DEATH IS A VICTORY. THE SUBJECT OF DR. TALMAGE'S EASTER SERMON.

An Eloquent Discourse on the Resurrec-

tion--Numerous Things In Nature That Symbolize the New Life--Only the Bad Disapprove of the Resurrection. NEW YORK, April 14.--Rev. Dr. Talmage preached twice today in New York--at the Academy of Music and the West Presbyterian church--on both occasions to crowded audiences. One of the sermons was on the subject of "Easter Jubilee," the text being taken from I Corinthians xv, 54, "Death is swal-

lowed up in victory."

About 1,861 Easter mornings have

wakened the earth. In France for three centuries the almanacs made the year begin at Easter until Charles IX made the year begin at Jan. 1. In the Tower of London there is a royal pay roll of Edward I, on which there is an entry of 18 pence for 400 colored and pictured Easter eggs, with which the people sported. In Russia slaves were fed and

alms were distributed on Easter. Ecclesiastical councils met at Pontus,

at Gaul, at Rome, at Achaia, to decide the particular day, and after a controversy more animated than gracious decided it, and now through all Christendom in some way the first Sunday after the full moon which happens upon or next after March 21 is filled with Easter rejoicing. The royal court of the Sabbaths is made up of 52. Fifty-one are princes in the royal household, but Easter is queen. She wears a richer diadem and sways a more jeweled scepter, and in her smile nations are irradiated. We welcome this queenly day, holding high up in her right hand the wrenched off bolt of Christ's sepulcher and holding high up in her left hand the key to all

the cemeteries in Christendom. My text is an ejaculation. It is spun

out of halleluiahs. Paul wrote right on in his argument about the resurrection and observed all the laws of logic, but when he came to write the words of the text his fingers and his pen and the parchment on which he wrote took fire, and he cried out, "Death is swallowed up in victory!" It is a dreadful sight to see an army routed and flying. They scatter everything valuable on the track. Unwheeled artillery. Hoof or horse on breast of wounded and dying man. You have read of the French falling back from Sedan, or Napoleon's track of 90,000 corpses in the snowbanks of Russia, or of the five kings tumbling over the rocks of Bethoron with their armies, while the hailstorms of heaven and the swords of Joshua's hosts struck them

with their fury.

The Hosts of Evil.

But in my text is a worse discomfiture. It seems that a black giant proposed to conquer the earth. He gathered for his host all the aches and pains and maladies and distempers and epidemics of the ages. He marched them down, drilling them in the northeast wind, amid the slush of tempests. He threw up barricades of grave mound. He pitched tent of charnel house. Some of the troops marched with slow tread, commanded by consumptions; some in double quick, commanded by pneumonias. Some her took by long besiegement of evil habit and some by one stroke of the battleax of casualty. With bony hand he pounded at the doors of hospitals and sickrooms and won all the victories in all the great battlefields of all the five continents. Forward, march! the conqueror of conquerors, and all the generals and commanders in chief, and all presidents and kings and sultans and czars drop under the feet of his war charger. But one Christmas night his antagonist was born. As most of the plagues and sicknesses and despotisms came out of the east it was appropriate that the new conqueror should come out of the same quarter. Power is given him to awaken all the fallen of all the centu-

ries of all lands and marshal them against the black giant. Fields have already been won, but the last day will see the decisive battle. When Christ shall land forth his two brigades, the brigade of the risen dead and the brigade of the celestial host, the black giant will fall back, and the brigade from the riven sepulchers will take him from beneath, and the brigade of descending immortals will take him from above and "death shall be swallowed up in victory." The old braggart that threatened the conquest and demolition of the planet has lost his throne, has lost his scepter, has lost his palace, has lost his prestige, and the one word written over all the gates of mausoleum and catacomb and necropolis and cenotaph and sarcophagus, on the lonely cairn of the arctic explorer and on the catafalque of great cathedral, written in capitals of scales and calla lily, written in musical audience, written in doxology of

great assemblages, written on the sculptured door of the family vault, is "Victory." Coronal word, embannered word, apocalyptic word, chief word of triumphal arch under which conquerors return. Victory! Word shouted at Culloden and Balaklava and Blenheim; at Megiddo and Solferino; at Marathon, where the Athenians drove back the Medea; Poitiers, where Charles Marshal broke the ranks of the Saracens; at Salamis, where Themistocles in the

great [?] fight confounded the Persians, and at the door of the eastern cavern of chiseled rock, where Christ came out through a recess and throttled the king of horrors and put him back in the niche from which the celestial conqueror had just emerged. Aha, when the laws of the eastern mausoleum took down the black giant, "death was swallowed up in victory!"

Abolition of Death. I proclaim the abolition of death. The old antagonist is driven back into mythology with all the lore about Stygian ferry and Charon with oar and boat. We shall have no more to do with death than we have with the cloakroom at a governor's or president's levee. We stop at such cloakroom and leave in charge of the servant our overcoat, our overshoes, out outward apparel that we may not be impeded in the brilliant round of the drawing room. Well, my friends, when we go out of this world and we are going to a king's banquet, and to a reception of monarchs, and at the door of the tomb we leave the claok of flesh and the wrappings with which we meet the storms of the world. At the close of our earthly reception, under the brush and broom of the porter, the coat or hat may be handed to us better than when we resigned it, and the cloak of humanity will finally be returned to us and improved and brightened and purified and glorified. You and I do not want our bodies returned to us as they are now. We want to get rid of all their weaknesses, and all their susceptibilities to fatigue, and all their slowness of locomotion. They will be put through a chemistry of soil and heat and cold and changing seasons out of which God will reconstruct them as much better than they are now as the body of the rosiest and healthiest child that bounds over the lawn is better than the sickest patient in the hospital.

But as to our soul, we will cross right over, not waiting for obsequies, independent of obituary, into a state in every way better, with wider room and velocities beyond computation; the dullest of us into companionship with the very best spirits in their very best moods, in the very best room of the universe, the four walls furnished and paneled and pictured and glorified with all the splendors that the infinite God in all ages has been able to invent. Victory!

This view of course makes it of but little importance whether we are cremated or sepultured. If the latter is dust to dust, the former is ashes to ashes. If any prefer incineration, let them have it without caricature. The world may become so crowded that cremation may be universally adopted by

law as well as by general consent.

Many of the mightiest and best of earth have gone through this process. Thousands and tens of thousands of God's children have been remated. P. P. Bliss and wife, the evangelist singers, cremated by accident at Ashtabula

bridge; John Rogers cremated by per-

secution. Latimer and Ridley cremated at Oxford. Pothinus and Blondina, a slave, and Alexander, a physician, and their comrades, cremated at the order of Marcus Aurelius. At least a hundred thousand of Christ's disciples cremated, and there can be no doubt about the resurrection of their bodies. If the

world lasts as much longer as it has al-

ready been built, there perhaps may be no room for the large acreage set apart for the resting places, but that time has not come. Plenty of room yet, and the race need not pass that bridge of fire until it comes to it. The most of us prefer the old way. But whether out of natural disintegration or cremation we shall get that luminous, buoyant, gladsome, transcendent, magnificent, inexplicable structure called the rseurrection body you will have it, I will have it. I say to you today as Paul said to Agrippa, "Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you that God

should raise the dead?"

The Clouds a Symbol of the Resurrection. That far up cloud, higher than the hawk flies, higher than the eagle flies, what is it made of? Drops of water from the Hudson, other drops from the East river, other drops from a stagnant pool out on Newark flats. Up yonder there, embodied in a cloud, and the sun kindles it. If God can make such a lustrous cloud out of water drops, many of them soiled and impure and fetched from miles away, can he not transport the fragments of a human body from the earth and out of them build a radiant body? Cannot God, who owns all the material out of which bones and muscle and flesh are made, set them up again if they have fallen? If a manufacturer of telescopes drop a telescope on the floor, and it breaks, can he not mend it again so you can see through it? And if God drops the human eye into the dust, the eye which he originally fashioned, can he not restore it? Aye, if the manufacturer of the telescope, by a change of the glass and a change of focus, can make a better glass than that which was originally constructed and actually improve it, do you not think the fashioner of the human eye may improve its sight and multiply the natural eye by the thousandfold additional forces of the

resurrection eye?

