nuNTING-pON JOURNAL. [ VoL. IV, No. 44.] TERMS OF THE r3T7NTINGDON J0177.11.11.2a. The ...Journal" will be published every Wednesday morning, at two dollars a year if paid IN AMA NC.1.1, and if not paid within six months, two dollars and a half. Evet y pe'rson who obtains five subscribers and forwards price of subscription, shall be famished with a sixth copy gratuttiously for one year. No stOscription received for a less period than six months, nor any paperdiscontinued untilarrearages are paid. All commuhicatiuns must he addressed to the Editor, post paid, or they will not be atended to. Advertisments not exceeding one square will be inserted three times for one dollar for every subsequent insertion, 25 ficents per square will be charged:—if no detnite orderd are given as to the time an adverisment is to be continued, it will be kept in till ordeed out, and charge accordingly. THE GARLAND. -"With sweetest flowers enrich'd From various gardens cull'd with care." A GEM. The Democratic Review, some time since, alluded to George D. Prentice, as entitled to the front rank among American poets. The Reviewer instanced some lines, written at the age of 14, as particularly remarkable, and breathing the very soul of sorrow.— They will be found below, and are indeed beautiful. We are indebted for them to the Louisville Literary News Letter. WRITTEN AT MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. The trembling dew-drops fall Upon the shutting flowers—like souls at lest The stars shine gloriously—and all, Save me. is blest. Mother—l loire thy graite!— The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild, Waves o'er thy head--when shall it wave Above thy child! 'Tis a swcet flower—yet must Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow— Dear mother—'tis thine ethhiern—dtist Is on thy brow!— And I could love to die— To leave untasted life's dark. bitter streams, By thee, as ertt in childhood, lie, And share thy dreams. And must I linger here To stain the plumage of my sinless years, And mourn the hopes to childhood dear With bitter tears! Ay—must I linger here, A lonely branch upon a blasted tree; • Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, Went down with thee! Oft from life's withered bower, In still communion with the past I turn, And muse on thee, the only flower In memory's urn, And, when the Evening pale Bows like a mourne r on the dim, blue wave, I stray to hear the night-winds wail Around thy grave. Where is thy spirit flown?— I gaze above—thy look is imaged there— I listen—and thy gentle tone Is on the air. Oh come—whilst here I press My brow upon thy grave—and, in those mild And thrilling tones of tenderness, Bless, bless thy child! Yes, bless thy weeping child, And o'er thine urn—religion's holiest shrine, Oh give his spirit undefiled To blend with thine. DOUBT. Doubt, when radiant smiles arc shining, Doubt, when clasping hands are twining, Doubt, when honied words are flowing, Doubt, when blushes warm are glowing, But never doubt that truth sincere That glistens in a woman's tear, Doubt, when mirthful tone invite thee, Doubt, when gayest hopes delight thee, Doubt, whate'er is fondest, farest, Doubt, whate'er is brightest, rarest, But oh, believe that truth can live, In hearts that suffer and forgive. HORSE LOGIC. The steed that bit his master, How came it to pass? Ile heard the old pastor Say, "all flesh is GRASS." Sbetert Cale. From Sketches by Boz. THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH, We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant habit of walking, day afterday, through an ) , of the crowded ,thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he 'knows by sight,' to use a familiar phrase, sonic being of abject and :wretch ed appearance whom he remmembers to have seen in a very different condition, whom he has observed sinking flower and lower by almost imperceptible degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at last, strike forci bly and painfully upon him, as he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags & filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squa lor of disease and poverty, was a respec table tradesman, or clerk, or a man fol lowing some thriving :pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means; or cannot any of our readers call to mind from among the list of their quondam acquaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lin gers about the pavement in hungry mise ry; from whom every one turns coldly a way, and who preserves himself from sheer starvatiJa, nobody knows how ? Alas such cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man's experience; and but too often arise from one cause; drunkenessi that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that oversteps every other con sideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness and station; and hur ries its victims ',,madly on to depredation and death. Some of these men have been impelled by misfortune and misery, to the vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly, expectations, the death of those they lov ed, the sorrow that slowly ;consumes, but will not break the heart, has driven them wild; and they present tne neatens specta cle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But, by far the greater part have, wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged in to the gulf from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until re covery is hopeless. Such a man as this, once stood by the bed-side of his dying wife, while his chil dren knelt around, and mingled low bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly furnished; and it needed but a lance at the pale form from which the light of lite was fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious rare had been busy at the heart for many a weary year. An eld...dy female with her face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dy ing woman: her daughter; on her arm. But it was aot towards her that the wan face turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped; they pressed the husband's !arm; the eyes so soon to be closed in death, rested