filling with tears, as he spoke, "could you but resolve, once and for all, to throw off these chains that fetter you, what another man you would be! Happiness is within your reach, if you would but grasp it. The cup of your guilty pleasures has bitterness mingled with the sweetness of its draught, and in its dregs are often ruin and death. By reforming your life, Basil, you might have years of happiness before you, and the hope of a bright hereafter."

"No more of this," exclaimed Metham, hastily interrupting Humphrey, "or I shall forget who I am, forget what a millstone is about my neck, and make you promises that I never can keep. As I have lived, so, most likely, I shall die. And now, after this curious digression, we will return to the real subject of my visit to you to-night. I want some more money, and some more I must have, by fair means or foul. I am getting desperate, Humphrey. I can't go and rot in jail. No, I would be a knight of the road first indeed, I don't quite know what other more likely profession is open to me to dig I am not able, to beg-well, to be sure, I must stop my quotation from Scripture, because I am begging to-night. Humphrey I'll come to the point now-I want £200."

The Hunchback looked sad and troubled.

"Basil," he said, "I will not mind sharing my last guinea with you, when I could call it honestly my own; but to lend or give that which does not belong to me, on the chance of being able to replace it, is robbery, and can be called by no other name.'

"The cashier of Metham's (bank, who is shortly to become a partner," answered Basil, in a sneering tone, "is indeed in bad case when he cannot find £200 ! But," he added, in a louder tone, "you are trifling with me and insulting me, Humphrey Berrington! You have the power to aid me if you would—you who are at the head of all my father's concerns. I am left a beggar, while you are feathering your nest."

"You little know me, Basil, if your believe what you say," said the cashier, sorrowfully; "if I were to die to-night, my poor sister would be as destitute as she was when she went, as a little child, to live near the Great House, and when you first knew her. I shall die a poor man, whenever my hour may come. And whatever you may say, in your present mood, Basil, I believe that in your heart you assent to the truth of what I have said."

Metham had seemed deeply touched by Humphrey's allusion to Rose. When he ceased speaking, Basil hastily rose from his seat, and making one or two rapid strides towards him, he seized both his hands and clasped them, almost fiercely, in his own, while his bloodshot eyes seemed moistened by tears.

66

Humphrey," he said, "I often think I am possessed by some evil spirit, which expels from my heart all that is good, and leaves

only what is vile and corrupt. When I am gone, Humphrey, and I don't think my course will be a very long one, remember my words to-night. Separate my better nature from my evil spirit, and believe that all the false and hard things I have said to you were spoken under the influence and promptings of the latter. Poor old fellow," added Basil, wringing his friend's hand, "don't I know that if you are a poor man to-night, it is because you have lent, or rather given, all you were worth to Basil Metham! Well, goodbye; if we never meet again, we have parted as friends."

"Basil!" said the cashier, who could hardly command his voice to speak, "I cannot advance you the sum you require to-night, but leave me your address in London, and you will either see or hear from me by the end of the week."

For a moment Basil hesitated. Perhaps he was balancing, in this his softer mood, as to whether he should further impoverish his friend. However, if so, necessity, either real or imagined, caused him to decide upon accepting the money, which he saw would be forthcoming; and he tore a leaf from his pocket-book, scrawled a line or two upon it, handed it to Humphrey, and then, without another word, took up his hat and quitted the room.

Long after this, when the large old room was all in darkness, except when an expiring flash of light shot up from the nearly con. sumed logs, Rose stole in, and found her brother still seated where Basil had left him, absorbed in a deep and painful reverie; for he never heard her enter, nor knew of her presence, till she stole her arm caressingly round his neck.

"How cold you are, Humphrey ! and sitting here all in the dark!"

"I did not notice how time had gone," answered the cashier, shading the light from his eyes, as the servant entered with a lamp. When she had gone he added, "Basil has been here tonight."

"I saw him," replied Rose, her voice betraying her emotion. Humphrey shook his head sadly, as he looked at her pale face and swollen eyes.

'My poor sister," he said, my heart bleeds for you. Basil will, I fear, never reform. I cannot bid you hope; and yet, alas! there are moments in which one can see glimpses of a truly noble nature, perverted more by over indulgence from his too fond parents than by any other cause; and, later on, by the vitiated and corrupt teaching of the vile tutor who instructed him at the academy. The man was a professed deist, and from his teaching, when Basil was launched into life, he saw no kind of harm in frequenting the gaming-table, the cock-pit, or in duelling, drinking, or any other

fashionable accomplishment of the present day. Amongst them they have ruined him, I fear, body and soul."

"His father nigh on to four-score, and his poor sickly mother," sighed Rose; "what will become of them, if he does not stop in his downward course?"

"It is a hard thing, perhaps, to say," said Humphrey, as he rose from his seat, and prepared to go with his sister to partake of their usual evening dish of tea; "but they themselves have much to answer for."

