this leads us to the contemplation of the Initial Anarchist who is the forerunner of the vulgar anarchist. The Initial Anarchist may be a despot who dominates the legislative and judicial machinery of a nation, making it the agent of his personal will, instead of the servant of the people, and thus laying a substructure upon which it is impossible to build save to confusion. Governments so conducted must finally collapse. Honest laws and an untrammeled judiciary are the guarantees of national contentment. Vicious legislation and a venal bench open the gateways and admit a flood of other evils that finally undermine the structure. But there are many other ways in which the disturber or promoter of disorder may operate. He may unsettle values, precipitating the failure of merchants, the wreck of financial institutions, and the ruin of thousands. He may create commercial and domestic confusion by forcing up the price of everyday commodities, make travel too costly for any but the rich, send nearly all the gold out of the country, producing panic on the stock exchanges, and widespread bankruptcy. He may organize the familiar corner in stocks, or the crafty combination in flour or coal. All these he may do either singly or by combination with others; and this he does, not from need of money, but from an insatiable impulse to exercise the powers which wealth confers. The Initial Anarchist, secure in the protection of the law for his schemes, becomes a menace to national prosperity and good feeling, He is a luxury which, when multiplied to a certain point, no nation can afford to indulge in. In the aggregate he is more costly than war. In many instances the process adopted by the plutocrat to accumulate his wealth is so bold and conscienceless that it may be regarded as a mere modern variation of that followed by the mediæval, border-raiding, feudal baron. There is another sort of anarchist, equally ardent in his devotion to the demolition of existing conditions, though happily less insidious and less dangerous than the first. Yet he is after all only a blundering imitator, lacking the intelligence, the finesse, the adroit manipulative skill of the other. He plays with incendiary proclamations and wild speeches, and with bombs that make a noise, whereas the real past-master in the profession burrows deeply and silently. It has been said frequently of late, and said truly, that there is no room in this country for anarchists. But the Initial Anarchist, by attacking the solid foundations of society and government, supplies the conditions favorable to the existence of the other with his advocacy of brute force as a remedy for social evils. James Gordon Bennett, the elder, was the first to assert that the "cohesive power of public plunder" kept political parties together, and when the worker shall be fully educated to the appreciation of his opportunities, he will learn that the cohesive power of common interest is sufficient to weld his class, now disunited on politics, into one compact, organized body, strong enough numerically to carry out at the polls any changes its interests may demand, even to the extent of revolutionizing national, State, and local legislatures. In this way only can the Initial Anarchist be reached and legally deprived of his power to work evil. In the social regeneration, education will cease to be a mere training in the art of money-making. Success in life will be shown to be something nobler, better, higher than the selfish accumulation of riches at the expense of all the qualities which make the individual a benefit to his fellow-men. This higher education has already begun. The index-finger of time points to a not-distant day when Plutocracy, as exemplified in the Initial Anarchist, will have become a by-word and a stigma of reproach. [The Editor of the Social Economist, while publishing Mr. Sandison's article, expresses entire disagreement with his views, and lays down the axiom that every step towards the point where millionaires became possible, has been a step in which poverty has diminished and order increased.] EDUCATION, LITERATURE, ART. THE HE title of William Shakespeare, the actor, to the authorship of the plays and poems popularly attributed to him, rests on two foundations, viz.: I. Contemporaneous testimony. II. The unique character of the works. I. The testimony of his contemporaries, though not direct or positive, is without a flaw. For more than twenty-five years, during which time these great productions were coming out, William Shakespeare stood before the world their undisputed author. We hear not the slightest whisper of another name connected with them. This unanimity of sentiment was as absolute before 1598, while the published plays were anonymous, as it was after that date, when the title-pages almost invariably bore what purported to be the author's name. Even Shakespeare's death in 1616 had no effect on his literary tenure. Old plays newly enlarged, new plays never before heard of, some of them ranking among his best, continued to come from the press, still ascribed to him. Two of his fellowactors collected and published all his works, as a labor of love, in one large volume in 1623, making no suggestion, and eliciting none