haze-flooded and light-crowned tops fade away into the far distance. To many this picture will prove more attractive than the view from the South Mountain: perhaps it is our familiarity with and love for the original of the last-mentioned view, which induce us to give to it our personal preference. No. 158, 'The Old Hunting Grounds,' is by W. Whittredge, N. A. It gives a charming insight into the mysteries of the woods. The characteristic white birches, with their reflection in the quiet pool, the dark trunk and spreading branches of the great tree in the foreground, the tender foliage, and soft, hazy gleams into the depths of the forest, afford the materials for a delightful picture, the more precious in our sight that it is so truly a representation of our native land, so thoroughly American. The broken birch canoe adds to the beauty of nature a most effective and pathetic touch, by briefly figuring the melancholy history of a fast-departing race. Gone forever are the moccasoned feet that pressed _that_ mossy soil, and the dusky forms that flitted to and fro among the white trunks that catch and hold the light so lovingly. That broken canoe has a stranger tale to tell than any ruined arch or fallen column of the Old World: the one speaks of some empire passed away, the other of the gradual extinction of an entire type of human beings, a race of men who seem to have accomplished the work assigned them, and who die rather than abandon their native instincts and habits of thought and life. The fortunate possessor of the 'Old Hunting Grounds,' when shut up within the confined streets and dreary walls of a city, need only lift his eyes to the picture to dream dreams of the freshness and freedom of the wild woods, of the scented breeze snuffed by the browsing deer, of the rocking branches glimmering gold and green against the clear summer sky. Mr. Whittredge's picture is suggestive and harmonious as nature itself, and one could never weary of it, as one infallibly must of weaker and more conventional productions, often highly prized by frequenters of galleries. No. 153, 'The Iron-Bound Coast of Maine,' by W. S. Haseltine, N. A., has the freshness, brightness, and mistiness of such a shore. We have heard Mr. Haseltine's rocks complained of as too yellow; but, in the absence of knowledge, are content to presume he painted them as he saw them. The action of the dashing surf in washing away the lower strata, and strewing the beach with fragments, is one token, among many, of an actual observation of facts. No. 236, 'An Artist's Studio,' and No. 131, 'Christmas Eve,' are by J. F. Weir. Both are well conceived and executed, the latter being especially interesting. The old wall, the great bell, the moonlight, and the elves set the fancy musing over many things in heaven and earth rarely dreamed of in our philosophy.