Scribner, by my friend Mr. William James.  In this article the reader will find a full exposition of the doctrine of plural personality illustrated by striking cases.  I have long ago noticed and referred to the fact of the stratification of the currents of thought in three layers, one over the other.  I have recognized that where there are two individuals talking together there are really six personalities engaged in the conversation.  But the distinct, separable, independent individualities, taking up conscious life one after the other, are brought out by Mr. James and the authorities to which he refers as I have not elsewhere seen them developed.

Whether we shall ever find the exact position of the idiotic centre or area in the brain (if such a spot exists) is uncertain.  We know exactly where the blind spot of the eye is situated, and can demonstrate it anatomically and physiologically.  But we have only analogy to lead us to infer the possible or even probable existence of an insensible spot in the thinking-centre.  If there is a focal point where consciousness is at its highest development, it would not be strange if near by there should prove to be an anaesthetic district or limited space where no report from the senses was intelligently interpreted.  But all this is mere hypothesis.

Notwithstanding the fact that I am nominally the head personage of the circle of Teacups, I do not pretend or wish to deny that we all look to Number Five as our chief adviser in all the literary questions that come before us.  She reads more and better than any of us.  She is always ready to welcome the first sign of genius, or of talent which approaches genius.  She makes short work with all the pretenders whose only excuse for appealing to the public is that they “want to be famous.”  She is one of the very few persons to whom I am willing to read any one of my own productions while it is yet in manuscript, unpublished.  I know she is disposed to make more of it than it deserves; but, on the other hand, there are degrees in her scale of judgment, and I can distinguish very easily what delights her from what pleases only, or is, except for her kindly feeling to the writer, indifferent, or open to severe comment.  What is curious is that she seems to have no literary aspirations, no desire to be known as a writer.  Yet Number Five has more esprit, more sparkle, more sense in her talk, than many a famous authoress from whom we should expect brilliant conversation.

There are mysteries about Number Five.  I am not going to describe her personally.  Whether she belongs naturally among the bright young people, or in the company of the maturer persons, who have had a good deal of experience of the world, and have reached the wisdom of the riper decades without losing the graces of the earlier ones, it would be hard to say.  The men and women, young and old, who throng about her forget their own ages.  “There is no such thing as time in her presence,” said the