CONTENTS

PAGE
Credulity[5]
Christian Science[10]
Osteopathy[29]
Phrenology[42]
Physiognomy[54]
Dreams[61]
Superstitions[71]
Stage Tricks and Occultism[84]
Ghosts[94]
Strikes, Profiteering and the High Cost of Living[101]
The Public[163]
Popularity[167]
Greatness[172]
The Martyrdom of Genius[183]
Gentlemen, Be Seated[189]
Beards[202]
Gambling[211]
Wedding Bells[222]

What's What In America

Credulity

The physical origin of mental delusion has many times been investigated and explained by various philosophers, but the different forms of credulity and superstition have never yet been satisfactorily treated with reference to the physiological and pathological principles upon which they depend.

From the beginning, man was and is, by nature, endowed with an eager propensity for novelty. This is particularly true of Americans. His passion for the novel, the singular and the unusual, has influenced his mind to attempt to discover the character of objects concealed in the remote recesses of infinite space, and to investigate the various invisible agencies that he has always found, and still finds, in perpetual operation around him. Curiosity has always been one of the great impelling forces of the scientific investigator. As Winwood Reade says in his masterly "Martyrdom of Man," "The Philosophic spirit of inquiry may be traced to brute curiosity, and that to the habit of examining all things in search of food."

Man is by nature a credulous, and at the same time a superstitious, being, and ever prone to allow an undue influence to the imagination and passions. This is due to the original structure and specific elements of the mind. It is a natural trait of the mind to contemplate with interest whatever is presented to it as deviating from ordinary natural events, whatever is novel or strange, and whatever affects the senses, through an obscure medium so as to arouse the passions. Thus, when primeval man first felt, saw or heard such natural phenomena as volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, the aurora borealis, thunder, lightning, meteors, and eclipses, it was quite natural for him to people the hidden recesses of the earth and of space with demons, and to imagine that these strange noises and sights were manifestations of some powerful enemy. In his blind ignorance, he could ascribe no natural causes to the phenomena, and he therefore attributed them to supernatural agencies. His feeling of dependence, and of insecurity, in the face of these mighty unknown forces, inclined him to seek a protector, and for this purpose he created one or more gods. Idols of various kinds answered the purpose, until his dawning intelligence taught him the futility of this sort of worship, and then he worshipped the sun and other heavenly bodies. Then a glimpse of astronomy further enlightened him, and, realizing the absurdity of planet worship, he invented other gods of an invisible nature to which he attributed the creation of all phenomena. The propensity for the novel and marvelous always obscured his reason and judgment. To the ignorant mind, everything marvelous is super-natural; but the philosopher sees in all marvelous phenomena nothing but the results of natural causes, even if those causes are not yet fully understood. Science cannot yet fathom all of nature's mysteries, but nearly every day brings forth new light.

In ancient times, the enlightened few took advantage of the ignorance of the multitude, and, by stupefying their reason with a mixture of science and magic, made them more submissive and obedient as slaves or subjects. Science was used to inculcate gross superstitions in the minds of the ignorant masses, for the purpose of enhancing the interests of the deceivers. By means of concave and convex mirrors, of lenses, of chemical and optical illusions, and even of ventriloquism, the pagans fooled their devotees into all sorts of absurd beliefs. Demons and angels were made to appear in frightfully distorted and hideous shapes, the dead were evoked from their graves to hold converse with the living, and every advantage was taken of natural phenomena such as the eclipse and the mirage. Even drugs, like opium, were given and taken to throw the operators into semi-conscious ravings and trances; and in innumerable other ways the excited imaginations and the irresistible propensity to believe in the miraculous, was taken advantage of by the wise charlatans, seers, priests and soothsayers.

There are good reasons for believing that the dramatic exhibitions of the Witch of Endor, by which Saul was made to believe in the re-appearance of the deceased prophet, Samuel, to announce his approaching fate at Gilboa, was but an imposition practiced upon the senses of that superstitious monarch; and many of the ancient miracles, which appear to be so corroborated, can be satisfactorily explained in a similar manner. Ancient magic and natural science were synonymous, and magic was made to become an assistant to government. Doubtless the crimes committed by these unscrupulous charlatans, masquerading as philosophers, suppressed for many centuries the smouldering light of reason in the human race, and caused the world to be susceptible to the terrific doctrine of witchcraft that held sway until the seventeenth century, and which afflicted nearly every nation on the globe.

Christian Science

In order thoroughly to understand Christian Science, it is necessary to understand Mary Baker Eddy. Hence, I have found it necessary, reluctantly, to give a brief account of some of the important events of her life. Should these events show her to be a mercenary, selfish woman, it would tend to explain a great deal that she and her followers have failed to explain.

Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of Christian Science, was born the year that Napoleon died, 1821. In her younger days, she lived in an atmosphere of mysticism. Mesmerism was everywhere in evidence, and much had been said about "Animal Magnetism," "Power of Mind over Matter," "the Shakers," "Faith Healing," etc., long before Mrs. Eddy had thought or heard of these things. She married George W. Glover in 1842, who died the following year, leaving Mrs. Eddy a widow at twenty-three. From that time until about 1870, Mrs. Eddy lived a sad and sordid life of ill health, poverty and unhappiness. In 1853, she had married Dr. Daniel Patterson, a dentist, but this proved an unhappy union and they were much separated, and finally divorced. During all this time she had drifted from one place to another, wearing out her welcome at every place she went, and usually leaving each place after having caused family discord in the household. She was practically an invalid during this period, which may account for her peevishness, ill-temper, domestic selfishness, and want of consideration for those who had befriended her.

In 1862, being then forty-one years old and a nervous wreck, and attracted by the stories of wonderful cures by Dr. Phineas Parkhurst Quimby, Mrs. Eddy visited that famous occultrist at Portland, Maine. Dr. Quimby had learned much of his philosophy, and all of his mesmeric tricks, from Charles Poyen, whom he had followed about from place to place. About three years before Mrs. Eddy called on him, Quimby had perfected his system of mental healing and had reduced it to writing, having discarded the mesmeric part of it. Various disinterested persons are still living who have given reliable testimony to these facts, as also to the following: (1) When Mrs. Eddy first visited Quimby she was a physical wreck; (2) After three weeks' treatment from Quimby she was a well woman; (3) She borrowed, and had in her possession for a long time, a copy of Quimby's manuscripts; (4) She never gave Quimby credit for one bit of her "Discovery"; and even went so far as to abuse him for the rest of her life.

Please remember the dates: Mrs. Eddy first called on Quimby in 1862. In February, 1866, she slipped on an icy sidewalk and sustained a severe nervous shock. On the same day she called on Dr. A. M. Cushing for medical treatment. Dr. Cushing says she continued to take his medicines until she was cured. Mrs. Eddy denies that she took any of the medicines after the first visit, and says that she cured herself in a miraculous way and rose as one from the dead, and that she depended solely on God. Yet, she called on this same Dr. Cushing the following August to be treated for a cough!

During these days it is known that she spent much of her time writing, and reading the New York Ledger, and, if we are to believe what she wrote to a friend, she also read "Irving's Pickwick Papers." She apparently did not like Dickens.

In 1869 (please note the date) she taught Mrs. Wentworth the Quimby theory for the sum of $300, to be taken out in board, and at that time she made no pretense that it was her own theory. She even permitted Mrs. Wentworth to copy from a manuscript which has been proven to be identical with the original Quimby manuscript. Several witnesses testify that she "talked Quimby till every one grew dead tired of hearing him," and she often remarked: "I learned this from Dr. Quimby, and he made me promise to teach it to at least two persons before I die." It is also known that Mrs. Eddy "shrank instinctively, like any other nervous woman, from the sick-bed of others, and had shown such a morbid fear of death that Mrs. Wentworth often wondered what there could be in her past to make death seem so dreadful."

Mrs. Eddy did not practice healing. What she now wanted was to publish and teach Quimbyism and to find some one to demonstrate the healing theory. In 1870 she found just what she wanted in the person of Richard Kennedy, with whom she went into partnership, and in six months they had made $6,000. This was the sharp turning point of her life. She now discarded Quimby forever, and her ambitions led her in time to discard even Kennedy, her greatest benefactor. Everything was now Mrs. Eddy. She next started a school or college where students paid her $100 each plus a promise to pay her a life annuity of ten per cent. of all their future earnings. She also made them give a bond for $3,000 which was to be forfeited if they allowed any one to see or to copy the manuscripts that she lent them. The college so prospered that she raised the price to $300 for twelve lessons, induced, she says, "by a strange providence."

In 1877, at the age of fifty-six (although her age appears as forty in the marriage license), she married Asa Gilbert Eddy, then forty years old. He was "a man willing to be taught; he would even turn docility into self-effacement." He died five years later. Even Mrs. Eddy could not save him. Mrs. Eddy never had another husband, but "in Calvin A. Frye, steward, bookkeeper, secretary, coachman, her 'man of all work,'" as she herself called him, she has had the while one singularly devoted to her and to her interests. To serve her he gave up all at the outset. Family ties were relinquished. Friendships were allowed to languish. It is said that never since the day he came, has he been beyond the reach of her voice for a whole day! A few years ago Dr. E. J. Foster, whom she adopted in 1882 as her son, was driven out of his home by Frye. Her own son she seems to have forgotten entirely for long years at a time.

In 1875, Mrs. Eddy issued the first edition of "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures." Other editions came out in 1881, 1883, 1888, 1898, 1905, and 1906, and also other books and writings by the same author, in all of which she claimed that her great discovery and revelation came to her in 1866 (note the date). Meanwhile her college was prospering and students flocked to it from all parts of the world, each paying $300 for a three weeks' course, and in 1889 there were no less than 300 on the waiting list. In 1894 she erected a building at a cost of $221,000, which now stands as a frontispiece to the colossal temple which was completed in 1906 at a cost of $2,000,000. The Mother Church in Boston reported June 11, 1907, a membership of 43,876, and the total membership of the 645 branch churches was 42,846.

On December 18, 1890, Mrs. Eddy said that Science and Health was "God's Book and He gave it at once to the people." Yet the book was sold by Mrs. Eddy for over $3 a copy, while a copy of the Bible may be bought for a few cents, and if anybody cannot buy it, he can get a copy presented to him free by any preacher or Sunday School teacher. Mrs. Eddy also says that it pays to be a Christian Scientist and that the professionals have made "their comfortable fortunes." When Mrs. Eddy died, her private fortune was considerably in excess of a million dollars, yet she persistently tried to evade paying her share of taxes.

