Eight mourning townsmen did appearWho worshipped God a different way,Requesting earnestly that they,Alone, would be allowed to layThe body in its mother clay.
Eight mourning townsmen did appearWho worshipped God a different way,Requesting earnestly that they,Alone, would be allowed to layThe body in its mother clay.
Eight mourning townsmen did appear
Who worshipped God a different way,
Requesting earnestly that they,
Alone, would be allowed to lay
The body in its mother clay.
There was at that time somewhat of a distant feeling between the Catholics and the Protestants of the town. Some few years before that, the Ecclesiastical Titles bill was passed in Parliament, that made it an offense for a Catholic bishop to sign his name to any paper or pastoral as “bishop of his diocese.” Some of the Protestants of the town had privately sent a petition to Parliament praying for the passage of the bill. Some member of Parliament got the names of those who signed that petition, and sent them to Skibbereen. The Skibbereen men had them printed and placarded on the walls, and from that sprang the cold feeling Iallude to. The Protestants, at Doctor Jerrie’s funeral, stood at the graveyard gate of the Abbey field, and asked us who were bearing the coffin, to do them the favor of letting them bear it from the gate to the grave. We granted them the favor, and there were the ten Catholic priests reading the Catholic prayers, and the eight Protestants, bearing the coffin through the graveyard.
John Tierney, of Kings County, is reading those “Recollections” of mine, and he sends me a communication which I will make a place for here, as the subject he alludes to had place about the time I am now speaking of—the year 1857. This is his note.
No. 635 West 42d Street, New York.Dear Sir—I like best the books I brought with me from dear old Ireland; though, like myself, they are sadly the worse for the wear.I send you Charles J. Kickham’s story of “Sally Cavanagh.” He speaks of you in the preface. Well—well—the figure of the world, for us two anyway, “passeth away.” Still, “while every hope was false to me,” and also thee, there is pride and comfort in such testimony from such a whole-souled Irishman as Kickham, who knew not how to favor or flatter, any more than your old friend,John Tierney.
No. 635 West 42d Street, New York.
Dear Sir—I like best the books I brought with me from dear old Ireland; though, like myself, they are sadly the worse for the wear.
I send you Charles J. Kickham’s story of “Sally Cavanagh.” He speaks of you in the preface. Well—well—the figure of the world, for us two anyway, “passeth away.” Still, “while every hope was false to me,” and also thee, there is pride and comfort in such testimony from such a whole-souled Irishman as Kickham, who knew not how to favor or flatter, any more than your old friend,
John Tierney.
The following are the words of Kickham to which Mr. Tierney refers:
“As I have spoken of so many of my fellow laborers at No. 12 Parliament street, I must not forget themost devoted of them all. His name was first brought under my notice in this way: It was the end of the year 1857, a sketch of the poet Edward Walsh appeared in theCelt, a national periodical established by my lamented friend, Doctor Robert Cane, of Kilkenny. The poor poet’s story was a sad one, and it was mentioned that his widow was then living in an humble lodging in Dublin, hardly earning her own and her children’s bread, as a seamstress. This moved some generous-hearted persons to write to her, proffering pecuniary assistance; but the poet’s widow was proud, and she wished it to be announced in theCeltthat she could not accept money. Mrs. Walsh sent me one of the letters she had received, and here it is:
“Skibbereen, Xmas morning, 1857.“Dear Madam—I hoped to spend a happy Christmas Day; but before sitting down to breakfast, I took up the last number of theCelt, and read the conclusion of the memoir of your husband, by some kind writer. I now find I cannot be happy unless you will do me the favor of accepting the enclosed pound note as a small testimony of my sympathy for the widow of one of our sweetest poets. I remain dear madam,“Yours, Sincerely,“J. O’Donovan Rossa.”
“Skibbereen, Xmas morning, 1857.
“Dear Madam—I hoped to spend a happy Christmas Day; but before sitting down to breakfast, I took up the last number of theCelt, and read the conclusion of the memoir of your husband, by some kind writer. I now find I cannot be happy unless you will do me the favor of accepting the enclosed pound note as a small testimony of my sympathy for the widow of one of our sweetest poets. I remain dear madam,
“Yours, Sincerely,
“J. O’Donovan Rossa.”
I felt a strong desire to know more of this Mr. O’Donovan (Rossa), who could not sit down to his Christmas breakfast after reading an “o’er true tale” of suffering, till he had done something to alleviate it.And when, some months after, I saw his name in the list of prisoners arrested in Cork and Kerry, on a charge of treason-felony, I was not surprised. The first of these “Phœnix prisoners placed at the bar, Daniel O’Sullivan-agreem, was convicted and sentenced to ten years penal servitude. But before the trials proceeded further, there was a change of government, and Thomas O’Hagan, now lord-chancellor, the eloquent advocate of the prisoners, was made attorney-general. O’Donovan (Rossa) and the rest were prevailed on to go through the form of pleading guilty, having first stipulated that Daniel O’Sullivan should be set at liberty. By this step they relieved the new attorney-general of the awkward duty of becoming the prosecutors of his clients. The prisoners were released on their own recognizances to come up for judgment when called upon. It is needless to say that the fact that he could be at any moment consigned to penal servitude for life, or for any number of years the government pleased without the form of a trial, had no effect whatever upon the political conduct of O’Donovan (Rossa). After this I saw his name again in the newspapers as a candidate for the situation of Relieving Officer to the Skibbereen Union. In his letter to the Guardians he said in his manly way: ‘If you appoint me, notwithstanding my political opinions, I shall feel proud. But if you refuse to appoint me on account of my political opinions, I shall feel proud, too.’ It is to the credit of the Board of Guardians that he was unanimously elected; and the fact shows, too, the estimation in which the indomitable rebel was held by all who knewhim personally, irrespective of class or creed. The scenes of misery with which he was brought into closer contact while discharging the duties of this office intensified his hatred of foreign misrule. Mr. O’Donovan was the manager of theIrish People, and while on his business tours through Ireland and England, one of its ablest correspondents. He also contributed to its leading columns, and even to the ‘poet’s corner.’”
When I come to the years 1859 and 1862 I will have something to say about that “pleading guilty” and that “Relieving Officership of the Skibbereen Union.”
After the death of Dr. Jerrie Crowley, the Phœnix men moved from the rooms they had occupied back of the drugstore into other rooms that they rented from Morty Downing—not the Morty I have spoken of before, but another Morty who was called Morty the Second.
On the 2d of January, 1858, we had an anniversary celebration in those new rooms. We had a supper, and after the supper we had speech-making. Daniel O’Crowley, now living in Springfield, Ill., was, I think, the secretary of the meeting at that time. Denis McCarthy-Dhoun, who afterward died in London, was the chairman at the supper. We were subscribing for the Irish National journals at the time. I sent a report of the meeting to theDundalk Democrat, and I sent with it a pound note, asking the editor to send me a pound’s worth of the papers.
