CHAPTER XII.1847 and 1848.

No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sightOf any death or sickness now begets the same.

No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sight

Of any death or sickness now begets the same.

And as these lines come to my mind now, to illustrate what I am saying, I may as well give the whole of the lines I wrote on the burial of Jillen Andy, for this is the year she died—the year 1847 that I am writing about. I dug the grave for her; she was buried without a coffin, and I straightened out her head on a stone, around which Jack McCart, the tailor, of Beulnaglochdubh had rolled his white-spotted red handkerchief.

Andy Hayes had been a workman for my father. He died—leaving four sons—John, Charley, Tead and Andy. The mother was known as Jillen Andy. The eldest son, John, enlisted and was killed in India; Charley got a fairy-puck in one of his legs, and the leg was cut off by Dr. Donovan and Dr. Fitzgibbons;Andy also enlisted, and died in the English service, Tead was a simpleton or “innocent”—no harm in him, and every one kind to him. I was at play in the street one day, my mother was sitting on the door step, Tead came up to her and told her his mother was dead, and asked if she would let me go with him to dig the grave for her. My mother told me to go with him, and I went. Every incident noted in the verses I am going to print, came under my experience that day. I wrote these verses twenty years after, in the convict prison of Chatham, England, thinking of old times. That you may understand some of the lines, I may tell you some of the stories of our people. There were fairies in Ireland in my time; England is rooting them out, too. They were called “the good people,” and it was not safe to say anything bad of them. The places where fairies used to resort were called “eerie” places, and if you whistled at night you would attract them to you, particularly if you whistled while you were in bed. Then, when a person is to be buried, you must not make a prisoner of him or of her in the grave; you must take out every pin, and unloose every string before you put it into the coffin, so that it may be free to come from the other world to see you. And at the “waking” of a friend, it is not at all good to shed tears over the corpse, and let the tears fall on the clothes, because every such tear burns a burned hole in the body of the dead person in the other world.

JILLEN ANDY.“Come to the graveyard if you’re not afraid;I’m going to dig my mother’s grave; she’s dead,And I want some one that will bring the spade,For Andy’s out of home, and Charlie’s sick in bed.”Thade Andy was a simple spoken fool,With whom in early days I loved to stroll.He’d often take me on his back to school,And make the master laugh, himself, he was so droll.In songs and ballads he took great delight,And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed,And singing them by our fireside at night,I learned songs from Thade before I learned to read,And I have still by heart his “Colleen Fhune,”His “Croppy Boy,” his “Phœnix of the Hall,”And I could “rise” his “Rising of the Moon,”If I could sing in prison cell—or sing at all.He’d walk the “eeriest” place a moonlight night,He’d whistle in the dark—even in bed.In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quiteAs fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade.Now in the dark churchyard we work away,The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade,And seeing Thade cry, I cried, myself, that day,For Thade was fond of me, and I was fond of Thade.But after twenty years, why now will suchA bubbling spring up to my eyelids start?Ah! there be things that ask no leave to touchThe fountains of the eyes or feelings of the heart,“This load of clay will break her bones I fear,For when alive she wasn’t over-strong;We’ll dig no deeper, I can watch her hereA month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong.”Four men bear Jillen on a door—’tis light,They have not much of Jillen but her frame;No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sightOf any death or sickness now, begets the same.And those brave hearts that volunteered to touchPlague-stricken death, are tender as they’re brave;They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch,And shade their swimming eyes while laying her in the grave.I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep,The slender-wasted body at my feet;What wonder is it, if strong men will weepO’er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-sheet!Her head I try to pillow on a stone,But it will hang one side, as if the breathOf famine gaunt into the corpse had blown,And blighted in the nerves the rigid strength of death.“Hand me that stone, child.” In his ’tis placed,Down-channeling his cheeks are tears like rain,The stone within his handkerchief is cased,And then I pillow on it Jillen’s head again.“Untie the nightcap string,” “unloose that lace.”“Take out that pin.” There, now, she’s nicely—rise,But lay the apron first across her face,So that the earth won’t touch her lips or blind her eyes.Don’t grasp the shovel too tightly—there make a heap,Steal down each shovelful quietly—there, let it creepOver her poor body lightly; friend, do not weep;Tears would disturb poor Jillen in her last long sleep.And Thade was faithful to his watch and ward,Where’er he’d spend the day, at night he’d hasteWith his few sods of turf to that churchyard,Where he was laid himself, before the month was past.Then, Andy died a soldiering in Bombay,And Charlie died in Ross the other day,Now, no one lives to blush, because I sayThat Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the play.E’en all are gone that buried Jillen, saveOne banished man, who dead-alive remainsThe little boy who stood within the grave,Stands for his Country’s cause in England’s prison chains.How oft in dreams that burial scene appears,Through death, eviction, prison, exile, home,Through all the suns and moons of twenty years—And oh! how short these years, compared with years to come!Some things are strongly on the mind impressed,And others faintly imaged there, it seems,And this is why, when Reason sinks to rest,Phases of life do show and shadow forth, in dreams.And this is why in dreams I see the faceOf Jillen Andy looking in my own,The poet-hearted man; the pillow case—The spotted handkerchief that softened the hard stone.Welcome these memories of scenes of youth,That nursed my hate of tyranny and wrong,That helmed my manhood in the path of truth,And help me now to suffer calmly and be strong.

JILLEN ANDY.

“Come to the graveyard if you’re not afraid;I’m going to dig my mother’s grave; she’s dead,And I want some one that will bring the spade,For Andy’s out of home, and Charlie’s sick in bed.”Thade Andy was a simple spoken fool,With whom in early days I loved to stroll.He’d often take me on his back to school,And make the master laugh, himself, he was so droll.In songs and ballads he took great delight,And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed,And singing them by our fireside at night,I learned songs from Thade before I learned to read,And I have still by heart his “Colleen Fhune,”His “Croppy Boy,” his “Phœnix of the Hall,”And I could “rise” his “Rising of the Moon,”If I could sing in prison cell—or sing at all.He’d walk the “eeriest” place a moonlight night,He’d whistle in the dark—even in bed.In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quiteAs fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade.Now in the dark churchyard we work away,The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade,And seeing Thade cry, I cried, myself, that day,For Thade was fond of me, and I was fond of Thade.But after twenty years, why now will suchA bubbling spring up to my eyelids start?Ah! there be things that ask no leave to touchThe fountains of the eyes or feelings of the heart,“This load of clay will break her bones I fear,For when alive she wasn’t over-strong;We’ll dig no deeper, I can watch her hereA month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong.”Four men bear Jillen on a door—’tis light,They have not much of Jillen but her frame;No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sightOf any death or sickness now, begets the same.And those brave hearts that volunteered to touchPlague-stricken death, are tender as they’re brave;They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch,And shade their swimming eyes while laying her in the grave.I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep,The slender-wasted body at my feet;What wonder is it, if strong men will weepO’er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-sheet!Her head I try to pillow on a stone,But it will hang one side, as if the breathOf famine gaunt into the corpse had blown,And blighted in the nerves the rigid strength of death.“Hand me that stone, child.” In his ’tis placed,Down-channeling his cheeks are tears like rain,The stone within his handkerchief is cased,And then I pillow on it Jillen’s head again.“Untie the nightcap string,” “unloose that lace.”“Take out that pin.” There, now, she’s nicely—rise,But lay the apron first across her face,So that the earth won’t touch her lips or blind her eyes.Don’t grasp the shovel too tightly—there make a heap,Steal down each shovelful quietly—there, let it creepOver her poor body lightly; friend, do not weep;Tears would disturb poor Jillen in her last long sleep.And Thade was faithful to his watch and ward,Where’er he’d spend the day, at night he’d hasteWith his few sods of turf to that churchyard,Where he was laid himself, before the month was past.Then, Andy died a soldiering in Bombay,And Charlie died in Ross the other day,Now, no one lives to blush, because I sayThat Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the play.E’en all are gone that buried Jillen, saveOne banished man, who dead-alive remainsThe little boy who stood within the grave,Stands for his Country’s cause in England’s prison chains.How oft in dreams that burial scene appears,Through death, eviction, prison, exile, home,Through all the suns and moons of twenty years—And oh! how short these years, compared with years to come!Some things are strongly on the mind impressed,And others faintly imaged there, it seems,And this is why, when Reason sinks to rest,Phases of life do show and shadow forth, in dreams.And this is why in dreams I see the faceOf Jillen Andy looking in my own,The poet-hearted man; the pillow case—The spotted handkerchief that softened the hard stone.Welcome these memories of scenes of youth,That nursed my hate of tyranny and wrong,That helmed my manhood in the path of truth,And help me now to suffer calmly and be strong.

