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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-