Vol,. VI, No. 27.] trmnun OF Till?. ELUNTINGD3N JOURNAL. The JOURNAL" will be published every Wednesday morning, at two dollars a year, if paid IN ADV ANCE, and if not paid with ia six mouths, two dollars and a half. Every person who obtains five subscribers, and fotWards price of subscription, shall be lariiished with a sixth copy gratuitously for one year. No subscription received for a less period than six mmths, nor any paper discontinued until all arrearages are paid. 117, inutvileations must he addressed to the Elitur, POST PAID, or they will not be attended to. Adv:i tilements not exceeding one square, will 1):: inserted three times for one dollar, and for every subsequent insertion, twenty fi cents per square will be charged. If nn definite orders are given as to the time an advertisement is to be continued, it will be kept in till ordered out, and charged accor dingly. AGENTS Jouratat Daniel Teague, Orbisonia; David Blair, Esq. Shade Gap; Benjamin Lease, Shirleys bars; Eliel Smith. Esq. Chilcottstown; Jat. Entriken, jr. Crffee Run; Hugh Madden, Esq. Sfirin,q,field; Dr. S. S. Dewey, Bir mingham; James Morrow, Union Furnace; John Sister, Warrior Mark; James Davis, Esq. West township ; P. H. Moore, Esq. Fro t nkstown; Eph. Galbreath, Esq. Holli da burg: Uenry Neil, Alexandria; Aaron Burns, Williamsburg; A. J. Stewart, Water Street; Wm. Reed, Esq. Morris township; Soloman Hamer. Jeff's Mill; James Dysart, ifjuth Space Creek; Wm. Murray, Esq. Graysville; John Crum. Manor Hill; J.S. F.. Stewart, Sinking Valley; L. C. Kessler, Mill Creek. t r;t:cc" ,N 1 4aitak ;* . t POETRY. THE SPIRIT-BAN D, BY MRS. R. S. lIICIRI.B Ye are with me! Ye are with me! Even ut the morning's birth, When her robes of light are loosened O'er the fair and freshened earth; Yo arc with me round about me, Whged spirits of the skies, Peopling air and space around me Though unseen by other eyes. As I gaze up,Nn your features, In each lineantent I trace, Though you are but passing shadows, Liiteness to solve well-known face. First dull comrst, longest parted, Bound by every tie to earth, Slowly, sadly did we yield thee, Knowing well thine argel worth. When the summer flowers are stricken By the autumn reaper's breath, Knowing thee as ripe for harvest, Came the noiseless reaper, Death! By the border likes, whose beauty Cast around thy heart a spell, Where thy footsteps oft have lingered, There thy curse is sleeping well! Ye are witheme! Ye are with me! At the golden neentide hour, And the spirit gleam arnun ! me, Tells me of your hidden power. There's another form beside me, Slight and Liu like its frame; Life was short, no years it numbered, Earth scarce stamped it with a name Yet I wept when thou did'•st leave us, • And my heart is beating wild, As I gaze upon thine image, And recall my brother's child! Ye arc with me! Yr are with me! At the twilight hour of rest, When the sunset rears its banners O'er the portals of the west, Hush thy meanings, gentle spirit, Soft thy shad tw falls on mine, And an angel voice is whispering ''Lo ! young mothetthe is thine!" Ay, thou'rt with them, loved and loving, Naught c:..uld stay thy tyrant's hand; Onward! still his course is onward, O'er our 6ziOt ant! acrished land. What to me are spring's I' w bre athin g s? r.. 'Through the modern melodies ,that ring 'through tali' peen and ancient for‘:.sts? 'I bee, to me, not these can bring. Thou ad called the Awakener, But, sweet spring, thy power bath fled, ask not thy birds nor flowers, Wake for me the holy dead! Ye are with me! Ye are with me! When the mournful midnight waves Wo - i the moon's unsteady gleantings As they light the new made raves! • • _ JOU What, thou, too art gazing on me; NVith thy dark and eager eyes; Last to love us—loved most fondly— Thee I view with sad surplice. When the low-voiced breeze is sighing In its strange and sweet unrest, And the perfum'd urns are flinging Odors, on its peaceful breast, Then these phantom forms flit by me, Breathing of a "better land;" Yet I fee/ most lone, when round me Float the silent spirit-band. From Graham's Magazine. A Sketch from Life. BY J, TOMLIN. The subject of the present sketch has had in time, the most sincere friendship of the writer. One act, and one alone, has made them enemies—irreconcilably, forever. It is to be regretted that it is so, vet it cannot be otherwise, and the honor of both be preserved. There is in any and every one, that aspires to greatness, a tameless absurdity, when suffering a re prehens►bte action of an associate to pass away like the morning mist on the flower, without noticing it, or giving the admoni tory reproof, that often corrects and