naturalists of the day. His love of the fine arts was second only to his love of science, and for many years he was one of the most active promoters of tasteful pursuits, especially of painting, in Ireland. He was a gentleman of independent means, and of no profession. * * * * * ROBERT REINICK, deservedly the most popular of recent song writers in Germany, died at Dresden early in February. He was born at Dantzic, in 1805, and was educated an artist, but he never painted more than one picture which attained any considerable reputation. His sketches were, however, remarkable for great delicacy of feeling, and of touch, a genial humor and an endless variety of fancy. But it was his songs that first and most widely made him known to the public. Without any surprising features of genius, they were so natural, so replete with true and happy sentiment, and flowed so sweetly and melodiously in a spontaneous beauty of language, that they were every where taken up, and still remain the intimate favorites of the people, but especially of artists, to whose peculiar life and customs many of them are devoted. One of the most pleasing books ever published in Germany, was his _Songs of a Painter_, which was illustrated with designs from all the prominent artists of Düsseldorf. Its appearance made an epoch in the book trade, and introduced the many splendid illustrated works that have succeeded it. It is some years since we read these songs, but their naiveté, tenderness, and frolic humor are still fresh in our memory. Reinick also had a great skill in the writing of story books for children, and illustrating them with his own drawings. One of these, the _Black Aunt_, has been translated into English, and was published in this city some three or four years since. The poet died quite suddenly, and was snatched from a life full of happiness, amid constant artistic activity, and the love of his family, and a boundless circle of friends. All Dresden sorrowed at his death, and his funeral procession seemed to embrace the entire city. * * * * *