steward with a smile. “ Fkltx," said lie, 
“ I. took you for a sensible man!” 
“And are not sensible people,” said the 
steward, “ influenced by superstition V Does 
not the greatest. English poet say: 
* 'There are more things In heaven and earth, 
Iloratlo, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy?’ ” 
They now turned to the left, down a side 
alley, to the family garden. This was hedged 
in and divided into small pieces of ground, 
each inclosure being named after one of the 
children, and planted by their directions with 
flowers, shrubs and trees. Passing through 
a cluster of yew trees, they came to a par¬ 
ticular spot in the children’s garden. The 
Karon suddenly stopped, and an involuntary 
exclamation escaped him. 
The autumnal wind whistled rudely 
among the branches of the trees, which 
stretched out bare and light, despoiled of 
their foliage. Only one young, slender 
cherry tree seemed to mock the desolation 
all around it. It was covered with delicate 
white blossoms as completely as if a cover¬ 
ing of snow had just fallen. 
It was Adelaide's birthday tree I 
“It is very strange,” snid the Karon, 
and, walking over the dried leaves that 
strewed the ground, lie examined the won¬ 
derful tree more closely. 
“It is now forty years,” remarked the 
steward, in a melancholy tone,” since a tree 
belonging to my lord the Baron’s aunt blos¬ 
somed at the same season of the year. Mot 
three weeks alter she was buried. The same 
thing happened, my lord, to your great 
grandmother. Tf we look over the family 
chronicle, we shall find more examples of 
trees blooming untimely and foretelling the 
death of their owners. And Hus belief is 
current among all the country people about 
this place that a tree blossoming thus out of 
season is a sign of the death of the person 
to whom it belongs before the next now 
water, and drew down an elder hush over 
me, so that they could not find me. It was 
a severe bath, I assure you; for I had to 
stay there till it pleased them to walk out of 
the garden.” 
Kips’ account of his adventure did ,not pro¬ 
cure him much sympathy; tor the dismay 
of the servants at, the news of the blossom¬ 
ing tree was too great for other thoughts. 
They all looked upon their young lady as 
doomed to die. They kept on talking, and 
consulted each other as to what dress she 
would be buried in — with other matters 
concerning the funeral. 
“ I have the best hopes,” lie said, to the 
father, “ of the speedy recovery of Miss Ad¬ 
elaide. But her nervous system is in a 
very excitable state; and I entreat you to 
keep everything from her which might agi¬ 
tate her mind. In tier extremely weak 
condition, any disturbance might produce 
unpleasant consequences.” 
mistake about, your birthday tree. Have 
you no confidence in your parents V” 
“ And what if it does bloom V” said IIen- 
ey. “ Adelaide, you are a sensible girl, 
and well educated. You cannot, surely, put 
faith in a superstition with which only the 
ignorant people frighten themselves.” 
“ I do not, brother,” said the girl, softly; 
rt anb Srtbfs. 
“Mamma, said Pauline, when the door but her trembling voice too truly proved 
was shut, “ may not little Emilies come in ? that she did. 
moon.” t 
“ Pshaw! it is an accident, merely!” said 
the Baron; but even while he spoke dismay 
struck to iiis heart. Alter a pause tie asked, 
hastily: 
“ l.)oo9 any one know that this tree is in 
bloom V” 
“Not. a soul,” replied Felix. 
The Baron again sunk into deep silence. 
After Borne reflection, he said: 
“ If Adelaide, nervous as she is, should 
hear <>1 it in her present state, I cannot say 
what might happen. Her fears might kill 
her, and add another proof to the chronicle. 
This, which is merely a natural phenome¬ 
non, -" 
A rustling at this moment among the yew 
trees, startled both the Baron and Felix. 
“ Some one is listening I” cried the steward , 
and he rushed in the direction of the noise, 
the Baron hastening after him. They looked 
through every corner of the garden, and 
were convinced if was a mistake. Then 
they returned to the blooming cherry tree. 
Wheu they returned from the garden to the 
castle, they passed across the lawn, within 
sight, of the kitchen windows. Eisettk, 
followed by the cook and dairymaid, ran to j 
look after them. They saw Felix attend 
Hie Baron to his horse; t hey saw them speak 
confidentially a few moments; then the 
Baron rode away, and Felix went into the 
castle court. The curiosity of the servants 
was piqued. Just at this instant Lies 
rushed in, wet as a drowned rat. 
lie began dancing and cutting capers 
about the kitchen, now leaping, now hop¬ 
ping on one foot, with cries and gesticula¬ 
tions^ of “Oh, Gemini!” “Oh, help us!” 
