Chapter XI: Part V (2)

Infidels and hypocrites, so long as their career in vice is unchecked by calamity, will no doubt sneer when we assure them, that Fardorougha, after leaving his wife that morning once more to visit his son, felt a sense of relief, or, perhaps we should say, a breaking of faint light upon his mind, which, slight as it was, afforded him more comfort and support than he ever hoped to experience. Indeed, it was almost impossible for any heart to exist within the influence of that piety which animated his admirable wife, and not catch the holy fire which there burned with such purity and brightness.

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 of the parish, a good and pious man, to draw up a memorial in the name, as he said, of himself and his wife. The gentry of the neighborhood, also, including the members of the grand jury, addressed government on his behalf--for somehow there was created among those who knew the parties, or even who heard the history of their loves, a sympathy which resulted more from those generous impulses that intuitively perceive truth, than from the cooler calculations of reason. The heart never reasons--it is, therefore, the seat of feeling, and the fountain of mercy; the head does--and it is probably on that account the seat of justice, often of severity, and not unfrequently of cruelty and persecution, Connor himself was much relieved by that day's interview with his father. Even he could perceive a change for the better in the old man's deportment. Fardorougha's praises of Honor, and his strong allusions to the support and affection he experienced at her hands, under circumstances so trying, were indeed well calculated to prepare “her noble boy,” as she truly called him, for the reception of the still more noble message which she sent him.

“Father,” said he, as they separated that day, “tell my mother that I will die as she wishes me; and tell her, too, that if I wasn't an innocent man, I could not do it. And oh, father,” he added, and he seized his hands, and fell upon his neck, “oh, father dear, if you love me, your own Connor--and I know you do--oh, then, father dear, I say again, be guided in this heavy affliction by my dear mother's advice.”

“Connor,” returned the old man, deeply affected, “I will. I had made my mind up to that afore I saw you at all to-day. Connor, do you know what I'm beginning to think?”

“No, father dear, I do not.”

“Why, then, it's this, that she'll be the manes of savin' your father's soul. Connor, I can look back now upon my money--all I lost--it was no doubt terrible--terrible all out. Connor, my rint is due, and I haven't the manes of meetin' it.”

Alas! thought the boy, how hard it is to root altogether out of the heart that principle which inclines it to the love of wealth!

“At any rate, I will take your advice, Connor, and be guided by your mother. She's very poorly, or she'd be wid you afore now; but, indeed, Connor, her health is the occasion of it--it is--it is!”

Fardorougha's apology for his wife contained much more truth than he himself was aware of at the time he made it. On returning home that night he found her considerably worse, but, as she had been generally healthy, he very naturally ascribed her illness to the affliction she felt for the fate of their son. In this, however, he was mistaken, as the original cause of it was unconnected with the heavy domestic dispensation which had fallen upon them. So far as she was concerned, the fate of her boy would have called up from her heart fresh energy and' if possible a higher order of meek but pious courage.--She would not have left him unsustained and uncherished, had the physical powers of the mother been able to second the sacred principles with which she met and triumphed over the trial that was laid upon her.

It was one evening about ten days after O'Donovan's conviction that Bodagh Buie O'Brien's wife sat by the bedside of her enfeebled and languishing daughter. The crisis of her complaint had passed the day before; and a very slight improvement, visible only to the eye of her physician, had taken place. Her delirium remained much as before; sometimes returning with considerable violence, and again leaving reason, though feeble and easily disturbed, yet when unexcited by external causes, capable of applying its powers to the circumstances around her. On this occasion the mother, who watched every motion and anticipated every wish of the beloved one, saw that she turned her eye several times upon her as if some peculiar anxiety distressed her.

“Una, jewel,” she at length inquired, “is there anything you want, colleen maehree; or anything I can do for you?”

“Come near me, mother,” she replied, “come near me.”

Her mother approached her still more nearly.

“I'm afraid,” she said, in a very low voice, “I'm afraid to ask it.”

“Only wait for a minute or two,” said her mother, “an' John will--but here's the doctor's foot; they wor spakin' a word or two below; an' whisper, darlin' o' my heart, sure John has something to tell you--something that will”--

She looked with a searching anxiety into her mother's face; and it might have been perceived that the morning twilight of hope beamed faintly but beautifully upon her pale features. The expression that passed over them was indeed so light and transient that one could scarcely say she smiled; yet that a more perceptible serenity diffused its gentle irradiation over her languid countenance was observed even by her mother.

