Speeches from the Dock, Part I by Various (page 2)

the Sassanaghs;” that he spoke of 30,000 stands of arms from France, but said if France should fail them, “forks, spades, shovels, and pickaxes” would serve that purpose. It was useless to struggle against such testimony, palpably false and distorted as it was in some parts, and Russell decided on cutting short the proceedings. “I shall not trouble my lawyers,” he said, “to make any statement in my case. There are but three possible modes of defence–firstly, by calling witnesses to prove the innocence of my conduct; secondly, by calling them to impeach the credit of opposite witnesses, or by proving an _alibi_. As I can resort to none of those modes of defence without involving others, I consider myself precluded from any.” Previous to the Judge’s charge, the prisoner asked–“If it was not permitted to persons in his situation to say a few words, as he wished to give his valedictory advice to his countrymen in as concise a manner as possible, being well convinced how speedy the transition was from that vestibule of the grave to the scaffold.” He was told in reply, “that he would have an opportunity of expressing himself,” and when the time did come, Russell advanced to the front of the dock, and spoke in a clear, firm tone of voice, as follows:–

“Before I address myself to this audience, I return my sincere thanks to my learned counsel for the exertions they have made, in which they displayed so much talent. I return my thanks to the gentlemen on the part of the crown, for the accommodation and indulgence I have received during my confinement. I return my thanks to the gentlemen of the jury, for the patient investigation they have afforded my case; and I return my thanks to the court, for the attention and politeness they have shown me during my trial. As to my political sentiments, I shall, in as brief a manner as possible (for I do not wish to engross the time of the court), say a few words. I look back to the last thirteen years of my life, the period with which I have interfered with the transactions of Ireland, with entire satisfaction; though for my share in them I am now about to die–the gentlemen of the jury having, by their verdict, put the seal of truth on the evidence against me. Whether, at this time, and the country being situated as it is, it be safe to inflict the punishment of death upon me for the offence I am charged with, I leave to the gentlemen who conduct the prosecution. My death, perhaps, may be useful in deterring others from following my example. It may serve, on the other hand, as a memorial to others, and on trying occasions it may inspire them with courage. I can now say, as far as my judgment enabled me, I acted for the good of my country and of the world. It may be presumptuous for me to deliver my opinions here as a statesman, but as the government have singled me out as a leader, and given me the appellation of ‘General,’ I am in some degree entitled to do so. To me it is plain that all things are verging towards a change, when all shall be of one opinion. In ancient times, we read of great empires having their rise and their fall, and yet do the old governments proceed as if all were immutable. From the time I could observe and reflect, I perceived that there were two kinds of laws–the laws of the State and the laws of God–frequently clashing with each other; by the latter kind, I have always endeavoured to regulate my conduct; but that laws of the former kind do exist in Ireland I believe no one who hears me can deny. That such laws have existed in former times many and various examples clearly evince. The Saviour of the world suffered by the Roman laws–by the same laws His Apostles were put to the torture, and deprived of their lives in His cause. By my conduct I do not consider that I have incurred any moral guilt. I have committed no moral evil. I do not want the many and bright examples of those gone before me; but did I want this encouragement, the recent example of a youthful hero–a martyr in the cause of liberty–who has just died for his country, would inspire me. I have descended into the vale of manhood. I have learned to estimate the reality and delusions of this world; _he_ was surrounded by everything which could endear this world to him–in the bloom of youth, with fond attachments, and with all the fascinating charms of health and innocence; to his death I look back even in this moment with rapture. I have travelled much, and seen various parts of the world, and I think the Irish are the most virtuous nation on the face of the earth–they are a good and brave people, and had I a thousand lives I would yield them in their service. If it be the will of God that I suffer for that with which I stand charged, I am perfectly resigned to His holy will and dispensation. I do not wish to trespass much more on the time of those that hear me, and did I do so an indisposition which has seized on me since I came into court would prevent my purpose. Before I depart from this for a better world I wish to address myself to the landed aristocracy of this country. The word ‘aristocracy’ I do not mean to use as an insulting epithet, but in the common sense of the expression.

“Perhaps, as my voice may now be considered as a voice crying from the grave, what I now say may have some weight. I see around me many, who during the last years of my life have disseminated principles for which I am now to die. Those gentlemen, who have all the wealth and the power of the country in their hands, I strongly advise, and earnestly exhort, to pay attention to the poor–by the poor I mean the labouring class of the community, their tenantry and dependents. I advise them for their good to look into their grievances, to sympathize in their distress, and to spread comfort and happiness around their dwellings. It might be that they may not hold their power long, but at all events to attend to the wants and distresses of the poor is their truest interest. If they hold their power, they will thus have friends around them; if they lose it, their fall will be gentle, and I am sure unless they act thus they can never be happy. I shall now appeal to the right honourable gentleman in whose hands the lives of the other prisoners are, and entreat that he will rest satisfied with my death, and let that atone for those errors into which I may have been supposed to have deluded others. I trust the gentleman will restore them to their families and friends. If he shall do so, I can assure him that the breeze which conveys to him the prayers and blessings of their wives and children will be more grateful than that which may be tainted with the stench of putrid corpses, or carrying with it the cries of the widow and the orphan. Standing as I do in the presence of God and of man, I entreat him to let my life atone for the faults of all, and that my blood alone may flow.

“If I am then to die, I have therefore two requests to make. The first is, that as I have been engaged in a work possibly of some advantage to the world, I may be indulged with three days for its completion; secondly, that as there are those ties which even death cannot sever, and as there are those who may have some regard for what will remain of me after death, I request that my remains, disfigured as they will be, may be delivered after the execution of the sentence to those dear friends, that they may be conveyed to the ground where my parents are laid, and where those faithful few may have a consecrated spot over which they may be permitted to grieve. I have now to declare, when about to pass into the presence of Almighty God, that I feel no enmity in my mind to any being, none to those who have borne testimony against me, and none to the jury who have pronounced the verdict of my death.”

The last request of Russell was refused, and he was executed twelve hours after the conclusion of the trial. At noon, on the 21st of October, 1803, he was borne pinioned to the place of execution. Eleven regiments of soldiers were concentrated in the town to overawe the people and defeat any attempt at rescue; yet even with this force at their back, the authorities were far from feeling secure. The interval between the trial and execution was so short that no preparation could be made for the erection of a scaffold, except the placing of some barrels under the gateway of the main entrance to the prison, with planks placed upon them as a platform, and others sloping up from the ground, by which it was ascended. On the ground hard by, were placed a sack of sawdust, an axe, a block, and a knife. After ascending the scaffold, Russell gazed forward through the archway–towards the people, whose white faces could be seen glistening outside, and again expressed his forgiveness of his persecutors. His manner, we are told, was perfectly calm, and he died without a struggle.

A purer soul, a more blameless spirit, than Thomas Russell, never sunk on the battle-field of freedom. Fixed in principles, and resolute in danger, he was nevertheless gentle, courteous, unobstrusive, and humane; with all the modesty and unaffectedness of childhood, he united the zeal of a martyr and the courage of a hero. To the cause of his country he devoted all his energies and all his will; and when he failed to render it prosperous in life, he illumined it by his devotion and steadfastness in death. The noble speech given above, and the passages from his letters which we have quoted, are sufficient in themselves to show how chivalrous was the spirit, how noble the motives of Thomas Russell. The predictions which he uttered with so much confidence have not indeed been fulfilled, and the success which he looked forward to so hopefully has never been won. But his advice, so often repeated in his letters, is still adhered to; his countrymen have not yet learned to abandon the cause in which he suffered, and they still cherish the conviction which he so touchingly expressed–“that liberty will, in the midst of these storms be established, and that God will yet wipe off the tears of the Irish nation.”

Russell rests in the churchyard of the Protestant church of Downpatrick. A plain slab marks the spot where he is laid, and there is on it this single line–

“THE GRAVE OF RUSSELL.”

* * * * *

We have now closed our reference to the portion of Irish history comprised within the years 1798 and 1803, and as far as concerns the men who suffered for Ireland in those disastrous days our “Speeches from the Dock” are concluded. We leave behind us the struggle of 1798 and the men who organized it; we turn from the records of a period reeking with the gore of Ireland’s truest sons, and echoing with the cries and curses of the innocent and oppressed; we pass without notice the butcheries and outrages that filled the land, while our countrymen were being sabred into submission; and we leave behind us, too, the short-lived insurrection of 1803, and the chivalrous young patriot who perished with it. We turn to more recent events, less appalling in their general aspect, but not less important in their consequences, or less interesting to the present generation, and take up the next link in the unbroken chain of protests against British rule in Ireland with the lives and the fortunes of the patriots of 1848. How faithfully the principles of freedom have been handed down–how nobly the men of our own times have imitated the patriots of the past–how thoroughly the sentiments expressed from the Green-street dock nineteen years ago coincide with the declarations of Tone, of Emmet, and of Russell–our readers will shortly have an opportunity of judging. They will see how all the sufferings and all the calamities that darkened the path of the martyrs of ’98 were insufficient to deter others, as gifted, as earnest, and as chivalrous as they, from following in their footsteps; and how unquenchable and unending, as the altar light of the fire-worshipper, the generous glow of patriotic enthusiasm was transmitted through generations, unaffected by the torrents of blood in which it was sought to extinguish it.

The events of our own generation–the acts of contemporary patriots–now claim our attention; but we are reluctant as yet to turn over the page, and drop the curtain on the scenes with which we have hitherto been dealing, and which we feel we have inadequately described. We have spoken of the men whose speeches from the dock are on record, but we still linger over the history of the events in which they shared, and of the men who were associated with them in their endeavours. The patriots whose careers we have glanced at are but a few out of the number of Irishmen who suffered during the same period, and in the same cause, and whose actions recommend them to the admiration and esteem of posterity. Confining ourselves strictly to those whose speeches after conviction have reached us, the list could not well be extended; but there are many who acted as brave a part, and whose memories are inseparable from the history of the period. We should have desired to speak, were the scope of our labours more extended, of the brave Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the gallant and the true, who sacrificed his position, his prospects, and his life, for the good old cause, and whose arrest and death contributed more largely, perhaps, than any other cause that could be assigned to the failure of the insurrection of 1798. Descended from an old and noble family, possessing in a remarkable degree all the attributes and embellishments of a popular leader, young and spirited, eloquent and wealthy, ardent, generous, and brave, of good address, and fine physical proportions, it is not surprising that Lord Edward Fitzgerald became the idol of the patriot party, and was appointed by them to a leading position in the organization. Lord Edward Fitzgerald was born in October, 1763; being the fifth son of James Duke of Leinster, the twentieth Earl of Kildare. He grew up to manhood, as a recent writer has observed, when the drums of the Volunteers were pealing their marches of victory; and under the stirring events of the period his soul burst through the shackles that had long bound down the Irish aristocracy in servile dependence. In his early years he served in the American War of Independence on the side of despotism and oppression–a circumstance which in after years caused him poignant sorrow. He joined the United Irishmen, about the time that Thomas Addis Emmet entered their ranks, and the young nobleman threw himself into the movement with all the ardour and energy of his nature. He was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the National forces in the south, and laboured with indefatigable zeal in perfecting the plans for the outbreak on the 23rd of May. The story of his arrest and capture is too well known to need repetition. Treachery dogged the steps of the young patriot, and after lying for some weeks in concealment, he was arrested on the 19th day of May, 1798, two months after his associates in the direction of the movement had been arrested at Oliver Bond’s. His gallant struggle with his captors, fighting like a lion at bay, against the miscreants who assailed him; his assassination, his imprisonment, and his death, are events to which the minds of the Irish nationalists perpetually recur, and which, celebrated in song and story, are told with sympathising regret wherever a group of Irish blood are gathered around the hearth-stone. His genius, his talents, and his influence, his unswerving attachment to his country, and his melancholy end, cast an air of romance around his history; and the last ray of gratitude must fade from the Irish heart before the name of the martyred patriot, who sleeps in the vaults of St. Werburgh, will be forgotten in the land of his birth.

