having regard to the feelings under which we acted, think you is it a true charge that we had for our intent and object the bringing of the administration of justice into contempt?  Does a man, by protesting, ever so vehemently, against an act of a not infallible tribunal, incur the charge of attempting its overthrow?  What evidence can be shown to you that we uttered a word against the general character of the administration of justice in this country, while denouncing this particular proceeding, which we say was a fearful failure of justice—­a horrible blunder, a terrible act of passion!  None—­none.  I say, for myself, I sincerely believe that in this country of ours justice is administered by the judges of the Irish Bench with a purity and impartiality between man and man not to be surpassed in the universal world.  Let me not be thought to cast reflection on this court, or the learned judges before whom I now stand, if I except in a certain sense, and on some occasions, political trials between the subject and the crown.  Apart from this, I fearlessly say the bench of justice in Ireland fully enjoys and is worthy of respect and homage.  I care not from what political party its members be drawn, I say that, with hardly an exception, when robed with the ermine, they become dead to the world of politics, and sink the politician in the loftier character of representative of Sacred Justice.  Yet, gentlemen, holding those views, I would, nevertheless, protest against and denounce such a trial as that in Manchester, if it had taken place here in Ireland.  For, what we contend is that the men in Manchester would never have been found guilty on such evidence, would never have been executed on such a verdict, if time had been given to let panic and passion pass away—­time to let English good sense and calm reason and, sense of justice have sway.  Now, gentlemen, judge ye me on this whole case; for I have done.  I have spoken at great length, but I plead not merely my own cause but the cause of my country.  For myself I care little.  I stand before you here with the manacles, I might say, on my hands.  Already a prison cell awaits me in Kilmainham.  My doom, in any event, is sealed.  Already a conviction has been obtained against me for my opinions on this same event; for it is not one arrow alone that has been shot from the crown office quiver at me—­at my reputation, my property, my liberty.  In a few hours more my voice will be silenced; but before the world is shut out from me for a term, I appeal to your verdict—­to the verdict of my fellow-citizens—­of my fellow-countrymen—­to judge my life, my conduct, my acts, my principles and say am I a criminal.  Sedition, in a rightly ordered community, is indeed a crime.  But who is it that challenges me?  Who is it that demands my loyalty?  Who is it that calls out to me, “Oh, ingrate son, where is the filial affection, the respect, the obedience, the support, that is my due?  Unnatural, seditious, and rebellious child, a dungeon shall punish your crime!”