ed us a great service, Mr. Besant. My niece and I have joined this season a Monday class in Literature. Mrs. Hunt, a severe scholar and a most gifted and delightful speaker, gives a conversational lecture, and the class ask questions and take part in the discussion which follows. The note-book that my niece values so highly contains her notes and private comments upon these lectures. Besant. What a temptation to claim a reward! If I could see those abstracts! My notes are Julie. Not for worlds! quite private. day, Mr. Besant? We shall be just in from the lecture on Goethe, and we can talk that over. [The young men take leave together. Mrs. Stewart, who has an engagement, leaves the room also. But as she goes out, Julie asks, with some excitement: Julie. Aunt Marcia, do you suppose he has seen my note-book ? Mrs. Stewart. No, child. But if he has, it may do him good. Julie (resuming her low chair by the fire, and opening the note-book). M—m— Mrs. Stewart. Mr. Besant would doubt- do him good. I have my doubts. He less be an admirable critic. Besant. Oh, not a critic! Mrs. Stewart. We are learning to express ourselves, but we feel our incapacity more strongly than our capacity, so far. Julie. Mrs. Hunt shows us feminine possibilities. Besant. Are her lectures entirely vate? seems very much interested in Mrs. Hunt, but this is chiefly JULIE GRESHAM: HER BOOK. [Turning the leaves, and reading to herself.] Margaret Fuller lecture. Her early studies-prodigious cramming. Mem. read Béranger. Enviable friendships. This is fine: 'By the conpri-versation of an hour or two, could not merely entertain and inform, but make an epoch in one's life.' Idols and idealswhy do women never have both ? Who wants idols? I do. Even Margaret wasn't satisfied with ransacking the universe. The Italian story is simply heartbreaking. Ossoli ? (That plastron of steel ornaments is effective with her pale hair. I might try it in jet.) Never was anything in finer keeping than her death. 'Twas a part of her Fate. Mrs. Hunt's profile is so funny: it looks like an ill-made doll." [Turning the pages.] "Wednesday. Aunt Marcia lectured to-day. Says I spend money 'recklessly.' Why shouldn't I? Mrs. Stewart. Oh, very strictly so. She is a charming woman—a wonderful combination of the intellectual and the womanly qualities. She has told me herself that it would be impossible for her to say a single word in public. Spencer. Now why is that? I don't understand it, you know. Besant. No, if she really has something to say. The public is not carnivorous, in these days. Mrs. Stewart (coldly). She has true instincts, and the most delicate sensibilities. Besant (trying to hedge). She couldn't do anything finer or better worth while I'm sure she's careful enough for than just what she has undertaken. What two. I'll never, never, never marry a litan inspiring opportunity! Why, it's a tle man." Oh, Julie Gresham! what a kind of intellectual and spiritual diamond-note-book to leave lying about for strange polishing. The most precious work con- young men! I must find out whether he ceivable. opened it. Mrs. Stewart (much placated). I'm very glad you don't underrate it. That's a pretty illustration. I think it would please Mrs. Hunt, Julie. Besant (rising to go). Believe me, I feel the deepest interest in the subject. (To Julie.) May I not hear something more of it ?-another time? Julie (looking at her aunt). I don't know. In virtue of the note-book-I | think-perhaps-if you claim a right of out-door relief, your claims will be considered. Mrs. Stewart. Won't you come with your friend and lunch with us next Mon II. SCENE.-Mrs. Stewart's drawing-room. Five-o'clock tea on a Monday. It has become during the past six weeks quite a matter of course to find Tom Besant discussing literature with Mrs. Stewart on Monday, either at her lunch table or later in the day; but just now she is alone. She greets Brook Spencer as he enters very kindly and familiarly. Spencer (who has been most devoted to Miss Gresham all winter). How is Miss Julie to-day? Mrs. Stewart. Julie isn't quite herself: she has a little nervous headache. I advised her to lie down after lunch, but I think she will come and have a cup of tea. Spencer (evidently embarrassed). I ah-I'm glad to find you alone. I-ah- He makes me positively dizzy. Jean Valjean, now-isn't he dreadful? He gave me bad dreams for a week. I wanted to speak to you in confidence. Do you do you think I'm making any headway with Miss Julie? She's so clever-she turns you around in such a wayI-I-don't really understand her, you know. Mrs. Stewart. Bless you! I don't understand her myself, though I've made her my chief object for five years, and my most conscientious study. As I told you before, she's in a very independent position. She's as free as any girl in New York, and that's saying a good deal. Her fortune is in her own right; her guardian takes excellent care of her business interests, but never advises her in social or personal matters. She keeps her intentions quite private. I can do nothing-absolutely nothing except to wish you well. Spencer. Oh, thank you! You have always been too kind. [Enter Julie, a little pale and quiet. At the same moment Besant is announced. Besant. Good-afternoon, ladies. How are you, Brook? Well, how's Mrs. Hunt to-day? [He arranges Julie's chair, brings a cushion for her, hands her tea, and | places himself beside her-all in the easiest manner. Although the party is so small, he succeeds in addressing a word occasionally to her ear alone. Mrs. Stewart. Julie was fully in sympathy with the lecture this morning, but I'm afraid I wasn't. Besant. How was that? Mrs. Stewart. For one thing, French is difficult reading with me; but that's not all. The subject was Victor Hugo, you remember. Besant. 