f?xri 
mwb mmm hiw^oeeib. 
"IV 
E 
recognize me, ami I atn the person who 
saved yeu from becoming a seaweed once. 
If anything is due to me, you shall sing me 
that old German hymn, after dinner 1” 
And so they went out to dinner, the Rev. 
Eustace coming to life and appearing on 
the stairs, trying to look as though he had 
been indulging in a siesta. 
And so Rate's Christmas was a very hap¬ 
py one, and the path led out of the woods 
that day, and all her life lay clear and 
smooth before her, and her heart was full 
with joy and glad thanksgiving. 
CHAPTER V. 
And old Elihu Rafe did as he had prom¬ 
ised, — he took Rafe abroad. But first he 
bought tiie old Schaffer mansion on the 
cliff and settled IIannar in it, saying that 
before their return it should he rebuilt, and 
they would spend their summers there, and 
Rafe should have her own room, with its 
window looking out to sea, as long as she 
chose. 
They went abroad soon after the new year 
came in, Etuiu Rape promising that in two 
years Rafe should come back to 8t. Bede’s 
for her holidays; and because John Monta- 
uuk had nothing better to do lio went with 
them, declaring lie meant to settle in Rome 
and paint pictures’till the end of his days. 
The usual result of all John’s declarations, 
in this regard, followed, for lie a-ccompauiecl 
Rafe and her uncle to German}', then to 
Paris, then to Germany again, where, after 
they were settled in lodgings in Lcipsic lie 
betook himself to Rome again, finding his j 
bachelor quarters rather forlorn, and work¬ 
ing at a model of Rate's head, which he 
designed as a present for his sister, and most 
of the time humming the little German 
hymn absently. 
The aimlessness of John Montaoue’b 
wandering life became suddenly manifest to 
him. lie tried reproaches, then he drifted 
back into his old lazy habits again, writing 
long letters to Clara in bus hotter moods. 
These letters were witnesses against him, 
and Clara, reading them in the rectory 
library, shook her wise little bead and won¬ 
dered “ what ailed Joint.” 
Rape was the same simple child, as her 
letters proved. A part of one read thus: 
I like my mucstro In Lcipsic. 'He fs very 
queer. If you oouUl see him, you would think 
of tiie porcelain images on the old mantel at 
home. At first he frightened mo, now he smiles 
when I slug, but he never praises ino, and yet 
he tells my uncle I am improving. We shall koto 
Paris next year to a grout Italian master there. 
My uncle thinks the Italian school is better then 
the German, and since I tun notgolngto become 
a great singer now, I do not care. I only want 
to come by-and-by to St. Bede's again and keep 
his house. I have learned to lovo him so 1 Ho 
pleasant. Poor oid fellow, he actually shook 
both my hands and gave me a oordial farewell. 
I like this pompous Italian. He is all melody. 
If my old Idea had to bo achieved I should be 
discouraged at the time It takes to make one a 
successful artiste. 
Dear old Hannah 1 Something akin to home¬ 
sickness came over iue to-night as l remembered 
her muffins. She must, not find me too fine a 
lady to relish them In the little buck kitchen, off 
from my blue-edged plate, again! 
Mr. John has loft us. We tried—that, is, my 
unde urged him, to make his home with us in 
our Paris quarters. I wish that ho had. He 1 b 
nicer than any of the men L meet. And when I 
get tired and perplexed, ho soerns to know how 
to make things plain tind easy for me. Last 
evening I came In from th®Countess’ reception, 
(she is the little yellow Count Gerakd’h mother,) 
uncle went to his room at once, fatigued, and I 
sat and looked into the tire and forgot to take off 
my cloak, and would not ring for my fus3y little 
maid, and fell asleep. When I awoke, Mr. John 
hud como in, and was writing by the table. I 
bogged his pardon, and wan going away, but he 
would not let me, and as It was a letter to you, I 
bodl my love, fie told me he wus going this 
morning. I fool a little strange with him, and 
he is abrupt, sometimes. When he asked me to 
sing the old hymn he likes so much, 1 lost, my 
soil-control, and broke down at the last verso. 
“O, Hake, that will never do! Tour little 
Count will not like any such genuine sentiment 
as tears," lie said. 
And I do not know what I made answer. Some¬ 
thing about bating the little Count, and hating 
the Parisians and their parties, and being tired 
of everything, and that ho was unkind to teaze 
me so when ho was going so soon. 
“ Wub I unkind, little girl ? " he asked as ten¬ 
derly as yon could huvo done, and put Ids hand 
on my elaborate braids and flowers and drew 
my cloak about rny throat. For a momcnft I felt 
like torturing myself for crying and behaving 
so foolishly. 
"You have much to learn and much to see 
yet," said Mr. John, “and you will find many 
false princes at the ‘edge of the woods.’ You 
must not let position, or mistaken love, lend you 
to a future of unhappiness, and no one can de¬ 
cide but your own heart. I shall see you in the 
summer again, for l shall meet you in the mount¬ 
ains, and you must tell me then if you have 
found the real 4 fairy prince.” 
“Ishall never find him," I said, pettishly. 
He smiled, quoerly too, and after walking up 
and down for awhile, ho said: 
“You must go to bed; you are weary; it is 
late. I shall lie gone in the morning before you 
are awake, but I will come in the suiaiheft 
Shall I, Have?" 
I was at the door, confused and still crying 
and vexed lest ho saw niy tears, so I did not turn 
but said, “O do come, sir," and ran away, with¬ 
out looking back. I always treat him so 1 Ido 
not see why I should get crying over that old 
hymn I And this morning 1 found a bunch of 
whit®chrysanthemums and oh! the tenderest, 
sweetest pict ure, fairy godmother, that he lmd 
painted for rnel Tiie flowers took mo heme, 
and the picture—! 
It is a queer old woodgwitb sunbeams getting 
tangled In mo dark, brown trunks and sifting 
down on a path broldered with wood mosses and 
wild flowers! And a figure of a knight whosLands 
aud shades his eyes and looks down the vistas 
with a weary, sad look on his faoe. Thera is a 
GIVING OR RECEIVING. 
BY MARY J. CROSMAN. 
helps me la my studies, and ho is so wise and V Watfag as °f a coining fooistep in his eyes, and 
good. Mr. John has gone to Rome. 
This was one of the first letters. Clara 
laid it open beside the one in her lap to¬ 
night and smiled as she read another, as 
follows: 
Paris, New Year’s F,ve. 
My Darling Fairy Godmother : Do 
you realize that it. is a long year since that birth¬ 
day gift of mine ? (Tiie gift that I have covered 
with a shawl, after singing him to sleep, on the 
sofa yonder!) And would you realize that the 
quiet,brown-faced child, and the tall, womanly- 
looking person of to-day could yon 800 her, were 
one and the same? Even Mr. John, your 
brother, seemed to find me changed a weok ago. 
We have uot. mot in many months, and he came 
at the request of my unde, who guvo a small 
company especially for mo at Christmas. I 
smiled at seeing myself in evening dross, when I 
was alone and had sent my maid KusK away— 
my maid who Frenchifies my hair, and t wists it 
into queer Hhapos. Then these French evening 
dresses arc so strange! Mine was tooclo&Alit for 
me. When 1 saw the brown face and nook and 
arms in the rich crimson silk and old loco, and 
the gift my uncle gave me, my mother’s pearls, 
—those pearls she wore on her dehut,— 1 thought 
longingly of Hannah’S surprised words and tlio 
old blanket again. Think of being chaperoned 
by a 11 ve marchioness, of being led out to supper 
by a little yellow French Count, and of singing 
for all the grand people I 
Mr. John had not replied to my note, but he 
came into the parlor late In the evening, and 
when I was dancing with the little Count, I saw 
him talking with my unde in n doorway, and I 
fancied he did not like me so well as when ho 
first met me on the beach with the torn blanket 
ever my head. It is so new to roe, this gay life; 
and sometimes, thinking of all the sights I've 
soon and the famous cities we have visited, I 
wonder at the whole, till my life seems no less a 
fairy tale than the one I read in the old garret. 
