the coin. The conjuror then said, "Ring, lay hold of the rupee, and bring it to me." The projecting edge of the seal seemed to grapple the edge of the coin; the ring and the rupee rose into a kind of wrestling attitude, and, with the same dancing or jerking motion, the two returned to within reach of he juggler's hand. I have no theory of any kind to explain either of these tricks. I should mention, however, that the juggler entirely disclaimed all supernatural power, and alleged that he performed his tricks by mere sleight of hand. It will be observed that he had no preparation of his surroundings, no machinery, and no confederate. IN THE COLD. What shall we do for her, our sister? Shelter from outside cold and danger Strength she has none to seek and win; Must we not care for her greatly, seeing Down in the depths of her inmost being Love that can never be shown or told? Somehow she feels that loving is living, None will stoop down unto her and take. After the years of dull repression That folded her up in their anguish deep, Opening her eyes she will see around her And it shall be that, a little while hence, Will lift up her voice and will sing to us. Sing with us, weep with us, laugh with us, render And, as a mother, clasp us to hers. E. H. HICKEY. THE AUTHOR'S WISH. In a small chamber, far up on the He was young and ardent, living in his work and loving it, as the true artist only can. He was poor, for he was only climbing the ladder of fame-by no means was he at the top. Many a difficult step in that ill-inclined ladder had he to compass, putting forth all his strength for each several exertion. Between these efforts his soul sank exhausted, and life became a cold and arid prospect, filled only with weariness. But rest-even the rest of dejected exhaustionseemed to bring forth new life within him. From each pause he rose vigorous, and accomplished a fresh step in his career with such genuine force that for the moment men looked towards him and wondered. But it was only for the moment. Soon they turned and went their ways in pursuit of the manifold businesses of the earth; and the author was left alone in his upper chamber, without fame, sympathy, or love. He had not yet sufficiently fixed the attention of men; he had not yet accomplished that great work which should bring to him the appreciation he longed for. And so in the midst of the surging crowds of the city he passed on alone, unfriended, unsuccessful. And had he not passionately loved his art, and deemed himself not "damned because a writer," but infinitely blessed therein, his endurance must have failed him, and he would have betaken himself to some simpler craft in order to supply his earthly needs. But no thought of this entered his mind. The good and the beautiful which he saw around him so fascinated his soul that he incessantly endeavoured to accomplish its portraiture. He lived much alone, and seldom spoke to any living being. He visited crowded assemblies that he might study the faces of the people; and the most beautiful face which he saw invariably riveted his attention, and the memory of this outward beauty he would carry home to use as a clothing to his beautiful thought. And in this way he gave forth to the world writings so delicately pure, so tinged and glorified with the colour of his own sweet spirit, that men who read and realised their meanings felt as though the words of an angel had fallen into their soul. But yet the author was poor, miserable, and lonely. This made him wonder, though he was incapable of complaint. "But," he said, "I must be lacking in knowledge. I understand my art, so men say. What is it that I need? Why can I not deeply stir them as I myself am stirred when these thoughts spring within me ?" He sat alone in his room, and dwelled upon it; he walked through the streets, still endeavouring to discover his lack. And as he moved down one of these streets some gift of hearing seemed to descend upon him. He passed out of his abstraction suddenly and became attentive to the fragmentary utterances of the passers-by. "You'll do it for him, won't you?" said one man anxiously to another; "it's a matter of life and death!" "Of course, of course," interrupted the other. "Now don't forget that you've a ticket for the theatre to-night." "Good weather for the washing," said one of two women who brushed past him at the moment somewhat rudely, endangering, by their quick movements, a jug of milk, which a very dirty, pretty little girl was carrying. He paused a second to look at the child ere he turned the corner of the street, for her sweet little face was full of profound abstraction-caused, he soon saw, by the endeavour to carry the milk safely while eating a cake which she held in the other hand. while he stayed to watch her, he caught some words from a group of gentlemen who had met at the corner of the street. And "We are not alarmed at the size of the undertaking," said one, in a full, comfortable tone, nor are we anxious to spare outlay." "But," said another, in a more independent voice, "we must look at the matter in a public sense; how will the general pocket like the expense ?" "Hang the public!" exclaimed a third, with a shrug of the shoulders and a laugh. "Let us keep to business; we shall make a good thing out of it." "And really," said the first voice, with a softness that suggested the portly proportions of its owner, "it is but a trifling matter to the individual members of the community. We don't demand much from each." He heard no more of what they said, for he was startled by the sound of a very different voice. It was a hoarse, low murmur close beside him. "Bah!