The doctor's report was favorable.

“She is slowly improving,” he said, on reaching the parlor, “since yesterday; I'm afraid, however, she's too weak at present to sustain this intelligence. I would recommend you to wait for a day or two, and in the meantime to assume a cheerful deportment, and to break it to her rather by your looks and manner than by a direct or abrupt communication.”

They promised to observe his directions; but when her mother informed them of the hint she herself threw out to her, they resolved to delay the matter no longer; and John, in consequence of what his mother had led her to expect, went to break the intelligence to her as well as he could. An expectation had been raised in her mind, and he judged properly enough that there was less danger in satisfying it than in leaving her just then in a state of such painful uncertainty.

“Dear Una,” said he, “I am glad to hear the doctor say that you are better.”

“I think I am a little,” said she.

“What was my mother saying to you, just now, before the doctor was with you? But why do you look at me so keenly, Una?” said he, cheerfully; “it's sometime since you saw me in such a good humor--isn't it?”

She paused for a moment herself; and her brother could observe that the hope which his manner was calculated to awaken, lit itself into a faiut smile rather visible in her eyes than on her features.

“Why, I believe you are smiling yourself, Una.”

“John,” said she, earnestly, “is it good?”

“It is, darling--he won't die.”

“Kiss me, kiss me,” she said; “may eternal blessings rest upon you!”

She then kissed him affectionately, laid her head back upon the pillow, and John saw with delight that the large tears of happiness rolled in torrents down her palo cheeks.

It was indeed true that Connor O'Donovan was not to die. The memorials which had reached government from so many quarters, backed as they were by very powerful influence, and detailing as they did a case of such very romantic interest, could scarcely fail in arresting the execution of so stern and deadly a sentence. It was ascertained, too, by the intercourse of his friends with government, that the judge who tried his case, notwithstanding the apparent severity of his charge, had been moved by an irresistible impulse to save him, and he actually determined from the beginning to have his sentence commuted to transportation for life.

The happy effect of this communication on Una O'Brien diffused a cheerful spirit among her family and relatives, who, in truth, had feared that her fate would ultimately depend upon that of her lover. After having been much relieved by the copious flood of tears she shed, and heard with composure all the details connected with the mitigation of his sentence, she asked her brother if Connor's parents had been yet made acquainted with it.

“I think not,” he replied; “the time is too short.”

“John,” said the affectionate girl, “oh, consider his mother; and think of the misery that one single hour's knowledge of this may take away from her heart! Go to her, my dear John, and may all the blessings of heaven rest upon you!”

“Good--by, then, Una dear; I will go.”

He took her worn hand in his, as he spoke, and, looking on her with affectionate admiration, added--

“Yes! good-by, my darling sister; believe me, Una, that I think if there's justice in Heaven, you'll have a light heart yet.”

“It is very light now,” she returned, “compared with what it was; but go, John, don't lose a moment; for I know what they suffer.”

Her mother, after John's departure for Fardorougha's, went up to sit with her; but she found that the previous scene, although it relieved, had exhausted her. In the course of a few minutes their limited dialogue ceased, and she sank into a sound and refreshing sleep, from which she did not awaken until her brother had some time returned from the execution of his pious message. And piously was that message received by her for whose misery the considerate heart of Una O'Brien felt so deeply. Fardorougha had been out about the premises, mechanically looking to the manner in which the business of his farm had been of late managed by his two servants, when he descried O'Brien approaching the house at a quick if not a hurried pace. He immediately went in and communicated the circumstance to his wife.

“Honor,” said he, “here is Bodagh Buie's son comin' up to the house--what on earth can bring the boy here?”

This was the first day on which his wife had been able to rise from her sick bed. She was consequently feeble, and, physically speaking, capable of no domestic exertion. Her mind, however, was firm as ever, and prompt as before her calamity to direct and overlook, in her own sweet and affectionate manner, whatever required her superintendence.

“I'm sure I don't know, Fardorougha,” she replied. “It can't, I hope, be wid bad news--they thravel fast enough--an' I'm sure the Bodagh's son wouldn't take pleasure in bein' the first to tell them to us.”