“ Who’d have thought it!” and other ex 
clamatious o t the sort,. The domes ties saw 
that lie had discovered the grand secret, and 
coaxed him to stop his dancing and tell 
them all about it. But lie did not desist till 
the cook snatched a ham from the cupboard, 
and held it up, saying: “ Lips— either— 
or-” 
This maneuver had its effect. The boy 
stood still, and after calling on them, one 
and all, to swear secrecy, went on : 
“ Well, then. Miss Adelaide’s birthday 
tree—you know it.” 
“ Oh yes 1" answered the women. 
“ It ih all in bloom, like a white handker¬ 
chief—exactly like a. white handkerchief.” 
Exclamations of alarm and grief succeeded 
this appalling news. 
“ And where have you been ?” demanded 
Lihette, “ to get so wet V” 
“It’s the same story,” answered Lips. 
“When T had made a hole through the 
hedge and crept through, as I said I would, 
I followed my lord and Felix, at some dis¬ 
tance behind them. When they turned into 
the family garden, 1 hid myself among the 
yew trees. I came close to the hedge, but 
the hushes wore so thick I could see noth¬ 
ing. I made myself an opening, and saw 
the Baron and Felix standing, looking at 
the tree in blossom, and talking about it. 
Presently a still' branch T had pushed back 
made a rustling, and I heard Fkltx say: I 
‘Some one is listening!’ I knew I should 
be punished if found out; so T slipped along | 
the hedge, and hid myself in I lie pump 1 
trough. I sunk up to my nose in the cold, t 
r y Again, at sunset, Adelaide was seated at 
the window, and watched the sinking orb. 
ly She looked more cheerful; her eyes were 
.j, bright, there was a taint color in tier cheek. 
() f Her mother came near and kissed lfer white 
>r forehead. 
m " How do you feel now, my dear daugh- 
[( . ter?” she asked gently, 
r- “Oil, quite well again,” whispered the 
maiden, ns alio put her arms round her 
mother’s neck After a pause, she said, with 
, K-ars in her eyes, “ Ah, I thought I was going 
’ to leave you !” 
i_ “ thought yourself worse than you 
really were, my love,” said her mother, as 
she took a seat beside her. 
“No — do not hide the truth from me,” 
answered Adelaide. “ I was very ill; hut 
’ —looking up tenderly in her mother's face — 
“ God will restore me, will lie not, mother?” 
“ “ He will, my dear child!” replied the Ba- 
r roness, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. 
’ Pauline came in, took a seat near, and 
smiled and chatted awhile. Afterwards the 
Baron entered, accompanied by the doctor. 
“And how is my fair patient to-day?” 
asked the physician. 
“ Blie is better, I am thankful to say,” 
| answered the mother, and Adelaide smiled 
pleasantly. 
( The doctor went through the usual formu¬ 
la of questions, which were answered so 
much to his satisfaction that lie jestingly 
’ said they might soon order Miss Adelaide’s 
ball-dresses made up for the approaching 
1 winter season. 
“Oh, how delight lid, sister!” cried Pau¬ 
line. All were happy. Only the Karon 
stood wrapped in thought, looking gloomily 
out upon the evening sky. lie was not 
roused from his reverie till the doctor began 
tolling thus of a singular patient to whom 
lie had been called a few days before. 
“It is a young man; about thirty years 
old,” said the doctor — “an English baronet 
of large fortune. He is at. present recover¬ 
ing from an illness, and possessed with a 
misanthropy that is in fact a monomania. 
When 1 enter Ids chamber, ho begins ques¬ 
tioning me upon the effect of all the different 
kinds of poison. The idea he seems to have 
in his brain is that the present race of men 
is so thoroughly corrupt and depraved that 
they cannot be reformed. He wishes, there¬ 
to gto put an end to them altogether; either 
by poisoning all the water, or the air; or in 
some way as effectual He makes it his con¬ 
stant study to endeavor to find out a poison 
which may act. universally. It was for this 
purpose he called me in.” 
“ IV hat a monster!” exclaimed Pauline. 
“ Nay, he is not a monster,” said the doc¬ 
tor. “ On the contrary, In; is by nature a 
good-hearted, well-meaning young man. 
This misanthropy, the effect of lingering dis¬ 
ease, was caused, as 1 am told by an old and 
faithful servant, by his too open hearted 
generosity. Poor Sir \Y i w .i am has been 
trying to do good all his life; has had his 
kindness abused to such a degree, and lias . 
been treated with so much ingratitude, that, 
at last ho quite lost faith in human nature, i 
Hatred ol mankind, and a wish to destroy 
the whole, face of the earth, are now the 
only ideas on which his mind dwells.” 
“Where does Sir William live?" asked 
Pauline. , 
“ He lodges in Eherstein’s house on the c 
mountain roadanswered the doctor. “Have \ 
you a mind to see and talk with this ‘ mon¬ 
ster?’ 1 am sure your charming face would t 
drive all his misanthropy out of him. After < 
seeing you, I am certain lie could not perse- t 
vero in his hatred towards mankind; at 
least towards the fairer half.” g 
Pauline blushed deeply at this compli- i 
ment, and repented having asked the ques¬ 
tion. After a while she said, anxiously, 
“ Our water-pipes come along the mountain s 
road; pray, good doctor, do not permit Hit - n 
William to be trying any of his horrible n 
experiments upon the water!” B 
The Karon burst out a-luugliing. t 
“ Never fear, my pretty Pauline,” said the o 
doctor. “Things will not, I hope, be carried 
so far; 1 am trying to devise some means of g 
getting this fantastic idea out of Kir Wil- a 
liam’s head. You know persons whose ft 
minds are disordered have to be deal! with e: 
without doing violence to their own notions. 
I do not despair of succeeding; though I r< 
know not yet how I shall go to work.” 
Much more was said about the strange v 
patient; after which the physician took his 
leave, and, accompanied by the Baron, quit- tl 
ted the room. v , 
He will be so glad to see Adelaide.” 
“ Oil, let him come in I” cried the invalid; 
he will not disturb me in the least.” 
“ If ho will be quiet,” said the cautious 
mother, “and not make such'an intolerable 
noise with his playing as lie does sometimes, 
lie may come!” 
Pauline rau out, and soon returned lead¬ 
ing a little boy four or live years old, the pet 
of tho family. 
“ Come to me, Emilies,” said Adelaide 
coaxingly, “ come and give me your hand.” 
But the child held back, and stood looking 
shyly at his sister, with sorrow in his face. 
“ You wanted to sec sister Adelaide so 
much,” snid Pauline, “Go and kiss her.” 
A nd she took Ills hand to lead him to the 
sick girl. 
The eliil i walked up slowly and took hold 
of Adelaide’s white hand; but had hardly 
touched it when lie began to cry bitterly. 
“ My dear little brother! What is the mat¬ 
ter?” asked Pauline, bending over him. 
The child sobbed out, “Oh, poor Ade¬ 
laide must die, for tier birthday tree in the 
garden is in blossom ! My father is gone 
out to see it!” 
At these words Adelaide’s head sank on 
her bosom, ami she grew pale as a lily. 
“Emiliuh!” exclaimed the mother, and 
would have carried the child out, but flight 
deprived her of power to move, 
“ Oh, sister, sister!” cried Pauline; and, 
bursting into tears and sobbing aloud; she 
sank down at Adelaide’s feet. 
> A little before noon on the following day, 
r the family were assembled around Ade- 
i laide’s bed. A death-like silence reigned 
in the room, broken only by the weeping of 
the mother and sister. Henry, overcome 
with grief, and pale as death, was kneeling 
i by his sister’s bedside. I To no longer thought 
her illness imaginary. The shock of yester¬ 
day’s discovery, the idea of approaching 
death connected with the untimely blooming 
tree, had produced the most unhappy effects 
on the invalid. Even the doctor had now 
little hope of her amendment, lie sat beside 
her bed in deep and anxious thought, now 
and then feeling her pulse, us she lay fever¬ 
ish and dozing. At last lie rose, beckoned 
to the Baron, who stood absorbed in grief, 
and t hey left the room together. 
“ My art can do no more,” said the doctor, 
when they were alone. " Her unhappy 
fancy about that tree has done a world of 
mischief. If we cannot manage to get the 
better of this disease of the mind, we must 
prepare ourselves for the worst, f dare not 
promise you she will live a week longer.” 
The Baron groaned. “Can nothing be 
done to save her?” ho cried, unable to con¬ 
trol his anguish. 
“ There may be one chance yet,” said the 
doctor, after a long and thoughtful pause. 