IL is new to have all my wishes gratified, plenty 
of elegant things, plenty ol money, and so many 
gl and, high people who make my life seem like 
a splendid dream. 
Do I like it as well?— 
Well, sometimes. I get hungry for St. Rede’s 
and the holly, for the salty smell of the sea, for 
the ships and the shadows, and the gulls again, 
and more than all for you, and for my old place 
in the library window, where I could talk over 
so many things. In a year I shall be back to you. 
This winter we stay In Paris, and In the sum¬ 
mer Mr. John is to meet us In Switzerland. 
I am not sure that. I like lovers. Does that 
sound silly, and as though 1 had more devotion 
than any poor mortal ever suffered from? There 
arc two who bother me. The little French Count 
and a sturdy, solid German, who has plenty 
of thalers and a huge blonde moustache. These 
Parisians are so Shallow J The “Fairy Prince" 
has not come 1—ah 11 fanoy ho never will I My 
life has its full happiness; the blessed gift of a 
year ago loaves me no room for anything but 
thanksgiving, and yet— 
Well, I daresay it is but the hunger of every 
silly girl's heart. Music floods my soul, and the 
glorious old days spent with my maestro were 
It is as though it white garment caught the light 
down iu the path; but no maiden Is in the plo- 
ture, and somehow this makes It sad. i have 
been looking nt ft. flow kind in Mr. JOHN! I 
shall write and thank him. And now the year is 
dying, and In another t welvemonth I shall be in 
your arms again ! Who knows but 1 may bring 
a “fairy prince?" Rut Uncle Ei.mtr is better 
than all the princes In the world! I am happy 
In my new love for him every moment 1 Good 
night. Your child, Rate. 
“ The same sweet, simple child," the lady 
said, wiping her eyes, as she folded the long 
foreign letter and laid il hack again. And 
hero was John’s. She re-read it, smiling 
and then weeping over it. “ So like John,” 
she said. 
I came In to get Rafe to sing me out. of a 
savage mood! She had come iu from the 
Countess’ reception. (Ah, Madame maOomtosse, 
you maneuver like a feminine Mlchaovelll, and 
your son is young, and your son, the future 
Count, Is distingue and 1 don't know. Would 
that he hud a little more positive wickedness, or 
sturdy, honest, principle, if he is to have the 
futurecareof the liltlosoul over yonder!) Well, 
as I would have said if I hadn't indulged in the 
above little rumination. Rape was asleep. She 
Is very beautiful, Clara, and Er.uiu Rave's 
money bags bring jdonty of moths about the 
candle*, she has grown, moreover, distingue, ele¬ 
gant, stately, this little brown-faced girl you 
knew, mid I don't know us it has changed her 
heart any. She Isn’t go happy, and she looked 
very pretty in that, old blanket 1 And then I 
hate French etiquette, and French hair-dressing, 
and French evening toilets with their deeoUettc! 
When I first saw Rate in her elegant Veronese 
•ace and pcaris, I lost my head, and grew dazzled, 
but, (I'm prudish, perhaps,) were I the proprie¬ 
tor of so pretty a pair of shoulders. 1 wouldn’t 
ha%*e eontuminuting French eyes stare the color 
into her cheeks so. Clara, that, gir! can sing 
gloriously, and she Is unconscious of it, and that 
is everything. You women arc humbugs! There 
she sits, sleeping; as innocent as a baby, pretty, 
drooping lids, swcot, child-like curve of mouth 
and cbln, and the white Cashmere cloak fallen 
from her round throat, a little diamond cross 
rising and falling with her dreamy breath,and I, 
bachelor John, sit and think of all the good im¬ 
pulses that ever moved rny wicked oid heart, 
when I’ve seen her surrounded by a score of flat¬ 
tering, deceiving men, and shall probably be 
“best man,” turtne day, at a wedding when tills 
same little French Count gives her a title. 
