MOORE

The 23rd day of November, 1867, witnessed a strange and memorable

scene in the great English city of Manchester. Long ere the grey

winter's morning struggled in through the crisp frosty air--long ere

the first gleam of the coming day dulled the glare of the flaming

gas jets, the streets of the Lancashire capital were all astir with

bustling crowds, and the silence of the night was broken by the

ceaseless footfalls and the voices of hurrying throngs. Through the

long, dim streets, and past the tall rows of silent houses, the full

tide of life eddied and poured in rapid current; stout burghers,

closely muffled and staff in hand; children grown prematurely old,

with the hard marks of vice already branded on their features; young

girls with flaunting ribbons and bold, flushed faces; pale-faced

operatives, and strong men whose brawny limbs told of the Titanic

labours of the foundry; the clerk from his desk; the shopkeeper from

his store; the withered crone, and the careless navvy, swayed and

struggled through the living mass; and with them trooped the legions

of want, and vice, and ignorance, that burrow and fester in the foetid

lanes and purlieus of the large British cities: from the dark alleys

where misery and degradation for ever dwell, and from reeking cellars

and nameless haunts, where the twin demons of alcohol and crime rule

supreme; from the gin-palace, and the beer-shop, and the midnight

haunts of the tramp and the burglar, they came in all their

repulsiveness and debasement, with the rags of wretchedness upon

their backs, and the cries of profanity and obscenity upon their

lips. Forward they rushed in a surging flood through many a street

and byway, until where the narrowing thoroughfares open into the space

surrounding the New Bailey Prison, in that suburb of the great city

known as the Borough of Salford, they found their further progress

arrested. Between them and the massive prison walls rose piles of

heavy barricading, and the intervening space was black with a dense

body of men, all of whom faced the gloomy building beyond, and each of

whom carried a special constable's baton in his hand. The long railway

bridge running close by was occupied by a detachment of infantry, and

from the parapet of the frowning walls the muzzle of cannon, trained

on the space below, might be dimly discerned in the darkness. But

the crowd paid little attention to these extraordinary appearances;

their eyes were riveted on the black projection which jutted from the

prison wall, and which, shrouded in dark drapery, loomed with ghastly

significance through the haze. Rising above the scaffold, which

replaced a portion of the prison wall, the outlines of a gibbet were

descried; and from the cross-beam there hung three ropes, terminating

in nooses, just perceptible above the upper edge of the curtain which

extended thence to the ground. The grim excrescence seemed to possess

a horrible fascination for the multitude. Those in position to see it

best stirred not from their post, but faced the fatal cross-tree, the

motionless ropes, the empty platform, with an untiring, insatiable

gaze, that seemed pregnant with some terrible meaning, while the mob

behind them struggled, and pushed, and raved, and fought; and the

haggard hundreds of gaunt, diseased, stricken wretches, that vainly

contested with the stronger types of ruffianism for a place, loaded

the air with their blasphemies and imprecations. The day broke slowly

and doubtfully upon the scene; a dense yellow, murky fog floated round

the spot, wrapping in its opaque folds the hideous gallows and the

frowning mass of masonry behind. An hour passed, and then a hoarse

murmur swelled upwards from the glistening rows of upturned faces.

The platform was no longer empty; three pinioned men, with white caps

drawn closely over their faces, were standing upon the drop. For a

moment the crowd was awed into stillness; for a moment the responses,

"Christ, have mercy on us," "Christ, have mercy on us," were heard

from the lips of the doomed men, towards whom the sea of faces were

turned. Then came a dull crash, and the mob swayed backwards for an

instant. The drop had fallen, and the victims were struggling in

the throes of a horrible death. The ropes jerked and swayed with

the convulsive movements of the dying men. A minute later, and the

vibrations ceased--the end had come, the swaying limbs fell rigid

and stark, and the souls of the strangled men had floated upwards

from the cursed spot--up from the hateful crowd and the sin-laden

atmosphere--to the throne of the God who made them.

So perished, in the bloom of manhood, and the flower of their

strength, three gallant sons of Ireland--so passed away the last

of the martyred band whose blood has sanctified the cause of Irish

freedom. Far from the friends whom they loved, far from the land for

which they suffered, with the scarlet-clad hirelings of England around

them, and watched by the wolfish eyes of a brutal mob, who thirsted

to see them die, the dauntless patriots, who, in our own day,

have rivalled the heroism and shared the fate of Tone, Emmett, and

Fitzgerald, looked their last upon the world. No prayer was breathed

for their parting souls--no eye was moistened with regret amongst the

multitude that stretched away in compact bodies from the foot of the

gallows; the ribald laugh and the blasphemous oath united with their

dying breath; and, callously as the Roman mob from the blood-stained

amphitheatre, the English masses turned homewards from the fatal spot.

But they did not fall unhonoured or unwept. In the churches of the

faithful in that same city, the sobs of mournful lamentation were

mingled with the solemn prayers for their eternal rest, and, from

thousands of wailing women and stricken-hearted men, the prayers for

mercy, peace, and pardon, for the souls of MICHAEL O'BRIEN, WILLIAM

PHILIP ALLEN, and MICHAEL LARKIN, rose upwards to the avenging God.

Still less were they forgotten at home. Throughout the Irish land,

from Antrim's rocky coast to the foam-beaten headlands of Cork, the

hearts of their countrymen were convulsed with passionate grief and

indignation, and, blended with the sharp cry of agony that broke from

the nation's lips, came the murmurs of defiant hatred, and the pledges

of a bitter vengeance. Never, for generations, had the minds of the

Irish people been more profoundly agitated--never had they writhed

in such bitterness and agony of soul. With knitted brows and burning

cheeks, the tidings of the bloody deed were listened to. The names of

the martyred men were upon every lip, and the story of their heroism

and tragic death was read with throbbing pulse and kindling eyes

by every fireside in the land. It is to assist in perpetuating that

story, and in recording for future generations the narrative which

tells of how Allen, O'Brien, and Larkin died, that this narrative is

written, and few outside the nation whose hands are red with their

blood, will deny that at least so much recognition is due to their

courage, their patriotism, and their fidelity. In Ireland we know it

will be welcomed; amongst a people by whom chivalry and patriotism are

honoured, a story so touching and so enobling will not be despised;

and the race which guards with reverence and devotion the memories

of Tone, and Emmett, and the Shearses, will not soon surrender to

oblivion the memory of the three true-hearted patriots, who, heedless

of the scowling mob, unawed by the hangman's grasp, died bravely that

Saturday morning at Manchester, for the good old cause of Ireland.

Early before daybreak on the morning of November 11th, 1867,

the policemen on duty in Oak-street, Manchester, noticed four

broad-shouldered, muscular men loitering in a suspicious manner

about the shop of a clothes dealer in the neighbourhood. Some remarks

dropped by one of the party reaching the ears of the policemen,

strengthened their impression that an illegal enterprise was on foot,

and the arrest of the supposed burglars was resolved on. A struggle

ensued, during which two of the suspects succeeded in escaping, but

the remaining pair, after offering a determined resistance, were

overpowered and carried off to the police station. The prisoners, who,

on being searched, were found to possess loaded revolvers on their

persons, gave their names as Martin Williams and John Whyte, and were

charged under the Vagrancy Act before one of the city magistrates.

They declared themselves American citizens, and claimed their

discharge. Williams said he was a bookbinder out of work; Whyte

described himself as a hatter, living on the means brought with him

from America. The magistrate was about disposing summarily of the

case, by sentencing the men to a few days' imprisonment, when a

detective officer applied for a remand, on the ground that he had

reason to believe the prisoners were connected with the Fenian

conspiracy. The application was granted, and before many hours

had elapsed it was ascertained that Martin Williams was no other

than Colonel Thomas J. Kelly, one of the most prominent of the

(O'Mahony-Stephens) Fenian leaders, and that John Whyte was a brother

officer and co-conspirator, known to the circles of the Fenian

Brotherhood as Captain Deasey.

Of the men who had thus fallen into the clutches of the British

government the public had already heard much, and one of them

was widely known for the persistency with which he laboured as an

organiser of Fenianism, and the daring and skill which he exhibited

in the pursuit of his dangerous undertaking. Long before the escape

of James Stephens from Richmond Bridewell startled the government from

its visions of security, and swelled the breasts of their disaffected

subjects in Ireland with rekindled hopes, Colonel Kelly was known in

the Fenian ranks as an intimate associate of the revolutionary chief.

When the arrest at Fairfield-house deprived the organization of its

crafty leader, Kelly was elected to the vacant post, and he threw

himself into the work with all the reckless energy of his nature. If

he could not be said to possess the mental ability or administrative

capacity essential to the office, he was at least gifted with a

variety of other qualifications well calculated to recommend him to

popularity amongst the desperate men with whom he was associated. Nor

did he prove altogether unworthy of the confidence reposed in him. It

is now pretty well known that the successful plot for the liberation

of James Stephens was executed under the personal supervision of

Colonel Kelly, and that he was one of the group of friends who grasped

the hand of the Head Centre within the gates of Eichmond Prison on

that night in November, '65, when the doors of his dungeon were thrown

open. Kelly fled with Stephens to Paris, and thence to America,

where he remained attached to the section of the Brotherhood which

recognised the authority and obeyed the mandates of the "C.O.I.R." But

the time came when even Colonel Kelly and his party discovered that

Stephens was unworthy of their confidence. The chief whom they had so

long trusted, and whose oath to fight on Irish soil before January,

'67, they had seen so unblushingly violated, was deposed by the

last section of his adherents, and Colonel Kelly was elected

"Deputy Central Organiser of the Irish Republic," on the distinct

understanding that he was to follow out the policy which Stephens had

shrunk from pursuing. Kelly accepted the post, and devoted himself

earnestly to the work. In America he met with comparatively little

co-operation; the bulk of the Irish Nationalists in that country had

long ranged themselves under the leadership of Colonel W.R. Roberts,

an Irish gentleman of character and integrity, who became the

President of the reconstituted organization; and the plans and

promises of "the Chatham-street wing," as the branch of the

brotherhood which ratified Colonel Kelly's election was termed,

were regarded, for the most part, with suspicion and disfavour. But

from Ireland there came evidences of a different state of feeling.

