. On the Continent there is
not much doing. P. A. Morin, the dean of Holland's dramatists and
actors, recently celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his first
appearance, his golden jubilee, at Amsterdam. It is announced that
Patti will sing in "Romeo and Juliet," at the Grand Opera House,
Paris, giving three performances for one thousand dollars each.

More attention than usual is being paid just now to the development of
musical taste on both sides of the water. Mr. Walter Damrosch has been
lecturing in New York on Symphony. The Liederkranz and the Symphony
Society have been giving enjoyable concerts; and Herr Moriz Rosenthal,
the pianist, has met with a success that has only been rivalled in
late years by Joseffy.

REVIEWS.

When the late George Butler, quite regardless of fact, and for the fun
of the thing, telegraphed from Long Branch to Dion Boucicault at New
York, that Billy Florence and Jack Raymond had been saved from a
watery grave by a huge Newfoundland, Boucicault responded, "God is
good to the Irish." This sentence, so often quoted, passed, without
its point, among the masses. What Dion caught on the nib of his pen
and wired to the world was the fact that these two famous comedians,
with their English names, were Irish by birth, instincts, and
blunders. The people that present to the earth the only race that has
wit for its national trait never had two more striking illustrations
of the fact than in these stage delineators of genius. Raymond is in
his grave, and the inevitable dust of forgetfulness is gathering upon
his tomb. But Florence, so kindly known throughout the land as Billy
Florence, is yet alive, and very much alive. The evidence of this fact
is before us in a book entitled _Florence Fables_ (Belford, Clarke &
Co.). Those so-called fables are not fables, but fiction without
morals, but full of interest, which is much better, and come to the
reader in the shape of love-stories, odd adventures, and strange
incidents at home and in foreign lands.

The book is sure of a wide sale, for the multitudes that have seen
Florence in his merry performances, and learned to love as well as
enjoy this finished comedian behind the footlights, will be curious to
learn how he appears as an author. But they "who come to scoff" will
hold on to enjoy. The name is enough to attract; the book itself is
sufficiently charming to entrance the reader.

In the last issue of BELFORD'S we gave a specimen of the