Heigh-ho 1 I'm going back to chaste old Rome 
to-morrow. I Bhali cultivate gray moustaches, 
and get bald and wear spectacles, so that I can 
shake the little Frenchman and make his Parlsi- 
en morality tremble before m.v wisdom 1 Clara, 
T am either growing imbecile, or have always 
been so, and you have never told me of It. 
Jons. 
And then Clara thought and smiled to 
herself, and kissed Eustace as he came in 
through the dusk, and thanked God in her 
wise little heart.—[Concluded next week. 
Harry sat by the fire, his feet extended 
towards the grate, his chin resting on his 
bosom, and his thumbs revolving one about 
the other, as his manner was when new 
purposes were taking life, form and position 
in his brain. I'd hinted at a new velvet 
cloak that morning, as I was pouring his 
third cup of coffee, saying it would he a nice 
New Year’s gift, —that Mrs. Brown and 
Cousin Sue had just purchased theirs, and 
that I needed one so much, 
“ Quite likely he’s thinking of that now,” 
I soliloquized. A feeling of pleasure came 
over me, and my needle and thread fiew 
more swiftly over the little merino sleeve I 
was making. There would be various arti¬ 
cles I could dispense with now, the cloak 
would be so comfortable,—would save so* 
much thought and bother. Joe’s wife would 
half envy me. Out of the abundance of the 
heart I spoke: 
“ You’re thinking of my New Year’s gift, 
I expect.” 
“ Oh, don’t refer t.o that,” he said, in a 
half-playful, half-serious way, adding, by 
way of a caution to my hopes, “ You forget 
how much higher rents are.” 
“Father said to me yesterday he’d pay 
the store rent if your profits were not so 
large as they had been ” 
“ That’s kind in him, but v;e must be in¬ 
dependent.” 
A little silence followed, and then Harry 
added— 
“ You’d better get poor Mrs. Waite some¬ 
thing for New Year’s; slip’s been sick so 
long; aud the Widow Greek ought to be re¬ 
membered—she is very worthy; and that 
old gentleman on South street, too—he is 
the most cheerful, thankful man in affliction 
I ever saw.” 
I felt too selfish just then to reply. Per¬ 
haps that was why lie added with emphasis, 
“ 1 Jt is more blessed to giro than to receive.' ” 
And quite likely my tones were a little 
ungracious as I replied— 
“ I’d be satisfied with the receiver’s bless¬ 
ing fin* once.” 
Still iiis thumbs pursued their orbits with 
as little deviation as if forming a part of the 
solar system. I'd finished the sleeve and 
was plaiting the little skirt, looking now 
und then out of the window, at the scud¬ 
ding, shifting clouds, which gave premoni¬ 
tions of tiie rain.. ' at Harry had felt 
for two days in that euscepliblc part of his 
body, the bones. 
“ Hetty," said he, “ let’s invite Aunt Su¬ 
san to spend New Year’s with us." 
“ I looked up in waiter. “ What next?" 
thought I, for she hadn’t darkened our door 
in five years, nor wc her’s. 
Then Harry commenced, as he occasion¬ 
ally would, to moralize, or sermonize,—some¬ 
times I called it one and sometimes the other. 
“ How poor, meager and dwarfed arc all 
our lives when we have patterns of such 
wondrous beauty to weave into them,—pat¬ 
terns that are worn in Heaven, devices that 
glitter upon the garments of martyrs, saints 
and angels! Christ stands at the path of 
oliedience and says, ‘This is the way, walk 
3 r e in it.’ ‘Follow me,’ is his command, 
and we follow our own fancy. 1 cannot see 
on what ground we arc hoping for forgive¬ 
ness, when so little of the gospel spirit per¬ 
vades us." 
There was something in his tone and man¬ 
ner tiial reminded me of the legends of saints, 
of Christians from whose death-beds we 
bring away a thought to last a lifetime. It 
seemed as though the Divine eye and the Di¬ 
vine voice had said to him,—" Como and 
learn of me.” 