from the public, of any incongruity in the alleged authorship. From first to last no rival claimant dared to lift his head. Greene alone intimated a doubt concerning the dramatist. Francis Meres, in 1598, ranked Shakespeare with the greatest authors of antiquity, declaring that were the Muses to speak English they would speak with his tongue. Here are two sets of facts requiring mutual adjustment: I. A series of dramatic works covering a quarter of a century in one of the most intellectual ages of the world; popular, even more than now, with all classes of theatre-going people; giving its reputed author wealth and fame; striking every chord of the human heart as never before; published at first without a name, then with one, the two syllables of which were often separated with a hyphen; entered at Stationers' Hall always by, and in behalf of, others; and continuing to appear with fresh and perfectly characteristic additions for thirteen years after the author's retirement from London, and for seven years after his death. 2. The uniform, unquestioned ascription of the authorship by his contemporaries to William Shakespeare, the actor and theatrical manager. Between these two statements there is but one possible con-necting link. The genius of William Shakespeare, the man, must have been so commanding, his figure in the circle of his. friends and associates so conspicuous, his personality, as. stamped upon his works, so unmistakable, that neither his own. indifference to literary reputation, nor the curiosity, envy, and malice of others, could throw the slightest doubt on his title: while living, or put it in question for two hundred and thirtytwo years after his death. That is to say, circumstances strongly invited suspicion; none existed; consequently there was no cause for any. The very weakness of the environment becomes an element of strength. The greater the pressure on the capstone of an arch the firmer the arch itself. Fortunately we are not altogether limited to negative testimony. Three of Shakespeare's personal friends can be called as witnesses: John Heminge and Henry Condell have each three claims. on our confidence. They were fellow-actors with Shake*The Plaintiff's brief is already in: See THE LITERARY DIGEST, Vol. V., Nos. 12, 15, 16, 20, 25. In defense of the sincerity of these utterances, we have only to add that Shakespeare, at his death seven years before, had left these old friends, as a token of his affection, $150 (present value)" to buy them rings." We next call Ben. Jonson. To be sure, he made contradictory statements regarding the ease with which the plays were written, a discrepance not very extraordinary, considering the number and variety of these works and the different circumstances under which they were produced. It is in tradition that one of them was forthcoming on demand in two weeks. Jonson's testimony, delivered in 1637, just before his death, is as follows: I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honor to Shakespeare that in his writing, whatsoever he penned, he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, Would he had blotted a thousand, which they thought a malevolent speech. I loved the man, and do honor his memory (on this side idolatry) as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent fantasy; brave notions and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped. His wit was in his own power; would the rule of it had been so too! But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned. Here is the statement of one standing on the brink of the grave, left in manuscript when he died, and published, as he distinctly avows it was written, for the benefit of posterity. The friends of his youth, his compeers, his rivals, Bacon and Shakespeare among them, had long passed away. Whatever may have been his temptations in the past, he had now no conceivable motive to perpetuate a fraud. Lastly, we summon the whole population of Stratford, en masse. Under the bust in the old church at Stratford, placed there within seven years after Shakespeare's death, we read the following inscription: Indicio Pylium, Genio Socratem, Arte Maronem.* This is the voice of his native town, uttered in tones that have reverberated through three centuries. No WORD-PAINTING. AGNES D. B. ATKINSON. The Portfolio, London, October. word has yet been coined to express in concrete form the literary faculty which, for want of better designation, I call word-painting. It is a distinctly artistic faculty, this gift of calling up before the mental vision, by means of words, the image of a scene, whether of landscape or of dramatic actions, with its pictorial and emotional significance; and as an art it has followed the general law, developing slowly from the simple into the complex, reflecting, in different countries, the national characteristics, fluctuating variously, as the pendulum of taste swings to and fro, influencing and being influenced by the arts, plastic, pictorial, dramatic, Writers of mark have found interesting matter for consideration and controversy in the open question whether Art or Literature was first in the delineation of external nature. Yet * In wisdom, a Nestor; in genius, a Socrates; in art, a Virgil. even