some of us were younger, with its dark rag carpet on the floor, and its straight-backed chairs set stiffly against the yellow-washed wall, and its unbeautiful cook-stove, and with the sunlight streaming in at the west window, flooding every nook and cranny with glory and bringing out the immaculate afternoon neatness, and has not exclaimed, involuntarily, "Oh, how lovely! How sweet and cosy this is!" The sun is the great art-teacher, too, in that he opens our eyes to see, and that is really what we most need. It is not so much taste as sight we lack; the taste is false, because we do not see truly. Does any one doubt it? Does Jill, at least? Let her try to draw a three-legged campstool, and see what she makes of it if she really thinks she sees what she is looking at. One needs no art-teaching to draw seven tolerably straight lines, and the seven lines in the right place will make the camp stool. Has she put them there? No, for she does not know where they are! Then let her welcome the sunlight, and let it anoint her eyes that they may really see. One of the first lessons that it will teach her will be that there is too much color in most rooms. They do look better with blinds closed and curtains drawn, for the half-light subdues the brilliant hues, and in the darkness we remember they are entirely gone, which would be an excellent thing if one could make it permanent. Quiet designs and neutral tints on floor and walls are much more effective than bright and showy ones. One reason for this is found in what is generally considered the first principle of decorative art, although we have put the sunlight before it. "Never go out of your way to make a thing or a material look like what it is not." Now walls and floor are flat surfaces,—the framing of the home. One would not wish to distract attention from the brilliance or richness of one's jewels by any mere prettiness in their setting. The pictures, the ornaments, the articles of furniture in one's rooms, may all, even though not costly, be artistic, and capable of giving true artistic delight. A work of art wall-paper could not be, were it never so elaborately expensive; and although some carpets and rugs do come under that designation, they are assuredly not the most showy ones. The floor is designed for walk ing upon, and to leave it bare would probably be the most artistic way of treating it, but for certain considerations of comfort and convenience, which are the prime objects even of "high" decorative art. A bare floor of valuable woods would most probably be more expensive than Jack could well afford. If made of pine, it will be ugly. Whatever its material, it is noisy, easily defaced, and in our climate uncomfortably cold. And Jill will therefore do wisely to cover at least some portion of hers; but whatever she decides upon doing with it, she must remember that it is a floor she is furnishing, and not a flower-garden nor a forest, nor the façade of a temple, nor any other absurd and impossible thing. Moss is soft and beautiful, damp also, frequently. Jill would not walk upon it in her dainty morning slippers. And the more exquisitely delicate and real may be the flowers in her carpet, the greater reluctance will she feel in ruthlessly trailing her long home-dress over them. Nor will Jack be inclined, on coming home after a long day's work, to climb up the best-proportioned of vine-wreathed columns, nor to perch upon the most classic of scroll-embellished pedestals. The floor is flat, and should be treated flatly; and this is one reason why good authorities in decorative art insist that all natural objects must be "conventionalized" when imitated in this branch of art; that is, not drawn in relief and shaded, but drawn after geometrical principles, and made to appear perfectly flat. This seems, at first, a disagreeable doctrine to those of us who have really enjoyed the naturalness of many of the pretty flowers and fruits upon our carpets and upholstery; but the more one reflects upon it, the more one becomes convinced of its truth. If the paper on the walls presents only quiet tints and unobtrusive forms, the pictures and other ornaments about the rooms will stand out in all the brighter relief. So Jill must not allow herself to be wheedled into buying any of the dark, richly-decorated papers which have lately. been "all the rage." The shopman may treat with scorn her request for a light-tinted smallpatterned paper, and say, as one did to me, three months ago, that "nobody would have such a paper even in the kitchen!" but let her not fear him, he is perfectly harmless. However, as the fashion of dark paper, like so many of this world's fashions, is passing away, Jill's art instincts will not, perhaps, be put to any such severe test. The fashionable style of dividing the wall latitudinally is one which Jill will be glad to follow. There is everything in favor of it, and though the fashion may, and probably will, eventually go "out," let us keep to it till the last moment. There are several different methods of this treatment. The most common, we all know, is that of "dado and frieze:" a band three or four feet high, of a darker, richer paper, above the the surbase, separated from the body of the wall by a strip which represents the old-fashioned chair-rail, and below the cornice again a border from a few inches to two or three feet deep, according to the height of the ceiling, and the money to be allowed for the wall-paper. It is very nice to have the "chair-rail" a real rail or moulding of wood stained and polished, and another narrower one below the frieze. The space between dado and frieze need