74' intl./140011X
_kJ
BY JAS, CLARK.
ORIGINAL POETRY.
Written for the Huntingdon Journal..
TO CABRIE.
And is it thus, am I forgot?
Then welcome give my bones to nit;
My only hope of heaven has fled,
Come hours that mourn me with the dead,
ft is, I see it in my dreams,
My after days in darkness teems ;
Sweet, ant! remembrance, must it be
That t must bid farewell to thee
My inmost soul must then forget,
And heip my sun of life tc set,
And bid a long farewell to bliss,
To teach thyself forgetfulness.
CAtinit, my days of joy were few,
Until my heart beat but for you;
114 y dawn of life is now o'ercnst,
By that request, 'roacur TILE rAsr."
Take back that unkind wish of thine,
And let me worship at thy shrine;
/ can't forget 1 I will not try !
I dare not—will not—say, good bye !
Why should rememb'rance give thee pain,
Since we can never meet again I
A mother's love, a brother's pride,
Has marked thee for another's bride.
I know, if thou had'st thy own will,
Thy virgin heart would love me still;
I know thy heart ONCE beat for me,
As fond as mine now beats for thee.
My shipwreck'd heart has struck the reef,
The hull must soon go down with grief;
The stranded cords cling round the mast,
The ruined emblem of the past.
SELECT MISCELLANY.
A THRILLING SKETCH,
THE BATTLE OF DB,ESDEN.
BY J. T. HEADLY.
On the evening of their approach, St.
Cyr wrote to Napoleon the following
letter :
Dresden, 23d. Aug., 1613; ten at night,
"At five this afternoon the enemy
approached Dresden, after having driven
in our cavalry. We expected an attack
this evening ; but probably it will take
place to-morrow.—Your Majesty knows
better than I do, what time it requires
for heavy artillery to beat down enclo
sures, walls and palisades."
The next night, at midnight, lie dis
patched another to him, announcing an
immediate attack, and closing with "We
are determined to do all in our power ;
but I can answer for nothing more with
such young soldiers."—lmmediately on
the reception of the first letter, Napoleon
surrendered his command to McDonald,
and turned his face toward Dresden.
Murat was dispatched in hot haste to
announce his arrival and reassure the
beseiged. In the middle of his guards,
which had marched nearly thirty miles
a day since the commencement of the
war, he took the road to the city.
To revive his sinking troops he order
ed twenty thousand bottles of wine to
be distributed among them, but not three
thousand could be procured. He, how
ever, marched all next day, having dis
patched a messenger to the beseiged to
ascertain the exact amount of danger.
Said Napoleon, to the messenger Gour
gaud, " set out immediately for Dresden;
ride as hard as you can, and be there
this evening—see St. Cyr, the King of
Naples, and the King of Saxony—en
courage every one. Tell them that I can
be in Dresden to-morrow with forty
thousand men, and the day following
with my whole army. At day-break visit
the outpost and redoubts—consult the
commander of engineers as to whether
they can hold out. Hurry back to me
to-morrow nt Stolpen, and bring a full
report of St. Cyr's and Murat's opinion
as to the real state of things." Away
dashed Gourgaud in hot speed, while the
Emperor hurried on his exhausted army.
Gourgaud did not wait till day-break be
fore he returned. He found everything
on the verge of ruin—the allied army
was slowly enveloping the devoted city,
and when, at dark, he issued forth from
the gates, the whole summer heavens
were glowing with the light of their
bivouac fires, while a burning village
near by, threw a still more baleful light
over the scene. Spurring his panting
steed through the gloom, he at mid•
night burst in a fierce gallop into the
squares of 63 Old Guard, and was im
mediately ushered into the presence of
the anxious Emperor. The report con
firmed his worst fears. At day-break the
weary soldiers were roused from their
repose, and though they had marched a'
hundred and twenty miles in four days,
pressed cheerfully forward i for already
the distant sound of heavy cannonading
was borne on by the morning breeze. At
eight in the morning, Napoleon and the
whole advanced guard, reached an eleva
tion that overlooked the whole plain in
which the city lay embodied ; and lo !
what a sublime yet terriffic sight met
their gaze. The whole valley was filled
with marching columns, preparing for
an assault; while the beams of the morn
ing sun wve sent back from countless hel
mets and bayonets that moved and shook
in their light. Here and there volumes of
smoke told where the batteries were
firing, while the heat•y cannonading roll
ed like thunder over the hills. There,
too, Was the French army, twenty thou
sand strong, packed behind the redoubts,
yet appearing like a single regiment in
the midst of the host that enveloped
them. Courier after courier, riding as
for life, kept dashing into the presence
of the Emperor, bidding him make haste
if he would save the city. A few hours
would settle its fate. Napoleon, leaving
his guard to follow on, drove away in n
furious gallop, while a cloud . of dust a
long the road, alone told where the
carriage was whirling onward. As he
approached the gates, the Russian bat
teries swept the road with such a deadly
fire that lie was compelled to leave his
carriage and crawl along on his hands
and knees over the ground whilst the
cannon balls whistled an incessant show
er above him.
Suddenly and unannounced, as if he
had fallen from the clouds, he appeared
at the Royal Palace, where the Ring of
Saxony was deliberating on the terms
of capitulation. Waiting for no rest, he
took a single page so as not to attract
the enemy's fire, and went forth to visit
the outer works. So near had the enemy
approached, that the youth by his side
was struck down by a spent musket
hall. Having finished his inspection,
and settled his plans, he returned to the
Palace, and hurried off couriers to the
different portions of the army that were
advancing by forced marches toward the
city. First, the indomitable guards and
the brave cuirassiers, eager for the on
set, caine pouring in furious haste over
the bridge. The overjoyed inhabitants
stood by the streets, and offered them
food and drink; but though weary, hungry
and thirsty, the brave fellows refused to
take either, and hurried onward toward
the storm that was ready to burst on
their companions. At 10 o'clock the
troops commenced entering the city—
infantry, calvary, and artillery pouring
forward with impetuous speed--till
there appeared to be no end to the rush
ing thousands. Thus without cessation,
did the steady columns arrive all day
long, and were still hurrying in, when
at 4 o'clock the attack commenced. 'The
batteries that covered the heights around
the city opened with their terrible fire,
and in a moment Dresden became the
target of three hundred cannon, all train
ed upon her devoted buildings. Then
commenced one of war's wildest scenes.
St. Cyr replied with artillery, and thun
der answered thunder, as if the hot
August afternoon was ending in a real
storm of heaven. Balls fell in an inces
sant shower in the city, while the blazing
bombs traversing the sky, hung for a!
moment like messengers of death over
the streets, and then dropped with an
explosion that shook the ground, among
the frightened inhabitants. Amid the ,
shrieks of the wounded, and the stern
language of command, was heard the
heavy rumbling of the artillery and
ammunition wagons through the streets;
and in the intervals, the steady tramp
of the marching columns, still hastening
to the work of death—while over all, as!
if to drown all, like successive thunder- I
claps where the lightning falls nearest, I
spoke the fierce batteries that were ex
ploding on each other.—But the con
fusion and death and terror that reigned
through the city, as the burning build
ings shot their flames heavenward, were
not yet complete. The inhabitants had
fled to their cellars to escape the balls
and shells that came rushing every mo
ment through their dwellings; and amid
the bustle of the arriving armies, and.
their hasty trend along the streets, and
the roll of drums, and rattling of armor,
and clangor of trumpets, and thunder of
artillery, the signal was given for the
assault—three cannon shots from the
heights of Raeicknitz. The next moment
six massive colums, with 50 cannon at
their head, began to move down the
slopes—pressing straight for the city.
The muffled soundof their heavy, mensur
ed tread was heard within the walls, as
in dead silence and awful majeF.ty they
moved steadily forward upon the bat.
teries.
ft was a sight to strike terror to the
heart of the boldest, but St. Cyr marked
their advance with the calmness of a
fearless soul, and firmly awaited the
onset that even Napoleon trembled to
behold. No sooner did they come with
in range of artillery than the ominous
silence was broken by its deafening roar.
In a moment the heights about the city
were in a blaze ; and the fifty cannon
at the head of these columns belched
forth fire and smoke, and amid the charg
ing of infantry, the bursting of shells,
the rolling fire of musketry, and the ex
plosion of hundreds of cannon, St. Cyr
received the shock. For two hours did
the battle rage with sanguinary ferocity.
The plain was covered with dead—the
suburbs overwhelmed with assailants,
and ready to yield every moment—the
enemy's batteries were playing within
HUNTINGDON, PA,, TUESDAY, APRIL 23, 1850.
fifteen rods of the ramparts—the axes of
the pioneers were heard on the gates;
and the shouts, and yells, and execra
tions rose over thei walls of the city. The
last of St. Cyr's reserve were In the bat
tle, and had been for half an. hour, and
Napoleon began to tremble for his army.
But at half past six the Young Guard
arrived, shouting as they came, and
were received in return with shouts by
the army, that for a moment drowned
the roar of battle. Then Napoleon's
brow cleared up, and St. Cyr for the first
time,
drew a sigh of relief.
The gates were thrown open, and the
impetuous Ney, with the invincible
Guard, poured through one like a resist
less torrent on the foe, followed soon by
Murat, w;th his head-long cavalry.
Mortimer sallied. forth from another ;
and the Young G uard, though weary
and travel worn, burst with loud cheers
on the chief redoubt—which, after flow
ing in blood, had been wrested from the
French—and swept it like a tornado.
Those six massive colums, thinned
and riddled through, recoiled before the
fierce onset like the waves when they
meet a rock ; and slowly surged back
from the walls. In the meantime, dark
and heavy clouds began to roll up the
scorching heavens, and the distant roll
of thunder mingled with the roll of ar
tillery. Men had turned this hot Au
gust afternoon into a battle storm, and
now the elements were to end it with a
fight of their own. In the midst of the
deepening gloom the allies now for the
first time aware that the Emperor was
in the city, drew off their troops for the
night. The rain came down as if the
clouds were falling, drenching the liv
ing and the dead armies; yet Napoleon,
heedless of the storm, and knowing what
great results depended apon next day's
action, was seen hurrying on foot
through the streets to the bridge over
which he expected the corps of Mar
mont and Victor to arrive. With anx
ious heart lie stood and listened, till the
heavy tread of their advancing columns
through the darkness relieved his sus
pense; and then,
as they began to pour
over the bridge, he hastened back, and
traversing the city passed out at the
other side, and visited the entire lines
that were formed without the wall. The
bivouac fires shed a lurid light over the
field, and he came at every step upon
heaps of corpses, while groans and lam
entations issued from the gloom In every
direction ; for thousands of the woun
ded, uncovered and unburied, lay expo
sed :o the storm, dragging out the night
in pain. Early in the morning, Napo
leon was on horseback, and rode out to
the army. Taking his place beside a
huge fire that was blazing and crackling,
in the centre of the Old Guard, he issu
ed his orders for the day. Victor was
on the right ; the resistless Ney on the
left, over the Young Guard, while St.
Cyr and Marmont were in the centre,
which Napoleon commanded in person.
The rain fell in torrents, and the thick
mist shrouded the field as if to shut out
the ghastly spectacle its bosom exhibit
ed. The cannonading soon commenced,
but with little effect, as the mist conceal.
ed the armies from each other. A hun
dred and sixty thousand of the allies,
stretched in a huge semicircle along the
heights, while Napoleon, with a hundred
and thirty thousand in a plain below was
waiting the favorable moment in which
to commence the attack. At length the
battle opened on the right, where a fir
ing was heard as Victor pressed firmly
against an Austrian battery. Suddenly
Napoleon heard a shock like a falling
mountain. While Victor was engaging
the enemy in front, Murat, unperceived
in the thick mist, had stolen around to
the rear, and without a note of warning
burst with twelve thousand cavalry on
the enemy. He rode straight through
their broken lines, trampling under foot
the dead and dying. Ney was equally
successful on the left, and as the mists
lifted, it showed the allied wings both
driven back. The day wore away in
blood—carts, loaded with the wounded,
moved in a constant stream into the city ;
but the French were victorious at all
points, and when night again closed
over the scene, the allied armies had de
cided to retreat.
fr7-Mankind are more what they are
made by mankind than they are made
by their Creator. The wolf is ferocious,
because hunted from a whelp. The
snake turns upon you,
because you dis
turb and pursue it. The child grows
surly, because unjustly coerced. But
above all, man becomes unjust and cruel,
because pursued with cruelty and injus
tice by his brother man.
lry-Some one says that the dissolution
of the Union is a Chimera got up with
the design of frightening the North into
a Compromise. Exactly !
Oz The citizens of Boston have raised
$20,000 for Prof. Webstor's
AN ELOQUENT PASSAGE.
THE PULPIT ON DISUNION.
The following eloquent and patriotic
sentiments were delivered before the
Arch Street Presbyterian congregation,
on Sunday morning last, by the Rev.
Charles Wadsworth, in his inaugural
sermon :
Paul's principle as set forth in the
text, applies as well to the Civil, as to
the Social and the Ecclesiastic. A
Christian minister amid the partizan
ship of a community's politics, is to
"know nothing save Christ Jesus and
him crucified." His duties as a preacher
are superinduced duties. As God's
Ambassador he comes to man divested
altogether of factitious differences. To
the sovereign and the slave—to the
mighty man and the menial—to the
creature fawning on the foot-cloth of a
throae, and the freeman standing proud
ly before kings in the glory of immortal
manhood— to all alike, he comes, bear
ing the same flaming credentials of God's
anger and God's love ; standing in his
high place of embassy, he is not to look
that the Holy Ghost will descend from
Heaven to give point to a lesson of
statesmanship, or power to an axiom of
political economy. He is to look on man
as a spirit whose nationality is but a
decaying garment, a spirit winged for
soaring to that high world where men of
all kingdoms and peoples are one in
Christ. He is to forget all minor in
terests. He is to forget all human dis
tinctions. He is to "let the dead bury
their dead." He is to "know nothing
save Christ Jesus and Him crucified."
Meantime we would not be misunder
stood here. Far be it from us to bow be
fore this most foul, yea favorite infidel
clamor, whereby a Christian minister,
by the imposition of Ecclesiastical
hands, is held thereafter divested of all
rights ns a man;and a citigen ; even under
the shadow of the cross, he will not—he
may not—he cannot forget his country.
Paul, amid the surpassing glories of a
commonwealth like ours, would have
cried with even inure than his Romnn
exultation, "I am an ilmerican citizen."
Our beloved land, with its boundaries
the broadest—its government the freest
—its institutions the noblest the world
ever saw, is God's great gift to every
man who breathes its blest air, and exults
in its sunshine. And woe be to that
man, whether Civilian or Ecclesiastic,
who dare lay down at a fools bidding
his great birth-right, or prove recreant
to one of its ennobling prerogatives—
who dare leave American liberty, an un
prized thing, to be marred by the hand
of unskilful legislation, or wrecked amid
the conflicts of self-seeking ambition
who dare fail in one title of all lie can
do to give steadfast strength to Ameri
can name and American nationality.
God's pity Off the creeping thing that
can listen unmoved to the whisper of
Disunion that rises even now upon the
ear ! Perish the heart that throbs not in
agonizing desire that this glorious sister.
hood be never broken I Palsied be the
right arm that feels not its sinews tight
en like steel, to speed our soaring eagle
in its flight to the sun ! Stricken be the
bosom that bares not itself in full strength
to roll back this desolating surge that
would sweep all these glad and godful
and glorious things away as wrecks upon
the billows ! Not know my country !
not honor my country !—not struggle
for my country ! Why then would 1 be
a creature without soul, unworthy my
ministry—unworthy my manhood.
Nay, nay—such political wisdom, I
will know-1 must know—because ab.
solutely in it, I am to know Christ crucifi
ed. For, my audience, dear as to every
American Christian must be his country
—dear, because of the prayers of its
consecration, and the blood of its baptism
—dear, because of its great breadth and
mighty power, and glorious fame—the
home of the free—the hope of the op
pressed—the beacon to the nations—the
cradle of that infant liberty, which yet,
when its limbs shall have waxed strong,
will leap from its swaddling bands in
great manhood, and go forth in a giant's
path, to shake down the despotisms of a
world in rushing Omnipotence ! Yet
to his loving heart is it dearest of all, as
the great instrument under God to bear
on to its consummation his adorable
Gospel ! He sees Christ in .dinerican
nationality ! Christ, the God of all
Providence, presiding and preserving it
' —as the great spring in the mechanism
of a triumphing Evangel. And to him it
seems that to sever this blessed Union,
were to loose the silver cord of man's
hope, and to break the great wheel at
the cistern. And every Christian minis
ter will stand by the Union—and pray
for the Union—and struggle for the
Union—and preach Christ and him
crucified as the cement of the Union, till
his right arm is withered, and his tongue
dumb to death !—Phila. Inquirer.
(.. - ----A r
.1,
. , .
o 4, 0/),,,L
~, 4
All 1
f(tttr
A Daughter's Love.
There is no one so slow to . note the
follies or sins of a father us a daughter.
The wife of his bosom may fly in hor
ror from hie embrace, but his fair hair
ed child cleaves to him in boundless
charity. Quickened by the visitation
of pain to the parental dwelling, her
prayers are more brief but more earnest
—her efforts doubled and untiring—and
if she can but win a smile fron , that sul
len and gloomy face, she is paid, oh, how
richly paid for all her sleepless cares
and unceasing labor. The father may
sink from deep to deep,. from a lower to
yet a lower depth—Satan's kinsman and
Satan's prey. Those who in a happier
hour received largely of his benefactions
may start when they behold his shad.
ow, and accelerate their pace to get be
yond it; all may forsake him-- , .God and
the world—all but Satan and his daugh
ter. Poor child ! if thou canst not save,
thy feeble torch made as bright as thy
power canst make it, throws at least a
flickering light upon the path, till the
object of thy unquenchable love has for ,
ever left thee, and is shrouded in the
thick darkness ; and when undone, when
gone from thee, and gone forever,
though thou mayst wed thy early love
and know all in him thy young heart
pictured, yet, again and again, in the
midst of thy placid joy, even with thy
smiling infant on thy knee, the lost one
will not be forgotten. Seeing the past
as it were only yesterday, forgetful of
thy little darling,thou wilt exclaim, from
the depths of thy ever-mindful and af
fectionate spirit, ' , My father, Oh, my
father !"
Row to Increase Beauty.
There is a divine contagion in all
beauteous things. We alternately color
objects with our fancies and affections,
or receive it from a kindred hue,
"Like the sweet South,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor."
This principle pervades all nature,
physical and moral. Let those who
would trace an expression of serenity
and tenderness on a human face, watch
a person of sensibility as he gazes upon
a painting by Claude or Raphael. In
contemplating a fine picture, we drink
in its spirit through our eyes. If a love
ly woman would increase her charms,
let her gaze long and ardently on all
beauteous images. Let her not indulge
those passions which deform the features
but cultivate, on the contrary, every soft
affection. It will soon become an easy
task, for one good feeling suggests and
supports another. We insensibly and
involuntarily adapt our aspect to our
emotions, and long habit,. of thought and
feeling leave a permament impression on
the countenance. Every one believes
thus fur in physiognomy, and acts more
or less decidedly upon his behalf, I3ut
even the effect upon the features of a
transient emotion is truly wonderful.
A fierce man often looks beautifully
tender and serene when either caressing
or caressed, and deceives us like the
ocean in a calm, which, at times, is 'the
gentlest of all things.'—Richardson's
Literary Leaves.
Perils of Falsehood.
' , When once a concealment or deceit
has been practised in matters where all
should be fair and open as the day, con
fidence can never be restored any more
than you can restore the white bloom to
the grape or plum that you have once
pressed in your hand. How true is this,
and what a neglected truth by n great
portion of mankind.—Falsehood is not
only one of the most humiliating vices,
but sooner or later it is most certain to
lead to the most serious crimes. With
partners in trade, with partners in life
—with friends : with lovers, how impor
tant is confidence I How essential that
all guile and hypocrisy should be guard
ed against In the intercourse between
such parties !—How much misery would
be avoided in the history of many lives,
had truth and sincerity been their guid
ing and controlling motives, instead of
prevarication and deceit 2 Any vice,'
said a parent in our hearing a few days
since, any vice, at least aziong the
frailties of a milder character, but false ,
hood. Far better that my child should
commit an error or do a wrong and con
fess it, than escape the penalty, however
severe, by falsehood and hypocrisy. Let
me know the worst, and a remedy may
possibly be applied. But keep me in
the dark--let me be misled and dneived,
and it is impossible to tell at what Un
prepared hour ff crashing blow--an over
whelming exposure—may come."
V7-An importer in New York attempt
ing to smuggle diamonds in a letter, had
them forfeited to the Government.—
Their cost was $BOO. This is rather
more than the ad valorem.
ED— Pleasure is like a cordial ; a little
of it not injurious-, but too much destroys.
VOL. XV, NO, 17.
Grumbling Against Editors.
It is amusing to hear the contradictory
complaints which are sometimes made
against a newspaper. A prefers a•quarto
sheet---11 declares he could'never get the'
"hang" of one. C admires the elegance
and neatness of tine type—and old Mr.
D abhors a paper that requires a micro.
scope. E wonders you insert an few sen
timental ghost stories—F detests your
abominable lies and cock-and-bull-sto-
ries. U would like to see an exact and
minute account of Congressional and
Legislative proceedings —H curses the
journal that contains the endless hodge
podge doings and undoings of selfish
partisans and demagogues. 1 won't sub
scribe because your news department is
so contracted-3 takes the "city" pa.
pers, and has read your stale items a
week ago. K has a mortal antipathy to
a paper crowded with riots, horrible ac
cidents, frightful robberies, and other
demoralizing statements—L is mad as
a hare because his miserable paper con
tained no account of that bloody mur
der last week. M detests your stereer
type advertisements—and all N wants
of the paper is to see what's for sale.—
C threatens to discontinue becanse yotie
editorials lack ginger, and•clon't lash pri
vate vices—P, a leaden-headooints you
to—'s paper, and wonders you never
moralize like him. Q hates the rascally
abolitionists—R holds in perfect con- -
tempt the dastard editor who is too en W
ardly to avow his abhorrence of Slavery.
S demands long and solid artleles—T
wants the close packet essence, and not
the thin diluted mixture. U extols a
journal that reaches him "a week before
it is printed ;" and V tells you he is not
quite green enough to be gulled by such
despicable liumbuggery. W is aston
ished that you never print sermons—and
all that X cares for is fun. Yis on fire
because you 'will not deduct more for ad
vance pay--and Z is amazed at the im ,
pudence of a publisher who duns hint
for three years' subscription and yerob
jects to being paid in trade.—Yankee
Blade.
ME*
Beyond' the mere definition of this
term, how little can be said of its mean
ing. Time is an indefinite part of an
unfathomable whole—it is n fraction of
eternity—of whose laws we know noth=
ing, save that they are regulated by the
celestial bodies and by the imperfect
understanding of man. Time, then, is
so mysterious that of its laws we know
comparatively nothing, and our progress
is such that, strictly speaking, it is
never present. "Let us work while it
is day, for the night cometh when no
man can work," Of all the subjects
brought before us, none is devoured with
more eagerness than that illustrating the
ways of lengthening the time, or tem
poral life, of man. That this srbject ex
cites universal interest we need but one
day's experience to prove; discuss upon
it in public, and you have exclusive at
tention ; dwell upon it in private, and
you become lost m conjectures: and yet,
with what recklessness and apathy is
existing life squandered ! Time is not
given to us for an animal gratification ;
it is given to us that we may educate,
mature and enoble our minds, by reflect
ing on the knowledge and virtue of
society around ; and, finally, that WO
may prepare ourselves to receive the
mysterious truths of time, and the happi•
ness of eternity.
Social Virtues.
Kindness, forbearance, meekness, ten•
derness, love—sweet virtues ! let them
be cultivated in every bosom. Who
would feel like fretting or szolding, if
he had in exercise a forbearing spirit.--
ho would seek for opportunities for
revenge, if love reigned in his bosom
Oh, be kind, and tender; and forgiving:
Study to possess and cultivate the bless
sed social virtues—those virtues that
make up the happiness of heaven. If
a'l were as amiable as it is in their power
to be i we should not feel like saying—
“There's something every day to make
The changeful spirits sad ;
A word to cause the heart to ache,
When it is sweetly clad.
But in every face we should read the
lessons of love and kindness. If we
should feel the wing of sorrow pressing
one hour, a dozen hands would be exten
ded to our relief, and a thousand smiles
would fall like sunshine on Our path,
ID—How short the years are when we
are getting old I Till we are out of our
teens, Time not only "hides his scythe
among the flowers," but actually seems
to be mowing by the day. No sooner,
however, do we turn the corner of thirty
than he is after us with a swarth- that
cuts into our years as if they were made
up of weeds or wet paper.
Q D - Massachusetts has about three
millions of dollars invested in School
houses. A goat! investment,