"Why should it it be thought with you an incredible thing that God should raise the dead?" Things all around us suggest it. Out of what grew all these flowers? Our of the mold and earth. Resurrected. Resurrected. The radiant butterfly, where did it come from? The loathsome caterpillar. That albatross that smites the tempest with its wing, where did it come from? A senseless shell. Near Bergerac, France, in a Celtic tomb, under a block, were found flower seeds that had been buried 3,000 years. The explorer took the flower seed and planted it, and it came up. It bloomed in bluebell and heliotrope. Two thousand years ago buried, yet resurrected. A traveler says he found in a mummy pit in Egypt garden peas that had been buried there 3,000 years ago. He brought them out, and on June 4, 1844, he planted them, and in 30 days they sprang up. Buried 3,000 years, yet resurrected.

"Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you that God should raise the dead?" Where did all this silk come from--the silk that adorns your persons and your homes? In the hollow of a staff a Greek missionary brought from China to Europe the progenitors of those worms that now supply the silk markets of many nations. The pageantry of bannered host and the luxurious articles of commercial emporium blazing out from the silkworms! And who shall be surprised if, out of this insignificant earthly life, our bodies unfold into something worthy of the coming eternities? Put silver into diluted niter, and it dissolves. Is the silver gone forever? No. Put in some pieces of copper, and the silver reappears. If one force dissolves, another force reorganizes. Out of the Night the Day. "Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you that God should raise the dead?" The insects flew and the worms crawled last autumn feebler and feebler and then stopped. They have taken no food; they want none. They lie dormant and insensible, but soon the south wind will blow the resurrection trumpet, and the air and the earth will be full of them. Do you not think that God can do as much for our bodies as he does for the wasps, and the spiders, and the snails? This morning at half past 4 o'clock there was a resurrection. Out of the night, the day. In a few weeks there will be a resurrection in all our gardens. Why must not some day a resurrection amid all the graves? Ever and anon there are instances of men and women entranced. A trance is death, followed by resurrection after a few days--total suspension of mental power and voluntary action. Rev. William Tennent, a great evangelist of the last generation, of whom Dr. Archibald Alexander, a man far from being sentimental, wrote in most eulogistic terms--Rev. William Tennant seemed to die. His spirit seemed to have departed. People came in day after day and said, "He is dead; he is dead." But the soul returned, and William Tennent lived to write out experiences of what he had seen while his soul was gone. It may be found some time what is called suspended death, giving the soul an excursion into the next world, from which it comes back--a furlough of a few hours grant-

ed from the conflict of life to which it must return.

Do not this waking up of men from

trance and this waking up of grains buried 3,000 years ago make it easier for you to believe that your body and

mine, after the vacation of the grave,

shall rouse and rally, though there be 3,000 years between our last breath and the sounding of the archangelic reveille? Physiologists tell us that, while the most of our bodies are built with such wonderful economy that we can spare nothing, and the loss of a finger is a hindrance, and the injury of a toe joint makes us lame, still we have two or

three apparently useless physical appa-

rati, and no anatomist or physiologist has ever been able to tell what they are good for. Perhaps they are the foundation of the resurrection body, worth

nothing to us in this state, to be indispensably valuable to the next state. The

Jewish rabbis appear to have had a hint

of this suggestion when they said that

in the human frame there was a small

bone which was to be the basis of the resurrection body. That may have been a delusion. But this thing is certain, the Christian scientists of our day have found out that there are two or three superfluities of the body that are something gloriously suggestive of another state.

I called at my friend's house one summer day. I found the yard all piled up with rubbish of carpenter's and mason's work. The door was off. The plumbers had torn up the floor. The roof was being lifted in cupola. All the pictures were gone, and the paper hangers were doing their work. All the modern improvements were being introduced into that dwelling. There was not a room in the house fit to live in at that time, although a month before, when I visited that house, everything was so beautiful I could not have suggested an improvement. My friend had gone with his family to the Holy Land, expecting to come back at the end of six months, when the

building was to be done.

