observation to dreams as well as to predictions.

On a recent occasion, four whist-players
cut for partners, and cut the four aces,
one each—a thing so strange that it
might well have been made the groundwork
for some omen of good or ill-luck;
yet it admits of calculation that there is a
probability of such a coincidence presenting
itself once in a great number of times.
True, the number is something tremendous;
for it is computed that, if the players had
the longevity of Methuselah, they might
continue cutting to the end of their days,
as fast as their hands could move, without
turning up the four aces a second time.
But be the ratio of misses to hits great or
small, there is no magic about it. Take
all the hundreds and thousands of
predictions in a bundle of prophetic almanacks,
and it would be strange indeed if none of
them hit the mark.

Many predictions come true—that is,
many apparent fulfilments take place—
because the prophet is a shrewd observer of
passing events, or well acquainted with the
personal peculiarities of those to whom the
prediction is intended to apply. This was,
probably, the case with Mademoiselle
Lenormand, who had a singularly long reign
of popularity in Paris. From 1789 till
1843 she was consulted by a succession of
important personages as a fortune-teller of
high class; every applicant wishing to
know something concerning his or her
future fate. Mirabeau, the Princesss de
Lamballe, General Hoche, Marshal Lefebre,
Robespierre, Marat, St. Just, Barrère, Barras,
Madame Tallien, the Empress Josephine,
Louis the Eighteenth, the Emperor
Alexander, Talleyrand, Madame de Staël—all in
turn consulted Mademoiselle Lenormand,
and paid her handsomely for her foretellings.
She knew the history of all her clients,
and the circumstances which surrounded
them; she was probably shrewd in reading
character in the countenance; and she
may have made many lucky forecasts.
Most likely the failures were not counted.

Fraud is unquestionably concerned in
some predictions; those which, as Bacon
says, have "by idle and crafty brains
been securely contrived and figured after
the event past." This is believed to have
been the case in regard to many of the
so-called predictions of the Great Fire of
London. Most of them kept clear of the
precise date; while few having the required
precision of date could with certainty be
traced to a period anterior to the predicted
event. Instances are well known in which
predictions appear in manuscript in some
old book, but with no satisfactory proof of
the date of the writing. There is one,
credited to the fifteenth century, seeming
to prefigure the Crimean war:

In twice two hundred years the Bear
The Crescent will assail:
But if the Cock and Bull appear,
The Bear will not prevail.

Colloquialisms suspiciously like those of
very recent times.

The French have a liking for a curious
kind of prediction, or omen, involving the
addition of numbers contained in dates,
and connected with the lives of
distinguished personages. For instance,
Robespierre fell from power in 1794, and the
first germ of the Napoleon era may be
dated from the same year; add to 1794
the four component numbers, one, seven,
nine, four, and we come to 1815, the year
when Napoleon's power finally ended. Louis
the Sixteenth ascended the throne in 1774;
add 1774 to one, seven, seven, four, and
they make 1793, the year when the ill-fated
monarch was executed. The great French
Revolution began in 1789; add this to one,
seven, eight, nine, and we arrive at the
year 1814, when the exile to Elba put an
end to the French conquests in Europe.
The Bourbons were restored in 1815; add
this date to one, eight, one, five, and we
have the date 1830, when the Bourbons
were once more expelled. Louis Philippe
was born in 1773, and came to the throne
in 1830; add 1830 to one, seven, seven,
three, and we come to 1848, the year of his
expulsion. His queen, Amélie, was born
in 1782; add 1830 to one, seven, eight,
two, and we arrive in the same way at
the precise year 1848. Once more: that
royal couple were married in 1809; add
1830 to one, eight, nought, nine, and here
again crops up the fatal year 1848. It is
impossible to say how many hundreds of
royal and imperial dates would have to be
examined before these seven strange coincidences
could be found; but we can scarcely
wonder that a people fond of such
numerical oddities should attach a sort of
fatalism to dates. Early last year there
was a good deal said on this subject in
France arising out of the following
collocation of figures. The present emperor,
Napoleon the Third, was born in 1808, and
became emperor in 1852; add 1852 to one,
eight, nought, eight, and you get 1869.
Again, his empress, Eugenie, was born in
1826; add 1852 to one, eight, two, six,