V 0 1 .,. V, No. 35.]
rmr-azcs
OF THE
HUNTINGDON JOURNAL.
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AGENTS,
FOR
The Huntingdon J enrrat
Daniel Teague, Orbisonia; David Blair,
Esq. Shade Gap; Benjamin Lease, Shirleys
burp Diet Smith, Esq. Chikottstown;
Entriken, jr. Cefrx Run; Hugh Madden,
Esq. Springfield; Dr. S. S. Dewey, Bir
mingham; Lines Morrow, Union Furnace ;
John Sister, Warrior Mark; James Davis,
Esq. West township ; D. H. Moore, Esq
Frankstown; Eph. Galbreath, Esq. Holli
daysburg; Henry Neff, Alexandria; Aaron,
Burns, Williamsburg; A. J. Stewart, Water
Street; Wm. Reed, Esq. Morris township;
Mouton Hamer, Airs Ilfill; James Dysart,
Mouth Spruce Creek; Wm. Murray, Esq.
Graysville; John Crum, Manor Hill; Jas.
E. Stewart, Sinking Valley; L. C. Kessler,
Mill Creek.
POETRY,
From the New York American.
NEW HAMPSHIRE MOVING,
CONWAY. N. H. June 22d, 1840.
I have just returned from our great Whig
Convention held at Concord on the 17th.
Such a mighty gathering of the people never
was before seen in the Granite State. You
will nu doubt see a full account of it in the
papers. From our "Old Strafford," we
numbered 1200, and I will venture to say
that seven-eights of them were farmers. It
was "a goodly sight to see" old, grave, grey
headed men—men who say their prayers
and read their Bibles—walking in the pro
cession, bearing aloft on rake heads and hoe
handles, banners with the names of "Harri
son and Tyler," "Old Tip," "Reform," &c
&c.; and this body of men exceeding 8000, ,
having gone to their homes with the deter
mination of regenerating New Hampshire.
And why cannot it be done ? At our last
great struggle in '3B, we lost the State by
2500 votes, and many things operated against
us then, which will not at the coming elec
tion. At all events, we will do our utmost.
A single fact will give you an idea of the in
telligence of this Convention. Bor 9000
people crowded together in a dense mass,
stood sor 6 hours under a hot sun, listening
to the several addresses, and seemed loth to
depart when all was over. It is said that
my friend and townsman, Joel Eastman,
made the crack speech of the day, his allu
sions to our gallant Old Hero, were most el
oquent and touching After speaking of the
falsehoods and slanders of the minions of
power, he brought to the front of the stage,
Maj. John L. Eastman, of Concord—who,
was an officer under Harrison at Tippeca
noe—"as a living witness of the valor and
patriotism of hint to whom the heart at eve—
ry Whig in the Union is no v turned." The
cheers at this moment were tremendous.
I shall wind up my letter, by giving you a'
few stanzas of Yankee Doodle, which I corn
posed while driving my "team afield" this
spring:
Come, here's a health to Harrison,
The old Log Cabin farmer; '
When he commands the ship of State,
The Tories cannot harm her.
Caoaus—Yankee Doodle, fill a mug
A pewter mug of cider;
When he commands our gallant ship
No evil can betide her.
Old Tip's the man, we guess as how,
The people all unite in;
lie's SARVED then► true in Council Hill
He's SARYED them well in lightin.
Chorus, Bcc.
When Washington sent Wayne out west
'lle war to put an end on'',
He took young William by the hand,
And made him first Leftenant.
Chorus, &c.
THE JOURNAL.
And we old soldiers recollect
When war clouds gathered o'er us;
lie marched us on to victory,
And always went before us.
Chorus, &c.
When Johnny Bull came to the Thames
'Twits Harrison that met him;
And for his glorious fight that day,
The people wont forget him,
Chorus, £tc.
His patriotism no man doubts,
His principles are "sarten,"
They were proclaint'd at cannons' mouth
In eighteen hundred thirteen.
Chorus, &c.
Our office-holders laugh and timer
And say he's poor—od rot 'cm,
But we old farmers at the polls,
Will vote for him ntxt autumn,
Chorus, &c.
