the woods and the rocks. Attwelve or one I lunch. My second breakfast consists of a hunk of dry bread, a piece of meat, a scrap of cheese or sausage, salt, a pear, and a halfbottle of sour wine. But what a glorious appetite one has, working out of doors. The plainest fare has a relish unknown to the dwellers at home. After luncheon the cigar or pipe, and then work again; or else roaming about in search of subjects, till near sundown; when the failing light and the dews remind me that it is time to return to my inn.

A pleasant life this-embosomed in nature, and transferring form and color to canvas, at first hand! I shall not dwell upon its delights-my brother-painters know them too well.

But now commences the prosaic, and, by no means, enlivening, part of the day. At present I happen to be alone in the forest. For four days I have hardly spoken to a soul or been spoken to. So I have to fall upon my own resources to lighten the slow, dull hours till bed-time. There is some difference between life out of doors and life in doors, at Barbison. I come back to a cold room, and a cold salle à manger, with a cold brick floor, and dinner not ready. About six it comes on table. A huge loaf of dry bread, a bottle of vinegarish wine, pewter spoons and forks. Then first soup-poor enough--often a soup maigre or a soup à l'os cille, with lots of bread soaked in it, then boiled meat; then a roast or a cutlet, and some sort of vegetable. We are put on allowance-always enough, to be sure, but never anything left over. For dessert, always one bunch of grapes. Once, when there were four of us, we each had four bad walnuts apiece. O! I forgot the salad. We have that. And Chenou always dressed the lettuce, whether we wanted it or not; for, he said, that otherwise it would appear again-the same lettuce-to-morrow. After dinner, comes the luxury of a fire, to warm our shivering limbs. But what a fire! We always have to ask for it; and, when it comes, it is invariably two or three cat-sticks or twigs, and one chunk of asbestos; and the evening is divided between that material species of solace-the pipe--(the very shepherd's pipe, in this way, now-a-days) --and the occupation of punching and blowing this smoky, unwilling, sulking fire on the hearth. When the cat-sticks burn

Over

out, all is over. Was there ever such wood! It must have been artificially prepared, and warranted not to ignite. and over the asbestos chunk is turnedlike an uneasy sleeper-on its bed of ashes and dull coals, but no flame can be got out of it. Then the tallow-candles give us some occupation, as they require to be snuffed every five minutes. And so, with punching the asbestos chunk, and drinking the remainder of our sour wine, and lighting fresh pipes, the long evening wears away.

Now, as I am alone, it is longer than ever. Between nine and ten I retire. The bed-chamber is as cold and cheerless as below stairs. Not a rag of carpet to stand on; no furniture but a chair and table; cold, coarse linen sheets-sometimes dampish; no woolen blankets; and the bed so short, that I have to lie diagonally and dream transversely. In the morning, I wash in a basin the size of a breakfastplate, and wipe my hands and face on a cotton napkin, and tie my cravat at a glass six inches by three and a-half-an aggravating little reflector, which distorts my face horribly, and makes me imagine myself at least ten years older.

The country-people here seem to be of the roughest sort-sordid, close, ignorant, superstitious, coarse, loud-tongued, unmusical, and altogether of the earth earthy. When they converse, they scream at each other like geese. The talk of the men is like the barking of dogs, that of the women like the screaming of peacocks. And such lungs !

Madame V. is one of the most refined of them, I dare say--but Madame is a jeune avare-thinks of nothing but francs and sous, and how to scrimp and save. Two tallow-candles for one person would hor rify her. More than three cat-sticks and one gutta percha chunk on the fire would fill her with alarm. Every little extra furnished gratis, such as wrapping-paper, string, and wafers, is a surprise to me, so accustomed have I grown to her excessive economy.

The last day of October. I am still here, working hard all day in the forest, and spending my evenings alone. For ten days I have not seen a soul to speak to, except a young Englishman, who appeared one morning and vanished. I have almost forgotten the sound of my voice. And as for French I can hardly get through a sentence straight.

Moreover, I was so foolish as to bring scarcely any books. I can't write; the room is too cold, and my wits grow torpid for want of stimulus. How charming it must be here in the winter. Yet there are painters who live in Barbison the year round.