The speeches were published in theDemocrat, and from theDemocratthey were published in other papers—in French papers and American papers. It was fromthose circumstances that that which is now called Fenianism took the start. James Stephens was in Paris at the time, and I think John O’Mahony was in Paris, too. Anyway, they were in communication with each other, or got into communication with each other. The report of the Skibbereen meeting showed them that the old cause was not dead; that the seed of national life was in the old land still. They agreed to start into action. James Stephens was to act in Ireland, and John O’Mahony was to act in America. Thus it came to pass that James Stephens visited Skibbereen in the summer of 1858, and planted the seed of the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood there, as I have already said in chapter xiii.; and thus it came to pass that John O’Mahony started the “Phœnix” newspaper in New York in the year 1859, when many men in Skibbereen, Bantry, Kenmare, Killarney and other places had been arrested and put to prison, under the name of Phœnix men.
How do I know all that? you may ask. Well, I know it this way: After the Phœnix scare had subsided, Jas. Stephens was living in Paris, and he wrote to Skibbereen expressing a wish that Dan McCartie and Patrick J. Downing would visit him there. They did visit him; not the two together, but one at a time. Dan McCartie returned to Skibbereen; Patrick J. Downing was sent to America. I met the two of them since, and it is from them I learned all I have stated relative to the start of Fenianism. Patrick J. Downing went through the American war; he was a Colonel of the Forty-second (Tammany) Regiment; he learnedhis drill on the hill sides of Ireland; he became our drill-master after Owens (Considine, whom James Stephens had sent us), left us; he died in Washington some years ago. Dan McCartie is living in America as I write—and long may he live.
I was in the town of Dundalk, Ireland, in the year 1894. I gave a lecture there. The chairman of the meeting was Thomas Roe, the proprietor of theDundalk Democrat. I asked him had he a file of the paper for the year 1858. He said he had. He went to the office and got the issue of the paper in which was the report of the Phœnix Society meeting of January 2d, 1858. I got him to re-publish it; and it is from theDundalk Democratof August 18th, 1894, that I now publish this speech I made in Skibbereen thirty-nine years ago.
“In his lecture at the town hall, Dundalk, last week, O’Donovan Rossa referred to the fact that the first speech he ever delivered—at a commemoration of the anniversary of the Phœnix National Society, Skibbereen, in the beginning of 1858—was sent by him to theDemocratand published by this journal. On turning to the file of 1858, we find the report of the speech amongst those delivered on the same occasion, and it is both interesting and instructive at the present time. We reproduce it here:
PHŒNIX NATIONAL AND LITERARY SOCIETY, SKIBBEREEN.“On the 2d instant the members of this societycelebrated the first anniversary of its formation by dining together. Mr. D. McCarthy presided. When ample justice had been done to the good things provided by Mrs. Downing, the following toasts were drunk with enthusiasm and responded to:“‘Our Country.’“Mr. Jeremiah O’Donovan (Rossa) in response to this toast spoke as follows: Mr. Chairman and gentlemen. At your call I reluctantly rise, for I am badly prepared and ill qualified to speak to the toast of Our Country; but should that country ever have a call on the services of her sons during my existence, I trust I will be found more willing to rise and better prepared to act than I am now to speak for it. Too much talk and too little action have been the characteristics of Irish patriotism during a large portion of the last half century; and as we are supposed to learn from experience, it is believed that less of the former and a corresponding increase of the latter will, in the future, serve our country’s cause best and our enemy’s cause least. I don’t know whether or not the committee who prepared our toasts took this view of the matter when they wrote down this land to be toasted asourcountry, when it is an established fact thatwehave no country. We are the most cosmopolitan race in the whole universe; but Irishmenshouldhave a country; they have a right to the country of their birth. By the use and aid of one steel—the pen—our committee have taken possession of that right, and as their title one day may be disputed, I trust they will be able and willing toprove it by the aid of another steel—the sword (loud cheers). I have heard an anecdote, which I will repeat to you, concerning Dr. Croke of Mallow. When a young man, he was traveling through France, and in a village there he had his seat taken on a Diligence, but having forgotten something at the time, he went for it and on his return found his place occupied by another. In consideration of the loss of his seat he received some impertinence, which he resented; a dispute arose, the disputants appealed to the authorities, and their names were taken down to appear before a tribunal of justice next morning. He gave his name as Thomas Croke, of Ireland, but for reasons that you can plainly understand, he was called next morning as Thomas Croke, Englishman! Feeling the indignity to his country, he never answered till pointed out by one of the officials, and when he stated he was Thomas Croke, Irishman, and not Thomas Croke, Englishman, he was only sneeringly laughed at for presuming to think that he had a country. Thus was this Irishman reminded of the loss of his country; he had no country; we Irishmen are slaves and outcasts in the land of our birth. What a shame! What a disgrace! Yes; disgraceful alike to peer and peasant—Protestant, Catholic and Presbyterian. Thus may foreign nations believe this country is not ours, and I am sure you will not be surprised that England is particularly positive on this point. She has made all possible efforts to convince us of it. She has broken the heads of many Irishmen trying to hammer this opinion into them. For seven long and dreary centuries has she been trying to forceit on us; and against her during all this time have the majority of Irishmen protested. Yet has she disregarded every protestation, every claim, and every petition, and instead of treating us as human beings or subjects, she has made every effort that pen, fire and sword could make to extirpate our race. She has stained almost every hearthstone in the land with the heart’s blood of a victim; and the other day, in savage exultation at the idea of her work being accomplished, she cried out, ‘The Irish are gone, and gone with a vengeance’ (groans). But the mercenary Thunderer lies. I read it in your countenances. The Irish are not gone; but part of them are gone, and in whatever clime their pulses beat to night, that ‘vengeance’ which banished them is inscribed on their hearts, impregnates their blood, and may yet operate against that oppressor who, by his exterminating and extirpating laws, deprived them of a means of living in the land of their fathers (hear, hear, and cheers). I don’t now particularly confine myself to the last ten or twelve years. If I go back centuries, the same language will apply to England. In the seventeenth century she issued the following instructions to Lord Ormond, and as the Eastern monarch said, I now say, ‘hear and tremble’:—‘That his lordship do endeavor, with his majesty’s forces, to wound, kill, slay or destroy, by all the ways and means he may, all the said rebels, their adherents and relievers; and burn, waste, spoil, consume, destroy and demolish all the places, towns and houses where the said rebels are, or have been relieved or harbored, and all the hay and corn there, and kill or destroy all the men inhabitingthere capable of bearing arms.’ When I reflect on this and the other innumerable instruments made and provided for the destruction of the Irish, I begin to doubt my identity as of Milesian descent. Many of you possess similar doubts or feelings, for assuredly our ancestors were none of the favored class, and nothing but the miraculous intervention of Providence could have preserved our race from utter extinction. Again, hear what the following historians say:—Carte writes: ‘That the Lord Justices set their hearts on the extermination not only of the mere Irish, but also of the old English families who were Catholics.’ Dr. Leland says that:—‘The favorite object of the Irish Governors and the English Parliament was the utter extermination of all the Catholics of Ireland.’ Clarendon writes that:—‘They have sworn to extirpate the whole Irish nation;’ and the Rev. Dr. Warner says that:—‘It is evident that the Lord Justices hoped for an extirpation not of the mere Irish only, but of all the old English families who were Catholics.’ I give you these extracts without wishing to be sectarian. The old Irish Catholics were fighting for their nationality, and if the old Irish Protestants were to fight for the same to morrow, it is proved that the tyrant would treat them similarly if she had the power. When will Irishmen cease from doing the work of the enemy? When will they ponder on their present degraded condition? When will the sunshine of unity dispel the clouds of dissension and distrust that hover over their understanding, and make them blind to the interests of their common country? If it be advantageous forIrishmen to make their own laws, to govern their own country—if they are qualified to do so—why allow another people to think and act for them? Why not Irishmen prefer the interest of their own to that of another country? Can I attribute the motives to love or fear? Are we so pleased with the fostering care and protective kindness of our masters, that we do not care about changing our condition? Or can it be that we are so much afraid of the power of England, that cowardice alone prevents us from properly claiming and obtaining the rights of free men? The time is gone when England could create fear; under present circumstances she has still the power over Ireland in consequence of all her internal elements of discord, disunion and disorganization, but not over any united or enlightened people. Russia has proved this. America and Naples insult and defy her, and India grasps her by the throat and cries: ‘Robber, stand and deliver up your booty’ (prolonged cheers). In her humility, she is truly a most gullible creature. She now calls for our sympathy and aid. I don’t for a moment deny the Saxon interest is strong amongst us; yet who will wonder at it? And who will be surprised if Lord Mayors and Town Scoundrels, official invaders and castle traders; lunatic, militia, stipendiary, detective, expectants, and all other innumerable officers and satellites of vicious and vice-royalty should forward an address of commiseration and condolence, accompanied with a fewlacsfor the comfort and relief of their task masters (cries of ‘they want it’). The poor struggling tenant-at-will will pay for all; he can starvehis family a few pounds more, and he can fatten the master’s pigs proportionately, and then when he can’t do any more, he will get Indian tenant right, what he richly deserves when he fails to take the proper steps to right himself. If every farmer in the country had a proper supply of agricultural implements, one of which is a pitchfork, and if all combined then and petitioned Parliament, stating they were determined to improve their holdings and positions, and praying to the House to consider their situation, it is my firm conviction they would not be long without tenant right, and the remnant of our race would not be forced into exile. England has never given us anything through a lovefor usor a love of justice. She has ever spurned our petitions when they were not backed by the sword or a firm determination, and whenever Irishmen demanded an instalment of their rights by the pen alone, they were only mocked and laughed at, and sometimes favored with additional fetters. Wellington and Peel granted emancipation through fear; they admitted it was not safe to refuse it longer; and Grattan would never have repealed the Sixth of George I., passed in 1720, to confirm ‘and better secure the dependence of Ireland,’ only that the English government knew that“Swords to back his wordsWere ready, did he need them.But that treaty of ’82 was broken as perfidiously as was the treaty of Limerick, and every other treaty or compact that was ever made between the two peoples. As a prelude, Ireland was incited by the enemy to prematurerebellion; and as Archbishop Hughes, of New York, said when delivering a lecture on Irish starvation in ’46—‘Martial law for the people—a bayonet or a gibbet for the patriot who loved Ireland—a bribe for the traitor whodid not—led to that act called the Union, in which the charter of Irish nationality was destroyed—I trust not forever.’ Irishmen have since experienced the happiness of being an integral portion of thedisunited kingdom; they have been relieved from the cares and troubles of native manufactories and internal bustle, and they are now such an important people as to be saddled with an ‘integral’ portion of a thousand million pounds, as a national debt. If we were able to pay this debt for England, Ireland may have some chance of becoming a separate portion of this kingdom; but whoever would seriously endeavor to make her so without any stipulation, may experience the blessings of the ‘Glorious British Constitution’ through the agency of the halter, the dungeon, the convict ship, the gibbet or the jail. When I speak of these instruments of our tyrants, thoughts of blood and fiendish deeds connected with ’98 and the succeeding years visit my memory. The two Thomas street murders, within a few years and a few yards of each other, forcibly and brilliantly reveal to us the charms of that constitution, and particularly that circumstance connected with the murder of Lord Edward, where the bloodhounds pursued his spirit to the other world, and after the Universal Judge in heaven had passed sentence on him either as a traitor or a martyr, they retried him, and by a packed jury robbed and plunderedhis widow and orphan children. Excuse me, Mr. Chairman and Irishmen, for trespassing so far upon the property of my successor, who is to speak of the men of ’98. I have digressed much from my subject, but it is more of the heart than of the mind. A few other remarks and I will have ceased from tiring you farther. You will understand that I am not one of those individuals who believe in the regeneration of my country through the agency of a viceroy or vice-reine, through the propagation of high-blood cattle and the cultivation for their support of mangel-wurzel and yellow-bullock; the latter would be very well in their proper time and place, but I would reverse the order of things, and the comforts of human creation would be with me a primary consideration to the comforts of the brute species, or as my friend and neighbor, Michael Burke, says, I would rather see ‘stamina’ in the man than in the animal (laughter). To effect this, the existing relations of Irishman and Englishman should undergo a change, and now should be the time for the Irish nation to agitate for this change, and strive to obtain it by every proper means, so as to prevent a recurrence of the national disasters of ’46 and ’47, when England allowed thousands of our people to starve, and blasphemously charged God Almighty with the crime, while the routine of her misgovernment compelled the cereal produce of the country to be exported. A curse upon foreign legislation. A domestic government, no matter how constituted, would never have allowed it; even this terrible evil might have been averted, had the leaders in ’48 profited by the past history of theircountry; they ought to have known that an enemy never paid any attention to moral force, when not backed by physical force, and had the Repealers followed the example of the ’82 men, and had they presented their petitions with pikes and swords instead of with magic wands and brass buttons, the issue would have been different with them, and instead of injuring the cause of their country, they would occupy as prominent and proud a place in her future history as Grattan and his compatriots. To obtain a name and a position for our country, and the restoration of our plundered rights, we will need such an organization as that of ’82—nay such a one as ’48, if you will. Had Irishmen, orany oneclass of Irishmen, been united, bided their time, and embraced their opportunity, the future would be ours—no matter though there may be many difficulties before men who seek to establish a name and position for their country amongst the nations of the earth. But let me say, that as Irishmen here to-night—we have no foe—no enemy amongst any class or creed of our countrymen; politically speaking, the man who looks upon us, and men of our political profession, as his enemy, is our enemy. Hemustbe a man who would have his country forever under the yoke of the foreigner; or, hemustbe a man who has profited by the plunder, or who is supported by the plunderer. I now conclude, thanking you for the honor you have done me, and the kindness you have shown me, assuring you wherever I am cast by fortune, it shall ever be my pride to stand, as I stand here to-night, amongst men who are prepared to assist in any and every agitationor undertaking to obtain their rights, or an instalment of their rights, which may ultimately result in qualifying them to write the epitaph of Robert Emmet.”
