Mr. Stanton was a New Brunswick artist of fine taste and decided skill. Mr. Dole also saved some of his water-colours, notably those by Bell Smith and Frantz. The author lost an excellent drawing illustrating an idea in Thackeray, and a number of clever caricatures from the pencil of an amateur artist, Mr. Forbes Torrance, of Como, besides several engravings of merit, and a massive bronze figure representing Painting. Mr. Henry Vaughan lost his large costly painting from the John Miller collection, of Liverpool, England. Mr. James Stewart lost his whole collection of paintings; several of these were of his own work, while a number were by foreign artists. Mr. Stewart copied a landscape painting by an English artist which came out here as a prize, some years ago, and when his work was finished and the two paintings hung side by side, the owner did not know which was his own picture. This copy was for some days in Mr. Notman's studio before the fire, and it is believed that it is lost, as no trace has been had of it. The reader will see from this scanty enumeration of known losses, how great has been the destruction in art-treasures alone. We have not even hinted at the wholesale destruction of bronzes, bas reliefs and bits of sculpture and statuary. In these departments the loss has been also very severe. No money can replace these treasures. These were the things which rendered home bright and happy. It is the love of art and literature which refines and beautifies mankind. It is the book and the picture, and the figure of pale marble which rouse a thousand new delights. They take away the brutal in our nature. They lift us up as it were. We look around the room and the eye rests on something beautiful. We feed our tastes. The picture on the wall refines us, the open book fills the mind with a hundred delicate, footless fancies. We breathe a new air. The etchings on the table, the portfolio of drawings and the books of engravings give to our mind a delight as wonderful as it is delicate and delicious. Can money replace these? Can money buy for us these pictures and books which have been for so many years our companions and friends? Can money replace the bronze figure? Can money bring to us again the portrait of the dear one who lies out there in the green wood buried? Can money supply us with that precious volume of poetry which the author gave us just a year before he died? We may make our homes bright again. We may hang pictures on the walls. We may fill to the full our book-cases and hanging-shelves once more with the great things in literature, but our thoughts will wander back to the days before the fire came and robbed us of all those delights which peopled and filled our homes. But we must not give way altogether to gloom and despondency. We must try and forget the past and devote all our energies, all our brains and skill to the rebuilding of the homes and workshops which have been scattered to the winds. We must never rest