"" Does that seem unnatural? The difference between art and a tea-cup is the difference between the intellect and the domestic instincts. They may keep quite near, and one may help the other. If I were living in a palace of high art with nothing to do but to soar to the seventh heaven of fancy, from morning till night, I should find myself lonely in the midst of it all, for want of a little bit of sewing, or a child on my knees to talk nonsense to."

you.

Queer! You seem to have got two distinct natures in That is not common. I cannot understand it. I cannot conceive one with your tastes and aspirations stooping to such commonplace trifles which you share with the silliest of woman-kind."

"I know how you feel. I can see with your eyes, but I believe you to have a defect of vision of which you will one day be conscious. I don't think any woman is justified, or that she is studying her own interests, when she ignores the small humble charities and duties of life. In the comparison with men, she puts herself at a disadvantage, for strive as she will, she can never arrive at the masculine summit of intellectual power. The finest degree of the one kind will always overtop the finest degree of the other kind. Why then, if she must accept her inferiority with one hand, will she not hold forth her other hand filled to overflowing with that superiority which is her own? Why will she contemptuously put out that rare soft lamp, which shines brightest in her show of lights? I think it is well with the woman who has no existence out of the world of love and charity. And next to her, I think it is well with the woman who, having sterner inspirations given her by Providence for a purpose, can turn on the instant from easel, chisel, or pen, not disgusted and reluctant, but gladly, cheerfully, to do even such commonplace things as tending a sick bed, or darning a child's stocking. Even the most isolated life has need of such calls. Obedience to them entails increase of liberty, and for those who live among their kind they are never ceasing. What would you do?" Ellen says, finishing off her long speech with an arch glance,-" what would become of you if the Fates appointed marriage to be your portion in life? What a thrifty wife you would be, sitting up in your high tower holding converse with the Muses and disdaining to think of what was going to be for dinner!"

The Fates shall never play me such a trick as that," said the Norse young lady, with grave emphasis. "I will never marry. There is not a man in existence who is worth the sacrifice of a woman's life. A wife is only a slave. When a man has got his dinner, he wants nothing more of you. You may go and wash the dishes, if you please; only give him his cigar and newspaper, and don't disturb him till it is time to go to the club or play. No, I shall never marry, certainly no one who could not indulge all my tastes and allow me to enjoy the life I covet."

Ellen's head stirs disapprovingly as she thoughtfully carves at her piece of chalk.

"You don't agree with me. I suppose not. I read' dreamer' in your eyes. I dare say you could sketch me some pretty pictures of 'love in a cottage' with a maid-of-all-work in the background spilling your 'medium' over the carpet."

“I am no more given to silly sentimentalism than you are. The question, as I should view it, would be 'Did I care enough for anyone to spend my life with him, anywhere?' That well answered, the 'where' would be of small consequence. A cottage would do quite as well as any place else."

Ellen begins fanning herself vigorously with the large end of a T square. The Norse young lady sits quietly looking at her, till the reluctant eyes are forced to raise themselves a little haughtily to those other ones of pale blue above. Then the blonde face breaks out into another of its smiles, which come forth shyly, as if they had escaped from control, and were doubtful about the consequences; smiles which are invariably kept in check by a certain shadow of reservation in the eyes, a cool preoccupation which never gives way, even when mirth curves the calm lips, and dimples the fair cheeks with temporary pinkness.

"You and I are not like young ladies apt to make confidences, are we?" she says with her smile. "By the way," she adds, abruptly, "if we sit here together, we shall have to speak sometimes. What shall I call you?"

Ellen silently pointed to her name in the corner of her drawing-board.

"And here is my name," says the Norselander, lifting the corner of her scarlet book. Ellen read "Felicia Rothwell."

"Now we know one another," says Felicia.

"A little" (with a doubtful look).

There is private

"Lo! here are the troops returning with forces replenished to make a fresh attack upon the citadel of art. Mary Blank, who wants to be' a general.

girl, go home! "

Oh! you sleepy

ROSA MULHOLLAND GILBert.

