[For The Snnuy South.]
light in darkness.
BY 8. E. M.
Far down on a mountain's rugged side.
Near a horrible chasm deep and wide.
Over craggy cliffs of crumbling stone,
Wearily panting, I wander alone;
Dark clouds brood over the desolate path,
And tempests gather in terrible wrath.
Scarcely my trembling limbs sustain
Their heavy load of care and pain,
And down near the cavern’s crumbling brink.
With a fainting heart I often sink;
But a band invisible raises me up.
And a voice inaudible whispers hope.
And sometimes, the parting clouds between,
Glimpses of heaven’s own blue are seen.
And flashes of sunshine clear and bright.
Bathing the stormy cloud in light;
While above the region of storms, high up.
There’s ineffable peace on the mountain-top.
And the weary feet shall at length find rest.
And the weary heart be calmly blest;
For the toil-worn traveler at last shall stand
On the lofty plains of that beautiful land.
And joyfully dwell on the heights above.
In the glorious region of faith and love.
For this, midst the rocks and the tempest’s wrath.
Would I eagerly feel for the narrow path.
And struggling onward in earnest hope.
In the deepest despondency, still look up;
For at times, by the flashes of light, I see
That beautiful land where there’s rest for me.
OUH PORTRAIT GALLERY.
Thousands in all lands will be pleased to look
upon the face of Strauss, whose brilliant musical
compositions have given them so much pleasure.
He is famous over the whole civilized world, and
no cultivated lover of music is unfamiliar with
his name. At the age of sixteen he had become
a virtuoso on the violin, and had familiarized
himself with the art of composition and counter
point. Some of his compositions were published
and became very popular, and in his nineteenth
year he resolved to form an orchestra like the
one over which his father presided so long and
successfully. In 1846, he started upon a tour
through the countries of the lower Danube with
his orchestra, and during the next fifteen years
visited every capital in Europe, and was every
where received with universal plaudits, and was
the recipient of countless decorations. In 1848,
he published his famous “Rodetsky March.”
which is now a national air in Austria. At the
Paris Exhibition in 1867, Strauss’ concerts were
the most popular features of the occasion.
A half million copies of his “Radetsky March”
and “Annen Polka” have been sold. He re
ceives fifty thousand florins annually from the
copyright of his compositions, and is the wealth
iest of the living composers of Europe, and is
now only forty-eight years of age.
[For The Suuny South.]
LETTER FROM CANADA.
The Saguenay ! For years we had read all ap- i
pertaining to it—had picked facts and statistics j
from phlegmatic guide-books, gathered flowers
of rhetoric from emotional ones, and drank its
own individual essence from Mr. Howell’s charm- ;
ing “Chance Acquaintance,” keeping the taste, j
keen, delightful and uncloying, in our months. !
The season is late, and only the St. Lawrence
is running now, making two trips a week. Anx
ious eyes we opened on each Tuesday and Sat
urday.' Some days were of pinched, gray, men
acing aspect; some tearful and hysterical! One
martial fellow smiled with his bright blue eyes
promisingly; but the knowing ones discerned a
cold light there, and when he blew his trumpet,
the river ran before him in waves and foamed
like the sea. We let him go, and long mourned
him as a lost opportunity.
At last came the auspicious morning, clear
and soft. We descry the smoke afar, hurry’
to the pier, and at two o’clock, are sailing north- |
ward. In an hour, we stop at Riviere du Loup. |
Conjure no vision, O friends, of gaunt wolves j
prowling about a frozen river on a snowy mid- I
night; it takes its name from the loups mar ins j
(seals) which used to haunt it in great numbers.
