Speeches from the Dock, Part I by Various (page 3)

have a government of her own before many weeks.

On the evening of Tuesday, July 25th, the Confederate leaders arrived in Mullinahone, where they slept. On the following morning they addressed the people, who flocked into the town on hearing of their arrival. And here it was that O’Brien himself dealt the death blow of the movement. The peasantry, who came from their distant homes to meet him, were left the whole day long without food or shelter. O’Brien himself gave what money he had to buy them bread; but he told them in future they should provide for themselves, as he could allow no one’s property to be interfered with. Hungry and exhausted, the men who listened to him returned at night to their homes; they were sensible enough to perceive that insurrection within the lines laid down by their leaders was impossible; the news that they were expected to fight on empty stomachs was spread amongst the people, and from that day forward the number of O’Brien’s followers dwindled away.

On July 26th, O’Brien and his party first visited the village of Ballingarry, where he was joined by M’Manus, Doheny, Devin Reilly, and other prominent members of the Confederation. They took a survey of the village and its neighbourhood; addressed the crowd from the piers of the chapel gate, and slept in the house of one of the village shopkeepers. Next day they returned to Mullinahone and thence to Killenaule, where they were received with every demonstration of welcome and rejoicing. Bouquets fell in showers upon O’Brien; addresses were read, and the fullest and warmest co-operation was freely promised by the excited crowds that congregated in the streets.

The exact position which the Confederates had now assumed towards the Crown and government, is deserving of a moment’s attention. Up to the last they carefully distinguished between resisting the acts of the government and disputing the sovereignty of the queen. They regarded the suspension of the _Habeas Corpus_ Act as unconstitutional in itself; and when O’Brien told her Majesty’s Ministers in the House of Commons, that it was they who were the traitors to the country, the Queen, and the Constitution, he did but express the opinions that underlay the whole policy of the Confederation. Even the passing of the _Habeas Corpus_ Suspension Act was not quite sufficient to exhaust their patience; in order to fill the measure of the government’s transgressions and justify a resort to arms against them, it was necessary in the opinion of O’Brien and his associates, that the authorities should attempt to carry into operation the iniquitious law they had passed; the arrest of O’Brien was to be the signal for insurrection; meanwhile, they were satisfied with organizing their forces for the fray, and preparing for offering an effective resistance to the execution of the warrant, whenever it should make its appearance. It was therefore that when at Killenaule, a small party of dragoons rode up to the town they were suffered to proceed unmolested; at the first notice of their coming, the people rushed to the streets and hastily threw up a barricade to intercept them. Dillon commanded at the barricade; beside him stood Patrick O’Donoghue, and a young man whose career as a revolutionist, was destined to extend far beyond the scenes in which he was then sharing; and whose name was one day to become first a terror to the government of England, and afterwards a by-word and a reproach amongst his countrymen. O’Donoghue and Stephens were both armed, and when the officer commanding the dragoons rode up to the barricade and demanded a passage, Stephens promptly covered him with his rifle, when his attention was arrested by a command from Dillon to ground his arms. The officer pledged his honour that he did not come with the object of arresting O’Brien; the barricade was taken down; and the dragoons passed scatheless through the town. Another opportunity had been lost, and the hearts of the most resolute of O’Brien’s colleagues sunk lower than ever.

On Friday, O’Brien and his followers returned to Ballingarry, where they held a council on the prospects of the movement. It was clear that the case was a desperate one, that the chance of successful resistance was inevitably lost, and that nothing now awaited them–should they persist in their enterprise–but ruin and death. Only a couple of hundred men, wretchedly armed or not armed at all, adhered to their failing fortunes; and throughout the rest of the country the disaffected gave no sign. But O’Brien was unmovable; he would do his duty by his country, let the country answer for its duty towards him.

The collision came at last. On Saturday morning, July 29th, the constabulary of Thurles, Kilkenny, Cashel, and Callan received orders to march on the village of Ballingarry, for the purpose of arresting Smith O’Brien. On the previous day the government had issued a proclamation, declaring him guilty of treasonable practices, by appearing in arms against the Queen, and offering a reward of L500 for his apprehension; on the same day, L300 was offered for the arrest of Meagher, Dillon, and Doheny. Fired with the ambition of capturing the rebel party with his own forces, and winning for himself a deathless fame, Sub-Inspector Trant marched out in hot haste from Callan, at the head of forty-six policemen, and directed his steps towards Ballingarry, where it was known to him that O’Brien was still stopping. Between twelve and one o’clock they arrived at Farrenrory, within three miles of the village of Ballingary. On arriving at this point the police found that effective measures had been adopted to dispute their further progress. Across the road before them a barricade had been thrown up, and behind it was arrayed a body of men, numbering from three to four hundred. Fearing to face the insurgent forces, the police turned off to the right, and rushed towards a slate house which they saw in the distance. The people saw the object of the movement, and at once gave chase; but the police had the advantage of a long start, and they succeeded in reaching the house and barring the door by which they entered, before their pursuers came up.

The die was cast, and the struggle so long watched for, and sighed for, had come at last. But it came not as it had been depicted by the tribune and poet; the vision that had flashed its radiancy before the eager eyes that hungered for the redemption of Ireland, differed sadly from the miserable reality. The serried ranks of glittering steel, the files of gallant pikemen, the armed columns of stalwart peasants, pouring through gap and river course, the glimmering camp fires quivering through the mist, the waving banners, and the flashing swords–where were they now? Where were the thousands of matchless mould, the men of strength and spirit, whose footfalls woke the echoes one month before in a hundred towns as they marched to the meetings at which they swore to strike down the oppressor? Only a few months had passed since two thousand determined men had passed in review before O’Brien at Cork; scarcely six weeks since, similar sights were witnessed from the city of the Shannon to the winding reaches of the Boyne. Everywhere there were strength, and numbers, and resolution; where were they now in the supreme hour of the country’s agony? A thousand times it had been sworn by tens of thousands of Irishmen, that the tocsin of battle would find them clustered round the good old flag to conquer or die beneath its shadow. And now, the hour had come, the flag of insurrection so often invoked was raised; but the patriot that raised it was left defenceless: _he_ at least kept his word, but the promises on which he relied had broken like dissolving ice beneath his feet.

Around O’Brien there clustered on that miserable noontide, about four hundred human beings–a weak, hungry, and emaciated looking throng for the most part; their half naked forms, browned by the sun, and hardened by the winter winds–a motley gathering; amongst whom there were scores of fasting men, and hundreds through whose wretched dwellings the, wind and rain found free ingress. They were poor, they were weak, they were ignorant, they were unarmed! but there was one, thing at least which they possessed–that quality which Heaven bestowed on the Irish race, to gild and redeem their misfortunes. Of courage and resolution they had plenty: they understood little of the causes which led to the outbreak in which they participated; of Smith O’Brien or his associates few of them had heard up to their appearance at Ballingarry; but they knew that it was against the forces of the British government and on behalf of Ireland’s independence they were called on to fight, and in this cause they were ready to shed their blood. Such was the party whom O’Brien gazed upon with a troubled mind on that eventful day. Even the attached companions who had so far attended him were no longer by his side; M’Manus, O’Donoghue, and Stephens were still there; but Meagher, Dillon, Doheny and O’Gorman had left at break of day to raise the standard of insurrection in other quarters. Of the men around him not more than twenty possessed firearms, about twice that number were armed with pikes and pitchforks; the remainder had but their naked hands and the stones they could gather by the wayside.

On the other side were forty-seven disciplined men splendidly armed, and ensconced moreover in a building possessing for the purpose of the hour the strength of a fortress. It stood on the brow of a hill overlooking the country in every direction; it consisted of two storeys with four windows in each, in front and rere; each gable being also pierced by a pair of windows. There were six little children in the house when the police entered it. Their mother, the Widow M’Cormick arrived on the spot immediately after the police had taken possession of her domicile, and addressing O’Brien she besought him to save her little ones from danger. On O’Brien’s chivalrous nature the appeal was not wasted. Heedless of the danger to which he exposed himself he walked up to the window of the house. Standing at the open window with his breast within an inch of the bayonets of the two policemen who were on the inside, he called on them to give up their arms, and avoid a useless effusion of blood. “We are all Irishmen, boys” he said, “I only want your arms and I’ll protect your lives.” The reply was a murderous volley poured on the gathering outside. Some half drunken person in the crowd it appears had flung a stone at one of the windows, and the police needed no further provocation. The fire was returned by the insurgents, and O’Brien seeing that his efforts to preserve peace were futile, quitted the window and rejoined his companions. For nearly two hours the firing continued; the police well sheltered from the possibility of injury fired in all about 220 rounds, killing two men and wounding a number of others, amongst them James Stephens who was shot in the thigh. Long before an equal number of shots were fired from without, the ammunition of the insurgents was exhausted, and they could only reply to the thick falling bullets with the stones which the women present gathered for them in their aprons. It was clear that the house could not be stormed in this way; and M’Manus, with half-a-dozen resolute companions, rolled a cartload of hay up to the kitchen door with the intention of setting fire to it and burning down the house. But O’Brien would not permit it; there were children in the house, and their innocent lives should not be sacrificed. In vain did M’Manus entreat him for permission to fire his pistol into the hay and kindle the ready flames, O’Brien was inexorable; and the first and last battle of the insurrection was lost and won. The Rev. Mr. Fitzgerald, the priest of the parish, and his curate, Father Maher now appeared on the spot, and naturally used their influence to terminate the hopeless struggle, a large force of constabulary from Cashel soon after were seen approaching, and the people, who now saw the absolute uselessness of further resistance broke away to the hills. The game was up; the banner of Irish independence had again sunk to the dust; and O’Brien, who had acted throughout with preternatural coolness, and whose face gave no more indications of emotion than if it had been chiseled in marble, turned from the scene with a broken heart. For a length of time he resisted the entreaties of his friends and refused to leave the spot; at last their solicitations prevailed, and mounting a horse taken from one of the police he rode away.

From that fatal day down to the night of Saturday, August 5th, the police sought vainly for O’Brien. He slept in the peasant’s hut on the mountain and he shared his scanty fare; a price which might well dazzle the senses of his poverty-stricken entertainers was on his head, and they knew it; over hill-side and valley swarmed the host of spies, detectives, and policemen placed on his track; but no hand was raised to clutch the tempting bribe, no voice whispered the information for which the government preferred its gold. Amongst those too who took part in the affray at Ballingarry, and who subsequently were cast in shoals into prison, there were many from whom the government sought to extract information. Bribes and promises of pardon were held up before their eyes, menaces were freely resorted to, but amongst them the government sought vainly for an informer. Many, of them died in captivity or in exile; their homes were broken up; their wives and children left destitute and friendless; but the words that would give them liberty and wealth, and terminate the sufferings of themselves and their families were never spoken. Had O’Brien chosen to escape from the country like Doheny, O’Gorman, Dillon and other of his friends, it is probable he might have done so. He resolved however on facing the consequence of his acts and sharing the fate of the Irish rebel to the bitter end.

The rain fell cold and drearily in the deserted streets of Thurles on the night which saw the arrest of William Smith O’Brien. Away over the shadowy mountains in the distance, the swimming vapours cast their shroud, wrapping in their chilling folds the homes of the hunger-stricken prostrate race that sat by their fireless hearths. The autumn gale swept over the desolate land as if moaning at the ruin and misery that cursed it, and wailing the dirge of the high hopes and ardent purposes that a few short weeks before had gladdened the hearts of its people. Calmly and deliberately with folded arms O’Brien walked through the streets, and entered the Thurles Railway Station. He wore a black hat, a blue boat cloak, in which he was rather tightly muffled, and a light plaid trousers; in his hand he carried a large black stick. He walked to the ticket office and paid his fare to Limerick; then wrapping himself up in his cloak and folding his arms, again he walked slowly along the platform awaiting the arrival of the train. He had resolved on surrendering himself for trial, but he wished to pay one last visit to his home and family. That gratification however was denied him, he was recognised by an Englishman named Hulme, a railway guard; in an instant he was surrounded by police and detectives, and torn of with brutal violence to gaol. That same night an express train flashed northwards through the fog and mist bearing O’Brien a prisoner to Dublin. In the carriage in which he was placed sat General M’Donald, a Sub-Inspector of Constabulary and four policemen. On entering the train a pistol was placed at O’Brien’s head, and he was commanded not to speak on peril of his life. Disregarding the injunction, he turned to M’Donald and asked him why he was so scandalously used. The General “had a duty to perform,” and “his orders should be obeyed.” “I have played the game and lost,” said O’Brien, “and I am ready to pay the penalty of having failed; I hope that those who accompanied me may be dealt with in clemency; I care not what happens to myself.”