Breathless envoys arrived almost weekly in New York, declaring that

the Fenian Brotherhood in Ireland were burning for the fray--that they

awaited the landing of Colonel Kelly with feverish impatience--that

it would be impossible to restrain them much longer from fighting--and

that the arrival of the military leaders, whom America was expected

to supply, would be the signal for a general uprising. Encouraged

by representations like these, Colonel Kelly and a chosen body of

Irish-American officers departed for Ireland in January, and set

themselves, on their arrival in the old country, to arrange the plans

of the impending outbreak. How their labours eventuated, and how the

Fenian insurrection of March, '67, resulted, it is unnecessary to

explain; it is enough for our purpose to state that for several months

after that ill-starred movement was crushed, Colonel Kelly continued

to reside in Dublin, moving about with an absence of disguise and

a disregard for concealment which astonished his confederates, but

which, perhaps, contributed in no slight degree to the success with

which he eluded the efforts directed towards his capture. At length

the Fenian organization in Ireland began to pass through the same

changes that had given it new leaders and fresh vitality in America.

The members of the organization at home began to long for union

with the Irish Nationalists who formed the branch of the confederacy

regenerated under Colonel Roberts; and Kelly, who, for various

reasons, was unwilling to accept the new _regime_, saw his adherents

dwindle away, until at length he found himself all but discarded by

the Fenian circles in Dublin. Then he crossed over to Manchester,

where he arrived but a few weeks previous to the date of his

accidental arrest in Oak-street.

The arrest of Colonel Kelly and his aide-de-camp, as the English

papers soon learned to describe Deasey, was hailed by the government

with the deepest satisfaction. For years they had seen their hosts of

spies, detectives, and informers foiled and outwitted by this daring

conspirator, whose position in the Fenian ranks they perfectly

understood; they had seen their traps evaded, their bribes spurned,

and their plans defeated at every turn; they knew, too, that Kelly's

success in escaping capture was filling his associates with pride and

exultation; and now at last they found the man whose apprehension they

so anxiously desired a captive in their grasp. On the other hand, the

arrests in Oak-street were felt to be a crushing blow to a failing

cause by the Fenian circles in Manchester. They saw that Kelly's

capture would dishearten every section of the organization; they knew

that the broad meaning of the occurrence was, that another Irish rebel

had fallen into the clutches of the British government, and was about

to be added to the long list of their political victims. It was felt

by the Irish in Manchester, that to abandon the prisoners helplessly

to their fate would be regarded as an act of submission to the laws

which rendered patriotism a crime, and as an acceptance of the policy

which left Ireland trampled, bleeding, and impoverished. There

were hot spirits amongst the Irish colony that dwelt in the great

industrial capital, which revolted from such a conclusion, and there

were warm, impulsive hearts which swelled with a firm resolution to

change the triumph of their British adversaries into disappointment

and consternation. The time has not yet come when anything like

a description of the midnight meetings and secret councils which

followed the arrest of Colonel Kelly in Manchester can be written;

enough may be gathered, however, from the result, to show that the

plans of the conspirators were cleverly conceived and ably digested.

On Wednesday, September 18th, Colonel Kelly and his companion were

a second time placed in the dock of the Manchester Police Office.

There is reason to believe that means had previously been found of

acquainting them with the plans of their friends outside, but this

hypothesis is not necessary to explain the coolness and _sang froid_

with which they listened to the proceedings before the magistrate.

Hardly had the prisoners been put forward, when the Chief Inspector

of the Manchester Detective Force interposed. They were both, he said,

connected with the Fenian rising, and warrants were out against them

for treason-felony. "Williams," he added, with a triumphant air, "is

Colonel Kelly, and Whyte, his confederate, is Captain Deasey." He

asked that they might again be remanded, an application which was

immediately granted. The prisoners, who imperturbably bowed to the

detective, as he identified them, smilingly quitted the dock, and were

given in charge to Police Sergeant Charles Brett, whose duty it was to

convey them to the borough gaol.

The van used for the conveyance of prisoners between the police office

and the gaol was one of the ordinary long black boxes on wheels, dimly

lit by a grating in the door and a couple of ventilators in the roof.

It was divided interiorly into a row of small cells at either side,

and a passage running the length of the van between; and the practice

was, to lock each prisoner into a separate cell, Brett sitting in

charge on a seat in the passage, near the door. The van was driven

by a policeman; another usually sat beside the driver on the box; the

whole escort thus consisting of three men, carrying no other arms than

their staves; but it was felt that on the present occasion a stronger

escort might be necessary. The magistrates well knew that Kelly

and Deasey had numerous sympathisers amongst the Irish residents in

Manchester, and their apprehensions were quickened by the receipt of

a telegram from Dublin Castle, and another from the Home Office in

London, warning them that a plot was on foot for the liberation of the

prisoners. The magistrates doubted the truth of the information, but

they took precautions, nevertheless, for the frustration of any such

enterprise. Kelly and Deasey were both handcuffed, and locked in

separate compartments of the van; and, instead of three policemen,

not less than twelve were entrusted with its defence. Of this body,

five sat on the box-seat, two were stationed on the step behind, four

followed the van in a cab, and one (Sergeant Brett) sat within the

van, the keys of which were handed in to him through the grating,

after the door had been locked by one of the policemen outside. There

were, in all, six persons in the van: one of these was a boy, aged

twelve, who was being conveyed to a reformatory; three were women

convicted of misdemeanours; and the two Irish-Americans completed the

number. Only the last-mentioned pair were handcuffed, and they were

the only persons whom the constables thought necessary to lock up, the

compartments in which the other persons sat being left open.

At half-past three o'clock the van drove off, closely followed by the

cab containing the balance of the escort. Its route lay through some

of the principal streets, then through the suburbs on the south side,

into the borough of Salford, where the county gaol is situated. In all

about two miles had to be traversed, and of this distance the first

half was accomplished without anything calculated to excite suspicion

being observed; but there was mischief brewing, for all that, and the

crisis was close at hand. Just as the van passed under the railway

arch that spans the Hyde-road at Bellevue, a point midway between

the city police office and the Salford gaol, the driver was suddenly

startled by the apparition of a man standing in the middle of the

road with a pistol aimed at his head, and immediately the astonished

policeman heard himself called upon, in a loud, sharp voice, to "pull

up." At the spot where this unwelcome interruption occurred there

are but few houses; brick-fields and clay-pits stretch away at either

side, and the neighbourhood is thinly inhabited. But its comparative

quiet now gave way to a scene of bustle and excitement so strange

that it seems to have almost paralysed the spectators with amazement.

The peremptory command levelled at the driver of the van was hardly

uttered, when a body of men, numbering about thirty, swarmed over

the wall which lined the road, and, surrounding the van, began to

take effectual measures for stopping it. The majority of them were

well-dressed men, of powerful appearance; a few carried pistols or

revolvers in their hands, and all seemed to act in accordance with a

preconcerted plan. The first impulse of the policemen in front appears

to have been to drive through the crowd, but a shot, aimed in the

direction of his head brought the driver tumbling from his seat,

terror-stricken but unhurt; and almost at the same time, the further

progress of the van was effectually prevented by shooting one of the

horses through the neck. A scene of indescribable panic and confusion

ensued; the policemen scrambled hastily to the ground, and betook

themselves to flight almost without a thought of resistance. Those

in the cab behind got out, not to resist the attack, but to help in

running away; and in a few minutes the strangers, whose object had by

this time become perfectly apparent, were undisputed masters of the

situation. Pickaxes, hatchets, hammers, and crow-bars were instantly

produced, and the van was besieged by a score stout pairs of arms,

under the blows from which its sides groaned, and the door cracked and

splintered. Some clambered upon the roof, and attempted to smash it in

with heavy stones; others tried to force an opening through the side;

while the door was sturdily belaboured by another division of the

band. Seeing the Fenians, as they at once considered them, thus busily

engaged, the policemen, who had in the first instance retreated to a

safe distance, and who were now reinforced by a large mob attracted

to the spot by the report of firearms, advanced towards the van, with

the intention of offering some resistance; but the storming party

immediately met them with a counter-movement. Whilst the attempt to

smash through the van was continued without pause, a ring was formed

round the men thus engaged, by their confederates, who, pointing

their pistols at the advancing crowd, warned them, as they valued

their lives, to keep off. Gaining courage from their rapidly-swelling

numbers, the mob, however, continued to close in round the van,

whereupon several shots were discharged by the Fenians, which had the

effect of making the Englishmen again fall back in confusion. It is

certain that these shots were discharged for no other purpose than

that of frightening the crowd; one of them did take effect in the heel

of a bystander, but in every other case the shots were fired high over

the heads of the crowd. While this had been passing around the van, a

more tragic scene was passing inside it. From the moment the report

of the first shot reached him, Sergeant Brett seems to have divined

the nature and object of the attack. "My God! its these Fenians," he

exclaimed. The noise of the blows showered on the roof and sides of

the van was increased by the shrieks of the female prisoners, who

rushed frantically into the passage, and made the van resound with

their wailings. In the midst of the tumult a face appeared at the

grating, and Brett heard himself summoned to give up the keys. The

assailants had discovered where they were kept, and resolved on

obtaining them as the speediest way of effecting their purpose. "Give

up the keys, or they will shoot you," exclaimed the women; but Brett

refused. The next instant he fell heavily backwards, with the hot

blood welling from a bullet-wound in the head. A shot fired into the

key-hole, for the purpose of blowing the lock to pieces, had taken

effect in his temple. The terror-stricken women lifted him up,

screaming "he's killed." As they did so, the voice which had been

heard before called out to them through the ventilator to give up the

keys. One of the women then took them from the pocket of the dying

policeman, and handed them out through the trap. The door was at once

unlocked, the terrified women rushed out, and Brett, weltering in

blood, rolled out heavily upon the road. Then a pale-faced young man,

wearing a light overcoat, a blue tie, and a tall brown hat, who had

been noticed taking a prominent part in the affray, entered the van,

and unlocked the compartments in which Kelly and Deasey were confined.

A hasty greeting passed between them, and then the trio hurriedly

joined the band outside. "I told you, Kelly, I would die before I

parted with you," cried the young man who had unlocked the doors;

then, seizing Kelly by the arm, he helped him across the road, and

over the wall, into the brick-fields beyond. Here he was taken charge

of by others of the party, who hurried with him across the country,

while a similar office was performed for Deasey, who, like Colonel

Kelly, found himself hampered to some extent by the handcuffs on his

wrists. The main body of those who had shared in the assault occupied

themselves with preventing the fugitives from being pursued; and not

until Kelly, Deasy, and their conductors had passed far out of sight,

did they think of consulting their own safety. At length, when further

resistance to the mob seemed useless and impossible, they broke and

fled, some of them occasionally checking the pursuit by turning round

and presenting pistols at those who followed. Many of the fugitives

escaped, but several others were surrounded and overtaken by the mob.

