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NIGHT BEFORE THE EXECUTION.
by MARY E. BRYAN.
(Republished by Request.)
She etands upon the dungeon floor,
Swathed in her night-black hair.
She doe* not pray. Redoes not weep.
Desnair ie atiU when it is deep
A^d knows not moan or prayer.
She dare not move her fettered feet
To stamp in frenzy’s might,
She fears the clanking chain to hear;
It rouses phantoms fnll of fear
In the dead, silent night.
So. mnte and motionless she stand*,
But through her fevered b r8,n
The thronging memories go and come,
Unshadowed by the pall of doom,
Untainted by the dungeon gloom-
A bright, but mocking train.
In gorgeous pleasure-halls she seems
To sweep, a festal queen; . .
White curves her proud neck, jewel-bound.
Dark wreathe her tresses, plume encrowned,
Stately yet soft her mien.
Gems clasp the arm’s unsnllied snow
That rusty chains now hide;
And he had clasped them kneeling low,
With the proud grace she learned to know
And watch for with a guilty glow—
She, she another’s bride«
Bis rare, soft eyes ! a serpent guile—
In their dark shadow lay,
Subtle in beauty, strong in power.
That watched for her unguarded hour
And made her life its prey.
She gave him all that woman can—
Surrendered him her soul;
She would have walked with him through hell,
Bor heard the tortured spirits yell.
Led by his presence-mastering spell
And passion’s wild control.
She had done for him—what! OGodl
The haunting horror comes!
She sees the dead, the murdered dead,
With livid, poison hues, o’er-spreadl
His kind, true lips, his hoary head—
How plain the spectre looms !
God! what a horror in its look 1
Calm sad, but stern as fate;
She feels that it foretells the doom
That, past the scaffold, past the tomb,
Glares at her from Hereafter’s gloom,
And ever shrieks, “Too Late 1”
She cannot bear it; she must scream,
Though all the fiends awake,
No, it is gone! it leaves her now
With the cold sweat upon her brow
And limbs that cramp and quake.
Deep silence fills the freezing cell;
Not even her pulses stir.
Hark ! what faint sound falls on her ear 1
The note of the far chanticleer.
Crying, “The morning laugheth near,”
What brings that day to her?
That awful day that comes—her last!
Horror congeals her blood.
A vision of that day appears,
A sea of faces turns to hers;
And what is this that clasps, that stirs?
The rope—the rope—0 God!
It tightens, chokes! No, it is but
A coil of clammy hair;
She flings it like a serpent off.
But still she hears the crowd’s deep scoff,
Still those dark ranks appear.
A thousand cold, unpitying eyes
Turn to her, standing there,
Intent to see the fatal rope,
Throttle the struggling life and hope,
And swing the soul beyond the scope
Of earth and time—oh I where ?
She starts—amid that sea-like throng
One face a frenzy brings.
He comes to gloat on her despair,
Hifioak, his scorn she will not bear;
Forward she springs to curse him there.
Her footing fails, black grows the air!
.lust heaven ! she swings, she swings!
******
She falls upon the dungeon floor,
In deep and deadly swoon:
The nrnlu’s wild dreams and fearsare o’er,
Woulifsbemight lie there ever more,
Nor wake for sun or moon !
But she will wake from that brief rest
To hear the hammer’s sound
Upon her scaffold's lofly height,
And she will go, all cold and .white,
And act the vision of to-night
Before the gazing crowd.
The Mystery Solved.
-OR—
Why She Didn’t Marry.
BY NELLIE CAFFREY.
‘Please tell me auntie, why yon’ve never mar
ried,’ said Mary Arnold to her annt, Miss Hattie
Staples. ‘I am very anxious to know, and often
asked mother but she would never gratify my
curiosity.’
Miss Hattie laid aside her work, and glanced
atjthe little French mirror opposite.
*‘Well, love, if sister has so jealously guarded
my secret, I am at liberty to disclose it, and
will do so, if yon will be silent regarding it’
Mary gave the desired promise, and drew near
enongh to her annt to pat her head on her lap.
