VOL. 47
The Huntikg4oll,_ 4olirnaL
J. A. NASH,
PUBLISHERS AND PROPRIETORS.
J. R. DURBORROW,
Office; on the Corner of Brahma Washington streets.
Tan llumvisanos JOURNAL is published every
Wednesday, by J. R. Denaonnow and J. A. NASH,
under the firm name of J. R. DURDORROW Co., at
$2,011 per annum, IN ADVANCE, or $2,50 if not piid
for in six months from date of subscription, and
$3 if not paid within the year.
No paper discontinued, unless at the option of
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ADVERTISEMENTS will be inserted at Tex
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and FIVE CENTS per line for each subsequent inser
tion less than three months.
Regular monthly and yearly advertisements will
be inserted at the following rates : •
3mi6inOH 1 yl 33n 61,2 Dim y I
1 Incb 251 490 SOC 6 00pcol 900 18 00 s27s 36
2 " 400 00 10 00 1 12 00 "24 00 361,0 60 65
3 " 6001000 14 00 1 18 00 "340060 00 65 80
4 " 860 140020 00 21 00
5 " 950 18 00125.00 30 00 1 col 36 00 60 00 80 100
Special notices will be insert& at TWELVE AND
A UALF CENTS per line, and local and editorial no
tices at FIFTEEN CENTS per line.
All Resolutions of Associations, Communications
of limited or individual interest, and notices of Mar
riages and Deaths, exceeding five lines, will be
charged Tax CENTS per line.
Legal and othtr notices will be charged to the
party having them inserted.
Advertising Agents must find their commission
outside of these figures.
All advertising account* are doe and collectable
when the advertisement is once inserted.
JOB PRINTING of every kind, in Plain and
Fancy Colors, done with neatness and dispatch.—
Hand-bills, Blanks, Cards. Pamphlets, &c., of every
variety and style, printed at the shortest notice,
and every thing in the Printing line will be execu
ted in the most artistic manner and at the lowest
rates.
Professional Cards
CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
D• No. 111, lid street. Office formerly occupied
by Messrs. Woods Sc Williamson. [apl2,'7l.
DR. R. R. WIESTLING,
respectfully offers his professional services
to the citizens of Huntingdon and vicinity.
Office removed to No. 61.8} Hill street, (Sutra's
BUILDING.) tapr.s,7l-Iy.
J. C. FLEMMING respectfully
iiJJ offers his professional services to the citizens
of Huntingdon and vicinity. Offiec second floor of
Cunningham's building, on corner of 4th and 11111
Street. may 24.
DR. D. P. MILLER, Office on Hill
street, in the room formerly occupied by
Hr. John M'Culloch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res-.
pectfully offer his professional services to the eiti
sens of Huntingdon and vicinity. Dan. 4,71.
DR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his
professional services to this community.
Office, No. 523 Washington street, one door east
of the Catholic Parsonage.
EJ. (REENE, Dentist. Office re
. niorad to Leister's new building, Hill street
Youtingdon. Lif.r4,7l•
Cl_ L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T.
k.)I
• Brewn'is new building, No. 520, Hill St.,
Huntingdon, Pa. (•p12,'71-
TT GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
. . • of Washington and Smith greets, Hun
tingdon, Pa. [ jan.l2'7l.
A C. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law.
• Office, No. —, Hill rand, Huntingdon,
Pa. [ap.19,71.
SYLVANUS
Attorney-at-
J• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, 11111 street,
three doors west of Smith. jjan.4'7l.
T R. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth-
K. , • ccary, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun
tingdon, Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded.
Pure Liquors fur Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70.
JHALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
. No. 319 Hill st., Huntingdon, Pa. fjan.4,'7l.
T R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at
rfi • Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the
several Courts of diunt,ingdon courtly. Particular
attention given to the settlement of estates of dece
dents.
Office in ho JOURNAL Building. [feb.l,'7l
j W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
rfi • and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
Soldiers' claims against the Government for back
pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend
ed to with great care and protvtness.
Office on Hill street. • • .
ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-Rt
..- ... Law, Iltuitingdon, Pa. Special attention
given to Com,EcrroNs of all kinds; to the settle
ment of Estates, ac.; and all other Legal Business
prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch.
Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
Speer, Esq. Ljan.4,'7l
PM. & M.. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
• at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to
all kinds of legal business entruste to their care.
Office on the south side of fill street, fourth door
west of Smith. Lian.4,ll.
RA. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
, Office, 321 11111 street, Huntingdon, Pa.
[m.3'31,11.
JOHN SCOTT. S. T. SHOWN. BAILEY
QCOTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At
torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon,Pa. Pensions,
and all claims of soldiers and soldiers' beire against
the Government will be promptly prosecuted.
Office on Hill street. [jan.4,'7l.
T
W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
-A- • tingdon, Pa. Office with T. Sewell Stewart,
Esq.
,11.-4;71.
-WILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney
at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
given to collections, and all other isgal business
attended to with care and promptness. Moe, No.
229, Hill street. [apl9,'7l.
Miscellaneous
EXCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
January i, 1871.
Y EAR THE RAILROAD D,EPOT,
COR. WAYNE and JUNIATA STREETT
UNITED STATES HOTEL,
lIOLLIDAYSBURG, PA
II'CLAIN k PROPRIETORS
ROBT. KING, Merchant Tailor, 412
Washington street, Huntingdon Pa., a lib
eral share of patronage respectfully solicited.
A pril 12, 1871.
T EWISTOWN - BOILER WORKS.
ALA SNYDER; WEIDNER CO., Manufac
lavers of Locomotive and Stationary Boilers, Tanks,
Pipes, Filling-Barrows for Furnaces, and Sheet
Iron Work of every description. Works on Logan
street, Lewistown, Pa.
All orders pv-wmtly attended to. Repairing
done at short [Apr 5,'11,1y..