On Thursday, September 28th, he was arraigned before a Special Commission on a charge of high treason at Clonmel. The trial lasted ten days, and ended in a verdict of guilty. It excited unprecedented interest throughout the country, and there are many of its incidents deserving of permanent record. Amongst the witnesses brought forward by the crown was John O’Donnell, a comfortable farmer, who resided near Ballingarry. “I won’t be sworn,” he said on coming on the table, “or give evidence under any circumstances. You may bring me out and put a file of soldiers before me, and plant twenty bullets in my breast, but while I have a heart there I will never swear for you.” He expiated his patriotism by a long imprisonment. Nor was this a solitary instance of heroism; Richard Shea, a fine looking young peasant, on being handed the book declared that “he would not swear against such a gentleman,” and he too was carried off to pass years within a British dungeon. But their sacrifices were unavailing; of evidence there was plenty against O’Brien; the police were overflowing with it, and the eloquence and ability of Whiteside were powerless to save him from a verdict of guilty.

The papers of the time are full of remarks on the firmness and self-possession displayed by O’Brien throughout the trial. Even the announcement of the verdict failed to disturb his composure, and when the usual question was asked he replied with calmness and deliberation:

“My lords, it is not my intention to enter into any vindication of my conduct, however much I might have desired to avail myself of this opportunity of so doing. I am perfectly satisfied with the consciousness that I have performed my duty to my country–that I have done only that which, in my opinion, it was the duty of every Irishman to have done; and I am now prepared to abide the consequences of having performed my duty to my native land. Proceed with your sentence.”

A deep murmur, followed by a burst of applause filled the court as the noble patriot ceased speaking. Stepping back a pace, and folding his arms on his breast, O’Brien looked fixedly at the judge, and awaited the sentence of the court. Amidst the deepest sensation, Chief Justice Blackburne proceeded to discharge his task. O’Brien was sentenced to be hanged, beheaded, and quartered. “During the delivery of the sentence,” says a writer of the period, “the most profound agitation pervaded in the court; as it drew towards the close, the excitement became more marked and intense; but when the last barbarous provisions of the sentence were pronounced, the public feeling could only manifest itself by stifled sobs and broken murmurs of sympathy for the heroic man, who, alone, was unmoved during this awful scene, whose lips alone did not quiver, whose hand alone did not tremble, but whose heart beat with the calm pulsation of conscious guiltlessness and unsullied honour.”

Nine months later (July 29th, 1849), the brig “Swift” sailed from Kingstown harbour, bearing O’Brien, Meagher, M’Manus, and O’Donoghue into exile. In the month of November the vessel reached Hobart Town, where “tickets of leave” were offered to those gentlemen on condition of their residing each one within a certain district marked out for him, and giving their parole to make no attempt at escape while in possession of the ticket. Messrs. Meagher, M’Manus, and O’Donoghue accepted these terms; Mr. O’Brien refused them, and was consequently sent to an island off the coast called Maria Island, where he was placed in strict custody and treated with great severity. The news of the indignities and the sufferings to which he was subjected, outraged the feelings of the Irish people in the neighbouring country, and ere long his sympathisers in Tasmania laid a plan for his escape. They hired a vessel to lie off the coast on a particular day, and send a boat on shore to take off the prisoner, who had been informed of the plot, and had arranged to be in waiting for his deliverers. This design would unquestionably have succeeded but for the treachery of the captain of the ship, who, before sailing to the appointed spot, had given the government information of the intended escape and the manner of it. What occurred on the arrival of the vessel we shall relate in the words of Mr. Mitchel, who tells the story in his “Jail Journal” as he heard it from Mr. O’Brien himself:

“At last as he wandered on the shore and had almost given up all hope of the schooner, the schooner hove in sight. To give time for her approach he walked into the woods for a space, that he might not alarm his guardian constable by his attention to her movements. Again he sauntered down towards the point with apparent carelessness, but with a beating heart. San Francisco was to be his first destination; and beyond that golden gate lay the great world, and home, and children, and an honourable life. The boat was coming, manned by three men; and he stepped proudly and resolutely to meet them on the shore. To be sure there was, somewhere behind him, one miserable constable with his miserable musket, but he had no doubt of being able to dispose of that difficulty with the aid of his allies, the boatmen. The boat could not get quite close to the beach, because they had to run her into a kind of cove where the water was calm and unencumbered with large tangled weeds. O’Brien, when he reached the beach, plunged into the water to prevent delay, and struggled through the thick matted seaweed to the boat. The water was deeper than he expected, and when he came to the boat he needed the aid of the boatmen to climb over the gunwale. Instead of giving him this aid the rascals allowed him to flounder there, and kept looking to the shore, where the constable had by this time appeared with his musket. The moment he showed himself, the three boatmen cried out together, ‘We surrender!’ and invited him on board; where he instantly took up a hatchet–no doubt provided by the ship for that purpose, and stove the boat. O’Brien saw he was betrayed, and on being ordered to move along with the constable and boatmen towards the station, he refused to stir–hoping, in fact, by his resistance, to provoke the constable to shoot him. However, the three boatmen seized on him, and lifted him up from the ground, and carried him wherever the constable ordered. His custody was thereafter made more rigorous, and he was shortly after removed from Maria Island to Port Arthur station.”

To this brief narrative the following “note” is appended in the work from which we have just quoted:–

“Ellis, the captain of the schooner, was some months after seized at San Francisco by Mr. M’Manus and others, brought by night out of his ship, and carried into the country to undergo his trial under a tree, whereupon, if found guilty, he was destined to swing. M’Manus set out his indictment; and it proves how much Judge Lynch’s method of administering justice in those early days of California excelled anything we know of law or justice in Ireland–that Ellis, for want of sufficient and satisfactory evidence then producible, was acquitted by that midnight court, under that convenient and tempting tree.”

Port Arthur station, to which Mr. O’Brien was removed from Maria Island, was a place of punishment for convicts who, while serving out their terms of transportation, had committed fresh offences against the law. After a detention there for some time, Mr. O’Brien, whose health was rapidly sinking under the rigours of his confinement, was induced, by letters, from his political friends to accept the ticket-of-leave and avail of the comparative liberty which they enjoyed. The government, on his acceptance of their terms, placed him first in the district of New Norfolk, and subsequently in that of Avoca, where he remained until the conditional pardon, already mentioned in these columns, was granted in 1854. He then left Australia, went on to Madras, where he made a stay of about a month; from thence he went to Paris and on to Brussels, where he was joined by his wife and children. He next made a tour in Greece, and was in that country when the unconditional pardon, which permitted him to return to his native land, was granted in the month of May, 1856, immediately after the close of the Crimean war. On Tuesday, July 8th, 1856, Mr. O’Brien stood once more upon his native soil after an exile of eight years. The news of his arrival was joyfully received by his fellow-countrymen, who welcomed him with every mark of respect and affection whenever he appeared among them. Thence-forward Mr. O’Brien took no active part in Irish politics, but he frequently offered advice and suggestions to his countrymen through the medium of letters and addresses in the _Nation_. In February, 1859, Mr. O’Brien made a voyage to America, and during the ensuing months travelled through a great portion of that country. After his return to Ireland he delivered, in November, 1859, an interesting series of lectures on his tour, in the. Mechanics’ Institute, Dublin. On July 1st, 1863, he lectured in the Rotundo, Dublin, for the benefit of a fund which was being raised for the relief of the wounded and destitute patriots of the Polish insurrection. In the early part of the year, 1864, the health of the illustrious patriot began rapidly to fail, and he was taken by his friends to England for a change of air. But the weight of many years of care and suffering was on him, and its effects could not be undone. On the 16th of June, 1864. at Bangor, the noble-hearted patriot breathed his last. His family had the honoured remains brought to Ireland for interment in the old burial-ground of his fathers. On Thursday morning at an early hour they reached Dublin on board the “Cambria” steamer. It was known that his family wished that no public demonstration should be made at his funeral, but the feelings of the citizens who desired to pay a tribute of respect to his memory could not be repressed. In the grey hours of the morning the people in thousands assembled on the quays to await the arrival of the remains, and two steamers, which had been chartered for the purpose, proceeded, with large numbers on board, some distance into the harbour to meet the approaching vessel. All along the way, from the North Wall to the Kings-bridge railway station, the hearse bearing the patriot’s body was accompanied by the procession of mourners, numbering about 15,000 men. At various stages of the journey similar scenes were witnessed. But the end was soon reached. In the churchyard of Rathronan, Co. Limerick, they laid him to rest. The green grass grows freshly around the vault in which he sleeps, and has long filled up the foot-prints of the multitude who broke the silence of that lonely spot by their sobs on the day he was buried; the winter gales will come and go, and touched by the breath of spring, the wild flowers will blossom there through succeeding years; but never again will a purer spirit, a nobler mind, a patriot more brave, more chivalrous, or more true, give his heart to the cause of Ireland, than the silvered-haired, care-burthened gentleman whom they bore from Cahirmoyle to his grave on the 24th day of June, 1864.

* * * * *

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.

Early in 1846, when the Repeal Association was still powerful and great, and ere yet the country had ceased to throb to the magic of O’Connell’s voice, there rose one day from amongst those who crowded the platform of Conciliation Hall, a well-featured, gracefully-built, dark-eyed young gentleman, towards whom the faces of the assembly turned in curiosity, and whose accents when he spoke, were those of a stranger to the audience. Few of them had heard of his name; not one of them–if the chairman, William Smith O’Brien be excepted–had the faintest idea of the talents and capacities he possessed, and which were one day to enrapture and electrify his countrymen. He addressed the meeting on one of the passing topics of the day; something in his manner savouring of affectation, something in the semi-Saxon lisp that struggled through his low-toned utterances, something in the total lack of suitable gesture, gave his listeners at the outset an unfavourable impression of the young speaker. He was boyish, and some did not scruple to hint conceited; he had too much of the fine gentleman about his appearance, and too little of the native brogue and stirring declamation to which his listeners had been accustomed. The new man is a failure, was the first idea that suggested itself to the audience: but he was not; and when he resumed his seat he had conquered all prejudices, and wrung the cheers of admiration from the meeting. Warming with his subject, and casting off the restraints that hampered his utterances at first, he poured forth a strain of genuine eloquence, vivified by the happiest allusions, and enriched by imagery and quotations as beautiful as they were appropriate, which startled the meeting from its indifference, and won for the young speaker the enthusiastic applause of his audience. O’Brien complimented him warmly on his success, and thus it was that the orator of Young Ireland made his debut on the political platform.

Meagher was not quite twenty-three years of age when his voice was first heard in Conciliation Hall. He was born in Waterford of an old Catholic family, which through good and ill had adhered to the national faith and the national cause; his school-boy days were passed partly at Clongowes-wood College, and partly under the superintendence of the Jesuit Fathers at Stoneyhurst in Lancashire. His early years gave few indications of the splendid wealth of genius that slumbered within his breast. He took little interest in his classical or mathematical studies; but he was an ardent student of English literature, and his compositions in poetry and prose invariably carried away the prize. He found his father filling the Civic Chair in Waterford, when he returned from Stoneyhurst to his native city. O’Connell was in the plenitude of his power; and from end to end of the land, the people were shaken by mighty thoughts and grand aspirations; with buoyant and unfaltering tread the nation seemed advancing towards the goal of Freedom, and the manhood of Ireland seemed kindling at the flame which glowed before the altar of Liberty. Into the national movement young Meagher threw himself with the warmth and enthusiasm of his nature. At the early age of twenty we find him presiding over a meeting of Repealers in his native city, called to express sympathy with the State Prisoners of ’43, and he thence-forward became a diligent student of contemporary politics. He became known as an occasional speaker at local gatherings; but it was not until the event we have described that Meagher was fairly launched in the troubled tide of politics, and that his lot was cast for good or evil, with the leaders of the national party.

