[...] To the distinguished list of these who first and longest upheld the rebel flag against England in '48, must be added the name of the noble conspirator, Thomas Devin Reilly, a polished gentleman and a brilliant scholar. I am at a loss which most to admire, the intrepid leader who marshalled the conflict with injustice and tyranny, or the devoted patriot who sacrificed property, and the joys of a happy home, that Ireland might be delivered from the cowardly and treacherous English Parliament. The last hours of this gifted patriot, gallant traitor, and enthusiastic friend of liberty, demonstrated that the noble passion of his life was strong in death. John Mitchell, his devoted friend, tells how that with his dear wife at his side, and his little daughter playing at his knee, he calmly and grandly died, like a true Irish patriot. Thank God our martyrs die well. Reilly's thirtieth birthday arrived, and he knew his fate was come. He was in good health, but told his wife he must die. He often started up, threw open the window, and said the room smelled of Death. To his powerful imagination every thing was an omen of doom, and at night he heard the Banshee of his clan wailing along the shores of the Potomac. The last night of his earthly existence, he called his household around him, filled a bumper, and there standing on his floor, looking calmly into his early grave, with a> bold and sunny smile upon his lip, and tears streaming down his rough face, he pledged his last toast, — Old Ireland. After that touching good night to "Ireland," he retired in his usual health ; in the morning he was a corpse. Talk of heroic deaths. I challenge the world to exhibit a single instance worthy of being placed by the side of such a grand, beautiful example.Thank God our martyrs die well. Reilly's thirtieth birthday arrived, and he knew his fate was come. He was in good health, but told his wife he must die. He often started up, threw open the window, and said the room smelled of Death. To his powerful imagination every thing was an omen of doom, and at night he heard the Banshee of his clan wailing along the shores of the Potomac. The last night of his earthly existence, he called his household around him, filled a bumper, and there standing on his floor, looking calmly into his early grave, with a bold and sunny smile upon his lip, and tears streaming down his rough face, he pledged his last toast, — Old Ireland. After that touching good night to "Ireland," he retired in his usual health ; in the morning he was a corpse. Talk of heroic deaths. I challenge the world to exhibit a single instance worthy of being placed by the side of such a grand, beautiful example.