W. T.
.lIOWApD,
MORRISON HOUSE,
OPPOSITE PENNSYLVANIA E. It. DEPOT
lIUNTINQ-DON, PA
HOWARD .4 CLOVER, Prop's.
April 5, ISZI—Iy.
A H. BECK, Fashionable. Barber
• and Hairdresser, Hill street, opposite the
Franklin House. All kinds of Topa. and Pomades
kept on hand and for sale. [apl9,'7l-13m
,OLOEND PRINTING DONE AT
L- the Journal Office, at Philadelphia prices
The Huntingdon Journal.
Zhe Poo' !own.
The Old Year and the New
Au old man totters on the road
Bow'd down with ago and care;
His locks are white and float about
Like snow-flakes in the air—
The clouds are gath'ring darkly round,
The night seems setting fast,
The winds send forth a moaning sound,
The owlets flutter past.
The old man halts along the road,
Ile sees the gathering gloom—
No hope has he—no power to stay
His fast-approaching doom,
Ile sees the children pass him by,
And sadly turns his face;
Ito knows too well that he must die,
The New Year takes his place.
He hears the children clap their hpnds
And shout aloud for glee,
He marks them hasten on their way
The glad New Year to see.
And then he hears the midnight chime
Ring out his fun'ral knell;
His life fades fast—ho rests at last,
The New Year breaks the spell.
A little child news loads the way
lIM step is light and bold,
Ilia hair is bright and Boats about
Like threads of burnish'd gold ;
The clouds are passing swift away,
The morn seems soft and clear;
The night has posed—the sun's bright ray
Brings in the glad New Year.
Farewell, Old Year! your work is done,
A new ono fills your place ;
The darkest night will pass away
The morning dawn apace!
We cannot bring the dead to life,
Nor wasted hours recall ;
But in the coming year we may,
Perhaps, atone for all.
Love at Home
Wherever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home,
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.
Birds in their little nests agree,
And 'tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out and chide and fight.
}lard names at first and threatening words,
They are but noisy breath,
May grow to clubs and naked swords,
To murder and to death.
The wise will make their anger cool,
At least before 'tis night t
But in the bosom of the fool
It burns till morning light.
Pardon, 0 Lord, our childish rage,
Our little brawls remove;
That as we grow to riper age,
Oar hearts may all be loye.
ht ffitorm-Zglier.
Blind Little Bess ;
—OR,--
Hilda Howe's Thanksgiving Party.
BY MISS HARRIET N. HATHAWAY.
NEVER was there a happier maiden
than Hilda Howe, as she flitted hither and
thither, in their newly-furnished parlor,
arranging and re-arranging the window
draperies, newly deposing the ornaments,
changing the position of the ottomans and
easy chairs, brushing away each speck of
dust with a feather duster, and carefully
gathering every scrap of ravellings and
lint from the newly-made carpets, singing
all the while :
"Merrily every bosom boundeth !
Merrily 0! Merrily Or
in a manner that at once assured one that
her heart kept time to the music of her
lips.
"Hilda, love, what is all this noise
about ?" queried her father, as he looked
laughingly in at the door.
father, come in—come in, and see
if ever parlors looked prettier than ours.
See ! 1 have put on all the finishing touch
es and am ready to receive callers, so be
seated at once on the sofa."
"Ah, I understand you, Hilda! I sup
pose that Than,ksgiving party is the next
feature in the programme."
"Yes, father," replied Hilda, demurely,
as she drew an ottoman, directly before
him, "that is the business before the meet
ing."
"Well, Hilda, we might as well proceed
and have it settled forthwith. I suppose
what is to be will be."
"Then you give your consent, father ?"
"I see no loop-hole for escape, and so
yield."
"But, father, I will not urge it if you
at all prefer it otherwise."
"No—no, Hilda! you have been a good,
dutiful daughter, and it gives me pleasure
to grant your reasonable request. And now
here is a trifle to 'help defray expenses,'
for I suppose there must be some attached
to so important a scheme as a •Thanksgiv
ing party.' "
"0, father, two fifty dollar bills ! It is
too much—please take one of them."
"No, darling, keep them both ; you've
no idea how little a hundred dollars will
do, what with getting a silk dress (as your
mother tells me you wish to), and laces
and slippers and ribbons and all that sort
of fashionable flummery."
"Well, father, as you please, but I um
quite sure I shall not spend it all ; indeed,
I do not think it would be right for me to.
It troubles me now, to think how I shall
repay you for all."
"There—there, Hilda, no set speeches,
but come and kiss me, and be as good a
girl as you have been and I shall be satis
fied."
Hilda threw her arms lovingly around
him and pressed her lips upon his brow,
where wrinkles were gathering, and on his
brown cheek. There was a humid light
in his eye as he returned her embrace,
murmuring : "Heaven bless my darling
girl !".
No sooner had her father left, than Hil
da danced up-stairs to her room, and seat
ing herself at hhr writing table, she drew
from it some delicately perfumed and tint
ed note paper, and soon her small white
hand was flitting over it as rapidly as a
humming-bird's motion when extracting
sweets from the rose or honeysuckle. The
notes at last were all penned but one, and
now Hilda paused and blushed a little, just
a very little, but still it was discernable,
and Hilda knew it and reproved herself
for the misdemeanor by softly saying :
"What a very silly girl I am !" Then she
strove to be more collected, took up her
pen in a manner intended to be dignified
and bent over the unstained paper before
her. But no—she was not ready yet; a
small slip of paper was taken and a name
written which read : "Dr. Norman Wil
der," and now that the name was in black
and white before her she regained courage,
took the note-paper and penned the invi
tation, and then with a sigh of relief she
dropped it into the basket, saying : "There,
am glad to have this business of writing
invites off my mind. To be sure, there
was no immediate hurry, as it will be more
than a week from now to Thanksgiving,
but I like to be in season. But I believe
I am a little weary. Let me see—l have
written more than three hours. I'll take
111011154 f
.I. U. CLOVEU,
a walk to Dame Grafton's after dinner, and
that will rest me. Pobr little Bess, I've
not seen her for a week !"