on Isis face; and the man shook beneath their gaze. His dress was slovenly and dis ordered, his face inflamed, his eyes blood shot and heavy. Ile had been summoned from some wild debauch to the bed of sor row and death. A shaded lamp by the bed-side cast a dim light on the figures around, and lett the remainder of the room in thick deep shadow.. The silence of night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the chamber. A watch hung over the mantleshelf; its low ticking was the only sound that broke the 'profound quiet, but it was a solemn one, for well they knew, who heard it, that befcre it had recorded the passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spi rit. It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death; to know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible; and to sit and count the dreary hours through long, long nights; such nights as only watchers by the bed ofsickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest se crets of the heart, the pent-up hidden se crets of many years, poured fOrth by the unconscious helpless being before you; and to think how little the reserve, and cun ning of a whole life will avail, when fever arid delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in the wan derings of dying men; tales so full ut guilt and crime, that those who stood by the sick person's couch have fled in horror & affright, least they ;should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw; and many a wretch has died alone, ra ving of deeds, the very name of which, has driven the boldest man away. But no such ravings were to be heard at the bedside by which the children knelt. Their halt-stilted sobs and meanings alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. "ONE COUNTRY, ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY." TINGDON, PENNSYLVANI And when at last the mother's grasp re laxed; and tut :ing one look from the chil dren to their father, she vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so calm and tranquil that she see med to sink to sleep. They leant over her; they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the. loud and piercing tones of desperation. But there was no reply. They listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpi• tation of the heart, but no faint throb res ponded to the touch. That heart was bro ken, and she was dead The husband sunk into a chair by the bud-side, and clasped his hands upon his burning foreheau. He gazed from child to child, but when a weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No wo; dof comfort was whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All shrunk from, and avoided him; and when at last he staggered from the room, no one sought to follow, or console the widower. The time had been, when many a friend would have crowded around him in his af fliction, and many a heatfelt condolence would have met him in his grief. Where w'sre they now One by one, friends, ! relations, the commonest acquaintance even, had fallen oft from and deserted the drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness and pov erty; and how did he reward her 1 He had reeled from the tavern to her bed-side in time to see her die. Ile rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind. Stupified with drink, and bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-en tered the tavern he had quitted shortly be fore. Glass succeeded glass. his bloocj mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death ! Every one must die, and why not she. She was too good for him; her relations had often told him so. Curses on them t Had they not deserted her, and left her to whine away the time at home ? NVell; she was dead, and happy perhaps. It was better as it was. Anoth er glass; one more ! Hurrah ! It was a merry life while it lasted, and he would the move nt Time went on; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and were children no longer; the father remained the same; poorer, shabbier, and more dis solute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him; the girl alone remained, but she worked hard, and words or blows could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the old course and a merry life he led. One night, as early as ten o'clock ; for the girl had been sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public.house; he bent his steps homewards, bethinking himself that if he would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. It was a wet December night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down. He begg ed a few halfpence from a passer-by, a nd having bought a small loaf (for it was his inter est to keep the girl alive, if he could) he shuffled onwards, as fist as the wind and rain would let him. At the back of Fleet street, and lying between it and the water-side. are sever al mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars; it was to one of these, that he directed his steps. The alley into which ho turned, might, for filth and misery, have competed with the darkest corner of his ancient sanctua ry in its dirtiest and most lawless time. The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, were standing with every indescribable hue that long exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors were falling from their hinges; polls with lines on which to dry clothes, projected from every casement, and sounds of guar relling or drunkenness issued from every room , The solitary old lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out, either by the violence of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for objecting to his residence being rendered too conspicuous; and the only light which tell upon the broken and uneven pave.' ment, was deprived from the miserable candles that here and there twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate, residents as could afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of the alley; all the sluggish odour.; of which had been called forth. by the rain; & as the wind whistled ,through the old house% and the doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the win , dows shook their frames, with a violence WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1839. which every moment seemed to threaten destruction of the whole place. The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness, some times stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some branch repositories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what was left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers, and he procee ded to group in his way up the old and broken stairs, to the attic story. lie was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a girl, whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that of the candle which s!ie shaded with her hand, peeped anxiously out. 'ls that you father?' said the girl. 'Who else should it he 1' replied the man gruffly, 'What are you trembling at? It's little enough that I'vo-•had to drink to-day, for there's no drink without mo ney, and no money without work. What the devil's the matter with the girl ?' am not well, father; not at all well,' said the girl, bursting into tears. 'Ah ?' replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit a very unpleasent fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if he could. 'You must I get better somehow, for we must have mo ney. You must go the parish doctor, and make him:give you some medicine. They're paid for it, dam 'em. What are you stan ding before the door, for? Let me come in, can't you 7' 'Father.' whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing herself before it, fPilliam has come back.' 'Ft ho 1' said the man with a start. 'Hush,' replied the girl, 'Pt illiam; brother if illiam' 'And what does he want ?' said the man, with an effort atcomposure; 'money? meat? drink ?) He's come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me the Candle, give me the candle, fool; I ain't going to hurt him.' He snatched the can• dle from her hand, and walked into the l'oolll. Sitting on a old box, with his head res wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse jacket and trowers. He started up when his father entered. 'Fasten the door, Mary,' said the young , man hastily; 'Fasten the door. You look as if you didn'n know me father: It's long enough, since you drove me from home; you may well forget me.' 'And what do you want here, now 1' said the father, seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fireplace. What do you want here now?' 'Shelter,' replied the son, 'l'm in trou ble; that's enough. It I'm caught I shall swing: that's certain. Caught I shall be unless I stop here; that's as certain. And there's an end of it.' 'You mean to say, you've been robbing or murdering, then 1' said the father. 'Yes, I do,' replied the son. 'Does it surprise you, father He looked steadi• ly in the man's face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground. 'I/ here's your brothers ?' he said, af. ter a long pause. here they'll never trouble you,' re plied his son. 'John's gone to America, and Henry's dead.' r 4 'Deadsaid the father, with a shudder, which even he could not repress. 'Dead,' replied the young man. 'He died in my arms; shot like a dog, by a game-keeper. Ile staggered back,lcaught him, and his blood t rinkled down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, end it blinded him, but he threw himself down on his knees, an the grass, and prayed to God, that if his mother was in Heaven, He would hear her prayers for pardon for her iyoungest son. was her favourite boy, /Pill,' he said, 'and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying, though I was a very young 'child then, and my litttle heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made me so fond of her as to have never once done any thing to bring the tears into her eyes. Oh, f 4 ill, why was she taken away, and father left :"I'here's his dying words, father,' said the young man; 'make the best you can of 'em. You struck him across the face, in a drum. ken fit, the morning we ran away; and here's the end of it. The girl wept aloud; and the father sinking his head upon his knees rocked himself to and tro. 'lf I am taken,' said the young man, 'I shall be carried back into the country, and hung for that man's murder. They can not trace me here, without your assis tance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up to justice; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can venture to es cape abroad.' For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room without stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indespensably necessary that some body should go out; and as the gi rl was too weak and ill, the father went, just at got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and he turned homewards with enough of money to supply their most pressing waits for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public house. He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned hack again, lingered once inure, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not observed, were on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in despair, when his loitering at tracted their attention ; and when he en tered the public house, they followed him. "You'll drink with me, master," said 'one of them prorftring him a glass of li quor. "And me too," said the other, replen ishing the glass as soon as it was drained of its contents. The man thout of his hungry children and his son's Sanger.d But they were nothing to , the drunkard. He did drink; and his reason lett him. "A wet night, Warden," whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at length turned to go away, atter spending in li quor one-half of the money on which, perhaps, his daughter's life depended. "The right sort of night for eur friends in hiding, Master Warden," whispered the other. "Sit down here," said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a corner. "We have been looking artur the young ff e came to tell him, it's all right now, but we couldn't find him 'cause we hadn't got the precise direction. But that ai'nt strange, for I don't think he know'd it himself, when he come to London did he?" "No he didn't" replied the father: The two men exchanged glances. "There's a vessel down at the docks, to sail at midnight, when it's high water," finnebgAtt rst 2lit eal ?n!!. we'll put another name, and what's better than that it's paid for. It's lucky we met you." "Very," said the second. "Capital luck," said the first with a wink to his companion. "Great," replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence. "Another glass here ; quick"—said the first speaker: And in five minutes more, the, father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the hangman's hands. , Slowly and heavily the time dragged along as the brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place listened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At length a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair; it approached nearer; it reached the land ing; and the father staggered into the rosin. The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the sha dow of a man reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in another instant the young man was a prisoner, and hakdcuf fed. "Very quietly done," said one of the men to his companion, "thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom—come, come,' come, it's no use crying, young woman. It's 101 over now, and can't be helped." The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity. "Listen to me, father, 'he said, in atone that made the drunkard's flesh creep. "My brother's blood, and mine, is on your head ; I never had a kind look, or word, or care, from you, and alive or dead, 1 never will forgive you: Die when you will, or how, I will be with you. I speak as a dead man now, and I warn you, filth er, that as surely as you must one day stand before your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you," He rais ed his manacled hands in a threatening at titude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking pa rent, and slowly left the room ; and neith er father nor sister ever beheld him more, on this side of the grave. When the dim and misty light of a winter's morning penetrated into the nar row court, and struggled window of the wretched room. Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. He rose, and looked round him; the old flock mattrass on the floor was undisturb ed; every thing was just as he remember ed to have seen it last: and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the' neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. lie rambled WIIOLE No. 200. through the streets, and scrutinized eact wretched face among the crowds that. thronged them, with anxious eyes. But. his search was fruitless, and he returned to his garret when . .night came on, deco-, late and weary. For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears. At length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in quiet elsewhere. She had left him at last to starve atone. He ground his teeth, and cursed her He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring from this pity or credulity of those to whom he ad dressed himself, was spent in the old way. A year passed over his head ; the roof of a jail was the only one that had sheltered him for many months: He slept under archways, and in briekfields--any where,. where there was some warmth or shelter from the cold and rain. But in the last stage of poverty, disease, and homeless want, he was a drunkard still. At last, one bitter night, he sunk on a doorstep faint and ill. The permature de cay of vice and profligacy had worn hint to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled be neath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. And now the long-forgotten scenes of x misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy, cheerful home—and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, until the forms of his elder chil dren seemed to rise from the grave, and stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sound ed in his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant., The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart p lia s tis:! was silent , a ,: n l - d iu nl ,cL p s t s i a ; u t il he dr f a e g w q , d his feeble limbs a sed by, at that late het, 6.1,i,,1' i 1t.D.65; on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a projecting doorway and tried to sleep. But sleep had fled from his dull and ..,n-lazed eyes. His mind wandered strange ly. but he was awake, and conscious: The well known shout of drunken mirth sound , ed in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was covered with choice and rich food—they were before him : he could see them all, he had but to reach out his hand and take them—and, though the allusion was really itself, he knew that he was sit• ting alone in the deserted street, watch ing the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones • that death was coming upon him by inches —and that there were none to care for or help him. Suddenly, lie started up, in the extremi ty of terror. He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air; he knew not what, or why. Hark I A groan I—anoth er His senses were leaving him i half formed and incoherent words burst from his lips; and his hands sought to tear and and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wan der day and night in Most dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. Ile remenber ed to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life ; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Brid e, down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Nev er dill prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him but he remained unobserved e and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously de scended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that terms the landing place from the dyer. The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet, the rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet—so quiet that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rip pling of the water against the barges that
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