one of memory's earliest pictures, which represents a small boy standing before a bookseller's shelves, in the presence of his schoolmaster and the shopman. The lad had been given, as a school prize, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, but this book his parents had condemned as too Protestant," and he had returned it to his teacher. The latter now said to him: "Look at the shelves before you; I will give you any book you choose." The youngster hesitated. It was plainly a case of embarras des richesses-there were too many volumes to select from. "Is there any book you would like to read?" "Yes; Robinson Crusoe." So he was made happy with a small copy of Defoe's famous story. I cannot say how often he read it, probably half a dozen times. How he revelled in the changing scenes and stirring events of the tale! He himself, not Crusoe, he thought, was the hero of the adventures there described; he was in slavery among the Moors; he escaped in the long-boat, with Xury; and, after shooting "the terrible great lion" on the African coast, he was rescued by the Portuguese ship, and landed in the Brazils. Then came the shipwreck and the desert island where he found the print of a man's naked foot in the sea sand, and rescued Friday from the savages. But why go through the details?

The story was to "the lavish heart of youth' a veritable treasure, the source of varied emotions of hope and fear and delight. Yet there was another book which he read even oftener, and which exercised, doubtless, a greater influence upon his character. It was the tale of the early Christian martyrs, which Cardinal Wiseman has given us under the title of Fabiola; or, The Church of the Catacombs. The character in this story that appealed most strongly to him was the Christian youth, Pancratius, who was trained by a saintly mother to tread the highest paths of faith, fortitude, and charity, and who died by martyrdom in the Roman amphitheatre. A similar work, teaching the same sublime lessons-Cardinal Newman's Callista -he also read, but as it is, in treatment and plan, nothing more than a sketch, it did not interest him to the same extent as did Cardinal Wiseman's elaborate and artistic story.

Another of memory's pictures represents the large, gas-lit study hall of a college, where some seventy pupils (boarders) were engaged in the preparation of lessons for the morrow's classes. A few days previously carpenters had been engaged in constructing book-cases, which they set up along one side of the hall, and the shelves had been stocked with a selection of English literary works. The silence which prevailed during the hour of study was broken by the entrance of the president and

the masters. From the prefect's pulpit the president spoke of the new school library, and announced the rules that were to be observed with respect to the books. The distribution of the volumes at once began, and each boy returned to his place with a story, a biography, or a book of poems. Oliver Twist and David Copperfield were the first of Dickens' masterpieces which I then read, and they have ever remained my favourites among his works; and it was not long until I had won my way into the "realm of gold" which Sir Walter Scott claimed as his own, and I was soon well acquainted with the adventures of Ivanhoe, Quentin Durward, Waverley, and Guy Mannering. One of the boys present on that occasion is now known as Mr. T. P. O'Connor M.P. In the first number of his popular periodical, T. P.'s Weekly, he gave a description of the opening of this school library, and said that the first book which he took from its shelves-Chambers' Encyclopædia of English Literature-began his education in the domain of letters. Another of our schoolfellows at the college* was the present Under-Secretary for Ireland, Sir Antony MacDonnell.

The new library was instrumental in leading some of us into the goodly states and kingdoms, " that bards in fealty to Apollo hold." Nearly every Irish boy, I suppose, owes his first knowledge of poetry to Moore's Irish Melodies, and the songs of the Spirit of the Nation. At least, so it was with one Irish lad already referred to, and many a time, by lonely lough or riverside, or on the seashore, he repeated to himself or recited aloud Emmet's address to Ireland, "When he who adores Thee," "Breffni's Lament," "Let Erin Remember," "Rich and Rare were the gems she wore,' "She is far from the Land," and "Dear Harp of my Country."

And the Spirit of the Nation songs, how they rouse and sway the young Irish heart! Perhaps the best description of the effect they produce is given by Father Tom Burke, O.P., in his lecture on The National Music of Ireland." I may here be allowed to say that this famous priest was to me, in youth, an object of hero-worship. I had often heard him speak, and his eloquence and striking figure, clothed, as I always saw it, in the Dominican habit, inspired me with admiration, and form now an imperishable memory. The sound of his voice comes to me across the years, and I hear again the lessons which he taught-lessons which inspired hope and courage in striving after what is worthiest and highest in life. Speaking once of the success of the writers of the Nation

*The College of the Immaculate Conception, Summerhill, near Athlone,

in creating a national literature, he appealed to his own experience, and said: Under the magic voices and pens of these men, every ancient glory of Ireland again stood forth. I remember it well. I was but a boy at the time, but I remember with what startled enthusiasm I would arise from reading Davis's poems; and it would seem to me that, before my young eyes, I saw the dash of the Brigade at Fontenoy. It seemed to me that my ears were filled with the shout that resounded at the Yellow Ford and Benburb the war-cry of the Red Hand-as the English hosts were swept away, and, like snow under the beams of the sun, melted before the Irish onset."

Sir Walter Scott's poems gave me many a happy hour. There I found magician and goblin page, border trooper and mailclad knight, fair ladies, moated castles, and brave adventures by field and flood. The Lay, Marmion, The Lady of the Lake, were all devoured. Nothing in the shape of a chase could, I thought, beat the stag hunt in the last-named-and who shall say that the opinion was wrong?

The stag at eve had drunk his fill,

Where danced the moon on Monan's rill,
And deep his midnight lair had made
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade;

But when the sun his beacon red
Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,

The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy bay
Resounded up the rocky way,

And faint, from farther distance borne,
Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.
As Chief who hears his warder call,
"To arms! the foemen storm the wall,"
The antler'd monarch of the waste
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste.
But, ere his fleet career he took,
The dewdrops from his flank he shook;
Like crested leader, proud and high,
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky;
A moment gazed adown the dale,
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale,

A moment listen'd to the cry,

That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd,

With one brave bound the copse he clear'd,
And, stretching forward free and far,
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

A gallant chase the stag afforded the hunters, till a single horseman and

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed,
Unmatch'd for courage, breath, and speed,

were all that followed the gasping quarry, which at last escaped

in safety. The hunter's horse fell dead, and the rider sorrowed over him :

"

'I little thought, when first thy rein

I slack'd upon the banks of Seine,
That Highland eagle e'er should feed
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed!
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day,
That costs thy life, my gallant grey !"

It is the fashion nowadays to speak slightingly of Scott's Rokeby; but that poem was a favourite of mine, mainly because the hero, Redmond O'Neale, is a young Irishman, and in it I found one of the poet's most stirring battle-pictures-the fight between Bertram's robber band and Rokeby's veterans led on by Redmond :

Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale,

Then peal'd the shot and clash'd the steel;
The war-smoke soon with sable breath
Darken'd the scene of blood and death,
While on the few defenders close

The Bandits, with redoubled blows,

And twice, driven back, yet fierce and fell,
Renew the charge with frantic yell.
Wilfrid has fall'n-but o'er him stood

Young Redmond, soiled with smoke and blood,
Cheering his mates with heart and hand,
Still to make good their desperate stand.-
Up, comrades, up! in Rokeby's halls
Ne'er be it said our courage falls.
What! faint ye for their savage cry,
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye?
These rafters have returned a shout

As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout;

As thick a smoke these hearths have given
At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even :

Stand to it yet! renew the fight,

For Rokeby's and Matilda's right!

These slaves! they dare not, hand to hand,
Bide buffet from a true man's brand."
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young,
Upon the advancing foes he sprung,
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent
His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent!
Backward they scatter'd as he came,
Like wolves before the levin flame,

When, 'mid their howling conclave driven,
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven.

And so on, until the fight is won by Redmond and his brave

men.

Beautiful, doubtless, are the illusions and dreams of youth, fated though they are to be shattered in the collision with the realities of lite; but if the young heart entertains generous aspirations and learns to sympathise with truth and fidelity

and courage, with gentlemess and kindliness to friend and foe, it meets with a training that better fits its energies for life's combat than if it were taught to take cynical views and devote itself to the pursuit of selfish ends. In any worthy training books like those mentioned above play an important part, and all who love the young, and seek

The mind to strengthen and anneal,
While on the stithy glows the steel,

act wisely in gaining the help which such books afford. The true preparation for the trials of the future is found in the building up of a strong and generous character. If a man lives practically for mean and sordid views, mean and sordid, too, will be his life and the material success which he gains. For we build a home for our spirit in strict conformity with the ideals which we prize and to which we are faithful.

M. W.

TO A CERTAIN FISHERMAN

You, with your constant love of the cold stream,
Whose great delight it is alone to stand

And cast continually with untiring hand
The long light line: whose clear keen grey eyes gleam
Ever alert and watchful, while they seem

Strangers to all impatience-sky and land,

Bird, flower, and fish your pleasure can command,
With these you take your rest, and roam, and dream.

And I, whose tireless, restless, anxious soul
Innumerable hopes and fears annoy :
Who with vain purposeless pursuits employ
The hours that ever slip from my control,
How do I envy you your placid joy

Whose work and play make one harmonious whole!

F. C. D.