After stating that many educated Germans might succeed as teachers in this country, could they dispense with national peculiarities, and a description of the manner of establishing schools, in which he pays a high compliment to the general appearance of such institutions in our country, he adds: "The superintendent of such an establishment must entirely renounce all visits to bar-rooms and coffee-houses. He must learn to impart to his system of instruction the elements of novelty and attractiveness, and especially learn to make friends of the children. It is utterly impossible in this country to manage a school by the mere force of power and authority, and the teacher attempting this, soon experiences a revolution by which indeed he is not exactly _driven forth_, but left _alone_ on his _cathedra_." With this extract we close, regretting that we have been obliged to leave untranslated many more practical and not less interesting items. We consider the entire work as the best possible answer which can be given to the question, '_Why has America done so little for England's fair?_' No one who contemplates in it the immense range of our manufactories--our incredible combinations of excellence and cheapness, and the almost superhuman rapidity of our progress in every branch of industrial and social life, will entertain for an instant the slightest regret that we have not done more to increase the profits of John Bull's raree-show. FOOTNOTES: [1] Muffins?--_International._ [2] _Pariser-tracht_--French dress--is the epithet usually applied in Germany to our ordinary style of costume, in contradistinction to the _Bauern-tracht_, or peasant's costume, which is so frequently seen among German immigrants. [3] _Zu hause_--at house, at home. In this sentence the reader finds a striking exemplification of the saying, that neither in French nor German is there a word for _home_. IN THE HAREM. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY R. H. STODDARD. The scent of burning sandal-wood Perfumes the air in vain; A sweeter odor fills my sense, A fiercer fire my brain! O press your burning lips to mine!-- For mine will never part, Until my heart has rifled all The sweetness of your heart! The lutes are playing on the lawn, The moon is shining bright, But we like stars are melting now In clouds of soft delight! TO THE CICADA. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE BY H. J. CRATE. Cicada sits upon a sprig, And makes his song resound; For he is happy when a twig Lifts him above the ground. And so am I, when lifted up On hopes delusive wing; I laugh, and quaff the flowing cup, I love, I write, I sing! Should clouds or cares obscure our sky, And all be gloom around, My merry little friend and I Soon tumble to the ground. TRICKS ON TRAVELLERS AT WATERLOO.