st&$ AY
'fc LTV rrf AAVf9 !
1iY-"SlT IvlliT 1lif STf IBITf "
Lff . n wm
It EH, Editor and Proprietor.
I WOULD RATHER BE RIGHT THAN PRESIDENT. Hxnry Clay.
TSRilS'300 PER AXSUM.
$2.00 IIS ADVANCE.
IIITCUIWSOIVV ruDiisner.
"JME 7.
EBENSBURG, PA., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1866,
NUMBER 52.
BY.
F POST OFFICES.
" Post Masters. Districts.
Steven L. Evans, Carroll.
c
M. D. Wagner,
A. O. Crooks,
R. II. Brown,
John Thompson,
C. Jeffries,
Chest.
Taylor.
Washint'n.
Ebensburg.
White.
Susq'han.
Gallitiin.
Washt'n.
Johnst'wn.
Loretto.
Munstef.
Susq'han.
Clearfield.
Richland.
Washt'n.
Croyle.
Washt'n.
S'merhill.
iber.
1111s, Peter Garman,
J. If. Christy,
Wm Tiler, Jr.,
E. Roberts,
M. Adlesberger,
A. Darbin,
M. J. Piatt,
Stan. Wharton,
George Berkey,
A. Shoemaker,
B. F. Slick,
Wm. M'Connell,
J. K. Shryock,
,il-4.:.:es, ?iixisters, &c.
r,fterUn Rkv. T. M. Wilson, Tastor.
:bing every Sabbath morning at 10J
k, and ia the evening at 7 o'clock. Sab
iVuo.l fit 0 o'clock, A.M. Prayer meet
very Thursday evening at 6 o'clock.
lod.ttJ';nscoalChurch Rkv. A. Baker,
! -er in charge. Rev. J. l'Easuixo, As-
Trenching everv alternate Sabbath
- at 1.0 J o'clock. "Sabbath School ay)
A. II. Trayer meeting every Wedncs
at 7 o'clock. ,
dent Rkv Ll. R. PowELt,
Preaching every Sabbath morning at
nod in the evening at 6 o'clock.
.' 'aool ft 1 o'clock, P.M. Prayer
a the first Monday evening of each
n3 on every Tuesday, Thursday and
j eve. ing, excepting the first week in
month.
IvinUHc :ifthoJi.UV.v. MO.HOAS r.LLIS,
or. Vr, aching every Sabbath evening at
1 6o kn k. Sabbath School at V o'clock,
. Firvcr meeting every Friday evening,
o'clock. Society every Tuesday evening
ovicx
;..Rev. W. Lloyd, Tastor. Preach
very Sabbath morning at 10 o'clock.
Xicular Jl(tptitsTlr.x. David Evans,
r. Preaching every Sabbath evening at
jck. Sabbath School at at 1 o'clock, P. M.
'.oHe Rev. R. C. Chrjstt, Pastor.
every Sabbath morning at 10 J o'clock
pe'rs at 4 o'clock in the evening.
:nEXSRi n ai ails. .
MAltS ARRIVE,
through, daily, at 9.35 P. M.
, way, " at 9.35 P. M.
.. 1 through, at 9.25 A. M.
era, way, " at 9.25 A. M.
MAILS CLOSE,
rn, daily, at 8.00 P. M.
era. " at 8.00 P. M
Th mails from Carrolltown arrive
r, Sundays excepted. The mails from
tcvihe, Grant, &t, arrive on Mondays,
Snesdays and Fridays.
ils for Carrolltown leave daily, Sun
i excepted. Mails for Plutteville, Grant,
leave on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sat
ys. lAILROAD SCIIEDUIiE.
CRESSON STATION
Bait. Express leaves at
8.25
9.23
9.52
9.54
7.30
4.15
8.40
2.30
7.16
1.55
1.21
A. M.
A. M.
Phila. Express
New York Exp.
i";iEt Line
I'; y Express
Aicbbna Accohi.
PliUa. Express
Fast Line
V. f Express
(i: cinnati Ex.
Akeona Accom.
M.
