I
VoL. VII, No. 20.]
PUBLISHED BY
THEODORE H. CREMER,
TERMS.
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POETRY.
The Rome-Bound Bark.
Yris the winter deep!
And the sea towls sweep
Afar o'er the gloomy tide,
And the wild waves dash,
'Heath the signal's lash,
Where the foamy tempests ride.
And dark and drear,
On the seamen's ear,
Hang the vulture's raving cry ;
Like the startled breath,
Of some fiend of death,
In wait for the souls that die.
The sails are rent—
The stout mast's bent—.
And the helm and bowsprit gone ;
And fast and tar,
',Mid the below) , war,
The foundering bark drives on,
'the shriek and prayer,
And the wan despair,
Of hearts thus torn away,
Are seen and heard,
ay the ravening bird,
Is chase of his drowning prey
Oh, many a sire.
By the low red fire,
Will wake through this night of we,
For those who sleep,
'Neath the surges deep,
Ten thousand fathoms low.
And many a maid,
In the lonely glade,
For her absent love will mourn ;
And watch and wail,
For the home-bound sail,
That will never more return)
Mourn not for the dead,
On their sandy bed,
Nor their last long sleep deplore;
But mourn for those,
In their home of woes,
Who weep for evermo7c.
It Is not always May.
sIY PROFESSOR LON,FELLOW.
The sun is bright—the air is clear,
dartling swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elm I hear
The blue bird prophesying spring.
So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new--the buds, the leaves,
That guild the elm-tree's nodding crest ;
And e'en the nest beneath the eaves ;
There are no birds in last years nest!
AU things rejoice in youth and love,
The fullness of their first delight ;
And learn from the soft heavens above,
The melting tenderness of night.
Maiden that read'st this simple ryhme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh, it is not always May !
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest!
Tor time will teach thee soon the truth— ,
There are no birds in last year's nest.
Hidden Grief.
A grief that hidden lies
Within the tortured breast,
Is oft revealed by weeping eyes,
When all seems bright and blest.
When laughter loudest rings,
And mirth and gladness play,
-I The tell-tale tear too often springs,
To chase delight away.
THE JOURNAL.
ICIBOELLIANEOI7O.
Selected by a Lady for the Journal, and
fiublished at her requeet.
Hints to Young Ladieg.
HABITS OF CONVERSATION.
Our habits of conversation are some
times understood to embraCe our entire
intercourse with one another. This is a
very natural application of the term, since
our whole intercourse is held and conduc
ted through the medium of speech. The
powerful influence we exert on one anoth
er, is a sufficient reason for all the cautions
expressed in the word of God on this sub=
sect, and may well justify the place we
now assign it in these hints.
But it may be asked—" Why address
young ladies particularly on such a subject
as this?" They are at liberty, then, to
presume that I would say nothing to them,
which I would not also say to all others.
Yet I will claim the special attention of
young ladies for one reason, which con
veys a compliment :--their controlling in.
fluence, and their acknowledged powers
of conversation, impose a weight of respon
sibility on them, which attaches to no other
class. These very circumstances, too,
surround them with peculiar temptations
as well as responsibilities. A sword may
be harmless when kept under bolts and
bars, or when wielded by a man of pru
dence and peace. But in the hands of a
maniac, or of unprincipled ambition, who
would not fear it? Without a figure,
young ladies .an kill with their tongues;
and the cavalry, which would resent a
rude affront, yields its feelings, and even
truth and life itself to gallantry. Wea
pons capable of such a use, you will say,
ough always to be true, and controlled by
stern principle and prudence.
By an inspired apostle, the tongue
among our members is compared to the
helm, which, although comparatively
small, gives direction to a mighty ship : —
When ungoverned, it is ".a world of ini
quity, that defileth the whole body; a
fire, that setteth on fire the course of
nature, and is set on fire of hell." In
deed, a licentious tongue is represented
by the same apostle as a sure evidence
of an unsanctified heart. But the wise
man has said—" The tongue of the wise is
as choice as silver"—" it is health"--" it
is a tree of life"—" whose keepeth his
tongue, keepeth his soul from trouble.".