This in brief is the life history of Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy. Her's was a stormy career, filled with troubles, quarrels, lawsuits, internal dissentions, fears, revenge, ill health, sorrows, unhappy marriages, rivalries, disloyalties, and selfishness. She had many thousands to admire and to worship her, but few to love her. Those who knew her best loved her least. That she was one of the most remarkable women who ever lived, few will doubt. Her career is almost as spectacular as that of Joan of Arc, who, like Mrs. Eddy, rose from a poor girl to be a world-famous leader of men. Neither had anything like an education, and both had a poor start in life, but, out of sheer force of personality and persistency, both accomplished wonders. Their lives read like fiction. While history is full of examples where men have risen from nowhere, and claimed that they were inspired, or Divine, or Sons of God, or prophets, there is no parallel to the career of Mrs. Eddy, who has won both the scholar and the ignoramus. No, not ignoramus, for the ignoramus is not the kind to fall a victim to Mrs. Eddy's doctrine. It requires a person of brains to "grasp" it. While it is true that people unschooled in philosophy, science and theology are quickest to accept Science and Health, and that those who read earnestly and think loosely can get just enough glimpse of an imagined something that they cannot quite grasp, yet which they feel is there somewhere, still, it must be said that the average Christian Scientist is generally a person of unusual intelligence. Were it not so, the doctrine would never have become so popular. Was it not Lord Bacon who said something like this?—"While a little philosophy inclineth men's minds to atheism, depth in philosophy inclineth men's minds to religion." And so with Christian Science. Given a good mind, and a good understanding, and an investigating disposition, feed it Science and Health and it will have a tendency to accept it as truth, provided it is not allowed to hear the other side, and provided it has not been previously trained to reason correctly along scientific lines. There is just enough truth in it to make it all sound plausible and there is just enough mysticism to make the mind doubt its own acumen. Belief in Christian Science is a form of intellectual hypnotism.

The hypothesis of Mrs. Eddy's doctrine is stated as follows: "The only realities are the Divine Mind and its ideas. That erring mortal views, misnamed mind, produce all the organic and animal action of the mortal body * * * Rightly understood, instead of possessing sentient matter, we have sensationless bodies * * * Whence came to me this conviction in antagonism to the testimony of the human senses? From the self-evident fact that matter has no sensation; from the common human experience of the falsity of all material things; from the obvious fact that mortal mind is what suffers, feels, sees; since matter cannot suffer."

Here are a few of Mrs. Eddy's favorite, oft-repeated assertions: "God is supreme; is mind; is principle, not person; includes all and is reflected by all that is real and eternal; is Spirit, and Spirit is infinite; is the only substance; is the only life. Man was and is the idea of God; therefore mind can never be in man. Divine Science shows that matter and mortal body are the illusions of human belief, which seem to appear and disappear to mortal sense alone. When this belief changes, as in dreams, the material body changes with it, going wherever we wish, and becoming whatsoever belief may decree. Human mortality proves that error has been engrafted into both the dreams and conclusions of material and mortal humanity. Besiege sickness and death with these principles, and all will disappear."

This theory, that there is no reality except thought, is merely a distinctive form of idealism that is as old as the hills, and Mrs. Eddy's doctrine is the resultum of a confusion of isolated thoughts. Read Plato, Hegel, Democritus, the Zend-Avesta, Spinoza, Kant, Bishop Berkeley, Lotze, Hume, and various other works and you will find the threads from which Mrs. Eddy's fabric is woven. But don't imagine that the philosophers named ever believed any such things as Mrs. Eddy has laid down in her books. Ralph Waldo Emerson and the Transcendentalists speak of the supremacy of mind over matter, and all modern physicians recognize the power of the mind over the body; but none of these ever maintained that the discovery of those facts was made by Divine revelation by order of God, to be given to the people at a certain time, at so much per lesson or book.

Mrs. Eddy says that the one reality is God, whose name is Mind or Spirit; that God is All-in-all; that all is infinite Mind and its infinite manifestations; that matter is unknown in the Universe of Mind. Now, if we take all this as mere speculation, all is well. But when we are asked to make these ideas our Bible, our code of human conduct, our bread and butter, our Divine law, that is where we should stop. What matter if all of that is true or false? The world will go around just the same. If Mrs. Eddy had stopped right there, she would not have invited such a storm of criticism as she had to face. But she did not. The critics began their deadly work soon after the first edition of her book came out, and she met it courageously, proceeding to amend her theories to suit the occasion. Constant and frequent changes were made in Science and Health and in her teachings, which was all right except that it disproves her contention that the whole plan came to her as a revelation in 1866, and that it was "God's book and He gave it at once to the people." It really makes but little difference to most of us whether Mrs. Eddy is right in her theory that there is no such thing as matter and that all is spirit, for we are all compelled to act every day as if matter were matter, and, to all intents and purposes, it is. Of course, we are glad to have the truth, but it would be idiotic for a man, who had discovered that there is no such thing as sound, to try to persuade the world that his discovery was so important that a new system of religion must at once be founded on it to regulate the daily affairs of the whole world. Some of the truths in Christian Science are important, but it does not follow that we are to discard all our other religions, beliefs, and modes of living; for Christian Science is only a speculation, and it does not concern most of us. It rightly is no more a religion than is the theory of evolution, which, by the way, Mrs. Eddy did not seem to understand, for she said: "Theorizing about man's development from mushrooms to monkeys and from monkeys to men, amounts to nothing in the right direction, and very much in the wrong."

Mrs. Eddy says that "God is not in the things He hath made"; and, in the next breath she says that since things are matter, and that there is no matter, then there can be no things. In her final revelation of 1866, expressed in 1875, she says that "God is Principle, not person"; yet later, in a later final revelation she says that "Life, Truth, and Love constitute the triune person called God." Again, she says, "Jesus is the human man and Christ is the divine, hence the duality of Jesus, the Christ." And, in 1894, and at other times, she has stated quite plainly that she and Christ were one and the same.

Be all this as it may, Christian Science rests mainly on the hypothesis that sin, sickness, disease and death are not real—that they exist only in thought; that Christian Science can remedy these seeming evils. Had it not been for the curing and healing part of the doctrine, Christian Science would never have become the fad that it has. All the rest of the doctrine would have been looked on merely as an interesting speculation, had not Mrs. Eddy injected the claim that Christian Science cured everything—that it cured even sin as well as suffering. Here, then, was something to interest everybody, and she made the invitation all the more desirable when she added that doctors were "flooding the world with diseases," that the fewer the doctors, the less disease the world would suffer from, and that "as long as you read medical books you will be sick." We all know of thousands of cases where doctors have been of great assistance to humanity, and we know, too, of many serious medical mistakes. We all know that medicine has been much overworked, yet we must all admit that doctors and medicine have made this world vastly better and more healthful. But what has Christian Science done? Mrs. Eddy failed to give to the world the complete, authenticated record of one single case of disease that she cured. True, she said that she had cured certain diseases, but we are left in the dark as to whether they were diseases or what they were. She refused to have medical tests made. She even announced that she had no time to give personal treatments and consultations. At that time she was busy teaching, at $300 a pupil. Besides, according to her theory, there was no such thing as a body, or disease, or pain. She doubts even that Jesus suffered pain on the cross, although the Bible says that He cried out in pain. Either Jesus did suffer pain, or He falsely made those around Him think that He did, and we know that He was incapable of deception. Yet, Jesus Christ and Mrs. Eddy are one and the same.

Christian Science seeks to eliminate pain, whereas most physicians recognize pain as a blessing. It is a danger signal. It warns us of decay, of disease, and of disorders. Were it not for pain, we would allow our teeth to decay, our eyesight to be impaired, and various other organs to degenerate. When we live wrongly, or eat too much, or overtax our powers, Nature warns us to halt, but Christian Science says there is no such thing as suffering, discomfort and pain, except in our imagination.

And thus we could go on for hours pointing out the inconsistencies of Mrs. Eddy's theories, but a short article like this will not permit. Take for example her statement that "Science can heal the sick who are absent from the healers, as well as those present, since space is no obstacle to mind"; and the assertion that "Christian Science divests material drugs of their imaginary power * * * When the sick recover by the use of drugs, it is the law of a general belief, culminating in individual faith that heals, and according to this faith will the effect be"; and "The not uncommon notion that drugs possess absolute, inherent curative virtues of their own involves an error. Arnica, quinine, opium, could not produce the effects ascribed to them except by imputed virtue. Men think they will act thus on the physical system, consequently they do." Does anybody doubt that if the writer of those words walked into a drugstore blindfolded and, unseen by anybody, drank opium, not knowing what it was, she would not immediately feel the effects of that drug? And that if she took any other drug, the effects would not be about the same as they are known to be in practically all cases? Yet who would say, under those circumstances, that Mind has endowed those drugs with the powers to act on the system as they do? If Mind can so act, medicine is just what we want, for Mind can be made to make drugs do even greater things than they have yet done, perhaps to raise the dead.

But why go to greater length to point out the fallacies of this fad that is nothing more than a superstition founded on a truth. Science and Health is simply words, words, words. It is a tangled mass of assembled philosophy from various sources that has but little practical value. That mind, suggestions and imagination have great influence over the body nobody will deny, but nobody but Mrs. Eddy ever attempted to form a religion out of that old fact. Science and Health is founded on the Bible, and pretends to be a key to it. It is a "key," but it is one that breaks and distorts rather than opens. It is an interpretation, and it treats the Book as if it were a puzzle that God left unsolved until He inspired Mrs. Eddy to reveal its secrets, after having kept it from the world for nearly 2,000 years. From the standpoint of a promoter, Mrs. Eddy was wise in calling her doctrine Christian Science and in founding it on the Bible. That many have been helped by Christian Science nobody will deny, but the same can be said of a hundred other theories and beliefs, some of which are admittedly absurd. Some people can be cured with sugar pills and some by an Indian medicineman. Christian Science contains much that is true and good, and much that is false and bad, and perhaps the harm that it has done may not outweigh the good. Nobody knows. Those who get pleasure and satisfaction and peace out of it should not be disturbed, but they should be warned not to let it run away with them.

The Epicureans handed down to us some questions which have never been quite satisfactorily answered, except by the Christian Scientists—who are quite satisfied with their answer. If God is able to prevent evil, and is not willing, where is His benevolence? If God is willing, but not able, where is His power? If God is both able and willing, whence then is evil? The Scientists say there is no evil, and that settles the whole question. The blind man sees nothing. The Occulist teaches us to see: the Scientist teaches us not to see. Excellent thought! When the thief comes, we close our eyes, and lo! we do not see him, for he is not there—and when we open our eyes, nothing else is there.

Consider for a moment the folly of holding that sickness, pain and disease are products of the mind, and that they have no real existence. To say this is to declare that there are no germs and microbes; and to declare that mind causes disease and death is to upset the whole accepted theory of creation and of evolution. Are not animals affected by disease as well as man? If so, who would say that their meager minds could cause it? and if it be said that human minds caused it, how about the millions of animals who suffered pain, disease and death thousands of years before man ever appeared upon earth? Does the Scientist know that there are hundreds of different kinds of microbes, fighting and combatting one another, that the big fish are eating the little ones, that if there were no microbes there could be no putrefaction and that if there were no putrefaction there could be no breaking down of the dead bodies of animals and plants, and that the earth would be encumbered with the dead bodies of these animals and plants of past generations, and that very soon all the organic elements—all the carbon and nitrogen, if not all the hydrogen and oxygen—on the face of the earth would be fixed in these corpses and that all life would perish for want of sustenance? In short, germs and death are just as important, and just as inevitable, as joy and life.

The Christian Scientists, New Thoughtists and other dreamy faddists, who would eliminate all death, sorrow, pain and suffering, by bringing heaven to earth all in a day, are respectfully introduced to a paragraph from John Ploughman: "There is a sound reason why there are bones in our meat and stones in our land. A world where everything was easy would be a nursery for babies, but not at all a fit place for men. Celery is not sweet till it has felt a frost, and men don't come to their perfection till disappointment has dropped a half-hundred weight or two on their toes. Who would know good horses if there were no heavy loads?"

Osteopathy

If we are to believe history every century produces one or more wonderful healers, or persons with the "Healing Touch." It is said that these mysterious persons have made the blind to see, the lame to walk, the deaf to hear, and even the dead to rise, by means of laying on of hands. Just how much of these records are facts or fiction no man may say, but we may reasonably assume that a fair amount of facts are mixed up with the fiction, even if we may not believe half of what we hear and read.

Dr. Andrew Taylor Still, of Kirksville, Mo., is the founder of Osteopathy, and in that place he has founded what he is pleased to call a college, which is highly successful. After reading his history, he will perhaps remind you somewhat of Mary Baker Eddy, Elbert Hubbard, Tolstoy, and Jesus of Nazareth, although it cannot be said that he bears much physical or mental resemblance to any of these. He dresses like a farmer or backwoodsman, and is Simplicity personified. His followers worship him very much as do those of Mrs. Eddy, and there is a vein of mystery, not to say of superstitious faith, connected with both their doctrines that seems to bind their followers together. While Dr. Still claims no divine inspiration, as did Mrs. Eddy, still he and his disciples are inclined to the mysterious and supernatural. For example, in one of the Osteopath books I find this, by his son Dr. Charles E. Still, D.O.: "When a boy, I was out with my father and an old physician one day, when he stopped at a house where there was a boy almost totally blind. My father stepped up to him and took hold of his neck; in a few minutes he bade him look at the sun, and behold, the blindness had disappeared." This reads very much like a Bible miracle. "Again, we met an old colored man who was badly crippled. My father asked him his trouble and had him stand up against a drygoods box. My father set down a flour sack of bones we were carrying; he then took hold of his leg and after apparently winding it around a few times, he told the man to walk, which he did without as much as a limp, much to the amazement of the bystanders. Time and again equally as wonderful cures were made by him in my presence." Dr. Still, Jr., then goes on to say that in an epidemic of diphtheria he treated about sixty-five cases and lost but one; that he was called on to treat practically all the ailments that flesh is heir to; that he treated epileptics by the score and successfully in most cases; that he set a neck that was broken, and set a case of dislocated astragalus and cured it in one day after a physician had assigned the patient to straps in bed for six weeks, thus saving five weeks and five days of the patient's time, patience and money. Other miraculous cures are reported by the Messrs. Still and by other learned Osteopaths, and there are many people around who are willing to give reliable testimony to the effect that they have been cured of serious ailments by Osteopaths when doctors have failed.

Osteopathy is really the old Swedish movement cure under a new name, but considerably enlarged and improved.

Some people imagine that Osteopathy is a sort of massage, but, according to Dr. Still, Sr., this is a mistake, for he says: "Osteopathy absolutely differs from massage. The definition of 'massage' is masso, to knead; shampooing of the body by special manipulation, such as kneading, tapping, stroking, etc. The masseur rubs and kneads the muscles to increase the circulation. The Osteopath never rubs. He takes off any pressure on blood vessels or nerves by the adjustment of any displacement of bone, cartilage, ligament, tendon or muscle." Thus, an Osteopath might be called a bone manipulator, and that is what the words implies, "osteon" meaning bone. As a matter of fact, Dr. Still and all Osteopaths to the contrary notwithstanding, Osteopathy is not "absolutely different from massage." Dr. Still says that Osteopaths adjust displaced muscles, does he not? And how do they do it? By manipulating the muscles. That is just what the masseur does. It is true that the masseur rubs, with a view to increasing the circulation, but it is also true that the Osteopath kneads, or presses, for the same purpose. A good masseur handles the muscles very much as do the Osteopaths. Circulation is the object in both cases: If you want to hurt an Osteopath's feelings, just tell him that he is a fine masseur. For, has he not spent three years at an Osteopathic College to learn his art, whereas the masseur may have learned his the previous week from some Turkish bath operator? Please remember that the Osteopath is a physician, and that he knows as much about anatomy and therapeutics as do other physicians. Please also remember that the Osteopath has had a thorough course in physiology, biology, embryology, histology, pathology, symptomatology, physical and laboratory diagnosis, obstetrics, gynecology, dietetics, hygiene, bacteriology, toxicology, urinalysis, surgery, pediatrics, dermatology, phchistry, and medical jurisprudence. The only physicianly subject with which he is not familiar is materia medica, and that is something that he thinks is unnecessary.

The Osteopath does not believe in drugs. On that point he will have many sympathizers, notably the Christian Scientists. In fact, many of our best physicians have abandoned that old fashioned faith in drugs which made people think that they could abuse Nature all they liked, and do as they pleased, and that a few drops of medicine would cure them of the ill-effects of their indiscretion. Dr. Osler, who was appointed Regius Professor of Medicine at Oxford University a few years ago, gives a long list of diseases, in his book "Textbook on the Theory and Practice of Medicine," which cannot be cured by drugs, and he frequently states that drugs are notoriously uncertain in their effects in many cases. Any physician who is honest and wise will tell you that drugs are not being used so much nowadays as formerly, and that medicine is still more or less of an experiment in many cases, and often a dangerous and fatal experiment. But, in spite of all this, it is certainly unwise to denounce all drugs simply because we do not know the certain effects of some drugs. Drugs have been in use since the beginning of history, and we are still experimenting with them. While we do not yet know what they will do and not do, we know that they will do something. In other words, drugs have an effect on the body—that we know. We know that certain drugs will put us to sleep, or cause us to vomit, or give us a headache, or take away a headache, or benumb a pain, etc. Everybody knows the effects of castor oil, pepsin, strychnine, salts, sugar of lead, laudanum, paragoric, camphor, iodine, linament, calomel, and certain other drugs in certain cases. Now, some of these drugs are extremely useful and it would be a calamity if the human family were to be deprived of their use. While, as we all know, many people are extremely superstitious about medicines and are taking them all the time to cure imaginary ills, and while it is true that many sick persons are either killed or made worse every year by medicines administered by physicians, still the sum-total of good that comes from the proper use of drugs, and the immense possibilities of the future seem to reason that we must not entirely discontinue the use of drugs. Nature is the best doctor, and all that the physicians can do is to assist nature. Osteopathy may assist nature, and so may massage, and so may water, and exercise, and diet and drugs. Different cases require different remedies. Drugs are a part of nature. Nature made all herbs, vegetables and minerals. Some of our best medicines, even minerals, are found in the food that we eat and in the water that we drink. Perhaps nature put them there for a purpose. Perhaps she put in too much, perhaps she did not put in enough. We are all different, no two alike. Our bodies are made up of various chemicals, and many of our ailments are due to a scanty supply of these chemicals. Hence, if we cannot get a sufficiency of these chemicals from the foods, we may often require them from the drug store. For example, phosphorus is necessary to the nerves and brain. While it is found in various foods, it may be, as is often the case, that we have to take phosphorus in some other form in order to preserve our health or to restore our body to its normal state.

But the Osteopath does not reason this way. Dr. Still says: "God has placed the remedy for every disease within the material house in which the spirit of life dwells. I believe that the Maker of man has deposited in some part or throughout the whole system of the human body drugs in abundance to cure all infirmities; that all the remedies necessary to health are compounded within the human body. They can be administered by adjusting the body in such a manner that the remedies may naturally associate themselves together. And I have never failed to find all these remedies. Man should study and use only the drugs that are found in his own drugstore—that is, in his own body." If this means anything, it means that drugs are necessary, and that manipulating the bones of the body results in a proper distribution of these drugs. The statement that he has never failed to find these remedies, if it means anything, means that Dr. Still has cured every case that has come to him, but he has never said so in plain words; in fact, he admits elsewhere that he has not been successful with all cases. And if he was not successful in certain cases, the failure was due to not being able to adjust matters so as properly to associate the drugs of the body with their remedies! Farther on Dr. Still says that the still greater question to be solved is, "How and when to apply the touch which sets free the chemicals of life as Nature designs." Does Dr. Still here mean that Osteopaths have a certain magic touch which is so powerful and wonderful that it must be used with great caution? That this touch lets loose certain drugs or chemicals which the body needs to cure itself? It is possible that the Doctor is speaking in figures and that he does not mean what his words imply. It must be so. Otherwise, we must put him down as a charlatan. If he speaks figuratively, he is indiscreet, because he plainly leads people to think that the spinal column secrets certain drugs or chemicals which are necessary to health and that these can be made to flow to the necessary parts by means of certain manipulations.

Dr. Still would have us believe that Osteopathy is something of a cure-all, and that its adoption makes the use of drugs unnecessary, but all Osteopaths do not make this claim. Dr. George V. Webster, D.O., says: "Osteopathy is not a cure-all. There are disorders that are incurable." This is encouraging, because we now know that if a disease is incurable Osteopathy cannot cure it! Dr. Webster says that "there are diseases needing surgical attention," that in some cases an anesthetic is necessary, that a parasite requires an antiseptic, and that a poison requires an antidote. Thus he has found that drugs have some uses, at least. In one place Dr. Webster says that Osteopathy is not a cure-all, and in another we find him saying, "The application of osteopathic principles to meet the problems of bodily disorder has demonstrated their efficiency in practically all diseases"! Dr. Still himself says, "You may say there are some failures. Yes, who would not expect it? Perhaps the Osteopath is not able to apply the knowledge he should have gained before being granted a diploma from his osteopathic school."

