I look in the face of my accuser, who thus holds me to the duty of a son.  I turn to see if there I can recognise the features of that mother, whom indeed I love, my own dear Ireland.  I look into that accusing face, and there I see a scowl, and not a smile.  I miss the soft, fond voice, the tender clasp, the loving word.  I look upon the hands reached out to grasp me—­to punish me; and lo, great stains, blood red, upon those hands; and my sad heart tells me it is the blood of my widowed mother, Ireland.  Then I answer to my accuser—­“You have no claim on me—­on my love, my duty, my allegiance.  You are not my mother.  You sit indeed in the place where she should reign.  You wear the regal garments torn from her limbs, while she now sits in the dust, uncrowned and overthrown, and bleeding, from many a wound.  But my heart is with her still.  Her claim alone is recognised by me.  She still commands my love, my duty, my allegiance; and whatever the penalty may be, be it prison chains, be it exile or death, to her I will be true” (applause).  But, gentlemen of the jury, what is that Irish nation to which my allegiance turns?  Do I thereby mean a party, or a class, or creed?  Do I mean only those who think and feel as I do on public questions?  Oh, no.  It is the whole people of this land—­the nobles, the peasants, the clergy the merchants, the gentry, the traders, the professions—­the Catholic, the Protestant, the Dissenter.  Yes.  I am loyal to all that a good and patriotic citizen should be loyal to; I am ready, not merely to obey, but to support with heartfelt allegiance, the constitution of my own country—­the Queen as Queen of Ireland, and the free parliament of Ireland once more reconstituted in our national senate-house in College—­green.  And reconstituted once more it will be.  In that hour the laws will again be reconciled with national feeling and popular reverence.  In that hour there will be no more disesteem, or hatred, or contempt for the laws:  for, howsoever a people may dislike and resent laws imposed upon them against their will by a subjugating power, no nation disesteems the laws of its own making.  That day, that blessed day, of peace and reconciliation, and joy, and liberty, I hope to see.  And when it comes, as come it will, in that hour it will be remembered for me that I stood here to face the trying ordeal, ready to suffer for my country—­walking with bared feet over red hot ploughshares like the victims of old.  Yes; in that day it will be remembered for me, though a prison awaits me now, that I was one of those journalists of the people who, through constant sacrifice and self-immolation, fought the battle of the people, and won every vestige of liberty remaining in the land. (As Mr. Sullivan resumed his seat, the entire audience burst into applause, again and again renewed, despite all efforts at repression.)

The effect of this speech certainly was very considerable.  Mr. Sullivan spoke for upwards of two hours and forty