“But what can bring him, Honor? What on earth can bring the boy here now, that never stood undher our roof afore?”

“Three or four minutes, Fardorougha, will tell us. Let us hope in God it isn't bad. Eh, Saver above, it wouldn't be the death of his sister--of Connor's Oona! No,” she added, “they wouldn't send, much less come, to tell vis that; but sure we'll hear it--we'll hear it; and may God give us stringth to hear it right, whether it's good or bad! Amin, Jasus, this day!”

She had hardly uttered the last words, when O'Brien entered.

“Young man,” said this superior woman, '“it's a poor welcome we can give you to a house of sorrow.”

“Ay,” said Fardorougha, “his mother an' I's here, but where is he? Nine days from this; but it 'ill kill me--it will--it will. Whin he's taken from me, I don't care how soon I folly him; God forgive me if it's a sin to say so!”

“Fardorougha,” said his wife, in a tone of affectionate reproof, “remember what you promised me, an', at all evints, you forget that Mr. O'Brien here may have his own troubles; I heard your sister was unwell. Oh, how is she, poor thing?”

“I thank you, a great deal better; I will not deny but she heard a piece of intelligence this day, that has relieved her mind and taken a dead weight off her heart.”

Honor, with uncommon firmness and solemnity of manner, placed her hand upon his shoulder, and, looking him earnestly in the face, said,

“That news is about our son?”

“It is,” replied O'Brien, “and it's good; his sentence is changed, and he is not to die.”

“Not to die!” shrieked the old man, starting up, and clapping his hands frantically--“not to die! our son--Connor, Connor--not to be hanged--not to be hanged! Did you say that, son of O'Brien Buie, did you--did you?”

“I did,” replied the other; “he will not suffer.”

“Now that's God,” ejaculated Fardorougha, wildly; “that's God an' his mother's prayers. Boys,” he shrieked, “come here; come here, Biddy Nulty, come her; Connor's not to die; he won't suffer--he won't suffer!”

He was rushing wildly to the door, but Honor placed herself before him, and said, in that voice of calmness which is uniformly that of authority and power:

“Fardorougha, dear, calm yourself. If this is God's work, as you say, why not resave it as comm' from God? It's upon your two knees you ought to drop, an'--Saver above, what's the matther wid him? He's off; keep him up. Oh, God bless you! that's it, avourneen; jist place him on the chair there fornext the door, where he can have air. Here, dear,” said she to Biddy Nulty, who, on hearing herself called by her master, had come in from another room; “get some feathers, Biddy, till we burn them undher his nose; but first fetch a jug of cold water.”

On looking at the face of the miser, O'Brien started, as indeed well he might, at such a pallid, worn, and death--like countenance; why, thought he to himself, surely this must be death, and the old man's cares, and sorrows, and hopes, are all passed forever.

Honor now bathed his face, and wet his lips with water, and as she sprinkled and rubbed back the gray hair from his emaciate! temples, there might be read there an expression of singular wildness that resembles the wreck produced by insanity.

“He looks ill,” observed O'Brien, who actually thought him dead; “but I hope it won't signify.”

“I trust in God's mercy it won't,” replied Honor; “for till his heart, poor man, is brought more to God--”

She paused with untaught delicacy, for she reflected that he was her husband.

“For that matther, who is there,” she continued, “that is fit to go to their last account at a moment's warnin'? That's a good girl, Biddy; give me the feathers; there's nothing like them. Dheah Gratihias! Dheah Gratihias!” she exclaimed, “he's not--he's not--an' I was afeard he was--no, he's recoverin'. Shake him; rouse him a little; Fardorougha, dear!”

“Where--where am I?” exclaimed her husband; “what is this? what ails me?”

He then looked inquiringly at his wife and O'Brien; but it appeared that the presence of the latter revived in his mind the cause of his excitement.

“Is it--is it thrue, young man? tell me--tell me!”

“How, dear, can any one have spirits to tell you good news, when you can't bear it aither like a man or a Christian?”

“Good news! You say, then, it's thrue, an' he's not to be hanged by the neck, as the judge said; an' my curse--my heavy curse upon him for a judge!”

