eagerly sought from the fact that he drew largely from precedents in his own experience. He was called the Fireman because he wore a red shirt, but he helped, also, to quench love-flames. The fourteenth and last of the party was the one great enthusiast for hunting and fishing, whom our expedition was always proud to remember. His name was Nimrod, the mighty hunter. He was always bright and hopeful about the weather. Every new day's rain was a clearing-up shower. Every new lake was "the great place for fish." Every new camping-ground was the promised land of venison. Thorough bush, Thorough brier, Over lake, Over fire, He would wander everywhere, Nimrod always dreaded the Sundays, while the guides rejoiced in them, but not for devotional reasons. At ten o'clock every Sunday all hands would march into the large tent, where a full cathedral service, according to the Episcopal Church, would be held-every one sitting down, however, as there was not room for us to stand up. One Sunday, during the reading of the sermon, Nimrod fell sound asleep, and snored a basso snore, with a full, deep, rhythmical cadence. We smiled all around, preacher and congregation alike, but, as he had been out night-hunting all the previous night, and late into the sacred hours of the Sabbath morning, we wisely and charitably allowed him to slumber serenely on. Suddenly a rifle-shot, from some ungodly Sabbath breaking party, was heard, apparently very near us, whereupon Nimrod started up from his slumbers, shouting out, "Who fired?" but, finding himself in the environment of Christian worship, at once assumed the attitude of the attentive listener with a sanctimonious suddenness which defies description. But Nimrod could quote Scripture very deftly whenever he wanted to swing the clergy around to his opinions. One very rainy day, when the reverend clergy did not want to go out deer-hunting in the wet, and yet loathed the pork and hard-tack in the way that the stiff-necked Israelites abhorred their surplusage of quails, Nimrod remarked, "We cannot expect the Lord to send us a deer unless we give ourselves up cheerfully to the work, for St. Paul tells us that 'the Lord loveth a cheerful giver.'" II. BOOK number two in Homer's " Iliad," you will remember, contains an enumeration of the forces comprised in that expedition. Chapter number two in this Adirondack adventure, by a strange coincidence, contains ditto "Arma virumque cano," likewise the ten guides who represented many different phases of uncultured character. They were "simple children of Nature," unspoiled by the injurious effects of too much civilization. Exactly so! O ye social scientists and political economists of the optimist order, as the poet Thomson says "See here thy pictured life!" Job saw it; Squeers saw it; Garibaldi saw followed the patient Job-trying to enjoy the it; and after six weeks of sight believed scenery and the Contemporary Review in turns, more thoroughly than ever that, as a rule, but everlastingly dosed with the peculiar human nature lives pretty well up to the doc-phraseology of Dirty Mart. trine of total depravity. It was up Saranac Lake that our fleet of ten boats ploughed their way to Corry's, where we halted for the night. Enis, our Indian guide, went first with Bildad and Zophar, two friends of patient Dr. Job. We might add "So-phar, so good "--but we are opposed to the habit of punning, and do not intend to spoil the otherwise classical character of this article with poor jokes. We doubt very much, however, if the untutored mind of this Indian was burdened with the sight of God in the clouds, or the hearing of him in the wind according to Alexander Pope's description of the genus Indian. At least we would not have thought of this without the poet's assistance. It was never a basilar trait of this guide to call our attention to clouds or wind as in any way a symbol of the unknowable. Then came Oliver Twist and the Fireman, in a boat rowed by a youth who rejoiced in the prophetical name of Elias. This young man ended and began all important remarks with an appeal to some unknown hero or divinity named Goll! Close upon this party followed the Divinity-Student and the Merchant-Man; they were both good-looking young fellows, but, as I have said before, were both sadly in love with the same young lady, and no doubt tried not to appear jealous of each other as they sat at opposite ends of the boat, and wrote letters to her of the beautiful scenery as it appeared to the one of them from the bow of the boat, and to the other of them from the stern. Occasionally they would stop the Fireman's boat, nominally to get water or a light for their cigars, but in reality to get a quotation right, or to take an ad captandum hint. They had a bright little French boy for their guide, whose name was Oliver. A remarkable feature of this guide was his willingness to pick raspberries for his two men whenever there was nothing else to be done. After these gentlemen