“Come to the graveyard if you’re not afraid;

I’m going to dig my mother’s grave; she’s dead,

And I want some one that will bring the spade,

For Andy’s out of home, and Charlie’s sick in bed.”

Thade Andy was a simple spoken fool,With whom in early days I loved to stroll.He’d often take me on his back to school,And make the master laugh, himself, he was so droll.

Thade Andy was a simple spoken fool,

With whom in early days I loved to stroll.

He’d often take me on his back to school,

And make the master laugh, himself, he was so droll.

In songs and ballads he took great delight,And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed,And singing them by our fireside at night,I learned songs from Thade before I learned to read,

In songs and ballads he took great delight,

And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed,

And singing them by our fireside at night,

I learned songs from Thade before I learned to read,

And I have still by heart his “Colleen Fhune,”His “Croppy Boy,” his “Phœnix of the Hall,”And I could “rise” his “Rising of the Moon,”If I could sing in prison cell—or sing at all.

And I have still by heart his “Colleen Fhune,”

His “Croppy Boy,” his “Phœnix of the Hall,”

And I could “rise” his “Rising of the Moon,”

If I could sing in prison cell—or sing at all.

He’d walk the “eeriest” place a moonlight night,He’d whistle in the dark—even in bed.In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quiteAs fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade.

He’d walk the “eeriest” place a moonlight night,

He’d whistle in the dark—even in bed.

In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite

As fearless of a ghost as any ghost of Thade.

Now in the dark churchyard we work away,The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade,And seeing Thade cry, I cried, myself, that day,For Thade was fond of me, and I was fond of Thade.

Now in the dark churchyard we work away,

The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade,

And seeing Thade cry, I cried, myself, that day,

For Thade was fond of me, and I was fond of Thade.

But after twenty years, why now will suchA bubbling spring up to my eyelids start?Ah! there be things that ask no leave to touchThe fountains of the eyes or feelings of the heart,

But after twenty years, why now will such

A bubbling spring up to my eyelids start?

Ah! there be things that ask no leave to touch

The fountains of the eyes or feelings of the heart,

“This load of clay will break her bones I fear,For when alive she wasn’t over-strong;We’ll dig no deeper, I can watch her hereA month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong.”

“This load of clay will break her bones I fear,

For when alive she wasn’t over-strong;

We’ll dig no deeper, I can watch her here

A month or so, sure nobody will do me wrong.”

Four men bear Jillen on a door—’tis light,They have not much of Jillen but her frame;No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sightOf any death or sickness now, begets the same.

Four men bear Jillen on a door—’tis light,

They have not much of Jillen but her frame;

No mourners come, as ’tis believed the sight

Of any death or sickness now, begets the same.

And those brave hearts that volunteered to touchPlague-stricken death, are tender as they’re brave;They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch,And shade their swimming eyes while laying her in the grave.

And those brave hearts that volunteered to touch

Plague-stricken death, are tender as they’re brave;

They raise poor Jillen from her tainted couch,

And shade their swimming eyes while laying her in the grave.

I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep,The slender-wasted body at my feet;What wonder is it, if strong men will weepO’er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-sheet!

I stand within that grave, nor wide nor deep,

The slender-wasted body at my feet;

What wonder is it, if strong men will weep

O’er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding-sheet!

Her head I try to pillow on a stone,But it will hang one side, as if the breathOf famine gaunt into the corpse had blown,And blighted in the nerves the rigid strength of death.

Her head I try to pillow on a stone,

But it will hang one side, as if the breath

Of famine gaunt into the corpse had blown,

And blighted in the nerves the rigid strength of death.

“Hand me that stone, child.” In his ’tis placed,Down-channeling his cheeks are tears like rain,The stone within his handkerchief is cased,And then I pillow on it Jillen’s head again.

“Hand me that stone, child.” In his ’tis placed,

Down-channeling his cheeks are tears like rain,

The stone within his handkerchief is cased,

And then I pillow on it Jillen’s head again.

“Untie the nightcap string,” “unloose that lace.”“Take out that pin.” There, now, she’s nicely—rise,But lay the apron first across her face,So that the earth won’t touch her lips or blind her eyes.

“Untie the nightcap string,” “unloose that lace.”

“Take out that pin.” There, now, she’s nicely—rise,

But lay the apron first across her face,

So that the earth won’t touch her lips or blind her eyes.

Don’t grasp the shovel too tightly—there make a heap,Steal down each shovelful quietly—there, let it creepOver her poor body lightly; friend, do not weep;Tears would disturb poor Jillen in her last long sleep.

Don’t grasp the shovel too tightly—there make a heap,

Steal down each shovelful quietly—there, let it creep

Over her poor body lightly; friend, do not weep;

Tears would disturb poor Jillen in her last long sleep.

And Thade was faithful to his watch and ward,Where’er he’d spend the day, at night he’d hasteWith his few sods of turf to that churchyard,Where he was laid himself, before the month was past.

And Thade was faithful to his watch and ward,

Where’er he’d spend the day, at night he’d haste

With his few sods of turf to that churchyard,

Where he was laid himself, before the month was past.

Then, Andy died a soldiering in Bombay,And Charlie died in Ross the other day,Now, no one lives to blush, because I sayThat Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the play.

Then, Andy died a soldiering in Bombay,

And Charlie died in Ross the other day,

Now, no one lives to blush, because I say

That Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the play.

E’en all are gone that buried Jillen, saveOne banished man, who dead-alive remainsThe little boy who stood within the grave,Stands for his Country’s cause in England’s prison chains.

E’en all are gone that buried Jillen, save

One banished man, who dead-alive remains

The little boy who stood within the grave,

Stands for his Country’s cause in England’s prison chains.

How oft in dreams that burial scene appears,Through death, eviction, prison, exile, home,Through all the suns and moons of twenty years—And oh! how short these years, compared with years to come!

How oft in dreams that burial scene appears,

Through death, eviction, prison, exile, home,

Through all the suns and moons of twenty years—

And oh! how short these years, compared with years to come!

Some things are strongly on the mind impressed,And others faintly imaged there, it seems,And this is why, when Reason sinks to rest,Phases of life do show and shadow forth, in dreams.

Some things are strongly on the mind impressed,

And others faintly imaged there, it seems,

And this is why, when Reason sinks to rest,

Phases of life do show and shadow forth, in dreams.

And this is why in dreams I see the faceOf Jillen Andy looking in my own,The poet-hearted man; the pillow case—The spotted handkerchief that softened the hard stone.

And this is why in dreams I see the face

Of Jillen Andy looking in my own,

The poet-hearted man; the pillow case—

The spotted handkerchief that softened the hard stone.

