you find yourself in casting 
 your vote. You are probably aware that any political party which 
 openly favored the mother country at the present moment would lose 
 popularity, and that the party in power is fully aware of this fact. 
 The party, however, is, I believe, still desirous of maintaining friendly 
 relations with Great Britain, and is still as desirous of settling all ques- 
 tions with Canada which have been unfortunately reopened since the 
 rejection of the Treaty by the Republican majority in the Senate and by 
 the President’s message to which you allude. All allowances must, 
 therefore, be made for the political situation as regards the Presidential 
 election thus created. It is, however, impossible to predict the course 
 which President Cleveland may pursue in the matter of retaliation 
 should he be elected, but there is every reason to believe that, while 
 upholding the position he has taken, he will manifest a spirit of con- 
 ciliation in dealing with the question involved in his message. I in- 
 close an article from the New York Times of August 22, and remain 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 L. S. Sackville-West. 
 
 So astounding a breach of diplomatic courtesy could not 
 be passed over. President Cleveland recognized at once 
 the fatal importance of such an indorsement from the 
 national enemy of America, and demanded the immediate 
 recall of the indiscreet envoy. As the British Government 
 delayed and temporized, Secretary Bayard, by direction 
 of the President, wrote to Minister West notifying him : 
 
 Your present official situation near this Government is no longer 
 acceptable, and would consequently be detrimental to the good relations 
 between the two powers. I have the further honor, by the direction of 
 the President, to inclose you a letter .of safe conduct through the Terri- 
 tories of the United States. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 325 
 
 The British lion roared. Lord Salisbury lost his temper 
 and denounced the Administration which had so promptly 
 “ flipped out ’ ’ a British Minister. The Tory papers com- 
 mented on the “ boorish rudeness of the American Govern- 
 ment,” the blame of which they laid on the Irish- Ameri- 
 cans, especially naming two, O’ Reilly and Collins. 
 
 The London Daily Chronicle clamored for war, say- 
 ing : 
 
 If President Cleveland is of opinion that it consorts with his 
 dignified position to abase himself and his country before the O’Reillys, 
 Collinses, and other Irish demagogues, and to reserve his rudeness for 
 accredited diplomatists of friendly powers, it is not British business to 
 attempt his conversion, but it is our duty to resent the insult put upon 
 us as promptly as it was offered. 
 
 The u man O’Reilly,” of whom Sir William Vernon 
 Harcourt had never heard four years before, became very 
 well known to the British Government through this inci- 
 dent. He became even better known when the Extradition 
 Treaty, carefully amended so as to cover the cases of politi- 
 cal offenders like himself, was kicked out of the United 
 States Senate. 
 
 O’ Reilly had supported the candidacy of Cleveland, but 
 the President, handicapped by the unpopularity of some 
 of his cabinet and diplomatic appointees, was defeated by 
 a small majority. 
 
 The monument to Crispus Attucks was unveiled on 
 Wednesday, November 14, dedicatory services being held 
 in Faneuil Hall. Rev. A. * Chamberlain read O’Reilly’s 
 poem, entitled, “ Crispus Attucks, Negro Patriot — Killed 
 in Boston, March 5, 1770,” with its scathing indictment of 
 the Tory : 
 
 Patrician, aristocrat, Tory — whatever his age or name, 
 
 To the people’s rights and liberties, a traitor ever the same. 
 
 The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar 
 rhyme ; 
 
 The free man’s speech is sedition, and the patriot’s deed a crime ; 
 
 Whatever the race, the law, the land, — whatever the time or 
 throne, — 
 
 The Tory is always a traitor to every class but his own. 
 
326 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The poem elicited a characteristic letter from a patriot 
 of rugged integrity, who wastes no compliments. Patrick 
 Ford, editor of the Irish World , wrote him on December 
 8, 1888 : 
 
 The poem is worthy of a noble mind and a pen of fire. As an Irish- 
 man and an American, I am proud of you. 
 
 Rev. J. R. Slattery, superior of negro missions in the 
 South, wrote : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Crispus Attucks ” got me up to white heat : it will tell. ‘ ‘ By the tea 
 that is brewing still,” is unrivaled. For years it has been my convic- 
 tion that the South will e.ventually be ruled by the negroes, and for the 
 reasons given by Mr. O’Reilly. 
 
 ‘ ‘ There is never a legal sin but grows to the law’s disaster ; 
 
 The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave the 
 master.” 
 
 We all feel very grateful to the poet who thus in soul-stirring song 
 seconds our efforts, or rather gives us an ideal to direct our poor people 
 toward. 
 
 At the special request of the colored citizens of Boston, 
 O’Reilly read the poem for them on Tuesday, December 
 18, at the colored church in Charles Street, prefacing it 
 with a short speech, in which he said : 
 
 There is no man in the world who would not be proud of such a 
 patriotic introduction and reception. I thought to-night, that, instead 
 of listening to the reading of a poem, you would unite with your white 
 fellow-citizens in sending word to Mississippi to prevent murder. You 
 have heard the white man’s story. To-morrow we may hear the other 
 side. We shall see who it is that is shot down in the swamp. The colored 
 men have their future in their own hands ; but they have a harder task 
 before them than they had in 1860. It is easier to break political bonds 
 than the bonds of ignorance and prejudice. The next twenty-five 
 years can bring many reforms, and by proper training our colored 
 fellow-citizens may easily be their own protectors. They must, above 
 all things, establish a brotherhood of race. Make it so strong that its 
 members will be proud of it — proud of living as colored Americans, 
 and desirous of devoting their energy to the advancement of their 
 people. 
 
 He had delivered a course of lectures in the Southwest 
 in the preceding month, and saw with burning indignation 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 327 
 
 the social ostracism to which colored men were subjected in 
 public places throughout various parts of that section, and 
 came home more than ever an advocate of the oppressed 
 black man. 
 
 Another delegation of Irish Nationalists came to Amer- 
 ica in October ; they were Sir Thomas Henry Grattan 
 Esmonde and Arthur O’Connor, members of Parliament. 
 They were given an enthusiastic reception at the Boston 
 Theater on the evening of October 9, Governor Ames pre- 
 siding. 
 
 O’ Reilly had not come prepared to address the meeting, 
 but the repeated calls of the people drew out the following 
 brief response, the allusion to General Paine being in con- 
 nection with the victory of the latter’s yacht, Volunteer , in 
 defense of the America's cup : 
 
 There is no other reason for the Governor calling upon me to-night 
 than one of revenge because I am not a Republican. While Father 
 McKenna was speaking about Faneuil Hall, I concluded that he was 
 present at the reception the other night. The words in the Boston press 
 that “blood told ” reminded us that General Paine’s grandfather signed 
 the Declaration of Independence. General Paine got a great Boston 
 reception, as great a reception as his grandfather could have got, or 
 could have desired, and he deserved it. And the next great reception 
 given is to the grandson of another great man who signed, who made, 
 a nation’s Declaration of Independence. Blood tells, and this man 
 comes to speak with the blood of his great grandfather surging in his 
 veins. He has come to the blue blood. He is come to the blood which 
 supports the world : the blood of the working people, the blood of 
 honest, industrious men and women. This is the blood which runs 
 through revolutions. This is the blood of the Grattans. This is the 
 blood of the O’Connors, splendidly presented to us in that Irishman 
 (pointing to Arthur O’Connor), who has in the Nationalist ranks the 
 name of being the ablest and safest man in the party next to Parnell. 
 I have not a word to say but that. 
 
 I had not thought of being called on, but I say to Sir Thomas 
 Esmonde to-night that he might come to America, with all the men 
 with titles in England, and they never would get such a reception as he 
 will get from Boston to the Pacific. I saw in an English paper that he 
 had gone away from his class for the association of common' people. 
 You are speaking (turning to Mr. Esmonde) in England to 30,000,000 
 people ; in America you are speaking to 60,000,000 people. We have 
 
328 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’UEILLY. 
 
 forty cities here bigger than any city but London in Great Britain. 
 From the Gulf of Mexico to Canada and from Boston to the Pacific the 
 blood of the people goes out to you, not because you are an aristocrat 
 with an English title, but because you are an Irishman, a patriot, a 
 gentleman with pluck, courage, and sacrificial strength in you. I ask 
 you, sir, do you regret any class you have abandoned to come to the 
 welcome of this pulsing, human, Am erican-liberty- loving blood of the 
 world, instead of a class ? 
 
 John Breslin, the gallant leader of the Catalpa rescue, 
 died in New York on November 18. To the last hour of 
 his life he remained a firm believer in revolution as the only- 
 true remedy for Ireland’s wrongs. In his dying utterances 
 the name of his country was constantly on his lips. 
 
 On December 2, O’Reilly’s life-long friend and comrade 
 in treason, imprisonment, and exile, Corporal Thomas 
 Chambers, died at the Carney Hospital, Boston, a prema- 
 turely aged man, whose vitality had been fatally under- 
 mined in the swamps of Dartmoor. “ In his case, at least,” 
 wrote O’Reilly, “ England’s vengeance was complete ; the 
 rebel’s life was turned into a torture, and his earthly 
 career arrested by the deadly seeds of early decay.” 
 Chambers was set free when it was seen that he was no 
 longer a danger to the empire. He had spent fourteen 
 years in prison. About six months before his death 
 O’ Reilly had him placed in the Carney Hospital, where he 
 received the tenderest care and attention. Of him he said : 
 
 I was with him on Saturday night a few hours before he died ; he 
 appeared to be unconscious when I stood beside his bed, but he opened 
 his eyes at the touch of my hand, and, though he could not speak, his 
 eyes answered that he recognized me. Another old friend, James 
 Wrenn, of Charlestown, was there, too, and the dying man answered 
 his look also with full recognition. He was wasted to a skeleton. He 
 had suffered horribly for nearly twenty years. When he went to prison 
 he was the happiest and merriest fellow I ever knew. He was young 
 and strong, and he looked at the gloomiest things not only with a smile 
 but a laugh. He was the bravest and tenderest man to others in trouble 
 that I have ever known. Fellow-prisoners soon learned to appreciate 
 this rare and beautiful quality. For two years, while I was in prison in 
 England, he and I were chained together whenever we were moved, 
 and we generally managed to get another rebel, named McCarthy, on 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 329 
 
 the same chain. McCarthy’s health was quite broken, and he had sunk 
 into a melancholy that was something hopeless ; but while he was 
 chained to Chambers he used to laugh all the time like a boy. The 
 English Government at that time thought it was a salutary exhibition 
 to parade the Irish rebels in chains in the streets. I remember one day, 
 when we were marched through the streets of London, all abreast on one 
 chain (we were going from Pentonville to Millbank), with the crowds 
 staring at us, Chambers made McCarthy laugh so heartily that it 
 brought on a fit of coughing, and we had to halt till the poor fellow- 
 got his breath. This thought came to me as poor Chambers’s eyes met 
 mine in the speechless look, Saturday night, as he lay dying. He was 
 a true man for any time or cause or country. So long as you can find 
 such men, absolutely faithful to an ideal, fearless, patient, and prudent, 
 the organized wrongs do not control the world. Such men need not be 
 brilliant or able or impressive ; but if they fill their own identity with 
 truth and resolution, they are great forces, and the most valuable and 
 honorable of men. That was just the kind of man Thomas Chambers 
 was. 
 
 O’Reilly forgot, or seldom mentioned, the indignities 
 heaped on himself by his English jailers, but he never 
 forgot nor forgave those endured by poor, light-hearted, 
 long-suffering Chambers. While he lay, awaiting sentence, 
 in Arbor Hill Prison, Dublin, in 1866, he wrote as follows 
 concerning the first of those cruelties inflicted on his boyish 
 fellow-rebel, in a letter (worth quoting at length) which he 
 had smuggled out of prison, and addressed : 
 
 TO ALL THE DEAR ONES OUTSIDE. 
 
 Not a word yet — not even a hint of what my doom is to be ; but 
 whatever it may be I’m perfectly content. God’s will be done. It has 
 done me good to be in prison ; there is more to.be learned in a solitary 
 cell than any other place in the world — a true knowledge of one’s self. 
 I send you a note I got from Tom Chambers. Poor fellow, he’s the 
 truest-hearted Irishman I ever met. What a wanton cruelty it was to 
 brand him with the letter D, and be doomed a felon for life. Just 
 imagine the torture of stabbing a man over the heart with an awl, and 
 forming a D two inches long and half an inch thick, and then rubbing 
 in Indian ink. He was ordered that for deserting. His brother was 
 nearly mad, and no wonder. McCarthy has been sentenced in Mount- 
 joy to fourteen days on bread and water and solitary confinement for 
 some breach of the prison rules. I know this for a fact. Here in this 
 prison every one is very kind to me, from chief warder down to the lowest. 
 
330 
 
 .JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Tom calls his brother the “ mad b,” so that if our letters were found 
 they would not know who was meant. But lately we are not very 
 cautious — let them find them if they like— they cannot give us any 
 more. Harrington, of the Sixty-first, and I will receive our sentence on 
 
 the same day. He’s an old soldier and was taken for desertion 
 
 They told those poor cowardly hounds who did inform, that Chambers 
 and I were going to give evidence against them — so as to frighten them 
 into giving evidence against us. This has been done by officers and 
 -gentlemen! Well, even if we never see home or friends again, we 
 are ten thousand times happier than any such hounds can ever be. 
 When we go to our prisons and all suspense is over, we will be quite 
 happy. Never fret for me, whatever I get. Please God, in a few years 
 I will be released and even if prevented from coming to Ireland will be 
 happy yet. And if not, God’s holy will be done. Pray for me and for 
 us all. It would grieve you to hear the poor fellows here talking. At 
 night they knock on the wall as a signal to each other to pray together 
 for their country’s freedom. Men, who a few months ago were care- 
 less, thoughtless soldiers, are now changed into true, firm patriots, 
 however humble. They never speak on any other subject, and all are 
 perfectly happy to suffer for old Ireland. 
 
 Late in November, 1888, a furious tempest raged over 
 Massachusetts Bay, and three vessels were driven ashore on 
 the beach of Hull, where was O’ Reilly’s summer residence. 
 Fifteen brave fishermen of the village put out through the 
 boiling surf, and, laboring for half a day, rescued twenty- 
 eight lives. The Hull Yacht Club gave a dinner at the 
 Parker House, Boston, on December 22, having for its 
 guests Mayor-elect Hart, John Boyle O’Reilly, Commo- 
 dore B. W. Crowninshield, Captain Joshua James of the 
 Hull life-saving crew, and Mr. Taylor Harrington. 
 Speeches laudatory of the heroes were made, Commodore 
 Rice especially eulogizing them as a type of “ Anglo- 
 Saxon courage.” O’Reilly responding to the toast, “ The 
 Heroes of Hull,” praised the English life-saving service 
 and those of other European countries, but claimed the 
 first place for that of the United States. “ The Massachu- 
 setts Humane Society,” he said, “has now five stations on 
 Nantasket Beach, and every one of those stations is in 
 charge of one brave and devoted man — one man who 
 assisted at the saving of over 130 lives — the gallant man 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 331 
 
 who is your guest this evening — Captain Joshua James. I 
 do not know how to proceed when I come to speak of such 
 a man — brave, simple, modest, unconscious of his heroism 
 — who has again and again been rewarded and honored and 
 medaled for deeds of extraordinary courage and self-sacri- 
 fice in the saving of life on the coast.” 
 
 After graphically describing the latest exploit of Cap- 
 tain James and his crew, he said : 
 
 And when they returned to their home that day, what had they 
 accomplished ? They had rescued from the sea twenty-eight men in 
 twelve hours, a record that has never been surpassed for bravery and 
 endurance on this coast. The brave men who dared to face all this 
 hardship were Captain Joshua James, Eben T. Pope, Osceola James, 
 George Pope, Eugene Mitchell, Eugene Mitchell, Jr., George Augus- 
 tus, Alonzo L. and John L. Mitchell, Alfred and Joseph and Louis 
 Galiano, Frank James, and William B. Mitchell. The eloquent orator 
 who preceded me seemed to exclude all but Anglo-Saxons from sym- 
 pathy with this bravery. I do not care whether a man is an Anglo- 
 Saxon or not, if he be a hero. Carlyle says that a hero makes all but 
 petty men forget the bonds of race and class. From the hero all small 
 limitations fall away. His note meets a response in every man’s heart. 
 
 And as to Anglo-Saxons, let me speak for the men of Hull — the 
 men who pulled the oars in Captain James’s boat — for I have the honor 
 to know every one of them as an old friend. I know that the Jameses 
 themselves are Dutchmen by blood ; that the Mitchells are Austrians ; 
 that the Popes are Yankees ; that the Augustuses are from Rome, and 
 the Galianos also are Italians. But what of their blood and their 
 race ? These brave men are neither Dutch nor Irish — they are Ameri- 
 cans. And the men of Hull are types not only of Massachusetts, but 
 of America. A section of Hull is a section of the nation. We are 
 gathering and boiling down here all the best blood of Europe — the 
 blood of the people. Not to build up an Anglo-Saxon or any other 
 petty community, but to make the greatest nation and the strongest 
 manhood that God ev€ r smiled upon, 
 
 O’Reilly remembered his life-saving friends, a year 
 later, when an opportunity arose of his being serviceable 
 to one of the heroes. Thanks to his masterly presentation 
 of the case, the following letter was favorably considered 
 by the National Life-saving Service Department. It is ad- 
 dressed to Hon. Edward A. Moseley : 
 
332 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Boston, October 28, 1889. 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 I shall be in Washington on the evening of November 9, at the 
 Riggs House. I lecture for some charity next day, Sunday. 
 
 I want you to do me and the Hull public and humanity generally 
 a great favor. (I am still living at Hull, — in the new house.) Cap- 
 tain Joshua James, the chief of the new United States life-saving 
 crew at Hull, has not yet appointed his men. He told me last night 
 that he wanted a first-class man as No. 1 of the crew, and that the best 
 man in Hull, and one of the ablest surfmen on the whole coast, Alonzo 
 Mitchell, was a year over the official age. I know Alonzo Mitchell, 
 and he is all he says — a brave, powerful, cool-headed, experienced 
 surfman ; and a younger man than you or I. 
 
 What I want you to do is to ask Mr. Kimball to allow Capt. James 
 to appoint Alonzo Mitchell. Capt. James is otherwise hampered in the 
 restrictions regarding relatives, for all our regular Hull fishermen are 
 intermarried in the most extraordinary way. But this really ought to 
 be allowed. It gives Capt. James as second the very best man in the 
 town, his own selection, in whom he has complete confidence. 
 
 Will you kindly urge this on Mr. Kimball, and -let me know the 
 result ? 
 
 And I am always affectionately yours, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Another Author’s Beading, “A Philistine’s Views” on Erotic Litera- 
 ture — Poem on the Pilgrim Fathers — Another, ‘ ‘ From the 
 Heights,” for the Catholic University — Attacked by La Grippe — 
 Hopes of another Canoe Cruise — Brave Words for the Negro and 
 the Hebrew — “ The Useless Ones,” his Last Poem — Lecturing Tour 
 to the Pacific Coast — Definition of Democracy — Views on the 
 Catholic Congress — His Last Canoeing Paper and Last Editorials 
 — A Characteristic Deed of Kindness — His Death. 
 
 T HE presidential campaign of 1888 had disgusted 
 O’Reilly with practical politics. On New Year’s Eve 
 he registered this good resolution in a letter to a friend in 
 Washington : 
 
 I shall cease all political connections to-morrow ; never again shall 
 I excite myself over an election. My experience of the past four years, 
 and the past four months particularly, has cured me. 
 
 During all his life he had instinctively avoided local 
 political entanglements. His first experience of national 
 politics brought him into contact with some professional 
 managers, who acted after the manner of their kind and 
 made the refined and sensitive poet utterly sick of the 
 association. Thenceforth, more than ever, he shunned the 
 field of political strife, and devoted himself to his profes- 
 sional and literary work. 
 
 The Author’s Reading for the benefit of the International 
 Copyright Association was given at the Boston Museum on 
 the afternoon of March 7. Among those who took part 
 were Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Samuel L. Clemens 
 (“Mark Twain”), Charles Dudley Warner, Mrs. Julia 
 Ward Howe, Richard Malcolm Johnston, F. Hopkinson 
 Smith, John Boyle O’Reilly, George W. Cable, and Col. 
 Thomas Wentworth Higginson. O’Reilly’s selections were : 
 
 333 
 
334 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “A Few Epigrams,” “ Ensign Epps, the Color Bearer,” 
 “A Wonderful Country Far Away,” and “In Bohemia.” 
 
 The New York Herald , after the fashion of the period, 
 wrote to several leading authors of the country for expres- 
 sions of opinion on the question of morality in novels. The 
 answers were published in its edition of March 24, 1889. 
 O’Reilly’s reply was entitled “A Philistine’s Views”: 
 
 Romantic literature belongs to the domain of art, on the same level 
 as sculpture, painting, and the drama. In none of these other expres- 
 sions is the abnormal, the corrupt, the wantonly repulsive allowable. 
 The line of treatment on these subjects is definitely drawn and gener- 
 ally acknowledged. The unnecessarily foul is unpardonable. 
 
 Why should not the same limit be observed in romantic literature ? 
 All art deals with nature and truth, but not with all nature and all 
 truth. A festering sore is part of nature ; it directly affects the thought 
 and action of the sufferer, and it is as unsightly, as deplorable, and as 
 potent as the festering vice on the soul. Why should the latter be 
 allowed and the bodily sore forbidden ? The average middle-class 
 American reader, male or female, is a Philistine — unquestionably the 
 most impervious and cloaked conventionality known to all nations, not 
 even excepting the “ lower middle-class ” English. He wants his fiction 
 to be as proper, as full of small exactitudes in demeanor, as ‘ ‘ good an 
 example ” on the outside, as he is himself. Humbug as he is, he is far 
 preferable to the “ natural ” type of the morbid morality mongers, who 
 teach the lesson of an hour by a life-long corruption. The Philistine 
 has a right to his taste, and he is right in voting down the Zola school 
 as the best for his children. Being a Philistine myself, I vote with him. 
 
 He was anything but the Philistine which he calls him- 
 self above, save only in the matter of clean thought and 
 speech and writing. Living in an age of so-called realism 
 in literature, when the “poetry of passion” had leaped its 
 sewer banks and touched some very high ground, John 
 Boyle O’Reilly’s feet were never for an instant contami- 
 nated by the filthy flood. He never wrote a line which the 
 most innocent might not read with safety. He never used 
 a vile word ; there was none such in his vocabulary. This 
 means much, when we remember that he left his home, when 
 only a child, to spend the formative years of his life, 
 first, in the rough school of the composing-room, next in the 
 grosser environment of the barrack-room, and finally in 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 335 
 
 society’s cess-pool, the prison yard and convict gang. 
 Nothing but the grace of heaven, and the absolute refine- 
 ment with which he was born, could have brought him out 
 of these debased surroundings a pure-minded man and a 
 stainless, high-bred gentleman. His writings are pure 
 because he could not write otherwise. 
 
 A Democratic mayor in New York having allowed the 
 Irish flag to occupy a modest xflace on the City Hall on St. 
 Patrick’s Day this year, an Englishman wrote to Mayor 
 Grant on behalf of his fellow-countrymen requesting that 
 the British flag be floated from the same building on St. 
 George’ s Day. ‘ ‘ By all means, ’ ’ commented O’ Reilly, ‘ ‘ let 
 the British flag float. It has as much right on the City 
 Hall as the green or any other foreign flag. It will but 
 remind every American of the time it floated there as a 
 menace to the people, supported by the bayonets of its 
 foreign legions, while the green flag and the nation it 
 represents were spiritually and bodily supporting Wash- 
 ington in the field.” 
 
 On May 11, he delivered an address before the Paint and 
 Oil Club of Boston, on the future of the Dismal Swamp. 
 He lectured through the season in various parts of New 
 England. In compliance with the request of the Scranton 
 Truth he acted as judge in the competition for a prize to 
 be awarded to the best poem on the subject of the Samoan 
 disaster. He awarded the prize to Homer Greene’s poem, 
 “ The Banner of the Sea.” 
 
 In May, he accepted an invitation to prepare a poem for 
 the dedication of the national monument to the Pilgrim 
 Fathers at Plymouth, Mass. 
 
 The selection of a foreign-born citizen for this office 
 surprised and offended some narrow-minded people who, 
 through no fault of theirs, but by their constitutional 
 limitations, were unable to appreciate either his poetical 
 genius or the catholic breadth of his nature. But all, even 
 the most doubtful, were convinced and delighted, when the 
 masterly poem was read, that this alien-born citizen, pre- 
 cisely because he was such, had learned to grasp, as no 
 
336 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 native could, the splendid lesson and example given to the 
 world by the Pilgrim Fathers. 
 
 They had on servile order, no dumb throat ; 
 
 They trusted first the universal vote ; 
 
 The first were they to practice and instill 
 The rule of law and not the rule of will ; 
 
 They lived one noble test: who would be freed 
 Must give up all to follow duty’s lead. 
 
 They made no revolution based on blows, 
 
 But taught one truth that all the planet knows, 
 
 That all men think of, looking on a throne— 
 
 The people may be trusted with their own. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 The past is theirs — the future ours ; and we 
 Must learn and teach. Oh, may our records be 
 Like theirs, a glory symboled in a stone, 
 
 To speak as this speaks, of our labors done, 
 
 They had no model ; but they left us one. 
 
 Ex-Governor Long, President of the Pilgrim Society, 
 introduced O’Reilly humorously, as follows : 
 
 The poet is the next descendant of the Pilgrims whom I shall present 
 to you. Though he resides in the neighboring hamlet of Boston, he 
 was born not on the mainland, but on a small island out at sea ; yet 
 not so far out that it is not, and has not been, in the liveliest and most 
 constant communication with us ; but he is a genuine New England 
 Pilgrim, and to a Pilgrim’s love of truth he adds a certain ecstasy of 
 the imagination and a musical note like that of a bird singing in the 
 woods. Puritan New England recognizes him as one of its songsters. 
 Most seriously, I believe nothing could be in better keeping with the 
 comprehensiveness of this occasion, and that the spirit of this pilgrim 
 makes a memory, than that he should write and speak the poem of the 
 day ; for while in none of the discriminations of race or of creed, yet 
 in all the pulses of his heart and brain as an American citizen, he is at 
 one with the genius of the Pilgrim landing and of the civil and relig- 
 ious liberty of which it was a token. 
 
 One minor tribute received by the poet, but one which 
 he could well appreciate, was given on the day following 
 the reading of the poem. He was spending the summer at 
 Hull, as usual, going to his office every day by the Harbor 
 steamer. As he came on board that day, the throng of 
 passengers had their morning papers and were reading the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 337 
 
 account of the exercises at Plymouth. The Irish singer’s 
 paean to their Fathers touched the undemonstrative Yankee 
 heart, and they stood up and cheered the poet as he reached 
 the deck. 
 
 The Pilgrim poem was the crowning work of his life as 
 an American singer, for New England thought dominates 
 America, and the man chosen to celebrate the glory of the 
 Forefathers was regarded as a sort of poet laureate to their 
 descendants. Outside of New England, and apart from 
 those who knew her history, the poet and his work were 
 somewhat criticized. It was said that he had extolled the 
 narrow Puritans and forgotten their intolerance, and some 
 hasty censors accused him of having brought the Blarney 
 Stone into conjunction with Plymouth Pock. The accusa- 
 tion was wholly wrong. O’Peilly would not have flattered 
 an emperor for his crown. He knew the difference between 
 Pilgrim and Puritan ; and while he recognized the austerity 
 of both, he remembered of the former that 
 
 They never lied in practice, peace, or strife ; 
 
 They were no hypocrites ; their faith was clear ; 
 
 and whatever their defects might have been, his manhood 
 warmed to the manly immigrants who ‘ ‘ broke no com- 
 pact” and u owned no slave.” 
 
 His little poem, “ What is Good?” was published in 
 the Georgetown (D. C.) College Journal , in October. It 
 contains, in four words, the creed by which he lived, the 
 ideal to which he reached : 
 
 Kindness is the word. 
 
 On November 10, he attended the celebration of the cen- 
 tenary of the Catholic Church in America, at St. Mary’s 
 Cathedral, Baltimore, and was present at the dedication of 
 the American Catholic University of Washington, D. C., 
 three days later. He lectured in Washington on Novem- 
 ber 10, in aid of St. Patrick’s Church, on Capitol Hill, and 
 read his poem, “ From the Heights,” at the banquet of the 
 Catholic University on the 13th, before the President and 
 Vice-President of the United States, Cardinals Gibbons 
 
338 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 and Taschereau, and other great civic and religions digni- 
 taries. No layman in America stood higher in the estima- 
 tion of his co-religionists at this time than John Boyle 
 O’Reilly. No man, lay or secular, had done more in his 
 life-time to make his religion respected by non-Catholics. 
 
 He had been invited to prepare a paper for the first 
 Catholic Congress, held in Baltimore, on November 12. 
 He attended the Congress, but for reasons explained in the 
 following letter, could not take an active part in its pro- 
 ceedings : 
 
 Crawford House, White Mountains, N. H., 
 
 September 25, 1889. 
 
 Dear Mr. Harson: 
 
 Your letter finds me here in the mountains trying to get over the 
 effects of a year’s incessant overwork, and, however kindly you express 
 it, you ask me to begin overworking again, — before I am rested, — and 
 with too short notice to prepare a paper for the Catholic Congress. I 
 cannot leave here, wisely, for at least ten days more. I will then return 
 to a mountainous accumulation of work. This will prevent me from 
 giving due consideration to any. subject suitable for an address at the 
 Congress. . It is not a place for hasty or raw expression, and I know 
 that the gentlemen who have papers prepared have given them full 
 and timely treatment. 
 
 Had I known a couple of months ago that I was to be asked to read 
 an address I might have been able; but now it is quite too late, — under 
 the circumstances, — and while thanking you for the invitation, and the 
 delightful manner in which it is expressed, I congratulate the Congress 
 on its escape. 
 
 I am deeply interested in the success of the Congress, and I beg that 
 you will enable me to use the Pilot for that end. 
 
 I am just recovering from a repeated attack of insomnia, which has 
 so alarmed my wife that I have promised her to abstain from all 
 engagements, outside my editorial work, for a whole year. 
 
 I am, dear Mr. Harson, 
 
 Very truly yours, 
 
 J. Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 M. J. Harson, Esq., Providence, R. I. 
 
 There is a pathetic interest in the prospectus which he 
 issued the last week of this year, outlining the conduct of 
 his paper for 1890, and looking hopefully to the close of 
 Ireland’s long struggle, when the “Irish Question” should 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 339 
 
 no longer be foremost in the mind of this great Irish- 
 man : 
 
 When Irish- Americans look across the ocean to a redeemed and 
 prosperous Ireland, expressing the genius of her people as of old, her 
 rivers humming with industry, her bays white with shipping, her 
 emigration stopped, and her homes comfortable and happy, then the 
 Pilot may turn its whole attention to the interests of the greater Ireland 
 on this continent. 
 
 Little did he foresee what the New Year was to bring to 
 him. Could he have foreseen all, he would have grieved 
 most for the fallacy of these hopeful words about his 
 beloved country : 
 
 The future fights for Parnell and Gladstone. The world applauds 
 them. They enter the New Year with greater confidence of success 
 than ever. 
 
 In December, the epidemic known as 4 4 la grippe,” at- 
 tacked O’Reilly and all his household. He, his wife, his 
 four children, and two servants were all prostrated at once, 
 and unable to leave their beds. 4 4 1 never was so sick in 
 my life,” he wrote to his friend Moseley ; 44 nor have I seen 
 so much dangerous illness in my house before. So don’t 
 laugh at 4 la grippe,’ but fear it, and pray that it may not 
 seize you or yours.” 
 
 Mr. Moseley had several times admired a handsome 
 blackthorn cane which General Collins had brought to 
 O’ Reilly from Ireland. The latter once said to him, in his 
 inimitable, quaint way, 44 Ned, that stick has a story; it 
 has done murder in a good cause. Some day I will write 
 you its history.” He never wrote the history, but he sent 
 the cane to his friend, with the following letter : 
 
 Before I was knocked out (by la grippe) I tried to get the right kind 
 of a blackthorn for you, but I could not satisfy myself. I had four 
 sticks myself, all beauties, but three of them had been formally given 
 to me as personal presents by friends. The fourth was my own private 
 stick — one that dear Collins brought from Ireland, which he gave me, 
 not as a personal present, but just a stick to keep or give away as I 
 chose. I chose to keep it ; and I sent it to a jeweler and had the band 
 of silver put on and the stick varnished. But when I failed to get you 
 a proper stick, to last all your life, I said, ‘ ‘ I will give him my own 
 
340 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 stick and tell Collins I want him to get and give me in proper form, 
 with his own inscription, another stick.” The fact was that every time 
 I looked on the inscription I was dissatisfied, and said to myself, 
 “Collins didn’t put that there.” So I sent it back to the jeweler and 
 told him to put on the same kind of band, and to inscribe the stick from 
 me to you. 
 
 So, long may you have and wear it, my own dear boy. 
 
 Remember me kindly to Mrs. Moseley and Katherine, and to Weller, 
 when you see him. 
 
 And a Happy New Year to you and yours. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 In January of 1890, he wrote again to his friend, sug- 
 gesting a vacation in early May along the eastern shore of 
 Maryland. “ Would that be a good place for an absolute 
 rest \ ” he asks ; “I was thinking of a tent on the beach — 
 shooting and fishing, and lying in the sand all day, like 
 savages. How is it 3 ” 
 
 Four days later, he wrote again : 
 
 Dear Ned : 
 
 .... I am going West in March for a month of hard work. In 
 May, please God, we will go down to that eastern shore— and take a 
 howl in the primeval. I am tired to death. . . . 
 
 Would one canoe do for the beach ? My canoe is smashed. What 
 do you think of a permanent camp on the beach, with fishing, shoot- 
 ing, etc., and only using the canoe for this ? 
 
 The proposed vacation was never enjoyed. The west- 
 ern trip of which he speaks involved much preparation 
 and care, and on its termination other things occurred to 
 postpone the canoe cruise. His canoe, called after his 
 youngest child, Blanid, had been crushed and wrecked at 
 its moorings in Hull, and he did not procure another ; in 
 fact, it is doubtful if he would have made many more out- 
 door trips had he lived. He had grown perceptibly older 
 during the last year or two of his life. The last flash of 
 the old adventurous spirit that I can remember came out 
 when Cardinal Lavigerie, the great enemy of the slave 
 trade in Africa, said that the infamous traffic could be sup- 
 pressed by force of arms, if only “ one thousand men, pre- 
 pared for suffering and sacrifice, — men who desired no 
 
341 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 reward or recompense, except that which the consciousness 
 of having given away time, health, and even life, brings 
 with it, — would undertake the task. If there are any such 
 men in America,” said the Cardinal, “I will be glad to 
 hear from them, and particularly glad to enroll the eman- 
 cipated blacks in my little army.” 
 
 “There!” exclaimed O’Reilly, “that is the work I 
 would like to do.” But for the hostages to fortune, I 
 think he would have volunteered to raise the little army 
 on the spot. 
 
 He had great faith in the possibilities of the Southern 
 negro. When the news of the butchery of eight black 
 men at Barnwell, S. C., was received, following three or 
 four other similar ghastly stories, he wrote : 
 
 The black race in the South must face the inevitable, soon or late, 
 and the inevitable is — defend yourself. If they shrink from this, 
 they will be trampled on with yearly increasing cruelty until they 
 have sunk back from the great height of American freedom to which 
 the war- wave carried them. And in the end, even submission will not 
 save them. On this continent there is going to be no more slavery. 
 That is settled forever. Not even voluntary slavery will be tolerated. 
 Therefore, unless the Southern blacks learn to defend their homes, 
 women, and lives, by law first and by manly force in extremity, they 
 will be exterminated like the Tasmanian and Australian blacks. No 
 other race has ever obtained fair play from the Anglo-Saxon without 
 fighting for it, or being ready to fight. The Southern blacks should 
 make no mistake about the issue of the struggle they are in. They are 
 fighting for the existence of their race ; and they cannot fight the 
 Anglo-Saxon by lying down under his feet. 
 
 For such remarks as the above he w^as accused of incit- 
 ing the negroes by incendiary language, one Catholic paper, 
 telling him, “ It is neither Catholic nor American to rouse 
 the negroes of the South to open and futile rebellion.” He 
 replied : 
 
 True, and the Pilot has not done so. We have appealed only to the 
 great Catholic and American principle of resisting wrong and outrage, 
 of protecting life and home and the honor of families by all lawful 
 means, even the extremest, when nothing else remains to be tried. We 
 shall preach this always, for black and white, North and South, please 
 God. 
 
342 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In his championship of the oppressed he was far from 
 sympathizing with those who denounced the people of 
 the South indiscriminately, and he was utterly opposed 
 to the absurd and futile policy of coercion advocated by 
 the supporters of the Force Bill. He wrote : 
 
 We admire the splendid qualities of Southern white men, their 
 bravery, generosity, patriotism, and chivalry. We are not blind to the 
 tremendous difficulty in the way of their social peace. We regard with 
 conscientious sympathy their political burden, made so much heavier 
 than ours of the North by the negro problem. All we ask of them or 
 expect of them is that they will approach its solution in a manner 
 worthy of their own advantages and not destructive of constitutional 
 law as well as the law of God. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Our Southern white brethren must see that if they are permitted to 
 do this sort of thing by law, our Northern aristocrats may some time 
 attempt to follow suit, and make a law expelling common people, 
 workmen, etc., from the railway cars, hotels, theaters, or wherever 
 else our nobility want “ to be let alone.” 
 
 O’ Reilly defended the oppressed negroes, as he had de- 
 fended the oppressed Indians, as sincerely and zealously as 
 he had all his life defended the oppressed of his own race. 
 It was morally impossible for him to do otherwise. If any- 
 body remonstrated with him, pointing out the failings or 
 weaknesses of the under-dog in the fight, he would say : 
 “ Very true ; but there are thousands of people ready to 
 show that side of the question, to one who is enlisted on 
 the other side.” He could see, above all minor questions, 
 the one supreme issue of right against wrong, and he 
 would not desert the right because it was not absolutely 
 right, to condone the wrong because it was not completely 
 wrong. He bore witness, as follows, to the worth of 
 another oppressed race, in replying to three questions pro- 
 pounded by the editor of the American Hebrew, concern- 
 ing the prejudice existing among Christians against their 
 Jewish brethren : 
 
 In answer to your questions : 
 
 1. I cannot find of my own experience the reason of prejudice 
 against the Jews as a race. 
 
343 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 2. I do not believe that the cause of this prejudice is the religious 
 instruction in Christian schools, because the most prejudiced are least 
 religious or Christian. Part of the prejudice is inherited from less in- 
 telligent times ; part comes from the exclusiveness of the Jews as a 
 race, and the largest part from the marvelous success of the Jewish 
 race in business. In this country, I think, the anti-Jewish prejudice is 
 not at all religious. From personal experience, I should say it was 
 wholly racial and commercial. 
 
 3. It has been my fortune to know, long and intimately, several 
 Jewish families in Boston and New York, and many individual Jews 
 during my lifetime. Their standard of conduct is the same as Chris- 
 tians, but their standard of home life and all its relations is the highest 
 in the world. I know three men who are my ideals of mercantile 
 honor, integrity, and business character : one is a Christian and two are 
 Jews. 
 
 4. I do not know how to dispel the anti-Jewish prejudice except by 
 expressing my own respect, honor, and affection for the greatest race — 
 taking its vicissitudes and its achievements, its numbers and its glo- 
 ries — that ever existed. 
 
 His last poem, “ The Useless Ones,” meaning the poets, 
 was published in the Pilot of February 1 : 
 
 Useless ? Ay, — for measure : 
 
 Roses die, 
 
 But their breath gives pleasure — 
 
 God knows why ! 
 
 This poem had been read, in his absence, by his friend 
 Benjamin Kimball, at the dinner of the Papyrus Club, in 
 December. O’Reilly dined with his club for the last time 
 on February 1, 1890, when he read some aphorisms in 
 rhyme, of which two have been preserved by Secretary 
 Arthur Macy : 
 
 A man may wound a brother with a hiss ; 
 
 A woman stabs a sister with a kiss. 
 
 I judged a man by his speaking ; 
 
 His nature I could not tell ; 
 
 I judged him by his silence, 
 
 And then I knew him well. 
 
 On Sunday evening, February 16, he made his last 
 appearance as a lecturer in Boston, his subject being 
 
344 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “Irish Music and Poetry.” A large audience filled the 
 Boston Theater. He never appeared to better advantage 
 than on this occasion. 
 
 On March 3, he set out on an extended tour to the 
 West, accompanied by Dr. John F. Young, of Boston, one 
 of his earliest and most intimate friends in America. 
 
 On the following evening, Emmet’s birthday, he lec- 
 tured in Syracuse, N. Y., on “Irish Music and Poetry,” 
 before an audience of three thousand, and was entertained 
 after the lecture at a banquet by the Robert Emmet Society. 
 He repeated his discourse at Chicago and St. Paul, and 
 was again feasted by the principal men of the latter city. 
 Here he had the happiness of meeting a man to whom he 
 owed an undying gratitude, Rev. Patrick McCabe, the good 
 priest who had enabled him to escape from the penal col- 
 ony in Western Australia. They had met several years 
 before, when Father McCabe first came to America, and the 
 reunion was joyful for both. The venerable priest remained 
 two days as O’Reilly’s guest in St. Paul, and parted with 
 the understanding that the latter should deliver a lecture 
 for the benefit of his friend’s parish in the succeeding 
 autumn. 
 
 He lectured at Minneapolis, and on the 10th of March 
 he left that place for Butte City, Mont. He was met by a 
 delegation of the leading citizens about thirty miles before 
 reaching his destination. On his- arrival he was escorted in 
 a carriage, by a procession of brass bands, etc., to the hotel. 
 The Opera House was packed by an enthusiastic audience, 
 and he was especially requested to repeat the lecture on his 
 return. On the following morning, at the invitation of 
 Superintendent Carroll, he donned a miner’s suit and went 
 down in the silver and copper mines owned by Marcus Daly. 
 He dug out some silver ore, which he carried home as a 
 souvenir of his visit. On March 14, he lectured before 
 another large audience in Spokane Falls, and was again 
 banqueted (“malediction on banquets,” he had observed in 
 an early part of his diary ) by the leading business men of 
 the city. Two days later he lectured in Seattle Armory. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 345 
 
 The Seattle Press relates the following amusing incident of 
 the lecture : 
 
 There was no more attentive listener among the throng who collected 
 at Armory Hall last evening to hear John Boyle O’Reilly, than an 
 enthusiastic Irishman in the gallery. Mr. O’Reilly was in the midst of 
 his graphic description of Cromwell’s conquests when this Irishman lost 
 control of his tongue for an instant. The distinguished lecturer had 
 told about Cromwell’s marches across the Isle of Green, from North to 
 South, and from East to West. The Irishmen had all been driven over 
 the Shannon, and the land thus secured was parceled out to the troopers. 
 While the men had been driven over the Shannon, the women who 
 would marry the troopers were allowed to remain. Looking back over 
 the records the speaker wondered what had become of these troopers, 
 who have dropped out of sight. 
 
 “ Where have they gone ? ” cried he. 
 
 “To hell !” ejaculated the enthusiastic Irishman, leaning on the 
 gallery rail. 
 
 It took Mr. O’Reilly some little time to get attention, while he 
 explained that he thought the good Irishwomen who married the 
 troopers made loyal Irishmen of their husbands. 
 
 On the 17th, St. Patrick’s Day, he arrived at Tacoma 
 and was at once obliged to take part in the procession, 
 occupying an open barouche drawn by four white 
 horses. The Tacoma Theater was packed to the roof at his 
 lecture that evening, the very rafters being occupied. A 
 great banquet, attended literally by scores of Irish- Ameri- 
 can millionaires, was given by the Ancient Order of Hibern- 
 ians after the lecture, and lasted until four o’ clock in the 
 morning. On the following evening he lectured at the 
 Opera House in Portland, Ore., the stage being occupied 
 by leading citizens of the State, including the Gov- 
 ernor, ex-Governor, Maj.-Gen. Gibbon, commanding the 
 United States forces on the Pacific Coast, Archbishop 
 Gross, Major Burke, and a number of rich men whose 
 aggregate wealth, as a fellow-citizen proudly remarked, 
 represented $200,000,000. O’Reilly’s reception was one of 
 which any man might have been proud ; even the steamer 
 Oregon , which was to carry him to San Francisco, 
 waited for him an hour and a half beyond its time of sailing. 
 
346 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’UEILLY. 
 
 During this voyage he twice mentions in his diary, with 
 evident satisfaction, — “great rest.” 
 
 Owing to some mismanagement, his tour in California 
 was not successful. The lectures had not been advertised, 
 and his audiences were small in San Francisco, Oakland, 
 and Sacramento. From Sacramento he took train for 
 Portland, Ore. He delivered only two lectures on his 
 return trip, one at Tacoma, March 28, and another at Butte 
 City, on the 30th, repeating his first successes, and going 
 home full of admiration for the natural resources and 
 enterprising population of the great Northwest. He had 
 accomplished the chief object of his visit, that of seeing for 
 himself the great possibilities of a region toward which he 
 hoped to divert the stream of Irish- American emigration. 
 He saw how the energetic and honest men of his race, 
 starting with no capital but their native “bone and sinew 
 and brain,” had prospered beyond their wildest dreams in 
 the new, fair land, whose balmy climate resembled that of 
 their birthplace. The same men, left stranded amid the 
 poverty and temptations of an Eastern city, might have 
 remained poor and hopeless to the end, for lack of the 
 opportunity which was so easily found in the new Western 
 States. He never tired of singing the praises of that 
 region, and had intended to make another journey to the 
 Pacific Coast in the following year. 
 
 He returned to Boston on April 5. Shortly afterward, in 
 his paper, he wrote of the Northwest, and of the State of 
 Washington in particular : 
 
 That matchless country, as large as an empire, and filled with all 
 kinds of natural wealth, contains only about as many people as the City 
 of Boston. It has all the political machinery of a State ; but no one 
 there dreams of turning the wheels of political machinery for a living. 
 Men there are all engaged in active and profitable employments. 
 Washington will have two millions of people in fifteen years, and the 
 few hundred thousand who are there now have all they can do to pre- 
 pare for the coming flood. Unlike California in 1849, this grand State 
 is drawing from a population of seventy millions, and the railroads are 
 already opened for the human freight. It took California forty years 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 347 
 
 to become an Empire State ; it will take Washington about fifteen years 
 from 1890. 
 
 Sad as it is to write of this or that as his last word or 
 deed, there is a mournful pleasure for those who knew and 
 loved him in remembering that every last word and deed 
 were characteristic of his great nature. Politically he was 
 a Democrat to the last. ‘ ‘ Is the Pilot a Democratic paper % ’ ’ 
 asked a correspondent. He replied in the issue of May 31, 
 and his answer is worth preserving for its exposition of the 
 truest Democratic doctrine : 
 
 The Pilot is a Democratic paper. We say so without reservation, 
 exclusion, or exception. 
 
 The principles of Democracy as laid down by Jefferson are to us the 
 changeless basis of sound politics and healthy republicanism. We are 
 not Democratic simply as being partisan ; but we are partisan because 
 we are Democratic. We would abide by Jeffersonian Democracy if 
 there were no Democratic party in existence. 
 
 * % * * * * 
 
 Democracy means to us the least government for the people, instead 
 of more or most. 
 
 It means that every atom of paternal power not needed for the safety 
 of the Union and the intercourse of the population should be taken from 
 the Federal Government and kept and guarded by the States and the 
 people. 
 
 It means the spreading and preserving of doubt, distrust, and dislike 
 of all sumptuary and impertinent laws. 
 
 It means that law shall only be drawn at disorder, and that all affairs 
 that can be managed without disorder should be managed without law. 
 
 It means that all laws not called for by public disorder are an 
 offense, a nuisance, and a danger. 
 
 It means watchfulness against Federal legislation for such State 
 questions as education, temperance, irrigation, and all other questions 
 that may arise and are sure to arise in the future. 
 
 It means the teaching of absolute trust in the people of the States to 
 understand and provide for their own interests. 
 
 It means home rule in every community right through our system, 
 from the township up to the State Legislature ; and above that, utter 
 loyalty to the Union. 
 
 It means antagonism to all men, classes and parties that throw dis- 
 trust and discredit on the working or common people, and who insinu- 
 ate or declare that there is a higher, nobler, or safer patriotism among 
 
348 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 the wealthy and more book-learned classes than the common people 
 possess or appreciate. 
 
 It means that Democratic principles must be followed by individual 
 citizens as well as by the aggregated party, that they must oppose the 
 petty boss in their own caucuses, and the arrogant majority in their 
 own town, when these attempt to coerce the rights of the masses or 
 change the self-governing principle of the free town. 
 
 On June 28, he had this to say in defense of the Ameri- 
 can negro, whose social rights were and are ignored in the 
 North, as his political rights have been denied in the 
 South : 
 
 Clement Garnett Morgan, the colored graduate of Harvard, who 
 delivered the class oration last week, held his own manfully. His ora- 
 tion was as good as the average and very like all the others, just as 
 Clement Garnett Morgan is like all other Harvard graduates, except in 
 the color of his skin. Men who have traveled and observed and 
 reflected know that all men are like each other ; that the same key- 
 board touches all their notes ; that a black, red, yellow or white skin 
 has no deeper significance; and that there is no greater difference 
 between “ races ” than between individuals of the same race. But for 
 all that, the position of Clement Garnett Morgan is an unhappy one ; 
 for the average American person calling himself an “ Anglo-Sa^on ” is 
 the most mulish of all men in claiming superiority for his own little 
 part of the human family. To him the black man is an inferior, as the 
 brown man is to his British relative in India. If he can throttle a man 
 and rob his house, that proves that he was created to “ govern ” him. 
 This colored boy was elected class orator in Harvard partly through 
 class dissensions and partly through the noble instincts of youth still 
 “ uncorrected ” by society and experience. When his oration was 
 ended, and Morgan stepped out of Harvard and into the world, lie 
 ceased to be a “ gentleman ” and an equal, and at one descent fell to 
 the level of ‘ ‘ the nigger, ” who could never be invited to one’s house or 
 proposed at one’s club, who would be refused a room at nearly all lead- 
 ing hotels, even in the North, and who would not be tolerated even in 
 church in the half-empty pew of polite worshipers. Clement Garnett 
 Morgan has trials and heart-burnings before him, and we wish him 
 strength and wisdom to bear them. We trust that he, who spoke so well 
 of “ vicarious suffering ” in his oration last week will feel, that by his 
 superior mental training he is called upon not to evade but to take the 
 blow meant for his colored brethren. Few men have so great a cause 
 nowadays as this educated negro representing ten millions ostracized 
 Americans. There are dignity and power in his hand if he be true to 
 himself, which consists in being true to his people. Let no weak nerve 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 349 
 
 draw him for an instant from their loving association. Their virtues 
 are his own ; let him labor to reduce their faults. The Anglo-Saxon 
 will accept him only when he has proved his strength in the mass. 
 The A. S. will not accept colored individuals, simply because he need 
 not. Negro strength is in negro unity ; and it must so continue till the 
 crust of white pride, prejudice, and ignorance is broken, torn off, and 
 trampled into dust forever. Then, and not till then, Clement Garnett 
 Morgan can be a cosmopolitan. Until then he must be a faithful, for- 
 bearing, helpful, and self-respecting negro. 
 
 The Catholic Congress held in Baltimore, in November, 
 1889, had appointed a committee on future congresses, 
 which assembled at the Parker House, Boston, on J uly 25. 
 It was composed as follows : James H. Dormer, Buffalo, 
 N. Y. ; Daniel Dougherty, New York ; Edmund F. Dunne, 
 San Antonio, Fla.; Patrick Farrelly, New York; M. D. 
 Fansler, Fort Wayne, Ind.; M. J. Harson, Providence, 
 R. I.; John D. Keily, Jr., Brooklyn; Wm. L. Kelly, St. 
 Paul, Minn.; M. W. O’Brien, Detroit, Mich.; Hon. Morgan 
 J. O’Brien, New York; Wm. J. Onahan, Chicago; John 
 Boyle O’Reilly, Boston ; Thomas J. Semmes, New Orleans ; 
 H. J. Spaunliorst, St. Louis. 
 
 The following Church dignitaries were also present : 
 Archbishops Ireland, of St. Paul ; Riordan, of San Fran- 
 cisco ; Janssens, of New Orleans ; and Elder, of Cincin- 
 nati ; and Bishops Foley, Maes, and Spalding, together 
 witlrFatlier Montgomery, of California. 
 
 “ On the day previous to the meeting,” says Mr. T. B. 
 Fitz, President of the Catholic Union, of Boston, who was 
 present, “ Mr. O’Reilly called at the archepiscopal resi- 
 dence to pay his respects to His Eminence Cardinal Gib- 
 bons, who received him with great cordiality and welcome. 
 Referring to the meeting to be held the following day, at 
 which several bishops and archbishops, with prominent 
 laymen, were to take part, Mr. O’Reilly stated to him 
 substantially the views embodied in his letter regarding 
 Catholic conventions. ‘If,’ said he, ‘these conventions 
 should confine their papers and discussions to subjects 
 coming legitimately under the jurisdiction of laymen, and 
 aim to remedy certain local disadvantages under which we 
 
350 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 labor in this country, he would certainly approve of them. 
 In this connection might be considered,’ he said, 4 the 
 great question of colonization, whereby our people might 
 be, to a great extent, diverted from cities and thickly 
 populated centers, to seek homes for themselves and their 
 families in agricultural districts. 
 
 44 4 Aiding and directing emigrants, especially emigrant 
 girls — strangers in a strange land — is another matter,’ he 
 said, 4 which appealed to our race and humanity to con- 
 sider and amend present conditions. The encouragement 
 of temperance, a careful analysis of the labor problem, 
 and such like practical questions, would offer abundant 
 matter and range for profitable discussion.’ 
 
 44 The Cardinal expressed great interest in hearing Mr. 
 O’Reilly’s views and his hearty sympathy with them. The 
 position taken by Archbishop Ireland, Archbishop Rior- 
 dan, Bishop Spalding, and other bishops, besides the 
 majority of the laymen present the next day at the 
 meeting, were equally forcible in their approval of Mr. 
 O’Reilly’s views. In fact, it is fair to assume, that from 
 the favor with which his suggestions were received by the 
 committee they will have much weight in determining the 
 scope and plan of work of the next Catholic Congress, 
 should such be held.” 
 
 The following letter to the same gentleman fully ex- 
 presses the writer’s views on the subject of Catholic con- 
 gresses : 
 
 July 14, 1890. 
 
 Dear Mr. Fitz : 
 
 As you will see by the inclosed letter, the committee on holding 
 another National Convention of Catholics will hold their meeting in 
 Boston on the 25th inst. The members, should they attend, are a dis- 
 tinguished body of men, and I wish you would appoint a day when we 
 might, with a few others, meet and talk over the manner of their 
 reception— whether to give them a public notice or not. 
 
 I am a member of the committee, but I have almost decided to 
 resign after giving my reasons to the committee. I am convinced that 
 National Conventions of citizens called as Catholics, or as Baptists, 
 Methodists, etc., are uncalled for, and in the case of the Catholics 
 particularly are apt to be injurious rather than beneficial. The last 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 351 
 
 one may be taken as a specimen of what they are all to be — an audience 
 of representative men listening to a series of papers that might just as 
 well be published in magazines or papers, where they would reach a 
 greater number. 
 
 For such a benefit to awaken the suspicions and doubts of our Prot- 
 estant fellow-citizens, who are constantly of opinion that we Catholics 
 are obeying “ the orders of Rome,” etc., is a questionable policy. If 
 we had reason, as the German Catholics have had, to protest against 
 national legislation, we should be only doing our duty in holding 
 national conventions. But we have no reason of this kind, nor of any 
 kind, that I can see. I do not believe that the judgment of the Catho- 
 lics of the country advises the project of formulating any distinct 
 Catholic policy in America. 
 
 For one, — and one called on to think for the best interests of the 
 many, — I regard these conventions of Catholic laymen as unnecessary, 
 prejudicial, and imprudent, and I shall not take part in their arrange- 
 ment or progress. 
 
 Nevertheless, for the courteous treatment of the committee I shall 
 be zealous and anxious ; and if you will appoint a day when a few of 
 us can lunch together and talk it over, I shall be much obliged. 
 
 I am, yours very truly, 
 
 J. B. O’Reilly. 
 
 On July 17, another distinguished Irish- American poet 
 and orator, Rev. Henry Bernard Carpenter, died suddenly 
 at Sorrento, Me. He was fifty years old and had lived 
 sixteen years in the United States. A great scholar, a fine 
 poet, and a man of charming personality, he had been for 
 years one of the most popular members of the Papyrus and 
 St. Botolph clubs. When another Irish- American poet 
 and Papyrus man, Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, went home to 
 Ireland to die, in 1883, Mr. Carpenter wrote for the Pilot 
 a beautiful farewell poem, entitled “Vive Valeque.” 
 0’ Reilly, himself suffering from overmuch care and work, 
 was deeply moved by the death of the simple-minded, gen- 
 erous, and brilliant Irish poet and orator, whom he was so 
 soon to follow. 
 
 Another last characteristic work was his contribution of 
 a long article to the Boston Evening Traveler , in July* on 
 “ Canoes and Boats.” In it he extolled the merits of his 
 favorite craft and condemned the rowboat, of which he 
 said, “ There is no good reason why another should ever 
 
352 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 be built, except for suicide.” After summing up the 
 many pleasures and benefits to be derived from the sport, 
 he says : 
 
 If this paper has a purpose other than mere relation, it is to encour- 
 age the exercise of canoeing and to express my belief that there is no 
 rest so complete and no play so refreshing as that wnich brings us face 
 to face with primitive nature. It is good to get away from the customs 
 and conventionalities of city life to the sound of running water and 
 rustling leaves and birds ; to be free again as a boy, enjoying what the 
 boy loves ; to depend on one’s self for all that is needed to make the day 
 delightful ; to realize the truth that natural pleasures are not limited to 
 a few years of childhood, but that all the joys of childhood are joys for 
 life if not incrusted by the petty artificialities of business and society, 
 and the still more deplorable and deadening assumption of solemn wis- 
 dom that is supposed to be “ serious ” and “ respectable.” 
 
 His last editorial utterance, in the Pilot of August 9, 
 was an appeal to two eminent friends of the Irish cause, 
 one of whom had made certain injurious reflections upon 
 the other. Commenting on the latter’s defense, O’Reilly 
 wrote : 
 
 We notice the defense just to remark that it was as unnecessary as 
 the attack was uncalled for. Therefore, both will pass with slight pub- 
 lic notice. The only surprising thing about such episodes is the readi- 
 ness with which many leading Irishmen, heated in a personal contro- 
 versy, will ascribe the most dishonorable motives to their opponents. 
 
 This is unworthy men like and . The public will not 
 
 believe either that the other is a bad man ; they show the worst thing 
 about themselves in the making of such charges and insinuations. 
 
 On Wednesday, August 6, a very sultry day, lie at- 
 tended the games of the National Irish Athletic Associa- 
 tion at Oak Island Grove, Revere Beach, acting as judge 
 and referee in the contests. About four thousand people 
 were present on the crowded grounds. The day was ex- 
 ceedingly warm, and O’Reilly was compelled to leave the 
 ground, in almost a fainting condition, before the sports 
 were over. 
 
 As he was a member on the committee of reception for 
 the Grand Army demonstration which was to take place in 
 Boston the following week, he had made arrangements to 
 spend some nights at a hotel in the city. On Wednesday 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 353 
 
 evening lie visited the St. Botolph Club for an hour or 
 two. Returning to his hotel after midnight, in company 
 with a friend, an incident occurred, slight in itself, but thor- 
 oughly characteristic of the man. As he was walking up 
 Boylston Street, engaged in pleasant conversation with his 
 friend, his quick eye suddenly espied an unlovely object— 
 a woman — poor, old, dirty, and drunken — huddled in the 
 doorway of a house. Dropping his friend’s arm, he 
 stooped down to the repulsive bundle of misery, laid his 
 strong hand on her shoulder, raised her to her feet, with 
 a word of kindness, arranged her tattered shawl about her, 
 and, gently as a son might have spoken to his mother, 
 persuaded her to go home, and sent her on her way. 
 
 It was a little thing to do, but it showed a great heart 
 in the doer. Nine men out of ten would have passed the 
 unfortunate with a look of pity or of scorn. Ninety-nine 
 gentlemen out of a hundred, going home from their club, 
 would have given not a thought to the outcast. But Boyle 
 O’Reilly, whether he wore the dress-coat or the convict 
 suit, never for one instant forgot his kinship with all the 
 poor and lowly and unfortunate of earth. 
 
 On Friday and Saturday forenoon he was at his office 
 attending to his regular duties, but showing the effects of 
 insomnia. 
 
 The great procession of the Grand Army veterans was 
 to pass the Pilot building on the following Tuesday. Be- 
 fore leaving the city for Hull on Saturday afternoon he 
 gave instructions, with his usual thoughtful care, that the 
 windows of the office should be reserved for the printers 
 and other employees of the paper. In order that they 
 might have undisturbed possession, he had engaged a win- 
 dow in another part of the city for himself and family. It 
 was his intention to make the following number of the 
 Pilot a Grand Army one. He was full of interest in the 
 work when he left his office to take the half-past two 
 o’clock boat for Hull that afternoon. 
 
 Next morning the city and country were startled with 
 the awful news that John Boyle O’Reilly was dead ! 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Profound Sorrow of the Nation and of the Irish People— Tributes of 
 Respect to his Memory — ‘ ‘ A Loss to the Country, to the Church, 
 and to Humanity in General” — Remarkable Funeral Honors— 
 Resolutions of National and Catholic Societies — The Papyrus Club 
 and the Grand Army of the Republic — “ The Truest of all the True 
 is Dead.” 
 
 T HE story of his last day on earth is briefly told. He 
 was met on the arrival of the boat at Hull by his 
 youngest daughter, whom he accompanied to his cottage, 
 romping and laughing with her in one of his cheeriest 
 moods. He spent the afternoon and evening with his 
 family, and late at night walked with his brother-in-law, 
 Mr. John R. Murphy, over to the Hotel Pemberton, hop- 
 ing that the exercise might bring on fatigue and the sleep 
 which he so much needed. 
 
 On leaving Mr. Murphy, he said, “ Be sure and be over 
 early in the morning, Jack, so that you can go with me and 
 the children to Mass at Nantasket.” 
 
 Mrs. O’ Reilly, who had been an invalid for years, and 
 the constant charge of her kind and thoughtful husband, 
 had been confined to her room for the previous two days 
 with a serious attack of illness, and was in the care of Dr. 
 Litchfield. A little before twelve o’clock she called her 
 husband, who was reading and smoking in the family sitting- 
 room below, to ask him to get more medicine for her from 
 Dr. Litchfield, as she felt very ill and feverish. Dr. Litch- 
 field had already left her medicine which had benefited her, 
 but it was all gone. 
 
 Mr. O’ Reilly returned with the doctor, who prescribed 
 
 354 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 355 
 
 for Mrs. 0’ Reilly. As the medicine had no effect, her hus- 
 band thought one dose might have been insufficient, as he 
 had accidentally spilled a portion of it. He therefore made 
 a second visit to the doctor, who, on renewing the prescrip- 
 tion, said, “ Mr. O’Reilly, you should take something your- 
 self,” as he knew that the latter was also suffering from 
 insomnia. 
 
 What occurred thereafter is not known to anybody, but 
 all the circumstances point to the fact that O’Reilly, unable 
 to go to sleep, after administering the mixture to his wife, 
 drank a quantity of some sleeping potion, of which there 
 were several kinds in her medicine closet. 
 
 Mrs. O’ Reilly woke up after a short sleep, fancying that 
 she had heard some one call her. She noticed her hus- 
 band’s absence and perceived a light in the tower-room, ad- 
 joining her bedroom. Arising and entering the room, she 
 found her husband, sitting on a couch, reading and smok- 
 ing. She spoke to him and insisted on his retiring. He 
 answered her quite collectedly and said, “Yes, Mamsie dear, 
 (a pet name of hers) I have taken some of your sleeping 
 medicine. I feel tired now, and if you will let me lie down 
 on that couch (where Mrs. O’ Reilly had seated herself on 
 entering the room) I will go to sleep right away.” 
 
 As he lay down, Mrs. O’Reilly noticed an unusually 
 pallid look on his face, and a sudden strange drowsiness 
 come over him. Never suspecting anything serious she 
 spoke to him again, and tried to rouse him, but the only 
 answer she received was an inarticulate, “Yes, my love! 
 Yes, my love ! ” 
 
 Becoming strangely alarmed she aroused her daughter 
 Bessie and sent her hurriedly for Dr. Litchfield. It was 
 then about four o’clock. The doctor worked for about 
 an hour trying to revive him, but in vain. He died at ten 
 minutes to five o’clock. Dr. Litchfield and a consulting 
 physician, who had been summoned at the same time, rec- 
 ognized that death had been caused by accidental poisoning. 
 The medicine which had been ordered for Mrs. O’Reilly, 
 evidently was not that taken by her husband, as it contained 
 
356 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 no chloral. The supposition is that he had taken some of 
 her other sleeping medicines which did contain that drug, 
 and that he was ignorant of the quantity of the latter which 
 might be taken with safety. The bottles in the medicine 
 closet were found disturbed. Part of the medicine which 
 Dr. Litchfield had ordered for Mrs. O'Reilly was not put 
 up by him, but was some which was already in the house. 
 In prescribing its use Dr. Litchfield said : “Use that medi- 
 cine which you have, or which I saw at your house when I 
 called yesterday.” 
 
 The fatal error doubtless occurred when Mr. O’Reilly 
 went to the closet to get the medicine for his wife. 
 
 The sad news reached Boston early on Sunday morning, 
 and was bulletined in front of the newspaper offices and 
 announced at the services in some of the Catholic churches 
 of the city, awaking profound sorrow wherever it was re- 
 ceived. 
 
 Mrs. O’ Reilly was prostrated with grief and was removed 
 with her younger daughters to the home of her mother. 
 The eldest daughter, with her uncle, Mr. Murphy, accom- 
 panied the body of her father on the steamer to Boston, 
 whence, early in the afternoon, the remains were borne to 
 his late home in Charlestown. 
 
 It is the simplest of truths to say that the death of no 
 private citizen in America, or perhaps in the world, could 
 have caused such genuine and widespread grief as followed 
 that of John Boyle O’Reilly. The sorrow was not confined 
 to people of his own race or faith. Americans of every race 
 appreciated the patriotic spirit of this adopted citizen, and 
 recognized that in his death the country had lost not only 
 a man of rare genius, but a leader whose counsels were as 
 wise as his loyalty was fervent and unfaltering. 
 
 During the days and weeks following his death, messages 
 of sympathy and regret came pouring in, literally in 
 thousands. Cardinal Gibbons, the head of the Catholic 
 Church in America, said, on hearing the news : 
 
 It is a public calamity — not only a loss to the country, but a loss to 
 the Church, and to humanity in general. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 357 
 
 Hundreds of prelates and priests echoed the sentiment 
 throughout the country. I can select but a few from the 
 multitude of messages received at that time. Ex-President 
 Cleveland wrote from 
 
 Marion, Mass., August 13. 
 
 I have heard with sincere regret that John Boyle O’Reilly is dead. I 
 regarded him as a strong and able man, entirely devoted to any cause 
 he espoused, unselfish in his activity, true and warm in his friend- 
 ship, and patriotic in his enthusiasm. 
 
 Senator Hoar, of Massachusetts, telegraphed to Mrs. 
 O’Reilly: 
 
 Washington, D. C., August 12. 
 
 Accept my profound sympathy in your great loss and the great 
 public loss. Your husband combined, as no other man, some of the 
 noblest qualities of the Irishman and the American. 
 
 His parish priest, who best knew his spiritual side, 
 Rev. J. W. McMahon of St. Mary’s Church, Charlestown, 
 said : 
 
 I have always had a great admiration for the man ever since he 
 came to my parish as a member. As for his career before that time 
 that, too, commands my respect and admiration. He was a single- 
 minded, open-hearted man — a man who loved liberty for itself, and 
 who wished everybody to have a fair chance. 
 
 He was a good husband, a good father, a good Catholic and a good 
 man. 
 
 Generous praise for his life’s work and sincere grief for 
 his untimely death were bestowed by the fellow-authors 
 who had known and loved him. The venerable Dr. Oliver 
 Wendell Holmes wrote : 
 
 Beverly Farms, Mass., August 12. 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly was a man of heroic mold and nature ; brave, 
 adventurous, patriotic, enthusiastic, with the perfervidum ingenium , 
 which belongs quite as much to the Irish as to the Scotch. We have 
 been proud of him as an adopted citizen, feeling always that his native 
 land could ill spare so noble a son. His poems show what he might 
 have been had he devoted himself to letters. His higher claim is that 
 he was a true and courageous lover of his country and of his fellow- 
 men. 
 
358 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Among the many literary men who owed gratitude to 
 O’ Reilly was George Parsons Lathrop, who wrote from 
 
 New London, Conn., August 12. 
 
 Except for the loss of my father, and that of my own and only son, 
 I have never suffered one more bitter than that inflicted by the death 
 of my dear and noble and most beloved Boyle O’Reilly. He is a great 
 rock torn out of the foundations of my life. Nothing will ever replace 
 that powerful prop, that magnificent buttress. I wish we could make 
 all the people in the world stand still and think and feel about this 
 rare, great, exquisite-souled man until they should fully comprehend 
 him. 
 
 Boyle was the greatest man, the finest heart and soul I knew in 
 Boston, and my most dear friend. 
 
 It would require a larger volume even than this to con- 
 tain all of the tributes of praise given to the dead journal- 
 ist by the newspapers of the United States, Canada, 
 Australia, Ireland, and England itself. Never was the 
 worth of a great man so generally recognized. Lines of 
 race, and creed, and party were forgotten when men wrote 
 of this man, whose broad charity had known no such dis- 
 tinctions. 
 
 Universal as was the grief at his loss, it was felt most 
 keenly by the people of his own race in America, for whose 
 welfare he had wrought throughout his whole noble life. 
 The Irish societies in all parts of the country held memo- 
 rial meetings and passed resolutions of regret and condo- 
 lence. 
 
 In the land of his birth he was mourned as deeply as in 
 that of his adoption. A meeting of the Parnellite members 
 was held in the House of Commons on August 11, Michael 
 Davitt, T. P. O’Connor, Professor Stuart, and others tes- 
 tifying to the great services of the dead patriot in Ireland’s 
 cause. At the National League meeting in Dublin on the 
 following day, John D-illon briefly recounted the life and 
 achievements of his friend and fellow patriot, and told how 
 he himself had endeavored to obtain O’Reilly’s consent to 
 apply to the Government for permission to revisit his native 
 land. O’Reilly refused to grant that consent; “and,” 
 
359 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 said Mr. Dillon, “ I know that in my own case and in that 
 of Mr. Parnell and many of our friends we over and over 
 again urged on O’Reilly, in the happier times which seemed 
 to be about to dawn upon Ireland, that he should allow us 
 to take steps and measures to secure for him permission to 
 revisit his native land. And John Boyle O’Reilly, so 
 strong was his feeling in the national cause, and so strong 
 was his feeling against the oppression that existed in this 
 country, sternly and unbendingly refused to grant that 
 permission, and said that he never would tread the soil of 
 Ireland again until its people were a free people. It had 
 always been his dream, as he often told it to me, during the 
 many pleasant hours we passed together, that he would 
 visit Ireland when the people of Ireland were a free nation. 
 It has always been a dream of mine, which now unhappily 
 is never to be realized, to be one of those who would wel- 
 come him home in those happier days.” 
 
 On Tuesday afternoon, August 12, his body was borne 
 from his home on Winthrop Street to St. Mary’s Church, 
 Charlestown. The bearers were for the most part asso- 
 ciates of his Fenian days. They were O’ Donovan Rossa, 
 Jeremiah O’ Donovan, Michael Fitzgerald, James A. Wrenn, 
 Capt. Lawrence O’Brien, and D. B. Cashman. 
 
 In the church the patriot’s remains lay in state before 
 the high altar, an honor rarely accorded to a layman. A 
 devoted guard of sorrowing compatriots watched by his 
 bier. Flowers and floral emblems lay on the coffin and 
 before the altar rails. On the dead man’s breast lay a 
 bunch of shamrocks and on the coffin-lid an offering from 
 the colored people of Boston, of crossed palm branches. 
 In the center stood the offering of the Young Men’s Cath- 
 olic Association of Boston College, a tablet, with an open 
 book, across whose white pages was wrought in violets this 
 line from his “Wendell Phillips”: 
 
 A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed toward 
 the light. 
 
 The church, the sidewalks before it, and the adjacent 
 
360 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 streets were thronged with the multitude of mourners long 
 before the hour appointed for the funeral Mass, which was 
 10 o’clock, a.m., on Wednesday, August 13. 
 
 The four daughters and other bereaved relatives were 
 present, Mrs. O’Reilly being prostrated with grief and 
 unable to leave her bed. 
 
 At 10.30 the Solemn Mass of Requiem was begun, the 
 Rev. J. W. McMahon, D.D., rector of St. Mary’s, cele- 
 brant ; the Rev. Charles O’Reilly, D.D., of Detroit, Mich., 
 deacon ; the Rev. Richard Neagle, Chancellor of the Arch- 
 diocese of Boston, subdeacon. The Rev. W. J. Millerick, 
 of Charlestown, was master of ceremonies ; the Rev. P. H. 
 Callanan, of Foxboro, Mass., and the Rev. Louis Walsh, 
 of St. John’s Seminary, Brighton, Mass., acolytes ; the 
 Rev. M. J. Doody, of Cambridge, censer-bearer. 
 
 The sermon of eulogy was delivered by Rev. Robert 
 Fulton, S.J., an old and intimate friend of the deceased. 
 Amid a silence that was almost painfully impressive the 
 venerable priest mounted the pulpit and said: “John 
 Boyle O’Reilly is dead ! ” The sermon touched every 
 heart and reached its climax when the speaker said of liis 
 dead friend : 
 
 Has it ever struck you that for the success of our great cause Mother 
 Church greatly needs lay champions ? Some such there are in other 
 countries ; here there are none or few. Such a champion would need 
 talent, but more would he need orthodoxy, respect for legitimate author- 
 ity ; he should give example in observing the ordinances of religion : 
 his life should be a deduction from her spirit. Such was O’Reilly. I 
 have it from one best able to know it, that he frequently, and very 
 lately, approached that source from which we draw spiritual life. 
 Those who knew him noticed how increasing years enriched his charac- 
 ter, and imparted to him readiness to forgive, reluctance to pain, charity 
 of interpretation. He was approximating Christ, for such is our 
 Exemplar. 
 
 Father Fulton was the beloved priest for whom on his 
 departure from Boston, ten years previously, O’Reilly had 
 written his touching poem, “ The Empty Niche.” 
 
 After the sermon and the final absolution, the immense 
 concourse of people filed past the coffin and looked their 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 361 
 
 last on the handsome, dark face, cold and still in death. 
 For more than an hour the mourning throng moved past, 
 until the doors of the church had to be closed and the coffin 
 removed to the hearse. Among the thousands present in 
 the church were priests from all parts of the country, 
 State and city officials, representatives of the Catholic 
 Union of Boston, the Grand Army of the Republic, the 
 Papyrus Club, the Irish National League, the Charitable 
 Irish Society, the Knights of Labor, the Young Men’s 
 Catholic Association of Boston College, the Clover Club, 
 the Boston Athletic Association, St. Botolph Club, An- 
 cient Order of Hibernians, and many other organiza- 
 tions. 
 
 Nearly all of these had sent: flowers or emblems, which 
 were borne to the cemetery and laid upon the coffin. The 
 honorary pall-bearers were his loyal friend and rescuer, 
 Captain Henry C. Hathaway, Patrick Donalioe, Patrick Ma- 
 guire, Editor John H. Holmes, of the Herald ; Col. Charles 
 H. Taylor, President T. B. Fitz, of the Catholic Union ; Gen. 
 Francis A. Walker, Gen. M. T. Donohoe, president of the 
 Charitable Irish Society ; Dr. J. A. McDonald, Health Com- 
 missioner George F. Babbitt, James Jeffrey Roche, and 
 Thomas Brennan. 
 
 The long funeral train moved from Charlestown through 
 Boston to Roxbury and thence to Calvary Cemetery, where 
 the remains were placed in a vault to await their final com- 
 mittal to the earth. 
 
 One of the first of the many societies which met to 
 mourn their loss was his own beloved Papyrus Club. A 
 special meeting was held on the afternoon of August 20 at 
 the St. Botolph Club rooms ; the president, James Jeffrey 
 Roche, in the chair. Tender and loving words were spoken 
 by the members present. A committee, consisting of 
 Messrs. Wm. A. Hovey, Benjamin Kimball, and Henry M. 
 Rogers, drew up resolutions of sympathy with the bereaved 
 families of John Boyle O’Reilly and H. Bernard Carpenter, 
 after which Messrs. Benjamin Kimball, T. Russell Sullivan, 
 and George F. Babbitt were appointed a committee to eon' 
 
362 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 sider the preparation of a suitable memorial by the club. 
 A subscription was voted from the treasury, and this, with 
 various private subscriptions from members of the club, 
 aggregated $1000. 
 
 The Grand Army of the Republic also held a special 
 meeting at the close of the National Encampment, on 
 August 14, at which General Henry A. Barnum presented 
 a resolution : 
 
 That the G-rand Army of the Republic express their deep sorrow for 
 the too early death of John Boyle O’Reilly, — poet, orator, soldier, and 
 patriot, — and that this expression of their grief and sorrow be certified 
 to the bereaved family of the deceased. 
 
 Memorial services were held in Newburyport, Provi- 
 dence, Lowell, Worcester, and other New England cities, 
 of which only a brief account can be given here. His warm 
 friend, Father Teeling, of Newburyport, said : 
 
 A young man of forty-six, in a short space he fulfilled a long time ; 
 he was approaching the zenith of his fame; his life was a beautiful 
 flower, blossomed to the full, with a fragrance that permeated the 
 whole atmosphere and was wafted across the seas to his native land. 
 Loving and loyal to the land of his adoption, and ever ready to work 
 for her good and her glory with all the strength of his strong, noble 
 manhood and God-given genius, he never forgot the land of his birth ; 
 he always battled for her against scurrilous enemies, here and abroad. 
 As has been well said, when writing- for Ireland, “ he dipped his pen 
 into his heart.” Here he made friends for Ireland by his genius, by 
 his manly beauty, his magnificence of character, his tenderness for 
 oppressed humanity, his “love for justice and hatred of iniquity.” 
 Like Esther of old, he went among his country’s enemies and made 
 them her friends ; he exalted her condition, he exalted the condition of 
 the people of his race ; he won for them, for his native land, respect 
 and esteem. 
 
 Another dear friend and fellow-patriot, Rev. Thomas J. 
 Conaty, speaking at Worcester, said : 
 
 “Drive out from Drogheda to Dowth Castle, Soggarth, and see where 
 I was born. It is the loveliest spot in the world. I have not seen it in 
 over twenty-five years, but, O God ! I would like to see it again. See 
 it for me, will you ? ” This was O’Reilly’s request to me a year ago, on 
 the eve of my departure for Europe. It certainly is a pretty spot near 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 363 
 
 the historic Boyne water, and within a few miles of the hill of Tara, 
 Ireland’s once royal city. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Two thoughts seemed to dominate his life — religion and patriotism ; 
 thoughts which form the basis of every true life ; religion, which 
 bound him to God, and consecrated him to truth ; and patriotism, 
 which made him idolize country and think and act for the bettering of 
 humanity. He drank deeply at the fountain of faith, and its draughts 
 strengthened his soul in its aspirations for the highest ideals of human 
 liberty. He was passionately fond of liberty, because he believed it to 
 be a gift of God to men ; and his voice and pen made earth ring with his 
 denunciations of wrong wherever found — whether among the cotters of 
 Ireland, amid the serfs of Russia, or in the negro cabins of the South. 
 Liberty was his life idea, God its source, and humanity its application. 
 As a silver trumpet sounding the note of human rights, he championed 
 humanity ; but his love was not the humanity of a revolution which 
 ignored and blasphemed God, but the humanity which a crucified 
 Saviour had redeemed and ennobled. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 O Ireland ! motherland ! weep for your well-beloved child ; weep 
 for your noble-hearted son. You have lost a tried and trusted chieftain. 
 Weep, for you have lost him when you need your truest and best to 
 defend you. Weep, but rejoice, for he has honored your name and 
 cause. Add another to the roll of your illustrious children whose 
 names and deeds bid the world demand your freedom, — for such 
 another should not sit at the feet of tyrants. Freedom will come, and 
 when it comes a pantheon will arise, and you will place him where 
 honor is richest, and your poets will chant his praise. But the highest 
 praise is what he wished himself to be, — the man of his people, beloved 
 by them and God. 
 
 “ He ruled no serfs, and he knew no pride, 
 
 He was one with the workers, side by side ; 
 
 He would never believe but a man was made 
 For a nobler end than the glory of trade. 
 
 He mourned all selfish and shrewd endeavor, 
 
 But he never injured a weak one — never. 
 
 When censure was passed he was kindly dumb ; 
 
 He was never so wise but a fault would come. 
 
 He erred and was sorry ; but he never drew 
 A trusting heart from the pure and true. 
 
 When friends look back from the years to be 
 God grant they may say such things of me.” 
 
 God has granted his prayer. God bless you, old friend, and God 
 
364 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 bless the two loves of your patriotism. God bless your noble America, 
 and God save your beloved Ireland ! 
 
 Perhaps nothing said in praise of his memory was more 
 in the spirit of eulogy which he would have loved best, 
 because it was eulogy of his country and his countrymen, 
 than these words from the pen of a Protestant clergyman, 
 Rev. H. Price Collier, in the Boston Saturday Evening 
 Gazette : 
 
 If the Almighty should undertake to create a man who was to be 
 universally popular, no doubt he would create him a Celt. The Celtic 
 temperament, with its ready adaptability to persons and circumstances, 
 its quick wit, its fresh and wholesome out-of-door tone, its mental 
 chastity, its masculine love of sport and of danger, its craving for free- 
 dom from restraint, — these together go to make up perhaps the most 
 fascinating type of man we know. Such men make delightful play- 
 fellows as boys, and as men ideal lovers, lover-like husbands, stanch 
 friends, open, frank enemies, and patriotic citizens. There is nothing 
 of the subtlety and stealthiness of the Italian, of the morbid restlessness 
 of the Gaul, of the indigested barbarism of the German in them ; and 
 though they lack here and there the steadiness of the Saxon, they easily 
 surpass him both in facility of adapting one’s self and in felicity of 
 expressing it. 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly was a Celt of the very best type, whose friends 
 were in the right and whose enemies — if he had any — were in the 
 wrong ; for his friends were all made for him by his real character, 
 and his enemies by mistaken estimates of him. 
 
 Many fine poems were written in memory of the dead 
 singer, beautiful tributes of sorrow and praise from his 
 brother and sister poets, — James Whitcomb Riley, Mary 
 E. Blake, John W. O’Keefe, M. J. McNeirny, Louise 
 Imogen Guiney, and a score of others, who had known and 
 loved and owed gratitude for a thousand kindly deeds to 
 this kindliest of men. One of the most touching came 
 anonymously from San Diego, Cal., entitled simply : 
 
 AUGUST 10, 1890. 
 
 T stirred in my sleep with a sudden fear, 
 
 The breath of sorrow seemed very near, 
 
 And the sound of weeping ; I woke and said, 
 
 M Some one is dying, some ope is dead.” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 365 
 
 Long time I lay in the darkened room, 
 
 Dawn just piercing the silent gloom, 
 
 And prayed, “ O Saviour, whoe’er it be, 
 
 May the parting spirit find rest in Thee ! ” 
 
 The morn rose brightly and sweetly smiled 
 O’er the dancing waves, like a happy child ; 
 
 I was singing softly, when some one said, 
 
 “ The truest of all the true is dead.” 
 
 And I knew that thousands of miles away 
 Hearts were breaking that summer day, — 
 
 That the wide world over, from pole to pole, 
 
 There were sighs and tears, and ‘ ‘ God rest his soul i * 
 
 And I knew — his dearest friends apart, 
 
 The life of his life and the heart of his heart — 
 
 None wept more for that vacant place 
 Than I, — who never had seen his face. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The City of Boston Honors his Memory — Great Citizens’ Meeting in 
 Tremont Temple — Liberal Subscriptions to a Public Monument — 
 Memorial Meetings in New York and Elsewhere — The “Month’s 
 Mind ” — Eloquent Sermon of Bishop Healy— The Poet’s Grave in 
 Holy hood. 
 
 rpHE City of Boston took official action on the death of 
 -L John Boyle O’Reilly by holding a citizens’ meeting at 
 Tremont Temple on the evening of September 2, Mayor 
 Hart presiding. The platform was filled with representa- 
 tive citizens of every ancestry and creed. A fine crayon 
 portrait of the dead poet, flanked by the Stars and Stripes 
 and the Irish flag, was placed on the wall of the platform. 
 
 Mayor Hart delivered a graceful address, and then intro- 
 duced the chairman of the evening, Hon. Charles Levi 
 W oodbury. 
 
 “ Had he been George Washington, Sam Adams, or 
 John Hancock,’’ said Judge Woodbury, “he could not 
 have loved more the institutions of America than these 
 great statesmen loved that which they had created and 
 which they saw around them. We feel so much for him 
 as a citizen that we almost forget he was born in another 
 clime. He assimilated himself so perfectly among us that 
 we hardly turned to remember that he came to us an exile, 
 a fugitive, a man whom the oppressors of Great Britain had 
 tried to brand as a felon, and to put the mark of ignominy 
 upon him, because he was a patriot and loved his people.” 
 Judge Woodbury was followed by the Very Rev. Wil- 
 liam Byrne, D.D., Vicar-General of Boston, a native of 
 O’Reilly’s County of Meath, and a warm personal friend of 
 the poet. He could speak from his own experience of the 
 
 366 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 367 
 
 associations and influences which had molded the character 
 of the young x>atriot. He said : 
 
 He was a Roman Catholic in religion. He was Catholic in faith 
 because he gave the assent of his will to all the truths of religion made 
 known to him by reason, revelation, and the teaching of the Church 
 which he knew was founded by Christ. He was a Roman Catholic 
 because he accepted the Bishop of Rome as the divinely ordained head 
 of that Church, and the ultimate judge in all disputed questions of faith 
 or morals. 
 
 He knew the limits of human intelligence and the fallibility of 
 reason in the domain of religion, and was content to rest his faith on 
 well-authenticated revelation, made through divinely appointed chan- 
 nels. His mind was too sane to rebel against these limitations, and too 
 pious to blame the Creator for not making man perfect. Hence he was 
 free from that intellectual pride and self-sufficiency which impel some 
 men to try to hew out for themselves a pathway in the mysterious 
 regions of religion, and to invent a way of salvation all their own. 
 
 As Father Byrne could speak for the dead hero’s relig- 
 ious character, so Colonel Chas. H. Taylor, of the Boston 
 Globe , could testify to his professional ability. Best proof 
 of the journalist’s worth was that to which Colonel Taylor 
 bore witness : 
 
 No man was ever jealous of John Boyle O’Reilly. On the contrary, 
 all were delighted with the position attained by this large-hearted, gen- 
 erous soul, — this manly man among manly men. 
 
 The next speaker was General Benjamin F. Butler, who 
 had been, as he said : 
 
 For twenty years the legal adviser of John Boyle O’Reilly, — a most 
 unprofitable client, for he has never had a lawsuit or a contention. 
 
 He had one weakness, which was a very uncomfortable one to him, 
 and that was, he could not hear a tale of woe or misfortune that he did 
 not set himself about rectifying or relieving it. He could never' resist 
 not only an appeal when made to him, but the most casual information 
 of wrong done, and especially wrong done to the poor and unprotected. 
 
 Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, himself a soldier 
 and brave advocate in the cause of the oppressed, was then 
 introduced and spoke eloquently of O’Reilly’s great mis- 
 sion : 
 
 So momentous for Boston, so momentous for America, so momen- 
 
368 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 tous for the world, that it might well make a man willing to die before 
 he is fifty, if he could contribute but a little toward accomplishing it, — 
 the reconciliation in this community between the Roman Catholic 
 Irishman and the Protestant American. 
 
 That was the mission that Boyle O’Reilly seemed just as distinctly 
 sent among us to do, as if he had been born with that mission stamped 
 upon his forehead, and as if a hundred vicar-generals had annointed 
 and ordained him for the work. 
 
 And in doing this work he showed not merely the lovableness of his 
 temperament, but its far-sightedness. He knew that unless that work 
 could be done, our city and our State and our country are confessed 
 failures. He knew that American civilization was a failure if it was 
 only large enough to furnish a safe and convenient shelter for the 
 descendants of Puritans and Anglo-Saxons, leaving Irishmen and 
 Catholics outside. 
 
 As a literary man, Colonel Higginson gave O’ Reilly a 
 high place in the world of letters. As a patriot, he ad- 
 mired him for remembering and loving his native land. 
 He continued : 
 
 I never have been among those who believed it to be the duty of an 
 Irishman, as soon as he set foot on this soil and looked around for his 
 naturalization papers, to forget the wrongs and sorrows he had left 
 behind him. 
 
