"GOD SAVE IRELAND!"

Edward Maguire spoke next. He might well have felt bewildered at the situation in which he found himself, but he spoke earnestly and collectedly, nevertheless. He had had an experience of British law which, if not without precedent, was still extraordinary enough to create amazement. He knew that he had never been a Fenian; he knew that he never saw Colonel Kelly—never heard of him until arrested for assisting in his liberation; he knew that while the van was being attacked at Bellevue, he was sitting in his own home, miles away; and he knew that he had never in his life placed his foot in the scene of the rescue; yet there he found himself convicted by regular process of law, of the murder of Constable Brett. He had seen witness after witness enter the box, and deliberately swear they saw him take a prominent part in the rescue. He saw policemen and civilians coolly identify him as a ringleader in the affair; he had heard the Crown lawyersweave round him the subtle meshes of their logic; and now he found himself pronounced guilty by the jury, in the teeth of the overwhelming array of unimpeachable evidence brought forward in his defence. What "the safeguards of the Constitution" mean—what "the bulwark of English freedom," and "the Palladium of British freedom" are worth, when Englishmen fill the jury-box and an Irishman stands in the dock, Maguire had had a fair opportunity of judging. Had he been reflectively inclined, he might, too, have found himself compelled to adopt a rather low estimate of the credibility of English witnesses, when they get an opportunity of swearing away an Irishman's life. An impetuous man might have been goaded by the circumstances into cursing the atrocious system under which "justice" had been administered to him, and calling down the vengeance of Heaven on the whole nation from which the perjured wretches who swore away his life had been drawn. But Maguire acted more discreetly; he began, indeed, by declaring that all the witnesses who swore against him were perjurers—by vehemently protesting that the case, as regarded him, was one of mistaken identity; but he shortly took surer ground, by referring to his services in the navy, and talking of his unfailing loyalty to "his Queen and his country." He went through the record of his services as a marine; appealed to the character he had obtained from his commanding officers, in confirmation of his words: and concluded by solemnly protesting his perfect innocence of the charge on which he had been convicted.

While Maguire's impressive words were still ringing in the ears of his conscience-stricken accusers, Edward O'Meagher Condon commenced to speak. He was evidently more of an orator than either of those who had preceded him, and he spoke with remarkable fluency, grace, and vigour. The subjoined is a correct report of his spirited and able address:—

"My Lords—this has come upon me somewhat by surprise. It appeared to me rather strange that upon any amount of evidence, which of course was false, a man could have been convicted ofwilfully murdering others he never saw or heard of before he was put in prison. I do not care to detain your lordships, but I cannot help remarking that Mr. Shaw, who has come now to gloat upon his victims, alter having sworn away their lives—that man has sworn what is altogether false; and there are contradictions in the depositions which have not been brought before your lordships' notice. I suppose the depositions being imperfect, there was no necessity for it. As to Mr. Batty, he swore at his first examination before the magistrates that a large stone fell on me, a stone which Mr. Roberts said at the time would have killed an elephant. But not the slightest mark was found on my head; and if I was to go round the country, and him with me, as exhibiting the stone having fallen on me, and him as the man who would swear to it, I do not know which would be looked for with the most earnestness. However, it has been accepted by the jury. Now he says he only thinks so. There is another matter to consider. I have been sworn to, I believe, by some of the witnesses who have also sworn to others, though some of them can prove they were in another city altogether—in Liverpool. Others have an overwhelmingalibi, and I should by right have been tried with them; but I suppose your lordships cannot help that. We have, for instance, Thomas, the policeman, who swore to another prisoner. He identified him on a certain day, and the prisoner was not arrested for two days afterwards. As for Thomas, I do not presume that any jury could have believed him. He had heard of the blood-money, and of course was prepared to bid pretty high for it. Myalibihas not been strong, and unfortunately I was not strong in pocket, and was not able to produce more testimony to prove where I was at exactly that time. With regard to the unfortunate man who has lost his life, I sympathize with him and his family as deeply as your lordships or the jury, or anyone in the court. I deeply regret the unfortunate occurrence, but I am as perfectly innocent of his blood as any man. I never had the slightest intention of taking life. I have done nothing at all in connection with that man, and I do not desire to be accused of a murder which I have not committed. With regard to another matter, my learned counsel has, no doubt for the best, expressed some opinions on these matters and the misgovernment to which my country has been subjected. I am firmly convinced there is prejudice in the minds of the people, and it has been increased and excited by the newspapers, or by some of them, and to a certain extent has influenced the minds of the jury to convict the men standing in this dock, on a charge of which—a learned gentleman remarked a few nights since—they would be acquitted if they had been charged with murdering an old woman for the sake of the money in her pocket, but a political offence of this kind they could not. Now, sir, with regard to the opinions I hold on national matters—with regard to those men who have been released from that van, in which, unfortunately, life was lost, I am of opinion that certainly to some extent there was an excess. Perhaps it was unthought, but if those men had been in other countries, occupyingother positions—if Jefferson Davis had been released in a northern city, there would have been a cry of applause throughout all England. If Garibaldi, who I saw before I was shut out from the world had been arrested, was released, or something of that kind had taken place, they would have applauded the bravery of the act. If the captives of King Theodore had been released, that too would have been applauded. But, as it happened to be in England, of course it is an awful thing, while yet in Ireland murders are perpetrated on unoffending men, as in the case of the riots in Waterford, where an unoffending man was murdered, and no one was punished for it. I do not desire to detain your lordships. I can only say that I leave this world without a stain on my conscience that I have been wilfully guilty of anything in connexion with the death of Sergeant Brett. I am totally guiltless. I leave this world without malice to anyone. I do not accuse the jury, but I believe they were prejudiced. I don't accuse them of wilfully wishing to convict, but prejudice has induced them to convict when they otherwise would not have done. With reference to the witnesses, every one of them has sworn falsely. I never threw a stone or fired a pistol; I was never at the place, as they have said; it is all totally false. But as I have to go before my God. I forgive them. They will be able to meet me, some day, before that God who is to judge us all, and then they and the people in this Court, and everyone, will know who tells the truth. Had I committed anything against the Crown of England, I would have scorned myself had I attempted to deny it; but with regard to those men, they have sworn what is altogether false. Had I been an Englishman, and arrested near the scene of that disturbance, I would have been brought as a witness to identify them; but being an Irishman, it was supposed my sympathy was with them, and on suspicion of that sympathy I was arrested, and in consequence of the arrest, and the rewards which were offered, I was identified. It could not be otherwise. As I said before, my opinions on national matters do not at all relate to the case before your lordships. We have been found guilty, and, as a matter of course we accept our death as gracefully as possible. We are not afraid to die—at least I am not."