“Now,” he continued, “let us bring our 
diseased, both of heart and brain, up to the 
healing Bethesdu, that they may be made 
whole,—that cur lives may go out into the 
young year fresher, purer and more Christ- 
like. God’s paths are strewn with difficul¬ 
ties sometimes, but if we tread on and over¬ 
come, we show that we are His, and thus, 
adding year to year, our lives will be crowned 
with that completeness that Autumn give3 
to the earth. I can look onward with hope, 
but backward only with fear.” 
T brushed the mist from my eyes, thinking 
if Harry had cause to fear, how ought I to 
tremble and be afraid. 
“ ‘ Love one another as I have loved you.’ ” 
Think of it, Hetty,— your mother’s own 
sister separated from us by trifles that have 
grown to mountain size—trifles tiiat have 
infused our hearts with the poison of hatred; 
and yet we bow to the same God, hope in 
the same Saviour, and are expecting to 
walk together in the same golden streets of 
Paradise. How is it ?” 
“We shall all be changed,” I said, con¬ 
fusedly. 
“Yes, I think we shall need to he ; but 
the change must begin here; our thoughts 
and purposes must produce fruit.” 
“ It’s just the theory, Harry, but Aunt 
Susan seems so perfectly unforgiving, so 
selfish, and withal so self-important; I 
•wouldn’t treat a dog as she has treated me; 
and where will be my self-respect, to go 
crying back for her favor, and where the 
good, when I dislike her so thoroughly ?” 
“Because she is a poor example, you 
choose to imitate her ; because she has done 
so and so, you do likewise. I would advise 
you to stand on higher ground, to look up¬ 
ward for your patterns, and Christ will 
bless you for it.” 
Memory led me into the past. 
“ I remember when we were children,” I 
said, “how delighted Jenny and T would be 
if mother told ns we might go to Aunt 
Susan's and spend the day, and how happy 
we would be over the little pies and cakes 
she would bake us, the story hooks she 
would find in the old garret, and the swing 
j she would coax uncle to make for ub. Then 
| she had an old crape dress that was my 
great - grandmother's, and sometimes she 
would slip it on slyly and make us a visit, 
while we would huddle away in a corner, 
half afraid, though understanding well who 
it was. But those days have passed, Jenny 
is with the angels, and I—I am hoping to be 
there some time, too.” 
“ Well, shall Aunt Susan and family he 
among our guests on Thursday ? ” asked 
Harry. 
To which I hastily responded— 
“ Yes.” 
New Year’s dawned, beautiful as are 
thoughts of forgiveness, of mercy, charity 
and love. Aunt Susan was among the 
group of relatives that gathered around our 
table. 
“ Hetty,” she said, as she was putting on 
her things to go, and there were tears in her 
eyes, “ this is Christ-like. I feel ashamed. I 
should have been teacher ; but it is you.” 
“ It is IIarrYj” I said ; “ lie is my guide. 
He points out, and I follow v sometimes. 1 
hare found Aunt Susan, aud am richly 
repaid.” 
She kissed me for the first time since 
Jenny’s funeral. 
As the last carriage drove away, Sirs. 
Waite sent for me to come in, that she 
might express her joy and gratitude for the 
gifts I’d sent her. The Widow Green and 
the old gentleman on South street were none 
the less glad. 
It was almost ton,—nearly time for prayers. 
Harry went into the closet, in his quiet 
way, and coming out, liauded me a parcel. 
I opened it, and there was my coveted cloak. 
I could but be glad and thank him ever so 
many times; but I speak truthfully when I 
say there was more exquisite joy in witness¬ 
ing my sick friend’s fiusli of pleasure and 
Aunt Susan’s tearful gratitude, because I 
had given unasked forgi veness and good will. 
-» 
NESI-B GILDING. 
Twenty years ago a young man who had 
paid attention to a bright, sweet girl for a 
long time without making anything that 
was even second cousin to r proposal, was 
startled one evening by the question— 
“ Robert, do you want to marry me ?” 
He tried to evade the point by asking 
why she put such a question to him. 
“ Because, if you do not want to marry 
me you must stop coming to see me. No. 
mocking-bird around the redbreast’s nest, 
you know.” 
Robert took the hint, and, with a cool 
good-niglit, walked home. What should he 
care for a girl like that. Good company as 
hers elsewhere. He would Join the club 
next day. He tried to sleep but couldn’t, 
lie didn’t quite like the turn things had 
taken. Tiie figure plagued him. If he was 
a mocking-bird, who was the redbreast that 
he was keeping away from such a fitting- 
partner? “ At any rate, one thing is certain, 
Edna is smart as she is pretty,” he said to 
himself, “ and she menus business.” 
The next morning Robert went to the 
counting room. It was a long day. Business 
had dragged. Everybody was pre-occupied, 
hurried, cross. Things went wrong. He was 
glad to go home, only it wasn't home. He 
took a book, but found himself trying to read 
the coals in the grate and figures on the 
wall instead of the page. He threw him¬ 
self on the lounge, bat it was dreadfully 
dull. 
He stood for awhile, and then put on his 
hat and walked down to the widow Oragie’s. 
He stepped up to the door, as usual, but 
Edna was engaged. He asked to have her 
called. It seemed a month before she came 
down. At last she appeared. He rose from 
his seat and met her in the middle of the 
room, and said: 
“ Edna, I have come here to-night on busi¬ 
ness. I am tired of being your mocking¬ 
bird, and want to lie your redbreast; will 
you be my wife ? ” 
“ When do you say ?” said Edna, her face 
suffused with blushes. 
“ Soon as I can make a nest,” Robert 
replied. 
“ I believe both the redbreasts join in 
building the nest,” said Edna, “ and I want 
to do my part.” 
This was twenty years ago. To-day one 
of the handsomest mansions in one of our 
cities is the nest of a wedded pair whose life 
has been sw*eet as a bird’s song, aud young 
as ever. There is a great deal more iu put¬ 
ting a little straightforward l nisi ness at the 
beginning of life than is generally supposed. 
- 
Riches. —Henry Ward Beecher says:—“It 
is a great gift to be bora rich in the eyes and 
ears. Some men have carried before them 
an endless procession of beauty. There are 
charms for them where others perceive bar¬ 
renness. There is a concert in the air all 
the time for those whose ears arc toned 
aright. Trees harp for them, winds roll 
their tones musically, and birds and insects 
fill up the orchestra. 
rt antr MriisiB* 
ARTIST FUND CONTRIBUTIONS. 
This collection, exhibted and sold on Decem¬ 
ber 2I?t, contained a number of decidedly at¬ 
tractive pictures. The collection numbered 
upwards of seventy, and but a few exceeded 
cabinet size. 
Eastman Johnson contributed “A Letter to 
Fattier.” A lfttleglrl is holding up her younger 
brother, so lie can drop a letter in the box of 
the street lamp-post. Two little girls in fashion¬ 
able nttjro bavo jugt marched by. It is a morn¬ 
ing after a snow-storm, and it looks eokl and 
sharp around tlio street corner. The notion of 
the girl holding lip her brother, and the expres¬ 
sion of her face, are rendered with the natural¬ 
ness that characterizes this artist's pictures. 
F.i.iza GaitATOKEx wns represented by two 
betiutfful pen and ink sketches of the old City 
Hospital, now no more. As she stands almost 
unrivalled in this branch of the art hero, her 
pictures cannot fall to find appreciation. 
Wiim hedge sent “Off Cape Ann," a water- 
Bcnpe and beach on which a fisherman is home¬ 
ward bound with an empty basket; also a 
landscape of forest and lake, caught at that 
uncertain time when the moon rises as the sua 
8*063 down. 
S. It. GrrronT) sent a gem—“ Bey of Venice” - 
a dream of his oriental life. No success can at¬ 
tend an attempt to describe on paper the illumi¬ 
nation he puts on canvas—a silver sea, oaltn 
and wanned with life and color by the Venetian 
boats, and their pally colored sails t hat arc re¬ 
flected “down deep in the wave.” 