 I cannot complain of Boyle O’Reilly that through life in his spirit 
 he kept the green flag waving beside the Stars and Stripes, any more 
 than I can forget the recorded joy of McClellan in the terrible battles of 
 the Wilderness when he saw the green flags borne by each regiment of 
 Meagher’s Irish Brigade come from the Second Army Corps to his relief. 
 
 In some ways Boyle O’Reilly was not enough of a reformer for me. 
 I never could quite forgive him for not being — like my friend and his 
 associate, Col. Taylor — a strong advocate of woman suffrage. But I can 
 tell you that when the man who is doing two men’s work all day still 
 spends night after night in attending the invalid wife to whom he owes 
 so much ; and when, in making his last will, he has the courage and 
 the justice to leave that wife in undisturbed possession of all his prop- 
 erty and the executrix of his will, I am ready to sign an amnesty with 
 him on the woman suffrage question. 
 
 Colonel Higginson was followed by President E. H. 
 Capen, H.D., of Tufts College, who said of the deceased: 
 
 He was more than a patriot, because wherever he saw humanity 
 oppressed he saw a brother in woe, and determined to give voice to the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 369 
 
 wrong. Nay, he could rise, not only above the prejudices of his race 
 and the traditions of his nation, but above even the scruples of his 
 religion, and that is the hardest thing for man to accomplish in this 
 world. 
 
 This man, a Roman Catholic on New England soil, in daily asso- 
 ciation with the sons of Puritans and Pilgrims, the sons of men who 
 hated the Papacy as the instrument of Satan, and whose descendants 
 have not entirely got beyond the narrowness of their forefathers, could 
 yet describe in fitting terms, showing the appreciation of his mind and 
 soul for the achievements of the founders of New England. 
 
 So that it is not only Ireland and America that may mourn his 
 death, it is humanity, civilization, our common Christianity. 
 
 What honor shall we pay to such a man ? It will be honor enough, 
 though I doubt if we can, to take all the virtues and all the achieve- 
 ments of his life into our own souls. 
 
 Then spoke a representative of the race for which 
 O’Reilly had zealously worked and written and spoken, 
 Mr. Edwin G. Walker, the colored lawyer and orator. 
 Said he : 
 
 With his pen John Boyle O’Reilly sent through the columns of a 
 newspaper that he edited in this city, words in our behalf that were 
 Christian, and anathemas that were just. Not only that — but he went 
 on to the platform and in bold and defiant language he denounced the 
 murderers of our people and advised us to strike the tyrants back. It 
 was at a time when the cloud was most heavy and more threatening 
 than at any other period since reconstruction. At that time our Wen- 
 dell Phillips was stricken by the hand of death, and then it was that 
 some doubted that they would ever be able to see a clear sky. But in 
 the midst of all the gloom we could hear Mr. O’Reilly declaring his deter- 
 mination to stand by the colored American in all contests where his 
 rights were at stake. 
 
 The last speaker was Hon. Patrick A. Collins, the ora- 
 tor and patriot who had stood beside O’Reilly for twenty 
 years in the long fight for Ireland’s cause. He spoke as 
 follows : 
 
 “ For Lycidas is dead ere his prime 
 * * * and has not left a peer.” 
 
 Even in this solemn hour of public mourning it seems hard to real- 
 ize that we shall see him no more. Men who knew us both will expect 
 from me no eulogy of Boyle O’Reilly. You mourn the journalist, the 
 
370 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 orator, the poet, the patriot of two peoples — the strong, tender, true, 
 and knightly character. I mourn with you, and I also mourn— 
 alone. 
 
 But, after all, the dead speak for themselves. No friend in prose or 
 verse can add a cubit to his stature. No foe, however mendacious, can 
 lessen his fame or the love humanity bears him. 
 
 Yet we owe, not to him, but to the living and to the future, these 
 manifold expressions of regard — these estimates of his worth. The 
 feverish age needs always teaching. 
 
 Here was a branded outcast some twenty years ago, stranded in a 
 strange land, friendless and penniless ; to-day wept for all over the 
 world where men are free or seeking to be free, for his large heart went 
 out to all in trouble, and his soul was the soul of a freeman ; all he had 
 he gave to humanity and asked no return. 
 
 Take the lesson of his life to your hearts, young men ; you who are 
 scrambling and wrangling for petty dignities and small honors. This 
 man held no office and had no title. The man was larger than any 
 office, and no title could ennoble him. He was born without an atom 
 of prejudice, and he lived and died without an evil or ungenerous 
 thought. 
 
 He was Irish and American ; intensely both, but more than both. 
 The world was his country and mankind was his kin. Often he struck, 
 but he always struck power, never the helpless. He seemed to feel 
 with the dying regicide in “ Les Miserables, ” “ I weep with you for the 
 son of the king, murdered in the temple, but weep with me for the 
 children of the people — they have suffered longest. ” 
 
 Numbered and marked and branded ; officially called rebel, traitor, 
 convict, and felon, wherever the red flag floats ; denied the sad privi- 
 lege of kneeling on the grave of his mother — thus died this superb 
 citizen of the great Republic. 
 
 But his soul was always free — vain are all mortal interdicts. 
 
 By the banks of that lovely river, where the blood of four nations 
 once commingled, in sight of the monument to the alien victor, hard 
 by the great mysterious Rath, over one sanctified spot dearer than all 
 others to him, where the dew glistened on the softest green, the spirit 
 of O’Reilly hovered, and shook the stillness of the Irish dawn on its 
 journey to the stars. 
 
 A memorial committee was appointed which held 
 several meetings and did its work so well that before the 
 close of the year it had collected about $13,000 of the sum 
 required for the erection of “a statue or other monument 
 to John Boyle O’Reilly in the city of Boston.” When 
 that object shall have been achieved, it is intended to 
 
371 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 commemorate the dead poet further by endowing an 
 Alcove of Celtic Literature in the new Public Library of 
 Boston. 
 
 Another great Memorial meeting was held at Hunt- 
 ington Hall, Lowell, on the evening of September 7, at 
 which addresses were made by Rev. Michael O’Brien, 
 Mayor Charles D. Palmer, Governor Brackett, General 
 Butler, Philip J. Farley, Esq., and Rev. D. M. Byrnes, 
 O.M.I. 
 
 In New York City on the following evening the Metro- 
 politan Opera House was filled with a large audience, 
 Governor Hill acting as chairman of the meeting. A fine 
 poem was read by Joseph I. C. Clarke, and Judge James 
 Fitzgerald delivered an oration of eulogy. Governor Leon 
 Abbett also spoke, and letters of sympathy were read from 
 President Harrison, — paying honor “ to the memory of the 
 distinguished and patriotic citizen,” — from Senator His- 
 cock, President Low of Columbia College, General 0. O. 
 Howard, U.S.A., ex-Senator Platt, and others. 
 
 The beautiful Catholic ceremony of the “ Month’s 
 Mind” was celebrated, at the instance of the Catholic 
 Union of Boston, at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, on 
 Wednesday morning, September 10. The large church was 
 filled with relatives and friends of the dead poet, repre- 
 sentatives of the several national, religious, and social 
 organizations to which he had belonged, and mourning 
 citizens of all creeds and classes. 
 
 The celebrant of the Pontifical Mass of Requiem was 
 the Most Rev. John J. Williams, Archbishop of Boston ; 
 assistant priest, the Yery Rev. John B. Hogan, D.D., 
 director of the Catholic University of America ; deacon of 
 the mass, the Rev. Arthur J. Teeling of Newburyport, 
 Mass.; subdeacon, the Rev. John F. Ford, superintendent 
 of the Workingboy’s Home, Boston ; deacons of honor, the 
 Rev. James McGlew, Chelsea, Mass., and the Rev. J. W. 
 McMahon, rector of St. Mary’s, Charlestown, Mass. The 
 master of ceremonies was the Rev. James F. Talbot, D.D., 
 of the Cathedral. 
 
372 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 lit. Rev. James A. Healy, Bishop of Portland, Me., 
 delivered the funeral oration, from the following text : 
 
 “ Our friend sleepeth; but I go that I may wake him out of sleep. — 
 John, xi.” 
 
 Thus spoke our Divine Master of his friend Lazarus ; and I am 
 come, not as a better friend of the dead, nor as more fit to speak on 
 this occasion, but as one of the earliest in this city, and, I trust, one of 
 the most constant of his friends — not my friend only, but he was our 
 friend — we all knew him, watched him, loved him as our friend. 
 
 * * * - * * * 
 
 Our friend, the man whom we loved as a friend, sleepeth. Let us 
 consider our friend as a man. I am not here to sing his praises as an 
 angel, nor yet as a man of so sublime and ascetic life as we ascribe to 
 the superhuman on earth. Our friend was a human man. I am not 
 here to tell of his attainments in letters, or of his success as a writer 
 for the press, as an author, a poet, gifted with a versatile and ever-ready 
 and competent pen and tongue ; nor even to recall the oft-told story of 
 his early life — his efforts for Ireland, his captivity, his escape by help of 
 generous sons of America ; nor even to describe the manly form, the 
 noble presence, the hardy and athletic temperament that we looked 
 upon with wonder and delight ; but I would wish to remind you of the 
 characteristics of our friend as a man. In the holy book one is described 
 as “ a man simple and right” ; that is straightforward, direct. Have 
 you known one who sought by direct ways and means the end he 
 aimed at — who for that end was willing to wait, to endure, to suffer ; 
 who in the weakness and helplessness of subject youth invited others to 
 dare and suffer, but led the way as captain of the forlorn hope ; who in 
 prison walls could not be prevented from piously gathering and con- 
 signing to mother earth the disinterred bones of former captives — of 
 those hapless Americans who died in English prisons ; who for his 
 country’s sake bravely bore the horrors of the prison ship, the brutality 
 of a convict settlement ; and yet, everywhere, and in all things, the 
 straightforward, the manly, the long-suffering but unconquered spirit ? 
 Such was our friend. 
 
 Have you known an ardent soul, loving his dear old country as a 
 sorrowing and afflicted mother, loving her as only an Irish exile can 
 love ; and yet turning with admiring love to the new country, which 
 had become his from the day he landed on her shores ? He loved 
 Ireland as his mother. He loved America as man loves a blooming and 
 happy spouse. At times there may have been those who found fault 
 with his unwavering devotion and constant efforts for the old land. 
 But I will venture to say here, under this sacred roof, no one who has 
 not seen the beautiful island and its oppressed people ; aye, more, no 
 
GRAVE OF JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY, WITH BOULDER, HOLYHOOD CEMETERY, BROOKLINE. MASS 
 

HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 373 
 
 one who has not felt and endured the yoke of cruel inhuman tyranny, 
 that for centuries has weighed down a gallant, a generous, a noble 
 people, in spite of faults incident to humanity, can properly enter into 
 the ardent, patriotic love of Irishmen for Ireland or their hatred of 
 oppression and the oppressor. And such, in his ardent love for his 
 
 native country, was our friend. 
 
 ****** 
 
 A word of his home life. If we follow him a young and brilliant man, 
 we see him repairing from the conversation, from the club, from the 
 evening joys, and hastening home to the bedside of his sick wife, to the 
 children anxious to greet him, to the playfulness of a warm father, in 
 whom they felt they had a friend. Such was he as a husband and a 
 father. 
 
 On such an occasion and within these walls, the mouth-piece of the 
 Lord would speak to no purpose unless he should speak of the disciple 
 of Christ as he was, or as he ought to be. And our friend was a Chris- 
 tian, a child of the Church of God. 
 
 ****** 
 
 He is gone — our friend sleepeth. The body, indeed, rests in the 
 tomb, far from the land he longed so much to revisit; but the soul 
 liveth unto God. And do you now, venerable pontiff, and his friend, 
 begin those prayers of Holy Church which follow the departing soul 
 even to the throne of God. Do you, brethren in Faith, join your prayers 
 with the pontiff, asking for him rest, light, life, the awakening unto 
 God; and do Thou, O Divine Lord, whose words we have quoted for 
 Thy friend — “ I go to wake him ” — do Thou come at the last great day 
 to wake him, to wake the body from the grave, that thus, soul and body 
 reunited in light and glory and joy eternal, our friend may rejoice for- 
 evermore. 
 
 The Catholic Union of Boston, the Charitable Irish So- 
 ciety, the Boston Press Club, and hundreds of other organiza- 
 tions throughout the country, and on both sides of the 
 ocean, passed similar resolutions, the mere chronicling of 
 which would be but a reiteration of the fact, known to all 
 the English speaking world, that John Boyle O’ Reilly was 
 the most sincerely loved and the most truly mourned man 
 of his generation. 
 
 His body lay in the receiving tomb of Calvary until 
 November 7, when it was removed to Holy hood cemetery, 
 Brookline, Mass., for final interment. 
 
 The poet’s grave is marked by a natural monument 
 worthy of the man, On the highest point of Holyhood 
 
374 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 there crops out a ledge of rock, over the face of which, 
 countless ages ago, the great glacial plow cut its way, leav- 
 ing a polished surface to mark its passage. On the crest 
 of this ledge, deposited by the mighty glacier, rests a giant 
 boulder, about fifteen feet high, and, roughly speaking, 
 twelve feet square, — seventy-five tons of weather-stained, 
 conglomerate rock. It stands a picturesque land-mark, 
 solitary, massive and majestic. 
 
 It is to be the tombstone of John Boyle O’ Reilly, whose 
 grave is at its base. No mark save a single tablet let in to 
 its face shall mar the severe simplicity of the monolith — 
 nature’s fitting memorial to God’s nobleman. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Early Traits of Character — Letters from Prison — His Religious Nature 
 Exemplified — An Ideal Comrade — Love of Nature and of Art — 
 His First Poem — His Lavish Charity and Kindness — A Child’s 
 Tribute — The End. 
 
 K INDNESS was the fruit, courtesy the flower, of 
 John Boyle O’Reilly’s character. Its seed was that 
 “sacrificial seed” of which he sings so often and so 
 earnestly. While absolutely free from personal vanity or 
 pride of intellect, no man could be more dignified on oc- 
 casion than was this rare combination of bodily beauty and 
 mental greatness. His courtly manners were neither the 
 product of culture nor the garb of policy. They were 
 born with him. 
 
 Even when a little child he was noted for his winning 
 qualities. “His smile was irresistible,” writes his sister, 
 “but I think his greatest charm was in his manner. From 
 earliest childhood he was a favorite with everybody, and 
 yet the wildest boy in Dowth. If any mischievous act was 
 committed in the neighborhood, John was blamed, yet 
 everybody loved him and would hide him from my father 
 when in disgrace.” 
 
 The same was true of his life in barracks and in prison. 
 The magnetism of the boyish soldier won more converts to 
 treason than his fervid eloquence. Even the uncompro- 
 mising loyalty and Protestantism of an Orangeman from the 
 “black North ” succumbed to his fascination and did not 
 recover from the spell until the Fenian mdlgre lui found 
 himself a life convict and wondered how it had come about. 
 From a dozen letters written by O’Reilly to his lieart- 
 
 375 
 
376 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 broken mother and family, while he lay in Arbor Hill 
 prison, I quote : 
 
 They all like me here, and if I sent you all the notes I get thrown to 
 me for “ dear J. B.” or “ J. B. O.” you would be amused. There’s a 
 fine young fellow here, a Preston Irishman, named Kelly. He begged 
 even a button from me, for a keepsake. I gave him the ring of my 
 plume, and he’s as happy as possible. 
 
 In the same letter, while expressing his belief that his 
 sentence would be less severe if the threatened Fenian upris- 
 ing should fail to occur, he writes in confident expectation 
 and hope that it will take place : 
 
 Perhaps you think there will be none, but you’ll see, either this or 
 next month, please God. Even in here we get assurances of not being 
 forgotten, and that the work goes on better than ever. Never grieve 
 for me, I beg of you, God knows I’d be only too happy to die for the 
 cause of my country. Pray for us all ; we are all brothers who are 
 suffering. 
 
 When the suspense was ended, he sent these brave words 
 of comfort to his loved ones : 
 
 I wrote these slips before I knew my fate, and I have nothing more 
 to say, only God’s holy will be done! If I only knew that you would 
 not grieve for me I’d be perfectly happy and content. My own dear 
 ones, you will not be ashamed of me at any rate; you all love the cause 
 I suffer for as well as I, and when you pray for me pray also for the 
 brave, true-hearted Irishmen who are with me. Men who do not un- 
 derstand our motives may call us foolish or mad, but every true Irish 
 heart knows our feelings and will not forget us. Don’t come here to 
 bid me good-by through the gate. I could never forget that. I’ll bid 
 you all good-by in a letter. 
 
 God bless you ! 
 
 John. 
 
 “ God’s holy will be done ! ” That was the key-note of 
 his character. “ 1 1 is the will of God, or I’ d n ot get a day, ’ ’ 
 he wrote when speaking of his sentence. His faith was as 
 simple as the life which it inspired was upright and hon- 
 orable. “ It would hardly appear to some people,” writes 
 his close friend, Mr. Moseley, “ but the great thing that 
 impressed me in Boyle’s character was his manliness, his 
 
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 * 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 377 
 
 self-abnegation, and, more than anything else, his child- 
 like faith in the teachings of his youth, his firm, unshaken 
 conviction, and his beautiful trust and repose in his religion, 
 his Church, and his God. With him it was a fixed fact, a 
 never faltering attitude of his mind, and when, by his liter- 
 ary associations, he was thrown with men who were doubt- 
 ers, agnostics, and disbelievers, his faith was as sublime, 
 his conviction as unshaken, and his devotion as constant as 
 when he learned the lesson at his mother’s knee. Though 
 I have seen him in many trying situations, surrounded by 
 dangers and beset by troubles, I have never known him to 
 relinquish his reliance upon the Higher Power whose boun- 
 teous love and ever watchful care his own character con- 
 fessed and glorified. 
 
 “ His was a practical religion ; he, of all men, made the 
 Divine injunction of unselfishness the rule of his daily life, 
 and never have I seen a more sclf-sacrificing character, a 
 more self -abnegating spirit, and a more watchful regard for 
 the comfort and interests of others, than was exhibited in 
 John Boyle O’Reilly.” 
 
 Such was the impression left predominant in the mind 
 of one not of his race or religion, after years of close asso- 
 ciation with O’ Reilly. The least bigoted of men, he yet 
 carried the sign of his Faith with him wherever he went, 
 as simply and unostentatiously as he did that of his coun- 
 try ; for he was unassumingly proud of both. A writer in 
 the Atlantic Monthly quotes from O’Reilly’s correspon- 
 dence with a Western friend on the same theme : 
 
 And yet your letter makes me smile. Puritan you, with your con- 
 demnation of the great old art-loving, human, music-breathing, color- 
 raising, spiritual, mystical, symbolical Catholic Church ! A 
 
 great, loving, generous heart will never find peace and comfort and 
 field of labor except within her unstatistical, sun-like, benevolent 
 motherhood. J., I am a Catholic just as I am a dweller on the planet, 
 and a lover of yellow sunlight, and flowers in the grass, and the sound 
 of birds. Man never made anything so like God’s work as the 
 magnificent, sacrificial, devotional faith of the hoary but young 
 Catholic Church. There is no other church; they are all just way 
 stations. 
 
378 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 So much for his creed ; his Christian charity was as 
 boundless as the universe. He was absolutely devoid of 
 sectarian prejudice. The eloquent Methodist clergyman, 
 Rev. Louis A. Banks, of Boston, justly said of him : 
 
 With unfeigned sympathy and love, I, a Protestant, with the charity 
 with which I myself hope to be judged, would say of my brother 
 Catholic, his heart was Christian. 
 
 His religion was expressed in deeds rather than in 
 words. He forgave his enemies ; he was the brother of all 
 the poor and oppressed ; he devoted his talents to the ser- 
 vice of humanity ; he preached and practiced the gospel of 
 kindness. 
 
 The courtesy which won the hearts of strangers at their 
 first meeting with him was not a garment put on for the 
 occasion. It clothed his everyday life ; it was as much a 
 part of him as his breath or his blood. A Scotch lady liv- 
 ing in Boston tells the following anecdote : 
 
 Going down a public street, one day, I saw a distinguished-looking 
 man, to whom, as he passed, two laborers working on the roadway 
 touched their hats. He returned the courtesy by lifting his own and 
 bowing gracefully. The act, little enough in itself, was an uncommon 
 one in democratic America. When the gentleman had passed by, I 
 stopped and asked one of the laborers who he was. He answered : 
 
 “ There goes the first gentleman in America, John Boyle O’Reilly, — 
 God bless him ! ” 
 
 He was the ideal comrade for an outdoor holiday. His 
 friend Moseley says : 
 
 There is nothing which so brings out the true character of a man as 
 freedom from all social restraints and conventionalities, such as is 
 found in a canoe voyage. There his brilliancy, his intellectuality, the 
 finer qualities or accomplishments, count as nothing compared with a 
 ready, unselfish spirit, a willingness to do his full share of the drudgery 
 of camp life, to cut the wood, draw the water, and scrub the kettle ; 
 and in this was found one of Boyle O’Reilly’s greatest charms as a 
 companion. He was far from being a shirk : he always wanted to do 
 the whole thing. He insisted that I should have the sheltered corner 
 of the tent, the daintiest bit of meat, or the pleasant side of the camp 
 fire. It was this, more than anything else, that made our cruises so 
 pleasant to us both, and in which we were so congenial. While his 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 379 
 
 conversation was delightful, and the mental companionship a most 
 enjoyable feature of our trips, this would not have compensated for a 
 lack of those more practical virtues which I have mentioned, — which, 
 after all, were founded in his absolute unselfishness and self-abnega- 
 tion. 
 
 Kindness, always kindness, was his watchword. In a 
 letter to his friend, Mr. Michael Cavanagh, of Washington, 
 written in July, 1878, I find the same note : 
 
 We are growing old, Mike, and our turn will soon be here. May 
 we be remembered with affection as they are— as all the kindly hearts 
 are. After all, there is nothing so strong as kindness; everything 
 else — esteem, admiration, friends — is good, but there is nothing so 
 pure and strong to hold our affections as the memory of a warm and 
 sympathetic heart. 
 
 He inculcated the same principle in the many contro- 
 versies inevitable to his journalistic career, — to fight a 
 wrong or a wrong-doer until justice was attained, then to 
 forget the quarrel as speedily as possible, and “ be sure to 
 say something kind” about the adversary at the first 
 opportunity. 
 
 He laid down and followed another rule: “ Never do 
 anything as a journalist which you would not do as a 
 gentlemen.” How faithfully that rule was obeyed his 
 twenty years of editorial work attest. 
 
 It was O’Reilly’s rare fortune to be appreciated and 
 loved during his lifetime. If any side of his character 
 was misunderstood by good people, it was the healthy, 
 vigorous one which rejoiced in manly sport, especially in 
 tfiat of boxing. How such a gentle, kindly heart could 
 dwell within a lusty, combative body was a mystery not 
 only to the narrow folk who mistake dyspepsia for piety, 
 but even to truly religious people less generously endowed 
 with natural appetites. As the Jesuit Father, John J. 
 Murphy, wisely says of O’ Reilly’ s love for the manly art, 
 “ He hated everything in it but the higher essence — the 
 game spirit, the heroic endurance, the plucky heart.” But 
 once engaged in a friendly encounter he fought gallantly, 
 as if fighting for life itself. 
 
380 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 It was the qualities of courage and endurance, prime 
 essentials of the boxer, which made O’ Reilly first dare the 
 rebel’s fate, and afterward bear the penalty with fortitude. 
 But for the brave heart within him he would never have 
 joined the Fenian ranks ; but for it he would have de- 
 spaired and died in a felon’s cell. 
 
 He never hesitated to employ the ultimate argument 
 if a needed lesson had to be given to some insolent bully. 
 He would not seek what is euphemistically called a diffi- 
 culty, on his own account ; but when the rights of the 
 weak needed a champion, most assuredly he never shunned 
 one. 
 
 This healthy, natural man could not but love nature 
 with a deep love, although the passion finds little expres- 
 sion in his poetry. On that subject Mr. Moseley again 
 writes : 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly was very close to Nature and to man. He 
 was in thorough sympathy with all created things, and saw in them 
 the manifestation of God’s power. It is not difficult to imagine the 
 pleasure which such a man experienced, and shared with others, from 
 a life in the woods. To him every leaf was a thing of beauty, every 
 tree a pillar in Nature’s temple ; in every raindrop he saw a pearl from 
 her jewel box, and their plashing was the music of her voice. 
 
 To illustrate to a certain extent this feature of his character, I can 
 tell an incident which happened a number of years ago, but which is 
 still fresh in my memory. We were in the habit, one summer, of 
 going down Boston Harbor in our canoes almost every pleasant after- 
 noon, and had found much enjoyment in the companionship, the re- 
 spite from business, and the cool sea breezes at the entrance to the bay. 
 It happened that I had been prevented from going for several days, 
 when Boyle came to me one afternoon and insisted that I must drop 
 everything and go with him that day, for he had something down there 
 to show me, — something which I must see. Curious to see what had 
 so aroused his enthusiasm, and anxious for the pleasure which such an 
 expedition with him always brought, I started at once, and after a hard 
 paddle down the harbor we reached one of the islands on which, 
 under Boyle’s guidance, we landed, and hauled our canoes upon the 
 beach. 
 
 Mounting the barren clay bank with the impetuosity of a child, he 
 shouted : “ There it is, Ned! Look at it! And God put it there for 
 
 me ! ” Following his outstretched hand I saw, growing alone upon the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 381 
 
 arid soil, the tiniest, prettiest little tuft of green clover which, it 
 seemed, my eyes had ever seen. And then he told me how he had 
 come down there alone, feeling lonely and despondent (his family 
 being away), and worried by those little annoyances of life which none 
 can escape. His mind was dwelling for the moment upon the barren- 
 ness and emptiness of this world, the whole scene by which he was 
 surrounded seeming perfectly in accord with his own thoughts, when 
 suddenly he spied this little bunch of clover. “And when I saw,” 
 said he, “ that emblem of God’s all-pervading presence, which He had, 
 I believe, put there for me, which He had sent His rain and dew to 
 nourish and His sunlight to strengthen, and which He had made grow 
 in this little desert as a sign of His far-reaching power — a realization 
 of His wonderful goodness and protecting care rolled over me like a 
 wave from the ocean at my feet. I thought of all the blessings which I 
 had to thank and praise Him for ; and as the wave rolled back it bore 
 with it the sense of loneliness and despondency which had oppressed 
 me, and left me soothed and strengthened, and with a renewed faith in 
 the nearness of God to all His creatures. Standing there on that rocky 
 coast, the fresh wind of heaven blowing around him and the rolling 
 ocean stretching out to the horizon, he apostrophized that little bunch 
 of clover in a strain which I have never heard equaled. It was a poem 
 of sublime faith in God and His love for man, and I listened spell- 
 bound to his matchless eloquence. 
 
 He loved nature and lie loved art, but lie better loved 
 mankind. That love was given freest expression to those 
 near him, his wife and little daughters. Without entering 
 into the sacredness of his domestic life, it is enough to say 
 that there he was truly at his best. He was infinitely 
 patient, tender, and considerate. He would read for hours 
 every evening to his little ones from the book, which he 
 cherished and taught them to understand, Shakespeare, 
 Milton, Dante, Shelley, Byron, Keats, and all the masters 
 of English verse. One summer, when his wife was away at 
 Nantucket, he read the Arabian Nights through to his little 
 girls, taking a boyish delight in breaking all rules of wise 
 conduct by prolonging the entertainment away into the 
 unhallowed hours of morning, and enjoining secrecy on his 
 fellow-culprits. 
 
 Here is a letter, one of many, written to his daughters, 
 Bessie and Agnes, at their convent home in Elmhurst, 
 Providence. 
 
382 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The “Pilot ” Editorial Rooms, 
 
 Boston, November 19, 1889. 
 
 Dear Old Bess : 
 
 At last I am out of the wood of hard work that has shut me in for 
 two months. The first pleasure I take is to write to my dear brown 
 hen and my dear blue pigeon. I have never been so busy in all my 
 life as I have been since Mammie and I came from the mountains. I 
 have literally not had a leisure hour for fifty days. I long to go to Elm- 
 hurst and see you— I wish you and I could go away in my canoe, down 
 a long, sunny, beautiful river, and camp on the banks for weeks and 
 weeks, till w T e were rested, rested, and had forgotten the busy, noisy 
 cities and all the work and trouble that are “ out in the world.” Last 
 night a little boy, ten years old, came to play the violin for mamma and 
 me. He has been playing in public for two years ; but he plays rudely 
 and carelessly, though I think he has talent, and would be a good 
 musician if carefully trained — like a dear old fiddler that I want to kiss 
 this moment. I suppose Mollie has sent you the poem I read at the 
 University. It was well received by the Cardinals and Bishops; and 
 they were a very grand audience, filling the whole large room with 
 their crimson and purple robes. 
 
 But Mamsey and I were glad to get back, and we have rested well 
 since Sunday night. We shall soon go to Providence to see our dear 
 girls. Mrs. Weller particularly asked for you; they were very kind to 
 us in Washington. We saw some great and wonderful things in many 
 cities while away ; but we saw one little work by a great man that 
 made us forget everything else — buildings, monuments, bridges, and 
 cities. It was a picture — a little oil painting, eighteen inches square — 
 “ L’ Angel us,” by Millet, which is on exhibition in New York. It is in 
 a great gallery where there are hundreds of other famous pictures — 
 some of them world-famous. And, besides, there are in the lower rooms 
 five hundred bronzes by the greatest genius in sculpture that has lived 
 for two hundred years, — Barye, the animal sculptor. We thought, as 
 we looked at his splendid grim lions and tigers and horses and elephants, 
 that painting never could interest us any more. “Oh, painting is 
 inferior to these glorious creatures,” said Mamsey? as she stood before a 
 great lion that held down a snake with his paws and roared at him. 
 And then we went upstairs to the pictures. 
 
 At the head of the stairs was Millet’s famous picture ‘ The Sower, ” 
 a tall, powerful young French peasant sowing seed in the dusk of the 
 evening. It is a wonderful picture (Mr. Quincy Shaw of Boston owns 
 it ; he paid $30,000 for it, years ago). This made Mammie stop and 
 look long. Then came a river and a young wood by Corot, and a 
 fairy-like landscape with golden clouds by Diaz ; and then we forgot 
 the bronzes, as canvas after canvas, of indescribable beauty and enor- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 383 
 
 mous value, came before us. At last we turned and looked down the 
 long gallery. There was a little group of people standing on one side 
 near the other end. And on the wall, alone, hung a little picture — 
 “ The Angelus ” — that was to all the others as a diamond is to its set- 
 ting. It was sold in Paris a few months ago, the price being $129,090 
 (the largest sum ever paid for a painting), and the duty on it when 
 brought here was $30,000 more. But it was worth more. You know 
 the picture from the engraving ; it is the same size ; but the coloring is 
 like the very touch of God Himself in the sweet, flushing sunset. Far 
 away on the fields is the church spire. The sun is very low, and is 
 not seen ; but the most exquisite gentle flush that ever was painted by 
 man touches the bowed head and crossed hands on the breast of the 
 praying woman and the back of the head and shoulders of the man. 
 It is not a man and woman praying — it is a painted prayer. You can 
 hear the Angelus bell filling the beautiful air ; you can see the woman’s 
 lips moving ; you pray with her. One looks at the lovely picture with 
 parted lips and hushed breath. And so great is art that all who see it 
 feel the same sweet influence — Protestant as well as Catholic. It was 
 bought by Protestants ; probably Mammie and I were the only Catho- 
 lics in the building that day. We could hardly go away from it ; and 
 as we did go, we looked at nothing else there. Everything else had 
 lost value. We passed “The Sower” with a glance (because it was 
 Millet’s, too), but we never looked at the bronzes. All day and ever 
 since I keep saying at times to Mammie, ‘ ‘ I can see the reddish flush on 
 those French peasants ” ; and she says : “I can hear the Angelus bell 
 
 whenever I think of the picture.” 
 
 And yet the genius who painted this treasure sold it for a few 
 hundred francs. He lived all his life in a little French village. He 
 was not regarded as a great man ; and he died very poor. His brother 
 is now in Boston, a very poor old man, a sculptor ; he wanted to make 
 a bust of me last year. But Francois Millet was no sooner dead than 
 France knew that she had lost an illustrious son. Foreigners were 
 buying up his pictures at enormous prices. Fortunately for Boston, 
 Mr. Shaw had recognized the genius many years ago, and had bought 
 all the pictures he could get ; so that we now have in this collection in 
 Boston the best pictures he ever painted, except “ L’ Angelus.” 
 
 Now, good-by, dear Bess and dear Agnes. When I get something 
 to tell, I shall write a long letter to my dear little fiddler. Love and 
 kisses. Papa. 
 
 The place in literature of John Boyle O’Reilly will be 
 fixed by time. When we study his poems and speeches, 
 and even his necessarily hasty editorial work, the one con- 
 spicuous quality evident in them is their author’s steady 
 
384 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 growth — higher thought, finer workmanship, and, surest 
 test of advancement, condensation in expression. Compare 
 his first volume of poems with his last, and mark the 
 wonderful growth of thirteen years. Had he been granted 
 twenty years more of life, with the leisure which he had 
 well earned and hoped to enjoy, it is no partial praise to 
 say that he might have attained the foremost place in the 
 literature of America, if not of the world. 
 
 His growth was perceptible year by year — almost day 
 by day. But he was hampered by the daily cares of his 
 professional life. He had no leisure for calm thought or 
 continuous work. That he should have achieved so much, 
 under such conditions, is the highest proof of the great 
 possibilities that lay behind, awaiting but time and oppor- 
 tunity for perfect development. He disdained the dille- 
 tante's work in letters, the elaborate polishing of trifles 
 which he satirizes in his “ Art Master,” as “ carving of 
 cherry-stones.” He always held the thought far above the 
 language in which it might be clothed. Yet he has given 
 evidence in a score of perfect songs, of his ability to handle 
 rhyme, rhythm, and melody with a masterly skill. 
 
 To the kindness of his sister, Mrs. Merry, of Liverpool, 
 England, I am indebted for a copy of his first poetical 
 effort, written when he was eleven years old. Its subject 
 was the death of Frederick Lucas, the great-hearted Eng- 
 lish friend of Ireland. Very crude and childish, yet not 
 without a suggestion of originality, are the eight lines of 
 this ambitious elegy : 
 
 He is gone, he is gone, to a world more serene 
 Than the one in which our most true friend has been. 
 
 He is pale as the swan, he is cold as the wave, 
 
 And his honored head lies low in the deep, hollow grave. 
 
 His death has caused sorrow throughout our green isle, 
 
 For now he is gone, he’ll no more on us smile. 
 
 And now is his poor brow as cold as the lead, 
 
 Because our beloved Frederick Lucas is dead. 
 
 It is a far cry from this to “ Wendell Phillips”; but 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 385 
 
 the spirit is the same in the doggerel of the child and the 
 threnody of the man, — sorrow for the loss of a friend of 
 humanity inspires both. 
 
 He left several unfinished poems, which appear in this 
 volume, and one completed prose work, unpublished, enti- 
 tled, “ The Country with a Roof,” an allegorical satire on 
 the existing social condition. 
 
 O’ Reilly would not have been true to his Irish nature 
 had he not known how to sing the song of mourning. The 
 bards of Ireland have enriched the language with some of 
 its noblest elegies, a work for which the education and 
 traditions of centuries had only too well prepared them. 
 And what a range these songs cover ! From the martial 
 movement of the “ Burial of Sir John Moore” and the 
 “ Bivouac of the Dead,” to the heart-breaking caoine of 
 Thomas Davis’s “Lament for Owen Roe,” and the mad 
 “ Hurrah for the Next that Dies,” of Bartholomew Dow- 
 ling. Whoever would understand the deepest depth of 
 Irish grief, the mingling of love, wrath, and despair follow- 
 ing the loss of a leader, will find it all compressed in the 
 thirty odd lines of Davis’s “Lament,” with its closing 
 wail : 
 
 Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high ; 
 
 But we’re slaves and we’re orphans, Owen ! — why did you die ! 
 
 O’ Reilly’ s elegiac poems are Irish, too, in their warmth 
 and sadness, but they are keyed to a higher note of phil- 
 osophy and hope. His own death evoked touching verses 
 from his countrymen and others, — Henry Austin, Edward 
 King, Katharine E. Conway, Homer Greene, Arthur For- 
 rester, William D. Kelly, Mrs.Whiton Stone, Rose Cava- 
 nagh, John E. Barrett, Katharine Tynan, and many more ; 
 for 
 
 Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
 
 His was the ideal Celtic character, made up of sunshine 
 and tears, — only, alas ! his life had seen little of the sun. 
 
386 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 There was a touch of sadness underlying all his thought. 
 It is present almost everywhere in his writings. It comes 
 to the surface most unexpectedly even in the lightest and 
 gayest of his Papyrus poems. “We are growing old;” 
 “grim Death beckons to us all.” This is the burden of 
 his song ; sad, but never gloomy. He had supped too often 
 with sorrow to be a pessimist : he had drunk too freely of 
 pleasure to be an optimist. He had no illusions, because 
 he believed in God and his fellow-man. 
 
 He bestowed charity with a generous hand, but his 
 name was seldom seen in print among those of contributors 
 to public benefactions. Privately, he gave liberally to half 
 a score of worthy charities, while the needy individuals 
 who received his bounty might be literally counted by the 
 hundred. Some of them were his perpetual pensioners. 
 Their names appear at regular and frequent intervals in 
 the columns of a little private expense-book now in my 
 possession, which he kept for some years before his death. 
 One of them, an Englishman and a Protestant, was sup- 
 ported by his bounty for years, sent to a hospital in his 
 declining days, and buried at last at the cost of his kindly 
 benefactor. Most of them, however, were needy people of 
 his own race and religion, for these came to him most 
 readily. 
 
 Almost every second entry on the pages of that little 
 book, intended for no eyes but his own, records a charity 
 or a loan, which was substantially the same thing. JNow 
 it is an entry, “Sisters Good Shepherd, $5.” Then 
 another, “Colored school, S. C.,” the same amount. 
 Again, “ Sisters from the South, $10.” Amid names 
 recurring again and again, there is an occasional entry like 
 “Catholic editor, $5”; old publisher, $5”; “deaf mute, 
 $3,” etc., — persons whose very names he had not learned, 
 or had forgotten before he could note the expenditure. 
 “Benefits” of all sorts for theatrical people, policemen, 
 waiters, letter-carriers, coachmen, etc., etc., found in him 
 a regular patron. 
 
 To his employees he was always kind, considerate and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 387 
 
 liberal. He hated to discharge anybody, and seldom or 
 never did so until he had secured him a new situation. 
 “I’d give So-and-so five hundred dollars,” he once said, 
 “ if he would only tender his resignation ; but he wont,” 
 he added, in whimsically sorrowful tone, “and of course 
 I can’t tell him to go.” 
 
 When he had a serious literary task to do, such as the 
 preparation of a great poem or speech, he would engage a 
 room in a hotel in which he would shut himself up, and say 
 to himself : “ Boyle O’Reilly, you have got this task before 
 you, and you shall not play, you shall not see your dear wife 
 and children, you shall not go to your home until it is fin- 
 ished ; you shall stay right here, in this room, until you 
 have done it.” And sometimes days would go by, while 
 he would subject himself to this strain, doing nothing in 
 this room where he had immured himself but waiting for 
 the inspiration to come to him. When the task was fin- 
 ished he would come forth looking like a man who had 
 suffered a week’s severe illness, and would ask his friends 
 for their’ criticism, not their eulogy, of his work. 
 
 Mr. Moseley has noticed a peculiarity which, as he 
 shrewdly guessed, was the result of O’Reilly’s prison 
 life. 
 
 When walking abstractedly and mechanically, he always walked 
 a short distance and then retraced his steps, no matter how wide a 
 stretch he had before him. It was always three paces forward, turn, 
 and three paces back, exactly like the restless turning of a lion in a 
 cage. One day I asked him, “Boyle, what was the length of your 
 cell when you were in prison ? How many paces ? ” He said, ‘ ‘ Three ; 
 why do you ask?” “Because,” I replied, “when you are absent- 
 minded you always walk three paces forward, and then retrace your 
 steps.” 
 
 It was literally the only outward and visible legacy of 
 that sad experience, — an experience which had chastened 
 and molded the whole soul of the man. In twenty years 
 of acquaintance and more than seven years of close per- 
 sonal intimacy, in the abandon of the club or the cafe , I 
 have never heard fall from his lips a word which might 
 
388 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 not be spoken in a lady’s drawing-room. He was neither a 
 saint nor a prude, but he was a man of clean mind and 
 tongue, and foul language revolted him like the touch of 
 carrion. 
 
 Another thing which he hated almost as much as vulgar 
 speech was the recounting of so-called “ Irish” stories and 
 all imitations of “ the brogue.” He loved his country and 
 its people with a tenderness almost incomprehensible to 
 anybody who did not share that love. Anything tending 
 to make either ridiculous was to him as jarring as the 
 mimicry of one’s mother would be to another man. One 
 had to be Irish, not only in blood but also in heart and 
 soul, before he ventured to amuse O’Reilly with any jest, 
 however harmless, at the foibles of his countrymen. 
 
 But how gladly he welcomed any praise of their vir- 
 tues, how eagerly he jumped at the least extenuation of 
 their faults, how unreservedly he took to his heart the man 
 who championed their cause ! “ He could not hate any 
 
 man who loved Ireland,” says Count Plunkett. I will 
 add, he could embrace his bitterest personal enemy, if that 
 enemy only served Ireland. 
 
 To a nature such as his there was every reason why he 
 should love his native land. She was poor, oppressed, 
 suffering ; and he had suffered with her and for her. He 
 loved America with both heart and head ; for it had given 
 him freedom, home, and an honorable career. Moreover, 
 he was a republican in all his instincts and principles, a 
 believer in the People and their right to self-government, 
 an unsparing enemy of caste and class distinctions in every 
 form. Nobody has better understood or paid truer tribute 
 to that which is highest and best in the American charac- 
 ter, its courage, magnanimity, self-governing instincts, and 
 love of justice. 
 
 The life of John Boyle O’Reilly teaches anew the lesson 
 that the man just and firm of purpose can conquer circum- 
 stances. The failure of his youthful patriotic dream did 
 not discourage his brave heart ; the degradation of the 
 prison did not contaminate his pure soul ; poverty did not 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 389 
 
 debase nor prosperity destroy his manly independence. 
 He remained throughout all his life a brave, honorable, 
 Christian gentleman, a loyal friend, a generous foe, a lover 
 of God and of his fellow-men. 
 
 It is not easy to write the last word of a lost friend so 
 dear as this. Let the simple tribute of “ a child, to John 
 Boyle O’Reilly,” written after his death, speak the love 
 and grief of the many who hold his name in grateful 
 memory : 
 
 You saw my leaf and praised it, 
 
 Until it grew a tree. 
 
 You saw my heart and raised it 
 To love and grow — for thee. 
 
 I bring, dear poet, all I have, — 
 
 My tree’s leaf and my heart’s love. 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 391 
 
And how did he live, that dead man there, 
 
 In the country churchyard laid f 
 0, he f He came for the sweet field air ; 
 
 He was tired of the town, and he took no pride 
 In its fashion or fame . He returned and died 
 In the place he loved, where a child he played 
 With those who have knelt by his grave and prayed . 
 He ruled no serfs, and he knew no pride ; 
 
 He was one with the workers, side by side ; 
 
 He hated a mill, and a mine, and a town, 
 
 With their fever of misery, struggle, renown ; 
 
 He could never believe but a man was made 
 For a nobler end than the glory of trade. 
 
 For the youth he mourned with an endless pity 
 Who were cast like snow on the streets of the city, 
 
 He was" weak, maybe ; but he lost no friend ; 
 
 Who loved him once, loved on to the end. 
 
 He mourned, all selfish and shrewd endeavor ; 
 
 But he never injured a weak one — never. 
 
 When censure was passed, he was kindly dumb ; 
 
 He was never so wise but a fault would come ; 
 
 He was never so old that he failed to enjoy 
 The games and the dreams he had loved when a boy . 
 He erred and was sorry ; but never drew 
 A trusting heart from the pure and true. 
 
 When friends look back from the years to be, 
 
 God grant they may say such things of me. 
 
 893 
 

 
 
THE WONDERFUL COUNTRY. 
 
 T HERE once was a time when, as old songs prove it, 
 The earth was not round, but an endless plain ; 
 
 The sea was as wide as the heavens above it — 
 
 Just millions of miles, and begin again. 
 
 And that was the time — ay, and more’s the pity 
 It ever should end ! — when the world could play, 
 
 When singers told tales of a crystal city 
 In a wonderful country far away ! 
 
 But the schools must come, with their scales and measures, 
 To limit the visions and weigh the spells ; 
 
 They scoffed at the dreams and the rainbow treasures, 
 And circled the world in their parallels ; 
 
 They charted the vales and the sunny meadows, 
 
 Where a poet might ride for a year and a day ; 
 
 They sounded the depths and they pierced the shadows, 
 Of that wonderful country far away. 
 
 For fancies they gave us their microscopies ; 
 
 For knowledge, a rubble of fact and doubt ; 
 Wing-broken and caged, like a bird from the tropics, 
 Romance at the wandering stars looked out. 
 
 Cold Reason, they said, is the earthly Eden ; 
 
 Go, study its springs, and its ores assay ; 
 
 But fairer the flowers and fields forbidden 
 Of that wonderful country far away. 
 
 They questioned the slumbering baby’s laughter, 
 
 And cautioned its elders to dream by rule ; 
 
 All mysteries past and to come hereafter 
 Were settled and solved in their common school. 
 
 395 
 
396 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’EEILLY. 
 
 But sweeter the streams and the wild birds singing, 
 
 The friendships and loves that were true alway ; 
 
 The gladness unseen, like a far bell ringing, 
 
 In that wonderful country far away. 
 
 Nay, not in their Reason our dear illusion, 
 
 But truer than truths that are measured and weighed— 
 
 O land of the spirit ! where no intrusion 
 From bookmen or doubters shall aye be made ! 
 
 There still breaks the murmuring sea to greet us 
 On shadowy valley and peaceful bay ; 
 
 And souls that were truest still wait to meet us 
 In that wonderful country far away ! 
 
 WHAT IS GOOD. 
 
 £ £ 
 
 HAT is the real good ■? ” 
 I asked in musing mood. 
 
 Order, said the law court ; 
 Knowledge, said the school ; 
 Truth, said the wise man ; 
 Pleasure, said the fool ; 
 Love, said the maiden ; 
 Beauty, said the page ; 
 Freedom, said the dreamer ; 
 Home, said the sage ; 
 
 Fame, said the soldier ; 
 Equity, the seer ; — 
 
 Spake my heart full sadly : 
 “The answer is not here.” 
 
 Then within my bosom 
 Softly this I heard : 
 
 4 4 Each heart holds the secret : 
 Kindness is the word.” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 397 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 “ Let it not be grievous unto you that you have been instruments to 
 break the ice for others who come after with less difficulty ; the honor 
 shall be yours to the world’s end.” — Letter from London to the Pil- 
 grims, 1622. — (Bradford’s Hist.) 
 
 “ I charge you before God that you follow me no farther than you 
 have seen me follow the Lord Jesus Christ. If God reveal anything to 
 you by any other instrument of His, be as ready to receive it as ever 
 you were to receive any truth by my ministry; for I am verily per- 
 suaded, I am very confident, the Lord has more truths yet to break forth 
 out of His holy word.” — Rev . John Robinson's Farewell to the Pilgrims 
 at Leyden, in Holland, 1620. 
 
 “ The hospitals [of England] are full of the ancient . . . the alms- 
 houses are filled with old laborers. Many there are who get their living 
 with bearing burdens ; but more are fain to burden the land with their 
 whole bodies. Neither come these straits upon men always through 
 intemperance, ill-husbandry, indiscretion, etc. ; but even the most wise, 
 sober, and discreet men go often to the wall when they have done their 
 best. . . . The rent-taker lives on sweet morsels, but the rent-payer 
 eats a dry crust often with watery eyes.” — Robert Cushman, Plymouth , 
 1621. — (Chronicles of the Pilgrims.) 
 
 “We are all freeholders ; the rent day doth not trouble us.” — Letter 
 of William Hilton from Plymouth, 1621. — (Young’s Chronicles.) 
 
 O NE righteous word for Law — the common will ; 
 
 One living truth of Faith — God regnant still ; 
 One primal test of Freedom — all combined ; 
 
 One sacred Revolution — change of mind ; 
 
 One trust unfailing for the night and need — 
 
 The tyrant-flower shall cast the freedom-seed. 
 
 So held they firm, the Fathers aye to be, 
 
 From Home to Holland, Holland to the sea — 
 Pilgrims for manhood, in their little ship, 
 
 Hope in each heart and prayer on every lip. 
 
 They could not live by king-made codes and creeds ; 
 They chose the path where every footstep bleeds. 
 Protesting, not rebelling ; scorned and banned ; 
 Through pains and prisons harried from the land ; 
 Through double exile, — till at last they stand 
 
398 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O REILLY. 
 
 Apart from all, — unique, unworldly, true, 
 
 Selected grain to sow the earth anew ; 
 
 A winnowed part — a saving remnant they ; 
 
 Dreamers who work — adventurers who pray ! 
 
 What vision led them ? Can we test their prayers ? 
 Who knows they saw no empire in the West ? 
 
 The later Puritans sought land and gold, 
 
 And all the treasures that the Spaniard told ; 
 
 What line divides the Pilgrims from the rest? 
 
 We know them by the exile that was theirs ; 
 
 Their justice, faith, and fortitude attest ; 
 
 And those long years in Holland, when their band 
 Sought humble living in a stranger’s land. 
 
 They saw their England covered with a weed 
 Of flaunting lordship both in court and creed. 
 
 With helpless hands they watched the error grow, 
 Pride on the top and impotence below ; 
 
 Indulgent nobles, privileged and strong, 
 
 A haughty crew to whom all rights belong ; 
 
 The bishops arrogant, the courts impure, 
 
 The rich conspirators against the poor ; 
 
 The peasant scorned, the artisan despised ; 
 
 The all-supporting workers lowest prized. 
 
 They marked those evils deepen year by year : 
 
 The pensions grow, the freeholds disappear, 
 
 Till England meant but monarch, prelate, peer. 
 
 At last, the Conquest ! Now they know the word : 
 The Saxon tenant and the Norman lord ! 
 
 No longer Merrie England : now it meant 
 The payers and the takers of the rent ; 
 
 And rent exacted not from lands alone — 
 
 All rights and hopes must centre in the throne : 
 Law-tithes for prayer — their souls were not their own ! 
 
 Then o’er the brim the bitter waters welled ; 
 
 The mind protested and the soul rebelled. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 399 
 
 And yet, how deep the bowl, how slight the flow ! 
 
 A few brave exiles from their country go ; 
 
 A few strong souls whose rich affections cling, 
 
 Though cursed by clerics, hunted by the king. 
 
 Their last sad vision on the Grimsby strand 
 Their wives and children kneeling on the sand. 
 
 Then twelve slow years in Holland — changing years — 
 Strange ways of life— strange voices in their ears ; 
 
 The growing children learning foreign speech ; 
 
 And growing, too, within the heart of each 
 A thought of further exile— of a home 
 In some far land — a home for life and death 
 By their hands built, in equity and faith. 
 
 And then the preparation — the heart-beat 
 Of wayfarers who may not rest their feet ; 
 
 Their Pastor’s blessing — the farewells of some 
 Who stayed in Leyden. Then the sea’s wide blue ! — 
 
 “ They sailed,” writ one, “ and as they sailed they knew 
 That they were Pilgrims ! ” 
 
 On the wintry main 
 
 God flings their lives as farmers scatter grain. 
 
 His breath propels the winged seed afloat ; 
 
 His tempests swerve to spare the fragile boat ; 
 
 Before His prompting terrors disappear ; 
 
 He points the way while patient seamen steer ; 
 
 Till port is reached, nor North, nor South, but Here ! 
 
 Here, where the shore was rugged as the waves, 
 
 Where frozen nature dumb and leafless lay, 
 
 And no rich meadows bade the Pilgrims stay, 
 
 Was spread the symbol of the life that saves : 
 
 To conquer first the outer things ; to make 
 Their own advantage, unallied, unbound ; 
 
 Their blood the mortar, building from the ground ; 
 
 Their cares the statutes, making all anew ; 
 
 To learn to trust the many, not the few ; 
 
400 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 To bend the mind to discipline ; to break 
 The bonds of old convention, and forget 
 The claims and barriers of class ; to face 
 A desert land, a strange and hostile race, 
 
 And conquer both to friendship by the debt 
 That Nature pays to justice, love, and toil. 
 
 Here, on this rock, and on this sterile soil, 
 
 Began the kingdom not of kings, but men : 
 
 Began the making of the world again. 
 
 Here centuries sank, and from the hither brink 
 A new world reached and raised an old-world link, 
 
 When English hands, by wider vision taught, 
 
 Threw down the feudal bars the Normans brought, 
 
 And here revived, in spite of sword and stake, 
 
 Their ancient freedom of the Wapentake ! 
 
 Here struck the seed — the Pilgrims’ roofless town, 
 
 Where equal rights and equal bonds were set, 
 
 Where all the people equal-franchised met ; 
 
 Where doom was writ of privilege and crown ; 
 
 Where human breath blew all the idols down ; 
 
 Where crests were nought, where vulture flags were furled, 
 And common men began to own the world ! 
 
 All praise to others of the vanguard then ! 
 
 To Spain, to France ; to Baltimore and Penn ; 
 
 To Jesuit, Quaker, — Puritan and Priest ; 
 
 Their toil be crowned — their honors be increased ! 
 
 We slight no true devotion, steal no fame 
 From other shrines to gild the Pilgrims’ name. 
 
 As time selects, we judge their treasures heaped ; 
 
 Their deep foundations laid ; their harvests reaped ; 
 
 Their primal mode of liberty ; their rules 
 
 Of civil right ; their churches, courts, and schools ; 
 
 Their freedom’s very secret here laid down, — 
 
 The spring of government is the little town ! 
 
 They knew that streams must follow to a spring ; 
 
 And no stream flows from township to a king. 
 
401 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Give praise to others, early-come or late, 
 
 For love and labor on our ship of state ; 
 
 But this must stand above all fame and zeal : 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers laid the ribs and keel. 
 
 On their strong lines we base our social health, — 
 The man — the home — the town — the commonwealth ! 
 
 Unconscious builders ? Yea : the conscious fail ! 
 Design is impotent if Nature frown. 
 
 No deathless pile has grown from intellect. 
 
 Immortal things have God for architect, 
 
 And men are but the granite He lays down. 
 Unconscious ? Yea ! They thought it might avail 
 To build a gloomy creed about their lives, 
 
 To shut out all dissent ; but naught survives 
 Of their poor structure ; and we know to-day 
 Their mission was less pastoral than lay — 
 
 More Nation-seed than Gospel-seed were they ! 
 
 The Faith was theirs : the time had other needs. 
 
 The salt they bore must sweeten worldly deeds. 
 
 There was a meaning in the very wind 
 
 That blew them here so few, so poor, so strong, 
 
 To grapple concrete work, not abstract wrong. 
 
 Their saintly Robinson was left behind 
 To teach by gentle memory ; to shame 
 The bigot spirit and the word of flame ; 
 
 To write dear mercy in the Pilgrims’ law ; 
 
 To lead to that wide faith his soul foresaw, — 
 
 That no rejected race in darkness delves ; 
 
 There are no Gentiles, but they make themselves ; 
 That men are one of blood and one of spirit ; 
 
 That one is as the whole, and all inherit ! 
 
 On all the story of a life or race, 
 
 The blessing of a good man leaves its trace. 
 
 Their Pastor’s word at Leyden here sufficed : 
 
 “ But follow me as I have followed Christ ! ” 
 
 And, “ I believe there is more truth to come ! ” 
 
402 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 O gentle soul, what future age shall sum 
 The sweet incentive of thy tender word ! 
 
 Thy sigh to hear of conquest by the sword : 
 
 “ How happy to convert, and not to slay ! ” 
 
 When valiant Standish killed the chief at bay. 
 
 To such as thee the Fathers owe their fame ; 
 
 The Nation owes a temple to thy name. 
 
 Thy teaching made the Pilgrims kindly, free, — 
 All that the later Puritans should be. 
 
 Thy pious instinct marks their destiny. 
 
 Thy love won more than force or arts adroit — 
 
 It writ and kept the deed with Massasoit ; 
 
 It earned the welcome Samoset expressed ; 
 
 It lived again in Eliot’s loving breast ; 
 
 It filled the Compact which the Pilgrims signed — 
 Immortal scroll ! the first where men combined 
 From one deep lake of common blood to draw 
 All rulers, rights, and potencies of law. 
 
 When waves of ages have their motive spent 
 Thy sermon preaches in this Monument, 
 
 Where Virtue, Courage, Law, and Learning sit ; 
 Calm Faith above them, grasping Holy Writ ; 
 White hand upraised o’er beauteous, trusting eyes, 
 And pleading finger pointing to the skies ! 
 
 The past is theirs — the future ours ; and we 
 Must learn and teach. Oh, may our record be 
 Like theirs, a glory, symbolled in a stone, 
 
 To speak as this speaks, of our labors done. 
 
 They had no model ; but they left us one. 
 
 Severe they were ; but let him cast the stone 
 Who Christ’s dear love dare measure with his own. 
 Their strict professions were not cant nor pride. 
 Who calls them narrow, let his soul be wide ! 
 Austere, exclusive — ay, but with their faults, 
 
 Their golden probity mankind exalts. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 403 
 
 They never lied in practice, peace, or strife ; 
 
 They were no hypocrites ; their faith was clear ; 
 
 They feared too much some sins men ought to fear : 
 
 The lordly arrogance and avarice, 
 
 And vain frivolity’s besotting vice ; 
 
 The stern enthusiasm of their life 
 
 Impelled too far, and weighed,poor nature down ; 
 
 They missed God’s smile, perhaps, to watch His frown. 
 But he who digs for faults shall resurrect 
 Their manly virtues born of self-respect. 
 
 How sum their merits ? They were true and brave ; 
 They broke no compact and they owned no slave ; 
 They had no servile order, no dumb throat ; 
 
 They trusted first the universal vote ; 
 
 The first were they to practice and. instill 
 The rule of law and not the rule of will ; 
 
 They lived one noble test : who would be freed 
 Must give up all to follow duty’s lead. 
 
 They made no revolution based on blows, 
 
 But taught one truth that all the planet knows, 
 
 That all men think of, looking on a throne — 
 
 The people may be trusted with their own ! 
 
 In every land wherever might holds sway 
 The Pilgrims’ leaven is at work to-day. 
 
 The Mayflower’s cabin was the chosen womb 
 Of light predestined for the nations’ gloom. 
 
 God grant that those who tend the sacred flame 
 May worthy prove of their Forefathers’ name. 
 
 More light has come, — more dangers, too, perplex : 
 New prides, new greeds, our high condition vex. 
 The Fathers fled from feudal lords* and made 
 A freehold state ; may we not retrograde 
 To lucre- lords and hierarchs of trade. 
 
 May we, as they did, teach in court and school, 
 There must be classes, but no class shall rule : 
 
 The sea is sweet, and rots not like the pool. 
 
404 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Though vast the token of our future glory, 
 
 Though tongue of man hath told not such a story, — 
 Surpassing Plato’s dream, More’s phantasy, — still we 
 Have no new principles to keep us free. 
 
 As Nature works with changeless grain on grain, 
 
 The truths the Fathers taught we need again. 
 
 Depart from this, though we may crowd our shelves, 
 W ith codes and precepts for each lapse and flaw, 
 
 And patch our moral leaks with statute law, 
 
 We cannot be protected from ourselves ! 
 
 Still must we keep in every stroke and vote 
 The law of conscience that the Pilgrims wrote ; 
 
 Our seal their secret : Liberty can be ; 
 
 The State is freedom if the Town is free. 
 
 The death of nations in their work began ; 
 
 They sowed the seed of federated Man. 
 
 Dead nations were but robber-holds ; and we 
 The first battalion of Humanity ! 
 
 All living nations, while our eagles shine, 
 
 One after one, shall swing into our line ; 
 
 Our freeborn heritage shall be the guide 
 And bloodless order of their regicide ; 
 
 The sea shall join, not limit ; mountains stand 
 Dividing farm from farm, not land from land. 
 
 O People’s Voice ! when farthest thrones shall hear ; 
 When teachers own ; when thoughtful rabbis know ; 
 When artist minds in world-wide symbol show ; 
 When serfs and soldiers their mute faces raise ; 
 
 When priests on grand cathedral altars praise ; 
 
 When pride and arrogance shall disappear, 
 
 The Pilgrims’ Vision is accomplished here ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 405 
 
 FROM THE HEIGHTS. 
 
 [Read at the opening Banquet of the American Catholic University. 
 Washington, Nov. 13, 1889.] 
 
 C OME to me for wisdom,” said the mountain ; 
 
 “ In the valley and the plain 
 There is Knowledge dimmed with sorrow in the gain ; 
 There is Effort, with its hope like a fountain ; 
 
 There, the chained rebel, Passion ; 
 
 Laboring Strength and fleeting Fashion ; 
 
 There, Ambition’ s leaping flame, 
 
 And the iris-crown of Fame ; 
 
 But those gains are dear forever 
 Won from loss and pain and fever. 
 
 Nature’s gospel never changes : 
 
 Every sudden force deranges ; 
 
 Blind endeavor is not wise : 
 
 Wisdom enters through the eyes ; 
 
 And the seer is the knower, 
 
 Is the doer and the sower. 
 
 “ Come to me for riches,” said the peak ; 
 
 “ I am leafless, cold and calm ; 
 
 But the treasures of the lily and the palm — 
 
 They are mine to bestow on those who seek. 
 
 I am gift and I am giver 
 To the verdured fields below, 
 
 As the motherhood of snow 
 Daily gives the new-born river. 
 
 As a watcher on a tower, 
 
 Listening to the evening hour, 
 
 Sees the roads diverge and blend, 
 
 Sees the wandering currents end 
 Where the moveless waters shine 
 On the far horizon line — 
 
4 u6 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 All the storied Past is mine ; 
 
 All its strange beliefs still clinging ; 
 
 All its singers and their singing ; 
 
 All the paths that led astray, 
 
 All the meteors once called day ; 
 
 All the stars that rose to shine — 
 
 Come to me — for all are mine ! 
 
 4 ‘Come to me for safety,” said the height ; 
 “ In the future as the past, 
 
 Road and river end at last 
 Like a raindrop in the ever- circling sea. 
 Who shall know by lessened sight 
 Where the gain and where the loss 
 In the desert they must cross ? 
 
 Guides who lead their charge from ills, 
 Passing soon from town to town, 
 
 Through the forest and the down, 
 
 Take direction from the hills ; 
 
 Those wbo range a wider land, 
 
 Higher climb until they stand 
 Where the past and future swing 
 Like a far blue ocean -ring ; 
 
 Those who sail from land afar 
 Leap from mountain-top to star. 
 
 Higher still, from star to God, 
 
 Have the spirit-pilots trod, 
 
 Setting lights for mind and soul 
 That the ships may reach the goal. 
 
 “ They shall safely steer who see : 
 
 Sight is wisdom. Come tome!” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 MAYFLOWER. 
 
 407 
 
 T HUNDER our thanks to her — guns, hearts, and lips ! 
 Cheer from the ranks to her, 
 
 Shout from the banks to her — 
 
 Mayflower ! Foremost and best of our ships. 
 
 Mayflower ! Twice in the national story 
 Thy dear name in letters of gold — 
 
 Woven in texture that never grows old — 
 
 Winning a home and winning glory ! 
 
 Sailing the years to us, welcomed for aye ; 
 
 Cherished for centuries, dearest to-day. 
 
 Every heart throbs for her, every flag dips — 
 
 Mayflower ! First and last — best of our ships ! 
 
 White as a seagull, she swept the long passage. 
 
 True as the homing-bird flies with its message. 
 
 Love her? O, richer than silk every sail of her. 
 
 Trust her ? More precious than gold every nail of her. 
 Write we down faithfully every man’s part in her ; 
 
 Greet we all gratefully every true heart in her. 
 
 More than a name to us, sailing the fleetest, 
 
 Symbol of that which is purest and sweetest. 
 
 More than a keel to us, steering the straightest : 
 
 Emblem of that which is freest and greatest. 
 
 More than a dove-bosomed sail to the windward : 
 
 Flame passing on while the night-clouds fly hindward. 
 
 Kiss every plank of her ! None shall take rank of her ; 
 Frontward or weatherward, none can eclipse. 
 
 Thunder our thanks to her ! Cheer from the banks to her ! 
 Mayflower ! Foremost and best of our ships ! 
 
408 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 CRISPUS ATTUCKS. 
 
 Negro Patriot — Killed in Boston, March 5, 1770. 
 
 Read at the Dedication of the Crispus Attucks Monument 
 in Boston , November 14, 1888. 
 
 The Boston Massacre, March 5, 1770, may be regarded as the first 
 act in the drama of the American Revolution. “ From that moment ” 
 said Daniel Webster, “ we may date the severance of the British Em- 
 pire.” The presence of the British soldiers in King Street excited the 
 
 patriotic indignation of the people Led by Crispus Attucks, 
 
 the mulatto slave, and shouting, “ The way to get rid of these soldiers 
 is to attack the main guard ; strike at the root ; this is the nest,” with 
 more valor than discretion, they rushed to King Street, and were fired 
 upon by Captain Preston’s company. Crispus Attucks was the first to 
 fall ; he and Samuel Gray and Jonas Caldwell were killed on the spot. 
 Samuel Maverick and Patrick Carr were mortally wounded.- -Histori- 
 cal Research , by George Livermore— Mass. Hist. Society. 
 
 ■TTTHERE shall we seek for a hero, and where shall we 
 VV find a story ? 
 
 Our laurels are wreathed for conquest, our songs for com- 
 pleted glory. 
 
 But we honor a shrine unfinished, a column uncapped with 
 pride, 
 
 If we sing the deed that was sown like seed when Crispus 
 Attucks died. 
 
 Shall we take for a sign this Negro-slave with unfamiliar 
 name — 
 
 With his poor companions, nameless too, till their lives 
 leaped forth in flame ? 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 409 
 
 Yea, surely, tlie verdict is not for us, to render or deny ; 
 
 We can only interpret the symbol ; God chose these men 
 to die — 
 
 As teachers and types, that to humble lives may chief 
 award be made ; 
 
 That from lowly ones, and rejected stones, the temple’s 
 base is laid ! 
 
 When the bullets leaped from the British guns, no chance 
 decreed their aim : 
 
 Men see what the royal hirelings saw — a multitude and a 
 flame ; 
 
 But beyond the flame, a mystery ; five dying men in the 
 street, 
 
 While the streams of severed races in the well of a nation 
 meet ! 
 
 O, blood of the people ! changeless tide, through century, 
 creed and race ! 
 
 Still one as the sweet salt sea is one, though tempered by 
 sun and place ; 
 
 The same in the ocean currents, and the same in the shel- 
 tered seas ; 
 
 Forever the fountain of common hopes and kindly sympa- 
 thies ; 
 
 Indian and Negro, Saxon and Celt, Teuton and Latin and 
 Gaul — 
 
 Mere surface shadow and sunshine ; while the sounding 
 unifies all ! 
 
 One love, one hope, one duty theirs ! No matter the time 
 or ken, 
 
 There never was separate heart-beat in all the races of men ! 
 
 But alien is one — of class, not race — he has drawn the 
 line for himself ; 
 
 His roots drink life from inhuman soil, from garbage of 
 pomp and pelf ; 
 
410 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 His heart beats not with the common beat, he has changed 
 his life-stream’s hue ; 
 
 He deems his flesh to be finer flesh, he boasts that his 
 blood is blue : 
 
 Patrician, aristocrat, tory — whatever his age or name, 
 
 To the people’s rights and liberties, a traitor ever the 
 same. 
 
 The natural crowd is a mob to him, their prayer a vulgar 
 rhyme ; 
 
 The freeman’s speech is sedition, and the patriot’s deed a 
 crime. 
 
 Wherever the race, the law, the land, — whatever the time, 
 or throne, 
 
 The tory is always a traitor to every class but his 
 own. 
 
 Thank God for a land where pride is clipped, where arro- 
 gance stalks apart ; 
 
 Where law and song and loathing of wrong are words of 
 the common heart ; 
 
 Where the masses honor straightforward strength, and 
 know, when veins are bled, 
 
 That the bluest blood is putrid blood — that the people’s 
 blood is red ! 
 
 And honor to Crispus Attucks, who was leader and voice 
 that day ; 
 
 The first to defy, and the first to die, with Maverick, Carr, 
 and Gray. 
 
 Call it riot or revolution, his hand first clenched at the 
 crown ; 
 
 His feet were the first in perilous place to pull the king’s 
 flag down ; 
 
 His breast was the first one rent apart that liberty’s stream 
 might flow ; 
 
 For our freedom now and forever, his head was the first laid 
 low. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 411 
 
 Call it riot or revolution, or mob or crowd, as you 
 may, 
 
 Such deaths have been seed of nations, such lives shall be 
 honored for aye. 
 
 They were lawless hinds to the lackeys — but martyrs to 
 Paul Revere ; 
 
 And Otis and Hancock and Warren read spirit and mean- 
 ing clear. 
 
 Ye teachers, answer : what shall be done when just men 
 stand in the dock ; 
 
 When the caitiff is robed in ermine, and his sworders keep 
 the lock ; 
 
 When torture is robbed of clemency, and guilt is without 
 remorse ; 
 
 When tiger and panther are gentler than the Christian 
 slaver’s curse ; 
 
 When law is a satrap’s menace, and order the drill of a 
 horde — 
 
 Shall the people kneel to be trampled, and bare their neck 
 to the sword ? 
 
 Not so ! by this Stone of Resistance that Boston raises 
 here ! 
 
 By the old North Church’s lantern, and the watching of 
 Paul Revere ! 
 
 Not so ! by Paris of ’Ninety-Three, and Ulster of ’Ninety- 
 Eight ! 
 
 By Toussaint in St. Domingo ! by the horror of Delhi’s 
 gate ! 
 
 By Adams’s word to Hutchinson ! by the tea that is brew- 
 ing still ! 
 
 By the farmers that met the soldiers at Concord and Bun- 
 ker Hill ! 
 
 Not so ! not so ! Till the world is done, the shadow of 
 wrong is dread ; 
 
 The crowd that bends to a lord to-day, to-morrow shall 
 strike him dead. 
 
412 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 There is only one thing changeless : the earth steals from 
 under our feet, 
 
 The times and manners are passing moods, and the laws 
 are incomplete ; 
 
 There is only one thing changes not, one word that still 
 survives — 
 
 The slave is the wretch who wields the lash, and not the 
 man in gyves ! 
 
 There is only one test of contract : is it willing, is it 
 good ? 
 
 There is only one guard of equal right : the unity of 
 blood ; 
 
 There is never a mind unchained and true that class or race 
 allows ; 
 
 There is never a law to be obeyed that reason disavows ; 
 
 There is never a legal sin but grows to the law’s disaster, 
 
 The master shall drop the whip, and the slave shall enslave 
 the master ! 
 
 0, Planter of seed in thought and deed has the year of 
 right revolved, 
 
 And brought the Negro patriot’s cause with its problem to 
 be solved % 
 
 His blood streamed first for the building, and through all 
 the century’s years, 
 
 Our growth of story and fame of glory are mixed with his 
 blood and tears. 
 
 He lived with men like a soul condemned — derided, 
 defamed, and mute ; 
 
 Debased to the brutal level, and instructed to be a brute. 
 
 His virtue was shorn of benefit, his industry of reward ; 
 
 His love ! — O men, it were mercy to have cut affection’s 
 cord ; 
 
 Through the night of his woe, no pity save that of his 
 fellow-slave ; 
 
 For the wage of his priceless labor, the scourging block 
 and the grave ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 413 
 
 And now, is the tree to blossom ? Is the bowl of agony- 
 filled? 
 
 Shall the price be paid, and the honor said, and the word 
 of outrage stilled ? 
 
 And we who have toiled for freedom’s law, have we sought 
 for freedom’ s soul ? 
 
 Have we learned at last that human right is not a part but 
 the whole ? 
 
 That nothing is told while the clinging sin remains part 
 unconfessed ? 
 
 That the health of the nation is periled if one man be 
 oppressed ? 
 
 Has he learned — the slave from the rice-swamps, whose 
 children were sold — has he, 
 
 With broken chains on his limbs, and the cry in his blood, 
 “I am free ! ” 
 
 Has he learned through affliction’s teaching what ourCris- 
 pus Attucks knew — 
 
 When Right is stricken, the white and black are counted 
 as one, not two ? 
 
 Has he learned that his century of grief was worth a thou- 
 sand years 
 
 In blending his life and blood with ours, and that all his 
 toils and tears 
 
 Were heaped and poured on him suddenly, to give him a 
 right to stand 
 
 From the gloom of African forests, in the blaze of the 
 freest land ? 
 
 That his hundred' years have earned for him a place in the 
 human van 
 
 Which others have fought for and thought to? since the 
 world of wrong began ? 
 
 For this, shall his vengeance change to love, and his retri- 
 bution burn, 
 
 Defending the right, the weak and the poor, when* each 
 shall have his turn ; 
 
414 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 For this, shall he set his woeful past afloat on the stream 
 of night ; 
 
 For this, he forgets as we all forget when darkness turns 
 to light ; 
 
 For this, he forgives as we all forgive when wrong has 
 changed to right. 
 
 And so, must we come to the learning of Boston’s lesson 
 to-day ; 
 
 The moral that Crispus At tucks taught in the old heroic 
 way ; 
 
 God made mankind to be one in blood, as one in spirit and 
 thought ; 
 
 And so great a boon, by a brave man’s death, is never 
 dearly bought ! 
 
 THE EXILE OF THE GAEL. 
 
 [Read at the 150th anniversary of the Irish Charitable Society, Boston, 
 March 17, 1887.] 
 
 I T is sweet to rejoice for a day, — 
 
 For a day that is reached at last ! 
 
 It is well for wanderers in new lands, 
 
 Slow climbers toward a lofty mountain pass, 
 
 Yearning with hearts and eyes strained ever upward, 
 
 To pause, and rest, on the summit,— 
 
 To stand between two limitless outlooks, — 
 
 Behind them, a winding path through familiar pains and 
 ventures ; 
 
 Before them, the streams unbridged and the vales untrav- 
 eled. 
 
 What shall they do nobler than mark their passage, 
 
 With kindly hearts, mayhap for kindred to follow? 
 
 What shall they do wiser than pile a cairn 
 
'HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 415 
 
 With stones from the wayside, that their tracks and names 
 
 Be not blown from the hills like sand, and their story be 
 lost forever ? 
 
 “ Hither,” the cairn shall tell, “Hither they came and 
 rested ! ” 
 
 “ Whither \ ” the searcher shall ask, with questioning eyes 
 on their future. 
 
 Hither and Whither ! O Maker of Nations ! Hither and 
 Whither the sea speaks, 
 
 Heaving ; the forest speaks, dying ; the Summer whispers, 
 
 Like a sentry giving up the watchword, to the muffled 
 Winter. 
 
 Hither and Whither ! the Earth calls wheeling to the Sun ; 
 
 And like ships on the deep at night, the stars interflash the 
 signal. 
 
 Hither and Whither, the exiles’ cairn on the hill speaks,— 
 
 Yea, as loudly as the sea and the earth and the stars. 
 
 The heart is earth’s exile : the soul is heaven’s ; 
 
 And God has made no higher mystery for stars. 
 
 Hither — from home ! sobs the torn flower on the river : 
 
 Wails the river itself as it enters the bitter ocean ; 
 
 Moans the iron in the furnace at the premonition of melting ; 
 
 Cries the scattered grain in Spring at the passage of the 
 harrow. 
 
 In the iceberg is frozen the rain’s dream of exile from the 
 fields ; 
 
 The shower falls sighing for the opaline hills of cloud ; 
 
 And the clouds on the bare mountains weep their daughter- 
 love for the sea. 
 
 Exile is God’s alchemy ! Nations he forms like metals, — 
 
 Mixing their strength and their tenderness ; 
 
 Tempering pride with shame and victory with affliction ; 
 
 Meting their courage, their faith and their fortitude, — 
 
 Timing their genesis to the world’s needs! 
 
416 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “What have ye brought to our Nation-building, Sons of 
 the Gael ? 
 
 What is your burden or guerdon from old Innisfail ? 
 
 Here build we higher and deeper than men ever built 
 before ; 
 
 And we raise no Shinar tower, but a temple forevermore. 
 
 What have ye brought from Erin your hapless land could 
 spare \ 
 
 Her tears, defeats, and miseries ? Are these, indeed, your 
 share % 
 
 Are the mother’s caoine and the banshee's cry your music 
 for our song % 
 
 Have ye joined our feast with a withered wreath and a 
 memory of wrong ? 
 
 With a broken sword and treason-flag, from your Banbaof 
 the Seas ? 
 
 O, where in our House of Triumph shall hang such gifts as 
 these ?” 
 
 O, Soul, wing forth ! what answer across the main is 
 heard % 
 
 From burdened ships and exiled lips, — write down, write 
 down the word ! 
 
 “No treason we bring from Erin — nor bring we shame nor 
 guilt ! 
 
 The sword we hold may be broken, but we have not 
 dropped the hilt ! 
 
 The wreath we bear to Columbia is twisted of thorns, not 
 bays ; 
 
 And the songs we sing are saddened by thoughts of deso- 
 late days. 
 
 . But the hearts we bring for Freedom are washed in the 
 surge of tears ; 
 
 And we claim our right by a People’s fight outliving a 
 thousand years ! ” 
 
 “What bring ye else to the Building ? ” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 417 
 
 “ O, willing hands to toil ; 
 
 Strong natures tuned to the harvest-song, and bound to the 
 kindly soil ; 
 
 Bold pioneers for the wilderness, defenders in the field, — 
 
 The sons of a race of soldiers who never learned to yield. 
 
 Young hearts with duty brimming — as faith makes sweet 
 the due ; 
 
 Their truth to me their witness they cannot be false to 
 you! ” 
 
 “ What send ye else, old Mother, to raise our mighty wall ? 
 
 For we must build against Kings and Wrongs a fortress 
 never to fall ? ’ ’ 
 
 “I send you in cradle and bosom, wise brain and eloquent 
 tongue, 
 
 Whose crowns should engild my crowning, whose songs for 
 me should be sung. 
 
 O, flowers unblowm, from lonely fields, my daughters with 
 hearts aglow, 
 
 With pulses warm with sympathies, with bosoms pure as 
 snow, — 
 
 I smile through tears as the clouds unroll— my widening 
 river that runs ! 
 
 My lost ones grown in radiant growth — proud mothers of 
 free-born sons ! 
 
 My seed of sacrifice ripens apace ! The Tyrant’s cure is 
 disease : 
 
 My strength that was dead like a forest is spread beyond 
 the distant seas ! ” 
 
 “ It is well, aye well, old Erin ! The sons you give to me 
 
 Are symbolled long in flag and song — your Sunburst on the 
 Sea ! 
 
 All mine by the chrism of Freedom, still yours by their 
 love’s belief ; 
 
 And truest to me shall the tenderest be in a suffering 
 mother’s grief. 
 
418 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Their loss is the change of the wave to the cloud, of the 
 dew to the river and main ; 
 
 Their hope shall persist through the sea, and the mist, and 
 thy streams shall be filled again. 
 
 As the smolt of the salmon go down to the sea, and as 
 surely come back to the river, 
 
 Their love shall be yours while your sorrow endures, for 
 God guardeth His right forever ! ” 
 
 THREE GRAVES. 
 
 H OW did he live, this dead man here, 
 
 With the temple above his grave ? 
 
 He lived as a great one, from cradle to bier 
 He was nursed in luxury, trained in pride, 
 
 When the wish was born, it was gratified ; 
 Without thanks he took, without heed he gave. 
 The common man was to him a clod 
 From whom he was far as a demigod. 
 
 His duties ? To see that his rents were paid ; 
 
 His pleasure % To know that the crowd obeyed. 
 His pulse, if you felt it, throbbed apart, 
 
 With a separate stroke from the people’s heart. 
 But whom did he love, and whom did he bless ? 
 Was the life of him more than a man’s, or less ? 
 
 I know not. He died. There was none to blame, 
 And as few to weep ; but these marbles came 
 For the temple that rose to preserve his name ! 
 
 How did he live, that other dead man, 
 
 From the graves apart and alone ? 
 
 As a great one, too ? Yes, this was one 
 Who lived to labor and study and plan. 
 
 The earth’s deep thought he loved to reveal ; 
 
 He banded the breast of the land with steel ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 419 
 
 The thread of his toil he never broke ; 
 
 He filled the cities with wheels and smoke, 
 
 And workers by day and workers by night, 
 
 For the day was too short for his vigor’s flight. 
 
 Too firm was he to be feeling and giving : 
 
 For labor, for gain, was a life worth living. 
 
 He worshiped Industry, dreamt of her, sighed for her. 
 Potent he grew by her, famous he died for her. 
 
 They say he improved the world in his time, 
 
 That his mills and mines were a work sublime. 
 
 When he died — the laborers rested, and sighed ; 
 Which was it — because he had lived, or died ? 
 
 And how did he live, that dead man there, 
 
 In the country churchyard laid \ 
 
 O, he % He came for the sweet field air ; 
 
 He was tired of the town, and he took no pride 
 In its fashion or fame. He returned and died 
 In the place he loved, where a child he played 
 With those who have knelt by his grave and prayed. 
 He ruled no serfs, and he knew no pride ; 
 
 He was one with the workers side by side ; 
 
 He hated a mill, and a mine, and a town, 
 
 With their fever of misery, struggle, renown ; 
 
 He could never believe but a man was made 
 For a nobler end than the glory of trade. 
 
 For the youth he mourned with an endless pity 
 Who were cast like snow on the streets of the city. 
 
 He was weak, maybe ; but he lost no friend ; 
 
 Who loved him once, loved on to the end. 
 
 He mourned all selfish and shrewd endeavor ; 
 
 But he never injured a weak one — never. 
 
 When censure was passed, he was kindly dumb ; 
 
 He was never so wise but a fault would come ; 
 
 He was never so old that he failed to enjoy 
 The games and the dreams he had loved when a boy. 
 He erred, and was sorry ; but never drew 
 A trusting heart from the pure and true. 
 
420 
 
 .TOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 When friends look back from the years to be, 
 God grant they may say such things of me. 
 
 AN ART MASTER. 
 
 H E gathered cherry-stones, and carved them quaintly 
 Into fine semblances of flies and flowers ; 
 
 With subtle skill, he even imaged faintly 
 The forms of tiny maids and ivied towers. 
 
 His little blocks he loved to file and polish ; 
 
 And ampler means he asked not, but despised. 
 
 All art but cherry-stones he would abolish, 
 
 For then his genius would be rightly prized. 
 
 For such rude hands as dealt with wrongs and passions 
 And throbbing hearts, he had a pitying smile ; 
 
 Serene his way through surging years and fashions, 
 While Heaven gave him his cherry-stones and file ! 
 
 LIBERTY LIGHTING THE WORLD. 
 
 M AJESTIC warder by the Nation’s gate, 
 
 Spike-crowned, flame-armed like Agony or Glory, 
 Holding the tablets of some unknown law, 
 
 With gesture eloquent and mute as Fate, — 
 
 We stand about thy feet in solemn awe, 
 
 Like desert-tribes who seek their Sphinx’s story, 
 
 And question thee in spirit and in speech : 
 
 What art thou ? Whence ? What comest thou to teach 
 What vision hold those introverted eyes 
 Of Revolutions framed in centuries ? 
 
 Thy flame — what threat, or guide for sacred way ? 
 
 Thy tablet — what commandment ? What Sinai ? 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 421 
 
 Lo! as the waves make murmur at thy base, 
 
 We watch the somber grandeur of thy face, 
 
 And ask thee — what thou art. 
 
 I am Libekty, — God’s daughter! 
 
 My symbols — a law and a torch ; 
 
 Not a sword to threaten slaughter, 
 
 Nor a flame to dazzle or scorch ; 
 
 But a light that the world may see, 
 
 And a truth that shall make men free. 
 
 I am the sister of Duty, 
 
 And I am the sister of Faith ; 
 
 To-day, adored for my beauty, 
 
 To-morrow, led forth to death. 
 
 I am she whom ages prayed for ; 
 
 Heroes suffered undismayed for ; 
 
 Whom the martyrs were betrayed for ! 
 
 I am a herald republican from a land grown free under feet 
 of kings ; 
 
 My radiance, lighting a century’s span, a sister’s love to 
 Columbia brings. 
 
 I am a beacon to ships at sea, and a warning to watchers 
 ashore ; 
 
 In palace and prairie and street, through me, shall be 
 heard the ominous ocean-roar. 
 
 I am a threat to oppression’s sin, and a pharos-light to the 
 weak endeavor ; 
 
 Mine is the love that men may win, but lost — it is lost forever ! 
 
 Mine are the lovers who deepest pain, with weapon and 
 word still wounding sore ; 
 
 With sanguined hands they caress and chain, and crown 
 and trample — and still adore ! 
 
 Cities have flamed in my name, and Death has reaped wild 
 harvest of joy and peace, 
 
 Till mine is a voice that stills the breath, my advent an 
 omen that love shall cease ! 
 
 In My name, timid ones crazed with terror ! In My name, 
 Law with a scourging rod ! 
 
422 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In My name, Anarchy, Cruelty, Error ! I, who am Lib- 
 erty, — daughter of God ! — 
 
 Peace ! Be still ! See my torch uplifted, — 
 Heedless of Passion or Mammon’s cause ! 
 
 Round my feet are the ages drifted, 
 
 Under mine eyes are the rulers sifted, — 
 
 Ever, forever, my changeless laws ! 
 
 I am Liberty ! Fame of nation or praise of statute is 
 naught to me ; 
 
 Freedom is growth and not creation : one man suffers, one 
 man is free. 
 
 One brain forges a constitution ; but how shall the million 
 souls be won ? 
 
 Freedom is more than a resolution — he is not free who is 
 free alone. 
 
 Justice is mine, and it grows by loving, changing the world 
 like the circling sun ; 
 
 Evil recedes from the spirit’s proving as mist from the hol- 
 lows when night is done. 
 
 I am the test, O silent toilers, holding the scales of error 
 and truth ; 
 
 Proving the heritage held by spoilers from hard hands 
 empty, and wasted youth. 
 
 Hither, ye blind, from your futile banding ; know the 
 rights, and the rights are won ; 
 
 Wrong shall die with the understanding — one truth clear 
 and the work is done. 
 
 Nature is higher than Progress or Knowledge, whose need 
 is ninety enslaved for ten ; 
 
 My word shall stand against mart and college : The 
 
 PLANET BELONGS TO ITS LIVING MEN ! 
 
 And hither, ye weary ones and breathless, searching the 
 seas for a kindly shore, 
 
 I am Liberty ! patient, deathless — set by Love at the 
 Nation’s door. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 423 
 
 THE PRESS EVANGEL. 
 
 [The New York World on May 10, 1887, celebrated the attainment of 
 a circulation of a quarter of a million copies per day. The World asked 
 Mr. O’Reilly to write a poem for the occasion, which was printed at the 
 head of the anniversary number.] 
 
 G OB’S order, “Light ! ” when all was void and dark 
 Brought mornless noon, a flame without a spark. 
 
 A gift unearned, that none may hold or hide, 
 
 An outer glory, not an inner guide ; 
 
 But flamed no star in heaven to light the soul 
 
 And lead the wayward thought toward Freedom’s goal. 
 
 O wasted ages ! Whither have ye led 
 The breeding masses for their daily bread ? 
 Engendered serfs, across a world of gloom, 
 
 The wavelike generations reach the tomb. 
 
 Masters and lords, they feared a lord's decree, 
 
 Nor freedom knew nor truth to make them free. 
 
 But hark ! A sound has reached the servile herd ! 
 Strong brows are raised to catch the passing word ; 
 From mouth to mouth a common whisper flies ; 
 
 A wild fire message burns on lips and eyes ; 
 
 Far-off and near the kindred tidings throng — 
 
 How hopes come true, how heroes challenge wrong ; 
 How men have rights above all law’s decrees ; 
 
 How weak ones rise and sweep the thrones like seas ! 
 Behold ! The people listen— question ! Then 
 The inner light has come — the boors are men ! 
 
 What read ye here — a dreamer’s idle rule \ 
 
 A swelling pedant’s lesson for a school \ 
 
424 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Nay, here no dreaming, no delusive charts ; 
 
 But common interests for common hearts ; 
 
 A truth, a Principle — beneath the sun 
 One vibrant throb — men’s rights and wrongs are one. 
 One heart’s small keyboard touches all the notes ; 
 One weak one’s cry distends the million throats ; 
 
 Nor race nor nation bounds the human kind — 
 
 White, yellow, black — one conscience and one mind ! 
 
 How spread the doctrine ? See the teachers fly — 
 
 The printed messages across the sky ; 
 
 From land to land, as never birds could wing ; 
 
 With songs of promise birds could never sing ; 
 
 With mighty meanings clearing here and there ; 
 With nations’ greetings kings could never share ; 
 With new communions whispering near and far ; 
 With gathering armies bent on peace, not war ; 
 
 With kindly judges reading righteous laws ; 
 
 With strength and cheer for every struggling cause. 
 