“I hate to hear the words of his sentence, Fardorougha,” said the wife; “but if you have patience you'll find that his life's granted to him; an', for Heaven's sake, curse nobody. The judge only did his duty.”

“Well,” he exclaimed, sinking upon his knees, “now, from this day out, let what will happen, I'll stick to my duty to God--I'll repent--I'll repent and lead a new life. I will, an' while I'm alive I'll never say a word against the will of my heavenly Saviour; never, never.”

“Fardorougha,” replied his--wife, “it's good, no doubt, to have a grateful heart to God; but I'm afeard there's sin in what you're sayin', for you know, dear, that, whether it plased the Almighty to take yur boy, or not, what you've promised to do is your duty. It's like sayin', 'I'll now turn my heart bekase God has deserved it at my hands.' Still, dear, I'm not goin' to condimn you, only I think it's betther an' safer to love an' obey God for His own sake! blessed be His holy name!”

Young O'Brien was forcibly struck by the uncommon character of Honor O'Donovan. Her patience, good sense, and sincere acquiescence in the will of God, under so severe a trial, were such as he had never seen: equalled. Nor could he help admitting to himself, while contemplating her conduct, that the example of such a woman was not only the most beautiful comment on religious truth, but the noblest testimony of its power.

“Yes, Honor,” said the husband, in reply, “you're right, for I know that what you say is always thrue. It is, indeed,” he added, addressing O'Brien, “she's aquil to a prayer-book.”

“Yes, and far superior to any,” replied the latter; “for she not only gives you the advice, but sets you the example.”

“Ay, the sorra lie in it; an', oh, Honor, he's not to die--he's not to be h----, not to suffer. Our son's to live! Oh, Saver of earth, make me thankful this day!”

The tears ran fast from his eyes as he looked up to heaven, and uttered, the last; words. Indeed, it was impossible not to feel deep compassion for this aged man, whose heart had been smitten so heavily, and on the only two points where it was capable of feeling the blow.

After having indulged his grief for some time, he became considerably more composed, if not cheerful. Honor made many kind inquiries after Una's health, to which her brother answered with strict candor, for he had heard from Una that she was acquainted with the whole history of their courtship.

“Who knows,” said she, speaking with reference to their melancholy fate, “but the God who has saved his life, an' most likely hers, may yet do more for them both? While there's life there's hope.”

“Young man,” said Fardorougha, “you carry a blessin' wid you wherever you go, an' may God bless you for the news you have brought to us this day! I'll go to see him tomorrow, an' wid a light heart I'll go too, for my son is not to die.”

O'Brien then took his leave and returned home, pondering, as he went, upon the singular contrast which existed between the character of the miser and that of his admirable wife. He was no sooner gone than Honor addressed her husband as follows:

“Fardorougha, what do you think we ought both to do now afther the happy news we've heard?”

“I'll be guided by you, Honor; I'll be guided by you.”

“Then,” said she, “go an' thank God that has taken the edge, the bitther, keen edge off of our sufferin'; an' the best way, in my opinion, for you to do it, is to go to the barn by yourself, an' strive to put your whole heart into your prayers. You'll pray betther by yourself than wid me. An' in the name of God I'll do the same as well as I can in the house here. To-morrow, too, is Friday, an', plaise our Saviour, we'll both fast in honor of His goodness to us an' to our son.”

“We will, Honor,” said he, “we will, indeed; for now I have spirits to fast, and spirits to pray, too. What will I say, now? Will I say the five Decades or the whole Rosary?”

“If you can keep your mind in the prayers, I think you ought to say the whole of it; but if you wandher don't say more than the five.”

Fardorougha then went to the bam, rather because his wife desired him, than from a higher motive, whilst she withdrew to her own apartment, there humbly to worship God in thanksgiving.

The next day had made the commutation of Connor's punishment a matter of notoriety through the whole parish, and very sincere indeed was the gratification it conveyed to all who heard it. Public fame, it is true, took her usual liberties with the facts. Some said he had got a free pardon, others that he was to be liberated after six months' imprisonment; and a third report asserted that the lord lieutenant sent him down a hundred pounds to fit him out for marriage with Una; and it further added that his excellency wrote a letter with his own hand, to Bodagh Buie, desiring him to give his daughter to Connor on receipt of it, or if not, that the Knight of the Black Rod would come down, strip him of his property, and bestow it upon Connor and his daughter.