We know he's honest, upright, true,
And If he's poor no wonder,
Unlike our present men in power,
He does nut live by plunder,
Chorus, &c.
The public money in his hands,
He always justly paid out,
and never took a cent for self,
Like Billy Price or Swartwout.
Chorus, &c.
'Tis said he wears a homespun coat,
And smokes a shortish pipe sir,
And when he takes you by the hand
lie gives you an honest gripe, sir.
Chorus, acc.
Let Amos Kendall tell his lies,
Let British Tories reason,
The people all expect to see
Him President, next season.
Chorus--Yankee Doodle, fill a mug &c
My Cousin Wien.
ay 0. rETEnsoN, Esq.
"She was like
A dream of poetry that may not be
Written or told—exceeding beautiful! "
Willis.
She was a bright and beautiful being,
too pure and holy for a sinful world like
this. If an angel could have wandered
from the skies, and found a dwelling in an
earthly form, the beauty of the starry ,
visitor could not have equalled her sur
passing loveliness. She had a soul, too,
full of poetry, drinking it in from every
lovely thing in nature. The lawn—the
streamlet the rich meadow-land the
gorgeous hill side, and the dark solitary
forest were all to her beauty and incense.
Often have I wandered with her in the
still hush of the summer twilight, listen
ing to the low anthem of the forest trees,
or the wild murmur of the mountain
streams, and gazing on the illimitable void
above, until our souls seemed to drink in
of the majesty of that far oft' realm, and
we longed to be away, soaring amid those
worlds of light, and treading the starry
pavements of her own beautiful sphere.
As she wandered thus with me, leaning
upon my arm, and lifting her dark eyes
to mine, she would say that it seemed as
if she had once lived in a brighter and
more glorious state of being, the chords
of which still lingered in her bosom, and
vibrated as if touched by some mysterious
hand, in harmony with the woods, and
streams, and stars.
There is music in some voices almost
divine; but I never heard a voice like''
Helen's. It had a softness in its tones
like the low breath of summer among
rushes, stirring the heart with vague and
mysterious feelings. I have listened to
it in the silence of twilight, coming and
melting on the air, until it almost seemed
to float from that better world she loved
to think upon. The memory of those
low, reedy tones still lingers around me,
and often at the quiet hour of midnight it
comes across my soul, making every
sense thrill under their subtle in fluence,
as they did long, lung years ago. And
then the deep, dark swimming eye, look
ing out front beneath the silken lashes,
and seemin.. , like the stars to speak lan
guage too deep fur words!
Helen was scarci ly sixteen when we
first met. She had always lived in a
world of her own; but her heart panted
for some one to share in her communings.
Front the fiet hour of our meeting, we
felt a mysterious sympathy linking us to
gether, as if, according to the olden phil
osopher, we hail once known each other in
that brighter state of being, and met again
after ages of separation. We were both
young, and full of youth's indefinite year
nings. It was just that period of lite when
we love with that purity of sentiment with
which, alas! we never love again. Beau
tiful--too beautiful was that sunny peri
od! Now we loved to wander together
up the hill side, or through the shadowy
"ONE COUNTRY, OISE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY."
A. W. BENEDICT PUBLISHER AND PRQPRIETOR.
lIUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 15. 1840
glen, or along the flowing banks of the
stream! How we loved to hear the low
winds whispering among the willows, or
to listen to the waters rippling pleasantly
over their strong bed ; and when twilight
came, and the pale moon led on the cho
ral hosts of heaven, how we loved to gaze
upon the weird-like landscape, melting
dreamily away, and fancy that the airy
sounds floating by-- coining and going we
knew not whither—were the whispers of
guardian angels. And thus would we
gaze for hours, until our souls would be
strung to this high harmony, and each a
crowd of holy feelings at our hearts, we
would silently stroll home. Thus we lo
ved.