"Nor I," "Nor I," "Nor I," swelled up from the lips of his companions, and then, with a proud smile, Condon continued:—

"I have no sin or stain upon me; and I leave this world at peace with all. With regard to the other prisoners who are to be tried afterwards, I hope our blood at least will satisfy the cravings for it. I hope our blood will be enough, and that those men who I honestly believe are guiltless of the blood of that man—that the other batches will get a fair, free, and a more impartial trial. We view matters in a different light from what the jury do. We have been imprisoned, and have not had the advantage of understanding exactly to what this excitement has led. I can only hope and praythat this prejudice will disappear—that my poor country will right herself some day, and that her people, so far from being looked upon with scorn and aversion, will receive what they are entitled to, the respect not only of the civilized world, but of Englishmen. I, too, am an American citizen, and on English territory I have committed no crime which makes me amenable to the crown of England. I have done nothing; and, as a matter of course, I did expect protection—as this gentleman (pointing to Allen) has said, the protection of the ambassador of my government. I am a citizen of the State of Ohio; but I am sorry to say my name is not Shore. My name is Edward O'Meagher Condon. I belong to Ohio, and there are loving hearts there that will be sorry for this. I have nothing but my best wishes to send them, and my best feelings, and assure them I can die as a Christian and an Irishman; and that I am not ashamed or afraid of anything I have done, or the consequences, before God or man. They would be ashamed of me if I was in the slightest degree a coward, or concealed my opinions. The unfortunate divisions of our countrymen in America, have, to a certain extent, neutralized the efforts that we have made either in one direction or another for the liberation of our country. All these things have been thwarted, and as a matter of course we must only submit to our fate. I only trust again, that those who are to be tried after us, will have a fair trial, and that our blood will satisfy the craving which I understand exists. You will soon send us before God, and I am perfectly prepared to go. I have nothing to regret, or to retract, or take back. I can only say, GOD SAVE IRELAND."

Again were the voices of his companions raised in unison. "God save Ireland!" they cried defiantly, in chorus. "God save Ireland!" The cry rung through the packed justice-hall, and fell on the ears of its blood-thirsty occupants like the voice of an accusing angel. "God save Ireland," they said; and then the brave-hearted fellows gazed fiercely around the hostile gathering, as if daring them to interfere with the prayer. "God save Ireland!"—from the few broken-hearted relatives who listened to the patriots' prayer the responsive "Amen" was breathed back, and the dauntless young Irishman continued:—

"I wish to add a word or two. There is nothing in the close of my political career which I regret. I don't know of one act which could bring the blush of shame to my face, or make me afraid to meet my God or fellow-man. I would be most happy, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to die on the field for my country in defence of her liberty. As it is, I cannot die on the field, but I can die on the scaffold, I hope, as a soldier, a man, and a Christian."

And now the last was spoken. As true Irishmen and as true patriots they had borne themselves. No trace of flinching did they give for their enemies to gloat over—no sign of weakness which could take from the effect of their deathless words. With bold front and steady mien they stood forward to listen to the fatal decree their judges were ready to pronounce. The judges produced the black caps, with which they had come provided, and then Justice Mellor proceeded to pass sentence. No person, he said, who had witnessed the proceedings could doubt the propriety of the verdict, which, he insisted, was the result of "a full, patient, and impartial investigation." He made no distinction. "I am perfectly convinced," he said, "that all of you had resolved, at any risk, and by any amount of dangerous violence and outrage, to accomplish your object; and that, in fact, Charles Brett was murdered because it was essential to the completion of your common design that he should be." The stereotyped words of exhortation to repentance followed, and then the judge concluded:—

"The sentence is that you, and each of you, be taken hence to the place whence you came, and thence to a place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you shall be dead, and that your bodies be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison wherein you were last confined after your respective convictions; and may God, in His infinite mercy, have mercy upon you."

With quiet composure the doomed men heard the words. They warmly shook hands with their counsel, thanked them for their exertions, and then, looking towards the spot where their weeping friends were seated, they turned to leave the dock. "God be with you, Irishmen and Irishwomen!" they cried and, as they disappeared from the court, their final adieu was heard in the same prayer that had swelled upwards to heaven from them before—

"GOD SAVE IRELAND!"

God Save Ireland!"GOD SAVE IRELAND!"

Scarcely had the Manchester courthouse ceased to echo those voices from the dock, when the glaring falseness of the verdict became the theme of comment amongsteven the most thoroughgoing Englishmen who had been present throughout the trial.

Without more ado, down sate some thirty or forty reporters, who, as representatives of the English metropolitan and provincial press, had attended the Commission, and addressed a memorial to the Home Secretary, stating that they had been long accustomed to attend at trials on capital charges; that they had extensive experience of such cases, from personal observation of prisoners in the dock and witnesses on the table; and that they were solemnly convinced, the swearing of the witnesses and the verdict of the jury to the contrary notwithstanding, that the man Maguire had neither hand, act, nor part in the crime for which he had been sentenced to death. The following is the petition referred to:—

We, the undersigned members of the metropolitan and provincial Press, having had long experience in courts of justice, and full opportunity of observing the demeanour of prisoners and witnesses in cases of criminal procedure, beg humbly to submit that, having heard the evidence adduced before the Special Commission, on the capital charge preferred against Thomas Maguire, private in the Royal Marines, we conscientiously believe that the said Thomas Maguire is innocent of the crime of which he has been convicted, and that his conviction has resulted from mistaken identity. We, therefore, pray that you will be pleased to advise her Majesty to grant her most gracious pardon to the said Thomas Maguire.

This was a startling event; it was a proceeding utterly without precedent. Nothing but the most extraordinary circumstances could have called it forth. The blunder of the jury must have been open, glaring, painfully notorious, indeed, when such an astonishing course was adopted by the whole staff of the English Press.

It was most embarrassing. For what had those newspaper reporters seen or heard that the jurors had not seen and heard?—and yet the jurors said Maguire was guilty. What had those reporters seen or heard that the judges had not seen and heard?—and yet the judges said they "fully concurred in the verdict of the jury." The reporters were not sworn on the Evangelists of God to give a true deliverance—but the jurors were.The reporters were not sworn to administer justice—were not dressed in ermine—were not bound to be men of legal ability, judicial calmness, wisdom, and impartiality—but the judges were. Yet the unsworn reporters told the government Maguire was an innocent man; while judge and jury told the government—sworeto it—that he was a guilty murderer!

