When in 1896 I broached to a few interested friends the project of establishing an organization which would bring together men of the Irish race interested in gathering and perpetuating the record of the achievement of that race on this American continent, and preserving it in such form that historians could utilize it and thus ensure us our share of the honor and credit of upbuilding the American Republic, I found him sympathetic and enthusiastic in the matter; and out of those gatherings and discussions sprang the movement which resulted in the foundation of the American Irish Historical Society. James Jeffrey Roche, John Linehan, Hamilton Murray and I drew up the call, signed it, secured other signatures, called a meeting at the Revere House, Boston, Mass., 20th January, 1897, and the Society was born. He became one of the members of the Executive Council and for many years we attended its meetings and outings until conditions and circumstances stopped our attendance without attenuating our interest in its progress. Personally, James Jeffrey Roche was one of the most lovable and charming of men, who carried under a surface of wit and joyous frivolity a nature whose depth, sincerity, devotion to ideals, capacity for friendship, passion for freedom, love of race and motherland, high-minded patriotism and loyalty to duty and honor, were understood only by those who knew him intimately. He hated all meanness and dishonor; friendship was a sacred thing to him; and he had that clairvoyant vision of the poet which saw the humbug and pharisee under the skin of the charlatan, when many a reputedly wiser and more sophisticated man accepted the demagogue and pretender at their own valuation. I knew him for many years; to me he was as my own flesh and blood; I could not love a brother more; and his death was merely the final chapter in the grief I experienced when he went from Boston to represent the Republic abroad, in such physical condition that I knew I would never look upon his face again in life; and I know that in voicing my own sorrow I am but expressing the feelings of those who were comrades in the past and lovers of him always. He had reached the zenith of his literary powers before he left the land of his adoption and love forever; and he himself realized that his work was done, and that only the official duties of his consular position remained to preoccupy him until the final call. Besides a host of friends, he left a wife, a son and a daughter to mourn his passing; and while the idle reader of contemporary literature may time and again derive pleasure and profit from his joyous wit, and gentle philosophy, his intimates and brothers in soul will seldom meet without recalling with a hush and a sigh the friend and comrade who has passed and who awaits them where work and worry, sweat and sorrow, are no more forever.