We have only one living thought at present. Our faces are set against any alliance with the hereditary enemy of Ireland and of America. That feeling is not Irish alone; it is American. It is born of experience. On our part, seven hundred years old. On the part of America, over one hundred years old. But is not the experience of one century as valuable as that of seven when we have to deal with real things? It ought to be more valuable, even as the injury of yesterday is more stinging than one of seven years ago.
The danger of an Anglo-American alliance is imminent. Its effect on Ireland is comparatively trivial. Its effect on America is immeasurably disastrous. By it we should forfeit the friendship of France, whose men and money made our freedom possible, and of Russia, whose timely aid saved us from disintegration during the Civil War. “Republics are ungrateful,” says the old adage. This republic must prove, at least, one exception to the rule, if it be a rule.
The American, and especially the Irish-American, who would favor an alliance with England, would be unworthy of Heaven, unwelcome in Purgatory, and lonesome in Perdition.
THE IRISH NAME.
John Jerome Rooney, of New York, read the following beautiful and stirring poem:
Who fears to claim the Irish name?
Who will forswear his blood?
Who holds in shame the deeds and fame
Of Emmet, Grattan, Flood?
Their hearts held true through death and rue,