In less than a fortnight after Lord Edward expired in Newgate another Irish rebel, distinguished by his talents, his fidelity, and his position, expiated with his life the crime of “loving his country above his king.” It is hard to mention Thomas Russell and ignore Henry Joy M’Cracken–it is hard to speak of the Insurrection of ’98 and forget the gallant young Irishman who commanded at the battle of Antrim, and who perished a few weeks subsequently, in the bloom of his manhood, on the scaffold in Belfast. Henry Joy M’Cracken was one of the first members of the Society of United Irishmen, and he was one of the best. He was arrested, owing to private information received by the government, on the 10th of October, 1796–three weeks after Russell, his friend and confidant, was flung into prison–and lodged in Newgate Jail, where he remained until the 8th of September in the following year. He was then liberated on bail, and immediately, on regaining his liberty, returned to Belfast, still bent on accomplishing at all hazards the liberation of his country. Previous to the outbreak in May, ’98, he had frequent interviews with the patriot leaders in Dublin, and M’Cracken was appointed to the command of the insurgent forces in Antrim. Filled with impatience and patriotic ardour, he heard of the stirring events that followed the arrest of Lord Edward Fitzgerald; he concentrated all his energies in preparing the Northern patriots for action, but circumstances delayed the outbreak in that quarter, and it was not until the 6th of June, 1798, that M’Cracken had perfected his arrangements for taking the field, and issued the following brief proclamation, “dated the first year of liberty, 6th June, 1798,” addressed to the Army of Ulster:–

“To-morrow we march on Antrim. Drive the garrison of Randalstown before you, and hasten to form a junction with your Commander-in-Chief.”

Twenty-one thousand insurgents were to have rallied at the call of M’Cracken, out not more than seven thousand responded to the summons. Even this number, however, would have been sufficient to strike a successful blow, which would have filled the hearts of the gallant Wexford men, then in arms, with exultation, and effected incalculable results on the fate of Ireland, had not the curse of the Irish cause, treachery and betrayal, again come to the aid of its enemies. Hardly had the plans for the attack on Antrim been perfected, when the secrets of the conspirators were revealed to General Nugent, who commanded the British troops in the North, and the defeat of the insurgents was thus secured. M’Cracken’s forces marched to the attack on Antrim with great regularity, chorusing the “Marseillaise Hymn” as they charged through the town. Their success at first seemed complete, but the English general, acting on the information which had treacherously been supplied him, had taken effective means to disconcert and defeat them. Suddenly, and as it seemed, in the flush of victory, the insurgents found themselves exposed to a galling fire from a force posted at either end of the town; a gallant resistance was offered, but it was vain. The insurgents fled from the fatal spot, leaving 500 of their dead and dying behind them, and at nightfall Henry Joy M’Cracken found himself a fugitive and a ruined man. For some weeks he managed to baffle the bloodhounds on his track, but he was ultimately arrested and tried by court-martial in Belfast, on the 17th July, 1798. On the evening of the same day he was executed. We have it on the best authority that he bore his fate with calmness, resolution, and resignation. It is not his fault that a “Speech from the Dock” under his name is not amongst our present collection. He had actually prepared one, but his brutal judges would not listen to the patriot’s exculpation. He was hung, amidst the sobs and tears of the populace, in front of the Old Market place of Belfast, and his remains were interred in the graveyard now covered by St. George’s Protestant church.

Later still in the same year two gallant young officers of Irish blood, shared the fate of Russell and M’Cracken. They sailed with Humbert from Rochelle; they fought at Castlebar and Ballinamuck; and when the swords of their French allies were sheathed, they passed into the power of their foes. Matthew Tone was one of them; the other was Bartholomew Teeling. The latter filled the rank of Etat-major in the French army; and a letter from his commanding officer, General Humbert, was read at his trial, in which the highest praise was given to the young officer for the humane exertions which he made throughout his last brief campaign in the interest of mercy. “His hand,” he said, “was ever raised to stay the useless effusion of blood, and his protection was afforded to the prostrate and defenceless.” But his military judges paid little heed to those extenuating circumstances, and Teeling was condemned to die on the day of his trial. He perished on the 24th September, 1798, being then in his twenty-fourth year. He marched with a proud step to the place of execution on Arbour Hill, Dublin, and he died, as a soldier might, with unshaken firmness and unquailing mien. No lettered slab marks the place of his interment; and his bones remain in unhallowed and unconsecrated ground. Hardly had his headless body ceased to palpitate, when it was flung into a hole at the rere of the Royal Barracks. A few days later the same unhonoured spot received the mortal remains of Matthew Tone. “He had a more enthusiastic nature than any of us,” writes his brother, Theobald Wolfe Tone, “and was a sincere Republican, capable of sacrificing everything for his principles.” His execution was conducted with infamous cruelty and brutality, and the life-blood was still gushing from his body when it was flung into “the Croppy’s Hole.” “The day will come,” says Dr. Madden, “when that desecrated spot will be hallowed ground–consecrated by religion–trod lightly by pensive patriotism–and decorated by funeral trophies in honour of the dead whose bones lie there in graves that are now neglected and unhonoured.”

There are others of the patriot leaders who died in exile, far away from the land for which they suffered, and whose graves were dug on alien shores by the heedless hands of the stranger. This was the fate of Addis Emmet, of Neilson, and of M’Nevin. In Ireland they were foremost and most trusted amongst the gifted and brilliant throng that directed the labours and shaped the purposes of the United Irishmen. They survived the reign of terror that swallowed up the majority of their compatriots, and, when milder councils began to prevail, they were permitted to go forth from the dungeon which confined them into banishment. The vision of Irish freedom was not permitted to dawn upon them in life; from beyond the sandy slopes washed by the Western Atlantic they watched the fortunes of the old land with hopeless but enduring love. Their talents, their virtues, and their patriotism were not unappreciated by the people amongst whom they spent their closing years of life. In the busiest thoroughfare of the greatest city of America there towers over the heads of the by-passers the monument of marble which grateful hands have raised to the memory of Addis Emmet. In the centre of Western civilization, the home of republican liberty, the stranger reads in glowing words, of the virtues and the fame of the brother of Robert Emmet, sculptured on the noble pillar erected in Broadway, New York, to his memory. Nor was he the only one of his party to whom such an honour was accorded. A stone-throw from the spot where the Emmet monument stands, a memorial not less commanding in its proportions and appearance, was erected to William James M’Nevin; and the American citizen, as he passes through the spacious streets of that city which the genius of liberty has rendered prosperous and great, gazes proudly on those stately monuments, which tell him that the devotion to freedom which England punished and proscribed found in his own land the recognition which it merited from the gallant and the free.

[Footnote: The inscriptions on the Emmet monument are in three languages–Irish, Latin, and English. The Irish inscription consists of the following lines:–

Do mhiannaich se ardmath
Cum tir a breith
Do thug se clu a’s fuair se moladh An deig a bais.

The following is the English inscription:

_In Memory of_
THOMAS ADDIS EMMET,

Who exemplified in his conduct,
And adorned by his integrity.
The policy and principles of the
UNITED IRISHMEN–

“To forward a brotherhood of affection, A community of rights, an identity of interests, and a union of power Among Irishmen of every religious persuasion, As the only means of Ireland’s chief good, An impartial and adequate representation IN AN IRISH PARLIAMENT.”

For this (mysterious fate of virtue) exiled from his native land, In America, the land of Freedom,
He found a second country,
Which paid his love by reverencing his genius. Learned in our laws, and in the laws of Europe, In the literature of our times, and in that of antiquity, All knowledge seemed subject to his use. An orator of the first order, clear, copious, fervid, Alike powerful to kindle the imagination, touch the affections, And sway the reason and will.
Simple in his tastes, unassuming in his manners, Frank, generous, kind-hearted, and honourable, His private life was beautiful,
As his public course was brilliant. Anxious to perpetuate
The name and example of such a man, Alike illustrious by his genius, his virtues, and his fate; Consecrated to their affections by his sacrifices, his perils, And the deeper calamities of his kindred, IN A JUST AND HOLY CAUSE;
His sympathising countrymen
Erected this Monument and Cenotaph.]

* * * * *

JOHN MITCHEL

Subsequent to the melancholy tragedy of 1803, a period of indescribable depression was experienced in Ireland. Defeat, disaster, ruin, had fallen upon the national cause; the power on whose friendly aid so much reliance had been placed was humbled, and England stood before the world in the full blaze of triumph and glory. Her fleet was undisputed mistress of the ocean, having swept it of all hostile shipping, and left to the enemy little more than the small craft that sheltered in narrow creeks and under the guns of well-defended harbours. Her army, if not numerically large, had proved its valour on many a well-fought field, and shown that it knew how to bring victory to light upon its standards; and, what was not less a matter of wonder to others, and of pride to herself, the abundance of her wealth and the extent of her resources were shown to be without a parallel in the world. Napoleon was an exile on the rock of St. Helena; the “Holy Alliance”–as the European, sovereigns blasphemously designated themselves–were lording it over the souls and bodies of men by “right divine;” the free and noble principles in which the French Revolution had its origin were now sunk out of sight, covered with the infamy of the Reign of Terror and the responsibility of the series of desolating wars which had followed it, and no man dared to speak for them. Those were dark days for Ireland. Her parliament was gone, and in the blighting shade of the provincialism to which she was reduced, genius and courage seemed to have died out from the land. Thousands of her bravest and most devoted children had perished in her cause–some on the scaffold, and others on the field of battle–and many whose presence at home would have been invaluable to her were obliged to seek safety in exile. So Erin, the crownless Queen, sat in the dust with fetters on her limbs, her broken sword fallen from her hand, and with mournful memories lying heavy on her heart. The feelings of disappointment and grief then rankling in every Irish breast are well mirrored in that plaintive song of our national poet, which open with these tristful lines:—

“‘Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like heaven’s first dawn o’er the sleep of the dead, When man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Looked upward and blessed the pure ray ere it fled. ‘Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o’er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o’er thee.”

[Illustration: WILLIAM S. O’BRIEN. JOHN MITCHEL. JOHN MARTIN.]

In this gloomy condition of affairs there was nothing for Irish patriotism to do except to seek for the removal, by constitutional means, of some of the cruel grievances that pressed on the people. Emancipation of the Catholics from the large remainder of the penal laws that still degraded and despoiled them was one of the baits held out by Mr. Pitt when playing his cards for the Union; but not long had the Irish parliament been numbered with the things that were, when it became evident that the minister was in no hurry to fulfil his engagement, and it was found necessary to take some steps for keeping him to his promise. Committees were formed, meetings were held, speeches were made, resolutions were adopted, and all the machinery of parliamentary endeavour was put in motion. The leaders of the Catholic cause in this case, like those of the national cause in the preceding years, were liberal-minded Protestant gentlemen; but as time wore on, a young barrister from Kerry, one of the old race and the old faith, took a decided lead amongst them, and soon became its recognised champion, the elect of the nation, the “man of the people.” Daniel O’Connell stood forth, with the whole mass of his Catholic countrymen at his back, to wage within the lines of the constitution this battle for Ireland. He fought it resolutely and skilfully; the people supported him with an unanimity and an enthusiasm that were wonderful; their spirit rose and strengthened to that degree that the probability of another civil war began to loom up in the near future–inquiries instituted by the government resulted in the discovery that the Catholics serving in the army, and who constituted at least a third of its strength, were in full sympathy with their countrymen on this question, and could not be depended on to act against them–the ministry recognised the critical condition of affairs, saw that there was danger in delay, yielded to the popular demand–and Catholic Emancipation was won.

