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w. F. SMITH, Publisher, VOLUME VIII. GLEANINGS, Tennessee will not make a wheat crop. Th- peanut crop of Tennessee will be a, failure. Oast in Nashville is furnished at $1.75 per thousand feet. A company is organizing to manufac ture cars in Selma, Alabama. St. Aucrtistine, Fla., has a surplus of $2,740.87 in cash itr her treasury. A fisherman at Pensacola caught 1,(00 red snapper fish recently. Selma, Alabama, has a population in its corporate limits of 7,520. Th Q mayor of Montgomery, A hi., re ceives a salary of S!,(KK) a year, Western corn has killed a number of horses and mules in Alabama. By lowest estimate Mr. Davis has al ready made SIOO,OOO on his book. Boston capitalists are investing $300,- *)0() in a cotton factory at Vicksburg, Miss. Baltimore capitalists have invested $1,500,000 in a Davidson county, N. C., gold mine. Iwo hundred thousand young shad have just been placed in the Congaree. The. colored people of Abbeville, S. C., have formed a life insurance asso ciation. Yellow fever was not known in Mex ico until 1725. Volusia county, Fla., has the largest orange grove in the world—l,ooo acres. Mr. Herzler, of Madison county, Ala bama, clipped 1,400 pounds of wool from 252 sheep. The sales of leaf tobacco in the Lync hburg, \ a., warehouse for the present year aggregate 13,297,307 pounds. An apple tree in LaGrange, Ga., has two or three apples upon its trunk. r l here is not a sign of a twig or branch, but they are growing upon the bark of the tree. A letter from Southern Florida de scribes a flight of white butterflies from the South that has filed the air like snowfllakes for six days, going North. A little nine-year-old boy at Center, Ala., killed his uncle, named Brooks, by hitting him on the head with a rock. The uncle had wipped the boy, and the young reprobate took this means of re dress. Nine tenths of the babies born in Oglethorpe county, Ga., this year are hoys. This rule also applies to animals. Ihe males are undeniably on top this year. '1 his preponderance of sex is said to be sign of coining war. 1 he spongers of Key West are making money. The Democrat says there were over tjQOO worth of sponges on the vvha r t there one day last week. The Atlanta Constitution says there are many lunatics wandering around the country, because of the inadequacy of the present accommodations at the Lun atic Asylum. Georgia paper: The press of Geor gia is a unit i t the cause of temperance. The boys differ somewhat, however, in their ideas as to the proper mode of attacking the hydra-headed monster. We are for killing him with kindness and coercing him by persuasion. Choke a dog to death with butter and he won’t know what killed him. The San Antonio Express says: Last week was a good week for killing con victs who attempted to escape, though three were laid out instantly and two others mortally wounded. When it ap pears to be almost certain death for a convict to attempt to escape it seems strange that the attempt should be so frequent To remain must be almost worst than death tc a good many. 1 he Pueblos of New believe that at death they will be carried away in some mysterious manner to a place beneath a vast underground lake, where melons and peaches and beautiful maid ens and horses and in never-ending: sup ply for the good. Notwithstanding all these inducements, some of the Pueblos are as depraved as if they had been born in the United State*. The editor of Paris North Texan thus defines his position on the liquor ques tion : We are not a chronic temper ance core nor a church member. We are a much, wicked man, and we have drank whisky, periodicallv, all our life until last year, when, recognizing the dunes of a father, remembered that we sre responsible for our example, we quit the accursed oractice, and we are in for the war against the traffic—not those who sell and drink it. SfluMlc dwfgii 2Lmus, ONLY ONE FAULT. You may see it in Greenwood ceme tery. A splendid tombstone with a woman’s name upon it. Not Ruth Hollv —though that is the name under which you shall know her—but a prouder name, and one you may have heard. Flowers grow about her tomb, and the turf lies softly over it. You would scarcely guess her life and its sad end as you stood there. Rather would you fancy that love and tenderness sur rounded one over whom sUch piles of sculptured marble rears itself from her birth unto her death. It is a story such as I seldom write— this life of hers—one that can not be ended by happy reunions and the sweet sound of marriage bells; but there are too many such stories in the world to be quietly passed over, haply there be any warning in them. The lives of others are, if we read them rightly, the best sermonß ever preached, and this of Ruth Holly’s is only too true. Yet it began very sweetly, like some old pastoral poem. She loved and was beloved again, and the man she loved had only one fault. He was young, he was brave, he was witty, he was handsome, he was generous; his love was devotion, -his friendship no lukewarm thing of words; he had great talent and great power. His eloquence had thrilled many an au dience worth the thrilling. What he wrote touched the soul to the very quick. He was an amateur painter and musician and everywhere was loved and honored and admired. He had only one fault in the world—he drank too much wine at times. When he did so he turned, so said convivial friends, into a very demi god. It was wrong, but not so bad as might have been, and he would sow his wild oats some day, they said, loving him as his friends all loved him; and so Ruth thought. Sweet, loving, beautiful Ruth, to whom he had plighted his troth and wooed in verse and song and with his most eloquent eyes long before he put his passion into words; but so did not think Ruth Holly’s father. This one fault of Edward Holly’s over shadowed his virtue in his eyes, and he refused him his daughter’s hand, giving him the reason why plainly and not kindly. “You’ll be a drunkard yet, Ned Holly,” said the old man, shaking his head, earnestly. “I’ve seen men of genius go the same road before. I’ve often said I’d rather have no talent in my family, since it seems to lead so surely to dissipation. My sons are not too brilliant to be sober men, thank heaven, and as for my daughter, only a sober man shall have her for a wife; you’d break her heart, Ned Holly. ” So the dashing man of letters felt himself insulted and retorted hotly, and the two were enemies. Ruth suffered bitterly. She loved her father, and she loved Edward. To disobey her parent, or to break her lover’s heart, seemed the only choice offered her. She had other lovers, she had seen much society, and had been introduced to the highest circles in France as well as in England, but amongst all the men she had known none pleased her as Edward Holly did. Not what one styles an in tellectual woman herself, she reverenced intellect, and her affections were in tense. The struggle in her heart was terrible. She met with her lover by stealth, against her father’s will, but for a long while she resented his entreaties to marry him in defiance of her father’s refusal. At last, angered by her per sistence in obedience, Edward accused her of fearing to share the fortunes of one comparatively poor—one who must carve his own way up life's steep hill without assistance. The unmerited re proach sunk deeply into her warm heart, and in a sudden impulse of tenderness and sympathy she gave him the promise he had so long sought in rain. They were married that evening, and before morning were upon their way to a far off city, where Edward, sanguine and conscious of power, believed that he should make for himself a name and position of which any woman might be proud. To her father Ruth wrote a long letter, imploring his forgiveness, Dented t* Industrial Inter. Ht, He Diffusion of Truth, the Establishment of Justice, and the Preservation of a People’s Government, ** MALARIA.* I found the loveliest spot on earth, Where sweet and odorous blooms had birth; I clapped my hands for very gladcess: Oood-by,” Isatd, "to Ills and sadness,” When 10, there sprung from out the green A hideous imp upon the scene! I cried, “ Dread form, what is your name?” In mocking tones, the answer came— “ Malaria!” I fled unto the nearest town: Here I resolved to settle down, ’Mid dirt and grime, ’mid dust and mortar— Myself, my wire, my son and daughter. The people crept about like snails, <>r lagging ships bereft of sails. What Is the matter here?” I cried, And many a trembling voice replied “ Malaria!” From out the fated town we spect; We climbed the mountains; overhead, Where the proud eagle builds her nest, We pitched our tent to take our rest. One marning, bright with eastern gold, f woke, and cried, “ I’m hot;’ k •Pm cold;‘ * 1 born;” “Ifreese.” "Whatcan it be?” The answer came from crag and tree— “ Malarial” The doctors, now, who lack the skill To diagnose each pain and ill, To this one thing they all agree, No matter what their school may be: With “ Hem!” and “ Haw!’’ and look profound. Your tongue they scan, your lungs they sound. And then exclaim, ‘‘My friends, tutl tutl Your case, I find, Is nothing but Malaria!” I’ve chartered now a big balloon; I hope to occupy it soon. If ” It” comes there to ache my bones And waste my flesh, when ’neath the stones, I hope my better part may soar To some fair land, some golden shore, Where 1 may never hear the cry, That haunts me like a ghostly sigh— “ Malaria!” — Mrt. M. A. Kidder , in Baldvnn's Monthly . INDIAN SPRINGS, GEORGIA. but the answer crushed all hope within her bosom. “As yoti HOW sow, so must you reap,” were the words her father wrote. “I have no longer a daughter,” and Ruth knew that henceforth (for she had been motherless for years) she had in all the world only the husband for whom she had sacrificed fortune, and what is worth far more, the tender protection of a father. In those early days Edward did his best to make amends for all, and she was so proud of him and so fond of him that she soon forgot to grieve. She heard his name uttered in praise by all. She knew that he had but to keep steadily on, to mount to the proud est seat in fame’irtiigh temple, and for a year she had no fear of