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turn the razor, and cut a piece clean out of my left hand. An artery was cut in two places, and bled dreadfully." Further details are given which show that the pain and bleeding were probably at their maximum at the hour of Mrs. Gates's breakfast that same morning.

We are allowed to publish the following letter, written by a clergyman to his daughter, who is an intimate friend of

our own:

E.,

"When your brother E. was at Winchester College (about 1856 or 1857), on going to bed one Saturday night, I could not sleep. When your mother came into the room, she found me restless and uneasy. I told her that a strong impression had seized me that something had happened to your brother. The next day, your mother, on writing to asked me if I had any message for him, when I replied, Tell him I particularly want to know if anything happened to him yesterday.' Your mother laughed, and made the remark that I should be frightened if a letter in Dr. Moberly's handwriting reached us on Monday. I replied, I should be afraid to open it.' On the Monday morning a letter did come from Dr. Moberly, to tell me that E. had met with an accident, that one of his schoolfellows had thrown a piece of cheese at

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him which had struck one of his eyes; and that the medical man, Mr. Wickham, thought I had better come down immediately and take your brother to a London oculist."

The next account was given us by Mrs. Swithinbank, of Ormleigh, Anerley Park, S.E., with whom we are personally acquainted:

"When my son H. was a boy, I one day saw him off to school, watching him down the grove, and then went into the library to sit, a room I rarely used at that time of the day. Shortly after, he appeared, walking over the wall opposite the window. The wall was about thirteen feet distant from the window, and low, so that when my son stood on it, his face was a level with mine, and close to me. I hastily threw up the sash, and called to ask why he had returned from school, and why he was there; he did not answer, but looked full at me with a frightened expression, and dropped down the other side of the wall and disappeared. Never doubting but that it was some boyish trick, I called a servant to tell him to come to me, but not a trace of him was to be found, though there was no screen or place of concealment. I myself searched with the same result. As I sat still wondering where and how he had so suddenly disappeared, a cab drove up with H. in an almost unconscious state, brought home by a friend and schoolfellow, who said that during a dictation lesson he had suddenly fallen backward over his seat, calling out in a shrill voice, 'Mamma will know,' and becoming insensible. He was ill that day, prostrate the next; but our doctor could not account for the attack, nor did anything follow to throw any light on his

appearance to me. That the time of his attack exactly corresponded with that at which I saw his figure, was proved both by his master and classmates."

The Reverend H. Swithinbank, eldest son of the writer of the above, explains that the point at which the figure was seen was in a direct line between the

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house (situated in Summerhill Terrace, Newcastle-on-Tyne) and the school, but that no animal but a bird could come direct that way," and that the walking distance between the two places was nearly a mile. He describes his brother as of a nervous temperament, but his mother as just the opposite, a calm person, who has never in her life had any other similar experience.

Still more remarkable is the following case, from the fact that the exciting experience on the part of the Agent was not of pain or danger, but only of strong momentary surprise and shock. The account is from Mr. R. P. Roberts, 10 Exchange Street, Cheetham, Manchester, who is personally known to one of us.

One

'When I was an apprentice in a drapery establishment, I used to go to dinner at 12 and and hot-tempered, which made me anxious to return at 12.30. My employer was very strict avoid his displeasure. The shop stood at the corner of Castle Street and Rating Row, Beaumaris, and I lived in the latter street. day I went home to dinner at the usual hour. When I had partly finished I looked at the clock. To my astonishment it appeared that the time by the clock was 12.30. I gave an unusual start. I certainly thought it was most extraordinary. I had only half finished my dinner and it was time for me to be at the shop. I felt dubious, so in a few seconds had another look, when to my agreeable surprise I found that I had been mistaken. It was only just turned 12.15. I could never explain how it was that I made the mistake. The error gave me such a shock for a few minutes I felt as if something serious had happened, and had to make an effort to shake off the sensation.

"I finished my dinner and returned to business at 12.30. On entering the shop I was accosted by Mrs. Owen, my employer's wife, who used to assist in the business. She asked me rather sternly where I had been since my return from dinner? I replied that I had come straight from dinner. A long discussion followed which brought out the following facts. About a quarter of an hour previous to my actually entering the shop (i.e. at about 12.15) I was seen by Mr. and Mrs. Owen, and a well-known customer, a Mrs. Jones, to walk into the shop, go behind the counter, and place my hat on the peg. As I was going behind the counter Mrs. Owen remarked, with the intention that I should hear, that I had arrived

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now that I was not wanted.' This remark was prompted by the fact that a few minutes previous a customer was in the shop in want of an article which belonged to the stock under my charge, and which could not be found in my absence. As soon as this customer left I was seen to enter the shop. It was observed by Mr. and Mrs. Owen and Mrs. Jones, that I did not appear to notice the remark made. In fact I looked quite absent-minded and vague. Immediately after putting my hat on the peg I returned to the same spot, put my hat on again, and walked out of the shop, still looking in a very mysterious manner, which incensed one of the parties, I think Mrs. Owen, to say, 'that my behavior was very odd, and she wondered where I was off to.' I of course contradicted these statements, and endeavored to prove that I could not have eaten my dinner and returned in a quarter of an hour. This, however, availed nothing, and during our discussion the above-mentioned Mrs. Jones came into the shop again, and was appealed to at once by Mr. and Mrs. Owen. She corroborated every word of their account, and added that she saw me coming down Rating Row when within a few yards of the shop; that she was only a step or two behind me, and entered the shop in time to hear Mrs. Owen's remark about my coming too late. These three persons gave their statement of the affair quite independently of each other. There was no other person near my age in the Owens' employment, and there could be no reasonable doubt that my form had been seen by them and by Mrs. Jones. They would not believe my story till my aunt, who had dined with me, said positively that I did not leave the table before my time was up. You will no doubt notice the coincidence. At the moment when I felt, with a startling sensation, that I ought to be at the shop, and when Mr. and Mrs. Owen were extremely anxious that I should be there, I appeared to them, looking, as they said, as if

in a dream or in a state of somnambulism.'

Of a still rarer type is the next account, where an impression, though unmistakably produced, was only physically felt, and not understood by the Percipient. It has been placed at our disposal by our friend, Mr. F. Corder, a gentleman of very high reputation in the musical world.

"On July 8, 1882, my wife went to London

to have an operation (which we both believed to be a slight one) performed on her eyes by the late Mr. Critchett. The appointment was for 1.30, and, knowing from long previous experience the close sympathy of our minds, about that time I, at Brighton, got rather fidgety, and was much relieved and perhaps a little surprised and disappointed at not feeling any decided sensation which I could construe as sympathetic. Taking it therefore for granted that all was well, I went out at 2.45 to conduct my concert at the Aquarium, expecting to find there a telegram, as had been arranged, to say that all was well. On my way

I stopped, as usual, to compare my watch with the big clock outside Lawson's, the clockmaker's. At that instant I felt my eyes flooded with water, just as when a chill wind gives one a sudden cold in the eyes, though it was a hot still summer's day. The affection was so unusual and startling that my attention could not but be strongly directed to it; yet, the time being then eleven minutes to three, I was sure it could have nothing to do with my wife's operation, and as it continued for some little time, thought I must have taken cold. However, it passed off, and the concert immediately afterward put it out of my mind. At 4.0 I received a telegram from my wife, All well over. A great success,' and this quite took away all anxiety. But on going to town in the evening, I found her in a terrible state of nervous prostration; and it appeared that the operation, though marvellously successful, had been of a very severe character. Quite accidentally it came out that it was not till 2.30 that Mrs. Corder entered the operating room, and that the operation commenced after the due administration of an anesthetic, at about ten minutes to three, as near as we could calculate."

Exigences of space compel us here to break off our classification-to be resumed at an early date by the discussion of the family of cases, logically last on our list, where both the parties concerned are in a state to some extent abnormal. And we shall conclude with a consideration of some objections, general and particular, which we must expect to pass through our readers' minds in much the same order as, upon our first introduction to these subjects, they passed through our own.-Fortnightly Review.

AN INDIAN FESTIVAL.

To the north of Mexico, and south of the State of Colorado, lies the territory of New Mexico-a region which was repeatedly explored during the sixteenth century by Spanish adventurers, from whose account of it the Viceroy of Mexico was encouraged to send an expedi

tion into the country in 1599. The Spaniards found there a peaceable tribe of Indians, living in villages and cultivating the soil. Pueblo-their name for a town-gained for them the name of Pueblo Indians; but they are presumably descended from the Aztecs, who

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once inhabited the whole region, and whose ruined villages and temples are still to be found here and there. Several forts and colonies were successfully founded by the Spaniards; and the Jesuit priests who accompanied the expedition also established missions near many of the Indian settlements, and converted numbers of the people to the Roman Catholic religion. Most of the present Mexican towns here originated with these mission churches, which soon gathered habitations round them. The capital of the territory, Santa Fè, is said to have been built on the site of some old Indian buildings found by the Spaniards, and on this account it claims to be the oldest city in the United States. The new-comers encouraged the Pueblos to continue in their villages, and even to build new ones; but they otherwise treated them as slaves, compelling them to work in the gold, silver, and turquoise mines that were discovered in the country. After eighty years of oppression, indeed, the patient Pueblos rebelled; they drove away the interlopers and had their own way for some eighteen years, but in 1695 the Spaniards returned and took possession of New Mexico once more. They now treated the Indians rather better, but all the wealth and resources of the country being in their own hands, it was easy for them to keep the Pueblos and the Mexican half-breeds, who formed the mass of the population, in virtual servitude. 'These wretched peons, as they are called, were perpetually in debt to the Spanish proprietors and obliged to make up for their insolvency by incessant and hopeless toil on the lands of their creditors. When Mexico was declared a Republic, New Mexico formed part of it, and was governed under its laws, until the American war with Mexico began, and the United States' troops took possession of the territory in 1847. The Pueblo Indians then received grants of the land surrounding their villages from the United States' Government, and the general condition of the country was improved, although it is to be feared that many of the Spanish landowners keep the poorer Mexican peasants in the condition of peons still. There are yet in the country some old Spanish families who lay claims to pure

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Castilian descent, and are very proud, while even Mexicans of the better class hold their heads high and profess great unconcern, and even contempt, toward the Americans and their institutions. The oldest family of all, however, is more simple and more affable. Pueblo Indians do not give themselves many airs, although they are the descendants of an ancient race, among whose ruined homes they have built their own already venerable villages. They are in some ways less barbarous than the Mexicans, and certainly more pious, although they still cling with one hand to many of their old superstitions. Here the Jesuit priests have shown great discrimination-they have grafted Roman Catholic festivals on to some of the old Indian holy days. For instance, at the Pueblo of Taos, which is the best preserved, and probably the oldest town still inhabited in New Mexico, the Indians hold a grand festival on St. Jerome's Day, a day which is, however, further hallowed by some memory of Montezuma! This festival is widely renowed, and many other Indians as well as Mexicans from the neighorhood flock to take part in it.

Even some few of the Apaches and Navajos tribes of a more wandering and warlike character, inhabiting other parts of New Mexico and Arizona, visit Taos for the festival, if they do not happen to be on the war-path," and are at peace with the whites and the Pueblos.

This year the fame of the Taos festival spread even to Colorada, and so it happened that, from a little bran-new western town, where we have all the latest American improvements, and speak a good deal of "progress," we determined to go down into this strange region, near us and yet so far, so full of old monuments, old memories, old ideas.

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By way of contrast, a railway, an extension of the Colorado, Denver and Rio Grande Line, runs within thirty miles of Taos, and much nearer to some of the other Pueblos. This simplified the first stage of our journey, and a private sleeping-car, with the addition of a good stock of provisions, made us independent of the miserable accommodation the country affords. The scenery of Northern New Mexico resembles that of

Southern Colorado; there are the same deep grassy basins, once filled by great lakes, the same mesas or table lands, covered with the low piñon-fir or the sage-brush, and bounded by ranges of glorious mountains, the same deep cañons or gorges and narrow mountain passes. Ascending and descending, over passes and plains, we reached, after twenty hours of travel, the small station of Embudo, in a ravine on the banks of the Rio Grande River. Here, as there was absolutely no accommodation, our car was shunted into a siding, and we slept in it.

A friend, who knew the country, had with difficulty persuaded a Mexican in Taos to send conveyances to meet us at Embudo; so, early next morning, the party was stowed away in a variety of rickety wagons and buggies, and started on a thirty-mile drive. At first, having but just turned our backs on the prosaic railway station, and becoming aware that our harness was rotten and our horses balky, we "disremembered," as they say in New England, the picturesqueness of the expedition. The road before us was indescribably stony and precipitous, and though it wound by the banks of the green Rio Grande torrent, it was hemmed in by arid brown hills, scantily covered with sage-brush and cactus, and strewn with volcanic rocks. Here the sun baked pitilessly down, and we fancied ourselves in a desert, until a turn of the road brought some Mexican settlements in sight. These strange, mud-colored houses are usually built in the form of a square, or half a square, the door and windows all opening into an inner court, the outer walls presenting a dead blank. They are rarely more than one story high and have flat roofs, on which the long grass waves undisturbed. The dull hue of the adobe, or unbaked brick, of which they are built makes a harmony with the brown hills and the dry prairie grass, but a contrast comes in with the strings of vivid red peppers that hang on the walls of the houses and the fresh green orchards that surround them. From one of these houses a woman, wearing the usual gay pink cotton dress and with a white " serape' or mantilla, draped on her head, ran out to see us pass. Taking a cigarette from her lips she cried out that we should pay

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toll" for passing before her house! No one felt called upon to make use of their slight knowledge of Spanish upon this occasion, though all the party had been studying it hard during the past few days. After our weary mules and horses had dragged us up and down through two deep and dry ravines, we reached at last the top of a broad mesa, swept by a refreshing breeze and commanding a generous view over the surrounding country. Below us wound the deep cañon of the Rio Grande, cutting a dark, mysterious line right through the sunlit prairie. Here and there the flats were broken by strangely-shaped peaks and bluffs, or by other mesas covered with glossy fir-woods. Far away the whole was bounded by ranges of mountains, luminous and blue. At the foot of a nearer range to the northeast a gray outline was pointed out as the Mexican town of Taos, the longed-for end of our journey. It seemed close at hand, yet with all the weary horses could do, it was dusk when we entered the silent, empty streets. A town that suggested Egypt or Algiers, in the midst of a landscape which vividly recalled Colorado -how strange it seemed! At first all the houses turned blank mud walls on us, and when a cottage with a gabled roof came in sight we felt startled. The cottage stood by a lofty old stone church, and turned out to be a new parsonage, built by the parish priest, who, like many of the clergy in New Mexico, is a Frenchman. In the public the adobe houses presented a more lively appearance, having their doors and windows opening on to the square and shaded by low verandas. Here stood the inn, a building with huge, disconsolate-looking rooms, backed by a network of walled courtyards, which seemed of no particular use. The house was very full, and only two rooms, enormous indeed, and full of big bedsteads, were provided for the accommodation of our party of thirteen. The landlord was an American, but his wife was Mexican, and so were his servants, with the exception of an anomalous French mancook, who in spite of his nationality never gave us anything fit to eat. best thing about that inn, as about other Mexican dwellings, was the flat roof, whereon one could climb, and, standing

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on the soft grass, watch the sun set and the moon rise across the prairie.

In the evening we were invited to a ball in a house near by, where the better part of the Mexican population was assembled. The ball-room was a long low apartment, smelling like a cellar. The behavior of the guests was dreary in the extreme. Most of them sat round the room on benches, and looked coldly at us when we joined them. Few of them were good-looking; and especially among the women there was a predominance of sallow complexions, heavy features, dull, black eyes, apathetic expressions. Not a spark of the vivacity attributed to Southern races was visible. There was scarcely any picturesque costume, most of the women wearing ungainly imitations of antiquated French fashions, and crude, and crude, inharmonious colors. The dancing was in the same style as the dress, and they did not perform anything national or characteristic. Partners spoke little to each other, and at the end of the dance, the gentleman discharged his social duties by bringing the lady a little figure of colored sugar. We left the baile, disappointed; but we were subsequently assured on good authority that our presence alone had been the cause of the dulness, the stiffness, the want of "local color." Not only do they resent being looked at, and by Americans especially, but it is a matter of absolute etiquette never to have any larks when a stranger is present. If we could go back and peep in at the window, it was affirmed, we should behold a very different scene. As it was, our impression of the middle-class Mexicans remained uninteresting. There were prettier faces, livelier and more kindly manners among the Mexican peasants and the Indians, whose pretty ways and vivacious expressions often recalled those of the Italian peasants. The day of the festival rose bright and cloudless. In the square, a scramble began early in the morning for seats in the wagons that were starting for the Indian Pueblo, four miles off; and as we jolted over the prairie, we overtook crowds of holidaymakers on every side. The lonely plain was all at once alive with people; it seemed as if they must have sprung up from the prairie-grass. And what a

motley assemblage! Mexican families in covered wagons, the women gorgeously dressed out and carrying Japanese parasols; Mexican youths dashing recklessly along on fiery broucho ponies; Mexican peasants on foot; and here and there an Indian père de famille riding proudly and silently in front of his squaw, who follows on an inferior horse, with one papoose tied on her back, and two more in her arms. Now, there are more Indians mingling with the crowd-we are entering the Pueblo de Taos. First we pass the ruined church, founded by the Jesuits early in the seventeenth century, and bombarded by the Americans in 1847; next, on the right, is the little new whitewashed church, and on its roof sits an Indian in a red blanket, beating with a stone the sheet of copper that hangs above the door; he is calling people to worship. Soon the crowd collects in an open space before the principal building of the Pueblo, on the north bank of a small, clear stream. Just beyond the village, this stream is shaded by a magnificant grove-supposed to to be the sacred grove-of cottonwood trees. Autumn has now changed their green leaves to flames of red and gold, that blaze against the blue mountain-slope rising close behind them. This is the unchanging background; in the foreground, under the shadows of the old buildings, the picture shifts and changes all through the brilliant, burning autumn day. The Pueblo of Taos has two adobe buildings, the larger to the north, and the smaller to the south of the stream. They are very much alike, but the larger and older of the two is perhaps the most characteristic. It probably began as a small hut, built by the founders of the settlement-who knows how long ago? It was enlarged, as the tribe increased, until it has grown into a huge pile, four or five stories high, each new story being built a little smaller and further back than the last, so as to leave in front of the building a succession of terraces or steps, narrowing as they ascend. Each separate terrace, again, has been raised or depressed here and there, so that the entire façade presents the strangest and most irregular appearance imaginable. Inside, the whole building is honeycombed with

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