As you already know, my father was in very
affluent circumstances, and 1 was the belle of
the circle in which we moved. Soon after I at
tained my sixteenth birthday, the most eligible
young man in the vicinity offered me his heart
and fortune. His erudition was profound and
his disposition chivalrous and noble. My fath
er approved of my heart’s choice and our en
gagement was soon proclaimed. Mr. DeVere
was quite a favorite, and many were the con
gratulations offered. Our marriage was to be
consummated in nine months,and as father gave
me abundant means for the procuring of my
trousseau, my requirements grew to be many,
and purchases were made regardless of price.
Time passed rapidly, and three months, only,
remained of my life of celibacy. Mr. DeVere
and myself were speaking of our future, when a
letter was handed me. I instantly broke the
seal, and saw that it was from an old school
mate, telling me of her intention to come and
spend a month with me. This girl was very
dear to me, and her anticipated visit would be
extremely pleasant. I handed the letter to Mr.
De-Vere to read, while I got writing materials
to reply without delay, and urge her to start on
the next train. I wrote only a few lines, and as
I laid my pen down, I looked up at him. His
eyes were regarding me with an expression I
could not read, and when I playfully put my
handover them, he gently removed it saying:
‘Tell me of your friend. Where did you know
her ? Do you like her very much ?’
All of these questions were asked hurriedly,
and with suppressed emotion. I answered every
one readily, and the only comment was:
‘Pseudo friends are the most dangerous. ’
In one week, Irene Fitzhne came and from
that hour my misery began. Mr. DeVere and
myself met her at the carriage door, and as I
introduced them, I observed a look she gave
him, which instantly filled my heart with dire
apprehensions. As soon as we were within the
privacy of her room, she hastily threw off her
shawl and hat, and ensconced herself in the
arm-chair which sat before the fire; as she held
her feet before the glowing blaze she exclaimed:
‘I declare yon have changed so mnch, Hattie!
You are positively growing pretty. By the way,
who ia that Mr. DeVere ? I don't admire him at
alL" „ «<.„
“M. DeVere is a native of onr village,” I re
plied, “and I’m sorry that my friend does not
Mem to like my affiance.”
‘You are engaged to him, then ? Weil,
I suppose I shall have to acknowledge his
superior claims, and if he fails to improve on
acquaintance, will suppress my opinion.’ I saw
that she was in a satirical mood, and only said
in reply,
‘ The dinner-bell will soon ring, so you will
have but little time to arrange your toilet unless
you hurry.’
‘Never mind that, mon amie. If you will ex
cuse my traveling dress, I'll not change until
this evening.’
No more was said on the subject, and when
we were summoned to the dining-room, Irene
was vis-a-vis at the table to Mr. DeVere, and they
were soon engaged in a vivacious conversation in
which I took no interest, but I observed every
thing, and a terrible feeling of unrest possess
ed me, and I felt relieved when we adjourned
to the parlor, and Irene was called upon for
mnsic.
‘ Yonr friend is very beautiful and intelli
gent,’ observed Mr. DeVere, tome, soto voce.
His searching eye was upon me, and as I gave
a faint assent to his remark, I felt the blood
suffuse my face, and I excused myself to go to
my room to cry. I staid away at least half an hour,
and as I was about to return I remembered that
I had left my embroidery in the library which
was adjacent. As I opened the door, I heard
voices evidently conversing in a suppressed
tone, but as the communicating door was a^ar,
I could distinctly hear every word.
‘ Why did you come here, Irene to destroy my
peace?’said Mr. De Vere.
‘ I came because I could not stay away and
know that yon were making love to a girl so far
my inferior in every respect. You are mine by
every holy rite, and I’ll follow you to the ends
of the earth.’
My first impulse was to confront them, but
pride prevented, and I retraced my steps, and
entered the parlor by the hall door, having first
given warning, by a cough. Irene was near the
harp, and I asked her to play.
‘What is the matter Hettie? asked Mr. Be Vere.
‘You are more excited than I ever saw you.’
