the few writers of travels who knows how to describe a landscape with a just and accurate comprehension of its value to an artist, and this because he is an artist himself, and consequently gets accurate impressions of what he sees with a reference to artistic purposes.

The favorite resorts for landscape-painters in this part of the country have been Mount Desert, in Maine; the White Mountains, in New Hampshire; the Adirondacks, of Northern New York; the Catskills; and Lake George. At Mount Desert the great attractions for summer-sketching are its cool climate, and its singular combination-nowhere else to be found on our Atlantic coast -of lofty hills in close proximity to the sea. It presents at first glance to the unprofessional beholder an apparent epitome of all that is picturesque. It has a rugged coast, worn by the storms of countless centuries, high, rocky islands, steep cliffs and hills that aspire to the dignity of mountains. though some of our best artists have made it their resort for years, experience has shown that in reality it affords a very limited field for art, and of late years the painters have almost abandoned it to the fashionable tourists, and have sought the materials for their landscapes in much less pretentious places. Very few are painting there this summer, and these are mostly young men at work on their first pictures. These shun Bar Harbor and the large hotels, and live near Otter Cliffs or Great Head, within easy walking-distance of the places where the finest rock-formations on the island are to be found.

Yet,

Materials such as artists require are actually to be found much more profusely than at Mount Desert in the vicinity of some of our great cities, as along the Schuylkill and Wissahiccon, near Philadelphia; at Staten Island, the Neversink Hills, and other environs of New York; or among the beautiful hills a few miles south of Boston, where fine trees and sloping meadows combine with the blue sea and a rocky coast to form the loveliest pictures that the painter could wish to see. We know of nothing more charming for the artist than some of these situations near Boston, when the low light of the western sun draws into lengthened shadows the cultivated landscape, combining in one harmoni. ous whole the oldest trees, the greenest grass, softly-rounded lawns, and graceful villages, bounded by a singularly - variegated line of sea, dotted with islands and sparkling with sails, the whole presenting such a tenderness of light and form as Claude Lorraine delighted to portray.

The White Mountains undoubtedly afford a great abundance of materials for artists, particularly at North Conway, the eminent beauties of which have been amply celebrated by the literary class, and are yet perhaps more satisfactory to the artists than those of any other of our popular resorts. They find the richest of materials for the pencil in her bae hills, her mountains white with snow or fashed with the hues of sunset, her rippling brooks and sunny meadows dotted with waying elms. They find here what is not found at Mount Desert, a distance of fine curves, middle-ground of meadow and river of soft beauty, and a foreground broken into crisp

and variegated light and shade, rocks strewed in wild profusion, vegetation of great variety, picturesquely-winding roads, twisted pines or birches, yellow sheafs of corn-in short, all the elements of a picture ready made to their hands. The artist here finds that the mountains are indeed lovely, and at the right distances for his purposes; that great mossy rocks, glowing with every tint of his palette, lie beside still pools of amber brightness, in which white summer clouds mirror themselves. Everywhere he finds, without toil or trouble, without long tramps over dusty roads, accessible points, revealing a distant peak, a bit of gleaming river, or a soft stretch of bright meadow, smooth as a lawn, and elegant as a park. It makes no difference in this enchanting spot whether the day be fine, and purple and gold lights and shadows play over the varied landscape; whether October mists hide the mountain-tops, and winds tear "the lingering remnants of the yellow hair" from trees stripped thin of their leaves. The brooks may rush white and foaming, or may sleep above white pebbles-it makes little difference to the artist. Always and every where North Conway is in a picture-dress. Probably no spot in America has been so often and so persistently painted, and there are but few American artists of any note who have not at some time made a careful copy of its features without attempting to vary a line of it.

The advantages offered by the Adirondacks to landscape-painters may be summed up briefly in the statement that it is a great region almost in a state of Nature, though forming a part of the most populous State of the Union, and that it comprises a great number of mountains and mountain-lakes, with two or three rivers, the whole region being covered by a dense forest, much of which is of primeval growth. The lakes and rivers are, almost without exception, of singular purity of water, and are nearly undefaced by the homely structures that ordinarily mar the face of Nature in the beginning of American settlements. The region is so immense in its extent, and so varied in its natural features, that it undoubtedly offers an almost inexhaustible field for the artist who is content to paint the wilderness. But there is a total absence of the softer beauties that spring from cultivation, although in the meadows along the Racket there are many fine bits of natural, park-like scenery. A hundred years hence, perhaps, when the forests have been somewhat cleared away, and the banks of the lakes and rivers converted into lawns and meadows, and dotted with flocks and herds, the Adirondacks will afford almost inexhaustible resources for the painter. There will always remain enough of the region in a wild state to satisfy those who wish to paint mountains, cataracts, brooks, and ponds, in their natural condition, unmodified by the hand of man.

Lake George and the Catskills have many of the characteristic features of the Adirondacks, and their availability for the artists is proved by the constancy with which many of our best painters, as Kensett, Durand, Whittredge, and Sanford Gifford, have year after year reproduced the forms of gloomy ravines

traversed by rushing brooks, with foregrounds of mossy rocks scattered in effective masses beyond the power of man to essentially mar. Beyond these gorges soar blue peaks looming above rocky chasms, and from many a mountain-side Gifford has portrayed the autumn baze and color which each season rest upon these hills, while some of Durand's best paintings represent the still depths of Lake George with the purple shadows of a storm or the light of evening giving beauty or solemnity to the region around it. These natural features of beauty are permanent and beyond the power of man to mar or destroy, and render both Lake George and the Catskills an enduring field for the artist.

ALTHOUGH We are in the middle of the summer, a season usually devoted by the artists to out-door study, there are yet a number of leading men at work in their studios. One of these industrious painters is Mr. Lemuel E. Wilmarth, of the Tenth - Street Building. As will be remembered, Mr. Wilmarth was the author of the clever little painting "Ingratitude," which was in the late Academy exhibition. He is now engaged upon (and the work is well advanced toward completion) a larger and more important canvas, the subject of which is entitled "The Target Excursion." The subject portrays the interior of the boiler-room of one of our great manufacturing establishments, with the men, who have been excused from work, gath ering and merry-making previous to their departure for the march. The chief interest in the scene centres in the action of the pioneer -the biggest man in the shop, who is always selected to lead the van, and is supposed to be the "bravest of the brave." This great fellow stands in the centre of the room, with his head thrown back in affright, and his bearskin hat and battle-axe fallen upon the floor at his feet. A beer-glass, filled with lager, has also fallen from his hands, and its fragments are scattered over the brick pavement. All of this fright of the gallant leader has been caused by a huge "straddle-bug," such as the boys sell in the streets to amuse children, which one of the fun-loving, stay-athome fellows has attached to a pole, and from a hiding-place behind the furnace is dancing it over his head. On the right there is a group of men arrayed in red shirts, crossbelts, and other accoutrements, getting ready for the march, and, in anticipation of it, they are partaking of refreshments, which the negro target-bearer has provided for them in a pail at his feet. The members of this group appear astonished at the discomfiture of their leader; but there is fun in their faces, and they, no doubt, enjoy the little comedy as much as the fellows who have instigated it. The subject is composed with great spirit, and as an illustration of a phase of city-life we have rarely seen its equal upon canvas. The figures are well grouped, each man of the main body is in his right place, and all are busy, except the leader, with the preparations. The bright coloring of the uniformshirts is in striking contrast to the stained walls of the furnace-room, but under the influence of the strong morning sunlight which. illuminates the farthermost recesses of the

place their gaudy tones are subdued, and those more sombre brought up in unison with them. The drawing is excellent, and a clever bit of perspective looking through the old shop over the heads of the main group gives additional interest to the scene.

THE comment is frequently made that statues to everybody but to men of New York reputation go up in the Central Park. There are now erected within those grounds busts to Schiller and Humboldt, two Germans ; statues to Walter Scott, a Scotsman, to Shakespeare, an Englishman; and, shortly, there is to be erected a statue each to Lafayette, Burns, and Tom Moore, while the Span. tards in New York are talking about a statue to Cervantes. There is one frightful caricature to Morse, who is of Massachusetts birth; and next year Webster and Fitz-Greene Halleck are to be commemorated by effigies in bronze. But, so far, not one New-Yorker. It is scarcely worth while to consider the exact birthplace of a man whose statue is to be placed in the park, but we ought to honor our national worthies if not our local ones. It is true that the statues to foreigners have been presented to the park by interested personsthe busts of Schiller and Humboldt by admiring Germans resident here; the statues of Scott and Burns by Scotchmen. Fortunately, we are to have in another year a statue to Daniel Webster, and one to Fitz-Greene Halleck; there is an organization forming among ladies to raise the money for a statue to Washington Irving; and a colossal bust of Bryant has been cast, designed for this great pleasure-ground. So it looks as if the reproach of our neglect of our own great people would not long remain good. steps should be taken for statues to Fenimore Cooper, De Witt Clinton, and some of our old Dutch celebrities.

But

A COMPETITION took place recently among German artists for the painting of the curtain of the Dresden Theatre, Ferdinand Keller, of Carlsruhe, receiving the award. Here, now, is a hint for some of our enterprising managers. Let one of them, by way of experiment, invite our painters to compete for the painting of a new curtain for his theatre-or, let us say, rather for the furnishing of a design or study for a new curtain, to be executed either by himself or by trained scenepainters under his direction. The substitution of a genuine piece of art-work for the strange monstrosities that commonly, in the way of stage-curtain, amaze and amuse the theatre-goer, would be a great gain to the æsthetic pleasure of the cultivated spectator, would do something toward promoting right art-ideas among the general public, would be rendering a rightful homage to art, and would prove to be a first-rate card for the manager setting the example.

A WRITER in the Gentleman's Magazine utters the following sound comments on the charms of comparative kinds of landscapepainting: "The French have eschewed the conventional and sensational style of landscape. Novel and startling effects are not in favor in the ateliers. Before railways they followed Salvator Rosa and Poussin, and sought

to render those sites which command the attention and admiration of the tourist. Precipices and mountain-scenes are no longer in favor. I think the artists and the public right in preferring what tranquilizes and seduces to what violently excites the imagination. However imposing the sites presented by Alpine districts, they do not present to the painter the advantage the uninitiated may fancy over lowlands with extended horizons. The play of light and the effects of atmospheric perspective are of greater value in the plains, which also, taking more easily the fleeting impress of the cloud's gentle sinuosities, lead quietly from pleasure to pleasure, like a gracious woman indifferent to admiration but solicitous of securing lasting friends. The artist who charms is superior to him who ambitiously aims at heaping Pelion upon Ossa, and succeeds in accomplishing this prodigy. It is curious to note how few great landscape-painters have come from the Scotch or Welsh mountains, the Alps or Pyrenees, or the sublimely savage coast of Norway. The dells and denes of Kent and Surrey and the river-banks round London and Paris have, on the contrary, been a rich source of inspiration."

THE Academy series of notices of the exhibition of the Royal Academy, written by W. M. Rossetti, ends by asserting that "the general calibre of the pictures is decidedly mediocre, with low aims and superficial worksuperficial, though frequently very clever." He says: In one of the plays of the Jacobean dramatist George Chapman, The Revenge of Bussy d'Ambois,' we find a few lines which members, associates, and exhibitors of the Royal Academy would do well to lay to heart, representing as they do only too faithfully the ideal, aims, and methods, of many of our artistic practitioners:

'Since good arts fail, crafts and deceits are used. Men ignorant are idle: idle men

Most practise what they most may do with ease-
Fashion and favor; all their studies aiming
At getting money.'

Chapman's speaker adds:

'Which no wise man ever

Fed his desires with.' We will not say that the artists of the present day may not allowably be wise in their generation,' and make money. Let them sell their works at such prices as they can command: only let them determine that those works shall first of all be good, and done for the sake of being good rather than for that of their money equivalent."

THE

ers.

From Abroad.

OUR PARIS LETTER.

July 20, 1875.

HIE weather continues to be the leading topic in all social circles at present, for, in the language of the poet, "the rain it raineth every day." Literally and truly is this so, for not a single day has elapsed for six weeks past without a shower or a succession of showAccording to the calendar this is the month of July, but by the barometer and thermometer one would swear it was April. Think of midsummer weather, where the thermometer ranges between 60° and 70° in the middle of the day, where people sleep under blankets at night, wear cashmere dresses and flannel underwear, and dare not stir out without umbrellas! Think of that, O ye swelterers under an American summer sun at home! Ow

ing to this unusual state of the weather, the cafés chantants, the Besselièvre concerts, and the open-air balls of the Champs-Elysées, usually the most popular and patronized of all Parisian entertainments in summer, are having but a hard time of it. Per contra, the theatres, that is to say, the few that remain open, are prospering finely. People who had departed for summer quarters by the sea-shore or among the mountains, are returning to the city, literally chilled and drenched out of their rustie retreats. The Parisians are very savage at the rains: it spoils all their pleasant out-door life, puts a stop to all fetes and festivities, turns their pretty suburban pleasure - grounds into wastes of mud, and ruins their enjoyment generally. However, the forty days of rain that we are supposed to go through if it rains on St. - Médard's day (the French substitute for the Irish Sheela) are wellnigh over, so we may reasonably expect a cessation of these continual showers.

After all the blowing of trumpets in which Glady Brothers, the publishers, indulged respecting the preface to the "Imitation of Christ," which Alexandre Dumas was to write, it turns out that the great dramatist is not going to write it after all. He yields the task to M. Louis Veuillot, of the Univers, the wellknown Ultramontane writer, who, probably, will treat the subject as well as, if not better than, his more brilliant but profane confrère would have done. Michel Lévy Brothers announce, amid their forthcoming publications, two new novels by George Sand, entitled respectively "Flamarande" and "Les Deux Frères;" a novel by Edouard Cadol, called "La Bête Noire ;" and one by Arsène Houssaye, which bears the striking name of "Dianas and Venuses." If only the romances of this showy, shallow, immoral writer were as clever as their titles, they would be very pleasant reading. Unfortunately, they are only very flippant, very flimsy, and very indecent. A translation of Mr. Grenville Murray's charming and sparkling novel, "The Member for Paris," has just been issued by Ghio. For three years past, authorization to publish this translation has been sought for from the powers that be, and has only just been granted. The version, which is extremely well done, is by the Chevalier Boutillier. As the book abounds in sketches of the Parisian notabilities of the last days of the Empire, and is, moreover, a very interesting story, I should not be surprised if its Parisian success were to equal its English one.

There is an interesting sketch of the elder Dumas, as manager and dramatist, in the last installment of the amusing memoirs of Laferrière. He gives an account of the rehearsals of the "Chevalier de Maison Rouge" — a drama adapted by Dumas from his own novel of the same name. When the piece was first read at the theatre it produced but little effect. "Dumas," says Laferrière, "was one of the most deplorable readers in the world, his voice had false intonations, and his delivery a false emphasis. That man, whose pen was so alert and sparkling, did not know how to utter a phrase, and in his mouth comedy itself became lugubrious. Some friends were speaking before him one day of Schiller, and, very naturally, they declared that in all respects he was far superior to the author of 'Wallenstein.' Dumas did not appear thoroughly convinced, and, turning to Madame Dorval, who had listened to the discussion without uttering a word, he said:

"Well, Marie, what do you think of these absurdities?'

"My dear Dumas, I rather agree with

them you far surpass Schiller in one respect.' "What is that?'

"You read far worse than he did.'

"Dumas burst out laughing. He remembered how the unhappy German dramatist, having read his Don Carlos' before the reading-committee at the Dresden Theatre, had his work instantly and unanimously refused.

"Thus we all found the 'Chevalier de Maison Rouge' detestable, and predicted its total failure. But we took care to keep this unpleasant impression to ourselves.

The rehearsals were commenced at once. The preparatory ones, those destined to make certain the memory only, took place in the absence of the author. But, as soon as the parts were known and the actors could repeat them from memory, Dumas appeared among us like Jupiter Tonans emerging from the clouds.

"Notwithstanding some little weaknesses, Dumas was a great master of stage effect. } Under his influence, the dullest dialogue, the most unimportant situation, took an unforeseen physiognomy. It was necessary to be well acquainted with him in order to know to what a point he could, when he pleased, become sympathetic and entraînant. At rehearsals and when he was 'i' th' vein,' he could in a moment become a man of the people, speaking the language of the faubourgs; and every thing about him, accent, words, and movements, became transformed. Then did his voice become true, his intonations simple and natural. He knew how to be for two hours the most amazing of dramatic teachers, and such was the sympathetic clearness of his explanations that he could make a hundred actors out of a hundred supernumeraries.

But there was a reverse to this medal. These were the days when, instead of coming slone to the rehearsal to make, as he used to say to us, a nice little cookery by ourselves,' he would arrive escorted by his courtiers, Like Louis XIV. Then he was no longer the same man. Preoccupied by the effect which he wished to produce upon these chance hearers, he struck attitudes for the gallery, he beeame disagreeable, unjust, captious, disdainful, discouraging, taking each of us for the target of his sarcasm, and remaining no longer for us our great instructor and master of scenic efect.

"At the last dress-rehearsal of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge,' he came, unfortunately for us, surrounded by some four hundred of his flatterers, in the midst of whom he sat enthroned in a front box, from which he governed the affairs on the stage with his powerful voice, like a ship-captain commanding his

crew.

minutes amused the by-standers excessively. Finally, no longer able to contain himself, he quitted his box, rushed upon the stage, and tried to mount that unlucky window himself. Notwithstanding his long arms, his long legs, and his gigantic height, he could not succeed. At length, on making one last violent effort, the supports of the scene gave way, and window, balcony, and Dumas, all came tumbling down together! That was the first great sensation of the evening. But he picked himself up with the greatest composure, and said, as calmly as though nothing had happened: "Go on, gentlemen!'

"We did go on; but Dumas, provoked and wearied, returned to his box, determined to take his revenge at the first opportunity.

"A few moments later, thanks to chance, or rather to my lucky star, I discovered one of the most striking effects of my rôle.

"In the sixth tableau there occurred a scene when the heroine, Geneviève, comes to Maurice to seek for shelter. At that point I saw Atala Beauchêne (the actress who played Geneviève) enter wrapped up in the black cloak which she was accustomed to put on when she left the theatre.

Salvini is positively coming to Paris next autumn. He is expected here this week to settle the preliminary arrangements and to engage a theatre. He will probably take the Salle Ventadour, which combines the advantages of being fashionable, well situated, and not too large. As it is probable that Strakosch will relinquish all his plans for giving Italian opera here next winter, it is fortunate that this classic hall should be so worthily occupied. I am very curious to see how he will be received here. Will the critics pronounce him an uncultured barbarian, or will they recognize in him the greatest actor of the age, which he really is? It is impossible to decide. A nation that calls Shakespeare barbarous has every chance of seeing nothing in Salvini's acting but violent contortions and untutored effects.

That rare marvel of the Parisian stage, a translation of an English play, has just been produced at the Gymnase. The piece in question is the well-known drama of "Hunted Down; or, the Two Lives of Mary Leigh," by Dion Boucicault, translated and arranged by M. de Najac. It has not proved very successful, the strong effects which are popular on the American and English boards being considered inartistic by the Parisian critics. It was wonderfully well acted throughout, Achard being particularly successful in the rôle of the villain Rawdon. But the great star of the cast was undoubtedly Mademoiselle Tallandiera, in the character of Lea, the Italian model whose name forms the title of the French version of the piece. Her fiery and impassioned acting, the strange lightnings of her wonderful dark eyes, the play of her somewhat heavy but ex

"Did I not tell you that every thing was upside down this evening? There is Laferrière who is actually making believe to be a genius!'

"We all laughed, and he was satisfied. He had had that time a share in the success.

"All these little accidents and vexations did not hinder us from going gayly to take supper, at three o'clock in the morning, at the café of the theatre. While drinking our champagne to the healths of our director and of the authors of Maison Rouge,' I wagered that the piece would draw for one hundred nights, a dazzling number at that epoch.

"I'll take your wager for twenty,' said a voice that seemed to proceed from the ill

"At last we came to the scene when Maurice Linday (myself) leaps through the window of the pavilion to arrest Maison Rouge. When I attempted to scale the window I found that the sill was placed too high, and I stopped short. Dumas called to me:

"Well, well! go on-jump in !'

"I indicated from afar the obstacle to him, but, as I was certain to be wrong in his eyes, a dialogue ensued between us which for five

round; it was Dumas, who was nursing his gloom in company with a bone of cold mut

ton.

"Melingue and I went to him, and offered him a glass of champagne.

666

Twenty representations only!' cried Melingue- do you mean it?'

striking and thrilling dramatic picture. She is a great actress, is this strange, wild creature, who is said by blood to be half Arab. The Gymnase has also produced a charming little one-act piece, by the lamented Amédée Achard, called "Le Sanglier des Ardennes." Le Sanglier is a wealthy, cross old fellow, who has gained that sobriquet from his relatives by his ill-nature and contradictoriness. He has a young niece whom he scolds, whom he idolizes, and whom he has adopted as a daughter. Of course this prospective heiress has many suitors, but they all take flight from before the diabolical humor of Le Sanglier, except one soft, pertinacious fool who is resolved to win the young lady's dowry at all hazards, and who agrees with the terrible uncle on all points, even going so far as to acquiesce in his declaration that the moon is square in the daytime and round at night, and that one egg is a sufficient breakfast for a man. But the young lady secretly loves her cousin, who is an independent, outspoken young fellow, and who finally gets into a violent quarrel with his uncle after contradicting him on all points. "Come to my arms!" cries Le Sanglier, to the amazement of his young adversary. "I have been seeking everywhere for a man with a will of his own, and you shall be the husband of my niece!" This pretty trifle was admirably played by Landrol Achard and bewitching little Marie Legault. LUCY H. HOOPER.

OUR LONDON LETTER. You may like to know who wrote the long review in the Athenæum of the "Memoirs of General William T. Sherman." It was my friend Major Knollys, the brother of the Prince of Wales's private secretary-a gallant gentleman, who has seen much service in India, and who is our Inspector-General of Ordnance. By-the-way, I ought to mention that the major

highly lauds, as a whole, both the book and its author, as these final paragraphs will show:

"That General Sherman is a bold, able leader, a skillful strategist and tactician, as well as an admirable organizer and administrator, these volumes show. We are, however, bound to bear in mind that he invariably had the big battalions on his side, and that so vast were the resources of the North that he could always afford to lose two to one without his numerical superiority being much affected. Still, he deserves credit for his successes, and his reflections on the military lessons of the war are worthy of attentive consideration.

"The literary merits of the book before us are considerable. The narrative is clear and concise, and four years of military operations on a gigantic scale are described in fewer words than are required by some authors in writing the history of a couple of battles. The style is, however," adds Major Knollys, who I know has a strong objection to some of your colloquial phrases, "full of slang and vulgarisms." "We expected something better from one who has received the excellent education of West Point," concludes he.

Signor Salvini is doubtless well pleased with his visit to our shores. All along he has been triumphant. If his Hamlet was not considered by us so good as his Othello, still the personation was widely praised. Indeed, the signor has been puffed and lauded, banqueted and dinnered to repletion. Why, even Macready or the elder Kean never had such glowing criticisms written on them. Enthusiastic to the last degree was the tremendous audience on the occasion of the famous tragedian's farewell benefit at the "Lane" the other day. He played Othello, and, in the course of the evening, was almost smothered with bouquets. After the performance, too, he was presented with a handsome silver snuff-box, that had been subscribed for by the members of the orchestra. Better than all, he has "netted"I believe "netted" is the proper word-some thousands of pounds by his short engagement here.

A great many new books are in the press or on the "stocks." For instance, "George Eliot "that is, Mrs. George Henry Lewes-is about to give us another novel of English midland life; Mr. George Augustus Sala, the famous "special" and leader- writer of the Daily Telegraph-he boasts that he has written ever so many thousands of leaders for that journal-a volume on "Cookery in its Historical Aspects;" Mr. Smiles, "Lives of the Engineers," a companion to "Self-Help," to be entitled "Thrift; " Mr. John Forster, Dickens's biographer, a "Life of Swift"-a "life" which will contain no end of hitherto unpublished matter in the shape of letters, etc.; Dr. Doran, the editor of Notes and Queries, a volume of Sir Horace Mann's correspondence (Sir Horace was our embassador at Florence in Horace Walpole's day); the young Earl of Mayo, son of the late Viceroy of India, "Sport in Abyssinia;" Lady Hobart, the life and writings of her late husband, the erst Governor of Madras; Mr. J. Eglington Bailey, the sermons of that worthy old divine, Thomas Fuller; and Mr. R. G. Haliburton, some essays on colonial subjects.

The opera-season is drawing to a close. Covent Garden was shut up a few days ago, and "Old Drury's" doors will soon be bolted also. At it, we have just had "Lohengrin " again, with Madame Christine Nilsson as Elsa di Brabante; Titiens as Ortrudo; Signor Galassi in Frederico di Tebramondo; and Signor Campanini in the title rôle. The "music of the future" is certainly making its influence felt

among us. It will, doubtless, become popular gradually, as Mr. Tennyson thinks his "Queen Mary" will.

One of the most pleasant entertainments in London just now is that which is given nightly at the Egyptian Hall by Miss Emily Faithfull and Miss Ella Dietz, a young countrywoman of yours. Miss Faithfull gives readings from the works of your native bards Bryant, Whitman, Longfellow, Will Carleton, etc.; while Miss Dietz plays very charmingly in a little comedietta she has adapted from the French, and called "Lessons in Harmony." You have, I know, had an opportunity of hearing Miss Faithfull read, therefore I need not dwell on her elocutionary powers. These are as great as ever; indeed, I think that, if any thing, her voice is more mellow and flexible than it was when she visited your shores. How pathetically she reads Walt Whitman's lines on the death of Abraham Lincoln-one of the most beautiful lyrics extant, in your humble servant's opinion. Yet, there are some who say that the "divine afflatus" is not Walt's at all!

Major Wellington de Boots-I mean Mr. J. S. Clarke-will begin an engagement at the Haymarket on the 21st of August-which reminds me that a far abler comedian, a far more conscientious one, at any rate (let me put it that way), than Mr. Clarke, is, as I dare say you have heard, about to cross over to youMr. George Honey, at present playing Graves in "Money" at the Prince of Wales's. Mr. George Belmore, too, who, as Newman Noggs in "Nicholas Nickleby," is one of the great attractions at the Adelphi just now, is also on the point of visiting you—that is, if Mr. Chatterton will only let him. That gentleman has applied for an injunction to restrain him from going, on the ground that he (Mr. Belmore) is breaking an agreement. The case is pending; but I hope for your and my readers' sakes that Mr. Belmore will gain the day, for I am sure

"Society" he was always called Tom by his intimates-ever wrote. A very affecting epistle it is. It is written in pencil, and is addressed to a friend of mine whose wife had just died. "I feel, dear boy, it will not be long ere I follow your beloved wife myself,” wrote Robertson. "But cheer up, old fellow; there's something better, I hope, in store for all of us." A few hours afterward he was dead! Robertson's character, by-the-way, was a strangely contradictory one. At one time he was gentle as a child; at another full of blasphemy!

Mr. William Gilbert, the author of that powerful novel, "Shirley Hall Asylum," is about to make a sojourn in Egypt, with the object of collecting (and publishing) the early Christian legends which there abound. The Mr. Gilbert I refer to, let your readers note, is not the famous dramatist and author of "The Bab Ballads," but his able père. In this case the son's celebrity has quite overshadowed the father's. A proof in point: the son's biography appears in "Men of the Time," while the father's does not. I had occasion to write to Mr. Gilbert, Sr., the other day, regarding some magazine - work. "Ob," said he, jocularly, the moment he saw me, "I suppose you've made a mistake, and wanted to see my son!" But I had not.

Mr. Hepworth Dixon has changed his publishers. His forthcoming work on your country-it will dwell on the war of races, and be entitled "White Conquest: America in 1875"

will be issued, not by Messrs. Hurst & Blackett, but by Messrs. Chatto & Windus, Mr. Hotten's successors. Much new matter will appear in it, Mr. Dixon's letters to the British press while he was last among you forming, as it were, only the corner-stone.

WILL WILLIAMS.

use the great Artemus's phrase.

The general opinion is that Mr. George Rignold's acting has been improved by his American visit; I know you'll like to hear that. At present he is playing Lord Clancarty at the Queen's. On the opening night of this, his first engagement since his return, he was received with hurrahs, cheers, and waving of handkerchiefs. Yes, it was an enthusiastic scene wherefore the young actor made a little speech, in which he referred with obvious pride to his transatlantic tour. Altogether, however, his remarks were by no means judicious: they smacked of over-confidence and egoism. But there-one can't wonder at that! After the fuss you made over him, the only marvel is that he doesn't look down on Irving and Salvini.

GRADUATED ATMOSPHERES.

HE mean distance of the planet Mercury

H

from the sun is about 37,000,000 miles, and that of the planet Neptune about 2,850. 000,000 miles. If, then, the sun is simply a vast, incandescent body, diffusing light and heat like an ordinary fire, it is obvious that, unless there are some modifying circumstances, the degree of light and heat to which Mercury is subjected is immeasurably more intense than that experienced by Neptune, and that the animal and vegetable life of the one planet is utterly impossible to the other. Presuming both planets to be inhabited, this would seem to involve a special creation for each. But here we are embarrassed by the

Just now I was shown the last letter that Tom Robertson, the author of "Caste" and

system obey what appear to be universal laws; and that, with but one exception, they are similarly shaped; while the revelations of the spectroscope seem to invite the conclusion that their constituents are identical in the main. Assuming these three precise facts as a basis of induction, we ought reasonably to verge toward the conviction that throughout the whole of our system there is a corresponding homogeneity in animal and vegetable life, and something like an equable distribution of light and heat. At this point, however, in steps the commonly - received theory of the great central fire of the suna theory that seems to interfere with the