"But, Curran," said the priest, in a quiet, conciliatory tone and manner, “is it a fact that you approve of your son smokinga lad of his years?"

"Father Donnelly, my boy is a good lad. He comes home when he gets away from Dr. Hogan's, and do you think it is any great sin for him to sit an hour or so before he goes to bed, and pass that hour in a chat with his father over a cigar?"

"But surely you do not think tobacco and punch are suited to a youth of his years?"

"I don't think they are more suited to a lad of his years who takes them on the sly than to a lad who takes them cpcnly under his father's roof and in his father's presence."

"But boys of his age do not take them on the sly or in the open."

That may be as you say, Father Donnelly. But boys or lads or men, whatever you like to call them, do, as a rule, begin to use them very little after they come to his years, if not before; and I want to give my boy good homely habits. He shall not have to turn night-walker for the comfort of a cigar and a glass of something hot."

"I see you have made up your mind to follow out your design; so, Curran, there is no use in my saying any more. But remember that when people make a wide departure from custom in such a matter as the government of the young, they incur very grave responsibilities."

“I am thankful to you for the interest you have shown in us, Father Donnelly, but I'll stand by my plan."

For a year things went on in the old way. Mr. Curran held his head higher than ever. It was not every father in Cloneagh who could say his son came straight home each night after business. His principle had succeeded, and he felt himself justified in the course he had adopted.

In the second year, James Curran got a week's holidays, and as he had now a vast accumulation of pocket-money, fifteen pounds twelve, he asked his father if he might not go to Dublin for the week, partly for pleasure and the improvement of his mind by a look at the capital, and partly that he might make some inquiries about lectures and get some books he stood in need of. The father heartily consented, and the lad set off.

On the seventh day he was back again in Cloneagh with the books, all the information he had required, five pounds twelve out of fifteen pounds twelve, and, for the home circle, a history of all the marvels of the metropolis. It had been his good fortune to travel from Dublin to Cloneagh in the same carriage compartment as young Dr. Doherty, son of Mr. Doherty, the solicitor, who had just passed his final examination in medicine with such great brilliancy. The two young men had got into conversation in the train. Hitherto the two had not been

acquainted, as the Dohertys held their heads very high among the townsfolk, and would not allow their son to associate with the sons of shopkeepers.

Young Dr. Doherty had, however, no such narrow caste prejudices, and conceiving a liking for the simple, modest son of the grocer, they became friends from that hour.

This friendship was new life to young Curran. Up to that time he had no companion of anything like his own age in Cloneagh. The young doctor was not only agreeable and entertaining, but was able to give James a vast quantity of most useful knowledge and advice about reading and the Dublin schools.

In the second year of James Curran's apprenticeship, Dr. Doherty spent a good deal of his spare time in Dr. Hogan's shop, talking to young Curran. It was in this year, too, that Dr. Doherty began to come home often of an evening with James, and smoke a cigar, and have a chat in the shop-parlour. The elder Currans felt greatly honoured by these visits, and encouraged James to bring Dr. Doherty as often as he could.

William Curran was half beside himself with pride in his boy and the success of his pet scheme. He walked with head erect and confident tread, and in his eye shone the steady, unwavering light of a profoundly self-satisfied spirit.

One evening the household of Curran was thrown into a condition of supreme excitement: James had written a note to say he should not be home that evening. The note had been addressed to his father, and he read it aloud so far to his wife and daughter. Mary looked at her mother, and her mother looked at Mary, in astonishment. This was the first infraction of a habit now of nearly two years' standing. As soon as they could gather courage, they raised their eyes to the father's face. To their great surprise there was a look of triumph on it. The father proceeded to read the finish of the note:

"Dr. Doherty has asked me to supper at his father's house, and I could not refuse without offending him."

The women coloured with pleasure. Here was a great social stride upwards. James asked to the exclusive Doherty's! That was an honour!

"Well," cried William Curran, exultingly, "who was right after all? Have we not kept James to his home until now, and the first evening he spends out of his home, it's not in any low or unbecoming place, but at Attorney Doherty's; and no man in the barony holds his head higher than Attorney Doherty. Although James is six years younger than Dr. Doherty, you see how well they get on together. You won't find a son of Michael Dwyer or Martin Power going up to Doherty's."

It was a little late when James came back, but all the family were waiting up to see him and hear the news.

James was in great spirits when he returned, and gave a most

glowing account of the evening. They had had music, supper, wine, dancing, billiards. He had danced with Captain Eliot's daughter, to whom young Doherty had introduced him.

"Danced with Captain Eliot's daughter!" cried the delighted mother.

Mary simply opened her eyes and mouth.

The father stroked his waistcoat caressingly, in profound selfapproval and joy.

Yes, he had danced with Captain Eliot's daughter, a most beautiful and amiable creature. They said she was going to be married to Major Carnwell.

"Did you see Major Carnwell?" asked Mary, who possessed, in common with all her sisterhood of youthful spinsters, an absorbing interest in all matters of the heart.

