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.
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