Welcome these memories of scenes of youth,That nursed my hate of tyranny and wrong,That helmed my manhood in the path of truth,And help me now to suffer calmly and be strong.

Welcome these memories of scenes of youth,

That nursed my hate of tyranny and wrong,

That helmed my manhood in the path of truth,

And help me now to suffer calmly and be strong.

After the burial of Jillen Andy and Tead Andy I was stricken down with the fever that was prevalent at the time. I was nine or ten days in bed. The turning day of the illness came, and those who were at the bedside thought I was dying. My heavy breathing was moving the bedclothes up and down. I had consciousness enough to hear one woman say to my mother “Oh, he is dying now.” But it was only thefever bidding good-bye to me, and I got better day by day after that. Then, when I came to walk abroad, my eyes got sore—with a soreness that some pronounced the “dallakeen”; but others pronounced it to be a kind of fairy-puck called a “blast.” An herb-doctor made some herb medicine for me, and as my mother was giving it to me one day she was talking to our next-door neighbor, Kit Brown, and wondering who it could be in the other world that had a grudge against me, or against the family! She was sure I had never hurted or harmed any one, and she could not remember that she or my father had ever done anything to any one who left this world—had ever done anything that would give them reason to have a grudge against the family.

You, friendly reader, may consider that what I am saying is small talk. So it is. But in writing these “Recollections” of mine I am showing what Irish life was in my day. I am not making caricatures in Irish life to please the English people, as many Irish writers have done, and have been paid for doing; I am telling the truth, with the view of interesting and serving my people. When I was young I got hold of a book called “Parra Sastha; or, Paddy-go-easy.” Looking at the name of the book I did not know what Parra Sastha meant; but as I read through it I learned that it was meant for “Padruig Sasta”—contented, or satisfied Paddy. The whole book is a dirty caricature of the Irish character; but the writer of it is famed as an Irish novelist, and died in receipt of a yearly literary pension from the English government. He earnedsuch a pension by writing that book alone. England pays people for defaming Ireland and the Irish.

And men professing to be Irish patriots, in our own day, write books defamatory of their own people. “When We Were Boys” is the name of a book written nine or ten years ago by one of those Irish patriot parliamentary leaders of to-day. It is a libel on the character of the Fenian movement in Ireland. As I was reading it I said to myself, “This gentleman has his eye on a literary pension from the English.” The whiskey-drinking bouts that he records at the Fenian headquarters in the office of the Fenian newspaper had no existence but in his imagination, and the brutal murder of a landlord by the Fenians is an infamous creation of his too. If it is fated that the chains binding England to Ireland are to remain unbroken during this generation, and that the writer of that book lives to the end of the generation, those who live with him need not be surprised if they see him in receipt of a literary pension. He has earned it.

In the summer of 1847, when Bill-Ned’s decree was executed on our house, and when all the furniture was canted, notice of eviction was served upon my mother. The agent was a cousin of ours, and he told my mother it was better for her to give up the land quietly, and he would do all he could to help her. She had four children who were not able to do much work on a farm. She had no money, and she could not till the land. There were four houses included in the lease—our own house, Jack McCart’s house across the street, Jack Barrett’s house next door above us, and Darby Holland’s house next door below. Darby Holland had died lately, and he would get her his house rent-free during her life, and give her £12 on account of the wheat crop growing in the strand field, and let her have the potato crop that was growing in the hill field. My mother accepted the terms, and we moved into Darby Holland’s house.

The previous two bad years had involved us in debt; friends were security for us in the small loan banks in Ross and in Leap, and as far as the twelve pounds went my mother gave it to pay those debts. To give my mind some exercise in Millbank prison one time, I occupied it doing a sum in Voster’s rule of Interest, regarding those little loan-banks. I made myself abanker. I loaned a hundred pounds out of my bank one week, I got a hundred shillings for giving the loan of it; I got it paid back to me in twenty weeks—a hundred shillings every week.

I loaned it out again as fast as I got it, and at the end of fifty-two weeks, I had one hundred and forty-seven pounds and some odd shillings. That was forty seven per cent. for my money. I wish some of my tenants on theUnited Irishmanestate would now go at doing that sum in the rule of Interest-upon-Interest, and let me know if I did it correctly. ’Tis an interesting exercise to go at, if you have leisure time; you cannot do it by any rule of arithmetic; I give out a hundred pounds the first week, and get in on it a hundred shillings interest; I lend out that hundred shillings, and get in on it five shillings: I hold that five shillings in my treasury till next week; next week I get in a hundred and five shillings; I lend out five pounds, and get in on it five shillings interest; I have now a hundred and ten borrowers for the third week, and have fifteen shillings in the treasury. So on, to the end of the twenty weeks, and to the end of the year, when my hundred pounds will have amounted up to £147.

The harvest time of 1847 came on. The potato crop failed again. The blight came on in June. In July there was not a sign of a potato stalk to be seen on the land. My brother John and I went up to the hill field to dig the potatoes. I carried the basket and he carried the spade. He was the digger and I was the picker. He digged over two hundred yards of a piece of a ridge and all the potatoes I had picked after him wouldnot fill a skillet. They were not larger than marbles; they were minions and had a reddish skin. When I went home, and laid the basket on the floor, my mother looking at the contents of it exclaimed: “Oh! na geinidighe dearga death-chuin!” which I would translate into English as “Oh the miserable scarlet tithelings.”

I will now pass on to the year 1848. In our new house there was a shop one time, and a shop window. The shop counter had been put away; the window remained; that window had outside shutters to it, but those shutters were never taken down. One morning we found pasted on the shutters a large printed bill. My mother read it, and after reading it, she tore it down. It was the police that had posted it up during the night. It was an account of the unfavorable reception the delegation of Young Irelanders had met with in Paris, when they went over to present addresses of congratulation to the new revolutionary provisional government.

France had had a revolution in February, 1848. The monarchical government had been overthrown, and was succeeded by a republican government. King Louis Phillippe fled to England—as the street ballad of the time says:

Old King Phillippe was so wise,He shaved his whiskers, for disguise;He wrap’d himself in an old grey coatAnd to Dover he sail’d in an oyster boat.

Old King Phillippe was so wise,

He shaved his whiskers, for disguise;

He wrap’d himself in an old grey coat

And to Dover he sail’d in an oyster boat.

That you may understand thoroughly what I am speaking about, I quote the following passages from John Mitchel’s history of Ireland:

“Frankly, and at once, the Confederation accepted the only policy thereafter possible, and acknowledged the meaning of the European revolutions. On the 15th of March, O’Brien moved an address of congratulation to the victorious French people, and ended his speech with these words:

“‘It would be recollected that a short time ago, he thought it his duty to deprecate all attempts to turn the attention of the people to military affairs, because it seemed to him that in the then condition of the country the only effect of leading the people’s mind to what was called “a guerilla warfare,” would be to encourage some of the misguided peasantry to the commission of murder. Therefore it was that he declared he should not be a party to giving such a recommendation. But the state of affairs was totally different now, and he had no hesitation in declaring that he thought the minds of intelligent young men should be turned to the consideration of such questions as—How strong places can be captured, and weak ones defended—how supplies of food and ammunition can be cut off from an enemy, and how they can be secured to a friendly force. The time was also come when every lover of his country should come forward openly and proclaim his willingness to be enrolled as a member of a national guard. No man, however, should tender his name as a member of that national guard unless he was prepared to do two things: one, to preserve the State from anarchy; the other, to be prepared to die for the defence of his country.’

