THE local newspaper criticism of the Lick Observatory in the matter of the observations of Mars during the opposition that has just taken place, seems to be extremely foolish, and some of it is written by editors that ought to know better. Neither the editor of the OVERLAND MONTHLY nor any other editor in California is competent to judge at first hand of the qualifications of an astronomer; nor have we any sufficient data to justify an opinion as to questions of administration that may have arisen at Mount Hamilton, But the reproach that the Observatory has not announced astonishing discoveries in Mars is something that rests on surface facts, and it seems to us childish. It may prove, when the returns are all in, that the Lick Observatory has done less with the opposition of Mars than other observatories, but nothing of the sort appears as yet. What does appear is that Professor Holden has sent out curt and cautious dispatches reporting the observations, where other astronomers have sent out long and interesting ones, containing speculation as to the causes of the appearances seen. The standing of such astronomers as Professor Pickering forbids anyone to suppose that these speculations were unwarrantable or unscientific, and therefore it is natural that our newspapers should feel irritated at having lost the chance of similar interesting matter, exasperated at losing their advantage in being near to the greatest telescope in the world. But from the charge of having been unnecessarily reticent in reporting what was seen to the charge of not having seen it, is a long step, and so far as reports of the opposition in our own papers, and in the Eastern weeklies, have reached us, we have seen no actual observation reported by any astronomer elsewhere that was not also reported from the Lick Observatory, though these observations elsewhere were enlarged upon and interpreted in a more interesting manner in the dispatches. When one astronomer reports that the dark lines in the white areas on Mars have widened, and the white area have decreased, and another astronomer that a portion of the snow-cap at the north pole has melted, producing a great deluge across the Martian continent, it should be obvious to an intelligent reader that the two men have seen the same thing through their respective glasses; and caution in statement, with avoidance of speculation, is the safe side for a scientific man to err on. Let us repeat, we say only that so far as at present appears the Lick Observatory has not been behind others in the work of the last month; it would be foolish to prophesy what its net results will prove to be, as compared with those of others,

when the results are all worked up. Quite apart from the question of the comparative ability of different astronomers, it was known beforehand that the southern hemisphere was the best place for observing this particular opposition of Mars; and - as has been urged and urged upon the California public — the income, and therefore the staff, of the Lick Observatory are very small, and so inadequate to the "plant" that it can never be kept in full use.

NEWSPAPERS ought not to lend themselves to such crude notions as that the use of great telescopes is to discover people and houses on the moon, canals and electric lights on Mars. If such things can be discovered, we shall all hail them with a thrill of excitement that a square mile of figuring, rectifying all the calculations of all the orbits in the heavens, would not cause us. But even though discoveries of great popular interest do occasionally fall to the lot of the astronomer, they are almost strokes of luck, diversifying his regular work, which must consist mainly in accumulations of minute data, dry and unintelligible to the general public, until years of comparison have brought them to tell their story. The general public can hardly be expected to see the good of all this; but every great newspaper must have at least one or two men on its staff who know that this dry collec tion of data must be the rule in every science, and that the soundness and progress of science rest on the patient willingness of scientific men to dig away for a life-time to gather material for these accumula. tions,-else science would be speculation, chemistry would still be alchemy, and astronomy would be astrology; and the editors that know this are the ones that should be entrusted with the editorials on scientific matters.

LOOKING back to the presidential campaign of four years ago, and still more that of eight years ago, it seems that this year's contest is getting under way very slowly, and without much enthusiasm on either side. Whether there is a general feeling that the chief question for discussion has already been thoroughly canvassed during the four years, whether the factional discontent within both parties chills them a little, or whether the successive shocks of violent labor troubles have drawn attention from everything else, certainly the campaign movement is languid and perfunctory. One does not hear political controversy on street and ferry; and to judge by the cartoons and editorials of the Eastern journals, which hammer away at their topics with no great vigor, the situation must be much the same over the country,

- though the weather reports from across the Rocky Mountains are enough to account for a good deal of languor. It will make for comfort and amity, if the campaign continues mild to the end,- and may bring out quite as sound a popular verdict as a heated conflict.