Up to the date of secession Meagher was a frequent speaker at the meetings of the Repeal Association. Day by day his reputation as a speaker extended, until at length he grew to be recognised as the orator of the party, and the knowledge that he was expected to speak was sufficient to crowd Conciliation Hall to overflowing. When the influence of the _Nation_ party began to be felt, and signs of disunion appeared on the horizon, O’Connell made a vigorous effort to detach Meagher from the side of Mitchel, Duffy, and O’Brien. “These young Irelanders,” he said, “will lead you into danger.” “They may lead me into danger,” replied Meagher, “but certainly not into dishonour.”

Against the trafficking with the Whigs, which subsequently laid the Repeal Association in the dust, and shipwrecked a movement which might have ended in the disinthralment of Ireland, Meagher protested in words of prophetic warning. “The suspicion is abroad,” he said, “that the national cause will be sacrificed to Whig supremacy, and that the people, who are now striding on to freedom, will be purchased back into factious vassalage. The Whigs calculate upon your apostacy, the Conservatives predict it.” The place beggars, who looked to the Whigs for position and wealth, murmured as they heard their treachery laid bare and their designs dissected in the impassioned appeals by which Meagher sought to recall them to the path of patriotism and duty. It was necessary for their ends that the bold denouncer of corruption, and the men who acted with him, should be driven from the association; and to effect that object O’Connell was hounded on to the step which ended in the secession. The “peace resolutions” were introduced, and Meagher found himself called on to subscribe to a doctrine which his soul abhorred–that the use of arms was at all times unjustifiable and immoral. The Lord Mayor was in the chair, and O’Brien, John O’Connell. Denis Reilly, Tom Steele, and John Mitchel had spoken, when Meagher rose to address the assembly. The speech he delivered on that occasion, for brilliancy and lyrical grandeur has never been surpassed. It won for him a reception far transcending that of Shiel or O’Connell as an orator; and it gave to him the title by which he was afterwards so often referred to–“Meagher of the Sword.” He commenced by expressing his sense of gratitude, and his attachment to O’Connell, “My lord,” he said:–

“I am not ungrateful to the man who struck the fetters off my limbs while I was yet a child, and by whose influence my father, the first Catholic that did so for two hundred years, sat for the last two years in the civic chair of my native city. But, my lord,” he continued, “the same God who gave to that great man the power to strike down one odious ascendency in this country, and who enabled him to institute in this land the laws of religious equality–the same God gave to me a mind that is my own, a mind that has not been mortgaged to the opinion of any man or set of men, a mind that I was to use and not surrender.”

Having thus vindicated freedom of opinion, the speaker went on to disclaim for himself the opinion that the Association ought to deviate from the strict path of legality. But he refused to accept the resolutions; because he said “there are times when arms alone will suffice, and when political ameliorations call for ‘a drop of blood,’ and for many thousand drops of blood.” Then breaking forth into a strain of impassioned and dazzling oratory he proceeded:–

“The soldier is proof against an argument–but he is not proof against a bullet. The man that will listen to reason–let him be reasoned with. But it is the weaponed arm of the patriot that can alone prevail against battalioned despotism.

“Then, my lord, I do not condemn the use of arms as immoral, nor do I conceive it profane to say that the King of Heaven–the Lord of Hosts! the God of Battles!–bestows his benediction upon those who unsheath the sword in the hour of a nation’s peril. From that evening on which, in the valley of Bethulia, he nerved the arm of the Jewish girl to smite the drunken tyrant in his tent, down to this our day, in which he has blessed the insurgent chivalry of the Belgian priest, His Almighty hand hath ever been stretched forth from His throne of Light to consecrate the flag of freedom–to bless the patriot’s sword! Be it in the defence, or be it in the assertion of a people’s liberty, I hail the sword as a sacred weapon; and if, my lord, it had sometimes taken the shape of the serpent, and reddened the shroud of the oppressor with too deep a dye, like the anointed rod of the High Priest, it has at other times, and as often, blossomed into celestial flowers to deck the freeman’s brow.

“Abhor the sword–stigmatize the sword? No, my lord, for in the passes of the Tyrol it cut to pieces the banner of the Bavarian, and, through those cragged passes, struck a path to fame for the peasant insurrectionists of Inspruck! Abhor the sword–stigmatize the sword? No, my lord, for at its blow a giant nation started from the waters of the Atlantic, and by its redeeming magic, and in the quivering of its crimsoned light the crippled colony sprang into the attitude of a proud Republic–prosperous, limitless, and invincible! Abhor the sword–stigmatize the sword? No, my lord, for it swept the Dutch marauders out of the fine old towns of Belgium–scourged them back to their own phlegmatic swamps–and knocked their flag and sceptre, their laws and bayonets, into the sluggish waters of the Scheldt.

“My lord, I learned that it was the right of a nation to govern itself, not in this hall, but on the ramparts of Antwerp; I learned the first article of a nation’s creed upon those ramparts, where freedom was justly estimated, and where the possession of the precious gift was purchased by the effusion of generous blood. My lord, I honor the Belgians for their courage and their daring, and I will not stigmatize the means by which they obtained a citizen-king, a chamber of Deputies.”

It was all he was permitted to say. With flushed face and excited gesture John O’Connell rose, and declared he could not sit and listen to the expression of such sentiments. Either Mr. Meagher or he should leave the Association; O’Brien interceded to obtain a hearing for his young friend, and protested against Mr. O’Connell’s attempts to silence him. But the appeal was wasted, O’Brien left the hall in disgust, and with him Meagher, Duffy, Reilly, and Mitchel quitted it for ever.

Meagher’s subsequent career in Ireland is soon told. He was a regular attendant at the meetings of the Confederation, of which he was one of the founders, and the fame of his eloquence, his manly appearance, and the charms of his youthful frankness contributed immensely towards the growth of the new organization. He always acted with O’Brien, whom he loved in his inmost soul, but he was respected and admired by every section of nationalists, the Mitchelites, the Duffyites, and we might even say the O’Connellites. When the country began to feel the influence of the whirlwind of revolution which swept over the continent, overturning thrones and wrecking constitutions as if they were built of cardboard, Meagher shared the wild impulse of the hour, and played boldly for insurrection and separation. He was one of the three gentlemen appointed to present the address from Ireland to the French Republican government in 1848; and in the speech delivered by him at the crowded meeting in the Dublin Music Hall before his departure, he counselled his countrymen to send a deputation to the Queen, asking her to convene the Irish parliament in the Irish capital. “If the claim be rejected,” said Meagher, “if the throne stand as a barrier between the Irish people and the supreme right–then loyalty will be a crime, and obedience to the executive will be treason to the country. Depute your worthiest citizens to approach the throne, and before that throne let the will of the Irish people be uttered with dignity and decision. If nothing comes of this,” he added, “if the constitution opens to us no path to freedom, if the Union be maintained in spite of, the will of the Irish people, if the government of Ireland insist on being a government of dragoons and bombadiers, of detectives and light infantry, then,” he exclaimed in the midst of tumultuous cheering, “up with the barricades, and invoke the God of Battles!”

While the Republican spirit was in full glow in Ireland, Meagher astonished his friends by rushing down to Waterford and offering himself as a candidate for the post left vacant in parliament by the resignation of O’Connell. By this time the Confederates had begun to despair of a parliamentary policy, and they marvelled much to see their young orator rush to the hustings, and throw himself into the confusion and turmoil of an election contest. _Que le diable allait il faire dans cette galere_ muttered his Dublin friends. Was not the time for hustings orations, and parliamentary agitation over now? Meagher, however, conceived, and perhaps wisely, that he could still do some good for his country in the House of Commons. He issued a noble address to the electors of his native city, in which he asked for their support on the most patriotic grounds. “I shall not meddle,” he said, “with English affairs. I shall take no part in the strife of parties–all factions are alike to me. I shall go to the House of Commons to insist on the rights of this country to be held, governed, and defended by its own citizens, and by them alone. Whilst I live I shall never rest satisfied until the kingdom of Ireland has won a parliament, an army, and a navy of her own.” Mitchel strongly disapproved of his conduct. “If Mr. Meagher were in parliament,” said the _United Irishman_, “men’s eyes would be attracted thither once more; some hope of ‘justice’ might again revive in this too easily deluded people.” The proper men to send to parliament were according to Mitchel, “old placemen, pensioners, five pound Conciliation Hall Repealers.” “We have no wish to dictate,” concluded Mitchel in an article on the subject, full of the lurking satire and quiet humour that leavened his writings, “but if the electors of Waterford have any confidence in us, we shall only say that we are for Costello!”

“Costello” was defeated, however, but so was Meagher. The Young Ireland champion was stigmatized as a Tory by the Whigs, and as a rebel by the Tories; if _the people_, as Mitchel remarks had any power he would have been elected by an overwhelming majority, but the people had no votes, and Sir Henry Winston Barren was returned. Meagher went back to Dublin almost a convert to Mitchel’s views, leaving Whig, Tory, and West Briton to exult over his discomfiture.

We have already seen what Meagher did when the guage of battle was thrown down, and when “the day all hearts to weigh” was imagined to have arrived, we have seen how he accompanied O’Brien in his expedition from Wexford to Kilkenny, and thence to Tipperary; and how on the morning of July 29th, 1848, he left O’Brien at Ballingarry, little dreaming of the tragedy which was to make that day memorable, and expecting to be able to bring reinforcements to his leader from other quarters before the crisis came. He failed however in his effort to spread the flames of insurrection. The chilling news of O’Brien’s defeat–distorted and exaggerated by hostile tongues–was before him everywhere, and even the most resolute of his sympathisers had sense enough to see that their opportunity–if it existed at all–had passed away. On the 12th day of August, 1848, Meagher was arrested on the road between Clonoulty and Holycross, in Tipperary. He was walking along in company with Patrick O’Donoghue and Maurice R. Leyne, two of his intimate friends and fellow-outlaws, when a party of police passed them by. Neither of the three was disguised, but Meagher and Leyne wore frieze overcoats, which somewhat altered their usual appearance. After a short time the police returned; Meagher and his companions gave their real names on being interrogated, and they were at once arrested and taken in triumph to Thurles. The three friends bore their ill fortune with what their captors must have considered provoking nonchalance. Meagher smoked a cigar on the way to the station, and the trio chatted as gaily as if they were walking in safety on the free soil of America, instead of being helpless prisoners on their way to captivity and exile.

Meagher stood in the dock at Clonmel a week after O’Brien had quitted it a convict. He was defended by Mr. Whiteside and Isaac Butt, whose magnificent speech in his defence was perhaps the most brilliant display of forensic eloquence ever heard Within the court in which he stood. Of course the jury was packed (only 18 Catholics were named on a jury-panel of 300), and of course the crown carried its point. On the close of the sixth day of the trial, the jury returned into court with a verdict of “guilty,” recommending the prisoner to mercy on the ground of his youth.

