The Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1871-1904, May 12, 1875, Image 1
VOL. 50. The Huntingdon Journal. J. R. DIJRBOItROW, PUBLISHERS AND PROPRIETORS OS ice ia 111 W JOURNAL Building, Fifth Street, Tun HUNTINGDON JOURNAL is published every IVAnesday, by J. It. DURDORROW and J. A. Nest!, an ler the firm name of J. ft. DURBORROW k CO., at 12.00 per annum, IN ADVANCE, or $2.50 if not paid fur in six months from date of subscription, and if not paid within the year. No paper discontinued, rnless at the option of the publishers, until all arrearages are paid. No paper, however, will be sent out of the State unless absolutely paid for in advance. Transient advertisements will be inserted at TWELVE AND A-lIALF CENTS per lino for the first insertion, SEVEN AND A-lIALF CENTS for the second, and FIVE CENTS per line for all subsequent inser tionz. Regular quarterly and yearly business advertise ments will bo inserted at the following rates : 1 3mi 6m l Om l ly 361 1 6 m 0 mil y 1 1 - 1 350 450 55d S 00,..c0l 9 00118 00 $ '27 1 $ 36 500 800 10 00,111 00N 24 01/.61,0 ..0 65 , 7001000 14 00118 001% " 34 00 60 00 Go 80 8001100 20 00 1 1 21 0011 col 1 36 00 1 60 00 80 100 1 Inch 2 " Local notices will be inserted at FIFTEEN CENTS per lino for each and every insertion. All Resolutions of Associations, Communications of limited or individual interest, all party an o ,uncements, and notices of Marriages and Deaths, exceeding five lines, will be charged TEN CENTS per line. Legal and other notices will be charged to the party having them inserted. Advertising Agents must find their commission outside of these figures. All adcertising accounts are due and collectable vben the advertisement is once inserted. .1013 PRINTING of every kind, in Plain and F.-icy Colors, done with neatness and dispatch.— ti aud-bills, Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, &c., of every variety and style, printed at the shortest notice, and every thing in the Printing line will be execu ted in the most artistic manner and at the lowest rates. Professional Cards B. T. BROWN BROWN & BAILEY, Attorneys-at- Law, °ace 21 door east of First National Bank. Prompt personal attention will be given to all legal business entrusted to their care, and to the collection and remittance of claims. Jan. 7,71. 'II W. DUCHANIN, D. D. S. W. T. GEoIIGEN, M. IL C. P., D. D. S . BUCHANAN k GEORG EN, SURGEON DENTISTS, meh.17,'73.] 228 Penn St., HUNTINGDON, Pa. ll CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law, •No. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied by Messrs. Woods et Williamson. [ap 12/71. DR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his professional services to the community. Office, No. 523 Washington street, one door east of the Catholic Parsonage. Dan.-1/71. EDEBURN & COOPER, Civil, Hydraulic and Mining Engineers, Surveys, Plans and estimates for the construc tion of Water Works, Railroads and Bridges, Surveys and Plans c: Mines fur working, Venti lation, Drainage, ttc. Parties contemplating work of the above nature aro requested to communicate with us. Office 269 Liberty Street, Pittsburgh, Pa. - Feb.l7-3mo. CTGEO. B ORLADY, Attorney-at Law. Over Wharton's anU Chaney's Hardware store, Huntingdon, Pa. [apl7-tf. aJ. GREENS, Dentist. Office re • moved to Leister's new building, Hill street Ljan.4,'7l. LI L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T. t-i! • Brcwn'a new building, No. 520, Hill St., 11 un tin gdon, Pa. HUGH NEAL, ENGINEER AND SURVFYOI3, Car. Smithfield S!reet and Eighth Avenue PITTSBURGH, PA Second Floor City Bank 11. Co.rac3l..l„koDDEN. —, n ,. 11 t r e tk e t r n il e - n at i d a o w , l'a. [ap.19,'71. T FRANKLIN SCHLOCK, Attorney !" • at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Prompt attention given to all legal business. Office 229 Hill street, corner of Court House Square. [dec.4,'l2 JSYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at • Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Otee, Hill street, hree doors west of Smith. [jan.47l. R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at- J• 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 he JOURNAL Building. [feb.l,'7l j W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law r." • and General Claim Agent, Huntingden, 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. S. GEISSINGER, Attorney -at L• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office one doo East of R. M. Speer's office. [Feb.s-1 K. ALLEN LOVELL. L OVELL & MUSSER, Attormeys-at-Law, Specis 1 attention given to COLLECTIONS of all kinds; to the settlement of ESTATES, so.; and all other legal business prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch. inov6,'72 p A. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law, • Patents obtained, Office, 321 Hill street, Linn tiagdon, Pa. [may3l,'7l. E. FLEMING, Attorney-at-Law, • Huntingdon, Pa., office 319 Penn street, nearly opposite First National Bank. Prompt and careful attention given to all legal business. NVILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention given to collections, and all other lsgal business i..tended to with care and promptness. Office, No. 29, Hill street. {apl9,ll. Hotels, D ICKSON HOUSE, (Formerly Farmer's Hotel,) North-east corner of Fourth and Penn Streets, HUNTINGDON, PA., SAMUEL DICKSON, Having lately taken charge of the Dickson House, (formerly Farmer's Hotel,) I am now pre pared to entertain strangers and travelers in the most satisfactory manner. The house and stable have both undergone thorough repair. My table will be filled with the best the market can afford, and the stable will be attended by careful hostlers. May 5, 1875—y WAS HINGTON HOUSE, Corner of Seventh and Penn Streets, HUNTINGDON, PA., LEWIS RICHTER, - - PROPRIETOR. Permanent or transient boarders will be taken at this house on the following terms: Single meals 25 cents; regular boarders $lB per month. Aug. 12, 1874 MORRISON HOUSE, OPPOSITE PENNSYLVANIA R. R. DEPOT HUNTING-DON, PA. J. 11. CLOVER, Prop. April A, 1871-Iy. Miscellaneous. fT ROBLEY, Merchant Tailor, No. - A A • 813 Mifflin street, West Huntingdon, Pa., respectfully solleits a sharo of public pat ronage from town and country. [0ct18,72. TO ADVERTISERS: J. A. NASH, THE HUNTINGDON JOURNAL EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING J. It. DURBORROW & J. A. NASH Office in new JOURNAL building Fifth St THE BEST ADVERTISING MEDIUM GENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA J. 11. BAILEY. HOME AND FOREIGN ADVERTISE MENTS INSERTED ON REA- Dtpl2,'7l A FIRST CLASS NEWSPAPER TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION feb.l7-ly $2.00 per annum in advance. $2 50 within six months. $3.00 if not ALL KINDS OF JOB WORK DONE [jan.4;7l NEATNESS AND DISPATCH, J. HALL MUSSER, LATEST AND MOST IMPROVED STYLE, HUNTINGDON, PA POSTERS OF ANY SIZE, WEDDING AND VISITING CARDS, BALL TICKETS, SEGAR LABELS, Proprietor. :PHOTOGRAPHER'S CARDS, BILL HEADS, Our facilities for doing all kinds of Job Printing superior to any other establish ment in the county. Orders by mail promptly filled. All letters should be ad dressed, J. R.DTJRBORROW & CO, The Tiuntingdon Journal. Printing PUBLISHED HUNTINGDON, I'A. CIRCULATION 1800 SONABLE TERMS. ---:o paid within the year. :0:- - JOB PRINTING WITU AND IN THE SUCII AS CIRCULARS, BUSINESS CARDS PROGRAMMES, CONCERT TICKETS, ORDER BOOKS, RECEIPTS, LEGAL BLANKS LETTER READS, PAMPHLETS PAPER BOOKS, ETC., ETC., ETC., ETC., ETC., Zht Atorg-Edltr. STRANGE TRADITION. It was a dreary winter night; the snow lay thick upon the ground, and the wind went wandering through the narrow city streets, now wailing lugubriously, then shrieking shrilly ; rattling at the door and windows, and thundering over the house tops, making the people tremble in their beds. The wild wind seemed to have some special business in the world this night, as it went careering and raging round and round, driving the good folks into their houses, hurling down chimney-pots, tear ing up old trees, playing at hide-and-seek in the churchyards as though it would wake the dead, and failing that, flying up to the steeple, howling furiously, striking it on all sides, wrestling in a mad endeavor to send it crashing on the graves below. If it could only have woke up the spirit of justice, that lay bound in a trance like sleep, it might have been content to rest, but it could not ; having tired itself out, it sank down sobbing and wailing round a palace prison, where a doomed King lay sleeping his last earthly sleep. All the griefs, trials and vicissitudes that can be• fall humanity had been crowded into the life of the unfortunate sovereign. He had been weighed down by political anxieties and military defeat, and at last with a brave unflinching spirit had undergone the terrible ordeal of a public trial—a mere mockery of justice—which resulted in his condemnation to death. He had already bid farewell to wife, children, friends and relations, and had now but a few hours. to live. One wonder was rife among the people, one question had flown from lip to lip during the day, but night came and left it unanswered—" Who was to fulfil the ghastly office of headsman to the King ?" It was not to be the corn mon executioner—that was well known ; but on whom, then, would devolve the re• sponsible office ? It must be a practiced hand who would strike one blow and have done. One thing alone was known— that at twelve o'clock on the morning of the 30th of January the King's head was to fall. The night that was to herald such a morrow was the very dreariest of the dreary winter. The w:nd had puffed out the tiny oil-lamps that lit the streets with its first breath, and they were dull, dark, and almost deserted. Still the snow fell and the wind wailed on. It was neir!y midnight, when a solitary pedestrian wend ed his way through the silent city. He was wrapped in a square roquelare, and wore his hat pulled low over his elves. Ho hurried along, looking neither to the right nor to the lett, not even pausing for a sec ond, till he reached a shabby, narrow street in the purlieus of Westminster, with rickety, tumble down houses on each side. lle looked cautiously round him, laid his hand upon a hitched door, and entered one of these miserable abodes of humanity.— There was a low whispering of voices in the dark passage; then he ascended a steep flight of worm eaten stairs, and was shown into a room occupied by one solitary man. The door closed behind him, and they two were left alone. For a moment they gazed on each other's face ; there was no hand shaking,:not a single word of greeting pass ed between them. The occupant of the room was a large, heavy limbed man of the lowest order, with a bloated face and a ferocious cast of countenance. One huge hand lay clenched upon the table, as he leaned forward and scanned his visitor from beneath his bushy brows. lle was the first to speak. "Well, I don't suppose you've come here for the pleasure of looking at me," he said, with a ghastly grin. "That's your writing and your signing, I suppose ?" He held forth a crumpled bit of paper as he spoke. His visitor bowed his head in token of assent, but said nothing. "Well, what du you want ?—folks d.)n't seek out the likes o' me for nothing. Tell me quickly what you want; it is past mid night, and I've work to do tomorrow that needs a steady hand." "It is on that matter, I desire to speak to you," replied his visitor, in a cold, cal culating tone. "You are here by com mand of Oliver Cromwell to carry out the execution of Charles Stuart. What is your fee." "You're curious, master ; but I don't mind telling you. My price for the job is twenty golden pieces." "Let me take your place and make it ten times more," exclaimed his visitor. Richard, butcher, though he was, and fresh from the shambles of St. Ives, recoiled be fore the eager voice of the speaker. Was he mad ? or—he smiled grimly, and shook his head. "It is a plot to save the King," he said. "Save the King !" echoed his visitor, with a low laugh of bitter hatred. "Though be had twenty heads, I would not rest till the last one had fallen. I fought at Nase by, strove with might and main to stand face to face with him, that we might cross swords and Sght till one or both were slain, for I have sworn no hand but mine shall shed his blood !" "I'm sorry for your oath," replied Bran don • "you might have kept it times enough without wailing until now." "I tell you I have watched and waited "Bab !" interrupted the man ; "a blow in the dark would have served your pur pose, and the country would have been saved much cost and trouble ; no one would have asked who struck the blow-" "Man ! I would be his executioner, not his assassin !" exclaimed his visitor, fiercely. "You gentlefolk draw nice distinctions," sneered Richard Brandon. "Time flies," rejoined his visitor; "there are no moments to waste in quibling or useless argument. I make you an offer which will fill your purse and spare you an unpleasant task. It can be no pleasure to behead the King." "But it would be au uncommonly un pleasant thing for me to put my head in his place." "You run no risk," replied the other : "in case of any discovery or failure my head is in peril, not yours; but discovery is impossible. Your person is unknown to the prison authorities—unknown to the people outside—unknown even to Crom well ; in addition to which you are to be cloaked and masked. Who could tell what form or face is hidden by such disguise ? It is but a few minutes work, then the ex ecution is over, the executioner disappear; no man will care to look upon his face or clasp him by the hand; they will shrink from him as though he were a pest ilence stalking through the labd. Decide quickly. There is the money,"—he flung a bag of chinking coin upon the table as he spoke—"count it. Give me your cre- HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 1873. dentials and disguise, and never fear but all will go well." 'how know I that ?" said Brandon, ir resolute and sorely tempted. "I was chosen fin my skill; you are no professional, and may be but a bungler at the work. I am only a butcher, a slayer of innocent beasts, and I would not be the torturer of a King." Ills visitor glanced keenly round the room ; there was a huge billet of wood ly ing in the corner. lie took it up and placed it on the table. "Give me an axe," he said, "and draw a chalk line where I shall strike." Without a word Richard Brandon rose up, took a piece of chalk, and drew a line across the wood. This done he produced an axe scrutinized it carefully, passed his finger over its keen sharp edge, and smiled satisfied "It should be a rare tool for sue!' fine work," he said. Ile balanced it for a mo ment in his hand, then lifted his arm and deviating not a hair's-breadth either to the right or to the left ! As the wood fell on either side, with a heavy thud both started, drew a long breath, and looked on each other's faces. The professional slay er felt he was in the presence of a master hand. The clack at WeAminster Abbey was striking one as