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LIST OF GRAND JURORS FOR A
Court of Quarter Sessions to be held at Huntingdon
in and for the county of 'Huntingdon, the second Monday
and 9th day of April, A. D. 1860.
Addleman, farmer, Warriorsmark.
John A. Campbell. farmer, Brady.
Henry Cramer, laborer, Brady.
John Cummings, farmer, Jackson.
James Carothers, farmer, Cromwell.
Robert Cunningham, merchant, West.
Frederick Crum, farmer, Tod.
Martin Flenner, wagonmaker. Walker.
Matthew Gill, wagonmaker, Brady.
James K. Ifampson, gentleman, Brady.
Christian Long, gentleman. Huntingdon.
George Leas, merchant, Shirlcysburg.
Samuel Love, carpenter•, Tell.
Hugh Miller, farmer, Brady.
Robert Mepherren, farmer, Franklin.
James McClure. farmer, Porter.
Joseph McCracken, farmer, Brady.
William A. McCarthy, farmer, Brady.
Robert McNeal, farmer, Clay.
John Stevens, farmer, Warriormark. •
Samuel Sprankle, farmer, Porter.
Henry Summers, merchant. Penn.
James Wilson, farmer, Henderson.
Valentine Fink, farmer, Henderson.
TRAVERSE JTMORS—FIRST
James Baker, inn keeper, Cromwell.
George Branstetter, farmer, Warriormark.
George Bell, farmer, Barre°.
Thomas Cannon, tinner. Huntingdon.
Christian Colestock, farmer, Huntingdon.
Nicholas Crum, farmer, Tod.
John M. Clark, taylor, Shirleysburg.
John Clabaugh, laborer, Walker.
litig,h Cook, farmer, Cromwell.
Andrew Donaldson, farmer, Carbon.
Jacob H. Dell, farmer, Cromwell.
John A. Doyle, gentleman. Shirley.
David Freidley, butcher, Walker.
John Griffith. farmer, Tod.
Thomas Green, farmer, Cass.
Abraham }Tarnish, farmer, Morris.
John Hamlin, laborer, Jackson.
Adam Hector, firmer. Clay.
(leo. D. Unison, inn keeper, Clay.
Robert F. Hazlet, inn keeper, Morris.
Samuel Hackedom, farmer, Tell.
Thomas Irvin, farmer, Union.
William Johns. farmer, Cromwell.
Daniel Km ode, farmer. Porter.
.70soph !Cinch, laborer, Franklin.
Asher Kelley, farmer, Union.
Christian Miller, farmer, Cass.
John Myerly, farmer. Tod.
John Myerly, farmer, Springfield.
William Morgan, farmer, Shirley.
John Nash, gentleman. Huntingdon.
Martin Ortuly. M. D., Walker•.
Samuel Peightal, firmer, Walker.
Isaac Peightal. farmer, Penn.
Jacob Rider, carpenter, Wariiormark.
William Reed, saddler, Penn.
John Summers, fernier, Hopewell.
William Stone, farmer, Hopewell.
Job Slack, machinist, Barree.
John Simpson, constable, Warriormark.
Benedict Stevens, farmer. Clay.
John A. Shirley, farmer. Hopewell.
William Shellenberger, drover, Franklin.
Isaac Taylor, farmer, Toil.
John Vandevander. J. P.. Walker.
Samuel Wilson, farmer. Cromwell.
William Williams, inn keeper, Huntingdon
Isaac Zimmerman, merchant, Union.
TRAVERSE Jurions—szcoxn WEEK.
Thomas Ashton, farmer, Springfield.
John Anderson, farmer. Penn.
Alexander C. Blair, farmer, Tell.
Owen Boat, coach maker, Huntingdon.
Daniel Conrad, farmer, Franklin.
George Culp, mason, Barree.
William Chilcote, farmer. Cromwell.
:Robert Cummings, farmer, Jackson.
ThOmas Dorland. farmer, Henderson.
Jacob Drake, miller, Clay.
John Dysart, farmer. Porter.
William Dysart, iltrmer, Franklin.
Jacob David. firmer, Union.
Daniel Fetterhouf. farmer. Morris.
Barton Green, merchant, Oneida.
Stephen Gorsuch. farmer. Henderson.
Samuel Grove. farmer, Penn.
Frederick Grass, farmer, Barree.
Henry Hudson. farmer. Clay.
Samuel Hill. farmer, West.
.lacob Hoover, farmer, Penn.