During the day, the weather has been splendid; that is, for a week-which is something not usual in this climate. Cold and frosty in the mornings; but, under the shelter of the rocks, I can work comfortably. The color of the trees is at its finest --not equal, of course, to that of our American October, but fine for Europe. One never sees such gorgeous colors in the foliage here, as in America. My American studies of autumn tints almost excite a smile from a European. A French artist saw in my atélier one day a sketch of a scarlet maple. "C'est affreux," said be.

My favorite spot for studies in the forest is where I have been painting-on the rocky side of the pavé or grande route, near the open space where the large oaks

are.

Here you have a specimen of everything for which the forest is characteristic -fine oaks, beeches, and birches-rocks covered with moss and lichens, interspersed with trees, and piled up on the hillside in wild and savage grandeur. And a pleasant, sheltered spot it is in these cool days. Then it is near the great road, where travelers and artists frequently pass, which prevents it from being too lonely.

The trees are full of red squirrels, and it is a pleasant sight to see them chasing one another up and down the huge trunks and from the boughs of one tree to another. Over the woods of the Bas Brèau, on the other side of the road, the crows, or rather rooks, scream themselves hoarse; and at night the owls hoot dismally.

And this reminds me of the night of the eclipse, a few weeks ago, when I heard these owls, as I walked through the forest with some artists. It was a splendid moonlight when we started. None of us knew of the eclipse; for newspapers and almanacs never reach Barbison. Very soon I discovered that a piece of her ladyship's green-cheese had been bitten off by the grim earth-shadow. We were on our way through the Gorge d'Apremont. As we descended the valley, a fog lay below, with precisely the appearance of a lake. We wound along among the rocks down to the

Dormoir, and around through the woods. How solemn it was in the forest--in some places almost pitch dark--and the faint eclipse light falling here and there in dim white patches, unearthly and mysterious. Beethoven's moonlight sonata describes it better than anything I can write.

It is certainly a grand forest this of Fontainebleau; and it is no wonder the artists love it, and resort to it. There are some things, to be sure, valued by the painters, which it is without. There is no water, for instance, nor any distant hills or mountains-two almost indispensable features in a landscape. But then the trees, especially the beeches and oaks, are superb. So are the rocks; and, for savage, brigandhaunted hillsides, what can furnish finer motives than the Jean de Paris and the Gorge d'Apremont. After all, it takes very little to make a picture; and the French understand this fact. Rousseau takes the first bit of green he sees outside the smoke of the city suburbs, and contrives to make it somehow attractive. Troyon makes a picture of a cow and a piece of a tree, which crowds rush to see. All depends on treatment. The artist, somehow. manages to infuse himself into the commonest clod, or stump, or stone. But at Fontainebleau there is endless material for wood-scenes. Painting, in the deep, solemn Bas Brèau, under the tall, cathedral-like pillars of tree-trunks, and Gothic tracery of branches and leaves, I could see around me, from my camp-stool as the centre, halfa-dozen vistas, which would amply repay the labor of a transference to canvas.

When I left the forest, the wind was playing its closing voluntaries on the treetops, and the congregations of faded leaves were fast hurrying home to their winter retreats in the rocky nooks. Summer's sermons were over-the tongues in the trees were beginning to stiffen. Another preacher-the reverend and venerable John Frost--was approaching-that powerful, Puritan prelate of nature, and the very rocks seemed to say- Now, we shall have our long winter homilies, and our dreary psalms of snow and wind. No matter! the birds, and the flowers, and the south winds. will come again; and our forest cathedral will hear a service more to our taste."

Lo you, now, good reader! If here be

not a "trew ballode" of the olden time; as full of quaintness as an egg is full of meat, and as patriotic in sentiment as the Declaration of Independence. In our next we hope to match it with an elder brother of 1693-a little Puritanical, perhaps ; but we shall see anon.

SACK AND SUGAR.

In 1777,

A BALLAD.

When blows were dealt for life and land,
Fair women mingled in the fray,
And lent, at times, a helping hand.

An instance floats before me now, Evolved from memory's smouldering heap, That once beguiled my youthful ears, And lulled my drooping eyes to sleep.

East Hartford-famed for little else Than sand and water-melons nowWas marked, in those brave times of old, By quite an enterprising row.