In pursuance with her resolve, after
dinner Hilda donned her street attire, and
bent her steps in the direction of Dame
Grafton's humble cottage. She paused,
when within a short distance, to watch
Bess, who had seated herself on the steps,
apparently to enjoy the warm sunshine,
though late in November, the afternoon
was more like early October. The child
sat with her delicate hands clasped, and
her large, mournful eyes strained upwards
as though she was wildly striving to catch
one glimpse of the beautiful blue sky above
her. Her long, flaxen curls had fallen
back from her singularly transparent brow,
revealing the exquisite contour of her fea
tares. Hilda stole noiselessly along td
where she was sitting. Just as she reach
ed her an expression of anguish swept over
her young face, and bowing upon her bo
som, she murmured : "Yes, lam blind
0, lam blind ! I shall never—never see
the beautiful blue sky, nor the soft moon,
nor the twinkling stars, nor the sweet flow
ers I 0, if I could only die !"
"Bess," said Hilda, softly, for she could
not bear to witness the child's distress
longer.
"0, Hilda—dear Hilda, is it you! 0,
lam so glad you have come, for I was
afraid my heart was breaking ! It is better
now; but, Hilda, you do not know what
it is to be blind. For a year I have come
out here every day when I knew the sun
was brightest. At first I could just see
the sun, but it has kept growing darker
and darker, and to-day, Hilda, though I
know it is shining as bright as ever, it is
all night to me."
Poor Hilda ! how she longed to breathe
one word of hope in the ear of the blind
girl, but she saw nothing to justify her in
doing thus, and so she sat on the step by
her side, her tears falling fast and silently
upon her little hand nestling in her own.
At length Bess said, quietly :
"Did yon ever think you would like to
die, Hilda I'
"No,
Bess, dear, I do not remember that
I ever did."
"Well, I do very—very often, and some
times I ask God to take me to live with
him. You know, Hilda, I shall not be a
blind little girl in heaven. I was asking
Him to take me soon when I was looking
up into the sky. Is it wrong, Hilda ? be
cause if it is I will try to wait patiently;
but, 0, it is so dark-so lonesome to be
blind !"
Hilda was still too much pained to at
tempt to comfort the child, so she reached
her a boquet of fragrant flowers, and said
she would run in and see Dame Grafton.
"I will stay here a little while, for grand
mother will be sad when she sees my sober
little face. I never let her know how bad
ly I - feel, Hilda, should you !"
Hilda entered the cottage, hoping to find
something cheering, but to her surprise,
Dame Grafton was bending over her work
with tearful eye. .
"Why, grandmother," exclaimed Hilda,
"I expected to find you all smiles, as usual,
but you look as though you have been
having a 'real good cry,' as people say."
"Ah, Hilda, I'm glad to see you, dear,
for if anybody can speak a word to give
me comfort, it is you. It is all for my
poor blind little Bess I am troubling. The
child is stone blind now, and I'd made up
my mind to bear it and be patient, as I
thought there was no help for it. But just
as I got sort of reconciled, something must
happen to make me feel worse than ever.
You see, day before yesterday, the child was
out on the door-steps, and I was picking
up the bits of chips and dry stuff that had
blown into the grass, when I saw a nice
looking gentleman coming along. When
he saw Bess he stopped and looked at her,
put his face close to her eyes, and so stood
two or three minutes. Then he beckoned
to me, and I followed him till we were out
of Bessie's hearing, and be went on asking
me all sorts of questions about her, and
finally finished off with saying, 'I think
the child might be cured, for it is a sort
of gataract !' (I think that was what he
said). I was so flustered like, I did not
know what to say, and so said nothing.—
But he gave me this ere little slip of pa
per, and said if we wanted to see him
there's where we'd find him."
"Did you ask him how much it would
cost ?" said Hilda.
"0, yes, I asked just that, and he said
something of fifty or a hundred dollars.
Now, Hilda, child, this is what makes me
sick—sick at heart. I've tried and tried
to think of some way to raise the money,
but its all of no use and to-day I've given
up hopes of ever doing it."
It was evening, and Hilda was seated in
her chamber. The basket containing the
"invitation cards" stood before her, and in
her hand lay the two fifty dollar bills. It
was evident that a strong, serious struggle
was going on in her mind. She took up
one note after another, glanced at its con
tents and let it fall into the basket. At
last she had the one she was searching for.
It was the one addressed to "Dr. Norman
Wilder!" - she looked at it long and earn
estly. "No—no," she exclaimed, "I can
not give it up ! It will be my only chance
of becemin. a better acquainted with him,
as he leaves town next week. Then Lilian
Worth will have a party if I do not have
mine, and will stand a better chance of
winning notice from him than I will. The
girls said they thought his attentions
equally divided between Lilian and myself,
but I thought there was a little more heart
in his notice of me ! But Lilian is so much
more brilliant and beautiful than myself,
and besides an heiress, that I think if
either of us win the noble stranger, it will
be her. No—no—l must not give up
having my party—but dear little Bess—
yes—yes !I will ! so here goes the notes—
Dr. Wilder, and all, into the fire, and thus
ends my Thanksgiving Party."
Doubtless my reader has premised what
was Hilda's motive in getting up her an
ticipated pleasure; and now that it was
decided in her mind, there were no doubts
—no repinings over her disappointment—
for disappointment it was.
"Father," she said, following him from
the breakfast room the following morning,
"I wish to talk with youamoment."
"Well, what now, Hilda ?" said Mr.
Howe, smoothing her brown hair from her
forehead. "Did you find one hundred dol
lars did not defray your shopping ex
penses ?"
"0, no, father, nothing of that sort; but
I want to ask you if I can do as I please
with the money you gave me ?"
"Of course, love. I have no wish to
dictate you in this matter ; but what put
,phis idea into your head ?"
"Do not ask me, father ! I have a very
good reason for asking, and you will know
it sometime, but not now."
"Well, Hilda, as yon please. But how
about your Thanksgiving Party ?"
"0, I've given that up, and please,
father, ask no questions;" and Hilda
HUNTINGDON, PA., JANUARY 17, 1872.
glided from the room before be bad time
to answer.
"Well, that is a strange freak surely
what can the girl mean I never saw her
more anxious about a thing than she has
been about that party. Women and girls
are alike inexplicable ;" and here Mr.
Howe left the house no wiser for his solil
oquy.
When Lilian Worth heard that Hilda
Howe's party was not to come off, she at
once issued cards of invitation, as Hilda
had premised. A very brilliant affair it
was to be, so said the young ladies, and for
weeks it made busy hands and busy tongues.
Hilda, though often importuned as to her
reason for giving up her anticipated party,
kept her own counsel.
Hilda called to see the celebrated oculist,
and found him quite sanguine in his be
lief of restoring sight to blind little Bess.
He informed her that he should wish the
child in the house with him during the
operation, and for a week or so afterwards;
and added, she must have a cheerful fe
male friend with her. The day set for
Bess to go was Thanksgiving, and Hilda
breathed a low sigh of disappointment, for
she saw this would prevent her attending
Lilian Worth's party, and thus she'd lose
her last chance of meeting with Dr. Nor
man Wilder.
It was Thanksgiving evening, and Mr.
Worth's parlors were brilliantly lighted,
and gay and happy girls were gathering to
enjoy the anticipated pleasure that these
meetings ever bring. There were joyous
gushes of laughter, strains of music, feet
tripping lightly through the mazes of the
dance, sallies of wit, brilliant repartee, and
all the many pleasant little things that
conspire to make these social gaterings
so delightful. While all this was going on,
Hilda Howe was keeping watch in a dark
ened chamber, over the little suffering
Bess. The operation had been performed,
and the doctor had pronounced it success
full. Did Hilda for a moment regret the
sacrifice she had made ? Far from it.
Never had she been so deeply happy in her
life.
Dr. Norman Wilder was all attention-to
Lilian during the evening, and all joined
in thinking that he had quite forgotten
unpretending Hilda Howe, now that he
was thrown more in the society of the far
more beautiful Lilian Worth, and it was
even so. His mind was about made up to
prosecute his attentions in that quarter,
and once or twice, when left alone with
Lilian, he had almost made confession of
his`deep interest in her.
Toward the latter part of the evening,
he said to Lilian, "How happens it that I
do not see your friend, Miss Hilda Howe,
present this evening ?"
"0, I can hardly tell," replied Lilian,
"she is so full of strange ideas, Something
about a blind girl—l do hot know just
what. Hilda is a nice girl and I love her,
but she is forever looking up some little
forlorn thing, and neglecting her friends
and her own duties to help them. I think
her task in such matters rather low. There
are provisions made for those who cannot
take care of themselves, and I see no ne
cessity for our mixing ourselves with them."
There was a slight bitterness in the tone
of Lilian's voice, and it was evident, for
the moment, that Norman. Wilder was
pained; but he soon forgot it all in the
bewitching fascination of his fair companion.
"Father," said Norman Wilder, jr., as
he sat iu their office at the P- Hotel,
"What was it you said yesterday about
having performed an operation upon the
eyes of a blind girl ?"
. .
"Well, Norm — an, I said 1 was about to do
so, and I did, and it proved highly suc
cessful.: By-the-by, I would like to have
you visit my patient, as I am about to give
her a call. She has the sweetest young
lady for an attendant that I ever saw—so
cheerful, so self-possessed during the oper
ation (for I could not prevail upon her to
leave) and withal, so lady-like. Last night
I went to call on the patient's Grandmother
to tell her I thought her little Bess would
see again, and found out the story. It
seems this lady had the promise of having
a Thanksgiving party, and her father had
supplied her with funda, and she went: so
far as to write her cards of invitation,
when she heard that if means only could
be found, her blind little friend might
have her sight restored. So what does the
noble girl do but forego her anticipated
enjoyment, that the child might have the
benefit of an operation. All this the old
lady told me, and the young lady little
dreams that I have her secret in my keep
ing. I tell you she is a woman of a thou
sand, and I would be proud to call her
daughter, Norman, my boy !"
,
Hilda was sitting by Bess, reading softly
from Mrs. Heman's poems, when the door
opened, and Dr. Wilder entered, followed
by his son. Hilda looked up; and as her
eyes met those of the young gentleman, the
warm blood mounted to her temples, while
Norrean with an air of suprise, extended
his hand exclaiming :
"Miss Hilda Howe ! Is it possible that
I have the pleasure of meeting you here?"
Poor Hilda was deeply embarrassed.
Must it not seem to him that she had pur
posely thrown herself in his way, and if so
how unmaidenlike she must appear to him.
She knew the moment they entered, that
the kind doctor who had so greatly inter
ested iimself in Bess, and the young Dr.
Wilder, were father and eon. Strange that
she had . noc discovered it in some way be
fore—but so it was. She had not even
heard the name of Dr. Wilder,
the elder.
She seemed quite overwhelmed with mor
tification, and the doctor observing it, took
pains to turn the attention of them both to
his patient.
Time would fail us to tell of the joy of
Dame Grafton, as, day-by-day, she heard
cheerful accounts from her darling little
Bess, and it also would fail us to tell of the
many pleasant hours that Hilda Howe
passed in the company of Dr. Norman
Wilder, jr., during her stay at the hotel.
But the time passed away, as well, and
Hilda found herself at home; and Bess
still improving, was restored to her over
joyed grandmother.
Reader, shall I stay my pen here, or will
you be better satisfied with my story, if I
glance over a year and give you the con
clusion, instead of leaving you to picture it.
Somehow I thought when I commenced
this, it shouldn't ba a love story, but love
has stolen in as naturally here on these
pages as it does into our lives, and so I
will tell you all I know of the affair. •
It is Thanksgiving evening again, and
Mr. Howe's parlors are brilliantly lighted,
and the guests already are assembled,
among whom, occupying a conspicuous po
sition, are Dame Grafton, in her new glossy
silk, and little Bess—no longer blind !
The principal actors in the drama of the
evening, are Dr. Norman Wilder and his
newly made bride—now no longer Hilda
Howe. Now, reader, I have told you all
about the way it came to pass that Hilda
Howe's Thanksgiving party ended in a
Thanksgiving wedding !
ading - fin tht s Men.
Proteetion vs. Free Trade--An Inter
esting Letter from a Veteran Pro
tectionist.
The Washington Republican of the 18th
ult., says, considerable interest has been
excited in the possible action of the reve
nue reform members of the Ways and
Means Committee and the manufacturing
interests, and those interested in protect
ing American industry are awakened to a
sense of danger.
_ _
The follo;ing letter has been handed
us for publication by the Hon. William D.
Kelley, who has been so long especial
champion of home manufacture and home
labor. The writer is Hon. Alexander
Stewart, of Pennsylvania, who fifty years
ago was a member of Congress, and devo
ted, as he is to-day, to the development of
American mines and the building up of
American manufactures. Mr. Stewart is
a wonderfully hale old man, and as active
as many men in their prime. He visits
Washington every year and always enters
and examines the Hall of Representatives.
He was a life-long friend of Henry Clay,
and was so devoted to the great Kentuckian's
ideas that he obtained the sobriquet of
"Tariff Andy." The letter we give below.
UNIONTOWN, PA., Dec.ll, 1871.
Hon. D Kelley :
. -
DEAR Sia : Loa winter the free-traders
succeeded in reducing the duty on pig-iron
from $9 to $7 per ton, and I see that they
now propose to reduce it to $5. This re
duction of $2 was made to reduce the price
in accordance with their theory that "the
duty is always added to the price and paid
by the consumer ;" while on the other
band you contended that the effect would
be to break down our weak establishments,
check the strong, discourage investments,
destroy competition , and of course dimin
ish supply, and thereby increase the price.
Such were the arguments ; now for the
facts and results.
Let these free-traders look at the price
current of pig-iron, when they reduced
the duty about a year ago, and at the price
current now, and they will find that in
stead of reducing the price of pig-iron $2
a ton it has increased it on an average
nearly $6, say $5 per ton. Then let them
look at the official reports, British and
American, and they will find that we have
imported. since the reduction of the duty,
about 200,000 tons of pig-metal, which,
at an increase of $5 a ton, will make a
clear gain to foreign importers of $1,000,-
000, and an equivalent loss to American
consumers, beside the millions lost bybreak
ing down American competition and sup
-1
p
But this is not all. The Treasury has
by this act, lost $2 a ton on 200;000 tons
of pig-iron, amounting to $400,000 in
gold revenue, which our own people must
nos pay to supply this loss. Such are the
fruits of "revenue reform." Other causes
may have contributed to these results, but
cannot impair the truth or destroy the in
fluence of the facts stated.
With these undeniable facts, proved by
records, staring them in the face, these
revenue reformers now propose to repeat
the experiment by which they have robbed
American consumers of $1,000,000, and
the Treasury of $400,000 more to favor
foreigners.
Now, had they reversed this action, had
they added $5 a ton instead of taking it
off thereby stimulating production and en
couraging investments at home, develop
ing our own resources, giving employment
to our own labor, and markets and money
to our own farmers instead o? foreigners,
how many millions would it have saved,
and how many would it have added to our
national wealth and resources ?
Now permit me to add, briefly, a few
reasons why pig-iron, above everything
else, requires high protection.
1. Because it is the product, almost ex
clusively, of day labor, unaided by scaring
labor machinery ; for what is clearer than
that American labor, getting from $1,50
to $.2 a day, must be protected inits strug
gle with foreign labor for the American
market, receiving wages on an averageless
than half that sum ? Especially as the
cost of transporting foreign pig-iron to this
country is a mere trifle, often as ballast,
less than $5 a ton; about the cosf of cart
ing it ten or fifteen miles on ordinary roads
2. Because almost the whole value of
pig-iron consists of agricultural produce.
Ask any practical pig-iron maker, and he
will tell you that about three-fourths of
the money he receives for his pig-iron goes to
the neighboring farmers for the subsistence
_of his labor—the horses, mules and oxen,
men, women and children employed about
his urnace—the ore and coal of which his
iron is made being utterly worthless if left
in the ground ; and so the foreign iron
we purchase consists of the agricultural
produce of foreign farmers sent here in
disguise, worked up into pig-iron, and our
money sent by millions to pay for it, in
stead of being distributed among our own
farmers and laboring men.
3. Because iron is alike essential in peace
and war, and for which we ought, there
fore, t 2 be independent of the world.
4. Because the coal and ore of which
iron is made are useless and worthless if
left unused and unconverted into iron.
5. Because our capacity to produce iron
is unlimited ; our coal and ore inexhausti
ble ; easier of access, and more equally
and generally distributed than in any other
country. Hence, ought we not only to
supply ourselves, but also in time, the old
and exhausted countries of Europe with
iron, as we aro now doing with many other
articles heretofore imported, but now ex
ported under favor of high protective du
ties, which having done their work are
now useless and inoperative.
Very respectfully, yours,
A. STiIVART.
DUTIES OF YOUTU.—The first years of
man must make provision for the last. He
that never thinks can never be wise. Per
petual levity must end in ignorance ; and
intemperance, though it may fire the spir
its for an hour, will make life short or
miserable. Let us consider that youth is
of no long duration, and that in mature
age, when the enchantments of fancy shall
cease, and phantoms of delight dance no
more about us, we shall have no more com
forts but the esteem of wise men and the
means of doing good.
"Seux Jones, have you done that sum
I set you ?" "No, thir; I can't do it
do it. I'm ashamed of you! Why
at your age I could do any sum that was
set me. I hate that word can't, for there
is no sum that can't be done, I tell you."
"I think, thir, that I know a thum you
can't thifer out." "Ha! well, Sally, let's
hear it." "It ith thith, thir : If one apple
cauthed the ruin of the whole human rathe,
how many thutch will it take to make a
barrel of thider, thir ?" Miss Sally Jones,
you may return to your parsing lesson."
lihmtru Pao.
The Reason Why.
"No, Lucy, never make a love match,"
said young Mrs. Stroll.- '
to an old school
friend whowas paying her an afternoon
visit. "Marry for money—for interest—
for anythinr , ' but love. I have tried that,
and made afailure such as it would break
my heart to see you make."
Lucy Moore listened silently, a thought
ful shadow on her fair young face.
"Is it indeed so ?" she said. "I grieve
to hear it. How well I remember your
wedding day, Mary. How handsome and
noble your husband looked ! How bright
and happy you were ! Oh, surely he loved
you very dearly then ?"
"He thought he did, and so did I,"
said Mrs. Strong , with a half-checked sob.
"But it did not last long, Lucy. We have
been married just two years to-day. He
will not remember the day. He left me
this morning without a kiss, as he always
does. He will come back to dinner in the
same way, and after it is over he will go
out to his club, or—or some other place,
and never come home till after I have gone
to bed. Yet I have been a good and care
ful wife to him. I have studied his com
fortin every way, and this is my reward."
She hid her Lee in her hands as she
spoke. Lucy Moore bent over her and
whispered :
"In every way save one, dear Mary."
Mrs. Strong looked up.
"What do you mean?"
"Promise not to be angry and I will tell
you."
"Go on."
"Your husband used to be very fond of
music. Do you ever play or sing to him
of an evening now ?"
"Oh, no. We gave that up long enough
"But why ?"
"I'm sure I can't tell. It was such a
bcre to practice."
"Do you read aloud to him, or have
him read to you ?"
'No. I used to; but somehow that is
given up too."
"And your dress; shall you change it
before he comes home to dinner ?"
Mrs. Strong shook her head. She wore
a dingy flounced delaine, no collar or cuffs,
and her hair was rough and untidy—her
whole look one of extreme carelessness.
"He would not notice it if I did. Where
is the use, Lncy ? It is all too late."
"No, it is not too late. But it may be
soon," said Lucy, earnestly. "Mary, some
one ought to tell you. No one dares to
but me. Your husband does not go
to his club of an evening. He goes to
Mrs. Wylie's. You know her ; you have
heard her name in society, 'The Queen of
Flirts.' Mary, she is a dangerous woman.
She lives bt.t for admiration, and that she
means to have. Your husband gives her
admiration now ; take care that he gives
no more—his love !" .
Mrs. Strong burst into tears.
"What can I do ?" she wailed. "I
know that woman too well. What chance
have I against her ?"
"Give yourself a chance," said Lucy,
with a kiss. "Let your husband find a
pleasant welcome from a wife neatly dress
ed, Mary. Forgive the hint. You have
beauty and grace. Do not neglect them
longer. Sing to him, Mary; play to him;
charm and fascinate him. You have done
it once. Try, again, and save him from
the 'Queen "
She stole softly from the room. It had
not been a pleasant lesson to receive; it
might not have been a pleasant one to give
—who shall say ? But Mrs. Strong was
a sensible as well as a pretty woman, and
five minutes after Lucy Moore had gone,
she went up to her own room, acknowledg
ing that her friend had spoken but the
truth.
That evening, just after the street lamps
were lighted, Mr. Strong came carelessly
towards his home. Carelessly ? Yes, that
was the word. That house was fast be
coming to him only a place to eat, sleep;
and dress in—a place for which he took
no comfort or pleasure, if the truth must
be told.
"Never mind; I'll go to Grace as soon
as dinner is over,
and she will make it up
to me," thought Mr. Strong as he opened
the front door with his latch-key and
strode across the hall.
Only half-way, however, for there be
fore him, at the foot of the stairs, stood a
graceful, pretty woman, with satin-smooth
brown hair, bright blue eyes, and cheeks
as red as roses, wearing a pretty evening
dress of dark-blue silk, and shining orna
ments upon her snowy neck and arms.
"Welcome home, dear James," she said,
with a heavenly smile. "It is he second
anniversary of our wedding-day. Won't
you spend this evening with me, dear ?"
His only answer was a close embrace
and a sudden kiss. His eyes were dim as
he sped up-stairs to his own room to pre
pare for dinner.
"Brute that I, have been !" he thought
to himself.
After dinner, on the plea of smoking
one cigar, he stole out, and returned with
a pretty gold watch and chain as a present
for his wife. They sang the old songs
together that evening; they talked a long
time over the dying fire. Ah, it was not
too late. He loved her still, and she had
saved him and their happy home.
The lesson was not lost upon her. From
that day she has never grown careless—
never ceased to strive to keep her hus
band's as she once tried to win her lover's
love.
Oh, wives who weep and mourn while
your truant husbands seek some fascina
ting "Grace," have you fallen into Mary's
error ?• Is this the reasoirwhy ?
WOMEN SHOULD READ NEWSPAPERS.
-It is a great mistake in female educa
tion to keep a young lady's time and atten
tion devoted to the fashionable literature
of the day. If you would qualify her for
conversation, you must give her something
to talk about, give her education in the
actual world and its transpiring events.
Urge her to read the newspapers and be
come familiar•with the present character
and improvements of our age. History is
of some importance; butthe past world is
dead ; we have nothing to do with it. Oar
thoughts and our concerns should be for
the present world; to know what it is and
impove its condition. Let her have an in
telligent opinion, and be able to sustain
conversation according to the mental, mor
al and religious improvement of our times.
FANNY FLUME; the famous danseuse,
is living at the Hague, and has become re
nowned as a cultivator of roses.
ALitrtramo—There is a "Bustle" in
fashionable circles. All the ladies are
getting their backs up.
• Mu Ooktot ffluipt.
Sal's Disgrace
A traveler in the State of Illinois, some
years ago, came to a log cabin on the prai
ries at Cairo, and there halted. He went
into the house of logs. It was a wretched
affair, an empty packing box for a table
while two or three old chairs and disabled
stools graced the reception room; the dark
walls of which were further ornamented by
a display of dirty tinware and a broken
delf article or two.
The woman was crying in one corner,
and the man with tears in his eyes and a
pipe in his mouth, sat on a stool with his
dirty arms resting on his knees, and his
sorrowful looking head supported by the
palms of his hands. No word greeted the
interloper.
"Well," said he, "you seem to be in
awful trouble here ; what's up ?"
"0. we are most crazed, neighbor," said
the old woman, "and we ain't got no pa
tience to see folks now."
"That is all right," said the visitor, not
taken back by this polite rebuff; "but
can't I be of any service to you in all this
trouble ?"
"Well, we have lost our gal ; our Sal is
'gone and left us," said the man, in tones
of despair.
"Ah ! do you know what induced her to
leave you ?" remarked the new arrival.
"Well, can't say stranger, as how she's
so far lost as to be induced, but then she's
gone and disgraced us," remarked the af
flicted father.
"Yes, neighbor, and not as I should say
it as is her mother, but there warn't a
pootier gal in the West than my Sal ; she's
gone and brought ruin on us and her own
head, now," followed the stricken mother.
"Who has she gone with ?" asked the
visitor.
"Well, there's the trouble. The gal
could have done well, and might have
married Martin Kehoc, a capital shoema
ker, who although he's got but one eye,
plays the flute in a lively manner, and
earns a good living. Then look what a
home and what a life she has deserted.
She was here surrounded with all the lux
ury ia the country."
"Yes, and who knows what poor Sal
will have to eat or drink, or wear now."
"And who is the fellow that has taken
her from you to lead her into such misery ?"
"Why, cuss him, she's gone off and got
married to a critter called an editor, as
lives in the village, and the devil only
knows how they are to earn a living."
Married "Full Up."
In Virginia, where the law fixes the
marriage fee at one dollar, there is a rem
iniscence of a couple who many years ago
called on a parson and requested him to
marry them.
"Where is my fee ? said the old func
tionary.
The parties who were to unite their for
tunes did so at once, and found the joint
amount to be twenty-seven cents.
"I can't• marry you for that sum," said
the irate old gentleman.
"A little bit of service will go a long
way," suggested the male applicant.
"Ah, no!" said the parson, "you don't
pay for the size of the pill, but for the
good you hope it will do you.
The lass, intent on marriage, began to
weep, but the parson was inexorable, and
the couple turned sadly, to depart. Just
then a happy thought seemed to strike the
forlorn maiden, and she turned and cried
through her tears—
" Please, sir, if you can't marry us full
up won't you marry us twenty-seven cents
worth ? We can come for the rest some
other time."
This was too much for the parson. He
married them "full up," and they went on
their way rejoicing.
Home Manufacture
Two old Barks county plowmen were
telling tough stories of their exploits in
breaking up new ground. The linen was
taken off the bush in this yarn :
"Twas up in Maiden Creek, twenty sev
en years ago this Spring. I was plowing
in stump ground, with a team:of nine pairs
of cattle, for Col. Cunningham. We were
going along, making not very smooth work
among lime, rocks and stumps. Well, one
day the pint o' the plow struck fair against
a sound stump four or five feet through,
split it square across the heart, and I was
follerin' the plow through when the thought
flashed through my mind that the pesky
stump might snap together and pinch my
toes, so I jest gripped the plow handles
firm and swung my feet up out of the way,
and the stump sprung back and caught
the slack of my pantaloons. That brought
everything up all standin'. Well, I tight
ened my hold and Jim Swithin—he and
Sol was drivin'—they spoke to the cattle,
and we snaked that stump right out by the
roots, and it had long ones."
"It must have been strainin' on your
suspenders,', said the other.
"My wife knit them."
A PERSON, attending church, took down
a hymn as he heard it, and afterward re
ferred to the hymn book for a translation,
with the following result :
WHAT HE HEARD,
"Waw-kaw, saw da waw raw,
Thaw saw thaw law aw raw ;
Waw-kaw taw thaw raw vaw waw baaw,
Aw thaw raw jaw saw aw.
THE TRANSLATION.
"Welcome, sweet day of rest,
That saw the Lord arise •
Welcome to this reviving breast,
And these rejoicing eyes."
AN old bachelor geologist was boasting
that every rock was as familiar to him as
the alphabet. A lady who was present de
clared that she knew one of which he was
wholly ignorant.
"You don't say—just name it madam ?"
cried Caleb, quite self-possessed. "It is
rock the cradle, sir," replied the lady.
A FASHIONABLE lady covered with jew
elry, and having on the smallest bonnet
and shawl, complained of the cold, and
asked a Quaker what she should do to get
warm. "I really don't know," said the
Quaker, "unless thee put on another breast
pin."
"SAmno, why am dat nigger down dar
in de bolo of de boat like a chicken in de
egg?" "I gibs um up." "Because be
couldn't get out, if it wasn't for de hatch."
THERE is a good reason why a little
man should never marry a bouncing wid;
ow. He might be called "the widow's
mite."
THE slave of the "Ring."—A bride,
NO. 3.
Zbt Tom Cult.
The Angel of Patience.
Beside the toilsome way,
Lonely and dark, by fruits unblest,
Which my worn feet tread badly, day by day,
Longing in vain for rest.
An angel softly walks,
With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down,
The while from witheredleaves and flowerless stalks,
She weaves my fitting crown.
A sweet and patient grace,
A look of firm endurance, true and tried,
Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face—
So pure, so glorified.
And when my fainting heart
Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate,
Then quietly the angel's bright lips apart,
Whispering softly, .Wait !"
"Patience !" she sweetly saith—
" The father's mercies never come too late;
Gird thee with patience, strength and trasting faith,
And firm assurance—Wait ?"
Angel, behold I wait!
Wearing the thorny crown through all life's hours,
Wait till thy hand shall open the eternal gato,
And change the thorns to flowers.
Let me Sleep
"Let me sleep," said my companion half
pettishly, turning from my touch. "Let
me sleep." The words haunted me for
hours afterwards. How often has the wish
been breathed in this weary world, "Oh
let me sleep!"
The conscience lashes him for misdeeds,
evils committed and unrepented, cries, as
he drops his head into his thorny pillow,
"Oh let me sleep." With sleep comes
oblivion. The mourner who has seen
some bright and beautiful one fade from
his embrace, like a summer flower, nipped
by an early frost, bows his head above the
palid face of the prostrate form below him,
and sighs, in the agony of his soul, "Let
me sleep ; sleep with the loved one whose
smiles shall never' welcome my footsteps
more." "Let me sleep," says the trav
eler who foot-sore and weary has toiled long
in the world, and sees hopes perish unful
filled, joys whither ere they ore tasted,
friendship, which he thought enduring,
changing like the chameleon, andrain-bow
promises fading and melting into colorless
air, "Oh let me sleep, for I am weary."
The rosy-checked child, the blithe maiden,
the thoughtful matron, those for whom
life puts on its finest aspect, the most en
during smiles, all have periods in which
they long that the oblivion of Lethe may
flow darkly and deeply over them.
There cometh a sleep unto all—a sleep,
deep, hushed and breathless. The roar of
a cannon, the deep-toned thunderbolt., the
shock of an earthquake, or the rush ')f
ten thousand armies cannot break up the
still repose. With mute lips vid folded
arms one after another the ephemerons of
earth sink down into darkness and noth
ingness. No intruding footsteps shall jar
upon their rest, no disturbing :ouch shall
wring from them the exclamation, "Oh,
let me sleep."
The Secret of Happiness
One of my neighbors, in town and church
is an old lady whose dress is of a style be
longing to no period of fashion. I wonder,
sometimes, if, for forty years, the cost, of
it has exceeded as many dollars. Her
step is as light and her manner bright and
cheery, and over her otherwise homely
face spreads the glow of a heart at peace
with God. Her youth was spent in a
struggle for daily bread, and scarcely was
this pressure removed before she was call
ed upon to mourn the loss of first one and
then another loved member of her family,
until she outlived every relative. Her
home is plain, almost bare of the luxuries
considered as indispensable to comfort,
yetothere is not one to whom I so much en
joy a visit as to this solitary woman, ever
so warm in greeting, so cheerfitlly com
panionable.
"There is so much heart-ease about you,"
I - once said to her, "that it refreshes me
to meet you. Why, you are the youngest
and happiest person I have seen to-day !"
"Oh, yes," she replied, smilin'ly, "I
have stopped growing old, for etch day
brings me nearer the possession of endless
youth, in my better home. And how can
I be unhappy in this beautiful world where
my heavenly Father has placed me ?"
"Still you have had your full share of
trials and sorrows."
"Yes, I have surely passed through the
valley of Bica, but by the grace of God I
have been able to make it well. But, my
friend," she continued, "I have been hap
py only since I ceased to strain after what
was beyond my reach, and resolved no
longer to hug to my bosom griefs and dis
appointments, but to take them all to God,
and leave them with him, content to be
what he wishes and only that."
A Good Moral Character.
There is nothing which adds so much to
the beauty and powers of a man as a good
moral character. It is wealth--his influ
ence—his life. It signifies him in every
station, exalts him in every condition and
glorifies him in every period of his life.
Such a character is more to be desired than
any thing else on earth. It makes a man
free and independent. No servile tool, no
crouching sycophant, no treacherous honor
seeker, ever bore such a charactei. The
pure joys of truth and righteousness never
spring in such persons. If young men
only knew how much a good character
would dignify and exalt them, how glori
ous it would make their prospects, even in
this life, never should we find them yield
ing to groveling and base born purposes of
human nature which destroy body and
soul.
Cheerful Religion
Let men be taught to know there is as
much religion in the good, robust, rejoic
ing, enthusiastic singing of God's praise, as
the sedate and doleful style that is usually
considered the most devotional ; let them
know that the earnest prayer need not be
a drawling jeremiad; let them feel that
good gospel preaching may be a sprightly
delivery of pleasing truths, more than a
winning recitation of inanites; let them
believe that Christianity is a live thing,
. .
that it is in sympathy vAth the active, ri
joicing spirit of humanity, and it will be
better commended to their acceptance.
Fos Montsss.—Send your little chile
dren to bed happy. Whatever cares press,
give it a warm good-night kiss as it goes
to its pillow. The memory of this, in the
stormy years that may be in store for the
little one, will be like Bethlehem's star to
the bewildered shepherds. "My father
and mother - loved me . ' Nothing can take
away that blessed heart-balm. Lips parch
ed with the world's fever will become dewy
again at the thrill of youthful memories.
Kiss your little child before it goes to sleep.