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coupled with that of the unfortunate Beatrice; so that it is scarcely, too much to say that his fame in modern times is mainly based on this wonderful work. I deplore the destructive criticism of our practical age, and mourn the beautiful legends which have been swept away, one by one, by the dry breath of modern investigations; and yet, in view of the facts hereinafter set forth, I cannot accept the putative title of this portrait, or attribute it to Guido's hand.

·

"The tradition has two forms, the first of which is that Guido was introduced into Beatrice's cell, on the night before her execution, by her lawyer, and in the disguise of a legal writer. Perceiving him to be making a furtive sketch of her, the lady demanded to know who he was, and then professed her pleasure at being portrayed by the celebrated Signor Guido.' But can we suppose that the devoted lawyer Farinacci would have intruded upon his tortured client's last night on earth with a paltry device of surreptitious picture-making, or that the doomed princess would have given up a part of those few solemn hours to posing before an artist? Would Guido himself, the tender-hearted, frank and devout youth, have descended so low as to steal her portrait, even if he could? Furthermore, if Beatrice and Farinacci can be supposed to entertain such an idea, the lawyer would undoubtedly have chosen an artist of some note, and not an unknown provincial youth, not twenty-five years old, and scarcely yet free from his drawing-school.

"The second form of the tradition is that Guido sketched her while on her way to the scaffold, and afterward made an exact portrait from the drawing. But such a picture, full of subtle and profound expression, could not have been made during the rapid and confused march of the Papal guards, attacked as they were, at various points, by rescuing parties with drawn swords. Furthermore, the costume, as well as the features, should have been exactly delineated, and the reputed portrait has white drapery, while Beatrice was executed in garments of gray and violet.

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Wherefore, even if Guido was in Rome when the Cenci family were put to death, it seems unlikely that he could have had the connection with them that the tradition claims.

"But Guido did not visit Rome until several years after the execution of Beatrice, which, as we have seen, occurred in 1599. The date of his first arrival in the Eternal City is indeed involved in great obscurity, and the chronology of his subsequent life is equally vague and uncertain. The Italian biographers, however, agree in the statements that he entered the school of the Carracci in 1595, where he had to unlearn his former manner, and acquire that of his new masters, devoting some years to this task. In 1598 he was so little known that he could only obtain a part of the civic frescoes in his native town, with great difficulty, and as a compromise candidate between two famous masters; and even then he was so far from grounded in his art that he had to take new lessons in fresco-painting. Yet, only a year later, according to the tradition of the portrait, he was firmly established and highly renowned in Rome, which was then the home, of many celebrated artists. Again, if he was present at the Cenci execution, it must have been for a flying visit, for during the next year he is again found at Bologna, where he painted The Reading Carthusian,' and signed it as executed 'in his twenty-fifth year.' He is also credited with having executed a long line of pictures, several of which are still extant, between 1598 and his first departure from Rome; and in those days he worked very slowly, as Pope Paul V. often complained. Four conspicuous authorities, Passeri, Rosina, Landon, and Bolognini-Amorini, state that he first entered Rome between 1610 and 1612, but continue and confuse their narratives by describing his ensuing and prolonged difficulties with Caravaggio and Annibale Carracci, both of whom died in 1609. It is also well known that he finished the Quirinal frescoes in 1610, and that these were the last of four great commissions which he then executed in Rome. All biographers agree that his first Roman patrons were Vaul V. and Cardinal Scipione Borghese, both of whom arrived at their ecclesiastical dignities in 1605, so that his arrival could scarcely have been before that date. It therefore seems likely that he first came to Rome about 1605 or 1606, and remained for four or five years.

"That the Barberini picture is not a portrait of Beatrice is proven by a contemporary manuscript in the Cenci archives, which minutely describes her appearance; and, besides several other points of dissimilarity with the painting, states that she had dimpled cheeks and wonderful blue eyes, while the portrait has smooth and undimpled cheeks and hazel eyes. In view of these facts it cannot even be granted that the picture is a reminiscent or an ideal work, executed by Guido in his later years; especially since there was a veritable and attested portrait of Beatrice at that time in the Villa Pamfili, which would have enabled him to

avoid such great mistakes as to her features. The Barberini picture was in the possession of the Colonna family from a remote date until the beginning of the present century, and no record remains among the Colonna archives as to its history or origin.

"Bunsen, in his Beschreibung der Stat Rom,' says that the so-called Cenci portrait is 'falsely ascribed to Guido'; and Nagler, in the Kunstler-Lexicon,' takes the same ground. Burekhardt's 'Der Cicerone speaks of it as 'the so-called Cenci, professedly by Guido. Guerazzi, the author of the romance of 'Beatrice Cenci,' naturally makes all that he can out of the portrait, and that is, that it is referred to Guido's pencil by a compas. sionate tradition (pietosi tradizione), which is scarcely a sufficient ground on which to base the claim, considering how absolute is the historical and internal evidence which establishes as Guido's hundreds of his minor pictures. Story doubts that the portrait is of Beatrice, or by Guido, and gives strong reasons for his refusal to accept the common belief. But even more weighty than these modern negations are the remarkable silences of the contemporary biographers of the master, who neither allude to the Cenci affair, nor speak of any portrait which bears resemblance to the one now in question. Malvasia was Guido's intimate friend, and he gives a long list of his pictures, including those then in the Colonna and Barberini Palaces, but there is no allusion to a work of this character. If he had painted the so-called Beatrice, the rare excellence thereof would have insured it conspicuous mention in this list.

"How, then, did the name of Beatrice Cenci become attached to the Barberini portrait? The answer to this question is not difficult to those who know the intensely objective character of the Roman folk-lore, and the absolute need which it feels of outward and visible objects for attestation. Did the Lord Christ appear to St. Peter on the Appian Way? Undoubtedly; for the prints of His sacred feet in the rock are still to be seen at the Church of St. Sebastian. Was St. Paul beheaded near the Ostian Road? Behold, there still flow the three marvelous fountains, which mark the places where his head bounded along the ground.

"The pathetic story of the Cenci was in all hearts; and in later years, when it became needful to find some visible symbol thereof, the mysterious and pathetic face in the Colonna palace was gradu ally thus elected, perhaps at first only hypothetically. In 1819 Shelley also identified it, in his tragedy of "The Cenci," and Hawthorne, Dickens, Eaton, and those who came after, have told the tale as it was told to them.

"But who was the lady whose features were thus marvelously portrayed? And who was the master of such profound and subtie skill, whose brush prepared this amazing picture? These, indeed, are questions which may never be answered."

We can add to this destruction of cherished sentiment. When we were in Rome, in 1860, this story was told to us. Artists had been allowed freely to enter the gallery of the Barberini palace and copy the famous Cenci portrait. Once a German painter made a copy-a very exact copy. But he coveted the original. So he managed to extract the Guido from the frame and insert his own. It was afterward somehow detected, and the picture which he had carried from the palace was restored to its frame. Then went abroad the story that the painter had not abstracted the original, but had got the accusation afloat so that his own copy might take the place of honor and receive the admiration of successive generations.

Now when you look upon the painting in the Barberini palace you do not know whether you are gazing on the original or at some modern copy; and, moreover, whether original or copy, you do not know whether it was painted by Guido, in whose style it is, or by some earlier master or later copyist: nor can you tell whether it is a fancy picture or a portrait. If a portrait, no one knows of whom. We have seen in America only one copy worth anything, and that is the property of Mrs. Marion J. Verdery, of Augusta, Ga.

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How Another Sees Us.

IN that pleasant series of books which the Messrs. Appleton & Co. are furnishing us, under the appropriate designation of the 'Handy-Volume Series," is one entitled "Impressions of America, by R. W. Dale." The Rev. Dr. Dale visited this country last year to deliver a course of Lectures on Preaching at New Haven. The lectures were very popular The lecturer everywhere, so far as we could learn, made a pleasant impression. He is a shrewd and genial man, and although he spent too short a time in the country to obtain much insight into the workings of our institutions anl the character of our people, he made good use of his time.

As a specimen of the style, and as instructive to us, showing how we appear to a stranger, we give our readers the following

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· When I said that in America there remains something of the old-fashioned courtesy which among ourselves must have vanished for at least fifty years, I was not thinking of the relations of the 'lower orders' to their betters,' but of the manners of educated American society. Again and again I was reminded of the characters in Miss Austen's novels. There was just a touch of the same formality. 'Politeness,' which is a word that has very much gone out of use in England, still survives in America; according to an American author, 'politeness appears to have been invented to enable people who would naturally fall out to live together in peace.' As the word is in more common use in America than among ourselves, so I think that in the ordinary life, even of those who are in no danger of falling out,' there is more of what the word denotes. The disappearance of the reverential habits of the last century is, of course, deplored. Jonathan Edwards's children always rose from their seats when their father or mother came into the room. This surprising custom does not exist in any of the families that showed me hospitality; but I noticed that one of my young lady friends often called her father'sir,' and that she used the word not playfully, but with all the respect with which she would address a stranger. Her father was not 'stiff and unsociable' as Jonathan Edwards was thought to be by those who had but a slight acquaintance with him,' but one of the kindest, simplest, and most genial of men. His children were on the freest and easiest terms with him, teased him and played with him just as children on this side of the ocean tease and play with their fathers; but the line of filial respect was never passed, and the respect showed itself in the deferential 'sir.' The 'sir' was used, indeed, unconsciously. I asked my young friend, who was a bright, clever girl, whether she generally called her father'sir'; she said that she did not know that she ever did, but within five minutes the word was on her lips again. A day or two afterward I asked a gentleman, whom I met frequently, whether it was customary for children when addressing their father to say 'sir."

"He said, 'Oh, yes--is it not customary in England? We teach our children to do it; we have not too much of the spirit of reverence in America, and we think it desirable to cultivate it.'

"I came to the conclusion-to me a very unexpected one-that the Americans are a reserved people. They are are not eager to talk to you about their own affairs. Manufacturers, except when I asked them, did not tell me how many men they employed. Merchants were not anxious to impress me with the magnitude of their business transactions. Nor, indeed, did I find that the strangers I met were very anxious, or, indeed, very willing to talk at all. I often found it hard to discover whether the people I was traveling with approved of Mr. Hayes's Southern policy or not, or even whether they belonged to the Republican or the Democratic party. When I was fortunate enough to find a man with a cigar in his mouth standing on the platform of a Pullman car, I could sometimes make him more communicative; and occasionally, under these conditions, I learned a great deal about the country. But, as a rule, strangers opened slowly and shyly. Nor was this because I was an Englishman. I used to watch the people in railway-carriages-a dozen or twenty in a Pullman drawing-room car, forty or fifty in an ordinary car-and if they did not know each other they would travel together all day without exchanging half a dozen words. Occasionally three men who were friends would ask a stranger to take a hand at whist, but this was not very common. Perhaps the reticence is confined to the wealthier people. On the lines which have two classes of carriages I often spent half an hour in a smoking-car intended for both classes of passengers. There I generally found much more freedom. Working- men talked to each other without any difficulty; but even there the passengers who had come from the first-class carriages sat and smoked in silence.

"The same quality of their national temperament shows itself in another form; as a rule, they are undemonstrative. The late Lord Lytton tells us that on one occasion when Kean was performing in the United States, he came to the manager at the end of the third act and said: "I can't go on the stage again, sir, if the pit keeps its hands in its pockets. Such an audience would extinguish Etna.' After receiving this alarming threat the manager appeared before the curtain and informed the audience that Mr. Kean, having been accustomed to audiences more demonstrative than was habitual to the severer intelligence of an assembly of American citizens, mistook their silent attention for disapprobation; and, in short, that if they did not applaud as Mr. Kean had been accustomed to be applauded, they could not have the gratification of seeing Mr. Kean act as he had been accustomed to act.'

"Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes was lecturing many years ago in some city in Vermont or New Hampshire, and the same severe

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intelligence of an assembly of American citizens' baffled and perplexed him. There was no sign of interest. His brightest wit and his shrewdest humor failed to produce even a passing smile. The people sat as if they had been in church listening to the dullest of sermons. But as he was walking away from the lecture-room with the full conviction that he had made a miserable failure, his host said to him quietly: "Why, Mr. Holmes, you said some real funny things to-night; I could scarcely help laughing." Mr. Holmes was comforted. I also heard of a politician from the South who made a long speech to a political meeting in New England without provoking the faintest expression of sympathy or approbation. He thought that the audience was unfriendly. But as soon as he sat down a gentleman rose and moved, with great gravity, that the meeting should give the speaker three cheers; and when the motion had been duly seconded and formally put from the chair, the cheers were given with well-regulated enthusiasm.

"The last two stories seem to show that this undemonstrativeness is characteristic of the New Englanders, and is not common in other parts of the country, though perhaps it may exist in those districts in the Middle and Western States which have been settled by immigration from New England. My own impressions favor this supposition. I think that the manners of the people I saw in Chicago, Philadelphia and New York, though quiet, were freer and more cordial than the manners of the people I saw in New | England. There was less restraint upon the expression of kindly feeling, in words and tone and bearing. The New Englander is apt to keep his heart where he keeps the furnace which heats his house-underground. He does not care to have an open grate in every room, and let you see the fire But the fire is there, and the heat makes its way secretly to every part of the house. You see no coals burning, but behind the door of the dining-room there is a hole in the carpet, and through the register there comes a stream of hot air which keeps the room at seventy degrees on the coldest day. There is another register in the hall and another in your bedroom. I missed the sight of the fire. When we had what the Americans call the first "snap" of cold weather, I wanted the assurance of my eyes to make me believe that though there was a frost outside there was no reason for shivering indoors. Sydney Smith tells us that soon after the introduction of plate-glass, Samuel Rogers was at a dinner-party, and thought that the window near him was open all the evening. The window was shut, but Rogers went home with a severe cold which he had caught from an imaginary draught. Unkindly critics might affect to mourn that his imagination was not always equally active when he was writing his verses. He soon learned that a window might be shut though he could not see the window-frame; and I soon learned in America that a house may be warm on a cold day-too warm, indeed-though I could not see the fire. And so, though Americans, and especially perhaps the New Englanders, are not demonstrative, a stranger soon discovers that they are among the kindest people in the world. There are no limits to their kindness. They find out what their guest would like to see and to do, and spare themselves no thought or trouble to gratify him. Their hospitality is of the best sort; they do not force a stranger to visit the places which they themselves may think the most interesting and attractive; they consult his tastes, and place themselves absolutely at his disposal. A Brooklyn host would probably be very much distressed if an Englishman persistently put aside a proposal to drive to Greenwood Cemetery, and a Philadelphian would be vexed if he could not persuade his guest to take a drive through the charming park in which the Centennial buildings were erected; but they would bear their disappointment quietly. I wanted to see the common schools. Most of my friends had become familiar with the common schools, and saw very little in them that was novel or surprising; they therefore wished me to go to lunatic asylums, prisons, and hospitals, where they thought that I should see something that was much more remarkable. But when they discovered that my preference was no mere whim they took a great deal of trouble to satisfy it.

"I was struck with the admirable temper of the people. Though I traveled several thousands of miles on steamboats and in railway-carriages-westward as far as Chicago, and southward as far as Richmond-I never heard the noisy quarreling which some sketches of American manners might have led me to expect. On my way from Chicago to Washington, the train was delayed for several hours. The watchman,' as I think they called the man who had charge of a portion of the line near one of the stations, had left his post to attend a Democratic meeting. While he was away a wooden bridge was burned down. The train was stopped for an hour or two at a small station some ten or twelve miles distant from the burning bridge. There was no refreshment-room, no 'bar,' and the passengers could do nothing except lounge about

the line, speculate on the cause of the accident, smoke, and wonder when the train would get to Washington; but every one was in excellent temper, and accepted the delay without any resentment. After a time we went on, and when we were within a mile of the river, which the train could not cross, we were met by an omnibus and several of the rough wagons of the country. The passengers packed themselves as close as they could in the several conveyances-some of them having to climb to the summit of a mountain of luggage on the top of the omnibus-and were driven, still in excellent humor, round the country and over a bridge which crossed the river a mile above or below the point where the flames revealed the scene of the disaster. At the little town on the other side we had to wait two or three hours more; but still there was not a sign of bad temper, there was no abuse of the railway

in general, and only a very measured and moderate condemnation of the official whose political zeal had led him away from his post, where he might have prevented the accident. It occurred to me that if the Limited Mail between London and Edinburgh were stopped for three or four hours by a similar accident, there would be the expenditure of a great deal of stormy eloquence; the company would be denounced for having even a single wooden bridge on the line; there would be loud threats of letters to the Times, and of actions to recover damages caused by the delay; the zealous Liberal who had deserted his duty to listen to Mr. Chamberlain or to some other orator of his party would be vigorously abused; the offense would be treated as a characteristic illustration of the effect of Liberal principles; Mr. Gladstone would be made indirectly responsible for the whole business. But the Americans treated the delay with as much equanimity as if it had been an eclipse of the moon, for which no one was to be blamed, and at which no one had a right to grumble. This was not because they are more accustomed to railway accidents and delays than we are. The trains seem to me to keep as good time in America as in England, and it is maintained by the Americans that their accidents are not more frequent than ours.

