tidigitator," and all who have seen seem delighted with the natural magician. Mr. Hermann's merit lies not in the novelty of his tricks, but in the beautiful way in which he executes them. He wisely dispenses with all paraphernalia, and allows the audience to see through everything except the actual execution of the tricks. His show of entire openness does not fail to throw off their guard most of those who think they watch him closely, and the lightning rapidity of his substitutions and exchanges renders them entirely imperceptible to the exceptional individuals who will not allow themselves to be puzzled by the usual manœuvres for distracting the attention.

It seems as if Mr. Hermann must be something of a contortionist as well as magician, for even when packed, as he occasionally is, with the bulky materials of his tricks, his body retains its usual shape. Mr. Hermann's programme is just long enough to satisfy without wearying the audience, and is free from the little trivialities and vulgarities which are apt to mar the exhibitions of magicians of an inferior stamp. The skill as a ventriloquist that Mr. Hermann possesses is by no means small, and the imitations of bird notes and songs with which he closes his evening's entertainment are as admirable as any of his performances. A sure sign of the perfection of his sleight-of-hand is the almost invariable inclination of those who have seen him to deny the only possible solution of his tricks, and some persons are disposed to attribute supernatural powers to Mr. Hermann; but there are so many people who do full justice to his skill, and at the same time regard it as nothing more than human, that the prestidigitator stands in little danger of being shunned or punished as a servant of Satan, or as the infernal king himself. Indeed, no one could desire a more complete refutation of spiritualism than the ability which this man has of performing, by skill and ingenuity, tricks entirely eclipsing the most remarkable of those which claim for themselves a supernatural origin. So that, while we advise all who can to see the magician, we should especially urge those who are or are not inclined to be spiritualists to make use of Mr. Hermann as an eye-opener.

TABLE-TALKS. —As we were lingering around Cambridge upon the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and watching the numerous departures for home and the festal board, we could not help feeling that the dinner-bell of the College year was ringing, that we had got through with the forenoon of the year, with all its studies and lectures, and should come back after finishing our mid-term meal to spend a quiet afternoon of six weeks, before the day really closed, and we were allowed to sleep away the long winter vacation. It was odd to see the different travellers start, all as rollicking as soldiers on a foray or foraging-tramp,— even down to the budding Freshman who returned home for the first time, a chrysalis, back to his grub again.

And can any one pass through one of these annual gastronomic reunions, which we all welcome and enjoy with so much zest, and not feel that there is a close and continual connection between our student-life and our eating, — that each is dependent on the other for its own success, that the three meals and the three recitations of a college day are equally important, and not at all inconsistent with each other, that Thanksgiving is no less a day than Commencement or Exhibition Day? We think here is a subject which will bear a few remarks,

the subtle connection between our intellects and our food, considered first in a general way, and secondly, from a collegiate point of view.

To begin with, let us look at the evident connection etymologically. According to modern parlance, you can relish a man's conversation as well as his dinner, the last novel as well as the last smoking ragout. They may both be spicy, or may both be insipid. Again, no philologist could fail to detect the same original root in aesthetics and ἐσθίω, in fact, we find the same idea reaffirmed in the idiom by which we say that a man may have both a taste for Greek and a taste for garlic. So too, by another English idiom, we discuss a good dinner, as well as the last Congressional debate ; we speak of a digest or code of laws, as well as a digested meal. Every book we read furnishes us with food for thought, just as bountifully as our host furnishes us with the delicacies of the season. And in the same way the dictionary will give you a hundred other instances of that evident relationship between literature and gastronomy, - between the working of the mind and of the jaws, which must have existed thus among the very founders of all language, perhaps even to Babel itself,— proving the first literary effort of mankind to have been almost, if not quite, simultaneous with the first dinner.

We can be well satisfied, then, that the theory is a true one; but are there many practical instances of the connection in real life? Let us see. Who that has read, even in the most desultory fashion, the accounts of old English celebrities cannot, at will, call up to his memory many such scenes as the nightly feasts at the "Mermaid," where the most gifted intellects of the day gathered round the richest dishes of the day, only to make the former more active and the latter more palatable than any intellects or dishes since, -sitting

"At those wild drinking bouts, which seemed divine

In a great flash of wit."

Neither can we forget the ease with which Kit North and his companions could sit through the "Noctes Ambrosianæ," making the introduction of a new dish only the occasion of a fresh song or a more spirited encounter of wits. We ought too to remember, that Steele wrote and dated his "Tatler" at "White's” London coffee-house, - that Selden's table-talk entertained a half-dozen guests before its first edition made it more public, and that Quin, Young, and Selwyn were masters in Epicureanism as well as in repartee and belles-lettres; for such examples are but individuals picked from the mass of those who could demonstrate to you in their own persons and habits the connection between the two. If it need any further proof, read again the "Autocrat's" papers in the "Atlantic"; and, although you may not know which to admire most, his frequent delicate compliments to his landlady on the excellence of her fare, or the humor with which he comments on it and other ordinary subjects, yet you will see how easily wit can unite with proper appreciation of food.

We have but little room left to urge an application of the proposition on our readers; but we will trust to their own good sense to make it for themselves. We would recommend “table-talks" to the most voluble and loquacious degree. We would hold up as a warning to all silent boarders Tennyson's picture of "Lotos Eaters,"

"With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep, in a half-dream."

