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why translations should not fill an attractive place in our college papers, provided, of course, that they are not carried to an excess. The putting of idiomatic French or German into idiomatic English, the endeavor to reproduce the spirit of an author rather than his exact wording, affords ample play for true literary instinct.

The Harvard Advocate and the Brunonian are two papers whose welcome is always sure. After looking through paper after paper of pretentious appearance, only to find a few pages of mere local items, it is a relief to take up such a publication as the Advocate, which always more than fulfills its promise. Its contents comprise some good editorials, some excellent stories, and some bits of verse-almost always above the average. So, too, the Brown Magazine, though smaller, and more. devoted to local interests, as is natural for a weekly, yet invariably contains good reading matter. Its last number commemorates the birthday of "Robbie Burns" by a charming sketch by Professor Sears," In and Around the Burns Cottage." One cannot read of the homage now paid by all to the humble home of the peasant poet without being reminded of Carlyle's words: “And this was he for whom the world found no fitter business than quarrelling with smugglers and vintners, computing excise dues upon tallow, and gauging ale-barrels! In such toils was that mighty spirit sorrowfully wasted, and a hundred years may pass before another such is given us to waste."

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"Talleyrand and Napoleon" are the words the February Century wears upon its cover, as suggesting the most striking of its articles. Nor are the words misleading. The Memoirs of Talleyrand" give glimpses of Napoleon "behind the scenes" that are full of life and interest, though they do not tend to increase one's respect for the great general's private character. "Sister Dolorosa" concludes in this number with the sad ending which we felt was inevitable, while we longed to avert it.

The story throughout has been marked by vigor of conception and beauty of expression. To take its place as a serial, comes Edward Eggleston's new story, "The Faith Doctor," a title that as yet finds no correspondence in the story.

LOVE KNOWS NOT SACRIFICE.

A man was dead, less than a thousand millionth of the human race,
And yet the world-his little world,-afflicted by some passing grief
At his demise, had paused a moment from its selfish cares a sheaf
To lay upon his pall; to take one last look at the much-loved face.
And, ere it him forgot, it reared a monument of greatest price,
Commemorating grandly what it called his life-long sacrifice.
His sacrifice? The hackneyed phrase chiseled on that granite shaft
Told not his life's real story. True he had abandoned honor, wealth;
Had lifted up the fallen; cheered the faint; nursed sickness into
health;

And with the poor, distressed, disconsolate, the cup of sorrow quaffed.
But he had loved mankind and nothing less could his warm love suffice.
His pleasure was in charities like these. Love knows not sacrifice.
-Brown Magazine.

A. V. HAIGHT. KAGLE PRINTING House, POUGHKEEPSIE, N. Y

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It is one of the principal houses of the village, and stands far back from the road. There is always a Sunday quiet about the place; even the thick green grass grows sedately, allowing no sweet vagrant daisies or buttercups to mingle with it. All the great trees are straight and grave; not an apple tree, with its delightful low branches all crooked and gnarled, is to be seen in this the front yard: but if you go around to the back of the house, you may see them in plenty. Here there is no restraint and sedateness. Old-fashioned flowers are crowding and elbowing each other out of their long narrow beds into the pathways between. Here is also the kitchen garden. with its homely, useful beauty. Many people are so prejudiced as to prefer these grounds in the rear of the Updycke house to the eminently respectable, if somewhat gloomy, "front yard," as the villagers term it.

The house itself is a large white mansion, with many corners and frequent turns in the hallways and stairs, and a garret that would be the delight of any right-minded grandchildren. Now the various little people who came to this house were certainly bright, clever children, yet never by any chance would you hear childish laughter in the old halls or the echoes of a merry game from the

garret. The little visitors sat primly on the shiny black chairs, wondering what punishment would be theirs should the slippery haircloth prove treacherous and they suddenly slide off and be deposited in an ignominious heap at Grandmamma's feet as she sat there talking gravely with her daughter. But these chairs were the least uncomfortable feature of the house to small guests. Matters were certainly wrong somewhere, for Grandmamma was not at all like the traditional kind. She was a little lady, with white curling hair and brown eyes; that sounds very like other grandmammas, but those eyes at times would flash and then grow hard, and the mouth was obstinate to weakness. And where was Grandpapa? He never came in this room, but saw visitors in a large room on the other side of the house. He was a tall, stern-looking man, the best lawyer the country round; his clients said; an unpleasantly stern judge, so culprits thought. His grandchildren indulged in no clamberings on his knee, and no invasions of pockets, where caraway seeds and peppermints should have been the reward. To spend an hour in his room was even worse than the same time in Grandmamma's. To be sure, he always smiled and said, with a pat on the flaxen head, "How is Elizabeth?" or "Richard?" (as the case might be). The long name itself so frightened the small owners that only a very faltering reply came from the lips of Bess or Dick.

Now in this charming old house, with all its beautiful, old-fashioned rooms, with their quaint furniture and china, why was this terrible feeling of restraint common to every visitor, kinsman and stranger alike? Any villager will tell you, as the first choice bit of information about the great house and its occupants, that "Judge an' Mis' Updycke ain't spoke to each other these twenty years" and, seeing your expression of horrified interest, will proceed to give you, interspersed with many private theories, all that any one really knows about the cause of

the estrangement. All that is certain is this-there was a quarrel over some minor point which neither would yield, a sudden blaze of wrath, and then passionate and bitter words on both sides. "They're mighty high-sperrited, is the Updyckes, and since then there ain't been a word between 'em."

That is the strange, sad truth. You ponder it each time you pass the house; you think of the unhappy youth of their children, of the loneliness that must be theirs now, and you pity the obstinate pride that keeps them apart. If you become a visitor at the house, you notice the good management visible everywhere-everything is spotlessly neat. Man and wife meet only at meals, which are usually passed in terrible silence if master and mistress are alone. If, however, others are present, both chat with their guests but by no possible chance exchange a word with each other. Under such circumstances you find it hard to sustain the conversation.

They both attend the Presbyterian Church, sitting in the same pew but in reality separated by a distance that seems impassable. The old man who was their pastor when the trouble first arose, prayed with them and for them, exhorted and plead, but all to no effect. In later years his successor, a much younger man, went through the same process, with much trepidation it must be confessed, but his labors produced no better results.

The only pleasure in Mrs. Updycke's life was her cats, and these were the talk of the village. Not one or two did she have, but seven well-fed sleek cats of varying ages. These proved an outlet for some of her pent up affection, and these were her constant company and delight. No boy in the village would have dared take liberties with an Updycke cat. The consequences of any such rash act could only be imagined.

John Updycke was devoted to his work, and threw himself into it heart and soul. He tried to make himself believe that it fully satisfied his nature, but the belief,

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