the ascents were always particularly fortunate. In October, 1837, Mr. Green was announced to ascend from Vauxhall Gardens. He was to be accompanied, as usual, by Mr. Spencer, his partner, and Mr. Cocking the parachutist. An enormous crowd assembled to witness the ascent. It was said later that at this period it was found that Mr. Cocking's parachute was injured, and that every one connected with the experiment, including Mr. Cocking himself, knew the danger he, as well as his companions, ran. On the other hand, there was the chance of a fortunate escape as set against the certainty of irritating a disappointed public. Great blame attached to Mr. Green for allowing the experiment to take place. As it was, he nearly lost his own life, as, when the parachute was cut away, the balloon, freed from a weight of five hundred pounds, ascended with such frightful velocity, that Green and Spencer narrowly escaped being suffocated by applying their mouths to ice-bags. The parachute, so soon as it was liberated from the balloon, collapsed, and fell at a fearful rate of speed into a field, where poor Cocking was found with a wound

on his right temple. He died almost immediately.

Balloons have been found most useful in military strategy. During the wars of Napoleon, and even earlier under Jourdan at the battle of Fleurus, they formed a regular portion of military service, Colonel Coutelle being employed in the management of them. The method of signalling which he employed was invented by Couté; the signals consisted of pieces of colored cloth attached to the balcony of the car; these served to indicate the various manœuvres moving to the right or left. These signals were used at the sieges of Mannheim, Maintz, and Ehrenbreitstein.

In the Mexican War of 1863, Mr. Wise, an American, undertook to capture the formidable fortress St. Juan d'Ullexa by means of a balloon; his offer was refused. There is no doubt that there is a future for balloons in this as well as in other directions, and that aerial carriages will some day find many passengers. A jaunt to the skies, if undertaken with proper precautions, would be a delightful variety, and should call for attention from Messrs. Cook and Gaze.-Temple Bar.

A BEAUTIFUL girl playing on a beautiful violin is the most beautiful thing in the world-bien entendu, that the beautiful girl is full of genius and sensibility.

The barrier which for long, in spite of St. Cecilia and the angels, warned off women from violins, in the name of all that was feminine, no longer exists. Indeed, within the last twentyfive years, we have been afflicted with a girl-violin mania. School misses before they are in their teens clamor to learn the violin. It is a common sight in London to see maidens of all ages laden with fiddles of all sizes, their music rolls strapped tightly to the cases, hurrying to the underground railway,

or hailing the omnibus or cab in Oxford Street, Regent Street, and Bond Street. Then the Royal Academy, Royal College, Guildhall class-rooms are choked with violin girls, and no ladies' seminary is now complete without the violin tutor. Women have already invaded orchestras, and at least one celebrated amateur society can boast of nothing but lady players, while the profession as regards soloists divides its honors pretty equally between male and female

virtuosi.

Upon the depressing and gloomy side of this question I do not desire to dwell at undue length. Girls without talent, it is alas! true, rush to the violin, and are forced offensively upon unoffending

audiences, who apparently have not yet discovered the means of defending themselves. If a girl nowadays can't play the piano, she is no longer pressed, but if she can't play the violin she does not seem to have a candid friend with sufficient courage to tell her so. will get up with the greatest aplomb in any assembly and inflict the scrapings of an incompetent novice on the company. The room will immediately be hushed, just as it is when a pretty creature with a voice like a peacock stands up to sing-and after a brief but futile tussle with Raff's cavatina, or Bach's prelude, your violin girl will retire smirking and self-satisfied, without the least idea that she has been exposing herself to the pity and ridicule of any musicians who happen to be present.

Of course, the advantages to a girl of performing on the violin are obvious. If she sings she may lose her voice, and if she has not got one she can't sing. If she plays the piano no one will cease talking, in England at least; no, not even if she plays divinely; and then she cannot be well seen at the piano.

