VOL. VI, No. 29.]
TIP MS
OF THE
HUNTINGDON JOURNAL.
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AGENTS.
roil
The Huntingdon Journal.
Daniel Teague, Orbisonia; David Blair,
Esq. Shade Galt; Benjamin Lease, Shirleys
burg; Eliel Smith, Esq. Chilcottotown; Jas.
Entriken, jr. Ceffee Run; Hugh Madden,
Esq. Springfield; Dr. S. S. Dewey, Bir
mingham; James Morrow, Union Furnace;
John Sisler, 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; Win. Reed, Esq. Morris township;
Solomon Hamer, .Neff's Mill; James Dysart,
Mouth Spruce Creek; Wm. Murray, Esq.
Graysville; John Crum, Manor Hill; Jas.
E. Stewart, Sinking Valley; L. C. Kessler,
Mill Creek.
POETRY.
THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER.
She rose from her untroubled sleep,
And put ankle her soft brown hair,
And, in a tone as low and deep
As love's first whisper, breatled a prayer;
Her snow white hands together pressed—
Her blue eyes sheltered in its lid—
The folded linen on her breast . _
Just swelling with the charms it hid i
As from her long and flowing dress
Escaped a bare and tender foot,
Whose fall upon the earth ?id press
Like a snow white flake, soft and mute,
And there from slumbers soft and warm,
Like a young spirit fresh from Heaven,
She bowed her light and graceful form,
And humbly prayed—to be forgiven,
Oh God ! if souls unsoiled as these
Need daily mercy at thy throne—
If sus upon her banded knees,
Our loveliest and our purest one,
Suit, with a face so clear and bright,
We deem her some stray child of light—
If SHE, with those soft eyes in tears,
Day after day, in her first years,
Must kneel and pray for grace from thee,
What far, far deeper need have NvE 1
How hardly, if she win not heaven
Will our wild errors be forgiven.
THE SABBATH BELL.
BY 3011 N DI'CADE.
'Tin sweet to hear the Sabbath bell,
Whose soft and silvery chime
Breaks on the ear with fall and swell,
Waiting our thoughts from time.
I love to hear its mellow strain,
Come fleeting up the dell ,
While wending to that sacred fane,
Where chimes the Sabbath bell,
How memory mingles with that peal !
How hours of other years !
How sad the thoughts, that, pensive steal
Along my trickling tears !
Thoughts, mournful to my bosom lone,
Yet those I would not quell ;
For, soothing to my grief, that tone
Of thine, Sweet Sabbath bell.
A few years more—the winds, so bland,
Will bid the young flowers wave ;
Which, oh! perhaps some soft sweet hand.
Will plant around my grave !
I'll miss thy dear, familiar voice,
Which, ah ! so oft could tell
My heart, tho' tempest-tost, "rejoice,"—
Thou dear, dear Sabbath bell !
An Irishman remarked to hie compan
ion, on observing a lady pass. "Pat did
you ever see as thin a woman as that i"
"Thin," replied the other, "Bathershune,
I seen a woman as thin as two of her."
TIM RIGHT or IMITATION.—Wooden
cakes, beautifully frosted, and mahogany
doughnuts are advertised to be let for par •
ties. in one of the Bangor papers.
THE JOURNAL.
Fragment ofa Modern Novel.
Immediately on his arrival in town,
Barent drove toward his own dwelling,
through crowds much more numerous than
those whi::h usually fill the streets. A
general sensation through the city mark
ed some uncommon and interesting event,
and the increasing throng poured with a
general haste and excitement, from the
adjacent avenues, into the Park, like the
rushing tributes of the mountain streams
swelling the v, eters of a lake. At length
they completely surrounded the Bride
well, with a closeness of beings like bees
swarming about the hives.—As they grad
ually increased, the last comers, after
lingering a few minutes in the Park, with
out being able in consequence of the pres
sure, to get near the prison, bent their
course in large numbers up broadway, re
sembling, if the reader will pardon the
continuation ofa common simile, the wat
ers of the same lake, which, when swol
len, to inundation, rolls forth its superflu
ous contents over the banks and urges
them along some new channel. It was
the day appointed for the death of the
unhappy French girl—and it was to be.-
hold her issue from the prison-door that
this mighty concourse of spectators were
now assembled. The lost and abandoned
creature, in a fit of jealousy and intox
cation, ignorant of the law, and half-uni
conscious of what she did, had fired the
house of ber profligate destroyer. She
had been convicted, and seteneed to die—
greatly to her astonishment, never having
conceived herself committing capital of
fence. So strong was the curiosity to be , .