came George and Squeers, with a nasal-speaking guide named Dave. Garibaldi came next, in a boat rowed by one "Hanc," a contraction for Henry or Henricus (hence the final letter c). Hanc did more rowing than any of the other guides, and was generally worked up about it, because Garibaldi was so absorbed in the preface to "The History of the Inductive Sciences" (he never got much beyond the preface), that he usually left his bag or shawl bundle at the last stopping place and then sent Hane back for them. So Hane would go back, muttering fearful things over the quiet surface of the lake, his vigorous rowing plainly indicating his disturbed state of mind, while Garibaldi would gather hemlockbranches for his tent and exclaim, "Isn't this delightful?-such pure air, you know!" Following this party came the Ancient Mariner with Douglas, his guide, generally known as Dug; then came the Medicine-Man with the reticent Bill, who chewed tobacco twenty out of the twenty-four hours in the day, and consequently was denied by this habit the faculty of much talking. Next Then came Nimrod, ever on the alert for deer, ducks, and feathered fowl of every descriptionrowed by John Grover-a man who took de light in telling of past successes, and in prophesying, Cassandra-like, a dismal and unpropitious future. Last of all came Sammy Dunning, bringing with him the camp equipage and provisions. Sammy was a very reminiscent character, full of stories, which he shot off one by one in a general blaze of brilliant description, with a Roman-candle-like effect, a stream of colored stories always issuing forth whenever he was started. He was very severe on Bostonians: thought the modern Athens was a one-horse place, and was merry over bis account of a party he had recently from that place, who would go out night-hunting, and shot what they thought was a large deer, but were wait. ed upon in the morning by a farmer with a bill for a fine cow they had shot in the dark! In this order we moved up Saranac Lake and over to Round Lake to "Corry's,” where we pitched our tents for the night. As we landed, we were met by Job and his three friends, who informed us, not being as yet familiar with the camp lingo, that the guides were burning a large midge to keep the smudges away. Corry's was the scene of one of Job's friend's sickness (it was Eliphaz the Temanite, if we remember rightly). He had cholera-morbus, and, though he was suffering horribly, still, like Mrs. Mies. ber, who would never desert her husband, these gentlemen would not desert their be mœopathic principles. There slept the old fashioned Medicine-Man, with good toris and cordials wrapped up in his blue military cloak; but these gentlemen thought if t> mœopathy was good enough to live by it was good enough to die by. So, after a council i the dark, they gave their patient two pelles of aconite in a pail of cold water, which dose was to be repeated every two hours; so E phaz rubbed and rolled all night, and felt is the morning that the aconite had done bi great good and was just the thing. (Happy thought! Good subject for an essay, “Effect of Imagination and Superstition on the He man System.") III. SIX weeks' camping out, and then hore again - this is the rest of our story. [ Saranac River and Long Lake, over Raquette River to Blue Mountain Lake, loveliest o lakes, and back again, shooting and fishing and having hosts of adventures, comprised the bulk of our doings. Who can forget the night-fires and the roaring, burning pie trees; the lake ripples by the tents on the shore, the moonlight views, and the glad sur prises of success? who can rightly estimat the effect of such an out-door life as this, it its recuperating, invigorating influence up the tired-out human frame? Dr. Weir Mitchell, of Philadelphia, in tis little tract called "Wear and Tear," shows us very clearly how the worn-out American, by climate and habit of life, paralyzes his native strength, and must needs seek fresh building-up power by the rugged life of the heathen or the animal. The Lake Superior country is a great field for wasted energies. And six weeks in the Adriondacks does the work well. If you doubt this, ask any of our party, from Oliver Twist and Squeers to the Ancient Mariner and Nimrod, and they will say with Tom Moore"Oh, if there's an elysium on earth, It is this-it is this!" Talking of poetry, we too had poetry. Nimrod shot at a loon all one Saturday to no purpose, and the Medicine-Man drew a picture of the scene and wrote as follows: "This is the loon so laughing and shy, Which Nimrod's dread rifle did often defy; To guess where she'd gone to was ever the wonder." goods, and feed him with a spoon, while he opened and shut his mouth like a young robin or a toy nut-cracker. Oliver said he would never go night-hunting again if he lived to be as old as Methuselah. Then one of the party went out on a deerhunt one day, and came home quickly in his boat, having shot himself in the leg. He thought he was going at once, and we were all frightened. But-who would believe it? -there was the burnt hole in his pantaloons where the shot had gone in, and there was the mark on the leg; but, instead of fainting or carrying on, he quietly waited a while, and then went home-like Mark Tapley, keeping jolly under the circumstances. As for our adventures, there were hosts of them. Nimrod never came near a wild animal of any kind that there wasn't some wonderful story, like that of the beautiful At another time Nimrod fired at a large buck who whistled, no doubt because he was so happy. heron. "I saw the feathers fly," said his guide, John Grover. "I told you so," replied Nimrod. 'Yes," answered the imperturbable John, "but they all flew together!" Whereupon the Medicine-Man made a picture of the scene, and wrote: "This is the heron all long-necked and ready, Which Nimrod had shot if she'd only held steady, But Nimrod was sure there was no need of tether, For the feathers did fly, though they all flew together." Oliver Twist and the Fireman, on their way up Saranac Lake to the camping-ground, stopped their boat and fired each with a rifle It was impossible to put such a company together without every day bringing forth its own peculiar adventures. But, by-and-by the last day of the vaca tion came, and, like Hiawatha, saying farewell to the people, and the forests, and the heron and Shu-shu-gah, in their haunts among the fen-lands, we "parted in the glory, In the purple mists of evening." HEMLOCKS. (TERZA RIMA.) KNEW a forest, tranquil and august, at a duck and a mud-hen for the greater part I Down whose green deeps my steps would of an afternoon. But neither of these birds appeared to mind it at all or to be moved from the immediate duty of the hour. At last Oliver thought it was only a log, and poked at it with his oar, whereupon it flew away. The next day pictures of the above scenes appeared, with the following lines: "Behold here the wee little duck Which the Fireman blazed at in luck; She replied, 'I am not I'm not such a fool of a duck.'" "Here is the curious old mud-hen But there she did stay, And nothing could move this old mud-hen." But where are the adventures? Well, one of them was on a Sunday at Gangeville, when these fourteen unshaven heroes, in their camping-out costumes, went to church, and never heard or saw the like. Another adventure was when Nimrod chased a "beautiful buck" all night, and heard him whistle as he got away. Thereupon the Merchant-Man and Twist imitated Nim, and came home, leaving their Jack-o'lantern behind them, having been frightened by a bear. The next day, Sunday, Oliver fell in the lake, being frightened as he thought of the past night. As we had no clothes to put him in, we wrapped him up in a big shawl, and carried him to the tent where the service was beld. As he couldn't get his arms out, he looked like an Egyptian mummy, or the conventional cherub-all head. We would set him up like a bale of cotton often stray, When leisure met my life as dew meets dust! EDITOR'S TABLE. OME one having deplored the lack of a reputable lounge" in our city for holiday resort, the Evening Post responded by saying that we would have places of the kind whenever we wanted them badly enough to support them. "The fact," it goes on to say, "that we have nothing of the sort, while in European cities such establishments are altogether a matter of course, suggests a peculiarity of American character and habit which is a very great credit to us as a people. When freed from the cares of business, we are so well content to remain at home in the enjoyment of domestic pleasures, that not the most enterprising of managers is willing to risk his money in an attempt to win us away from our own firesides by the attractions of any sort of public establishment whatever. We are a domestic, home-loving people, with resources enough within ourselves to make holidays pleasant without the necessity of resorting to public haunts for the purpose of killing time; and it is a hopeful fact in our national character that we are so." We think it indisputable that the Americans are a domestic, home-loving people, and that places of public resort are not so frequented here as abroad is largely due to that fact. It is often said that the club cannot flourish in American cities as it does in England, and while many reasons for this have been given, we are inclined to think that our domestic proclivities indicate the principal cause. Still there are some points to be made on the other side. It is scarcely right for the Post to assume that our public would not gather in picture - galleries and Crystal Palaces on holidays, when we see them thronging in great numbers to the theatres on those occasions. There are those who do not go to the theatre, those who dislike the great crowd that gathers in them on holidays, and these would be gratified if there were some reputable place like the Crystal Palace or the National Gallery of London, where they might spend at least a portion of a holiday. Moreover, the domestic gatherings of Thanksgiving and Christmas do not usually occur until in the afternoon, and there are many persons who, while contemplating with agreeable anticipation the hour of the social meeting, would be very glad for some reputable lounging-place where the intervening time might be pleasantly passed. On holidays the theatres are overcrowded, the galleries of the picture-dealers are closed, the parks are excessively thronged, or else the weather is inclement, and hence on these occasions there are thousands who long for some agreeable, reputable place where a few hours may be profitably passed. While still believing all that the Post says about our national fondness for domestic pleasures, we may yet ask how it is that with foreigners so distinctly a reverse idea of us is entertained? English people who come to this country repeatedly assert that we live in hotels and boarding-houses, and that our women disport themselves continually in public. We have no domestic life, they say. That this assertion is preposterously untrue, that in fact we are peculiarly a domestic people, we all know to be the case; but how is it that this wrong judgment should get abroad? We have already pointed out the fact that the reason why clublife is a feeble exotic with us is because our men are too domestic in their tastes for it. And Mr. Nadal, in his charming sketches of London social life, makes one statement that indicates why clubs are so flourishing in the English metropolis. Few houses, he tells us, are open to visitors, except on set occasions The freedom of the social evening call is not understood there as it is here-and it is less enjoyed in New York than in other American cities. In America, informal visiting makes every house a sort of small club. No young man need resort to a public place for entertainment; he is sure of finding many parlors open, the piano uncovered, and the ladies in charming toilets prepared to receive all who present themselves. facts are proof of our domestic inclinations -and hence we must ask again, Why in face of all the evidence are we charged with liv. ing almost wholly in public? These We have asked this question frankly because we have no answer to give. We know there is a large public with us living in hotels and boarding-houses, and it is asserted that this class coming soonest to the notice of a stranger he naturally forms the conclusion that our whole people are a boarding house set. If this is the sole reason for the English opinion of us in this particular, then we can only say that English travelers are simply blind and stubborn fools. All around them are innumerable facts to establish the domestic tendency of the great majority of our people. At best, hotels and boarding-houses are excessive in a few cities only-where the occupants are as often foreigners as nativeswhile commonly it is the pride and delight of an American to own his own roof-tree; and this, to quote the language of the Post, "is a most hopeful fact in our national character." It is a very general notion that elocution is simply an art of using the voice, of expressing feeling by tones, and hence that it is rather an æsthetic than an intellectual accomplishment. An article in the last SCIENCE MONTHLY, entitled "Reading as an Intellectual Process," by Mr. E. O. Vaile, is gen erally very just and accurate, the tenor of its thought of his author, and hence there "Pupils are drilled almost daily in reading, from the time they are six until they are sixteen, and yet they cannot read. They pass over that which to them is intelligible and that which is not intelligible alike, without discrimination. Words, words merely, are their only currency. Professors of elocution, and teachers of reading, do not impart the power we need. They teach us an accomplishment, but neglect our necessity. They make oral reading a high and important end, while it is simply a means, and should so be used. Our children are taught as though a large portion of their existence were to be spent in reading aloud; whereas, probably not one-fiftieth of all the reading done by people in ordinary circumstances is of that kind. For most of us, it is our intellectual business in life to understand, to receive, to unload, as it were, that which others have put aboard. At least ability in this line is what we need infinitely more than the mere art of conveying thought. The number is comparatively small of those who are called upon to create, to body forth the soul either as orators or writers. The truth is, within the proper and legitimate sphere of school-reading, the cultivation of the organs of speech should be strictly subordinate to the great end of acquiring and retaining thoughts. . . to acquire the power of obtaining from the printed page, and by means of the eye only, ideas clearly and quickly. This should be the foremost thing with every teacher. Tone, emphasis, inflection, and general expression, are, or should be, only the test-marks to indicate to the teacher whether or not the thought as presented by the printed words is fairly lodged in the mind of the learner. This perfectly subsidiary character of oral reading and the actual comprehension of the thought are almost entirely lost sight of. The subject is. taught as a fine art, an art of expression only, the same as music, instead of the art of soul-night of his decease, would have produced a perceptions, the art of seeing and feeling ideas and sentiments." These remarks are justified, perhaps, by the sort of elocution that is frequently taught in our schools, but legitimate elocu tion is the very thing to secure the end desired by Mr. Vaile. Tone and expression are necessary but not primary things in good elocution, the first object being always to discover and express by emphasis and inflection the exact meaning of the author under study. It is the special function of elocution to shape and body forth the meaning of a sentence, and this is accomplished first by an accurate placing of emphasis, secondly by inflections which shall indicate the shades of thought, and thirdly by tones which shall express the feeling or sentiment. Every competent elocutionist trains himself to look closely and scrutinizingly for the exact Ir not seldom happens that we see with indifference things said in the papers of a public man while he is yet living, which, said on the morrow of his death, would seem to everybody a sort of sacrilege. The epithets, for instance, which might have been culled about the late Vice-President, within a fort general shock, if uttered while his remains were being borne to his native earth. Before, there were unjust rancor and partisan taunts; after, extravagant panegyric. As one reads the glowing tributes of praise lavished over the grave of an eminent man gone, the forgetfulness of antagonisms, the impulsive testimony of rivals and opponents to his worth, one cannot but regret that he could not have enjoyed these sweets of praise while living. Death throws a retrospective halo over his career; how often does it occur to us that he was just as good when we thought ill of him, or failed to appreciate him, as he seems to us now that we glance back at him across the mysterious chasm! Yet, as we listen to the funeral orator or the lamenting poet, we have in most cases an uneasy feeling that the indiscriminating panegyric sounds somewhat hollow, constrained, and insincere. We cannot wholly believe, as they would have us, that the dead were better than are the living; that the only nearly perfect men were they who have died. Seldom is it, indeed, that we can enjoy to the full the sad luxury of unqualified eulogy- when our hearts may freely thrill at the glowing words of praise, and echo, "All this is true, at least, of this man." So it has come to pass that eulogy has become cheap and formal, and thereby loses its chief value as spurring to emulation and teaching by example. The sadly-ludicrous contrast between what is said of a man the day before, and what the day after his death, is double lesson. We are too much in the habit of depreciating the characters, impugning the motives, exaggerating the weaknesses of our opponents. The hostile politician is too prone to charge dishonest ambition; the hostile critic to impute plagiarism and to magnify slips of the pen; the rival artist to suggest charlatanry. Is it not a sort of remorse which impels us, as soon as a man dies, to rush to the other extreme, and burden his memory with "every virtue under heaven?" Yet, for the dead themselves, the reparation comes just too late. They cannot enjoy the sweetness of praises from an enemy. It does them no good-does it the world? Might not the dead be really more appreciated, and their memory held more dear, if it were gently and tenderly hinted that they were mortal, that their virtues outshone faults? Meanwhile, might we not, with justice and right feeling, carry somewhat of our praise and kind expression to the balance kept this side of the grave? There is no nobler emotion than that which prompts a man to utter honest praises of an antagonist; and there are few, we hope, who do not read with pleasure, in a party paper or a sectarian review, a generous tribute to one with whose opinions or aspirations they are at war. Lord Brougham's feigning of death, that he might enjoy the eulogies of his contemporaries, was really a sharp satire alike on the excess of abuse heaped upon the famous living, and the indiscriminating flattery lavished upon the famous dead. IN the article in this week's JOURNAL, discoursing upon new bonnets and fine dresses, occurs the repetition of an assertion very generally current. "French dresses," says the censorious Orestes, who is one of the talkers in an animated conversation, "make women simply walking fashion-plates, exaggerations always of the real French