and, as well as me and Mrs. Lufkin could make
out, replied:

"I zomzing on my nose felt. Over my two
knees, zis fiddle I saw come. My head was
wizzled in zingling brishes, like you said—
buzz. So."

Tremendious applause, in which I could hear
Tom Bowsicold at work with our big umbrella.
After which, a circle was formed in the very
middle of the room, the Mrs. Davingpodge in the
centre, tied in a chair, and the lights put out. We
was in total darkness, which was only to be
expected, seeing what a lot of sperreted
hatmosphere our forty-two horganisations must have
swallered! We was told to take hold of hands all
round, so as to prevent any confederals getting in—
which, unless there was confederals among the
forty-two horganisations, they couldn't — when
the Mrs. Davingpodge untied themselves in the
most obliging manner— as easy as I could lace
my boots— flung the fiddle and the ropes about
over our heads, rubbed phosphorus (that
wouldn't glitter, being bad and apologised for)
upon a guitar, to show how it was carried about
in the dark, which it might, or mightn't. Then
the friend of the Mrs. Davingpodge getting on
a chair, informed us the phenomena was done.

Not quite. For the same unsatisfied gent as
had asked the Baron von Giggle for his name,
got upon another chair, and observed that,
without meaning any disrespect to the Mrs.
Davingpodge, if the phenomenon was done, so
was he. He had come to see the sperrets.
Wheer was they?

The friend of the Mrs. D. said he could only
refer the honourable unsatisfied gent to the card
hissued last Tuesday, in which, in deference to
some strongish hobservations of the English
press, and the council of a friend heminent in
littary circles— Mr. Thomas Bowsicold— the
word "Phenomena" had been substituted for
"Sperrets," and the public further hauthorised
to call them what they pleased.

"Yet," persisted the unsatisfied gent, "by
himplication, at least, you refer these phenomena,
as you now call them, to something beyond
what we know of nature."

"We calls it a hunrecognised law of physics,"
says the friend of the Mrs. D. "The Honourable
Baron von— "

"Psha! 'Baron!'" returns the unsatisfied
gent. "Keep to the pint. You call it a
hunrecognised law of physics. Why don't you, if
the words reason, common sense, fair dealing,
philanthropy, have any meaning at all with
you, help us to ' recognise ' this law, by telling
us all you think, feel, and know, of its wonderful
operations? The interest would not be
diminished, nay, it would augment with the progress
of inquiry. Not only would guineas flow in
freely, until Willy's his rooms could not hold
us, but the Mrs. Davingpodge would be handed
down to posterity as a great scientific name, and
as one of the most honoured and honourable
pioneers in the most difficult path of inquiry.
So, tell us all about it."

"There is one pint the honourable gent has
overlooked," says the friend of the Mrs. D.
"Our card, lately hissued, says all our necessary
conditions must be complied with."

"Well, sir?" says the unsatisfied gent.

"The condition we find most necessary,"
returns the friend, "is this: That nobody asks no
questions. Turn off that gas!"

"Well, Dan'l, what do you think of my
friends?" asked Tom Bowsicold, as we walked
away.

"That the Mrs. Davingpodge are not the
worst jugglers I ever see," says l, "nor their
audience the greatest fools."

AIR.

IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER II.

IT is a general belief, confirmed by experience,
that mountain air is purer than that of the plain,
and the air of the plain than that of marshes
and populous cities. The purest air is that
which contains only oxygen, azote, and watery
vapour. The higher you climb the mountain,
the further you leave the plain behind you, the
purer is the air. The invigorating qualities of
mountain air are accounted for by the full dose
of oxygen and the smaller charge of carbonic
acid which it holds. It is an undoubted fact
that the liberal oxygenation of the blood
sustains bodily and mental energy. So long as
they can breathe freely, horses and hares run
fast and far, without being distressed. In ill-
ventilated schoolrooms and hospitals, attention
necessarily flags, and cures are difficult to be
effected. It is not the pupils and teachers, nor
the doctors and nurses who are in fault, but
the chimneys, doors, and windows. At the end
of a ten hours' walk over the Wengern Alp, by
going up-hill very slowly and breathing the
exhilarating air freely, I have felt no fatigue
whatever; only a little stiffness in the legs next day.
In the highlands of Scotland, I have wandered
among the hills all day without refreshment,
and have returned to a late dinner, less fatigued
than when I started: entirely owing to the air.

Perhaps the lesser proportion of carbon in
the air may be one cause of the dwarf and
stunted stature of Alpine plants in general.
Last year, I brought home a miniature house-
leek, gathered at the foot of the Jungfrau's
glaciers, and planted it in a pot. In the
somewhat hyper-carbonated atmosphere of a small
country town, it has attained to thrice the size
of any wild specimen of the species which I
could find. And it cannot be the watering
which has done it; for it is less regularly and
constantly supplied with moisture than in its
native locality. On the other hand, pear-trees
are notorious for thriftiness and robust health
in the smoky air of towns.

In its enormous depths, the air contains a
multitude of atoms which may be regarded as
the sweepings and offscourings of the
atmosphere. It has been sifted and interrogated to
ascertain what part it plays in phenomena
attributed to spontaneous generation; and the result
is, that the air disperses germs enough to render