peared in America. Burning blushes envelop the Easy Chair like those that kindle upon the maiden's cheek blooming beneath the Christmas mistletoe, as it owns the soft impeachment, and confesses that this Magazine is the very one, the new-comer of thirty-five years ago, the magazine which first appealed to the general popular taste of the country with an ever-increasing success, which is the more gratifying as it attends an ever-increasing improvement.

If John Bull will permit his cousin Jonathan to have his own way for a moment, as they sit gossiping before the blazing Christmas hearth, his cousin will modestly remark that the development of the magazine in America illustrates the same eager rapidity of progress which characterizes the general movement of the country. In Great Britain the Gentleman's developed into the New Monthly Magazine and Blackwood and the London, and they into Fraser and Bentley's Miscellany, and they in turn into Thackeray's Cornhill and its contemporaries, and the grave Nineteenth Century, Contemporary, and Fortnightly, in which solid courses of entertainment and instruction are served every month by masters in politics, science, art, theology, and literature. In America the popular magazine has added greater variety to the serial story, sketch, essay, criticism, and poem, and is especially rich in papers of travel, exploration, and adventure. But its peculiar distinction is its illustration. Indeed, the art of wood-engraving is an art which, after long delays, has latterly made extraordinary progress with unprecedented rapidity, and has reached its present perfection under the auspices of the American popular magazine.

When, therefore, a few years since, the Magazine crossed the ocean and presented itself in "our old home," it was the lineal descendant of the Gentleman's, and the kinsman of the monthlies and the London, of Fraser and the Cornhill, returning from its new home superbly decorated, like the foreign cousin, covered with ribbons and stars and orders, making his modest bow as an ambassador in the common ancestral hall. How cordial its welcome has been it gladly owns, and it does not disguise its pleasure in seeing the impulse that its coming has given to Cousin John to win and wear the decorative ornaments that it has introduced. The excellent Edward Cave of today has heard of America, and has long had dealings with its booksellers and book-makers, and Sylvanus Urban beholds with mingled emotions the arrival of this brave Western gallant who announces himself to be a chip of the old block, a son of the Gentleman's, and who claims kindred with all his descendants.

His coming is contemporaneous with a closer international tone in the common literature and feeling of John and Jonathan, which was prefigured, perhaps, in Thackeray's Esmond and The Virginians. The historian

Freeman points out the continuing institutions and habits in both countries, and the storytellers Henry James and Howells and White trace the filial feeling to either shore, and with curious introspection disclose under differing forms the action of the same instinct. John and Jonathan may each play Santa Claus, and put it in each other's stocking as a Christmas gift of good-will, that, while every noted Englishman is welcomed in America with an effusion which England seldom shows, a famous American poet, for the nonce United States Minister in England, is asked, passing by all famous Englishmen, to unveil a bust of Fielding in Taunton, while a bust of our Longfellow is placed by distinguished Englishmen with af fectionate admiration in Westminster Abbey.

These things agree well with the entry of the American magazine into English homesan admission accorded by kindly sympathy, as when some stranger is received at the gates and honored with the freedom of the city. To speak every month in the same tongue, and that the common tongue, to the household upon the Winnipeg in Manitoba or to homes scattered along the Oregonian Columbia, and those that look upon the solitary Pacific, to friends at the mouth of the Mississippi or “far away on Katahdin"-in leafy English Kent, in the shadow of Skiddaw and Helvellyn, in Milford Haven or King's Lynn, in remote Carnarvon upon the western sea, or "Ultima Thule, utmost isle"-this is to feel the truth of the inscription which the English scholar carved upon a seat under the trees at Cornell University, Above all nations is Humanity. To all these far-scattered homes upon different continents, yet bound together by a common faith, language, traditions, and love of liberty, this Magazine comes with its monthly message of cheer, saying with the poet whom both England and America love:

"Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest

At your warm fireside when the lamps are lighted,

To have my place reserved among the rest, Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited."