But

if she holds a violin she is at once isolated. In our overcrowded female population isolation is everything. To be picked or to pick yourself out of the crowd, to command the undivided attention of the room, to have your innings, and to have it all to yourself under the most advantageous, the most fascinating circumstances, that is a great point. A girl may go to a dozen "at homes" and parties, but there are dozens more girls there along with her, and she is but one in the dozen. But let her suddenly appear with her violin and she gets her opportunity. She is perfectly seen as she stands at ease. If she plays at night her arms and shoulders are bare, her head, with its artistically dressed hair, set off with a rose or diamond comb, falls into a natural and fetching pose, just a little on one side, her cheek leans lovingly upon the smooth surface of her glowing Cremona, and is set off at once by its sombre orange or gold red varnish. Every motion of both her well-rounded arms is expressive; every attitude, if

she plays really well and knows how to hold her instrument, must be graceful

displaying her flexible wrists, arms, and shoulders to the best advantage. Expression, pathos, passion, sweetness, tenderness, vigor, aspiration, ecstasy, delicious imaginative woe, all sweep over her countenance like swift cloud shadows that chase each other on a summer's day over the wide uplands or sunny cornfields. She reveals herself without self-consciousness, for she claims the virtuoso's privilege of being lost in her art. She charms by her spontaneity, her enthusiasm is infectious; see, her eyes are now half closed in dreamy languor, but presently they flash forth like beacon fires, and then on a sudden seem to fill with tears that glisten in her long dark lashes and forget to fall. The congealed girl is melted by the very essence of her divine art. The silent maiden finds a frank and fearless tongue more eloquent than her own. Her emotional consciousness, which lay buried in the depths of her virginal nature, is suddenly brought up to the surface; it pervades the whole of her tingling frame, and her soul, a moment before apparently so cold and pallid, like a piece of labrador spar when set at a particular angle, gives off beautiful and iridescent tints.

It is indeed strange that woman should have had to wait until the last quarter of the Victorian era before her claims to the violin were fully recognized, when a moment's reflection will show how perfectly adapted the instrument is to her whole constitution, and how exquisitely fitted she is to manipulate its anointed fabric and call forth the secrets of its mysterious soul. Her sensitive hand seems made to clasp its smooth and taper neck. How gracefully and expressively do her white, rosy-tipped fingers spread themselves upon the black finger-board, now pressing down close and tight, now hovering over the vibrating chords. With what swiftness of command does her bow attack, caress, or dally with the willing strings; how comfortably and fondly does the Cremona nestle under her little chin, close above her throbbing heart, as though listening fondly to the whis

pering rustle of those tender beats before transmuting their message into mystic sound. At last, at last! she has found a vehicle worthy of her subtle or passionate, but too long imprisoned, emotions; all those vague day-dreams, those quick returns upon self, those shy reticences which yearn for an ear that cannot be found, those confidences which will be revealed through her violin, but never betrayed, that suffocation of feeling that finds no relief until it is suddenly seized, explored, embraced, and lifted away upon those tidal waves of ineffable melody, the spiritual counterpart of herself, the ministers of her agony and of her delight, the interpreter of things which "words are powerless to express, and leave them still unsaid in part, or say them in too great excess!"

Yes, surely the violin is made for woman, and woman is made for the violin. It is at once her grandest interpreter of feeling and her best substitute for love, if love she may not have. I have often noticed how allsufficient to a woman is her violin, ay, it fills her ideal kingdom with the suggestion and prophecy of so much that might be spoiled by more material realization; and we must remember that, while woman is the greatest and most inexorable of realists, she is also an idealist beyond man's wildest dreams; but she will often discover in the subtle fabric and materialism of the violin just so much of realism as she requires to enable her to live perfectly in a purely ideal and almost supersensuous world of psychic consciousness. In this high empire of sound the woman becomes a true priestess. She stands forth as the embodiment of human sympathy and spiritual intuition.

