of the speech of Justice-Minister Hye, who, addressing the Vienna students in the troublous times of 1848, declared, The chariot of the revolution is rolling along, and gnashing its teeth as it rolls.' On the other side, a democrat came very near to this success by announcing that we will burn all our ships, and, with every sail unfurled, steer boldly out into the ocean of freedom.' Less known is the address by the mayor of a Rhineland corporation, spoken to the Emperor William shortly after he was crowned at Versailles. No Austria, no Prussia!' said the inspired mayor; 'one only Germany! Such were the words the mouth of your Imperial Majesty has always had in its eye.' Essentially German is a sentence from a learned criticism on a book of lyrics which carries the signature of Professor Johannes Sheer. Out of the dark regions of philosophical problems,' says the Professor, 'the poet suddenly lets swarms of songs dive up, carrying far-flashing pearls of thought in their beaks.' A song with a pearl in its beak would be a great attraction in the programme of a popular concert."

In the House of Commons mixed metaphors are not infrequently heard. This, by Mr. O'Connor Power, is in the best Hibernian style. Mr. Speaker, since the Government has let the cat out of the bag, there is nothing to be done but to take the bull by the horns." In a debate on Lord Beaconfield's foreign policy, Mr. Cotton declared that "at one stage of the negotiations a great European struggle was so imminent that it required only a spark to let slip the dogs of war." Another member once spoke of the Chambers of Commerce as "the intelligent pioneers who feel the pulse of the commercial community."

A candidate for Parliament, in a public speech, advised his hearers “when they had laid an egg to put it by for a rainy day." What a chicken-hearted constituency he must have thought he was addressing!

To one of the daily papers a friend of George Eliot wrote a letter on the private character of the great novelist. "She possessed," he said, “to a marvelous degree the divine gift of charity and of attracting moral outcasts to herself, whose devils she cast out by shutting her eyes to their existence." Surely any one might possess miraculous powers at that rate!

"Long" John Wentworth.-Some people have never heard of him, although he was one of the early Congressmen from Illinois. He has been a standing celebrity in Chicago from its infancy, and his size entitles him to a national reputation. He never minds a story at his own expense; and the following he is fond of recalling as an illustration of old times.

In his Congressional days postage was twenty-five cents a letter. Soon after his election a young man who had helped him at the polls called on him and remarked that postage was high.

"Yes," said the Congressman, "but I shall do my best to reduce it."

"But you'll have the franking privilege,” said Henry. "I shall labor to abolish it, though."

Still the point of interest to the swain didn't seem reached, and Wentworth was puzzled.

At last Henry broke through his embarrassment, and said :

"Mr. Wentworth, I'm engaged to a girl down East, and I thought, may be, you'd frank our letters."

"Pretty good!" replied Wentworth. "There's a bit of law, however, against that practice; but there's one way to get around it. You write your letters to me, and I'll write a letter to her, inclosing yours; and she can answer the same way."

Henry assented to this, and the cheap mail route between Chicago and New England ran through Washington.

Why," resumes New England, "I'm well acquainted in the family of the lady with whom you correspond, and if you're going to be married before the next session, it will be pleasant for us to board at the same house!"

This was a sample of “franking privilege" the young member was not prepared for. He wrote at once to his constituent: "Close up your courtship, Henry, or pay postage." And Henry closed.

After many years, the ex-member of Congress confesses thus:

"I franked four from him, and three from her; and to this day I stand indebted to the Conscience Fund of the Post-Office Department in the sum of $1.75. But this was little enough for securing a good Yankee girl to the West in those days. Every time, though, any one speaks to me about the corruptions of public men at the present day, I see Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin' writted on the wall! I think of that $1.75, and say nothing."

But, in spite of his self-accusation, "Long" John Wentworth is among the staunchest reformers of the "Garden City."

In Sheridan the dramatist's later life, after unchecked conviviality had done its work, coming one night very late out of a tavern, he was so overcome by his deep potations as to attract attention. "The watchman," Byron writes to Moore, "who found Sherry in the street fuddled and bewildered and almost insensible, asked: 'Who are you, sir?' No answer. What's your name?'-a hiccup. What's your name?' Answer, in a slow, deliberate, impressive tone: Wilberforce !'"

Davy Crockett's description to his constituents of the customs of fashionable society in Washington is worth recalling.

"Even the common people dine thar at two o'clock," he asserted. "The House o' Representatives have dinner at four. The Senate has theirs at six."

"And the President?" gasped an auditor.

"Old Hickory!" Here his imagination staggered under the desire to set a becoming space between his chief and the rest of mankind. "Oh! he don't dine until next day!"

Full many a maid has toyed with kerosene,
And passed to glory in a golden glare.

Full many a man has dipped in glycerine,
And flown spontaneous through the desert air.

promised land; again he saw, afar off, the palmtree, cresting over the lonely, still waters, and heard the pleasant tinkle of the distant camel's bell, until his tears were dried, hope again revived, and fresh and glad emotions rose within his swelling breast. Taine, the French critic, attributes the melancholy and the grim humor of the English to the fogs and mists and clouded skies of the British Islands. We are of the same stock, the American being a descendant of the Englishman, with a mixture of German, Irish, and French, the prevailing type being English. Yet we are not Englishmen. The bright, clear skies, the larger horizon, the brilliant foliage, educate us from the first days when our eyes open to a different world from that into which our ancestors of ten generations ago were born, and the influences of sky,

air, and landscape have as much influence in educating us to a different type of manhood as do our changed political and social conditions. The autumn leaves, glowing in the forest in gold and scarlet and purple, penetrate deeper than the retina into the brain and the soul, and the American is tinged with the glory of their hues and reformed into a new type of man.

When Miss Sedgwick was abroad, some lady in England said to her, "Have you any fine old trees in your country?" then, catching herself up, added, "Oh! I forgot that your country is too young for that!" A visit to some of the groves of colossal trees in California would have been a revelation to this lady, especially if she had seen the tree in King's River Valley, that is estimated to be one hundred and sixty feet in height, and, as high as a man can reach to measure its trunk with a tape-line, is about one hundred and fifty feet in circumference. At the present day, no English lady, even if she have not crossed the ocean, need be as ignorant as Miss Sedgwick's friend, for the bark of one of the trees growing on the slopes of Sierra Nevada has been taken to England. It was shaped into a room and then held forty persons, besides a piano, and, when exhibited in London, one hundred and fifty children were admitted into the tree-room. The age of this tree was estimated to be three thousand years.

Many foreigners come to this country filled with the inherited prejudices of the old countries, and our skies and fields and woods transform their children, and they are no longer Europeans, but Americans. Not alone, nor chiefly even the political and social surroundings effect this work. An isolated community which should come from a single district of the Old World would feel the transforming power the moment they trod the soil, looked upon the sky, or saw the maple wearing its "gorgeous crimson robe like an Oriental monarch." The autumn leaves have other than an æsthetic interest; they are leaves of that great book from which man learns all that he knows, from which he draws every inspiration, and they teach while the learner is unconscious of the lesson which he is drawing in at every glance and with every breath. We have been surprised that florists