Of course there were many circumstances in politics and situation which conspired to elevate him to his present position. I have only alluded to the quiet under-current of his private life. I wrote what I have written only because I felt like doing so. I do not think either he or Annie will be offended at my freedom should they read this—especially as I have not mentioned his State or his real name. I am heartily sick of all romance and romantic ideas and descriptions of men and women, but I do look upon the “Hon. Charles Bell and his amiable lady,” as the Washington papers will call them, as two of the finest persons in all my knowledge. Both are most sincere Christians, and singular as it may seem to some, I regard their companionship and mutual influence as one which is to last not only through this poor world, but through all eternity. I would like exceedingly to write out my ideas on this point, but I cannot do it now. Besides, the editor may be married to a second wife, and in that case, would most certainly refuse admission to this little sketch in the pages of his magazine. * * * * * FUNERAL OF ALLSTON. BY ELIHU SPENCER. Speaking of Allston, I was told in Boston that his funeral was by torch-light, after nine in the evening, and one of the most impressive and befitting ceremonies ever witnessed. _New York Correspondent Nat. Intelligencer._ Not in the glare of day— Not to the common eye: But lay that dreamless brow away When night is on the sky— When darkness drops her noiseless pall, And torches light the funeral. Not in the glare of day— Not in the pomp of wo: Let nature veil the sanctity Of tears, that none may know Whose hushed but earnest griefs belie The clamors of hypocrisy. Not in the glare of day— Not by the reeking mart: He loved the lone and twilight way, The night-fall of the heart— When, passion, pride and sense subdued, The spirit wrought in solitude. Not in the glare of day— Not to the common eye: And though ye lay that brow away When night is on the sky, Long years shall yet remember well The poet-painter’s burial. * * * * * A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF FLORENCE WALTON. BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART. “It was not strange, for in the human breast Two master-passions cannot co-exist.” “What a picture of delicious comfort, dear Aunt Mary,” said Cora Norton, as throwing herself into the luxurious depths of a _Voltaire_ chair, and placing her pretty little feet on the low fender, she looked around her Aunt Mary’s _snuggery_.