We would recommend the "dinner of herbs" with "contentment," and a brisk conversation to any "stalled ox " eaten in melancholy silence. Let your meals be lively, even if you have to cultivate a political discussion to make it even if your turkey furnishes "bones of contention," and your apples become apples of discord."

So,

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HÆC STUDIA ADOLESCENTIAM ALUNT. — It is the received opinion that the best stimulus to the imagination is warmth, bright firelight, and the music of a whistling storm outside. We venture to dissent from commonly received opinion, — with due timidity, however, as becomes a rebel against the Gogmagog of public dogmatism. The new theory which we wish to erect is this, that no firelight so spurs the fancy, no snug chimney-corner so warms the brain into delicious action, as does a good, stupid, prosy recitation. Tutors and professors would stand in amaze, could some skull-Asmodeus unroof the young gentlemen who writhe uneasily on the hard settees. Such delicious rose-clouds of day-dreams would fill the room, as would banish Mathematics and Metaphysics into the land of nonests. What a whirl of pleasant sights eddy up into the ventilators, or roll slowly along the ceiling! Wreaths of laurel and bay would circle up like smokewreaths from a skilful mouth. The spicy clouds might perchance assume a fairer form than ever summer sky held to the eye of the fondest dreamer. There might be smell of powder, moreover, and the echo of cannon; the smoky folds of a silken flag streaming gallantly over hard-won ramparts.

It is well, it may be, that our worthy instructors have no such inner sight. Some of them are young enough yet to be charmed into similar wandering visions. Nor do years always bring immunity from dreams. It is very well, perhaps, that Asmodeus is busy elsewhere.

PERSONAL. - We are heartily sorry to be obliged to state that Mr. G. P. Stevens, one of our Junior editors, is about to leave us, having accepted a Second Lieutenancy in Colonel Hinks's brigade now on the Potomac, — and at the same time no patriotic man can do otherwise than applaud his act. Many of us will even envy him the opportunity. He will leave with the respect and affection of his fellow-editors, as well as of all his friends. We are but spokesman to all who know him, when we give him an earnest God-speed, and wish him all success and honor.

BEFORE attention was engaged by the momentous struggle which is to decide the fate of democratic institutions in America, we were watching with intense interest the happy solution of another problem, involving the fortunes of no less than twenty-four millions of people. Within the short time that has intervened since January, 1859, Italy, from an oppressed and divided nation, has become free and united; a community of states, enchained by domestic tyranny and foreign domination, has thrown off the yoke of oppression, and is now rapidly developing into a power that will have an important voice in the affairs of Europe and of the world.

It is to the wise and bold measures, the skill, and the far-reaching foresight of a statesman second to none in his own time, and equalled by few in any age, that Italy owes this glorious and, until recently, unhoped-for success.

This great statesman has justly been called the "Maker of Italy"; and, though the structure he has reared cannot be seen in its true proportions until the lapse of time shall give sufficient perspective, yet a brief review of the events of his life may not be uninteresting, and at the same time will show how large a share posterity must award him in the history of the most critical period in the national existence of Italy.

Camillo Benso, Count de Cavour, was born on the 10th of August, 1810, at Turin. He was the second son of an illustrious VOL. VIII. No. 71.

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family, tracing its pedigree far back into the Dark Ages. His father was a true representative of the haughty and bigoted Piedmontese aristocracy, so much so that a shade of doubt was thrown over the liberal principles of the son during the earlier part of his career. Like most young men of rank in Sardinia, he was sent to the military college at Turin, with a view to service in the army, in which every young noble at that period felt bound to spend some years of his life. At college young Cavour soon became distinguished for his abilities, and was mentioned by his teacher as the best mathematician in the school.

For his promising qualities he was taken to the royal court as a page; but his independent spirit found the position of a courtier uncongenial, and he gladly returned again to his studies.

After his graduation, at the age of eighteen, Cavour was appointed a lieutenant in a corps of engineers stationed at Genoa. He spent four years in the engineering service, and passed most of this time among the Alps. The young lieutenant soon became known for his liberal principles; and, though his good sense kept him from joining secret organizations and conspiracies, he necessarily incurred the displeasure of the authorities. In 1832 some unguarded expressions caused his imprisonment. It was during this imprisonment that, in a letter to a lady of Turin, he says that in his dreams he already sees himself "Minister of the Kingdom of Italy." Very little prospect could the state of Italy at that time afford to a young engineer of twenty-two that his dream would ever be realized.

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On his release from prison, he threw up his commission in disgust, and devoted himself to the study of political science. He was still regarded with suspicion. When, in the course of his Italian travels, he visited Milan, the Austrian officials had their " eye upon him"; spies were set to dog his steps, and the houses he visited were nounced." When the archives of the police fell into the hands of the Italian party in 1848, amongst a vast collection of papers relating to almost every man of prominence in Italy, was found a detailed report upon Cavour, in which he was pronounced a dangerous person, and one of far too great ability not to be regarded with the utmost jealousy.

In 1835 Cavour visited England, and spent several years in that country and in France. The former, however, was the country of his preference. His political principles gave him a decided predilection for English institutions. The reform of Parliament and the