In this way the Magazine becomes a minister of that international good-will which the Christmas season commemorates, and our kin beyond the sea, as they greet its familiar aspect, not as that of a stranger, but of a friend, will feel more deeply the community of ennobling tradition and of humane purpose which unites America and England.

The felicity and the fidelity of Hawthorne's phrase every true-hearted American owns. With Lowell he may have remarked “a certain condescension in foreigners," but he readily forgives to an islander an insular manner, and he chides himself if the air of condescension vexes rather than amuses him. It is not to the England of the cockney and of Bow Bells that the American is loyal, nor does a sensible Yankee see all Englishmen in the British traveller who asked his hackman to stop for a mo

ment upon Bunker Hill that he might step out and spit upon the monument.

When the Englishman at an American table says to his host that the pudding is "just like what we used to cell stick-jaw at school," or when he advises his British companion to take a cup of the hostess's coffee, because "it isn't so very nasty, you know," we do not hold the entire English people responsible. The absurdities of Englishmen amuse us as our absurdities amuse them. But we are not only too large to be patronized, we are too large also to do anything but smile at those who attempt patronizing. There was a time, indeed, when the gibes of Fiedler and of Mrs. Trollope made our grandfathers wince, and they were so furious at Sydney Smith's terrible question, Who reads an American book? that they forgot both that Fisher Ames had asked the same question ten years before, and that, alas! there was no American book much worth reading always excepting, of course, the delightful Diedrich Knickerbocker's veracious history, which, however, the Knickerbockers themselves held to be a work which fully justified Sydney Smith's taunting question.

Nobody laughs at Englishmen more goodnaturedly and pungently than Englishmen. Turner said to the young woman who looked at his picture and remarked, with an air, "I never saw anything like that in nature," "No, madam; but don't you wish you could?" When the old-fashioned Englishman went through the world sitting aloof in his travelling carriage, and from that British throne surveyed mankind, and observing the characteristic custom of the country in which he chanced to be, or the peculiar national institution, remarked, "I never saw anything like that in England," the cosmopolitan genius whispered,No; but don't you wish you could?" We Americans were very wroth with Dickens for the stinging flings in Martin Chuzzlewit. But if the humorist lashed Cousin Jonathan, he scourged John Bull; and Thackeray the Great, while he sometimes playfully bantered the American, roundly scored the Briton.

Does the old hostility to the redcoats survive in the American school? When the grandfathers of to-day were school-boys, the old battles of the Revolution and of" the last war" were still fought out in the most sanguinary manner-fought out, that is to say, in feeling and with fists. The British always had the worst of it in the debate, and that laced scarlet coat was the very livery of tyranny. But at Yorktown-ha! ha!-redcoats learn cd what it is to oppress free-born Americans! And what noble flowers of liberty were the Bourbon lilies of France which bloomed beside the stars and stripes! The Versailles of the Louises was so fond of freedom, and so dearly loved rebellion and revolution! Then at New Orleans how soundly the British hirelings were drubbed by General Jackson behind his immortal cotton bales! If they had not

been British soldiers whom he thrashed, Jackson would not have been half as famous. What a resource that school-boy tradition of hostility to England has been to American politicians! England and the English race have really done something for liberty, if we may trust the chronicles. But listening to much of our stormy political haranguing, the appalled hearer would suppose that Attila and Gengis-Khan, Nero and Timour the Tartar, were incarnations of England.

No doubt, as it was said that it took Dickens a long time to discover that Thackeray had written a great novel, it is true that English opinion was as reluctant as George the Third to acknowledge that there was another great English nation. No family quarrel which has been pushed to extremity is ever readily healed, and Sister Britannia, in ruling the waves, has sometimes stopped and spattered Sister Columbia in a very exasperating and unnecessary manner. It would have been much better if Mother England had comprehended that when her son was of age he was no longer a child. He could not and he would not go to bed at nine o'clock and conform to the rules of the nursery. To attempt to thrash him into obedience was the sure way to drive him off and to fill his heart with bitterness. But although she made that huge mistake, and has not wholly forgotten sometimes to repeat it, England is still our nearest relation and our natural ally.

