VOL. 43.
The Huntingdon Journal.
Office in new JOURNAL Building, Fifth Street.
THE HUNTINGDON JOURNAL. is published every
Friday by J. A. NASH, at 82,00 per annum IN ADVANCE,
or $2.50 Ii not paid for in six months from date of sub
scription, and 83 if not paid within the year.
No paper discontinued, unless at the option of the pub
lisher, 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-HALF CENTS per line for the first insertion, aryaN
AND A-HALF onfre for the second and in vs CENTS per line
for all subsequent insertions.
'Regular quarterly and yearly bud:less advertisements
will be inserted at the following rates :
1 3 m 6 m 19m I 1 yr I
I 3 m 6 m 9 n l l l Yr
_ -
lln 113 501 4501 5 501 8 oOrcoll 9 0018 00 s27'= 36
2.‘ 5 00 , 8 00)10 00 1 12 00 1 4,01118 00136 00 50 65
3 " 7 0(.) 10 00114 0018 00 %col 34 00,50 00 66 80
4 " 18 00114 00120 00,18 00 1 col 36 00150 00, 80 100
All Resolutions of Associations, Communications: of
limited or individual intereet, all party announcements,
and notices of Marriages and Deaths, exceeding five lines,
will be charged TIN caliss per line.
Legal and other notices will be charged to the party
leaving them inserted.
Advertising Agents must find their commission outside
ei Shoes fi g res..
All nivertiting accounts are die and collectable
*Um the advertisement is once inserted.
JOB PRINTING of every kind, Plain and Fancy Colors,
done with neatness and dispatch. fiend-bills, Blanks,
Cards, Pamphlets, &c., of every variety and style, printed
at the shortest notice, and everything in the Printing
line will be executed in the most artistic manner and at
the lowest rates.
Professional Cards•
WM. P. k R. A. ORBISON, Attorneys-at-Law, No. 321
Penn Street, Huntingdon, Pa. All kinds of legal
business promptly attended to. Sent.l2,'7B.
71R. G. B. HOTCHKIN, 82.5 Washington Street, Min
i/ tingdon. junel4-1878
ji CALDWELL, Attorney-at-Law, No. 111, 3rd street.
1/. Office formerlroecnpled by Messrs. Woods At Wil
liamson. [apl2,'7l
DR. A.B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his professional services
to the oonamunity. Office, No 523 Washington street,
one door east of the Catholic Parsonage. [jau4,'7l
DR. FITSKILL has permanently located in Alexandria
to practice his profession. [jan.4 '7B-Iy.
C. STOCKTON, Surgeon Dentin. Office in Leieter's
I`./. building, in the room formerly occupied by Dr. E.
J. Greene, Huntingdon, Pa. [apl26, '76.
(IRO. B. ORLADY, Attorney-at,Law, 405 Penn Street,
li Huntingdon, Pe,. Ln0v17,'76
a L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T. Brown's new building,
U. No. 620, Penn Street, iluntingdon, Pa. [apl2.'7l
HC. MADDEN, Attornerat-Law. Office, No. —, Penn
. Street., Huntingdon, Pa. (ap19,'71
jSYLVINUS BLAIR, Attorney-at-Lair; Huntingdon,
. Pa. Office, Penn Street, three doors West of 3rd
Street. [jan4,'7l
T W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law and General Claim
t/ . Agent, Huntingdon, Pa. Soldiers' claims against the
Government for back-pay, bounty, widows' and invalid
pensions attended to with great care and promptness. Of-
Ace on Pimp ptreet.. [jan4,'7l
LB. SEISSINGER , Attorney-at-Law and Notary Public,
1./. Huntingdon, Pa. Office, No. '230 Penn Street, oppo
site Court House. ' (febs,'7l
SE. FLEMING, Attorney-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa.,
• office in Monitor building, Penn Street. Prompt
and careful attention given to all legal business.
[angs,l4-6mos
New Advertisements.
HITNTI
SETE BOIT CUTER ROTE
Is now prepated to SUIT Its Patrons in
GARMENTS of the VERY LATEST STYLE
And the BEST MAKE UP, at prices to suit the times. My stock of
IIEADY - MADE CLOT-411NQ
FOR MEN, YOUTHS, BOYS AND CHILDREN CS FULL.
Men's Suits for $4.00 up;
Boys' Suits for $4.00 up ;
And. Children's Suits for $2.00 up.
Xii3rsF la rill 4:11 3BC. 9--r: 3E3E Ark all iffil
For MEN, YOUTHS, BOYS, and CHILDREN is large, and prices low. The beet line of SHIRTS,
ranging in price from 35 cents up. A large assortment of HALF-HOSE-5 pair for 25 cents,
and up to 50 cents per pair. LINEN COLLARS, 2 for 25 cents.
Suspenders, Shoulder Braces, aid Handkerchiefs. Also, Tricks aid Satchels,
All bought at BOTTOM PRICES FOR CASH,
.A.N . 13 WILL .13E 1801,13 CHEAP POll C'ASII.
The only place in town where you can get the
GENUINE PEARL SHIRT.
A SPLENDID LINE OF SAMPLES FOR SUITINGS
To be made to order, Measures taken and good Fits guaranteed,
Don't Fail to Call and Examine my Goods and Prices beib►ro Purchasing.