46 more CALIFORNIA has been accused of having 99 foot square than poets to the other State in the any Union; and the Eastern editors on whose mail-bags this estimate was based, have been kind enough to add, when speaking to the editor of the OVERLAND, "of remarkabiy high average quality." Whatever the total amount of our verse-writing may be, as compared with that of other States, it certainly seems true, so far as our observation can go, that the disposition to verse of local patriotism, the extent to which California is celebrated in verse, is something quite unparalleled. When one considers, indeed, what a ceaseless stream of eulogy, in prose and verse,. has been sent East from this State, it is the wonder rather that the population has not grown faster than that it has grown so fast. Of late years the commercial purpose has had much to do with this, but no one doubts that from Doctor Marsh's famous letters to Cass until today, the most of it has been inspired by a genuine enthusiasm for the land and its possibilities. Other peoples love their land,- love it often better than Californians do theirs, "with love far brought, from out the storied past "; love its history, its institutions, its people, and in a way, by virtue of association, its natural aspects; but if the love of Californians for California, which is really so deep-rooted, be examined, it will not be found to rest much on either history, or institutions, or people. There is something, it is true, in the social conditions that Californians become attached to. Most Californians think the political institutions of their State in a very bad way, and are without pride or joy in them; they deprecate much in its society, and while there is little antagonism between the dif ferent groups that make up the heterogeneous population, there is also little sympathy or sense of unity, -yet somehow, California life pleases and holds people, and it is an old observation that they can be transplanted to few places in which they will not hanker after it. The nature of this charm is too difficult a question to enter on here; probably a certain personal freedom has most to do with it. there is no question that it is the genial aspect of nature here that first and most fascinates dwellers, - the friendly sun and liberal soil, the great mountain chains and beautiful valleys, the lavish flowers. These are the things that perpetually tempt Californians into verse. The critic may say that they have so far failed to inspire any great poem,- like Coleridge's ode in the Vale of Chamouni, for instance. But one need only to recall the several descriptive poems of Harte, Miss Coolbrith's, Professor Sill's, to be reminded how worthy poetry it has inspired at

But

The Perfect Land.

BETWEEN the gardens of the north and south
There is a summer land where, each to each,
Mild zephyrs sing and purple mountains reach
To pierce the cloud's soft bosom that no drouth
May harm one tender blossom's upturned mouth.
Where golden orange, velvet-vested peach,
And plump fig's girth, unto the shining beach
Lure the winged vessels as a siren doth.

And sweet, in some old plaza, all the day
To listen to those distant murmuring seas,
Half fancying the surf's faint melodies
Are vesper chimes from silvery bells of spray.
And when the day lies dreaming in a swoon,
From sunset skies turn idly to the moon.
Bergen Weeks Applegate.
California.

Arranged by John Wallace.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside :
-James Montgomery.

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering bloom delay'd.
-Oliver Goldsmith.
Blossoms and fruits at once the trees adorn,
With glowing blushes like the rosy morn.
-James Thompson.
Now golden fruits on loaded branches shine,
And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine.
-Alexander Pope.
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn,

-John Leyden. And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, Fed by the streams with soft perpetual showers, -Wm. Wordsworth.

The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
To welcome back its playful mates again.

-James G. Percival. By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, And feed the streamlets from its dark ravines, -Oliver W. Holmes. And when the moon with softer radiance gleams, And lovelier heave the billows in her beams,

--Robert Southey.
Is it not lovely?-tell me where doth dwell
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell?
-Richard H. Dana.

San Francisco.
HIGH on her hundred hills she sits enthroned,
The empress of the golden West,
With dews of dawn upon her forehead fair,
The badge of power upon her breast.

And ocean old, enamored of her mien,

With plaints the wandering winds repeat,

Flings round her form his lordly arm of love,
And sighs contented at her feet.

But envious of the day-god's ardent eye,
That would too oft glow on her grace,
He spreads his vapory mantle e'er at morn,
And softly veils her radiant face.

And fleets, swift-winged from the Orient far,
That on her word and welcome wait,
Piled high with precious loads from other lands,
Come trooping through the Golden Gate.

Sierra, too, the forest-clad, the famed,

In royal ermine wreathed for aye,
Looks to the west, and rains with tender touch,
Baptismal blessings from on high.

The Sacramento and the San Joaquin,
Vales vast as empires of the East,

. Pour at her feet their garnered granaries' gold,
And fruits in never-ending feast.

The flowers blow their brightest o'er her fens,
And fling their freshest to the breeze;
The birds of heaven make glad her glades and glens
To music murmured of the trees.

But yesterday, in the swift-flying age
With timid feet untried she stood,
A rural maiden, clad in rustic robes,
The West, a wild, unbroken wood.
But gifted of the gods, as tropic blooms
Burst forth beneath the sun's warm light,
She sprang to instant power, and rules today
An empress in her royal right

A Distant View of the Sierra. SIERRA's royal range in softest blue, Is etched in glory 'gainst the eastern sky, A symphony in heaven's cerulean hue, A pictured poem for the artist's eye. How rare the mellow tints,- the wreathing snow, The rolling clouds, the tender blue above, The shadowy purple of the peaks below,— All merged in the azure scheme that painters love

So faint, so fair, it seems another land,

Beyond the turmoil and the hurrying tread Of mortal feet; a gleaming palace planned, For god-like beings from afar instead, Where grandeur reigns, and purity and peace Live ever on the odorous atmosphere, Where softly blowing song-winds never cease, On ears that listen e'er, and love to hear.

The pine-clothed pinnacles that loom aloft,
In towers eternal toward the azure dome
Now wreathed as in a heavenly halo soft-

Point fancy toward the Father and his home,
Who seems to tread athwart those precincts wild,
With almost visible presence, felt fore'er,
In the soul deeps of Nature's every child,
That breathes the pure, revivifying air.

And there a language is divinely heard,

In murmurous pines the mist-wreathed waterfall, The flowing stream, the fleeting of the bird, Fast echoing on from cañon wall to wall, That speaks soft in the sympathetic heart,

In communing with its God through nature fair,
Blest words from worldly strife so far apart,
That perfect ones of Paradise might share.

O glorious range, Sierra! -crowned supreme,
In grandeur of thy woods and cañons wild;
Fore'er on view, with vistas yet that seem

Clothed daily in new beauties to thy child,-
Thou art a sermon pure, more potent far,
Than pearls of wisdom from Chrysostom's
thought-

Thy lessons of the Father loftier are

Than human tongue of Him hath ever taught !

I gaze oft on thy glories, drinking deep
The inspiration of each visioned scene,
That paints itself on fancy e'en in sleep,

In all the grandeur of its forests green;

I love the soft blue heights by heaven caressed, Where first my infant eyes looked on the day, And there would lay me down at last and rest, When all my sands of life have slipped away. May Cranmer Duncan.

Monterey Bay.

THROUGH portals wide, the untamed ocean flows,
And breaks his billows on thy curving shore,
Charging thy basin with his wondrous store
From tropic seas, to seas of ice and snows.
On fisher barks the evening sunlight glows
As outward bound they skim thy waters o'er,-
A fleet the same a thousand years or more
Hath sailed the Adriatic. The wind blows
With tempered breath; the rosy eventide

Transfigures Gabilan; with chastened ray
Flushes thy mountain barriers,- fades away.
The lights flash out, so haste we to thy bride:
Fair Santa Cruz, in nuptial robes and flowers,
Now smiles on all, on all her blessings showers.
Bart Burke.

Sierra Blanca.

ENROBED in kingly purple thou dost stand
A snow-crowned monarch; at thy feet a band
Of lesser mountains kneel, abased, to thee;
About thy whitened summits, flying free,