I have come to believe that the stains of printer’s ink on a man’s hands, though invisible, are indelible. Certainly one who has been educated in a printing office can never forget or outgrow his training. Cases, type and presses have for him an undying fascination, and the cunning of a printer’s nimble fingers, once acquired, is never lost. I might not be able, just now, to set type as rapidly and accurately as many of you can, but it is, and always has been, a source of satisfaction to me to believe that, after a few weeks’ practice, I could “hold a case” in almost any office. I greet and welcome you, therefore, with a craftsman’s pleasure. I welcome you as the accredited representatives of one of the largest bodies of American workmen. I welcome you as representatives of a craft whose knowledge of affairs, and familiarity with events of current importance, is more general and intimate than is that of any other body of American workmen. I greet you as men whose art preserves all other arts; whose skill is the voice of every craft; whose labor instructs all other laborers; whose work exalts and inspires the active brains and trained fingers of every man and woman employed in any of the activities of this busy world. I trust your deliberations will be pleasant and harmonious, and that, above all, they may be distinguished throughout by that practical common sense which ought to be, and, as a rule, is characteristic of men who have been trained as you have been, in a broad field of intelligence, where hands and brains move together, and where all the faculties are educated and disciplined. A PRESENT TO THE SOLDIERS’ HOME. [On the 4th of July, 1888, Col. Sam. Scott, of Kansas City, Mo., presented to the Soldiers’ Home, at Leavenworth, a large wagon, fitted with reclining chairs for the sick and maimed members of that institution, and four horses. Governor Martin was selected to acknowledge this generous gift, and did so in the following speech:] Those who have seen Joseph Jefferson in his great character of Rip Van Winkle, will recall the tender, touching pathos of his simple words: “Alas, how soon we are forgot!” There are tears in his eyes as he utters this sorrowful plaint, and tears in the eyes of all who hear it. Even to the wild, improvident, careless vagabond, the consciousness of oblivion is a grievous wound.