And now the "chivalry" of the English nature came out in its real

colours. No sooner did the cowardly set, whom the sight of a revolver

kept at bay while Kelly was being liberated, find themselves with some

of the Irish party in their power, than they set themselves to beat

them with savage ferocity. The young fellow who had opened the van

door, and who had been overtaken by the mob, was knocked down by

a blow of a brick, and then brutally kicked and stoned, the only

Englishman who ventured to cry shame being himself assaulted for his

display of humanity. Several others were similarly ill-treated; and

not until the blood spouted out from the bruised and mangled bodies

of the prostrate men, did the valiant Englishmen consider they had

sufficiently tortured their helpless prisoners. Meanwhile, large

reinforcements appeared on the spot; police and military were

despatched in eager haste in pursuit of the fugitives; the telegraph

was called into requisition, and a description of the liberated

Fenians flashed to the neighbouring towns; the whole detective force

of Manchester was placed on their trail, and in the course of a

few hours thirty-two Irishmen were in custody, charged with having

assisted in the attack on the van. But of Kelly or Deasey no trace was

ever discovered; they were seen to enter a cottage not far from the

Hyde-road, and leave it with their hands unfettered, but all attempts

to trace their movements beyond this utterly failed. While the

authorities in Manchester were excitedly discussing the means to

be adopted in view of the extraordinary event, Brett lay expiring

in the hospital to which he had been conveyed. He never recovered

consciousness after receiving the wound, and he died in less than two

hours after the fatal shot had been fired.

Darkness had closed in around Manchester before the startling

occurrence that had taken place in their midst became known to the

majority of its inhabitants. Swiftly the tidings flew throughout the

big city, till the whisper in which the rumour was first breathed

swelled into a roar of astonishment and rage. Leaving their houses and

leaving their work, the people rushed into the streets, and trooped

towards the newspaper offices for information. The rescue of Colonel

Kelly and death of Sergeant Brett were described in thousands of

conflicting narratives, until the facts almost disappeared beneath

the mass of inventions and exaggerations, the creations of excitement

and panic, with which they were overloaded. Meanwhile, the police,

maddened by resentment and agitation, struck out wildly and blindly

at the Irish. They might not be able to recapture the escaped Fenian

leaders, but they could load the gaols with their countrymen and

co-religionists; they might not be able to apprehend the liberators

of Colonel Kelly and Captain Deasey, but they could glut their fury on

members of the same nationality; and this they did most effectually.

The whole night long the raid upon the Irish quarter in Manchester was

continued; houses were broken into, and their occupants dragged off

to prison, and flung into cells, chained as though they were raging

beasts. Mere Irish were set upon in the streets, in the shops, in

their homes, and hurried off to prison as if the very existence of

the empire depended on their being subjected to every kind of brutal

violence and indignity. The yell for vengeance filled the air; the cry

for Irish blood arose upon the night-air like a demoniacal chorus;

and before morning broke their fury was to some extent appeased by

the knowledge that sixty of the proscribed race--sixty of the hated

Irish--were lying chained within the prison cells of Manchester.

Fifteen minutes was the time occupied in setting Kelly free--only

fifteen minutes--but during that short space of time an act was

accomplished which shook the whole British Empire to its foundation.

From the conspiracy to which this daring deed was traceable the

English people had already received many startling surprises. The

liberation of James Stephens and the short-lived insurrection that

filled the snow-capped hills with hardy fugitives, six months before,

had both occasioned deep excitement in England; but nothing that

Fenianism had yet accomplished acted in the same bewildering manner

on the English mind. In the heart of one of their largest cities, in

the broad daylight, openly and undisguisedly, a band of Irishmen had

appeared in arms against the Queen's authority, and set the power and

resources of the law at defiance. They had rescued a co-conspirator

from the grasp of the government, and slain an officer of the law in

the pursuit of their object. Within a few minutes' walk of barracks

and military depôts,--in sight of the royal ensign that waved over

hundreds of her Majesty's defenders, a prison van had been stopped and

broken open, and its defenders shot at and put to flight. Never had

the English people heard of so audacious a proceeding--never did they

feel more insulted. From every corner of the land the cry swelled, up

for vengeance fierce and prompt. Victims there should be; blood--Irish

blood--the people _would_ have; nor were they willing to wait long for

it. It might be that, falling in hot haste, the sword of Justice might

strike the innocent, and not the guilty; it might be that, in the

thirst for vengeance, the restraints of humanity would be forgotten;

but the English nature, now thoroughly aroused, cared little for such

considerations. It was Irishmen who had defied and trampled on their

power; the whole Irish people approved of the act; and it mattered

little who the objects of their fury might be, provided they

belonged to the detested race. The prisoners, huddled together in the

Manchester prisons, with chains round their limbs, might not be the

liberators of Colonel Kelly--the slayers of Brett might not be amongst

them; but they were Irishmen, at any rate, and so they would answer

the purpose. Short shrift was the cry. The ordinary forms of law,

the maxims of the Constitution, the rules of judicial procedure, the

proprieties of social order and civilization, might be outraged and

discarded, but speedy vengeance should, at all hazards, be obtained:

the hangman could not wait for his fee, nor the people for their

carnival of blood; and so it was settled that, instead of being tried

at the ordinary Commission, in December, a Special Commission should

be issued on the spot for the trial of the accused.

On Thursday, the 25th of October, the prisoners were brought up

for committal, before Mr. Fowler, R.M., and a bench of brother

magistrates. Some of the Irishmen arrested in the first instance had

been discharged--not that no one could be found to swear against them

(a difficulty which never seems to have arisen in these cases) but

that the number of witnesses who could swear to their innocence was so

great, that an attempt to press for convictions in their cases would

be pertain to jeopardize the whole proceedings. The following is a

list of the prisoners put forward, the names being, as afterwards

appeared, in many cases fictitious:--

William O'Mara Allen, Edward Shore, Henry Wilson, William

Gould, Michael Larkin, Patrick Kelly, Charles Moorhouse, John

Brennan, John Bacon, William Martin, John F. Nugent, James

Sherry, Robert McWilliams, Michael Maguire, Thomas Maguire,

Michael Morris, Michael Bryan, Michael Corcoran, Thomas Ryan,

John Carroll, John Cleeson, Michael Kennedy, John Morris,

Patrick Kelly, Hugh Foley, Patrick Coffey, Thomas Kelly, and

Thomas Scally.

It forms no part of our purpose to follow out the history of the

proceedings in the Manchester court on the 25th of September and the

following days: but there are some circumstances in connection with

that investigation which it would be impossible to pass over without

comment. It was on this occasion that the extraordinary sight of men

being tried in chains was witnessed, and that the representatives of

the English Crown came to sit in judgment on men still innocent in

the eyes of the law, yet manacled like convicted felons. With the

blistering irons clasped tight round their wrists the Irish prisoners

stood forward, that justice--such justice as tortures men first and

tries them afterwards--might be administered to them. "The police

considered the precaution necessary," urged the magistrate, in reply

to the scathing denunciations of the unprecedented outrage which fell

from the lips of Mr. Ernest Jones, one of the prisoners' counsel. The

police considered it necessary, though within the courthouse no friend

of the accused could dare to show his face--though the whole building

bristled with military and with policemen, with their revolvers

ostentatiously displayed;--necessary, though every approach to the

courthouse was held by an armed guard, and though every soldier in the

whole city was standing to arms;--necessary there, in the heart of an

English city, with a dense population thirsting for the blood of the

accused, and when the danger seemed to be, not that they might escape

from custody--a flight to the moon would be equally practicable--but

that they might be butchered in cold blood by the angry English mob

that scowled on them from the galleries of the court house, and howled

round the building in which they stood. In vain did Mr. Jones protest,

in scornful words, against the brutal indignity--in vain did he appeal

to the spirit of British justice, to ancient precedent and modern

practice--in vain did he inveigh against a proceeding which forbad

the intercourse necessary between him and his clients--and in vain

did he point out that the prisoners in the dock were guiltless and

innocent men according to the theory of the law. No arguments, no

expostulations would change the magistrate's decision. Amidst the

applause of the cowardly set that represented the British public

within the courthouse, he insisted that the handcuffs should remain

on; and then Mr. Jones, taking the only course left to a man of spirit

under the circumstances, threw down his brief and indignantly quitted

the desecrated justice hall. Fearing the consequences of leaving the

prisoners utterly undefended, Mr. Cottingham, the junior counsel for

the defence, refrained from following Mr. Jones's example, but he,

too, protested loudly, boldly, and indignantly against the cowardly

outrage, worthy of the worst days of the French monarchy, which

his clients were being subjected to. The whole investigation was in

keeping with the spirit evinced by the bench. The witnesses seemed

to come for the special purpose of swearing point-blank against the

hapless men in the dock, no matter at what cost to truth, and to take

a fiendish pleasure in assisting in securing their condemnation. One

of the witnesses was sure "the whole lot of them wanted to murder

everyone who had any property;" another assured his interrogator in

the dock that "he would go to see him hanged;" and a third had no

hesitation in acknowledging the attractions which the reward offered

by the government possessed for his mind. Men and women, young and

old, all seemed to be possessed of but the one idea--to secure as

much of the blood-money as possible, and to do their best to bring the

hated Irish to the gallows. Of course, an investigation, under these

circumstances, could have but one ending, and no one was surprised

to learn, at its conclusion, that the whole of the resolute body

of stern-faced men, who, manacled and suffering, confronted their

malignant accusers, had been committed to stand their trial in hot

haste, for the crime of "wilful murder."

Of the men thus dealt with there are four with whose fate this

narrative is closely connected, and whose names are destined to be

long remembered in Ireland. They have won for themselves, by their

courage, constancy, and patriotism, a fame that will never die; and

through all future time they will rank beside the dauntless spirits

that in days of darkness and disaster perished for the sacred cause

of Ireland. Great men, learned men, prominent men they were not--they

were poor, they were humble, they were unknown; they had no claim to

the reputation of the warrior, the scholar, or the statesman; but they

laboured, as they believed, for the redemption of their country from

bondage; they risked their lives in a chivalrous attempt to rescue

from captivity two men whom they regarded as innocent patriots, and

when the forfeit was claimed, they bore themselves with the unwavering

courage and single-heartedness of Christian heroes. Their short and

simple annals are easily written, but their names are graven on the

Irish heart, and their names and actions will be cherished in Ireland

when the monumental piles that mark the resting-places of the wealthy

and the proud have returned, like the bodies laid beneath them, to

dust.

