to rest a few moments. There was so much natural grace and simplicity in her attitude, such innocence. and peacefulness in her whole aspect, and so much of the startled child in her expression, as, aroused by the opening and shutting of the door, she awoke and started to her feet, that the picture seemed as beautiful as any created by the pencil.

Here Rosa Bonheur received her guests with the frankness, kindness, and unaffected simplicity for which she is so eminently distinguished. In person she is small, and rather under the middle height, with a finely formed head, and broad rather than high forehead; small, well-defined, regular features, and good teeth; hazel eyes, very clear and bright; dark brown hair, slightly wavy, parted on one side and cut short in the neck, a compact, shapely figure; hands small and delicate, and extremely pretty little feet. She dresses very plainly, the only colors worn by her being black, brown, and gray; and her costume consists of a close-fitting jacket and skirt of simple materials.

On rare occasions when she goes into company for she accepts very few of the invitations with which she is assailed she appears in the same simple costume, of richer materials, with the addition merely of a lace collar. She wears none of the usual articles of feminine adornment; they are not in accordance with her thoughts and occupations. At work she wears a

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round pinafore or blouse of gray linen that envelops her from the neck to the feet. She impresses one at first sight with the idea of a clear, honest, vigorous, independent nature; abrupt, yet kindly; original, selfcentered, and decided, without the least pretension or conceit. But it is only when you have seen her conversing earnestly and heartily, her enthusiasm roused by some topic connected with her art, or with the great humanitary questions of the day; when you have watched her kindling eyes, her smile at once so sweet, so beaming, and so keen, her features irradiated, as it were, with an inner light, that you perceive how very beautiful she really is.

To know how upright and how truthful she is, how single-minded in her devotion to her art, how simple and unassuming, fully conscious of the dignity of her artistic power, but respecting it rather as a talent committed to her keeping than as a quality personal to herself, you must have been admitted to something more than the ordinary courtesy of a reception day. While, if you would know how noble and how selfsacrificing she has been, not only to every member of her own family, but to others possessing no claim on her kindness, you must learn it from those who have shared her bounty, for you will never know a word of it from herself.

MRS. ELLET.

HARK! HARK! MY SOUL

Hark! hark! my soul; Angelic songs are swelling
O'er earth's green fields, and ocean's wave-beat shore.
How sweet the truths those blessed strains are telling
Of that new life when sin shall be no more.
Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Onward we go, for still we hear them singing,
"Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come;"
And through the dark its echoes sweetly ringing
The music of the gospel leads us home.
Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing,

The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea; And laden souls by thousands meekly stealing, Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Rest comes at length, though life be long and dreary, The day must dawn, and darksome night be past;

Faith's journey ends in welcome to the weary,

And heaven

the heart's true home will come at

last.

Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Angels, sing on! your faithful watches keeping;

Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above;
Till morning's joy shall end the night of weeping,
And life's long shadows break in cloudless love.
Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

REV. F. W. FABER.

A TURKISH LEGEND

A certain pasha, dead five thousand years,
Once from his harem fled in sudden tears,

And had this sentence on the city's gate
Deeply engraven, "Only God is great."

So these four words above the city's noise
Hung like the accents of an angel's voice.
And evermore from the high barbican,
Saluted each returning caravan.

Lost is that city's glory. Every gust
Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust,

And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate
Whereon is written, "Only God is great."

-THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

THE SIGNOR BRUTTI'S EASTER GUEST

I am but a rude soldier, yet there is something about the pictured face of San Antonio which makes me wonder that a mere boy such as he could e'er have been so great a saint. For hark you, Signor, he was no weakling! He could work as well as pray, and he was no coward. Know you not how when the plague beset cur town-brought here from over sea in a cargo of merchandise from the Levant he nursed the sick and buried the dying? Many a soldier fled from his own kin leaving them to die, but for the good saint.

There is not so much courage in fighting, Signor. There is the glow of action; the fierce love of killing which rises in the blood like fire; the thought of victory and the rich spoil, all this to spur one on! But to enter a plague-stricken hovel, to nurse a foul disease, to close a dead man's eyes and say an Ave for his soul -that is courage, is it not?

It was the winter of 1525. Every one well knows of the miseries which smote our city of Padova at that time. Between the French and Spanish we knew not where to turn, for one or another was always at our heels like a snapping dog. I had served with the Duke of Ferara and been discharged on account of a little affair with the Duke's secretary. With less