e inquired the novels which
might be perused and the plays which might be seen. He baptized children
and confessed adulteries of heart.... Great sorrows, despair, had
recourse to him, and he ordered a journey to Italy, the diversions of
painting and music and a good confession at Rome." By this and analogous
counsel on still more delicate matters he superseded the fashionable
physician. But what kept him most busy was a species of matrimonial
agency which he managed for the benefit of his flock. "There was an
instant's silence, during which nothing was heard but the rustling of
the abbe's papers. At last he drew out a visiting-card turned down at
the corner, which he held toward the light, and read: 'Three hundred
thousand francs interest, obligations; fifteen thousand francs income
from the wedding-day; father and mother dead; six hundred thousand at
the death of some uncles and aunts who are not married and will not
marry. The young lady is nineteen--charming, prettier than she is aware
of. Here, let us think about that,' said the abbe, putting back the
card. 'Well--let's see: I have also--yes, at this very moment--an
orphan: twenty-five thousand francs income on marrying. But no, that
won't do: the guardian is desirous of an influential connection. Ah!
wait: perhaps this will do: twenty-two years old, not pretty,
accomplished, intelligent, dresses well; the father has fifteen hundred
thousand francs, three children, a solid fortune."

The authors of these books may not be very good Catholics, but, at all
events, they are not Protestants, and it cannot be objected that they
are writing of things they know nothing about.

Charlotte Bronte: A Monograph. By T. Wemyss Reid. New York:
Scribner, Armstrong & Co.

We should all be grateful to one who lets in a glint of sunshine on a
scene, a career, a life or a group of lives which we have been
accustomed to see wrapped in unbroken shade. Perfect shadow we distrust
instinctively, for we know that it is false Art and false Nature. There
must be a bit of light somewhere for every picture and every being. We
have long been looking for it, in the face of persistent denial, in the
case of that famous Haworth household and its literary productions. Mrs.
Gaskell rather deepened the gloom of Jane Eyre and Villette, and left us
small hope of a glance at the bright side of the characters and the
daily life of the three weird sisters, their brother Patrick and their
fathe