William Philip Allen was born near the town of Tipperary, in April,

1848. Before he was quite three years old his parents removed to

Bandon, County Cork, where the father, who professed the Protestant

religion, received the appointment of bridewell-keeper. As young

Allen grew up, he evinced a remarkable aptitude for the acquirement

of knowledge, and his studious habits were well known to his

playmates and companions. He was a regular attendant at the local

training-school for the education of teachers for the Protestant

schools of the parish, but he also received instruction at the morning

and evening schools conducted under Catholic auspices, in the same

town. He was not a wild boy, but he was quick and impulsive,--ready

to resent a wrong, but equally ready to forgive one; and his natural

independence of spirit and manly disposition rendered him a favourite

with all his acquaintances. The influence and example of his father

did not prevent him from casting a wistful eye towards the ancient

faith. His mother, a good pious Catholic, whose warmest aspiration was

to see her children in the fold of the true church, encouraged this

disposition by all the means in her power, and the result of her pious

care shortly became apparent. A mission, opened in the town by some

Catholic order of priests, completed the good work, which the prayers

and the example of an affectionate mother had commenced; and young

Allen, after regularly attending the religious services and exercises

of the mission, became so much Impressed with the truth of the

lectures and sermons he had listened to, that he formally renounced

the alien religion, and was received by the respected parish priest

of the town into the bosom of the Catholic Church. His only sister

followed his example, while his brothers, four in number, remained in

the Protestant communion. The subject of our sketch was apprenticed

to a respectable master carpenter and timber merchant in Bandon,

but circumstances highly creditable to the young convert induced the

severance of the connection before his period of apprenticeship was

expired, and we next find him working at his trade in Cork, where he

remained for some six months, after which he returned to Bandon. He

next crossed over to Manchester, at the request of some near relatives

living there. Subsequently he spent a few weeks in Dublin, where he

worked as builder's clerk; and finally he revisited Manchester, where

he had made himself numerous friends. It was in the summer of '67

that Allen last journeyed to Manchester. He was then little more than

nineteen years old, but there is reason to believe that he had long

before become connected with the Fenian conspiracy. In his ardent

temperament the seeds of patriotism took deep and firm root, and the

dangers of the enterprise to which the Fenians were committed served

only to give it a fresh claim upon his enthusiastic nature. When

Colonel Kelly quitted Dublin, and took up his quarters in Manchester,

Allen was one of his most trusted and intimate associates; and when

the prison door grated behind the Fenian leader, it was Allen who

roused his countrymen to the task of effecting his liberation. Allen

had by this time grown into a comely young man of prepossessing

appearance; he was a little over the middle height, well shaped,

without presenting the appearance of unusual strength, and was always

seen neatly and respectably dressed. His face was pale, and wore

a thoughtful expression, his features, when in repose, wearing an

appearance of pensiveness approaching to melancholy. His eyes were

small, the eyelids slightly marked; a mass of dark hair clustered

gracefully over a broad pale forehead, while the absence of any beard

gave him a peculiarly boyish appearance. Gentle and docile in his

calmer moments, when roused to action he was all fire and energy. We

have seen how he bore himself during the attack on the prison van, for

he it was whom so many witnesses identified as the pale-faced young

fellow who led the attack, and whose prophetic assurance that he would

die for him, greeted Colonel Kelly on regaining his freedom. During

the magisterial investigation he bore himself firmly, proudly, and, as

the English papers would have it, defiantly. His glance never quailed

during the trying ordeal. The marks of the brutality of his cowardly

captors were still upon him, and the galling irons that bound his

hands cut into his wrists; but Allen never winced for a moment, and

he listened to the evidence of the sordid crew, who came to barter

away his young life, with resolute mien. The triumph was with him.

Out of the jaws of death he had rescued the leader whose freedom he

considered essential to the success of a patriotic undertaking, and he

was satisfied to pay the cost of the venture. He had set his foot upon

the ploughshare, and would not shrink from the ordeal which he had

challenged.

Amongst the crowd of manacled men committed for trial by the

Manchester magistrates, not one presented a finer or more impressive

exterior than Michael O'Brien, set down in the list above given as

Michael Gould. Standing in the dock, he seemed the impersonation of

vigorous manhood. Frank, fearless, and resolute, with courage and

truth imprinted on every feature, he presented to the eye a perfect

type of the brave soldier. He was tall and well-proportioned, and his

broad shoulders and well-developed limbs told of physical strength

in keeping with the firmness reflected in his face. His gaze, when

it rested on the unfriendly countenances before him, was firm and

undrooping, but a kindly light lit his hazel eyes, and his features

relaxed into a sympathising and encouraging expression, as often as he

glanced at Allen, who stood behind him, or bent his gaxe upon any of

his other fellow-prisoners. O'Brien was born, near Ballymacoda, County

Cork, the birthplace of the ill-fated and heroic Peter Crowley. His

father rented a large farm in the same parish, but the blight of the

bad laws which are the curse of Ireland fell upon him, and in the year

1856, the O'Briens were flung upon the world dispossessed of lands and

home, though they owed no man a penny at the time. Michael O'Brien was

apprenticed to a draper in Youghal, and earned, during the period of

his apprenticeship, the respect and esteem of all who knew him. He

was quiet and gentlemanly in manners, and his character for morality

and good conduct was irreproachable. Having served out his time in

Youghal, he went to Cork, and he spent some time as an assistant in

one of the leading drapery establishments of that city. He afterwards

emigrated to America, where some of his relatives were comfortably

settled. Like many of the bravest of his fellow-countrymen, the

outbreak of the civil war kindled a military ardour within his bosom,

and O'Brien found himself unable to resist the attractions which the

soldier's career possessed for him. His record throughout the war

was highly honourable; his bravery and good conduct won him speedy

promotion, and long before the termination of the conflict, he had

risen to the rank of lieutenant. When his regiment was disbanded he

recrossed the Atlantic, and returned to Cork, where he again obtained

employment as assistant in one of the large commercial establishments.

Here he remained until the night before the Fenian rising, when he

suddenly disappeared, and all further trace was lost of him, until

arrested for participation in the attack upon the prison van in

Manchester.

Close by his side in the dock stood Michael Larkin, an

intelligent-looking man, older looking than most of his

fellow-prisoners. The following are a few facts relating to his humble

history:--

"He was," writes a correspondent who knew him, "a native of the parish

of Lusmagh, in the south-western corner of the King's County, where

for many generations his ancestors have been residents on the Cloghan

Castle estate (then in the possession of the O'Moore family), and

where several of his relatives still reside; and was grandson to James

Quirke, a well-to-do farmer, who was flogged and transported in '98

for complicity in the rebellion of that time, and whose name, in this

part of the country, is remembered with pleasure and affection for

his indomitable courage and perseverance in resisting the repeated

allurements held out by the corrupt minions of the crown to induce him

to become a traitor to his companions and his country. But all their

importunities were vain; Quirke steadily persevered in the principles

of his gallant leader, Robert Emmett. Larkin's father was a

respectable tradesman, carrying on his business for many years in his

native parish; he removed to Parsonstown, where he contrived to impart

to his son Michael, a good English education, and then taught him his

own profession. When Michael had attained a thorough knowledge of his

business, he was employed till '58 at Parsonstown; he then went to

England to improve his condition, and after some time he married, and

continued to work on industriously at his business till May, '67, when

he visited his native country to receive the last benediction of his

dying father. He again returned to England with his wife and family,

to resume his employment. After some time he was arrested for

assisting to release two of his fellow-countrymen from bondage. I

cannot attempt to enumerate the many good qualities of the deceased

patriot: the paternal affection, exhibited from the earliest age;

the mildness and affability of manner, good temper, affectionate and

inoffensive disposition; his sobriety and good moral conduct--endeared

him to all who had the pleasure and honour of his acquaintance.

Throughout his whole life he was remarkable for his 'love of country,'

and expressions of sincere regret for the miserable condition of many

of his countrymen were ever on his lips. He was, in the true sense

of the idea, a good son, an affectionate husband and father, and a

sincere friend."

On Monday, October 28th, the three Irishmen whose lives we have

glanced at were placed at the bar of the Manchester Assize Court,

and formally placed on their trial for wilful murder. With them were

arraigned Thomas Maguire, a private belonging to the Royal Marines,

who was on furlough in Liverpool at the time of Kelly's liberation,

and who was arrested merely because he happened to be an Irishman,

and who, though perfectly innocent of the whole transaction, had

been sworn against by numerous witnesses as a ringleader in the

attack; and Edward O'Meagher Condon (_alias_ Shore), a fine-looking

Irish-American, a citizen of the State of Ohio, against whom, like

his four companions, true bills had been found by the Grand Jury.

It would take long to describe the paroxysms of excitement, panic,

and agitation that raged in the English mind within the period that

intervened between the committal of the prisoners and the date at

which we are now arrived. Nothing was heard of but the Fenians;

nothing was talked of but the diabolical plots and murderous designs

they were said to be preparing. The Queen was to be shot at; Balmoral

was to be burned down; the armouries had been attacked; the barracks

were undermined; the gas works were to be exploded, the Bank blown

up, the water poisoned. Nothing was too infernal or too wicked for the

Fenians, and every hour brought some addition to the monstrous stock

of canards. North and south, east and west, the English people were in

a ferment of anxious alarm; and everywhere Fenianism was cursed as an

unholy thing to be cut from society as an ulcerous sore--to be banned

and loathed as a pestilence--a foul creation with murder in its glare,

and the torch of the incendiary burning in its gory hand. Under these

circumstances, there was little chance that an unprejudiced jury could

be empanelled for the trial of the Irish prisoners; and their counsel,

seeing the danger, sought to avent it by a motion for the postponement

of the trials. The Home Secretary was memorialed on the subject,

and the application was renewed before the judges in court, but the

efforts to obtain justice were fruitless. The blood of the British

lion was up; with bloodshot eyes and bristling mane he stood awaiting

his prey, and there was danger in trifling with his rage. Even Special

commissicns were voted slow, and a cry arose for martial law, Lynch

law, or any law that would give the blood of the victims without

hindrance or delay. So the appeal for time was spurned; the government

was deaf to all remonstrance; British bloodthirstiness carried the

day, and the trials proceeded without interruption.

