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UNKNOWN. BY EMILY HAWTHORNE. (K. T. CHARLES.) With flowers we deck the soldiers' graves, While over all our standard waves; When flowers and lawn the dewdrop laves, And breath of spring is softly blown O'er mounds where, on the simple stone, The record says they were—Unknown. With flowers—the brightest ones that bloom— Ke garlanded eacli soldier's tomb, While sunbeams chase away the gloom; ouell then the sigh, and still the moan. Where head-post stands, like guardain lone, Telling the oft told tale—‘Unknown.’ Bring flowers and strew them thickly where, In leafv shade or sun's bright glare. The hillocks rise—pay tribute there; There be your fairest chaplets thrown, Though grass unkempt and rankly grown Waves where no headstone says—‘Uuknown.' Then cull the loveliest flowrets bright, And slowly move with footfall light. Where sleep brave battlers for the right; While sleeping breezes sob and moan, Or zephyrs sigh in monotone. Like plaintive wail, for those Unknown. We And them here, and find them there; We see them rising everywhere, These head-boards o'er the hillocks fair; Standing like mourners sad and lone. Upon whose faces thought-lines shown Form that one saddening word, Unknown. From north to south, from east to west, O'er all this land in freedom blest. By 1 breath of peace once more caressed, A dozen summers’ suns have shone. Where death his seed hath thickly sown Withlriend and foe alike Unknown. • ~ '~iod- My father oid, with pride uprose— A patriot marched to meet the foes; In southern soil he found repose. Bear, loved one, whom I scarce had known, My heart-thoughts be the flowrets thrown To find thy grave—to me ‘Unknown.- Two brothers growing side by side. In beardless youth, next filled with pride, ‘In hospital'one brother died; I cannot quell the rising moan, I seem tosee him ill and lone, Hying, midst faces all 'Unknown.' That some hand scatter flowers, I pray, O'er these I loved who marched away. And came not back from day today, O’er all the land be flowersstrown Where sleep the brave—their faults condone— Let strife and discord be ‘Unknown.' And blooming flowers your fragrance shed , i'er heroes' graves who fought and bled In days of yore—our patriots dead. A hundred years have swiftly flown; On history's page their deeds are shown, What though their names be all ‘Unknown,’ Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. They stood, a meagre patriot band, Aod nobly won a victory grand That won us peace, and made our own, The fairest land on which e'er shone Heaven's sunlight—o'er their graves Unknown? Then Germantown remember still, And Brandywine and Bunker Hill. While Trenton makes our bosoms thrill. \t Yorktown freedom’s banner shone, bh sacred dust of crumbled bone Erstwhile our sires—now all ‘Unknown.' Forgetting not that later day Of C’erro-Gordo—Monterey? Those graves find, too -their veterans gray So aged now and feeble grown; Whose bouvant youth with years have flown; In all the throng, are they ‘Unknown?’ With flowery wreath shall all be crowned; Sweet flowers of rhyme for every mound; From northern slope to southern bound. Rise harmony and monotone, While sunbeams fall, sunkisses thrown; With flowers of hope for those ‘Unknown.’ In Memory's garden long I sought, To cull the fairest flowers of thought, A northern tribute to have brought; But the winged flowers, by zephyrs blown, Soared upward to the great white throne; For all the ‘Unknown,' there are known. Indianapolis, May 30th, '77. Waiting for flip Danr* BY IRENE INGE COLLIER, CHAPTER III. The sun rose brightly on the day of the long talked of May picnic. The neighborhood was all astir with preparations for the excursion. A ride out to a beautiful grove and spring, the coronation of the May queen,—Carrie Farman’s pretty niece Jeannette,—a dinner under the green trees (such a dinner as it would be too !) and then any amout of fun, plays, flirting, stroll ing and a return home in the dewy twilight. Such was the day’s programme. The sun had not dried the dew-drops, before numbers of pretty little Misses in white frocks, with pink, blue or scarlet sashes might be s ea hurrying across to the Institute, where all the school flock were to assemble preparatory to starting. Each young heart beat high, each round cheek was flushed with pleasure, each little girl had her beau attendant or in pro spective. Wagon after wagon rolls out of the Institute gate freighted with the picnicers. The last in the line was an open platform, on which sat the Queen of May surrounded by her maids of honor. “ And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace Of fairer form, or lovlier face." Every body was going. Buggies with hand some cavaliers and smiling maids crowded the hilly road. About two miles from the town, directly on the road was a large farm house built of logs with four main rooms, two up stairs, and two below, with an ell running back and a wide hall run ning through the house. This is the home of the Farmans’ Indian creepers, white star jessa mine and dark-green ivy so cover the white washed sides of this Southern home, that at a casual glance one cannot disoern that its walls are homely logs. A long piazza ran in front hung with wood bine and honey suckle in full bloom; the under hall was covered with cool matting, the large windows of the parlor were open and gave a glimpse into a handsome interior where a pretty papering hid tbe rough walls, a rich carpet covered the floor and a handsome piano and elegant furniture farther adorned the room. Some well executed water color sketches, pencil drawings and two or three oil paintings hun» upon the walls. These were the work of Cariie and Anna, her sister. Carrie and Anna and their brothers Sam and Sydney with several young people of both sexes were on the piazza as the picnicers came in sight. They waved to them gaily, and the next moment the Farman carriage came around to the front gate and drew up beside two buggies that were already there. Into these buggies Messrs. Sam and Sydney soon handed the ladies of their choice. As they were preparing to drive away, Mr. Fred Denman drove up, threw the reins to one of the nnmerons little negro by standers and walked np to tbe daughter of the honse, saying ‘Good morning Miss Carrie; am I too soon ?’ ‘Oh ! she laughed ‘I wouldn’t think of being np bat for the picnio. I wish to wait here for Eloise, if yon do not object Mr. Fred.' 'Not L It’s quite pleasant waiting if yon’ll talk to me.' ‘I’ll try, or Fll let yon do the talking. Let ns sit oat here in the shade. Here comes ma- my; listen to her parting instructions.' A fat negro woman came oat oarrying an im mense champagne basket, followed by a small regiment of grinning little negroes, every one toting' something for mammy Vina to deposit in the Jersey wagon. Mammy was to be alone in all her glory, with only Mose to tell all the way how folks did this and that in old 'North Caleiny whar she had been raised.’ Tbe gate was held open and mammy waddled triumphantly through, deposited her basket, felt of her gorgeous turban to see if it had been misplaced, then turned to give her parting in junctions. 'Jim, yon black rascal, git down onten dat ar carriage.’ ‘Yas, mammy,’ and Jim dodged to keep out of reach of her big arms. ‘Here, Berry take care wid dat dar basket, you know its got misstisses flue ohanny dat massa fotohed back from Orleans, when he went dar wid cotton in oleaning times.’ 'Ise a gwine ter.’ ‘M'indy take good care of them little folks, and don’t let little Kit scratch Peggy’s eyes oat, and take her hot Iicker. Tell Riar ter spin all them thar cuts,and let Cressy to fix dat dar but- er and milk. For the lo c sake don’t let Mose’s yaller dogy git into dat frizzle hen’s nest, and bless my soul!’ shading her eyes and looking down the road, ‘it yonder don’t come dat dar black eyed school marm wid de man what got so much money in his store. I told you so; dun gone and cotched Miss Anna's bow, I tole you so,’ with a wise nod of her head. ‘Dey aint ridin’ out in dat ar fine buggy ever day fer nuffln, when Ise a milking. I ’clare they fairly sails by,’ and with her eyes rolled back ward to get another glimpse and a frown at the trash gang, as she called them, holding on be hind, the wagon lumbered off, mammy’s voice still heard giving instructions, for she was ‘gwine ter de picnic.’ ‘Fred, did you not enjoy it?’ laughed Carrie, ‘but here conies Mr. Bertram and Miss Eloise. Mr. Bertram seems annoyed, does be not?’ ‘Yes he does, I am afraid Miss Eloise has said the wrong word.’ They exchanged a pleasant greeting, Eugene spoke cheerfully, and Carrie and Eloise ascend ed the stairs to give a few fiDal touches to their toilettes. Off they started soon, and reached the grounds just in time to hear the last burst of glee from the children. E icta had acquitted her self admirably. Their queen had been borne in trinmph to a large grape vine swing. Some were chatting others playing. A number sur rounded the newly arrived, when a slight rus tle in the bushes and a lithe form holding np her wreath of flowers, parted them and came np to Carrie. ‘Auntie,’ cried the pretty queen, ‘you treated me so badly; did not come in time to hear my speech, and I said it so well.’ ‘I hoped I was not too late; but hold Mr. Den man responsible.' ‘No, Miss Jeanette, it was not I; there is the delinquent,’ pointing to Carrie. ‘Well, I was satisfied you would acquit your self with honor. I hear yonr uncle Sam call ing you, Jennie.’ “Yes Uncle, in one minute," and away she bounded followed by her maids. “Come here; assert your rights as ‘Queen of the May,' and make Miss Eloise sing for us* Jen nie,” said Sam, “Quite young to command, are you not little pet ?” said Eloise. “Yes ma'am I guess so; but I must have you sing.” “If I refuse ’’ “Threaten her with the gnllotine then Jennie, she mast obey the Qaeen's mandate,” Baid Sam. “I think I mnst do as Uncle says if you don’t,” retorted the Queen. “ ‘A bird that can and will not sing must be made,’ ” quoted Carrie. “I succumb; spare me!” Eloise said, holding np her hands in deprecation. “Shall the strain be gay or wild my Lady Queen,” and without waiting ally through the woods. When the song was done they pleaded for another and she complied again and again. “Now, give me a reprieve," she said at last, and as she spoke a voice called her name and turning she saw Miss Susie Carroll, who had come to town the day before and in whose home Eloise and Carrie had passed such a pleasant week last Christmas. “A week I never, never can forget,” Eloise said earnestly, as the three stood a little apart. “You must come again this Summer Miss En nis, you and Carrie too. There is a young gallant lant there who is broken hearted since you left. He will not sing a single note for us, and he has grown romantically pale.” Carrie laughed and Eloise smiled, but it was a forced smile and soon gave way to paleness. “Well, there is no use in saying how much I enjoyed that Christmas week. I fell in love with everybody, old and young,” Carrie declared. “You mean you made everybody fall in love with you; you have that happy faculty mu chere," Susie said tapping the girl's round cheek. “You were born to be made a pet of.” “What is that about love and petting?” said Sam Farman coming up. ‘Girls have no busi ness talking of these things among themselves. It is only admissible among those of opposite sex. Come, Miss Susie, lets go and gather Traveler’s Delight in the woods, and yon may talk as much love to me as you like. ’ He drew her hand within his arm, gave a saucy nod to his sister and Eloise and the two strolled off' under the green trees, Sam calling back, ‘Look for ns at dinner time.’ ‘A handsome couple,’said Eugene, who had come np with Sam, ‘Miss Carroll is charming.’ ‘She is,’ asserted Eloise, ‘especially when she is talking. She is so frank and earnest Don’t you think so Mr. Denman ?’ ‘ Can’t say I do, ’ responded that young gen tleman laconically. ‘ Oh! I forgot; yon are her cousin, and it is not to be expected you will praise her. Why did you not tell ns she had come ? ’ ‘ I don’t think I remembered the fact, ’ he answered rather carelessly. After the bountiful dinner, spread in a cool, shady place, had been enjoyed by young and old, the company formed themselves into par ties according to their pleasure, and strolled off among the woods; the children in merry groups and the grown up people in smaller parties; each young gentleman preparing to take the lady ot his choice. ‘ Let’s find some daisies and try our fortune,’ whispered Fred to Carrie. ‘Do you remember sweet Margaret’s ‘loves me, loves me not?’ Eugene and Eloise had wandered some dis tance from any one. The fresh young trees shut them out of sight, almost out of sound of the others. Both were unusually silent, and conversed in an almost preoccupied way. At last, Eloise taking an envelope from her pocket, said: ‘ This is my brother’s letter I spoke to you of, I wish you to read it. He is coming in three months as you will see. Eugene will you promise me one thing?’ * What is it?’ coldly. ‘ Will you reveal that secret—reveal it to the world before my brother comes ? * * , Eloise. _ I have told you I would not re Tw-n lt nnt * 1 beoame absolutely neoessary.’ Will you not release me from the rash prom- ti v I eannot bear this concealment It has become an intolerable burden to me. A secret is foreign to my nature. I entreat you, Eugene, as you prize my happiness, release me from that promise.’ She olaspad her hands and looked earnestly, beseeohin,iy into his face. His own face changed, but he answered with a slight curl on his lip: ‘My dark-eyed beauty, you are disposed to be tragic. Why did you so readily make that rash promise, as you now oall it ?’ ‘I hardly know. It was impulsive, thought less. I deeply Tegret it now. Oh, Eugene, don’t turn from jne so coldly. If you knew how unhappy I am ! Do you wish to make me mis erable?’ ‘ It is you who wish to ruin me. What wrong have I done you to call forth these tragic decla rations ? I only ask you to keep a promise you readily made and that it would be dishonorable in yon to break. ’ ‘It may be misery to keep it. Something, it may be the voice of my dead parents, warns me that it is wrong. That vow of secresy, made in a moment of impulse, s urely under the cir cumstances it will not be sinful to break it. ^ If you do not tell the secret yourself, I will, les; this is now May; if you do not reveal it betore December, I will, Eugene.’ ‘Do not be so impetnous. Eloise, I assnre you, if it were possible, I would be the first to prepose to release you. I honor you for your feelings. Your brother will not be here until August: before that time many changes may take place. It may be that— Hush ! there comes some one; we will talk this over as we return, or, I will see you this evening. You stay to-night with Miss Carrie. I will be over; and you must manage te give me an hour alone with you. You can arrange it; you have so much tact. Au hour on the piazza or in the garden, Eloise. Ah! Miss Carrie, you have handsful of pica ^ treasures; moss and flowers and a chain of daisies. Did you tell your for tune? Come and tell me the result. Never mind Fred, he lias had you too much to him self. ’ They returned to the spot where they had eaten dinner, and where many of the others had now gathered in groups. Eloise threw herself at the foot of a moss-cushioned oak. Her every attitude, however, unstudied, was fall of grace. She was very lovely, but in spite of her efforts to be cheerful, her sweet face wore a shade of sadness. Carrie came up behind her and crowned her with the wreath of daisies. ‘Queen of Hearts ’ she announced, bending her knee gaily before her. ‘ Now in return for my loyal ty give ns one last song, queen Eloise.’ And Eloise, genfly smiling compliance, sang ‘In the Days when we went gypseying . ’ Then , with her eyes resting on the daisies which Car rie had thrown in her lap, she glided into a sadder strain and sang ‘ Under the Daisies’ with such exquisite pathos and sweetness that tears filled the eyes of her auditors. Eugene stood apart and looked at her. ‘How pure she is; how/air,’ he thought. ‘How these people, old and young, admire and love her. Why did I ever deceive her? Why can I not love her* I do love her. Why can I net let that vow be forgotten^ An hour afterwards, the sun was sinking in a glory of golden clouds, and the picnicking party loaded with blossoming boughs were returning home, making the woods echo with their laugh ter and merry songs. (TO BE CONTINUED.) MARGERY’S TEMPTATION. BY STEPHEN BRENT' “So your mind is fully made up Margery?’’ “Yes I believ9 it is.” “And you will marry Mr. Clare for his money, and live miserable ever after? ” “By no means Guy. I intend to be perfectly happy. Who wouldn’t be, as the mistress of one of the finest places in the country?” “You won’t be’ I know. You had better accept my^offer ji/j jfiarry for love.” in one little sM ^, e - u a< l t myself into a blister. B v. , r0 ° m ’ -Something more than bread and csJlnff. and two print dresses per annum.” Guy Chesly laughed lazlily. But you know mqney is the root oi all evil, is it not?” turning to ’ Margery's sister who sat by the window sewing. “Yes, and I am sorry to hear Margery talk as if only money was necessary to her happiness.” “Indeed