VOL. 44.
The Huntingdon -Journal
Office in new JOURNAL Building, Fifth Street.
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, --
July 18 - , 1879.
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March 14th, 1579-tf.
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0ct.17,'79
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Ely (glitsot Volum
"When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid nie good-night and be kissed ;
Oh. the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace I
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face !"
And when they are gone I sit dreaming,
Of my childhood too lovely to last ;
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickeuess made me
A partner of sorrow and sin :
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness
Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's,
Alid the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths steep and stony
Where the feet of the dear ones must go ;
Of the mountains of sin hanging over them,
Of the tempest-of fate blowing wild ;
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
They are idols of hearts and of households,
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
Ills glory still gleams in their eyes.
Oh, those truants from home and from heaven,
T ►cy have made me more manly and mild,
And I know how Jesus conid liken
The Kingdom of God to a child.
I ask rot a life for the dear ones,
All radiant, as others have done,
But that life roust have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun.
I would pray God to guard them from evil.
But my prayer would hound back to myself;
Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.
The twig is so easily beaded,
I have banished the rule and the rod ;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge ;
They have taught me the goodness of God.
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut theta from breaking a rule ;
My frown is sufficient correction ;
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave tl►e old house in the autumn.
To traverse its threshold no more ;
Ab, how shall I sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door.
I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at noon and eve,
Their song iu the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And Death says : "The school is dismissed I"
Ilfty tho little ones gather around me
To bid me good night and be kissed !
Elic *torn-Edict.
THE BITTER END.
Standing on the balcony, in the soft
sunset radiance which flooded the world
with a hint of that light
'•lChieli never was ou laud or sea,"
Mr St. Clair saw three persons on the
beach ; and she sat down to watch them,
and think what it was best to do.
Howard Gray was walking with Miss
Marsh, while her daughter followed them.
She saw that, and her face darkened. If
there was anbcl.ly in the world she hated,
it was Alice Marsh. She had taken a dis
like to her from the first. She remembered
how wonderfully fair she looked that
morning when Mrs. Carew's carriage
brought them up from the station to spend
a month at Sea View.
Alice Marsh was standing on this very
balcony where she was sitting now; with
the wind blowing her brown hair all about
her face, which was full of soft color, and
her eyes were full of subtle fascination.
'Such beautiful eyes I' she heard How
ard Gray say, only yesterday.
At that first glimpse Mrs. St.. Clair had
hated her. Possibly because she saw a
dangerous rival to her yellow haired
daughter, whose face and eyes never had
held, and never would hold, the bright
ness and soul in them that lit up Miss
Marsh's features. Possibly because some
subtle instinct told her that this girl was
to come between her and her mast cherished
pians.
Mrs. Sr. Clair had accepted Mrs. Ca
rew's invitation to Sea 'View for two rea
sons. She had met. young Gray, and had
resolved to catch him for a son in-law if
possible. He was rich and of good family.
Her daughter could not do better, matri
monially.
She discovered before she had been at
Sea View two hours that Howard Gray
was in love with Alice Marsh's beautiful
face. When she found that out she felt
that she could kill the woman who stood
between her and the consummation of her
plans. lie had paid some quite marked
attention to Lucia. She felt sure that, if
this new face could be kept out of sight,
she could succeed in capturing Gray in
the matiituonial net she had set for him.
Mrs St. Clair's face was dark with pas
sion as she matched them walking, on the
shore. Once in a while Miss Marsh or
Gray, turned to speak to Lucia, who kept
close to then). But it was evident to the
woman watching , them that the walk would
have been much mere enjoyable to them if
Lucia had been somewhere else.
The group on the beach turned in the
dusky twilight and came up the path to
the house. When they came in sight
around the clump of cedars at the cliffs,
Gray had given an arm to Lucia and was
walking between them.
know Lucia could marry him if Miss
Marsh was out of the way," Mrs. St. Clair
said slowly, to herself'. -I am quite posi
tive of that, but while she is in the way
we can do nothing. Must I sit idly and
see my plans fail, all cn account of that
girl's pretty face and winning ways ?
Never ! It's war between us! Lucia and
I will win if we can—if' we fight it out to
the death !"
c-i
She heard Lucia in her room, and she
got up and went in. Lucia had thrown
herself upon the sofa despondently.
t•What is the matter, Lucia ?" asked
her mother, seating herself beside her.
"Matter enough ?" cried Lucia, fret
fully. "That Dli=s Marsh—l hate her !
She talks to Mr. Gray about poets and
history, and all that, as if she were a man,
and knew as much about such things as be
does ; but wh , ;tl she says anything to me
she talks as it I were a child or a fool,
and couldn't understand what she meant if
she talked to me as she does to him ! And
—oh, dear ! dear ! I love him better than
any man I ever knew before !"
And here the girl, who showed how
shallow and superficial she was by the weak
lines about her mouth, began to cry.
"Don't !" said her mother, soothingly;
but there was a hard ring in her voice that
told she was thinking of the woman they
both bated. "We must do something to
get rid of her. Let us think it over, my
dear."
G.. c
C c.
"The Children."
BY CHARLES DICKENS
HUNTINGDON, PA., FRIDAY, JANUARY 23, 1880.
The days went by slowly, and the chance
Mrs. St. Clair was waiting for had not
come. She had managed, by a woman's
Pkillful manceuvring, to keep Alice and
Gray apart as much as possible, and throw
Lucia into his society ; she had thrown
out hints before Miss Marsh, of the inti
macy that had existed between Lucia and
Gray, the previous season, and had man
aged to wake Alice believe that such in
timacy- had really existed ; and, by a tact
which is by no means uncommon among
women, and is to be found especially among
those whose wits are sharpened by such a
scheming. planninc , life as that which she
had led, she succeeded in twisting one or
two more very trifling and unimportant
facts into the semblance of a considerable
truth, and made Gray believe that Mi=s
Marsh had a lever to whom she was en
gaged.
h is not a difficult thing to do—to create
a misunderstanding between lovers. It
was not in this case, and Mrs. St. Clair
managed her cards cleverly. She was
playing to win.
She felt that if she lost new she would
be obliged to give up her series of manceuv
rings, which had become sl notorious, and
she was resolved to make one last desperate
effort before she withdrew from the field.
She watched Gray and Miss Marsh closely
and was el ited to see t hat, while they were
mere friends, they were nothing more at
present in their conduct toward each other.
She was not rash enough to conclude that
she had succeeded in creating an estrange
ment between them ; but she had .put a
temporary check on t heir love making, and
that was a good deal in her favor—it gave
her time and a chance to think.
"I do believe he cares something for
me," Lucia said one day. "He pays me
a great deal more attention than he used
to, and he doesn't neglect me for her,
when she is with III."
Lucia was not sharp-sighted enough to
see that he was trying to make Miss Marsh
jealous.
"And he has a:ked me to go rowing
with him to-morrow. Mi-s Marsh is going
with young Dice."
The next day was a beautiful one, and
Luicia was in high glee as she walked down
to the beach with Gray, just in advance of
Miss Marsh and her companion.
And Gray, knowing that the woman he
loved was watching him, said tender little
nothings to Lucia, and was her "most de
voted," all the time feeling bored, but de
termined to show Miss Marsh that he
could enjoy himself in spite of her cold
ness. And Miss Marsh was apparently
unconcerned about anybody else in the
world except Mr. Dice and herself, there
by making Gray almost turious,.and really
foolish in his demonstrations to Lucia, who
began to think there was a prospect of his
proposing before they got back.
It was late in the afternoon bet;)re the
two boats rowed shoreward. They came
up the little bay together. Gray watched
Miss Marsh closely, but she never once
looked that way, evidently absorbed by
her interest in young Dice's conver,.ation.
Just as they neared the shore, but where
the water was dangerously deep—how, no
one knew clearly—Dice's boat gave a sud
den lurch, and the next instant Alice was
struggling in the water. Her companion
was too badly frightened to know what to
do, and sat their helplessly.
The moment Gray comprehended what
had taken place he plunged ito the water
and struck off for the other boat. Ile
reached it just as Alice came to the sur
face. Seizing her in his arms, be suc
ceeded in rousing Dice from his fright,
and made that gallant young man help lift
her into the boat, and the next minute
they had reached the shore. The fright
and excitement were too much fbr Alice's
nerves, and she was completely exhausted
when she reached the house.
Mrs St. Clair, who bad seen the acci
dent from the house, and had sincerely
hoped that the girl would drown, met
them on the steps in well feigned solicitude,
and bustled about giving orders here, there
and everywhere, and assuming full control
of matters. She got Alice off to her room
and put her to bed, and then congratulated
herself, as she might have done under the
circumstances. Gray seemed to have for
gotten the existence of Lucia in his anxiety
regarding Miss Marsh, Mrs. St. Clair dis
covered, with her keenly jealous eye.
She stayed with Alice, who, by the'by,
fell into a drowse, which lasted until late
in the evening. You could have told by
seeing Mrs. St. Clair's face that dark and
evil thoughts were at work in her soul.—
She was deathly pale. Whatever she was
thinking of frightened her.
By-and by she rose and went noiselessly
to her own room. She came back presently,
clutching something in her hand. She
bent over Alice, and satisfied herself that
she was asleep. Then she shook a gray
powder from a little paper, which her hand
had concealed, into an empty silver pitcher,
which was standing on the table. Her
hand shook like a leaf as she did it, and
her face was like the face of one dead
Presently Mrs Carew came in.
"You will tire yourself out," she said to
Mrs. St. Clair. "Let me stay here while
you r,,0 and rest."
. _ _
"I don't know but I will." 3lrs St.
Clair replied. "You had better go and get
some water first, though. She may want
some when she wakes, and there is none
here."
Mrs. Carew took the pitcher and went
out, coming back presently with the water.
But Mrs. St. Clair lingered. She
seemed very loath to go.
"I think she ought not to sleep any
longer," she said, at last. 'I will wake
her."
Sh touched Alice's hand, and Ihe girl
awoke.
'You were sleeping too soundly, I
feared," said Mrs. St Clair. "Would you
like some water ?"
She poured out a cupful and held it to
Alice's lips. In putting back the cup she
managed to overturn the pitcher, and its
contents went gurgling to the floor.
"How careless !" said Mrs. St. Clair,
evidently much annoyed. "I think I had
better go to bed, if I am as awkward as
this !" And a minute afterward shc: said
good-night, and went to her own room.
In the hall she stopped and looked back.
"I think I shall Win," she said mean
ingly, and then went to find Lucia, who
was waiting for her to reprt the condi
tion of her rival.
"She is comfortable," answered Mrs. St.
Clair, net disposed to say much about her,
evidently. "•I am very thirsty, Lucia, I
wish you would go diwn and bring some
fresh water ; you can find a pitcher in some
of the rooms below. I left ours down stairs
this morning." _ _
Lucia went, obediently, and presently
came back with a pitcher of water, from
which her mother drank thirstily. Then
she went to bed.
It was in the middle of the night when
Lucia was awakened by a terrible shriek.
She sprang up frightened nearly to death.
Her mother was groaning, as if in mortal
agony She ran to her, and found her
writhing in convulsions and unable to
speak. In two minutes she bad aroused
everybody in the house.
"Water ! water 1 ." Mrs. St. Ciair man
aged to say.
"Run down and get sonic that is fresh !"
cried Mrs. Carew to her husband. "Yeu
will tiod a pitcher on the hall table. I
took it down from Miss Marsh's room to
night, and left it there in exchange for a
smaller one. Hurry'.''
"There isn't any there," said Lucia.—
"This is the one you left there, for I went
down after mamma came from Miss Marsh,
and found it, and brought it up full of
water. You can throw this out."
Mrs. St. Clair, in her agony, heard it
all, and one wild, terrible shriek went up
from her ghastly lips. Then she grew
still, and never spoke again.
What she suffered in her mind, no one
can tell. The death that she had planned
f,r another had come to her in awful retri
bution. But she made no sign, and her
secret died with her.
it was but a little while before all was
over. She was dead before the physician
arrived.
"An extraordinary ease," he said. "I
don't understand it."
And neither did anyone else—and they
never wil!. But, standing at the bar of
God, the guilty woman will know what
retribution in life to come, as the knew
what it was in the terrible hour of death.
Aud the two hhe had hoped to keep
apart are one in heart while life shall last.
•,sctett
How Celluloid is Made.
AN INTERESTING DESCRIPTION OF A NEW
ARTICLE OF COMMERCE-WHAT IT IS
USED FOR-A DANGEROUS PROCESS.
The frightful explosion of the celluloid
works at Newark, New Jersey, and loss of
life on Monday last, has caused many peo
ple to inquire how celluloid is made and
for what purpcse it is used. Dr. W. H.
Wahl tells in the Journal of lnclusby what
celluloid is and how it is made. Briefly
defined, celluloid, he says, is a species of
solidified collodion, produced by dissolving
gun cotton (pyroxylin) in camphor with
the aid of haat and pressure. The eun
cotton is ground in water to a fine pulp in
a machine similar to that used in grinding
paper pulp. The pulp is then subjected
to powerful pressure in a perforated ves
sel to extract the bulk of the moisture, but
still leaving it slightly moist for the next
operation. This consists in thoroughly in
corporating finely comminuted gum cam
phor with the moist gnu-cotton pulp. The
proportions employed are said to be one
part by weight of camphor to two parts
by weight of the pulp. With this mix
ture tiny coloring matters required can
ilow be incmporated. The next step is
to subject the mass to powerful pressure
in order to expel from it the remaining
traces of moisture and incidentally to of
feet also the more intimate contact of the
camphor with the pulp. The dried and
compressed mass is next placed in a mould,
open at the top, into which fits a solid
plunger. A heavy hydraulic pressure is
brought to bear upon the plunger, and at
the same time the mixture is heated by
means of a steam jacket surrounding the
vessel to a temperature of about 300°
fahrenheit When the mass is taken out
of the press it hardens, and acquires the
extraordinary toughness and. elasticity
which are the distinguishing characteristics
of this remarkable product. Celluloid is
very largely used as a substitute for ivory,
which is imitated with great success. Tor
toise shell, malachite, mother of pearl, co
ral, and other costly and elegant materials,
are also so successfully imitated that an
expert can hardly detect the original from
the copy. Celluloid is also used as a sub
stitute for porcelain in the manufacture of
dolls, which will stand a good deal of rough
usage without breaking. Quite recently,
too, it has been combined with linen, and
used for shirt bosoms, cuffs and collars.
Necessity of of Sunlight.
Instead of excluding the sunlight from
our houses, says the -Manufacturer and
Builder, lest it fade carpets, draw flies and
bring freckles, we should open every door
and window and bid it enter. It brings
life and health and joy ; there is healing
in its beams, it drives away disease and
dampness, mould, megrims. Instead of
doing this, however, many careful house
wives close the blinds, draw down the
shades, lock the door, abut out the glory
fying rays and rejoice in the dim and
musty coolness and twilight of the un
healthy apartments. It is pleasant and
not unwholesome during the glare of the
noontide to subdue the light and exclude
the air quivering with heat, but in the
morning and in the evening we may freely
indulge in the sun bath, and let it flood
all our rooms, and if, at its very fiercest
and brightest, it has full entrance to our
sleeping rooms, so much the better for us.
Wire netting in doors and windows exclude
not flies and mosquitos only, but all other
insects, and those wbo have once used it
will continue to do so. With this as a
protection from intrusive winged creatures,
one may alm)st dispense with shades and
shutters and enjoy all the benefits of an
open house without any annoyances so fre
quent in warm weather. But better the
annoyances with sunshine than freedom
from them without it. Statistics of epi
demics have shown that if they rage in any
part of a city they will prevail in houses
which are exposed to the least sunshine,
while those most exposed to it will not be
at all or slightly affected. Even in the
same house persons occupying rooms ex
pose I to sunlight will be healthier and re
pulse epidemical influences better than
those occupying rooms where no sunlight
enters.
SUNDAY was a delicious day. It was
nature's grand overtire. The sunshine
was balmy and brilliant., the air w:.s as
gentle as an angel's touch, and the birds
melody thrilled earth and heaven. Man
walked forth into the country, breathing
in the delicious fragrance, bathing his
soul in the blessed sunshine, and rejoicing
in the glad music of the birds. The next
morning he was yelling at the top of his
voice, "Where in the thunder is that ar
thick undershirt, Maria ?"
A KANSAS boy earned a nice Bible by
committing three hundred verses to memo
ry, and then he traded his Bible for a shot
gun and accidentally shot his aunt in the
leg.
Life of a Miser.
Thomas Pert died in Cliff..rd's Passage,
London, in 193. Ile was a native of
Warwickshire lie went to London at the
age of ten years, with one shilling in his
pocket. As he had no friends or relations
the city, he was indebted to the kind
ness of an old woman who sold pies, for a
morn! of bread, till he could procure him
self employment. Sometime after, he was
engaged am errand buy by a tellow.chan
dler's wife—being a "lady of London
mould," could not endure his rustic man
tiers and awkward gait, so she sent him
off one bitter winter night with the
remark : "Your master hired you in my
absence, and I'll turn you off in The
good husband did not desert Tom, how
ever, he Lund him out, and sent him as
an apprentice to a butcher in Southwark.
For the first five years lie had twenty
five p. funds a year, and meat and drink.
The accumulation of money and the abridg
ment of expense were the two sole objects
of his thoughts. His expenses were reduc
ed to three heads—lodging, clothing and
washing. For the first he fixed on a back
room on the second floor, with one window
that occasionally admitted a stray sun
beam. Of his dress every article was sec
ond hand. Nor was he chtice in the color
or quality; sagely observing, when he was
teased about his garb, that, according to
Solomon, there was nothing new under the
sun ; and that es to color, it was a mere
matter of fan, y. Concerning washing, he
said that no man deserved a clean shirt
who could not wash it himself; and that
the only fault that he had to find with
Lord North was the duty he imposed upon
soap. There was expense, however, that
always weighed heavily on his mind, aed
often robbed him of a night's rest, and
that was shaving. He often lamented that
he had never learned to shave himself. He
used to console himself under this afflic
tion by hoping that one day beards would
'become fashionable. Ile made a promise
to himself that as soon as he had amassed
a thousand pounds be would treat himself
to a pint of porter every Saturday.
Fortune soon put it in his power to per
form this promise, and he continued to
treat himself till the additional duty was
laid on porter; he then reduced his portion
to half a-pint once a week. If he heard of
an auction anywhere near, he ran quickly '
and begged a catalogue, as if anxious to
buy, and after he had collected a number
of these he sold them fur waste paper.
When he heard an accidental rumor that
the bank in which he had his money had
failed, he shook from head to foot and took
to his bed, refusing to eat until he was as
sured that all was right. He was never
known, even in the depth of the coldest
winter, to light a fire in his room, or to go
to bed by candlelight. He loved good
cheer—at the cost of another. "F.very
man," said he, "should eat when he can ;
an empty sack capnot stand." Once on a
time he was prompted by the demon of
extravagance to purchase a whole pint of
small beer ; but after buying it, was so
overcome by remorse that he locked it in
his closet; then threw they key out of the
window, that he might not be tempted Ca
make too free with it.
Thus lived Thomas Pea, whose pulse
fbr the last twenty years of his lifa rose and
fell with the funds who for forty two years
years lived in Clare Market as a journey
man butcher; who lodged for thirty years
in one gloomy apartment, which was never
brightened up with coal or candle light or
the face of a visitor; who never treated
man, woman or child to a glass 01 any kind
of liquor; who almost never ate a morsel
at his own expense; who never said a civil
thing to a woman ; who would not trust a
laundress with a pocket handkerchief ;
who considered all must be mad or foolish
that did not pile up gold ; and who tried
to bargain for his coffin half an hour before
he died. He left two thousand four hun
dred and seventy five pounds to distant,re
lations, not one of whom he had ever seen
or written to. The following list of his
wearing apparel, taken by a wag in the
neighborhood, runs thus : "An old bald
whig, a hat as soft as a pancake, two shirts
that might pass fur fishing-nets, a pair of
stockings darned with every color, a pair
of old sandals, a bedstead, a toothless
comb, a very old almanac, one old chair
and wretched table, a small looking
glass and a leather bag with one guinea
in it."
Peruvian Temples Temples of the Sun.
Of the early history of the Peruvians
we have but little knowledge, owing to
that barbarian policy exercised by the fol
lowers of Cortez and Pizarro, in distroying
everything belonging to tribes which they
conquered. Like the Mexicans, the Peru
vians had advanced in art, science and
learning, under the administration of sue
cessive wise rulers, and their State archives
contained written histories of their coun
try, from the dawn of civilization among
them, to the period of the conquest. But
the superstitious Spaniards committed
these works to the flames, because of their
heathen origin, and we are obliged to de
pend almost exclusively on the truth of
tradition for the knowledge we possess of
the history of this people during the Inca
dynasty. The most magnificent of all the
Peruvian temples was that of the sun at
Cuzzo. The mode of worship in this tern
pie was similar to that of Heliopolis in
Egypt, where this great luminary was
adored. His golden image occupied a
large portion of one side of the interior of
the temple, and before this the worship
pers prostrated then elves with rich of
teriugs in their hands, which were receiv
ed by the attendant priests. Two or three
virgins, selected from the first families in
their kingdom, were in constant atten
dance, whose duty it was to make oblations
of wine to the deity, and chant hymns of
praise to the great Father of Light. Like
other aborigines of this continent, the Pe
ruvians were nomadic tribes, and gained a
subsistance by hunting and fishing. Su
perstitious in the extreme, their objects of
worship wera as numerous as these of the
Egyptians.
"I TELL you," said a Wisconsin man to
a neighbor next d iy after burying his with,
"when I came to get into bed, and lay
thar, and nor heariug I,ncluda jawing
around fur on liflur and a ball', it just wade
we lee! as if I'd woved into a strange
country."
A BOSTON preacher in speaking of the
danger of permitting the Bible to be crowd
ed out by the newspaper, perpetrated the
following pun : "Men, nowadays," said he,
"are like Zaccheus—desirous of seeing
Jesus, but they cannot because of the
press."
A Missoußl teacher opened school witt
an abridged dictionary, a hymn book, and
a volume of Robinson Crnsoe.
Fascination of Life in Washington.
There is a nameless fascination in the
Washington air. The average citizen, liv
ing far removed from the elpital, often
wonders why the office holder who once
comes to Washington is so loth to leave it
that he will often stoop to almost any de
vice to secure a further lease of power—
whether it be four years in the White
House, another term in either end of the
capitol or only a longer commission in a
petty department clerkship. But when the
citizen cowes to Washington himself, the
mystery is solved. lie may be able to de
fine them very clearly, but he cannot stay
long in the city without himself experi.
encing in some measure those subtle influ
ences which render the capitol so attract
ive to the permanent resident. Even to
the casual visitor there is something very
interesting about merely watching the
great governmental machine or inspecting
its component parts. The very atmos
phere of the capitol. instinct with the offi
cial and s-.•cial life that centres about the
seat of government in a great nation, seems
to possess a singular charm, which dispo
ses one to linger and enjoy it. The strati
ger no longer wonders that the office
holder likes Washington, that he constant
-1 schemes for an extension of his term,
that, if finally disposed from power, he so
often prefers the most humble position
here to a residence elsewhere.
Not the least among Washington's
charms are its physical and climatic ad
vantages. No one can longer doubt that
the city is fit to be the capital of a great
country. The comprehensive plan on
which it was laid out in the early years of
the struggling republic, gives one a fresh
respect for those far-sighted fathers who
could even then devise a scheme which
should to day fit the necessities of the seat
of government for fifty millions of people,
and be capable of equal development with
the progress of the nation hereafter. The
broad avenues are a constant source of de
light, the parks and squares are ample for
the needs of a large city, and the great
system of improvements, carried through
with whatever corruption under the Shep
herd regime, laid the basis fur the trans
formation of 'Washington from a straggling
and neglected town to a handsome metrop
olis Nothing goes farther to justify the
choice of this locality es the capital than
its climate Though it suffers from the
summer heats, its temperature luring by
far the larger part of the year is most cem
fortable, and the change from the inclem
ent weather which prevails over the great
er portion of the country through the win
ter months to the usually balmy air of the
capital is especially grateful. Indeed, as
a winter residence Washington possesses
greater charms than any other city on the
continent, what with its mild weather, its
exceptional social advantages and the at
tractions which the meeting of Congress
presents to any one interested in studying
our system of government at its fountain
head. Every year the capital is becoming
more and more the winter headquarterM
for people of leisure, fur persons of literary
tastes fur students of politics, for devotees
of fashion, and a composite society is grad
ually growing up in which everybody is
sure to find congenial elements.
The End of Slavery in Cuba.
On January 1, 1880, emancipation be
gan by order of the Spanish government
in their wealthy colony of Cuba, and on
the same day, 1890, it will be completed,
and the last slave in the Spanish posses
pions be freed from his shackles. So closes
the most melancholy and disgraceful chap
ter in the annals of human crime. It is
more that four centuries since a certain
Portuguese captain landed (in 1444) at
Lagos a cargo of 235 black slaves. The
slavery of white captives and Mohamme
dan prisoners was fast dying oat in En
rope, but the united discovery of a corti
vent needing labor and of a barbarous
coast having slaves, awoke greed and stim
ulated•cruelty and created slavery anew.
One of the most benevolent men of any
age had the bad fame of introducing sla
very into the continent. But Las Cassas,
though he did this to protect his beloved
and oppressed Indians, lived to bitterly re
pent of this great mistake.
Three centuries and a half have pa , sed
since the first slaves were introduced (1521)
into the island of Cuba. And it may safe
ly be said that of all the human pain and
hopeless misery which the sun looks upon
year by year, none never equalled that
history of agony and injusttce which be.
gan with the Spanish importation of sla
very into the New World, and was con
tinued by the English slave trade during
three hundred years. With a mockery of
their faith which sceptics will never foi ,
get, the Spanish authorities during two
centuries concluded more than ten treaties
"in the name of the most Holy Trinity,"
which authorized the sale of more than
500,000 human beings, and received from
it a tax of over fifty millions of livres
Nor was the Roman Church alone guilty.
Protestant England was equally criminfil
with Catholic Spain. The first ship which
sailed from England, in 1562, under Sir
John Hawkins, on the diabolical errand
of burying slaves in Africa and selling them
in the West Indian, bore, as if in blasphe
my, sacred name of Jesus.
The present generation in England and
the United States have fortunately never
heard much of the horrors of that trade,
which Great Britain plied industriously
for two centuries and a half. The young
,tudrilt, turns (ier the writings of Clark
son and Sharp and Wilberforce, and i 3
amazed to see tk, tortures tibia so sterd
ily, for s many years, were inflicted on
so many innocent human being for the
6ake of tnoPey.
Even so c•alm au historian as Bancroft.
reckons that during one hundred years
before the Declaration of Independence,
Gre:►t Britain transported to the New
World one ninon of slaves from Africa,
and that, besides these, two hundred and
fitly thousand had been thrown into the
sea in the horrible middle passage. Even
after the abolition of the slave trade (1807)
the importation of slaves continued into
the Spanish colonies or South American
Sates, and it is estimated that eve❑ as
late as 1849 fifty thousand negroes were
secretly introduced in one year into Cuba
and Brazil.—New York Times.
A NEWSBOY, seated on the postoffice
steps, counted his pennies over and re
marked : "Seventeen cents in all. That's
five for the circus, three for peanuts, four
for a sinking fund, four I owe to Jack,
and there's one left to support a widowed
mother on until Saturday night."
THERE was once a legislator who laid
by $30,000 in one session. When he was
asked how be managed this with a salary
of $l,OOO, be said that he saved it bi do
ing without a hired girl,
Hermit's Peak.
Looking west up the river from Las
Vegas, New Mexico, the most notable ob
ject in the distant landscape is Hermit's
Peak, towering high above its fellows. It
is about twenty miles distant from town.
It is a bold granite mountain towering at
a perpendicular altitude of 2,000 feet
above the bed of the river. It is difficult
or ascent and there is but ono path by
which the ter) can be gained. The sum
mit is bare of vegetation and the altitude
renders it, as it looks, cold and inhospita
ble. It has been an inhabited place, how
ever, the abode of a veritable hermit. In
1866 there appeared in town an old gray
headed man, who seemed to have been the
victim of seine great iil fortune. He gave
no account of himself, but simply gave
name, however, as Juan Augustine.
Ile was a man of much learning and ex
tensive reading, but did not hold much
communication with his fellows. He se
lected the high peak above town as the
place of his abode, and for three years he
lived there solitary and alone upon the
highest pinnacle of the mountain. He
abhorred fire, and never lighted even a
candle save on one day of the week, when
he kept three small tapers burning. He
was a religions devotee who appeared to
te doing penance for an early life of sin ;
or perhaps for some crime. His history
was shrouded in mystery. He spoke
French and Spanish fluently, and some
English. His religions zeal and mysteri
ous habits and life ereated mach interest
among the simple natives of the surround
ing settlements, and they looked upon him
with superstitious awe and reverence. They
thought it their duty to aid him, and &tr.
ing the whole time of his abode in the
mountains they carried him food and pro
visions. In this way he existed like the
patriarch of old fed by the ravens. Dur
ing his three years of self-imposed exile
he occasionally made a visit to town, but
could not be prevailed upon to enter a
house or go near a fire. At the end of
three years he left Hermit's Peak and
went to the Bernal Hill, southwest of To
eolote, there he lived some time. An ancient
cross is still there to mark the place of his
dwelling. He fancied high places far re•
moved above the ordinary walks of men.
From Bernal Ilill be journeyed into the
wilderness of Grant county, where the
blood thirsty Apaches, with as little re
spect for prayers and penances then as now,
murdered and scalped him. His history
and real name were never learned, but he
gave an enduring title to the high moun
tain west of town, the "Hermit's Peak."
Wards of the State.
State Superintendent Wickersham's re
port of the Soldiers' Orphan Schools of
the State shows that the system last year
cost $367,934.15, while the appropriation
was only $300,000. The number of chil
dren in charg e of the State on September
1, 1879, was 5,463 less than at the car
tetApontliug period of 1878, owing to the
fact that the legislative appropriation was
inadequate for the accommodation of all
the soldiers' orphans. Over 600 applies
tions fl)r admission bad accumulated in
the department. Out of this number the
Superintendent of Public Instruction has
just selected 141 as entitled to favorable
consideration. Nearly nine tenths of the
remainder of the applications do not come
up to the requirements of the law. The
Superintendent Pays : "If the children of
soldiers applying for admission under
present laws were admitted with as little
scrutiny as they were under former laws,
in the early history of the system. the cost
would be $500,000 instead of $360,000."
The cost of the Orphan School system
since its e.tablishmeut in Pennsylvania has
been $6,682,095.21. The Superintendent
says frequent inquiries are made as to the
cause of the long duration of the system.
Ile answers that under the original law
there would be no schoals, but supplemental
legis.ation has perpetuated them. The con
ditions now are : The children must in
all eiscs be under 16 years of age and in
destitute circumstances. Their fathers, if
dead, must have been killed in the war of
the rebellion, or died of wounds or disease
contracted under it. Their father,
if liv
ing, must be suffering from woundsor dis
ease contracted in the war, and unable to
earn a livelihood for their families or them
selves. Fully two-thirds of the children
now in the schools are orphans.
As to the condition of the schools the
Superintendent says it has improved from
year to year, and never was better than at
the present time. The school buildings
are well adapted to the purpose, and the
children are reasmably well provided for
in all respects.
Childish Terrors.
I want to plead with mothers in behalf
of their sensitive and timorous children.
There are strong, healthy boys and girls
who have no fear of the dark, who are
continually free from physical cowardice,
and who receive much praise for their
bravery. There are others in whom the
nervous sensibility so predominates that
they endure, night after night, tortures
quite beyond their powers to express. Oh,
the horror to these poor little creatures of
the dark ! Its mystery compasses them
about. They lie shivering in bed when
mamma has given her kiss and gone away,
and as the last door between her and them
selves is closed, they plung into a depth
of distre,s which nobody guesses and no
body comforts. After awhile sleep steals
tenderly into the room, like one of God's
angels, and the little brain is soothed, the
tired eyelids droop, and the haunting fears
flee away. When morning comes, and the
ble , sed daylight lies broadly upon the fat- .
wiliar rola', on bureau, bed, chairs, cur
tains and the pictures on the wall, the
child f'rtets its fear. The fear does not
and will not return until night comes
hack with its vagueness, its awe, its great
wall of gloom.
Many a child has been on the brink of
a conversation with a mother or friend, in
which he night have been helped and up
lifted, so that his life long he would have
been the better fur that hour, when a ban
tering word, or an uncomprehending one
has shut him in upon himself. Many pa
rents thinking that fear was a thing to be
repressed, and terror a synonym for cow
ardice, has sternly insisted upon measures
which have been fraught with evil conse
quences, extending over years. Physicians
will assure you that girls at eighteen and
boys nearing maturity often break down
in their studies and are unable to reap the
rewards they covet, because of an twine
strain or a nerve shock, which left its
germ of trouble in the system when they
were three or four years old. We cannot
too wisely and too gently look after the
little children under our care.
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