"Thus down thy side, romantic Ashbourne, glidesThe Derby dilly, carrying six insides."
"Thus down thy side, romantic Ashbourne, glidesThe Derby dilly, carrying six insides."
"Thus down thy side, romantic Ashbourne, glides
The Derby dilly, carrying six insides."
And so, pre-eminent over all was his parody on Dryden's celebrated comparison. Three Colonels (Perceval, Verner, and Sibthorpe) represented Sligo, Armagh, and Lincoln. The two first were smooth-faced and whiskerless as a maiden. Sibthorpe is "bearded like a bard." O'Connell, alluding to them in the House, thus hit them off, amid a general roar, in which the victimized trio could not refrain from joining—
"Three Colonels in three distant counties born,Sligo, Armagh, and Lincoln did adorn.The first in matchless impudence surpassed,The next in bigotry—in both the last.The force of nature could no further go,To beard the third she shaved the other two."
"Three Colonels in three distant counties born,Sligo, Armagh, and Lincoln did adorn.The first in matchless impudence surpassed,The next in bigotry—in both the last.The force of nature could no further go,To beard the third she shaved the other two."
"Three Colonels in three distant counties born,
Sligo, Armagh, and Lincoln did adorn.
The first in matchless impudence surpassed,
The next in bigotry—in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go,
To beard the third she shaved the other two."
Like other politicians, O'Connell did not escape without occasional personal passages at arms. In one of these, with Mr. Doherty, then Irish Solicitor-General, in May, 1830, O'Connell may be said to have come off second-best. He had attacked Doherty for his conduct as Crown lawyer in what was called the Doneraile conspiracy. The whole of the Tory party sided with Doherty, who made a forcible defence, attacking his assailant in turn, and the Whigs did not very warmly support O'Connell, who had then only been a few months in Parliament. Thisrencontre, which took place while "The Duke" was Premier, raised Doherty to the Chief Justiceship of the Common Pleas in Ireland—and led to Peel's offering him a seat in the Cabinet in 1834, and a Peerage in 1840. O'Connell used to say, and with truth, thathehad placed Doherty on the Bench.
On another occasion O'Connell was far more successful. This was the celebrated Breach of Privilege case.
Victoria ascended the throne in June, 1837. Shortly after there was a General Election, and a great many of the members returned were petitioned against. The Tories had raised a large fund to defray the cost of these proceedings, and it was called "The Spottiswoode Subscription," as Spottiswoode, the Queen's printer (a patent life-office of much emolument), acted as its treasurer. Angry debates arose in the House of Commons on this subject, and personalities were so much and so tumultuously bandied to and fro, that Mr. Abercrombie, the Speaker, threatened to resign if they were repeated,—as if, grasping Scotchman as he was, hecouldever have brought himself to resign the £6,000 a-year attached to the office!
The controverted elections were duly referred to the usual Election Committees, ballotted for out of the members then in the House. These committees were duly sworn, as juries are, to do justice between man and man. But it was unhappily notorious that when the majority were Whigs, they almost invariably decided against Tory members, andvice versâ. As ill luck would have it, the majority of the decisions went to unseat Liberal members. As parties were nearly balanced in Parliament, at that time—indeed the Whigs remained in office merely because there was a new and inexperienced sovereign who would have been puzzled how to act on a change of ministry—the Liberals complained of the decisions of the Election Committees.
On February 23, 1838, Lord Maidstone, who had been elected for Northamptonshire, and was the eldest son of the intolerant Earl of Winchelsea, who fought a duel on the Catholic Relief Bill, with Wellington, in 1 829, drew the attention of the House of Commons to a Breach of Privilege. He complained that, two days before, at a public dinner given at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, Mr. O'Connell had declared that in the Election Committees "Corruption of the worst description existed, and above all there was the perjury of the Tory politicians." Also, that he "was ready to be a martyr to justice and truth; but not to false swearing, and therefore, he repeated, that there was foul perjury in the Tory Committees of the House of Commons."
What followed I saw, and can never forget. O'Connell, who had been reading (or appearing to read) a newspaper while Lord Maidstone was accusing him, keenly arose, sternly looked around the House, folded his arms, and, in his deepest tones and most impressive manner, said, "Sir, I did say every word of that—every word of that; and I do repeat that I believe it to be perfectly true. Is there a man who will put his hand on his heart and say that it is not true? Such a man would be laughed to scorn."
Maidstone then gave notice of a motion condemnatory of O'Connell, and the discussion was adjourned until the following Monday. Maidstone moved that O'Connell's speech was an imputation on the whole House, and that he be censured for it as a breach of privilege. O'Connell replied in a speech of great power, in the midst of which he was self-designated "The pensioned servant of Ireland," and plainly declared that whenever an Election Committee was appointed, it was known that the decision would be exactly according to the political majority of its members; and repeating that he had spoken only the truth, and would stand by his words. The Agitator then retired.
A great many members spoke,—the Whigs making a lukewarm defence for O'Connell, instead of admitting and lamenting the truth of his remarks. The Tories clamoured for a heavy censure. In a House of 517 members, out of 658, a majority ofninewere for the censure. Next Daniel Callaghan, member for Cork city, Edmund Burke Roche, member for Cork county, W. D. Gillon for Falkirk, and J. P. Somers for Sligo, severally and seriously declared that, each and all, they adopted Mr. O'Connell's words and sentiments! It was then carried by 298 to 85 (Lord John Russell voting in the majority) that the words were "a false and scandalous imputation on the House."
Next, on the motion that O'Connell be reprimanded in his place, an exciting debate ensued. Mr. Callaghan repeated his endorsement of O'Connell's imputation, and his words were taken down by the Clerk of the House, on the motion of Mr. Hume, who called on the Speaker to notice his contumacy. But the Speaker was mute. Next day, Mr. Roche also repeated his full adherence to O'Connell's charge. The vote of censure was carried by a majority of twenty-nine.
O'Connell duly attended in his place, was gravely reprimanded by the Speaker (his own particular friend!), and said, when the farce was over, "Galileo remarked 'the world does move, after all.' And so, despite the censure of this House, I repeat all I said before. The system I condemn reminds one of the Judge in Rabelais who decided cases by throwing three dice for the plaintiff and two for the defendant. I had rather take the dice-box and say 'seven's the main,' than take my chance on an Election Committee of this House. I express no regret for what I have said. I have retracted nothing. I will retract nothing. I have told the truth."
So saying, having bearded the House by strongly repeating his accusation, he sat down. It was considered that he had gained a victory, and the conclusion of all was a total change and reform in the system of Parliamentary election committees.
But it was in Ireland—whether in the Catholic Association, at an Aggregate Meeting, at a public dinner, or in a court of law—that O'Connell was to be seen "in all his glory." In Ireland his influence was extraordinary—not only for its vast extent, but for its continuance. No other public man, no matter what the country or the age, has maintained his popularity, as O'Connell did, for nearly forty years. I think that this may be partly attributed to the belief, long and widely entertained by his followers, almost unbroken to the last, encouraged by himself, and generally borne out by circumstances, that he was above the law, that the law could not reachhim, that he "could drive a coach and six through any Act of Parliament."
In February, 1831, he was indicted and tried (with Tom Steele and Barrett, ofThe Pilotnewspaper) for holding political meetings which the Viceroy's proclamation had forbidden. They pleaded guilty, but as the law under which they were tried was allowed to expire before they were brought up for judgment, his prophecy, that the law could not reach him, was fulfilled. In 1843 he was less fortunate. Three months in prison!—thatdestroyed theprestige.
This man was eminently endowed by nature with the bodily and mental qualifications for a Tribune of the People. In stature he was lofty, in figure large. His bold, good-natured face was an advantage—as were his manly appearance and bearing. His voice was deep, musical, sonorous and manageable. Its transitions from the higher to the lower notes was wondrously effective. No man had a clearer or more distinct pronunciation—at times, it even went to the extent of almost syllabizing long words. How lingeringly, as if he loved to utter the words, would he speak of "Cawtholic E-man-cee-pa-tion!" He rather affected a full Irish accent, on which was slightly grafted something of the Foigardism which, in his youth, had attached itself to him when he studied in France. No one who noticed his capacious chest could wonder that O'Connell was able to speak longer than most men without pausing to take breath. When making a speech, his mouth was very expressive; and this has been noticed as the characteristic of that feature, in Irish faces. In his eyes (of a cold, clear blue) there was little speculation, but the true Irish expression of feeling, passion and intellect played about his lips. Looking at him, as he spoke, a close observer might almost note the sentiment about to come from those lips, before the words had utterance—just as we see the lightning-flash before we hear the thunder-peal.
His eloquence was eminently characteristic. Irishmen, in general, have "the gift of the gab,"—that is, the power of expressing their sentiments in public with ease to themselves and to their hearers. It gives them little trouble to make a speech; and this faculty and this facility arise, very probably, from the political circumstances of their country as much as from anything else. In England there is no necessity why a man should have decided political opinions. In Ireland no man dare be neutral. Persons may disagree, and do; but they unite in despising and condemning the unhappy wight who does not belong to any party. An Irishman, in Ireland,mustbe a partisan. Being so, there is no earthly reason why, attending any public meeting, he should not be induced to take part in the proceedings, and make a speech. Oratory is a very catching thing,—listening begets the desire to be listened to, in turn; and, once that a man has heard his own voice in public, depend on it, he will be anxious to hear it again.
Self-possession, which is "half the battle" in public life, is an essential in public speaking. However, it is nottheessential. There must be a copious flow of words—a happy and rapid selection of language—an earnestness of manner—a knowledge of human character—and, above all, a considerable degree of information, with a certain portion of the "imagination all compact," which breathes fervour and poetry into the spoken speech. Great is the orator's power. He can touch the human heart—he can move the secret springs of action—he can sway the popular will as he pleases—he can comfort the afflicted, infuse hope into the oppressed, alarm the oppressor, and make ill-directed Power and Might tremble on their lofty thrones.
Ireland has been particularly profuse in her contribution of eminent orators. Burke, Canning, Plunket, Grattan, Sheil, Wellesley and Curran, stand pre-eminent on the roll; but I doubt whether O'Connell, when the length of his reign is considered, as well as the great extent of his influence, derived chiefly from his power as a speaker, was not greater than any of these great orators. He had less wit than Canning—less imagination than Curran—less philosophy than Burke—less rhetoric than Sheil—less pure eloquence than Plunket—less classical expression than Wellesley—less pathos than Grattan; but he had more power than any of them. There was wonderful force in his language. And when addressing an Irish audience, there was such an alternation of style—now rising to the loftiest, and now subsiding to the most familiar—that he carried all hearts with him, and those who listened seemed as if under the spell of an enchanter, so completely did he move them as he pleased. Judging by theireffect, O'Connell's speeches must be considered as among the best, if not the very best, of the time and country.
O'Connell's versatility as a speaker was wonderful. He was "all things to all men." In a Court of Law he would often joke a jury into his view of the case, and when this did not succeed, would convince them by subtle argument, bold declamation, and a natural eloquence. At a political meeting, where he had to address a multitude, they would alternately smile or get enraged, as he jested with or excited their feelings. In Parliament, which he did not enter until he was fifty-four years old, he generally was more calm, more careful, moresubdued, more solicitous in his choice of words, and more vigilant in restraining the manner of delivering them.
The great secret of his power, as a speaker, was his earnestness. He ever had a great object in view, and he always applied himself, with a strong and earnest mind, to achieve that object. Whenever he pleased, he could rise to the greatest height of eloquence; but he preferred, when speaking to the people, to use language which each of them could understand. He varied his speeches, too, with badinage and jokes, which, though merely humourous, made his audience smile, and keep them in good temper with each other, with themselves, and with him. The Irish, who thronged to listen to him, went to be amused as well as to be harangued. Nor did he disappoint them. I may illustrate what I mean by giving an example of one of his familiar illustrations.
In 1827, during the time of what was called "The New Reformation," in Ireland, O'Connell made a speech at the South Chapel, in Cork. It contained the following passage, after a very elaborate denial of the assumed conversions which the "New Reformation" gentry had boasted of:—"They remind me, gentlemen, of a Frenchman who waited on Lord Kenmare, and offered to drain the lakes of Killarney, which would restore a great quantity of arable land. Lord Kenmare happened to think that he had land enough, and civilly declined having his property deprived of the beautiful lakes, its proudest ornament. The Frenchman, however, being one of those who
'Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame,'
persisted in his fancy, and accordingly rose at break of day to drain the lake. And, boys, how do you think he was doing it? Why, he was baling it out with his hat! (Great laughter.) Now, there are seven millions of Catholics in Ireland—the New Reformation folk do not boast of more than six or seven conversions, or perversions, in the week—so that, allowing (which is impossible, where there are bright eyes and warm hearts such as flash and throb around me, in this large assembly) that the Catholics of Ireland will not increase in the meantime, there must, at this rate, be a million of weeks elapse before all of them are drained out by conversion. (Cheers.) Boys, these Reformation gentry remind me mightily of the Frenchman baling out the Lake of Killarney with his hat!"
It was with pleasant, homely jokes like this—yet each having a tendency to work out the argument—that O'Connell was wont to amuse the Irish. In point of wit, I doubt whether O'Connell's little Frenchman be not as original a character as Sydney Smith's far-famed Mrs. Partington.
O'Connell's friends lamented, and with ample cause, at his aptness to abuse the license of public speech. He was very fond of bestowing nicknames on his opponents, and of applying offensive epithets to them.20As early as July, 1808, at a meeting of the famous Catholic Board, he had commenced that sort of speaking—which lowers him who adopts it rather than those against whom it is levelled. He then said "the present administration are the personal enemies of the Catholic cause; yet if the Catholics continue loyal, firm, and undivided, they have little to fear from the barren petulence of the ex-advocate, Percival, or the frothy declamations of the poetaster, Canning—they might with equal contempt despise the upstart pride of the Jenkinsons, and with more than contempt the pompous inanity of that Lord Castlereagh, who might well be permitted to hate the country that gave him birth, to her own annihilation." In the same vulgar spirit he spoke of Cobbett as "a comical miscreant," and declared that the Duke of Wellington was "a stunted corporal," and maintained that Disraeli, whose Jewish descent is well known, must be a lineal descendant of the impenitent thief who was crucified, when the great sacrifice of Salvation was consummated at Calvary.
Once only, as far as my memory serves, O'Connell gave a nickname, with point and wit in the application. He was denouncing the present Earl of Derby, who was then a member of the House of Commons, and filled the office of Chief Secretary of Ireland. In some way Stanley had taken official notice of the "sayings and doings" of O'Connell, whereupon the Agitator declared that, from that time, he must be called "Shave-beggar Stanley." Amid roars of laughter (for this was at a public meeting in Dublin), O'Connell proceeded to justify thenom de guerre. It was the custom, he said, that barbers' apprentices should learn their business by shaving beggars, who, as the job was done for nothing, could scarcely complain if a blunt razor gave them pain, or an unskilful hand cut the skin, as well as the beard. So, he added, with British statesmen. They were first sent over to Ireland, to get their hand in, and when that was accomplished they were considered to have sufficient dexterity to be placed in office in England. He argued, by analogy, that the political, like the actual "shave-beggar," gave a good deal of pain, and inflicted many cuts, which the Irish, like the pauper shavelings, were compelled to submit to, without complaint. From that day until the day he left Ireland, Lord Stanley was always spoken of, by the Irish Liberals, with the prefix of "shave-beggar" to his surname!
Two things, through life, O'Connell strenuously affirmed and inculcated. First, that the man who committed outrage supplied the enemy with a weapon to be used against the country. Second, that Ireland would never be prosperous until the Union was repealed.
He did not join the United Irishmen in 1798,—not because he, like them, had not an aspiration for the political independence of his country, but because he disapproved oftheirmode of striving for it, by force. From first to last he was opposed to violence. The "Young Ireland" schism, at Conciliation Hall, which so much annoyed him, during the last eighteen months of his career, was caused by his resistance to the doctrine of "physical force."
As to the Union—it is only just to say, that O'Connell's first public effort was against that measure. His maiden speech, delivered on January 13th, 1800, at a Catholic meeting, in Dublin, unequivocally condemned the Union. The Resolutions adopted by the meeting, drawn up by O'Connell, declared the proposed incorporate Union to be, "in fact, an extinction of the liberty of Ireland, which would be reduced to the abject condition of a province, surrendered to the mercy of the Minister and Legislature of another country, to be bound by their absolute will, and taxed at their pleasure by laws, in the making of which Ireland would have no efficient participation whatever!" During the struggle for Emancipation, as well as from that era until his death, O'Connell always declared that he would not be satisfied with less than "the Repeal." He never cushioned, never concealed that such was his object. I mention this, because it has been said that, "having got Emancipation, he ought not to have gone for Repeal." As a matter ofpolicy, perhaps, Ireland would now be better off if the Repeal agitation had not taken place; but it is indisputable that from 1800 to 1846, O'Connell declared that he would not be satisfied with less than "the Repeal."
Here it may be well to notice thequestio vexataof the famous "O'Connell Rent." The amount has not been exactly ascertained, but it is believed to have varied from 10,000l.to 20,000.la year. It commenced after Emancipation was granted, and was continued until 1846, when, from the pressing wants of the Irish, it was announced that Mr. O'Connell wished it to be discontinued until they could better afford to pay it. Here it may be best to give Mr. O'Connell's own apology, in a letter to Lord Shrewsbury, in 1842. He said, "I will not consent that my claim to 'the Rent' should be mi sunderstood. That claim may be rejected, but it is understood in Ireland. My claim is this:—For more than twenty years before Emancipation, the burthen of the cause was thrown upon me. I had to arrange the meetings—to prepare the resolutions—to furnish replies to the correspondence—to examine the case of each person complaining of practical grievances—to rouse the torpid—to animate the lukewarm—to control the violent and inflammatory—to avoid the shoals and breakers of the law—to guard against multiplied treachery—and at all times to oppose, at every peril, the powerful and multitudinous enemies of the cause. To descend to particulars: At a period when my minutes counted by the guinea—when my emoluments were limited only by the extent of my physical and waking powers—when my meals were shortened to the narrowest space, and my sleep restricted to the earliest hours before dawn; at that period, and for more than twenty years, there was no day that I did not devote from one to two hours (often more) to the working out of the Catholic cause; andthatwithout receiving, or allowing the offer of any remuneration, even for the personal expenditure incurred in the agitation of the cause itself. For years I bore the entire expenses of a Catholic agitation, without receiving the contributions of others to a greater amount than seventy-four pounds in the whole. Who shall repay me for the years of my buoyant youth and cheerful manhood? Who shall repay me for the lost opportunities of acquiring professional celebrity; or for the wealth which such distinction would ensure?"
There is considerable force in this. But O'Connell's character, out of Ireland, would have stood higher, had he not received "the Rent." It was often alleged, by his adherents, as a set-off, that Grattan had also been remunerated by his countrymen. But the cases were not parallel. In 1782, Grattan, almost single-handed, had achieved the Indepe ndence of Ireland, by obtaining the recognition of the principle that "the Crown of England is an Imperial Crown, but that Ireland is a distinct Kingdom, with a Parliament of her own, the sole Legislature thereof." He had accomplished a bloodless Revolution. He had thrown himself into political life, abandoning the profession on which rested nearly his whole worldly dependence. A grant of £100,000 was proposed to him in the Irish Parliament, "to purchase an estate, and build a suitable mansion, as the reward of gratitude by the Irish nation, for his eminent services to his country." It was intended as a mark of national gratitude to a nation's Liberator. So unanimous was the feeling that, on the part of the Viceroy, a member of the Government offered "as part of the intended grant to Mr. Grattan, the Viceregal Palace in the Phœnix Park [Dublin], to be settled on Mr. Grattan and his heirs for ever, as a suitable residence for so meritorious a person." Grattan's own impulse was to refuse the grant. His services had been rendered without expectation or desire of reward. But his private fortune was so inadequate to his public position that he must retire from politics or become a placeman under the Crown. The grant would give him an independent position. He consented to accept half of the proffered amount (£50,000), and determined under no circumstances to take office. He was, ever after, the retained servant of the nation. Yet, high as he stood, he did not escape contumely. Even Henry Flood, his rival, publicly said, in a Parliamentary controversy, "I am not a mendicant patriot, who was bought by my country for a sum of money, and then sold my country to the Minister for prompt payment."
O'Connell's "Rent" was estimated as yielding from £10,000 to £20,000 a year—thrice the amount, probably, that he could have realized at the bar, had he not devoted his time to politics. It was duly paid for nearly twenty years. Thus O'Connell received, in this annuity from his party, about five times as much as the Irish Parliament had given to Grattan. Besides, since 1825, when Derrynane became his by the death of his uncle, O'Connell's landed property was not less than £4,000 a year. The most potent objection to "the Rent" was that, collected year after year, it rendered its recipient liable to the imputation of keeping up Agitation in order to collect the Rent.
When O'Connell's uncle died, in 1825, at a very advanced age, (he was several years past ninety,) the news reached O'Connell when he was on circuit, at Limerick. He hastened to Kerry, to attend the funeral, and did not again appear in court until the trials were proceeding in Cork. I had taken my seat, as a reporter, on the very day he made his appearance, attired in full mourning. Setting immediately under him, I heard one of the counsel congratulate him on his accession to his uncle's large estate. "I had to wait for it a long time," said O'Connell. "If this had happened twenty years ago, what would I now have been? A hard-living, sporting, country gentleman, content with my lot. As it is, I have had to struggle. I have succeeded; and look how bright are now the prospects of Ireland! I thank God that I had to struggle, since it has placed them as they are now."
To sum up the character of O'Connell'spolitical, essentially different from hisforensic, eloquence, I need not say more than that he put strong words into fitting places. No man had a greater or more felicitous command of language; no man cared less how his words were marshalled. Many of his speeches are models of the truest eloquence, and perhaps he was the first Irishman, of modern days, who made a decided hit in the Commons, as a sound and eloquent speaker, entering that House at the mature age of fifty. Powers such as his commanded attention;—but, in general, he spoke better in Ireland, among his own people, than in England. Yet who can forget his magnificent oration in favour of the Reform Bill? Who can forget the later, and briefer, but not less stirring speech, which he delivered, as a member of the Anti-Corn-law League, on his first visit to London, after the reversal of the Monster-Meetings' sentence of imprisonment.
In sarcasm O'Connell was unequalled. I shall give an instance of quiet sarcasm which I think inimitable. In his domestic relations O'Connell was peculiarly happy. His marriage with his cousin Mary, was one of pure affection on both sides, and their love continued to the last, as warm as it had commenced in their youthful days.21John O'Connell, in 1846, writing of his mother, who was not long dead, said, with as much beauty as truth, "We can say no more than that doubting, she confirmed him—desponding, she cheered him on—drooping, she sustained him—her pure spirit may have often trembled, indeed, as she beheld him exposed to a thousand assaults, and affronting a thousand dangers; but she quailed not, she called him not back. She rejoiced not more in his victories over them, than she would have heartily and devotedly shared with and soothed him in the sufferings, in the ruin, that might have come upon him had he failed and been overthrown." On the other hand, the Marquis of Anglesey, in 1831, as Viceroy of Ireland, had O'Connell prosecuted for an imputed breach of the law. The Marquis had seduced the first wife of the late Lord Cowley, and married her after he was divorced from his wife, and Lady Cowley (then Mrs. Henry Wellesley) from her husband. O'Connell, commenting, at a public meeting in Dublin, on Lord Anglesey's conduct to him said, "This prosecution has cost my wife what none ofmytransactions ever cost her—a tear for me. Does Lord Anglesey know the value of avirtuouswoman's tear?"
O'Connell's attempts at authorship were not very successful. His letters to the "Hereditary bondsmen" were diffuse and declamatory. They were full of repetitions, putting the points of a case in a variety of phases, but they were by no means equal to the force, power, and nervous eloquence of his speeches. He was eminently an extemporaneous speaker, and, like Fox, appeared to more advantage as an orator than a writer. Yet many of his letters contain true eloquence. He hit hard, and could be terse when he pleased. Who can forget the alliterative satire of the three words "base, bloody, and brutal," as applied to the Whigs?
His only substantive and independent work was Vol. I. of "A Memoir on Ireland, Native and Saxon," published early in 1843. This book was dedicated to the Queen, in order, as the Preface stated, "that the Sovereign of these realms should understand the real nature of Irish history; should be aware of how much the Irish have suffered from English misrule; should comprehend the secret springs of Irish discontent; should be acquainted with the eminent virtues which the Irish have exhibited in every phasis of their singular fate; and, above all, should be intimately acquainted with the confiscations, the plunder, the robbery, the domestic treachery, the violation of all public faith, and of the servility of treaties, the ordinary wholesale slaughters, the planned murders, the concerted massacres, which have been inflicted upon the Irish people by the English Government." This one sentence will sufficiently indicate the character of the work. O'Connell further stated, in his preface, that "there cannot happen a more heavy misfortune to Ireland than the prosperity and power of Great Britain." He endeavoured to justify this assertion, by adding that "justice to Ireland" had never been granted except when Great Britain was in difficulties. The work brought the "proofs and illustrations" of British misrule in Ireland down to the Restoration. A second volume was to have carried them down to the present period, but it never was published. Nor has Literature nor History sustained any loss,—unless it was much superior to the first volume. The seven opening chapters, rapidly sketching the history of English dominion in Ireland from 1172 to 1840, are not devoid of a certain degree of eloquence, but is anti-English to a degree. The historical "proofs and illustrations," are simply statements from partisan writers, with connecting comments by O'Connell.
It was as a lawyer that O'Connell achieved his first distinctions. His success at the bar was assurance to his countrymen of his general ability. But, of late years, Mr. O'Connell was so exclusively before the public as a legislator, that he was forgotten as a barrister. Yet, in the opinion of many, (among whom are those who have known him long and well,) it was in the latter character that the peculiar idiosyncrasy of the man was fully developed—that his very rare and peculiar talents were fully displayed.
Many men have obtained eminence at the Irish bar, but it has been for some one peculiar merit. Thus, Harry Deane Grady was remarkable for the knowing manner in which he conducted a cross-examination. By that he alternately wheedled and frightened a witness into admissions which were as opposite to his evidence in chief as light is from darkness. Thus, Chief Justice Bushe, while at the bar, was distinguished for that classic eloquence by which admiring juries were seduced, and admiring judges were delighted. Pity that his elevation to the bench should have extinguished this noble oratory. Thus, Curran was renowned for "that sarcastic levity of tongue" which solicited a contest with those elevated in rank above himself. Thus, Shiel was remarkable for introducing a style of speaking—full of antithetical brilliancies—which reminds us of the flashing speeches of the most distinguished advocates of France. Thus, Serjeant (now Judge) Perrin was almost unrivalled in threading through the intricacies of an excise case. Thus, George Bennett won fame by his clear and plausible method of stating a case. Thus, Devonshire Jackson (now a Judge) was excellent in taking exceptions to the form of an indictment. Thus, the late Recorder Waggett (of Cork) put that seeming of right into a case, by which trusting jurymen are so often deceived. But there was only one man at the Irish bar who, more or less, united the excellencies of all whom I have named. He was as good at cross-examination as Harry Grady—he could rise with the occasion, and be eloquent as Bushe—he could sport the biting sarcasm of Curran—he even ventured on the antitheses of Shiel (though he seldom meddled with such sharp-edged weapons)—he was a match for Perrin in the excise courts—he could state a case plainly and plausibly as Bennett—he was as good a lawyer as Jackson, and could appeal to "the reports" with as much success—and, like Waggett (against whom, in the Munster Courts, he was often pitted), he could show his case to be one of the utmostseemingright, his client, like the late Queen, of virtuous memory, to be clear as "unsunned snow." The man who combined all these apparently dissimilar qualifications—the man whom universal consent named as the best general lawyer in Ireland—the man to whom Orange clients invariably ran with their briefs (a confidence equally honourable to clients and lawyer), was O'Connell.
By far the best account of O'Connell, in his different phases as a lawyer, is that in the "Sketches of the Irish Bar." Its essence is contained in the little sentence—"Every requisite for a barrister of all work is combined in him; some in perfection, all in sufficiency."
An anonymous writer in an English paper has given this reminiscence of O'Connell: "I recollect at the spring assizes of I think it was '27, walking into the county court-house of Limerick. O'Connell was retained in a record the n being heard, and with him on the same side was his son Maurice, who was bred to his father's profession, though he has since ceased to follow it. It was a cold day, and both wore huge cloth cloaks: the Agitator's right arm was thrown very affectionately round his son's neck, who, seemingly used to these public exhibitions of paternal fondness, took it very composedly. There was a rough-and-ready looking peasant at the moment under examination: in lieu of the ordinary box used in most English courts, he was seated in a chair in the centre of the table between the fires of the counsel on either side; his shaggy hair and unshorn beard, his shirt collar open, the knees of his small clothes in the same free and easy state, and one stocking fallen so as to leave a portion of his embrowned and hirsute leg bare; he had the chair partially turned round, so as to present a three-quarter front to O'Connell, who wasrakinghim with a cross-examination, which elicited laughter from every person in the court, including the witness himself, who, with his native freedom, impudence, and humour, was almost a match for the Agitator. The Agitator's face was beaming with fun, and he seemed very well disposed to show off, as if conscious that his auditors expected something from him. The country fellow, too, appeared to think there were laurels to be earned in the encounter, for he played away with all his might, and though he failed repeatedly in his attempts to be witty, he was always sure to be impudent. He waxed gradually more familiar, until at length he called the learned counsel nothing but 'Dan;' it was, 'Yes, Dan,' or 'No, Dan,' or 'Arrah, you're not going to come over me so easily, Dan.' Dan, to do him justice, enjoyed the joke, and humoured the witness in such a manner as at length to throw the fellow off his guard, and lead him into a maze of contradictions notwithstanding his shrewdness. O'Connell showed the utmost adroitness, and a thorough knowledge of the Irish peasant character, which is perhaps in no place so well acquired as in a provincial court. I cannot this moment recollect any single repartee which is worth repeating, but it was the manner, the brogue, the laughing eye, the general and humourous tone of the whole examination, and perhaps the very spectacle of O'Connell himself trying legally to entrap and upset the veracity of one of his own "fine peasantry," which gave that peculiar interest and pleasantry to the scene. Nothing could surpass the seeming enjoyment which the country people took in the examination; and as the Agitator would throw off now and again one of his broad flashes of humour in the "keen encounter of their wits," and the witness would fire back some jocular effort at equivocation, you'd hear buzzed around, 'Bravo, Dan,' 'Dan's the boy,' or some such phrase of approbation, which it was out of the question to suppress. Blackburn,22then, I think, the Attorney-General, was on the bench, having taken the circuit for some judge who was unwell; and though a dark and stern man, he was compelled to give way to the general fit of pleasantry in which the whole court indulged."
O'Connell's business, on circuit as well as in the Dublin, was very great. On circuit, it was so overpowering that, except on very important cases, he could not read his briefs, when employed to defend prisoners. The attorney for the defence used to condense the leading facts, and set them down on a single sheet of foolscap; and O'Connell would peruse and master this abstract during the speech of the counsel for the prosecution, relying on his own skill in cross-examination of witnesses, and his own power with the jury. Like Belial, he "could make the worse appear the better reason," as many an acquitted culprit had cause to know and thank him for.
Let me close this sketch with a glance of O'Connell, as I have often seen him, in an Irish Court of Law.Therehe was to be met "in all his glory." As I write, the shadows of long years roll away, and every thing appears as vivid and life-like as it was at that time.
