mother's heart, and if you let him off now they'll never know any thing about me till it's all over to-morrow; and my poor Michael-if you knew that boy, Sir, you'd think it was a sin to strip him in the streets and mangle him he is a holy boy, and if they knew his heart, 'tis begging his blessing they'd be, not tormenting of him. He's tender too, and can't bear the beating as I can, that's used to hardship." All was unavailing; the gaoler mildly but firmly withstood the temptation, and Denis found his case hopeless. "The curse of the miserable be for ever upon you!" said he, crushing the rejected bribe in his hand, "many's the sore trouble you bring us into, and leave us without help or pity in our ruin." He flung the notes from him, and they would have perished in the flames but for the promptness of the gaoler. After repeated and urgent messages, Denis at length consented to visit his brother. He found Michael cheerful and collected, endeavouring to speak comfort to his mother and sister. Denis, scarcely able to sustain himself, stood leaning against the door, until he felt himself in his brother's arms, then he joined in the loud sorrow which had burst out afresh at his entrance. "You take this little trial," said the resigned sufferer," indeed you do, too much to heart. Be sure it comes from God, and he knows it is for my good. Oh! sure God is the best confessor of all, and if He enjoins our penance, who can murmur at what he enjoins on us. Come here, brother; come all, and look at this." He drew back a curtain, and displayed a print of the crucifixion and some coarse daubs of various martyrdoms. Look what is here. Ye think me very good and holy, but see, who is here, with nails through his hands and feet, and his side pierced, and thorns around his bleeding brows? Who is he, mother? and who is he, that before all this was mangled with cruel stripes? Was it for his sins he suffered? Do you know what he said when he was bearing his cross to die on it, and the women were bemoaning him? Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not over me, but weep for yourselves and your children.' When I hear ye making so much of me, and thinking of my trouble, you frighten me, and make me think that your tears for me and not for my sins or your own, may wash away all the good of my sufferings. Why, many a blessed saint imposed on himself a harder penance than I shall have to go through tomorrow; yes, and if an easier was enjoined by a priest, would choose another confessor. Mother, look at this," a daub of the Virgin Mary, with all the swords of sorrow piercing her "instead of sinning by your tears, pray to that Queen of Heaven for grace to make us all patient and holy." The fortitude with which Michael anticipated his suffering, did not forsake him in the actual endurance of it. It was as a miracle that one so young and tenderly reared could bear his torment with so heroic a patience. Certainly, if sympathy could beguile the sense of pain, his was much alleviated I remember the day well, and with sensations which, to this hour, powerfully affect me. I was, upon that day, passing through the town of Clonmel, with feelings very unsuitable to the tragedy I was to witness. My vacation at school had commenced-I was immediately to enter College-my heart was bounding with joy and hope, and my faney charmed with the visions of home and home-friends, which it had summoned into life and beauty. The reality before me soon dispersed them. The carriage in which, with two schoolcompanions, joyous as myself, I sat rejoicing, made a halt under the West Gate, as we entered the Main-street of Clonmel-a mounted dragoon withstood our advance, and there we sat, gazing on the piteous spectacle before us, or, when we closed our eyes, saddened by sounds scarcely less affecting than what we had beheld. The middle of the street was lined on both sides with military, horse and foot-from their lines to the houses-a space of about twenty feet on each side-was crowded by a most dense multitude— the space which the lines enclosed was vacant, except for the few persons (as the surgeon and sheriff, &c.) who walked behind or at the side of the cart to which the sufferer was tied. It was most strange-all inside this space was in perfect silence, save only that, at times, the motion of the wheels could be heard, and sometimes-and that perhaps was fancy, at least, while the procession was distant-the sharp sound of the lash. As the instrument of tor ture descended, at each stroke, deep and earnest groans arose from the whole multitude cries of "Oh! God pity him !”—“ God comfort him, to think of this sore day!"