Doth dot the water white, like some fair ladies' veil.

How wonderful! we ask you to behold the scene;The surging, white capped blue, is changed to emerald green. But oh! a boat heaves up between us and the shore,— A plunging mass, perhaps five miles away or more: Like some great frightened steed, she rears up in the air, And while we watch, remains a few short moments there;→ Then down she goes! the smoke stack all that we can see; God pity her! T'were better on the land to be.

And yet again, the glory of the scene did change; The water turned to golden brown, with beauty strange: The marvels of the water, beauty of the sky,— Kaledioscopic scenes that with each other vie! The grandeur of the heavens, wonders of the sea, Forecasting ev'n the glory of that which is to be, No words can e'er describe, or painters brush portray:Sweet compensation these, for those who brave the day. At last tired nature claims her own, we fall asleep; And waking all is still;-A start and then a peep,Oh joy! the lights! The lights are those of Golden Gate. We pass into the harbor.-All's well, but two days late. Sea never seemed so calm, sky never seemed so blue, Sun never shone so warm, God never seemed so true, As when our storm-tossed souls in peace and safety layOur good old ship at rest in San Francisco Bay.

CHAPTER XII.

Great Writers.

In introducing the subject of literature, we do not hesitate to express the opinion that the Bible takes first rank; not only as a revelation of God's will to man, but as a great literary work. There are sections in the Old Testament, where we would prefer to see the language modernized; and there are little inaccuracies which have crept into it, either in the original manuscript or in the work of translation. We do not, however, agree with those who proclaim the ignorance of the Apostles. True, some of them were fishermen, and yet they may have been men of splendid mental ability, and possessing a fair degree of learning; their writings do not savor of ignorance. In Matt. xix:28, we are told that at the last day they should sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel; this will surely be no mean position to occupy. It has always seemed a matter for regret that Christ himself did not leave a manuscript, but he seems to have done very little writing; the Apostles were his scribes.

We cannot give the horoscopes of any Bible writers, and as we have from time to time given many extracts from its pages. we pass on to consider a few of the great names of the nineteenth century.

There are all sorts of styles from which to select. There is the easy, simple, graceful, lucid style, that we all enjoy when our time is limited for reading. Then there is the deep, philosophic, mystical, visionary style, that was our bugaboo in school days. You remember in the literary class how the professor would raise his eyes so as to peer over his glasses, and call Miss S-to explain what was meant by a certain passage; then he would ask Mr. M— if he caught

the meaning there; and after wrenching an explanation of some sort from at least half a dozen members of the class, who were anxious to distinguish themselves, he would finally, out of the whole muddle, formulate a conception of some sort which he volunteered as correct interpretation of the thought which the author wished to convey. In our opinion, time is too precious, and brain matter too expensive, to be wasted after any such fashion. Then there is a style often seen in poetry, where you find a few beautiful gems in a rough and rugged setting like an oasis in a desert or a patch of blue sky after a rainstorm; the gem glitters more beautifully by contrast with its surroundings.

Sometimes, during excursions among book-shelves. we see a long row of books entitled: "Literary Criticism", "The Literary Critic", "Library of Criticism", etc.; some of them beautifully bound, and really trying to pose as works of art. We never look inside those books. The man who wrote them should have been improving his talent in trying to place something of merit on the shelves himself, instead of tearing down the building of another; trampling laurel wreaths and hard earned trophies in the dust. If he thinks a book is not good let him write a better, and let the great amalgamation of brain power throughout the world decide upon its merits. Herbert Spencer on hearing his father praise a book remarked: "I could write a better book on the subject myself", and he gave the world his best. Sometimes snarly bits of criticism are found in ordinary biography books, although many are beautifully written and worthy of the highest commendation. We recollect in a sketch of Sarah Bernhardt reading something about her eccentricities. This sentence, which is copied word for word, appeared: "Among her other eccentricities she once got married." If there was any

thing eccentric about the manner in which she was married it was not stated; the case was not explained. The writer then went on to mention her interest in sculpture and art, classing them as eccentricities. Some persons naturally have such jealous natures that they cannot see anyone above them without trying to pull them down. He who builds on another's ruins is building the devil's structure.

Now a few words on newspapers. If we were looking around for a place where we could live a quiet life, and yet have a mighty influence in the world, we would qualify for newspaper work. Talk about ministers; they deliver an address to a very limited number once or twice a week, while the newspaper man has his fling at a few thousand every day. If he can't mould public sentiment it is not the fault of his opportunity, particularly in these days when there is so much excitement in the air, and everyone must read the newspaper. His opportunity is great and his responsibility is correspondingly great. The daily paper is certainly a wonderful commodity. For a penny you can get the news from every part of the world, and if there is any part of the world you don't hear from, you know that nothing important took place in that locality. We might write for hours upon the wonders of the newspaper, and the mighty influence which it is privileged to wield, but space will not permit. Newspaper men are very clever. They can dispose of almost any question that arises in a satisfactory manner, and make mince meat of their opponents on the shortest notice. Editorials are written while you wait, and news is carted out wholesale; we cannot wonder if it is not always accurate. The newspaper is also a great advertiser. When you slide from the path of rectitude, and trouble overtakes you, it joyfully spreads the news far and wide by

special dispatch, and never charges you a cent. Sometimes we hate it and yet we cannot live without it.

Chart No. 45 gives you the author of "Treasure Island," novelist and poet. His mother was gifted with the pen and his father was a lighthouse builder. Each of these come under the 3rd Sign hence the writing talent inherited by the son. Uranus and Saturn in the 12th Sign subjected him to chest trouble all his life, and also caused him to write in a weird gloomy and pathetic strain. Good planets appearing in the 3rd and 4th gave him his beautiful home in the Samoan Islands. He seems to have been happily married