not, in that case, be papered, but, if Jill prefers, painted, or, better still, kalsomined in some delicate tint, which will bring out her pictures beautifully, is inexpensive and very neat, as it can be freshly done as often as she likes. The dado should be darker than the rest of the wall, and the upper border or frieze should be bright, repeating the colors of the dado on a lighter tone of the same grounding; gilt, if it cannot be afforded elsewhere, is so effective in the frieze that at least a little sparkle of it should be managed there. A very pretty way to treat a wall, which is not quite as common as the dado-and-frieze style, has one real advantage. Let the paper or paint or kalsomine run from surbase up as high as the top of the picture-frames-say seven or eight feet. Carry a wooden moulding around it, and have the wall above treated in an entirely different manner, either in a plain neutral tint with a bright line under the cornice, if the wall below be papered in a small arabesque or conventional pattern, or, if it be tinted, let the upper part be covered with a bright rich paper in the frieze style. The pictures being then hung upon the rail or moulding, the picture-cords, which are always unsightly, are no longer necessary, and Jill will be spared the trouble of finding a stud to hold her picture-nails, which she will otherwise discover to be one of the most perplexing of all her house-furnishing problems. Whatever she decides to do, let her not be frightened out of it by the superciliousness of shopmen, nor by the doubts and fears of inquiring friends, who will assuredly begin, before her work is half complete, with "Oh! are you going to have it so?" "Do you think that will be pretty?” Let her get all the ideas she can from them and every one else, and then go on and do as seems best to herself. Only by this course can she possibly achieve anything like success in furnishing and making beautiful the house which Jack had so thoroughly and painstakingly built. SOMETHING ABOUT MARY SOMERVILLE. MANY people, and especially many people belonging to the "superior sex," have an idea that woman's brain is not fitted for the comprehension of great things; that domestic and intellectual qualifications counteract each other, and that if a woman penetrates very deeply into trigonometry, for instance, her knowledge of pastry is apt to be rather shallow. It frequently happens also that women who devote themselves to intellectual pursuits are either unmarried, and free from the cares of domestic life, or are so situated, in spite of encumbering husbands, that the ordinary feminine occupations sit but lightly upon their shoulders. Therefore the astute masculine draws downs the corners of his mouth, and, pointing his index finger at these lawless individuals, observes, "Look, now, where are their firesides ? Did they ever darn a pair of socks?" forgetting that Tennyson never chops his own wood, while Spinoza did not think it necessary to relieve his philosophical labors by working in a blacksmith's shop. There is one woman, however, whose life was a complete refutation of all such opinions. A learned woman she was, so learned that John Stuart Mill, on receiving a letter which she sent him, speaking highly of his book on the "Subjection of Women,' wrote to her, saying, "Such praise from you is sufficient reward for having written the book;" while Faraday, the candid, earnest scientist, addressed her thus: "I almost doubt when I think I have your approbation to some degree at least in what I have thought or said about gravitation, the forces of Nature, their conservation," etc. Mary Somerville was the daughter of a Scotch admiral, and belonged to that same family of Fairfax which counted the mother of Washington among its connections. She passed her early life in the little town of Burntisland, near Edinburgh, among surroundings which gave but slight promise of that intellectual development to which she afterward attained. As late as 1790 the Scotch entertained very narrow ideas upon the education of woman, and if a lady was taught how to read and write, and keep accounts, besides being instructed in the mysteries of housekeeping, she was considered very well educated, while the pursuit of any more extended branches of study was believed to render her incapable of fulfilling her wifely and motherly duties. The Fairfax family, though by no means illiberal, shared the prejudices of their age, and Mrs. Somerville did not even receive what is now called a "common-school education." When she was twelve years old she could read intelligibly enough for her own enjoyment, but was unable to read aloud without making the most absurd blunders in pronunciation. Her father coming home from a long voyage at this time, found her a "hoyden," and declared that she must be sent somewhere to learn writing and decorum! So she was placed at a fashionable boarding-school, where her little form was fastened into tight stays of a very uncomfortable design, and she was taught reading and writing. After remaining here a year, it was decided that she had received sufficient education, so she was brought home once more, and immediately became more of a "hoyden" than before in her joy at regaining her liberty. Mary Fairfax was anything but a dunce, how ever, and she soon began to develop tendencies which showed the bent of her mind, and hinted at the proficiency she would afterward gain in certain lines of thought. She spent her winters in Edinburgh with her mother, learning painting, music, and dancing, and studying Latin and Greek, “because she had nothing else to do." The little