“ Oh, tell me what can be done!” eagerly 
demanded the Baron, seizing life- hand. 
“ It would be a strange device,” he replied. 
After a pause he added “ Baron, will you 
give me unlimited power as to expense ?” 
“ Save my daughter’s life, and ask not such 
a question!” 
“ Then give me the key of your garden 
gate," said the doctor. 
The Baron, in surprise, looked at him; the 
doctor repeated his words; and the Baron 
went to fetch the key. 
Adelaide awaked from slumber. How 
beauliful she was! Illness had not destroyed 
the exquisite symmet ry of her features, and 
there was a holy frankness on her brow, 
caused by t he certainty she felt that death 
was at hand. 
“ Mamma,” she whispered at length, “ you 
will not let them cut off my hair, as they 
did Clementina’s, when she died of the 
the fever, will you ?” 
“ Do not talk so!” cried the mother. “You 
shall n#t die, my child ; you shall stay with 
us Khali she not, Pauline?” 
Pauline could not answer for weeping. 
“ Clementina is an angel now,” said the 
sick girl. “ She was so beautiful while here, 
and I loved her dearly; next to you, mother, 
and my sister. It, is now three weeks since 
she left ua — the (lay of the Reformation fes¬ 
tival. Oh, mammal 1 want you to lay me 
out in my coffin Just as she was laid out! 
The coilin lined with blue satin; my white 
satin for a shroud, with the blonde veil Mad¬ 
ame -gave me for a birthday gift ; and 
flowem — oh, I must have a great many flow- i 
ers! Then 1 shall sleep calmly, as she did." < 
Henry, who had suffered us well as the i 
rest, could no longer control his temper. 
“ Adelaide 1” he exclaimed, “ you do very i 
wrong I” i 
“ Oh, my child !” cried the Baroness, “ why 1 
these gloomy thoughts ? They only retard t 
your recovery. We have assured you it is a t 
“ To perish a victim to superstition!” 
; cried Henry ; “ an idle, vulgar delusion 1” 
And, full of anger, even in his sorrow, he 
s went down stairs. 
e The tears gushed out like pearls, through 
i, Adelaide’s dark eyelashes. 
“Oh, forgive him, dearest sister!” im- 
- plornl Pauline. “ He loves you very much, 
t, though he often speaks harshly.” 
“If lie ouly knew” said the sick girl, 
s “ how certain I am that death is near; how 
’ clear it all stands before mo since the dis- 
r coveiy of that tree in bloom; how tin* idea 
tills my whole mind; how, in spite of my- 
i self, I am forced constantly to dwell upon 
’ it! Oh, it is no superstition ! It. is no delu 
j sion! It is the voice of God, calling me to 
Himself!” 
In vain did (lie mother and sister combat 
r this idea by arguments and most earnest 
persuasion. Adelaide listened with mild 
and quiet melancholy; did not contradict 
them ; but felt no less convinced that the 
parting was nigh. 
, VI. 
When the doctor lell the Baron, he hast¬ 
ened to his mvu house, and ordered his car¬ 
riage. Then lie went to his chamber, open¬ 
ed a bureau, and took out a roll of money. 
Weighing several Louis d’ors in his hand, In¬ 
put them in his pocket, threw on his cloak, 
and went, out to the carriage. 
After some hours’ drive, he passed a 
pretty garden, and drew up before a small 
house fronted by a wide lawn, He alighted, 
and asked at the door for Master Jonait. He 
was shown into a neat parlor, where the 
Jew was seated, Their conversation lasted 
Home time. The doctor was anxious 1 o liny 
something which the Jew was not inclined 
to sell. 
“You shall be paid splendidly/’ said the 
physician. 
“ Very likely,” answered Jonah; “but I 
do not want to sell them.” 
“ I will count you out for them,” persisted 
the doctor, “ five Louis d’ors.” 
“ 1 am very sorry, indeed. It is a hand¬ 
some price; but I assure you I cannot let 
you have them.” 
“ And 1 must go away disappointed !” 
“ I would not let you do so if one thing 
only were possible." 
The doctor drew the roll from his pocket. 
“Here are thirty Louis d’ors; take them,” 
said he. 
“ If you offered me a hundred I could not.” 
“ A hundred! Hot for a hundred !" cried 
the, doctor, startled, and in a trembling voice. 
