John Philpot Curran. attack in one of his hands warned him of the coming dissolution. Unable now to carry out his literary ventures, and sick at heart over the pitiful state of Ireland, he was not unwilling to sleep the last long sleep. The few months of remaining life were spent in the midst of friends, and the loyalty and love of those who knew him were the stars that accompanied him through the darkness to the dawn. With an occa sional dinner, an opera now and then, and conversation, he alleviated his physical suf fering, and on October 14, 1817, in the city of London, the finger of Death closed his eloquent eyes forever. Daniel O'Connell, writing to Phillips two days later, says : "Charles, there never was so honest an Irish man. Of all, the only incorrupted and faithful. His very soul was republican Irish. On his coffin should be laid a broken harp and a wreath of shamrock." He was buried in London. Twenty-two years later the appreciation of the Irish manifested itself in a patriotic demand that their greatest orator and most intrepid defender should rest under the skies he loved and among the men he served. One dark, stormy November night in 1829 a funeral cortege moved slowly through the gloom of the Dublin streets. The rain
fell violently, and the shriek of the wind, the vivid flash of lightning, and the war-like roar of thunder combined to make a weird and melancholy picture. Ireland had re claimed her brilliant Curran. Never did a man rest beneath a greater wealth of tributes. Statesmen and poets bent all their powers of elegant expression in choosing words sufficiently strong to ex press their keen appreciation. Enemies pronounced him eloquent, able and pure. Friends mourned him with bleeding hearts, and patriots with a sincerity too intense to melt in tears. W. H. Curran wrote a biog raphy, the tribute of a son. Phillips's brilliant pen traced in a poetic manner the story of his life, the tribute of a friend. Ireland erected a monument of stone, the tribute of a nation. But sweeter and far more touching than them all were the myriad tears the poor and lowly shed, because they were the heartfelt tribute of humanity. When the shamrock grows no longer on the hills of Tara; when the splendor of Malachi shall be utterly for gotten in national degeneration; when mem ories are cold and all true hearts are dust; when love of justice and genius shall find no place in the bosom of men, then, and not until then, will the brilliant fame of John P. Curran go out in darkness.
