The Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1871-1904, November 01, 1871, Image 1
VOL. 46 Lie Huntingdon Journal. J. A. NASII, t. DURBORROW ae on Ma Corner of Bath and Washington streets. 'on lIENTINGDON JOURNAL is published every tuesday, by J. R. DURBORROW and J. A. Nesu, ler the firm name of J. It. DURBORROW dc Co., at M per annum, IN ADVANCE, or $2,50 if not paid in six months from. date of subscription, and f oot paid within the year. ;o paper discontinued, unless at the option of publishers, until all arrearages are paid. DVERTISEMENTS will be inserted at TEN crs per line for each of the first four insertions, FIVE CENTS per line for each subsequent inser t less than three months. .egular monthly and. yearly advertisements will nserted at the following rates: 3m16 m l 9 mly T 3mi6m 9 mll y 250 400 504 660 ycol 0 00 1 18 00 27 1 8 36 400 00110 00 12 001" "24 00361.0 501 65 600 10 00114 00,18 00 %" 34 00 150 001 63 SO 8 00 1100'20 00121 00 950 18 0015 00 1 30 00 1 1 col 36 00 60 00 1 80 , 100 pedal notices will be inserted at TWELVE AND ALP CENTS per line, act local and editorial no -3 at FIFTEEN CENTS per line. II Resolutions of Associations, Communications mited or individual interest, and notices of Mar -09 and Deaths, exceeding five lines, will be rged TEN CENTS per line. egal and other notices will be charged to the ;y having them inserted. dvertising Agents must find their commission ;ide e these figures. ll advertising accounts are tine anti collectable it the advertisement is once inserted. • 3B PRINTING of every kind, in Plain and cy Colors. done with neatness and dispatch.— A-bills, Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, dm., of every ety and style, printed at the shortest notice, every thing in the Printing line will be ocecu in the most artistic manner and at the lowest Professional Cards DENGATE, Surveyor, Warriors • mark, Pa. [ap12,71. CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law, • •No. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied dessrs. Woods 16 Williamson. (ap12,11. kR.• R. R. WIESTLING, I ' respectfully offers his professional services as citizens of Huntingdon and vicinity. floe removed to No. 614 Hill street, (Slum's [apr.s,7l-Iy. bR. J. C. FLEMMING respectfully offers his professional services to the citizens runtingdon and vicinity. Office second floor of ningham's building, on corner of 4th and Hill ot. may 24. kR. D. P. MILLER, Office on Hill street, in the room formerly occupied by John M'Culloch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res fully offer his professional services to the citi of Huntingdon and vicinity. [jan.4,'7l. kR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his professional services to the community. Moe on Washington street, one door east of the lona Parsonage. Den.4.,11. J. GREEN E, Dentist. Office re • mored to Leister's new building, 11 street tingdon. [jan.4,'7l. _ L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T. • Br, wn's new building, No. 520, Hill St. tingdon, Pa. [ap12,"71. r GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner • of Washington and Smith streets. Hun don, Pa. [jan.l2'7l. r C. MADDEN: Attorney-at-Law. L. Hake, No. —, liii street, Huntingdon, [ap.19,'71. SYLVANIIS BLAIR, Attorney-at • Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street, 3 doors west of Smith. [jan.4'7l. It. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth r ecary, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun lon, Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded. Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70. HALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law, • Huntingdon, Pa. Office, second floor of ter's new building, Hill street. Dan. 4,71. R. DURBORROW, Attorneyat • Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the ral Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular ttion given to the settlement of estates of dece- Mee in he JOURNAL Building. [feb.l,7l A. POLLOCK, Surveyor and Real • Estate Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend arveying in all its branches. Will also buy, or rent Farms, Houses, and Real Estate of ev kind, in any part of the United States. Send t circular. [jan.47l. W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law • and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., iers' claims against the Government for back bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend ) with great care and promptness. floe on Hill street. [jan.4,'7l. ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at- Law, Huntingdon, Pa. .Special attention n to COLLECTIONS of all kinds ; to the settle t of Estates, kn.; and all other Legal BUSilless ecuted with fidelity nod dispatch. gr Office in room lately occupied by 11. Milton Esq. Dan. 4,71. . M. &M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys • at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to :inda of legal business entrusted to their care. Mee on the south side of Hill street, fourth door of Smith. [jan.4,'7l. 0 A. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law, U• Office, 321 Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa. [tnay3l,'7l. SCOTT. S. T. BROWN. J. M. BAILEY COTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At- torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions, all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against Government will be promptly prosecuted. dice on Hill street. I W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Huts • tingdon, Pa. Office with T. Sewell Stewo.nt, 7ILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention m to collections, and all other I,gal business nded to with care and promptness. Office, No. Hill street. [apl9,ll_ Miscellaneous , XCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon, Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor. tottery 4, 1371. .LLISOX YILLCR. 