if the doubt were worth the trouble of solution, surely complete exidence is wanting, for Time has robbed us often of the pictorial expression where we have the word, as in Greek art or Hebrew; and sometimes we have pictorial evidence more abundant than literary, as in the artistic memorials of extinct or barbaric races. Moreover, the modern mind, with its immense inheritance of observation and its intricate mode of thought and introspective habits, is an unreliable critic in a question requiring so subtle an investigation, having an irresistible tendency to read its own experience in all current records. This is notably to be observed in the matter of translation, for though a modern translator of, say classic poetry, may not emphasize the common saying by treachery—traduttori, traditori-yet he almost invariably will introduce some touch of color, or twist of analogy, unwarranted by his author. It These two words, color and analogy, bring us at once into the heart of the classic mode in the art of word-painting. One might venture to assert that all the finest descriptions of atmospheric effect or of landscape beauty are used, not primarily for their own sake, but as analogies—“ magnificent digressions" Macaulay calls them-to express in high poetic fashion one mainly important theme, which is action. has been recently pointed out in an anonymous paper-to which it might be safe to surmise the signature of Mr. Addington Symonds-that in all literature which started by being addressed to the ear, as the epics of Homer, the Scandinavian saga, the Border ballad, “the first quest and the last was 'business.' There was a story to tell. The poet gave the dramatic action and only named the place; if he did dash off a sketch of land-` scape it was in fewest words. Yet the artistic effect was of the finest. Every word of description seems not to delay, but to advance the story." And this mode, the writer points out, continued after the poem was intended for the eye, to be read not heard, so that though the descriptions were more elaborate yet they always seemed to move. In fact, word-painting was primarily a linear art in the classic mode, and the dramatic literature of like aim, an art of emphatic and energetic silhouette, to which chiaroscuro was added for effect; and such surrounding given as explained the action, local scenery, attributes of personal adornment and use, and so forth. The absence of color coincides with this linear treatment. Nothing more perfect in word-painting was ever done than the analogy of the dying Gorgythis, who, sinking, droops his head upon his breast, like full-blown poppies overcharged with rain, drooping to earth. Dante has been charged by Macaulay with "indifference to Nature," but he has failed to perceive the hints of a quite peculiar love of natural effects that here and there stir our hearts along the upward road from Hell to Paradise. I may instance a passage in the twenty-eighth canto of the "Purgatorio," in which the special touch which marks the extraordinary tenderness of the poet's detail, has been translated literally by Longfellow: A softly breathing air that no mutation What word-painting is this! A picture of the finest and most delicate drawing of the subtlest atmosphere and æsthetic suggestion! A Tuscan masterpiece! The delight in external nature for its own sake, revealed with inimitable touches in Shakespeare's dramas, was never lost sight of thenceforward, but the heavier hand of his successors suited best a rougher scene-painting, and a foreground filled by the tragic action. Sumptuous accessories are piled on. The picture is all foreground, there is no perspective. Among the rural imagery of "L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso" Milton does paint in words. The current century has seen full-blown what may be called the picturesque narrative style, in which Sir Walter Scott was facile princeps, and unsurpassable even by Dumas père, or Victor Hugo, or George Sand, and, one might add, Macaulay. The realists are drawn out when they labor to place before you every object, incident, and accident that in any given spot of God's earth serves as setting to their dramatis personæ of the moment. Yet one could not, for instance, take a short excerpt from that marvelous description of the snow-bedecked cathedral portals that shelter his forlorn heroine with which Zola opens "Le Rêve." The exquisite studies in neutral tint which abound in the Breton stories of M. Loti also bear abridgment badly. Or, again, the reflex of impressionist art that characterizes much writing by authors of the United States has the stamp of brevity nd of swift, exquisite suggestion. The modern writer is at great advantage. With an enriched vocabulary, and an enlarged experience, he has all the implements of his art ready to hand, and does indeed devote himself to ever-increasing subtleties of choice workmanship. Whether literary style, especially in the department with which this humble contribution to its study has dealt, may not like some over-cultivated exotic die of its own exuberance, remains to be dreaded. THE SERVICE OF PSYCHOLOGY TO EDUCATION JAMES SULLY. IT Educational Review, New York, November. ́T has been objected, and that, too, by trained psychologists, that psychological principles cannot be directly applied to the concrete, ever-varying problems of education; it is, however, my object in this paper to make clear that while it is foolish to expect that a science so general and abstract as psychology can supply us offhand, after the manner of a logical machine, with the solution of any particular problem submitted to it, it is very far indeed from being a mere collection of useless commonplaces having no value as directly regulative of educational practice. Psychology undoubtedly supplies to the teacher principles of a very high regulative value, though the application of them to the concrete problems of education requires a good deal of intelligence and skil!. The laws of the correlation of mind and body in their successive phases of development are of the very highest value, and indeed a matter of supreme necessity to every teacher who wishes to avoid disastrous consequences to mind and body alike. Under the newer, biological conception of the child we are rapidly coming to see that the infant brings with it rudimentary traces of its animal descent; that it is as yet merely a bundle of inherited potentialities of very unequal antiquity and corresponding degree of stability, and that it is for its environment to determine which of these shall fail from disease, which shall be developed, and to what degree of strength and completeness. Does it not invest the problem of education with a new gravity to know that we are selecting what is best worth preserving from a multitude of mind rudiments, that we are singling out what is precious, because human, from its entourage of brute instinct? Professor W. Preyer's now classical monograph gives us the results of his observations of the periods of appearance of new mental acquisitions, such as movements of the eyes, hands, use of words, etc. If now we come to those psychical exercises by which the normal growth of human minds takes place, we find that here, too, psychology can help us with definite laws. Let me, in this connection, remind the reader of the new light which experiment is throwing on the simple and fundamental type of mental activity, attention to the presentations of sense. Surely if there is one process which a teacher needs understand, it is the response of the mind to an external signal. How rich in pedagogical suggestions is the fact brought to light in these researches, that when the mind is beforehand poised or focused for a particular impression, the process of clear apprehension is reduced to minimal limits of time. May not all teaching be said to accomplish its purpose by exciting the favorable attitude of expectancy, that alertness of mental pose which expedites the hearing of the exact word, the seizing the precise point of the question, and so forth? How important for pedagogic purposes it is to know that three repetitions to-day reduce by one the number of repetitions required for learning to-morrow. These are only a few of the many points at which psychology, as now studied, comes into close organic contact with the problems of the educator. But to render the truths of psychology of practical value in education, it must be systematically and intelligently applied. A principle may be clear and definite enough in itself, yet before we can get any practical help from it we may have to take a good deal of trouble in thinking out its particular applications. The real business of the teacher of pedagogy, is to take principles from the psychologist, and to clothe them in concrete and practical illustrations. Again it has been objected that psychology is at best a reasoned account of the common or typical mind. But there are not two sorts of mind, the general mind and the individual mind. A child is a particular embodiment and illustration of the common characters and common laws of the human mind, and the educator has always to think of the child primarily and mainly under this aspect. Universal principles, valid for all cases alike, without respect of person, are precisely what we need. But, while a theory of education should be based on laws of mind, the practical duty of the teacher is to adapt its application to the individual characteristics. Every individual child ought to be made the subject of a profound, searching study, as thoroughly penetrating as that given by the savant to some new and priceless specimen on which he intends to write a monogram. Now teachers of keen instinctive perceptions and ready sympathies, may achieve something in this direction, but it is neither sufficient nor sufficiently exact. The advantage of a scientific or analytic study of a child's mind is that it compels us to be exact, to count up the sum of forces which confront us, and to measure one against another. I fully agree with those who say that psychology by itself will never make a person an intelligent teacher. Yet I do most certainly contend that, next to practical capabilities, including such familiar, yet all too rare qualities as common sense, tact, and sympathy with child-life, the study of psychological principles in their deductive application to the concrete problems of the schoolroom is the one thing needful. C°S STERNE AT