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Scotland it is seldom a handsome tree, though I have in my own woods some favorable examples. But the one specimen I saw in this forest was a splendid "stick," growing clean and straight to a great height, without, however, having any very fine head.

Of the Restigouche as a salmon-river it is impossible to say too much. It is a noble and at the same time a lovely stream. The breadth of its channel, the sweep of its current, the perfect crystal of its water, are all enchanting to an angler's eye. It winds among steep hills covered with forest, but with forest which has been more or less renewed by the various after-growths which follow conflagrations. There are very few rocks, and no rapids which can not be successfully breasted by horses towing boats or barges along the shore. The current is quick without being violent, seldom "gurgling in foaming water-streak," but often "loitering in glassy pool." Almost everywhere there is a gentle slope of slaty gravel between the water and the edge of the forest, which is so even in its width and so smooth on its surface that at first it looks as if it had been made artificially as a towingpath. It is very difficult in a hot day in June to realize the true cause of this peculiar feature of the scene. But in winter the whole of this great stream is deeply frozen, so that horses can travel upon it, and it is the action of the ice every year in breaking up which cuts and keeps clean this most convenient road on both banks. When it fails on one side, it is almost always perfect on the other; and, if the stream at any such point is too deep to be waded, the horses employed to tow get on board the barge, which is punted over to the other side, and there the labor is resumed. It is needless to say that a river of this character is nearly perfect as a breeding-ground for salmon. The fine streams of Norway are generally, if not always, much more rocky, and many of them, from the nature of the watershed from which they came, have necessarily a very short course before they are interrupted by impassable waterfalls. But the Restigouche, and almost all the rivers of our North American Provinces, are gathered on the slopes of hills of comparatively small elevation. Their course is long, and generally uninterrupted by any impassable barriers. The Restigouche and some of its tributary streams, such as the Patapediac River, is one vast and continuous spawning-bed, which, if carefully protected and attended to, is capable of affording an inexhaustible supply of the finest salmon. I was glad to find that the government of the Dominion has become awake to the importance of attending closely to this very important matter. The rivers in the adjacent States of the American Union have been

almost, if not altogether, completely destroyed as salmon-rivers by the neglect of the necessary laws and regulations to keep the streams free from pollution by mills and other works, and from impassable barriers in the way of the ascent of the fish. But most of the rivers in the British Provinces of North America are still running as pure as ever through forests which are either wholly unoccupied or have been only cleared in a few spots for the purposes of agriculture. The richer lands of the far West are attracting those who now migrate from the Old World, and in all probability it will be centuries before the steep and poor and heavily wooded lands through which these rivers flow are occupied for the purposes of settlement. Although the forests to the south of the St. Lawrence have been generally denuded of the white pine, there is still an almost inexhaustible supply of the spruce-fir and of the black birch, which is a very beautiful wood for the purpose of making furniture. Sawmills will, no doubt, be erected in course of time, to cut up this timber; but care should be taken that this be done under such regulations as to keep the rivers clear of sawdust, which is most destructive to salmon. Under the care which has within a few years been bestowed upon the protection of the river during the spawning season and upon the artificial breeding of the fish, a great effect has already been produced in the returns of salmon caught in the estuary and in the Bay of Chaleur. The rod-fishing alone might be made an important source of revenue to the Dominion. It has hitherto been let at rents which are almost nominal; and, considering that no salmon-fishing to be compared with that of the Canadian rivers can now be got in any part of the world, they would undoubtedly, if judiciously divided and allotted, command a very high price indeed. In the first half hour of my fishing in the Restigouche I killed two salmon of twenty-three pounds and twenty-four pounds respectively, and some of our party, with no previous experience of fishing, killed salmon of larger size and weight, up to thirty-one pounds. On the Cascapediac River, another magnificent stream, which falls farther down into the same Bay of Chaleur, I saw a salmon of forty pounds, which had been caught the previous day; and I learned that many such had rewarded the labors of the party of Englishmen who had the fishing of that river for the season.

I must not omit to notice the pleasure of canoeing on these rivers. In no other kind of boat is one so conscious of the delightful sensation of floating. In larger and heavier boats the very solidity of the structure takes off from the sensation; but sitting in a canoe with a very slight basket-like frame, with nothing but

birch-bark between one and the water, the mobility, and the liquidity, and the instability, and the delicate balancings of the supporting medium, are all transmitted directly to the nerves of sensation. At first the feeling of instability is rather alarming; but the admirable skill with which these beautiful little "barks" are managed by the half-breed Indians very soon gives one confidence. Up the stream they are propelled by "poling" along the banks-and wonderful it is to see and feel the way in which they are "shoved up" the sharper rapids. On the other hand, there is no more delicious motion in the world than that of a canoe descending such rivers as the Restigouche, gliding swiftly and silently with the glancing water through reaches of liquid crystal, winding among steep hills of the most varied forest. Some of the banks are mainly pine, others birch and aspen, others black birch and maple. Everywhere there is the impression of boundless spaces of natural woods, and the

(To be concluded.)

air is laden with aromatic odors from the balsampine and the balsam-poplar. On the sides of one of the hills a bear was seen feeding almost every day, and I picked up on the bank a branch of a tree bearing the marks of the chisel-teeth of the beaver.

The Indians of this part of Canada belong to the Micmac tribe, and, although now dressed and educated like Europeans, are very often almost purely Indian in feature and in countenance. My first impression of those who exhibited this type in a marked degree was that it bore a striking affinity to the Mongolian races. The very high cheek-bone and the tendency to the oblique eye are prominent characteristics. All those I saw on the Restigouche seemed very intelligent and very obliging and good-natured men, with whom it was often a real pleasure to converse on the natural features of their native country.

ARGYLL (Fraser's Magazine).

M

EDITOR'S

THE WORLD'S PARADISES.

ANKIND has always been dreaming of paradises, and making paradises out of such conditions as it could find to hand. It has lamented lost paradises, invented ideal paradises, and sometimes, unfortunately, it has converted real paradises into pandemoniums. We are apt to imagine, no doubt, that, if all the conditions of beauty and healthfulness are supplied-lovely scenes, tempered winds, and the sweetness of prolonged summer-we shall at once enter a true paradise, unmindful of how much more important it is to exclude human passions than bitter winds if we are to enjoy any genuine felicity. The world is really well endowed with many lovely places where dreamers may rest, lapped in softness and ease, if their hearts will but yield to the gentleness of the skies and the wooings of the winds.

Nature in these favored spots bestows with a generous and loving hand, and it only needs a little adjustment of human feeling for the paradise to be complete. Do we here, who alternate between scorching suns and frosty winds, know how numerous are the mundane places that sky and air and sea and flora convert into paradises? The wonder is, that men and women who travel do not more often search out the climatic paradises, for breathing delicious air and dreaming under lovely skies are after all the most truly felicitous things in the world. Travelers have made a literature of suffering and discomfort, but recently there has appeared a little handy volume

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which indicates how unnecessary this all has been. The World's Paradises" is the title of the volume, the author being Mr. S. G. W. Benjamin, who has been one of those fortunate persons that Fate has permitted to go everywhere and enjoy everything. His record of the world's paradises is not large in bulk, yet there are nearly thirty places which are thought fit to be specially set down as worthy to be classed as elysiums. They extend from the far Orient to the far Occident, and impress us greatly with the opulence of the world in beauty and paradisaical riches. Let us imagine ourselves in a summer paradise in our own land, in a hammock in the shade of a tree, with soft winds blowing from the sea, while we glance at Mr. Benjamin's Edens.

First there is Damascus, "for thousands of years the most famous spot on the globe for the glory of its attractions," which lies "lapped on a verdurous plain by the side of murmuring streams." The secret of the loveliness of Damascus is, according to Mr. Benjamin, very simple:

In the steady, protracted heat of that climate, not so much excessive as continuous, nothing is more grateful than shade and running water, with abundance of flowers to perfume the air, and fruits for idle hours. All these conditions are found admirably combined at Damascus. The houses are built in the form of a hollow square around a court paved with marble, in the midst of which is a fountain surrounded by clambering vines, roses, and jasmines, and vaulted over by the dense foliage of mulberry, orange, fig, and linden trees, and pomegranates studded with scarlet buds. Stepping from

the narrow, crooked, dusky street, gloomed by meeting eaves, one suddenly finds himself in a paradise of ease, whose quiet and repose are admirably adapted to soothe the nerves of the weary.

This is very charming, and leads one to wonder how it is that in those parts of our own country which are exposed to great or continuous heats this Eastern style of house has not been adopted. So far we have not developed forms of architecture adapted to our climatic needs, but from Maine to Florida, from East to West, have built our domiciles upon nearly one plan. Even the fierce tornadoes that sweep annually over the Western Plains, sometimes burying whole villages in one common ruin, have not as yet led to any adaptation or modification of structure designed to lessen the effects of the evil, such as is always done in earthquake countries.

From Damascus we are led to Brusa, the first capital of the Turkish Empire, at the foot of Mount Olympus, where our traveler arrives in the night:

At morning, unexpectant of the scene that unfolded itself, I flung open the jalousies, and, leaning on the window-sill, looked down upon one of the world's paradises. Fame has not exaggerated the opulence of its charms. The moss-green tiles of the city's peaked roofs, the domes, the minarets, the gardens, lay spread below, embosomed in a sea of verdure, bounded in the distance by the blue waters of the Marmora. . . . The melting snows of Olympus form many streams, which rush foaming through the streets of the ancient city with perpetual music, blending with the cooing of the turtle-doves that haunt the cypress shade in the marble courtyards of the mosques, and the nightingales that warble by the sequestered mausoleums of the founders of a once mighty empire.

From Brusa the journey to the Bosporus is but a short night's sail. Here the climate, except from December to February, is both seductive and salubrious. The Bosporus and the Golden Horn are enchanting, a scene in which nature and man have combined to produce the utmost degree of splendor:

The Bosporus is inclosed by steep hills, which decline so rapidly to the water that the largest ships can any where lie alongside the land. These hills are indented with gorges and valleys, which occur generally where the land retires and forms the most beautiful and inviting coves. A continuous series of summer-houses and palaces lines the shores, the kiosks often actually overhanging the water, and flanked by the most delicious gardens and terraces, planted with every variety of favorite flowers and shrubs.

We but glance at these lovely shores, and then are transported to Smyrna, which excites the enthusiasm of our traveler to the utmost, and leads him to exclaim:

Who has not eaten the figs and raisins of Smyrna, the "ornament of Asia," the "crown of Ionia"? Situated at the head of a broad, beautiful bay, environed with perennial gardens, girt with a diadem of lovely villages, fragrant with the odorous airs that lade the serene Ægean skies, dowered with a wealth of historic associa

tions, still dispensing fruits with a liberal hand, watched by the old Roman citadel, the grim battlements of the Knights of St. John still reflected in the waters of her port, the city of the Moslem, the Greek, and the Frank is a living poem, but a poem of Byron's, fervid with the romance, the passions, and the crimes of the East. He who has sojourned there a fortnight dreams of her in his subsequent wanderings; and he who has happily dwelt there for years longs for her in other lands, and sighs that destiny separates him from the vineyards and olivebazaars, the delicious breezes and star-eyed maidens of groves, the villas and ruins, the Caravan Bridge and the Smyrna.

The

Adaptation, Mr. Benjamin declares, is the first principle of architecture. As we have already said, so far from being the first principle with us, it has not even been considered at all. In Smyrna the principle of adaptation has led to the construction of villas of one floor, with a central or reception hall surrounded by the apartments of the family. house generally faces east and west; and this central room opens on two spacious porticoes profusely shaded by clambering vines laden with blossoms, and facing the grounds laid out with shade-trees and flowers. During the first half of the day the family occupy one portico; in the afternoon they move to the other side of the mansion. Thus they contrive to have shade and coolness during the whole day." There are brigands on the outskirts of Smyrna, which fact does not exactly fall into line with the idea of a paradise, unless we are to assume that every Eden must have its serpent. After Smyrna we go to Scio ; but Scio is so like Smyrna in its characteristics that the idler over Mr. Benjamin's book may wish to hasten to scenes with more marked contrasts. Yet the softness of a clime "never too warm or too cool," a land where one's stay is "like a long dream of delight, an unbroken reverie in which one feeds on the lotus and drinks of the waters of Lethe," make assuredly an earthly paradise in every essential condition. From Scio to Naples, which is not only the choicest spot in Hesperia, but one that, like most of the world's paradises, receives a tone from the sea which caresses its shores; then from Naples to Corsica, in which Ajaccio, the birthplace of Napoleon, is the favorite spot:

The Bay of Ajaccio is one of the most charming and poetically beautiful spots among many which enchant the eye and captivate the fancy. It is indeed a noble prospect that greets one as he walks the quay of Ajaccio, and gazes over the imperial blue of the sea, looking southward. Around him are lemon- and orange-groves, and the circular sweep of the bay is inclosed by the majestic range of mountains which form the citadel of Corsica. . . . These grand, gray mountains, that seem to hedge Ajaccio landward and crowd it down to the water's edge, also serve the useful purpose of shielding it from the piercing winds of the north. And thus we find that, to the amenity of its scenery, Ajaccio adds the highly important advantage of being a valuable sanitarium for invalids during the winter season.

Mentone, Nice, and Monaco, probably the most noted sanitaria in the world, are too well known for us to more than mention them. Moving westward,

the wanderer in search of health and happiness reaches the south of France, a land which we are told pleases the eye and the fancy alike, seduces the senses, and invigorates the intellect :

and thence we reach our own land. Fort George Island on the coast of Florida is selected as a true paradise, "tropical in its attractions and balmy and healthful as the fountain of youth." Lake George is described as a summer Eden; then we are transported a long distance to those Hesperides of the Pacific, the Sandwich Islands, where the climate is so "balmy and regular that no word exists in the Hawaiian language to express weather. Of course the weather is always good, unvaryingly good; therefore it is not weather, for that implies variability, contrast, and change in atmospheric conditions."

Between the Gulf of Lyons and the Bay of Biscay are two paradises divided by the sere waste lands of the Corbières: the paradise of Provence, of which Avignon is the center, watered by the Rhône and dominated by the grand and lovely peak of Mont Ventoux, and the paradise of the Pyrenees, of which Pau is the center, guarded by the awful Pic du Midi. I know of no part of Europe where a lovely scenery and a delightful climate have been more effectively aided by a wealth of historic antiquities and the indescribable charm of great historic associations, except Attica; and there we do not so much find a luxuriance of vegetation as a suggestive and Edens, these magical spots where the charms of exglorious combination of tone and color.

We must not linger here, although Avignon and Pau are fascinating, and Béarn lovely, and the “Val d'Ossau, with meadows lush with harvests and flowers and picturesque with vine-hung poplars or willows," like an enchanted valley, for there are other paradises in the north of Portugal. We are told to go to Oporto, and from "the tremendous gorges of the Douro enter the paradise of the Minho e Douro, a province small in size, but exceeding in beauty any spot in Europe" the writer had seen. How strangely paradises multiply! One longs, as he reads Mr. Benjamin's book, to go from Oporto to Braga, and to look from the terrace of the Church of Bom Jesus upon the lovely and sublime prospect which commands "the silver line of the ocean, the verdure and glory of the Minho valleys, and the grandeur of the sharply formed, purple-hued pinnacles of the Gerez." But ever in search of further paradises, we grow restless, impatient, and are insatiate for new sensations; and so hasten on to the isles of the Atlantic. Here is Madeira, with its "gardens of matchless splendor," where "grandeur and loveliness go hand in hand, and the lavish profusion of flowers beggars all description"; where "the strawberries are ripe from March until September; the banner-like stalks of the banana are freighted with fruit for half the year; the nectarine and the fig seem always ready to be plucked; and the chestnut-forests are weighted with verdure from January to December." From Madeira to the Azores the flight is a short one. Fayal is "a choice little island," with "a genial and healthful air," with a magnificent volcano to add sublimity to the picture, while orange-groves, bananas, and superb masses of oleanders give "illimitable beauty to the valley and the river of the Flamenjoz." Southward from the Azores is the famous Teneriffe of the Canary Islands, with its gigantic volcanic peak over twelve thousand feet high, and its fascinating valley of the Orotava, whose upper sides are dotted with chestnut-forests, whose air is heavy with the fragrance of fir-trees, while the climate is so delicious that the simple matter of existence is a luxury. Humboldt has declared that no landscape he had seen combines to such a degree the sublime and the beautiful. From Teneriffe we are carried to the Bahamas; from the Bahamas to the Bermudas;

But we must not linger longer in these rare

istence are only too captivating. It would not be easy for one to visit all the elysiums Mr. Benjamin describes, and yet he omits southern California and New Mexico, the many lovely places on the shores of the South Pacific; he does not describe Caracas in Venezuela, where the climate is perpetual spring; and assuredly there are paradises in Brazil and in the countries that lie southward of it. Yet he has told us enough, for his successive pictures of earthly paradises bewilder us as it is; and is it not certain that, while these enchanting Edens are precious boons to invalids and all who need rest and recuperation, they bestow their loveliness on others to the enervation of their souls and the overthrow of their energies? There is some satisfaction in knowing that, if the east winds bring pain and discomfort, they have brawn and strength in their salt.

THE PULPIT AND THE STAGE.

THERE has always been in the popular mind a connection between the methods of the actor on the stage and the preacher in the pulpit, probably for no other reason than that both employ in some degree the art of elocution. But Dr. Howard Crosby, in a recent address at Yale on the subject of preaching, affirms that the pulpit and the stage have nothing whatever in common. "The stage," he says, "has as its object to amuse, and it has as its uniform method exaggeration; but the pulpit has as its object to instruct, and it has as its method the simplicity that becomes the delivery of truth. Young preachers who go to the stage for an example of manner or utterance are on the high-road to ministerial ruin, although they may make a newspaper fame. The stage-actor is etymologically and classically the hypocrite, and has, so far as he is a stage actor, no sympathy with the preacher and his solemn duties. He will teach the minister who goes to him for instruction poses, gestures, tones, and grimaces that have no more to do with a minister's person than Hamlet or Romeo has to do with his theme."

It is easy to show, we think, that Dr. Crosby does not comprehend here the real nature of the stage or the connection between it and the pulpit. The drama in its higher phase has no more design to merely amuse than poetry, or painting, or sculpture,