-'twas a dirty job after all! I should have done it thoroughly, and left no trace!" A miserable man, moving under the shadow of the wall, and muttering to himself with eyes bent upon the ground. The author's startled movement attracted his attention, and, meeting the gaze of interested eyes, he quickly moved on, and vanished into darker shadow. The author reflected within himself as he went homewards, and his amazement was great. These people! How differently they thought from himself! Upon what different subjects their minds dwelled. They were not absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful in God's universe-they were not following out any idea of loveliness. Each sentence which had caught his ear had carried to him a strange sense of the individual selfhood of each life out of which it had come to him. Those persons whom he had met were passing on their way, unmindful of the glories of the world in which they lived-unmindful of the very sun which rode royally above them, save as it made them hot, or dried their washed linen, or served to save their candles. The man who held the theatre ticket in his hand was full of something which he was urging on his friend; while the friend would think of nothing but the theatre ticket which he had just given away. The women were incapable of considering anything but soapsuds; the pretty child, who was to him a vision of heaven-sent beautifulness, was wholly absorbed by the conflicting thoughts of the cake in one hand-to be eatenand the milk jug in the other-to be safely carried. And the grave gentlemen whom he had lingered near as they stood talking at the corner of the street-were they occupied in wonder at the grace which God had exhibited in his creations? No; they spoke of speculations and finance-the soapsuds of their existence. And the man who skulked in the shadow, and muttered strange incoherencies to himself-what was his thought? Not of the mercy of his Creator in still granting him a sunlit life his mind wandered into some dim and harassed contemplation of his hidden crime. The author rushed home, and shut himself within his solitary chamber. I "This, then, is my lack!--I do not understand my fellow men. have analysed myself, not them. I have taken out of my own soul, and given to them. Perchance if I take from out theirs and give to them, then they will the better appreciate my art; and, surely, this is the noblest part of the task which is mine. The study of man is the grandest study possible to the artist!" And so, pondering in his room, a passionate desire filled him to understand and reproduce the souls which surged so thickly in the city around his isolated chamber. to plunge into the mysterious depths of the human heart. All through the dark and solitary hours of the night he entreated Heaven for this boon praying that this experience should be given him, which, as he believed, would enable him to consummate his art and perfect his work. "I have loved God-I have loved Nature," he murmured to himself, as he sank down at last into a weary slumber. "My life will be complete when I know and love man." He slept until the dawn arose and with its pale light illuminated his chamber. He awoke when its first rays entered-awoke suddenly, and with a start of fear, for a strange sound entered his ears: a dim, hoarse murmur, as of many voices-voices afar off, yet not altogether indistinct. He sat, with clasped hands of wonder, and a heavenly smile. irradiated his face. "And my wish is granted me!" he exclaimed. "Then indeed it is to be my happiness to grasp my art utterly, and show to men the beautifulness of life by its means!" He bowed his head to listen and distinguished the voices; and as the light grew stronger the sounds became more audible, so that he could hear the words which were uttered, and understand their meanings. The day increased, and men busied themselves with with their manifold duties and pleasures; but the author sat still in his room, with hands clasped, and his face filled with continually changing emotion. For the voices of men who were so busied all around him grew clamorous in his ears and deafened him, not by volume of sound, but by the wonder of their meaning. For, as the speech of the multitude |