The New House. And, oh! what was his joy when at the end of six months he returned and the old house was enlarged and improved and glorified! That is your body. It looks well now. All the rooms filled with health, and we could hardly make a suggestion. But after awhile your soul will go to the Holy Land, and while you are gone the old house of your tabernacle will be entirely reconstructed from cellar to attic, every nerve, muscle and bone and tissue and artery must be hauled over and the old structure will be burnished and adorned and raised and cupolaed and enlarged, and all the improvements or heaven introduced, and you will move into it on resurrection day. "For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal is the heavens." Oh, what a day when body and soul, meet again! They are very fond of each other. Did your body ever have a pain and your soul not re-echo it? Or, changing the question, did your soul ever have any trouble and your body not sympathize with it, growing wan and weak under the depressing influence? Or did your soul ever have a gladness but your body celebrated it with kindled eye and cheek and elastic step. Surely God never intended two such good friends to be very long separated. And so when the world's last Easter morning shall come the soul will descend, crying, "Where is my body?" And the body will ascend, saying, "Where is my soul?" And the Lord of the resurrection will bring them together, and it will be a perfect soul in a perfect body, introduced by a per-

fect Christ into a perfect heaven. Victory!

Only the bad disapprove of the resur-

rection. A cruel heathen warrior heard Mr. Moffat, the missionary, preach

about the resurrection, and he said to the missionary, "Will my father rise in the last day?" "Yes," said the missionary. "Will all the dead in battle rise?"

said the cruel chieftain. "Yes," said the missionary. "Then," said the warrior, "let me hear no more about the resurrection day. There can be no resurrection, there shall be no resurrection. I have slain thousands in battle. Will they rise?" Ah, there will be more to rise on that day than those want to see whose crimes have never been repented of. But for all others who allowed Christ to be their pardon and life and resurrection it will be a day of victory. The thunders of the last day will be the salve that greets you into harbor. The lightnings will be only the torches of triumphant procession marching down to escort you home. The burning worlds flashing through immensity will be the rockets celebrating your coronation on thrones where you will reign forever and forever and forever. Where is death? What have we to do with death? As your reunited body and soul swing off from this planet on that last day you will see deep gashes all up and down the hills; deep gashes all through the valleys, and they will be the emptied graves, they will be the abandoned sepulchres, with rough ground tossed on either side of them, and slabs will be uneven on the rent hillocks, and there will be fallen monuments and cenotaphs, and then for the first time you will appreciate the full exhilaration of the text, "He will swallow up death in victory." Hail the Lord of earth and heaven! Praise to Thee by both be given; Thee we greet triumphant now, Hail the resurrection Thou!

THE POETRY OF LABOR. A Picturesque Side to the Operations of Hodmen and Bricklayers. One realizes the dignity and especially the poetry of labor and catches the meaning of some things that Walt Whitman has said by watching the workers of this town on a bright, [?] March morning. The word blithe seems to convey the aspect of the scene, it is so full of sunshine and motion, and wholesome activity. There is a great structure rising on a west side numbered street, and it is so situated that the morning sun floods the whole plot [?] to be inclosed by the rising walls. That sunlit parallelogram presents a most delightful scene to the sympathetic eye. Only the front wall and the side party walls have as yet risen above the foundations, so that the whole interior is visible from the rear. What one sees on the ground is mainly the preparation for what is going on where the walls rise. There are men mixing mortar with long push and pull motions of the arms and back. There are hod carriers hastening in unordered scurry for bricks and mortar at the center of the inclosure and then moving in orderly line toward the several walls. The [?] men here and there plying hammers to make ready ladders and scaffolding against the tie when the walls shall have risen too high for the approaches already provided.

