sensibility shed a light over her countenance, while the soft shadows of her own thought seem flitting over it. We see depicted there a yearning for the little one that would guard it from all life's roughnesses and annoyances; an anxiety to wring from the coming years their secrets of its destiny; and over all a prayerful, appealing look, as of one whose hands are all too feeble for the sacred trust of her young immortal, and who would invoke all ministering angels to aid in the task.

Bougniet has given us in this picture an elevated sentiment, which overpowers and obliterates all sense of the elegant accessories that furnish the setting. It is substantially the same story as if told in a peasant's hut on the Pyrenees, or recited by some wandering mendicant in the gay streets of Paris or Rome, or listened to in some region where a child's cradle is fast

We

ened to swinging branches, and rocked by the lulling breeze. Singing brooks and leafy forests, and golden harvest fields, the highways and by-ways of both civilized and savage life, have all heard this story of a mother's love for her offspring; and there are few hearts in the whole world that do not contain a shrine to the Madonna, or sacred motherhood of humanity. would not care for the conventional elegance of their work, if these painters of fashionable life would only give us oftener glimpses of the soul working from within. to satisfy the hungering and thirsting after something better than mere dry details and empty ornamentation. As it is, we must analyze and dissect, and if possible, save ourselves from a shower of false art, which will prove as pernicious as one of Pharaoh's plagues poured out over the land. Jessie Wentworth.

H

ERE, from this window, I take in so wide and extended a view that I could fill a volume with the history and associations of the different houses. There is the Government Printing Office, — the largest in the world, where tons of paper are used each month, and where many hundreds are employed of both sexes. It seems very praiseworthy to employ women in this department. Folding, stitching, feeding the press, and other light work, are as well and as rapidly performed by women as by men; and if this practice of giving light work of all kinds to women becomes general, it will soon have the salutary effect of sending many of our strong, healthy young men into the vast mountain regions of the West, to dig out the hidden treasures for the enriching of the nation: or into the wide, deep forests of the North, where the mighty trees stand patiently awaiting the hand of man to convert them to use. Then will the strength of their manhood be fully developed, and the pale white faces and tapered fingers no more be "the thing," when associated with broadcloth and whiskers. Into the vast fur regions of the farthest North they will be

found, hardening their physique and developing their strength, as well as acquiring princely wealth.

All the public documents of the Government are printed and bound in this office, and the entire range of Government printing is done here. The building is large and well arranged, and no place in the city will better pay the tourist for his visit,-in watching the ponderous presses perform their Herculean tasks, and in examining the stereotyping and binding departments.

A few years since, on the completing of the necessary addition to the building, the interesting ceremony was performed of unveiling a fine bust of Franklin, over the eastern entrance. This is conceded to be one of the best ever done in marble of the great printer, and was the work of Mr. Lot Flannery of our city, the same who made the statue of Lincoln in front of City Hall.

There have been grave charges against the present Superintendent of Government printing, who, it is said, is enriching himself at the expense of the United States Treasury. It is charged that the cost to the Government during his administration of the printing, has been many thousand

excited. People rushed anxiously to and fro, endeavoring to get something tangible. But not till the next day was there any thing upon which to build our hopes or fears. Then came news of the "Battle of the Wilderness," near Spottsylvania Court House. It was a victory, but a dear one. We had lost a great many men. All inquiries as to the fate of the "11th" were futile for a few days. My husband and myself went from place to place to get tidings. It rained, but we thought not of the weather; we rode in the street cars where we could, and walked on the other routes. At last the ambulances commenced coming in with the wounded, and they were taken to Douglass Hospital. Then came news that the 11th was cut to pieces, and nearly all the officers killed. We went to the Surgeon-General's, but could hear nothing; then to the Douglass Hospital. We asked for the wounded of the 11th. Yes, there were two there, and would soon be more. We came to the first, a private, with a very ill-looking face. We asked about Lieutenant Nealy. "Yes, he was killed," he said. "He was captured by the Rebs and then bayoneted; he saw it."

Strange it was, but true, I did not believe him. He looked to me as if he were lying. I afterwards ascertained that he knew nothing whatever about my son. He was private in his company, and for some misdemeanor he had been obliged to send him to the guard house on the very eve of battle. His "wish was father to his thought," and to indulge a petty spite against his officer, he had told his mother that her son was dead.

We next went down stairs, and found a poor soldier in a delirium of fever. We asked if he knew anything about Lieutenant Nealy. "Yes, Nealy, poor fellow, was killed," he answered. This was enough. I dropped to the floor and was carried home. Week after week I suffered. I dwelt in a black, black cave, where all was utter darkness. At the end of a week or ten days there came a letter from his Captain, confirming all, and saying that his things, left with the regiment, would be sent home the first opportunity. His body had not been found, but he had been seen on the field,

badly wounded, and unable to rise. A search after the battle had failed to find him. Then came the more horrible news of fire breaking out among the pines, and consuming those unable to crawl away. Oh, the horror of those days! If my boy's remains had lain, unmangled, before me, I could have been comparatively contented. But to think of him, bleeding and alone, with the terrible fire slowly advancing and enfolding him in its scorching embrace, it was more than I could bear.

So the slow, unwilling days crept on. I had no hope and no desire for life. I should have had mourning dresses prepared, but I had not the energy, and I could not bear the thought. Besides, as I never left my room, I should not need them. I think now that I was slowly dying. For he was my eldest, my first-born son, and the terrible uncertainty of his fate was killing me. All my patriotism was gone, buried in the grave of my boy. Like the Italian mother of whom Mrs. Browning wrote so beautifully, I could have made no song of rejoicing over a redeemed country then. But I sent out from my breaking heart a wail called "The Wilderness," and it seemed to touch many hearts, in its way, for I received many beautiful letters of sympathy, and of inquiry after the fate of my son.

At last a little hope began to kindle in my breast. An officer from our State, who had been reported killed upon the same dark 5th of May, and whose funeral services had been held at his home, had been heard from. He was a prisoner, but alive and well. At last one day, two gentlemen called on me with a letter from an officer of the 11th. He had received a letter from a sergeant, missing on the same day. He was a prisoner, and stated that he had seen Lieutenant Nealy on the 10th of May, at Lynchburg. He was wounded, and a prisoner, but was well and cheerful, considering his situation. Two weeks laɩer, and almost three months after the battle, I received a letter from his own dear hand, dated “Macon, Georgia," and saying that he was "well and cheerful, and able to eat a good deal more than he could get." They took him to Charleston in a few weeks, and placed him, with a large num

ber of other officers, under the fire of the Northern guns, thereby insuring the safety of their city, but greatly endangering the lives of the officers. They were fed better there. But from thence he was sent to the prison-pen at Columbia, S. C., where he dragged out long months in the open field, without a plank to shelter him from the weather, or a sufficiency of food to keep him much beyond starvation. Finally, after ten long months of imprisonment, he was exchanged, with other officers, in March 1865, and reached home soon after.

All of this comes back to me as I think of Douglass Block as a hospital. Since then I have entered it to attend General and Mrs. Grant's reception, as well as those of General and Mrs. Sherman; but the old memory always comes up in the most saddening way to my heart.

This building is now occupied by the Protestant Orphan Asylum, and by the families of Justice Bradley and General Sherman. The west end of the block was, at the close of the war, presented to General Grant by a party of wealthy friends. The furniture and a fine library were also presented by his friends and admirers. In these rooms he and Mrs. Grant held their receptions, which were even more popular than their present levees at the White House. The former, requiring a previous call to insure an invitation, were not

thronged by such promiscuous crowds, and were, in consequence, more enjoyable.

Here, one memorable evening, I met George Peabody, and after presentation, stood aside to see the white-haired philanthropist hold his especial reception in the front parlor. His face was rosy and benignant, his hair was as white and glossy as corn silk, while his manner of receiving his friends was indicative of the most perfect enjoyment.

