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the dilemma whether he shall betake himself to work which leads in the end to solid domesticity, or to the public house which not unfrequently leads to the galleys. A mere glance at this figure leaves no doubt that it represents 'Labor.' Monteverde at first intended to carry out his design by means of a group; he, however, destroyed the figure, nearly finished, of a genius showing the right way; the second figure, which the destroying hammer spared, speaks for itself and fully expresses the artist's idea."

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A WRITER in Fraser on "Artist and Critic" has some just comments, we think, on the disposition of artists to undervalue subject. "Most painters," he says, are so thoroughly and all but exclusively taken up with the technique, that they care little for any thing besides. The artist loves the art in a picture so much that he is jealous of the subject. Praise the subject, and he had almost as lief you praised the frame. I have often heard artists say that, in looking at a picture, the subject made no difference to them. That might be trivial or even ignoble, so long as there was good color, drawing, composition. Now, in my humble opinion, if the technique be the life of a picture, the subject is something even higher-it is the soul of it. Besides drawing, composition, and color, there must be expression. Drawing, composition, color, may be considered and estimated separately in a given picture; expression belongs to the whole work and to every part; and that which is pictorially expressed is the real subject and the soul of the picture."

THE project for a monument to Byron has assumed larger proportions. Instead of a slab over his grave at Hucknall, it is now intended to erect a monumental statue of Byron in some public place in the metropolis, of such importance as to assume the character of a national monument. The scheme has not yet taken a definite shape; still, not only is a marble statue in contemplation, but also a canopy in classic style to protect it, and give importance to the work. For this purpose a sum of ten thousand pounds is required; and it is hoped that it may easily be raised among admirers of the poet. The Scott monument at Edinburgh cost fifteen thousand pounds.

THE

From Abroad.

OUR PARIS LETTER.

August 3, 1875.

HE competition for prizes at the Conservatoire has come to an end. In some respects the classes this year have given very satisfactory proofs of progress on the part of the pupils. The lucky prize-holders have a good time of it. Those who get the first prize for tragedy and comedy enter the Comédie Française at once, and the winners of the second prize go to the company of the Qdéon. In like manner, the first prize for singing entitles the lucky holder to an immediate engagement at the Grand Opéra. The jury on singing comprised, among others, such well-known names as those of Ambroise Thomas, Gounod, and Wartel, the teacher of Nilsson. M. Couturier, who carried off the first prize, has a most beautiful tenor voice, and was loudly applauded. The Grand Opéra takes also the second prize-holder, M. Gally, who has a noble basso voice. There is promise of a new and brilliant star in the galaxy of prima donnas in the person of Mademoiselle Vergin, who car

ried off two first prizes, that for the Grand | laux undertook to reply to him. His arguOpéra and that of the Opéra Comique. She

is graceful, intelligent, and unaffected, and her double success called forth enthusiastic plaudits. The class of tragedy was lamentably small. Six gentlemen and one lady only presented themselves, and there was no first prize awarded. M. Marais, a pupil of M. Minuse, obtained the highest recompense accorded, that of a second prize, and the solitary female was not adjudged worthy of even honorable mention. The men fared as badly in the comedy class, wherein there were many more competitors, but Mademoiselle Samary, a pupil of M. Bressant, carried off the highest honors among the ladies. The small hall of the Conservatoire was crowded to suffocation. Numbers of people got in that had no right there and no entrance-ticket, by a very simple trick. To enter the vestibule it is merely necessary to show one's ticket at the door. The lucky ticket-holder, therefore, would enter, ramble around for a minute or two, and then pass his ticket through an open window to a friend outside, the same manoeuvre being repeated indefinitely. For be it known that it is very hard to gain entrance to the concours of the Conservatoire, and the desire to be present is of course in due proportion to the difficulty of obtaining the desired permission. Fortunately the weather was not very warm, or pupils, jury, and audience alike, would have been stewed in that hot, stuffy, little hall. The jury for tragedy and comedy was enough to give any poor novice a chill merely to contemplate appearing before them; it was composed of such names as those of Alexandre Dumas, Edouard Thierry, M. Perrin, Director of the Comédie Française, and Got and Delaunay, of the same theatre.

A good deal of interest was excited the other day among musical critics by the announcement that portions of a new opera called "Dimitri," by M. Victorin Joncières, was to be performed before M. Halanzier at the Grand Opéra with closed doors, the public being, of course, excluded. There have been many rumors afloat respecting this new opera, which is founded on the Russian historical legend of the pretender Demetrius, called in the libretto Dimitri. The author of the libretto is no other than M. de Bornier, in collaboration with M. Sylvestre. The work was all ready to be performed before M. Halanzier, when Madame Rosine Bloch, to whom the leading role had been confided, fell ill. She was replaced by Madame Fursch-Madier, and the opera was finally gotten ready for the decisive trial. But, after singing the fourth number of the petition, a duet between the soprano and the tenor, Mademoiselle Daram was seized with a violent fit of hysterics, which put an end to the performance. Pas de chance, M. Joncières, no more than Madame Geneviève de Brabant!

M. de Lorgeril, whose persistent and not unreasonable opposition to the expenditure of the vast sums which have been lavished on the new opera-house has been unvarying and remarkable, came to the front again with a fresh charge of extravagance and unreasonable demands on the occasion of the late motion in the Assembly for a graut of three more millions (six hundred thousand dollars) to complete the edifice. His passionate appeal to the good sense and economy of his confrères was only met by shouts of derisive laughter. Finally everybody took to talking to his next neighbor instead of listening to the speech of M. de Lorgeril, and the feeble voice of the speaker was drowned in the hum of private conversations. After he got through, M. Cail

ment was that it was too late for economy, that the opera-house was built, and that it must be finished. Another deputy, M. Testelin, joined in the protestations of M. de Lorgeril, but in vain. The amount was granted by a large majority. The great art - failure of our century is consequently destined to swallow up three more million francs.

A few weeks ago I gave an extract from a forthcoming work entitled "Curious Papers of a Courtier," by the Vicomte de BeaumontVassy. Last Sunday the author stepped into his publishers' warerooms to confer with them about his just-published work, when a sudden rush of blood streamed from his mouth and he fell dead on the floor. His funeral took place yesterday. Sudden deaths seem to have been unusually rife amid the literary and artistic celebrities in France of late.

At its next private sitting the Academy is to take into consideration the prize of six thousand francs instituted by the late M. Guizot for the best work, whether in prose or in verse, that has appeared during the past ten years. How, in the name of all that is wonderful, will they ever manage to come to a decision? Of course, among the Forty, there must be a great diversity of literary tastessome must admire Victor Hugo, while others detest him; there must be those who swear by George Sand, others who adore Dumas, etc.; "La Légende des Siècles" will have one set of advocates, "La Marquise de Villemer" another, and so on. I confess that I am quite curious to learn the result of their deliberations. But, if the prize were to be accorded to the work that had had the largest sale during the period aforesaid, what think you would be the winner of the Guizot prize? That almost unmentionable mass of filth, the "Mademoiselle Giraud, ma Femme," of Bélot, that precious novel having already passed through forty-two editions ! A charming comment, truly, on the moral and literary tastes of the France of the present day!

Great men should have good memories, or at least should look closely to their statements. The royalist and imperialist papers are now making merry over a slip of the pen of Victor Hugo. In the preface to his last-published work, "Avant l'Exil," occurs the following passage.

"One October evening in the year 1812, I was passing the Church of St.-Jacques du Haut-Pas, holding my mother's hand. A large, white placard was posted up against one of the columns of the doorway. My mother stopped me, and said, 'Read.' This is what I read: Empire Français. By sentence of the First Council of War, the ex-Generals Malet, Guidal, and Laborie, have been shot in the plain of Grenelle.' 'Lahorie,' said my mother, remember well that name. He was your godfather.''

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Turn we now to "Victor Hugo: Related by a Witness of his Life," a work that was written under the poet's immediate supervision, if not from his actual dictation-indeed, some go so far as to say that he wrote it himself, which is more than probable. We open at page 220 and find the following paragraph:

"The next day Eugène and Victor were passing by St. - Jacques. One of the fine penetrating rains of autumn was falling. The rain was a pretext for the two children to linger in the street, and to shelter themselves under the colonnade. While they were laughing and playing, the attention of Victor was attracted by a placard. It was the sentence which had condemned Malet, Lahorie, and their accomplices, to death. The execu

tion was to take place that very day. These names revealed nothing to the children; they only knew Lahorie under the false name which he bore when he was concealed at the Feullantines. Victor recommenced laughing and playing, while his godfather was being put to death."

What think you of the two passages ?—the careless gayety of the unthinking child transformed a few years later into an indelible remembrance which was to decide the whole future life of the poet? The simple fact is probably this: In each passage there is an effectthe effect of contrast in the earlier passage, that of solemnity and impressiveness in the later. False, if you will; but, oh! how essentially, how thoroughly French! Never mind truth-be dramatic and striking at all hazards!

Michel Levy has just published "La Bête Noire," a new novel by Edouard Cadol, and "Pompeii-Herculaneum; A Study of Roman Manners," by J. de Seranon. Casimir Pont has issued "La Vie Parisienne," by Armand Lapointe; and Dentu announces, among other forthcoming works, the last volume of "Les Cinq," by Paul Feval; "Les Belles Folies," by Jules Claretie; and a new edition of "Les Demoiselles de Ronçay," by Alberic Secondthis last work has received the prize of virtue as being the most conducive to morality of any issued within the last year. The last number of the Revue des Deux Mondes contains a fantastic tale, by Paul de Musset, entitled "Les Dents du Turco," and the first installment of a novel, by George Sand, called "Marianne." A propos of George Sand and her contributions to that periodical, we are told that some years ago she quarreled with the editor, and only consented to write for it again at a rate of compensation theretofore unheard of in the annals of the Revue-it paying worse, probably, than any other periodical of the same repute and prosperity. The terms she exacted were one thousand francs (two hundred dollars) per printed sheet of the Revue-which, as a sheet consists of sixteen pages, was only twelve dollars and fifty cents per printed page -by no means an exorbitant price when the celebrity of George Sand as a writer is taken into consideration. Her only English-writing rival, George Eliot, could probably command four times as much. But the price was an unheard-of one for the Revue to give, and it was not without many groans and sighs that the publishers consented to her terms. It is a

well-known rule with the editors of the Revue des Deux Mondes never to pay for the first article of any author that appears in their pages, no matter how great or how well-founded the renown of that author may be.

"Now it is worth nothing!"

The theatres are beginning to display symptoms of the approach of the busy season. The Variétés reopened its doors last night with Serpette's "Manoir de Pictordu.” Aimée and "Les Brigands are set down for the 15th of this month. Notwithstanding the continued success of the "Procès Veauradieux" at the Vaudeville, it is to be replaced on Saturday by a drama in verse, called "Jean-Nu-Pieds." The arrival of Mademoiselle Delaporte from Russia is anxiously awaited at the Gymnase. She is to make her rentrée in a revival of "Frou-Frou," in which play she has had great success in St. Petersburg. If she were only not so plain, but she is downright ugly, and not with a picturesque or poetic ugliness either. However, she is one of the most delicately-pure of actresses-a chaste and naive talent, as some of her French critics define it. The production of Sedaine's "Philosophe sans le savoir," at the Comédie Française, has been postponed on account of the illness of Maubant, who has been suffering from ophthalmia. The piece is to be played according to the original text, the original manuscript of Sedaine having been lately discovered among the archives of the Comédie Française. Blanche Baretta is to sustain the character of the heroine. There is again talk of producing "Faust" at the Grand Opéra. This time it is said that the brilliantly-successful debutante, Mademoiselle de Reszké, is to be the Marguerite. But Gaillard, the basso, has just gone off on a congé of a month, so that the role of Mephistopheles will have to be confided to Bataille, who is a very inferior singer. Rossini's "Count Ory," and a new ballet called "Sylvia," are also in preparation, but will not, it is said, be produced before next October. The scenery for "Robert le Diable" is all ready, and there is talk of confiding the rôle of Alice to Mademoiselle de Reszké, who seems decidedly to be the rising star of the Grand Opéra. At the Théâtre Historique "Les Muscadins," by Jules Claretie, is in active preparation. The scene of this new drama is laid during the period of the French Revolution. The great tragic actress Mademoiselle Rousseil is to sustain the leading female rôle, and great things in the way of scenery and costumes are promised.

Luor H. HOOPER.

OUR LONDON LETTER. THAT most indefatigable of climbers, Mr. Douglas Freshfield, the author of "Travels in the Caucasus and Bashan," and the editor of The Alpine Journal, has just given us, through Messrs. Longmans, a volume descriptive of his impressions and experiences of some of the least-known parts of beautiful Italy. His

I have been told that, all reports to the contrary notwithstanding, the elder Dumas was actually a married man. His wife was an actress. Their union was by no means a hap-work-which contains maps and illustrations py one, and they soon separated by mutual consent. The mother of his celebrated son was of good family but reduced circumstances, and when she first met the great novelist she was keeping a small circulating library on one of the side-streets of Paris. And, a propos of the elder Dumas, the following anecdote respecting him has been recently published: A friend once called upon him to request him to indorse a note. This Dumas cheerfully agreed to do, and, as he took up the pen, he glanced at the note, and asked:

"How much is that stamped paper worth?"

"Ten cents," was the reply.

Dumas wrote his name, and, flinging down the pen, he cried:

-is called "The Italian Alps," and is written in a really very genial style. It is not devoid of amusing anecdotes; it contains, moreover, some capital word-pictures. Yet withal, Mr. Freshfield is a modest writer; he calls his present production a "guide-book." A guidebook, forsooth! Would that Murray were written half so well! Though we have had many volumes of late on Italy, most of it remains a terra incognita both to authors and tourists in general. These are the places Mr. Freshfield dwells upon. He dwells upon "the exquisite valleys round the head of Lago Maggiore;" he dwells on the mountains of Val Masino and Val Livigno, which, says he, though "distant, respectively, only a day's journey west and east of the crowded Upper

Engadine," yet "are still left to their bears and Bergamasque shepherds;" he dwells on the Punta Trubinesca, "a noble peak, which, seen from Monte Generosca, heads the army of the Rhætian Alps," and "has been but once ascended, though it is accessible to anybody who can cross the Diavolezza Pass or climb the Titlis;" he dwells on many another little-trodden spot in Ticino, Lombardy, the Trentino, or Venetia. By-the-way, Mr. Freshfield highly lauds some of the nativesthose of the southern dolomites especially, whom he praises for their venturesomeness (have they not, asks he, "alone and uninvited by foreign gold, found their way to the tops of the highest peaks?") and for their intelligence and "quick courtesy." The most entertaining chapter is, perhaps, that on "Men and Mountains." In this, our author pardons the late Canon Kingsley's attack on mountains in "Prose Idyls," on the ground that it was, after all," only a plea for flats," and warmly eulogizes M. Loppé's paintings of Alpine scenery. That artist, he assures us, "paints with wonderful skill not only the forms of the séracs, but the shades and hues given by the imprisoned light and reflections to this frozen mass;" in short, "so faithful," according to Mr. Freshfield-and he ought to be a good judge are these pictures that Professor Tyndall would find in them fit illustrations for a popular discourse;" while "so perfect is sometimes the illusion that we should almost fear a modern version of Zeuxis and the birds, and expect to hear the lecturer calling on his assistant to drive stakes into the canvas." I don't know whether any of Loppé's works have found their way to New York, but they are certainly full of realistic power grand in conception and execution.

The other day there was witnessed in Westminster Abbey a solemn sight. It was one which made the looker-on recall to mind the brave deeds of that bravest of arctic explorers, Sir John Franklin, for it consisted in the unveiling of the memorial erected to that famous knight's memory by his just-deceased widow. The memorial is of the best possible kind-it is a lifelike bust of Sir John himself, and the sculptor, Mr. Matthew Noble, has done his work admirably. I should mention that a handsome Gothic canopy in alabaster surmounts the bust, and that beneath it is a marble ship, while the inscriptions (due to that most liberal-minded divine, Dean Stanley) run thus:

"O ye frost and cold, O ye ice and snow, Bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him forever."

Then comes the following verse by Tenny

son:

"Not here; the white North has thy bones; and thou,

Heroic sailor-soul,

Art passing on thine happier voyage now,
Toward no earthly pole."

On either side of the monument are the following inscriptions:

"To the memory of Sir John Franklin, born April 16, 1786, at Spilsby, Lincolnshire, died June 11, 1847, off Point Victory, in the Frozen Ocean, the beloved chief of the crews who perished with him in completing the discovery of the northwest passage. This monument was erected by Jane, his widow, who, after long waiting and sending many in search of him, herself departed to find him in the realms of life, July 18, 1875, aged eightythree years."

A lady with whose nom de plume you are familiar, "Stella," of "Records of the Heart" fame, is obviously a very energetic poetess.

At any rate, she is determined not to hide her light under a bushel, wherefore she is actually advertising over here, on our "hoardings" by means of "broadsides," her recently-published "tragedy in five acts," "Sappho!" Yet very much afraid am I that she won't make it pay, and this notwithstanding that, as the Graphic says with some truth, the play "is full of fire and force, and is thoroughly readable."

Mr. George Rignold is having a successful time of it at the Queen's. Understand, we don't puff and laud him as you do; still, we like him and go to hear and see him. Within the last few days he has assumed for our edification the character of Amos Clark. Amos Clark, I have no doubt you know, is the hero of the late Watts Phillips's drama of that name; moreover, it is one of Mr. Rignold's original parts, and he portrays it with both vigor and pathos. The young actor's wife, née Miss Marie Henderson, is Mildred Vaughan. WILL WILLIAMS.

tial success are the many records of absolute failure. In the year 1772 the Abbé Desfarges, canon of St.-Croix, at Etampes, announced that he would make a journey in the air seated in a flying-chariot. The time arrived; the spectators appeared in great numbers; and the clerical inventor took his seat in his chariot, which rested upon the tower of Guitel. This chariot is described as a kind of a boat or gondola, seven feet long and two and one-half broad, attached to which were broad wings, the weight of the whole being forty-eight pounds; this, added to that of the canon's body, gave a total weight of two hundred and thirteen pounds. When all was in readiness the signal was given; the wings, obedient to the efforts of the man beneath, began to flap; but, alas! the chariot did not move, and has not moved to this day. Another record of failure is that of the flying-man, invented by Jacob Degen, a watchmaker of Vienna, and here illustrated. This consisted

Science, Invention, Discovery. of two oval-shaped concave wings, made of

IT

FLYING MEN AND MACHINES.

