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The seventh annual meeting of the "Vassar Alumnæ Association, of New York City and Vicinity," was held at Delmonico's, on Saturday, Feb. 4th. The meeting was called to order at one o'clock by the President, Miss Finch, of '72. After the reading of the minutes, the Secretary read a letter from the Boston Alumnæ Association. The purport of the letter was that a discussion had taken place in the Boston meeting with regard to the bequest of $80,000.00 from the late Matthew Vassar, to found professorships which shall not be filled by women.

The Boston Association, feeling that the condition attached to the bequest is inconsistent with the views of the Founder of the College, resolved to enter a protest against this condition upon their records; and hoped that like action would be taken by the New York Association, and also by the General Alumnæ Association, in June, 1882.

A motion to enter this protest upon the records of the New York Association was made, and the question was discussed; but the sentiment of the majority being that such action would not further the best interests of the College, the motion was lost. A motion to address a protest to the Board of Trustees was also lost.

The election of officers for the ensuing year then took place, and resulted as follows:

The business meeting was then adjourned.

After lunch, the social exercises opened with a short address by Miss Finch, after which she introduced Miss Norris, her successor as President. A very interesting Alumnæ Report was given by Miss Stilson, of '69, and a thoughtful essay on Education was read by Mrs. W.H. Martin (Miss Davis, of '69). Mrs. Sweetzer-Winslow of '70, and Miss Beers, of '69, gave evidence that their music has not been neglected amid the duties of social and family life.

The arrangements were very complete, and reflected much credit upon the committee.

In spite of a severe storm, about seventy-five members were present, among them, Miss Goodsell, the Lady Principal. Professors Hinkel and

Dwight were present as guests of the Association.

The Alumnæ Report shows that the graduates, as a rule, are earnest and useful in whatever sphere they may be situated; and that many are filling positions of honor and trust. This is certainly gratifying to all who love the fair fame of "Alma Mater."

A year since at Arezzo I met a singular man. He frequented the hotel, and occasionally had dealings with the guests, selling them old books, pictures, and manuscripts. His threadbare cloak had a scholastic air, and his face had a mixture of refinement and shrewdness which made me waver in opinion as to whether he were a pedagogue or a charlatan, an ecclesiastic of some of the lower orders, or a swindler in antiquities. One day he met me upon the steps of the cathedral and, with profuse apologies, asked if I were interested in autographs. Not meeting with sufficient discouragement he confided to me the fact that he was the possessor of a priceless treasure, which he would willingly show me-a collection of

autograph letters by some of the most eminent Florentines of the first part of the sixteenth century. As he mentioned the names of the writers, I could not forbear expressing some incredulity. "It is not likely," I remarked, "that letters from such distinguished individuals would have been lightly parted with by their recipients."

With an expressive shrug and an outward turning of both palms, he replied, "But what, Madonna mia, if they were never received ?”

My answer was a stare of blank astonishment.

Listen lady," he began, speaking rapidly, as though fearing interruption, “my father was digging up the laurel tree that stands between our land and the highway. It was an old tree and a tough one; but he wanted sound wood for a certain purpose. Perhaps your highness knows how long it takes a laurel to grow until its trunk is of a bigness to make a stout cudgel. No matter; it was a stout tree, an old one, and under it, not beside it but under its roots, mind, was a leathern mailbag, of a pattern such as they do not use in Italy nowadays. It had been cut open and rifled of all moneys and valuables; only a few letters of no use to the bandits remained inside. They had buried it here and planted this slip of a laurel to mark the place. My father was no scholar and knew nothing of the value of what he had found, but he kept the bag, nevertheless; and I will bring it, with your ladyship's permission, to the hotel this evening for your inspection."

"What date do the letters bear?" I asked.

"October, 1504."

"October, 1504!" I exclaimed. "That was the autumn that Raphael first visited Florence, as an unknown student, that Leonardo was in the prime of success, and Michael Angelo was battling with adverse fate."

The old man smiled cunningly. Angelo, Leonardo, they are all there."

"The divine Raphael,

"The man is an impostor," said my better judgment; but in spite of myself my lips framed the words, "I would like to see your mail-bag." That evening it lay before us, a satchel of strange shape, with numerous buckles and clasps rusted with age, and with an ugly gash in the side. Altogether it had an authentic and convincing look, and as we sorted and read the letters we became every moment more interested in the facts which they disclosed.

Some of them seemed absurd enough in the light of subsequent history. Not even Raphael's most intimate friend, the Count Castiglione, who wrote to his mother years afterward, "It seems as if we were not in Rome, since my poor Raphael is here no longer,"-even he had, at this time, no intimation of the future which awaited his friend. It was amusing, too, to see him writing in derogatory terms of Michael Angelo to Vittoria Colonna, between whom and the great sculptor there existed so beautiful an attachment in the autumn of their years.

No where else had we seen any intimation that Bembo and Raphael, who were friends in later life, had ever been rivals. Bembo, whom we know now as the Cardinal, even then entering holy orders and all his after-life

"Sworn fast and tonsured plain, heaven's celibate,
And yet earth's clear accepted servitor,

A courtly spiritual Cupid.

And fit companion for the like of you,

Your gay Abati with the well turned leg

And rose i' the hat-rim, Canons, cross at neck,
And silk mask in the pocket of the gown."

Here was Cardinal Bibbiena, the wit and jovial table-companion, whose portrait by Raphael, depicting the high-bred, courtly man of the world, we had seen in the Madrid Royal Gallery; and here was lying Vasari, with no prophetic vision to foretell the fulsome praise which he would one day lavish on the world-accepted Raphael,