We have not patience to rehearse calmly the story of these trials,

which will long remain the reproach of British lawyers. We shall not

probe the motives which led to the appointment of two such men as

Justice Mellor and Justice Blackburne as Judges of the Commission,

but history will be at no loss to connect the selection with their

peculiar character on the bench. Nor shall we analyze the speeches

of the Attorney-General and his colleagues, in which the passions and

prejudices of the jury were so dexterously appealed to. The character

of the evidence demands more study. The witnesses consisted of the

policemen present at the attack, the prisoners who were locked with

Kelly and Deasey in the van, and the bystanders who saw the affray or

assisted in stoning the prisoners before and after they were captured.

They swore with the utmost composure against the four prisoners. Allen

was identified as one of the leaders, and he it was whom most of the

witnesses declared to have fired through the door. On this point,

indeed, as on many others, there was confusion and contradiction in

the evidence: some of the witnesses were sure it was O'Brien fired

through the door; others were inclined to assign the leading part to

Condon; but before the trial had gone far, it seemed to be understood

that Allen was the man to whom the death of Brett was to be

attributed, and that the business of the witnesses was to connect

the other prisoners as closely as possible with his act. On one point

nearly all of the witnesses were agreed--whoever there might be any

doubt about, there could be none concerning Maguire. Seven witnesses

swore positively to having seen him assisting in breaking open the

van, and some of them even repeated the words which they said he

addressed to them while thus engaged. On the evening of Friday,

November 1st, the trials terminated. It was past five o'clock when

Judge Mellor concluded his charge. The court was densely crowded, and

every eye was strained to mark the effect of the judge's words upon

the countenances of the prisoners; but they, poor fellows, quailed not

as they heard the words which they knew would shortly be followed by

a verdict consigning them to the scaffold. Throughout the long trial

their courage had never flagged, their spirits had never failed them

for an instant. Maguire, who had no real connection with the other

four, and who knew that the charge against him was a baseless

concoction, did, indeed, betray traces of anxiety and bewilderment

as the trial progressed; but Allen, O'Brien, Larkin, and Condon went

through the frightful ordeal with a heroic display of courage to which

even the most malignant of their enemies have paid tribute.

The judge has done, and now the jury turned from the box "to consider

their verdict." An hour and twenty minutes they remained absent;

then their returning tread was heard. The prisoners turned their eyes

upwards; Maguire looked towards them, half hopefully half appealingly;

from Allen's glance nothing but defiance could be read; Larkin fixed

his gaze on the foreman, who held the fatal record in his hand, with

calm resolution; while a quiet smile played round O'Brien's lips, as

he turned to hear the expected words.

"Guilty!" The word is snatched up from the lips of the foreman of the

jury, and whispered through the court. They were all "guilty." So said

the jury; and a murmur of applause came rolling back in response to

the verdict. "Guilty!" A few there were in that court upon whom the

fatal words fell with the bitterness of death, but the Englishmen

who filled the crowded gallery and passages exulted at the sound: the

vengeance which they longed for was at hand.

The murmur died away; the sobs that rose from the dark recesses where

a few stricken-hearted women had been permitted to stand were stifled;

and then, amidst breathless silence, the voice of the Crown Clerk was

heard demanding "if the prisoners had anything to say why sentence of

death should not be pronounced on them."

The first to respond was Allen. A slight flush reddened his cheeks,

and his eyes lit up with the fire of enthusiasm and determination, as,

advancing to the front of the dock, he confronted the Court, and spoke

in resolute tones as follows:--

"My Lords and Gentlemen--It is not my intention to occupy much of

your time in answering your question. Your question is one that can

be easily asked, but requires an answer which I am ignorant of. Abler

and more eloquent men could not answer it. Where were the men who have

stood in the dock--Burke, Emmett, and others, who have stood in the

dock in defence of their country? When the question was put, what

was their answer? Their answer was null and void. How, with your

permission, I will review a portion of the evidence that has been

brought against me."

Here Mr. Justice Blackburne interrupted. "It was too late," he said,

"to criticise the evidence, and the Court had neither the right nor

the power to alter or review it. If," he added, "you have any reason

to give why, either upon technical or moral grounds, the sentence

should not be passed upon you, we will hear it, but it is too late for

you to review the evidence to show that it was wrong."

"Cannot that be done in the morning, Sir," asked Allen, who felt in

his heart how easily the evidence on which he had been convicted might

be torn to shreds. But the Judge said not. "No one," he said, "could

alter or review the evidence in any way after the verdict had been

passed by the jury. We can only" he said in conclusion, "take the

verdict as right; and the only question for you is, why judgment

should not follow."

Thus restricted in the scope of his observations, the young felon

proceeded to deliver the following patriotic and spirited address:--

"No man in this court regrets the death of Sergeant Brett more than

I do, and I positively say, in the presence of the Almighty and

ever-living God, that I am innocent, aye, as innocent as any man

in this court. I don't say this for the sake of mercy: I want no

mercy--I'll have no mercy. I'll die, as many thousands have died,

for the sake of their beloved land, and in defence of it. I will die

proudly and triumphantly in defence of republican principles and the

liberty of an oppressed and enslaved people. Is it possible we are

asked why sentence should not be passed upon us, on the evidence

of prostitutes off the streets of Manchester, fellows out of work,

convicted felons--aye, an Irishman sentenced to be hung when an

English dog would have got off. I say positively and defiantly,

justice has not been done me since I was arrested. If justice had

been done me, I would not have been handcuffed at the preliminary

investigation in Bridge-street; and in this court justice has not

been done me in any shape or form. I was brought up here, and all the

prisoners by my side were allowed to wear overcoats, and I was told to

take mine off. What is the principle of that? There was something in

that principle, and I say positively that justice has not been done

me. As for the other prisoners, they can speak for themselves with

regard to that matter. And now with regard to the way I have been

identified. I have to say that my clothes were kept for four hours by

the policemen in Fairfield-station, and shown to parties to identify

me as being one of the perpetrators of this outrage on Hyde-road. Also

in Albert-station there was a handkerchief kept on my head the whole

night so that I could be identified the next morning in the corridor

by the witnesses. I was ordered to leave on the handkerchief for

the purpose that the witnesses could more plainly see I was one of

the parties who committed the outrage. As for myself, I feel the

righteousness of my every art with regard to what I have done in

defence of my country I fear not. I am fearless--fearless of the

punishment that can be inflicted on me; and with that, my lords, I

have done. (After a moment's pause)--I beg to be excused. One remark

more. I return Mr. Seymour and Mr. Jones my sincere and heartfelt

thanks for their able eloquence and advocacy on my part in this

affair. I wish also to return to Mr. Roberts the very same. My name,

sir, might be wished to be, known. It is not William O'Meara Allen. My

name is William Philip Allen. I was born and reared in Bandon, in the

county of Cork, and from that place I take my name; and I am proud of

my country, and proud of my parentage. My lords, I have done."

A sign of mingled applause and admiration rose faintly on the air, as

the gallant young Irishman, inclining his head slightly to the Court,

retired to make way at the front, of the bar for one of his companions

in misfortune. But his chivalrous bearing and noble words woke no

response within the prejudice-hardened hearts of the majority of his

auditors; they felt that the fearless words of the fearless youth

would overbear all that his accusers had uttered, and that the world

would read in them the condemnation, of the government and of the

people whose power he so bravely defied.

Michael Larkin spoke next. He looked a shade paler than on the first

day of the trial, but no want of resolution was expressed in his

firm-set face. He gazed with an unquailing glance round the faces

eagerly bent forward to catch his words, and then spoke in distinct

tones as follows:--

"I have only got a word or two to say concerning Serjeant

Brett. As my friend here said, no one could regret the man's

death as much as I do. With regard to the charge of pistols

and revolvers, and my using them, I call my God as a witness

that I neither used pistols, revolvers, nor any instrument on

that day that would deprive the life of a child, let alone

a man. Nor did I go there on purpose to take life away.

Certainly, my lords, I do not want to deny that I did go to

give aid and assistance to those two noble heroes that were

confined in that van--Kelly and Deasey. I did go to do as much

as lay in my power to extricate them out of their bondage; but

I did not go to take life, nor, my lords did anyone else. It

is a misfortune there was life taken, but if it was taken it

was not done intentionally, and the man who has taken life

we have not got him. I was at the scene of action, when there

were over, I dare say, 150 people standing by there when I

was. I am very sorry I have to say, my lord, but I thought I

had some respectable people to come up as witnesses against

me; but I am sorry to say as my friend said. I will make no

more remarks concerning that. All I have to say, my lords and

gentlemen, is that so far as my trial went and the way it was

conducted, I believe I have got a fair trial. So far as my

noble counsel went, they done their utmost in the protection

of my life; likewise, my worthy solicitor, Mr. Roberts, has

done his best; but I believe as the old saying is a true one,

what is decreed a man in the page of life he has to fulfil,

either on the gallows, drowning, a fair death in bed, or

on the battlefield. So I look to the mercy of God. May God

forgive all who have sworn my life away. As I am a dying man,

I forgive them from the bottom of my heart. God forgive them."

As Larkin ceased speaking, O'Brien, who stood to the right of him,

moved slightly in advance, and intimated by a slight inclination to

the Court his intention of addressing them. His stalwart form seemed

to dilate with proud defiance and scorn as he faced the ermine-clad

dignitaries who were about to consign, him to the gibbet. He spoke

with emphasis, and in tones which seemed to borrow a something of the

fire and spirit of his words. He said:--

"I shall commence by saying that every witness who has sworn

anything against me has sworn falsely. I have not had a stone

in my possession since I was a boy. I had no pistol in my

possession on the day when it is alleged this outrage was

committed. You call it an outrage, I don't. I say further,

my name is Michael O'Brien. I was born in the county of Cork,

and have the honour to be a fellow-parishioner of Peter

O'Neal Crowley, who was fighting against the British troops at

Mitchelstown last March, and who fell fighting against British

tyranny in Ireland. I am a citizen of the United States

of America, and if Charles Francis Adams had done his duty

towards me, as he ought to do in this country, I would not be

in this dock answering your questions now. Mr. Adams did not

come though I wrote to him. He did not come to see if I could

not find evidence to disprove the charge, which I positively

could, if he had taken the trouble of sending or coming to see

what I could do. I hope the American people will notice that

part of the business. [The prisoner here commenced reading

from a paper he held in his hand.] The right of man is

freedom. The great God has endowed him with affections that

he may use, not smother them, and a world that may be enjoyed.