As the hod carriers laboriously climb the ladders one notes that they are clad in blue jumpers, in overalls of one color or another, in the [?] that men of their calling often wear. Now and then a stripe of red flannel shirt shows at the waist. The figures are heavy and slow on the upward journey, but nimble enough on the way down. You may recognize a new hand by his care and awkwardness. His muscles are not yet trained to mechanical certainty, and he moves with caution. One can almost guess the age of those shabby figures as they move up and down the ladders, never pausing, never shirking, always bearing upon calloused shoulders the full [?] of bricks or the full weight of mortar. They fill their hods with almost incredible swiftness and fairly fall over one another to reach the brick pile first. But the steadying effects of the load is shown in the orderly march of the upward moving hodmen. One realizes that hard times have disciplined the men into giving a full and [?] day's work for their pay.

Even 300 feet away one seems to note the difference of dress, movement and manner between the skilled workmen laying the bricks and the unskilled hod carriers. The former are neatly dressed for the most part in whole [?] overalls. They move about their work easily and gracefully with quick, deft hands. Almost no sound comes from the walls save the metallic ring and scrape of the trowel and the tap of its handle upon the brick just set in its bed of dark brown mortar. Now and then an indistinguishable word of direction floats downward from the last course of bricks. The hodmen are equally silent. It is a pantomime of busy labor, almost rhythmic in its movements. The whole scene is full of silent grace, and not without the charm of color so often missing from human activities in America. In eloquent testimony to the effectiveness of the work rise the [?] finished walls, with clean right lines, horizontal and vertical, smooth plane surfaces and the sorried teeth of the brick [?] with the charm of curves never to be destroyed, no matter how rough the material of the structure.--New York Sun.

DAGOS AND GRINGOS. Where the Words Came From and How They Became Popular.

There can be no doubt that the word Dago is derived from the Portuguese word Diego (James), the patron saint of Portugal. About thirty-five years ago an exhaustive research was made to ascertain the derivation of this word, with this result: The first recorded instance of its use was a customs entry, about the year 1820, of a ship belonging to Davis & Brooks, which traded between New York and Mediterranean ports. The skipper, after writing in the entry his name and that of his mates and American sailors, wound up with and "three Dagos." He was asked for an explanation by the custom house people, showing that the word and its meaning was new to them. He replied that he meant three Portuguese, all of the same name, Diego, which he had spelled incorrectly, and that he had shipped them at Funchal. In those days Italian sailosr were seldom found out of the Mediterranean, and Spanish sailors only on Spanish ships, but the Portuguese sailors would take a berth on any craft without regard to the flag it sailed under, so it was very hard to find a ship without two or three natives of either the Azores, Canary, or Cape Verde islands among the

crew. They made splendid sailors and worked cheap on important considera-

tion in the eyes of Yankee skippers, par-

ticularly whalers, who invariably

sought these islands on their way to the

Pacific to complete their crews and catch the southwest trade winds.

The name Diego was so plentiful among these Portuguese sailors that it got to be the custom to call them all "Diego," or Dago, much as all Chinamen are called John. As they were a good natured lot they took it kindly, until along in the forties the manner of its application became offensive to them. Since then it has been applied to Spaniards, Italians and all dark skinned people other than negroes. An equally interesting story can be told of the word gringo, so much used by our Mexican neighbors. The accepted version of this word's origin is to the effect that some American sailors, ashore on the harbor of Mazatian, getting water, sang the old ditty, "Green Grow the Rushes O," and the natives took kindly to the melody, ever afterward calling the Americans gringos. The year 1845 is given as the date of this happening.

Now, as long ago as 1825 the firm of

Howland & Aspinwall did an immense

business with the west coast of Mexico. Their agents in Mazatian were the Messrs. Barre & Kennedy. There is in New York city, in the family of Robert Lennox Kennedy, a letter from Mr.

Lewis Barre of this firm, dated Mazat-

ian, 1825, which speaks of an entertainment at his house, and that on the recommendation of one of the captains of Howland & Aspinwall's ships in the harbor, a sailor furnished the music. The captain vouched for him as being a very talented fiddler, and it turned out that the fellow played but one tune, "Green Grow the Rushes O." This was his entire repertory. They danced everything to this tune, singing the song at the same time, and the en-

tertainment furnished lots of fun.