PHŒNIX NATIONAL AND LITERARY SOCIETY, SKIBBEREEN.
“On the 2d instant the members of this societycelebrated the first anniversary of its formation by dining together. Mr. D. McCarthy presided. When ample justice had been done to the good things provided by Mrs. Downing, the following toasts were drunk with enthusiasm and responded to:
“‘Our Country.’
“Mr. Jeremiah O’Donovan (Rossa) in response to this toast spoke as follows: Mr. Chairman and gentlemen. At your call I reluctantly rise, for I am badly prepared and ill qualified to speak to the toast of Our Country; but should that country ever have a call on the services of her sons during my existence, I trust I will be found more willing to rise and better prepared to act than I am now to speak for it. Too much talk and too little action have been the characteristics of Irish patriotism during a large portion of the last half century; and as we are supposed to learn from experience, it is believed that less of the former and a corresponding increase of the latter will, in the future, serve our country’s cause best and our enemy’s cause least. I don’t know whether or not the committee who prepared our toasts took this view of the matter when they wrote down this land to be toasted asourcountry, when it is an established fact thatwehave no country. We are the most cosmopolitan race in the whole universe; but Irishmenshouldhave a country; they have a right to the country of their birth. By the use and aid of one steel—the pen—our committee have taken possession of that right, and as their title one day may be disputed, I trust they will be able and willing toprove it by the aid of another steel—the sword (loud cheers). I have heard an anecdote, which I will repeat to you, concerning Dr. Croke of Mallow. When a young man, he was traveling through France, and in a village there he had his seat taken on a Diligence, but having forgotten something at the time, he went for it and on his return found his place occupied by another. In consideration of the loss of his seat he received some impertinence, which he resented; a dispute arose, the disputants appealed to the authorities, and their names were taken down to appear before a tribunal of justice next morning. He gave his name as Thomas Croke, of Ireland, but for reasons that you can plainly understand, he was called next morning as Thomas Croke, Englishman! Feeling the indignity to his country, he never answered till pointed out by one of the officials, and when he stated he was Thomas Croke, Irishman, and not Thomas Croke, Englishman, he was only sneeringly laughed at for presuming to think that he had a country. Thus was this Irishman reminded of the loss of his country; he had no country; we Irishmen are slaves and outcasts in the land of our birth. What a shame! What a disgrace! Yes; disgraceful alike to peer and peasant—Protestant, Catholic and Presbyterian. Thus may foreign nations believe this country is not ours, and I am sure you will not be surprised that England is particularly positive on this point. She has made all possible efforts to convince us of it. She has broken the heads of many Irishmen trying to hammer this opinion into them. For seven long and dreary centuries has she been trying to forceit on us; and against her during all this time have the majority of Irishmen protested. Yet has she disregarded every protestation, every claim, and every petition, and instead of treating us as human beings or subjects, she has made every effort that pen, fire and sword could make to extirpate our race. She has stained almost every hearthstone in the land with the heart’s blood of a victim; and the other day, in savage exultation at the idea of her work being accomplished, she cried out, ‘The Irish are gone, and gone with a vengeance’ (groans). But the mercenary Thunderer lies. I read it in your countenances. The Irish are not gone; but part of them are gone, and in whatever clime their pulses beat to night, that ‘vengeance’ which banished them is inscribed on their hearts, impregnates their blood, and may yet operate against that oppressor who, by his exterminating and extirpating laws, deprived them of a means of living in the land of their fathers (hear, hear, and cheers). I don’t now particularly confine myself to the last ten or twelve years. If I go back centuries, the same language will apply to England. In the seventeenth century she issued the following instructions to Lord Ormond, and as the Eastern monarch said, I now say, ‘hear and tremble’:—‘That his lordship do endeavor, with his majesty’s forces, to wound, kill, slay or destroy, by all the ways and means he may, all the said rebels, their adherents and relievers; and burn, waste, spoil, consume, destroy and demolish all the places, towns and houses where the said rebels are, or have been relieved or harbored, and all the hay and corn there, and kill or destroy all the men inhabitingthere capable of bearing arms.’ When I reflect on this and the other innumerable instruments made and provided for the destruction of the Irish, I begin to doubt my identity as of Milesian descent. Many of you possess similar doubts or feelings, for assuredly our ancestors were none of the favored class, and nothing but the miraculous intervention of Providence could have preserved our race from utter extinction. Again, hear what the following historians say:—Carte writes: ‘That the Lord Justices set their hearts on the extermination not only of the mere Irish, but also of the old English families who were Catholics.’ Dr. Leland says that:—‘The favorite object of the Irish Governors and the English Parliament was the utter extermination of all the Catholics of Ireland.’ Clarendon writes that:—‘They have sworn to extirpate the whole Irish nation;’ and the Rev. Dr. Warner says that:—‘It is evident that the Lord Justices hoped for an extirpation not of the mere Irish only, but of all the old English families who were Catholics.’ I give you these extracts without wishing to be sectarian. The old Irish Catholics were fighting for their nationality, and if the old Irish Protestants were to fight for the same to morrow, it is proved that the tyrant would treat them similarly if she had the power. When will Irishmen cease from doing the work of the enemy? When will they ponder on their present degraded condition? When will the sunshine of unity dispel the clouds of dissension and distrust that hover over their understanding, and make them blind to the interests of their common country? If it be advantageous forIrishmen to make their own laws, to govern their own country—if they are qualified to do so—why allow another people to think and act for them? Why not Irishmen prefer the interest of their own to that of another country? Can I attribute the motives to love or fear? Are we so pleased with the fostering care and protective kindness of our masters, that we do not care about changing our condition? Or can it be that we are so much afraid of the power of England, that cowardice alone prevents us from properly claiming and obtaining the rights of free men? The time is gone when England could create fear; under present circumstances she has still the power over Ireland in consequence of all her internal elements of discord, disunion and disorganization, but not over any united or enlightened people. Russia has proved this. America and Naples insult and defy her, and India grasps her by the throat and cries: ‘Robber, stand and deliver up your booty’ (prolonged cheers). In her humility, she is truly a most gullible creature. She now calls for our sympathy and aid. I don’t for a moment deny the Saxon interest is strong amongst us; yet who will wonder at it? And who will be surprised if Lord Mayors and Town Scoundrels, official invaders and castle traders; lunatic, militia, stipendiary, detective, expectants, and all other innumerable officers and satellites of vicious and vice-royalty should forward an address of commiseration and condolence, accompanied with a fewlacsfor the comfort and relief of their task masters (cries of ‘they want it’). The poor struggling tenant-at-will will pay for all; he can starvehis family a few pounds more, and he can fatten the master’s pigs proportionately, and then when he can’t do any more, he will get Indian tenant right, what he richly deserves when he fails to take the proper steps to right himself. If every farmer in the country had a proper supply of agricultural implements, one of which is a pitchfork, and if all combined then and petitioned Parliament, stating they were determined to improve their holdings and positions, and praying to the House to consider their situation, it is my firm conviction they would not be long without tenant right, and the remnant of our race would not be forced into exile. England has never given us anything through a lovefor usor a love of justice. She has ever spurned our petitions when they were not backed by the sword or a firm determination, and whenever Irishmen demanded an instalment of their rights by the pen alone, they were only mocked and laughed at, and sometimes favored with additional fetters. Wellington and Peel granted emancipation through fear; they admitted it was not safe to refuse it longer; and Grattan would never have repealed the Sixth of George I., passed in 1720, to confirm ‘and better secure the dependence of Ireland,’ only that the English government knew that
“Swords to back his wordsWere ready, did he need them.