final ly subdues the evil. We are not such isolated creatures on the surface of a world passing away, as to require a more powerful impulse is the correction of an evil, than the blessings it gives to our fellow beings. Gordon he Severn was my senior by some several years;—but in all of his ac tions, there was a freshness and youth fulness, so akin to what I did, and what 1 felt myself, that I could not keep away from him. He was a scholar, but not of the schools, therefore none ever complai ned of his dullness. His A ristotlean ca pacity grasped almost intuitively, what others could scarcely get by the most dil igent researches; and with the perception of a Byron, he disclosed every beautiful thought that ever swept along the laby rinth of mind. He was a mighty genius, free, bold, and daring! lie liked to see the bubbles of time vanish, and others coining in their places, but did not recol lect, that soon, very soon, the vapour that supported his adolescent spirits, would dissolve, and be no more forever,: Ile was an observer on the world--a spy on the tumultuous feelings that agitate, and corrupt the heart ;—and he boasted that he was of the world, but a being temoved beyond its temptations. Six summers ago, Eliza Wharton was young, happy, and full of i nnoceuce. flow altered now is this creature, from what she was when I first knew her. Time often makes worse havoc with the repnta• Lion, than with the body. A little while ago, Eliza Wharton was not more fair than she was innocent ; but now at the heart the cankerworm preys voraciously, as is evidenced by the deep lines that mark the cheek. Retired beyond the pre cincts of the bustle of the multitude; lost to friends that once loved her,—she lives a solitary creature, ruined in reputation by the sexy being he once loved ' •—penis t.nt in seclusion, she has wept her sins Forgiven, and will win her way to heaven, in spite do cold—cold world, Being in afiluencial circumstances, she moved in the first circles of society in the little town that ' wave her birth. She was intellectual and beautiful, which made her an object of envy to many. Women envy the beauty they see in every one of their sex, and man, the rich endowment of mind ,that makes his fel!ow being more dis tinguished than himself. How aptoare we to dispise any noble capacity that we see in others, when we possess it not ourself —and the good qualities that show them selves most splendidly in our neighbor, are a bright mark, at which we level in bitterness, the wrath of our envy. Those that have but the most common endow ments of our nature, are generally the most happy, and almost always move in a path, that leads to a peaceful destiny. Clad Eliza Wharton been one of the coin• mon, ordinary creatures that move in humble lite, in her tall, she would have had the sympathies of the world. But be. ing of a superior mould both in body and in mind,•her fall was unregretted, un wept. Li an evil hour there came almig a be ing in the shape of man, like herself of towering intellect, hut unlike her in good ness of heart and benevolence of feeling. She loved him ! She thought that she saw him superior to any thing that she had even before seen in others. Nobleness of mien he certainly had—and the ways of [ the world lie was familiar with, for he had travelled much. Ile had studied but not f . rorft books. The volume of nature as it lay spread out before • him, in gorgeous robes el,' mixed colors, dyed with the rich est tints the: every,ay . euue to the soul, and lie became a poet iii feeling. lies was the philosophy of feeling and not of reason— therefore he erred. Every emotion of ! the heart, he mistook for inspiration of i the soul- -RIO he led the keen appetites "ONE COUNTRY, ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY." A. W. BENEDICT PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR. HUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, JUNE M. 1841. ol his nature from every stream that rip. pled his path. What to him was good, he never considered might be poison to others. His was the mighty ocean ol mind, om. cramped by this usage, or that custom—but tree, bold and daring He visited fountains that could not be reached by every one, and drank of waters that inspired different sensations Irons what were felt by the world in which he lived. I do well recollect the tithe when these two beings first met. It was on the eigh teenth anniversary of Eliza's birth— r.nd at afrtc, given by her father, in hon. or of the occasion. It was in May, the month of flowers; and though a moonless night, yet the bright stars looked down in myriads on the happy earth. Eliza was all