Beautiful as these rugged Sierras were in the spring and autumn, there comes an added glory to them when the snow piles deep upon their sides, and turns their crest of stately pines into a delicate fringe of white. So high the mountains look, so cold and awful, that no human approach to them seems possible. And when at night the clouds disappear, and the air is clear and cold, the heavens are deep, dark blue, and the stars and mountains seem very near together. There is nothing that can express the sublimity of a winter night in the mountains after a storm. The snow lights up the night, and far across the valley you can see Mt. Lassen white against the sky, while near it leans Orion. The Feather flows darkly by, reflecting the depths above it. A low echo repeats the roar of the falls, and at intervals comes the bark of a dog from the Indian wigwams far up the river, where you see a faint light glimmer. Everything is cold and white: only the river moves. Yet one must needs be in love with coldness and whiteness, since it is they that have changed the picture from the beautiful to the sublime.

It would seem as if life in such a country must fill the human soul with patience and charity and kindly sympathy. But the inevitable contrast presents itself here, as everywhere else, between inspiring beauty in nature and every form of pettiness in humanity. It appears that wide ideas and their results in character cannot be expected of a small isolated community. We must be contented, instead, with the rougher, perhaps the more fundamental virtues, and try to read the heart under its disguises. And that heart has usually a good deal more gentleness and generosity than its speech expresses. The bonds of human interest are really strong in these isolated towns, shut in by mountain ridges; and perhaps the "How are you?" and "Good morning" of travelers passing each other on the roads has in it the significance of a typical custom.

With December's coming, the oaks have dropped their last forlorn leaves, and of all the bright October foliage on the mountainsides, and in the deep cañons where the dog

wood grows, not any is left. The poplar and balm of Gilead along the river-borders hold on their branches nothing but snow. The willows are the last to lose their leaves, and even now the course of the stream is marked by their dull yellow. Some of them, however, are only bare twigs, and have commenced to bud, poor things.

Not far from the town there is a lake imprisoned, high above the valley, walled in by a circle of mountains. Years ago its outlet was artificially cut off, and all along its shores are spectral trees, killed by the rising of the water. Their blanched forms grow more ghostly every year, and the tragedy they suggest finds a human counterpart in the grave of a murdered miner, marked by a rude railing that just shows above the water. Now, the whole surface of the lake is frozen over, and a bleak wind whistles along the shores. At intervals there comes a low boom, as if some terrible convulsion were going on beneath the water. It is the crunching and cracking of the ice, as the inflowing streams alter the level of the lake. Imagine a cold, frosty morning, thermometer below zero, a dense fog hanging over the water. Now the sun breaks through the fog, and shines on the middle of the lake, and shows the air full of flying flakes of frost. All night a slight breeze has been carrying the moisture down the cañon, and it has frozen upon each separate leaf and twig of the firs and the underbrush there. Now the sun is scattering the fog and lighting up this delicate frost-work, and making such a brilliant scene as one might expect to see but once in a life-time. Near by, everything is glistening, and the small trees and bushes make fairy bowers, as radiant as jewels could be. Then a little farther down the cañon, where the frost has not settled so thickly, are trees that seem powdered, and their deep green foliage forms a background to the whole picture; while down in the bottom of the gulch, where a stream splashes among the rocks, the spray has leaped high, and frozen in all sorts of fantastic shapes. Great sparkling icicles hang from the rocks, and in places you can catch the glimmer of the mad little stream itself.

To all this coldness and weirdness there is a strange contrast. If on a clear night you shout across the lake, facing the south, a wonderfully distinct echo will answer you, and repeat itself again and again, until it gradually dies away in a continuous note. If you call in three notes of a chord, the perfect chord will ring through the air, and die away so gently that you cannot be sure when it has ceased. But the grandeur of mountain scenery, and the beauty of snow and frost, are not the only attractions of Plumas in the winter. Under these snow-covered roofs are cosy fireplaces

and bright faces, that remind us of stories of eastern winters. And I am inclined to think that he cannot know the highest joys of winter who has not lived in a snowy country, ridden behind the sleigh-bells, skimmed over the ice on skates, and gone to sleep watching the flicker from the fireplace making queer shapes upon the wall. Here we appreciate our favorite books and pictures as we never did before; and here the wonderful beauty of nature seems in harmony with every good thought and noble feeling that ever found expression in the world.

THE legislature which has just commenced its session is not, at this writing, old enough to disclose its special qualities—if it has any special ones. Apparently, it is of the average caliber of those which have gone before; that is, the mass of the members are fair intentioned but moderately informed men, while here and there are a few really bright, leading minds. As to the rogues, there are undoubtedly enough of them, but perhaps not so many as have been heretofore crying aloud for the rights of the people. This legislature has important work before it, some of which should have been disposed of by the body in session two years ago. At that time, as will be remembered, the debris bill consumed very nearly the entire session; and, moreover, excited such sharp animosities between different sections of the State, that no common agreement could be arrived at as to other needed laws. Two or three measures may be said to be pressing for settlement. One is a classification of the cities of the State, and the providing of charters for those smaller than San Francisco. The new Constitution enacts that this shall be done by general laws, and existing cities may adopt the proffered charter by a majority vote of its electors. It is probable that every municipality in the State needs a new fundamental law, or at least a remodeling and pruning of its old one.

Again: a general street law must be framed which shall be in harmony with the Constitution, and yet be practicable. It is quite generally feared, however, that no scheme can be devised which will stand the constitutional test, and at the same time be workable. The requirement that the expense of the improvement shall be levied, collected, and paid into the city treasury before the work shall be commenced, or any contract let, interposes an almost insuperable obstacle to an effective law upon the subject. How

is it possible to know how much should be collected until contracts have been invited and opened? Human nature is so constituted that men dislike to pay for a thing which lies only in intention. In truth, it is no easy task to collect assessments for work already done; how much more difficult, then, if there is only an expectation that it will be done. The streets of our cities are rapidly going to destruction, but it is highly probable, before we can expect relief, that the present constitutional clause will have to be repealed, and a new and more reasonable one substituted.

There should also be legislation providing a uniform system of township governments; concerning the funding of county and municipial debts, the apportionment of the State into legislative districts, and other matters, to adjust ourselves to the new Constitution. The Germans will insist that the socalled Sunday law shall be abrogated, and the American Democrats will no doubt go with them so far as to render it inoffensive to the foreign element. It is even asserted that the Teutons will propose that a clause be added to the State Constitution prohibiting, in the future, all legislation concerning Sabbath or sumptuary laws. It is doubtful whether the American voters will agree to this, because it is evident that there is still a strong party in the State in favor of putting down by law the continued multiplication of whisky-shops.

One of the points most strongly made in San Francisco in favor of the new Constitution was its supposed inhibition of special legislation with reference to city affairs. Under the old regime, local self-government, beyond the election of local officers and the ordering the payment of bills, was practically transferred to Sacramento. Year by year, through laws which increased the number of boards

and officers, and which regulated the expenditure of the revenue, the field of local legislation and control was narrowed, until the board of supervisors was, in effect, pushed almost entirely outside of it.

It was supposed an adequate remedy for this perversion was supplied by the apparently rigid restrictions of the new Constitution. But our Supreme Court, in the case of Staude v. the Board of Election Commissioners, has opened the eyes of the people to the melancholy fact that all this bristling hedge about their municipal liberties has, after all, an opening in it, through which the enemy can pour to the assault of the citadel. The court, in deciding that what is known as the Hartson Act applies to San Francisco, held, in substance, that the city, by the terms of the fundamental law itself, is subject to and can be controlled by "general laws."

It can be easily seen that, under the guise of "general" laws, any sort of a measure may be made applicable to San Francisco, because it is easy to make a statute general in its terms bear directly on that city. In this view, the people of the principal city are as much within the power of a hostile legislature as of old. Experience shows that there is always in our legislatures antagonism, more or less open, between the country and San Francisco. This feeling is adroitly acted upon by unscrupulous city members, so that the result often-in fact, generally-is the stripping the city of its most valued rights of selfgovernment.

Two paragraphs appeared recently in a San Francisco newspaper, which aptly illustrate the difference between a civilized and an uncivilized system of civil service. One announced that Mr. Lane Booker, after a service of a quarter of a century as British consul at the port of San Francisco, had, in consideration of his faithful services, been promoted to the post of consul-general at New York. The other stated that Mr. George Mitchell, for nearly a quarter of a century United States consul at Newcastle, New South Wales, had been removed without previous notice, and without any complaint or charges made against his efficiency or integrity. His sudden removal called forth from the foreign consul at Newcastle and the leading citizens of the place a letter expressing their surprise and regret. The supposed inner history of the removal adds to the disgracefulness of the act.

It appears that the Newcastle consulship is subordinate to that at Sydney, and the new consul at the latter port distinctly informed Mr. Mitchell-so the latter writes-that unless he, Mitchell, gave to him half of the fees he should collect, he would ask the authorities at Washington to vacate Mitchell's place. Mitchell refused, and in due time he was dismissed. Whether it be true or not that an assessment of half the fees was made, this case is a fair illustration of the barbarous methods prevailing in our civil service. The paper from which we quote adds that the case

ought to be investigated, and the greedy consul at Sydney removed; but it should rather suggest that the system which makes it possible for a faithful officer to be arbitrarily dismissed in this manner is essentially vicious. Under all civilized governments except our own, twenty-five years of faithful service is a guaranty of permanency in office, and usually of promotion. With us, however, the longer a man is in office, the more irresistible becomes the politicians' argument that there should be rotation; that "the boys should have a chance." The Pendleton bill, which has just passed both houses of Congress, would not prevent such an abuse as this; but it is to be hoped that this excellent measure is the commencement of a reform which will finally embrace all branches of the civil service.

THIS does not seem to be a good year for memorial associations. People do not respond with the alacrity which the promoters expected, and the busiThe Garfield Memorial ness seems to languish. Association, whose object was to build something to perpetuate the memory of a murdered President, to which all Americans were expected to contribute, finds a lack of benevolent contributors and of earnest workers. Immediately following the death of the poet, there was formed in Boston the Longfellow Memorial Association, whose object was to cause some erection which should express the reverence and love of the people for the memory of him whose name it bears. The names of people best known in literature and taste were appended as directors. It was conjectured that the contributions in amounts from ten cents upward would be countless. "Literary World" said that there were 10,000,000 children in the United States, and if one in twenty gave ten cents apiece that would make $50,000 to begin with. As a sum in arithmetic, the solution was correct; but as a problem in logic, the result shows that figures are given to deceiving. The last report is that there have been about $5,000 given thus far, and a large portion of that has been absorbed already in expenses.

The

Memorial associations are never likely to have great success. They are attempts to guide and control the impulses of people; and impulses are not to be guided so as to be methodical in expression, but they are simply to be taken advantage of. Such impulses come from enthusiasm, and all enthusiasm is temporary. Strike, if you will, while the iron is hot, for it never stays hot long. Enthusiasm over individuals comes from an abnormal condition of the mind.

The judgment is soon restored, however, and it is then seen that there is no more reason for being enthusiastic on the present occasion than about other matters and persons, some of which are of more consequence in a rational view. If one must be enthusiastic over everything, there would not be enthusiasm enough to go around. When the shock of the death of a man eminent in politics is

fairly over, we see to what pledges people have half bound themselves; and it isnot strange if they conclude that, if it is a matter of duty to build a monument to the loss, then duty as much would compel monuments to other much greater men who have passed on long before, and they dislike to pay tribute first to the memory of the lesser. And it becomes apparent also, that, for the most part, people strive by monuments to make immortal those who have not really immortalized themselves. The place to lay the foundation for a perpetual memorial is in the mind of mankind. Monuments of stone and bronze crumble, but there is no sign of age or ruin in the perpetual blazon in the human mind of the names of Homer, and Plato, and Dante, and Shakspere, and Goethe. And monuments to perpetuate the memory of such as these are needless. When king Agesilaus was dying, he charged his friends that no fiction or counterfeit (so he called statues) should be made for him. "For if," said he, "I have done any honorable exploit, that is my monument; but if I have done none, all your statues will signify nothing."

IT has been said that Mrs. Langtry may come here. If she does, we shall go in crowds to see her, and this, malgré the criticisms upon her “Rosalind," the dissent from her method of lacing, or the lack of ardent enthusiasm over her histrionic ability, that have been expressed and sent by mail and telegraph across the continent. The photographs that, bearing her name, were displayed in the shop windows of San Francisco a year before she essayed the experience of an actress, gave us a desire to see a lady of London society, who was courted by the heir of the throne of Great Britain, and the fame of whose beauty was not only national, but world-wide. Those of mortals who have any pre-eminent quality are so few, that every one of them easily gains our favor; and, the endowment of one heavenly favor being bestowed, we are silently grateful for that, and are not disappointed that more than one is not bestowed upon any. An old Latin writer said that "a handsome face is a silent recommendation." It is so rare a gift that every one returns its smile with an eternal friendship. If Mrs. Langtry adopted the stage as her only method of rebuilding fallen fortunes, and had no considerable ability to aid her, the gift that made her famous did not need to be supplemented by other great gifts to insure her the accomplishment of the task she set herself. Had she histrionic genius, she would not need great personal comeliness to win success. Having more than usual beauty, with good intelligence, much natural sweetness, amiability, grace, simplicity, urbanity, and the savoir-faire of society, she does not need genius nor even great ability to achieve

success. It is an almost universal fact in nature, that the two great endowments of beauty and genius do not go coupled in one. Those who remember the face of the greatest American actress, Charlotte Cushman, did not feel it to be any reproach to her, nor did it apparently detract from her success, that beauty and she were never thought of together. Those who considered themselves critics, par excel lence, always insisted that Adelaide Neilson was no actress. It does not seem to us of much importance to what quality we attribute the favor that one wins, after it is found that the favor in large degree is won.

A PENNY is a wonderful instrument of delight to a child at the East. With it he can buy an apple, a pear or peach, a piece of gingerbread, or a stick of candy as large as he ought to eat. It is a coin of so small value that the humblest laborer can afford and does not begrudge to give it to his youngster as a frequent reward of good behavior, or to spend as a sauce to his bread-and-butter lunch at school. Tens of thousands of little hearts are there daily made happy by this insignificant token. If for a single day it were to go out of circulation, barrels of tears would be shed, and the fruit of the old woman's apple-stand on the street corner would go to decay. Here in California we have scorned to take any interest in so humble a coin. In the early flush days of large wages and large profits we thought a quarter of a dollar quite small enough to be of practical value. We had no children here then, and no poor people. After a while we were less proud and more economical, and found that a dime was not to be despised. The introduction of the half-dime was a struggle. The people who had to work and to pay as they go wanted it, but the shop keepers denounced it as a contemptible currency, and tried to keep it in disfavor, and out of use. It came along, nevertheless, and has proved of infinite service and economy. But now we have laboring poor to whom five cents is an object of consideration, and not to be wasted. We have, also, thousands of children who have the same desires as children elsewhere: when they pass the gorgeous piles of fruit seen on every street, or the toothsome sugar-plums that look so sweet behind the plateglass window, they grow sad instead of joyous, knowing that the only coin which can procure the tempting luxury is not to be got except on holidays. What matter that one can buy three or four apples, or three or four sticks of candy for five cents. The little one has no five cents; besides, one apple or candy is all it wants. Fruit is cheap at wholesale, and all through the season could be retailed with good profit at a penny apiece. Let us have the copper coins, and make the children happy.

John Randolph.1

John Randolph, of Roanoke, was a peculiar compound of vanity, political shrewdness, eloquence, brutality, and at last of insanity. He was one of the eccentrics of American politics. He always interests us, because he was original. He cannot be called a genius; he was rather a man of marked, irregular, unbalanced talents. His desultory education and his early surroundings gave a twist to his exceptional character, which kept it always awry, out of joint with the times in which he lived. He was an exaggerated type of the Virginia plantationbred gentleman and politician.

man.

The latest addition to the American Statesmen Series, by Henry Adams, treats of this remarkable The work is somewhat disappointing; it is hardly up to the standard of those which have gone before. We take it that the author is a grandson of John Quincy Adams. If we are correct in this surmise, we can understand why it is that there runs through the book a certain ill-concealed disdain for its hero. It is hardly to be expected that an Adams should feel enthusiasm for a man who characterized the political friendship of his ancestor with Henry Clay as a "coalition of Blifil and Black George-a combination, unheard of till then, of the Puritan with the blackleg." There is a lack of distinctness and definiteness in the treatment. The writer attempts to be too much above his subject. As we have suggested in noticing the previous issues of the series, it is evidently not intended that each of these compact treatises shall be a detailed account of the life of the man who is its subject. The attempt is rather through the lives of certain representative men to present the different phases of our past political life, so that the general reader may receive a vivid impression of the making of the nation. In this view, this work lacks the breadth of treatment necessary to put the reader in possession of the true relation of Randolph and the ideas he represented with our political history between 1800 and the Civil War. The author, however, does bring out, though not with sufficient emphasis, the influence of Randolph in impressing upon the South the necessity of organizing in the interest of slavery. His bitter enmity against Henry Clay arose in part out of his perception of the fact that the great Kentuckian had divided the South upon this all-important slavery issue.

the spoiled child of Virginia. His vanity developed into arrogance, his sarcasm into vituperation. His fecundity in invective was inexhaustible. At last, however, his readiness in debate, with its frequent flashes of eloquence, degenerated into twaddle. Our author, speaking of him while in the Senate, says:

"Not once or twice only, but day after day, especially during his short senatorial term, he would take the floor, and leaning or lolling against the railing, which in the old Senate chamber surrounded the outer row of desks, he would talk two or three hours at a time, with no perceptible reference to the business in hand; while Mr. Calhoun sat like a statue in the Vice-President's chair, until the Senators one by one retired, leaving the Senate to adjourn without a quorum-a thing till then unknown to its courteous habits; and the gallery looked down with titters or open laughter at this exhibition of a half-insane, half-intoxicated man, talking a dreary monologue, broken at long intervals by passages beautiful in their construction, direct in their purpose, and not the less amusing from their occasional virulence."

Browning's Agamemnon.2

As Browning grows older he becomes increasingly the despair of his readers-of the multitude because they cannot understand him, and of the few who follow but cannot reach him. The present volume emphasizes his peculiar strength and his demurrable points. The man who when he writes objectively is a prince of seers, who many years ago crowned the threnodies with the simplicity and fine passion of Evelyn Hope, and who now sings again so exquisitely in Pauline the realism of life turning up to death, can never be mistaken for one less than a hierarch in verse. What a picture is this!

"Thou wilt remember one warm morn, when winter
Crept aged from the earth, and spring's first breath
Blew soft from the moist hills; the black thorn boughs,
So dark in the bare wood, when glistening
In the sunshine were white with coming buds,
Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banks
Had violets opening from sleep, like eyes."

Could Browning content himself with the high simplicity in which he sometimes ranges, no man would ever challenge him with complaint. But he will not. He delights to do that almost impossible thing which, perhaps, no man has done absolutely well-versify theological argument and metaphysic 2 Agamemnon, La Saisiaz, and Dramatic Idyls. By Robert Browning. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Sold in San Francisco by Billings, Harbourne & Co.