should take lay over what is acknowledged to be the finest scenery in America, being along the Hudson as far as Fishkill; thence back into the country, striking the river again at Hudson; thence across the Catskills near the Mountain-House, and so on up to Saratoga, where the final landing was made. We were in the air twenty-six hours -Я plump night and day.

Never can I forget that summer night. Sailing out over the Hudson a few miles below West Point, we remained above its waters at a height of perhaps two hundred feet more than an hour, slowly coursing to the north. The mellow rays of a full moon lighted up our pathway. Beneath us a boat bearing an excursion - party was breasting the current. It looked to be a fairy craft. The sound of merry voices and laughter, toned down by the distance to a sweet, gentle murmur, was wafted up to us. Every few minutes a string-band aboard the boat rasped out a tune, which to our ears was divinest harmony; for to us then the hoarse din of a battle, or the dull repetitious clang of a boiler-shop, would have had all the charms of a melody. One minute our car would be rubbing against the wens on Anthony's Nose, and the next we would be sailing placidly over the mid-current. Here it was that I felt perfect peace and joy; and with these feelings was curiously combined a sort of intoxication, which, unlike other intoxications, was followed by no painful penalty, except perhaps of sorrow that it had gone.

Strange what a brotherhood sprang up between us! We were total strangers to one another an hour before the starting. We were rough fellows, too, such as the varied life of a reporter on the daily press tends to make men. Yet we were brothers in heart and soul ten minutes after the balloon's leashes were cast off. F took a perilous perch on the edge of the basket. McK no sooner saw it than, in tones soft as a woman's and earnest with heartfelt solicitude, he begged this friend of an hour to descend to a safer level.

Such a wonderful sunrise as that which burst on us on the morning of the 25th is seldom seen. The balloon had been sailing low in a valley, to the east of a steep hill, whose top towered several hundred feet above us. A little village beneath us, which snuggled cozily in an angle formed by the meeting of two small streams, was dim under the mists of early morning and the shadows of the hills. There were no signs of the approach of day in the sky. It was desirable to rise over the high hill to the east, and ballast was thrown out for the purpose. The balloon shot up like an arrow. The instant we passed the level of the summit, we saw the sun peeping up at us over the shoulder of a distant mountain. It was full and round, and came in sight within the fraction of a second. The phenomenon of sunrise was reversed; we rose on the sun. But this was not a glorious sun that we saw, fresh and rosy as a summer's sun should be. He was heavy and dull-as it were, bleareyed-and blurred as if he had spent most of the night in enervating revelry, and had only just been roused from a brief doze un

der somebody's table, and wanted to drop down again and have the nap out. That he was in a very bad humor about something seemed certain. But none of this proved to be his fault. The enemies that put him in this sorry plight, and came so near destroy. ing our good opinion of him as an industrious, sober fellow, were clouds of vapor that rose from the intervening Hudson and floated in dense masses in front of him. He was not slow to recognize his peril; and, fighting as a wronged man always fights, and using his ardor with great advantage (a thing which few people have the knack of doing), he soon so completely routed his foes that after half an hour no trace of them could be discovered.

And when a few hours thereafter we soared two miles above the Catskills, what a grand sense of freedom came over us and wrapped us as in fine robes and ermine! We were absolute lords of the domain; if not, pray who were? Beyond the reach of all law (not to say that law is a thing for the riddance from which God is to be thanked), we triumphed in knowing that neither man nor any of man's inventions could avail against us. Indeed, there could be no more perfect freedom than was ours, albeit we were confined within the narrow limits of a basket eight feet by three and a half.

Toward nightfall there were thrilling experiences that made the blood leap. A high wind sprang up, and carried the balloon along at prodigious speed. We could not distinguish objects on the earth. The long dragrope was out, and the end of it became fast around a limb of a tree. The balloon was brought up with a shock that nearly overturned the basket, and it took all our strength to keep from falling. The rope groaned under the strain. The gas-bag was like a huge leviathan in a net. It writhed, twisted, pushed this way and that, gathered into a ball, and sprang fiercely out. The loose cloth around the mouth would suck up, till half the netting hung empty, and then fold after fold would dart out and back with all the angry menace of serpent's tongue. The rope kept on groaning and grinding against the edge of the basket. There were doubts if the basket would long stand the strain; but it was made of tough willow and bamboo, cunningly interwoven, and gave no signs of breaking.