—and then a burst of sorrow would follow, in which all articulate utterance was drowned, and sin eere grief and sympathy faithfully expressed; but, through all this, the procession, where the youth endured his torments, moved on, in as much silence, as if a mere painted or unsubstantial vision were set forth to interest or agitate the assembled spectators. I was not aware of the full horror of the scene until the cart, having arrived at the place where we were detained, turned to complete the dreadful course at a building called the Old Court-house, in which the street terminated, and where the punishment had begun and was to end. I had lifted my eyes as the nearer sounds of the cart-wheels and the cruel lash aroused me, and they fell on the raised head and up-turned eyes of the sufferer. Pain was evidently struggling with his resolution, but, in his ghastly countenance, there was a resignation which, better than obstinacy, sustained him there was an expression which, I can now understand, to be that with which a martyr, in his agony, remembers Him who was crucified, and commends his spirit into the hands of Jesus when the assurance that the Lord beholds every infliction, and knows every pang, renders pain less bitter, because it comes as his message. I can now understand the expression of countenance which then awed me, and baffled my power to comprehend it. I continued to gaze until the car was turned-and then, the horrid appearance-the lacerated form. I sickened at the sight-and still no murmur from the melancholy procession --but louder and more continued bursts of sorrow from the deeply-affected multitude. In this manner Michael Cormac endured the punishment to which he had been condemned. It was not for the sake of pride, he said, that he abstained from complaints or cries; but, all he suffered was little, and he offered it to God, for himself and family, as purely as a weak nature would permit. Frequently, in the interval between the first and second punishment, and once after the second, he had been visited in prison by the pilgrim, whose first appearance at her house, the Widow Cor mac regarded as so inauspicious. Now, because she saw that his visits were very acceptable to her son, she urgently solicited that they should be frequent, and was delighted with them, although it often happened, that by conversing in Latin, they excluded her from all acquaintance with the nature of their discourses. Her son's manifested learning, however, compensated her for her ignorance. On the day when the time of his imprisonment had expired, multitudes from all parties and factions assembled amicably, to give his return home an air of triumph. They met him at some miles distance from his house, with music and festal decorations, and were provided with an ornamented chair in which he was to be carried amidst demonstrations of rejoicing; but he entreated that they would spare him. "I come back," said he, " a poor sorrowful man, to spend one day and night in the place where I was a child, and then to go far away where none can know me. It was my hope, that I was to die among ye, after wearing the holy office of your ghostly instructor. It is not for a wretch like me to dishonour our blessed religion. Never more am I to feed the hope, that I can reconcile penitents to their God, and call down, to offer himself again for sinful creatures, the Saviour of the world. Oh! it is not in hands like these, marked as they are with bonds of public shame, that he is to be taken, who, all pure, gave his life for sinners. My brightest earthly hopes quenched, and can I rejoice? Give me your prayers. I offer to the Lord my sufferings and my disappointments the griefs I have borne, and the hardships I shall yet endure. I give up home and friends and all that this world values. I go to do the Lord's will in poverty, among strange people. All, I solemnly declare, I willingly renounce-all I willingly undertake; but I cannot share in joy, and my friends, companions, and brothers, as many of you were to me, do not ask looks of joy from me in the one little day that I give to my own griefs and affections." are On the following day, Michael had left his home. It will be readily understood that he had much to encounter and overcome of solicitation on the part of all his friends, before he could carry this resolution into effect. So much, however, had the ascendancy which he always possessed over his friends' minds, been encreased by suffering, and so much had his character acquired, even of dignity, that he was now yielded to, as one who walked already by a heavenly light, and who was not to be confined within ordinary rules or limits. Before he departed, he had exacted a promise that the engagement with M'Manus had been fulfilled, although he would not remain to assist at the solemnity. Accordingly, a short time after, Mary became a bride, and removed to her hushands house; and the mother and Denis continued to live together, ignorant of Michael's place of abode, and endeavouring to comfort themselves with a hope that they should see him again. would not rest upon them, painful thoughts were rendered still more affecting by the remembrances which that ruin called forth, and she withdrew her looks from the prospect of it. They are widely mistaken who imagine that the poor do not moralize on the appearances and the changes which creation exhibits. Among those who are little acquainted with other books, that of life and nature have many intelligent readers. That sympathy of which philosophers write so learnedly, between external objects and the human heart, is felt not less vividly among the poor than among those who can better analyse their sensations, and when the widow Cormac, affrighted almost, by the awful ruin on which her eyes first fell, shrunk back into herself, she felt as if the rose-bush at the partially opened window, which at that moment wafted a rich perfume to her, uttered a voluntary and intelligent consolation, "kind, kind and considerate flower," said she, "do you know my sorrow, and do you comfort my afflicted