 Boll on, O cylinders of light, and teach 
 The helpless myriads tongue can never reach. 
 
 Make men, not masses : pulp and mud unite — 
 
 The single grain of sand reflects the light. 
 
 True freedom makes the individual free ; 
 
 And common law for all makes Liberty ! 
 
 THE USELESS ONES. 
 
 P OETS should not reason : 
 Let them sing ! 
 
 Argument is treason — 
 
 Bells should ring. 
 
 Statements none, nor questions ; 
 
 Gnomic words. 
 
 Spirit-cries, suggestions, 
 
 Like the birds. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 425 
 
 He may use deduction 
 Who must preach ; 
 
 He may praise instruction 
 Who must teach • 
 
 But the poet duly 
 Fills his part 
 
 When the song bursts truly 
 From his heart. 
 
 For no purpose springing ; 
 
 For no pelf : 
 
 He must do the singing 
 For itself. 
 
 Not in lines austerely 
 Let him build ; 
 
 Not the surface merely 
 Let him gild. 
 
 Fearless, uninvited, 
 
 Like a spring. 
 
 Opal-words, inlighted, 
 
 Let him sing. 
 
 As the leaf grows sunward 
 Song must grow ; 
 
 As the stream flows onward 
 Song must flow. 
 
 Useless \ Ay, — for measure ; 
 Roses die, 
 
 But their breath gives pleasure — 
 God knows why ! 
 
The Poems on pages 429 to 438 were found among John 
 Boyle O' Reilly's papers after his death. They ham 
 never before been published , and are given unrevised , 
 and, in a few cases, incomplete, as he left them. This at 
 the instance of friends, who felt that those who knew and 
 loved him would not willingly forego these last words. 
 
 427 
 
LIBRARY OP JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY, AT HIS HOME, CHARLESTOWN, MASS. 
 
LOVE WAS TRUE TO ME. 
 
 L OVE was true to me, 
 
 True and tender ; 
 
 I who ought to be 
 
 Love’s defender, 
 
 Let the cold winds blow 
 
 Till they chilled him 
 Let the winds and snow 
 Shroud him — and I know 
 
 That I killed him. 
 
 Years he cried to me 
 
 To be kinder ; 
 
 I was blind to see 
 
 And grew blinder. 
 Years with soft hands raised 
 Fondly reaching, 
 Wept and prayed and praised, 
 Still beseeching. 
 
 When he died I woke, 
 
 God ! how lonely, 
 When the gray dawn broke 
 On one only. 
 
 Now beside Love’s grave 
 
 I am kneeling ; 
 
 All he sought and gave 
 I am feeling. 
 
 429 
 
430 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 TO MY LITTLE BLANK). 
 
 I TOLD her a story, a fairy story, 
 
 My little daughter with eyes of blue. 
 
 And with clear, wide gaze as the splendors brightened, 
 She always asked me — “ Oh, is it true ? ” 
 
 Always that word when the wonder reached her, 
 
 The pictured beauty so grand and new — 
 
 When the good were paid and the evil punished, 
 
 Still, with soft insistance — “ Oh, is it true ? ” 
 
 Ah, late, drear knowledge from sin and sorrow, 
 
 How will you answer and answer true, 
 
 Her wistful doubt of the happy ending ? — 
 
 Wise child ! I wondered how much she knew. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF KEATS. 
 
 A GOD-LIKE face, with human love and will 
 And tender fancy traced in every line : 
 
 A god-like face, but oh, how human still ! 
 
 Dear Keats, who love the gods their love is thine. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 431 
 
 AN OLD PICTURE. 
 
 T HERE are times when a dream delicious 
 Steals into a musing hour, 
 
 Like a face with love capricious 
 That peeps from a woodland bower ; 
 
 And one dear scene comes changeless ; 
 
 A wooded hill and a river ; 
 
 A deep, cool bend, where the lilies end, 
 
 And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 
 
 And I lie on the brink there, dreaming 
 That the life I live is a dream ; 
 
 That the real is but the seeming, 
 
 And the true is the sun-flecked stream. 
 
 Beneath me, the perch and the bream sail past 
 In the dim cool depths of the river ; 
 
 The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky 
 And the elm -tree shadows quiver. 
 
 There are voices of children away on the hill ; 
 
 There are bees thro’ the flag-flowers humming ; 
 The lighter- man calls to the lock, and the mill 
 On the farther side is drumming. 
 
 And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream, 
 
 In the grass by the brink of a river, 
 
 Where the voices blend and the lilies end 
 And the elm-tree shadows quiver. 
 
 Like a gift from the past is the kindly dream, 
 
 For the sorrow and passion and pain 
 Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of the stream, 
 And the child-life comes again. 
 
 O, the sweet sweet pain of a joy that died — 
 
 Of a pain that is joy forever ! 
 
 O, the life that died in the stormy tide 
 That was once my sun-flecked river. 
 
432 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 AT SCHOOL. 
 
 T HE bees are in the meadow, 
 
 And the swallows in the sky ; 
 The cattle in the shadow 
 Watch the river running by. 
 
 The wheat is hardly stirring ; 
 
 The heavy ox-team lags ; 
 
 The dragon-fly is whirring 
 Through the yellow-blossomed flags. 
 
 And down beside the river, 
 
 Where the trees lean o’er the pool, 
 Where the shadows reach and quiver, 
 
 . A boy has come to school. 
 
 His teachers are the swallows 
 And the river and the trees ; 
 
 His lessons are the shallow’s 
 And the flowers and the bees. 
 
 He sees the fly- wave on the stream, 
 
 The otter steal along, 
 
 The red-gilled, slow, deep-sided bream, 
 He knows the mating-song. 
 
 The chirping green-fly on the grass 
 Accepts his comrade meet ; 
 
 The small gray rabbits fearless pass ; 
 The birds light at his feet. 
 
 He knows not he is learning ; 
 
 He thinks nor writes a word ; 
 
 But in the soul discerning 
 A living spring is stirred. 
 
 In after years — O, weary years ! 
 
 The river’s lesson, he 
 Will try to speak to heedless ears 
 In faltering minstrelsy ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 433 
 
 UNDER THE SURFACE. 
 
 A Y, smile as you will, with your saintly face ! 
 But I know the line 
 
 Of your guard is as weak as a maze of lace : 
 
 You may give no sign — 
 
 And the devil is never far to seek, 
 
 And a rotten peach has a lovely cheek. 
 
 As they come in the stream, I say to you : 
 
 The lives we jostle are none of them true. 
 
 Who seeks with a lamp and glass may find 
 A nature of honor from core to rind ; 
 
 But woe to the heart that is formed so true : 
 
 It may not reck, and it still must rue 
 The perjured lip and the bleeding vow. 
 
 God keep it blind to the things we know — 
 
 To the ghastly scars for the leech’s eyes 
 And the occult lore of the worldly wise. 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 I CARE not for the outer voice 
 That deals out praise or blame ; 
 
 I could not with the world rejoice 
 Nor bear its doom of shame — 
 
 But when the Voice within me speaks 
 The truth to me is known ; 
 
 He sees himself who inward seeks — 
 The riches are his own. 
 
434 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY 
 
 TO MY DEAR OLD FRIEND, MR. A. SHUMAN. 
 
 [ON the occasion of his SILVER WEDDING. 1 
 
 N OT many friends 
 Wish I you ; 
 
 Love makes amends 
 For the few. 
 
 Slight bonds are best 
 For the new ; 
 
 Here is the test 
 Of the true : 
 
 Pay to your friend 
 Your own due ; 
 
 Lore to the end, 
 
 Through and through ; 
 Let him commend, 
 
 And not you. 
 
 Friends of this kind, 
 
 Tried and true, 
 
 * May you, friend, find,— 
 Just a few. 
 
 TO A. S., ON HIS DAUGHTER’S WEDDING. 
 
 T HERE is no joy all set apart from pain. 
 The opening bud has loss as well as gain. 
 The brighest dewdrop gems a bending flower, 
 The rarest day has wept one little shower ; 
 But wholly blest the parting pain and ruth 
 That hold and fold the joining love of youth. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 435 
 
 TWO LIVES. 
 
 T WO youths from a village set out together 
 
 To seek their fortune the wide world through ; 
 One cried, “ Hurra for the autumn weather ! ” 
 
 The Qther sighed, “ Winter is almost due ! ” 
 
 One failed, they said, for he never was thrifty, 
 Returned to the village, and laughed and loved. 
 
 The other succeeded, and when he was fifty 
 Had millions and fame, and the world approved. 
 
 But the failure was happy, his smile a blessing, 
 
 The dogs and the children romped at his feet, 
 
 While from him who succeeded, tho’ much possessing, 
 The little ones shrank wdien they chanced to meet. 
 One purchased respect by his lordly giving : 
 
 The other won love by his loving ways ; 
 
 And if either had doubts of his way of living, 
 
 It wasn’t the one with the humble days. 
 
 They never knew it, but both were teachers 
 Of deep life-secrets, these village youths — 
 
 The one of a school where Facts are preachers — 
 
 The other of a world that worships Truths. 
 
 MY TROUBLES! 
 
 I WROTE down my troubles every day ; 
 
 And after a few short years, 
 
 When I turned to the heart-aches passed aw T ay, 
 I read them with smiles, not tears. 
 
436 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 VIGNETTES. 
 
 A ND Smith has made money?” 
 “O, no ; that’s a myth : 
 Smith never made money 
 But money made Smith ! ” 
 
 A sculptor is Deming — a great man, too ; 
 
 But the chisel of fancy the hand outstrips ; 
 While he talks of the wonder he’s going to do 
 All the work of his fingers leaks out at his lips ! 
 
 “ A scholar, sir ! To Brown six tongues 
 are known ! ” 
 
 (The Blockhead ! never spoke one thought 
 his own !) 
 
 Johnson jingled his silver — though he never 
 had much to purloin ; 
 
 But Jackson jingled his intellect — O, give us 
 Johnson’s coin ! 
 
 At school a blockhead — sullen, wordless, dull ; 
 
 His size well known to even his smallest mate ; 
 Grown up, men say : “ How silent ! He is full 
 Of will and wisdom ! ” Truly mud is great ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 437 
 
 An honest man ! Jones never broke the law. 
 
 The wretch behind the bars he scorned with pride. 
 But these same bars on every side he saw : 
 
 Jones lived in prison — on the other side. 
 
 A hideous fungus in the wine-vault grows, 
 Liver-like, loathsome, shaking on its stalk : 
 Above the wine-vault, too (to him who knows), 
 The cursed mushroom lives and walks and talks. 
 
 A MESSAGE OF PEACE. 
 
 T HERE once was a pirate, greedy and bold, 
 
 Who ravaged for gain, and saved the spoils ; 
 
 Till his coffers were bursting with bloodstained gold, 
 And millions of captives bore his toils. 
 
 Then fear took hold of him, and he cried : 
 
 “ I have gathered enough ; now, war should cease! ” 
 And he sent out messengers far and wide 
 (To the strong ones only) to ask for peace. 
 
 “We are Christian brethren ! ” thus he spake ; 
 
 “ Let us seal a contract — never to fight ! 
 
 Except against rebels who dare to break 
 The bonds we have made by the victor’s right.” 
 
 And the strong ones listen ; and some applaud 
 The kindly offer and righteous word ; 
 
 With never a dream of deceit or fraud, 
 
 They would spike the cannon and break the sword. 
 
 But others, their elders, listen, and smile 
 At the sudden convert’s unctuous style. 
 
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 They watcli for the peacemaker’s change of way ; 
 But his war-forges roar by night and by day. 
 
 Even now, while his godly messengers speak, 
 
 His guns are aflame on his enemies weak. 
 
 He has stolen the blade from the hand of his foe, 
 And he strikes the unarmed a merciless blow. 
 
 To the ends of the earth his oppression runs ; 
 
 The rebels are blown from the mouths of his guns. 
 His war- tax devours his subject’s food ; 
 
 He taxes their evil and taxes their good ; 
 
 He taxes their salt till he rots their blood. 
 
 He leaps on the friendless as on a prey, 
 
 And slinks, tail- down, from the strong one’s way. 
 The pharisee’s cant goes up for peace ; 
 
 But the cries of his victims never cease ; 
 
 The stifled voices of brave men rise 
 
 From a thousand cells ; while his rascal spies 
 
 Are spending their blood- money fast and free. 
 
 And this is the Christian to oversee 
 A world of evil ! a saint to preach ! 
 
 A holy well-doer come to teach ! 
 
 A prophet to tell us war should cease ! 
 
 A pious example of Christian peace ! 
 
 A MAN. 
 
 A MAN is not the slave of circumstance, 
 
 Or need not be, but builder and dictator ; 
 He makes his own events, not time nor chance ; 
 Their logic his : not creature, but creator. 
 
“The Singer who lived is always alive 
 We hearken and always hear ! ” 
 
 439 
 
FOREVER. 
 
 T HOSE we love truly never die, 
 
 Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, 
 A ring and flowers, types of life and death, 
 
 Are laid upon their graves. 
 
 For death the pure life saves, 
 
 And life all pure is love ; and love can reach 
 From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach 
 Than those by mortals read. 
 
 Well blest is he who has a dear one dead : 
 
 A friend he has whose face will never change — 
 
 A dear communion that will not grow strange ; 
 
 The anchor of a love is death. 
 
 The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
 Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years. 
 For her who died long since, ah ! waste not tears, 
 She’s thine unto the end. 
 
 Thank God for one dead friend, 
 
 With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
 Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, 
 Through twenty years of death. 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND. 
 
 I T chanced to me upon a time to sail 
 
 Across the Southern Ocean to and fro ; 
 And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 
 
 Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
 
 441 
 
442 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, 
 
 Or like a clear, calm stream o’er mossy stone, 
 
 Unnoted passed onr hearts with voiceless sweep, 
 
 And left ns yearning still for lands unknown. 
 
 And when we found one, — for ’tis soon to find 
 In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, — 
 
 For one short noon its treasures filled the mind, 
 
 And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. 
 
 And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, 
 
 Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; 
 
 And when that all was tasted, then at last 
 We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 
 
 I learned from this there is no Southern land 
 Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. 
 
 Sick minds need change ; but, when in health they stand 
 ’Neath foreign skies, their love flies home again. 
 
 And thus with me it was : the yearning turned 
 From laden airs of cinnamon away, 
 
 And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned 
 With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! 
 
 My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! 
 
 My land, that has no peer in all the sea 
 For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 
 
 If first to no man else, tliou’rt first to me. 
 
 New loves may come with duties, but the first 
 Is deepest yet, — the mother’s breath and smiles : 
 
 Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed 
 Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles. 
 
443 
 
 1IIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 A YEAR. 
 
 I N the Spring we see : 
 
 Then the bads are dear to us— immature bosoms like 
 lilies swell. 
 
 In the Summer we live : 
 
 When bright eyes are near to us, oh, the sweet stories the 
 false lips tell ! 
 
 In the Autumn we love : 
 
 When the honey is dripping, deep eyes moisten and soft 
 breasts heave ; 
 
 In the Winter we think : 
 
 With the sands fast slipping, we smile and sigh for the days 
 we leave. 
 
 THE FAME OF THE CITY. 
 
 A GREAT rich city of power and pride, 
 
 With streets full of traders, and ships on the tide ; 
 With rich men and workmen and judges and preachers, 
 The shops full of skill and the schools full of teachers. 
 
 The people were proud of their opulent town : 
 
 The rich men spent millions to bring it renown ; 
 
 The strong men built and the tradesmen planned ; 
 
 The shipmen sailed to every land ; 
 
 The lawyers argued, the schoolmen taught, 
 
 And a poor shy Poet his verses brought, 
 
 And cast them into the splendid store. 
 
 The tradesmen stared at his useless craft ; 
 
 The rich men sneered and the strong men laughed ; 
 
 The preachers said it was worthless quite ; 
 
 The schoolmen claimed it was theirs to write ; 
 
444 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But the songs were spared, though they added naught 
 To the profit and praise the people sought, 
 
 That was wafted at last from distant climes ; 
 
 And the townsmen said : “To remotest times 
 We shall send our name and our greatness down ! ” 
 
 The boast came true ; but the famous town 
 Had a lesson to learn when all was told : 
 
 The nations that honored cared naught for its gold, 
 
 Its skill they exceeded an hundred-fold ; 
 
 It had only been one of a thousand more, 
 
 Had the songs of the Poet been lost to its store. 
 
 Then the rich men and tradesmen and schoolmen said 
 They had never derided, but praised instead ; 
 
 And they boast of the Poet their town has bred. 
 
 YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW. 
 
 J OYS have three stages, Hoping, Having, and Had : 
 
 The hands of Hope are empty, and the heart of Hav- 
 ing is sad ; 
 
 For the joy we take, in the taking dies ; and the joy we 
 Had is its ghost. 
 
 Now, which is the better — the joy unknown or the joy we 
 have clasped and lost ? 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES* 
 
 445 
 
 IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 I ’D rather live in Bohemia than in any other land ; 
 
 For only there are the values true, 
 
 And the laurels gathered in all men’s view. 
 
 The prizes of traffic and state are won 
 By shrewdness or force or by deeds undone ; 
 
 But fame is sweeter without the feud, 
 
 And the wise of Bohemia are never shrewd. 
 
 Here, pilgrims stream with a faith sublime 
 From every class and clime and time, 
 
 Aspiring only to be enrolled 
 
 . With the names that are writ in the book of gold ; 
 And each one bears in mind or hand 
 A palm of the dear Bohemian land. 
 
 The scholar first, with his book — a youth 
 Aflame with the glory of harvested truth ; 
 
 A girl with a picture, a man with a play, 
 
 A boy with a wolf he has modeled in clay ; 
 
 A smith with a marvelous hilt and sword, 
 
 A player, a king, a plowman, a lord — 
 
 And the player is king when the door is past. 
 
 The plowman is crowned, and the lord is last ! 
 
 I’d rather fail in Bohemia than win in another land ; 
 There are no titles inherited there, 
 
 No hoard or hope for the brainless heir ; 
 
 No gilded dullard native born 
 
 To stare at his fellow with leaden scorn : 
 
 Bohemia has none but adopted sons ; 
 
 Its limits, where Fancy’s bright stream runs ; 
 
 Its honors, not garnered for thrift or trade, 
 
 But for beauty and truth men’s souls have made. 
 
 To the empty heart in a jeweled breast 
 There is value, maybe, in a purchased crest ; 
 
 But the thirsty of soul soon learn to know 
 The moistureless froth of the social show ; 
 
440 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’liEILLY. 
 
 The vulgar sham of the pompous feast 
 Where the heaviest purse is the highest priest ; 
 
 The organized charity, scrimped and iced, 
 
 In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ ; 
 
 The smile restrained, the respectable cant, 
 
 When a friend in need is a friend in want ; 
 
 Where the only aim is to keep afloat, 
 
 And a brother may drown with a cry in his throat. 
 
 Oh, I long for the glow of a kindly heart and the grasp of 
 a friendly hand, 
 
 And I’d rather live in Bohemia than in any other land. 
 
 SONGS THAT ABE NOT SUNG. 
 
 D O not praise : a smile is payment more than meet for 
 what is done ; 
 
 Who shall paint the mote’s glad raiment floating in the 
 molten sun ? 
 
 Nay, nor smile, for blind is eyesight, ears may hear not, 
 lips are dumb ; 
 
 From the silence, from the twilight, wordless but complete 
 they come. 
 
 Songs were born before the singer : like white souls await- 
 ing birth, 
 
 They abide the chosen bringer of their melody to earth. 
 
 Deep the pain of our demerit : strings so rude or rudely 
 strung, 
 
 Dull to every pleading spirit seeking speech but sent 
 unsung ; 
 
 Round our hearts with gentle breathing still the plaintive 
 silence plays, 
 
 But w T e brush away its wreathing, filled with cares of com- 
 mon days. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 447 
 
 Ever thinking of the morrow, burdened down with cares 
 and needs, 
 
 Once or twice, mayhap, in sorrow, we may hear the song 
 that pleads ; 
 
 Once or twice, a dreaming poet sees the beauty as it flies, 
 
 But his vision who shall know it, who shall read it from 
 his eyes ? 
 
 Voiceless he, — his necromancy fails to cage the wondrous 
 bird ; 
 
 Lure and snare are vain when fancy flies like echo from a 
 word. 
 
 Only sometime he may sing it, using speech as ’twere a 
 bell, 
 
 Not to read the song but ring it, like the sea-tone from a 
 shell. 
 
 Sometimes, too, it comes and lingers round the strings all 
 still and mute, 
 
 Till some lover’s trembling fingers draw it living from the 
 lute. 
 
 Still, our best is but a vision which a lightning-flash 
 illumes, 
 
 Just a gleam of life elysian flung across the voiceless 
 glooms. 
 
 Why should gleams perplex and move us ? Must the soul 
 still upward grow 
 
 To the beauty far above us and the songs no sense may 
 know ? 
 
“ Great men grow greater by the lapse of time : 
 
 We know those least whom we hare seen the latest ; 
 
 And they , ’ mongst those whose names hare grown sublime , 
 Who worked for Human Liberty , are greatest." 
 
 448 
 
WENDELL PHILLIPS.* 
 
 "YTTHAT shall we mourn % For the prostrate tree that 
 VV sheltered the young green wood \ 
 
 For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and guarded the 
 
 fields from the flood ? 
 
 For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar from its eyrie’s 
 brood ? 
 
 Nay, not for these shall we weep ; for the silver cord must 
 be worn, 
 
 And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and the dust to 
 its earth return ; 
 
 And tears are never for those who die with their face to 
 the duty done ; 
 
 But we mourn for the fledglings left on the waste, and the 
 fields where the wild waves run. 
 
 From the midst of the flock he defended, the brave one has 
 gone to his rest ; 
 
 And the tears of the poor he befriended their wealth of 
 affliction attest. 
 
 From the midst of the people is stricken a symbol they 
 daily saw, 
 
 Set over against the law books, of a Higher than Human 
 Law ; 
 
 For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his voice was a 
 prophet’s cry 
 
 To be true to the Truth and faithful, though the world 
 were arrayed for the Lie. 
 
 * Died Saturday, February 2, 1884. 
 
 440 
 
450 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 From the hearing of those who hated, a threatening voice 
 has past ; 
 
 But the lives of those who believe and die are not blown 
 like a leaf on the blast. 
 
 A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed 
 toward the light, 
 
 Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union was traitor 
 to Right ! 
 
 “ Fanatic ! ” the insects hissed, till he taught them to un- 
 derstand 
 
 That the highest crime may be written in the highest law 
 of the land. 
 
 “ Disturber” and “ Dreamer” the Philistines cried when 
 he preached an ideal creed, 
 
 Till they learned that the men who have changed the world 
 with the world have disagreed ; 
 
 That the remnant is right, when the masses are led like 
 sheep to the pen ; 
 
 For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused by instinc- 
 tive men. 
 
 It is not enough to win rights from a king and write them 
 down in a book. 
 
 New men, new lights ; and the fathers’ code the sons may 
 never brook. 
 
 What is liberty now were license then : their freedom our 
 yoke would be ; 
 
 And each new decade must have new men to determine its 
 liberty. 
 
 Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front the 
 while : 
 
 Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the 
 outward file ? 
 
 Its pioneers are the dreamers who fear neither tongue nor 
 pen 
 
 Of the human spiders whose silk is wove from the lives of 
 toiling men. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 451 
 
 Come, brothers, here to the burial ! But weep not, rathei 
 rejoice, 
 
 For his fearless life and his fearless death ; for his true, 
 unequalled voice, 
 
 Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right ; 
 
 For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak one’s 
 fight; 
 
 For his soul unmoved by the mob’s wild shout or the social 
 sneer’s disgrace ; 
 
 For his freeborn spirit that drew no line between class or 
 creed or race. 
 
 Come, workers ; here was a teacher, and the lesson he 
 taught was good : 
 
 There are no classes or races, but one human brotherhood ; 
 
 There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin 
 debarred ; 
 
 Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs — one right, one 
 hope, one guard. 
 
 By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great 
 reformer’s creed : 
 
 The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the guard 
 against selfish greed. 
 
 And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid 
 laid down 
 
 By the toil-stained hands of workmen — their sob, their 
 kiss, and their crown. 
 
452 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 A SEED. 
 
 A KINDLY act is a kernel sown, 
 That will grow to a goodly tree, 
 Shedding its fruit when time has flown 
 Down the gulf of eternity. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 A SOFT-BREASTED bird from the sea 
 
 Fell in love with the light-house flame ; 
 And it wheeled round the tower on its airiest wing, 
 And floated and cried like a lovelorn thing ; 
 
 It brooded all day and it fluttered all night, 
 
 But could win no look from the steadfast light. 
 
 For the flame had its heart afar,— 
 
 Afar with the ships at sea ; 
 
 It was thinking of children and waiting wives, 
 
 And darkness and danger to sailors’ lives ; 
 
 But the bird had its tender bosom pressed 
 On the glass where at last it dashed its breast. 
 
 The light only flickered, the brighter to glow ; 
 But the bird lay dead on the rocks below. 
 
 DISTANCE. 
 
 T HE world is large, when its weary leagues two loving 
 hearts divide ; 
 
 But the world is small, when your enemy is loose on the 
 other side. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 453 
 
 ERIN. 
 
 C OME, sing a new song to her here while we listen ! ” 
 They cry to her sons who sing ; 
 
 And one sings : “ Mavourneen , it makes the eyes glisten 
 To think how the sorrows cling, 
 
 Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing 
 Their green to a weeping gray ! ” 
 
 And the bard with his passionate breathing 
 Has no other sweet word to say. 
 
 .“Come sing a new song ! ” and their eyes, while they’re 
 speaking, 
 
 Are dreaming of far-off things ; 
 
 And their hearts are away for the old words seeking, 
 Unheeding of him who sings. 
 
 But he smiles and sings on, for the sound so slender 
 Has reached the deep note he knows ; 
 
 And the heart-poem stirred by the word so tender 
 Out from the well-spring flows. 
 
 And he says in his song : “0 dhar dlieelisJi ! the tearful ! 
 
 She’s ready to laugh when she cries ! ” 
 
 And they sob when they hear: “Sure she’s sad when 
 she’s cheerful ; 
 
 And she smiles with the tears in her eyes ! ” 
 
 And he asks them : What need of new poets to praise 
 her? 
 
 Her harpers still sing in the past ; 
 
 And her first sweet old melodies comfort and raise her 
 To joys never reached by her last. 
 
454 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 What need of new hero, with Brian ? or preacher, 
 
 With Patrick ? or soldier, with Conn \ 
 
 With her dark Ollamh Fohla, what need of a teacher, 
 Sage, ruler, and builder in one ? 
 
 What need of new lovers, with Deirdre and Imer ? 
 
 With wonders and visions and elves 
 
 Sure no need at all has romancer or rhymer, 
 
 When the fairies belong to ourselves. 
 
 What need of new tongues ? O, the Gaelic is clearest, 
 Like Nature’s own voice every word ; 
 
 “ Ahagur ! AcusJtla ! Savourneen /” the dearest 
 The ear of a girl ever heard. 
 
 They may talk of new causes ! Dhar Bhia ! our old one 
 Is fresher than ever to-day ; 
 
 Like Erin’s green sod that is steaming to God 
 The blood it has drunk in the fray. 
 
 They have scattered her seed, with her blood and hate in it, 
 And the harvest has come to her here ; 
 
 Her crown still remains for the strong heart to win it, 
 
 And the hour of acceptance is near. 
 
 Through ages of warfare and famine and prison 
 Her voice and her spirit were free : 
 
 But the longest night ends, and her name has uprisen : 
 
 The sunburst is red on the sea ! 
 
 What need of new songs ? When his country is singing, 
 What word has the Poet to say, 
 
 But to drink her a toast while the joy-bells are ringing 
 The dawn of her opening day ? 
 
 “ O Bride of the Sea ! may the world know your laughter 
 As well as it knows your tears ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 455 
 
 As your past was for Freedom, so be your hereafter ; 
 
 And through all your coming years 
 May no weak race be wronged, and no strong robber feared ; 
 To oppressors grow hateful, to slaves more endeared ; 
 
 Till the world comes to know that the test of a cause 
 Is the hatred of tyrants, and Erin’ s applause ! ’ ’ 
 
 POET AND LORD. 
 
 G OD makes a poet : touches soul and sight, 
 
 And lips and heart, and sends him forth to sing ; 
 His fellows hearing, own the true birthright, 
 
 And crown him daily with the love they bring. 
 
 The king a lord makes, by a parchment leaf ; 
 
 Though heart be withered, and though sight be dim 
 With dullard brain and soul of disbelief — 
 
 Ay, even so ; he makes a lord of him. 
 
 What, then, of one divinely kissed and sent 
 To fill the people with ideal words, 
 
 Who with his poet’s crown is discontent, 
 
 And begs a parchment title with the lords % 
 
 SPRING FLOWERS. 
 
 O THE rare spring flowers ! take them as they come : 
 Do not wait for summer buds — they may never bloom. 
 Every sweet to-day sends, we are wise to save ; 
 
 Roses bloom for pulling : the path is to the grave. 
 
456 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 THE LOVING CUP OF THE PAPYRUS.* 
 
 ~TTTISE men use days as husbandmen use bees, 
 
 V V And steal rich drops from every pregnant hour ; 
 Others, like wasps on blossomed apple-trees, 
 
 Find gall, not honey, in the sweetest flower. 
 
 Congratulations for a scene like this ! 
 
 The olden times are here — these shall be olden 
 When, years to come, remembering present bliss, 
 We sigh for past Papyrian dinners golden. 
 
 We thank the gods ! we call them back to light — 
 
 Call back to hoary Egypt for Osiris, 
 
 Who first made wine, to join our board to-night, 
 
 And drain this loving cup with the Papyrus. 
 
 He comes ! the Pharaoh’s god ! fling wide the door — 
 Welcome, Osiris ! See — thine old prescription 
 
 Is honored here ; and thou shalt drink once more 
 With men whose treasured ensign is Egyptian. 
 
 A toast ! a toast ! our guest shall give a toast ! 
 
 By Nilus’ flood, we pray thee, god, inspire us ! 
 
 He smiles — he wills — let not a word be lost — 
 
 His hand upon the cup, he speaks : 
 
 “ Papyrus ! 
 
 “ I greet ye ! and mine ancient nation shares 
 In greeting fair from Ammon, Ptah, and Isis, 
 
 Whose leaf ye love — dead Egypt’ s leaf, that bears 
 Our tale of pride from Cheops to Cambyses. 
 
 * On February 3, 1877, at the dinner of “ The Papyrus,” a club composed of 
 literary men and artists of Boston, a beautiful crystal “ Loving Cup ” was pre- 
 sented to the club by Mr. Wm. A. Hovey. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 457 
 
 “ We gods of Egypt, who are wise with age — 
 
 Five thousand years have washed us clean of passion — 
 
 A golden era for this board presage, 
 
 While ye do keep this cup in priestly fashion. 
 
 “We love to see the bonds of fellowship 
 Made still more sacred by a fine tradition ; 
 
 We bless this bowl that moves from lip to lip 
 In love’s festoons, renewed by every mission. 
 
 “ Intern the vessel from profaning eyes ; 
 
 The lip that kisses should have special merit ; 
 
 Thus every sanguine draught shall symbolize 
 And consecrate the true Papyrian spirit. 
 
 “ For brotherhood, not wine, this cup should pass ; 
 
 Its depths should ne’er reflect the eye of malice ; 
 
 Drink toasts to strangers with the social glass, 
 
 But drink to brothers with this loving chalice. 
 
 “ And now, Papyrus, each one pledge to each : 
 
 And let this formal tie be warmly cherished. 
 
 No words are needed for a kindly speech — 
 
 The loving thought will live when words have perished.” 
 
458 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’KEILLY. 
 
 UNDER THE RIVER. 
 
 C LEAR and bright, from the snowy height, 
 The joyous stream to the plain descended : 
 Rich sands of gold were washed and rolled 
 To the turbid marsh where its pure life ended. 
 
 From stainless snow to the moor below 
 The heart like the brook has a waning mission 
 The buried dream in life’s sluggish stream 
 Is the golden sand of our young ambition. 
 
 GRANT— 1885. 
 
 B LESSED are Pain, the smiter, 
 
 And Sorrow, the uniter ! 
 
 For one afflicted lies — 
 
 A symboled sacrifice — 
 
 And all our rancor dies ! 
 
 No North, no South ! O stern-faced Chief, 
 One weeping ours, one cowled Grief — 
 
 Thy Country — bowed in prayer and tear — 
 For North and South— above thy bier ! 
 
 For North and South ! O Soldier grim, 
 
 The broken ones to weep for him 
 
 Who broke them ! He whose terrors blazed 
 
 In smoking harvests, cities razed ; 
 
 Whose Fate-like glance sent fear and chill ; 
 Whose wordless lips spake deathless will — 
 Till all was shattered, all was lost — 
 
 All hands dropped down — all War’s red cost 
 Laid there in ashes — Hope and Hate 
 And Shame and Glory ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 459 
 
 Death and Fate 
 Fall back ! Another touch is thine ; 
 
 He drank not of thy poisoned wine, 
 
 Nor blindly met thy blind-thrown lance, 
 Nor died for sightless time or chance — 
 But waited, suffered, bowed and tried, 
 Till all the dross was purified ; 
 
 Till every well of hate was dried ; 
 
 And North and South in sorrow vied, 
 And then — at God’ s own calling — died ! 
 
 AT BEST. 
 
 T HE faithful helm commands the keel, 
 From port to port fair breezes blow ; 
 But the ship must sail the convex sea, 
 
 Nor may she straighter go. 
 
 So, man to man ; in fair accord, 
 
 On thought and will, the winds may wait ; 
 But the world will bend the passing word, 
 Though its shortest course be straight. 
 
 From soul to soul the shortest line 
 At best will bended be : 
 
 The ship that holds the straightest course 
 Still sails the convex sea. 
 
460 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE FLOOD IN MASSACHUSETTS, ON 
 MAY 16, 1874. 
 
 N O song of a soldier riding down 
 
 To the raging fight from Winchester town ; 
 No song of a time that shook the earth 
 With the nations’ throe at a nation’s birth ; 
 
 But the song of a brave man, free from fear 
 As Sheridan’s self or Paul Revere ; 
 
 Who risked what they risked, free from strife, 
 
 And its promise of glorious pay — his life ! 
 
 The peaceful valley has waked and stirred, 
 
 And the answering echoes of life are heard : 
 
 The dew still clings to the trees and grass, 
 
 And the early toilers smiling pass, 
 
 As they glance aside at the white-walled homes, 
 
 Or up the valley, where merrily comes 
 The brook that sparkles in diamond rills 
 As the sun comes over the Hampshire hills. 
 
 What was it, that passed like an ominous breath — 
 Like a shiver of fear, or a touch of death ? 
 
 What was it ? The valley is peaceful still, 
 
 And the leaves are afire on top of the hill. 
 
 It was not a sound — nor a thing of sense — 
 
 But a pain, like the pang of the short suspense 
 That thrills the being of those who see 
 At their feet the gulf of Eternity ! 
 
 The air of the valley has felt the chill : 
 
 The workers pause at the door of the mill ; 
 
 The housewife, keen to the shivering air, 
 
 Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 461 
 
 Instinctive taught by the mother-love, 
 
 And thinks of the sleeping ones above. 
 
 Why start the listeners ? Why does the course 
 Of the mill-stream widen \ Is it a horse — 
 
 Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they say — 
 
 That gallops so wildly Williamsburg way ! 
 
 God ! what was that, like a human shriek 
 From the winding valley ? Will nobody speak ? 
 
 Will nobody answer those women who cry 
 As the awful warnings thunder by ? 
 
 Whence come they ? Listen ! And now they hear 
 The sound of the galloping horsehoofs near ; 
 
 They watch the trend of the vale, and see 
 The rider who thunders so menacingly, 
 
 With waving arms and warning scream 
 To the home-filled banks of the valley stream. 
 
 He draws no rein, but he shakes the street 
 With a shout and the ring of the galloping feet ; 
 
 And this the cry he flings to the wind : 
 
 “ To the hills for your lives ! The flood is behind ! ” 
 
 He cries and is gone ; but they know the worst — 
 
 The breast of the Williamsburg dam has burst ! 
 
 The basin that nourished their happy homes 
 Is changed to a demon — It comes ! it comes ! 
 
 A monster in aspect, with shaggy front 
 
 Of shattered dwellings, to take the brunt 
 
 Of the homes they shatter — white-maned and hoarse, 
 
 The merciless Terror fills the course 
 
 Of the narrow valley, and rushing raves, 
 
 With death on the first of its hissing waves, 
 
 Till cottage and street and crowded mill 
 Are crumbled and crushed. 
 
462 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But onward still, 
 
 In front of the roaring flood is heard 
 The galloping horse and the warning word. 
 Thank God ! the brave man’s life is spared ! 
 From Williamsburg town he nobly dared 
 To race with the flood and take the road 
 In front of the terrible swath it mowed. 
 
 For miles it thundered and crashed behind, 
 But he looked ahead with a steadfast mind ; 
 “ They must be warned ! ” was all he said, 
 As away on his terrible ride he sped. 
 
 When heroes are called for, bring the crown 
 To this Yankee rider : send him down 
 On the stream of time with the Curtius old ; 
 His deed as the Homan’s was brave and bold, 
 And the tale can as noble a thrill awake, 
 
 For he offered his life for the people’ s sake. 
 
 ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR-BEAEEB. 
 
 E NSIGN EFPS, at the battle of Flanders, 
 Sowed a seed of glory and duty 
 That flowers and flames in height and beauty 
 Like a crimson lily with heart of gold, 
 
 To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old 
 And buried as deep as their dead commanders. 
 
 Ensign Epps was the color-bearer, — 
 
 No matter on which side, Philip or Earl ; 
 
 Their cause was the shell — his deed was the pearl. 
 Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer 
 That day in the wildest work of the field. 
 
 He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost 
 His comrades were slain, or a scattered host. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 463 
 
 But stainless and scatheless, out of the strife, 
 
 He had carried his colors safer than life. 
 
 By the river’s brink, without weapon or shield, 
 
 He faced the victors. The thick-heart mist 
 He dashed from his eyes, and the silk he kissed 
 Ere he held it aloft in the setting sun, 
 
 As proudly as if the fight were won, 
 
 And he smiled when they ordered him to yield. 
 
 Ensign Epps, with his broken blade, 
 
 Cut the silk from the gilded staff, 
 
 Which he poised like a spear till the charge was made, 
 And hurled at the leader with a laugh. 
 
 Then round his breast, like the scarf of his love, 
 
 He tied the colors his heart above, 
 
 And plunged in his armor into the tide, 
 
 And there, in his dress of honor, died. 
 
 Where are the lessons your kinglings teach ? 
 
 And what is text of your proud commanders ? 
 
 Out of the centuries, heroes reach 
 
 With the scroll of a deed, with the word of a story, 
 
 Of one man’s truth and of all men’s glory, 
 
 Like Ensign Epps at the battle of Flanders. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE DREAMER. 
 
 I AM tired of planning and toiling 
 In the crowded hives of men ; 
 Heart- weary of building and spoiling, 
 And spoiling and building again. 
 And I long for the dear old river, 
 Where I dreamed my youth away ; 
 For a dreamer lives forever, 
 
 And a toiler dies in a day. 
 
464 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 I am sick of the showy seeming 
 Of a life that is half a lie ; 
 
 Of the faces lined with scheming 
 In the throng that hurries by. 
 
 From the sleepless thoughts’ endeavor, 
 
 I would go where the children play ; 
 
 For a dreamer lives forever, 
 
 And a thinker dies in a day. 
 
 I can feel no pride, but pity 
 For the burdens the rich endure ; 
 
 There is nothing sweet in the city 
 But the patient lives of the poor. 
 
 Oh, the little hands too skillful, 
 
 And the child-mind choked with weeds 
 
 The daughter’s heart grown willful, 
 
 And the father’s heart that bleeds ! 
 
 No, no ! from the street’s rude bustle, 
 From trophies of mart and stage, 
 
 I would fly to the woods’ low rustle 
 And the meadows’ kindly page. 
 
 Let me dream as of old by the river, 
 
 And be loved for the dream alway ; 
 
 For a dreamer lives forever, 
 
 And a toiler dies in a day. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 465 
 
 MY MOTHER’S MEMORY. 
 
 T HERE is one bright star in heaven 
 Ever shining in my night ; 
 
 God to me one guide has given, 
 
 Like the sailor’s beacon-light, 
 
 Set on every shoal and danger, 
 
 Sending out its warning ray 
 To the ho me -bound weary stranger 
 Looking for the land-locked bay. 
 
 In my farthest, wildest wanderings 
 I have turned me to that love, 
 
 As a diver, ’neath the water, 
 
 Turns to watch the light above. 
 
 HERE is a shadow on the sunny wall, 
 
 Dark and forbidding, like a bode of ill ; 
 Go, drive it thence. Alas, such shadows fall 
 From real things, nor may be moved at wilh 
 
 There is a shadow on my heart to-day, 
 
 A cloudy grief condensing to a tear : 
 
 Alas, I cannot drive its gloom away — 
 
 Some sin or sorrow casts the shapeless fear. 
 
 THE SHADOW. 
 
466 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 AT FREDERICKSBURG.— Dec. 13, 1862. 
 
 OD send us peace, and keep red strife away ; 
 vT But should it come, God send us men and steel ! 
 The land is dead that dare not face the day 
 When foreign danger threats the common weal. 
 
 Defenders strong are they that homes defend ; 
 
 From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. 
 
 W ell blest the country that has sons to lend 
 From trades of peace to learn the trade of war. 
 
 Thrice blest the nation that has every son 
 A soldier, ready for the warning sound ; 
 
 Who marches homeward when the fight is done, 
 
 To swing the hammer and to till the ground. 
 
 Call back that morning, with its lurid light, 
 
 When through our land the awful war-bell tolled ; 
 
 When lips were mute, and women’s faces white 
 As the pale cloud that out from Sumter rolled. 
 
 Call back that morn : an instant all were dumb, 
 
 As if the shot had struck the Nation’s life ; 
 
 Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling drum, 
 And men streamed in to meet the coming strife. 
 
 They closed the ledger and they stilled the loom, 
 The plow left rusting in the prairie farm ; 
 
 They saw but “ Union” in the gathering gloom ; 
 The tearless women helped the men to arm ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 467 
 
 Brigades from towns — each village sent its band : 
 German and Irish — every race and faith ; 
 
 There was no question then of native land, 
 
 But — love the Flag and follow it to death. 
 
 No need to tell their tale : through every age 
 The splendid story shall be sung and said ; 
 
 But let me draw one picture from the page — 
 
 For words of song embalm the hero dead. 
 
 The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are planted, 
 
 Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow ; 
 
 The word has been passed that the stormers are wanted, 
 And Burnside’s battalions are mustering now. 
 
 The armies stand by to behold the dread meeting ; 
 
 The work must be done by a desperate few ; 
 
 The black-mouthed guns on the height give them greeting — 
 From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade in view. 
 Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles behind them 
 Are Georgia militia — an Irish brigade — 
 
 Their caps have green badges, as if to remind them 
 Of all the brave record their country has made. 
 
 The stormers go forward — the Federals cheer them ; 
 
 They breast the smooth hillside — the black mouths are 
 dumb ; 
 
 The riflemen lie in the works till they near them, 
 
 And cover the stormers as upward they come. 
 
 Was ever a death-march so grand and so solemn ? 
 
 At last, the dark summit with flame is enlined ; 
 
 The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed column, 
 
 That reels from the height, leaving hundreds behind. 
 
 The armies are hushed — there is no cause for cheering : 
 The fall of brave men to brave men is a pain. 
 
 Again come the stormers ! and as they are nearing 
 The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back again. 
 
 And so till full noon come the Federal masses — 
 
 Flung back from the height, as the cliff flings a wave ; 
 
468 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle passes, 
 
 No wavering rank till it steps on the grave. 
 
 Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall is lifted, 
 
 The green of the hillside no longer is seen ; 
 
 The dead soldiers lie as the sea- weed is drifted, 
 
 The earthworks still held by the badges of green. 
 
 Have they quailed ? is the word. No : again they are form- 
 ing— 
 
 Again comes a column to death and defeat ! 
 
 What is it in these who shall now do the storming 
 That makes every Georgian spring to his feet ? 
 
 “ O God ! what a pity ! ’ ’ they cry in their cover, 
 
 As rifles are readied and bayonets made tight ; 
 
 “’Tis Meagher and his fellows! their caps have green 
 clover ; 
 
 ’Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the fight ! ” 
 Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag before them, 
 With Meagher at their head, they have dashed at the 
 hill ! 
 
 Their foemen are proud of the country that bore them ; 
 
 But, Irish in love, they are enemies still. 
 
 Out rings the fierce word, “ Let them have it ! ” the rifles 
 Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of the foe : 
 
 It is green against green, but a principle stifles 
 The Irishman’s love in the Georgian’s blow. 
 
 The column has reeled, but it is not defeated ; 
 
 In front of the guns they re-form and attack ; 
 
 Six times they have done it, and six times retreated ; 
 
 Twelve hundred they came, and two hundred go back. 
 Two hundred go back with the chivalrous story ; 
 
 The wild day is closed in the night’s solemn shroud ; 
 
 A thousand lie dead, but their death was a glory 
 That calls not for tears — the Green Badges are proud ! 
 
 Bright honor be theirs who for honor were fearless, 
 
 Who charged for their flag to the grim cannon’s mouth ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 469 
 
 And honor to them who were true, though not tearless, — 
 Who bravely that day kept the cause of the South. 
 
 The quarrel is done — God avert such another ; 
 
 The lesson it brought we should evermore heed : 
 
 Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother, 
 
 No matter what birth or what race or what creed. 
 
 THE DEAD SINGER. 
 
 “Q1 HE is dead ! ” they say ; “ she is robed for the grave ; 
 
 O there are lilies upon her breast ; 
 
 Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her 
 hands to rest ; 
 
 Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids : they have 
 hidden her hair’ s gold crown ; 
 
 Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to press 
 her down.” 
 
 “She is dead!” they say to the people, her people, for 
 whom she sung ; 
 
 Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, like a 
 harp with life -chords strung. 
 
 And the people hear — but behind their tear they smile as 
 though they heard 
 
 Another voice, like a mystery, proclaim another word. 
 
 “ She is not dead,” it says to their hearts ; “true Singers 
 can never die ; 
 
 Their life is a voice of higher things, unseen to the com- 
 mon eye ; 
 
 The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God’s right 
 and the human wrong, 
 
 The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who are 
 chained and scourged by the strong.” 
 
 And the people smile at the death-word, for the mystic 
 voice is clear : 
 
 “The Singer who lived is always alive: we 
 
 HEARKEN AND ALWAYS HEAR ! ” 
 
470 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And they raise her body with tender hands, and bear her 
 down to the main, 
 
 They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the lily- 
 maid Elaine ; 
 
 And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the people 
 wait on the shore 
 
 To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home 
 forevermore, 
 
 Her home in the heart of her country ; oh, a grave among 
 our own 
 
 Is warmer and dearer than living on in the stranger lands 
 alone. 
 
 No need of a tomb for the Singer ! Her fair hair’s pillow 
 now 
 
 Is the sacred clay of her country, and the sky above her 
 brow 
 
 Is the same that smiled and wept on her youth, and the 
 grass around is deep 
 
 With the clinging leaves of the shamrock that cover her 
 peaceful sleep. 
 
 Undreaming there she will rest and wait, in the tomb her 
 people make, 
 
 Till she hears men’s hearts, like the seeds in Spring, all 
 stirring to be awake, 
 
 Till she feels the moving of souls that strain till the bands 
 around them break ; 
 
 And then, I think, her dead lips will smile and her eyes 
 be oped to see, 
 
 When the cry goes out to the Nations that the Singer’s 
 land is free ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 471 
 
 THE PRIESTS OF IRELAND. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The time has arrived when the interests of our country require 
 from us, as priests and as Irishmen, a public pronouncement on the 
 vital question of Home Rule. . . . We suggest the holding of an aggre- 
 gate meeting in Dublin, of the representatives of all interested in this 
 great question — and they are the entire people, without distinction of 
 creed or class — for the purpose of placing, by constitutional means, on 
 a broad and definite basis, the nation’s demand for the restoration of its 
 plundered rights .” — Extract from the Declaration of the Bishop and 
 Priests of the Diocese of Cloyne, made on September 15, 1873. 
 
 Y OU have waited, Priests of Ireland, until the hour was 
 late : 
 
 You have stood with folded arms until ’twas asked — Why- 
 do they wait % 
 
 By the fever and the famine you have seen your flocks grow 
 thin, 
 
 Till the whisper hissed through Ireland that your silence 
 was a sin. 
 
 You have looked with tearless eyes on fleets of exile-laden 
 ships, 
 
 And the hands that stretched toward Ireland brought no 
 tremor to your lips ; 
 
 In the sacred cause of freedom you have seen your people 
 band, 
 
 And they looked to you for sympathy : you never stirred 
 a hand ; 
 
 But you stood upon the altar, with their blood within your 
 veins, 
 
 And you bade the pale-faced people to be patient in their 
 chains ! 
 
 Ah, you told them — it was cruel — but you said they were 
 not true 
 
472 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 To the holy faith of Patrick, if they were not ruled by 
 you ; 
 
 Yes, you told them from the altar— they, the vanguard of 
 the Faith— 
 
 With your eyes like flint against them — that their banding 
 was a death — 
 
 Was a death to something holy : till the heart-wrung peo- 
 ple cried 
 
 That their priests had turned against them — that they had 
 no more a guide — 
 
 That the English gold had bought you — yes, they said it — 
 but they lied ! 
 
 Yea, they lied, they sinned, not knowing you — they had 
 not gauged your love : 
 
 Heaven bless you, Priests of Ireland, for the wisdom from 
 above, 
 
 For the strength that made you, loving them, crush back 
 the tears that rose 
 
 When your country’s heart was quiv’ring ’neath the states- 
 man’s muffled blows : 
 
 You saw clearer far than they did, and you grieved for 
 Ireland’s pain ; 
 
 But you did not rouse the people — and your silence was 
 their gain ; 
 
 For too often has the peasant dared to dash his naked arm 
 
 ’ Gainst the saber of the soldier : but you shielded him 
 from harm, 
 
 And your face was set against him — though your heart was 
 with his hand 
 
 When it flung aside the plow to snatch a pike for father- 
 land ! 
 
 O, God bless you, Priests of Ireland ! You were waiting 
 with a will, 
 
 You were waiting with a purpose when you bade your flocks 
 be still ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 473 
 
 And you preached from off your altars not alone the Word 
 Sublime, 
 
 But your silence preached to Irishmen — “Be patient: 
 bide your time ! ” 
 
 And they heard you, and obeyed, as well as outraged men 
 could do : — 
 
 Only some, who loved poor Ireland, but who erred in 
 doubting you, 
 
 Doubting you, who could not tell them why you spake the 
 strange behest — 
 
 You, who saw the day was coming when the moral strength 
 was best — 
 
 You, whose hearts were sore with looking on your coun- 
 try’s quick decay — 
 
 You, whose chapel seats were empty and your people fled 
 away — 
 
 You, who marked amid the fields where once the peasant’s 
 cabin stood — 
 
 You, who saw your kith and kindred swell the emigra- 
 tion flood — 
 
 You, the sog garth in the famine, and the helper in the 
 frost — 
 
 You, whose shadow was a sunshine when all other hope 
 was lost — 
 
 Yes, they doubted — and you knew it— but you never said 
 a word ; 
 
 Only preached, “ Be still : be patient ! ” and, thank God, 
 your voice was heard. 
 
 Now, the day foreseen is breaking — it has dawned upon 
 the land, 
 
 And the priests still preach in Ireland : do they bid their 
 flocks disband \ 
 
 Do they tell them still to suffer and be silent ? No ! their 
 words 
 
 Flash from Dublin Bay to Connaught, brighter than the 
 gleam of swords ! 
 
 Flash from Donegal to Kerry, and from Waterford to 
 Clare, 
 
474 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And the nationhood awaking thrills the sorrow-laden air. 
 
 Well they judged their time — they waited till the bar was 
 glowing white, 
 
 Then they swung it on the anvil, striking down with 
 earnest might, 
 
 And the burning sparks that scatter lose no luster on their 
 way, 
 
 Till five million hearts in Ireland and ten millions far away 
 
 Feel the first good blow, and answer ; and they will not 
 rest with one : 
 
 Now the first is struck, the anvil shows the labor well 
 begun ; 
 
 Swing them in with lusty sinew and the work will soon be 
 done ! 
 
 Let them sound from hoary Cashel ; Kerry, Meath, and 
 Ross stand forth ; 
 
 Let them ring from Cloyne and Tuam and the Primate of 
 the North ; 
 
 Ask not class or creed : let “ Ireland ! ” be the talismanic 
 word ; 
 
 Let the blessed sound of unity from North to South be 
 heard ; 
 
 Carve the words : “ No creed distinctions ! ” on O’ Connell’ s 
 granite tomb, 
 
 And his dust will feel their meaning and rekindle in the 
 gloom. 
 
 Priest to priest, to sound the summons — and the answer, 
 man to man ; 
 
 With the people round the standard, and the prelates in 
 the van. 
 
 Let the heart of Ireland’s hoping keep this golden rule of 
 Cloyne 
 
 Till the Orange fades from Derry and the shadow from the 
 Boyne. 
 
 Let the words be carried outward till the farthest lands 
 they reach : 
 
 “ After Christ, their country’s freedom do the Irish prel- 
 ates preach ! ” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AN]) SPEECHES. 
 
 475 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
 
 T HE day of Joseph’s marriage unto Mary, 
 
 In thoughful mood he said unto his wife, 
 
 “ Behold, I go into a far-off country 
 To labor for thee, and to make thy life 
 And home all sweet and peaceful.” And the Virgin 
 Unquestioning beheld her spouse depart : 
 
 Then lived she many days of musing gladness, 
 
 Not knowing that God’s hand was round her heart. 
 
 And dreaming thus one day within her chamber, 
 
 She wept with speechless bliss, when lo ! the face 
 Of white-winged angel Gabriel rose before her, 
 
 And bowing spoke, “Hail! Mary, full of grace, 
 
 The Lord is with thee, and among the nations 
 Forever blessed is thy chosen name.” 
 
 The angel vanished, and the Lord’s high Presence 
 With untold glory to the Virgin came. 
 
 A season passed of joy unknown to mortals, 
 
 When Joseph came with what his toil had won, 
 
 And broke the brooding ecstasy of Mary, 
 
 Whose soul was ever with her promised Son. 
 
 But nature’s jealous fears encircled Joseph, 
 
 And round his heart in darkening doubts held sway. 
 He looked upon his spouse cold-eyed, and pondered 
 How he could put her from his sight away. 
 
 And once, when moody thus within his garden, 
 
 The gentle girl besought for some ripe fruit 
 That hung beyond her reach, the old man answered, 
 With face averted, harshly to her suit : 
 
 “ I will not serve thee, woman ! Thou hast wronged me : 
 I heed no more thy words and actions mild ; 
 
 If fruit thou wantest, thou canst henceforth ask it 
 From him, the father of thy unborn child ! ” 
 
476 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But ere the words had root within her hearing, 
 
 The Virgin’s face was glorified anew ; 
 
 And Joseph, turning, sank within her presence, 
 
 And knew indeed his wondrous dreams were true. 
 For there before the sandaled feet of Mary 
 The kingly tree had bowed its top, and she 
 Had pulled and eaten from its prostrate branches, 
 As if unconscious of the mystery. 
 
 RELEASED— JANUARY, 1878. 
 
 On the 5th of January, 1878, three of the Irish political prisoners, 
 who had been confined since 1866, were set at liberty. The released 
 men were received by their fellow-countrymen in London. “They 
 are well,” said the report, “ but they look prematurely old.” 
 
 T HEY are free at last ! They can face the sun ; 
 
 Their hearts now throb with the world’s pulsation ; 
 Their prisons are open — their night is done ; 
 
 ’Tis England’s mercy and reparation ! 
 
 The years of their doom have slowly sped — 
 
 Their limbs are withered — their ties are riven ; 
 
 Their children are scattered, their friends are dead — 
 
 But the prisons are open — the “crime” forgiven. 
 
 God ! what a threshold they stand upon : 
 
 The world has passed on while they were buried ; 
 
 In the glare of the sun they walk alone 
 On the grass-grown track where the crowd has hurried. 
 
 Haggard and broken and seared with pain, 
 
 They seek the remembered friends and places : 
 
 Men shuddering turn, and gaze again 
 At the deep-drawn lines on their altered faces. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 477 
 
 What do they read on the pallid page ? 
 
 What is the tale of these woeful letters ? 
 
 A lesson as old as their country’s age, 
 
 Of a love that is stronger than stripes and fetters. 
 
 In the blood of the slain some dip their blade, 
 
 And swear by the stain the foe to follow : 
 
 But a deadlier oath might here be made, 
 
 On the wasted bodies and faces hollow. 
 
 Irishmen ! You who have kept the peace — 
 
 Look on these forms diseased and broken : 
 
 Believe, if you can, that their late release, 
 
 When their lives are sapped, is a good-will token. 
 
 Their hearts are the bait on England’s hook ; 
 
 For this are they dragged from her hopeless prison ; 
 She reads her doom in the Nation’s book — 
 
 She fears the day that has darkly risen ; 
 
 She reaches her hand for Ireland’s aid — 
 
 Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided ; 
 
 She begs from the beggar her hate has made ; 
 
 She seeks for the strength her guile divided. 
 
 She offers a bribe — ah, God above ! 
 
 Behold the price of the desecration : 
 
 The hearts she has tortured for Irish love 
 She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation ! 
 
 O, blind and cruel ! She fills her cup 
 With conquest and pride, till its red wine splashes : 
 But shrieks at the draught as she drinks it up — 
 
 Her wine has been turned to blood and ashes. 
 
 We know her — our Sister ! Come on the storm ! 
 
 God send it soon and sudden upon her : 
 
 The race she has shattered and sought to deform 
 Shall laugh as she drinks the black dishonor. 
 
478 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 JOHN MITCHEL. 
 
 Died March 20 , 1875 . 
 
 I. 
 
 D EAD, with his harness on him : 
 
 Rigid and cold and white, 
 
 Marking the place of the vanguard 
 Still in the ancient fight. 
 
 The climber dead on the hill- side, 
 
 Before the height is won : 
 
 The workman dead on the building, 
 
 Before the work is done ! 
 
 O, for a tongue to utter 
 The words that should be said — 
 
 Of his worth that was silver, living, 
 
 That is gold and jasper, dead ! 
 
 Dead — but the death was fitting : 
 
 His life, to the latest breath, 
 
 Was poured like wax on the chart of right, 
 And is sealed by the stamp of Death ! 
 
 Dead — but the end was fitting : 
 
 First in the ranks he led ; 
 
 And he marks the height of his nation’s gain, 
 As he lies in his harness — dead ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Weep for him, Ireland — mother lonely ; 
 
 Weep for the son who died for thee. 
 Wayward he was, but he loved thee only, 
 Loyal and fearless as son could be. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 479 
 
 Weep for liim, Ireland — sorrowing nation 
 Faithful to all who are true to thee : 
 
 Never a son in thy desolation 
 Had holier love for thy cause than he. 
 
 Sons of the Old Land, mark the story — 
 Mother and son in the final test : 
 
 Weeping she sits in her darkened glory, 
 Holding her dead to her stricken breast. 
 
 Only the dead on her knees are lying — 
 
 Ah, poor mother beneath the cross ! 
 
 Strength is won by the constant trying, 
 Crowns are gemmed by the tears of loss ! 
 
 Sons of the Old Land, mark the story — 
 Mother and son to each other true : 
 
 She called, and he answered, old and hoary, 
 And gave her his life as a man should do. 
 
 She may weep — but for us no weeping : 
 Tears are vain till the work is done ; 
 
 Tears for her — but for us the keeping 
 Our hearts as true as her faithful son. 
 
 A DEAD MAN. 
 
 T HE Trapper died — our hero — and we grieved ; 
 
 In every heart in camp the sorrow stirred. 
 
 “ His soul was red ! ” the Indian cried, bereaved ; 
 
 “ A white man, he ! ” the grim old Yankee’s word. 
 
 So, brief and strong, each mourner gave his best— 
 How kind he was, how brave, how keen to track ; 
 And as we laid him by the pines to rest, 
 
 A negro spoke, with tears : “ His heart was black ! ” 
 
“ Island of Destiny ! Innisfail ! for thy faith is the 'pay- 
 ment near ! 
 
 The mine of the future is opened , and the golden veins 
 appear. 
 
 Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach out 
 for thy glorious years , 
 
 And take them from God as his recompense for thy 
 fortitude and tears.” 
 
 460 
 
A NATION’S TEST. 
 
 READ AT THE O’CONNELL CENTENNIAL IN BOSTON, ON 
 AUGUST 6, 1875. 
 
 I. 
 
 A NATION’S greatness lies in men, not acres ; 
 
 One master-mind is worth a million hands. 
 
 No royal robes have marked the planet-shakers, 
 
 But Samson-strength to burst the ages’ bands. 
 
 The might of empire gives no crown supernal — 
 
 Athens is here — but where is Macedon ? 
 
 A dozen lives make Greece and Borne eternal, 
 
 And England’s fame might safely rest on one. 
 
 Here test and text are drawn from Nature’s preaching : 
 Afric and Asia — half the rounded earth — 
 
 In teeming lives the solemn truth are teaching, 
 
 That insect-millions may have human birth. 
 
 Sun-kissed and fruitful, every clod is breeding 
 A petty life, too small to reach the eye : 
 
 So must it be, with no man thinking, leading, 
 
 The generations creep their course and die. 
 
 Hapless the lands, and doomed amid the races, 
 
 That give no answer to this royal test ; 
 
 Their toiling tribes will droop ignoble faces, 
 
 Till earth in pity takes them back to rest. 
 
 , A vast monotony may not be evil, 
 
 But God’s light tells us it cannot be good ; 
 
 Valley and hill have beauty — but the level 
 Must bear a shadeless and a stagnant brood. 
 
 481 
 
482 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 II. 
 
 I bring the touchstone. Motherland, to thee, 
 
 And test thee trembling, fearing thou shouldst fail ; 
 If fruitless, sonless, thou wert proved to be, 
 
 Ah, what would love and memory avail ? 
 
 Brave land ! God has blest thee ! 
 
 Thy strong heart I feel, 
 
 As I touch thee and test thee — 
 
 Dear land ! As the steel 
 To the magnet flies upward, so rises thy breast, 
 With a motherly pride to the touch of the test. 
 
 hi. 
 
 See ! she smiles beneath the touchstone, looking on her 
 distant youth, 
 
 Looking down her line of leaders and of workers for the 
 truth. 
 
 Ere the Teuton, Norseman, Briton, left the primal wood- 
 land spring, 
 
 When their rule was might and rapine, and their law a 
 painted king ; 
 
 When the sun of art and learning still was in the 
 Orient ; 
 
 When the pride of Babylonia under Cyrus’ hand was 
 slient ; 
 
 When the sphinx’s introverted eye turned fresh from 
 Egypt’s guilt ; 
 
 When the Persian bowed to Athens ; when the Parthenon 
 was built ; 
 
 When the Macedonian climax closed the Commonwealths 
 of Greece ; 
 
 When the wrath of Roman manhood burst on Tarquin for 
 Lucrece — 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 483 
 
 Then was Erin rich in knowledge — thence from out her 
 Ollamh’ s store — 
 
 Kenned to-day by students only — grew her ancient Sen- 
 cJms More ; * 
 
 Then were reared her mighty builders, who made temples 
 to the sun — 
 
 There they stand — the old Round Towers — showing how 
 their work was done : 
 
 Thrice a thousand years upon them — shaming all our later 
 art — 
 
 Warning fingers raised to tell us we must build with rev- 
 ’rent heart. 
 
 Ah, we call thee Mother Erin ! Mother thou in right of 
 years ; 
 
 Mother in the large fruition — mother in the joys and 
 tears. 
 
 All thy life has been a symbol — we can only read a 
 part : 
 
 God will flood thee yet with sunshine for the woes that 
 drench thy heart. 
 
 All thy life has been symbolic of a human mother’ s life : 
 
 Youth’s sweet hopes and dreams have vanished, and the 
 travail and the strife 
 
 Are upon thee in the present ; but thy ‘work until to-day 
 
 Still has been for truth and manhood — and it shall not pass 
 away : 
 
 Justice lives, though judgment lingers — angels’ feet are 
 heavy shod — 
 
 But a planet’s years are moments in th’ eternal day of 
 God! 
 
 * “ Senchus More,” or Great Law, the title of the Brelion Laws, translated 
 by O’Donovan and O’Curry. Ollamh Fola, who reigned 900 years b.c., or- 
 ganized a triennial parliament at Tara, of the chiefs, priests, and bards, who 
 digested the laws into a record called the Psalter of Tara. Ollamh Fola 
 founded schools of history, medicine, philosophy, poetry, and astronomy, 
 which were protected by his successors. Kimbath (450 b.c.) and Hugony 
 (300 b.c.) also promoted the civil interests of the kingdom in a remarkable 
 manner. 
 
484 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Out from the valley of death and tears, 
 
 From the war and want of a thousand years, 
 
 From the mark of sword and the rust of chain, 
 From the smoke and blood of the penal laws, 
 
 The Irishmen and the Irish cause 
 Come out in the front of the field again ! 
 
 What says the stranger to such a vitality ? 
 
 What says the statesman to this nationality ? 
 
 Flung on the shore of a sea of defeat, 
 
 Hardly the swimmers have sprung to their feet, 
 
 When the nations are thrilled by a clarion-word, 
 
 And Burke, the philosopher-statesman, is heard. 
 
 When shall his equal be ? Down from the stellar height 
 Sees he the planet and all on its girth — 
 
 India, Columbia, and Europe — his eagle-sight 
 Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon earth. 
 
 Races or sects were to him a profanity : 
 
 Hindoo and Negro and Kelt were as one ; 
 
 Large as mankind was his splendid humanity, 
 
 Large in its record the work he has done. 
 
 v. 
 
 What need to mention men of minor note, 
 
 When there be minds that all the heights attain \ 
 What school-boy knoweth not the hand that wrote 
 “ Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain ?” 
 What man that speaketh English e’er can lift 
 His voice ’mid scholars, who hath missed the lore 
 Of Berkeley, Curran, Sheridan, and Swift, 
 
 The art of Foley and the songs of Moore ? 
 
 Grattan and Flood and Emmet — where is he 
 That hath not learned respect for such as these ? 
 Who loveth humor, and hath yet to see 
 Lover and Prout and Lever and Maclise \ 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 485 
 
 VI. 
 
 Great men grow greater by the lapse of time : 
 
 We know those least whom we have seen the latest ; 
 
 And they, ’mongst those whose names have grown sublime, 
 Who worked for Human Liberty, are greatest. 
 
 And now for one who allied will to work, 
 
 And thought to act, and burning speech to thought ; 
 
 Who gained the prizes that were seen by Burke — 
 
 Burke felt the wrong — O’ Connell felt, and fought. 
 
 Ever the same — from boyhood up to death : 
 
 His race was crushed — his people were defamed ; 
 
 He found the spark, and fanned it with his breath, 
 
 And fed the fire, till all the nation flamed ! 
 
 He roused the farms — he made the serf a yeoman ; 
 
 He drilled his millions and he faced the foe ; 
 
 But not with lead or steel he struck the foeman : 
 
 Reason the sword — and human right the blow. 
 
 He fought for home — but no land-limit bounded 
 O’Connell’s faith, nor curbed his sympathies ; 
 
 All wrong to liberty must be confounded, 
 
 Till men were chainless as the winds and seas. 
 
 He fought for faith — but with no narrow spirit ; 
 
 With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he smote ; 
 
 One chart, he said, all mankind should inherit, — 
 
 The right to worship and the right to vote. 
 
 Always the same — but yet a glinting prism : 
 
 In wit, law, statecraft, still a master-hand ; 
 
 An “ uncrowned king,” whose people’s love was chrism ; 
 His title — Liberator of his Land ! 
 
 “ His heart’s in Rome, his spirit is in heaven ” — 
 
 So runs the old song that his people sing ; 
 
486 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 A tall Round Tower they builded in Glasnevin — 
 Fit Irish headstone for an Irish king ! 
 
 Oh Motherland ! there is no cause to doubt thee : 
 
 Thy mark is left on every shore to-day. 
 
 Though grief and wrong may cling like robes about thee, 
 Thy motherhood will keep thee queen alway. 
 
 In faith and patience working, and believing 
 Not power alone can make a noble state : 
 
 Whate’er the land, though all things else conceiving, 
 Unless it breed great men, it is not great. 
 
 Go on, dear land, and midst the generations 
 Send out strong men to cry the word aloud ; 
 
 Thy niche is empty still amidst the nations — 
 
 Go on in faith, and God must raise the cloud. 
 
 Let love depend ; 
 Neither by actions done 
 Choose ye the friend. 
 
 Let the slow years fly — 
 These are the test ; 
 Never to peering eye 
 Open the breast. 
 
 Psyche won hopeless woe, 
 Reaching to take ; 
 Wait till your lilies grow 
 Up from the lake. 
 
 Gather words patiently ; 
 Harvest the deed ; 
 
 VII. 
 
 LOVE, AND BE WISE. 
 
 OT on the word alone 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 487 
 
 Let the winged years fly, 
 Sifting the seed. 
 
 Judging by harmony, 
 Learning by strife ; 
 Seeking in unity 
 Precept and life. 
 
 Seize the supernal — 
 Prometheus dies ; 
 
 Take the external 
 
 On trust — and be wise. 
 
 WHEAT GRAINS. 
 
 A S grains from chaff, I sift these worldly rules, 
 Kernels of wisdom, from the husks of schools : 
 
 i. 
 
 Benevolence befits the wisest mind ; 
 
 But he who has not studied to be kind, 
 
 Who grants for asking, gives without a rule, 
 
 Hurts whom he helps, and proves himself a fool. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The wise man is sincere : but he who tries 
 To be sincere, hap-hazard, is not wise. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Knowledge is gold to him who can discern 
 That he who loves to know, must love to learn. 
 
 iv. 
 
 Straightforward speech is very certain good ; 
 But he who has not learned its rule is rude. 
 
488 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O 7 REILLY. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Boldness and firmness, these are virtues each, 
 Noble in action, excellent in speech. 
 
 But who is bold, without considerate skill, 
 
 Rashly rebels, and has no law but will ; 
 
 While he called firm, illiterate and crass, 
 
 With mulish stubbornness obstructs the pass. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The mean of soul are sure their faults to gloss, 
 
 And find a secret gain in others’ loss. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Applause the bold man wins, respect the grave ; 
 Some, only being not modest, think they’re brave. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The petty wrong-doer may escape unseen ; 
 
 But what from sight the moon eclipsed shall screen 
 Superior minds must err in sight of men, 
 
 Their eclipse o’er, they rule the world again. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Temptation waits for all, and ills will come ; 
 
 But some go out and ask the devil home. 
 
 x. 
 
 “ I love God,” said the saint. God spake above : 
 
 “ Who loveth me must love those whom I love.” 
 
 “ I scourge myself,” the hermit cried. God spake : 
 “Kindness is prayer ; but not a self-made ache.” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 489 
 
 THE PRICELESS THINGS. 
 
 T HOSE are vulgar things we pay for, be they stones for 
 crowns of kings ; 
 
 While the precious and the peerless are unpriced sym- 
 bolic things. 
 
 Common debts are scored and canceled, weighed and meas- 
 ured out for gold ; 
 
 But the debts from men to ages, their account is never 
 told. 
 
 Always see, the noblest nations keep their highest prize 
 unknown ; 
 
 Ckseronea’s deathless lion frowned above unlettered 
 stone. 
 
 Ah, the Greeks knew ! Come their victors honored from 
 the sacred games, 
 
 Under arches red with roses, flushed to hear their shouted 
 names ; 
 
 See their native cities take them, breach the wall to make 
 a gate ! 
 
 What supreme reward is theirs who bring such honors to 
 their state ? 
 
 In the forum stand they proudly, take their prizes from 
 the priest : 
 
 Little wreaths of pine and parsley on their naked temples 
 pressed ! 
 
 We in later days are lower ? When a manful stroke is 
 made, 
 
 We must raise a purse to pay it — making manliness a 
 trade. 
 
490 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Sacrifice itself grows venal — surely Midas will subscribe ; 
 
 And the shallow souls are gratified when worth accepts the 
 bribe. 
 
 •5B 
 
 But e’en here, amidst the markets, there are things they 
 dare not prize ; 
 
 Dollars hide their sordid faces when they meet annointed 
 eyes. 
 
 Lovers do not speak with jewels — flowers alone can plead 
 for them ; 
 
 And one fragrant memory cherished is far dearer than a 
 gem. 
 
 Statesmen steer the nation safely ; artists pass the burning 
 test ; 
 
 And their country pays them proudly with a ribbon at the 
 breast. 
 
 When the soldier saves the battle, wraps the flag around 
 his heart, 
 
 Who shall desecrate his honor with the values of the mart ? 
 
 From his guns of bronze we hew a piece, and carve it as a 
 cross ; 
 
 For the gain he gave was priceless, as unpriced would be 
 the loss. 
 
 When the poet sings the love-song, or the song of life and 
 death, 
 
 Till the workers cease their toiling with abated wondering 
 breath ; 
 
 When he gilds the mill and mine, inspires the slave to rise 
 and dare : 
 
 Lights with love the cheerless garret, bids the tyrant to 
 beware ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 491 
 
 When he steals the pang from poverty with meanings new 
 and clear, 
 
 Reconciling pain and peace, and bringing blissful visions 
 near ; — 
 
 His reward? Nor cross nor ribbon, but all others high 
 above ; 
 
 They have won their glittering symbols — he has earned the 
 people’s love ! 
 
 THE RAINBOW’S TREASURE. 
 
 W HERE the foot of the rainbow meets the field, 
 And the grass resplendent glows, 
 
 The earth will a precious treasure yield, 
 
 So the olden story goes. 
 
 In a crystal cup are the diamonds piled 
 For him who can swiftly chase 
 Over torrent and desert and precipice wild, 
 
 To the rainbow’s wandering base. 
 
 There were two in the field at work, one day, 
 Two brothers, who blithely sung, 
 
 When across their valley’s deep-winding way 
 The glorious arch was flung ! 
 
 And one saw naught but a sign of rain, 
 
 And feared for his sheaves unbound ; 
 
 And one is away, over mountain and plain, 
 Till the mystical treasure is found ! 
 
 Through forest and stream, in a blissful dream, 
 The rainbow lured him on ; 
 
 With a siren’s guile it loitered awhile, 
 
 Then leagues away was gone. 
 
 Over brake and brier he followed fleet ; 
 
 The people scoffed as he passed ; 
 
 But in thirst and heat, and with wounded feet, 
 He nears the prize at last. 
 
492 
 
 JOHN BOTTLE O’REILLY. 
 
 It is closer and closer — lie wins the race — 
 
 One strain for the goal in sight : 
 
 Its radiance falls on his yearning face — 
 
 The blended colors unite ! 
 
 He laves his brow in the iris beam — 
 
 He reaches — Ah woe ! the sound 
 
 From the misty gulf where he ends his dream, 
 And the crystal cup is found ! 
 
 ’Tis the old, old story : one man will read 
 His lesson of toil in the sky ; 
 
 W hile another is blind to the present need, 
 
 But sees with the spirit’s eye. 
 
 You may grind their souls in the self-same mill, 
 You may bind them, heart and brow ; 
 
 But the poet will follow the rainbow still, 
 
 And his brother will follow the plow. 
 
 A WHITE ROSE. 
 
 T HE red rose whispers of passion, 
 
 And the white rose breathes of love ; 
 Oh, the red rose is a falcon, 
 
 And the white rose is a dove. 
 
 But I send you a cream-white rosebud 
 With a flush on its petal tips ; 
 
 For the love that is purest and sweetest 
 Has a kiss of desire on the lips. 
 
 YES? 
 
 T HE words of the lips are double or single, 
 True or false, as we say or sing : 
 
 But the words of the eyes that mix and mingle 
 Are always saying the same old thing ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 493 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 H E is coming ! he is coming ! in my throbbing breast I 
 feel it ; 
 
 There is music in my blood, and it whispers all day long, 
 That my love unknown comes toward me ! Ah, my heart, 
 he need not steal it, 
 
 For I cannot hide the secret that it murmurs in its song ! 
 
 O the sweet bursting flowers ! how they open, never blush- 
 ing, 
 
 Laying bare their fragrant bosoms to the kisses of the 
 sun ! 
 
 And the birds — I thought ’twas poets only read their ten- 
 der gushing, 
 
 But I hear their pleading stories, and I know them every 
 one. 
 
 “ He is coming ! ” says my heart ; I may raise my eyes and 
 greet him ; 
 
 I may meet him any moment — shall I know him when I 
 see ? 
 
 And my heart laughs back the answer — I can tell him when 
 I meet him, 
 
 For our eyes will kiss and mingle ere he speaks a word 
 to me. 
 
 O, I’m longing for his coming — in the dark my arms out- 
 reaching ; 
 
 To hasten you, my love, see, I lay my bosom bare ! 
 
 Ah, the night- wind ! I shudder, and my hands are raised 
 beseeching — 
 
 It wailed so light a death-sigh that passed me in the air ! 
 
494 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 CHUNDER ALPS WIFE. 
 
 FROM THE HINDOSTANEE. 
 
 “ T AM poor,” said Chunder Ali, while the Mandarin 
 J- above him 
 
 Frowned in supercilious anger at the dog who dared to 
 speak ; 
 
 “ I am friendless and a Hindoo : such a one meets few to 
 love him 
 
 Here in China, where the Hindoo finds the truth alone is 
 weak. 
 
 I have naught to buy your justice ; were I wise, I had not 
 striven. 
 
 Speak your judgment ; ” and he crossed his arms and bent 
 his quivering face. 
 
 Heard he then the unjust sentence : all his goods and gold 
 were given 
 
 To another, and he stood alone, a beggar in the place. 
 
 And the man who bought the judgment looked in triumph 
 and derision 
 
 At the cheated Hindoo merchant, as he rubbed his hands 
 and smiled 
 
 At the whispered gratulation of his friends, and at the 
 vision 
 
 Of the more than queenly dower for Alimeer, his only 
 child. 
 
 Fair Alimeer, who of God’s creatures was the only one 
 who loved him, 
 
 She, the diamond of his. treasures, the one lamb within 
 his fold, 
 
 She, whose voice, like her dead mother’s, was the only 
 power that moved him, — 
 
 She would praise the skill that gained her all this Hindoo’s 
 silk and gold. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 495 
 
 And the old man thanked Confucius, and the judge, and 
 him who pleaded. 
 
 But why falls this sudden silence ? why does each one hold 
 his breath ? 
 
 Every eye turns on the Hindoo, who before was all un- 
 heeded, 
 
 And in wond’ring expectation all the court grows still as 
 death. 
 
 Not alone stood Chunder Ali: by his side Ahmeer was 
 standing, 
 
 And his brown hand rested lightly on her shoulder as he 
 smiled 
 
 At the sweet young face turned toward him. Then the 
 father’s voice commanding 
 
 Fiercely bade his daughter to him from the dog whose 
 touch defiled. 
 
 But she moved not, and she looked not at her father or the 
 others 
 
 As she answered, with her eyes upon the Hindoo’ s noble 
 face : 
 
 “Nay, my father, he defiles not: this kind arm above all 
 others 
 
 Is my choosing, and forever by his side shall be my place. 
 
 When you knew not, his dear hand had given many a 
 sweet love-token, 
 
 He had gathered all my heartstrings and had bound them 
 round his life ; 
 
 Yet you tell me he defiles me ; nay, my father, you have 
 spoken 
 
 In your anger, and not knowing I was Chunder Ali’s 
 wife.” 
 
496 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY* 
 
 A KISS. 
 
 L OVE is a plant with double root, 
 
 And of strange, elastic power : 
 
 Men’s minds are divided in naming the fruit, 
 But a kiss is only the flower. 
 
 JACQUEMINOTS. 
 
 I MAY not speak in words, dear, but let my words be 
 flowers, 
 
 To tell their crimson secret in leaves of fragrant fire ; 
 They plead for smiles and kisses as summer fields for 
 showers, 
 
 And every purple veinlet thrills with exquisite desire. 
 
 O, let me see the glance, dear, the gleam of soft confession 
 You give my amorous roses for the tender hope they 
 prove ; 
 
 And press their heart-leaves back, love, to drink their 
 deeper passion, 
 
 For their sweetest, wildest perfume is the whisper of 
 my love ! 
 
 My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness and the 
 sighing, 
 
 All the longing of a heart that reaches thirsting for its 
 bliss ; 
 
 And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips and eyes are 
 dying 
 
 For the melting of her love-look and the rapture of her 
 kiss. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 497 
 
 THE CELEBES. 
 
 The sons of God came upon the earth and took wives of the daugh- 
 of men .” — Legends of the Talmud. 
 
 D EAR islands of the Orient, 
 
 Where Nature’s first of love was spent ; 
 Sweet hill-tops of the summered land 
 Where gods and men went hand in hand 
 In golden days of sinless earth ! 
 
 Woe rack the womb of time, that bore 
 The primal evil to its birth ! 
 
 It came ; the gods were seen no more : 
 
 The fields made sacred by their feet, 
 
 The flowers they loved, grown all too sweet, 
 The streams their bright forms mirrored, 
 
 The fragrant banks that made their bed, 
 
 The human hearts round which they wove 
 Their threads of superhuman love — 
 
 These were too dear and desolate 
 To sink to fallen man’s estate ; 
 
 The gods who loved them loosed the seas, 
 Struck free the barriers of the deep, 
 
 That rolled in one careering sweep 
 And filled the land, as ’twere a grave, 
 
 And left no beauteous remnant, save 
 Those hill-tops called the Celebes. 
 
 LOVE’S SACRIFICE. 
 
 L OVE’S Herald flew o’er all the fields of Greece, 
 Crying : “ Love’s altar waits for sacrifice ! ” 
 And all folk answered, like a wave of peace, 
 
 With treasured offerings and gifts of price. 
 
498 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Toward high Olympus every white road filled 
 With pilgrims streaming to the blest abode ; 
 Each bore rich tribute, some for joys fulfilled, 
 
 And some for blisses lingering on the road. 
 
 The pious peasant drives his laden car ; 
 
 The fisher youth bears treasure from the sea ; 
 
 A wife brings honey for the sweets that are ; 
 
 A maid brings roses for the sweets to be. 
 
 Here strides the soldier with his wreathed sword, 
 No more to glitter in his country’s wars ; 
 
 There walks the poet with his mystic word, 
 
 And smiles at Eros’ mild recruit from Mars. 
 
 * 
 
 But midst these bearers of propitious gifts, 
 
 Behold where two, a youth and maiden, stand : 
 She bears no boon ; his arm no burden lifts, 
 
 Save her dear fingers pressed within his hand. 
 
 Their touch ignites the soft delicious fire, 
 
 Whose rays the very altar-flames eclipse ; 
 
 Their eyes are on each other — sweet desire 
 And yearning passion tremble on their lips. 
 
 So fair — so strong ! Ah, Love ! what errant wiles 
 Have brought these two so poor and so unblest ? 
 But see ! Instead of anger, Cupid smiles ; 
 
 And lo ! he crowns their sacrifice as best ! 
 
 Their hands are empty, but their hearts are filled ; 
 
 Their gifts so rare for all the host suffice : 
 
 Before the altar is their life- wine spilled — 
 
 The love they long for is their sacrifice. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 499 
 
 HER REFRAIN. 
 
 D O you love me ? ” she said, when the skies were blue, 
 And we walked where the stream through the 
 branches glistened ; 
 
 And I told and retold her my love was true, 
 
 While she listened and smiled, and smiled and listened. 
 
 Do you love me ? ’ 5 she whispered, when days were drear, 
 And her eyes searched mine with a patient yearning ; 
 And I kissed her, renewing the words so dear, 
 
 While she listened and smiled, as if slowly learning. 
 
 Do you love me ? ” she asked, when we sat at rest 
 By the stream enshadowed with autumn glory ; 
 
 Her cheek had been laid as in peace on my breast, 
 
 But she raised it to ask for the sweet old story. 
 
 And I said : “ I will tell her the tale again — 
 
 I will swear by the earth and the stars above me ! ” 
 And I told her that uttermost time should prove 
 The fervor and faith of my perfect love ; 
 
 And I vowed it and pledged it that nought should move , 
 While she listened and smiled in my face, and then 
 She whispered once more, “ Do you truly love me?” 
 
 GOLU. 
 
 O NCE I had a little sweetheart 
 In the land of the Malay, — 
 Such a little yellow sweetheart ! 
 
 Warm and peerless as the day 
 Of her own dear sunny island, 
 Keimali, in the far, far East, 
 Where the mango and banana 
 Made us many a merry feast. 
 
JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 Such a little copper sweetheart 
 Was my Golu, plump and round, 
 With her hair all blue-black streaming 
 O’er her to the very ground. 
 
 Soft and clear as dew-drop clinging 
 To a grass blade was her eye ; 
 
 For the heart below was purer 
 
 Than the hill-stream whispering by. 
 
 Costly robes were not for Golu : 
 
 No more raiment did she need 
 Than the milky budding breadfruit, 
 
 Or the lily of the mead ; 
 
 And she was my little sweetheart 
 Many a sunny summer day, 
 
 When we ate the fragrant guavas, 
 
 In the land of the Malay. 
 
 Life was laughing then. Ah ! Golu, 
 Do you think of that old time, 
 
 And of all the tales I told you 
 Of my colder Western clime ? 
 
 Do you think how happy were we 
 When we sailed to strip the palm, 
 And we made a lateen arbor 
 Of the boat-sail in the calm % 
 
 They may call you semi-savage, 
 
 Golu ! I cannot forget 
 How I poised my little sweetheart 
 Like a copper statuette. 
 
 Now my path lies through the cities ; 
 
 But they cannot drive away 
 My sweet dreams of little Golu 
 And the land of the Malay. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 501 
 
 LOVE’S SECRET. 
 
 L OVE found them sitting in a woodland place, 
 
 His amorous hand amid her golden tresses ; 
 
 And Love looked smiling on her glowing face 
 And moistened eyes upturned to his caresses. 
 
 “ O sweet,” she murmured, “ life is utter bliss ! ” 
 
 “ Dear heart,” he said, “our golden cup runs over ! ” 
 
 “ Drink, love,” she cried, “ and thank the gods for this ! ” 
 He drained the precious lips of cup and lover. 
 
 Love blessed the kiss ; but, ere he wandered thence, 
 
 The mated bosoms heard this benediction : 
 
 “ Lore lies within the brimming bowl of sense : 
 
 -JWho keeps this full has joy — who drains , affliction .” 
 
 They heard the rustle as he smiling fled : 
 
 She reached her hand to pull the roses blowing. 
 
 He stretched to take the purple grapes o’erhead ; 
 
 Love whispered back, “Nay, keep their beauties grow- 
 ing .” 
 
 They paused, and understood : one flower alone 
 They took and kept, and Love flew smiling over. 
 
 Their roses bloomed, their cup went brimming on — 
 
 She looked for love within, and found her lover. 
 
 A PASSAGE. 
 
 T HE world was made when a man was born ; 
 
 He must taste for himself the forbidden springs, 
 He can never take warning from old-fashioned things ; 
 He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth, 
 
 He must kiss, he must love, he must swear to the truth 
 
502 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Of the friend of his soul, he must laugh to scorn 
 The hint of deceit in a woman’s eyes 
 That are clear ns the wells of Paradise. 
 
 And so he goes on, till the world* grows old, 
 
 Till his tongue has grown cautious, his heart has grown 
 cold, 
 
 Till the smile leaves his mouth, and the ring leaves his 
 laugh, 
 
 And he shirks the bright headache you ask him to quaff ; 
 He grows formal with men, and with women polite, 
 
 And distrustful of both when they’re out of his sight ; 
 Then he eats for his palate, and drinks for his head, 
 
 And loves for his pleasure, — and ’tis time he was dead ! 
 
 A LOST FRIEND. 
 
 M Y friend he was ; my friend from all the rest ; 
 
 With childlike faith he oped to me his breast ; 
 No door was locked on altar, grave or grief ; 
 
 No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief ; 
 
 The hope, the sorrow and the wrong were bare, 
 
 And ah, the shadow only showed the fair ! 
 
 I gave him love for love ; but, deep within, 
 
 I magnified each frailty into sin ; 
 
 Each hill-topped foible in the sunset glowed, 
 Obscuring vales where rivered virtues flowed. 
 Reproof became reproach, till common grew 
 The captious word at every fault I knew. 
 
 He smiled upon the censorship, and bore 
 With patient love the touch that wounded sore ; 
 Until at length, so had my blindness grown, 
 
 He knew I judged him by his faults alone. 
 
 Alone, of all men, I who knew him best, 
 
 Refused the gold, to take the dross for test ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 503 
 
 Cold strangers honored for the worth they saw ; 
 
 His friend forgot the diamond in the flaw. 
 
 At last it came — the day he stood apart 
 When from my eyes he proudly veiled his heart ; 
 When carping judgment and uncertain word 
 A stern resentment in his bosom stirred ; 
 
 When in his face I read what I had been, 
 
 And with his vision saw what he had seen. 
 