“I assure you," said Jonah, “1 would 
close the bargain cheerfully, were it not for 
one circumstance. I will trust to your dis¬ 
cretion and explain the mystery.” Here lie 
spoke some time, in a low voice, to the 
doctor. 
“And are there no more to be found in 
the whole country?’ asked the physician. 
“ Not as far as 1 know. But you can look 
about and make inquiries.” 
“ I have no time to lose in making in¬ 
quiries,” said the doctor, walking up and 
down the room. After a struggle with hint- 
self lie stopped before the Jew. 
“ Cost what it may,” tie said, “ I mmt have 
them! Jonah, a human life hangs thereon.” 
“A life?’’ repeated the Jew in astonish 
ment. 
“ You will have a hundred Louis d’ors for 
them,” said the doctor, “and you shall not | 
miss the place you seed either. I am not \ 
without influence in high families. It shall f 
be used in your behalf; and in ease of failure 1 
you have another hundred Louis d’ors. t 
Now, no further opposition 1" i 
The Jew still begged time for considers- 8 
turn; but the doctor pressed the matter so j 
earnestly that, after much hesitation, he J 
linally closed the bargain. 
“ In a few hours I will see you again!” j 
cried tho doctor; “and remember they are *■ 
mine!” As he walked to his carriage he * 
sighed to himself: 
“ A dear purchase! But Sir William * 
must help me; for I mean it to help him. t 
I leave the rest to Providence.”— [To be r 
continued. 
A Good Criterion.— Rev. Robert Collyer 
has sound views as to the characteristics of a 
lad book, lie says. “ If when I read a book 
about God, I find that it has put Him further 
from me; or about man, that it lets put me 
further from him; or about this universe, 
that it has shaken down upon it a new look 
of desolation, turning a green field into a wild 
moor; or about life, that, it has made iI seem 
a little less worth living on all accounts than 
(e ART GOSSIP. 
One of the best, if not the best, character 
- ; painter we have, is T. W. Wood, of. New York. 
<1 * Iis pictures are strong and manly, none over 
coming lrom his easel unless; possessing mcctn- 
„ in <t- Ar >d so true are they to life, Unit one 
knows at affiance that thenritst lived in the Idea 
he developed, for one cannot thus paint unless 
,e ho has first Impregnated his soul with the sub¬ 
ject, and knows it by that min-it of all know¬ 
ledge, feetinQ. Ills “ American Citizens," exhib- 
h itod last year at tho Academy, was proof of his 
ability lo portray character with hts brush ns 
l- well as Dickens doe® with his pen In the e.stima- 
tion of his most ardent admirers. A recently 
’ completed picture by this artist umy bo tubon 
as a fair representative of his work, which we 
1, • will cull “Tho Country Doctor." The scene is a 
y neatly kept kitchen of a log house in New Eng¬ 
land, in which a stove lias superseded the five- 
* Place, with the Mro burning brightly within it, 
a while something in a tin cup Lj being steeped for 
‘ho nick girl, who, sitting in tho old fashioned 
I! rocking chair, in the warmest corner, near tho 
stove, looks miserable enough, with her tied up 
head and suffering face. On some poles over the 
0 stove are si rings of apples, rings of pumpkin 
and skeins of yarn, drying. Hy the si do of tho 
t door-easing some fine ears of seed com are 
t caught up in clumps to nails in the hewn logs. 
At one side stands it wheel for ppinwirig flux, 
1 with 1 lie head full of the shining fiber; and, 
t. from the blue apron thrown across the bench, 
r> one knows tDo housewife has left her work to 
give the girl some tea. With the. cup and saucer 
in her hand, a dash of relief is mingled with her 
anxiety, for tho doctor has come, and, with Ins 
hand on the door latch, Is entering. 
A little girl in a red flannel dress and checked 
- gingham apron, clutches at her mother’s dress 
in t he peculiar way of children when some one 
enters and they Know not what else In do. But 
lot us look :il the doctor, as he etumlw in llie half 
, open doorway, ins fur cap and shaggy overcoat 
whitened with snow. Ilo has a great body, and 
, that kind of largeness that goes with a large, 
nympul hctic, cheery heart, and whose coming, of 
itself, does more good by far than lux drugs. He 
, 1 racks in enow and leaves a trail of It on i he 
• braided rag mat at the door, as through tho open 
. way one sets that it Is snowing rapidly, and t he 
forest off on the hills is almost obscured by the 
storm. The doctor’s saddlebags are hung on one 
arm, ami by the whip in tho other we know he 
came on horseback. The whole picture is such 
a perfect piece of comprehensiveness, as well us 
, detail, that wo hope, most earnestly, that It may 
ho duplicated in cliromo, so that moderately 
poor people eim afford to have their every-day 
life experiences shown them in a way flint, they 
will recognize the beauty of it, in its most pro* 
saic phases. Mr. Wood, in physique, i« much 
above the average height of men, straight, weft- 
formed and graceful in his movements. He has 
a frank, genial, cordial manner, putting heart 
and fooling in it, which wins at once. His pic¬ 
tures are SO well finished, that one almost over¬ 
looks tho minor parts, because of t heir harmony 
wit h more prominent ones. 
