Another plan, much adopted in Paris, is to
pass a sheet of paper or pasteboard through
a pair of rollers grooved on their contact
surfaces; the grooves impart to the paper
a kind of goffering, or parallel series of
ridge and furrow. The artist paints a
picture on the right-hand slopes of all these
ridges, and a wholly different picture on
the left-hand slopes. When seen in front
the whole affair is an unmeaning blur,
but when seen sideways two pictures
appear, according as the spectator is on the
right or the left. Still more in favour are
the triplicate, or three-faced pictures. A
kind of grille or portcullis of pasteboard is
placed in front of a sheet of paper; one
picture is painted on the paper, another on
the right-hand surfaces of the bars of the
grille, and another on the left. Hence,
varying your point of view, you see all
three pictures in succession. In one
example of this kind, Napoleon, Wellington,
and Blucher constitute the triad; in
another, Napoleon as cadet, Napoleon as first
consul, and Napoleon as emperor; in
another, Faith, Hope, and Charity; in
another (an inscription at a tavern), Gin,
Brandy, and Rum; in another, the names of
the three partners in an ale brewery. One
very curious puzzle-picture, when viewed
in the ordinary way, is an utterly
incomprehensible jumble of lines and forms, but
when a polished cylindrical reflector is
placed at a particular point the reflected
image becomes a perfect picture. This is
a well-known result of optical laws, and
has been worked out in many remarkable
ways by our Brewsters and Wheatstones.

THE WORST OF IT.

THAT is the worst of it. Passion has passed,
Sorrow has sobbed itself out;
Our hearts have grown tired of hoping, at last,
Our spirits are weary of doubt.
With a slow self-contempt, with a sorry surprise,
We look on our dream as it is:
The joy of our souls: the delight of our eyes;
A poor ghastly relic like this!
The substance is gone, but the shadow remains
To haunt and bewilder us yet:
We have cancelled our bond, we have broken our chains,
But, dear, shall we ever forget?

Will our eyes ever meet, will our hands ever touch,
Nor we two remember the thrill
That once had meant for us so much, oh so much,
That we sigh for the want of it still?
The tone of the voice and the turn of the speech
Have a separate language for us;
We two, who have learnt all that love has to teach,
Have lore that must cling to us thus.
With proud heads averted, with cold hands apart,
We pass the old haunts whore we met;
But the spell they have woven lies deep in each heart,
I think we shall never forget!

And so I'm afraid, dear, that just for the sake
Of the sweet dream whose glory has ceased,
I've forgiven the wrong, I've forgotten the ache;
I fain would keep kindness at least.
We two, in whose path such strange hazards have crossed,
Might ask from our lives this amends,
By all we have won, and by all we have lost,
To turn from the ruin as friends.
And that is the worst of it, I am afraid:
Time never remits us a debt;
The Nemesis stalks where the folly is laid:
We may hate what we cannot forget!

FAMOUS CAPITULATIONS.

THERE are moments in the first full flush
and vigour of youth when sorrow seems
to us but a dream, and death an
impossibility. A year or two later, in a first
illness or a first trouble, looking back from
a sick-bed, or from the edge of some great
abyss of misfortune, at the past golden
period of victorious youth and hope, the
stricken man sighs and wonders at the
change that has come upon him. An
equal revulsion of feeling must accompany
the capitulation of a great army.
Yesterday the soldiers were shouting in
barrack gateways, polishing brass, grinding
steel, piling powder waggons, admiring new
cannon, counting cartridges, shaking out
flags, gaily adjusting plumes and epaulettes.
An ocean of bayonets! one hundred thousand
brave hearts! who can turn their course?
who can bar their way? Fire and steel are
powerless before them, and cannon-shots
are as autumn raindrops. Multiply a wild
bull, a lion, or a tiger by one hundred
thousand, and you have even then but a
faint approximation to the rush, the leap,
the force of such an army. Yet modern
war is but a mathematical problem after
all. Drive your army swift as an arrow
along the base of a given triangle while
your opponent is blundering up one side
and down the other to get at you, and you
will pass your sword through his heart
before he even sees it glitter. War is the
same chess game now that it was in the
time of that great master player, the first
Napoleon. There is the board—there are
the equal ranks of pieces—the knights leap,
the bishops sidle, the castles sweep the
line, the pawns move timidly—the game
appears equal. Suddenly the Philidor the
Morphy moves a piece, and the enemy is
at once paralysed. There is a dead-lock,
his army becomes entangled in a deadly
defile, his queen falls by her husband's very
side. Another move. The king is checked.
The monarch and all his army are cooped
in a corner, and in deadly danger. A feeble