What was the government to do? Was it to act on the verdict of newspaper reporters who had happened to be present at this trial, and not on the verdict of the jury who had been solemnly sworn in the case? Behind the reporters' verdict lay the huge sustaining power of almost universal conviction, mysteriously felt and owned, though as yet nowhere expressed. Everyone who had calmly and dispassionately weighed the evidence, arrived at conclusions identical with those of the Press jury, and utterly opposed to those of the sworn jury. The ministers themselves—it was a terribly embarassing truth to own—felt that the reporters were as surely right as the jurors were surely wrong. But what were they to do? What a frightful imputation would public admission of that fact cast upon the twelve sworn jurors—upon the two judges? What a damning imputation on their judgment or their impartiality! Was it to be admitted that newspaper reporters could be right in a case so awful, where twelve sworn jurors and two judges were wrong?

And then, look at the consequences. The five men were convicted in the one verdict. There were not five separate verdicts, but one indivisible verdict. If the (jurors') verdict were publicly vitiated—if the government confessed or admitted that verdict to be false—it was not one man, but five men, who were affected by it. To be sure the reporters' jury, intheirverdict, did not include Allen, O'Brien, Larkin, and Shore; but was it to be conveyed by implication that omission from the reporters' verdict of acquittal was more fatal to a man than inclusion in the verdict of guilty by a sworn jury? Might not twenty, or thirty, or forty men, quite as intelligent as the reporters, be soon forthcoming to testify as forcibly of Allen, O'Brien, Larkin, and Shore, as thePress-men had testified of Maguire? Was it onlyreporterswhose judgment could set aside the verdict of sworn jurors, endorsed by ermined judges? But, in any event, the five men were convicted by the one verdict. To cut that, loosed all—not necessarily in law, perhaps, but inevitably as regarded public conscience and universal judgment; for there was not in all the records of English jurisprudence a precedent for executing men on a verdict acknowledged to have been one of blunder or perjury. Clearly, if the jurors were to be told by the government that, in a case where life and death hung on the issue, they had been so blinded by excitement, passion, or prejudice, that they declared to be a guilty murderer a man whose innocence was patent even to unofficial lookers-on in court, the moral value of such a verdict was gone—ruined for ever; and to hanganyoneon such a verdict—on that identical verdict, thus blasted and abandoned—would, it was pointed out, be murder, for all its technical legality; neither more nor less, morally, than cool, deliberate, cold-blooded murder.

Everybody saw this; but everyone in England saw also the awkward difficulty of the case. For, to let Allen, O'Brien, Larkin, and Shore go free of death, in the face of their admitted complicity in the rescue, would baulk the national demand for vengeance. It was necessary that some one should be executed. Here were men who, though they almost certainly had had no hand in causing, even accidentally, the death of Brett, dared to boast of their participation in the affray in the course of which that lamentable event unhappily occurred—that rescue which had so painfully wounded and humiliated English national pride. If these men were saved from execution, owing to any foolish scruples about hanging a possibly—nay, probably—innocent man along with them, a shout of rage would ascend from that virtuous nation amongst whom Charlotte Winsor, the professional infant-murderess, walks a free woman, notwithstanding a jury's verdict of wilful murder and a judge's sentence of death.

So, for a time it seemed that, notwithstanding theverdict of the reporters, the government would act upon the verdict of the jury, and assume it to be correct. No doubt Maguire might be innocent, but it was his misfortune to be included in an indivisible verdict with other men, who, though perhaps as guiltless as he of wilful murder, were surely guilty of riot and rescue, aggravated by the utterance of the most bitter reflections on the British Constitution, which all men know to be the "envy of surrounding nations." If they were not guilty of the crime laid against them on the trial, they were guilty of something else—they had outraged British pride. It was necessary they should die; and as Maguire's verdict was not separate from theirs, he must die too, rather than that they should escape.

But after a while the idea gained ground in England that this would be rathertoomonstrous a proceeding. Maguire's utter innocence of any participation whatsoever in the rescue was too notorious. The character of the witnesses on whose evidence he was convicted became known: some were thieves, pickpockets, or gaol-birds of some other denomination; others were persons palpably confused by panic, excitement, passion, or prejudice. True, these same witnesses were those who likewise swore against Allen, Larkin, O'Brien and Shore. Indeed, a greater number swore against Maguire than against some of the others. Nevertheless, the overwhelming notoriety of the jury's blunder or perjury, in at least his case, became daily more and more an obstacle to his execution; and eventually, on the 21st of November, it was announced that his conviction had been cancelled, by the only means existing under the perfect laws of Great Britain—namely, a "freepardon" for a crime never committed. The prison doors were opened for Maguire; the sworn jurors were plainly told in effect that their blunder or perjury had well-nigh done the murder of at least one innocent man. The judges were in like manner told that shorthand-writers had been more clear-headed or dispassionate to weigh evidence and judge guilt than they. The indivisible verdict had been openly proclaimed worthless.

The news was received with a sense of relief in Ireland, where the wholesale recklessness of the swearing, and the transparent falseness of the verdict had, from the first, created intense indignation and resentment. Everyone knew and saw that, whatever might have been the participation of those men in the rescue of Colonel Kelly, they had not had a fair trial; nay, that their so-called trial was an outrage on all law and justice; that witnesses, jurors and judges, were in the full fierce heat of excitement, panic, and passion—much more ready to swear evidence, to find verdicts, and to pass sentences against innocent men than they themselves were, perhaps, conscious of while labouring under such influences. The public and official recognition of the falseness and injustice of the Manchester verdict was therefore hailed with intense satisfaction.

Maguire was at once liberated; Allen, Larkin, Shore, and O'Brien were still detained in custody. It was universally concluded that, notwithstanding the abandonment by the Crown of the verdict on which they had been sentenced, they, because of their admitted complicity in the rescue, would be held to imprisonment—probably penal servitude—for a term of years. Considerable astonishment was excited, some days subsequently to Maguire's pardon, by a statement that, in the case of the other prisoners included in the verdict, "the law should take its course." No one credited this declaration for an instant, and most persons felt that the Crown officials were indulging in an indecent piece of mockery. Amidst this universal incredulity, however—this disdainful and indignant disbelief—the prisoners' solicitor, Mr. Roberts, vigilant and untiring to the last, took the necessary steps to pray arrest of execution pending decision of the serious law points raised on the trial. Some of the most eminent counsel in England certified solemnly that these points were of the gravest nature, and would, in their opinion, be fully established on argument before the judges; in which event the conviction would be legally quashed, independently of the substantial abandonment of it as false and untenable by the Crown in Maguire's case.

