Chapter IV: Part 4

"I could not before now so impart to her Majesty as to know her
mind touching the same for your lordship's direction. Wherefore,
she having at length resolved, I have accordingly, by her
commandment, to signify her Majesty's pleasure unto you touching
Hurley, which is this:--That the man being so notorious and ill
a subject, as appeareth by all the circumstances of his cause he
is, you proceed, if it may be, to his execution by ordinary
trial of him for it. How be it, in case you shall find the
effect of his course DOUBTFUL by reason of the affection of such
as shall be on his jury, and by reason of the supposal conceived
by the lawyers of that country, that he can hardly be found
guilty for his treason committed in foreign parts against her
Majesty. Then her pleasure is you take A SHORTER WAY WITH HIM,
by martial law. So, as you may see, it is referred to your
discretion, whether of those two ways your lordship will take
with him, and the man being so resolute to reveal no more
matter, it is thought best to have no FURTHER TORTURES used
against him, but that you proceed FORTHWITH TO HIS EXECUTION in
manner aforesaid. As for her Majesty's good acceptation of your
careful travail in this matter of Hurley, you need nothing to
doubt, and for your better assurance thereof she has commanded
me to let your lordship understand that, as well as in all
others the like, as in the case of Hurley, she cannot but
greatly allow and commend YOUR DOINGS."

Well, they put his feet into tin boots filled with oil, and then
placed him standing in the fire. Eventually they cut off his head,
tore out his bowels, and cut the limbs from his body. Gentlemen,
'twas all "according to law;" and to demonstrate sympathy for him and
"disesteem" of that law was "sedition." But do you wonder greatly
that law of that complexion failed to secure popular sympathy and
respect? One more illustration, gentlemen, taken from a period
somewhat later on. It is the execution--"according to law,"
gentlemen; entirely "according to law"--of another Popish bishop
named O'Devany. The account is that of a crown official of the
time--some most worthy predecessor of the solicitor-general. I read
it from the recently published work of the Rev. C.P. Meehaun. "On the
28th of January, the bishop and priest, being arraigned at the King's
Bench, were each condemned of treason, and adjudged to be executed
the Saturday following; which day being come, a priest, or two of the
Pope's brood, with holy water and other holy stuffs"--(no sneer was
that at all, gentlemen; no sneer at Catholic practices, for a crown
official never sneers at Catholic practices)--"were sent to sanctify
the gallows whereon they were to die. About two o'clock, p.m., the
traitors were delivered to the sheriffs of Dublin, who placed them in
a small car, which was followed by a great multitude. As the car
progressed the spectators knelt down; but the bishop sitting still,
like a block, would not vouchsafe them a word, or turn his head
aside. The multitude, however, following the car, made such a dole
and lamentation after him, as the heavens themselves resounded the
echoes of their outcries." (Actually a seditious funeral
procession--made up of the ancestors of those thirty-thousand men,
women, and children, who, according to the solicitor-general,
glorified the cause of murder on the 8th of last December.) "Being
come to the gallows, whither they were followed by troops of the
citizens, men and women of all classes, most of the best being
present, the latter kept up such a shrieking, such a howling, and
such a hallooing, as if St. Patrick himself had been gone to the
gallows, could not have made greater signs of grief; but when they
saw him turned from off the gallows, they raised the _whobub_ with
such a maine cry, as if the rebels had come to rifle the city. Being
ready to mount the ladder, when he was pressed by some of the
bystanders to speak, he repeated frequently _Sine me quæso_. The
executioner had no sooner taken off the bishop's head, but the
townsmen of Dublin began to flock about him, some taking up the head
with pitying aspect, accompanied with sobs and sighs; some kissed it
with as religious an appetite as ever they kissed the Pax; some cut
away all the hair from the head, which they preserved for a relic;
some others were practisers to steal the head away, but the
executioner gave notice to the sheriffs. Now, when he began to
quarter the body, the women thronged about him, and happy was she
that could get but her handkerchief dipped in the blood of the
traitor; and the body being once dissevered in four quarters, they
neither left, finger nor toe, but they cut them off and carried them
away; and some others that could get no holy monuments that
appertained to his person, with their knives they shaved off chips
from the hallowed gallows; neither could they omit the halter
wherewith he was hanged, but it was rescued for holy uses. The same
night after the execution, a great crowd flocked about the gallows,
and there spent the fore part of the night in heathenish howling, and
performing many Popish ceremonies; and after midnight, being then
Candlemas day, in the morning having their priests present in
readiness, they had Mass after Mass till, daylight being come, they
departed to their own houses." There was "sympathy with sedition" for
you, gentlemen. No wonder the crown official who tells the
story--same worthy predecessor of Mr. Harrison--should be horrified
at such a demonstration. I will sadden you with no further
illustrations of English law, but I think it will be admitted that
after centuries of such law, one need not wonder if the people hold
it in "hatred and contempt." With the opening of the seventeenth
century, however, came a golden and glorious opportunity for ending
that melancholy--that terrible state of things. In the reign of James
I., English law, for the first time, extended to every corner of this
kingdom. The Irish came into the new order of things frankly and in
good faith; and if wise counsels prevailed then amongst our rulers,
oh, what a blessed ending there might have been to the bloody feud of
centuries. The Irish submitted to the Gaelic King, to whom had come
in the English crown. In their eyes he was of a friendly, nay of a
kindred race. He was of a line of Gaelic kings that had often
befriended Ireland. Submitting to him was not yielding to the brutal
Tudor. Yes, that was the hour, the blessed opportunity for laying the
foundation of a real union between the three kingdoms; a union of
equal national rights under the one crown. This was what the Irish
expected; and in this sense they in that hour accepted the new
dynasty. And it is remarkable that from that day to this, though
England has seen bloody revolutions and violent changes of rulers,
Ireland has ever held faithfully--too faithfully--to the sovereignty
thus adopted. But how were they received? How were their expectations
met? By persecution, proscription, and wholesale plunder, even by
that miserable Stuart. His son came to the throne. Disaffection broke
out in England and Scotland. Scottish Protestant Fenians, called
"Covenanters," took the field against him, because of the attempt to
establish Episcopalian Protestantism as a state church. By armed
rebellion against their lawful king, I regret to say it, they won
rights which now most largely tend to make Scotland contented and
loyal. I say it is to be regretted that those rights were thus won;
for I say that even at best it is a good largely mixed with evil
where rights are won by resorts of violence or revolution. His
concessions to the Calvanist Fenians in Scotland did not save
Charles. The English Fenians, under their Head Centre Cromwell, drove
him from the throne and murdered him on a scaffold in London. How did
the Irish meanwhile act? They stood true to their allegiance. They
took the field for the King. What was the result? They were given
over to slaughter and plunder by the brutal soldiery of the English
Fenians. Their nobles and gentry were beggared and proscribed; their
children were sold as white slaves to West Indian planters; and their
gallant struggles for the king, their sympathy for the royalist
cause, was actually denounced by the English Fenians as "sedition,"
"rebellion," "lawlessness," "sympathy with crime." Ah, gentlemen, the
evils thus planted in our midst will survive, and work their
influence; yet some men wonder that English law is held in
"disesteem" in Ireland. Time went on, gentlemen; time went on.
Another James sat on the throne; and again English Protestant
Fenianism conspired for the overthrow of their sovereign. They
invited "foreign emissaries" to come over from Holland and Sweden, to
begin the revolution for them. They drove their legitimate king from
the throne--never more to return. How did the Irish act in that hour?
Alas! Ever too loyal--ever only too ready to stand by the throne and
laws if only treated with justice or kindliness--they took the field
for the king, not against him. He landed on our shores; and had the
English Fenians rested content with rebelling themselves, and allowed
us to remain loyal as we desired to be, we might now be a
neighbouring but friendly and independent kingdom under the ancient
Stuart line. King James came here and opened his Irish parliament in
person. Oh, who will say in that brief hour at least the Irish nation
was not reconciled to the throne and laws? King, parliament, and
people, were blended in one element of enthusiasm, joy, and hope, the
first time for ages Ireland had known such a joy. Yes--

We, too, had our day--it was brief, it is ended--
When a King dwelt among us--no strange King--but OURS.
When the shout of a people delivered ascended,
And shook the green banner that hung on yon towers,
We saw it like leaves in the summer-time shiver;
We read the gold legend that blazoned it o'er--
"To-day--now or never; to-day and for ever"--
Oh, God! have we seen it to see it no more!

(Applause in court). Once more the Irish people bled and sacrificed
for their loyalty to the throne and laws. Once more confiscation
devastated the land, and the blood of the loyal and true was poured
like rain. The English Fenians and the foreign emissaries triumphed,
aided by the brave Protestant rebels of Ulster. King William came to
the throne--a prince whose character is greatly misunderstood in
Ireland: a brave, courageous soldier, and a tolerant man, could he
have had his way. The Irish who had fought and lost, submitted on
terms, and had law even now been just or tolerant, it was open to the
revolutionary _regime_ to have made the Irish good subjects. But what
took place? The penal code came, in all its horror to fill the Irish
heart with hatred and resistance. I will read for you what a
Protestant historian--a man of learning and ability--who is now
listening to me in this court--has written of that code. I quote
"Godkin's History," published by Cassell of London:--

"The eighteenth century," says Mr. Godkin, "was the era of
persecution, in which the law did the work of the sword more
effectually and more safely. Then was established a code framed
with almost diabolical ingenuity to extinguish natural
affection--to foster perfidy and hypocrisy--to petrify
conscience--to perpetuate brutal ignorance--to facilitate the
work of tyranny--by rendering the vices of slavery inherent and
natural in the Irish character, and to make Protestantism almost
irredeemably odious as the monstrous incarnation of all moral
perversions."

Gentlemen, in that fell spirit English law addressed itself to a
dreadful purpose here in Ireland; and, mark you, that code prevailed
down to our own time; down to this very generation. "Law" called on
the son to sell his father; called on the flock to betray the pastor.
"Law" forbade us to educate--forbid us to worship God in the faith of
our fathers. "Law" made us outcasts--scourged us, trampled us,
plundered us--do you marvel that, amongst the Irish people, law has
been held in "disesteem?" Do you think this feeling arises from
"sympathy with assassination or murder?" Yet, if we had been let
alone, I doubt not that time would have fused the conquerors and the
conquered, here in Ireland, as elsewhere. Even while the millions of
the people were kept outside the constitution, the spirit of
nationality began to appear; and under its blessed influence
toleration touched the heart of the Irish-born Protestant. Yes--thank
God--thank God, for the sake of our poor country, where sectarian
bitterness has wrought such wrong--it was an Irish Protestant
Parliament that struck off the first link of the penal chain. And lo!
once more, for a bright brief day, Irish national sentiment was in
warm sympathy and heartfelt accord with the laws. "Eighty-two" came.
Irish Protestant patriotism, backed by the hearty sympathy of the
Catholic millions, raised up Ireland to a proud and glorious
position; lifted our country from the ground, where she lay prostrate
under the sword of England--but what do I say? This is "sedition." It
has this week been decreed sedition to picture Ireland thus.[C] Well,
then, they rescued her from what I will call the loving embrace of
her dear sister Britannia, and enthroned her in her rightful place, a
queen among the nations. Had the brightness of that era been
prolonged--picture it, think of it--what a country would ours be now?
Think of it! And contrast what we are with what we might be! Compare
a population filled with burning memories--disaffected, sullen,
hostile, vengeful--with a people loyal, devoted, happy, contented;
and England, too, all the happier, the more secure, the more great
and free. But sad is the story. Our independent national legislature
was torn from us by means, the iniquity of which, even among English
writers, is now proclaimed and execrated. By fraud and by force that
outrage on law, on right, and justice, was consummated. In speaking
thus I speak "sedition." No one can write the facts of Irish history,
without committing sedition. Yet every writer and speaker now will
tell you that the overthrow of our national constitution, sixty-seven
years ago, was an iniquitous and revolting scheme. But do you, then,
marvel that the laws imposed on us by the power that perpetrated that
deed are not revered, loved, and respected? Do you believe that that
want of respect arises from the "seditions" of men like my
fellow-traversers and myself? Is it wonderful to see estrangement
between a people and laws imposed on them by the over-ruling
influence of another nation? Look at the lessons--unhappy
lessons--taught our people by that London legislature where their own
will is overborne. Concessions refused and resisted as long as they
durst be withheld; and when granted at all, granted only after
passion has been aroused and the whole nation been embittered. The
Irish people sought Emancipation. Their great leader was dogged at
every step by hostile government proclamations and crown
prosecutions. Coercion act over coercion act was rained upon us; yet
O'Connell triumphed. But how and in what spirit was Emancipation
granted? Ah there never was a speech more pregnant with mischief,
with sedition, with revolutionary teaching--never words tended more
to bring law and government into contempt--than the words of the
English premier when he declared Emancipation must, sorely against
his will, be granted if England would not face a civil war. That was
a bad lesson to teach Irishmen. Worse still was taught them.
O'Connell, the great constitutional leader, a man with whom loyalty
and respect for the laws was a fundamental principle of action, led
the people towards further liberation--the liberation, not of a
creed, but a nation. What did he seek? To bring once more the laws
and the national will into accord; to reconcile the people and the
laws by restoring the constitution of queen, lords, and commons. How
was he met by the government? By the nourish of the sword; by the
drawn sabre and the shotted gun, in the market place and the highway.
"Law" finally grasped him as a conspirator, and a picked jury gave
the crown then, as now, such verdict as was required. The venerable
apostle of constitutional doctrines was consigned to prison, while a
sorrowing--aye, a maddened nation, wept for him outside. Do you
marvel that they held in "disesteem" the law and government that
acted thus? Do you marvel that to-day, in Ireland, as in every
century of all those through which I have traced this state of
things, the people and the law scowl upon each other? Gentlemen, do
not misunderstand the purport of my argument. It is not for the
purpose--it would be censurable--of merely opening the wounds of the
past that I have gone back upon history somewhat farther than the
solicitor-general found it advantageous to go. I have done it to
demonstrate that there is a truer reason than that alleged by the
crown in this case for the state of war--for unhappily that is what
it is--which prevails between the people of Ireland and the laws
under which they now live. And now apply all this to the present
case, and judge you my guilt--judge you the guilt of those whose
crime, indeed, is that they do not love and respect law and
government as they are now administered in Ireland. Gentlemen, the
present prosecution arises directly out of what is known as the
Manchester tragedy. The solicitor-general gave you his version, his
fanciful sketch of that sad affair; but it will be my duty to give
you the true facts, which differ considerably from the crown story.
The solicitor-general began with telling us about "the broad summer's
sun of the 18th September" (laughter). Gentlemen, it seems very clear
that the summer goes far into the year for those who enjoy the sweets
of office; nay, I am sure it is summer "all the year round" with the
solicitor-general while the present ministry remain in. A goodly
golden harvest he and his colleagues are making in this summer of
prosecutions; and they seem very well inclined to get up enough of
them (laughter). Well, gentlemen, I'm not complaining of that, but I
will tell you who complain loudly--the "outs," with whom it is
midwinter, while the solicitor-general and his friends are enjoying
this summer (renewed laughter). Well, gentlemen, some time last
September two prominent leaders of the Fenian movement--alleged to be
so at least--named Kelly and Deasy, were arrested in Manchester. In
Manchester there is a considerable Irish population, and amongst them
it was known those men had sympathisers. They were brought up at the
police court--and now, gentlemen, pray attentively mark this. The
Irish executive that morning telegraphed to the Manchester
authorities a strong warning of an attempted rescue. The Manchester
police had full notice--how did they treat the timely warning sent
from Dublin; a warning which, if heeded, would have averted all this
sad and terrible business which followed upon that day? Gentlemen,
the Manchester police authorities scoffed at the warning. They
derided it as a "Hirish" alarm. What! The idea of low "Hirish" hodmen
or labourers rescuing prisoners from them, the valiant and the brave!
Why, gentlemen, the Seth Bromleys of the "force" in Manchester waxed
hilarious and derisive over the idea. They would not ask even a
truncheon to put to flight even a thousand of those despised
"Hirish;" and so, despite specific warning from Dublin, the van
containing the two Fenian leaders, guarded by eleven police officers,
set out from the police office to the jail. Now, gentlemen, I charge
on the stolid vain gloriousness in the first instance, and the
contemptible pusilanimity in the second instance, of the Manchester
police--the valiant Seth Bromleys--all that followed. On the skirts
of the city the van was attacked by some eighteen Irish youths,
having three revolvers--three revolvers, gentlemen, and no
more--amongst them. The valour of the Manchester eleven vanished at
the sight of those three revolvers--some of them, it seems, loaded
with blank cartridge! The Seth Bromleys took to their heels. They
abandoned the van. Now, gentlemen, do not understand me to call those
policemen cowards. It is hard to blame an unarmed man who runs away
from a pointed revolver, which, whether loaded or unloaded, is a
powerful persuasion to--depart. But I do say that I believe in my
soul that if that had occurred here in Dublin, eleven men of our
metropolitan police whould have taken those three revolvers or
perished in the attempt (applause). Oh, if eleven Irish policemen had
run away like that from a few poor English lads with barely three
revolvers, how the press of England would yell in fierce
denunciation--why, they would trample to scorn the name of
Irishman--(applause in the court, which the officials vainly tried to
silence). [Footnote C: For publishing an illustration in the _Weekly
News_ thus picturing England's policy of coercion, Mr. Sullivan had
been found guilty of seditious libel on the previous trial.]

Mr. Justice Fitzgerald--If these interruptions continue, the parties
so offending must be removed.

Mr. Sullivan--I am sorry, my lord, for the interruption; though not
sorry the people should endorse my estimate of the police. Well,
gentlemen, the van was abandoned by its valiant guard; but there
remained inside one brave and faithful fellow, Brett by name. I am
now giving you the facts as I in my conscience and soul believe they
occurred--and as millions of my countrymen--aye, and thousands of
Englishmen, too--solemnly believe them to have occurred, though they
differ in one item widely from the crown version. Brett refused to
give up the key of the van, which he held; and the attacking party
commenced various endeavours to break it open. At length one of them
called out to fire a pistol into the lock, and thus burst it open.
The unfortunate Brett at that moment was looking through the keyhole,
endeavouring to get a view of the inexplicable scene outside, when he
received the bullet and fell dead. Gentlemen, that may be the true,
or it may be the mistaken version. You may hold to the other, or you
may hold to this. But whether I be mistaken therein, or otherwise, I
say here, as I would say if I stood now before my Eternal Judge on
the Last Day, I solemnly believe the mournful episode to have
happened thus--I solemnly believe that the man Brett was shot by
accident, and not by design. But even suppose your view differs
sincerely from mine, will you, can you, hold that I, thus
conscientiously persuaded, sympathise with murder, because I
sympathise with men hanged for that which I contend was accident, and
not murder? That is exactly the issue in this case. Well, the rescued
Fenian leaders got away; and then, when all was over--when the danger
was passed--valour tremendous returned to the fleet of foot
Manchester police. Oh, but they wreaked their vengeance that night
on the houses of the poor Irish in Manchester! By a savage razzia
they soon filled the jails with our poor countrymen seized on
suspicion. And then broke forth all over England that shout of anger
and passion which none of us will ever forget. The national pride had
been sorely wounded; the national power had been openly and
humiliatingly defied; the national fury was aroused. On all sides
resounded the hoarse shout for vengeance, swift and strong. Then was
seen a sight the most shameful of its kind that this century has
exhibited--a sight at thought of which Englishmen yet will hang their
heads for shame, and which the English historian will chronicle with
reddened check--those poor and humble Irish youths led into the
Manchester dock in chains! In chains! Yes; iron fetters festering
wrist and ankle! Oh, gentlemen, it was a fearful sight; for no one
can pretend that in the heart of powerful England there could be
danger those poor Irish youths would overcome the authorities and
capture Manchester. For what, then, were those chains put on untried
prisoners? Gentlemen, it was at this point exactly that Irish
sympathy came to the side of those prisoners. It was when we saw them
thus used, and saw that, innocent or guilty, they would be
immolated--sacrificed to glut the passion of the hour--that our
feelings rose high and strong in their behalf. Even in England there
were men--noble-hearted Englishmen, for England is never without such
men--who saw that if tried in the midst of this national frenzy,
those victims would be sacrificed; and accordingly efforts were made
for a postponement of the trial. But the roar of passion carried its
way. Not even till the ordinary assizes would the trial be postponed.
A special commission was sped to do the work while Manchester jurors
were in a white heat of panic, indignation, and fury. Then came the
trial, which was just what might be expected. Witnesses swore ahead
without compunction, and jurors believed them without hesitation.
Five men arraigned together as principals--Allen, Larkin, O'Brien,
Shore, and Maguire--were found guilty, and the judge concerning in
the verdict, were sentenced to death. Five men--not three men,
gentlemen--five men in the one verdict, not five separate verdicts.
Five men by the same evidence and the same jury in the same verdict.
Was that a just verdict? The case of the crown here to-day is that it
was--that it is "sedition" to impeach that verdict. A copy of that
conviction is handed in here as evidence to convict me of sedition
for charging as I do that that was a wrong verdict, a bad verdict, a
rotten and a false verdict. But what is the fact? That her Majesty's
ministers themselves admit and proclaim that it was a wrong verdict,
a false verdict. The very evening those men were sentenced, thirty
newspaper reporters sent up to the Home Secretary a petition
protesting that--the evidence of the witnesses and the verdict of the
jury notwithstanding--there was at least one innocent man thus marked
for execution. The government felt that the reporters were right and
the jurors wrong. They pardoned Maguire as an innocent man--that
same Maguire whose legal conviction is here put in as evidence that
he and four others were truly murderers, to sympathise with whom is
to commit sedition--nay, "to glorify the cause of murder." Well,
after that, our minds were easy. We considered it out of the question
any man would be hanged on a verdict thus ruined, blasted, and
abandoned; and believing those men innocent of murder, though guilty
of another most serious legal crime--rescue with violence, and
incidental, though not intentional loss of life--we rejoiced that a
terrible mistake was, as we thought, averted. But now arose in
redoubled fury the savage cry for blood. In vain good men, noble and
humane men, in England tried to save the national honour by breasting
this horrible outburst of passion. They were overborne. Petitioners
for mercy were mobbed and hooted in the streets. We saw all this--we
saw all this; and think you it did not sink into our hearts? Fancy if
you can our feelings when we heard that yet another man out of five
was respited--ah, he was an American, gentlemen--an American, not an
Irishman--but that the three Irishmen, Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien,
were to die--were to be put to death on a verdict and on evidence
that would not hang a dog in England! We refused to the last to
credit it; and thus incredulous, deemed it idle to make any effort to
save their lives. But it was true; it was deadly true. And then,
gentlemen, the doomed three appeared in a new character. Then they
rose into the dignity and heroism of martyrs. The manner in which
they bore themselves through the dreadful ordeal ennobled them for
ever It was then we all learned to love and revere them as patriots
and Christians. Oh, gentlemen, it is only at this point I feel my
difficulty in addressing you whose religious faith is not that which
is mine. For it is only Catholics who can understand the emotions
aroused in Catholic hearts by conduct such as theirs in that dreadful
hour. Catholics alone can understand how the last solemn declarations
of such men, after receiving the last sacraments of the Church, and
about to meet their Great Judge face to face, can outweigh the
reckless evidence of Manchester thieves and pickpockets. Yes; in that
hour they told us they were innocent, but were ready to die; and we
believed them. We believe them still. Aye, do we! They did not go to
meet their God with a falsehood on their lips. On that night before
their execution, oh, what a scene! What a picture did England present
at the foot of the Manchester scaffold! The brutal populace thronged
thither in tens of thousands. They danced; they sang; they
blasphemed; they chorused "Rule Britannia," and "God save the Queen,"
by way of taunt and defiance of the men whose death agonies they had
come to see! Their shouts and brutal cries disturbed the doomed
victims inside the prison as in their cells they prepared in prayer
and meditation to meet their Creator and their God. Twice the police
had to remove the crowd from around that wing of the prison; so that
our poor brothers might in peace go through their last preparations
for eternity, undisturbed by the yells of the multitude outside. Oh,
gentlemen, gentlemen--that scene! That scene in the grey cold
morning when those innocent men were led out to die--to die an
ignominious death before that wolfish mob! With blood on fire--with
bursting hearts--we read the dreadful story here in Ireland. We knew
that these men would never have been thus sacrificed had not their
offence been political, and had it not been that in their own way
they represented the old struggle of the Irish race. We felt that if
time had but been permitted for English passion to cool down, English
good feeling and right justice would have prevailed; and they never
would have been put to death on such a verdict. All this we felt, yet
we were silent till we heard the press that had hounded those men to
death falsely declaring that our silence was acquiescence in the deed
that consigned them to murderers' graves. Of this I have personal
knowledge, that, here in Dublin at least, nothing was done or
intended, until the _Evening Mail_ declared that popular feeling
which had had ample time to declare itself, if it felt otherwise,
quite recognised the justice of the execution. Then we resolved to
make answer. Then Ireland made answer. For what monarch, the loftiest
in the world, would such demonstrations be made, the voluntary
offerings of a people's grief! Think you it was "sympathy for murder"
called us forth, or caused the priests of the Catholic Church to
drape their churches? It is a libel to utter the base charge. No, no.
With the acts of those men at that rescue we had nought to say. Of
their innocence of murder we were convinced. Their patriotic
feelings, their religious devotion, we saw proved in the noble, the
edifying manner of their death. We believed them to have been
unjustly sacrificed in a moment of national passion; and we resolved
to rescue their memory from the foul stains of their maligners, and
make it a proud one for ever with Irishmen. Sympathy with murder,
indeed! What I am about to say will be believed; for I think I have
shown no fear of consequences in standing by my acts and
principles--I say for myself, and for the priests and people of
Ireland, who are affected by this case, that sooner would we burn our
right hands to cinders than express, directly or indirectly, sympathy
with murder; and that our sympathy for Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien is
based upon the conviction that they were innocent of any such crime.
Gentlemen, having regard to all the circumstances of this sad
business, having regard to the feelings under which we acted, think
you is it a true charge that we had for our intent and object the
bringing of the administration of justice into contempt? Does a man,
by protesting, ever so vehemently, against an act of a not infallible
tribunal, incur the charge of attempting its overthrow? What evidence
can be shown to you that we uttered a word against the general
character of the administration of justice in this country, while
denouncing this particular proceeding, which we say was a fearful
failure of justice--a horrible blunder, a terrible act of passion!
None--none. I say, for myself, I sincerely believe that in this
country of ours justice is administered by the judges of the Irish
Bench with a purity and impartiality between man and man not to be
surpassed in the universal world. Let me not be thought to cast
reflection on this court, or the learned judges before whom I now
stand, if I except in a certain sense, and on some occasions,
political trials between the subject and the crown. Apart from this,
I fearlessly say the bench of justice in Ireland fully enjoys and is
worthy of respect and homage. I care not from what political party
its members be drawn, I say that, with hardly an exception, when
robed with the ermine, they become dead to the world of politics, and
sink the politician in the loftier character of representative of
Sacred Justice. Yet, gentlemen, holding those views, I would,
nevertheless, protest against and denounce such a trial as that in
Manchester, if it had taken place here in Ireland. For, what we
contend is that the men in Manchester would never have been found
guilty on such evidence, would never have been executed on such a
verdict, if time had been given to let panic and passion pass
away--time to let English good sense and calm reason and, sense of
justice have sway. Now, gentlemen, judge ye me on this whole case;
for I have done. I have spoken at great length, but I plead not
merely my own cause but the cause of my country. For myself I care
little. I stand before you here with the manacles, I might say, on my
hands. Already a prison cell awaits me in Kilmainham. My doom, in any
event, is sealed. Already a conviction has been obtained against me
for my opinions on this same event; for it is not one arrow alone
that has been shot from the crown office quiver at me--at my
reputation, my property, my liberty. In a few hours more my voice
will be silenced; but before the world is shut out from me for a
term, I appeal to your verdict--to the verdict of my
fellow-citizens--of my fellow-countrymen--to judge my life, my
conduct, my acts, my principles and say am I a criminal. Sedition, in
a rightly ordered community, is indeed a crime. But who is it that
challenges me? Who is it that demands my loyalty? Who is it that
calls out to me, "Oh, ingrate son, where is the filial affection, the
respect, the obedience, the support, that is my due? Unnatural,
seditious, and rebellious child, a dungeon shall punish your crime!"
I look in the face of my accuser, who thus holds me to the duty of a
son. I turn to see if there I can recognise the features of that
mother, whom indeed I love, my own dear Ireland. I look into that
accusing face, and there I see a scowl, and not a smile. I miss the
soft, fond voice, the tender clasp, the loving word. I look upon the
hands reached out to grasp me--to punish me; and lo, great stains,
blood red, upon those hands; and my sad heart tells me it is the
blood of my widowed mother, Ireland. Then I answer to my
accuser--"You have no claim on me--on my love, my duty, my
allegiance. You are not my mother. You sit indeed in the place where
she should reign. You wear the regal garments torn from her limbs,
while she now sits in the dust, uncrowned and overthrown, and
bleeding, from many a wound. But my heart is with her still. Her
claim alone is recognised by me. She still commands my love, my duty,
my allegiance; and whatever the penalty may be, be it prison chains,
be it exile or death, to her I will be true" (applause). But,
gentlemen of the jury, what is that Irish nation to which my
allegiance turns? Do I thereby mean a party, or a class, or creed? Do
I mean only those who think and feel as I do on public questions? Oh,
no. It is the whole people of this land--the nobles, the peasants,
the clergy the merchants, the gentry, the traders, the
professions--the Catholic, the Protestant, the Dissenter. Yes. I am
loyal to all that a good and patriotic citizen should be loyal to; I
am ready, not merely to obey, but to support with heartfelt
allegiance, the constitution of my own country--the Queen as Queen of
Ireland, and the free parliament of Ireland once more reconstituted
in our national senate-house in College--green. And reconstituted
once more it will be. In that hour the laws will again be reconciled
with national feeling and popular reverence. In that hour there will
be no more disesteem, or hatred, or contempt for the laws: for,
howsoever a people may dislike and resent laws imposed upon them
against their will by a subjugating power, no nation disesteems the
laws of its own making. That day, that blessed day, of peace and
reconciliation, and joy, and liberty, I hope to see. And when it
comes, as come it will, in that hour it will be remembered for me
that I stood here to face the trying ordeal, ready to suffer for my
country--walking with bared feet over red hot ploughshares like the
victims of old. Yes; in that day it will be remembered for me, though
a prison awaits me now, that I was one of those journalists of the
people who, through constant sacrifice and self-immolation, fought
the battle of the people, and won every vestige of liberty remaining
in the land. (As Mr. Sullivan resumed his seat, the entire audience
burst into applause, again and again renewed, despite all efforts at
repression.)

The effect of this speech certainly was very considerable. Mr. Sullivan spoke for upwards of two hours and forty minutes, or until nearly a quarter past six o'clock. During the delivery of his address, twilight had succeeded day-light; the court attendants, later still, with silent steps and taper in hand, stole around and lit the chandeliers, whose glare upon the thousand anxious faces below, seemed to lend a still more impressive aspect to the scene. The painful idea of the speaker's peril, which was all-apparent at first amongst the densely-packed audience, seemed to fade away by degrees, giving place to a feeling of triumph, as they listened to the historical narrative of British misrule in Ireland, by which Irish "disesteem" for British law was explained and justified, and later on to the story of the Manchester tragedy by which Irish sympathy with the martyrs was completely vindicated. Again and again in the course of the speech, they burst into applause, regardless of threatened penalties; and at the close gave vent to their feelings in a manner that for a time defied all repression.

When silence was restored, the court was formally adjourned to next day, Friday, at 10 o'clock, a.m.

The morning came, and with it another throng; for it was known Mr. Martin would now speak in his turn. In order, however, that his speech, which was sure to be an important one, might close the case against the crown, Mr. Bracken, on the court resuming, put in _his_ defence very effectively as follows:--

My lords--I would say a word or two, but after Mr. Sullivan's grand
and noble speech of last evening, I think it now needless on my part.
I went to the procession of the 8th December, assured that it was
right from reading a speech of the Earl of Derby in the newspapers.
There was a sitting of the Privy Council in Dublin on the day before,
and I sat in my shop that night till twelve o'clock, to see if the
procession would be forbidden by government. They, however, permitted
it to take place, and I attended it fully believing I was right. That
is all I have to say.

This short speech--delivered in a clear musical and manly voice--put the whole case against the crown in a nut-shell. The appearance of the speaker too--a fine, handsome, robust, and well-built man, in the prime of life, with the unmistakable stamp of honest sincerity on his countenance and in his eye--gave his words greater effect with the audience; and it was very audibly murmured on all sides that he had given the government a home thrust in his brief but telling speech.

Then Mr. Martin rose. After leaving court the previous evening he had decided to commit to writing what he intended to say; and he now read from manuscript his address to the jury. The speech, however, lost nothing in effect by this; for any auditor out of view would have believed it to have been spoken, as he usually speaks, _extempore_, so admirably was it delivered. Mr. Martin said:--