weather which is always to be found there, even at Midsummer. Estes Park I did not see, but I spent two days at Manitou Park with great enjoyment. It is, however, an isolated spot, and I should think it might become very monotonous after a short time; there is very little of interest except the magnificent view, which is so extended that when one sits on the verandah of the hotel it is almost like being at sea. There are no drives, and no horses to drive even if there were, so that, except for gentlemen who fish at a very fine trout ranch, there is literally nothing to do. The hotel is built of logs, and is surrounded by a little settlement of log cabins and tents, belonging to people who prefer to sleep in them, and get their meals at the hotel. These houses, built of logs with the bark on, are exceedingly picturesque, and one of them which was some little distance from the hotel, and belonged to a private family, was I think the prettiest country house I ever saw.

It was shortly before my visit to Manitou Park that I went to see the Grand Cañon of the Arkansas River, which is some distance from Colorado Springs, so that it took us a long day on the railroad to go and come. The Royal Gorge, which is the finest part of the cañon, is a narrow cleft between two enormous walls of rock, which rise up perpendicularly for more than two thousand feet, and between them, roaring and foaming, is the Arkansas River. There is a little rocky path by the side of the water which gives just width enough for the narrow gauge railway, except in one place where the river fills up the entire space; and the only way in which a bridge could be built was by driving iron bars into the rock on either side, and suspending the bridge from them. This was to me the most wonderful thing which I saw, for one sees there not only the wonders of Nature, but the triumph of Science. It is the custom in the West, when the train is going through any remarkably fine scenery, to put on what are called observation cars'-that is, cars without any top or sides-so that the view may be unobstructed. Owing to some mistake, however, there were none on this train; and so, in order that I might lose nothing, I went out and sat on the steps on the rear of the car while we were passing through the gorge. It frightened me very much at first, but after I became accustomed to the sensation, I enjoyed it very much, though in some places we were so near to the wall of rock that I felt as if I must graze my fingers, which were holding on to the railing of the steps.

On our way back from this excursion the train stopped for an hour at Cañon City to allow the passengers to see the Penitentiary belonging to the State of Colorado; and as we passed through the great iron gates the officials gave us little tickets, which were to be presented when we came out, which to our great amusement we found to have printed on them, 'Expiration of Sentence, June 23rd,' that being the date of our visit. I had never seen a penitentiary before, and I was much surprised at the amount of liberty allowed

the prisoners, and also the number of personal belongings which we saw in the cells. All of them had pictures, and a comfortable chair of some kind, and in one I saw an illuminated scroll, After clouds cometh sunshine,' which struck me as very appropriate; and in another the prison-bed was covered with a magnificent coverlet of Nottingham lace with a pink lining. I was told afterwards the regulations of this Penitentiary were remarkably lenient; too much so, in fact, for the prisoners were constantly escaping.

One of the places which I enjoyed most was Cheyenne Mountain, which is far the most beautiful of the chain. There are two lovely cañons, up which it is possible to drive for some distance; and beside these there is a charming drive up the side of the mountain to the place where Helen Hunt Jackson (H.H.) is buried. The road is a very steep and difficult one, and it is absolutely necessary to have two good horses and a waggon with a brake which can be used on the way down. The ascent is about two thousand feet, and all along the road, as it winds round the side of the mountain, are the most beautiful and extended views over the prairie. The grave is in a very lonely spot, looking into a ravine. Mrs. Jackson was passionately fond of nature, and loved to spend hours alone on this mountain; and her wish to be buried there arose from her love of its great isolation. It is sad to see how far from realised her idea is. The place has become a haunt for tourists, who write their names not only on the trees, but on stones which they pile on the grave, until it looks like a rubbish heap. Mrs. Jackson desired that there should be no stone, and that the grave should be covered only by kini-kinic, a little running plant with red berries, of which she was very fond.

I have always felt a great admiration for her novel Ramona,' which she intended, it is said, to excite the same sympathy for the Indians which 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the negroes; but I was told by persons who know the Indian race, that the picture of them is entirely ideal, and that Mrs. Jackson was a very imaginative and impulsive person.