Here, also, at Mrs. Grant's afternoon receptions I often met and talked with her aged father, Mr. Dent. He was generally seated in the library, on the right of the hall. As the lower rooms were all thrown open, all who desired could pass through and examine the collection of books and bronzes. Mr. Dent liked vastly to have some lady come and sit beside him for a little chat. He would tell of his age, (he was over eighty) and of the ages of his sons, and of how "Mrs. Grant always had been fond of company."

Upon the accession of General Grant to the Presidential chair, and to the halls of the White House, this property was purchased by some friends of General Sherman, and presented to him; and here he and his pleasant family have since resided, and received their friends in the most hospitable manner.

Mary E. Nealy.

R. C. W.

It is a common saying that one-half of the world doesn't know how the other half lives. And if we refer to the externals of living, the houses in which they abide, the garments they wear, the food they eat, their goings and comings, this is true enough. But in reference to the inward conditions which constitute the real living, it is not true. One half the world does know how the other halt lives, if it knows how itself lives. For essential living is one thing to us all; as if the globe itself were one great sentient lite, of which we are all sharers.

It needs but to pierce this crust of artificiality, and how patent lies the fact before us. "One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin," said the interpreter of all men's hearts. Take for example that most un-human of places, the railway travelling-car. Here are two score of people without common interest, except the immediate journey, whence, no one knows of another, whither, no one cares. Judged by social distinctions, by critical survey of dress, manners and belongings, - which criticism, indeed, is liberally bestowed, it might forcibly be said that one half of this group knows not how the other half lives. Jaded, selfish, bearish, they probably all are, according to the length of the journey. But send a little child skipping down the aisles. Smiles dawn, hands are outstretched, baby-phrases appear, as the little one pauses here and there, through that touching child-instinct that finds all the world its friends. You have touched a common chord. Or let some one be sick; the humblest emigrant, maybe, or the fretful baby of a helpless mother. What hands, unused to such contact save in sweet pity, are stretched out to afford relief. Or be it but the glance of sympathy from the passer-by, a common understanding of suffering, and response to it, reveals itself like a hidden element touched by a chemist. Or let sudden accident befall them all. In what a flash do all the myriad petty individualities sink from sight, and the simple, noble humanities come to the

VOL. LII. 15

surface. Nature and grace combine to reveal the one fraternity then. The common terror and the common suffering, the mutual help and noble self-denial; and more widely, the opening doors of strangers and the quick summons to the distant friends, - all these, if they emphasize the common helplessness and dependence of humanity, reveal also its universal virtues. We can read the 12th chapter of Romans with a new inspiration, and feel that Christianity has really gained a foothold in the lives of

men.

Or, as another perspicuous case, take the fashionable drawing-room, and you may trace this gospel of unity through all degrees of revelation. Here are people amid the most artificial surroundings, and airing only society thoughts. Each protects his individuality in the society armor, fine and strong as steel. Here is where that modern definition of words comes in play, that they are given to conceal ideas. Intercourse is a kid-glove matter, involving as much soul sympathy as may exist between two pictures adorning the same wall. Is there, then, no common meeting-ground? Why, the very instinct of assembling in this wise, and joy of the spectacle, is something. And there is the weather,―blessed topic of common solicitude! no set was ever so exclusive as to get above sunshine and air. How impartially a chance closeness of the atmosphere reveals itself to all. these duplicate pairs of lungs! And dress, —ah, dear ladies! what a universal chord,. a minor chord full often, we touch in your breasts with that magic word! You think. you study the costuming with the eye of art? nay, there is a subjective side to it, of toils and expenses, of rivalries and sympathies, you all know too well. Hating your tyrant in private with a common hatred,. you can not choose but do it common homage for its very tyranny. Politics! observe how the knot of gentlemen thickens in the corner as the name of a candidate is lightly heard. Sympathetic mothers group here, congenial toilers there. But music is. heard, and instinctively every ear is commanded. Be it gay waltz or foreign aria,.