It is pleasant to remember that it is literature, not statesmanship, which has soothed this bitterness of feeling. The first fully accredited ambassador of international goodwill was Washington Irving. And what artless and kindly diplomacy it was! With tender grace he painted the portrait of the common ancestor. It was poetic and traditional England that he described, the quiet rural life, the happy old customs, the places hallowed by genius and renown, above all, old English Christmas, with its fond and beautiful associations, until in the sweet and gentle spell jealousies and animosities vanished, and as we awoke with him on Christmas morning to the murmur of pattering little feet in the corridor, and attended him through the happy hours of the holiday, we felt the common kindred, the long descent, the mysterious instinct of race, and in perfect sympathy our accordant hearts beat the refrain, We too are Englishmen.

And if Englishmen of a Newer England, of a Greater Britain, what then? Plymouth Rock is but a stepping-stone in the progress of English civilization. Our language, our traditions of liberty, our forms of securing and enlarging freedom, our literature, our prosperity-what are they, and upon what foundations built? If influences adverse to those which have fostered and developed America are to be successfully opposed, by what traditions, principles, and spirit must they be encountered? If an alliance to secure the peaceful progress

of liberty in Christendom were necessary-a true Holy Alliance-must it not be composed of the English-speaking races on both sides of the sea? Whatever draws them more intelligently together, whatever soothes little asperities and reconciles petty differences and cultivates mutual good-will, is a common benediction.

It is in this way, as in a thousand others, that literature is so great a benefactor. This service of Washington Irving is incalculable, and this is the kind of service in which the popular magazine modestly co-operates. It promotes and diffuses the Christmas spiritthe spirit of generous affection and kindliness which binds nations together like individuals. Kindred states, like neighboring territorial proprietors, may cherish hearty friendship without effusive ardor of protestation, and with constant care of the due boundaries of their estates.

In the warm glow of Christmas feeling, therefore-and we declare that it is no other glow, for the plum-pudding is not yet served, nor the hot spiced wine-this Magazine complacently regards itself as helping, in ever so small a way, the better understanding of the

great family to which it belongs. It has already said how heartily this was done by Ir ving many years ago, and it gladly records how nobly it is done now by a fellow-American author of Irving's-of a younger generation, indeed, but of the same generous spirit -the minister to whom the Easy Chair has already alluded, who is not merely an ambassador of literature, but an actual diplomatic personage, who, in the discharge of official duty and in the world of society which is the traditional field of diplomatists, shows how closely what is best in America is related to the best in England. He too was once the editor of a magazine, and then unofficially, as now with all the splendors of official state, he cultivated that international peace and good-will which is the highest diplomacy, which tends to restrain national arrogance and jealousy and folly, and which among nations makes Christmas all the year.

May that be the perennial spirit of this monthly visitor, which is very proud of its wide welcome, and which wishes all its friends everywhere in the great English-speaking world a merry Christmas!

Yf Crystemas day on Thursday be,
A wyndy wyntyr se shalle yee,
Of wyndes and weders all wrecked,
And harde tempestes stronge and thycke.
The somer shalbe good and drye,
Cornys and bestes shall multyplye;
That yere ys good londes to tylthe;
And kynges and prynces shall dye by skylle.
What chylde that day borne bee,

He shalle have happe ryght well to the,
Of dedes he shalbe good and stabylle,
Of speche and tonge wyse and reasonabylle.
Who so that day any thefte abowte,
He shalbe shente wythowtyn dowte;
And yf sekenes on the that day betyde,
Hyt shal sone fro the glyde.

THA

-Harleian MS., Fifteenth Century.

