Vol,. VI, No. 341
EP.1113
O}• THE.
HUNTINGDON JOURNAL
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dingly,
AGENTS,
The Iffuntinulou Journal
Daniel Teagtw, Orbieonia; David Blair ,
Esq. Shade Gail; Benjamin Lease. airleyr
burg; Eliel Smith, Esq. Chilcottstown; Jas•
EntrilLen. jr. Ceiree Run; Hugh Madden,
Esq. S/zringfield; Dr. S. S. Dewey, Bir
mingham; James Morrow. Union Furnace;
John Sisl.•r. Warrior Mark; James Davis,
Esq. West township ; D. H. Moore. Esq
Franketown; Epic. Galbreath. Esq. Holli
daysburg; Henry Neff. Alexandria; Aaron
Burns, Williamsburg; A. J. Stewart. Water
Street; Wm. Reed. F.sq. Morris township;
Solomon Hamer. Aeff's Mill; James I )ysart.
Mouth Sfiruce Creek; Wm. Murray, Esq.
Graysville; John Crum. Manor Hill; Jas.
Jr.. Stewart. Sinking Valley; L. C. Kessler
Mill Creek.
POET RY
THE LkBORER,
ET WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
Stand up—erect ! Thou halt the form,
And likeness of thy God !—who more ?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.
What then ?—Thou art as true a Man
As moves the human mass among ;
As much a part of the Great Plan
That with Creations dawn began,
As an 3 of the throng.
Who 13 thine enemy ?—the High
In station, or in wealth the chief ?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step, and averted eye?
Nay ! nurse not such belief.
If true unto thyself thou watt,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee!
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Asiee. as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.
No :—uncurbed p tssims—low desires—
Absence of noble self-respect—
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
For ever, till thus checked :
These are thine enemies—thy worst ,
They chain the to thy lonely lot—
Thy labor and thy life accurst
Oh, stand erect ! and from them burst !
And longer suffer not !
Thou art thyself thine enemy !
The great !—what better they than thou!
As theirs, is not the will as free ?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?
True, wealth thou hast.not : 'tis but dust'
Nor place : uncertain as the wind !
But that thou bast, which, with thy crus t
And water, may dispise the lust
Of both a noble miiid.
With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then—thst thy little span
Of life may be well trod !
NEVER LOOK SAD.
Never look sad, nothing so bad
As getting familiar with sorrow,
Treat him to day, in a cavalier way,
And he'll seek other quarters to morrow,
Long you'd not weep could you but keep
At the bright side of every trial ;
Fortune you'd find, is often most kind,
When chilling your hopes with deaial.
Let the sad day, carry away,
Its own little burden of sorrow,
Or you may miss half of the bliss,
That comes in the lap of to-morrow,
THE JOUR AL.
HUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4, 1841.
MISCELLANY.
From the N. Y. Sunday Mercury.
Short Pategt Sermon..
BY "DOW, nt."
I have selected the following, by J. E.
Dow, a namesake of mine, as a text for
this occasion:
, 'Old Time! Old Time! you've passed away,
And men have sadly altered ,
The robber walks amid the day,
Unchided and unaltered.
The statesman talks away his time,
And leaves the people starving ;
The scales of Justice lean to crime,
And doctors cure by carving.
Kr HEARERS—Refinement and cor
ruption are always wedded together.
They are so closely allied that it is diffi
cult to distinguish which from which, or
'tother from tother. In fact, refinement,
such as we boast at the present day, is
nothing but a mass of corruption. coated
with a beautiful exterior of hypocritical
I pretension. Old Time has not wholly
passed away, as my text might seem to
imply ; for he is destined to drive his
chariot [the wheels to which are rolling
years] into the edge of eternity, before he
be reckiined among the has beens ; but
old times have passed away, and present'
times have fallen into such a state of de•
generacy, that 1 doubt much whether we
shall have any times at. all by and by.