hold her, that woman decently dressed,
and some with infants in their arms, min
gled in the dangerous pressure to gaze
with a horror irrepressible, yet, to some
minds, strangely attractive, upon a fel
low-being undergoing the last terrible or
deal of fate. The same love of excite
ment, which led the Romans to the ampi
theatre, still, in a modified shape, gathers
the thousands to view a mortal in the sub
lime moments of death
The sentence of the law provided that
the condemned should be taken from the
prison and consigned to her fate between
the hours of nine and three. It was al
ready past noon, and for several hours
the populace had waited in suspense, and,
with a singular inconsistency, which
forms one of the parodoxes of human na
ture, even while they pitied the poor wo•
man, impatient to behold her execution.
At length, and with great difficulty. a
carriage drove up before the door, follow
ed by a cart. containing the coffin. Sev
eral minutes after the prison was thrown
open, and a group of gentlemen—the
sheriff and his assistant, and several cler
gymen appeared; and in the midst, and
fatally conspicuous by her dress of white,
and her arms pinioned at the elbows; the
doomed victim of justice walked slowly;
her face and lips, even through her Bro.
nette complexion, blanched to a hue of
death. A murmur of horror and deep
compassion went heavily through the
crowd, upon whose multifarious, unfeel
ing and clamorous agitations, fell the mo
tionlessness and silence of a desert. She
walked, however unsupported, to her car
riage. and once or twice was observed to
smile and shake her head ; but her words,
which apparently accompanied the action,
extended not beyond the circle immedi
ately around her. As the carriage pro
ceeded, at a slow pace, frequently ob
structed by the multitude, the innumera
ble spectators hastened forward to secure
places, as if at some agreeable scenick re
presentation. The contagion flew from
one to the other, and the tramping of
thousands of her fellow beings, as they
rushed by in a broad and heavy tide, to
witness her death, must have fallen with
exquisite horror upon the cars of the crime
final.
To the astonishment, however, of every
one within hearing, although the paleness
of her ashy face and bloodless lips fully
attested her excitement, yet she persisted
obstinately in asserting the belief that the
whole was extended as a mere theatrical
spectacle, to frighten her and the public
—that she was not going to be diliber
ately put to death—butchered in daylight,
and before the eyes o: the whole assem
bled city, for a crime committed in a mo
ment of madness She assured the
Sheriff that she had many a happy day
to live yet—that she would leave the
country as soon as this mu mery was over,
and that after having, in the presence of
the governor, invoked a blessing upon his
head, for the reprieve which she knew he
had granted, and which she was sure the
sheriff or some of the attends had in their
pockets, she would change her name and
go back to her dear France, to live with
her mother. Vainly the sheriff protested
that she had no grounds for hope—that he
knew nothing of pardon or reprieve.
Vainly her reverend companions, by the
most solemn entreaties, urged her not to
beguile the time with such delusive hopes
—but to turn her thoughts toward the sal
vation of her soul. She firmly but re•
gpectfully rejected all their holy offers!
"ONE COUNTRY, OhE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY."
A. W. BENEDICT PURGISHER AND PROPRIETOR.
IfUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY,JUNE 33, 1841.
would neither join in their psalms nor
prayers, and at length, so Is: . recovered
her spirits, that, when they reached the
spot, already blackened far and wide with
a concourse of fifty thousand people, she
ascended the scaffold with a firm and
even eager step, and an undisguised selt
congratulation that her exposure and im
prisonment were near their termination.
" Uhappy, wretched, blinded woman l"
cried the sheriff at length, after a vain at,
tempt on the part of the clergymen to en•
gage her attention. "Do not harden a• '
gainst you the hearts inclined to compas
sionate and soften your last moments.