11. /ILLER & BUCHANAN, DENTISTS, 223 Hill Street, lIIINTINGDON, PA. .pril 5, '7l-Iy. TILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at- Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly II legal business. Office in Cunningham's new Iding. (jan.4,71. r AR THE RAILROAD DEPOT, COR. WAY NE and JUNIATA STREETT UNITED STATES HOTEL, I{OLLIDAYSBURO, PA ;LAIN CO., PROPRIETORS )OBT. KING, Merchant Taylor, 412 lk , Washington street, Huntingdon, Pa., a lib- I share of patronage respectfully solicited. 11)6112, 11171. EWISTOWN BOILER WORKS. SNYDER, WEIDNER dr CO.. Matilda, ers of Locomotive and Stationary Boilers, Tanks, ie.. Filling-Barrows for Furnaces, and Sheet a Work of every description. Works on Logan 'et, Lewistown, Pa. til orders pi—rntly attended to. Repairing eat short notice. [Apr 5,'71,1y.. The untingl on I urnat New Advertisements. TO ADVERTISERS THE HUNTINGDON JOURNAL. VUBLISIIED EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING J. R. DITRBORROW & J. A. NASII Office corner of Washington and Bath Sts., HUNTINGDON, PA. THE BEST ADVERTISING MEDIUM CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA, CIRCULATION 1700 HOME AND FOREIGN ADVERTISE MENTS INSERTED ON REA- SONABLE TERMS. A FIRST CLASS NEWSPAPKR TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 per annum in advance. $2 50 within six months. $3.00 if not paid within the year. JOB PRINTING ALL KINDS OF JOB WORK DONE WITII NEATNESS AND DISPATCH, AND IN TUE LATEST AND MOST IMPROVED STYLE, SUCLI AS POSTERS OF ANY SIZE, CIRCULARS, BUSINESS CARDS, WEDDING AND VISITING CARDS, BALL TICKETS, PROGRAMMES, CONCERT TICKETS, ORDER BOOKS, SEGAR LABELS, RECEIPTS, PHOTOGRAPHER'S CARDS, BILL HEADS, LETTER HEADS, PAPER BOOKS, ETC., ETC., ETC., ETC., ETC., Mehls-tf Our facilities fi)r doing all kinds of Joh Printing superior to any other establish ment in the county. Orders by mail promptly filled. All letters should be ad dressed, J. IL. DURBORROW & CO, lic ,Aotutr. Just after the death of the flowers, And before they are buried in snow, There cometh a festival season When Nature is ail aglow— Aglow with a mystic splendor That rivals the brightness of spring— Aglow with a beauty more tender Than aught which summer could bring. Some spirit akin to the rainbow Then borrows its magical dyes, And mantles the far-spreading landscape In hues that bewilder the eyes ; The sun from his cloud-shadowed chamber Smiles soft on the vision so gay, And dreams that his favorite children, The flowers, have not yet passed away. There's a luminous mist on the mountain, A light, azure haze in the air, As if angels, while heavenward soaring, Ilad left their bright robes floating there; The breeze is so soft, so caressing, It seems a mute token of love, And floats to the heart like a blessing From some happy spirits above. The days, so serene and so charming, Awaken a dreamy delight— A tremulous, tearful enjoyment, Like soft strains of music at night; We know they are fading and fleeting, That quickly, too quickly, they'll end, And we watch them with yearning affection, As, at parting, we watch a dear friend. Oh l beautiful Indian Summer I Thou favorite child of the year, Thou darling whom Nature enriches, With gifts and adornments so dear ! How fain would we woo thee to linger On mountains and meadows awhile, For our hearts, like the sweet haunts of Nature, Rejoice and grow young in thy smile. Not alone to the fields of autumn Dost thou a lost brightness restore, But thou bringest a world-weary spirit Sweet dreams of its childhood once more ; Thy lovliness fills us with memories 'Of all that was brightest and best— Thy peace and serenity offer A foretaste of heavenly rest iTh Aorß-Zdirr, SILENT BILL. I had been for nearly a year roaming over the West. In the course of my wan derings I came upon an emigiant train which was just starting out from "the States," and joined it. The novelty soon wore off and I found the days fatiguing, the nights and sleep only being desirable. 1 had been conscious for days of a fever in my veins, but had scorned to complain, and taking a sort of savage delight in seeking to do an extra amount of toil. It was my turn to prepare supper for our mess, but once ready I went off as far as I could crawl from the noise of the camp and odor of the cooking. The last I remember of that day was my drop ping down by the side of some shrubs. Two weeks afterward I opened my eyes upon a different team from the one I start ed with, and the driver was the largest, most uncouth looking man I ever saw. I was on a straw bed, made up on one side of the wagon, and in answer to my call, the strange man bent over me. I asked all the questions I had strength for, and then waited for the answers. He told me in the fewest possible words that I was missed from the train, and he had been sent back to look for me. That I had "been dead for two weeks, and had better keep still and go to sleep if I could." I obeyed, because I could net help it. I received my food and medicine from the hands of my strange looking friend, but it seemed impossible to get any information from him.. My recovery was rapid, and as soon as I made my appearance in the camp I was warmly greeted by our company and treat ed to many an extra dish by the kind hearted people. _ . I learned that I had not been missed until nearly noon of the day I was left, and then they had halted, and "Silent Bill" bad volunteered to look me up, had found me, and had taken upon himself the whole care during my sickness. I could find out very little about the man who had thus brought me back to life. He had joined the company, like myself, at the last min ute, had given only the one name, to which the boys added another, until he was called all over the camp "Silent Bill." His team was good, and he was well sapplied with provisions, which he handed out gener ously to any one who had need. With my returning strength I felt a strong interest in everything, and would gladly have been companionable and use ful, but he never called on me to do any thing, unless some one needed help, then he would leave the care to me for a time. He was always ready to walk that others might ride; fatigue seemed unknown to him. Foremost when danger threatened us, was his gaunt form, and it was always his rifle which brought in the earliest game. It came about that he held the gratitude of almost every one in the train, but loud thanks seemed to offend him greatly. I never saw him hesitate but once; then some children, two little girls, had been running along with their mother and she asked him to lift them up into his wagon and give them a ride, as their own team was far behind. He went up tolltem, laid his hand upon the arm of one, started back, rubbed his hands together, and finally called to me. "Put them in, will you ?" said he. I lifted them up and gave each a kiss as I seated them upon the straw. He was still looking at his hands. "What's the matter ?" I asked, "both of them together wouldn't be as heavy as the man you bore to camp that day, only a few weeks past." He said nothing, but held his hands open before me. They were brown and hard. "Are they dirty ?" I asked. "Yes," said he emphatically, and shook them out at arm's length. Then he start ed up his team and did not speak again for hours. LEGAL BLANKS, All hearts became lighter as we ascend ed the Sierras, and began to think of find ing an abiding place. PAMPHLETS, ''When it . (laine to leave-taking "Bill" was missing, the others started on with their teams, and I staid by his until sun down. Any number of good-by's and kindly messages were left with me for him. One woman gave me a little package say ing : "He was so kind to Willie when he was sick, and his hand made that precious little grave on the mountains." I thought, to know the full value of the gift, Bill should have received it, as I did, wet with the mother's tears. When he came back, we were alone on the hillside. He asked, "why didn't you go on with the others V I answered, "Because I did not choose to leave you alone, after all you have done for me. I shall go with you, if you will Indian Summer. He wouldn't take it, but said: "The kettle buik, we might as well eat our grub as to waste time a talking." I gave him the messages, which were received in silence, and when I handed the package he only said, "Lay it clown." We made ready for an early start in the morning, then I rolled up in my blanket, and with my feet to the lire lay down to sleep. When I waked up the blaze had died down, but I could see Bill at a dis tance bending over what proved t, be a hole in the ground. After a while he broke off some green boughs, threw them in, and then hastily threw in the earth. He came . and sat down by the fire. I watched him for an hour or so, but lie never moved, and when I awoke in the morning, he had not changed his position. We started off, but I made an excuse to return, and hurriedly opened the ground where I had seen him working in the night.. Ido not know what I expected to see, but I certainly was surprised when I found, under the earth and green boughs, the little package, which had been tearful ly entrusted to my care. When we reached the first miners' camp Bill waked up and was eager enough until he had scanned the thee of every man.— That day he looked weary, and it was the first time he laid down when I did for the night. In the morning he sold his team, all but two horses; those he packed with our blankets and provisions, and we struck off down the canon, stopping wherever any one was at work, and going out of our way if we heard of a solitary miner. After a while he left off telling me to leave him, and I think the companionship niade him feel more human. Once - he stopped a week when I seemed tired out, but was restless and uneasy, and declared "another day would kill him." "Tell me," said I one day, "why you will not rest; this life is wearing upon you; you cannot endure half the fatigue you could upon the plains Let's take up a claim and settle down, or if you will go on—let me help you; couldn't I r" "No," he answered, "and I believe you are holding me back. I have felt it ever since I first looked upon your face when I found you half dead by those bushes that day. I wish I had left you to die." He sprang up and confronted me. "I will have no more of this; I_ Shall go on alone, and dOn't you dare to get between me and my work or I'll His eyes fell before mine. "Do you think I am afraid of you, who wouldn't harm even an insect? Haven't I seen you go out of your way rather than tread the life out of a crawling worm ? Shall all those months of unselfish care for nothing, and your hasty words make me leave you ? Besides," said I, "I have a work as well as you." He looked inquiringly at me.