Life of John Boyle O'Reilly/Chapter 19

by James Jeffrey Roche

CHAPTER XIX.

Profound Sorrow of the Nation and of the Irish People—Tributes of Respect to his Memory—"A Loss to the Country, to the Church, and to Humanity in General"—Remarkable Funeral Honors—Resolutions of National and Catholic Societies—The Papyrus Club and the Grand Army of the Republic—"The Truest of all the True is Dead."

THE story of his last day on earth is briefly told. He was met on the arrival of the boat at Hull by his youngest daughter, whom he accompanied to his cottage, romping and laughing with her in one of his cheeriest moods. He spent the afternoon and evening with his family, and late at night walked with his brother-in-law, Mr. John R. Murphy, over to the Hotel Pemberton, hoping that the exercise might bring on fatigue and the sleep which he so much needed.

On leaving Mr. Murphy, he said, "Be sure and be over early in the morning, Jack, so that you can go with me and the children to Mass at Nantasket."

Mrs. O' Reilly, who had been an invalid for years, and the constant charge of her kind and thoughtful husband, had been confined to her room for the previous two days with a serious attack of illness, and was in the care of Dr. Litchfield. A little before twelve o'clock she called her husband, who was reading and smoking in the family sitting-room below, to ask him to get more medicine for her from Dr. Litchfield, as she felt very ill and feverish. Dr. Litchfield had already left her medicine which had benefited her, but it was all gone.

Mr. O'Reilly returned with the doctor, who prescribed for Mrs. O'Reilly. As the medicine had no effect, her husband thought one dose might have been insufficient, as he had accidentally spilled a portion of it. He therefore made a second visit to the doctor, who, on renewing the prescription, said, "Mr. O'Reilly, you should take something yourself," as he knew that the latter was also suffering from insomnia.

What occurred thereafter is not known to anybody, but all the circumstances point to the fact that O'Reilly, unable to go to sleep, after administering the mixture to his wife, drank a quantity of some sleeping potion, of which there were several kinds in her medicine closet.

Mrs. O' Reilly woke up after a short sleep, fancying that she had heard some one call her. She noticed her husband's absence and perceived a light in the tower-room, adjoining her bedroom. Arising and entering the room, she found her husband, sitting on a couch, reading and smoking. She spoke to him and insisted on his retiring. He answered her quite collectedly and said, "Yes, Mamsie dear, (a pet name of hers) I have taken some of your sleeping medicine. I feel tired now, and if you will let me lie down on that couch (where Mrs. 0'Reilly had seated herself on entering the room) I will go to sleep right away."

As he lay down, Mrs. O'Reilly noticed an unusually pallid look on his face, and a sudden strange drowsiness come over him. Never suspecting anything serious she spoke to him again, and tried to rouse him, but the only answer she received was an inarticulate, "Yes, my love! Yes, my love!"

Becoming strangely alarmed she aroused her daughter Bessie and sent her hurriedly for Dr. Litchfield. It was then about four o'clock. The doctor worked for about an hour trying to revive him, but in vain. He died at ten minutes to five o'clock. Dr. Litchfield and a consulting physician, who had been summoned at the same time, recognized that death had been caused by accidental poisoning. The medicine which had been ordered for Mrs. O'Reilly, evidently was not that taken by her husband, as it contained no chloral. The supposition is that he had taken some of her other sleeping medicines which did contain that drug, and that he was ignorant of the quantity of the latter which might be taken with safety. The bottles in the medicine closet were found disturbed. Part of the medicine which Dr. Litchfield had ordered for Mrs. O'Reilly was not put up by him, but was some which was already in the house. In prescribing its use Dr. Litchfield said: "Use that medicine which you have, or which I saw at your house when I called yesterday."

The fatal error doubtless occurred when Mr. O'Reilly went to the closet to get the medicine for his wife.

The sad news reached Boston early on Sunday morning, and was bulletined in front of the newspaper offices and announced at the services in some of the Catholic churches of the city, awaking profound sorrow wherever it was received.

Mrs. O' Reilly was prostrated with grief and was removed with her younger daughters to the home of her mother. The eldest daughter, with her uncle, Mr. Murphy, accompanied the body of her father on the steamer to Boston, whence, early in the afternoon, the remains were borne to his late home in Charlestown.

It is the simplest of truths to say that the death of no private citizen in America, or perhaps in the world, could have caused such genuine and widespread grief as followed that of John Boyle O'Reilly. The sorrow was not confined to people of his own race or faith. Americans of every race appreciated the patriotic spirit of this adopted citizen, and recognized that in his death the country had lost not only a man of rare genius, but a leader whose counsels were as wise as his loyalty was fervent and unfaltering.

During the days and weeks following his death, messages of sympathy and regret came pouring in, literally in thousands. Cardinal Gibbons, the head of the Catholic Church in America, said, on hearing the news:

It is a public calamity—not only a loss to the country, but a loss to the Church, and to humanity in general.

Hundreds of prelates and priests echoed the sentiment throughout the country. I can select but a few from the multitude of messages received at that time. Ex-President Cleveland wrote from

Marion, Mass., August 13.

I have heard with sincere regret that John Boyle O'Reilly is dead. I regarded him as a strong and able man, entirely devoted to any cause he espoused, unselfish in his activity, true and warm in his friendship, and patriotic in his enthusiasm.

Senator Hoar, of Massachusetts, telegraphed to Mrs. O'Reilly:

Washington, D. C., August 12.

Accept my profound sympathy in your great loss and the great public loss. Your husband combined, as no other man, some of the noblest qualities of the Irishman and the American.

His parish priest, who best knew his spiritual side, Rev. J. W. McMahon of St. Mary's Church, Charlestown, said:

I have always had a great admiration for the man ever since he came to my parish as a member. As for his career before that time that, too, commands my respect and admiration. He was a single-minded, open-hearted man—a man who loved liberty for itself, and who wished everybody to have a fair chance. He was a good husband, a good father, a good Catholic and a good man.

Generous praise for his life's work and sincere grief for his untimely death were bestowed by the fellow-authors who had known and loved him. The venerable Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote:

Beverly Farms, Mass., August 12.

John Boyle O'Reilly was a man of heroic mold and nature; brave, adventurous, patriotic," enthusiastic, with the perfervidum ingenium, which belongs quite as much to the Irish as to the Scotch. We have been proud of him as an adopted citizen, feeling always that his native land could ill spare so noble a son. His poems show what he might have been had he devoted himself to letters. His higher claim is that he was a true and courageous lover of his country and of his fellow, men.

Among the many literary men who owed gratitude to O'Reilly was George Parsons Lathrop, who wrote from

New London, Conn., August 12.

Except for the loss of my father, and that of my own and only son, I have never suffered one more bitter than that inflicted by the death of my dear and noble and most beloved Boyle O'Reilly. He is a great rook torn out of the foundations of my life. Nothing will ever replace that powerful prop, that magnificent buttress. I wish we could make all the people in the world stand still and think and feel about this rare, great, exquisite-souled man until they should fully comprehend him.

Boyle was the greatest man, the finest heart and soul I knew in Boston, and my most dear friend.

It would require a larger volume even than this to contain all of the tributes of praise given to the dead journalist by the newspapers of the United States, Canada, Australia, Ireland, and England itself. Never was the worth of a great man so generally recognized. Lines of race, and creed, and party were forgotten when men wrote of this man, whose broad charity had known no such distinctions.

Universal as was the grief at his loss, it was felt most keenly by the people of his own race in America, for whose welfare he had wrought throughout his whole noble life. The Irish societies in all parts of the country held memorial meetings and passed resolutions of regret and condolence.