Hearing we are to be here two hours to take on
wood, we set out for a walk. Once off the long
pier, we gain a fine road, good enough for a turn- j
pike; great firs and spruces shade it, and under
them, coral clusters of pigeon-berries gleam from
a leafy carpet. Late-lingering raspberries by the j
road-side detain us again and again. One field j
is a rich autumn picture. Four girls who were
mowing stop to look as we pass. They wear
broad straw hats and stand amid golden swaths
of grain; the sun sparkles on their reaping-hooks
and kisses their cheeks. Three glow’ with Ital- !
ian brown ami red, but one is fair, and the milk-
white and shell-pink blend deliciously. The
white walls and spires of Riviere du Loup (for j
where we are moored is only the landing) lie on
the right “like a knot of daisies.” Cacouna, a
favorite summer resort, is on the left, but too
far off to be seen. As it turns out, the two hours j
grow to four, and had we but known it, we could
have walked to the village and come back in a
We reach Tadoussac in the late twilight and
return to it at the same hour, thus missing any I
opportunity to see it. A disappointment. We
would fain set eyes on the little old Jesuit church,
mellowed by the lapse of nearly three centuries,
and w’ould see, also, the summer-house of the
At Tadoussac, the Saguenay flows into the St.
Lawrence. As we quit the broad river and glide
between gradually narrowing stone walls into
the black waters, the consciousness that we are
there at last stills us even in our eager expecta
tion. A rumor pervades that we shall pass the
famous capes at eleven, and we sit in the keen,
white moonshine long after that hour, watching
the cliffs, grotesque or imposing, like ebon
guards around the enchanted city of the Ara
bian Nights. At last we conclude to follow the
example set us by everybody else, and go to bed.
In the small hours, the boat speeds by the objects
of our vigil, but we are fast asleep.
When we get up next morning, we are anch
ored at Ha-Ha Ray. They say it takes its name
from the ejaculations of surprise uttered by the
French explorers when, supposing themselves
still in the river, their boat grounded on the
northwestern shore. We make acquaintance with
some agreeable Quebecers, and together we take
a walk about the village - first to the church St.
Alphonse, which is getting a handsome frescoed
ceiling and has a striking old picture over the
altar, the light falling on a fine head and white,
austere, uplifted face against a dusky back
ground. Here, as elsewhere in Lower Canada,
we note the clean, sweet appearance of the
church. We have not seen artificial flowers
since we came here; and how much better are
the real, albeit the big, bright, scentless dahlias
land asters of the country! Over against the
church, stands its twin-brother, St Alexis at
Grand Bay, its very counterpart externally.
One of the party makes search for a house in
which he lodged fifteen years ago. Failing to
discover it, he inquires, and is told “ emportee,"
carried down by a land-slide (of which we see
the traces yet) some time ago.
The people are, as usuaI, all French; at sev
eral doors, we see the tricolor flung to the breeze.
We get a cargo of blueberries here, Saguenay ;
blueberries being famous,—and indeed those j
they serve us on board are unusually large and :
crisp, with the haze of freshness still over their
purple. They are stored in deal boxes holding 1
a bushel each and looking exactly like a baby’s i
coffin. They sell for twenty-five cents a piece .
here, but at an advance of ten and fifteen cents,
and upwards,when they get to Quebec, Montreal,
and even Ottowa. Buying a small quantity, they
can be had for eighteen cents (it is said that ten .
Look at two pictures. It is morning on the
Hudson; the graceful blue river dimples in the
sunshine; it goes laughing round wooded head
land and sunny cape, and steals sparkling into
shady coves and azure bays. The summer sky,
flecked with fleeting, exquisite cirri, impalpable
mist-wreaths, bends benignant over it from its
height, like a noble, tender mother. The painted
verdure-crested palisades, a guard in holiday
uniform, note lovingly the joyanceof their young
charge. On the river and around it are the
tokens of life, activity, companionship. Gay
little steamers with pennons flying at side, fore
and stern. Sloops and schooners spreading
broad white wings between the upperand nether
blue, the children of both. Pleasure-yachts with
a glad young burden, the crimson flag bright
against the dark-green masses of the trees.
Fairy shallops moored at miniature beaches.
Through the trees the towers, gables, pinnacles
cents has been taken) in a full season. We take
on seven hundred boxes—not a large freight; in
summer, the average is two or three thousand.