Once a man is satisfied he is doing right, and attempts to do

anything with that conviction, he must be willing to face all

the consequences. Ireland, with its beautiful scenery, its

delightful climate, its rich and productive lands, is capable

of supporting more than treble its population in ease and

comfort. Yet no man, except a paid official of the British

government, can say there is a shadow of liberty, that there

is a spark of glad life amongst its plundered and persecuted

inhabitants. It is to be hoped that its imbecile and

tyrannical rulers will be for ever driven from her soil,

amidst the execration of the world. How beautifully the

aristocrats of England moralise on the despotism of the

rulers of Italy and Dahomey--in the case of Naples with what

indignation did they speak of the ruin of families by the

detention of its head or some loved member in a prison. Who

have not heard their condemnations of the tyranny that would

compel honourable and good men to spend their useful lives in

hopeless banishment."

The taunt went home to the hearts of his accusers, and, writhing under

the lash thus boldly applied, Judge Blackburne hastened, to intervene.

Unable to stay, on _legal grounds_, the torrent of scathing invective

by which O'Brien was driving the blood from the cheeks of his British

listeners, the judge resorted to a device which Mr. Justice Keogh

had practised very adroitly, and with much success, at various of the

State trials in Ireland. He appealed to the prisoner, "entirely for

his own sake," to cease his remarks. "The only possible effect of your

observations." he said, "must be to tell against you with those who

have to consider the sentence. I advise you to say nothing more of

that sort. I do so entirely for your own sake." But O'Brien was not

the man to be cowed into submission by this artful representation.

Possibly he discerned the motive of the interruption, and estimated at

its true value the disinterestedness of Judge Blackburne's "advice."

Mr. Ernest Jones in vain used his influence to accomplish the

judge's object. O'Brien spurned the treacherous bait, and resolutely

proceeded:--

"They cannot find words to express their horror of the

cruelties of the King of Dahomey because he sacrificed 2,000

human beings yearly, but why don't those persons who pretend

such virtuous indignation at the misgovernment of other

countries look at home, and see if greater crimes than those

they charge against other governments are not committed by

themselves or by their sanction. Let them look at London,

and see the thousands that want bread there, while those

aristocrats are rioting in luxuries and crimes. Look to

Ireland; see the hundreds of thousands of its people in misery

and want. See the virtuous, beautiful, and industrious women

who only a few years ago--aye, and yet--are obliged to look at

their children dying for want of food. Look at what is called

the majesty of the law on one side, and the long deep misery

of a noble people on the other. Which are the young men of

Ireland to respect--the law that murders or banishes their

people, or the means to resist relentless tyranny and ending

their miseries for ever under a home government? I need not

answer that question here. I trust the Irish people will

answer it to their satisfaction soon. I am not astonished at

my conviction. The government of this country have the power

of convicting any person. They appoint the judge; they choose

the jury; and by means of what they call patronage (which is

the means of corruption) they have the power of making the

laws to suit their purposes. I am confident that my blood

will rise a hundredfold against the tyrants who think proper

to commit such an outrage. In the first place, I say I was

identified improperly, by having chains on my hands and feet

at the time of identification, and thus the witnesses who have

sworn to my throwing stones and firing a pistol have sworn to

what is false, for I was, as those ladies said, at the jail

gates. I thank my counsel for their able defence, and also Mr.

Roberts, for his attention to my case."

Edward Maguire spoke next. He might well have felt bewildered at

the situation in which he found himself, but he spoke earnestly and

collectedly, nevertheless. He had had an experience of British law

which, if not without precedent, was still extraordinary enough to

create amazement. He knew that he had never been a Fenian; he knew

that he never saw Colonel Kelly--never heard of him until arrested

for assisting in his liberation; he knew that while the van was being

attacked at Bellevue, he was sitting in his own home, miles away; and

he knew that he had never in his life placed his foot in the scene of

the rescue; yet there he found himself convicted by regular process

of law, of the murder of Constable Brett. He had seen witness after

witness enter the box, and deliberately swear they saw him take a

prominent part in the rescue. He saw policemen and civilians coolly

identify him as a ringleader in the affair; he had heard the Crown

lawyers weave round him the subtle meshes of their logic; and now

he found himself pronounced guilty by the jury, in the teeth of the

overwhelming array of unimpeachable evidence brought forward in his

defence. What "the safeguards of the Constitution" mean--what "the

bulwark of English freedom," and "the Palladium of British freedom"

are worth, when Englishmen fill the jury-box and an Irishman stands in

the dock, Maguire had had a fair opportunity of judging. Had he been

reflectively inclined, he might, too, have found himself compelled to

adopt a rather low estimate of the credibility of English witnesses,

when they get an opportunity of swearing away an Irishman's life. An

impetuous man might have been goaded by the circumstances into cursing

the atrocious system under which "justice" had been administered to

him, and calling down the vengeance of Heaven on the whole nation from

which the perjured wretches who swore away his life had been drawn.

But Maguire acted more discreetly; he began, indeed, by declaring that

all the witnesses who swore against him were perjurers--by vehemently

protesting that the case, as regarded him, was one of mistaken

identity; but he shortly took surer ground, by referring to his

services in the navy, and talking of his unfailing loyalty to "his

Queen and his country." He went through the record of his services

as a marine; appealed to the character he had obtained from his

commanding officers, in confirmation of his words: and concluded by

solemnly protesting his perfect innocence of the charge on which he

had been convicted.

While Maguire's impressive words were still ringing in the ears of

his conscience-stricken accusers, Edward O'Meagher Condon commenced to

speak. He was evidently more of an orator than either of those who had

preceded him, and he spoke with remarkable fluency, grace, and vigour.

The subjoined is a correct report of his spirited and able address:--

"My Lords--this has come upon me somewhat by surprise.

It appeared to me rather strange that upon any amount of

evidence, which of course was false, a man could have been

convicted of wilfully murdering others he never saw or heard

of before he was put in prison. I do not care to detain your

lordships, but I cannot help remarking that Mr. Shaw, who has

come now to gloat upon his victims, alter having sworn away

their lives--that man has sworn what is altogether false; and

there are contradictions in the depositions which have not

been brought before your lordships' notice. I suppose the

depositions being imperfect, there was no necessity for it.

As to Mr. Batty, he swore at his first examination before the

magistrates that a large stone fell on me, a stone which Mr.

Roberts said at the time would have killed an elephant. But

not the slightest mark was found on my head; and if I was to

go round the country, and him with me, as exhibiting the stone

having fallen on me, and him as the man who would swear to

it, I do not know which would be looked for with the most

earnestness. However, it has been accepted by the jury. Now he

says he only thinks so. There is another matter to consider.

I have been sworn to, I believe, by some of the witnesses who

have also sworn to others, though some of them can prove they

were in another city altogether--in Liverpool. Others have an

overwhelming _alibi_, and I should by right have been tried

with them; but I suppose your lordships cannot help that.

We have, for instance, Thomas, the policeman, who swore to

another prisoner. He identified him on a certain day, and

the prisoner was not arrested for two days afterwards. As for

Thomas, I do not presume that any jury could have believed

him. He had heard of the blood-money, and of course was

prepared to bid pretty high for it. My _alibi_ has not been

strong, and unfortunately I was not strong in pocket, and was

not able to produce more testimony to prove where I was at

exactly that time. With regard to the unfortunate man who

has lost his life, I sympathize with him and his family as

deeply as your lordships or the jury, or anyone in the court.

I deeply regret the unfortunate occurrence, but I am as

perfectly innocent of his blood as any man. I never had the

slightest intention of taking life. I have done nothing at

all in connection with that man, and I do not desire to be

accused of a murder which I have not committed. With regard to

another matter, my learned counsel has, no doubt for the best,

expressed some opinions on these matters and the misgovernment

to which my country has been subjected. I am firmly convinced

there is prejudice in the minds of the people, and it has been

increased and excited by the newspapers, or by some of them,

and to a certain extent has influenced the minds of the jury

to convict the men standing in this dock, on a charge of

which--a learned gentleman remarked a few nights since--they

would be acquitted if they had been charged with murdering

an old woman for the sake of the money in her pocket, but a

political offence of this kind they could not. Now, sir, with

regard to the opinions I hold on national matters--with regard

to those men who have been released from that van, in which,

unfortunately, life was lost, I am of opinion that certainly

to some extent there was an excess. Perhaps it was unthought,

but if those men had been in other countries, occupying other

positions--if Jefferson Davis had been released in a northern

city, there would have been a cry of applause throughout all

England. If Garibaldi, who I saw before I was shut out from

the world had been arrested, was released, or something of

that kind had taken place, they would have applauded the

bravery of the act. If the captives of King Theodore had

been released, that too would have been applauded. But, as

it happened to be in England, of course it is an awful thing,

while yet in Ireland murders are perpetrated on unoffending

men, as in the case of the riots in Waterford, where an

unoffending man was murdered, and no one was punished for it.

I do not desire to detain your lordships. I can only say that

I leave this world without a stain on my conscience that I

have been wilfully guilty of anything in connexion with the

death of Sergeant Brett. I am totally guiltless. I leave this

world without malice to anyone. I do not accuse the jury,

but I believe they were prejudiced. I don't accuse them of

wilfully wishing to convict, but prejudice has induced them

to convict when they otherwise would not have done. With

reference to the witnesses, every one of them has sworn

falsely. I never threw a stone or fired a pistol; I was never

at the place, as they have said; it is all totally false. But

as I have to go before my God. I forgive them. They will be

able to meet me, some day, before that God who is to judge us

all, and then they and the people in this Court, and everyone,

will know who tells the truth. Had I committed anything

against the Crown of England, I would have scorned myself had

I attempted to deny it; but with regard to those men, they

have sworn what is altogether false. Had I been an Englishman,

and arrested near the scene of that disturbance, I would

have been brought as a witness to identify them; but being an

Irishman, it was supposed my sympathy was with them, and on

suspicion of that sympathy I was arrested, and in consequence

of the arrest, and the rewards which were offered, I was

identified. It could not be otherwise. As I said before, my

opinions on national matters do not at all relate to the case

before your lordships. We have been found guilty, and, as

a matter of course we accept our death as gracefully as

possible. We are not afraid to die--at least I am not."