“Addresses, both from the confederation and fromthe city, were to be presented in Paris, to the President of the Provisional government, M. de Lamartine; and O’Brien, Meagher and an intelligent tradesman named Hollywood, were appointed a deputation to Paris.

“These were mere addresses of congratulation and sympathy. De Lamartine made a highly poetic, but rather unmeaning reply to them. He has since, in his history, virulently misrepresented them; being, in fact, a mere Anglo-Frenchman. Mr. O’Brien has already convicted him of these misrepresentations.”

It was that “unmeaning reply” of Lamartine’s that the English government placarded all over Ireland one night in ’48. It was that poster I saw my mother tear down next morning. It is that memory, implanted in my mind very early in my life, that makes me take very little stock in all the talk that is made by Irishmen about France or Russia, or any other nation doing anything to free Ireland for us. They may do it, if it will be to their own interest to do it.

My friend, Charles G. Doran, of the Cove of Cork, comes to my assistance at this stage of my writing. He sends me a full copy of all that was printed on that poster which my mother tore down. He says:

My dear Friend Rossa:I was struck when reading your exceedingly interesting “Recollections,” by two things, which I am sure must have struck others of your readers also—viz, that your mother must have been a very intelligent woman, and a very patriotic woman, to discern and so promptly resent the insult offered to the Irish people by the government,in printing and placarding the cowardly cringing pro-English reply of Lamartine to the thoroughly sincere and whole-hearted address of congratulation presented by the Irish deputation to the new provisional government of France. It would hardly surprise one to learn that the pro-English spirit pervading Lamartine’s reply was prompted by English influence—influence that, though working in direct opposition to the establishment of the Republic, was not adverse to availing of the new order of things to give acoup de graceto Irish hopes for sympathy from that quarter. Almost as soon as Lamartine had spoken his wretched response, the English government had it printed in the stereotyped Proclamation form, and copies of it sent to all parts of Ireland, and posted by the police on the barracks, courthouses, churches, chapels, market-houses—public places of every description—aye, even on big trees by the roadside—anywhere and everywhere that it would be likely to be seen. And it was seen, and read, and commented on, and criticised and bitterly denounced, and no matter what may be said to the contrary, it had the effect that England desired—it disheartened and weakened the ranks of the young Irelanders. At first, the accuracy of the proclamation was doubted, but a couple of days served to dispel the doubt which gave place to dismay and disappointment, and England scored; substituting confidence for uncertainty and uneasiness—Lamartine, her ally—not her enemy! As there are few Irishmen living at present who have ever read that document, or, perhaps, ever heard of its existence until referred to inyour “Recollections,” I have transcribed it from an original copy, and send the transcript to you as you may find a nook for it in your pages some time or another.Here it is:REPLY OF THE FRENCH GOVERNMENTTO THEIRISH DEPUTATION.“Paris, Monday, April 3, 1848.—This being the day fixed by the Provisional government for the reception of the members of the Irish deputation, Mr. Smith O’Brien and the other members of the Irish confederation went to the Hotel de Ville to-day at half-past three to present their address. They were received by Mr. Lamartine alone; none of the other members of the Provisional government being present. Besides the address of the Irish Confederation, addresses were presented at the same time by Mr. R. O’Gorman, Jr., from citizens of Dublin; by Mr. Meagher from the Repealers of Manchester, and by Mr. McDermott from the members of the Irish confederation resident in Liverpool. M. Lamartine replied to the whole of these addresses in one speech as follows:“Citizens of Ireland!—If we required a fresh proof of the pacific influence of the proclamation of the great democratic principle, this new Christianity, bursting forth at the opportune moment, and dividing the world, as formerly, into a Pagan and Christian community—we should assuredly discern this proof of the omnipotent action of the idea, in the visits spontaneously paid in this city to Republican France, and the principleswhich animate her, by the nations or by sections of the nations of Europe.“We are not astonished to see to-day a deputation from Ireland. Ireland knows how deeply her destinies, her sufferings and her successive advances in the path of religious liberty, of unity and of constitutional equality with the other parts of the United Kingdom, have at all times moved the heart of Europe!“We said as much, a few days ago, to another deputation of your fellow citizens. We said as much to all the children of that glorious Isle of Erin, which the natural genius of its inhabitants, and the striking events of its history render equally symbolical of the poetry and the heroism of the nations of the north.“Rest assured, therefore, that you will find in France, under the Republic, a response to all the sentiments you express toward it.“Tell your fellow citizens that the name of Ireland is synonymous with the name of liberty courageously defended against privilege—that it is one common name to every French citizen! Tell them that this reciprocity which they invoke—that this hospitality of which they are not oblivious—the Republic will be proud to remember, and to practise invariably toward the Irish. Tell them above all, that the French Republic is not, and never will be an aristocratic Republic, in which liberty is merely abused as the mask of privilege; but a Republic embracing the entire community, and securing to all, the same rights and the same benefits.As regards other encouragements it would neither be expedient for us to hold them out, nor for you toreceive them. I have already expressed the same opinion with reference to Germany, Belgium and Italy, and I repeat it with reference to every nation which is involved in internal disputes—which is either divided against itself or at variance with its government.When there is a difference of race—when nations are aliens in blood—intervention is not allowable. We belong to no party in Ireland or elsewhere, except to that which contends for justice, for liberty, and for happiness of the Irish people. No other party would be acceptable to us in time of peace. In the interests and the passions of foreign nations, France is desirous of reserving herself free for the maintenance of the rights of all.“We are at peace, and we are desirous of remaining on good terms of equality, not with this or that part of Great Britain, but with Great Britain entire. We believe this peace to be useful and honorable, not only to Great Britain and the French Republic, but to the human race.We will not commit an act—we will not utter a word—we will not breathe an insinuation at variance with the reciprocal inviolability of nations which we have proclaimed, and of which the continent of Europe is already gathering the fruits. The fallen monarchy had treaties and diplomatists. Our diplomatists are nations—our treaties are sympathies! We should be insane were we openly to exchange such a diplomacy for unmeaning and partial alliances with even the most legitimate parties in the countries which surround us. We are not competent either to judge them or to prefer some of them to others; by announcing our partisanship of the one side we should declare ourselves theenemies of the other. We do not wish to be the enemies of any of your fellow countrymen. We wish, on the contrary, by a faithful observance of the Republican pledges, to remove all the prejudices which may mutually exist between our neighbors and ourselves.“This course, however painful it may be, is imposed on us by the law of nations, as well as by our historical remembrances.“Do you know what it was which most served to irritate France and estrange her from England during the first Republic? It was the Civil War in a portion of her territory, supported, subsidized, and assisted by Mr. Pitt. It was the encouragement and the arms given to Frenchmen, as heroical as yourselves, but Frenchmen fighting against their fellow citizens. This was not honorable warfare. It was a Royalist propagandism, waged with French blood against the Republic. This policy is not yet, in spite of all our efforts, entirely effaced from the memory of the nation.Well! this cause of dissension between Great Britain and us, we will never renew by taking any similar course.We accept with gratitude expressions of friendship from the different nationalities included in the British Empire. We ardently wish that justice may be found, and strengthen the friendship of races: that equality may become more and more its basis; but while proclaiming with you, with her (Great Britain), and with all, the holy dogma of fraternity, we will perform only acts of brotherhood, in conformity with our principles, and our feelings toward the Irish nation.”There is the text of the document. It is printedwith Great Primer No. 1 type, except the underlined portions which, to attract special attention, and convey an “Aha! see now what France will do for you?” are printed with English Clarendon on Great Primer body—an intensely black thick type.Well, friend Rossa, that cowering Frenchman is dead, and that Republic which he so zealously guarded in the interest of England—not the Republic of the present, glory to it—is dead too! Had Lamartine lived to witness the revival of Trafalgar memories a few days ago, after a period of ninety years, I believe that he would bitterly regret ever having given birth to that disheartening document.Hoping that you and yours are well, I am my dear friend Rossa,Ever Faithfully Yours,C. G. Doran.

