IT has been many years since people who take interest in the world's affairs- not merely, as everyone does, for the spectacular interest of events, but for the human interest of the great processes of social evolution working themselves out in current history-have had as much to hold their attention as this year, No events of importance are visibly taking place; the decision of the comparative speed of yachts and the tranquil progress of the chief magistrate's visiting tour, occupy the head-lines of the telegraphic dispatches in the papers. But meanwhile there hang in suspense, all over the world, movements of vast historic importance; almost every day brings some new item foreshadowing the imminence of large occurrence-in more than one place, the wave arches, all but ready to topple to its breaking. Thus in the Balkan principalities, everything is in readiness for changes in the status of the Ottoman power, certainly greater than any that have taken place since the liberation of Greece, possibly greater than any since the fall of Constantinople; for no one will venture to call it impossible that an Eastern war might end in the final closing of the four hundred year long episode of the Turkish invasion of European invasion that long ago exhausted its inherent forces, and has maintained even a part of its results only through precarious outside support. Of late years, the struggles of the Balkan provinces, the translation from Russian sources, such as Gogol, of literature bearing on the frontier populations, together with minor causes, have brought the races of this debateable ground in southeastern Europe to the knowledge of readers; lyrics and folk-lore from Servia and Bulgaria and Roumania have been translated; their customs and their costumes and their scenery have become matters for magazine articles; the history of their national heroes and of their struggles against the Turkish invader attract our writers: and with all increase in our knowledge thereof, we are becoming aware what a strangely dramatic and picturesque medley this whole Turkish episode has been, and wait with a peculiar interest for the final scene to round out the drama. In England, again, a most important historie chapter pauses and waits in a peculiarly dramatic moment of suspense. A shrewd critic has already noted that the situation there is really now a pure question of endurance between the Tory ministry and Mr. Gladstone's life tenure. The relation not only of Ireland to England, but probably of all the members of the empire to each other, turns for perhaps a generation - certainly for years upon whether the disintegrating ministry can hold on by devices and concessions until fate removes the great Liberal, or whether Mr. Gladstone can hold on to his life with efficient grip until the ministry collapses; a duel of endurance so singular, so Titanic, so impressive in the unprecedented light it casts upon the grand central figure therein, that the world fairly catches its breath as it waits for the event. The end must doubtless be the same in either case: Ireland cannot be held to the present terms of union forever, nor can the English Parliament long suffice in its present shape for the transaction of the complex business of the empire. But no men of the present can take Mr. Gladstone's and Mr. Parnell's places in the re-arrangement that must come. It is always easy to exaggerate, and also easy to underrate, the significance of a present crisis: the mountain shrinks behind the foothill in the near perspective, but the foothill looms to a mountain. It is perfectly obvious, however, that at least within half a century no legislation of such importance has been pending in England as at present; and when one considers the changes in the whole constitutional system of Great Britain that may be foreshadowed by an Irish legislature, one is disposed to make a much stronger statement. Certainly as regards only the internal affairs of Ireland herself, the last chapter of a story centuries long is already opened, and whether it will be a brief and peaceful one or long and terrible rests in suspense mainly upon the tenure of one aged life. In our own country, through the commonplace and vulgar details of party conventions and party intrigues things are visibly arranging themselves for the opening of a new period in our political history a period that may test the stability of our system, the possibility of self-government, more decisively than either poverty or civil war have been able to do. The close of the after-war period was definitely marked by the last presidential election; but the present four years is evidently one of transition, during which neither of the great national parties has been able to decide upon any future policy or to readjust itself to present conditions. In the coming period of the republic's history, either financial and administrative reforms must be accomplished, and the new difficulties arising from the presence of different races and widely differing social conditions under equal laws and popular government, must be met; or else the failure to accomplish these reforms and meet these difficulties must imperil the very existence of what we call Anglo-Saxon civilization" here. "Our form of government" probably runs no risk; the experience of the Spanish-American republics is ample evidence that the republican form of government can exist under conditions of utmost demoralization and disorder. It is the continued existence of the spirit of patriotism and integrity and personal independence, of orderliness and moderation and intelligence that good citizens must in the future concern themselves for. Of the difficulties to be met, of the reforms to be accomplished, some are still only matters for the shrewd to foresee; some are imminent questions of the near future; but some are of the present moment before the people, in the fight. We scarcely need name the reform of the civil service, and of the crying scandals of city governments and of legislative bribery. It is the hope of good citizens that the arrangements of the partisan lines of battle now being formed will be such as to give them an opportunity to interpolate into the selfish struggle some effective blow for these reforms; they are strong enough to partially control the forming of the lines and minor skirmishes toward their desired end—but only partially. No living man can foresee just what opportunities for reform are to be worked out from the present indecisive and wary marching and countermarching; yet every day now brings fresh indications. FINALLY, in our own State also the principal event of the moment is an important chapter in a great historic story. In this case, however, there is no suspense for what is taking place is the unmistakable, irresistible last movement of the westward migration of nations. The gold rush to California was a premature movement, due to a special cause; the present one is of the same home-seeking character as its legitimate predecessors since long before the dawn of history. That the Aryan races should now be rapidly filling up their last westward region does not appear to involve any important social results - if it were equivalent to the final occupancy of the earth's surface by the teeming human race, it would involve gigantic ones; but there are still virgin spaces. It is, however, a curious and interesting thing to contemplate, if only as a spectacle that becomes majestic seen in such large historic relations. OUR frontispiece this month represents the E. B. Crocker Art Gallery, presented to the city of Sacramento in 1882 by Mrs. Margaret Crocker. The value of the building was $285,000, and of the seven hundred paintings $400,000. Most of these paintings were selected by the late Judge Crocker, many of them in Europe, but a number also from the work of local artists, especially those of earlier days. The California Museum Association occupies the building, and maintains therein the Sacramento School of Design. As our California readers doubtless remember, although this gallery is one of the most valuable gifts ever made by a private individual in California, it is yet only about one-half of the total of the gifts made to the city of Sacramento by the kindly lady whose name it bears. The building, which formed originally a semi-detached portion of the private residence of the donor, is externally unpretentious, but handsomely planned and nished within. Even while it was still the private gallery of the Crocker family its privileges were liberally extended to the people of Sacramento. The pride of the community in its possession is great and is pretty certain to attract to it as a nucleus other gifts, in the fashion Emerson urged on communities for the disposition of their private art possessions. To Mrs. Norton. [With a bunch of mignonette.] A GARDEN and a yellow wedge Of sunshine slipping through, And there, beside a bit of hedge, Forget-me-nots so blue, Bright four o'clocks and spicy pinks, Dear garden! planted long ago It thrills me, even now, As when with child-grief unconfessed, I do not know, I cannot say Why, when I hear thee sing, Nor why a fragrance, fresh and rare, Sweet mignonette. But so it is! I close my eyes Thy lovely voice falls on my ear In ballad, grave or gay, As fell the bird's voice in old years, Camp Fire Stories, from the Note Book of a Hunting Parson. WE were camped in a beautiful spot near the base of Mount Whitney. S rolled on another chunk of firewood, refilled his pipe, and continued: "Just over the divide there was the cattle range of old Jack Birch - Persimmon Jack we used to call him, from a queer way he had of puckering up his mouth before he began to speak. He had stock cattle up here, and he was bothered considerably with the bears, but it was hard to say which he was most afraid of, bears or firearms. His cattle corral was near his shake cabin, and the beasts, being very fond of veal, used to come sociably up to his very door. He was an old dried up bachelor and lived there all alone. "One day he came over and said he wanted me to help him build a bear trap. I went over and we built a good. big, strong one, just below his house. I guess I could show you the old log pile there yet. You know how they are made heavy pine logs notched into each other, a great square pen, then a sliding trap door to work up and down inside, a trigger on the 'figure-four' fashion, with bait -a calf or half a deer- at the back of the pen, which the bear smells, tries to carry off, down comes the trap door, and he finds himself a prisoner. Well, we finished the trap, covered it over the top with big rocks to make it doubly secure, baited it with a calf, half devoured by the bears the night before, and awaited results. "The next day, over came Persimmon Jack, saying, 'We've got him, and I tell you he 's a monster; and I want you to come over and kill him.' ""O no! I said, 'shoot him yourself.' "He had no gun but an old army musket he had brought with him from the States, with, I suppose, the same load in it he carried across the plains. So I offered him my rifle. "Shoot him!' he said; 'I would n't shoot him for all the cattle on the range.' "He plead and plead, but I was determined to have some fun, and I refused. But I went over and sure enough, he was a monster,- an old grizzly and how he was pawing the ground, and gnawing the logs, and bellowing like the twelve bulls of Bashan. Jack besought me to shoot him, but I was obdurate, and left him the very picture of woe, wishing him a pleasant night's rest. Next morning he was over again with the same request — said he hadn't been able to sleep a wink. I told him I'd done my share, and go I wouldn't. Well, we did have sport over poor Jack's bear, and I believe he would have stayed caged till he died of starvation, if the haggard expression of Persimmon's eyes and pity of the beast had not touched the heart of one of the boys staying with me. So he went over one day, and stopped Bruin's roaring, and gave poor Jack a chance for a good night's rest again. He never set the trap afterwards. "As I said, Jack lived in a shake cabin. You have seen them the shakes are rived out of the sugar-pine, which splits straight as if sawed, and thin as a ribbon; the frame is made of poles spiked together, the whole held firm by poles across the square, roofed and weather boarded with the shakes, no ceiling. A home-made table, same material, two or three camp stools,-butt of a log with a shake nailed across - - comprised the furniture of Persimmon Jack's mansion. He slept on a pole bunk, occupying the space from the door to the end of the cabin. To make his home burglar proof at night he would shove the table up against the door, whose deer-skin string and wooden latch was the only fastening. The last visit Jack paid me was one morning when he came over looking so haggard and wild-eyed, that he almost frightened me. 'Why Jack,' said I, what on earth's the matter? are you sick?' "Don't feel very peart,' he replied. "Well, what's up?' "After repeated interrogations he finally an swered, 'Well S, I've got to leave the range. Can't stand it any longer.' "Can't stand what?' 666 Why, them cussed bears! I've lost half my calves, an' if I stay a little longer I'll lose my carcass too.' And Persimmon Jack puckered up his mouth and commenced digging a hole in the ground with the heel of his boot, and looked the very personification of despair. "What's their latest wrinkle?' I asked. "Wall,' said he, last night I shoved the table agin the door an' went to bed as usual. About midnight I thought I heard the table move, but after listening, concluded I was mistaken. Just got into a doze agin, when that table did move. I sot up in bed, an' what did I see but an old bear, with his forepaws on the foot of my bunk, a-looking me straight in the eyes. He raised one paw and give a grunt, an' I got up an' got a-straddle one of the stringin's; but I tell you, S-, it was the toughest job I ever struck a-tryin' to hold on to that stringin'. An' that old devil of a brute smelled round the shanty, pulled down a sack of sugar an' eat that, an' then he turned his attention to me. He sot down on his hunkers right under me an' growled. I'll be gol-darned if it didn't make the cold shivers run down the spine of my back. Then he'd walk round the cabin, an' come back, an' squat right under me, an' growl an' snarl an' show his teeth agin. Then he stood up on his hind "sled-runners" and tried to paw me; an' I tell you it was tight nippin'-by drawin' up my legs, he'd jist miss them with his paw. An' there I had to sot all night, a-holdin' on to that rough stringin' with both hands, an' drawin' up my legs out o' the way o' that old grizzly's paws; S―, my jints an' sinners is that sore this mornin', I kin hardly walk. I can't stand it S I've got to git out o' these diggin's.' "The poor fellow was stiff sure enough; but the picture my fancy painted of poor Jack, astride that rough-barked bare pole, drawing up his mascles to their utmost tension, while old Bruin - anxious for a good square meal-acted on the same principle from below, was all so ludicrous that I laughed till Persimmon Jack hobbled off mad as a March hare. "That was his last visit. A few weeks after I heard some of his vaqueros rounding up his cattle; and the next thing I knew, his range was vacant." Yesterday as I was wending my way camward at noon, hungry and tired, an old buck a five pointer- roused from his siesta under the ines, trotted leisurely across the trail and along the slope. I sent a ball as well aimed as I knew how; but he neither slackened nor increased his gait. One, two, three, with the same result. What did it mean? Was my eye warped? gun-barrel crooked? or was this old resident impervious to lead? As I raised my gun for the fourth round he suddenly stopped, shook his massive antlers, and dropped in his tracks, dead as a stone. Upon examination I found that every ball had struck him in a vital part. In dressing him I came to a hard gristly lump under the skin. Cutting it open I found a battered ounce ball of lead. On a closer inspection I found that it had gone clear through him between the heart and liver, struck against a rib on the other side, and nature had covered it over, and there it had remained for years. What hunter "cussed" and blamed his bad luck as that old buck bounded away! And old Mr. Five-prong might have had another story to tell his grandchildren about one of my balls, but the breech-loader, with its little arsenal, was too many for him. Three more days of this glorious sport-headache all gone, appetites - why we could have digested a medium-sized gridiron. Our camp looked like a regular packing establishment hams and shoulders and “back-straps," smoked just enough to keep nice and sweet, presents for our city friends. That last day - how well I remember it! We had been far down the valley for a last grand hunt. Toward evening, the fog from the plains below came drifting toward us. We turned our faces campward. As it settled round us, the air grew almost as dark as night. In crossing the cañons, somehow we got separated fro each other. Heavily laden with a saddle of venison apiece, we labored up the rocky steps, sometimes crawling on our hands and knees under the dense underbrush, and around awful chasms, through which the waters roared and thundered. The wet fog struck us in the faces, almost blinding us. I halloed for my friend-but no answer; the wind was against me and my voice died away in the echo of the moaning pines. Still I labored on, up and up. It grew lighter; at last, clambering the last rocky height, I suddenly came into the glorious sunlight. I had gotten above the fog. I turned my eyes toward the west. Never shall I forget that sight. Like great billows of snowy foam, undulating, rising and falling, transformed at times into silver and gold and sapphire by the rays of the setting sun, rolling on and on, came that ocean of fog, with drops of mist glittering on its bosom, while away beyond, two hundred miles dis tant, lay the grand Pacific, its waves glinting like pearls, a mighty sea of glass. I sat long and gazed like one entranced upon this beatific vision — I never expect to see another such this side the shore of the sea of life. Suddenly I was awakened from my reverie by the well-known voice of my friend— "Hello there!" -not a hundred yards away. Parted from each other in the mists and darkness of the valley below, we met at last in the bright sunlight of the mountain top, far above the fog. That evening ominous clouds gathered, and the next morning flakes warned us that it was time to turn our faces toward the warmer regions below -none too soon; as we reached lower latitudes we could see the hills surrounding our old stamping ground white with snow. If we had stayed another day we should probably have been prisoners in that little valley for months. Soon after this I sailed for a trip to the Hawaiian Island. When I returned, on opening my budget of letters I came to one black-edged. It was from S—, my old hunter friend. My breath caught in my throat as I read — dead! Struck down in the prime of his manhood. And then I thought of our last evening together the dark valley below-the parting — the fog the meeting in the sunshine above. W. J. Smith. The Dream and the Waking. A DREAM slipped out of a wood: (So would it surely seem,) Like to the cool sweet wood With odors all ateem. But stay! A slight girl stood The dream, the wood forsaking, The sweet pine haunts forsaking, Richard E. Burton. |