‘I am not feeling well,’ was my evasive reply,
and lest he might question me further, Igotthe
chess-board and proposed a game which I
mechanically played until bed-time. So soon
as I retired to my room, I carefully locked the
door and taking my es-creioire, hastily dashed off
a few lines to Mr. De T ere wishing our engage
ment broken, and returning his ring, a beauti
ful soltaire diamond.
‘On, auntie! what did you do it for?’ said Mary.
‘ I rang for a servant,’ continued Miss Otaples
‘and sent the letter to his room at the hotel:
When he called to see me next morning l refus
ed to see him, and he soon left for Europe;’
‘What became of Irene?’ asked Mary.
‘She knew of my having broken the engage
ment, but I withheld my confidence, and she
only remained with me a few days. In less
than two months she died, so that the mystery
between them has never been solved. Suffice it
to say that I’d trust no mau living, and I never
expect to marry. I’ve had many offers since I
was so cruelly deceived, and people have won
dered at my preferring a single life, but it suits
me best, as my heart is still with the one who
wrecked all my earthly happiness.’
‘Where is he, auntie?’
‘I don’t know, child. If he is living, I sup
pose he is married. Remember your promise,
and don’t say one word to-night to cause me to
take a retrospect before strangers.’
‘I don’t understand you, auntie,’ said Mary;
‘you won’t be there.’
‘Yes, I will. Despite my*dislikes to attend
ing parties, I have an irresistible desire to go to
this, and it is time we were dressing.’
The parties at Mrs. Hunter’s, were always the
mc/st brilliant of the season, and on this ecea-
I sioa her parlors were filed with the elegant and
' refined, but pre-eminently conspicuous was
| Miss Hattie Staples, whe in her white mcire
I silk and finely set diamonds, did not look as if
! thirty-eight years had left a heavy burden upon
j her shoulders.
She was laughing gaily with a group of ladies
| and gentlemen, when her hostess approached
! her saying, naively:
‘Allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Be-
Yere, Miss Staples.’
In an instant a deatt-like pallor overspread her
features. Mr. DeVere offered her his arm for a
promenade on the verandah, where the cool air I
restored her.
T hope you feel better,’ said Mr. DeVere. 1
She could not control herself yet sufficiently j
to speak, and he continued : i
‘This meeting is a singular co-incidence.
Shall I think it an interposition of Providence?’
‘I scarcely comprehend your meaning,’ she
returned, coldly.
‘Hattie !’ The voice was low and sweet. ‘Do
you still condemn me ? Three days ago I re
turned to this village, and to-day I was an un
seen listener to your recital of the past to your
niece. I would have made my presence known
had I not heard you say you were coming here.
Years have passed since we met, and trouble has
silvered the hair you once admired.'
‘Trouble, Mr. DeVere ?’
‘Yes, Hattie, you condemned me without giv
ing me an opportunity of explaining.’
‘No explanation was necessary. Friend and
betrothed were conspired against me, and that
was enough to know.’
‘In knowing more, you would have trusted
me more implicitly. The girl who wrecked
onr happiness was the daughter of my step
mother. My father was very fond of her, and,
as she had a large fortune, he was anxious to
see us married. When he died, it was a death
bed reqpest, but my heart revolted at the very
thought of immolating myself upon the altar of
Mammon, and I refused to marry her, althoagh
her mother urged me to do so. They both con
sidered my lather’s request equal toJ| an en
gagement, and to avoid them I came to this se
questered village to’reside. I had never heard
you speak of her, and yon can imagine my sur
prise and chagrin when I was informed of her
visit to you. I would have told you all, but I
did not wish to arouse your Jeaousy, and effect
ually concealed the fact of my ever having
known her. I suppose you heard the conver
sation in which she threw aside her maiden
dignity so Jmuch as to tell me I was bound to
her by sacred ties. Your discardal was a death
blow to my Hopes, and, like Cain, I’ve wandered
the earth. By some impulse, I was made to re-
cross the Atlantic, and to-night I offer the ring
you wore twenty years ago.’
As he took the willing hand, Miss Staples
knew the mystery that was between Irene and
Mr. DeVere.
The late John Woodbridge, D. D., of Hadley,
Mass., whose life has just been published, was
the tenth Rev. John Woodbridge in regular suc
cession from Rev. John Woodbridge who wss
born in England in 1493, and was a follower ot
Wycliffe.
The General assembly of the Presbyterian
church in the United States will hold its annu
al session for 1878 at Knoxville, Tenn, com
mencing on Thursday May 16th.
In the interesting and powerful work of grace
in the Baptist church at Yonkers, N. Y., the
Rev. H. M. Sanders has baptized one handled
and three persons.
Bey. Mr. Wall, of England, in charge of a
Baptist mission in Rome, has established five
or six stations at which his helpers preach the
GospeL
In the school of Rev. J. D. Davis, of Kioto,
Japan, there are now 87 students in training
for the ministry.
The Uses and Abuses of Sleep—The Long and
the Short of It- How we Sleep
and How we Bream.
EY HARRY EVELYN.
CHAPTER II.
Sleep has its curiosities as well as its laws;
many instances illustrating which have been
gathered by the writer for The St James, some
of the most notable of which are worth reproduc
ing. Dr. Graves mentions the case of a gentle
man in England who, from long continued sleep
lessness, was reduced to a living skeleton, una
ble to stand upon his legs. He was brought
to this sleepless state partly by disease, but
chiefly by the excessive use of mercury and
opium. The celebrated Gen. Elliott, as well as
Frederick the Great and John Hunter, seldom
slept more than four or five hours of the twen
ty-four.- Dr. Maeuish mentions a lady, in per
fect health, who never slept more than three or
four hours a day (of twenty-four hours), and
then only for half an hour at a time. Sir Gilbert
Blane asserts that Gen. Pichegrue slept but one
hour in the twenty-four for a whole year. Dr.
Reid speaks of a friend of his, who, whenever
anything occurred to distress him, soon became
drowsy and fell asleep. A similar incident is
recorded of the disciples of our Saviour in Luke
xxii, 45 : ‘And when he rose up from prayer,
and was come to his disciples, he found them
sleeping for sorrow. It is related of a student
at Edinburgh who, upon hearing suddenly of
the unexpected death of a ne relative, threw
himself upon his bed, and sank at once, though
in the full glare of noonday, into a profound
slumber. The same author tells of a person who,
reading aloud to one of his dearest friends then
on his death bed, fell fast asleep but with the
book still in his hands, and continued to read
on, utterly unconscious of what he was doing.
These are some of the cases where ‘sleep that
knits up the raveled sleeve of care,’ plays its
most soothing and grateful part. A case is men
tioned where a man fell asleep with his head
resting on his hands, folded together on the
table, before dinner, and when he awoke was
paralysed, and remained so until the day of his
death, whicU occurred not long afterward. De
Moivre slept twenty hours out of the twenty-
four, and Quinn, the well-known actor, could
at his pleasure sleep for twenty-four hours in
succession. Dr. Reid, an English physician,
could, when he liked, take enough food and
sleep to suffice him for a couple of days, show
ing that the power to sleep or not was under
the control of his will. Cases^rf long-continu
ed sleep are mentioned as of’l requeat occur
rence. Dr. Elliston, who collected several in
stances of this kind, reports the case of a young
lady who slept for six weeks continuously and
recovered. A woman at Henault slept seven
teen or eighteen hours a day for fifteen years;
another is reported to have slept for forty days,
and mention is made, on ‘good authority,’ of
another who spent three-fourths of her time in
sleep. A man, twenty-five years of age, who
lived near Bath, once slept for a month, and
two years later slept for Seventeen days. Hippo
crates mentions a story of a young man who
fell asleep on his back in a tent, after having
drunk too freely of pure wine, when a serpent
crawled in at his mouth. Awaking with a start,
he gnashed his teeth and bit off part of the rep
tile, swallowing the portion then in his mouth
and throat, upon which he was taken with con
vulsions and died.
