e. 3. Hail/ley,
E. B. HAWLEY & CO.,
PL BLISLIERS OF
THE MONTROSE DEMOCRAT
AND GENERAL JOB PRINTERS,
dwilroNe, Sa.wurlialina Cott nly, Pa
Orricz—Wceit tilde of Public Avenue.
Business Cards
J. B. d A. 11. MreO,(.l,UM,
,vennncrs •7 Law 0171ce or the Bank, klontrore
Mont yore. May 10, 1071. tf
D. W. S.E.',ARLE,
rrtol:NEY AT LAW, office over the Store of M.
,),•opnner, In the Brick Block, SI ontroe.,Pa. [66169
w Tr. Arirri,
HINET 40.1 CHAIR. MANUFACTI.III..ItS
of Main etre,. l:nt.tr.•sc. Pa. la kg. 1. Imiti
if. C. SUTTON,
AUcTIONSER,and Iveimaxec Aucwr,
Priem:bovine, Pa
3.111 EL .7
,VCTIONEEI
.lung 1, ie;
Add.esn, Brooklyn. Ya
J. C. Wilg.lY'uN
L Y . -Nor':ELIA ♦ LAND brisre,oll.
I'. 0. zoldre*s. Frooldlo Fork e,
Sorquohnoun Co., PA
JOIIY GROVES,
•.1 i u,AOL6 TAILDIt, Stuntmen Pa. Shop over
b andl Gr . 0. Store. AP orders tilled In Orat-ratestyl,
i. I lug done on snort notice. and warranted Lu
.4. 0. WARREN,
Bounty, lioct Cmy. Yentotot
n Claims attended to. Unice 111,1
r r,eiow Boyd'. 'Store. ldontro•t.Yn. Dia. 1,'09
Ir A. CROSSMO.,V,
nt Law. ()race at the Court Louse, ir the
01line. W. A. CROPsIOO,I.
\hadn't , . next
LAW ()FFICE.
Tl'll .1 WATNON, Attorneys at Law, s t the old ollice
!lustros, Ps.
: v PITCH '71.1 w. w.
In Druz. Medicines, CI ulc In, Faints, Oils,
etude, T., Spices. Fancy Goode. Jewelry, Per.
. Brick Block. Month ea, Pa Establzened
[Feb. I. ler73.
SCO VILL Jo DEWITT.
Ail ontry. at Law and Solicitors in Bankruptcy. OHleo
N.J. 49 Court struct, over City National Book, Bing
. N S AV at. B Scot . ILL,
1,1,1171. rooms Dirwrrr.
hit. IV. L. ILICILIRDSU.A
I' , ISIt lAN S ::1 7 LIGEON. tendert , hie , eroferoluta,
ices to be Cal.!. of Montrute and vicluity.—
olic,at blerualder,o, on the tomer eatet of Nay. tt.
13:oe. Found!, I Aug. 2. lvG'J.
CHARLES STODDARD
ru Kant, and Shoat, list. and Caps, Leather anta
Fladta, Main street, let door below Boyd's Store.
ge
Work made to order, and repairing done neatly.
MoLtrose Jan. 1 Is7o.
LEWIS KNOLL,
SHAVING AND HAIR DILF-SSENG.
sot, In the new Rustoffice braiding, where be will
tont,d ready to attend all who may want anything
Montrose Pe. Lint. 13 Irbil.
DIL S. IV. DAYTON
,11's1 CLAN S SURGEON, tenders his cervices to
elOsenr of Great Bend and vicinity. Ocoee at
•• .1
cuce• opposite Barnum House, G•t Bend village.
~ .pt let•ls69.—it
DR. D. A. LATHROP,
. [ll,r:re BATH!. a Foot Of
•leatallt street. Call consul' rn st.l Cttrook
Niootrose..l4... 17,
MMMO
D..aler .12 Staple and Fancy Dry Goode. Crockery. Bard
trate. Iron. Stoves, Drug, 01le, and Palate. Boot.
and Sheer. Bata and Cape, Furs, Buffalo Hobe, tiro
curie., Pruett...lnv, d.c.
New.Mtlturd, 1 a.. Nur, G. • 72—t f.
EXCILINGE HOTEL
it J. gIARRINGTON wittien to inform the public that
ha tug rented the Exchange Hotel in Montrone. hr
it now prepared to accommodate the traveling public
fir,t-clasp le
ontrot•e. Aug. 2e, vn3.
LITTLE'S ct BLAKESLEE
ATTORNEYS AT LAW. have removed to their S,.
Offitt, opposite the Torben Rouse.
BILLINGS STROUD.
IHE AND LIFE INKIAANCIC ACBNT. Al'
toe.. attended to prumptl7.on fair terms Office
r"t Goo' east of the ban". o. Wm. LI. Cooper d Ca.
hltr Avenue, Montrose, Pa. [Aeg. I. ISO.
4 . r 17.17 , 721 BILLING' braovn.
