Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, October 26, 1847, Image 1

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VOL XII, NO. 43.
punliehed hereafter at the following rates, viz
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No subscription taken for less than six months,
ed no paper discontinued until all arrearages are
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shall receive the Journal one year for his trouble.
'['he flowers all are fading,
Their sweets are rifled new,
And night sends forth her shading
Along the mountain brow;
The bee Rath ceased its winging
To flowers at early morn ;
The birds have ceased their singing,
And silent wait the dawn;
The harvest now is gathered,
Protected from the clime;
The leaves are seared and withered,
That late shone in their prime.
Thus when fourscore years are gone,
O'er the frail life of man,
Time site heavy on his throne,
As near his brow we scan;
Like the Autumn leaf that falls
When winds the bunches wave;
Like night-shadows, daylight palls,
Like all, he finds a grave.
Give to him that asketh thee !
if the poor pass thy door,
Give him of thy bounteous store;
Give him food, and give him gold,
Give him shelter front the cold ;
Aid him his lone life to live,
For 'tie angel-like to give.
Though world riches thou host not,
(live to him of poorer lot ;
'Think thee of the widow's mite,
In the Holy Master's sight:
it was more a thousand fold,
Than the rich man's hoard of gold.
Give ! it is the better port ;
Give to him, the poor in heart;
Give of love in large degree,
Give of hope and sympathy ;
Cheer to them who sigh for corn,
Light to him whose life is gone.
Give the gray-haired wanderer room;
Lead him gently to the tomb;
Let him not in friendless clime,
Float down the tide of time;
Ifeer the mother's lonely cull,
.''he, the dearest one of all.
And the lost, ahandoncd one,
In thy pathway do not Atm;
Of thy kindnoss she hoth need ;
Bind with halm the bruised reed ;
Give, and gifts aboi,e all price,
Shall be thine in Paradise.
Ilarney's Dragoons.
The correspondent of the New Orleans
Delta furnishes additional memoranda
of the battles of the 19th and 20th Au
gust. The following is a paragraph
from them :
After the works at Churubusco had
been carried by storm, the Dragoons,
under their valiant leader, Col. Harney,
were ordered forward to pursue the re
treating foe—and onward they went,
like winged messengers of death, their
bright sabres glittering in the sunbeams,
amidst the huzzas of the light troops,
flushed with the victory over the fort.
The horses seemed to partake of the en
thusiasm of their riders, and dashed for
ward with supernatural strength ; and
in this spirit and state of feeling they
overtook the retreating army, and con
tinued to cut them down to the very
gates of the city, when the enemy in
his fortifications at the city, seeing that
the cavalry would inevitably run in be
hind his breastworks unless something
desperate was done, opened his batter
ies with grape and round shot, through
the masses of his own retreating sol
diers. As soon as Col. Harney perceiv
ed the exposure of his command, he had
a the recall sounded and the Dragoons or
dered back, but they did not hear in
time enough to save the whole command,
and sonic gallant officers were wounded.
Capt. Kearney lost an arm; Lt. Graham,
Lt. Mcßeynolds, and a sergeant were
killed, and two or three privates woun
The Art of Rising.
The Duke of Grammont was the most
adroit and witty courtier of the day.--
He entered one day the closet of Cardi
nal Mazarin without being announced.
His eminence was amusing himself,
jumping close-legged against the wall.
To surprise a prune minister in so boy
ish an occupation, was dangerous, and
a less skilful courtier might have
stammered excuses and retired. The
Duke entered briskly, and cried, "I'll
bet you a hundred crowns, that I jump
higher then your eminence," and the
Duke and the Cardinal began to jump
for their lives. Grammont took care to
jump a few inches lower than the Cardi
nal, and was, six months afterwards, a
Marshal of France.
The Last of the Signers.
Come to the window, old man !
Come and look your last upon this
beautiful earth ! The day is dying—the
year is dying—you are dying; so light, I,
and leaf, and life, mingle in one corn- ,
mon death, as they shall mingle in one
Clad in a dark morning gown, that re
vealed the outline of his tall form, now
bent with age—once beautiful in its
erect manhood—rises a man from his
chair, which is covered with pillows, and
totters to the window, spreading forth
his thin white hands.
Did you ever see an old man's face
that combines all the sweetness of child
hood, with the. vigor of matured intel
lect 1 Snow white hair, falling in waving
flakes, around a high and open brow,
eyes that glerm with mild, clear light, a
month moulded in an expression of be
nignity almost divine'!
It is the Fourteenth of November,
1832; the hour is sunset, and the man
Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, the last of
the Signers.
Ninety-five years of age, a weak and
trembling old man, he has summoned all
his strength, and gone along the carpet
ed chamber, to the window, his dark
gown contrasted with the purple cur
lle is the last !
Of the noble Fifty Six, who in the
Revolution, stood forth, undismayed by
the axe or gibbet, their mission the free
dom of an age, the salvation of a coun
try. He alone remains!
One by one the pillars have crumbled
from the roof of the temple, and now
the last a trembling column—glows in
the sunlight as it is about to full.
But for that pillar that crumbles, there
is no hope that it shall ever tower aloft
in its pride again, while for this old man,
about to sink into the night of the grave,
there is a glorious hope. l is memory
will live. His soul will live not only in
the presence of God, but on the tongues
and in the hearts of millions. The band
in which lie counts one, can never be
The last !
As the venerable man stands before
us, the declining day imparts a warm
flush to his face, and surrounds his
brow with a halo of light. His lips move
without a sound ; he is recalling the
scenes of the Declaration—he is mur
muring the names of his brothers in the
good work.
All gone but him!
Upon the woods—dyed with the rain
bow of the closing year—upon the
stream, darkened by the masses of shad
ow—upon the homes peeping out from
among the leaves, falls mellowing the
last light of the declining day.
He will never see the sun rise again !
He feels that the silver cord is slowly,
gently loosening ; he knows that the
golden bowl is crumbling at the foun
tain's brink. But death comes on him
as a sleep, as a pleasant dream, as a kiss
from beloved lips !
He feels that the land of his birth has
become a Mighty People, and thanks
God that he was permitted to behold its
blossoms of hope ripen into full life.
In the recess near the window, you
behold an altar of prayer ; above it, glow
ing in the fading light, the image of
Jesus seems smiling, even in agony,
around that death chamber.
The old man turns aside from the win
dow. Tottering on, he kneels beside the
altar, his long dark robe drooping over
the floor. He reaches forth his white
hands—he raises his eyes to the face of
the crucified.
There, in the sanctity of an old man's
last prayer, we will leave him. There,
where amid the deepening shadows,
glows the image of the Savior—there,
where the light falls over the mild face,
the wavy hair and tranquil eyes of the
aged patriarch.
The smile of the Savior was upon the
Dc,laration on that perilous day, the 4th
of July, 1776 ; and now, that its prom
ise has brightened into fruition, HE
6eems to—HE does smile on it again—
even as his sculptured image meets the
dying gaze of Charles Carroll, of Carrol
Too Particular.
An Irishman once dreampt that he I
visited the Lord Mayor of London who
treated him with the greatest hospitali
ty, and asked him if he wouldn't take a
little suin'thin."
He refilled that he wouldn't mind a
little whiskey punch."
" Hot or cold ?" inquired his lordship.
His guest preferred it warm, hut while
the Lord Mayor was out heating the
water, the Irishman awoke from his de
licious slumber,—" Och !" cried ho,
comprehending what a fool he was to
await for hot puck during the preca
rious tenure of 'a dream, " how I wish
I'd said cou'ld."
Popping the Question.