HAT is, on the whole, not a bad prophecy for 1885, and intended to cover the wide territory reached by the Drawer in this year of grace. It is not so local as the weather which British literature has sought to impose upon all English-reading people, and has that universality of application which is required of a serviceable prophecy. Without it, indeed, we are certain of a wyndy wyntyr and of harde tempestes. Concerning the fate predicted for kings and princes, we can only say that they are used to it by this time; nearly every one nowadays dies by skill, and with the progress of science and the plenty of good physicians, it is not necessary to suppose that even the great ones of the earth shall find their exit by the hands of the secret international murderers. The summer will be dry in the Sahara, and there will be wide areas of drought all over

the West, and here and there in the East, and probably a day or two in Scotland and Ireland, enough to satisfy the prophecy, and there may be a lucky tourist who will pass a morning without drenching in the charming lake region of England. The prediction encourages all these hopes, and indeed diffuses a pleasant light over all the year for those who survive the winter. The coming of a chylde on Christmas-day who shall be reasonabylle is something to look forward to, and if he can be bred with the idea that he is not to be President of the United States, he will be a blessing to the country, and will, indeed, stand some chance of reaching the natural end of every American patriot. We have also an extra reason for expectation of a good and fruitful year in 1885: it will not be Presidential year, and will be free from many causes of disaster; business will revive, and it will not be necessary to prove by affidavits and certificates of clergymen and discharged coachmen that our most honored and trusted public men ought not to be in the penitentiary. Indeed, the Drawer can not repress a feeling of hilarity that four years will elapse before the whole country is again on the road to the devil, by way of a majority vote. May we have peace and good harvests, and--an unfailing sign of a happy people-an abundant supply of characteristic anecdotes, which serve to keep us all in good-humor!

It would have been a wild prediction of the optimist three centuries ago that the time

would ever come when on one day in the year everybody in Christendom would have a good dinner. And yet it is almost realized. The gospel of humanity has almost reached that point. It is perhaps a wasteful and excessive mode of showing our humanity, but there is this good about it, that the feasibility of accomplishing it on one day will suggest the possibility of making at least decent dinners more common to people generally, and that when a man has once tasted the pleasure of a prodigal meal, he may be induced to some personal exertion of industry and thrift to procure himself the pleasure again. We know by statistics that there is food enough to satisfy everybody if it were properly distributed, and the lesson that it can be distributed one day is a most important one. The danger of course is that it is in human nature to depend upon charity when once charity is accepted, and so to lose the one priceless thing to any man, which is independence. But the beauty of Christmas is in its recognition of common humanity and common dependence on something beyond humanity, and the charity of it is not a condescension that can puff anybody

up or hurt any man's pride, but a diffused good feeling, and a drawing together in a common fête of all sorts and conditions of men. Here in the United States it is literally of all sorts and colors, a commingling of people under one privilege absolutely unparalleled. And to enjoy the Christmas of humanity we are not required to eat the same sort of dinner, any more than we are required to have the same sort of creed. The plantation negro with 'possum fat and 'coon (brown cracklin', wid graby-go 'way dar, chile!) is just as much alive to the odor of the anniversary as the English denizen with his traditionary roast beef and plum-pudding. We have learned by the hard discipline of a new country that we can make a very thankful meal for the day out of wild turkey and canvas - back ducks, flanked by a green goose, with appropriate accompaniments. People can get used to anything if they only have the right spirit. Indeed, it has been said that it is not so much what we eat on Christmas-day as what we give away that raises our spirits; but this is to be understood within limits, for it can not be denied that there is such a thing as uni

versal hunger on Christmas-day that will not be allayed any more in the case of a rich man than of a poor man by the remembrance of a good deed warmed over. But the best sauce to a good dinner is the thought that nobody else within reach is hungry. And better even than the dinner of the day is the universal spirit of good-will that broadens year by year, and deepens, we are sure. The Drawer has not intended to make a homily by way of accompaniment to anybody's repast, and is satisfied if it can send a light ripple of laughter round the world.

HOW TO DO A "HEAD."