incident which attracted her attention to mathematical studies was rather singular, showing how slight a thing frequently turns a current strong enough to influence a life. She was invited to attend a tea-party with her mother, and among the older guests was a young lady with whom she became acquainted, and who asked her to go and see some fancy-work she was doing. She went to visit her next day, and while there looked at a fashion magazine with colored plates, in which she saw what at first appeared to be an arithmetical puzzle, but turning the page she found some strange looking lines with X's and Y's. Upon asking their meaning, she was told that it was a "new kind of arithmetic, called algebra," and this was all she learned about the matter. She could not forget those odd-looking lines, however, and waited patiently for an opportunity to learn something more upon the subject. She studied navigation, hoping this would supply her need; but the only light she gained from it was the discovery that astronomy does not consist in merely watching the stars. At length a tutor was engaged for her brothers, and she ventured to lay her troubles before him. She had not dared to mention the subject to any of her friends, knowing they would disapprove most decidedly of such inclinations. The tutor, however, was sympathetic, and procured her the books she needed; and after demonstrating a few problems in geometry with him, she pursued her studies alone and in secret. From this time, one may say, her fate was marked out for her and her troubles began, troubles which embittered all the first half of her life and left their impress upon her temperament in the sensitiveness and diffidence which always formed her chief characteristics. Scarcely ever has a human being been endowed with such an overmastering thirst for knowledge, and seldom has a thirst remained so unquenchable through life. Her intellectual tastes met not the slightest encouragement from any source; she was obliged to study in secret, and could not speak to any of her intimate associates of the subjects which interested her so deeply. The only time she had for prosecuting her mathematical studies was at night when the family had retired. Then she was accustomed to rise, and read far into small hours, finding ample refreshment in the knowledge she gained. This practice, however, she was not allowed to pursue uninterruptedly,-fortunately for her health, perhaps,-for one of the maids discovered her intellectual way of sleeping, and when Lady Fairfax complained of the manner in which her candles were wasted, she told her that "it was little wonder the candles didn't last long when Miss Mary sat up till morning reading." So candles were prohibited, and the indefatigable girl immediately began to review what she had learned, demonstrating problem after problem from memory, and fixing firmly in her mind the foundation for that intellectual superstructure which she was one day to build. So she went on, year after year, keeping her mind ever on the alert for fresh opportunities, occasionally obtaining a book which gave her a new start. Yet the progress she made must have been very discouraging, for, in spite of her eagerness to work and advance, she had absolutely no chance. Fortunately, though very sensitive, she possessed a quiet, patient temperament. She was one of those who can wait. She never stormed or raved about her disappointments, her lack of sympathy and appreciation, but buried it all quietly in her heart and trudged on, keeping Parnassus steadily in view. At last there came a change, though not in all respects a change for the better. She married, her cousin, Mr. Greig, and went to live in London. This union does not seem to have been a love-match, on her part at least; for her husband was entirely uncongenial to her, took no interest in her pursuits and ambitions, and in fact regarded them as rather unwomanly and reprehensible. She did not, however, relinquish her studies, but kept on whenever she was able, hoping for better times. Thus far our sketch has dealt chiefly with the student side of Mrs. Somerville's character, but she was by no means a cold, unsocial bookworm. On the contrary, she was remarkable for the harmonious development of her character. While she became one of the most learned-perhaps the most learned-of women, she was simple and unpretending in feeling and taste. She was always a devoted wife and mother; educating her children herself during their early years, and, after her second marriage, living in the closest and most tender union with her husband. Fond of society, she enjoyed the theatre and opera, as well as social entertainments, and felt keenly the deprivation of such pleasures. In her youth she was quite a belle, for, though without a dowry, she was very pretty, and considered attractive by the young gallants who moved in her circle. over, she could cook, and once, when Mr. Somerville was sick, astonished his critical relatives by making him some delicious currant-jelly. She was also passionately fond of music and art. She always found time to practice four or five hours a day, until advanced in years, and played Bee1 thoven, Clementi, and Mozart with delight and appreciation. She painted, too, and loved to reproduce on canvas the scenes and phenomena of Nature, which she loved so well. So that if Mrs. Somerville had never penetrated the mysteries of the higher mathematics she would have been considered an extremely accomplished woman. Her mental activity was, in short, marvelous, and it manifested itself in every direction, leaving no part of her nature povertystricken, making her loving, tender, sympathetic, as well as learned and strong. When she was about thirty-three years of age her husband died, leaving her with a small fortune and two boys to care for. She took her children and went home to her father's house. And now, at last, she felt that her opportunity was come. She was independent, and could follow her own tastes. She shut herself up within the friendly limits of home, refused all invitations to go elsewhere, bought books and studied. Her mind was ripe for the knowledge she had been deprived of so long, and her progress of course was marvelous. From this time forward her life was as happy and full of sunshine as it had formerly been obscured by clouds. She married again, after a time, and this marriage was all that could be desired. Mr. Somerville was a man of culture and liberality, proud of his wife, and eager to assist her in every way. He possessed considerable literary ability, and had been a great traveler, but he was indolent, and preferred to assist his wife in her labors, rather than make an effort to become an author himself. Their union was an ideal one in its sympathetic strength. They studied, read, walked, and talked together. They became interested in mineralogy, and collected stones and minerals, spending their evenings in classifying and discussing them. They became interested in botany, in geology,-in fact, it is difficult to say what this phenomenal couple did not become interested in. Mr. Somerville's sole thought seemed to be to stimulate and encourage his wife, and it is almost impossible to estimate the effect of his companionship and sympathy upon her genius. Their tastes and position threw them into a delightful set of people, and they had the benefit of friends who never failed to teach them something. The Herschels, Dr. Whewell, the Napiers, Miss Edgeworth, Joanna Bailie, besides many others, were their intimate associates, and as Mrs. Somerville advanced in years she found new friends among the incoming generation of scientists as she had among their predecessors. After her translation of La Place's "Mechanicism of the Heavens'-a book which Sir John Herschel said not twenty men in England could read at that time-she became as well known to the French scientists as to those of England, and as she advanced in years and learning she corresponded with wise men all over the world. In Italy, France, Germany, England, and America the greatest men knew and respected Mrs. Somerville, not because she was a charming woman, but because her learning called forth their candid and unequivocal admiration. Geography," and "Molecular and Microscopic Science," works which, for profundity and research, deserve high praise. The latter portion of Mrs. Somerville's life was unusually calm and happy. She passed most of her time in Italy, wandering from one beautiful city to another, painting on the Roman Campagna, watching the stars at night in the brilliant Italian. heavens, surrounded wherever she stopped by a society of cultured and intellectual people. She lived to be ninety years old, retaining her faculties to the last, and losing none of her interest in scientific matters. 66 A few years before her own death she lost her husband and her son, Worongow Grieg, sorrows which affected her deeply, for her love for both was true and warm. She was sustained, however, by the thought that the parting would be but a short one, for she possessed a firm belief in a future existence. While liberal in all her thinking, and not bound by any theological code, she was naturally religious in temperament, and the unseen world" was very real to her. She was not a controversialist in any respects, and lived among friends of very conflicting views upon religious subjects; but though she never discussed such matters, except with those with whom she was on very intimate terms, her views and feelings were clear and decided. She was something of a Nature-worshipper, and God was to her a beneficent fatherly power, the origin of law, who both created and loved the universe. She received a pension of two hundred pounds a year from the British government, in order that she might pursue her studies without interruption, and she was a member of all the prominent scientific associations in the world. All this she accomplished through the possession of those qualities which women are supposed to lack,patience, perseverance, the faculty of waiting intelligently. Besides her translation of the "Mechanicism of the Heavens," which she not only translated, but popularized, she wrote "The Connection of the Physical Sciences," a "Physical | great enough to have discouraged a weaker nature. Mrs. Somerville's life is one which ought to be familiar to all of her sex, for she accomplished much which women are usually considered incapable of performing, and in spite of obstacles A FICTITIOUS LETTER. BY ERNEST INGERSOLL. I BELIEVE that the hardest piece of literary work I ever did, long as I have been addicted to scribbling, was in helping Van to get his wife, or rather to keep her. At college he had pulled me out of many a scrape, but this one effort of mine is deemed to have canceled all debts. If it had been a question of brains, I could not have done it; but it was just a matter of hard work. 1 The whole story is rather curious, and not a little romantic. Van was a favorite editorial writer on the same metropolitan daily newspaper to which I was attached as real-estate reporter,-a slow, plodding place, asking nothing more than steady diligence and care. He had been down to do a critical account of ceramics at the Centennial Exhibition, |