The first idea of the merest possibility—the faintest chance—of the remaining four men being executed on the vitiated verdict, arose when it became known that the judges, or some of them, had informally declared to the government (without waiting to hear any argument on the subject) that the points raised by the prisoners' counsel were not tenable, or were not of force. Mr. Roberts was officially informed that the sentence would infallibly be carried out. By this time barely a few days remained of the interval previous to the date fixed for the execution, and the strangest sensations swayed the public mind in Ireland. Even still, no one would seriously credit that men would be put to death on a verdict notoriously false. Some persons who proposed memorials to the Queen were met on all hands with the answer that it was all "acting" on the part of the government; that, even though it should be at the foot of the scaffold, the men would be reprieved; that the government would not—dare not—take away human life on a verdict already vitiated and abandoned as a perjury or blunder.

The day of doom approached; and now, as it came nearer and nearer, a painful and sickening alternation of incredulity and horror surged through every Irish heart. Meanwhile, the Press of England, on both sides of the Channel, kept up a ceaseless cry for blood. The government were told that to let these men off, innocent or guilty, would be "weakness." They were called upon to be "firm"—that is, to hang first, and reflect afterwards. As the 23rd of November drew near, the opinion began to gain ground, even in England, that things had been too hastily done—that the whole trial bore all the traces of panic—and that, if a few weeks were given for alarm and passion to calm down, not a voice would approve the Manchester verdict. Perceiving this—perceiving that time or opportunity for reflection, or for the subsidence of panic, would almost certainly snatch its prey from vengeance—a deafening yell arose from the raving creatures of blood-hunger, demanding that not a day, not an hour, not a second, should be granted to the condemned.

Still the Irish people would not credit that, far towards the close of the nineteenth century, an act so dreadful durst be done.

During all this time the condemned lay in Salford gaol, tortured by the suspense inevitably created by Maguire's reprieve. Although every effort was made by their friends to keep them from grasping at or indulging in hope, the all-significant fact of that release seemed to imperatively forbid the idea of their being executed on a verdict whose falseness was thus confessed. The moment, however, that the singular conduct of the judges in London defeated the application of Mr. Roberts, they, one and all, resigned themselves to the worst; and while their fellow-countrymen at home were still utterly and scornfully incredulous on the subject, devoted their remaining hours exclusively to spiritual preparation for death upon the scaffold.

It was now that each character "rushed to its index." It was now—within the very shadow of death—in the most awful crisis that can test the soul—that these men rose into the grandeur and sublimity of true heroism. They looked death in the face with serene and cheerful composure. So far from requiring consolation, it was they who strove most earnestly to console the grieving friends they were leaving behind; imploring of them to exhibit resignation to the will of God, and assuring them that, ignominious as was death upon the gallows, and terrible as was the idea of suffering such a fate unjustly, it was "not hard to die" with a clear and tranquil conscience, as they were dying, for the cause of native land.

It may be questioned whether the martyrology of any nation in history can exhibit anything more noble, more edifying—more elevating and inspiring—than the last hours of these doomed Irishmen. Their every thought, their every utterance, was full of tenderness and holiness—full of firmness and cheerful acceptance of God's will. The farewell letters addressed by them to their relatives and friends—from which we take a few—amply illustrate the truth of the foregoing observations. Here is O'Brien's last letter to his brother:—

New Bailey Prison, Salford,Nov. 14th, 1867.My dear brother—I have been intending to write to you for some time, but having seen a letter from a Mr. Moore, addressed to the governor of this prison, and knowing from that that you must be in a disagreeable state of suspense, I may therefore let you know how I am at once. With reference to the trial and all connected with it, it was unfair from beginning to end; and if I should die in consequence it will injure my murderers more than it will injure me. Why should I fear to die, innocent as I am of the charge which a prejudiced jury, assisted by perjured witnesses, found me guilty of? I will do judge and jury the justice of saying they believed me guilty of being—a citizen of the United States, a friend to liberty, a hater of relentless cruelty, and therefore no friend to the British government, as it exists in our beautiful island. I must say, though much I would like to live, that I cannot regret dying in the cause of Liberty and Ireland. It has been made dear to me by the sufferings of its people, by the martyrdom and exile of its best and noblest sons. The priest, the scholar, the soldier, the saint, have suffered and died, proudly, nobly: and why should I shrink from death in a cause made holy and glorious by the numbers of its martyrs and the heroism of its supporters, as well as by its justice? You don't, and never shall, forget that Peter O'Neill Crowley died only a short time since, in this cause.

New Bailey Prison, Salford,

Nov. 14th, 1867.

My dear brother—I have been intending to write to you for some time, but having seen a letter from a Mr. Moore, addressed to the governor of this prison, and knowing from that that you must be in a disagreeable state of suspense, I may therefore let you know how I am at once. With reference to the trial and all connected with it, it was unfair from beginning to end; and if I should die in consequence it will injure my murderers more than it will injure me. Why should I fear to die, innocent as I am of the charge which a prejudiced jury, assisted by perjured witnesses, found me guilty of? I will do judge and jury the justice of saying they believed me guilty of being—a citizen of the United States, a friend to liberty, a hater of relentless cruelty, and therefore no friend to the British government, as it exists in our beautiful island. I must say, though much I would like to live, that I cannot regret dying in the cause of Liberty and Ireland. It has been made dear to me by the sufferings of its people, by the martyrdom and exile of its best and noblest sons. The priest, the scholar, the soldier, the saint, have suffered and died, proudly, nobly: and why should I shrink from death in a cause made holy and glorious by the numbers of its martyrs and the heroism of its supporters, as well as by its justice? You don't, and never shall, forget that Peter O'Neill Crowley died only a short time since, in this cause.

"Far dearer the grave or the prison,Illum'd by one patriot name,Than the trophies of all who have risenOn liberty's ruins to fame."

"Far dearer the grave or the prison,

Illum'd by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all who have risen

On liberty's ruins to fame."