The other day I was casually looking through a photographic album of violin-playing women. Among them were the most famous, the most accomplished and fascinating of our time. In many I noticed that dreamy faraway look of those who move about in worlds not realized; but here is one surely close upon the borderland, listening, as it were, to footfalls on the

threshold, or to "the lordly music flowing from the illimitable years!" In many I discerned a look of almost overwrought sensibility, and a prescience as of a fine spirit that seizes your meaning before you utter it, and reads by happy and quickened intuition the untold joys and sorrows of the heart. Every delicate shade of feeling, every nuance of expression is the special gift of this mature woman. That other young girl is painstaking, careful, conscientious, but her fine technique will never reveal anything but a commonplace and practical nature. In this face, with the eyes looking down in command upon the strings while the bow is firmly gripped and the violin held with something like a despotic clutch, the look is eloquent. Thou

shalt do my bidding," it seems to say. "I will have my will of thee; thou shalt yield up to me the utmost that is in thee. I will dominate thy power, and pluck out the heart of thy mystery. Thou hast no secrets that I shall not fathom, no depth or subtlety that I will not explore, no magic that I may not master. I am thine but upon one condition only, that thou art utterly mine!" And here is a face transfigured as in a dream, looking into the infinite, and conversing with the angels. And lo here is immeasurable aspiration, as though all sound were a parable, a mere pattern of things in the heavens, given us that we may speak of mysteries behind the veil, a prophecy, nay, almost an earnest, of some future state just sensed by us what time we stretch forth the spiritual antennæ of our being and touch the invisibles. And here is the shrewd glance of the mere clever expert; and next comes a young girl with glowing health and spirits, whose violin is to her as a rollicking, happy companion before "the sorrow comes with years." Yes, it is a wonderful portrait gallery, a revelation of what the musical art does for the soul, and, above all, what woman is to the violin and what the violin may be to woman.

But truly a woman needs to be as well mated with her violin as with a husband. In this matter let none

choose for her: let her choose for herself, let her see many suitors. If she fancies that delicate Grancino let her have it; does that Stainer, with its sharp, crisp, biting sound, fascinate her, well she will arrest and fascinate others through it. That somewhat venerable Urquhart, with its homely, guardian-like look of respectability and old-world courtesy and fine finish, attracts her; its voice is full of gentle and pathetic counsel and wise understanding; she loves it, let her have it. Do not some girls marry their guardians? That bell-like Stradivari is certainly for you, bright queen of soloists, red rose of health and pleasure, with the brilliant dash, the reckless pathos, the bold and confident initiative that takes the room by storm and compels enthusiasm! And for you, soft and tender little soul, with a gift of trembling and persuasive sensibility, sweet violet of peace and subtle fragrance, albeit at times wet with the dewy tears of pity, or "wild with all regret," for you the sweet Amati-Amati the consoler, Amati the lover-answering your thought and satisfying your need, and as responsive to your fluttering moods as an Eolian harp to the wind. And for you, strong, passionate artist soul, with the vigor of a man, and yet with all the intensity and flashing many sidedness of a richly organized woman, for you, the great Joseph Guarnerius, the king and despot of the concertroom, the ruler of the orchestra, the soul-companion and flaming minister of the great Paganini. To each woman her own. Let there be no mesalliance; remember how close, how prolonged, how incessant, how intimate is to be your companionship with that violin, what moods you will have to explore together, what experiences you will have to share, how dependent you will be upon one another in this strange "world, with all its lights and shadows, all the wealth and all the woe!"

Yes, you cannot afford to be ill-mated with your violin; no detail is unimportant. See that the neck fits your hand which will so often clasp it, and has to glide easily up and down; that the finger-board is nicely adapted in breadth

to the span of your fingers, which will have so often to cover and press it; that the size and proportions of the instrument are suitable to you, and the feel of it all over is comfortable-for you are to hold it, carry it, caress it. It is to be so close to you just at those times when you feel most, express most, give most of yourself to it, and through it to others. It is to be the one thing at such moments literally nearest your hand and your heart. When you have found an instrument to fit you completely, you will feel, like a true lover, that you cannot live without it. Let nothing stand between you and it-beg, borrow the money and buy it; crimes have alas! been committed before now to secure such congenial fiddles, "'tis true, 'tis pity; pity 'tis 'tis true!" Violins have been carried off like stolen brides, stolen by their irresponsible admirers. Their owners have been stalked, cajoled, even cheated, and their deaths have been watched for as those watch for and rejoice over the disappearance of hated rivals in love. I knew a great player, one quite in the first rank, who could never be trusted with the loan of a violin to which he had taken a fancy; he was in the habit of disappearing suddenly and the violin along with him. Thus even the covetousness and the frailty of man seem to lend a kind of tragic lustre to the weird and irresistible fascinations of the violin!