My dear Friend Rossa:

I was struck when reading your exceedingly interesting “Recollections,” by two things, which I am sure must have struck others of your readers also—viz, that your mother must have been a very intelligent woman, and a very patriotic woman, to discern and so promptly resent the insult offered to the Irish people by the government,in printing and placarding the cowardly cringing pro-English reply of Lamartine to the thoroughly sincere and whole-hearted address of congratulation presented by the Irish deputation to the new provisional government of France. It would hardly surprise one to learn that the pro-English spirit pervading Lamartine’s reply was prompted by English influence—influence that, though working in direct opposition to the establishment of the Republic, was not adverse to availing of the new order of things to give acoup de graceto Irish hopes for sympathy from that quarter. Almost as soon as Lamartine had spoken his wretched response, the English government had it printed in the stereotyped Proclamation form, and copies of it sent to all parts of Ireland, and posted by the police on the barracks, courthouses, churches, chapels, market-houses—public places of every description—aye, even on big trees by the roadside—anywhere and everywhere that it would be likely to be seen. And it was seen, and read, and commented on, and criticised and bitterly denounced, and no matter what may be said to the contrary, it had the effect that England desired—it disheartened and weakened the ranks of the young Irelanders. At first, the accuracy of the proclamation was doubted, but a couple of days served to dispel the doubt which gave place to dismay and disappointment, and England scored; substituting confidence for uncertainty and uneasiness—Lamartine, her ally—not her enemy! As there are few Irishmen living at present who have ever read that document, or, perhaps, ever heard of its existence until referred to inyour “Recollections,” I have transcribed it from an original copy, and send the transcript to you as you may find a nook for it in your pages some time or another.

Here it is:

REPLY OF THE FRENCH GOVERNMENTTO THEIRISH DEPUTATION.“Paris, Monday, April 3, 1848.—This being the day fixed by the Provisional government for the reception of the members of the Irish deputation, Mr. Smith O’Brien and the other members of the Irish confederation went to the Hotel de Ville to-day at half-past three to present their address. They were received by Mr. Lamartine alone; none of the other members of the Provisional government being present. Besides the address of the Irish Confederation, addresses were presented at the same time by Mr. R. O’Gorman, Jr., from citizens of Dublin; by Mr. Meagher from the Repealers of Manchester, and by Mr. McDermott from the members of the Irish confederation resident in Liverpool. M. Lamartine replied to the whole of these addresses in one speech as follows:“Citizens of Ireland!—If we required a fresh proof of the pacific influence of the proclamation of the great democratic principle, this new Christianity, bursting forth at the opportune moment, and dividing the world, as formerly, into a Pagan and Christian community—we should assuredly discern this proof of the omnipotent action of the idea, in the visits spontaneously paid in this city to Republican France, and the principleswhich animate her, by the nations or by sections of the nations of Europe.“We are not astonished to see to-day a deputation from Ireland. Ireland knows how deeply her destinies, her sufferings and her successive advances in the path of religious liberty, of unity and of constitutional equality with the other parts of the United Kingdom, have at all times moved the heart of Europe!“We said as much, a few days ago, to another deputation of your fellow citizens. We said as much to all the children of that glorious Isle of Erin, which the natural genius of its inhabitants, and the striking events of its history render equally symbolical of the poetry and the heroism of the nations of the north.“Rest assured, therefore, that you will find in France, under the Republic, a response to all the sentiments you express toward it.“Tell your fellow citizens that the name of Ireland is synonymous with the name of liberty courageously defended against privilege—that it is one common name to every French citizen! Tell them that this reciprocity which they invoke—that this hospitality of which they are not oblivious—the Republic will be proud to remember, and to practise invariably toward the Irish. Tell them above all, that the French Republic is not, and never will be an aristocratic Republic, in which liberty is merely abused as the mask of privilege; but a Republic embracing the entire community, and securing to all, the same rights and the same benefits.As regards other encouragements it would neither be expedient for us to hold them out, nor for you toreceive them. I have already expressed the same opinion with reference to Germany, Belgium and Italy, and I repeat it with reference to every nation which is involved in internal disputes—which is either divided against itself or at variance with its government.When there is a difference of race—when nations are aliens in blood—intervention is not allowable. We belong to no party in Ireland or elsewhere, except to that which contends for justice, for liberty, and for happiness of the Irish people. No other party would be acceptable to us in time of peace. In the interests and the passions of foreign nations, France is desirous of reserving herself free for the maintenance of the rights of all.“We are at peace, and we are desirous of remaining on good terms of equality, not with this or that part of Great Britain, but with Great Britain entire. We believe this peace to be useful and honorable, not only to Great Britain and the French Republic, but to the human race.We will not commit an act—we will not utter a word—we will not breathe an insinuation at variance with the reciprocal inviolability of nations which we have proclaimed, and of which the continent of Europe is already gathering the fruits. The fallen monarchy had treaties and diplomatists. Our diplomatists are nations—our treaties are sympathies! We should be insane were we openly to exchange such a diplomacy for unmeaning and partial alliances with even the most legitimate parties in the countries which surround us. We are not competent either to judge them or to prefer some of them to others; by announcing our partisanship of the one side we should declare ourselves theenemies of the other. We do not wish to be the enemies of any of your fellow countrymen. We wish, on the contrary, by a faithful observance of the Republican pledges, to remove all the prejudices which may mutually exist between our neighbors and ourselves.“This course, however painful it may be, is imposed on us by the law of nations, as well as by our historical remembrances.“Do you know what it was which most served to irritate France and estrange her from England during the first Republic? It was the Civil War in a portion of her territory, supported, subsidized, and assisted by Mr. Pitt. It was the encouragement and the arms given to Frenchmen, as heroical as yourselves, but Frenchmen fighting against their fellow citizens. This was not honorable warfare. It was a Royalist propagandism, waged with French blood against the Republic. This policy is not yet, in spite of all our efforts, entirely effaced from the memory of the nation.Well! this cause of dissension between Great Britain and us, we will never renew by taking any similar course.We accept with gratitude expressions of friendship from the different nationalities included in the British Empire. We ardently wish that justice may be found, and strengthen the friendship of races: that equality may become more and more its basis; but while proclaiming with you, with her (Great Britain), and with all, the holy dogma of fraternity, we will perform only acts of brotherhood, in conformity with our principles, and our feelings toward the Irish nation.”

REPLY OF THE FRENCH GOVERNMENTTO THEIRISH DEPUTATION.

“Paris, Monday, April 3, 1848.—This being the day fixed by the Provisional government for the reception of the members of the Irish deputation, Mr. Smith O’Brien and the other members of the Irish confederation went to the Hotel de Ville to-day at half-past three to present their address. They were received by Mr. Lamartine alone; none of the other members of the Provisional government being present. Besides the address of the Irish Confederation, addresses were presented at the same time by Mr. R. O’Gorman, Jr., from citizens of Dublin; by Mr. Meagher from the Repealers of Manchester, and by Mr. McDermott from the members of the Irish confederation resident in Liverpool. M. Lamartine replied to the whole of these addresses in one speech as follows:

“Citizens of Ireland!—If we required a fresh proof of the pacific influence of the proclamation of the great democratic principle, this new Christianity, bursting forth at the opportune moment, and dividing the world, as formerly, into a Pagan and Christian community—we should assuredly discern this proof of the omnipotent action of the idea, in the visits spontaneously paid in this city to Republican France, and the principleswhich animate her, by the nations or by sections of the nations of Europe.

“We are not astonished to see to-day a deputation from Ireland. Ireland knows how deeply her destinies, her sufferings and her successive advances in the path of religious liberty, of unity and of constitutional equality with the other parts of the United Kingdom, have at all times moved the heart of Europe!

“We said as much, a few days ago, to another deputation of your fellow citizens. We said as much to all the children of that glorious Isle of Erin, which the natural genius of its inhabitants, and the striking events of its history render equally symbolical of the poetry and the heroism of the nations of the north.

“Rest assured, therefore, that you will find in France, under the Republic, a response to all the sentiments you express toward it.

“Tell your fellow citizens that the name of Ireland is synonymous with the name of liberty courageously defended against privilege—that it is one common name to every French citizen! Tell them that this reciprocity which they invoke—that this hospitality of which they are not oblivious—the Republic will be proud to remember, and to practise invariably toward the Irish. Tell them above all, that the French Republic is not, and never will be an aristocratic Republic, in which liberty is merely abused as the mask of privilege; but a Republic embracing the entire community, and securing to all, the same rights and the same benefits.As regards other encouragements it would neither be expedient for us to hold them out, nor for you toreceive them. I have already expressed the same opinion with reference to Germany, Belgium and Italy, and I repeat it with reference to every nation which is involved in internal disputes—which is either divided against itself or at variance with its government.When there is a difference of race—when nations are aliens in blood—intervention is not allowable. We belong to no party in Ireland or elsewhere, except to that which contends for justice, for liberty, and for happiness of the Irish people. No other party would be acceptable to us in time of peace. In the interests and the passions of foreign nations, France is desirous of reserving herself free for the maintenance of the rights of all.

“We are at peace, and we are desirous of remaining on good terms of equality, not with this or that part of Great Britain, but with Great Britain entire. We believe this peace to be useful and honorable, not only to Great Britain and the French Republic, but to the human race.We will not commit an act—we will not utter a word—we will not breathe an insinuation at variance with the reciprocal inviolability of nations which we have proclaimed, and of which the continent of Europe is already gathering the fruits. The fallen monarchy had treaties and diplomatists. Our diplomatists are nations—our treaties are sympathies! We should be insane were we openly to exchange such a diplomacy for unmeaning and partial alliances with even the most legitimate parties in the countries which surround us. We are not competent either to judge them or to prefer some of them to others; by announcing our partisanship of the one side we should declare ourselves theenemies of the other. We do not wish to be the enemies of any of your fellow countrymen. We wish, on the contrary, by a faithful observance of the Republican pledges, to remove all the prejudices which may mutually exist between our neighbors and ourselves.

“This course, however painful it may be, is imposed on us by the law of nations, as well as by our historical remembrances.

“Do you know what it was which most served to irritate France and estrange her from England during the first Republic? It was the Civil War in a portion of her territory, supported, subsidized, and assisted by Mr. Pitt. It was the encouragement and the arms given to Frenchmen, as heroical as yourselves, but Frenchmen fighting against their fellow citizens. This was not honorable warfare. It was a Royalist propagandism, waged with French blood against the Republic. This policy is not yet, in spite of all our efforts, entirely effaced from the memory of the nation.Well! this cause of dissension between Great Britain and us, we will never renew by taking any similar course.We accept with gratitude expressions of friendship from the different nationalities included in the British Empire. We ardently wish that justice may be found, and strengthen the friendship of races: that equality may become more and more its basis; but while proclaiming with you, with her (Great Britain), and with all, the holy dogma of fraternity, we will perform only acts of brotherhood, in conformity with our principles, and our feelings toward the Irish nation.”

There is the text of the document. It is printedwith Great Primer No. 1 type, except the underlined portions which, to attract special attention, and convey an “Aha! see now what France will do for you?” are printed with English Clarendon on Great Primer body—an intensely black thick type.

Well, friend Rossa, that cowering Frenchman is dead, and that Republic which he so zealously guarded in the interest of England—not the Republic of the present, glory to it—is dead too! Had Lamartine lived to witness the revival of Trafalgar memories a few days ago, after a period of ninety years, I believe that he would bitterly regret ever having given birth to that disheartening document.

Hoping that you and yours are well, I am my dear friend Rossa,

Ever Faithfully Yours,

C. G. Doran.

John Mitchel, John Martin, Smith O’Brien, Terence Bellew McManus and other prominent men in the Young Ireland movement of 1848 were transported to Australia, and the movement collapsed. There was no armed fight for freedom. The Irish people had no arms of any account. England seized all they had, and she supplied with arms all the English that lived in Ireland. She supplied the Orangemen with arms, and she supplied arms to the Irish who were of the English religion. In the year 1863, John Power Hayes of Skibbereen gave me a gun and bayonet to be raffled, for the benefit of a man who was going to America. He told me it was a gun and bayonet that was given to him by the police in 1848, when all the men of the English religion who were in the town were secretly supplied with arms by the English government.

At the end of the year 1848, my home in Ross got broken up; the family got scattered. The family of my Uncle Con, who went to America in the year 1841 were living in Philadelphia. They heard we were ejected, and they sent a passage ticket for my brother John, who was three years older than I. My brother Con, three years younger than I, was taken by my mother’s people to Renascreena, and I was taken bymy father’s sister who was the wife of Stephen Barry of Smorane, within a mile of Skibbereen. Her daughter Ellen was married to Mortimer Downing of Kenmare, who kept a hardware shop in Skibbereen, and I soon became a clerk and general manager in that shop. My brother in Philadelphia sent passage tickets for my mother and brother and sister, and I was left alone in Ireland. I suppose they thought I was able to take care of myself in the old land. How much they were mistaken, the sequel of those “Recollections” may show.

The day they were leaving Ireland, I went from Skibbereen to Renascreena to see them off. At Renascreena Cross we parted. There was a long stretch of straight even road from Tullig to Mauleyregan over a mile long. Renascreena Cross was about the middle of it. Five or six other families were going away, and there were five or six cars to carry them and all they could carry with them, to the Cove of Cork. The cry of the weeping and wailing of that day rings in my ears still. That time it was a cry heard every day at every Cross-road in Ireland. I stood at that Renascreena Cross till this cry of the emigrant party went beyond my hearing. Then, I kept walking backward toward Skibbereen, looking at them till they sank from my view over Mauleyregan hill.

In the year 1863, I took a trip to America, and visited Philadelphia. It was night-time when I got to my brother’s house. My mother did not know me. She rubbed her fingers along my forehead to find the scar that was on it from the girl having thrown mefrom her shoulders over her head on the road, when I was a child.

Nor, did I well know my mother either. When I saw her next morning, with a yankee shawl and bonnet, looking as old as my grandmother, she was nothing more than a sorry caricature of the tall, straight, handsome woman with the hooded cloak, that was photographed—and is photographed still—in my mind as my mother—

“Who ran to take me when I fell,And would some pretty story tell,And kiss the part to make it well.”

“Who ran to take me when I fell,

And would some pretty story tell,

And kiss the part to make it well.”

This rooting out of the Irish people; this transplanting of them from their native home into a foreign land, may be all very well, so far as the young people are concerned; but for the fathers and mothers who have reared families in Ireland, it is immediate decay and death. The young tree may be transplanted from one field to another without injury to its health, but try that transplanting on the tree that has attained its natural growth, and it is its decay and death. The most melancholy looking picture I see in America, is the old father or mother brought over from Ireland by their children. See them coming from mass of a Sunday morning, looking so sad and lonely; no one to speak to; no one around they know; strangers in a strange land; strangers I may say in all the lands of earth, as the poet says:

Through the far lands we roam,Through the wastes, wild and barren;We are strangers at home,We are exiles in Erin.

