1874.]

Gaidoz suggests that as the dromedary and carrier pigeon have been utilized for military purposes, so also may the elephant. He argues that the experience of Inkerman and guns of the plateau of Avron shows that the employment of of heavy calibre may often decide the issue of a battle, and, while horses cannot be trusted to bring up the heavy artil lery at a moment's notice, elephants can, as English experience in India testifies. He urges, therefore, that a certain number of batteries of guns drawn by elephants should be added to the French army, the elephants to be caught in Cochin-China, trained in Algeria, and then transported to the South of France, where they would not suffer from the climate, and would be in readiness to act against the Germans at a moment's notice. M. Gaidoz meets the objections that may be brought against his proposal on the score of expense, health, practicability, and other grounds; but evidently despairs of his suggestion being realized, for "le peuple le plus spirituel de la terre en est en même temps le plus routinier." We learn with some amusement that herds of elephants "adopt the monarchical principle, as is the case with ali animals which form societies, man only excepted," and that in taming wild elephants we adopt "la méthode pédagogique, préconisée par Lancaster; but it is with different feelings that we read that if Livingstone had had an elephant to ride "he would not have marched for days in the marshes in which he sank to his waist, and would not have contracted the disease of which he died."

Flat leagues of endless meadows
(In Holland lies the scene),
Where many pollard shadows

O'er nut-brown ditches lean;
Gray clouds above that never break,
Mists the pale sunbeams stripe,
With groups of steaming cattle, make
A landscape "after Cuyp."

A windmill, and below it
A cottage near a road,
Where some meek pastoral poet
Might make a glad abode;
A cottage with a garden, where
Prim squares of pansies grow,
And, sitting on a garden-chair,

A Dame with locks of snow,

In trim black, trussed and bodiced,
With petticoat of red,

And on her bosom modest

A kerchief white bespread.

Alas! the breast that heaves below

Is shrivelled now and thin,

Though vestal thoughts as white as snow

Still palpitate within.

Her hands are mittened nicely,

And folded on her knee;

Her lips, that meet precisely,

Are moving quietly.

She listens while the dreamy bells

O'er the dark flats intone

Now come, now gone, in dying swells

The Sabbath sounds are blown.

Her cheek a withered rose is,

Her eye a violet dim;

Half in her chair she dozes,

And hums a happy hymn.

But soft! what wonder makes her start
And lift her aged head,

While the faint flutterings of her heart
Just touch her cheek with red?

The latch clicks; through the gateway
An aged wight steps slow,
Then pauses, doffing straightway

His broad-brimmed gay chapeau!
Swallow-tailed coat of blue so grand,
With buttons bright beside,
He wears, and in his trembling hand
A nosegay, ribbon-tied.

His thin old legs trip lightly
In breeches of nankeen,

His wrinkled face looks brightly,
So rosy, fresh, and clean:
For old he is and wrinkled plain,
With locks of golden-gray,
And leaning on a tasselled cane
He hobbles on his way.

Oh, skylark, singing over
The silent mill hard by,

To this so happy lover

Sing out with summer cry!

He hears thee, though his blood is cold,
She hears, though deaf and weak;
She stands to greet him, as of old,

A blush upon her cheek.

In spring-time they were parted
By some sad wind of woe;
Forlorn and broken-hearted
Each faltered, long ago;
They parted: half a century
Each took the path of pain-
He lived a bachelor, and she
Was never wooed again.

But when the summer ended,
When autumn, too, was dead,
When every vision splendid

Of youth and hope was fled, Again these twain came face to face As in the long ago;

They met within a sunless place
In the season of the snow.

"Oh love is like the roses.

Love comes and love must flee! Before the summer closes

Love's rapture and love's glee!" Oh peace! for in the garden there He bows in raiment gay, Doffs hat, and with a courtly air Presents his fond bouquet.

One day in every seven,

While church bells softly ring, The happy, silent heaven

Beholds the self-same thing: The gay old boy within the gate,

EVERY SATURDAY.

With ribbons at his knee! "When winter comes is love too late?" O Cupid, look and see!

Oh talk not of love's rapture, When youthful lovers kiss; What mortal sight may capture A scene so sweet as this? Beside her now he sits and glows, While prim she sits, and proud, Then, spectacles upon his nose, Reads the week's news aloud!

Pure, with no touch of passion,
True, with no tinge of pain;
Thus, in sweet Sabbath fashion,
They live their loves again.
She sees in him a happy boy-
Swift, agile, amorous-eyed;

He sees in her his own heart's joy-
Youth, hope, love, vivified!

Content there he sits smoking
His long Dutch pipe of wood;
Gossiping oft and joking,
As a gay lover should.

And oft, while there in company
They smile for love's sweet sake,

Her snuff-box black she hands, and he
A grave, deep pinch doth take!

There, gravely juvenescent,
In sober Sabbath joy,
Mingling the past and present,
They sit, a maid and boy!

"Oh love is like the roses!".

Thou foolish singer, cease!

No!

Love finds his fireside 'mid the snow, And smokes the pipe of peace!

THE YEAR OF THE ROSE.

FROM the depths of the green garden-closes
Where the summer in darkness dozes
Till autumn pluck from his hand
An hour-glass that holds not a sand,
From the maze that a flower-belt encloses

To the stones and sea-grass on the strand,
How red was the reign of the roses
Over the rose-crowned land!

[SEPTEMBER 5,

The year of the rose is brief;
From the first blade blown to the sheaf
From the thin green leaf to the gold,
It has time to be sweet and grow old,
To triumph and leave not a leaf

For witness in winter's sight i
How lovers once in the light!

Would mix their breath with its breath,
And its spirit was quenched not of night,
As love is subdued not of death.

In the red-rose land not a mile

Of the meadows from stile to stile,

Of the valleys from stream to stream, But the air was a long sweet dream, And the earth was a sweet wide smile Red-mouthed of a goddess, returned From the sea which had borne her and burned, That with one swift smile of her mouth

Looked full on the north as it yearned,

And the north was more than the south.

For the north, when winter was long,
In his heart had made him a song,
And clothed it with wings of desire,
And shod it with shoon as of fire,
To carry the tale of his wrong

To the southwest wind by the sea,
That who might bear it but be
To the ears of the goddess unknown,
That waits till her time shall be
To take the world for a throne?

In the earth beneath, and above
In the heaven where her name is love,
She warms with light from her eyes!
The seasons of life as they rise;
And her eyes are as eyes of a dove,
But the wings that light her and bear
As an eagle's, and all her hair

As fire by the wind's breath curled ;
And her passage is song through the air,'
And her presence is spring through the world.

So turned she northward and came,
And the white-thorn land was aflame

With the fires that were shed from her feet,
That the north, by her love made sweet,
Should be called by a rose-red name;
And a murmur was heard as of doves,
And a music beginning of loves
In the light that the roses made,
Such light as the music loves,
The music of man with maid.

But the days drop one upon one,
And a chill soft wind is begun

In the heart of the rose-red maze
That weeps for the rose-leaf days
And the reign of the rose undone
That ruled so long in the light,
And by spirit, and not by sight,
Through the darkness thrilled with its breath,
Still ruled in the viewless night,
As love might rule over death.

The time of lovers is brief;
From the fair first joy to the grief

That tells when love is grown old,
From the warm wild kiss to the cold,
From the red to the white rose leaf,
They have but a season to seem
As rose leaves lost on a stream
That part not and pass not apart
As a spirit from dream to dream,
As a sorrow from heart to heart.

From the bloom and the gloom that encloses
The death-bed of love where he dozes

Till a relic be left not of sand

To the hour-glass that breaks in his hand, From the change in the gray garden-closes To the last stray grass of the strand,

A rain and ruin of roses

Over the red-1ose land.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

EVERY SATURDAY:

A JOURNAL OF CHOICE READING, PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY, 219 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON:

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AVERAGE EXCELLENCE.

THERE are many drawbacks to life on a plain, and it is difficult to muster any enthusiasm over level things; but it is evident to the most casual observer that a large part of one's life is spent, so to speak, on a plain, and that ordinary action and speech constitute the field of most human endeavor. Even in races, especially where the stretch is long, spurts are only now and then anything but brilliant failures. It is the strong, steady pull that wins the race, the dogged persistence, the drudgery, one may almost say, that accomplishes lasting results. This is a commonplace scarcely worth repeating on paper, yet how often one has to remind one's self of it, in times of discouragement. Indeed, if it were not for these homely common. place truths the average man would have small comfort, and small relief from envy.

We should like to emphasize one point: that in judging of products it is fair to ask, not what special result has now and then been reached by special endeavor, but what is the every-day, ordinary character of the work done. We confine ourselves, for illustration, to the making of books, and lay down the maxim that a publisher or press should be judged by the run of books published or manufactured, and not by occasional tours de force. In other words, that wherein a book-maker may be said to excel others is in keeping his books uniformly at a fair mark, instead of concentrating his skill and attention on one or another at different times, and letting the common run take care of themselves.

What is this but saying that excellence of workmanship consists in untiring watchfulness that no failure shall come in those parts that are under the control of the manufacturer, and that his taste and sense of fitness shall always be exercised? It is attention to details, the finish of every part, the .nice adjustment of all the parts, that render a book acceptable to the eye and the hand; it is the organized, intelligent, and harmonious working together of all concerned in the manufacture, properly directed by a competent head, that makes every book a standard of excellence in book-making. Until this result is reached, no book-making concern can be fully praised. Take for special illustration the matter of proof-reading, and consider how big a "spot in our feast of charity" is a book with bad spacing, occasional blunders, especially in foreign phrases or proper names, — the use of wrongfont letters, the repetition of a word. If a few inaccuracies or inelegancies appear, it is impossible to escape the feeling that there must be many more that we have not noticed. Consider what sleepless vigilance the proofreader is forced to exercise, and how much must be left to his average excellence. A proof-reader who should be lynx-eyed in one work, and half asleep when reading another, would keep the superintendent in constant fear for the even excellence of the books made, as regards proofreading. The same considerations hold good in every other part of the manufacture. The ink must be patiently

tested, and even when one gets a good ink it needs to be watched lest the quality deteriorate. The paper gives constant source of uneasiness. It curls, it is specked, it runs unevenly, and though a paper-maker be found who holds to the rule of average excellence, he proves to be mortal too. The press-work needs to be watched, else some sheets in a book will be faint, others heavy, and average excellence lost there. The drying of the sheets, perhaps as important a minor consideration as any in securing good effects, is a very simple matter, yet after all pains have been taken up to this point, here also average excellence sometimes disappears. When the book comes to be bound, how much needs to be done, besides the application of good taste, to secure that indescribable style which makes the books of one house uniformly good, while those of another are uneven and not to be depended on. The folding, the sewing, the trimming, the choice of material, the finish, the end papers, all these things need to be severally

and unitedly well done, or average excellence is again lost. No one, in fact, can go leisurely through a large book manufactory without being impressed with the fact that there are a hundred chances for spoiling the book before it is finished, and that only untiring watchfulness over each part of the work can prevent it from tumbling out at the end, an ungainly, blemished object. We repeat, then, our statement that the success of a book-maker must be determined by the uniform excellence of his work, the style, if you will, which it bears, and not by some special exhibition of skill.

NOTES.

The announcements of new books by the several publishers give promise of a more worthy season than was enjoyed last year. The lists are not long, but they are more carefully selected. In pure literature we note a volume of essays, "Poetry and Criticism," by Ralph Waldo Emerson; a volume of Hawthorne's uncollected papers; a new volume by James Russell Lowell, uniform, we are told, with "My Study Windows," but having, we trust, a less ad captandum title — Mr. Lowell's reputation is established, he needs no adventitious aid of that sort; "Songs of Many Seasons," a new volume of poems by Dr. Holmes; "Hazel Blossoms," a collection of recent poems by J. G. Whittier. Of philosophical, historical, and scientific works, the most noticeable are Prof. C. K. Adams's "Democracy and Monarchy in France; ""Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy," by Prof. John Fiske; “Chemical and Geological Essays," by Prof. T. Sterry Hunt; a new volume upon the Education of Girls, by Dr. Edward H. Clarke, including his paper on Brain Building, read before the Detroit meeting of the Teachers' Convention; "The Genesis of the New England Churches," by Dr. Leonard Bacon; "The History of Germany from the Earliest Time," by Charlton T. Lewis. dren, the best promise is in "Anthony Brade," by Rev. Robert Lowell, whose "New Priest in Conception Bay " has made readers impatient for more literary work from him.

Of books for chil

-The American Association for the Advancement of Science, which has just held a meeting at Hartford, has taken sensible action in modifying its constitution so as to class its members as Fellows, who alone can hold office, and Members, who are entitled to vote. So large a body is liable to become unwieldy, and to become an association for the retarding of science, by losing time and patience over all manner of crude and sciolistic papers and speeches. The government being in the hands of the Fellows, who are elected from the body of Members, it belongs to them

to determine what questions shall be considered and what papers read. The action is rather precautionary than otherwise, we presume, but it will go far toward making the association a power in science; not so close a corporation as the American Academy and similar bodies, but wider in its membership, and with more enthusiasm. - Attention has been called by The World to the Bowdoin College collection of paintings, which contains, it is said, some authentic pictures by old masters, including "St. Simeon with the Child Jesus," by Rubens, "The Governor of Gibraltar," by Vandyke, "The Equipment of Cupid," by Titian, "The Continence of Scipio," hy N. Poussin. The collection was made by James Bowdoin, who was United States Minister to the Court at Madrid, in 1805, and afterward removed to Paris. He died in 1811, and by his will the entire collection of ninety-one pictures was left to Bowdoin College, which had been named for his father, formerly governor of Massachusetts. The paintings remained stored in Boston for nearly half a century, were then put into the hands of restorers, with unhappy results, in some instances, and when the works were subsequently displayed upon the walls of the insufficiently lighted wing of the chapel, where they still hang, the college first became aware of the fact that the Bowdoin collection contained undoubted originals of several masters, although, unfortunately, the catalogue which accompanied them was unsatisfactory in many particulars. It would be worth while for Bowdoin College to have a thorough examination made, by competent experts, of this collection. Every fresh source of original study of art in

America is to be cherished. We have no covetous feelings regarding the works of art in foreign countries. They have a national meaning not retained when they are wrested from their places, but it is by no means unlikely that with the prodigious pressure yet to come from America, advantage will be taken by impecunious families, and even corporations and governments, to dispose of some of their precious heirlooms to this country, and that the next generation will see a steady current of great pictures setting toward America.

The new postal arrangements between France and the United States, which went into operation on the first of August, provide that the single rate of international postage for ordinary letters will be nine cents in the United States for each fifteen grammes (half-ounce) or fraction thereof, and fifty centimes in France for each weight of ten grammes, or fraction thereof, prepayment optional, but with a fixed fee of five cents or twenty-five grammes additional on unpaid or deficient letters. Registered letters cost an additional fee of ten cents or fifty centimes. On other matter the prepayment is compulsory, as follows: Newspapers, three cents each if not exceeding four ounces in weight; samples of merchandise, books, pamphlets, periodicals, and other printed matter except newspapers, if not exceeding one ounce in weight, two cents; if over one but not exceeding two ounces, four cents; if over two but not exceeding four ounces in weight, six cents; and for packets exceeding four ounces in weight an additional rate of six cents for every additional four ounces or fraction of four ounces. New York and Boston are the offices of exchange on this side. The ignorance of people that the rates have been changed has led to a great accumulation of insufficiently prepaid newspapers at the Boston office.

-The readers of Wirt's description of Blennerhassett's home, the romantic spot ruined by Burr's conspiracy, will be interested in an account given by a writer in the Cin

cinnati Commercial who has recently visited the island. "Hardly a vestige remains of this early elegance. The grounds and shrubbery suffered severely when the Burr troubles culminated, and the Wood County militia vandalized the island. The house, with the furniture and library, the out-buildings, gardens, fences, arbors, and summerhouses, all fared hard at the hands of the infuriated and drunken soldiers, and Mrs. Blennerhassett herself, with her children, was set adrift in a boat, and sought refuge among the Putnams on the Ohio shore. The island afterward reverted to the creditors of Blennerhassett, on account of his indorsements for Burr, and the mansion some years after was destroyed by fire. Nothing now remains but the old well, a portion of the cellar wall, and the stone caps of the gateway. Many of the trees planted by Blennerhassett are still standing; there is a clump of an old orchard, and the remains of a hawthorn hedge near the inlet of the island, where the boats used to be landed. Some giant sycamores are on the island, which we suppose were old in Blennerhassett's time, one of which we measured and found to be thirty-five feet around at some three Relics of Blennerhassett are also feet above the roots. scarce in this region; and the only thing we saw that formerly belonged to him was a mahogany settee, now in the Putnam mansion. The island is now the property of a Mr. Neal, of Parkersburg."

-General Myers has recently perfected arrangements with different European meteorologists, for an international system of reports. Since the 1st of January, in all the principal European nations, observations have been taken each morning at the same moment of time that has been selected for the regular signal stations in this country, and these are forwarded by mail, semi-monthly, to the Signal Office in Washington, for discussion in connection with the regular reports of this country. Nearly 200 foreign stations are now engaged in this work, and sufficient data will soon be collected for the deduction of general laws in relation to the movements of the atmosphere that will mark a new era in meteorology. These reports, consolidated with those made by the Signal Office, will be issued daily in printed form for the use of all meteorologists. - Operations have begun for the erection of the Peabody Museum in New Haven, which, when completed, will contain some of the largest and richest zoological, geological, and mineralogical collections in the world. The institution is founded under a bequest of $150,000 from the late George Peabody, and is designed to bear the same relation to Yale College as the present Museum of Comparative Zoology does to Harvard. The building will consist of a central edifice and two wings. For the present, only one of the latter is be erected, with a frontage of 115 feet on one street and 100 feet on another. It will cost $160,000, be built of brick with stone trimmings, fire-proof, and contain, including basement, four available stories. The fourth story is assigned to archæology and ethnology, the third to zoology, the second to geology, the first to lecture rooms and mineralogical collections, and the basement to working apartments and a large class of heavy specimens, showing fossils, footprints, etc.