VOL. 47
The Huntingdon Journal.
J. R. DURBORROW,
PUBLISHERS AND PROPRIETORS.
Office ON the Corner of Bath and Wrtehington streets.
Tue HUNTINGDON JOURNAL IS published every
Wednesday, by J. R. DURBORROW and J. A. NASH,
under the firm name of J. R. DUREORROW dc Co., at
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for in six months from date of subscription, and
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No paper discontinued, unless at the option of
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JOB PRINTING of every kind, in Plain and
Fancy Colors, done with neatness and dispatch.—
Rand-bills, Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, dm, of every
.variety and style, printed at the shortest notice,
and every thing in the Printing line will be execu
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Professional Cards
CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
D•No. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied
by Messrs. Woods & Williamson. [apl2,'7l.
DR. It. R. WIESTLING,
respectfully offers his professional services
to the citizens of Huntingdon and vicinity.
Office removed to No. 61Si Hill street, (Slum's
Butimmo.) [apr.s;7l-Iy.
TIE. J. C. FLEMMING respectfully
offers his professional services to the citizens
of Huntingdon and vicinity. Office second floor of
Cunningham's building, on corner of 4th and Hill
Street. may 24•
DR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his
professional services to the community.
Office, No. 523 Washington street, one door east
of the Catholic Parsonage. [jan.4,'7l.
J. GREENE, Dentist. Office rc
• moved to Leister's new building, Hill street
P”-itingdon. pan. 4,11.
CI L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T.
• Brcien's new building, No. 520, Hill St.,
Huntingdon. Pa. (ap12,'71.
TT GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
A A • of Washington and Smith streets, Hun
tingdon, Pa. • [jan.l2'7l.
RC. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law
• Office, No. —, Hill street, Huntingdon,
Pa. • [ap.19,'71-
JSYLVANIIS BLAIR, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Ps. Office, Hill street,
hroo doors west of Smith. Dan.47l.
_T It. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth-
Z 1 • ecary, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun
tingdon, Pa. Prescriptions aeounately oompoustdod.
Pure Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [n0w.23,'70.
HALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
tir • No. 319 Hill at., Huntingdon, Pa. Onn.V7l.
R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the
several Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular
attention given to the settlement of estates of dece
dents.
Office in ho jounnAL Building. [feb.l,'7l
j W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
r,
• 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 promptness.
Office on-Hill street. pan.4;7l.
IC ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at
. • Law, Huntingdon Pa. Special attention
given to COLLECTIONS of all kinds; to the settle
ment of Estates, .kc.; and all other Legal Business
prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch.
Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
Speer, Esq. Dan.4,'7l.
MILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at,
Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly
to all legal business. Office in Cunningham's new
building. [jan.4,'7l.
X. ALLISON MILLER. 11. CI:CEIANAN,
MILLER k BUCHANAN,
DENTISTS,
No, 228 hill Street,
HUNTINGDON, PA.
April 5, '7l-ly.
p M. & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
-a- • at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to
ail kinds of legal business entrusted to their care.
Office on the south side of Hill street, fourth door
west of Smith. Lian.4,'7l.
10? A. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
• Office, 321 Hill street, Huntingdon, l'a.
[may3l,'7l.
JOHN SCOTT.. S. T. BROW2C. O. N. HAILET
QCOTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At.
torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions,
and all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against
the Government will be promptly prosecuted.
°Moe on Hill erect. [jan.4,'7l.
TW. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
• tingdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart,
Esq. [jan.4;7l.
'WILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney
at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
given to collections, and all other Ugal business
attended to with care and promptness. Office, No.
229, Hill street. [ap19,71.
Miscellaneous.
EXCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
January 4, 1811.
COLORED PRINTING DONE AT
the Journal Office, at Philadelphia prices
NEAR THE RAILROAD DEPOT,
COR. WAYNE and JUNIATA STREETT
UNITED STATES HOTEL,
lIOLLIDAYSBURG, PA
M'CLAIN et, CO., PROPRIETORS
EOBT. KING, Merchant Tailor, 412
Washington street, Huntingdon, Pa.. a lib
eral share of patronage respectfully solicited.
A pril 12, 1871.
L,EWISTOWN BOILER WORKS.
-&-• GEORGE PAWLING lc CO., Manufae
urers 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 pr•o-ritly attentkel to. Repairing
done at short notice. [Apr ri,'7l,ly.*
A R. BECK, Fashionable Barber
.4-4-• and Hairdresser, Hill street, opposite the
Franklin House. All kinds of Tonics and Pomades
kept on hand and for sale. (apl9,'7l—lim
CIO TO THE JOURNAL OFFICE
For all kinds of printing.
*it
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z......_ u_ntingdon Journal•
gke Poo' golver.
J. A. 1',.7A511,
On the Town
The lamps are lighted, the streets are full,
For, coming and going, like wares of the se,
Thousands are out this beautiful night,
They jostle each other but shrink from me.
Men hurry by with a stealthy glance,
Women pima with their eyes cast down ;
Even the children seem to know
The shameless girl of the town. "
listed ani shunned I walk the street,
Ilunting—for what! For my prey, 'Us said:
I look at it though in a different light,
For this nightly shame is my daily bread—
My food, my shelter, the clothes I wear,
Only for this I might starve or drown;
The world disowned me—what ran I do
But live and die on the town P
The world ieerttel. It Tight ho right
To crush the harlot; but grant it so,
What made her the guilty thing the be?
For once she was innocent, you know.
'Twits love! That terrible word tells all
She loved a man and blindly believed
Ilia vows, his kisses, his crocodile tears—
Of course the fool was deceived!
80 , 100
What had I to gain by a moment's sin,
To weigh to the smile with my innocent years
My womanly shame, my ruined name.
My father's curse; ' my mother's tears??
The late of men! It something to give.
H'aa it ir - urtcit? The price was ;is—rraid down
Did I get it soul, his soul in exchange?