I should feel ashamed of my manhood if I thought myself capable of doing anything mean to save my life, to get out of here, or for any other selfish purpose. Let no man think a cause is lost because some suffer for it. It is only a proof that those who suffer are in earnest, and should be an incentive to others to be equally so—to do their duty with firmness, justice, and disinterestedness.I feel confident of the ultimate success of the Irish cause, as I do of my own existence.God, in His great mercy and goodness, will strengthen the arm of the patriot, and give him wisdom to free his country. Let us hope that He, in His wisdom, is only trying our patience. The greater its sufferings, the more glorious will He make the future of our unfortunate country and its people.The shriek of the famine-stricken mother and the helpless infant, as well as the centuries of misery, call to heaven for vengeance. God is slow, but just! The blood of Tone, Fitzgerald, Emmett, and others has been shed—how much good has it done the tyrant and the robber? None. Smith O'Brien, McManus, and Mitchel suffered for Ireland, yet not their sufferings, nor those of O'Donovan (Bossa) and his companions, deterred Burke, McAfferty, and their friends from doing their duty. Neither shall the sufferings of my companions, nor mine, hinder my countrymen from taking theirpart in the inevitable struggle, but rather nerve their arms to strike. I would write on this subject at greater length, but I hope that I have written enough to show you that if a man dies for liberty, his memory lives in the breasts of the good and virtuous. You will also see that there is no necessity for my father, mother, sisters or relations fretting about me. When I leave this world it will be (with God's help) to go to a better, to join the angels and saints of God, and sing His praises for all eternity. I leave a world of suffering for one of eternal joy and happiness. I have been to Holy Communion, and, please God, intend going shortly again. I am sorry we cannot hear Mass; the good priest is not allowed to say it in this prison.Give my love to my father and mother, to Mary, Ellen, John Phillips, Tim, Catherine, uncles, aunts, and cousins.Farewell.From your affectionate brother,MICHAEL O'BRIEN (aliasWilliam Gould).

The shriek of the famine-stricken mother and the helpless infant, as well as the centuries of misery, call to heaven for vengeance. God is slow, but just! The blood of Tone, Fitzgerald, Emmett, and others has been shed—how much good has it done the tyrant and the robber? None. Smith O'Brien, McManus, and Mitchel suffered for Ireland, yet not their sufferings, nor those of O'Donovan (Bossa) and his companions, deterred Burke, McAfferty, and their friends from doing their duty. Neither shall the sufferings of my companions, nor mine, hinder my countrymen from taking theirpart in the inevitable struggle, but rather nerve their arms to strike. I would write on this subject at greater length, but I hope that I have written enough to show you that if a man dies for liberty, his memory lives in the breasts of the good and virtuous. You will also see that there is no necessity for my father, mother, sisters or relations fretting about me. When I leave this world it will be (with God's help) to go to a better, to join the angels and saints of God, and sing His praises for all eternity. I leave a world of suffering for one of eternal joy and happiness. I have been to Holy Communion, and, please God, intend going shortly again. I am sorry we cannot hear Mass; the good priest is not allowed to say it in this prison.

Give my love to my father and mother, to Mary, Ellen, John Phillips, Tim, Catherine, uncles, aunts, and cousins.

Farewell.

From your affectionate brother,

MICHAEL O'BRIEN (aliasWilliam Gould).

The following is one of Allen's letters to his relatives, written the day before his execution:—

Salford, New Bailey Prison, Nov. 23rd, 1867.TO YOU, MY LOVING AND SINCERE DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT HOGAN,I suppose this is my last letter to you at this side of the grave. Oh, dear uncle and aunt, if you reflect on it, it is nothing. I am dying an honourable death: I am dyingfor Ireland—dying for the land that gave me birth—dying for the Island of Saints—and dying for liberty. Every generation of our countrymen has suffered; and where is the Irish heart could stand by unmoved? I should like to know what trouble, what passion, what mischief could separate the true Irish heart from its own native isle. Dear uncle and aunt, it is sad to be parting you all, at my early age; but we must all die some day or another. A few hours more and I will breathe my last, and on English soil. Oh, that I could be buried in Ireland! What a happiness it would be to all my friends, and to myself—where my countrymen could kneel on my grave. I cannot express what joy it afforded me, when I found Aunt Sarah and you were admitted. Dear uncle, I am sure it was not a very pleasant place I had to receive you and my aunt; but we must put up with all trials until we depart this life. I am sure it will grieve you very much to leave me in such a place, on the evidence of such characters as the witnesses were that swore my life away. But I forgive them, and may God forgive them. I am dying, thank God! an Irishman and a Christian. Give my love to all friends; same from your ever affectionate nephew,W.P. ALLEN.Pray for us. Good bye, and remember me. Good bye, and may heaven protect ye, is the last wish of your dying nephew,W.P. ALLEN.

Salford, New Bailey Prison, Nov. 23rd, 1867.

TO YOU, MY LOVING AND SINCERE DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT HOGAN,

I suppose this is my last letter to you at this side of the grave. Oh, dear uncle and aunt, if you reflect on it, it is nothing. I am dying an honourable death: I am dyingfor Ireland—dying for the land that gave me birth—dying for the Island of Saints—and dying for liberty. Every generation of our countrymen has suffered; and where is the Irish heart could stand by unmoved? I should like to know what trouble, what passion, what mischief could separate the true Irish heart from its own native isle. Dear uncle and aunt, it is sad to be parting you all, at my early age; but we must all die some day or another. A few hours more and I will breathe my last, and on English soil. Oh, that I could be buried in Ireland! What a happiness it would be to all my friends, and to myself—where my countrymen could kneel on my grave. I cannot express what joy it afforded me, when I found Aunt Sarah and you were admitted. Dear uncle, I am sure it was not a very pleasant place I had to receive you and my aunt; but we must put up with all trials until we depart this life. I am sure it will grieve you very much to leave me in such a place, on the evidence of such characters as the witnesses were that swore my life away. But I forgive them, and may God forgive them. I am dying, thank God! an Irishman and a Christian. Give my love to all friends; same from your ever affectionate nephew,

W.P. ALLEN.

Pray for us. Good bye, and remember me. Good bye, and may heaven protect ye, is the last wish of your dying nephew,

W.P. ALLEN.

Larkin was the only one of the condemned four who was married. There were to weep his fall, besides his aged parents, a devoted wife and three little children—all young; and it redounds rather to his honour, that though flinching in nowise, lacking nought in courageous firmness, home ties were painfully strong around his heart. With him it was anguish indeed to part for ever the faithful wife and the little ones who used to nestle in his bosom. Ah! he was never more to feel those little arms twining round his neck—never more to see those infant faces gazing into his own—never more to part the flaxen curls over each unfurrowed brow! Henceforth they would look for his coming and hearken for his footfall in vain! They would call upon him, and be answered only by the convulsive sobs of their widowed mother. And who would now fill his place for them, even as bread-winner? Mayhap, when he lay in the grave, these cherished little ones, for whom he would draw the life-blood from his heart, would feel the hunger-pangs of orphanage in squalid misery and obscurity! But no. If such a thought approached Larkin's heart, it was at once repelled. Assuredly, he had more faith in his countrymen—more faith in the fidelity and generosity of his race—than to believe they would suffer one of those orphans to want loving, helping, guiding hands. As he himself said, he was not, after all, leaving them fatherless; he was bequeathing them to Ireland and to God.

