tem of roads, the time must shortly come when such an objection can no longer be raised. In conclusion, it is well for the people of the State to begin to face this subject. In Southern California it is not merely an idle abstraction. The people are looking forward earnestly to it. And when the time comes there will be no tie to sever except the strictly legal one; for this people, as I before said, look upon themselves not as Californians, but as Southern Californians. They have never surrendered their separate intellectual and social life. They have kept independent of San Francisco. They are building up their own institutions of learning. They form their own society. These, however, are questions of minor im- | completion of the southern transcontinental sysportance. The great reasons are, as I have stated, the feeling that geographically we are separated; that the mountains have divided us; that we are a different people, different in pursuits, in tastes, in manner of thought and manner of life; that our hopes and aspirations for the future are different; and that commercially we belong to a distinct and separate system, and must work out our business future for ourselves. People have not forgotten the days when the easy grades brought the trade from a quarter of a continent to the sea at San Pedro. It is only fair in discussing the question of division to state the reasons which may be urged against such a step. Among the people | here I have heard only one point raised-not against the division, but whether the population and wealth of Southern California will yet justify the step. It is conceded to be only a question of time; the doubt has been solely whether the time is yet fully come. Each year, however, is depriving this objection more and more of its force, and, with the rapid influx of wealth and population which will follow the As yet I have found no feeling of bitterness in this question. If bitterness arise, it will not be of our begetting. The only feeling is that for the future our ways lie asunder, and, as friends who have journeyed together, but who have now come to the parting of the road, we would shake hands, bid each other God speed, and each go his own way in peace. J. P. WIDNEY. A CHINA SEA TYPHOON. It is now twenty years since a splendid clip- | gust, and there discharging our four Chinese per ship lay at anchor off the Pagoda, a few miles below the city of Foo Chow Foo, on the | River Min. The last chests of tea were going | on board. The sails were bent, every rope was in its place, and the ship was "ready for sea." A noble vessel she was, with lofty spread of canvas, and lines the symmetry of which at once proved to the nautical expert that she deserved the reputation for speed acquired during her previous career; and, what was better than speed, she had always been "a lucky ship." "All cargo on board, sir, and seventy tons space in main hatch," reported the chief officer. He was ordered to "block off," and thus we sailed, drawing twenty-one feet six inches, with a cargo of new crop fancy brands of tea for the London market, insured for £120,000, refusing freight needed to fill the ship because we could get no additional insurance thereon in China, and no ocean cable was then available whereby it could have been placed in London. On the 4th of August, 1860, the order was given, “All hands up anchor," and we slowly dropped down the tortuous River Min, narrow, but deep, reaching its mouth on the 6th of Au pilots, with every appearance of fine weather, although one of the almond-eyed mariners remarked to me just before he went over the side, "Two, three day you catchee typhoon*—no likee topside." And he proved a true prophet, although the barometer then gave no sign. The shores of China faded in the dim distance, and our long homeward journey was commenced. With such a splendid ship, with a picked crew, "homeward bound," we commenced our voyage gladly, for we had tired of China and the Chi nese. With a fresh north-east monsoon we headed for the north end of Formosa, with every indication of easily weathering it, so that we could stand out of the China Sea, to avoid the southwest monsoon already blowing at its southern extreme. By 11 A. M. of the 7th, the weather commenced to look ugly, and the barometer, that faithful guide to the intelligent navigator, commenced its silent warning by dropping slowly and steadily. In the eastern horizen, whither we were heading, a dense bank of heavy, leaden * Chinese-Typhoon, or Tyfoong (great wind). colored clouds warned us to beware, and from the upper edge of this cloud-bank feathery, fleecy streamers detached themselves, moving with lightning rapidity to the northward. The ship, under double reefs, moved with a quick, nervous, and uneasy motion over a sea which, while not very high, ran without regularity of speed or motion. We knew that we were "in for it," and made every preparation. All light yards and studding-sail booms were sent down, sails were furled with "cross-gaskets," ports were opened to let the water run off the decks, hatches battened down, spare spars were double lashed, and everything that a sailor's experience could suggest was done to prepare our ship for the ordeal we felt was in store for her. We had ample time and warning. By 11 P. M., we were in a heavy gale, dragging under close-reefed top-sails and storm stay-sails, with a furious sea running. At this time, as we were fairly entering the radius of the cyclone, an occasional sharp flash of vivid lightning could be seen through the driving rain, followed by muttering thunder in the distance, both which phenomena were absent after we neared