Behold me here on the town!
"Your guilt was heavy," the world will say,
"And heavy, heavy your doom must be;
For to pity and pardon woman's WI
Is to set no value on chastity;
You undervalue the virgin's Crown,
The spotless honor that makes her dear,"
But I ought to know what the bauble is worth
When the loss of it brings me here,.
But pity and pardon! Who are you
To talk of pardon, pity to met
What I ask is justice, justice, sir—
Let both he punished, or both go free.
If it be in a woman a dreadful thing,
Whet is it in man, now? Come be just;
(Remember, she falls through her love for him,
l le through his selfish lust.)
Tell me what is done to the wretch
Who tempts and riots in woman's fall?
Ills father curses, and casts him off?
His friends forsake? He is scorned of all !
Not he! Ills judges are men like himself,
Or thoughtless women, who humor their whim
.. Young blood," "Wild oats," "Better hush it up;"
They soon forget it—in him !
Even his mother, who ought to know
The woman-nature, and how it is won.
Frames a thousand excuses for him,
Because, forsooth, the man is her son
Yon have daughters, Madam, (he told me so),
Fair, innocent daughters--" Woman, what then?'
Some mother may have a son like yours,
Bid them beware of the men!
I sawhis coach in the street to-day,
Dashing along on the annoy side,
With a liveried driver on the box:
Lolling back in her listless pride,
The wife of his bosom took the air,
She was bought in the niart where hearts are sold—
I gave myself away for his love,
She sold herself for his gold:
lle lives ' they say, in a princely way,,
Flattered and feasted. One dark night
Some devil led me tee pass his house;
RIM the windows ablaze of light;
The music whirled in a maddening round,
_ .
I beard the fall of the dancers' Feet
Bitter, bitter the thoughts I had
Standing therein th; street
Back to my gaudy den I went,
Marched to my room in grim despair,
Dried my eyes, painted my cheeks,
And fined a flower or two in my hair,
Corks were popping, wine was flowing,
I seized a bumper and tossed it down—
One most do something to kill the time,
And fit one's self for the town !
I met his hny in the park sometimes,
And my heart rune - over towards thechild
A frank little fellow with fearless eyes,
He smiles at me as hie father mired
I hate the man, bet I love the boy,
. . . .
For I think ;that my own, hadlie lived, would be—
Perhaps it is he, come back from the deed—
To his father, alas, not me!
Bat I stand too long in the shadow here ;
Let me out in the light again,
Now for insult, blows perhaps,
And, bitterer still, my own disdain.
I take my place in the crowded street.
Not like the simple women I see--
You may cheat them, men, as much an you please,
You wear no mask with me!
I know ye! Under your honeyed words
There lurks a serpent; your oaths are lies ;
There's lustful fire in your hungry hearts,
I see it flaming up in your eyes I
Cling to them, ladies, and shrink from me,
Or rail at my boldness. Well, hare you done ?
Madam; your husband knows me well,
Mother, I know your Bon!
But go your ways, and I'll go mi.;
Call me opprobrious names if you will ;
The truth is bitter; think I have lied—
"A harlot?" Yes I but a woman still I
God said of old to a woman like rue—
“ Clo, sin no more,” or your Bibles lie,
But you. you mangle His merciful words
To "Go, and sin till you die V°
Die '—the word Intsa pleasant sound,
The sweetest Tvo heiird this many 'a
year,
It seems to promise an end to pain ;
Any way it will end it here t
Suppose' throw myself in the street ?
V trample me down,
Some would-be friend might snatch me up,
And thrust me beckon the town
But look—the river! From whore I stand
I see it, I almost here it flow,
Down on the dark and lonely pier—
It is but a step—l can end my woe!
A plunge, a splash, and all will be o'er,
The death-black waters will drag me down
God knows where! But no matter where.
So I am off the town I
Ulu Morp-Uvlier,
The Red Cloak.
-:o:
"WAS that the postman's knock, Grace?"
"Yes, dear, and here is a letter for you
from the firm, I know by the envelope."
And answering her husband's quick
glance of interest, the young wife placed
the letter in his eagerly extended hand
adding with a smile, "if I did not know
that it is business, Philip, I think I should
claim my privilege and peep over your
shoulder while you read it."
"You are welcome to do it. my darling;
I know I have no secrets from you."
"Very well, sir," I will consent to stay
here until you have read your letter; it
has occurred to me that you might want
my advice about something, for you know
that I am your better half."
"More than half, little woman ; you are
nearer the whole. I don't know what I
should do without you, Grace. Maimed,
helpless, where should I be but for your
tender nursing, which is doing more than
anything to make me well."
As he spoke Philip Holt looked with
sorrowful significance at his bandaged leg,
which was supported on a chair. He had
been for some weeks suffering from a com
pound fracture and -other injuries sustain
ed in a fall from a dog-cart. Philip was a
clerk in a mercantile house in the small
town of Oldiugham. He had been about
two years married to Grace Howard, a
young nursery governess, and the orphan
daughter of a country surgeon ; she had
brought him no other marriage dowry than
her fair face and true heart.
The young pair had begun life with love
as their chief worldly capital ; and thanks
to their united efforts—to the wife's talent
for domestic management and the hus
band's habits of industry and economy—
all had gone well with them to the date of
this unfortunate accident. Until then
there had been no shadow of care in the
little home, which had been their earthly
paradise, though it consisted only of two
plainly furnished rooms, the second floor
of a small house in tho suburb of the town;
but, as Philip fondly said, Grace had such
a happy way of making everything bright
about her.
Mehls-tf
The young wife understood her hus
band's sorrowful glances, but she tried to
divert his thoughts, saying playfully,
"Come, Philip, your letter; I thought you
were in a hurry to read it; now I am get
ting impatient to hear what the firm have
to say ; perhaps they have written to tell
you that they cannot do without you any
longer."