From hence we steam on to Cliicoutini, the
limit of navigation. Here are large lumber-
mills established by Mr. Price, called the King
of the Saguenay, and it is a considerable ham
let. We have but half an hour; so can only visit
the church which stands at the top of a steep
hill, and is the nearest thing to the boat. It is
much older than the one at Ha-Ha Bay, is built
of wood, and looks quaint, dark and full of
years; the little old organ is sheer up against the
top of the high altar. One of the passengers
comes up for devotions—a French girl with long
black plaits; she makes no incongruous acces
sory to the outre-iner picture as she kneels, with
her dark eyes fixed on the altar. Hard-by, a six-
story convent stands on a yet higher hill. Mis
erable winters the poor sisters must have, with
the icy wind sporting around their abode. Quite
within shelter of the convent is a seminary, and
some brothers, in their long black frocks and
wide hats, come down to gaze ns. They are
sleek and handsome; so we opine life has its
ameliorations even for them.
The Indian name of the Saguenay was Chicou-
tini, which means “deep water;” but the early
Jesuit fathers called it St. Jean Nez, from which
the present appellation is formed.
And now we are retracing our course, and may
sit down and watch and wait. What is the river
like? As has been well said, it gives the im
pression that a mighty hand has rent asunder a
mountain, and through the straight chasm thus
made the black water flows between narrow walls
of gray mica-schist. The verdure is very sparse.
Even where the bank is almost covered one has
sight of the stone frame beneath, and wonders
how the birches and hemlocks can suck the
juices of life from such soil. A great fire sixty
years ago, and one within the last decade, have
destroyed much of the scanty vegetation there
was, and the skeleton firs on the brow of many
a bare cliff owe their death to fire rather than
ice. There are no coves, no beaches, no far-
darting capes, or low, level shores —hardly any
points of anchorage. In some parts of the river,
the plummet or anchor let down swings idly to
and fro, finding no resting-place.
Miles before we reach the capes we are on the
lookout—eyes searching and heart beating as for
some soul-stirring solemnity. The skies have
been overcast for some hours, and a small,
steady rain is falling, unaccompanied by mist or
fog, that foe to travelers on the Saguenay. Most
of the people are driven in, but a few don water
proofs and press to the fore in silence. The
gray sky suits the stern, dark country better
than sunshine. Taller and more numerous the
sombre cliffs rise into view, blacker and denser
are the thickets beyond, and now we are at the
strong portals of Eternity Bay.
A great, advanced, broad-surfaced cliff towers
upon and beyond our gaze, and as we slowly
round, it resolves itself into three gigantic gran
ite masses, Cape Trinity ! We longed to fall
down and whisper, from a full heart, gloriapatri.
The whistle blows; a moment’s pause, and back
comes the echo, deep and menacing, louder than
the sound which caused it. Then a note in a
higher key; again the silence, and hark ! a pierc
ing cry; another and another fainter, further,
but clear and undaunted.
A savage hunt is going on in those unpene
trated, lofty wilds. Giganiic men chase strange,
fierce beasts that never come down to the plains.
Do we not hear the horns, the shout of the
hunter, the defiant death-scream of the victim ?
The sky is leaden, the air wet. Nature saddens
in these solitudes. From the great capes steals
a subtle, ice-cold wind, the breath of the wilder
ness, informing it with weird, alien life. The
name of the steamer. Magnet, is cut in the rock
a little above the water-level. Was it not in
keeping with the scene to know it was afterwards
We ought perhaps to say as much about Cape
Eternity, standing so near his brother’s side, for
it is huger and taller—eighteen hundred feet
high—but its flank and crest are green; it is
beautiful, it is majestic, but it does not fascinate
you to it—it dco« not draw your soul out of your
body with night and gloom and savageness. The
water is a thousand feet deep around these capes.
I of many a villa, a glimpse of the garden, a whiff
of rose-breath, a peep at green sward, croquet
| wickets, lawn tents. On either hand, populous
little villages, like flights of white pigeons set
tled on the shore. In front, blue hills link
hands and are fain to lock Undine in their cir
cle, but she slides through and goes to greet,
and delight and elude the next azure-clad sister
hood. One gazes and sighs from the fullness of
Under the low, gray, afternoon sky, the black
Saguenay flows through its strait guif. A vassal,
himself a wild Northern prince, goes to paj’
fealty to his lord. No pleasure of shore, no de
light of air allures him. On he tends, dashed
with the foam of his travail. Platoons of stony
hills dominated by some tall, savage cliff, look
jealously down to see that he is swift to fulfill
his task; stunted birch and hemlock cling des
perately to the rock; lines of blasted firs stretch
phantom arms from the brink of the precipice
to those who can never reach them. At rare in
tervals a fisherman’s hut stands forlorn on the
heights, making the solitude pathetic; even
here is man, driven into exile by inexorable ne
cessity. Our steamer hails no other boat. A
solitary bark here and there, Close to the sides
and far from us, we see. At last the sullen trib
utary reaches his goal and casts himself down
before his great shining king.
