as he was, so joyous in his deportment, so handsome, so physically well-developed, he made no impression of incompleteness, of maimed or stinted nature. And yet, in social intercourse, these familiar friends of his habitually and instructively allowed for him, as for a child. or some other lawless thing, exacting no strict obedience to conventional rules, and hardly noticing his eccentricities enough to pardon them. There was an inde finable characteristic about Donatello that set him outside of rules. He caught Miriam's hand, kissed it, and gazed into her eyes without saying a word. She smiled and bestowed upon him a little careless caress, singularly like what one would give to a pet dog when he puts himself in the way to receive it. Not that it was so decided a caress either, but only the merest touch, somewhere between a pat and a tap of the finger; it might be a mark of fondness, or perhaps a playful pretence of punishment. At all events, it appeared to afford Donatello exquisite pleasure; insomuch that he danced quite round the wooden railing that fences in the Dying Gladiator. "It is the very step of the Dancing Faun," said Miriam apart to Hilda. "What a child, or what a simpleton he is! I continually find myself treating Donatello as if he were the merest unfledged chicken; and yet he can claim no such privileges in the right of his tender age, for he is at least-how old should you think him, Hilda?" "Twenty years, perhaps," replied Hilda, glancing at Donatello; but, indeed, I cannot tell; hardly so old, on second thoughts, or possibly older. He has nothing to do with time, but has a look of eternal youth in his face." "All underwitted people have that look," said Miriam, scornfully. "Donatello has certainly the gift of eternal youth, as Hilda suggests," observed Kenyon, laughing; "for, judging by the date of this statue, which I am more and more convinced Praxiteles carved on purpose for him, he must be at least twenty-five centuries old, and he still looks as young as ever." "What age have you, Donatello?" asked Miriam. "Signorina, I do not know," he answered; "no great age, however; for I have only lived since I met you." "Now what old man of society could have turned a silly compliment more neatly than that!" exclaimed Miriam. "Nature and art are just at one sometimes. But what a happy ignorance is this of our friend Donatello! Not to know his own age! It is equivalent to being immortal on earth. If I could only forget mine!" "It is too soon to wish that," observed the sculptor. "You are hardly older than Donatello looks." I shall be content then," rejoined Miriam, "if I could only forget one day of all my life." Then she seemed to repent of this allusion, and hastily added, "A woman's days are so tedious that it is a boon to leave one of them out of the account."-The Marble Faun. HAY, JOHN, an American novelist, poet, journalist, and diplomat, born at Salem, Ind., October 8, 1838. He was educated at Brown University, studied law, and was admitted to the bar in Springfield, Ill., in 1861. In the same year he became Assistant Secretary of President Lincoln, and later his Adjutant and Aide-de-Camp. He served for a time in the Union army, and became an assistant adjutant-general. After the war he was Secretary of Legation at Paris and Madrid, and Chargé d'Affaires at Vienna. In 1870 he returned to the United States, and for six years was employed on the editorial staff of the New York Tribune. From 1879 to 1881 he was Assistant Secretary of State. During his connection with the Tribune he became known by his dialect poems Jim Bludsoe and Little Breeches. These were afterward published, with others of his verses, in a volume entitled Pike County Ballads (1871). In the same year he published Castilian Days, a collection of sketches of Spanish life. He also, conjointly with John G. Nicolay, wrote The Life of Abraham Lincoln which was published in the Century Magazine, in 1886-87, and issued in 10 volumes. His collected poems appeared in 1890. In 1897 President McKinley appointed him United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James's, and he was accepted just prior to Queen Victoria's celebration of the sixtieth anniversary of her reign. MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. There was never a castle seen And at eve its shade flaunts o'er And its towers are hid in the mists of hope; Its glimmering gates to gain. In visions wild and sweet Sometimes its courts I greet; Sometimes in joy its shining halls I tread with favored feet; But never my eyes in the light of day I know in its dusky rooms And whatever of bright and rare From the vault of Italy's air; But nothing of these, my soul ! Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, For which my whole heart sighs. The pearl I would die to gain ; Her face so purely fair Sheds light in the shady places, And ill things cease to be The wings of vague desires, But the thought that love would utter Not yet! not yet shall I see Transfigured with love for me; BEFORE THE BULL-FIght. One does not soon forget the first sight of the full Coliseum. In the centre is the sanded arena, surrounded by a high barrier. Around this rises the graded succession of stone benches for the people; then numbered seats for the connoisseurs; and above a row of |