One of the remarkable things which are shown to strangers The Garden of the Gods'; indeed, I believe it is considered to be the great sight of the place, though I did not find it very interesting myself. This so-called garden is not, as might be imagined from its name, full of rippling streams, grassy turf, and flowers; it is, on the contrary, a collection of huge misshapen red rocks formed of sandstone, and bearing more or less resemblance to various objects which they are named for, such as Bear and Seal; and one, which is supposed to look like a head and shoulders, is called Aunt Sally.' The rocks are of an enormous size, which I only realised when I was told that a hole at the top of one of them, which looked to me about large enough to put my head through, was really wide enough for a carriage and horses to pass through. I do not think any one could

call it a beautiful place, and to me it seemed ugly and almost repulsive, as if Nature had made it an asylum for her deformed children. It gets its name, it is said, from the people who first lived there, an old negro couple called Jupiter and Juno.

I did not see anything during my visit which answered to my preconceived ideas of the roughness of Western life; but I suppose Colorado Springs can hardly be considered a Western town, for the population consists almost entirely of people from all parts of the country who come and go. Persons who lived there when the town first began to be built, however, can tell of a different state of things. One lady told me that when she first came to live there twelve years ago, she and her sister brought revolvers with them, and as they had no idea how they were to be used, they made up their minds to practice, and selected as a target what they supposed to be an old barn. After they had fired several shots a little boy came timidly around the corner and said, Please, ma'am, mother says would you be so kind as to stop firing at our house. Your last shot went straight into the kitchen.'

Apparently the family did not feel any surprise at the incident, and as the heroine of the story remarked, she felt after it as if it was a mistake to say that there were no good manners in the West. This same lady told me that at that time the proportion of womankind in the place was so small that when there was any dancing the ladies were obliged to take a fresh partner for each figure of the lancers, in order that each of the gentlemen present might have a chance.

The first time I saw a ranch, I was lost in astonishment at its insignificance. I had supposed I should see large barns, enormous haystacks, and miles of fences; instead of which there was a little unpainted house in the midst of the prairie and nothing else, and I then began to realise that as the cattle lived on the prairie, and as the grass there is so poor that it requires from fifteen to twenty acres to feed one cow, there can of course be no enclosures. The cattle are branded and then left to roam where they please, and if the winter is severe and they are driven far south in search of food, they will not be all collected and brought home by the cow-boys until June. Then comes the spring round-out, when the different brands are separated, the calves which have been born are branded, and the year begins again. There are of course quantities of cattle to be seen everywhere, and every week droves of them would pass the house attended by cow-boys and dogs. I used to be much amused by the little colts which are allowed to follow their mothers when they are in harness, and one day I saw one in Tejon Street, where the shops are, which had lost its mother, and was running up and down the side walk neighing and looking into the doors of the shops in hopes of finding her.

It will easily be imagined that in a climate as dry as that of Colorado, there is not much vegetation. There are no trees except a low, bushy kind of oak called scrub-oak, aspens, and cotton-wood

trees. The latter are a very pretty delicate green, and grow luxuriantly; but they have a great defect, which is that the cotton-pods burst in the spring, and the cotton blows away, so that for several weeks the air seems to be full of it. It is very annoying to persons who have coughs, and it is very untidy in appearance. A freshlymown lawn will be covered in half an hour with a fine white down, and one unfortunate stranger, who thought the spring would be a good time to have the outside of his house painted, found that the next day it looked as if it had been tarred and feathered. The water which supplies the town comes from the mountain streams, from which it is brought in pipes. All along the sides of the streets are little wooden ditches about six inches deep, and into these the water is turned once or twice a week. From these main ditches there are others under the ground which carry the water into the gardens, and when the plug is taken out it flows through them all over the grass and flower-beds. The supply of water is very plentiful, and the grounds around the houses look always green and fresh. Some of the ranches near the town have this system of irrigation, and can therefore raise fruit and vegetables; but as a rule, everything of that kind comes from a distance, particularly from Salt Lake City.

In the matter of wild flowers, however, the case is entirely different, for they grow in the greatest profusion, and with such richness of colouring that if I had seen paintings of them before I saw the originals, I would not have believed that they could be true to Nature. I did not see any varieties which I was accustomed to at home, as I suppose only those kinds which can live without much water can grow in that soil.

The Yucca or Spanish bayonet is perhaps the most beautiful, with its tall stalks covered with pure white bells, and the long pointed leaves from which it gets its name. Another very curious one is the painter's brush, which is well named, for it has a bushy yellow blossom, with the tip shaded to deep red, giving just the effect which would be produced by dipping it in paint. Then there is the Mexican poppy, which has leaves and flowers of the same shape as our own poppy, but the flower is white, and the leaf is covered with prickles like a thistle. It was the first day of summer when I reached Colorado, and I found the trees in their first fresh green, and the prairie covered with flowers. When I left it was the first day of autumn, and the flowers had all passed in their season, till nothing remained but golden-rod and the gigantic sunflowers. The aspens had begun to turn yellow, and the leaves to fall, and I felt that perhaps it was well to leave them before their glory was departed; but I said good-bye to all the beautiful places where I had had so much enjoyment with the deepest regret, and I look back to the summer which I spent among the Rockies as a period of my life which has been without a cloud.

COMMENTS ON A PAGE OF THE FORTNIGHTLY.'

BY THE AUTHOR OF WIKKEY,' 'ANTON'S ZITHER,' ETC.

THIS (the story of Panthea) is a story which ma ches in pathos and tenderness that of the half-mythic Alcestis, in self-devotion and heroism that of the nameless wife of Pontius. It is the answer to all who question the power of paganism to give that incentive to holy living and dying which they find in Christianity, and is the vindication of religion, however named, and of humanity, whatever its race. It shows that, let the outside garb of faith be what it will-the verbal form of consecration be to Allah or to Zeus, to Jehovah or to Christ-it is in the heart of man that the real divinity is to be found, the heart of man whence springs the true fountain of grace. Capable of the extremest nobleness when stirred by patriotism, love, unselfishness, by belief in something stronger than sense and purer than pleasure, it is by its own integral nobleness that humanity lifts itself to a level with the divine, making demigods of some and of others deiparæ. Herein lies one of the essential differences between that ancient life of Greece, and our modern forms of faith. In the earlier, men were responsible for their own moral state and held themselves the creators of their own spiritual condition. Sacrifice and offering were partly tribute paid to the gods for respect and honour, partly means to secure public blessings and prosperity. But there was nothing analogous to the modern doctrine of the desperate wickedness of the human heart; of how man can do nothing of himself; and of how all good gifts of thought and virtue come from God and are due to the operation of the Holy Spirit. The times were too free and life was too beautiful-love was too precious and patriotism too holy—for the morbid asceticism, the mental and moral self-mutilation which grew to be considered the cor cordium of true religion. The kindly gods were as many as there were human passions to restrain from excess and beautify into harmonious social elements, rather than to destroy altogether in the seclusion of a convent or the open-air prison of the desert; and it was only when one image alone became dominant over all the rest-only when sorrow and sacrifice took the place of joy and loving brotherhood-that this artistic perfection of life, this splendour of a many-sided humanity gave way to a unification which for a time swept all beauty and delight out of the world. It was as if the rainbow and the sun, the stars and the gentle moon, had faded out of the sky, and left nothing but storm clouds, red with blood and black with death, and the lighter mists of tears.'-' Womanhood in Greece,' by Mrs. E. Lynn Linton.

'My heart was hot within me . . . and at the last I spake with my tongue.' In these old words lies the excuse (if such be needed) for the writing of this paper. In one sense perhaps, and from a purely literary point of view, some words of excuse are needed when an unknown writer like myself dares to take the field against one so well known as the authoress of the two papers on Womanhood in Greece,' which have appeared in the course of the first half of this year in the Fortnightly Review,' and from which the page that furnishes my text is taken.

Unfair to take an isolated page and write a sermon on it? Without doubt a grave sin in criticism; but this is a case in which criticism, in the technical acceptation of the word, is not intended-nor would VOL. 14.

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PART 81.