MOUNTAINEERING IN COLORADO. BY ALVAN S. SOUTHWORTH. COLORADO, recent as has been her admission to the Federal sisterhood, enjoys the deserved reputation of being the chief sanitary State of the Union. Thither hie from all lands tourists who are afflicted with pulmonary disorders, who are rheumatic or dyspeptic, in a state of nervous prostration, or worried or dilapidated by business cares and the manifold worries which belong to all degrees of Old and New World civilization. Bodily and mental repair are speedily obtained by those who will go there and abandon the cities and organized routes of travel; who will go into the mountains west of the Main Divide provided with appropriate camp equipage, shoot deer, mountain-sheep, grouse, elk, bear and antelope, and bait for trout in the cool and swift streams which water this great mountain upheaval. The lowlands of Colorado in this longitude are about 8,000 feet above the level of the sea, and the loftiest peaks, like those of Uncompahgre and others lying in the lateral ranges to northward, reach summits nearly 15,000 feet above the ocean tide. From any mountain-top superb views of the vast outlying country can be had, taking in a view on a clear day reappears in the registers as applied to St. Dunstan, and embracing an area as large as the State of Massachusetts, Charles II. was preparing to return. Barebones made one last effort to prevent it, and raised the feeling of the people to such a pitch of excitement that Monk, who was already planning the King's return, trembled for the success of his measures, and used all the means in his power to frustrate the opposition of the stanch republican. Nothing daunted, Barebones appeared before Parliament with a petition, desiring that no one should be admitted to any public office who should favor the return of the rule of Charles Stuart, or of any one person, and prayed for the passing of a law declaring that to entertain the wish for this should be a crime of high treason. But the tide had now fairly turned against Barebones, both in the Parliament and in the city, through the presence of Monk's army; and if we suppose ourselves walking down from Whitehall with Samuel Pepys on the night of the 11th of February, 1660, we shall see all Fleet Street in a blaze of fire, from the bonfires lighted to celebrate the success of the soldiers in getting the better of the Parliament; there were no fewer than fourteen bonfires between Temple Bar and St. Dunstan's; and on looking into Pepys's Diary of the day after, we find that the boys of that time were like the boys of this, and had their share, and probably a large one, in the disturbance; for we read: "The boys had last night broke Barebones's windows"; and this was repeated on the 21st, for we read in the journal of the 22d: "I observed this day how abominably Barebones's windows were broken last night." And yet this was simply because our friend kept to his point and remained the same, while others altered. If he had been the troublesome and unprincipled fanatic which Hume, Clarendon, Macaulay, and others, represent him to have been, he would have been afterward molested or turned out of the country; but he continued peaceably in St. Dunstan's, attending the vestry for a year after the Restoration, and only ceasing to be found there when vestrymen were elected by a different rule. The last occasion on which we hear of him is, when he appeared on an appeal before Mr. Justice Hale and other judges, who sat in the Hall of Clifford's Inn, to hear and settle complaints as to the boundaries and rights of property destroyed by the calamitous fire of London, which had consumed his house in Crane Court. and affording distinct vistas in all directions, where one can count as many as 300 peaks rising above the horizon, with green bottoms watered by wide and numerous streams, on whose banks may be seen, drinking of the refreshing rivers, the wild animal life, from the doe and the roe to the gigantic elk, from which latter these mountains take their name. But it is the camp life which is the health-restorer, which brings color to the cheek, vivacious spirits, a strong appetite, sweet sleep, and hard, manly flesh, and a hearty ringing voice, strengthening the lungs, and giving energy to the frame and a wonderful and renewed elasticity to the mind. This is, perhaps, because all is primitive freshness-that the food is rich and that no French cuisine, iced drinks, or death-dealing stimulants are either craved or obtainable. Even to the laziest native disposition there is little tendency to lay or bask in idleness. The scene, the opportunity, the very air invite constant effort, and the health-seeker is not slow to become thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the mountaineer. Let us look at a day of camp life as we draw it from our memory of happy experiences had among these mountains. The fatigue of ten hours in the saddle going from peak to valley is healthy in the end, but as the closing hours of the day draw on, a hungering for repose is evident in the serious mien and silent tongue. The pack-train does not come to its camping-ground, therefore, with the joyous hilarity, flux of spirits, with which it sets out in the morning. If the march has been a serious one-thirty miles up hill and down-dale-the mules are jaded, the horses catch at the green shrubs for a passing bit of provender, and the packs become cruel burden. The head packer, the all-in-all of the expedition (for such may be called a properly organized party, the basis of which is congeniality), assumes the gravity of the executive officer of a ship bringing the vessel to anchor in an unprotected roadstead. Like the thoughtful seaman, he must ignore the men and consider the safety of the cargo and transport, for they are menaced by many dangers. His first anxiety is water. The camp must be pitched beside a stream. He must have timber for the cook, grasses for the animals, and a mountainlocked park, so that they cannot wander to a fugitive distance; for by sunrise the animals must be again at our tent-doors for a fresh start. Such a place the head packer found one evening on the bank of the Roaring Forka swift mountain stream in the Elk Mountains. The men descended the side-hill of a deep gulch, thickly timbered by spruce and pine; in the bottom below were acres of waving grasses, and here and there the conical Indian lodges, showing that it had been a favorite camping - ground of the Utes. The head of the train, the cook, mounted on a large bay horse, forded an arm of the Roaring Fork, and the "outfit" came to a halt in the shadow of a steep mountain. Alternate showers of rain and bursts of sunshine, common in the Elk Range, were giving variety to every hour. The cook selected a large cedar under which to build his fire. He unpacked his mess-boxes, took them there for shelter, while the party assisted to unload the other mules, placing the cargo in line of battle, near the mess-boxes, covering all with tarpaulins. The five tents were up in the twinkling of an eye. The horses and mules with long lariats are turned loose to graze, the bell-horse keeping up the monotonous ringing which keeps them in common company. When dusk comes on the packers go out to picket the animals at half-lariat, and the truant occasions no little trouble and anxiety. It generally takes two mounted men, who are swift riders, to drive him to the rendezvous; and this is not accomplished without a cunning resolve, stubbornly adhered to on the part of the mules, to make the chase a lively affair indeed. The mule is the locomotive of the forest. Without him what could indeed be done? He is intelligent, "shifty," clear-headed, sure-footed, patient, and, withal, a picturesque and fairly good companion. He captures your heart, too, and you know him by such names as "Haggy," "Jake," "Mollie," and "Mike"-an indignity you would not think of putting on the superb and magisterial horse. Under way the mule is alert in keeping sure that he is on solid ground, although he sometimes touches on a treacherous bog, when his spasmodic action is a rapid exhibition of sauve qui peut. On one occasion during the expedition the pack-mule on the brow of a side hill 600 feet high, with all of the scientific notes and valuable instruments of the party, embracing three months' labor of the scientific corps, valued at $30,000, missed his footing on the Elk trail, slipped into a bog, and went rolling over and over down the mountain-side, and was only arrested in his downward flight into the deep and precipitous cañon, 2,000 feet below, by a slender sapling, which proved the salvation of animal and pack. In the fallen timber, caused by storm and forest-fire, they show great astuteness, as also when threading the narrow pas sages which connect great upheavals of columnar rocks, where, if they made a false step, they would be dashed to pieces in the chasms thousands of feet below. These dangers are faithfully portrayed by the artist. Parties seeking the mountains are already outfitting at Denver, Cañon City and Leadville, and beyond the Main Divide, and they usually spend three months in this health giving life in valley and in mountain-top, whence thousands annually return with renewed constitutions to tell their friends who go to Saratoga, Long Branch and Newport that, after all, Summer fashionable dissipation may be cheerful for the time, but that there is nothing so salutary for a fresh ten-years lease of health as roughing it" in the wilds of Colorado. IN THE FALLEN TIMBER. 66 GLASS MIRRORS.-It is in the thirteenth century that we find the first undoubted mention of glass mirrcn covered at the back with tin or lead. Johannes Feckham, or Peccan, an English Franciscan monk, who taught at Oxford, Paris, and Rome, and who died in 1292, wrote, about the year 1279, a treatise on optics, which was once printed. In this work, besides mirrors made of iron, steel, and polished marble, the author not only speaks often of glass mirrors, but says, also, that they were covered on the back with lead, and that no image was reflected when the lead was scraped off. THE NATIONAL MUSIC OF SCOTLAND. THE Scottish nation has in every age been famed for its poetry and music. The poems of Ossian, written at a period when Scotland had scarcely assumed the garb of civilization, bear testimony to the conspicuous part she has played in the cultivation of the muse, and her poets, more than those of any other country, embody in their works the leading characteristics of their nationality. In her music, Scotland fills a no less honored place than in her poetry. Of the precise state of national music in Scotland, history affords no information prior to the fifteenth century. The artless simplicity and emotional feeling which characterize several of the older airs would lead to the conclusion that they must have been the product of a very remote age, before any musical instrument was introduced beyond that of the shepherd's pipe, with its plain, diatonic scale of full tones, and before the application of any rules of composition such as now prevail. It has been conjectured by some writers that several of the Scottish airs were composed by James I. of Scotland, though there is no positive evidence to lead to such a conclusion. It has been frequently asserted that the Scotch owe many of their melodies to Rizzio; but we think a little inquiry will show that this is nothing more than a vulgar conjecture. Rizzio was by birth an Italian, and is said to have received his education in France. He came to Scotland as a lutenist to the court, and remained only three years. For more than a century and a half after his death there is no hint that Rizzio every composed any music in any style. Granting that Rizzio was a first-rate musician-of which there is no historical evidence-it is extremely improbable that any one single Scottish air was invented or composed by the unfortunate Rizzio. In examining the melodies of Scotland we are struck by the almost complete absence of semitones, and the general elimination from the scale of two of its notes. These peculiarities are not to be looked upon as the result of ignorance or barbarity, but are conformable to the principles of composition which prevailed in Scotland in the remote period at which these airs were produced. The common major scale, as now used, was unknown in Scotland until a comparatively recent date. The difficulty of producing the fourth of the scale in proper tune, and of fingering the seventh in quick passages, was admitted; and it is not improbable that this may have acted as a deterrent against the use of these notes in the construction of the popular airs. It is evident, at least, that the limited scale of the national instrument had considerable effect in determining the style of music in general use. Such melodic forms as G, F, G, at the end of lines, or even A, G, A, need not have been so persistently employed had the voice been the only consideration. But while to modern ears such progressions sound inartistic, it is partly from their use that the national music of Scotland receives its peculiar coloring. Modern arrangers have, in many cases, destroyed these rough and weird cadences, by altering them to suit the exigencies of harmony, forgetting that they were composed without reference to the rules of part-writing. In this way the beautiful air. "John Anderson, my Jo," has suffered by the penultimate note having been changed from a natural to a raised seventh, in order, we are told, to form a true leading note! Another peculiarity of Scottish music is the frequent nse of what has been termed the "snap." This consists of a short note followed by a longer one, the former re ceiving the accent, The dance-music of Scotland overflows with this characteristic device, but many vocal pieces also contain specimens more or less marked. Examples may be found in the well-known airs, "Comin' thro' the Rye" and "Whistle o'er the lave o't,” in both of which a semiquaver on the accented part of the bar is frequently followed by a dotted quaver. The excessive popularity of Scottish music in England during the reign of Queen Mary led to many unprincipled Londoners concocting Scotch tunes, and dispatching them over the Border as melodies of native composition. At several of the places of amusement in London it was customary for those in charge of the musical affairs to manufacture their own Scotch songs. The following, taken from one of these spurious songs, is contemptible: "Woe is me, what mun I doe? Since my heart soe muckle harm befel, Ise ha bin at Dalkeith fair, Seen the charming faces there; But all Scotland now geud feth defye, Sike a lipp to show, and lovely rowling eye." The italics are ours. Many more songs of a like character may be found in D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy," and Mr. Chappell has referred to the subject in his "Popular Music of the Olden Time." The music of Scotland is of a much more extensive nature than might at first be supposed. If we were to reckon up all the vocal pieces-including many traditional ballad airs— pibrochs, strathspeys, reels, marches, hornpipes, jigs and battle-pieces, the number would probably reach 7,000 or 8,000. MY FIRST QUEZAL By C. N. "Esta café, Don Carlos!” I was dreaming of home. Was once more surrounded by the dear home folks, and enjoying the sweet home pleasures, when these words recalled me to the realities of life, and I gathered my scattered faculties, to find myself in an Indian's hut, on the slope of the volcano Yrazu, in Costa Rica, Central America. A sputtering candle standing on the rude table was making a sickly attempt to light up the single room of the "adobe " hut, the faint glimmer of early dawn being excluded by the heavy shutters over the only window. Francisca, the Indian girl who acted as housekeeper in this establishment, had placed some tortillas (a thin cake made of maize, and innocent of yeast or salt) and a cup of coffee upon the table, and it was her voice that had broken in upon my pleasant dreams with the announcement that coffee was ready. Having learned to appreciate the custom, prevalent throughout Spanish America, of drinking a cup of this fragrant beverage the first thing in the morning, I obeyed the summons at once. Having accomplished this duty, I strapped on my "machete" (a long, swordlike knife), slung my collecting-basket over my shoulder, took down my shotgun, and was prepared for the business for which the United States National Museum had sent me to that out-of-the-way corner of the world, i. e., the collecting of birds and other objects of natural history. The previous day, Francisco, the brother of Francisca, had brought me a single, golden-green feather, which I recognized as belonging to the Paradise trogon (Phasomacrus mocirino), or Quezal, the sacred bird of the ancient Aztecs. Francisco told me that he knew where there were "muchas" of these birds, and being exceedingly ambitious to secure specimens, I had gladly accepted his offer to guide me to their haunts on the wooded heights of the volcano. This expedition was the particular order of the day of which I write. My guide met me at the door with a pleasant "Buenos dias, señor." He was accompanied by his little son, Juan, a bright-eyed, ragged little rascal of about ten years, who carried a bag containing our dinner slung over his shoulder. The first flush of the morning barely tinged the east, and the glorious constellation of the Southern Cross was still undimmed as we started on our tramp up the mountain-side in the cool, fragrant air of the tropical morning. The occasional twitter of some frightened sparrow or angry scolding of a disturbed wren, and frequent "Car-rrambas!" from my guide, as he stubbed his bare toes in the darkness, were the only sounds heard as we trudged along the windings of the ascent. But twilight is of short duration in the tropics, and the sun was shining brightly almost before we knew it, and the woods were filled with the melodies of thousands of feathered songsters. The prevalent idea that tropical birds are not good musicians is a slander on some of God's best vocalists, for never in my life have I heard sweeter bird-music than frequently bursts from the woods and fields of Costa Rica. And especially in early morning do these lovely choristers delight to give their spontaneous concerts. Having proceeded about four miles, we came to a cane hut in a clearing, which Francisco proudly called his “hacienda !” While he was tying up a break in his house with some strong, flexible wires, I improved the time by shooting several specimens of a pretty woodpecker (Melanerpes striatipectus), which was very abundant there. We then plunged into the deep forest, Francisco going in front, following, as if by instinct, a trail imperceptible to more civilized eyes, and constantly slashing to right and left with his murderous-looking "machete," handling it with surprising dexterity as he cleared away the constantly impeding vines and underbrush. Every now and then he would stop to point out some interesting specimen, and upon the report of the gun plunged into the thicket to secure the prize, bringing it to me with many a congratulatory pat on the shoulder and affectionate caress of my shotgun, which he never seemed tired of admiring, and to which he gave the suggestive name "El Diabolo." Although amazingly lazy in all other pursuits, the Costa Rican Indian is passionately fond of hunting, and tireless and active in its pursuit. I could always secure native companions, who would follow and serve me all day, partly for the sport and partly to secure my empty paper shotgun shells, though what earthly use they made of them I never could dis Cover. At noon, having selected a cool place in an open glade, we investigated the contents of little Juan's dinner-bag, and enjoyed the tortillas, meat and salt as we lazily watched the gorgeous humming-birds swarming around a flowering tree close by, and admired the gleaming, quivering iridescence of their plumage, or wondered at the blazing colors of the orchids, which fairly clothed the grand old tropical forest. Our repast over, we proceeded on up the mountain side, securing several valuable specimens, but no Quezals, until the guide reluctantly admitted that we had passed through that part of the forest where he had seen them before, and we turned our faces homeward. I was disappointed. Francisco had been so sure of finding them, and I so longed to get a shot at them, that I had to summon all my philosophy not to be a trifle "down in the mouth," and was just beginning to be resigned when we suddenly heard a loud chorus of querulous, parrot-like notes. Francisco fairly danced for joy as he eagerly signaled me to follow him to the spot whence the sound proceeded. We necessarily made some noise in cutting our way through the undergrowth of bamboos, so dense as to be impenetrable without the constant use of the "machete." The notes ceased as suddenly as they had begun, but we had taken our bearings, and worked toward the spot in a bee-line, till Francisco stopped, and pointing upward, uttered the single word, "Quezal !" Looking up as directed, I saw, perhaps, twenty of these gorgeous creatures circling round the top of a lofty tree, some fifty yards distant, as though disturbed, but still reluctant to leave it. Their flight was extremely graceful, being in easy curves, which displayed their wonderful plumes to the best possible advantage as they streamed backward in gentle undulations, and glinted in the sunlight like golden pennants, forming a beautiful contrast with the rich crimson breasts of the birds. Lost in admiration, I was, for the time, utterly oblivious of my gun, and the purpose for which I was there. The long-looked for moment came and passed without my even thinking of securing the prize before me, until the birds ceased their airy evolutions, and made off as if seized with a sudden premonition of danger. They did not fly far, however, and, having marked the tree in which they lit, we once more pushed and cut our way through the tangled mass of vegetation till we were directly under it. But, strange to say, although we had seen the exact spot where they lit, and knew that they could not have left without our knowledge, we failed to see them, and looked in vain for several minutes, until keen-eyed little Juan uttered an exclamation of delight, and eagerly pointed out the spot where he declared he saw a Quezal. His father soon discovered it also, and, silently pointing upward, endeavored to show it to me. But his eyes were sharper than mine, and I looked long and carefully without success, although my guides were doing their best to aid me, fairly quivering with excitement, as they gesticulated wildly and whispered a thousand directions in such rapid Spanish that I failed to understand a word. Finally, just as my friends were driven fairly frantic by my stupidity, I noticed a slight movement of what I had mistaken for the long streamers of the parasitic plants with which the tree was covered. Following them up with my eye, I discovered that a supposed branch of orchids was in reality a Quezal nestling down on a mosscovered branch, and almost concealed by the surrounding green leaves. Francisco uttered a grunt of satisfaction as I brought the gun to my shoulder. The loud report rang through the depths of the forest, followed by the cries of the Quezals, as they flew screaming from the tree; all but one, which clung for a moment to the branch and then fell revolving through the air, crashed through the undergrowth, and struck with a thud on the ground, about thirty yards distant. With yells of delight, my companions forced their way through the bamboos to the spot. I called anxiously |