It is no part of my programme to chronicle the exploits of female violinists, or even to record their names. Although isolated celebrities, regarded as eccentricities, have appeared occasionally on the concert stage before the present century, it was not till the Sisters Millanolo electrified Europe in 1838-57-the one by her irresistible pathos, the other by her vivacity and breadth of tone-that criticism was silenced and prejudice had to hide its diminished head. Mlle. Therese Millanolo, the eldest, still lives in Paris, and is widely known and beloved as Madame Parmentier, the widow of a distinguished French officer. There is but one other name worthy to be bracketed with hers; it is that of Mlle. Wilhelmina Neruda, afterward Norman

Neruda, and now Lady Hallé. This great artiste, the widow of the distinguished pianist, Sir Charles Hallé, is certainly the most accomplished allround lady violinist that has ever appeared. If not rivalling the Millanolos in a certain romantic charm, she probably has a larger acquaintance with the classical and the advanced schools, which in the days of the Millanolos were less affected by the virtuoso than they are now. Lady Hallé's quartet-playing is unrivalled, no female competitor having yet made good her claim to compete successfully with her; while her execution of bravura music and star-solos, when she pleases to indulge in such lighter sensations, is as faultless as it is effective and captivating. It would be almost invidious to mention the large number of female aspirants to the highest violin honors now before the public, but I shall not be far wrong if, looking with a prophetic eye into the future, I prophesy that the name of Maud Macarthy, now a mere child (aged 14, 1898), will stand out as the brightest violin genius of the last decade of the nineteenth century.

I might be expected to say a word about lady 'cellists before I close this disquisition on "Violins and Girls." I first saw a lady violoncellist in 1857;

she held the instrument, as a man holds it, between her knees, and it seemed to me ungraceful. Girls now have a strong supporting-rod fixed in the instrument, which lifts it from the ground for them, and with more or less grace the body of the instrument is held flat against their knees without defining them. The 'cello will never be so graceful, nor will it probably be ever wielded by women with such charm as the violin. It will always remain in their hands a little unwieldy. But now that the bicycle and the racket, the golf-club, and even the gun, have been claimed by the sex as their own, we can hardly expect them to draw the line at the violoncello no, nor yet at the double bass, flute, or even the drums and trumpet! The adoption of the violin by women has given an enormous impulse to the violin trade; and if it has in some cases aggravated the sufferings of many middle-class families. and ministered to the vanity of many silly and incompetent girls, we must also remember that it has provided. rare and gifted women with a magical instrument for self-expression and self-revelation, and dowered the modern concert-room with an entirely new and fascinating manifestation of the "Eternal Feminine."- Contemporary Re

view.

LI HUNG CHANG is believed to be the richest man in the world. This belief certainly gains credit from a glimpse of one portion of his invested capital which has recently made its appearance in the City of London. Among other sources of income, the great Chinese satrap draws an annual tribute of precious furs from one of the Northern provinces. This is said to be the mountain and forest district of Northwest Manchuria, whose "natural commodities" of fur-bearing animals are mentioned by the Emperor Kien Lung in the pious work in which the Imperial author describes the country

NEW SERIES.-VOL. LXVIII., No. 3.

still held sacred as the dwelling-place of the spirits of his ancestors. Part of the tribute of the Russian Tartar tribes is also collected in the form of sables, and it is known that while the poor Tartars send in the finest skins in true loyalty to the Czar, dishonest officials substitute inferior furs, and the choice. skins in the Imperial wardrobe come not from tribute, but from purchase. They manage these things better in China. Li Hung Chang has immense. warehouses in Pekin crammed with precious furs from top to bottom, and no middleman pilfers the choice skins on their way to this repository.

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