TnE first and ouJy student the sculptor, Gib¬ 
son, over took in his studio was Hakhiet— 
Hosmer. 
Twelve thousand dollars is tho sum required 
lor tho erection of a bronze statue of Fitz 
Greene Halleck to be placed in Central Park. 
Mn. Charles Levbredoe or Brooklyn, who 
lost his leg in the war, la an Artist quite or the 
pre-HaphftolItoorder. Some picture* of his at 
8 John street, New York, in euro of Mr. Rogers, 
are remarkable for their futthfulness to naUiro 
in those moods moat people would call over¬ 
drawn when transferred to canvas. For 
instance, a landscape, m winter, willi the west¬ 
ern sky aglow with floating crimson clouds 
and strips of fire lying against tho cold sky, 
ami throwing red light, ou the snow ami mir¬ 
roring themselves in the water. Mr. Rogers him 
imported some lino foreign pictures, and neatly 
always lias some Injcu in the way of art that one 
fluds nowhono else. 
H. P. Gray has Just taken from his ousel his 
dream of Cleopatra. Sho is a regal, magnifi¬ 
cent subject always, with her dark beauty, her 
wealth of pearls iuid tho wicked, but fascinat¬ 
ing, splendor of her eyes. The art ist lias painted 
her as she stands dissolving tho fatal pear). 
Ten photographs were made of Gustave 
Dorb’ 8 crayon sketch of “ Rossini on his Death 
Bed," OHO of which is at. Kirby’s, New York. 
The priceiftfrtO. “TheSpanish Beggars, by tho 
same artist, which was purchased and exhibited 
ibore by Mr. Joiin Bonner, proved a great dis¬ 
appointment, and produced a very monger sen¬ 
sation. The fame of Don* m tins country rests 
upon Ids illustrations, and lus sketches are always 
powerful and striking. He began his career as 
an artist when five years old, by drawing a buttle 
piece, and the admirable industry of Ins life, as 
shown by the vast amount of wark he has done, 
is proof of Ms genius. An exhibition of a col¬ 
lection of his paintings in this country is 
talked of. 
Edward Y. Kuntze, sculptor, has nearly com¬ 
pleted, in clay, a life-size "Psyche," wiifch is 
gracefully posed and promises much beauty. 
Ho lisalso at work upon ‘ Devotion,” tho third 
of a series of busts of which the first, "Sad¬ 
ness," is well known to tho public. The second, 
“Mirth," is recently in marble. Tho fourth is 
to be " Levity.” The busts are fifty dollars in 
marble. He has in bus relief " Vivien," ns 
Tennyson wrote of her, and “Merlin,” where 
he says, 
"‘And lo! I clot ho myself with wisdom,' drew 
The vast- and slutggy mantle of Ids heard 
Across her nook and bosom to her knee.” 
It quite satisfies one’s interpretation of that 
pai l of tht) poem, aside from tho lino execution 
or the desigu. Kuntzu has a way of making 
portrait. medtdionH In marble that are very line. 
it. il. Fuller, a Boston artist, whose pictures 
are attracting deserved aiteutiou, was a lltlle 
time ago a policeman on a moderate salary. 
Walking to and from his beat one day, ho no- 
. . ",. m a " ,,mu Heed a picture it. one or the shop windows, and, 
it W«s; or about moral principles, that they after gazing at it some time, said, ” 1 think l can 
are not quite so clear anti strong as they were paint like th It.” Somebody said, “ Go home and 
before this author began to talk; then 1 know t,V- burly Dior” said he couldn't afford it, 
that, on any one of these cardinal things in ^«n>nteed the funds, and 
the life of a man, that, tor me, is a bail book.’ Europe, and is prospering finely. 