In a subsequent letter he writes that

from this entertainment his Mexican friends had evolved a nickname for Americans that was coming greatly into use, gringo, which was as near as they could come to the pronunciation of

"green grow." It is easy to see how this word could become a word of opprobrium among people who did not know its origin. Certain it is that Mr. Barre, and old and respected merchant in Mexico, had never heard of it previous to this time, 1825.--Kansas City Star.

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The Steam Engine. The steam engine is today the most reliable prime mover available. Its de-

sign has been the subject of years of study and experiment by the best engineers that the world has ever pro-

duced. Its manufacture has given em-

ployment to the best artisans. Capital in almost unlimited quantities has united in providing facilities in the way of convenient buildings and well finished tools for its construction. No machine

turned out by man has, in fact, received

greater attention in design, or higher skill in producing, than the steam en-

gine.--Cassier's Magazine.

Hard Wood. According to a recent legal decision reported in The Timberman, hard wood is "any tree that has a leaf as distinguished from a needle." A man contracted to deliver to a railroad hard wood cordwood, and he delivered a poplar in part fulfillment of the contract. The railroad rejected this as not hard wood and sued, but the contractor won the case on the decision of the court, as reported above. Women will not have a distinct and lawful standard to gauge their hard wood furniture descriptions.

With the Account on the Voters. Mrs. Meriwether of Memphis says: "We asked that the girls of our state be protected until they were 18 years old, the law extending that gracious protection up to the ripe age of 10. We fought a desperate battle for six years, and when the age was finally raised to 16 the women who had stood the brunt of that long battle saw it proved beyond all peradventure that no 'influence' of theirs had won the day, but the simply fact that six years of bitter experience had taught them the only weapon that would kill, and they used it. They buried the senate chamber and representatives hall under voters' petitions and came out victors."

No More Slashing.

It is a noteworthy fact that the rapidly increasing number of new books, not of poetry only, at the present hour is accompanied by a diminution, not an

increase, of critical severity. One would have supposed that at such a period--

when, to adapt the proverb of the wood and the trees, one can hardly see literature for the books--the critical standard would rise; that the critic would

show himself more, not less, exacting

and would be more careful, in the in-

terest of the reader, to emphasize the

distinction between the excellent and

the mediocre.

Yet no one can read much of the cur-

rent periodical criticism without noting that it is rather the opposite that is happening. While it is an obvious and undeniable fact that the manufacture of books, as distinguished from author-

ship, exists on an enormous scale, yet apparently the average critic becomes

more easy to please, not less, than of old, as if he cried in sheer despair to

the makers of books, "Well, if you can't rise to my standard, I must come down to yours," and hardly sixth months pass without some prose romance appearing, by some fresh writer, and being received with such a chorus of welcome and such hecatombs of praise as to (to borrow Ma-

caulay's phrase) would require some

modification if applied to the master-

pieces of Walter Scott--to "Old Mor-

tality" or "The Heart of Midlothian."

Now, as I have said, no one wishes

for a return of the criticism called slashing, but what I do think the intelligent reader often sights for is some criticism that may be called discriminating, and if the value of such in literature of whatever kind is great it is surely greatest where the literature in question

is poetry, in which Horace has told us--and the cultivated sense of mankind has

ratified his words--"mediocrity is not

admissible."--Macmillan's Magazine.

Pernambuco, when translated into English, means the "mouth of hell." The allusion is to the tempestuous surf that continually renders the neighborhood dangerous to the sailor.

Punch In England.

Punch had certainly no reason to complain of any lack of homage paid him by the leading spirits of the eight-

eenth century. Addison, as a young man, wrote Latin verses about him.

Swift used him as one of the engines of his political satire, and Steele, in the 'Tatler,' got up a mock quarrel between Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff and George Powell, Punch's most famous showman. In the course of this quarrel, which is supposed to have been a parody of a controversy between Hoadly and Blackball, Bishop of Exeter, Mr. Bickerstaff declares that he knows the joiner who put Punch together, and that the hero's head had actually once been laid aside for a nut-cracker. Moreover, his scolding wife is but a bit of of crab-tree, his courtiers were all taken out of a quick-set hedge near Islington, and Doctor Faustus himself is supposedto have learnt his whole art from an old woman whom he long served in the figure of a broom-staff. Curran, as a young man, was an amateur of marionettes, and on one occasion obtained permission from a showman to pull the strings that worked the figures, and to put words into their mouths. So well did he acquit himself of his task that the audience were in raptures, and the money collected was four times as much as usual. It is said that his success in finding retorts and arguments for his little clients showed Curran his true vocation, and led him to choose the bar for his profession.--Cornhill Magazine.

REAL RAZORBACKS. A HOMELY AND FEROCIOUS HOG ON HIS NATIVE HEATH. He Does Not Resemble His Pampered Brother of the Berkshire Breed--His Existence Measured by the Rule of "Root, Hog, or Die"--Hog Killing Parties. There is a great difference in hogs. The form, contour and face of the rounded, sleek sided, short legged Berkshire and other hogs of high degree do not much resemble the angular, razor backed hog common throughout the south. The countenance of the well bred, well cared for species is chubby and contented looking, the ears small, the snout inclined to turn up rather than down. His less fortunate cousin has a long, narrow face, immense, flopping ears that hang disconsolately over his eyes, and an elongated, pointed snout that seems providentially formed to aid his earthy explorations. "Root, hog, or die," is a common saying in the country of which this hog is a native, and the swine seem to realize the situation. They have long legs and always run with their snouts close to the ground, convenient for unearthing anything eatable which may come in their way. They diligently root up the promising morsel of food and gulp it down, without stopping to enjoy it, and run on apparently faster than ever, grunting as they go, in search of something more--some favorite acorn or juicy bit of grass or berry root, upon which they largely depend for subsistence.

Naturally the vast amount of imperative exercise they take ranging through the woods effectually prevents their taking on much superfluous flesh, and the hair on their narrow backs is as rough and coarse as that of the well bred hog is smooth and glossy. The majority of them are a dingy white color, perhaps spotted with black, and when a white coated one, scantily covered with hair, has pale eyes, bound around with pink, and very light eyelashes, protruding beneath his drooping ears, he is as ugly a living object as can be imagined. The little pigs are moderately pretty when young, but not in the least like the plump, little, chubby faced baby Berkshire, and long before they have arrived at the age when they are called "shotes" they have become ungainly and common looking. The negroes have great faith in the ability of the hog to survive any amount of neglect and still live to provide sausages and pork stew for the winter season. At certain seasons, when the "shotes" can do no damage to the maturing crops, it is necessary to confine them until the fields are bare once more and will admit of their ranging at will.

In the course of a walk once, a small negro boy and girl were found seated on top of the fence which surrounded a pen, flinging corn to two hogs within the inclosure. The rude feeding trough was as dry as if no liquid had ever dampened it, and this on a hot summer afternoon. Inquiry as to when the prisoners had last had water given them elicted no response from the shy little "shote minders." After some inquiry and explanation that the pigs would like water the boy consented to go to the house, some distance off, for a bucket, after bringing which the children went to the spring, in a little hollow in the woods behind the pen, and procured water for the thirsty creatures. It is needless to say that they drank it with avidity. This pen was in an open field, with not a single bit of shade near. It

had belonged to an humble establishment, the house and barn of which had

been moved to some other tract of land, and the owner of the hogs had utilized the pen just where it was, the distance from his dwelling, which was plentifully supplied with well water, rendering it most inconvenient to attend to the wants of the animals.