Was it foreboding of coming evil that
made Philip hesitate before he opened the
envelope, conscious of a vague feeling of
uneasiness as be glanced at the bright face
that was smiling over his shoulder ? She
seemed so full of hopeful anticipation, to
which he was unable to respond, for he
could not divest himself of a strange, un
definable fear connected with the letter.
"What is the matter, Philip ? Are you
ill ?"
This was the young wife's anxious ques
tion as she saw her husband suddenly drop
the letter and heard his half-stifled cry.—
When she caught sight of his ghastly pale
ness and altered manner she hastily picked
ed up the letter, exclaiming :
"Oh, Philip, what is it ?"
That something in the letter was the
cause of his agitation she now felt sure.—
Her first care was to soothe him, and she
did it in the tender, womanly fashion that•
seldom fails of its power over the sex of
sterner mould.
"Is it bad news ? Tell me, Philip, is it
bad news ? Don't try to keep it back with
the thought of sparing me. Your trouble
is mine, and whatever it is, I must bear
my part."
In reply the poor fellow wound his arm
about her slight figure, and in his heart
blessed her for the comfort which her lov
ing, courageous words had given him.
"Come," she urged, with fond persist
ence that was not to be turned aside, "tell
me the worst; it cannot be anything very
dreadful. The doctor says you are getting
better, and while you are spared to me,
Philip, I think I could bear anything."
He tried to smile, but it faded from his
lips as he pushed the letter, which she had
placed on the table, towards her, faltering :
"Read for yourself, darling. It is from
the firm ; they send me notice of dismis
sal."
It was true. Philip's employers, Messrs.
Hardman & Joyce, had written a few cold,
curt words to apprise their clerk that his
continued absence had caused inconveni
ence, which had made it necessary to ap
point another to supply his place, and as
this arrangement had proved satisfactory
to them, they begged to inform Philip
Holt that his services were dispensed with
from that date.
The husband and wife looked at each
other in silence. It was a cruel blow which
was thus unexpectedly dealt him; both
could realize what it was to be cast out of
employment during a time of commercial
depression, and winter days found him
still on the forlorn list of the unemployed.
Looking at his thin face her heart ached
for him in the trouble which had come
upon them, for he was far from strong,
and the little comforts bad become almost
necessities of life to him. What was to be
done ? The expense entailed by his acci
dent had already made serious inroads upon
the slender sum which they had managed
to save. This is the question that pre
sented itself to Philip as his face caught
and retained the shadow which had passed
over that of Grace.
"I never thought they would have acted
like this, Grace, after the years I have
been in their employ. It is hard that a
man's misfortune should be visited against
him as a fault, but I know who I have to
thank for it. With all his oddities, Mr.
Hardman would not have done such a
thing."
"Would it do any good to to him,
Philip ?"
"No," returned the husband, gloomily;
"it would be useless. Mr. Hardman leaves
all to his son-in-law, Mr. Joyce, who man
ages everything, the partner included."
"Could I not go to Mr. Hardman, Phil
ip, and explain it to him ?"
_ . _
"No, Grace; I don't think he would act
against Mr. Joyce, for he almost believes
'he cannot do wrong."
"Never mind, Philip; don't grieve;
something else will be sure to turn up;
you are so very clever, and your leg will
not be well in a few weeks."
"You forget, Grace, that all our savings
are nearly spent, and that I may find some
difficulty in getting another situation."
The half-irritable tone of his voice hurt
the younc , wife, who had struggled so hard
to hide from him her own feeling. She
burst into tears, murmuring reproachfully
"I forgot—l forgot, Philip, oh ! how I
wish I could ! I cannot forget, dear, but
can pray that we may be spared such tri
als."
"My dear, dear wife, forgive me; I am
so miserable that I hardly knew what I
said. Oh! if it had come at any other
time."
* * * * *
Snowing still, as it had snowed for
hours. The air was full of blinding mist
from thickly falling flakes which the wind
drifted into masses through the cold, white
streets. The office clock pointed to a quar
ter past ten on the bleak December morn
ing when Stephen Hardman left his desk,
and, readjusting his gold-rimmed specta
cles placed himself at the window, as he
did every morning at the same hour. No
matter what might be his occupation, at
the time it was made to yield to the in
dulgence of what appeared to those around
him a most singular whim.
When the quarter had advanced to
twenty-five minutes past the hour he took
out his watch and compared it with the
office clock ; as he expected, they agreed
to a second.
"Not coming," he muttered. "I never
knew her to extend more than three or
four seconds over the quarter ; so punctual
to her time that I might almost set my
watch by her. Not coming! Well it's
not fit weather for one like her to be out;
she's too small and delicate looking. If
she belonged to me I'd take care—why,
bless me, there she is !" the old merchant
added in an eager whisper, as a young
lady came in view. She was on the oppo
site side of the street—a slight girlish
figure, with a peculiarity of dress that
might have attracted attention in places
less tolerant to varieties of costume than
a busy little town. This was a scarlet
cloak, with the hood drawn down over her
bonnet, and fitting round her face like a
frame. It gave out a warm gleam of color
against the snow, and invested its wearer
with some resemblance to the Red Riding
Hood of the sweet old fairy tale.
Standing there, with his hands resting
on the edge of the wire band, the merchant
had watched, morning after morning, the
passing of that picturesque figure, and
noted that the fresh, pure face which had
first attracted him was gradually growing
paler and thinner. This had gono on for
weeks, until it had become a part of the
day's routine to watch for her. She was
invested with a strange kind of interest to
him by a fancied likeness between her and
a favorite daughter of his own, who had
faded in her first bloom.
As he watched the advancing figure he
murmured, "Every day she grows more
like my little Ellen. I could almost fancy
it was herself getting paler and thinner;
poor child ! I wonder if she has any one to
care for her."
At that moment a group of boys rushed
towards theyoung lady, the foremost of the
noisy crew exclaiming in derisive allusion
HUNTINGDON, PA., MARCH 6, 1872
to the red cloak, Hallo, Bill, "let's putout
the fire."