“Swords to back his wordsWere ready, did he need them.
“Swords to back his words
Were ready, did he need them.
But that treaty of ’82 was broken as perfidiously as was the treaty of Limerick, and every other treaty or compact that was ever made between the two peoples. As a prelude, Ireland was incited by the enemy to prematurerebellion; and as Archbishop Hughes, of New York, said when delivering a lecture on Irish starvation in ’46—‘Martial law for the people—a bayonet or a gibbet for the patriot who loved Ireland—a bribe for the traitor whodid not—led to that act called the Union, in which the charter of Irish nationality was destroyed—I trust not forever.’ Irishmen have since experienced the happiness of being an integral portion of thedisunited kingdom; they have been relieved from the cares and troubles of native manufactories and internal bustle, and they are now such an important people as to be saddled with an ‘integral’ portion of a thousand million pounds, as a national debt. If we were able to pay this debt for England, Ireland may have some chance of becoming a separate portion of this kingdom; but whoever would seriously endeavor to make her so without any stipulation, may experience the blessings of the ‘Glorious British Constitution’ through the agency of the halter, the dungeon, the convict ship, the gibbet or the jail. When I speak of these instruments of our tyrants, thoughts of blood and fiendish deeds connected with ’98 and the succeeding years visit my memory. The two Thomas street murders, within a few years and a few yards of each other, forcibly and brilliantly reveal to us the charms of that constitution, and particularly that circumstance connected with the murder of Lord Edward, where the bloodhounds pursued his spirit to the other world, and after the Universal Judge in heaven had passed sentence on him either as a traitor or a martyr, they retried him, and by a packed jury robbed and plunderedhis widow and orphan children. Excuse me, Mr. Chairman and Irishmen, for trespassing so far upon the property of my successor, who is to speak of the men of ’98. I have digressed much from my subject, but it is more of the heart than of the mind. A few other remarks and I will have ceased from tiring you farther. You will understand that I am not one of those individuals who believe in the regeneration of my country through the agency of a viceroy or vice-reine, through the propagation of high-blood cattle and the cultivation for their support of mangel-wurzel and yellow-bullock; the latter would be very well in their proper time and place, but I would reverse the order of things, and the comforts of human creation would be with me a primary consideration to the comforts of the brute species, or as my friend and neighbor, Michael Burke, says, I would rather see ‘stamina’ in the man than in the animal (laughter). To effect this, the existing relations of Irishman and Englishman should undergo a change, and now should be the time for the Irish nation to agitate for this change, and strive to obtain it by every proper means, so as to prevent a recurrence of the national disasters of ’46 and ’47, when England allowed thousands of our people to starve, and blasphemously charged God Almighty with the crime, while the routine of her misgovernment compelled the cereal produce of the country to be exported. A curse upon foreign legislation. A domestic government, no matter how constituted, would never have allowed it; even this terrible evil might have been averted, had the leaders in ’48 profited by the past history of theircountry; they ought to have known that an enemy never paid any attention to moral force, when not backed by physical force, and had the Repealers followed the example of the ’82 men, and had they presented their petitions with pikes and swords instead of with magic wands and brass buttons, the issue would have been different with them, and instead of injuring the cause of their country, they would occupy as prominent and proud a place in her future history as Grattan and his compatriots. To obtain a name and a position for our country, and the restoration of our plundered rights, we will need such an organization as that of ’82—nay such a one as ’48, if you will. Had Irishmen, orany oneclass of Irishmen, been united, bided their time, and embraced their opportunity, the future would be ours—no matter though there may be many difficulties before men who seek to establish a name and position for their country amongst the nations of the earth. But let me say, that as Irishmen here to-night—we have no foe—no enemy amongst any class or creed of our countrymen; politically speaking, the man who looks upon us, and men of our political profession, as his enemy, is our enemy. Hemustbe a man who would have his country forever under the yoke of the foreigner; or, hemustbe a man who has profited by the plunder, or who is supported by the plunderer. I now conclude, thanking you for the honor you have done me, and the kindness you have shown me, assuring you wherever I am cast by fortune, it shall ever be my pride to stand, as I stand here to-night, amongst men who are prepared to assist in any and every agitationor undertaking to obtain their rights, or an instalment of their rights, which may ultimately result in qualifying them to write the epitaph of Robert Emmet.”
It isn’t that I say it—that wasn’t a bad speech at all, at a time when Ireland was dead or sleeping. People who write about the origin of that particular movement called Fenianism—knowing nothing about that speech, or about the Phœnix Society men, know nothing as to what they write about. If the license of a little pleasantry may be given me, I may say that several of my early-day acquaintances would often lament that I would not bind myself to the speech-making business, to free Ireland.