The pen could easily have been moved, as the fence around it was made of movable rails placed zigzag fashion on purpose that it might be changed from place to place but evidently the comfort of the "shotes" was not regarded as of much importance. Later, a small, slim figure, in a scant, homespun dress, faded and torn, suddenly emerged from a narrow path which opened upon the road, and a childish voice said timidly, "Do you want some headache blossom, ma'am?" a little black hand holding out a bunch of delicate pink flowers, with perfume more powerful than sweet. The acceptance of this offering seemed to thaw out her reserve, and the little girl volunteered the information that she and Yankee, her brother, "aimed to dash water to de hog ebery ebenin."

In the days of the old regime the crops were all fenced in, and the hogs, and cattle as well, were allowed to roam at will through the fastnesses of the swamps and timbered tracts. Oftentimes the animals were not seen for months. When the time drew near for hog killing, parties were made up to "drive" the swamp and capture the half wild creatures, as it was desired to fatten them in pens before killing. It was not infrequently the case that the swine became quite ferocious, having been left so long at large, and the hunters found themselves in the midst of a "wild boar" hunt in earnest, which they hugely enjoyed. Most of the farmers of the southern states now leave their crops unfenced, and the stock has to be pastured or looked after, which practice has put on one to other pursuits.--New York Tribune.

OCEAN CITY. A Moral Seaside Resort. Not Excelled as a Health Restorer.

Finest facilities for FISHING, Sailing, gunning, etc.

The Liquor Traffic and its kindred evils are forever pro-

hibited by deed.

Every lover of Temperance and Morals should combine to

help us.

Water Supply, Railroad, Steamboats, And all other

Modern Conveniences.

Thousands of lots for sale at various prices, located in all parts of the city. For information apply to E. B. LAKE, Secretary, Ocean City Asso'n, SIXTH ST. & ASBURY AVE.

Stephen A. Douglas had a magnificent bass voice that would have made his fortune on the opera stage. The manner in which he bellowed forth "Fellow citizens!" at the beginning of a speech was never equaled by any public speaker.

Beacousfield's face was a puzzle ever to his initiates. It was impossible, by watching it, to gain any insight into his feelings or emotions.

"Czar! What Is Czar?"

At a banquet last summer at Arch-

angel, when the health of the emperor was given, we English rose, and, in accordance with our custom, repeated the

name, exclaiming, "The czar!" My neighbors on my left, the commander of a Russian line of battle ship then in the port, turned to me and said in French: "The czar! What is that you mean by 'the czar?'" It seemed to me that he had never heard the title applied to his emperor.--Notes and Queries.

Paul Jones Believed In Chaplains. Like Washington, Paul Jones considered a chaplain as a useful and even a necessary officer and offered, if one could be procured, to treat him with a distinction greater than any commanding officer has since offered a chaplain. He wrote of this matter, "He (the chaplain) should always have a place at my table, and the regulation whereof should be entirely under his direction." The Count d'Orvilliers' chaplain, whom Paul Jones always affectionately addressed as "Father John," was one of his most intimate friends and correspondents.--"Paul Jones," by Molly Elliot Seawell, in Century.

A Lily That Worked. "Why do you call me a lily?" asked the pretty soubrette. "'She toils not, neither does she spin,'" quoted the enamored youth. "Toil, I believe, means to work," murmured the maiden. Then she worked him for a pair of diamond earrings and did a pirouette to show she was no lily.--Los Angeles Herald.

W. L. DOUGLAS $3 SHOE IS THE BEST. FIT FOR A KING. $5 CORDOVAN, FRENCH & ENAMELLED CALF. $4. $3.50 FINE CALF & KANGAROO. $3.50 POLICE, 3 SOLES. $2.50 $2. WORKINGMEN'S EXTRA FINE $2. $1.75 BOYS' SCHOOL SHOES. LADIES $3. $2.50 $2. $1.75 BEST DONGOLA. SEND FOR CATALOGUE. W. L. DOUGLAS, BROCKTON, MASS. Over One Million People wear the W. L. Douglas $3 & $4 Shoes All our shoes are equally satisfactory They give the best value for the money. They equal custom shoes in style and fit. Their wearing qualities are unsurpassed. The prices are uniform--stamped on sole. From $1 to $3 saved over other makes. If your dealer cannot supply you, we can. Sold by

C. A. CAMPBELL.