dresses, which are modest, simple, unpretending. Have you not, in a French shop, been taken round to a distant counter to see the fashions pour les Américaines?'" Whereupon the other speaker confirms this too visionary, but there is no better way to bring the generous purpose of the distin statement by saying: "Oh, yes. I remember well in Paris seeing some preposterous collars, and asking the civil shop-guished Frenchmen engaged in the enterwoman if they were for fancy dresses. She said no; they were for the New York market." The charge here made is so often repeated, that we suppose it must be true, but it is somewhat singular that in some other things a distinctly reverse action is at work, foreign articles needing modification and simplyfying for the American market. We learn that wall-paper manufactured in this country from French designs has to be modified and toned down to suit the American taste. French furniture, with its excess of gilding, has only recently come into use in this country, and so far it remains an exotic, seen in a few pretentious parlors only. Confronting it, and spreading much more rapidly, is the taste for what is called Eastlake furniture, the severe and substantial features of which are much more consonant to our national likings. In fact, it is only those of our people who have lived abroad, or those who are here directly under the influence of European example, that really appreciate the wonderful brocades, the flowered silks, the gay hangings, the satin and gilded sofas, the innumerable articles of household display that come from abroad. The native American taste is too cold rather than too fond of color. It may not be generally known that the white tableware so commonly used here is manufactured abroad expressly for our use, taste there having no liking for chilling table-service. Books in France are usually published in paper covers, and hence we cannot make a comparison between French and American binding; but English book-binding, in those volumes which admit of decorative designs, is much more showy than ours. Even in library books the English have no liking-and no wonder-for the cold, severe sheepskin covering which is so much in use here for the more solid kinds of book. It is so commonly assumed by certain critics that American taste is barbarous and delights in excessive show and noisy contrasts, that it is well to note these facts on the other side. There are no doubt many other things in which our home fashions contradict the current theory. IT is not altogether unnatural that the proposition of Edouard Laboulaye and other Frenchmen of note, to erect in New York Harbor a colossal statue of Liberty, should be received with perplexity and surprise. But assuredly there is no reason why this daring and unique project should encounter derision from our people. It may be true that the idea and plan of this colossal statue, which is to be of bronze a hundred feet high, placed on a pedestal of similar height, are prise to naught than by laughing at it. We are bound in courtesy to entertain the spirit of the proposal in a generous and cordial manner, even if it should so happen that, like many other great projects, it should prove to be impracticable. Instead of sneering at the proposition, it would be better for us to take hold of it and help it along. Great achievements come only of great designs. It may be thought, perhaps, that if such a statue is to be erected at all, the task should be undertaken by ourselves and certainly it would be preferable for some reasons that a grand monument of the kind should be a product of our own love of liberty and zeal in art-but as this cannot be the case, let us accept with good grace the noble testimonial of our Gallic friends. The reader who may care to learn further particulars of this project will find a few details of it in the department of "Arts." WE have the following from a correspondent at Washington. It may not be known that the Union Club of New York transferred its kitchen several months ago from the basement to the attic. WASHINGTON, D. C., November 29, 1875. MR. EDITOR: In view of the fact that your very sensible" odorless-elevated-culinary-department" proposition seems to provoke smiles from certain of your readers, it may be of some satisfaction to you to learn that the plan is actually being carried out in what is to be the finest restaurant in this city. The marble building, familiarly known as the "Marble Saloon," opposite Ford's Opera-House, will shortly open as a restaurant, with its kitchen in the attic-story. Now for the gardens on the Opera-House! Literary. SUBSCRIBER. HOLIDAY BOOKS. Cecomes literally "the gay science," NCE a year, at least, literary criticism and the critic's surroundings bloom out into unwonted splendor. In lieu of the piles of sober-colored, close-cut, and repellant-looking volumes which usually confront him, he finds his table spread with books, each of which demands a place by itself, while sundry spe cially choice volumes, too dainty even for this much of exposure, find their way into drawers and other receptacles which are commonly protected from such intrusion. When he comes to explore the interiors of these volumes he finds himself involuntarily examining his fingers for lurking possibilities of ink-stains; the margins are kept sacred from pencil-marks; and even the liberal fly. leaves fail to betray him into making use of them. All these phenomenal experiences convince him that Christmas is approaching; and, yielding to the genial influences of the season and the season's offerings, he smooths his scowling brow, corks up his vitriol-bottle, and feels almost reconciled in his heart to the authors and book-makers who constitute his usual prey. Comparing the present season with the last, the publishers seem to have had less faith in the resources or liberality of buyers, and the new books are both fewer in number and less costly. Nevertheless, there is a fair variety both in styles and prices, and the intending book-giver will be hard to please who cannot find something in our list to meet his requirements. By far the most sumptuous novelty of the season is an imported book, "India and its Princes," translated from the French of M. Rousselet. M. Rousselet spent nearly six years in India, traveling from point to point, and staying most of the time at the native courts, where he was an honored guest. Probably no other European has ever had better opportunities of observation, and he has used them, as an artist would, to bring before us all that is most striking, or picturesque, or beautiful, or characteristic of life in palaces and cities as yet untouched by English influence. The illustrations of the volume are so numerous and so fine that they naturally attract the attention first. Many of those representative of native architecture have probably never been surpassed in artistic excellence. Speaking of these, the London Spectator observes that they will come upon the majority of readers like a revelation. "Are these the people,' they will say, as they gaze at the sketches of domed mausoleums, stately palaces, delicious retreats, vast loggias-loftier, airier, and with deeper shadows than those of Italy-at gardens studded with graceful monuments, at lakes whose waters are heavy with the shadows of fairy palaces, 'whom we have accounted barbarians, whom we will not trust with engineers' commissions, who can never rise to the control of any public work? Why, they had architects who were poets, who could build like Italians of the Renaissance or Egyptians under the Pharaohs.' . . . Artists have a trick of drawing Indian buildings as if they had no human idea in them, or as if they stood in some atmosphere different from the atmosphere of this world. M. Rousselet draws them as if they were in Italy, until you catch, as in the sketch of the great hall of Aidin at Ajmere (p. 210), the idea of the native architect, the wonderful depth of the stone glades he was endeavoring to create; or, as in the Dewani Khas of Amber, the coolness, impression of space, and grandeur, he was determined to produce; or, as in that of the Dewani Khas at Digh, his luxurious enjoyment of fantastic, superornate, and yet lightsome arches. That must be one of the most marvelous halls in the world, and M. Rousselet shows us that it is marvelous for beauty, and not merely for grotesqueness. the impression, which is quite true, that the Indian architects were architects who built to fulfill a purpose, and were not mere dreamers, sick with a bad mythology, but men who could make a king's house palatial, and a reception-room imposing, and a fortress awful, He creates and were not always piling up monstrous structures in honor of their gods." The pictures of ceremonials, processions, nautchdances, hunts, and the like, are scarcely less striking; and even the portraits reveal M. Rousselet's keen sense of the picturesque. The letter-press corresponds with the illustrations. Politics and similar topics are not touched upon at all; but the author describes ruins, architecture, natural scenery, court ceremonials, royal sports and amusements, and the manners and customs of the people, with a vividness only surpassed by the performances of his pencil. There is no lack of adventure and excitement, and, altogether, the book is scarcely less fascinating to read than agreeable to look at. ANOTHER translation from the French is Institutions, Customs, and Costumes M. Paul Lacroix's "Eighteenth Century: its "" (New York: D. Appleton & Co.). This superb work does for the France of the eighteenth century what M. Rousselet does for the native India of to-day, and on a scarcely less splendid scale. It contains twenty-one chromolithographs and three hundred and fifty woodcuts, many of them full-page, after original works of the most famous artists of the period, such as Watteau, Vanloo, Rigaud, Boucher, Vernet, Chardin, Bouchardon, Moreau, Cochin, Debucourt, and