tures are often portraits of his own family. Its chandelier and candelabra are crystals But give them me,-the mouth, the eyes, the Mr. Nast's house is a plain one, treeshaded and surrounded by a massive rustic fence of red cedar. The vestibule and hall of the house are floored with glossy tiles of warm reds and browns. Some large paintings of scenes in our war by Mr. Nast, that hang in the roomy vestibule, as well as other objects about the house, the soldiers' and sailors' silver vase, for example, that was given him in war-time,-show how his history is one with the nation's during the last twenty years. He himself was once a soldier in his youth he fought under Garibaldi. On the right of the vestibule are entrances to the library and parlor; at the end is the door of the dining-room. The library is furnished with dark carpets, hangings, and furniture; the parlor beyond, seen through a draped arch, with light ones: and this has a cheerful effect; for, on entering, One of the oil-paintings is a view, by you look from the dark room through Mr. Nast, of the Hudson River, as seen into the light parlor beyond, glittering from the windows of a house where he with its crystal chandelier and its many used to live, done in four sections, on ornaments. Besides its rich and com- four different days, and thus forming fortable furniture, the library contains a delicious little diorama of four kinds many pictures and multitudinous works of sunniness and cloudiness. Another of art, whose description would fill a vol- oil-painting is supposed to be a Turner. ume. Among them are panels of antique It must be. At first glance it is apparcarving, real antique vases, carved boxes ently a sketch of a smoke-house with of ivory, pearl, and jade, and Japanese the door left open. You can't see and Chinese bronzes wonderfully faithful whether hams or chops are inside. But, to life and worthy of study. It is a looking again, you find it is a huge Shakespeare-room. Shakespeare's mask swirl of summer weather and windy hangs over the arch, and full-length tiles sunshine, with signs of coming mist, of Touchstone and Audrey, and wood-blowing over an English down. One of land scenes from "Midsummer Night's Dream" and "As You Like It," in tiles, adorn the mantel-piece. Moreover, Shakespeare's epitaph serves for the fireplace-motto,— -a flash of humor that would never occur to any one else having shown Mr. Nast how neatly it would fit a hearth: Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear The parlor is a rich and interesting room, furnished in light delicate tints and in the style of the First Empire. the plaques is of a kind of pâte made in many successive layers, each layer requiring a separate baking, each baking involving the risk of breakage. In this plaque the artist has revived the Greek goodness and beauty; he has caught the spirit of " many an old forgotten phrasing of Orphic hymn." The figure is in low relief, and represents a heavenly girl filling her water-jar at a fountain in a garden. The cool, white limbs of the girl gleam through her transparent drapery, her tunic has a Grecian hem of red, the water-jar is flame-colored, and in the green and leafy garden-back ground is a sapphire vase of the purest form. "O Attic shape! Fair attitude!" What happiness always to behold so graceful a leaning posture and such Grecian drapery! It con The dining-room, an apartment having a polished floor and a large bay-window, is worthy to be called by the old Saxon name "inn," meaning chamber. tains four-hundred-year-old armor, onehundred-year-old chairs covered with Spanish leather, two-hundred-year-old tiles in its chimney, from an old English home, centuries-old brass sconces, ancient Flemish and Norwegian drinking-cups and candlesticks; and these antiquities were Mr. Nast's before the acquisition of such articles became fashionable. The sideboard bears a precious service dug up at Hildesheim, once the property of a Roman general, and curious as showing how a Roman consul used to spread his board. It consists of an immense wine-cooler and many and various dishes of white bronze, ornamented in alto rilievo of incredible richness, executed with what would now be called photographic fidelity to nature and in a style of perfection unknown to modern art. A head of old Silenus smiles out from the bottom of one of the dishes in such high relief as to be almost entirely detached. The wrought brass about the dining-room chimney has, in the fender, a flight of four-and-twenty blackbirds around the fireplace, the fat, pompous, comfortable old king counting out his money, her royal highness eating bread and honey, the nice maid, in her old fashioned bonnet, hanging out the clothes, and the royal pair