J. G. Brown sent his “Street Musician,” an 
Italian boy playing on a violin and singing- iu 
the street, and “He's not My Style,” which is a 
bit of little girl nature well portrayed. A some¬ 
what cityfied six-year-old, carrying a parasol 
over her head in one hand and a basket of eggs 
in the other, moots in her way across the mead¬ 
ow a count,rj* lad, barefooted and with a mke. 
She quite disdains him, but if she had once seen 
his really beautiful face and the genuine gallan- 
try with which ho was about to lift his slouched 
hat, she would have acted very differently. 
Geo. C. Lawbdin dkl himself credit in two 
pictures, one a boy seated on a barrel playing a 
Jew's-harp, and the other “The Young White 
Heifer.” The heifer is tied in a stable, and a 
boy is feeding her with tender blades ol' corn; 
bis Utile sister stands near with a biislcot of eggs, 
Just such a scene as is enacted so often In farm 
yards with pet calves. Lambpin shows good 
sonso, nt least.,in portraying scenes the majority 
of people can understand and Intelligently ap¬ 
preciate without an Interpreter. 
HENNESsYsent a picture called “Desolation," 
about us groat, un outrage on the collection as he 
could possibly have produced. An old house is 
falling in ruin,and in the peculiar green meadow 
of the foreground a dilapidated, old white horse 
is grazing. The perspective is new of its kind, 
and the colors swour at each other. 
Other very creditable pictures there were by 
Bouohton, Laurie, Kensett, Cropsey, Hunt¬ 
ington, T. N. IIichakds, Darley. etc. 
-»»♦ - ■ .. 
THE PICTURE GALLERIES 
The galleries arc full. At Goupil's one 
never fails to find good pictures, and ‘he gallery 
is now particularly attractive, rendered so by F. 
E. Chcrcix's painting of Damascus. It has been 
said that one always remembers Church’s pic¬ 
tures, after onoe seeing. The first look at this 
painting is not especially fascinating, impressing 
the beholder as barren and desolate, although 
conscious of the soft and tender atmosphere that 
ever proclaims the hand of tills artist. At the 
left of the picture rises the rocky Anti-Lebanon 
range of mountains, of a peculiar dark color and 
formation, and destitute of all life, save a goat 
or two. At the Toot of this, and beginning ab¬ 
ruptly, begins the beautiful and ferule plain, in 
the con ter of which is Damascus. The bountiful 
verdure of this plain is watered by numerous 
canals, fed by the Uarada Kiver. Tlio sun is low, 
the light falling low on the mountains and lying 
fur across the plain, and glittering on tiie white 
houses, peariydome3 and slender minarets of the 
Syrian capital. Tbo peculiar color of the ver¬ 
dure and its abrupt and close junction with the 
rocky mountain of the desert, gives it a look of 
the sea washing a rocky coast. In the fore¬ 
ground at the left, on a layer of rocks, a man is 
watching a small herd of goats. This picture 
forms one of the most, interesting studies In the 
way of landscapes, that lias been before the pub¬ 
lic in a very long time, and cannot fall to win 
the appreciation of the beholder. 
Mr. S. P. Avery has on exhibition his usually 
excellent selection of English water-color pic¬ 
tures, containing a number of very fine land¬ 
scapes by Calemkt. “a young Italian Girl," 
by the Princess Mathildc, is Interesting on 
account of its royal painter. The face of the 
girl Is very sweet and pretty, and has “senti¬ 
ment” in it. The drawing of the hands and 
arms is not good, and they have a raw, unfinished 
look. “ The Helpmeet." by F. Ladrup, Isa vivid 
picture of the sort of "helpmeet" some wives 
possess. A drunken, tattered, attenuated, rick¬ 
ety old fellow Is being helped along by his 
spouse, who is considerably " enraged ” l bereat, 
as Pet Marjorie said, but whoso views of wifely 
duty goes so far as to be his guide and support 
in this hour of need. A “Terra Cotta Bust of 
the Prince Imperial" Is that of a pleasant-faced, 
finely-organized “ artistic” lad, with a womanly 
brow and rather largo ears. 
