now become exposed. But, as she said, in a proverb of less beauty than that spoken by Maria, but not of less propriety or force, "God fits the back to the burden." It was soon seen that in her the proverb was realized. So much activity did she display in reducing to order the very deranged affairs, to the management of which she was called-so much wisdom in directing, and promptness in deciding, that the farm, which, it was thought, would have speedily past out of her husband's hands, became profitable in her's. An indulgent landlord was one of the blessings for which she had reason to be grateful, and with his favour and her own care and exertions, she felt prosperity visiting her, and was able to entertain good hopes for her children. As these objects of her anxiety and tenderness grew up towards maturity, they became conspicuous among their young companions for high and graceful qualities. Denis, the eldest youth, while in field sports and exercises he was without a rival, had never caused his mother a pang by crime or disobedience. Industrious, kind-hearted, and of a high and gentle spirit, he made home cheerful, and, under his careful tillage, the fields returned abundant harvests. His sister Mary, when she had arrived at womanhood, was a pattern of discretion in the admonitions of the old, while the young were all her admirers. The second son, Michael, early appeared to have dedicated himself to the priesthood, and by his retiring habits and grave manners, and his singular beauty, had acquired to himself almost the reverence of a saint. There was something in him, it was said, not like other men. He was as "a bright particular star," and the village maidens, while they agreed that "there was not the like of Michael Cormac in the whole country round," felt, although they did not use precisely such expressions, that his beauty was of too high and holy a character to be devoted to any affection, but that to which he had already given himself up. Such was the family of the widow Cormac, prosperous, and, as man would say, adorning prosperity, basking in the love and respect of their acquaintances, and living in the enjoyment of blessings which are, naturally, the most to be coveted, the power of relieving the wants of the distressed, and winning the affection of all within their sphere who deserved to be valued. "What wonder is it," she would sometimes say, as with swelling heart and eyes she gazed on her beautiful offspring-"What wonder is it, that they look like the gentle of the land, and that they have the spirit of the gentle. Many a prayer was offered for them when they were young, that they should never do any thing mean or shameful, and they never told me a lie, nor hid any thing from me, since they were able to know right from wrong." And sometimes an old female follower of the family would add, not without some feeling of indignation, "Gentles of the land, indeed! I wonder who has a better right to look gentle and high? I wonder what gentles of the land have such blood in their veins, as your own three children. "Tis the spirit of princes that ought to be in them, and so it is: God's blessing be about them, and shield them from all harm." It was a happiness which this poor widow afterwards, when sorrow had come, remembered like a heavenly dream, to see her children collected, when the night closed in, around their cheerful hearth-Denis, questioning all who could answer on the subject of Ireland's ancient glory-Mary, her day's toil over-her household cares dispatched, breaking in with prohibited, but quickly forgiven mirth, on these high topics, and Michael, when he, for a moment, laid aside his book to utter some pious thought, received with the reverence yielded to one who was already disengaged from this world's vanities, and who had the power to diffuse solemnity over even his sister's light-heartedness, and to take from the recollections of Ireland's glory, every thing but the edifying assurance of her ancient religious distinction. But, the remembrance of these dream-like evenings, was too frequently accompanied by a memory which made it painfully oppressive.There came with it the face and form of one, who, she was firmly persuaded, had destroyed all her comfort. Still, tho' she strove to recal happier times, however distant from the fatal evening, was that upon which the poor woman would fix her thoughts, the measured step in the path which led to her cottage, would still seem to chill her the solemn, thrice-repeated knock at 1 the door-the entrance of the austere figure a maniac in habiliments, and with a look wiser almost than of man -the deep toned benediction, which was, she thought, toll'd out more as though a death-bell sounded, than as if a human voice had spoken-all this came freshly and fearfully before her, and warned her against soliciting her dreams of happiness to return. It was a calm night, at the close of autumn, and all members of the widow Cormac's family were assembled around a blazing fire—the servants and their superiors forming one company, and contributing, according to their place and abilities, to the general entertainment; when the mistress of the house, whose attention was, perhaps, more quickly excited, was alarmed by the sound of approaching footsteps. The disturbances, by which afterwards, the country became