(To be continued.)

WILL-O'-THE-WISP
WILL-O'-THE-WISP, and his candle yellow!
Who would seek him and find him,
Hold him and bind him,

Sure were no fool but a cunning fellow !

In inist and in twilight hushes,

He flitters and dances

Among green lances

Of shivering, thin-spread, watery rushes.

There he steals on the dark path, turning
By the wet bog-mosses-

A black pool crosses

Whist! he's up in the stars, a-burning!

Will-o'-the-wisp, and his vagaries!

Could Aibhel catch him,

Or Cleena match him,

Or Maeve, the Queen of the Connaught Fairies?

ALICE FURLONG.

CHILD LITERATURE *

II.

OME years ago, when the famous discussion took place as to the hundred books best worth reading, Sir Henry Irving was asked for his opinion. The distinguished tragedian replied gracefully that he was not learned enough to enter into the subject fully, but that he could mention two books worthy of all honour-the Bible and Shakespeare.

The present writer would like to add a humble "hear! hear!" to the above statement, and furthermore to note, as the result of rather long experience, that children, at a very early age, enjoy and appreciate the two books mentioned; both direct from the author's hand. Lamb's Shakespeare has been read in the nursery without enthusiasm; other Shakespeares for the infant mind have been received with equal coolness; but Shakespeare by the Bard of Avon has never failed to arouse the children's warmest sympathies. In the paraphrase the stories are rendered faithfully enough, but the graceful fantasies, the pretty turns of thought are missing, and somehow the youngsters seem to be aware of it. The writer remembers reading in "The Merchant of Venice," Antonio's lament over his lost argosies, and his complaint that the storms had "robed the roaring waters in his silks." The children stopped at once to realize the picture. In the same play, Launcelot Gobbo's hesitation between his conscience and the fiend, and the rascal's droll description of it, always elicit a hearty laugh from juvenile auditors :

"My conscience says, 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot; scorn running with thy heels,' Well, the more courageous fiend bids me pack. Via!' says the fiend, 'away! rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend and run.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well; conscience, say I, you counsel well.' To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master; who (bless the mark), is a kind of devil: and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend; who (saving your presence),

*See IRISH MONTHLY, Vol. xxxiii. p. 344.

is the devil himself. My conscience is a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, friend; my heels are at thy commandment. I will run !"

And so he does, at full speed.

Perhaps the scene most dearly loved of all in the nursery I remember, was that in which Prince Arthur pleads for his eyesight with stern Hubert in "King John." "Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?" Hubert-"Young boy, I must." Arthur-" And will Arthur-" And will you?" Hubert-“And I

will." It is interesting to note the gentle ingenuity with which the poor little prince turns the jailer away from his terrible purpose. Have you the heart?" he says. "When your head did but ache, I bound my handkerchief about your brows; the best I had; a princess wrought it me, and I did never ask it you again. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did, nor never will so much as frown on you. Lo! by my troth, the instrument is cold, and will not harm me." Hubert-“I can heat it, boy." Arthur-"No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief; there is no malice burning in this coal, the breath of heaven has blown its spirit out, and strewed repentant ashes on its head." And so, at last, the little fellow gains his case, and Hubert says, "Well! see to live, I will not touch thine eyes, for all the treasure that thine uncle owns."

As the writer turns over the old Shakespeare to make sure that the quotations are correct, various finger-marks and blotches come to light, left there by little readers who cried over Prince Arthur's sorrows long ago.

There is another branch of the subject, proceeding not unnaturally from the first, which may be introduced perhaps appropriately. In this age of ours, when children's plays are often full of stupidity and bad manners, it is hopeful to see how willingly the youngsters rise to better things when set upon the upward path. Many of Shakespeare's finest plays have been interpreted by youthful players. "As You Like It" was produced not long ago, so excellently that one of the audience declared that he had not seen a better "Touchstone" on the veritable stage. And, under the same direction, year by year, the King of Playwrights sees the light again : old Shylock walks once more "on the Rialto;" Lady Macbeth glides by, wailing