DON'T FORGET THE PLACE
NEARLY OPPOSITE THE POSTOFFICE.
T. W. MONTGOMERY.
April 11,1879
BROWN'S
CARPET STOR E,
JUST THE PLACE FOR HOUSEKEEPERS !
i 879, Fitt STOCK ! NEW STYLES H is 79,
c.A..T?,l=imrr,
ALL GRADES AND AT PRICES THAT CAN NOT BE UNDERSOLD
FURI\TIT - U - RFA,
The Largest Stock and variety of
Chairs, Beds, Tables, Chamber Suits, Lounges,
ROCKERS, MOULDINGS, BRACKETS, &e., ever exhibited in Huntingdon county
WALL PAPER ! WALL PAPER !
In this department I have made important changes; procured the latest improved trimmer, and my
new styles and prioes for 1.579, can not fail to exit purchasers. Call and see.
WINDOW SHADES and FIXTURES
in great variety. Plain, satin and figured paper, plain or gilt band shading, spring and
common fixtures.
FLOOR OIL CLOTHS
From 15 inches to 2i yards wide. Halls covered with one solid piece without joints. [Bring diagram
and measurement.] For
PICTURE FRAMES AND LOOKINC CLASSES,
This is headquarters. Mattresses, Window Cornice, and anything in the Cabinet or Upholstering line
made to order or repaired promptly.
UNDERTAKING
_ Also added to the Furniture & Carpet Business,
!plat Caskets and Burial. Cases,
WOOli OR LIGHT METALIC TO SUIT ALL. BURIAL ROBES IN VARIETY.
FINE ASS
Ready to attend funerals in town or country. My new clerk and traveling agent, FERDINAND
Roca, will call briefly in the principal towns, villages and valleys of this and adjoining counties,
with samples of Wail Paper, Carpets, Carpet Chain, and illustrations of Chairs and many kinds of
Furniture, to measure rooms, &c., and receive orders for any goods in my line. If be should nut
reach you in time, do not wait, but come direct to the store.
JAMES A.
525 PENN ST., HUNTINGDON, PA.
March 21, 1879.
S. WOLF'S.
At Gwin's Old Stand,
505 PENN STREET.
Not much on the blow, but always ready for work
The largest and finest line of
Clothing, Hats and Caps
In town and at great sacrifice. Winter 6uods
20 PER CENT. UNDER COST.
Call and be convinced at S. WOLF'S, 505 Penn st.
RENT AND EXPENSES REDUCED,
At S. WOLF'S. I am better able to sell Cloth:ng,
Hats and Caps, Gents.' Furnishing Goods, Trunks
and Valises, CHEAPER than any other store in
town. Call at Gwin's old stand. S. MARCII, Agt.
MONEY SAVED IS MONEY EARNED
The Cheapest Place in Huntingdon to buy Cloth
ing, Hats, Caps, and Gents.' Furnishing Goods is
at S. ‘k OLF'S, 505 Penn street, one door west
from Express Office. S. MARCH, Agent.
TO THE PUBLIC.—Ihave removed ray Cloth
ing and Gents.' Furnishing Goods store to D. I'.
Gwin's old stand. ..Expenses reduced and
better bargains than ever can be got at
S. Wolf's 505 Penn Street.
March 28, 1379.
BEAUTIFY YOUR
II OM ES!
The undersigned i 8 prepared to do all kinds of
110 ESE IND SIGN PIINTING 9
Calcimining, Glazing,
Paper Hanging,
and any and all work belonging to the business.
Having had several years' experience, he guaran
tees satisfaction to those who may employ him.
PRICES 11 , IODEIZATE.
Orders may be left at the JOURNAL Book Store.
JOHN L. ROIILAND.
March 14th. 1879-tf.
GDON'S
525 PENN STREET,
he Huntingdon Journal.
New Advertisements.
HERE WE ARE !
-AND
GENTS.' FURNISHING GOODS,
New Advertisements.
BROWN,
niusts' (ointr
Hiram Skimmerhorn Reviews the Sit-
uation.
'Well, yes, I was a Dimicrat,
Aud so was dad and mam ;
But now the thing's so kinder mixed
I can't say that I am.
I'm not a turncoat, nuttier, Jim,
But, jest, 'twist you an' me,
What use it is to go it blind,
I'm (fumed ef I can see.
"Now, jest look back some twenty years
The party taught us then,
And made us ignorant cusses think
That niggers were not men ;
And that they hadn't any souls !
They talked so 'airnest, too,
That I'd of tuck my Bible oath
That what they said was true.
'•A man had better not of said,
In them old halcyon days,
That slavery wasn't jest the thing,
Or Dimicrats would raise
In holy wrath a virtuous mob,
Of men like you and I,
To put a rope around his neck,
And hang him out to dry.
"You mind the time when no one dare
Say slavery wasn't right,
Onless he had his weapons on
An' grit enough to tight.
A fact I you can't deny it, Jim ;
It kinder hurts, I know,
To hey these things raked up agin,
I:ut durn it, ain't it so ?
"From sixty-one to sixty-five,
Who caused the bloody strife ?
Who trampled down the good old fla,?.;
And sought the Nation's life ;
The very Dimicrats who now
In Congress, make our laws !
And when we come to think of this,
I think its time to pause.
"They want to pension Davis now,
Old Jeff, the traitor, who
Would had his neck stretched, long ago,
Ef Justice bad her due.
Now, I don't keer to train along
With no such rebel crew ;
I'll never vote that way agiu,
Now blast me of I do I"
—Corporal Bumb, in Inter• Ocean.
Lac tory-Etiltr.
BUT FOR THIS.
"Millicent, Millicent, when is supper ?"
"God only knows, child."
"Perhaps I'd better pray for some, then,"
said little Jane Blair, solemnly.
"Really I think you had," said Milli
cent, in a soft tone.
There she sat staring into the little fire
on which their last atom of wood was burn
ing, and seeing in the red ashes, into
which the light wood dropped so quickly,
pictures of the past. They had never been
rich people, but always comfortable.
Her father was a seafaring man—first
mate of an ocean vessel—and her mother
a tidy housewife, who made everything
bright and cozy. How he used to sit tell
ing his adventures to them when be was
at home.
He would not have been a sailor had
there not been sea serpents and mermaids
in them, but nothing, was too wonderful
for those loving folks at home to credit;
and indeed he probably believed them
himself.
The rooms had been pretty with shells
and coral branches, and bright parrots in
swinging cages and pictures of ships upon
the wall.
It had been so different from this wretch
ed place in which the two girls now lived.
But that was not all ; the love was gone
—the tender care that parents have for
their children.
The mother lay in her green grave in
a far-off cemetery; and who can point the
place of a shipwrecked -sailor's grave ?
She remembered so well how be sailed
away the last time—how they - looked after
him, her mother and herself—how they
waited for news, and waited in vain, until
at last there came to them a sailor, saved
from the wreck of the "Flying Scud," who
told how she went down in mid-seas at the
dead of night, ablaze from one end to the
other ; and how Roger Blair, the first
mate, was among the missing.
After that, poverty and sorrow ; depart
ure from the dear old home; toil in a
strange city, sickness, friendlessness, and
crowning woe of all, the mother's death.
The girl had done her best for her lit
tle sister ever since, but she was not a
very skillful needle woman, and could not
earn as much as some others ; and now
work had given out altogether, and she,
pretty and sweet and good, and helpful in
a daughterly way about the house, was
not quite sure that she could win bread
for two in any way—bread and shelter and
fire.
She was only seventeen, and a frail lit
tle creature, with very little strength in
her small body, and now that matters were
so bad, who can wonder that she almost
despaired ?
"I suppose it isn't quite supper time
yet?" said little Jane again. She bad been
on her knees behind the bed for a long
while. "I wonder whether He knows how
hungry I am ?"
_ . _
"What shall I do ?" said Millicent to
herself, as she looked about the room.
"I have sold everything—the clock, the
books, even mother's work-box and the
parrot. There is nothing left. The child
will starve before morning. -Oh, what
shall I do ?"
She arose and went to the window, and
looked down the street. It was dirty and
narrow, and swarmed with filthy children.
Opposite was a little drinking shop,
about which a blind man with a fiddle
drew a profitless audience.
Nothing sweet or fresh or pure met her
eye there, but between that scene and
herself a sudden breeze blew a beautiful
screen, and there was wafted to her through
the broken glass an exquisite perfume.
On the sill without stood - a
rose in a
broken teapot.
She bad picked up the slip among the
rubbish cast out by a neighboring gar
dener, and it had grown well in its hand
ful of earth.
To day it had bloomed ; a perfect rose,
exquisite in shape. perfume and color,
drooped from the stem, and beside it a
half blown bud gave promise of another
flower as lovely.
Until this moment Millicent, in her anx
iety had forgotten her one treasure.
But for a gentle shower that had fallen
that morning, it might have withered
where it stood, for she bad not even water
ed it.
Now a bright thought flitted through
her mind.
She bad often seen children selling
flowers in the street, and ladies and gen
tlemen seemed glad to buy them.
She would force herself to be courage
ow..
HUNTINGDON, PA,, FRIDAY JULY 11, 1879.
She would go out into the street with
this rose and its bud, and some one would
give her enough to buy a loaf' of bread, or
at least a roil for little Jane.
She would do it—she would.
God would give ber strength.
She tied on her hood and wrapped her
ahawl about her, and plucking the flower
and a leaf or two, and that bright bud
that seemed perhaps the fairer of the two,
bade Jane be good and wait for her, and
went down stairs and out from the dingy
cross street into Broadway.
There every one save herself seemed
gay and happy, and well dressed.
She seemed to be a thing apart—a black
blot in all this brightness.
She stood at a corner and held out her
flower, but it seemed that no one heeded
her.
At last she gathered courage to touch
one orthe ladies that passed, and say
"Buy a rose, lady—buy a rose! Please
buy a rose."
But the woman hurried by as the rest
had.
It would not do to stand still.
She walked out slowly.
Whenever she caught a pleasant eye
she held out her boquet, and repeated her
prayer.
"Buy a rose ? buy a rose ?"
But the sun was setting and she was
opposite the City Hall Park, and still no
one had bought her flowtr.
She was growing desperate.
Some one should buy it.
Jane should have bread that night.
"Buy a rose ! See ! Look at it ! See
bow pretty it is !" she cried, in a voice
sharpened by hunger and sorrow. "Look'.
You don't look at it, or you'd buy it."
"These street beggars should be sup
pressed," said the stout man she had ad
dressed. "Young woman, I'll give you in
charge if you don't behave yourself."
"lie don't know, he don't know," said
Millicent to herself. "Nobody could guess
how poor we are. Oh, what a hard, hard
world !"
Then she went on, not daring to speak
again, and her rose drooped a little in her
fingers, and still no one seemed disposed
to buy it. _ _
In her excitement she had walked fur.
ther than she knew.
She was far down Broadway, and before
her was the Bowling Green, with its new
ly trimmed grass plot and its silvery
fountain.
A little further on the Battery, newly
restored to its pristine glory, and on its
benches some blue-bloused emigrants with
round faces, and their bare-beaded wives
with woolen petticoats and little shawls
crossed over their bosoms and knotted at
the waist.
As they stared about them, it struck
the girl that they, fresh from the sea,
might be tempted by the fresh, sweet rose
she held in her hand to spend a few pen
nies, but when she offered it to them, she
saw they were more prudent.
They only shook their heads solemnly
and looked away from her .
And this last hope gone, despair seized
upon Millicent.
She sank down upon a bench and began
to weep bitterly.
The twilight was deepening.
She was far from home and little Jane.
She was faint with weariness and hun
ger.
Beyond the present moment all seemed
an utter blank to her.
She covered her face with her hands;
,he rose dropped into her lap unheeded.
She cared for it no more.
Fate was so much again hFr that no one
would even buy a beautiful flower like
that of her.
There were steps.
She heeded them not.
•
There were voices.
It mattered not to her.
Suddenly some one said :
"What a beautiful rose."
And the words caught her ear.
She looked up.
Three or four sea faring men, with
bundles in their hands, were passing by,
fresh from the ocean evidently, embrowned
with the Bun and wind, and with the ship's
roll still in their gait.
Sailors were always generous. One of
these would buy the flower.
She held it out.
"Buy it, please," she whispered faintly.
"Please buy this rose."
"I am glad to get it," said a stout, el
derly man, slipping forward. "What's the
price, my lass? Will that do ?"
He tossed three or four foreign looking
jilyer pieces in her lap, and took the
flower.
Then looking at her very closely, he
spoke again :
"What's the trouble, lass? Don't be
afeard to tell me, I had a little girl of
my own once. She's ,lead now, Tell md.
can I help you ?"
Millicent looked up.
The man's face was half hidden by his
hat, and he was stouter and grayer than
her father had been, but she fancied a
likeness.
"You have helped me, sir," sha said,
"by buying the rose. Thank you very
much. My father was a sailor too; and
he was shipwrecked."
"It's a sailor's fate," said the man. "It's
time you were getting home, lass. This
city is no place for a young girl to be out
id after night. But just wait. A sailor's
orphan has a claim on a sailor, and my
poor little Millicent would have been about
your age if she had lived."
"Millicent 1" screamed the girl. "Oh,
my name is Millicent. I'm frightened.
I don't know what to think. You lock
like him—you. I'm Millicent Blair. My
father was Roger Blair. Is it a dream ?
It can't be true. It can't be father !"
But the next instant he had her in his
arms, and she knew that the sea had given
him back to her.
Wrecked with the vessel, but not lost,
he had been cast upon a desert island,
whence he escaped after three weary years,
only to find his little home empty.
The widow had left her little cottage
to earn her living in the city, and the
news of her death had bean• brought bad(
to her old home by some one who had
been in New York when she died, and
who had either heard or imagined that he
heard that her children were dead also.
And the news was told to Roger Blair
by kindly people who believed it thorough•
ly, and he had borne it as best he could,
and had sailed the sea again, a weary,
heart-broken man.
He had not found all his treasures, but
that some were spared was more than he
had ever hoped ; and the meeting between
father and daughter was like that between
two arisen from the dead.
And so the rose bush had done more
for Millicent than she could have dreamed;
and to this day it is the most cherished
treasure in the little home where the old
man lives with his two daughters ; and
,
when dace a month its blossoms fill the
air with their fragrance they crowd about
it as about the shrine of some sainted
thing and whisper
"But for this we should still be parted."
‘stlect
The Lost Sapphire.
A young lady, engaged to be married,
had retneived many beautiful gifts from
her betrothed, one of them being a valua
ble sapphire ring. She had been out walk
ing with him one afternoon, and on her
return home she observed a parcel of new
musia , that had just arrived for her. Sit
ting down to the piano, she played over
severo of the pieces, chatting occasionally
as she did so with her mother and sisters,
who Were at work in tho drawing room.
Soon afterwards they all went up stairs to
dress for dinner, and owing to the time
that had been spent over the new music,
were rather hurried in their movements,
as it was close on the dinner hour. The
bell sounded almost before the young lady
was rkady, and hastily finishing her toilet
she can down to join the circle in the
drawing room. Proceeding to the dining
room, she found that she had neglected to
put on her rings, and calling one of the
servants, she desired him to tell her maid
that the would find them lying on the
wash:stand, as she had laid them there
before washing her hands.
The young man quitted the room, and
returned in a few minutes, carrying the
rings on a small salver. The young lady
took them up, glanced at them, and said :
"There ought to be one more—my sap
phire ring. Please to go back to Smith
and ask her to look for it."
He went, was absent rather longer this
time; and on his return informed his young
mistress that no other ring was to be seen.
"Oh, it must be there," said the young
lady. "I laid them all down together.—
However, I will go and look myself after
dinner."
She did 90, and her sisters with her;
but no sapphire ring rewarded their search ;
and Ole young lady became very much
distrsed, not only on account of the value
of thia ring, but because it was a present
from - her lever, and a family jewel very
mac& prized by him.
"the ring was there and must be found,"
she said very decidedly; and once more
they all prosecuted a totally unavailing
sea ruh.
Matters began to look serious. The
young lady's mother appeared on the
scene, and looked and spoke very gravely
upod the subject. The lady's maid's char
acter was unimpeachable ; she had been
more than ten years in the family, and was
a thoroughly trusted servant. She de
clared solemnly that on receiving the mes
sage she went at once to the wash-hand
stand and found four rings lying on it ;
the sapphire ring was not there, for she
knew its appearance perfectly. She did
not think of looking more particularly for
it, as the rings were all close together;
and she handerthe four she saw to the
man servant.
Then came a very unpleasant surmise :
had any one else been in the room ? In
quiry elicited the fact that a young girl
who bad recently come as under house
maid had entered the room very soon after
the young lady had gone down to dinner.
Suspicion pointed disagreeably towards her
as the only person who could possibly have
taken the ring; and yet the whole family
felt very much averse to charge her with
the theft. She was a pretty and very re
spectable-looking. girl; but she had only
been a week or two in the house, and nalth
ing was known as to her antecedents be
yond the circumstance of her having been
well recommended by her previous mis
tress.
The mother of the family took the girl
aside privately, and told her that they
feared she had been tempted to steal the
jewel; urging her, it she had done so, to
confess her fault, and restore the ring im
mediately, and her fault would be over
looked. In an agony of grief and indig
nation, the girl warmly protested her in
nocence, begging that a detective might
be sent for directly to examine her boxes,
a request in which all the other domestics
concurred.
An officer was fetched ; and a narrow in
spection made; but nothing could be seen
of the missing ring. Suspicion still remain
ed attached to the unfortunate young house
maid, who, it was concluded, might have
found means skillfully to conceal the ring;
there was no proof against her, but the cold
looks of the other servants were more than
she could endure; so she threw up her sit
uation and went home with a tarnished
name and a breaking heart.
Several days passed away and the young
lady was sadly distressed for the lass of her
ring, and vowed over and over again that
she would never again leave her jewels ex
posed in such a careless manner; she was
now also much vexed about the poor young
housemaid, and blamed herself for having
thrown temptation in her way.
It so happened that she had not been
out of doors since the day of the unfortu
nate occurrence, the weather having been
cold and wet, and her occupations detain
ing'her a good deal at home] but a bright,
pleasant morning appeared, and she ar
ranged to go out after breakfast with one
of her sisters. The maid looked out her
walking things, and the fair fiancee don•
ned her bonnet and sealskin jacket, and
then took up her muff, which had been
laid on the toilet table beside her.
She drew out her band again directly,
and with it a pair of kid gloves, and as
she put them down one of them fell rather
heavily on the table.
"What is that ?" she exclaimed. Taking
up the glove she felt a small, hard object
inside one of the fingers. A deep, burn
ing flush dyed cheek and brow, to be in
stantly succeeded by a deathly paleness.
Sinking down on a chair, she covered her
face with her hands and gasped faintly.
"Oh, Smith, Smith ! I shall neverfor-
give myself ! That poor innocent girl—
she never took my ring. It is there !"
And so it was; caught in the finger of the
kid glove, which the young lady had care
lessly drawn off on her return from her
walk, and placed in her muff when she
went to the piano, where it bad remained
untorched ever since.
Pleased as she was at the recovery of
her valuable trinket, ber satisfaction was
much alloyed by remembering all the pain
ful circumstances connected with it, es
pecially the mental suffering of the poor
young maid servant wlao had been so un
justly suspected of having stolen the ring.
She and her mother started directly for
the home of the girl's widowed mother,
and were grieved beyond measure to learn
from her that he poor creature had been
so overcome by distress of mind that very
serious illness had resulted, and the doctor
considered her symptoms very unfavora
ble. The good news brought by her late
mistress had fortunately a beneficial effect,
in combination with the greatest kindness
and attention that could possibly be be
stowed on her ; and ere many weeks had
passed she was perfectly restored to health.
The young lady's marriage took place, and
in her new home a comfortable situation
was found for the girl, whose happiness
was still further increased by the appoint
ment of her mother as gate keeper at the
pretty lodge belonging to Hartfield Hall.
And so the matter ended to the satisfac
tion of every one concerned; but it might
have been far otherwise, and people should
be exceedingly cautious how they make
an accusation which they have no means
of proving, lest they bring lifelong misery
upon the accused, and perhaps repentance,
when too late, upon themselves.
Big Family Babies.
To our mind that foolish habit, so dear
to certain weak parents, of keeping a full
grown boy or girl as the baby of the fam
ily, is infinitely pernicious. The boy, in
deed, if he has any manly instinct in him,
takes the matter into his own hands, and,
despite the wrath to come, cuts off his
luxuriant curls, whanges his attire, and
worries for school life and school compan
ionship till he gets his own way, and is
emancipated from the weak society which
was sapping the foundation of his future
manhood. But girls, who are more plastic
and less daring, suffer themselves to be
manipulated at the will of the fond mother,
so that they remain the babies which it is
her pleasure to make them, and carry on
into womanhood the weakness and inapt
ness which she has been so careful to
nourish during their girlhood. Baby can
do nothing for herself; and is not allowed
to learn. When she is twelve years old
she has her shoes and stockings put on for
her, all the same as when she was two;
and at sixteen is washed in the Saturday
night bath by nurse with reluctance or
compunction. She is encouraged in all
childish amusements long after the natural
age for them has passed. She plays with
her dolls when she is seventeen, like that
little French wife who so powerfully ex-
cited the jealousy of her husband, till he
found out that his formidable rival was a
large wax doll ; and she finds her childish
treasures and playthings as pleasant now
as they were when she wore short frocks
and lisped broken English.
What was the consequence of all this?
Baby grows up into womanhood without
one qualification for her career. She
has never been taught to do anything for
herself; and has never been trained to
think. She has been the petted plaything
of her family, who find it amusing to keep
up a baby among them, no matter of what
number of pounds or breadth of inches it
may run ; and the after destruction of the
girl's character and usefulness counts for
nothing. That she should some day be a
wife and mother on her own account is of'
no consequence to them compared to the
private pleasure of playing at babydom ;
that she might be called on to act, to direct,
to think for others, does not disturb their
minds or set them to calculate rationally.
She is baby; and baby she remains to the
end. When, therefore, she marries, what
does her husband find her ? Innocent cer
tainly. But innocence, if' a girl's chief
charm, is not everything in a woman ;
and the pure, sweet strength which can
look steadily at the facts of human life,
and deal with them when occasions de-
mand, is more to the purpose by a great
deal. But more
can Baby manage her
house or her children ? She has always
managed for herself—always kept in idle
ness, and spared all trouble or responsi
bility ; bow then can she suddenly order
and arrange and think for others ? If
her child is ill, what can she do, she who
has never been suffered to see sickness or
sorrow ? She can only stand helpless
and scream ; or perhaps make matters
worse by fainting, or by insisting on taking
the child on her lap and smothering it
with kisses as the best restorative of which
she can think. These great children, these
grown babies, are infinitely distracting
both to their husbands and to every one
with whom they have dealings.—London
Queen.
The Immensity of London.
Of all the great cities, London, on the
whole, contains the most to interest and
instruct Americans. It has doubled in
population in the memory of men still
young. Most readers remember when
Macauley's history appeared. In his first
volume the author contrasted the grandeur
of the modern city with the London of
Charles 11. and boasted that the number
of inhabitants had increased from little
more than five thousand to aZ, least one
million nine hundred thousand. In the
brief time that has passed since Macauley
wrote, the one million nine hundred
thousand has become four million.
A few contrasts taken from the best
estimates will give some suggestions of the
immense magnitude of the city. It is
aptly described as a province covered with
houses. New York is equal in population
to the aggregate of Maine and New
Hampshire. London equals Maine, New
Hampshire, Vermont, Rhode Island, Con
necticut, Massachusetts and California all
together. To equal the city of London,
here we should have to bring together the
people of the following cities : New York,
Philadelphia: ' Brooklyn, St. Louis, Chica
go, Boston, Baltimore, Cincinnati, New
Orleans, Buffalo, San Francisco, Washing
ton, and Louisville. The transient people
in New York are about thirty thousand ;
in London one hundred and sixty thous
and. In New York a baby is born
every fifteen minutes and a death occurs
every seventeen minutes. In London a
birth occurs every six minutes and a death
every eight. The drinking places in New
York set in one street would extend seven
teen miles; those in London seventy three
miles.
A CLERGYMAN of a country village
church desired to give notice that there
would be no service in the afternoon, as he
was going to officiate for another clergy
man. The clerk, as soon as the sermon
was finished, rose up with all due solemnity,
and cried out, "I am requested to give
notice that there will be no service this
afternoon, as Mr. L. is going fishing with
another clergyman."
A YOUNG man in a suburban town sent
off his first postal card on Thursday morn
ing. After writing a message on the back,
he enclosed it in au envelope, clapped on
a three-cent stamp, and dropped it into
the postoffice, remarking that it was a very
handy arrangement, and should leave bey'
introduced years ago.
SUBSCRIBE for the JOURAIAL.
YEA nistorg.
THE
OLD FOOT-PRINTS OF THE RECEDING RED MAN,
AND THE
EARLY LAND-MARKS OF THE COMING WHITE MA)
WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO
The Juniata Region.
BY PROF. A. L. (PUSS, OF HUNTINGDON, PA.
'Tie good to mnee on Nation,* panned away
Forever from the land we call our own.
YAMOYDEN
ARTICLE XIII
STYLE OF INDIAN WARFARE.
The wars of the red men were terrible,
but not from their numbers. Until com
pelled to meet armies of white men they
seldom met for large pitched battles. They
had no way to collect and transport large
quantities of provisions. In any one expe
dition they hardly ever exceeded a score,
rarely a dozen, often only two or four
The small parties were most dreaded, most
annoying and exasperating. The great
point was to surprise the enemy—to follow
his trail and kill him when he sleeps—to
lie in ambush and pounce upon an indi
vidual, or on defenceless women and chil
dren—to slay victims unaware of danger
—to take the scalp with three strokes of
the tomahawk, and fly away to his com
panions, hang his trophies in his cabin, as
gory reminders of his supposed prowess, or
to march in exalting procession from vil
lage to village, to recount in oratorical
style before the chiefs of his tribe, the
number of scalps taken with his own
hand—this was the honor and the ambition
and the glory of his life.
FEARLESS, FREE, YET CAUTIOUS
Clad in skins that left every joint free.
supplied with red paint, armed with bow
and arrows, the Indian would roam through
the dark forests, as the eagle pierces
through the heavens, hang for days and
even weeks on the skirts of his enemies,
awaiting
a favorable moment to strike a
blow. His caution went hand in band
with his intrepidity.
COWARDS IN FIGHTING--HEROES IN DY.
ING
If an Indian was killed during one of
these predatory excursions, it only in
censed his relatives the more to repeat the
effort to avenge his blood. They were
seldom taken alive; but, if captured and
carried in savage glee to the towns of has
enemies, he defied them with his insult;
asked no favors, dared them to do their
utmost in torments, denounced them in
unmeasured terms, called himself a MAS,
and threatened them with the dire ven
geance of his tribe. They fought like
cowards, but when hope fled, they died
like heroes. The Indian never opened a
conflict, unless he thought he had his
enemy at a disadvantage. If fortune
turned against him, he expected no mercy,
and met his fate with stoical indifference.
INDIAN TORTURES AND DEATH.
The torture of the captive was regarded
as a test of courage. When the Indian
went out on the war path, he prepared his
mind for this very contingency, resolving
to show, if captured, that his courage was
equal to any trial, and above the power of
pain and death. Bence, the exhibitions
of heroism and fortitude of the red man,
while undergoing mart7rdom, surpass be
lief. They were surprised at the sensitive
out-cry of the whites at the stake, and at
tributed it to cowardice. They instilled
their notions of honor into their .boys, un
til it became a part of their nature. They
considered the reputation of their nation
in their keeping, and their glory involved
and to be illustrated in the firmness by
which they met an inevitable death.
THE INDIAN WAR SONG
Before starting out on any war project,
they danced the War Dance and sang the
War Song, recounted what great deeds
they and their fathers had done. The war
songs of the Iroquois were in a dead lan
guage—at all events they were not able to
interpret them. They were, in regular,
measured verses. Charlevoix has fur
nished the following translation of one of
them :
"1 am brave and intrepid, I do not fear
death, nor any kind of torture. Those who
fear them are cowards. They are less than
women. Life is nothing to those who have
courage. _May my enemies be confounded
with despair and rage."
Captives would sing this during their
torture. They would taunt their tor
mentors, by relating how many of their
people they had formerly destroyed, and
declare them lacking in knowledge how to
torture. Possibly this As done to exas
perate them, so as to precipitate a fatal
and sumwary blow and hasten relief in
death.
WONDERFUL ENDURANCE FOR ANCESTRAL
GLORY
From the heart of the Five Nations in
New York, the young warrior, anxious for
ancestral renown, would thread the wilder
ness southward, float down the Susque
hanna, skim over the Juniata region, cross
the glades of the Potomac. worm his way
through the mountains of Virginia, sub
slating on such morsels-as nature threw in
his path, steal into the rocky fastnesses of
the Cherokees, or into the jungles of the
Catawbas, their hereditary enemies, hide
in the rocks and swamps, change the place
of his concealment, till, provided with
scalps enough to astonish his native vil
lage, he would bound over the mountains,
pass through the valleys, in spite of heat
or cold. rain or storm, hurry home, to as
tound his comrades with the evidences of
his valor, and receive the honors due to
his bravery. Thus their numbers were
not only reduced, but passing often through
the settlements, during their inroads, they
kept the white people along the line south
ward in a constant state of uneasiness.
MUCH HISTORY LOST IN THE PAST.
I have been thus lengthy in regard to
the locations, migrations and doings of the
various Indian tribes that owned, or lived
in the Juniata valley, because of a - con
siderable knowledge of them it is often
necessary in order to understand the his
tory of the first white settlers, and because
the matter is in itself of interest to the
historian. The last Indian and the first
white man's history are moreover so dove
tailed into each other, that we must know
the one in order to understand the -other.
Nevertheless it often presents so inex
plicable a mass as to defy the most patient
and diligent research. Tribes arose, di
vided, combined, moved, changed names,
waged wars of desolation, were conquered
and disappeared; but there was no histo
rian to record their deeds. What a thrill
ing volume it would be, bad we a ftkll
history of the Indian races in America
, through all time! What a rich treasure
such a history would be to the antiquarian
and ethnologist I But wby should we
mourn, seeing that, if we trace our own
ancestry back but a few hundred years
further, we are lost - in an unrecorded con
glomeration of wild roving tribes, living
in the most primitive style, and subsisting,
like the Indian, on acorns, roots, fish and
wild beasts. Like the evening shadows,
the Indian has passed over our western
hills. The bones of his dead moulder to
kindred earth in great mounds, or lie scat
tered through our valleys.
"Here sleep their brave—their name forgot,
And not a stone to mark the spot."
THEY LIAO NO HOMER.
But what great chiefs they had, what
daring deeds they pefformed, what issues
were decided in their heated and san
guinary contests, what sufferings their
cruelties inflicted on each other, are all
alike unknown. The few vestiges left be
hind serve only to excite our wonder and
furnish food for speculation, but the story
of their origin and life is hidden from us
by an impenetrable veil. Horace said,
that as brave men as Agamemnon had
often bravely fought and died, but they
had no poet, like Homer, to
.immortalize
them by singing their heroic deeds in
Epic song. ,So, too, when a man thinks
of the Indians, their tribes, their leaders
and heroes, their wild hunts and their
desperate battles, their conquests and deeds
of noble daring—and then of their un
known origin and history, their heaps of
speechless and unrecorded bones, we are
led to exclaim:
"Vain were their chiefs—their prophets, pride,
They had no poet—and they died;
In vain they fought—in •aia they bled,
They had no poet—and are dead.'
SOME THINGS MUST BE KNOWN BEFORE.
History is always found so intertwined
with a net work of eßrents f owe eVent bear.
ing upon and tubdifyipg.anothr, that we
are often at a loss to kilowr what to say
first. Like a preacher in a .sermon, the
historian must always presume the hearer
or reader knows a great many thifts be
fore. He canncif stop to explain every
thing. It has not i been . the - deSign of these
sketches to relate' he Colonial History of
our country. Many writers hate done
this already, and lae'wbo wants , to under
stand Indian : History must know sotpe
thing 'of its outlines. It may be proper
here, before going farther, In give a few
leading facts connected with several na
tions colonizing here, sit be= wars they
waged. •
THE Frtnetr AN 15 =ETU rtzLraroN.
Iu ordei ec;Cf .
ersfand the first foot
steps' of tile-white man 'on 'the JO we
mast goo take , a glance at • ihe; Preach.
While Pennsylvania and her sistereolorties
along the Atlantic c i past, wore,beingrapidly
settled by the Poglish and ether Pro? tint
Europeans who amalgamdted with Them,
the French catholics were extending their
settlements andtricling poets along the St
Lawrence and the Lakes and down the
Ohio and Mississippi valleys. Prom two
hostile stocks of people, embittered by old
feuds of war andgeligiQP,Settlenientn s were
gathering on these western shorts for
future collision and, Conflict. The rancor
of European bigoirjrAnd perseention were
transplanted to American shores, and even
in our free air would not die witboat a
bloody expiring struggle. Let us look at
the approaching storm :
pazNett AND
In Europe a war broke out between En
gland and France in 1689, and extending
itself to the American Colonies, it,was
known here as King William's War, be•
cause William 111, was the king cf En
gland. Peace ensued in 1697 by a treaty
arßyswick.
In 1702 another wftr broke out between
the same nations in Europe, where it was
called the war of the Spanish Buccession,
but extending itself to the American Colo
nies was here known as Queen Ann's it'ar,
because she was then Queen of England.
Peace ensued by a treat'' , at Utrechb in
1713.
Another war broke-net between the same
nations in Europe in 17:44; sad was there
known as the war of the Austrian Succes
sion, but extending itself alto to the Amer•
ican Colonies, was here called King
George's Wir, after George If, King of
England. Peace ensued by a treaty at
Aix-la Chapelle in 1748.
In all these was the causes were bf for•
eign origin, but the Colonies suffered,' and
troops were here raised for expeditions to
Canada and other Provinces on the St.
Lawrence. The animosity engendered by
the friction of these wars between the
Colonists had become so heated that the
treaty of 1748, was hardly recognised in
America. The English could assimilate
all kinds of foreign Protestants, but be
tween them and the French Catboli( a
there was an irrepressible conflict. Reli
gion became a question of nationality, and
even the few English Catholics in the
Colonies were accused of sympathy with
the French.
TUE STRUGGLE FOR AMERICAN DOMINION.
The next war between France and Eng
land had its origin abou'ik; the boundaries
of the American CoronieS—the French i)e
ing determined to confine the English east
of the Alleghenies and possess theniselves
of the Ohio aad all its tributaries. This
war lasted from 1754 to 1762, and re
sulted in forever crushing the power of
France in America, and handing it over
to the Anglo Saxon races. During this
war the French exerted themselves to ar
ray the Iroquois against the Colonists, bat
they remembered the deeds at Lake Cham
plain 150 years previous and refused to
take up the hatchet. However the Je
suits had converted many of the Algon
quin tribes, and in this war readily made
use of "the praying Indians" against the
English. Hence this war was designated
in history as the French and Indian War.
OTHEEL INDIAN WARS.
Scarcely had the French and Indian
war closed, before the Indians, alarmed at
the advances of the goglish forts and set
tlements, formed a powerful combination
of all the.tribes to the northwest, under
the leadership of a bold and cunning des•
deprado, called Pontiac. It was a secret
plot, on a given day, to surprise the forts,
and ultimately to destroy all tbs. English.
It commenced in harvest of 1763, and is
known as the Pontiac Conspirary. It
ended the next year by she expedition of
Boquet into Ohio. The murder of Lo
gap's friends in 1774, precipated what is
known as Lord Dunniore's war, which was
the last troubit with the Indians prior to
the war of the American Revolution. It
is not our purpose now to carry these
sketches beyond that period, and hence
will not here notice the later Indian wars.
In our next article we will commence the
history of the Tusearoras—a tribe that
also once had a local habitation and a
name in the Juniata region.
( To be continued.)
NO. 27.
'ARS.