I have no doubt but that, in propounding this view, he had in his mind the probability there was at one point of England being embroiled in a quarrel with America.  None knew better than he, at the time, of the enormous number of Irishmen in the American armies, on both sides, during the Civil War who, with their military training, longed for the task of sweeping English rule from the soil of Ireland.  It will be remembered that it was Condon who, when sentenced to death, concluded his speech in the dock with the prayer, “God save Ireland!” the words which have since become the rallying cry of the whole Irish race, and have given us a National Anthem.

In his letters to me since his first return to America, I have been gratified to hear that he always took a warm interest in my publications.  I am pleased, too, to find from the newspaper reports he has sent me that he is, as ever, an eminently practical man, and believes in using the means nearest to hand for the advancement of the Irish Cause.

While giving his experiences in connection with the revolutionary movement, he declares that no one can blame the Irish people for having recourse to any means which may enable them to remain on their native soil.  They have, he says, to use whatever means have been left to save themselves from extermination and Ireland from becoming a desert.  He, therefore, declares his sympathy with the later movements of the Irish people—­the Land League, the National League, and the United Irish League, while never abandoning the principles of ’98, ’48 and ’67.

I referred to two Liverpool men as being present at the meeting at McGrady’s.  One of these, John Ryan, my dear old schoolfellow, one of the rescuers of James Stephens, has been dead many years—­God rest his soul!  He was a noble character, and would have risen to the top in any walk of life, but though he had a good home—­his father was a prosperous merchant of Liverpool—­he gave his whole life to Ireland.  I often heard from him of his adventures, for he always looked me up whenever he came to Liverpool, and how, sometimes, he and his friends had to fare very badly indeed.

It was most extraordinary that, while constantly Tunning risks, for he was a man of great daring, he never once was arrested, though he had some hair-breadth escapes.  On one occasion, about the time of the Rising, a good, honest, Protestant member of the Brotherhood, Sam Clampitt, was taken out of the same bedroom in which he was sleeping with Ryan, who was left, the police little thinking of the bigger fish they had allowed to escape from their net, the noted Fenian leader, “Captain O’Doherty.”  I forget his precise name at this particular time, but it was a very Saxon one, for he was supposed to be an English artist sketching in Ireland.  Questioned by the police, he was able to satisfy them of his bona fides.  He had a friend in Liverpool, an old schoolfellow like myself, Richard Richards—­“Double