We talk of improvement ! What kind of
improvement do we make? Man, after
having soared on the wings of science to
the celestial cities of the stars, and ex
plored the erial desert of space—having
gone up in balloons among the dark bih
lowed clouds, and ascertained by anali
zation, the component parts of thunder
and lightening—is, after all, farther off*
from heaven now than he was five hun
dred or a thousand years ago. By the
aid of telescopes and a kind of delusive
fancy, he brings objects from above, ap
parently near, and then foolishly imagines
that he at last has arrived at the very
deo, steps of Heaven ! What folly ! what
vainness !
Why, my friends—to tell you the plain •
truth, as we advance scientifically, in
tellectually, and socially, we digress
morally. There is no more mistate about
it than there is in twice two. Good mor
als can't exist where fashion and refine
ment are associated with vice. You
might as soon think of catching trout
1 1 from a putrid pool, or breeding inusqui
toes from a living spring. The morals of
this and every community have, fur a
long time, been growing downward, like
a cow's tail, while vice keeps turning up
and curling under, like the posterior em
bellishment of a cur. As the accoms
plished arts flourish, morality is left in
the shade ; and it cannot grow while such
weeds are sapping it of its vitality. While
this state of things remains, man may
grow wiser and wiser with each returning
( ; but depend upon it he can become
no better. We have among us a swarm
of tinkers of public morals; but while they
endeavor to stop one hole, they are sure
to make ten more—il they don't even ex
pose their own rottenness. In fact, my
fi lends, -morals are like an old shirt; they
look cleaner for washing, but at the same
time they arc worse than ever, and more
liable to rip in the back. The only way
to forward the growth of morality is to
cut away and make a bonfire of all such
noxious brushwood as avarice, cupidity,
venality, fashion, and selfishness, and
then it will flourish spontaneously upon
the uncultivated soil of the heart, and
make man appear as he once was—pure,
spotless and undefiled.
My dear friends—it is a melancholy
truth that man has sadly altered. 1 don't
believe lie looks any more like the model
the Creator made as a pattern for us all,
than a rib• nosed baboon looks like Prince
Albert or a king of the Cannibal Islands.
His moral attributes are not the same, and
hisextertor has lost all its original remarks.
Oh ! how degenerate is man and oh, how
corruption oozes from the sores of socie
ty l Not only the professional robber
walks unchided and unaltered in the
broad light of day, butyou also—yes, you,
ye unceremonious robbers--all of you,
are permitted to rob one another, "by
way of trade," as the saying is or in other
words "just fer a lark," with perfect ims
purity. Yes, you lie, cheat and steal all
the week for the sake of mammon, and
then go to church and pile up your sins at
the loot of the altar, and then hurrah for
more money, either by fair or by foul
means. You dare not deny it, you sin
scathed sons of avarice, that many of you
have been known to drive over dead men
dicants' bones, on your unhallowed er
rands of ; and I have no doubt
that many ofyou are only free from the
charge of picking pennies from a blind
beggar's hat, on the ground that no op
portunity has yet been afforded ! Now
my friends, you must know that you are
paying a heavy tax for the privilege of
being miserable; and I really wonder that
"ONE COUNTRY, ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE MUTINY."
A. W. BENEDICT . PUBLNSHER. AND PROPRIETOR.
you don't bring about a reform of self
government, and let peace, contentment
and happiness vnce more hang their ever
green wreathes in the blighted bowers of
the heart.
Our Congressmen my friends what are
they! Nothing but blood suckers upon
the cheek of Uncle Sam. They talk and
drink for eight dollars a day, and you laver
to stand the treat. Don't be deceived.—
While they pretend to be strengthening
the pillars which support our temple of
liberty, they are often. by their very acts,
undermining its base; and you must not
be surprised if the whole fabric come down
one of these days, with an awful crash,
and upon its ruins, spring up the deadly
upas of despotism. The fact heed not be
concealed that our Senators and Repre•
sentatives who are now feeding upon gov
ernment at the Distriet of Columbia, will
gamble at the faro banks, play cards, dice,
make use of profane language, quarrel,i
fight duels, and drink gin cocktails. —it
is true they go to church, but it is for
lorm's sake. They seldom read their
bibles, and their bosom is well stuffed
with pride and vanity. Instead of walk
ing and watching upon the watchtowers
of they nation, the are loafing, idling and
blackgurding their time awaay ; therefore,
don't be deceived, I repeat in your esti
mation of them over such hewers of wood
and drawers of water, as we common
folks are. They may preach as much as
they please about the rights and privileges
of the poor; all they care for is the glory
and honor of their stations. They are al- 1
ways ready to sacrifice paltry works for
the sake of freedom, but you don't catch
them sacrificing any tiling of greater val
ue.—They ask you to give them a roost
in the tree of office ? and what do they do?
—they eat the apples and then throw the
cores at your heads. Such are our states
men, and such is man at the present day.
Our doctors are working hard for death
and the devil on shares. There was a
time when they could live and let live:
but now they cut and slash at poor hu
manity, as though it was an inanimate
lump of clay. They feed the jaws of the
sepulchre with all the coldness and sang
froid that ever a menagerie keeper threw
a pluck at a tiger. But I will not dilate
upon this uncongenial topic.
My friends—as the good old days are
gone for ever and never more to return,
we must try to prevent the rust, which
has now gathered upon the times, from
spreading farther, rather than, in useless
endeavors, to rub it wholly off. If you
have a mind to try, there will be no diffi
culty in getting smoothly on, until you ar
rive at that blessed country where the
times are first rate, and strict morality
prevails forever and ever. —So mote it be?
From the Baltimore Ilfmtkment,
MISS BEFORE TEENS.
Mamma will you please to spread
A little sugar on my bread,
And mamma, dearest, if you please,
To cut a little bit of cheese,
Just a very little bit;
Sweet bread will eat so nice with it.
I'm grown too large now to be carried,
To-morrow, ma, mayn't I be married.
"Come Helen," said Mrs. Henderson
to her daughter, aged eleven, "put up your
beads and trinkets and prepare for bed,
it's almost eight o'clock.
"Indeed ma, I cannot afford to do any
such thing as to go to bed so soon," re
plied the young lady, "I'm entirely too
old to be talked too in such childish lan.'
gunge, and beside Mr. Kingston is to be
here at half past eight, there's his card in
the rack now."
Mrs. Henderson was dumb in astonish
ment for a few moments after her wo
manish daughter had done speaking, and
prompted by curiosity, she examined the
card rack, and sure enough, the .compli
ment of Mr George Kingston' was there
in old English letters on a beautiful em
bossed card. Mr. George Kingston had
just turned his thirteenth year, he wore a
stock,land flourished a silver headed cane.
Mrs. Henderson amused herself a short
time with the little emblem of the chil
dren's precocity, when replacing it in the
rack, and seating herself near Miss Ifie‘
len,. she resumed the conversation, by
saying—'and so George Kingston is to be
here at half past eight, is he I"
"Yes, ma, when he sent his card up
this morning, the messag e accompanying
it was that he would be here at that hour"
"And for what purpose?"
"Why ma, to talk about every thing,
like other people do."
"Fl hat sort of every thing?"
•Why the balls, and the theatre, Ran.
nington's Dioramas, and the Ravels, and
"Poh, child, hush, and hustle off to bed
—your a pretty mini to talk of entertain
ing a bi•au, with balls and nousense—
come, off with you."
"Minx, ma, what do you mean by that
Do you remember that I have been to
boarding school!"
"Yes, child I remember that you have
I been to boarding school, and I remember
taryoe've been to dancing school, and
there's where you met with Mr. George
Kingston, I suppose."
"Yes, ma, you know there's always a
few moment's leisure between the setts,
and then the ladies and gentlemen prom.
enaile and talk about the weather, aid a
, • thousand other pretty things."
• "And what kind of pretty things do
you and Geo. Kingston talk about."
"George Kingston! Ma, its Mr. Kings
ton, lie's as much right to be called Mr.
as any body. He rattanned Henry Cuth
berth for slighting me in the waltz, and I
don't like to hear him spoken of disrespect
fully."
"Nighty tighty, Miss Henderson! and
so I suppose we may expect a courtship
soon!"
“Courtslup, tndeetV we are not so fool
ish as to waste time in courtship, I can
tell you madam—and if you must know it
we have been engaged these two mouths”
This was a secret worth knowing, and
Mrs. Henderson, as soon as she received
the information, prompted by curiosity de
termined to await the arrival of Mr. Geo.
Kingston, to see how these youthful lov
ers would demean themselves in her pres
ence. In due time the little hero was an
nounced, and after a few handsome flour
ishes of his silver topped cane he seated
himself and began to play the man.
"How do you like the manner in which
Miss Fustain behaved, the other evening;
Miss Helen?' asked the infant wooer.
"At the ball-0 horrible, she's the most
ill behaved young lady in the world, and
she's to be married in four weeks, dtd .you
know it Mr Kingston?'
heard it in the theatre last night—
, you should have been there Miss Helen—
the play was excellent, and Miss St. Eus•
Mace fainted. You cannot conceive how
interesting she looked."
..Fainteil my gracious ! I What
made her fainer Mr. Kingston?"
"Slie.was so affected at Virginia's be
ing stabbed by her father, Miss Helen."
I don't wonder at it, any thing
at the theatre looks so natural, and she's
a chicken hearted creature. Did you ev
er see one so frightened as she was at the
Diorama?"
"She was very much frightened, Miss
Helen —and tore coin" of the buttons off
Mr. 14 ice's coat in clinging to him for sup
port. She'i:- to be married to Mr him in
the spring."
"To be married in the spring, and so
young Mr Kingston Ohy ma says 1
shwa these four years."
"She's a fortune, they say, Miss Helen
and Henry Howell's mother says he must
strike while the iron's hot',
' , The young lady was courted yew s a
go, Mr Kingston, and her first lover died;
she's been melancholy ever since, and
some say she's in a decline, I wunder if
its true?"
"I don't know, indeed— but the Ravels
Miss Helen, they are going away next
week, and we must see them before they
leave us, when can you go?"
"I can't tell exactly, Mr Kingston, may
be Monday night, I'll ask ma, and may be
she'll go with us--it will be so fine to
have her go with us. Will you go ma 7
“What are you talking about child:"
asked the mother, lifting her eyes from a
book she was pretending to read though
in truth she had been a listener to all that
had been said, and a trial it was to her to
preserve her gravity during the very ani
mated and interesting discussion.
"fthy, said Mr. George Kingston, 1
have invited Miss Helen to go and see
the Ravels again, and she requests that
you will accompany us madam —will you
be so kind?"
..0 yes, ma, do, it will be so fine, you
on one side of Mr. Kingston, and I on the
other, I guess Miss Fustian, and Miss
St. Eustace would feel very flat, both
their 'pothers forbid their beaux coming to
the house any more, and they're obliged
to meet away from home—do ma go with
us, willyour
Mrs Henderson had been exceedingly
amused at their friendly chit chat, and
she could suppress a smile when she re
membered that they had been engag ed
these two months,' truly, thought se
they will make a lovely couple, he Mir
teen and she eleven, and they conversing
with as much interest and freedom as if
they both were twenty; she laid her book
aside fur a moment, and soberly exclaim
ed—" Well I wonder what this world is
coming to 1"
The little lovers were completely thrown
off the track of their tete-a-tete; for it was
evident that the surprise of Helen's moth
er had arisen teem their conversation, and
her movement had too much meaning in
it for them to be mistaken. Miss Helen
looked at her mother with a fearful frown,
and Mr. Georg e Kingston shrugged up
his shuulders a nd looked towards his hat.
Discretion on his part was doubtless the
better part of valor—
For he who loves and rune away.
May live to love another day.
And after lie had flourished his silver
mounted cane, and pulling his watch from
his pocket, and adjusted his shirt collar,
he arose to take his departure.
Miss Helen, after sad ink he need nut
...is, Helen, alter sa . iing
be in a hurry—it was nut late, and so on,
seized upon the only light in the room to
illuminate the dark hall which Mr. tieo.
Kingston was necessarily obliged to pass
through to reach the street door, and away
they walked, leaving Mrs. Henderson in
total darkness where she waited until she •
was tired for the return of Miss Helen
with the light, and then hollowed to the •
door to ascertain what the loving couple
wete about, and they being so thoroughly
absorbed in the estacy of affection, did nut
discover that she was looking at them,
until she had seen Mr. Kingston kiss He
len :several times--his arms v ere about
her neck; and she was reclining very af•
lectionately upon his shoulder, when the
eyes of the young swain chanced to raise
upwards, and encountered the gaze of the
astonished toothier. It was needless to
say that Mr. George Kingston scampered
ell at a pretty considerable gait, and Miss
/Men retui rind mortified to the sitting
room where her toothier having readied
before her, was waiting with a fine pair of
`cat o' nine tails.' which she put into ope
ration to the no little dicothfil ore of the
young lady's arrangements. The poor
child thought it hard that she should be so
treated for being in love, and as to the
kisses—why she imagined they were per•
fectly in place. mother thought nth
erwise, and from that time forth Miss Me
ien was forced to retire to bed at eight o'
clock.
From the Plymouth (Maas.) Memorial.
THE PAS lOU OF CAHOKIA.
A WESTERN SKETCIt
"No sculptured marble points to tell
Where sleeps the holy man:
Yet are his works remembered•well,
In yon red hunter's land."
Father Antoine is held in dear remem•
brance at Cahokia to this day, as the meek
and holy priest who led the founders of
that lonely hamlet through their toilsome
pilrgrimage, and soothed them in the hour
of trial or danger, with the balm of heav
enly love. Civil rulers were appointed
over them, but every magistrate confided
all authority to him. The sword of jus
tice rested in its scabbard, for the simple
crosier, of the priest was found sufficient
to restrain the arm of wrong or violence.
The bold and restless spirit cowered in
his presence, while the feeble and despon
ding heart was nerved with fortitude at
his approach. His counsel re•assnred the
strong; his prayers consoled the sick, and
to the view of the departing soul, the
beams of hope his smile diffused, illumin
ed the portals of the grave.
Careless of the fame and honor which
the world can give he was content to bury
in the solitude of an unbroken wilderness
his name and virtues, unknown, and unre
garded by the vast majority of men. His
life was not devoted solely to the coun
trymen with whom he dwelt; it was his
aim to Christianize, and thus reclaim the
native tribes around. He made himself
familiar with the Indian language, visited
the red man in his cabin, and conveyed to
him the principles of what he deemed a
sure and saving faith. At his bidding,
chaples were erected in the midst of the
native villages, and while he ministered
before the altar the unlettered children of
the wilderness assembled around him, as
the ancient shepherds of Thessaly are
said to have gathered about Apollo, when
banished from the skies.
Among the people of his charge was a
young orphan girl, whose parents had died
soon after their rrrival in the land of their
adoption. This young orphan was the
object of his special care. He took upon
himself alone the trust of her support and
education. Nor were the gushing sym
pathies of his warm heart misplaced.
Gratitude to her protector, deep and ear
nest gratitude became with her the all ab
sorbing motive of existence. When he
was near, she watched his countenance to
learn his wishes and anticipate his wants.
kVhen he was absent, all the burden of
her anxious heart was but to do his will
and win a kind, approving smile m► his re
turn. Her prompt attention to the les
sons he assigned her, and her rapid pro.
gress through the various grades of learn
ing, often drew from him expressions of
admiring joy, till his attachme.►t to the
true and docile child exceeded, if it could
be, even a parent's love. Little did he
think so soon to have the strength of his
affection tried.
An Indian and a Frenchman had been
out in company to hunt, and when the
chase was over, some dispute arose about
the game. Both became excited, and
the Frenchman in an evil moment, yield
ing to the impulse of his anger, shot the
Indian through the heart, Well knowing
that the natives would demand for this
rash act the forfeit of his life, the offender
Hastily made his escape. The melancholy
[WROLE No. 294.
tidings soon were heralded abroad, and
all Cahokia assumed the
_sadness of de
spair. Man gazed with an anxious and
misgiving eye upon his fellow man—the
matron clasped the unconscious infant to
her heart in breathless terror, and even
the fresh, ruddy cheek of thoughtless
youth grew pale. All knew the certain
ty of savage vengeance, but could rely . on
no source to avert it. On first receiving
news of the affray, the pious Father had
retired and bowed himself in prayer be
fore the altar of Ida God. Beside him
knelt the tender object of his love and
care, and fervently implored the arm of
Heaven to protect the hamlet for his sake.
While thus engaged actowil broke in on
their devotions, and with shrieks exclaim
ed— " they come—they come—the Indi ins
come—go meet them holy Father, go!"
The priest arose, and, pausing only to
pronounce a benediction on the child, de
parted. A mighty host of braves were
now advancing, some with torches flaming
in the wind, the rest with arrows on the
string. The feeble company of villagers
might as well have hoped to stay the
tempest in its wrath, as to withstand their
hold advance. The pious Father in his
,nicertlotal robes approached them, and
the chief came forth to meet him. After
a brief and hasty salutation, the frowning
warrior thus began—" The blood of a Ca
hokian has been shed ; give up the mur
dorer to our hands, or yonder village shall
be burnt to (Lilies, and no living thing in
it be spared." "The murderer," replied
the priest, "has fled, and we know not
whither." "Then," resumed the chief,
with threatening aspect, "let us have the
girl that you have trained with so much
care ; nothing less shall save your pee
plc." The pious Father heaved a groan
that spoke of agony to deep for utterance,
and fell upon his knees to ask that other
terms might be proposed ; but the wrath
ful chief would not allow another word,
and with a bursting heart he rose to re•
turn.
As he approached the villagers, every
one pressed near the holy man to inquire
what terms the Indians had proposed.
"They will spare us," said the priest,
"only on the condition that we deliver up
what I never will consent to sacrifice—
let its prepare to die." On saying this
he led the way towards the chapel and
beckoned all the rest to follow. Arriving
at the door he looked around for the ten
der object of his care, but she was gone ;
all eyes were turned to look for her, when
they beheld her far away, and hurrying
with her utmost speed towards the Indi
ans. The priest gazed wildly for a mo
ment, and then rushing into the chapel, in
the anguish of his soul, threw himself on
tile floor before the altar. Others watch
ed the movement of the child, and when
she reached the braves,
a shout was heard
from that wild band that shook the chapel
walls. A moment after all their arms
and torches were thrown down, and the
i chief advancing, took her by the hand,
and led her back, attended by the braves.
The priest had risen from the floor, and
as he saw the child returning, raised his
voice in gratitude to Heaven. The chief
approached him saying, "Holy Father,
I restore this noble child, and for her sake
will spare your people." e. c.
Hard to Catch.
"Will you pay me my bill, sirr said a
tailor in Charles street, to a waggish fel
low who had got into him about a feet.
"Do you owe any body any thing, sir:"
asked the wag.. .
"No, air," said the tailor.
"Then you can afford to wait,"—and
he walked WE
A day or two afterwards the tailor cal.
led again. Our wag was not at his wit's
end yet; so turning on his creditor, he
says—" Are you in debt to any body 7"
"Yes, sir," says the tailor.
"Well why the devil don't you pay?"
asked the wag.
"Because 1 cannot get the money," an•
swered the tailor.
"That's just my case, sir," said the
wag. "I am glad to see you can appre
ciate my condition, give me your hand.—
crescent City.
True to filature.
A sign painter near our office has pair.-
ted a raw beef steak so exquisitely. that
the dogs wag their tails and look wish_
bullyevery tune they pass the window.—
N.
There is another who paints game so
naturally, that a setter cannot pass the
winnow without pointing at it. Neither
of these, however, have reached that per
fection in the art which has been attained
by a New Orleans painter, of whom the
.Picayune speaks. It is said that he pain
ted a ine shingle the other day, so exact
ly resembling marble, that when thrown
into the river it instantly sank to the
bottom.
"Vocalists are very stxu•ular people,'
says Streeter.