HOME. Cornhill Magazine, London, November. NONSIDERING how interesting and piquant a personage Sterne was, it is surprising that so little is known of his curious and chequered life. An account of him, indeed, in two volumes, appeared nearly forty years ago, in which is found all the information that was then available. Since then many curious things have come to light, with many letters. Letters of Sterne are scarce, and fetch from ten to twenty pounds apiece in the market. As is known, Sterne was a Prebendary of York, and held a small vicarage at Coxwold, some miles from that city. His house was a rustic-looking edifice, which he had dubbed "Shandy Hall," high roofed, and with gable ends. belongs to Sir George Wombwell, who has put it in repair and It now has placed an inscription on it recording the tenancy of the former owner. Unluckily it has been thought good to divide it into laborers' cottages, but the regular outline of the place is preserved, and on the entrance gate is to be read: Here dwelt Laurence Sterne, for many years incumbent of Coxwold. Here he wrote 'Tristram Shandy' and the 'Sentimental Journey.' Died in London in 1768, aged 55 years." Here, too, he danced and "fiddled," as he tells us, coming to York for his term of residence. He lived in rooms in Stonegate. Long after-some thirty years after the humorist's death ―a young and struggling actor-the first Charles Mathews— found himself in York, a member of Tate Williams's company. With his wife, he was lodging in Stonegate, which was known to be the house which Sterne occupied when he came to stay in York. The local tradition was that he had written his "Tristram Shandy" here, but this, of course, was hardly likely. It was difficult, however, to find a tenant for these quarters, as they had the reputation of being haunted; but the actor and wife, being very poor, could not afford to despise the accommodation, which was excellent and also cheap. On the first night of their occupation, as the Minster clock tolled midnight, they were startled by three vivid knocks on the panel, and this visitation continued every night, until they at last became quite accustomed to it. No examination, however minute, could discover the cause; it at last ceased, and, curiously enough, simultaneously with the death of an old strolling actor named Billy Leng, who lodged in the house. It turned out that this man, being bedridden, every night when he heard the Minster clock, used to strike three blows with his crutch on the floor to summon his wife to attend on him. Sterne's patron and relative was Dr. Jaques Sterne, the Archdeacon of York, a pushing, scheming clergyman, who obtained preferment for his nephew as well as for himself. With this influential person the latter soon quarreled, because, as the nephew said," he would not write paragraphs in the papersdirty work," he called it. "He became," he adds, "my bitterest enemy." The earliest editor of this journal, Mr. Thackeray, was inclined to take the severest view of the humorist's conduct to his mother. In an unpublished letter which lately came into the possession of the British Museum, Sterne has vindicated himself, and, it would seem, successfully. It was addressed to his uncle, who was only too glad to take up the mother's cause with the view of annoying or harassing the nephew. In this curious document the poor curate states his case with a force and particularity which carry conviction, and gives the whole history of his relations with his troublesome parent. It is dated April 5, 1771, nearly ten years before he became famous. It is strange to read of a son thus severely indicting his mother, but it must be considered that the unlucky curate was harassed to death almost by this ceaseless persecution, and that the defense was addressed to the most influential member of his family. Nor was this the only instance in which Sterne's memory has been defaced. It is notorious that if there was in the world anyone to whom he was attached it was to his daughter Lydia. In all the whirl of his selfish pleasures he thought of her and her comforts, yet it seemed to have been the fashion to circulate stories as to the general heartlessness and "unfeeling" behavior of "the man Sterne." Calais, an interesting old town, always seems to be redolent of Sterne. Some twenty years ago its yellow walls were standing, the drawbridges down, and best of all, the old Dessin's Hotel, with its Sterne's Room," was still shown. It was a pleasant, inviting place, having something of the air of a country house, with its yellow archway and large courtyard, round which ran the buildings. There were vines and general greenery, and over the archway little roofed dormer windows. Of a summer's Sunday, when there was a fête going on in the town, it was a pleasant thing to make an excursion over there and join in the genuine French festivity. The old inn, then the town museum, was thrown open, and you could wander through its chambers and pause in Sterne's room, still labeled with his name. Behind it were fair gardens of great extent, at the bottom of which stood the theatre, which formerly belonged to the hotel. Now all has been pulled down and leveled to the ground, and a huge communal school erected on the ruins. I A SWISS AUTHOR. LAURA MARHOLM. Samtiden, Bergen, No. 8. I. HAVE not yet found anything written about Gottfried Keller, which does him justice. Keller wrote for his own amusement and he lived so quietly that gossip and criticism found it hard to get a hold on him. It is, therefore, difficult to write about him. His books are his experiences, and some of them are quite personal, but Keller has known how to choose such persons for his intimates as would not afterwards tell tales. His instinct led him to shun what Nietzsche calls "literature-women," and, as a sensible Swiss, who does not trust himself implicitly to God and everybody, he did not give himself fully to anybody. Keller's poetry is life and play. As he tells us in "Der grüne Heinrich," he liked to experiment, and this liking stuck to him through life, and led him to deal recklessly with his literary personalities. Keller often takes his otherwise respectable characters and clearly defined descriptions and gives them a turn in a fantastic dance and leaves them to us as literary riddles and psychological enigmas. He has done that in Die arme Baronin." The reason for that may be sought in his Romanticism. The otherwise sober author has in the first edition of his Der grüne Heinrich " drawn a bathing-scene in the same style as the older authors of his generation, Spielhagen in "Reih und Glied,” and Johannes Scherr in "Deutscher Michel," but his scene is completely beyond the possible sphere of a Swiss milk-maid. Another reason may be sought in the author's liking to write for himself alone and not for the public. In his youth he had been much afraid of Providence, and had been a staunch knight fighting for God's existence, but in his maturer years it amused him to "repair the mistakes of Providence" and to correct the “ wrongs of existence." As regards the public, who read this, he did not care. He thought it should be grateful to him for being its educator. He only thought of his Swiss readers; and was indifferent as regards the rest of the world. He was and wanted to be a Swiss. He did not believe that the world outside Switzerland contained a larger field and more humanity than his home. He was not touched by Brandes-ism, believing that the ideal was to le sought abroad, nor was he influenced by “Young France," under the leadership of the Anglo-maniac Paul Bourget. These traits represent the not-modern in Keller. All other poets, native or foreign, long for the Outside, the Not-native. Another not-modern trait is this, that he does not hunt for problems, and that therefore he finds them by the bushel. His pages abound with problems; they lie scattered throughout his novels in reckless multitude and stick out in provoking indifference. Three problems of his alone might inaugurate a new era in literature, if they were properly set forth. Keller was never aware of the serious nature of his material, nor did he ever, like the moderns, endeavor to acquire a fixed "style." He spurned everything modern in the line of literature. He turned the soil like a plowman, and many "modern" birds might feed, and feed well, in the furrows he made. Still, there is one point in which this good and phlegmatic Keller is more modern than the most modern, that is in his knowledge of woman. Excepting Goethe, Keller is the first 7 and last and only one of all German authors, who thoroughly understood woman. Not that he knows all of her nature, but he has not lied about her. Keller is not to be approached intellectually nor in pure immediateness. He is too exclusive to let God and everybody enter too easily. One must be of his "set," an initiate to his method of living, in order to comprehend him, and but few of the moderns live as he did. Modern civilization is a barrier between them. Keller is a man of the open air, a "freshair poet." He is, therefore, not popular in the towns. His writings have the odor of the forest and the meadow, and they must be read while one is at ease and free from the burdens of civilization. An understanding of him is a matter of growth and quiet. But Keller is no author for the summer tourist. One must be used to live out-doors in order to become fully acquainted with him and enter into his life and his ideas. He delineates the life of out-door people, and does it for out-door people. For instance, he never describes a" lady" if he can help it. If he must, he criticises her mercilessly, as, for instance, Lucie in 'Pankraz der Schmoller." When he writes about a lady in sympathy, he places her away back in time and "out of doors" as, for instance, in "Der Landvogt von Greifenser." " SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY. NEW METHODS OF DEVELOPING PHOTOGRAPHIC NEGATIVES. JACQUES DUCOM. La Nature, Paris, October 22. HERE has been much talk for a little while past about employing paramidophenol for developing photographic negatives. The employment of this new product is due to Messrs. Lumière fils, and its use may be considered as marking a great progress in photography. It was only after a long series of experiments on the aromatic class of substances that skillful practitioners came to choose paramidophenol, which appeared to act more energetically than all the others. It reveals the latent image of gelatine-bromide plates in the most perfect manner. This developer had already been proposed by Dr. Anderson, who used a chlorohydrate of it, while Messrs. Lumière employed it uncombined with anything else. With it I have obtained very fine pictures and that in an absolutely simple fashion. In view of its great energy, I should advise its use especially in instantaneous pictures. The image develops very quickly, and it is necessary for this reason to cover the plate with the developer all at once, otherwise the picture will be spotted. It is well, too, not to be troubled by the uniform gray tint which the negative takes at the beginning of the development, for the image increases in intensity gradually, and there is ample time to stop the development at any instant. Mr. Maurice has been good enough to give me the formula he uses to obtain the beautiful pictures which are so well known, and as I have obtained equally excellent results by operating in the same manner, I will describe how to prepare the developing bath according to the method of that clever operator. With this formula, the intensity of the development depends almost entirely on the quantity of alkaline substance (caustic lithia), which is put in the developing bath; thus, for example, by using 1 to 2 grammes of lithia to a quart, you will get a very good bath for portraits and one which will give very transparent and soft pictures. That quantity of lithia will serve equally well for instantaneous photographs not taken with the greatest rapidity. For instantaneous pictures, taken with the utmost rapidity, or if you desire a more intense devel opment, you must use as much as 51⁄2 or even 8 to 10 grammes of lithia to a quart. This is the way to prepare the bath: In a quart bottle, perfectly clean, put 700 cubic centimetres of distilled water. In that dissolve 120 grammes of sulphite of soda, 5 grammes of caustic lithia, and 5 grammes of yellow prussiate of potash. In order to make the whole dissolve more rapidly, the water should have been warmed in advance. When all is dissolved, fill the bottle full of water, and put in it 7 grammes of paramidophenol. This substance is slow in dissolving and you must shake the bottle from time to time in order to dissolve it completely. An essential point is to cork the bottle as soon as you have added the paramidophenol, for without that the bath oxydizes and immediately turns black. It is necessary, then, in order to keep this developer, to have a series of small bottles or phials, which will be always full, and which should not be opened until the moment of using the contents. One bath will serve to develop several negatives, four or five, and even more; but as the substances employed in its composition do not cost much, it is better to change the bath oftener. It must be remarked, however, that paramidophenol takes up less bromine than other developers, when it is employed several times; and that, for this reason, it has less tendency to harden the negatives. In the same series of products to which paramidophenol belongs may be placed another which is very efficacious in the development of negatives. This is amidin or chlorohydrate of diamidophenol, the use of which Messrs. Lumière were the first to announce, in 1891. The product which is sold at the present time under the name amidin is a crystalline silver-gray powder, reminding one of magnesium in file dust. It is easily soluble in water. A colorless solution can easily be made by putting a quantity in nine times as much water. After a while it turns red and is then unfit for use. The advantage of this developer is that it produces strong and brilliant pictures without the addition of a large quantity of an alkaline substance. A good formula for instantaneous negatives is this: 1,000 cubic centimetres of water, 100 grammes of sulphite of soda, 10 grammes of amidin. This is the normal bath for instantaneous pictures, taken with the utmost quickness. For negatives taken not quite so quickly you may diminish the quantity of sulphite and of amidin by one-half. It is well not to prepare too much of these solutions in advance, for they do not keep very long. It is also well to use always some alkaline sulphite, for it is only by virtue of the small quantity of caustic soda contained in all the sulphites of commerce that the formulas I have given produce good results. MANUAL CONCEPTS: A STUDY OF THE INFLUENCE OF HAND-USAGE ON CULTURE-GROWTH. FRANK HAMILTON CUSHING. American Anthropologist, Washington, October. F we assume that there have been three great steps in the intellectual development of man, the biotic, the manual, and the mental, then, during his biotic development, man, a genus of animal species merely, had progressed so far as to have free hands. Though these may have developed in climbing, he could now fend and defend freely with them. It was then that man began to develop extra-naturally, no longer like the mere animal by coercion of the direct forces of natural environment, but rather by making an environment of his own, and this, first, by means of his hands-that is to say, this experience in warding off the blows of nature with his hands, gave rise to devising, in which is to be sought the |