The next circumstance in my life distinctly remembered occurred some two or three months after the water-incident stated above. Running and romping through the kitchen one day, I tripped and fell, striking my forehead on the sharp edge of a skillet, making a wound over an inch in length and cutting to the bone. The profuse flow of blood alarmed me; but my mother, who was not at all a nervous woman but calm, thoughtful and resourceful in the presence of difficulties, soon staunched the flow of blood and drew the bleeding lips of the gaping wound together. The doctor soon after added his skill; then Nature intervened; and, to use the stately language of court, the incident, as well as the wound, was closed. I have stated these two events not as very important factors in the history of a life, but because they illustrate the teaching of mental philosophy, that memory's power of retention and in individual's ability to recall any particular fact depends upon the intensity of emotion attending that fact or event. Especially is this true of our youth and early manhood, when our emotional nature is active, vigorous and strong. In after years our emotional nature is not so active and not so readily aroused; still it exists, a latent but potent factor in memory's domain. Given the requisite intensity, it will still write in indelible characters the history of events on the tablets of memory. Memory is of two kinds--local and philosophical. Local memory is the ability to retain and recall isolated and non-associated facts. The vast mass of early facts accumulated in memory's store-house rests upon this emotional principle. As the years increase and the mind matures, other principles become purveyors for that store-house. The laws of classification and association become in after years the efficient agencies of the cultivated mind to furnish the data for reflection and generalization. The operation of these laws constitutes philosophic memory. But such facts have no pathos,--no coloring. The recalled facts of our youthful days have a thrill in them; not always of joy, sometimes of sorrow. I must, however, dismiss these imperfect thoughts on mental philosophy, and return to autobiography.