The struggle was short. The branch that held the rope snapped, and we were free. And how, as a thing of life, the balloon seemed to rejoice in her recovered freedom! First, there was a quick leap forward, that threw us off our feet, and cast the great drag-rope (three hundred feet long) about like a whiplash. Then came a succession of steady jumps and a pleasant, oscillating motion, until we steadied down to the velocity of the wind.

I enjoyed all this profoundly. Does the reader doubt the truthfulness of this assertion ? This is perhaps but natural, yet I solemnly declare that I was not afraid, and gathered pleasure from the scene. Just as a sympathetic man may become so interested in a deadly battle between voracious beasts that, forgetting self, he draws nigher and nigher, until he is himself in danger, so I was

entranced by that contest up there in the clouds.

I find I am unable to do more than glance at the subject. A score of delights remain unmentioned, chief among which, after some other sensations similar to those already described, is the curious appearance which the landscape assumes. The forests, cut into at one point and another by the axe of the woodman, presented to us from our shifting perch in the air all sorts of grotesque figures: in one place we saw a pair of eye-glasses, the glasses represented by two dabs of woodland, and the connecting bridge by a creek running from one to the other; in another, a gigantic boot, shaped by cuttings on a forest, with every curve as true as if it had been fashioned by one of the "anatomical boot-makers of the period. When seen from a vast height, the earth appeared to be dressed in a robe of dark green, shaded to a deeper bue here and there by cloudlets floating beneath the sun, and garnished all over with bright penciling, sometimes silvery and sometimes golden, of the innumerable rivers and creeks. And as there are said to be no distinctions of class in heaven, so we could discern no difference between the dashing streamlet that has its source in the mountains, with its clean, pebbly bottom and pure waters, and its laggard neighbor, dragging its noisome length between environments of sticky ooze, that hails from the swamps.

There was at no time any feeling of unsteadiness or uncertainty of foothold, like that which comes over one when tossing on the sea in a ship or boat. The basket was as firm as a parlor-floor; and indeed, when running with the wind at a speed of seventy miles an hour, not the slightest motion was perceptible, except when we looked down at the spinning earth.

What a pity these silent, trackless depths are not the highway of passenger traffic, instead of the roaring, screeching, grimy railway-train, and the boisterous, broiling seas!

EDGAR BRONSON.

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

THE

HERE'S a chill in the air, a drab in the day,

A sky that is bare, a wood that is gray.

There's a stain on the rock, a crisp in the brake,

A crag for the hawk, a den for the snake; There is white on the hair, the marmot's abed,

Asleep is the bear, the lizard is dead;

There's a howl on the hill, a moan on the plain,

A film on the rill, a flake on the rain; There is wealth in the moon, pure gold is the star,

A darkness too soon, a glory too far;

There is death in the day, a treacherous sun, A season grown gray-an autumn undone !

JOHN VANCE CHENEY.

of the great vices of Americans. Husbands and wives live very much apart in America, and the reason for this is certainly a very peculiar one. It seems that every married woman in this unhallowed land wants to keep a boarding-house. So the wife, we are gravely told, "goes to her mother, and speculates on her own account in a boarding-house, if she can succeed in inducing any gentleman to lend her the money, for the loan of which he takes out his board." This wonderful and inscrutable custom has of course covered the land with boarding - houses, and willfully corrupted the morals of the people.

Newspapers and newspaper editors do not escape our vivacious critic. "Sensational articles, calculated to provoke shooting or whipping, are written as a mere speculation to sell the paper. The writer knows that if he can produce an affray hot enough, he will sell so many more editions of his paper. He takes the risk of being shot or flogged himself, and sits in his office with a loaded revolver near his inkstand. The indignant sufferer from the article walks ininquires if he is the writer of the obnoxious article. The editor places his pen in his ear, lays his hand on his revolver, and admits he is."

We have only glanced over a few chapters in Teresina's remarkable production, but the rich bits we have gathered may prompt us to return to it at another time. Let us meanwhile remind Teresina, inasmuch as she has given so frankly her opinion of Americans, that there are people here who have certain recollections of Lady Avonmore. Would she like their opinion of an English adventuress?

This book has just been published in England, and is not reprinted here. An early copy of the work has enabled us to lay these refreshing and entertaining extracts before our readers.

THE name of “Lord Darnley" calls up to the mind a certain weak and irresolute young man of royal blood, who lived several centuries ago, and who, it can now scarcely be doubted, was perfidiously done to death by his fair and faithless wife, Mary Queen of the Scots. Of a very different character, evidently, is the nobleman of the same title who graces the present generation with his exist

ence.

one of their number, to the inspector of cavalry. Before his reply came, Lord Darnley suddenly resigned his own command of the regiment. He retired with a special grudge against Captain Nicholson, the officer who had reported to the inspector. In Captain Nicholson's troop were serving several of Lord Darnley's tenants. All of these but one, instigated by their landlord, left the troop in a body. The one exception, a Mr. Lake, was stubborn enough to refuse to espouse a quarrel of Lord Darnley's, merely because that nobleman rented him a farm; whereupon he was notified that at next quarter-day his lease would not be renewed. In short, Mr. Lake, simply because he would not leave the royal service at the nod of Lord Darnley, was deprived of his farm.

No better instance of the feudal notions of some great English proprietors could be given than this. Lord Darnley evidently looks upon his tenants as still his vassals; and he carries his baronial instincts to the extent of rendering himself amenable to a certain awkward law, which forbids "the seducing of any person serving under her majesty's colors from his duty and obedience." Should he be brought to book for his exercise of feudal authority in a court of justice, he will undoubtedly look upon himself as a martyr to the "leveling tendencies of the times." Nor, if we can believe the utterances of English journals, can this instance of lordly despotism be regarded as exceptional.

The Spectator confesses that "thousands of great landlords agree with Lord Darnley." A man who hires a farm of one of these magnates, according to their creed, not only is expected to keep it in good order, to pay a certain rent, and to render it up in the same condition as he found it, but to vote for the landlord's candidates, to resent the landlord's quarrels, to attend the landlord's church, and generally to conform to the landlord's wishes in his political, religious, and social conduct. As a provincial paper says: “The earl really does not go far enough to do justice to his own pretensions. He ought to issue a code of regulations, telling his tenants whom they might visit, what they might eat and drink, what recreations they might pursue, and what animosities and friendships they might cultivate." Yet, after the pitiable spectacle pre

tenants, he cannot perhaps be very severely blamed. They so eagerly and gratefully accept their serfdom that they certainly deserve nothing better than to be buffeted about by a lord who believes in his divine right to keep their consciences and dictate their rules of conduct. They address a letter to him, in which they humbly thank him for deigning

to explain his reasons for leaving the regiment, avow themselves only too glad to show their loyalty by following him, express their shocked amazement at the audacious obstinacy of the tenant who dared to remain in service after Lord Darnley had left it, and hasten to disavow any sympathy with that rebellious person. Truly, this picture betrays a state of things in the English rural districts which glib writers will find it difficult to gloss over or apologize for; and herein we discern some reason for that discontent at the condition of the land-laws which is fast growing to formidable proportions.