Two days later he was brought back to the dock to receive sentence. He was dressed in his usual style, appeared in excellent health, and bore himself–we are told–throughout the trying ordeal, with fortitude and manly dignity. He spoke as follows:–

“My lords, it is my intention to say a few words only. I desire that the last act of a proceeding which has occupied so much of the public time, should be of short duration. Nor have I the indelicate wish to close the dreary ceremony of a state prosecution with a vain display of words. Did I fear that hereafter, when I shall be no more, the country I tried to serve would speak ill of me, I might, indeed, avail myself of this solemn moment to vindicate my sentiments and my conduct. But I have no such fear. The country will judge of those sentiments and that conduct in a light far different from that in which the jury by whom I have been convicted have viewed them, and by the country the sentence which you, my lords, are about to pronounce, will be remembered only as the severe and solemn attestation of my rectitude and truth. Whatever be the language in which that sentence be spoken, I know that my fate will meet with sympathy, and that my memory will be honoured. In speaking thus, accuse me not, my lords, of an indecorus presumption in the efforts I have made in a just and noble cause. I ascribe no main importance, nor do I claim for those efforts any high reward. But it so happens, and it will ever happen so, that they who have lived to serve their country–no matter how weak their efforts may have been–are sure to receive the thanks and blessings of its people. With my countrymen I leave my memory, my sentiments, my acts, proudly feeling that they require no vindication from me this day. A jury of my countrymen, it is true, have found me guilty of the crime of which I stood indicted. For this I entertain not the slightest feeling of resentment towards them. Influenced as they must have been by the charge of the Lord Chief Justice, they could perhaps have found no other verdict. What of that charge? Any strong observations on it I feel sincerely would ill-befit the solemnity of this scene; but I would earnestly beseech of you, my lord–you who preside on that bench–when the passions and the prejudices of this hour have passed away, to appeal to your own conscience, and ask of it, was your charge what it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent between the subject and the crown? My lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in me, and perhaps it may seal my fate; but I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost–I am here to regret nothing I have ever done, to regret nothing I have ever said–I am here to crave with no lying lip the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it. Even here–here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their foot-prints in the dust–here, on this spot, where the shadows of death surround me, and from which I see my early grave in an unanointed soil open to receive me–even here, encircled by these terrors, that hope which first beckoned me to the perilous sea on which I have been wrecked, still consoles, animates, and enraptures me. No; I do not despair of my poor old country–her peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country I can do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island up–to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of being, as she is now, the meanest beggar in the world–to restore to her her native powers and her ancient constitution–this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails upon me the penalty of death; but the history of Ireland explains that crime and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal, you (addressing Mr. M’Manus) are no criminal, you (addressing Mr. O’Donoghue) are no criminal, and we deserve no punishment; judged by that history, the treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, has been sanctified as a duty, and will be enobled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments I await the sentence of the court. I have done what I felt to be my duty. I have spoken now, as I did on every other occasion during my short life, what I felt to be the truth. I now bid farewell to the country of my birth–of my passions–of my death; a country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies–whose factions I sought to quell–whose intelligence I prompted to a lofty aim–whose freedom has been my fatal dream. To that country I now offer as a pledge of the love I bore her, and of the sincerity with which I thought and spoke, and struggled for her freedom, the life of a young heart; and with that life, the hopes, the honours, the endearments of a happy, a prosperous, and honourable home. Proceed, then, my lords, with that sentence which the law directs–I am prepared to hear it–I trust I am prepared to meet its execution. I shall go, I think, with a light heart before a higher tribunal–a tribunal where a Judge of infinite goodness, as well as of infinite justice, will preside, and where, my lords, many many of the judgments of this, world will be reversed.”

There is little more for us to add. Meagher arrived with O’Brien, O’Donoghue, and M’Manus in Van Dieman’s Land in October, 1849, and escaped to America in 1852. He started the _Irish News_ in New York, which he enriched by personal recollections of the stirring scenes in which he participated; but his career as a journalist closed abruptly with the outbreak of the war of Secession, when he raised a Zouave Company to join Corcoran’s 69th Regiment, with which he fought gallantly at Bull’s Run. Every one remembers how the gallantry of the Irish regiment in which Meagher served, saved the Federal forces from annihilation on that field of disaster. Subsequently he raised and commanded the Irish Brigade, which won imperishable laurels throughout the hard-fought campaigns that ended with the capture of Richmond. When Mr. Johnson became President of the United States, he appointed Meagher to the position of Governor of Montana Territory, in the far West, a post which he held until his death.

His end was sad and sudden. One dark wild night in July, 1867, a gentleman suddenly disappeared from the deck of the steamer on which he was standing, and fell into the great Missouri, where it winds its course by the hills of Montana. The accident was too sudden for availing assistance. A sudden slip, a splash, a faint cry, a brief struggle, and all was over; the hungry waters closed over him, and the rapid rolling current swept away his lifeless corpse. The finished scholar, the genial friend, the matchless orator, the ardent patriot was no more. Thomas Francis Meagher was dead.

* * * * *

KEVIN IZOD O’DOHERTY.

Another bold, clever, and resolute opponent of British rule in Ireland was torn from the ranks of the popular leaders on the day that Kevin Izod O’Doherty was arrested. Amongst the cluster of talented and able men who led the Young Ireland phalanx, he was distinguished for his spirit and his mental accomplishments; amongst the organizers of the party his ready words, manly address, and ceaseless activity gave him a prominent position; amongst its journalists he was conspicuous for fearlessness, frankness, and ability. Over the surging waves of the excitement and agitation that convulsed the country during the period which ended with the affray at Ballingarry, and through the haze which time has cast over the attempted revolution of ’48, his figure looms up in bold proportions, suggestive of mental capacity, fortitude of soul, and tenacity of purpose. For him, as for many of his brilliant associates, the paths of patriotism led down to proscription and pain; but O’Doherty fulminating the thunderbolts of the _Tribune,_ or sowing the seeds of patriotism amongst the students of Dublin, was not one whit more self-possessed or undaunted than when standing a convict in the Greenstreet dock, he awaited the sentence of the court.

Kevin Izod O’Doherty was born of respectable Catholic parents in Dublin, in June, 1824. He received a liberal education, by which he profited extensively, showing even in his school-days strong evidences of natural ability, and talents, of more than average degree. He directed his attention to the medical profession on completing his education, and was in the full tide of lectures and hospital attendance when the development of the national sentiment that pervaded the year ’48 drew him into the vortex of public life. He became a hard working and enthusiastic member of the Young Ireland party, and was one of the founders of the Students’ and Polytechnic Clubs, which were regarded by the leaders in Dublin as the _elite_ of the national force in the capital. When Mitchel was struck down and his paper suppressed, O’Doherty was one of those who resolved that the political guidance which the _United Irishman_ was meant to afford, should not be wanting to the people. In conjunction with Richard Dalton Williams–“Shamrock” of the _Nation_–he established the _Irish Tribune_, the first number of which saw the light on the 10th of June, 1848. There could be no mistake about the objects of the _Tribune_, or the motives of its founders in establishing it. The British government could ill afford to endure the attacks on their exactions and usurpations thundered forth weekly in its articles. Its career was cut short by the mailed hand of authority at its fifth number, and on the 10th of July, ’48, Kevin Izod O’Doherty was an inmate of Newgate prison.

[Illustration: CHARLES J. KICKHAM. JOHN O’LEARY. THOMAS CLARK LUBEY.]

On the 10th of August he was placed at the bar of Green-street court-house, and arraigned on a charge of treason-felony, and a vigorous effort was made by the crown to convict him. The attempt, however, was a failure; the jury-panel had not been juggled as effectively as usual, and a disagreement of the jury was the consequence. The crown, however, had no idea of relaxing its grasp of its victim; after John Martin’s conviction O’Doherty was put forward again, and a new jury selected to try him. Again were the government defeated; the second jury like the first refused to agree to a verdict of guilty, and were discharged without convicting the prisoner. A third time was O’Doherty arraigned, and this time the relentless hatred of his persecutors was gratified by a verdict of guilty. The speech delivered by Mr. O’Doherty after conviction was as follows:–

“My lords–I did hope, I confess, that upon being placed in this dock for the third time, after two juries of my fellow-citizens had refused to find a verdict against me, that while my prosecutors would have been scrupulous in their care in attempting to uphold their law, they would not have violated the very spirit of justice.”

Judge Crampton.–“I have a great difficulty in preventing you from making any observations that may occur to you to be of service; but if you mean to cast imputations of obloquy upon the law officers of the crown, the court cannot permit that.”

Mr. O’Doherty–“I only wish to mention a matter of fact. The Attorney-General stated that there were only three Roman Catholics set aside on my jury.”

Judge Crampton again interposed, and requested the prisoner not to pursue this line of observation.

Mr. O’Doherty.–“I would feel much obliged if your lordship would permit me to mention a few more words with reference to my motives throughout this affair.

“I had but one object and purpose in view. I did feel deeply for the sufferings and privations endured by my fellow-countrymen. I did wish by all means, consistent with a manly and honourable resistance to assist in putting an end to that suffering. It is very true, and I will confess it, that I desired an open resistance of the people to that government, which, in my opinion entailed these sufferings upon them. I have used the words open and honourable resistance, in order that I might refer to one of the articles brought in evidence against me, in which the writer suggests such things as flinging burning hoops on the soldiery. My lords, these are no sentiments of mine. I did not write that article. I did not see it, or know of it until I read it when published in the paper. But I did not bring the writer of it here on the table. Why? I knew that if I were to do so, it would be only handing him over at the court-house doors to what one of the witnesses has very properly called the fangs of the Attorney-General. With respect to myself I have no fears. I trust I will be enabled to bear my sentence with all the forbearance due to what I believe to be the opinion of twelve conscientious enemies to me, and I will bear with due patience the wrath of the government whose mouthpiece they were; but I will never cease to deplore the destiny that gave me birth in this unhappy country, and compelled me, as an Irishman, to receive at your hands a felon’s doom, for discharging what I conceived–and what I still conceive to be my duty. I shall only add, that the fact is, that instead of three Roman Catholic jurors being set aside by the Attorney-General, there were thirteen; I hold in my hand a list of their names, and out of the twelve jurors he permitted to be sworn there was not one Roman Catholic.”

Mr. O’Doherty was sentenced to transportation for ten years. He sailed for Van Dieman’s Land in the same ship that bore John Martin into exile. In the course of time he, like Martin and O’Brien, was set at liberty on condition of his residing anywhere out of “the United Kingdom.” He came on to Paris, and there resumed his medical studies. He paid, however, one secret and hurried visit to Ireland. He came to wed and bear away with him, to share his fortune in other lands, a woman in every way worthy of him–one whose genius and talents, like his own, had been freely given to the cause of Ireland, and whose heart had long been his in the bonds of a most tender attachment. “Eva,” one of the fair poetesses of the _Nation_, was the plighted wife of O’Doherty. Terrible must have been the shock to her gentle nature when her patriot lover was borne off a convict, and shipped for England’s penal settlements in the far southern seas. She believed, however, they would meet again, and she knew that neither time nor distance could chill the ardour of their mutual affection. The volumes of the _Nation_ published during his captivity contain many exquisite lyrics from her pen mourning for the absent one, with others expressive of unchanging affection, and the most intense faith in the truth of her distant lover. “The course of true love” in this case ended happily. O’Doherty, as we have stated, managed to slip across from Paris to Ireland, and returned with “Eva” his bride. In 1856 the pardons granted to the exiles above named was made unconditional, and in the following year O’Doherty returned to Ireland, where he took out his degrees with great _eclat_; he then commenced the practice of medicine and surgery in Dublin, and soon came to be ranked amongst the most distinguished and successful members of his profession. After remaining some years in Ireland, Mr. O’Doherty sailed far away seawards once again, and took up his abode under the light of the Southern Cross. He settled in a rising colony of Australia, where he still lives, surrounded by troops of friends, and enjoying the position to which his talents and his high character entitle him.

* * * * *

TERENCE BELLEW M’MANUS.

The excitement caused by the startling events of which this country was the scene in the summer of 1848 extended far beyond the shores of Ireland. Away beyond the Atlantic the news from Ireland was watched for with glistening eyes by the exiles who dwelt by the shores of Manhattan or in the backwoods of Canada. Amongst the Irish colony in England the agitation was still greater. Dwelling in the hearts of the monster towns of England, the glow of the furnace lighting up their swarthy faces; toiling on the canals, on the railways, in the steamboats; filling the factories, plying their brawny hands where the hardest work was to be done; hewers of wood, and drawers of water; living in the midst of the English, yet separated from them by all the marks of a distinctive nationality, by antagonistic feelings, by clashing interests, by jarring creeds; such was the position of the men who carried the faith, the traditions, the politics, and the purpose of Ireland into the heart of the enemy’s country. With their countrymen at home they were united by the warmest ties of sympathy and affection. In London, in Manchester, in Birmingham, in Leeds, Confederate Clubs were established, and active measures taken for co-operating with the Young Ireland leaders in whatever course they might think proper to adopt. In Liverpool those clubs were organized on the most extensive scale; thousands of Irishmen attended their weekly meetings, and speeches rivalling those delivered at the Rotundo and at the Music Hall in fervour and earnestness were spoken from their platforms. Amongst the Irishmen who figured prominently at these gatherings there was one to whom the Irish in Liverpool looked up with peculiar confidence and pride. He was young, he was accomplished, he was wealthy, he filled a highly respectable position in society; his name was connected by everyone with probity and honour; and, above all, he was a nationalist, unselfish, enthusiastic, and ardent. The Irishmen of Liverpool will not need to be told that we speak of Terence Bellew M’Manus.

The agitation of 1848 found M’Manus in good business as a shipping agent, his income being estimated by his Liverpool friends at ten or twelve hundred a year. His patriotism was of too genuine a nature to be merged in his commercial success, and M’Manus readily abandoned his prospects and his position when his country seemed to require the sacrifice. Instantly on discovering that the government were about to suspend the _Habeas Corpus_ Act in Ireland, he took the steamer for Dublin, bringing with him the green and gold uniform which he owned in virtue of being a general of the ’82 Club. In the same steamer came two detectives sent specially to secure his arrest in Dublin. M’Manus drove from the quay, where he landed, to the _Felon_ Office. He discovered that all the Confederate leaders out of prison had gone southwards on hostile thoughts intent; and M’Manus resolved on joining them without a moment’s hesitation. Having managed to give the detectives the slip, he journeyed southwards to Tipperary and joined O’Brien’s party at Killenaule. He shared the fortunes of the insurgent leaders until the dispersion at Ballingarry, where he fought with conspicuous bravery and determination. He was the first to arrive before the house in which the police took refuge, and the last to leave it. The Rev. Mr. Fitzgerald, P.P., an eye witness, gives an interesting account of M’Manus’ conduct during the attack on the Widow M’Cormack’s house. He says:–

“With about a dozen men more determined than the rest, was M’Manus, who indeed throughout the whole day showed more courage and resolution than anyone else. With a musket in his hand, and in the face of the enemy, he reconnoitered the place, and observed every accessible approach to the house, and with a few colliers, under cover of a cart-load of hay, which they pushed on before them, came up to the postern-door of the kitchen. Here with his own hand he fired several pistol-shots, to make it ignite, but from the state of the weather, which was damp and heavy, and from the constant down-pour of rain on the previous day, this attempt proved quite unsuccessful. With men so expert at the use of the pickaxe, and so large a supply of blasting powder at the collieries, he could have quickly undermined the house, or blown it up; but the circumstance of so many children being shut in with the police, and the certainty that, if they persevered, all would be involved in the same ruin, compelled him and his associates to desist from their purpose.”

When it became useless to offer further resistance, M’Manus retired with the peasantry to the hills, and dwelt with them for several days. Having shaved off his whiskers, and made some other changes in his appearance, he succeeded in running the gauntlet though the host of spies and detectives on his trail, and he was actually on board a large vessel on the point of sailing for America from Cork harbour when arrested by the police. His discovery was purely accidental; the police boarded the vessel in chase of an absconding defaulter, but while prosecuting the search one of the constables who had seen M’Manus occasionally in Liverpool recognised him. At first he gave his name as O’Donnell, said he was an Irish-American returning westward, after visiting his friends in the old land. His answers, however, were not sufficiently consistent to dissipate the constable’s suspicion. He was brought ashore and taken handcuffed before a magistrate, whereupon he avowed his name, and boldly added that, he did not regret any act he had done, and would cheerfully go through it again.

On the 10th of October, 1848, he was brought to trial for high treason in Clonmel. He viewed the whole proceedings with calm indifference, and when the verdict of guilty was brought in he heard the announcement with unaltered mien. A fortnight later he was brought up to receive sentence; Meagher and O’Donoghue had been convicted in the interim, and the three confederates stood side by side in the dock to hear the doom of the traitor pronounced against them. M’Manus was the first to speak in reply to the usual formality, and his address was as follows:–

“My lords–I trust I am enough of a Christian and enough of a man to understand the awful responsibility of the question which has been put to me. Standing upon my native soil–standing in an Irish court of justice, and before the Irish nation–I have much to say why the sentence of death, or the sentence of the law, should not be passed upon me. But upon entering into this court I placed my life–and what is of more importance to me, my honour–in the hands of two advocates, and if I had ten thousand lives and ten thousand honours, I should be content to place them all in the watchful and glorious genius of the one, and the patient zeal and talent of the other. I am, therefore, content, and with regard to that I have nothing to say. But I have a word to say, which no advocate, however anxious and devoted he may be, can utter for me. I say, whatever part I may have taken in the straggle for my country’s independence, whatever part I may have acted in my short career, I stand before you, my lords, with a free heart and a light conscience, to abide the issue of your sentence. And now, my lords, this is, perhaps, the fittest time to put a sentence upon record, which is this–that standing in this dock, and called to ascend the scaffold–it may be to-morrow–it may be now–it may be never–whatever the result may be, I wish to put this on record, that in the part I have taken I was not actuated by enmity towards Englishmen–for among them I have passed some of the happiest days of my life, and the most prosperous; and in no part which I have taken was I actuated by enmity towards Englishmen individually, whatever I may have felt of the injustice of English rule in this island; I therefore say, that it is not because I loved England less, but because I loved Ireland more, that I now stand before you.”

In 1851, M’Manus escaped from captivity in Van Dieman’s Land, and he soon after settled in California where he died. His funeral was the greatest ever witnessed upon earth. From the shores of the Pacific thousands of miles away, across continents and oceans they brought him, and laid his ashes to rest in the land of his birth. On the 10th day of November, 1861, that wonderful funeral passed through the streets of Dublin to Glasnevin, and those who saw the gathering that followed his coffin to the grave, the thousands of stalwart men that marched in solemn order behind his bier will never forget the sight. A silent slab unlettered and unmarked shows the spot where his remains were interred; no storied urn or animated bust, no marble column or commemorative tablet has been consecrated to his memory, but the history of his life is graven in the hearts of his countrymen, and he enjoys in their affectionate remembrance, a monument more enduring than human hands could build him.

* * * * *

THOMAS CLARKE LUBY.

Looking along the course of Irish history, it is easy to point out certain periods in which England could have found an opportunity for making terms with the Irish nation, healing some of the old wounds and mitigating in some degree the burning sense of wrong and the desire of vengeance that rankled in the hearts of the Irish race. There were lulls in the struggle, intervals of gloomy calm, occasions when the heart of Ireland might have been touched by generous deeds, and when the offer of the olive branch, or even a few of its leaves, would have had a blessed effect. But England never availed of them–never for an instant sought to turn them to good account. She preferred when Ireland was defeated, prostrate, and forlorn, to taunt her with her failure, scoff at her sufferings, and add to her afflictions. Such was her conduct during the mournful time that followed on the attempted insurrection of 1848.

It was an appaling time, in whose death-laden atmosphere political action was impossible. The famine had made of the country one huge graveyard. A silence fell upon the land, lately so clamorous for her rights, so hopeful, and so defiant. The Repeal organization spoke no more; the tramp of the Confederate Clubs was no longer heard in the streets; O’Connell was dead; the Young Ireland leaders were fugitives or prisoners; and the people were almost bewildered by a sense of their great calamity. Then, if England had stooped to raise her fallen foe, offered her some kindly treatment, and spoken some gracious words, the bitterness of the old quarrel might have been in some degree assuaged, even though its cause should not be entirely obliterated. But England did not choose to take that politic and Christian course. She found it much pleasanter to chuckle over the discomfiture of the Irish patriots, to ridicule the failure of their peaceable agitation, to sneer at their poor effort in arms, to nickname, and misrepresent, and libel the brave-hearted gentleman who led that unlucky endeavour; and above all to felicitate herself on the reduction that had taken place in the Irish population. That–from her point of view–was the glorious part of the whole affair. The Irish were “gone with a vengeance!”–not all of them, but a goodly proportion, and others were going off every day. Emigrant ships clustered in the chief ports, and many sought their living freights in those capacious harbours along the Atlantic coast which nature seemed to have shaped for the accommodation of a great commerce, but where the visit of any craft larger than a fishing smack was a rare event. The flaming placards of the various shipping-lines were posted in every town in Ireland,–on the chapel-gates, and the shutters of closed shops, and the doors of tenantless houses; and there appeared to be in progress a regular breaking up of the Irish nation. This, to the English mind, was positively delightful. For here was the Irish question being settled at last, by the simple process of the transference of the Irish people to the bottom of the deep sea, or else to the continent of America–nearly the same thing as far as England was concerned, for in neither place–as it seemed to her–could they ever more trouble her peace, or have any claim on those fruits of the Irish soil which were needed for the stomachs of Englishmen. There they could no longer pester her with petitions for Tenant Right, or demands for a Repeal of the Union. English farmers, and drovers, and labourers, loyal to the English government, and yielding no sort of allegiance to the Pope, would cross the Channel and take possession of the deserted island, which would thenceforth be England’s in such a sense as it never was before. O magnificent consummation! O most brilliant prospect, in the eyes of English statesmen! They saw their way clear, they understood their game; it was to lighten in no degree the pressure which they maintained upon the lives of the Irish people, to do nothing that could tend to render existence tolerable to them in Ireland, or check the rush of emigration. Acting in conformity with this shallow and false estimate of the situation, they allowed to drift away unused the time which wise statesmen would have employed in the effectuation of conciliatory and tranquilising measures, and applied themselves simply to the crushing out from the Irish mind of every hope of improved legislation, and the defeat of every effort to obtain it. Thus when the people–waking up from the stupefaction that followed on the most tragic period of the famine–began to breathe the breath of political life again, and, perceiving the danger that menaced the existence of the peasant classes, set on foot an agitation to procure a reform of the land-laws, the government resolutely opposed the project; defeated the bills which the friends of the tenantry brought into parliament; and took steps, which proved only too successful, for the break up of the organization by which the movement was conducted. And then, when Frederick Lucas was dead, and Mr. Duffy had gone into exile, and the patriot priests were debarred from taking part in politics, and Messrs. John Sadlier and William Keogh were bought over by bribes of place and pay, the government appeared to think that Irish patriotism had fought in its last ditch, and received its final defeat.

But they were mistaken. The old cause that had survived so many disasters was not dead yet. While the efforts of the Tenant Righters in Ireland were being foiled, and their party was being scattered, a couple of Irishmen, temporarily resident in Paris, fugitive because of their connexion with the events of ’48, were laying the foundations of a movement more profoundly dangerous to England, than any of those with which she had grappled since the days of Wolfe Tone and Lord Edward Fitzgerald. Those men were John O’Mahony and James Stephens.

Since then their names have been much heard of, and the organization of which they were the originators has played an important part in Irish history. But at the period of which we are now writing, the general public knew nothing of O’Mahony or of Stephens beyond the fact that they were alleged to have taken some part in the recent insurrectionary demonstrations. Stephens, who was then a very young lad, had been present at the Ballingarry attack, and had been severely wounded by the fire of the police. He managed to crawl away from the spot to a ditch side, where he was lost sight of. A report of his death was put into circulation, and a loyal journal published in Kilkenny–the native town of the young rebel, who in this instance played his first trick on the government–referred to his supposed decease in terms which showed that the rule _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_ found acceptance with the editor. The following are the words of the obituary notice which appeared in the _Kilkenny Moderator_ on or about the 19th of August, 1848:–

“Poor James Stephens, who followed Smith O’Brien to the field, has died of the wound which he received at Ballingarry whilst acting as aide-de-camp to the insurgent leader. Mr. Stephens was a very amiable, and apart from politics, most inoffensive young man, possessed of a great deal of talent, and we believe he was a most excellent son and brother. His untimely and melancholy fate will be much regretted by a numerous circle of friends.”

