Ireland, however, abounds with such instances of female piety and fortitude, not, indeed, as they would be made to appear in the unfeminine violence of political turmoil, in which a truly pious female would not embroil herself; but in the quiet recesses of domestic life—­in the hard struggles against poverty, and in those cruel visitations, where the godly mother is forced to see her innocent son corrupted by the dark influence of political crime, drawn within the vortex of secret confederacy, and subsequently yielding up his life to the outraged laws of that country which he assisted to distract.  It is in scenes like these that the unostentatious magnanimity of the pious Irish wife or mother may be discovered; and it is here where, as the night and storms of life darken her path, the holy fortitude of her heart shines with a lustre proportioned to the depth of the gloom around her.

When Fardorougha reached the town in which his ill-fated son occupied the cell of a felon, he found to his surprise that, early as were his habits, there were others whose movements were still more early than his own.  John O’Brien had come to town—­been with his attorney—­had got a memorial in behalf of Connor to the Irish government, engrossed, and actually signed by more than one—­half of the jury who tried him—­all before the hour of ten o’clock.  A copy of thi’s document, which was written by O’Brien himself, now lies before us, with the names of all the jurors attached to it; and a more beautiful or affecting piece of composition we have never read.  The energy and activity of O’Brien were certainly uncommon, and so, indeed, were his motives.  As he himself told Fardorougha, whom he met as the latter entered the town—­

“I would do what I have done for Connor, although I have never yet exchanged a syllable with him.  Yet, I do assure you, Fardorougha, that I have other motives—­which you shall never know—­far stronger than any connected with the fate of your son.  Now, don’t misunderstand me.”

“No,” replied the helpless old man, who was ignorant of the condition of his sister, “I will not, indeed—­I’d be long sarry.”

O’Brien saw that any rational explanation he might give would be only thrown away upon a man who seemed to be so utterly absorbed and stupefied by the force of his own sufferings.

“Poor old man,” he exclaimed, as Fardorougha left him, to visit Connor; “see what affliction does?  There are thousands now who pity you—­even you, whom almost every one who knew you, cursed and detested.”

Such, indeed, was the fact.  The old man’s hardness of heart was forgotten in the pity that was produced by the dreadful fate which awaited his unhappy son.  We must now pass briefly over occurrences which are better understood when left to the reader’s imagination.  John O’Brien was not the only one who interested himself in the fate of Connor.  Fardorougha, as a matter of course, got the priest