must refer my readers to Mr. Apsley Pellatt's excellent work, Curiosities of Glass-making. There also will be found an explanation of the millifiore glass, which at first sight seems so inexplicable.

We shall know more of the rich treasures which England possesses in the shape of glass, when Mr. Felix Slade is kind enough to give to the world the catalogue of his matchless collection upon which he has been so long engaged. Mr. Slade does not shrink from giving large prices for good and rare specimens. One instance may be quoted as an example. At the Soltikoff sale there was a goblet of rich emerald green colour, with a bulbed and fluted stem powdered with gold. The top and bottom of the bowl were ornamented with gold and jewelled bands, and between these were two medallions supported by cupids and surrounded by garlands, and containing portraits of a lady and gentleman, in the costume of the latter part of the fifteenth century. male figure was the inscription, "Amor vol fee." fine specimen, after a spirited bidding against the for 6,000 francs.

On a scroll before the Mr. Slade secured this agents of the Louvre,

No specimens of glass in the Bernal collection fetched prices at all approaching to this. We find, however, Mr. N. T. Smith giving 50l. for one fine specimen; Baron Rothschild, 541. for a tazza; and Mr. Slade, the highest price at that sale for such works, 55l. The same sale had some wonderful instances of the manner in which objects of natural history were pressed into service. Bunches of grapes, tulips, rampant horses carrying tazzas, serpents, pelicans, dolphins, and other creatures, are proofs and memorials of the skill of artists in glass in the Venice of former days.

Joan of Arc.

Und büszen will ich's mit der strengsten Busze
Das ich mich eitel über euch erhob.-SCHILLER.

I read or dreamed, one sultry summer time,
How, at the last, France's knightly maiden fled,
And lived in silent honour, nobly wed,

Leaving her heritage of deathless fame
To the chance partner of her mortal shame,
Who should have died with her, and died instead.
Then, with two lines of German in my head,
I shaped her after-life in moody rhyme.

A MOSSY battlemented wall went round
A rosy space of odorous garden ground,
Where the blue brooding sky hung very low,
Above the quaint-peaked shadow of the towers,
Above the sunny marge of ordered flowers,
Among the which I saw a lady go,

Telling her beads, with steady pace and slow;
These done, she lifted half her cypress veil
With marble hands which might have held a sword,
And I beheld her face, sweet, still, and pale,
With tearless eyes, bent on the dewless sward.
Then raising her calm brow, but not her eyes,
To woo the sweetness of the summer skies,
Of her own desolate estate she sang,
Not sadly; but her patient singing rang
So heavily upon her silver tongue,

A tale of peace and patience worse than pain,
That, as I heard, I knew her youth was slain;
And yet her rounded face might still be young,
Who, making music neither high nor low,
But borne along a level stream of woe,
Jang words like these as nearly as I know:-

"The banners of the battle are gone by,
The flowers are fallen from my maiden crown,
Thorns choke the tender seed of my renown,
Bleeding in sick astonishment I lie,
Where He who set me up hath cast me down.
If only I could hear the clarion cry,