It is said that his family very prudently fostered this delusion by going into mourning for the loss of young James–the suggestion of which clever ruse probably came from the dear boy himself. A short time afterwards he managed to escape, disguised as a lady’s maid, to France. As one may gather from the paragraph above quoted, the family were much respected in the locality. Mr. Stephens, father of the future C.O.I.R., was clerk in the establishment of a respectable auctioneer and bookseller in Kilkenny. He gave his children a good education, and sent young James to a Catholic seminary with a view to his being taught and trained for the priesthood. But circumstances prevented the realization of this design, and before any line of business could be marked out for young Stephens, the political events above referred to took place and shaped his future career.

John O’Mahony was a different stamp of man. He belonged to the class known as gentlemen-farmers, and of that class he was one of the most respected. His family owned a considerable tract of land in the southern part of the County of Tipperary, of which they had been occupants for many generations. He was well educated, of studious habits, and thoroughly imbued with patriotic feeling, which came to him as a hereditary possession. When the Young Ireland leaders were electrifying the country by their spirited appeals to the patriotism and bravery of the Irish race, and the population in all the chief centres of intelligence were crystalizing into semi-military organizations, O’Mahony was not apathetic or inactive. One of the strongest of the Confederate clubs–which were thick sown in the contiguous districts of the Counties of Cork, Waterford, and Tipperary–was under his presidency; and when in July, 1848, the leaders of the movement scattered themselves over the country for the purpose of ascertaining the degree of support they would receive if they should decide on unfurling the green banner, his report of the state of affairs in his district was one of their most cheering encouragements.

A few days afterwards the outbreak under O’Brien occurred at Ballingarry. The failure of that attempt, and the irresolute manner in which it was conducted, had disheartened the country, but the idea of allowing the struggle to rest at that point was not universally entertained by the leaders of the clubs; and John O’Mahony was one of those who resolved that another attempt should be made to rally the people to the insurrectionary standard. He acted up to his resolution. On the night of the 12th of September there were signal-fires on the slopes of Slievenamon and the Comeragh mountains, and the district between Carrick-on-Suir and Callan was in a state of perturbation. Next day the alarm was spread in all directions. The gentry of the disturbed districts rushed into the nearest towns for protection; police from the outlying barracks were called in to reinforce the threatened stations, and troops were hastily summoned from Dublin and the neighbouring garrisons. Meanwhile parties of the insurgents began to move about. One proceeded to the police station at the Slate-quarries, and finding it deserted–the policemen having retired on Piltown–burned it to the ground. Another attempted the destruction of Grany bridge, to delay the advance of the soldiery. A third proceeded to attack the Glenbower station. The defenders of the barracks were in a rather critical position when another party of police, on their way from the Nine-Mile-House station to Carrick, came upon the spot, and the combined force speedily put their half-armed assailants to flight, with a loss to the latter of one man severely wounded and one killed. An attack was made on the barrack at Portlaw, but with a like result; two men were stricken dead by the bullets of the police. The people soon afterwards scattered to their homes, and the soldiery and police had nothing to do but hunt up for the leaders and other parties implicated in the movement. John O’Mahony narrowly escaped capture on three or four occasions. He lingered in the country, however, until after the conviction of the state prisoners at Clonmel, when it became clear to him that the cause was lost for a time; and he then took his way to Paris, whither several of his fellow outlaws, for whose arrest the government had offered large rewards, had gone before him.

In that famous centre of intellect and of intrigue, the focus of political thought, the fountain-head of great ideas, John O’Mahony and James Stephens pondered long over the defeat that had come upon the Irish cause, and in their ponderings bethought them that the reason of the failure which they deplored was to be found in the want of that quiet, earnest, secret preparation, by means of which the Continental revolutionists were able to produce from time to time such volcanic effects in European politics, and cause the most firmly-rooted dynasties to tremble for their positions. The system of secret conspiracy–that ancient system, “old as the universe, yet not outworn”–a system not unknown in Ireland from the days of the Attacots to those of the Whiteboys–the system of Sir Phelim O’Neill and of Theobald Wolfe Tone–that system, as developed, refined, and elaborated by the most subtle intellects of modern times, those two men proposed to propagate among the Irish race at home and abroad. They divided the labour between them. O’Mahony took the United States of America for his field of action, and Stephens took the Old Country.

It was in the year 1858 that the first symptoms indicative of the work to which James Stephens had set himself made their appearance in the extreme south-west of Ireland. Whispers went about that some of the young men of Kenmare, Bantry, and Skibbereen were enrolled in a secret sworn organization, and were in the habit of meeting for the purpose of training and drilling. Indeed the members of the new society took little pains to conceal its existence; they seemed rather to find a pride in the knowledge which their neighbours had of the fact, and relied for their legal safety on certain precautions adopted in the manner of their initiation as members. When informed firstly by well known nationalists in a private manner, and subsequently by public remonstrances addressed to them by Catholic clergymen and the national journals, that the government were on their track, they refused to believe it; but ere long they suffered grievously for their incredulity and want of prudence. In the early days of December, 1858, the swoop of the government was made on the members of the “Phoenix Society” in Cork and Kerry, and arrests followed shortly after in other parts of the country. The trials in the south commenced at Tralee in March, 1859, when a conviction was obtained against a man named Daniel O’Sullivan, and he was sentenced to penal servitude for ten years. The remaining cases were adjourned to the next assizes, and when they came on in July, 1859, the prisoners put in a plea of guilty, and were set at liberty on the understanding that if their future conduct should not be satisfactory to the authorities, they would be called up for sentence. Amongst the Cork prisoners who took this course was Jeremiah O’Donovan (Rossa), whose name has since then been made familiar to the public.

Those events were generally supposed to have extinguished the Phoenix conspiracy. And many of Ireland’s most sincere friends hoped that such was the case. Recognising fully the peculiar powers which a secret society can bring to bear against the government, they still felt a profound conviction that the risks, or rather the certain cost of liberty and life involved in such a mode of procedure, formed more than a counterpoise for the advantages which it presented. They were consequently earnest and emphatic in their endeavours to dissuade their countrymen from treading in the dangerous paths in which their steps were dogged by the spy and the informer. The Catholic clergy were especially zealous in their condemnation of secret revolutionary societies, urged thereto by a sense of their duty as priests and patriots. But there were men connected with the movement both in America and Ireland, who were resolved to persevere in their design of extending the organization among the Irish people, despite of any amount of opposition from any quarter whatsoever. In pursuit of that object they were not over scrupulous as to the means they employed; they did not hesitate to violate many an honourable principle, and to wrong many an honest man; nor did they exhibit a fair share of common prudence in dealing with the difficulties of their position; but unexpected circumstances arose to favour their propagandism, and it went ahead despite of all their mistakes and of every obstacle. One of those circumstances was the outbreak of the civil war in America, which took place in April, 1861. That event seemed to the leaders of the Irish revolutionary organization, now known as the Fenian Brotherhood, to be one of the most fortunate for their purposes that could have happened. It inspired the whole population of America with military ardour, it opened up a splendid school in which the Irish section of the people could acquire a knowledge of the art of war, which was exactly what was needed to give real efficacy to their endeavours for the overthrow of British dominion in Ireland. Besides, there appeared to be a strong probability that the line of action in favour of the Southern States which England, notwithstanding her proclamation of neutrality, had adopted from an early stage of the conflict, would speedily involve her in a war with the Federal government. These things constituted a prospect dazzling to the eyes of the Irishmen who had “gone with a vengeance.” Their hearts bounded with joy at the opportunities that appeared to be opening on them. At last the time was near, they believed, when the accumulated hate of seven centuries would burst upon the power of England, not in the shape of an undisciplined peasantry armed with pikes, and scythes, and pitchforks, as in 1798–not in the shape of a half famished and empty-handed crowd, led to battle by orators and poets, as in 1848, but in the shape of an army, bristling with sharp steel, and flanked with thunderous cannon–an army skilled in the modern science of war, directed by true military genius, and inspired by that burning valour which in all times was one of the qualities of the Irish race. Influenced by such hopes and feelings, the Irish of the Northern States poured by thousands into the Federal ranks, and formed themselves into regiments that were at the same time so many Fenian circles. In the Southern army, too, there were many Irishmen who were not less determined to give to their native land the benefit of their military experience, as soon as the troubles of their adopted country should be brought to an end. Fenianism, with that glow of light upon it, spread like a prairie-fire through the States. The ranks of the organization swelled rapidly, and money contributions poured like a tide into its treasury. The impulse was felt also by the society in Ireland. It received a rapid development, and soon began to put on a bold front towards the government, and a still more belligerent one towards all Irishmen who, while claiming the character of patriots, declined to take part in the Fenian movement or recommend it to their countrymen. In November, 1863, the brotherhood started the _Irish People_ newspaper in Dublin, for the double purpose of propagating their doctrines and increasing the revenues of the society. James Stephens was the author of this most unfortunate project. The men whom he selected for working it out were Thomas Clarke Luby, John O’Leary, and Charles Joseph Kickham.

From the date of its establishment up to the mouth of September, 1865–a period of nearly two years–the _Irish People_ occupied itself in preaching what its editors regarded as the cardinal doctrines of the society, which were:–That constitutional agitation for the redress of Ireland’s grievances was worse than useless; that every man taking part in such agitation was either a fool or a knave; that in political affairs clergymen should be held of no more account than laymen; and that the only hope for Ireland lay in an armed uprising of the people. These doctrines were not quite new; not one of them was absolutely true; but they were undoubtedly held by many thousands of Irishmen, and the Fenian society took care to secure for the journal in which they were advocated, a large circulation. The office of the _Irish People_ soon came to be regarded as, what it really was, the head quarters of the Fenian organization in Ireland. To it the choice spirits of the party resorted for counsel and direction; thither the provincial organisers directed their steps whenever they visited Dublin; into it poured weekly from all parts of the country an immense mass of correspondence, which the editors, instead of destroying after it had passed through their hands, foolishly allowed to accumulate upon their shelves, though every word of it was fraught with peril to the lives and liberties of their friends. In their private residences also they were incautious enough to keep numerous documents of a most compromising character. There is but one way of accounting for their conduct in this matter. They may have supposed that the legal proceedings against them, which they knew were certain to take place at one time or another, would be conducted in the semi-constitutional fashion which was adopted towards the national journals in 1848. If the staff of the _Irish People_ had received a single day’s notice that they were about to be made amenable to the law, it is possible that they would have their houses and their office immediately cleared of those documents which afterwards consigned so many of their countrymen to the horrors of penal servitude. But they saw no reason to suppose that the swoop was about to be made on them. On the fifteenth day of September, 1865, there were no perceptible indications that the authorities were any more on the alert in reference to Fenian affairs then they had been during the past twelve months. It was Friday; the _Irish People_ had been printed for the next day’s sale, large batches of the paper had been sent off to the agents in town and country, the editors and publishing clerks had gone home to rest after their week’s labours–when suddenly, at about half-past nine o’clock in the evening, a strong force of police broke into the office, seized the books, manuscripts, papers, and forms of type, and bore them off to the Castle yard. At the same time arrests of the chief Fenian leaders were being made in various parts of the city. The news created intense excitement in all circles of society, and more especially amongst the Fenians themselves, who had never dreamed of a government _coup_ so sudden, so lawless, and so effective. The government had now thrown off the mask of apathy and impassiveness which it had worn so long, and it commenced to lay its strong hand upon its foes. Amongst the men who filled the prison cells on that miserable autumn evening were John O’Leary, Thomas Clarke Luby, and Jeremiah O’Donovan (Rossa). Before the crown was ready to proceed with their trial, the third editor of the paper, Charles J. Kickham, was added to their company, having been arrested with James Stephens, Edward Duffy, and Hugh Brophy, on the 11th November, at Fairfield House, near Dublin.

On Monday, November 27th, 1865, the state trials commenced before a Special Commission in the Courthouse, Green-street–the scene of so many a previous grapple between British law and the spirit of Irish patriotism. Mr. Justice Keogh and Mr. Justice Fitzgerald were the presiding judges. There was a long list of prisoners to be tried. James Stephens might have been honoured with the first place amongst them, were it not that two days previously, to the unspeakable horror and surprise of the government and all its friends, he had effected his escape, or rather, we might say, obtained, by the aid of friendly hands, his release from Richmond prison. In his regretted absence, the crown commenced their proceedings by placing Thomas Clarke Luby in the dock to answer to a charge of treason-felony.

