ants" in obtaining the League baseball championship. Starting third
in the race, they obtained first place in the last week in July and held
it until the end. Sporting men have been wondering at the remarkable
jump of Steve Brodie from the Poughkeepsie bridge into the Hudson River,
a distance of 212 feet. Mr. Richard K. Fox, by an offer of $500 and a
gold medal, incited this foolhardy attempt, but the boy escaped with
slight injuries. Two other Foxes, the famous sisters who forty years
ago founded spiritualism, have created a sensation by telling how they
humbugged people into believing what they now style a monstrous
imposition. An attraction for lovers of art have been the paintings of
Vasili Verestchagin, the Russian artist, which are being exhibited in
New York. Critics pronounce them marvels of strength in delineation, but
a little too realistic for the most refined taste.

Four well-known journalists have died during the month: Joseph M. Levy,
proprietor of the London _Daily Telegraph_, who died on October 12th;
"Long" John Wentworth, an old journalist, but best known in Chicago
politics, whose career closed on October 16th; Colonel R. M. Pulsifer,
former owner of the Boston _Herald_, who committed suicide on October
19th; and Napoleon N. Thieblin, a New York financial writer, who died of
consumption on November 1st. The obituary record is also augmented by
the death at Tashkend of Colonel Nicholas Prejevalski, the famous
Russian explorer, just as he was about to start on an exhibition to
Thibet.

_REVIEWS._

_History of Tennessee.--The Making of a State_, by James Phelan.
(Houghton, Mifflin & Co.)--This book is to us a great delight. It
illustrates so clearly what we have often said, that the success of an
author is not so much in what he has to say as in the manner of saying
it. This is an English rendition of the French axiom that style is
thought. Anyone doubting this has only to remember that Shakespeare
translated to any other language than his own is poor stuff. We laughed
ourselves into tears once over the play of "Hamlet" rendered into
French. The melancholy Dane became a grotesque mountebank, and
Shakespeare's thoughts the dreariest sort of commonplace. It is the same
of all.

Now, we have had histories and histories. Those of the dull, plodding
workers in the worm-holes of time lift out the dust, and dust it remains
until taken in hand by genius, and the dust is changed to gold. "The
rank i