After the capes, we fall from our heights to the
plains of the commonplace. We become sensi
ble that it is wet and chilly, and go to the stern,
well pleased to look at the wonderful shores un
der cover. We had read vivid descriptions of
the seal to be seen in the river, poised on some
rock, grasping his prey, the salmon. Faithfully
we looked for this phenomenon. One solitary
seal showed his harmless black head while we
were at Ha-Ha Bay, but ducked it beneath the
shots of a sailor, nor, prudently, reared it again.
There are creatures in these w’aters, however,
more remarkable than seal or salmon, namely,
white porpoises. When one sees them at a little
distance, they are easily mistaken for foam, and
the intense contrast between the black river and
its white inhabitants may be easily imagined.
The white porpoise is said to be peculiar to the
St. Lawrence and its tributaries, but for the ac
curacy of this assertion we will not vouch.
As we near Tadoussac, says a young woman
with a gift for figures and a love of ease: “ Well,
I hope the Governor General’s children won’t be
going up this evening. There’s five children,
and the tutor, and the governess, and the wet
nurse, and the dry nurse, and six maids and two
men, and there’ll be a lot of baskets and boxes
that will keep us here half the night. ”
She was gratified. Night comes and tea. A
polite young official, with rosebud bloom in his
cheeks, to whose attention we had been com- |
mended, teaches us to eat omelette as light as |
yeilow foam with orange marmelade, and a
dainty compound we find it. We part with our
new-made friends at Riviere du Loup and take
on a noisy cargo of live freight, screaming pigs
and big, tramping brutes, whose embarkation
keeps us several tedious hours; and the night
wears on with little snatches of sleep and little
intervals of waking, the rain in our drowsy ear
and the windy scream of the steam suggesting
discomfort without. At three o’clock we are
at Pointe-a-Pic. Rosebud Bloom convoys us
through dark ways, dimly lighted by his blink- |
ing lantern, close by handsome carriage horses
(it was their heavy tread we heard) returning to
the cities after their summer by the seaside. |
They jerk up their big heads, and look at us
with round astonished eyes. He leads us over
the narrow gangway and shouts “ Calechee! I
Calecliee!” making the last syllable an inde
scribable, lugubrious e minor. Two caleche
men rush up and the most voluble wins the
fare. In answer to the query whether he can
take us to our lodgings at once, he answers, “ De
suite ! de suite !! de suite !!!” faster than we can
wink. Then we bid good-by, and he
•• Rattles our bones
Over the stones,”
climbing up and bumping down the rocky
spines of the hills at a surprising rate, and
finally sets us down at the hospitable, open doors
of the Lome.
County Fairs are successes this fall.
[For The Sunny South.]
Struggling in weakness through a path
Where rocks and thorns abide;
Striving to keep ideals in sight
That mists of passion hide;
Praying for meekness while the heart
Smarts ’ncath the sense of wrong;
Regretting errors of the past
That fast on memory throng;
Pleading for Heaven’s forgiving smile,
Yet pardoning not my foe;
Asking for mercy from my God,
That yet I will not show.
Oh. willful inconsistency!
How can I be forgiven,
While thuB rebellious beats my heart
To the high will of Heaven ?
[For The Sunny South.]
A VOICE FROM_THE KITCHEN.