 Too late ! too late ! Oh, could he then have known, 
 When his love died, that mine had perfect grown ; 
 That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastised, 
 
 The censor stood, the lost one truly prized. 
 
 Too late we learn — a man must hold his friend 
 Unjudged, accepted, trusted to the end. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 “You gave me the key of your heart, my love ; 
 
 Then why do you make me knock ? ’ ’ 
 
 “ 0, that was yesterday, Saints above ! 
 
 And last night — I changed the lock ! ” 
 
504 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 I N the depths of the silent wood the temple of Friendship 
 stood, 
 
 Like a dream of snow-white stone, or a vestal all alone, 
 Undraped beside a stream. 
 
 The pious from every clime came there to rest for a time, 
 
 W ith incense and gifts and prayer ; and the stainless 
 marble stair 
 
 Was worn by fervent knees. 
 
 And everywhere the fame of the beautiful temple came, 
 With its altar white and pure, and its worship) to allure 
 From gods that bring unrest. 
 
 The goddess was there to assuage (for this was the Golden 
 Age) 
 
 The trials of all who staid and trustingly tried and prayed 
 For the perfect grace. 
 
 Soldier and clerk and dame in couples and companies 
 came ; 
 
 There were few who rode alone, for none feared the othep 
 one, 
 
 So placid and safe the creed. 
 
 There came from afar one day, with a suite in rich array, 
 
 A lady of beauty rare, who bent to the plaintive air 
 A handsome minstrel sung. 
 
 Her face was as calm and cold as the stamp of a queen on 
 gold, 
 
 And the song the poet sung to a restful theme was strung, 
 
 A tranquil air of peace. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 505 
 
 But, as they happily rode to the holy and white abode, 
 
 They were watched from a cloud above by the mischievous 
 god of Love, 
 
 Who envied Friendship’s reign. 
 
 They dreamt not of danger near, and their hearts felt no 
 shade of fear, 
 
 As they laid their rich offerings of flowers and precious 
 things 
 
 At Friendship’s lovely feet. 
 
 They lingered long near the shrine, in the air of its peace 
 divine ; 
 
 By the shadowed stream they strayed, where often the 
 heavenly maid 
 
 Would smile upon their rest. 
 
 One day, with her white robe flown, she passed like a 
 dream alone, 
 
 Where they sat in a converse sweet, with the silver stream 
 at their feet 
 
 As still and as wise as they. 
 
 To the innermost temple’s room, to the couch, and the 
 sacred loom 
 
 Where she weaves her placid will, the goddess came, smil- 
 ing still, 
 
 Unrobing for blissful rest. 
 
 0 lily of perfect mold, the world had grown young, not 
 old, 
 
 Had it bowed at thy milk-white feet with a love not of fire, 
 but heat, — 
 
 Sweet lotus of soft repose ! 
 
 Like the moon her body glows, like the sun-flushed Alpine 
 snows ; 
 
506 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Her arms ’neath her radiant head, she sleeps, and lo ! o’er 
 her bed 
 
 The wicked Cupid leans. 
 
 Even he cannot fly the feast which nor vestal nor hoary 
 priest 
 
 Had ever enjoyed before. But, stealing her robe from the 
 floor, 
 
 He dons it and is gone. 
 
 By the stream, in the silent shade, he walks where the two 
 have made 
 
 Their resting-place for the noon: “’Tis Friendship!” 
 they cry ; and soon 
 
 Love’ s guile on their hearts is laid. 
 
 “O, the goddess is good!” she said, as she bent her 
 golden head 
 
 And looked in the minstrel’s face. “ She stands by our 
 resting-place 
 
 And blesses our peaceful love ! ” 
 
 As she spoke, a flame shot through her breast, and her 
 eyes of blue 
 
 Grew moist with a subtle bliss. “Sweet friend!” she 
 cried, and her kiss 
 
 Clung soft on the poet’s lips. 
 
 “Ah, me!” he sighed, “if they knew, those feverish 
 lovers who woo 
 
 For the passion of tears and blood, how soothing and pure 
 and good 
 
 Is a friendly kiss — like this ! ” 
 
 “ O, list ! ” she cried, “ ’tis a dove ; he calls for his absent 
 love ; 
 
 They will sit all day and coo calm friendship, like mine 
 for you, — 
 
 Dear friend, like mine for you.” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 507 
 
 Their hands were joined, and a thrill of desire and passion- 
 ate will 
 
 Brought his eyes her eyes above in a marvelous look of 
 love, 
 
 And Cupid smiled and drew near. 
 
 “ O sweetest ! ” she whispered softly. “ See ! the goddess 
 is leaning over me, 
 
 And smiling with eyes like yours ! O Goddess ! thy pres- 
 ence cures 
 
 The restful unrest of friends ! ” 
 
 And Cupid laughed in her eyes as he threw off the white 
 disguise 
 
 And bent down to kiss her himself — but cuff ! cuff ! on 
 the ears of the elf 
 
 From the goddess who sought her robe. 
 
 And the river flowed on through the wood, and the temple 
 of Friendship stood 
 
 Like a dream of snow-white stone. But the minstrel 
 returned alone 
 
 From his pilgrimage. 
 
 THE VALUE OF GOLD. 
 
 T HEBE may be standard weight for precious metal, 
 But deeper meaning it must ever hold ; 
 
 Thank God, there are some things no law can settle, 
 And one of these — the real worth of gold. 
 
 The stamp of king or crown has common power 
 To hold the traffic-value in control ; 
 
 Our coarser senses note this worth — the lower ; 
 
 The higher comes from senses of the soul. 
 
508 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 This truth we find not in mere warehouse learning — 
 The value varies with the hands that hold ; 
 
 The worth depends upon the mode of earning ; 
 
 And this man’s copper equals that man’s gold. 
 
 With empty heart, and forehead lined with scheming, 
 Men’s sin and sorrow have been that man’s gain ; 
 
 But this man’s heart, with rich emotions teeming, 
 Makes fine the gold for which he coins his brain. 
 
 But richer still than gold from upright labor — 
 
 The only gold that should have standard price — 
 
 Is the poor earning of our humble neighbor, 
 
 Whose every coin is red with sacrifice. 
 
 Mere store of money is not wealth, but rather 
 The proof of poverty and need of bread. 
 
 Like men themselves is the bright gold they gather 
 It may be living, or it may be dead. 
 
 It may be filled with love and life and vigor, 
 
 To guide the wearer, and to cheer the way ; 
 
 It may be corpse-like in its weight and rigor, 
 
 Bending the bearer to his native clay. 
 
 There is no comfort but in outward showing 
 In all the servile homage paid to dross ; 
 
 Better to heart and soul the silent knowing 
 Our little store has not been gained by loss. 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 /YNLY from day to day 
 ^ The life of a wise man runs ; 
 What matter if seasons far away 
 Have gloom or have double suns ? 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 509 
 
 « 
 
 To climb the unreal path, 
 
 We stray from the roadway here ; 
 
 We swim the rivers of wrath, 
 
 And tunnel the hills of fear. 
 
 Our feet on the torrent’s brink, 
 
 Our eyes on the cloud afar, 
 
 We fear the things we think, 
 Instead of the things that are. 
 
 Like a tide our work should rise — 
 Each later wave the best ; 
 
 To-day is a king in disguise,* 
 To-day is the special test. 
 
 Like a sawyer’s work is life : 
 
 The present makes the flaw, 
 
 And the only field for strife 
 Is the inch before the saw. 
 
 A BUILDER’S LESSON. 
 
 OW shall I a habit break ? ” 
 
 As you did that habit make. 
 As you gathered, you must lose ; 
 
 As you yielded, now refuse. 
 
 Thread by thread the strands we twist 
 Till they bind us neck and wrist ; 
 Thread by thread the patient hand 
 Must untwine ere free we stand. 
 
 As we builded, stone by stone, 
 
 We must toil unhelped, alone, 
 
 Till the wall is overthrown. 
 
 * “The days are ever divine .... They come and go like muffled and 
 veiled figures, sent from a distant friendly party ; but they say nothing ; and 
 if we do not use the gifts they bring, they carry them as silently away.” — 
 Emerson. 
 
510 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But remember, as we try, 
 
 Lighter every test goes by ; 
 
 Wading in, the stream grows deep 
 Toward the center’s downward sweep ; 
 Backward turn, each step ashore 
 Shallower is than that before. 
 
 Ah, the precious years we waste 
 Leveling what we raised in haste ; 
 
 Doing what must be undone 
 Ere content or love be won ! 
 
 First across the gulf we cast 
 Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed, 
 And habit builds the bridge at last ! 
 
 HEY brought them up from their huts in the fens, 
 
 The woeful sufferers gaunt and grim ; 
 
 They flocked from the city’s noisome dens 
 To the Monarch’s throne to be touched by him. 
 
 “For his touch,” they whisper, “ is sovereign balm, 
 The anointed King has a power to heal.” 
 
 Oh, the piteous prayers as the royal palm 
 Is laid on their necks while they humbly kneel ! 
 
 Blind hope ! But the cruel and cold deceit 
 A rich reward to the palace brings ; 
 
 A snare for the untaught People’s feet, 
 
 And a courtier’s lie for the good of Kings. 
 
 But the years are sands, and they slip away 
 Till the baseless wall in the sun lies bare ; 
 
 The touch of the King has no balm to-day, 
 
 And the Bight Divine is the People’s share. 
 
 The word remains : but the Evil now 
 
 Is caused, not cured, by imperial hands, — 
 
 THE KING’S EVIL. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 511 
 
 The lightless soul and the narrow brow, 
 
 The servile millions in armed bands ; 
 
 The sweat- wrung gold from the peasant’s toil 
 Flung merrily out by the gambling lord, 
 
 Who is reckless owner of serf and soil, 
 
 And master of church and law and sword. 
 
 But the night has receded : the dawn like a tide 
 Creeps slow round the world, till the feet of the throne 
 Are lapped by the waves that shall seethe and ride 
 Where the titles are gulfed and the shields overblown. 
 Our Kings are the same as the Kings of old, 
 
 But a Man stands up where there crouched a clown ; 
 The Evil shall die when his hand grows bold, 
 
 And the touch of the People is laid on the Crown ! 
 
 BONE AND SINEW AND BRAIN. 
 
 Y E white-maned waves of the Western Sea, 
 That ride and roll to the strand, 
 
 Ye strong-winged birds, never forced a-lee 
 By the gales that sweep toward land, 
 
 Ye are symbols of death, and of hope that saves, 
 As ye swoop in your strength and grace, 
 
 As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves 
 Of a past and puerile race. 
 
 Cry, “ Presto, change ! ” and the lout is lord, 
 With his vulgar blood turned blue ; 
 
 Go dub your knight with a slap of a sword, 
 
 As the kings in Europe do ; 
 
 Go grade the lines of your social mode 
 As you grade the palace wall, — 
 
 The people forever to bear the load, 
 
 And the gilded vanes o’ er all. 
 
512 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 Bat the human blocks will not lie as still 
 As the dull foundation stones, 
 
 But will rise, like a sea, with an awful will, 
 And ingulf the golden thrones ; 
 
 For the days are gone when a special race 
 Took the place of the gilded vane ; 
 
 And the merit that mounts to the highest place 
 Must have bone and sinew and brain. 
 
 Let the cant of “ the march of mind ” be heard, 
 Of the time to come, when man 
 Shall lose the mark of his brawn and beard 
 In the future’s leveling plan : 
 
 ’Tis the dream of a mind effeminate, 
 
 The whine for an easy crown ; 
 
 There is no meed for the good and great 
 In the weakling’s leveling down. 
 
 A nation’s boast is a nation’s bone, 
 
 As well as its might of mind ; 
 
 And the culture of either of these alone 
 Is the doom of a nation signed. 
 
 But the cant of the ultra-suasion school 
 Unsinews the hand and thigh, 
 
 And preaches the creed of the weak to rule, 
 And the strong to struggle and die. 
 
 Our schools are spurred to the fatal race, 
 
 As if health were the nation’s sin, 
 
 Till the head grows large, and the vampire face 
 Is gorged on the limbs so thin. 
 
 Our women have entered the abstract fields, 
 And avaunt with the child and home : 
 
 While the rind of science a pleasure yields 
 Shall they care for the lives to come ? 
 
 And they ape the manners of manly times 
 In their sterile and worthless life, 
 
 Till the man of the future augments his crimes 
 With a raid for a Sabine wife. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 513 
 
 Ho, white-maned waves of the Western Sea, 
 
 That ride and roll to the strand ! 
 
 Ho, strong- winged birds, never blown a-lee 
 By the gales that sweep toward land ! 
 
 Ye are symbols both of a hope that saves, 
 
 As ye swoop in your strength and grace, 
 
 As ye roll to the land like the billowed graves 
 Of a suicidal race. 
 
 Ye have hoarded your strength in equal parts ; 
 
 For the men of the future reign 
 Must have faithful souls and kindly hearts, 
 
 And bone and sinew and brain. 
 
 THE CITY STREETS. 
 
 A CITY of Palaces ! Yes, that’s true : a city of palaces 
 built for trade ; 
 
 Look down this street — what a splendid view of the temples 
 where fabulous gains are made. 
 
 Just glance at the wealth of a single pile, the marble pillars, 
 the miles of glass, 
 
 The carving and cornice in gaudy style, the massive show 
 of the polished brass ; 
 
 And think of the acres of inner floors, where the wealth of 
 the world is spread for sale ; 
 
 Why, the treasures inclosed by those ponderous doors are 
 richer than ever a fairy tale. 
 
 Pass on the next, it is still the same, another Aladdin the 
 scene repeats ; 
 
 The silks are unrolled and the jewels flame for leagues and 
 leagues of the city streets ! 
 
 Now turn away from the teeming town, and pass to the 
 homes of the merchant kings, 
 
 Wide squares where the stately porches frown, where the 
 flowers are bright and the fountain sings ; 
 
514 
 
 JOHN BOYLE 0 ? REILLY. 
 
 Look up at the lights in that brilliant room, with its 
 chandelier of a hundred flames ! 
 
 See the carpeted street where the ladies come whose hus- 
 bands have millions or famous names ; 
 
 For whom are the jewels and silks, behold : on those 
 exquisite bosoms and throats they burn ; 
 
 Art challenges Nature in color and gold and the gracious 
 presence of every turn. 
 
 So the winters fly past in a joyous rout, and the summers 
 bring marvelous cool retreats ; 
 
 These are civilized wonders we’re finding out as we walk 
 through the beautiful city streets. 
 
 A City of Palaces ! — Hush ! not quite : a city where palaces 
 are, is best ; 
 
 No need to speak of what’s out of sight : let us take what 
 is pleasant, and leave the rest : 
 
 The men of the city who travel and write, whose fame and 
 credit are known abroad, 
 
 The people who move in the ranks polite, the cultured 
 women whom all applaud. 
 
 It is true, there are only ten thousand here, but the other 
 half million are vulgar clod ; 
 
 And a soul well-bred is eternally dear — it counts so much 
 more on the books of God. 
 
 The others have use in their place, no doubt ; but why 
 speak of a class one never meets ? 
 
 They are gloomy things to be talked about, those common 
 lives of the city streets. 
 
 Well, then, if you will, let us look at both : let us weigh 
 the pleasure against the pain, 
 
 The gentleman’s smile with the bar-room oath, the lumi- 
 nous square with the tenement lane. 
 
 Look round you now ; ’ tis another sphere, of thin-clad 
 women and grimy men ; 
 
 There are over ten thousand huddled here, where a hundred 
 would live of our upper ten. 
 
515 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Take care of that child : here, look at her face, a baby who 
 carries a baby brother ; 
 
 They are early helpers in this poor place, and the infant 
 must often nurse the mother. 
 
 Come up those stairs where the little ones went : five flights 
 they groped and climbed in the dark ; 
 
 There are dozens of homes on the steep ascent, and homes 
 that are filled with children — hark ! 
 
 Did you hear that laugh, with its manly tones, and the 
 joyous ring of the baby voice % 
 
 . ’Tis the father who gathers his little ones, the nurse and 
 her brother, and all rejoice. 
 
 Yes, human nature is much the same when you come to 
 the heart and count its beats ; 
 
 The workman is proud of his home’s dear name as the 
 richest man on the city streets. 
 
 God pity them all ! God pity the worst ! for the worst are 
 reckless, and need it most : 
 
 When we trace the causes why lives are curst with the 
 criminal taint, let no man boast : 
 
 The race is not run with an equal chance : the poor man’s 
 son carries double weight ; 
 
 Who have not, are tempted ; inheritance is a blight or a 
 blessing of man’s estate. 
 
 No matter that poor men sometimes sweep the prize from 
 the sons of the millionaire : 
 
 What is good to win must be good to keep, else the virtue 
 dies on the topmost stair ; 
 
 When the winners can keep their golden prize, still darker 
 the day of the laboring poor : 
 
 The strong and the selfish are sure to rise, while the sim- 
 ple and generous die obscure. 
 
 And these are the virtues and social gifts by which Progress 
 and Property rank over Man ! 
 
 Look there, O woe ! where a lost soul drifts on the stream 
 where such virtues overran : 
 
§16 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Stand close — let her pass ! from a tenement room and a 
 reeking workshop graduate : 
 
 If a man were to break the iron loom or the press she 
 tended, he knows his fate ; 
 
 But her life may be broken, she stands alone, her poverty 
 stings, and her guideless feet, 
 
 Not long since kissed as a father’s own, are dragged in the 
 mire of the pitiless street. 
 
 Come back to the light, for my brain goes wrong when I 
 see the sorrows that can’t be cured. 
 
 If this is all righteous, then why prolong the pain for a 
 thing that must be endured ? 
 
 We can never have palaces built without slaves, nor luxu- 
 ries served without ill -paid toil ; 
 
 Society flourishes only on graves, the moral graves in the 
 lowly soil. 
 
 The earth was not made for its people : that cry has been 
 hounded down as a social crime ; 
 
 The meaning of life is to barter and buy ; and the strongest 
 and shrewdest are masters of time. 
 
 God made the million to serve the few, and their questions 
 of right are vain conceits ; 
 
 To have one sweet home that is safe and true, ten garrets 
 must reek in the darkened streets. 
 
 ’Tis Civilization, so they say, and it cannot be changed for 
 the weakness of men. 
 
 Take care ! take care ! ’tis a desperate way to goad the 
 wolf to the end of his den. 
 
 Take heed of your Civilization, ye, on your pyramids built 
 of quivering hearts ; 
 
 There are stages, like Paris in ’93, where the commonest 
 men play most terrible parts. 
 
 Your statutes may crush but they cannot kill the patient 
 sense of a natural right ; 
 
 It may slowly move, but the People’s will, like the ocean 
 o’er Holland, is always in sight. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 517 
 
 “ It is not our fault! ” say the rich ones. No ; ’tis the 
 fault of a system old and strong ; 
 
 But men are the makers of systems : so, the cure will come 
 if we own the wrong. 
 
 It will come in peace if the man-right lead ; it will sweep 
 in storm if it be denied : 
 
 The law to bring justice is always decreed ; and on every 
 hand are the warnings cried. 
 
 Take heed of your Progress ! Its feet have trod on the 
 souls it slew with its own pollutions ; 
 
 Submission is good ; but the order of God may flame the 
 torch of the revolutions ! 
 
 Beware with your Classes ! Men are men, and a cry in the 
 night is a fearful teacher ; 
 
 When it reaches the hearts of the masses, then they need 
 but a sword for a judge and preacher. 
 
 Take heed, for your Juggernaut pushes hard : God holds 
 the doom that its day completes ; 
 
 It will dawn like a tire when the track is barred by a barri- 
 cade in the city streets. 
 
 THE INFINITE. 
 
 The Infinite always is silent : 
 
 It is only the Finite speaks. 
 
 Our words are the idle wave-caps 
 On the deep that never breaks. 
 
 We may question with wand of science, 
 Explain, decide, and discuss ; 
 
 But only in meditation 
 The Mystery speaks to us. 
 
518 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 FROM THE EARTH, A CRY. 
 
 “ The Years of Our Lord ” 1870 to 1880. — The Rulers of Prussia and 
 France make War.— The Paris Commune. — War for Rome between 
 the Pope and the King of Italy.— War between Russia and Turkey. — 
 England devastates Abyssinia, Ashantee, and Zululand. — One English 
 Viceroy in India murdered. Another shot at. — Socialists attempt to 
 kill the Emperor of Germany. — Internationalists fire at the King of 
 Italy. — Nihilists thrice attempt to destroy the Czar. — The Mines of 
 Siberia filled with Political Prisoners. — The Farmers of Ireland Rebel in 
 Despair against Rack-rents. — The Workmen of England Emigrating 
 from Starvation. — The Land of England, Scotland, and Ireland held by 
 Less than a Quarter of a Million of Men. — The Pittsburg Riots. — The 
 American Strikes. — The End of the Decade. 
 
 C AN the earth have a voice ? Can the clods have speech, 
 To murmur and rail at the demigods ? 
 
 Trample them ! Grind their vulgar faces in the clay ! 
 
 The earth was made for lords and the makers of law ; 
 
 For the conquerors and the social priest ; 
 
 For traders who feed on and foster the complex life ; 
 
 For the shrewd and the selfish who plan and keep ; 
 
 For the heirs who squander the hoard that bears 
 The face of the king, and the blood of the serf, 
 
 And the curse of the darkened souls ! 
 
 O Christ ! and O Christ ! In thy name the law ! 
 
 In thy mouth the mandate ! In thy loving hand the whip ! 
 They have taken thee down from thy cross and sent thee to 
 scourge the people ; 
 
 They have shod thy feet with spikes and jointed thy dead 
 knees with iron, 
 
 And pushed thee, hiding behind, to trample the poor dumb 
 faces ! 
 
 The spheres make music in space. They swing 
 Like fiery cherubim on their paths, circling their suns, 
 Mysterious, weaving the irrevealable, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 519 
 
 Full of the peace of unity — sphere and its life at one — 
 Humming their lives of love through the limitless waste of 
 creation. 
 
 God ! thou hast made man a test of Thyself ! 
 
 Thou hast set in him a heart that bleeds at the cry of the 
 helpless : 
 
 Through Thine infinite seas one world rolls silent, 
 
 Moaning at times with quivers and fissures of blood ; 
 Divided, unhappy, accursed ; the lower life good, 
 
 But the higher life wasted and split, like grain with a 
 cankered root. 
 
 Is there health in thy gift of life, Almighty % 
 
 Is there grief or compassion anywhere for the poor \ 
 
 If these be, there is guerdon for those who hate the 
 wrong 
 
 And leap naked on the spears, that blood may cry 
 For truth to come, and pity, and Thy peace. 
 
 The human sea is frozen like a swamp ; and the kings 
 And the heirs and the owners ride on the ice and laugh. 
 Their war-forces, orders, and laws are the crusted field of a 
 crater, 
 
 And they stamp on the fearful rind, deriding its flesh-like 
 shudder. 
 
 Lightning ! the air is split, the crater bursts, and the 
 breathing 
 
 Of those below is the fume and fire of hatred. 
 
 The thrones are stayed with the courage of shotted guns. 
 The warning dies. 
 
 But queens are dragged to the block, and the knife of the 
 guillotine sinks 
 
 In the garbage of pampered flesh that gluts its bed and its 
 hinges. 
 
 Silence again, and sunshine. The gaping lips are closed 
 on the crater. 
 
520 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The dead are below, and the landless, and those who live 
 to labor 
 
 And grind forever in gloom that the privileged few may 
 live. 
 
 But the silence is sullen, not restful. It heaves like a sea, 
 and frets, 
 
 And beats at the roof till it finds another vent for its fury. 
 
 Again the valve is burst and the pitch-cloud rushes, — the 
 old seam rends anew — 
 
 Where the kings were killed before, their names are hewed 
 from the granite — 
 
 Paris, mad hope of the slave-shops, flames to the petroleuse ! 
 
 Tiger that tasted blood — Paris that tasted freedom ! 
 
 Never, while steel is cheap and sharp, shall thy kinglings 
 sleep without dreaming — 
 
 Never, while souls have flame, shall their palaces crush the 
 hovels. 
 
 Insects and vermin, ye, the starving and dangerous myriads, 
 
 List to the murmur that grows and growls ! Come from 
 your mines and mills, 
 
 Pale-faced girls and women with ragged and hard-eyed 
 children, 
 
 Pour from your dens of toil and filth, out to the air of 
 heaven — 
 
 Breathe it deep, and hearken ! A Cry from the cloud or 
 beyond it, 
 
 A Cry to the toilers to rise, to be high as the highest that 
 rules them, 
 
 To own the earth in their lifetime and hand it down to 
 their children ! 
 
 Emperors, stand to the bar ! Chancellors, halt at the 
 barracks ! 
 
 Landlords and Lawlords and Tradelords, the specters you 
 conjured have risen — 
 
521 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Communists, Socialists, Nihilists, Rent-rebels, Strikers, 
 behold ! 
 
 They are fruit of the seed you have sown — God has pros- 
 pered your planting. They come 
 
 From the earth, like the army of death. You have sowed 
 the teeth of the dragon ! 
 
 Hark to the bay of the leader ! You shall hear the roar of 
 the pack 
 
 As sure as the stream goes seaward. The crust on the 
 crater beneath you 
 
 Shall crack and crumble and sink, with your laws and rules 
 
 That breed the million to toil for the luxury of the ten — 
 
 That grind the rent from the .tiller’s blood for drones to 
 spend — 
 
 That hold the teeming planet as a garden plot for a 
 thousand — 
 
 That draw the crowds to the cities from the healthful fields 
 and woods — 
 
 That copulate with greed and beget disease and crime — 
 
 That join these two and their offspring, till the world is 
 filled with fear, 
 
 And falsehood wins from truth, and the vile and cunning 
 succeed, 
 
 And manhood and love are dwarfed, and virtue and friend- 
 ship sick, 
 
 And the law of Christ is a cloak for the corpse that stands 
 for Justice ! 
 
 —As sure as the Spirit of God is Truth, this Truth shall 
 reign, 
 
 And the trees and lowly brutes shall cease to be higher 
 than men. 
 
 God purifies slowly by peace, but urgently by fire. 
 
522 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 PROMETHEUS— CHRIST. 
 
 L ASHED to the planet, glaring at the sky, 
 
 An eagle at his heart — the Pagan Christ ! 
 
 Why is it, Mystery \ O, dumb Darkness, why 
 Have always men, with loving hearts themselves, 
 Made devils of their gods ? 
 
 The whirling globe 
 
 Bears round man’s sweating agony of blood, 
 That Might may gloat above impotent Pain ! 
 
 Man’s soul is dual — he is half a fiend, 
 
 And from himself he typifies Almighty. 
 
 O, poison-doubt, the answer holds no peace : 
 Man did not make himself a fiend, but God. 
 
 Between them, what ? Prometheus stares 
 Through ether to the lurid eyes of Jove — 
 Between them, Darkness ! 
 
 But the gods are dead — 
 Ay, Zeus is dead, and all the gods but Doubt, 
 
 And Doubt is brother devil to Despair ! 
 
 What, then, for us ? Better Prometheus’ fate, 
 
 Who dared the gods, than insect unbelief — 
 
 Better Doubt’s fitful flame than abject nothingness ! 
 
 O, world around us, glory of the spheres ! 
 
 God speaks in ordered harmony — behold ! 
 
 Between us and the Darkness, clad in light, — 
 Between us and the curtain of the Vast, — two Forms, 
 And each is crowned eternally — and One 
 Is crowned with flowers and tender leaves and grass, 
 And smiles benignly ; and the other One, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 523 
 
 With sadly pitying eyes, is crowned with thorns : 
 O Nature, and O Christ, for men to love 
 And seek and live by — Thine the dual reign — 
 
 The health and hope and happiness of men ! 
 
 Behold our faith and fruit ! — 
 
 What demon laughs % 
 
 Behold our books, our schools, our states, 
 
 Where Christ and Nature are the daily word ; 
 
 Behold our dealings between man and man, 
 
 Our laws for home, our treaties. for abroad ; 
 
 Behold our honor, honesty, and freedom, 
 
 And, last, our brotherhood ! For we are born 
 In Christian times and ruled by Christian rules ! 
 
 Bah ! God is mild, or he would strike the world 
 As men should smite a liar on the mouth. 
 
 Shame on the falsehood ! Let us tell the truth — 
 
 Nor Christ nor Nature rules, but Greed and Creed 
 And Caste and Cant and Craft and Ignorance. 
 
 Down to the dust with every decent face, 
 
 And whisper there the lies we daily live. 
 
 O, God forgive us ! Nature never can ; 
 
 For one is merciful, the other just. 
 
 Let us confess : by Nations first — our lines 
 Are writ in blood and rapine and revenge ; 
 
 Conquest and pride have motive been and law — 
 Christ walks with us to hourly crucifixion ! 
 
 As Men ? *Would God the better tale were here : 
 Atom as whole, corruption, shrewdness, self. 
 
 Freedom f A juggle — hundreds slave for one, — 
 
 That one is free, and boasts, and lo ! the shame, 
 
 The hundreds at the wheel go boasting too. 
 
524 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Justice f The selfish only can succeed ; 
 
 Success means power — did Christ mean it so ? — 
 
 And power must be guarded by the law, 
 
 And preachers preach that law must be obeyed, 
 
 Ay, even when Right is ironed in the dock, 
 
 And Rapine sits in ermine on the bench ! 
 
 Mercy f Behold it in the reeking slums 
 That grow like cancers from the palace wall ; 
 
 Go hear it from the conquered — how their blood 
 Is weighed in drops, and purchased, blood for gold ; 
 Go ask the toiling tenant why he paid 
 The landlord’s rent and let his children starve ; 
 
 Go find the thief, whose father was a thief, 
 
 And ask what Christian leech has cured his sin ? 
 Honesty f Our law of life is Gain — 
 
 We must get gold or be accounted fools ; 
 
 The lovable, the generous, must be crushed 
 And substituted by the hard and shrewd. 
 
 What is it, Christ, this thing called Christian life, 
 Where Christ is not, where ninety slave for ten, 
 
 And never own a flower save when they steal it, 
 
 And never hear a bird save when they cage it ? 
 
 Is this the freedom of Thy truth ? Ah, woe 
 For those who see a higher, nobler law 
 Than his, the Crucified, if this be so ! 
 
 O, man’s blind hope — Prometheus, thine the gift — 
 That bids him live when reason bids him die ! 
 
 We cling to this, as sailors to a spar — 
 
 We see that this is Truth : that men are one, 
 
 Nor king nor slave among them save by law ; 
 
 We see that law is crime, save God’s sweet code 
 That laps the world in freedom : trees and men 
 And every life around us, days and seasons, 
 
 All for their natural order on the planet, 
 
 To live their lives, an hour, a hundred years, 
 
 Equal, content, and free — nor curse their souls 
 With trade's malign unrest, with books that breed 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS A1STD SPEECHES. 
 
 525 
 
 Disparity, contempt for those who cannot read ; 
 With cities full of toil and sin and sorrow, 
 Climbing the devil-builded hill called Progress ! 
 Prometheus, we reject thy gifts for Christ’s ! 
 Selfish and hard w T ere thine ; but His are sweet — 
 
 “ Sell what thou hast and give it to the poor ! ” 
 Him we must follow to the great Commune, 
 Reading his book of Nature, growing wise 
 As planet-men, who own the earth, and pass ; 
 
 Him we must follow till foul Cant and Caste 
 Die like disease, and Mankind, freed at last, 
 Tramples the complex life and laws and limits 
 That stand between all living things and Freedom ! 
 
 UNSPOKEN WORDS. 
 
 T HE kindly words that rise within the heart, 
 And thrill it with their sympathetic tone, 
 
 But die ere spoken, fail to play their part, 
 
 And claim a merit that is not their own. 
 
 The kindly word unspoken is a sin, — 
 
 A sin that wraps itself in purest guise, 
 
 And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, 
 That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies. 
 
 But ’tis not so : another heart may thirst 
 For that kind word, as Hagar in the wild — 
 
 Poor banished Hagar ! — prayed a well might burst 
 From out the sand to save her parching child. 
 And loving eyes that cannot see the mind 
 Will watch the expected movement of the lip : 
 Ah ! can ye let its cutting silence wind 
 Around that heart, and scathe it like a whip ? 
 
 Unspoken words, like treasures in the mine, 
 
 Are valueless until we give then? birth : 
 
526 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’UEILLY. 
 
 Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine, 
 Which God has made to bless and gild the earth. 
 
 How sad ’twould be to see a master’s hand 
 Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute ! 
 
 But oh ! what pain when, at God’s own command, 
 
 A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute ! 
 
 Then hide it not, the music of the soul, 
 
 Dear sympathy, expressed with kindly voice, 
 
 But let it like a shining river roll 
 To deserts dry, — to hearts that would rejoice. 
 
 . Oh ! let the symphony of kindly words 
 
 Sound for the poor, the friendless, and the weak ; 
 
 And he will bless you, — he who struck these chords 
 Will strike another when in turn you seek. 
 
 STAB-GAZING. 
 
 L ET be what is : why should we strive and wrestle 
 With awkward skill against a subtle doubt ? 
 
 Or pin a mystery ’neatli our puny pestle, 
 
 And vainly try to bray its secret out ? 
 
 What boots it me to gaze at other planets, 
 
 And speculate on sensate beings there ? 
 
 It comforts not that, since the moon began its 
 Well-ordered course, it knew no breath of air. 
 
 There may be men and women up in Yenus, 
 
 Where science finds both summer-green and snow ; 
 But are we happier asking, ‘ ‘ Have they seen us ? 
 And, like us earth-men, do they yearn to know ? ” 
 
 On greater globes than ours men may be greater, 
 
 For all things here in fair proportion run ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 527 
 
 But will it make our poor cup any sweeter 
 To think a nobler Shakespeare thrills the snn ? 
 
 Or, that our sun is but itself a minor, 
 
 Like this dark earth — a tenth-rate satellite, 
 
 That swings submissive round an orb diviner, 
 
 Whose day is lightning, with our day for night ? 
 
 Or, past all suns, to find the awful center 
 
 Round which they meanly wind a servile road ; 
 
 Ah, will it raise us or degrade, to enter 
 Where that world’s Shakespeare towers almost to God? 
 
 No, no ; far better, “ lords of all creation ” 
 
 To strut our ant-hill, and to take our ease ; 
 
 To look aloft and say, “ That constellation 
 Was lighted there our regal sight to please ! ” 
 
 We owe no thanks to so-called men of science, 
 
 Who demonstrate that earth, -not sun, goes round ; 
 
 ’Twere better think the sun a mere appliance 
 To light man’s villages and heat his ground. 
 
 There seems no good in asking or in humbling ; 
 
 The mind incurious has the most of rest ; 
 
 If we can live and laugh and pray, not grumbling, 
 
 ’Tis all we can do here — and ’tis the best. 
 
 The throbbing brain will burst its tender raiment 
 With futile force, to see by finite light 
 
 How man’s brief earning and eternal payment 
 Are weighed as equal in th’ Infinite sight. 
 
 ’Tis all in vain to struggle with abstraction — 
 
 The milky way that tempts our mental glass ; 
 
 The study for mankind is earth-born action ; 
 
 The highest wisdom, let the wondering pass. 
 
528 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The Lord knows best : He gave ns thirst for learning ; 
 
 And deepest knowledge of His work betrays 
 No thirst left waterless. Shall our soul-yearning, 
 Apart from all things, be a quenchless blaze ? 
 
 A DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 H ER hair was a waving bronze, and her eyes 
 
 Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul ; 
 And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise 
 That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal ! 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK. 
 
 O LD memories rush o’er my mind just now 
 Of faces and friends of the past ; 
 
 Of that happy time when life’s dream was all bright, 
 
 E’er the clear sky of youth was o’ercast. 
 
 Very dear are those mem’ries, — they’ve clung round my 
 heart, 
 
 And bravely withstood Time’s rude shock ; 
 
 But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now 
 Than the face of the old school clock. 
 
 ’Twas a quaint old clock with a quaint old face, 
 
 And great iron weights and chain ; 
 
 It stopped when it liked, and before it struck 
 It creaked as if ’twere in pain. 
 
 It had seen many years, and it seemed to say, 
 
 “I’m one of the real old stock,’' 
 
 To the youthful fry, who with reverence looked 
 On the face of the old school clock. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 529 
 
 How many a time have I labored to sketch 
 That yellow and time-honored face, 
 
 With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands, 
 
 And the weights and the chains in their place ! 
 
 How oft have I gazed with admiring eye, 
 
 As I sat on the wooden block, 
 
 And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things 
 That were inside that old school clock ! 
 
 What a terrible frown did the old clock wear 
 To the truant, who timidly cast 
 An anxious eye on those merciless hands, 
 
 That for him had been moving too fast ! 
 
 But its frown soon changed ; for it loved to smile 
 On the thoughtless, noisy flock, 
 
 And it creaked and whirred and struck with glee, — 
 
 Did that genial, good-humored old clock. 
 
 Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled 
 With the world, its cares and ways, 
 
 When again I stood in that little school 
 Where I passed my boyhood’s days. 
 
 My old friend was gone ! and there hung a thing 
 That my sorrow seemed to mock, 
 
 As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart 
 At a new-fashioned Yankee clock. 
 
 ’Twas a gaudy thing with bright-painted sides, 
 
 And it looked with insolent stare 
 On the desks and the seats and on everything old 
 And I thought of the friendly air 
 Of the face that I missed, with its weights and chains, — 
 All gone to the auctioneer’ s block : 
 
 ’Tis a thing of the past, — never more shall I see 
 But in mem’ry that old school clock. 
 
 ’Tis the way of the world : old friends pass away, 
 
 And fresh faces arise in their stead ; 
 
530 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But still ’mid the din and the bustle of life 
 We cherish fond thoughts of the dead. 
 
 Yes, dearly those memories cling round my heart, 
 And bravely withstand Time’s rude shock ; 
 
 But not one is more dear or more hallowed to me 
 Than the face of that old school clock. 
 
 WITHERED SNOWDROPS. 
 
 T HEY came in the early spring-days, 
 
 With the first refreshing showers 
 And I watched the growing beauty 
 Of the little drooping flowers. 
 
 They had no bright hues to charm me, 
 
 No gay painting to allure ; 
 
 But they made me think of angels, 
 
 They were all so white and pure. 
 
 In the early morns I saw them, 
 
 Dew-drops clinging to each bell, 
 
 And the first glad sunbeam hasting 
 Just to kiss them ere they fell. 
 
 Daily grew their spotless beauty ; 
 
 But I feared when chill winds blew 
 They were all too frail and tender, — 
 
 And alas ! my fears were true. 
 
 One glad morn I went to see them 
 While the bright drops gemmed their snow, 
 And one angel flower was withered, 
 
 Its fair petals drooping low. 
 
 Its white sister’s tears fell on it, 
 
 And the sunbeam sadly shone ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 531 
 
 For its innocence was withered, 
 
 And its purity was gone. 
 
 Still I left it there : I could not 
 Tear it rudely from its place ; 
 
 It might rise again, and summer 
 Might restore its vanished grace. 
 
 But my hopes grew weaker, weaker, 
 
 And my heart with grief was pained 
 
 When I knew it must be severed 
 From the innocence it stained. 
 
 I must take it from the pure ones : 
 Henceforth they must live apart. 
 
 But I could not cut my flow’ ret — 
 
 My lost angel — from my heart. 
 
 Oft I think of that dead snowdrop, 
 
 Think with sorrow, when I meet, 
 
 Day by day, the poor lost flowers, — 
 Sullied snowdrops of the street. 
 
 They were pure once, loved and loving, 
 And there still lives good within. 
 
 Ah ! speak gently to them : harsh words 
 Will not lead them from their sin. 
 
 They are not like withered flowers 
 That can never bloom again : 
 
 They can rise, bright angel snowdrops, 
 Purified from every stain. 
 
 A SAVAGE. 
 
 D IXON, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, 
 
 Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl ; 
 
 Tried and condemned, the rough-beards curb their rage, 
 And watch him stride in freedom from the hall. 
 
532 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “ Return on Friday , to be shot to death ! ” 
 
 So ran the sentence — it was Monday night. 
 
 The dead man’s comrades drew a well-pleased breath ; 
 Then all night long the gambling dens were bright. 
 
 The days sped slowly ; but the Friday came, 
 
 And flocked the miners to the shooting-ground ; 
 They chose six riflemen of deadly aim, 
 
 And with low voices sat and lounged around. 
 
 “He will not come.” “ He’s not a fool.” “The men 
 Who set the savage free must face the blame.” 
 
 A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then 
 
 Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon came. 
 
 Silent and stern — a woman at his heels ; 
 
 He motions to the brave, who stays her tread. 
 
 Next minute — flame the guns : the woman reels 
 And drops without a moan — Dixon is dead. 
 
 RULES OF THE ROAD. 
 
 'TTT’HAT man would be wise, let him drink of the river 
 VV That bears on its bosom the record of time : 
 
 A message to him every wave can deliver 
 
 To teach him to creep till he knows how to climb. 
 
 Who heeds not experience, trust him not ; tell him 
 The scope of one mind can but trifles achieve : 
 
 The weakest who draws from the mine will excel him 
 The wealth of mankind is the wisdom they leave. 
 
 For peace do not hope— to be just you must break it ; 
 
 Still work for the minute and not for the year ; 
 When honor comes to you, be ready to take it ; 
 
 But reach not to seize it before it is near. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 583 
 
 Be silent and safe — silence never betrays you ; 
 
 Be true to your word and your work and your friend ; 
 Put least trust in him who is foremost to praise you, 
 
 Nor judge of a road till it draw to the end. 
 
 Stand erect in the vale, nor exult on the mountain ; 
 
 Take gifts with a sigh — most men give to be paid ; 
 
 “ I had ” is a heartache, “ I have ” is a fountain, — 
 
 You’re worth what you saved, not the million you made. 
 Trust toil not intent, or your plans will miscarry ; 
 
 Your wife keep a sweetheart, instead of a tease ; 
 
 Buie children by reason, not rod ; and, mind, marry 
 Your girl when you can — and your boy when you please. 
 
 Steer straight as the wind will allow ; but be ready 
 To veer just a point to let travelers pass : 
 
 Each sees his own star — a stiff course is too steady 
 When this one to Meeting goes, that one to Mass. 
 
 Our stream’s not so wide but two arches may span it — 
 Good neighbor and citizen ; these for a code, 
 
 And this truth in sight, — every man on the planet 
 Has just as much right as yourself to the road. 
 
 LOVING IS DREAMING. 
 
 L IFE is a certainty, 
 
 Death is a doubt ; 
 
 Men may be dead 
 While they’re walking about. 
 Love is as needful 
 To being as breath ; 
 
 Loving is dreaming, 
 
 And waking is death. 
 
534 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 Read before the Army of the Potomac, in Detroit, 1881. 
 
 N OR War nor Peace, forever, old and young, 
 
 But Strength my theme, whose song is yet unsung, 
 The People’s Strength, the deep alluring dream 
 Of truths that seethe below the truths that seem. 
 
 The buried ruins of dead empires seek, 
 
 Of Indian, Syrian, Persian, Roman, Greek : 
 
 From shattered capital and frieze upraise 
 The stately structures of their golden days : 
 
 Their laws occult, their priests and prophets ask, 
 
 Their altars search, their oracles unmask, 
 
 Their parable from birth to burial see, 
 
 The acorn germ, the growth, the dense-leafed tree, 
 
 A world of riant life ; the sudden day 
 When like a new strange glory, shone decay, 
 
 A golden glow amid the green ; the change 
 From branch’ to branch at life’s receding range, 
 
 Till nothing stands of towering strength and pride 
 Save naked trunk and arms whose veins are dried ; 
 
 And these, too, crumble till no signs remain 
 To mark its place upon the wind-sw T ept plain. 
 
 Why died the empires ? Like the forest trees 
 Did Nature doom them % or did slow disease 
 Assail their roots and poison all their springs ? 
 
 The old-time story answers : nobles? kings, 
 
 Have made and been the State, their names alone 
 Its history holds ; its wealth, its wars, their own. 
 
 Their wanton will could raise, enrich, condemn ; 
 
 The toiling millions lived and died for them. 
 
 Their fortunes rose in conquest fell, in guilt ; 
 
 The people never owned them, never built. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 535 
 
 Those olden times ! how many words are spent 
 In weak regret and shallow argument 
 To prove them wiser, happier than our own ! 
 
 The oldest moment that the world has known 
 Is passing now. Those vaunted times were young ; 
 Their wisdom from unlettered peasants sprung ; 
 
 Their laws from nobles arrogant and rude ; 
 
 Their justice force, their whole achievement crude. 
 
 With men the old are wise : why change the rule 
 When nations speak, and send the old to school % 
 Respect the past for all the good it knew : 
 
 Give noble lives and struggling truths their due ; 
 
 But ask what freedom knew the common men 
 Who served and bled and won the victories then ? 
 The leaders are immortal, but the hordes 
 They led to death were simply human swords, 
 Unknowing what they fought for, why they fell. 
 
 What change has come % Imperial Europe tell ! 
 Death’s warders cry from twenty centuries’ peaks : 
 Platsea’s field the word to Plevna speaks ; 
 
 The martial draft still wastes the peasants’ farms — 
 
 A dozen kings, — five million men in arms • 
 
 The earth mapped out estate-like, hedged with steel ; 
 In neighboring schools the children bred to feel 
 Unnatural hate, disjoined in speech and creed ; 
 
 The forges roaring for the armies’ need ; 
 
 The cities builded by the people lined 
 
 With scowling forts and roadways undermined ; 
 
 At every bastioned frontier, every State, 
 
 Suspicion, sworded, standing by the gate ! 
 
 But turn our eyes from these oppressive lands : 
 Behold ! one country all defenseless stands, 
 
 One nation-continent, from East to West, 
 
 With riches heaped upon her bounteous breast ; 
 
536 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Her mines, her marts, her skill of hand and brain, 
 
 That bring Aladdin’s dreams to light again ! 
 
 Where sleep the conquerors ? Here is chance for spoil i 
 Such unwatched fields, such endless, priceless toil ! 
 
 Yain dream of olden time ! The robber strength 
 That swept its will is overmatched at length. 
 
 Here, not with swords but smiles the people greet 
 The foreign spy in harbor, granary, street ; 
 
 Here towns unguarded lie, for here alone 
 Nor caste, nor king, nor jDrivilege is known. 
 
 For home our farmer plows, our miner delves, 
 
 A land of toilers, toiling for themselves ; 
 
 A land of cities, which no fortress shields, 
 
 Whose open streets reach out to fertile fields ; 
 
 Whose roads are shaken by no armies’ tread ; 
 
 Whose only camps are cities of the dead ! 
 
 Go stand at Arlington the graves among : 
 
 No ramparts, cannons there, no banners hung, 
 
 No threat above the Capitol, no blare 
 To warn the senators the guns are there. 
 
 But never yet was city fortified 
 
 Like that sad height above Potomac’s tide ; 
 
 There never yet was eloquence in speech 
 Like those ten thousand stones, a name on each ; 
 
 No guards e’er pressed such claims on court or king 
 As these Praetorians to our Senate bring ; 
 
 The Army of Potomac never lay 
 So full of strength as in its camp to-day ! 
 
 On fatal Chaeronea’s field the Greeks 
 A lion raised — a sombre tomb that speaks 
 No word, no name, — an emblem of the pride 
 Of those that ruled the insect host that died. 
 
 But by her soldiers’ graves Columbia proves 
 How fast toward morn the night of manhood moves. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 537 
 
 Those low white lines at Gettysburg remain 
 The sacred record of her humblest slain, 
 
 Whose children’s children in their time shall come 
 To view with pride their hero-father’s tomb, 
 
 While down the ages runs the patriot line, 
 
 Till rich tradition makes each tomb a shrine. 
 
 Our standing army these, with specter glaives ; 
 
 Our fortressed towns their battle-ordered graves. 
 
 Here sleep our valiant, sown like dragon’s teeth ; 
 Here new-born sons renew the pious wreath ; 
 
 Here proud Columbia bends with tear-stirred mouth, 
 To kiss their blood-seal, binding North and South, 
 Two clasping hands upon the knot they tied 
 When Union lived and Human Slavery died ! 
 
 Who doubt our strength, or measure it with those 
 Whose armed millions wait for coming foes, 
 
 They judge by royal standards, that depend 
 On hireling hands to threaten or defend, 
 
 That keep their war-dogs chained in time of peace, 
 And dread a foe scarce less than their release. 
 
 Who hunt wild beasts with cheetahs, fiercely tame, 
 Must watch their hounds as well as fear their game. 
 
 Around our veterans hung no dread nor doubt 
 When twice a million men were mustered out. 
 
 As scattered seed in new-plowed land, or flakes 
 Of spring-time snow descend in smiling lakes, 
 
 Our war-born soldiers sank into the sea 
 Of peaceful life and fruitful energy. 
 
 No sign remained of that vast army, save 
 
 In field and street new workmen, bronzed and grave ; 
 
 Some whistling teamsters still in army vest ; 
 
 Some quiet citizens with medaled breast. 
 
 So died the hatred of our brother feud ; 
 
 The conflict o’er the triumph was subdued. 
 
538 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 What victor King e’er spared the conquered foe ? 
 
 How much of mercy did strong Prussia show 
 When anguished Paris at her feet lay prone ? 
 
 The German trumpet rang above her moan, 
 
 The clink of Uhlan spurs her temples knew, 
 
 Her Arch of Triumph spanned their triumph, too. 
 
 Not thus, O South ! when thy proud head was low, 
 Thy passionate heart laid open to the foe — 
 
 Not thus, Virginia, did thy victors meet 
 At Appomattox him who bore defeat : 
 
 No brutal show abased thine honored State : 
 
 Grant turned from Richmond at the very gate ! 
 
 O Land magnanimous, republican ! 
 
 The last for Nationhood, the first for Man ! 
 
 Because thy lines by Freedom’s hand were laid 
 Profound the sin to change or retrograde. 
 
 From base to cresting let thy work be new ; 
 
 ’Twas not by aping foreign ways it grew. 
 
 To struggling peoples give at lealst applause ; 
 
 Let equities not precedent subtend your laws ; 
 
 Like rays from that great Eye the altars show, 
 
 That fall triangular, free states should grow, 
 
 The soul above, the brain and hand below. 
 
 Believe that strength lies not in steel nor stone ; 
 
 That perils wait the land whose heavy throne, 
 
 Though ringed by swords and rich with titled show, 
 
 Is based on fettered misery below ; 
 
 That nations grow where every class unites 
 For common interests and common rights ; 
 
 Where no caste barrier stays the poor man’s son, 
 
 Till step by step the topmost height is won ; 
 
 Where every hand subscribes to every rule, 
 
 And free as air are voice and vote and school ! 
 
 A Nation’s years are centuries. Let Art 
 Portray thy first, and Liberty will start 
 From every field in Europe at the sight. 
 
 “ Why stand these thrones between us and the light ? ’ 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 539 
 
 Strong men will ask : “ Who built these frontier towers 
 To bar out men of kindred blood with ours \ ” 
 
 O, this thy work, Republic ! this thy health, 
 
 To prove man’s birthright to a commonwealth ; 
 
 To teach the peoples to be strong and wise, 
 
 Till armies, nations, nobles, royalties, 
 
 Are laid at rest with all their fears and hates ; 
 
 Till Europe’s thirteen Monarchies are States, 
 
 Without a barrier and without a throne, 
 
 Of one grand Federation like our own ! 
 
 THE POISON-FLOWER. 
 
 I N the evergreen shade of an Austral wood, 
 
 Where the long branches laced above, 
 
 Through which all day it seemed 
 The sweet sunbeams down-gleamed 
 Like the rays of a young mother’s love, 
 
 When she hides her glad face with her hands and peeps 
 At the youngling that crows on her knee : 
 
 ’Neath such ray-shivered shade, 
 
 In a banksia glade, 
 
 Was this flower first shown to me. 
 
 A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip 
 And a wonderful purple hood ; 
 
 And your eye caught the sheen 
 Of its leaves, parrot-green, 
 
 Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood. 
 
 And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand 
 Made you long for its odorous breath ; 
 
 But ah ! ’twas to take 
 To your bosom a snake, 
 
 For its pestilent fragrance was death. 
 
540 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And I saw it again, in a far northern land, — 
 
 Not a pansy, not purple and white ; 
 
 Yet in beauteous guise 
 Did this poison-plant rise, 
 
 Fair and fatal again to my sight. 
 
 And men longed for her kiss and her odorous breath 
 When no friend was beside them to tell 
 That to kiss was to die, 
 
 That her truth was a lie, 
 
 And her beauty a soul-killing spell. 
 
 PEACE AND PAIN. 
 
 T HE day and night are symbols of creation, 
 
 And each has part in all that God has made ; 
 There is no ill without its compensation, 
 
 And life and death are only light and shade. 
 There never beat a heart so base and sordid 
 But felt at times a sympathetic glow ; 
 
 There never lived a virtue unrewarded, 
 
 Nor died a vice without its meed of woe. 
 
 In this brief life despair should never reach us ; 
 
 The sea looks wide because the shores are dim ; 
 The star that led the Magi still can teach us 
 The way to go if we but look to Him. 
 
 And as we wade, the darkness closing o’er us, 
 
 The hungry waters surging to the chin, 
 
 Our deeds will rise like stepping-stones before us — 
 The good and bad — for we may use the sin. 
 
 A sin of youth, atoned for and forgiven, 
 
 Takes on a virtue, if we choose to find : 
 
 When clouds across our onward path are driven, 
 We still may steer by its pale light behind. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AMD SPEECHES. 
 
 541 
 
 A sin forgotten is in part to pay for, 
 
 A sin remembered is a constant gain : 
 
 Sorrow, next joy, is what we ought to pray for, 
 As next to peace we profit most from pain. 
 
 HIDDEN SINS. 
 
 F OR every sin that comes before the light, 
 
 And leaves an outward blemish on the soul, 
 
 How many, darker, cower out of sight, 
 
 And burrow, blind and silent, like the mole. 
 
 And like the mole, too, with its busy feet 
 That dig and dig a never-ending cave, 
 
 Our hidden sins gnaw through the soul, and meet 
 And feast upon each other in its grave. 
 
 A buried sin is like a covered sore 
 That spreads and festers ’neath a painted face ; 
 
 And no man’s art can heal it evermore, 
 
 But only His — the Surgeon’s — promised grace. 
 
 Who hides a sin is like the hunter who 
 Once warmed a frozen adder with his breath, 
 
 And when he placed it near his heart it flew 
 With poisoned fangs and stung that heart to death. 
 
 A sculptor once a granite statue made, 
 
 One-sided only, just to fit its place : 
 
 The unseen side was monstrous ; so men shade 
 Their evil acts behind a smiling face. 
 
 O blind ! O foolish ! thus our sins to hide, 
 
 And force our pleading hearts the gall to sip ; 
 
 0 cowards ! who must eat the myrrh, that Pride 
 May smile like Virtue with a lying lip. 
 
 A sin admitted is nigh half atoned ; 
 
 And while the fault is red and freshly done, 
 
542 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 If we but drop our eyes and think, — ’tis owned, — 
 ’Tis half forgiven, half the crown is won. 
 
 But if we heedless let it reek and rot, 
 
 Then pile a mountain on its grave, and turn, 
 With smiles to all the world, — that tainted spot 
 Beneath the mound will never cease to burn. 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 The Steamer “Atlantic” was Wrecked near Halifax, N. S., April 1, 
 1873, and 560 Lives Lost. 
 
 F OR months and years, with penury and want 
 And heart-sore envy did they dare to cope ; 
 
 And mite by mite was saved from earnings scant, 
 
 To buy, some future day, the God-sent hope. 
 
 They trod the crowded streets of hoary towns, 
 
 - Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields, 
 
 And in the shadow of the golden crowns 
 They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields. 
 
 They turned from homes all cheerless, child and man, 
 With kindly feelings only for the soil, 
 
 And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan, 
 
 That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toil. 
 
 They lifted up their faces to the Lord, 
 
 And read His answer in the westering sun 
 That called them ever as a shining word, 
 
 And beckoned seaward as the rivers run. 
 
 They looked their last, wet-eyed, on Swedish hills, 
 
 On German villages and English dales ; 
 
 Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills 
 The peasant-stream flowed out from Irish vales. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 543 
 
 Their grief at parting was not all a grief, 
 
 But blended sweetly with the joy to come, 
 
 When from full store they spared the rich relief 
 To gladden all the dear ones left at home. 
 
 “ We thank thee, God ! ” they cried; 4 ‘The cruel gate 
 That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy hand ; 
 
 Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate, 
 
 Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land ! ” 
 
 Alas ! when shown in mercy or in wrath, 
 
 How weak we are to read God’s awful lore ! 
 
 His breath protected on the stormy path, 
 
 And dashed them lifeless on the promised shore ! 
 
 His hand sustained them in the parting woe, 
 
 And gave bright vision to the heart of each 
 
 His waters bore them where they wished to go, 
 
 Then swept them seaward from the very beach ! 
 
 Their home is reached, their fetters now are riven, 
 
 Their humble toil is o’er, — their rest has come ; 
 
 A land was promised and a land is given, — 
 
 But, oh ! God help the waiting ones at home ! 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 A MAN will trust another man, and show 
 
 His secret thought and act, as if he must ; 
 A woman — does she tell her sins ? Ah, no ! 
 
 She never knew a woman she could trust. 
 
544 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. 
 
 T HERE is an old tradition sacred held in Wexford town, 
 That says: “ Upon St. Martin’s Eve no net shall be 
 let down ; 
 
 No fishermen of Wexford shall, upon that holy day, 
 
 Set sail or cast a line within the scope of Wexford Bay.” 
 The tongue that framed the order, or the time, no one 
 could tell ; 
 
 And no one ever questioned, but the people kept it well. 
 And never in man’s memory was fisher known to leave 
 The little town of Wexford on the good St. Martin’s Eve. 
 
 Alas ! alas for Wexford ! once upon that holy day 
 Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the waters of the Bay. 
 The fishers and their families stood out upon the beach, 
 And all day watched with wistful eyes the wealth they 
 might not reach. 
 
 Such shoal was never seen before, and keen regrets went 
 round — 
 
 Alas! alas for Wexford! Hark! what is that grating 
 sound ? 
 
 The boats’ keels on the shingle ! Mothers ! wives ! ye well 
 may grieve, — 
 
 The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail on Martin s Eve ! 
 
 “Oh, stay ye!” cried the women wild. “Stay!” cried 
 the men white-haired ; 
 
 “ And dare ye not to do this thing your fathers never dared. 
 No man can thrive who tempts the Lord ! ” “Away!” 
 they cried : “ the Lord 
 
 Ne’er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisherman’s reward.” 
 
 And scoffingly they said, “To-night our net shall sweep the 
 Bay, 
 
 And take the Saint who guards it, should he come across 
 our way ! ” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 545 
 
 The keels have touched the water, and the crews are in 
 each boat ; 
 
 And on St. Martin’s Eve the Wexford fishers are afloat ! 
 
 The moon is shining coldly on the sea and on the land, 
 
 On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and pale ones on the 
 strand, 
 
 As seaward go the daring boats, and heavenward the cries 
 
 Of kneeling wives and mothers with uplifted hands and 
 eyes. 
 
 “ Oh Holy Virgin ! be their guard ! ” the weeping women 
 cried ; 
 
 The old men, sad and silent, watched the boats cleave 
 through the tide, 
 
 As past the farthest headland, past the lighthouse, in a line 
 
 The fishing-fleet went seaward through the phosphor- 
 lighted brine. 
 
 Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers ! All your prayers they 
 sorely need 
 
 To save them from the wrath they’ve roused by their rebel- 
 lious greed. 
 
 Oh ! white-haired men and little babes, and weeping sweet- 
 hearts, pray 
 
 To God to spare the fishermen to-night in Wexford Bay ! 
 
 The boats have reached good offing, and, as out the nets 
 are thrown, 
 
 The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the soughing sea- 
 wind’s moan : 
 
 Like to a human heart that loved, and hoped for some 
 return, 
 
 To find at last but hatred, so the sea-wind seemed to 
 mourn. 
 
 But ah ! the Wexford fishermen ! their nets did scarcely 
 sink 
 
546 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 One inch below the foam, when, lo ! the daring boatmen 
 shrink 
 
 With sudden awe and whitened lips and glaring eyes 
 agape, 
 
 For breast-high, threatening, from the sea uprose a Human 
 Shape ! 
 
 Beyond them, — in the moonlight, — hand upraised and 
 awful mien, 
 
 Waving back and pointing landward, breast-high in the 
 sea ’twas seen. 
 
 Thrice it waved and thrice it pointed, — then, with clenched 
 hand upraised, 
 
 The awful shape went down before the fishers as they 
 gazed ! 
 
 Gleaming whitely through the water, fathoms deep they 
 saw its frown, — 
 
 They saw its white hand clenched above it, — sinking slowly 
 down ! 
 
 And then there was a rushing ’neath the boats, and every 
 soul 
 
 Was thrilled with greed : they knew it was the seaward- 
 going shoal ! 
 
 Defying the dread warning, every face was sternly set, 
 
 And wildly did they ply the oar, and wildly haul the net. 
 
 But two boats’ crews obeyed the sign, —God-fearing men 
 were they, — 
 
 They cut their lines and left their nets, and homeward sped 
 away ; 
 
 But darkly rising sternward did God’s wrath in tempest 
 sweep, 
 
 And they, of all the fishermen, that night escaped the 
 deep. 
 
 Oh, wives and mothers, sweethearts, sires ! well might ye 
 mourn next day ; 
 
 For seventy fishers’ corpses strewed the shores of Wexford 
 Bay ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 547 
 
 THE WELL’S SECRET. 
 
 I KNEW it all my boyhood : in a lonesome valley meadow, 
 Like a dryad’s mirror hidden by the wood’s dim arches 
 near ; 
 
 Its eye flashed back the sunshine, and grew dark and sad 
 with shadow ; 
 
 And I loved its truthful depths where every pebble lay 
 so clear. 
 
 I scooped my hand and drank it, and watched the sensate 
 quiver 
 
 Of the rippling rings of silver as the beads of crystal 
 fell; 
 
 I pressed the richer grasses from its little trickling river, 
 Till at last I knew, as friends know, every secret of the 
 well. 
 
 But one day I stood beside it on a sudden, unexpected, 
 When the sun had crossed the valley and a shadow hid 
 the place ; 
 
 And I looked in the dark water — saw my pallid cheek 
 reflected — 
 
 And beside it, looking upward, met an evil reptile face : 
 
 Looking upward, furtive, startled at the silent, swift in- 
 trusion ; 
 
 Then it darted toward the grasses, and I saw not where 
 it fled ; 
 
 But I knew its eyes were on me, and the old-time sweet 
 illusion 
 
 Of the pure and perfect symbol I had cherished there 
 was dead. 
 
 O, the pain to know the perjury of seeming truth that 
 blesses ! 
 
548 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 My soul was seared like sin to see the falsehood of the 
 place ; 
 
 And the innocence that mocked me, while in dim unseen 
 recesses 
 
 There were lurking fouler secrets than the furtive reptile 
 face. 
 
 And since then, — O, why the burden ? — when the joyous 
 faces greet me, 
 
 With their eyes of limpid innocence, and words devoid 
 of art, 
 
 I cannot trust their seeming, but must ask what eyes would 
 meet me 
 
 Could I look in sudden silence at the secrets of the 
 heart ! 
 
 LIFE IS A CONFLUENCE. 
 
 H UNGER goes sleeplessly 
 Thinking of food ; 
 
 Evil lies painfully 
 Yearning for good. 
 
 Life is a confluence : 
 
 Nature must move, 
 
 Like the heart of a poet, 
 Toward beauty and love. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 549 
 
 THE PATRIOT’S GRAVE. 
 
 Read at the Emmet Centennial in Boston, Makch 4 , 1878 . 
 
 4 ‘ I am going- to my cold and silent grave — my lamp of life is nearly 
 extinguished. I have parted with everything that was dear to me in 
 this life for my country’s cause — with the idol of my soul, the object of 
 my affections : my race is run, the grave opens to receive me, and I 
 sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to make at my departure 
 from this world — it is the charity of its silence ! Let no man write my 
 epitaph ; for, as no man who knows my motives dare now vindicate 
 them, let not ignorance nor prejudice asperse them. Let them rest in 
 obscurity and peace ! Let my memory be left in oblivion, and my 
 tomb un inscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my 
 character. When my country takes her place among the nations of 
 the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written .” — Speech 
 of Robert Emmet in the Dock. 
 
 I. 
 
 T EAR down the crape from the column ! Let the shaft 
 stand white and fair ! 
 
 Be silent the wailing music — there is no death in the air ! 
 We come not in plaint or sorrow — no tears may dim our 
 sight : 
 
 We dare not weep o’er the epitaph we have not dared to 
 write. 
 
 Come hither with glowing faces, the sire, the youth, and 
 the child ; 
 
 This grave is a shrine for reverent hearts and hands that 
 are undefiled : 
 
 Its ashes are inspiration ; it giveth us strength to bear, 
 And sweepeth away dissension, and nerveth the will to 
 dare. 
 
 In the midst of the tombs a Gravestone — and written 
 thereon no word ! 
 
 And behold ! at the head of the grave, a gibbet, a torch, and 
 a sword ! 
 
550 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And the people kneel by the gibbet, and pray by the name- 
 less stone 
 
 For the torch to be lit, and the name to be writ, and the 
 sword’s red work to be done ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 With pride and not with grief 
 We lay this century leaf 
 Upon the tomb, with hearts that do not falter : 
 
 A few brief, toiling years 
 Since fell the nation’s tears, 
 
 And lo, the patriot’s gibbet is an altar ! 
 
 The people that are blest 
 Have him they love the best 
 To mount the martyr’s scaffold when they need him ; 
 And vain the cords that bind 
 While the nation’s steadfast mind, 
 
 Like the needle to the pole, is true to freedom ! 
 
 hi. 
 
 Three powers there are that dominate the world — 
 
 Fraud, Force, and Eight — and two oppress the one : 
 
 The bolts of Fraud and Force like twins are hurled — 
 Against them ever standeth Eight alone. 
 
 Cyclopian strokes the brutal allies give : 
 
 Their fetters massive and their dungeon walls ; 
 
 Beneath their yoke, weak nations cease to live, 
 
 And valiant Eight itself defenseless falls ! 
 
 Defaced is law, and justice slain at birth ; 
 
 Good men are broken — malefactors thrive ; 
 
 But, when the tyrants tower o’er the earth, 
 
 Behind their wheels strong right is still alive ! 
 
 Alive, like seed that God’s own hand has sown — 
 
 Like seed that lieth in the lowly furrow, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 551 
 
 But springs to life when wintry winds are blown : 
 
 To-day the earth is gray — ’tis green to-morrow. 
 
 The roots strike deep despite the rulers’ power, 
 
 The plant grows strong with summer sun and rain, 
 
 Till autumn bursts the deep red-hearted flower, 
 
 And freedom marches to the front again ! 
 
 While slept the right, and reigned the dual wrong, 
 Unchanged, unchecked, for half a thousand years, 
 
 In tears of blood we cried, “ O Lord, how long % ” 
 
 And even God seemed deaf to Erin’s tears. 
 
 But when she lay all weak and bruised and broken, 
 
 Her white limbs seared with cruel chain and thorn — 
 As bursts the cloud, the lightning word was spoken, 
 God’s seed took root — His crop of men was born ! 
 
 With one deep breath began the land’s progression : 
 
 On every field the seeds of freedom fell : 
 
 Burke, Grattan, Flood y and Curran in the session— 
 Fitzgerald, Sheares, and Emmet in the cell ! 
 
 Such teachers soon aroused the dormant nation — 
 
 Such sacrifice insured the endless fight : 
 
 The voice of Grattan smote wrong’s domination — 
 
 The death of Emmet sealed the cause of right ! 
 
 iv. 
 
 Richest of gifts to a nation ! Death with the living crown ! 
 
 Type of ideal manhood to the people’s heart brought 
 down ! 
 
 Fount of the hopes we cherish — test of the things we do ; 
 
 Gorgon’ s face for the traitor — talisman for the true ! 
 
 Sweet is the love of a woman, and sweet is the kiss of a 
 child ; 
 
 Sweet is the tender strength, and the bravery of the mild ; 
 
552 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But sweeter than all, for embracing all, is the young life’s 
 peerless price — 
 
 The young heart laid on the altar, as a nation’s sacrifice. 
 
 How can the debt; be canceled ? Prayers and tears we may 
 give — 
 
 But how recall the anguish of hearts that have ceased to 
 live ? 
 
 Flushed with the pride of genius — filled with the strength 
 of life — 
 
 Thrilled with delicious passion for her who would be his 
 wife — 
 
 This was the heart he offered — the upright life he gave — 
 
 This is the silent sermon of the patriot’ s nameless grave. 
 
 Shrine of a nation’s honor — stone left blank for a name — 
 
 Light on the dark horizon to guide us clear from shame — 
 
 Chord struck deep with the keynote, telling us what can 
 save — 
 
 “A nation among the nations,” or forever a nameless 
 grave. 
 
 Such is the will of the martyr — the burden we still must 
 bear ; 
 
 But even from death he reaches the legacy to share : 
 
 He teaches the secret of manhood — the watchword of those 
 who aspire — 
 
 That men must follow freedom though it lead through 
 blood and fire ; 
 
 That sacrifice is the bitter draught which freemen still must 
 quaff — 
 
 That every patriotic life is the patriot’s epitaph. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 553 
 
 THE FEAST OF THE GAEL. 
 
 ST. PATRICK’S DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 "YTTHAT a union of hearts is the love of a mother 
 V V When races of men in her name unite ! 
 
 For love of Old Erin, and love of each other, 
 
 The boards of the Gael are full to-night ! 
 
 Their millions of men have one toast and one topic — 
 
 Their feuds laid aside and their envies removed ; 
 
 From the pines of the Pole to the palms of the Tropic, 
 They drink: “The dear Land we have prayed for and 
 loved ! ” 
 
 They are One by the bond of a time-honored fashion ; 
 
 Though strangers may see but the lights of their feast, 
 Beneath lies the symbol of faith and of passion 
 Alike of the Pagan and Christian priest ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 When native laws by native kings 
 At Tara were decreed, 
 
 The grand old Gheber worship 
 Was the form of Erin’s creed. 
 
 The Sun, Life-giver, was God on high ; 
 
 Men worshipped the Power they saw ; 
 
 And they kept the faith as the ages rolled 
 By the solemn Beltane law. 
 
 Each year, on the Holy Bay, was quenched 
 The household fires of the land ; 
 
 And the Bruid priest, at the midnight hour, 
 Brought forth the flaming brand, — 
 
 The living spark for the Nation’s hearths,— 
 From the Monarch’s hand it came. 
 
554 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Whose fire at Tara spread the sign — 
 
 And the people were One by the flame ! 
 
 And Baal was God ! till Patrick came, 
 
 By the Holy Name inspired ; 
 
 On the Beltane night, .in great Tara’s sight, 
 
 His pile at Slane was fired. 
 
 And the deed that was death was the Nation’s life, 
 And the doom of the Pagan bane ; 
 
 For Erin still keeps Beltane night, 
 
 But lights her lamp at Slane ! 
 
 Though fourteen centuries pile their dust 
 On the mound of the Druid’s grave, 
 
 To-night is the Beltane ! Bright the fire 
 That Holy Patrick gave ! 
 
 To-night is the Beltane ! Let him heed 
 Who studieth creed and race : 
 
 Old times and gods are dead, and we 
 Are far from the ancient place ; 
 
 The waves of centuries, war, and waste, 
 
 Of famine, gallows, and goal, 
 
 Have swept our land ; but the world to-night 
 Sees the Beltane Fire of the Gael ! 
 
 hi. 
 
 O land of sad fate ! like a desolate queen, 
 
 Who remembers in sorrow the crown of her glory, 
 
 The love of thy children not strangely is seen — 
 
 For humanity weeps at thy heart- touching story. 
 
 Strong heart in affliction ! that draweth thy foes 
 Till they love thee more dear than thine own generation : 
 Thy strength is increased as thy life-current flows, — 
 What were death to another is Ireland’s salvation ! 
 
 God scatters her sons like the seed on the lea, 
 
 And they root where they fall, be it mountain or furrow 
 They come to remain and remember ; and she 
 In their growth will rejoice in a blissful to-morrow ! 
 
555 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 They sing in strange lands the sweet songs of their home, 
 Their emerald Zion enthroned in the billows ; 
 
 To work, not to weep by the rivers they come : 
 
 Their harps are not hanged in despair on the willows. 
 
 The hope of the mother beats youthful and strong, 
 Responsive and true to her children’s pulsations, 
 
 No petrified heart has she saved from the wrong — 
 
 Our Niobe lives for her place ’mong the nations ! 
 
 Then drink, all her sons — be they Keltic or Danish, 
 
 Or Norman or Saxon — one mantle was o’er us ; 
 
 Let race lines, and creed lines, and every line, vanish — 
 We drink as the Gael : “ To the Mother that bore us ! ” 
 
 MARY. 
 
 D EAR honored name, beloved for human ties, 
 
 But loved and honored first that One was given 
 In living proof to erring mortal eyes 
 That our poor earth is near akin to heaven. 
 
 Sweet word of dual meaning : one of grace, 
 
 And born of our kind advocate above ; 
 
 And one by memory linked to that dear face 
 That blessed my childhood with its mother-love, 
 
 And taught me first the simple prayer, “To thee, 
 Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries.” 
 Through mist of years, those words recall to me 
 A childish face upturned to loving eyes. 
 
 And yet to some the name of Mary bears 
 No special meaning and no gracious power ; 
 
 In that dear word they seek for hidden snares, 
 
 As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower. 
 
556 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Bat faithful hearts can see, o’er doubts and fears, 
 The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth ; 
 Which to the upturned trusting face appears 
 A more than angel, though of human birth. 
 
 The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night 
 The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow 
 So unseen God still lets His promised light, 
 Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow. 
 
 THE WAIL OF TWO CITIES. 
 
 Chicago, October 9 , 1871 . 
 
 G AUNT in the midst of the prairie, 
 She who was once so fair ; 
 
 Charred and rent are her garments, 
 Heavy and dark like cerements ; 
 
 Silent, but round her the air 
 Plaintively wails, “ Miserere ! ” 
 
 Proud like a beautiful maiden, 
 
 Art-like from forehead to feet, 
 
 Was she till pressed like a leman 
 Close to the breast of the demon, 
 Lusting for one so sweet, 
 
 So were her shoulders laden. 
 
 Friends she had, rich in her treasures : 
 Shall the old taunt be true, — 
 Fallen, they turn their cold faces, 
 Seeking new wealth-gilded places, 
 Saying we never knew 
 Aught of her smiles or her pleasures ? 
 
 Silent she stands on the prairie, 
 
 Wrapped m her fire- scathed sheet; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 557 
 
 Around her, thank God ! is the Nation, 
 Weeping for her desolation, 
 
 Pouring its gold at her feet, 
 Answering her “ Miserere ! ” 
 
 Boston, November 9 , 1872 . 
 
 O broad-breasted Queen among Nations ! 
 
 O Mother, so strong in thy youth ! 
 
 Has the Lord looked upon thee in ire, 
 
 And willed thou be chastened by fire, 
 
 Without any ruth % 
 
 Has the Merciful tired of His mercy, 
 
 And turned from thy sinning in wrath, 
 That the world with raised hand sees and pities 
 Thy desolate daughters, thy cities, 
 
 Despoiled on their path ? 
 
 One year since thy youngest was stricken : 
 
 Thy eldest lies stricken to-day. 
 
 Ah ! God, was thy wrath without pity, 
 
 To tear the strong heart from our city, 
 
 And cast it away ? 
 
 O Father ! forgive us our doubting ; 
 
 The stain from our weak souls efface ; 
 
 Thou rebukest, we know, but to chasten ; 
 
 Thy hand has but fallen to hasten 
 Return to thy grace. 
 
 Let us rise purified from our ashes 
 
 As sinners have risen who grieved ; 
 
 Let us show that twice-sent desolation 
 On every true heart in the nation 
 Has conquest achieved. 
 
558 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’KEILLY. 
 
 MULEY MALEK, THE KING. 
 
 T HUNDER, of guns, and cries — banners and spears and 
 blood ! 
 
 Troops have died where they stood holding the vantage 
 points — 
 
 They have raced like waves at a wall, and dashed them- 
 selves to death. 
 
 Dawn the fight begin, and noon was red with its noon. 
 
 The armies stretch afar — and the plain of Alcazar 
 Is drenched with Moorish blood. 
 
 On one side, Muley the King — Muley Malek the Strong. 
 
 He had seized the Moorish crown because it would fit his 
 brows. 
 
 Hamet the Fair was king ; but Muley pulled him down, 
 because he was strong. 
 
 The fierce sun glares on the clouds of dust and battle- 
 smoke, 
 
 The hoarsened soldiers choke in the blinding heat. 
 
 Muley the King is afield, but sick to the death. 
 
 Borne on a litter he lies, his blood on fire, his eyes 
 
 Flaming with fever light. 
 
 Hamah Tabah the Captain, stands by the curtained bed, 
 
 Telling him news of the fight — how the waves roll and rise, 
 and clash and mingle and seethe. 
 
 And Hamah bends to the scene. He peers under arched 
 hand — 
 
 As an eagle he stoops to the field. One hand on the hilt 
 
 Is white at the knuckles, so fiercely gripped ; while the 
 hand 
 
 That had parted the curtains before now clutches the silk 
 and wrings. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 559 
 
 Hamet’s squadrons are moving in mass — their lines are 
 circling the plain ! 
 
 The thousands of Muley stand, like bison dazed by an 
 earthquake ; 
 
 They are stunned by the thud of the fight, they are deer 
 without a leader ; 
 
 Their charge has died like the impulse of missiles freed 
 from the sling ; 
 
 Their spears waver like shaken barley, — they are dumb- 
 struck and ready to fly ! 
 
 Hamah Tabah the Captain, in words like the pouring of 
 pitch, has painted 
 
 The terrible scene for the sick King, and terrible ‘answer 
 follows. 
 
 Up from the couch of pain, disdaining the bonds of weak- 
 ness ; 
 
 Flinging aside disease as a wrestler flings his tunic ; 
 
 Strong with the smothered fire of fever, and fiercer far than 
 its flaming, 
 
 Rises in mail from the litter Muley Malek the King ! 
 
 Down on his plunging stallion, in the eyes of the shud- 
 dered troops, 
 
 His bent plume like a smoke, and his sword like a flame, 
 
 Smelting their souls with his courage, he rides before his 
 soldiers ! 
 
 They bend from his face like the sun — their eyes are blind 
 with shame — 
 
 They thrill as a stricken tiger thrills, gathering his limbs 
 from a blow ; 
 
 They raise their faces, and watch him, sworded and mailed 
 and strong ; 
 
 They watch him, and shout his name fiercely — “Muley, 
 the King ! ” 
 
560 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Grimly they close their ranks, drinking his face like wine ; 
 
 Strength to the arm and wrath to the sonl, and power — 
 
 Fuel and fire he was — and the battle roared like a crater ! 
 
 Back to the litter, his face turned from the lines, and 
 fixed 
 
 In a stare like the faces in granite, the King 
 
 Rode straight and strong, holding his sword 
 
 Soldierly, gripped on the thigh, grim as a king in iron ! 
 
 Stiff in the saddle, stark, frowning — one hand is raised, 
 
 The mailed finger is laid on the mouth : 
 
 “ Silence ! ” the warning said to Hamah Tabah the Captain. 
 
 Help from his horse they give, moving him, still unbend- 
 ing, 
 
 Down to the bed, and lay him within the curtains. 
 
 Mutely they answer his frown, like ridges of bronze, and 
 sternly 
 
 Again is the mailed hand raised and laid on the lips in 
 warning : 
 
 “ Silence ! ” it said,. and the meaning smote through their 
 blood like flame, 
 
 As the tremor passed through his armor and the grayness 
 crept o’er his features — 
 
 Muley the King was dead ! 
 
 Furious the struggle and long, the armies with teeth 
 aclench 
 
 And dripping weapons shortened, like athletes whose 
 blows have killed pain. 
 
 The soldiers of Hamet were flushed — but the spirit of 
 Muley opposed them ; 
 
 The weak of Muley grew strong when they looked at the 
 curtained litter. 
 
 Their thought of the King was wine in the thirst of the 
 fight ; 
 
561 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 They saw that Hamah was there, still bending over the 
 bed ; 
 
 Holding the curtains wide and taking the order that came 
 
 From the burning lips of the King, and sending it down to 
 his soldiers ; 
 
 They knew that Hamah the Captain was telling him of the 
 onset, 
 
 How they swept like hail on the fields, and left them like 
 sickled grain. 
 
 Back, as the waves in a tempest are flung from a cliff and 
 scattered, 
 
 Burst and horribly broken and driven beneath with the 
 impact, 
 
 Shivered, for once and forever, the conquered forces ; King 
 Hamet 
 
 Was slain by the sword, and the foreign monarch who 
 helped him, 
 
 And the plain was swept by the besom of death : 
 
 There never was grander faith in a king ! 
 
 Trophies and victors’ crowns, bring them to bind his brow ! 
 
 Circle his curtained bed — thousands and thousands, come ! 
 
 It will cure him, and kill his pain — we must see him to- 
 night again : 
 
 One glance of his love and pride for all the hosts that 
 died — 
 
 To his bedside — come ! 
 
 Rigid, with frowning brow, his finger laid on his lips, 
 
 They saw him — saw him and knew, and read the word that 
 he spake, 
 
 Stronger than death, and they stood in their tears, and 
 were silent, 
 
 Obeying the King ! 
 
562 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 HEART-HUNGER. 
 
 T HERE is no truth in faces, save in children : 
 
 They laugh and frown and weep from nature’s keys 
 But we who meet the world give out false notes, 
 
 The true note dying muffled in the heart. 
 
 O, there be woeful prayers and piteous wailing, 
 
 That spirits hear, from lives that starve for love ! 
 
 The body’s food is bread ; and wretches’ cries 
 Are heard and answered : but the spirit’s food 
 Is love ; and hearts that starve may die in agony 
 And no physician mark the cause of death. 
 
 You cannot read the faces ; they are masks — 
 
 Like yonder woman, smiling at the lips, 
 
 Silk-clad, bejeweled, lapped with luxury, 
 
 And beautiful and young — ay, smiling at the lips, 
 
 But never in the eyes from inner light : 
 
 A gracious temple hung with flowers without — 
 
 Within, a naked corpse upon the stones ! 
 
 O, years and years ago the hunger came — 
 
 The desert-thirst for love — she prayed for love — 
 
 She cried out in the night-time of her soul for love ! 
 The cup they gave was poison whipped to froth. 
 
 For years she drank it, knowing it for death ; 
 
 She shrieked in soul against it, but must drink : 
 
 The skies were dumb — she dared not swoon or scream. 
 As Indian mothers see babes die for food, 
 
 She watched dry-eyed beside her starving heart, 
 
 And only sobbed in secret for its gasps, 
 
 And only raved one wild hour when it died ! 
 
 O Pain, have pity ! Numb her quivering sense ; 
 
 O Fame, bring guerdon ! Thrice a thousand years 
 Thy boy-thief with the fox beneath his cloak 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 563 
 
 Has let it gnaw liis side unmoved, and held the world ; 
 And she, a slight woman, smiling at the lips, 
 
 With repartee and jest — a corpse-heart in her breast ! 
 
 SILENCE, NOT DEATH. 
 
 I START ! I have slept for a moment ; 
 
 I have dreamt, sitting here by her chair — 
 
 Oh, how lonely ! What was it that touched me ? 
 What presence, what heaven-sent air ? 
 
 It was nothing, you say. But I tremble ! 
 
 I heard her, I knew she was near — 
 
 Felt her breath, felt her cheek on my forehead — 
 Awake or asleep, she was here ! 
 
 It was nothing — a dream ? Strike that harp-string ; 
 
 Again — still again — till it cries 
 In its uttermost treble — still strike it — 
 
 Ha ? vibrant but silent ! It dies — 
 
 It dies, just as she died. Go, listen — 
 
 That highest vibration is dumb. 
 
 Your sense, friend, too soon finds a limit 
 And answer, when mysteries come. 
 
 Truth speaks in the senseless, the spirit ; 
 
 But here in this palpable part 
 We sound the low notes, but are silent 
 To music sublimed in the heart. 
 
 Too few and too gross our dull senses, 
 
 And clogged with the mire of the road, 
 
 Till we loathe their coarse bondage ; as seabirds 
 Encaged on a cliff, look abroad 
 
564 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 On the ocean and limitless heaven, 
 
 Alight with the beautiful stars, 
 
 And hear what they say, not the creakings 
 That rise from our sensual bars. 
 
 O life, let me dream, let her presence 
 Be near me, her fragrance, her breath ; 
 Let me sleep, if in slumber the seeking ; 
 Sleep on, if the finding be death. 
 
 RESURGITE !— JUNE, 1877. 
 
 N OW, for the faith that is in ye, 
 
 Polander, Sclav, and Kelt ! 
 
 Prove to the world what the lips have hurled 
 The hearts have grandly felt. 
 
 Rouse, ye races in shackles ! 
 
 See in the East, the glare 
 Is red in the sky, and the warning cry 
 Is sounding — “Awake ! Prepare ! ” 
 
 A voice from the spheres — a hand downreaclied 
 To hands that would be free, 
 
 To rend the gyves from the fettered lives 
 That strain toward Liberty ! 
 
 Circassia ! the cup is flowing 
 That holdeth perennial youth : 
 
 Who strikes succeeds, for when manhood bleeds 
 Each drop is a Cadmus’ tooth. 
 
 Sclavonia ! first from the sheathing 
 Thy knife to the cord that binds ; 
 
 Thy one-tongued host shall renew the boast : 
 
 “ The Scythians are the Winds ! ” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 565 
 
 Greece ! to the grasp of heroes, 
 
 Flashed with thine ancient pride, 
 
 Thy swords advance : in the passing chance 
 The great of heart are tried. 
 
 Poland ! thy lance-heads brighten : 
 
 The Tartar has swept thy name 
 
 From the schoolman’s chart, but the patriot’s heart 
 Preserves its lines in flame. 
 
 Ireland ! mother of dolors, 
 
 The trial on thee descends : 
 
 Who quailetli in fear when the test is near, 
 
 His bondage never ends. 
 
 Oppression, that kills the craven, 
 
 Defied, is the freeman’s good : 
 
 No cause can be lost forever whose cost 
 Is coined from Freedom’s blood ! 
 
 Liberty’s wine and altar 
 Are blood and human right ; 
 
 Her weak shall be strong while the struggle with wrong 
 Is a sacrificial fight. 
 
 Earth for the people — their laws their own — 
 
 An equal race for all : 
 
 Though shattered and few who to this are true 
 Shall flourish the more they fall. 
 
 IRELAND— 1882. 
 
 I SLAND of Destiny ! Innisfail ! ” they cried, when 
 their weary eyes 
 
 First looked on thy beauteous bosom from the amorous 
 ocean rise. 
 
566 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 “ Island of Destiny! Innisfail!” we cry, dear land, to 
 thee, 
 
 As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the western sea ! 
 
 Pregnant as earth with its gold and gems and its metals 
 strong and fine, 
 
 Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and sympathies 
 divine. 
 
 Mustard seed of the nations ! they scattered thy leaves to 
 the air, 
 
 But the ravisher pales at the harvest that flourishes every- 
 where. 
 
 Queen in the right of thy courage ! manacled, scourged, 
 defamed, 
 
 Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the right of a race 
 proclaimed. 
 
 “ Bah ! ” they sneered from their battlements, “her people 
 cannot unite ; 
 
 They are sands of the sea, that break before the rush of our 
 ordered might ! ” 
 
 And wherever the -flag of the pirate flew, the English slur 
 was heard, 
 
 And the shallow of soul re-echoed the boast of the taunting 
 word. 
 
 But we — O sun, that of old was our god, we look in thy 
 face to-day, 
 
 As our Druids who prayed in the ancient time, and with 
 them we proudly say : 
 
 “We have wronged no race, we have robbed no land, we 
 have never oppressed the weak ! ” 
 
 And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler thing to speak. 
 
 We can never unite — thank God for that ! in such unity as 
 yours, 
 
 That strangles the rights of others, and only itself endures 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 567 
 
 As the guard of a bloodstained spoil and the red-eyed watch 
 of the slave ; 
 
 No need for such robber-union to a race free-souled and 
 brave. 
 
 The races that band for plunder are the mud of the human 
 stream, 
 
 The base and the coward and sordid, without an unselfish 
 gleam. 
 
 It is mud that unites ; but the sand is free — ay, every grain 
 is free, 
 
 And the freedom of individual men is the highest of liberty. 
 
 It is mud that coheres ; but the sand is free, till the light- 
 ning smite the shore, 
 
 And smelt the grains to a crystal mass, to return to sand no 
 more. 
 
 And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that flash clear- 
 eyed to the sun, 
 
 Till a noble Purpose smites them and melts them into one. 
 
 + 
 
 While the sands are free, O Tyrants ! like the wind are 
 your steel and speech ; 
 
 Your brute-force crushes a legion, but a soul it can never 
 reach. 
 
 Island of Destiny! Innisfail? for thy faith is the pay- 
 ment near : , 
 
 The mine of the future is opened, and the golden veins 
 appear. 
 
 Thy hands are white and thy page unstained. Reach out 
 for the glorious years, 
 
 And take them from God as His recompense for thy forti- 
 tude and tears. 
 
 Thou canst stand by the way ascending, as thy tyrant goes 
 to the base : 
 
568 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The seeds of her death are in her and the signs in her cruel 
 face. 
 
 On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, with whose 
 blood her feet are red ; 
 
 And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud above her 
 head. 
 
 O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem from a Syrian 
 tomb, 
 
 The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy light in the 
 gloom. 
 
 Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world : there is none 
 that hates but one ; 
 
 And she but hates as a pretext for the rapine she has done. 
 
 The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky in the East is 
 red : 
 
 Thy children watch from the mountain-tops for the sun to 
 kiss thy head. 
 
 O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for their test for 
 freedom borne, 
 
 Thy vacant place in the Nations’ race awaits but the com- 
 ing morn ! 
 
 THE EMPTY NICffE. 
 
 Read at the farewell reception given to Rev. Robert Fulton, S. J., at 
 Boston College Hall, February 5, 1880. 
 
 A KING once made a gallery of art, 
 
 With portraits of dead friends and living graced ; 
 And at the end, ’neatli curtains drawn apart, 
 
 An empty marble pedestal was placed, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 569 
 
 Here, every day, the king would come, and pace 
 With eyes well-pleased along the statued hall ; 
 
 But, ere he left, he turned with saddened face, 
 
 And mused before the curtained pedestal. 
 
 And once a courtier asked him why he kept 
 The shadowed niche to fill his heart with dole ; 
 
 “For absent friends,’’ the monarch said, and wept ; 
 
 “ There still must be one absent to the soul.” 
 
 And this is true of all the hearts that beat ; 
 
 Though days be soft and summer pathways fair, 
 
 Be sure, while joyous glances round us meet, 
 
 The curtained crypt and vacant plinth are there. 
 
 To-day we stand before our draped recess : 
 
 There is none absent — all we love are here ; 
 
 To-morrow’ s hands the opening curtains press, 
 
 And lo, the pallid pediment is bare ! 
 
 The cold affection that plain duty breeds 
 May see its union severed, and approve ; 
 
 But when our bond is touched, it throbs and bleeds — 
 We pay no meed of duty, but of love. 
 
 As creeping tendrils shudder from the stone, 
 
 The vines of love avoid the frigid heart ; 
 
 The work men do is not their test alone, 
 
 The love they win is far the better chart. 
 
 They say the citron- tree will never thrive 
 Transplanted from the soil where it matured ; 
 
 Ah, would ’twere so that men could only live 
 Through working on where they had love secured ! 
 
 “ The People of the Book,” men called the Jews — 
 
 Our priests are truly “ People of the Word ; ” 
 
 And he who serves the Master must not choose — 
 
 He renders feudal service to the Lord. 
 
570 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But we who love and lose will, like the king, 
 
 Still keep the alcove empty in the hall, 
 
 And hope, lirm-hearted, that some day will bring 
 Our absent one to till his pedestal. 
 
 MIDNIGHT— SEPTEMBER 19, 1881. 
 
 DEATH OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 
 
 O NCE in a lifetime, we may see the veil 
 
 Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things ; 
 
 The Spirit’s vision, when the senses fail, 
 
 Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings. 
 
 Deep in the midst of turmoil, it may be — 
 
 A crowded street, a forum, or a field, — 
 
 The soul inverts the telescope to see 
 To-day’s event in future’s years revealed. 
 
 Back from the present, let us look at Rome : 
 
 Behold, what Cato meant, what Brutus said. 
 
 Hark ! the Athenians welcome Cimon home ! 
 
 How clear they are those glimpses of the dead ! 
 
 But we, hard toilers, we who plan and weave 
 Through common days the web of common life, 
 
 What word, alas ! shall teach us to receive 
 The mystic meaning of our peace and strife ? 
 
 Whence comes our symbol \ Surely, God must speak — 
 No less than He can make us heed or pause : 
 Self-seekers we, too busy or too weak 
 To search beyond our daily lives and laws. 
 
 From things occult our earth -turned eyes rebel ; 
 
 No sound of Destiny can reach our ears ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 571 
 
 We have no time for dreaming — Hark ! a knell — 
 
 A knell at midnight ! All the nation hears ! 
 
 A second grievous throb ! The dreamers wake — 
 The merchant’s soul forgets his goods and ships ; 
 The weary workmen from their slumbers break ; 
 
 The women raise their eyes with quivering lips ; 
 
 The miner rests upon his pick to hear ; 
 
 The printer’s type stops midway from the case ; 
 The solemn sound has reached the roysterer’s ear, 
 And brought the shame and sorrow to his face. 
 
 Again it booms ! O Mystic Yeil, upraise ! 
 
 — Behold, ’tis lifted ? On the darkness drawn, 
 
 A picture lined with light ! The people's gaze, 
 
 From sea to sea, beholds it till the dawn ! 
 
 A death-bed scene — a sinking sufferer lies, 
 
 Their chosen ruler, crowned with love and pride ; 
 Around, his counselors, with streaming eyes ; 
 
 His wife, heart-broken, kneeling by his side : 
 
 Death’s shadow holds her — it will pass too soon ; 
 
 She weeps in silence — bitterest of tears ; 
 
 He wanders softly — Nature’s kindest boon ; 
 
 And as he murmurs, all the country hears : 
 
 For him the pain is past, the struggle ends ; 
 
 His cares and honors fade — his younger life 
 In peaceful Mentor conies, with dear old friends ; 
 His mother’s arms take home his dear young wife. 
 
 He stands among the students, tall and strong, 
 
 And teaches truths republican and grand ; 
 
 He moves — ah, pitiful — he sweeps along 
 O’er fields of carnage leading his command ! 
 
 He speaks to crowded faces — round him surge 
 Thousands and millions of excited men : 
 
572 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 He hears them cheer — sees some vast light emerge— 
 Is borne as on a tempest — then — ah, then, 
 
 The fancies fade, the fever’s work is past ; 
 
 A deepened pang, then recollection’s thrill ; 
 
 He feels the faithful lips that kiss their last, 
 
 His heart beats once in answer, and is still ! 
 
 The curtain falls : but hushed, as if afraid, 
 
 The people wait, tear-stained, with heaving breast ; 
 ’Twill rise again, they know, when he is laid 
 With Freedom, in the Capitol, at rest. 
 
 THE TRIAL OF THE GODS. 
 
 “On a regular division of the [Roman] Senate, Jupiter was con- 
 demned and degraded by the sense of a very large majority.” — 
 Gibbon's Decline and Fall. 
 
 N EVER nobler was the Senate, 
 
 Never grander the debate : 
 
 Rome’s old gods are on their trial 
 By the judges of the state ! 
 
 Torn by warring creeds, the Fathers 
 Urge to-day the question home— 
 
 “ Whether Jupiter or Jesus 
 Shall be God henceforth in Rome? ” 
 
 Lo, the scene ! In Jove’s own temple, 
 As of old, the Fathers meet ; 
 
 Through the porch, to hear the speeches, 
 Press the people from the street. 
 Pontiffs, rich with purple vesture, 
 
 Pass from senate chair to chair ; 
 Learned augurs, still as statues — 
 Voiceless statues, too — are there ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Vestal virgins, white with terror, 
 
 Mutely asking — what has come ? 
 
 What new light shall turn to darkness 
 Vesta’s holy fire in Rome ? 
 
 Answer, Quindecemvirs ! Surely, 
 
 Of this wondrous Nazarene 
 Ye must know, who keep the secrets 
 Of the prophet Sibylline ? 
 
 Nay, no word ! Here stand the Flamens 
 Have ye read the omens, priests ? 
 
 Slain the victims, white and sable, 
 Scanned the entrails of the beast ? 
 
 Priest of Pallas, see ! the people 
 Ask for oracles to-day : 
 
 Silent ! Priests of Mars and Venus? 
 
 Lo, they turn, dumb -lipped, away! 
 Priest of Jove ? FI amen dialis ! 
 
 Here in Jove’s own temple meet 
 In debate the Roman Senate, 
 
 And Jove’s priest with timid feet 
 Stands beyond the altar railing ! 
 
 Gods, I feel ye frown above ! 
 
 In the shadow of Jove’s altar 
 Men defy the might of Jove ! 
 
 Treason riots in the temple 
 At the sacrilege profound : 
 
 Virgins mocked, and augurs banished, 
 And divinities discrowned ! 
 
 Hush ! Old Rome herself appeareth, 
 Pleading for the ancient faith : 
 
 Urging all her by-gone glory — 
 
 That to change the old were death. 
 Rudely answer the patricians, 
 
 Scoffing at the time-worn snare : 
 
 Twice a thousand years of sacrifice 
 Have melted into air ; 
 
574 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’kEILLY. 
 
 Twice a thousand years of worship 
 Have bitterly sufficed 
 To prove there is no Jupiter ! 
 
 The Senate votes for Christ ! 
 
 Not aimless is the story, 
 
 The moral not remote : 
 
 For still the gods are questioned, 
 
 And still the Senates vote. 
 
 Men sacrifice to Venus ; 
 
 To Mars are victims led ; 
 
 And Mercury is honored still ; 
 
 And Bacchus is not dead ; — 
 
 But these are minor deities 
 That cling to human sight : 
 
 Our twilight they — but Bight and Wrong 
 Are clear as day and night. 
 
 We know the Truth : but falsehood 
 With our lives is so inwove — 
 
 Our Senates vote down Jesus 
 As old Borne degraded Jove ! 
 
 DYING IN HABNESS 
 
 O NLY a fallen horse, stretched out there on the road, 
 Stretched in the broken shafts, and crushed by the 
 heavy load ; 
 
 Only a fallen horse, and a circle of wondering eyes 
 Watching the ’frighted teamster goading the beast to rise. 
 
 Hold ! for his toil is over — no more labor for him ; 
 
 See the poor neck outstretched, and the patient eyes grow 
 dim ; 
 
 See on the friendly stones how peacefully rests the head — 
 Thinking, if dumb beasts think, how good it is to be dead ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 575 
 
 After the weary journey, how restful it is to lie 
 
 With the broken shafts and the cruel load — waiting only 
 to die. 
 
 Watchers, he died in harness — died in the shafts and 
 straps — 
 
 Fell, and the burden killed him : one of the day’s mis- 
 haps — 
 
 One of the passing wonders marking the city road — 
 
 A toiler dying in harness, heedless of call or goad. 
 
 Passers, crowding the pathway, staying your steps awhile, 
 
 What is the symbol ? Only death — why should we cease 
 to smile 
 
 At death for a beast of burden ? On, through the busy 
 street 
 
 That is ever and ever echoing the tread of the hurrying 
 feet. 
 
 What was the sign ? A symbol to touch the tireless will ? 
 
 Does He who taught in parables speak in parables still ? 
 
 The seed on the rock is wasted — on heedless hearts of men, 
 
 That gather and sow and grasp and lose — labor and sleep — 
 and then — 
 
 Then for the prize ! — A crowd in the street of ever-echo- 
 ing tread — 
 
 The toiler, crushed by the heavy load, is there in his 
 harness — dead ! 
 
 DOLORES. 
 
 I S he well blessed who has no eyes to scan 
 The woeful things that shadow all our life : 
 
 The latent brute behind the eyes of man, 
 
 The place and power gained and stained by strife, 
 The weakly victims driven to the wall, 
 
 The subtle cruelties that meet us all 
 
576 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Like eyes from darksome places ? Blessed is he 
 Who such sad things is never doomed to see ! 
 
 The crust of common life is worn by time, 
 
 And shines deception, as a thin veneer 
 The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere 
 Holds drowned men embedded in its slime ; 
 
 The ninety eat their bread of death and crime, 
 
 And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive. 
 
 O, moaning sea of life ! the few who dive 
 Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath, 
 
 Not Dante-like, who cannot swim in death 
 And view its secrets, but must swiftly rise, — 
 
 They meet the light with introverted eyes, 
 
 And hands that clutch a few dim mysteries ! 
 
 Our life a harp is, with unnumbered strings, 
 
 And tones and symphonies ; but our poor skill 
 Some shallow notes from its great music brings. 
 
 We know it there ; but vainly wish and will. 
 
 O, things symbolic ! Things that mock our sense — 
 Our five-fold, pitiable sense — and say 
 A thousand senses could not show one day 
 As sight infinite sees it ; fruitful clay, 
 
 And budding bough, and nature great with child 
 And chill with doom and death — is all so dense 
 That our dull thought can never read thy words, 
 
 Or sweep with knowing hand thy hidden chords ? 
 
 Have men not fallen from fair heights, once trod 
 By nobler minds, who saw the works of God, 
 
 The flowers and living things, still undefiled, 
 
 And spoke one language with them \ And can we, 
 In countless generations, each more pure 
 Than that j>receding, come at last to see 
 Thy symbols full of meaning, and be sure 
 That what we read is all they have to tell ? 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 577 
 
 THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 
 
 i. 
 
 I N' the old Rabbinical stories, 
 
 So old they might well be true, — 
 The sacred tales of the Talmud, 
 
 That David and Solomon knew, — 
 There is one of the Father Abram, 
 
 The greatest of Heber’s race, 
 
 The mustard-seed of Judea 
 That filled the holy place. 
 
 ’Tis said that the fiery heaven 
 His eye was first to read, 
 
 Till planets were gods no longer, 
 
 But helps for the human need ; 
 
 He taught his simple people 
 The scope of eternal law 
 That swayed at once the fleecy cloud 
 And the circling suns they saw. 
 
 But the rude Chaldean peasants 
 Uprose against the seer, 
 
 And drave him forth — else never came 
 This Talmud legend here. 
 
 With Sarah his wife, and his servants, 
 Whom he ruled with potent hand, 
 The Patriarch planted his vineyards 
 In the Canaanitish land ; 
 
 With his wife — the sterile, but lovely, 
 The fame of whose beauty grew 
 Till there was no land in Asia 
 But tales of the treasure knew. 
 
 In his lore the sage lived — learning 
 High thought from the starlit skies ; 
 But heedful, too, of the light at home, 
 And the danger of wistful eyes : 
 
578 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Till the famine fell on his corn-fields, 
 
 And sent him forth again, 
 
 To seek for a home in Egypt, — 
 
 The land of the amorous men. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Long and rich is the caravan that halts at Egypt’s gate, 
 
 While duty full the stranger pays on lowing herd and 
 freight. 
 
 Full keen the scrutiny of those who note the heavy dues ; 
 
 From weanling foal to cumbrous wain, no chance of gain 
 they lose. 
 
 But fair the search — no wealth concealed ; while rich the 
 gifts they take 
 
 From Abram’s hand, till care has ceased, and formal quest 
 they make. 
 
 They pass the droves and laden teams, the weighted slaves 
 are past, 
 
 And Abram doubles still the gifts ; one wain — his own — is 
 last — 
 
 It goes unsearched ! Wise Abram smiles, though dearly 
 stemmed the quest ; 
 
 But haps will come from causes slight, 
 
 And hidden things upspring to light : 
 
 A breeze flings wide the canvas fold, and deep within the 
 wain, behold 
 
 A brass-bound, massive chest ! 
 
 “ Press on ! ” shouts Abram. “ Hold ! ” they cry ; “ what 
 treasure hide ye here ? ’ ’ 
 
 The word is stern — the answer brief : ‘ ‘ Treasure ! ’ tis 
 household gear ; 
 
 Plain linen cloth and flaxen thread.” The scribes deceived 
 are wroth ; 
 
 “ Then weigh the chest — its price shall be the dues on linen 
 cloth 1 ” 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 679 
 
 The face of Abram seemed to grieve, though joy was in his 
 breast, 
 
 As carefully his servants took and weighed the mighty 
 chest. 
 
 But one hath watched the secret smile; he cries — “This 
 stranger old 
 
 Hath used deceit : no cloth is here — this chest is filled with 
 gold ! ” 
 
 “Hay, nay,” wise Abram says, and smiles, though now he 
 hides dismay ; 
 
 “ But time is gold : let pass the chest — on gold the dues I 
 pay ! ” 
 
 But he who read the subtle smile detects the secret fear : 
 
 “ Detain the chest ! nor cloth nor gold, but precious silk is 
 here ! ” 
 
 Grave Father Abram stands like one who knoweth well the 
 sword 
 
 When tyros baffle thrust and guard ; slow comes the heed- 
 ful word : 
 
 “I seek no lawless gain— behold ! my trains are on their 
 way, 
 
 Else would these bands my servants break, and show the 
 simple goods I take, 
 
 That silk ye call ; but, for time’s sake, on silk the dues I 
 pay ! ” 
 
 “He pays too much!” the watcher cries; “this man is 
 full of guile ; 
 
 From cloth to gold and gold to silk, to save a paltry mile ! 
 
 This graybeard pay full silken dues on cloth for slave-bred 
 girls ! 
 
 Some prize is here — he shall not pass until he pay for 
 pearls ! ” 
 
 Stern Abram turned a lurid eye, as he the man would slay ; 
 
 An instant, rose the self-command ; but thin the lip and 
 quick the hand, 
 
580 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 As one who makes a last demand : “ On pearls the dues I 
 pay !” 
 
 “ He cannot pass ! ” the watcher screamed, as to the chest 
 he clung ; 
 
 “He shall not pass ! Some priceless thing he hideth here. 
 Quick — workmen bring ! 
 
 I seize this treasure for the King ! ” 
 
 Old Abram stood aghast ; it seemed the knell of doom had 
 rung. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Red- eyed with greed and wonder, 
 
 The crowd excited stand ; 
 
 The blows are rained like thunder 
 On brazen bolt and band ; 
 
 They burst the massive hinges, 
 
 They raise the pondrous lid, 
 
 And lo ! the peerless treasure 
 That Father Abram hid : 
 
 In pearls and silk and jewels rare, 
 
 Fit for a Pharaoh’s strife ; 
 
 In flashing eyes and golden hair — 
 
 Sat Abram’s lovely wife ! 
 
 THERE IS BLOOD ON THE EARTH. 
 
 T HERE is blood on the face of the earth— 
 It reeks through the years, and is red : 
 Where Truth was slaughtered at birth, 
 
 And the veins of Liberty bled. 
 
 Lo ! vain is the hand that tries 
 To cover the crimson stain : 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 581 
 
 It spreads like a plague, and cries 
 Like a soul in writhing pain. 
 
 It wasteth the planet’s flesh ; 
 
 It calleth on breasts of stone : 
 
 God holdeth His wrath in a leash 
 Till the hearts of men atone. 
 
 Blind, like the creatures of time • 
 
 Cursed, like all the race, 
 
 They answer : 4 4 The blood and crime 
 Belong to a sect and place ! ” 
 
 What are these things to Heaven — 
 
 Races or places of men ? 
 
 The world through one Christ was forgiven — 
 Nor question of races then. 
 
 The wrong of to-day shall be rued 
 In a thousand coming years ; 
 
 The debt must be paid in blood, 
 
 The interest, in tears. 
 
 Shall none stand up for right 
 Whom the evil passes by ? 
 
 But God had the globe in sight, 
 
 And hearkens the weak one’s cry. 
 
 Wherever a principle dies — 
 
 Nay, principles never die ! 
 
 But wherever a ruler lies, 
 
 And a people share the lie ; 
 
 Where right is crushed by force, 
 
 And manhood is stricken dead — 
 
 There dwelleth the ancient curse, 
 
 And the blood on the earth is red ! 
 
582 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’KEILLY. 
 
 LIVING. 
 
 T O toil all day and lie worn-ont at night ; 
 
 To rise for all the years to slave and sleep, 
 
 And breed new broods to do no other thing 
 In toiling, bearing, breeding — life is this 
 To myriad men, too base for man or brute. 
 
 To serve for common duty, while the brain 
 Is hot with high desire to be distinct ; 
 
 To fill the sand-grain place among the stones 
 That build the social wall in million sameness, 
 
 Is life by leave, and death by insignificance. 
 
 To live the morbid years, with dripping blood 
 Of sacrificial labor for a Thought ; 
 
 To take the dearest hope and lay it down 
 Beneath the crushing wheels for love of Freedom ; 
 
 To bear the sordid jeers of cant and trade, 
 
 And go on hewing for a far ideal, — 
 
 This were a life worth giving to a cause, 
 
 If cause be found so worth a martyr life. 
 
 But highest life of man, nor work nor sacrifice, 
 
 But utter seeing of the things that be ! 
 
 To pass amid the hurrying crowds, and watch 
 The hungry race for things of vulgar use ; 
 
 To mark the growth of baser lines in men ; 
 
 To note the bending to a servile rule ; 
 
 To know the natural discord called disease 
 That rots like rust the blood and souls of men ; 
 
 To test the wisdoms and philosophies by touch 
 Of that which is immutable, being clear, 
 
 The beam God opens to the poet’s brain ; 
 
 To see with eyes of pity laboring souls 
 Strive upward to the Freedom and the Truth, 
 
 And still be backward dragged by fear and ignorance 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 583 
 
 To see the beauty of the world, and hear 
 The rising harmony of growth, whose shade 
 Of undertone is harmonized decay ; 
 
 To know that love is life — that blood is one 
 And rushes to the union — that the heart 
 Is like a cup athirst for wine of love ; 
 
 Who sees and feels this meaning utterly, 
 
 The wrong of law, the right of man, the natural truth. 
 Partaking not of selfish aims, withholding not 
 The word that strengthens and the hand that helps : 
 Who waits and sympathizes with the pettiest life, 
 And loves all things, and reaches up to God 
 With thanks and blessing — He alone is living. 
 
 MACARIUS THE MONK, 
 
 I N the old days, while yet the Church was young, 
 And men believed that praise of God was sung 
 In curbing self as well as singing psalms, 
 
 There lived a monk, Macarius by name, 
 
 A holy man, to whom the faithful came 
 With hungry hearts to hear the wondrous Word. 
 
 In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms, 
 
 He dwelt within the desert : from the marsh 
 He drank the brackish water, and his food 
 Was dates and roots, — and all his rule was harsh, 
 For pampered flesh in those days warred with good. 
 From those who came in scores a few there were 
 Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer, 
 And these remained and took the hermit’s vow. 
 
 A dozen saints there grew to be ; and now 
 Macarius, happy, lived in larger care. 
 
 He taught his brethren all the lore he knew, 
 
 And as they learned, his pious rigors grew. 
 
 His whole intent was on the spirit’s goal : 
 
 He taught them silence — words disturb the soul ; 
 
584 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow, 
 And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow ; 
 
 To know that human life alone was given 
 To prove the souls of those who merit heaven ; 
 
 He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers, 
 
 And die to self, to live and work for others. 
 
 “ For so,” he said, “ we save our love and labors, 
 And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor’s 
 
 Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard, 
 
 He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the Word. 
 
 One day, beside the marsh they labored long, — 
 
 For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song, — 
 
 And when the cruel sun made hot the sand, 
 
 And Afric’s gnats the sweltering face and hand 
 Tormenting stung, a passing traveler stood 
 And watched the workers by the reeking flood. 
 Macarius, nigh with heat and toil was faint ; 
 
 The traveler saw, and to the suffering saint 
 A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw. 
 
 Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view, 
 
 A. generous cluster, bursting-rich with wine, 
 Macarius longed to taste. “ The fruit is mine,” 
 
 He said, and sighed ; “ but I, who daily teach, 
 
 Feel now the bond to practice as I preach.” 
 
 He gave the cluster to the nearest one, 
 
 And with his heavy toil went patient on. 
 
 As one athirst will greet a flowing brim. 
 
 The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him 
 Who took the gift ; but in the yearning eye 
 Hose brighter light : to one whose lip was dry 
 He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade. 
 
 And he who took, unknown to any other, 
 
 The sweet refreshment handed to a brother. 
 
 And so, from each to each, till round was made 
 The circuit wholly — when the grapes at last, 
 Untouched and tempting, to Macarius passed. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 585 
 
 “ Now God be thanked ! ” he cried, and ceased his toil ; 
 “ The seed was good, but better was the soil. 
 
 My brothers, join with me to bless the day.” 
 
 But, ere they knelt, he threw the grapes away. 
 
 THE UNHAPPY ONE. 
 
 “TIE is false to the heart!” she said, stern-lipped; 
 
 -LI “ he is all untruth ; 
 
 He promises fair as a tree in blossom, and then 
 The fruit is rotten ere ripe. Tears, prayers and youth, 
 
 All withered and wasted ! and still — I love this falsest of 
 men ! ” 
 
 Comfort? There is no comfort when the soul sees pain 
 like a sun : 
 
 It is better to stare at the blinding truth : if it blind, one 
 woe is done. 
 
 We cling to a coward hope, when hope has the seed of the 
 pain : 
 
 If we tear out the roots of the grief, it will never torment 
 again. 
 
 Ay, even if part of our life is lost, and the deep-laid nerves 
 
 That carry all joy to the heart are wounded or killed by 
 the knife ; 
 
 When a gangrene sinks to the bone, it is only half-death 
 that serves ; 
 
 And a life with a cureless pain is only half a life. 
 
 But why unhealed must the spirit endure ? There are 
 drugs for the body’s dole ; 
 
 Have we wholly lived for the lower life ? Is there never a 
 balm for the soul ? 
 
 O Night, cry out for the healer of woe, for the priest- 
 physician cry, 
 
 With the pouring oil for the bleeding grief, for the life 
 that may not die I 
 
586 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 “ He is false to the heart ! ” she moaned ; “ and I love him 
 and cannot hate ! ” 
 
 Then bitterly, fiercely — “ What have I done, my God, for 
 such a fate?” 
 
 “ Poor heart ! ” said the Teacher ; “ for thee and thy sor- 
 row the daily parables speak. 
 
 Thy grief, that is dark, illumes for me a sign that was dim 
 and weak. 
 
 In the heart of my garden I planted a tree — I had chosen 
 the noblest shoot : 
 
 It was sheltered and tended, and hope reached out for the 
 future’s precious fruit. 
 
 The years of its youth flew past, and I looked on a spread- 
 ing tree 
 
 All gloried with maiden blossoms, that smiled their prom- 
 ise to me. 
 
 I lingered to gaze on their color and shape — I knew I had 
 chosen well ; 
 
 And I smiled at the death that was promise of life as the 
 beautiful petals fell. 
 
 But the joy was chilled, though the lip laughed on, by 
 the withered proof to the eye : 
 
 The blossoms had shielded no tender bud, but cradled a 
 barren lie. 
 
 Before me it lay, the mystery — the asking, the promise, 
 the stone ; 
 
 The tree that should give good fruit was bare — the cause 
 unseen, unknown ! 
 
 “ But I said : ‘ Next year it shall bourgeon, my part shall 
 be faithfully done ; 
 
 My love shall be doubled — I trust my tree for its beautiful 
 strength alone.’ 
 
 But tenderness failed, and loving care, and the chalice of 
 faith was dried 
 
 When the next spring blossoms had spoken their promise — 
 smiled at the sun and lied ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 587 
 
 The heart of the petals was withered to dust. Then, for 
 duty, I trusted again ; 
 
 For who should stand if God were to frown on the twice- 
 told failures of men ? 
 
 Unloving I tended, with care increased, but never a song 
 or smile ; 
 
 For duty is love that is dead but is kept from the grave for 
 a while. 
 
 The third year came, with the sweet young leaves, and I 
 could not fear or doubt ; 
 
 But the petals smiled at the sun and lied, — and the curse 
 in my blood leaped out ! 
 
 ‘This corpse/ I cried, ‘that has cumbered the earth, let 
 it hence to the waste be torn ! ’ 
 
 That moment of wrath beheld its death — while to me was a 
 life-truth born : 
 
 The straight young trunk at my feet lay prone ; and I 
 bent to scan the core, 
 
 And there read the pitiful secret the noble sapling bore. 
 
 Through the heart of the pith, in its softest youth, it had 
 bored its secret way, 
 
 A gnawing worm, a hideous grief, — and the life it had 
 tortured lay 
 
 Accursed and lost for the cruel devil that nestled its breast 
 within. 
 
 Ah, me, poor heart ! had I known in time, I had cut out 
 the clinging sin, 
 
 And saved the life that was all as good and as noble as it 
 seemed ! ” 
 
 He ceased, and she rose, the unresigned, as one who had 
 slept and dreamed ; 
 
 Her face was radiant with insight: “It is true! it is 
 true!” she said ; 
 
 “And my love shall not die, like your beautiful tree, till 
 the hidden pain is dead ! ” 
 
588 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 DESTINY. 
 
 S OLDIER, why do you shrink from the hiss of the hun- 
 gry lead ? 
 
 The bullet that whizzed is past ; the approaching ball is 
 dumb. 
 
 Stand straight ! you cannot shrink from Fate : let it come ! 
 A comrade in front may hear it whiz — when you are dead. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE SOLDIERS. 
 
 "TTTHAT song is best for the soldiers ? 
 
 V V Take no heed of the words, nor choose you the style 
 of the story ; 
 
 Let it burst out from the heart like a spring from the womb 
 of a mountain, 
 
 Natural, clear, resistless, leaping its way to the levels ; 
 
 Whether of love or hate or war or the pathos and pain of 
 affliction ; 
 
 Whether of manly pluck in the perilous hour, or that 
 which is higher, 
 
 And highest of all, the slowly bleeding sacrifice, 
 
 The giving of life and its joys for the sake of men and free- 
 dom ; — 
 
 Any song for the soldier that will harmonize with the life- 
 throbs ; 
 
 For he has laved in the mystical sea by which men are one ; 
 
 His pulse has thrilled into blinding tune with the vaster 
 anthems 
 
 Which God plays on the battle-fields when he sweeps the 
 strings of nations, 
 
 And the song of the earth-planet bursts on the silent 
 spheres, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 589 
 
 Shot through like the cloud of Etna with flames of heroic 
 devotion, 
 
 And shaded with quivering lines from the mourning of 
 women and children l 
 
 Here is a song for the soldiers — a song of the Cheyenne 
 Indians, 
 
 Of men with soldierly hearts who walked with Death as a 
 comrade. 
 
 Hush ! Let the present fade ; let the distance die ; let the 
 last year stand : 
 
 We are far to the West, in Montana, on the desolate plains 
 of Montana ; 
 
 We ride with the cavalry troopers on the bloody trail of 
 the Cheyennes, 
 
 Forty braves of the tribe who have leaped from the reser- 
 vation 
 
 Down on the mining camps in their desecrated valleys, 
 
 Down to their fathers’ graves and the hunting-ground of 
 their people. 
 
 Chilled with the doom of Death they gaze on the white 
 men’s changes : 
 
 Ruthless the brutal force that has crushed their homes and 
 their manhood, 
 
 And ruthless the hearts of the Cheyenne braves as they 
 swoop on the camps of the miners ! 
 
 Back to the hills they dash, with reeking trophies around 
 them : 
 
 But swift on their trail the cavalry ride, and their trumpets 
 
 Break on the ears of the braves with a threat of oncoming 
 vengeance. 
 
 At last they are bayed and barred — corraled in a straight- 
 walled valley, — 
 
 The Indians back to the cliffs with the shattered rocks as a 
 breastwork, 
 
 The soldiers in lined stockades across the mouth of the 
 valley. 
 
590 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Hungrily hiss the bullets, not wasted in random tiring, 
 
 But every shot for a mark, — thrice their number of soldiers 
 
 Baking the Cheyenne rocks with a pitiless rain of missiles, 
 
 One to three in the tiring, but every Cheyenne bullet 
 
 Tumbled a reckless trooper behind his fence in the stock- 
 ade. 
 
 “God! they are brave!” cried the captain. “ Seven 
 hours we’ve held them, 
 
 Three, ay, five to one, if you count their dead and their 
 wounded : 
 
 Damn them ! why don’t they yield for the sake of their 
 lives and their wounded ? ” 
 
 But never a sign but flame and the hiss of the leaden defi- 
 ance 
 
 Comes from the Cheyenne braves, though their firing slack- 
 ens in vigor 
 
 To grow in fatal precision — grim as the cliff above them 
 
 They fight their fight, and the valley is lined with death 
 from their rifles. 
 
 Cried the captain, “Men, we must charge ! ” and he grieves 
 for his boys and their foemen ; 
 
 “ But show them a sign of quarter ; ” and he swings them 
 a flag to tell them 
 
 That his side is willing to parley : the Indians riddle the 
 ensign, 
 
 And the captain groans in his heart as he gives the order 
 for charging. 
 
 Terrible getting ready of men who prepare for a death- 
 fight : — 
 
 Scabbards are thrown aside and belts unstrapped for the 
 striking, 
 
 Ominous outward signs of the deadlier inner preparing 
 
 When the soul flings danger aside and the human heart its 
 mercy. 
 
 Out from the fatal earthworks, their eyes like fire in a 
 cavern, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 591 
 
 With naked blades the troopers, and nerves wire-strung 
 for the onset, 
 
 When suddenly, up from the rocks, a sign at last from 
 the Cheyennes ! 
 
 Two tall braves on the rocks — “ Re-form ! ” brays the 
 cavalry trumpet, 
 
 And grimly the soldiers return, reluctantly leaving the 
 conflict. 
 
 Still on the rocks two forms of bronze, as if prepared for 
 the stormers, 
 
 Then down to the field, and behold, they dash toward the 
 wondering troopers ! 
 
 The soldiers stare at the charge, but no man laughs at the 
 foemen, 
 
 Instead of a sneer a tremor at many a mouth in sorrow. 
 
 On they come to their death, and, standing at fifty paces, 
 
 They fire in the face of the squadron, and dash with their 
 knives to the death-grip ! 
 
 Fifty rifles give flame, and the breasts of the heroes are 
 shattered ; 
 
 But falling, they plunge toward the fight, and their knives 
 sink deep in the meadow ! 
 
 “ On to the rocks ! ” and the soldiers have done with their 
 feelings of mercy — 
 
 But never a foe to meet them nor a shot from the deadly 
 barrier. 
 
 First on the rocks the captain, with a cheer that died as he 
 gave it, — 
 
 A cheer that was half a groan and a cry of admiration. 
 
 Awed stood the troopers who followed, and lowered their 
 swords with their leader, 
 
 Homage of brave to the brave, saluting with souls and 
 weapons ; 
 
 There at their feet lay the foemen — every man dead on his 
 rifle — 
 
 The two who had charged the troops were the last alive of 
 the Cheyennes ! 
 
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 5 92 
 
 AN OLD VAGABOND. 
 
 H E was old and alone, and he sat on a stone to rest for 
 awhile from the road ; 
 
 His beard was white, and his eye was bright, and his 
 wrinkles overflowed 
 
 With a mild content at the way life went ; and I closed 
 the book on my knee : 
 
 “ I will venture a look in this living book,” I thought, as 
 he greeted me. 
 
 And I said : “ My friend, have you time to spend to tell 
 me what makes you glad ? ” 
 
 “Oh, ay, my lad,” with a smile ; “ I’m glad that I’m old, 
 yet am never sad ! ’ ’ 
 
 “But why ? ” said I ; and his merry eye made answer as 
 much as his tongue ; 
 
 “Because,” said he, “I am poor and free who was rich 
 and a slave when young. 
 
 There is naught but age can allay the rage of the passions 
 that rule men’s lives ; 
 
 And a man to be free must a poor man be, for unhappy is 
 he who thrives : 
 
 He fears for his ventures, his rents and debentures, his 
 crops, and his son, and his wife ; 
 
 His dignity’s slighted when he’s not invited ; he fears every 
 day of his life. 
 
 But the man who is poor, and by age has grown sure that 
 there are no surprises in years, 
 
 Who knows that to have is no joy, nor to save, and who 
 opens his eyes and his ears 
 
 To the world as it is, and the part of it his, and who says : 
 They are happy, these birds, 
 
 Yet they live day by day in improvident way — improvi- 
 dent ? What were the words 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 593 
 
 Of the Teacher who taught that the field-lilies brought the 
 lesson of life to a man ? 
 
 Can we better the thing that is schoolless, or sing more of 
 love than the nightingale can ? 
 
 See that rabbit — what feature in that pretty creature needs 
 science or culture or care ? 
 
 Send this dog to a college and stuff him with knowledge, 
 will it add to the warmth of his hair? 
 
 Why should mankind, apart, turn from Nature to Art, 
 and declare the exchange better-planned ? 
 
 I prefer to trust God for my living than plod for my bread 
 at a master’s hand, 
 
 A man’s higher being is knowing and seeing, not having 
 and toiling for more ; 
 
 In the senses and soul is the joy of control, not in pride or 
 luxurious store. 
 
 Yet my needs are the same as the kingling’s whose name is 
 a terror to thousands some bread, 
 
 Some water and milk, — I can do without silk, — some wool, 
 and a roof for my head. 
 
 What more is possest that will stand the grim test of 
 death’s verdict ? What riches remain 
 
 To give joy at the last, all the vanities past ? — Ay, ay, 
 that’s the word — they are vain 
 
 And vexatious of spirit to all who inherit belief in the world 
 and its ways. 
 
 And so, old and alone, sitting here on a stone, I smile with 
 the birds at the days.” 
 
 • 
 
 And I thanked him, and went to my study, head bent, 
 where I laid down my book on its shelf ; 
 
 And that day all the page that I read was my age, and my 
 wants, and my joys, and myself. 
 
594 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 THE STATUES IN THE BLOCK. 
 
 “ T OYE is the secret of the world,’ ’ he said ; 
 
 -Li ‘ 4 The cup we drain and still desire to drink. 
 The loadstone hungers for the steel ; the steel, 
 
 Inert amid a million stones, responds to this. 
 
 So yearn and answer hearts that truly love : 
 
 Once touch their life-spring, it vibrates to death ; 
 And twain athrill as one are nature- wed.” 
 
 But silent stood the three who heard, nor smiled 
 Nor looked agreement. Strangers these who stood 
 Within a Roman studio — still young, 
 
 But sobered each with that which follows joy 
 At life’s fresh forenoon, and the eye of each 
 Held deep within a restless eager light, 
 
 As gleams a diamond in a darkened room 
 With radiance hoarded from the vanished sun. 
 
 “ The meteor-stone is dense and dark in space, 
 
 But bursts in flame when through the air it rushes ; 
 And our dull life is like an aerolite 
 That leaps to Are within the sphere of love.” 
 Unchecked his mood ran on : “ Sweet amorous hours 
 That lie in years as isles in tropic seas, 
 
 You spring to view as Art is born of Love, 
 
 And shape rich beauties in this marble block ! ” 
 
 Before them rose within the shaded light 
 A tall and shapely mass of Alp-wliite crystal 
 Fresh from the heart of a Carrara quarry. 
 
 “ Opaque to you this marble ; but to me, 
 
 Whose eyes the chrism of passion has anointed, 
 
 The stone is pregnant with a life of love. 
 
 Within this monolith there lives a form 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 595 
 
 Which I can see and would reveal to you, 
 
 Could hand and chisel swiftly follow sight. 
 
 From brow to foot her lissome form stands forth — 
 
 The ripe lips smiling reached ; with nestling press, 
 
 As round the sailor frozen in the berg 
 The clear ice closes on the still dead face, 
 
 The marble, grown translucent, touches soft 
 Each comely feature — rippled hair, and chin, 
 
 And lily Sweep of bust and hip and limb — 
 
 Ah, sweet mouth pouting for the lips that cling, 
 
 And white arms raised all quivering to the clasp — 
 
 Ah, rich throat made for burning lover’s kiss, 
 
 And reckless bodice open to the swell, 
 
 And deep eyes soft with love’s suffusion — Love ! 
 
 O Love ! still living, memory and hope, 
 
 Beyond all sweets thy bosom, breath, and lips — 
 
 My jewel and the jewel of the world ! ” 
 
 They stood in silence, each one rapt and still, 
 
 As if the lovely form were theirs as his, 
 
 Till one began — harsh voice and clouded face — 
 
 With other presence in his eye — and said : 
 
 “ Opaque to me with such a glow-worm ray 
 
 As Love’s torch flings — but, mark, the dense rock melts 
 
 When from my soul on fire the fiercer beam, 
 
 The mighty calcium-glare of hate leaps out 
 And eats the circumambient marble — See ! 
 
 Laid bare as corpse to keen anatomist, 
 
 With every sinuous muscle picked with shadow, 
 
 And every feature tense with livid passion, 
 
 And all the frame aheave with sanguine throbs — 
 
 The ecstasy of agonized Revenge ! 
 
 0 stone, reveal it — how my parting kiss 
 Was wet upon her mouth when other lips 
 Drank deep the cursed fountain ; how the coin 
 
 1 hung with rapture ’tween her glowing breasts, 
 
 And fondly thought if I should die and she 
 Should live till age had blanched her hair and flesh, 
 
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 596 
 
 This golden medal’s touch would still have power 
 To light the love-fire in the faded eyes 
 And swell the shriveled breast to maiden roundness — 
 This thought I nursed — 0 Stygian abyss ! — 
 
 Away thy picture of the rippled hair ! 
 
 Her hair was rippled and her eyes were deep, 
 
 Her breasts and limbs were white and lily -curved, 
 
 But all the woman, soul and wondrous flesh, 
 
 Was poison-steeped and veined with vicious fire ; 
 
 And I, blind fool who trusted, was but one 
 Who swooned with love beside her — But I drank 
 The wine she filled, and made her eat the dregs— 
 
 I drenched her honey with my sea of gall. 
 
 I see her in the marble where she shrinks 
 In shuddered fear, as if my face were fire— 
 
 Her cowering shadow making whiter still 
 The face of him that writhes beside her feet. 
 
 I see him breathe, the last deep breath, and turn 
 His eyes upon me horror-filled — his hand, 
 
 Still hot with wanton dalliance, clutched hard 
 Across the burning murder in his side — 
 
 And now he sinks still glaring — And my heart 
 Is there between them, petrified, O God ! 
 
 And pierced by that red blow that struck their guilt. 
 
 0 balm and torture ! he must hate who loves, 
 
 And bleed who strikes to see thy face, Revenge ! ” 
 
 Grown deep the silence for the words that died, 
 
 And paler still the marble for its grief. 
 
 “ Ah, myrrh and honey ! ” spake a third, whose eyes 
 Were deep with sorrow for the woe ; “ blind hands 
 That grope for flowers and pierce the flesh with thorns 1 
 All love of woman still may turn to hate, 
 
 As wine to bitterness, as noon to night. 
 
 But sweeter far and deeper than the love 
 Of flesh for flesh, is the strong bond of hearts 
 For suffering Motherland — to make her free ! 
 
 Love’s joy is short, and Hate’s black triumph bitter, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 And loves and hates are selfish — save for thee, 
 
 0 chained and weeping at thy pillar’s foot, 
 
 Thy white flesh eaten by accursed bands. 
 
 No love but thine can satisfy the heart, 
 
 For love of thee holds in it hate of wrong, 
 
 And shapes the hope that molds humanity ! 
 
 Not mine your passions, yet I weigh them well— 
 Who loves a greater sinks all lesser love ( 
 
 Who hates a tyrant loses lesser hate. 
 
 My Land ! I see thee in the marble, bowed 
 Before thy tyrant, bound at foot and wrist — 
 
 Thy garments rent — thy wounded shoulder bare — 
 Thy chained hand raised to ward the cruel blow — 
 My poor love round thee scarf -like, weak to hide 
 And powerless to shield thee — but a boy 
 
 1 wound it round thee, dearest, and a man 
 
 I drew it close and kissed thee — Mother, wife ! 
 
 For thee the past and future days ; for thee 
 The will to trample wrong and strike for slaves ; 
 For thee the hope that ere mine arm be weak 
 And ere my heart be dry may close the strife 
 In which thy colors shall be borne through fire, 
 And all thy griefs washed out in manly blood — 
 And I shall see thee crowned and bound with Jove, 
 Thy strong sons round thee guarding thee. 0 star 
 That lightens desolation, o’er her beam, 
 
 Nor let the shadow of the pillar sink 
 
 Too deep within her, till the dawn is red 
 
 Of that white noon when men shall call her Queen ! 
 
 The deep voice quivering with affection ceased, 
 
 And silent each they saw within the stone 
 The captive nation and the mother’s woe. 
 
 Yet while their hearts the fine emotion warmed, 
 
 Ere ebbed the deep-pulsed throb of brotherhood, 
 The last one spoke, and held the wave at full : — 
 
 “ Yea, brothers, his the noblest for its grief ; 
 
 Your love was loss— but his was sacrifice. 
 
598 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’rEILJ/Y. 
 
 Your light was sunlight, for the shallow sense 
 That bends the eyes on earth and thinks it sees ; 
 
 His love was nightlike,when we see the stars, 
 
 Forgetting petty things around our feet. 
 
 Yet here, too, find his weakness, for his hope 
 Is still for sunlight, and your shallow sense, 
 
 And golden crowns and queendom for his love. 
 
 I, too, within the stone behold a statue, 
 
 Far less than yours, but greater, for I know 
 My symbol a beginning, not an end. 
 
 O, Grief, with Hope ! The marble fades — behold ! 
 
 The little hands still crossed — a child in death. 
 
 My link with love — my dying gift from her 
 Whose last look smiled on both, when I was left 
 A loveless man, save this poor gift, alone. 
 
 My heart had wound its tendrils round one life, 
 
 But when my joy was deepest, she was stricken, 
 
 And I was powerless to save. My prayers 
 And piteous cries were flung against my face — 
 
 My life was blighted by the curse of Heaven ! 
 
 But from the depths her love returned to soothe : 
 
 Her dear hand reached from death and placed her child 
 Where she had lived, within the riven tendrils, 
 
 And firmly these closed round their second treasure. 
 
 And she, my new love, in her infant hold 
 Took every heart-string as her mother’ s gift, 
 
 And touched such tender fine-strung chords, and played 
 Such music in my heart as filled my life 
 With trembling joy and fondness for the child. 
 
 I feared to be so blest — her baby cheek, 
 
 When laid on mine, was Heaven’ s sweetest touch ; 
 
 And when she looked me in the eyes, I saw 
 Her mother look at me from deep within, 
 
 And bless me for the love I gave and won. 
 
 Yet, when I loved her most she, too, was doomed : 
 
 I saw it come upon her like a shadow, 
 
 And watched the change, appalled at first, but set 
 To ward the danger from my darling. She, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 599 
 
 As day by day still failing, grew so tender 
 And crept so often to my heart, as if, 
 
 Though but a babe who could not speak a word, 
 
 She knew full well my life would soon be shattered. 
 
 But all my love was fruitless, and my prayers 
 To leave her with me beat the gates in vain. 
 
 I thought my love must hold her, till at last 
 
 I held the tiny body like a leaf 
 
 All day and night within my arms ; and so, 
 
 Close nestled to my yearning heart, Death passed, 
 
 As merciless as God, but left that look 
 Of two dead loves, as if Death’ s self knew pity. 
 
 And I was lost heart- withered in a night 
 That knew no star and held no ray of hope, 
 
 And heard no word but my despairing curse 
 With lifted hands, at life and Him who gave it! 
 
 My graves were all. I had — the little mound 
 
 Where my hands laid her, with the sweet young grass — 
 
 The tiny hill that, grew until the sun 
 
 Was hid behind it, and I sat below 
 
 And gnawed my heart in grief within its shadow. 
 
 So one day bowed in woe beside the grave 
 The weight grew deadly, and I called aloud 
 That God should witness to my life in ruin. 
 
 And God’s word reached me through the little grave 
 Where in the grass my face was buried weeping — 
 
 His peace came through it like a pent-up breath 
 That rolled from some great world whose gates had oped, 
 And blew upon my wild and hardened heart, 
 
 And swept my woe before it like a leaf. 
 
 My dried heart drank the meaning of the peace : 
 
 True love shall trust, and selfish love must die, 
 
 For trust is peace, and self is full of pain ; 
 
 Arise, and heal thy brother’ s grief ; his tears 
 Shall wash thy love and it will five again. 
 
 0 little grave, I thought ’twas love had died, 
 
 But in thy bosom only lies my sorrow. 
 
 1 see my darling in the marble now— 
 
600 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 My wasted leaf — lier kind eyes smiling fondly, 
 
 And through her eyes I see the love beyond, 
 
 The biding light that moves not — and I know 
 That when God gives to us the clearest sight 
 He does not touch our eyes with Love, but Sorrow.” 
 
 THE THREE QUEENS. 
 
 Read at the annual meeting of Phi Beta Kappa, Dartmouth College, 1882. 
 
 I N the far time of Earth’s sweet maiden beauty, 
 When Morning hung with rapture on her breast ; 
 When every sentient life paid love for duty, 
 
 And every law was Nature’s own behest ; 
 
 When reason ruled as subtle instinct taught her ; 
 
 When joys were pure and sin and shame unseen ; 
 Then God sent down His messenger and daughter, 
 His kiss upon her lips, to reign as Queen ! 
 
 Her name was Liberty ! Earth lay before her, 
 
 And throbbed unconscious fealty and truth ; 
 Morning and night men hastened to adore her, 
 
 And from her eyes Peace drew perennial youth. 
 Her hair was golden as the stars of heaven ; 
 
 Her face was radiant with the kiss of Jove ; 
 
 Her form was lovelier than the sun at even ; 
 
 Death paled before her : Life was one with Love. 
 
 0 time traditioned ! ere thy dismal sequel, 
 
 Men owned the world, and every man was free ; 
 The lowest life was noble ; all were equal 
 In needs and creeds, — their birthright Liberty. 
 Possession had no power of caste, nor learning ; 
 
 He was not great who owned a shining stone ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 601 
 
 No seer was needed for the truth’s discerning, 
 
 Nor king nor code to teach the world its own. 
 
 Distinction lived, but gave no power o’er others, 
 
 As flowers have no dominion each o’er each ; 
 
 What men could do they did among their brothers 
 By skill of hand or gift of song or speech. 
 
 Dear Golden Age ! that like a deathless spirit 
 Fills our traditions with a light sublime ; 
 
 Like wheat from Egypt’s tombs our souls inherit 
 Sweet dreams of freedom from thy vanished time. 
 
 O Goddess Liberty ! thy sun was cleaving 
 Its golden path across a perfect sky, 
 
 When lo ! a cloud, from night below upheaving, 
 
 And underneath a shadow and a cry ! 
 
 In lurid darkness spread the thing of error, 
 
 Swift ran the shudder and the fear beneath ; 
 
 Till o’er the Queen’s face passed the voiceless terror, 
 
 And Love grew pale to see the joy of Death. 
 
 Men stood benumbed to wait unknown disaster ; 
 
 Full soon its sworded Messenger was seen ; 
 
 “ Behold ! ” he cried, “ the weak shall have a master ! 
 The Strong shall rule ! There reigns another Queen ! ” 
 
 Then rushed the forces of the night-born Power, 
 
 And seized white Liberty, and cast her down ; 
 
 Man’s plundered birthright was the new Queen’s dower, 
 The sorrow of the weak ones was her crown. 
 
 Her name was Law ! She sent her proclamation 
 Through every land and set her crimson seal 
 
 On every strangled right and revocation 
 Of aim and instinct of the common weal. 
 
 She saw the true Queen prisoned by her creatures ; 
 
 Who dared to speak, was slain by her command. 
 
 Her face was lusterless. With smileless features 
 She took the throne — a weapon in her hand ! 
 
602 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Her new code read : “ The earth is for the able ” 
 
 (And able meant the selfish, strong, and shrewd) ; 
 
 “ Equality and freedom are a fable ; 
 
 To take and keep the largest share is good.” 
 
 Her teachers taught the justice of oppression, 
 
 That taxed the poor on all but air and sun ; 
 
 Her preachers preached the gospel of possession, 
 
 That hoards had rights while human souls had none. 
 
 Then all things changed their object and relation ; 
 
 Commerce instead of Nature— Progress instead of Men ; 
 The world became a monstrous corporation, 
 
 Where ninety serfs ground luxury for ten. 
 
 The masters blessed, the toilers cursed the system 
 That classified and kept mankind apart ; 
 
 But passing ages rained the dust of custom 
 Where broken Nature showed the weld of art. 
 
 But there were some who scorned to make alliance, 
 
 Who owned the true Queen even in the dust ; 
 
 And these, through generations, flung defiance 
 From goal and gibbet for their sacred trust. 
 
 Then came the Christ, the Saviour and the Brother, 
 
 With truth and freedom once again the seed ; 
 
 “ Woe to the rich ! Do ye to one another 
 As each desires for self ” — man’s primal creed. 
 
 But, lo ! they took the Saviour and they bound him, 
 
 And set him in their midst as he were free ; 
 
 They made His tied hands seal their deeds around Him, 
 And His dumb lips condemn fair Liberty ! 
 
 “ Then woe ! ” cried those faint-hearted ; “ woe fordream- 
 ing, 
 
 For prayers and hopes and sufferings all in vain ! ” 
 
 O Souls despondent at the outward seeming, 
 
 Here at the cry, behold the light again ! 
 
 Here at the cry, the answer and solution : 
 
 When strong as Death the cold usurper reigns, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 603 
 
 When human right seems doomed to dissolution, 
 
 And Hope itself is wrung with mortal pains ; 
 
 When Christ is harnessed to the landlord’s burden ; 
 
 His truth to make men free a thing of scorn ; 
 
 God hears the cry, and sends the mystic guerdon, — 
 
 Earth thrills and throes — another Queen is born ! 
 
 O weak she comes, a child and not a woman ; 
 
 Heeding our nursing and devotion long ; 
 
 But in her eyes the flame divine and human, 
 
 To strengthen weak ones and restrain the strong. 
 
 Her name is Learning ! Her domain unbounded ; 
 
 Of all the fetters she commands the key ; 
 
 Through her babe-mouth man’s wrong shall be confounded, 
 And link by link her sister Queen set free. 
 
 Her hand shall hold the patriotic passes, 
 
 And check the wrong that zeal would do for right ; 
 
 Her whispered secrets shall inflame the masses 
 To read their planet-charter by her light. 
 
 Round her to-day may press the base Queen’s minions, 
 Seeking alliance and approval. Hay ! 
 
 The day and night shall mingle their dominions 
 Ere Hature’s rule and Mammon’s join their sway. 
 
 Our new Queen comes a nursling, thus to teach us 
 The patience and the tenderness we need : 
 
 To raise our natures that the light may reach us 
 Of sacrifice and silence for a creed. 
 
 A nursling yet, — but every school and college 
 Is training minds to tend the heavenly maid ; 
 
 And men are learning, grain by grain, the knowledge 
 That worlds exist for higher ends than trade. 
 
 Grander than Vulcan’s are these mighty forges 
 Where souls are shaped and sharped like fiery swords, 
 
 To arm the multitude till Might disgorges, 
 
 And save the Saviour from the selfish hordes. 
 
604 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Around us here we count those Pharos stations, 
 Where men are bred to do their Queen’s behest : 
 To guard the deep republican foundations 
 Of our majestic freedom of the West ! 
 
 From our high place the broken view grows clearer, 
 The bloodstained upward path the patriots trod ; 
 Shall we not reach to bring the toilers nearer 
 The law of Nature, Liberty, and God ? 
 
 THE LAST OF THE NARWHALE. 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ARCTIC NIP. 
 
 A Y, ay, I’ll tell you, shipmates, 
 
 If you care to hear the tale, 
 
 How myself and the royal yard alone 
 Were left of the old Nar whale. 
 
 “ A stouter ship was never launched 
 Of all the Clyde-built whalers ; 
 
 And forty years of a life at sea 
 
 Haven’t matched her crowd of sailors. 
 
 Picked men they were, all young and strong, 
 And used to the wildest seas, 
 
 From Donegal and the Scottish coast, 
 
 And the rugged Hebrides. 
 
 Such men as women cling to, mates, 
 
 Like ivy round their lives : 
 
 And the day we sailed, the quays were lined 
 With weeping mothers and wives. 
 
 They cried and prayed, and we gave ’em a cheer, 
 In the thoughtless way of men ; 
 
 God help them, shipmates — thirty years 
 They’ve waited and prayed since then. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 005 
 
 “ We sailed to the North, and I mind it well, 
 
 The pity we felt, and pride 
 When we sighted the cliffs of Labrador 
 From the sea where Hudson died. 
 
 We talked of ships that never came back, 
 
 And when the great floes passed, 
 
 Like ghosts in the night, each moonlit peak 
 Like a great war frigate’s mast, 
 
 ’Twas said that a ship was frozen up 
 In the iceberg’s awful breast, 
 
 The clear ice holding the sailor’ s face 
 As he lay in his mortal rest. 
 
 And I’ve thought since then, when the ships came home 
 That sailed for the Franklin band, 
 
 A mistake was made in the reckoning 
 That looked for the crews on land. 
 
 ‘They’re floating still,’ I’ve said to myself, 
 
 4 And Sir John has found the goal ; 
 
 The Erebus and the Terror, mates, 
 
 Are icebergs up at the Pole ! ’ 
 
 “ We sailed due North, to Baffin’s Bay, 
 
 And cruised through weeks of light ; 
 
 ’Twas always day, and we slept by the bell, 
 
 And longed for the dear old night, 
 
 And the blessed darkness left behind, 
 
 Like a curtain round the bed ; 
 
 But a month dragged on like an afternoon 
 With the wheeling sun o’erhead. 
 
 We found the whales were farther still, 
 
 The farther north we sailed ; 
 
 Along the Greenland glacier coast, 
 
 The boldest might have quailed, 
 
 Such shapes did keep us company ; 
 
 No sail in all that sea, 
 
 But thick as ships in Mersey’s tide 
 The bergs moved awfully 
 
606 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Within the current’s northward stream ; 
 
 But, ere the long day’s close, 
 
 We found the whales and filled the ship 
 Amid the friendly floes. 
 
 “ Then came a rest : the day was blown 
 Like a cloud before the night ; 
 
 In the South the sun went redly down — 
 
 In the North rose another light, 
 
 Neither sun nor moon, but a shooting dawn, 
 That silvered our lonely way ; 
 
 It seemed we sailed in a belt of gloom, 
 
 Upon either side, a day. 
 
 The north wind smote the sea to death ; 
 
 The pack-ice closed us round — 
 
 The Narwhale stood in the level fields 
 As fast as a ship aground. 
 
 A weary time it was to wait, 
 
 And to wish for spring to come, 
 
 With the pleasant breeze and the blessed sun, 
 
 To open the way toward home. 
 
 “ Spring came at last, the ice-fields groaned 
 Like living things in pain ; 
 
 They moaned and swayed, then rent amain, 
 
 And the Narwhale sailed again. 
 
 With joy the dripping sails were loosed 
 And round the vessel swung ; 
 
 To cheer the crew, full south she drew, 
 
 The shattered floes among. 
 
 We had no books in those old days 
 To carry the friendly faces 
 But I think the wives and lasses then 
 Were held in better places. 
 
 The face of sweetheart and wife to-day 
 Is locked in the sailor’s chest : 
 
 But aloft on the yard, with the thought of home, 
 The face in the heart was best. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 607 
 
 Well, well — God knows, mates, when and where 
 To take the things he gave ; 
 
 We steered for home — but the chart was his, 
 And the port ahead — the grave ! 
 
 u We cleared the floes : through an open sea 
 The Nar whale south’ ard sailed, 
 
 Till a day came round when the white fog rose, 
 And the wind astern had failed. 
 
 In front of the Greenland glacier line, 
 
 And close to its base were we ; 
 
 Through the misty pall we could see the wall 
 That beetled above the sea. 
 
 A fear like the fog crept over our hearts 
 As we heard the hollow roar 
 Of the deep sea thrashing the cliffs of ice 
 For leagues along the shore. 
 
 “ The years have come and the years have gone, 
 But it never wears away — 
 
 The 'sense I have of the sights and sounds 
 That marked that woeful day. 
 
 Flung here and there at the ocean’s will, 
 
 As it flung the broken floe — 
 
 What strength had we ’gainst the tiger sea 
 That sports with a sailor’s woe ? 
 
 The lifeless berg and the lifeful ship 
 Were the same to the sullen wave, 
 
 As it swept them far from ridge to ridge, 
 
 Till at last the Narwhale drave 
 With a crashing rail on the glacier wall — 
 
 As sheer as the vessel’s mast — 
 
 A crashing rail and a shivered yard ; 
 
 But the worst, we thought, was past. 
 
 The brave lads sprang to the fending work, 
 
 And the skipper’s voice rang hard : 
 
 ‘ Aloft there, one with a ready knife— 
 
 Cut loose that royal yard ! ’ 
 
608 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 I sprang to the rigging, young I was, 
 
 And proud to be first to dare : 
 
 The yard swung free, and I turned to gaze 
 Toward the open sea, o’er the field of haze, 
 
 And my heart grew cold, as if frozen through, 
 
 At the moving shape that met my view — 
 
 0 Christ ! what a sight was there ! 
 
 “ Above the fog, as I hugged the yard, 
 
 1 saw that an iceberg lay — 
 
 A berg like a mountain, closing fast — 
 
 Not a cable’s length away ! 
 
 I could not see through the sheet of mist 
 That covered all below, 
 
 But I heard the cheery voices still, 
 
 And I screamed to let them know. 
 
 The cry went down, and the skipper hailed, 
 
 But before the word could come 
 It died in his throat — and I knew they saw 
 The shape of the closing doom ! 
 
 “ No sound but that — but the hail that died 
 Came up through the mist to me ; 
 
 Thank God, it covered the ship like a veil, 
 
 And I was not forced to see — 
 
 But I heard it, mates : 0, I heard the rush, 
 
 And the timbers rend and rive, 
 
 As the yard I clung to swayed and fell : — I lay on the 
 ice, alive! 
 
 Alive ! O God of mercy ! ship and crew and sea were 
 gone ! 
 
 The hum mocked ice and the broken yard, 
 
 And a kneeling man — alone ! 
 
 “ A kneeling man on a frozen hill, 
 
 The sounds of life in the air — 
 
 All death and ice — and a minute before 
 The sea and the ship were there ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 609 
 
 I could not think they were dead and gone, 
 
 And I listened for sound or word : 
 
 But the deep sea roar on the desolate shore 
 Wa s the only sound I heard. 
 
 0 mates, I had no heart to thank 
 The Lord for the life He gave ; 
 
 1 spread my arms on the ice and cried 
 Aloud on my shipmates’ grave. 
 
 The brave strong lads, with their strength all vain, 
 I called them name by name ; 
 
 And it seemed to me from the dying hearts 
 A message upward came — 
 
 Ay, mates, a message, up through the ice 
 From every sailor’s breast : 
 
 ‘ Go tell our mothers and wives at home 
 To pray for us here at rest .’ 
 
 “ Yes, that’s what it means ; ’tis a little word ; 
 But, mates, the strongest ship 
 
 That ever was built is a baby’s toy 
 When it copes with an Arctic Mp.” 
 
 THE LURE. 
 
 U "TT7"HAT bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil, 
 VV “ When you fish where the souls of men abound ? ” 
 “Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil, 
 
 “ Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.” 
 
 “ But for common use ? ” asked the Saint. “ Ah, then,” 
 Said the Demon, “ I angle for Man, not men, 
 
 And a thing I hate 
 Is to change my bait, 
 
 So I fish with a woman the whole year round.” 
 
610 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O 5 REILLY. 
 
 THE FLYING DUTCHMAN. 
 
 L ONG time ago, from Amsterdam a vessel sailed away, — 
 As fair a ship as ever flung aside the laughing spray. 
 Upon the shore were tearful eyes, and scarfs were in the air, 
 As to her, o’er the Zuyder Zee, went fond adieu and prayer ; 
 And brave hearts, yearning shoreward from the outward- 
 going ship,. 
 
 Felt lingering kisses clinging still to tear- wet cheek and 
 lip. 
 
 She steered for some far eastern clime, and, as she skimmed 
 the seas, 
 
 Each taper mast was bending like a rod before the breeze. 
 
 Her captain was a stalwart man, — an iron heart had he, — 
 From childhood’s days he sailed upon the rolling Zuyder 
 Zee : 
 
 He nothing feared upon the earth, and scarcely heaven 
 feared, 
 
 He would have dared and done whatever mortal man had 
 dared ! 
 
 He looked aloft, where high in air the pennant cut the 
 blue, 
 
 And every rope and spar and sail was firm and strong and 
 true. 
 
 He turned him from the swelling sail to gaze upon the 
 shore, — 
 
 Ah ! little thought the skipper then ’t would meet his eye 
 no more : 
 
 He dreamt not that an awful doom was hanging o’er his 
 ship, 
 
 That Vanderdecken’s name would yet make pale the 
 speaker’s lip. 
 
 The vessel bounded on her way, and spire and dome went 
 down, — 
 
 Ere darkness fell, beneath the wave had sunk the distant 
 town. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Oil 
 
 No more, no. more, ye hapless crew, shall Holland meet 
 your eye. 
 
 In lingering hope and keen suspense, maid, wife, and child 
 shall die ! 
 
 Away, away the vessel speeds, till sea and sky alone 
 
 Are round her, as her course she steers across the torrid 
 zone. 
 
 Away, until the North Star fades, the Southern Cross is 
 high, 
 
 And myriad gems of brightest beam are sparkling in the 
 sky. 
 
 The tropic winds are left behind ; she nears the Cape of 
 Storms, 
 
 Where awful Tempest ever sits enthroned in wild alarms ; 
 
 Where Ocean in his anger shakes aloft his foamy crest, 
 
 Disdainful of the weakly toys that ride upon his breast. 
 
 Fierce swell the winds and waters round the Dutchman’s 
 gallant ship, 
 
 But, to their rage, defiance rings from Vanderdecken’s lip : 
 
 Impotent they to make him swerve, their might he dares 
 despise, 
 
 As straight he holds his onward course, and wind and wave 
 defies. 
 
 For days and nights he struggles in the weird, unearthly 
 fight. 
 
 His brow is bent, his eye is fierce, but looks of deep affright 
 
 Amongst the mariners go round, as hopelessly they steer : 
 
 They do not dare to murmur, but they whisper what they 
 fear. 
 
 Their black-browed captain awes them : ’neath his dark- 
 ened eye they quail, 
 
 And in a grim and sullen mood their bitter fate bewail. 
 
 As some fierce rider ruthless spurs a timid, wavering horse, 
 
 He drives his shapely vessel, and they watch the reckless 
 course, 
 
612 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Till once again their skipper’s laugh is flung upon the blast : 
 
 The placid ocean smiles beyond, the dreaded Cape is 
 passed ! 
 
 Away across the Indian main the vessel northward glides ; 
 
 A thousand murmuring ripples break along her graceful 
 sides : 
 
 The perfumed breezes fill her sails, — her destined port she 
 nears, — 
 
 The captain’s brow has lost its frown, the mariners their 
 fears. 
 
 “Land ho!” at length the welcome sound the watchful 
 sailor sings, 
 
 And soon within an Indian bay the ship at anchor swings. 
 
 Not idle then the busy crew : ere long the spacious hold 
 
 Is emptied of its western freight, and stored with silk and 
 gold. 
 
 Again the ponderous anchor ’s weighed ; the shore is left 
 behind, 
 
 The snowy sails are bosomed out before the favoring wind. 
 
 Across the warm blue Indian sea the vessel southward flies, 
 
 And once again the North Star fades and Austral beacons 
 rise. 
 
 For home she steers ! she seems to know and answer to the 
 word, 
 
 And swifter skims the burnished deep, like some fair ocean- 
 bird. 
 
 “For home ! for home ! ” the merry crew with gladsome 
 voices cry, 
 
 And dark-browed Vanderdecken has a mild light in his 
 eye. 
 
 But once again the Cape draws near, and furious billows 
 rise ; 
 
 And still the daring Dutchman’s laugh the hurricane defies. 
 
 But wildly shrieked the tempest ere the scornful sound had 
 died, 
 
 A warning to the daring man to curb his impious pride. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 613 
 
 A crested mountain struck the ship, and like a frighted bird 
 
 She trembled ’neath the awful shock. Then Yanderdecken 
 heard 
 
 A pleading voice within the gale, — his better angel spoke, 
 
 But fled before his scowling look, as mast-high mountains 
 broke 
 
 Around the trembling vessel, till the crew wittfterror paled ; 
 
 But Yanderdecken never flinched, nor ’neath the thunders 
 quailed. 
 
 With folded arms and stern-pressed lips, dark anger in his 
 eye, 
 
 He answered back the threatening frown that lowered o’er 
 the sky. 
 
 With fierce defiance in his heart, and scornful look of flame, 
 
 He spoke, and thus with impious voice blasphemed God’s 
 holy name : 
 
 “Howl on, ye winds! ye tempests, howl! your rage is 
 spent in vain : 
 
 Despite your strength, your frowns, your hate, I’ll ride 
 upon the main. 
 
 Defiance to your idle shrieks ! I’ll sail upon my path : 
 
 I cringe not for thy Maker’s smile, — I care not for His 
 wrath ! ” 
 
 He ceased. An awful silence fell ; the tempest and the sea 
 
 Were hushed in sudden stillness by the Ruler’s dread 
 decree. 
 
 The ship was riding motionless within the gathering gloom ; 
 
 The Dutchman stood upon the poop and heard his dreadful 
 doom. 
 
 The hapless crew were on the deck in swooning terror 
 prone, — 
 
 They, too, were bound in fearful fate. In angered thunder- 
 tone 
 
 The judgment words swept o’er the sea: “Go, wretch, 
 accurst, condemned! 
 
 Go sail for ever on the deep, by shrieking tempests 
 hemmed ! 
 
614 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 No home, no port, no calm, no rest, no gentle fav’ring 
 breeze, 
 
 Shall ever greet thee. Go, accurst! and battle with the 
 seas ! 
 
 Go, braggart ! struggle with the storm, nor ever cease to 
 live, 
 
 But bear a million times the pangs that death and fear can 
 give ! 
 
 Away ! and hide thy guilty head, a curse to all thy 
 kind 
 
 Who ever see thee struggling, wretch, with ocean and with 
 wind ! 
 
 Away, presumptuous worm of earth ! Go teach thy fellow- 
 worms 
 
 The awful fate that waits on him who braves the King of 
 Storms ! ” 
 
 ’Twas o’er. A lurid lightning flash lit up the sea and sky 
 
 Around and o’er the fated ship ; then rose a wailing cry 
 
 From every heart within her, of keen anguish and despair ; 
 
 But mercy was for them no more, — it died away in air. 
 
 Once more the lurid light gleamed out, — the ship was still 
 at rest, 
 
 The crew were standing at their posts ; with arms across 
 his breast 
 
 Still stood the captain on the poop, but bent and crouch- 
 ing now 
 
 He bowed beneath that fiat dread, and o’er his swarthy 
 brow 
 
 Swept lines of anguish, as if he a thousand years of 
 pain 
 
 Had lived and suffered. Then across the heaving, angry 
 main 
 
 The tempest shrieked triumphant, and the angry waters 
 hissed 
 
 Their vengeful hate against the toy they oftentimes had 
 kissed. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 615 
 
 And ever through the midnight . storm that hapless crew 
 must speed : 
 
 They try to round the stormy Cape, but never can succeed. 
 
 And oft when gales are wildest, and the lightning’s vivid 
 sheen 
 
 Flashes back the ocean’s anger, still the Phantom Ship is 
 seen 
 
 Ever sailing to the southward in the fierce tornado’s swoop, 
 
 With her ghostly crew and canvas, and her captain on the 
 poop, 
 
 Unrelenting, unforgiven ! and ’ tis said that every word 
 
 Of his blasphemous defiance still upon the gale is heard ! 
 
 But Heaven help the ship near which the dismal sailor 
 steers, — 
 
 The doom of those is sealed to whom that Phantom Ship 
 appears : 
 
 They’ll never reach their destined port, — they’ll see their 
 homes no more, — 
 
 They who see the Flying Dutchman — never, never reach 
 the shore ! 
 
016 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 UNCLE NED’S TALE. 
 
 AN OLD DRAGOON’S STORY. 
 
 I OFTEN, musing, wander back to days long since gone 
 
 by, 
 
 And far-off scenes and long-lost forms arise to fancy’s eye. 
 A groux> familiar now I see, who all but one are fled, — 
 
 My mother, sister Jane, myself, and dear old Uncle Ned. 
 I’ll tell you how I see them now. First, mother in her 
 chair 
 
 Sits knitting by the parlor fire, with anxious matron air ; 
 My sister Jane, just nine years old, is seated at her feet, 
 With look demure, as if she, too, were thinking how to 
 meet 
 
 The butcher’s or the baker’s bill, — though not a thought 
 has she 
 
 Of aught beside her girlish toys ; and next to her I see 
 Myself, a sturdy lad of twelve, — neglectful of the book 
 That open lies upon my knee, — my fixed admiring look 
 At Uncle Ned, upon the left, whose upright, martial mien, 
 Whose empty sleeve and gray mustache, proclaim what 
 he has been. 
 
 My mother I had always loved ; my father then was dead ; 
 But ’twas more than love — ’twas worship — I felt for Uncle 
 Ned. 
 
 Such tales he had of battle-fields, — the victory and the 
 rout, 
 
 The ringing cheer, the dying shriek, the loud exulting 
 shout ! 
 
 And how, forgetting age and wounds, his eye would kindle 
 bright, 
 
 When telling of some desperate ride or close and deadly 
 fight ! 
 
 But oft I noticed, in the midst of some wild martial tale, 
 To which I lent attentive ear, my mother’s cheek grow 
 pale : 
 
617 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 She sighed to see my kindled look, and feared I might be 
 led 
 
 To follow in the wayward steps of poor old Uncle Ned. 
 
 But with all the wondrous tales he told, ’twas strange I 
 never heard 
 
 Of his last light, for of that day he never spoke a 
 word. 
 
 And yet ’twas there he lost his arm, and once he e’en 
 confessed 
 
 ’Twas there he won the glittering cross he wore upon his 
 breast. 
 
 It hung the center of a group of Glory’s emblems fair, 
 
 And royal hands, he told me once, had placed the bauble 
 there. 
 
 Each day that passed I hungered more to hear about that 
 fight, 
 
 And oftentimes I prayed in vain. At length, one winter’s 
 night,— 
 
 The very night I speak of now, — with more than usual 
 care 
 
 I filled his pipe, then took my stand beside my uncle’s 
 chair : 
 
 I fixed my eyes upon the Cross,— he saw my youthful 
 plan ; 
 
 And, smiling, laid the pipe aside and thus the tale 
 began : 
 
 ‘ 4 Well, boy, it was in summer time, and just at morning’s 
 light 
 
 We heard the ‘ Boot and Saddle!’ sound: the foe was 
 then in sight, 
 
 Just winding round a distant hill and opening on the 
 plain. 
 
 Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and curb and 
 rein. 
 
 We snatched a hasty breakfast, — we were old campaigners 
 then : 
 
 That morn, of all our splendid corps, we’d scarce one hun- 
 dred men ; 
 
618 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Bat they were soldiers, tried and true, who’d rather die 
 than yield : 
 
 The rest were scattered far and wide o’er many a hard- 
 fought field. 
 
 Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a swinging pace 
 
 We left the bivouac behind ; and soon the eye could trace 
 
 The columns moving o’er the plain. Oh ! ’twas a stirring 
 sight 
 
 To see two mighty armies there preparing for the fight : 
 
 To watch the heavy masses, as, with practiced, steady 
 wheel, 
 
 They opened out in slender lines of brightly flashing steel. 
 
 Our place was on the farther flank, behind some rising 
 ground, 
 
 That hid the stirring scene from view ; but soon a booming 
 sound 
 
 Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war’s loud 
 thunder rolled, 
 
 And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly mes- 
 sage told. 
 
 We hoped to have a gallant day ; our hearts were all 
 aglow ; 
 
 We longed for one wild, sweeping charge, to chase the fly- 
 ing foe. 
 
 Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still no orders 
 came : 
 
 They clutched their swords, and muttered words ’twere 
 better not to name. 
 
 For hours the loud artillery roared, — the sun was at its 
 height, — 
 
 Still there we lay behind that hill, shut out from all the 
 fight ! 
 
 We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringing British 
 cheers, 
 
 And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in our ears. 
 
 Our hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we cursed the 
 very hill 
 
 That hid the sight : the evening fell, and we were idle still. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 619 
 
 The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with angry snort 
 
 And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the savage sport. 
 
 When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it all our 
 hope, • 
 
 A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came dashing 
 down the slope. 
 
 He bore the wished-for orders. 4 At last ! ’ our Colonel 
 cried ; 
 
 And as he read the brief dispatch his glance was filled with 
 pride. 
 
 Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic tone, 
 
 The stern, expressive sentence spoke, — 4 He said it must 
 be done ! ’ 
 
 4 It shall be done ! ’ our Colonel cried. 4 Men, look to 
 strap and girth, 
 
 We’ve work to do this day will prove what every man is 
 worth ; 
 
 Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our long de- 
 lay,— 
 
 The General says on us depends the fortune of the day ! ’ 
 
 44 No order needed we to mount, — each man was in his 
 place, 
 
 And stern and dangerous was the look on every veteran 
 face. 
 
 We trotted sharply up the hill, and halted on the brow, 
 
 And then that glorious field appeared. Oh ! lad, I see it 
 now ! 
 
 Bu-t little time had we to spare for idle gazing then : 
 
 Beneath us, in the valley, stood a dark-clad mass of men : 
 
 It cut the British line in two. Our Colonel shouted. 
 4 There ! 
 
 Behold your work ! Our orders are to charge and break 
 that square ! ’ 
 
 Each trooper drew a heavy breath, then gathered up his 
 reins, 
 
 And pressed the helmet o’er his brow ; the horses tossed 
 their manes 
 
620 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 Ill protest fierce against the curb, and spurned the springy 
 heath, 
 
 Iinjiatient for the trumpet’s sound to bid them rush to 
 death. 
 
 “ Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour : at last we heard 
 the words, — 
 
 4 Dragoons ! I know you’ll follow me. Ride steady, men ! 
 Draw swords ! ’ 
 
 The trumpet sounded : off we dashed, at first with steady 
 pace, 
 
 But growing swifter as we went. Oh! ’twas a gallant 
 race ! 
 
 Three-fourths the ground was left behind : the loud and 
 thrilling 4 Charge ! ’ 
 
 Rang out ; but, fairly frantic now, we needed not to 
 urge 
 
 With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch their foam- 
 ing flanks. 
 
 They seemed to fly. Now straight in front appeared the 
 kneeling ranks. 
 
 Above them waved a standard broad : we saw their rifles 
 raised,— 
 
 A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly volley 
 blazed. 
 
 The bullets whistled through our ranks, and many a trooper 
 fell ; 
 
 But we were left. What cared we then ? but onward 
 rushing still ! 
 
 Again the crash roared fiercely out ; but on ! still madly 
 on ! 
 
 We heard the shrieks of dying men, but recked not who 
 was gone. 
 
 We gored the horses’ foaming flanks, and on through 
 smoke and glare 
 
 We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had no 
 thought, no care ! 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 621 
 
 Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with savage 
 heel 
 
 I struck my horse: with awful bound he rose right o’er 
 their steel ! 
 
 “ Well, boy, I cannot tell you how that dreadful leap was 
 made, 
 
 But there I rode, inside the square, and grasped a reeking 
 blade. 
 
 I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seemed filled with 
 blood : 
 
 I never thought a man could feel in such a murderous 
 mood. 
 
 I parried not, nor guarded thrusts ; I felt not pain or 
 wound, 
 
 But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my sword 
 around. 
 
 I tried to reach the standard sheet ; but there at last was 
 foiled. 
 
 The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the steel 
 recoiled. 
 
 They saw his fright, and pressed him then : his terror made 
 him rear, 
 
 And falling back he crushed their ranks, and broke their 
 guarded square ! 
 
 My comrades saw the gap he made, and soon came dash- 
 ing in ; 
 
 They raised me up, — I felt no hurt, but mingled in the din. 
 
 I’d seen some fearful work before, but never was engaged 
 
 In such a wild and savage fight as now around me raged. 
 
 The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the deadly 
 steel : 
 
 Though all our men were wounded then, no pain they 
 seemed to feel. 
 
 No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid oaths 
 instead, 
 
 And scowling looks of hate were on the features of the 
 dead. 
 
622 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The fight was round the standard: though outnumbered 
 ten to one, 
 
 We held our ground, — ay, more than that, — we still kept 
 pushing on. 
 
 Our men now made a desperate rush to take the flag by 
 storm. 
 
 I seized the pole, a blow came down and crushed my out- 
 stretched arm. 
 
 I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed 
 away ; 
 
 And, with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined the 
 fray. 
 
 At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o’er heaps 
 of slain : 
 
 Some fought to death ; some wavered, — then fled across 
 the plain. 
 
 “Well, boy, the rest is all confused: there was a fearful 
 rout ; 
 
 I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their maddened 
 shout. 
 
 Then came a blank : my senses reeled, I know not how I 
 fell; 
 
 I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot tell. 
 
 My mind was gone : when it came back I saw the moon on 
 high ; 
 
 Around me all was still as death. I gazed up at the sky, 
 
 And watched the glimmering stars above, — so quiet did 
 they seem, — 
 
 And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, fear- 
 ful dream. 
 
 But memory soon came back again, and cleared my wander- 
 ing brain, 
 
 And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts of 
 pain. 
 
 My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased with 
 every breath ; 
 
 I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for death. 
 
623 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on the 
 sward, 
 
 But something still my right hand grasped : I thought it 
 was my sword. 
 
 I raised my hand to cast it off, — no reeking blade was there ; 
 
 Then life and strength returned, — I held the Standard of 
 the Square ! 
 
 With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh! then I wished 
 to live, 
 
 ’Twas strange the strength and love of life that standard 
 seemed to give ! 
 
 I gazed around : far down the vale I saw a camp-fire’s glow. 
 
 With wandering step I ran that way, — I recked not friend 
 or foe. 
 
 Though stumbling now o’er heaps of dead, now o’er a stiff- 
 ened horse, 
 
 I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my onward 
 course. 
 
 But soon that flash of strength had failed, and checked my 
 feverish speed ; 
 
 Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began to 
 bleed. 
 
 I knew that if I fell again, my chance of life was gone, 
 
 So, leaning on the standard-pole, I still kept struggling on. 
 
 At length I neared the camp-fire : there were scarlet jackets 
 round, 
 
 And swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon the ground. 
 
 Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men, — about a 
 score : 
 
 0 God ! ’twas all that now remained of my old gallant 
 
 corps ! 
 
 The muster-roll was being called : to every well-known 
 name 
 
 1 heard the solemn answer, — ‘ Dead ! ’ At length my own 
 
 turn came. 
 
 I paused to hear, — a comrade answer, ‘ Dead ! I saw him 
 fall ! ’ 
 
 I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call. 
 
(324 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 My life was flowing fast, and all around was gathering 
 haze, 
 
 And o’er the heather tops I watched my comrades’ cheer- 
 ful blaze. 
 
 I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man could 
 bear. 
 
 0 God ! it was an awful thing to die with help so near ! 
 
 And death was stealing o’er me : with the strength of wild 
 
 despair 
 
 1 raised the standard o’er my head, and waved it through 
 
 the air. 
 
 Then all grew dim : the fire, the men, all vanished from 
 my sight, 
 
 My senses reeled ; I know no more of that eventful night. 
 
 ’Twas weeks before my mind came back : I knew not 
 where I lay, 
 
 But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came 
 each day. 
 
 They told me how the waving flag that night had caught 
 their eye, 
 
 And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that 
 I must die ; 
 
 They brought me all the cheering news, — the war was at 
 an end. 
 
 No wonder ’twas, with all their care, I soon began to 
 mend. 
 
 The General came to see me, too, with all his brilliant 
 train, 
 
 But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now ’twere 
 vain. 
 
 Enough, I soon grew strong again : the wished-for route 
 had come, 
 
 And all the gallant veteran troops set out with cheers for 
 home. 
 
 We soon arrived; and then, my lad, ’twould thrill your 
 heart to hear 
 
 How England welcomed home her sons with many a ring- 
 ing cheer. 
 
625 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 But tush ! what boots it now to speak of what was said or 
 done ? 
 
 The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts were 
 gone. 
 
 Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah! that memory is 
 sweet ! 
 
 They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it at his feet. 
 
 I parted from my brave old corps : ’twere matter, lad, for 
 tears, 
 
 To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for 
 years. 
 
 I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease. 
 
 There, boy, I’ve told you all my tales. Now let me smoke 
 in peace.” 
 
 How vivid grows the picture now ! how bright each scene 
 appears ! 
 
 1 trace each loved and long-lost face with eyes bedimmed 
 in tears. 
 
 How plain I hear thee, Uncle Ned, and see thy musing look, 
 
 Comparing all thy glory to the curling wreaths of smoke ! 
 
 A truer, braver soldier ne’er for king and country bled. 
 
 His wanderings are forever o’er. God rest thee, Uncle 
 Ned! 
 
 UNCLE' NEB’S TALES. 
 
 HOW THE FLAG WAS SAVED. * 
 
 ’rp WAS a dismal winter’s evening, fast without came 
 J- down the snow, 
 
 But within, the cheerful fire cast a ruddy, genial glow 
 O’er our pleasant little parlor, that was then my mother’s 
 pride. 
 
 There she sat beside the glowing grate, my sister by her 
 side ; 
 
 * An incident from the record of the Enniskillen Dragoons in Spain, under 
 General Picton. 
 
626 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O* REILLY. 
 
 And beyond, within the shadow, in a cosy little nook 
 
 Uncle Ned and I were sitting, and in whispering tones we 
 spoke. 
 
 I was asking for a story he had promised me to tell, — 
 
 Of his comrade, old Dick Hilton, how he fought and how 
 he fell ; 
 
 And with eager voice I pressed him, till a mighty final 
 cloud 
 
 Blew he slowly, then upon his breast his grisly head he 
 bowed, 
 
 And, musing, stroked his gray mustache ere he began to 
 speak, 
 
 Then brushed a tear that stole along his bronzed and fur- 
 rowed cheek. 
 
 “ Ah, no ! I will not speak to-night of that sad tale,” he 
 cried, 
 
 “Some other time I’ll tell you, boy, about that splendid 
 ride. 
 
 Your words have set me thinking of the many careless 
 years 
 
 That comrade rode beside me, and have caused these bitter 
 tears ; 
 
 For I loved him, boy, — for twenty years we galloped rein 
 to rein, — 
 
 In peace and war, through all that time, stanch comrades 
 had we been. 
 
 As boys we rode together when our soldiering first 
 began, 
 
 And in all those years I knew him for a true and trusty 
 man. 
 
 One who never swerved from danger, — for he knew not how 
 to fear, — 
 
 If grim Death arrayed his legions, Dick would charge him 
 with a cheer. 
 
 He was happiest in a struggle or a wild and dangerous 
 ride : 
 
 Every inch a trooper was he, and he cared for naught 
 beside. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 627 
 
 He was known for many a gallant deed : to-night I’ll tell 
 you one, 
 
 And no braver feat of arms was by a soldier ever done. 
 
 ’Twas when we were young and fearless, for ’twas in our 
 first campaign, 
 
 When we galloped through the orange groves and fields of 
 sunny Spain. 
 
 Our wary old commander was retiring from the foe, 
 
 Who came pressing close upon us, with a proud, exulting 
 show. 
 
 We could hear their taunting laughter, and within our 
 very sight 
 
 Did they ride defiant round us, — ay, and dared us to the 
 fight. 
 
 But brave old Picton heeded not, but held his backward 
 track, 
 
 And smiling said the day would come to pay the French- 
 men back. 
 
 And come it did : one morning, long before the break of 
 day, 
 
 We were standing to our arms, all ready for the coming 
 fray. 
 
 Soon the sun poured down his glory on the hostile lines 
 arrayed, 
 
 And his beams went flashing brightly back from many a 
 burnished blade, 
 
 Soon to change its spotless luster for a reeking crimson 
 stain, 
 
 In some heart, then throbbing proudly, that will never 
 throb again 
 
 When that sun has reached his zenith, life and pride will 
 then have fled, 
 
 And his beams will mock in splendor o’er the ghastly 
 heaps of dead. 
 
 Oh, ’tis sad to think how many — but I wander, lad, I 
 fear ; 
 
 And, though the moral ’s good, I guess the tale you’d 
 rather hear. 
 
628 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Well, I said that we were ready, and the foe was ready, 
 too ; 
 
 Soon the fight was raging fiercely, — thick and fast the 
 bullets flew, 
 
 With a bitter hiss of malice, as if hungry for the life 
 
 To be torn from manly bosoms in the maddening heat of 
 strife. 
 
 Distant batteries were thundering, pouring grape and shell 
 like rain, 
 
 And the cruel missiles hurtled with their load of death 
 and pain, 
 
 Which they carried, like fell demons, to the heart of some 
 brigade, 
 
 Where the sudden, awful stillness told the havoc they had 
 made. 
 
 Thus the struggle raged till noon, and neither side could 
 vantage show ; 
 
 Then the tide of battle turned, and swept in favor of the 
 foe! 
 
 Fiercer still the cannon thundered, — wilder screamed the 
 grape and shell, — 
 
 Onward pressed the French battalions, — back the British 
 masses fell ! 
 
 Then, as on its prey devoted, fierce the hungered vulture 
 swoops, 
 
 Swung the foeman’s charging squadrons down upon our 
 broken troops. 
 
 Victory hovered o’er their standard, — on they swept with 
 maddened shout, 
 
 Spreading death and havoc round them, till retreat was 
 changed to rout ! 
 
 ’Twas a saddening sight to witness ; and, when Picton saw 
 them fly, 
 
 Grief and shame were mixed and burning in the old com- 
 mander’s eye. 
 
 We were riding in his escort, close behind him, on a height 
 
 Which the fatal field commanded ; thence we viewed the 
 growing flight. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 629 
 
 “But, my lad, I now must tell you something more about 
 that hill, 
 
 And I’ll try to make you see the spot as I can see it still. 
 
