no new theory.  The belief that, thoughts may
pass through the mind in one's sleep, and be
even of after-use when the memory has
retained them, has nothing, I should think, of
the supernatural in it, however singular and
interesting it may be.  When both body and
soul are at work together, how many
contingencies are speculated upon as likely to
happen, some of which, in the course of events,
do come to pass.  Once concede that the mind
does not always take its complete repose when
the body does, and we have a clue to some
wonderful things foretold in dreams.  But, as
Drowse says, whether in men or dogs there
must be brains, or there is little chance for the
imagination to work, either asleep or awake;
and I partly believe him.

A few more superstitions have not much
mischief in them.  We tin-kettle our bees.  We think
it unlucky to upset the salt; lucky to find a
horseshoe; and those Grumbletonians who are
particular about their nails—but the number is
very small—will on no account pare them on a
Friday.

Still a few defensive charms may be mentioned.
On each side of the stable-door, on the first of
May, is hung up a birch bough, to keep witchcraft
from the horses.  It is occasionally a bough
of maple instead of birch.

Old Christmas-day is most scrupulously kept
among us.  Horses must not be worked on that
day, nor must women go out of doors.  We
kill our pigs at the full moon; then the bacon
"plums up," so says Grumbleton, and is lucky.
It is lucky also for the heir who inherits from
one dying at full moon; his estate then, like the
bacon, "plums up."  If death occurs when the
moon is waning, the fortune will injure its
inheritor.  No instance is, however, on record
of an estate being refused because it fell to a
man under such malign lunar influences, though
its worse than worthlessness is as well authenticated
as the belief that bacon will not cure if
the pig is killed after full moon.  One instance,
rather descriptive of the nature of the viper than
adding much to Grumbleton superstition, may be
subjoined.

Two or three country fellows intently examining
a viper, cut in two by the scythe of the
mower.

"Can't read that 'ere,"  says one.

"Knows the English of it, anyway,"  says
another.

''What's the matter, my lads?"

I hereupon am informed that the mottled
part of the dying reptile consists of writing in
an unknown tongue.

The translation is known to my informant, and
is as follows:

     If I could hear as well as see,
     No man or beast should pass by me.

Now comes the question, what harm is there in
all this strong popular belief?  "Superstition,
and acts of superstition, cannot elevate, but
debase the mind."  So said the good Dr.
Arnold.  The remark is just, and it is one that
others beside Grumbletonians might not be worse
for remembering.

It is a singular fact, and one which, in this
great educational period, is worth attention, that
our rural poor are not more enlightened than
the parishioners of Selborne were in Gilbert
White's time, a century ago.  In White's
chapter of the Superstitions of Selborne may
be found an instance nearly identical with that
furnished by Catkins in this year of grace 1864.
The only differences between the two cases are,
that the incantation is performed at sunset
instead of sunrise, and that there is no mention
of witches or hop-poles.

Nor are our peasantry better than their
fathers with regard to superstitious actions.
But for the strong arm of the law, the land
would be full of them.  A poor deaf and dumb
Frenchman, who had taken refuge in a country
village in Essex, was but recently done to death
by the process of swimming him for a wizard.
The poor creature kissed the hand of one who
would have saved him, but could not.  It was
the only sign of gratitude in his power to make.
It was the mute appeal for the help of a fellow-
mortal at the mercy of a brutal mob.  The
appeal made in an enlightened age and country
proved ineffectual, and ignorance and brutality
destroyed their victim.

Acts of superstition, even when apparently of
small importance, whether fashionable or
unfashionable, should be scorned and rejected on
the ground of their debasing influence.
Mayfair, just now, cannot afford to sneer at
Grumbleton.

HOME DINNERS.

AT the head of the table of the arts and
sciences, let us place with becoming dignity, the
science or the art of social dining.  Theoretical
and practical text-books issue every month from
the press for the use of students, but the study
itself wants a name as great as its importance.
The Greeks, who took the chief meal of their
day at our now customary evening dinner-hour,
gave it the most dignified of names, as "to
Ariston"—the Best.  Whoever prepared dinner
was said in their language to Do his Best.
Whoever received another to dinner was said to
aristize, or make-the-best-of him.  Dinner-time
was the Best Hour, and a dinner companion was
synaristos, a fellow-at-the-Best.  So let us, if we
want a long word, give to the science of fellowship
in dining all the dignity of six-syllabled
Greek, and call it Synaristology.  Gastronomy,
which is, by interpretation, paunch-law, looks
no further than the pots and kettles, and we are
a long way ahead of Epicurus.  Synaristology
is the art of comradeship in the best meal, by
making the best of one's self, the best of one's
friends, and the best of one's victuals.

Let us understand clearly, too, that this is an
universal science, or at best a science common
to all men who have bread to break. Let us