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OUR PET.

HE grouping and the scene in the painting of which on the opposite page an engraving is presented tell us of that mountain-region in a temperate clime where peaks rise in snowy grandeur toward heaven, while on the fertile plain of cultured land at their base rich fruitage repays the wine-grower's toil and blue lakes bathed in sunshine mirror the distant snow-caps; or it may be near ancient Fiesole,

"Where rolls the Contadino down

Val d'Arno with a song of old," where life still clings to the former days and knows little of the grand industrial improvements of our wonderful century. It may be a visit to some market-hamlet nestling among the hills, and the blithe young peasant, lightly clad for the tramp-for he goes on foot-with his basket, his stout staff and his trusty dog, has provided easier carriage for his girl-wife and lusty, laughing child on the sure-footed and strong-backed ass-"the unhasty beast" of Spenser.

These all conspire to form a scene which pleases by its rarity and novelty and appeals in its simple sentiment to the universal heart. "Our pet" is found in every clime and among all people. Mothers' eyes glisten, stern men grow tender, little children join the group in thought and feeling, because, with little change of environment, "our pet" is in every house and is dear to every heart. Out pet is a chief factor in a happy home.

Nay, more such a picture cannot fail to subdue us to a frame of gentle devotion by its likeness at the first glance to another group, so often portrayed, in which the infant Christ is the child, the mother that holy woman blessed to all generations, and

the peasant is enlarged into the person of her faithful and saintly husband. This, too, was a little company of three, two of whom rode upon an ass and journeyed southward, at God's command, to avoid Herod's massacre of the innocents, and came back again when the danger was over "that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, Out of Egypt have I called my Son.'

The artist who produced this pleasing picture is Mr. H. Howard of the Royal Academy; his subject is an attractive one, and his treatment of it excellent and very natural.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

JAMES SHIRLEY was born in London

1596. He was educated at Cambridge, where he took the degree of A. M., and had a curacy for some time at or near St. Albans, but, embracing Catholicism, became a schoolmaster (1623) in that town. Leaving this employment, he settled in London as a dramatic writer, and between the years 1625 and 1666 published thirty-nine plays. In the civil wars he followed his patron, the earl of Newcastle, to the field, but on the decline of the royal cause returned to London, and, as the theatres were now shut, kept a school in Whitefriars, where he educated many eminent characters. At the reopening of the theatres he must have been too old to have renewed his dramatic labors, and what benefit the Restoration brought him as a Royalist we are not informed. Both he and his wife died on the same day, immediately after the great fire of London, in A. D. 1666, by which they had been driven out of their house, and probably owed their deaths to their losses and terror on that occasion. S. O. BEETON.

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A NIGHT AT GIBRALTAR.

HOVE off, sir," said he.
"Let fall! give way!"
cried I to the men, who
sprang to their oars with
alacrity, making the boat
skim through the water
lightly and fleetly as
swallow through the air.
In less than five minutes
we were floating alongside

a

a small octangular wharf constructed of huge blocks of granite strongly cemented together. It is the only place which boats, except those belonging to the garrison or national vessels in the harbor, are permitted to approach, and, though of but a few yards square in extent, is enfiladed in several directions by frowning batteries of granite mounted with guns which by a single discharge might shiver the whole structure to atoms. quay at Merchant-vessels lying Water Port, as the principal and strongly-fortified entrance to the garrison from the bay is called.

the stone

the

"You will wait here for me," said the commodore as he stepped out of the boat; "and should I not return before the gate is closed, pull round to the Ragged Staff" (the name of the other landing-place) " and wait there."

"Ay, ay, sir!" said I, though not very well pleased at the prospect of a long and tedious piece of service, fatigued as I already was with my vigil of the previous night and the active duties of the day. The old commodore in the mean while stepped quickly over the drawbridge which connects the quay with the fortress, and presently disappeared under the massive archway of the gate.

For a while the scene which presented itself at the Water Port was of a kind from which an observant mind could not fail to draw abundant amusement. The quay beside which our boat was lying is

in the bay are unloaded by means of lighters, which, with the boats of passage continually plying between the shipping and the shore, and the market-boats from the adjacent coast of Spain, all crowd round this narrow quay, rendering it a place of singular business and bustle. As the sunset hour approaches the activity and confusion increase. Crowds of people of all nations and every variety of costume and language jostle each other as they hurry through the gate. The stately Greek in his embroidered jacket, rich purple cap and flowing capote strides carelessly along; the Jew with his bent head, shaven crown and coarse though not unpicturesque gaberdine glides with a noiseless step through the crowd, turning from side to side, as he walks, quick, wary glances from underneath his downcast brows; the Moor wrapped close in his white bernoose stalks sullenly apart, as if he alone had no business in the bustling scene, while the noisy Spaniard by his side wages an obstreperous argument or shouts in loud guttural sounds for his boat. French,

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