ever hotel we have' selected.

consisting of a fife, a violin, and a harp-are heard; boys rush toward us to take our handbags; the carriage rolls away at break-neck speed, and we are at Manitou. It is all very like Saratoga, or Nice, or Napa Springs, or Santa Barbara, only the number of darkies present constantly suggests sleepy St. Augustine or sandy Jacksonville in Florida.

To those who are ill, suffering from stomach troubles, the mineral waters of Manitou are the chief attraction. The springs were known to the Indians of Colorado for centuries, and Ute Pass has seen many a native on his way to drink of the healing waters. Lieutenant Pike and other explorers also made mention of the springs in their reports, while since then many learned experts have made careful studies of the combined properties. There are iron, soda, sulphur, and hot springs in abundance. The new bath house affords facilities now for drinking and bathing in the natural water, and a thriving business is done by small boys ladling out tumblers of drink at the iron spring.

For those, again, who have pulmonary or miasmatic troubles, there is the glorious air of Manitou. It is a delight to breathe it. Contaminated by no smoke, bracing in its effects, pure as the water that flows down from the mountains, it has strengthened many a weak being, and has given vitality to many a wasted frame. No matter how hot the August sun may be-and at times its power is exerted to the decided disfigurement of one's nose—the shade is always cool and the night temperature is such that one always needs a blanket to sleep under. In winter, Manitou rarely sees any snow, and the town is several degrees warmer than Colorado Springs. The mountains serve to keep away all the cold winds that sweep across the adjacent town, and the sun is always warm, even in December, when there is no wind to deaden and destroy its effect. In late years, Manitou has become a favorite winter resort as well as a summer one. Several of the cottages are occupied the year

The peculiarity of the rock formation of Colorado can nowhere be studied more advantageously than in the vicinity of Colorado Springs and Manitou, the most widely famed spot perhaps, is the Garden of the Gods. Every stranger asks for it soon after his arrival at either town, and the longer one stays the greater becomes his interest in the oddly fashioned place. The colorings are rarely the same there, but change with every passing hour and day. To my artist friend, the Garden was a never-failing source of delight. All artists should see it, he often said, for it is altogether strange.

Why the Garden should have been given its singular name, I have never been able to discover. It is a garden surely, a sheltered bit of rolling ground, carpeted here with grasses, and there bare and sandy. But where the gods come in is a mystery. If the curiously fashioned rocks scattered about the place are suggestive of gods, then our mythological heroes are far uglier creatures than I had imagined from reading of them. But after all, "Garden of the Gods" is a better name than "Garden of the Demons,” though the one is not truthful and the other is. "H. H." says the place is a "symphony in yellow and red." I think the word "symphony" hardly appropriate, if I may be allowed to say so, for there is not a great abundance of harmony between the yellow and red-tinged ledges, and so but little symphony. Perhaps, however, "H. H." meant a sort of Wagnerian symphony, such as one hears in "Die Walküre." If so, the expression may stand.

The gateway to the Garden on the Colorado Springs side is formed by two sharpridged, narrow ledges that rise abruptly from the ground and approach each other like the prows of two gigantic ships. They are of a bright red sandstone, worn by the weather into fantastic shapes, and are only separated by a narrow way, through which passes the road. One of the cliffs is three hundred feet in height, and the other some three hun

dred and fifty feet. A short distance from the gateway, looking through which one sees into the Garden and beyond it to Pike's Peak, is another ledge, rising like a slab of stone from the ground, whose color is a brilliant yellow. The contrast of color between the red and yellow is odd and striking, yet prepares one in a measure for the scenes beyond. Passing the gate, one is in the Garden. Westward, at the end of a circular enclosure sloping gradually into the valley leading to Manitou, are the mountains, blue now in the distance and guarded by Pike's Peak, while all around are red and yellow masses of rock, scattered in wild confusion over the Garden, and carved by nature into strange, weird shapes. Here a pillar of red sandstone strongly resembles a headless giant; here a yellow pinnacle bears the likeness of a man, with his hat set jauntily on one side, and his nose of huge proportions. There are pulpits and castles, domes and animals, wherever one may look, while the colorings are as varied as the figures. By moonlight the place is doubly weird, and yet is strangely fascinating. In the uncertain light of night every object is softened, but yet the figures seem more real, and one seems to be lingering in a garden filled with departed heroes of gigantic frame. The timid declare that no man of the least susceptibility can drive a charming girl through the "Garden of the Gods" when the moon is shining brightly without losing all control of his speech and heart.

Another favorite haunt of ours, and of everybody, in fact, is Williams Cañon, leading from Manitou into the Range. The gorge is deep and narrow, and was once the bed of a river that has now degenerated into a tiny stream, which flows beside one as he walks up the wall-enclosed passage. The cliffs of the cañon are red and yellow sandstone, with here and there a ledge of darkhued granite, and are from three hundred to two thousand feet high. They are worn and ragged, and present many curious shapes. Toward the end of the cañon, reached by climbing a long flight of wooden stairs, is the entrance to the "Cave of the Winds."

A few years ago, when the cave was first discovered, it was my good fortune to be one of the first to explore the vast subterranean caverns. There were no wooden stairs, then, and we had to climb the best we could up the steep walks of the cañon to the narrow opening leading we hardly knew where. Letting ourselves down dark holes by means of strong ropes, groping on our hands and knees through long, wet, or dusty passages, we passed from room to room, finding new, wild beauties wherever we went. Today, the progress about the cave is comparatively easy. Guides are on hand to pilot one, passages have been widened, and stairs have supplanted ropes. In some of the halls, often so high that the light from the candle each one holds does not reach the roof, the walls are hung with cold, glittering stalagmites and stalactites, which give forth, when struck, a weird and solemn sound. There are hundreds of chambers altogether, and the cave ranks high among the natural curiosities of the world.

The popular recreation at Manitou is riding horseback. Many ride who evidently have never done so before. Where one shall go is not so much a question as where the time will come from to allow seeing all that the region has to offer. There is the Pass-with its steep grades and narrow way, with overhanging rocks on one side, and a noisy stream, far down in a ravine, on the other-which travels high into the mountains and through rich forests of pine; the Pike's Peak trail, extending to the summit of the proud old landmark; the Glen Eyrie, once the home of General Palmer, who built a castle-like dwelling in the long but narrow gorge; and Crystal Park, set in a verdant ravine that has wound its way among the foot-hills, from which one looks down, a thousand feet, upon Manitou and away to Colorado Springs. No matter how often one visits these places, they never lose their charm. Ute Pass is one of the most romantic trails in the Rocky Mountains. For half a dozen miles the roadway is barely wide enough for a carriage to pass along, and the mountains rise all around one. In early

spring the air of the Pass is heavy with the perfume of myriads of wild flowers, while at all times the pines send forth a fragrance that is delightful. The trail to Crystal Park is steeper than the Pass, and is not wide enough for a carriage to be driven over it. In places, indeed, there is barely width enough for a single horse to pick his way along. Climbing higher and higher every minute, the way leads at last out of the forests to where patches of snow lie among ledges of rock, and past the brink of deep valleys, far down in the bottom of which rush angry streams. And when the Park is reached at last, one finds cool shade, and there is an extended prospect of the plains that stretch eastward until they meet the sky. It is in visiting such isolated nooks as Crystal Park that one gains a true conception of what the Rocky Mountains are. Their grandeur is indescribable; they are bits of unpolluted nature, fresh, and fair, and strange; set high above the world, the home of eternal silence.

DID I not say so? Here we have been wandering about the base of Pike's Peak, seemingly ever near the great white cone, and still not once within its shadow have we been. And are we never to get there? Well, possibly. We can, if we wish, but the way is long, the path is rough. But if hardship is not feared, then let us go. Riding out of Manitou, past the Iron Spring, our course leads at once into the midst of a thick forest, where the air is redolent with perfume, and the path we follow leads in serpentine course among the tall trees, and by the side of mountain streams. Onward we go, and ever upward, and at last we are out of the forests, and picking our way over

a barren waste, above which rises the Peak, Now we are in the shadow of the monarch; now we can see how deep the gorges are that run down from the summit, and how deep the snows are that glitter so brightly in the strong sunlight. How alone we are! From where we stand no towns are visible; the silence is unbroken, save by the whistling of the sharp winds as they howl about us. In ages past, some terrible earthquake has heaved the rocks with the confusion now existing. There could not be greater disorder. The granite boulders are tossed into every conceivable position, while here and there are deep gulfs into which we dare not look. As we move along toward the summit of the Peak the sun scorches our faces, but the wind is cold and biting. The progress is slow and tedious, but our ponies are well trained and careful, knowing as well as we do where a misstep would send them.

But at last, crossing the lava-strewn hills gathered around Pike's Peak, we cross the snow region and gain the summit. We have been in the shadow, and we have escaped from it and look down upon it. At one side is the little station built for the accommodation of the Signal Service officer, and below is that extended view of Colorado worth days of hardship to enjoy. From where we stand we can see the black shadow of the Peak creeping slowly but surely over the surrounding foothills, over the forests, over the bare rough hedges. But before it reaches Manitou, down there in its narrow valley, the night has come upon us, the air grows cold even in mid August, the stars shine like diamonds in the clear heavens, and the shadow of Pike's Peak is seen no

more.

Edwards Roberts.

known to the percipient. It is almost needless to add, that the love of the marvelous is so strong that a recorded verification prepared after the knowledge of the event is of insignificant import as evidence on such questions. But it is insisted that credible persons have witnessed the phenomena. Why should we not believe them? The same kind of almost unimpeachable testimony is to be had for any number of astounding occurrences. Why are scientific men so mistrustful? On this point a few words may be necessary:

It is well known that propensities or traits of character transmitted through untold gen erations of progenitors assume the fixedness of permanent instincts. They become an essential and unchangeable element in the life of the individual. In man, the instinct which ascribes a supernatural or spiritual origin to the occurrences of life and to many observed phenomena in nature, has, probably been inherited from primeval man. It has been transmitted to us from the earliest times; and perhaps, from the assumed primitive man of the pre-glacial epoch. At all events, it is quite certain that the earliest Assyrian civilization of the valleys of the Euphrates and of the Tigris has handed down to us, in the cuneiform writings, the most complete account of their daily life and doings, and that we thus learn that these people regulated almost every act by the predictions of magicians, astrologers, soothsayers, oracles, omens, or one form or other of impostors. It is well known that the lives of the ancient Egyptians, as well as those of the Greeks and Romans, were similarly regulated. Even in this age of boasted enlightenment-this era of assumed supremacy of scientific methods how all-pervading is the influence of the hereditary supernatural instinct on the lives and conduct of the great mass of mankind! Witness the prevalence of the belief in lucky and unlucky omens. Witness the thrift of astrologers and fortune-tellers. Thus we see, that for at least five or six thousand years— perhaps for a thousand times that periodmankind has been divided into knaves and dupes; the former comparatively few in num

ber, the latter constituting a vast multitude. A few of the knaves may have, in the course of ages, developed into partially honest fanatics; the dupes have developed a vast amount of credulity. The knavery, no less than the credulity, has become fixed by the principle of heredity. The mysterious manifestations were performed by the descendants of unscrupulous magicians, astrologers, soothsayers, fortune-tellers, who had for. thousands of years followed the same calling, and acquired a hereditary skill in such deceptions.

Under the influence of the all-pervading hereditary supernatural instinct, even the most intelligent men are, more or less, governed by the inspirations originating in this source. Are scientifically trained men entirely free from such influences? Most assuredly not. No one is able to completely shake off influences springing from the fountains of human nature.

When the phenomena are of such a character that every one can, by proper arrangements, test and verify them, supernatural agencies are excluded. Such is, at present, the satisfactory aspect of purely physical and chemical phenomena. But as soon as we are constrained to accept the imposed conditions of the manifestations—are not permitted to reproduce the phenomena ourselves- -or are not able to verify them by arranging the conditions ourselves the satisfactoriness of the experimental verifications vanishes. The evidence loses its satisfactory character, the phenomena become more or less mysterious, and come under the influence of the hereditary supernatural instinct. Even the most matter-of-fact practical men become the victims of such inspirations. For example, in mining operations: so long as matters go on regularly, the miners are satisfied with the applications of known laws; but when unusual or unexpected results are manifested, a malignant or evil spirit (Kobold) is invoked.

The most significant and perplexing of the "Psychical Researches" recorded in this volume, are the results of experiments reproducing, with more or less accuracy, draw