The words were followed by a laugh and
a shower of snow balls. In the effort to
avoid the snow-balls the young lady slipped
and fell.
With the fear of a policeman before their
eyes the boys scampered off, leaving the
prostrate figure on the ground ; but aid was
at hand. A youth with a pen behind his
ear made a rush from a building on the
opposite side of the street, followed almost
immediately by a white-haired old gentle
man who showed considerable anxiety and
solicitude in ascertaining if the young lady
was hurt.
"Not much," was the murmured reply"
while the sweet voice added some word
thanks for the assistance which bad been
rendered. Her hurt was more scrims thfiti
she was aware—she had severely sprained
one of her ankles, and the . effort to stand
caused inexpressible pain.
"Let us help her into my office, Thom
as," said the old man, "then we will see
what can be done."
A few minutes lucre and the stranger
found herself seated in an easy chair by a
bright fire.
She could not help looking her grateful
surprises at the unexpected kindness of
the old gentleman. She did not guess that
her face had become to him familiar as
something which had entered into his
daily life. He saw her glance at tbe.clock,
and noted the anxious .expression of her
pale face.
"Are you far from home ?" he asked.
"Yes," she faltered; "but I shall not
be going home for hours. I am engaged
every day teaching; my pupils will be
waiting now. I must try to walk; it is
.getting so late."
"Walk ! why you cannot even stand;
the thing is impossible." She seemed so
much distressed that he said hastily,
"Write a note, relating what has occurred,
and one of my clerks shall take it."
She thanked him, timidly; bet he saw
that she was unwilling to accept his offer,
and added, "if you would rather go your
self I will send for a cab ?"
"Thank you, sir; that will be much
better than writing, and I should like to
go at once."
Her manner was full of nervous excite
ment, and he saw her delicate face flushed
as she spoke. He did not know that in
the midst of her eagerness she was anx
iously debating the question of cab fare,
and wondering how much money it would
take to pay it. If the man of capital could
only have investigated the interior of the
poor little purse lying at the bottom of her
satchel, so slenderly furnished, yet, alas !
representing nearly all the worldly wealth
of its possessor, how sadly it would hate
confirmed the misgivings which had been
excited by a glance at the well-worn cloak,
and the shoes obviously unsuited for the
hard service which bad been required from
them. Five minutes later a cab was rapid
ly bearing away the scarlet cloak and its
wearer, and the benevolent old merchant
was thoughtfully warming his hands be
fore the office fire. She was gone, and he
gained no additional knowledge of her ex
cept that she was somebody's daily gov
erness. From that day he watched in
vain for a glimpse of the red cloak ; he saw
it no more, and concluded that the poor
young teacher war unable to continue her
daily journeys. She gave him the im
pression of one who had to depend upon
herself, but the
_reality might be still worse;
for anything he knew there might be oth
ers, even more helpless, dependent upon
her. In spite of his repeated disappoint
ments Mr. Hardman still took his post at
the window, as though the practice yielded
him a certain amount of pleasurable ex
citement which he was unable to relinquish.
A month had passed ; it was an unusu
ally bright day for January, when Mr.
Hardman took his seat in his comfortable
brougham in company with an old medi
cal friend, who had agreed to go home
with him to dinner on condition that he
would allow him to make one or more pro
fessional calls before the carriage was
turned in the direction of Winchley.
Assent was readily given. "Certainly,
doctor, you shall be set down wherever
you wish; I shall not mind waiting in the
least, for we have plenty of time on our
hands before dinner."
The doctor was about the same age as
his friend, the merchant, a portly old gen
tleman, with the kindest smile that could
be imagined, and a benevolent face that
must have considerably helped the healing
power of his prescriptions.
"I will not detain you long," said the
doctor, as the carriage turned into a side
street.
"This is a new ease ; I was only called
in the other day, but I am getting inter
ested in my patient—or I should say pa
tients, for there are two, husband and wife ;
my first visit was only to him, poor fellow ;
he is ill from cold and over exertion in
tramping the streets in search of a situa
tion, and the wife met with an accident
about a month ago; she has not been
properly attended to, and is also on my
hands."
"Have they no means ?" asked the mer
chant.
"I fear not. As long as she could the
wife went out as a daily governess:"
"Ah : what was the - n;'ture of the acci
dent?"
"A severely sprained ankle, caused by
a fall."
"Bless me ! I wonder if it is the young
lady I was telling you about a few days ago?"
The doctor looked inquiringly at his
friend.
"Ah ! I see you don't remember. Do
you know whether the patient wears a red
cloak ?"
"So you think she may be your little
heroine of the red cloak. lam not aware,
for I have only seen her within doors."
"Of course not; how absurd of me to
forget that. I should like to see these
patients of yours. Can't you take me with
you ? They would think me another
medical man."
The doctor smiled, considered a moment,
and then said :
"Yes, I think we can manage it."
As he spoke the brougham stopped at
the door of a large, dingy-looking house,
sublet from basement to attic. A few
minutes more and the doctor had safely
piloted his friend up a steep, dark stair
case to the door of a close back room on
the third floor, where a scene of poverty
and privation awaited them. Nearly all
the chairs which the room contained had
been put into requisition to form a couch,
on which lay a young man who was evi
dently weak and ill. Beside him sat a pale,
slight creature, busily engaged stitching
at some coarse needle-work. The feeble
flicker of a meagre fire gleamed feebly on
the faces of both.
As the visitors stood at the door they
heard a voice saying fretfully, "I am very
cold, Grace, that fire gives no heat, Iwish
we had more coals,"
Instinctively Mr. Hardman put his hand
in his pocket, feeling thankful that it lay
in his power to relieve the want of the
speaker.
The next moment they were in the
room; but the old merchant stopped short
on the threshhold, gazing in undisguised
amazement at the inmates.