so afflicted, had not, at this time, convulsed her tranquil neighbourhood, but strangers rarely visited her abode after night had fallen, and she felt some little anxiety as she thought who this new-comer could be. Presently, three, distinct, slowly-repeated knocks were struck upon the door, and, for a moment, silence and something of alarm seemed to have affected the group within. Denis, however, almost instantly started up, and was proceeding to the door" Ask who is there Denis, my dear," said his mother-she had not raised her naturally low voice above the ordinary pitch-but she was heard outside the house. he appeared in strange attire. Had he made his entrance in the least pretending and least extravagant form, he could not have displayed less anxiety about effect, or greater self-possession. While he partook sparingly of the plentiful repast set before him, the family group, as unwilling to embarrass him by their notice, resumed the conversation which his coming had interrupted. They spoke in whispers, but were not unheard. Mary, with a half sidelong look towards their guest, had, for some time, divided her attention between him and the group of which she was an ornament, when-her interest increasing as she more frequently regarded him-she said, in the most cautious whisper, "The holy man could tell us much. Michael, do speak to him." If Michael had resolved to obey, he was anticipated. I am not holy,' said the pilgrim ; many a sorrowful penance have I yet to bear, before suffering has made satisfaction for my sins, but I can tell much to ears that love such stories as I have been hearing." 66 66 Then, for the honour of God," cried out the anxious mother, “speak to these young creatures, and tell them that they ought not to be so fond of thinking and discoursing of such things: they don't know the folly of it, nor the consequence." She had, of late, witnessed a fire in the manner of her elder son, when speaking or hearing of Ireland in the old time, and an excitement on such subjects frequently manifesting itself, which caused her some alarm. "Tell them," continued she, "and what you speak they will respect, and keep your saying that there is no good now in thinking of the gone times, but that much trouble and sore hearts may come of it." A figure entered, not such as was calculated to disappoint the expectations which the voice had excited. It was of a man, yet in the vigor of life," although far advanced in middle agehis head and feet bare-a long staff in his hand, and a scanty bundle of straw suspended obliquely at his back. His long thick hair was but slightly grizzled, and a full black beard descended to his breast. Fantastic as the "properties" of his "character" must be confessed to be, they did not counter act the impression which the pilgrim's respect and bearing were calculated to produce. There was in his countenance, no apparent consciousness that "I will tell them," said the pilgrim, to think, when they speak of the ancient glories of their country, that it was when sin came they were quenched, and that they never will give light again, until the land is holy. I will tell them, when they speak of the pride and honour of Ireland in her happy days, that she has now no pride or honour except in her real children, and that if they be faithful and virtuous, she needs no brighter glory than they can win for her. I will tell them to be wise and wary; but I never will tell a Cormac, that the stories of the Island of Saints and heroes should become strangers to his tongue." prayers and holy worship there, before God direct us all," said the poor woman, "sure it is not for the like of me to say again what you think ful. proper, but I was afeard-and the times so troublesome, and so many bad boys going about in wild courses-I was afeard that, may be, it was better not to make much of thoughts that came, God knows, too often, into all our hearts, to disturb us. I thought that it was not right or good to be speaking about them, and I thought that, may be-but, sure, you know better-since God took away the crown from Ireland we ought not to be ruminating upon things that might make us wish for it back again." "We are all poor blind creatures," said the pilgrim. "We do not know what we should desire or do; and we cannot say that the memory of Ireland's greatness, and pride in her purity of faith, may not be appointed as means of her restoration. If we become worthy of it, God will surely bring the mighty change to pass. Listen to the thoughts that visited my soul last night; they have guided my steps hither. I was in Cashel yesterday, and I was moved to see those monuments of other days, which England and heresy have been unable to destroy. I made my bed, at night, upon "the Rock," within Cormac's-king Cormac's -chapel. Then thoughts and visions came upon me, and I asked, what spirit or what saint was guardian of the place, that the enemies of the pure faith could not profane it, or destroy it? I asked of my soul, how it was that that blessed abbey had not felt the desolation of war, and that the prayer of heretics was never heard within its cloisters? I asked, why, when castles sunk in unremembered ruin, this peaceful and holy temple withstood the storm? and how it came to pass that, when the heretic sought a place for his accursed rites, he forsook the