His holiness the pope has recently given utterance in favor of "hard money." In an interview accorded to some devout French pilgrims, he uttered a few sage reflections upon the material prosperity of France; and took occasion to remark approvingly upon the fact that "sounding money circulates in that country," and to contrast this state of things favorably with that of other countries, where "sounding money disappears, to give place to another currency, which gives no sound save that produced by a great mass of paper thrown violently on to a hard table or on to the pavement." Whether this was spoken ex cathedra and is therefore to be taken as infallible, we cannot tell, as the Ecumenical Fathers have not yet definitely decided what ex cathedra really means; but it would appear that hard money in France, and her consequent prosperity, have some curious connection with pilgrimages to miraculous shrines, the bountiful outpouring of Pe ter's pence, and the busy establishing of religious schools. The argument seems to be that the road to specie payments is that bordered by shrines and dotted with the monuments of pious deeds. Pilgrimages are processions not alone toward the heavenly gates, but toward worldly wealth. Then it is not alone the Christian faith, but that special branch of it of which Pio Nono is the infal lible interpreter, which carries material prosperity as its attributes and gifts. Unfortu nately, however, for the acceptance of the pope as a financial authority, it happens that those nations which are financially the soundest are incorrigibly Protestant or Greek; while those which are most deeply sunk in "the great mass of paper" currency are either Catholic or Mohammedan. We leave our own case out of sight, as, though finance is just now with us a sorely perplexing prob lem, we cannot suppose ourselves in a permanent condition of "soft-money" currency. But England, Russia, and Germany, are the three soundest and most solvent nations in Europe; next after them come Holland and Denmark. On the other hand, Spain, Italy, and Austria, are in the paper-money state, and

a half grains, and a gold one would weigh only half a grain. The octagonal quarterdollar tokens, circulated in California, weigh less than four grains each, and are so thin that they can almost be blown away. The suitability of gold and silver for the higher values has, however, been recognized everywhere; and the only open question in coinage is as to the best material for fractional currency. Bronze is better than copper, and the alloy of one part of nickel with three of copper that has been adopted for the onecent pieces of the United States, the smaller coins of Belgium, and the ten and five pfennig pieces of the new German coinage, would be excellent but for the variableness of the price of nickel. If steel could be prevented from rusting, it would be one of the best possible materials; but Professor Jevons thinks it likely that some new and entirely satis. factory material for fractional money will shortly be found-perhaps an alloy of manganese.

Naturally, the largest space is devoted to the English monetary system and to English experience, but the facts marshaled are of universal application. A good deal of attention, moreover, is given to the problem of international coinage-the adoption of which, the author thinks, would be the most important step in the path of progress that the race could take, except the adoption of an international language. Professor Jevons thinks that the decimal system will, in the end, prevail, if only from the hold which it has taken on the world; but he candidly admits its defects, and shows that the duodecimal system is in various ways more simple and convenient. As to the steps necessary to secure an international money, he thinks the most important that could be taken now would be the assimilation of the American dollar to the French five-franc piece-a change which would involve a reduction of less than two grains in the amount of gold which the dollar contains. "There is little doubt," he says, "that the adhesion of the American Government to the proposals of the Congress of 1863 would give the holding turn to the metric system of weights, measures, and moneys. It is quite likely that it might render the dollar the future universal unit. The fact that the dollar is already the monetary unit of many parts of the world, gives it large odds. In becoming assimilated to the French écu, American gold would be capable of circulation in Europe, or wherever the French napoleon has hitherto been accepted."

In studying a language we begin with the grammar before we attempt to write or read; and there is much to be learned about money before entering upon those abstruse questions which barely admit of decided answers. Professor Jevons's work furnishes an elementary grammar of the subject; and if it could have a circulation proportionate to its merits, that murky atmosphere of ignorance in which visionary financial schemes are enabled to flourish would soon be cleared.

Ir is plain, from the "Home Pastorals, Ballads, and Lyrics" (Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co.), that Mr. Bayard Taylor, as a poet, considers himself at issue with his fellows;

and the tone of most of the poems is alternately one of remonstrance and defiance. Like the singer of the "Earthly Paradise," he was "born out of his due time;" but he is not, as Morris is, content to dwell apart in a world created and peopled by his own art, but frets under the restraints and limitations of unsympathetic and uncongenial surroundings. The "burden of the day is heavy upon him because he will not shape himself after the patterns that are wrought "in our common mills of thought;" and his only consolation comes from the hope that, if he wins in his attempt to throw off the burden, those who imposed the restrictions will awaken and thank him because he defied. Now, in a case of this kind, there is always a question whether it is the time or the poet that is out of joint; and it is certainly odd to encounter such a complaint coming from Mr. Taylor. We had always supposed that his poetry took much of its interest, as it certainly takes much of its popularity, from its falling in with the time-from its drawing its inspiration, its subjects, and its sentiments, from the prevailing tastes and feelings of his audience. How else account for the considerable measure of success which he has achieved? And surely Mr. Taylor has no reason to be dissatisfied with the reception accorded his work both by the critics and the public. It seems to us, in truth, that the time has been peculiarly propitious to Mr. Taylor's muse. In a period of lofty dramatic or intensely lyrical poetry a period favorable to spontaneous, natural singing-he could hardly have hoped to gain a hearing; whereas, now, few American poets are more certain of a wide and admiring audience.

