and Home Papers, in 1864; The Chimney Corner, in 1865; Little Foxes, 1865; Queer Little People, 1867; Oldtown Folks, 1869; Pink and White Tyranny, 1871; My Wife and I, 1872. Probably the great mistake in her literary work was made in publishing True Story of Lady Byron's Life. If true it should not have been toid, but the story is thought not to be true. Mrs. Stowe has written very extensively, and her published works entitle her to a place among the greatest authors of fiction. While her fame rests upon her first great book, yet all of her works contain excellent qualities. Her genius is rare and original. For several years, she has spent the greater part of her time in her Florida home, in company with her husband and daughters.

It is customary with most authors to classify female writers as the wife or sister, or some other relative of some man. Mrs. Stowe, however, needs not the name of her husband, nor the world-wide fame of the Beechers, to give her a place in the front ranks of literature. The world. knows her as well as it knows her relatives, and its admiration for her is richly merited.

Little Eva.

Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating and aerial grace such as one might dream of for some mythical and allegorical being. Her face was remarkable, less for its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression, which made the ideal start when they looked at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why. The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust were peculiarly noble, and the long, golden-brown hair that floated like a cloud around it, the deep, spiritual gravity of her violet-blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of golden-brown-all marked her out from other children, and made every one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and thither on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would have called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary, an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow of Summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant figShe was always in motion, always with half a smile on her rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, with an undulating and cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved as in a happy dream. Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her-but, when caught, she melted from them again like a Summer cloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along.

ure.

The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the

furnace, and fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some dreadful danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel paused and smiled, as the picture-like head gleamed through the window of the round house, and in a moment was gone again. A thousand times a day rough voices blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard faces as she passed; and when she tripped fearlessly over dangerous places, rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarily out to save her, and smooth her path.

Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race, ever yearning towards the simple and child-like, watched the little creature with daily increasing interest. To him she seemed something almost divine; and whenever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out upon him from behind some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over some ridge of packages, he half believed he saw one of the angels stepped out of the New Testament.

Uncle Tom Reads His Testament.

Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of his Bible as he lays it on the cotton-bale, and with patient finger threading his slow way from word to word, traces out its promises? Having learned late in life, Tom was but a slow reader, and passed on laboriously from verse to verse. Fortunate for him was it that the book he was intent on was one which slow reading cannot injure-nay, one whose words, like ingots of gold seem often to need to be weighed separately, that the mind may take in their priceless value. Let us follow him a moment, as, pointing to each word, and pronouncing each half aloud, he reads,

"Let-not-your-heart-be-troubled. In-my-Father'sI-go-to-prepare—a—place—

house-are-many-mansions.

for-you."

Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart as full of honest grief as poor Tom's-perhaps no fuller, for

both were only men; but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words of hope, and looked to no such future reunion; and if he had seen them, ten to one he would not have believed, he must fill his head first with a thousand questions of authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of translation. But, to poor Tom, there it lay, just what he needed, so evidently true and divine that the possibility of a question never entered his simple head. It must be true, for, if not true, how could he live?

As for Tom's Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in the margin from learned commentators, still it had been embellished with certain way-marks and guide-boards of Tom's own invention, and which helped him more than the most learned expositions could have done. It had been his custom to get the Bible read to him by his master's children, in particular by young Master George; and as they read, he would designate, by bold, strong mark and dashes, with pen and ink, the passages which more particularly gratified his ear or affected his heart. His Bible was thus marked through, from one end to the other, with a variety of styles and designations, so he could in a moment seize upon his favorite passages, without the labor of spelling out what lay between them; and while it lay there before him, every passage breathing of some old home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment, his Bible seemed to him all of this life that remained, as well as the promise of a future one.

Pledge With Wine.

"Pledge with wine-pledge with wine!" cried the young and thoughtless Harry Wood. "Pledge with wine," ran through the brilliant crowd.

The beautiful bride grew pale-the decisive hour had come,she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors.

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Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, in a low tone, going toward his daughter, "the company expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette; in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me."

Every eye was turned toward the bridal pair. Marion's principles were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon.

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not, as smiling back, gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of "Oh, how terrible!"

"What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object.

"Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes, "wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, "a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure,