Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1835-1839, October 17, 1838, Image 1
- ktit •it 4 .t '. • -4 ` , rf. • ,•. t , 6 ,11 , • , 'ING,.. WrioLE No. 158.1 TEIRNIFS OF TIIB 11 1 711TIITOZ)014 JOIMITAL: The "Journal" will be published every Wednesday morning, at two dollars a year if plid IN ADVANCE, and if not paid within six months, two dollars and a half. Evet y person who obtains five subscribers and forwards price of subscription, shall be f irmshed with a sixth copy grattntiously for one year. N stOscription received for a less period than six months, dor any paper discontinued timi I arrearages are paid. All comMuhications must be nddressed to the Editor, post paid, or they will nut be , witended to. ktlvertisments not exceeding one square ill he inserted three times fur one dollar'for every subsequent insertion, 25 ficents per sq u Are will be charged :—if no detnite orderd are given as to the time an adverisment is td e continued, it will be kept in till ordeed; out, and charge accordingly. POETRY SWORD APOSTROPHE •T LIEUT. G. W. PATTEN, U. I. A. Sword! wLitth sleepest in thy sheath! Sword! thou not the trumpet's br ath. Where the column, deep with death, Tarries for thy nest? •Know'st thou not the lot is thine, Glitt,ring in the sun, to shine F,,remrst 'mid the forming line? Wake thee from thy zest, Swora!wYch &Mt in dArkness Girded fast unto my thigh, Beest thou not 'irtinst yonder sky Banners sweeping low? N ever thus may'st thou remain— Yield thee to my hand again, For the tear of crims•m stain Down thy cheek must now. SworL! when first thy changing tight Flashed athwart my youthful sight, Playfully I ealledi thee bright As an angel's form. Years have past—nor yet we part— Thou art wedded only heart, Tho' I often feel than art Dreadful es the storm, Sword! altho' thy bos -- -n's sheen 'lt:oidend by and pnlish'd keen, %Vheresoe'er its glance is seen Shadow'd 'tis with fear, 'Thc' thy smile seems mild and meek, Such as Love's own eyes might speak, Yet the smile will leave the cheek Where its light appears. Sword! I deeply love thy ray! 'Fig to me the light of day— Yet, oh! yet thou tak'st away Bridgroom from the bride: Pointing onward to the star On the crest of Glut— Thou dust urge to fields of war, • Breaking hearts allied, Sword: tho' tearful be thy g tt, Once again thy blade I lifd O'er my steed—a met-or swift, • Flashing shalt thou wave Thm shalt strike in many wars, Battle for thy country's laws. Thou shalt plead the orphan's cause O'er the Fatriut's grave. Sword of beauty! sword of fear ! Shoutings mad are on my ear— - Steel! where art thou?--THOU .eftT HEM Faithful to the list, 'Mid the battle's heartless hum— 'Mid the roaring of the drum— Cry, "huzza"—l come—WE come, • Rushing like the blast. FAITH • "There may be a cloud without a rain. bow, but there cannot be a rainbow without a cloud." My soul were dark, But for the golden light and rainbow hue, That, sweeping heaven with their triumphat air Break on the vie' Enough to feel That God, indeed, is good! Enough to know Without the gloomy clouds he could reveal No beauteous bow. Why is a handsome woman like bread? Am. R,cause she is often toasted. Why is love like a potatoe? .oat. B2Ctitl3"! it shoots from the eye. SALgCT tALE. From the Dublin University Magazine THE DUEL flow I became ac q uainted with the circumstances I am about to narrate, or when they occurred, the reader must not liiquiie. 1 have taken the liberty of ar ranging the incidents, so that their nar ration will afford no clue whatever to the solution of those questions. The read. er must be content to accept of the assu rance of an old friend, that the narrative of this chapter is a true account.of events which, to my own knowledge, did actu ally occur, Ellen Irving was the only child of a clergyman, well known and respected in the neighborhood of Dublin—a man dis tinguished in the church by every quality calculated to ensure popularity and com mand respect, he filled for many years a prominent position in the public eye. By the mysterious dispensations of that Prov idence which so often takes away "the excellent of the earth," just when earth seems to want their excellence most, he was removedin the very prime of his life, and the very height of his usefulness. A beautiful monument in the pariah church of erected by his surviving parishioners, bears record that they felt his removal as a bereavement. Just over the costly memorial of his people's grief, a small marble tablet, plain and unador ned, except a deep sable border can by called an ornament, records in a few sim ple and expressive lines, the Burrow of his widow—a sorrow far transcending the grief, the tale of which is inscribed op the proud monument below. I might have taken another and a shor ter method of tellingany readers that his wife survived hini; but I confess I have never gazed on that tablet without feeling my heart touched—as if there was some thing in its erection that told better than many words the character of her that pla ced it there. In the monument below there was enough, more than enough, to satisfy the vanity of grief. The public tribute to public worth—the long inscrip tion where the sculptured figures bear the storied, urn, and art has chiselled with her choicest imitation the forms of 1110U1*- ning—near there was more than enough to satisfy the vanity of wo —the wily sa cred vanity of the heart --but over and above it all, more precious in its.simpllei• ty, more touching in its unpretending sor row, is placed' the simple tablet, which is the offering to the memory of the dead, of her to whom that memory was most hal lowed. The heart of the widow demands for its memories a tribute peculiar to themselves—the grief with which no stranger can intermeddle, would not unite in its record with the sor ors of the mul titude. At the time of het tatner's death, Et tl was about s^ven years of age. with this child of many hopes and many prayers, Mrs. Irving returned to a seclUded resi dence near the village of Clontarf. Her husband, unlike but too many of the cler gy, . had left his family in a competence which amounted almost to affluence. Mrs Irving was induced to select Clontart as her place•of residence, by the vicinity of her husband's only brother, a gentleman who had acquired a large fortune as a merchant. He had sever married. His sister . , a lady who had sometime passed the period when ill-nature attaches to unmarried ladies the name of old maid, had lived with nim fur many years. He made no secret of his resolution to die an old bachelor, and being warmly attached to his brother, he had declared his inten tion of leaving the great mass of his large fortune to Ellen. After Mr. Irving's death he had earnestly pressed Mrs le ving to make his house her home. This oiler, however, that lady had declined. With all that was amiable and upright in his character, the merchant united a deep respect for religion—neither he, however, or his sister seemed to feel its importance as Mrs. Irving had been taught by her husband to do. She knew that the first wish of his heart was that Ellen should be trained up with more than a respect for religion. and Mrs. Irving believed that she could better fulfil his wishes by keep ing Ellen in a home, over all the manage. went of which she herself should have the full control. A beautiful situated cottage, was procured for her in the im mediate ncighborittiod of her brother-in law's residence. This arrangement gave her all the advantages of his society and his counsel, while it left her still to bring up her child in a home where she should learn to see piety and regulating princi ple of every movement. My readers must suppose some years to have elapsed, and time of course, to have brought its change on all parties. The old maid, Miss Trying, had became Mrs.—'.not by the regular title of matrimo 'ny, but by that unauthorized assumption saga aainurny, OLYH ONIBTITI7TION, OND DESTINY." A. W. lIDNEDICT PUBLASHOR AND PROPRIETOR. HUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1838, of martronly dignity, which some one has facetiously termed brevet-rank. The inerchantitad grown aided and richer, and us Ins hairs grew whiter, his disposition I appeared to grow still more kind. Ellen's 'nether was beginning to sink with years: sorrow had hastened on the steps of old age—and Ellen herself had become a wo man, and without flattery, a lovely wo man, Descriptions of female• beauty are justly excluded from all naratives of whicii the writers desire to pretend to the reputation of common sense. Without any piratical interference with the pecu liar property of fashionable novel writers: an interference which would be as cruel as dishonest—l may perhaps be permit. ted to say that Eller, was now about twen ty-two years of age, rather low of stature with black hair, features full of intelli gence and good humour, a very white and high forehead, and eyes through which "her soul looked." and that soul was full of softness and affection My readers may fill up the description as they choose. . I must, too, introduce them imte a new character; with whom it is desirable, fur the progress of my narative, that they should make acquaintance. Mrs. Irving 's brother hail been also a clergyman in the north of Ireland. .He too had died, bony ingan only child, but he lett him nearly altogether unproVided for. Charles \Vilson had just completed his first year in College, with distinguished success, when the unexpected death of his father left him parentless and almost pennyless In the world. His mother was many years in her grave, and all he inherited from his father was a good name, and a few hundred pounds to struggle through a world where a good name is said to be but a poor inheritance, and merit and tal ents without wealth are but too frequent ly despised. - • • -As Charles stood by the grave of his father, hi felt the bitterness of all this He heard the clods of dust fall with a deep echo on the coffin of his parent, and it seemed like a knell to proclaim 'to him that he was alone in a cold and heartless world. In bitterness of soul he. returned front the rave, which seemed to have coy ered all his hopes and prospects on earth. It wai necessary for him to remain a few days at his f lther's late abode. He was there aone; and during these days of sol;tude, it is easier to conceive than to describe the feelings that pass through his bosom. Few persons but those who have experienced them can ever conceive the mingled feelings which enter into the pride and the ambition of a young man, successful in:his:first entrance into Col- lege. Indistinct hopes of the future grow' upon the imagination, and mix themselves up with the hollowed recollections of the past. - Many a one that will read these pages will remember that the sweetest di most sacred ingredient in that lionoi able pride is the joy that success may bring to a parent's heart—the knowledge that a father's and a mother's eye will grow brighter at the news of the distinction of a son. Charles had felt all this. Many a time had his mind been excited in the laborou's struggle of competition, by the thought of his lather. Many a time I had the satistaction of his success been enhanced by the pride that . glistened in his father's eye—it was a union is which the puresi sympathies and emotions of our nature hallowed and beautified the passion of personal distinction, and the , pride of personal success. But his father was new gone, never more .to be glad at, the honours of his boy—he felt his heart to be stricken down—the stay of his pride and his ambition was broken, and the feelings that leaned upon it hung drooping on the ground. The violence oh grief subsided into the cold and‘cheer!ess feeling of desolation, Me regarded himself as an outcast on the world. He was poor, and he fancied him self friendless. His pride could not bear the notion of struggling with the real ills, of poverty, and with a• thousand others, which heamagined to belong to it. He had confidence enough-in his own talents to believe that he might depend on them, but when he thought of raising himself by their exercise, lie felt as if he was a pennyless adventurer, and his spirit could ill brook the taking of a character which the proud ones of the earth regarded at once with suspicion and contempt, . He was ready to give up all his prospects rather disc meet the sneers and the re— pulses °fa world which he pictured to himself all that was selfish and cold. A simple inekdent taught him a lesson, if not truth, certainly one of usefulness. The evening before he was to leave for ever the place of his birth, he went alone to take a last farewell of his father's grave. Unseen as he thought by any eye he threw himself upon its new laid turf, and he sobbed as if his heart a ould break. All the feelings which I lave attempted to describe rushed through his bosom. In bitterness of soul he wandered from tomb ,to tomb, until he eftme tip the low wall by which the church-yard was seperated from' the parsonage where his infant days had been passed, but which never must be his home again. He had now no home. Ev ery spot called back some recollection of former days —and the brown hues of a cloudy March evening, which was rapidly dosing in, shed over each familiar spot a sober character, that was suited to his state of mind. The little stream still purled through the grove, where many a time he had searched for the blue-bell or the May-flower. The old thorn still rose in its rude and jagged antiquity, behind the rustic seat. where his father had often taught him the lessons of religion, Every shrub was familiar—he could tell alniost every blade of grass within the precincts of the place that "should know him no more." No wonder that his heart was full; he leaned against the grave-yard -wall and again gave vent to a flood of tears . He was startled by a step close besides him—he turned round, unwilling that a stranger should have surprised him in his grief. It was a relief to him to find that it was old Robert Browne, sexton, who ' had Imo vn him from his childhood. Ile been long a servant of his fathers fam ily; when appointed to the office of sexton' he occupied a cottage on the glebe land, and still regarded himself as a servant of "his reverance." 