at dinner, with the birds breaking the pie-crust and into song at the same time,- -an admirable work. The stained glass of the diningroom windows and doors exhibits the twelve signs of the zodiac in original designs e.g., Virgo is a sweet young lady in a pretty hat and necklace. The room also contains tall crystal vases, Satsuma ware, a majolica basket of fish in bold relief and bright color, shiny as if with sea-foam, and other works of art | too numerous to mention. It would be agreeable to spend a whole morning looking at a set of Wedgwood dessertplates, decorated in a vein of joyous humor quite unusual, duplicates of a set owned by Doré. The decorations depict rabbits undergoing various adventures with wondering, stupid, timid faces and little airs of bewilderment and trouble funny enough: as where on one plate a meek-looking rabbit meets two big, gay, fierce roosters. A whole world of art is contained in the upper rooms, the most interesting of which is the studio, an apartment of busy and multifarious yet orderly aspect. In fact, the entire habitation is in perfect order. Everything has the spotless lustre of good housekeeping. The glazed tiles at the backs of the fireplaces and the burnished andirons and grates are free from the least smirch of soot, and not a grain of dust is visible on the many mirrors, marbles, vases, bronzes, and draperies about the house. Mr. Nast draws at a large desk near one of the windows of his studio. The room is rich in suggestions of history, letters, and all life and art. The floor is of polished inlaid wood, partly hidden by a Persian carpet. Many curious and attractive objects are gathered in the room. There are statues of glorious Phoebus Apollo and the fighting gladiator, and old line-engravings, and above the chimney mirror a skull in a helmet with an old feather stuck in it. walls are covered with pictures; the book-case is full of books, and the tables are piled with them. Stacks of fresh newspapers and books occupy the shelves of Mr. Nast's desk, and photographs of all the celebrities in the world fill many of its drawers. A greyhound lies fast asleep on a sofa among portfolios of pictures behind the artist as he works. Furthermore, the studio is Mrs. Nast's sewing-room, and there are her worktable and her work-basket, heaped with work. Such an affluence of occupation is in this pleasant room. The MARY DEAN. THE OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. The Degraded Ideal. HERE has lately come out a clever, well-written, although misnamed little story called "A Latter-Day Saint." It is said to be the first book of a very young man. It betrays, however, none of the awkwardness and inexperience of youth either in the style or the construction of the tale. It is a rapid, colloquial, slangy descant, conveying a strong impression of the heroine's individuality, for it is in autobiographical form, but with the smooth, even tone which is generally the result of practice. The narrative consists of a succession of lively incidents and conversations, the interest, kept at a moderate pitch, never flags, and time passes quickly until the last page is turned. Yet on laying down the book I found that I was not amused, but in a state of depression. So this is the picture of a young girl of the present day, painted by a contemporary young man. This heartless, mercenary, meanly-ambitious, hypocritical creature is the type of maidenhood and womanhood as they present themselves most familiarly to him. The heroine is not The heroine is not a monster: she has plenty of what is called human nature, but it is nearly all of a bad sort. The only good impulse which she follows-to her unending regret subsequently-is to refuse a man whom she respects but does not love, because his offer is made in a moment of mistaken chivalry, of which she will not take advantage. He is a good match, but he bores her; she is fond of another man, and means to marry a third who combines the position and disposition which will best promote her aims. As a girl she restrains her spirits and sacrifices her enjoyment for the end she has in view; having gained that end, as a married woman no consideration is a check upon her in her career of social insolence and dissipation. That she does not go wrong altogether is due partly to her heartlessness and shallow ness, partly to the fact that the men with whom she has to do are better than herself. An illness that robs her of her beauty is the cause of her "conversion," which is merely a change of tactics. 