heart. Oh! if he knew it, and was upon this earth, seas would not keep him from me, and Michael, my dear," continued she, as if she were addressing her son, “'tis hard to think, that leaving them that love you, and breaking the heart of her that bore you, is a good deed to do; but God before me, it is my sense that speaks, 'tis my poor sorrowful nature, and grief changes us, and it is not the one heart or the one nature we have; sure it is not I that would find fault with the poor holy child, and he having his own hardship; but if he knew my misery, he'd feel for me; you would, my own Michael, God pity you and send his blessing about He you." At last, even that uncertain hope was given up, and the widow was brought to believe that her son was dead. The chamber allocated for him had been, with almost religious care, preserved from other appropriation. The poor mother was scrupulous in her attention to it-the books were kept in order, and all its little furniture had retained the air of neatness which had been given to it, when more cheering prospects seemed to present themselves than were now realised. The only use in which the chamber was employed was that of a chapel or oratory, and there Denis and his mother performed their devotions. Sometimes the prayers of the poor widow were continued until a late hour at night, after Denis had retired to rest, and sometimes she continued, in forgetfulness even of her sorrows, sitting in the chair which her son had occupied while he pursued his unhappily interrupted studies. had been unseen and unheard of for nearly a year, and his mother was absorbed in her customary meditations, when the incident occurred which caused her belief that, on this earth, she was no more to see him. It was a calm, warm night in May, the moon was near the full, and its beams, unimpeded by mist or clouds, diffused around a softer and scarcely fainter light than of the day. The ruins of the abbey on the rock of Cashel were visible, and rendered the night more solemn; but the widows eye Michael stood before her at the window-his head and feet bare→ his arms stretched upwards, and his head raised to heaven, as if he invoked a blessing on her. It was but for a moment-she screamed loudly, and fell upon the floor. Denis, alarmed, rushed into the room and beheld the apparition at the window; but instantly it vanished, and, occupied in his mother's recovery, he saw it no further. When restored to her senses, she recounted what she had seen, and expressed her opinion that a vision had been sent to her. * The commencement of a new year, is a period at the approach of which every one feels more or less of interest. There is a something in the passing away for ever of one year and the succession of another, with all its unknown events of good and ill, which naturally disposes the mind to reflection and to thought. And though the first day of the year be in itself no more than any other, and the commencement of the annual revolution of time be but an artificial period, still the fiction, like many others, possesses all the influence and vividness of reality-and on the first of January we feel as if the sun had indeed returned to the place from which he came, and was once more preparing to set out, invigorated and fresh, upon his yearly path, rejoicing as a giant to run his course. There have been new-year's days when we have felt all that imaginative and pleasing melancholy to which we have alluded. In our early days, when free and light-hearted, "we took no note of time but by its loss." The return of this day served as a memento of its flight, and reminded us that our years were hurrying away, and those days were coming in which we should say we have no pleasure in them. But now our emotions are of a far different nature, our interest in this day proceeds from far different sources. It is as Editors that we regard it with feelings of intense anxiety, as the day upon which we appear before the public to solicit their favour for our work, and all our pretty sentiments and sage reflections are forgotten in our meditations upon that all-absorbing topic-the success of our Magazine. And we trust, gentle reader, we will stand excused in your eyes if, even upon this day we detain you for a short time upon a subject of personal interest to ourselves, and if in our pages you have found either instruction or amusement, we only ask in return, that before you throw aside our book you will bear with us for a short time while we speak of ourselves. Nay, to our Irish readers we trust that even this apology is unnecessary, for we hope better things of their patriotism than to believe them indifferent to the progress of our Irish periodical, and we would fain regard every one of our countrymen as well-wishers to our undertaking, and personally, or at least nationally interested in its success. Our Magazine is now before the public, and they can judge for themselves. After many embarrassments and many difficulties, of which no one has known but ourselves, and with much personal exertion, the labour of which none but those who have engaged in a similar attempt can fully estimate, we have succeeded in producing our work, and all we ask now is what every publication has a right to demand, “a fair field and no favour." We do not mean to reject the partiality of kindness, or defy the severity of