It is well known to all who have been
pricked with the darts of the "little god"
—or, to every Benedict, at least—that
of all the delicate steps in life, there is
none that requires more care and cau
tion, or is attended with more perplexity,
than that designated by the heading of
this article. " The course of tree love
never did run smooth ;" but this part of
the business is peculiarly full snags,
as the desperate struggles and flounder
ings of many an unlucky lover will tes
tify. Many a fine-hearted bachelor, full
of generous impulses and feelings, has
been doomed to remain through life a
lonely and useless half-pair of scissors,
simply because, as with the inspired
writer, among the things beyond the
reach of his intellect was, "the way of
a man with a maid." By what witchery
one should ever be able to induce her,
"her free unhoused condition" to "bring
into circumspection and confine," is to
these poor beings an impenetrable mys
tery. Yet there are some men who in
wooing never experience the slightest
embarrassment, much less, real perplex
ity or difficulty. Glergymen, for in
stance, it notorious are always suc
cessful in making love, and from the
first interview with any gay witch of a
girl to the last, all goes on swimmingly.
A writer, alluding to this fact, thus vents
his astonishment : "The success of these
men in love matters puzzles tne to com
prehend. Grave, emaciated, sallow di
vines, who never look the person in the
face whom they address : who never
speak above their breath : who sit on
the uttermost edge of their chairs, a
full yard distant from the dinner table
—1 have never known one of these
scarecrows fail in getting a good rich
wife. Flow it is, heaven knows ! Can
it be that the ladies ask them r—Yan
kee Blade.
One of the most felicitous descriptions
we have ever seen of the embarrassments
incident to the operation of " popping
the question," is the following :
" Much winding and caution, and pre
vious sounding, is necessary when you
have got a favor to ask of a great man.
It is ten chances to one that he takes it
into his head to consider your request
exorbitant, and to make this the pretext
of shaking off what he naturally consid
ers a cumbersome appendage to his
state : a man who has a claim upon his
good offices. But this hazard is nothing
in comparison with the risk you run in
laying yourself at the mercy of a young
gipsy, fonder of fun and frolic than any
thing in life. Even though she love
you with all her little heart, she posses
ses a flow of spirits, and woman's ready
knack of appearances; and though her
bosom may heave responsive to your
stammering tale, she will lure you on
with kind, complacent looks, until you
have told "your pitiful story," and then
laugh in your face for your pains. It is
not this either that I mean to express.
Men are not cowards because they see
distinctly the danger that lies before
them. When a person has coolness suf
ficient to appreciate its full extent, lie
has in general either self-possession
enough to back out of the scrape, or, if
it is inevitable, to march with due resig
nation to meet his fate. In like manner,
it is not that poor pilgarlic, the lover,
has a clear notion (persons in his con
dition are rarely troubled with clear no
of what awaits him, but he feels'
a kind of choking about the neck of his
heart, a hang-dog inclination to go back
ward instead of forward ; a check, a
sudden stop to all his functions. He
knows not how to look or what to say.
His fine plan, arranged with so much '
happy enthusiasm, when sitting alone in
I his arm chair, after a good dinner, and
two or three glasses of wine, in the Un
certain glimmering of twilight, with his
feet raised upon the fender, proves quite
impracticable. Either it has escaped
his memory altogether, or the conversa
tion perversely takes a turn totally dif
ferent from that by which lie hoped to
lead the fair one from differont topics to
thoughts of a tender co/-I , '-:yion, and
thus, b:- ;ine degrees, (1., watching all
the time, how she was affected, in order
to be sure of his bottom, before he makes
the plunge) to insinuate his confession, !
just at the moment that he knows it will I
be well received."
Cincinnati, who had made " night hide
ous" by his drunken outcries, and kept
the watch at bay for several nights, was
filially overcome by the magic of a name.
Being assailed by a party of the police,
lie rushed in among them, calling for
three cheers for Taylor. A watchman
who was asleep near by, hearing his
name mentioned, sprang to his feet, and
going up to the man, said, " my name is
Taylor !" " Your name Taylor '1" said
the fel , ow, " Lhen it's no use contending
'with any of that name. I surrender
Anecdote of Stephen Girard.
The following capital anecdote, illus
trative of the late Stephen Girard, of
Philadelphia, is from the New Bedford
Mercury :
Mr. Girard had a favorite clerk, one
who every way pleased him, and who,
when at the age of twenty-one years ex
pected Mr. Girard to say something to
him in regard to his future prospects,
and perhaps lend him a helping hand in
starting him in the world. But Mr.