A WELL-KNOWN artist in London having dined sumptuously upon a bill of fare of which some fine canvas-backs from the Chesapeake were an important element, wrote the next day, for the instruction of some of his most cherished pupils, the following meritorious formula:

Take two or three good canvases (the "Maryland duck" is the primest: be careful to see that the back is sound and fair); hang them up a few days to get the proper "tone." When they are ready, ask in a few fellow-students to assist. Before beginning operations let each student select his own priming (Amontillado and Angostura mixed is a good priming).

Settle on the size of the "head" you want. Serve out a half-dozen of small round shells, each containing a little "Whitstable" native; draw these carefully into your head ("Chablis" is a good vehicle to draw them in with). You may then glaze over with a warm solution of "potash” (purée tomate). Change your vehicle to dry Amontillado again.

This is for the preliminary "sketch," and not on the "canvas" itself yet.

Then place before each student a properly primed "canvas,” and change the medium.

A good "drier" is needed-the drier the better, but not too "brutal." "Pom. et Greno, très sec, '74," is a very fine medium. A small tube of this (playfully called a "magnum," because it is rarely big enough, and more has to be called for). The student's "palate" will often have to be washed with this, and his "canvas" well soaked with it. When the head feels "tacky”—which it soon does—cover up the canvas with some fine "Turkey twill"; the simple native untutored savage stuff is best. The same medium will do to wash with, if it needs washing.

When the head feels "dried in" a little, put in a background of foliage-lettuce and things.

More medium will be required for this. "ClosVougeot" some like.

Then put in your accessories-bloater on toast and "deviled things" are pretty. Change medium again to anything that washes in freely. This is a good time to experiment with various "vehicles," as you will find your head is still on a very absorbent ground. Then,

with a warm decoction of Mocha in a small cup, and a pastel of Havana, try to waft the softening and blending tones about the "head." This process will sweeten the tones of it charmingly.

Then, when "tacky" again, go gently over with various washes of old Bourbon or "Glenlivet," and still burn the pastels. This process is much dwelt upon by the student. It puts a finish the most minute finish sometimes-on the work.

The same night is a bad time to judge of effects; so reserve yourself for a morning impression. You will fancy at first that yon possess a life-size old master, cracks and all, and that the frame is too small for it; but never mind. Don't exhibit it too soon-the profession reeks with envy and jealousy.

THE possibility of a destitution of good anecdotes reminds us of the speech of an Irish servant. The family had incurred extra expenses in moving and settling down, and fell one day at dinner to discussing the short prospect, which the girl, overhearing, contributed to by suddenly opening the door and popping in this information: "Every blissed thing is given out but the tay and coffee, and sure they will, if they last long enough."

ALAS! we are becoming homogeneous. It was only the other day that an accomplished young man, staying at a Newport cottage where all the servants are French, sauntered into the breakfast-room, under the impression that he was "all ready" for that meal, observing to his hostess, “Je suis déjà pour déjeuner !”

DURING the celebrated campaign of 1855 Governor Henry A. Wise visited, while making his canvass, the town of Liberty, situated about thirty miles west of Lynchburg, for the purpose of addressing the people of that neighborhood on the political situation. He was received with great éclat by the citizens of the town aforesaid, and was of course introduced to all the local notables, without regard to party. Among these was a Mr. Fogy, residing at the foot of the Peaks of Otter, a gentleman who was not awed the least when in the presence of greatness.

The following colloquy ensued between them:

MR. F. "Mr. Wise, I am glad to see you." MR. W. "Mr. Fogy, I am happy to make your acquaintance."

MR. F. "But I am sorry to say that I can't vote for you, Governor."

MR. W. "I am sorry for that also, Mr. Fogy; but as this is a free country, every man has a right to vote as he pleases."

MR. F. "I'll tell you how I feel about it, Mr. Wise. When I was a young man I was what is called a thimble-rigger, and I went to all the hoss-races in the neighborhood with my thimbles and ball, cryin' out, "Tis here and