This sounds home-like — ideas of industry,
frugality, domestic virtues ami gastronomic fe
licity cluster around it; but if you, Mrs. Hill,
or you, dear Sunny South, imagine I am prepar
ing to dive into the mysteries and complicated
paraphernalia of a cookery-book, or, as a scien
tific goormand, about to extol outlandish frican-
deaux, greasy ragouts, or any recherche method
of serving up any dish whatever to gratify the
sensitive appetites of well-fed epicures, you are
Seated in his excellent cool library, it was very
pleasant, no doubt, for Owen Meredith to write
these epigrammatic lines:
“ We may live without poetry, music and art;
We may live without conscience and live without heart;
We may live without friends, we may live without books,
But civilized meu cannot live without cooks.”
Or for Byron, costumed like a Greek, and drink
ing iced sherbert, to sing of
“ That all-softening, overpowering knell—
The tocsin of the soul- the dinner-bell.”
They were men, and knew no more about the
manipulations of a hoe-cake than 1 know how
to explain that mystical Hindoo poem, “The
Gitagovinda.” Of course, some men can cook.
I once saw one at a picnic, seated Turk-fashion,
fry fish—after they were salted and mealed for
him—at long taw; that is, with a long stick at
tached to the handle of the frying-pan; and as
the fish assumed the wished-for hue, he ex
claimed triumphantly: “I didn’t know cooking
was such easy work. Why, with a little prac
tice I can become a second Soyer!” And ever
afterwards he expatiated on his culinary skill,
lugging in—as proof incontrovertible—his great
teat: “Why, you ought to see how brown I can
fry fish, and such coffee you never drank, sir.”
Yes, I have seen men cook, but did they not
have every convenience, and more waiting on
than a dozen women require? Yet, these same
men expect a woman to prepare a presentable
meal, having a dish-rag and flesh-fork only
with which to begin and finish.
I repeat, I am in the kitchen, and not in the
best of humors. It is Monday morning, and so
many things to do! The wash to get up, house
to set to rights, dishes to wash, vegetables to
gather, dinner to get, and oh, dear!—the very
thought tries me—that stove to clean ! Then
there is coffee to parch, churning to do, and
bushels of sewing. Sallie, if you are ever
coming to help me take down this stove-pipe,
come this moment! There, it is nine, and so
many things to do at once!
I^vould be more bewildered in all this con
fusion than Prince Theseus ever was in the Cre
tan labyrinth before Ariadne came to his rescue,
if experience, my clue, had not been the means
of extricating me (successfully, I flatter myself)
from Similar muddles.
Sallie, didn't I tell you that you would drop
that pipe! You careless girl! I am covered
with soot, and will have to wash my head—and
go tell old Mary to hush singing, for pity’s sake,
unless she can pitch on some song besides
■< Them cruil Jewses, they crucerfied him.
And laid him ill surpulker,
Aud de Lord did bear his speret home."’
If I do look like a tattooed African, anything
so incorrect jars upon and makes me feel ex
ceedingly nervous. Mercy! that is not the
door-bell, I hope. Y'es, there it goes, tinkle
tinkle. There, Sallie, straighten that mouth
that is perpetually on the grin, and pour some
warm water in this basin; while I am trying to
get off some of this soot, you go to the door. If
a woman, I don’t care much, but if a man—
why, he shan’t see me in this plight, for the un
reasonable creatures always expect a woman to
be instant in and out of season. A woman?
Well, you cut two cabbages while I am gone.
Dear, dear, she wants me join the spelling bee!
Before I do, and make an exposure of my igno
rance, they may pile a Pelion of Walker’s lexi
cons on an Ossa of Webster's unabridged dic
tionaries, and present them to me ! The idea is
preposterous ! Why, Sunny South, don’t I have
to open Webster every time I write the word
their ? For the life of me, I can’t remember
whether the e or i comes first.
Sallie, bring that jar of plums. Bless me!
they are fermenting. More work, and to-morrow
grape-jelly to make and pickles, and no end to
the work that is to be done. And the thought
of that basket of hose hidden in the closet is,
Mordecai-like, forever rising before me, affording
one ray of comfort, however,—that a hole will
last longer than a patch or dam. We women,
you know, are so very economical that we like
to save in small as well as large things.