his faltering. Now and then a feverish something in his voice and manner, a strange light in his eyes, a'greater flow of eloquence in his talk, a more passionate demonstra tion of love for her than usual, told that he was under the influence of wine, but the fact only seemed to enhance his power of fascination. Never was he so brilliant, never so handsome. Almost could Ruth have laughed at the sermons preached by the temperance folks of the harm sure to follow wine-drinking. If the story could end here, the true story of Ruth Holly’s life, it would be almost a happy one, but alas, the sunny slope adown which it seemed so easy to slide, daily grew darker as the years flew on. How they began to tell her the fate before her, Ruth hardly knew. A little flush of shame came first when his step was unsteady and his voice too loud. Then a grieved tear or two when he was unreasonable. Then a sorrow that kept her heart aching night and day, for the man who first won inspir ation from the glass now lost it in its depths; lectures to be delivered were not given to the expectant public because “of the illness of the lecturer.” Ruth knew what that illness meant, and tried to hide it. Literary work was neglected also. Money was lost that might have been easily won. Debts grew and credits lessened, the handsome suite of rooms was exchanged for one quite shabby. Ruth’s dress became poverty-stricken, her husband was out at the elbows and at the toes—he was in toxicated from morning until night, and yet she loved him and clung to him, and in his sober moments he loved her as fondly as ever. Sometimes the old strength and the old hope would be aroused in him and he would struggle to regain his lost position, but it was all in vain, rum triumphed, and in five years from her wedding day Ruth found herself with her one remaining child, the first having died within a year of its birth, in the dingiest of wretched tenement houses, in a state bordering upon beg gary. Edward had been more madly intoxi cated than ever before; he had even given her a blow, and now, as the night wore on, he muttered and raved and galled for brandy, and cursed her and himself until she trembled with fear. At last, as the clock struck 10, he started to his feet and staggered out of the room, vowing to get drunk some where. . Poor Ruth stood where he had left her for a few moments. The memory of the past was strong on her that night. Just at this hour five years before they had fled from her father’s home together. How tender he was, how loving, how gentle! How he vowed that she would never regret that night, and how had lie kept those promises ? He had broken every vow—he neither cher ished nor protected her. His worldly goods he had given to the ravenous de mon, drink, his love had become a some thing scarcely worth having, and yet she loved him and clung to him. She tried to feel cold and hard toward him, but she could not; she strove to remem ber the blow he had given her, the oaths he had uttered, but she answered herself as she did so, “It was not him who did it—it was rum.” She listened to the uncertain, reeling footsteps in the street below and burst into tears. “My poor darling,” she whispered, as she thought some grievous calamity had smitten him into the thing he was, and he had not himself “put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brain,” unmind ful of her pleading, unmindful of her woe and of her shame. She thought of him reeling helplessly along the street, and feared that some harm would come to him. Ho might fall in some out-of the-way place and lie there undiscovered and so freeze to death that bitter night, and in her agony of terror poor Ruth could not restrain herself from following him. Her poor weakly baby slept; she wrapped it in a blanket and laid it in its poor cradle. Then she threw her shawl over her head, and hastened down the street, busy this late Saturday night with market-going people of the poorer classes. A little way before her reeled the handsome, broad-shoulderect figure of her husband, and she, a lady bred and born, fastidious, elegant, accomplished, reared in luxury, heard poor laborers’ wives warn their children to beware of the “drunken fellow.” She heard oourse laughs at his ex pense, and under the shadow of her shawl' her cheek burnt hotly, but for all that she never thought of going back and leaving bim to himself. As soon as she could she gained his aide and called to him by name: “Edward! Edward! Hetturned and stood unsteadily look ing at her in a bewildered way. “You?” he said. “You ought to be at home this time of night.” “Sfo ought we both,” said Ruth. “Come, dear.” He threw her hand off. “I’m my own master,” he said. “I’m not tied to any woman’s apron string!” and staggered away again, Ruth follow ing through the long streets with every face turned toward them as they passed —some laughing, some contemptuous, some terrified; out at last upon the wharves, and there the besotted man sat down more stupefied by the liquor he had swallowed, in that fresh, cold air. Ruth was thinly clad—the chill of the searblast seemed to reach her very heart. She thought of the babe at home and teai h coursed down her cheeks. Again and again she pled with the mad man at her side. Again and again she tried to bring to his mind some lingering memory of the past days when his love and protection had been hers. In vain. Y\ lid fancies filled his brain, demons born of the fumes of rum held posses sion of his senses. Sometimes he thrust her from him, sometimes he gave her a maudlin embrace, and bade her bring him more liquor, but go home he would not. The distant hum'of the city died out at last, all was still with the strange stillness of a city night. The frosty stars twinkled overhead. Now and then a night boat passed up the river, with measured beat and throb. Once a ruf fianly-looking fellow sauntered past them on the pier, but though he flung her an insolent word and yet more inso lent laugh, and went away singing yet more insolently, he did not approach them. So benumbed had Ruth grown, so cold to the very heart was she, that the power of motion had almost deserted her, when at last, as the church clock not far away tolled the hour of four, the degraded man staggered to his feet and reeled homeward. She followed feebly, and only by clinging to the balustrade could she mount the wretched stairs. It was bitter cold within as without, but she was glad to find herself at last under shelter. Her babe still slumbered and she did not waken it. Her frozen bosom could only have chilled the little crea ture. There were a few bits of broken wood in one corner, and with these she made a fire in the old stove, and crouched over it, striving to gain some little warmth, while her husband slumbered heavily upon the bed in the corner, to which he had staggered on his en trance. Thus an hour passed by, and Ruth also fell asleep. The silence, the pleas ant warmth at her feet, the fancy that all her trouble was over for the night, lulled her to pleasant dreams. From them she was awakened by the loud ringing of the factory bell and by the sound of cries and shouts in the street below. She cast her eyes toward the bed—her husband was not there ? to ward the cradle—it was empty. She flew to the window—the street was full of factory boys with their tin kettles. Some great jest amused them mightily. They roared, they danced, they tossed their ragged caps on high, they shrieked in unmusical laughter, and the object of all this mad mirth was only too evident. On the steps of the liquor store op posite stood Edward Holly, holding his child in his arms and exhibiting for the benefit of the delighted crowd all those antics of which an intoxicated man alone is capable. He called on the grinning master of the gin-cellar to “give this child i some brandy;” and turned the screaming infant about in a manner that left no doubt that he would end by drop ping it upon the broken pavement. Wild with terror Ruth rushed out into the street, and made her way through the crowd to the spot where her husband stood, but before she reached him the scene had changed. • Some boy more brutal than the rest had thrown a handful of mud into Ed ward Holly’s face, and he, reeling and blaspheming, had dashed forward to re venge the act. The child had been flung away at the first step, but fortunately had been caught by an old woman who, though a degraded creature herself, had enough of the woman remaining to save an in fant from injury. And now the whole horde of boys beset the drunken man, pelting him with sticks and stones and decayed vegetables from the kennel, and reveling in the brutal delight with which such a scene always seem to inspire boys of the lowei classes. Ruth saw that her babe was safe and that her husband was in danger, and, forgetful of all else, Slew toward him. She cared nothing for the jeers of the mob; before them all she flung her arms about tbm and interposed her beautiful person between him and his assailants. The hekd that had carried itself a little proudly in the presence of the highest of the land —that had seemed more queen like than that of the Empress herself at the court of France—that had awakened the envy of titled English women when the young American woman dwelt among them—dropped itself low npon the bosom of the drunken wretch who was the jeer and scorn of a low mob, and only in love and pity, not in anger, did she gpeak to him: “Gome home, Edward! They’ll hurt you, my poor love! come home with me.” Mad as he was—filled with the demon of drink, to the exclusion of the soul Qod had given him—the soft, sweet voice, the fond touch of the white fingers, awakened some memory of the past in | the man’s breast. “Go you home, girl!” he whispered, “I’ll kill them? Don’t fret I’ll kill 'em, and—” “Gome home, darling,” she whispered again, and he stopped and gave her a kiss. At that the boys yelled derisively, and flung more mud and stones at them! One threw a stone—a heavy stone, sharp pointed and jagged. Whether he ever intended to strike the man is doubtful, but the missile flew fiercely through the air and crashed against the golden head of the devoted wife. A stream of blood gushed from the white temple and poured down upon the bosom where it dropped never to lift itself airain—never, never more. Only with a quivering shudder of pain she felt for the face of the man who had sworn to love and cherish her, and had broken that vow so utterly while hers had been so truly kept. “Good-by, Edward,” she whispered. “I can’t see you now—kiss me. Oh, be good to babyl Be good to baby!” and no word more. The crowd was hushed to silence. A sobered man bent over the dead woman, whose hands had dropped away from his breast, and the love and truth and ten derness of her heart were all manifest to him in that terrible moment—manifest in vain, for repentence could not restore her to life, nor blot out the, love which had crushed her heart through all those weary days of her sad married life. “What is the matter here?” cried a voice, as a portly man forced his way through the crowd. “A woman hurt?” “ A woman killed,” said the policeman, “ and that brute is the cause of all,” ana the gentleman bent forward and started back with a cry of anguish. “It is Ruth !” he said. “My Ruth! ” and fell back into the policeman’s arms in a deathlike swoon. Forgiveness and repentence had come alike too late for poor Ruth Holly. Her father could give her nothing but a grave. The child born amidst want and pen ury, nourished by a half-starving mother, pined away and died in the luxurious home to which its grandfather bore it; and now, as the old man sits alone in his splendid home, he sometimes hears a strange, wild cry in the streets outside, through which a drunken creature reels and staggers, howling ever and anon, “Ruth! Ruth! Ruth!” It is Edward Holly, who ever in his drunken madness searches for his mur dered wife. It is the pitiful, horrible, heart-breaking wreck of the once splen didly-beautiful man of talent, who had only one fault. —Mary Kyle Dallas. An Incident of the Blockade. A correspondent of the Boston Adver tiser, discussing the subject of color blindness, relates the following as coming under his own experience when em ployed in the blockade of the port of Wiimington, North Carolina, 'during the war of the rebellion: “The ships on blockade duty got under way at sunset, and at dark moved to their regular sta tions, some going well in toward Fort Caswell and others further off, keeping under low steam and in a specified beat. To prevent as far as possible our own ships from mistaking and firing into each other, each supposing the other a block ade runner, as did happen more than once, my own ship getting three 24-pound shells from one of our own vessels, a system of challenging and answering sig nals by showing or flashing a red or white light was established. As we all knew the station or beat of each ship, we could usually tell with tolerable certainty what vessel was sighted. But, to prevent ac cidents, it was the rule for any ship doubting to challenge by showing the challenging signal for that particular night. If no answering light was shown, or an incorrect one, the challenger had a right to fire. One night my own ship was challenged. We were so near that all hands on my vessel knew well what ship made the challenge. We answered by showing a red light for three or four seconds. Again we were challenged and again we answered as before. All hands were at quarters. Almost immediately after our second answer the lock-string of the 100-pounder rifle on board the challenger was pulled, the gun, pointed directly at my ship, happily missing fire. Before the gun could be reprimed we were made out, and no harm done. The next day an interview was had with the commander of the challenging ship, and he was informed by me that his chal lenges were correctly answered, I my self seeing it done. Why our answers were not seen by his ship could not be made out. He informed me, however, that he had been many months in com mand of his ship, and never before had that gun missed fire.” What Mamma Said. The young woman who, with her lover and little niece, sat in the shadow of the curtain while the company was in the room adjoining, had a good deal of pres ence of mind when the niece said very loud, “Kiss me, too, Aunt Ethel.” “You should say kiss me twice, or kiss me two times, not two,” said Aunt Ethel, calmly. It is to be hoped that the well-known English “beauty lady” was equal to the occasion, also, when an elderly and emi nently respectable gentleman made an afternoon call, and, as elderly gentlemen often do, he took the child and kissed her. “You must not do that,” said the child, struggling, “I am a respectable married woman!” “What do you mean, my dear?” asked the astonished visitor. “Oh, that’s what mamma always says when the gentlemen kiss her!” replied the artless infant. Advice given to gay Lotharios by M. Aurelian Scholl: “Whenever you write a letter to a married woman date it ‘April I.’ Then, if the husband finds it, clap him on the shoulder, point to the date, and say with a burst of laughter: ,Fooled again, old fellow.’”— Figaro. SUBSCRIPTION-*51.60. NUMBER 45. INTERESTING PARAGRAPHS. A cabin was first built to a vessel iu 1228. Kitchens in South America have been known to be furnished throughout with utensils made of silver. ‘ ‘ V OLtJMMOsrn ” and * ‘ funipotent ” are two new English words which have just appeared. The last is applied to spiritualists in Pollock’s “Spinoza.” Anew safety lamp for miners emits a loud sound whenever an explosive mix ture of gas and air enters it, thus giving warning of the presence of fire-damp. The favorite day for marriages in Paris is Saturday, on the morning of which there may be seen on the streets landaus and barouches with white horses driven with white reins. Ip a girl has pretty teeth she laughs often, if she’s got a pretty foot she’ll wear a short dress, and if she’s got a neat hand, she’s fond of a game of whist, and if the reverse, she dislikes all these small affairs. It is related that a California pioneer, seeing a Chinaman coolly draw a “navy six” and shoot a white ruffian neatlv through the abdomen, exclaimed with much earnest enthusiasm: “ Them Chi nese is takin’ on Christian ways surprisin' fast!” Yoitng man, don’t be afraid that hon est, legitimate overwork will shorten your days. It is better to wear out in a home, built up by your own efforts—at the age of sixty-five, than it is to rust out in the poor-house five years later.— Whitehall Times. Whittier says that the first money he ever earned was paid for a copy of Shakespeare, and that it proved to be the best investment he ever made. ‘ ‘The long years since,” he adds, “have only deepened my admiration of the great creative poet.” A Montreal thief had thrown a bun dle of goods out through the rear window of a store, and would have followed in safety, had he not stopped to read a par agraph which caught his eye in a news paper lying on the counter. The delay caused his capture. Ralph Nickleby was a hard, cold, selfish man, without a grain of generous impulse. Newman Noggs was a kind hearted man, without a grain of self in his composition. Nickleby was rich; Noggs, poor. The one was a wise man; the other, a fool. Question for debate, Which was the happier of the two? In China literary property is on the same footing as other property. A per son printing and selling the works of an author without his permission is liable to a punishment of 100 blows of the bam boo and three years’ deportation. If he has stopped short at printing and not begun to sell, the penalty is fifty blows together with the forfeiture of books and bloeks for which it is intended to print. “Dean” Buchanan tells in hig con fession of a fortune-teller in Philadel phia who reads destiny by the light of a candle made of human fat, of a doctor who goes to Europe annually and brings back love-powders, which he represents are compounded at the shrine of Cupid, in Minerva’s temple, and of a concern which sells the pulverized gizzard of a chicken as a compound to produce arti ficial digestion. The site of an ancient camp of Indians at Cambridge, Mass., has for many years been occupied by a Baptist Church. The spirits of the red men haunt the spot, because they cannot rest under the wrong done them by the whites, and three times they ‘have burned the meeting-house. On each occasion an Indian war-whoop was heard, mingled with the crackling of the flames. Old residents tell this story with great solemnity. Second Life. Men may inquire solemnly and with many a doubt whether any other world than this awaits the human race ; but, once admitting a second life, the dark cloud of punishment must be seen on that remote horizon. There can be no second life without a memory of the events of this career. It is the chain of memory which makes a resurrection from the dead possible. If a person should arise from the grave and have no con sciousness of ever having lived before, that would be no second life only in a most trifling and unjust sense. Dr. Ed ward Beecher once published quite a volume to show that man is now in his second world, and at death will pass to his third and last. But if we have most utterly forgotten any such first life this is made our first existence by the very fact of such forgetfulness. If we did all live once before in this planet or in some other planet, that fact has been forgot ten with an amazing uniformity and thoroughness. Memory makes this our first life. A thousand volumes from all the wise men of all nations could not in tervene, with their learning and elo quence, and oppose the simple evidence of memory in this strange case. It is your first world. Your memory can pick up its twenty or thirty or forty its sixty years, and can hold them all in or grasp and say I once lived one of those summers and winters. We can all look at that bunch of faded flowers and say I saw them when they were fresh and beautiful. ThiA recollection is, there fore, that mental attribute which alone will make possible a resurrection from the dead. The only immortality that can be thought of is, therefore, one which can look back upon this first ex perience of being. Unless friends shall know each other, there will be no meet ing of friends, for take away the recogni tion and all else is empty. Thus the future world awaits wholly upon mem ory—the creator of immortality.— Prof. David Swing .