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Updated: June 16, 2025
The dead woman lay on the floor before their eyes, her daughter bent over her. Denis Ryan stood for a moment staring wildly, the hand which held the revolver hanging limp. Then he slowly raised his other hand and held it before his eyes. Mary Drennan moaned. "We'd better clear out of this!" said Murnihan. He spoke in a low tone, and his voice trembled.
In '94, Archibald Hamilton Rowan, one of the purest and most chivalrous characters of any age, was convicted, by a packed jury, of circulating the famous "Universal Emancipation" address of his friend, Dr. William Drennan, the poet-politician of the party.
Mary Drennan never met her lover again, but she wrote to him once before he left the country. "You see how I loved you, Denis. I gave you your life. I bought it for you, and my soul was the price I paid for it when I swore to a lie and was false to my mother's memory. I loved you that much, Denis, but I shall never speak to you again."
He was defended by Curran, in the still more famous speech in which occurs his apostrophe to "the genius of Universal Emancipation;" but he atoned in the cells of Newgate, for circulating the dangerous doctrine which Drennan had broached, and Curran had immortalized.
He marched in defiantly, staring insolently at the police-officer and at the magistrate. He displayed no emotion when he saw Mary Drennan. She looked at him, and once more shook her head. "Are you sure?" said Chalmers. "Quite sure?" "I am sure," she said. "He is not the man I saw." "Remove him," said Chalmers. Murnihan stood erect for a moment before he turned to follow the sergeant.
She ought to be here in a few minutes, and then you'll see if she's afraid." Ten minutes later Mary Drennan was shown into the room by the police-sergeant. The two men who were waiting for her received her kindly. "Sit down, Miss Drennan!" said Major Whiteley. "I'm very sorry to trouble you, and I'm very sorry to have to ask you to speak about a matter which must be painful to you.
"In the name of the Irish Republic, open the door!" said Murnihan. "Open, or I'll break it down!" "You may break it if you please!" It was Mrs. Drennan who spoke. "But I'll not open to thieves and murderers!" The door of an Irish farmhouse is a frail thing ill-calculated to withstand assault. Murnihan flung himself against it, and it yielded.
"I feel like a fool," exclaimed Van Diveer. "But," spoke Drennan, the older and more conservative leader of their party, "we couldn't start an open battle with those fellows without some of us being killed. They are gone; we should be glad that they are. It is better to bear the insult than have even one of our people shot."
But I want you to tell me, as well as you can recollect, exactly what happened on the night your mother was murdered." Mary Drennan, white faced and wretched, told her story as she had told it before to the police-officer. She said that her father was absent from home, taking bullocks to the fair, that she and her mother sat up late, that they went to bed together about eleven o'clock.
In the last-mentioned occurs the famous song, beginning "We all love a pretty girl under the rose." He practised his profession in the north of Ireland. When the Irish Volunteers were established, Drennan entered heart and soul into the movement.
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