To have seen O'Connell in the Law Courts of Dublin, was to have seen him not exactly as himself. Before the judges, and in the capital of the kingdom, a certainetiquetteis preserved, very decorous and proper, no doubt, but very chilling also. It is on circuit that you best can see the Irish bar, as they really are, and it is on circuit, also, that an observer may advantageously study the character of the Irish people. Leave the chilling atmosphere of the Four Courts, give the reins to imagination, and sit, with me, in the Crown Courts of Cork, as I have sat in bygone years. To give something like reality to my sketch, I shall write as if I still were in the year 1827, when O'Connell and the rest whom I have to name were alive and flourishing.
What a difference between this court and that of a circuit court in England! Look around you:—there stands not a single female in the Irish court. To attend there, with the chance of having it ever hinted that delicacy requires their absence, would ill suit the modest precision of the fair dames of Ireland. Nor do I think that the course of justice suffers from the absence of the fair sex. What business have ladies in a court of justice? Do they want information as to the trials?—they can see them reported in "those best possible instructors," the newspapers. Do they want to see the manner in which justice is administered?—if theywillbe so curious, and if that curiosity must be gratified, let them come once and no more. As it is, the English courts have female stagers, who attend day after day, and listen to arguments which they cannot comprehend. I suspect that their chief design is to show off; they come to see, but they also come "to be seen." The only preventive would be to enforce their attendance; when, if they be true women, the spirit of opposition will make them remain at home!
Whatever be the cause, there is a non-attendance of females at the Irish courts of law. The galleries are filled with rough-coated and rough-faced folks; some, who have not visited the city since the last assizes—some, who have relatives to be tried—some, out on bail, and honourably come to take their own trial—all, even to the mere looker-on, deeply interested in the proceedings; for the Irish, from the highest to the lowest degree, are fond of theformsof justice. Of therealitythey have hitherto got but little; but they like to see that little administered with the due formalities of the law.
The judge enters the court, and takes his seat on the bench. You ask, with astonishment, "When will the barristers come?" Why,there, do you not see his lordship rise, and make an obeisance to the gentlemen who sit in the box above us? These are the barristers. You may seem as unbelieving as you choose, but such is the case. The fact is, and I should have mentioned it before, when Irish barristers go on the circuit23they do not burthen themselves with wigs or gowns—forensic paraphernalia, to which their legal brethren on the English side of the Channel attach such infinite importance, that you might fancy they thought all wit and wisdom24to be attached tothem. You can scarcely imagine a more unformal or unceremonious court than that to which I have introduced you. The attorneys sit round the table, mingled with the "gentlemen of the press," the barristers are in the boxes immediately over the attornies, and the audience sit or stand where and how they can.
There is a pause—for a great murder trial is to come on—O'Connell has just been engaged for the defence—is occupied in the other court, and the judge must wait until he can make his appearance. During this pause you see a familiarity between the bench and the bar which seems strange to your English eyes. Yet, after all, what is it? Will the laws be a whit less honestly administered or advocated because the judge and one of the lawyers (Chief Baron O'Grady and Recorder Waggett) are laughing together? Depend on it, that, if the opportunity comes, the judge will fling out one of his bitter sarcasms against the barrister, and I know little of the barrister if he does not retort—if he can!
A bustle in the court. Does O'Connell come? No; but a message from him, with the intimation that the trial may go on, and he will "drop in" in half an hour. The clerk of the peace reads the indictment—the murderer pleads "Not Guilty," stands in the dock with compressed lips, and bursting veins, and withering frown, and scowling eyes—a fit subject for the savage pencil of Spagnaletto.
While the indictment is reading, a very dandified "middle-aged young gentleman," attired in a blue coat, with enormous brass buttons, a crimson silk neckcloth, and a most glaring pair of buckskins, jumps on the table, makes way across it with a "hop, step and jump," and locates himself in a box directly under the judge. You inquire, who is that neophyte?—the answer is, Carew Standish O'Grady, the registrar25of the circuit, barrister-at-law, and nephew to the judge. You turn up your eyes in wonder—the prothonotary of an English court would scarcely sport such a fox-hunter's garb.
The trial commences. Serjeant Goold states the case—advantageously for the prisoner, for the learned Serjeant has so defective an utterance that he is scarcely audible even to the reporters below him. But his serjeantcy gives him that precedence at the bar, on account of which the chief conduct of Crown prosecutions devolves to him. Meanwhile the Chief Baron turns to the High Sheriff, and cracks jokes; his hopeful nephew, less ambitious, produces a bag and some salt, and merely—cracks nuts.
The opening is over—the chief witness (probably an approver or King's evidence) is brought on the table—he is sworn, and attempts to baffle justice by kissing his thumb instead of the book. There is a dead silence in the court; for it is felt that the moment is awful with the fate of a fellow-creature.
He has just been successfulforan Orangemanagainsta Catholic; but what does that matter? The people do justice to his merit; sohesucceeds, what care they against whom?
Another pause—a buzz in the court—"quite a sensation," as a dandy might exquisitely exclaim—the prisoner's eyes brightens up with the gleam of hope—he sees O'Connell, at last, seated among the barristers. What! is that O'Connell? that stalwart, smiling, honest-looking man? The same. Never did a public man assume less pretension to personal appearance. Yet, if you look closely, you may observe that he does anything but neglect the graces. His clothes are remarkably well made, the tie of his cravat is elaborate, his handsome eye-glass is so disposed that it can be seen as well as used, and his "Brutus" (for 'twould be heinous to utter the word "wig") gives an air of juvenility which his hilarious manners fully confirm.
