What accounts, then, are there of levitation among the civilized people of the Old World?  First, there is Abaris, the Scythian, “in the time of Pythagoras,” says our author.  Well, as a matter of evidence, Abaris may have been levitated in the eighth century before Christ, or it may have been two hundred and fifty years later.  Perhaps he was a Druid of the Hebrides.  Toland thought so, and Toland had as good a chance of knowing as any one else.  Our earliest authority, Herodotus, says he took no earthly food, and “went with his arrow all round the world without once eating.”  It seems that he rode on this arrow, which, Mr. Rawlinson thinks, may possibly have been an early tradition of the magnet.  All our detailed information about him is of later date than the Christian era.  The fact remains that tradition says he was able to fly in the air.  Pythagoras is said to have had the same power, or rather the same faculty came upon him.  He was lifted up, with no will or conscious exertion of his own.  Now, our evidence as to the power of Pythagoras to be “like a bird, in two places at once,” is exactly as valuable as that about Abaris.  It rests on the tradition repeated by superstitious philosophers who lived eight hundred years after his death.  “To Pythagoras, therefore,” as Herodotus has it, “we now say farewell,” with no further knowledge than that vague tradition says he was “levitated.”  The writer now leaves classical antiquity behind him—­he does not repeat a saying of Plotinus, the mystic of Alexandria, who lived in the third century of our era.  The best known anecdote of him is that his disciples asked him if he were not sometimes levitated, and he laughed, and said, “No; but he was no fool who persuaded you of this.”  Instead of Plotinus, we are referred to a mass of Jewish and anti-Christian apocryphal traditions, which have the same common point—­the assertion of the existence of the phenomenon of levitation.  Apollonius of Tyana is also said to have been a highly accomplished medium.  We are next presented with a list of forty “levitated” persons, canonized or beatified by the Church of Rome.  Their dates range from the ninth to the seventeenth century, and their histories go to prove that levitation runs in families.  Perhaps the best known of the collection is St. Theresa (1515-1582), and it is only fair to say that the stories about St. Theresa are very like those repeated about our lady mediums.  One of these, Mrs. Guppy, as every one knows, can scatter flowers all over a room, “flowers of Paradise,” unknown to botanists.  Fauna, rather than flora, was St. Theresa’s province, and she kept a charming pet, a little white animal of no recognized species.  Still, about her, and about her friend St John of the Cross, the legend runs that they used to be raised off the ground, chairs and all, and float about in the most soothing way.  Poor Peter of Alcantara was levitated in a less pleasant manner; “he uttered a frightful cry, and shot through the air as if he had been fired from a gun.”  Peter had a new form of epilepsy—­the rising, not the falling, sickness.  Joseph Copertino, again, floated about to such good effect, that in 1650 Prince John of Brunswick foreswore the Protestant faith.  The logical process which converted this prince is not a very obvious one.