the vortex of the storm. By midnight the barometer had fallen to 28.60, and was rapidly dropping. By I A. M. of August 8th, it was blowing furiously, but thus far our noble ship made no sign. Her light cargo made her as buoyant as a cork, and although she had at times five feet of water on deck, she would rise to the sea and shake the water from her like a half drowned water-dog. At 1:30 A. M. of the 9th, the fore top-mast storm stay-sail blew out of the bolt-ropes, and a quarter of an hour later the main storm try-sail followed, both new sails going to ribbons with the report of a cannon, close aboard. We then took in our close-reefed mizzen top-sail, fortunately saving it. At 2:40 A. M., the close-reefed fore top-sail blew away, and we decided to try and save the main top-sail; but we had waited too long. When the weather-sheet was started it went out of existence like a flash, with a report which sounded for an instant above the roaring of the hurricane. We were thus "laying to under bare poles;" barometer at 5 A. M., 28.22, and still falling. By 4 A. M., we were feeling the fury of the typhoon; barometer 27.65. Successive seas had stove in our bulwarks, and at times the ship would go under forward to her foremast with such violence that I could not but ask myself, when, quivering in every timber, she recovered herself for another plunge, how much deeper she could go and come to the surface again. Meanwhile the wind had hauled easterly, heading us off, and we were on a lee-shore off the north-east end of the Island of Formosa. For a few hours there was no prospect of saving the ship. A rock-bound lee-shore in a hurricane is bad enough, but the additional certainty that if, by a happy chance, any of us reached the shore alive, we should have our throats cut by the savage aborigines inhabiting that part of Formosa, was not cheering. But the ship demanded my attention, and gave me little time to think of personal peril. At 4:30 A. M., I witnessed for the first time, during a sea service of sixteen years, the full force of a "China Sea typhoon." Its violence was awful, its fury indescribable! The Omnipotent appeared to have concentrated His strength in one mighty effort to manifest His power! To hear a human voice, even with the aid of a trumpet, was impossible, and we looked aloft in astonishment to see the work of human hands withstand such power. The hurricane roared like a mighty cataract, and while one imagined that it was blowing as hard as it could, a sudden blast would strike the ship, sounding like a park of artillery fired under our ears. During this part of the typhoon our ship lay with her lee-rail to the water, and comparatively easy, as the immense violence of the hurricane had "flattened down" the sea, which was feather-white as far as the eye could reach, and this was not far, for the atmosphere was full of "spoon-drift”—flying foam, taken from the tops of the waves in white sheets, and hurled through the air with such violence that one could only keep his eyes open by looking to leeward. Momentarily expecting the masts to go over the side, we stood, helplessly lashed on deck, awed at the sublimity of the scene. The hurricane expended its utmost violence in about two hours, and by 6:30 A. M. we could notice a diminished violence in the gusts, and the sea was again rising, more dangerous even than the hurricane, for such a confused crosssea I never witnessed, and our ship labored heavily, frequently with hundreds of tons of water on deck, moving with such violence that it was impossible to stand without a firm grip on something stationary. Morning dawned dark, gloomy, and tempestuous, with a tremendous sea running, but the vortex of the storm had passed, and the barometer had stopped its downward course. We were still on a lee-shore however, and as the wind had gradually headed us off, the sea was doubly dangerous. We decided to "wear ship," if such a thing were possible, under bare poles. The crew were placed at their stations, and they fully understood the dangerous character of the maneuver we were about to attempt, feeling that therein lay our only hope. The helm was grad ually put up, and as the squared after-yards felt the blast our noble ship started ahead like a frighted deer, and was off before it like lightning, with her head pointed toward the ironbound coast under our lee. Watching closely for an interval between the blasts, and with a sharp eye on the tremendous sea running, our ship was gradually brought to the wind on the off-shore tack, heading the sea, and thus enabled to surmount it more easily. At this time, 8:30 A. M., occasional patches of blue sky could be seen overhead, across which feathery thin streamers of cloud passed with lightning speed; a tremendous sea was still running, and a furious gale blowing. The barometer, to our delight, commenced to rise very slowly, and we felt that, unless knocked on our beam-ends by an unlucky sea, we could pass through the storm in safety. A test of our pumps showed that the ship was "as tight as a bottle." By 10 A. M. of Augusth 8th, the gale had sensibly abated, and we were able to replace our storm-sails gradually, having the ship under close reefed top-sails by noon, when the weather cleared up, and we could see, happily astern of us, the rugged coast of the Island of Formosa, distant about fifteen miles. It looked verily a terra inhospitalis, and over its rugged mountains the Storm King held high revel, for the dense bank of clouds, with the flying scud over them, clearly marked the progress of the cyclone on its way to the Chinese coast. It had been an unwelcome visitor, and we were glad to see it