the mysterious stranger left the house, bearing with him the dis guise, the credentials, and the headsman's axe. * * * * * * * Time turned his hourglass and days and years fled past. The King's enemies had passed away, and generations of their chil dren after them. More than one crowned King had laid his sceptre down at the door of mighty King Death. The follies and the courtly vices of the Stuarts were fast fading into matters of history; and his Majesty King George 11. occupied the English throne. The noble family of Stair had lost many of its valua ble possessions during the political excite ments of past times. At the present, the chief representatives of the house of Stair had fallen into disfavor with the King, and contemplated withdrawing himself from the Court. He came of a proud and haughty race, and could not brook the idea of a formal dismissal, which might any hour befall him. He knew too well the character of his sovereign. _ _ _ As he was walking along the Oxford road making a mental arrangement of his affairs, before retiring to 'his estates in Scotland, which he intended to do forth with, a man stepped suddenly in front of him, and placed a letter in his hand In some surprise at this mode of proceeding, he opened it and read as follows :—"My Lord—your bravery is well known ; but will you have the courage to go to-morrow night to the entrance of Somerset House, where you will find one who (if you dare follow him) will conduct you to a part of the town not much frequented, but where you will find a man who is impatient to see you, and to discover secrets which are of more importance than you imagine, and which cannot be disclosed in a letter ? It you are afraid this should be a plot upon your purse, bring nothing valuable about you, and come armed." Lord Stair's surprise at reading this strange requisition may be easily imagined. At first lie took it for a trick of some se cret enemy, or some affair of gallantry, the heroine of which had probably her own reasons for such a mysterious summons. However, he determined to go, let the risk be what it might. lie buckled on his sword, and, providing himself with a pair of pistols, went to the place appointed.— There he found a man evidently waiting for him, who, without speaking, made hi.n a sign to follow. After walking for about an hour they came into a dilapidated and deserted street. His conductor knocked at the door of a small house; on its being opened he stood aside and said, "Walk in, my lord," and the door closed behind them. Holding his sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, Lord Stair fol lowed his conductor, and was shown into a room the furniture of which was scanty and belonged to a by gone alp?. At the far end of the apartment there was seated, or rather half buried, in a huge leathern chair a very aged and decrepit man ; so old, he seemed as though Time had for gotten him, though the passing years had left their mark upon his face, and scored and reseored it over and over until scarce ly a vestige cf Nature's original handiwork remained. Flowing down almost to his waist was a long white beard ; a pair of unearthly eyes gleamed from beneath his frosted brows. On a table by his side was i Small old-fashioned lamp. Sa soon as he found himself alone with this uninvi ting figure he advanced cautiously and, glancing suspiciously round him, grasped his sword. The old man's dull eyes be. came fixed upon his face, and a small, faint voice inquired if he were Lord Stair. Lord Stair answered in the affirmative, adding: "It is you. I presume, who have sent for me in this mysterious fashion." "Kneel down that I may look upon your face." Strangely impelled by his authoritative tone, as well as some irresistible feeling in his own heart, Lord Stair obeyed. The old man seized the lamp, and throwing the light full upon his visitor's face, gazed at it eagerly ; he then stretched fort his yellow, skeleton hand, and touched his visitor's cheek. The young man almost recoiled from it; he felt as though the hand of death were writing his sign man ual upon his brow. "I see—l recognize the features of my race—it is my own lost youth carne back again. Now, lift up your eyes and look on me." Amazed, half stupified, and yet strange ly affected, Lord Stair did as he was bid den ; but lie saw nothing there to stir his memory. It was a face 0f an utter stranger, seemingly belonging to another world. "Your eyes do not recognize me," he said impatiently; "but your soul must, for it is akin to mine. Aye, you may start, but the blood that rushes flaming to your face now comes from the same fountain as that which stagnates and freezes in mine. For years, long years, I've yearned to look upon the face of mine own race and blood; a little while and I shall be content to die; but not yet—not yet. I have two things to do. I should not lie quiet in my grave if left undone." Guided by his directions Lord Stair drew a heavy box from beneath a bed. "There, there," continued the old man, "you will find papers which will repair the losses you and your family have sus tained ; deeds which will restore you to estates enjoyed wrongfully by others.