was Goethe who said, "We feel in us

the germs of faculties which we must not expect to see developed in this life, and one of these is flying." While the German poet and philosopher, even in his most prophetic mood, dared not hope for an achievement for man that would make him the companion of the bird, others more bold, if not more wise, have long been busy in the attempt to solve the problem of aërial navigation. We all remember the old Greek fable of "Dædalus and his son Icarus," how they made for themselves wings of feathers, fastened with thread and wax, and how the boy, heedless of the father's sage advice, flew too high, and so exposed his wax-fastened wings to the heat of the sun, which softened the wax, and thus precipitated the too bold navigator from the sea of air above into the sea of water beneath. This is but a fable, it is true, and yet the history of many subsequent ventures, though verified by authentic records, seems hardly less fanciful. Hartwig, in his recently-published work,* notices several of the more important of these attempts at flying. In the year 1678, one Besnier, a locksmith of Sabié, in France, constructed a machine which consisted of four wings or large flaps, which were worked by levers resting upon his shoulders, and moved alternately by hands and feet. By means of this contrivance, the inventor is said to have been able to descend slowly through the air from great heights, but all his efforts at ascent proved fruitless. Leonardo da Vinci is said to have numbered a flying-machine among his many mechanical devices. In 1742, the Marquis de Bacqueville attempted to Ay from his residence on the Quai des Théatins, Paris, to a point over the Seine. The voyage was but half accomplished, however, when the wings ceased to act, and the noble marquis came suddenly to earth. In addition to these somewhat doubtful statements of par

The Aerial World. A Popular Account of the Phenomena and Life of the Atmosphere. By G. Hartwig, M. and P. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1875.

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canvas stretched over a light wooden framework, and attached by means of a yoke round the neck. These canvas wings were set in motion by the aid of ingeniously-contrived handand-foot levers. So confident was Degen that he had discovered the secret at last, that, in the presence of a multitude, he made his first attempt by endeavoring to rise from the level ground. Failing in this, he ascended in a balloon, and, suspended from it by a rope, attempted to fly, but his best efforts were fruitless, and his name soon was added to the long list of "flying-men who failed to fly." In spite of these numerous failures, there are yet many hopeful souls, and we doubt not but that the patent records for each succeeding year contain the name and claim of some sanguine inventor and his machine. While we may find in our hearts some sympathy for the unfortunate Icarus, there seems to be little wisdom or justice in granting it to those of his imitators who sin, having greater light.

A careful study of the anatomy of birds and their muscular structure has caused the modern physicist to assert that, if a man would carry his heavy body through the air unaided by any buoyant medium, he will have to do it by means of wings having a surface of at least twelve thousand feet, which wings must needs beat the air several times a second. These are demonstrable facts, and yet the work of invention, experiment, and failure goes on.

Of a somewhat different order from the simple flying-man are several of the more recently-proposed methods of aërial navigation, which are designed to use gas and steam as allies. We recently announced that certain English engineers, of recognized position and professional ability, were engaged in the construction of an air-ship of novel form, which promised to prove a success. No one, however, save those in the confidence of the parties, is yet instructed as to its special merits.

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It is by no means a favorable sign in connection with these efforts that in every instance the inventors are prone to surround their work with a halo or cloud of mystery, through which the inquisitive world is instructed not to penetrate or peer. While the Englishmen are at work, we, too, in America are not idle, as appears by the many though unsatisfactory accounts of the forthcoming Baltimore air-ship. Of the form and

structure of this American invention little is as yet known. The inventor is said to be

confident, and, what is still better, to be supported by a rich patron. The Scientific American, which should know all about it, being the leading American mechanical journal, confesses to knowing very little. This little, however, reads as follows:

"So far as we can make out the construction of the invention, it includes a boat, made of oiled canvas and wire, sixty-five feet long. This has two masts of steel, each twenty

eight feet high, between which is extended an egg-shaped balloon, the points of the latter being held in a wire net-work. Around the middle of the balloon are girdles and nettings, the latter of which come down and support the car, which, we suppose, is the boat. At each end of the boat is a propeller, also of wire and canvas. One screw pulls and the other pushes. These are independent, and drive the boat in either direction.

"Besides, there are two large rudders, one at each end, and also independent. On each side of the boat is fastened by hinges a wing thirty-five feet long by fifteen feet wide in front, ten feet wide behind, and concave beneath. These wings are driven at the rate of one hundred and seventy flaps per minute, and the propellers at twelve hundred revolutions, by an eight-horse hydraulic engine located in the car.

"The whole machine is to weigh eighteen hundred pounds and the balloon to hold eighty thousand cubic feet of gas; twelve thousand pounds of load are to be transported at the rate of seventy miles an hour in still air, and the ocean is to be crossed in fifty hours."

It would be vain and faithless in this age of invention to say men never will navigate the air, and yet we venture the prediction that that result will not be accomplished by means of any known force as now applied for the generation of motive power.

A FAVORITE theme with the editors of socalled health journals and household medical guides is that of "overwork," and so much has been written on this subject, and of such a nature, that, were we to believe and act upon the advice thus given, the world would become almost a hive of drones. We confidently believe that so far as honest brain-work goes the more we do of it the better, and, if owing to a reckless disregard of recognized hygienic and sanitary laws an occasional "student" finds an early grave, let the blame be put where it belongs, and not credited to the worthy zeal that some call "overwork." Having long held to this opinion, and believing that facts would sustain us, we are gratified to find that an eminent English physician has given expression to a like view, and, coming as it does from one high in authority, we trust it will receive the attention from both students and drones that it deserves. We condense from Dr. Wilk's communication as it appears in the Lancet as follows. After answering the simple question "Are people suffering from overwork?" with a decided "No!" the writer says: "Medically speaking, I see half a dozen persons suffering from want of occupation to one who is crippled by his labors. Very often, when a business man complains of being overdone, it may be found that his meals are irregular and hurried, that he takes no exercise, is rather partial to brandy-and-soda, and thinks it is not improper to poison himself with nicotine every night and morning." Passing from man to woman, the case is made to appear even more severe. It is not overwork, therefore, that is to be deprecated, provided the work is legitimate, and such as to claim a normal exercise of the functions. The brain is an engine of many horse-power; its energy must be accounted for in some way; if not used for good purposes it will be for bad, and "mischief will be found for idle hands to do." So the work is actually a safeguard. The human body is made for work, and just as the muscles are better prepared for work by previous training, so the nervous system,

whether it be the brain or spinal column, becomes more energized by use. It is only during sleep that the brain is actually inactive, and hence, if we will not give it work to do, it will find that to engage its energy, even though in the end the labor be profitless. After referring in a plain though hardly gentle manner to the men and women whom the frivolities of life keep "idly busy," the writer contrasts them with those whose minds are never at rest, and yet who live to a good old age.

As the closing passages are not only truthful as to facts, but of value by the suggestions they contain, we are prompted to quote them at length, and should there be among our readers some of these overworked brain-workers, they will find in these words sage counsel and encouragement. The writer refers to the honest, cheerful, but constant workers as follows: "Practically they have no rest, for, when one object of study is complete, they commence to pursue another. It is by the happy faculty of diverting the powers into different channels that this is accomplished. Instances might easily be quoted of statesmen, judges, and members of our own profession, who know no absolute rest, and who would smile at the suspicion of hard work

injuring any man. I make it a custom to ask young men what their second occupation iswhat pursuit have they besides their breadearning employment. Those are happiest who possess some object of interest, but I am sorry to say there are few who find delight in any branch of science. The purely scientific man finds his best recreation in literature or art, but even in intellectual work so many different faculties are employed that a pleasant diversion is found in simply changing the kind of labor. For example, a judge after sitting all day, and giving his closest attention to the details of the cases before him, may yet find relief in his evenings by solving problems in mathematics. The subject of overwork, then, is one of the greatest importance to study, and has to be discussed daily by all of

us.

My own opinion has already been expressed, that the evils attending it on the community at large are vastly over-estimated; and, judging from my own experience, the persons with unstrung nerves who apply to the doctor are, not the prime-minister, the bishops, judges, and hard-working professional men, but merchants and stock-brokers retired from business, government clerks who work from ten to four, women whose domestic duties and bad servants are driving them to the grave, young ladies whose visits to the village school or Sunday performance on the organ are undermining their health, and so on. In short, and this is the object of the remarks with which I have troubled your readers, that in my experience I see more ailments arise from want of occupation than from overwork, and, taking the various kinds of nervous and dyspeptic ailments which we are constantly treating, I find at least six due to idleness to one from overwork."

OUR readers who have watched with interest the progress of the English Arctic Expedition, and who are now waiting eagerly for the first official report from the Alert and Discovery, will learn with an almost personal sorrow that one of those whose best blessings went with the brave explorers no longer listens for tidings from their ships. Lady Franklin is dead; and though, at the good old age of eighty-three, her time had come to die, yet it was an almost universal hope that she might have remained at least long enough to hear the final tidings they promised to bring her from her

husband's grave. As the memory of his bold achievements and brave service in the cause of knowledge has made the name of Sir John Franklin one which the whole world has come to honor, so will the memory of Lady Franklin's devoted love and untiring zeal ever command the affectionate reverence of us all. We learn from Nature that Jane Griffin, for such was her maiden name, was married to the great and unfortunate arctic explorer on November 5, 1828, and accompanied him almost constantly in the fulfillment of his duties until his departure on his last arctic voyage of discovery in 1845. She has naturally ever since taken the deepest interest in arctic exploration, and has herself directly done much to forward it by fitting out expeditions either entirely or partly at her own expense. It was she who sent out the Fox, which in 1857-'59, under Sir Leopold McClintock, did important service in arctic exploration and in the discovery of the records and relics of the unfortunate Franklin expedition. That her interest in arctic enterprise was strong to the very last is shown by the fact that she helped to equip the Pandora which so recently left our shores to attempt the northwest passage under Captain Allen Young. For her services in this direction she received, on the return of the Fox, the gold medal of the Royal Geographical Society; she was the first woman on whom it was conferred, the only other one who obtained such a distinction being the late Mrs. Somerville. Until within the last few years, when incapacitated by old age and illness, Lady Franklin was herself an almost constant traveler; she had made a voyage round the world, and visited many of the principal places in Europe, North and South America, Asia, and Australasia. She was, as might be surmised, a woman of superior intelligence, clear-sightedness, and great determination; her name will, no doubt, live alongside that of her renowned husband.

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THE Occasional reports from the exploring ship Challenger are mainly of interest in confirming facts already announced. The results of soundings made between the Admiralty Islands and Japan are reported briefly as follows: The deepest trustworthy sounding was four thousand five hundred and seventy-five fathoms (over five miles). The tube of the sounding-machine contained an excellent sample of the bottom, which was found to consist almost entirely of the siliceous shells of Radiolaria. As illustrating the difficulty of obtaining true results as to temperature at these great depths, it is said that three out of four Miller Casella thermometers sent down to these depths were crushed to pieces by the enormous pressure-between five and six tons to the square inch. The fourth registered, at fifteen hundred fathoms and below, the usual temperature of 34.5° Fahr. From this it appears that there is a layer of water of uniform temperature occupying the ocean's bed having a depth of eighteen thousand four hundred and fifty feet. This temperature seems to be uniform, whatever may be that of the surfacecurrents. This fact, with that of pressure, indicates that the sea is in by far its greater portion tenantless, because not fitted for the encouragement of maintenance of the higher forms of marine life.

Ir is announced that both a zoological and botanical collector will form a part of the retinue of the Prince of Wales in his approaching visit to India. Should this prove true, the popular interest in this proposed visit will be greatly enhanced; and, acting as they will be

under the direct patronage of the prince, these collectors will be afforded opportunities which, if improved, will result in a decided gain to the sciences which they represent.

Miscellany:

NOTEWORTHY THINGS GLEANED HERE

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AND THERE.

FTER an interval of several months, Mr. Julian Hawthorne resumes, in the August Contemporary Review, his series of "Saxon Studies," his subject in this paper being the Saxon soldier, which he considers the finest in the world:

The world is ancient; there have been many ages and races of men; but, of all, the Saxon soldier is the flower. It were rash to affirm that the future may not produce a warrior better yet than he; the automatic theory holds out high hopes of possible progress in this direction. When we shall have disembarrassed ourselves of the notion that we live as we please, a rigid system of discipline will become our dearest comfort; for it will tend most strongly to put us out of the way of faneying our actions self-willed. The new gospel shall be the manual of drill and tactics. What a humiliation to man's conceit-the thought that soldiers are nearer the eternal verities than any other bodies! Let the fools of sentiment hasten to range themselves on the winning side. But, whatever our haste, the Saxous are still ahead of us. Though they may not, as yet, have put in words the awful truth of automatism, they have nevertheless done more to verify it in nature and conduct than have the philosophers who set the theory going.

It must not be forgotten, however, that their preeminence is owing quite as much to the age they live in as to their intrinsic quality. In short, we are called on to admire an exquisite harmony of times and traits. These sons of the drill-book would scarcely have suited the days when personal prowess was an essential soldierly requirement. Their best recommendation to the modern and still more to the future recruiting-sergeant must be their unlikeness to the old Greek and Roman giants of sword and spear. Not hot blood and youthful fervor are wanted; rather a thin, colorless, meek, mechanical habit. What has been called soul and individuality is to be got rid of: an unbounded stomach for discipline is the desideratum.

Meanwhile I take pleasure in repeating that Saxon soldiers are the best in the world. They can swallow most discipline. They submit to so much stuffing with rules and regulations, great and small, that little of the original creature is left save organic life and uniform. They are a docile sort of Frankensteins. This is well, so long as they remain in the service; but picture the sad plight of a being thus drained of his proper entrails, and inspired solely by the breath of Mars, when Mars no longer needs him! Mars recreates men showily enough; but he lacks the constancy of an original maker, and by-and-by leaves his recreatures dismally in the lurch. Even the uniform is bereft them. Let who becomes a soldier reflect that he enlists for life; and, whether he be killed in his first battle, or honorably discharged after half a dozen campaigns, his life still ceases with his soldiership.

It would be edifying to contrast Saxon soldiers with other nations, point by point, and so arrive at a practical comprehension of their superiority. Much is signified in the fact that their captains address them as "children," while we Americans and our English friends try to inspire our warriors by appeals to their "manhood." Men, forsooth! Such is the fruit of illogical sentiment. But persist in calling a person child, and treating him so, and presently he will share our view of the matter, and thus become fit for the camp. But my business is not so much with comparisons as with the incomparable Saxon soldier him

self.

Even his uniform is admirable, and, after the shoppy productions worn by our Seventh Regiments, and still more by English Guards and Grenadiers, truly refreshing. It is mainly dark, the darkness enhanced by narrow lines of red adown the leg and round the throat and wrist. His head-gear, though called helmet for lack of a better name, is not imposing, but eminently practical; while as to his cap, it is positively made and worn to cover the head, and scarcely inclines more to one ear than to the other. What a pregnant subject for analysis, by-the-way, is that matter of wearing the hat aslant instead of upright! Some seer, one of these days, will draw a deep moral from it. The head itself is not propped fiercely up in unrelenting collar, but sits as easily as the heads of ordinary men. We look in vain for the stiff-kneedness, out-chestedness, square-elbowedness, high-mightiness, which we are accustomed to associate with the thought of things military. This model child of battle seems so comfortable in his uniform, he might have been born in it. He can stoop, kneel down, run, or vault a fence, without bursting a button. His belt is leathern-no pipe-clay on his conscience. He can be very dirty without much showing it. Padding and lacing are unknown-at least to the private. His short sword seems as natural an appendage as a monkey's tail; he would look maimed without it. He walks the streets-with measured tread, indeed, for he is drilled to the marrow, but-with an infantile self-unconsciousness subversive of all precedent. He looks of a race distinct from the civilian, it is true, but quite at home in his distinction.

Soberness of uniform is so far from being a trifling matter (things being as they are) that, should the English be beaten in the next war, they may safely lay the blame on their own red coats. In the time of Marlborough or of Wellington these may have had their use; but nowadays scarlet, added to the vicious mysoul's-my-own doctrine which even yet obtains but too widely, gives the private soldier too much of an opinion of himself. He esteems himself too grand a being to be cuffed by corporals, and unceremoniously bidden to right about face and present arms. Moreover, his ruddy splendors attract the feminine eye and heart, and women are not wholesome for modern warriors. Such individual inspiration as they may once have given is not needed in battles fought out of sight of the enemy. That army will be found most efficient whose uniform is least seductive to the female mind. I am far from asserting that the Saxon uniform is perfect in this respect. No; it has a dapper appearance, a snug neatness, a sparkle of helmet-spike and sword-hilt greatly to be deplored. Still there is none homelier, so far as I am aware; and we may cheerfully trust to the natural instincts of the Saxon mind to make it uglier yet.

To be rid of women, however, we must take thought not of the uniform only; there

is the traditional heroism of the soldier to be

done away with. Women persist in loving those who make a business of getting killed, more fondly than those who get killed in the way of business. Such preference is not only irrational-it was always that-it is now foundationless. When will our wives and daughters learn to believe that he who, with unfaltering resolution, takes the train to the city every morning, or calmly spends the day in his confined study, and trembles not at the dinner-bell, is more valiant than the man who leads a healthy life in camps, and goes to battle with a telescopic rifle once in twenty years? But no, to her mind the soldier is engaged in daily hand-to-hand encounters; his life is ever next door to a violent end; there is something heroic and perilous to himself in his own sword and gun. I am compelled to admit that even Saxon soldiers have their sweethearts, who lavish upon the lucky dogs such looks as the poor Kellner or shop-tender can never hope to obtain; and the necessity of being in barracks by a certain hour adds a romance to the daily parting which makes it worth a dozen optional ones.

The drill looks absurd enough, but it is tremendous, and it works wonders. Not a drop of the man's blood, not an ounce of his flesh, not a breath of his body, but feels the impress of the manual. What a stretch of the leg was that! and now what sharp angles, short corners, starts, jerks, dead pauses, sudden veerings, dashes, halts, thumpings, clankings! The man is beside himself, and that grotesque caperer is some puppet whose strings the sergeant is pulling. This periodic fit or seizure-they may call it drill, but in fact it is possession of seven devils, recurring at a certain hour every morning, lasting a fixed while, and then the devils depart, and presently the victim appears, rehabilitated: but we know his secret now, and all his quietness fails to impose on us; we discern his mad-pranks ill concealed beneath the most innocent actions. The mark is on him; the Seven will rend him again to-morrow. Skeletons are seldom attractive spectacles; but this skeleton of drill, once seen, is not lightly forgotten. The discovery of so grisly a substructure to the pomp and circumstance of war is impressive in its way. It is kept discreetly secluded within the barrack-walls, only venturing thence in the guise of commonplace marching and rifle-exercise. To the barracks, too, are confined the more flagrant tyrannies of the drill-master, whose cuffs, shoves, and beratings, make the onlooker's blood to boil, and him to marvel at the silent, unretaliating meekness of the berated one. It is odd to see that one of mankind whose avowed business in life is retaliation thus outdoing the forbearance of the mildest country clergyman. But a soldier's spirit is bound strictly to the rules of the manual; when not required in the way of business, it must remain prostrate in the mire. Soldiers are generally credited with elasticity of spirits, and from this point of view it is no wonder. But in many cases, I fancy, the spirits are broken betimes, and what afterward passes as such is merely a kind of galvanization produced by fear. Doubtless galvanism is better than courage, being mechanical, and a safer factor in calculations.

THE Rev. Julian Charles Young relates the following amusing incident of his par ish-life:

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