"It is possible, I think, that the war produced a great effect on the national manners. An immense number of men went into the army, and had to learn to obey the word of command, and to submit to a rigid drill. For three or four years they were 'under authority.' While in the army they had no time for idleness and dissipating pleasures. They had to make long marches and to do a great deal of fighting. The self-control and orderliness which seem to me to characterize the mass of the American people may be partly the effect of the discipline, the serious work, and the peril and sufferings of those terrible years. Such an experience could scarcely fail to produce a deep impression on the national character."

"In Paradise."

PAUL HEYSE, the foremost of the younger writers of Germany, is introduced to English readers by this story of artist-life, it being the first of his works, beyond the compass of a magazine sketch, that has appeared in translation. The book will amply justify the expectation aroused here by the position and popularity that Heyse has gained at home, and will make it entirely clear to readers on this side of the Atlantic how he has been able to attract a more enthusiastic circle of admirers than any of his contemporaries.

"In Paradise" is a story which shows his strongest traits. The name is taken from a society of Munich artists, who, with a few congenial friends admitted to their fellowship, have established this club as a Paradise of true Art, into which the materialism and "Philistinism" of every day are not to enter. But the Society is chiefly used to introduce the characters-a circle of thoroughly fresh, original types, who give this idealized Bohemia a new, refreshing atmosphere, even for the most jaded reader of novels. The loves, friendships, and adventures of this company, with complications from without and within their circle, are used to give the story a very strong but not sensational plot-the whole pervaded by the spirit of the intellectual Bohemianism and the idealism that are parts of the artist-life in which the characters move. Of this life it is pronounced a perfect study; and to read the story is to be admitted into a novel and thoroughly unconventional field.

The scene is in the Munich of to-day-the time of the action being as late as the Franco-German War, which has its influence upon the latter part of the plot. Crowded with capital characters, the story may be said to have two sets of leading actors, whose adventures are singularly interwoven; and it is probable that Baron Felix, who has strayed into "Paradise" from more conventional social circles, and "Red Zenz," one of the best-drawn of the lighter characters, will share the reader's interest almost

equally with the author's hero, the sculptor Jansen, and his heroine, Julie.

One thing will be recognized in this book-that it has been written with a stronger motive than the ordinary novel, and with the care and ambition given to a masterpiece. What the publishers say of it in their announcement is recognized in Germany, that "it is not the novel of a day, but a real classic, ranking among the best books of contemporary fiction-writers."

"A Year Worth Living."

WE take a really solid satisfaction in reading the novels of Rev. William M. Baker. There is a charm in them as peculiar as that in Hawthorne's books; but a very different charm. Mr. Baker tells just that way as "easily as nothing," as a dear old Presbyterian a story in such a style as makes us feel that we could tell a story preacher down South used to say; and yet if we attempt it we cannot begin. Now that characteristic leads shallow people to believe that there is nothing in what a man writes. To us-we, of course, are not shallow-it is proof of very rare genius. For instance, a score of times we have felt that we could write hymns like "Jesus, lover of my soul," and "Rock of Ages, cleft for me" -indeed, so natural an expression of our hearts do they seem that once we came nigh to believing that we had actually written "Rock of Ages," and several times we have set down to write off a hymn equal to it in simple expression of devout feeling. We may as well own up to our readers that we have never yet quite succeeded!

Perhaps one reason why it seems so easy to write like Mr. Baker is, that we know all the people of whom Mr. Baker writes. He was "reared" in the South; so were we. We were acquainted with the same people; and how Brother Baker can paint them so that we should know them in the dark, and we cannot draw the outline of the most familiar of them, is to us a kind of literary and psychological conundrum.

There is another thing about these novels of Mr. Baker. They strike English and New England (why not New English ?) readers with more force as "original" than they do our friends in the South. The reason of that is plain it is all new to those and familiar to these. But the South should be proud of such a per, and be glad to be painted by such an original master.

Mr. Baker does not write because he has devoted himself to a literary life. He writes to secure means to preach the Gospel to weak and struggling Churches. And yet his novels are masterly. We do not intend to give the story of the book. The pleasure is not so much in the story as in the manner in which it is told. But we may say that the leading character is a young clergyman, just graduated from the theological seminary, and full of zeal to accomplish a great ministry, and that there is a love story in it.

The whole book is breezy, and full of delightful writing which rests while it stimulates. There are passages of humor which match the "Georgia Scenes," as, for instance, the eighteenth chapter, "In which we descend into the Chemistry of Eloquence, and learn how an Oration is prepared."

We are glad to be able to recommend so wholesome a book to our readers, and are sorry that our copy came so late as to retard this notice.

The book is published by Lee & Shepard, Boston, and Charles T. Dillingham, New York.

"Our South Americans." WILLIAM TAYLOR is a remarkable man. To save expense in his efforts to establish a South American Mission he took steerage passage and sailed for Callao, in Peru, in 1877. His whole church could not undertake the mission, but William Taylor has the audacity of faith, and he undertook it single-handed. He went campaigning along the western coast of South America in the name of the Lord. He is upright, downright and dashing. He takes no pains to smoothe the club with which he strikes. He meets everything in the order of Providence, and every man on the common plane of humanity. He gets much out of everything. Here is a specimen of the style:

"On this little voyage I became acquainted with Mr. H. Parkman. He is a tall, square, noble-looking man, a Christian of the Presbyterian school, a conscientious, good man, and a teetotaler. He represents twelve Philadelphia hardware manufacturing establishments of twelve different varieties of hardware. They pay him two thousand dollars per month to open a market for their wares, which are of the latest and best improvements, and all of the best quality. He has a ton of specimens with him. He has spent some weeks in Lima, and received orders for fifteen thou sand dollars' worth of his wares, cash to be paid in to the bank on receipt of the invoices, which are forwarded to the banker. He only

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CHAUTAUQUA is creating a literature. The books by "Pansy" led the way. Not only are text-books to be produced as this University in the Woods shall grow in age and scholarship, but festoons of light literature will hang from pillar to post, and wreathe beautiful associations about the very name of beautiful Chautauqua.

To the list of Chautauqua books another has been added, entitled "Ida Norton; or, Life at Chautauqua." It is from the pen of the Rev. H. H. Moore. Mr. Moore is a practiced writer, as one may see by perusing a very few pages of his book. In this new volume he tells a love story-an excellent love story, and manages, with no little skill, to bring into the story much valuable local historical information, and at the same time to impart to the reader a general sense and feeling of the kind of life led at Chautauqua. And, beyond, as a minister of the Gospel, Mr. Moore takes care not to lose his opportunity to speak his word for the "faith once delivered to the saints."

Take it altogether, this is a very pleasant and useful book; and so many are now interested in Chautauqua that we suppose it must have a good sale.

ANNOUNCEMENTS.

ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS have nearly ready Principal Cunningham's "Theological Lectures on Subjects Connected with Natural Theology, Evidences of Christianity, and the Canon and Interpretation of Scripture." These lectures are now published at the urgent request of a large number of ministers, who were formerly students of Dr. Cunningham, and in whose minds this particular course of lectures was associated with their revered teacher, and with their first entrance into theological studies. The same house has also nearly ready "John, whom Jesus Loved," by James Culross, D.D., giving in terse and graphic style all that God's Word tells us of the beloved apostle, and with an Appendix containing the legends, traditions, etc., that refer to him.

SOME readers will remember the enthusiasm with which the first three volumes of Dr. Merle D'Aubigne's "History of the Reformation," was received in 1842. After a lapse of thirty-six years the work will be completed by the issue in a few weeks, from the press of the Carters, of the eight volumes of the "History in the Time of Calvin," or the thirteenth volume counting from the first of the original work. The author's brilliant genius imparted to the work all the fascination of a romance, rendering it one of the most readable, as it is also one of the most reliable, works of modern times.

WE are requested to call attention to the full-page advertisement, "A Chance to Save Money." All we can say is that we believe everything offered is good, that the offer is made in good faith, that the parties are trustworthy, and that those who remit will receive the full worth of their money. After saying this, we distinctly wish it understood that the Editor of this Magazine is not to be written to on the subject, as he has nothing whatever to do with the business.

"A TIME TO LAUGH." Ecclesiastes iii. 4.

SONG ABOUT NOTHING.

DEDICATED TO THE NIHILISTS.

I'm thinking just now of Nothing,
For there's Nothing in all I see;
And I am well pleased with Nothing,
And the world is Nothing to me.
So I sing the praise of Nothing,

For Nothing is perfect and true;
And I'm madly in love with Nothing,
Though that is Nothing to you.

I began my life with Nothing,

And Nothing on Nothing lives; For the world is good for Nothing, And Nothing for Nothing gives. Moreover, I sprang from Nothing,

And Nothing has sprung from me; And my muse is fond of Nothing,

And Nothing her theme shall be.
At home they taught me Nothing,
And Nothing I learned at school,
And I began to work at Nothing,

And Nothing made me a fool.
So I have a taste for Nothing,
For Nothing I ever would choose;
And all I am worth is Nothing,

And Nothing I have to lose.

Hence I place my faith in Nothing,
For Nothing will long endure;
And I've learned to count upon Nothing,
For Nothing, you know, is secure.
And I keep on singing of Nothing,

Because Nothing is on my mind;
And the world it tends to Nothing,
And Nothing is in the wind.

Thus I've clung through life to Nothing,
And in Nothing put my trust:

For the world amounts to Nothing,
And Nothing is more than dust.
All I know is, I know Nothing,
And Nothing shall ever be;
And that all things end in Nothing,
Though that is Nothing to me.

M. D. CONWAY gives this anecdote of the late Lady Stanley: "Last year Lady Augusta Stanley's parrot escaped, and the Dean and a number of the clergy, including the Archbishop, who were with him at the time, went out into the garden to find the bird. The search was in vain for a time, but presently a voice came from the trees above, saying, 'Let us pray!' It was a familiar voice, and Lady Stanley laughed, then the Dean laughed, and finally the whole ecclesiastical group roared, as the parrot cry came again with unction, 'Let us pray!'

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A MILWAUKEE Third Warder, named M'Carthy, gave Archbishop Henry a very old and valuable copy of an Irish Bible. Upon the presentation of the volume, the Archbishop asked M'Carthy to read a chapter from it. With an incredulous look, M'Carthy said: "Sure, and can't yer riverence rade ?" "Yes, but not the old Irish." "Fwat! An' yer riverence can't rade the fursht langwich of the war'rald? Ye can't rade the langwich Adam fursht spoke to Ave? Ye can't rade the mother tongue of hivin? Arrah, fwat will ye be doin' at all, at all, when ye raich hivin, yer riverence ?"

"CAN you cure my eyes ?" said a man to the late Dr. Brown, of Jefferson County, New York. "Yes," said the doctor, "if you will follow my prescription." "Oh, certainly, doctor," said the alarmed patient, "I will do anything to have my eyes cured. What is your remedy, doctor ?" "You must steal a horse," said the doctor, very soberly. "Steal a horse, doctor?" said the man, in amazement; "how will that cure my eyes ?" "You would be sent to State's prison for five years, where you could not get any whisky; and during your incarceration your eyes would get well," said the doctor. The patient looked somewhat credulous, but he did not adopt the doctor's remedy.

A HIGHLY humorous and capital hit at the scientists, which appeared first in the Christian Signal, is having a run through the English papers. It is a report of a meeting held by these gentlemen "for the promotion of religious communion." The exercises began with "a suitable psalm of praise in which all present should be able cordially to unite." The well-known hymn of Addison had been selected and adapted to the present stage of advanced and scientific thought. The first verse, the only one given by the reporter, was after this fashion:

"When all Thy unconscious developments, O Thou Power (not ourselves) that makest for righteousness!

My rising thread of consciousness surveys,

Transported with the view, I'm lost

In wonder at the amplitude and solemnity of the Divine totality of the Universe!"

JUBILEE SONG.

"And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy."-ISA. XXXV.: 10.

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Re-sound the glad tidings o'er land and o'er sea, The Saviour has conquered-His people are free.

Re- sound the glad tidings o'er land and o'er sea, The Saviour has conquered-His people are free.

3. The Lord hath delivered the wretched, oppressed,
And given the burdened and sorrowful rest;

His arm has salvation and victory wrought,
His blood has redemption and liberty bought.-CHO.

4. With timbrel and organ and harp of sweet sound,
The fame and the glory of Christ spread around;
With gladness and triumph re-echo His praise,
Extol and adore Him in jubilant lays.-CHO.

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