In the land of his birth he was mourned as deeply as in that of his adoption. A meeting of the Parnellite members was held in the House of Commons on August 11, Michael Davitt, T. P. O'Connor, Professor Stuart, and others testifying to the great services of the dead patriot in Ireland's cause. At the National League meeting in Dublin on the following day, John Dillon briefly recounted the life and achievements of his friend and fellow patriot, and told how he himself had endeavored to obtain O'Reilly's consent to apply to the Government for permission to revisit his native land, O'Reilly refused to grant that consent; "and," said Mr. Dillon, "I know that in my own case and in that of Mr. Parnell and many of our friends we over and over again urged on O'Reilly, in the happier times which seemed to be about to dawn upon Ireland, that he should allow us to take steps and measures to secure for him permission to revisit his native land. And John Boyle 0'Reilly, so strong was his feeling in the national cause, and so strong was his feeling against the oppression that existed in this country, sternly and unbendingly refused to grant that permission, and said that he never would tread the soil of Ireland again until its people were a free people. It had always been his dream, as he often told it to me, during the many pleasant hours we passed together, that he would visit Ireland when the people of Ireland were a free nation. It has always been a dream of mine, which now unhappily is never to be realized, to be one of those who would welcome him home in those happier days."

On Tuesday afternoon, August 12, his body was borne from his home on Winthrop Street to St. Mary's Church, Charlestown. The bearers were for the most part associates of his Fenian days. They were O'Donovan Rossa, Jeremiah O' Donovan, Michael Fitzgerald, James A. Wrenn, Capt. Lawrence O'Brien, and D. B. Cashman. In the church the patriot's remains lay in state before the high altar, an honor rarely accorded to a layman. A devoted guard of sorrowing compatriots watched by his bier. Flowers and floral emblems lay on the coffin and before the altar rails. On the dead man's breast lay a bunch of shamrocks and on the coffin-lid an offering from the colored people of Boston, of crossed palm branches. In the center stood the offering of the Young Men's Catholic Association of Boston College, a tablet, with an open book, across whose white pages was wrought in violets this line from his "Wendell Phillips":

A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed toward the light.

The church, the sidewalks before it, and the adjacent streets were thronged with, the multitude of mourners long before the hour appointed for the funeral Mass, which was 10 o'clock, a.m., on Wednesday, August 13.

The four daughters and other bereaved relatives were present, Mrs. O'Reilly being prostrated with grief and unable to leave her bed.

At 10.30 the Solemn Mass of Requiem was begun, the Rev. J. W. McMahon, D.D., rector of St. Mary's, celebrant; the Rev. Charles O'Reilly, D.D., of Detroit, Mich., deacon; the Rev. Richard Neagle, Chancellor of the Archdiocese of Boston, subdeacon. The Rev. W. J. Millerick, of Charlestown, was master of ceremonies; the Rev. P. H. Callanan, of Foxboro, Mass., and the Rev. Louis Walsh, of St. John's Seminary, Brighton, Mass., acolytes; the Rev. M. J. Doody, of Cambridge, censer-bearer.

The sermon of eulogy was delivered by Rev. Robert Fulton, S.J., an old and intimate friend of the deceased. Amid a silence that was almost painfully impressive the venerable priest mounted the pulpit and said: "John Boyle O'Reilly is dead!" The sermon touched every heart and reached its climax when the speaker said of his dead friend:

Has it ever struck you that for the success of our great cause Mother Church greatly needs lay champions? Some such there are in other countries; here there are none or few. Such a champion would need talent, but more would he need orthodoxy, respect for legitimate authority; he should give example in observing the ordinances of religion; his life should be a deduction from her spirit. Such was O'Reilly. I have it from one best able to know it, that he frequently, and very lately, approached that source from which we draw spiritual life. Those who knew him noticed how increasing years enriched his character, and imparted to him readiness to forgive, reluctance to pain, charity of interpretation. He was approximating Christ, for such is our Exemplar.

Father Fulton was the beloved priest for whom on his departure from Boston, ten years previously, O'Reilly had written his touching poem, "The Empty Niche."