"Of course I did. I played two games of billiards with him.” "Why," exclaimed the enraptured mother, "he's the commander of the garrison. You don't say you played billiards with the commander of the garrison?"

"Yes, I did; worse luck!"

"Worse luck!—what do you mean, James?" asked the mother in astonishment.

"James," interposed the father, “did he wish to lay a wager on the game?"

No, sir, not on the game; but when I was well in position for the red on spot he offered me five to two that I did not score." "You accepted the wager ?" asked the father, very deliberately. "I did, sir; it was an easy shot. But when I felt there was a bet on it, I funked and missed it; and the worst of it was, that I hadn't the two pounds with me."

The father rose and left the room hurriedly. While he was away no one spoke. James tried to fancy what form his father's displeasure would take. Could it be that, having heard of this gambling debt, his father had left them thus abruptly and gone in speechless disgust to his room?

Presently the door opened and Mr. Curran entered. Going up to where James sat, he stood in front of his son and said: “James, you will to-morrow call upon your friend, Major Carnwell, and pay him. Among gentlemen debts of honour should be discharged as soon as possible. Pay the major out of this, and keep the balance."

He had handed his son a five pound note. This was the proudest moment of William Curran's life.

From that day forth William Curran changed his theory in some degree. Hitherto he had held that the great thing was to keep youths during their idle hours under the family roof-tree; but the first step of James from the domestic fireside had been attended by such brilliant success, that he abandoned his old plan to meet the exigencies of later developments in the career of his son.

IN GALILEE.

AN open country, smiling, and calm, and fair;
Mountains and open plains, and here and there
A road with sunny hillocks, and hamlets where
The apple orchards cluster, and the vine

Climbs the flat roofs, or o'er the field supine
Spreads. Down the river comes a cooling air,
And all is green and fresh in flower and tare.
The scent of vineyards gladden the summer glow,
Faintly freshened from Hermon's fringe of snow.
Northwards are uplands, and Genesareth, bound
By mild, grey, wavy hills, in skies as clear

As spring-light, sleeps, like some low quiet mere
Fancied in evening's levels; and ancar
Tabor's round summit, by its oak-clump crowned,
With little white square farms girdled around,
Rises and southward undulates the ground
On to the rugged, long Esdraelon vale,
Fringed with mountains, sultry, grey, and pale;
And Carmel's promont, shadowy o'er the brine-
A broken band of rich dark blue divine.

Scarce seen through sunny, wide, sheep-dotted meads,
Buff Jordan winds through its tall walls of reeds
And tamarisks, until its dwindling line

Fails toward the old red, leafy Jebusite hills
And land of Moab, where the cascade spills
From cliff to cliff, and fading leaves no sign,
When evening purples the upland east like wine.
Eastward the desert spreads in sultry swoon,
Dizzy and dry: the heavy heat of noon
O'er olive grove, old tomb, and palm, and well,
On the far flats falls breathless, burning; but soon
The green plains round freshen from the cool sea;
Airs visit smiling Nazareth's lovely and lone
Clean hamlet street, whose sycamores, whisperingly
From leaf and blossom, blend their summer tone
With innocent children's voices, playing among
Hedges of roses, and with maiden's song
And laughter, as the white group, gossiping, throng
Round the old fountain, where, in grey years gone,
The wayfarer drank, and camel slaked its thirst,
With eager eyes and nervous nostril pursed,
Ere journeying toward Jerusalem, hot and high,
Piled on its hoary hills in the southern sky.

At length comes on refreshing afternoon;
The plain feels the faint presence of the sea;
The oval coo of doves from sycamore domes
Comes from the gardens round the leafy homes,
Where figures are gathering myrrh and honeycombs;
The scarlet cloud streaks roof green Galilee,
And, floating up, the soft and superb moon
Comes like a goddess queen of the far East
And olden time, bidden unto some feast
Held in those halls of rosy western day-
Tumults of crimson cloud, now turning grey,
Past Elisha's isles and Joppa's rocky bay-
Halls plenteous piled with red ambrosia
And laughing cups ranged dulcet-deep thereby,
Noted in Homer's song, Anacreon's sigh-
Quintessent nectar, sparkling immortally;
And golden couches, whereupon to lay

Her young limbs, ivory-smooth and pale as snow,
And robe's fair fragrant volute's radiant flow,
Like moon clouds, or sweet verses clothing light
With airy words, some beauteous dream of night.

And as she moves, in bluest darkness, round
The spacious, shadowy land, there is no sound
Save of the lambs bleating themselves to sleep,
Or rustle of foliage drifted from some steep,
Or voices low of waters, vague as rain,
Or hollow wind in rocks, upon the plain,
Whose verdurous disc remote, the moon has set
With twinkle of leaves, and white cliff, dewy-wet,
And iridescent sparkle of rivulet.

*

A sacred calm fills air and earth and time;
The land sleeps like a child, and from above

The stars seem singing of the Divine Love,

Whose form those fields once knew, well as the sun-
The Heart of Deity, gone forth upon

His mission through their worlds, sweet and sublime.

T. C. IRWIN.