I shall never forget that summer. It
was like a dream of infancy, all inno
cence and delight. I lived only in Hel
en's presence, until she became almost a
part of my being. We loved with the
fervency of youth, and life seemed to us
only a summer morning. But the sum
mer at last went by, and when the corn
fields yellowed in the sun, and the grapes
hung in purple clusters from the vines, I
received the long expected summons to
begin, in reality, a life which had been to
me only a romance. Need I say Helen
wept when we parted? And my own
heart—was it nut full? I pressed her to
my bosom, kissed the tears from her dewy
lashes, gave one look into those dreamy
eyes, and scarcely murmuring "farewell,"
rushed out, leaped into my saddle, and
went down the road with the rapidity of
lightning. But as I passed the old cor
ner, I turned a moment to look back. A
white handkerchief waved from the piaz•
za, and then the trees intervened, and I
was—alone.
Years had passed away, and I was
grown to manhood. 1 had mingled with
men—traversed the vast prairies of the
west—seen mankind iu savage as well as
civilized life, and lived years of a quiet
existence in the wild changes of my wan
dering being. I had learned to know the
human heart—to unmask its deceitful
veil, and to lay bare its workings of self
ishness, hatred, passion, and too raiely—
aflection. I had become one of the world,
and my bright and beautiful dreams were
over. Yet, oh! how I still longed for
that quiet old mansion, with its little
stream, its row of willows, and the inno
cent young girl with whom I spent that
happy summer. It used to be a dream of my
solitary hours —and God knows it was
the last I ever had—that 1 would soon
return and claim her as my own, and live
once inure in the light of her smiles. Of
ten, at such times, would my imagination
take wing, until I fancied myself back
again in her lonely home, listening to her
low voice carolling some favorite air; and
when a letter reached me in her hand
writing, old memories would crowd thick
upon me, and a feeling come down upon
my heart that almost brought the tears.m
,to my eyes, I scarce knew why. Alas!
1 that in a world like this we are so often
separated from the ones we love.
At lust the purposes of my absence had
been accomplished, and with a glad and
bounding heart 1 set out on my return.
Every thing around, too, seemed to par
take of my joy. The savannahs were
covered with flowers, the orange blossoms
whitened the groves, and the voices of
the birds carolled forth their music in
exulting strains. But as I drew farther
north the signs of approaching spring be
came less evident. Here and there, upon
die hills, yet lingered the snow, and only
in the rich meadow lands of the valleys
the flowers began to bloom. The larch
had scarcely put on its verdure, the lilac
was yet stern and bloomless, and the
voices of the merry songsters of the fors
eat were heard only at solitary intervals.
There is a vague, mysterious melancho•
ly, which steals upon us at times, bring
ing with it an undefinable dread of ap
proaching evil—a melancholy which we
strive in vain to shake off, and which can
only be soothed by gentle music, some
old memory, or the sympathy of those we
love. ;;Itch a presentiment had gr'udually
come across my soul, until I began to
tremble lest I should hear some terrible
misfortune as I approached Helen's home.
In vain I strove to shake off my feelings;
they clung to me with the tenacity table.
It might be that it was only the surround •
big scenery; but I felt that I had grown
too touch in manhood to bo stirred with
such idle phantasies. I hurried on how
ever with the rapidity of an excited mind,
and reached the little village by my un
cle's, one beautiful morning in spring.
More than two years had elapsed since
I last saw the old mansion, and as I turn
ed in from the highway to the well known
gate, a gush of olden feelings swept across
me. Every thing around me had some
memory connected with it reminding me
of Helen. There was the bench which I
had built for her beneath the oak, and here
the clump of maples under which we had
strayed in the summer twilight. Reside
me was the shrubbery, whence I had pluc
ked flowers for her flair, and yonder the
little brook bubbled along, flouting through
the willows in the sunlight, as it danced
merrily on its way. For a moment I felt
a thrill of gladness tingling in every nerve
—my heart beat high with joyful antici
pations, and giving my steed the rein, I
went rapidly up the old road to the man
sion.
As I approached the house, I was struck
by the unnatural stillness brooding on ev
ery thing around. Though it was a sun
ny morning in early spring, when every
thing is full of joy and light, the silence
of a summer noonday reigned about the
house, and among the ancient trees. The
garden and porch were deserted, most of
the window shutters were bowed, and
not a solitary being could be seen any
where in the dwelling or surrounding of
fices. Thick, fearful feelings struggled
within me. I sprang from my horse with
a palpitating heart, and hurried to the
door of the ball, determined to know the
worse.
I entered the hall unopposed ; but it
was silent and deserted. The sound of
my quick footsteps echoed through it with
a distinctness which startled me. Where
were the warm hearts and happy faces
that were wont to welcome me? Where
was my good old uncle, and where my
own sweet Helen? Alas! something ter
rible had happened to produce this unnat
ural silence. But the sound of my disor
dered step had already been heard—a
side-door opened, and the old housekeep
er stood before me. When she beheld
who 'the intruder was, she turned ashy
pale,
"For heaven's sake," said I, eagerly
grasping her hand, "what is the matter?
Speak—speak—is—is Helen—." I could
say no inure.
- ..Thank God you have come, my dear
young master," said the old lady with a
thick voice.
"But what has happened?" I exclaimed
wildly. "I feel it is something terrible—
tell me the worst—" and with unnatural
calmness I added, "Helen is then dead."
"Oh! no—no. God be praised she is
yet living; but she is ill—very, very ill ;
though" she added eagerly, as I gasped
for breath, and staggered against the wall,
"there is yet, perhaps, hope. Henry,
Henry," she added, grasping my cold
hand, "oh: that you had been spared this
—but the Almighty's will is inscrutable."
With a strong elfin t I conquered my
feelings, and skid in a voice that made my
companion start, it was so deep and hol
low—
"But she yet hves—for mercy's sake
then lead me to her."
"And so I will, but she has just fallen
into a gentle sleep," said the old lady,
bursting into tears; "bat, oh! do not, my
dear Henry, look so. Compose yourself
—come in here—a little cordial may make
you feel better. I will go and call your
uncle. Oh! that I should have lived to
see a day like this."
I cannot tell the sensations of that mo•
merit. The agony of a life-time was com•
pressed into an instant, until my brain
reeled, and my frame tottered beneath it.
Nor will I describe the meeting with my
kind old uncle—he who had been to me a
second parent. We threw ourselves into
'each other's arms, and then, and not till
' then, did my emotions find vent in tears.
It is a terrible thing which can make a
strong man weep.
Helen had been caught one night in a
shower, and thoroughly drenched before
she reached home. A slight cold was the
consequence, to which none paid any at
tention, except the ever careful housekee
per. But a short, dry cough soon awa
kened the attention of her parent, and a
physician was called in. He declared it
was a mere trifle, and quieted their ap
prehensions, at least fur a while, But
the blow was struck.
There is a fearfulness in the approach
of consumption which str.kes awe even
into the stoutest heart. With a slow and
stealthy step it creeps upon its victim,
and the first notice we often have of its
coining, is the arrow driven into the heart
—while the bloom which we hail as the
sweet omen of a long and happy life, is
only the signet mark of this insidious foe.
Hourly he goes his rounds among the bea
utiful and young, leaving every where be
hind him the fearful traces of his visit.
While some linger on for years, others
whither at once like flowers in an early
frost. Helen was not one of those doom
ed to prolonged torture. Scarcely six
weeks had passed since the first approach
es of this tearful conquerer. At first the
steps of the destroyer were slow, and she
could still linger around her old haunts in
the open air—then his strides became
quicker, she grew daily weaker, and her
failing strength confined her to the limits
of the house; and at last feeling that even
this was more than she could bear, she
was forced to remain in her own little
room, only venturing into the hall on a
warm, sunny day fur a moment, and even
then leaning on her parent's arm. Yet,
it' anything bQwetl her spirit, it was thus
shut out from the free air of heaven; and
when springcame, and the little walk into
I the hall became an exertion too great for
'her failing strength, she would ask them
'to bear her to the open window, that she
might see the green fields, hear the mur
mur of the streams, and gaze upon that
beautiful sky which had been to her so
glorious- Oh how she panted to be
once more in the old haunts she loved—
to hear the birds sing—to feel the winds
upon her cheek, and to look upon all the
mysterious workings of nature's wonder
ful machinery.
As she grew weaker and weaker, it see
med as if every thought became more ho
ly, until she breathed a language almost
divine. She had long given up all hope
of life, and her only wish was that she
might see me before she died. Day after
day she counted the hours which would
have to elapse before the summons they
Iliad sent to me should bring me to her
side; though little thought the that I was al
ready far upon my way towards her before
the message had departed. Thus she
sank away. Was it not better that one
so pure should go up to her own glorious
home ? but, alas for the broken-hearted
old man and the desolate ones she left
behind. But I pass it by. The nurse at
last appeared to tell me Helen was prepa
red to see me. In an instant we were in
her chamber.
Her room was always simply ornatnen.
ted ; but now it se: nod more so than ev
er. The white curtains—the pale coun
terpain—the early wild flowers on the lit
de stand, were all arranged according to
Helen's exquisite taste. But I saw noth
ing except the sufferer herself.
If Helen had seemed beautiful to me
lin our earlier acquaintance, oh! how sur
passingly so did she now appear. The
white brow, the lustrous eye, the small
hectic spot upon her cheek, and, above
all, ,the calm ethereal expression lighting
up her countenance with an almost angel
ic loveliness, gave her the appearance of
a seraphic rather than of an earthly be.
ing. I stood spell.bound for a moment.
She was the first to speak.
"Henry," she said, in a voice so low
and sweet that it seemed to be the whis
per of the summer wind ; "Henry—how
glad I am you have come—and so soon too
—I am changed, I fear—" and she ceas.
ed speaking, while a fit of coughing rack
ed her delicate frame,
I would have given worlds to have
been able to reply; but my words choked
in my throat, and dispite every effort,
the hot tears gathered in my eyes. Oh!
she war. indeed changed.
"I ain not so well as I was once, Henry"
she said, with a slight quivering in her
voice, as she lifted her deep eyes up to
mine and gazed tenderly upon my face.
"but du not weep—it is all for the best,
and though we shall no more stroll through
the old woods together, there is a land far
away where we stall yet meet after a very
little while. Henry, as you love me do
not weep."
But why should I dwell upon the scene?
I found words at last to speak, though a
gony of it may not picture. Yet when I
listened to Helen's gentle voice, a peace
seemed to steal down upon my darkened
soul, and .1 almost forgot my grief in ad
miration of her own weak, uncomplaining
sufferings. So young, so fair, so inno
cent, yet withering slowly away, and
even silently reproaching us all by her
resignation.
. _
Fiw a few days after my return, Helen
seemed to regain her strength, and her
fond lather even indulged a faint hope of
her recovery. Site smiled almost like she
did of old, when I brought her the wild
flowers I gathered every morning for her;
and her Voice seemed to gather a strength
which the good old nurse said it had not
possessed for weeks. But how delusive
were our hopes Before a week had e
lapsed, she began again rapidly to decline
and each successive hour only bore her
the more rapidly to her end. Every heart
trembled with apprehension. The ser
vants went and came noiselessly.—the
sound of the wind was seemingly quicker
than usual, and the old trees around the
mansion sighed low and sadly in the
breeze.
It was one of those sunny days in early
spring, when the trees ate just beginning
to put on their vestre, when every bud is
burstini , ' into the flower, and when from
hill, stream, and woodland floats up the. ;
music of nature's hidden harmonies, that 1
Helen begged us to place her near the
casement, that she might look out once
more upon the beautiful things of this
earth, from which, alas I she was soon to
pass away. The window opened into the
garden, and the perfume of the young
flowers floated through, filling the room
with a delicious fragrance. As Ilelen sat,
propped up with pillows, her eyes wan
dered over a wide expanse of hill and for
est, stretching proudly away until they
melted into the far off horizon. Oar lit
tle group stood silently around her while
she gazed long and ardently upon the
, scene. We saw that she failed rapidly,
and we watched her with the intensity at
love. At 'est her eye turned from the
[WHOLE No. 293.
landscape, and
_I fancied I heard a low
soft sigh.
"This is a beautiful world, after all,"
she said in that seraphic voice, which see
med momentarily to grow more heavenly;
"it is a bright and beautiful woad; and
once thought how hard it would be to
leave its sweets, and all that I loved to
look upon. But oh ! father, cousin, it is
nothing to the leaving those we love—"
and she looked up into our faces with an
eye that already fseemed like "that of au
angel." Our hearts were full—the tears
gathered on our lashes; but after a mo
ment, as if she had not seen it, she con
tinued:
ler here are the hills, Harry, where we
used to walk together. We shall walk
there no more. How beautiful they look
in this sunlight Will you think of me
when you gaze on them after I am gone?"
I could not answer. My heart was
swelling to bursting. But 1 pressed her
hand, and turned away to wipe a tear.
At this instant her little bird, whose cage
hung close under the window, sent up its
cheering note. The familiar sound caught
her ear, and she continued—
"Ana my poor canary—will you take
care of it, too, fur my sake, Harry? It
will sing to you, after I am no more, and
remind you sometimes of your own poor
Helen--will you, Harry ?"
"Helen, for mercy's sake, do not talk
so--I will cherish all--every thing, Oh.
God!" I ejaculated in utter agony. But
the mild eye of the dying sufferer smote
me fur my repining", and I was dumb.
She smiled sweetly, and extended her
hand.
"Thank you--I knew you would. And
now bring me nearer to the window. ',
We moved the couch tenderly. For a
few minutes there was another silence,
broken only by an occasional half•stifled
sob from one of our group.
"Why do you w eepl" she said, sudden
ly looking up, while a glow of seraphic
glory seemed to irradiate her countens
ante. "I have always prayed to die thus"
and she took her father's hand and one of
mine each into one of her own—"am I
not going to that better world of which we
loved to talk in happy days long past?
where the flowers ever bloom, the waters
murmur music, and the stars hymn on in
unceasing harmony ! Yes !--it is only
going home. Who would not rather be
there than in a world of care like this I"
she continued with a look of triumph
lighting up her countenance; "there, too,
we shall all meet at last —never to part.
It is not—so hard—parting—atter all—is
—it ? "
'God bless you, Helen!" was the heart
broken answer of her father.
"Read me that chapter—will you---Har
ry?—you know—the ooe'we speak—of
yesterday," she murmured in a rapidly
failing voice.
I opened the Bible, and in fsltenng
tones read aloud that sublime chapter
which holds out so gloriously the prom
ise of the resurrection of the dead. As I
proceeded, holding Helen's hand in my
own, I felt it growing colder and colder,
and stealing my eyes to her face, when
drew towards the close, I saw it glowing,
to my heated fancy, with a halo of light.
1 finished and closed tha book. The rapt
expression of that face, I shall never for
get, She looked up as if something met
her eye, half rose upon her couch, and in
clined her head slightly . as if listening.
"Hark !" said she, in a whisper we
could clearly distinguish, so deep was the
silence of that room; "hark!" and she lif
ted a finger—"the music is sounding--
father—cousin—heaven—lto...me," and
with a smile of ineffable sweetnes she
sank back upon the couch. Her lips mo
ved a moment, but we could distinguish no
sounds. They closed, and her spirit had
flown back to her own heavenly sphere.
1 know not how it is, but the little qui
et churchyard where Helen lies, seems to
me a spot almost as holy as that heaven I
used to dream of when a child. lam al.
Lured now. The cares and sorrows of
this world have dimmed the brightness of
my early vision, and I never see now in
sleep the glorious things I once saw. But
I always feel a holy quiet at the grave
of my cousin, which reminds me of the
lofty aspirations we had together after
that better state of being. I lave at such
times to fancy that she hovers, like a
guardian angel, over me; and often when
my heart is stirred with strange myste
rious feelings, and a 'hush like the Sab
bath collies down upon my soul, I think
that it is the spirit of Helen communing
with my own.
Philadelphia, May, 1840.
A faggot man, carrying a load, by aeci
dent brushed against a doctor. The doc
tor was very angry, and was going to
heat him with his fist. "Pray don't use
your precious hand, good sir: kick me in
welcome." The bystanders asked what
he meant. Says the woodsman, "If he
kicks me with his foot, I shall recover;
but if I once come 'under his hands,' it is
all over with me."