This coffee is now of a beautiful brown—ready
for the whisked egg. Am I warm ? Ask Shad-
rach, Meshech and Abednego if their prome
nade in the fiery furnace was cool! If the Prince
of Denmark had only turned cook, he would
never have exclaimed, “Oh, that this too solid
flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a
dew.” No, he soon would have been doing just
what Prince Henry said Falstalf did near Gads-
hill—“ larding the lean earth as he walked.”
It is bad enough to be a woman, worse to be
a thermometer, and dreadful to be a barometer.
I feel that there is a storm brewing. Domestic
storm ? Thank you, sir, never have them,
although a few fleecy clouds only are rising in
the orient, and drifting like unmoored vessels
towards the zenith of the aerial ocean. I feel it
in my bones that they are the acant couriers of
the cloud that will soon loom in sight, conceal
ing in its pearl-edged folds the flash, the roar
and the torrent.
Well, now that my dinner is progressing
finely, I feel in a better humor, and were I tidily
dressed, not a symptom of the “snaps” would
remain. But, Sunny South, the truth is, that
we Southern women do have a perplexing time,
and the great question, how best to achieve leis
ure and the enjoyment of it, will force itself
upon us. What must we do? Shall we say,
“Oh, gathic years, as ye tower in mysterious
grandeur along the echoless shore,” cast the re
flex of some picture characteristic of primitive
times -of days when Adam delved, when Eve
spun, and cooked their simple meals on a heated
stone ? or say, loom up ye future years from out
your misty shrouds; rise, crowned with every
labor-saving invention, for the benefit of these
times, so sadly out of joint.
What avail? The fiat has gone forth, and, un
less rescinded, the sons and daughters of Adam
must labor. Only one way that I can see, and
that is to accept the situation with self-reliance,
industry and cheerfulness. In the next five
years, if the colored helps deteriorate in the
same ratio as they have since the “late unpleas
antness,” Southern women will generally have
to become “chief cook and bottle-washer;” and
the sooner they begin to learn, the better. Then
they will have to lay aside more frequently the
weight (sewing machines) that so easily besets
them. Instead of stitching flounces for dresses
almost as long as Captain Cook’s voyage round
the world, they must learn to be thoroughly
It is notan “open question ” that they then
will be more vigorous, more healthful, more at
peace with themselves and others, but a certain
fact. True, Southern women now labor under
many disadvantages for the lack of practice and
indispensable conveniences; but let them begin
in earnest to do their part, and then our gallant
Southern men will come to the rescue.
As a great many of the anxieties and miseries
of a cook’s life result from the want of a good
stove, so the first grand desideratum to be consid
ered by those wishing to arrive at that pinnacle
of fame—a good cook —is the possession of an
excellent one; also suitable wood. We can be ee-
stasied by a volume of smoke gracefully curling
skyward, but when that same volume comes
puffing from every crevice of a stove, instead of
ascepding the pipe, why then it is enough to
interrupt the equanimity of any woman—not at
all conducive to the placidity of her temper or
propriety of her speech.
Another trouble: The papers are teeming with
advice to mothers about their girls. I come to
the front, and say to them, have your boys also
assist you—call on them to chop wood, bring
water, build fires, and do many other things; all
these make an appeal to the budding, chivalrous
instincts of your boy’s nature (if he have any),
and soon it will be a great pleasure—“as good
as play”—for him to assist mother or sister. If
he have no innate manliness, and evince a lazy,
shirking, unaccommodating disposition, then
exercise your maternal prerogative, and compel
him, when not otherwise better employed, to
assist. I have little patience with a mother, and
no hope for her boys, when I hear her say, “I
had rather cut wood and draw water than have
such work to get Tom to do it.” In this way,
too, many mothers allow their boys, when from
the farm or school, to lounge around, teasing
the little children, the cat or dog, and creating
disturbances generally, or perhaps in reading
dime novels—those moral nuisances—which vi
tiate their taste, excite a craving for the unattain-
! able, and render them unhappy and idle. Oh !
Southern mothers, ever remember that idleness
sends too many of our boys, full of undirected
energy, to the village, town and city, where,
alas! so many drift into perdition. On the
other side, assisting mother in her household
labors, will develop and strengthen the muscles,
discipline the sinews of your boys. They will
grow up having tact, common sense, prudence,
and, in short, will be prepared to grapple with
the stern realities of responsible life; in coming
years they will be seldom destitute of means —
will not find themselves out of place, and at a
discount in humanity’s busy hive; and, I am
sure, viewing them from a woman’s stand-point,
will be no worse husbands for having some
knowledge of a woman’s work.
Hush that clatter, Sallie; I believe that bell is
ringing again. Go to the door. What, Mr.,
Mrs. T. and all the children come to spend the
Well, Sunny South, it is an ill wind that blows
no one any good, so I must close this serio-com-
ico sermoning to make myself presentable.
Yours, sympathizing with Shylock when he ex
claims, “No ill luck stirring, but what lights o’
my shoulders.” L. R. Lowry.
[For Tlie Suuny South.]
BY M. A. E. MORGAN.
We wish to go to the “root of the matter.”
There is inherent in our nature, a love of the
beautiful. This love is capable of unlimited
cultivation. A work of art must be judged so
by the cultivated taste torced upon its possessor
by his faculty to perceive the beautiful, urged to
exertion by the wants of the age and the people
of his community. The artist paints what he
feels, and he feels what he sees. Then to see
correctly and represent correctly is a necessity
to the artist. To this end we claim that draw
ing should be taught in all schools, from the
lowest grade to the last finishing year of school
education. Suitable models should form a part
of the furniture of the school-room, and eye
and hand should be trained to see and represent
them as they are.
The works of art of any age show the charac
ter of the people of that age.
Among the ancient Greeks, strength, wisdom
and beauty were the objects of absorbing passion.
Accordingly their art sought to illustrate their
ideals by forms of wonderful beauty, muscular
development and godlike expression. Their
religion was an exhibition of their iesthetical
taste. Man worships what he really loves.
In later ages, media;val art had its rise in a
more profound love, looking to the future life
for its hopes of full fruition. The Christian
religion with its heavenly habitations and
angelic choirs, a little modified by the old relig
ion, had become the absorbing interest, and
men pictured to themselves the golden streets
of the new Jerusalem, in which the virtuous
should walk with beautiful forms, .and nothing
imperfect should be known. The opposite
realm, inhabited by demons, was the ascetic’s
idea of an abode for the wicked. They conse
quently illustrated these ideas in their works of
art. We see in this age, as among the more an
cient, godlike forms breathing from canvas and
chiseled from marble. The pure and loving be
held these with joy; the wicked pictured those
frightful representations of demons, which even
now strike terror to the heart of the beholder.
“Fear made her devils and weak faith her
What shall modern art illustrate? So far it
has been employed to instruct, to communicate,
to please or to imitate nature. It is less ideal,
more human than ancient art. If it give breadth,
depth and vigor to religions sentiment, it is
legitimate. The increasing utilitarian tendency
of all ideas at present would seem to preclude
any hope of an exalted art. A few great pictures
illustrating great themes have been accom
plished. Of some of these we may speak at
another time. To make good the hope of the
age, aesthetics, morality, philosophy and relig-
ous faith must harmonize. This accomplished,
will give us church edifices of heavenward
beauty, commemorative monuments of surpass
ing grandeur for the heroic dead, and art will
strive in all things to suit the actual to the ideal.
The true artist will produce immortal works,
because he has enjoyed immortal moments.
Untrained minds cannot fully appreciate these
pure and sublime ideas. Time will evolve this
love of the beautiful, and it will be trained to its
full development. By frequent exhibitions of
works of art, the soul is elevated and an increas
ing interest in what is good and great in art
will be fostered. A gallery of really fine paint
ings is the greatest incentive of refinement and
gentle living that a community can possess. It
opens the eyes and heart and leads to the high
est cultivation, and more than all, is a great har-
The Princess of Wales went down to the dock
to see Albert Edward off for India. Those who
witnessed the parting say it was most affecting.
She buried her head in his bosom and wept. He
played with the French trimmings of her hat
and tried to comfort her. The last words she
uttered were a touching, heart-wrung exclama
tion, “Oh, Albert!” His final remark moved
along the same fine chord of feeling, “ Farewell,
darling; and you are sure you put my striped
stockings in the red valise ?” m