What time King George's red-coat force Strode o'er the land with bloody trail,'

The sack and pillage happed, which here Becomes the staple of my tale.

Tea, sugar, rum, and other stores, In those rough days were scarce and dear, And folks resorted for supplies To measures that were somewhat queer: Thus, once in Master Pitkin's store, All hid away from common view,

Were sundry casks of sugar stowed, Intended for the soldier-crew.

The women-bless their patriot souls!The whispered news indignant heard, And straight resolved that not an ounce In British tea cups should be stirred. The tumult in their throbbing hearts Made every rounded bosom swell, And caused delighted swains to flush, As muslin tuckers rose and fell.

Through all the region round about, The spirit of adventure swept;

Girls talked of feats of arins by day,,
And dreamed of slaughter when they slept.
A rendezvous at length is fixed,
And Lyon's tavern is the spot,

Where troops throng in from Salmon
Brook,

From Podunk, and from Pewterpot.

And so, that August afternoon,
To air-borne cries of Katydid,

Some two-score damsels marched away,
For where the tempting bait was hid.
No flouting banner mocked the foe,
No martial music shrieked, "we come!"
For petticoats were flag enough,
And quite superflous fife and drum.

Poor badgered Pitkin (tory he,
Custodian of the precious stock)
Grew pale, as any tory might,
To meet this energetic flock.

With skirts tucked up through pocket-
holes,

And arms akimbo, on they came,
Resolved, in dauntless maidenhood,
To strike for sugar and for fame.
Aghast the trembl'ing sinner stood,

And quailed before the potent power-
Confronted by a crowd like this,
His craven spirit well might cower.
Besides, the band was flanked by three
Tall, sturdy chaps, who knew the plan,
And
80, like valiant Falstaff, he'
Turned tail at once, and fairly ran.
Elated now, the vietors ramped,
And topsy-turvy turned the things;

All his dried-apple bins they searched,
And stripped the onions from their strings;
Ripped swelling bags of feathers loose,
Upset the kettles, pots, and pans,

And when they forced the cellar-door,
Each female kick was like a man's.

At last, all snugly packed away,
They found the luscious prize they sought,
Then promptly seized a neighb'ring cart,
And two recumbent oxen caught.

The casks were safely rolled aboard,
Th' excited captain shouted "go!"
And off in triumph thus they bore
The plunder from the routed foe.

Now, where that captured sugar went,
No mortal ear was ever told;

But my opinion is, that all
Beneath true Yankee tongues was rolled;
And that, indeed, about those days,
When lovers' lips impulsive met,

The secret must have been betrayed,
That it was somewhere handy yet!

Women had nerve and mettle then,
And proved their pluck and prowess, too:
This sketch, suggestive, merely hints
At deeds they were prepared to do.
They hated red-coats-and they knew
That tories stood small chance for heaven,
Who prowled about Connecticut
In 1777.

THE PARKS OF CINCINNATI.-The report of a select committee, appointed by the Common Council of the Queen City, to inquire respecting the purchase of ground for public parks, lies before us, and from it we propose to gather a few interesting particulars. It appears that at the present time there are but two breathing-places in Cincinnati, "each four hundred feet by thirty-four feet, inclosed with a substantial wooden paling, so that neither man nor beast, nurse nor child, can trespass thereon; except that, now and then, a washerwoman scales the fence, and hangs her clothes there to dry." We quote from the report, and are not responsible for the above rather remarkable exception. But, apart from the enterprising washerwoman, the fact, that so large a city as Cincinnati should be so limited in park-room, is surely surprising. Two squares, each in extent about one-third of an acre, for a dense population of nearly one hundred and fifty thousand, is a very limited allowance of breathing space. The action of the Common Council has not been at least "premature," in the

premises. And we are happy to add, that we have also to lay before our readers a proposition, tendered the committee, which, as an instance of wise benevolence, cannot but excite the admiration of all, save the envious. Mr. Nicholas Longworth, well known as the "father of grape culture in the West," and one of Cincinnati's earliest pioneers, proposes that the city shall purchase of him a portion of the tract, known as the Garden of Eden, lying within the corporation limits of the city, and on the very verge of its streets. The terms of the proposal we take from the report:

"He will not require payment of any interest on the purchase-money for fifteen years, during which time the only expenditure he asks the city to make, will be the outlay, in permanently improving the premises, of a sum equal to the present income he receives from that portion how occupied by tenants, which sum the city can easily realize, by allowing the few vineyards within the inclosure to re main in the same condition as now. At the end of the fifteen years, if the city decide to keep the property, six per cent. bonds shall issue for the whole amount of principal and interest, and be delivered to such trustees as he shall appoint by a declaration of trust, by the terms of which trust, one half the annual income of the purchase-money, as thus accumulated, shall be forever expended in relief to the poor of Cincinnati, and the other half expended for such other benevolent purpose as he shall, in the mean time, provide for. At any time during the fourteenth year, the city may re-convey the property to him, or his heirs, or devisees, and become thereupon released from all obligation to pay either the principal or interest of the purchase money.

So that the only obligation the city is asked absolutely to undertake, is to expend aunu. ally a sum equal to what it will be annually entitled to receive from the vineyard tenants, and that sum is to be ascertained and fixed before the conveyance is accepted. All other branches of the proposal are only to bind the city, in case that, at the end of fifteen years, the value of the tract, the growth of the city, and the public wants shall render it expedient, in the eyes of our successors, to make the purchase absolute. There is no restriction against selling a part or whole of the tract, if found desirable, in order to lighten or remove the debt to be incurred by its purchase."

The proposition of Mr. Longworth recalls a very pleasant story of Franklin, who loaned five pounds to a friend, with an injunction not to return it, but, instead, to releoan it to the next deserving person who might need it, enjoining him, also, to reloan it, with the clause attached, so that the five pounds would be a constant benefit in circulation. But Franklin's five pounds was probably arrested on its errand of mercy by the first rogue who had it in trust,

whereas, Longworth's benefaction does not stand in any such danger. Like Franklin's, it is an active, ever-recurring institution of peace and good-will among men-a noble example, worthy of imitation. The city gets spacious grounds, and with them air, exercise, shade, and agreeable prospects for its citizens. The citizens, in paying the interest upon its bonds, relieve themselves proportionately of the burden of poor-taxThe poor, in turn, not only receive a pecuniary aid, but also instruction and assistance from such institutions as may be endowed by the wisdom and benevolence of the donor. In no possible shape could gift or bequest combine greater and more aotive advantages than this. And if we have anything to be proud of,

more than another, it is, that such acts as this are not uncommon; that the old feeling of patriotism-the fascia that binds us together as a people-now and then gleams out in our midst, in peace as in war, with corresponding lustre.

From another part of the report, we quote a paragraph or two, on the parks of the cities of Europe, which will, no doubt. interest the readers of Putnam:

"London has more than one hundred squares, and has, besides, Kensington Gar dens, of 350 acres; Buckingham Palace Gardens, of 40 acres; Hyde Park, of 400 acres ; St. James's Park, of 83 acres; Green Park, of 71 acres; Regent's Park, of 450 acres ; Primrose Hill, of 50 acres: Greenwich Park, of 200 acres; Battersea Park, of 350 acres; Albert Park, of 409 acres; Kensington Park, of 20 acres; Horticultural Society Gardens, Chiswick, of 33 acres; Botanic Gardens, at Kew, of 130 acres; besides which, there are within reach, and open to the people of London, Richmond Park, of 2,300 acres; and Hampton Court, five miles round. Late investigations into the influence of publie grounds on health and morals have induced the corporation of that city to dedicate two of the larger parks within a few years, in the poorer parts of the city, and to contemplate others still in those neighborhoods.

Liverpool has two fine parks, covering 200 acres. Dublin has one of 1,700 acres. Paris has twenty-three smaller squares, besides the Woods of Bolougne and the Woods of Vincennes, each of 500 acres. Vienna has the Glacis, a very large space in the centre of the city; the Augarten, also quite large; the Prater, four miles long; and seventeen smaller places. Berlin has two or three immense parks, and fourteen smaller ones. In Warsaw, about one-third of the city is pleas ure-grounds. Munich, with 110,000 people, has 1,200 acres of park. Rome has nine large squares and many smaller ones. Naples has thirty squares, many of them large, besides the King's Park, which touches the city; and Lisbon has twenty-six."