And thus, all through the Osteopath literature there is an inference that bone manipulation cures everything, although it admits that it has not always done so. This is the weak, fatally weak, spot in Osteopathy. It is the old story of the over-enthusiastic specialist who thinks that the sun rises and sets on his pet theory. Show a child a watch, and all it sees and understands is that it is wound up and that the hands move around. If the watch gets out of order the child tries to wind it up again—that is all it knows. It does not know that inside the case are hundreds of delicately arranged parts that are adjusted to a nicety. It does not know that some of these parts may be worn out from over-use, or are missing, or broken, or that they need cleaning. Likewise, when the Osteopath sees a body suffering from some disorder, he usually sees only the blood vessels and nerves, and he decides at once that one or more of them is being squeezed by a misadjustment of some bone or muscle. He looks on the spinal column as the backbone of the human structure, which is of course true, and surmises that if anything is wrong it must have originated in the spinal cord, which is not necessarily true. If it is indigestion, or a disease of the kidney, or what not, he thinks that by turning one of the keys on the spinal cord it will unlock the necessary drug and let it flow to the disordered part. He wears a pair of glasses on which is written the word "Osteopathy," and when he looks he sees nothing but Osteopathy. Now, as a matter of fact, he is right in many cases. He will cure when all the doctors in the world might not even relieve. He has a great truth. He holds the key that unlocks the door to many a mystery, and it is a key that should be in common use, by all doctors. Where the regular physician would perhaps drug his patient to death, the Osteopath might cure him with a few simple treatments. Take, for example, a headache. Now, a headache is a symptom, not a disease. It is a sign that something is going wrong. It is a sign that there is either too much blood in the head, or not enough, usually the former. In either case, it is probable that there is some abnormal pressure on some blood-vessel or nerve, and that if that pressure could be released the headache would disappear. Just examine a model of the spinal cord sometime and see what a complicated structure it is, with all the little nerves, blood vessels and muscles so intricately interwoven between its many parts. We are all prone to get in certain habits. We learn to read in a certain posture, and to write, and to lie down, and to walk, and to sit, and in the course of years it would be strange if one or more of our thousands of parts did not get into an abnormal position so as to compress or squeeze some of the delicately arranged nerves or blood channels, thus preventing freedom of passage. Such a condition might set up congestion and inflammation, and it is likely to affect seriously some distant organ. By readjusting the bones of the neck, shoulder, back or spinal cord, we relieve that pressure and thereby cure the disorder. There can be no doubt of all this, and every regular physician ought to know it and to practice it, but they don't and won't. Furthermore, they won't refer the patient to an Osteopath. Professional jealousy!

It is really a shame that there cannot be some kind of a union of the various isms, ologies and athies. Certainly all Osteopaths should be regularly admitted physicians and surgeons. If they could be broad enough for that, they would soon put the old-school physicians out of business.

In conclusion, Osteopathy is much overestimated by some, and much underestimated by many. It will do good to most anybody, and harm to nobody. It will cure thousands of cases that the regular physicians cannot cure; but, on the other hand, there are thousands of cases that Osteopathy should not attempt to cure without the aid of the modern school of physicians and surgeons.

Phrenology

The word phrenology comes from the Greek word phren, meaning the mind, and logus, meaning science—the science of the mind. The alleged science rests upon these principles: (1) The brain is the organ of the mind; (2) the mind may be divided into a certain number of faculties independent of one another; (3) each faculty resides in a definite region of the brain; (4) the size of each region is the true measure of the intellectual power of the organ therein residing. The phrenologist examines the outside of the skull, and, by measuring the various bumps and indentations thereon, claims to be able to tell how much brains are within and just what faculties are concealed under each and every portion of the skull. They claim to take into consideration various other things, such as the texture of the hair, the lung power, the brilliancy of the eye, the color of the skin, the general poise and shape of the head, and so on, but phrenology really means bumpology or craniology.

The real fathers of the theory are Drs. Gall and Spurzheim, although we find suggestions of it in the writings of some of the ancients, notably those of Aristotle and Pythagoras, and even so far back as the ancient Egyptians. Aristotle believed the brain to be a complex organ, but held that the small head was the standard of perfection—"Little head, little wit; big head not a bit." (For a lengthy treatise on phrenology and its history, see Enc. Britannica.)

If phrenology is sound, the brain is divided into compartments, each having a separate and distinct function to perform. But when the brain is dissected, no such compartments or divisions are revealed, even under the microscope. Neither the certical nor fibrous part of the brain reveals any such dividing lines or difference in texture. And not only this—the existence of the horizontal membrane separating the superior from the interior part of the whole brain, and the arrangement of the lateral ventricles, corpus callosum, the fornix and other parts, are of themselves almost conclusive proof that there can be no compartments such as phrenologists describe.

But even if the brain were divided into compartments, each resting against the skull, it would next be necessary for the phrenologist to prove that quantity means quality or that quantity means power. Otherwise, a person might have a large quantity of, say, combativeness, and a small quantity of, say, veneration, as donated by the size of the bumps, at the places where those faculties are supposed to reside, but the brain matter in the veneration compartment might be twice as dense, compact, active, powerful or flexible as the brain matter in the combativeness compartment, and hence the phrenologist would be deceived by outward appearances. The phrenologist must depend upon size, and he must assume that every part of the brain is of the same density, texture and power. For example, when he sees a head that is large and full in the upper forehead and small at the back, he at once declares that that person's casuality, eventuality and comparison, are highly developed, and that his amativeness and philoprogenitiveness are poorly developed. Size is the measure, and he assumes that size means volume, and that volume means power. Hence, a man with a large head must have more brains than a man with a small head, and the more brains he has, the greater his power, other things being equal. He forgets that many idiots have enormous heads, and that the heads of many of the world's greatest characters were very small. Several kinds of monkeys, the dolphin, the canary and the sparrow, all have larger brains than man, in proportion to the size of the body. The ground mole and field mouse have about the same proportion as man. The whale, the rat, the porpoise and the goose have more.

Again, the researches of physiologists of the highest authority seem to have established the fact that the brain acquires its full size and weight at the age of eight years! How can the phrenologist reconcile his philosophy to this stubborn fact? The skull and head continue to grow after the age of eight, but the brain remains the same in weight and size. Everybody knows how the skulls of children change as they grow up, and yet the brains never do. As the child acquires knowledge and develops his mental faculties, the brain remains the same size and weight. What then have bumps to do with his mind? We may polish our brains, but we cannot add to them. And so, when the phrenologist says that this pulpy matter called brains gradually grows larger and crowds the skull bones out so as to make bumps, or that it shrinks, for want of exercise, and makes the skull contract with it, causing indentations, he is not talking from facts but from a premise founded on a delusion.

If the theory of phrenology is true, then, if a person should have an accident or a disease, and lose a portion of his brain, he will lose control of those faculties which are supposed to be located within the lost part. Now, every physician knows of cases where patients have lost portions of their brains, and you will probably not find a single case where the patient lost control of the precise faculty said to be located in that portion. The medical books are full of proof of this. Once in a while a physician has to remove a portion of the brain where the faculty of, say tune, is located, or it is destroyed by accident or disease, but after the operation the patient has the same fondness and talent for music that he formerly had. The brains of able men have been examined after death, and certain portions have been found to be diseased; yet the patients had shown no signs of having lost any of their faculties.

These examples show that the brain is not and cannot be composed of a plurality of organs, each of which is the seat of a separate faculty, as claimed by the phrenologists, because if such were the case the destruction of one of these organs would result in the destruction of the particular faculty connected with it.

Again, the phrenologist assumes that all skulls are of the same thickness, and that every skull is of the same thickness at every point. There are variations of this rule, as he will tell you, but in the main the statement is true; for, if it were not so, bumps and indentations would be almost meaningless. But the fact is that some skulls are only one-eighth of an inch thick and some are a full inch in thickness. And there is no certain way of telling just how thick a skull is, except by an examination of its interior and not every subject is willing to undergo this inconvenience. The phrenologist may thump it with his knuckle and sound it, but he can never be certain how near he is to the brain nor how much brains are within. And still again, nearly every skull has thin parts and thick parts, and in some heads there are actual cavities in places. So, even if the size of the brain is the sure test of mentality, how is one to tell the size of a brain which is incased in a skull of unknown and variable thickness?

And then, the mistaken notion that there are just and only thirty-five or so faculties and that each acts independently of the others. As well might one say that the retina of the eye is divided into compartments, one to see flowers, one to see trees, one to see letters and figures, and so on; or that the ear-drum is divided into sections—one section to hear the voice, one to hear the violin and one to hear other sounds. If there is a separate compartment for every faculty there should be nearer thirty-five thousand compartments than thirty-five. But there are not even thirty-five faculties, and there are certainly not more than two or three compartments, if any. Aristotle divided the brain into only three parts. Veneration is the result of fear, admiration, love, respect, conscientiousness, and a dozen other things. Destructiveness and combativeness, continuity, stubbornness and many other faculties produce in greater or less degree, the same emotion and results. Form and size are the same faculty, the knowledge of extension including both. To say that each of these faculties has a separate plot or parcel of brains staked out for its own private and exclusive use is about as sensible as to say that there is a separate compartment of brains devoted to love of children, another for the love of parents, another for brothers, another for dogs, and so on. It requires no philosopher or psychologist to see that every single faculty is a part of an inseparable indivisible whole. Instead of endowing the mind with certain faculties and designating these according to the nature of their function, the phrenologist designates them according to the nature of object upon which they are exercised. According to this, to be logical, he should have as many faculties and compartments as there are things in the universe.

There are two ways of looking at phrenology. If there is a portion of brains for each faculty, then we must determine how many faculties there are, and we must assume that each portion or compartment performs only its own function, for otherwise, if a certain compartment frequently does the work of some other compartment, then the whole theory of phrenology falls, because it matters not how much or how little brains a person has in one compartment when other sections are to lend a hand in helping its weak or deficient neighbors. The phrenologist must assume that "comparison," for example, is the faculty that does all of the work in that line, and that "color" does all of the work in its particular line. Otherwise bumps would be meaningless. Fowler and Wells, the latest authorities, give thirty-nine distinct and separate faculties, each with its particular location. Now, many of these conflict, such as comparison, form and size, combativeness and destructiveness, firmness and continuity, cautiousness and secretiveness, veneration and spirituality and conjugal love, friendship, amativeness, inhabitiveness and philoprogenitiveness. True, these words of each group are not synonyms, but they require the same mental process, produce like emotions, or proceed from the same motives and sensations. If this be true, part of the bottom of phrenology falls out. There is redundancy. The faculty of cautiousness makes one cautious when one is exercising one or more of the other faculties, and continuity is the faculty which gives us the power of keeping one or more other faculties applied to the task. Nearly every organ must be endowed with the power of imagination, yet there is a faculty called ideality which is assumed to have a monopoly of this power. Nearly every faculty is also endowed with casuality, particularly calculation, constructiveness and comparison. And if the phrenologist should say that there is no redundancy here, that each of these things is a different and distinct faculty, surely if there is not redundancy, there is at least deficiency (either of which is fatal) in that according to his theory there should be separate faculties for mechanical constructiveness and literary constructiveness, separate faculties for love of children and love of cats, separate faculties for the English language and the Chinese language, and every language, and a separate faculty for every object of attention in the universe.

Until the phrenologist can find some way of measuring the quantity of neurine in the brain of his subject he cannot tell much about that person's mentality; and when he does this he is no longer a phrenologist.

Phrenology takes in a wide field which contains so many avenues of escape, that it is quite impossible to attack it at one point without letting it out at another, for its powers to evade the issue are almost unlimited. When the skull of Voltaire was examined, it was found to have the organ of Veneration developed to an extraordinary degree. The phrenologist would promptly explain: "His veneration for the Deity was so great and his sensibility upon the subject of devotion so exquisite that he became shocked and disgusted with the irreverence of even the most devout Christians, and that out of pure respect for the Deity he attempted to exterminate the Christian religion from the earth."

If you have a large bump of destructiveness, the phrenologist might declare you were like the early English who would often say: "It's a fine day; let's go out and kill somebody." Yet you may be only inclined to destroy delusions; or to destroy the rum demon; or to demolish gambling; or to combat vice.