People can enjoy the bonev-heavy dew of
slumber’ in a I sorts cf positioi.% According to
Sir Gardner Wilkinson, the anient Egyptians
shaved their scalps, and slept,
resting in an iron prong, like]
fork, covered with soma sot
believed that by so doii;g tin:
cool and strengthened their ‘
Sfc. Dominic, of Calarvaza, in S(fain, substituted
for a bed either the bare planks or a stone,
floor. St. Bonaventura used aicommoa stone,
of large size, for a pillow, and : it. Peter, of Al
cantara, slept but one hour ai d a half in the
twenty-four for forty years, together, either
kneeling or standing with his head leaning on
a little piece of wood, fastened for that purpose
in the wall. He usually ate but once in three
days, yet he lived to be an old man, though his
body was wasted and weak, and his skin so
parched or discolored that it resembled the
bark of a tree more than the natural covering
of human flesh. In English military annals
mention is made of an entire battalion of infan
try having been known to sleep on their march,
and artillery-men have, from long-continued
service at the guns in battle, sunk to the ground
and slept while the cannon was being fired over
them. The sentinel, when tired nature asserts
its sway, will sleep standing or walking at his
post, and the postillion on horseback. Pyhsi-
cians have been known to sleep on horseback,
when for days together they have been deprived
of necessary rest in order to zieet the calls of
patients. ;
CHAPTER III.
i’ith their heads
gthat of a pitek-
iaterial. They
Vt their heads
The famous
“Dreams in their development have breath
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of jojr:
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from oft'our waking toils.
They do divide our being - they beco ne
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits ot the past—they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not- what they will.
And shake us with the vision that’s gone by;
The dread of vanish’d shadows.”
Every one, it has been remarked, when asleep,
has his own world, but when awake he lives in
the world of others. And in that world of
sleep, “what dreams may come!” In a lecture
in London, on “Sleep and Dreaming,” Prof.
Ferrier said there is never anything absolutely
new in our dreams; that we never dream of
anything of which our senses are wholly igno
rant. And yet, in dreams we maet persons and
visit places that we never knew or had seen
when awake, and they often reappear to us in
succeeding dreams. Prof. Ferrier stated that
Dr. Reid, the metaphysician, dreampt of being
scalped by an Indian, and a blister upon his
head*was the cause. Dr. Gregory, through
having a hot water bottle at his feet, dreampt of
walking up the crater of Mount Etna. A troub
lesome corn has been known to make a man
dream of serpents biting his foot, and a ring
ing in the ear has caused dreams of marriage
bells. Prof. Ferrier insists that visceral condi
tions are most frequent sources of dreams.
Thus the hungry dream of feasts; the thirsty,
of water, and the dropsical, of drowning. From
the condition of the digestive organs arises
nightmare. Bereavement makes us dream of
our lost ones, and we see them so vividly that
our dreams become real apparitions. Ralph
Waldo Emerson says: “In dreams we are true
poets; we create the persons of the drama; we
give them appropriate figures, faces, costume;
they are perfect in their organs, attitude, man
ners; moreover, they speak after their own char
acters, not ours; they speak to us and we listen
with surprise to what they say. Indeed, I
doubt if the best poet has yet written any five-
act play that can compare in thoroughness of
invention with this unwritten play in fifty acts,
composed by the dullest snorer on the floor of
the wateh-honse.”
Prof. Ferrier set aside as unsound the doo-
trine of Sir William Hamilton, who, from the
phenomena of dreaming, had argued the oon-
tinuousness of consciousness during sleep.
That our waking thoughts exert a powerful in
fluence in shaping our dreams, is a well-attested
fact Theodosius, when he fell asleep in the
morning watch of his last battle, saw in his
dreams an apparition that assured him of vic
tory, and the issue of the fight verified his
dream. The invention of the Euphon is due to
a dream. Dr. Chladni, who was something of
an enthusiast on th6 subject of mnsic, had ex
amined the nature of a great number of sono
rous bodies, and he resolved to invent a new
musical instrument. He applied himself to the
solution of the difficult question, in what man
ner the instrument ought to be constructed to
answer the intended purpose. After various
fruitless attempts during a year and a half, his
imagination meantime being so full of the idea
that sometimes in his dreams, he saw the cov
eted instrument and heard its tones, that is,
tones like those of the harmonica, _ but with
more distinctness and less confusion, he at
length, in a state between sleeping and waking,
obtained a solution of the problem that had so
long occupied his thoughts.
Many instances are recorded showing that
dreams are of very brief duration, and those
which seem to take up the whole of the night,
really occupy but a few seconds of time. Thus
it is related that a man fell asleep as the clock
tolled the first stroke of twelve. He woke ere
the final echoes of the twelfth stroke died away,
having in the interval dreamed that he had
committed a crime, was detected after five
years, and was tried and condemned to death.
The shock of finding the halter about his neck
aroused him to consciousness, when he discov
ered that all these events had happened in an
infinitesimal fragment of time.
Who, asks an anonymous writer for an Eng
lish periodical, can really account for the na
ture of dreams ? for the myaterious fact of their
ever according with the physical and moral con
dition of the individual, be they morbid or
healthy, modest or depraved, absurd or rational.
Plutarch, endeavoring to show how we may as
certain if we have acquired the habit of virtue,
points out twelve ways, one of which is by
means of our dreams. ‘If, even in your dreams,’
he says, ‘you have no idea but what is right
and proper ; if, when others come upon you,
you find that even in your sleep you struggle
like a brave soldier to resist them, as energetic
ally as if you were awake, it is a sign that vir
tue is deeply rooted in you, because not merely
the will, but even the imagination and senses
are made subject to reason.’ This agrees with
the explanation given by some authors of the
passage in St. Paul’s Epistle to the Thessaloni-
aDs (1 Thess. V, 9, 10), that not only when wa
are awake, but even when we are asleep, our
thoughts should always be flowing in the same
current, and directed toward the same .end.
According to Aristotle, a man who has gained
a mastery over any art or trade, has no occasion
to wait and think how he shall set about it, so
easily can he put his ideas into practice ; and
the teaching of all philosophy is that habit is
shown, not in the actions performed with re
flection and care, but in those done on the spur
of the moment, without any leisure being
allowed for deliberation and circumspection.
It is spontaneous behavior that evinces the in
stinctive habits of the mind, and so an English
author (anonymous) contends that we are as re
sponsible for our dreams as for our waking
thoughts, just as we shall have to answer for our
idle words, of which we are admonished, an ac
count will be demanded of us at the great final
tribunal. He further insists that the nature of
our dreams is dependent upon the tone of the
mind which we cultivate, or to which we aban
don ourselves. ‘The phantoms of the night re
appear as the motives of our conduct in the day,
and the deeds of the past day rise up in judg
ment for or against us, in the fantastic vis
ions of the night.’ Accordingly, it is said, the
masters of spiritual life in the remote past pre
scribed rules for their disciples as to the proper
mod/ of composing themselves to sleep, the
manner of sleep, the style of dress, the kind of
thoughts with which they should entertain
themselves as they closed their eyes, what they
should do if they could not sleep, and how
they should recollect themselves on awaking in
the morning. A writer in Leisure Hour takes a
similar view touching dreams, with those we
have reproduced. lie says : ‘One remarkable
thing as to the stnft' of our dreams is well
worth a moment’s consideration, and it
is this : Of whatever stuff we ourselves
are made (so far as regards our moral
constitution and character, that is), of such
stuff our dreams will assuredly partake in a
very great degree, whatever may be the forms
and phases—grotesque and ridiculous, or awful
and solemn—under which they occupy the
mind in sleep. It has been frequently asserted
by writers on this subject that the dreamer is
at one time brave as a lion, at another a mere
paltroon,—at one time a knave, at another a
saint, etc. But all such descriptions are lalse
and baseless—the moral individuality under
goes no change in dreams. The coward never
dreams that he is valiant, or the brave man that
he is a coward; the sordid man has no generous
emotions in the land of shadows, nor does the
free-handed hospitable man become a churl in
his sleep. The dreams of the miser will never
be visions of self-sacrifice and benevolence, nor
those of the base, mean and impure, be a whit
more noble or elevated than the acts of their
waking hours. It is true, that in dreams we
often acquire wealth, honor, dignity, reputa
tion, or power; in fact, we may and it is likely
enough that we do, in our dreams realize, as it
were, in the course of our lives, all those
various longings and ambitions which we are
in the habit of picturing to ourselves in those
waking myths and day-dreams in which all men,
from the necessities of their nature, indulge
more or less. But, throughout all the changes,
endless as they are, the moral individual re
mains the same, and cannot, or will not, under
go a moral change. Again, in our dreams we
never lose our personal identity: one man
never dreams that he is another man, and
though he may dream he is two men, or ten
men, or twenty, yet each and all of these, will
be none other than himself, multiplied he
knows not how. From these considerations,
and others which they have a tendency to
suggest, it would appear that we have our
selves a part to play in furnishing the stuff of
our dreams.”
Something About the Eye. Its Char
acter and Expression.
by r. m. o.
The eye has been called lhe window of the
soul, and poets have recognized its power and
beauty. But the eye is something more; it tells
of the activity of the brain; the depth and
strength of the intellect; it magnetizes; it elec
trifies; it charms; and it terrifies. The eye
speaks to the point, when the tongue is silent •
the eye pleads, when the tongue is paralyzed by
fear. The eye tells the story of its desires, hopes
or fears, whether tongue is silent from modesty,
timidity ot embarassment. The eye speaks with
a tone, a temper and a direotness that the tongue
cannot command.
The eye speaks all languages, and needs no
dictionary or interpreter to tell what it wants
or what it means. It brightens or languishes
with love; glows with passion, gleams with hate,
freezes with indifference; sparkles with mirth;
flashes with anger; melts with pity; lights up
with joy; droops with sorrow; darkens with jeal
ousy; and smiles in contentment and happi
ness.
The dull and expressless eye of the idiot or
imbecile, is as mnch unlike the wild and fierce
eye of the maniac or madman, as the sun is un
like a star in brightness or warmth. The eye of
a bright and active brain, is as unlike that of
the heavy uneducated mind, as the eye of a deer
is superior to that of a hog in quickness of
sight.
The eye then converses as much as the tongue
and is far more expressive. The tongue may
deny but the eye will confess; the tongue may
lie but the eye will tell the truth; the tongue
may argue, but the eye will tell if the argument
hits; the tongue may protest, but the eye will
tell if you are in earnest; the tongue may talk
fight, but the eye will tell if you will strike; the
tongue may talk as if offended, the eye will tell
if you are not pleased; the tongue may say
“stand off, hands off,” the eye will say “ap
proach, I don't mean what I say; the tongue
may say—“I am so glad to see,” the eye will
say—“I’m sorry you called;” the tongue is
smooth with honeyed words; the eye is honest
in its speech.
But when the tongue and eye are in full con
cord, there is action, energy, intention, deter
mination, resistance and aggression.
SIZE OF THE EYE.
The first thing that generally strikes one, is
the size and expression of the eye. Persons
with large eyes impress us with the idea of be
ing wide awake; ready to see and hear every
thing that is going on; while the small eye has
something of a sleepy look and indefferent to
impressions. We have the asking eyes, assert
ing eyes, commanding eyes, inquisitive eyes,
prowling eyes, winning eyes, intellectual eyes,
seductive eyes, and forbidding eyes.
The large, full eye is indicative of the com
mand of language, and is never at a loss for a
word, and can master languages easily;are good
public speakers, and easy, smooth writers. A
woman with a large, full eye and an active brain
can entertain half a dozen men at one time, and
have something to say to all, and each man will
think he was her peculiar favorite.
Deep seated eyes do not take in so quickly,
but receive more definite, accurate and deeper
impressions; are less readily impressed and are
slow talkers, and are not discursive or verbose
in expressing themselves.
DIFFERENT EYES.