66 Irene Macgillicuddy" was the first story of this kind,-the memoirs of a young lady, written by a man,—and no doubt started the fashion which has been followed in "The Confessions of a Frivolous Girl," "A Latter-Day Saint," and possibly more of the same sort. But the last is the worst. Irene marries for love in spite of herself; the Frivolous Girl is nothing worse than frivolous,— she cannot properly be called fast; but the type continues to deteriorate until it produces Ethel Jones. None of these heroines are interesting in themselves, nor are they attractive or edifying as specimens of their sex. Yet they do not strike us as unnatural or even unusual, and they are evidently well known to their authors, and the result of observation. If we look back half a century, what a contrast we find between the heroines of those days and of these! What a gallery of charming female figures the novels present from Sir Walter Scott to Thackeray! Nobody can bring the charge of insipidity against such girls as the daring Diana Vernon or the saucy Julia Mannering. But they may be a little out of date: so let us glance over but twenty-five years. Between 1850 and 1875 we have Laura Bell and Ethel Newcome, Lily Dale and Violet Effingham, a daughter of Heth and the Princess of Thule,-half a dozen names which occur to me at random. Are these lovely portraits to be replaced in the present decade by such studies as Irene Macgillicuddy and Ethel Jones, and is it America who is to give this new type to literature? It is a sad and startling change, and there is but one class of society to blame for it, the young women. Men have created the ideal of woman; poets, novel-writers, and moralists have evolved the radiant image from the qualities and characteristics which they found among the common attributes of the other sex. If these attributes cease to exist, like an exhausted vein of precious ore, a failing spring, or an extinct species of flower, what becomes of the ideal? It fades and vanishes; something different appears in its stead; the ideas, sentiments, and emotions it inspired change with it; even love wears an altered face. So enlightened a class as the young ladies who have furnished the studies for the new description of woman do not need anybody to point out to them the effect of the change upon men. It will react directly upon themselves: it has reacted to some degree already. To go no deeper into a subject which is truly a theme for a sermon, girls had better stop before it is too late, and ask themselves whether they prefer to appear to men as phantoms of delight and creatures of enchantment, or as "good fellows" who are to harden into such loveless and unlovable masks as Ethel Jones. M. S. An Old Family Heirloom. ONE of the most interesting things of the kind that I ever saw belonged-I may say belongs to the Frau Baronin von Sof a certain South-German city. It is a Bilderbuch made by her great-great-grandmother, and, as the Frau Baronin is herself a grandmother, it can hardly be less than a hundred and fifty years old. Probably it is a good deal older, though I do not think I heard its date mentioned. The book is made of great sheets of paper, at least three feet broad by two high, and each picture covers two opposite pages. They are all drawn with much spirit, and beautifully colored in pastels and water-colors. It is entirely the work of the great-greatgrandmother, and gives a wonderfully vivid idea of the manners and customs of a noble German family of that date. The great-great-grandfather was burgomeister of Augsburg, and the first picture of the series represents the Rath haus and the great square, and the greatgreat-grandfather driving up in a coachand-four, with a guard behind and a runner before him. The square is filled with people of various ranks of life, all dressed precisely in the costume of the time. Each of the figures was drawn and painted separately and then cut out and glued into its place. One could not but remark how each figure had its own perfectly life-like expression and action, the positions being entirely natural and every detail of dress or occupation most accurately observed. Every one was quaint and old-fashioned, of course,—a flock of geese crossing the square being the only nineteenth-century characters in the scene. The great fountain in the centre of the square was beautifully done; and whoever goes to Augsburg to-day will find it precisely as it is in the picture of a century and a half ago. The second picture shows the greatgreat-grandfather's house,—a little vague as to the perspective of angles and projecting windows, but the guard before the door as natural as life. Then follow representations of room after room, all of them occupied by people engaged in all sorts of pursuits. The great-greatgrandfather's bedroom is there, with that dignitary himself in robe de chambre and night-cap, his toilet-apparatus outspread before him, and various