HUNTINGDON JOURNAL. WrioLE No. 181. J TERMS OF TILE J0V1 5 .11.A.L. The "Journal" will be published every Wednesday morning, at two dollars a year if paid IN ADVANCE, and it not paid within six months, two dollars and a half. Evecy person who obtains five subscribers awl forwards price of subscription, shall be f ivnished with a sixth copy gratuitiously for one year. N subscription received for a less period than six months, nor any paper discontinued unti I arrearages are paid. All commuhications must he addressed to the Editor, post paid, or they will not be NY itende d to. Advertisments not exceeding one square ball be inserted three times for one dollar for every subsequent insertion, 25 ficents per square will be charged:—if no detnite orderd sre given as to the time an adverisment is to se continued, it will be kept in till ordeed; bot., and charge accordingly. THE GARLAND -"With sweetest flowers enrich'd From various gardens cull'd with care." For the Huntingdon Journal , RAVEN HOLLOW. Long, long my mcse has absent been, Perhaps a sporting with the Lasses; By fancy's eye, she still was seen Upon the top of mount Parnassus. But lately she has come again, And smiling bid me, her to follow, With harp in hand, she now is seen, Perch'd on a rock, in Raven hollow, She bade me take a seat, and dip In liquid black, my pointed feather, And carefully, these lines to write, For her, as she put them together. A mossy hillock is my seat, A large flat rock, it is my table; Beneath a lofty jutting cragg, C rown'd by a spreading sugar maple, A chrystal brook just at my feet, In gentle murmurs onward moving, To quench the thirst of bird and beast, That through the woods are ever roving, Oa right and left, and close at hand, Arc piles, on piles, (truly majestic Of massive rocks, on rocks, on rocks, And heaps, on heaps, the most roman,tic. And numerous caverns gaping wide, Amongst the craggy cliffs are yawning, Whilst flocks of birds on lofty pines, Upon their tops, do take an awning. The elm, the ivy and the Vine, '1 hey here do stand in rude succession, The mountain tea, and lufty pine, Arc contrasts grand beyond expression. Here you may sec on hawthorn top f A yellow pheasant. busy, budding, There starting up, just from his lrir, A coney passes, onward scudding. Beheath a rock, on yonder side, A flock of quails, are slyly hiding, From Reynard who has view'd them o'er, And through the shrubs, is slyly gliding. See how the traitor steals along, With steady step, and stealthy motion, He fancy's they will soon be his, To sup on quails, he has a notion. Just now some strange intruding thoughts, Rolls o'er my mind in quick succession, And you may read them if you please, If you can pardon this digression. Is not the fox like Martin Van, The quails the Loco Foco party, How cunningly his plans are laid, On them to dine, and sup most hearty, Can he the purse and sword unite, And you can but believe a poet, My word to you I'll freely pledge, With sack and boots, he'll surely go it, And as, for our own Davy R. , In three years hence, when out of power, Herr, he may choose n country seat, And here, erect a shady bower. Here, he may govern moles and bats. And blinking night owls in the caverns, And ruminate on past events, And purblind Locos in the taverns. His John B. L., may here remove, For Davy must have a physician, To guard Isis health, both night and day, Least he should die without contrition. And now may Davy happy be, And here in secret do his penance, Beneath some green and shady tree, ..4lnd still escape Masonic vengeance. Now brave Typo, from Kensington; If you and your brave boys together, Print this for me, I'll wish you joy. As long as I can poise a feather. NATHANIAL NEWTHINKER Atittt rate. THE MAIDSCHENSTEIN. A TRADITION OF THE SAXON Swiss. (CoricLuDED.) CHAPTER 111 Midnight is close at hand, and Franz Brockhaus sits alone in a small arched chamber that is hewn out of the solid rock. To reach that giddy height, he has threaded the mazes of the Khuhstall for est, and clambered up a rude and steep ladder, which, reared from the extremity of a fissure: conducts Father Ambrose to and fro, alternately abroad and back to his dwelling, on the bald grey hill allu ded to in a previous chapter. A small latnp, suspended by an iron chain from the ceiling, renders obscurely visible each ob ject within the compass of that narrow vault. There is a rough deal table, an al tar cut in the stone, a crucifix, a skull, an hour glass, a couch (it such it may be termed) composed of untrimmed branches of oak, a rosary, and a pitcher of water. A book of devotions lies upon the altar, fastened wish silver clasps, while a large • Hebrew Bible, in vellum binding, rests on the log which for fifty years has served Father Ambrose as a pillow. There, then, sits Franz Brockhaus, gazing forth from time to time across the wilderness far, tar beneath him; over which the moon sheds her silvery light, unobscured even by a gossamer clinic!. "What have I done?" exclaimed he, at length after a long and anxious silence. "Why took I the oath? Devoted as I am to the service of my Master, and ready, the Lord knoweth, to die for the truth, why oppress my soul with this additional bondage, which neither mine nor the mai den's situation rendered necessary? Is it not written, 'Swear not all?' Yea, and have I ever spoken to her otherwise than as to a sister? Have I ever thought of hem except as a friend?—ah? no, no, no! A sister standeth not between a man and his Maker; a friend dwelleth not all clay long in a friend's memory. Hath the old man seen further into the state of our souls than our own eyes could penetrate? What said he? and how runs the vow? 'Swear that she shall never be to thee more than she is at this moment, till the tyranny of these evil times be overpast' Yes, it ran even thus, and the meaning is —I cannot tell what. lam deceived, I am lust in uncertainty. Would that the old man were come, that so we might hold communion together; and my mind be set at rest touching the events of the suer row." Thus mused aloud the Leipzig student, as he sat on the anchorite's couch, and looked through the aperture that served for a door to the cell, across glade and hollow, towards the Lesser Winterberg. His pale face he turned up occasionally to wards the heavens; for his faith was strong; nor yet with cheeks flushed, or brow over shadowed, as is apt to be the case when any violent passion has gained the maste ry over us; yet there was a restlessness in his eye, which spoke of a spirit by no means at ease with itself; and quick and prompt was his recognition of the forM which at length emerged from beneath a thicket; and made for the fissure. "He comes at last," exclaimed the young man; "my prayer has been heard." "God have the in his keeping, my song" said Father Ambrose. solemnly, as he gained the little cell; "God have thee in his keeping now and for ever." "Amen, father," said Franz. "Hath thy journey sped well?" "Even as we could desire," exclaimed the anchorite; "there will be no wedding to-morrow, nor any talk of such a proce dure for some days to come." "Now the Lord be praised!" replied Franz. "But how didst thou manage this matter?" "The case was desperate, Franz; and the remedy must needs be desperate also. I have denounced Louise as one whom there is reason to suspect of heresy." "What!" cried Franz, springing to his feet, "and given her up to persecution. Father Ambrose, I did not expect this at thy hands." •'Have patience, my son, and believe that there are cases in which that which seemeth harsh to the interested and the partial, is merciful in itself. Naught bath been done that it was possible to leave undone. Not yet hath the denunciation "ONE COUNTRY, ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY." A. W. BENEDICT PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR. HUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 3, • 1839. gone further than to the privite ear of Gaspar. whoie love for Louise, albeit roughly shone, is still that of a parent for his child. Mine was a visit of professed kindness; and I have consented to the un happy man's entreaty, to conceal the charge for a space of seven days, during which the maiden shall come to me, that we may converse together on the state of her opinions. Meanwhile, rest thou here to-night; for on the morrow it is necesAtry that thou betake thee to thy mother's dwelling, there to abide till intelligence reach thee that the Lord has need of thee. For the hour is near, ay, it is close at hand —when open testimony must be borne against the abominations of the land, and many hearts are prepared to receive the good seed, as soon as the hand shall be stretched forth to scatter it abroad. Hie thee hence, then, betimes in the morning, to the faithful of whom thou wottest ii i Hernschritchen, and give them timely notice, so that he that hath not a sword may sell his garment and buy one." "I am not, then, to see her, my father?" demanded Franz, mournfully. "Thou hast sworn, my son, that thou shalt hold with the maiden no further communication till these evil times shall have passed away. I cannot release thee from this vow, for it is registered in Ilea , ven, and may in no wise be broken." "Nay, father, 1 swore only that she should not be to me any more than she has heretofore been: I said not that we should hold no further communication." "Franz Brockhaus," replied the old man laying his hand solemnly on the stu. dent's shoulder; "beware how thou tam perest with an oath. It is no more possi ble for thee to meet Louise again, and to depart from her as thou art at this mo ment, than ft is in my power ;to call back the years that have rolled over my head, and left me such as thou beholdest. The terms of thy vow may be as thou descri best them, but have a care: no mortal never yet presumed to approach the ex treme verge of honor or duty, who did not live to mourn that he had overpassed it." "Father, this is to much," replied the student. "Into thy hands I committed myself, as far only as was consistent with the right of self•regulation which Belongs to every freeman; and the pte . dge thus gi ven I seek not to withdraw`. But thou exactest to much from me now. I must and will see Louise again, be the conse quences what they may:" "Thou lovest the maiden with more than a brother's lope," said the old man, mournfully. "And what it I do?" was the reply. "Is there aught in this which can convict me of sin? If she be the best and fair est of God's creatures, may I not love her? But it is not so, lather. She is to me a sister and a friend, and so She shall continue—till—these—evil—times—be— overpast." "Aught than can convict thee of sin, my son," replied the hermit, while his eye glistened, and his cheek lost for a moment its deadly'palneess; "far, far be it. Beauti ful is love in its first impulses, beautiful and pure, so unearthly, so devoid of sel fishness, so much akin to the feelings of angels and of God himself, that to sivak of it as sinful, were to uttee blasphemy against Him whosegoodness is over all his works! Beautiful is love in its first impulses. But go not thou beyond them. One step further, Frew Brockhaus, and there is misery and shame, there is re morse and self , upbraiding, and worse oh! worse a thousand told than all!--there is the consciosness that suffering has fal len with accumulated violence, where least it ought, and least we desired it to fall. All this, and more, must be the portion of him who yields himself un wisely to the guidance of a passion that accords not with the high destiny which the Lord hath appointed him to fulfil. Look at me, Franz, and judge whether I ' speak the truth. Behold the wreck of what was once a man—worn drwn with humiliation and bitter agony—driven in youth itself from country and kindred-- mine active duties neglected—my part not played out where Providence had cast it--a solitary in this howling wilder ness—useless for many years, av, worse than upless— till the light broke in, at last, upon my darkness, and, at the elev. enth hour the vineyaid gate was opened. NTow came I hither. 'rake heed, then, lest in this, the eventful hour of thy ca reer, thou, too, be turned aside from the path t%hich the finger of Heaven, not mine, bath pointed out, and which thou hest received thy commission to follow. With sin I charge thee not; but for my sake, for thine own sake, for the sake of the great cause to which thou art devoted, read thou thine oath as I have read it; and hie thee to thy mother's dwelling, there to abide till the appointed come, and thou receive thy summons. Wilt thou obey ',mei even in this, oh! my son, cruel as the, wre•ich may be to thy natural weakness and feelings!" •'Father, I will obey," replied the young man, overawed by the energy of the anchorite's manner, and resolute at least for the moment to adhere to the de termination. "I depart forthwith; and, oh! let thy prayers ascend for me uncea• singly, that I may have strength in this terrible struggle to hold myself upright, so that neither the frailty of the flesh, nor the waywardness of the human spirit, lead me into a forgetfulness of my duty. Fa ther, thy blessing, and I hie one to my home." "My blessing and my prayers are ever thine," replied the old man as he laid his hand solemnly on the student's head. But he made no ellort to detain him; on the contrary, he smiled when the latter looked up from the ladder, as if seeking even then to be accosted. And the stu dent springing down, the cell in the rock was left to the occupation of its lonely owner. 'He is gone, and my spirit goeth with him,' said Father Ambrose, as he watch ed the form of Franz Brockhaus disap pear in the depths of the forest. 'Oh, highly favoured youth, to have received, in the morning of thy days, a knowledge of the truth, with the power and the will to spread it far around thee! Bright and glorious thy destiny! Beset it may be with numerous difficulties 'for a sea son, hut in the end how fertile of honor & of happiness! In thee my eyes behold God's chosen instrument, lifted above the feelings and the passions of the flesh, unencumbered by worldly cares, unshac kled by worldly trammels, the preacher of righteousness in a land of sin,the cham pion of the gospel whose word had ceas ed to be heard. And it is from me that thou bast received thine impulse. Ay, here then, at least, my soul bath found a green spot on which to repose. I have giv en thee to Heaven; and for this, Heaven will pardon my sin, though it be great. But is all this certain? Yea, verily it certain. ghat though the struggle with human weakness with spiritual strength be yet in progress, the strength that cometh from on high shall prevail. Ile bath sworn and will not deviate from his vow, let the immediate sacrifice be what it may. Ah! sacrifice, said I? a sacrifice now— now, in their altered circumstances, when the maiden's faith is as our faith, and her soul is knitted to his by bonds more deli cate than those that beton..g to earth? Am I justified in exacting such a price? It !lila yet she lay in the depths of corruption, to hinder their union was my duty; for I had trained him up to one end, and the love that existed between them stood opposed to it. Therefore have I encouraged her father to press the match with Carl, bru tal though lie may be. But now--yea, even now—Franz must yield to no hu man weakness. Free of soul, he shall go forth to the battle, which already comcth forth with breeze, for all his energies will Se needed to carry him through triumphant ly. And the girl, what is to become of her? For seven days she is to be at my dispo— sal. There is time enough in six days; and it shall be done. My sister, my dear sister, will afford her an assylum, and then when the evil days are gone—. Well, well man seeth but a brief space before him, and the issues are in the hand of Heaven. Therefore bend I my knee, and pray that over She fearful past the pall of oblivion may be thrown, and that the future may redound to His glory, in the well-being of fellow creatures.' The old man knelt before the alter, and bowed himself devoutly to the crucifix; but he prayed only with his mind. His lips moved not at all, yet the lamp grew pale in the growing light of the morning, ere he rose from his knees, and lay upon his couch. CtIAPTER IV. Two days had elapsed since the occur rence of the event described in the prece ding chapter; and,the night was closing on the evening of the third, when Franz Brock haus quitted his seat in the garret at Hern schritehen, which served him as a study, and threw his mantle over his shoulder. He turned towards the doer as if to quit the apartment, when suddenly his father's sword, which hung upon a peg in the wall attraoted his attention, and he took it down. 'The soldier's hand hath wielded thee in a cause that was not holy,' said he, ad dressing the weapon, 'why then should I hesitate to gird thee on? Come thou to my side. He that goeth forth in defence of his plighted troth, had best go armed, for where the conscience is clouded dan gers seem ever present, even in situations fess perilous by tar than mine.' So saying the young man drew the belt around his waist, and descended the stairs. But he did not pass forth unobserved; his mother, met him with extended arms; and he leaned upon her shoulder. .Whaj wheat thou abroad it this hour Illy son? The faithful hold no meeting to How strange that a circumstance, in night; whether goest thou?' itself so unimportant, should have caused 'Do not ask me my mother,' replied his breath to come thick, and his pulse to Franz. 'I have business in hand to-night cease! Yet so it was: he gazed for an in which concerns myself alone; yet it is on- start and then he sprang forward at an ace portant business too, and may not be ins- celerated pace, as if he had been fleeting peded. I pray thee let me go, for the from a mortal enemy. time wears apace.' The clouds have rolled partly away , & 'Thou hest been restless and uneasy the dark blue sky shines out here and these two days, Franz; more restless and there, thickly bespangled with stars, over uneasy than is thy want. Do not conceal which, however, the breeze carries, from the cause of thistrom thy mother.' time to time, a fresh though not so dense 'I have nothing to disclose. mother; no- a covering. The boughs are waving with thing to hide. Let the pass, and I will re- a melancholy sound, and the rush of the Kirnitsch, as it breaks over the mill-race, turn to thee ere long.' e tein t She did let him pass. The widow ga- sp the deeaks to pesh car of t e a r of ( And therenes of ois one zed in her son's face with a full eye, till the tear breaking loose, rolled over her fr who listens to the ,. natural music of stream nd breeze, in a ame of mind fitted cheek. He kissed it ell* _affectionately, a to drink in their saddest melody.well From and was gone. her lattice Louise looks forth, gazing with 'The path is steep, the night is dark, 4- upturned eye to upon the heaven', which the wind moans heavily among the trees, seems to have forsaken her, and casting So much the better. Every thing in out- many a bitter thought past and future, ward nature corresponds with the state of that are to her at this moment alike bar my own mind. Every thing around rue is ren of comfort. gloomy and sad, as my own prospects. "Oh, that I may . cease to be!" cried the 'That cruel path, why was it taken? It broken hearted girl. "Forgotten in my hangs like lead upon my E heart, and presses hour of need by him whein my soul trust it in the dust. Nay, nay, let me not reason ed ; my prayers unanswered, my cry dis thus. The oath, whether kindly meant or regarded; why is life prolonged to one not, was spoken in the confidence and to for whom it has no blessings in store ? one on whom, from boyhood, I have lean- Why may I not lay down my head and ed, as on my guardian angel. Ay, and it die , was meant in kindness. He would not wontonly inflict pain; his objects to avert 'Louise, mine own Louise,'replied a an imaginary evil. Alorenver he mistakes voice, the tones of which sunk like a well my character entirely. Shall I be less known melody into her heart. zealous in the mighty cause, after my an- She started to her feet. Thrust her stety on this score has been allayed? Will swan-like neck from the window and there not the opposite result ensue.? As the beneath the shelter of a spreading oak case stands, my thoughts are all abroad, stood one whom, even in the gloom of mid I know not what his views in reference to night, she could not for a moment mistake. Louise may be, lam ignorant of her exis- 'Gracious God! is it thou!' exclaimed tins state, whether it be one of content- she, in an audible whisper. inedt or of misery. How is it possible, a- 'lt is even so, Louise,' answered Franz mill cares so instant and so pressing, devote my energies to the work for which t o 'Come to me if it be possible, only for one s moment. Let me speak but one sentence lam destined? Besides, I did not under- in thine ear. I have much to sayand thou stand the vow as debarring me from the to hear. Come to me it it be possible.' degree of intercourse which used, in for- s n from the lattice, and mer times to subsist bet7cen us. It is a She has withdra forced interpretation that would carry it for an instant or two all around the mill is silent. Franz holds his breath 0.14:e n, thus far, and based, too, on words altoeth and strains his eyeballs new Accustomed er delusive. Not safe! Wherefore g not safe? Am I not master of myself? Is not to the darkness, till presently a light foot fall sounds upon the sward and a form she pure and holy, and confiding? What evil can possibly result from such comm. passes like a shaddow of a dream, from it nications as alone we seek to hold? I ac- the cottage. In an instant the lovers are ted weakly in assenting to his view of the locked in the embrace which transitory matter at all; I would be weaker still, were though its rapture be, repays them for Ito adhere to a promise that never oughtee days and weeks of suffering. No word to have been made. Besides, 1 will s is spoken; no ejaculation is uttered; but ' her only once, merely to assure her that in silence the spirit of each holds commune by me her appeal has not been neglected; with the spirit of the other. At length ' and that come what will, there is at least the faculty of speech returns, and such questions one heart among men that beats in unsion are put, and such replies made with her—one arm that will defend her. as those alone could value, were they recor ' I am right! I am right! and the moaning ded, by whom the record is least needed, breeze and the darkening sky are omens perhaps least desired. not of ill, for they tend to cast fti ound us 'IN ine"own Louise, mine own, my beau ' a deeper shade, and to assure us of a bles- tiful!' ' sed meeting and a happy parting.' What music in the intonation that gave Thus reasoned with himself a youth these simple words their being! what deep. whose faculties were too acute, whose deep meaning in their simplicity! Yet principles were too correct, and his love they called forth for a time no reply. Her of truth too well grounded, not to be con- forehead was upon his shoulder; her eyes scious all the while that his reasoning was were closed, her lips moved not, but tier unsound. For goof or for evil he had pro- soul was in heaven. nounced a vow which he was now about deliberately to violate; and not all the so- They rouse them from this trance of ,' phisms to which strong . inclination gave trust an tenderest affection. They glid e slowly from beneath the oak, and passing birth sufficed to assure him that ho could do so and be innocent. Alas! is it not al- over the intervening space of meadow, are ways thus when passion and principle overshawoded by the pine forest. stand opposite to one another? Always 'A little furtner still, a few paces on, so, at least, during that perilous season and our old trysting place, the rock upon when passion is to thehuman heart the which we have so often sat, is won. There mainspring of its movements. Who that we may venture to unburden our heart to has passed that season would desire to each other. There you will tell me all live it over again? For though the joy be that has befallen or threatens, and there I intense, intense is likewise the suffering: will show you that not by me has mine and joy, as all experience proves, is but a own Louise forgotten, albeit was a sense fleeting treasure, whereas suffering abides may have given rain to more than thyself: , They gained the well-known spot. It is a flat stone, a sort of natural couch, over with us forever. Therefore were Franz 's efforts unavailing to silence the still small canopied by the tall rock into which it is voice which spoke unceasingly, though it indented, with a sort of verdure of G ree n spoke in vain. He could not even with_ canopied spread out before it, and a sree n draw from it entirely his attention, and he of birch and pine trees enclosed it on eve pressed forward, therefore, the slave of r side. They sat down; his arms around feelings too much at variance among them her waist, her hand locked in his; and selves to leave so much as the semblance of peace within his bosom. knew not that minutes were growing into The night was considerably advanced hours, while yet the ostensible business when he gained the ridge, and began to de ts hich they proposed to settle had been scend into the forest ravine which inter- left untouched. Theirs was indeed, the poses between the hills of Hernschreithen outporing of pure and delicate minds. and the Khulistall. Long before he reach What were vows to /ranz at this moment ed the latter point, darkness had covered or the import they bore either on his own earth's surface; and it was of the most sa- mind or that of another? Of what thought ble kind, for neither moon nor stars could Louise, but the blessed consciousness that penetrate the curtain of dense clouds by once again the arm supported her, while which the entire face of the sky was over- grasping which she new neither fear nor spread. It would be hard to say how far sorrow'? Alas, alas, that moments such the wanderer's spirits were or were not as these should pass so readily from us. operated upon by the impenetrable gloom Yet so it was. They told a thousand that was around him. Probably such tales of tenderness; they no longer pro gloom was not without its effect: for when fessed to feel as brother and' sister; the our minds are ill at case, and especially truth, long rknown to each was now the it conscience be our tormentor, total dark common property of both, and they were ness has sometimes a strange effect upon happy; when a low rustling in the under us—but it is certain that when a gleam of wood startled them. light shot from the cell of Father Ambrose "gush!" whispered Louise, "heard you. : he started as if a spirit had spoken to him. not something move?" [ VOL. IV, No 25.
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