One glance at the features of the young
wife identified the wearer of the red cloak
—a discovery for which he had been half
prepared, but it was the face of the hus
band that arrested his attention. "Bless
me," he murmured, "that face seems fa
miliar."
At that moment the young man raised
himself on his elbow, saying excitedly;
"Mr. Hardman here ?"
The sound of his own name visibly
startled the merchant. He hurried to the
side of the impromptu couch exclaiming :
"It is Philip Holt."
The poor fellow seemed much overcome
by this unexpected visit of his old employ
er, who, unfortunately for him, had been
absent at the time when Mr. Joyce, with
whom he had never been a favorite, had
ordered his dismissal. A few words put
the merchant in possession of the sad
story, which received double interest when
he learned that the ills of poverty had
been warded off by the heroic efforts of
Philip's young wife, who had gone back to
her old work of teaching, ending her weary
day by nights of exhausting toil at such
needlework as she was able to obtain.
Here was a new reading of his little ro
mance of the red cloak, and it is certain
that it did not lessen the interest in the
wearer; but he could not readily excuse
himself from the blame, which he took to
his own account, for allowing his partner's
summary dismissal of nit old clerk to re
main without inquiry. He determined that
the injury_ to Philip Holt should be
atoned for, and he kept his word. When
the youno. ° man recovered he was restored
to his old place, in which he had ample
opportunities or pushing his way and
gaining even the respect and confidence of
Mr. Joyce.
. _ _
Like a day of sunshine following a
clouded morning, prosperity blessed the
younc , b couple, and the loving, patient wife
had her reward.
Philip always traced their good fortune
to the cloak, which she bad worn because
it was her mother's, and from that day he
decided that it should be a relic. Years
afterwards, when he was a prosperous mer
chant, and Grace a happy matron, with
children grown up around her, he would
say in allusion to their early days of trial,
"My darling, it you find me growino• ' sel
fish and forgetful of you and my duty,
show me your old red cloak; it will preach
a sermon that will be sure to set all
right."
pad* for Ow
Romantic if True,
A correspondent of the Chicago Tribune
claims to have recently interviewed a band
of prospectors who were on their way to
seek the "Golden. Mountain" of the Apa—
ches, in the interior of Arizona. Direc
tions for finding this desirable spot had
been given by the Chief Cochise, whom
they had the good luck to capture, and re
vealed the secret as the price of his release.
The further and more startling revelation
of Cochise is thus given :
A party of Apaches, while lying in am
bush one day in the latter part of Decem
ber, 1826, in Chihuahua, Mexico, on the
Rio Grande, across the river from what is
now El Passes, Texas, watching a traveling
cavalcade as it passed a clump of small
trees saw one of the number spring from
his horse into the dense chapparel and dis
appear from view of the horsemen. The
cavalcade fired a few shots at or towards
him, and half a dozen dismounted and
pursued in the direction he took, but of no
avail. The escaping man ran directly to
ward where the Apaches lay in the bushes,
and run into their midst. Tney seized and
bound him, mounted, and lashed him on
a horse, and at once took their flight. They
traveled toward the Apache chief town by
a circuitous and concealed route, and
reached it after six days travel.
The prisoner was much alarmed at first,
but finding that his death was not to be
immediate, he put his mind to studying
out some plan of escape; but they kept
him securely till they arrived in camp.
They decided to keep him till a grand fete
day, some months ahead, and put him
through the gauntlet and end his life in a
grand carnival. He for some time was as
restless as a captive bear, walked up and
down his small enclosure, and talked to
himself incessantly. But before the day
for his taking off—this is the captain's
term, not the Indian's—he had become
somewhat resigned to his captivity, had
learned something of the Apache language,
and gave them some history. They got
interested in him and promised him Isis life
in return for his solemn promise that he
would never attempt to escape. He mar
ried the chief's daughter, and on the death
of the chief; became chief himself. He
had four sons and a daughter. The oldest
son became chief in his turn, and is the
chief who is the subject of this story.
The white chief taught them while among
them the secrets of the Great Spirit, and
these secrets have enabled them to make
the Apaches the strongest tribe in the
west; to pass through the country of the
white man in safety everywhere; to obtain
information of their enemies and their
movements always, and by passwords and
signs to know an enemy or a friend as far
as seen. They always have kept, and
still keep, one of their educated half
breeds in the camp of the whites, and
by the secrets of this great society, he is
always able to keep them informed of every
movement of any kind, and of every plan
of attack on them as soon as that plan is
known to the chiefs of the enemy them
selves. And, when captured, they are al
most always sure to effect an escape, re
leased by some member of this society
among the enemy. The great cheif told
them that the society extended all over the
world; taught them all the ceremonies
connected with it; taught their maidens
to make the badges and insigna worn by
the initiated, and on certain days, the 24th
of June and some others, they walked in
procession, and held a grand dance at night.
They believed him to be the son of the
Great Spirit. He is buried at the Golden
Mountain, and his grave is walled and cov
ered with gold, and is their sacred place
of worship. They gather now every year
on the 24th of June. The great chief
told them that he was "moons" on his
journey from his starting point ; that he
was taken prisoner in Batavia, N. Y., and
from there taken to and confined in Fort
Niagara in the latter part, of September of
the same year in which ho came to the
Apache country. The reason of his im
prisonment was on account of his divulg
ing the secrets of the society. He was
kept prisoner at Fort Niagara till Septem
ber 16th, when he was taken in a close
carriage and driven via Buffalo, New
York, to Hennepin, Illinois, on the Illi
nois River, and thence sent in a flat-boat
to the Mississippi River, down which he
floated to New Orleans. There he was placed
on a vessel bound to the mouth of the Rio
Grande River, and proceeded up that Riv
er on horseback to El Passo, where the
Apaches found him. His captors intend
ed to give him into the hands of some Je
suit priests among the Indians near where
they captured him. His captors passed
down through Mexico, and escaped. That
great white chief was the man supposed to
have been murdered by the Masons, Wil
liam Morgan, and the saject of this story
is his son, Cochise.
Hard Times and What Causes Them ,
We are fast becoming a nation of sche
mers to live without genuine work. Our
boys are not learning trades; our farmers'
sons are crowding into cities, looking for
clerkships and post offices; hardly one
American girl in each hundred will do
housework for wages, however urgent her
need ; so we are sending to Europe for
workmen and buying of her artisans mil
lions worth of products that we ought to
make for ourselves. Though our crop of
rascals is heavy, we do not grow our own
hemp; though we are overrun with lads
who deserve flagellation, we import our
willows. Our women (unless deceived)
shine in European fabrics; our men dress
in foreign clothes; the toys which amuse
our younger children have generally reach
ed us over the sea. We are like the farm
er who hires his neighbor's son to chop
his wood, feed his stock, and run his er
rands while his own boys lounge at the
grog-shop, playing billiards, and then won
ders why, in spite of his best efforts, he
sinks annually deeper and deeper into debt,
tilL the Sheriff cleans him out, and he
starts West to begin again. _ _
We must turn — over — a new leaf. Our
boys and girls must be taught to love labor
by qualifying themselves to do it efficient
ly. We must turn out fewer professionals
and more skilled artisans, as well as food
growers. We must grow and fabricate
two hundred millions worth per annum,
that we now import, and so reduce the
foreign debt that we have so long and so
successfully augmented year by year. We
must qualify our clever boys to erect and
run factories, furnaces, rolling-mills, tan
neries, machine shops, etc.; to open and
work mines, improve and fashion imple
ments, and double the present product of
their father's farm. So shall we stem the
tide of debt that sets steadily against our
shores, and cease to be visited and annoy
ed by hard times.
When do Men Die ?
Medical experience proves that, in chron
ic diseases, the greater number of deaths
occur just before dawn. This is eminently
true of brain diseases, and of all those re
lated cases where death results from an
exhaustion of the vital power, through
overwork, excessive excitement, or nervous
prostration. It is at the hoar of five
o'clock in the morning that the life-force
is at its lowest ebb, and succumbs most
readily to the assault of epilepsy, or par
alysis, or of the fatal lethargy that comes
in those vividly beautiful picture-dreams,
for which the medical science has as yet
found no name, and of which it has taken no
sufficient cognizance. Nine-tenths of those
who die in this way expire in their sleep.
In many such cases, if a friend were at
hand to waken the sleeper when the at
tack comes on, or if he were to be awaken
ed by some accidental noise, he might, by
the use of a few simple precautions, pro
long his life for many years, for the shock
that proves fatal to the man wrapped in
deep sleep, when the system is passive and
relaxed, would be victoriously repelled
were it armed with all its waking ener
gies. Men who do brain work, and who
are on the shady side of forty, should be
on their guard against this insidious ene
my. They should beware of 5 o'clock, a.
m., for it is a perilous hour. Do you find
yourself unable to sleep when you retire for
the night, exhausted with your day's work ?
Do you, in vain, turn from one side to the
other ? Does your brain persist in work
ing when you would fain have it rest ? Do
old saws and scraps of rhyme repeat them
selves in your memory with wearisome
iteration, defying your utmost efforts to
silence them Y Then, beware ! You will
be sure to sleep at last. It is only a ques
tion of time; for, soon or late, nature will
assert her rights.
PRODUCTION OF IRON IN 1871.—The
production of pig iron in the United States
during the past year is estimated at 1,850,-
000 tons. This quantity is distributed as
follows : anthracite pig iron, from Lehigh,
Schuylkill, Upper and Lower Susque
hanna, and eastern and northern Pennsyl
vania regions, 863,000 tons; raw coal and
coke pig iron, 600,000 tons ; charcoal pig
iron from New England States, New York,
New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland and
Southern aryl Western States, 387,000
tons. The total number of persons engaged
in the production of raw and manufactur
ed iron is given at 940,000, of whom 140,-
000 are employed in the direetproduction of
iron, 800,000 in the manufacture of ar
ticles of iron. The value of this labor, it
is asserted, if only paid for at the rate of
$2 per day, and allowing 300 working days
to the year, would amount to $564,000,-
000. The value of the product is estima
ted at $900,000,000 divided as follows :
pig iron, $75,000,000; products ot rolling
mills and forges, $138,000,000 ; and value
of articles manufactured from iron, $687,-
000,000.
WOMAN'S RIGHTS.-A long-nosed thin
shanked old maid, appeared at the door of
a farmer's house in lowa the other day,
and wanted the farmer's wife to subscribe
to some woman's newspaper, and sign a
petition for woman's suffrage.
The wife called :
"Charles, Tom, Jane, Richard, Lucy !"
and was soon surrounded by a crowd of
rosy-checked children. She turned to her
visitor and said :
"Have you any of these ?"
"No," was the sharp reply.
"Then," replied the buxom wife, "go
and get a few, and afterwards come to me
about woman's rights if you feel like it.
REV. W. H. H. MURRAY calls Death
"the dark faced but kind-hearted usher,
sent out to lead us to our Father's palace."
What could be more comforting and'beau
tiful?
HOWEVER many friends you have, do
not neglect yourself; though you have a
thousand, not one of them loves you as
much as you ought to love yourself.
Uoilrl.
The Fashions
The fabrics in vogue are the same as
those worn lastmonth—cloth, double cash
mere silk reps, point de sole, satin, failie,
and velvet, with a host of mixed materials
which we do not enumerate, as their names
vary so considerably as to be no guide to
our readers. Many of these are compara
tively inexpensive, but make very pretty
and even elegant costumes. There is a
slight difference in the manner of
^"TTING SKIRTS.
etr s otWh — raine t e SiirWadth
is, of course, gored; another breadth is
gored, half being placed at each aide of
the front; the whole of the remainder of
the skirt is cut on the straight, and the
fullness thrown towards the back. Of
course, a little more material is required
than formerly, but this is amply compensa
ted for by the fact that the pieces are of a
much more useful shape and size for any
second purpose.
There are four distinct varieties of
BODICES,
high or low, and each of these capable of
modification according to taste. The round
waist, with band or sash; this is very lit
tle worn, except for young ladies with
slight figures, to whom it is very becom
ing; the bodice a basques, of which there
is a great diversity of shape, but always
narrower at the sides ; the corsage appointee,
very pretty for ball dresses; and the
corsage tunique, body and upper skirt cut
in one. The first two have one, two or
even three front plaits, according to the
figure of the wearer ; the corsage a basques
is cut either with plaits or two sides bo
dies; the corsage tunique, of course, can
only be cut with two side bodies. The
sleeves are much the same as those worn
last month. The coat sleeve is too con
venient and too becoming to be totally
banished though superseded by the open
shapes of dress wear.
SPRING STYLES
There is a rumor of three overskirts,
but we have no information which corrobo
rates it. In a costume just finished for
spring wear, the overskirt does not differ
materially from the skirts which have
been worn during the past season. It has
the apron front and is looped very high at
the sides under wide bands of the material;
the back, which is full and very long, is
bouffant by an elastic, it closes upon the
left side with books and eyes, which are
placed under the bands. It is cut on the
bottom in castellated scollops, a velvet but
ton the color of the silk ornamenting every
scollop. A very wide flounce cut and or
namented in the same manner trims the
lower skirt, which just clears the ground.
LATEST STYLES IN JEWELRY,
A fashionable caprice is to wear three
or four bracelets on each arm. This bar
baric fancy is seen, of course, only in eve
ning toillette, and it is proable that the
cost will prevent its being followed to any
extent. The bracelets connected by a chain
arenrcrnr, one just above the elbow, the
other upon the wrist; it is also a whim
which, it is to be hoped, will have but a
short existence. We have been asked
whether it is true that eardrops connected
by a chain or necklace are also to be adopt
ed. It is possible that there may be
an effort made by some person or persons
to introduce this heathenish fashion, and if
successful, the fact that it will either tear
the ears or drag them down out of all shape
will have but little effect.
SHELL JEWELRY.
Handsome sets of tortoise shell are se
lected for general wear. Almost every
ornament which is worn in gold is made
in shell. We have ear drops and broaches,
necklaces, chatelains and pendants, brace
lets and sleeve buttons. Lockets and broach
es are cut in cameo, and exhibit as careful
workmanship as is seen upon the popular
stones. The eardrops show various de
signs, and the necklaces generally imitate
the favorite gold necklaces.
JET JEWELRY,
Which is more becoming than shell, con
tinues to be numbered among the varieties
which remain in vogue, but we see noth
ing very new in the designs displayed in
eardrops, broaches, bracelets and chains.
The prettiest ornaments combine the pol
ished with the sombre jet. A favorite de
sign shows small acorns of polished jet
amid oak leaves of unpolished laying up
on a surface, which with a border com
bines the two kinds ; such sets cost from
twelve to fifteen dollars.
VARIETIES.
The standing ruff of white muslin has,
after more than one failure, won the es
teem of the fashionable world. The favor
ite ruff, which is not very wide, shows a
variety of styles. In some the muslin is
edged with footing and laid iu wide box
plaits which touch each other. In others
the ruffle is trimmed with Italian Valen
ciennes and the distance between the box
plaits measures the same as the width of
the plait. Others show a double ruffle,
the under one being a little more than the
width of the lace above the upper.
The fancy continues for
BLACK LACE SCARFS,
which make a pretty addition to the house
toillette. These scarfs are sometimes lined
with white lace, the edge being underlaid
with blond; this style of scarf is pretty
when worn over the black silk dress, but
for colored silks the black lace without the
white is preferable.
NEW NECKTIES
show broad stripes of harmonizing or con
trasting colors. The silk which is fine
and soft forms a very stylish knot or bow;
fine elegant ties are of solid colors, pale
blue, pink or ecru being the favorite
shades. These are edged with a heavy
tassel fringe. White silk ties are also
among the fashionable varieties.
VERY ELEGANT ROBES DE CILAMBRE
for gentlemen are made of brocaded silk,
lined with plain silk of some quiet color,
which is bordered and trimmed with the
silk which forms the lining. Other hand
some robes are of plain cashmere, lined
and trimmed with blue, green, or purple
silk.
BOWS
continue in favor for ornamenting the
hair for home toillette. They are some
times accompanied by leaves of mother-of
pearl, or gold, butterflies, or some other
pretty "ornament".
POLONAISES WITH CAPES,
The polonaises are of medium length
and simple shape. There are darts in
front, the fullness of the skirt behind is
held to the waist in great box-plaits, and
the belt has a postillion attached. A sin
gle talma cape belongs to these, or else a
mantle that has a doable cape behind and
resembles a vest in front.
NO. 10.
onte
A Rich Promise.
"Ile that overcometh, the same shall be clothed in whit.
raiment—l will confess his name before my Father, and
before Ms angels."
"He that overcometh." Aye, 'tis to him
the promise is made so full of rich, precious
meaning ; 'tis be who shall wear a robe of
spotless purity—who shall be acknowledged
by the blessed Saviour.
What is he to overcome ? Ah I how much,
only they can answer, who have been buffet
ed by temptation and trial—who have met
with adversity in many forms, and who,
through all; have maintained a hopeful, patient
trust in the goodness and wisdom of our
Fsther.
If poverty walks, like a grim phantom, by
our side, while we struggle bravely, earnestly,
though without avail, to place even a slight
distance between ourselves and the dark shad
ow, how our hearts almost rise up in rebel
lion that Providence has placed us in such cir
cumstances,•while our neighbor, who leads a
thankless life, receives all the richest, worldly
gifts which mankind eviw enjoyed, ignoring
the source from which they come to him, and
we feel as if we ought murmur—as if hu
man endurance could not hold out against
such proofs—that "the good things of earth
are unequally divided ; if, in such a trying po
sition, we are enabled to overcome—to look
up with child-like faith and tray and say,
"Thy will be done." what a conpreltJ what
a victory 1 what a reward is in store for us, as
overcomers.
If we have a few idols treasured in the in
nermost recesses of our hearts, sheltered as
we faacy, from the very breath of harm; if one
by one, we are compelled to take them from
their sacred niches—to snap asunder the
cords of love which hold them, and lay them
passively in the hand of the destroyer, to
which his ruthless movements, as he crushes
to atoms our cherished trounces, while our
bleeding hearts yearn vainly for their restora
tion ; if we can accept the lesson, the pain, the
chastisement, and its sure alleviation ; if we
can sa y, "The Lord reigneth, let the earth re
joice,"then are we overcomers—then may we
hope for the promised reward, which the con
tinuation of such trust, confidence and obedi
ence is sure to bring to us.
Oh, how many thOusand ways there are in
which we may overcome. We know that our
hearts are selfish, that our eyes are blinded,
How important it is that we should-continual
ly look above for light, for wisdom, and for
strength, that at last we may be received by the
Great Father, as overcomers, and may receive
the promised, precious reward.—E. S. G.
Ten Hard Dollars
Those people who 'are interested in hard
money will perhaps be profited by reading the
following story by Dr. Spaulding :
"My father was a poor man. A large and
growing family was dependent on him for its
daily bread. Coming home one wintry even
from a week's toil in a neighboring town with
ten hard earned dollars in his pocket, he lost
them in a light snow. Long and fruitless was
the search for them. After the snow was
gone again and again was the search renewed
with the same result. The snow fell and
melted again for a whole generation, and still
the story of the lost dollars was fresh in our
family circle ; for a silver dollar to a poor man
in those days was larger than a full moon.
"About a mile away lived another father of
a family in similar circumstances. He too,
knew how much a dollar cost dug out of the
heart of a rocky farm. At least once or oftener
every week for forty years he had occasion to
pass our door, giving and receiving the com
mon neighborly salutations, and every time
with a weight increasingly heavy on his con
ticiortuz,. Bat all such pressure has its limit ;
and when that is reached the crash is greater
for the severity of the strain. In this instance
it was as when an old oak rends its body
and breaks its limbs in falling.
"One day completely broken down, he came
to my father in tsars, confessing, 'Hound your
dollars lost in the snow forty years ago. They
have been harddollars to me, and I can carry
them no longer. lam come to return them,
and ask your forgiveness ; and as soon as 1
can Iwill pay yon the Interest.'
"The scene was like that when Jacob and
Esan met 'over the ford Jabbok.' "
"He did not live long enough to pay the in
terest, but quite long enough to furnish a
practical comment on the text : 'The spirit
of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a
wounded spirit who can Wear?' Who will say
that conscience, though slumbering in this life,
will never awake to punish the offender in the
life to come."
If any man wants bard money, let him get it
dishonestly, and he will find it the hardest
money he ever saw—bard to keep, hard to
think of, and bard to answer for in the judg
ment day.
Something to Get Rid Of.
The more we know about "Church Faire"
the less, on the whole, we like them. And as
far as we have been able to discover, that is
the general sentiment among those who have
the most experience in conducting them.
Familiarity with the details of their manage
ment, and their social and moral results, is
apt, we find, to breed a most hearty contempt
for the "institution" in all its forms, as a
means of raising money for God's service.
And yet, though everybody votes them a
"Weariness to the flesh," and wouldbeglad to
see them placed under perpetual band, when
ever a slight financial pinch occurs—unfortu
nately a chronic complaint with some church
es—some good brother or sister with more
zeal than discretion proposes a fair as the
readiestmeans of "raising the wind,"and forth
with "the ladies of the church" plunge bodily
into a chaos of preparation, with as much zest
as though a fair were the chief end oflife, and
one of the most delightful and unobjectiona
ble modes of getting funds for church use
imaginable. And when all is done, and the
proceeds arc reckoned up, howmany are ready
to sit down and say—or think, if they do not
say it—"l would rather give outright all I
have made than go through such experience
again!"
The Only Way
Jesus Christ changes the heart of the man
whom He deigns to bring to God; He anni
hilates the moral distance between &holy God
and a corrupt heart ; first, by the precepts of
His Word, and the motives He presents to in
duce us to love God and despise the world ;
secondly, by His example which he proposes
to our imitation ; thirdly, by His Spirit which
mortifies the old man and forms the new man
within us. No religion ever delivered pre
cepts on the love of God so certain and com
plete as His ; no one ever furnished motives so
powerful to excite us to follow its laws; still
further have any others been from giving a
perfect example for our direction. Jesus
Christ alone has been able to impart a mira
culous power to gain the hearts ; that Holy
Spirit which draws us to God, and forms the
peculiar character of His religion; that Spirit,
the fruit of His merit and intercession, which
he sent down immediately after His ascension
to heaven, and without which it is impossible
to please .God. This justifies the conclusion
that "no man cometh to the Father, but by
Jesus Christ."
Was): a pump is frequently used, but little
. pains are necessary to have water; the water
pours out at the first stroke, because itis high.
But if the pump has not been used for a long
time, the water gets low, and when you want
it you must pump a long while, and the water
comes only after great efforts. It is so with
prayer : if we are instant in prayer, every lit
tle circumstance awakens the disposition to
pray, and desires and wordy are always ready.
But if we neglect prayer, it is difficult for us
to pray, for the water in the well gets low.—
/Wiz Ntf.
Lulu Richmond says: "Seep in mind that
excellent rule : "Never preach a single sermon
from which an unlightened hearer might not
learn the plan of salvation, even though be
never afterwards heard another discourse."
A Y AN who is not ashamed of himself, need
not be ashamed of his early condition in life.
_
DANGZR should be feared when distant and
braved when present.