servants brushing his clothes and assisting generally. His breakfast is laid out upon a neighboring table, and looks still quite hot and appetizing. The doors of the wardrobe are open, and disclose his various elegant costumes, his hats and slippers, his perukes and pin-cushions and prayer-book, and those rolls and piles of linen so dear to the thrifty heart of German, whether man or woman. Other pages go into details no less amusing and representative. There is a marriage, a ball, and a baptism; there are dinners, receptions, garden-parties, nurseries full of children, kitchens, cellars, laundries, store-rooms,-everything, in fact, that one can imagine it possible for a great-great-grandfather, burgomeister of Augsburg, to possess. Everything was so exactly represented that the Frau Baronin, as she turned the pages, could point out the very articles which she had inherited,-a clock here, a cup and saucer there, a crucifix from the library, a certain set of pitchers hanging in a row among many others in the store room, and three rows of copper saucepans in the kitchen. Among such a number of articles very nearly alike, it was odd to see her point out the very ones that had fallen to her share. "This blue china pitcher is now my daughter's," she would say, putting her finger down upon a stolid servant-maid pouring out beer for a gentleman playing solitaire in a window - seat. The people were doing all sorts of things,—all with expressions suited to the occasion: children being punished in the nursery, young ladies flirting in the drawingroom, servants stealing fruit in the gardens or engaged in the same pleasing pastime of flirting among each other. For a staid German household there seemed to be a great deal of that sort of thing, and the Frau Baronin said she thought her ancestors must have been a rather coquettish set of people. When she was a little girl, she said, the number of affectionate tête-à-têtes in the book used to shock her, at the same time giving her a great deal of what she supposed to be very naughty satisfaction. L. S. H. Stories of the Confessional. EVERY one who has lived long in the south of Europe knows how amusing and innocent anecdotes of the confessional abound there, anecdotes which reflect neither upon priest nor penitent, yet which have the peculiarly piquant flavor inherent in a joke which touchesthough never so lightly-upon forbidden subjects. One of these was told to the writer by an earnest, active priest, unsparing of himself and of others. Padre is from the north of Italy, and quite unused to the unspeakable and unconquerable laziness of the Roman peasant. It happened, therefore, that on the occasion of the first confession it fell to his lot to hear after his appointment to the church VOL. VII. N. S.-21 of San- in Rome, he was astonished to find that it behooved him to do the penitent's work as well as his own, and that he had to question and suggest and question again until fairly wearied out. So, being a conscientious man, he called the peasant back after he had given him absolution, and said, "You must come better prepared next time. You must see that to-day it was I who made the confession, and not you. You had evidently made no examination of conscience; and so I warn you that the next time you come I shall ask you nothing until you yourself have begun your confession. It is your duty to think over all you have done and left undone, and to make your own examination of conscience; then I can aid you with questions; but it is not right or for your good that I should do it all." The peasant sulked and shuffled, but made no reply to this harangue. However, it was not very long before he came again, and Padre nothing if not thorough, placed his watch before him, and allowed himself twenty minutes to wait for the confession to begin. The minute-hand crept round to five minutes,-ten,-fifteen,— seventeen,-when the penitent said, in an injured and irritated tone, "Ebbene, tu non mi dice niente ?" ("Well, have you got nothing at all to say to me?") who is Quite different was good and gentle Father O'B's method of procedure. He was never in Rome, and lived and died in the great republic. His penitents used to say of him that if they confessed any sin he was wont to say hastily, in a distressed tone of voice, "There, mee chyeld, there! I know ye didn't mane to do it. Pass on to the next p'int." "Oh, yes, but I did intend to do it. I did it knowingly, Father O'B—.” "Oh, mee chyeld, I hope not. I hope ye didn't, for that would be decaytful, ye know, and unkind. I think ye didn't mane to do it. Pass on to the next p'int, mee chyeld." Even a better story is told of Father McB- a Dominican monk, and a good, energetic, but absent-minded man. |