leaving us, for it had given us a near call! By 4 o'clock P. M., we had our ship under single-reefed top-sails, and were repairing damages, although when we finally reached London some of the scars of that contest were still visible. Eleven passages around Cape Horn, five around the Cape of Good Hope, and many winter passages across the stormy North Atlantic, have failed to furnish another such experience. I close the journal from which I have copied with a feeling of satisfaction that during a sea-life of sixteen years I have had one opportunity to observe how hard it can blow, and what severe contests with the elements a good ship, well manned, can pass through with impunity. "What became of the ship?" The banner of St. George now flies at her peak. Over the Southern Ocean, in the English-Australian trade, she still does her full duty, driven from our flag by too onerous taxation. WM. LAWRENCE MERRY. SWINBURNE ON ART AND LIFE. Mr. Swinburne is a defender of the doctrine of art for art's sake. He can make no terms with those who think that "to live well is really better than to write or paint well, and a noble action more valuable than the greatest poem or most perfect picture." To him art and morality are forever separate, and their followers occupy hostile camps. "Handmaid of religion, exponent of duty, servant of fact, pioneer of morality, art cannot in any way become." "There never was or can have been a time when art indulged in the deleterious appetite of saving souls or helping humanity in general along the way of labor and progress." In other words, art and the subject which it embodies are entirely distinct-the one may be perfect, however repulsive the other. the Creator, condemns the world as the most wretched contrivance imaginable. In like manner, Mr. Swinburne, in his anger that the love of beauty should ever have suffered at the rude hands of Puritanism, denies all possible connection between art and morals. Each view is extreme, and proceeds from a reaction against previous exaggeration in an opposite direction. But no abhorrence of asceticism can be sufficient excuse for a doctrine which would lead to the worst consequences in life. Least of all are such views to be tolerated at a time when to establish a rule of conduct, and to obey it-at all times the gravest work of man-becomes doubly solemn and momentous in view of the weakness, in certain quarters, of traditional beliefs. Mr. Swinburne's doctrine, however, cannot withstand the most moderate test. Essentially beyond the uninitiated, designed for those superior spirits who, under high pressure, are capable of enjoying moments of supreme de That Mr. Swinburne should insist on this separation is not, perhaps, altogether surprising. The doctrine is in perfect harmony with other tendencies of the times. The German pessimist, Arthur Schopenhauer, with ill concealed disgust at the discovery that he is not | light, the doctrine-art for art's sake-involves a confusion of thought to which nothing but the intoxication of those moments could have blinded its supporters. To assert that art is to be cherished for what it is, and not for what it expresses, is to insist upon a distinction precisely analogous to that of the metaphysicians, who for a long time made their own consciousness the measure of the universe, and thought it unnecessary for knowledge that there should be anything to be known, so long as there was anybody to know! To talk of distinguishing art from the subject which it expresses, is as absurd as to propose to take away the cononcavity of a line and leave its convexity. That the subject is noble does not, it is true, necessarily involve the excellence of the art; but that the subject is base, not only implies the degradation of the artist, but ultimately leads to the degradation of his work. Art is always the expression of the character of the artist; and great art, like all great work, implies great character. This does not mean that the artist must have a didactic purpose and make the teaching of morality the end of his work; but it means that the artistic sense must be supplemented by that moral temper which alone can give to its expression the enduring quality of perfected form. It is for the artist not only to perceive the beautiful, but also to make it manifest to those who lack his faculty of vision; and this task demands a power of expression, a mastery of the implements of his art, which moral excellence alone can give. Without this, faultless workmanship is unattainable; and if the degradation of sensuality be present, the work through its imperfect execution loses in æsthetic value, and fails to exhibit those qualities which give the art of the man of unimpaired character a beauty, which, in its enno-. bling influence, is moral. lished beyond the possibility of improvement. There is still a higher ground for the rejec- According to Mr. Swinburne, life is but "an interval, and then our place knows us no more. But these conclusions are still open to eva- Some spend this interval in listlessness, some in sion. Mr. Swinburne would no doubt readily high passions, the wisest in art and song. For admit that, in so far as a base subject does in- our chance is in expanding that interval, in getvolve a degradation which will weaken the ar- ting as many pulsations as possible into the tist's power of execution, art and morality are given time. High passions give one this quickinterdependent; but, he would retort, who shall ened sense of life. Only be sure it is passion, say that a base subject and a degraded charac- that it does yield you this fruit of a quickened, ter are necessary companions? Is the