Well, the rescued Fenian leaders got away; and then, when all was over—­when the danger was passed—­valour tremendous returned to the fleet of foot Manchester police.  Oh, but they wreaked their vengeance that night on the houses of the poor Irish in Manchester!  By a savage razzia they soon filled the jails with our poor countrymen seized on suspicion.  And then broke forth all over England that shout of anger and passion which none of us will ever forget.  The national pride had been sorely wounded; the national power had been openly and humiliatingly defied; the national fury was aroused.  On all sides resounded the hoarse shout for vengeance, swift and strong.  Then was seen a sight the most shameful of its kind that this century has exhibited—­a sight at thought of which Englishmen yet will hang their heads for shame, and which the English historian will chronicle with reddened check—­those poor and humble Irish youths led into the Manchester dock in chains!  In chains!  Yes; iron fetters festering wrist and ankle!  Oh, gentlemen, it was a fearful sight; for no one can pretend that in the heart of powerful England there could be danger those poor Irish youths would overcome the authorities and capture Manchester.  For what, then, were those chains put on untried prisoners?  Gentlemen, it was at this point exactly that Irish sympathy came to the side of those prisoners.  It was when we saw them thus used, and saw that, innocent or guilty, they would be immolated—­sacrificed to glut the passion of the hour—­that our feelings rose high and strong in their behalf.  Even in England there were men—­noble-hearted Englishmen, for England is never without such men—­who saw that if tried in the midst of this national frenzy, those victims would be sacrificed; and accordingly efforts were made for a postponement of the trial.  But the roar of passion carried its way.  Not even till the ordinary assizes would the trial be postponed.  A special commission was sped to do the work while Manchester jurors were in a white heat of panic, indignation, and fury.  Then came the trial, which was just what might be expected.  Witnesses swore ahead without compunction, and jurors believed them without hesitation.  Five men arraigned together as principals—­Allen, Larkin, O’Brien, Shore, and Maguire—­were found guilty, and the judge concerning in the verdict, were sentenced to death.  Five men—­not three men, gentlemen—­five men in the one verdict, not five separate verdicts.  Five men by the same evidence and the same jury in the same verdict.  Was that a just verdict?  The case of the crown here to-day is that it was—­that it is “sedition” to impeach that verdict.  A copy of that conviction is handed in here as evidence to convict me of sedition for charging as I do that that was a wrong verdict, a bad verdict, a rotten and a false verdict.  But what is the fact?  That her Majesty’s ministers themselves admit and proclaim that it was a wrong verdict, a false verdict.  The very evening those men