The novel "Mr. Midshipman Easy," by Capt. Maryatt, might be recommended for the consideration of phrenologists. Prof. Easy built a great machine with tubes and pistons; the subject would get into the machine and, by suction, the professor would draw out the good organ indentations and by pressure suppress the "bad organ" bumps. If the brain grows, as phrenologists claim, this system ought to help the brain grow in the right direction and create perfect men.

The irregular formation of the skull, features, fingers and of other parts of the anatomy are mere accidents of nature, and are no more a test of a person's character and capacity than a cask is of its contents. The verdict of phrenology retards the moral and intellectual advancement of the subject and lessens the influence of reason, religion, environment and education.

After Professor Porson's death, his head was dissected, when, to the confusion of craniologists and the consolation of blockheads, it was discovered that he had a skull of extraordinary thickness. Professor Gall, on being called upon to reconcile the intellectual powers and tenacious memory of Porson with a skull that would have suited an ignorant prizefighter, replied: "How the ideas got into such a skull is their business, not mine; but, when they were once in, they certainly could never get out again."

Physiognomy

Physiognomy is not entirely a delusion. There is no "science" of Physiognomy, however, nor is it an exact art. The rules laid down by Adamantius were quite different from those of Aristotle, just as those of Baptist Porta and Robert Fludd were quite different from Levater's. Physiognomy is the art of knowing the humor, temperament or disposition of a person from observation of the lines of the face, and from the character of its members or features. While there is as yet no code of rules laid down by any author which constitutes a trustworthy guide, there in an apparent analogy between the mind and the countenance, which is discernible to keen observers. Probably every man and woman prides him or herself on the ability of translating expression, because we all imagine that we are good judges of human nature; yet, we have all erred in this regard, and often they were costly errors. Our instincts and intuitions, are perhaps the safest guides, after all, for there is but little reliance to be placed on the text books; and the common beliefs regarding the meaning of the features are anything but reliable. The best that can be done, for the present, is to assemble the predominating characteristics of the great men of history and compare these with their portraits.

It is generally conceded that the greatest authority on Physiognomy is Levater; yet, in my copy of his principal work, which, by the way, is the voluminous 15th London edition, he says: "I understand but little of physiognomy, and have been, and continue daily to be, mistaken in my judgment." Since no greater physiognomist ever lived, it seems fair to assume that there is no "science" of physiognomy, and no infallible system with which we can read the character and capabilities of a person by means of the features. Whether such a science will yet be discovered or devised, remains to be seen. However, it is possible, and even probable, that the features all have meanings, even if we do not know those meanings, and that the code finally adopted by Levater is fairly correct. This being true, the best we can say for Physiognomy is that it helps us to interpret character by showing us tendencies. That is, given a face the chin of which denotes firmness, and the mouth tenacity, we may be reasonably certain that the individual will have a strong tendency to do thus and so under certain conditions, provided those characteristics are not over-balanced and offset by other characteristics. That the tendency is not conclusive, is apparent: for the person may be born with a nose which, according to Physiognomy, denotes criminal propensities; yet, he may have overcome his immoral tendencies by means of education, religion or environment, while his nose remains unchanged. Again, he may have certain features which are said to denote generosity, for example, yet there may be various other features which denote love of power, acquisitiveness, vanity, etc., which would make it quite impossible to say that generosity would predominate, and to which tendency the subject would yield. Indeed, it is a grave question if all the accumulated knowledge of the ages on Physiognomy would not be misleading, even if every person knew the precise meaning of every section of the face; for, however skilful we might be, our judgment would constantly be taxed to the utmost to weigh and balance, to compare and distinguish, one indication with another, and then that other with still another, and with perhaps a whole group of others,—a task for a mathematician, psychologist and philosopher combined. Again, who may say that a large nose, which was esteemed so highly by Napoleon, or a strong jaw, which is generally understood to denote perseverance, may not be mere accidents of nature, for are not some born tongue-tied, cross-eyed or flat-footed, without design, meaning or tendency, so far as those physical conditions are concerned? And do not all persons develop one or more faculties, and neglect others, without causing any change in the bones of the face? One may conquer and conquer, like Alexander, until there are no more worlds to be conquered, and yet not acquire a conqueror's nose. If we treat Physiognomy as the science of interpreting expression by means of the muscular anatomy of the face, that is a different matter; but the real Physiognomy deals with bones as well as with muscles. If there is doubt as to whether the shape of the bones of the face are indicative of character, there is no doubt that the flesh and muscles of the face form what we call expression of the countenance, and that this can be interpreted with some degree of accuracy.

Levater says that the forehead is the image or mirror of the understanding; the nose and cheeks the image of moral and sensitive life; and the mouth and chin the image of the animal life; while the eye will be to the whole as the summary and center. I am prepared to believe without hesitation that nothing passes in the soul which does not produce some change in the body, and that even desire, and the act of willing, create a corresponding motion in the body; but it requires extraordinary credulity to believe that bones are enlarged or diminished by this process, and, consequently, that part of Physiognomy I must reject. But it is quite certain that, on the countenance discernibly appear light and gloom, joy and anxiety, stupidity, ignorance, and vice, and that, on this waxen tablet are deeply scribed every combination of sense and soul. On the forehead, all the Graces revel, or all the Cyclops thunder! Nature has left it bare, that, by it, the countenance may be enlightened or darkened. At its lowest extremities, thought appears to be changed into action. The mind here collects the powers of resistance. Here resides the cornua addita pauperi. Here headlong obstinacy and wise perseverance take up their fixed abode. Beneath the forehead are its expressive confines, the eyebrows; a rainbow of promise, when benignant; and the bent bow of discord, when enraged; alike descriptive, in each case, of interior feeling. The nose imparts solidity and unity to the whole countenance,—the mountain that shelters the fair vales beneath. How descriptive of the mind and character are its various parts; the insertion, the ridge, the cartilege, and the nostrils, through which life is inhaled. The eyes, considered only as tangible objects, are by their form, the windows of the soul, the fountains of light and life. The eye-bone, whether gradually sunken, or boldly prominent, is also worthy of attention; as likewise are the temples, whether hollow or smooth. That region of the face which includes the eyebrows, eye, and nose, also include the chief signs of soul; that its of will, or mind, in action. The occult, the noble, the sublime, sense of hearing, has nature placed sideways, and half concealed. On the inferior part of the face, nature has bestowed a mask for the male, and not without reason, for here are displayed those marks of sensuality, which ought to be hidden. All know how much the upper lip betokens the sensations of taste, desire, appetite, and the enjoyments of love; how much it is curved by pride and anger, drawn thin by cunning, smoothed by benevolence, made flaccid by effeminacy; how love and desire, sighs and kisses, cling to it, by indescribable traits. The under lip is little more than its supporter, the rosy cushion on which the crown of majesty reposes. If the parts of any two bodies can be pronounced to be exactly adapted to each other, such are the lips of man, when the mouth is closed. Words are the pictures of the mind. We judge of the host by the portal. He holds the flaggon of truth, of love and endearing friendship. The chin is formed by the under lip, and the termination of the jaw-bones, and it denotes sensuality in man, according as it is more or less flexible, smooth, or clear: it discovers what his rank is among his fellows. The chin forms the oval of the countenance; and when, as in the antique statues of the Greeks, it is neither pointed nor indented, but smooth, and gradually diminishes, it is then the keystone of the superstructure. With apologies to Herder for much of the foregoing, thus endeth this brief dissertation on Physiognomy.

Dreams

It is quite clear that the phenomena of dreams could be perfectly accounted for by natural laws and therefore they should not be attributed to supernatural causes.

Ancient divines taught that dreams either proceeded from the Deity or from the devil, but it is now quite certain that all dreams originate only in the dreamers. Dreams come only from a state of imperfect sleep. When sleep is perfect, all the faculties are at complete rest, and there can be no dreams—and even if there were, memory being absent, the dream could never be recalled. Bodily sensations are the most common cause of dreams. A hot-water bottle at the feet might cause dreaming of a fire; kicking the bed-clothes from the lower extremities might carry the dreamer to scenes of snow and ice; getting one's head accidentally under the pillow might involve the dreamer in a drowning episode or other incident of strangulation. Physical ills also have their influence upon the unsound sleeper, and the nature of the pain is usually similar to the nature of the dream. The mind, during unsound sleep, is irrational, and often groups incongruous things and scenes into meaningless and impossible situations. Stored away in hidden recesses of the memory, are innumerable items, and during imperfect sleep the mind seizes some of these haphazard and forms some of the most fantastic and ludicrous pictures.

The cause of the dream is sometimes the cause of its fulfilment. For example, a person might think, in his waking moments, of writing a poem, and if it is strongly on his mind he is likely to dream of it. The dream may suggest some missing link or idea, and when he awakes he is better prepared to complete it. Belief in the supernatural origin of dreams is also the frequent cause of their fulfilment. If a person dreams of approaching sickness, and is superstitious, his fears and imagination are likely to hasten the calamity. There is recorded somewhere in history the case of a general who dreamed of a defeat, and, being superstitious, his courage deserted him, and the enemy conquered. There is also recorded the case of a German student, who dreamed that he was to die the next day at a certain hour. His friends found him next morning making a will and other preparations, and as the time drew near, he had every appearance of a person about to die. His friends used every argument to shake his belief in dreams, but to no purpose, and they were despairing of saving him, when the physician contrived to set the clock forward, and thus prolonged matters until the student's life was at last saved. There are several instances on record where death has actually ensued in consequence of the belief in the supernatural origin of dreams, and there is no doubt that believers in dreams often cause fulfilment by mental influence. It is true that there are instances on record where a person has dreamed of the death of a relative, and found that that relative had died at about the time of the dream, but these instances are rare and prove nothing. When it is considered that there are doubtless millions of instances where persons have dreamed of the death of relatives, when they have not died, the comparatively few cases where the dreams came true must be taken as mere coincidence. It is not a miracle for a dream of this kind to come true, but it would indeed be a miracle if one or more of such dreams did not come true, like the one that is recorded of a proud young divinity student who dreamed three times in one night that he must turn to the seventh verse of the fifth chapter of Ecclesiastes, where he would find important instructions. He arose in the morning, and turning to the specified passage, found this: "In the multitude of dreams there are divers vanities."

The mental process by which the human mind arrived at the conclusion that dreams result from supernatural causes is due to the same propensity of the mind for the marvelous, and to that excess credulity which attributes all unusual or remarkable mental impressions to some external agency. The average mind is prone to reason out the causes of phenomena to the limit of its mental powers, and then, when it arrives at the point when it can go no farther, and can give no rational explanation, to attribute the phenomena to the supernatural.

All dreams originate from former sensations. These sensations were introduced into the mind by the senses, at some previous time or times, and the mind has stored them away where they have lain dormant and forgotten. The dream-state is that condition of temporary subconsciousness when the memory recalls the aforesaid sensations and submits them to the scrutiny of the reasoning faculty, by which their relations are determined, through the agency of association. During perfect sleep there can be no dream, because the dream is caused by a state of activity of certain faculties, which, in perfect sleep, are in a state of torpor. There could be no dream if the mental faculties, including memory, are at perfect rest. Only when part of the mental faculties are sufficiently active to recall the sensations and impressions that are stored away, and to institute association, can there be dreams. Some of the faculties must be active, and some inactive, to produce a dream, and only in imperfect sleep does this condition obtain. Among the inactive faculties in the dream state is judgment, which, were it active, would correct the mental process and discover the fallacy. Imagination is often brought strongly into play by the dreamer; and the combination of imagination, previous sensations and associations often create fantastic objects and pictures wholly different from those occurring in nature. The mind of the dreamer can readily combine parts of the sensations previously derived from beholding an elephant, a crow and a cow, and may see in his dream a crow with a trunk, a cow with a bill, or an elephant with upright horns and a black feathered tail. It can also readily associate with his own self parts of various sensations derived from reading or hearing of certain crimes or improprieties, and picture himself in the act of doing things utterly at variance with his morals and inclinations when in a conscious state.

It also may happen, in the various modes of combination, that objects or events are portrayed in accordance with nature and facts, but, perhaps, in exaggerated, diminished or distorted forms, in which case an erroneous standard of judgment is formed that will throw all after sensations out of perspective with truth.

The dreamer generally dreams of things which have lately been weighing on his mind, but not necessarily so, nor does it follow that he will dream what has been ardently expected or painfully dreaded. Association of ideas may lead his unguided mind to a scene or object which, in his wakeful moments, he cannot trace, for his memory usually preserves only the final objects or scene, and not the various steps that led to it. Thus, if moving be on his mind, he may, in his dream, see a moving van, then a painting on the side of the van, then an artist, then a paint shop, a model, another picture on an easel, and finally a very pleasant or a very horrible scene in a studio. When the dreamer awakes he remembers only the scene, and he is at a loss to know why he should have dreamed of a scene so foreign to his previous thoughts.

There appears to be no truth whatever in the theory that dreams come as omens or warnings, for they are purely accidental. Neither is there apparently any truth in the belief that dreams come by opposites, that they are the manifestation of some invisible agency, or that there is anything supernatural, uncanny or mysterious about them.

To maintain that one can foretell future events, or read past events, from dreams, is absurd. Nearly every person dreams each night, and particularly during the moments when losing consciousness and the moments when awakening, since imperfect sleep then obtains; and, it would be strange indeed if, during one or more of these occasions, we did not by chance dream of something which afterwards actually happens.

All bodily derangements that interrupt healthy sleep, such as irritation of the digestive organs, and even over-exertion, worry, and undue excitement, will produce dreams, and it is therefore fairly obvious that, since we know the cause of dreams, their effects and results, there is nothing marvellous, unnatural, wonderful, extraordinary or supernatural in dreams.

Until the past few hundred years, the cause of dreams was not understood. Aristotle believes the cause of dreams to be common sense, but placed in the fancy. Avicen thought it to be an ultimate intelligence moving the moon in the midst of that light with which the fancies of men are illuminated while they sleep. Averroes, an Arabian physician, ascribed it to the imagination. Democritus referred the cause of them to little images, or representations, separated from the things themselves. Plato placed it among the specific and concrete notions of the soul. Albertus attributed dreams to superior influences, which continually flow from the sky, through many specific channels.

In order to disdelusionize, it will be necessary to get a clear understanding of the nature of the mind and of its workings. "When the mind turns its view inward upon itself," says John Locke, "and contemplates its own actions, thinking is the first that occurs. In it, the mind observes a great variety of modifications, and from them receives distinct ideas. Thus the perception, which actually accompanies, and is annexed to any impression on the body, made by an external object, being distinct from all other modifications of thinking, furnishes the mind with a distinct idea which we call sensation; which is, as it were, the actual entrance of an idea into the understanding by the senses.

"The same idea, when it occurs again without the operation of the like object on the external sensory, is remembrance; if it be sought after by the mind, and with pain and endeavor found, and brought again in view, it is recollection; if it be held there long under consideration, it is contemplation; when ideas float in our mind without any recollection or regard of the understanding, it is that which the French call reverie; our language has scarce a word for it. When the ideas that offer themselves (for, as I have observed, while we are awake, there will always be a train of ideas succeeding one another in our minds) are taken notice of, and, as it were, registered in the memory, it is attention; when the mind, with great earnestness, and of choice, fixes its view on any idea, considers it on all sides, and will not be called off by the ordinary solicitations of other ideas, it is what we call intention or study. Sleep without dreaming is rest from all these; and dreaming itself, is the having of ideas (while the outward senses are stopped, so that they receive not outward objects with their usual quickness) in the mind, not suggested by any external objects, or known occasion, nor under any choice or conduct of the understanding at all, and whether that which we call ecstasy, be not dreaming with the eyes open, I leave to be examined."

We often converse with a dead or absent friend, in our dreams, without remembering that the grave or the ocean is between us. We float, like a feather, or fly like a bird, upon the wind, one moment in New York, and the next in Melbourne, without reflecting that the laws of nature are suspended, or inquiring how the scene could have been so suddenly shifted. We accommodate ourselves to every event, however romantic, impossible, unreasonable, extravagant and absurd.

We also dream awake, which dreams may be called reveries or waking-dreams, and they are sometimes as chimerical, and impossible to be realized, as our sleep dreams. Many fabulous stories of apparitions, magic, and apparent miracles, owe their origin to some form of dream.

Superstitions

Superstition has done more harm than war, famine and pestilence.

It has been said that all men are tainted with superstition, in greater or less degree, and that they are credulous from the cradle to the grave. We may be particularly strong on Friday, on the thirteenth, on walking under a ladder, and other foolish superstitions which have thousands of times been exposed, yet we find ourselves weak on something else equally absurd. We are credulous because we are naturally sincere, which indicates that superstitious belief proceeds from honorable principles. All men have a strong attraction to truth, and the man who is the most deceitful is usually the most disposed to belief that other men respect truth. And thus, before rejecting the statements of others, we usually require to detect something in them which is not in accord with our previous knowledge, unless, perchance, we have cause to suspect a design to deceive us. Credulity is, therefore, natural, in part, and it is also the result of the faulty education that we have received from our distant ancestors.

Perhaps many of the superstitions owe their origin to religion. If people had not been taught about devils, hells, miracles and other mysteries, they would not be so susceptible to other beliefs equally absurd.

It is commonly known that gamblers are very superstitious, but fashions change with them as they do with everything else; for, where unsuccessful gamblers used formerly to make a knot in their linen, to change their luck, they now content themselves with changing their chairs, and performing other silly things which some successful gamester has lately done. And so with other superstitious persons. As a security against cowardice, it was once only necessary to wear a pin plucked from the winding sheet of a corpse; now, all one needs is to rub the back of a hunchback. To insure a prosperous accouchement to your wife, you once had to tie her girdle to a bell and ring it three times, while now all that is necessary is to see the new moon over your right shoulder and wish. To get rid of warts, you were to fold up in a rag as many peas as you had warts, and throw them into the highroad, when the unlucky person who picked them up became your substitute; but now, they may be cured by finding a pin, head toward you. To cure a tooth-ache you had to solicit alms in honor of St. Lawrence, but in these enlightened times it can be done by staring at a horseshoe over the door. And so on, ad infinitum do we find the superstitions, like the fashions, ever changing.

The birth of science was the death of superstition, said Huxley; but, alas, it is a slow and painful death. But, science is only half born as yet, and that is why superstition is only half dead.

P. T. Barnum was known as the prince of humbuggers, yet few men have ever lived who had a keener insight into human nature. He knew the human heart, he knew its weaknesses, and he knew how to profit by his knowledge.

The gullibility of the public is shown in various ways: first, by the prosperity of the palmists, astrologers and mediums; second, by the success of all get-rich-quick enterprises; third, by the crowds who patronize the street fakirs who sell articles which nobody can operate but themselves; and fourth, by the apparent success of certain officials who operate through their press agents.

Palmistry, graphology, physiognomy, phrenology, clairvoyancy, chirognomancy, and the other "sciences," have not yet been accepted by the powers that be, fortunately, as an infallible detector of crime. Very few, indeed, of the believers in these isms and ologies would care to have their fate in court determined by experts in one or more of these theories. Only a few hundred years ago, persons were tried and convicted of witchcraft by the same sort of "experts," and the result was that the accused had a very slight chance of acquittal.

Most of our great men have had their illusions, delusions and superstitions, but that is no excuse for people of our times. Genius is always ill-balanced, in accordance with the law of compensation. Napoleon believed in the exploded theory of astrology, and he once said of a bright star, "It has never deserted me. I see it on every occurrence urging me onward; it is an unfailing omen of success." Oliver Cromwell says he saw the figure of a gigantic woman enter his chamber, who told him that he would become the greatest man in England. Sir Joshua Reynolds thought the lamps in his gardens were trees, and the women bushes, agitated by the breeze. Descartes thought he was followed by an invisible person, whose voice urged him to continue his researches. Loyola, lying wounded after the siege of Pampeluna, imagined he saw the Virgin, who encouraged him to prosecute his mission. Pope thought he saw an army come through the walls of his home to inquire after his welfare. Goethe says that he once saw his exact counterpart coming towards him. Byron was also visited by ghosts, and Dr. Johnson thought he heard his mother's voice, though she was in a distant city. Swedenborg imagined that he could converse with departed spirits. Cellini was deterred from suicide by the apparition of a beautiful woman, and Nicolai was annoyed by various spirits, one of which had the appearance of a dead body. And when we remember that some of the world's greatest minds were deluded by the doctrines of witchcraft, alchemy, astrology, spiritualism, and kindred superstitions, now known to be false and silly, including the mighty search for the Philosopher's Stone, we should hesitate long before accepting any strange theory just because somebody else believed in it.

ABRACADABRA was one of the names given to the Persian sun-god Mithra. This word was supposed to have magic powers to cure diseases, provided it was written in the form of a magic triangle several times, as follows, and worn on the bosom for nine days:

ABRACADABRA
BRACADABR
RACADAB
ACADA
CAD
A

Why is superstition so deep-rooted? Why do we cling to error so tenaciously? Why does every new, occult fad soon attract a host of followers? Let us see. First, there is a charm to everything that is extraordinary—we love the unusual, the different, the marvelous, the miraculous; second, we hate to see destroyed that which we love. Hence, the tendency to exaggeration, which is a consequence of it; and hence the regretful reluctance to have our dreams of wondrousness dispelled. Is there anything quite so unpleasant, when we have told a friend of some marvelous manifestation we had witnessed, as to have that friend prove to us that the manifestation was but a trick? Not only is our pride hurt, but our pet joy is spoiled; we had been hugging a sacred mystery, only to find it a delusion.

That which we call mystery is unfinished knowledge—not complete ignorance. That which we call the supernatural is but the natural not yet understood, or only partly understood. We know a little of everything, but not everything of everything, nor even everything of any one thing. Science is only a mystery solved.