He stood up to the bar, between the jailors that clustered about him, a quiet-faced, pale, and somewhat sad-looking man, apparently of about forty years of age. A glance around the court-house showed him but few friendly faces–for, owing to the terrors felt by the judges, the crown prosecutors and other officials of the law, who dreaded the desperate resolves of armed conspirators, few were admitted into the building except policemen, detectives, and servants of the crown in one capacity or another. In one of the galleries, however, he recognised his wife–daughter of J. De Jean Fraser, one of the sweetest poets of the ’48 period–with the wife of his fellow-prisoner, O’Donovan Rossa, and the sister of John O’Leary. A brief smile of greeting passed between the party, and then all thoughts were concentrated on the stern business of the day.

There was no chance of escape for Thomas Clarke Luby or for his associates. The crown had a plethora of evidence against them, acquired during the months and years when they appeared to be all but totally ignorant of the existence of the conspiracy. They had the evidence of the approver, Nagle, who had been an employe of the _Irish People_ office and a confidential agent of James Stephens up to the night of the arrests, but who during the previous eighteen months had been betraying every secret of theirs to the government. They had the evidence of a whole army of detectives; but more crushing and fatal than all, they had that which was supplied by the immense store of documents captured at the _Irish People_ office and the houses of some of the chief members of the conspiracy. Of all those papers the most important was one found at the residence of Mr. Luby, in which James Stephens, being at the time about to visit America delegated his powers over the organization in Ireland, England, and Scotland to Thomas Clarke Luby, John O’Leary, and Charles J. Kickham. This, which was referred to during the trials as the “executive document,” was worded as follows:–

“I hereby empower Thomas Clarke Luby, John O’Leary and Charles J. Kickham a committee of organization, or executive, with the same supreme control over the home organization, England, Ireland, and Scotland, as that exercised by myself. I further empower them to appoint a committee of military inspection, and a committee of appeal and judgment, the functions of which committee will be made known to every member of them. Trusting to the patriotism and abilities of the executive, I fully endorse their actions beforehand. I call on every man in our ranks to support and be guided by them in all that concerns the military brotherhood.

“J. STEPHENS.”

Not all the legal ingenuity and forensic eloquence of their talented counsel, Mr. Butt, could avail to save the men who, by the preservation of such documents as the foregoing, had fastened the fetters on their own limbs. The trial of Mr. Luby concluded on the fourth day of the proceedings–Friday, December 1st 1865–with a verdict of guilty. The prisoner heard the announcement with composure, and then, in response to the question usual in such cases, addressed the court as follows:–

“Well, my lords and gentlemen, I don’t think any person present here is surprised at the verdict found against me. I have been prepared for this verdict ever since I was arrested, although I thought it my duty to fight the British government inch by inch. I felt I was sure to be found guilty, since the advisers of the Crown took what the Attorney-General was pleased the other day to call the ‘merciful course.’ I thought I might have a fair chance of escaping, so long as the capital charge was impending over me; but when they resolved on trying me under the Treason-Felony Act, I felt that I had not the smallest chance. I am somewhat embarrassed at the present moment as to what I should say under the circumstances. There are a great many things that I would wish to say; but knowing that there are other persons in the same situation with myself, and that I might allow myself to say something injudicious, which would peril their cases, I feel that my tongue is to a great degree tied. Nothwithstanding, there are two or three points upon which I would say a few words. I have nothing to say to Judge Keogh’s charge to the jury. He did not take up any of the topics that had been introduced to prejudice the case against me; for instance, he did not take this accusation of an intention to assassinate, attributed to my fellow-prisoners and myself. The Solicitor-General in his reply to Mr. Butt, referred to those topics. Mr. Barry was the first person who advanced those charges. I thought they were partially given up by the Attorney-General in his opening statement, at least they were put forward to you in a very modified form; but the learned Solicitor-General, in his very virulent speech, put forward those charges in a most aggravated manner. He sought even to exaggerate upon Mr. Barry’s original statement. Now, with respect to those charges–in justice to my character–I must say that in this court, there is not a man more incapable of anything like massacre or assassination than I am. I really believe that the gentlemen who have shown so much ability in persecuting me, in the bottom of their hearts believe me incapable of an act of assassination or massacre. I don’t see that there is the smallest amount of evidence to show that I ever entertained the notion of a massacre of landlords and priests. I forget whether the advisers of the crown said I intended the massacre of the Protestant clergymen. Some of the writers of our enlightened press said that I did. Now, with respect to the charge of assassinating the landlords, the only thing that gives even the shadow of a colour to that charge is the letter signed–alleged to be signed–by Mr. O’Keefe. Now, assuming–but by no means admitting, of course–that the letter was written by Mr. O’Keefe, let me make a statement about it. I know the facts that I am about to state are of no practical utility to me now, at least with respect to the judges. I know it is of no practical utility to me, because I cannot give evidence on my own behalf, but it may be of practical utility to others with whom I wish to stand well. I believe my words will carry conviction–and carry much more conviction than any words of the legal advisers of the crown can–to more than 300,000 of the Irish race in Ireland, England, and America. Well, I deny absolutely, that I ever entertained any idea of assassinating the landlords, and the letter of Mr. O’Keefe–assuming it to be his letter–is the only evidence on the subject. My acquaintance with Mr. O’Keefe was of the slightest nature. I did not even know of his existence when the _Irish People_ was started. He came, after that paper was established a few months, to the office, and offered some articles–some were rejected, some we inserted, and I call the attention of the legal advisers of the Crown to this fact, that amongst the papers which they got, those that were Mr. O’Keefe’s articles had many paragraphs scored out; in fact we put in no article of his without a great deal of what is technically called ‘cutting down.’ Now, that letter of his to me was simply a private document. It contained the mere private views of the writer; and I pledge this to the court as a man of honour–and I believe in spite of the position in which I stand, amongst my countrymen I am believed to be a man of honour, and that if my life depended on it, I would not speak falsely about the thing–when I read that letter, and the first to whom I gave it was my wife, I remember we read it with fits of laughter at its ridiculous ideas. My wife at the moment said–‘Had I not better burn the letter?’ ‘Oh no,’ I said, looking upon it as a most ridiculous thing, and never dreaming for a moment that such a document would ever turn up against me, and produce the unpleasant consequences it has produced–mean the imputation of assassination and massacre, which has given me a great deal more trouble than anything else in this case. That disposes–as far as I can at present dispose of it–of the charge of wishing to assassinate the landlords. As to the charge of desiring to assassinate the priests, I deny it as being the most monstrous thing in the world. Why, surely, every one who read the articles in the paper would see that the plain doctrine laid down there was–to reverence the priests so long as they confined themselves to their sacerdotal functions; but when the priest descended to the arena of politics he became no more than any other man, and would just be regarded as any other man. If he was a man of ability and honesty, of course he would get the respect that such men get in politics–if he was not a man of ability there would be no more thought of him than of a shoemaker or any one else. This is the teaching of the _Irish People_ with regard to the priests. I believe the _Irish People_ has done a great deal of good, even amongst those who do not believe in its revolutionary doctrines. I believe the revolutionary doctrines of the _Irish People_ are good. I believe nothing can ever save Ireland except independence; and I believe that all other attempts to ameliorate the condition of Ireland are mere temporary expedients and make shifts—-“

Mr. Justice Keogh–“I am very reluctant to interrupt you, Mr. Luby.”

Mr. Luby–“Very well, my lord, I will leave that. I believe in this way the _Irish People_ has done an immensity of good. It taught the people not to give up their right of private judgment in temporal matters to the clergy; that while they reverenced the clergy upon the altar, they should not give up their consciences in secular matters to the clergy. I believe that is good. Others may differ from me. No set of men I believe ever set themselves earnestly to any work, but they did good in some shape or form.”

Judge Keogh–“I am most reluctant, Mr. Luby, to interrupt you, but do you think you should pursue this!”

Mr. Luby–“Very well, I will not. I think that disposes of those things. I don’t care to say much about myself. It would be rather beneath me. Perhaps some persons who know me would say I should not have touched upon the assassination charge at all–that in fact I have rather shown weakness in attaching so much importance to it. But, with regard to the entire course of my life, and whether it be a mistaken course or not will be for every man’s individual judgment to decide–this I know, that no man ever loved Ireland more than I have done–no man has ever given up his whole being to Ireland to the extent I have done. From the time I came to what has been called the years of discretion, my entire thought has been devoted to Ireland. I believed the course I pursued was right; others may take a different view. I believe the majority of my countrymen this minute, if, instead of my being tried before a petty jury, who, I suppose, are bound to find according to British law–if my guilt or innocence was to be tried by the higher standard of eternal right, and the case was put to all my countrymen–I believe this moment the majority of my countrymen would pronounce that I am not a criminal, but that I have deserved well of my country. When the proceedings of this trial go forth into the world, people will say the cause of Ireland is not to be despaired of, that Ireland is not yet a lost country–that as long as there are men in any country prepared to expose themselves to every difficulty and danger in its service, prepared to brave captivity, even death itself if need be, that country cannot be lost. With these words I conclude.”

On the conclusion of this address, Judge Keogh proceeded to pass sentence on the prisoner. The prisoner’s speech, he said, was in every way creditable to him; but the bench could not avoid coming to the conclusion that, with the exception of James Stephens, he was the person most deeply implicated in the conspiracy. The sentence of the court was that he be kept in penal servitude for a term of twenty years. Mr. Luby heard the words without any apparent emotion–gave one sad farewell glance to his wife and friends, and stepping down the little stairs from the dock, made way for the next prisoner.

* * * * *

JOHN O’LEARY.

While the jury in the case of Thomas Clarke Luby were absent from the court deliberating on and framing their verdict, John O’Leary was put forward to the bar.

He stepped boldly to the front, with a flash of fire in his dark eyes, and a scowl on his features, looking hatred and defiance on judges, lawyers, jurymen, and all the rest of them. All eyes were fixed on him, for he was one of those persons whose exterior attracts attention and indicates a character above the common. He was tall, slightly built, and of gentlemanly deportment; every feature of his thin angular face gave token of great intellectual energy and determination, and its pallid hue was rendered almost death-like by contrast with his long black hair and flowing moustache and beard. Easy it was to see that when the government placed John O’Leary in the dock they had caged a proud spirit, and an able and resolute enemy. He had come of a patriot stock, and from a part of Ireland where rebels to English rule were never either few or faint-hearted. He was born in the town of Tipperary, of parents whose circumstances were comfortable, and who, at the time of their decease, left him in possession of property worth a couple of hundred pounds per annum. He was educated for the medical profession in the Queen’s College, Cork, spent some time in France, and subsequently visited America, where he made the acquaintance of the chief organisers of the Fenian movement, by whom he was regarded as a most valuable acquisition to the ranks of the brotherhood. After his return to Ireland he continued to render the Fenian cause such services as lay in his power, and when James Stephens, who knew his courage and ability, invited him to take the post of chief editor of the Fenian organ which he was about to establish in Dublin, O’Leary readily obeyed the call, and accepted the dangerous position. In the columns of the _Irish People_ he laboured hard to defend and extend the principles of the Fenian organization until the date of his arrest and the suppression of the paper.

The trial lasted from Friday, the 1st, up to Wednesday, the 6th of December, when it was closed with a verdict of guilty and a sentence of twenty years’ penal servitude–Mr. Justice Fitzgerald remarking that no distinction in the degree of criminality could be discovered between the case of the prisoner and that of the previous convict. The following is the address delivered by O’Leary, who appeared to labour under much excitement, when asked in the usual terms if he had any reason to show why sentence should not be passed upon him:–

“I was not wholly unprepared for this verdict, because I felt that the government which could so safely pack the bench could not fail to make sure of its verdict.”

Mr. Justice Fitzgerald–“We are willing to hear anything in reason from you, but we cannot allow language of that kind to be used.”

Mr. O’Leary–“My friend Mr. Luby did not wish to touch on this matter from a natural fear lest he should do any harm to the other political prisoners; but there can be but little fear of that now, for a jury has been found to convict me of this conspiracy upon the evidence. Mr. Luby admitted that he was technically guilty according to British law; but I say that it is only by the most torturing interpretation that these men could make out their case against me. With reference to this conspiracy there has been much misapprehension in Ireland, and serious misapprehension. Mr. Justice Keogh said in his charge against Mr. Luby that men would be always found ready for money, or for some other motive, to place themselves at the disposal of the government; but I think the men who have been generally bought in this way, and who certainly made the best of the bargain, were agitators and not rebels. I have to say one word in reference to the foul charge upon which that miserable man, Barry, has made me responsible.”

Mr. Justice Fitzgerald–“We cannot allow that tone of observation.”

Mr. O’Leary continued–“That man has charged me–I need not defend myself or my friends from the charge. I shall merely denounce the moral assassin. Mr. Justice Keogh the other day spoke of revolutions, and administered a lecture to Mr. Luby. He spoke of cattle being driven away, and of houses being burned down, that men would be killed, and so on. I would like to know if all that does not apply to war as well as to revolution? One word more, and I shall have done. I have been found guilty of treason or treason-felony. Treason is a foul crime. The poet Dante consigned traitors to, I believe, the ninth circle of hell; but what kind of traitors? Traitors against king, against country, against friends and benefactors. England is not my country; I have betrayed no friend, no benefactor. Sidney and Emmet were legal traitors, Jeffreys was a loyal man, and so was Norbury. I leave the matter there.”

One hour after the utterance of these words John O’Leary, dressed in convict garb, his hair clipped, and his beard shaved off, was the occupant of a cell in Mountjoy prison, commencing his long term of suffering in expiation of the crime of having sought to obtain self-government for his native land.

* * * * *

JEREMIAH O’DONOVAN (ROSSA).

In one of the preceding pages we have mentioned the fact that at the Cork Summer Assizes of 1859, a conviction was recorded against Jeremiah O’Donovan (Rossa) for his complicity in the Phoenix conspiracy, and he was then released on the understanding that if he should be found engaging in similar practices, the crown would bring him up for judgment. It is characteristic of the man that with this conviction hanging like a mill-stone about his neck, he did not hesitate to take an active and an open part with the promoters of the Fenian movement. He travelled through various parts of Ireland in furtherance of the objects of the society; he visited America on the same mission, and when the _Irish People_ was started he took the position of business manager in that foredoomed establishment.

He was brought into the dock immediately after John O’Leary had been taken from it; but on representing that certain documents which he had not then at hand were necessary for his defence, he obtained a postponement of his trial for a few days. When he was again brought up for trial he intimated to the court that he meant to conduct his own defence. And he entered upon it immediately. He cross-examined the informers in fierce fashion, he badgered the detectives, he questioned the police, he debated with the crown lawyers, he argued with the judges, he fought with the crown side all round. But it was when the last of the witnesses had gone off the table that he set to the work in good earnest. He took up the various publications that had been put in evidence against him, and claimed his legal right to read them all through. One of them was the file of the _Irish People_ for the whole term of its existence! Horror sat upon the faces of judges, jurymen, sheriffs, lawyers, turnkeys, and all, when the prisoner gravely informed them that as a compromise he would not insist upon reading the advertisements! The bench were unable to deny that the prisoner was entitled to read, if not the entire, at any rate a great portion of the volume, and O’Donovan then applied himself to the task, selecting his readings more especially from those articles in which the political career of Mr. Justice Keogh was made the subject of animadversion. Right on he read, his lordship striving to look as composed and indifferent as possible, while every word of the bitter satire and fierce invective written against him by Luby and O’Leary was being launched at his heart. When articles of that class were exhausted, the prisoner turned to the most treasonable and seditious documents he could find, and commenced the reading of them, but the judges interposed; he claimed to be allowed to read a certain article–Judge Keogh objected–he proposed to read another–that was objected to also–he commenced to read another–he was stopped–he tried another–again Judge Keogh was down on him–then another–and he fared no better. So the fight went on throughout the live-long day, till the usual hour of adjournment had come and gone, and the prisoner himself was feeling parched, and weary, and exhausted. Observing that the lights were being now renewed, and that their lordships appeared satisfied to sit out the night, he anxiously inquired if the proceedings were not to be adjourned till morning. “Proceed, sir,” was the stern reply of the judge, who knew that the physical powers of the prisoner could not hold out much longer. “A regular Norbury,” gasped O’Donovan. “It’s like a ’98 trial.” “You had better proceed, sir, with propriety,” exclaimed the judge. “When do you propose stopping, my lord?” again inquired the prisoner. “Proceed, sir,” was the reiterated reply. O’Donovan could stand it no longer. He had been reading and speaking for eight hours and a half. With one final protest against the arrangement by which Judge Keogh was sent to try the cases of men who had written and published such articles against him, he sat down, exclaiming that, “English law might now take its course.”

Next day the jury handed down their verdict of guilty. The Attorney-General then addressed the court, and referred to the previous conviction against the prisoner. O’Donovan was asked, what he had to say in reference to that part of the case? and his reply was that “the government might add as much as they pleased to the term of his sentence on that account, if it was any satisfaction to them.” And when the like question was put to him regarding the present charge, he said:–

“With the fact that the government seized papers connected with my defence and examined them–with the fact that they packed the jury–with the fact that the government stated they would convict–with the fact that they sent Judge Keogh, a second Morbury, to try me–with these facts before me, it would be useless to say anything.”

Judge Keogh proceeded to pass sentence. “The prisoner,” he said, “had entertained those criminal designs since the year 1859;” whereupon O’Donovan broke in with the remark that he was “an Irishman since he was born.” The judge said, “he would not waste words by trying to bring him to a sense of his guilt;” O’Donovan’s reply was–“It would be useless for you to try it.” The judge told him his sentence was, that he be kept in penal servitude for the term of his natural life. “All right, my lord,” exclaimed the unconquerable rebel, and with a smile to the sympathising group around him, he walked with a light step from the dock.

The court was then adjourned to the 5th of January. 1866; and next day the judges set off for Cork city, to dispose of the Fenian prisoners there awaiting trial.

* * * * *

BRYAN DILLON, JOHN LYNCH, AND OTHERS.

On Wednesday, December 16th, the trial of O’Donovan (Rossa) was brought to a conclusion in Dublin. Next morning, away went judges, crown lawyers, spies, detectives, and informers for the good city of Cork, where another batch of men accused of conspiring against British rule in Ireland–“the old crime of their race”–were awaiting the pronouncement of British law upon their several cases. Cork city in these days was known to be one of the _foci_ of disaffection; perhaps it was its chief stronghold. The Metropolis may have given an absolutely larger number of members to the Fenian organization, but in proportion to the number of its population the Southern city was far more deeply involved in the movement. In Dublin, the seat of British rule in Ireland, many influences which are but faintly represented in other parts of the country, are present and active to repress the national ardour of the people. Those influences are scarcely felt in the city of Saint Finbar. Not in Ireland is there a town in which the national sentiment is stronger or more widely diffused than in Cork. The citizens are a warm-hearted, quick-witted and high-spirited race, gifted with fine moral qualities, and profoundly attached to the national faith in religion and politics. Merchants, traders, professional men, shopkeepers, artizans, and all, are comparatively free from the spells of Dublin Castle, and the result is visible in their conduct. The crown looks dubiously and anxiously upon a Cork jury; the patriot, when any work for Ireland is in hand, looks hopefully to the Cork people. The leaders of the Fenian movement thoroughly understood these facts, and devoted much of their time and attention to the propagation of their society among men so well inclined to welcome it. Their labours, if labours they could be called, were rewarded with a great measure of success. The young men of Cork turned into the organization by hundreds. There was no denying the fact; every one knew it; evidences of it were to be seen on all sides. The hope that was filling their hearts revealed itself in a thousand ways: in their marchings, their meetings, their songs, their music. The loyal party in the neighbourhood grew alarmed, and the government shared their apprehensions. At the time of which we write, the opinion of the local magistracy and that of the authorities at Dublin Castle was that Cork was a full-charged mine of “treason.”

Thither was the Commission now sped, to carry terror, if the “strong arm of the law” could do it, into the hearts of those conspirators “against the royal name, style, and dignity” of her Majesty Queen Victoria. As no one in the Castle could say to what desperate expedients those people might have recourse, it was thought advisable to take extraordinary precautions to ensure the safety of the train which carried those important personages, her Majesty’s judges, lawyers, witnesses and informers, through the Munster counties and on to the city by the Lee. “Never before” writes the special correspondent of the _Nation_, “had such a sight been witnessed on an Irish railway as that presented on Thursday along the line between Dublin and Cork. Armed sentries paced each mile of the railway; the platforms of the various stations through which the trains passed were lined with bodies of constabulary, and the bridges and viaducts on the way were guarded by a force of military, whose crimson coats and bright accoutrements stood out in bold relief from the dark ground on which they were stationed, against the grey December sky. As a further measure of precaution a pilot engine steamed in advance of the train in which their lordships sat, one carriage of which was filled with armed police. And so, in some such manner as Grant or Sheridan might have journeyed along the Petersburgh and Lynchburg railway while the flag of the Confederacy floated in Richmond, the two judges travelled down in safety to the head-quarters of Fenianism in Munster.”

Immediately on their arrival in Cork, the judges proceeded to the court-house and formally opened the business of the Commission. Next day Charles Underwood O’Connell and John M’Afferty were placed in the dock. These two men belonged to a class which formed the hope of the Fenian organization, and which the government regarded as one of the most dangerous elements of the conspiracy. They were Irish-American soldiers, trained to war, and inured to the hardships of campaigning in the great struggle which had but recently closed in America. They were a sample of the thousands of Irishmen who had acquired in that practical school the military knowledge which they knew was needed for the efficient direction of an insurrectionary movement in Ireland, and, who were now burning for the time and opportunity to turn that knowledge to account. It was known that many of these men were, as quietly and secretly as might be, dropping into Queenstown as steamer after steamer arrived from the Land of the West, and were moving about through the Southern counties, inspiriting the hearts of the Brotherhood by their presence and their promises, and imparting to them as much military instruction as was possible under the circumstances. To hunt down these “foreign emissaries” as the crown lawyers and the loyal prints were pleased to call them, and to deter others from following in their footsteps, was naturally a great object with the government, and when they placed Charles Underwood O’Connell and John M’Afferty in the dock they felt they had made a good beginning. And these were representative men in their way. “It was a strange fate,” says the writer from whom we have already quoted, “which had brought these men together in a felon’s dock. They had been born in different lands–they had been reared thousands of miles apart–and they had fought and won distinction under different flags, and on opposing sides in the American war. M’Afferty, born of Irish parents in Ohio, won his spurs in the Confederate army. O’Connell, who emigrated from Cork little more than two years ago, after the ruin of his family by a cruel act of confiscation and eviction, fought under the Stars and Stripes, and, like M’Afferty, obtained a captain’s commission as the reward of his services. Had they crossed each others path two years ago they would probably have fought _a la mort_, but the old traditions which linger in spite of every circumstance in the hearts of Irishmen were strong in both, and the cause of Ireland united them, only alas, that they might each of them pay the cost of their honest, if imprudent enthusiasm, by sharing the same prison in Ireland, and falling within the grasp of the government which they looked on as the oppressor of their fatherland.”

M’Afferty however was not fated to suffer on that occasion. Proof of his foreign birth having been adduced, the court held that his arrest on board the steamer in Queenstown harbour, when he had committed no overt act evidencing a treasonable intent, was illegal, and his trial was abandoned. The trial of Underwood O’Connell was then postponed for a few days, and two men reputed to be “centres” of the organization in Cork, were brought to the bar.

They were Bryan Dillon and John Lynch. Physically, they presented a contrast to the firm-built and wiry soldiers who had just quitted the dock. Dillon was afflicted with curvature of the spine, the result of an accident in early life, and his companion was far gone in that blighting and fatal disease, consumption. But though they were not men for the toils of campaigning, for the mountain march, and the bivouac, and the thundering charge of battle, they had hearts full of enthusiasm for the cause in which they were engaged, and heads that could think,