VOL. 47
The Huntingdon Journal,
J. R. DURBORROW,
D.,fiee on the Comm. of Fifth and Washington streets.
THE HUNTINGDON JOURNALis published every
WeinesdAy, by J. R. DU RIIOIIROW and J. A. NAsa,
under the firm name of J. R. DURBORROW A CO., at
$2,00 per annum, IN ADVANCE, or $2,50 if not paid
for in six months from date of subscription, and
$3 if not paid within the year.
No paper discontinued, unless at the option of
the publishers, until all nrrearages are paid.
ADVERTISEMENTS wi I be inserted at the
rate of ONE DOLLAR for an inch, of ten lines,
for the first insertion, nd twenty-five cents per
inch for each subsequent insertion less than three
months.
Regular monthly and yearly advertisements will
be inserted at the following rates :
3ml 6m:9 ly 3ml6m
270 1 POI 1 6 I — 0 1
40U 7 1%. io '4.°. , ,Y , A cal 24 7 40 5 ',ls g
600 1000 03 1600,y," 34 00160 01.1 001 00
8 00q0 00 2)00 21 001
501600 25 00 . 3000 lcol 30 00 6000,
1
Special notices will be inserted At TWELVE ANT
A HALF 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 TEN CENTS per line.
Legal and other notices will he charged to the
party having them inserted.
Advertising Agents must find their commission
outside o' these figures.
All adrevtising accounts arc due 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 n otice,
and every thing in the Printing line will be execu
ted in the most artistic manner and at the lowest
rates.
Professional Cards
BF. GEHRETT, M. D., ECLEC
TIC PHYCICIAN AND SURGEON, hay-
Mg returned from Clearfield county and perma
nently located in Shirleysburg, offers his profes
sional services to the people of that place and sur
rounding country. apr.3-1872.
DR. F. 0. ALLEMAN can be con
sulted at his office, at all hours, Mapleton,
Pa. [mareh6,72.
- 1 - 1 CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
•No. 111, :id street. Office formerly occupied
by Messrs. Woods k Williamson. [apl2,'7l.
TIE. J. C. FLEMMING respectfully
offers his professional services to the citizens
of liantingdon and vicinity. Office 310.743 Wash
ingtpn Street may 24.
DR. A. B. BRTJMBAITGH, offers his
professional services to the community.
Office, No. 52l Washington street, one door east
of the Catholic Parsonage. [jan.4,'7l.
EJ. GREENE, Dentist. Office re
• moved to Leister's new building, Rill street
IT”-itingdon. Ljan.4,ll.
CI L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T.
A-01
• Br. wn'e new building, No. 520, Hill St.,
Huntingdon, Pa. [ap12,71.
A GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
. . • of Washing,ton and Smith streets. Hun
tingdon, Pa. (jan.l2'7l.
- F r C. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law
• Office, No. —, Hill street, Huntingdon,
Pa. 1 ap.19,71.
JSYLVANIIS BLAIR, Attorney-at
v • Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street,
hree doors west of Smith. Dan.47l.
R. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth
c, • scary, opposite the Exchange Motel, Hun
ingdon, Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded,
Pure Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70.
JHALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
. No. 319 Hill st., Huntingdon, Pa. Dan. 4,71.
JR. 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.
Offiee in he JOURNAL Building. [feba,'7l
j W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
KY
• and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
Soldier? claims against the Government for back
pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend
ed to with great care and promptness.
Office on Hill street. Dan. 4,11.
Tr ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at
. • Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
given to CoLLEcrtoxs of all kinds; to the settle
ment of Estates, &c.; and all other Legal Business
prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch.
plfr Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
Speer, Esq. [jan.4,'7l.
MILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at-
Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly
to all legal business. Office in Cunningham's new
Lian.4;7l.
EL ALLISON MILLER. 11.
MILLER & BUCHANAN,
DENTISTS,
No, 228 Hill Street,
HUNTINGDON, PA
April 5, '7l-Iy,
M & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
-a- • at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to
all kinds of legal business entrusted to their care.
Office on the soutk side of Hill street, fourth door
west of Smith. Dan. 4,71.
RA. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
• Office, 32L Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa.
[usay3ll7l.
JOAN SCOTT. S. T. BROWN. J. N. BAILEY
ICOTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At
torneys-st-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions,
and all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against
the Government will be promptly prosecuted.
Office on Hill street. [jan.4,'7l.
W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
-n- • tingdon, Pa. Office with T. Sewell Stewart,
Esq. [jaa.4,'7l.
- WILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney
at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
given to collections, and all other legal business
attended to with care and promptness. Me, No.
227, Hill street. [npl9,'7l.
Miscellaneous
G 0 TO THE JOURNAL OFFICE
for all kinds or printinc.
PXOHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon,
-A- 4 Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
January 4, 1871.
NEAR THE RAILROAD DEPOT,
COR. WAYNE and JUNIATA STEEETT
UNITED STATES HOTEL,
HOLLIDAYSBURG, PA
M'CLAIN .k CO., PROPRIETORS.
.EWISTOWN BOILER WORKS.
GEORGE PAWLING .1 CO., Manufac
nrors of Locomotiveand Stationary Boilers, Tanks,
Pipes, Filling-Barrows for Furnaces, and Sheet
Iron Work of every description. Works on Logan
street, Lewistown, Pa.
All orders T... , " , tly attended to. Repairing
done at short [Apr 5,11,1y.*
A.— BECK, Fashionable Barber
R• and Hairdresser, Hill street, opposite the
Franklin House. All kinds of Tonics and Pomades
kept on hand and for sale. [apl9,'7l-6m
FOUNDRY FOR SALE on line of
Railroad, in one of the beet agricultural re
gions in Pennsylvania. For information inquire
of J. A. POLLOCK,
mch13,12-tf.] Huntingdon, Pa.
•
7 '1 7:
f6L he un t ing d on
Journal.
ache wort' fflower.
.1. A. NASh,
A Word in Anger Spoken
A word in anger spoken—
How often does it prove
Thu canee °lewd indifference
In hearts whose rule is lore?
llow ott. the sweetest pleasures
Ihronnity can know,
Are by a bomb expression
Turned into bitter woo ?
A word in anger spoken—
How many sighs and tears,
And sleepless nights, and cheerless day
And weary, weary years,
Have been its mournful product,
Though Charity essayed
To heal the deadly, festering wound
Which thoughtless anger made?
A word in anger spoken—
A blot upon lire's page—
Which of. will leave its impress
From youth to later age,
Man may foregi, an insult ;
But still it bears its fruit—
For memory is a tyrant
Whose rule is absolute.
so 100
A word in anger spoken—
Ilas often engendered strife
Between the loving husband
And the doting trusting wife
Has caused a barrier to rise
Between the child nod mother,
And led foul enmity to part
The sister and the bi;ther.
A word in anger spoken—
If you have felt its blight.
Resolve henceforth to '•know thyself,
And train thy spirit right,
Keep watch upon thy every thought,
Thy very look and word,
And thou shalt live from sorrow free,
As joyous an a bird.
A word in anger spoken—
Oh, weigh the sentence well
For it contains a lesson
That words are fain to tell,
The human heart is faulty,
And the wisest of us all
May drop a careless word in wrath ;
That we would vain recall.
My Wife and Child ,
The tattoo heats, the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies ;
The night in solcn?n perw..? moves on,
The shadows thicken o'er the skies ;
But sleep my weary eyes bath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, my dearest one,
Whose love my early life has blest ;
Of thee and him—our baby son—
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast,
God of the tender, frail and lone,
Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest.
And hover gently, hover near,
To her whose watchful eye is wet—
To mother, wife—the doubly dear
In whose young hearts have freshly met
Two streams of love so deep and clear—
And cheer her drooping spirits yet.
Now, while she kneels before Thy throne,
Oh teach her, Ruler of the skies,
That while, at thy behest alone,
Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise,
No tear is wept, to Thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies.
That thou coast stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and ruthless pain ;
That only by Thy stern commands
The battle's lost, the soldier's slain;
That from the distant sea or land
Thou brings% the wanderer home again.
And when upon her pillow lone
tier tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed,
May happier visions beam upon
The brightening current of her breast ;
No frowning look or angry tone
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest.
Whatever fate those forms may show—
Loved with passions almost wild—
By day, by night, in joy or wo—
By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
Erma every danger, every foe,
0 God, protect my wife and child !
?he ,ffitorg-Zeiler.
Tho lifidal of Eyfa Duo.
A black, frowning, rock-bound coast,
marked by a mile of very tall and precipi
tous cliffs. Midway there is a wide gap
and a bed of sand—Sne as the sand of the
desert and golden. This opening is bay-like
in form, and slopes from the heights to
the sea-shore. The sand-bed, which
stretches right and left at the base of the
cliffs, is bordered bye belt of shingle; and
beyond the shingle are breakers. some so
large that they are rarely o'erswept by the
sea. When the mighty waves battle with
these outer rocks the high-thrown clouds
of spray and the vast expanse of seething
foam bears witness to the fierceness of the
strife. A few yards from the brow of the
sand-bank is a village—a straggling line
of cottages, built of rough-hewn sandstone,
and heavily thatched. The church is,
perhaps, the - zumllest in England ; but,
then, the whole population of the place
does not exceed three hundred souls.
The men earn their living by fishing,
and by helping the luckless ships that are
driven on that cruel, forbidding coast.—
Terrible wrecking stories are told of hap
ltss crews' being murdered and thrown
into the raging surge for the sake of plun
der: If these tales be true, it is strange
how little the wreckers are enriched by
their blood-bought spoil—and bought, too,
at the risk of their own lives. The tombs
that surround tae little church bear record
that death by drowning is not an uncom
mon fate at Stortneliff Bay.
The parson, the doctor, and the lawyer
yet live in an inland town ; and if the vil
lagers ail in mind, body or estate, they
have to travel seven miles for professional
comfort. aid or counsel.
The best house—truly, the only house
at Stormeliff Bay is Eagle's Nest, standing
on a jutting ledge, of the highest rock.—
There dwelt Captain Came, Aunt Ellen
and Myra.
Nearly eighteen years before the time
I tell of the Captain—then in middle age
—came with a young wife to Stormcliff
Bay for a week or two, The young wife
was seized with a sudden illness, and could
not be moved, and died. The widower
would not leave the village, and with his
only child and maiden sister abode at Ea
gle's Nest.
Captain Came and Aunt Ellen were
loved by the villagers, to whom they were
ever ready friends. Myra was at least not
less laved than her father and aunt. A
joyous girl and beautiful. The rough sea
breeze had not effected the surpassing fair
ness of her skin—fair as the !illy of the
poet's dream and tenderly soft. Eyes large
and blue—the blue of the southern sky;
wavelets of nut brown hair veiling her
shoulders and falling far below her waist ;
features nobly outlined, with a mouth of
exquisite sweetness. Above all—the beau
ty that is felt bat cannot be described—a
countenance of light, love and gladness—
the shining forth, the radiant sheen of a
pure and happy spirit.
It was Sunday evening in full summer
tide. A night of tropical warmth follows
a day of glowino• °
heat. The sea is singu
larly calm, and the waves lash languidly
against the breakers. The people of Storm
cliff Bay, together with a few visitors from
the neighborhood, are on the sands. The
sun has gone down in exceeding splendor.
The moon is rising in her plenitude, and
countless stars—wooed, not frightened by
her soft, silvery light—reveal to creation
the glory of the Creator. The stillness
Mchls-tf
that ctiarms and awes, yet soothes, is bro
ken by the voice of Joe, the preacher.
"Come away, Myra;. it is a sin to listen
to such raving blasphemy."
"But Joe is in earnest, Frank, and it is
very dreadful."
"Why, Myra, has Joe fooled you ? Lonk
at the rocks and the sea, the moon and the
stars. Are they not wonderful and beau
tiful? Or, darling, when you get home
look in the glass, and see something more
wonderful and beautiful than the sky."
"Don't talk in that way, Frank."
"Why, Myra, that reacher must be
blind, or he could not believe that such
good and glorious things were made to be
destroyed. • Let those who choose slander
their Creator. Let those who will adore
an almighty demon. We will worship a
God of Love:"
"It is so sad. Frank, that people should
have such horrible thoughts when every
body might be happy."
Myra, we cannot always be hap
py. lam not happy. Joe leaves Storm
cliff Bay to-morrow, and the next day I
leave."
"But not. for long, Frank ?"
"A week or two may not be long to you,
Myra, but it is ages t.: me. Besides, I
shall have to live in London."
They stayed awhile with their faces sea
ward, but their minds were too occupied
to be conscious of the beauty of the scene
in which they had exulted. The young
man was feebly fighting against the mad
dening fever of passion, and the girl won
dered what disturbed her companion.
"Patience, Myra, you shall soon have a
letter from me."
Alas, how soon, how all too soon, we
part from each other, and are driven forth
from the paradise of our love, and cannot
again enter therein, save through the Dark
Valley of the Dread Shadow.
"Let us go home, Frank. Father will
be expecting us."
"You are iu a mighty hurry, Myra. I
Ilan not trouble you long, and then you
can be with somebody you like better."
"Frank, what is the matter ? Why Are
you so unkind ? What has sissy done to
you ?"
"Whatever comes of it, you must hear
me. Loa here, Myra, I would rather you
stabbed me than call yourself my sister."
"Yon used to like that name."'
"I did until a few months ago, when I
was away from you, and then - I
learned
that I did not like you as a brother."
"Not lore me, Frank ?" _
Frank put one arm around her waist,
and the other over her shoulder, and drew
her so close to him that she felt his hot
breath on her face ; and she closed her
eyes against his burning glance.
"Myra. not as a brother—but deeper,
deeper still—all in all, Myra ; and if you
do not love me the same, I will die ; for
if you loved another, I should kill him and
you."
The girl leant her head on him bat did
not speak.
"You fear to tell me, Myra, that you
love me as a brother only. But you shall
tell me—you shall deal the blow."
"Frank, my own dear, you know I love'
you as my life. This is cruel of you."
"But, Ilyra, say your love is not the love
of a sister."
"I know what you mean, dear Frank—
and I love you as a lover. lam thine, as
you are mine."
Her eyes opened for a moment, and
Frank held her to him in a long and pas
sionate embrace.
“Are you happy now, Frank ?”
"Ay, darling of my soul—too happy to
speak even to you. To-morrow we will
talk together, and say when the world
shall know we are one—for it must not be
long hence."
"And my father ?"'
"I will tell him when I return from
London."
"But, dear Frank, I have never Lad a
secret from him."
"You must have one for a week or two,
for both our sakes."
They slowly ascended the cliff, and stood
befbre the entrance of Eagles' Nest. An
other embrace, long and silent and they
entered.
Captain Came was pacing the room.
Aunt Ellen was seated at the table read
ing, or seeming to do so. The Captain
had been angry because Myra was half an
hour late, and Aunt Ellen bad defended
the girl. The tiff ended as usual by the
Captain .pacing the room with a measured
military stride, .and Aunt Ellen putting
on her spectacles and opening her book.
"Well, Frank, have you discovered a
fresh constellation ? Or have you been
merely persuadinn• c Myra that. it is good
and seemly to be disobedient to her fath
er ?"
Frank replied that they had been walk
ing and talking. The Captain's eyes had
lighted on Myra's tell-tale face.
•‘And, pray, what was the talk about?"
Frank began to reply.
"1 spoke to Myra, not to you."
Myra blushed deeply and was silent.
'Since Myra is tongue-tied, favor me
with an answer."
Frank replied that they had been speak
ing of his going away, and of the future.
Captain Carne's fare darkened.
'Perhaps a love scene."
told" Myra of my love for her."
"So, sir, I trust you as a son, and you
abuse my confidence. Ellen, doyou know
anything of this business ?"
"No, brother," replied the aunt ; "but
young people will be silly."
"Frank Moline, mark my words ; they
will be few and to the purpose. The folly
begun to-night must end to-night. I as
sume you wish Myra to be happy ; but
domestic happiness must be well fed, well
clothed, and well housed, or it will give
place to domestic misery. At present,
your means are too limited even for the
support of turtle-dove love in a cottage.
Then, Myra has not been in society, and
she must see others before she knows if
she loves you. I now wish you good-night
and gond-bye. For two or three years
you will not be a welcome guest to my
house; and meanwhile you and Myra are
strangers to each other, Good night
Frank."
Myra was crying, 'Frank was pallid.
He crossed the room to offer his hand to
Myra. •
"I told you, sir, that you and Myra were
as strangers to each other. Once more
gond-night to you."
Frank went out quickly ; and, as be
descended the cliff he muttered curses on
Captain Cane. As soon as he had left
the Captain took Myra's hand led her to
the door.
"Go to your room and to your bed, My
ra. To-morrow you will be more reconcil•
ed to the will of your father?'
Aunt Ellen would have gone with the
girl to solace her, but Myra repulsed her.
In her grief and anger Myra repulsed her.
If her father had spoken kindly to Frank,
she would, she thought, have been patient;
HUNTINGDON, PA., MAY 22, 1872.
but now she was, for the first time in her
life, angry with her father.
Myra opened the easement window and
went on to the verandah. The moon was
high in the havens. The gentle summer
wind made a sweet accompaniment to the
murmur of the sea, and to the grating of
the shingle as it was swept by ,she waves.
Oh child, will not this scene ot' these sub
lime harmonies, these whispers of love di
vine, console you ? Alas ! for philosophy;
It is a friend that fulls in hour of sorest
need.
"Myra, dearest ?"
What voice is that ? Is it indeed a
voice, or only an echo of' her heart's
thought ?
Fearing she knew not what. Myra lis
tened.
"Myra, dearest, are you there ?"
Often in his boyhood Frank had climb
ed to the verandah. In a moment, and
before Myra could recover from her bewil
derment, Frank was with her, first kneel
ing at her feet, and then holding her to
his heart.
There they sit till the fadingof the stars
proclaims the rising sun. Shall Frank
die ? At length. after the pleading hours.
Myra, kneeling.down and kissing a cross
she wore around her neck, plighted her
troth to him. Quaking, and scarcely
knowing what she did, Myra repeated af
ter Frank an oath that she would marry
him whensoever he asked her to do so.
"And now, darling, good-bye, till we
meet on the shore; end then another good
bye for a little while, until we mean to
part no more."
"Frank, dearest, I wish you had not to
go from me. even fir an hour. Being ever
mine, you should be with me firever."
They lingered lovingly until the dawn
of day was visible in the east, and until
they were startled by the chirping of a
bird.
Frank descended the cliff, and Myra re
turned to her room and her bed. Short
lived is estacy on earth. Before the
warmth of Frank's last kiss had left her
lips Myra thought of her father. and the
thought chilled her heart. Ah, if she had
gone to her father, and kissed him, and
been reconciled to him ! Is it too late?
Let her go now, and tell him all, and ask
him for forgiveness. She half rose from
her bed. But then, Frank had her oath.
She again laid her head on her pillow.
Some day her father would be reconciled
to Frank. A beautiful cottage at Storm
cliff Bay, Frank and Myra rejoicing in
their love. Her father loving both, and
sharing their happiness, and being right
glad that they married. Lulling her con
science with such opiates, Myra fell asleep.
Night vigils are new to her, and being
exhausted she slept soundly. And tran
quilly? She sleeps; but, sleeping or wak
ing, no more for her the peace, the bliss of
the Paradise of Childhood. Happy Myra,
to have lived in it so long. Few abide
therein even until childhood has blossomed
into youth.
THE STORM,
When Igyra woke her aunt was stand.
ing by her bed.
decry, what a sleep you have
had! Breakfast was over long ago. But
get up now—your father wants you to go
with him to the village ; and, dcary, don't
be ever so little cross with him. It will
be made all right • . I'll have a cup of tea
ready for you when you come down."
Myra was a long time in dressing. With
her awakening came care and sorrow.
The fond dreams of the early dawn van-
Wind in the broad daylight. Until now,
when a great gulf seemed to part them,
Myra had not realized the love that bound
father to daughter, and daughter to father.
Her affection for Frank was, deep and
earnest; but the compact of the night
affrighted her. She would beseech Frank
to release her front her oath—for it never
occurred to her that he had no power to
do so. Then whispers conscience, "But
the oath does not bind you to secrecy.
Tell your father." Tiresome, remorseful
conscience. If Frank will not release her
from her vow, why, then, indeed she wilt
tell her father. But if Frank grants her
prayer, why should she expose him to her
father's anger—or even, why should she
give her father pain ? Pleased and consoled
with this reasoning, Myra met her father
without mach agitation.
They went through the village to the
church and sat down in the ivy-covered
porch. It was a favorite resting place;
and often Myra and her father were there
fir hours, reading or talking. Just in
front of the push was a grave on which
the grass was well kept, and the flowers
were blooming. It was the grave of Myra's
mother.
"Our visit to the old porch must be a
short one to-day, Myra; for, as you know,
I have to go to town, and I propose to
walk there. I wish to tell you here that
I am sorry that I grieved you last night."
Myra could have borne a blow, but the
words of kindness wrung her heart. She
took 'her father's hand, and kissed it; and
as she did so, a tear fell upon it.
'1 only did my duty, dear child, but
I did not the less regret to give you a mo
ment's grief. Ido not think Frank will
make you happy ; but you must hereafter
decide for yourself. At present you are
but a child, and I must act for you. The
last words she said to me, Myra"—the
Captain pointed to the grave of his wife—
'were 'Care for her as for me.' To fulfill
that sacred trust I have lived a lonely
life, watching over von in infancy, in
childhood and in youth. I have striven
to be father and mother to you, Myra.
On earth I have no aim but your happi
ness. You will not now think that I am
unkind because I do my bounden duty, and
in so doing give you pain."
Myra kissed her father. She wanted
to speak—she yearned to confide in him ;
but, for the moment, the words would not
be spoken.
"Remain here awhile, and calm your
self; my child. When you return to the
Nest, tell your aunt 1 shall be borne by
dusk; and try, Myra, to greet me with
your welcome smile."
He kissed her and walked away. He
had not gone far when Myra started up,
determined to follow him, and tell him of
her fault. Her hand was on the wicket
gate, and she paused. When he came
home. and before going to bed he should
know all, whether Prank did or did not
absolve her from the oath. She returned
to the porch, reflecting on what was to be
done. until reflection became unbearable.
In vain she aught to convince herself
that she had pursued a wise course—there
was a gnowing consciousness that she
should not have put off the confessison.
And ought she to meet Frank ? Why not
consult dear aunt Ellen ? Comforting sug
gestion. Sustained by the new resolve,
Myra returned to the Neat.
Aunt Ellen was busy, as usual, with
her household duties. It would not do
to interrupt her. Then came the dinner,
and still Myra was silent. But she must
decide quickly, for in an hour she was to
meet Frank under the cliff. Perhaps it
will be better to see him, and persuade
him to release her from the oath. Aunt
Ellen is going to Birley Farm to drink
tat with Mrs. Jamison. Would Myra ac
company her? She pleaded a headache. It
was her first lie, and it stung her. Well.
then, Myra could walk over to Birley after
she had rested—that is, if she felt able to
go out.
Aunt Ellen departed, and Myra went
to her room, and put on her hat. How she
shook ! She was hysterical. She mixed
some wine with water and drank it. Then
she told the servant she was going to the
sands, and might perhaps take tea at Bir
ley. How broad, smooth and cosy is the
way to falsehood—that is the outset.
Frank was before her. She was late,
because she had to wait until Aunt Ellen
had left home. Her father had gone to
town and her aunt to Birley. Frank was
glad—they could have a happy afternoon
together. They strolled along the beach,
he with his arm round her waist, and hand
in hand. This will never do. She must
get rid of the oath. After an hour's ef
fort, she managed to say that he father was
very angry. Why of course her was angry.
It was. only natural. He would soon for
give her, for he would see that Frank
loved her and made her happy. And
Frank told her how glad he was they had
taken the solemn oath, for it united them
forever. The end of it was that Myra re
resolved. The oath bound her. She must
tell her father; and he would not wish her
to break it. Thereupon an hour of loving
talk—the past forgotten, and the future a
bright day-dream.
'the lovers were disturbed by a summer
storm. The sky darkened. The wind
howled, and the sea moaned. There was
a flash of lightning and the rocks echoed
the thunder. In a moment the rain fell
in torrents. The lovers took shelter in a
cavern hewn out of the rock. Myra, who
had lived all her days on the rough coast,
bad never been terrified by a storm ; but
now, she knew not why. fear overcame her.
She shrank trom the lightning, and trem
bled at the sound of the thunder.
Frank led her farther back into the
cavern, so that the lightning might not
affright her. Still Myra was terrified and
rejoiced when Frank told her that the
storm was over. _ _ _
When they came on the beach the sun
was shining brightly, and the only relic
of the tempest was the continued agitation
of the sea. They were two miles from
Stormcliff Bay, and had not proceeded
many yards in the direction of that place
when they discovered that they were pris
oners. They were on a raised indent of
the coast, called Dry Rock Bend, and were
encircled by waves. Frank assuaged the
alarm of Myra by pointing out that it was
high tide, even if the tide had turned, and
that in an hour at most they would be re
leased. What were they to , do? The beach
was shingle and weed-covered rock, and it
was wel. from the rain, So they returned
to the cavern in which they had sheltered
from the storm.
As Frank had said, the sea subsided ere
the hour; but it was nearly two hours be
fore he and Myra left the cavern. They
walked on hastily, for the lengthening
shadows of the cliff warned them of the
approach of the evening.
•°Oh, my love," said Myra, "what shall
I do if aunt is home ?
"Say, dearest, you took a long walk, and
were caught in the storm."
They were near Stormliff Bay, and
Myra stopped.
"Go from me, my love for I can never
go away from you. And how shall I bear
to-morrow and to-morrow, when you are
away from me ?"
"Take courage, dear angel; for on the
third day—after two to-morrows—we meet,
to be united so that thenceforth no one
can part us."
"For you, dearest, I will bear it; but
were it not for you, I would pray to die
this night."
"Darling, we need not part now, save
for a few hours. I can come to the veran
dah. as I did last night."
"But if you are heard or seen ?"
"Do not fear. I will.be under the ve
randah at twelve."
When they parted Myra ascended the
cliff, passed through the village, find met
aunt _Ellen coming back through Birley.
That was lucky Tor Myra. Her return
with her aunt would explain her absence
to the servant; and her aunt did not know
how long she had been from home.
They ascended the cliff, Aunt Ellen re
lating the news fro - n Birley, and Myra ap
purino• to listen, but not heeding what was
said. 'They were near Eagles' Nest, when
they saw the servant running to them.
The girl was terror.stricken and crying.
"Oh, ma'am—oh, Miss Myra—poor
Miss Myra!".
Master had come home ill. That was
the only information they could glean
from the girl.
Captain Carne was lying on the sofa,
and with him were the doctor and a friend.
When they entered he sat upright.
"Do not be alarmed. It is kind enough,
but not so bad as it might have been.
Come here, Myra."
She went to him, and Aunt Ellen look
ed to the doctor for an explanation.
"Your brother has be . en struck with
the lightning, and his sight is hurt; but
we must hops for the best."
Aunt Ellen covered her face with her
hr.nds and sank on her knees. Myra
shrieked. In that agony how her words
to Frank rung in her ears—'and how shall
I bear tomor row , when you are away Y"
And behold, her lather would not look
at her tomorrow or for evermore.
The doctor did not deny the case was
critical; but there was a chance depend
ing upon the patient being tranquil.
As soon as their grief could be control
led the sister and daughter wept without
moaning. . .
Captain Came was led to his bed-room;
and after administering an opiate, the
doctor and his friend departed. Aunt
Ellen might watch by the patient if she
liked, but all that could be done was to
let him sleep.
Myra went to her room heart , -broken
and spirit-crushed. From peace and joy
to anguish and misery, and in less than
two days. Yesterday morning, few so hap
py that would not have envied her happi
ness; to-night the most wretched might
pitty her smarting sorrow and desolation.
She would have refused to leave her fath
er's room but for the appointment at mid
night, and the thought of that meeting
increased her poignant pain. Could she
leave her father in his affliction ? No.
And yet? Mechanically she trimmed her
lamp and sat down, staring at the clock on
the mantelpiece. She was a waif on the
stormy ocean, and she had to choose be
tween stolid, mindless resignation, or des
pair and madness. Her father ! Her
lover ! Let Frank decide for her.
She sat staring at the clock—wonder
ing ii it always ticked so loudly—noting
the movement of the minute hand and
counting the seconds. It still wanted a
quarter of an hour to midnight. Might
not Frank be befnre the appointed hour?
She went on to the verandah, but Frank
was not there. She waited the weary
quarter of an hour, passing from the ver
andah to the room, backwards and fur
wards, to look. at the clock.
Midnight. and Frank was not there.
She determined not to look at the clack
again, but to wait on the verandah till he
came. As she approached the rustic seat
on which the feeble light of her lamp
shone through the casement window she
saw a hat on it, and divined it was Frank's.
Thump, thump, and faster than horses'
feet, beat her heart. Was he hiding?
'•Frank !"
No answer to the gurgling whisper.
She took up the hat, and a string fell
from it, and to the string was fastened a
letter.
Back to her room. Harder than ever.
faster than ever, thumped her heart. It
was with difficulty her palsied hands open
ed the letter. With greater difficulty her
burning eyes read it. It ran thus:
"Mr Love AND LIFE.—Bad news. But be pa
tient. dearest, for both our sakes. My father is
taken ill, and I must leave for America without
delay of a moment. By starting at once I may be
in time for the vessel. Perhaps sooner, but cer
tainly in two months I will be with you. What I
suffer from the separation you may know, my
dearest ; but you would not forgive me if I neg
lected the command of a dying father. I will
write to you at the post-office, as we artanget to
morrow. My love and life, good-bye till then.
As you love me, be patient for the sake of thine
own FaANK."
Myra read the letter again and again.
Now silently, now the words hissing
through her fever-parched lips. Then
she gazed at it as if spell-bound. There
was a mad desire to laugh. Then the sen
sation of choking. She became insensible,
and lay so for hours. The morning breeze
came in at the open window, and slowly
she revived. There was the letter in her
hand, and the hat by her side.
"These must not bear witness against
him, if I die."
She cut the hat into tiny pieces and
threw them over the parapet of the ver
andah The letter she held in the flick
ering flame of the lamp until it was con
sumed, and her fingers blackened and
scorched.
After these labors she lay on the bed,
neither sleeping nor waking, until Aunt
Ellen came to tell her that her father had
slept well.
"But, oh deary!—oh, my deary, his
sight is lost—he will never, never see us
more!"
THE BRIDAL
The summer has grown into autumn,
and the autumn has faded into winter. It
is nigh six months from the day of the
storm, so well remembered at Stormcliff
Bay. Every effort to restore the sight of
Captain Carne had failed. His last chance
was to be treated by an eminent oculist.
Aunt Ellen wanted to accompany him to
the metropolis; but Myra was unwell,
and the Captain preferred not to inflict his
suffering upon those dear to him. So he
went alone, and had been away for newly
two months. The reports about him were
very vague ; and at Eagles' Nest there was
no hope of his recovery.
Is that Myra ? Does death work a more
pitiable change than sorrow? The ligLt
of the eye Lo longer lustrous, but lurid.
The clear, radient complexion. the bloom
of health and youth, the gladsome, win
some countenance, are gone. She is ill,
but will take no advice. She will not visit.
She will not attend church. About once
a week she goes into the town, and will
accept the companionship of her aunt.
She stands for hours on the verandah of
her room, gazing wistfully at the sea. She
will often go into the village to ask the
news from sea—if there have been any
wrecks. Frank has written to say he will
be back in January and the month is near
ly over. Is it another delay—or is he
wrecked ? Every sound of the wind and
the waves terrifies the alone, despairing
girl.
At last—at last there is a break in the
black darkness. Myra has gone to town,
to ask—without hope—if there is a letter
for M. M. Yes; and it is banded to her.
It is Frank's writing, and it bears an
English postmark. Without leaving the
post-office she reads it—
" MY Love AND Lire.—Home at last, and well.
I cannot write the joy I feel. I leave Liverpool
to-night—to-morrow I shall bo in London—and
next day with you, my love a , ,d life. I only wait
a few hours in London to arrange, what is neces
sary for our marriage. lam weeping, dearest—r
cannot help it, but the tears are tears of joy.
Good-bye for two days, my love and life.
Myra got into the fly that was to take
her to Stormcliff Bay. Oh, that she were
home When no arrived at the Nest.,
she told Aunt Ellen that she was tired
and would rest awhile. When in her
room she locked the door, read over the
letter again, knelt by her bed to pray and
give thanks. As she knelt she wept,
which she had not done since her troubles
began ; and her crying was like the crying
of a little child.
Next night Myra went to bed at eight
o'clock. She liked to be alone, and she
was worn with excitement.
Aunt Ellen was knitting. The door
opens, and enter Captain Came.
. .
"Brother—dear lirother :"
"Howe again, Ellen, and well."
"Well ?"
"Ay, Ellen, well. My sight is restor
ed to we."
To convince her he took up a newspa.
per from the table, and read a few lines.
"Where is Myra?"
"Gone to bed, tired, I will call her."
"No, I will do so."
"You will startle and frighten her."
"I intended a surprise; and as for the
fright, it- will not last a minute, for the
lass of Stormcliff Bay is not a net-lons
young lady."
He went upstairs on tiptoe. He noise
lessly opened the door, Myra was asleep,
and her father gazed on her with a gaze
of fondest love. He sat the candle on the
table, and touched her, said :
"Myra, my pet"
She started up.
"Oh,
my Frank I—my Frank !"
She looked, and saw it was her father.
There was a pause to be counted by sec
onds only, though it seemed never-ending.
Myra could not move or speak. The face
of her father was livid, and the veins in
his forehead swolen. No words were nec
essary. She had told her love. As he
moved Myra screamed piteously, and then
lay still upon the bed. Aunt Ellen hur
ried into the room.
"What has happened ?"
"Don't you know '1"
The captain took his sister's arm, and,
dragged her to the bedside, held the can
dle over Myra.
'•What has happened ? Myra loves
Frank !"
Aunt Ellen looked, and sank on her
knees, crying—
" God have mercy npon us !—have mer
cy upon us !"
"It seems then that you were blind,
Ellen. Better my sight had cone forever
—as .I doubt not, Myra prayed it might
be."
The Captain had so far mastered his pas.
sion that his voice was calmer.
"Where is Frank Molino ?"
"Abroad. He left Stormeliff Bay the
day of the storm, and has not been back."
Myra moved.
"Have mercy on her for her mother's
sake ! Oh, have mercy on her.
"Fear not; I shall not hurt her, though
I have been deceived."
Myra slowly recovered conciousness.
She stretched out her hands to her father
in supplication.
"How long have you loved him ?"
Myra put her hands before her face.
"Where is he ?"
"But you will not kill him ?"
"Am 1 a hangman ?"
Myra tack from under her pillow Frank's
last letter, and gave it to Aunt Ellen, who
handed it to her brother.
Captain Came read it and threw it on
the bed.
"Loving and generous. And you have
promised to marry him ?"
"How can you doubt it ?" exclaimed
Aunt Ellen, who had taken up the letter
and read it.
"Then your niece is more loving than I
am or she would say to him, am not old
enough to be married, and you are not any
match for me.' "
"Mercy on me ! Have mercy on me !"
"I shall see this Molino. Don't start—
I shall not hurt him. If you persist in
marrying him, be it so. But, not secretly.
Your betrothal was secret ; but the bridal
of Myra Came—that was your mother's
name, and it is yours—T. say the bridal of
Myra Came shall be public."
So he left her to the care of her aunt.
The interview with Frank Molino, who
returned that night was short : and so far
as Captain Carne was concerned, calm.
Did Frank persist in wanting to marry
Myra? A passionate "Yes." Then the
bridal must be at St nmcliff Bay in public.
That day week was named for the wedding.
"And this farther condition that you do
not correspond with her, or see her till the
bridal day. That is surely not very hard.
But whether it be so or not if you break
it you peril her life.
The coming bridal was announced to
the village and to friends. And though
the notice was short, preparations were
made for the ceremony. The little church
was decorated with evergreens and hot
house flowers, the gifts of the neighboring
gentry.
Captain Carne would not see his daugh
ter, but he instructed Aunt Ellen to pro
vide a wedding garment for the bride.
He would not have a breakfast, saying
that neither Eagles' Nest nor the occasion
was suitable for a festive gathering.
The bridal day wfis rough and boister
ous, but the mid-winter sun was shining
gaily. In the little parlor were Captain
Came and Frank, not exchanging a word.
There is a rustle of silk; and Myra. ar
rayed as a bride, enters with Aunt Ellen.
Her firther, who had not seen her since
the light of his return home, kiKed her
affectionately. Frank was advancing to
her, but the Captain stopped him.
"She is my daughter avid not yet your
wife. In this place you must not touch
her."
He took a case from his pocket, and put
on Myra a glittering necklace and a brace
let., and fastened an ornament on her veil.
"These Myra, were the marriage jewels
of your mother. I give them to you."
He turned to the sideboard, and took
from a drawer a curions•looking satin belt.
which he fasteneued round his daughter's
waiste.
"Bear with the weight, Myra. This
belt holds your marriage portion. I have
put into it four thousand sovererigns—
for since your childhood I have been sav
ing fur your marriage. The money will
save you against contumely and contempt."
Myra embraced him.
_
"Pather, dear father, how can I repay
your love and care ? Forgive me and bless
me."
"Mr. Molino, will you take my sister to
the church ? It is but seemly for you to
escort the aunt of your bride."
Auld Ellen kissed Myra, and departed
with Frank.
"Myra, you will not return to Eagles'
Nest, nor shall I. We leave the old home
forever."
Clinging to him—and with a prayer in
her heart that she might live to be a bless
ing to him, Myra went forth with her
father.
FRANK.
"Let us ascend the cliff, and take a fare
well look at our home."
Myra was weak; and with the burden
round her waist and the strong wind, the
ascent was slow and toilsome. At length
they reached the summit of the cliff. It
was high tide, and the mighty foam crest
ed waves were angrily dashing against the
huge, defiant rock.
From the church porch, where Frank.
Aunt Ellen, and the friends were assem
bled, Myra and her father could be seen.
The veil and the long hair of the bride
were fluttering in the wind.
Now they kneel. The father is forgiv
ing the disobedience of the child. Solemn
moment! and the company at the church
porch, from a reverent impulse, cast down
their eyes, and join in the father's prayer.
What scream is heard above the storm?
A piercing shriek, mingled with a wind
and mocking laugh. Where is the bride?
Where is the bride ? where is the father ?
An instant since they were kneeling on
the rock. Where are they ? There was a
moment of wondering, awful silence, and
then cries of horror from the company at
the church porch rent the air, starting the
see-birds from their nests.
When the tide went out the watchers
found the lost one on the beach under the
cliff. The bride was tightly grasped in
her father's arms. The weight of the gold
around the waist of Myra had made them
sink into the depth's without the possi
bility of rising again, and kept them on
the spot where they fell.
Such was the bridal of Myra Carve.
The women who knew her weep when
they bear her name, and the rough men of
Stormeliff Bay tell the story with bated
breath.
* * * * * * *
In the abode of the insane is a man for
whom there is no hope of cure. Some
times he speaks words of burning. pas
sionate love to a vision he calls "Myra?'
Sometimes he is getting ready for a wed
ding. Sometimes he recites that scene on
the cliff; and, in doing so, he re echoes
Myra's wild and piercing shriek. And
even the schooled hearts of those who have
charge of the maniac are thrilled with
awe and pity.
NO. 21.
gleaaing fox the
World Weary.
Society is full of people who know that
their lives are frivolous and unsatisfying.
It chafes them to think that they are the
victims of this great worldshow, whirled
along in it whithersoever it listeth, with
no opportunity for a deeper culture, no
time or vitality for the discipline f the
soul, for coming into fellowship with the
great minds of the race, for communing
with what is noblest and best in human
thought.; no time left for walking with
Christ in the lowly and obscure paths of
charity, for letting their spirits lie still
that they may be put in tune, purified,
calmed, and rested in the arms of God.
Persons thus ensnared by their earthly
and selfish cares may well look back and
sigh for the advantages of other days.
They know that there was much more of
reality and noble truth in their lives than
now. They were nearer to Nature, and
to all that gives largeness and strength of
soul. Well may they envy the obscure
Christian, unvexed with trifling cares,
whose conversation is in heaven, who walks
daily with God, and amid those truths and
thoughts which are the glorious essence of
things.
Bow often, weary and empty of soul in
this world-pageant, men and women would
be glad to flee out of it, as Moses fled from
Pharaoh's court to Midian. Better to
keep the sheep of Jethro, if he might
thus come unto Horeb, the mount of God,
than to bask amid royal pleasures, which
are a weariness and pain. Better to flee
into the wildetness, and sit under a juniper
tree. fed by the ravens and drinking of
the brook, than be oppressed with gaities
which are but vanity and vexation of
It was not the Pharisee and scribe, amid
the pomp and life they so proudly led, but
to the shepherds who watched their flocks
by night, that the angel of the Lord ap
peared. To them, and to wise men in the
East, silently communing with the stars,
was it first made known that a Savior had
been born.
Not amid the hurry of Laban's home,
but while he lay alone in his far desert
journey, where God's eternal counsels re
vealed to Jacob.
There must be more of simplicity in
our modern lives, loss of earthly engross
ment, and more of high spiritual aspiration,
if we would save ourselves from becoming
the automatons of the hour.--J. 211. Nan
ning.
Lightning--Popular Delusions.
As the season of thunder storms is rap
idly approaching, its advance guard having
wade its appearance a few days ago, some
remarks upon sonic of the methods by
which people attempt to shield themselves
from the danger of lightning, may not be
unwelcome to our readers. Fear is a great
magnifier of danger, and people seldom
think that there is more danger, as an
English writer says, on the best regulated
railroad than during the heaviest thunder
storm. Most of the dangers from light
ning can be avoided by paying attention
to well known rules of safety. Naturally,
frightened people draw together in some
room or place, seeking safety in each oth
er's society, unconscious that they are at
tracting danger instead of preventing it,
as the ascending currents of vapor caused
by their perspiration are excellent con
ductors of electricity. People seem to
think that they are safe in a crowd and iu
the neighborhood of some tall building,
and some of the most horrible accidents
on record have been caused by this mista
ken belief. Others believe that lying upon
several mattresses will prevent their being
injured, unconscious of the fact that per
sons have been killed while endeavoring
to shield themselves in this manner. It
will be seen that these accidents have
mostly occurred to persons who were igno
rant that the vapor of their persons, or the
mattresses upon which they lay, were con , .
ductors. The safest spot in a thunder
storm is the centre of the room if you are
in the house, or a place at some distance
from tall houses or trees, if oat of doors.
But the laws of electricity, if that capri
cious power has laws, are yet unknown;
and the best course is to trust in God and
keep your lightning rods in order.
MI Mixed Up.
A certain witness in an assault and,bat
tery suit we once heard, mixed up things
considerably, in giving his account of the
affair. After relating how Denis came to
time and struck him, he proceeded :
"So, yer honor, I just hauled off and
wiped his jaw. Just then his dog cum
along, and I hit him again."
"dit the dog ?"
"No, yer honor, hit Denis. And then
I up with a stone and throwed it at him,
and rolled him over and over."
"Threw a stone at Dennis ?"
"At the dog, yer honor. And he got
up and hit me again."
"The dog ?"
"No, Dennis. And with that he stuck
his tail betwixt his legs and run off."
"Dennis ?"
"No, Dennis. And when be came back
at me he got me down and pounded me,
yer honor."
"The dog came back at your
"No, Dennis, yer honor—and he isn't
hurt any at all."
"Who isn't hurt ?"
"The dog yer honor."
SEWING MAGGINEs.—Which is the best
sewing machine, is a point on which dif
ferent companies differ; each of course,
thinks its own the best. One may have
advantages for one kind of work, and an
other for another. But if the point were
to be decided by popularity, the Singer
machine would outstrip all others. The-re
turns of the last year show that its sales
have been perfectly enormous—ammount
ing to not less than 180,000 - machines. It
has an immense "circulation" as newspa
pers would say, in Europe as well as in this
country. These ought to be enough to
sew up all the rents in the Royal robes of
princes and ministers of State, which have
been for a long time in a sadly tattered
condition.—New York Evangelist.
ARE t
'ou HA - P - PYT—Loid Byron said :
The mechanics and workmen who can
maintain their families are, in my opinion,
the happiest body of men. Poverty is
wretchedness; but even poverty is, perhaps
to be preferred . to the heartless, unmeaning ,
dissimulation of the higher order.' An
other says: have no propensity to envy
my one, least of all the rich and great;
but if disposed to this weakness, the sub
ject of my iriiikness, would be a healthy
young man in full possession of hisstrength
and faculties, going forth in the moining
to work for his wife andehildren; or bribg
mg them home his wages at night.'