high station where saints and monarchs had lifted up a temple worthy of the God they served, and chose out a spot more fitting for his cold and stinted worship? It was not his conscience; his heart-felt unworthiness; that saved the blessed shrine from pollution. It was not his reverence for holy things, that kept ruin from them. No; they that saw the adorable mystery of faith-that heard pure "Often," said Michael, "have I had thoughts like these. I love to read and muse where I can see that sacred pile. How deeply have I been thankful to the spirit which gave it so suitable a station. It is worthy of the Lord's house to be where its towers and battlements show forth his power, far and wide over the country. Sometimes, when the last light of the evening shines upon it, I have felt almost as if it spoke to me, and, with a silent voice, told my heart, that prayers and sacrifice shall again be offered up within it. Tell me, is it a right thought? I have at times remembered the Jews, wretched and ruined, and scattered abroad; their nation trodden under foot of the Gentile, and their worship impoverished; but still not only testifying of glories that are departed, but preserved and kept separate for greater glory to come; and I have thought that, it may be, the temples of our holy religion are guarded like these Jews. They too, are the ruins of ancient greatness; they too, are preserved from the ordinary and profaning uses of evil days. They stand solitary and sorrowful, like God's loved and chastened people; and may they not, also, like them, be prophesying, though in sackcloth and ashes, of a day when they shall again be joyful ?” Ire "Your thought is not of sin. For unrighteousness, God's people of Jerusalem, as well as of our own island, have been sorely punished-and the punishment of each shall have an end. land has had her sorrowful days-long has her robe of prophesy been of sackcloth-long has she eaten ashes for bread -but soon she may arise to the fulfilment of prophecy; and then," added the pilgrim, after a pause--" her children must prove their love of her by t other penances than sackcloth garments and the voice of supplication." He now rose to depart, and, notwithstanding the entreaties of the family, and the vehemence of Denis, persisted in his resolution. He was under a solemn vow, he said, never to rest at night in an inhabited house from Easter to Advent. His only indulgence was the scanty couch of straw which he carried at his back, and which he spread in some out-office when the season was more than ordinarily inclement; or, when the severity was not intense, under a tree by the way-side. He consented at length to rest for one night in the barn, but firmly resisted all appliances to render his slumbers easy. Denis accompanied him to his place of repose, and remained long in conversation with him. Before dawn, on the following morning, he sought him again, but he had already departed. He had, however, left remembrances behind him, very unmeet inmates of the family, who had admitted them. It would be tedious to detail the progress by which it became known to the poor widow that her son Denis had joined himself with the disturbers. He was too little practised in deceit to be the possessor of an important secret, and to appear unconscious of it. He had so long admitted all his family to an entire confidence, that he could not unlearn, without much evident distress, the habit of communicating thoughts as they arose in his mind, and plans as he formed them. His spirits appeared variable; sometimes his despondence spread gloom over the whole familysometimes his almost fierce excitement affrighted them. Denis had chosen his path-he was conscious of the peril which crossed it, and had resolved that only himself should incur the danger. From Michael he was especially resolved that his secret purpose and engagements should be hidden. Absence, however, from home to late hours, and sometimes for whole nights, caused even Michael to be alarmed, by a demeanour and a temper so unlike what his brother had ever till now displayed, and almost revealed to him the ill-kept secret. Hope at length mingled with the poor mother's apprehensions. The disturbers became less daring the law assumed new terrors, and there was reason to expect that, if her child were spared for some time longer, he might be released, by the breaking up of evil associations, from his unfortunate engagements, and restored, with entire heart, to his family. Little was she prepared for the affliction which was to come upon her. She soon learned that, as direct opposition to law became fainter and less daring, an animosity sprang up in the minds of the discomfited insurgents, more fierce against each other than it had been against the government. In this her son could take no part-she knew that he had laboured much to allay it, and when condemned to feel his efforts fruitless had withdrawn, dispirited and disgusted, from communion with his late associates. Withdrawal, however, from their society, was not to escape from their hostility, and in the end, their malice assailed him where its virulence was the sorest. Anxious to dissipate his gloomy thought, and make home cheerful to him, as it had been, his brother Michael, in a great degree, renounced his studies, and often joined in temporal pursuits