it is, and I’ll take a goodly share of the root however evil it may be,” balancing herself on the kitchen table, making that useful article of household furniture creak dismally. She was a slender, graceful girl, with hazel eyes and dark hair; not exactly pretty but very at tractive. A dainty piquant girl, with a tender, loving heart hidden under her willfulness. Guy left the window, and went over to the table. Laying his hands lightly on her shoulders, he looked down smiling into her eyes and said: “I have a presentiment that you will never marry Mr. Clare, and that we will live in the stuffy room yet.” “Well your presentment is wrong then,” de fiantly, “ for—for—” “He has proposed?” “Yes ” flashing to the edge of her silky hair. “And you have said yes ? moving away from her. “No I shall not give him his answer till after the ball.” “But it will be favorable ?” “Yes I’m sure it will.” “I congratulate you Margery, on your fine sense of honor, and your truthfulnes. You have always been trying to instil those useful virtues in my mind, but now I think I could turn teacher.” His voice was as quiet, and cool as ever, but there was a change in it, a ring of scorn that Margery felt. ‘Well I dont care,’recklessly, ‘poverty is hateful, always trying to make something out of nothing, and always failing. As for honor, and truth, they are considered quite old fashioned now.’ ‘Margery I am shocked at you,' cried Miss Norman dropping her work. ‘Well you know It is so, sister.’ Guy Chesly laughed.’ You are getting quite cynical Margery, where did you learn so much worldly knowledge?’ ‘Never mind, so I know it.’ ‘Well’ glancing at his watch, ‘your conversa tion highly conducive to one’s moral and spir itual growth, but I regret to say I must forego the pleasure of any more of it this morning. I must go. You are going to the ball too are you not ?’ turning to gentle fair-haired Rath. ■Of course she is, do you suppose I would go without her ?’ interrupted Margery. Ruth smiled with a loving glance at her young sister. ‘Yes I must go with Margery.’ ‘I will send you some flowers then,’ and Guy left. Handsome Guy Chesly ! Margery walked to the window, and watched the tall figure going down the walk. Her old friend and playfellow, and her lover now. It was wicked and aH that to marry for money, but what could she do? Teaoh the village sohool? be the village dressmaker ? or—marry Guy and be poor all her life ? With the glamor of the brilliant life she could spend, as Donald Clare’s wife, over her, Bhe felt she could, not do either of the three things, no matter how mnob she might love Guy. Her siBter interrupted her musing by saying. ‘Will yon go gather some strawberries for dinner ?’ and Margery, glad to escape from her own thoughts; seized the basket and went* When Mr. Chesly arrived at his boarding house ther was a letter for him. He didn’t feel the least bit ourious about it; he was toe indolent for curiosity; calmly lita cigar—a man’s comfort er under all aflliotion—ana elevating his feet in ths window, broke tbe seal. It was only a law yer's communication, but it told him his last relative was dea i, and he was worth half a mil lion. Half a million! Guy Chesly sat and stared out into the bright sunny street. In all his six and twenty years, he had not been so utterly surprised, so completely upset, It seemed almost like a dream, but it was not one; that was clear. His first composed thought was of willful Margery Norman, and a tender light came in his eyes as he said: ‘She shall marry me now, but not for the money’s sake.’ The ball was like all other balls. There was the usual amount of dancing, and flirting, dis appointments, and indigestibleffood. Margery queened it right royally in white, pure as drift ed snow, with pale, sweet roses in her dark braids and at her round white throat. If there had been any lingering doubts in her mind about accepting Mr. Clare, they were cleared away now, and she was recklessly indifferent as to what the future might hold, thinking, en joying only the present. Guy was there and more aggravating than ever, at least Margery (thought so. She snubbed him, but he wouldn’t be snubbed, only laughing at her in a provoking way. But there was a strong determined will under his endurance, as Mar gery knew of old, and his calm persistence ir ritated her. She did