The wise, then, will use the tongue
with the prudence they would use a two
edged, sharp-pointed sword. " Death
and life," says Solomon, " are in the
power of the tongue." They will set
guard on it r.s on a fire. They will re
gard it, when well kept, as choice silver,
—as health,—as a tree of life. Such, says
divine inspiration, is "the tongue among
our members." "Therewith bless we
God, even the Father, and therewith curse
we men." It is the instrument of praise
and of blasphemy. It represents the mind,
the heart, the immortal spirit within. It
is the herald of our ,thoughts, the pencil
which spreads out on canvass the images
of our inward and moral visions, seen and
read of all men. It is the seal, too, of our
principles, at once exposing and giving
them durable form in the soul.
How much we are influenced by con
versation, all can testify. What we hear
makes a direct impression on the mind.
We carry it home, think of it, repeat it,
converse upon it. We do not readily
expel the image it has formed in the mind,
whether of pleasure or of pain. We
attend a social party. What was said
there forms the object of attention which
we carry with us : what we have said is
carried away by others. We hear of it
again. It is ours. It must be maintained.
It decides our course, and controls our
character. If it be wrong, we try to per
suade oursel4es it is right. It is right in
our premises. We cannot recede. If it
be a sword, which has entered deeply into
the reputation of our neighbor, we hold
the hilt, and our reputation becomes invol
ved also. If it be a fire kindled on our
neighbor's dwelling, we have struck the
spark, and must justify the deed.
Passions become flagrant by indulgence.
Speech is one of the channels of gratifica
tion. Bad tempers, restrained, are more
easily controlled than after they have been
permitted to express themselves and come
abroad through the organs of speech.—
They have pervaded another portion of the
body, and claim all the territory they thus
acquire. Malignant passion may be stifled
in the bosom ; but, like combustible gases,
they explode when exposed to atmospheric
air, and in contact with the fire of the
tongue. Such is our experience; and
hence it is not, perhaps, without a reason
in the constitution of human nature that
the sin, which has no forgiveness, employs
the tongue to reach its transcendent enor
mity. Our words are our own only while
they remain unexpressed. When pub
lished, they are common property. They
present our character, and we must be
judged by it. An eminent Roman, sur.
named Silentius, condemned himself to
"ONE COUNTRY, ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY."
HUNTINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA, WEDNESDAY, MAY 25, 1842,
silence for nine years, because he had been
imprudent in speech. Better thus to be
silent forever; yes, better to cut out the
tongue as well as to pluck out a right eye,
than to make them the Instrument of con
demnation to hell.
If our conversation, in the entire influ
ence it exerts on character, and the exten
sive and remote consequences always
attending it, be fully considered, it can
hardly fail to receive the attention, which
will avail to rectifyfits originating principle,
and to give it direction. This attention
is due, first to the source whence, as from
a fountain, all conversation flows, and to
the regulation of it in detail. As the heart
is the seat of the moral feeling and affec
tions, from which thought itself originates,
so it is alone the source of all speech and
action, since these are but the same feel
ings, affections, or thoughts embodied.--
" Out of the heart proceed evil thoughts
and all uncleanness,"—and "out of the
abundance of the heart the mouth spea
keth." Attention should be directed first
of all, then, to the heart. Let that be
right, and all its streams, whether they flow
in thoughts, words, or deeds, will be pure.
But let its bitterness and hate begin to
flow, and its very action will generate a
deadly poison which shall pervade all the
fountains of moral life. The principle
awl fruitful source of evil lie deep rooted
in the heart. Extirpate that, and the bud,
blossom, and fruit must wither too. But
when that is vigorous and cherished, the
tree will become strong and productive,
as the fruit is left to ripen and luxuriate.
Another important, though secondary
means of treating a corrupt tree is, to sup
press the fruit as it begins to appear in the
bud, and prevent its perfection. It will
then not be exposed to the fatal taste of
others, and the tree may be stinted in its
growth, if not killed at the root. Thus, if
we cut off the words, which are coming to
the expression of an evil thought, or sup
press the thoughts that are springing up
from native principles of depravity, the
soul will be disciplined and reformed like
a luxuriant soil under the hand of diligent
culture. If not thus entirely subdued and
limited to a wholesome vegetation, it is
reclaimed from the wilderness, and be
comes a moral garden, fenced and fruit-
I ful.
This discipline must be the result of
much labor and effort in the practice of
wholesome restraints. Law must be rigidly
applied to the mind, vagrant and always
exposed to the influence of depraved and
long-cherished desires, or its native de
pravity will control the conversation in
spite of conviction, and all our lessons of
morality.
The first rule we should prescribe to
ourselves will teach us not to talk toomuch.
The mind is strengthened by reflection.
But great talkers are rarely deep think
ers. They advance shallow opinions
diluted by a flood of words. As words
are the signs of ideas, a tongue that can
never be silent must use thoughts as they
rise, without selection or maturity. Such
is the language of the maniac, between
whom and a perpetual talker the resem
blance is too striking not to have been
remarked by all.
Much talking, also, leads to exaggera
tion, and often to falsehood. Confidence
is not readily extended to great talkers,
and this without any personal feelings of
dislike or prejudice. The tongue that
cannot rest, naturally goes from its ex
hausted store of things, known to airy
fields of imagination and invention. The
moral sense cannot abide the issue, and is
soon violated, if not utterly deranged.—
Let your thoughts always go before your
tongue. Whoever reverses this order
will soon find a fire kindled bythis world
of iniquity," which is truly represented in
the Scripture as " set on fire of hell,"
NVho can tame the tongue when thus let
loose upon better reason 7
Avoid all profaneness in conversation.
Profane expressions are too common even
among ladies, where profanity, as that
term is commonly understood, is excluded.
All is profane, which weakens in the mind
a reverence for God, and which, either in
word or sentiment, associates unworthy
thoughts of Him. How often do we hear
from it thoughtless tongue the exclamation,
" 0 Lord !" If it be not used malignantly
or profanely, yet it borders on profanity,
and indicates the absence of that high
reverence, which should always be asso
ciated with every name we apply to
'Jehovah. Such expressions cannot be
used without an injury to that high moral
sense, which is the only defence of princi
ples. Of a similar effect is the habit of
quoting scriptural expressions for any but
serious purposes. They are the word of
God, and should never be brought in aid
of sport or ridicule.
Our conversation should be true, seri.
ous, and instructive, This is urged upon
us by the brevity of life, and the solemn
consequences depending on the manner in
which we spend it. A cheerful temper is
entirely consistent with the habit now re
commended. Indeed it is appi opriate to
a life of duty and a consciousness of rec-
titude. We may smile at what is pleasing;
we may laugh and be playful without pro
faneness, levity, or thoughtlessness. But
when we consider the effect of jesting and
foolish talking on the interests of truth
and the entire moral feelings, how easily
justice is perverted and equity turned
aside by ridicule, or a trifling turn of con
versation, we cannot be too much on our
guard,.nor wonder that the Saviour pre
scribed that, for every idle word, we
should be called to give an account in the
day of judgment.
Not only the conversation which is per. I
vicious and profane, but that which is
merely unprofitable, should be excluded
from our social intercourse. Our powers
of speech were given us, not only not to
tempt us to sin, not only not to be wasted
in unprofitable pursuits, but also to bring
a tarp revenue to our improvement and
happiness. Mere unprofitableness, there
fore, in the use of this talent will produce,
our condemnation. Where, more than in I
a circle of gay and sprightly youth, can I
God be honored in praise, and excitements
be furnished to love and good works?—
.. Is any afflicted Let him pray. Is
any merry? Let him sing psalms." Is
ihis dull and condemnatory Folly and
ignorance and an evil heart may say, yes.
But conscience, and experience, and sober
reason, and divine wisdom say, no. The
history of the world says, no. A voice
from heaven says, no. A response from
hell cries, no. Let youth say, no. Let
all that hear and reflect say, no. Our
voices are educated here for the expres
sion of only two states of feeling hereafter.
either high-sounding joy in heaven, or
deep-toned wo in hell. This single ref
erence is a conclusive argument against
foolish, vain, unprofitable and sinful con-
Sersation.
The selection of proper subjects of con
versation is an important means of recti
fying it. '!'hey should be proper and in
structive as well as entertaining. Some
are alwais talking about persons. These
are slanderers. They embitter their own
feelings by constant personalities, and
make enemies of others. They render
themselves unhappy, unprofitable, and a
dread of their neighbors. Others make
printhiiies'and thing§ the subject of their
conversation. These avoid the bitterness
and enmities which the others excite.-
1 They, moreover, gain and impart knowl
edge that is profitable, anti suited to a
wide and practical application; while
those who are , discussing the character of
their neighbors, never fail to spend their
principal strength on trifles, and die in
the pursuit of small game. ‘Vllkneed
never to be at a loss for profitable litibjects
of conversation. Principles, science, re
ligion, public charities, benevolent Triter
prise, history, present and past, philoso
phy, with hundreds of other subjects, may
be ever at hand to exclude slander, fashion
and folly. We do not always, however,
find a profitable subject entertained by the
company, nor a suitable opportunity to
introduce it. There is one remedy left,
and always available,—silence.
There are yet two or three practical
rules which belong to this subject, and
which my limits only allow me to allude
to. First, let me say, never interrupt
others while speaking. To do it, is the
height of impoliteness. A true gentleman,
you may have observed, never does it. A
real lady will not do it. if she does, her
character is yet incomplete. When I see
two young ladies talking at the sane time,
and in the same circle, and on the same
subject, in a contest of words to see which
shall outrun the other, I say to myself,
'!'here has been some mistake in their
education. Do you know any such young
ladies? Let your answer to this question
furnish you with a rule for your own
direction.
Another rule, which good sense and
propriety will dictate, is not to talk too
long. This error naturally leads to the
former. After stating our opinion, com• i
mon civility requires that we should wait f or
the opinions of others. When the subject
has been suitably discussed, or is exhaus
ted, dismiss it. The introduction of a
new one, will impart the charm of novelty,
and awaken fresh interest. Never mo
nopolize the conversation, especially if
others are engaged in it. After they have
heard you, listen to them without iinpa•
tience. Even if their conversation is not
as interesting to you as your own has
been, it is a gross self-compliment and a
breach of good manners to yawn through
their reply, or be inattentive to it.
Talk not to loud. This is rude, and
nothing but endurance, sometimes exten
ded towards it too tar, prevents it from
being despicable. It certainly is inconsis
tent with true modesty; it offends delica
cy ; it is an annoyance to all sober think
ers, and is very bad taste. You never'
heard a lady talk on a sober subject, nor
make a sensible remark, in a loud over.
reaching. or boisterous tone. A subdued
mariner is suited to rational conversation.
Gentlemen may be amused by a great
talker and forward manners, but they will
reserve their /rations for the modest and
sensible young lady, who speaks in an I
under tone, with the confidence which
knowledge inspires, and amid the blushes
of that natural modesty so absolutely
necessary to female influence and dignity.
Let it be observed, that these rules and
instructions refer to the formation of ha
bits; and they neither are designed
to invade the whole circle of subjects
which concern us in every relation we
sustain, nor to exclude the pleasantries
which are suited to create tht smile or the
laugh. Under proper rules, our amuse
ments are as innocent as our prayers. But
our habits form the great lines of charac
ter, with which we go to the awards of
eternity. With this prospect in view, and
under the judgment of sober reason, I am
sure the principles here inculcated will
be approved. Beyond this, I cannot hope
to gain attentiou.—Mother's Magazine.
The Lieutenant's Bride:
BY ELLEN ASHTON.
It was the annual ball at West Point.
The room was elegantly decorated with
flags hung in festoons, sabres Formed into
stars, and all the other paraphernalia of
military glory. The fluor was crowded
with officers of the army and navy, of ev
ery rank, from the midshipman and cadet
' upward. The military band of the post
occupied the orchestra. Never, perhaps,
has there been assembled at IVest Point a
prouder assemblage of beauty, than that
which then entranced the beholder. There
were dark brunettes from Baltimore; gol
den-haired Hebes from Charleston; tall, l
stately beauties horn Philadelphia; gay
belles from the mote ostentatious New
York ; and even the fair blonde daughters
of New England, with their blue eyes,
their clear complexions, their proud dig•
nity of mien. But among that brilliant
array there was one preem inently beauti
ful. Tall and shapely in her figure, she
moved through the room with the stately,
motion of a swan, elicitin g admiration from
dress every beholder. Her was simple,
yet costly and beautiful. It was evident
that the severest taste presided over the
toilette of the fascinating Ellen Belvoir;!
for fascinating every one felt her to be who
had listened, though but for a moment, to
her gay sallies, or tier subdued sentiment.
Her every look, word and motion was
grace itself. She possessed that rare com
bination of qualities which constitutes the
lady, in contra-distinction to the mere pre
tender. But it was not her manners
alone th-tt rendered her so. Her polite
ness was that of the heart. She was no
mere automaton ; she would have been
equally as affable and kind had she been
born in a cottage. But alas! it was the
inislot tune of Ellen Belvoir to have been
born of a noble family; and she had been
brought up with high notions of the. supe
riority of blood. In this originated a trait
of her character which is shared by tdu
many of her sex—a scorn for all who could
not trace their lineage to an equally noble
origin with hems. But now, surrounded
by admirers, and excited by the gay scene
around, even Ellen Belvoir had fur the'
moment forgotten her prejudices.
" Who is that elegant man?" she said
to her cousin, during an intermission be
twixt the sets, glancing towards a noble
looking officer in the uniform of a captain
in the army, "he has been in the room a
full half hour, and yet lie has not asked to
be introduced to me. I declare."
Ah! cuz, you will make him repent of
it yet," laughingly replied her cousin, " or
I mistake your sex. But see, he is coining
this way. He is an old messmate of mine,
and I will introduce him—all! Captain
Stanley—glad to see you," and advancing
from Ellen's side, her cousin grasped the
hand of the approaching officer. The sal
utation was warmly returned, and for a
while the two friends were engaged in
talking of the events that had transpired
to each since they last met. At length
Stanley's eyes happened to fall on the
spiritual face of Miss Belvoir, and from
their look of admiration tier cousin knew
at once that an introduction would be con
sidered a favor. lie accordingly present
ed the young officer to Ellen, and, after a
few remarks, sauntered across the room,
leaving his cousin and Stanley together.
What is so favorable to love as a gay
ball-rooml and what ball-room is so dan
gerous as that of West Point? Both El
len and Stanley were soon lost to every
thing except each other. They danced
together and promenaded in company, un- ,
til they became the objects of whispered
though general remark. Before the fes
tivities of the evening had terminated, it
was universallygossipped about that the
beautiful Miss Belvoir, and the hitherto
heart-free Captain Stanley, had fallen mu
tually in love. Some affected to sneer at
it, seine wondered how it did happ en; but
all agreed that the two were the finest
couple in the room, and were admirably
fitted for each other.
The gossip of a ball•room was, for once,
right. Ellen Belvoir had passed three
winters since her coming out, without
[WixoLE No. 332.
meeting with any one to subdue her virgin
heart; but from the first moment she saw
Stanley she felt a strange interest in him:
His gallant bearing, his•polished manners,
his fine conversational powers, and above
all a certain frankness of deportment to
ward her, so different from the sickening
flattery aily poured into her ears, appeal
ed at once to her fancy, and scion subdued
her judgment. She felt that Stanley was
one to whom she could look up, and she
knew that only such a character could
possess her love. His eloquent tones vi=
brated in her ears long after they had par
ted for the night, and even in her dreams
she saw his manly form bending adini;
ringly over her.
Stanley had been equally charmed with
his partner. Years had elapsed since he
had been appointed to one of the stations
on the far west, and during that period he
had been completely excluded from refined
female society. He occupied the time in
picturing. to himself the beau ideal of a be
ing such as he could choose for a wife. On
his return to the east he had met many
lovely beings, whose attractions his friends
thought him incapable of resisting; but
many a year had passed ; and he appeared
even less susceptible than on his return.
He had sought in vain to realize his roman
tic dreams, and finding it impossible, was
content to enjoy the reputation of a con
firmed bachelor. Now, hOwever, he tho't
he had met the divinity which he hail so
long adored in secret, for, in Ellen Bel
voir, he fancied he saw every trait which
he sought to have in a wife. As he be
came more intimate with the lovely girl,
he grew more confirmed in his first im
pression; and, after a fortnight's sojourn
at West Point, where Miss Belvoir had
been passing the summer, Stanley became
completely in love. Nor was Ellen less
enamoured of the young officer whose gal
lant bearing attracted every eye, and whose
service in the field had already won for
him an enviable name. When, therefore,
Stanley proposed for her. hand, Ellen ac
cepted it, for she was an orphan, an heir
ess, and already in possession of tier prop
erty. It was arranged that the marriage
should take place the ensuing winter.
The lovers at length parted, but only
'tor two short months, preparatory to their
marriage. Business called the lieutenant
to Washington, while his affianced bride,
accompanied by her cousin, returned to
Boston, by the way of Albany.
It was at the close of a hot, sultry day;
that the carriage in which they travelled
threw up at a neat public house, in one of
1 the most quiet villages which are scattered
through Massachusetts. They had jour
neyed the whole day through the moun
tains, and the sight of the white ion, with
its green venetian shutters, and its pretty
garden in the rear, all betokening the tidi
ness of the owner, was peculiarly refresh
ing to the travellers. The pleasant looking
widow lady who met them at the door, in
creased their delight with the place.
"A sweet village, you have here," said
the gentleman on alighting, as he followed
the landlady to a sutall but exquisitely neat
parlor.
" Yes sir, although it is small," answer
ed the landlady—" it is rarely that we have
many strangers visiting here, and so the
place is much as it was in the days of our
fathers."
There was something in the low, sweet
modulated tone of the speaker, which made
the interrogator start. Surely that voice
belonged to no common innkeeper's widow.
There wed that finish in the tones which is
the surest evidence of a refined mind. His
cousin seemed to notice this also, for when
the landlady had retired, she said i
Our hostess is certainly above the
common order—one would almost think
she had been born a lady, and transformed
by some malignant genius into a common
innkeeper's widow."
a She is obviously a woman of educition
—perhaps some one whom distress has
driven to this business fot a livelihood.—
She has not always kept an inn be esse
red, cu.,"
"Still, nothing ought to have induced
her to stoop to so degrading an occupa
tion," said his fair cousin, her prejudices
at once taking the alarm, " there are ways
enough in which an empoverished lady
can obtain a livelihood, without resorting
to the trade of an innkeeper. Pshaw! coz,
you are wrong, after all--the fact of her
having adopted this business is a sufficient
proof that she is no lady," and she gave a
somewhat haughty toss of her head as she
spoke.
When after an hours' rest they met at
supper, they were ushered into a neat
room, a door from which opened into an
apartment beyond, apparently a bed room.
'I his door was ajar, disclosing a portrait
hanging on an opposite wall. The light
in this inner apartment was somewhat
dim, but Ellen could distinguish that the
picture represented a young man in uni
form, a second glance assured her that
the portrait was that of her affianced lover.
She started, and looked again. But she
could not be deceived. The broad brow,
the searching eye, the whole cast of coun-