A prevalent and dangerous form of credulity or enthusiasm is that which makes us extremists or faddists. A faddist is an extremist, and an extremist is a faddist. It is one thing to be so stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing new has any interest to us, and it is another to be so credulous and catholic that we seize every new theory with a mad enthusiasm. Every fad and delusion is founded on a truth, but the extremist sees in them more than a truth; his brain becomes a kaleidoscope, with numerous reflecting surfaces which reflect multifold imaginary pictures. From two or three simple truths, sprang an immense false system of astrology; from the simple truth that our temperaments and characters are more or less expressed upon our bodies, sprang some of the silly doctrines of palmistry and physiognomy; from the simple truth that every person has an individuality which is expressed in his apparel, his home and his manners, sprang the ridiculous theory of psychometry; from the simple truth that souls live beyond the grave, and that our imagination may picture those souls, sprang the untenable belief in ghosts, spirits and mediums; and from the simple fact that our pains and troubles are intensified by brooding over them, sprang the fallacy of Christian Science. Who would say that the Boston tea party caused the Revolutionary war, or that the firing on Fort Sumpter caused the "late unpleasantness"? The quarrel between Queen Anne and the Duchess of Marlborough over a pair of gloves did not cause the change of ministry and the following peace with Louis XIV, nor did the blood of Lucretia put an end to the kingly powers at Rome, as some say, and neither did the sight of Virginia terminate the decemviral power, nor did the view of Caesar's body and mantle enslave Rome. It seems to be that love of the marvellous, of the curious, of the strange, and of the impossible, that makes us ascribe great results to the most insignificant and isolated causes.

There is a book entitled "Current Superstitions," which can be had in any library, that should cure any reasonable mind of superstition. It contains some thousands of superstitions common throughout the United States, and if a person were to believe in them all, that person could not live one day without violating a dozen or more that would involve him into fatal consequences. Fortunately, the superstitious person usually clings to only two or three, which are not bothersome, and he does not see the folly of them. Some superstitions seem harmless enough, such as, for example, the belief that holding an open umbrella over the head in the house is productive of bad luck, for who wants to do such a thing? or, that of walking under a ladder, for how many times in a lifetime does a person have occasion to avoid doing so? But all superstitions are harmful to the mind, and harmful in their influence upon others—particularly upon children. A man cannot successfully contend against an unknown enemy in the dark, and superstition pre-supposes that there is some unknown, relentless, all-powerful force at work, against God, Nature, common sense, and against the laws of the universe.

There is an old story, but a well-authenticated one, which serves to illustrate the dangers of superstition. In Hamburg, in 1784, a singular accident occasioned the death of a young couple. The lady, going to the church of the Augustin Friars, knelt down near a Mausoleum, ornamented with divers figures in marble, among which was that of Death, armed with a scythe, and a small piece of the scythe being loose, fell on the hood of the lady's mantlet. On her return home, she mentioned the circumstances as a matter of indifference to her husband, who, being a credulous and superstitious man, cried out in a terrible panic, that it was a presage of the death of his dear wife. The same day he was seized with a violent fever, took to his bed and died. The disconsolate lady was so affected at the loss that she was taken ill and soon followed him. They were both interred in the same grave, and their inheritance, which was very considerable, fell to some distant relatives.

Under the head of "Thirteen at Dinner," Edwards in "Words, Facts and Phrases" says: "The common superstition which makes it unlucky to have thirteen at dinner is no doubt a reference to the Last Supper of our Lord and his disciples, where thirteen were present and Judas was among them. He left first, and therefore the first of a party of thirteen to leave the table is the unlucky one." Perhaps this is correctly stated, but if so, how many persons now make the dangerous mistake of at once leaving a table as soon as they discover thirteen present! By leaving at once they hope to avert the evil, whereas they are rushing into it. What folly, either to leave the table or to remain at it, because of this superstition!

The Thirteen Club of New York serves a useful mission. Composed of several hundred prominent people, it meets, discusses the folly of popular superstitions, exposes the fallacies of the supernatural, and breeds a healthy condition of the mind. They meet on Fridays, usually on the 13th of the month, they enter the clubrooms by passing under a ladder, the dues are multiples of thirteen, umbrellas are hung over every chair, salt is spilled on every table, and so on, in defiance of the laws of superstition.

Those foolish persons who believe in the silly superstition "Thirteen at table, one of them sure to die," should remember that if there are fourteen at table, or more, the chances of one of them dying soon are much greater than if there were only thirteen, so that it is far safer to reduce the number to thirteen!

Wonder is the effect of novelty upon ignorance, it is said, but the ignorant are not the only ones to wonder over novelty, and other things than novelty cause wonder, such as want of familiarity with common things met with every day. Knowledge is the cure of both ignorance and superstition, but of the love to wonder there appears to be no cure.

The reason we are so quick to believe in the supernatural is that we are prone to discern in it either good luck or bad luck—benefit or punishment. We are all governed by our passions—principally Hope and Fear, and nothing is more capable of creating those hopes and fears than unrestrained credulity concerning the mysterious.

Everybody has doubtless seen those wonderful, supernatural mind-readers at Coney Island, who profess to be able to tell you your name. I listened to one of their dialogs recently, in which a young lady and her companion were amazed at having the magician look in their eyes and read there their true names, fully convinced of the supernatural powers of the operators. Guessing at how it was done, my friend and I strolled off, made a plan, returned, stopped in front of the camp, and began a conversation in which I addressed my friend as "William"—which was not his name at all—and he called me "Washington," to all of which the several fakirs were intently listening, though pretending not to. Just as they thought they had enough to work upon they approached us, and we yielded to their entreaties. We were ushered into the mystic chamber, there was some whispering among them, and then we were dramatically ordered to think intensely of our names, the chief fakir all the while glaring tragicly into my friend's eyes. "Ah, I has it," said he, gesticulating wildly, "William!" he exclaimed, exultantly. "Wonderful!" was our reply. Devoting his attention to me, he appeared puzzled, but finally said: "You no think; I no get name, but I tell you something wonderful—I tell you what on your mind." "Very well," said I, "that will do." And then he put his greasy forefingers on my temples and cried, "You think you have some washing done!"

If every spiritualist, astrologer, palmist, clairvoyant, mind reader and fortune teller were compelled by law to hang out a sign, "I am a professor of tricks, magic, sleight-of-hand, legerdemain, and tomfoolery; come in and match your wits against mine!" they would still have many customers; but, if everybody believed in signs, there would be no harm done. But perhaps the people would rather have it the other way, as it is, so that they can nurse the delusion that "Perhaps there may be something in it, after all."

Stage Tricks and Occultism

Stage tricks are usually harmless, except when played by fakirs who claim to be possessed of supernatural powers. There is a large variety of these, such as spiritualists, slate-writers, clairvoyants, telepathists and mind-readers, who perform ordinary stage tricks under the guise of occultism, and they deserve something more than mere exposure. Every operator has his or her own particular method of performing certain tricks, and it would be impossible to explain in a brief article how each is done; but it may be helpful to expose a few of the more common ones. All of these tricks may be accounted for as follows: Sleight-of-hand, confederacy, ingenious contrivance, or the application of some natural law, and most of the best tricks are performed with the aid of two or more of these. Had Hermann the Great, or Keller, been dishonest, they could almost have had the world at their feet, by maintaining that their tricks were done through spirit or physic force; but they were honest enough to admit that all their feats were done by means of one or more of the devices just mentioned. There is no slate-writing trick, or materialization, or mind-reading exhibition, that they could not have duplicated, or even excelled; in fact, they did actually duplicate and expose most of them. Had they claimed that spirits or devils, aided them, a majority of the people would probably have believed it without question. Perhaps one reason why more mediums, and such, are not exposed and arrested, is because there is something grew-some and awe-inspiring in the thought that possibly the on-looker is in the presence of the inhabitants of another world; or, perhaps the feeling of sadness, or of the sacredness of the occasion, shuts off all sentiments of revenge, however doubtful he may be of the genuineness of the exhibition. The fact that one by one practically all the great mediums have been exposed, seems to make no difference, because in our anxiety to learn if there is not some possible way to get news of the departed loved ones, we reason that because one, or a dozen, imposters have been exposed, this particular one may be genuine, and that there may possibly be something in it after all.

Why is it that so many are willing to attribute occult powers to all magicians who perform inexplicable tricks? There is scarcely a person who cannot do one or more card tricks which will puzzle the most astute observer, but we do not marvel because we know that they are merely tricks; but let the trickster once announce that he is a mind-reader or a hypnotist, and three out of every five will accept the statement as truth and not seek further to disprove it. Thus, we are taught that credulity is a disease with which most persons are afflicted, and that it is very easy to fool the best of us. Those who are so weak as to accept every mystery as a manifestation of supernatural power, should obtain one of the many books which can be had at any library, and make a study of the art of legerdemain. Then, when attending a spiritualistic seance, or a slate-writing exposition, the student will be able readily to detect the fraud and to duplicate it for the amusement of his own friends.

If every investigator would, before going to a seance, buy one or more of the books, which are on sale at every bookstore, showing how the various stage tricks are done, there would not be many spiritualists in the world. These books sharpen the wits, and while they may not give the precise methods adopted by the medium to be visited, they will show how easy it is to deceive the eye and to fool the best of us.

Much has been said of the wonderful tricks of the fakirs in India, particularly of the Great Mango Trick, and all kinds of supernatural powers have been ascribed to these clever people. In these exhibitions, the fakirs take a seed and a pile of sand, and make a Mango tree grow, in a few minutes, to the height of three or four feet. The secret lies in the fact that the leaves and twigs of the Mango are such that they can be folded into a very small compass and rolled up within the hollow seed, so that when they are unrolled they do not show the slightest crease. The fakir covers the whole with a cloth, and operates beneath it, piling the dirt around it, and exhibiting the building tree occasionally to his astonished audience. Baldwin, "The White Mahatma," has exposed this and many others of the Indian tricks, in his book, "The Secrets of Mahatma Land Explained."

Slate-writing tricks are done in a hundred different ways. Some operators carry a tiny point of pencil under their thumb nail, some have chemical compounds which render writing invisible until heated, or moistened, and some have duplicate slates. The messages they write are obtained in various ways, often by means of accomplices, and still oftener by guess-work.

Some mediums have a regular detective force who make it a business to get acquainted with all susceptible persons, or prospective customers, and after getting a history of these persons, they convey it to the medium, who only has to await the coming of the victims to be able to make startling revelations.

The mind readers also operate largely by means of confederates, and most of the theatrical performers have clever trappings. One of these was exposed recently in a Long Island village, when it was discovered that the operator had several telephone wires running under the floor of the theatre, from the rear of the stage. In another instance, it was found that the sheets of cardboard, which were passed around for the audience to rest their papers upon, were sensitized so that when they were collected and subjected to chemical treatment they would make visible the writing that had been done over them. The questions asked were communicated to the operator by an accomplice in the wings. Another method, adopted by those who claim to read the numbers in watch cases, and to tell the numbers on banknotes, is that of a code of signals sent to the operator by a confederate in the audience. These codes are sometimes composed of words, and sometimes of gestures and signals.

One noted spiritualist claimed to be able to put the subject under a spirit influence and give him superhuman strength. For instance, the subject would support his feet on two little stools, and his hands upon two others, each pair of stools being about five feet apart, and he would then arch his body upward, in the form of a bridge. A heavy anvil was then placed upon his abdomen, and the operator would take a huge sledge hammer and beat a piece of red hot iron into a horseshoe. This was only an experiment in inertia, and the heavy blows were hardly felt by the man below, the effect of them being almost absorbed by the large mass of iron. It was also noticed that when heavy weights were lifted at arm's length, they were so arranged as to lie along the forearm, this position being more graceful and about fifty per cent. easier. Leather straps were broken around the chest, and this was done by means of a sharp tongue to the buckle, filed to an edge, which cut the strap with slight pressure. (The audience eagerly examined the strap in advance, but never thought of examining the buckle.) Heavy Jack-chains were also broken by the subject, but these chains all contained one weak link, of unwelded soft iron, which would stretch out when pulled in a certain direction. Pennies were broken with ease, but these were, of course, prepared in advance, by placing them in a vice and working them back and forth many times until they became soft in the middle.

Innumerable tricks are done by means of cans and other vessels containing false bottoms, or several compartments, and every stage where magicians perform contains various trap doors in the floor, mirrors, and other illusions. A modern scheme is to have two rows of blinding lights, before a black background, so that the audience cannot see the machinery. By this contrivance, figures on the stage are made to float in the air, and to do all kinds of apparently impossible things. One familiar performance has a man at a piano rise in air and revolve rapidly, all in full view—apparently—of the audience, and another makes a lady dance in midair, and take gigantic strides at enormous speed. These tricks are done by means of machinery, concealed from view by optical illusions, the lady having an iron belt about her waist which connects with the hidden machinery in the rear.

Another familiar trick is the appearance and disappearance of a person into or from a box, basket, coffin, and so on, also in full view of the audience. It will usually be observed that these are placed near to the back curtain, where it is easy for a person to enter or exit through a secret opening, but sometimes it is done through a trapdoor in the floor. Once I had the pleasure of assisting Hermann the Great at "Hermann's Theatre" on Broadway, since burned down. I went to his dressing room before the performance, and he gave me a tiny rabbit which I concealed in my ulster pocket, and at the same time several other confederates were given "props," such as silk hats, in which omelets were afterwards made, and handkerchiefs with red moons in the center, and red handkerchiefs with white moons, which were afterwards used in the performance by Hermann who cut a circle out of the middle of a white handkerchief and one from a red handkerchief, and afterwards produced out of the audience the handkerchiefs aforesaid, much to the wonderment of the audience. The rabbit I held was the counterpart of another which Hermann shot from a pistol on the stage, and which was afterwards found in my pocket, much to my apparent chagrin.

The art of magic, while by no means a lost art, is not so popular now as formerly, yet it still has a firm hold on human credulity. As Barnum used to say, "The people love to be humbugged." Inborn in us is that love of the marvelous which caused our ancestors to believe in astrology, sorcery and witchcraft. The stage magician is well aware of this, and as the old tricks become familiar to their audiences, they soon discover new methods to satisfy this natural propensity to crave mystery. Some good folks say that all magic is bad, in that it is deceit and treachery; but this seems rather a lame argument when it is remembered that the magician practically tells his audience that he is going to fool them, and that he is merely matching his dexterity against their quickness of perception. The real harm and danger comes of the modern tricks of magic, in which the magician pretends that he is possessed of some supernatural powers, such as spiritualistic manifestations, clairvoyance, mind reading, slate-writing, etc. If the real truth were known, these charlatans probably reason thus: "We are magicians, the people love to be mystified, we can no longer entertain them with the old tricks, they are ever ready to believe that which they cannot understand, the supernatural is always entertaining; and since we must make a living some how, we will perform our tricks and claim that they are of supernatural origin." There is some logic in this view, from their viewpoint, but from the standpoint of us who see the danger in, and who are trying to destroy, superstition, it is a practice that should be suppressed.

In the introduction to Barnum's "Humbugs of the World," the great showman says, "I once travelled through the Southern States in company with a magician. The first day in each town he astonished his auditors with his deceptions. He then announced that on the following day he would show how each trick was performed, and how every man might thus become a magician. That expose spoiled the legerdemain market on that particular route, for several years. So, if we could have a full exposure of the tricks of trade of all sorts, of humbugs and deceivers of past times—religious, political, financial, scientific, quackish and so forth—we might perhaps look for a somewhat wiser generation to follow us."

Thus, we could go on at great length to show how easy it is to deceive people. It is one of the easiest things in the world to make up tricks to fool the best of us, and all operators in occult or physic phenomena know it. "Am I not to believe what I see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears?" they all say,—at least ALL who want to be convinced. The answer is, "No, you are not."

Ghosts

One by one the great superstitions of the world are slowly but surely disappearing. It was not long ago when we, in this new country of enlightenment, believed in witchcraft, and were burning witches at the stake; but now it would take a long hunt to find a man, woman or child who believed in that horrible and disastrous superstition. The same is almost true of "Ghosts," for that word is now used more in jest than in earnest; but to believe in "apparitions" is not altogether of past centuries, for there are still many who cling to the delusion of supernatural appearances. The modern way of putting it is "Spirits."

Authors, poets and dramatists of all ages, sacred and profane, have made endless allusions to supernatural appearances, not only because ghosts are convenient and entertaining characters to introduce, not only because writers naturally tried to reflect the beliefs of the periods of which they wrote, but because they could make a deeper impression on the minds of a superstitious world. Shakespeare makes fine use of the Ghost in Hamlet and in Macbeth, just as Goethe does of Mephistopheles in Faust. Not only is fiction and the drama full of Ghosts, but there are hundreds of volumes in the libraries giving serious, and apparently "well-authenticated" cases of supernatural appearances. Mrs. Crowe's "Nightside of Nature" is probably the classic of this line of literature—at least, it appears to be quoted more than any other. The author of Robinson Crusoe wrote "An Essay on the History and Reality of Apparitions; being an account of what they are and what they are not, when they come and when they come not; as also how we may distinguish between apparitions of Good and Evil Spirits, and how we ought to behave to them; with a variety of surprising and diverting examples never published before."

I have frequently been asked by believing friends, "How do you account for this?"—following with, perchance, an elaborate account of what the aunt's mother's sister's nephew once saw. My answer has always been, and still is, to those friends, to Mrs. Crowe, Daniel DeFoe and all others, "I cannot account for what somebody else saw, says he saw, or thinks he saw; but let me see it and I will guarantee to give you a reasonable explanation." John Ruskin says somewhere that the greatest thing in this world is to see something and to be able to tell simply and accurately just what you saw, and nothing else. There is the secret! I remember the first time I saw Hermann the Great, and how I went home and told everybody about the wonderful trick he had performed. Of course, nobody could tell me how it was done, for, from the way I described it, it was an impossibility. Sometime later I had occasion to meet Mr. Hermann in his dressing room, and I then learned how the trick was done. How simple! I had been duped and deceived. My eyes had not seen aright. How different was the story I had told, from the story Hermann told!

I have often thought, if Hermann had been in the Ghost business, what harm could he not have done!

We all know what becomes of the bodies and clothing of the dead. Of this there can be no doubt. What becomes of the soul, the spirit, nobody knows. Assuming that this does not die, which seems probable, we know that it cannot again live within the same body and apparel, for that is destroyed. To assume that the spirit procures a new and similar body and clothing, is to assume the existence of material, physical matter in the spiritual world. Does it not require quite a stretch of a sacrilegious imagination to picture a clothing factory in the spiritual world? And yet, we are told that ghosts appear "in the very clothes they used to wear." Mrs. Bargrave "took hold of Mrs. Veal's gown several times" and recognized the velvet. (Drelincourt on Death, 1700). We are also told of "rustling of silk," "creaking of shoes" and "sounds of footsteps" (Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World, Owen).

Even the voice is recognized, although the various organs that produced the original voice on earth have long since perished. We all seem to have a notion that ghosts should be light, thin and airy, but, it seems, there must be fat ghosts, too. I remember at least one fat ghost, for I yanked it into my lap in the middle of a highly interesting seance at Mrs. Calder's, a famous Ghost producer who once thrived in New York. The ghost was alleged to be a famous Plymouth church preacher whose name is too revered to be mentioned in this connection.

Some Ghosts have even appeared in iron armour, and some with walking sticks, swords or shovels. People have heard, seen and felt all these—the word felt might be used in a double sense here, because one vicious ghost is said to have delighted in thumping his hosts with a cane—so it can be assumed that such material things as clothing, armour and canes are to be had in the other world. And yet, ghosts are transparent! You can see right through them. They disappear through a stone wall, through a carpeted, oaken floor, and through a locked and bolted door. You can shoot at them, run them through with a sword, and you touch nothing.

Again, the same Ghost frequently appears in many places at one and the same time. DeFoe tells of the burglars who found the same ghost in a chair in every room in the house at the same moment. Still again, we have "well-authenticated" cases of beggar Ghosts in rags, of one-armed Ghosts, beheaded Ghosts, blind Ghosts, hungry Ghosts, thirsty Ghosts, worried, tormented and unhappy Ghosts, and wicked, revengeful Ghosts. Is, then, the spirit world (heaven), no improvement on our own world? Mr. Kardec once asserted that we are surrounded by "myriads of spirits—good, bad and indifferent," which quite alarmed the author of "Mary Jane," who feared accidents might happen among such a crowd of spirits. Mr. Baker, it was, who set the author at ease, by explaining that "the spirits can walk through one another and not feel it."

It is a wonder that, in a world so full of humbuggers, get-rich-quicksters, fakirs and delusionists, greater effort has been made to profit by the greatest of all passions. For every human weakness we have a gold seeker, be it a Barnum, Munyon, a Lydia Pinkham, a 520% Miller, a Dowie, a Dis de Bar, or a Sister Fox. Some want to be tall, some short, some fat, some thin, some rich, some healthy, some beautiful, etc., etc., and there is always an army of fakirs, honest, semi-honest and otherwise, ready to make them so for a monetary consideration payable in advance. But, the greatest distress, the greatest passion, the greatest longing and yearning, is for the dead. What a tremendous army is the army of the mourners! What a gold mine to the man who can bring the mourner and the departed together! Ghost makers do not necessarily mean to defraud, nor do they always perform for money. There are good and bad, as in all else, and they sometimes fool themselves in their efforts to fool others. The Imagination is a wonderful organism. It is the greatest machine on earth, because it can do the greatest things. But, beware of it—it is not to be trusted; it will expand your credulity, undermine your reason, and give you a taste of the delirium tremens—which makes you see things!

Strikes, Profiteering and the High
Cost of Living

Being an Argument in Favor of Industrialized Government