effect inseparable from untruth. Were it even what the public eagerness
chose to shape it, its relative value, weighed against the triumph of
courage and virtue, would be contemptible.

Mr. O'Connell himself did not seem to share in the nation's pride. His
spirit was broken. He anticipated the glad wishes of the metropolis, and
walked home from the penitentiary clouded and gloomy. It was evident
something within him had died. However, he went back the next day, and
left the prison the second time in the midst of public rejoicings never
surpassed on any occasion in his life. His addresses on that day, and
subsequently while in town, were not such as they were wont to be; and
he soon retired to his wild mountain home to invigorate a mind and body,
borne down by gigantic labours, fearful responsibilities, some alarms,
and perhaps a chilling sense of defeat and weakness. His health was soon
restored, but his political vigour never. The first time his voice was
heard from that retreat, it was to recommend a compromise; and, for the
first time, his advice was openly opposed. Charles Duffy answered his
letter, which recommended to fall back on Federalism--a question in the
mouths of many, but in the brain of none--respectfully and firmly
remonstrating against such a course. In a great many circles, Mr. Duffy
could not be looked at with more wonder if he had recommended to cut off
Mr. O'Connell's head.

Hitherto, this condensed retrospect has been almost exclusively confined
to the name and fortunes of O'Connell. It is time now to revert to other
actors in the scene. Even before the trial, elements of antagonism had
begun to manifest themselves. With the party since called "Young
Ireland," every consideration was subordinate to the great question of
national deliverance. They laboured incessantly to elevate the morals,
the literature, the taste, passions, genius, intellect and heart of the