The most beautiful eyes have a long rather
than a wide opening; unlike that of the cat or
owl. Round-eyed persons see much, live in
the senses, but think less. ’i'he secretive eye
is the small, half shut eye, that never opens
wide at any time, and in telling a secret almost
closes up. The prayerful eye has a tendency to
roll up or look up; those of a prayerful nature
cultivate their eyes to that expression. The
eye of humility looks downwards, and never
looks you in the face when talking; while the
eye of inquisitiveness has a searching look to
catch every word. The eye of command looks
right at you; while the eye of caution is looking
all around. The humorous eye is the laughing
eye, and twinkles, winks and flashes by turns.
It is ever on the look-out to see something to
laugh at, or get a joke upon some one, and is
always saying:—‘I want to hear something good
or see something rich. The forbidding eye has
a selfish look about it, and does not seek ac
quaintance or familiarity.
The drunkard’s eye has a heavy look, a dis
position to squint and see double, the result of
alcohol on the brain.
COLOR OF THE EYES.
Arranging all the various colored eyes in two
grand classes—light and dark, the dark indi
cate power and passion, and the light, delicacy
and sensitiveness. Brown and hazel eyes may
be considered as occupying the middle ground
between dark and light.
black eyes,
First, we have the small, brilliant, hard black
eye which looks like a bead; second, the glow
ing cavernous black eye, but with smoldering
fires; third, the soft, swimming, sleepy black
eye; and fourth, the large, well set and finely
formed black eye, “solem as the hush of mid
night, still as the mountain lake, yet full of
passion, full of thought, intellect and Reeling."
brown eyes.
Brown eyes are often confounded with hazel.
The true brown eyes, says some writer—“have
a softness and a beauty peculiarly their own.”
Some are eager, quick and merry; they gener
ally go with light hair, and fine fresh complex
ions.
HAZEL EYES.
Hazel eyes or light brown have a character
of their own. Major Noah once said—“ a hazel
eye inspires at first sight a Platonic sentiment. A
woman with a hazel eye never elopes from her
husband, never chats scandal, and is always an
intellectual, agreeable, and lovely creature.”
Another writer says, “that hazel-eyed women
are quick tempered and fickle,”
GRAY EYES.
About seventy protestant churches ir. France
are destitute of pastors; not for want of ability
to support them, but because they are not to
be had.
Rev. Smith Ferguson, of North Carolina, is
eighty-seven years of age, and still vigorous
and active. He was a soldier of 1812.
The first Baptist church, Lawrence, Kansas,
has been in a revival since January. Eighty
accessions by experience. The good work is
still in progress.
Daring the Moody and Sankey meeting at
Springfield, Massachusetts, a Japanese prince
was converted.
Rev. Thomas Johnson, of Georgia, it is claim
ed, was the first Baptist preacher that ever went
west of the “Great River.”
The Episcopalians of New York have organ
ized the “Church Society for promoting Chris
tianity among the Jews.
Of the more than 20,000 Baptist churches in
the United States about three-fourths are onoe-
a-month kind.
A revival in the Methodist chnroh at Croton
Lake has been in progress for five months, and
is still going on.
Dr, Yates returned from San Francisoo to
China in the April Steamer, in restored health.
Gray eyes are of many varieties. We .have
the sharp, the shrewish, the spiteful, the cold,
aud the wild gray eye. The gray is the sign of
shrewdness and talent, “ great thinkers and
captains have it, says some writer, and in wo
man it indicates a better head than heart.”
There is the calm, clear gray eye, the eye, that
reasons; it is an eye of love, judgment, and
energy. An eye that can love, and yet be gov
erned by reason.
BLUE EYES*
The blue eye, is the eye of love, softness,
gentleness, kindness. It is not destitute of
passion or talent, and when aroused has fire
enough in it.
Some writer in analyzing the eyes says—
“Black-eyed women are apt to he passionate
and jealous; blue-eyed, soulful, - truthful, af
fectionate, and confiding; Gray-eyed, literary,
philosophical, resolute and cold; hazel-eyed,
hasty in temper, and inconstant in feeling.”
In our opinion, however, there is more in
one’s mental make np than anything else.—
The mind speaxs through the eye, and not
the eye through the mind.
The fifty-fourth anniversary of the American
inday-school Union will be held in Phila-
lphia in May.
Connected with Mississippi College are 27
ung men preparing for the Gospel minis-