In 1851, M’Manus escaped from captivity in Van Dieman’s Land, and he soon after settled in California where he died.  His funeral was the greatest ever witnessed upon earth.  From the shores of the Pacific thousands of miles away, across continents and oceans they brought him, and laid his ashes to rest in the land of his birth.  On the 10th day of November, 1861, that wonderful funeral passed through the streets of Dublin to Glasnevin, and those who saw the gathering that followed his coffin to the grave, the thousands of stalwart men that marched in solemn order behind his bier will never forget the sight.  A silent slab unlettered and unmarked shows the spot where his remains were interred; no storied urn or animated bust, no marble column or commemorative tablet has been consecrated to his memory, but the history of his life is graven in the hearts of his countrymen, and he enjoys in their affectionate remembrance, a monument more enduring than human hands could build him.

* * * * *

THOMAS CLARKE LUBY.

Looking along the course of Irish history, it is easy to point out certain periods in which England could have found an opportunity for making terms with the Irish nation, healing some of the old wounds and mitigating in some degree the burning sense of wrong and the desire of vengeance that rankled in the hearts of the Irish race.  There were lulls in the struggle, intervals of gloomy calm, occasions when the heart of Ireland might have been touched by generous deeds, and when the offer of the olive branch, or even a few of its leaves, would have had a blessed effect.  But England never availed of them—­never for an instant sought to turn them to good account.  She preferred when Ireland was defeated, prostrate, and forlorn, to taunt her with her failure, scoff at her sufferings, and add to her afflictions.  Such was her conduct during the mournful time that followed on the attempted insurrection of 1848.

It was an appaling time, in whose death-laden atmosphere political action was impossible.  The famine had made of the country one huge graveyard.  A silence fell upon the land, lately so clamorous for her rights, so hopeful, and so defiant.  The Repeal organization spoke no more; the tramp of the Confederate Clubs was no longer heard in the streets; O’Connell was dead; the Young Ireland leaders were fugitives or prisoners; and the people were almost bewildered by a sense of their great calamity.  Then, if England had stooped to raise her fallen foe, offered her some kindly treatment, and spoken some gracious words, the bitterness of the old quarrel might have been in some degree assuaged, even though its cause should not be entirely obliterated.  But England did not choose to take that politic and Christian course.  She found it much pleasanter to chuckle over the discomfiture of the Irish patriots, to ridicule the failure of