Pin"sICIAN it. SURGEON. ti odors his professional
ssrvict sto the citizens of Mooch_ Ps 011ie at the
fureks !loose. will attend to all calls to hie proles
. ith which he is 'scored
Aug 19..7.1 —tf.
B. 7'. & E. IL CASE
HAHN Esit.MAKEES. Oak Rarnesii,light end heavy
at vr. cavil pneee. Alen, Blanket, firenet Blau
Whip, and everything pertalaing to :ha line
c!.eaper than the cheapen. Repairing done prompt
rood etyle.
il“ut nee. Pa.. Oct. 2J'. 11573.
uziARLET moraus
lIAYTI BARBER, has moved hi• shop to the
• ~:Idiog occupied by E. McKenzie 6 Co., where be Is
i•plrrd to d. nil kind.: of work in his Ilne,such an ma
k I.:: W 110.10., pod', etc. All work done on short
n od K w... low. Please call and see me.
THE PEOPLE - 5 MARKET.
Puul.rr Anus. Propirtor.
-h rand ,rtlt 11leatK. Ilame. Pork, Bologna
Snn
rte . °I the boot qualay, constantly on twarttl, at
t-, nu ult
M•outr.mtt, Pa,. Jan It. la:3-lv
VALLEY HOUSE.
p.c,r Beau. Pa. Sit anted near the Erie Railway De
•. . .
1. u !•rte 1.1.1./d ommodion• dense. has Undergone
rtra4b rep.... Newly famished re 01216 and weep
tablet.and all [hinge cornprht
tit ctruES boLel. ILLNItr ACKEIST,
Prnprietor.
DR. IL W.
U,rt, Room, at his dwelling, next door north of Dr.
Maker 6, oo Old Foundry street, where he would he
aggn t•• Mee all there in want of Dental Work. He
t• • L. , notldeut taut he can pielee all, both in quality of
, Lod in prier littler hoar* from 9 a. to 47. It.
I 44 —lf
APGAR A. 71111:ELL
No. VW Broadway, New York City.
to.titit. to all kiwis of Attorney Snob-lest, and con
, • eta..-e-• .1.1.1 the Coons of both the State and the
E P. LILNES, M. D.
ethertity of Alicbignn, Ann Arbor,
0 of Jedterton Medical College of r-blitt
,pt,a I tt,. returoed to Friendtviller, whiny be
!.. toteoti to all cull. fu bin protestion at antral:
-:a, for it, Jetvie ilosfurd • at bonne. °Mee the Caine
t vtoat.l Pa., April Zlth., ILIT-L—Gta
B CUSS Q MC/10LS
1c Drugs, Medicines, Chemical. Dye
tad i le, Varnish, Liquors, tipices • Fancy
eo Patent Medicines. Yerfuniespend TolletAr
, .re'rescrlptions carefully compounded.—
nr,,e Work. Montrose, YR.
FINE
,fOO EFTA' riAG
sooultoct
rfls. OFFICE. CHEAP.
./..rir Uwe.
M_ONTROSE DEMOCRAT.
Wm, 0 Griner
TWO DOLLARS PER YEAR IN ADVANCE.
VOLUME 31
TICE CHURCH OF TUE HOLY
SEPULCHRE.
--o
Is it not told in legends old
Of Saracen:le lore—
That long ago in the olden time,
When the knights went forth to Palestine
To shed their blood as the ruby wine,
A dazzling light, by day and night,
Beamed o'er the holy, sacred spot
Where the Saviour's holy grave is made,
the arches deep In the gloomy shade,
Where ages on ages their prayers have
said,
And ayes muttered o'er ?
'When rung on high the warrior's cry,
And brave opponents met ;
When hand to hand in the battle hour
The Christian strove with the Moslem pow
er,
And dusty clouds o'er the conflict lower,
If In battle Tray the cross gave way
And Christian courage want‘i ;
This glorious flame began to Gail ;
Elm lambent flackeringo, faint and pale,
Seemesi glancing upon the coats of mail
Aral the Christian helms to fret.
Wearied in strife they gained new life,
Refreshed in heart and limb ;
Their battle-cry echoed on again
From India's mounts o'er the sandy plain,
For God they battle not in vain ;
The infidels fly at the battle-cry
And leave the half won field,
When the night, coming down serene and
clear,
Dropped in starry curtains o'er far and near ;
From the vine-clad hills the olives hear
The Templar's evening hymn.
Servant of God whn alone has trod
A weary way, and striven—
In vain, perchance, 'panel a whelming host,
On the battle's stormy surges tossed—
Fight on, lin the victory Is not hill
In the hour of night thou shalt know the
light,
A smile from Heaven's throne :
And when evening comes with starry store
The victory won, the conflict tier,—
In sweet accord shall rise once more
The victor's hymn to Heaven.
In
thejpretty little morning room at
Upton Grange breakfast was laid for two
persons.