Until this moment of his entering the court, he knows nothing of the case—he has not yet received a brief. Mr. Daltera (you will remember that the scene is in Cork—the time 1827), the lame attorney, hands him a bulky brief, (which he puts, unread, into the bag,) and an abstract of the case, written on one sheet of paper. His blue eyes calmly glance over this case—he takes in, at that glance, all its bearings, and he quietly listens to the evidence of the accomplice. The cross-examination commences. Every eye is watchful—every ear on thequi vive—every man in court stretches forward to see the battle between "the Counsellor" and "the witness." You may see the prisoner with an eager glance of expectation—the witness with an evident sense of the coming crisis. The battle commences with anything but seriousness; O'Connell surprises the witness by his good humour, and instantly sets him at ease. He coaxes out of him a full confession of his own unworthiness,—he tempts him, by a series of facetious questions, into an admission of his "whole course of life,"—in a word, he draws from his lips an autobiography, in which the direst crimes are mingled with an occasional relief of feeling or of fun. The witness seems to exult in the "bad eminence" on which his admissions exalt him. He joins in the laugh at the quaintness of his language,—he scarcely shrinks from the universal shudders at the enormity of his crimes. By degrees he is led to the subject of the evidence he has just given, as an accomplice,—the coil is wound round him imperceptibly; fact after fact is weakened, until, finally, such doubt is thrown uponallthat he has said,—from the evident exaggeration ofpart,—that a less ingenious advocate than O'Connell might rescue the prisoner from conviction onsuchevidence. The main witness having "broken down," (as much from the natural doubt and disgust excited in the minds of an Irish jury, by the circumstance of aparticeps criminisbeing evidence against one who may have been more sinned against than sinning,—who may have been seduced into the paths of error by the very man who now bears testimony against him,) the result of the trial is not very difficult to be foreseen. If there is any doubt, the matter is soon made clear by a fewalibiwitnesses—practiced rogues with the most innocent aspects, who swear anything or everything to "get a friend out of trouble." The chances are ten to one that O'Connell brings off the prisoner. If he is not acquitted, he may, at least, be only found guilty on the minor plea of "manslaughter."
But the chances are that he will be acquitted, for few juries ever resisted the influence of O'Connell's persuasive eloquence.
Such is the scene exhibited by one glance backward:—such, five-and-twenty years ago, was constantly occurring in the Irish courts of law when O'Connell practiced at the bar.
Even at the risk of being accounted tedious, I cannot conclude this sketch without mentioning another anecdote, which, even better than a lengthened disquisition, may show that I do not overrate the extraordinary ingenuity and quickness for which I give O'Connell such ample credit. One of the most remarkable personages in Cork, for a series of years, was a sharp-witted little fellow named John Boyle,26who published a periodical calledThe Freeholder. As Boyle did not see that any peculiar dignity hedged the corrupt Corporation of Cork, hisFreeholderwas remarkable for severe and satirical remarks upon its members, collectively and personally. Owing to the very great precautions as to the mode of publication, it was next to impossible for the Corporation to proceed against him for libel;—if they could have done so, his punishment was certain, for in those days there were none but "Corporation juries," and the fact that Boyle was hostile to the municipalclique, was quite enough for these worthy administrators of justice. It happened, on the occasion of a crowded benefit at the theatre, that Boyle and one of the Sheriffs were coming out of the pit at the same moment. A sudden crush drove the scribe against the Sheriff, and the concussion was so great that the latter had two of his ribs broken. There could be no doubt that the whole was accidental; but it was too lucky not to be taken advantage of. Mr. Boyle was prosecuted for assault. O'Connell was retained for the defence. The trial came on before a Corporation jury. The evidence was extremely slight; but it was an understood thing that onanyevidence, ornoevidence, the jury would convict Boyle. Mr. O'Connell (who was personally inimical to the Corporation) scarcely cross-examined a witness and called none in defence.
He proceeded to reply. After some hyperbolical compliments on the "well-known impartiality, independence, and justice of a Cork jury," he proceeded to address them thus:—"I had no notion that the case is what it is; therefore I call no witnesses. As I have received a brief, and its accompaniment—a fee—I must address you. I am not in the vein for making a speech, so, gentlemen, I shall tell you a story. Some years ago I went, specially, to Clonmel assizes, and accidentally witnessed a trial which I never shall forget. A wretched man, a native of the county of Tipperary, was charged with the murder of his neighbour. It seemed that an ancient feud existed between them. They had met at a fair and exchanged blows: again, that evening, they met at a low pot-house, and the bodily interference of friends alone prevented a fight between them. The prisoner was heard to vow vengeance against his rival. The wretched victim left the house, followed soon after by the prisoner, and was found next day on the roadside—murdered, and his face so barbarously beaten in by a stone, that he could only be identified by his dress. The facts were strong against the prisoner—in fact it was the strongest case of circumstantial evidence I ever met with. As a matter of form—for of his guilt there could be no doubt—the prisoner was called on for his defence. He called, to the surprise of every one,—the murdered man. And the murdered man came forward. It seemed that another man had been murdered,—that the identification by dress was vague, for all the peasantry of Tipperary wear the same description of clothes,—that the presumed victim had got a hint that he would be arrested under the Whiteboy Act,—had fled,—and only returned, with a noble and Irish feeling of justice, when he found that his ancient foe was in jeopardy on his account. The case was clear: the prisoner was innocent. The judge told the jury that it was unnecessary to charge them. But they requested permission to retire. They returned in about two hours, when the foreman, with a long face, handed in the verdict 'Guilty.' Every one was astonished. 'Good God!' said the judge, 'of what is he guilty? Not of murder, surely?'—'No, my lord,' said the foreman; 'but,if he did not murder that man, sure he stole my gray mare three years ago!'"27
The Cork jurors laughed heartily at this anecdote, but, ere their mirth had time to cool, O'Connell continued, with marked emphasis, "So, gentlemen of the jury,though Mr. Boyle did not wilfully assault the Sheriff, he has libelled the Corporation,—find him guilty, by all means!" The application was so severe, that the jury, shamed into justice, instantly acquitted Mr. Boyle.
It is time to hurry this sketch to a conclusion.
Some words about the man. In person, Mr. O'Connell was well made, muscular, and tall. He looked the man to be the leader of a people. He was fond of field sports, and while at Derrynane Abbey, for four months in the year, lived like a country gentleman, surrounded by his numerous relatives, and exercising the wonted hospitality of Ireland. His features were strongly marked—the mouth being much more expressive than the eyes. His voice was deep, sonorous, and somewhat touched with the true Kerrypatois.
He was seen to much advantage in the bosom of his family, to whom he was greatly attached, a feeling which was reciprocated with veneration as well as love. His conversation was delightful, embracing a vast range of subjects. He was a great reader—and, even in the most busy and exciting periods of his political life, found (or made) time to peruse the periodicals and novels of the day.
He was well acquainted with modern poetry, and was fond of repeating long passages from Byron, Moore, Scott, Crabbe, Tennyson, and others. He was a good classical scholar, though I have heard him say that he doubted whether, after the age of twenty-one, he had ever opened a Latin or Greek book from choice. French he spoke and wrote extremely well. Many of his classical hits, in Court, were good—but few are remembered. I shall give one as a sample. In a political trial he charged Saurin, the Attorney-General, with some official unfairness, and Burke, his colleague, chivalrously assumed the responsibility. "If there is blame in it," said Burke, "I alone must bear it.
'Me, me, adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum.'"
"Finish the sentence, Mr. Solicitor," said O'Connell; "add
'Meafrausomnis.'"
When at home, he lived in the good old Irish style. He kept a well-spread table, and was idolized by the peasantry. His residence, Derrynane Abbey, is built on a bold situation, next the Atlantic, and commands a view of the Skelligs. The "Abbey," as it is called, is a comparatively modern edifice, which has received various additions from successive residents. It is irregularly built; so much so, indeed, as to be any thing but a model of architecture. It is convenient, and, in the wilds of Kerry, that should suffice; for who expects a Grecian dome in such a place? The real Derrynane Abbey (or rather its ruins) stands on a little island in the Atlantic.
There is little statute-law about Derrynane, and nearly all the disputes in the neighbourhood were allowed to rest until O'Connell could decide on them. He used to sit, like a patriarch, upon a huge rock, in view and hearing of the tumultuous throbbing of the Atlantic, and there give judgment, against which no one presumed to appeal. Already that rugged seat is called "O'Connell's Chair."
On the 15th day of May, 1847, having nearly completed his seventy-second year, Daniel O'Connell departed this life. He had quitted the land of his birth to seek for renewal of health beneath more clement skies,—so, before him, had Sir Walter Scott. But the great novelist was happier than the illustrious orator; and died, at least, in his own country, and in his own house. From the first, it seems that O'Connell entertained no hope of completing his pilgrimage. He feared, and I think he felt, that he was not destined to reach Rome, the Eternal City.
The account of his last days, as given, at the time, byGalignani's Messenger(the English journal published in Paris), is full of deep interest. It is from the pen of Dr. Duff, the English physician who attended him at Genoa. This gentleman first saw him on the 10th May—just five days before he died. On the first visit, he found that the patient had chronic bronchitis, of some years' standing. The next day it was found that congestion of the brain had commenced. On the 12th, the illness increased; for the patient, like Byron, had almost an insuperable objection to take medicine. Then, for the first time, the mind began to waver. On the 13th he became worse, slept heavily during the night, breathed with difficulty, fancied himself among his friends in London, and spoke as if among them. On the 14th the words fell, half-formed, from his lips. Thus he lingered until the next night, unable to move or speak, but conscious of the presence of those around him. At half-past nine on that night he died. Had he taken nourishment and medicine, he might have lived a few days longer. But not all of him is dead—his memory remains, and will long be kept green in the hearts of his countrymen.
Had O'Connell lived until the 6th of August, he would have completed his seventy-second year. He enjoyed excellent health through the greater part of his life, and had every chance of living to extended old age. His family are proverbially long-lived; his uncle Maurice, from whom he inherited Derrynane Abbey, was 97 when he died; and O'Connell repeatedly said that he intended to live quite as long,if he could, nor was it unlikely that he also might approach the patriarchal age of one hundred years.
His last words to his physician conveyed a request that, as he was sure he would present the appearance of death before he actually breathed his last, they would not suffer the grave to be closed too promptly over his remains. His strong hope was to die in Rome, his last moments soothed and sanctified by the blessing of Pope Pius IX. He repeatedly expressed a desire that his heart should rest (as it does) in one of the Churches of the Eternal City. This wish was suggested, it has been said, by the recollection that Robert Bruce had desired his heart to be conveyed to the Holy Land and deposited in the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. He died without pain, gently as an infant sinks into repose, calmed by the consolations of religion; and, it seemed to his attendants, not only content to quit mortality, but even anxious to be released. His body was embalmed, and is deposited in the Cemetery of Glasnevin near Dublin.
As to the ability, the mental resources, the vast power of O'Connell, there can be no dispute. Unquestionably he was the greatest Irishman of his time. In estimating the conduct and character of public men, two things, it appears to me, should be considered: the value of their labours and their motive. O'Connell, on starting into life, found that his religion debarred him from many privileges and advantages enjoyed by persons of another creed, and he applied himself, earnestly, to remove these disabilities. He succeeded, and in the long and persevering struggle which he headed, acquired vast influence, and a popularity which helped, with the aid of his own legal knowledge and skill, to place him in the foremost rank of his profession. At the age of fifty-four—in spite of the saying that an oak of the forest rarely bears transplanting—he entered the British Parliament, where he soon took a prominent position. Thenceforth his constant aim was to coax or frighten the Government into the concessions which were included in the demand for "Justice for Ireland." The threat of Repeal was used for this purpose.
The question whether he really desired to carry Repeal is difficult to be answered. That Ireland should have laws made for herself, by her own legislature, may or may not have been a desire with O'Connell. But that, when agitating for the Repeal of the parchment union between Ireland and Great Britain, he had the remotest intention or wish to effect theseparationof the two countries, no thoughtful observer can imagine. Separation, in O'Connell's eyes, meant a Republic, and O'Connell was essentially a Monarchist. He had an antipathy, also, to the exercise of physical force to procure the restitution of a people's rights. In all probability, had he lived during the struggle of the American colonies, O'Connell would have sided with those who condemned the Americans as "rebels to their King." Truth to say, he was rather an ultra-loyalist. This appeared, in 1821, when, kneeling on the shore, at Dunleary, he presented a crown of laurel to George IV.,—in 1832, when he glorified William IV. as the "patriot King"—in 1837, when he appealed (at the elections) in favor of Victoria as "a Virgin-Queen," forgetful that this distinctive epithet, belonging to all unmarried girls of eighteen, would be forfeited, of course,when she became a wife!
It may be conceded, however, that though O'Connell would have shrunk from seeing Ireland actually separated from England, he was sincere in his exertions to obtain Emancipation, and, subsequently, to wrest other rights and privileges from successive administrations. "Ireland for the Irish" was his favourite cry; but it meant little when uttered by a man who feverishly feared allrealagitation, tending to assert and secure the actual independence of the country. With him, "Repeal," if it meant anything, meant continuance under the rule of the British Sovereign. "Repeal" was a capital party cry, but he dreaded it when it was taken up by men not less patriotic, though a little less "loyal" than himself, who thought that boldness, courage, union, and talent could raise Ireland from a provincial obscurity into a national independence.
Great good was undoubtedly performed by O'Connell. His course was often eccentric, capricious, inexplicable. His abilities were great. He made much of opportunities. He wielded all but sovereign power over his countrymen for years. He naturally became impatient of contradiction, and very impracticable. But, with all his faults, O'Connell was essentially a great man.
THE END.
PUBLISHED BY
J. S. REDFIELD,
110 AND 112 NASSAU STREET, NEW-YORK.