and pleasures. In the spirit which dictated this sacrifice of what he valued most, he had accompanied him to a fair, where Denis had some business to transact. Among his relatives, unhappily, there were many who had enrolled themselves in one of the factions which arose out of the late illegal associations, and Denis was involved with them in one common hatred. Reverence for Michael's character would have protected him, but when his brother was assailed-for a moment every thing but the danger and the result were forgotten-and, wresting a bludgeon from one of the numerous party who had commenced the attack, he combated, with a spirit and an energy, which checked the ferocious violence of his enemies, until the noise of the stripes, and the cry of the family name, collected friends to his side, and the conflict became general. That conflict was afterwards a source of bitter sorrow. The assault on Denis Cormac had not been a mere wanton and capricious aggression. He had an inveterate enemy, who, carefully concealed himself, had directed the storm where it was to fall. There was one, who, though very unworthy of such a bride, had sought his sister's hand, and was rejected, with something less of tenderness for his feelings, than, he thought, his offer merited. He did not for this, abandon all hope of success, while he vowed secretly he never would forgive the brother, through whom the dreadful message of dismissal had been conveyed. In appearance, however, he was the steady friend of all the family, and the hearts for which he was plotting misery, were beyond suspicion, that, under the guise of friendship, he could betray. Baffled in his first attempt, he tried another. From whatever cause it has proceeded, it is certain that Catiline was not more abundantly provided with those instruments of entrapping and embarrassing the innocent and abetting the guilty, false witnesses, than are the agents in that extensive and prosperous conspiracy which is working so fatally in Ireland. M Manus availed himself of the assistance thus offered, and had informations lodged against Michael Cormac, as the individual by whose violence an affray had been commenced, in which he had actually done no more than defend his brother, and for which no one, not even the friends of the unfortunate man whose death had given it an unhappy importance, had felt deeper sorrow. When all was ready for the arrest of one brother, he took measures to deprive the mother and sister of the protection which the other could afford them. His plot was, to alarm Denis, by insinuating that he had been betrayed to an active magistrate, as one who was deeply implicated in a treasonable conspiracy. McManus was bailiff and clerk to a neighbouring justice of the peace, an employment which rendered it probable that his information was correct, and he was sufficiently well acquainted with the habits of Denis, to know that they were such as would encourage him to defy his real or imaginary accusers. He found more difficulty than he had anticipated in persuading him to fly. He had, however, succeeded, and returned with him into the house to reconcile the poor mother to his immediate departure. She had been somewhat alarmed by the abruptness with which M‘Manus, entering the house after night had fallen, asked her son to walk out with him, and she sat, occupied with painful apprehensions, for the space of about an hour, which elapsed before their return. The moment their approach Denis, startled by the unwonted vehemence of his mother's manner, was silent, but M'Manus undauntedly opened his commission. You see," said he, " 'twill be nothing-nothing in the world, only just Denis must go out of the way for a while, you know, just till the little trouble is over, you see.” 66 "The cross of Christ between us and all harm," cried the poor woman, when she was able to speak, using at the same time the appropriate gesture, This is a brain-blow indeed. Oh, God pity me, and forgive me. If I was'nt a foolish mother, I would not have to see my child hunted out of his own house, and drove out upon the world." Tears choked further utterance, she sunk down on the floor, and, with her apron thrown over her head, which she moved, as it were unconsciously, from side to side, she for some minutes, gave a loose to her sorrows. There was still sobbing and lamentation in the house, when the widow arose. "Denis," said she with a strong effort, "give me your pardon for all foolishness." my "Don't kill me, mother," cried Denis, his voice hoarse, and with great difficulty pronouncing the words, "For God's sake-although 'tis little I deserve it-don't drive me mad entirely, now that I'm going where maybe I'll have enough to try me. Sure 'tis well known that there's no such mother as yourself, and a bad son you had in me." "Let me hear no word from you of good mother and bad son, but, before you go from this, tell me that you give me what I ask. I saw you going on in courses that I did not like, and I did not ask you where you used to be, nor advise you tell. Oh, God forgive me, things might be different now, if I did what you desired from me, but I was afeard of troubling you, though I knew it was for your good, and a sore time we all have of it now. But say the word-my poor ruined boy-say you forgive me. "Well, mother, since it will satisfy |