Through the far lands we roam,

Through the wastes, wild and barren;

We are strangers at home,

We are exiles in Erin.

Leaving the “bad times,” the sad times, even though they were in the happy time of youth, I must now reluctantly move myself up to the time of my manhood. From 1848 to 1853, I lived in the house of Morty Downing—save some four months of the five years. He had five children, and we grew to be much of one mind; Patrick, Kate, Denis, Simon and Dan. They are dead. The four sons came to America, after three of them had put in some time of imprisonment in Ireland in connection with Phœnixism and Fenianism. These four went into the American army. Patrick was in the war as Lieutenant Colonel of the Forty-second (Tammany) Regiment. He died in Washington some ten years ago. Denis was Captain in a Buffalo regiment, and lost a leg at the battle of Gettysburg. He had command of the military company at the execution of Mrs. Surratt in Washington; he made a visit to Ireland; died there, and is buried in Castlehaven. Simon and Dan were in the regular army and are dead. All my family were in the war and are dead. My brother John was in the Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania regiment; my brother Con served on the warship Iroquois, and my sister’s husband, Walter Webb, served in the Sixty-ninth Pennsylvania cavalry.

I now go back to my recollections in Ireland. I remember the time of the passing of the Ecclesiastical Titles bill in 1851, when England made a law subjecting to a fine of £100 any Catholic bishop in Ireland who would sign his name as bishop or archbishop of his diocese. As soon as this bill was passed, Archbishop McHale defied it, and issuing a pastoral, signedhis name to it as “John McHale, Archbishop of Tuam.” England swallowed the defiance, and did not prosecute him. The Rev. Father Perraud, a French priest, writing on that subject says that England came to see that the policy of arresting a bishop for such a breach of law would not work well. Here are a few of his words:

“It is useless to conceal the fact it is not regiments encamped in Ireland; it is not the militia of 12,000 peelers distributed over the whole of the surface of the land, which prevents revolt and preserves the peace. During a long period, especially in the last century, the excess of misery to which Ireland was reduced had multiplied the secret societies of the peasantry. Who have denounced those illegal associations with the most persevering, powerful, and formidable condemnation? Who have ever been so energetic in resistance to secret societies as the Irish Episcopacy? On more than one occasion the bishops have even hazarded their popularity in this way.

“They could, at a signal, have armed a million contestants against a persecuting government—and that signal they refused to give.”

I remember the starting of the Tenant League movement in 1852, that movement that opened a field of operation for the Sadliers, the Keoghs, and others who went in to free Ireland by parliamentary agitation. It failed, as other movements since have failed that went in for freeing Ireland by parliamentary agitation. It is in that English Parliament the chains for Ireland are forged, and any Irish patriot who goes into thatforge to free Ireland will soon find himself welded into the agency of his country’s subjection to England.

I remember the Crimean war of 1853-54, and the war of the Indian mutiny of 1857. There was hardly a red-coat soldier to be seen in Ireland those times. Even the police force was thinned down, by many of them having volunteered to the seat of war, as members of a land-transport corps that England called for. The Irish National Cause was dead or asleep those times. The cry of England’s difficulty being Ireland’s opportunity was not heard in the land.

The cry of “England’s difficulty being Ireland’s opportunity” is the “stock in trade” of many Irishmen in Ireland and America who do very little for Ireland but traffic upon its miseries for their own personal benefit. Irishmen of the present day should work to free Ireland in their own time, and not be shifting from their own shoulders to the shoulders of the men of a future generation the work they themselves should do. The opportunity for gathering in the crops is the harvest time, those who will not sow the seed in springtime will have no harvest, and it is nothing but arrant nonsense for Irish patriot orators to be blathering about England’s difficulty being Ireland’s opportunity, when they will do nothing to make the opportunity. I immediately class as a fraud and a humbug any Irishman that I hear talking in that strain.

I remember when Gavan Duffy left Ireland. I think it was in 1854. He issued an address to the Irish people, in which he said that the Irish national cause was like a corpse on the dissecting table. Yet, the causewas not dead, though it was certainly stricken by a kind of trom-luighe—a kind of “heavy sleep” that came upon it after the failure of ’48, and after the recreancy of the Sadlier and Keogh gang of parliamentary patriots. The “corpse” came to life again.

I was in the town of Tralee the day I read Duffy’s address in the DublinNationnewspaper.

My brother-in-law, John Eagar, of Miltown and Liverpool, with his wife, Ellen O’Shaughnessy, of Charleville, were with me.

I got theNationat Mr. O’Shea’s of the Mall; I came to the hotel and sat down to read it. My friends noticed that I was somewhat restless, reading the paper; I turned my face away from them, and they asked if anything was the matter with me. Next day I was writing an account of my vacation and travels to John Power Hayes, a friend of mine in Skibbereen; he was a kind of poet, and I wrote to him in rhyme. I look to my notes in my memory now, and I find the following are some of the lines I wrote:

Dear John: it’s from Miltown, a village in Kerry,I write these few lines, hoping they’ll find you merry;For I know you’re distressed in your spirits, of late,Since “Corruption” has driven your friend to retreat,And being now disengaged for a few hours of time,Just to try to amuse you, my subject I’ll rhyme.Well, you know I left Cork on the evening of Sunday;I got to Killarney the following Monday;I traveled to view the legendary placesTill Thursday came on—the first day of the Races;Amusements were there for the simple and grand,But I saw that which grieved me—the wealth of the landWas, in chief, represented by many a knight,Who was sworn on oath, for the Saxon to fight,And to drive all his enemies into confusion,But I thought in my heart they were cowards, while the “Rooshian”Was granting “commissions of death,” ex-officio,To remain Barrack officers of the militia.And it sickened the heart of myself who have seenThe starved and the murdered of Skull and Skibbereen,To see those McCarthys, O’Mahonys, O’Flynns,And also O’Donoghue, Chief of the Glens.All sworn—disgraceful to all our traditions—To command the militia instead of Milesians.I also should tell you that while at the races,I made my companions scan hundreds of faces,To get me a view, for my own recreation,Of one that I knew but by name in theNation,And if I, unaccompanied, happened to meet him,With the choicest of drinks I’d be happy to treat him;For I swear by all firearms—poker and tongues,By his side I would fight to redress all our wrongs.He may be a wealthy or poor man, a tall, orA small man, but know that his name is Shine Lalor.Then leaving Killarney—seeing all I could see—I wended my way the next day to Tralee;I inquired of a man whom I met at the stationIf he’d please tell me where I’d get theNation;He inquired of another and then told me callTo the house of one Mr. O’Shea at the Mall.Then I went to my inn and proceeded to read,While the others, to get some refreshments agreed.While reading, I fell into some contemplationWhen Duffy addressed “Constituents of theNation,”And then, through what agency I cannot prove,Each nerve of my body did instantly move,Each particle quivered, I thought that a gushOf hot blood to my eyelids was making a rush;I saw myself noticed by some of the folk,Who, if they knew my feeling, would make of it joke,And I kindly requested that some one would tryTo detect a small insect that troubled my eye.The effort was made, with but little success.Say, bad luck to all flunkeys, their patrons and press.

Dear John: it’s from Miltown, a village in Kerry,

I write these few lines, hoping they’ll find you merry;

For I know you’re distressed in your spirits, of late,

Since “Corruption” has driven your friend to retreat,

And being now disengaged for a few hours of time,

Just to try to amuse you, my subject I’ll rhyme.