 Bight before us, o’er the battle-field, the fall was sheer and 
 steep ; 
 
 On our left the ground fell sloping, in a pleasant, grassy 
 sweep, 
 
 Where the aides went dashing swiftly, bearing orders to 
 and fro, 
 
 For by that sloping side alone they reached the plain 
 below. 
 
 On our right — now pay attention, boy — a yawning fissure 
 
 lay, 
 
 As if an earthquake’s shock had split the mountain’s side 
 away. 
 
 And in the dismal gulf, far down, we heard the angry roar 
 
 Of a foaming mountain torrent, that, mayhap, the cleft had 
 wore, 
 
 As it rushed for countless ages through its black and secret 
 lair ; 
 
 But no matter how ’twas formed, my lad, the yawning gulf 
 was there. 
 
 And from the farther side a stone projected o’er the 
 gorge,— 
 
 ’Twas strange to see the massive rock just balanced on the 
 verge ; 
 
 It seemed as if an eagle’s weight the ponderous mass of 
 stone 
 
 Would topple from its giddy height, and send it crashing 
 down. 
 
 It stretched far o’er the dark abyss ; but, though ’twere 
 footing good, 
 
 ’Twas twenty feet or more from off the side on which we 
 stood. 
 
 Beyond the cleft a gentle slope went down and joined the 
 plain, — 
 
 Now, lad, back to where we halted, and again resume the 
 rein. 
 
630 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 I said our troops were routed. Far and near they broke 
 and fled, 
 
 The grape-shot tearing through them, leaving lanes of 
 mangled dead. 
 
 All order lost, they left the fight, — they threw their arms 
 away, 
 
 And joined in one wild panic rout, — ah ! ’twas a bitter day ! 
 
 “But did I say that all was lost? Nay, one brave corps 
 stood fast, 
 
 Determined they would never fly, but fight it to the 
 last. 
 
 They barred the Frenchman from his prey, and his whole 
 fury braved, — 
 
 One brief hour could they hold their ground, the army 
 might be saved. 
 
 Fresh troops were hurrying to our aid, — we saw their glit- 
 tering head, — 
 
 Ah, God ! how those brave hearts were raked by the death- 
 shower of lead ! 
 
 But stand they did : they never flinched nor took one back- 
 ward stride, 
 
 They sent their bayonets home, and then with stubborn 
 courage died. 
 
 But few were left of that brave band when the dread hour 
 had passed, 
 
 Still, faint and few, they held their flag above them to the 
 last. 
 
 But now a cloud of horsemen, like a shadowy avalanche, 
 
 Sweeps down : as Pic ton sees them, e’en his cheek is seen 
 to blanch. 
 
 They were not awed, that little band, but rallied once 
 again, 
 
 And sent us back a farewell cheer. Then burst from reck- 
 less men 
 
 The anguished cry, ‘ God help them ! ’ as we saw the feeble 
 flash 
 
 Of their last defiant volley, when upon them with a crash 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 631 
 
 Burst the gleaming lines of riders, — one by one they dis- 
 appear, 
 
 And the chargers’ hoofs are trampling on the last of that 
 brave square ! 
 
 On swept the squadrons ! Then we looked where last the 
 band was seen : 
 
 A scarlet heap was all that marked the place where they 
 had been ! 
 
 Still forward spurred the horsemen, eager to complete the 
 rout ; 
 
 But our lines had been reformed now, and five thousand 
 guns belched out 
 
 A reception to the squadrons, — rank on rank was piled 
 that day 
 
 Every bullet hissed out 4 Vengeance ! 5 as it whistled on its 
 way. 
 
 “ And now it was, with maddened hearts, we saw a galling 
 sight : 
 
 A French hussar was riding close beneath us on the right, — 
 
 He held a British standard ! With insulting shout he 
 stood, 
 
 And waved the flag, — its heavy folds drooped down with 
 shame and blood, — 
 
 The blood of hearts unconquered: ’twas the flag of the 
 stanch corps 
 
 That had fought to death beneath it, — it was heavy with 
 their gore. 
 
 The foreign dog ! I see him as he holds the standard down, 
 
 And makes his charger trample on its colors and its 
 crown ! 
 
 But his life soon paid the forfeit : with a cry of rage and 
 pain, 
 
 Hilton dashes from the escort, like a tiger from his chain. 
 
 Nought he sees but that ins ul ter ; and he strikes his 
 frightened horse 
 
 With his clenched hand, and spurs him, with a bitter- 
 spoken curse, 
 
632 -JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Straight as bullet from a rifle — but, great Lord ! he has not 
 
 seen, 
 
 In his angry thirst for vengeance, the black gulf that lies 
 between ! 
 
 All our warning shouts unheeded, starkly on he headlong 
 rides, 
 
 And lifts his horse, with bloody spurs deep buried in his 
 sides. 
 
 God’s mercy ! does he see the gulf ? Ha ! now his purpose 
 dawns 
 
 Upon our minds, as nearer still the rocky fissure yawns : 
 
 Where from the farther side the stone leans o’er the 
 stream beneath, 
 
 He means to take the awful leap ! Cold horror checks our 
 breath, 
 
 And still and mute we watch him now : he nears the fear- 
 ful place ; 
 
 We hear him shout to cheer the horse, and keep the head- 
 long pace. 
 
 Then comes a rush, — short strides, — a blow! — the horse 
 bounds wildly on, 
 
 Springs high in air o’er the abyss, and lands upon the 
 stone ! 
 
 It trembles, topples ’neath their weight! it sinks! ha! 
 bravely done ! 
 
 Another spring,— they gain the side, — the ponderous rock 
 is gone 
 
 With crashing roar, a thousand feet, down to the flood 
 below, 
 
 And Hilton, heedless of its noise, is riding at the foe ! 
 
 “ The Frenchman stared in wonder: he was brave, and 
 would not run, 
 
 ’Twould merit but a coward’s brand to turn and fly from 
 one. 
 
 But still he shuddered at the glance from ’neath that 
 knitted brow : 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 633 
 
 . He knew ’twould be a death fight, but there was no shrink- 
 ing now. 
 
 He pressed his horse to meet the shock : straight at him 
 Hilton made, 
 
 And as they closed the Frenchman’s cut fell harmless on 
 his blade ; 
 
 But scarce a moment’s time had passed ere, spurring from 
 the field, 
 
 A troop of cuirassiers closed round and called on him to 
 yield. 
 
 One glance of scorn he threw them, — all his answer in a 
 frown, — 
 
 And riding at their leader with one sweep he cut him 
 down ; 
 
 Then aimed at him who held the flag a cut of crushing might, 
 
 And split him to the very chin ! — a horrid, ghastly sight ! 
 
 He seized the standard from his hand ; but now the French- 
 men close, 
 
 And that stout soldier, all alone, fights with a hundred foes ! 
 
 They cut and cursed, — a dozen swords were whistling round 
 his head ; 
 
 He could not guard on every side, — from fifty wounds he 
 bled. 
 
 His saber crashed through helm and blade, as though it 
 were a mace ; 
 
 He cut their steel cuirasses and he slashed them o’er the 
 face. 
 
 One tall dragoon closed on him, but he wheeled his horse 
 around, 
 
 And cloven through the helmet went the trooper to the 
 ground. 
 
 But his saber blade was broken by the fury of the blow, 
 
 And he hurled the useless, bloody hilt against the nearest 
 foe ; 
 
 Then furled the colors round the pole, and, like a leveled 
 lance, 
 
 He charged with that red standard through the bravest 
 troops of France ! 
 
634 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 His horse, as lion-hearted, scarcely needed to be urged, 
 
 And steed and rider bit the dust before him as he charged. 
 
 Straight on he rode, and down they went, till he had 
 cleared the ranks, 
 
 Then once again he loosed the rein and struck his horse’s 
 flanks. 
 
 A cheer broke from the French dragoons, — a loud, admir- 
 ing shout ! — 
 
 As off he rode, and o’er him shook the tattered colors out. 
 
 Still might they ride him down : they scorned to fire or to 
 pursue, — 
 
 Brave hearts ! they cheered him to our lines, — their army 
 cheering, too ! 
 
 And we — what did we do? you ask. Well, boy, we did 
 not cheer, 
 
 Nor not one sound of welcome reached our hero comrade’s 
 ear ; 
 
 But, as he rode along the ranks, each soldier’s head was 
 bare, — 
 
 Our hearts were far too full for cheers, — we welcomed him 
 with prayer. 
 
 Ah, boy, we loved that dear old flag ! — ay, loved it so, we 
 cried 
 
 Like children, as we saw it wave in all its tattered pride ! 
 
 No, boy, no cheers to greet him, though he played a noble 
 part, — 
 
 We only prayed ‘ God bless him ! ’ but that prayer came 
 from the heart. 
 
 He knew we loved him for it, — he could see it in our tears, — 
 
 And such silent earnest love as that is better, boy, than 
 cheers. 
 
 Next day we fought the Frenchman, and we drove him 
 back, of course, 
 
 Though we lost some goodly soldiers, and old Picton lost a 
 horse. 
 
 But there I’ve said enough: your mother’s warning finger 
 shook, — 
 
 Mind, never be a soldier, boy ! — now let me have a smoke.” 
 
635 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 HAUNTED BY TIGERS. 
 
 N ATHAN BEANS and William Lambert were two 
 wild New England boys, 
 
 Known from infancy to revel only in forbidden joys. 
 
 Many a mother of Nantucket bristled when she heard them 
 come, 
 
 With a horrid skulking whistle, tempting her good lad 
 from home. 
 
 But for all maternal bristling little did they seem to care, 
 And theyloved each other dearly, did this good-for-nothing 
 pair. 
 
 So they lived till eighteen summers found them in the 
 same repute, — 
 
 They had well-developed muscles, and loose characters to 
 boot. 
 
 Then they did what wild Nantucket boys have never failed 
 to do, — 
 
 Went and filled two oily bunks among a whaler’s oily crew. 
 And the mothers, — ah ! they raised their hands and blessed 
 the lucky day, 
 
 While Nantucket waved its handkerchief to see them sail 
 away. 
 
 On a four years’ cruise they started in the brave old 
 “ Patience Parr,” 
 
 And were soon initiated in the mysteries of tar. 
 
 There they found the truth that whalers’ tales are unsub- 
 stantial wiles, — 
 
 They were sick and sore and sorry ere they passed the 
 Western Isles ; 
 
 And their captain, old-man Sculpin, gave their fancies little 
 scope, 
 
 For he argued with a marlinspike and reasoned with a 
 rope. 
 
636 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 But they stuck together bravely, they were Ishmaels with 
 the crew : 
 
 Nathan’s voice was never raised but Bill’s support was 
 uttered too ; 
 
 And whenever Beans was floored by Sculpin’ s cruel mar- 
 linspike, 
 
 Down beside him went poor Lambert, for his hand was 
 clenched to strike. 
 
 So they passed two years in cruising, till one breathless 
 burning day 
 
 The old “ Patience Parr” in Sunda Straits* with flapping 
 canvas lay. 
 
 On her starboard side Sumatra’s woods were dark beneath 
 the glare, 
 
 And on her port stretched Java, slumbering in the yellow 
 air, — 
 
 Slumbering as the jaguar slumbers, as the tropic ocean 
 sleeps, 
 
 Smooth and smiling on its surface with a devil in its 
 deeps. 
 
 So swooned Java’s moveless forest, but the jungle round 
 its root 
 
 Knew the rustling anaconda and the tiger’s padded 
 foot. 
 
 There in Nature’s rankest garden, Nature’s worst alone is 
 rife, 
 
 And a glorious land is wild-beast ruled for want of human 
 life. 
 
 Scarce a harmless thing moved on it, not a living soul was 
 near 
 
 From the frowning rocks of Java Head right northward to 
 Anjier. 
 
 Grestless swells, like wind-raised canvas, made the whaler 
 rise and dip, 
 
 Else she lay upon the water like a paralytic ship ; 
 
 * The Straits of Sunda, seven miles wide at the southern extremity, lie between 
 Sumatra and Java. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 637 
 
 And beneath a topsail awning lay the lazy, languid crew, 
 
 Drinking in the precious coolness of the shadow, — all save 
 two : 
 
 Two poor Ishmaels, — they were absent, Heaven help them! — 
 roughly tied 
 
 ’Neath the blistering cruel sun-glare in the fore-chains, side 
 by side. 
 
 Side by side as it was always, each one with a word of 
 cheer 
 
 For the other, and for his sake bravely choking back the 
 tear. 
 
 Side by side, their pain or pastime never yet seemed good 
 for one ; 
 
 But whenever pain came, each in secret wished the other 
 gone. 
 
 You who stop at home and saunter o’er your flower scat- 
 tered path, 
 
 With life’s corners velvet cushioned, have you seen a 
 tyrant’s wrath ? — 
 
 Wrath, the rude and reckless demon, not the drawing- 
 room display 
 
 Of an anger led by social lightning-rods upon its way. 
 
 Ah! my friends, wrath’s raw materials on the land may 
 sometimes be, 
 
 But the manufactured article is only found at sea. 
 
 And the wrath of old-man Sculpin was of texture Number 
 One : 
 
 Never absent, — when the man smiled it was hidden, but 
 not gone. 
 
 Old church-members of Nantucket knew him for a shining 
 lamp, 
 
 But his chronic Christian spirit was of pharisaic stamp. 
 
 When ashore, he prayed aloud of how he’d sinned and 
 been forgiven, — 
 
 How his evil ways had brought him ’thin an ace of losing 
 heaven ; 
 
638 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Thank the Lord ! his eyes were opened, and so on ; but 
 when the ship 
 
 Was just ready for a voyage, you could see old Sculpin’ s 
 lip 
 
 Have a sort of nervous tremble, like a carter’s long-leaslied 
 whip 
 
 Ere it cracks ; and so the skipper’s lip was trembling for 
 an oath 
 
 At the watch on deck for idleness, the watch below for 
 sloth, 
 
 For the leash of his anathemas was long enough for both. 
 
 Well, ’twas burning noon off Java: Beans and Lambert 
 
 in the chains 
 
 Sank their heads, and all was silent but the voices of their 
 pains. 
 
 Night came ere their bonds were loosened ; then the boys 
 sank down and slept, 
 
 And the dew in place of loved ones on their wounded 
 bodies wept. 
 
 All was still within the whaler, — on the sea no fanning 
 breeze, 
 
 And the moon alone was moving over Java’s gloomy 
 trees. 
 
 Midnight came, — one sleeper’s waking glance went out 
 the moon to meet : 
 
 Nathan rose, and turned from Lambert, who still slumbered 
 at his feet. 
 
 Out toward Java went his vision, as if something in the 
 air 
 
 Came with promises of kindness and of peace to be found 
 there. 
 
 Then toward the davits moved he, where the lightest whale- 
 boat hung ; 
 
 And he worked with silent caution till upon the sea she 
 swung, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 639 
 
 When he paused, and looked at Lambert, and the spirit in 
 him cried 
 
 Not to leave him, but to venture, as since childhood, side 
 by side ; 
 
 And the spirit’s cry was answered, for he touched the 
 sleeper’s lip, 
 
 Who awoke and heard of Nathan’s plan to leave th’ 
 accursed ship. 
 
 When ’twas told, they rose in silence, and looked outward 
 to the land, 
 
 But they only saw Nantucket, with its homely, boat-lined 
 strand ; 
 
 But they saw it — oh ! so plainly — through the glass of 
 coming doom. 
 
 Then they crept into the whale-boat, and pulled toward 
 the forest’s gloom, — 
 
 All their suffering clear that moment, like the moonlight 
 on their wake, 
 
 Now contracting, now expanding, like a phosphorescent 
 snake. 
 
 Hours speed on: the dark horizon yet shows scarce a 
 streak of gray 
 
 When old Sculpin comes on deck to walk his restlessness 
 away. 
 
 All the scene is still and solemn, and mayhap the man’s 
 cold heart 
 
 Feels its teaching, for the wild-beast cries from shoreward 
 make him start 
 
 As if they had warning in them, and he o’er its meaning 
 pored, 
 
 Till at length one shriek from Java splits the darkness like 
 a sword ; 
 
 And he almost screams in answer, such the nearness of the 
 cry, 
 
 As he clutches at the rigging with a horror in his 
 
 eye, 
 
640 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And with faltering accents mutters, as against the mast he 
 leans, 
 
 “ Darn the tigers! that one shouted with the mice of 
 Nathan Beans ! ’ ’ 
 
 When the boys were missed soon after, Sculpin never 
 breathed a word 
 
 Of his terror in the morning at the fearful sound he’d 
 heard ; 
 
 But he entered in the log-book, and 9 twas witnessed by the 
 mates, 
 
 Just their names, and following after, “ Ban away in 
 Sunda Straits.” 
 
 Two years after, Captain Sculpin saw again the Yankee 
 shore, 
 
 With the comfortable feeling that he’d go to sea no more. 
 
 And ’twas strange the way he altered when he saw Nan- 
 tucket light : 
 
 Holy lines spread o’er his face, and chased the old ones 
 out of sight. 
 
 And for many a year thereafter did his zeal spread far and 
 wide, 
 
 And with all his pious doings was the township edified ; 
 
 For he led the sacred singing in an unctuous, nasal tone, 
 
 And he looked as if the sermon and the scriptures were his 
 own. 
 
 But one day the white-haired preacher spoke of how 
 God’s justice fell 
 
 Soon or late with awful sureness on the man whose heart 
 could tell 
 
 Of a wrong done to the widow or the orphan, and he said 
 
 That such wrongs were ever living, though the injured 
 ones were dead. 
 
 And old Sculpin’ s heart was writhing, though his heavy 
 eyes were closed, — 
 
 For, despite his solemn sanctity, at sermon times he dozed ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 641 
 
 But his half-awakened senses heard the preacher speak of 
 death 
 
 And of wrongs done unto orphans, and he dreamed with 
 wheezing breath 
 
 That cold hands were tearing from his heart its pharisaic 
 screens, 
 
 That the preacher was a tiger with the voice of Nathan 
 Beans ! 
 
 And he shrieked and jumped up wildly, and upon the seat 
 stood he, 
 
 As if standing on the whaler looking outward on the sea ; 
 
 And he clutched as at the rigging with a horror in his eye, 
 
 For he saw the woods of Java and he heard that human 
 cry, 
 
 As he crouched and cowered earthward. And the simple 
 folk around 
 
 Stood with looks of kindly sympathy: they raised him 
 from the ground, 
 
 And they brought him half unconscious to the humble 
 chapel door, 
 
 Whence he fled as from a scourging, and he entered it no 
 more ; 
 
 For the sight of that old preacher brought the horror to 
 his face, 
 
 And he dare not meet his neighbors’ honest eyes within 
 the place, 
 
 For his conscience like a mirror rose and showed the dis- 
 mal scenes, 
 
 Where the tiger yelled forever with the voice of Nathan 
 Beans. 
 
 THE WORD AND THE DEED. 
 
 T HE Word was first, says the revelation : 
 Justice is older than error or strife ; 
 The Word preceded the Incarnation 
 As symbol and type of law and life. 
 
642 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And always so are the mighty changes : 
 
 The word must be sown in the heart like seed ; 
 
 Men’s hands must tend it, their lives defend it, 
 
 Till it burst into flower as a deathless Deed. 
 
 The primal truth neither dies nor slumbers, 
 
 But lives as the test of the common right, 
 
 That the laws proclaimed by the sworded numbers 
 May stand arraigned in the people’s sight. 
 
 The Word is great, and no Deed is greater, 
 
 When both are of God, to follow or lead ; 
 
 But, alas, for the truth when the Word comes later, 
 W ith questioned steps, to sustain the Deed. 
 
 Not the noblest acts can be true solutions ; 
 
 The soul must be sated before the eye, 
 
 Else the passionate glory of revolutions 
 Shall pass like the flames that flash and die. 
 
 But forever the gain when the heart’s convictions, 
 Booted in nature the masses lead ; 
 
 The cries of rebellion are benedictions 
 When the Word has flowered in a perfect Deed. 
 
WESTEBTsT AU STB ALIA. 
 
Nation of sun and sin , 
 
 Thy flowers and crimes are red , 
 And thy heart is sore within 
 While the glory crowns thy head . 
 Land of the songless birds , 
 
 What was thine ancient crime , 
 Burning through lapse of time 
 Like a prophet' s cursing words f 
 
 Aloes and myrrh and tears 
 Mix in thy bitter wine : 
 
 Dr ink , while the cup is thine , 
 Drink , /or the draught is sign 
 Of thy reign in the coming years . 
 
 644 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Nor gold nor silver are the words set here , 
 
 Nor rich-wrought chasing on design of art ; 
 
 But rugged relics of an unknown sphere 
 
 Where fortune chanced I played one time a part. 
 XJnthought of here the critic blame or praise , 
 
 These recollections all their faults atone ; 
 
 To hold the scenes , I've writ of men and ways 
 Uncouth and rough as Austral ironstone. 
 
 It may be, I have left the higher gleams 
 Of skies and flowers unheeded or forgot ; 
 
 It may be so , — but, looking back , it seems 
 When I was with them I beheld them not. 
 
 I was no rambling poet, but a man 
 Hard pressed to dig and delve, with naught of ease 
 The hot day through, save when the evening'' s fan 
 Of sea-winds rustled through the kindly trees. 
 
 It may be so ; but when I think I smile 
 At my poor hand and brain to paint the charms 
 Of GoW s first-blazoned canvas ! here the aisle 
 Moonlit and deep of reaching gothic arms 
 From towering gum, mahogany, and palm, 
 
 And odorous jam and sandal ; there the growth 
 Of arm-long velvet leaves grown hoar in calm , — 
 
 In calm unbroken since their luscious youth. 
 
 How can 1 show you all the silent birds 
 
 With strange metallic glinting s on the wing? 
 
 645 
 
646 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Or how tell half their sadness in cold words , — 
 The poor dumb lutes, the birds that never sing t 
 Of wondrous parrot-greens and iris hue 
 Of sensuous flower and of gleaming snake , — 
 Ah ! what I see I long that so might you, 
 
 But of these things what picture can I make f 
 
 Sometime, maybe, a man will wander there,— 
 
 A mind God-gifted, and not dull and weak ; 
 And he will come and paint that land so fair, 
 And show the beauties of which I but speak. 
 But in the hard, sad days that there I spent , 
 
 My mind absorbed rude pictures : these I show 
 As best I may, and just with this intent , — 
 
 To tell some things that all folk may not know. 
 
WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 
 
 O BEAUTEOUS Southland! land of yellow air, 
 
 That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and doth hold 
 The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair 
 And wooded hills, like aureole of gold. 
 
 O thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 
 
 Ere Nature in completion turned thee forth ! 
 
 Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
 
 Thy virgin breath allured the amorous North. 
 
 O land, God made thee wondrous to the eye ! 
 
 But His sweet singers thou hast never heard ; 
 
 He left thee, meaning to come by-and-by, 
 
 And give rich voice to every bright-winged bird. 
 
 He painted with fresh hues thy myriad flowers, 
 
 But left them scentless : ah ! their woeful dole, 
 
 Like sad reproach of their Creator’s powers, — 
 
 To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. 
 
 He gave thee trees of odorous precious wood ; 
 
 But, ’midst them all, bloomed not one tree of fruit. 
 
 He looked, but said not that His work was good, 
 
 When leaving thee all perfumeless and mute. 
 
 He blessed thy flowers with honey : every bell 
 Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearning wist ; 
 
 But no bee-lover ever notes the swell 
 Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kist. 
 
 O strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art more 
 Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could paint 
 
 647 
 
648 
 
 JOHN BOYLE 0* REILLY. 
 
 For others’ eyes the glory of the shore 
 Where last I saw thee ; but the senses faint 
 
 In soft delicious dreaming when they drain 
 Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, 
 
 All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 
 The spouse who comes to wake thy sleeping heart. 
 
 THE DUKITE SNAKE. 
 
 A WEST AUSTRALIAN BUSHMAN’S STORY. 
 
 'VTTELL, mate, you’ve asked me about a fellow 
 VV You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow 
 Chain-gang suit, with a peddler’s pack, 
 
 Or with some such burden, strapped to his back. 
 Did you meet him square ? No, passed you by ? 
 Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye, 
 You’d have felt for your irons then and there ; 
 For the light in his eye is a madman’s glare. 
 
 Ay, mad, poor fellow ! I know him well, 
 
 And if you’re not sleepy just yet, I’ll tell 
 His story, — a strange one as ever you heard 
 Or read; but I’ll vouch for it, every word. 
 
 You just wait a minute, mate : I must see 
 How that damper’s doing, and make some tea. 
 
 You smoke? That’s good ; for there’s plenty of weed 
 In that wallaby skin. Does your horse feed 
 In the hobbles? Well, he’s got good feed here, 
 
 And my own old bush mare wont interfere. 
 
 Done with that meat ? Throw it there to the dogs, 
 And fling on a couple of banksia logs. 
 
 And now for the story. That man who goes 
 
 Through the bush with the pack and the convict’s clothes 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 649 
 
 Has been mad for years ; but he does no harm, 
 
 And our lonely settlers feel no alarm 
 
 When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane 
 
 Was a settler once, and a friend of my own. 
 
 Some eight years back, in the spring of the year, 
 
 Dave came from Scotland, and settled here. 
 
 A splendid young fellow he was just then, 
 
 And one of the bravest and truest men 
 That I ever met : he was kind as a woman 
 To all who needed a friend, and no man — 
 
 Not even a convict — met with his scorn, 
 
 For David Sloane was a gentleman born. 
 
 Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer : 
 There’s plenty of blue blood flowing out here, 
 
 And some younger sons of your “ upper ten ” 
 
 Can be met with here, first-rate bushmen. 
 
 Why, friend, I— Bah ! curse that dog ! you see 
 This talking so much has affected me. 
 
 Well, Sloane came here with an ax and a gun ; . 
 
 He bought four miles of a sandal -wood run. 
 
 This bush at that time was a lonesome place, 
 
 So lonesome the sight of a white man’ s face 
 Was a blessing, unless it came at night, 
 
 And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright 
 Of a runaway convict ; and even they 
 Were welcome, for talk’s sake, while they could stay. 
 Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned 
 The tricks of the bush, — how the snare was laid 
 In the wallaby track, how traps were made, 
 
 How ’possums and kangaroo rats were killed, 
 
 And when that was learned, I helped him to build 
 From mahogany slabs a good bush hut, 
 
 And showed him how sandal- wood logs were cut. 
 
 I lived up there with him days and days, 
 
 For I loved the lad for his honest ways. 
 
 I had only one fault to find : at first 
 
 Pave worked too hard ; for a lad who was nursed, - 
 
650 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 As he was, in idleness, it was strange 
 
 How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range. 
 
 From the morning light till the light expired 
 He was always working, he never tired ; 
 
 Till at length I began to think his will 
 Was too much settled on wealth, and still 
 When I looked at the lad’s brown face, and eye 
 Clear open, my heart gave such thought the lie. 
 
 But one day — for he read my mind — he laid 
 His hand on my shoulder : “ Don’t be afraid,” 
 
 Said he, “ that I’m seeking alone for pelf. 
 
 I work hard, friend ; but ’tis not for myself.” 
 
 And he told me then, in his quiet tone, 
 
 Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own, — 
 
 His wife, — ’twas for her : ’twas all he could say, 
 
 And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away. 
 
 After that he told me the simple tale : 
 
 They had married for love, and she was to sail 
 For Australia when he wrote home and told 
 The oft-watched-for story of finding gold. 
 
 In a year he wrote, and his news was good : 
 
 He had bought some cattle and sold his wood. 
 
 He said, “ Darling, I’ve only a hut, — but come.” 
 Friend, a husband’s heart is a true wife’s home ; 
 And he knew she’d come. Then he turned his hand 
 To make neat the house, and prepare the land 
 For his crops and vines ; and he made that place 
 Put on such a smiling and homelike face, 
 
 That when she came, and he showed her round 
 His sandal -wood and his crops in the ground, 
 
 And spoke of the future, they cried for joy, 
 
 The husband’s arm clasping his wife and boy. 
 
 Well, friend, if a little of heaven’s best bliss 
 Ever comes from the upper world to this, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 651 
 
 It came into that manly bushman’s life, 
 
 And circled him round with the arms of his wife. 
 
 God bless that bright memory ! Even to me, 
 
 A rough, lone]y man, did she seem to be, 
 
 While living, an angel of God’s pure love, 
 
 And now I could pray to her face above. 
 
 And David he loved her as only a man 
 With a heart as large as was his heart can. 
 
 I wondered how they could have lived apart, 
 
 For he was her idol, and she his heart. 
 
 Friend, there isn’ t much more of the tale to tell : 
 
 I was talking of angels awhile since. Well, 
 
 Now I’ll change to a devil, — ay, to a devil ! 
 
 You needn’t start : if a spirit of evil 
 Ever came to this world its hate to slake 
 On mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake. 
 
 Like f Like the pictures you’ve seen of Sin, 
 
 A long red snake, — as if what was within 
 
 Was fire that gleamed through his glistening skin. 
 
 And his eyes ! — if you could go down to hell 
 And come back to your fellows here and tell 
 What the fire was like, you could find no thing, 
 
 Here below on the earth, or up in the sky, 
 
 To compare it to but a Dukite’ s eye ! 
 
 Now, mark you, these Dukites don’t go alone: 
 
 There’s another near when you see but one ; 
 
 And beware you of killing that one you see 
 Without finding the other ; for you may be 
 More than twenty miles from the spot that night, 
 
 When camped, but you’re tracked by the lone Dukite, 
 That will follow your trail like Death or Fate, 
 
 And kill you as sure as you killed its mate ! 
 
 Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here 
 Three months, — ’twas just this time of the year. 
 
652 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 He had teamed some sandal- wood to the Vasse, 
 
 And was homeward bound, when he saw in the grass 
 A long red snake : he had never been told 
 Of the Dukite’ s ways, — he jumped to the road, 
 
 And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad ! 
 
 He was proud of the red skin, so he tied 
 Its tail to the cart, and the snake’s blood dyed 
 The bush on the path he followed that night. 
 
 He was early home, and the dead Dukite 
 Was flung at the door to be skinned next day. 
 
 At sunrise next morning he started away 
 To hunt up his cattle. A three hours’ ride 
 Brought him back : he gazed on his home with pride 
 And joy in his heart ; he jumped from his horse 
 And entered — to look on his young wife’s corse, 
 
 And his dead child clutching its mother’s clothes 
 
 As in fright ; and there, as he gazed, arose 
 
 From her breast, where ’ twas resting, the gleaming head 
 
 Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said, 
 
 “ Tve had vengeance , my foe : you took all I had” 
 
 And so had the snake — David Sloane was mad ! 
 
 I rode to his hut just by chance that night, 
 
 And there on the threshold the clear moonlight 
 Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door 
 With an awful feeling of coming woe : 
 
 The dead was stretched on the moonlit floor, 
 
 The man held the hand of his wife, — his pride, 
 
 His poor life’s treasure, — and crouched by her side. 
 
 0 God ! I sank with the weight of the blow. 
 
 1 touched and called him : he heeded me not, 
 
 So I dug her grave in a quiet spot, 
 
 And lifted them both, — her boy on her breast, — 
 
 And laid them down in the shade to rest. 
 
 Then I tried to take my poor friend away, 
 
 But he cried so woefully, “ Let me stay 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 653 
 
 Till she comes again ! ” that I had no heart 
 
 To try to persuade him then to part 
 
 From all that was left to him here, — her grave ; 
 
 So I stayed by his side that night, and, save 
 One heart- cutting cry, he uttered no sound, — 
 
 O God ! that wail — like the wail of a hound ! 
 
 ’Tis six long years since I heard that cry, 
 
 But 5 twill ring in my ears till the day I die. 
 
 Since that fearful night no one has heard 
 Poor David Sloane utter sound or word. 
 
 You have seen to-day how he always goes : 
 
 He’s been given that suit of convict’s clothes 
 By some prison officer. On his back 
 You noticed a load like a peddler’s pack? 
 
 Well, that’s what he lives for : when reason went, 
 Still memory lived, for his days are spent 
 In searching for Dukites ; and year by year 
 That bundle of skins is growing. ’Tis clear 
 That the Lord out of evil some good still takes ; 
 For he’s clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes. 
 
 THE MONSTER DIAMOND. 
 
 A TALE OF THE PENAL COLONY OF WEST AUSTRALIA. 
 
 “ T’LL have it, I tell you ! Curse you ! — there ! ” 
 
 JL The long knife glittered, was sheathed, and was bare. 
 The sawyer staggered and tripped and fell, 
 
 And failing he uttered a frightened yell : 
 
 His face to the sky, he shuddered and gasped. 
 
 And tried to put from him the man he had grasped 
 A moment before in the terrible strife. 
 
 “I’ll have it, I tell you, or have your life ! 
 
654 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Where is it ? ” The sawyer grew weak, but still 
 His brown face gleamed with a desperate will. 
 
 “ Where is it ? ” he heard, and the red knife’s drip 
 In his slayer’s hand fell down on his lip. 
 
 “Will you give it ? ” “ Never ! ” A curse, the knife 
 
 Was raised and buried. 
 
 Thus closed the life 
 Of Samuel Jones, known as “ Number Ten ” 
 
 On his Ticket-of-Leave ; and of all the men 
 In the Western Colony, bond or free, 
 
 None had manlier heart or hand than he. 
 
 In digging a sawpit, while all alone, — 
 
 For his mate was sleeping, — Sam struck a stone 
 With the edge of the spade, and it gleamed like fire, 
 And looked at Sam from its bed in the mire, 
 
 Till he dropped the spade and stooped and raised 
 The wonderful stone that glittered and blazed 
 As if it were mad at the spade’s rude blow ; 
 
 But its blaze set the sawyer’s heart aglow 
 
 As he looked and trembled, then turned him round, 
 
 And crept from the pit, and lay on the ground, 
 
 Looking over the mold-heap at the camp 
 
 Where his mate still slept. Then down to the swamp 
 
 He ran with the stone, and washed it bright, 
 
 And felt like a drunken man at the sight 
 Of a diamond pure as spring- water and sun, 
 
 And larger than ever man’s eyes looked on ! 
 
 Then down sat Sam with the stone on his knees, 
 
 And fancies came to him, like swarms of bees 
 To a sugar-creamed hive ; and he dreamed awake 
 Of the carriage and four in which he’d take 
 His pals from the Dials to Drury Lane, 
 
 The silks and the satins for Susan Jane, 
 
 The countless bottles of brandy and beer 
 He’d call for and pay for, and every year 
 
655 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 The dinner he’d give to the Brummagem lads, — 
 
 He’d be king among cracksmen and chief among pads, 
 And he’d sport a — 
 
 Over him stooped his mate, 
 
 A pick in his hand, and his face all hate. 
 
 Sam saw the shadow, and guessed the pick, 
 
 And closed his dream with a spring so quick 
 The purpose was baffled of Aaron Mace, 
 
 And the sawyer mates stood face to face. 
 
 Sam folded his arms across his chest, 
 
 Having thrust the stone in his loose shirt-breast, 
 While he tried to think where he dropped the spade. 
 But Aaron Mace wore a long, keen blade 
 In his belt, — he drew it, — sprang on his man : 
 
 What happened, you read when the tale began. 
 
 Then he looked — the murderer, Aaron Mace — 
 
 At the gray-blue lines in the dead man’ s face ; 
 
 And he turned away, for he feared its frown 
 More in death than life. Then he knelt him down, — 
 Not to pray, — but he shrank from the staring eyes, 
 And felt in the breast for the fatal prize. 
 
 And this was the man, and this was the way 
 That he took the stone on its natal day ; 
 
 And for this he was cursed for evermore 
 By the West Australian Koh-i-nor. 
 
 In the half- dug pit the corpse was thrown, 
 
 And the murderer stood in the camp alone. 
 
 Alone \ No, no ! never more was he 
 To part from the terrible company 
 Of that gray-blue face and the bleeding breast 
 And the staring eyes in their awful rest. 
 
 The evening closed on the homicide, 
 
 And the blood of the buried sawyer cried 
 Through the night to God, and the shadows dark 
 That crossed the camp had the stiff and stark 
 And horrible look of a murdered man ! 
 
656 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Then he piled the fire, and crept within 
 The ring of its light, that closed him in 
 Like tender mercy, and drove away 
 For a time the specters that stood at bay, 
 
 And waited to clutch him as demons wait, 
 
 Shut out from the sinner by Faith’s bright gate. 
 But the fire burnt low, and the slayer slept, 
 
 And the key of his sleep was always kept 
 By the leaden hand of him he had slain, 
 
 That oped the door but to drench the brain 
 With agony cruel. The night wind crept 
 Like a snake on the shuddering form that slept 
 And dreamt, and woke and shrieked; for there, 
 With its gray-blue lines and its ghastly stare, 
 Cutting into the vitals of Aaron Mace, 
 
 In the flickering light was the sawyer’s face ! 
 Evermore ’twas with him, that dismal sight, — 
 The white face set in the frame of night. 
 
 He wandered away from the spot, but found 
 No inch of the West Australian ground 
 Where he could hide from the bleeding breast, 
 
 Or sink his head in a dreamless rest. 
 
 And always with him he bore the prize 
 In a pouch of leather : the staring eyes 
 Might burn his soul, but the diamond’s gleam 
 Was solace and joy for the haunted dream. 
 
 So the years rolled on, while the murderer’s mind 
 Was bent on a futile quest, — to find 
 A way of escape from the blood-stained soil 
 And the terrible wear of the penal toil. 
 
 But this was a part of the diamond’s curse, — 
 
 The toil that was heavy before grew worse, 
 
 Till the panting wretch in his fierce unrest 
 W ould clutch the pouch as it lay on his breast, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 657 
 
 And waking cower, with sob and moan, 
 
 Or shriek wild curses against the stone 
 That was only a stone ; for he could not sell, 
 
 And he dare not break, and he feared to tell 
 
 Of his wealth : so he bore it through hopes and fears — 
 
 His God and his devil — for years and years. 
 
 And thus did he draw near the end of his race, 
 
 With a form bent double and horror-lined face, 
 
 And a piteous look, as if asking for grace 
 
 Or for kindness from some one ; but no kind word 
 
 Was flung to his misery : shunned, abhorred, 
 
 E’en by wretches themselves, till his life was a curse, 
 
 And he thought that e’ en death could bring nothing worse 
 Than the phantoms that stirred at the diamond’s weight, — 
 His own life’s ghost and the ghost of his mate. 
 
 So he turned one day from the haunts of men, 
 
 And their friendless faces : an old man then, 
 
 In a convict’s garb, with white flowing hair, 
 
 And a brow deep seared with the word, “ Despair.” 
 
 He gazed not back as his way he took 
 To the untrod forest ; and oh ! the look, 
 
 The piteous look in his sunken eyes, 
 
 Told that life was the bitterest sacrifice. 
 
 But little was heard of his later days : 
 
 ’ Twas deemed in the W est that in change of ways 
 He tried with his tears to wash out the sin. 
 
 ’Twas told by some natives who once came in 
 From the Kojunup Hills, that lonely there 
 They had seen a figure with long white hair ; 
 
 They encamped close by where his hut was made, 
 
 And were scared at night when they saw he prayed 
 To the white man’s God ; and on one wild night 
 They had heard his voice till the morning light. 
 
 Years passed, and a sandal wood-cutter stood 
 At a ruined hut in a Kojunup wood : 
 
658 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The rank weeds covered the desolate floor, 
 
 And an ant-hill stood on the fallen door ; 
 
 The cupboard within to the snakes was loot, 
 
 And the hearth was the home of the bandicoot. 
 
 But neither at hut nor snake nor rat 
 W as the woodcutter staring intent, but at 
 A human skeleton clad in gray, 
 
 The hands clasped over the breast, as they 
 Had fallen in peace when he ceased to pray. 
 
 As the bushman looked on the form, he saw 
 In the breast a paper : he stooped to draw 
 What might tell him the story, but at his touch 
 From under the hands rolled a leathern pouch, 
 
 And he raised it too, — on the paper’s face 
 He read u Ticket-of-Leave of Aaron Mace.” 
 
 Then he opened the pouch, and in dazed surprise 
 At its contents strange he unblessed his eyes : 
 
 ’ Twas a lump of quartz , — a pound weight in full, — 
 And it fell from his hand on the skeleton’s skull ! 
 
 THE DOG GUARD: AN AUSTRALIAN STORY. 
 
 T HERE are lonesome places upon the earth 
 That have never re-echoed a sound of mirth, 
 Where the spirits abide that feast and quaff 
 On the shuddering soul of a murdered laugh, 
 And take grim delight in the fearful start, 
 
 As their unseen Angers clutch the heart, 
 
 And the blood flies out from the griping pain, 
 
 To carry the chill through every vein; 
 
 And the staring eyes and the whitened faces 
 Are a joy to these ghosts of the lonesome places. 
 
 But of all the spots on this earthly sphere 
 Where these dismal spirits are strong and near, 
 
659 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 There is one more dreary than all the rest, — 
 
 ’Tis the barren island of Rottenest. 
 
 On Australia’s western coast, you may — 
 
 On a seaman’s chart of Fremantle Bay — 
 
 Find a tiny speck, some ten miles from shore : 
 
 If the chart be good, there is something more, — 
 
 For a shoal runs in on the landward side, 
 
 With five fathoms marked for the highest tide. 
 
 You have nought but my word for all the rest, 
 
 But that speck is the island of Rottenest. 
 
 ’Tis a white sand -heap, about two miles long, 
 
 And say half as wide ; but the deeds of wrong 
 Between man and his brother that there took place 
 Are sufficient to sully a continent’s face. 
 
 Ah, cruel tales ! were they told as a whole, 
 
 They would scare your polished humanity’s soul; 
 They would blanch the cheeks in your carpeted room, 
 With a terrible thought of the merited doom 
 For the crimes committed, still unredrest, 
 
 On that white sand-heap called Rottenest. 
 
 Of late years the island is not so bare 
 As it was when I saw it first ; for there 
 On the outer headland some buildings stand, 
 
 And a flag, red-crossed, says the patch of sand 
 
 Is a recognized part of the wide domain 
 
 That is blessed with the peace of Victoria’s reign. 
 
 But behind the lighthouse the land’s the same, 
 
 And it bears grim proof of the white man’s shame; 
 For the miniature vales that the island owns 
 Have a horrible harvest of human bones ! 
 
 And how did they come there ? that’s the word ; 
 
 And I’ll answer it now with a tale I heard 
 From the lips of a man who was there, and saw 
 The bad end of man’s greed and of colony law. 
 
660 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’kEILLY. 
 
 Many years ago, when the white man first 
 
 Set his foot on the coast, and was hated and cursed 
 
 By the native, who had not yet learned to fear 
 
 The dark wrath of the stranger, but drove his spear 
 
 With a freeman’s force and a bushman’s yell 
 
 At the white invader, it then befell 
 
 That so many were killed and cooked and eaten, 
 
 There was risk of the whites in the end being beaten ; 
 So a plan was proposed, — ’twas deemed safest and best 
 To imprison the natives in Rottenest. 
 
 And so every time there was white blood spilled, 
 
 There were black men captured ; and those not killed 
 In the rage of vengeance were sent away 
 To this bleak sand isle in Fremantle Bay ; 
 
 And it soon came round that a thousand men 
 Were together there, like wild beasts in a pen. 
 
 There was not a shrub or grass-blade in the sand, 
 
 Nor a piece of timber as large as your hand; 
 
 But a government boat went out each day 
 To fling meat ashore — and then sailed away. 
 
 For a year or so was this course pursued, 
 
 Till ’ twas noticed that fewer came down for food 
 When the boat appeared ; then a guard lay round 
 The island one night, and the white men found 
 That the savages swam at the lowest tide 
 To the shoal that lay on the landward side, — 
 
 ’Twas a mile from the beach, — and then waded ashore ; 
 So the settlers met in grave council once more. 
 
 That a guard was needed was plain to all ; 
 
 But nobody answered the Governor’s call 
 For a volunteer watch. They were only a few, 
 
 And their wild young farms gave plenty to do ; 
 
 And the council of settlers was breaking up, 
 
 With a dread of the sorrow they’d have to sup 
 When the savage, unawed, and for vengeance wild 
 Lay await in the wood for the mother and child. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 661 
 
 And with doleful countenance each to his neighbor 
 Told a dreary tale of the world of labor 
 He had, and said, “Let him watch who can, 
 
 I can’t when there stepped to the front a man 
 With a hard brown face and a burglar’s brow, 
 
 Who had learned the secret he uttered now 
 
 When he served in the chain-gang in New South Wales. 
 
 And he said to them : ‘ 4 Friends, as all else fails, 
 
 These ’ere natives are safe as if locked and barred, 
 
 If you’ll line that shoal with a mastiff guard ! ” 
 
 And the settlers looked at each other awhile, 
 
 Till the wonder toned to a well-pleased smile 
 When the brown ex-burglar said he knew, 
 
 And would show the whole of ’em what to do. 
 
 Some three weeks after, the guard was set ; 
 
 And a native who swam to the shoal was met 
 By two half -starved dogs, when a mile from shore,— 
 And, somehow, that native was never seen more. 
 
 All the settlers were pleased with the capital plan, 
 
 And they voted their thanks to the hard-faced man. 
 
 For a year, each day did the government boat 
 Take the meat to the isle and its guard afloat. 
 
 In a line, on the face of the shoal, the dogs 
 Had a dry house each, on some anchored logs ; 
 
 And the neck-chain from each stretched just half way 
 To the next dog’s house ; right across the Bay 
 Ban a line that was hideous with horrid sounds 
 From the hungry throats of two hundred hounds. 
 
 So one more year passed, and the brutes on the logs 
 Had grown more like devils than common dogs. 
 
 There was such a hell-chorus by day and night 
 That the settlers ashore were chilled with fright 
 When they thought — if that legion should break away, 
 And come in with the tide some fatal day ! 
 
662 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 But they ’scaped that chance ; for a man came in 
 From the Bush, one day, with a ’possum’s skin 
 To the throat filled up with large pearls he’d found 
 To the north, on the shore of the Shark’s Bay Sound. 
 And the settlement blazed with a wild commotion 
 At sight of the gems from the wealthy ocean. 
 
 Then the settlers all began to pack 
 
 Their tools and tents, and to ask the track 
 
 That the bushman followed to strike the spot, — 
 
 While the dogs and natives were all forgot. 
 
 In two days, from that camp on the Biver Swan, 
 
 To the Shark’s Bay Sound had the settlers gone 
 
 And no merciful feeling did one retard 
 
 For the helpless men and their terrible guard. 
 
 It were vain to try, in my quiet room, 
 
 To write down the truth of the awful doom 
 That befell those savages prisoned there, 
 
 When the pangs of hunger and wild despair 
 Had nigh made them mad as the fiends outside : 
 
 ’Tis enough that one night, through the low ebb tide, 
 Swam nine hundred savages, armed with stones 
 And with weapons made from their dead friends’ bones. 
 Without ripple or sound, when the moon was gone, 
 Through the inky water they glided on ; 
 
 Swimming deep, and scarce daring to draw a breath, 
 While the guards, if they saw, were as dumb as death. 
 ’Twas a terrible picture ! O God ! that the night 
 Were so black as to cover the horrid sight 
 From the eyes of the Angel that notes man’s ways 
 In the book that will ope on the Day of Days ! 
 
 There were screams when they met, — shrill screams of 
 pain ! 
 
 For each animal swam at the length of his chain, 
 
 And with parching throat and in furious mood 
 Lay awaiting, not men, but his coming food. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 603 
 
 There were short, sharp cries, and a line of fleck 
 As the long fangs sank in the swimmer’s neck ; 
 
 There were gurgling growls mixed with human groans, 
 For the savages drave the sharpened bones 
 Through their enemies’ ribs, and the bodies sank, 
 
 Each dog holding fast with a bone through his flank. 
 
 Then those of the natives who ’scaped swam back ; 
 
 But too late ! for scores of the savage pack, 
 
 Driven mad by the yells and the sounds of fight, 
 
 Had broke loose and followed. On that dread night 
 Let the curtain fall : when the red sun rose 
 From the placid ocean, the joys and woes 
 Of a thousand men he had last eve seen 
 Were as things or thoughts that had never been. 
 
 When the settlers returned, — in a month or two, — 
 They bethought of the dogs and the prisoned crew. 
 And a boat went out on a tardy quest 
 Of whatever was living on Bottenest. 
 
 They searched all the isle, and sailed back again 
 With some specimen bones of the dogs and men. 
 
Though it lash the shallows that line the beach , 
 Afar from the great sea deeps , 
 
 There is never a storm whose might can reach 
 Where the vast leviathan sleeps. 
 
 Like a mighty thought in a quiet mind , 
 
 In the clear , cold depths he swims ; 
 
 Whilst above him the pettiest form of his land 
 With a dash o'er the surface shims. 
 
 There is peace in power : the men ivho speak 
 With the loudest tongues do least ; 
 
 And the surest sign of a mind that is weak 
 Is its want of the power to rest. 
 
 It is only the lighter water that flies 
 From the sea on a windy day ; 
 
 And the deep blue ocean never replies 
 To the sibilant voice of the spray. 
 
THE AMBER WHALE: A HARPOONEER’S STORY. 
 
 Whalemen have a strange belief as to the formation of amber. They 
 say that it is a petrifaction of some internal part of a whale ; and they 
 tell weird stories of enormous whales seen in the warm latitudes, that 
 were almost entirely transformed into the precious substance. 
 
 TTTE were down in the Indian Ocean, after sperm, and 
 VV three years out ; 
 
 The last six months in the tropics, and looking in vain for 
 a spout, — 
 
 Five men up on the royal yards, weary of straining their 
 sight ; 
 
 And every day like its brother, — just morning and noon 
 and night — 
 
 Nothing to break the sameness : water and wind and sun 
 
 Motionless, gentle, and blazing, — never a change in one. 
 
 Every day like its brother : Avhen the noonday eight-bells 
 came, 
 
 ’Twas like yesterday ; and we seemed to know that to-mor- 
 row would be the same. 
 
 The foremast hands had a lazy time : there was never a 
 thing to do ; 
 
 The ship was painted, tarred down, and scraped ; and the 
 mates had nothing new. 
 
 We’d worked at sinnet and ratline till there wasn’t a yarn 
 to use, 
 
 And all we could do was watch and pray for a sperm 
 whale’s spout — or news. 
 
 It was whaler’s luck of the vilest sort ; and, though many 
 a volunteer 
 
 Spent his watch below on the look-out, never a whale came 
 
 near, — 
 
 665 
 
666 JOHN BOYLE o’ REILLY. 
 
 * 
 
 At least of the kind we wanted : there were lots of whales 
 of a sort, — 
 
 Killers and finbacks, and such like, as if they enjoyed the 
 sport 
 
 Of seeing a whale-ship idle ; but we never lowered a boat 
 
 For less than a blackfish, — there’s no oil in a killer’s or 
 finback’s coat. 
 
 There was rich reward for the look-out men, — tobacco for 
 even a sail, 
 
 And a barrel of oil for the lucky dog who’ d be first to 
 “raise ” a whale. 
 
 The crew was a mixture from every land, and many a 
 tongue they spoke ; 
 
 And when they sat in the f o’ castle, enjoying an evening 
 smoke, 
 
 There were tales told, youngster, would make you stare, — 
 stories of countless shoals 
 
 Of devil-fish in the Pacific and right-whales away at the 
 Poles. 
 
 There was one of these f o’ castle yarns that we always loved 
 to hear, — 
 
 Kanaka and Maori and Yankee ; all lent an eager ear 
 
 To that strange old tale that was always new, — the wonder- 
 ful treasure-tale 
 
 Of an old Down-Eastern harpooneer who had struck an 
 Amber Whale ! 
 
 Ay, that was a tale worth hearing, lad : if ’ twas true we 
 couldn’t say, 
 
 Or if ’.twas a yarn old Mat had spun to while the time away. 
 
 “It’s just fifteen years ago,” said Mat, “since I shipped 
 as harpooneer 
 
 On board a bark in New Bedford, and came cruising some- 
 where near 
 
 To this whaling-ground we’re cruising now; but whales 
 were plenty then, 
 
 And not like now, when we scarce get oil to pay for the 
 ship and men. 
 
667 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 There were none of these oil wells running then, — at least, 
 what shore folk term 
 
 An oil well in Pennsylvania, — but sulphur-bottom and 
 sperm 
 
 Were plenty as frogs in a mud-hole, and all of ’em big 
 whales, too ; 
 
 One hundred barrels for sperm-whales ; and for sulphur- 
 bottom, two. 
 
 You couldn’t pick out a small one: the littlest calf or 
 cow 
 
 Had a sight more oil than the big bull whales we think so 
 much of now. 
 
 We were more to the east, off Java Straits, a little below 
 the mouth, — 
 
 A hundred and five to the east’ard and nine degrees to the 
 south ; 
 
 And that was as good a whaling-ground for middling-sized, 
 handy whales 
 
 As any in all the ocean ; and ’twas always white with sails 
 
 From Scotland and Hull and New England, — for the whales 
 were thick as frogs, 
 
 And ’twas little trouble to kill ’em then, for' they lay as 
 quiet as logs. 
 
 And every night we’d go visiting the other whale-ships 
 ’round, 
 
 Or p’r’aps we’d strike on a Dutchman, calmed off the 
 Straits, and bound 
 
 To Singapore or Batavia, with plenty of schnapps to sell 
 
 For a few whale’s teeth or a gallon of oil, and the latest 
 news to tell. 
 
 And in every ship of that whaling fleet was one wonderful 
 story told, — 
 
 How an Amber Whale had been seen that year that was 
 worth a mint of gold. 
 
 And one man — mate of a Scotchman — said he’d seen, 
 away to the west, 
 
 A big school of sperm, and one whale’s spout was twice as 
 high as the rest ; 
 
668 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And we knew that that was the Amber Whale, for we’d 
 often heard before 
 
 That his spout was twice as thick as the rest, and a hundred 
 feet high or more. 
 
 And often, when the look-out cried, ‘ He blows ! ’ the very 
 hail 
 
 Thrilled every heart with the greed of gold, — for we thought 
 of the Amber Whale. 
 
 “ But never a sight of his spout we saw till the season there 
 went round, 
 
 And the ships ran down to the south’ ard to another whal- 
 ing-ground. 
 
 We stayed to the last off Java, and then we ran to the west, 
 
 To get our recruits at Mauritius, and give the crew a rest. 
 
 Five days we ran in the trade winds, and the boys were 
 beginning to talk 
 
 Of their time ashore, and whether they’d have a donkey- 
 ride or a walk, 
 
 And whether they’d spend their money in wine, bananas, 
 or pearls, 
 
 Or drive to the sugar plantations to dance with the Creole 
 girls. 
 
 But they soon got something to talk about. Five days we 
 ran west-sou’ -west, 
 
 But the sixth day’s log-book entry was a change from all 
 the rest ; 
 
 For that was the day the mast-head men made every face 
 turn pale, 
 
 With the cry that we all had dreamt about, — ‘ He Blows ! 
 the Amber Whale ! ’ 
 
 “And every man was motionless, and every speaker’s lip 
 
 Just stopped as it was, with the word half-said: there 
 wasn’t a sound in the ship 
 
 Till the Captain hailed the masthead, ‘ Whereaway is the 
 whale you see ? ’ 
 
 And the cry came down again, 4 He blows ! about four 
 points on our lee, 
 
669 
 
 HIS LIFE,* POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 And three miles off, sir,— there he blows! he’s going to 
 leeward fast ! ’ 
 
 And then we sprang to the rigging, and saw the great whale 
 at last ! 
 
 “Ah! shipmates, that was a sight to see: the water was 
 smooth as a lake, 
 
 And there was the monster rolling, with a school of whales 
 in his wake. 
 
 They looked like pilot-fish round a shark, as if they were 
 keeping guard ; 
 
 And, shipmates, the spout of that Amber Whale was high 
 as a sky- sail yard. 
 
 There was never a ship’s crew worked so quick as our 
 whalemen worked that day, — 
 
 When the captain shouted, ‘ Swing the boats, and be ready 
 to lower away ! ’ 
 
 Then, 4 A pull on the weather-braces, men ! let her head 
 fall off three points ! ’ 
 
 And off she swung, with a quarter-breeze straining the old 
 ship’s joints. 
 
 The men came down from the mastheads ; and the boat’s 
 crews stood on the rail, 
 
 Stowing the lines and irons, and fixing paddles and sail. 
 
 And when all was ready we leant on the boats and looked 
 at the Amber’s spout, 
 
 That went up like a monster fountain, with a sort of a rum- 
 bling shout, 
 
 Like a thousand railroad engines puffing away their smoke. 
 
 He was just like a frigate’s hull capsized, and the swaying 
 water broke 
 
 Against the sides of the great stiff whale : he was steering 
 sou th-by- west, — 
 
 For the Cape, no doubt, for a whale can shape a course as 
 well as the best. 
 
 We soon got close as was right to go ; for the school might 
 hear a hail, 
 
 Or see the bark, and that was the last of our Bank-of-Eng- 
 land Whale. 
 
670 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 ‘ Let her luff,’ said the Old Man, gently. ‘Now, lower 
 away, my boys, 
 
 And pull for a mile, then paddle, — and mind that you 
 make no noise.’ 
 
 “ A minute more, and the boats were down ; and out from 
 the hull of the bark 
 
 They shot with a nervous sweep of the oars, like dolphins 
 away from a shark. 
 
 Each officer stood in the stern, and watched, as he held the 
 steering oar, 
 
 And the crews bent down to their pulling as they never 
 pulled before. 
 
 “Our Mate was as thorough a whaleman as I ever met 
 afloat ; 
 
 And I was his harpooneer that day, and sat in the bow of 
 the boat. 
 
 His eyes were set on the whales ahead, and he spoke in a 
 low, deep tone, 
 
 And told the men to be steady and cool, and the whale was 
 all our own. 
 
 And steady and cool they proved to be : you could read it 
 in every face, 
 
 And in every straining muscle, that they meant to win that 
 race. 
 
 ‘ Bend to it, boys, for a few strokes more, — bend to it 
 steady and long ! 
 
 Now, in with your oars, and paddles out, — all together, and 
 strong ! ’ 
 
 Then we turned and sat on the gunwale, with our faces to 
 the bow ; 
 
 And the whales were right ahead, — no more than four ships’ 
 lengths off now. 
 
 There were five of ’em, hundred-barrelers, like guards 
 round the Amber Whale. 
 
 And to strike him we’d have to risk being stove by crossing 
 a sweeping tail ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 671 
 
 But the prize and the risk were equal. ‘ Mat,’ now whispers 
 the Mate, 
 
 ‘ Are your irons ready ? ’ ‘ Ay, ay, sir.’ ‘ Stand up, then, 
 
 steady, and wait 
 
 Till I give the word, then let ’em fly, and hit him below 
 the fin 
 
 As he rolls to wind’ard. Start her, boys ! now’s the time 
 to slide her in ! 
 
 Hurrah ! that fluke just missed us. Mind, as soon as the 
 iron’s fast, 
 
 Be ready to back your paddles, — now in for it, boys, 
 at last. 
 
 Heave ! Again ! ’ 
 
 “ And two irons flew : the first one sank in the joint, 
 
 ’Tween the head and hump, — in the muscle ; but the second 
 had its point 
 
 Turned off by striking the amber case, coming out again 
 like a bow, 
 
 And the monster carcass quivered, and rolled with pain 
 from the first deep blow. 
 
 Then he lashed the sea with his terrible flukes, and showed 
 us many a sign 
 
 That his rage was roused. ‘Lay off,’ roared the Mate, 
 4 and all keep clear of the line ! ’ 
 
 And that was a timely warning, for the whale made an 
 awful breach 
 
 Right out of the sea ; and ’twas well for us that the boat 
 was beyond the reach 
 
 Of his sweeping flukes, as he milled around, and made for 
 the Captain’s boat, 
 
 That was right astern. And, shipmates, then my heart 
 swelled up in my throat 
 
 At the sight I saw : the Amber Whale was lashing the sea 
 with rage, 
 
 And two of his hundred-barrel guards were ready now to 
 engage 
 
672 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In a bloody fight, and with open jaws they came to their 
 master’s aid. 
 
 Then we knew the Captain’ s boat was doomed ; but the 
 crew were no whit afraid, — 
 
 They were brave New England whalemen, — and we saw 
 the harpooneer 
 
 Stand up to send in his irons, as soon as the whales came 
 near. 
 
 Then we heard the Captain’ s order, 4 Heave ! ’ and saw the 
 harpoon fly, 
 
 As the whales closed in with their open jaws : a shock, and 
 a stifled cry 
 
 Was all that we heard ; then we looked to see if the crew 
 were still afloat, — 
 
 But nothing was there save a dull red patch, and the 
 boards of the shattered boat ! 
 
 “ But that was no time for mourning words : the other two 
 boats came in, 
 
 And one got fast on the quarter, and one aft the starboard 
 fin 
 
 Of the Amber Whale. For a minute he paused, as if he 
 were in doubt 
 
 As to whether ’twas best to run or fight. ‘ Lay on ! ’ the 
 Mate roared out, 
 
 ‘ And I’ll give him a lance F The boat shot in ; and the 
 Mate, when he saw his chance 
 
 Of sending it home to the vitals, four times he buried his 
 lance. 
 
 A minute more, and a cheer went up, when we saw that his 
 aim was good ; 
 
 For the lance had struck in a life-spot, and the whale was 
 spouting blood ! 
 
 But now came the time of danger, for the school of whales 
 around 
 
 Had aired their flukes, and the cry was raised, 4 Look out ! 
 they’re going to sound ! ’ 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 673 
 
 And down they went with a sudden plunge, the Amber 
 Whale the last, 
 
 While the lines ran smoking out of the tubs, he went to the 
 deep so fast. 
 
 Before you could count your fingers, a hundred fathoms 
 were out ; 
 
 And then he stopped, for a wounded whale must come to 
 the top and spout. 
 
 We hauled slack line as we felt him rise ; and when he 
 came up alone, 
 
 And spouted thick blood, we cheered again, for we knew 
 he was all our own. 
 
 He was frightened now, and his fight was gone, — right 
 round and round he spun, 
 
 As if he was trying to sight the boats, or find the best side 
 to run. 
 
 But that was the minute for us to work : the boats hauled 
 in their slack, 
 
 And bent on the drag-tubs over the stern to tire and hold 
 him back. 
 
 The bark was five miles to wind’ard, and the mate gave a 
 troubled glance 
 
 At the sinking sun, and muttered, 4 Boys, we must give him 
 another lance, 
 
 Or he’ll run till night; and, if he should head to wind’ard 
 in the dark, 
 
 We’ll be forced to cut loose and leave him, or else lose run 
 of the bark.’ 
 
 So we hauled in close, two boats at once, but only frightened 
 the whale ; 
 
 And, like a hound that was badly whipped, he turned and 
 showed his tail, 
 
 With his head right dead to wind’ard ; then as straight 
 and as swift he sped 
 
 As a hungry shark for a swimming prey ; and, bending 
 over his head, 
 
 Like a mighty plume, went his bloody spout. Ah, ship- 
 mates, that was a sight 
 
674 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Worth a life at sea to witness ! In his wake the sea was 
 white 
 
 As you’ve seen it after a steamer’s screw, churning up like 
 foaming yeast ; 
 
 And the boats went hissing along at the rate of twenty 
 knots at least. 
 
 With the water flush with the gun whale, and the oars were 
 all apeak, 
 
 While the crews sat silent and quiet, watching the long, 
 white streak 
 
 That was traced by the line of our passage. We hailed 
 the bark as we passed, 
 
 And told them to keep a sharp look-out from the head of 
 every mast ; 
 
 ‘And if we’re not back by sundown,’ cried the Mate, 4 you 
 keep a light 
 
 At the royal cross-trees. If he dies, we may stick to the 
 whale all night.’ 
 
 “And past we swept with our oars apeak, and waved our 
 hands to the hail 
 
 Of the wondering men on the taffrail, who were watching 
 our Amber Whale 
 
 As he surged ahead, just as if he thought he could tire his 
 enemies out ; 
 
 I was almost sorrowful, shipmates, to see after each red spout 
 
 That the great whale’s strength was failing: the sweep of 
 his flukes grew slow, 
 
 Till at sundown he made about four knots, and his spout 
 was weak and low. 
 
 Then said the Mate to his boat’s crew : 4 Boys, the vessel is 
 out of sight 
 
 To the leeward : now, shall we cut the line, or stick to the 
 whale all night ? ’ 
 
 4 We’ll stick to the whale!’ cried every man. ‘Let the 
 other boats go back 
 
 To the vessel and beat to wind’ard, as well as they can, in 
 our track.’ 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 675 
 
 It was done as they said : the lines were cut, and the crews 
 cried out, 4 Good speed ! ’ 
 
 As we swept along in the darkness, in the wake of our 
 monster steed, 
 
 That went plunging on, with the dogged hope that he’d 
 tire his enemies still, — 
 
 But even the strength of an Amber Whale must break 
 before human will. 
 
 By little and little his power had failed as he spouted his 
 blood away, 
 
 Till at midnight the rising moon shone down on the great 
 fish as he lay 
 
 Just moving his flukes ; but at length he stopped, and 
 raising his square, black head 
 
 As high as the topmast cross-trees, swung round and fell 
 over— dead ! 
 
 “ And then rose a shout of triumph, — a shout that was 
 more like a curse 
 
 Than an honest cheer ; but, shipmates, the thought in our 
 hearts was worse, 
 
 And ’twas punished with bitter suffering. We claimed the 
 whale as our own, 
 
 And said that the crew should have no share of the wealth 
 that was ours alone. 
 
 We said to each other : We want their help till we get the 
 whale aboard, 
 
 So we’ll let ’em think that they’ll have a share till we get 
 the Amber stored, 
 
 And then we’ll pay them their wages, and send them 
 ashore — or afloat , 
 
 If they show their temper. Ah ! shipmates, no wonder 
 ’twas that boat 
 
 And its selfish crew were cursed that night. Next day we 
 saw no sail, 
 
 But the wind and sea were rising. Still, we held to the 
 drifting whale, — 
 
676 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O* REILLY. 
 
 And a dead whale drifts to windward, — going farther away 
 from the ship, 
 
 Without water, or bread, or courage to pray with heart or lip 
 
 That had planned and spoken the treachery. The wind 
 blew into a gale, 
 
 And it screamed like mocking laughter round our boat and 
 the Amber Whale. 
 
 “That night fell dark on the starving crew, and a hurri- 
 cane blew next day ; 
 
 Then we cut the line, and we cursed the prize as it drifted 
 fast away, 
 
 As if some power under the waves were towing it out of 
 sight ; 
 
 And there we were, without help or hope, dreading the 
 coming night. 
 
 Three days that hurricane lasted. When it passed, two 
 men were dead ; 
 
 And the strongest one of the living had not strength to 
 raise his head, 
 
 When his dreaming swoon was broken by the sound of a 
 cheery hail, 
 
 And he saw a shadow fall on the boat, — it fell from the old 
 bark’ s sail ! 
 
 And when he heard their kindly words, you’d think he 
 should have smiled 
 
 With joy at his deliverance ; but he cried like a little child, 
 
 And hid his face in his poor weak hands, — for he thought 
 of the selfish plan, — 
 
 And he prayed to God to forgive them all. And, ship- 
 mates, I am the man ! — 
 
 The only one of the sinful crew that ever beheld his home ; 
 
 For before the cruise was over, all the rest were under the 
 foam. 
 
 It’s just fifteen years gone, shipmates,” said old Mat, end- 
 ing his tale ; 
 
 “ And I often pray that I’ll never see another Amber 
 Whale.” 
 
THE MUTINY OF THE CHAINS. 
 
 PENAL COLONY OF WESTERN AUSTRALIA, 1857. 
 
 HE sun rose o’er dark Fremantle, 
 
 And the Sentry stood on the wall ; 
 
 Above him, with white lines swinging, 
 
 The flag-staff, bare and tall : 
 
 The flag at its foot — the Mutiny Flag— 
 
 Was always fast to the line, — 
 
 For its sanguine field was a cry of fear, 
 
 And the Colony counted an hour a year 
 In the need of the blood-red sign. 
 
 The staff and the line, with its ruddy flash, 
 Like a threat or an evil-bode, 
 
 Were a monstrous whip with a crimson lash, 
 Fit sign for the penal code. 
 
 The Sentry leant on his rifle, and stood 
 By the mast, with a deep-drawn breath ; 
 
 A stern-browed man, but there heaved a sigh 
 For the sight that greeted his downward eye 
 In the prison-square beneath. 
 
 In yellow garb, in soldier lines, 
 
 One hundred men in chains ; 
 
 While the watchful warders, sword in hand, 
 With eyes suspicious keenly scanned 
 The links of the living lanes. 
 
 There, wary eyes met stony eyes, 
 
678 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 And stony face met stone. 
 
 There was never a gleam of trust or truce ; 
 
 In the covert thought of an iron loose, 
 
 Grim warder and ward were one. 
 
 Why was it so, that there they stood, — 
 
 Stern driver and branded slave ? 
 
 Why rusted the gyve in the bondman’s blood, 
 
 No hope for him but the grave 1 
 Out of thousands there why was it so 
 That one hundred hearts must feel 
 The bitterest pang of the penal woe, 
 
 And the grind of a nation’s heel ? 
 
 Why, but for choice — the bondman’s choice ? 
 
 They balanced the gains and pains ; 
 
 They took their chance of the chains. 
 
 There spake in their hearts a hidden voice 
 
 Of the blinding joy of a freeman’s burst 
 
 Through the great dim woods. Then the toil accurst 
 
 The scorching days and the nights in tears 
 
 The riveted rings for years and years ; 
 
 They weighed them all — they looked before 
 At the one and other, and spoke them o’er, 
 
 And they saw what the heart of man must see, 
 
 That the uttermost blessing is Liberty ! 
 
 Ah, pity them, God ! they must always choose, 
 
 For the life to gain and the death to lose. 
 
 They dream of the woods and the mountain spring, 
 And they grasp the flower, to clutch the sting. 
 
 Even so : they are better than those who bend 
 Like beasts to the lash, and go on to the end 
 As a beast will go, with to-day for a life, 
 
 And to-morrow a blank. Offer peace and strife 
 To a man enslaved — let him vote for ease 
 And coward labor, and be content ; 
 
 Or let him go out in the front, as these, 
 
 With their eyes on the doom and the danger, went. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 679 
 
 And take yonr choice — the man who remains 
 A self-willed serf, or the one who stains 
 His sudden hand with a drive for light 
 Through a bristling rank and a gloomy night. 
 
 This man for me — for his heart he’ll share 
 With a friend : with a foe, he’ll fight him fair. 
 
 And such as he are in every rank 
 Of the column that moves with a dismal clank 
 And a dead-march step toward the rock-bound place 
 Where the chain-gangs toil — o’er the beetling face 
 Of the cliff that roots in the Swan’s deep tide : 
 
 Steep walls of granite on either side, 
 
 At the precipice’ foot the river wide ; 
 
 Behind them in ranks the warders fall ; 
 
 And above them, the Sentry paces the wall. 
 
 Year in, year out, has the Sentry stood 
 On the wall at the foot of the* mast. 
 
 He has turned from the toilers to watch the flood 
 Like his own slow life go past. 
 
 He has noted the Chains grow fat and lean ; 
 
 He has sighed for their empty spaces, 
 
 And thought of the cells where their end had been, 
 Where they lay with their poor dead faces, 
 
 With never a kiss, or prayer, or knell— 
 
 They were'better at rest in the river ; 
 
 He thinks of the shadow that o’er them fell 
 From the mast with its whip-like quiver ; 
 
 He has seen it tipped with its crimson lash 
 When the mutiny-flood had risen 
 And swept like a sea with an awful swash 
 Through the squares and the vaulted prison. 
 
 His thoughts are afar with the woeful day, 
 
 With the ranged dead men and the dying, 
 
 And slowly he treads till they pass away — 
 
 Then a pause, and a start, and a scuffling sound, 
 
 And a glance beneath, at a battle-ground, 
 
 Where the lines are drawn, and the Chains are found 
 
680 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Their armed guards defying ! 
 
 A hush of death— and the Sentry stands 
 
 By the mast, with the halyards tight in his hands, 
 
 And the Mutiny Flag is flying ! 
 
 Woe to the weak, to the mutineers ! 
 
 The bolt of their death is driven ; 
 
 A mercy waits on all other tears, 
 
 But the Chains are never forgiven. 
 
 Woe to the rebels ! — their hands are bare, 
 
 Their manacled bodies helpless there ; 
 
 Their faces lit with a strange wild light, 
 
 As if they had fought and had won the fight ! 
 
 No cry is uttered — upraised no hand ; 
 
 All stilled to a muscle’s quiver ; 
 
 One line on the brink of the cliff they stand, 
 
 Their shadows flung down on the river. 
 
 The quarry wall is on either side, 
 
 The blood-red flag high o’er them ; 
 
 But the lurid light in their eyes defied 
 The gathering guards before them. 
 
 No parley is held when the Chains revolt : 
 
 Grimly silent they stand secure 
 On the outward lip of the embrasure ; 
 
 Waiting fierce-eyed for the fatal bolt. 
 
 A voice from the guard, in a monotone ; 
 
 A voice that was cold and hard as stone : — 
 
 “ Make ready ! Fire ! ” 
 
 O Christ, the cry 
 
 From the manacled men ! not fear to die, 
 
 Or whine for mercy ; rebelled they stood, 
 
 Well knowing the price of revolt was blood ; 
 
 Well knowing — but each one knew that he 
 Would sell his blood for his liberty ! 
 
 Unwarned by a word, uncalled, unsliriven, 
 
 They dare by a look — and the doom is given. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 681 
 
 They raise their brows in the wild revolt, 
 
 And God’s wrath flames in the fierce death-bolt ; 
 God’s wrath? — nay, man’s ; God never smote 
 A rebel dead whose swelling throat 
 Was full with protest. Hear, then smite ; 
 
 God’s justice weighs not shrieks the right. 
 
 4 4 Make ready ! Fire ! ’ ’ 
 
 Again outburst 
 
 The horror and shame for the deed accurst ! 
 
 O, cry of the weak, as the hot blood calls 
 From the burning wound, and the stricken falls 
 With his face in the dust ; and the strong one stands, 
 With scornful lips and ensanguined hands ; 
 
 O, blood of the weak, unbought, unpriced, 
 
 Thy* smoke is a piteous prayer to Christ ! 
 
 They stand on the brink of the cliff — they bend 
 To the dead in their chains ; then rise, and send 
 To the murdering muzzles defiant eyes. 
 
 44 Make ready! Fire!” 
 
 The smoke-clouds rise : 
 
 They are still on the face of the cliff — they bend 
 Once more to the dead — they whisper a word 
 To the hearts in the dust — then, undeterred, 
 
 They raise their faces, so grimly set, 
 
 Till the eyes of slayer and doomed have met. 
 
 O merciful God, let thy pity rain 
 Ere the hideous lightning leaps again ! 
 
 They have sinned — they have erred — let the living stand— 
 They have dared and rued — let thy loving hand 
 Be laid on those brows that bravely face 
 The death that shall wash them of all disgrace ! 
 
 Be swift with pity — O, late, too late ! 1 
 The tubes are leveled— the marksmen wait 
 
682 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 For the word of doom — the spring is pressed 
 By the nervous finger — the sight is straight — 
 
 “Make ready ! ” — 
 
 Why falters the dread command 
 Why stare as affrighted the armed band? 
 
 Why lower the rifles from shoulder to hip, 
 
 Why dies the word on the leader’s lip, 
 
 While the voice that was hard grows husky deep 
 And the face is a-tremble as if to weep ? 
 
 The Chains on the brink of the cliff are lined ; 
 
 The living are bowed o’er the dead — they rise 
 And they face the rifles with burning eyes ; 
 
 Then they bend again, and with one set mind 
 They raise the dead and the wounded raise 
 In their loving arms with words of praise 
 And tender grief for the torturing wounds. 
 
 One backward step with a burdened tread — 
 
 They bear toward the- precipice wounded and dead — 
 Then they turned on the cliff to front the guard 
 With faces like men that have died in fight ; 
 
 Their brows were raised as if proud reward 
 Were theirs, and their eyes had a victor’s light. 
 
 They spoke not a word, but stood sublime 
 In their somber strength, and the watchers saw 
 That they smiled as they looked, and their words 
 heard 
 
 As they spoke to the dying a loving word. 
 
 They were Men at last — they knew naught of crime ; 
 They were masters and makers of life and law. 
 
 They turned from the guard that quailed and shrank 
 From the gleaming eyes of the burdened rank ; 
 
 They turned on the cliff, and a sob was heard 
 As they looked far down on the darkened river ; 
 They raised their eyes to the sky — they grasped 
 The dead to their breasts, while the wounded clasped 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 683 
 
 The necks of the brothers who bore their weight — 
 Then they sprang from the clitf, as a horse will spring 
 For his life from a precipice — sprang to death 
 In silence and sternness — one deep breath, 
 
 As they plunged, of liberty, thrilled their souls, 
 
 And then — the Chains were at rest forever ! 
 
From that fair land and drear land in the South, 
 Of which through years I do not cease to think , 
 I brought a tale, learned not by word of mouth, 
 But formed by finding here one golden link 
 And there another; and with hands unskilled 
 For such fine work, but patient of all pain 
 For love of it, 1 sought therefrom to build 
 
 What might have been at first the goodly chain . 
 
 It is not golden now : my craft knows more 
 Of working baser metal than of fine ; 
 
 But to those fate-wrought rings of precious ore 
 I add these rugged iron links of mine . 
 
THE KINGr OF THE VASSE. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE BUSH. 
 
 M Y tale which I have brought is of a time 
 
 Ere that fair Southern land was stained with crimei 
 Brought thitherward in reeking ships and cast 
 Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast 
 From angry levin on a fair young tree, 
 
 That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see. 
 
 So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,— 
 
 A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run, 
 
 And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried 
 Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and died. 
 Woe’s cloak is round her, — she the fairest shore 
 In all the Southern Ocean o’er and o’er. 
 
 Poor Cinderella ! she must bide her woe, 
 
 Because an elder sister wills it so. 
 
 Ah! could that sister see the future day 
 
 When her own wealth and strength are shorn away, 
 
 And she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand 
 To rest on kindred blood in that far land ; 
 
 Could she but see that kin deny her claim 
 Because of nothing owing her but shame, — 
 
 Then might she learn ’tis building but to fall, 
 
 If carted rubble be the basement-wall. 
 
 But this my tale, if tale it be, begins 
 Before the young land saw the old land’s sins 
 Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud 
 Far-blown, and widening as it neared, — a shroud 
 Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure, 
 
 And mark the leper-land while stains endure. 
 
 685 
 
686 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 In the far days, the few who sought the West 
 Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest 
 Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain, 
 And help them live their lives with less of pain 
 Than crowded Europe lets her children know. 
 
 From their old homesteads did they seaward go, 
 
 As if in Nature’s order men must flee 
 As flow the streams, — from inlands to the sea. 
 
 In that far time, from out a Northern land, 
 
 With home-ties severed, went a numerous band 
 Of men and wives and children, white-haired folk : 
 Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke, 
 
 As year was piled on year, and still their toil 
 Had wrung poor fee from Sweden’s rugged soil. 
 
 One day there gathered from the neighboring steads, 
 In Jacob Eibsen’ s, five strong household heads, — 
 Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob’s sons, 
 Though he was hale, as one whose current runs 
 In stony channels, that the streamlet rend, 
 
 But keep it clear and full unto the end. 
 
 Eight sons had Jacob Eibsen, — three still boys, 
 
 And these five men, who owned of griefs and joys 
 The common lot ; and three tall girls beside, 
 
 Of whom the eldest was a blushing bride 
 One year before. Old-fashioned times and men, 
 
 And wives and maidens, were in Sweden then. 
 
 These five came there for counsel : they were tired 
 Of hoping on for all the heart desired ; 
 
 And Jacob, old but mighty-thewed as youth, 
 
 In all their words did sadly own the truth, 
 
 And said unto them, “ Wealth cannot be found 
 In Sweden now by men who till the ground. 
 
 I’ve thought at times of leaving this bare place, 
 
 And holding seaward with a seeking face 
 
 For those new lands they speak of, where men thrive. 
 
 Alone I’ve thought of this; but now you five — 
 
 Five brother men of Eibsen blood — shall say 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 687 
 
 If our old stock from here must wend their way, 
 
 And seek a home where anxious sires can give 
 To every child enough whereon to live.” 
 
 Then each took thought in silence. Jacob gazed 
 Across them at the pastures worn and grazed 
 By ill-fed herds ; his glance to corn-fields passed, 
 
 Where stunted oats, worse each year than the last, 
 
 And blighted barley, grew amongst the stones, 
 
 That showed ungainly, like earth’s fleshless bones. 
 
 He sighed, and turned away. 4 4 Sons, let me know 
 What think you ? ” 
 
 Each one answered firm, 44 We go.” 
 And then they said, 44 We want no northern wind 
 To chill us more, or driving hail to blind. 
 
 But let us sail where south winds fan the sea, 
 
 And happier we and all our race shall be.” 
 
 And so in time there started for the coast, 
 
 With farm and household gear, this Eibsen host ; 
 
 And there, with others, to a good ship passed, 
 
 Which soon of Sweden’s hills beheld the last. 
 
 I know not of their voyage, nor how they 
 Did wonder-stricken sit, as day by day, 
 
 ’Neath tropic rays, they saw the smooth sea swell 
 And heave ; while night by night the north-star fell, 
 
 Till last they watched him burning on the sea ; 
 
 Nor how they saw, and wondered it could be, 
 
 Strange beacons rise before them as they gazed : 
 
 Nor how their hearts grew light when southward blazed 
 Five stars in blessed shape, — the Cross ! whose flame 
 Seemed shining welcome as the wanderers came. 
 
 My story presses from this star-born hope 
 To where on young New Holland’s western slope 
 These Northern farming folk found homes at last, 
 
 And all their thankless toil seemed now long past. 
 
688 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’ REILLY. 
 
 Nine fruitful years chased over, and nigh all 
 Of life was sweet. But one dark drop of gall 
 Had come when first they landed, like a sign 
 Of some black woe ; and deep in Eibsen’s wine 
 Of life it hid, till in the sweetest cup 
 The old man saw its shape come shuddering up. 
 
 And first it came in this wise : when their ship 
 Had made the promised land, and every lip 
 Was pouring praise for what the eye did meet, — 
 
 For all the air was yellow as with heat 
 Above the peaceful sea and dazzling sand 
 That wooed each other round the beauteous land, 
 
 Where inward stretched the slumbering forest’s green,— 
 When first these sights from off the deck were seen, 
 There rose a wailing sternwards, and the men 
 Who dreamt of heaven turned to earth agen, 
 
 And heard the direful cause with bated breath, — 
 
 The land’s first gleam had brought the blight of death ! 
 
 0 / 
 
 The wife of Eibsen held her six-years’ son, 
 
 Her youngest, and in secret best-loved one, 
 
 Close to her lifeless : his had been the cry 
 That first horizonwards bent every eye ; 
 
 And from that opening sight of sand and tree 
 Like one deep spell-bound did he seem to be, 
 
 And moved by some strange phantasy ; his eyes 
 Were wide distended as in glad surprise 
 At something there lie saw ; his arms reached o’er 
 The vessel’s side as if to greet the shore, 
 
 And sounds came from his lips like sobs of joy. 
 
 A brief time so ; and then the blue-eyed boy 
 Sank down convulsed, as if to him appeared 
 Strange sights that they saw not ; and all afeard 
 Grew the late joyous people with vague dread ; 
 And loud the mother wailed above her dead. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 The ship steered in and found a bay, and then 
 The anchor plunged aweary-like : the men 
 Breathed breaths of rest at treading land agen. 
 
 Upon the beach by Christian men untrod 
 The wanderers kneeling offered up to God 
 The land’s first-fruits ; and nigh the kneeling band 
 The burdened mother sat upon the sand, 
 
 And still she wailed, not praying. 
 
 ’Neath the wood 
 
 That lined the beach a crowd of watchers stood : 
 
 Tall men spear-armed, with skins like dusky night, 
 And aspect blended of deep awe and fright. 
 
 The ship that morn they saw, like some vast bird, 
 Come sailing toward their country ; and they heard 
 The voices now of those strange men whose eyes 
 Were turned aloft, who spake unto the skies ! 
 
 They heard and feared, not knowing, that first prayer, 
 But feared not when the wail arose, for there 
 Was some familiar thing did not appall, — 
 
 Grief, common heritage and lot of all. 
 
 They moved and breathed more freely at the cry, 
 
 And slowly from the wood, and timorously, 
 
 They one by one emerged upon the beach. 
 
 The white men saw, and like to friends did reach 
 Their hands unarmed ; and soon the dusky crowd 
 Drew nigh and stood where wailed the mother loud. 
 They claimed her kindred, they could understand 
 That woe was hers and theirs ; whereas the band 
 Of white-skinned men did not as brethren seem. 
 
 But now, behold ! a man, whom one would deem 
 From eye and mien, wherever met, a King, 
 
 Did stand beside the woman. No youth’s spring 
 Was in the foot that naked pressed the sand ; 
 
 No warrior’s might was in the long dark hand 
 
690 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 That waved his people backward ; no bright gold 
 Of lace or armor glittered ; gaunt and old, — 
 
 A belt, half apron, made of emu-down, 
 
 Upon his loins ; upon his head no crown 
 Save only that which eighty years did trace 
 In whitened hair above his furrowed face. 
 
 Nigh nude he was : a short fur boka hung 
 In toga-folds upon his back, but flung 
 From his right arm and shoulder, — ever there 
 The spear-arm of the warrior is bare. 
 
 So stood he nigh the woman, gaunt and wild 
 But king-like, spearless, looking on the child 
 That lay with livid face upon her knees. 
 
 Thus long and fixed he gazed, as one who sees 
 A symbol hidden in a simple thing, 
 
 And trembles at its meaning : so the King 
 Fell trembling there, and from his breast there broke 
 A cry, part joy, part fear ; then to his folk 
 With upraised hands he spoke one guttural word, 
 And said it over thrice ; and when they heard, 
 
 They, too, were stricken with strange fear and joy. 
 
 The white-haired King then to the breathless boy 
 Drew closer still, while all the dusky crowd 
 In weird abasement to the earth were bowed. 
 
 Across his breast the aged ruler wore 
 A leathern thong or belt ; what e’er it bore 
 Was hidden ’neath the boka. As he drew 
 Anigli the mother, from his side he threw 
 Far back the skin that made his ricli-furred robe, 
 And showed upon the belt a small red globe 
 Of carven wood, bright -polished, as with years : 
 When this they saw, deep grew his people’s fears, 
 And to the white sand were their foreheads pressed. 
 
 The King then raised his arms, as if he blest 
 The youth who lay there seeming dead and cold ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 091 
 
 Then took the globe and oped it, and behold ! 
 
 Within it, bedded in the carven case, 
 
 There lay a precious thing for that rude race 
 To hold, though it as God they seemed to prize, — 
 
 A Pearl of purest hue and wondrous size ! 
 
 And as the sunbeams kissed it, from the dead 
 The dusk King looked, and o’er his snowy head 
 With both long hands he raised the enthroned gem, 
 
 And turned him toward the strangers : e’en on them 
 Before the lovely Thing, an awe did fall 
 To see that worship deep and mystical, 
 
 That King with upraised god, like rev’ rent priest 
 With elevated Host at Christian feast. 
 
 Then to the mother turning slow, the King 
 Took out the Pearl, and laid the beauteous Thing 
 Upon the dead boy’s mouth and brow and breast, 
 
 And as it touched him, lo ! the awful rest 
 Of death was broken, and the youth uprose ! 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Nine years passed over since on that fair shore 
 The wanderers knelt, — but wanderers they no more. 
 With hopeful hearts they bore the promise-pain 
 Of early labor, and soon bending grain 
 And herds and homesteads and a teeming soil 
 A thousand-fold repaid their patient toil. 
 
 Nine times the sun’s high glory glared above, 
 
 As if his might set naught on human love, 
 
 But yearned to scorn and scorch the things that grew 
 On man’s poor home, till all the forest’s hue 
 Of blessed green was burned to dusty brown ; 
 
 And still the ruthless rays rained fiercely down, 
 
 Till insects, reptiles, shriveled as they lay, 
 
 And piteous cracks, like lips, in parching clay 
 Sent silent pleadings skyward, — as if she, 
 
 The fruitful, generous mother, plaintively 
 
692 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Did wail for water. Lo ! her cry is heard, 
 
 And swift, obedient to the Ruler’s word, 
 
 From Southern iceland sweeps the cool sea breeze, 
 
 To fan the earth and bless the suffering trees, 
 
 And bear dense clouds with bursting weight of rain 
 To soothe with moisture all the parching pain. 
 
 Oh, Mercy’s sweetest symbol ! only they 
 Who see the earth agape in burning day, 
 
 Who watch its living things thirst-stricken lie, 
 
 And turn from brazen heaven as they die, — 
 
 Their hearts alone, the shadowy cloud can prize 
 That veils the sun, — as to poor earth-dimmed eyes 
 The sorrow comes to veil our joy’s dear face, 
 
 All rich in mercy and in God’s sweet grace ! 
 
 Thrice welcome, clouds from seaward, settling down 
 O’er thirsting nature ! Now the trees’ dull brown 
 Is washed away, and leaflet buds appear, 
 
 And youngling undergrowth, and far and near 
 The bush is whispering in her pent-up glee, 
 
 As myriad roots bestir them to be free, 
 
 And drink the soaking moisture ; while bright heaven 
 Shows clear, as inland are the spent clouds driven ; 
 
 And oh ! that arch, that sky’s intensate hue ! 
 
