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"Take care of our baby Frank. I'm I'm leaving you. God help you and keep you and bless you for your love of me." She paused to take breath then she whispered her leave-taking. The words never left O'Connell's memory for all the days of all the years that followed. "My last words dear the last I'll ever speak to you. I I love you with all my heart and my soul HUSBAND! Good good-bye Frank."
Connolly, who was in charge, was a very good master, but there was nothing very Irish in his teaching. Some idea of this may be formed when I mention that though there were not a dozen boys in the school who were not Irish or of Irish extraction the first map of Ireland I ever saw was on the back of one of O'Connell's Repeal cards.
Some attempts were made to force him to a reconciliation, which in public he appeared to yield to, but which in private he exercised his utmost cunning to baffle. In the midst of this scene of distraction, Mr. O'Connell died. The news was a stunning blow to the nation. A great reaction, for a short time, ensued. Added to the other crimes of the seceders, was that of being O'Connell's murderers.
O'Connell's eternal lessons to perpetuate and extend this degrading national vice. Whether the representations made to either of these friends were the result of national prejudice, or proceeded from a baser motive, it is scarce worth while to inquire. A separation ensued. Mr. Reilly adopted the resolution of his friend Mr. Mitchel. Mr. M'Gee adhered to Mr.
O'Connell's, or an article or song of the Nation's had cherished in their hearts the same imperishable purpose and hope of overturning the dominion of the stranger.
One of the judges at O'Connell's trial, a strong Tory but a clever lawyer. CREAN, MICHAEL. Like M.G. Conway, a Clare man, but of the opposite type. Crean worked in Dublin as a shopman and with Hollywood was one of the two trades-union leaders on the Council of the Confederation, where he opposed Mitchel's policy. After the failure of the insurrection he went to the United States.
It's only darkness I find in this village," argued O'Connell. "I've given my life to spreadin' the Light!" said the priest. A smile hovered on O'Connell's lips as he muttered: "Faith, then, I'm thinkin' it must be a DARK-LANTERN yer usin', yer riverence." "Is that the son of Michael O'Connell talkin'?"
This remarkable address was an abnegation of the whole policy of Mr. O'Connell's career. It proved, by a mass of authentic evidence ranging over a long term of years, that Irish outrage was the consequence of physical misery, and that the social evils of that country could not be successfully encountered by political remedies.
Not only in O'Connell's case was this impossibility in Disraeli's nature of doing anything ignoble shown; he secured, when in power, a life-pension to the widow and children of the artist Leech, who had for half a lifetime showered him with the cruel ridicule of the caricaturist; and he offered the Grand Cross of the Bath, and a life-income suitable to the maintenance of its dignity, to Carlyle, who had pursued him now with contempt and now with malignity.
The crisis in O'Connell's destiny had come. The glitter of the golden bribe was in his eye; the sound of titled magnificence was in his ear; the choice was before him to sit high among the honorable, the titled, and the powerful, or to take his humble seat in the hall of St. Stephen's as the Irish demagogue, the agitator, the Kerry representative. He did not hesitate in his choice.
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