Mrs. Eliersleigh, a tit.e, bener,,lent
looking uld lady, with gray hair, combed
(low:: smoothly on her high, w hit*/ f,,r e .
head, sat there, waiting for her son, who
was nor yet down.
"Good morning, mother!' ho said,
presently entering the nom. "Any b.,
tars ?" be added, glancing at the table.
"Sot yet, my boy. Ah, here is John
with the post bag. Open it Gerald,
while I pour out the coffee."
"One for you, mother mine," said her
son, examining the foreign post-mark on
a thin sort letter, and then passing it to
Mrs. Ellersleigh, "and two for myself."
lie proceeded to open his own letters,
bet from time io time cast anxious glan
ces at the one his mother was reading,
and totally neglected his breakfast, which
unheeded, was fast growing cold.
"Is it from Edith, mother What do,
she say ? When is she coming home ?"
he asked, his patience at length worn out
by the slow arid deliberate way nn which
the old lady perused the closely-written
lines.
It. B. Ltrrt.e.
E. L
Gco f• Lrr-rt.e,
L.
"How eau you expect me to answer
questions at one. ?" said Mrs. Ellersleigh.
laughing. "Listen," she proceeded, read
ing from the letter. "We kart. Paris ear
ly on Wednesday morning, and shall ar
rive in London late in the evening, and
remain there all night. On Thursday
my friends, Colonel and Mrs. ',Jameson,
will set- me safely into the train, which
leaves Enstou Square for Upton at two
o'clock, so that I shall be home just in
time for dinner. Geraki can meet me at
the station—dear, kind Gerald, how
long to be with you and him again !"
There, my buy; that ie all. The first part
of the letter conta'ns only an account of
farewell visits."
"She w ill bd here on Thursday even
ing, and now it is Monday. Only three
more da)si to wait." repeated Gerald half
to himself'. "Blot her, will it not be nice
to have her back again ?" he added aloud
"Yes niY son." said Mrs. Ellerdleigh,
slowly—• siery."
Gerald relapsed into silence, and ap
peared to he totally absorbed in a happy
reverie, wOle his mother glanced at him
rather anxiously.
Mrs. Eill-rdleigh was a widow, her hus
band having died eight years ago. when
Gerald, thOr only child, was eighteen
years old. Since then Mrs. Ellersleigh
had las idled all her affections on her son.
'the young Squire," he was called ; and
well lie m - erited all her love and care.
Look at him as be stands there, one arm
leaning mi l the mantel-piece, tall. broad
shouldered, handsome, clusters of thick
brown curl's stealing over his broad, high
forehead. 1"Bless him !" was the heart
felt prayer'nf many a heart sick and suf
fering creature, whose burden of pain
bad been lightened by his kindness and
generosity pi the hour of need.
.Edith Stanton was Mrs. Ellersleigh's
ward and adopted child. She was the
daughterof a schoolfellow of the •3ld
Squire's, who, being a widower, and him
self dying When his little gtrl was only
nine years Old, left her and her•stnall for.
tune of trividi thousand pounds to the cure
of his early ) friend.
The parentless girl was welcome to her
new tome,and found a second father and
mother in fier kind guardian and his wife.
She was a, winning little creature, and
a warm friend.hip soon sprung up be
tween her Ind her now constant compan
ion. Gerald
With the latter, however, as they grew
older, and .ith changed from a pretty
child to a p etty woman, this feeling be
came stron!er and deeper ; and when,
nearly two ears ego, Edith went to fin
ish her edo,atlon in France, Gerald felt
that the w ,ole happiness of his future
life depend d upon her answer to the
question wl ich had so often trembled on
his has, " ith,darling, I love yon—will
yon be my ife ?"
POETRY.
THE STORY TELLER
BETRAYED
—cy--
MONTROSE, PA., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16. 1874
It still remained unasked, however,
when the went away.
Not without anxiety and mis g iving
f'r her eun'S happiness had Mrs. Eller
sleigh watched his growing love fur her
adopted child, fur though she loved the
latter almost as well as if indeed she had
Leen her own daughter, yet she could
not hide from herself the fact that tiers
was not the nature or disposition to fi:el
the depth and unchangeaLleness of hive
which would characterize that of her son.
His, she knew, would be the one love of
his lile.
And now Edith, after an absence of
two years iu a foreign land, was coming
hone for good. What would be Gerald's
fate ? Ab he had only known, not
SJ calm and happy would have been the
upon his lace as he stood th e r e ,
thinking of the absent one, and dream
ing happy dreams of the future, in which
she was always by his side.
"No, mother ; no need to keep the
dinner back ; we ehall be back in time,"
exclaimed Gerald on the day of Edith's
expected arrival. "1 will make 'Old
i;rownie' exert himself a little more than
usual," he continued, laughing. "Adiou
my mother,' • he called out gaily, uud
jumping into the pony carriage he start
ed fur tee station, fully half uu hour too
—How happy he is," said his mother,
gazing fondly after him. "I pray he may
always be so ! So handsome and so good
surely she cannot help loving him."