'there was something ir his appearance suited to his office. His dress was sombre, and, without being threadbare, its shape and fashion was of the olden time. In one hand he carried a shovel, in the other the huge key of the church-yard gate. There was a slight hobble in his gait, which was perceptible as lie trod upon each of the grave mounds with which the yard was full. He trans ferred the key to the hand which held the shovel, and touched his hat to Charles with a respect that seemed accorded as much to his gm icf as to his station. "Master Charles," said the old man, "I don't wonder that ,:n;;;;; tyke this sore to heart; but it's God's will, and the poor master was ready for it. he is 1 1 happier in his , .grave to-night than many are out of it. ' Charles muttered an indistinct assent.l "We must all submit to the will of God," continued the old man, "I ask , your pardon, sir," he added, after a pause, "for so bold, but let an old man that loved the poor master epeak to you. I seen you sir, when you was sobbing on the grave beyant. I thought your grief was more violent than a Christian's ought to be--snore than your father would like to see, we must submit to God's will." "It is not always easy," replied Charles. "You don't know, Robert, what it is to be left a lonely orphan in the world." "Indeed, sir," replied the old man. "I knew it once," and a sigh escaped him as; he spoke. "Just at your age I was left without father and moth lr in one week and what was more, I didn't know where to get my dinner the day after they were buried; and I thought my heart would sink in my bosom. But my mother's last words were to me, that God was the father of the fatherless. ' and they gave me com fort, and from that day to this 1 never .knew what it was to want. And I have brought up a goodly family, and s‘!en them well settled in the world but Sally, that's. with .me yet, and is a comfort to my old age, and her mother's Thank God, Master Charles, you're good at the learning, and go on well in the College; there is no fear but you'll come to good, though I often heard the poor master say he had nothing to leave you but a good name; but, indeed, as I said to his rever ence, that was better than riches with a bad one," "But . 'Robert," said the other, "the, world does not think so—it's a cold and heartless world fora person to go through —a good name is little thought of with. out money. It's a selfish world, Robert" said Charles, bitterly. "Master Charles-," replied the old man, "it's not for an ignorant man like me to teach a College-bred gentleman like your self, but old men sometimes know things. Now, it's odd enough that a great many ladies and gentlemen, I've remarked, are fond of speaking that way of the world; but, in troth, 1 don't just think it's out so bad; it's wicked enough, God help it, but there are many kind and good peo ple in it: and ns to selfish, why every one looks to their own, as it's only proper they should; but, indeed, Master Charles I believe that in the world there are plen ty of people to do a good turn in reason to a neighbor. I never could understand them that was always complhicing of the selfishness of the world, unless, may be, that they would expect that every one would put themselves out of their own way for them they might know nothing about, which to my mind would not be reasonable at all; but for kindness within reason, I think the world is far better than you might think, considering the wicked ness that's in it." • There was something in the shrewd common sen.e of the old sexton thit jar red upon the gloomy philosophy in which Charles had been indulging. btill he felt ( that there was truth in what he said; he mused for some time; at last he replied. "I'm alraid, Robert, it's but a poor world for one without either money or] friends to get on. "Don't say that, Mister Charles. if a man will stay complaining of the world; it's the long odds but he'll nake reason for himself tofind fault with it; but, it one will only just think nothing about whether the World's good or bad, but see what, with God's help he can do for him self, and do it--and if he will trust, Mas. ter Charles, in One who is far better than any one on this earth, he'll find, I'm thin king, that the world's nothing to complain of, and wonder how ever he could hsve thought it so bad. Many persons, I'm thinking, complain of the world because it won't do for them that will do nothing for themselves." Their conversation was interupted by the appearance of Sally, the old man's daughter, of whom he had spoken. She came bounding over the graves as lightly as if nothing of death were under the sod --her long black hair flowing down u pon her shoulders, and her black eyes laugh ing with the glee of youth. It was impos• sible to avoid being attracted by her sin gularly handsome figure, which ner light st-ps showed oil to great advantage. On perceiving Charles she stopped and see med confused; her confusion appeared to procetd from the feeling that her levity of manner was inconsistent with his grief. With a natural propriety of feeling, which often in persons of an humbler rank anticipates the effect of those conventian I rules which bind their superiors, she stop ped and sobered down her manner to a suitable gravity. 'll ith a blushing hesita ton she offered her simple condolence. "Master Charlcs, I'm sorry for your ityWoie, Sir," Charles's reply was anticipated by the reproof of her father for climbing over the church-yard wall, Sally, it seemed, had been sent by her mother to call the sexton to his supper, and had found a short way to fulfil her message ovcra part of the wall which had partly fallen down, • • "Indeed, Sally," said the tr'.d rran. 1"you are too wild; you are getting a wo man now, and must not be getting on with the ways of a wild girl." His reproof, however. was delivered in a mild tone, and he could not conceal the satisfaction with which he looked on the sylph-like form of his really handsome daughter. She looked up srcly and said. "Father, I'll get old and sober time enough, I'm only a wild girl yet; They aay," she added thonghttally, "that none know sorrow sooner than those that are born vith a light heart, so I may make Ohe most of mine." "Sally," said Robert, "Master Charles is leaving us to-morrow, for good and all" --his voice faltered as he spoke, "the last of the old stock is going away;" and he struck the spade deep into the ground, and folded his arms across it, Sally's eyes filled with tears. " Well, God bless him wherever he goes. Master Charles," she added, "will you ever think of Glen , valia, and the poor old parsonage here?" Charles felt his emotionikovercove him; large tears streamed down his cheeks; the little party were silent for some time; Charles leaned with his back to the wall; old Robert still resting, on his spade, and Sally standing, looking wistfully up into the boughs of as old hawthorn that shot out its gnarled and straggling branches over the graves of the dead. The sexton was the first to break the silence; he spuko as if unsciees of the presence of his cots. ell, many a grave !have dug in this, churchyard, and many a one, gentle and simple, I have seen laid low:,bdt never did I grieve for a mortal as for him tbat I last put in; I hope those that come after him may be like him,"- • He dropped the spade on which he bad been leaning; he advanced towarnds Charles, and grasped both his hands; "Master Charles, God Almighty bless you, and keep you wherever you go; and maybe, when you are a great man in the College, you would be sometimes be coin ing back to look at his reverence's grave; and I'm thinking, Master Charles, you'll be a very great man before you're too' proud to come tosee old Robert Brown; it would do my old eyes good if 'I could once see you in your father's pulpit, and yet, maybe I might live to ace you made provost, or some other post as good, in the college." • • "Sally," Said the old man "bid Master Charles good bye; the old master was al— ' ways fond ot you, fonder nor one *wild think from your wild ways. I hope when Master Charles sees you next, you'll not be as wild as you are now." "I'm thinking maybe he'd see me wilder •—but l pray God, be may see me as light hearted, though indeed my heart is sore for the old , master; but father," she - • .f.Vc L. IV. No. 2. added thoughtfolll, ~t hi to& the t whe ZS a light-headed body COITIV4 0;1 thorn they can epee; so I been! the Too plc tell. .Ma3lie it was vpeeing of use, that put iuto my head; so mind, Master 'Charles, when next we meet I may be wilder, but not en I•ght hearted." She 'laid Ott,* eIaMS in a half solemn hair eheerfli tune of roiCc; there was th..l apperstitlon the mentioned connected with the tree—that Llf-witted pereons, when standing under it, become endue-1 pith the gift of epeeing or prophecy. She took L Inn les's offered hand—t•Goni by, Nl:tater C: arleea" she said, "God tikes you and keep you: and maybe," she mi.. ded, looking up at the tree, "when neu t we meet you'd have much need of Ins blessing.' tier fatherrebuked ter for what he dee med her ill-timed levity. "Indeed, father," she said, "I could net help it. Master Charles knows my heart is sad, God help me, far them that's . gone; indeed, lather, there is no lightness in my words; they come lute mw head, as if could not help to say them; maybe they have their meaning. God bless you again Master Charles," Charles took her extended hand; he almost involuntarily imprinted on it a kiss —'Geod bye, Sally, and Gad bless you.' As he grasped the rough hand of the old 'sexton he felt a warm tear fall on his (men. ''God bless you again,' said the old man, 'Mind, Master Charles, don't Mind abu• sing the world, but see what . you can do fur yourself in it, and trust tit God, sir. I'm like David, Master Charles, I have been young; and now em old, yet never saw 1 the righteous forsaken, or his seed; no, never, Master Charles, never'—ho did not finish the quotation; he could not bear to use an expression that would evens imply the possibility of his old pastor's . son being brought to beggary. This conversation the reader must sup pose to have occurred a few yars ;previous to the time at which I have chosen to coin tnence my narrative. Charles had taken the old Mall's advise. lie had not abused the world, but tried what he could do for himielf in it, and old Robert's words had turned out true. He obtained a scholar ship in the university, and a ith the help 01 this, and a lew hundred ponnds which his father had left him, he was able I make his way to the bar; the profession to which he had chosen t devote himsell. His prospects were now fair of advance ment in life. lie had made many friend'', and had met with Much kindness, nod began seriously to wonder how ever he had believed the world to be so bad. Other hopes too had come in to anitnato his efforts. When children, he and Ellen Irving had been playmates, and the recol - lection of her childish beauty had never wholly last their influence ou his mind.. When his collegiate pursuits fixed his res idence in Dublin, it was of course natural that he should be frequently at his aunt's' and in the society of his cousin, perhaps equally n dual that he should form for her an affection which he persuaded him-, self was returned. Not that ever a word of love had passed between them;Charles' pride prevented this.' He knew that El. len was the heiress• to a large fortune. ' he determined that he - would not seek he* hand until he could appear not altogether to seek it as an adventurer. With ths natural enthusiasm of youth, he imagined that the attainment of his profession would immediately place him in a position in which he might honorably seek it. H 6 knew that Ellen felt for him as he did for her, and on this assurance he was content to rest. Mrs Irving was not unaware of Charles's feelings towards Ellen, and she more than suspected thesi feelings to be returned. She uid not, hoverer, feel it right or ne cessary to discourage him. In Charles's principles she had_the fullest confidence. he was not one of tl.ose who sob; her daughter a good match, or rather had different notions of what consti • a good match. She did not covet great wealth for her child, but happiness, and she believed that with a competence hap piness might be found. She feared liow! , v er, that her brother•in-law might enter tain different feelings; and, although she Was determined to act as She thought right whenever her daughter's happiness would be concerned, she rather desired that she might not be obliged toact contrary to the wishes of one who she naturally regarded as her protector. . Chailea's father had hOen succeeded at Glenvale by a Mr. Leesou, who hail been recommendedt to the appointment by the' possesion of some aristocratic counexionq. At the time of Mr. Wilson's death, Mr. Irving had very kindly undertaken to set-' tle some matters of business with the new incumbent. This created an acquain— tance between theso gentlemen, which was subsequently kept up. Mr. Leeson had a nephew, a yourg man who had just succeeded to tho family property, and was haw presumptive to is title now in the possession of some very• distant relative. lie had been educated