or architecture has. Its place in the world's estimation is due wholly to its character as an art, and no art worthy the name sets out to amuse. The great purpose of the stage is to awaken emotion, to stir the imagination, to arouse the sympathies and the sensibilities, and in these ends it evidently bears a very close relation to the purpose of the preacher. It is not true, moreover, that the actor is necessarily a hypocrite. He plays a part, it is true, but there is no reason why he should not profoundly feel the sentiments that he utters; and, to the extent that those sentiments are human and true, he is very apt to feel them. The preacher emphasizes moral and religious truths, but he mingles a good deal of dogma and theological speculation with those truths. The actor utters moral and human truths, with perhaps a less proportion of pure speculation than the preacher does. Nevertheless, it is true that the duties of the preacher are more solemn and more important than those of the actor, and that there are features of acting which are most distasteful when transported to the pulpit. One great reason of this is, that when the young preacher goes to the theatre to study methods of delivery, he is only too apt to learn and imitate the wrong things that he finds there. The exaggerations and affectations of some actors are bad enough in the theatre, but when copied in the pulpit are certainly detestable. The method of the preacher should indisputably possess "the simplicity that becomes the delivery of truth," and the simplicity, moreover, that becomes the canons of taste. A theatrical manner in the lecture-room, or on the platform, or even in the parlor reading, is almost as bad as a theatrical manner in the pulpit. But there are certain fundamental principles which young preachers could learn of accomplished actors if they once knew how to separate the essential from the accidental, the underlying laws from the mannerisms on the surface. A preacher, for instance, who puts his voice in training as an actor does would gain for it compass, tone, and flexibility, and he would learn to talk without inflaming and tearing his throat, as half our public speakers do. The bronchial and throat troubles which so generally afflict clergymen are due wholly to their ignorance of how to inflate their chests when talking, a process which not only saves the throat but enables the speaker to talk without fatigue.

Elocution, of which we hear so much, seems to be commonly identified with numberless tricks with the voice, and affectations of manner, which has rightly enough brought it into disrepute. But what is genuine elocution more than such use of emphasis, inflection, pause, and tones that will serve to bring out the meaning of a sentence accurately and impressively? This elocution may be learned of a few actors-not many-and scarcely at all of any one else. The preacher who has mastered the art has an immense adjunct in affirming the truths which it is his mission to teach: for perfect elocution carries a truth home with immense increase of force; by giving color and perspective to a sentence it makes its leading affirmations salient and penetrating, and thus not only convinces the understanding but impresses

greatly the imagination. This sort of elocution is simplicity itself, for it consists of nothing more than exact placing of emphasis, with such shades of meaning as may be given by inflection. But, in order to be master of the art, simple as it is, the speaker must grasp clearly and distinctly the full meaning of the sentences he means to utter. No man can think in a slovenly or loose manner and be a good elocutionist. A clergyman, in order to read a chapter of the Bible with that use of elocution that shall bring out with great distinctness all the meaning, must first comprehend with great clearness what that meaning is. Dr. Crosby will admit, we think, that this of itself would make one of the arts of the stage a very useful accomplishment for the clergyman. There are a few other things that the preacher could learn of the stage. He would discover that repose is taught as well as expression; that gestures should be large and noble rather than mean and belittling; that pure enunciation and correct pronunciation are necessary for every public speaker. In fact, the art of the stage-in its best and pure examples—is an art not in the least out of keeping with the mission of the preacher,' and, rightly employed, would greatly enhance his power of doing good. It may be said that elocution can be learned elsewhere than at the theatre. The perfection of the art has always been found on the stage, or with those speakers who have gone to great actors for instruction. The actor alone makes delivery a prolonged and thorough study. Professor Bain, in his "Education as a Science," thinks that demeanor as well as elocution should be studied at the theatre. "We see on the stage," he says, "the most consummate examples of manner and address in various situations, slightly exaggerated from the necessities of distant effect, but surpassing all, except the rarest, instances in common life. Virtue and vice may be found alike on and off the stage; but elocution and gesture can be learned in perfection there and there alone.”

TREES IN CITIES.

THE Duke of Argyll, in his “Impressions of the New World," which we reprint in this number of the "Journal," comments, evidently with some surprise, upon the general planting of trees in our towns and villages. "Their streets," he says, "are almost all avenues of handsome trees, the boughs meeting over the ample roadway, their foliage everywhere conspicuous among the houses, and often giving a comfortable rural aspect even to the most crowded seats of industry." We do not recollect an instance of any other European traveler commenting upon this feature of American towns, and yet it is a characteristic that one would suppose would strike the stranger immediately. In European cities there are numerous small inclosures of grass and trees, but it is only in the Paris boulevards and the Thames Embankment that trees planted at the curbstone, as with us, can be seen. The average European town

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