and
dissension. And his counsels had been successful, but alas! in that last
effort his fond, faithful, trusting heart was broken.

There was a perceptible lull in the agitation. The country gradually
relapsed into a state of inactive and vague hope, which centred in the
mental resources of Mr. O'Connell. The difficulties which the people
should have appreciated and learned to overcome, they transferred, with
easy and trusting indifference, to the energies of the "Liberator,"
which they not only deemed boundless but immortal. From all educated and
thoughtful men, however, hope in those energies had passed away. Davis
seduously endeavoured during the summer months of 1845, to gather these,
and others of the same class from the Conservative ranks, round some
common object or endeavour, outside Mr. O'Connell's path, and not
calculated to wake their prejudice or jealousies. The Art Union, the
Archaeological Society, the Royal Irish Academy, the Library of Ireland,
the Cork School of Design, the Mechanics' Institute and every effort and
institution, having for their aim the encouragement of the nation in
arts, literature and greatness, engaged his vigilant and embracing care.
Of each of these institutions he became the great attraction, the real
centre and head. While he successfully wrought to give a national and
steady direction to Irish intellect and enterprise--Hogan, in Italy,
Maclise, in London, and others like them, who were bravely struggling
and nobly emulating the highest efforts of the genius of other lands,
were vindicated, encouraged and applauded by his pen. Among the sterner
natures, who urged their way through the stormy elements of agitation,
his accents, though low and diffident, commanded the deepest attention
and most lasting memory. While thus engaged, compassing by his "circling
soul," every sunward effort and immortal tendency of the country, death
came, sudden and inexorable, and struck him down in his day of utmost
might. His last work on earth was the brief dedication of the memoir of
Curran, and edition of his select speeches, which he had prepared, to
his friend, William Elliot Hudson. This he wrote during a pause of
delirium, and soon afterwards passed to a brighter world. He died on the
16th of September, 1845, when yet but thirty-one years old. How sincere
and deep was the public grief, no pen can ever tell. In the mourning
procession that followed his hearse there was no parade of woe, but
ev