Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, February 29, 1848, Image 1

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punlished hereafter at the following Wee, viz
$1.75 a year, if paid in advance; N 2.0 0 if
paid during the year.and 12.5 0 if not paid un
til .fter the expiration of the year. The above
terms to be adhered to in all c ores.
No subscription token for Iran than six months,
and no paper discontinued until all arreareges are
peid, unless et the option of the publisher.
(X'j`To Clubs of six, or more, who pay in ad
♦anee, the Journal will be sent at 11.50 per
copy for one year; and nay one who will send us
that number of names accompanied wilt the money
shall receive the Journal one year for his double.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard !
heap high the golden corn !
No richer gift hem Autumn poured
From out her lavieh horn !
Let other lands exulting glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine.
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storms shell drift
Our harveet fields with snow.
When spring came with flower end bud,
And grade., green and young,
And merry lioldinks, in the wood,
Like mad musicieneeung.
We dropped the seed o'er hill anti plain
Ben ath the sun of May ;
And 'lightened from our sproughting grain
The rubber crows sway.
All through the long bright day. of June,
lie leaves grew green and lair,
And waved in he tuideutunier s noon
Ire soft and yellow hair
And now wish Autumn's moonlight eyes
It. harvest time her come
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fob ed girt
1)1 golden showers of old,
Fair ha do :he broken grain shall sift,
And knead its mcol of gold.
Let vapid idlers lall in silk
Around their costly board,
Give us the bowl of 'tamp and milk
By homespun beauty poured.
W hereat' the wide old kitchen hearth
t-ends up its sinekey curls,
hu will not thank the kindly earth,
And ideas our cern-fed girls
Then shame on all the proud and
W hose folly laughs to acorn
The blessings of the Yonkee.s grain,
His wealth of golden co n.
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the ryo,
Give to the worm the °relied 'a fruit,
The whcat•lield to tho fly.
But let the good old crop adorn
The hullo our fathers trod ;
Still let us for his golden earn
Bend up our thanks to God!
Tine BATTLE OF LIFE.---WO have often
been impresed by the deep significance
of the phrase which Dicken's has given
as a title to one of his Christmas stories,
“The Battle of Life." It is full of sol
emn meanings. All our hours, from the
cradle to the grave, are but a series of
antagonisms. Hunger, fatigue, sickness,
temptation, sin, remorse, sorrow—these
are the strong powers with which we
must wage continual war. Foes beset
us from without and from within, and
make life one long and earnest battle.—
But there are victories to be won on the
field, more glorious than those which
crimsoned Marathon and Waterloo.—
Evil habits tnny be subdued--fiery pas
sions brought under the control of prin
ciple--temptations resisted—self-denial
cheerfully sustained, and life itself con
secrated to high and holy purposes. To
triumph over the infirmities of a per
verted nature, and render life, once de
formed by passion and stained by sin,
beautiful with love made manifest in
deeds of benificence, is worthier our
ambition than all the blood-wrought lie
roisms that ever linked a name to a
world's remembrance. Every day wit
nesseth triumphs such as these—yet
Fame proclaims them not. What •mat
ters 41 in the serene depths of these
all-conquering spirits, God's peace
abides, and harmonies are heard, such
as the angels make when they welcome
the victorious soul from the conflicts of
this, to the raptures of the heavenly
the court of the lion was a noble horse,
who had long and faithfully served his
king, and his master prized and loved
his faithful servant as he deserved.—
This was distastful to the crowd of in•
ferior comers, and the fox undertook to
undermine the trusty servant and rob
him of his monarch's favor. But his in
sinuations were nobly and wisely met
by the king of beasts: "I need no str3n.
ger proof of the worth of my good horse
thou that he has such a vile wretch as
thot , for 111, ~ ), ,s .my."- •Ltmisw.
"Throw up the window ! "Fin a morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
Is like a breathing from a rarer world;
And the south wind to like a gent:e frierid,
Parting the hair so softly on toy brow.
It has come over gardens, and the flowers
'Flint kisied it, are betrayed; for as it parts,
With its invisible fingers, my loose hair,
I know it has been trifling with the rose
And stooping to the violet. There is joy
For nll God's creature's in it. The wet leaves
Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing
As if to breathe were music, and the grass
Sends up its modest oder with the dew
Like the small tribute of humility."
The delicious morning which is glow
ing around me, and which has recalled
the exquisite description of our gifted
countryman, brings also to my mind the
recollection of one as fresh and beauti
ful, "in the days that are gone." I well
remember how the sense of that morn's
exceeding loveliness burdened my heart
with a sweet weight,—and how, at last,
flinging aside the dull book which I had
been attempting to study, I caught my
light sun-bonnet, and bounded out of
the house, which outward bloom and
beauty had rendered prison-like. I then
turned my step towards a fine old man
sion, the home of a very lovely girl,
who had been endeared to me by years
of constant and intimate intercourse.—
Of late there has been formed a new tie
to bind our hearts—she has become the
betrothed of "one of ours," a favorite
cousin, and the engagement was a joy
ful event to all concerned.
Annie Moore, sweet Annie Moore,
how thou glidest before me, in thy soft,
etherial loveliness, like a gentle spirit
from a holier clime ! With thy form of
lily-like grace, tall end fragile,—
With all thy young head's sinning bands,
And all its waving cutla of gold,"—
with thine eyes of softest violet, and thy
cheek of delicatest rose•bloom.
I must think of thee
Oh gentlest! as I knew thee well and long,
A young, glad creature with n lip of song,
An eye of radiance—and n soul of glee—
Singing sweet snatches of some favorite tune,
01;an;tering by my side beneath the sky of June."
William Gordon, the lover of Annie
Moore, was an exalted, yet a most love
able character, an embodiment of intel
lect, manliness, faithful affections and
fervent piety. He was a young student
of Divinity,—had been self-supported,
almost self-educated, and at the time of
the commencement of this sketch, was
in the expectation of entering upon the
ministry in the coarse of a year.
And this man, pour, unknown, and de
voted to a holy calling, was the choice
of Annie Moore, the wealthy, the beau
tiful, the luxuriously reared ! 4 4 'Twas
passing strange"— our worldly ones
wondered at, and our sewing circle gos
sipped about the matter, for a month or
two, and then the ruffled tide of our vil
lage life flowed on as usual. But I was
on my way to pay Annie a morning visit.
William Gordon had called the night
before, to hid us adieu, as he was to be
absent for many months, and I thought
his betrothed needed a little cheering
I found her sitting at her work, as
usual, and but a slight tremulousness of
the voice, and a glistening of the long
brown eye-lash, told of the painful part
ing which had just taken place.
44 When will Williain return V' 1 pres
ently inquired.
" In May—little less than one year."
"And then 1"
"And then we are to be married—so
hold yourself in readiness to be my
The summer passed—a season of ear
nest, untiring and prayerful toil, with
the young student, and of patient, hope
ful, and sustaining love, on the part of
his betrothed. Then came the chill of
autumn, followed by a winter of uncom
mon severity. Our dear Annie, while
on a night visit to a dying friend, was
exposed to a sudden and fearful storm
—took cold--nh, does not my reader an
ticipate the mournful consequence? Her
mother and elder sister had died of con
sumption, and soon, very soon, the seal
of death was on her blue-veined brow,
and the very voice of the grave sound
ing in the hollow cough which shook*
her fragile form. We knew that she
must die, and she, unlike many consump
tives, knew it also; yet she was strange
ly averse to acquainting her absent lov
er with the fearful truth. She wrote to
him that she had been ill—was still suf•
fering from debility ; but that he must
not be troubled shout it, nor be painfully
surprised by her changed appearance,
when he should return in the spring.—
Not one word of the dread, last parting
before them—of the grave, which might
6. Rivul the bridegroom, and take from hie side,
To repose in its bosom, his beautiful bride."
At length May came round again, and
with it returned William Gordon, the
young clergyman. He was bowed to
the earth by the great and unlooked-for
affliction which awaited him—yet meek
ly drank he the bitter cup, for his God
had mingled it.
Sweet Annie was passing rapidly from
earth—growing more and more fragile
in form, and angelic in spirit day by day,
and poor William became intensely de
sirous that their union might take place.
Annie's friends readily assented, but
she to our surprise, firmly refused to
grant the mournful request of her broken
hearted lover.
One evening he was sitting alone by
her side, as she was half-reclining on a
couch ; the hectic flush was more start
ling bright than usual on her cheek, for
she had suffered much that day, and as
he thought how very near might be the
dark wing of God's dread angel, he took
her wasted hand in his, and said—
" Oh, my Annie, let me call you wife,
before you leave me! You would not
be so utterly lost to me then, for I would
know you bearing that sacred name in
Heaven. Refuse me not, love."
"Oh, N , illiam, Wil!iam, urge me no
longer," she replied, "It must not, can
not be. lam the bride of Heaven, you
must not be my husband, and hear me,
dearest, you must no longer be near me
—your love is precious, but it is earthly,
and it comes as a cloud between me and
the glories of that upper world, to which
I hasten. Your voice, my own, is sweet
er to me than the hymns of the angeles
heard in my dreams of Heaven! We
must part, now—for every hour renders
you dearer, and how can 1 leave you at
With heroic and martyr-like calmness
spoke the mistaken girl—mistaken, for
one worthy, is the holiest and sweetest
preparation for His presence who "is
William Gordon saw her firmness,
and that she was weak and trembling
from the excitement of the scene, and
In clode heart shutting. up his pain,"
resolved to yield instant and uncom
plaining obedience to her wishes. He
rose up calmly, and imprinting on her
forehead a kiss of mingled love and an
guish, turned and was gone! Annie bu
ried her face in her thin, white hands,
and remained in an agony of prayer and
grief. Then came vague regrets for the
course she had taken, and painful doubts
of the necessity of the sacrifice she had
made. Presently she heard a well-known
step—William had returned ! His calm
ness had forsaken him, and lie murmur
ed itnploringly—
" If I must 'cave you to die alone, An
nie, let me fold you once more to my
heart, before I go—it will give me
He knelt on one knee beside her,reach
ed forth his arms; and sobbed like a
child, she leaned upon his bosom.
No word was spoken by that pair, lo
ving and faithful unto death, while the
flood of sorrow swept over their hushed
spirits, as the fountains of the soul's
great deep were broken up. Yes, silent,
but not tearless, knelt William Gordon,
with his lips pressed against the dear
head which lay upon his heart. At last
he raised his eyes heavenward and those
lips moved in whispered prayer—he un
wound his arms and would have risen,
but Annie moved not—she was clinging
to his breast! A smile of joy irradiated
his face, and his arms once again enfol
ded her. She looked up and murmured
with something of her old playful ten
derness, more touching than the wildest
burst of grief,
"Are you not stronger, dear Will iaml"
"Ali, I fear not, my love."
This is strange, for when I felt the
strength ebbing from my own heart, 1
thought it had flowed into yours."
44 Thank God for the weakness which
is lovelier than strength! I must never
leave you, Annie."
" .Never !"
The morning of the wedding day had
come, and I was arraying Annie in her
bridal dress, a beautiful muslin, guilt
less of ribbon, or lace. I wished to
twine in her hair, a small string of
pearls, which was once her mother's,—
but gently put it from me.
" Whrit, no - o;naments 1" I enquired.
" None," she replied, " but yes, if
you will go into my garden, you will
find a lovely white-rose tree, which
William planted when I first knew him,
—bring me one of its buds, and I will
wear it in my hair."
I have seen brides radient in health
ful bloom—glittering in jewels—daz
zling it, satins, rich veils and costly
wreaths, but never have I beheld one so
exquisitely, so wonderfully beautiful, as
that dying girl, with her dress, of sim
ple white, her one floral ornament, the
dewy lustre of her soft blue eye, and
the deepened hectic of her cheek !
