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find fault with something, but after this is said it is easy to praise New Series, Volume XXIV., which begins and ends reprehensibly with a ragged edge of 1893 on either side. The World's Fair, naturally, is reflected in it; there is ever so much poetry, one serial novel and one shorter serial tale, with more of Mr. La Farge's letters from Japan, and the interesting series of reproductions of paintings by American artists. — St. Nicholas divides its year into two parts, and has two corresponding volumes. (The Century Co.) A survey of these nearly one thousand pages leaves one with a strong impression of the very great variety of interests appealed to, and the range of subjects and writers drawn upon. Pictorially one is glad to find frequently a less complex and subtle treatment than in the companion magazine for mature readers, and sorry to see how large a part the photograph plays. The hopelessly unselective capability of the camera makes it specially unfit for use in producing pictures for the young. — A. C. McClurg & Co. publish neat editions of Carlyle's Sartor Resartus and Thackeray's The English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century. Both books are innocent of apparatus of any sort, save that Sartor has an index. Queechy, by Elizabeth Wetherell. Illustrated by Frederick Dielman. (Lippincott.) Forty years and more since this book was published! A war has been fought since, and yet Fleda's tears are not yet dried. In spite of the defects of these oldfashioned stories, this and The Wide, Wide World, they are vastly more wholesome than much that passes for better fiction today, and they have certainly an inborn refinement. Our Village, by Mary Russell Mitford. (Webster.) A neat little edition of a book which, itself derivative, has been the cause of many books, some more famous. Cranford, for example, is the more beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother.

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Travel. To Gipsyland, written by Elizabeth Robins Pennell, and illustrated by Joseph Pennell. (The Century Co.) It is a far cry from Philadelphia to Hungary; but it is true Philadelphia that the author draws as the scene of the first firing of her imagination by the Romany folk; and it is true Hungary to which, with her sketching husband, she goes to see the gipsy at home. The book is written and the pictures are drawn with a genuine spirit of sympathy

with their subjects, as even a gorgio must feel. Riders of Many Lands, by Theodore Ayrault Dodge. (Harpers.) Especially from the Far East and from our own West Colonel Dodge has drawn the materials for his papers on horses and horsemen, yet there is hardly a portion of the world that is left quite untouched. Indeed, the extensiveness of the author's knowledge of his subject is remarkable. The literary quality of the book, however, is not so enduring as to commend it permanently to readers not already curious in matters relating to the saddle. The pictures, mainly by Mr. Remington and from photographs, are capital. In Harper's Black and White Series is published Travels in America a Hundred Years Ago, being Notes and Reminiscences by Thomas Twining, an Englishman, who lived in India, and afterward traveled in this country, where he saw Washington, Volney, and other public men, as well as society in Baltimore and Philadelphia. The book is moderately interesting, for Mr. Twining was a moderately interesting man.

Decoration and Typography. The Birth and Development of Ornament, by F. Edward Hulme (Swan Sonnenschein & Co., London; Macmillan, New York), is at once a valuable aid to the student of ornament and applied art, and a readable book for the amateur. It begins with a chapter on what ornament, in distinction from pictorial art, really is, carefully stating the principles, necessity, and utility of decoration, as well as the position of symbolism in ornament. Decoration and ornament are taken up historically, and followed with care and elaboration unusual in a volume comparatively so small. Stained glass, bookbinding, enameling, tattooing, metal work, illu.. mination, and kindred subjects are touched upon. Many references to larger works are introduced, rendering the volume most useful as a textbook. Printers' Marks, a Chapter in the History of Typography, by W. Roberts, editor of The Bookworm. (George Bell & Sons, London.) The chief value of this book is in its liberal exemplification of printers' marks, over two hundred examples being given. It is a pity that the editor did not avail himself of the effective papers on the subject which appeared in The Bookbuyer three years or so ago. He would have enriched one side of his subject by so doing.

itation.

THE CONTRIBUTORS' CLUB.

IN my somewhat isolated childAn Experience in Lev- hood, I enjoyed, in common with the four or five others necessary to the experiment, a secret and thrilling familiarity with those "very curious experiences of levitation " to which a Contributor of the Club invites investigation; and I still believe in those experiences, though in maintaining that belief I subject myself to the derision of superior minds by whom I am now adjudged old enough to know better. I do not pretend to account for the performance in which I have successfully assisted, and of which I have myself been the subject; I only know that, under certain conditions of respiration, it is possible to cause a person of no light weight, prone upon a table, to rise several feet in air, supported only by the tips of the forefingers of the operators, shall I say?

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I was made acquainted with the "tradition" by a cousin who had come to visit us on the old plantation. She was a girl of twelve, a little older than myself, with nerves of steel and a will of iron, whom to hear was to obey therefore, when she whispered that she could teach us a mystery, we consented forthwith to be instructed. But she did not give to this mystery the learned term "levitation ;" she called it "hoisting by the spirit," and she initiated us under circumstances that possibly aided the success of the experiment.

There were six of us, between the ages of eleven and thirteen, left to our own devices, one rainy autumn day. Our elders had gone to dine at a neighboring plantation, some miles away, and Mom Binah had us in charge. She was old and rheumatic, and loved ease and quiet; so she locked the outer doors to protect us against exposure to the weather, and sat down to doze by the nursery fire, while we stole away to the garret at the bidding of our irresistible cousin.

The garret, reached by a steep stair in a closet at the end of the second-story hall, occupied the entire space under the roof, and was dimly lighted by a small window in each gable. Like the generality of garrets, this one was a receptacle for dilapidated furniture, old trunks, and all such odds and ends. After some search we dis

covered a table, which by a little tinkering was made to stand firmly upon its legs. This we placed in that part of the garret farthest from the entrance, and one of our number, a jolly, fat boy of thirteen, consented to stretch himself upon it straight out on his back, with his arms lightly crossed at the waist. (It will be observed that this is the easiest possible position to assume.) Then four of us took our places, two on each side, and followed directions. We were told to close the thumb and all the fingers of each hand except the forefinger; then, drawing a deep breath, to raise our hands simultaneously high above our heads; as we slowly "released " our breath, we were to bring our hands down so that the forefingers touched the table. This was to be done three times, with great solemnity and in perfect silence, save for the profound inspirations, in which the “patient" also took part; at the third descent of the clenched hands, the extended forefingers were thrust under the ankles or the shoulders — according as we stood — of the boy on the table, whereupon, by no conscious effort on our part beyond that required to retain the deep breath, the boy was lifted as high as our heads. I will not affirm that he was lifted as high as we had raised our hands during the initiatory process, but he was raised on the support of eight slender forefingers much higher than we four together could have lifted him in our arms, for he was a heavy boy. He did not fall when he "had gone as high as the spirit willed," to use our cousin's occult formula, but seemed to descend gently, and without any tax upon our strength.

Now this was done many times, until the experiment had been tried upon each one of us. We had been required to maintain the utmost solemnity, and indeed we were too earnestly interested for levity, until one of our number - I think it was that dreadful boy-burst a button, whereupon laughter took possession of us, just as we had "hoisted" the patient, who fell, in spite of our eight supporting fingers, and the table came to the floor with a crash that instantly hushed our ill-timed mirth. In the midst of the ominous silence that followed, and

through the dull drip, drip, of the rain outside, we heard a step, slow, measured, inevitable; I shiver even now as I recall that rhythmic sound of doom. It was dark in the garret, and we huddled together against the chimney, awaiting we knew not what horror of the invisible, with eyes staring at the garret entrance, where presently towered Mom Binah in judicial wrath.

"Mom Binah! Mom Binah!" we cried in shrill chorus, hoping to propitiate her by a frank confession, and eager to excite an interest in our strange experiment. "Mom Binah, sure as you live, we can lift people on the tips of our fingers as high as our heads. It is hoisting by the spirit. We could lift you. If you don't believe it, just let us try

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"In cose I b'lieves hit," said Mom Binah, with stately displeasure. Hit is plumb beginst natcher, — dat hukkom I'm boun' ter b'lieve hit. But you don't projic' on me. You all is tamperin' wid Satan unbeknownst," we ourselves had thought as much when we heard those steps on the stairs, "an' you all hustle outen yere," commanded Mom Binah; "hustle out, I tell you, an' say yo' prahs, every one on you, an' don't let me hear no mo' h'istin' by the sperrit."

That last injunction we strictly obeyed ; but the dread thought of tampering with Satan could not withhold us from practicing in secret, and I know whereof I speak when I say the lifting can be done.

Animal Letu

The feigning of death by cersimulants. tain animals, for the purpose of deceiving their enemies, and thus securing immunity, is one of the greatest of the many evidences of their intelligent ratiocination. Letusimulation (from letum, death, and simulare, to feign) is not confined to any particular family, order, or species of animals, but exists in many, from the very lowest to the highest. It is found even in the vegetable kingdom, the well-known sensitive plant being an interesting example. The action of this plant is, however, purely reflex, as can be proved by observation and experiment, and is not, therefore, a process of intelligence. The habit of feigning death has introduced a figure of speech into the English language, and has done much to magnify and perpetuate the fame of the only marsupial found outside the limits of Australasia. "Playing 'possum

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is now a synonym for certain kinds of deception. Man himself has known this to be an efficacious stratagem on many occasions. I have only to recall the numerous instances related by hunters who have feigned death, and have then been abandoned by the animals attacking them. I have seen this habit in some of the lowest animals known to science. Some time ago, while examining the inhabitants of a drop of pond water under a high-power lens, I noticed several rhizopods busily feeding on the minute buds of an alga. These rhizopods suddenly drew in their hairlike filaria and sank to the bottom, to all appearances dead. I soon discovered the cause in the presence of a water-louse, an animal which feeds on these animalcules. It likewise sank to the bottom, and after looking at the rhizopods swam away, evidently regarding them as dead and unfit for food. The rhizopods remained quiet for several seconds, and then swam to the alga and resumed feeding. This was not an accidental occurrence, for twice since I have been fortunate enough to witness the same wonderful performance. There were other minute animals swimming in the drop of water, but the rhizopods fed on unconcernedly until the shark of this microscopic sea appeared. They then recognized their danger at once, and used the only means in their power to escape. Through the agency of what sense did these little creatures discover the approach of their enemy? Is it possible that they and other like microscopic animals have eyes and ears so exceedingly small that lenses of the very highest power cannot make them visible? Or are they possessors of senses utterly unknown to and incapable of being appreciated by man? Science can neither affirm nor deny either of these suppositions. The fact alone remains that, through some sense, they discovered the presence of the enemy, and feigned death in order to escape.

There is a small fresh water annelid which practices letusimulation when approached by the giant water-beetle. This annelid, when swimming, is a slender, graceful little creature, about one eighth of an inch long and as thick as a human hair; but when a water beetle draws near, it stops swimming, relaxes its body, and hangs in the water like a bit of cotton thread. It has a twofold object in this:

in the first place, it hopes that its enemy will think it a piece of wood fibre, bleached alga, or other non-edible substance; in the second place, if the beetle be not deceived, it will nevertheless consider it dead and unfit for food. This example of letusimulation I have repeatedly seen, and any one may observe it with a glass jar, clear water, a water-beetle, and several of these annelids. The annelid is able to distinguish the beetle when it is several inches distant, and the change from an animated worm to a lifeless thread is startling in its exceeding rapidity.

Many of the coleoptera are letusimulants. The common tumble-bug, which may be seen any day in August rolling its ball of manure, in which are its eggs, to some suitable place of interment, is a remarkable letusimulant. Touch it, and at once it falls over, apparently dead. Its limbs become stiff and rigid, and even its antennæ are relaxed and motionless. You may pick it up and examine it closely. It will not give the slightest sign of life. Place it on the ground and retire a little from it, and in a few moments you will see it erect one of its antennæ, and then the other. Its ears are in the antennæ, and it is listening for dangerous sounds. Move your foot or stamp upon the ground, and back they go, and the beetle again becomes moribund. This you may do once or twice, but the little animal, soon finding that the sounds you make are not dangerous, scrambles to its feet and resumes the rolling of its precious ball.

Some animals feign death only after exhausting all other means of defense. The bomdardier beetle, or stink-bug, has on the lateral margins of its abdomen certain bladder-like glands which secrete an acrid, foulsmelling fluid. It has the power of eject ing this fluid at will. When approached by an enemy, the bombardier presents one side to the foe, crouching down on the opposite side, thus elevating its battery, and waits until its molester is within range. It then fires its broadside at the enemy. If the foe is not vanquished, as it generally is, but still continues the attack, the bombardier topples over, draws in its legs, and pretends to be dead. Many a man has acted in like manner. He has fought as long as he could; then, seeing the odds against him, he has feigned death, hoping that his opponent would abandon him and cease his

onslaughts. I have seen ants execute the same stratagem when overcome either by numbers or by stronger ants. They curl up their legs, draw down their antennæ, and drop to the ground. They will allow themselves to be pulled about by their foes without the slightest resistance, showing no signs of life whatever. The enemy soon leaves them, whereupon the cunning little creatures take to their feet and hurry away.

