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.”