like all beautiful works, it gains by study.

"On one side slumbers the little God of Love, as an emblem, I suppose,
that only the love of man is worth embodying, for surely Cytherea's is
awake enough. The quiver of Cupid, suspended to a tree, gives sportive
grace to the scene which softens the tragedy of a breaking tie. The dogs
of Adonis pull upon his hand; he can scarce forbear to burst from the
detaining arms of Beauty herself, yet he waits a moment to coax her--to
make an unmeaning promise. 'A moment, a moment, my love, and I will
return; a moment only.' Adonis is not beautiful, except in his
expression of eager youth. The Queen of Beauty does not choose Apollo.
Venus herself is very beautiful; especially the body is lovely as can
be; and the soft, imploring look, gives a conjugal delicacy to the face
which purifies the whole picture. This Venus is not as fresh, as moving
and breathing as Shakspeare's, yet lovelier to the mind if not to the
sense. 'T is difficult to look at this picture without indignation,
because it is, in one respect, so true. Why must women always try to
detain and restrain what they love? Foolish beauty; let him go; it is
thy tenderness that has spoiled him. Be less lovely--less feminine;
abandon thy fancy for giving thyself wholly; cease to love so well, and
any Hercules will spin among thy maids, if thou wilt. But let him go
this time; thou canst not keep him. Sit there, by thyself, on that bank,
and, instead of thinking how soon he will come back, think how thou
may'st love him no better than he does thee, for the time has come."

It was soon after this moment that the poor Queen, hearing the
frightened hounds, apprehended the rash huntsman's danger, and, flying
through the woods, gave their hue to the red roses.

To return from the Grecian isles to Milwaukie. One day, walking along
the river's bank in search of a waterfall to be seen from one ravine, we
heard tones from a band of music, and saw a gay troop shooting at a
mark, on the opposite bank. Between every shot the band played; the
effect was very pretty.

On this walk we found two of the oldest and most gnarled hemlocks that
ever afforded study for a painter. They were the only ones we saw; they
seemed the veterans of a former race.

At Milwaukie, as at Chicago, are many pleasant people, drawn together
from all parts of the world. A resident here would find great piquancy
in the associations,--those he met having such dissimilar