The present collection contains most of the miscellaneous poetry which Mr. Taylor has written since 1864. The first group is entitled "Home Pastorals," and contains five pieces: a proem, an epilogue, and three longer poems entitled, respectively, May - Time," "August," and "November." These are for the most part descriptive, as pastoral poetry should be, and are written in flowing, leisurely hexameters, a difficult measure, which Mr. Taylor manages extremely well. The tone is pitched very low, and there is little attempt at pictorial embellishment; occasionally, however, we come upon a felicitous bit like the following, descriptive of November's advent:

"Silent are now the flute of spring and the clarion of summer,

As they had never been blown: the wail of a dull Miserere

Heavily sweeps the woods, and, stifled, dies in the valleys."

The second group, entitled "" Ballads," comprises six pieces, all of which are good interesting in subject and spirited in style. "John Reed" is a peculiarly impressive picture of a life unblessed by love, and slowly withering to the root; and "The Old Pennsylvania Farmer" is a striking and lifelike portrait. The instinctive conservatism of old age has seldom been more accurately and amusingly depicted. 'Napoleon at Gotha" is a spirited rendering of a well-known historic incident.

the fretfulness of which we spoke at the be ginning of our notice, and in others the topic is too subtile to find truly lyrical expression. The skill in versification is, perhaps, their most noticeable feature; though "The Two Homes," "The Sleeper," and "Ron Wild," are both pleasing and musical. All of these are too long to quote; so we select, instead, the following stanza from "Summer Night" -a good example of the author's easy command of rhythm and rhyme:

The night was given for thy sweet sake.
Toll slinks aside, and leaves to thee the land;
The heart beats warmer for the idle hand;
The timid tongue unlearns its wrong;
And speech is turned to song;
The shaded eyes are braver;
And every life, like flowers whose scent is dumb
Till dew and darkness come,
Gives forth a tender savor.

Oh, each so lost in all, who may regist
The plea of lips unkissed,

Or, hearing such a strain,
Though kissed a thousand times, kiss not again!"

Mr. Taylor's muse seems to need the spur of a great occasion, and the "Odes" undoubtedly present the finest poetry in the volume. "The Gettysburg Ode," in particular, is a very noble poem, and will take a place but little below Lowell's "Commemoration Ode," in the patriotic song of the nation. The fine "Ode to Goethe," read at the memorial dinner, was reproduced at the time in the col umns of the JOURNAL, and the echo of its exalted straius can hardly have faded as yet from the minds of our readers.

Ir was a happy thought on the part of Miss Johnson to adopt the Catskill Mountains as the locale of her fairy stories; * for the necromancy of Washingtou Irving has already rendered them enchanted ground, and nothing is too marvelous for belief concerning the region which Rip Van Winkle has consecrated to mythology. Her fairies, it is true, are not of the familiar goblin brood, and their ancestry could easily be traced back to Robin Goodfellow and his merry elfs; but we can readily believe that previous writers have overlooked part of the popula tion of our wonder-land, and Nip, and Puff, and Rapp, and Laurel Queen, and the rest, will find a cheerful welcome to the Catskill Valhalla.

The plan of Miss Johnson's book is like that of the Arabian Nights-a cluster of stories within a story, the wildest flights of the imagination being linked to the homely incidents of every-day life and facts familiar to us all. A little boy, named Job, left alone in a cottage on the mountains while his grand. father went to the village for provisions, is snowed in on Christmas-eve by an unexpected snow-storm; and, as he hovered close to the fire in his solitude, the great clock in the