And the Father of the Fatherless, even on the instant, raised up a friend for them—sent an angel missioner of blessed comfort to give poor Larkin, even on the brink of the grave, assurance that no pang of poverty should ever wound those little ones thus awfully bereaved. One day the confessor met the prisoners with beaming face, holding in his hand a letter. It was from the Dowager Marchioness of Queensbury, to the condemned Irishmen in Salford gaol, and ran as follows:—

MY DEAR FRIENDS—It may be that those few lines may minister some consolation to you on your approaching departure from this world. Isend you by the hands of a faithful messenger some help for your wife, or wives, and children, in their approaching irreparable loss, and with the assurance that so long as I live they shall be cared for to the utmost of my power.Mr. M'Donnell, the bearer of this for me, will bring me their address, and the address of the priest who attends you.It will also be a comfort for your precious souls, to know that we remember you here at the altar of God. where the daily remembrance of that all-glorious sacrifice on Calvary, for you all, is not neglected.We have daily Mass for you here; and if it be so that it please the good God to permit you thus to be called to Himself on Saturday morning, the precious body and blood of our Lord and Saviour and our Friend will be presented for you before God, at eight o'clock, on that day—that blood so precious, that cleanses from all sin. May your last words and thoughts be Jesus. Rest on Him, who is faithful, and willing and all-powerful to save. Rest on Him, and on His sacrifice on that Cross for you, instead of you, and hear Him say, "To-day thou shalt be with me in Paradise." Yet will we remember your souls constantly at the altar of God, after your departure, as well as those whom you leave in life.Farewell! and may Jesus Christ, the Saviour of sinners, save us all, and give you His last blessing upon earth, and an eternal continuance of it in heaven.CAROLINE QUEENSBURY.

MY DEAR FRIENDS—

It may be that those few lines may minister some consolation to you on your approaching departure from this world. Isend you by the hands of a faithful messenger some help for your wife, or wives, and children, in their approaching irreparable loss, and with the assurance that so long as I live they shall be cared for to the utmost of my power.

Mr. M'Donnell, the bearer of this for me, will bring me their address, and the address of the priest who attends you.

It will also be a comfort for your precious souls, to know that we remember you here at the altar of God. where the daily remembrance of that all-glorious sacrifice on Calvary, for you all, is not neglected.

We have daily Mass for you here; and if it be so that it please the good God to permit you thus to be called to Himself on Saturday morning, the precious body and blood of our Lord and Saviour and our Friend will be presented for you before God, at eight o'clock, on that day—that blood so precious, that cleanses from all sin. May your last words and thoughts be Jesus. Rest on Him, who is faithful, and willing and all-powerful to save. Rest on Him, and on His sacrifice on that Cross for you, instead of you, and hear Him say, "To-day thou shalt be with me in Paradise." Yet will we remember your souls constantly at the altar of God, after your departure, as well as those whom you leave in life.

Farewell! and may Jesus Christ, the Saviour of sinners, save us all, and give you His last blessing upon earth, and an eternal continuance of it in heaven.

CAROLINE QUEENSBURY.

This letter enclosed £100. On hearing it read, poor Larkin burst into tears; the other prisoners also were deeply affected. Surely, never was act more noble! Never was woman's sex more exalted—never was woman's mission more beautifully exemplified, than by this glorious act of bravery, tenderness, and generosity.

Two days before the fatal 23rd, the calm resignation which the condemned by this time enjoyed was once more cruelly disturbed, and almost destroyed. Once again the government came to fill their hearts with the torturing hope, if not, indeed, the strong conviction, that after all, even though it should be at the foot of the gallows, they would one and all be reprieved.Another man of the five included in the vitiated verdict was reprieved—Shore was to have his sentence commuted.

This second reprieve was the most refined and subtle torture to men who had made up their minds for the worst, and who, by God's strengthening gracs, had already become, as it were, dead to the world. Itrendered the execution of the remaining men almost an impossibility. Maguire notoriously was innocent even of complicity in the rescue—the verdict of the sworn jury, concurred in by the "learned judge," to the contrary notwithstanding. ButShorewasavowedly a full participator in the rescue. He was no more, no less, guilty than Allen, Larkin, O'Brien. In the dock he proudly gloried in the fact. What wonder if the hapless three, as yet unrespited, found the wild hope of life surging irresistibly through heart and brain!

To the eternal honour of the artisans of London be it told, they signalized themselves in this crisis by a humanity, a generosity, that will not soon be forgotten by Irishmen. At several crowded meetings they adopted memorials to the government, praying for the respite of the condemned Irishmen—or rather, protesting against their contemplated execution. These memorials were pressed with a devoted zeal that showed how deeply the honest hearts of English working-men were stirred; but the newspaper press—the "high class" press especially—the enlightened "public instructors"—howled at, reviled, and decried these demonstrations of humanity. The Queen's officials treated the petitions and petitioners with corresponding contempt; and an endeavour to approach the Sovereign herself, then at Windsor; resulted in the contumelious rejection from the palace gate of the petitioners, who were mobbed and hooted by the tradesmen and flunkeys of the royal household!

In Ireland, however, as might be supposed, the respite of Shore was accepted as settling the question: there would be no execution. On the 21st of November men heard, indeed, that troops were being poured into Manchester, that the streets were being barricaded, that the public buildings were strongly guarded, and that special constables were being sworn in by thousands. All this was laughed at as absurd parade. Ready as were Irishmen to credit England with revengeful severity, there was, in their opinion, nevertheless, a limit even to that. To hang Allen, O'Brien, and Larkin now, on the broken-down verdict, would, it was judged, be a measure of outragewhich even the fiercest hater of England would frankly declare too great for her.

A few there were, however, who did not view the situation thus. They read in the respite of Shore,fear; and they gloomily reflected that justice or magnanimity towards the weak seldom characterizes those who exhibit cowardice towards the strong.Shore was an American.By this simple sentence a flood of light is thrown on the fact of respiting him alone amongst the four men admittedly concerned in the rescue. Shore was an American. He had a country to avenge him if legally slaughtered on a vitiated verdict. To hanghimwas dangerous; but as for Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien,they had no country(in the same sense) to avenge them. America was strong, but Ireland was weak. If it was deemed dangerous to sport with the life of the American, it was deemed safe to be brutal and merciless towards the Irishmen. On these the full arrear of British vengeance might be glutted.

