The Irish standard., 1892-07-30
SMITH. O'BRIEN.

of France is spoken in my presence.
SMITH o'BRIEN
How an Old Irishwoman Refused a Reward
Of 100000
Oscar Wilde tells the following story
of William Smith O'Brien: When was
there ever a finer, Drawer soul than
Smith O'Brien? Is there any other CEN
fury where you will find men like Smith
O'Brien, who fling aside power, influence,
wealth, position, all for the sake of their
struggling country? No, it is out of
fashion to be patriotic when patriotism
runs counter to your interests. You
may laugh if you please at Smith
| O'Brien's bloodless revolution, but the
spirit of the true Irishman-brave, self
denying and impetuous-wasi in him. /
will tell you story to show you how the
people appreciated him. You all know
how O'Brien was exiled to Australia, and
how on his return, fortune and many
friends gone from him, his life was
weary and monotonous. I was nine Or
ten years old, and a favorite with him.
MY fathers house was one of the few
houses he visited, as be had great adj
miration for my mother. He found me
one day porting over Plutarch, to whom
I had just been introduced.
"Shut the book, lad," he said, 'aud let
me tell you story of heroism and patri-
otism, the like OF which you will not find
in Plutarch or anywhere else. 1t was
ten years ago, before I was sent out to
Australia. You know the story of the
bellion-the hopes that were fixed on
the result, the ambition for the country,
the longing for free Ireland that gave
strength and purpose to us all. You
know, too, alas, how it failed. One by
one I saw the little band Of my followers
suffer for their boldness and temerity,
and at last I was alone, and with price
of 100000 on my head. One night, dis
couraged and worn, angry with myself
and resenting my precarious life spent in
hiding, determined to surrender myself
to the constabulary, and, resolute to this
decision, walked out boldly into the
night. It was dark and lowering Few
people were about, frequent threatening
showers had driven nearly everyone in
doors. Only the poor and homeless
we're in the street. I trod along the wet
pavement. brooding over my troubles
and wondering vaguely what the future
held-whether death or exile would be
my portion, and thinking, indifferently
enough. too, of my fate.
''Suddenly, huddled up against door
way, T saw an old apple woman. Her
wares we're sheltered under huge cot
ton umbrella, and she herself, her plaid
shawl wrapped tightly about her shout
ders, sat in the porch, protected little
enough against the rain and cold. She
was old, and her face was weather-beaten
and haegard. Her hands we're wrinkled
and shrivelled into the semblance of
claws. Her gray hair was dishevelled
and stray locks hung against her cheeks.
A sudden impulse took possession OF me.
Ten thousand poundsl A fortune! I had
a little distinct commercial value! What
dazzling vista even the fiftieth part OF
that sum would open for this poverty
crushed old woman! Why should she
not deliver me up to the authorities and
receive the reward? I stepped up nearer
to her, and stood in the full glare Of the
Pickering street lamp, pushed back my
hat from my forehead and waited, look
ing her full in the face. She gave
start, her mouth twitched, and her gilt
tering eyes, under their sunken lids,
riveted themselves upon me.
"Do you know who l amp 1asked
presently.
"Do know who ye are, Smith O Brien?
God bless ye, the man who gave up all
for his country and got nothin'. Moth
ing but bad luck and MISFORTUNE for it.
All, yes, sure, yer honor, I know ye."
eyes, I answered, am Smith O Brien.
All the poor lads who went out with me
are dead, in prison, or. in exile. The
struggles all over, and there's but one
thing for me to do now give myself up"
"Oh, for the love. O God, no." she
cried, with q ring OF terror in her voice.
.8 s{s e # ss ..3e