— "Shall I tell you what it is ?" He sat down by the fire which he had lighted. "Keep still," said he, "for one month more, then you may have your say." In the morning when we started out the air was heavy with smoke. When we reached San Francisco, after a day or two, we found there had been an extensive fire. Bill was unwearied in helping build tents for the homeless, and his money went free ly to feed the starving hundreds, who were , 1 likely to find only a grave in the land which had promised them so much. I felt that I had never known half of his genu ine goodness of heart until those days, and I left off watching him as I had done. We were stopping at one of the places dignified by the name "Hotel," and in those "early times" considered magnificent in the way of accommodations, quite worth the fabulous prices which were demanded for them. But our parlor was the bar room, and our "room" a bunk, one of a dozen or so in the same apartment. ` We had been staying there perhaps three weeks, when one night I was awakened from a sound sleep by the fall of some hea vy body. I listened, but there was no re petition, then I groped my way to Bill's bunk. He was not there, though I had seen him "turn in" when I did. I took my hat and passed out through the bar-room into the darkness ant night. Drunken men of all nations and tribes were to be met on the muddy sidewalks, their horrid oaths and obscene jests, mut tered or shouted in half-broken language, reminded we of a terrible description I bad listened to when a child, of the abode of the lost. The gleaming lights from the drinking saloons and gambling hells only added an other touch to the picture. I hurried on, peering into every place where was light or sound, and I kept up the search until the first rosy tints in the east told of the coming day. When I came round to our hotel, I found I had been sent for three times, and was to remain there until the messenger came again. I waited two hours, and then saw the bar-tender pointing me out to a Spaniard. He beckoned to me, and I fol lowed him without a word. We went through lanes and by-paths, until I lost all idea of locality. Finally we came to a cabin, and when he motioned me to come round by the side, then he pointed me - to look through a slight aperture. Two men lay on the floor, which was covered with blood. I saw at a glance that one was Bill, and the other bore the same face I had often seen in my dreams. I thought at first that they were both dead, but a low groan came from Bill, and I rushed to the door. I knelt down by him and spoke. "I dil not do it," said he, "but I meant to." I asked him no questions, only if he was able to be moved. "Yes, but never mind." We made a litter of a door, and by the help of some men the Spaniard brought, we carried him to our boarding place. I summoned a physician who pronounced the wound dangerous, but not necessarily mortal. I watched over him and saved him in spite of his own d4sire. He chose to die, but by my care he came slowly back and took up his burden again. One day as I sat by his bed, I took from HUNTINGDON, PA., NOVEMBER 1, 1871 let me, it does not make much difference to me where." He looked at me keenly "You had better not," said he slowly; "you will wish you hadn't, some day." We had started a fire, and I could see his face by the light of the blaze. I felt drawn to him, not from any sym pathy of feeling, but because I was con vinced there would come a time when I could, in a measure, repay him for his kindness to me. I reached out my hand, "We'll stick to gether awhile, old fellow." I broke the string and found a small copy of "Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress." . "I will keep it," I said, "and when he needs me most he will need this too." my pocket the little book I had found buried under the green boughs. I read two or three chapters aloud, then put it up without a word.. He became interested, and I read on from day to day, as he could bear it, until the book was finished. Then he asked.; "Where did you get it?" "I dug it from the ground," said I, la conically. _ _ He held out his hand fur it, and so it passed into his keeping. When he became strollg enough we took walks together, which gradually increased i 3 length until we would spend whole days down by the bay. I knew he would tell me his story when he could bring himself to it. He was two weeks going over it, sometimes giving me a single picture, and at another time un rolling whole years like a panorama be fore me. His first remembrance had been of a hovel where rum had left nothing but ruin. Had never heard a kind word, or had a kiss left upon his childish face but he hated the meanness and filth which sur rounded him, and he ran away to sea,when only fourteen years of age. When he came back, grown to manhood, his old home had been swept away by the tide of improve ments, and his relations were all gone, save one fair-haired sister, who light nave been his idol, Gut she vanished out of his life without a Word of farewell, and for years he never heard of her or the man who had lured her away. The year that I met him, be bad been through the West; he couldn't tell what for, except that he had made money and wanted to spend it. Vice and luxury were strangers to him, se his wants were few and simple. He came to a cabin, one night, and as it was late, asked to stay; the man con sented,. and bade the woman provide some supper for the traveler. His host went out, and his voice could be heard at some distance from the front of the house. The woman eyed him closely from a window, then motioning to Bill, led him to a slide window at the rear of the cabin, whispered to him that 'twos only a mile to the next house, slipped a piece of paper into his hand, and bade him run for his life. He said he could not tell how it hap pened, but thr the first and only time he ran from danger. He aroused the people and was given a place on the floor to sleep. Saying nothiro , about his adventure, he managed to read by the light of the coals the paper which the woman had given Imaginehim. his surprise when he found that he d seen his long-lost sister, and that she had to save his life by getting him away from her husband, who mistrust ed that he had money, and would not hesi tate to murder him in order to obtain it. She said she had witnessed dreadful things, but begged him not to try to meet her, as his life would be imperiled. The next morning he determined to return and have an interview with her, aim if possible persuade her to accompany him. Tlie house w . as closed, boards nailed up before the windows, and no sign of life upon the premises. He looked for his horse; that, of course, was gone, and he was about leaving, when he heard moans. Again he listened, and traced the sound to the window out of which he had escaped the previous night. He wrenched off the boards and soon found the sister he sought, but she was in a dying condition. She had been terribly beaten by the brutal husband; upon her had come the full brunt of his disappoint ment when he discovered his victim had left.. She told of terrible sufferings and crime, but death hastily closed her - recital, and poor Bill held a lifeless form in his arms. He called in the only neighbors, within several miles, the people where he stayed over night. Together they buried the bruised and mangled body, and over the grave the brother vowed to revenge the life which had been sacrificed for him. He heard of "his man" crossing the plains, and so had followed, nursing all the time tile deepest hatred in his heart, never doubting that he should find him, and then the end was plain. He held up his hands. "I have seen his blood upon them all the way," said he. "That night," he continued, "I could not sleep, and something whispered that he was not far from me. So I went out and continued my search. I heard his voice on the street. I should have known it anywhere. I followed him to his cabin and entered close behind him. I had somethinc , to say to him, and you know I couldn't shoot him down without giving him a chance; 'twant in me to do that. "But he turned up. .a me quicker than thought and gave me this shot through my shoulder. My right arm dropped power less, but I sprang upon him, and as we closed he gave me a stab in my side, his own pistol, pointed towards himself, went off, either by accident or design I shall never know which, and we fell together on the floor. "That Spaniard came in, attracted by the firing. I had helped his family to food and shelter, so I easily prevailed upon him to go for you, not because I thought you could do anything for me, but I did not want you to spend your time hunting me up. 4 •The wretch died; although I didn't kill him, I meant to, so I am a murderer to you. My work on earth is done, and you had better leave now. lam afraid I shall get to care for you if you stay, and that would be foolish, as there hasn't been any love in my life, I shan't trouble you with any more talk. I guess I have lost my right now to the title the boys gave me." As soon as he was able, we went back into the country and pitched our tent among the grand old trees. There came days when the hushed stillness brought thoughts of rest, peace and almost believ ing. _ . . . lUnder the branches where the stray sunbeams touched us with light and heal ing, I told the story of Him whose blood can wash the deepest stain front human hearts and hands, and into nature's temple came the great, trivisible, loving, presence which stands human as ever, though un-. seen—in our very midst, and whose coming into any life will lift it from its mire and defilement, into the lost Paradise which lies about us everywhere. As I dwelt upon the wondrous love and compassion, lie askbd earnestly, "Why has my life been so dark and loveless ?" . _ Ah, how many achinghearts have asked that, as they look back over dwarfed, thwarted lives. But there came a time when his ques tionings ceased, and he changed his life , long burden for a cross. And for years; "Silent Bill" was known all through the mines and camps as "The Big Elder." for tin J lWin. Best Parlors. Almost every American house possesses one of these dreadful altars, erected to what unknown goddess it is impossible to guess. It is a Bogy, before whom from time to time people burn gas in chandeliers of fearful design ;—to whom are dedicated flagrant carpets, impossible oil paintings, furniture too gorgeous far common days, and shrouded therefrom by customary Hol land. Musty smells belong to this Deity, stiffness, angles, absence of sunlight. The visitor, entering, sees written above the portal : "Who enters here abandons—con versation." What is there to talk about in a room dark as the Domdaniel, except where one crack iu a reluctant shutter re veals a stand of wax flowers under glass, and a dimly described hostess, who evi dently waits only your departure to extin guish that solitary ray. The voice instinct ively hushes; the mind finds itself barren of ideas. A few dreary common-placi re marks are exchanged, then a rise, a rustle, the door is gained and the light of the blessed sun ; you glance up in passing— flap goes the blind, inner darkness is again resumed, Bogy has it all his own way, and you thank your stars that you have done your duty by the Browns for at least a twelve-month ! And yet, upon this dismal apartment, which she hates, and all her acquaintances hate, poor Mrs. Brown has lavished time and money enough to make two rooms charming. For ugly things cost as much as pretty ones—often more. And costly ugliness is, as Mrs. Brown would tell you, a "great responsibility to take care of. What with the carpet which mustn't get faded, the mirrors which mustn't get fly specked, the gilding which mustn't be tarnished, there is nothinr , for it but to shut the room up to darkness and all dull influences. And as families are like flies, and will follow the sun, the domestic life comes to be led anywhere rather than in the best parlor, and the "taboo" which Mrs. Brown proclaims is easily enforced. And yet this Mrs. Brown is quick to recognize the difference when in other people's homes she is shown a cosy and pleasant room. She sits on a chintz sofa in her velvet and ermine, and glances half enviously at the tinted walls hung with photographs, at the sparkling little fire in the grate, the windows gay with sun and green things, the book-cases and tables loadened with volumes. "How I admire an open fire," she says. "But doesn't it make a great deal of dust ? And your plants, too—l can't think how you make them grow so well in a parlor." • "A little water and plenty of sun is all the secret," she is told. "Oh, but how dreadfully faded your carpet must get," she goes on. "Such quantities of books, too. Well, I should like to have such things !" It does not occur to the good lady - that for the price of one of those useless mirrors ..which cost her such anxiety sl4l€l-Fillibintr- with chamois-skin, a choice company of poets, philosophers and sages could be won to sit forever at her side, informing her with their wisdom. Or that for a tithe of the same her fireless grate would sparkle with cannel coal fbr a winter long. Her furniture, her carpets, the dullness of her home, are encumbrances truly, but encum brances which she bears willingly and would not be without. And people having the right to live pretty much as they please, so long as they violate no law of the land, it would matter little, except that there are so many Browns and so many best parlors, that society is seriously affected thereby. For a system which necessitates great and troublesome changes in family arrangement whenever a guest comes, tends to narrowness and inhospitality. If the covers must be taken off the furniture, the plated spoons go up stairs and the silver ones come down, the best china be lifted from a top shelf, upon the arrival of each friend, be sure that friend will seldom arrive. Only when what Mrs. Stowe calls "a good liberal average" is established as a rule over all houses, will hearty interchange of social courtesies begin, and the communion of friends, face to face, beregarded as a pleas ure rather than a toil. To those of us who have been tasting the summer in the sweet breadth and freedom of the country. our homes will seem dull and straitened enough as we re enter them. Now is the time, before old habitual scales blind our eyes, to look about with aunointed vision, and see how these homes can be brightened and broad ened—made more like that lovely out-door home to which nature welcomes each new comer. Above all, let us cast out the "Best Parlor." To the sacred enclosure once called by that name, let us bring our daintier tasks of letter-writing, needle-work ; study. Let the walls be .beautified with every simple ornament within our reach— the windows opened to receive the sun, and vines and roses set to catch its sun ning. And over the door once sacred to "Bogy" let us write "Welcome." And so the last shadow of the Bogy will depart, and our homes be homes indeed, "From turret to foundation stone. —Serihnrr's Monthly fcr October. Finger Marks A gentleman employed a mason to do some work for him, and among other things, tcy"thin whiten" the wall of one of his chambers. This thin whitening is almost colorless until dried. The gentle man was much surprised on the morning after the chamber was finished to find on the drawers of his'bureau standing in the room, white fingers. Opening the drawer, he found the same on the articles in it, and also on .a pocket-book. An examina tion revealed the same marks on the con t ;tits of a bag. This proved clearly that the mason, with his wet hands, had opened the drawer and searched the bag, which contained no money, and had then closed the drawer without once thinking that any one would .ever know it. The "thin whitening," which happened to be on his hands, did not show at first, and he probably had no idea that twelve hours' drying would reveal his wickedness. Children, beware of evil thoughts and deeds; they all leave their finger marks, which will one day be revealed. If you disobey your parents, or tell a falsehood, or take what is not your own, you make. bad stains on your character. And so it is with ail sin. It defiles the soul. It betrays those who engage in it, by the marks it makes on them. These marks may be almost if-not quite invisible at first. But even if they should not be seen during any of your days on earth, (which is not at all likely), yet there is a day coming in which every sin will be manifest.—Home Journal. The Diplomatic Scandal. Madame Catacazy a Persecuted Woman— Welcomed in the White House, and then "Cut Dead"—Love, Romance, Fidelity. So much has been said at Washington, and so much will be said at St. Petersburg, before the Fish-Catacazy, or more properly, Mrs. Fish-Madame Catacazy muddle will be straightened out that a correspondent gives the following to the public as the inside facts of the great diplomatic itubrog lio. Mrs. Fish, the wife of our Wash ington Premier, threw down the gauntlet to Madame Catacazy one year ago in Wash ington. At this time Madame Catacazy received a social stab which threw the Russian Minister on the defensive, and made too wide the breach in the diplomatic corps to be ever closed or even friendly relations to again return. Last November Mrs. Fish gave her grand diplomatic dinner. Every foreign Ambassador and minister, with their la dies, was invited for the dinner was given to the honor of the Joint High Commis sion. Mrs. Catacazy alone was uninvited. The omission fell like a bombshell in the Republican court at Washington. "Why didn't you ask Madame Catacazy ?" every one asked of Mrs. Fish. "What is the matter ? " Mrs. Fish looked ominous, the old secession families of the West End, those parasital relics of an ancient regular army aristocracy, were ready to hurl their darts of calumny at Madame Catacazy; but the dreadful secret was kept close shut up in the bosoms of a few of the diplomatic and old family aristocracy. Sometimes some gossiping woman wouldabout whisper Bladensburg—an Italian Count, but the for eign legations generally maintained their friendly relations with the beautiful wife of the Russian minister. A SAD STORY. Madame Catacazy is a French lady—her name was Berwick. Eighteen years ago while she was in her teens, she was the most beautiful child-woman in all France. Her father and mother were titled people, and the Berwick blood is the best in Eu rope. At this tender age she was thrown into the company of an Italian Count— Count F—. He was a handsome, dash ing man of the world, knew all its wiles and snares, P , nd could assume the face and tone of an angel. Count F- won the love of this beauti ful, innocent child, Mlle. Berwick, mar ried her and took her to Rome to live. They lived happily for awhile, when he became dissipated, gambled and became a bad man generally, treated his wife, first with indifferance, then neglect, then with positive cruelty. Colonel Baria, the Italian Charge d'Affaires, a year or so ago, knew the character of this bad Italian and fre quently said, "lie was a countryman of mine, but he was a very bad man, and I do not blame "Madame Catacazy when she did run away from him." SHE MEETS MR. CATACAZY In Rome, eighteen years ago, Mr. Cata easy saw the Ansel wife---then cuie _ a f most beautiful women of the Italian capi tal. He felt a sympathy for her. After wards they niet in Paris, when she, tired and sick of the bad Count, her husband, had abandoned him and sought shelter un der her father's roof. Mr. Catacazy was appointed by the Russian 'government as Secretary of Legation to Washington un der Minister Bodisco. Before he came to this country a strong attachment sprang up between him and the unhappy countess. Their fondness ripened into love—warm, confiding and pure. From the French and especially the Russian stand point, where almost every Minister, and even the Czar himself supports plurality of households, the action of the young Secretary and the countess would never be questioned. THEY CAME TO AMERICA. When the time came for Mr. Catacazy to join Bodices, her poor lover was desolate. What was to be done ? She could not live with her husband, and she had no divorce. To stay was living death. She could not break the intermittent visits and abuse of her husband, whom she despised. The western sky looked full of happiness, for there she could fly from every rumor and be happy with one whom she loved more than her life. So they were married and came to America. This marriage was not strictly legal, for she was not divorced from her first husband; but it was a moral marriage, and never has a doubtful rumor ever clouded the moral sky of that sacred covenant with Mr. Catacazy. They arrived in this country as Mr. and Mrs. Catacazy. After staying awhile in New York, Mr. Catacazy went on to Wash ington, taking with him Mrs. Catacazy. The young Secretary rented for his beau tiful companion a pretty cottaga in Bla densburg, eight miles from Washington, where he spent most of his time—be with wild, loose notions of a profligate Russian count, and she simply confiding in the only man she ever loved—and the only man, she thought, who could dare to call her his wife. RETURN TO RUSSIA Eight years age Mr. Catacazy returned to Russia. They were both received at the Russian Court; feted by the nobility, and the little spot which had caused them so much uneasiness was forgotten in their mutual happiness and prosperity. The Czarina of Russia is a tall, graceful woman, like the Queen of Denmark, terribly de voted to the Greek Church, and very little attention to society. But, it is true that she, with all her orthodox scruples, re ceived Madame Catacazy. BACK TO WASHINGTON AS MINISTER. In 1868 Mr. Constantine de Catacazy was appointed by Czar Alexander as Envy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentia ry to the United States. Accompained by his wife, he arrived on the Vile de Paris, and proceeded at once to Washington, re lieving Baron Stoekl. He was received everywhere in official circles with great friendship, his. beautiful wife sharing in all the honors of her husband. I myself have seen them together at President Johnson's and also at Secretary Seward's. DECEIVED IN NEW YORK. Mrs. James Brooks threw New York so ciety into a excitement by giving Madame Catacazy a reception - at her -beantifttl resi dence- ork,Fifth avenue, near Thirty-fourth street, last autumn. Here she was greeted by the best blood of tbe metropolis. Mrs. Judge Roosevelt, who had been presented to the Court of St. James, with Lady Ous ley, were there, and they vied with Mrs.. Roberts, Mrs. Rlodgett, Mrs. Stevens, Mrs. Whitney, Mrs. Vanderbilt, and Mrs. Stew art, in polite welcoming and benedictions to the fair representative of the nation which stood by the Government during a terrible war, and carried our beloved Far sagut in her arms from St. Petersburg to Moscow—drinking the health of our saved Republic in every town in Russia. Mrs. Goulager, the gifted singer of St. Thomas' NO. 43 Church, sang a song of welcome to her, and the fair face of the Embassador's wife was too happy for utterance. Madame Catacazy's beauty was the theme of newspaper writers, and the gossip of the West End. Her parlors on Franklin Square were thronged on reception days with West aristocratic residents and so journers of the Capital. They had been in Washington but a few days, when they rode over to Bladensburg to see the beauti ful vine-clad cottage, where years before she had spent so many happy hours Every nook was examined, and as the enthusiastic wife recollected the hours of love and confidence she had spent there, she said she would be happy indeed to live there again. Plucking a boquet from the little yard, as beautiful to her as Claud's Alpine home, she rode back to Washing ton; but not before old Bladensburg Mrs. Grundy had recognized the old sweetheart love of the Russian Secretary. She re ported the fact to the quid-ounce of Wash ington. SOCIAL DESTRUCTION MEDITATED, The hereditary Washington gossips now set to work—those ancient female military and naval barnacles who live in West End boarding houses, wear long black dresses, and subsist on gossip about what Miss Lane and Mr. Buchanan used to do. They talk about Captain McCellan and Colonel Lee, and only aspire to marry daughters to higher titles than Lieutenants and Cap tains in the army. They don't know that Captains and Lieutenants ever get above Bleeker street in the exclusive society of the metropolis. Well, this set, who flutter around the Carrolls, and. Riggses and Cor corans, begin to breathe milde* upon the fair fame of the beautiful wife of the Rus sian Minister. Mrs. Grant and Mrs. Fish, who had re ceived more than once, and who had more than once been the recipient of her warm Russian courtesy, were taken in tow. "It is dreadful !!" said one. "Perfectly horri ble !" exclaimed another, with her bands out lide a great V. "You ought not to re ceive her," said all these female West End Lucifers at once. "It's an insult to send her here." As if she who had been hon ored at the Russian Court—she who had been kissed in the Imperial white room of St. George by the Czarina and Dagmar and Gand Duke Constantine, could soil the characters of a few gossiping Washington West Enders, who become self-appointed boarding-house guardians of the national honor. Yes, women were at the bottom of it, just as they have been at the bottom of more than one White House squabble from Mrs. Eaton down to Kate Sprague and Mrs. Lincoln. THE WEST END ANGELS ACCOMPLISH THEIR WORK The gossip carried the clay, and at the dinner given to the "High Joint Cosmnis sion," Mrs. Fish opened the barrel of powder which may yet blow up a war be tween Russia and America. Mr. Cataca zy is an excitable man, and when his wife was "cut" thus publicly , what wonderthat old sardine, and swore by the big bell in Kremlin that Fish and Mrs. Fish, and everybody in Washington, could be bought up like a load of cucumbers in the Moscow superaboskney ? Madame Catacazy has simply played the role of Mrs. A. D. Rich ardson. She comes from a profligate court. ,She comes from where both the Russian and French traditions are loose on the subject of divorce and marriage, and from where many women think they are saints if they are true to oue man, married or not. In Russia I have often been in vited to dine with, perhaps, a member of the nobility, when I would have to ask the question at which house, for the man kept two houses. Now that we have got into the diplo matic muddle, it will be bard to get out. But, whatever transpires, remember Ma dame Catacazy is a beautiful woman ; no body questions her parity, and nobody doubts the mutual devotion, the absolute worship of love which exists between the Russian Minister and his wife. GRACE GREENWOOD, writing from Den ver, says : "Nature did antelopes an ill turn originally, in affixing to them a mark by which they can be seen and 'a bead drawn on them' at a great distance. It renders them especially liable to attacks in the rear, which reminds me of a little story. A small Colorado boy, who had been out playing, ran into the house in a state of great excitement, saying that he had seen some antelopes in the gulch near by. At his entreaty his mother went out to look at them. but nothing of the kind was to be found. She became incredulous, and said at last, don't believe you saw any antelopes; it must have been your imagi nation, my child !' To this the little moun taineer indignantly responded : 'Humph ! I guess my imagination isn't white be hind.' Miscellaneous News Items. Memphis, Tenn., is to have a skating rink. The Savannah, (Ga.) Republican is for sale. Macon, Ga., has sixteen railroad trains a day. Jackson, Miss., has five thousand inhab itants. Kenosah claims to be the wickedest town. Gen. Wattic, the Cherokee chief, is dead. King Amadeus is suppressing news-pa pers. The population of Texas is increasing rapidly. The Milwaukee papers are served by pretty girls. Archbishop Spaulding is in very bad health. The tobacco in North Carolina has been injured by frost. The cotton caterpillar has done . much damage in Alabama. Rain wanted in the neighborhood of. Kansas City, Mo. A Wisconsin blacksmith is a last heir to that million dollars. The mosquito crop in the South has been immense. The small-pox ig raging violently at Chil licothe, Ohio. The Texas cattle disease has appeared at Wooster. Ohio. The Virginia State fair begins at Rich mond on the 31st inst. A Frencjunan has made a ]:snip wick that will burn five years. A Missouri farmer struck a ten foot vein of coal while digging a well.