 That deep, God-painted, unimagined blue 
 Through which the golden sun now smiling sails, 
 
 And sends his love to fructify the vales 
 
 That late he seemed to curse ! Earth throbs and heaves 
 
 With pregnant prescience of life and leaves ; 
 
 The shadows darken ’neath the tall trees’ screen, 
 
 While round their stems the rank and velvet green 
 Of undergrowth is deeper still ; and there, 
 
 Within the double shade and steaming air, 
 
 The scarlet palm has fixed its noxious root, 
 
 And hangs the glorious poison of its fruit ; 
 
 And there, ’mid shaded green and shaded light, 
 
 The steel-blue silent birds take rapid flight 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 693 
 
 From earth to tree and tree to earth ; and there 
 The crimson-plumaged parrot cleaves the air 
 Like flying fire, and huge brown owls awake 
 To watch, far down, the stealing carpet snake, 
 Fresh-skinned and glowing in his changing dyes, 
 With evil wisdom in the cruel eyes 
 That glint like gems as o’er his head flits by 
 The blue-black armor of the emperor-fly ; 
 
 And all the humid earth displays its powers 
 Of prayer, with incense from the hearts of flowers 
 That load the air with beauty and with wine 
 Of mingled color, as with one design 
 Of making there a carpet to be trod, 
 
 In woven splendor, by the feet of God ! 
 
 And high o’erhead is color : round and round 
 The towering gums and tuads, closely wound 
 Like cables, creep the climbers to the sun, 
 
 And over all the reaching branches run 
 
 And hang, and still send shoots that climb and wind 
 
 Till every arm and spray and leaf is twined, 
 
 And miles of trees, like brethren joined in love, 
 
 Are drawn and laced ; while round them and above. 
 When all is knit, the creeper rests for days 
 As gathering might, and then one blinding blaze 
 Of very glory sends, in wealth and strength, 
 
 Of scarlet flowers o’er the forest’s length ! 
 
 Such scenes as these have subtile power to trace 
 Their clear-lined impress on the mind and face ; 
 
 And these strange simple folk, not knowing why, 
 Grew more and more to silence ; and the eye, 
 
 The quiet eye of Swedish gray, grew deep 
 With listening to the solemn rustling sweep 
 From wings of Silence, and the earth’s great psalm 
 Intoned forever by the forest’s calm. 
 
 But most of all was younger Jacob changed : 
 
 From morn till night, alone, the woods he ranged, 
 
694 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 To kindred, pastime, sympathy estranged. 
 
 Since that first day of landing from the ship 
 When with the Pearl on brow and breast and lip 
 The aged King had touched him and he rose, 
 
 His former life had left him, and he chose 
 The woods as home, the wild, uncultured men 
 As friends and comrades. It were better then, 
 
 His brethren said, the boy had truly died 
 Than they should live to be by him denied, 
 
 As now they were. He lived in somber mood, 
 
 He spoke no word to them, he broke no food 
 That they did eat : his former life was dead, — 
 
 The soul brought back was not the soul that fled ! 
 ’Twas Jacob’s form and feature, but the light 
 Within his eyes was strange unto their sight. 
 
 His mother’s grief was piteous to see ; 
 
 Unloving was he to the rest, but she 
 
 Held undespairing hope that deep within 
 
 Her son’s changed heart was love that she might win 
 
 By patient tenderness ; and so she strove 
 
 For nine long years, but won no look of love ! 
 
 At last his brethren gazed on him with awe, 
 
 And knew untold that from the form they saw 
 Their brother’s gentle mind was sure dispelled, 
 
 And now a gloomy savage soul it held. 
 
 From that first day, close intercourse he had 
 With those who raised him up, — fierce men, unclad, 
 Spear-armed and wild, in all their ways uncouth, 
 
 And strange to every habit of his youth. 
 
 His food they brought, his will they seemed to crave, 
 The wildest busliman tended like a slave ; 
 
 He worked their charms, their hideous chants he sung 
 Though dumb to all his own, their guttural tongue 
 He often spoke in tones of curt command, 
 
 And kinged it proudly o’er the dusky band. 
 
 And once each year there gathered from afar 
 A swarming host, as if a sudden war 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 695 
 
 Had called them forth, and with them did they bring 
 In solemn, savage pomp the white-haired King, 
 
 Who year by year more withered was and weak ; 
 
 And he would lead the youth apart and speak 
 Some occult words, and from the carven case 
 Would take the Pearl and touch the young man’s face, 
 And hold it o’er him blessing ; while the crowd, 
 
 As on the shore, in dumb abasement bowed. 
 
 And when the King had closed the formal rite, 
 
 The rest held savage revelry by night, 
 
 Round blazing fires, with dance and orgies base, 
 
 That roused the sleeping echoes of the place, 
 
 Which down the forest vistas moaned the din, 
 
 Like spirits pure beholding impious sin. 
 
 Nine times they gathered thus ; but on the last 
 The old king’s waning life seemed well-nigh past. 
 
 His feeble strength had failed : he walked no more, 
 
 But on a woven spear- wood couch they bore 
 With careful tread the form that barely gasped, 
 
 As if the door of death now hung unhasped, 
 
 Awaiting but a breath to swing, and show 
 The dim eternal plain that stretched below. 
 
 The tenth year waned : the cloistered bush was stilled, 
 The earth lay sleeping, while the clouds distilled 
 In ghostly veil their blessing. Thin nnd white, 
 
 Through opening trees the moonbeams cleft the night, 
 And showed the somber arches, taller far 
 Than grandest aisles of built cathedrals are. 
 
 And up those dim-lit aisles in silence streamed 
 Tall men with trailing spears, until it seemed, 
 
 So many lines converged of endless length, 
 
 A nation there was gathered in its strength. 
 
 Around one spot was kept a spacious ring, 
 
 Where lay the body of the white-haired King, 
 
 Which all the spearmen gathered to behold 
 Upon its spear-wood litter, stiff and cold, 
 
696 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 All naked, there the dusky corse was laid 
 Beneath a royal tuad’s mourning shade ; 
 
 Upon the breast was placed the carven case 
 That held the symbol of their ancient race, 
 
 And eyes awe-stricken saw the mystic Thing 
 That soon would clothe another as their King ! 
 
 The midnight moon was high and white o’erhead, 
 And threw a ghastly pallor round the dead 
 That heightened still the savage pomp and state 
 In which they stood expectant, as for Fate 
 To move and mark with undisputed hand 
 The one amongst them to the high command. 
 
 And long they stood unanswered ; each on each 
 Had looked in. vain for motion or for speech : 
 Unmoved as ebon statues, grand and tall, 
 
 They ringed the shadowy circle, silent all. 
 
 Then came a creeping tremor, as a breeze 
 With cooling rustle moves the summer trees 
 Before the thunder crashes on the ear ; 
 
 The dense ranks turn expectant, as they hear 
 A sound, at first afar, but nearing fast ; 
 
 The outer crowd divides, as waves are cast 
 On either side a tall ship’s cleaving bow, 
 
 Or mold is parted by the fearless plow 
 That leaves behind a passage clear and broad : 
 
 So through the murmuring multitude a road 
 Was cleft with power, up which in haughty swing 
 A figure stalking broke the sacred ring. 
 
 And stood beside the body of the King ! 
 
 ’Twas Jacob Eibsen, sad and gloomy-browed, 
 
 Who bared his neck and breast, one moment bowed 
 Above the corse, and then stood proud and tall, 
 
 And held the carven case before them all ! 
 
 A breath went upward like a smothered fright 
 From every heart, to see that face, so white, 
 
 So foreign to their own, but marked with might 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 697 
 
 From source unquestioned, and to them divine ; 
 
 Whilst he, the master of the mystic sign, 
 
 Then oped the case and took the Pearl and raised, 
 
 As erst the King had done, and upward gazed, 
 
 As swearing fealty to God on high ! 
 
 But ere the oath took form, there thrilled a cry 
 Of shivering horror through the hush of night ; 
 
 And there before him, blinded by the sight 
 Of all his impious purpose, brave with love, 
 
 His mother stood, and stretched her arms above 
 To tear the idol from her darling’s hand ; 
 
 But one fierce look, and rang a harsh command 
 In Jacob’s voice, that smote her like a sword. 
 
 A thousand men sprang forward at the word, 
 
 To tear the mother from the form of stone, 
 
 And cast her forth ; but, as he stood alone, 
 
 The keen, heart-broken wail that cut the air 
 
 Went two-edged through him, half reproach, half prayer. 
 
 But all unheeding, he nor marked her cry 
 By sign or look within the gloomy eye ; 
 
 But round his body bound the carven case, 
 
 And swore the fealty with marble face. 
 
 As fades a dream before slow- waking sense, 
 
 The shadowy host, that late stood fixed and dense, 
 Began to melt ; and as they came erewhile, 
 
 The streams flowed backward through each moonlit aisle ; 
 And soon he stood alone within the place, 
 
 Their new-made king, — their king with pallid face, 
 
 Their king with strange foreboding and unrest, 
 
 And half-formed thoughts, like dreams, within his breast. 
 Like Moses’ rod, that mother’s cry of woe 
 Had struck for water ; but the fitful flow 
 That weakly welled and streamed did seem to mock 
 Before it died forever on the rock. 
 
 The sun rose o’er the forest, and his light 
 Made still more dreamlike all the evil night. 
 
698 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Day streamed his glory down the aisles’ dim arch, 
 
 All hushed and shadowy like a pillared church ; 
 
 And through the lonely bush no living thing 
 Was seen, save now and then a garish wing 
 Of bird low-flying on its silent way. 
 
 But woeful searchers spent the weary day 
 
 In anxious dread, and found not what they sought, — 
 
 Their mother and their brother : evening brought 
 
 A son and father to the lonesome place 
 
 That saw the last night’s scene ; and there, her face 
 
 Laid earthward, speaking dumbly to her heart, 
 
 They found her, as the hands that tore apart 
 The son and mother flung her from their chief, 
 
 And with one cry her heart had spent its grief. 
 
 They bore the cold earth that so late did move 
 In household happiness and works of love, 
 
 Unto their rude home, lonely now ; and he 
 Who laid her there, from present misery 
 Did turn away, half-blinded by his tears, 
 
 To see with inward eye the far-off years 
 When Swedish toil was light and hedgerows sweet ; 
 Where, when the toil was o’ er, he used to meet 
 A simple gray-eyed girl, with sun-browned face, 
 
 Whose love had won his heart, and whose sweet grace 
 Had blessed for threescore years his humble life. 
 
 So Jacob Eibsen mourned his faithful wife, 
 
 And found the world no home when she was gone. 
 
 The days that seemed of old to hurry on 
 
 How dragged their course, and marred the wish that grew, 
 
 When first he saw her grave, to sleep there too. 
 
 But though to him, whose yearning hope outran 
 The steady motion of the seasons’ plan, 
 
 The years were slow in coming, still their pace 
 With awful sureness left a solemn trace, 
 
 Like dust that settles on an open page, 
 
 On Jacob Eibsen’ s head, bent down w r ith age ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 699 
 
 And ere twice more the soothing rains had come, 
 
 The old man had his wish, and to his home, 
 
 Beneath the strange trees’ shadow where she lay, 
 
 They bore the rude-made bier ; and from that day, 
 
 When round the parent graves the brethren stood, 
 
 Their new-made homesteads were no longer good, 
 
 But marked they seemed by some o’erhanging dread 
 That linked the living with the dreamless dead. 
 
 Grown silent with the woods the men were all, 
 
 But words were needed not to note the pall 
 That each one knew hung o’er them. Duties now, 
 
 With straying herds or swinging scythe, or plow, 
 
 Were cheerless tasks : like men they were who wrought 
 A weary toil that no repayment brought. 
 
 And when the seasons came and went, and still 
 The pall was hanging o’er them, with one will 
 They yoked their oxen teams and piled the loads 
 Of gear selected for the aimless roads 
 That nature opens through the bush ; and when 
 The train was ready, women-folk and men 
 Went over to the graves and wept and prayed, 
 
 Then rose and turned away, but still delayed 
 Ere leaving there forever those poor mounds. 
 
 The next bright sunrise heard the teamsters’ sounds 
 Of voice and whip a long day’s march away ; 
 
 And wider still the space grew day by day 
 From their old resting-place : the trackless wood 
 Still led them on with promises of good, 
 
 As when the mirage leads a thirsty band 
 With palm-tree visions o’er the arid sand. 
 
 I know not where they settled down at last : 
 
 Their lives and homes from out my tale have passed, 
 
 And left me naught, or seeming naught, to trace 
 But cheerless record of the empty place, 
 
 Where long unseen the palm-thatched cabins stood, 
 
 And made more lonely still the lonesome wood. 
 
700 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Long lives of men passed over ; but the years 
 That line men’s faces with hard cares and tears, 
 
 Pass lightly o’er a forest, leaving there 
 No wreck of young disease or old despair ; 
 
 For trees are mightier than men, and Time, 
 
 When left by cunning Sin and dark-browed Crime 
 To work alone, hath ever gentle mood. 
 
 Unchanged the pillars and the arches stood, 
 
 But shadowed taller vistas ; and the earth, 
 
 That takes and gives the ceaseless death and birth, 
 Was blooming still, as once it bloomed before 
 When sea-tired eyes beheld the beauteous shore. 
 
 But man’s best work is weak, nor stands nor grows 
 Like Nature’s simplest. Every breeze that blows, 
 Health-bearing to the forest, plays its part 
 In hasting graveward all his humble art. 
 
 Beneath the trees the cabins still remained, 
 
 By all the changing seasons seared and stained ; 
 Grown old and weirdlike, as the folk might grow 
 In such a place, who left them long ago. 
 
 Men came, and wondering found the work of men 
 Where they had deemed them first. The savage then 
 Heard through the wood the axe’s deathwatcli stroke 
 For him and all his people : odorous smoke 
 Of burning sandal rose where white men dwelt, 
 Around the huts ; but they had shuddering felt 
 The weird, forbidden aspect of the spot, 
 
 And left the place untouched to mold and rot. 
 
 The woods grew blithe with labor : all around, 
 
 From point to point, was heard the hollow sound, 
 
 The solemn, far-off clicking on the ear 
 That marks the presence of the pioneer. 
 
 And children came like flowers to bless the toil 
 That reaped rich fruitage from the virgin soil ; 
 
 And through the woods they wandered fresh and fair, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 701 
 
 To feast on all the beauties blooming there. 
 
 But always did they shun the spot where grew, 
 
 From earth once tilled, the flowers of rarest hue. 
 
 There wheat grown wild in rank luxuriance spread. 
 
 And fruits grown native ; but a sudden tread 
 Or bramble’s fall would foul goanos wake, 
 
 Or start the chilling rustle of the snake ; 
 
 And diamond eyes of these and thousand more 
 Gleamed out from ruined roof and wall and floor. 
 
 The new-come people, they whose axes rung 
 Throughout the forest, spoke the English tongue, 
 
 And never knew that men of other race 
 From Europe’s fields had settled in the place ; 
 
 But deemed these huts were built some long-past day 
 By lonely seamen who were cast away 
 And thrown*upon the coast, who there had built 
 Their homes, and lived until some woe or guilt 
 Was bred among them, and they fled the sight 
 Of scenes that held a horror to the light. 
 
 But while they thought such things, the spell that hung, 
 And cast its shadow o’er the place, was strung 
 To utmost tension that a breath would break, 
 
 And show between the rifts the deep blue lake 
 Of blessed peace, — as next to sorrow lies 
 A stretch of rest, rewarding hopeful eyes. 
 
 And while such things bethought this new-come folk, 
 That breath was breathed, the olden spell was broke : 
 From far away within the unknown land, 
 
 O’er belts of forest and o’er wastes of sand, 
 
 A cry came thrilling, like a cry of pain 
 From suffering heart and half -a wakened brain ; 
 
 As one thought dead who wakes within the tomb. 
 
 And, reaching, cries for sunshine in the gloom. 
 
 In that strange country’s heart, whence comes the breath 
 Of hot disease and pestilential death, 
 
 Lie leagues of wooded swamp, that from the hills 
 
702 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O* REILLY. 
 
 Seem stretching meadows ; but the flood that fills 
 Those valley-basins has the hue of ink, 
 
 And dismal doorways open on the brink, 
 
 Beneath the gnarled arms of trees that grow 
 All leafless to the top, from roots below 
 The Lethe flood ; and he who enters there 
 Beneath their screen sees rising, gliastly-bare, 
 
 Like mammoth bones within a charnel dark, 
 
 The white and ragged stems of paper-bark, 
 
 That drip down moisture with a ceaseless drip, 
 From lines that run like cordage of a ship ; , 
 
 For myriad creepers struggle to the light, 
 
 And twine and mat o’erliead in murderous fight 
 For life and sunshine, like another race 
 That wars on brethren for the highest place. 
 Between the water and the matted screen* 
 
 The baldhead vultures, two and two, are seen 
 In dismal grandeur, with revolting face 
 Of foul grotesque, like spirits of the place ; 
 
 And now and then a spear-shaped wave goes by, 
 
 Its apex glittering with an evil eye 
 That sets above its enemy and prey, 
 
 As from the wave in treacherous, slimy way 
 The black snake winds, and strikes the bestial bird, 
 Whose sliriek-like wailing on the hills is heard. 
 
 Beyond this circling swamp, a circling waste 
 Of baked and barren desert land is placed, — 
 
 A land of awful grayness, wild and stark, 
 
 Where man will never leave a deeper mark, 
 
 On leagues of fissured clay and scorching stones, 
 Than may be printed there by bleaching bones. 
 Within this belt, that keeps a savage guard, 
 
 As round a treasure sleeps a dragon ward, 
 
 A forest stretches far of precious trees ; 
 
 Whence came, one day, an odor-laden breeze 
 Of jam-wood bruised, and sandal sweet in smoke. 
 For there long dwelt a numerous native folk 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 703 
 
 In that heart-garden of the continent, — 
 
 There human lives with aims and fears were spent, 
 And marked by love and hate and peace and pain, 
 And hearts well-filled and hearts athirst for gain, 
 And lips that clung, and faces bowed in shame ; 
 For, wild or polished, man is still the same, 
 
 And loves and hates and envies in the wood, 
 
 With spear and boka and with manners rude, 
 
 As loves and hates his brother shorn and sleek, 
 Who learns by lifelong practice how to speak 
 With oily tongue, while in his heart below 
 Lies rankling poison that he dare not show. 
 
 Afar from all new ways this people dwelt, 
 
 And knew no books, and to no God had knelt, 
 And had no codes to rule them writ in blood ; 
 
 But savage, selfish, nomad-lived and rude, 
 
 With human passions fierce from unrestraint, 
 
 And free as their loose limbs ; with every taint 
 That earth can give to that which God has given ; 
 Their nearest glimpse of Him, o’er-arching heaven, 
 Where dwelt the giver and preserver, — Light, 
 Who daily slew and still was slain by Night. 
 
 A savage people they, and prone to strife ; 
 
 Yet men grown weak with years had spent a life 
 Of peace unbroken, and their sires, long dead, 
 
 Had equal lives of peace unbroken led. 
 
 It was no statute’ s bond or coward fear 
 Of retribution kept the shivering spear 
 In all those years from fratricidal sheath ; 
 
 But one it was who ruled them, — one whom Heath 
 Had passed as if he saw not, — one whose word 
 Through all that lovely central land was heard 
 And bowed to, as of yore the people bent, 
 
 In desert wanderings, to a leader sent 
 To guide and guard them to a promised land. 
 
 O’er all the Austral tribes he held command, — 
 
704 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 A man unlike them and not of their race, 
 
 A man of flowing hair and pallid face, 
 
 A man who strove by no deft juggler’s art 
 To keep his kingdom in the people’s heart, 
 
 Nor held his place by feats of brutal might 
 Or showy skill, to please the savage sight ; 
 
 But one who ruled them as a King of kings, 
 
 A man above, not of them, — one who brings, 
 
 To prove his kingship to the low and high, 
 
 The inborn power of the regal eye ! 
 
 Like him of Sinai with the stones of law, 
 
 Whose people almost worshiped when they saw 
 The veiled face whereon God’s glory burned ; 
 
 But yet who, mutable as water, turned 
 
 From that veiled ruler who had talked with God, 
 
 To make themselves an idol from a clod : 
 
 So turned one day this savage Austral race 
 Against their monarch with the pallid face. 
 
 The young men knew him not, the old had heard 
 In far-off days, from men grown old, a word 
 That dimly lighted up the mystic choice 
 Of this their alien King, — how once a voice 
 Was heard by their own monarch calling clear, 
 
 And leading onward, where as on a bier 
 A dead child lay upon a woman’s knees ; 
 
 Whom when the old King saw, like one who sees 
 Far through the mist of common life, he spoke 
 And touched him with the Pearl, and he awoke, 
 
 And from that day the people owned his right 
 To wear the Pearl and rule them, when the light 
 Had left their old King’s eyes. But now, they said, 
 The men who owned that right were too long dead ; 
 And they were young and strong and held their spears 
 In idle resting through this white King’s fears, 
 
 Who still would live to rule them till they changed 
 Their men to puling women, and estranged 
 To Austral hands the spear and coila grew. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 705 
 
 And so they rose against him, and they slew 
 
 The white-haired men who raised their hands to warn, 
 
 And true to ancient trust in warning fell, 
 
 While o’er them rang the tierce revolters’ yell. 
 
 Then midst the dead uprose the King in scorn, 
 
 Like some strong, hunted thing that stands at bay 
 To win a brief but desperate delay. 
 
 A moment thus, and those within the ring 
 ’ Gan backward press from their unarmed King, 
 
 Who swept his hand as though he bade them fly, 
 
 And brave no more the anger of his eye. 
 
 The heaving crowd grew still before that face, 
 
 And watched him take the ancient carven case, 
 
 And ope it there, and take the Pearl and stand 
 As once before he stood, with upraised hand 
 And upturned eyes of inward worshiping. 
 
 Awe-struck and dumb, once more they owned him King, 
 And humbly crouched before him ; when a sound, 
 
 A whirring sound that thrilled them, passed o’erhead, 
 And with a spring they rose . a spear had sped 
 With aim unerring and with deathful might, 
 
 And split the awful center of their sight, — 
 
 The upraised Pearl ! A moment there it shone 
 Before the spear-point, — then forever gone ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 The spell that long the ruined huts did shroud 
 Was rent and scattered, as a hanging cloud 
 In moveless air is torn and blown away 
 By sudden gust uprising ; and one day 
 When evening’s lengthened shadows came to hush 
 The children’s voices, and the awful bush 
 Was lapt in somber stillness, and on high 
 Above the arches stretched the frescoed sky, — 
 
 When all the scene such chilling aspect wore 
 As marked one other night long years before, 
 
 When through the reaching trees the moonlight shone 
 
706 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Upon a prostrate form, and o’er it one 
 With kingly gesture. Now the light is shed 
 No more on youthful brow and daring head, 
 
 But on a man grown weirdly old, whose face 
 Keeps turning ever to some new-found place 
 That rises up before him like a dream ; 
 
 And not unlike a dreamer does he seem, 
 
 Who might have slept, unheeding time’s sure flow, 
 And woke to find a world he does not know. 
 
 His long white hair flows o’er a form low bowed 
 By wondrous weight of years : he speaks aloud 
 In garbled Swedish words, with piteous wist, 
 
 As long-lost objects rise through memory’s mist. 
 Again and once again his pace he stays, 
 
 As crowding images of other days 
 
 Loom up before him dimly, and he sees 
 
 A vague, forgotten friendship in the trees 
 
 That reach their arms in welcome ; but agen 
 
 These olden glimpses vanish, and dark men 
 
 Are round him, dumb and crouching, and he stands 
 
 With guttural sentences and upraised hands, 
 
 That hold a carven case, — but empty now, 
 
 Which makes more pitiful the aged brow 
 Full-turned to those tall tuads that did hear 
 A son’s fierce mandate and a mother’s prayer. 
 
 Ah, God ! what memories can live of these, 
 
 Save only with the half-immortal trees 
 That saw the death of one, the other lost ? 
 
 The weird-like figure now the bush has crost 
 And stands within the ring, and turns and moans, 
 
 W ith arms out-reaching and heart-piercing tones, 
 And groping hands, as one a long time blind 
 Who sees a glimmering light on eye and mind. 
 
 From tree to sky he turns, from sky to earth, 
 
 And gasps as one to whom a second birth 
 Of wondrous meaning is an instant shown. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 707 
 
 Who is this wreck of years, who all alone, 
 
 In savage raiment and with words unknown, 
 
 Bows down like some poor penitent who fears 
 The wrath of God provoked ? — this man who hears 
 Around him now, wide circling through the wood, 
 The breathing stillness of a multitude ? 
 
 Who catches dimly through his straining sight 
 The misty vision of an impious rite ? 
 
 Who hears from one a cry that rends his heart, 
 And feels that loving arms are torn apart, 
 
 And by his mandate fiercely thrust aside ? 
 
 Who is this one who crouches where she died, 
 With face laid earthward as her face was laid, 
 
 And prays for her as she for him once prayed ? 
 
 ’Tis Jacob Eibsen, Jacob Eibsen’ s son, 
 
 Whose occult life and mystic rule are done, 
 
 And passed away the memory from his brain. 
 
 ’Tis Jacob Eibsen, who has come again 
 
 To roam the woods, and see the mournful gleams 
 
 That flash and linger of his old-time dreams. 
 
 The morning found him where he sank to rest 
 Within the mystic circle : on his breast 
 With withered hands, as to the dearest place, 
 
 He held and pressed the empty carven case. 
 
 That day he sought the dwellings of his folk ; 
 
 And when he found them, once again there broke 
 The far-off light upon him, and he cried 
 From that wrecked cabin threshold for a guide 
 To lead him, old and weary, to his own. 
 
 And surely some kind spirit heard his moan, 
 
 And led him to the graves where they were laid. 
 The evening found him in the tuads’ shade, 
 
 And like a child at work upon the spot 
 Where they were sleeping, though he knew it not. 
 
708 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Next day the children found him, and they gazed 
 In fear at first, for they were sore amazed 
 To see a man so old they never knew, 
 
 Whose garb was savage, and whose white hair grew 
 And flowed upon his shoulders ; but their awe 
 Was changed to love and pity when they saw 
 The simple work he wrought at ; and they came 
 And gathered flowers for him, and asked his name, 
 
 And laughed at his strange language ; and he smiled 
 To hear them laugh, as though himself a child. 
 
 Ere that brief day was o’er, from far and near 
 The children gathered, wondering ; and though fear 
 Of scenes a long time shunned at first restrained, 
 
 The spell was broken, and soon naught remained 
 But gladsome features, where of old was dearth 
 Of happy things and cheery sounds of mirth. 
 
 The lizards fled, the snakes and bright-eyed things 
 Found other homes, where childhood never sings ; 
 
 And all because poor Jacob, old and wild, 
 
 White-haired and fur-clad, was himself a child. 
 
 Each day he lived amid these scenes, his ear 
 Heard far-off voices growing still more clear ; 
 
 And that dim light that first he saw in gleams 
 Now left him only in his troubled dreams. 
 
 From far away the children loved to come 
 And play and work with Jacob at his home. 
 
 He learned their simple words with childish lip, 
 
 And told them often of a white-sailed ship 
 
 That sailed across a mighty sea, and found 
 
 A beauteous harbor, all encircled round 
 
 With flowers and tall green trees ; but when they asked 
 
 What did the shipmen then, his mind was tasked 
 
 Beyond its strength, and Jacob shook his head, 
 
 And with them laughed, for all he knew was said. 
 
 The brawny sawyers often ceased their toil, 
 
 As Jacob with the children passed, to smile 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 709 
 
 With rugged pity on their simple play ; 
 
 Then, gazing after the glad group, would say 
 How strange it was to see that snowy hair 
 And time-worn figure with the children fair. 
 
 So Jacob Eibsen lived through years of joy,— 
 
 A patriarch in age, in heart a boy. 
 
 Unto the last he told them of the sea 
 And white-sailed ship ; and ever lovingly, 
 
 Unto the end, the garden he had made 
 He tended daily, ’neath the tuads’ shade. 
 
 But one bright morning, when the children came 
 And roused the echoes calling Jacob’s name, 
 
 The echoes only answered back the sound. 
 
 They sought within the huts, but nothing found 
 Save loneliness and shadow, falling chill 
 On every sunny searcher : boding ill, 
 
 They tried each well-known haunt, and every throat 
 Sent far abroad the bush man’s cooing note. 
 
 But all in vain their searching : twilight fell, 
 
 And sent them home their sorrowing tale to tell. 
 That night their elders formed a torch-lit chain 
 To sweep the gloomy bush ; and not in vain, — 
 
 For when the moon at midnight hung o’erhead, 
 
 The weary searchers found poor Jacob — dead ! 
 
 He lay within the tuad ring, his face 
 
 Laid earthward on his hands ; and all the place 
 
 Was dim with shadow where the people stood. 
 
 And as they gathered there, the circling wood 
 Seemed filled with awful whisperings, and stirred 
 By things unseen ; and every bushman heard, 
 
 From where the corse lay plain within their sight, 
 
 A woman’ s heart- wail rising on the night. 
 
 For over all the darkness and the fear 
 
 That marked his life from childhood, shining clear, 
 
710 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 An arch, like God’s bright rainbow, stretched above, 
 And joined the first and last, — his mother’s love. 
 
 They dug a grave beneath the tuads’ shade, 
 
 Where all unknown to them the bones were laid 
 Of Jacob’s kindred ; and a prayer was said 
 In earnest sorrow for the unknown dead, 
 
 Round which the children grouped. 
 
 Upon the breast 
 
 The hands were folded in eternal rest ; 
 
 But still they held, as dearest to that place 
 Where life last throbbed, the empty carven case. 
 
SPEECHES 
 
 DELIVERED BY 
 
 John Boyle O’Reilly. 
 
 711 
 
THE COMMON CITIZEN-SOLDIER. 
 
 Address delivered on Decoration Day, May 31 , 1886 , 
 by John Boyle O’Reilly, before the Grand Army 
 of the Republic of Everett, Mass. 
 
 ETERANS of the Grand Army : You are the ora- 
 
 tors of Decoration Day, no matter who may be the 
 speakers. You and your flowers and your medals, your 
 empty sleeves and your graves, thrill all hearts into patriot- 
 ism by your silent and visible eloquence. Yours is the sor- 
 row that makes us forget the dismal countenance of death. 
 When you enter the graveyards they become gardens 
 through which we walk with smiles, not with tears. You 
 do not march to the graves of your comrades with black 
 feathers and gloomy faces, but laden with blossoms, and 
 smiling at the effacing fingers of death. 
 
 The war is behind you like a sunset, and we must stand 
 and see the glory from the hill. “ The sun is down, and 
 all the west is paved with sullen fire.” 
 
 Millions of Americans stand full grown who were not 
 born when you fired your last shot. Year by year that 
 ‘ ‘ sullen fire ’ ’ sinks into the west, and wider and wider the 
 gaps in your ranks show against the light. 
 
 In a few more years the evening will have descended 
 and the figures will disappear, and the night of history 
 will have closed upon the war. For the middle-aged and 
 the old, you still unroll the memory of the great diorama. 
 The deep-lined pictures that are darkened in their memory 
 for the other days of the year are unveiled by your hands 
 to-day, But for those who have no memory of the war ; 
 
 713 
 
714 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 who were not born or were infants when you returned from 
 the field, your memorial parade has strange power to im- 
 part the thrill of that first wild war-note, which the poet 
 describes : 
 
 Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading ; 
 
 Forty years as a pageant, till, unawares, the mother of this 
 teeming and turbulent city, 
 
 Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth, 
 
 With her million children around her, suddenly, 
 
 At dead of night, at news from the South, 
 
 Incensed, struck with clenched hand the pavement ! 
 
 And then from the houses and the workshops, and 
 through all the doorways the strong men leapt, tumultuous, 
 and lo ! the North, armed, marching southward to the 
 conflict ! 
 
 The personal history and reminiscences of the war, 
 however interesting, have a lessening influence. The war 
 was greater than its campaigns and its generals ; and the 
 stories of the actors, however impressive, have the same 
 relation to the vast struggle as a rolling pebble to the side 
 of Himalaya. 
 
 There are those who hold that the War for the Union 
 was a calamitous mistake ; that it was unnecessary ; that 
 statesmanship could have averted it ; that it was precipi- 
 tated by a few extreme and unwise radicals here in Mas- 
 sachusetts. 
 
 There are again those who declare that all war is evil, 
 and that the best results are too dearly bought by deadly 
 strife. “War is a crime,” said Brougham, “which in- 
 volves all crime.” “I prefer the hardest terms of peace 
 to the most just war,” said Fox; and Daniel O'Connell, 
 while leading a people to higher rights, declared solemnly 
 that even the life of the nation was “not worth a drop of 
 blood.” 
 
 Two years before the battle of Bunker Hill, Benjamin 
 Franklin declared against war. Writing to Josiah Quincy 
 in 1775, Franklin said : “ There never was a good war or a 
 bad peace,” Franklin, however, admitted a few years 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 715 
 
 later that “even peace may be purchased at too high a 
 price.’ ’ 
 
 These, it may be said, are the extreme views of states- 
 men and reformers ; but it is remarkable that the views 
 most nearly agreeing with them are those of the most 
 renowned soldiers. 
 
 “War,” said Napoleon, “is the trade of barbarians.” 
 Wellington said : “Take my word for it, if you had seen 
 but one day of war you would pray to Almighty God that 
 you might never see such a thing again.” And these are 
 the strong words of General Grant: “Although a soldier 
 by profession, I have never felt any fondness for war, and 
 I have never advocated it except as a means of peace.” 
 
 From the beginning of this republic, the American view 
 of war was nobler and wiser than that of any other nation. 
 The “horrid front” of America was never that of a 
 despoiler or marauder or vainglory-seeker. “I heard 
 the bullets whistle,” wrote Washington to his mother, 
 after his first battle, “and believe me, there is something 
 charming in the sound.” There would have been no 
 charm for the noble soul had the cause of the battle been 
 unrighteous. 
 
 “War,” said Longfellow, “is a terrible trade, but in 
 the cause that is righteous, sweet is the smell of powder.” 
 
 Until avarice and lust of power and pride are taken 
 from men’s hearts, they will commit wrong by violence, 
 and the injured ones will retaliate and defend themselves. 
 It is not the Christian way, but it is the way of the world. 
 We are still so far from the mysterious wisdom of conquest 
 by submission — of losing ourselves to find ourselves ! We 
 are living in a Christian civilization, of course ; but in the 
 shadow of our law books, and the glitter of our bayonets, 
 how far off and impracticable are these words : “You have 
 heard that it hath been said : An eye for an eye and a tooth 
 for a tooth. But I say to you not to resist evil ; but if one 
 strike thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. 
 And if a man will contend with thee in judgment, and take 
 away thy coat, let go thy cloak also unto him. And 
 
716 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 whosoever will force thee one mile, go with him the other 
 two.” 
 
 From strange teaching like this we are compelled to 
 come back to the provisions of Congress, the laws of good 
 taste and trade, and the morality of Gatling guns. 
 
 Beautiful as our Decoration Day surely is with sun- 
 shine and flowers, and thrilling associations, still it is not 
 a day for public reading of our Saviour’s “ Sermon on the 
 Mount.” 
 
 It is our day of lovely Paganism, which we observe with 
 Christian ceremonies. 
 
 Under present unregenerate conditions war is a neces- 
 sity, and the soldier’s trade is an honorable one. While 
 men and nations are ambitious and unscrupulous, readiness 
 to fight is the people’s safeguard. As of the nation, so of 
 the single citizen. The common man is not safe unless he 
 can at will become a common soldier. Aristocracy was 
 born of the naked hands of poor men against the swords of 
 “gentlemen.” After a while, the degree widened between 
 gentle and simple. There entered, in iron armor, and with 
 a long lance, a mounted man — the man on horseback— who 
 was more than a gentleman — he was a baron. Then came 
 the social union of the men on horseback, and the election 
 of one of their number to be a king. And then the vast 
 standing armies and iron-clad fleets, the Krupp guns and 
 the torpedoes — and many kings were swallowed to produce 
 an emperor. 
 
 You can measure the liberties of a nation by the readi- 
 ness or unreadiness of the common people for attack or 
 defense. Aristocracies are always free, for where they 
 exist they make or control all law. The independence of 
 the common man, not the wealth, culture, or freedom 
 of a superior class, is the test and the proof of a country’s 
 freedom. 
 
 A recent able scientific writer has shown that the means 
 of aggression placed beyond the common reach, as in bri- 
 gades of cavalry, parks of artillery, war fleets, and fortifi- 
 cations, indicates the growth of government, and the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AKD SPEECHES. 
 
 717 
 
 decline of popular liberties, with the development of titles, 
 privileges, aristocracy, and royalty. 
 
 The hand is the symbol of the people ; the sword, of the 
 lord ; the barracks, of the king ; and the iron-clad, of the 
 emperor. 
 
 If there were any higher means of centralizing force, 
 there would be a rank still higher than imperialism. 
 
 But when the tree of Force has reached its full growth, 
 it must flower, and fall in seed. The flower of force is the 
 jeweled crown of an emperor, and the seed of that gaudy 
 flower, with its roots in the toiling hearts of the millions, 
 is unrest, disorder, and rebellion. 
 
 The American view of war and of the soldier is the view 
 of the people, not of the lords or kings. 4 4 The worse the 
 man the better the soldier,” said Napoleon. The meaning 
 of war to an emperor was summed up in this one word : He 
 didn’ t want men at all ; he would have preferred demons , 
 could he have drilled and commanded them. 
 
 No European kings or emperors or nations ever went to 
 war as did our Northern and Southern States. No vast 
 armies ever before faced each other without greed of domi- 
 nation and spoliation. No joy for the complete victory was 
 ever so shaded with sorrow for the vanquished. No con- 
 queror ever turned from the enemy’s capital, without enter- 
 ing in proud array wdien he had captured it, as Grant turned 
 away from Richmond. Grant wasted and shattered and 
 humbled Richmond ; but he would not degrade or insult it 
 by a triumphal entry. No nation ever before refused to 
 celebrate the memory of its triumphs. England celebrates 
 Waterloo ; Germany celebrates Sedan ; Russia celebrates 
 Plevna ; but, except in silent thanksgiving, America will 
 never celebrate Gettysburg. 
 
 The brightest glory of the war for the Union was the 
 self -conquest of the North in the day of the victory. No 
 voice can ever praise the North’s magnanimity so elo- 
 quently as the free speech of the Chief Secessionist twenty 
 years after the war. 
 
 No nation but America ever honored the dead of the 
 
718 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 enemy in common with their own, and decorated their 
 graves with flowers. The better the man the better the 
 soldier and the citizen, is the American meaning of war 
 and peace ; for our soldiers only stop their work to do 
 their fighting. American citizens are professional free- 
 men. 
 
 “ To a father who loves his children, victory has no 
 charms,” said a great soldier, speaking like a poet ; “ when 
 the heart speaks, glory is an illusion.” 
 
 But while the two flags were in the air — the Stars and 
 Stripes and the Stars and Bars — while the men in blue and 
 the men in gray faced each other, never was fight so full of 
 hatred and death since Cain slew his brother with a brand. 
 Because there could be no compromise. It was death or 
 separation — and separation was death. 
 
 How woefully fitting the words of Shakespeare : “ War 
 ’twixt you twain would be as if the world should cleave, 
 and that slain men should solder up the rift.” 
 
 Only the angels of God could steal the bitterness from 
 the beaten, proud South. Truly, no hands but the hands 
 of slain men could “ solder up the rift.” 
 
 Sorrow usually follows Glory ; but here Sorrow and 
 Glory went hand in hand. This was the symbol of Grant’s 
 turning away in silence when prostrate Richmond opened 
 her gates. This was the gasp from the heart of the country 
 when the Northern veterans first laid their wreaths on the 
 Confederate graves. 
 
 Sadly, but not upbraiding, 
 
 The generous deed was done. 
 
 In the storm of the years that are fading 
 No braver battle was won. 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 
 Under the blossoms the blue, 
 
 Under the garlands the gray. 
 
 The war is a volcano in the night, by which we see 
 deeper meanings than its own flame. When its reputations 
 are hung like banners in the temples, two questions will 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 719 
 
 remain of higher import than the war itself — namely : its 
 Cause and its Consequence. 
 
 The four years of the war are not United States his- 
 tory, — they are a separate epoch, a gulf, a sacrifice, a con- 
 flagration. Within the limits of these four tremendous 
 years common men became giants and unexpected celeb- 
 rities blossomed like poppies in the wheat field. Names 
 became famous and infamous as lastingly as Caesar and 
 Cataline. But, heroic though they be, the stories of the 
 war are only the photographs of a passion — the drama of a 
 paroxysm. 
 
 “ State Rights!” as the cause, repeated the tottering 
 Chief of the Confederacy a few weeks ago ; ‘ ‘ secession from 
 a compact which had been broken by one of the parties ! ” 
 
 But no voice of to-day can deceive the student of to-mor- 
 row ! Futurity will answer as we answer to-day : Secession 
 did not stand alone — it was yoked to Slavery ; and it was 
 the South, not the North, that broke the compact. 
 
 Had secession been a principle it would not have sprung 
 out of its lair like a tiger ; it would have come to light in 
 time of peace, and asked for fair consideration. It was not 
 a principle — it was only a resource and an excuse. There 
 were millions of men in the South who never demanded 
 secession — to whom secession meant living death. The 
 North was bound to those men — it would be an atrocious 
 and endless crime to abandon them to their “ masters.” 
 
 Secession as the will of a whole mass of States, and of all 
 the people therein, might deserve and would compel argu- 
 ment and weighty consideration ; but secession demanded 
 by an oligarchy to perpetuate slavery was a crime against 
 God and man and the nation. 
 
 Four years before the first shot was fired on Sumter — the 
 meaning and purpose of the war were foreshadowed in one 
 memorable sentence. At the Whig State Convention of 
 Illinois, in 1858, one of the speakers, one whose face was 
 afterward to be framed in the shadow of the war, said : “I 
 oelieve this Government cannot endure permanently halt 
 slave and half free.” 
 
720 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 That sentence was pregnant with the war. It was spoken 
 by him who has been described as ‘ c the incarnation of the 
 people and of modern democracy ” — Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 Secession to escape from the justice of God and the 
 rights of man never was a State right. There would have 
 been no secession and no war had there been no slavery. 
 
 After the first blow the question was of power rather 
 than of principle. “The law is silent during war,” said a 
 great Roman; and a greater Englishman advises: “In 
 peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness 
 and humility ; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, 
 then imitate the action of the tiger.” 
 
 What wonder, in the heat of the great fight, if the cause 
 of conflict became obscured, especially to the men in the 
 field. They had no time to regard motives : 
 
 Theirs uot to make reply, 
 
 Theirs not to question why, 
 
 Theirs but to do and die. 
 
 What wonder that before the war was two years old 
 men had lived so long that they could not remember the 
 beginning. Here is one of the second year’s songs of the 
 war, written by a renowned staff officer : 
 
 ’Tis now too late to question 
 What brought the war about ; 
 
 ’Tis a thing of pride and passion, 
 
 And we mean to fight it out. 
 
 In the flush of perfect triumph, 
 
 And the gloom of utter rout, 
 
 We have sworn on many a bloody field — 
 
 We mean to fight it out ! 
 
 That was well— for the soldiers. But the deep justice 
 of the Northern cause was better. There was one mind 
 always firm and equable through the turmoil. Over the 
 din of arms and the cries of conflict rises the voice of Lin- 
 coln standing among the graves of Gettysburg, in the 
 second year of the war, when the invasion of the North had 
 been flung back, uttering this sublime sentence: “This 
 nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, that 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 721 
 
 government of the people, by the people, for the people, 
 shall not perish from the earth.” 
 
 Compare this word, from the vortex of the Rebellion, 
 with the best word from the Confederacy, even after twenty 
 years for the growth of magnanimity. 
 
 Says the Chief Confederate in 1886: “The general 
 government had no constitutional power to coerce a State, 
 and a State had the right to repel invasion. It was a 
 national and constitutional right.” 
 
 When men talk so much about rights they must be will- 
 ing to go to the foundation. The bottom right is the right 
 of a man, not of a State. If the general government had 
 no right to oppress States, States had no right to oppress 
 men. 
 
 The right to stamp out the coercion of innocent men 
 needed neither national nor constitutional approval ; it was 
 based on eternal principles of right and justice. 
 
 The war for the Union proved more than the military 
 prowess of the North. It proved that the Northern system 
 of democracy was better than the Southern system. 
 
 All the republics in the world’s history have failed but 
 one ; and that one is not the United States, but New 
 England. 
 
 The republicanism of the South failed, for it blossomed 
 into slavery and aristocracy that strengthened with years. 
 
 The republicanism of New England succeeded, for it 
 purged itself of slavery over a century ago, and year by 
 year has extended the rights of suffrage and citizenship 
 and removed the barriers of class and privilege until our 
 Northern State governments, with one shameful exception, 
 are, in the words of the first Constitution of Massachusetts : 
 “A social compact by which the whole people covenants 
 with each citizen and each citizen with the whole people 
 that all shall be governed by certain laws for the common 
 good.” 
 
 Take Maryland and Massachusetts as examples of 
 Southern and Northern democracy. 
 
 They started about the same time in the New World. 
 
722 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 The Southern settlement had the advantage in all material 
 ways. The Maryland settlers were of a higher social class 
 than the Puritans. They left England under fairer auspi- 
 ces. They chose for their new home one of the most fertile 
 and beautiful countries on this continent. They were 
 mainly Catholics, and they established freedom of religion 
 in their colony ; they invited to join them all good men 
 without question of creed. 
 
 The Puritan Pilgrims came to Plymouth under quite 
 adverse circumstances. They were a small body of men 
 who had fled 4 from England to Holland in 1610, to escape 
 from Protestant religious persecution. They lived ten 
 years in Holland, and then resolved to emigrate to America, 
 and settle on the banks of the Hudson River. They em- 
 barked in their little ships — the Speedwell and the May- 
 flower — one as large as a Gloucester fishing boat, and the 
 other about the size of our common coasting schooners. 
 The Speedwell broke down, and the whole company — about 
 120 persons — got aboard the Mayflower , and sailed from 
 the English town of Plymouth on the 6th of September, 
 1620. After two months of a voyage, they arrived at Cape 
 Cod, and thence took bearings for the Hudson. But they 
 were driven back to the Cape — it was said by the treachery 
 of the captain — and they resolved to settle there. 
 
 On the 9th of November, 1620, the men of the party, 41 
 in number, signed an agreement to obey such laws “as 
 shall be thought most meet and convenient for the general 
 good of the colony.” That first gathering of the whole 
 community at Plymouth Rock, houseless on the verge of a 
 strange continent, with their little ship tossing near the 
 inhospitable shore, was the first town meeting of Massa- 
 chusetts, and the town meeting was the secret of New 
 England’s success — and is the seed of republican liberty 
 forever. 
 
 The circumstances of the Plymouth settlement were 
 unfavorable in all respects. The climate was harsh, the 
 winter long, the soil unprofitable, the settlers few in num- 
 ber and poor in all means requisite to make successful such 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AHD SPEECHES. 
 
 723 
 
 a fight with nature. In religion they were tremendously 
 earnest, austere, and illiberal. They had fled from perse- 
 cution and they claimed the right to persecute. Their 
 creed and discipline were gloomy and rigorous and un- 
 lovely. They were full of sincere faith ; to their souls 
 “the wrath of God” was as visible as the storm-cloud to 
 their eyes. In 1648 they agreed on a “ Platform of Church 
 Discipline,” in which the leading feature was the power of 
 the churches to accuse, censure, and excommunicate offend- 
 ing or unbending members. Little patience and forgive- 
 ness were shown the delinquents. It is provided by chapter 
 xiv. of this agreement that public offenders “ shall be cast 
 out at once,” and a rigorous exclusion practiced. Art. IV. 
 says: “When an offender is cast out of the Church, the 
 faithful are to refrain from all spiritual and civil com- 
 munion with him.” In fact, they were to be boycotted in 
 the most approved modern fashion. 
 
 By the “Laws and Ordinances of New England, to the 
 year 1700,” this was enacted : 
 
 “ Whoever professing the Christian religion and being 
 sixteen, denies any book of the Bible to be the Word of 
 God, is to be imprisoned till the meeting of the County 
 Court, and fined or punished as the Court thinks fit.” 
 
 “If he offend afterwards, he is to die or be ban- 
 ished.” 
 
 “ Whoever knowingly brings a Quaker or heretic is 
 imprisoned until he pays or gives security for £100, and 
 carries him away again.” 
 
 Quakers were whipped through three towns and con- 
 veyed out of the colony. ‘ ‘ If they return, after three 
 times, they are to be branded with the letter R on the left 
 shoulder and whipped as before ; if they return after this, 
 to be banished on pain of death.” No Catholic priest was 
 permitted to live in the colony. “Whoever can’t clear 
 himself from suspicion, to be banished, not to return on 
 pain of death, unless by shipwreck, or in company with any 
 upon business, with whom they are to return.” “ What- 
 ever priest residing in New England did not depart before 
 
724 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 November, 1700, he was to be imprisoned for life, ahd to 
 die if he broke prison.” 
 
 The whole religions code was of this drastic nature. 
 There never was a community bound by more dreadful 
 lines. 
 
 And yet, with all its advantages, the republicanism of 
 Maryland failed ; and with all its drawbacks, the republi- 
 canism of Massachusetts succeeded. 
 
 What was the reason ? 
 
 Because the Southern settlers were liberal in religious 
 freedom and illiberal in social order ; while the Puritans 
 were unfree religiously, but thoroughly equal in social and 
 civil rights. 
 
 There was a seed for the future sown in Massachu- 
 setts 250 years ago that was not sown in the South. 
 
 In the seventeenth century the Southern element was 
 liberal and free ; in the nineteenth century it was slave- 
 holding and defending slavery. In the seventeenth cen- 
 tury the Puritan was illiberal, unfree, a slave to his own 
 intolerance ; but in the nineteenth century he was a sol- 
 dier of freedom, and he unlocked the shackles of every 
 slave in the South. 
 
 The Southerners were religious commoners and social 
 aristocrats. The first century of their history saw them 
 classify permanently as patrician, overseer, trader, and 
 slave. They apostrophized democracy in meeting, and 
 went home to flog their bondsmen. They were renowned 
 for courtesy, they were hospitable and refined and 
 proud. 
 
 But their Democracy was confined to a class, like the 
 illusory republicanism of Rome and Venice. Their social 
 system of caste was harder and more detestable than the 
 Blue Laws of the Puritans. The one was based on pride 
 and possession, and the other, gloomy as it was, on pro- 
 found sincerity and faith. However fiercely the Puritan 
 barred out those who did not believe with him, he made 
 those free and equal who belonged to his own community. 
 He had discovered the very secret of civil freedom that the 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 725 
 
 world had sought for thousands of years — and it was the 
 town meeting — a common source for all law and order and 
 representation — a primary convention where every man in 
 the community met on exactly equal conditions. 
 
 In the South, the primary meeting of the people was 
 that of the county, not the town ; and the counties were so 
 large that the people could not attend. They had to send 
 delegates to the starting-place. The well-spring of their 
 legislation was filled with second-hand water. 
 
 The New England town was so small that all could 
 attend the primary meeting. Its first issue was from the 
 very people. 
 
 The necessity of the Southern method was the profes- 
 sional delegate, who was the father of the professional 
 politician. He was the curse of the South a hundred 
 years ago, and he is to-day ; and he will become the curse 
 of the North if good citizens give up attendance at the 
 town meetings. And Massachusetts is threatened with 
 even a greater danger than this, — namely, that the town 
 meeting shall be overruled by the State — that the sons of 
 those who framed the Ark of the Covenant shall in our day 
 shatter the fathers’ work. 
 
 By these different methods, the South sank deeper and 
 deeper into aristocracy and slavery, and the North rose 
 higher and higher in recognition of civil, social, and relig- 
 ious rights. 
 
 The Puritan got rid of slavery in his first century ; 
 every generation grew more liberal and more powerful, 
 because the whole people were advancing like an army. 
 He abolished his Blue Laws ; he let Quakers and Catholics 
 come and live in peace. 
 
 The Southern patrician, magnificently spending his 
 slave-earned money, despised trade and disrespected labor. 
 The Yankee manufacturer and trader, spending the money 
 his own hands and brains had earned, respected himself and 
 all self-dependent and industrious men. Unlovely as was 
 the aspect of Puritanism, it was beautiful in its firm and 
 unquestioning Christian faith ; and it must have been for 
 
726 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 this that God rewarded the Puritan with a gift of such 
 priceless value : 
 
 God said : I am tired of Kings, 
 
 I suffer them no more ; 
 
 Up to my ear the morning brings 
 The outrage of the poor. 
 
 I will divide my goods ; 
 
 Call in the wretch and slave ; 
 
 None shall rule but the humble, 
 
 And none but Toil shall have. 
 
 I will have never a noble, 
 
 No lineage counted great. 
 
 Fishers and choppers and woodmen 
 Shall constitute a State. 
 
 On these main lines the two civilizations were extended. 
 They were never parallel — never could be. They must in- 
 evitably meet and cross some time ; and the crossing came 
 in 1861. 
 
 The Rebellion was no accident. It was not unneces- 
 sary. It could not be avoided. It had to be. It was the 
 seventeenth century fighting the nineteenth. It was the 
 issue of 250 years of growth. 
 
 And again, it was the mixing of the elements that go to 
 produce the perfected American. Cavalier and Puritan 
 would never have drawn together of themselves. God 
 dashed them together till their blood mixed in the flow if 
 not in the circulation. 
 
 Marvelous alchemy of Providence ! Wiser and better 
 than all intellectual effort or foresight ! Down there to 
 the proud autocrat of the plantations went the trading 
 Yankee with the rights of man shining on his bayonet 
 points ; and he smashed the barriers of caste and destroyed 
 the palaces that were built on the necks cf men. And 
 here to the land of the Puritan Pilgrims follows the im- 
 pulsive and imaginative Catholic Irishman, raising the 
 cross on his beautiful church side by side with the severe 
 gable of the meeting house. Down there the cavalier has 
 learned that it was wicked and lawless to enslave men : up 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 727 
 
 here the modern Puritan knows that it was criminal and 
 cruel to whip Quakers and Catholics. 
 
 So in the mysterious alembic of God are the blood- 
 streams mingled and unified. Out of this transfusion and 
 amalgam of the strongest men on the earth is to come the 
 future American — the man fit to own a continent. 
 
 The war marks the maturity of the Republic. Before 
 1862 the American youth had to look abroad for great 
 ideals — for memorable battles, for illustrious commanders, 
 heroic stories of patriotism, strife, and sacrifice. 
 
 But the four vast years of the war threw into shadow 
 all foreign representatives of patriotism. 
 
 Henceforth, the American kept his attention at home ; 
 the dignity of sorrow, power, and responsibility were Ameri- 
 can. Henceforth only the weak and the vapid American 
 sought models in other countries. These words of Emer- 
 son began to be appreciated : 
 
 “They who made England, Italy, or Greece venerable 
 in the imagination did so by sticking fast where they were, 
 like an axis of the earth. The soul is no traveler ; the wise 
 man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, or 
 any occasion calls him from his home into foreign lands, 
 he is still at home, and shall make men sensible by the 
 expression of his countenance that he goes the missionary 
 of wisdom, of virtue, and visits cities like a sovereign, and 
 not like an interloper or a valet.” 
 
 Foremost among the teachers of true Americanism were 
 the veterans of the war, both North and South. 
 
 The vast armies disbanded and came back to the works 
 of peace. In any other country the victors would have 
 had to keep a million men in arms for self -protection ; and 
 rapine and disorder would follow such a disbandment. 
 But here the words of the great American poet were true : 
 
 Over the Carnage rose prophetic a Voice, 
 
 Be not disheartened, affection shall solve the problems of free- 
 dom yet : 
 
 They who love each other shall become invincible, 
 
 They shall yet make Columbia victorious, 
 
728 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 One from Massachusetts shall be a Missourian’s comrade, 
 
 From Maine and from hot Carolina, and another, an Ore- 
 gonese, shall be friends together — 
 
 More precious to each other than all the riches of the earth — 
 
 To Michigan, Florida perfumes shall tenderly come— 
 
 Not the perfumes of flowers, but sweeter, and wafted beyond 
 death. 
 
 The battle flags of all nations are dear to the people ; 
 for even though the cause in which they were carried may 
 have been unjust, the flags are steeped in the blood of the 
 nation. 
 
 How doubly dear the battle flags of America, from whose 
 folds our great son of Massachusetts struck the names of 
 victories that kept the wounds open. 
 
 But the veteran of the war is dearer and nearer even 
 than the flag. He is a living flag, starred and scarred. In 
 the wild days, he “kept step to the music of the Union.” 
 His bronze medal, or his empty sleeve thrills us with pride 
 and affection. On this annual celebration, the veterans 
 awaken the deepest feelings of patriotism. We see their 
 lessening ranks year by year, and say with the poet : 
 
 O blessed are ye, our brothers, 
 
 Who feel in your souls alway 
 The thrill of the stirring summons 
 You heard but to obey ; 
 
 Who, whether the years go swift, 
 
 Or whether the years go slow, 
 
 Will wear in your hearts forever 
 The glory of long ago ! 
 
 We hear the voice of economy raised against the pen- 
 sions paid by the nation to its veteran volunteer soldiers. 
 It argues that the soldier in war-time simply made a con- 
 tract with the government, and that the terms of the con- 
 tract were fulfilled by his daily food and payment in the 
 field. 
 
 Shame on the tongue that says it! Cato, the censor, 
 earned the detestation of centuries because he advised the 
 Romans to sell their old and worn-out slaves to save ex- 
 pense. “ Feed no useless servants in the house,” said Cato ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 729 
 
 and so say our petty censors, who would sell the worn-out 
 soldiers of the Union to save a million a year to the treas- 
 ury which they preserved for this and future generations. 
 
 Nobler nations rewarded not only their heroes, but the 
 very dumb beasts that worked for the national glory. 
 The Athenians, says Plutarch, when they built the Parthe- 
 non, turned those mules loose to feed freely that had been 
 observed to do the hardest labor. And one of these free 
 mules, it was said, came of itself to offer its service, and ran 
 along with and ahead of the teams that drew the wagons 
 to the Acropolis, as if it would invite them to draw more 
 stoutly ; upon which there passed a vote of the Athenian 
 people that the creature should be kept at the public 
 charge, even till it died. “Nor are we,” says Plutarch, 
 “ to use living creatures like old shoes or dishes, and throw 
 them away when they are worn out or broken with ser- 
 vice.” 
 
 The contract of enlistment was, doubtless, kept by the 
 government ; but no man makes a contract for his blood 
 and life. The soldier made his contract for that which 
 government could give him — his clothing — his food — his 
 transportation ; for which he offered his obedient service. 
 But all beyond that was beyond contract. The volunteers 
 did not contract for their blood ; they offered it. They 
 did not contract for the terror, the grief, the loss endured 
 by their wives, mothers, and families : these were beyond 
 the purchase of a national treasury. The men whose 
 graves were decorated to-day did not contract for their 
 lives — they gave them to the United States — they gave 
 them for the destruction of slavery — and the selfsame offer- 
 ing was made by those who carried the flowers to their 
 graves. 
 
 Our schools are closed to-day ; but we have turned the 
 nation into a school, and these are our teachers — these 
 flowers, these veterans, these graves, these examples. The 
 American boy and girl learn their noblest lesson on Deco- 
 ration Day. There is no eloquence like that of death. 
 There is no reconciliation like that of the grave. There is 
 
730 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 no reward higher than love. There is no crown so precious 
 as a wreath of flowers. Common rewards may be of gold 
 or jewels. But the highest prizes, like the highest ser- 
 vices, cannot be measured ; we can only express them in 
 symbols. To the victor in the Olympian games, who was 
 to be honored for life, the only award was a little crown of 
 olive and parsley. Values are obliterated or reversed 
 when heroes are to be honored ; and the veteran of the 
 Union Army is given a bronze cross, cut from his own 
 guns, as the supremest sign of his country’s affection. 
 
 All men who fought in the war for the Union ought to 
 be pensioned for life. The Republic owes to them this 
 reward. We are free with our honors for the great cap- 
 tains ; but the common soldier has an equal, and even a 
 higher claim. When the Greek commander, Miltiades, 
 returned from victory, and asked for a special crown, a 
 man cried out from the assembly: “When you conquer 
 alone , Miltiades, you shall be crowned alone!” and the 
 people approved the speech. 
 
 For the self-respect of the generation that witnessed 
 the war ; for the perpetuation of high principles of patriot- 
 ism among the people ; for the education of the young ; 
 for the honor of America, and the glory of humanity, we 
 are bound to honor and cherish the declining years of the 
 brave men who offered their lives to keep the Republic 
 united. 
 
A PATKIOTS MONUMENT. 
 
 SENTENCED “ TO BE HANGED, DRAWN, AND QUARTERED.” 
 
 The following address was delivered by Mr. John Boyle O’Reilly on 
 Monday, Nov. 23, 1885, when a monument was uncovered in Mount Hope 
 Cemetery, Boston, over the grave of John Edward Kelly, an Irish patriot 
 who took part in the fight at Kilclooney Wood in 1867, and was 
 sentenced to be “ hanged, drawn, and quartered.” The monument was 
 in the shape of an Irish round tower, and the following was its 
 inscription : 
 
 JOHN EDWARD KELLY, 
 an Irish Patriot and Exile, 
 born in Kinsale, Ii-eland, 1849. 
 
 Died, in Boston, January, 1884. 
 
 He was engaged in the attempted 
 Irish Revolution of 1867, 
 was captured arms in hand 
 at Kilclooney Wood, was tried 
 by English law for high treason, 
 and was sentenced to be 
 “Hanged, Drawn, and Quartered.” 
 
 Was transported with 62 other Irish patriots 
 to West Australia Penal Colony, 1867. 
 
 Was released from prison 1871. 
 
 By religion a Protestant, 
 by nature a brave man, 
 by birth and principle 
 a soldier of liberty. 
 
 GOD SAVE IRELAND! 
 
 E have come together to-day for the purpose of 
 
 honoring the memory of a man who was found true 
 in a day of supreme trial. 
 
 “ Whoever presents a great example is great,” says the 
 poet. The man who sleeps under this monument gave an 
 example of the virtues of courage, fidelity, and sacrifice. 
 
 The vitality of men and nations may be measured by 
 their devotion to exalted and unchangeable principles. 
 Secondary or inferior natures pride themselves on selfish 
 and material qualities, on their organizing capacity for 
 securing wealth, luxury, and domination. They are intel- 
 
 'Sacred to the Memory 
 of 
 
 731 
 
732 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’EEILLY. 
 
 lectual machines, potent as a wedge or an engine, or the 
 explosion of a bomb, — and as limited, unsympathetic, and 
 uninfluential. 
 
 “ Among eminent persons,” says Emerson, “ those who 
 are most dear to men are not of the class which the econo- 
 mist calls producers ; they have nothing in their hands ; 
 they have not cultivated corn nor made bread ; they have 
 not led out a colony nor invented a loom.” 
 
 Superior races are spiritual forces, followers of eternal 
 principles, seers of equity, prophets of fairer relations 
 between men, valuing justice more than success, loving 
 freedom so dearly for themselves that they could not 
 oppress another people, venerating all sacred and holy 
 things. 
 
 In the name of liberty not only crimes have been com- 
 mitted, but principles more vicious than any crime, being the 
 crystallization of a thousand evils, have been enunciated. 
 
 Both civilization and liberty have been misrepresented, 
 even by well-meaning reformers. Neither civilization nor 
 liberty can be suddenly donned like a new garment, or 
 immediately constructed like a necessary piece of manufac- 
 ture. Unless they are based on the moral perceptions and 
 convictions of the people, they are based on quicksands, 
 and are only new and more hopeless kinds of savagery, 
 for they are the savagery of shrewdness instead of bold- 
 ness. 
 
 “The tree of liberty,” shouted Barrere, of the Beign 
 of Terror, “only grows when watered by the blood of 
 tyrants ! ” 
 
 Here was the cry of a shallow soul, drunk with license, 
 uttering a word without weight. 
 
 The blood of tyrants is infertile, lethal, poisonous to 
 the tree of liberty or any other tree of life. The carcasses of 
 all the tyrants on earth might be emptied on the roots of 
 the tree of liberty and it would die of drought. 
 
 The tree of liberty will never enfoliate and bear fruit 
 unless it be watered from the well of justice, independence, 
 and fair play in the hearts of the people. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 733 
 
 Not by the blood of tyrants, but by the blood of good 
 men is the tree of liberty kept alive and flourishing. 
 
 When the people are truly worthy of freedom, when 
 they have substantiated their own right and dignity as 
 possessors of the earth, they will not kill tyrants with steel 
 or lead, but with aversion, indignation, and contempt. 
 Tyrants are part of the people themselves — the diseased 
 part, and this disease is not local, to be cured with a knife, 
 but constitutional, and only to be reached by the medicine 
 of equity, morality, and self-respect. 
 
 The highest duty that ever comes to a man is not to do 
 a deed of prowess or win a material victory, but to endure, 
 suffer, and die for truth or freedom. The highest honor 
 that a man can bear in life or death is the scar of a chain 
 borne in a good cause. 
 
 “ They have taken with them to the grave,” says Ruskin 
 of the old cathedral builders, “ their powers, their honors, 
 and their errors, but they have left us their adoration ! ” 
 
 Standing here by the grave of a man who lived and died 
 humbly, modestly, and poorly, we look not for powers or 
 achievements, we are not deceived by lowliness, by poverty, 
 nor even by errors ; we And that, after the sifting of death 
 and years, there remains to us his adoration, courage, and 
 devotion. To these we have raised this stone, to honor 
 their memory in a dead man, and to remind living men 
 that love and gratitude are the sure harvest of fidelity and 
 trustworthiness. 
 
 Eighteen years' ago, the moldering form under this 
 tomb went out and faced the bayonets of the oppressor of 
 his country in a fight of overwhelming odds. No matter 
 now about the wisdom or the calculation of chances for 
 success. The motive beneath the act was golden, and the 
 few men who went into open rebellion at Kilclooney Wood 
 in 1867 were heroes as true in defeat as the world would 
 have hailed them in success. Side by side with Dr Peter 
 O’Neill Crowley, who was shot dead by an English bullet, 
 J ohn Edward Kelly, a youth of nineteen, was overpowered, 
 rifle in hand, and was flung into prison. 
 
734 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 A few months later he was put on trial before an Eng* 
 lish judge, dealing out English law against a helpless enemy 
 of England, who passed upon him the abominable sentence 
 that we have carved upon this granite block, in order that 
 the people of a free land may read in passing, and reflect 
 on the meanings of such words as Royalty, Invasion, Op- 
 pression, Law, Justice, and Rebellion. 
 
 Here, to-day, with the shadow of a patriot-burdened 
 English gallows flung across our borders from Canada, this 
 horrible sentence, passed on a good man for daring to de- 
 fend his own from an invader and robber, has strange sig- 
 nificance. With the strangled breath of the brave Louis 
 Riel, the justice-loving French Canadian, moaning in our 
 ears, and in this city of Boston where the same insolent 
 oppressors stabled their horses in the house of God to show 
 how they despised the patriotism and religious feelings of 
 “ rebels,” it is fitting that this stone should be erected to a 
 dead rebel, and that carved upon it should stand forever 
 those accursed words that pollute the very air of America. 
 
 What was meant by this sentence, passed on a political 
 prisoner less than twenty years ago — ‘ 4 To be hanged, drawn, 
 and quartered ?” 
 
 It meant that the manacled man was to be hanged by 
 the neck for a certain period of time, but not killed ; that 
 before life or consciousness had fled he was to be cut down, 
 his body torn open, and his heart drawn smoking from 
 his breast and cast upon the gallows ; and then, his head 
 having been cut off and held up by the hangman to the 
 view of the people, his body was to be divided into four 
 quarters. By this means the government of England could 
 strike terror into six cities or towns by exhibiting in so 
 many places a portion of the mutilated remains. 
 
 Looked at from a superior height, what are the true re- 
 lations of an English judge avIio passes this atrocious sen- 
 tence on an Irish, Canadian or East Indian patriot % Be- 
 fore God, on that bench, clad in ermine and surrounded 
 with power, sits the criminal ; and in that dock, manacled, 
 gagged, and bleeding, stands the accuser and the judge. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 735 
 
 “Let judges and criminals be transposed,” says the 
 greatest of American poets ; “let the prison-keepers be put 
 in prison — let those that were prisoners take the keys.” 
 
 For the day of his rebellion, for the day of his trial, for 
 the hour of his sentence, and for the long years of his im- 
 prisonment this monument is raised over the grave of Ed- 
 ward Kelly. It is not unfitting that it should stand among 
 the graves of Boston. 
 
 In his short life this man illustrated many phases of the 
 Irish question. He left Ireland in his childhood, but the 
 patriotic fire burned as strongly in exile as if he had grown 
 to manhood on his native soil. He was a Protestant in 
 religion ; but he was as true to Ireland as his fellow- Prot- 
 estants Robert Emmet, Wolfe Tone, Lord Edward Fitz- 
 gerald, John Mitchel, Smith O’Brien, John Martin, Charles 
 Stewart Parnell, and the tens of thousands of living Irish 
 Protestants who are Irish patriots. 
 
 This day has been selected for this ceremony because of 
 its thrilling associations for Irishmen. On this day, twenty 
 years ago, the English court was opened in Dublin to give 
 a mock trial to the patriots and “rebels,” John O’Leary 
 and Thomas Clarke Luby — high-minded, cultured Irish 
 gentlemen, who were adjudged guilty of “high trea- 
 son,” and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment among 
 English criminals. 
 
 Never truer men than these stood in the dock for lib- 
 erty ; and never nobler word was spoken than the scathing 
 answer of John O’Leary to the renegade judge on the bench, 
 who soon after ended his execrated life with his own hand. 
 
 “I have been found guilty of treason,” said John 
 O’Leary. “ Treason is a foul crime. Dante places traitors 
 in the ninth circle of his hell — I believe the lowest circle. 
 But what kind of traitors are these \ Traitors against kin, 
 country, friends, and benefactors. England is not my coun- 
 try ; and I betrayed no friend or benefactor. Sidney was 
 a legal traitor, a traitor according to the law, and so was 
 Emmet; and their judges, Jeffreys and Norbury, were 
 loyal men. I leave the matter there ! ” 
 
736 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Eighteen years ago, on this day, three young Irishmen 
 were murdered on an English gallows in the city of Man- 
 chester. Their names are honored and their death is rev- 
 erently commemorated in many countries to-day. This 
 monument is consecrated by association with their memory. 
 
 On September 18, 1867, two Irish patriots were locked 
 up in a police van, in the city of Manchester, to be driven 
 from their prison to the court. The van was guarded by a 
 watchful escort and, to make security doubly sure, a 
 policeman was locked inside with the prisoners. On its 
 way through the crowded city, the van was attacked by a 
 small body of brave men, armed with revolvers, and led by 
 a young man named William Allen. The names of the 
 others were Larkin, O'Brien, Maguire, and O' Meagher 
 Condon. The driver of* the van tried to dash through the 
 little band, but they shot the horses, seized the driver, 
 scattered the escort, burst open the door with a revolver- 
 bullet, and rescued the prisoners, who eventually escaped 
 to this country. 
 
 But the shot that William Allen fired to break the lock 
 had killed the constable, Brett, who was confined with the 
 prisoners. Before firing, Allen had shouted to those inside 
 to stand clear of the danger. He knew that he was as 
 likely to kill a friend as an enemy. One of the escort, a 
 constable named Shaw, swore on the trial of Allen that 
 he stood nearest to him when he fired, and he believed that 
 “ he only meant to knock the lock off.” 
 
 For this occurrence, the five Irishmen were placed on 
 trial for willful murder ; and in response to the brutal 
 passion of the English public, inflamed by the Government 
 press, they were all sentenced to be hanged — though two 
 were afterward respited. 
 
 When the judge formally asked the prisoners what they 
 had to say, William Allen, like the brave man he was, 
 spoke up and said: “No man in this court regrets the 
 death of Sergeant Brett more than I do ; and I positively 
 say, in the presence of the Almighty, that I am innocent, 
 ay, as innocent as any man in this country. I don’t say 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 737 
 
 this for the sake of mercy. I’ll have no mercy ; I want no 
 mercy. I’ll die, as many thousands have died, for the 
 sake of their beloved land, and in defense of it ! ” 
 
 And a few weeks later, on the 23d of November, 1867, 
 with the rope around their necks, these three young men, 
 Allen, Larkin, and O’Brien, looked out on the English 
 crowd, and died with the words, “ God Save Ireland ! ” on 
 their lips. 
 
 May they rest in peace in their graves under the prison 
 wall ! England would not dare give their bodies to Ire- 
 land. The grave of a martyr is a dangerous place for 
 oppressors. 
 
 The greatest service a man can do for a good cause is to 
 die for it. No man’s life or work, however illustrious, is 
 so potential as a martyr death. The cause for which men 
 are willing to die can never be destroyed. There is no seed 
 so infallible and so fruitful as the seed of human sacrifice. 
 A rebel is never so terrible as when the tyrant has killed 
 him. 
 
 In the bright future which is swiftly coming to Ire- 
 land, the names of those who died for her will be written 
 in the porch of the national temple. No country on earth 
 has ever called forth deeper devotion. Her altar-stones are 
 red with the bloody offerings of twenty generations of men. 
 The heartless, the ignorant, and the ignoble of other races 
 sometimes weigh the result against the cost, and shake their 
 heads. But they only tell the world that they are not of 
 the stuff to keep up a losing fight for seven hundred years 
 with odds of five to thirty in number and five to a mill- 
 ion in organization and wealth. The Irish have never 
 lost a man in their long fight, for no man is lost who is as 
 strong in death as in life. The sacrificial geed has been 
 fruitful a thousand-fold. It will burst into flower sud- 
 denly and soon, when Ireland’s Parliament is opened on 
 Irish soil ; and that flower will drop a seed of even 
 greater and more perfect beauty for a future day. 
 
THE NEGRO-AMERICAN. 
 
 On Monday evening 1 , Dec. 7, 1885, the colored men of Massachusetts, 
 assembled in Faneuil Hall to discuss the themes familiar to this place 
 — civil rights and human freedom. It was the first meeting of the 
 Massachusetts Colored League, and Mr. O’Reilly was the speaker of the 
 evening. 
 
 M R. President and Gentlemen : I was quite unaware 
 of the nature of this meeting when I came here. I 
 learn from Mr. Downing’s speech that it is more or less a po- 
 litical meeting ; that you are going to express preferences 
 this way or that. I came here because I was asked to speak 
 at a colored men’s meeting in Boston. I don’t care what 
 your political preferences or parties are. I don’ t care whether 
 you vote the Republican or Democratic ticket, but I know 
 that if I were a colored man I should use parties as I would 
 a club — to break down prejudices against my people. I 
 shouldn’t talk about being true to any party, except so far 
 as that party was true to me. Parties care nothing for you 
 only to use you. You should use parties ; the highest 
 party you have in this country is your own manhood. 
 That is the thing in danger from all parties ; that is the 
 thing that every colored American is bound in his duty to 
 himself and his children to defend and protect. 
 
 I think it is as wicked and unreasonable to discriminate 
 against a man because of the color of his skin as it would 
 be because of the color of his hair. He is no more respon- 
 sible for one than for the other, and one is no more signifi- 
 cant than the other. A previous speaker’s reference to. Mr. 
 Parnell and his growing power as a reformer ought to sug- 
 gest to you that Parnell is to-day a powerful man because 
 he is pledged to no party. He would smash the Tories to- 
 
 738 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 789 
 
 morrow as readily as he smashed the Liberals yesterday. 
 That is the meaning of politics. The highest interest of 
 politics is the selfish interest of the people. You are never 
 going to change the things, that affect you colored men, by 
 law. If my children were not allowed into Northern 
 schools, if I myself were not allowed into Northern hotels, 
 I would change my party and my politics every day until 
 I changed and wiped out that outrage. 
 
 I was in Tennessee last spring, and when I got out of 
 the cars at Nashville I saw over the door of an apartment, 
 ‘‘Colored people’s waiting-room.” I went into it and 
 found a wretched, poorly-furnished room, crowded with 
 men, women, and children. Mothers with little children 
 sat on the unwashed floor, and young men and young 
 women filled the bare, uncomfortable seats that were fast- 
 ened to the walls. Then I went out and found over another 
 door, “ Waiting-room.” In there were the white people, 
 carefully attended and comfortable ; separate rooms for 
 white men and women, well ventilated and well kept. I 
 spent two days in Nashville, and every hour I saw things 
 that made me feel that something was the matter either 
 with God or humanity in the South ; and I said going 
 away, “If ever the colored question comes up again as 
 long as I live, I shall be counted in with the black men.” 
 
 But this disregard for the colored people does not only 
 exist in the South ; I know there are many hotels in Bos- 
 ton, where, if any one of you were to ask for a room, they 
 would tell you that all the rooms were filled. 
 
 The thing that most deeply afflicts the colored American 
 is not going to be cured by politics. You have received 
 from politics already about all it can give you. 
 
 You may change the law by politics, but it is not the law 
 that is going to insult and outrage and excommunicate 
 every colored American for generations to come. You can’ t 
 cure the conceit of the white people that they are better 
 than you by politics, nor their ignorance, nor their preju- 
 dice, nor their bigotry, nor any of the insolences which they 
 cherish against their colored fellow- citizens. 
 
740 
 
 JOTIN BOYLE O* REILLY. 
 
 Politics is the snare and delusion of white men as well as 
 black. Politics tickles the skin of the social order ; but 
 this disease, and other diseases of class, privilege, and 
 inheritance, lie deep in the internal organs. Social equity 
 is based on principles of justice ; political change on the 
 opinion of a time. The black man’s skin will be a mark 
 of social inferiority so long as white men are conceited, 
 ignorant and prejudiced. You cannot legislate these qual- 
 ities out of the whites — you must steal and reason them 
 out by teaching, illustration, and example. 
 
 No man ever came into the world with a grander oppor- 
 tunity than the American negro. He is like new metal 
 dug out of the mine. He stands at this late day on the 
 threshold of history, with everything to learn and less to 
 unlearn, than any civilized man in the world. In his heart 
 still ring the free sounds of the desert. In his mind he 
 carries the traditions of Africa. The songs with which he 
 charms American ears are refrains from the tropical forests, 
 from the great inland seas and rivers of the dark continent. 
 
 At worst, the colored American has only a century or so 
 of degrading civilized tradition and habit to forget and un- 
 learn. His nature has only been injured on the outside by 
 these late circumstances of his existence. Inside he is a 
 new man, fresh from nature — a color-lover, an enthusiast, a 
 believer by the heart, a philosopher, a cheerful, natural, 
 good-natured man. I believe the colored American to be 
 the kindliest human being in existence. All the inhumani- 
 ties of slavery have not made him cruel or sullen or 
 revengeful. He has all the qualities that fit him to be a 
 good citizen of any country ; he does not worry his soul to- 
 day with the fear of next week or next year. He has feel- 
 ings and convictions, and he loves to show them. He sees 
 no reason why he should hide them. He will be a great 
 natural expression if he dares to express the beauty, the 
 color, the harmony of God’s world as he sees it with a 
 negro’s eyes. That is the meaning of race distinction — 
 that it should help us to see God’s beauty in the world in 
 various ways. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 741 
 
 Wliat this splendid man needs most is confidence in 
 himself and his race. He is a dependent man at present. 
 He is not sure of himself. He underrates his own qualities. 
 He must be a self-respecting man. Not all men can be dis- 
 tinguished, but assuredly some distinct expression of genius 
 will come out of any considerable community of colored 
 people who believe in themselves, who contemn and de- 
 spise the man of their blood who apes white men and their 
 ways, who is proud to be a negro, who will bear himself 
 according to his own ideas of a colored man, who will en- 
 courage his women to dress themselves by their own taste, 
 to select the rich colors they love, to follow out their own 
 natural bent, and not to adopt other people’s stupid and 
 shop-made fashions. The negro woman has the best artis- 
 tic eye for color of all the women in America. 
 
 The negro is the only graceful, musical, color-loving 
 American. He is the only American who has written new 
 songs and composed new music. He is the most spiritual 
 of Americans, for he worships with soul and not with 
 narrow mind. For him religion is to be believed, accepted 
 like the very voice of God, and not invented, contrived, 
 reasoned about, shaded, and made fashionably lucrative and 
 marketable, as it is made by too many white Americans. 
 
 The negro is a new man, a free man, a spiritual man, a 
 hearty man ; and he can be a great man if he will avoid 
 modeling himself on the whites. No race ever became 
 illustrious on borrowed ideas or the imitated qualities of 
 another race. 
 
 No race or nation is great or illustrious except by one 
 test — the breeding of great men. Not great merchants or 
 traders, not rich men, bankers, insurance-mongers, or 
 directors of gas companies. But great thinkers — great 
 seers of the world through their own eyes — great tellers of 
 the truths and beauties and colors and equities as they 
 alone see them. Great poets — ah, great poets above all — 
 and their brothers, great painters and musicians, fash- 
 ioners of God’s beautiful shapes in clay and marble and 
 harmony. 
 
742 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 The negro will never take his full stand beside the white 
 man till he has given the world proof of the truth and 
 beauty of heroism and power that are in his soul. And 
 only by the organs of the soul are these delivered — by self- 
 respect and self-reflection, by philosophy, religion, poetry, 
 art, love, and sacrifice. One great poet will be worth a 
 hundred bankers and brokers, worth ten Presidents of 
 the United States, to the negro race. One great musician 
 will speak to the world for the black men as no thousand 
 editors or politicians can. 
 
 The wealth of our Western soil, in its endless miles of 
 fertility, is less to America than the unworked wealth of 
 the rich negro nature. The negro poet of the future will be 
 worth two Mexicos to America. God send wise guides to 
 my black fellow-countrymen, who shall lead them to under- 
 stand and accept what is true and great and perennial, and 
 to reject what is deceptive and changeable in life, purpose, 
 and hope. 
 
 It is a great pleasure to me to say these things that I 
 have long believed to a colored meeting in Boston. It 
 would be a greater pleasure to go down to Nashville and 
 address a colored meeting there ; and God grant that it may 
 be soon possible for a Boston white man to go down to 
 Nashville and address colored men. As I said in the be- 
 ginning, so long as American citizens and their children are 
 excluded from schools, theaters, hotels, or common con- 
 veyances, there ought not to be and there is not among those 
 who love justice and liberty, any question of race, creed, or 
 color ; every heart that beats for humanity, beats with the 
 oppressed. 
 
MOORE CENTENARY. 
 
 Address made at the Celebration of the Moore 
 Centenary in Boston, 1879. 
 
 ENTLEMEN : The honorable distinction you have 
 
 given me at the head of your table, involves a duty 
 of weight and delicacy. At such a board as this, where 
 Genius sits smiling at Geniality, the President becomes a 
 formality, and the burden of his duty is to make himself a 
 pleasant nobody, yet natural to the position. Like the 
 apprentice of the armorer, it is my task only to hold the 
 hot iron on the anvil while the skilled craftsmen strike out 
 the tiexile sword-blade. 
 
 There is no need for me to praise or analyze the character 
 or fame of the great poet whose centennial we celebrate. 
 This will be done presently by abler hands in eloquent verse 
 and prose. Tom Moore was a poet of all lands, and it is fit- 
 ting that his centenary should be observed in cosmopolitan 
 fashion. But he was particularly the poet of Ireland, and 
 on this point I may be allowed to say a word as one proud 
 to be an Irishman, and prouder still to be an American. 
 
 Not blindly, but kindly we lay our wreath of rosemary 
 and immortelles on the grave of Moore. We do not look to 
 him for the wisdom of the statesman, or the boldness of the 
 popular leader. Neither do we look for solidity to the rose 
 bush, nor for strength to the nightingale, yet each is per- 
 fect of its kind. We take Tom Moore as God sent him — 
 not only the sweetest song- writer of Ireland, but even in this 
 presence I may say, the first song- writer in the English 
 language, not even excepting Burns. 
 
 The harshness of nature or of human relations found 
 
744 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 faint response in liis harmonious being. He was born in 
 the darkness of the penal days ; he lived to manhood under 
 the cruel law that bred a terrible revolution ; but he never 
 was a rebel. He was the college companion and bosom 
 friend of Robert Emmet, who gave his beautiful life on the 
 gibbet in protest against the degradation of his country ; 
 but Moore took only a fitful part in the stormy political 
 agitation of the time. When all was done, it was clear that 
 he was one thing and no other — neither a sufferer, a rebel, 
 an agitator, nor a reformer — but wholly and simply a poet. 
 He did not rebel, and he scarcely protested. But he did 
 his work as well as the best in his own way. He sat by the 
 patriot’s grave, and sang tearful songs that will make 
 future rebels and patriots. It was a hard task, for an Irish- 
 man in Moore’s day, to win distinction, unless he achieved 
 it by treason to his own country. In his own bitter words : 
 
 Unpriz’d are her sons till they’ve learned to betray ; 
 
 Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; 
 
 And the torch that would light them thro’ dignity’s way, 
 
 Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires. 
 
 And yet Moore set out to win distinction, and to win it in 
 the hardest field. The literary man in those days could 
 only live by the patronage of the great, and the native no- 
 bility of Ireland was dead or banished. A poet, too, must 
 have an audience ; and Moore knew that his audience must 
 not only be his poor countrymen, but all who spoke the 
 English language. He lived as an alien in London ; and it 
 is hard for an alien to secure recognition anywhere, and 
 especially an alien poet. The songs he sang, too, were not 
 English in subject or tone, but Irish. They were filled with 
 the sadness of his unhappy country. He despaired of the 
 freedom of Ireland, and bade her 
 
 Weep on, weep on, your hour is past, 
 
 Your dream of pride is o’er ; 
 
 but he did not turn from the ruin to seek renown from 
 strange and profitable subjects. As the polished Greeks, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 745 
 
 even in defeat, conquered their Roman conquerors by their 
 refinement, so this poet sang of Ireland’s sorrow and wrong, 
 till England and the world turned to listen. In one of his 
 melodies, which is full of pathetic apology to his country- 
 men for his apparent friendship to England, he sighs in 
 secret over Erin’s ruin, — 
 
 For ’tis treason to love her and death to defend. 
 
 He foresaw even then the immortality of his verse and the 
 affection of future generations for his memory when he 
 wrote : 
 
 But tho’ glory be gone, and tho’ hope fade away, 
 
 Thy n'ame, loved Erin, shall live in his songs ; 
 
 Not ev’n in the hour when the heart is most gay 
 Will he lose remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. 
 
 The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 
 
 The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o’er the deep, 
 
 ’Til thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, 
 
 Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep. 
 
 But this was not his entire work for Ireland and for 
 true literature and art ; nor is it for this sentimental reason 
 that this centenary is observed throughout the world. In 
 some countries we are able to see the beginning of the artis- 
 tic or literary life of the nation; we can even name the 
 writer or artist who began the beautiful structure ; and 
 though the pioneer work is often crude, it merits and 
 receives the gratitude of the nation. Though Moore was an 
 original poet of splendid imagination, he undertook a 
 national work in which his flights were restrained by the 
 limitations of his task. He set himself to write new words 
 to old music. He found scattered over Ireland, mainly 
 hidden in the cabins of the poor, pieces of antique gold, 
 inestimable jewels that were purely Irish. These were in 
 danger of being lost to the world, or of being malformed or 
 stolen from their rightful owners by strangers who could 
 discover their value. These jewels were the old Irish airs 
 — those exquisite fabrics which Moore raised into matchless 
 beauty in his delicious melodies. 
 
746 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 This was his great work. He preserved the music of his 
 nation and made it imperishable. It can never be lost again 
 till English ceases to be spoken. He struck it out like a 
 golden coin, with Erin’s stamp on it, and it has become cur- 
 rent and unquestioned in all civilized nations. 
 
 For this we celebrate his centennial. For this, gentlemen, 
 I call on you to rise — for after one year, or a hundred, or a 
 thousand, we may pour a libation to a great man — I ask 
 you to rise and drink 
 
 “The Memory of Tom Moore.” 
 
THE IRISH NATIONAL CAUSE. 
 
 Address delivered in Mechanics’ Hall, Boston, 
 Mass., on St. Patrick’s Day, 1890. 
 
 T HERE might be a doubt of the success of the Irish 
 national cause if it were wholly sentimental, or if its 
 expressions were irregular, -fitful, or spasmodic. The causes 
 or movements that have the elements of assured success, 
 accordingly, belong to the history of the human race and 
 not to a mere handful of people from a remote corner of the 
 earth, and must be tested by three supreme tests : the test of 
 right principle, the test of endurance, and the test of 
 growth. 
 
 The principle underlying the Irish movement is the un- 
 questionable one of a nation’s right to its own country and 
 laws, to develop its own resources, to tell its own story to 
 the world in its own way, and not in the way of another 
 country ; to have a full and fair chance for expressing its 
 national genius. “The noblest principle is the public 
 good,” said the Latin poet, and this proposition has the 
 agreement of all good men. It is true of all Ireland’s 
 struggles ; she has fought not only for improvement of rule, 
 but for her very life. Her people have not merely been 
 condemned to subjection, but to extermination. 
 