But there were not many to discern, in the first flush of its proclamation, this sinister aspect of Shore's respite. The news reached Ireland on Friday, 22nd November, and was, as we have already said, generally deemed conclusive evidence that the next day would bring like news in reference to Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien.

Early next morning—Saturday, 23rd November, 1867—men poured into the cities and towns of Ireland reached by telegraphic communication, to learn "the news from Manchester." Language literally fails to convey an idea of the horror—the stupefaction—that ensued when that news was read:—

"This morning, at eight o'clock, the three condemned Fenians, Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien, were executed in front of Sulford Gaol."

Men gasped in awe-struck horror—speech seemed denied them. Could it be a dream, or was this a reality? Had men lived to see the day when such a deed could be done? For the reason that incredulity had been so strong before, wild, haggard horror now sat on every countenance, and froze the life-blood in every heart.Irishmen had lain quiescent, persuaded that in this seventh decade of the nineteenth century, some humanizing influences would be found to sway that power that in the past, at least, had ever been so merciless to Irish victims. But now! Alas!—

In that dreadful hour the gulf between the two nations seemed widened and deepened, until it gaped and yawned wide, deep, and dark as hell itself. There was a scowl on every brow. Men went about—sullen, moody, silent, morose—with clenched teeth and darkened faces, terrible passions raging in their bosoms. For all knew that the sacrifice of those three Irish patriots was a cold-blooded and cowardly act of English policy, more than a judicial proceeding—an act of English panic, cowardice, hate, and terror. All knew that Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien would never have been hanged on the evidence of those forsworn witnesses, and on the verdict of that jury whose perjury or blunder was openly confessed and proclaimed, but for the political aspirations and designs of which the rescue was judged to be an illustration. Had their offence been non-political, they would not have been held a day on such a verdict. They were put to death for their political opinions. They were put to death for political reasons. Their execution was meant to strike terror into Irishmen daring to mutter of liberty. Had they been Americans, like Shore, they would have been respited; but as they were Irishmen, they were immolated.

The full story of how those patriots met their fate at the last reached Ireland two days afterwards, and intensified a thousandfold the national emotions. Men were alternately melted into tears or maddened into passion as they read that sad chapter of Irish martyrdom.

Even before the respite of Shore the government had commenced the most formidable military preparations in view of the bloody act of State policy designed for the 23rd. Troops were hurried by rail to all the English cities and towns where an "Irish element" existed; and Manchester itself resembled a city besieged. The authorities called for "special constables," and, partly attractedby the plenteous supply of drink and free feeding;1and partly impelled by their savage fury against the "Hirish" or the "Fenians,"—suddenly become convertible terms with English writers and speakers—a motley mass of several thousands, mainly belonging to the most degraded of the population, were enrolled. All the streets in the neighbourhood of the prison were closed against public traffic, were occupied by police or "specials," and were crossed at close intervals by ponderous wooden barriers. Positions commanding the space in front of the scaffold were strategetically scanned, "strengthened," and occupied by military. The scaffold was erected in a space or gap made in the upper part of the outer or boundary wall of the prison in New Bailey-street. The masonry was removed to the width necessary for the scaffold, which was then projected over the street, at the outer side of the wall. It was approached or ascended from the prison yard below, by a long wooden stair or stepladder, close alongside the wall on the inside. Against the wall on the inner side, on either hand of the scaffold, were erected platforms within about four feet below the wall coping. These platforms were filled with soldiers, "crouching down," as the reporters described, "with the muzzles of their rifles just resting on the top of the wall." The space in the street immediately beneath the scaffold was railed off by a strong wooden barrier, and outside this barrier were massed the thousands of police, special constables, and volunteers.

Footnote 1:(return)The Manchester papers inform us that the specials were plentifully fed with hot pork pies and beerad libitum, which seemed to have a powerful effect in bringing in volunteers from the lower classes.

The Manchester papers inform us that the specials were plentifully fed with hot pork pies and beerad libitum, which seemed to have a powerful effect in bringing in volunteers from the lower classes.

On Friday the doomed men took leave for the last time of the few relatives allowed to see them. The parting of Larkin and his family is described as one of the most agonizing scenes ever witnessed. Poor Allen, although not quite twenty years of age, was engaged to a young girl whom he loved, and who loved him, most devotedly. She was sternly refused the sad consolation ofbidding him farewell. In the evening the prisoners occupied themselves for some time in writing letters, and each of them drew up a "declaration," which they committed to the chaplain. They then gave not another thought to this world. From that moment until all was over, their whole thoughts were centred in the solemn occupation of preparing to meet their Creator. In these last hours Father Gadd, the prison chaplain, was assisted by the Very Rev. Canon Cantwell and the Rev. Father Quick, whose attentions were unremitting to the end. From the first the prisoners exhibited a deep, fervid religious spirit, which could scarcely have been surpassed among the earliest Christian martyrs. They received Holy Communion every alternate morning, and spent the greater part of their time in spiritual devotion. On Friday evening they were locked up for the night at the usual hour,—about half-past six o'clock. In their cells they spent a long interval in prayer and meditation—disturbed ever and anon, alas! by the shouts of brutal laughter and boisterous choruses of the mob already assembled outside the prison walls. At length the fated three sought their dungeon pallets for the last time. "Strange as it may appear," says one of the Manchester papers chronicling the execution, "those three men, standing on the brink of the grave, and about to suffer an ignominious death,slept as soundlyas had been their wont." Very "strange," no doubt, it appeared to those accustomed to seecriminalsdie; but no marvel to those who know how innocent men, at peace with God and man, can mount the scaffold, and offer their lives a sacrifice for the cause of liberty.

Far differently that night was spent by the thronging countrymen of Broadhead, who came as to a holiday to see the "Fenians" die. Early on the preceding evening crowds had taken up their places wherever the occupying bodies of military, police, or specials did not prevent; and the pictures drawn of their conduct by the newspaper reporters, one and all, are inexpressibly revolting. It was the usual English crowd assembled to enjoy an execution. They made the air resound withlaughter at obscene jokes, shouts, cries and repartees; and chorused in thousands [beneath the gallows!] snatches of "comic" ballads and pot-house songs, varied by verses of "Rule, Brittania" and "God save the Queen," by way of exultation over the Irish. Once or twice, in the early part of the night, the police had to remove the mob from the portion of the prison nearest the condemned cells, as the shouts and songs were painfully disturbing the hapless men engaged at that moment preparing for eternity.