Do not rush into the presence of your
God without a prayer for mercy. Kneel
—kneel—and pray ! or I shalt be com
pelled at once to execute my awful duty!
See! unhappy creature ! it is now half
past two. Before three o'clock—•,you
mud meet your Creator.
A ghastlier white crossed the features
of the condemned. She begged to look
at the watch herself.
" It is cruel in you, gentlemen, and use
less as it is cruel, to keep up this game
with so much earnestness. l should, in
deed, be otherwise employed, (though
not, gentlemen, perhaps as you would re
commend,) but that I know, from authori
ty—that the goverenor has granted me a
reprieve / Tell me, Mr. Sherill--" and
she fixed upon him those soft eyes—whose
beams had so often thrilled the soul of
Barent. " You have my pardon come
—show it to one l''
Unfortunate being!" cried the sheriff,
"I swear to you solemnly, that no reprieve
has been granted!"
"Then it will be !" she added, with a
convulsive start, and turning yet paler,
"Hark t look 7 see !"
The sheriff; with a gesture of horror,
now approached, and, with a gentle mo
tion, unperceived by the object, drew her
beneath the beam, and attached the rope
already around her neck to that which
awing in the air.
"The time has come !" he said solemn
ly, but firmly.
-
" Gentlemen !" she crted—"for the
love of God end this dreadful mockery!
Give me the reprieve-1 am sick at heart
—I am choked!"
"All is in vain 1" said the i;fficer,
mournfully—"my duty must be perform
ed 1"
It was with a convulsive start and a
deep and dreadful change of countenance,
that the unhappy culprit perceived that
her position had been altered, the ropes
attached, and that she stood now alone
upon the platform, with only the sheriff,
the rest of her companions having in the
meantime descended the steps.
"My God !" she exclaimed aloud, in
a choked, husky voice—"l am deceived
—I am deceived—stop—stop. 1 have a
dreadful story to tell—pardon me—save
me--I will confess—l—"
The sheriff, obliged to proceed with
punctuality, yet with a thrill of horror,
approached to draw the fatal cap over her
face.
'Only one moment !" she shrieked in
a voice, which the very intensity of ter
ror had deprived of strength. "Give
me but a single moment! Hark! I
h ea r their tread! lam guilty—but I can
reveal. Give me to the last minute—l
tvill reveal—"
The last minute had already arrived.
The officer shuddered ! as he drew the
cap over her face, so as to stifle her words
in the midst of her exclainatives. Her
arms were already closely bound. She
stood upon the scaffold alone. The
vast, vast crowd, that covered with its im
mense throngs hill and plain, house
top and tree, stilled its mighty and tu
multuous heavings, and were now hush
ed to a silence, wide, and unbroken with
out a motion or a breath. The signal
form of the culprit, in its frock of white, af
ter standing a few seconds, the centre and
sole point of every intense gaze, was
observed to drop upon its knees, either
from a yielding of physical strength, or
borne down by the weight of a repentant '
heart, subdued in that tremendous ins.
ment. The hands after a few impotent
gestures, were clasped convulsively to ,
gether--then came a sudden, quick flit
ting motion—the platform was no longer
visible, and an electric jar and a tumul
tuous burst of murmur shook and stirred
the thousands as the occupant fell, sus
pended in the air. and spun rapidly round
her snowy garments fluttering in the wind
Two struggling movements announced
the strdggles of nature—the shoulders
were twice drawn up and let down again
slowly--the hands were stretched forth,
either in fruitless solicitation for mercy,
or from the mere blind convulsions of
death--and the poor creature, at length
hung without life--without motion—in
one instance for ever hurled beyond the
shock of earth and human evil—in one in
stance amid those eternal secrets, for
which civilized and the savar, did peas
ant at his toil and the philosopher amid
his books, have panted io vain since the
creation of the world.
The high pitch of excitement to which
such an exhibition winds up the feelings,
ensures a sudden reaction. The releae.
ed mind falls back to commonplace ob
jects. The vulgar return to coarse jests
—the cultivated dismiss the subject with
a Few artful consolations, derived, partly
from selfishness and partly from ph►loso.
phy. In a short time the event, however
it may have occupied us, during the pe
riod of its transaction, with painful inten
sity, dwindles back again to insignificance
—the point of a cold moral, or the shadow
of a future revery.
The mob, who had been awed by the
dignity of ,the law present to their sight,
soon relapsed into their ordinary mood
and dispersed into a thousand straggling
groups to their homes and pleasures. The
jocund laugh rung in the air responsive
to the rude jest--the hustle of occupation
reappeared, and the streets at once resu
med their usual aspect, as if the morning
had glided away without any unusual e
vent. The papers the next day detailed
a long account of the scene, amid the flip
pancies of mirth and ►ht calls to amuse
ment.
It may be objected by some that this
scene is of too awful a description for the
pages of a story. It is true that many
love to lose themselves in romantic hor
rors, who shrink from the recital of na
ked, real wo, and who pay to see a deser
ter shot on the stage, but will hear noth
ing of the life quenc ied by their own laws
Let these partial reformers first banish,
I such scenes from the records of the day
What it is proper for the legislature tom
flict, it cannot be inexcusable fur the his
torian to relate. If to us be denied the
dignity of an historian, we must appeal to
the candor of the reader for the fact, that
while history sometimes encroaches up
on the realms of fiction, the latter often
delineates with a beneficial fidelity, the
scenes of real life.
The crowd were not all dispersed, and
the lifeless image yet hung suspended,
motionless in the air, when Barent, whose
absence abroad had kept him entirely ig
norant of the events related in the forego
ing pages passed the spot, maddened by
the replies of several of the crowd, to
whom he casually addressed questions
coacerning the culprit, yet still convinced
that the startling coincidences were mere.'
ly accidental, he plunged the spurs deep
into his horse's flank, till the sides of the
poor creature dropped blood, and dashed
to the scene. The officers were taking
down the body when he reached the spot.
The fatal cap still covered the face. One
small, unloved hand, hung nerveless by
her side. Upon the finger was a ring.
"Take oft the cap," said ooe of the men
carelessly.
"No, not for a million worlds!" shriek•
ed a voice, and Barnet shrinking shud
dering back, and dashed his extended
patine against his face, as if to strike out
his eyes, fell senseless on the ground.
The riderless horse fed ,quetly on the
fresh, short grass.
The Soldier's Son-in-law.
A ItICCENT FAOT.
A young Englishman, from gaming,
love affairs, and other such gold scatter
ing enjoyments, had so nearly reached
the dregs of his great-grandfather's he•
reditary portion, that he could calculate
the departing hour of his last guinea. As
one evening he was returning home from
i
one of those haunts of dissipation which
ho habitually frequented, feeble in body
us in mind, and for the first time in his
lite, casting a firm look upon the ruin of
his fortune, he could not well determine
whether he should end his troubles by
drawing a trigger, or by throwing himself
into the Thames.
IVhile he was thus waving between
fire and water, the very pi ofound idea
occurred to him not to lay violent hands
upon himself, but to allow himself to be
conducted out of this labyrinth of pover
ty by the fair hand of some wealthy bride.
With this consoling thought he went to
bed, and already in his nocturnal visions
the rapid races flew, the fair girls frisked
'around him, both of which, lie was happy
in thinking, he might maintain in future
in the dowry of his wife.
On the following morning he reflected
anew upon this plan, and found it unex
ceptionable in every point excepting the
very slight circumstance of not knowing
when or where he was to find the rich
heiress he wanted. In London, where
all the world regarded him as a spend
thrift, it was not once to be thought of—
he saw that for the future he meet throw
his nets out elsewhere.
After much en g itation
at last hit upon an old rich colonel, liv—
ing upon his own estate, about twenty
miles from the capitol, .vho fortunately
had a friend in London, and was the fa
ther of an only daughter.
Into the house of this gentleman, by
means of a friend, to whom he promised
half the booty, he got himself introduced
and recjived, The daughter of the cob°.
nel was an an awkward country girl,
with round chubby cheeks like Ruben's
cherubims, and looked particularly odd .
in the hand-me-down attire of her sain
ted mother, which did not at all fit her,
and was of course not the most fashions.
ble cut. Her mind, too was as attractive
as her attire; she could only talk of hens
and geese; and when any other topic
same above-board, her conversation was
limited to a "ves, yes," or a "no, no;"
all beyond this seemed to her sinful. This
wooden puppet was indeed a mighty con
trast to the sprightly, gay, and lively
nymphs with whom the young Briton had
heal toyng ;—but he carefully confi,
ned to the solitude of his own bosom the
disagreeable feeling of this heaven-and
earth distant difference. His flattering
tongue called the girl's silliness celestial
innocence; and red, swollen cheeks, he
likened to the beauty of the full blown
damask rose. The end of the song was,
he turned to the father, and sued warmly
for his daughter's hand.
The colonel, during his sixty years'ca
reer through the world, had collected
this much knowledge of mankind; that
however slyly the young man had masked
himself, he could, nevertheless, discover
the fortune-hunter peeping through the
disguise. At first, therefore, he thought
of peremptorily refusing him permission
' to woo his daughter; but, on the other
hand, he thought, "the youth is fashiona
ble, and perhaps / may be doing him in
justice; he as yet, betrays no anxiety about
the portion, and why should the girl, who
is marriageable, remain longer at home?
His request shall be granted—but his ap
parent disinterestedness shall stand a tri.
a."
The suitor was then informed that the
father had no objections to the match, pro
vided his daughter would give her con
sent; and she, poor thing, replied, as in
duty bound— "My father's will is mine."
Indeed, could any thing else be expected?
In the course of a few weeks the mar
riage ceremony was performed at the
country house of the colonel, and he in
stantly made his son-in-law acquainted
with his wife's port ion, amounting to thir
ty thousand dollars. The dissembler ac
ted as if he wished to know nothing a
bout the matter,f,and solemnly vowed that
he had not as yet thought on such things,
but had regarded only the noble qualities
of his charming wife, whose pure self was
dearer to him than all the treasures of the
world.
Upon this they sat down to dinner, ard
the father-in-law urged and begged that
they would make as much haste as pos
sible, as it was his intention that the
young married people should set off that
very afternoon for London, and that he
should accompany them.
The son in-law was confounded, and
began to make some excuses about travel
ling on the first day of his happiness; but
the soldier maintained that these were fu
tile, assuring him that he had particular
reasons for proceeding forthwith to the
capitol, and that his matrimonial joys
would be as well realized in London as
in the country. What was to be done?
Why, the journey was immediately un
dertalcen. The old man secured in a
casket, before the eyes of the bridegroom
the portion of the bride, partly in gold
and partly in bank-notes, took it under
bis arm, and placed himself by the side
of the young people in the carriage.
The road ran through a forest, and
scarcely had they fairly entered it when
two horsemen darted out from the brush
wood, with masks upon their faces, and
stopped the carriage. One of the persons
watched the postillion with a presented
pistol, while the other approached the
window and said —"We are adventurers,
and request you to give us up instantly
the portion of the 'Aide:"
The colonel and his son-in-law swore
and ranted, but the robber coolly insisted
upon his demand. After some parle) ing,
however, the horseman bent towards the
young man, and whispered in his ear
—"That you may see we are most reas
onable, we leave you the choice of the
two things—give us either the bride or
the portion; fur certain reasons it is quite
immaterial to us, and moreover, no one
shall ever know your decision."
The bridegroom did not think long a
' bout the matter, for he whispered, "Take
the bride:" "Brother," cried the robber
to his accomplice, "we shall take the
bridi l"
In the twinkling of an eye the soldier
seized his gentle son-in-law by the neck.
shook him violently, and exclaimed with
a thundering voice—"fla! villain! so my
was not unfounded, that you
cared not for my thunbte- h, it reiv
for her fortune! heaven nd lira\ t_n euetnai
my child and my money are not yet irre
vocably in your clutches! Know, then,
knave! the man who married you was no
clergyman, he was a brother soldier in
priest's attire, and these gentlemen are
no highwaymen, but friends who have
done me the service of proving you.
[Wm3LB No. 289.
Since, then, you have laid open your
whole vileness, we shall have no inure con
nection. I shall return home with my
daughter and my money, and you may go
to London—or to the devil, if yuu like."
With these words he transplanted the
astonished bridegroom with a kick from
the carriage to the road, and ordered the
postillion to turn about. The outlaw
trudged back to London, and had, while
upon the road, the fairest and best oppor
tunity of determining whether he should
now use a pistol, or throw himself into
the river.—N. Y. Mirror.
The Milford Bard.
The following in relation to the Mil
ford Bard, we extract from the New Or
leans Cresent City:
We know the unfortunate subject of
this article. Ten years ago he was the
centre of the most brilliant circle in his
native State, now a degraded drunkard
he is thrust into the society of alms-house
paupers! Ills story is soon told. He
was young, rich, and generous; posses
, sing the strong impulses which forms the
fountain head of the silver stream of poe
sy, his life was ono continued strain of
music, one long vibration of the golden
harp of love.
"Then came the curse of by gone years."
In the rich halls of fame their glided
in noiseless beauty, a creature of heavenly
brightness. The old tale!—the poet ad
ored the spirit of his soul, and she looked
on her worshipper with the cold, dull eye
of pride. Few of us are blessed with the
moral courage to survive disappointment
like this, and madly we fly to the dark
waters of the Lethe, even though they
drown but for a single moment the burn
ing thoughts which press their scorpion
stings deep into the brain. Far be it
from us to advocate the curse of intem
perance, but even while we deprecate, we
must look with pity upon those who have
been smitten with the plague-spot of this
horrid vice. Blindly he dashes on, reck
less of the future, and forgetting in his
delirium the green old days passed in the
glorious sunshine of youth. Ile has then
the broken hearted man, the dying notes
of the once rich song floated upon the ear
like the sigh of a wounded spirit at the
gate of heaven. The object of his early
love married. With a glazed eye and fa
ded hope, he sees the last plank torn from
his grasp, and hears the livid waters gur
gle in his ear. Then comes madness, and
the poet revels in the splendor of a lurid
ball. The dream is over, he has passed
through the altar of fire into Bael, but ho
is scathed, scathed to the quick! Step
by step he walks on to perdition, and one
by one his friends desert him. Still he
clings to her memory—still the sweet sad
song of the past is borne upon the wave
of sorrow.
Some two years ago an attempt was
made by some of his friends, to endeavor,
if possible, to save him from utter depre
dation, by placing him for a voluntary pe
riod in the Baltimore jail. I called one
evening to see him, he was gay and cheer
ful, but happiness was the thin upper
crust of his feelings. There was one sen
tence which I can never forget; it was
late, and the jailer informed me that Mr.
was rather unwell, and was about
retiring to rest. Yielding to my impor
tunities, however, he led the way to his
apartment. Peeping through the key-bole
I saw him engaged in prayer; his hands
were raised in mute supplication to heav
en, and tears were rolling down his cheek.
"Men call me drunkard! but oh, God !
forgive her who caused this wreck!"
The friend and companion of Thomas
Moore, he whose society was courted by
the first of the land, and around whose
!now fame would have thrown her richest
wreath, is now a degraded inmate of a
common asylum for paupers! He will go
down to the tomb unhonored—and the
hillock growing with weeds above his
head, will he pointed out by the passer by
as the "Drunkard's Grave."
Gems of Thought.
Liberty is to the collective body what
health is to every individual body. With
out health no pleasure can be tasted by
man, without liberty no happiness can be
enjoyed by society.--Bolingbroke.
The audience or the world requires
that he who aspires to act the part of a
great man, shall never for a moment for
get his character.—Bourienne.
Plays and romances sell as well as
books of devotion, but with this differ
ence: more people read the former than
buy them, and more buy the latter than
read them.--Tom 13rown.
Of all our infirniitiesvanity is ths
••• •••
to keep that alive.— Tom Brown.
Women have more strength in their
tears than we have in our arguments.—
' Saville.
The truly valiant dare every thing but
doing any body an injury.---Sir P. I).
'Sidney.