 The second test is of endurance. What need to prove 
 this for Ireland’s history? Her fight has not varied in 
 over 700 years ; 600 years ago, or 400 years ago, or 300 
 years, or 100 years ago the condition of Ireland would be 
 almost similar to that of the present time. At any of these 
 periods the country would be found in open or latent 
 rebellion against foreign oppression ; its chief men either 
 
 747 
 
748 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 in arms, or in prison, or in exile ; but defeat in Ireland 
 never meant despair. Every generation renewed the fight 
 as if it were beginning for the first time. Every twenty 
 years for centuries there has been a systematic and definite 
 new order of rebellion in Ireland. Each generation of 
 young men willingly following in the footsteps of those 
 who went before them, whether they led to prison or to 
 death. The crew that pulls a long race and a losing one — 
 is the strongest crew. This willing sacrifice has actually 
 changed the meanings of accepted terms. 
 
 Irishmen have established a recognized code of moral 
 right, as against statute laws and arbitrary governments 
 which all the world recognizes ; which even England recog- 
 nizes, which is constantly putting their enemy in the wrong ; 
 and putting your enemy in the wrong in the sight of men 
 is the worst kind of defeat, against which neither individual 
 nor nation can long persist. Ireland has made a principle 
 of pacific opposition and rejection of bad law. The Irish, 
 perhaps, has, of all nations, with the hottest and most pas- 
 sionate blood, harnessed and controlled the national heart 
 and the quick hand to strike, and changed material defeat 
 into moral victory. They have taught themselves and the 
 world the secret of winning by submission. 4 4 They have 
 made the cell a national shrine,” says the greatest of Eng- 
 lishmen, — Mr. Gladstone. 44 They have made the cell a 
 national shrine, and the prison garb the dress of the highest 
 honor.” They have won by the noblest means, — not by 
 destroying, but by converting their enemies. They have 
 won with a minority,— which is the supremest test of power. 
 
 41 1 will put down this national movement in Ireland,” 
 said Secretary Forster, a few years ago, 4 4 if you give me 
 power to imprison all men whom I consider dangerous.” 
 
 They gave him the power and he exercised it, — poor 
 Buckshot Forster, — and he learned the tremendous lesson 
 that in Ireland imprisonment for patriotism was not a 
 punishment but an honor. With what weapon must that 
 country be struck where the palace is a temple of infamy, 
 and the prison a shrine of national honor t 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 749 
 
 As to the growth or expansion of the Irish national 
 movement, one hundred years ago there were scarcely 
 4,000,000 of Irish people in the world ; 200,000 or 300,000 
 of those were in this country, mainly in New Hampshire 
 and Pennsylvania ; another 100,000 on the continent of 
 Europe serving in the various armies, and the remainder 
 were all in Ireland, shut up as in a prison ; behind 
 them six centuries of war and defeat, and inexpressible 
 suffering ; behind them immediately, one hundred years of 
 such local tyranny by a class ruling and robbing in the 
 name of law and religion, as no other civilized country had 
 ever experienced. Then came a burst of despair ; of hope- 
 less agony. In the year 1798, the brave people dashed 
 their naked hands against the enemy’s sabers and bayonets ; 
 and the last years of the last century went down on Ireland 
 in the blood of the people, the smoke of their homes, and 
 the suppression of their national parliament. There never 
 was such desolation in any country since the Assyrians deso- 
 lated Judea, as overwhelmed Ireland at the close of the 
 last century. After the rebellion of 1798, all law but the 
 law of the pistol, the sword, and the scaffold was abolished. 
 The Irish Parliament was swept away. The whole popula- 
 tion, except the Protestants, were disfranchised, disorgan- 
 ized, — friendless, voiceless, helpless. The Act of Union, 
 which abolished the Parliament of Ireland, went into effect 
 on the first day of the first year of this present century. 
 On that dark day an Irish poet wrote a mournful poem on 
 his country : 
 
 Thou art chained to the wheel of the foe — by links which the 
 world shall not sever ; 
 
 With thy tyrant thro’ storm and thro 1 calm shalt thou go, 
 and thy sentence is bondage forever. 
 
 In the nations thy place is left void — thou art lost in the lists of 
 the free — 
 
 Even realms by the plague and the earthquake destroyed may 
 revive — but no hope is for thee ! 
 
 The Irish Parliament was abolished on the pretense 
 that the country could be governed more peaceably, and led 
 
750 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’kEILLY. 
 
 to greater prosperity under British rule. But three years 
 after the Union, a Coercion Act was applied to Ireland. 
 Robert Emmet and his brave compatriots were hanged in 
 Dublin, and for those eighty-nine years coercion has ruled 
 Ireland for every year except twenty-two separated years. 
 
 There has never been a period of longer than six years 
 without a coercion law. The longest period was from 1850 
 to 1855. Those coercion laws have been enforced by the 
 bayonet and two standing armies, 14,000 constabulary, and 
 an average of 50,000 soldiers ; for their support the Irish 
 people are taxed, while even the material contracts for this 
 support are controlled by English houses. Throughout all 
 this period the double injury has been done of misrepre- 
 senting and defaming the people. England has told the 
 outer world that the Irish farmers were poor because they 
 would not improve their farms. Why should they improve 
 farms that did not belong to them, and where every im- 
 provement raised the rent higher ? The English Tories said 
 they had been compelled to coerce the Irish, because they 
 would quarrel among themselves on account of religion ; 
 that the Catholic hated the Protestant and would destroy 
 him, or tyrannize over him if he had the power. But this 
 division of the Irish was a skillfully and deliberately framed 
 device of the English. A Catholic did not hate a Protes- 
 tant because he was a Protestant, but because he was a po- 
 litical oppressor. The law was so framed that political 
 power was limited by religion. To seduce or coerce the 
 people from the Catholic religion, the whole Catholic popu- 
 lation was deprived of all rights, and practically made 
 slaves. 
 
 This injustice has been changed ; but only formally. 
 At the present time Ireland, with 4,000,000 Catholics, has 
 only 700 Catholic magistrates ; and with only 1,000,000 
 of Protestants, has 3500 Protestant magistrates. And the 
 Catholics who are magistrates are selected because they 
 hate the people and the people hate them ; for religion 
 has nothing to do with the Irish question. The best answer 
 to this slur on the good name of the people lies in the fact 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 751 
 
 that in every movement, since Protestantism first went to 
 Ireland, in every movement against English authority and 
 tyranny, among the most trusted leaders, the bravest spirits, 
 the most revered martyrs to the, national cause, have been 
 Protestant Irishmen. Nearly all the names that are vene- 
 rated as heroes and martyrs in the long list of Irish nation- 
 ality are the names of Protestants. Indeed, they out- 
 number the names of Catholics. Robert Emmet, Henry 
 Grattan, Wolf Tone, the Presbyterian who organized the 
 rebellion of ’98 ; the Sheares brothers, Bagenal Harvey, 
 Lord Edward [Fitzgerald ; these in ’98 and 1803 down to 
 John Mitchell and John Martin in 1848 ; from them again 
 to the present leader of the Irish national movement, a 
 Protestant also, Charles Stewart Parnell. 
 
 Since the first year of the century the pressure on Ireland 
 which was intended to destroy or banish the people, has 
 never been let up ; there have been repeated rebellions and 
 movements of national protest, and at present the country 
 is bowed under a condition of lawlessness in the name of 
 law, which is an outrage on the nineteenth century. Many 
 of the leading members of Parliament, and the most beloved 
 public men in the nation, are or have been recently in prison, 
 and are there subjected to skillfully devised and degrading 
 torture. Trial by jury is abolished ; arrest by warrant is 
 abolished. The entire country is under the control of paid 
 magistrates, appointed by the government ; magistrates 
 called “ removables,” because to make them the unscrupu- 
 lous tools of their employers, they can be removed at any time. 
 And yet Irishmen can face their antagonists to-day with a 
 greater confidence than ever before, and ask, What have 
 you gained by your merciless oppression since the Union 
 went into effect in 1801 or since Robert Emmet was hanged 
 in 1803 ? Ireland now says to her foe : “ You are now face 
 to face, not with 4,000,000 helpless and friendless people 
 shut up by your fleets in Ireland, but you are opposed by at 
 least 40,000,000 of people with Irish blood and sympathy, 
 most of whom are potential elements in the great countries 
 which hold in their hands the future destinies of the British 
 
752 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 Empire. There are nearly 5,000,000 people in Ireland ; 
 there are at least 4,000,000 Irish and their descendants in 
 Great Britain ; in London alone, it is said, that there are 
 1,000,000 Irish people ; in the United States, during the last 
 forty years alone, 4,000,000 people have come from Ireland, 
 and these were almost wholly people in their young man- 
 hood and womanhood. The natural increase from such a 
 starting-point alone, leaving out the millions who had come to 
 this country from its earliest settlement, would give proba- 
 bly, at a safe estimate, 20,000,000 of the American popula- 
 tion of direct Irish blood. 
 
 Wherever the English flag has gone around the world 
 in its domain of conquest, —and it is said that the sun never 
 sets on the English dominions, — be sure that accompanying 
 that flag have gone the numerous and unified Irish hearts, 
 who carry with them the opposition that they learned at 
 home. And the Irish and English in the colonies and in 
 the United States do not continue enemies ; as soon as they 
 settle down in the new countries, the Irish convert their old 
 enemies into friends. 
 
 But not only in numbers has the Irish movement grown, 
 but in expansion of principle. In the early days of this 
 century, the national fight resolved itself into a question of 
 Catholic enfranchisement carried in 1829 ; then of tenant 
 right, and after generations had spent their energies and 
 lives in trying to make headway against the selfishness and 
 ignorance of the Irish landlord party, the answer was given 
 to Ireland by Sir Robert Peel in 1862, when he said, “ The 
 Land Act of 1860 has effected the final settlement of the 
 Irish land question.” And Lord Palmerston, in 1865, com- 
 pleted this expression by declaring that “ Tenant right was 
 landlord wrong.” In this land agitation both English par- 
 ties were against Ireland. Indeed, the Tory landlords had 
 made their Liberal opponents the worst enemies of Ireland, 
 for up to 1870 the most extreme measures of Irish land re- 
 form had been introduced by the Tories. For instance, Lord 
 Stanley’s Bill in 1865, Mr. Napier’s Bill in 1852, and the 
 Tory Bill in 1867. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 753 
 
 But observe the moral teaching which Ireland has done 
 on this question. In 1870, Mr. Gladstone introduced his fa- 
 mous Land Bill, the three principles of which were : First, 
 the extension of Ulster tenant right throughout Ireland ; 
 second, to render landlords liable for compensation to an 
 evicted tenant ; third, to facilitate the establishment of 
 peasant proprietary ; and this bill, five years after Lord 
 Palmerston’s statement that “ tenant right was landlord 
 wrong,” was passed in the House of Commons by the ex- 
 traordinary vote of 442 to 11. 
 
 Froude says of this Land Act of 1870, “ It was the best 
 measure, perhaps the only good measure, which has passed 
 for Ireland for 200 years.” 
 
 The importance of this measure is not confined to Ireland. 
 It is for all constitutional governments the first instance, 
 perhaps, in which the statute law has been directly subor- 
 dinated to the law of God ; the first instance in which the 
 right of private property in land was restrained by the 
 national and individual rights of the people. That law 
 sounded the doom of landed aristocracy in every country 
 of the earth. It cried u halt ! ” to the landlord’s power to 
 evict a whole nation by a law made in that nation’s own 
 name. 
 
 Then came the movement for the Repeal of the Union, 
 under O’Connell. Contrast the present movement in Ire- 
 land, or rather, throughout the world in favor of Ireland, 
 with this movement of less than half a century ago. No 
 two leaders could be more unlike than O’ Connell and Par- 
 nell, though there are some points of resemblance ! O’ Con- 
 nell was a great parliamentary tactician ; so is Parnell. 
 O’Connell considered that he was responsible, not to the 
 British, but to the Irish people for his conduct and mode 
 of warfare ; so does Parnell. O’Connell never approached 
 Parliament in humility and fear ; he came boldly to de- 
 mand justice for his country ; so does Parnell. In three 
 other characteristics the two men resemble each other. 
 Strength of will, courage, and backbone. But here the 
 resemblance ends between the men and their times and their 
 
754 ' 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 movements. It was O’Connell who inspired the Irish peo- 
 ple ; it is the Irish people who inspire Parnell. O’Connell 
 always took the initiative and allowed little scope to the 
 energies of his followers. Parnell lets the people take the 
 initiative and he utilizes all the energies of the Irish party. 
 O’Connell did and thought everything for himself and for 
 the people. Parnell does very little except to quietly di- 
 rect. O’Connell created public opinion; Parnell repre- 
 sents it. O’Connell raised the storm ; Parnell guides it. 
 O’Connell had only four lieutenants ; Shiel and his own 
 three sons, Morris, John, and Morgan. Parnell has sur- 
 rounded himself, or rather has been surrounded, by the 
 representatives of the country ; with eighty-five members 
 of Parliament, who take rank among the boldest, ablest, and 
 most sagacious national leaders who have ever been known 
 in the history of civilization. What reformer or national 
 leader ever fought with nobler aides beside him than 
 Healey, Sexton, O’Connell, Justin McCarthy, John Dillon, 
 William O’Brien, and that great outsider, that incompar- 
 able free lance, who is too large, and too free, and too wise 
 to put himself into any harness, even the harness of the 
 parliamentary service of Ireland, — Michael Davitt, the 
 father of the Land League ? 
 
 W endell Phillips said that Daniel O’ Connell taught the 
 world the meaning and method of agitation. But Parnell 
 has done more than O’Connell had the opportunity of doing, 
 because the Ireland of our time is essentially different from 
 the Ireland of forty or fifty years ago. Parnell has moved 
 and united not only the five millions in Ireland, but he has 
 added to these the moral support of the thirty-five millions 
 of their exiled kindred. 
 
 Less than a dozen years ago, when he appeared in the 
 public life of his country, a young and unknown member of 
 Parliament, Ireland was sunk in the depths of social and 
 political oppression. Her people had fled for tw^o genera- 
 tions, and were still flying from their unhappy country, as 
 the clouds fly, across the sea. “They are going with a 
 vengeance ! ’ ’ cried the London Times . Ten years ago this 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 7 55 
 
 young man’s voice arrested the attention of the people within 
 the island ; he came, as it were, to the hill-tops by the sea, 
 and stretched out his hands to the flying clouds, and appealed 
 to them, and the clouds stayed tlieir course. The eyes of 
 the exiles returned at the call, and their hearts and their 
 hands were opened to the need of their mother land. They 
 sent back their moral sympathies and support to help their 
 struggling brethren to meet the organized and material 
 strength of their enemy. They became representatives, in 
 the various lands in which their homes lay, of the special 
 quality of strength which Ireland is proving to the world 
 she possesses. This strength may be said to be the exact 
 opposite to that of England. 
 
 The strength of England is, and always has been, ma- 
 terial force ; organization ; concentration ; weight of stroke ; 
 selfishness of purpose. Her power has marched through the 
 centuries and the nations like a mail-clad battalion, plowing 
 its way, repellent, unsympathetic, defying criticism, bound 
 on the seizure of its prey, disregarding the opinions of man- 
 kind. 
 
 The power that Ireland has exerted through her ban- 
 ished millions, is immaterial, diffused, intellectual, spiritual ; 
 the very opposite to that of England. But it is the power 
 of the steam, as compared to the power of the water. So far 
 the nations represent opposites : One concussion ; the other 
 
 conversion. One a threat ; the other an argument. One 
 repels ; the other attracts. One makes enemies ; the other 
 makes friends. One wastes its own strength in every 
 effort ; the other increases its power with every exertion. 
 Ireland appeals through her scattered children and their 
 descendants to the consciences of men. They make man- 
 kind a jury to whom they are constantly appealing for a 
 verdict against the lawless and cruel and piratical rule of 
 England in Ireland. Against the deep injury done to an 
 ancient and proud nation that had done its full share in 
 the glory of civilization, until it was interrupted, ruined, 
 and misrepresented by this robber invasion. 
 
 The rapidity with which the Irish movement spreads 
 
756 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 may be estimated by this extraordinary fact : that twelve 
 years ago, Mr. Parnell, who is now one of the leading na- 
 tional figures among the governments of the world, was 
 utterly unknown . Ten years ago, there was no Irish national 
 party in the British House of Commons, except a nonde- 
 script and diluted nationalism represented by whig land- 
 lords. 
 
 It is only ten years ago since to that world dictionary, that 
 is made up of words and names that belong to all men and 
 tongues, names and words that represent ideas like “ Bunker 
 Hill,” and “’93”; like “Robespierre,” and the “Mar- 
 seillaise” ; like the perjurer “ Titus Oates,” and the traitor 
 “Arnold,” was added the name of “Capt. Boycott.” 
 
 But no name of honor or infamy has ever carried the Irish 
 cause further, or in more directions, or has ever, in a word, 
 done more good to the Irish national movement than the 
 name of the detestable creature, who was the agent and the 
 victim of a still more detestable and cowardly conspiracy, 
 
 ‘ 4 Richard Pigott, ’ ’ and the London Times. In view of their 
 story, all minds that are free from prejudice are willing to 
 agree that the government that can only rule by such means, 
 with such tools, at the end of the nineteenth century, after 
 leaving a record in Ireland from the first year of that cen- 
 tury to the present, of coercion and oppression, of murder 
 and lawlessness and eviction, and of the burning of homes, 
 of the ruin of a whole population, — the government that 
 must depend on such infamous agents as the London Times , 
 and Houston the Orangeman, and Le Caron the spy, and 
 Pigott the perjurer, is condemned out of its own mouth. 
 All this diabolical machinery was set in motion on the day 
 Parliament was to vote on the coercion act for Ireland ; and 
 by this means that dreadful act was passed. Surely, this 
 government is an evil in the sight of man and God. A dan- 
 ger to all truly civilized governments. A corrupter of social 
 and political life. 
 
 And so we claim that though coercion still rules in Ire- 
 land, the cause of Home Rule shall be won in the end. 
 The consummation may be delayed a few weeks or months, 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 757 
 
 but the inevitable must soon appear. The sunburst is red- 
 dening the sky in the east. 
 
 A few years ago an old ship was set afloat on the Niagara 
 River, ten miles above the great falls. The crowd that 
 watched it on the bank cheered when they saw the current 
 carry it out to the center and down toward the rapids. 
 One man calculated the rapidity of the stream. “It goes 
 four miles an hour,” he said ; “in two hours and a half she 
 will go over the falls.” 
 
 So they took to their horses and carriages and trains, and 
 went to the falls to see her go over. They saw the powerful 
 rapids take the ship and wheel her round, and almost dash 
 her to pieces, as the Home Rule victories in Scotland whirled 
 and confounded the Tories ; they saw a great rock split her 
 keel, as the victories in Wales split the Tories; they saw 
 her leaping down toward the last hundred yards of the fatal 
 course and thrown on her beam ends by a bowlder as big as 
 the Home Rule victory in Kensington, London, last week ; 
 but just when the last plunge was coming and the world 
 was preparing to cheer, the doomed vessel was caught be- 
 tween two rocks on the very verge of the falls. And there 
 she hung for three days, with a rock — like the Joseph 
 Chamberlain — holding her back, but breaking into her 
 side at the same time; till, at last, the mad flood leaped 
 into her and over her, and ship and rock together were 
 rolled over and dashed to splinters in the river under the 
 falls. 
 
 And so St. Patrick's Hay, 1890, marks the high-water of 
 the Irish national tide. Around the world to-night, like a 
 bugle call, shrills the confident congratulations of the Irish 
 race. They have reason to be happy, and confident, and 
 hopeful. The good will of the world is with Ireland, and 
 the Baal-time fires of St. Patrick are as cosmopolitan as 
 the drum-beat of Great Britain. She is taking the rivets 
 out of Toryism everywhere, and God is saving Ireland. 
 
IRELAND’S COMMERCIAL AND INDUSTRIAL 
 RESOURCES. 
 
 Address before the Beacon Society of Boston, 
 Saturday, February 28, 1886. 
 
 HE Beacon Society of Boston held its regular monthly 
 
 dinner at the Revere House, on Saturday, February 28, 
 1886. By request, Mr. John Boyle O’Reilly addressed the 
 company on “ The Industrial and Commercial Aspects of 
 the Irish Question.” President John C. Paige introduced 
 the speaker. 
 
 Mr. O’Reilly, referring to the happy introductory speech 
 of the President, said: 
 
 Gentlemen : However much humor there may be 
 
 attached to the general characteristics of my countrymen, 
 there is nothing but tragedy connected with the industrial 
 and commercial questions of Ireland. The general view of 
 Ireland and the Irish question is relegated to the sentimen- 
 tal. In truth, it is one of the most material and practical 
 of questions. Very few men take the trouble of question- 
 ing the statement that has been given to the world by the 
 interested party for one hundred or two hundred years. 
 The statement has been made that the Irish people are sim- 
 ply a troublesome, purposeless, quarrelsome people, who 
 could not govern themselves if they had an opportunity. 
 That is the tribute which injustice pays in all cases to 
 morality. If a man injure another man, he must also injure 
 his character in order to stand well in the community, to 
 justify his own action, for, if he did not, his fellow-men 
 would drive him out. England has misrepresented the 
 character of the Irish people with a set purpose, and with 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 759 
 
 the same purpose has misrepresented their industrial and 
 commercial resources. The sentimental question is simply 
 the natural desire of men to rule their own country and 
 make their own laws. The Greeks were applauded in Lon- 
 don the other day when they said: “We want to work 
 
 out the Greek purpose among Greeks.” The Greeks are 
 no more a distinct nationality than the Irish. The Greeks 
 are no more unlike other nations than the Irish. A tight 
 that has gone on seven hundred and fifty years between a 
 weak country and a very strong one is assuredly a fight 
 based on no weak or worthless sentiment. 
 
 The Irish have never compromised. They have been 
 beaten because they were weaker, but they have never 
 compromised. They have been rebellious and troublesome. 
 They have been Nationalists all the time. They claimed 
 seven hundred, six hundred, five hundred years ago pre- 
 cisely what they claim to-day : the right to their own 
 country, to make their own laws, to work out their own 
 individual nationality among men. If there is to be credit 
 or discredit given them, they want to earn it, and to tell 
 their own faults or virtues to the world. They do not want 
 another nation, and an unfriendly one, to tell the world 
 what Ireland and its people are. The ear of the world has 
 been held by England with regard to Ireland, particularly 
 in this country, since the foundation of it. Very few men 
 in America who are not Irish have realized that the Irish 
 question is, as I have said, more largely material than sen- 
 timental. 
 
 In 1696 the King of England sent to Ireland a commis- 
 sion of five men to examine the country and report to the 
 King and Council as to the best means of holding the Irish 
 in subjection. They had then had five hundred years of 
 continuous Irish war. They had realized the enormous ad- 
 vantage that Ireland possessed in position. If Ireland were 
 on the other side of England there would be no Irish ques- 
 tion. Ireland is on the Atlantic side of England. The 
 question has always been a geographical one. Ireland con- 
 trols the main points for commerce with Northern Europe, 
 
760 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 and she has in her own self such a treasury of possible 
 wealth as no other nation in Europe has. This commission, 
 sent in 1696, remained in Ireland a year, and reported to 
 the King in 1697. The report was summarized in these 
 words: “ There are two ways of holding Ireland in sub- 
 
 jection : By a standing army in the hands of Englishmen ; 
 and by checking the growth of the country in trade and 
 wealth, that it may never become dangerous to England 
 anywhere.” That was two centuries ago. That policy was 
 adopted by King and Council ; and, no matter what change 
 of Whig or Tory, Liberal or Conservative, since came for 
 Great Britain, there was no change for Ireland. That fear- 
 ful and atrocious policy continued until the appointment of 
 one of the best Englishmen and one of the ablest as Secre- 
 tary for Ireland, Mr. John Morley, a few weeks ago. There 
 had not been a rift in that dark cloud between those two 
 dates. 
 
 Mr. O’ Reilly read the following extracts from renowned 
 English writers, showing the perfect knowledge England 
 has had for centuries of the wonderful resources of Ireland. 
 England’s course has been steered, he said, with delibera- 
 tion. Three hundred years ago the illustrious English poet, 
 Spenser, who had lived for years in Ireland, thus described 
 the country : 
 
 And sure it is a most beautiful and sweet country as any under 
 heaven, being stored throughout with many goodly rivers, replenished 
 with all sorts of fish abundantly ; sprinkled with many very sweet 
 islands and goodly lakes, like little inland seas, that will carry even 
 shippes upon their waters ; adorned with goodly woods ; also filled with 
 good ports and havens ; besides the soyle itself most fertile, fit to yield 
 all kind of fruit that shall be committed thereto. And lastly, the 
 climate most mild and temperate. 
 
 Two hundred and fifty years ago Sir John Davies, an- 
 other eminent Englishman, wrote about Ireland as follows : 
 
 I have visited all the provinces of that kingdom in sundry journeys 
 and circuits, wherein I have observed the good temperature of the air, 
 the fruitfulness of the soil, the pleasant and commodious seats for 
 habitations, the safe and large ports and havens lying open for traffic 
 into all the west parts of the world; the long inlets of many navigable 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 761 
 
 rivers, and so many great lakes and fresh ponds within the land, as the 
 like are not to be seen in any part of Europe; the rich fishings and 
 wild fowl of all kinds ; and lastly, the bodies and minds of the people 
 endued with extraordinary abilities by nature. 
 
 In Brown’s “ Essays on Trade,” published in London in 
 the year 1728, this is the report on Ireland : 
 
 Ireland is, in respect of its situation, the number of its commodious 
 harbors, and the natural wealth which it produces, the fittest island to 
 acquire wealth of any in the European seas ; for as by its situation it 
 lies the most commodious for the West Indies, Spain, and the Northern 
 and Eastern countries, so it is not only supplied by nature with all the 
 necessaries of life, but can over and above export large quantities to 
 foreign countries, insomuch that, had it been mistress of its trade, no 
 nation in Europe of its extent could in an equal number of years 
 acquire greater wealth. 
 
 “ Ireland,” says Newenham, writing seventy years ago 
 on industrial topics, “greatly surpasses her sister coun- 
 try, England, in the aggregate of the endowments of na- 
 ture England, abounding in wealth beyond any 
 
 other country in Europe, cannot boast of one natural ad- 
 vantage which Ireland does not possess in a superior 
 degree.” 
 
 Continuing, Mr. O’Reilly said : All this has been said 
 about a country that is so poverty-stricken and so unhappy 
 that the like of it is not seen in any part of the world. I 
 sent reporters to four houses in Boston a short time ago 
 to ask how much money they had sold on Ireland during 
 the month of December, and from the first of December to 
 the twentieth, those four houses had sold over $100,000, in 
 sums averaging $35. Now, in three weeks, four houses in 
 one city sold that much ; and I can assure you that there 
 is not a city in the United States, not a town, nor hamlet, 
 whence that drain is not constantly going away to Ireland. 
 It is going from the mills, from the mines, from the farms, 
 from the shops, from the servant girls. The only advan- 
 tage from that terrible loss, — a loss which must reach 
 almost $50,000,000 a year, which is the lowest computation 
 you can put on it, — the only value the republic has in 
 
762 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 return is in the devoted and affectionate natures that could 
 spare from their earnings so much for their poor relatives 
 in Ireland — for they sent it to save their people from evic- 
 tion and starvation ; not to make them happy and com- 
 fortable, but to pay the rent to the English aristocrats, for 
 whom England has legislated. The landlords have a mort- 
 gage on the Irish in America through their affections. 
 
 This question has never been between the people of the 
 two countries, but always between the Irish people and the 
 English aristocrat, the idle profligate fellow who owns the 
 land and stands between the two peoples. For him and by 
 him has all the legislation for Ireland been made, and for 
 England, too. When the people of the two countries come 
 to settle the question between them, depend on it, they will 
 find a solution. It was only last year for the first time in 
 England that the common people became a factor in poli- 
 tics, when two millions of workingmen were admitted to 
 the franchise ; and it was only by their exercise of that 
 power that the Tory Government was prevented from put- 
 ting another Coercion Act in force in Ireland, when Lord 
 Salisbury threatened four weeks ago to introduce another 
 Coercion Act for a country which was in peace, without 
 any reason whatever but the will of the landlord class. 
 The only issue for Ireland, if the Tories had remained in 
 power and Lord Salisbury had carried out his intention, 
 would have been rebellion. Unquestionably, Ireland would 
 have been driven into another hopeless rebellion, the mean- 
 ing of which it would have been hard to explain to the 
 outer world. 
 
 I believe that when the two peoples can settle this ques- 
 tion between themselves, they are going to work out the 
 morality of their relations, and that the Irish people have 
 nothing to fear, but everything to hope, from the common 
 people of Great Britain. It is not the sea, but the separated 
 pool that rots, and so it is not the common people, but the 
 separated class of humanity that rots — the aristocrat, the 
 idle man, the man on horseback, the fellow that has ruled 
 Europe for centuries. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 763 
 
 Now, let me go into detail over that statement as to the 
 industrial possibilities of Ireland. 
 
 The most important natural advantages which nations 
 enjoy are : fertility of soil, salubrity of climate, capacious 
 harbors fitted for external commerce, advantageous inter- 
 section of internal trade by rivers, valuable mines and 
 minerals, and productive fisheries. “ Those advantages,” 
 says Matthew Carey, “ have been so liberally bestowed on 
 Ireland by a bounteous heaven, that nothing but the most 
 horrible and blighting policy could have prevented her 
 from enjoying as high a degree of happiness as ever fell to 
 the lot of any nation.” 
 
 With respect of soil, Ireland is blest in the highest de- 
 gree. Arthur Young, an English traveler, who devoted 
 his life to agricultural inquiries and investigations, says 
 that “ natural fertility, acre for acre, over the two king- 
 doms, is certainly in favor of Ireland. Labor and skill are 
 the only things necessary to produce all over the country. 
 The soil needs no fertilizer that is not at the hands of the 
 farmer in all the counties. In many extensive parts of the 
 country fertilizers applied to the soil kill the crops, for the 
 soil will only bear a certain amount of nutrition, and 
 beyond that it refuses to grow unless left fallow for a 
 year.” 
 
 “ To judge of Ireland by the conversation one some- 
 times hears in England,” says Arthur Young, “ it would be 
 supposed that one half of it was covered with bogs and the 
 other with mountains.” 
 
 Newenham says : 
 
 A vast proportion of the unreclaimed land of other countries is 
 almost utterly unproductive, or completely sterile ; a vast proportion of 
 the unreclaimed land of Ireland is undoubtedly the contrary. In other 
 countries the operation of reclaiming requires considerable skill, and 
 in most instances is attended with immense . expense. In Ireland, 
 where nature is rather to be assisted than overcome, it requires but 
 little skill ; and the attendant expense, if viewed in conjunction with 
 the future permanent profit, is scarcely sufficient to deter the most 
 timid speculator. In most other countries the natural means of fertil- 
 izing such land, as has been prepared by any expensive process for the 
 
764 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 plow, are extremely scanty; in Ireland they are almost everywhere 
 found in the greatest abundance and perfection. 
 
 One striking advantage Ireland possesses, probably in a 
 degree beyond any other country. The rocks and mount- 
 ains, which elsewhere are generally bare or covered only 
 with useless weeds or wild shrubs, are in Ireland clothed 
 with luxuriant verdure. 
 
 In no part of the bounties of nature as regards soil is Ire- 
 land more fortunate than in the superabundance of manures 
 of almost every kind and of the very best quality. 
 
 “ In most of the mountainous districts of Ireland,” Sir 
 Edward Newenham, a great statistical and practical 
 authority, says, “ 5000 acres will be found to yield more 
 and better food for the cattle than 100,000 in many parts 
 of Scotland and Wales. The Irish mountains are entirely 
 different from those of the countries just mentioned. 
 Herbage of some sort or other grows on the very summits 
 of some of the loftiest in Ireland ; but in Scotland, and for 
 the most part in Wales, cattle stray from their pasture as 
 they ascend the mountain’s brow. The peculiar tendency 
 of the Irish soil to grass is such that the mountainous land 
 yields good sustenance to prodigious droves of young 
 cattle.” 
 
 In those parts of England, Scotland, or Wales which are 
 remote from large towns the cultivation of a farm, owing 
 to deficiency of good natural manures, must, in general, be 
 proportionate to the stock of cattle kept thereon. But in 
 Ireland, where such manures almost everywhere abound, 
 the dung of cattle is not indispensably requisite to the 
 progress of agriculture, and accordingly much less atten- 
 tion is paid to its collection than is observable in other 
 countries. “Labor and skill alone,” says Ne^venham, 
 “ will render the lands of Ireland fertile in the ex- 
 treme.” 
 
 With the exception of the counties of Wexford, Wick- 
 low, Tyrone, and Antrim, limestone is found in the great- 
 est abundance in every county of Ireland, as is also, with 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 765 
 
 the exception of a few counties, that incomparable manure 
 —limestone gravel. White, gray, and blue marls of the 
 best quality, are likewise found in most of the counties, 
 and compensate in some of them, especially in Wexford, 
 for a deficiency of lime. 
 
 4 4 The seacoasts, likewise, from which, by the way, no 
 part of Ireland is at greater distance than fifty miles, 
 furnish an inexhaustible supply of manures. Coral sand, a 
 manure of superior value, is found on the south coast in 
 Baltimore Bay, on the southwest coast in Bantry Bay, on 
 the west coast in Tralee Bay, Clew Bay, Roundstone Bay, 
 Kilkerran Harbor, and Galway Bay ; on the north coast in 
 Mulroy Harbor ; on the east coast of Brayhead, in the 
 county of Wicklow, and in other places. Shelly sand, 
 which nearly equals the coral in effect, is found on the 
 southwest coast in Dunmanus Bay ; on the east coast near 
 Birr Island, in Red Bay, and in many other parts of the 
 same coast. Sea weeds, sea sand of different colors, and 
 sea ooze, are found in abundance all round the coast ; and, 
 except the last, which has been lately found to be very 
 good manure, are everywhere used with excellent effect 
 by the farmers who live within five or six miles of the 
 coast.” — Newenham, 44 View of the Natural, Political, and 
 Commercial Circumstances of Ireland.” 
 
 The climate of Ireland is remarkable for its mildness, 
 particularly in the southern province, where the fields 
 generally afford pasturage for the cattle during the winter. 
 They are rarely housed. A very great proportion of the 
 fat cattle sent to Waterford, Limerick, and Cork, are never 
 housed. The dairy cows in the province of Munster are 
 never, through downright necessity, housed. The severity 
 of winter in most other countries of so high a latitude, is 
 almost altogether unknown in Ireland. Snows and ice to 
 any considerable extent are rarely experienced. 
 
 In respect of mildness and equability, qualities of a very 
 advantageous nature, the climate of Ireland is surpassed 
 by very few, if by any other in Europe. 
 
 Ireland is highly endowed by nature with those very 
 
766 
 
 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 important means of promoting national wealth, harbors, 
 rivers, and lakes. The coast is so copiously indented 
 with harbors, that they lie almost universally within a few 
 miles of each other. 
 
 Taking one district with another, there is a harbor, or 
 safe anchorage place, to about every 150 square miles, or 
 every 96,000 acres. 
 
 They are, with scarcely an exception, superior to those 
 of England. 
 
 “ There are not twenty harbors in England and Wales,” 
 says Newenham, “ which can be classed with forty of the 
 best in Ireland ; nor, with perhaps the single exception of 
 Milford Haven, which is about seven miles long and one 
 broad, with from four to fourteen fathoms on a bottom of 
 mud, is there one in the former, which can, in almost any 
 respect, be compared with the best ten in the latter ; and 
 if the safe anchoring places be added to the harbors of 
 each country, Ireland will rank above England, not only 
 in capaciousness, safety, and proportionate number of 
 harbors, but likewise in the general number of places for 
 the accommodation of shipping.” There are one hundred 
 and thirty-six safe and deep harbors in the island, a num- 
 ber not possessed by any other country. 
 
 The rivers are uncommonly numerous. So numerous 
 are the rivers of Ireland, in proportion to its size, and so 
 abundant the supply of water, that almost every parish 
 might enjoy the benefits of internal navigation, at an 
 inconsiderable national expense. Very few parts of Ire 
 land, comparatively speaking, would be found ineligible 
 for the establishment of manufactures through a deficiency 
 of water, or the want of water-carriage. Of 248 mills for 
 grinding corn, erected in Ireland between the years 1758 
 and 1790, every one, as Newenham relates, was turned by 
 water. Windmills are in no country less common, or less 
 necessary, than in Ireland. 
 
 The country was surveyed under the Irish Parliament, 
 with a view to internal improvement by canals, and thirty- 
 two rivers were found capable of being rendered navigable, 
 
767 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 whereof the united lengths, in addition to that of the 
 Shannon and those of the projected canals, exceed one 
 thousand miles. Had the proposed works been carried 
 into effect, 10,000 square miles, or 6,400,000 acres, would, at 
 the furthest, have been within five miles of some navigable 
 river or canal. And if to this be added the sinuous line of 
 the Irish coast, comprising 1737 miles, it will be seen that 
 18,685 square miles, or 11,958,400 acres, which constitute 
 almost two third parts of the area of Ireland, would have 
 lain within five miles of the sea, river, or canal ; and fifteen 
 million dollars, faithfully and skillfully expended, would 
 probably be more than sufficient for the purpose. 
 
 The fisheries of cod, and ling, and hake, and mack- 
 erel, and herring, are probably the richest in the worfd ; 
 yet to-day the fishermen of the western coast are kept 
 from death by starvation by American charitable sub- 
 scriptions. 
 
 With regard to mines and minerals, this sentence from 
 Mathew Carey, grandfather of Henry Carey Baird, of Phila- 
 delphia, will suffice : ‘ ‘ There is probably not a country in 
 the world, which, for its extent, is one half so abundantly 
 supplied with the most precious minerals and fossils as 
 Ireland.” 
 
 In Tyrone, Waterford, Cork, Down, Antrim, and 
 throughout Connaught, says an eminent British authority, 
 Mr. T. F. Henderson, writing a few years ago, “are im- 
 mense stores of iron that remain unutilized.” The same 
 writer says, that from what can be seen, Ireland has at 
 least 180,000,000 tons of available coal, from which she 
 raises yearly only 130,000 tons. Yet she imports over 
 2,000,000 tons yearly from England. 
 
 Ireland has 3,000,000 acres of bog-land, which supplies 
 an enormous quantity of admirable fuel. The average 
 depth of peat on this is twenty-five feet— in some cases 
 over forty feet. 
 
 The following summary of Irish mineral treasures is 
 made from official and other surveys and reports. The 
 figures prefixed to the different minerals and fossils denote. 
 
768 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 tlie number of counties in which they have been dis- 
 covered : 
 
 2 Amethysts 
 
 16 Lead 
 
 1 Antimony 
 
 2 Manganese 
 
 15 Coal 
 
 19 Marble 
 
 1 Cobalt 
 
 15 Ochres 
 
 17 Copper 
 
 2 Pearls 
 
 1 Chalcedony 
 
 4 Pebbles 
 
 8 Crystals 
 
 2 Petrifactions 
 
 9 Clays of various sorts 
 
 1 Porphyry 
 
 5 Fuller’s earth 
 
 1 Silicious sand 
 
 1 Gold 
 
 3 Silver 
 
 2 Garnites (decayed granite used in 
 
 6 Slate 
 
 porcelain) 
 
 1 Soapstone 
 
 7 Granite 
 
 1 Spars 
 
 1 Gypsum 
 
 2 Sulphur 
 
 19 Iron 
 
 2 Talc 
 
 2 Jasper 
 
 
 Ninety years ago, Mr. Lawson, an English miner, stated 
 in evidence before the Irish House of Commons that the 
 iron-stone at Arigna lay in beds of from three to twelve 
 fathoms deep, and that it could be raised for two shillings 
 and sixpence a ton, which was five shillings cheaper than 
 in Cumberland ; that the coal in the neighborhood was 
 better than any in England, and could be raised for three 
 shillings and sixpence a ton, and that it extended six 
 miles in length and five in breadth. He also stated that 
 fire-brick clay and freestone of the best qualities were in 
 the neighborhood, and that a bed of potters’ clay extended 
 there two miles in length and one in breadth. Mr. Clark, 
 on the same occasion, declared that the iron ore was inex- 
 haustible. And a distinguished Irish authority on minera- 
 logical subjects, Mr. Kirwan, affirmed that the Arigna iron 
 was better than any iron made from any species of single 
 ore in England. 
 
 There is not a pound of iron dug out of the earth in 
 Arigna, and there never will be till Ireland controls her 
 own resources and can protect them by a proper tariff till 
 they are in full productiveness. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. ?69 
 
 As to water-power — Sir Richard Kane, of the Royal 
 Dublin Society, and other eminent scientific bodies, sum- 
 marizes the surveys and reports : 
 
 The water from the rivers of Ireland has an average fall of 129 
 yards. The average daily fall of water (falling 129 yards) into the sea 
 is 68,500,000 tons. As 884 tons falling twenty-four feet in twenty-four 
 hours is a horse-power, Ireland has an available water-power, acting 
 day and night, from January to December, amounting to 1,300,000 
 horse-power — or, reduced to 300 working days of twelve hours each, 
 the available waterfall for industry represents over 3,000,000 horse- 
 power. 
 
 But remember, there is hardly a wheel turning in Ire- 
 land. All this must go to waste, the people must starve 
 and the land decay, that the mill owners of Lancashire may 
 thrive. What would the world say of New England, had 
 we the power, were we to suppress all manufacturing and 
 mining industry in the Southern States? New England 
 would earn the execrations of the country and the world 
 for her avaricious selfishness. 
 
 The Parliament of Ireland was free from 1782 to 1801 — 
 and during this short period the country advanced like a 
 released giant in every field of industry and commerce. 
 Then the selfishness of England was appealed to by the 
 landlords and the traders, the former leading and demand- 
 ing that Irish industry be stopped, suppressed, murdered, 
 by act of Parliament. The landlords wanted no resource 
 for their rack-rented tenants. If the children of the farmer 
 could go into the mills and shops to work and earn, the 
 father would become independent of the landlord and agent. 
 
 One hundred years ago the Irish found that they could 
 reclaim their bog land by cutting a ship canal through the 
 country from Galway to Dublin. They have shown since 
 that the cost would be more than repaid by the increased 
 price of the land. They showed that they could save sail- 
 ing ships seventy hours in passing to and from Northern 
 Europe, and save them from the dangers of the Channel. 
 They showed that ships sailing from the West of Ireland 
 obtained an offing so soon that they often reached America 
 
770 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 before vessels leaving England on the same day had beaten 
 their way out of the English Channel. But the merchants 
 of the Southern ports of England — Bristol, Southampton, 
 and London — said that that canal, if cut, would be disas- 
 trous to them, and the Parliament refused to allow it to be 
 done. Nine times the Irish people have tried to cut that 
 canal ; but the Irish people cannot build a wharf, or do 
 anything else that a civilized community usually does at its 
 own option, without going to the English House of Com- 
 mons for permission to do it. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin had visited Ireland and was well in- 
 formed of her commercial wrongs. Writing to Sir Edward 
 Newenham, in 1779, he says : 
 
 I admire the spirit with which I see the Irish are at length deter- 
 mined to claim some share of that freedom of commerce, which is the 
 right of all mankind; but which they have been so long deprived of by 
 the abominable selfishness of their fellow-subjects. To enjoy all the 
 advantages of the climate, soil, and situation in which God and Nature 
 have placed us, is as clear a right as that of breathing, and can never 
 be justly taken from men but as a punishment for some atrocious crime. 
 
 In the last century Ireland made the best woolen cloth 
 in Europe. It was famous in every market. On petition 
 from the woolen-weavers of England, the English Parlia- 
 ment by law suppressed and killed the trade. The same 
 law was enacted against the leather trade, and then against 
 the trade in raw hides. Ireland, having the best sand, ob- 
 tained prominence in the manufacture of glass. English 
 glass-makers petitioned Parliament, and an Act of Parlia- 
 ment was passed stopping the glass trade. 
 
 Every means of industry in Ireland has been killed by 
 Act of Parliament. Every means of industrial development 
 in the country has been suppressed by Act of Parliament, 
 or by the possession of the land given silently into the 
 hands of English capitalists. “ Whenever the interests of 
 the whole Irish nation came in collision even with those of 
 a single city, town, or corporation of England,” says 
 Mathew Carey, “ they were offered up a sacrifice on the 
 altars of avarice and cupidity without remorse and without 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 771 
 
 control. In every case, of course, when the great national 
 interests on both sides interfered, those of the Irish were 
 unfeelingly devoted to destruction. Throughout the whole 
 career of the connection, there has scarcely been one meas- 
 ure adopted on the part of England toward Ireland that 
 wears the semblance of a magnanimous policy, except when 
 forced from her fears during the American revolution.” 
 
 “The object of that species of policy which the British 
 government had exercised toward Ireland,” said Mr. Pitt, 
 in his speech on the commercial propositions in the year 
 1785, “had been to debar her from the enjoyment and use 
 of her own resources, and to make her completely subser- 
 vient to the interest and opulence of Britain.” 
 
 “In reviewing the different acts of the Parliament of 
 Britain,” says Newenham, “which affected the trade of 
 Ireland, it will be found that the prosperity of Ireland was 
 always sacrificed to that of Britain ; that, with the excep- 
 tion of the linen, every valuable manufacture established in 
 Ireland, or of the establishment or even introduction 
 whereof there was any prospect, and which was likely to 
 become in any degree a competitor, either in the home or 
 foreign market, with a similar one undertaken in Britain, 
 however insignificant, was industriously suppressed ; that 
 the Irish were invariably obliged to give the preference to 
 the produce of British industry ; that downright necessity 
 alone occasioned the admission of even the rude produce of 
 Ireland into England ; that the acts of Parliament which 
 affected to aim at internal improvements, or which pur- 
 ported to be for the advancement of any lucrative species 
 of enterprise, were, for the most part, merely illusive. . . . 
 Whenever an infant manufacture in Ireland seemed likely 
 to rival a similar one in Britain, it was deliberately killed 
 by a system of duties in favor of its English rival, thus 
 opening a field for the usual efficacy of superior Brit- 
 ish capital in overpowering the unaided industry of 
 Ireland.” 
 
 One of the earliest measures of Lord Strafford’s admin- 
 istration in Ireland, in 1636, was to suppress and destroy 
 
772 JOHN BOYLE o’KEILLY. 
 
 the woolen manufacture for the express benefit of the Eng- 
 lish trade. 
 
 Lord Strafford, writing to his Government as Viceroy 
 of Ireland, in 1636, says : 
 
 Wisdom advises to keep this kingdom of Ireland as much subordi- 
 nate and dependent upon England as is possible, and holding them from 
 the manufacture of wool {which, unless otherwise directed , I shall by 
 all means discourage ), and then enforcing them to fetch their clothing 
 from thence, and to take their salt from the king (being that which pre- 
 serves and gives value to all their native staple commodities), hoic can 
 they depart from us without nakedness and beggary % 
 
 In another letter on the woolen trade of Ireland, Lord 
 Strafford says : 
 
 I had and so should still discourage it all I could, unless otherwise' 
 directed by his majesty and their lordships, in regard it would trench 
 not only upon the clothings of England, being our staple commodity, 
 so as if they should manufacture their own wools, which grew to very 
 great quantities, we should not only lose the profit we made now by 
 indraping their wools, but his majesty lose extremely by his customs, 
 and in conclusion it might be feared, they would beat us out of the 
 trade itself , by underselling us, which they were well able to do. 
 
 Says Mathew Carey (“Vindicise Hibernicse”) : 
 
 Both houses of the British Parliament presented addresses to King 
 William, praying that he would discountenance the woolen manufac- 
 ture of Ireland, as interfering with the interests of England — that is to 
 say, that he would blast the fortunes of the thousands engaged in this 
 manufacture, and equally blast the prosperity of the unfortunate coun- 
 try whose main source of wealth he was to cut up by the roots. 
 
 On the 9th of June, 1698, the English Lords presented 
 an address to King William III., stating, “ That the grow- 
 ing manufacture of cloth in Ireland, both by the cheapness 
 of all sorts of necessaries of life, and goodness of materials 
 for making all manner of cloth, doth invite his subjects of 
 England with their families and servants to leave their habi- 
 tations to settle there, to the increase of the woolen manu- 
 facture in Ireland, which makes his loyal subjects in this 
 kingdom very apprehensive, that the further growth of it 
 may greatly prej udice the said manufacture here ; and 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 773 
 
 praying that his majesty would be pleased, in the most 
 public and effectual way that may be, to declare to all his 
 subjects of Ireland, that the growth and increase of the 
 woolen manufacture there hath long, and will be ever looked 
 upon with great jealousy by all his subjects of this king- 
 dom.” 
 
 On the 30th of June, 1698, the English Commons pre- 
 sented a similar address ; and his majesty was pleased to 
 say, in answer, “ Gentlemen, I will do all that in me lies to 
 discourage the woolen manufacture in Ireland.” 
 
 Several iniquitous acts were immediately passed by the 
 British Parliament, prohibiting the exportation of wool, 
 woolen yarn, or woolen goods, to any part of the world, ex- 
 cept to Great Britain, on pain of forfeiture of ship and 
 cargo, in addition to a penalty of £500 for every offense. 
 One of these acts contained a most profligate and disgrace- 
 ful clause, that an acquittal in Ireland should not operate 
 as a bar to a new prosecution in England. 
 
 By an act passed in the year 1695, the trade to the Brit- 
 ish colonies, which had been a source of great national 
 benefit, was interdicted to the Irish. They were prohibited 
 from importing any articles the growth or production of 
 those colonies, w ithout their first toeing landed , and hav- 
 ing paid duties in England , which operated exactly as a 
 positive prohibition of the trade altogether. 
 
 The Irish, curbed and restricted in the woolen trade, en- 
 tered into the manufacture of silk. The French Huguenots, 
 driven out of their own country, went to Ireland, where 
 they were welcomed, and where they remained. They 
 brought with them their precious knowledge of silk weav- 
 ing which the Irish soon learned, and in which they soon 
 excelled. But the monopolizing spirit of England blasted 
 this industry in the bud. An act was passed in 1729 which 
 exempted the silk manufactures of England from duty on 
 importation into Ireland. This act sealed the destruction 
 of the Irish manufacture. Ireland was deluged with Eng- 
 lish silks — their manufactures were deprived of a market 
 and ruined, and their workmen reduced to penury. 
 
774 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 At the time of passing the act which exempted from 
 duty the silk manufactures of Great Britain, there were, 
 according to the evidence given before the Irish Parliament, 
 in 1784, 800 silk looms at work in Ireland. Thirty-six years 
 after there were but fifty. 
 
 The Irish having carried on the brewing of beer, ale, 
 and porter, and the manufacture of glass, to a great extent, 
 the hostility and jealousy of the English brewers and glass 
 manufacturers were excited, and two acts were passed 
 which laid the brewery and glass manufactory prostrate. 
 By one (7 G. II. c. 19), all hops landed in Ireland, except 
 British, were directed to be burned, and a duty of three 
 pence per pound, over and above all other duties, customs, 
 and subsidies, was imposed on the exportation of the 
 article from Great Britain. By the other iniquitous act, 
 the importation into Ireland of glass from any place other 
 than Britain, and the exportation of the article from Ire- 
 land to any place whatsoever, were prohibited, under 
 penalty of forfeiture of ship and cargo, and a heavy fine 
 per pound for all the glass found on board. (19 G. II. c. 12.) 
 
 Among all the detestable means by which the pros- 
 perity and happiness of Ireland were sacrificed to English 
 cupidity, one of the most shocking remains to be told. In 
 all the former cases, the sacrifice was to promote the inter- 
 ests of Great Britain at large, or at least of considerable 
 bodies of men. In the present, they were offered up to 
 aggrandize half a dozen or a dozen persons. During the 
 American revolutionary war and the Napoleonic wars, 
 under pretense of preventing the enemies of Great Britain 
 from procuring supplies of provisions for their fleets an" 
 armies, Irish exportation was prohibited for the benefit of 
 the British contractors, who were thereby enabled to pur- 
 chase at half the usual prices. This sinister operation 
 spread destruction tlioughout the South of Ireland, of 
 which the main dependence has always been the sale of 
 provisions. 
 
 So dreadful was the result of this atrocious law, that 
 Mathew Carey, writing a few years later, says ; 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 775 
 
 Had the British Parliament decimated the whole nation, and 
 imposed a poll tax of five guineas per head on the survivors, they 
 would not have produced the tenth part of the misery caused by this 
 odious and iniquitous system, which paralyzed the industry and ener- 
 gies of the Irish, and consigned so large a portion of them to idleness, 
 misery, and wretchedness. 
 
 The coming question in Ireland — the landlord system — 
 is purely commercial and industrial. The absentee land- 
 lord wants no alternative but one — pay the rack-rent or 
 emigrate. Men like Hartington, a Liberal in name but a 
 Whig at heart, a man of hereditary possession and no 
 hereditary production, will be joined by selfish middlemen 
 like Chamberlain ; and depend on it, they will appeal to 
 the worst passions and prejudices and the worst interests 
 of the middle class of trading Englishmen. 
 
 There are about 30,000 owners of land in Ireland. They 
 own the whole country. They are largely Englishmen who 
 live out of Ireland and have never seen it. Great numbers 
 of them obtained possession by confiscation. In the 
 County of Derry, fourteen London companies, such as the 
 Vintners, Drysalters, Haberdashers, etc., obtained from 
 King James most of the land of the county. These com- 
 panies of London traders have never seen the land ; they 
 have kept their agents there, though, to raise the rents, 
 generation after generation, as the poor people reclaimed 
 the soil from moor and mountain. In two centuries the 
 rental has been raised from a few hundred pounds a year 
 to over a hundred thousand pounds a year, the people 
 doing all the improvement and losing in proportion to their 
 labor, and the avaricious corporations in London drawing 
 all the profits. 
 
 A vast injury has been done to Ireland by the system- 
 atic English misrepresentation of her ancient history and 
 illustrious development in learning, law,\ music, and archi- 
 tecture. The world has been persistently informed that 
 Ireland’s claims to native distinction were dreams, myths, 
 fairy stories. The scholars of England have refused to 
 admit even the philological treasures of the Gaelic lan- 
 
776 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 guage. Gaelic literature, represented by innumerable 
 precious manuscripts ranging over tlie last thousand years, 
 has been ignored and shelved, where it could not be de- 
 stroyed. No provision has ever been made for the transla- 
 tion of these estimable literary works. 
 
 The ancient Brehon code of laws, one of the completest 
 codifications in existence, has been rejected, underrated, 
 and left untranslated. Everything has been done to keep 
 Ireland out of the respect and serious consideration of the 
 world. 
 
 An incalculable injury has been done to Ireland by the 
 wicked abolition of the native language, to teach which was 
 made a felony in 1704— a law which continued in full force 
 for a century. The great German scholar, F. Sclilegel, says : 
 
 A nation which allows her language to go to ruin is parting with the 
 best half of her intellectual independence, and testifies her willingness 
 to cease to exist. 
 
 Ireland did not willingly allow, but her people were 
 compelled to witness in agony the ruin of their grand old 
 language by the selfish cruelty of the foreign tyranny. 
 
 Bishop Nulty, of Meath, two years ago, arraigned the 
 English Government for its wicked policy of keeping the 
 Irish peasant and laboring classes unprepared for their 
 work in life. He showed that, by deliberate legislation, 
 the English government has not only killed Irish commerce 
 and industry, but has planned their permanent absence by 
 keeping the Irish people ignorant of all technical knowl- 
 edge. Throughout Great Britain, technical schools and 
 schools of design are numerous ; they are unknown in Ire- 
 land, except in one or two instances, where established by 
 special endowment. 
 
 Twelve years ago, in “ A Plea for the Home Government 
 of Ireland,” J. G. MacCarthy wrote: 
 
 In nearly every continental country, as Lord Derby lately pointed 
 out, the State has instituted, endowed, and actively superintends a 
 system of technical education by which workmen are gratuitously 
 taught drawing, modeling, carving, chemistry, and mechanics; and to 
 this State aid his lordship attributes the growing superiority of Con- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 777 
 
 tinental manufactories. In France there is a school of technical art in 
 every important town. In Germany there is a complete system of 
 technical training from the Realschulen of the villages to the Polytech- 
 nic Universities of Berlin and Stuttgardt. In West Flanders the State 
 instructs yearly 2000 boys in weaving. Geneva has immense schools 
 for teaching watchmaking. Thrifty, self-governed little Zurich main- 
 tains the best technical university in the world, in which everything 
 that is most valuable in the arts and manufactures of other countries is 
 taught by the most competent teachers anywhere procurable, in the 
 best manner that experience can suggest, and with all the aid that the 
 best material appliances can afford. Steady, self -governed W urtem- 
 berg has provided within the last twenty years for the technical 
 instruction of the population (not so large as that of Munster) one 
 university, two colleges of the first rank, and more than a hundred 
 high trade-schools, and has thus conquered a place in the front rank of 
 the manufacturing industry of the world. Is there any country more 
 in need of technical instruction than Ireland ? Are there any people 
 possessing more aptitude for it, more quickness of intelligence, more 
 fineness of touch, more sureness of hand, than our people ? Yet in 
 Ireland technical instruction is almost unknown. 
 
 In the March number of the Nineteenth Century (1886), 
 Mr. Robert Giffen, the leading English statist, director of 
 the British Board of Trade, writing “ On the Value of Ire- 
 land to England,” shows how Ireland is yearly robbed of 
 millions of pounds sterling by disproportionate taxation. 
 To the following figures, add the enormous drain of rent 
 from Ireland (nearly a hundred million dollars yearly), 
 and the meaning of English rule in Ireland becomes clear. 
 Mr. Giffen says : 
 
 Ireland, while contributing only about a twentieth part of the 
 United Kingdom in resources, nevertheless pays a tenth or eleventh 
 of the taxes. Ireland ought to pay £3,500,000, and it pays nearly 
 £7,000,000. To the extent of the difference Great Britain is better off 
 in the partnership than could have been expected beforehand 
 
 If Ireland only paid a fair contribution for Imperial pur- 
 poses, we should be out of pocket by this £3,200,000 more, or nearly 
 £6,000,000 
 
 I desire likewise to call special attention to the fact, which has come 
 out incidentally, that Ireland is overtaxed in comparison with Great 
 Britain. It contributes twice its proper share, if not more, to the 
 Imperial Exchequer. At present nearly the whole taxable income of 
 the Irish people is, in fact, absorbed by the State. The taxable income 
 
778 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 being about £15,000,000 only, the Imperial government takes nearly 
 £7,000,000, and the local taxes are over £3,000,000 more, or about 
 £10,000,000 in all. So large a proportion of taxation to taxable income 
 would be a serious fact for any country, and there can be little accu- 
 mulation (saving) in Ireland under such conditions. 
 
 And this wholesale misgovernment of Ireland, no matter 
 what may be said of improving with time, does not im- 
 prove — but grows worse and worse. Taxation increases as 
 population declines. 
 
 Sir Joseph McKenna, M.P., proves in his pamphlet, 
 
 4 ‘Imperial Taxation of Ireland,” that in the twenty years 
 from 1851, taxation in Ireland increased 75 per cent, on a 
 waning population— that is to say, from £4,000,000 in 1851 
 to £7,086,593 in 1871. 
 
 England grants Home Rule to the Australias, Canada, 
 New Zealand, and the Isle of Man. These countries are all 
 prosperous, peaceable, and loyal. She refuses Home Rule 
 only to two dependencies — India and Ireland ; and these 
 countries are in chronic misery and rebellion. 
 
 Nearly a century ago Grattan said : “ Control over local 
 affairs is the very essence of liberty.” 
 
 England is the first nation to admit and preach this doc- 
 trine for all nations except Ireland. Sydney Smith de- 
 clared : “The moment Ireland was mentioned, English 
 politicians bade adieu to common sense, and acted with the 
 barbarity of tyrants and the fatuity of idiots.” If Ireland 
 can secure the sympathy of the American population in her 
 Home Rule struggle, she will succeed — for England’s future 
 is closely related to our great English-speaking Republic. 
 American sympathy for Ireland may mean tremendous 
 commercial losses for England. 
 
 If the Irish- American people, at least 20,000,000 in blood- 
 kindred, resolve to buy no English goods, to “ boycott” all 
 English importations and interests, to refuse patronage to 
 English steamship lines and other corporations, and to sup- 
 port American manufacturers at the expense of English, 
 they will cause a loss to England greater in one year than 
 Ireland’s industrial competition would cause in five years. 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 779 
 
 This is Ireland’s weapon: she must strike England 
 either in the heart or the pocket. 
 
 A century ago, Burke said : “ Justice is only to be had 
 from England at the point of the sword.” Mr. Gladstone, 
 in Midlothian, stated : “ England never concedes anything 
 to Ireland except compelled to do so by fear.” Mr. Cowan, 
 M.P. for Newcastle, says: “We have tried to govern Ire- 
 land by the army, by the church, and by the landlords ; all 
 these agencies have failed, and brought us only shame and 
 humiliation. Let us try to rule her by her own people.” 
 
 Ireland asks for the moral support of good men of all 
 nations in her effort to secure Home Rule. Surely the 
 Government that has no other answer to give to an indus- 
 trious, moral people, living in so rich a land, than starva- 
 tion or emigration, is arraigned and condemned in the sight 
 of God and man, and ought to be wiped out. The Govern- 
 ment ought to be taken from the hands of the cruel and 
 senseless aristocracy that has misruled so long, and passed 
 into the hands of the English and Irish people to whom it 
 belongs. 
 
 As a sequel to the above address, the following circular 
 was issued by Mr. John C. Paige, president of the Beacon 
 Society, and sent by him to all the members of the society, 
 who responded by a generous contribution to the Irish 
 Parliamentary Fund : 
 
 Boston, March 12, 1886. 
 
 Dear Sir : At the last meeting of the Beacon Society, Mr. John 
 Boyle O’Reilly delivered an address upon “The Commercial and In- 
 dustrial Aspects of the Irish Question,” and all who had the privilege of 
 hearing him were greatly impressed with his presentation of the subject. 
 
 Mr. O’Reilly is greatly interested in “The $5 Irish Parliamentary 
 Fund,” and I have requested from him the privilege of mailing one of 
 the inclosed circulars to each member of the Beacon Society, and in- 
 viting their attention and response to it. 
 
 Kindly mail your contribution of ($5) five dollars, in inclosed en- 
 velope, to Mr. O’Reilly, accompanying the remittance with your name 
 and address, in order that it may be acknowledged. 
 
 Yours respectfully, Jno. C. Paige, 
 
 President Beacon Society. 
 
ADDRESS ON HENRY GRATTAN. 
 
 NATION is not great that only produces illustrious 
 
 men of letters. True greatness is roundly developed. 
 Not only students must come from the fertile fields, but men 
 of action, men of military and scientific genius, men of vast 
 commercial minds. A great country must be as varied in 
 its men as in its productions. 
 
 We now come to a man who had the.power of meeting 
 one of those great opportunities that burst only once in 
 hundreds of years — a man who struck the life-chord of his 
 country, and raised it from the position of a degraded 
 dependency into that of a proud nation. 
 
 In the same year that the battle of Bunker Hill was 
 fought, Henry Grattan, twenty-seven years of age, the son 
 of a Protestant and Tory father and mother, entered the 
 Irish House of Commons, which was then and had been for 
 300 years, since the passage of the Poynings act, a tongue-tied 
 and handcuffed body, without power to legislate even for 
 the Protestant minority that elected its members. The only 
 duty of the Irish Parliament up to that time had been, as an 
 English writer had said 100 years before, “ to keep the 
 original proprietors, the dispossessed Celts, from reviving, 
 and ruling the country. 5 ’ 
 
 But the selfishness and cruelty of the English had 
 engendered deep hatred in the hearts of Irishmen of all 
 classes and creeds. 
 
 In no country on the earth did the immortal “ shot 
 fired at Concord ’ ’ echo so plainly as in Ireland. Mr. Froude 
 says (English in Ireland, vol. ii. p. 200) that “ the fortunes 
 of Ireland at this moment were connected intimately with 
 the phases of war in America.” 
 
 Every step of the American war was watched with cease- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 781 
 
 less interest in Ireland. The swift American privateers 
 made the harbors of Ireland their favored recruiting places. 
 “ Their crews,” says Froude, u were mixed; Americans, 
 French, with a large proportion of Irish.” To keep up her 
 foreign wars England had to drain Ireland of her soldiers ; 
 and Froude says : “ The American flag was seen daily flut- 
 tering in insolence from the Irish coast anywhere between 
 Londonderry and Cork.” It was out of Carrickfergus 
 Harbor that Paul Jones sailed in 1778 when he sunk the 
 English man-of-war Ranger and captured half a dozen 
 English ships in as many days. 
 
 In 1777, alarmed at the defeat of Burgoyne at Saratoga, 
 England abandoned the pretension of taking the American 
 colonies and sent out two commissioners (Lord Carlyle and 
 Mr. Eden) to offer the Americans seats in the English House 
 of Commons and to help to pay the cost of the war. But 
 it was too late. France had stretched out her hand to the 
 struggling Americans, and the liberty of the New World 
 was saved. In 1778, France consented to an alliance with 
 the American States on condition that they would forever 
 renounce their connection with England. 
 
 America then replied to the English agents that if their 
 country wished to negotiate with America, she must with- 
 draw her fleets and armies, and recognize American inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 Then England declared war against France. Spain, in 
 the hope of recovering Gibraltar, flung herself into the 
 struggle against England. 
 
 Ireland was allowed to arm the Protestants as volun- 
 teer forces, and as soon as they were armed they resolved 
 that their Catholic fellow-countrymen should be enfran- 
 chised. There were only 8000 English soldiers on the 
 island in 1779. In that year Paul Jones, sailing out of 
 Ballenkellig Bay, on the west coast of Ireland, captured 
 two English frigates within sight of the people on the cliffs 
 and within sound of their cheering. 
 
 At this time Henry Grattan had been four years in 
 Parliament. Almost from his first session he had led the 
 
782 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 opposition. His gravity of character, his nobility of soul, 
 together with his pre-eminent wisdom and eloquence, were 
 recognized and admitted by friend and foe. He was known 
 and respected even throughout England. He had proved 
 the sternness of his purpose by publicly condemning and 
 abandoning the Tory principles of his father, and suffering 
 disinheritance for so doing. 
 
 In 1778 he moved an address to the King of England 
 stating that the condition of Ireland was no longer endur- 
 able. But he found that the selfish Parliament of Ireland, 
 drawn from a privileged few, was not ripe yet for a heroic 
 vote. He resolved to go on teaching. He waited, using 
 every influence to strengthen the national spirit. The 
 Protestant Volunteers swelled to 80,000 men ; and they and 
 the members of Parliament caught the spirit of the time. 
 The speeches of some of the members were magnificent 
 bursts of patriotism. In 1779, in the House, some one said 
 Ireland was at peace. 
 
 “ Talk not here of peace ! ” said Hussey Burgh, an Irish- 
 man, who held a high office under the English crown. 
 “ Ireland is not at peace. It is smothered war. England 
 has sown her laws like dragon’s teeth, and they have 
 sprung up as armed men.” 
 
 These words produced a tremendous excitement. From 
 the floor they rose to the gallery ; from the gallery to the 
 street, and that night they rung through the city and 
 through Ireland. That night, too, the same man, Hussey 
 Burgh, rose and declared, amidst wild cheers, that he re- 
 signed the office which he held under the English crown. 
 
 “ The gates of promotion are shut,” exclaimed Grattan, 
 “ and the gates of glory are opened ! ” 
 
 This was the state of Ireland in 1780, when Sir Henry 
 Clinton held New York, and Benedict Arnold betrayed his 
 country. England, hoping for victory abroad, would offer 
 no concession to Ireland. 
 
 When the Irish Parliament met in 1782, a demand was 
 made for a bill to give the franchise to the Catholics and to 
 abolish the Poynings Act which made all Irish legislation 
 
783 
 
 HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 originate in England. The volunteers, elated with the 
 news of the defeat of the English at Yorktown, assembled 
 at Dungannon and adopted these resolutions. 
 
 On the 14th of March, when the Irish Parliament ad- 
 journed, it was felt to be the lull before the lightning. Be- 
 fore separation, Mr. Grattan moved that the house reassem- 
 ble on the 16th of April, on which day, he said, every mem- 
 ber was to be in his place who loved the rights of Ireland. 
 
 That was a month of quivering moment to Ireland. On 
 the morning of the 16th of April the Protestant Volunteers 
 had poured into Dublin from all the provinces. They were 
 marching through the city, along the quays, with their 
 Irish banners flying, and bands playing. Cavalry and 
 artillery paraded on the squares. The batteries of artillery 
 were drawn up before the Parliament House ; and every 
 gun had a placard on its mouth with the words, “ Independ- 
 ence — or this ! ’ ’ 
 
 On that day, when the Parliament opened and the 
 King’s message was read by Hely Hutchinson, Henry Grat- 
 tan rose in his place, and all Ireland hung upon his words. 
 He moved the “ Declaration of Ireland’s Bight,” declaring 
 that no foreign power on earth should legislate for Ireland ; 
 that there should be no foreign law, no foreign judicative, 
 no legislative council, no foreign commissioners. The vote 
 was taken, the declaration was carried ; Ireland was a free 
 nation, voluntarily disunited from federation with Great 
 Britain, for she could not fight. England was forced to 
 consent. She recognized Ireland’s national freedom. But 
 she held in reserve a poisoned arrow, to be cast twenty 
 years later. 
 
 This was the work of Henry Grattan. He had secured 
 for Ireland a position in relation to the British Empire that 
 would have developed all her powers had it continued. 
 Her Parliament was free ; but unfortunately it did not rep- 
 resent the whole people, but only the Protestants of Ireland. 
 Before an act of enfranchisement could be passed, England 
 began a system of enormous bribery, which prevented the 
 enfranchisement of the Catholics. For the eighteen years 
 
784 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 during which the Irish Parliament lasted, the entire Cath- 
 olic population, that is five out of every six men, were dis- 
 franchised ; and no Catholic member sat on its benches 
 when it voted away the national life of the country. And 
 yet so precious a boon is Home Government, even so im- 
 paired, that this period of Ireland’s history was one of un- 
 exampled progress and prosperity. 
 
 All men, of all creeds, were proud of the brilliant men 
 who then made the Irish Parliament famous throughout the 
 world. 
 
 Lord Plunkett, speaking in 1799, described Ireland 
 thus: “A little island, with a population of four or five 
 millions of people, hardy, gallant, and enthusiastic ; her 
 revenues, her trade, and manufactures thriving beyond the 
 hope or example of any other country of her extent ; 
 within these few years advancing with a rapidity astonish 
 ing even to herself.” 
 
 Lord Clare, in 1798, said, that “ no nation had advanced 
 in cultivation, in agriculture, in manufactures with the 
 same rapidity in the same period, as Ireland from 1782 to 
 1798.” 
 
 Now comes the question : Why did this progress stop ? 
 Why did Ireland’s prosperity cease ? Were the Irish peo- 
 ple unworthy of their opportunity — incapable of steering 
 their rich and favored little country on the high seas of 
 freedom ? Why is it that Ireland of all European nations, 
 she who was placed best of all, set down in the mid-stream 
 of the world’s commerce, should alone fall to the rear in 
 the universal progression? Why is it, after eiglity-four 
 years of union with England, that we find Ireland poorer 
 than all other lands and the most restless and unhappy 
 country in the world ? 
 
 Ireland dare not trust herself to answer — she turns to 
 England. And well for the honor of humanity, the answer 
 has come from a few great and good Englishmen. Sydney 
 Smith, in 1808, looking back only a few years, said : “It 
 will require centuries to efface the impression of England's 
 recent policy in Ireland ; a policy that reflects indelible dis- 
 
HIS LIFE, POEMS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 785 
 
 grace on the English character, and explains but too clearly 
 the cause of the hatred of Irishmen. 
 
 England was jealous or fearful of Ireland’s rapid ad- 
 vance, and she deliberately resolved that it must stop. 
 There was no way to destroy it while the country was free. 
 So she set about the wicked work of buying up a majority 
 of the Irish Parliament — which only represented one sixth 
 of the nation — to vote away the independence of Ireland by 
 a union with England. 
 
 In describing what follows, I use the words of a great 
 and honest Englishman, Win. Howitt. He says : 
 
 The Parliament of Ireland must be put down. And how was this 
 done ? And how was the Union planned and effected ? 
 
 In 1799 the proposal of the Union was rejected by an overwhelming 
 majority. In 1800 it was carried by a majority of ninety. But what 
 were the means employed by the English Government to produce the 
 change ? It is now proven that not only had the great Irish rebellion of 
 ’98 been fomented by the English Government, preparatory to their plan 
 of urging a union, but the parliamentary papers, published since then, 
 disclose the astounding fact that £1,275,000 were paid in the purchase of 
 boroughs, and that more than £1,000,000 had been expended in mere 
 bribes. Bribery was unconcealed. The terms of the purchase were 
 quite familiar. The price of a single member’s vote for die Union was 
 £8000 in money, or the appointment to an office with £2000 a year, if 
 the parties did not choose to take ready money. Some got both for 
 their votes ; and no less than twenty peerages, ten bishoprics, one chief- 
 justiceship, and six puisne judgeships were given as the price of votes 
 for the Union. Add to this the officers who were appointed to the reve- 
 nue, the colonels appointed to the army, the commanders and captains 
 appointed to vessels in the navy in recompense for Union votes. The 
 peerage was sold ; the catiffs of corruption were everywhere — in the 
 lobby, in the streets, on the steps, and at the doors of every parliament- 
 ary leader, offering titles to some, offices to others, corruption to all. 
 
 The names and prices of all the purchased members of the Irish 
 Parliament were preserved in the Irish Red and Black lists. Some of 
 those who would not take money for their votes consented to sell their 
 seats. These seats they sold were filled with the tools of Government, 
 and the consequence was a majority. 
 
 Henry Grattan lived to see the rise and fall of his coun- 
 try. “I sat by its cradle : I followed its hearse,” he said. 
 Addressing the English Parliament, and referring to the 
 
786 JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
 
 men who had sold their votes, he said : “ You have swept 
 away our Constitution, you have destroyed our Parlia- 
 ment — but we will have our revenge. We will send into 
 the ranks of your Parliament a hundred of the greatest 
 scoundrels of the kingdom.’ ’ The last words Grattan 
 
 spoke were these: “ I am resigned. I am surrounded by 
 my family. I have served my country — and I am not 
 afraid of the Devil ! ” 
 
 THE END. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Allen, Col. John, 4, 149 
 “America,” Army of the Potomac, 
 Poem, 214 
 
 Amnesty Debate, 359 
 
 Debate on O’Reilly’s Case, 249 
 
 Diplomatic Correspondence, 247 
 
 Anderson, Rev. J. A., Letter to, 246 
 
 Angelus, The, 383 
 
 Anthony, Capt., 160-173 
 
 Arbor Hill Prison, 18 
 
 Arrest, 18 
 
 Athletics, 369 
 
 Canoeing Experiences, 233, 314 
 
 His Devotion to, 200 
 
 Pugilism, 225 
 
 Punishing a Slanderer, 202 
 
 “Athletics and Manly Sport” Pub- 
 lished, 314 
 
 “ At Last,” North American Review 
 Article, 272 
 
 Attucks Monument, 305 
 — — Poem, 306 
 
 Australia Convict Settlement, 69-75 
 Authors’ Reading, 312, 333 
 
 Baker, Valentine, 18 
 Bayard, Secretary of State, 260 
 Beacon Club Address, 280 
 Bensell, James Berry, Poem to 
 O’Reilly, 223 
 
 “ Blow from a Slipper,” 227 
 “ Bone, and Sinew, and Brain,” 146 
 Boston, Arrival at, 103 
 
 City Memorial Meeting, 366 
 
 Fire, 134 
 
 Bowles, Samuel, 181 
 Bowman, Martin, 82, 86 
 “ Boyle’s Log,” 293 
 Boyne River, 3 
 Bread Riot in London, 278 
 Breslin, John, 18, 157, 172, 328 
 Brownson, Dr., Controversy with, 147 
 Burial, 361 
 
 Bursley, John, Mate of the Sapphire, 
 99 
 
 Bush, The Australian, 70 
 Bust, by John Donoghue, 207 
 Butt, Isaac, 181 
 
 Butler, Gen. Benjamin F., 367 
 Byrne, Rev. William, 367 
 
 Cable, George W., Letter, 237 
 “ Canoes and Boats,” 351 
 Canoeing Trips, 233, 293, 315 
 Capen, President E. H., 368 
 Carpenter, Rev. Henry B., Died, 351 
 Catalapa, Cruise of the, 156 
 Catholicity in Creed and Action, 376 
 Catholic Union of Boston, 144 
 
 T. A. Union Speech, 321 
 
 Church in America, Centenary 
 
 of, 337 
 
 Church, O’Reilly’s Place in, 338 
 
 Congress, 338-349 
 
 Cashman, D. B., 67 
 Cavanagh, Michael, 379 
 Chamberlain, Joseph, 323 
 
 Betrays Gladstone, 278 
 
 Chambers, Corp. Thos., 48, 51, 55, 56, 
 62, 64, 158, 177, 183, 328 
 Character, 375 
 Charity, 386 
 Chatham Prison, 55 
 Child’s Tribute to John Boyle 
 O’Reilly, 389 
 “ City Streets,” 224 
 Cleveland, President, 323, 357 
 Coercion Bill Condemned, 219, 276 
 Collier, Rev. H. Price, 364 
 Collins, P. A., 103, 369 
 Colored Americans, 341 
 Colored Men’s Meeting, 326 
 Conaty, Rev. Thomas J. , 362 
 Condon, O’Meagher, 125, 158 
 Cribb Club Founded, 200 
 “ Crispus Attucks,” Poem, 325 
 Cromwell Massacre at Drogheda, 1, 
 273 
 
 “ Cry of the Dreamer,” 291 
 
 Dartmoor Prison, 55, 64, 67 
 Dartmoor Massacre, 55 
 Dartmouth College, Poem, 205 
 Dates, Memory for, 294 
 Davitt, Michael, 49, 50, 51, 61, 158 
 Death, 353-356. 
 
 787 
 
788 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Decoration Day Speech, 291 
 Demagogues, Denunciation of, 127 
 Devoy, John, 15, 16, 17, 157 
 Dismal Swamp Cruise, 315-319 
 Disraeli, Comments on his Career, 204 
 “ Doctor of Laws,” from Notre Dame 
 University, 203 
 Donalioe, Patrick, 154 
 
 Dowth Castle, 3, 362 
 Drogheda Argus, 5 
 Drogheda Massacre, 1 
 “ Dynamite Policy,” 230, 257 
 
 Editorials, His Last, 352 
 Editorial Work, 141 
 Emmet Centenary Poem, 184 
 “Ensign Epps, the Color Bearer,” 
 264 
 
 “ Erin,” St. Patrick’s Day Poem, 213 
 Escape “ Attempted,” 55, 63 
 
 from the Settlement, 75-83 
 
 Esmonde, Sir T. H. G. , 327 
 “Exile of the Gael,” 302 
 
 Faneuil Hall, Speech at Irish Meeting, 
 238, 262 
 
 Fenian Civilian Prisoners Liberated, 
 122 
 
 Invasion of Canada, 107-115 
 
 Movement, 8 
 
 Pall-bearers, 359 
 
 Reception, 101, 102 
 
 Five-dollar Fund, 290 . 
 
 Ford, Patrick, of Irish World, 326 
 Foster, Vere, 20 
 “ Fredericksburg,” 153 
 From the Heights, 337 
 Fulton, Rev. Robert, Eulogy, 360 
 Funeral Services, 359 
 
 Gazelle, Whaling Bark, 82 
 Gibbons, Cardinal, 356 
 Gifford, Capt., 82, 90, 122, 144, 256 
 Grand Army of the Republic, 353, 
 362 
 
 Grant, General, Anecdote of, 214 
 Gray, Sir John, 147 
 Grave at Holyliood, 373 
 
 “Hanged, Drawn and Quartered,” 
 269 
 
 Harrison, President, 371 
 Harson, M. J., Letter to, 338 
 Hassett, Thomas, a Fenian Soldier, 
 123 
 
 Hathaway, Capt., 82-99, 122, 157, 170, 
 254 
 
 Harvey Duff, 14 
 
 Healey, Bishop, 372 
 Hebrews Defended, 342 
 “Here and Hereafter,” Russell Sul 
 livan’s Poem, 201 
 
 Hewitt, Mayor, on the Irish Flag, 313 
 Higginson, Col. T. W., 367 
 Hoar, Senator, 357 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 357 
 
 O. W., Letter from, 214 
 
 Holyhood Cemetery, 373 
 Home Life, 381 
 
 Rule Movement, 128, 143, 290 
 
 Hougoumont, Convict Ship, 67, 68 
 House at Hull, 197 
 Hull Life-savers, 330-332 
 Hurd, Charles E., 115, 132 
 Hussars (Service in the Prince of 
 Wales Own), 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 
 Hussey, Capt., 89 
 
 “ In Bohemia ” Published, 265 
 Informer, Treatment by O’Reilly, 47 
 Ireland, Last Sight of, 99 
 “ Ireland’s Opportunity,” 207 
 Irish Delegates, O’Reilly’s Speech at 
 Reception, 327 
 Flag, 335 
 
 Industries and Commerce, 280- 
 
 287 
 
 National League Convention, 231 
 
 National Members on his Death, 
 
 358 
 
 People Suppressed, 17 
 
 Protestant Patriots, 147 
 
 Irishman, O’Reilly’s Letter to, 255 
 “ Is it too Late ? ” 258 
 
 “ Jacqueminots,” Translated to Span- 
 ish, 319 
 
 Jordan, Capt., of the Ship Bombay , 99 
 Joyce, Dr. R. D., 103, 132 
 
 Kearney, Dennis, 184 
 Kelly, John Edward. 67, 235. 266 
 “ Kindness is the Word,” 337, 353, 
 374. 379 
 
 “ King’s Men,” 56-61, 241 
 
 La Grippe, Epidemic, 339 
 Latlirop, George Parsons, 358 
 Lavigerie, Cardinal, 340 
 Lavin, Michael, Fenian Soldier, 63 
 Lecture, First in America, 102 
 Lecture Tour in the West, 344-346 
 Lecture, His Last in Boston, 343 
 Liberty Enlightening the World, 800 
 Literary Growth, 384 
 
 Life’s Offer, 295 
 
 Methods, 387 
 
INDEX. 
 
 789 
 
 Log-book of Capt. Hathaway, 91 
 Longfellow’s Death, 213 
 Lowell, James Russell, 260 
 Lucas, Frederick, 384 
 
 Maguires, 76-82 
 Marriage, 132 
 Martin, John, 147 
 
 McCabe. Rev. Patrick, of Bunbury, 
 75, 255, 344 
 
 McCarthy, Justin, on O’Reilly’s Ath- 
 letic Side, 200 
 
 O’Reilly's Speech of Welcome, 
 
 296 
 
 Sargeant Charles, 48, 56, 62, 64, 
 
 158 
 
 McMahon, Rev. J. W., 357 
 McMaster, J. A., on “ Moondyne,” 
 186 
 
 Memorial Services, 362, 371, 373 
 Miles the Slasher, 2 
 Millbank Prison, 49-55 
 Mitchell, John, 50, 147 
 Modoc Massacre, 142 
 Month’s Mind, 371 
 Monument Fund, 370 
 “ Moondyne,” 68, 185, 188 
 Moore Centenary, 193 
 Morgan, The Colored Graduate, 348 
 Moseley, E. A., Letters, etc., 339, 378, 
 380, 387 
 
 Moseley, Edward A., 314 
 Mountjoy Prison, 47 
 Murphy, Capt. James, 20 
 
 Miss Mary, 132 
 
 Rev. P. B., 115 
 
 Naturalization, 100 
 Nature. Love of, 380 
 Negroes Championed, 142, 288 
 
 Question, 341, 348 
 
 Netterville Institution, 3 
 “ No Irish need apply,” 232 
 Number ‘" 406,” 190 
 “ 9843,” 83 
 
 O’Brien, William, O Reilly’s Speech 
 of Reception, 303 
 O’Connell Centenary, 152 
 O’Connor, Arthur, 327 
 O’Kane, John, 180 
 
 Daniel P., 180 
 
 “ Old School Clock,” 19, 20, 256 
 O’Mahony, Col. John, Letter to him, 
 105 
 
 Death, 174 
 
 O’Neill, Gen. John; 108, 115 
 Orange Parade, 116-120, 121, 140 
 Riot Anniversary, 231 
 
 O’Reilly, Eliza Boyle, 4, 205 
 
 of Cavan, 2 
 
 William, 5 
 
 William David, 3, 4, 130 
 
 Papyrus Club, 343, 361 
 
 “ Alexander Young’s Feast,” 
 
 234 
 
 Elected President, 191 
 
 Farewell Letter, 196 
 
 Founded, 132-136 
 
 Ladies’ Night Speech, 192 
 
 “ Loving Cup,” 191 
 
 “President’s Night,” 221 
 
 “ The Fierce Light,” 241 
 
 Parnell, Charles Stewart, 198 
 
 Imprisoned, 207 
 
 Fanny, 220 
 
 Parole not Broken, 254 
 Patriotism, Irish and American, 38# 
 Pentonville Prison, 48 
 Personal Appearance, 104, 105 
 Philadelphia, Arrival at, 100 
 Philistine’s Views, 334 
 Phillips, Wendell, 142, 153 
 
 On Phoenix Park Tragedy, 217 
 
 Friendship for O’Reilly, 228 
 
 His Death ; O’Reilly’s Poem, 236 
 
 Phoenix Park Tragedy, 215, 224 
 
 O’Reilly’s Speech, 216 
 
 “ Pickett of Dragoons,” 11 
 Pilgrim Fathers’ Poem, 335 
 Pilot Burned Out, 135 
 
 First Work on, 106 
 
 Part Purchase by O’Reilly, 155 
 
 A Democratic Paper, 347 
 
 Poems, Australian and Others, 125 
 Poem, His First, 384 
 Poems in Memoriam, 364, 385, 389 
 Poets Generously Encouraged, 206, 
 223, 310 
 
 Portland Prison, 64 
 
 Portrait by Edgar Parker, 207 
 
 Portsmouth Prison, 55 
 
 Press Club, Elected President, 191 
 
 Presidential Address, 194 
 
 Preston Guardian, 6 
 
 Letter to his Aunt in, 105, 133 
 
 Life and Reminiscences of, 7, 8 
 
 Prison Legacy, 387 
 
 Letters, 329, 376 
 
 Life, 48 
 
 Poems, 48 
 
 Sketch, 52, 56 
 
 Public Life, Editorial, “ Whipped,” 
 203 
 
 Declines Office, 231 
 
 Supports Cleveland, 239 
 
 His Democratic Principles, 301 
 
790 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Public Life, Farewell to Politics, 333 
 
 • His Democracy Defined, 348 
 
 Punishment for Breach of Rules, 71 
 
 “ Released,” 182 
 “ Ride of Collins Graves,” 146 
 Riel, Louis, his Execution, 264 
 Riley, James Whitcomb, Poem on 
 O’Reilly’s “ In Bohemia,” 300 
 Roderique Island, Adventure at, 86 
 Rossa, O’Donovan, 17, 231, 258 
 Russell, Lord Odo, 46 
 
 Sackville West, English Minister’s 
 Mistake, 324 
 Sapphire , Bark, 89 
 
 Seiders, Capt., Takes O’Reilly Pas- 
 senger, 89. 
 
 Sentence, 47 
 
 Sepoys Blown from the Cannon’s 
 Mouth, 262 
 
 Slattery, Rev. J. R., 326 
 Solitary System at Millbank, 49 
 “ Songs, Legends, and Ballads,” 145 
 “ Songs of the Southern Seas,” 144 
 Speech, “ For the Press,” 130 
 
 on the Catalpa Rescue, 170 
 
 Stage Irishmen, 129 
 Staniford Street Lodgings, 132 
 Stanley, Henry M., 136 
 St. Botolph Club Founded, 199 
 “Statues in the Block” Published, 
 205 
 
 Stephens, James, Escape, 18 
 Stoddard, Charles Warren, Letter to, 
 291 
 
 Strathnairn, Lord, the Sepoy Exe- 
 cutioner, 262 
 
 Sullivan, T. Russell, Poem, 201 
 
 Talbot, Informer, 14, 15 
 “ Taverner,” Anecdote, 213 
 
 Estimate of O’Reilly, 299 
 
 Taylor, Col. C. H., 367 
 Teeling, Rev. Arthur J., 362 
 Traitor, Punishment of a, 168 
 Trial, 22-47 
 
 Tribune , New York, Offer of Em- 
 ployment, 126 
 
 Underwood, Francis H., Farewell 
 Poem to, 265 
 
 “ Useless Ones,” his Last Poem, 343 
 
 Victoria’s Jubilee, 303 
 
 O’Reilly in Fanueil Hall, 306 
 
 Vigilant , Whaling Bark, 79 
 Volunteers, His Service in Lancashire 
 Rifles, 7 
 
 Walker. Edwin G., 369 
 Watkinson, Capt. James, 6 
 Whale, Perilous Adventure with, 84, 
 85 
 
 “What is Good?” 337 
 Whittier, John G., Letter from, 214, 
 237 
 
 “ Wild Goose,” 67 
 Woman’s Rights, Editorial, 227 
 Woodbury, Hon. C. L., 366 
 
 Young, Alexander, 75 
 

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