joy and animation. Befoie her lay the rich fields of pleasure, and she seized on every moment us one of gladness, and of happiness. She did not know that in her path, there lay a serpent that would soon destroy her. Gordon De Severn,: like some fiery comet, attracted every eye, and spell-bound the poor maiden that happened to come within the hearing of his magic words. Exclusively on that night, did he appropriate Eliza to himself. She listened, enraptured at every word he spoke, and fell at last a victim, In the snare he had laid. Ile played his part so well on that night, that lee fairly cap tured the fair one's heart—and for the first ttme in her life, she retired, to a sleepless pillow, bedewed with tears. Dc Severn admired her, but he was not in love: For several months after tiller first in terview, he was almost a daily visitor at her horse. He courted her—and he won her. She believed him, when he told her, that he would be her friend. She be, lieved him when he said, that he loved her. She trusted, when he deceived. She fell because she loved one too much, that proved himself a villain, and not be cause she was base. She departed from virtue, not because she was in love with vice, but to oblige one that she loved much. She fell--and this vile seducer is now sporting in the sunshine of wealth—and has friends, and is received into the houses of the honorable, and is carressed, and is smiled upon; while the poor injured one—Eliza Wharton, abandoned by the world, and by her relations, to pine in some sequesteredspet, and die of a broken heart. How often does it happen it this world of ours, that the betrayer receives honor tram the hands of the people, and the be• trayed is scoffed at and reviled, for be. ing so credulous as to believe even a tale of--LovE. Jackson, Tern. Frcm the Taunton Whig. Warning to Parents, The substance of the following affect ing and mournful story was related to the Editor, by a gentleman of his ac quaintance, a short time since, who had recently returned from a journey in a neighboring stet( . The gentleman pass• ed through the town a few days subse quent to the occurrence of the tragic event. In the town of C—,State of M----- resided a gentleman and his family. fie hart a daughter, an affectionate and ac complished young lady, about 30 years of age, who mingled with the first farm lies. The daughter, while thus mingling with the young company of the village, became attached to a young gentleman. The young gentleman, although of un• sullied reputation— of good family--and generally respected, wanted, what many parents think the only requisite to se curel the comfort and happiness of their chillren, MONEY. The intimaq ex isting between them soon ripened into love, and a mutual declaration of senti• ments was the result. The father of the young lady, upon ascertaining the cir cumstances, forbid the young gentleman his house. In this unpleasant posture of atliiirs after a time the young lady became very much depressed in spirits. Every effort of her friends was made to amuse, enliven and entertain her, and to dissi• pate the clouds of sorrow and disappoint ment, which cast their shadows upon her heart—withering the flowers of hope and love within. But all would not do —disappointed love, blighted and crush • ed affections, preyed upon her spirit, and vampyre like, drank the blood of a broken heart, turning the sweet fountains of love & hope to a well of bitterness and death. During the few days previous to the fatal catastrophe which resulted from the cruel circutnstances of her situation, her sister-in-law was with her, and had slept with her a number of nights. She had observed that the young victim seemed to become more and more depressed, and had endeavored to soothe and alleviate her situation with all that love which ever flows from a sister's heart. But her ef forts did not succeed in bringing back the vanished smiles of hope and joy to the now pallid and death•like face of the young sufferer. One afternoon, she procured pen, ink and paper, seated herself in the room with the family and commenced writing let ters, with the same indillitrence and ap parent unconcern which she usual mani fested on such occasions, merely drawing her hand across the letter upon which she was engaged when any one approach • ed. After the letters were finished, and as evening approached, she requested her sister to allow her to sleep alone that night, giving some reason for the request, which was satisfactory. She went to her room about the usual time, which was di rectly over the sitting room, in which the family were gathered. Iler father hear ing her walking to and fro, for a consid erable time, across the floor, went up stairs, looked into the room, and enquired why she was still up ? She answered him by saying she was arranging her clothes, &c. After this, nothing further was heard. Upon going into her room in the morn• mg she was discovered by turning down the sheet, a lifeless corpse, with her throat cut from ear to ear. The letters found in her room, were those written the day befere, stating her situation and feelings, and requesting such a deposition of her clothes and ornaments, as she had there in specified. She had removed the leath er bed and clothes, rolled up a spread or comforter,,and laid it upon the bed, for the purpose of elevating her head—spread a cloth under her neck to catch the blood, and prevel4 its shining the bed G . ,. carpet ( 1 , —tied a land kerchief around her chin and head t prevent the falling of the un-, derjaw—i milli a sheet from Ise; feet up to her hea , and after cutting her throat, had as it Isppeared, deliberately piped the blade +r her razor, rolled it up to the corner of the sheet, drawn the sheet en tirely over her face, and folded her arms peacefully acting her aching bosom. In 1 this situation she was found, the victim 1 of a parent's cold and worldly calculation. The father was made almost a madman and can never know peace again—bitter reflections will follow him to the grave. When will parents learn that the nevet• dying feelings and affections of the heart are not like the mutable, evanescent, per• rishable and worthless vanities of earth, but are essential and constituent elements of immortality, belonging to heaven, and can no more be bargained for, bought, sold, anskettchanged, than the breath of life— the aspirations of the soul, or the birthright of future existence i Such a deliberate, cautious, calculating suicide—so systimatically and minutely planned—so boldly, quietly, firmly, and fatally carried into ex,rution, by the hand of a young and beautiful being, just blushing into the glory and loveliness of existence, and gathering the flowers of hope in the beautiful gardens of life—fills all with astonishment; carries a cold shudder to every heart, and a thrill of horror to the soul. What must have been the agony of a heart thus tried? What the bitterness and despair which reigned within? What the desolation of a spirit thus wrung-- thus lost? Who can tell ? From the U. S. Gazette, The Broken glearted. DY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIKR. 1 have seen the infant—sinking down like a stricken flower to the grove, the strong man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the field of battle. The miserable convict standing upon the scatlold with a deep curse quivering on his lips. 1 have viewed death in all its forms of darkness and vengeance with a fearless eye,—but 1 never could look on woman, young and lovely woman, fading away from the earth in beautiful and uncomplaining mclancho ly, without feeling the very fountains of life, turned to tears and dust Death is' always terrible—but when a form of an gel beauty is passing oft the silent land of the sleepers, the heart feels that some- thing lovely is ceasing from existence, and broods with a sense of utter desola tion, over the lonely thoughts, that come up likk spectres from tit, grave, to haunt our midnight Two ye r tirs ago, I 'took up my residence' for a few weeks in a country village in the eastern part of New England. Soon after my arrival, I became acquainted with a lovely girl apparently about seven teen years of age. She had lost the idol of her pure heart's purest love, and the shadows of deep and holy memories were resting like the wing of death upon her brow. I first met her in the pres. ence of the mirthlul. She was indeed a creature to be worshipped, her brow was garlanded with the young year's sweetest flowers, her yellow locks were hanging beautifully and low upon her bosom, and she moved through the crowd with such a floating and unearthly grace, that the he wildered gai.er, almost looked to see her fade away into the air like the creation of some rleasant dream. She seemed cheers fah, and even gay, yet I saw, that her ga iety was hut mocking of her feelings. She smiled but there was something, in her smile; which told that its mournful beauty was but the bright reflection (.1 a tear; and her eyelids at tones closed hea ily down, as it struggling to repress the tide of agony, that was bursting up from her hearts secret urn. She !Milted as if she could have left the scenes of festivity and gone out beneath the quiet stars, and laid her forehead down, upon the fresh green earth, and poured out her stricken Isoul, gush after gush, till it mingled with the eternal fount of life and put ity• Days and weeks passed on, and that sweet girl gave me her confidence; and became to her a brother. She wasted a way by disease. The smile upon her lip was fainter; the purple veins upon her cheek grew visible, and the cadences of her voice became daily more weak and tremulous. Ott a quiet evening in the depth of June, t wandered out with her in the open air. It was then that she first told the the tale of passion, and of the blight that had come dos. n like mildew upon her life. Love had been a portion of existence. Is tendrils had been twined around her heart in its earliest years; and when they were rent away,' they left a wound, which flowed till all the springs of her soul were blood. "I am passing away" said she "and it should be so. The winds have gone over my life, and the bright buds of hope, and the sweet blossoms of passion are scattered down, and lie withering in the (lust, or rotting away upon the chill waters 01 1 memory. And yet I cannot go down a wing the tombs without a tear. It is hard to take leave of the friends who love me; it is very hard to bid farewell to these dear scenes, with which 1 have held com munion from childhood; and which front day to-day, have caught the color of my life, and sympathized with its joys and sorrows." "That little grove where I have so of ten strayed with my buried love, and at times. and even now, the sweet tones of his voice, seems to come stealing a round me, till the whole air becomes one intense and mournful meludy,—that pen sive star which we used to watch in its early rising, and on which my fancy can still picture his form looking down upon me, and beckoning me to his own bright home; every flower, and tree and rivulet, on which the metoory of our early love has set its undying seal, have become dear to me; and I cannot without a sigh, close my eyes upon them fur ever." 1 have lately heard, that the beautiful girl of whom I have spoken is deal. The close other life was calm as the falling of a quiet stream, gentle us the sinking of the breeze, that lingers for a time around a bed of withered roses, and then dies, "as 'twere from very sweetness.?' I t cannot be that earth is 111311'ti only a biding place. It cannot be that our life is a bubble, cast up by the ocean of eternity to float a moment upon its waves, and sink into darkness and nothingness. Else why is, it that the high and glorious aspi rations, which leap like angels front the temples of our hearts, ate forever wan• doing abroad unsatisfied': Why is it that the rainbow and the cloud conic o. ver us with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass oft, and leave us to rouse upon her faded loveliness? Nst by is it that the stars which hold their festivals a round the midnight throne, are set above the grasp of our I united Ilea I to: s—iorev- , cc mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And why is it—that bright forms of human beauty are presented to our view and then taken from us, leaving the thousand streams of our affection, to flow back into an alpine torrent upon our hearts We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow never lades—where the stars will be spread out before us, like islands that slumber on the ocean—and where the beauttfut beings which here pass be fore us like visions, will stay in our pres ence forever. Bright creature of my dreams, in that realm I shall see again. Even now thy lost image is sometimes with me. In the mysterious silence of midnight, when lire stream are glowing in the light of the many stars, that image comes floating up. on the beam, that lingers around my pd. low, and stands before toe in its pale dim loveliness, till its own quiet spirit, sinks ; like a spell, Iron: heaven upon my thoughts and the grief of years is turned to bins. seduces and peace. NIMM.11.1=1=1••••••• From the Hartford Review and Telegraph The Book Agent. As the sun was setting, after one of those sultry days in July, when the ther• mometer rose to 90 degress, a tall, 1611- tern jawed, gartubrel.shanked fellow en, tered theof—, in the old com monwealth o fvillage Massachusetts. lie was dressed in the peculiar costume of a back noodsman,—ltaring on his head a squir rel skit' cal', and 1,11 hi, feet a rair of doo- I lirrinLE No. 257, ble soled boots, which would laugh out of countenance a Kamschaikinn ‘viliter. On his arm was carefully folded a butternut colored frock coat, and in his hand was an extra shirt and dickey, tied up in a cotton flag handkerchief. On his entrance into the village he enquired for the clergyman, and being told where he might be found, started post haste for his residence. Ar riving at his house, he found him enjoy ing the cool of the evening twilight in his garden. Stepping up to the fence, he inquired if the Rev. Mr. lived In that neighborhood?—The clergyman told him he did, and that he was the individus al to whom he alluded. _ 'l'm dreadful deaf,' said the fellow, 'you must raise your voice, or I can't hear a word you say.' The clergyman put his lips to his ear, and repeated the declara tion, that he was the person for whom he enquired, rod asked him the object of his call. ells been an awful hot day,' said the traveller, 'bet it grows a leetle cooler as the sur, goes down.' The clergyman again inquired his busi ness, on the top of his lungs. 'I thank you a thousand times,' said the stranger, 'I reckoned to have got to a tavern by sun down, but I hav'nt, and as I'm prodigious ly tuckered out, I'll stay, and thank you into the bargain,' following the clergyman into the house. The clergyman handed him a chair, and after laying down his coat in a corner of the room, and fanning himself a while with his cap he took his seat. The clergy man in a loud voiee, as ked him to what part of the country he was travelling? 'Any thing that comes handy,' lie replied, 'l'm a farmer when at home, and not much used to nick sacks-- I can eat any thing but cold pork and cabbage, and that I never could eat since I was a boy, but don't put yourselves out of the way at all on my account. The clergyman inquired again in a still louder voice, if he was from Verniont? I'm get ting subscribers for a valuable book—it's the works of John Bunyan, or Jonat , lan Bunyan,—l don't remember exac!ly which, but I'll see; pulling out the pro:. pectus, and handing it to the clergyman. The clergyman, after looking at it, han ded it back, and remarking that he did not wish to subscribe. '0 yes,' he repli. ed,'l always carry a pen and ink with me as I find a great many folks that don't keep such things in their houses,' pulling out his pen and ink and handing it to the clergyman. The clergyman raised his voice to the highest key, and said lie must be excused from subscribing. 'Just as well,' said the agent, 'I write the names of half of my subscribers tnyselt,' enter ing the name of tae clergyman in his book. The clergyman despairing of ma king the fellow hear any thing, concluded to get rid of him the easiest way he could. Ile therefore furnished him with a good supper and bed. In the morning he told him, in a voice as loud as he was master of, that he did not want the work, and that he should not take it. 'Don't give yourself any un easiness about it,' said the agent, I never forget subscribers, and especially nunib ' ters—y ou shall have it iii due time.' Thanking him for his kindness and hospi. tality, and bidding him good morning he trudged ofl as fast as his legs could carry. him. Aboat a month after, as the clergy. mail was on his way to visit a brother in the Ministry in a neighboring town, he was nut a little surprised to meet his old guest the deaf book agent. Ile was dres sed in much the same manner as before; but was seated on a box, in the fore part of a one horse wagon, drawn by a hoi se that would require still feeding to meku much of a shadow. Coming up to him, he jumped out of his wagon, shook him cordially by the hand, and said he was going directly to, his house with his books, The clergyman, said he must be excused fron, taking them as he had a set already on hand. "No wetter," said the agent, 'l'm right by your house. and can leave the books, and take the money from your wife, getting into his wagon and driving off. The clergyman, fearing his:family might take the books in his absence, put about for home, and arrived just as the agent was driving up. Seeing the clergyman had returned, lie said, "you came back for fear of rain and storm 1 suppose ;' ta king the books from his box and carrying them into the house. The clergyman told him, as loud as he could, he did not want the books, and thought he was in- sultit:g him. The agent sail, '1 intend ed to have got a little fin titer before the storm; but you cannot conveniently pay me the money, then 1 must accept your kind invitation and stay till the storm is over.' The minister finding he must take the books or keep the fellow three or four (lays, paid him the money, as the easiest way to get rid of him. The Louisana Advertiser of the lath ult. says: "Look out for spurious fifty dollar bills on the State Bank of Alabama or Tuscaloosa. They are signed by n. Clayton as President. Ibore is or. officer."
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers