move into his new house on Farmington avenue on the 1st of May. He now occupies the dwelling house of Mr. John Hooker on Forest street, which by an advertisement in our columns to-day Mr. Hooker offers for rent for another year, as he expects to go abroad with his family in May. The house is one of the most desirable in the city both in itself and in its neighborhood. (“Local Notices,” 1)

The house stands upon Farmington avenue, and is an attractive combination of dark red brick, set off by light graceful wood work about the windows and balconies. It is planted as it were upon the bank of a dell at just the right angle to take in through its broad windows the loveliest of views of river, meadow, glen, and woodland. The visitor who accuses Mark Twain of disrespect to the avenue in putting the kitchen in front misleads you, although the humorous proprietor would justify such an arrangement on the ground that it would make his servants cheerful if they could overlook the funerals and St. Patrick’s processions, while he would choose to gaze from his library windows upon the dainty pictures which nature will paint for him in all the colors of the changing seasons. Once more I am reminded that I cannot “draw a house,” but I can give you the benefit of my tour of inspection through its numerous rooms, under the escort of the architect, Mr. Edward L. Potter, of New York. I hardly know which most impressed me, Mr. Potter’s power in his art or his love of it. He gave me no detail of height or breadth, but in the quick effects which he helped me to discover I recognized the artist capable even of enthusing me, novice as I was, with a new interest in the wonderful science of architecture. “Here,” said he, as we stood in the main hall from which opened parlors, library, and dining-rooms, “here we must produce pleasant effects, so here we put this fire-place, which shall have its antique tiles and its polished andirons. Over the mantel we have put a window opposite, and yet more, the outer landscape of Farmington Avenue and the country beyond.” Could anything be more charming? The arrangement of library and dining-rooms are simply bewitching. Indeed adjectives begin to fail me. The rooms open into each other with folding doors. At the end of the dining-room is a fire-place with a window over the mantal commanding the same avenue view. On the side a broad window looking down upon the river and its pretty bank and meadow. At the rear of the Library is a Conservatory opposite the fire-place of the dining-room. Imagine the winter attractions of these rooms, while the summer charms are not less apparent. A generous bay window in the side of the library lets in a whole sweep of rich landscape and a fire-place on the opposite side is surmounted by a quaint oaken mantel of ancient English carving. Opening from the Library is a suite of rooms whose tasteful appointments and dainty boudoir indicate their presiding genius.

Up the broad, easy stair case, which seems, somehow, not to encroach upon the spacious hall, we follow our friend Mr. Potter, who peoples and embellishes the second floor for us. Here is the nursery with its gay hangings, it[s] bright carpet, its fantastic, story-telling tiles beside the fire place. Here are windows that take in a flood of early sunshine and perfume of the violets that grow on the bank beneath—and music of the robins—the cheeriest room in the house for a child to thrive and delight in. This door opens into the mother’s little parlor—that into the father’s study.

Here are guest rooms, opening upon balconies that command landscapes to inspire a poet or an artist—and that reminds me that on the third floor is a room so charming in its lookout as to be already devoted to the “artist friend” whoever he may chance to be. Adjoining this, is another room, in which you may look for the “author” when you find the study vacant—a billiard parlor with verandahs that look like turrets, from which to study the movements of the enemy. (Mary Mason Fairbanks)

“The Gilded Age,” which professes to be “a tale of to-day,” is the joint production of “Mark Twain” and Charles Dudley Warner. It is a biting satire on the men and principles—or absence of principle—of the age, and contains some highly dramatic incidents and bits of good descriptive writing, but it is not what we had reason to expect from two authors of such unquestionable talent as Mr. Clemens and Mr. Warner. The irresistible drollery of the “Innocents Abroad” finds but the faintest kind of reflection in “The Gilded Age.” The delicious mingling of genial humor and shrewd wisdom in “Back Log Studies” is nowhere perceptible in this bigger book. The hand of “Mark Twain” is visible here and there, but the most skilful literary detective would fail to place his finger on a passage which he could confidently assert to be Warner’s. It is a book from which the authors will doubtless derive present profit, but it will not add to the literary reputation of either. At the same time the book has positive merits of its own. It fearlessly lashes the frauds and humbugs who occupy prominent places in all ranks of society and in all positions of honor and profit. There is no mercy for such offenders. The mask of pretended piety and robe of assumed honesty are stripped off and the rascals exposed to the lash of the satirist and the scorn of the world. But, admitting this, it is not the work in which Messrs. Clemens and Warner feel most at home and in which their friends enjoy their company best. “The Gilded Age” is copiously illustrated. It is sold by subscription, the agents for this part of the country being Messrs. Bliss & Co., Toledo. (“Concerning Literature,” 2)