When the ceremony was to be perform
ed, she wished to rise, and as she was
too weak to stand alone, I stood by her
side, and supported her. She smiled
sadly, as she whispered...." You remem
bey, Grace, I promised you should be
my bridesmaid. "
._ . .
As the beautiful marriage ceremony
(that of the English Church,) proceed•
eel, the face of the bride became expres
sive alternately of earthly and of heav
enly love, of softness and of sublimity,
of the woman, and of the till it
grew absolutely adoreable.
At the last, she received the tearful
congratulations of her friends with a
graceful manner, and- with the most
cheerful smiles playing about her lips.
It was morning—a morning born of
bloom and beauty--so soft, so glowing,
it seemed
Like a rainbow clasping the sweet earth,
And melting in a covenant of love."
Annie Gordon was lying on her couch
by an open window, with her fair head
supported on the breast of her husband.
And she, in father's joy, a brother's
pride, the wife of two short weeks was
leavity , '
us now. Every sunbeam which
looked into her eyes, saw their vio'et
hue grow paler, and every soft air which
kissed her faded lips, bore back a faint
er breath on its light pinion. Her doat
ing father knelt in a deep trance of grief
at her side--I stood holding one of her
hands in mine, while at her feet sat her
younger brother, Arthur Moore, weeping
with all the uncontrolled passionateness
of boyhood.
Annie had lain for many momen:s ap
parently insensible, but she looked tip
yet once more to William, with her own
sweet smile, and murmured,
" Pray, once again, my beloved—it
will plume my spirit's wing for its up
ward flight ; but place your hand upon
my heart, that you may know when 1
am gone !"
And William Gordon lifted his voice
in a prayer, all saint-like submission
and a child-like love. He solemnly and
tenderly committed the passing soul of
the wife, the daughter, the sister and
the friend to her Saviour and her God,
and meekly implored for the stricken
mourners, the ministrations of the bles
sed Spirit. Suddenly he paused—her
heart had ceased its beatings ! His brow
became convulsed and his voice was
low and tremulous, as he added, "She
has left us; oh! our Father, she is with
Thee, now!"
_ _ _
" Gone ! our Annie dead 1" exclaimed
poor little Arthur Moore, and springing
forward and casting one look on that
still face,
he stretched his arms upward
and cried--" Oh ! sister, sister, come
back to us, come back !"
We arrayed her in her bridal dress,
even to the white rose-bud, twined in
her golden hair. We laid her to rest by
her mother's side, in a lovely rural
grave-yard, and a few months after I
took her favorite rose-tree from the gar
den, and planted it over her breast.
•ur Annie had been gone from us .a
year, and the rose was in its bloom,
when William Gordon came to bid us a
long, it might be, a last adieu. He was
going out as a missionary to India. On
the last evening of his stay, I went with
him to the grave of our lost one. We
remained till the grass was glittering
with dew, and the stars were thick in
Heaven. Many times turned poor Wil
liam to depart, and returned again. We
both had remarked a single rose-bud,
very like the one Annie wore on her
marriage day, and at that second bridal,
when she was wedded to the thist,—and
when at last William summoned strength
to go, he plucked this, and placed it in
his bosom, with many tears.
I doubt not that in his distant home,
that darkened land, where he is toiling
for Christ's sake, that flower is still a
cherished memento of his sadly beauti
ful past, and a touching reminder of a
shore to which he hasteneth, an unfa
ding clime where ever liyeth the rose of
love, in the bloom of immortality in the
sunlight of God's smile.
I, too, am far from her grave, but 1
know almost to a day, when that rose
tree is in bloom. Every morning, I say,
another bud is unfolding over her rest
—how it loads the air with perfume, as
it sways to the passing breeze!—and at
evenin g , how the starlight trembles
around it, and how sweetly sleeps the
cool dew-drop in its glowing heart !
Nor BAD.—May is considered an un
fortunate marrying month. A country
editor says that a girl was asked not
long since, to unite herself in the silken
tie to a brisk chap who named May in
his proposals. The lady tenderly hin
ted that May was an unlucky month in
marrying. "Well make it June, then,"
honestly replied the swain, anxious to
accommodate. The damsel paused a
moment, hesitated, cast down her eyes,
and with a modest blush said— "wouldn't
aril do as well."
Off' The prisoners in the jail at New
Orleans celebrated New-Year's day.—
One of the regular toasts at the dinner
was, "The Governor that pardons, and
the jury that never agrees."
Timely Advice.
The following nnecdote is related of
the late lev. John Fletcher, by one of
his parishoners, as characteristic of the
"When he was a young man, he was
married by Mr. Fletcher, who said to
him as soon as the service was conch'.
ded, and he was about to to make the
accustomed entry, "Well William, you
have had your name entered in our reg
ister once before this." "Yes sir, at my
baptism." And now, your name will be
entered a second time. You have no
doubt, thought much about your present
step, and made proper preparations for
it many different ways." "Yes, sir."
"Recollect that a third entry of your
name--the register of your burial—will,
sooner or later, take place. Think, then,
about death, and make preparations for
that also, lest it overtake you like a thief
in the night.'" This person is now
walking in the ways of the Lord, and
states that he often adverts to this and
other things which his serious and affec
tionate pastor found frequent occasion to
say to him.
A la'ge number of young gentlemen
have recently been admitted to the prac
tice of law in this city. The prelimina
ry examination by the lawyers, who must
certify that the candidates are well read
in law, is very thorough, as will be seen
by questions put to each, which with
their answers, eve append:
Examiner.—Do you• smoke, sir 1
Candidate.—l do, sir.
.Ex.-11ave you a spare cigar 1
Can.—Yes, sir, (extending a short
Ex.—Now, sir, what is the first duty
of the lawyer'!
Can.—To collect fees.
Ex.—Right—what's the secondi
Can.—To increase the number of his
.Ex.--W hen does your position toward
your client change 1
Can.—When I am making a bill of
.Er.—Ex plain. .
Can.—W e then occupy antagonist po.
sitions. I assume the character of plain.
tiff—and he becomes defendant.
Ex.—A suit decided, how do you stand
with the lawyer conducting the other
Can.—Cheek by jowl.
Ex.—Enough sir, you promise to be
an ornament to the profession, and I
wish you success ; now are you aware
of the duty you owe me I
Ex.—Describe that duty.
Can.—lt is to invite you to drink.
Ex.—But suppose I declinel
Can.—(Scratching his head.) There
is no instance of the kind on record, in
the books. I cannot answer that ques-
Ex.—You are right and the confidence
with which you make the assertion,
shows that you have attentively read the
law. 11'e will go and lake a drink, and
then I will sign your certificate.—[N.
Y. Sun.]
lowing correspondence is from the Lon
don Weekly Dispatch:
MADSTONE JAIL, Sept. 14., 1847.
Dear Mother.--It is with a broken
heart that I inform you that my death
warrant arrived last night. 1 hoped I
should have got oil for transportation;
but that was not to be. Your poor son
Jack is to be hung on Monday morning.
Pray, dear mother, come over and see
me once before I die. My heart is too
full to say any more. From your poor
broken-hearted son, _
CATIIAN, Sept, 15, 1847,
Dear Son Jack—l am very sorry that
you cannot be transported instead of
being hung. I would come over and see
you only Mrs. Thomson's great wash is
on Monday, and I want to am a shellin'
when 1 can. I am told that the hang
man has the clothes that the people are
hung in. Do not, dear Jack, be hung in
your coat. Put on your jacket, leave
your coat with the turnkey, and I will
get the carrier to call for it. Keep up
your spirits, dear Jack. May the Lord
have mercy on your soul ; and pray
don't forget to be hung in your jacket.
I remane, your fectinate mother,
11:7-A Frinter now in the service in
Mexico, writes to one of his friends in
New York that the muss of the people in
that country take little interest in the
fate of the nation, as they are not land
holders; and have little or no interest•at
stake. The greater part of the land he
says, is hold by a few individuals or
Aiwa} s fight till you die—after doing
it five or six times, it is as easy as any
thing else.
WHOLE NO. 681,
Treatment of a Contrary Rome.
When a horse gets in the way of be
ing contrary and will not go forward at
all, it is common to apply the whip free
ly. Solomon says: a whip for the
horse," but he may not refer to cases of
this kind. At any rate, it is often where
thus msed of no benefit, only the grati
fication of the enraged driver. A methO'd
which we have known more successful
is to treat the animal very kindly. His
contrary disposition is usually the re
sult of having been fretted in some way,
and kindness may overcome it. Make
much of him at all tithes.. Speak gene
tly to him, and so often . that he will be
come accus:omed to yOur voice. When
l he stops when attached to a carriage or
a load and will not move, approach him
in the same manner. Stroke the mane
and pat the hand frequently on the head.
Means of this kind will have a powerful
tendency to overcome his stubborness,
as brutes feel the power of kindness.
We believe from what we have seen
that young horses, especially nine cases
out of ten, may be successfully cured of
contrary habits in this way, while the
application of the whip would only in
crease the difficulty.
The first business, when the ground
opens, is to stir up the Asparagus bed
and work in the man ire th .t was piled
on it last all. The ground should be
well dug over before the asparagus starts
—After this, salt may be thrown on so
plentifully as to kill the weeds and save
further hoeing; for salt is agreeable to
asparagus but not to weeds.
Early peas may be sown as soon as
the ground can be *ell worked. Frosts
never affect the young shoots, and the
snows of March, never whiten peas.—
Yet very early peas cannot be expected
to produce much, and the second sowing
n week or two later will be most relied
on for the table,
No other garden seeds should be sown
unless they are to be covered with glass
as the labor of sowing will be lost.
(Ja- "flow do you contrive to raise
your rent 1" said a - lazy tavern lounger
to an industrious, thriving farmer.—
" Why sir," retorted the latter, "I put
my plow into the ground, and after it is
well broken up, I drop in seed, and thus
I raise potatoes, wheat and corn, cab
bage, parsnips and—the rent."
accounts mention that this gentleman
has been sick. We are sorry to hear it;
but we would beg leave to inform him,
as misery loves company, that we have
been a little unwell ourself.—Germantown
Q .- A fellow who married a terma
gant who drove him to desperation, and
finally to death, just before dying, re
quested a friend to hnve the following
brief yet pungent inscription upon his
tomb: "Slain by a Jaw-bone!"
DD.- An Irish gentleman being redu
ced to the necessity of obtaining a liv
ing by some employment, was prevailed
upon to sell mutton pies in the place he
had ridden in his carriage! On his be
ing compelled to cry out, " Hot mutton
pies !" he shrugged up his shoulders,
and said, in a whisper, "I hope to heav
en nobody hears me !"
male was recently arrested at St. Louis,
and bound over, under a charge of hav
ing passed a verbal challenge to anoth
erfemale, to meet her in mortal combat,
with pistols and knives! For two edg
ed swords, they relied upon their
Kendall, of Verona, N. Y., where he has
a salary of $4OO, has lately received a
call from a church in the city of New
York, with a salary of $l5OO, and al
though very earnestly pressed to accept
the city pulpit, has declined absolutely.
Such a man is worthy of the cause ho
A young, handsome, but deluded for
eigner shut himself a day or two ago in
New York in a house of bad repute.—
It seems that he had became infatuated
with one of the frail inmates, asked her
to accompany him to Denmark, and of
fered her at the same time a large sum
of money ; but she refused, when he drew
a pistol from his pocket, placed it to his
side just below his right breast, and fired.
The ball struck a rib and glanced round
the outside of it, and lodged in his back
from whence it was taken after his arri
val at the hospital, where he was con
veyed by the officers.
[l:7- The ClaYion Democrat says that a
German named Abraham Booz, residing
at Lucinda Furnace, in that county,
coralited suicide on the 13th inst., by
cutting his throat with a razor, while in
a fit of mania a Foto.