of war. I finally convinced him of my integrity, and we sat down by the roadside and had as comfortable a social time as Artemus Ward's mother and Betsey Jane's mother used to have boiling soap together.

In the summer of 1857 I was publishing the "Journal" at River Falls in this State, and then, and for some years after, there was in that town a delegation of as active and reliable stammerers as I have ever known. There were five of us. First, there was Wm. J. McMasters, then foreman of the "Journal,” now one of the editors and proprietors of the Lake City (Minn.) “Leader," and then, as now, one of the purest, kindliest and best men whom I have ever known. Mac did not seem to like to stammer. There was an apologetic air about his performance, as if asking pardon for annoying his hearers. Mac was the best foreman I ever had, because it was known that the editor stammered; and whenever I was away, and Mac was in charge, he could fill the whole bill. Then there was Mr. D. H. Levings, now resident there. I have known him from boyhood, and have no hesitation in vouching for him as a "star stammerer. In conversation he works everything about his face but his voice, and does everything but talk. He has a wonderful facility of distorting his features while wrestling with words, and is a perfect success as what the theatre people call a "muggist." He looks mad when stammering, but he is not. It is his way. Mr. Henry K. White was also a very competent and steady stammerer.

He put less emotion into the business than the others, but he was more even and reliable, and could always be depended on to work very hard in order to say a very little.

Many amusing incidents occurred among us, but I will relate but one.

In 1859 Mr. Levings was director of the school district, and I was clerk. One day in the early autumn, when I was particularly busy in my office, a young man named George W. Witherell came to me and wished to engage to teach the school during the coming winter. I did not like his appearance, and had no idea of hiring him, and so told him he had better see the director. He asked me to accompany him, but I excused myself on account of my urgent business. He persisted in his request, until I was fairly obliged to comply, and, in no very good humor, I started with him for Mr. Levings' house, about one-third of a mile distant. I had been showing him some of my best specimens of stammering, and, when near the house, I remarked that he might have observed that I had a hesitation in my speech. He said he had observed it. I told him I was afflicted that way, but Mr. Levings was a very rapid talker, and between us we averaged good time. We found him painting his house; he came down the ladder, and I introduced him, making fearful work of the job.

- let me

"Mr. Le-Le-Levings, l-let me ac-ac-ac ac-acquaint you with Mr. W-Wi-With-with Mr. With-With-Witherell."

Levings looked at him, then looked at me, and began:

"Wh-wh-wh-what na-a-a-ame did you sa-a-a-ay?" He wrestled fearfully with that first word "what." The contortions of his face were frightful to With.. erell and amusing to me. Mr. Witherell did not get the school. I think he was resigned; I don't think he wanted it very much after we had stopped talking to him; but I had my revenge on him for taking me from my work.

For myself, within the year past, the habit of stammering has nearly forsaken me. I have taken no special pains to secure this result, and hardly know whether to rejoice at it or not. I shall try to retain enough of the habit to "sample" it when desired, though I should not indulge in its habitual

use.

The years work their slow but certain changes, and man ripens for the grave as leaves and fruit do for their fall. The weakest leaves fall first, and it may be that this habit, the least essential of what is personal to myself, is thus the first to pass away — the first indication of that coming change, which, in God's own time, will bear us all over to that otherlife where no stammering tongues are found, but where language is music, life is thought, and law is love.

THE NEWSPAPER.

[Extracts from an address delivered before the Convention of the Minnesota Editors and Publishers' Association, held at St. Paul, June 4, 1870.]

There are some things from which the freshness never fades away -out of which the wonder never dies. Day by day we may stand beside a telegraph operator, but the mystery of his performance never becomes clear, and the sensation of surprise is always fresh and keen.

Just so the newspaper is a constantly recurring miracle whose wonder never wears away. Whether lying carefully folded in the office, or invitingly open upon the table; whether wrapping cheese and codfish, or thrown discarded into the street to scare horses and be trampled on, it is always invested with a strange kind of awe.

The newspaper! Look at it. It seems empty and vacant, perhaps. "Nothing in the paper," you say; yet read, and you will find it an open letter from very many people whom you have never known.

One offers you this commodity, and another that; one happy man sends you notice of his wedding, another sorrowfully informs you of a death. Look over its contents closely-its news items, its list of accidents, of fires, of crimes-see how sudden wealth has surprised some, and sudden poverty saddened others. Is it in war time?-look at the list of killed and wounded; see who has been promoted

and who disgraced; take into your mind the import of the consequence of all these things, and you will find that you hold in your hand "the ends of myriad invisible, electric conductors along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes and despairs of as many men and women," all as sensitive to pleasure or pain as yourself.

Here you have the lore of the scholar and the wisdom of the sage. Here the divine preaches, the poet sings, and the partisan lies. Here the statesman proclaims his principles and the auctioneer offers his wares. Here the Cardiff giant and Minnie Warren are put side by side, and one is as long as the other. Here is the result of the antiquarian's research, and through the very next column throbs a truthful tale of present love, passion and romance. Here the Old and the New are brought into conHere

trast.

"Tradition, snowy-bearded, leans

On Romance, ever young."

This is but a feeble portrayal of what a newspaper is; let us now see how it is made.

Come with me to the office. We will pass that pile of paper. Yet, stop; pick up a sheet of it. We cannot wait to explain the curious process of its manufacture, yet that clean and spotless sheet is the purified product of rags and filth. The fibre which forms its texture may have been stripped from Egyptian mummies; it may have come from city streets, or from great garrets in country homes; it may have