"Nor I," "Nor I," "Nor I," swelled up from the lips of his companions,

and then, with a proud smile, Condon continued:--

"I have no sin or stain upon me; and I leave this world at

peace with all. With regard to the other prisoners who are to

be tried afterwards, I hope our blood at least will satisfy

the cravings for it. I hope our blood will be enough, and that

those men who I honestly believe are guiltless of the blood

of that man--that the other batches will get a fair, free,

and a more impartial trial. We view matters in a different

light from what the jury do. We have been imprisoned, and

have not had the advantage of understanding exactly to what

this excitement has led. I can only hope and pray that this

prejudice will disappear--that my poor country will right

herself some day, and that her people, so far from being

looked upon with scorn and aversion, will receive what they

are entitled to, the respect not only of the civilized world,

but of Englishmen. I, too, am an American citizen, and on

English territory I have committed no crime which makes me

amenable to the crown of England. I have done nothing; and, as

a matter of course, I did expect protection--as this gentleman

(pointing to Allen) has said, the protection of the ambassador

of my government. I am a citizen of the State of Ohio; but

I am sorry to say my name is not Shore. My name is Edward

O'Meagher Condon. I belong to Ohio, and there are loving

hearts there that will be sorry for this. I have nothing but

my best wishes to send them, and my best feelings, and assure

them I can die as a Christian and an Irishman; and that I

am not ashamed or afraid of anything I have done, or the

consequences, before God or man. They would be ashamed of me

if I was in the slightest degree a coward, or concealed my

opinions. The unfortunate divisions of our countrymen in

America, have, to a certain extent, neutralized the efforts

that we have made either in one direction or another for

the liberation of our country. All these things have been

thwarted, and as a matter of course we must only submit to our

fate. I only trust again, that those who are to be tried after

us, will have a fair trial, and that our blood will satisfy

the craving which I understand exists. You will soon send us

before God, and I am perfectly prepared to go. I have nothing

to regret, or to retract, or take back. I can only say, GOD

SAVE IRELAND."

Again were the voices of his companions raised in unison. "God save

Ireland!" they cried defiantly, in chorus. "God save Ireland!" The

cry rung through the packed justice-hall, and fell on the ears of its

blood-thirsty occupants like the voice of an accusing angel. "God save

Ireland," they said; and then the brave-hearted fellows gazed fiercely

around the hostile gathering, as if daring them to interfere with the

prayer. "God save Ireland!"--from the few broken-hearted relatives who

listened to the patriots' prayer the responsive "Amen" was breathed

back, and the dauntless young Irishman continued:--

"I wish to add a word or two. There is nothing in the close

of my political career which I regret. I don't know of one act

which could bring the blush of shame to my face, or make me

afraid to meet my God or fellow-man. I would be most happy,

and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to die on the

field for my country in defence of her liberty. As it is,

I cannot die on the field, but I can die on the scaffold, I

hope, as a soldier, a man, and a Christian."

And now the last was spoken. As true Irishmen and as true patriots

they had borne themselves. No trace of flinching did they give for

their enemies to gloat over--no sign of weakness which could take from

the effect of their deathless words. With bold front and steady mien

they stood forward to listen to the fatal decree their judges were

ready to pronounce. The judges produced the black caps, with which

they had come provided, and then Justice Mellor proceeded to pass

sentence. No person, he said, who had witnessed the proceedings could

doubt the propriety of the verdict, which, he insisted, was the

result of "a full, patient, and impartial investigation." He made no

distinction. "I am perfectly convinced," he said, "that all of you

had resolved, at any risk, and by any amount of dangerous violence and

outrage, to accomplish your object; and that, in fact, Charles Brett

was murdered because it was essential to the completion of your common

design that he should be." The stereotyped words of exhortation to

repentance followed, and then the judge concluded:--

"The sentence is that you, and each of you, be taken hence to

the place whence you came, and thence to a place of execution,

and that you be there hanged by the neck until you shall be

dead, and that your bodies be afterwards buried within the

precincts of the prison wherein you were last confined after

your respective convictions; and may God, in His infinite

mercy, have mercy upon you."

With quiet composure the doomed men heard the words. They warmly shook

hands with their counsel, thanked them for their exertions, and then,

looking towards the spot where their weeping friends were seated, they

turned to leave the dock. "God be with you, Irishmen and Irishwomen!"

they cried and, as they disappeared from the court, their final adieu

was heard in the same prayer that had swelled upwards to heaven from

them before--

"GOD SAVE IRELAND!"

[Illustration: "GOD SAVE IRELAND!"]

Scarcely had the Manchester courthouse ceased to echo those voices

from the dock, when the glaring falseness of the verdict became the

theme of comment amongst even the most thoroughgoing Englishmen who

had been present throughout the trial.

Without more ado, down sate some thirty or forty reporters, who, as

representatives of the English metropolitan and provincial press,

had attended the Commission, and addressed a memorial to the Home

Secretary, stating that they had been long accustomed to attend at

trials on capital charges; that they had extensive experience of

such cases, from personal observation of prisoners in the dock and

witnesses on the table; and that they were solemnly convinced, the

swearing of the witnesses and the verdict of the jury to the contrary

notwithstanding, that the man Maguire had neither hand, act, nor part

in the crime for which he had been sentenced to death. The following

is the petition referred to:--

We, the undersigned members of the metropolitan and provincial

Press, having had long experience in courts of justice, and

full opportunity of observing the demeanour of prisoners and

witnesses in cases of criminal procedure, beg humbly to submit

that, having heard the evidence adduced before the Special

Commission, on the capital charge preferred against Thomas

Maguire, private in the Royal Marines, we conscientiously

believe that the said Thomas Maguire is innocent of the crime

of which he has been convicted, and that his conviction has

resulted from mistaken identity. We, therefore, pray that

you will be pleased to advise her Majesty to grant her most

gracious pardon to the said Thomas Maguire.

This was a startling event; it was a proceeding utterly without

precedent. Nothing but the most extraordinary circumstances could have

called it forth. The blunder of the jury must have been open, glaring,

painfully notorious, indeed, when such an astonishing course was

adopted by the whole staff of the English Press.

It was most embarrassing. For what had those newspaper reporters seen

or heard that the jurors had not seen and heard?--and yet the jurors

said Maguire was guilty. What had those reporters seen or heard that

the judges had not seen and heard?--and yet the judges said they

"fully concurred in the verdict of the jury." The reporters were not

sworn on the Evangelists of God to give a true deliverance--but the

jurors were. The reporters were not sworn to administer justice--were

not dressed in ermine--were not bound to be men of legal ability,

judicial calmness, wisdom, and impartiality--but the judges were. Yet

the unsworn reporters told the government Maguire was an innocent man;

while judge and jury told the government--_swore_ to it--that he was a

guilty murderer!

What was the government to do? Was it to act on the verdict of

newspaper reporters who had happened to be present at this trial,

and not on the verdict of the jury who had been solemnly sworn in the

case? Behind the reporters' verdict lay the huge sustaining power of

almost universal conviction, mysteriously felt and owned, though as

yet nowhere expressed. Everyone who had calmly and dispassionately

weighed the evidence, arrived at conclusions identical with those of

the Press jury, and utterly opposed to those of the sworn jury. The

ministers themselves--it was a terribly embarassing truth to own--felt

that the reporters were as surely right as the jurors were surely

wrong. But what were they to do? What a frightful imputation would

public admission of that fact cast upon the twelve sworn jurors--upon

the two judges? What a damning imputation on their judgment or their

impartiality! Was it to be admitted that newspaper reporters could

be right in a case so awful, where twelve sworn jurors and two judges

were wrong?

And then, look at the consequences. The five men were convicted

in the one verdict. There were not five separate verdicts, but

one indivisible verdict. If the (jurors') verdict were publicly

vitiated--if the government confessed or admitted that verdict to be

false--it was not one man, but five men, who were affected by it.

To be sure the reporters' jury, in _their_ verdict, did not include

Allen, O'Brien, Larkin, and Shore; but was it to be conveyed by

implication that omission from the reporters' verdict of acquittal was

more fatal to a man than inclusion in the verdict of guilty by a sworn

jury? Might not twenty, or thirty, or forty men, quite as intelligent

as the reporters, be soon forthcoming to testify as forcibly of Allen,

O'Brien, Larkin, and Shore, as the Press-men had testified of Maguire?

Was it only _reporters_ whose judgment could set aside the verdict of

sworn jurors, endorsed by ermined judges? But, in any event, the five

men were convicted by the one verdict. To cut that, loosed all--not

necessarily in law, perhaps, but inevitably as regarded public

conscience and universal judgment; for there was not in all the

records of English jurisprudence a precedent for executing men on a

verdict acknowledged to have been one of blunder or perjury. Clearly,

if the jurors were to be told by the government that, in a case

where life and death hung on the issue, they had been so blinded

by excitement, passion, or prejudice, that they declared to be a

guilty murderer a man whose innocence was patent even to unofficial

lookers-on in court, the moral value of such a verdict was

gone--ruined for ever; and to hang _anyone_ on such a verdict--_on

that identical verdict, thus blasted and abandoned_--would, it was

pointed out, be murder, for all its technical legality; neither more

nor less, morally, than cool, deliberate, cold-blooded murder.

Everybody saw this; but everyone in England saw also the awkward

difficulty of the case. For, to let Allen, O'Brien, Larkin, and

Shore go free of death, in the face of their admitted complicity in

the rescue, would baulk the national demand for vengeance. It was

necessary that some one should be executed. Here were men who, though

they almost certainly had had no hand in causing, even accidentally,

the death of Brett, dared to boast of their participation in the

affray in the course of which that lamentable event unhappily

occurred--that rescue which had so painfully wounded and humiliated

English national pride. If these men were saved from execution,

owing to any foolish scruples about hanging a possibly--nay,

probably--innocent man along with them, a shout of rage would

ascend from that virtuous nation amongst whom Charlotte Winsor, the

professional infant-murderess, walks a free woman, notwithstanding a

jury's verdict of wilful murder and a judge's sentence of death.

So, for a time it seemed that, notwithstanding the verdict of the

reporters, the government would act upon the verdict of the jury, and

assume it to be correct. No doubt Maguire might be innocent, but it

was his misfortune to be included in an indivisible verdict with other

men, who, though perhaps as guiltless as he of wilful murder, were

surely guilty of riot and rescue, aggravated by the utterance of the

most bitter reflections on the British Constitution, which all men

know to be the "envy of surrounding nations." If they were not guilty

of the crime laid against them on the trial, they were guilty of

something else--they had outraged British pride. It was necessary they

should die; and as Maguire's verdict was not separate from theirs, he

must die too, rather than that they should escape.

But after a while the idea gained ground in England that this would

be rather _too_ monstrous a proceeding. Maguire's utter innocence of

any participation whatsoever in the rescue was too notorious. The

character of the witnesses on whose evidence he was convicted became

known: some were thieves, pickpockets, or gaol-birds of some other

denomination; others were persons palpably confused by panic,

excitement, passion, or prejudice. True, these same witnesses were

those who likewise swore against Allen, Larkin, O'Brien and Shore.

Indeed, a greater number swore against Maguire than against some of

the others. Nevertheless, the overwhelming notoriety of the jury's

blunder or perjury, in at least his case, became daily more and more

an obstacle to his execution; and eventually, on the 21st of November,

it was announced that his conviction had been cancelled, by the only

means existing under the perfect laws of Great Britain--namely, a

"free _pardon_" for a crime never committed. The prison doors were

opened for Maguire; the sworn jurors were plainly told in effect

that their blunder or perjury had well-nigh done the murder of at

least one innocent man. The judges were in like manner told that

shorthand-writers had been more clear-headed or dispassionate to weigh

evidence and judge guilt than they. The indivisible verdict had been

openly proclaimed worthless.

The news was received with a sense of relief in Ireland, where the

wholesale recklessness of the swearing, and the transparent falseness

of the verdict had, from the first, created intense indignation and

resentment. Everyone knew and saw that, whatever might have been the

participation of those men in the rescue of Colonel Kelly, they had

not had a fair trial; nay, that their so-called trial was an outrage

on all law and justice; that witnesses, jurors and judges, were in the

full fierce heat of excitement, panic, and passion--much more ready

to swear evidence, to find verdicts, and to pass sentences against

innocent men than they themselves were, perhaps, conscious of while

labouring under such influences. The public and official recognition

of the falseness and injustice of the Manchester verdict was therefore

hailed with intense satisfaction.

Maguire was at once liberated; Allen, Larkin, Shore, and O'Brien

were still detained in custody. It was universally concluded that,

notwithstanding the abandonment by the Crown of the verdict on which

they had been sentenced, they, because of their admitted complicity

in the rescue, would be held to imprisonment--probably penal

servitude--for a term of years. Considerable astonishment was excited,

some days subsequently to Maguire's pardon, by a statement that, in

the case of the other prisoners included in the verdict, "the law

should take its course." No one credited this declaration for an

instant, and most persons felt that the Crown officials were indulging

in an indecent piece of mockery. Amidst this universal incredulity,

however--this disdainful and indignant disbelief--the prisoners'

solicitor, Mr. Roberts, vigilant and untiring to the last, took the

necessary steps to pray arrest of execution pending decision of the

serious law points raised on the trial. Some of the most eminent

counsel in England certified solemnly that these points were of the

gravest nature, and would, in their opinion, be fully established on

argument before the judges; in which event the conviction would be

legally quashed, independently of the substantial abandonment of it as

false and untenable by the Crown in Maguire's case.

The first idea of the merest possibility--the faintest chance--of

the remaining four men being executed on the vitiated verdict, arose

when it became known that the judges, or some of them, had informally

declared to the government (without waiting to hear any argument on

the subject) that the points raised by the prisoners' counsel were

not tenable, or were not of force. Mr. Roberts was officially informed

that the sentence would infallibly be carried out. By this time barely

a few days remained of the interval previous to the date fixed for

the execution, and the strangest sensations swayed the public mind in

Ireland. Even still, no one would seriously credit that men would be

put to death on a verdict notoriously false. Some persons who proposed

memorials to the Queen were met on all hands with the answer that it

was all "acting" on the part of the government; that, even though it

should be at the foot of the scaffold, the men would be reprieved;

that the government would not--_dare not_--take away human life on a

verdict already vitiated and abandoned as a perjury or blunder.

The day of doom approached; and now, as it came nearer and nearer,

a painful and sickening alternation of incredulity and horror surged

through every Irish heart. Meanwhile, the Press of England, on

both sides of the Channel, kept up a ceaseless cry for blood. The

government were told that to let these men off, innocent or guilty,

would be "weakness." They were called upon to be "firm"--that is, to

hang first, and reflect afterwards. As the 23rd of November drew near,

the opinion began to gain ground, even in England, that things had

been too hastily done--that the whole trial bore all the traces of

panic--and that, if a few weeks were given for alarm and passion

to calm down, not a voice would approve the Manchester verdict.

Perceiving this--perceiving that time or opportunity for reflection,

or for the subsidence of panic, would almost certainly snatch its prey

from vengeance--a deafening yell arose from the raving creatures of

blood-hunger, demanding that not a day, not an hour, not a second,

should be granted to the condemned.

Still the Irish people would not credit that, far towards the close of

the nineteenth century, an act so dreadful durst be done.

During all this time the condemned lay in Salford gaol, tortured by

the suspense inevitably created by Maguire's reprieve. Although every

effort was made by their friends to keep them from grasping at or

indulging in hope, the all-significant fact of that release seemed

to imperatively forbid the idea of their being executed on a verdict

whose falseness was thus confessed. The moment, however, that the

singular conduct of the judges in London defeated the application of

Mr. Roberts, they, one and all, resigned themselves to the worst;

and while their fellow-countrymen at home were still utterly and

scornfully incredulous on the subject, devoted their remaining hours

exclusively to spiritual preparation for death upon the scaffold.

It was now that each character "rushed to its index." It was

now--within the very shadow of death--in the most awful crisis that

can test the soul--that these men rose into the grandeur and sublimity

of true heroism. They looked death in the face with serene and

cheerful composure. So far from requiring consolation, it was they

who strove most earnestly to console the grieving friends they were

leaving behind; imploring of them to exhibit resignation to the will

of God, and assuring them that, ignominious as was death upon the

gallows, and terrible as was the idea of suffering such a fate

unjustly, it was "not hard to die" with a clear and tranquil

conscience, as they were dying, for the cause of native land.

It may be questioned whether the martyrology of any nation in history

can exhibit anything more noble, more edifying--more elevating and

inspiring--than the last hours of these doomed Irishmen. Their

every thought, their every utterance, was full of tenderness and

holiness--full of firmness and cheerful acceptance of God's will.

The farewell letters addressed by them to their relatives and

friends--from which we take a few--amply illustrate the truth of

the foregoing observations. Here is O'Brien's last letter to his

brother:--

New Bailey Prison, Salford,

Nov. 14th, 1867.

My dear brother--I have been intending to write to you

for some time, but having seen a letter from a Mr. Moore,

addressed to the governor of this prison, and knowing from

that that you must be in a disagreeable state of suspense, I

may therefore let you know how I am at once. With reference

to the trial and all connected with it, it was unfair from

beginning to end; and if I should die in consequence it will

injure my murderers more than it will injure me. Why should I

fear to die, innocent as I am of the charge which a prejudiced

jury, assisted by perjured witnesses, found me guilty of? I

will do judge and jury the justice of saying they believed

me guilty of being--a citizen of the United States, a friend

to liberty, a hater of relentless cruelty, and therefore

no friend to the British government, as it exists in our

beautiful island. I must say, though much I would like to

live, that I cannot regret dying in the cause of Liberty and

Ireland. It has been made dear to me by the sufferings of its

people, by the martyrdom and exile of its best and noblest

sons. The priest, the scholar, the soldier, the saint, have

suffered and died, proudly, nobly: and why should I shrink

from death in a cause made holy and glorious by the numbers

of its martyrs and the heroism of its supporters, as well as

by its justice? You don't, and never shall, forget that Peter

O'Neill Crowley died only a short time since, in this cause.

"Far dearer the grave or the prison,

Illum'd by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all who have risen

On liberty's ruins to fame."

I should feel ashamed of my manhood if I thought myself

capable of doing anything mean to save my life, to get out

of here, or for any other selfish purpose. Let no man think

a cause is lost because some suffer for it. It is only a

proof that those who suffer are in earnest, and should be an

incentive to others to be equally so--to do their duty with

firmness, justice, and disinterestedness. _I feel confident

of the ultimate success of the Irish cause, as I do of my

own existence._ God, in His great mercy and goodness, will

strengthen the arm of the patriot, and give him wisdom to

free his country. Let us hope that He, in His wisdom, is only

trying our patience. The greater its sufferings, the more

glorious will He make the future of our unfortunate country

and its people.

The shriek of the famine-stricken mother and the helpless

infant, as well as the centuries of misery, call to heaven

for vengeance. God is slow, but just! The blood of Tone,

Fitzgerald, Emmett, and others has been shed--how much good

has it done the tyrant and the robber? None. Smith O'Brien,

McManus, and Mitchel suffered for Ireland, yet not their

sufferings, nor those of O'Donovan (Bossa) and his companions,

deterred Burke, McAfferty, and their friends from doing their

duty. Neither shall the sufferings of my companions, nor mine,

hinder my countrymen from taking their part in the inevitable

struggle, but rather nerve their arms to strike. I would write

on this subject at greater length, but I hope that I have

written enough to show you that if a man dies for liberty, his

memory lives in the breasts of the good and virtuous. You will

also see that there is no necessity for my father, mother,

sisters or relations fretting about me. When I leave this

world it will be (with God's help) to go to a better, to join

the angels and saints of God, and sing His praises for all

eternity. I leave a world of suffering for one of eternal joy

and happiness. I have been to Holy Communion, and, please God,

intend going shortly again. I am sorry we cannot hear Mass;

the good priest is not allowed to say it in this prison.

Give my love to my father and mother, to Mary, Ellen, John

Phillips, Tim, Catherine, uncles, aunts, and cousins.

Farewell.

From your affectionate brother,

MICHAEL O'BRIEN (_alias_ William Gould).

The following is one of Allen's letters to his relatives, written the

day before his execution:--

Salford, New Bailey Prison, Nov. 23rd, 1867.