The young man himself was almost one of the first who heard of this favorable change in his dreadful sentence.

He was seated on his bedside reading, when the sheriff and jailer entered his cell, anxious to lay before him the reply which had that morning arrived from government.

“I'm inclined to think, O'Donovan, that your case is likely to turn out more favorably than we expected,” said the humane sheriff.

“I hope, with all my heart, it may,” replied the other; “there is no denying, sir, that I'd wish it. Life is sweet, especially to a young man of my years.”

“But if we should fail,” observed the jailer, “I trust you will act the part of a man.”

“I hope, at all events, that I will act the part of a Christian,” returned O'Donovan. “I certainly would rather live; but I'm not afeard of death, and if it comes, I trust I will meet it humbly but firmly.”

“I believe,” said the sheriff, “you need entertain little apprehension of death; I'm inclined to think that that part of your sentence is not likely to be put in execution. I have heard as much.”

“I think, sir, by your manner, that you have,” returned Connor; “but I beg you to tell me without goin' about. Don't be afeared, sir, that I'm too wake to hear either good news or bad.”

The sheriff made no reply; but placed in his hands the official document which remitted to him the awful penalty of his life. Connor read it over slowly, and the other kept his eye fixed keenly upon his countenance, in order to observe his bearing under circumstances that are often known to test human fortitude as severely as death itself. He could, however, perceive no change; not even the unsteadiness of a nerve or muscle was visible, nor the slightest fluctuation in the hue of his complexion.

“I feel grateful to the lord lieutenant for his mercy to me,” said he, handing him back the letter, “as I do to the friends who interceded for me; I never will or can forget their goodness. Oh, never, never!”

“I believe it,” said the sheriff; “but there's one thing that I'm anxious to press upon your attention; and it's this, that no further mitigation of your punishment is to be expected from government; so that you must make up your mind to leave your friends and your country for life, as you know now.”

“I expect nothing more,” returned Connor, “except this, that the hand of God may yet bring the guilt of burning home to the man that committed it, and prove my innocence. I'm _now_ not without some hope that such a thing may be brought about some how. I thank you, Misther Sheriff, for your kindness in coming to me with this good news so soon; all that I can say is, that I thank you from my heart. I am bound to say, too, that any civility and comfort that could be shown was afforded me ever since I came here, an' I feel it, an' I'm grateful for it.”

Both were deeply impressed by the firm tone of manly sincerity and earnestness with which he spoke, blended as it was by a melancholy which gave, at the same time, a character of elevation and pathos to all he said. They then shook hands with him, after chatting for some time on indifferent subjects, the jailer promising to make his situation while he should remain in prison as easy as the regulations would allow him or, “who knows,” he added, smiling, “but we might make them a little easier?”

“That's a fine young fellow,” said he to the sheriff, after they had left him.

“He is a gentleman,” replied the sherif “by nature a gentleman; and a very uncommon one, too. I defy a man to doubt word that comes out of his lips; all he says is impressed with the stamp of truth itself and by h----n's he never committed the felony he's in for! Keep him as comfortable as you can.”

They then separated.

The love of life is the first and strong principle in our nature, and what man is there except some unhappy wretch pressed down by long and galling misery to the uttermost depths of despair, who, knows that life was forfeited, whether justly or it matters little, to the laws of his country will not feel the mercy which bids him live with a corresponding sense of gratitude. The son of the pious mother acted, as if she was still his guide and monitress.

He knelt down and poured out his gratitude to that great Being who had the final claim upon it, and whose blessing he fervently invoked upon the heads of those true friends by whose exertions and influence he knew that life was restored to him.

Of his life while he remained in this country there is little more to be said than what is usually known to occur in the case of of convicts similarly circumstanced, if we exclude his separation from the few persons who were dear to him. He saw his father the next day and the old man felt almost disappointed discovering that he was deprived of the pleasure which he proposed to himself of be the bearer of such glad tidings to him. Those who visited him, however, noticed with a good deal of surprise, that he appeared as laboring under some secret aim which, however, no tact or address on their part could induce him to disclose. Many of them, actuated by the best motives, asked him in distinct terms why he appeared to be troubled; but the only reply they received was a good-humored remark that it was not to be expected that he could leave forever all that was dear to him on earth with a very cheerful spirit.

It was at this period that his old friend Nogher M'Cormick came to pay him a visit; it being the last time, as he said, that he would ever have an opportunity of seeing his face. Nogher, whose moral impressions were by no means so correct as Connor's, asked him, with a face of dry, peculiar mystery, if he had any particular wish unfulfilled; or if there remained behind him any individual against whom he entertained a spirit of enmity. If there were he begged him to make no scruple in entrusting to him a full statement of his wishes on the subject, adding that he might rest assured of having them accomplished.

“One thing you may be certain of, Nogher,” said he, to the affectionate fellow, “that I have no secrets to tell; so don't let that go abroad upon me. I have heard to-day,” he added, “that the vessel we are to go in will sail on this day week. My father was here this mornin'; but I hadn't heard it then. Will you, Nogher, tell my mother privately that she mustn't come to see me on the day I appointed with my father? From the state of health she's in, I'm tould she couldn't bear it. Tell her, then, not to come till the day before I sail; an' that I will expect to see her early on that day. And, Nogher, as you know more about this unhappy business than any one else, except the O'Briens and ourselves, will you give this little packet to my mother? There's three or four locks of my hair in it; one of them is for Una; and desire my mother to see Una, and to get a link of her hair to wear next my heart. My poor father--now that he finds he must part with me--is so distracted and distressed, that I couldn't trust him with this message. I want it to be kept a secret to every one but you, my mother, and Una; but my poor father would he apt to mention it in some fit of grief.”

“But is there nothing else on your mind, Connor?”

“There's no heavy guilt on my mind, Nogher, I thank my God and my dear mother for it.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing before you go, Connor--Bartle Flanagan's well watched. If he has been guilty--if--derry downs, who doubts it'?--well never mind; I'll hould a trifle we get him to show the cloven foot, and condemn himself yet.”

“The villain,” said Connor, “will be too deep--too polished for you.”

“Ten to one he's not. Do you know what we've found out since this business?”

“No.”

“Why, the divil resave the squig of punch, whiskey, or liquor of any sort or size he'll allow to pass the lips of him. Now, Connor, aren't you up to the cunnin' villainy of the thraitor in that maynewvre?”

“I am, Nogher; I see his design in it. He is afeard if he got drunk that he wouldn't be able to keep his own secret.”

“Ah, then, by the holy Nelly, we'll sleep him yet, or he'll look sharp. Never you mind him, Connor.”

“Nogher! stop,” said Connor, almost angrily, “stop; what do you mane by them last words?”

“Divil a much; it's about the blaggard I'm spakin'; he'll be ped, I can tell you. There's a few friends of yours that intinds, some o' these nights, to open a gusset under one of his ears only; the divil a thing more.”

“What! to take the unhappy man's life--to murdher him?”

“Hut, Connor; who's spakin' about murdher? No, only to make him miss his breath some night afore long. Does he desarve mercy that 'ud swear away the life of an innocent man?”

“Nogher,” replied the other, rising up and speaking with the utmost solemnity--

“If one drop of his blood is spilt on my account, it will bring the vengeance of Heaven upon the head of every man havin' a hand in it. Will you, because he's a villain, make yourself murdherers--make yourselves blacker than he is?”

“Wiry, thin, death alive! Connor, have you your seven sinsis about you? Faith, that's good; as if it was a sin to knock such a white-livered Judas upon the head! Sin!--oh hell resave the morsel o' sin in that but the contrairy. Sure its only sarvin' honest people right, to knock such a desaiver on the head. If he had parjured himself for sake of the truth, or to assist a brother in trouble--or to help on the good cause--it would be something; but to go to--but--arra, be me sowl, he'll sup sarra for it, sure enough! I thought it would make your mind aisy, or I wouldn't mintion it till we'd let the breath out of him.”

“Nogher,” said Connor, “before you leave this unfortunate room, you must take the Almighty to witness that you'll have no hand in this bloody business, an' that you'll put a stop to it altogether. If you don't, and that his life is taken, in the first place, I'll be miserable for life; and in the next, take my word for it, that the judgment of God will fall heavily upon every one consarned in it.”

“What for? Is it for slittin' the juggler of sich a rip? Isn't he as bad as a heretic, an' worse, for he turned against his own. He has got himself made the head of a lodge, too, and holds Articles; but it's not bein' an Article-bearer that'll save him, an' he'll find that to his cost. But, indeed, Connor, the villain's a double thraitor, as you'd own, if you knew what I heard a hint of?”

“Well, but you must lave him to God.”

“What do you think but I got a whisper that he has bad designs on her.”

“On who?” said O'Donovan (starting).

“Why, on your own girl, Oona, the Bodagh's daughter. He intends, it's whispered, to take her off; an' it seems, as her father doesn't stand well with the boys, that Bartle's to get a great body of them to assist him in bringing her away.”

Connor paced his cell in deep and vehement agitation. His resentment against this double-dyed villain rose to a fearful pitch; his color deepened-his eye shot fire, and, as he clenched his hand convulsively, Nogher saw the fury which this intelligence had excited in him.

“No,” he proceeded, “it would be an open sin an' shame to let such an etarnal limb of the devil escape.”

It may, indeed, be said that O'Donovan never properly felt the sense of his restraint until this moment. When he reflected on the danger to which his beloved Una was exposed from the dark plans of this detestable villain, and recollected that there existed in the members of the illegal confederacy such a strong spirit of enmity against Bodagh Buie, as would induce them to support Bartle in his designs upon his daughter, he pressed his hand against his forehead, and walked about in a tumult of distress and resentment, such as he had never yet felt in his bosom.

“It's a charity it will be,” said Nogher, shrewdly availing himself of the commotion he had created, “to stop the vagabone short in the coorse of his villany. He'll surely bring the darlin' young girl off, an' destroy her.”

For a few moments he felt as if his heart were disposed to rebel against the common ordinances of Providence, as they appeared to be manifested in his own punishment, and the successful villainy of Bartle Flanagan. The reflection, however, of a strong and naturally pious mind soon enabled him to perceive the errors into which his passions would lead him, if not restrained and subjected. He made an effort to be calm, and in a considerable degree succeeded.

“Nogher,” said he, “let us not forget that this Bartle--this--but I will not say it--let us not forget that God can asily turn his plans against himself. To God, then, let us lave him. Now, hear me--you must swear in His presence that you will have neither act nor part in doing him an injury--that you will not shed his blood, nor allow it to be shed by others, as far as you can prevent it.”

Nogher rubbed his chin gravely, and almost smiled at what he considered to be a piece of silly nonsense on the part of Connor. He determined, therefore, to satisfy his scruples as well as he could; but, let the consequence be what it might, to evade such an oath.

“Why, Connor,” said he, “surely, if you go to that, we can have no ill-will against the d--n villain; an' as you don't wish it, we'll dhrop--the thing; so now make your mind aisy, for another word you or any one else won't ever hear about it.”

“And you won't injure the man?”

“Hut! no,” replied Nogher, with a gravity whose irony was barely perceptible, “what would we murdher him for, now that you don't wish it? I never had any particular wish to see my own funeral.”

“And, Nogher, you will do all you can to prevent him from being murdhered?”

“To be sure, Connor--to be sure. By He that made me, we won't give pain to a single hair of his head. Are you satisfied now?”

“I am,” replied the ingenuous young man, who was himself too candid to see through the sophistry of Nogher's oath.

“And now, Nogher,” he replied, “many a day have we spent together--you are one of my oldest friends. I suppose this is the last time you will ever see Connor O.'Donovan; however, don't, man--don't be cast down; you will hear from me, I hope, and hear that I am well too.”

He uttered this with a smile which cost him an effort; for, on looking into the face of his faithful old friend, he saw his muscles working under the influence of strong feeling--or, I should rather say, deep sorrow--which he felt anxious, by a show of cheerfulness, to remove. The fountains, however, of the old servant's heart were opened, and, after some ineffectual attempts to repress his grief, he fell upon Connor's neck, and wept aloud.

“Tut, Nogher,” said Connor, “surely it's--glad you ought to be, instead of sorry. What would you have done if my first sentence had been acted upon?”

“I'm glad for your sake,” replied the other, “but I'm now sorry for my own. You will live, Connor, and you may yet be happy; but he that often held you in his arms--that often played with you, and that, next to your father and mother, you loved betther than any other livin'--he, poor Nogher, will never see his boy more.”

On uttering these words, he threw himself again upon Connor's neck, and we are not ashamed to say that their tears flowed together.

“I'll miss you, Connor, dear; I'll not see your face at fair or market, nor on the chapel--green of a Sunday. Your poor father will break his heart, and the mother's eye will never more have an opportunity of being proud out of her son. It's hard upon me to part wid you, Connor, but it can't be helped; I only ax you to remember Nogher, that, you know, loved you as if you wor his own; remimber me, Connor, of an odd time. I never thought--oh, Grod, I never thought to see this day! No wondher--oh, no wondher that the fair young crature should be pale and worn, an' sick at heart! I love her now, an' ever will, as well as I did yourself. I'll never see her, Connor, widout thinkin' heavily of him that her heart was set upon, an' that will then be far away from her an' from all that ever loved him.”

“Nogher,” replied Connor, “I'm not without hope that--but this--this is folly. You know I have a right to be thankful to God and the goodness of government for sparin' my life. Now, farewell--it is forever, Nogher, an' it is a tryin' word to-day; but you know that every one goin' to America must say it; so, think that I'm goin' there, an' it won't signify.”

“Ah, Connor, I wish I could,” replied Nogher; “but, to tell the truth, what breaks my heart is, to think of the way you are goin' from us. Farewell, then, Connor darlin; an' may the blessin' of God, an' His holy mother, an' of all the saints be upon you now an' foriver. Amin!”

His tears flowed fast, and he sobbed aloud, whilst uttering the last words; he then threw his arms about Connor's neck, and, having kissed him, he again wrung his hand, and passed out of the cell in an agony of grief.

Such is the anomalous nature of that peculiar temperament, which, in Ireland, combines within it the extremes of generosity and crime. Here was a man who had been literally affectionate and harmless during his whole past life, yet, who was now actually plotting the murder of a person who had never,--except remotely, by his treachery to Connor, whom he loved--rendered him an injury, or given him any cause of offence. And what can show us the degraded state of moral feeling among a people whose natural impulses are as quick to virtue as to vice, and the reckless estimate which the peasantry form of human life, more clearly than the fact, that Connor, the noble--minded, heroic, and pious peasant, could admire the honest attachment of hia old friend, without dwelling upon the dark point in his character, and mingle his tears with a man who was deliberately about to join in, or encompass, the assassination of a fellow-creature!

Even against persons of his own creed the Irishman thinks that revenge is a duty which he owes to himself;--but against those of a different faith it is not only a duty but a virtue--and any man who acts out of this feeling, either as a juror, a witness, or an elector--for the principle is the same--must expect to meet such retribution as was suggested by a heart like Nogher M'Cormick's, which was otherwise affectionate and honest. In the secret code of perverted honor by which Irishmen are guided, he is undoubtedly the most heroic and manly, and the most worthy also of imitation, who indulges in, and executes his vengeance for injuries whether real or supposed, with the most determined and unshrinking spirit; but the man who is capable of braving death, by quoting his own innocence as an argument against the justice of law, even when notoriously guilty, is looked upon by the people, not as an innocent man--for his accomplices and friends know he is not--but as one who is a hero in his rank of life; and it is unfortunately a kind of ambition among too many of our ill-thinking but generous countrymen, to propose such men as the best models for imitation, not only in their lives, but in that hardened hypocrisy which defies and triumphs over the ordeal of death itself.

Connor O'Donovan was a happy representation of all that is noble and pious in the Irish character, without one tinge of the crimes which darken or discolor it. But the heart that is full of generosity and fortitude, is generally most susceptible of the kinder and more amiable affections. The noble boy, who could hear the sentence of death without the commotion of a nerve, was forced to weep on the neck of an old and faithful follower who loved him, when he remembered that, after that melancholy visit, he should see his familiar face no more. When Nogher left him, a train of painful reflections passed through his mind. He thought of Una, of his father, of his mother, and for some time was more depressed than usual. But the gift of life to the young is ever a counterbalance to every evil that is less than death. In a short time he reflected that the same Providence which had interposed between him and his recorded sentence, had his future fate in its hands; and that he had health, and youth, and strength--and, above all, a good conscience--to bear him through the future vicissitudes of his appointed fate.