not know the secret of the letter lying in his pocket. Dawn had nearly come when the revellers started for home. The ball was four miles from Russell, where Margery lived, and across the river. They sent the carriage over first, then the ladies gathering up their dainty dresses the gay crowd started. No one could ever tell how it happened, but the boat Margery and her par ty were in turned over. All was wildest confu sion. Margery felt the cold, dark waters clos ing over her. She saw one of her young com panions grasp Mr. Clare for support—saw that gentleman tear loose the clinging hands, and start for the bank, seeking his own safety—then she looked up at the moon shining above her, and as the water rushed over her, she murmur ed, ‘ Guy, dear Guy.’ When consciousness returned she was lying in her own room with the dear home faces bend ing over her. She looked around bewildered. * I—I thought I was in ths river.’ ‘ So yon were my dear,’ her father said, ‘but Guy saved you from drowning.’ Margery closed her eyes with a little moaD. She felt disgusted with herself and all the world when she thought how near she had come to marrying the seldsh wretch, who would cast a woman back to drown in order to save his own life. When Mr. Donald Clare called the next afternoon, he didn’t meet the eager smil ing face he expected to see, bnt a cold, pale girl, who said ‘No’ in the most uncompromis ing manner. Margery sat down by the window after he left and laying her head down on the ledge cried about—nothing in particular. ‘ Why, Margery, what is the matter ?’ It was Guy’s pleasant voice, and Guy had lifted her face, and was looking into her tear-wet eyes. ‘ Oh Guy ! is it you ? How can I ever thank you lor saving my life.' ‘Now Margery,’ taking her trembling hands, 1 please don’t. You know I have a horror of being thanked for anything. Now, what w you crying about ?’ ‘ I really do not know, unless it was beoause I felt disgusted at my own wickedness.’ ‘Ah yes, I met Mr. Clare as I came in.’ ‘Well that is nothing to me,’ with great in difference. ‘Indeed ! isn’t it? I was under the impres sion that it was a great deal to you.’ ‘ Don’t tease me Guy,’ her lips quivering, ‘ Well I will not, but really you don’t mean io ten me you have reiusea jur Clare. - ‘Yes Guy, do you know I saw him push Alice Carew away last night, when she clung to him to keep from sinking in the water.’ ‘ The cowardly wretch !’ ‘ And then I was so near death,’ Margery con tinued shuddering, ‘ that I could see so clearly all the shame, and sinfulness, of what I intend ed doing,’ A loving light was in Guy’s handsome eyes. •And you will accept my love, and the one room ?’ ‘Yes, willingly,’ blushing. Guy drew the dark head on his breast, and bending down kissed the sweet tremulous mouth. ‘ My darling ! I am so glad, but you hate pov erty so, I am afraid you will be very unhappy.’ ‘No, no ! I don’t hate it now Guy, I believe I like it better than riches.’ ‘ Indeed I am sorry for that.’ ‘ Why ?’ ‘Well you see my uncle died a few days ago and very kindly made me his heir.’ Margery flashed and paled. ‘But Guy ’ ‘ But my darling, I said I would win you with out your knowing anything about the money, and I have.’ Margery was always thankful that the temp tation passed, and left her free, and guiltless of wrong. Emanuel Swedenborg - ; —OR,- The “Great Unknown.” To those unacquainted with Swedenborg’s writings, the titles to many of his books will convey a very inadequate idea of their contents; and an explanation of his system, or even a statement of its leading points, would require greater space than is usually allotted to news paper articles. He wrote more than a century ago and in the Latin language, addressing himself to the learned world rather than to the masses. From that time to the present, he has been to some on object of derision, to others a seer of unex ceptional powers; to all a great mystery; but to none, we believe, an impostor. Like Wesley, with whom he was contemporary, he was uni versally respected for his unaffected piety and his exceptionally pure and upright character; and like Wesley, though unconsciously and not until many years after his death, he be came the founder of one of the most respecta ble and influential of the Christian sects. In this he was unlike the great founder of Methodism, that his fame was posthumous. He was unlike him also in another particular. He was not a clergyman, nor yet a communi cant in any one of the numerous Christian de nominations of his day. The earlier part of his life had been spent in scientific research, and he had, in this field of enquiry, won a reputa tion which was to his time, what that of Tyn dall and Huxley is to our own. Many of his philosophical works are still extant, and in those departments of natural soienoe, not thoroughly revolutionized by recent discovery and exper iment, are still high authority among the learned. But his theory of the creation is first the re verse of that of modern materialists. Spirit or mind, so far from being the result or outgrowth of certain conditions of matter, is, according to Swedenborg, the germ and antecedent cause of matter. The spiritual universe not only an tedates the material, bnt produces it There is a physical or material world, because there is a spiritual or celestial world. Consequent ly there is a correepondanoe of all thing* in the spiritual world with all things in the natural world. Even spirit itself is, according to him, a real substance. Heaven and hell are real places, corresponding to the spiritual state or condition of man in the natural world. Man is not only a compound being, a dnai na ture, representing both the animal and the spiritual, bnt he is the connecting link between the two. He is, in a qualified sense, in con junction with the seen and the unseen, a den- izon of the two worlds at the same time, and therefore constantly receiving impressions from both. He is then, according to Sweden borg, while yet in the natural life, a member of some one or other of the innumerable socie ties in heaven or hell according to his spirit ual state or condition—just as he has associa tions and repulsions in the lower life on earth. He is, therefore (though in most cases uncon sciously) in tbe society either of angels or dev ils, and controlled by good jor evil influences, while yet in earth life; and these influences,' according as the interiors of his mind may b» open or closed, exert a powerful influence in shaping his destiny in the next world. Death, or the separation of soul and body, ig according to Swendenborg, not the consequen ces of sin, not the result of the curse of the Diety, as taught by the orthodox creed; but a phenome non of nature, the perfecting of man’s creation, an appointed stage of his existence, and in per fect harmony with reason and the general an- ology of nature. As the transition of the worm from its primary abode in the dust to the state of the moth or beetle, is in perfect harmony with the Divine plan, so is the passage of man from earth to spirit life. His soul, his spirit, his immortal nature is the real man, and this has a ‘spiritual body,’ of which the animal is merely a correspondent in shape and character. So that when death or dissolution of the natural body takes place, the spiritual body is merely evolved therefrom, like the moth from the chrys alis. And this is called the anostosis a ‘Resur rection;’ the ‘raising up’ of the spiritual from the natural body. The man himself—the real man —passes into the spiritual world or Hades wholey unchanged. Swedenborg, like Wesley, believed in the re ality and presence; oi spiritual intelligences; and he believed, as above intimated, that there is in many instances, a close alliance and com munication between them and man. But the distinctive character of Swedenborg’s system, outside his wonderful theory of Correspondence, consists in his claim to Seership. This, Mr. Wesley never pretended to; though it is on rec ord that he by no means regarded such a claim »s preposterous or anti-scriptural; and it is re lated to him that he always expressed the great est desire to see Swedenborg, and that, at one time, he actually planned a visit to Stockholm in order to meet him. Swedenborg claimed to have been in direct communication with angels and spirits; and to have intercourse with them uninterruptedly for more than a quarter of a century before he died. He claimed to have been illuminated by the Holy Spirit, and to have numerous and unmistakable evidences of this. He claimed to have visit ed, (with spirit,) the spiritual world, and to have personally witnessed the things whereof he wrote and that by means of this illumination, to have discovered what he terms the ‘internal or spiritual sense' of the Bible. This internal or spiritnai sense of the Word is, as he tells us, to the natural world what the soul is to the human body; that the Bible, in its every sentence, is the veritable word of God; and that its internal meaning is studied aud sought for by the augeis and celestial intelligences. No one, we apprehend who carfully reads the work of Swedenborg will be likely to suspect him of insincerity, or of a purpose to deceive, however incredulous they may be as to his reve lations. He occupies much space, iu all his worts, in relating what he saw and heard in the spiritual world. But he does this in a manner so simple, so matter of course, and with a pre cision and minuteness of detail, often so ingen iously interwoven with his logical expositions of certain obscure passages of Scripture, as to startle the most skeptical reader. His reports of conversation had with his spiritual compan ions, and his descriptions of localities and scenes in the spiritual world, are put forth in language at once simple and confident, and with a minute ness of detail apparently so accurate that you get the impression of a man describing the habits, customs, manners and dress of the in habitants of a foreign city—which he has visited; a task impossible to any except to one who has actually witnessed them. This claim of Sesrsbip is of course an extraor* dinary one; extraordinary, however, only in this, that, according to the doctrines of the or thodox Church, no such claim has been success fully asserted since the third century, and that all revelation ceased with the lives of the writers of the New Testament Scriptures. But the long and irreproachable life of Swedenborg; his stern morality and consistency of Christian character, his great learning and practical piety, and his unexampled reverence for the Bible, manifested in all his scientific, literary, and theological works, have shielded him from that ridicule which most religious reformers never fail to in cur; and the ‘New Church’ of the present day —the outgrowth of his teachings—numbers some of the first intellects of beth hemispheres. In the United States, as in Europe, the doctrines which he promulgated more than a century ago (and which lay dormant for the first half-centu ry of their existence) are rapidly spreading and taking deep root among the educated aud thinking classes, both within and without the compass of the orthodox Church. In the opin ion of many, his theological works, which are now translated into nearly all the modern lan guages, afford the best antidote for that species of materialistic Infidelity taught by modern sci entists, as well as for the equally dangerous heresy known as modern ‘Spiritism.’ His sys tem meets both classes of persons upon their chosen ground; and what is more remarkable, he gave to the world this masterly refutation of modern Infidelity a quarter of a century before its advent. And his books, though then unread, were written and published three-quarters of a century before the advent of the modern ‘Spir itism,’ which he therein foretold, and which to day numbers thousands of adherents in this country and in Europe. Taken all in all, he is perhaps, the most won derful man who has lived since the Apostolic era; and while he is often beyond our compre hension, he never ceases to be an object of in terest to thinking men. His Luck in the Black Hills. —He had been gone from the paternal roof six months—left home in the first bloom of summer, with a smile upon his brow aud a pickaxe in his hand. The Black Hills his destination; glory and gold the goal. A summer spent amid the auriferous rooks—industry, perseverance and a rare knowl edge of chemistry and mineralogy his nsef ul tools in addition to the pickaxe. Resalts are such that he is enabled to return sooner than his most sanguine expectations had allowed him to dream of doing. Almost home, he pauses out side the town until nightfall, and sends to his waiting, expeotant parents, the following sug gestive: ‘Bring me a large blanket and a pair of old pants—I’ve got a hat’ A Carolina Fire. Charleston, Jmne 4— Half of the business por tion of the thriving town of Rook Hill, York County 8. C., was destroyed by fire late last night Loss, $100,000; insurance, abont $60,000.