The most noted and best known letusimulant among mammals is the opossum. I have seen this animal look as if dead for hours at a time. It can be thrown down any way, and its body and limbs will remain in the position assigned to them by gravity. It presents a perfect picture of death. The hare will act in the same way on occasion. The cat has been seen to feign death for the purpose of enticing its prey within grasping distance of its paws. In the mountains of east Tennessee (Chilhowee) I once saw a hound that would "play dead" when attacked by a more powerful dog than itself. It would fall upon its back, close its eyes, open its mouth, and loll out its tongue. Its antagonist would appear nonplused at such strange conduct, and would soon leave it alone. Its master declared that it had not been taught the trick by man, but that the habit was inherited or learned from its mother, which practiced the same deception when hard pushed.

Most animals are slain for food by other animals. There is a continual struggle for existence. Most of the carnivora and insectivora prefer freshly killed food to carrion. They will not touch tainted meat when they can procure fresh. It is a mistake to suppose that carnivora prefer such food. The exigencies of their lives and their struggle for existence often compel them to eat it. Dogs will occasionally take it, but sparingly, and apparently as a relish, just as we eat certain odoriferous cheeses. But carnivora and insectivora would rather do their own butchery; hence, when they come upon their prey apparently dead, they will leave it alone and go in search of other quarry, unless they are very hungry. Tainted flesh is a dangerous substance to go into most stomachs. Certain ptomaïnes render it sometimes very poisonous. Long years of experience have taught this fact to animals, and therefore most of them let dead or seemingly dead creatures severely alone.

There are some compensaRunning a Quotation to tions for a defective memory, Earth. and in the verification of an elusive quotation there is a zest which must be unknown to those who can turn immediately to volume and page when a fragment of verse comes into their mind. The pleasure may be worth describing, and the mild psychological interest which possibly attaches to the mental process may help the description out with those who would otherwise have short patience with the deplorable ignorance implied.

Part of a line of poetry often appears in my mind in connection with a certain allied train of thought. It may be, probably is, without proper beginning or ending, and commonly has enough words transposed to untune its measure and disfigure its beauty. But there it is, even in its fragmentary and perverted condition expressing the thought far better than any words of my own, and giving rise to a strong wish to find it in its correct and complete form and in its full context. If there were nothing more than this, the hunt for it among the poets would be a search in absolute darkness, with only chance for a guide, and with ultimate success a highly improbable outcome. The fragment, however, does not stand alone. There is hanging to it an alluring vista of associations guiding back with fascinating suggestiveness, but tantalizing vagueness, to the abode from which the random thought had seized it. Either the metre, however imperfect, sets in vibration with its music all the snatches of similar measure lying in the recesses of the memory; or it is the phrasing, which bears the mark of kinship with other children of the same mind, or, in more remote resemblance, with its cousins of the same epoch; or it may be the current of the thought, which sets in the familiar and limited trend of some one of the minor poets. Or perhaps the suggestion is some purely mechanical one, some dim vision of the line as it stands in its place on a half-familiar page of a well-known volume, some glimpse of its neighbors with whom in entirely unessential association it brushes elbows in a collection of the poets; or it wears a semblance given it by a casual judgment passed on it in book or conversation. But all these suggestions and associations are so blended as to lose their individuality, and

make only a vanishing composite, which loses its features altogether if we look too fixedly, and is only an uncertain clue to the abiding-place of the line which has called it up. Of course Bartlett would generally settle the matter at once; but to have recourse to him would be as tame as to shoot a deer while the guide holds his tail. In a search of this kind one can put up with assistance from those who start in as incomplete knowledge as one's self; but it is better to read through whole volumes of poetry than to resort to the mechanical means of looking up the solution in a book of quotations.

"Benefits forgot" seemed unmistakably Shakespearean, both from the character of the phrase and the other indefinable associations which, however I looked at them, led back only to the great dramatist. The sonnets came first to mind, but the

"Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry," failed to show "benefits forgot" among the particular ills of the world from which he would just then be gone; and though the wavering divining-rod of the associations seemed still to point to the sonnets, a prolonged search among them as those who are now marveling at my ignorance could have told me at the outset was of no avail. Next came the plays; and here, too, the most reliable guide seemed to be the suggested context, though the scent grew cold and the chase lagged. Measure for Measure, with its

"If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep,"

was discouraging. Hamlet, with the “unweeded garden" and the "whips and scorns of time," seemed promising, but led to nothing. As You Like It, with its "churlish chiding of the winter's wind," brought me so near that I wonder I escaped it; but something led me astray again, and I read through nearly the whole of Timon of Athens. Failing here, I again had recourse to the sonnets, this time with the thought that I had seen the phrase in the Golden Treasury, and that it therefore could not be among the plays. This clue, however, had more ends to it than it occurred to my density to follow out; and I was finally indebted for the verification of the quotation to the accidental discovery

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