M.
M.
M.
M.
A. M.
A.M.
P. M.
r. M.
COrXTY OFFICEKS.
Jjti cfthe Courts President, Hon. Geo.
or, Huntingdon; Associates, George W.
?y, Henry 0. Devine.
otonotarii Geo. C. K. Zahm.
gii?r and Recorder James Griffin,
err'jamc-s Myers.
ftriet Attorney. John F. Barnes.
'V Commissioners John Campbell, Ed
'36S, E. R. Dunnegan.
rer Barnabas M'Dermit.
louse directors George M'Cullough,
Orris, Joseph Dailey.
House Treasurer George C. K. Zahm.
:ors Fran. P. Ticrncy, Jco. A- Ken
, :anuM Brallier.
iSitrveyor. Henry Scanlan.
r r. Viiliara Flattery.
trc :ls Appraiser John tTox.
rp't. : Comtn oh School J. F. Condon.
HrliUllG lion. OFFICERS.
AT LARGE.
--v,j4r Jhuics A. Moore.
? of the Peace Harrison Kinkead,
1 J. Waters.
' Directors D. W. Evans, J. A. Moore,
'. Davis, David J. Jones, 'Villiam M.
" . Jones, jr.
Tnasurer Geo. W. Oattnan.
Council Saml. Singleton.
'ommissioner David Davis.
EAST WARD.
Council A. Y. Jones. John O. Evans,
Davis, Charles Owens, R. Jones, jr.
lie Thomas Todd.
of Election Wm. D. Davis.
tors David E. Evans, Danl. J. Davis.
ior Thomas J. Davis.
WEST WARD.
Council John Lloyd, Samuel Stiles,
n Kinkead, John E. Scanlan, George
able Barnabas M'Dermit.
i if Election. John D. Thomas.
rtors. William H. Sechler, George, W.
iprJoshua D. Parrish.
SOCIETIES, &C.
1 J. Summit Lodge No. 812 A. Y, M,
in Masonic Hall, Ebensburg, on the
Tuesday of each month, at 7 o'clock,
O. F. Highland Lodge No. 428 I. O.
aeets in Odd Fellows' Hal!, Ebensburg,
sVedneeday evening.
T. Highland Division No. 84 Sons of
ranee meets in Temperance Hall, Eb
g, every Saturday evening,
IMS OF SUBSCRIPTION "
TO
"THE ALLEGHANIAN
$2.00 IN ADVANCE.
ir.
The Stranger on tne Sill.
BT T. BUCEANAW BEAD.
Between broad fields of wheat and corn
Is thetowly home where Twaa born;
The peach tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all ;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.
There is the barn and, as of yore,
I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the peewee's mournful song ;
But the stranger comes oh ! painful proof
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.
There Is the orchard the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched th shadowy moments run
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger's childrenare swinging there.
There bubbles the shady spring below,
With its bulrush brook where hazels grow;
'Twas there I founl the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave its wing,
But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.
0, ye, who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still ;
And when yu crowd the old barn-eaves, .
Then thmk what countless harvest-sheaves
nave passed within that scented door
To gladden eyes that are no more !
Deal kindly with these orchard trees,
And when your children crowd their kheC3
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart ;
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.
The barn the trees, the brook, the birds;
The nieaa'ows with their lowing herds,
The woodbine on the cottage wall
My heart still lingers with them all.
Ye strangers on my naive sill,
Step lightly," for I love it still
THE VOICE JNJHE HEARL
Pierce Richmond took up a letter which
had just been brought. in, and glanced at
the superscription "lion. Pierce ltich
uiond I" Ho had seen his name thus
written tiftcn enough before ; but it sug
gested, just now, a curious continuation of
the train of thought which had been ab
sorbing him. It was his pride to be a
self-made man, and he tad been going
back, this morning, over a half-century,
and remembering his bovhood. The lit
tie brown cottage, with the thickest of
sweet brier round it freighting the sum
mer air with fragrance, was a pretty spot
when he lived there the only son of his
mother, and 6he a widow. lie could see
it, looking back, as plainly as if the fifty
year? were only a mist of morning rolling
away from before tho well-known scene.
How pale and quiet but tender and long
suffering his mother was ! He felt again
her fond kisses, and remembered how her
lips used to tremble when slie called
him her fatherless boy. And again his
veins seemed to thrill with the boyish
pride of the old days when he sat beside
her and told her that he would grow up
stout and strong, able to do a man's work
among men, and then she never should
toil so wearily with her needle any more.
If she had but lived, and he had had
her to work for, perhaps it would have
kept his heart fresh and unselfish. But
he shivered again with a throb of the old
agony, as be remembered how he had
found her one morning with a smile fro
zen on her still lips, a look of peace on
her whito face ; and knew that the lips
would never welcome him any more, or
the eyes rest on him with their sad ten
derness that his mother had gone from
the land whore she was a pilgrim to the
homo eternal in the heaven.
How he pitied himself, this morning of
which I write, recalling that time, fifty
years ago, when he was only twelve, and
his mother had left him alone! A shy,
shrinking boy he was then, despite bis
great faith in his own future "a mother
boy,' as the phrase is in the country, and
quaintly touching, it always seemed to
me. lie had been all his life under her
gentle wing, and now he could find there
no more shelter.
Yet his lot was not intolerably hard.
He was apprenticed by the town authori
ties, to a prosperous farmer ; and he had
a comfortable home, no more work than
was reasonable, and -a little schooling in
winter. But no one loved him this boy
who had lived, hitherto, in an atmosphere
of mother love and so bis proud, sensi
tive heart grew cold and hard. He oared
for no one but himself, and though he
did bis work faithfully, he endeared
himself to none. He seemed to live in a
world orbi8 own, into which he was not
disposed to open any doors. Strong pur
poses grew into his nature . in his silent
musings. He would, make himself
name, a position, a career! But all his
plans ended, as they began, with himself;
and it is a 6ad thing when a human being
has none else to live for.
When he was twenty-one, with 'his
"freedom suit" on his back, he marched
away from Frcyburg, and went out into
the world, to begin the career which,
through all those brooding years of his
solitary boyhood, he bad been planning.
I will not weary you' with the processes'
by means of which he achieved success.
Enough that at last he esteemed himself
to have reached it. He was a rich man,
well knowu ia financial circles ; and a
term in Congress had given him a right
to the title of bonor upon his letters.
"Pretty well," he said after all these
memories had passed like a long pano
rama before him "pretty well for old
Tim Scarborough's bound boy. I think
I may call my life a succej3."
And!, if surroundings earthly and tem
poral are the standard of measurement,
you would not have pronounced him far
wrong had you glanced ahout the apart
ment, half study, half breakfast room,
where he had just been taking his morn
ing meal. To be a gentleman had been
one of his ambitions, and as 'soon as he
was able to live elegantly, he had rfur
rounded himself with the appliances' of
luxury. On the floor of this his favorite
room, a soft, warm carpet yielded like
woodland moss to his foot-iall. Hand
somely bound books filled the cavern
cases from floor to ceiling. Chairs up
holstered in llussia leather held out capa
cious arms' to him. His breakfast service
was of silver and porcelain, and at the
least touch of that bell beside him, itself
a dainty toy, trained servants were ready
to" obey his behests.
These things to-day and, back fifty
years, the little three-roomed cottage j the
mother pale and weary, but tender, and
himself barefooted, coarsely clad, but
young and strong and eager, hopeful, and
with all the future's possibilities before
him. Was he richer, now ?
A tap upon the door elicted a half un
gracious "come in," for he was not yet
ready to break the spell of his own
thoughts. He had traced the career of
that barefooted dreamer of fifty years ago
to the present standpoint of the Hon.
Pierce Hichmond. He wanted to look
onward a little, and speculate whether
anymore ground remained to be possessed.
But when he saw the new comer he
roused himself at ouce from his dreams,
and became the alert, watchful man of
business. It was his confidential agent,
Solomon Osgood, who was charged with
superintending his real estate and collect
ing his rents. It was tho first of the
month now, and there were accounts
to be rendered in. They, 6eemed sat
isfactory for .the most part ; but at last
Mr. Hichmond said in an inquiring
tone
"And the widow Maffit?"
"Yes, I .was going to speak about her.
I hope you will be willing to wait a little
for her rent. She has been in trouble."
"Hum ! Yes ! So she was last month,
and the month before that," Mr. Rich
mond said rather curtly.
"Very true," the agent answered crave-
"Last month her little Jack died, and
the month before that he was very sick ;
and now the only one she has leftseems
trying to follow in his brother's footsteps.
Sickness brings a deal of expense, and
comes hard on poor folks."
Mr. Richmond considered a little j
then said with quiet determination
"I don't want to be unfeeling, Osgood,
so I'll say plainly thas I don't want such
tenants. Giving in charity is one thing,
and renting houses is another. When I
want to give I can give ; but I want the
interest on my investment wheu it comes
to a matter of business."
"I'll be security for Mrs. MafSt you
shan't lose by her," the agent remarked,
in the tone ot one wounded a little. His
employer looked at him curiously.
"You're a philanthropist, Mr. Osgood,"
he said, with a smilo rather satirical, yet
not altogether unkindly. "I don't care
about your undertaking the burden of my
bad debts. Seven children, and a wife
none too strong, are about as big a load
as you can carry. Didn't I say you
needn't send tho woman off, now ? Let
her stay on, through March, whether she
pays or not; and see if you can't find me
another tenant by the first of April."
"Thank yott, sir, as to Mrs. MafSt'a
part of your remark," ' Mr. Osgood an
swered. "As for that about me and mine,
I think, Mr. Richmond, if you had the
same burden to - carry, you'd find it
about the pleasantest one .you ever bent
under."
There was an air of sincerity in his
manner, a beam of secret delight in his
look, which lingered with the Hon. Pierce
Richmond after his agent had gone away.
He wondered if there were, indeed, so
much blessedness in family ties if it
were good for a man to have wife and
mouths to look out for. And, so specu
lating, the bitterest memory of his whole
life came back to him the one sole time
since his mother's death when he had
loved some being beyond and apart from
himself. It was a score of years ago, and
he was forty-two then, and she the loved
one just twenty. He met her in a lodg
ing house, where he had a fashionable
suite of first-floor apartments, and where
she, lodging iu the attic, used now and
then to meet him on the , steps or in the
hall, until he learned "to think that day
dark, lit by no gleam of her dun gold hair.
How well he remembered the faoe, sweet
yet spirited "the red young mouth, and
the hair's young gold" -the dainty, lithe
figure, the springing step, the musical,
4ow tones ! How it was he hardly knew,
but he, the cold,- selfish, hardened man of
the world, felt swelling up in his heart a
fountain of sweet waters and then, when
he would have slaked at it hi soul's thirst,
beautiful and deceitful as a mirage it
Vanished, and his heart, lacking its sweet
ness, turned to desert waste.
For not all his gold beguiled the little
gir! he lovecf into' wedding. She looked
into his face with her pure, honest eyes,
this Julia Winsted, and told him some
truths hard to bear. He was old for his
forty-two years, and she told him so ;
hard and cold, used to living by himself,
selfish oven in his wish to biud her youth
to his stern, middle ag?. Receiving his
roposal of marriage as an attempt to buy
. . . . ,ii
er tresnness ana Deauty, wita ner puuesa
plainness of speech she made him feel -it
all.
The next day she left the house, and
since then he had never seen her. But
he had never forgiven her. She stood in
hisrnemory asis enemy his one enemy,
for curiously enough he had made no
other in the course of his long life. But
toward her his resentment was as keen as
on the day when he had been so stung by
her indignant refusal ttfgivehim her hand,
when, as she said, he must known in the
very nature of things it was impossible
for her to give him her heart. He re
membered her pitilessly well. If he had
been an artist, he could have painted the
dun gold of the long, fine hair, the violet
eyes which the curling lashes shaded, the
red lips with their haughty curve. He
had never seen her since ; but he laid on
her memory the blame and burden of his
solitary years. But for her, he thought,
he too might have been a husband and
father not living thus, unloved and
uncared for, his lonely life.
Unloved and uncared for I The words
struck bitterly on his ear, and he repeated
them over and over to himself, thinking
the while thoughts new and strange.
What had he done did he or some invis
ible presence at his side ask the question
what had he done that any one should
love him ? Had he ever unselfishly tried
to make one human being happy ? Had
there ever been day or hour in which self
had not been the centre round which all
his aims revolved 1 lie pushed away his
letter with Honorable on the cover, ne
began to doubt whether, after all, his life
had been a success. What single good
deed had he to be reckoned up in the days
when by his works he must be justified or
condemned? And now he was. an old
man for the first time he began to feel
that and it was too late. Ah, it must
have been a suggestion of the still, small
voice that seemed to penetrate his heart.
"Not too late, O, never too late to begin
to live for God and good !"
But what could he do ?
"Go and see the widow Maffit," tho
voice in his heart answered. "There
would be a beginning. If you find her
suffering you can help her."
He was acting on new impulses, but the
resolute strength which had helped him
all through life, hurried him on now ;
and in half an hour he was at the door of
Mrs. MafEt's fourth story-room. Answer
ing his knock, she did not know her
visitor, and stood as if waiting to hear his
errand.
"I am your landlord," he said, in tones
which no emotion seemed to make other
than stefu ; and then she stood aside and
asked him to walk in.
He stepped into the bare, comfortless
room. A fire dull for want of fuel flick
ered on the hearth, and before it, trying
to warm his slender fingers, bent a boy
of about twelve. Mr. Richmond's eyes,
in their comprehensive gaie round the
room, rested on him, and remained fixed.
He was a slight, fragile boy, who might
havo passed for younger than his years,
save for the expression ot maturity on his
thoughtful countenance. But those violet
eyes over whieh the long lashes yirled,
the dun gold hair falling softly round the
pensive face whose were they ? He had
never seen such since the day he parted
with her his enemy. He turned at last,
and looked at the mother. She remained
quietly awaiting his pleasure a woman
of at least forty, worn by eorrow and
touched by time, yet with a certain proud
grace in her manner, as she stood in the
same attitude in which sbo had stood
twenty years before, on a day he could
never forget. For this was his enemy !
He would not have known her, perhaps,
save for the golden-haired boy but now
he saw all her old self in her changed
features. She was waiting to learn his
pleasure what was his pleasure ? Before
to-day he could have" answered this ques
tion unhesitatingly ; to humiliate her to
see her starve to push her to the last
extremity to be revenged upon her by
any and all means for the light esteem in
which she had held him ! Now would
any revenge of this kind satisfy him ?
Vaguely as something heard afar off some
words came back to him he thought he
had heard his mother read them in his
boyhood.
"If thine enemy hunger feed him, if he
thirst give him drink I
His heart throbbed strangely, but he
kept all emotion out of his voice.
"I hear your, rent is not ready, Mrs
Maffit."
"It is not. Frank has been ill so much,
and required so much of my attention,
hoped you would bo willing to give me
little time. I think be will .be better
when spring opens."
"But you ought not to have expected
much lenienev from? me. You told me
years ago that I was a stern, hard man.
1 on might have softened me if you had
tried then ; but I think time has been
turning me into stone."
She recognized him now, and her lip
curled with a touch of the old scorn. To
him ct all men she would not sue for
grace.
"I was true to myself then, she said
quietly, "I am not sorry, not even now.
His enemy still, he thought his star
ving enemy, onouid ne oifer ner Dread
or a stone f. 1 have said that new iirrpul
ecs were guiding him, and with' him
impulses we r all power! ul. He went to
the golden-haired boy cn the hearth.
" Wcufd you like to live with me V be
asked him. "The fires are bright in my
house, and the camels warm and soft.
There are pictures on tho walls, and books
without end m the cases.
At the sound of books and pictures the
boy's eyes brightened ; but he answered
with a sturdy resolution which reminded
Pierc9 Richmond again of her whom he
called his enemy.
"I should like the fires and the carpets,
and the books and the pictures better yet.
But I'll not leave my mother."
." V ill your mother come V Mr. Rich
mond turned and looked into the worn
face, flushing a little with indignation at
his words. "I do not mean to ask any
thing you can grant," he hastened to say,
in tones of ouiet reassurance. "Iam six
ty-two, and alone in the world. Wife I
shall never have ; and I need a house
keeper a womau faithful enough to look
out for my interests, and kind enough to
nurse me patiently through my old age.
If you will come to my home, and keep
my house, it shall be your home and your
boy's home while I live, and at my death
you shall be insured against want."
The widow looked a moment into his
eyes, and then gave him both her hands
in a passion of eager gratitude.
"J deserve nothing from you, she said,
"and you have saved me from despair."
But 1 think as time went on, and the
elesrant abode where Pierce Richmond
had passed so many solitary years took
on new aspects of ease and grace under a
woman s fingers ; as little hranc met him
whenever he came in with loving eager
ness; and he began to understand some
thing of the difference between a house
and a' home, he never repented that he
had shown mercy to his enemy.
Anecdotes of Mr. Lincoln.
We clip the following characteristic
anecdotes of the late President, frcui Mr.
I. B. Carpenters "Six Months at the
White House."
When General Phelps took possession
of Ship Island, near New Orleans, early
in the war, it will be remembered that he
issued a proclamation, somewhat bombas
tic in tone, freeing the slaves. To the
surprise of many people on both sides,
the President took no official notice of this
movement. Some time had elapsed, when
one day a friend took him to task for his
seeming indifference on so important a
matter.
"Well," said Mr- Lincoln, "I feel about
that a good deal as a man whom I will
call 'Jones whom I once knew, did about
his wife. Ho was one of your meek men,
and had the reputation of being badly
henpecked. At last, one day his wife
was seen switching him out of the house.
A day or two afterward a friend met him
in the street, and said : 'Jones, I have
always stood up for you, as you know ; but
I am not going to do it any longer. Any
man who will stand quietly and take a
switching from his wife, deserves to be
horse-whipped 'Jones' looked up with
a wink, patting his friend on the back.
Now don't said he ; 'why, it didn't hurt
me any ; and you have no idea what a
power of good it did Sarah Ann.' "
In August, 186-i, the prospects of the
Union party in reference to the Presiden
tial election became very gloomy. A
friend, the private secretary of one of
the Cabinet ministers, .who spent a few
days in New York at this juncture, . re
turned to Washington with so discourag
ing an account of the political situation,
that after hearing it, the Secretary told
him to go to the White House and repeat
it to the President. My friend eaid that
he found Mr. Linooln alone, looking more
than usually care-worn and sad. Upon
hearing this statement he walked '.wo or
three times across the floor in t-ilenoe.
Returning ha said with grim earnestness
of tone and manner : "Well, I cannot run
the political machine; I have enough on
my hands without that. It is tho people's
business the election is in their hands.
If they turn their backs to the fire, and
get scorched in the rear, they will find
they have got to sit on the blister."
- A private secretary of the late Pres
ident writes that Mr. Lincoln "composed
somewhat slowly and with care, making
few erasures or corrections, and, indeed,
being quite tenacious of forms of expres
sions which he had once adopted. It was
then his custom ro read his manuscript
over aloud, 'to see how it sounded, as he
could hardly judge of a thing by merely
reading it. "
The Blarney Stone-,
An Ireland correspondent of the New
York Observer writes as follows of Blar
ney Castle and the famous Blarney Stone :
The number, extent and completeness
of the commercial,- benevolent,. and relig
ious institutionsin and about the city of
Cork-, of leas than a huudred: thousand in
habitants, astonished me. The Lunatio
Asylum, for the insane of a large district
of Ireland, and fitted to care for 530 pa
tients, appeared' to be one of the most ex
tensive auxi happily arranged, that I had
ever seen. , Three buildings, in Goth io
style, in the midst of beautiful grounds,
commanded a magnificent view of town,
country, land" and- water. We passed this
institution aud the- model Agricultural
School, and the Queen's College, and a
number of others, on out way, and a
beautitut way it wa?, one of the most de
lightful, winding,-shaded, graded roads,
with elegant old mansions iu the midst
of trees, their trunks withivy clad, the
stone walls by the roadside often over
grown with ivy, all the more enchanting
to us, who, but tho day before, were on
the sea, and now were enjoying this new
scenery with the keenest zest, as we wero
riding in an Irish jaunting car, going to
"Blarney Castle," to see it and the famous
"Blarney Stone," of Ireland. Who has
not heard of the Blarney Stone ? Irish
blarney is quite as familiar a term as Irish
wit. Yet there are not many who know
where and what is the Blarney Stone,
that gives to the Irish, who kiss it) tho
persuasive power of tho tongue, the all
prevailing flattery, that is said to distin
guish them a? a race. Five miles from
the City of Cork, stands the Donjon Keep,
and ruins of the ancient Blarney Castle,
where, in olden time, dwelt the M'Car
thys, Barons of Blarney. It was built ia
the 15th century, and the majestio
strength and proportions of the work show
that in its day, before our modern means
of war were in use, it must have beeo a
mighty affair
In the midst of the wall on the North
side, and supported by two timbers, sev
eral feet below the highest outlook of tho
Castle, was a stone, which could not bo
reached, unless you were held by the heel9
and so let down till you could touch it
with your lips. This stone fell from its
place a long time ago, and now another is
pointed oat on another side of the Castle,
to be reached in the same way. I confess
that I assisted in thus suspending two or
three young Americans from Philadelphia,
who were ambitious of adding to their
other accomplishments this Irish endow
ment, and a lady of the party, who had
no need of it, was content to reach it with
her hand, and take the charm on her lips
from the end of her fingers. And that
none may be unable to kiss it, with true
Irish liberality, a third stone is provided,
warranted to be the one that fell from its
place, and this is placed on the ground,
at the door of the Castle, and you havo
only to stoop and touch it with your lips,
and the virtue is precisely the same as
that imparted by the on6 which is 120
feet in the. air. Whence this tradition
arose . nobody knows. Father Prout'i
Reliques gives tho best account of is
miraculous power:-
"There is a'ttone ther
That w hoever kisses,
Oh 1 h never misses
To grow eloquent.
" 'Ti3 he maj clamber ;
To a ladv-'s chamber,
Or become n member :
Of Parliament.
-
'iX clever snouter "
Hn'll sure turn out, or
- An out and outer,
To be let alone !
"Don't hope to hinder him.
Or to bewilder him,
Sure he's n pilgrim
From the Bhirney Stone.'
A Silent Woman. The Portland
Press records what it calls "one of the
wonders of the world" in the case of a
woman who has just died in the almshouse
in that city, at the age of seventy year3.
Disappointed in love in early life, she
made a vow never to speak another word
during her life, and during the thirty-five
years she has ppent in the Portland poor
house, she religiously kept her vow, until
death sealed her lips?, not uttering a sin
trie intelligible word during all that time.
The l'rch says that she remained in full
pos-ession of her vocal faculties through
out the silent yeara, but does not explaiu
hov that fact is known.
A Bashful Poet. The poet Perciv
afti knowledge of women was of the least.
Hp never dared look them in the tyes.
An accidental touch of the hand of one
of his loves drove him in confusiou from
the room. He never told his love, ex
cept in one instance, and then it was in
writing. He was m love at twenty; at
twenty-four he adored a pupil at Phila
delphia ; and again, ' at twenty-five, he
worshiped somebody in Berlin ; and" onoo
more, in New Haven, at twenty-seven, he
fell in love with a young woman with a
handsome face, who did not like looks,
and married a shoemaker. .
t$&m October comes, a woodman old,
Fenced with to ago. leather from tha cold ;
Round swingB bia sturdy axe, and 19 1
A fir branch falls at every blow.
! I