Well, you know I left Cork on the evening of Sunday;

I got to Killarney the following Monday;

I traveled to view the legendary places

Till Thursday came on—the first day of the Races;

Amusements were there for the simple and grand,

But I saw that which grieved me—the wealth of the land

Was, in chief, represented by many a knight,

Who was sworn on oath, for the Saxon to fight,

And to drive all his enemies into confusion,

But I thought in my heart they were cowards, while the “Rooshian”

Was granting “commissions of death,” ex-officio,

To remain Barrack officers of the militia.

And it sickened the heart of myself who have seen

The starved and the murdered of Skull and Skibbereen,

To see those McCarthys, O’Mahonys, O’Flynns,

And also O’Donoghue, Chief of the Glens.

All sworn—disgraceful to all our traditions—

To command the militia instead of Milesians.

I also should tell you that while at the races,

I made my companions scan hundreds of faces,

To get me a view, for my own recreation,

Of one that I knew but by name in theNation,

And if I, unaccompanied, happened to meet him,

With the choicest of drinks I’d be happy to treat him;

For I swear by all firearms—poker and tongues,

By his side I would fight to redress all our wrongs.

He may be a wealthy or poor man, a tall, or

A small man, but know that his name is Shine Lalor.

Then leaving Killarney—seeing all I could see—

I wended my way the next day to Tralee;

I inquired of a man whom I met at the station

If he’d please tell me where I’d get theNation;

He inquired of another and then told me call

To the house of one Mr. O’Shea at the Mall.

Then I went to my inn and proceeded to read,

While the others, to get some refreshments agreed.

While reading, I fell into some contemplation

When Duffy addressed “Constituents of theNation,”

And then, through what agency I cannot prove,

Each nerve of my body did instantly move,

Each particle quivered, I thought that a gush

Of hot blood to my eyelids was making a rush;

I saw myself noticed by some of the folk,

Who, if they knew my feeling, would make of it joke,

And I kindly requested that some one would try

To detect a small insect that troubled my eye.

The effort was made, with but little success.

Say, bad luck to all flunkeys, their patrons and press.

At that time the regiment of Kerry militia were out, under command of the O’Donoghue of the Glens, and were officered by the McCarthys, O’Mahonys, O’Flynns and other Kerrymen belonging to the old Milesian families. The regiment was shortly after drafted over to England to do duty there.

That is forty-two years ago. The reader will be able to judge from the foregoing lines of rhyme, that my opinions at that early day of my life were the same as they are to-day, and that I have not got into any bohreens or byroads of Irish national politics during those forty-two years.

Two years after the time I am speaking of, a number of young men in Skibbereen, realizing the sad state of things, came together and started the Phœnix National and Literary Society. I think that Society was started in 1856. I remember the night we met to give it a name. Some proposed that it be called the “Emmet Monument Association.” Others proposed other names. I proposed that it be called the “Phœnix National and Literary Society”—the word “Phœnix” signifying that the Irish cause was again to rise from the ashes of our martyred nationality. My resolution was carried, and that is how the word “Phœnix” comes into Irish national history.

Most of the boys who attended that meeting are dead. I could not now count more than four of themwho are living: Daniel McCartie, of Newark, N. J.; Dan O’Crowley, of Springfield, Ill., and Patrick Carey, of Troy, N. Y.

James Stephens came to Skibbereen one day in the summer of 1858. He had a letter of introduction from Jas. O’Mahony, of Bandon, to Donal Oge—one of our members. He initiated Donal Oge (Dan McCartie) into the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood. Donal Oge initiated me the next day; I initiated Patrick J. Downing and Morty Moynahan the following day; and so, the good cause spread.

In three or four months, we had three or four baronies of the southwest of Cork County organized; Donal Oge, Morty Moynahan and I became three centres of three circles. We had drillings at night in the woods and on the hillsides; the rumblings, and rumors of war were heard all around; the government were becoming alarmed; they made a raid upon our homes on the night of December 8, and the second day after, some twenty of us were prisoners in the county jail in the city of Cork.

The last chapter commenced with the arrest of the men of ’48 and ran over the succeeding ten years, up to the arrest of the men of ’58. Those ten years carried me from boyhood into manhood. I could very well skip them by, and say no more about them, but many men and women who are reading these “Recollections” in theUnited Irishmanwould not be pleased at my doing that. They have become interested in my stories of Irish life and Irish character, and, as one purpose of my writing is to make a true picture of these, I must, even at the risk of being charged with egotism, face that charge, and tell my own story.

When I came to live in Skibbereen, in 1848, there was a Father Matthew Temperance society in the town. I took the Father Matthew pledge, and I became a member of that society. I kept that pledge till the year 1857. To that circumstance I place a due share of credit for being able to go through the world with a strong and healthy constitution. It is no harm to add that the past seventeen years of my life have been with me years of temperance, as were those nine years from ’48 to ’57.

I had no salary in Skibbereen the first year. I was clothed and fed as one of the family. Then, my aunt’s son-in-law, Morty Downing, changed his residence from one house to another, and enlarged his business by adding general hardware, cutlery and agricultural seeds to his stock of ironmongery and farm implements. I was allowed a salary of two pounds a year, I was offered an indentureship of clerkship for five years, but I would not sign the indentures. I did not want to bind myself. My aunt wanted me to do it, but I would not. My employer represented to her that I was becoming too much my own master, and that for my own good, he wanted to have a stronger hand over me. Possibly he was right, but all to no use, I remained wrong, and kept my freedom. He would go to my aunt’s place at Smorane—a mile outside the town—every Sunday evening; and, riding his horse “Mouse” into town one evening, he saw me riding through the street on an empty tar barrel. Next morning he was out of bed before I was up, and as I came downstairs he met me with a whip in his hand. He gave me a good thrashing. I didn’t cry, I only sulked. That evening I took my supper in the kitchen. While taking supper, Kittie, the boss servant, told me that the master said I was to do her work of cleaning all the shoes next morning, and that as she would be out milking the cows I would find the shoes in the usual place. When I came downstairs next morning, Kittie was out milking the cows; there was a nice blazing fire in the grate; I got a stool and I put it opposite the grate; I got the shoes and boots and put them on the stool; I got the water can, and I filled the boots and shoes with water. There I left them, and left the house and went home to mymother in Ross. She had not then gone to America; she was living in the house that was left to her rent-free during her life for giving up peaceable possessions of the farm.

That week, the wife and children of our cousin, Paddy Donovan in New York, were leaving Ross for America. My god-father, Jerrie Shannahan, was the car-man who was taking them to Cork. I went to Cork with them. When they sailed away I came back to Ross with my god-father. We left Cork on Saturday evening, and were in Ross on Sunday morning. Our horse had no load coming back but the two of us.

During the few days I was in Cork, I went around, looking for work. I had with me a good character certificate that I got from my parish priest. These were the words of it—“I know Jeremiah O’Donovan, of this parish, to be a smart, intelligent young lad. His conduct, up to this, has been good and correct. I recommend him as one who will prove honest and trustworthy.—Michael O’Hea, P. P., Ross Carberry.”

With that, I went on board a ship in the river Lee, and offered myself as cabin-boy, or any kind of boy. The mate liked me; but as the captain was not on board he could not, in his absence, take me.

Then, I knew that Andy-Andy lately ’listed, in Ross, and that he and his regiment were in barracks in Cork. I went up to the top of Cork Hill. I inquired at the barrack gate for Andy Hayes of Ross. I was told he was detailed on guard duty at the County Jail. I made my way to the County Jail, and there, inside the gate—in the guard-house, between the inside gate andthe outside gate—I met Andy-Andy, in England’s red-coat uniform—as fine a looking man as you’d meet in a day’s walk—six feet two or three in height. Three or four years before that day, I buried his mother, Jillen, without a coffin—

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