Saint-Aubin. The engraving and printing are in the best style of the art, and the entire ensemble of the book is in the highest degree tasteful and artistic. The "Eighteenth Century" is one of a series of works in which M. Lacroix aims to present a complete picture of French society from its origin, and that of the monarchy, down to the date of 1789, which ushered in a new order of things. "Omit. ting the general facts of history, properly so called, and the numerous incidents of war and politics, which would have required a larger scope, the author has confined his labors to the consideration of manners, customs, public and private, costume, arts, sciences, and literature; and this picturesque and descriptive kind of history seems of a nature to satisfy that justifiable curiosity which characterizes the present epoch, bringing before us as it does a past, the study of which, in all its varied phases, will help us to form a judgment of the present." Though belonging to a series, however, the work is complete in itself, and affords a vivid delineation of the most brilliant period in the history of one of the greatest nations of modern times. AMONG the books of exclusively American production, "Mabel Martin" (Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co.) is entitled to the first place. The poem is a new and somewhat expanded version of Whittier's "The Witch's Daughter," which was published some years ago in "The Home Ballads." Doubtless, in its original form, it is already familiar to many readers; in the new version the story remains substantially the same, while the picturesque features have been developed and the narrative rendered more effective. The literary element is entirely subordinate, however, being introduced simply as a vehicle for the pictures. The entire volume is evidently modeled on "The Hanging of the Crane," which was so popular last season, and, we think, improves upon the model. For one thing, the poem is more picturesque, and consequently, though the same artists were engaged in both instances, there is greater va riety in the illustrations. Miss Hallock, who furnishes all the figure-pieces, has improved in technique, and has better material to work upon. "Mabel Martin " unquestionably con tains the best work she has yet done, and work of real excellence in a difficult field Her drawing is so seldom at fault that the deformity of Esek Harden's figure in the pict ure on page fifty is surprising; the left leg looks as if it were stricken with elephantia sis. Mr. Moran's landscape-pieces present the well-known qualities of that artist's work, and many of them are exquisite. The enti ment of Nature could hardly be better con veyed than by the two companion-picture ("Winter-Days" and "Indian-Summer") o pages forty and forty-one, and, merely pictures, they are delightful. Hardly less charming are Mr. A. R. Waud's titles and vignettes. As to the engraving, it is enough to say that it was done by Mr. A. V. S. Anthony, under whose supervision the book wa prepared. FROM the same publishers we have a vol ume which, while it is beautiful enough to be classed among "holiday books," has merits of a more solid and permanent character "Famous Painters and Paintings," by Mr Julia A. Shedd, contains brief biographical sketches of the great masters of painting pointing out the distinguishing characteris tics of each as an artist, and giving an ecount of his principal works. The sketches are chronologically arranged, and embrace the leading names from the twelfth to the nineteenth century, so that the book is almost entitled to be called a dictionary of art biography. In fact, it is more than this; it appended to the sketches is a catalogue comprising a very large number of the prin cipal works of the painters mentioned, and the places where those works are now to be found. Mrs. Shedd has followed good guides in her compilation, and her critical comment are temperate and judicious. There is philosophizing and no fine writing; the book sprung from a need experienced by the s thor herself, and is designed to afford pract cal help at once to the student of art and the general public. The volume is illustrated with heliotypes of engravings after works by Raphael, Titian, Leonardo da Vinci, Correg gio, Albert Dürer, Guido, Rembrandt, Mur lo, and others. There are eighteen of thes heliotypes, and they give one a new idea of the possibilities of the heliotype process. BESIDES new editions of Hamerton's ilus trated books and sundry new juveniks Messrs. Roberts Brothers (Boston) contribute a dainty volume, "The Shepherd Lady," af which Jean Ingelow furnishes the poetry, while Arthur Hughes, Miss Hallock, Sol Ertinge, F. O. C. Darley, W. L. Sheppard, G Perkins, and J. A. Mitchell, furnish the illus trations. The poems are sixteen in number, and "are not included in any collection of Miss Ingelow's poetry." They are most brief, and we cannot say that, as a n hole, |