In these times preceding the Phœnix arrests—from 1852 to 1858—the time of the Sadlier and Keogh Tenant Right movement, the time of the Crimean war, and the time of the Indian mutiny, the Irish National cause was in a swoon. But England was playing one of her tricks, endeavoring to get the people to put trust in Parliamentary agitation and petitions to Parliament, for the redress of their grievances. Men who had no faith in these petitions would join in, saying, “We will try once more; but this is to be the last.” I suppose a dozen Tenant-Right bills have been given to Ireland since 1852; but to-day (1897), England and England’s landlords have the right to root out the Irish people still, and mercilessly do they exercise that right—so much so, that the population of Ireland is two millions less to-day than it was in 1852.
When James Stephens came to Skibbereen in May, 1858, and started the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood, we commenced to work in that line of labor, and we were not long working, when a great change was noticeable in the temper of the people. In the cellars, in the woods, and on the hillsides, we had our men drilling in the night-time, and wars and rumors of wars were on the wings of the wind. The lords and thelandlords were visibly becoming alarmed. No wonder, for their tenants who used to flock to Tenant-Right meetings cared very little about attending such meetings now. It has been said—it is said to-day by some men of the cities, that the farmers were opposed to the movement. I could not say that; I could say to the contrary, because I enrolled into the movement many of the most influential farmers in the parishes of Kilcoe, Aughadown, Caheragh, Drimoleague, Drinagh, Kilmacabea, Myross and Castlehaven. Dan McCartie and Morty Moynahan, two other “Centres” did the same. We set our eyes on the men who could carry their districts, in case of a rising—just as England sets her eye on the same class of men to-day, and swears them in as “New Magistrates.” It is to counteract this Fenian work of ours that England is now giving the “Commission of the Peace” to the sons and brothers of the men that we had in the Fenian organization. I could here name a dozen of these new magistrates that I met in Ireland a few years ago, whose fathers and whose brothers were with us in the Fenian movement of thirty odd years ago. I will not name them, as it may be said I was unwarrantably saying something to their injury. But England knows them, and knows with what aim she swore them into her service. She knows that Pat and Jerrie Cullinane were in prison with me in the Phœnix time, and she knows why it is that she makes their brother, Henry, a magistrate. She knows that William O’Sullivan, of Kilmallock, was put to prison by her in the Fenian times, and she knows why it is that she makes a magistrate of his son, John, who presidedat my lecture at Kilmallock two years ago. And, sad I am to-day (July 12, ’98,) as I am reading this proof-sheet, to read in the Irish newspapers, that John O’Sullivan of Kilmallock died last week. English work of this kind I found all over Ireland when I was over there lately. In the district of Belfast I found eleven of those new magistrates whose families, thirty years ago, gave volunteers to the Fenian movement. I do not say they are worse Irishmen now than they were thirty years ago; but England has sworn them into her service; has “bound them to the peace.” It is not for love of them, or love of their race or religion she has done so. She has done it to wean them away from the National movement, and to paralyze that movement. “Beware of the cockatrice! trust not the wiles of the serpent; for perfidy lurks in his folds”—So spoke the Bishop of Ross, when the Sassenach was hanging him at Carrigadrohid. But we are taking little heed of his advice; the Sassenach is getting the better of us every way. I will now return to my story.
Every Sunday, Morty Moynahan, Dan McCartie and myself would drive to some country chapel, and attend mass. After mass we got into conversation with the trustworthy men of the place, and we generally planted the seed of our mission there. One Sunday, going to Clonakilty, we fell in with Father Tim Murray, of Ross, who was going to say mass at the chapel of Lissavard. We went to mass there. We were in the gallery. Father Tim was preaching in Irish. I was startled, as a man sitting by me, said in a loud voice, “Anois, athair Teige, ni doith liom gur ceart e sin”—“Now Father Tim I don’t think that’s right.” The priest had to address him personally, and tell him he’d have to go out in the yard to hear mass unless he held his tongue. He was a harmless simpleton, well known in the parish. After mass, McCartie, Moynahan and I went to Clonakilty. I had made an appointment to meet a farmer from the country, a cousin of mine. I settled matters with him. There are magistrates in his family now. Then, there were in the town two of the men of ’48 we meant to call upon—John Callanan and Maxwell Irwin. We went to John Callanan’s house, and he was not at home; we went to Maxwell Irwin’s, and he was not at home; he had gone to Crookhaven to attend the auction of a cargo of a shipwreck; so the little girl told me who came to the door after I had telephoned on the bright brass knocker outside. She was a pretty little girl, too, about twelve years of age, with twinkling eyes, and red rosy cheeks and coal-black hair. She is my wife to-day. Five or six years afterward, I met Mr. Irwin’s entire family—not for their welfare, I fear, as the boys of it found their way to prison and to exile through acquaintance with me.
Clonakilty is twenty miles distant from Skibbereen. That visit I made there with Dan McCartie and Morty Moynahan to start the I. R. B. Organization was in 1858. Thirty-six years after, in 1894, I was invited to give a lecture there. Dan O’Leary, one of the new magistrates, presided at the lecture. He, too, died a few weeks ago. After the lecture there was a big supper at the hotel. That cousin of mine whom I initiated into the I. R. B. movement in 1858 satnear me at the supper table. We talked of old times of course, but the old times are changed; one of his family is also one of the new magistrates. In those old times the magistracy was a monopoly in control of the Cromwellian plunderers of the Irish people, such as the Beechers, the Townsends, the Frenches, the Hungerfords, the Somervilles, the lords Bandon, Bantry, and Carbery, with a few of the Irish themselves who became renegades to race and religion, and thus came into sole possession of some of the lands of the clans—such as the O’Donovans, the O’Gradys, the O’Briens and others, who became more English than the English themselves. I remember old Sandy O’Driscoll, of Skibbereen; he was a Catholic, but he had the character and the appearance of being as big a tyrant as any Cromwellian landlord in the barony of Carbery. That much is as much as need be said at present on that subject.
On the subject of Fenianism I have heard many Irishmen in America speak about the large sums of American money that were spent in organizing the movement in Ireland, England and Scotland. I traveled these three countries in connection with the organization of the movement from 1858 to 1865, and I can truthfully say, that in the early years of our endeavor, “the men at home,” spent more of their own money out of their own pockets than was contributed altogether by the whole Fenian organization of America. Hugh Brophy, one of the Dublin “Centres” is in Melbourne; John Kenealy, one of the Cork “Centres,” is in Los Angeles—two extremely distant parts of the world—theywill see what I say, and they can bear testimony to the truth of my words.
Now, I’ll get out of this cross bohreen I got into, and get back again to the main road of my story. As a funeral was passing through Skibbereen to the Abbey graveyard one day in ’58, I saw two men whom I thought would be great men in our movement; they were looked upon as the leaders of the clan O’Driscoll and clan McCarthy, of the parishes of Drinagh, Drimoleague and Caheragh. I got into the funeral procession and talked with them the mile of the road out to the Abbey field, and back again. We went into my house and had some dinner. In my bedroom I pledged Corly-Batt, McCarthy-Sowney to work for the cause; somewhere else I gave the pledge to Teige Oge O’Driscoll, of Doire-gclathach. Each of them was about sixty years of age at the time. Teige Oge’s wife was a McCarthy-Sowney, and Teige Oge’s sister was the wife of Finneen a Rossa, the brother of my grandfather, Diarmad a Rossa. Then I met Teige Oge’s eldest son, Conn, and I swore him in. Some dozen years ago I met him in Natick or Holliston, Massachusetts, the father of a large family of hearty sons and daughters.
The McCarthy-Sowney family are a noble Irish family; thoroughly hostile to English rule in Ireland, however they are, or wherever they are.
If you are “on the run” from England in Ireland, no matter what you are hunted for, you have shelter, and protection, and guardianship in the house of a McCarthy-Sowney. Corly-Batt had a grinding mill on the bank of the river, by the main road, betweenDrimoleague and Bantry; in this mill was Johnnie O’Mahony, a grandson of his, about seventeen years old; he swore in the grandson; and that grandson swore in all the farmers’ sons who came to the mill with wheat and oats and barley. That Johnnie O’Mahony is living somewhere around Boston now.
In the year 1864 I was living in Dublin, I came down to Skibbereen on some business. As I was passing by Drimoleague—it was a fair-day there—I went up to the fair field on the Rock, and as I got within the field, a fight commenced. I knew all the men around, and all the men around knew me. The two leaders of the fight were inside in the middle of the crowd; they had a hold of each other; the sticks were up; I rushed in; I caught hold of the two men—“Here,” said I, “this work must stop; ’tis a shame for the whole of you to be going on this way.” I glanced around as I spoke; the sticks were lowered, and the crowd scattered.
That was one good thing the Fenian organization did in Ireland in its day—it in a great measure broke up the faction-fights and the faction-parties, and got the men of both sides to come together and work in friendly brotherhood for the Irish cause. That, as much as anything else, greatly alarmed the English government and its agents.
In the Autumn of 1858, Patrick Mansfield Delaney and Martin Hawe were arrested in Kilkenny, and Denis Riordan was arrested in Macroom. While they were in jail, the Kilkenny men came in numbers into the farm of Mr. Delaney, and harvested all the produce of the land for his family. Denis Riordan died in America. Patrick Mansfield Delaney died in America. I met Martin Hawe at his home in Kilkenny in the year 1894. In those early years of my life—embracing the Tenant-Right movement, and the start of the I. R. B. movement, the Parliamentary people were getting up petitions to Parliament every year, everywhere, and the speech-makers were declaiming their opinions on platform meetings.
I was young then—too young to have a voice on the platform—and I’d often say to myself, “If I could speak on that platform, how differently I’d speak of Ireland’s wrongs and rights!”
I am old enough to-day to speak on a platform, but the leaders of the meetings do not want me to speak.
One of those leaders said to me a few days ago:—“Rossa: you should have been on the platform at that meeting the other night, but if you were called upon to speak, we could not depend on you—that you would not say something which would destroy the purpose of the whole meeting.”
Some years ago I got a platform ticket to go to one of those meetings in New York City, and as I was going with others in the ante-room on to the platform, one of the ushers accosted me, and expressed a wish that I would sit in the body of the hall. I made a note of the circumstance in my notebook that day, and I here transcribe it:
“Tuesday, April 10, 1883. I bought a ticket from O’Neill Russell to go to the Gaelic Irish entertainment at Steinway Hall. Then, I was given two platform tickets and two hall tickets by one of the Irish-class men of Clarendon Hall. I gave in one of the platform tickets, and was going up the steps to the platform, when one of the ushers said, ‘I beg your pardon, sir; for various reasons, I wish you would sit in the body of the hall.’
“I make this note—to see if the world will change.”
The world hasn’t changed much during the fourteen years since I made that note. Now I’ll go back to Ireland.
Besides killing the spirit of faction-fighting in Ireland, the Fenian organization did another good thing—it killed the evil spirit that set county against county, and province against province—an evil spirit that worked mischief even in America, up to the advent of Fenianism. But now that is all dead, and we can sing—
Hurrah! for Munster, stout and brave,For Ulster, sure and steady;For Connaught rising from the grave,For Leinster, rough and ready;The news shall blaze from ev’ry hillAnd ring from ev’ry steeple,And all the land with gladness fill—We’re one united people.
Hurrah! for Munster, stout and brave,For Ulster, sure and steady;For Connaught rising from the grave,For Leinster, rough and ready;The news shall blaze from ev’ry hillAnd ring from ev’ry steeple,And all the land with gladness fill—We’re one united people.
Hurrah! for Munster, stout and brave,For Ulster, sure and steady;For Connaught rising from the grave,For Leinster, rough and ready;
Hurrah! for Munster, stout and brave,
For Ulster, sure and steady;
For Connaught rising from the grave,
For Leinster, rough and ready;
The news shall blaze from ev’ry hillAnd ring from ev’ry steeple,And all the land with gladness fill—We’re one united people.
The news shall blaze from ev’ry hill
And ring from ev’ry steeple,
And all the land with gladness fill—
We’re one united people.
There are, to-day, in America, many county organizations, but they do not foster the inimical spirit of the olden time; though I would not much mind if there was among them a little rivalry as to who or which would do most to drive from the old land the savage enemy that rooted them out of it.
My mind is full of little incidents connected with the start of the movement in Ireland in 1858. We had our drillings in the woods and on the mountains that surrounded Skibbereen. On Sunday summer evenings our camping ground was generally on the top of Cnoc-Ouma, where Thomas Davis must have stood one day of his life, if he saw those hundred isles of Carbery that he wrote about in his poem, “The Sack of Baltimore”—
“Old Inisherkin’s crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird,And in a calm and sleepy swell, the ocean tide is heard.”
“Old Inisherkin’s crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird,And in a calm and sleepy swell, the ocean tide is heard.”
“Old Inisherkin’s crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird,
And in a calm and sleepy swell, the ocean tide is heard.”
From no other spot but this camping ground of ours on the top of Loughine hill could any one see the picture that the immortal Irish poet shows in that verse of his. Next year, at the Summer Assizes in Tralee, a revenue officer from Barlogue—a coast-guard station between Loughine and the sea—came on the witness table when Dan O’Sullivan-agreem was on trial, and swore, that with his spy-glass he saw men drilling on the top of Cnoc-Ouma—Dan O’Sullivan-agreem was not there; but we were there; and what was swornagainst us was taken as evidence to convict the Kerry man to ten years’ penal servitude, as the charge against him was “conspiracy.” Sullivan-goula, the informer, swore that the society Dan Agreem belonged to in Kerry, was the same society that we belonged to in Cork, and what we did in Cork, was used in Kerry to convict Dan Agreem, who never saw us, or knew us. Such is English law in Ireland.
Returning with a few comrades from our midnight drill in Loriga wood one night, a voice rustled through the trees, praying, “Buadh Dia libh, a bhuachailidhe.”—The victory of God be with ye, boys. The prayer came from an “Unfortunate” who had been hunted out of town by the good-government society. She had twined herself a shelter-bohawn in the thicket, and must have heard some of the command-words of our drill-master. When the arrests were made, a few months after, Attorney Everett, who was employed by the stipendiary magistrate to hunt up evidence against us, offered her a large amount of money to swear against us; but she spurned it; she knew nothing about drilling, or about any one drilling in Loriga wood; and if she did, she was not going to disgrace herself by taking blood-money.
God be good and merciful unto you Kit Cadogan, and “God’s wrath upon the Saxon” that wrought the wreck and ruin of the millions of the men, women, and children of my land and race.
Rumors were rife in the land, of those drillings in the woods and mountains; the police were most active trying to find them, and the boys played those policemany tricks to harass them. The girls played them tricks too—for the spirit of the women of Ireland was with us in the work of organization. I have known many girls to refuse to continue acquaintance of courtship with young men who would not join the Society. Poor Driscoll of Kilmacabea, the Crimean soldier, comes to my mind here. He was out of his mind. He was in the Crimean war; he was wounded in the head, and he was discharged from the army, with a pension of ninepence a day for twelve months. Then he became a strolling beggarman. He was what was called an “innocent”; quite harmless, and wouldn’t hurt or harm any one; his dress was a bundle of tatters of various colors, with the proverbial straw “sugawn” tying them around his body—even tying his shoes. At the side of my residence, a stream called the Caol ran into the Ilen river. This stream was arched over and made a kind of square on which some of the goods of my shop would be displayed. Mary Regan was one of the servants; she was sweeping this square one morning. Driscoll the soldier was there, and after sweeping she began to joke Driscoll with being discharged from the army for not knowing his drill. Driscoll took hold of the sweeping brush, and using the handle of it for a gun, put himself through all the military evolutions, giving himself the words of command, etc. The police came up and stopped Driscoll from drilling. He was an Irishman—his tongue was Irish. I was at the shop door looking on; he came over to me after giving up the broom, and said,“Oh Jerrie a laodh! nach truadh na bhfuilim a m’ tarbh—mar a rithfin triotha a’s futha, a’s cathfain anairde san aor liom a’ircaibh iad.”—“Oh! Jerrie, dear! what a pity that I am not a bull—how I’d run through them and under them, and throw them up in the air with my horns.” And saying that, he’d lower his head, and hump his back, as if he was the bull running through them. There was the poor, insane Irishman, with the instinct of sanity still alive in him against the enemies of Ireland! Poor Driscoll! I often think of you. The Mary Regan I speak of is living to-day in West Brighton, Staten Island—Mrs. Mary Walsh. She had her wedding in my house.
Coming on to the end of the year 1858 the Irish newspapers were speaking of drillings going on in the South of Ireland, and some of the ministers of religion seemed to have caught the alarm. On that Sunday in November when the gospel of the day tells us to “render unto Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar, and unto God what belongs to God,” the priest that preached the sermon in Skibbereen as much as told us we owed allegiance to England. England’s head was on the coins I had in my pocket, but I knew those coins did not belong to her, as well as I knew that the lands of my people all around me that England’s land-robbers held, did not belong to them. As this is a vexed question, that is all I need say on the subject.
The English government in Dublin Castle had been preparing to put us to prison, at this time. A stipendiary magistrate named Fitzmaurice had taken up his residence in the town. He had been sent to the South from the North of Ireland, where he had won his spursin the English service by trapping many Ribbonmen into prison.
At this time too there came to Skibbereen from Kerry a man named Dan Sullivan-goula; he took lodgings at the house of a Kerry man named Morty Downing, from whom we had rented the rooms of the Phœnix Society. Morty had two children, and I used to see this Sullivan-goula fondling the eldest of those children on his knee, and calling her his Kerry pet. He at that time was swearing her father into jail. Irish history records a similar incident in the case of the children of one of the Sheares brothers, whom a Captain Armstrong swore to the scaffold in ’98.
Morty Moynahan had a letter from a correspondent in Kenmare who knew Sullivan-goula, cautioning him to beware of the fellow; that he was suspected; that he had been taken in to the organization at a fair, by a Bantry man who did not know the bad character he had in his own locality in Kerry; that none of his Kerry neighbors would think of taking him as a member; and that no one knew what business he could have in Skibbereen, only bad business. But Fitzmaurice the stipendary had laid the plans for him, and had instructed him before he came to Skibbereen to write to McCarthy Downing, the attorney in Skibbereen, asking for a position of clerk in his office. Morty Moynahan was chief clerk in McCarthy Downing’s office, and had the care of all his letters; and when Morty got the warning letter from our Kenmare friend he put against it the other letter of Goula’s application for employment; andthought that that would in some measure account for his being in town amongst us.
One morning as I was going to the newsroom in North street, I saw Goula walking the sidewalk before me. After turning the corner from Main street into North street, he suddenly turned around and walked back against me. I walked on, and saw Fitzmaurice walking down against me. Goula had seen him before I saw him, and that is why he made the sudden turn back. A week after that, I was in Cork Jail.
During that week I had a letter from Lord Colchester, the Postmaster-General, telling me an application I had made for the postmastership of Skibbereen had been received by him—that the office was not yet officially declared vacant, and when it would be declared vacant I would hear again from him. As my readers want me to give them a little light reading occasionally in these “Recollections” I may as well tell how my correspondence with Lord Colchester originated.
Some day in the month of November, 1858, Owen Leonard, the postmaster, called me in to his private office and told me that in consequence of some mistake in the management of his business, a man was sent down from Dublin to make an examination, and that the man advised him to send in his resignation. He accordingly was sending on his resignation that day. He advised me to make an application for the position; he was sure I could get as many to back me as were necessary—the endorsement of Deasy and McCarthy, the members for the County, and a few others. I did not take the matter very seriously, but as it gave me an opportunity towrite something funny to one of the lords of the land, I rhymed the following letter to Lord Colchester, the Postmaster-General: