seen done, and totally inexplicable to his most vigilant reflection. "So
far as I know, a perfectly original genius, and that puts any sort of
knowledge of legerdemain, such as I supposed that I possessed, at utter
defiance." The account he gave dealt with two exploits only, the easiest
to describe, and, not being with cards, not the most remarkable; for he
would also say of this Frenchman that he transformed cards into very
demons. He never saw a human hand touch them in the same way, fling them
about so amazingly, or change them in his, one's own, or another's hand,
with a skill so impossible to follow.

"You are to observe that he was _with the company_, not in the least
removed from them; and that we occupied the front row. He brought in
some writing paper with him when he entered, and a black-lead pencil;
and he wrote some words on half-sheets of paper. One of these
half-sheets he folded into two, and gave to Catherine to hold. Madame,
he says aloud, will you think of any class of objects? I have done
so.--Of what class, Madame? Animals.--Will you think of a particular
animal, Madame? I have done so.--Of what animal? The Lion.--Will you
think of another class of objects, Madame? I have done so.--Of what
class? Flowers.--The particular flower? The Rose.--Will you open the
paper you hold in your hand? She opened it, and there was neatly and
plainly written in pencil--_The Lion._ _The Rose._ Nothing whatever had
led up to these words, and they were the most distant conceivable from
Catherine's thoughts when she entered the room. He had several common
school-slates about a foot square. He took one of these to a
field-officer from the camp, decore and what not, who sat about six from
us, with a grave saturnine friend next him. My General, says he, will
you write a name on this slate, after your friend has done so? Don't
show it to me. The friend wrote a name, and the General wrote a name.
The conjuror took the slate rapidly from the officer, threw it violently
down on the ground with its written side to the floor, and asked the
officer to put his foot upon it and keep it there: which he did. The
conjuror considered for about a minute, looking devilish hard at the
General.--My General, says he, your friend wrote Dagobert, upon the
slate under your foot. The friend admits it.--And you, my General, wrote
Nicholas. General admits it, and everybody laughs and applauds.--My
General, will you excuse me, if I change that name in