Yes, happy and contented was the
young Squire, ag he sped gaily along.
Wits he not going to meet the idol of his
soul, th.:, girl whom he hoped one day to
make his wile ?
But as he neaued the station his heart
began to heat a little taster. What if
residence in a foreign land had changed
the loving girl he remembered ? What
if—But no ; banish the thought. She
would be just the same ; nothing would
change her.
Gerald paced the platform impatiently.
How slowly the time passed. Would the
train ever come ? Yes, here it is at last ;
puffing and snorting, it labored slowly
into the station..as ii tired of its journey
stops, and from a first-class carriage steps
a young girl, who looks about her fur a
few moments, espies Gerald, and rushes
up to him with her hands outstretched.
"Cernhi, Gerald ! how giud I am to see
you it '
.gain Have you welcome for
me ?',
main niql, for Gerald. all his
courage flown, remained mute before the
nuzzling vision presented to his view.
Beautiful she had been when last he
saw her, hut now—ah ! h o w sh a ll I de
scribe that lovely face, rendered the more
bewitching by the French bur net, perch
ed coquettishly on her rich brown hair ;
while her rosy, pouting lips looked as if
made expressly to ha. kissed ; and Gerald,
awakening from his stupor, feels sorely
tempted, and—
" Shall I attend to the lady's quggage,
sir 1' said a porter, touching his cap
"Yes yes ; see that it is sent to the
Grange at once.' answered the Squire,
hastily.
"Alt right, sir," answered the man
walking away.
"You have not yrt said that you werp
vlad to see me, Gerald. liow silent you
are sir r exclaimed Edith, saucily.
- My pleasure is too deel• fur words,"
he replied gazing earnestly at her glow
ing features. "Rut comp•, Edy ; mother
is trotting to welcome you home."
• How delightful to hare at last es
caped from Madame Murtigny's strict
rayinie."' said Edith, leaning back in the
puny carriage. "How nice to be at home
once more ! Alt! here is the dear old
Grange, Look, Gerald ; is not the view
splendid from here ?"
"Lovely r' be answered, seeing nod:tibia
but the face before him.
"Welt. me :.owe my dear..' exclaimed
Tire. Ellereleigh, taking her adopted.
daughter in her arms, and kissing her
affectionately. ••Welcome to Upton
Grange."
"And now, (Jerald," exclaimed Edith,
when half an hour later. they were seated
at dinner, "you must take me to see all
our old haunts. I long to renew my ae
gnattitance with the familiar spots."
Thus, walks and drives were arranged
together, mid, for a fottnight, Gerald
hved in a ita l tpy dream. At the end of
that lone he asked Edith to he his wife.
"My darling," he said, ••I have loved
you for years—ever since the first day I
saw you, a little, delicate child. Oh turn
not away from me. give the a little hope;
83y that you will try to love me, acd I
will be content. without your affection,
life to au- will be worthless. Speak
dearest, one little word, yes or no. Will
you be my wife ?"
And she —true she only loved him as a
brother,but he was so good, so handsome;
and then she had never seen any one she
liked better.
"Edith speak to me—keep me not in
suspense. Or have I offended you ?" he
continued, tortured by her silence.
"No,no—not that; I was surprised,that
is all. Yes, Gerald, I will hie your wife.'
"My darling you do not know how
happy you have made me !" he said, his
voice trembling with emotion. Then he
took her in his arms, and kissed her ten
derly and reverently.
"Now,let us go and tell my mother."
he observed.
"Mother," he said leading the blushing
girl up to her, "wish me joy ; Edith is to
be my wife, and I am the happiest man
in England !"
"Bless you, my dear children !" said
Mrs. Ellersleigh, the emotion of joy and
thankfulness suffusing her matronly face,
now that the question was settled.
s • s s s «
"Mamma," said Edith(she always call
ed Mrs. Ellersleigh mamma,) one morn
ing at breakfast, about a week later
"Gerald has promised to take me to the
Abbey this morning."
"Very well, my dear; you will go in the
pony carriage, of bourse, arid I will tell
cook to put up some nice sandwiches ;
you will furl hungry with the drive. Do
not stay too long."
The little carriage was soon brought
round at the door. and the lc vent started
careless and happy as children, little
thinking that thceventa of that morning
Devoted to the Interests of our Town and County
were to decide the fate of both.
I Middletown Abbe) was situated about
three miles from Upton Grunge. Before
the lime of bluff King Hale, it had been
a noble structure, but when the came-et
; ous "Defender of the Faith" destruyed
all the religious houses. and seized upon
the lands belonging to them, it suffered
with the rest. Now it but added one to
the picturesque mine which are to be
seen in almost every part of England.
'flier wandering among the remains of
former splendor, tbinkitm of the time
when the monks of iald hatrtrod that very
spot ; then, when, at length tired out,
I they seated themselves on some loose.
moss-covered stones, and Gerald read in
his rich, deep voice the "Idyls of Kings,"
which he brought with him. Ab, love's
you lig dream is sweet—enjoy it while
you nay'
Suddenly Edith trembled, and started
to b-•.r feet.
"What was that, Gerald ? Did you
hear anything ?"
"No, my darling."
`Hush ! Listen There it is again ;
moan, as if of some one in pain. What
can it be ?"
It was plain to be heard when Gerald
had ceased readirig, and seemed to come
from behind the wall against which they
had been leaning.
"We must go and see what it is," said
Gerald. "Perhaps some one is hurt!"
Quickly they went round to the other
side of the Abbey, where the wall was
loher, and having found a - place where
the stows had fallen away until they
were almost level with the ground, they
proceeded to the spot whence seemed to
conic the sound.
There among the stories, rubbish and
tangled grass. lay a man, apparently dy-
Mg. His features were ghastly pale, and
his thick, dark hair matted with the
blood which flowed from a deep gash in
his right temple.
"Poor fellow," said Gerald trying to
force into his mouth a little of the wine
which he carried in a flask. "Who is he.
I wonder? Dearest you remain hers with
him while Igo and procure help, We
must take him home and see if anything
can be done for him."
He started off at once, while the half
frightened but pitying girl took her
handkerchief and tenderly and carefully
bou.id up the wound upon the sufferer's
head. Then she placed his head on her
kuce, and waited for her lover's return.
Tarryin g thus, she had time to examine
the strangers appearance. In spite of
his unnatural pallor, how nanditurne he
looked as he lay there, his hair tumbled,
the rich dark lashes resting on his cheeks.
Ile was evidently a genticman—an artist
for his sketch-book and pencils lay scat
tered around.
Wee he dying—emir t he be dead he
fore help could be procured ? llow slow•
ly the time seemed to pass. Would Ger
ald never come ? Yes ; here he comes at
lust, accompanied by two farm laborers
currying a plank.
"He do look mortal bad, your honor,"
said one of the men.
Gently they laid him On the plunk, the
young Squire telling them to bear him
to the Grange.
"My darling," he then said, "will you
take the carriage and gu home to prepare
my mother, and tell the servants to get
ready a room and everythini necessary ?
In the meantime I will fetch the nearest
doctor."
"My dear, what is the matter ?" ex
claimed Mrs. Ellersleigh, as Edith, pale
•
and excited, entered the room where she
was sitting. "What has happened ? Ger
ald—" -
"No, mamma. nothing is the matter
with Gerald ; but there has been en acci
dent. We have found a stranger lying
in the Abbey ruins, with a deep cut in
the forehead. They are bringing him
here."
Mrs. Ellersleigh gave a sigh of relief.
"Poor fellow." she said ; will go and
tell the servants to prepare for him."
Presently they brought him in,and laid
him gently on the bed.
The doctor came, looked at him, and
shook his head, but finally pronounced
that, though his waned was severe, with
care be might recover.
"The brain, is not injured," he said.
"Everything shall be dune for him,"
interrupted Mrs. Ellersleigh.
"No doubt of it. madam—no doubt et
ail. Ile is in good hands. Good day. I
will call again this evening."
• • * * *
Carefully and- tenderly they nursed
him, but for a week he lay utterly uncon
scious of all that passed armed. and se
vere was the struggle between life and
death, but at length the former conquer.
ed.
Every day Edith paid a visit to the
sick chamber, and one morning she
stood questioning the faithfid old servant
who had been constituted head nurse.
"He has passed a very quiet night,
Miss Edith, and this morning he seems
much—"
' Where am I," said a feeble voice from
behind the bed-curtains.
Edith started, and approached the bed.
"Hush !" she said softly. "you must not
talk. You have been ill, but arc with
friends."
The invalid fixed his gaze wonderingly
and inquiringly on her face, and it thril
led through her with a power she never
felt before.
From that time his progress was rapid,
and Edith's visits became more frequent
and of longer duration.
Nothing had the powet to lull him to
sleep like her soft, sweet voice reading to
him front -hie favorite author.
Then he Was able to come down stairs
and lie upon the sofa, and Edith would
play and sing, or read to him, for hours,
as his fancy prompted, for was he not an
invalid, and therefore, a privileged per
son ?
And to Edith these interviews were'
becoming dangerously sweet. He talked
to her, as no ore had ever done befare, of
his wanderings in foreign lands--of per.
done adventures among the Alps, of
balmy days passed in sunny Italy, untill
Edith felt that the greatest joy in life
would be to 'mit them with him. And
then he, knowing her to-be the promised!
wife of Gerald, told-her of his love ; and
she, forgetful of duty, or her plighted
troth, of everything but her mad passion
for this man, promised to be his wife—to
fly with him.
At first, Gerald had remarked upon
her changed manner to himself, and pro
tested against her spending so much time
with the stranger, hut she met his com
plaints with a reproach.
"You are too exacting, Gerald, and
you know Le is our guest ; we must pay
him some attention," she said, rather
m patiently.
G-raid sighed.
"Forgive me, dearest, if I do seem ex
acting," he said. "It is caused by my
great love fur you. I cannot bear the
thoughts of any one else monopolizing
your time. If you only tell me," he con
chum', earnestly, "when I may hope to
call yott my own ! Dearest, wl.rti shall
our weddin be ? Say, shall it be 'next
month ?"
"Next month ? No, no; that is much
to.) soon. We are very happy as we 11:r ;
why do you wish to change ? Next
slimmer will be quite soon enough ; or—
or - p•rhaps in the springy"
And with that he was compelled to be
satisfied.
Thu invalid was almost well now,
would, indeed, soon be able to leave them
and then, Gerald thought, things would
soon resume their old course, and he,
would be happy again. The stranger's
name, he had told them, was Edward
Vane. Ile was au artist, end had been
sketching the Abbey at the time of the
accident. Climbing upon the broken
crumbling wall, to get a better view, his
lot slipped, and iu falling, he must have
struck his head against a saarp corner of
a projecting stone.
Five weeks more have passed. All is
confusion and terror at the Grunge.—
FAith Stanton. the Squire's promised
bride, and Edward Vane have gone—
fled together, it is whispered in the ser
vants hall.
TLey had missed them at breakfast
and on going to Edith's room, had
found the bed unslept, in. and a note for
Gerald lying on the dressing-table.
Hastily he tore it open and read :
"Gerald I do not ask yun to forgive
me ; my Bin has been too great for that.
All I desire is that you msy forget me.
I was never worthy of your love and
trust. Seek not to find me ; before you
could find me, I shoald be Edward's wife.
EDITH."
Gone Edith ! It could not be
true ! Yet here was her handwriting to
prove it.
A deep groan escaped the young
Squire's pallid lips.
-False i heartless!" he muttered, be
tween his clenched teeth. "This is the
way he repays our kinduess !—the treach
erous Gillian! She, too, must have been
false—utterly false! Forget her 1 Yes, it I
can.,,
And this ended the romance of his
Nine long years have been added to
the past.
In a small, poorly furnished room, in a
narrow London street, a woman lies dy
ing, her only companion a little girl.
Her face is thin and haggard; but the
hair which strays over the pillow is long
thick, and glosAy, and her bright orbs,
which horn wan the fever of expectation,
are large and glaring, and shaded by
long lashes, telling of much former beau
:v.
lle will not come," she murmurs,—
"Ah, no! Why should he? He cannot
forget the past."
But there Is 11 step upon the stairs, the
door opens, some one enters.
"Gerald !" cried the dying woman,
strogelog to rats,. herself ; "you have
comet '
"Yes, Edith, I have. Alas that I
should find you thus."
"I feared that you bad not got my let
ter ; or—or chat you could not forgive
the past," she said, falling back upon her
pillow.
"I forgave Von Elith, long ago."
"I have beer. surely punished for my
sin," she answered. "My husband, after
spending all my money, left me, to earn
as best I might, a living for myself and
little girL It was a just punishment and
I do not repine. But Mabel, my Innocent
darling, it was of her I wished to speak.—
Promised, Gerald, for the sake of the old
love, that you will take her and cherish
her when I am gone. She will have no
ow else, she continued, feverishly.—
"Promise me, Gerald, and I shall die hap-
Pt'.
Faithfully he gave the desired promise
and well he kept his word. He stayed
with her until the last, and then he took
the sorrowing orphan borne to his moth
er.
Under their loving care Mabel grew
tip a better and nobler woman than her
mother had been. In the after years,
she loved and married her guardian, and
so he was happy at last. "Peace cotneth
after retribution."
John's Share.
"Pad," said a hopeful sprig, "how man/
fowls are there on the table ?"
-Why, said the old gentleman, as he
looked complacently on a pair of finely
roasted chickens that were smoking on
the dinner table—why, my son; there are
two."
"Two I" replied the smartness, "there
are three, sir, and I'll prove ii."
"Three !" replied the old gentleman,
who was a plain mutter of fact man, and
understood things aS he saw them : "I'd
like to see you prove that."
"Easily done sir—easily done ! Ain't
that Ot. e ?" laying his knife on the first.
" Yes, 't ha t's cer 7 tailk," said dad
"And ain't that two ?" pointing to the
second ; "and don't one and two make
three ?"
"Really, said the father, turning to the
old lady, who was ill amazement at the
immense learning of her son, really wife,
this boy is a genius and deserves to be
encouraged for it. Here old lady do you
take one fowl, and I'll take the second,
and John may have the third for his
learning."
Pructicill cremationists : The Mexi
can witch-burners.
FIFTY CTS. EXTRA IF NOT IN ADVANCE
MISCELLANEOUS READING.
CITY ORPHANS
Fatherless—motherless—
Pity our tears,
Think of our loneliness all thro' the years
Shelterless—comfortless—
Out In the cold ;
Open your hearts to us,
Toilers of gold.
Lilt your robes daintily,
'Tis here we dwell—
Close on the confines of death and of bell
Narrow and damp
With the 'mold of a vault.—
Look not so loathingly,
Is it our fault Y
Once we were innocent,
Long, long ago—
Only to think of it adds to our woe,
For vainly we lift up
Our eyes to the light;
We dwell In the shadow
Of sin and of night.
Born to be buffeted—
Hunger and scorn
Are but our daily bread—children for
lorn ;
All who e'er loved us
Are under the sod ;
Pity us; pray for us,
People of God.
A Touching Incident.
The world is full of mournful incidents
How little do we know of the poignant
sorrow myriads of our fellow-creatures
are compelled to suffer. '[he following
event we take from the Boston Journal:
An express man, upon reaching his of
fice early one cold morning in January,
observed on the sidewalk a long, heavy
box, which his practiced eye at once idea
titled as containing a corpse. Upon the
end of the box, shivering with cold, sat a
little half-clad boy. about seven of eight
years of age. Addressing him kindly, he
said:
"My lad,don't sit there,you will freeze;
come'in and sit by the stove."
Bursting into tears, the little fellow re
plied :
"No, I can't come; my mother is in
this box.,and I promised her that I would
not leave her until we got home."
Deeply affected with the touching de
votion of this brave little fellow, he flinti
ly succeeded in convincing him of the
entire safety of his precious charge, and
taking him to a neighboring restaurant
gave him a warm breakfast, and then
learned the particulars of his story. His
father died about a year previousiy, in a
remote village in Minnesota, leaving his
mother in poor health and nearly desti
tute. She died but a few days before the
boy's sad journey, charging the little he
ro with the sad duty of conveying the re
mains to her friends in a distant State,
and furnished him (with all she had) a
sum of money barely sufficient to carry
th..m both by freight cars to their desti
nation. The little fellow had actually
ridden night and day in a freight cur
with his melancholy trust, never for a
moment losing sight of it.
Be a Ran
Foolish spending is the father of pov-
erty. Do not be ashamed of work, nor
of hard work. Work for the wages you
can get, but work for half price rather
than be idle. Be your own master, and
do not let society or fashion swallow up
your individuality—bat, coat, and ' , clots.
Do not eat up and wear out all that you
earn. Compel your selfish body to spare
something for profits saved. Bo stingy
to your own appetite, but merciful to
others' necessities. Help others, and ask
no help for/yourself. See that you are
prcud. Let your pride be of the right
kind. Be too proud to be lazy ; too
proud to give up without conquering ev
ery difficulty ; too proud to wear a coat
that you cannot afford to buy ; too proud
to he in company you cannot keep up
with in expenses ; too proud• to lie, or
steal, or cheat ; too proud to be stingy.
The Happiest Lire.
Do you ask me which of all I believe to
be the happiest life Then I say, from
my heart, a consecrated one. Be it "in
the world" (so called) or out of it, in the
highway or by-way, as God wills, still a
life consecrated to a service 12etter,higher,
sweeter than that of self enjoyment or
self-success. We all want to be happy.—
We all seek personal joy as an instinct.—
Surely, God meant it to be than when he
made us. Yet no lest He has set the
deepest sources of joy out side of self-in
dulgence—in love, obedience, devotion
and duty. It may be a hard word, the
last ;jt has a chill sound. Yet no less it
claims and possesses more and more as
our days go on. Impulse,desire, idolatry
aggressive s.-lfhoed—one by one we go
upward. Lo ! the cross that we called
Duty changes to a crown.—Exchange.
English Bodies.
A spicy writer in the Aldine, eihibit
ing sonic of the differences between the
vernacular of the Americans and the
English, states that the waist of a dress
is by the latter denominated a body.—
"We were much startled," she says ; "on
receiving our first washing bills, to find
that we were charged with low bodies and
loose bodies !" :Not supposing that there
were any such questionable shapes in our
party, we found they iyere only. high and
low necked underwaists. Again she re•
laths that a young' American lady, on a
visit to a country house, previously occu-
pied by one of the family, but which bad
the uncanny reputation of being haunt.
ed. The young lady had subdued her
nervousness sufficiently to fall into a
slight slumber, when there came a gentle
tap at the door, and a sepulchral' voice
whispered through the key hole, "I want
to come in and get my body."
Mogen! quotation is the parole of lit
erary men all over the - world.—Dr. John-
SOM.
\ -
Frugality is founded o the principle
that all riches have linai —Burke. .
_,.,
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NUMBER 37.
No Gne can settle down in a European
city or village, says Dr. Holland, and ob
serve the laboring classes, without notic
ing a great difference between their as
pirations, ambitions, and habits,and those
of corresponding chimes in this country.
The European expects always to be u ten
ant, the American intends before he dies
to own the house he lives in.' If city
prices forbid this, he goes to the suburbs
for hie home. The European knows that
life and labor are cheap, and that he can
not hope to win by them the wealth
which will realize for him the dream of
future ease ; the American finds his lab
or dear, and its rewards cbmparatively
bountiful, so that his dream of wealth is
a rational one. He, therefore,
denies
himself, workb early and late, and bends
his energies,and directs those of his fam
ily into profitable channels, all for the
great good that beckons him on from the
far off golden future. •
The typical American never lives in
the present. If he indulges in a retiree,-
tion, it is purely for health's sake, and at
long intervals, or in great emergencies.—
He does not taste money or pleasure, and
does not approve of those who do so. He
lives in a constant fever of hope and ex
pectation, or grows sour with hope defer
red or blank disappointment. Out of it
all grows the worship of wealth and that
demoralization which results in unscrup-
ulousness concerning the methods'of its
acquirment. So America presents the
anomaly of a laboring class with unpre
cedented prosperity and privilege.), and
unexampled discontent and discomfort.
„ .
There is surely something better than
this. There is something better than a
life lung sacrifice of content and enjoy
ment for a possible wealth, which how
ever, may never be acquired, and which
has not the power when one to yield its
holder the boon which ho expects to pur r
chase. To withhold from the frugal wife
the frugal gown which she desires to de-'
ny her the journey which do so niuch to
break up the monotony of her home life
to rear children in mean ways, to shot
away from the family life a thousand so
cial pleasures, to relinquish all amuse
ments that hare cost attached to them,
for wealth which may or may not come
when the family life is broken up forever
—surely this is neither sound ',nor wee
economy. We would not have the Amer
ican laborer,tarmer and mechanic become
improvider.t,but we would very much like
to see them happier than they are, by re
sort to the daily social enjoyments which
are always at theirhaud. Nature is strong
in the young, and they will have society
and play of some sort. In should remain
strong in the old, and does remain strong
in them until it is expelled by the absorb
ing and subordinating passion for gain.—
Home Journal.
At the beginning of that century wages
in Philadelphia were said tdbe three times
what they were in England. Slaves,con
victs, and apprentices from the mother
country supplied in a great measure the
market for unskilled labor, and degraded
it. In 1781 there were seventy thousand
slaves in South Carolina, of an average of
£4O each. The annual value of`a work•
ing slave was th - ought to be about £lo.
Thirty slaves, superintended by an over
seer, were a suitable number for a rice
plantation,raisibg four and a half barrels
apiece, besides their own provisions, con
sisting chiefly of,lndian corn. Bice, was
introduced about 1700: was exported in
1747 to the amount of fifty-five thousand
barrels, and in 1760 to the amount of a
hundred thousand barrels. If Indigo
was raised a slave could produce one hun
dred and sixty pounds,worth two or three
shillings a pound, from two acres, in ad
dition to his own food. His whams were
available for sawing lumber. It was re
garded at that time "a very lucky circum•
stance" that an antipathy existea between
Indians and negroes, as slaves were very
dangerous domestics. In 1745 Massachu
setts had twenty seven hundred slavesoy
er fifteen years of age, about a thousand
of them living in Boston. When eman
cipation took place there at the close of
the Revolution, the number of slaves was
4,377. As early as 1769 a decision of the
courts declared that a person born in
Massachusetts could not be kept in slav
ery. Crimes committed by bondmen were
severely punished. About the middle of
the century a century a negress was burn
ed for murder and arson near Bostob,and
a negro at Philadelphia fora similar crime
The whipping post and the stooks were
common instruments of punishment for
the freedmen as well us the slave.—The
Galaxy.
Big words are great favorites with pee-
pie of small ideas and weak coaeoptions.
They are often employed by men of mind
when they use language that may best
conceal their thoughts. With few excep
tions, however, illiterate and half educa
ted persons use more big words than peo
ple of thorough education. It is a very
common but a very, egregious mistake to
suppose that long words aro more genteel
than short once—just as the same sort of
people imagine high colors and flashy fig
ures improve the style of dress. They
are the kind of folks who don't begin,but
always commence. They don't go to bed
but mysteriously retire. They don't eat,
and drink, but partake of refreshments.
They are never sick, but extremely India.-
posed. And instead of dying,at last,they
decease. The strength of the English'
language is in the short words—chiefly
monosyllables of Saxon derivation—and
people who are in earnest seldom use any
I other. Love, hate, anger, grief, joy, ex
press themselves in short words and di
yect sentences ; while cunning, falsehood
and affectation delight in what Horace
calls versa resquipedatia—words "a foot
and a half long.'
Among the candidates for admission to
West Point is one named. Sanerrnilch,
from Pennsylvania. Should he graduate
he may do for frontier service, but he can
never represent the cream of the army 4.
In PUES.aIffiLD 817117 WINIZIVAY MOZIIINO
Advertising Rides:
Postponing Pleasure.
Servants In the last Cent Dry.
Who nao Long Words.
A bad omen—To owe men money.