artist multiplied consciousness. Of this wisdom, the bound to govern his work by the ignorance of poetic passion, the desire of beauty, the love of the multitude, and so to refrain from depicting art for art's sake, has most; for art comes to passions the representation of which seems in you professing frankly to give nothing but the their eyes indecent and immoral, though to him highest quality to your moments, and simply they are "sacred," like all else that is human? for those moments' sake." That is Mr. SwinThis specious argument cannot save the doc- burne's doctrine-"the highest quality to your trine. It is sad to be compelled to deny any- moments, and simply for those moments' sake" thing to that which has been so often maltreat- -a doctrine which carries selfish gratification ed as genius; but there are, nevertheless, cer- to the sensual level of the beast in the field. tain matters which even this age, with all its Science, on the other hand, disproves the exlove of invention, rightly believes to be estab-istence of that human isolation which makes it I reject, therefore, his doctrine of art for art's sake, not only for its confusion of thought, for its degradation of both art and artist, but also as a principle of action which rests on the grossest misconception of man's relation to the universe. It involves a "barbaric conception of dignity," a deification of self, which, after what Copernicus, and, above all, what Darwin has taught us, is intolerable. All work, all wisdom, is valuable only for what it adds to the happiness of mankind, and civilization means only the eradication of selfishness. But with Mr. Swinburne's doctrine, disinterestedness is impossible. It acknowledges no debt to the past, professes no care for the future; and it sets up a dangerous principle of work which it would be only too easy to transfer to all branches of human activity. We should thus recognize as an established Power that selfishness which, in political and in social life, is even now everywhere belligerent; which has already caused the instinct of the statesman to transform itself into the appetite of the harpy, and has driven farther and farther away the hope of hearing many men unite in teaching, with Carlyle, "Thou wilt never sell thy Life, or any part of Bethy Life, in a satisfactory manner. Give it, like a royal heart. Let the price be Nothing: thou hast then in a certain sense got all for it." ALFRED A. WHEELER. indifferent what the individual does, so long as he interferes not with the existence of others. The right, the imperative duty, of the individual to attain his own highest development, has its assurance-nay, its sanction-in all that science teaches. But "it is a universal law of the organic world," as the late Mr. Chauncey Wright has said, "and a necessary consequence of natural selection, that the individual comprises in its nature chiefly what is useful to the race, and only incidentally what is useful to itself, since it is the race, and not the individual, that endures or is preserved." Side by side, then, with its recognition of individualism, science asserts the "unity of all," and affirms that every man is what he is by virtue of his relation to all other men. This intersection of conflicting tendencies must, by necessity, be manifest in every stage of the development of society; and in the civilization of to-day we see it in the fact of a high degree of individualism co-existing with the need, imposed by the complexity of life, of the widest cooperation. In conduct, in work, these mutually opposed elements must be made to coalesce, and the fusion of the two into one is possible only through the recognition of unselfishness as the supreme guide of action. selfish in order to be unselfish is the command of science. Be selfish for the sake of the delights of selfishness is the precept of Mr. Swinburne. A. PESCADERO PEBBLE. It was only a bit of rose-pink carnelian, waveworn to a perfect oval, and holding in its translucent depths a gleam almost jewel-like in luster; but the palm of the little hand in which it lay was as delicately molded and as rosy-pink as itself; and when the owner of the palm, looking up from under her broad beach-hat with a charming air of confidence in his sympathy, asked Mr. Bradford, "Isn't it lovely?" it was small wonder that he, being half artist and wholly human, and taking into his, survey, besides the pebble, the whole dainty figure in its blue yachting-suit, crowned by a rose-bud face lit by sweet brown eyes, should answer quite as fervently as she expected. "It is, indeed, very lovely." If his reply had reference only to the carnelian it was rather a generous concession on his part, for, though Pescadero pebbles are rare and lovely, they can hardly be of absorbing interest to a man who had bartered with Cingalese pearl-divers for their choicest "finds," had hunted for moon-stones and white sapphires under fierce Indian suns, had braved many a wild Baltic storm with the hardy gatherers of yellow amber, and had fought less successfully, if not less gallantly, for the rarer and lovelier blue amber against the rapacity of bronzed Catanian Jews. But, whether he praised the pebble for its own pink beauty, or with a mental reservation in favor of the fair maid who held it, there he lay, in true Pescadero fashion-six feet of gray tweed stretched at full length along the beach -poking over the multi-colored gravel with a shapely sun-browned hand, occasionally holding up a bright bit for Miss Brenton's inspection, and talking to her, the while, of strange shores on the farther side of the blue water whose white crests slipped so gently up the |