The details of that brilliant episode of Irish history cannot be told within the limits of this work, but some of its consequences concern us very nearly. The triumph of the constitutional struggle for Catholic Emancipation confirmed O’Connell in the resolution he had previously formed, to promote an agitation for a Repeal of the Union, and encouraged him to lay the proposal before his countrymen. The forces that had wrung the one measure of justice from an unwilling parliament were competent, he declared, to obtain the other. He soon succeeded in impressing his own belief on the minds of his countrymen, whose confidence in his wisdom and his powers was unbounded. The whole country responded to his call, and soon “the Liberator,” as the emancipated Irish Catholics loved to call him, found himself at the head of a political organization which in its mode of action, its extent, and its ardour was “unique in the history of the world.” Every city and great town in Ireland had its branch of the Repeal Association–every village had its Repeal reading-room, all deriving hope and life, and taking direction from the head-quarters in Dublin, where the great Tribune himself “thundered and lightened” at the weekly meetings. All Ireland echoed with his words. Newspapers, attaining thereby to a circulation never before approached in Ireland, carried them from one extremity of the land to the other–educating, cheering, and inspiring the hearts of the long downtrodden people. Nothing like this had ever occurred before. The eloquence of the patriot orators of the Irish parliament had not been brought home to the masses of the population; and the United Irishmen could only speak to them secretly, in whispers. But here were addresses glowing, and bold, and tender, brimful of native humour, scathing in their sarcasms, terrible in their denunciations, ineffably beautiful in their pathos–addresses that recalled the most glorious as well as the saddest memories of Irish history, and presented brilliant vistas of the future–addresses that touched to its fullest and most delicious vibration every chord of the Irish heart–here they were being sped over the land in an unfailing and ever welcome supply. The peasant read them to his family by the fireside when his hard day’s work was done, and the fisherman, as he steered his boat homeward, reckoned as not the least of his anticipated pleasures, the reading of the last report from Conciliation Hall. And it was not the humbler classes only who acknowledged the influence of the Repeal oratory, sympathised with the movement, and enrolled themselves in the ranks. The priesthood almost to a man, were members of the Association and propagandists of its principles; the professional classes were largely represented in it; of merchants and traders it could count up a long roll; and many of the landed gentry, even though they held her Majesty’s Commission of the Peace, were amongst its most prominent supporters. In short, the Repeal Association represented the Irish nation, and its voice was the voice of the people. The “Monster Meetings” of the year 1843 put this fact beyond the region of doubt or question. As popular demonstrations they were wonderful in their numbers, their order, and their enthusiasm. O’Connell, elated by their success, fancied that his victory was as good as won. He knew that things could not continue to go on as they were going–either the government or the Repeal Association should give way, and he believed the government would yield. For, the Association, he assured his countrymen, was safe within the limits of the law, and not a hostile hand could be laid upon it without violating the constitution. His countrymen had nothing to do but obey the law and support the Association, and a Repeal of the Union within a few months was, he said, inevitable. In all this he had allowed his own heart to deceive him; and his mistake was clearly shown, when in October, 1843, the government, by proclamation and a display of military force, prevented the intended monster meeting at Clontarf. It was still more fully established in the early part of the following year, when he, with a number of his political associates, was brought to trial for treasonable and seditious practices, found guilty, and sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment. The subsequent reversal of the verdict by the House of Lords, was a legal triumph for O’Connell; but nevertheless, his prestige had suffered by the occurrence, and his policy had begun to pall upon the minds of the people.

After his release the business of the Association went on as before, only there was less of confidence and of defiance in the speeches of the Liberator, and there were no more monster meetings. He was now more emphatic than ever in his advocacy of moral force principles, and his condemnation of all warlike hints and allusions. The weight of age–he was then more than seventy years–was pressing on his once buoyant spirit; his prison experience had damped his courage; and he was haunted night and day by a conviction–terrible to his mind–that there was growing up under the wing of the Association, a party that would teach the people to look to an armed struggle as the only sure means of obtaining the freedom of their country. The writings of the _Nation_–then a new light in the literature and politics of Ireland–had a ring in them that was unpleasant to his ears, a sound as of clashing steel and the explosion of gunpowder. In the articles of that journal much honour was given to men who had striven for Irish freedom by other methods than those in favour at Conciliation Hall; and the songs and ballads which it was giving to the youth of Ireland–who received them with delight, treasuring every line “as if an angel spoke”–were bright with the spirit of battle, and taught any doctrine except the sinfulness of fighting for liberty. The Liberator grew fearful of that organ and of the men by whom it was conducted. He distrusted that quiet-faced, thoughtful, and laborious young man, whom they so loved and reverenced–the founder, the soul, and the centre of their party. To the keen glance of the aged leader it appeared that for all that placid brow, those calm grey eyes and softly curving lip of his, the man had no horror of blood-spilling in a righteous cause, and was capable not only of deliberately inciting his countrymen to rise in arms against English rule, but also of taking a foremost place in the struggle. And little less to be dreaded than Thomas Davis, was his friend and _collaborateur_, Charles Gavan Duffy, whose sharp and active intellect and resolute spirit were not in the least likely to allow the national cause to rest for ever on the peaceful platform of Conciliation Hall. Death removed Davis early from the scene; but in John Mitchel, who had taken his place, there was no gain to the party of moral force. Then there was that other young firebrand–that dapper, well-built, well-dressed, curled and scented young gentleman from the _Urbs Intacta_–whose wondrous eloquence, with the glow of its thought, the brilliancy and richness of its imagery, and the sweetness of its cadences, charmed and swayed all hearts–adding immensely to the dangers of the situation. O’Brien, too, staid and unimpulsive as was his character, deliberate and circumspect as were his habits, was evidently inclined to give the weight of his name and influence to this “advanced” party. And there were many less prominent, but scarcely less able men giving them the aid of their great talents in the press and on the platform–not only men, but women too. Some of the most inspiriting of the strains that were inducing the youth of the country to familiarize themselves with steel blades and rifle barrels proceeded from the pens of those fair and gifted beings. Day after day, as this party sickened of the stale platitudes, and timid counsels, and crooked policy of the Hall, O’Connell, his son John, and other leading members of the Association, insisted more and more strongly on their doctrine of moral force, and indulged in the wildest and most absurd denunciations of the principle of armed resistance to tyranny. “The liberty of the world,” exclaimed O’Connell, “is not worth the shedding of one drop of human blood.” Notwithstanding the profound disgust which the utterance of such sentiments caused to the bolder spirits in the Association, they would have continued within its fold, if those debasing principles had not been actually formulated into a series of resolutions and proposed for the acceptance of the Society. Then they rose against the ignoble doctrine which would blot the fair fame of all who ever fought for liberty in Ireland or elsewhere, and rank the noblest men the world ever saw in the category of fools and criminals. Meagher, in a brilliant oration, protested against the resolutions, and showed why he would not “abhor and stigmatize the sword.” Mr. John O’Connell interrupted and interfered with the speaker. It was plain that freedom of speech was to be had no longer on the platform of the Association, and that men of spirit had no longer any business there–Meagher took up his hat and left the Hall, and amongst the crowd that accompanied, him, went William Smith O’Brien, Thomas Devin Reilly, Charles Gavan Duffy, and John Mitchel.

After this disruption, which occurred on the 28th of July, 1846, came the formation of the “Irish Confederation” by the seceders. In the proceedings of the new Society Mr. Mitchel took a more prominent part than he had taken in the business of the Repeal Association. And he continued to write in his own terse and forcible style in the _Nation_. But his mind travelled too fast in the direction of war for either the journal or the society with which he was connected. The desperate condition of the country, now a prey to all the horrors of famine, for the awfully fatal effects of which the government was clearly responsible–the disorganization and decay of the Repeal party, consequent on the death of O’Connell–the introduction of Arms’ Acts and other coercive measures by the government, and the growing ardour of the Confederate Clubs, were to him as signs and tokens unmistakable that there was no time to be lost in bringing matters to a crisis in which the people should hold their own by force of arms. Most of his political associates viewed the situation with more patience; but Mr. Mitchel was resolved that even if he stood alone, he would speak out his opinions to the people. In the latter part of December, 1847, he withdrew from the _Nation_. On the 5th of February, 1848, at the close of a debate, which had lasted two days, on the merits of his policy of immediate resistance to the collection of rates, rents, and taxes, and the division on which was unfavourable to him, he, with a number of friends and sympathisers withdraw from the Confederation. Seven days afterwards, he issued the first number of a newspaper, bearing the significant title of _The United Irishman_, and having for its motto the following aphorism, quoted from Theobald Wolfe Tone: “Our independence must be had at all hazards. If the men of property will not support us, they must fall; we can support ourselves by the aid of that numerous and respectable class of the community, the men of no property.”

The _Nation_ had been regarded as rather an outspoken journal, and not particularly well affected to the rulers of the country. But it was mildness, and gentleness, and loyalty itself compared to the new-comer in the field of journalism. The sudden uprising of a most portentous comet sweeping close to this planet of ours could hardly create more unfeigned astonishment in the minds of people in general than did the appearance of this wonderful newspaper, brimful of open and avowed sedition, crammed with incitements to insurrection, and with diligently prepared instructions for the destruction of her Majesty’s troops, barracks, stores, and magazines. Men rubbed their eyes, as they read its articles and correspondence, scarcely believing that any man in his sober senses would venture, in any part of the Queen’s dominions, to put such things in print. But there were the articles and the letters, nevertheless, on fair paper and in good type, published in a duly registered newspaper bearing the impressed stamp of the Customs–a sign to all men that the proprietor was bound in heavy sureties to the government against the publication of “libel, blasphemy, or sedition”!–couched, moreover, in a style of language possessing such grace and force, such delicacy of finish, and yet such marvellous strength, rich with so much of quiet humour, and bristling with such rasping sarcasm and penetrating invective, that they were read as an intellectual luxury even by men who regarded as utterly wild and wicked the sentiments they conveyed. The first editorial utterance in this journal consisted of a letter from Mr. Mitchel to the Viceroy, in which that functionary was addressed as “The Right Hon. the Earl of Clarendon, Englishman, calling himself her Majesty’s Lord Lieutenant-General and General Governor of Ireland.” The purport of the document was to declare, above board, the aims and objects of the _United Irishman_, a journal with which, wrote Mr. Mitchel, “your lordship and your lordship’s masters and servants are to have more to do than may be agreeable either to you or me.” That that purpose was to resume the struggle which had been waged by Tone and Emmet, or, as Mr. Mitchel put it, “the Holy War, to sweep this island clear of the English name and nation.” “We differ,” he said, “from the illustrious conspirators of ’98, not in principle–no, not an _iota_–but, as I shall presently show you, materially as to the mode of action.” And the difference was to consist in this–that whereas the revolutionary organization in Ninety-Eight was a secret one, which was ruined by spies and informers, that of Forty-Eight was to be an open one, concerning which informers could tell nothing that its promoters would not willingly proclaim from the house-tops. “If you desire,” he wrote, “to have a Castle detective employed about the _United Irishman_ office in Trinity-street, I shall make no objection, provided the man be sober and honest. If Sir George Grey or Sir William Somerville would like to read our correspondence, we make him welcome for the present–only let the letters be forwarded without losing a post.” Of the fact that he would speedily be called to account for his conduct in one of her Majesty’s courts of law, the writer of this defiant language was perfectly cognizant; but he declared that the inevitable prosecution would be his opportunity of achieving a victory over the government. “For be it known to you,” he wrote, “that in such a case you shall either publicly, boldly, notoriously _pack a jury_, or else see the accused rebel walk a free man out of the court of Queen’s Bench–which will be a victory only less than the rout of your lordship’s red-coats in the open field.” In case of his defeat, other men would take up the cause, and maintain it until at last England would have to fall back on her old system of courts-martial, and triangles, and free quarters, and Irishmen would find that there was no help for them “in franchises, in votings, in spoutings, in shoutings, and toasts drank with enthusiasm–nor in anything in this world, save the _extensor_ and _contractor_ muscles of their right arms, in these and in the goodness of God above.” The conclusion of this extraordinary address to her Majesty’s representative was in the following terms:–

“In plain English, my Lord Earl, the deep and irreconcilable disaffection of this people to all British laws, lawgivers, and law administrators shall find a voice. That holy Hatred of foreign dominion which nerved our noble predecessors fifty years ago for the dungeon, the field, or the gallows (though of late years it has worn a vile nisi prius gown, and snivelled somewhat in courts of law and on spouting platforms) still lives, thank God! and glows as fierce and hot as ever. To educate that holy Hatred, to make it know itself, and avow itself, and, at last, fill itself full, I hereby devote the columns of the _United Irishman_.”

After this address to the Lord Lieutenant, Mr. Mitchel took to addressing the farming classes, and it is really a study to observe the exquisite precision, the clearness, and the force of the language he employed to convey his ideas to them. In his second letter he supposes the case of a farmer who has the entire produce of his land in his haggard, in the shape of six stacks of corn; he shows that three of these ought, in all honour and conscience, be sufficient for the landlord and the government to seize upon, leaving the other three to support the family of the man whose labour had produced them. But what are the facts?–the landlord and the government sweep _all_ away, and the peasant and his family starve by the ditch sides. As an illustration of this condition of things, he quotes from a southern paper an account of an inquest held on the body of a man named Boland, and on the bodies of his two daughters, who, as the verdict declared, had “died of cold and starvation,” although occupants of a farm of over twenty acres in extent. On this melancholy case the comment of the editor of the _United Irishman_ was as follows:–

“Now what became of poor Boland’s twenty acres of crop? Part of it went to Gibraltar, to victual the garrison; part to South Africa, to provision the robber army; part went to Spain, to pay for the landlord’s wine; part to London, to pay the interest of his honour’s mortgage to the Jews. The English ate some of it; the Chinese had their share; the Jews and the Gentiles divided it amongst them–and there was _none_ for Boland.”

As to the manner in which the condition and fate of poor Boland were to be avoided, abundant instructions were given in every number. The anti-tithe movement was quoted as a model to begin with; but, of course, that was to be improved upon. The idea that the people would not venture on such desperate movements, and had grown enamoured of the Peace policy and of “Patience and Perseverance,” Mr. Mitchel refused to entertain for a moment:–

“I will not believe that Irishmen are so degraded and utterly lost as this. The Earth is awakening from sleep; a flash of electric fire is passing through the dumb millions. Democracy is girding himself once more like a strong man to run a race; and slumbering nations are arising in their might, and ‘shaking their invincible locks.’ Oh! my countrymen, look up, look up! Arise from the death-dust where you have long been lying, and let this light visit your eyes also, and touch your souls. Let your ears drink in the blessed words, ‘Liberty! Fraternity! Equality!’ which are soon to ring from pole to pole! Clear steel will, ere long, dawn upon you in your desolate darkness; and the rolling thunder of the People’s cannon will drive before it many a heavy cloud that has long hidden from you the face of heaven. Pray for that day; and preserve life and health that you may worthily meet it. Above all, let the man amongst you who has no gun sell his garment and buy one.”

So Mr. Mitchel went on for some weeks, preaching in earnest and exciting language the necessity of preparation for an immediate grapple with “the enemy.” In the midst of his labours came the startling news of another revolution in France, Louis Philippe in full flight, and the proclamation of a Republic. Yet a few days more and the Berliners had risen and triumphed, only stopping short of chasing their king away because he conceded all they were pleased to require of him; then came insurrection in Sicily, insurrection in Lombardy, insurrection in Milan, insurrection in Hungary–in short, the revolutionary movement became general throughout Europe, and thrones and principalities were tumbling and tottering in all directions. Loud was the complaint in the _United Irishman_ because Dublin was remaining tranquil. It was evident, however, that the people and their leaders were feeling the revolutionary impulse, and that matters were fast hurrying towards an outbreak. John Mitchel knew that a crisis was at hand, and devoted all his energies to making the best use of the short time that his newspaper had to live. His writing became fiercer, more condensed, and more powerful than ever. Lord Clarendon was now addressed as “Her Majesty’s Executioner General and General Butcher of Ireland,” and instructions for street warfare and all sorts of operations suitable for an insurgent populace occupied a larger space than ever in his paper. But the government were now resolved to close with their bold and clever enemy. On Tuesday, the 21st of March, 1848, Messrs. O’Brien, Meagher, and Mitchel were arrested, the former for seditious speeches, uttered at a meeting of the Confederation held on the 15th of that month, the latter for three seditious articles published in the _United Irishman_. All were released on bail, and when the trials came on, in the month of May, disagreements of the jury took place in the cases of O’Brien and Meagher. But before the trial of Mr. Mitchel could be proceeded with, he was arrested on a fresh charge of “treason-felony”–a new crime, which had been manufactured by Act of Parliament a few weeks before. He was, therefore, fast in the toils, and with but little chance of escape. Little concern did this give the brave-hearted patriot, who only hoped and prayed that at last the time had come when his countrymen would launch out upon the resolute course of action which he had so earnestly recommended to them. From his cell in Newgate, on the 16th of May, he addressed to them one of his most exciting letters, of which the following are the concluding passages:–

“For me, I abide my fate joyfully; for I know that, whatever betide me, my work is nearly done. Yes; Moral Force and ‘Patience and Perseverance’ are scattered to the wild winds of heaven. The music my countrymen now love best to hear is the rattle of arms and the ring of the rifle. As I sit here and write in my lonely cell, I hear, just dying away, the measured tramp of ten thousand marching men–my gallant confederates, unarmed and silent, but with hearts like bended bow, waiting till _the time_ comes. They have marched past my prison windows, to let me know there are ten thousand fighting men in Dublin–‘felons’ in heart and soul.

“I thank God for it. The game is afoot at last. The liberty of Ireland may come sooner or later, by peaceful negotiation or bloody conflict–but it is _sure_; and wherever between the poles I may chance to be, I will hear the crash of the downfall of the thrice-accursed British Empire.”

On Monday, May 22nd, 1848, the trial of Mr. Mitchel commenced in the Commission Court, Green-street, before Baron Lefroy. He was eloquently defended by the veteran lawyer and uncompromising patriot, Robert Holmes, the brother-in-law of Robert Emmet. The mere law of the case was strong against the prisoner, but Mr. Holmes endeavoured to raise the minds of the jury to the moral view of the case, upon which English juries have often acted regardless of the letter of the Act of Parliament. With a jury of Irishmen impartially chosen it would have been a good defence, but the Castle had made sure of their men in this case. At five o’clock on the evening of the 26th, the case went to the jury, who, after an absence of two hours, returned into court with a verdict of “Guilty.”

That verdict was a surprise to no one. On the day the jury was empanelled, the prisoner and every one else knew what it was to be. It was now his turn to have a word to say for himself, and he spoke, as was his wont, in plain terms, answering thus the question that had been put to him:–

“I have to say that I have been found guilty by a packed jury–by the jury of a partizan sheriff–by a jury not empanelled even according to the law of England. I have been found guilty by a packed jury obtained by a juggle–a jury not empanelled by a sheriff but by a juggler.”

This was touching the high sheriff on a tender place, and he immediately called out for the protection of the court. Whereupon Baron Lefroy interposed, and did gravely and deliberately, as is the manner of judges, declare that the imputation which had just been made on the character of that excellent official, the high sheriff, was most “unwarranted and unfounded.” He adduced, however, no reason in support of that declaration–not a shadow of proof that the conduct of the aforesaid official was fair or honest–but proceeded to say that the jury had found the prisoner guilty on evidence supplied by his own writings, some of which his lordship, with a proper expression of horror on his countenance, proceeded to read from his notes. In one of the prisoner’s publications, he said, there appeared the following passage “There is now growing on the soil of Ireland a wealth of grain, and roots, and cattle, far more than enough to sustain in life and comfort all the inhabitants of the island. That wealth must not leave us another year, not until every grain of it is fought for in every stage, from the tying of the sheaf to the loading of the ship; and the effort necessary to that simple act of self-preservation will at one and the same blow prostrate British dominion and landlordism together.” In reference to this piece of writing, and many others of a similar nature, his lordship remarked that no effort had been made to show that the prisoner was not responsible for them; it was only contended that they involved no moral guilt. But the law was to be vindicated; and it now became his duty to pronounce the sentence of the court, which was–that the prisoner be transported beyond the seas for a term of fourteen years. The severity of the sentence occasioned general surprise; a general suspiration and low murmur were heard through the court. Then there was stillness as of death, in the midst of which the tones of John Mitchel’s voice rang out clearly, as he said:–

“The law has now done its part, and the Queen of England, her crown and government in Ireland are now secure, pursuant to act of parliament. I have done my part also. Three months ago I promised Lord Clarendon, and his government in this country, that I would provoke him into his courts of justice, as places of this kind are called, and that I would force him publicly and notoriously to pack a jury against me to convict me, or else that I would walk a free man out of this court, and provoke him to a contest in another field. My lord, I knew I was setting my life on that cast, but I knew that in either event the victory should be with me, and it is with me. Neither the jury, nor the judges, nor any other man in this court presumes to imagine that it is a criminal who stands in this dock.”

Here there were murmurs of applause, which caused the criers to call out for “Silence!” and the police to look fiercely on the people around them. Mr. Mitchel resumed:–

“I have shown what the law is made of in Ireland. I have shown that her Majesty’s government sustains itself in Ireland by packed juries, by partizan judges, by perjured sheriffs.”

Baron Lefroy interposed. The court could not sit there to hear the prisoner arraign the jurors, the sheriffs, the courts, and the tenure by which Englands holds this country. Again the prisoner spoke:–

“I have acted all through this business, from the first, under a strong sense of duty. I do not repent anything that I have done, and I believe that the course which I have opened is only commenced. The Roman who saw his hand burning to ashes before the tyrant, promised that three hundred should follow out his enterprise. Can I not promise for one, for two, for three, aye for hundreds?”

As he uttered these words, Mr. Mitchel looked proudly into the faces of the friends near him, and around the court. His words and his glance were immediately responded to by an outburst of passionate voices from all parts of the building, exclaiming–“For me! for me! promise for me, Mitchel! and for me!” And then came a clapping of hands and a stamping of feet, that sounded loud and sharp as a discharge of musketry, followed by a shout like a peal of thunder. John Martin, Thomas Francis Meagher, and Devin Reilly, with other gentlemen who stood close by the dock, reached over it to grasp the hand of the new made felon. The aspect of affairs looked alarming for a moment. The policemen laid violent hands on the persons near them and pulled them about. Mr. Meagher and Mr. Doheny were taken into custody. Baron Lefroy, in a high state of excitement, cried out–“Officer! remove Mr. Mitchel!” and then, with his brother judges, retired hurriedly from the bench. The turnkeys who stood in the dock with Mr. Mitchel motioned to him that he was to move; he took a step or two down the little stairs under the flooring of the court-house, and his friends saw him no more.

He was led through the passages that communicated with the adjoining prison, and ushered into a dark and narrow cell, in which, however, his detention was of but a few hours’ duration: At four o’clock in the evening of that day–May 27th, 1848–the prison van, escorted by a large force of mounted police and dragoons, with drawn sabres, drove up to the prison gate. It was opened, and forth walked John Mitchel–_in fetters_. A heavy chain was attached to his right leg by a shackle at the ankle; the other end was to have been attached to the left leg, but as the jailors had not time to effect the connexion when the order came for the removal of the prisoner, they bade him take it in his hand, and it was in this plight, with a festoon of iron from his hand to his foot, he passed from the prison into the street–repeating mayhap to his own heart, the words uttered by Wolfe Tone in circumstances not dissimilar:–“For the cause which I have embraced, I feel prouder to wear these chains, than if I were decorated with the star and garter of England.” Four or five police inspectors assisted him to step into the van, the door was closed after him, the word was given to the escort, and off went the cavalcade at a thundering pace to the North-wall, where a government steamer, the “Shearwater,” was lying with her steam up in readiness to receive him. He clambered the side-ladder of the steamer with some assistance; on reaching the deck, the chains tripped him and he fell forward. Scarcely was he on his feet again, when the paddles of the steamer were beating; the water, and the vessel was moving from the shores of that “Isle of Destiny,” which he loved so well, and a sight of which has never since gladdened the eyes of John Mitchel.

The history of Mr. Mitchel’s subsequent career, which has been an eventful one, does not rightly fall within the scope of this work. Suffice it to say that on June the 1st, 1848, he was placed on board the “Scourge” man-of-war, which then sailed off for Bermuda. There Mr. Mitchel was retained on board a penal ship, or “hulk,” until April 22nd, 1849, when he was transferred to the ship “Neptune,” on her way from England to the Cape of Good Hope, whither she was taking a batch of British convicts. Those convicts the colonists at the Cape refused to receive into their country, and a long struggle ensued between them and the commander of the “Neptune,” who wished to deposit his cargo according to instructions. The colonists were willing to make an exception in the case of Mr. Mitchel, but the naval officer could not think of making any compromise in the matter. The end of the contest was that the vessel, with her cargo of convicts on board, sailed on February 19th, 1850, for Van Dieman’s Land, where she arrived on April 7th of the same year. In consideration of the hardships they had undergone by reason of their detention at the Cape, the government granted a conditional pardon to all the criminal convicts on their arrival at Hobart Town. It set them free on the condition that they should not return to the “United Kingdom.” Mr. Mitchel and the other political convicts were less mercifully treated. It was not until the year 1854 that a similar amount of freedom was given to these gentlemen. Some months previous to the arrival of Mr. Mitchel at Hobart Town, his friends William Smith O’Brien, John Martin, Thomas F. Meagher, Kevin Izod O’Doherty, Terence Bellew MacManus, and Patrick O’Donoghue, had reached the same place, there to serve out the various terms of transportation to which they had been sentenced. All except Mr. O’Brien, who had refused to enter into these arrangements, were at that time on parole–living, however, in separate and limited districts, and no two of them nearer than thirty or forty miles. On his landing from the “Neptune,” Mr. Mitchel, in consideration of the delicate state of his health, was allowed to reside with Mr. Martin in the Bothwell district.

In the summer of the year 1853, a number of Irish gentlemen in America, took measures to effect the release of one or more of the Irish patriots from Van Dieman’s Land, and Mr. P.J. Smyth sailed from New York on that patriotic mission. Arrived in Van Dieman’s Land, the authorities, who seemed to have suspition of his business, placed him under arrest, from which he was released after three days’ detention. The friends soon managed to meet and come to an understanding as to their plan of future operations, in conformity with which, Mr. Mitchel penned the following letter to the governor of the island:–

“Bothwell, 8th June, 1853.

“SIR–I hereby resign the ‘comparative liberty,’ called ‘ticket-of-leave,’ and revoke my parole of honour. I shall forthwith present myself before the police magistrate of Bothwell, at his police office, show him this letter, and offer myself to be taken into custody. I am, sir, your obedient servant,

“JOHN MITCHEL.”

On the next day, June the 9th, Mr. Mitchel and Mr. Smyth went to the police office, saw the magistrate with his attending constables; handed him the letter, waited until he had read its contents, addressed to him a verbal statement to the same effect, and while he appeared to be paralyzed with astonishment, and uncertain what to do, touched their hats to him and left the office. Chase after them was vain, as they had mounted a pair of fleet steeds after leaving the presence of his worship; but it was not until six weeks afterwards that they were able to get shipping and leave the island. On the 12th of October, 1853, Mr. Mitchel was landed safe in California–to the intense delight of his countrymen throughout the American States, who celebrated the event by many joyful banquets.

Since then, Mr. Mitchel has occupied himself mainly with the press. He started the _Citizen_ in New York, and subsequently, at Knoxville, Tennessee, the _Southern Citizen_. As editor of the _Richmond Examiner_ during the American civil war, he ably supported the Southern cause, to which he gave a still stronger pledge of his attachment in the services and the lives of two of his brave sons. One of these gentlemen, Mr. William Mitchel, was killed at the battle of Gettysburg; the other, Captain John Mitchel, who had been placed in command of the important position of Fort Sumter, was shot on the parapet of that work, on July 19th, 1864. Shortly after the close of the war, Mr. John Mitchel was taken prisoner by the Federal government; but after undergoing an imprisonment of some months his release was ordered by President Johnson, acting on the solicitation of a large and influential deputation of Irishmen. In the latter part of the year 1867, turning to the press again, he started the _Irish Citizen_ at New York, and in that journal, at the date of this writing, he continues to wield his trenchant pen on behalf of the Irish cause. To that cause, through all the lapse of time, and change of scene, and vicissitude of fortune which he has known, his heart has remained for ever true. He has suffered much for it; that he may live to see it triumphant is a prayer which finds an echo in the hearts of all his fellow-countrymen.

We have written of Mr. Mitchel only in reference to his political career; but we can, without trenching in any degree on the domain of private life, supply some additional and authentic details which will be of interest to Irish readers. The distinguished subject of our memoir was born at Camnish, near Dungiven, in the county of Derry, on the 3rd of November, 1815. His father was the Rev. John Mitchel, at that time Presbyterian Minister of Dungiven, and a good patriot, too, having been–as we learn from a statement casually made by Mr. Mitchel in Conciliation Hall–one of the United Irishmen of 1798. The maiden name of his mother, who also came of a Presbyterian and county Derry family, was Mary Haslitt. At Newry, whither the Rev. Mr. Mitchel removed in the year 1823, and where he continued to reside till his death in 1843, young John Mitchel was sent to the school of Dr. David Henderson, from which he entered Trinity College, Dublin, about the year 1830 or 1831. He did not reside within the college, but kept his terms by coming up from the country to attend the quarterly examinations. Though he did not distinguish himself in his college course, and had paid no more attention to the books prescribed for his studies than seemed necessary for passing his examinations respectably, John Mitchel was known to his intimate friends to be a fine scholar and possessed of rare ability. While still a college student, he was bound apprentice to a solicitor in Newry. Before the completion of his apprenticeship, in the year 1835, he married Jane Verner, a young lady of remarkable beauty, and only sixteen years of age at the time, a daughter of Captain James Verner. Not long after his marriage he entered into partnership in his profession, and in conformity with the arrangements agreed upon, went to reside at Banbridge, a town ten miles north of Newry, where he continued to practice as a solicitor until the death of Thomas Davis in 1845. He had been an occasional contributor to the _Nation_ almost from the date of its foundation; its editors recognised at once his splendid literary powers, and when the “Library of Ireland” was projected, pressed him to write one of the volumes, suggesting as his subject the Life of Hugh O’Neill. How ably he fulfilled the task is known to his countrymen, who rightly regard the volume as one of the most valuable of the whole series. When death removed the amiable and gifted Thomas Davis from the scene of his labours, Mr. Duffy invited John Mitchel, as the man most worthy of all in Ireland, to take his place. Mr. Mitchel regarded the invitation as the call of his country. He gave up his professional business in Banbridge, removed with his wife and family to Dublin, and there throwing himself heart and soul into the cause, fought it out boldly and impetuously until the day when, bound in British chains, “the enemy” bore him off from Ireland.

* * * * *

JOHN MARTIN.

When the law had consummated its crime, and the doom of the felon was pronounced against John Mitchel, there stood in the group that pressed round him in the dock and echoed back the assurances which he flung as a last defiance at his foes, a thoughtful, delicate looking, but resolute young Irishman, whose voice perhaps was not the loudest of those that spoke there, but whose heart throbbed responsively to his words, and for whom the final message of the unconquerable rebel possessed a meaning and significance that gave it the force of a special revelation. “Promise for me, Mitchel,” they cried out, but he had no need to join in that request; he had no need to intimate to Mr. Mitchel his willingness to follow out the enterprise which that fearless patriot had so boldly commenced. On the previous day, sitting with the prisoner in his gloomy cell, John Martin of Loughorne had decided on the course which he would take in the event of the suppression of the _United Irishman_ and the transportation of its editor. He would start a successor to that journal, and take the place of his dear friend at the post of danger. It was a noble resolve, deliberately taken, and resolutely and faithfully was it carried out. None can read the history of that act of daring, and of the life of sacrifice by which it has been followed, and not agree with us that while the memories of Tone, of Emmet, and of Russell, are cherished in Ireland, the name of John Martin ought not be forgotten.

A few days subsequent to that memorable scene in Greenstreet court-house, John Martin quitted his comfortable home and the green slopes of Loughorne, separated himself from the friends he loved and the relatives who idolized him, and entered on the stormy career of a national leader and journalist, at a time when to advocate the principles of nationality was to incur the ferocious hostility of a government whose thirst for vengeance was only whetted by the transportation of John Mitchel. He knew the danger he was braving; he knew that the path on which he entered led down to suffering and ruin; he stood in the gap from which Mitchel had been hurled, with a full consciousness of the perils of the situation; but unflinchingly and unhesitatingly as the martyr goes to his death, he threw himself into the thinning ranks of the patriot leaders; and when the event that he anticipated arrived, and the prison gates opened to receive him–then, too, in the midst of indignities and privations–he displayed an imperturbable firmness and contempt for physical suffering, that showed how powerless persecution is to subdue the spirit that self-conscious righteousness sustains.

His history previous to the conviction of his friend and school-fellow, John Mitchel, if it includes no events of public importance, possesses for us all the interest that attaches to the early life of a good and remarkable man. John Martin was born at Loughorne, in the lordship of Newry, Co. Down, on the 8th of September, 1812; being the eldest son of Samuel Martin and Jane Harshaw, both natives of that neighbourhood, and members of Presbyterian families settled there for many generations. About the time of his birth, his father purchased the fee-simple of the large farm which he had previously rented, and two of his uncles having made similar investments, the family became proprietors of the townland on which they lived. Mr. Samuel Martin, who died in 1831, divided his attention between the management of the linen business–a branch of industry in which the family had partly occupied themselves for some generations–and the care of his land. His family consisted of nine children, of whom John Martin–the subject of our sketch–was the second born. The principles of his family, if they could not be said to possess the hue of nationality, were at least liberal and tolerant. In ’98, the Martins of Loughorne, were stern opponents of the United Irishmen; but in ’82, his father and uncles were enrolled amongst the volunteers, and the Act of Union was opposed by them as a national calamity. It was from his good mother, however, a lady of refined taste and remarkable mental culture, that young John derived his inclination for literary pursuits, and learned the maxims of justice and equality that swayed him through life. He speedily discarded the prejudices against Catholic Emancipation, which were not altogether unknown amongst his family, and which even found some favour with himself in the unreflecting days of boyhood. The natural tendency of his mind, however, was as true to the principles of justice as the needle to the pole, and the quiet rebuke that one day fell from his uncle–“What! John, would you not give your Catholic fellow-countrymen the same rights that you enjoy yourself?” having set him a thinking for the first time on the subject, he soon formed opinions more in consonance with liberality and fair play.

When about twelve years of age, young Martin was sent to the school of Dr. Henderson at Newry, where he first became acquainted with John Mitchel, then attending the same seminary as a day scholar. We next find John Martin an extern student of Trinity College, and a year after the death of his father he took out his degree in Arts. He was now twenty years old, and up to this time had suffered much from a constitutional affection, being subject from infancy to fits of spasmodic asthma. Strange to say, the disease which troubled him at frequently recurring intervals at home, seldom attacked him when away from Loughorne, and partly for the purpose of escaping it, he took up his residence in Dublin in 1833, and devoted himself to the study of medicine. He never meditated earning his living by the profession, but he longed for the opportunity of assuaging the sufferings of the afflicted poor. The air of the dissecting-room, however, was too much for Martin’s delicate nervous organization; the kindly encouragement of his fellow-students failed to induce him to breathe its fetid atmosphere a second time, and he was forced to content himself with a theoretical knowledge of the profession. By diligent study and with the assistance of lectures, anatomical plates, &c., he managed to conquer the difficulty; and he had obtained nearly all the certificates necessary for taking out a medical degree, when he was recalled in 1835 to Loughorne, by the death of his uncle John, whose house and lands he inherited.

During the four years following he lived at Loughorne, discharging the duties of a resident country gentleman as they are seldom performed in Ireland, and endearing himself to all classes, but particularly to the poor, by his gentle disposition, purity of mind, and benevolence of heart. In him the afflicted and the poverty-stricken ever found a sympathising friend, and if none of the rewards which the ruling faction were ready to shower on the Irishman of his position who looked to the Castle for inspiration, fell to his share, he enjoyed a recompense more precious in the prayers and the blessings of the poor. The steps of his door were crowded with the patients who flocked to him for advice, and for whom he prescribed gratuitously–not without some reluctance, however, arising from distrust of his own abilities and an unwillingness to interfere with the practice of the regular profession. But the diffidence with which he regarded his own efforts was not shared by the people of the district. Their faith in his professional skill was unbounded, and perhaps the confidence which they felt in his power, contributed in some measure to the success that attended his practice.

In 1839 Mr. Martin sailed from Bristol to New York, and travelled thence to the extreme west of Upper Canada to visit a relative who had settled there. On that occasion he was absent from Ireland nearly twelve months, and during his stay in America he made some tours in Canada and the Northern States, visiting the Falls, Toronto, Montreal, Philadelphia, New York, Washington, Pittsburg, and Cleveland. In 1841 he made a brief continental tour, and visited the chief points of attraction along the Rhine. During this time Mr. Martin’s political ideas became developed and expanded, and though like Smith O’Brien, he at first withheld his sympathies from the Repeal agitation, in a short time he became impressed with the justice of the national demand for independence. His retiring disposition kept him from appearing very prominently before the public; but the value of his adhesion to the Repeal Association was felt to be great by those who knew his uprightness, his disinterestedness, and his ability.

When the suicidal policy of O’Connell drove the Confederates from Conciliation Hall, John Martin was not a silent spectator of the crisis, and in consequence of the manly sentiments he expressed with reference to the treatment to which the Young Ireland party had been subjected, he ceased to be a member of the Association. There was another cause too for his secession. A standing taunt in the mouth of the English press was that O’Connell pocketed the peoples’ money and took care to let nobody know what he did with it. To put an end to this reproach Mr. Martin asked that the accounts of the Association should be published. “Publish the accounts!” shrieked the well-paid gang that marred the influence and traded in the politics of O’Connell: “Monstrous!” and they silenced the troublesome purist by suppressing his letters and expelling him from the Association. In the ranks of the Confederates, however, Martin found more congenial society; amongst them he found men as earnest, as sincere, and as single-minded as himself, and by them the full worth of his character was soon appreciated. He frequently attended their meetings, and he it was who filled the chair during the prolonged debates that ended with the temporary withdrawal of Mitchel from the Confederation. When the _United Irishman_ was started he became a contributor to its columns, and he continued to write in its pages up to the date of its suppression, and the conviction of its editor and proprietor.

There were many noble and excellent qualities which the friends of John Martin knew him to possess. Rectitude of principle, abhorrence of injustice and intolerance, deep love of country, the purity and earnestness of a saint, allied with the kindliness and inoffensiveness of childhood; amiability and disinterestedness, together with a perfect abnegation of self, and total freedom from the vanity which affected a few of his compatriots–these they gave him credit for, but they were totally unprepared for the lion-like courage, the boldness, and the promptitude displayed by him, when the government, by the conviction of Mitchel, flung down the gauntlet to the people of Ireland. Hastily settling up his worldly accounts in the North, he returned to Dublin to stake his fortune and his life in the cause which he had promised to serve. The _United Irishman_ was gone, but Martin had undertaken that its place in Irish Journalism should not be vacant; and a few weeks after the office in Trinity-street was sacked he reoccupied the violated and empty rooms, and issued there-from the first number of the _Irish Felon_. There was no halting place in Irish Journalism then. The _Nation_ had already flung peace and conciliation and “balmy forgiveness” to the winds, and advocated the creed of the sword. The scandalous means used to procure a verdict of guilty against Mitchel tore to tatters the last rag of the constitution in Ireland. It was idle to dictate observance of the law which the government themselves were engaged in violating, and the _Nation_ was not the journal to brook the tyranny of the authorities. With a spirit that cannot be too highly praised, it called for the overthrow of the government that had sent Mitchel in chains into banishment, and summoned the people of Ireland to prepare to assert their rights by the only means now left them–the bullet and the pike. And the eyes of men whose hearts were “weary waiting for the fray,” began to glisten as they read the burning words of poetry and prose in which the _Nation_ preached the gospel of liberty. It was to take its side by that journal, and to rival it in the boldness of its language and the spirit of its arguments, that the _Irish Felon_ was established; and it executed its mission well. “I do not love political agitation for its own sake,” exclaimed Martin, in his opening address in the first number. “At best I regard it as a necessary evil; and if I were not convinced that my countrymen are determined on vindicating their rights, and that they really intend to free themselves, I would at once withdraw from the struggle and leave my native land for ever. I could not live in Ireland and derive my means of life as a member of the Irish community, without feeling a citizen’s responsibilities in Irish public affairs. Those responsibilities involve the guilt of national robbery and murder–of a system which arrays the classes of our people against each other’s prosperity and very lives, like beasts of prey, or rather like famishing sailors on a wreck–of the debasement and moral ruin of a people endowed by God with surpassing resources for the attainment of human happiness and human dignity. I cannot be loyal to a system of meanness, terror, and corruption, although it usurp the title and assume the form of a ‘government.’ So long as such a ‘government’ presumes to injure and insult me, and those in whose prosperity I am involved, I must offer to it all the resistance in my power. But if I despaired of successful resistance, I would certainly remove myself from under such a ‘government’s’ actual authority; that I do not exile myself is a proof that I hope to witness the overthrow, and assist in the overthrow, of the most abominable tyranny the world now groans under–the British Imperial system. To gain permission for the Irish people to care for their own lives, their own happiness and dignity–to abolish the political conditions which compel the classes of our people to hate and to murder each other, and which compel the Irish people to hate the very name of the English–to end the reign of fraud, perjury, corruption, and ‘government’ butchery, and to make, law, order, and peace possible in Ireland, the _Irish Felon_ takes its place amongst the combatants in the holy war now waging in this island against foreign tyranny. In conducting it my weapons shall be–_the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God_!” Such “open and avowed treason” as this could not long continue to be published. Before the third number the _Felon_ saw the light, a warrant for Mr. Martin’s arrest was in the hands of the detectives, and its fifth was its last. On Saturday, July 8th, Mr. Martin surrendered himself into custody, having kept out of the way for a few days to prevent his being tried, under the “gagging act,” at the Commission sitting when the warrant was issued, and which adjourned until August–the time fixed for the insurrection–in the interim. On the same day, Duffy, Williams, and O’Doherty were arrested. Martin was imprisoned in Newgate, but he continued to write from within his cell for the _Felon_, and its last number, published on July 22nd, contains a spirited letter signed with his initials, which formed portion of the indictment against him on his trial. In this letter, Martin calls on his countrymen in impassioned words to “stand to their arms!” “Let them menace you,” he writes from his dungeon, “with the hulks or the gibbet for daring to speak or write your love to Ireland. Let them threaten to mow you down with grape shot, as they massacred your kindred with famine and plague. Spurn their brutal ‘Acts of Parliament’–trample upon their lying proclamations–fear them not!”

On Tuesday, August 15th, John Martin’s trial commenced in Green-street court-house, the indictment being for treason-felony. “Several of his tenantry,” writes the Special Correspondent of the London _Morning Herald,_ “came up to town to be present at his trial, and, as they hoped, at his escape, for they could not bring themselves to believe that a man so amiable, so gentle, and so pious, as they had long known him, could be”–this is the Englishman’s way of putting it–“an inciter to bloodshed. It is really melancholy,” added the writer, “to hear the poor people of the neighbourhood of Loughorne speak of their benefactor. He was ever ready to administer medicine and advice gratuitously to his poor neighbours and all who sought his assistance; and according to the reports I have received, he did an incalculable amount of good in his way. As a landlord he was beloved by his tenantry for his kindness and liberality, while from his suavity of manner and excellent qualities, he was a great favourite with the gentry around him.”

At eight o’clock, p.m., on Thursday, August 17th, the jury came into court with a verdict of guilty against the prisoner, recommending him to mercy on the grounds that the letter on which he was convicted was written from the prison, and penned under exciting circumstances. On the following day, Mr. Martin was brought up to receive sentence, and asked–after the usual form–whether he had anything to say against the sentence being pronounced? The papers of the time state that he appeared perfectly unmoved by the painful position in which he was placed–that he looked round the courthouse in a calm, composed, dignified manner, and then spoke the following reply in clear unfaltering tones:–

“My lords–I have no imputation to cast upon the bench, neither have I anything to charge the jury with, of unfairness towards me. I think the judges desired to do their duty honestly as upright judges and men; and that the twelve men who were put into the box, as I believe, not to try, but to convict me, voted honestly, according to their prejudices. I have no personal enmity against the sheriff, sub-sheriff, or any of the gentlemen connected with the arrangement of the jury-panel–nor against the Attorney-General, nor any other person engaged in the proceedings called my trial; _but, my lords, I consider that I have not been yet tried_. There have been certain formalities carried on here for three days regarding me, ending in a verdict of guilty: _but I have not been put upon my country_, as the constitution said to exist in Ireland requires. Twelve of my countrymen, ‘indifferently chosen,’ have not been put into that jury-box to try me, but twelve men who, I believe, have been selected by the parties who represent the crown, for the purpose of convicting and not of trying me. I believe they were put into that box because the parties conducting the prosecution knew their political sentiments were hostile to mine, and because the matter at issue here is a political question–a matter of opinion, and not a matter of fact. I have nothing more to say as to the trial, except to repeat that, having watched the conduct of the judges, I consider them upright and honest men. I have this to add, that as to the charge I make with respect to the constitution of the panel and the selection of the jury, I have no legal evidence of the truth of my statement, but there is no one who has a moral doubt of it. Every person knows that what I have stated is the fact; and I would represent to the judges, most respectfully, that they, as upright and honourable men and judges, and as citizens, ought to see that the administration of justice in this country is above suspicion. I have nothing more to say with regard to the trial; but I would be thankful to the court for permission to say a few words in vindication of my character and motives after sentence is passed.”

Baron Pennefather–“No; we will not hear anything from you after sentence.”

Chief Baron–“We cannot hear anything from you after sentence has been pronounced.”

Mr. Martin–“Then, my lords, permit me to say that, admitting the narrow and confined constitutional doctrines which I have heard preached in this court to be right, _I am not guilty of the charge according to this act_. I did not intend to devise or levy war against the Queen or to depose the Queen. In the article of mine on which the jury framed their verdict of guilty, which was written in prison, and published in the last number of my paper, what I desired to do was this–to advise and encourage my countrymen to keep their arms, because that is their inalienable right, which no act of parliament, no proclamation, can take away from them. It is, I repeat, their inalienable right. I advised them to keep their arms; and further, I advised them to use their arms in their own defence, against all assailants–even assailants that might come to attack them, unconstitutionally and improperly using the Queen’s name as their sanction. My object in all my proceedings has been simply to assist in establishing the national independence of Ireland, for the benefit of all the people of Ireland–noblemen, clergymen, judges, professional men–in fact, all Irishmen. I have sought that object: first, because I thought it was our right–because I think national independence is the right of the people of this country; and secondly, I admit that, being a man who loved retirement, I never would have engaged in politics did I not think it was necessary to do all in my power to make an end of the horrible scenes that this country presents–the pauperism, starvation, and crime, and vice, and hatred of all classes against each other. I thought there should be an end to that horrible system, which, while it lasted, gave me no peace of mind; for I could not enjoy anything in my native country so long as I saw my countrymen forced to be vicious–forced to hate each other–and degraded to the level of paupers and brutes. That is the reason I engaged in politics. I acknowledge, as the Solicitor-General has said, that I was but a weak assailant of the English power. I am not a good writer, and I am no orator. I had only two weeks’ experience in conducting a newspaper until I was put into jail; but I am satisfied to direct the attention of my countrymen to everything I have written and said, and to rest my character on a fair and candid examination of what I have put forward as my opinions. I shall say nothing in vindication of my motives but this–that every fair and honest man, no matter how prejudiced he may be, if he calmly considers what I have written and said, will be satisfied that my motives were pure and honourable. I have nothing more to say.”

Then the judge proceeded to pass sentence. In the course of his remarks he referred to the recommendation to mercy which came from the jury, whereupon Mr. Martin broke in. “I beg your lordship’s pardon,” he said, “I cannot condescend to accept ‘mercy,’ where I believe I have been morally right; I want justice–not mercy.” But he looked for it in vain.

“Transportation for ten years beyond the seas” is spoken by the lips of the judge, and the burlesque of justice is at an end. Mr. Martin heard the sentence with perfect composure and self-possession, though the faces of his brothers and friends standing by, showe signs of the deepest emotion. “Remove the prisoner,” were the next words uttered, and then John Martin, the pure-minded, the high-souled, and the good, was borne off to the convict’s cell in Newgate.

Amongst the friends who clustered round the dock in which the patriot leader stood, and watched the progress of his trial with beating hearts, was Mr. James Martin, one of the prisoner’s brothers. During the three long weary days occupied by the trial, his post had been by his brother’s side listening to the proceedings with the anxiety and solicitude which a brother alone can feel, and revealing by every line of his countenance the absorbing interest with which he regarded the issue. The verdict of the jury fell upon him with the bewildering shock of an avalanche. He was stunned, stupified, amazed; he could hardly believe that he had heard the fatal words aright, and that “guilty” had been the verdict returned. _He_ guilty! he whose life was studded by good deeds as stars stud the wintry sky; _he_ guilty, whose kindly heart had always a throb for the suffering and the unfortunate, whose hand was ever extended to shield the oppressed, to succour the friendless, and to shelter the homeless and the needy; _he_ “inspired by the devil,” whose career had been devoted to an attempt to redress the sufferings of his fellow-countrymen, and whose sole object in life seemed to be to abridge the sufferings of the Irish people, to plant the doctrines of peace and good-will in every heart, and to make Ireland the home of harmony and concord, by rendering her prosperous and free. It was a lie, a calumny, a brutal fabrication! It was more than his sense of justice could endure, it was more than his hot Northern blood could tolerate. Beckoning a friend, he rushed with him into the street, and drove direct to the residence of Mr. Waterhouse, the foreman of the jury. The latter had barely returned from court, when he was waited upon by Mr. Martin, who indignantly charged him with having bullied the jury into recording a verdict of guilty–an accusation which current report made against him–and challenged the astonished juryman to mortal combat. Mr. Waterhouse was horror-struck by the proposal, to which he gasped out in response, a threat to call in the police. He never heard of anything so terribly audacious. He, a loyal Castle tradesman, who had “well and truly” tried the case according to the recognised acceptance of the words, and who had “true deliverance made” after the fashion in favour with the crown; he whose “perspicuity, wisdom, impartiality,” &c., had been appealed to and belauded so often by the Attorney-General, to be challenged to a hostile meeting, which might end, by leaving a bullet lodged in his invaluable body. The bare idea of it fairly took his breath away, and with the terrible vision of pistols and bloodshed before his mind, he rushed to the police office and had his indignant visitor arrested. On entering the Green-street courthouse next day, Mr. Waterhouse told his woeful story to the judge. The judge was appalled by the disclosure; Mr. Martin was brought before him and sentenced to a month’s imprisonment, besides being bound over to keep the peace towards Mr. Waterhouse and everyone else for a period of seven years.

A short time after Mr. John Martin’s conviction, he and Kevin Izod O’Doherty were shipped off to Van Diemen’s Land on board the “Elphinstone,” where they arrived in the month of November, 1849. O’Brien, Meagher, MacManus, and O’Donoghue had arrived at the same destination a few days before. Mr. Martin resided in the district assigned to him until the year 1854, when a pardon, on the condition of their not returning to Ireland or Great Britain was granted to himself, O’Brien, and O’Doherty, the only political prisoners in the country at that time–MacManus, Meagher, O’Donoghue, and Mitchel having previously escaped. Mr. O’Brien and Mr. Martin sailed together in the “Norna” from Melbourne for Ceylon, at which port they parted, Mr. O’Brien turning northward to Madras, while Mr. Martin came on _via_ Aden, Cairo, Alexandria, Malta, and Marseilles to Paris, where he arrived about the end of October, 1854. In June, 1856, the government made the pardon of Messrs. Martin, O’Brien, and O’Doherty, unconditional, and Mr. Martin then hastened to pay a visit to his family from whom he had been separated during eight years. After a stay of a few months he went back to Paris, intending to reside abroad during the remainder of his life, because he could not voluntarily live under English rule in Ireland. But the death of a near and dear member of his family, in October, 1858, imposed on him duties which he could only discharge by residence in his own home, and compelled him to terminate his exile. Living since then in his own land he has taken care to renew and continue his protest against the domination of England in Ireland. In January, 1864, acting on the suggestion of many well-known nationalists, he established in Dublin a Repeal Association called “The National League.” The peculiar condition of Irish politics at the time was unfavourable to any large extension of the society; but notwithstanding this circumstance the League by its meetings and its publications rendered good service to the cause of Irish freedom. Mr. Martin has seen many who once were loud and earnest in their professions of patriotism lose heart and grow cold in the service of their country, but he does not weary of the good work. Patiently and zealously he still continues to labour in the national cause; his mission is not ended yet; and with a constancy which lapse of years and change of scene have not affected, he still clings to the hope of Ireland’s regeneration, and with voice and pen supports the principles of patriotism for which he suffered. The debt that Ireland owes to him will not easily be acquitted, and if the bulk of his co-religionists are no longer to be found within the national camp, we can almost forgive them their shortcomings, when we remember that, within our own generation, the Presbyterians of Ulster have given to Ireland two such men as John Martin and John Mitchel.

Mr. Martin’s name will re-appear farther on in another portion of this work, for the occasion of which we have here treated was not the only one on which his patriotic words and actions brought upon him the attention of “the authorities,” and subjected him to the troubles of a state prosecution.

* * * * *

W.S. O’BRIEN.

Loudly across the dark flowing tide of the Liffey, rolled the cheers of welcome and rejoicing that burst from Conciliation Hall on that memorable day in January, ’44, when William Smith O’Brien first stood beneath its roof, and presided over a meeting of Repealers. Many a time had the walls of that historic building given back the cheers of the thousands who gathered there to revel in the promises of the Liberator; many a time had they vibrated to the enthusiasm of the Irishmen who met there to celebrate the progress of the movement which was to give freedom and prosperity to Ireland; but not even in those days of monster meetings and popular demonstrations had a warmer glow of satisfaction flushed the face of O’Connell, than when the descendant of the Munster Kings took his place amongst the Dublin Repealers. “I find it impossible,” exclaimed the great Tribune, “to give adequate expression to the delight with which I hail Mr. O’Brien’s presence in the Association. He now occupies his natural position–the position which centuries ago was occupied by his ancestor, Brian Boru. Whatever may become of _me_, it is a consolation to remember that Ireland will not be without a friend such as William Smith O’Brien, who combining all the modern endowments of a highly-cultured mind, with intellectual gifts of the highest order, nervous eloquence, untiring energy, fervid love of country, and every other high qualification of a popular leader, is now where his friends would ever wish to see him–at the head of the Irish people.” Six weeks before, a banquet had been given in Limerick to celebrate O’Brien’s adhesion to the national cause, and on this occasion, too, O’Connell bore generous testimony to the value and importance of his accession. “His presence,” said the Emancipator, in proposing Mr. O’Brien’s health, “cannot prevent me here from expressing on behalf of the universal people of Ireland, their admiration and delight at his conversion to their cause. Receive the benefactor of Ireland, as such a benefactor should be received. It is certain that our country will never be deserted as long as she has William Smith O’Brien as one of her leaders.”

[Illustration: KEVIN I. O’DOHERTY. THOMAS F. MEAGHER. TERENCE B. McMANUS]

There was much to account for the tumult of rejoicing which hailed Smith O’Brien’s entry within the ranks of the popular party. His lineage, his position, his influence, his stainless character, his abilities, and his worth, combined to fit him for the place which O’Connell assigned him, and to rally round him the affection and allegiance of the Irish people. No monarch in the world could trace his descent from a longer line of illustrious men; beside the roll of ancestry to which he could point, the oldest of European dynasties were things of a day. When the towering Pyramids that overlook the Nile were still new; before the Homeric ballads had yet been chanted in the streets of an Eastern city; before the foundations of the Parthenon were laid on the Acropolis; before the wandering sons of AEneas found a home in the valley of the Tiber, the chieftains of his house enjoyed the conqueror’s fame, and his ancestors swayed the sceptre of Erie. Nor was he unworthy of the name and the fame of the O’Briens of Kincora. Clear sighted and discerning; deeply endowed with calm sagacity and penetrating observance; pure minded, eloquent, talented and chivalrous; he comprised within his nature the truest elements of the patriot, the scholar, and the statesman. Unfaltering attachment to the principles of justice, unswerving obedience to the dictates of honour, unalterable loyalty to rectitude and duty; these were the characteristics that distinguished him; and these were the qualities that cast their redeeming light round his failings and his errors, and wrung from the bitterest of his foes the tribute due to suffering worth. If nobility of soul, if earnestness of heart and singleness of purpose, if unflinching and self-sacrificing patriotism, allied to zeal, courage, and ability, could have redeemed the Irish cause, it would not be left to us to mourn for it to-day; and instead of the melancholy story we have now to relate, it might he given to us to chronicle the regeneration of the Irish nation.

William Smith O’Brien was born, at Dromoland, County Clare, on the 17th of October, 1803. He was the second son of Sir Edward O’Brien, and on the death of his kinsman, the last Marquis of Thomond, his eldest brother became Baron of Inchiquin. He was educated at Harrow and Trinity College, Cambridge; but his English education, however much it might have coloured his views during boyhood, did not seriously affect his innate love of justice, or warp the patriotic feelings which were developed in his earliest years. The associations into which he was cast, the tone of the society in which he moved, the politics of his family, and the modern traditions of his house, combined to throw him into the ranks of the people’s enemies; and that these influences were not altogether barren of results is proved by the fact that O’Brien entered Parliament in 1826 as an Anti-Repealer, and exerted himself to prevent the return of O’Connell at the memorable election for Clare. But O’Brien was no factious opponent of the national interests; even while he acted thus, he had the welfare of his country sincerely at heart; he steered according to his lights, and when time and experience showed the falseness of his views, he did not hesitate to renounce them. To this period of his political career Mr. O’Brien often adverted in after life, with the frankness and candour that distinguished him. “When the proposal to seek for a Repeal of the Act of Union was first seriously entertained,” said O’Brien, “I used all the influence I possessed to discountenance the attempt. I did not consider that the circumstances and prospects of Ireland then justified the agitation of this question. Catholic Emancipation had been recently achieved, and I sincerely believed that from that epoch a new course of policy would be adopted towards Ireland. I persuaded myself that thenceforth the statesmen of Great Britain would spare no effort to repair the evils produced by centuries of misgovernment–that the Catholic and Protestant would be admitted to share on equal terms in all the advantages resulting from our constitutional form of government–that all traces of an ascendancy of race or creed would be effaced–that the institutions of Ireland would be gradually moulded so as to harmonise with the opinions of its inhabitants, and that in regard of political rights, legislation for both kingdoms would be based upon the principle of perfect equality.”

Fourteen years had elapsed from the date of Catholic Emancipation, when O’Brien startled the aristocrats of Ireland by renouncing his allegiance to their party, and throwing himself heart and soul into the vanguard of the people. He told his reasons for the change in bold convincing words. He had seen that his expectations of justice were false and delusive. “The feelings of the Irish nation,” he said, “have been exasperated by every species of irritation and insult; every proposal tending to develop the sources of our industry–to raise the character and improve the condition of our population, has been discountenanced, distorted, or rejected. Ireland, instead of taking its place as an integral portion of the great empire, which the valour of her sons has contributed to win, has been treated as a dependent tributary province; and at this moment, after forty-three years of nominal union, the affections of the two nations are so entirely alienated from each other, that England trusts for the maintenance of their connection, not to the attachment of the Irish people, but to the bayonets which menace our bosoms, and the cannon which she has planted in all our strongholds.”

The prospects of the Repeal movement were not at their brightest when O’Brien entered Conciliation Hall. In England, and in Ireland too, the influence of O’Connell was on the wane, and with the dispersion of the multitudes that flocked on that Sunday morning in October, 1843, to listen to the Liberator on the plains of Clontarf, the peaceful policy which he advocated received its death blow. Over O’Connell himself, and some of the most outspoken of his associates, a State prosecution was impending; and the arm of the government was already stretched out to crush the agitation whose object they detested, and whose strength they had begun to fear. The accession of O’Brien, however, the prestige of his name, and the influence of his example, was expected to do much towards reviving the drooping fortunes of the Association. Nor was the anticipation illusory. From the day on which O’Brien became a Repealer, down to the date of the secession, the strongest prop of the Conciliation Hall was his presence and support; he failed indeed to counteract the corrupt influences that gnawed at the vitals of the Association and ultimately destroyed it; but while he remained within its ranks, the redeeming influence of his genius, his patriotism, and his worth, preserved it from the extinction towards which it was hastening.

At an early date the penetrating mind of O’Brien detected the existence of the evil which was afterwards to transform Conciliation Hall into a market for place hunters. “I apprehend,” said he, in a remarkable speech delivered in January, ’46, “more danger to Repeal from the subtle influence of a Whig administration, than from the coercive measures of the Tories.” And he was right. Day by day, the subtle influence which he dreaded did its blighting work; and the success of those who sought the destruction of the Repeal Association through the machinery of bribes and places was already apparent, when on the 27th of July, 1846, O’Brien, accompanied by Mitchel, Meagher, Duffy, and others arose in sorrow and indignation, and quitted the Conciliation Hall for ever.

Six months later the Irish Confederation held its first meeting in the Round Room of the Rotundo. Meagher, Mitchel, Doheny, O’Brien, O’Gorman, Martin, and McGee were amongst the speakers; and amidst the ringing cheers of the densely thronged meeting, the establishment was decreed of the Irish Confederation, for the purpose–as the resolution declared–“of protecting our national interests, and obtaining the Legislative Independence of Ireland by the force of opinion, by the combination of all classes of Irishmen, and by the exercise of all the political, social, and moral influence within our reach.” It will be seen that the means by which the Confederates proposed to gain their object, did not differ materially from the programme of the Repeal Association. But there was this distinction. Against place-hunting, and everything savouring of trafficking with the government, the Confederates resolutely set their faces; and in the next place, while prescribing to themselves nothing but peaceful and legal means for the accomplishment of their object, they scouted the ridiculous doctrine, that “liberty was not worth the shedding of a single drop of blood,” and that circumstances might arise under which resort to the arbitration of the sword would be righteous and justifiable. In time, however, the Confederates took up a bolder and more dangerous position. As early as May, 1846, Lord John Russell spoke of the men who wrote in the pages of the _Nation_, and who subsequently became the leaders of the Confederation, “as a party looking to disturbance as its means, and having separation from England as its object.” The description was false at the time, but before two years had elapsed its application became more accurate. A few men there were like Mitchel, who from the birth of the Confederation, and perhaps before it, abandoned all expectation of redress through the medium of Constitutional agitation; but it was not until the flames of revolution had wrapped the nations of the Continent in their fiery folds–until the barricades were up in every capital from Madrid to Vienna–and until the students’ song of freedom was mingled with the paean of victory on many a field of death–that the hearts of the Irish Confederates caught the flame, and that revolution, and revolution alone, became the goal of their endeavours. When Mitchel withdrew from the Confederation in March, 1848, the principles of constitutional action were still in the ascendancy; when he rejoined it a month later, the cry “to the registries,” was superseded by fiery appeals summoning the people to arms. In the first week of April, the doctrine which John Mitchel had long been propounding, found expression in the leading columns of the _Nation_:–“Ireland’s necessity,” said Duffy, “demands the desperate remedy of revolution.” A few weeks later, the same declaration was made in the very citadel of the enemy’s power. It was O’Brien who spoke, and his audience was the British House of Commons. With Messrs. Meagher and Hollywood, he had visited Paris to present an address of congratulation on behalf of the Irish people to the Republican government; and on taking his seat in the House of Commons after his return, he found himself charged by the Ministers of the Crown, with having gone to solicit armed intervention from France on behalf of the disaffected people of Ireland. O’Brien replied in a speech such as never was heard before or since within the walls of the House of Commons. In the midst of indescribable excitement and consternation, he proceeded to declare in calm deliberative accents–“that if he was to be arraigned as a criminal, he would gladly endure the most ignominious death that could be inflicted on him rather than witness the sufferings and indignities he had seen inflicted by the British legislature on his countrymen. If it is treason,” he exclaimed, “to profess disloyalty to this House and to the government of Ireland, by the parliament of Great Britain–if that be treason, I avow it. Nay, more, I say it shall be the study of my life to overthrow the dominion of this Parliament over Ireland.” The yells and shouts with which these announcements were received shook the building in which he stood, and obliged him to remain silent for several moments after the delivery of each sentence; but when the uproar began to subside, the ringing tones of O’Brien rose again upon the air, and with the stoicism of a martyr, and the imperturable courage of a hero, he proceeded. “Irish Freedom,” he said, “must be won by Irish courage. Every statesman in the civilized globe looks upon Ireland as you look upon Poland, and upon your connection as entirely analogous to that of Russia with Poland. I am here to-night to tell you, that if you refuse our claims to legislative independence, you will have to encounter during the present year, the chance of a Republic in Ireland.”

O’Brien returned to Ireland more endeared than ever to the hearts of his countrymen. And now the game was fairly afoot. Government and people viewed each other with steady and defiant glare, and girded up their loins for the struggle. On the one side the Confederate clubs were organized with earnestness and vigour, and the spirit of the people awakened by a succession of stirring and glowing appeals. “What if we fail?” asked the _Nation_; and it answered the question by declaring unsuccessful resistance under the circumstances preferable to a degrading submission. “What if we _don’t_ fail?” was its next inquiry, and the answer was well calculated to arouse the patriots of Ireland to action. On the other hand the authorities were not idle. Arm’s Bills, Coercion Acts, and prosecutions followed each other in quick succession. Mitchel was arrested, convicted, and sent to Bermuda. Duffy, Martin, Meagher, Doheny, O’Doherty, and M’Gee were arrested–all of whom, except Duffy and Martin, were shortly afterwards liberated. Duffy’s trial was fixed for August, and this was the time appointed by the Confederates for the outbreak of the insurrection. There were some who advocated a more prompt mode of action. At a meeting of the Confederates held on July 19th, after the greater portion of the country had been proclaimed, it was warmly debated whether an immediate appeal to arms should not be counselled. O’Brien and Dillon advocated delay; the harvest had not yet been reaped in; the clubs were not sufficiently organized throughout the country, and the people might easily conceal their arms until the hour arrived for striking a decisive blow. Against this policy a few of the more impetuous members protested. “You will wait,” exclaimed Joe Brennan, “until you get arms from heaven, and angels to pull the triggers.” But his advice was disregarded; and the meeting broke up with the understanding that with the first glance of the harvest sun, the fires of insurrection were to blaze upon the hill tops of Ireland, and that meanwhile organization and preparation were to engross the attention of the leaders. On Friday, July 21st, a war directory–consisting of Dillon, Reilly, O’Gorman, Meagher, and Father Kenyon was appointed; and on the following morning O’Gorman started for Limerick, Doheny for Cashel, and O’Brien for Wexford, to prepare the people for the outbreak.

It was war to the knife, and every one knew it. The forces of the government in Ireland were hourly increased in Dublin–every available and commanding position was occupied and fortified. “In the Bank of Ireland,” says one who watched the progress of affairs with attentive gaze, “soldiers as well as cashiers were ready to settle up accounts. The young artists of the Royal Hibernian Academy and Royal Dublin Society had to quit their easels to make way for the garrison. The squares of old Trinity College resounded with the tramp of daily reviews; the Custom House at last received some occupation by being turned into a camp. The Linen Hall, the Rotundo, Holmes’ Hotel, Alborough House, Dycer’s Stables, in Stephen’s-green–every institution, literary, artistic, and commercial, was confiscated to powder and pipe-clay. The barracks were provisioned as if for a siege; cavalry horses were shod with plates of steel, to prevent their being injured and thrown into disorder by broken bottles, iron spikes, or the like; and the infantry were occupied in familiarizing themselves with the art of fusilading footpaths and thoroughfares. Arms were taken from the people, and the houses of loyal families stocked with the implements of war.”

But the national leaders had calculated on the preparations of the government; they knew the full measure of its military power, and were not afraid to face it; but there was one blow which they had not foreseen, and which came on them with the shock of a thunderbolt. On the very morning that O’Brien left for Wexford, the news reached Dublin that a warrant had been issued for his arrest, and that the suspension of the _Habeas Corpus_ Act was resolved on by the government. “It appears strangely unaccountable to me,” was Meagher’s reflection in after years, “that whilst a consideration of our position, our project, and our resources was taking place; whilst the stormy future on which we were entering formed the subject of the most anxious conjecture, and the danger of it fell like wintry shadows around us; it seems strangely unaccountable to me that not an eye was turned to the facilities for the counteraction of our designs which the government had at their disposal; that not a word was uttered in anticipation of that bold astounding measure–the suspension of the _Habeas Corpus_ Act–the announcement of which broke upon us so suddenly. The overlooking of it was a fatal inadvertance. Owing to it we were routed without a struggle, and were led into captivity without glory. We suffer not for a rebellion, but a blunder.”

The few of the Confederate leaders at large in Dublin at the time–Duffy, Martin, Williams, and O’Doherty were in Newgate–held a hurried council, and their plans were speedily formed. They were to join Smith O’Brien at once, and commence the insurrection in Kilkenny. On the night of Saturday, July 22nd, M’Gee left for Scotland to prepare the Irishmen of Glasgow for action; and Meagher, Dillon, Reilly, M’Manus, O’Donoghue, and Leyne started southwards to place themselves in communication with O’Brien. A week later the last of the national papers was suppressed, and the _Nation_ went down, sword in hand as a warrior might fall, with the words of defiance upon its lips, and a prayer for the good old cause floating upwards with its latest breath.

O’Brien was in bed, when Meagher and Dillon arrived at Balinkeele where he was stopping. The news of the suspension of the _Habeas Corpus_ Act, and of the plans formed by the Confederates were speedily communicated to him. O’Brien manifested no surprise at the intelligence. He quietly remarked that the time for action had arrived; and that every Irishman was now justified in taking up arms against the government; dressed himself, and set out without losing an hour to inaugurate his hazardous enterprise at Enniscorthy. As the train drove along, the three friends occupied themselves with the important question where should they begin the outbreak. Wexford was mentioned, but the number of Confederates enrolled there were few, and the people were totally unprepared for a sudden appeal to arms; New Ross and Waterford were ruled against, because of the effectual assistance the gunboats stationed in the river could render the garrison of those towns. Against Kilkenny none of those objections applied; and the more they discussed the subject the more convinced did they become that the most fitting cradle for the infant genius of Irish liberty was the ancient “city of the Confederates.” “Perfectly safe from all war steamers, gunboats, and floating batteries; standing on the frontiers of the three best fighting counties in Ireland–Waterford, Wexford, and Tipperary–the peasantry of which could find no difficulty in pouring to its relief; possessing from three to five thousand Confederates, most of whom were understood to be armed; the most of the streets being narrow, and presenting on this account the greatest facilities for the erection of barricades; the barracks lying outside the town, and the line of communication between the powerful portions of the latter and the former being intercepted by the old bridge over the Nore, which might be easily defended, or, at the most, very speedily demolished; no place,” says Meagher, “appeared to us to be better adapted for the first scene of the revolution.”

Towards Kilkenny they therefore took their way, haranguing the people in soul-stirring addresses as they proceeded. At Enniscorthy and at Graigue-na-mana their appeals were responded to with fervent enthusiasm; they called on the people to form themselves into organized bodies, and prepare to co-operate with the insurgents who were shortly to unfurl their banner beneath the shadow of St. Canice’s; and the crowds who hung on their words vowed their determination to do so. But in Kilkenny, as in every town they visited, the patriot leaders found the greatest disinclination to take the initiative in the holy war. There as elsewhere the people felt no unwillingness to fight; but they knew they were ill prepared for such an emergency, and fancied the first blow might be struck more effectively elsewhere. “Who will draw the first blood?” asked Finton Lalor in the last number of the _Felon_; and the question was a pertinent one; there was a decided reluctance to draw it. It is far from our intention to cast the slightest reflection on the spirit or courage of the nationalists of 1848. We know that it was no selfish regard for their own safety made the leaders in Wexford, Kilkenny, and elsewhere, shrink from counselling an immediate outbreak in their localities; the people, as well as the men who led them, looked forward to the rising of the harvest moon, and the cutting of their crops, as the precursors of the herald that was to summon them to aims. Their state of organization was lamentably deficient; anticipating a month of quiet preparation, they had neglected to procure arms up to the date of O’Brien’s arrival, and a few weeks would at least be required to complete their arrangements. In Kilkenny, for instance, not one in every eight of the clubmen possessed a musket, and even their supply of pikes was miserably small. But they were ready to do all that in them lay; and when O’Brien, Dillon, and Meagher quitted Kilkenny on Monday, July 24th, they went in pursuance of an arrangement which was to bring them back to the city of the Nore before the lapse of a week. They were to drive into Tipperary, visit Carrick, Clonmel, and Cashel, and summon the people of those towns to arms. Then, after the lapse of a few days, they were to return at the head of their followers to Kilkenny, call out the clubs, barricade the streets, and from the Council Chambers of the Corporation issue the first Revolutionary Edict to the country. They hoped that a week later the signal fires of insurrection would be blazing from every hill-top in Ireland; and that the sunlight of freedom, for which so many generations of patriots had yearned, would soon flood glebe and town, the heather-clad mountains, and pleasant vales of Innisfail. _Diis aliter visum_; the vision that glittered before their longing eyes melted away with the smoke of the first insurgent shot; and instead of the laurel of the conqueror they were decked with the martyr’s palm.

On arriving in Callan the travellers were received with every demonstration of sympathy and welcome. The streets were blocked with masses of men that congregated to listen to their words. A large procession, headed by the temperance band, escorted them through the town, and a bonfire was lit in the centre of the main street. They told the people to provide themselves at once with arms, as in a few days they would be asked to march with the insurgent forces on Kilkenny–an announcement that was received with deafening applause. After a few hours’ delay the three compatriots quitted Callan, and pursued their road to Carrick-on-Suir, where they arrived on the some evening and received a most enthusiastic reception. They addressed the excited multitude in impassioned words, promised to lead them to battle before many days, and called on them to practice patience and prudence in the interval. On the following day they quitted Carrick, and took their way to Mullinahone, where the people gathered in thousands to receive them. The number of men who assembled to meet them was between three and four thousand, of whom about three hundred were armed with guns, pistols, old swords, and pitchforks. The gathering was reviewed and drilled by the Confederates; and O’Brien, who wore a plaid scarf across his shoulders, and carried a pistol in his breast pocket, told them that Ireland would