"Yes," sighed Rose, "I have often seen in him germs of the better feeling you speak of."

"The parable of the sower and his seed may truly be applied to Basil," said Humphrey, thoughtfully; "and other some fell among thorns, and the thorns growing up with it, choked it."

CLERICAL LIFE IN IRELAND.1

THIS is a charming work of its kind, marred only by scenes of violence and horrors, which, alas, are but too characteristic of the country of which it treats. What can be more affecting than the sketch of the Squire of Ballyvourneen, living in a small cottage, consisting of a bedroom and sitting-room, with a kitchen leading off from the latter by a narrow passage? A few fowling-pieces on a rack; a salmon-rod in one corner: a whip and a couple of blackthorns; a small selection of books in a stand; and a comfortable arm-chair; the leading features of the parlour. "The big house is up yonder avenue, sir," said the man who was industriously brightening a powerful "bit," which seemed as though it would be suitable for an elephant. "Himself never lives in it now, since the poor mistress went home. Ah, he's not like the man he was, when he had her with him; and oh, but she was the darlint of the country! He never enter the big house now!"

What, again, can be more vivid in picturesque description than Vaughan's Court, one of those fine old houses which are SO commonly met with in Ireland, erected some two hundred years ago, when labour was cheap, and when it was easier to live than now, a wide circular sweep forming the carriage drive before the high massive masonry of the hall door-steps, and in the middle of of the sweep a noble elm tree, the growth of ages. Then the old

glebe-house, a long two-storied building, opening on one side into a flower garden, the windows all iron-plated and loop-holed, a formidable supply of guns in the vicar's study, and a black setter prowling about the habitation. The little church, with its square tower, and the quiet old churchyard, with many a moss-grown tombstone, all peacefully embosomed amid grand old trees on a spur of the Great Gualtee chain of mountains. But what a change comes over the scene, when the vicar, seated in his study on a still winter's night is disturbed by the little terrier's whining, and hears the continuous tramp of a large body of men marching in military order as they sweep down the mountain road upon Vaughan's Court and Vicarage. In a moment the parson with his doublebarrelled Mortimer, with his old servant, musket in hand, the wife

1 "Real Pictures of Clerical Life in Ireland." By J. Duncan Craig, D.D., Incumbent of the Molyneux Church, Dublin, sometime Vicar of Kinsale. London: James Nisbet and Co.

A A

and dog (all the home staff), bringing up the rear, are on their way through the churchyard to the massively-built mansion beyond. There the Squire musters his forces, the assailants pour volley after volley upon the glass and iror-bound shutters-the village blacksmith-a broad-chested giant-batters at the door with a sledge of iron, hammering away with the regularity of steam. The hayricks are also fired, but all in vain. One of the assailants is tumbled from off the great old elm-tree, with a wild cry and crash through the branches, and discomfited and beaten the green uniforms and tufted shakoes take themselves off. Not the least characteristic part of a not uncommon incident, is the upshot of the attempted outrage. "The next day the squire rode over to the lonely smithy, some half dozen miles away, where the giant plied his calling, and found him blowing up his forge fire. I have come to thank you, Bryan Maguire,' cried Mr. Vaughan, for the double knocks you gave at the hall-door last night.' The giant blushed, and laid down his pipe. Troth, your honour, it was the hardest job I tried this long time; but I don't think you need any more visits.' 'I am glad to hear it,' said the squire, and rode off at a hard gallop, while Bryan lighted up his little black pipe, and discussed the probabilities and possibilities of absenting himself for a few months till matters were quiet. He's dacint, there's no denying it, and he comes from a good old stock, sassenach though he be,' quoth he, musingly. The squire made no stir about the matter, and many a day's work Bryan did afterwards for him at Vaughan's Court."

The

The old mansion, it is to be observed, stands nigh the meeting of three counties. On one side Limerick county displays its fields, on another the great Corkshire extends far and wide, and just over the ridge of some capped peeks in the blue mountains that tower around, Tipperary shows itself. The people hence partake of the mingled character of the men of these counties. Dr. Craig describes the Tipperary men as physically very tall and powerful. Anglo-Saxon and Norman blood, has, he says, almost swept away the Celtic from their veins; indeed, elsewhere he adds, "a strong infusion of the English blood into the Irish race is the prerogative of the midland county." The Irish Celt, he argues, contrary to the generally received opinion, is a quiet, well-behaved poor fellow. "He lives in perfection in Kerry, passionately addicted to learning, by nature a born orator, the Celt has really left to the Anglicised Irishman the pleasing task of ever keeping Ireland in disorder.” If, as the whole tenor of Dr. Craig's book goes to show, the Irish Roman Catholic priesthood are at the bottom of all disorder, hostility and outrage are more the offspring of religious hatred and jealousy than a question of races. 'Believe me, there never