Girard said nothing, carefully avoiding
the subject of his escape from minority.
At length, after the lapse of some weeks,
the clerk mustered courage enough to
address Mr. Girard upon the subject.
"I suppose, sir," said the clerk, "I
am free, and I thought I would say some
thing to you as to my future course.
What do you think I had better do T"
" Yes, yes, I know you are," said Mr.
Girard, " and my advice to you is that
you go and learn the cooper's trade."
This announcement well nigh threw
the clerk off the track ; but recovering
his equilibrium, he said if Mr. Girard
was in earnest, he would do so.
" I am in earnest"—and the clerk
rather hesitatingly sought one of the best
coopers and agreed with him upon the
terms of apprenticeship, and went at it
in good earnest, and in course of time
made as good a barrel as any one. He
went and told Mr. Girard that he had
graduated with all the honors of the
craft, and was ready to set up his busi
ness ; at which the old man seemed grat
ified, and told him to make three of the
best barrels he could. The young cooper
selected the best materials, and soon put
into shape and finish, three of the best
barrels, and wheeled them up to the old
man's counting room. Mr. Girard said
the barrels were first rate and demanded
the price.
" One dollar," said the clerk, " is as
low as I can live by."
" Cheap enough," said his employer,
"make out your bill and present it."
And now comes the cream of the
whole. Mr. Girard drew a check for
twenty thousand dollars, and handed it
to the clerk, closing with these words:
" There, take that, and invest it in the
best possible way, and if you are unfor
tunate and loose it, you have a good
trade to fall back upon. which will afford
you a good living at a ll times."
What Temperance Can Do,
In Mrs. Hall's book on Ireland, occurs
the following passage, which a person
will hardly read without emotion :
" We entered one day a cottage in the
suburbs of Cork ; a young woman was
knitting stockings at the door. It was
as neat and comfortable as any in the
most prosperous district of England.—
We tell her brief story in her own words,
as nearly as we can recall them. "My
husband was a wheelwright and always
earned his guinea a week ; he was a
good workman, but the love for drink
was strong in him and it was'nt often
he brought me home more than five
shillings out of his one pound on a Sat
urday night, and it broke my heart to
sec the poor children too ragged to send
to school, to say nothing of the starved
look they had out of the little I could
give them. Well, God be praised, lie
took the pledge and the next Saturday
he laid twenty-one shillings upon the
chair you sit upon. Oh ! didn't I give
thanks upon my bended knees that night
Still I was fearful it wouldn't last, and
I spent no more than the five shillings 1
used to, saying to myself, ntay be the
money will be more wanted than it is
now. Well, the next week lie brought
me the same, and the next, and the next,
until eight weeks had passed ; and glory
to God! there was no change for the
bad in my husband ; and all the while
he never asked me why there was no
thing better for him out of his earnings,
so I felt there was no fear for him, and
the ninth week when he came home to
me, I had this table bought and these
six chairs, one for myself, four for the
children, and one for linni•elf ; and I was
dressed in a new gown, and the child
ren all had new clothes and shoes and
stockings, and upon his chair I put a
bran new suit, and upon his plate I put
the bill and receipt for them all, just the
eight sixteen shillings, the cost that I'd
saved out of his wages, not knowing
what might happen, and that always
went for drink. And lie cried, good
lady and good gentleman, he cried like
a baby, but 'twas with thanks to God;
and now where's the healthier man than
my husband in the whole county of
Cork, or a happier wife than myself, or
decenter or better fed children than our
WtscossiN.--Gov. Dodge has called an
extra scssion of the Territorial Legisla
ture, to meet at Madison on the 18th in
stant, for the express purpose of origina
ting a new attempt to procure a State
Constitution and be admitted into the
Anecdote of Lorenzo' Dow.
The Pittsburg Post does up anew the
following capital anecdote of Lorenzo
Dow :
A farmer came to Lorenzo one morn
ing, as he was preparing to preach be'-
fore a large country audience, and said :
"Mr. Dow, I am told you know a sin
ner from his looks, and can tell a thief
from his countenance. Now, sir, I have
hnd an excellent axe stolen from me,
and I shall be forever grateful if you
will point out to me the rascal who took
it, as in all probability he will be at the
meeting to-day, judging from the crowds
that are coming."
Lorenzo was not the man to deny the
possession of any wonderful faculty that
the people chose to ascribe to him ; so
he told the farmer that he would get him
his axe.
Lorenzo mounted the pulpit, took out
of his pocket n stone as big as his fist,
laid it beside the bible, and commenced
the exercises of the day. His sermon
was on the subject of all the sins men
tioned in the Decalogue, and he went
on to give proofs from history of the
retributive justice of Providence, in
punishing in this life transgressors.—
" Murder will out," said he ; " guilt
cannot conceal itself, and I am about to
give you this beautiful morning, my dear
hearers, an example of a terrible ven
geance to follow the breaking of the
eighth commandment. Two nights ago
a fellow stole John Smith's axe; and I
have been commissioned, by an author
ity which none of you will question, to
knock down! drag out! sacrifice! de
stroy ! utterly annihilate the miserable
wretch ! and send him, body, soul and
breeches to the pitchy realms of an aw
ful eternity ! Poor sinner, you turn
pale before the rock has crushed you!"
continued Lorenzo, as he grasped the
stone and raised it in the attitude of
throwing. " Don't dodge, you rascal !
you can't escape me—don't dodge !' --
He paused a moment, and pointed his
long, crooked significant finger at a poor
• devil in the audience, who appeared to
be in an ague fit, with his hair standing
on ends, like the quills of a fretted Por
1 ‘ John Smith !" cried he, "there is
the chap that stole your axe!''
The eyes of the whole congregation
were turned on the conscience-stricken
fellow, who looked as if he Wished the
mountains would tumble on him.
"You will restore Mr. Smith his axe,
and steal no more, if I forgive you—
won'tyriu 1" asked Lorenzo.
" If 'I
don't darn me!" exclaimed the
culprit, with a look and tone that show
ed the sincerity of his declaration.
John Smith got his axe.
Sound Doctrine,
Have no faith in that species of good
ness which is unwilling to pay its debts
—"fine fellow," "good fellow, " whole
souled fellow," and that sort of thing is
nonsense, lending to a belief that hones
ty and honor may be dispensed with,
and that affection and esteem may be
secured without them. Is he a " good
fellow" who frolics and enjoys himself
upon money which really belongs to
other people 1 And is that a "whole
soul" which while the washerwoman
pines and suffers for the want of that
which is due to her by the individual
with the "whole soul," goes flaunting
about in gay attire from carousal to ca
rousal, and from one place of enjoyment
to another I Have no faith in it; and
neither suffer yourself to think well of
those who have fine houses, fine furni
tare and fine parties, and are slow to'
pay for them, and slow likewise in pay
ing for other things. Depend upon it
that this open heartedoess, as people
call it, is all selfishness, narrowness and
dishonor—selfishness the most intense.
He is a much better fellow than all these,
who goes threadbare, and refuses indul
gence, until he can stand square with
the world, though reckless profusion ,
tnay deride him as mean. Ho is the '
man that pays his debts, if a possibility
exists of having them, and we strongly
incline to the conviction that a "debt
paying man" is one of the best members
of society—and that he should thus be
honored. Let us all, then, editor and
subscribers, "pay our debts."—.V ews
lent Dr. Wilson once discovered a cler.
gyman, who, lie was informed, was sick,
poor, and had a numerous family. In
the evening he gave a friend fifty dol
lars, requesting him to deliver it in the
most delicate manner, and as from an
unknown person. The friend said—
" I will wait upon him early in the
" You will oblige me, sir, by calling
t:irectly. Think of what importance a
good night's rest may be to that poor
WHOLE NO. 613.
Ought girls to Court?
We have often thought, (for editors
never speak from experience,) that a
young fellow must have a good stock of
assurance—nay, of downright impu
dence, to go through the ticklish, terri
ble, torturing ordeal of a regular court
ship. He has not only to run the gaunt
let of sneering young gentlemen, but
the gauntlet of gossipping old ladies ;
to be talked of, and to be talked at ; and
to be the mark of watchful observation
to the whole neighborhood in which his
fair one resides. Nor is this all. If his
addresses are only acceptable to one
member of the family, and that member
the depository of the garnered up love
of a whole life, he is sure to meet the
savage glances of savage brothers ; and
is just as sure to encounter other equal
ly * flattering manifestations of paternal,.
maternal, or fraternal opposition. Now
this is all wrong. The exchanges should
be more equalized : and some arc san
guine enough to believe that the day is
not very far distant when they will be .
equalized—when we shall hear of young
ladies paying their addresses to, young
gentlemen—visiting them nightly at
their houses—inviting them to ride, to
walk, to eat ice-cream, and, as soon as
matters are brought to an interesting
crisis, «popping the question" itself.—
Ah ! what a delightful thing it would
be, Hurriedly waiting m our mother's
parlor carefully brushed and strapped
to be courted ! To be tenderly stared
at, night after night ; by girl after girl !
To have one's brown, rough hand occa
sionally sought for in the dim twilight,
and occasionally squeezed ! And to
have one's waist delicately encompassed,
(of course only after the "engagement,")
by some of the most delicately tapering
arms in the world !
We find the following noble sentiment
—the key of fortune—in a little English
periodical :
"'rho mystery of Napoleon's career
was this, under all difficulties and dis
couragements press on. It was the probi
lem of all the heroes; it is the rule by
which to judge rightly of all wonderful
success. It should be the motto of all,
high and low, fortunate and unfortunate,
so called— " press on," never despair,
never be discouraged, however 'stormy
the heavens, however dark the way,
however great the difficulties, or repeat
ed the failure, "press on." If fortune
has played false with thee to-day, do
thou play true for this to-morrow. Let
the foolishness of yesterday make thee
wise to-day. If thy affixtions have
been poured out like water into the des
ert, do not sit down or perish of this,
but "press on"—a beautiful oasis is be
fore thee, and thou mayst reach it, if
thou wilt. If another has been false to
thee, do not thou increase the evil by
being false to thyself. Do not say the
tvorld has lost its poetry and beauty, it
is not so ; and even if it be so, make
thine own poetry and beauty, by a brave,
a true, and above all, a religious life."
Lally Rising.
It is a certain sign that our hearts are
set upon a work, when the thoughts of
it cause sleep to depart from us, and we
awake readily, constantly, and early to
the performance of it. David delighted
in the holy exercises of prayer and med
itation ; therefore "he prevented the
dawning of the morning," and was be
forehand with the light itself; therefore
his " eyes prevented the watches," that
is, the last of those watches, into which
the night was by the Jews divided ; he
needed not the watchman's call, but was
stirring before it could be given. Cli
mate and constitution will, doubtless,
wake a ditTerence, and claim considera
ble allowance ; but by Christians who
enjoy their health in temperate weather,
the sun should not be suffered to shine
in vain, nor the golden hours of the
morning to glide away unimproved;
since of David's Lord, as well as of Da
vid, it is said, "In the morning, rising
up a great while before day, he went
out and departed into a solitary place,
and there prayed."
A righting Parson.
We have seen it stated that one of the
companies from Mississippi, at the bat
tle of Buena Vista, was commanded by
a Methodist preacher. Just before the
battle commenced, and whilst the troops
were forming, it is said he delivered the
following pithy prayer, at the head of
his company :
Be with us this day in conflict, oh
Lord ! We are few, and the enemy are
many. Be with us as thou vast with
Joshua when he went down from Gilgal
to Beth•ho-ron and Ajalon, to smite the
Antorites. We do not ask thee for the
sun and moon to' stand still, bnt grant
us plenty of powder, plenty of daylight,
and no cowards. Take old Rough and
Ready under thy special charge. Amen!
His company performed prodigies on
the field that day.