'Most too much for her, wasn't Julie. But he's so grand, Aunt Marcia. You must admit his sentiments-though I despise calling them sentiments-his whole atmosphere is really quite above this world. Mrs. Stewart. Oh yes; he's all in the clouds to me-when he isn't in the gutters. Spencer. But one can't have everything. Poetry, now-the thing itself—it seems to me it isn't exactly Frenchy. Besant. Quite right. It's both too severe and too simple for the French mind. Too noble and too delicate. You shouldn't ask a monkey to skate; he can't-he's all hands.-(It's about Mrs. Hunt.)-But Hugo reaches as high and goes as deep as anybody. He isn't a Frenchman, he's a poet. Spencer. But isn't he rather-rather volcanic? We expect so much polish. A French play, now-it's so finished. Besant. Yes, the French want to form everything. But poetry won't be cut and dried. It prefers to bubble.-(I've seen her!) Mrs. Stewart. Julie, how's your head? Julie. Your good tea has done wonders for me; or perhaps it's the conversation [smiling at Besant]. There's one of Hugo's theories that I adopted at once. Do you remember? "The useless is needed in happiness. Happiness is only the essential. Season it for me with the superfluous." Besant. Do you claim that? I thought it was mine. Julie. The French can be sentimental enough over their poetry. Mlle. Antoine used to sigh and cast up her eyes over the tiresome old things that she made us recite in school. Besant. Oh, we can always say 'De gustibus,' but it's great nonsense, for we do dispute about questions of taste, as a mat Julie. Certainly; about beauty, for instance. Aunt Marcia, do you think Mrs. Hunt is handsome? Mrs. Stewart. N-no; not exactly handsome; her face is too intellectual for mere beauty. it ? Mrs. Stewart. But he is so startling. Julie (looking studiously away from Besant). And she's too petite for the grand style. You couldn't call her beautiful, but I believe she is much admired. Besant (to Julie). I call her decidedly plain. Mrs. Stewart. I beg pardon? Besant. I have heard her spoken of as | plain. The arrangements are all made, and there [Spencer, who finds Besant a little Mrs. Stewart (with much disgust). Besant. What gave you a headache? Julie. I never confess to any one but my note-book. Besant. Doesn't that inviolable notebook belong partly to me? Mrs. Stewart. I'm exceedingly sorry she should be so unwise as to be persuaded to such a step. One would think she might be satisfied with the éclat she has already. Nothing is more flattering than an exclu Julie. You know best whether you are sive success like hers. an accessory after the fact. Spencer. Do you know, I believe Tom Besant. I'm not afraid to share any- Besant has as much to do with her plans thing with you. Julie. Ah! that's not the question. Mrs. Stewart. Julie, shall you feel equal to keeping your engagement for the evening? Julie. Oh yes, Aunt Marcia; I'm a failure as an invalid. Spencer. Which way are you going, Besant. I'll walk down with you. III. Easter-Monday. Mrs. Stewart has spent the morning in her room. To the disappointment of the ladies composing it, Mrs. Hunt's lecture class was given up during Lent. "Just when we had nothing else to do!" as the lively Miss Van Benschoten declared, with some impatience. Miss Gresham has gone out quietly by herself. It is one o'clock, and she has not come in, but Mr. Spencer has. Mrs. Stewart. I never wait lunch for her. She is more comfortable with that understanding. But I think she will soon be in. Spencer (with an air of mystery). I have a bit of strange news for you both. as any one. Mrs. Stewart. What do you mean? Spencer. I have reason to think he has advised her "coming out," as he calls it. She has consulted with him, and he knows just what the papers will say of her. Mrs. Stewart. Extraordinary! Spencer. Yes, he says "she's managed her cards splendidly.' Mrs. Stewart. You astonish me! Spencer. Have you never thought, dear Mrs. Stewart, that Besant is a little tooah-too pushing? Not Mrs. Stewart. I don't know what to say. He is certainly most entertaining, and I have liked him very much. exactly one of us, you understand, but agreeable and most obliging. But this strange affair is incomprehensible! Mrs. Stewart. Have you? Then don't wait for Julie. I will give you lunch and you shall give me news. Now this is cozy, over our chocolate. If they are both Julie cold when Julie comes in, it is her own fault. Spencer. It's about your favorite, Mrs. Hunt. There's a rumor afloat that she's been on the stage. Mrs. Stewart. Mere spiteful gossip. Spencer. That mayn't be true; still, you'll be disappointed in her. She's going to lecture at Chickering Hall. Mrs. Stewart. A public lecture! Impossible! Spencer. Oh, I'm quite sure about it. [At this moment a loud ring is heard. Enter Besant with Julie on his arm. Both look a little excited. Julie wears a very delicate silvery spring costume, and has an unusual color in her cheek. Besant is pale. Julie slips from him, passes swiftly round the table, and throws her arms round her aunt's neck. Besant (at the same Mrs. Stewart Spencer (together). sible! Amazing! Besant (recovering himself). Amazing, perhaps, but not impossible. The notebook did it. Julie. He would never tell me whether he had read it, but now I shall find out. Besant. And even Mrs. Hunt is longer "quite private." no GOLDE CINC INCINNATI is like London. In the heat of summer or in the cold of winter you look up through the laden atmosphere and see a cheerful sphere of burnished copper doing duty for the sun. The air is filled with the wholesome carbon that is said to confer upon chimney-sweeps a complete immunity from all contagion, and which enjoys the credit of making London one of the healthiest cities in the world. Cincinnati, like London, also has its occasional river fog, when the white vapors of the Ohio invade the streets, arrest and mingle with the smoke, immerse all things in obscurity, and convert the creations of architects, great and small, into noble masses, free from all smallness or meanness of detail. This smoke of Cincinnati is as invaluable to the eye of the disinterested artist who concerns himself with the physical aspect of the city as it is dispensable with to the Cincinnatian. Like all communities in the great valley of the West, its VOL. LXVII-No. 398.-16 fuel is identical in effect with the same economical, heat-giving, and smoke-begetting coal that gives to the English town its grimy, inky hue, and to our own Pittsburgh that complexion which baffles all description. It imparts its distinctive color and a variety of quality to the Cincinnati landscape, which, considered together with the situation and topography of the town, make it one of the most picturesque of American cities. Nothing can well be finer than the view from the bridge at the mouth of the Licking, or from the high bank further down the river, when the wind is blowing from the Kentucky side. In front the great Ohio rolls its broad yellow tide. Great bridges span it here and there, and busy boats ply from side to side. At every point great steamers are warped to the shore two and three deep-most unnavigable-looking craft, huge edifices of flimsy wood, all windows, doors, and rail ings, miniature piazzas, long verandas, awnings; and great chimneys, one on each side, interlaced together by all manner of cross-bars and stays, and each ending in a violent mitred decoration, reminding one of nothing so much as of the paper pantalets which adorn the broiled lamb chop. They are huge structures of wood, some propelled by side wheels, others with one great wheel across the stern, which makes them look like saw-mills gone astray, all fresh in the glory of white paint, and adorned with names instinct with legends of wild races on the moon-lit waters, of great games of poker, and of grand explosions. Nowadays, however, they have become very commonplace in their functions compared with what they were in the old days of the river, but they remain the agents of a great and thriving industry. Else why the crowd of vehicles of all kinds and of noisy men of all classes that fills that wide and steep slope of de batable land between the water and the houses, that dusty strip which the river, being low, does not contest just now, and which is known as the levee? It might be the commerce of a nation which is crowded upon it-every conceivable merchandise, in bale and barrel and box and crate and sack, destined everywhere, and carried and tugged and shouted at by negroes and whites alike. Behind all of this scene of nervous and active life rises the city, marked out in broad masses of light and shadow, compact upon the lower plateau, and steadily climbing and effacing the hills round about it. These glimpses are had of it when the propitious air lifts the dense curtain that rises from Cincinnati's countless industries, mingles it with the clouds, and hangs the sky with fantastic draperies of changing vapor. The exterior of Cincinnati is as deep in color as that of London. Its trees are of the same ebony as those in the London parks, and its stone and brick work has the same disposition to solemn black. It has less of newness and of the ephemeral virtues of fresh paint than perhaps any other of our cities, and courts instead the air of a serious and well-rooted prosperity, founded in the antiquities and traditions of its less than a century of existence. About it, in the suburbs, at Clifton, and even within the city limits, artists do not fail to find abundant material. The canal, which is known as the "Rhine," and which is a sort of territorial line of de |