criticism, neither do we mean to waive the strong claims which an Irish periodical has upon every well-wisher to the literature of his country; but this we do mean to say, that if we do not produce so good a Magazine as could be expected under the many disadvantages which attend such an undertaking in this country, then let us be at once, without favour or affection, consigned to the tomb of all the Capulets, and a better and more efficient one substituted in our stead. When we speak of the disadvantages that attend a literary periodical in Dublin, we would not be understood to imply, that in the nature of the undertaking of itself there is any thing which attaches to it a peculiar degree of difficulty. But it must be remembered that every failure increases the peril of a subsequent attempt. And now when numberless Irish periodicals have already failed, in estimating our embarrassments, it must be taken into consideration, that we appear like the descendants of some prescribed race, with the sins of many generations upon our heads. Tis true, that we have not begun to build our tower without counting well the cost, and we think that we have materials sufficient for the work, yet it is a discouraging reflection that we are building amid the ruins of many a goodly structure, of which the foundation stone was laid with hopes perhaps as fair as our own. We know that there is a prejudice against Irish periodicals which it will require much caution on our part to overcome. Many who are jealous of their names will not wish them to be connected with an undertaking the success of which is doubtful, and withhold their contributions or subscriptions until they can be satisfied that we shall maintain our ground, or in other words refuse us their assistance until it is comparatively of little use. We know that this principle is acted on by many, and this has contributed in no small degree to the failure of our predecessors. Thus it is, that while the English and Scotch periodicals number among their most talented contributors many of our countrymen, there rests upon our metropolis the stigma of never having supported a good general Magazine; and Irish talent, like Irish va lour, is valued and distinguished every where but at home. But we have been looking at the dark side of affairs, and from regarding the contingency of our failure, we now turn with pleasure to contemplate the probability of our success. Puffing, in all its forms and modifications, we detest; and in literature, as well as law, we maintain the maxim that no man can be a witness in his own cause. Our mere promises we know are, and ought to be, of little consequence; and our fate must be decided, not by our professions, but by the character of our work. Still, modesty in these days is so rare a qualification, that it is generally presumed if an individual say nothing for himself, it is because he has nothing to say; and the old proverb, that even a fool, if he kept silence, might be taken for a wise man, is ex actly and strangely reversed. To this spirit of the age, then, we must pay deference, and do violence to our innate modesty, at least so far as to state the grounds on which we rest our claims to public patronage and support. It We are persuaded that within the bosom of our country there is talent sufficient, and more than sufficient, to support a periodical fully equal to any of those in any other country. This talent we trust to bring into efficient operation in our Magazine, and thus, by opening at home a channel for those communications which have hitherto occupied the pages of foreign reviews and periodicals, to prevent the literary resources of our country being drained away to increase the already too abundant treasures of the sister island. is with no little pride we say it, that we have already enlisted in our service some who are ornaments in their several professions and walks of life, and though, as yet, we be but a little band, we number among our contributors those whose names augur well for our ultimate success; for we are persuaded that talents which have been tried and framed in many of the more arduous exercises of intellect, will not fail to command admiration in the pages of a Magazine. Yet we feel that great as are our resources, they are not beyond what we have occasion for. Variety is the very essence of a publication such as ours. It is not enough that we have able contributors, but we must have them in every department; there must be a succession of them, who will relieve each other, like the guards of the watch-fire, and that versatility of talent which we would look for in vain in an individual must be supplied by the united capabilities of many. Support such as this we both look for and expect; and if we are not successful in obtaining it, it shall not be for want of active and strenuous exertion. At present we hardly contemplate the possibility of a disappointment, but if we are calculating beyond our resources, we shall, at least, have the satisfaction of reflecting that the fault is not our own; and shall console ourselves by the consciousness that we have made the exertion, and that we are not responsible for its failure. But, in sooth, we hope better things. Were our prospects even less encouraging than they are, this were not the time for indulging in melancholy forebodings, and while we are writing |