Vol,. VI, No. 27.]
trmnun
OF Till?.
ELUNTINGD3N JOURNAL.
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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."