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-C L [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. JOHANN STRAUSS. 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. NOi III. 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 caleche. 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 Governor General. 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 wrecked ? 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 content. 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.] STRUGGLES. BY MIRIAM. 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 vastly mistaken. 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 good housekeepers. 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 day ? 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.] ART. 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 gods.” 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- monizer. 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