— With the aid of these you will easily re• cover property which is yours by descent; and you will read the story of my life, it is written there." Lord Stair hastily scanned the docu- merits and found that they were precisely what the old man hinted, and he raised his eyes to hiw in wondering gratitude.— He would have taken his bony hand and pressed it to his lips, but the old man snatched it away, murmuring— " There's blood upon it. I've tried to hide it, but it's always there." Lord Stair recoiled a step, struck by the sudden gesture, no less than by the words, and the shuddering 'expression that came into his companion's face. The old man, observing the revulsion his words created, put fi)rth his hands pleadingly, as he added— "No, don't leave me yet ; I am au old wan—a very old man, and I have repent ed. Oh God ! have I not repented ? Yea. from the very hour that I slaked my thirst fhr vengeance, my blood began to cit.], and I felt the brand of murder—cruel, cow ardly murder on my soul. I hid myself from the eyes of mine own kindred, from the eyes of all the world, and I would fain have hidden from myself; but I have the stain of Cain upon my brow. I meant my secret to be buried with me, but it will not let'we rest—it will not let we die un til it has escaped my lips. I have tried to die, but I could riot; I was a coward and dared not." He paused a moment, over• come by mental pain as well as physical exhaustion ; then, grasping his young kinsman's hand, he spoke again, almost in a whisper. "You remember Charles Stuart—King Charles the First ?" "Charles the Martyr, as we call him now ? Yes, historically, I do rtmember him," replied Lord Stair, wondering at the question. I—l—but it is all written there," re• joined the old man, pointing to a bundle of manuscripts. "I cannot force thy tongue to tell all—only this; It was I who stood upon the scaffold cloaked and masked ; it was I who struck the ungodly blow that unkinged England, and sent a thrill of horror through the land—l, vindictive monster that I was Even as the axe was falling, I hurled my name—her name into his ear ; and as I lifted his bleeding head, his wild eyes seemed to roll towards mine. Yes, he hearl me—heard we—and I know that be forgave me." Overcome by his terrible retrospection, the aged speaker seemed to sink into an unconscious state. Silently, noiselessly as a spectre, the guide who had conducted Lord Stair to the house appeared upon the scene, and motioned him to leave the room. "Aye, go—go!" gasped the old man, rallying for.a moment—"go, and return nu wore." * * * Here the manuscript breaks off ab ruptly. Of its truth or probability the reader must judge for himself. We all know the question of "Who beheaded Charles I?" has been often asked, but never satisfactorily answered. Richard Brandon was engaged to play the part of executioner, but it is denied that he was the man who struck the blow. glattliug lov the The Source of Salt. The sea depends on the disintegration of rocks on land tie. salt. It does not or iginate in oceans and seas. Rains wash it and hold it in solution as particles are lib erated by violence, decomposition, and gradr:d action of natural farces. All streaudets and rivers, therefore, arc con stantly transporting salt to the sea. If there is more than can be held in solution, then it accumulates in masses at very deep points. Thus the salt mines of Portland and the vast horizontal beds of pure salt in Texas, as well as that mountain of rock salt in St. Domingo, were collected at the bottom of ancient seas, which are now dry land remote from water. There are places in Africa where the process of disintegration of salt from rocks is regularly going on, but there is n •t, water power enough to force it onward to the sea. Hence the particles are spread abroad and mixed with the soil. The ue grocs of northern Africa having discover its distribution where there is no wat. er to dissolve in the ground leach it. In that way they separate the salt. Salt per vades the earth. It exists in the grasses and most vegetable products on which ani mals feed. In that way they derive enough in most countries to meet the demands of their natures. They require as much as civilized humanity. With them it is ne cessary, as with ourselves, for keeping the organs of vision in good condition. Stop the supply and blindness would ensue. Canaries. Rather more than three hundred years ago, a ship partly laden with little green birds captured in the Canary Islands, hay ing been wrecked near Elba, the birds made their escape, flew to the island, and there settled themselves. Numbers of them were caught by the inhabitants, and on ac count of their sprightly vivacity and the brilliancy of their voice they soon became great favorites, and rapidly spread over Europe. The original color of the canary is not the bright yellow with which its feathers are generally tinted, but a kind of dappled olive green, black and yel low, either color predominating accord ing to circumstances. By careful man agement the bird-fanciers arc able to pro cure canaries of every tint between the three colors, having instituted a set of rules by which the quality and arrangement of the coloring is reduced to a regular system. Still the original dappled grean is always apt to make its appearance, and even when two colored birds are mated, a green one is pretty sure to be found in the nest. For my own part I cue little for the artificial varieties produced by the fanciers, and to my mind an intelligent bird and a good songster is not one whit the less attractive because the colors of its plumage are not arranged precisely according to the fan ciers's rules. BENEVOLENCE is not a thing to be Li ken up by chance, and put by at once to make way f,r every employment which savors of self. interest. It is the largest part of our busines, beginning with our home duties, and extending itself to the utmost verge. of humanity. A vague feel ing of kindness toward our fellow creatures is no state of mind to rest in. It is not enough for us to be able to say that noth• ing of human interest is alien to us, and we give our acquiescence, or indeed our transient assistance, to any scheme of be nevolence that may come in our way. No; it is in promoting the welfare of oth ers, we must toil; we must devote to it earnest thought, constant care and zealous endeavor.—Artkup Helps. You should not stone your neighbor, but you may rock his baby. Among the many causes of pain and sorrow in the world, tit! must potent are the wounds which we wantonly inflict upon each other. IVhen we reflect on the numerous trials which visit mankind. in the shape of poverty. siekness, bereave ment, the failure of effort and the disap pointment of hopes. it would seem as it none could be found so cruel as wilfully to add to the long catalogue. That there are some who do this deliberately. and many more wh do it thonghtlessiy. most be ad mitted. Perhaps there is no weapon so strong to injure, and so keen to wound. as the tongue. Capable of showering the richest blessings of love and sympathy, of hope and cheer, of instruetion and eneonr• figment. it is yet too oftea made the channel through which the venom of sel. fishness and malice flows to poison and de. stroy human happiness. No'. only through open kindness and harsh asperity -:re the wounds of the tongue inflicted ; there is a mere insiduous and secret course. less pal pably cruel, often, indeed, assuming the guise of apparent sincerity and friendship and thus wholly escaping the aappmbriiina it justly deserves. Of all the evils that corrupt our social life there are none so pernicious as those inflicted by the can ning and malicious tattler. When we meet face to face with a f,e. we at least know what we encounter. and cm prepare for the assan;t ; Ira when we are stabbed in the dark, thrust at by supposed friend ship and smitten by the band that menses us, then indeed is a bitter enp presented to our lips. It is impossible to calculate the power for evil that is wielded by such a character. By wily conversation he may worm himself into others' secrets, and then disclose them, causing infinite injury ; by misrepresentation and esaggerated color ing he may produce utterly false impres sinus, breaking up friendship. sowing the seeds of distrust. casting equivocal slurs on the character and candnet of those most' . worthy of respect. magnifying petty acts of thoughtlessness or trivial errors i7sto serious and unpardonable offences. and in a thousand ways clouding the happiness and destroying the peace of those who have a just claim to sympathy and regard. . _ \\Thal a contrast to sucha charaet r is that of the sincere, truthful. self respect ing person, who se earnestly and energet ically pursues his own occupation that ho has neither leisure nor inclination to pry into the affairs anthers ; who, with all simp.icity and faithfulness, fulfills his own relatioas in life and leaves others in free dom to fulfill theirs ; who is as strict in preserving, unsullied, the reputa tion of others as in respecting their rights of property. Such a one is not afraid or suspicion. for he is himself unsuspicious, and is ever more ready to discover the ex cellencies of others than their defects ; he fears not calumny, for he never stoops to calumniate another; he dr2a.ls no expo sure, for his life is one of transparent sin cerity. Thoroughly respecting others. he commands for himself the respect of all.— His own troubles are not paraded f,r the purpose or exciting pity, but are h ,rue with fortitude. while ha never suffers thew s) to absorb him as to prevent his ready sympathy with those of others His joys arc multiplied by sharing them with friends, and he can usually coin:nand * * "A henrt at leiAure from it•eif To f out he and tympathiar.- or all the many finalities which confl - !ine to firm the blessing and charm of social life, none is ni - fro essential than a straight forward sincerity. To be true to our own convictions, to be true to all our profes sions of friendship or regard. to he true to justice, honor and integrity—in a word. to be faithful to principle, is t.., lay the only possible fjundation on which social happiness can be maintained. Without this, envyings, jealousies. selfishne.fs and ill will will forever corrupt and embitter our whole social fabric Directly. we al. low insincerity and donble-deilings to creep into our intercourse, direct!' we suffer hypocrisy or decait of any kind to tincture our convers:ttion, directly we per mit selfish, envious or jealous feelings to cloud our affections and repress our sym pathy—that moment do we introduce a poisonous element into our social life that must eventually corrode its welfare and destroy its happiness. Simplicity, fidelity and purity of heart and lips from the at mosphere in which social happiness loses to dwell, ani only through their continued influence upon society can it he purified. sweetened and made to yield rich and abundant fruit. A Sick Baby in the House. A great hush fells on the ear like a knell, and an untold sadness settles like a pall over the heart, for baby is eiek. Is it not strange that a wee little thing sh )uld have the power to change everything, ma king the sunshine that but yesterday played so merrily and bright in and out of the windows seem such a cruel mockery today, and changing the joyous tones of the elder children into funeral notes' But such is the spell that baby bee woven, knitting itself into the very meshes of our hearts, in such a quiet, subtle manner. that we scarcely know how dear it is until the little form lies prostrate. What care we about the order of the work.basket when the little hands that made such havoc therein—scattering the buttons over the flonr. pulling out the needles, unwinding reefs. and doing other innumerable things—are lying ilk, with fever coursing through each waxen fin. ger ? And does not every one in the house share the solicitude, making the anxiety general ? Even Mary leaves her work in the kitchen to mike frequent inquiriee about '•baby." Pape comes hone an h earlier than his wont, so anxieue is he to learn how 'baby" is. But the most tenelling of ail is the anxious face of the mother, sitting at the sick couch. ever and anon bendin : , low over the idol of her soul to kiss the little cheek s) bright with fever, while her heart ascends to the One who sent her darling, in a petition tket the sufferer may soon be restored to health ; and as her glance falls on the tiny red cloak and hood so lately worn. what wonder that the tears fall fast ? It brings so vividly to mind what may be. But need we dwell ?-- Those who have known what it is to have an empty cloak and hood that will never more be filled by the loved form for which they were made, will know why mamma ' s tears fell. To those who have bean spared that sorrow, 'twere useless to explain— God grant they may never know. A NEW lIAMPOIHRE reporter. in fle scribing the recent celebrat;en of her one. hundredth birth-day by an old lady in that State, naively luiys: "She talked feN day without showing the least sign of fis tiyue." A Contrast. A Rank Amory Swoon. FA.) • ing , aoratnn prenelori no the ere th, hattk 91 itritulywino. Septoin ber 19. 17:7. in the pregiener inn 3n.i h luny. It They !h.!. !.k. the t'e .? I •'lll , l p•rt•fi tit !b• SOLthTXRA AID CoVITItTMEV:—Wo have Dui thi• evynin7, prrhipo for the tug time. We h th • toil 4 tits march. the r the licht. rho Amoy of the ro!r.• 'de we Ikss• muiwrool ttrii an" f. • r , no.ornely of the incerwel r.e. the ,ntrif.re of the forvi i ew oppre.ww. We have sit wi=lt atFer ni t besoie the same rail) fir.% :iharel the raw. month ‘nl.iier•4 fir,: we have to2i4ler•r twirl rhie rr 11 r.f rh • reveille whieb ratkri so to awry. or the .it the tottcn letkit vie the siztal for rite haply 4!ewp of tine golgroorr. with to • eirth Ger tr. 4 fool. sad the Itisp sack f.r hi. p ill. w . _ _ _ An l rriw: sillier. an I hoethrwr. have .1 in the pen...fiik ',it/. th. eyp ~r while the sevlizht *yin :way h•fin.l yonder 16.100., the sevirptht that 1... 1 ,mm aloft) will glimmer , tet se.nr,m frf hi 4:1 hare set WOW the. Whitenin 7 tent!, of n -ST .sessepasest ;is time% of t-rr rr aittl alines have we ritlber. fwl t.ixeth,r. • :•wi grime Ora it sasy sot be f.r the 13-4 t time It is a 'Arms time Brethren. .ores sot the awtel swiee of na ture Aerm to reho the rpspdbies sf !hip hour ? The 117, of nor memory &sap heari!y fr is yo.viv stall—the breast her: died a:naez the plainer Chariots IV*. —the p . a:ri that rewards heist* se ewes*. inz in ~antizht —the heights of the Brow dywine arse ;tinotery sad Irrasvi hirysesi the vifen-4 of pn.les oreasi. sail ail mw tare a palate of wolves* silowee. the eve of the blowt.bri as ...trite if the onorr.m. -They th:st fah., the .er,,r,l shall peri.is by the .trvi h-no they rent taken the wand'— Let thii de*.lateil plain. 'he hinn.ll-wwilsis valley. the brirw,l /arm wileteri awl the rir32.11 tnyro astsw•r—let the whitenin; base+, or the hatchery.' far mer. 'trewn the S-Ile a his linns. .trail. awwer—let the startler; Illoggbillr, with the babe die, iw to her *ilh ". breast. that can aSsni sn seisteneore. kit her answer, with the death rude miaglimg with the moratoria; tones that apart die Ist strugge f life—let the dyisez atesthar and her babe answer It was hot • day post. anti our !and slept in eh. rmiis of pI2C:. W2l was not here—wma% was es It here Fraud. and mar. awl misery. sod want. litrAt 1110; 1.4. Ernst the eternal solitude of the greens vrosis. arise the blue smoke f the ...tee-es eihio. and golden 11.•!tis of earn peered r wet frills amid waste • f the wilderaests. and dat glad music of h man voice.; awoke the si lence of the for,st. Now : Gnel of everey, behold the eh tnlze fader the shadow of a pre:„..xt—na.l..r the sonetity of the name "r God. invoking the Redeemer as their ail. tin these forei,rs birrliar giay our peoi.le : They throng ocr tower, they darken ~ n r plains. and anir they ttems. pass nor poet 4 on the lonely plaits or l'had.i's Ford. • They that take the %wore' 4hali periA by the sw,bri - Br-thrers, think nie wet unworthy of belief when I tell y.4tt :hat the deem ne Coe Britisher no-ar! Think tr.e rant rain when I tell pi* that Leynnel that eland this n .rr en-bri.e4l4 I are rat/seria l :. thick an,: ra4:. the slither dorsi. 38.1 dee bla:Ater storm. of 4 Divine Betribatine They may enn4iner 12.4 hr 11141,17. : ) 11 - Tht and stray wz stay be driven rr..111 Ibis the lottir litsl's own venvance will coupe : Aye. if in the ram sobtioiel ~( space—it' in the heart of the bog:mikes Waiver* , . therc throbs the Win.; of an sw rut Go 1. quick to aveingil. an) tore to roe ish then wi:l the.: isms kierwlet ise Ilrtmswiek called Kist, &el is hie besis and in leis heart. chi vengeance of the Eternal debovsla : A blight will be wpm Liu life—a withered brain, .ite aceer-cd is telleet—a blight will beep), hi* Adams. and on his people. Grent low, dread ful the punishment : Sofa:nets*: I look arses stnom.g your familiar faces with a ,tratkre Interest : To-morrow martin we will 311 cr, gyro' to battk—for seed t t,rtt vs that per sea worthy minister will gs with yew. wevabitsg God's aid its the kilt! We will isseirib garth t s batik. Need I eshort yns t.. light the 11 , )0 , 1 64ht—ta kite Gar your beats strx_l4. E.r per wive., amt roar ebildrot ! Vim will g) firth to bottle tw issirriss with light heats and decennia/ea spirits,l though the solemn duty—the diary of avenging :he decd—stay rest heavy on your .tild in the hour of lissette. when all armful is clarinets, lit by tlio lurid cannon glare and the piereing mesk et-dash, whi:n the waiusiesl strew the ground, and the deed litter your pia. then remember, soldiers.. that God is Irish yon The Eternal fix' istbr+ for you—He ride. on the battle eland. Ile memos ersehir I with the march or the hat-vie eherrizr- The Awtel and the Infinite klieg far you. and ykku will triumph - They that take the 4w .rkl shad ?-rids by the sword. - ou have taken the sword. het not iw the spirit of wrong and ravage. Too boree taken the sword for your homes. En- year witt.s, and for your little nem You hive taken the sword fur truth. f.r jnetice and right ; and t you the pronsi.e is, be of good cheer. for your fire bow ts ken the ',iron', in tlefibleee i.f all that man hold'sdear—in blasphemy of God ; they shall perish by the sword. .‘n.l now. brethren and soldier.. you 311 farewell- Many of im may fal to the fight of to-morrow—t rest the ssello of the fallen—.nany of as way live In sell the i.t-ry ref the fight In IlanilToW, and in the ni-mory „r all, will ever rest and fist ger the quiet scene of this sistnnianl ai hr. thilemn twilight advances over the valley the woods on the opposite height= their long 413.1.. we oTer the grees ow ; around 101 are the frets of the WWI- Rental host. tie half suppressed halide of the camp, the hurried crimp ..f ...Wier. to and fro; now the ennfokton, and ewe the stillness which mirk the ere of When we meet again.:n ►y tbs. lone *hail owe ..f twilight tlnne err..r a rseeral land. 1;...1 in heaven er.nt it. A Du E boy was rath•.r travelled! far fear that he wirshi not !m o w hip fish er when they both reiebsi begs's. Is* lira mother ea..-.I 9irn by remark iv's: ••All yew have to do is to look fir in soitiri wit), s re i 111 , 1•1 on h'.us.- A room )eon; eras reilarhe thee the only advice he get+ rpm, capitalist "0 MP live within his iecoese. - whereas the Si risky be espetieeeev u) live without se income. Nor 1.41* MIR A' lel moral s few bsmiwi oft. be. Ars b. .ie wooly kw "NEM At soli& tie", by Woe* • how - iv Mho low bawl_ awl time fkaliog Ir 110111 oposiar sxrlt siesup enollbing b• serial sari bombiby wiumiso. Lwi.R tee LON Me boor and a Ur se bore die owamoy perL firllva. wimp lbw istarese s• llir oupb_ hi• sass ism ties bashes aro jos .irsee.r. Of merge 'bey spoP4 sea brida tri, we imprbing sI fly email dry sfLmwi n. bin so. 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