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and the Fays, he regards as mere tricksters, whose performances are more than matched by those of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook, the English conjurers, and "sorry and insignificant," indeed, in comparison with those recorded of Oriental jugglers, ancient and modern. The few phenomena which are not referable to either imposture or delusion originate, as he maintains, in epilepsy, chorea, catalepsy, ecstasy, hysteria, or insanity; and he cites many cases from his own practice and observation which parallel in every particular some of the most noteworthy "proofs" brought forward by the spiritualists.

Dr. Hammond's book is an inexhaustible repository of the marvelous, scarcely less entertaining in parts than the "Arabian Nights," and will prove invaluable to all scientific students of psychology; but, while it exposes many of the pretensions of spiritualism, it is far from being either a conclusive or a satisfactory treatise. The difficulty is, that it proves too much. The entire structure of human knowledge is based upon the assumption that the testimony of the senses is substantially accurate; but in his anxiety to overthrow the so-called evidence brought forward by spiritualists in support of their faith he makes use of a line of argument which would invalidate the evidence of Science itself, and by which, indeed, Berkeley found it easy to prove the unreality of the external world, and of everything except certain ideal conceptions of the mind. Moreover, it is hardly fair to such men as Mr. Alfred Russell Wallace, Mr. Crookes, and Professor Huggins, to class the observations and experiments to which they certify with the 'miracle-delusions of the middle ages. The fact that hundreds of credulous devotees believe themselves to have witnessed the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius has no relation to conclusions reached by scientific men after applying the most rigid and ingenious scientific tests. It must be confessed, indeed, that if "expectant attention" can so frequently and effectually deceive a trained observer like Mr. Wallace, there is no reason why the same agency should not reduce to the same level of illusion Mr. Darwin's testimony that he has seen plants eat animals.

It is always refreshing to read Miss Alcott's stories, if for nothing else, for the inexhaustible relish of youthfulness which pervades them. Whether she labels them as fathers and mothers, uncles or aunts, guardians, teachers, or lovers, her characters are all boys and girls, whose shoulders have never felt the burden of the time which presses so heavily on the rest of us, and whose minds are guiltless of that introspective self-contemplation which it is the delight of modern novelists to depict. They live, moreover, in a delightfully simple and easy world, untroubled by any of the complexities and difficulties which beset our own, and where the fabled achievements of the Arabian genii are dwarfed into commonplace by the every-day performances of its inhabitants. In our own world the vice of intemperance has perplexed the law-makers, shamed religion, and repeatedly defeated the best endeavors of the philanthropists; but in Miss Alcott's world two or three village-belles have only to make up their minds that it mars the beauty of their rustic paradise, and, presto! it disappears before the magic of their influence. The virtues, indeed, fairly clamor for recognition; vice slinks instantly away before the glance of a disapproving eye; good resolutions not

only always triumph, but make the difficulties which they encounter ridiculous by their insignificance; and the entire population has only to be "jolly" in order to have the time fleet as merrily as it did in the golden age. One would suppose that these youthful, not to say juvenile, qualities would naturally be abated by the progress of time and the lessons of experience, but Miss Alcott's latest volume is as fresh, lively, entertaining, and optimistic, as the first she wrote. It contains nine short stories, bristling with morals and reeking with fun, and addressed apparently to that numerous and interesting class of young ladies who are experiencing the delicious transition from short skirts to "trains." One of the best of them is called "A Centennial Love-Story," and it will place a new obstacle in the way of satisfactorily seeing the great show at Philadelphia by compelling its readers to conjecture that they see "Dolly" in every especially pretty waiter-girl, and "John" in every young man with a sketch-book under his arm.

MISS LUCY LARCOM states on her title-page that her collection of "Roadside Poems" is designed for summer travelers; and in her preface assigns as a reason why it should form an agreeable companion to them that "it lingers by brook and river, among mossy rocks and wayside blossoms, and under overhanging trees, and climbs and descends the hills of our own land and the countries across the sea." Our own definition of it would be "poetry for the pious and the pensive," and we should recommend it to those who would discover what lessons in theology and morals the poets have derived from the contemplation of Nature. In the entire collection there are scarcely half a dozen of the purely descriptive poems in which English literature is so surpassingly rich; and on the other hand one may go to it with confidence for any one of the devotional or meditative pieces of the better known poets who have drawn their inspiration from natural phenomena. From this point of view, perhaps, the book has a "function;" for there are doubtless many cultivated and serious-minded persons who see nothing in the aspects of Nature but food for reflection," and who take no genuine interest in a mountain or a brook unless it be associated in thought with some phase or experience of human life. Even for summer travelers of this character, however, Miss Larcom's collection possesses few advantages over the better known anthologies, while it decidedly lacks their variety of interest. In point of fact, there is to our mind no product of the current passion for book-making for which it is more difficult to find a raison d'être than for these ephemeral collections of poetry which are too meagre to be representative, too commonplace to be fresh, and whose only element of original interest is that they reflect the individual taste of the compiler. If there be really a demand for such books, there is no reason why there should be any limit whatever to the supply, for it cannot be doubted that the work of making them would be found easier even than translating from the French, which has now become the favorite exercise of literary aspirants.

1 Silver Pitchers: and Independence, a Centennial LoveStory. By Louisa M. Alcott. Boston: Roberts Brothers.

Roadside Poems for Summer Travelers. Edited by Lucy Larcom. Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co.

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APPLETONS' JOURNAL.

S

OUR SUMMER PLEASURE-PLACES.'

O various in character and large in number have become the places to which we resort for recreation and rest during the summer solstice that many books have to be written to suitably set them forth. How, as one turns over the pages of some of these captivating volumes, he ever succeeds in determining which of the thousand claimants upon his attention shall give him the benefit of its freshening airs, is puzzling to understand. And even if the indefatigable summer pleasure-seeker resolves to enjoy them

a trout-stream, a lake, or a prospect, little knows the
legion that await his coming.

Nature has certainly done wonders for us in the way of glorious scenery and inviting sheets of water; when man has effectually done his part in the hotels that he sets up and the locomotion he provides, the summer resorts of America will be endeared to every heart as so many happy paradises.

Their variety is fairly endless. They skirt our sea-border; they nestle among our hills and moun

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EN VOYAGE.

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tains; they line our river-courses; they take possession of our islands; they make gay our lakes; they hang over our glens and cascades; they marshal in all places that have a natural grace. The weary town-worker who pants for green hills and shady dells, or longs for the tonic of tumbling sea-waves, may find his health-giving rest at any point to which he may turn.

Away on the coast of Maine are many notable places. First, on its remotest border, and without its

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dominion, is the island of Grand Manan, the home of er. It is not easy of access, being reached only by fishermen and sea-fowl, with rugged and towering fishing-vessels from Eastport; but this may prove its cliffs, and rude, primitive life, but with every condition chief attraction in the estimation of some tourists. to attract the artist, the sportsman, and the adventur- Its cliffs are the highest on our shore, rising four

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