After the sermon and the final absolution, the immense concourse of people filed past the coffin and looked their last on the handsome, dark face, cold and still in death. For more than an hour the mourning throng moved past, until the doors of the church had to be closed and the coffin removed to the hearse. Among the thousands present in the church were priests from all parts of the country, State and city officials, representatives of the Catholic Union of Boston, the Grand Army of the Republic, the Papyrus Club, the Irish National League, the Charitable Irish Society, the Knights of Labor, the Young Men's Catholic Association of Boston College, the Clover Club, the Boston Athletic Association, St. Botolph Club, Ancient Order of Hibernians, and many other organizations.

Nearly all of these had sent flowers or emblems, which were borne to the cemetery and laid upon the coffin. The honorary pall-bearers were his loyal friend and rescuer. Captain Henry C. Hathaway, Patrick Donahoe, Patrick Maguire, Editor John H. Holmes, of the Herald; Col. Charles H. Taylor, President T. B. Fitz, of the Catholic Union; Gen. Francis A. Walker, Gen. M. T. Donohoe, president of the Charitable Irish Society; Dr. J. A. McDonald, Health Commissioner George F. Babbitt, James Jeffrey Roche, and Thomas Brennan.

The long funeral train moved from Charlestown through Boston to Roxbury and thence to Calvary Cemetery, where the remains were placed in a vault to await their final committal to the earth.

One of the first of the many societies which met to mourn their loss was his own beloved Papyrus Club. A special meeting was held on the afternoon of August 20 at the St. Botolph Club rooms; the president, James Jeffrey Roche, in the chair. Tender and loving words were spoken by the members present. A committee, consisting of Messrs. Wm. A. Hovey, Benjamin Kimball, and Henry M. Rogers, drew up resolutions of sympathy with the bereaved families of John Boyle O'Reilly and H. Bernard Carpenter, after which Messrs. Benjamin Kimball, T. Russell Sullivan, and George F. Babbitt were appointed a committee to consider the preparation of a suitable memorial by the club. A subscription was voted from the treasury, and this, with various private subscriptions from members of the club, aggregated $1000.

The Grand Army of the Republic also held a special meeting at the close of the National Encampment, on August 14, at which General Henry A. Barnum presented a resolution:

That the Grand Army of the Republic express their deep sorrow for the too early death of John Boyle O'Reilly,—poet, orator, soldier, and patriot,—and that this expression of their grief and sorrow be certified to the bereaved family of the deceased.

Memorial services were held in Newburyport, Providence, Lowell, Worcester, and other New England cities, of which only a brief account can be given here. His warm friend. Father Teeling, of Newburyport, said:

A young man of forty-six, in a short space he fulfilled a long time; he was approaching the zenith of his fame; his life was a beautiful flower, blossomed to the full, with a fragrance that permeated the whole atmosphere and was waited across the seas to his native land. Loving and loyal to the land of his adoption, and ever ready to work for her good and her glory with all the strength of his strong, noble manhood and God-given genius, he never forgot the land of his birth; he always battled for her against scurrilous enemies, here and abroad. As has been well said, when writing for Ireland, "he dipped his pen into his heart." Here he made friends for Ireland by his genius, by his manly beauty, his magnificence of character, his tenderness for oppressed humanity, his "love for justice and hatred of iniquity." Like Esther of old, he went among his country's enemies and made them her friends; he exalted her condition, he exalted the condition of the people of his race; he won for them, for his native land, respect arid esteem.

Another dear friend and fellow-patriot, Rev. Thomas J. Conaty, speaking at Worcester, said:

"Drive out from Drogheda to Dowth Castle, Soggarth, and see where I was born. It is the loveliest spot in the world. I have not seen it in over twenty-five years, but, O God! I would like to see it again. See it for me, will you?" This was O'Reilly's request to me a year ago, on the eve of my departure for Europe. It certainly is a pretty spot near the historic Boyne water, and within a few miles of the hill of Tara, Ireland's once royal city.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠* Two thoughts seemed to dominate his life—religion and patriotism; thoughts which form the basis of every true life; religion, which hound him to God, and consecrated him to truth.; and patriotism, which made him idolize country and think and act for the bettering of humanity. He drank deeply at the fountain of faith, and its draughts strengthened his soul in its aspirations for the highest ideals of human liberty. He was passionately fond of liberty, because he believed it to be a gift of God to men; and his voice and pen made earth ring with his denunciations of wrong wherever found,whether among the cotters of Ireland, amid the serfs of Russia, or in the negro cabins of the South. Liberty was his life idea, God its source, and humanity its application. As a silver trumpet sounding the note of human rights, he championed humanity; but his love was not the humanity of a revolution which ignored and blasphemed God, but the humanity which a crucified Saviour had redeemed and ennobled.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠* O Ireland! motherland! weep for your well-beloved child; weep for your noble-hearted son. You have lost a tried and trusted chieftain. Weep, for you have lost him when you need your truest and best to defend you. Weep, but rejoice, for he has honored your name and cause. Add another to the roll of your illustrious children whose names and deeds bid the world demand your freedom,—for such another should not sit at the feet of tyrants. Freedom will come, and when it comes a pantheon will arise, and you will place him where honor is richest, and your poets will chant his praise. But the highest praise is what he wished himself to be,—the man of his people, beloved by them and God.

"He ruled no serfs, and he knew no pride,
He was one with the workers, side by side;
He would never believe but a man was made
For a nobler end than the glory of trade.
He mourned all selfish and shrewd endeavor,
But he never injured a weak one— never.
When censure was passed he was kindly dumb;
He was never so wise but a fault would come!
He erred and was sorry ; but he never drew
A trusting heart from the pure and true.
When friends look back from the years to be
God grant they may say such things of me."

God has granted his prayer. God bless you, old friend, and God bless the two loves of your patriotism. God bless your noble America, and God save your beloved Ireland!

Perhaps nothing said in praise of his memory was more in the spirit of eulogy which he would have loved best, because it was eulogy of his country and his countrymen, than these words from the pen of a Protestant clergyman. Rev. H. Price Collier, in the Boston Saturday Evening Gazette:

If the Almighty should undertake to create a man who was to be universally popular, no doubt he would create him a Celt. The Celtic temperament, with its ready adaptability to persons and circumstances, its quick wit, its fresh and wholesome out-of-door tone, its mental chastity, its masculine love of sport and of danger, its craving for freedom from restraint,—these together go to make up perhaps the most fascinating type of man we know. Such men make delightful playfellows as boys, and as men ideal lovers, lover-like husbands, stanch friends, open, frank enemies, and patriotic citizens. There is nothing of the subtlety and stealthiness of the Italian, of the morbid restlessness of the Gaul, of the indigested barbarism of the German in them; and though they lack here and there the steadiness of the Saxon, they easily surpass him both in facility of adapting one's self and in felicity of expressing it. John Boyle O'Reilly was a Celt of the very best type, whose friends were in the right and whose enemies—if he had any—were in the wrong; for his friends were all made for him by his real character, and his enemies by mistaken estimates of him.

Many fine poems were written in memory of the dead singer, beautiful tributes of sorrow and praise from his brother and sister poets,—James Whitcomb Riley, Mary E. Blake, John W. O'Keefe, M. J. McNeirny, Louise Imogen Guiney, and a score of others, who had known and loved and owed gratitude for a thousand kindly deeds to this kindliest of men. One of the most touching came anonymously from San Diego, Cal., entitled simply:

AUGUST 10, 1890.

I stirred in my sleep with a sudden fear.
The breath of sorrow seemed very near.
And the sound of weeping; I woke and said,
"Some one is dying, some one is dead."

Long time I lay in the darkened room,
Dawn just piercing the silent gloom,
And prayed, "O Saviour, whoe'er it be.
May the parting spirit find rest in Thee!"

The morn rose brightly and sweetly smiled
O'er the dancing waves, like a happy child;
I was singing softly, when some one said,
"The truest of all the true is dead."

And I knew that thousands of miles away
Hearts were breaking that summer day, —
That the wide world over, from pole to pole,
There were sighs and tears, and "God rest his soul!"

And I knew—his dearest friends apart.
The life of his life and the heart of his heart—
None wept more for that vacant place
Than I,—who never had seen his face.