Saturday, the 23rd November, dawned misty, murky, dull, and cold over Salford. During the first hours after the past midnight the weather had been clear and frosty, and a heavy hoar covered the ground; but as daylight approached, a thick mist or fog crept like a pallid pall over the waking city.

The condemned were roused from sound and tranquil slumbers about a quarter to five o'clock. Having dressed, they attended Mass, Rev. Canon Cantwell, Rev. Mr. Gadd, and Rev. Mr. Quick officiating. They heard this, their last Mass, with a fervour and solemnity which no words could describe. The Holy Sacrifice having been offered, the condemned and the three priests remained in prayer and spiritual exercises until seven o'clock, when the prisoners partook of breakfast. "The last preparations," says an English eye-witness, "were then begun. At twelve minutes to eight o'clock the executioner, Calcraft, and his assistant, were introduced into the cell in which the prisoners were placed, and the process of pinioning their arms was gone through. The priests stood by the side of the unhappy men, administering the consolations of religion, and exhorting them to firmness to meet the last dreadful ordeal. The convicts, at this time," continues the English reporter, "manifested a remarkable fortitude. Not one of them flinched in the least."

The same eye-witness describes as follows the last act of the tragedy, with a brief general sketch of which we commenced this narrative:—

"At a quarter to eight o'clock the interior court of thegaol presented a strange and striking spectacle. Behind the wall in New Bailey-street was erected the long staircase leading to the scaffold, and by its side were platforms for the use of the military. The fog was so dense, that objects could be but faintly distinguished at a distance of thirty yards. Suddenly the words of military command were heard, and a company of the 72nd Highlanders marched round the Roundhouse, and took up a position in line at the foot of the staircase. Simultaneously, small detachments of the same regiment ascended to the platform, and crouched there, with their loaded rifles slightly projecting over the prison wall. At almost the same moment the heads of a line of soldiers arose above the parapet of the railway viaduct. A line of warders was formed in the gaol court. The sentries on duty ceased their walk; magistrates and reporters stood aside, and a dead silence prevailed for a few moments, as a signal was given from the corner of the Roundhouse. At three minutes past eight o'clock the solemn voice of a minister repeating the litany of the Catholic Church was heard, and the head of the procession became visible through a thick fog, about thirty yards from the foot of the staircase. The Rev. Canon Cantwell walked first by the side of Allen. The convict was deadly pale; his eyes wandered alternately from the priest to the individuals standing round, and then he uplifted his gaze, in a vain endeavour to pierce the dense canopy which hung above him. He walked with a tolerably steady step, and uttered the response, 'Lord, have mercy upon us,' in a firm voice."

Next to him came Larkin, in whose appearance confinement and anxiety of mind had wrought a striking change. His physical strength seemed shaken, and he required to be assisted by one of the warders in ascending the long wooden stair that led to the scaffold. Last of all came O'Brien, whose noble, firm, and dignified bearing won the approbation of everyone who beheld him. A partition running in the line of the wall divided the scaffold into an outer and an inner platform, a small door opening between them. Allen and O'Brien, andtheir attendants, having reached the top of the stair, waited on the inner platform until Larkin and the rest of the attendant warders and officials came up. Then, all being ready, the door was flung open, and the boy-martyr was first led out upon the drop. His face, which was deathly pale, appeared working with the effects of strong mental agony. The high priest of English rule over Irishmen, Calcraft, came forward, placed the treacherous noose around Allen's neck, pulled a thin white cap over his ashen face, and then stooped, and securely tied his feet together. The pinioning of the arms, which had been done in the cell, allowed his hands, from the elbows downward, sufficient freedom to clasp on his breast a crucifix, which ever and anon, as he spoke aloud the responses of the litany, the poor young fellow seemed to press closer and closer to his heart.

Next O'Brien was led forth. On his fine manly face the closest scrutiny could not detect a trace of weakness. He looked calmly and sadly around; then, stepping up to where Allen stood capped and pinioned, he clasped him by the hand, and kissed him affectionately on the cheek, speaking to him a word or two not overheard. Then O'Brien himself was placed by Calcraft on the drop, the rope was fixed upon his neck, the cap was drawn on his face, and his feet were securely bound.

Larkin was now brought out, and led directly to his place on the left hand of O'Brien, who was in the middle. The sight of his two brother-martyrs capped and pinioned, and with the fatal cord around each neck, seemed to unman the poor fellow utterly. He stumbled on touching an uneven plank on the scaffold, so that many thought he had fainted; but it was not so, though he unquestionably was labouring under intense agony of mind. O'Brien, firm and unshrinking to the last, turned and looked at him encouragingly, and to him also spoke a few words in a low tone.

Calcraft now disappeared from view, and the three men stood for a moment before the multitude, their voices ringing out clearly in the still morning air, "Lord Jesus, have mercy on us." Suddenly the click of the bolts was heard;the three bodies sunk through the traps; England's three halters strained, and tugged, and twitched convulsively for a few moments, and the deed was done—her vengeance was accomplished.

That afternoon, her functionaries bore to three grave-pits in the prison-yard three lumps of lifeless clay, that a few short hours before had been three of God's noblest creatures. Like carrion, they were flung into those unconsecrated pits, and strewed with quicklime. For this was British law. The wolf and the tiger leave some vestiges of their victims; but a special ordinance of English law required even the corpses of those martyred Irishmen to be calcined.

They had purposed addressing the crowd from the scaffold, but were prevented from so doing by order of the government! They had each one, however, committed to writing, as already mentioned, a last solemn message to the world. These declarations of the dying men were entrusted to the care of their confessor, who eventually gave them up for publication. They created the most intense and painful sensation in Ireland. They made more and more clear the, dreadful fact that the hapless men had been cruelly sacrificed. Standing, as it might be said, in the presence of their God and Judge, they one and all protested their innocence, and declared the falseness of the evidence on which they had been convicted. But not in querulous repining or denunciation were these truths proclaimed, but in language and with sentiments worthy of men who professed the faith preached by the Crucified on Calvary. Every line breathed the purest humility, the most perfect resignation, and the most intense devotion to God, mingled with the most fervent love of country. Those men were all of humble circumstances in life, and, with the exception of O'Brien, had but slight literary advantages; yet the simple pathos, beauty, and eloquence of their dying messages moved every heart. Poor Larkin was, of all three, the least endowed with education, yet his letter has been aptly described as "a perfectpoemin prose." here append those memorable documents:—

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