John Jackson, farmer, Jackson.
Jonathan K. Metz, fanner, Brady.
.Tames McKinstrey, farmer. Shirley.
Daniel Neff; jr., funnier. Porter.
Henry Neff. farmer, West.
William Painter, farmer, Brady.
John Ross. laborer, Brady.
John Ridenour, farmer, Juniata,
Michael Snyder, carpenter, Huntingdon
Robert Tnssey, farmer, Morris.
William Thompson. farmer, Clay.
Abraham Weight, farmer, Franklin.
Jonathan Wilson, farmer, West.
John Wilson, farmer, Jackson.
Adam Warefield, blacksmith, Brady.
March 21, 150.
rpRIA.L LIST FOR APRIL TERM,
iSi3O
F.THST WEEK.
John H. Stanebralter. r 3 Stewart & McClelland
N. Kelly's Exrs. vs Dani el J. Logan.
Elizabeth Keith vs Asap Priei., et al.
B. Logan
.tames
John Ituitchison
Miller Iraßaca-
SECOND WEEK.
3Torri.,:on's Cove co. ye Docker Si Co.
Lyon, Shorb & Co. v; Thomas & Huston li«ing
Win. IL Briggs as Washine-ton Yaughu.
C. IT. Schriner es A. Lowis.
11. &D. T. 7SI. It. It. Si C. Co. vs Jacob Cresswell.
A. _A. Jacobs vs James Bricker.
Millikin, for use vs John 'McComb.
A. S. Harrison, for use vs Mary Ann Shearer.
John A. Wright 1:: Co. vs Samuel
James Wall vs Joseph S: Isaac Wall.
James Bricker vs David Whitsell.
Hortman Bro. S.: Co. vs J. 11. Dell S: Co.
John Watson vs G. N. Patterson.
County of Huntingdon vs Jas.Saxton, Committee, Cc
Huntingdon, March 21, ISGO.
GOLD WATCHES
The undersigned gives notice that lie has two su
perior Gold Watches, which he will offer at private sale
They are both New Hunting Case Johnston Watches.
Also, a new Silver Lever Watch.
HORATIO G. FISHER.
Huntingdon, Jan.lS,lS6o.,'
JOIDT SCOTT. SAMUEL T. DROWN. J. 11. 0. CORBIN.
LAW PARTNERSHIP.-
J. H. 0. CORBIN bas, from this date, become a ruem
ber of the firm of
SCOTT & BROWN,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
TICNTINGDON,
in which name the business will still be conducted.
Huntingdon. Jau. 2, 1860.
EXCHANGE HOTEL,
HUNTINGDON, PA.,
NEAR PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD DEPOT.
T. K. SIMONTON, Proprietor.
Dec. 2S, 1559.
EETH EXTRACTE D"__ _ .t.
rl
without PAIN, by D i.J J. LOC
4r.G
cA,lii rlsTS.Oflice onedoor the
BANK, (up stairs.) Give them a call.
Dec. 28, 1859.
BUTCHER -KNIVES and Carvers, in
great variety, for Bale at the Hardware Store of
JAMES A. BROWN.
RENEWING HIS STOCK.
Call nt S. S. SMITH'S GROCERY for everything
fresh and good.
BOOTS & SHOES, Hats & Caps, the
largest assortment and cheapest to be found at
D. P. GWIN'S.
TEAT CUTTERS and STUFFERS.
The beet in the country. and cheaper than ever,
BROWN'S HARDWARE STORE.
1 00
1 50
1 50
BM
3 months. 6 months. 12 months.
—4l 50 0 ,3 00 $5 00
,1 00
5 00
5 00 8 00 10 00
7 00 10 00 15 00
. 9 00 13 00
.12 00 10 00
vs Brief! N. Blair.
r-; .lona. Wall.
vs Micleu Funk. et al.
xs :!Inv )IcCauky, et al
$1 50
2 00
MEI
7 00
WILLIAX LEWIS,
20 00
24 00
VOL. XV.
jetect Vcrtiti.
SPRING IS COMING.
Sweet, gentle Spring is coming,
Winter's reign will soon be o'er;
The soft South wind is sighing,
It tells us Winter's dying;
On the ground his staff is lying,
'Tis his no more.
Swart, gentle Spring is coming,
With jewels in her hand;
She will bring us April showers,
She will clothe with green our bowers,
She will scatter lovely flowers,
O'er our pleasant land.
With songs the birds will greet her
In every wood and dell;
Winter old, and bent and weary,
Your path was bare and dreary,
Yet your grasp though cold was cheery ;
Old friend, farewell.
CJCCt t.Yz 1.
A VOICE FROM THE WAVES
It is midnight, and lam alone ! Yet my
solitude is peopled with many busy memo
ries ; for, beyond the precincts of this silent
little room, is the sound of rushing waters,
dashing on impetuously, filling all the air
with hoarse, fitful murmurs. Above the tu
mult rises oue voice, speaking to my soul in
the eloquence of woe. Thus it spoke to me
once before in the years that are past.
My cousin Ruth and I shared this little
room together. From its deep window we
watched the windings of the beautiful stream
rippling in the sunlight, or leaving the droop
ing branches of the spreading beeches that
mirrored their graceful forms in its cool shad
ows.
Another, too, knew well its wiLdings ; and
from that window we had watched him moor
his little boat and spring upon the mossy
beach with a boyish halloo ! as he caught
the flutter of Ruth's waving handkerchief—
her free cousinly signal of welcome.
My noble brother Horace ! What wonder
that Ruth's loving heart bounded at the sight
of him so manly and so brave ! His presence
made sunshine for the rainiest day that ever
bcfel ; and even old Growler, octogenarian as
he was, according to the reckoning of i e ca
nine calender, gamboled in quite a juvenile
way at the sound of the familiar voice ; and
the sleek little greyhound, Flora, thrust her
cold nose forward, in a privileged way, to of
fer a salute after the most approved " pug "
fashion. The summer with its wealth of ro
ses, was on the wane. But as the roses of
the garden were shedding their glowing
leaves in the chill of the autumn winds, those
on the cheeks of my beautiful cousin were
growing deeper day by day.
How royally beautiful she was as she stood
in that east window, in the bright glory of
the morning sunshine ! So Horace thought,
as he stood looking down upon her so fondly.
Her soft brown hair was drawn smoothly
back from her broad, white brow, and her
small, beautiful head encircled with ivy leaves.
When she raised her deep, lustrous eyes to
his face, he compared her to Dante's "Bea
trice." But Ruth was sportive as a fawn,
and that beseeching look, failing in its ob
ject, the white lids drooped over the tender
eyes, and the red lip pouted omniously.
Horace held his gloves and riding whip in
one hand, while he extended the other to
Ruth for a parting clasp.
The little shoo, with its shining buckle,
tapped impatiently against the white oaken
floor, will le the rosy fingers busied them
selves with an embroidered slipper. Perverse
girl that she was ! not to be daunted by the
half deprecatory glance of those expressive
eyes ; but she kept silence.
Conic Ruth, cousin mine, have pity, and
don't dismiss me without one cousinly salute.
How can I bear up under a whole week's ex
ile from my little wife that is to be, without
even one kiss at parting ?"
Playfully bending down to look into her
averted eyes, he continued :
" Why, you are as silent as the sphinx.—
By your leave, I will present you as a Tara
cm'd at the next convention of " Naturalists"
—a woman that has lost the use of her
tongue 1"
" Such a favor would scarce compensate
for the loss of your wit," she replied, indig
nantly. "I am dumb with surprise!"
" At what ?"
" That you are so unlike a man 1"
" What - then am I like ?"
"A monster !"
" Brave, Ruth ! You have been studying
Guillaume Tell!' And, since you are as
defiant as the Swiss liberator, I must be as
haughty as the tyrant Gessler. But I won't
plead for a privilege that I have a right to
demand. So, cousin mine, here's to a better
humor when we meet a week hence 1" And
with a polite bow, he was about to withdraw.
Ruth made a step forward, and said, in a
spirited way:
" Horace Wilmer, are my wishes really of
so little importance to you that you can pass
them by so lightly? Two weeks before our
marriage, and you are already playinc , the
tyrant ! Once more, Horace, will you forego
this engagement for my sake, and sustain me
by your presence this evening?"
" A little too austere, my rustic maiden ;
you must emulate the tenderness of your
scriptural namesake, if you would gain your
plea. But Hamilton is waiting, let us part
friends ; you are too exacting, dear Ruth. I
am sure I have given reasons enough to sat
isfy any generous person. So say good-by,
and I will return as quickly as I can !"
" Since my wishes are of so little conse
quence, my favor must be lightly esteemed.
You need not write; you are under the ban
of my displeasure, sir I Good morning, Mr.
Wilmer 1'
And with a stately . step she passed into an
adjoining room, leaving Horace, half-amused
and half-pained, to bid me a hasty adieu, and
find his friend who was waiting for him in a
carriage below.
BY TAIIAR ANNE SERMObE
Ruth came forward as the sound of rattling
wheels struck her ear. Peering through the
blinds she saw the carriage pass over the lit
tle bridge and lose itself among the trees.—
Then with a sigh, she sat down to finish the
velvet slippers she was embroidering for Hor
ace, with a resolution, no doubt to banish
him from her mind. Entering the room a
half-hour later, I found her leaning idly upon
the embrause of the window, with the minia
ture of Horace lying before her, which she
was regarding very attentively.
Horace had gone to a neighboring town to
attend to some court business, which required
his personal supervision, and which he could
not possibly neglect or entrust to other hands.
But Ruth had set her heart upon having him
at " Clovermead" that evening, to a company
given to a bride, for whom she had officiated
as bridesmaid.
The position was embarrassing, and she
particularly wished Horace to be present, to
spare her the annoyance of the too pointed
attentions of the groomsman—a matter which
she had not altogether explained to Horace,
and which, consequently, he did not quite
understand. She felt piqued at his seeming
indifference, for they bad loy,ed each other
from childhood, and for the first time in their
lives had parted coldly—he vexed that she
should insist on controlling him, and she half
disposed to question his love.
Three nights after Horace left there was a
terrific storm. The tall poplars shading the
avenue were tossed like reeds in the strong
wind, and occasionally in the lull of the tem
pest we heard the roar of the swollen stream,
as it overflowed its banks, and tore up by the
roots the knotted beeches that had cast their
shadows upon its bosom for half a century.
Ruth, startled from her light slumber clung
to me in an agony of fear, as the deep voiced
thunder revbe:•ated along the lowering heav
ens, and the vivid lightning shed a blinding
glare through the sullen gloom. Again and
again she called Horace by name, and ejacu
lated prayers for his safety.
"Oh, cousin Annie," she would say, "should
anything hanperi to Horace, I can never for
give myself."
Trembling aud dismayed myself, agitated
by strange forebodings, I sought to soothe
her. So the night passed, and. the morning
came.
Tho soft haze floated like a veil of gossa
mer over the yellow maples, till their - bright
leaves deepened to a crimson glow. Through
masses of snow white clouds were rifts of
smiling' blue—no trace of the fearful storm,
except the roar of the turbid stream and he•
masses of floating timber hurried along by
the swift current.
There was - sunshine, too, in the trusting
heart of cousin - Ruth ; for the good doctor,
her father,' had brought from the post office a
formal note from Horace, stating that, in con
sideration of her displeasure, if she would
grant him upon his return, the boon she had
denied him at parting, he would brave all the
adverse fates extant and be with her that
evening.
All day the name of Horace was upon her
tongue. Busily she plied her needle, weav
ing in the bright blue " forget-me-nots" upon
the purple ground of the velvet slippers—
peace-offerings for Horace upon his return.
"It was so wrong of me, Annie," she
would say, " to behave so imperiously to Hor
ace. He has so often told rue that my un
wavering confidence in him endeared me to
him more than all the rest. Oh, the laggard
moments ! how slowly they pass—l am so
impatient to acknowledge my fault, and con
vince him that I appreciate his noble worth.
Let us go down to the old ash tree, Annie,
and perhaps we may hear the sound of *Har
ry's' hoofs as he crosses the little bridge !"
I humored my cousin's wish, for there was
a something oppressing my heart of which I
dared not speak—a half recognized forboding
of ill. The sun was setting gloriously as we
neared the stately ash, under whose broad
shadow we three had so often sat, chatting in
the very recklessness of joy. Alas ! its days
of pride Was passed. It was riven to the
heart by the lightning's unerring bolt ! One
half standing erect waved its blighted branches
menacingly; the other lapprone upon the earth.
A faint shudder ran through Ruth's limbs
as she stood by the wreck of her old-favorite.
Glancing towards the stream the color forsook
her cheeks, her large eyes dilated; and, cold
and rigid as marble, she raised her finger and
pointed to a huge tangled mass of interlacing
branches that were rising and falling in the
rushing whirlpool of water. I followed the
direction of her eyes, my blood congealed
with an indefinite horror; but I could dis
cern nothing to excite alarm.
" What? what, Ruth ?" I eagerly exclaim
ed, clasping her quivering forms in my arms.
"Oh, Annie," she said, as the color came
fairly back to her writhing lips, " I thought
I saw—but it is too horrible—help me to dis
pel the dreadful illusion ! Let us return ;
cannot remain here. Let us hasten home !"
I did not urge her to tell me the cause of
alarm. Hurrying through the gathering
shadows, we spoke no word until we reached
the house. It needed all the cheerful aspect
of the comfortable little tea-room, with its
genial inmates, to restore composure both to
Ruth and myself.
As the evening wore on, my uncle noticed
Ruth's restlessness, and asked, in his abrupt
way:
"Whom are you expecting, Ruth? Not
Horace, my daughter. Ile surely would not
be such a madcap as to attempt crossing the
bridge with the stream rushing at such a fear
ful rate 1 The waters arc subsiding, and to
morrow, perhaps, he will find the undertaking
a little less dangerous. Keep up a brave
heart and don't take trouble or interest.—
Such a sunny face as yours was never meant
to be clouded by sadness. Come into my
office, you and Annie, and let me see if I
can't cheer you up a little !"
We followed the dear old man. He un
locked his private desk, and took therefrom
two handsome jewel cases.
" See here!" ho said, as he pushed back
the spring, " what a simpleton my two spoiled
pets make of me. Hartman insisted upon
my purchasing these while I was in New
York, three months ago, as bridal presents
r e , P . ~-4 - : '•••',7 - , -, : n . . ".' "i• 14.
4? - :; ' A -c.f."A . `"-- - - - ' 7 / • - !: -:, i
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..I.'Nj•
-PERSEVERE.-
HUNTINGDON, PA., MARCH 28, 1860.
for you both. Now you saucy rogues," ho
continued as we both fell into extactes of ad
miration over the exquisite pearl ornaments
—necklaces, braces and brooches—"l verily
believe yoi7 would sell me, if you were offer
ed such girncracksin exchange. Now if you
don't promise to value my present before all
others, I will pull the ear off you. You see
Annie, since you are not to have a husband,
but are to stay and tyrannize over me, after
this ungrateful girl leaves me, I am going to
bind you by a chain of pearls ; and if that
won't keep you in check, why, I will sell you
to the first bidder, and think it a happy rid
dance!"
We half smothered him , vv - kisses and
thanks, and betook ourselves to our room to
try the eff.;ct of our beautiful gifts. Very
lovely the white pearls looked on Ruth's
scarcely less snowy throat ; but she laid them
aside and•curned to — the window, looking lin
geringly at the clear; - cloudless moon and
thinking of the morrow. We chatted hope
fully until the night wore on, and I knew by
Ruth's regular breathing that she slept. - I
was restless; dark thoughts kept surging
over me, which spite of a resolute will, I could
not subdue. Finally a light slumber was
stealing over my senses, when I was startled
by a sudden ring at the office bell. My coos
-in Henry slept in the adjoining room, and in
a few minutes I heard my uncle's voice cal
ling to him in a low, suppressed tone. I
sprang from my bed and stood at the door
listening.
" Henry ! Henry, my son," he said, " get
up quickly, for God's sake! Horaceis drown
ed!'
I laid my hand upon my heart—my wild
beating heart—for even then came a thought
of the silen!-, sleeper, breathing so calmly un
der the very sound of the appalling words
that would fall upon her earlike the crash of
a thunderbolt I Through an explicable whirl
of confused thought, I heard Henry's bewil
dered exclamations, as his father said softly,
" Get up quietly, my son, and do not disturb
those unhappy children !"
I heard the sound of voices below ; then
my cousin Henry's cautious step passing by
our door and descending the stairs. Then,
silently as T could I passed through the outer
door and stood at the landing of the stair till
they all had gone, and 1 heard my uncle
closing the door as he re-entered the house.
Like a spirit I had glided down, and awaited
him in the hall. He came forward holding
the lamp in his hand, the light falling upon
his whitehilir, and face strongly compressed.
At sight d', - • are be :-,tartied, then set down the
lamp and took me in his arms.
I could not weep—only- look at him with
a beseeching eagerness - in my eyes, which
he readily understood.
"My child," he said, "I will not repeat
what I see you know too well. They have
gone in search of the body. There is no pos
sibility of his being found alive. But, Ruth,
my poor darling, how can we break the dread
ful tidings to her ? You must tell her, Annie
—I never can. It would be like thrusting a
dissecting knife through her gentle heart I"
Then he told me all.
My bras lier and his friend had left 0—
that afternoon, in a one horse carriage.—
Upon reaching the Stream they found it very
-much swollen, but anticipated no difficulty
in crossing the bridges, which stood some
few feet above the water, with a gradual as
cent from the bank on either side. On ur
ging the horse through the stream towards
this ascent, his feet became entangled in some
drifting branches, and in striving to extricate
himself he was fast proceeding beyond his
depths. Several persons standing on the
banks called to the two young men to save
themselves and let the horse go. But Horace
sprang out upon the wheel, and in reaching
over to cut the traces was dragged from his
footing, and was lost to sight beneath the
foaming waters.
Mr. Hamilton, his friend, caught by the
pier and clambered to the top of the bridge,
while the vehicle and the noble animal that
Horace had lost his life in trying to save,
were swept down by the current. Horace
was seen no more. Many had followed down
the stream, thinking, perhaps, the body
might be found; but as yet were unsuccessful.
A deputation of young men had called for
Henry, and they were now on their way to
seek the beloved dead.
" And now, my child," he said, " go to
Ruth, but keep the painful tidings from her
as long as you can. Illy poor child, your own
heart is breaking, but sympathy for another
will make your own grief less bard to bear !"
Kissing me tenderly, he sent me back to my
own room.
The light was gleaming faintly from the
east, and in its soft glow I could see the flush
ed face of the sleeper. The loosened hair
lay in wavy masses over the fair temples, and
every flexible, delicate feature, indicated a
sweet painless rest. Without, was the sullen
roar of the remorseless waters, filling my
ears with wild requiems for the loved and
lost. I nestled closely to my cousin's side and
clasped my arms tightly around her, gathered
strength from her peaceful unconsciousness.
Oh ! the intensity of that silent suffering ! the
crushing back of the strong soh that pained
my throat to suffocation !
The morning sun broke radiently through
the folds of the closed curtain, when Ruth,
clasping my hands closely in hers, ex
claimed :
" Dear Annie, how cold you are !"
Then suddenly raising her head, she looked
into my face with an expression of tender
sympathy. Nothing! my paleness, she con
tinued, "Oh ! Annie you are very ill ! Let
me call pa instantly."
But as she was in the act of rising, I mas
tered my emotion, and bade her dress her
self quickly, as I had something -important
to tell her.
Half-bewildered, she passively allowed me
to assist her; and then I held her bead close
ly to my breast, and asked her, "If Heaven
bad demanded of her a sacrifice of that which
she valued most on earth, what would it be?"
With an indescribable terror in her face
she only clung to me the closer, and I told
her, as composedly as I could, of the dread
ful catastrophe.
For a little while she sat gazing abstrac
tedly in my face; then realizing the purport
of my words, in a sudden revulsion of feel
ing she sprang to her feet exclaiming :
" Oh, Horace Horace ! let me die, too ! I
cannot—l will not live without yoa! Oh,
Horace, my cousin, come back and speak to
me just once more, and let me clasp the hand
which I so scornfully repulsed !—timt warm,
tender, kind hand ! Annie ! Annie !" she
said almost sternly. "It cannot be! Hor
ace dead! No, no—l will not believe it I"
Thus at intervals, she moaned and laughed
incredulously, looking with an eager, ques
tioning look into the faces of each one who
entered our room with words of sympathy
and consolation.
Then, as the day wore on, there was the
sound of wheels without, and then followed
the hurried retreat of shuffling feet in the
hall below. I knew too well the import of
that sound. Ruth raised her bloodless face
from the pillow, against which she had been
nestling. For two hours, she had spoken no
word. She moved hurriedly towards the
door, but a kind, firm hand restrained her.
" Not yet, my child," said the soft voice
of aunt Esther. "Bear up yet a little
while, and you shall go to him."
Another long blank period passed, and
then, when all was still, I took the hand of
Ruth, and we descended the stairs, and pas
sed through the hall, where groups of anx
ious faces were silently waiting for a look at
the beloved dead.
We entered the room so dark and chill,
and together we two, whom he had loved best
in life, stood, pale and tearless, beside him—
dead I The noble features wore no trace of
the death struggle. A benign peace rested
upon his brow and lips. The knife was still
clasped in the right hand, with a grasp no
power could unloose.
Ruth lifted the wet hair from the temples,
until the holy repose of the dead face passed
into her own young stricken soul. I left her
_there alone with him to whom, in life, her
heart had been knit with firmness that not
even death could sever. I hastened back to
my room, and the wild passion of woe that
had been garnered up in my soul, found re
lief in blessed tears.
Our dead was borne from our sight, and in
the agony of her grief, Ruth told me how
she had seen, as she thought, the face of
Horace looking out at her from the eddying
waves. His body had been found some miles
below, on the day following.
Time came to both, with healing in its
wings, but the brightness had passed from
Ruth's life forever. And now, as she passes
on her holy mission through the heedless
throng, many are the faces that look into
hers for sympathy, unconscious of the death
throe that sanctified her heart, and made her
one of those " who profess godliness and
adorn themselves with good works."—lionte
Journal.
QUESTIONS AND ANSIVERS.—We were much
amused a few evenings since, by the follow
ing games of questions and answers, which,
when played upon one as yet unitiated, is
sure to afford endless laughter. A lady may
be supposed to request a gentleman to write
down this list :
Set down a lady's name.
Set down some time past.
Write down the name of a place.
Write either yes or no.
Yes or no again.
A lady's name.
Some time to come.
Yes or no.
Yes or no again.
Name of a city.
Some color.
Any number not exceeding six.
Name of a color.
Fes or no.
A lady's name.
A genleman's name.
Any name at all.
A gentleman's name.
Name of a clergyman.
A sum of money.
Name of a place.
Any numbey at all.
When these conditions have been com
plied with, the gentleman is requested to read
on the list thus prepared answers to the fol
lowing series of questions :
To whom did you make your first offer?
When ?
In what place?
Does she love you?
Do you love her ?
Whom will you marry ?
How soon ?
Does she love you ?
Do you love her ?
Where does she reside ?
What is the color of her hair?
What is her height?
What is the color of her eyes ?
Is she pretty ?
Who is to be the bridesmaid ?
Who is to be groomsman ?
Who is your confident ?
Who is your rival ?
What clergyman is to marry you ?
How much is she worth ?
Where will you reside ?
How many servants will you keep ?
A Moonr. Womix.—" Did you not say, El
len, that Mr. B is poor ?"
"Yes, he has only his profession."
" Will your uncle favor his suit ?"
"No ; I can expect nothing from him." •
" Then, Ellen you will have to resign fash-,
ionablo society."
" No matter—l shall see more of Fred."
" You must give up expensive dress."
" Oh, Fred admires simplicity."
" You cannot keep a carriage."
" But we can have delightful walks."
" You must take a small house, and fur
nish it plainly."
" Yes ; for elegant furniture would be out
of place in a cottage."
" You will have to cover your floors with
thin, cheap carpets."
" Then I shall hear his steps the sooner."
Mi3s' Never say " I can't."
Editor and Proprietor.
Fun for the Juveniles
[From the Rev. Henry Ward Ececher's Sermons]
The seducer! Playing upon the most sa
cred affection, he betrays innocence. How ?
By its noblest faculties ; by its trust ; by its
unsuspecting faith, and by its honor. The
victim, often and often, is not the accomplice
so much as the sufferer, betrayed by an exor
cism which bewitch her noblest affections to
become the the suicide of her virtues ! The
betrayer, for the most intense selfishness,
without one motive, without one pretense of
honor—by lies ; by a devilish jugglery of
fraud ; by blinding_the eyes, confusing the
conscience ; misleading the judgment, and
instilling the dew of sorcery upon every flow
er of sweet affection—deliberately, heartless
ly damns the confiding victim ! Is there one
shade of good intention, one glimmering trace
of light? Not one. There was not the most
shadowy, tremulous intention of honor. It
was a sheer, premeditated, wholesale rain,
from beginning to end. The accursed sor
cerer opens the door of the world to push her
forth. She looks- out all shuddering ; for
there is shame and sharp-toothed hatred, and
chattered slander, and malignant envy, and
triumphing jealously, and old revenge—
these are born but will not kill. And there
is for her want, and poverty, and guant fam
ine. There is the world spend out ; she sees
father and mother heartlessly abandoning
her, a brother's shame, a sister's anguish.—
It is a vision of desolation ; a plundered home,
an altar where honor and purity and peace
have been insidiously sacrificed to the foul
11.1oloch. All is cheerless to the eye, and her
ear catches the sounds of sighing and mourn
ing, wails and laments ; and far down, at the
horizon of the vision, the murky cloud fur t
moment lifts, and she sees the very bottom of
infamy, the ghastliness of death, the spasm
of horrible departure, the awful thunder of
final doom. All this trembling, betrayed
creature sees through the open door of the
future ; and with a voice that might move
the dead, she turns and clasps his knees, in
awful agony ; " Leave me not ! Oh ! spare
me—save me—cast me not away ! Poor thing
—she is dealing with a demon ! Spaie her ?
Save her? The polished scoundrel betrayed
her to abandon her, and walks the street to
boast his hellish deed ! It becomes him thus,
as the wolf, to seek out the bleeding lamb.—
Oh, my soul ; believe it not ! What sight is
that? The drooping victim is worse used
than the infernal destroyer. lie is fondled,
courted, passed from honor to honor! and
she is crushed and mangled under the infu
riated tramp of public indignation On her
mangled corpse they stand to put the laurels
on her murderer's brow ! When I see such
things as these, I thank God that there is a
judgment, and that there is a bell !
NO- 40.
What a meeting was there of mother and
son after the glorious ending of the strife for
independence!
Late in the year 1781, on the return of the
combined armies from Yorktown, the mother
of Washington was permitted again to see
and embrace her illustrious son, the first time
in almost seven years. As soon as he had
dismounted, in the midst of a numerous and
brilliant suite, after reaching Fredericksburg
he sent to apprise her of his arrival, and to
know when it would be her pleasure to re
ceive him. And now, reader, mark the force
of early education and habits, and the supe
riority of the Spartan over the Persian school,
in this interview of the great Washington
with his admirable parent and instructor.—
No pageantry of war proclaimed his coming;
no trumpets sounded, no banners waved.—
Alone and on foot, the general-in-chief of the
combined armies of France and America, the
deliverer of his country, the hero of the age,
repaired to pay his humble duty to her whom
he venerated as the author of his being, the
founder of his fortunes and his fame ; for
full well he knew that the matron was made
of sterner stuff than to be moved by all the
pride that glory ever gave, and all "the pomp
and circumstances" of power. She was alone,
her aged hands employed in the works of
domestic industry, when the good news was
announced, and it was further told, that the
victor chief was in waiting at the threshold.
She bid him welcome by a warm embrace,
and by the well-remembered and endearing
name of George—the familiar name of his
childhood ; she inquired as to his health, re
marked that the lines which mighty cares
and many toils had made in his countenance,
spoke much of old times and old friends, but
of his glory not one word.
Tun PERILS or• BA LLOONING. —Professor
Wells, says the Wetumka, Ala., Spectator,
attempted to ascend in his balloon on the 3d
inst., which came near proving disastrous to
him. The balloon having been inflated, he
stepped into the basket, and gave the word
to " let go," and was not obeyed, but imme
diately afterwards, when he was not ready,
they did " let go," and the wind blowing from
the west, the balloon, with lightning speed,
was borne upwards, he swaying forward and
back, with but one foot in the basket. It
first struck a wood pile, then a fence, then
the side of Coosa Hall kitchen, then the eaves
of the kitchen, knocking of the shingles, and
afterwards the caves of the Coosa Hall, when
it threw him some feet from the basket, and
he dangled in the air holding mainly by his
hands to the ropes. With great presence of
mind, on arriving just over Coosa Hall, while
some eight feet from the roof, he swung loose
from the balloon, and dropped on the roof.—
Had he not done this, he would have been
borne into the air, and a horrid death would
have awaited him, as he was holding by his
bands, whose strength must soon have given
out. A large crowd was present, anxious to
see the ascension, and all were greatly relieved
when he alighted safely.
GIVE BOA'S A. CIIANCE.—One of the surest
methods of attaching a boy to the farm, is to
let him have something upon it for his own.
Give him a small plot of ground to cultivate,
allow him the proceeds for his own use. Let
him have his Own steer to break, or his sheep
to care for. The ownership of even a fruit
tree, planted, pruned and brought to bear by
his own hands, will inspire him with an in
terest that no mere reward or wages can give.
In addition to the cultivation of a taste for
farm life, which such a course will cultivate,
the practical knowledge gained by the boy
will he of the highest value. Being inter
ested, ho will be more observant, and will
thoroughly learn what is necessary for his
success. Another and equally important ad
vantage will be the accustoming him early
to feel responsibility. Many young men
though well acquainted with all the manuel
operations of the farm, when entrusted with
the management of an estate, fail for want of
experience in planning for themselves. It is
much better that responsibility should be as
sumed, than that a young man should be first
thrown upon himself on attaining his majori
ty.—Amcricait Agriculturist.
MOTTO for indolent housewives—"Nevez
too late to mend."
The Seducer and his Victim
Washington's Mother