Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, July 02, 1850, Image 1

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The Mantle of Buried ream
There are gems that rest in the silent caves
Of the deep and boundless sea,
And the riches of earth on its bounding waves
Is tossed by the breezes free;
But I'd give them all for the smiles and tears
That lie with the wealth of buried years.
There are sands that glitter away in the West,
Where ages the rivers have rolled
Their clear cold floods to the ocean's breast,
O'er beds stir-sprinkled with gold;
But what is the wealth of their golden tide
To the treasure of years that have vanished away!
There are sounds of voices that ever steal back
From the depth of by-gone years,
And memory bestrews the oft-trodden track
Withi its sunshine, its shadow and tears :
0, doubly dear are the gems that lie
In the golden years that have flitted by !
As the light fades out Irom the evening cloud,
That days have glided away,
And the heart is still 'neath the chilly shroud
That beats high in life's happy day:
0 ! where is the treasure the wide world bears
T 1 At i■ worth one smile from the buried years !
Vague realm of the peat ! how joyous a band
Have you called from the home of men,
To the silent vales of that shadowy land
Whence they come not back again !
Ye gathered years, what treasures ye bear!
For the loved and lost to earth are there !
Knock ! knock ! knock ! It was again
the familiar night warning. A season of
disease, especially fatal to the working
people of the town, kept me constantly
nt work ; and, well or ill, willing or not,
I must be ready at their call. I sprung
from my warm bed, and lifting up the
window sash, called out, "Who's thereV'
"You must come directly, sir, to No.
6 Smith's Yard, and see a child that lies
very ill ; it's a neighbor's bairn, sir."
"Very well ; I shall be there present
ly," was my reply, and I shut down the
Throwing on my clothes hastily, and
a cloak over all, 1 hastened out, and pro
ceeded to the house indicated. It was
a cold winter's morning,about 5 o'clock.
The bitter wind, laden with sleet, caught
the at the street corner, and made me
draw my cloak closer around me. The
factory bells were already ringing, and
here and there the huge castles of facto
ries were lit up, and poured a thousand
streams of light into the darkness. The
streets were astir with the factory work
ers—men, women, and little girls, who
clinged along in pattensthrough the wet
snow which sprinkled the ground. Poor
children thus early inured to the hard
lot of toil ! what a piteous fate was theirs!
But tinkling through the air went the
importunate bells of the factories, and
away they must go. Were they warmly
clad 1 Were they fed 1 Were they
rested—thus early astir, and exposed to
the elements 1 But I stifled my tho'ts
and hastened on.
I found the house without difficulty.
It was situnted in a yard where I had
often before been in the course of the
last three months called hither by the
duties of my profession. Tmius fever
in its worst forms had recently been a
constant visitor there. It was in the
heart of nn ill-drained, filthy neighbor
hood, exclusively inhabited by working
people. The gutters lay close by the
doors ; they did not run, but were stag
nant for months together. In such a
place the remedies provided by medicine
have but little avail. The poison held
in solution by the surrounding air baffles
the most skilful treatment, and death is
almost invariably the victor in the con.'
test. Half the children born in this dis
trict, I was assured by men of long ex
perience, perished under four years old;
and the lives of those who survived were
sickly, joyless, and miserable. Life with
them was only along and painful dying.
I found my little patient in the death
throes. It was a case of croup of the
worst kind. The house was comfortless
in the extreme. A few red cinders in
the grate struggled for life—a cold fire,
more cheerless even than none at all.—
The furniture of the room into which 1
.vas ushered, consisted of drawers sadly
out of repair, a deal-safe, three or four
ticketty chairs, and the miserable truck.
on which the dying child lay. A
,00den flight of stairs led to a sleeping
..partment above—of the furniture of
which one might form an idea from this,
the “best." apartment. The mother of
the child held an infant of a few weeks
Id at her breast; she was crying bit•
terly, for the sad truth was not to be
concealed from her. She was dressed
in a poor garment, patched in many pia-
' i jniX i iiingbOn
ces, yet she was clean ; the few articles
in the apartment, however miserable in
other respects, being also as clean as
water and scouring could make them.—
The floor too, was clean and fresh sand.
ed. By whatever means, then, misery
had fallen upon this humble household,
it did not, at first sight, appear to be the
woman's fault; the evidences of her do-
mestic industry were obvious. There
was a dismal poverty ; that was only too
'My interest in the poor woman's for
tunes was excited by what I saw ; and,
after administering some medicine, I en
quired how she lived.
"We live but poorly, sir," she said ;
"no wages have come into the house this
week ; and you see," glancing at the in
fant in her arms, "that we have just had
another little mouth to fill."
"Then your husband—'
ted, and seeing my doubt—
" Alas !" she said, '•1 leave a husband,
and yet he is not a husband," and she
hung down her head and wept.
"Is he in work'!" I enquired.
"Work enough, and well paid, for that I
part of it; but, sir, you see he has sadly
fallen off in his ways since we were
married. He has become unsteady—
careless of his home and family—and in
short, sir, a drunkard."
The confession cost her a painful ef
fort; and I was almost sorry for having
extracted it ; but she proceeded with
her story :
"When we were married, I thought
myself the happiest of women. He eves
kind, nffectionate, and steady. I did my
best to make things comfortable, and I
think I succeeded. We were not always
in the poor house you see now, sir; we
had as snug and tidy it little home as is
to be found in all —; but everybit of
furniture has gone now, except what you
see. He has taken away one thing after
another, and sold them for drink; and
1, for I could not help it, had to pawn my
clothes for bread for my children. Mine
has become a hard and bitter lot ; and
what can a poor woman do, when tied to
a wan who has ceased to love her, ceas
ed to think of her, and cares only to
gratify his craving for drink 'I Form
erly, when he came home from work,
the house was made comfortable for him
and oh ! how I rejoiced at the sound of
his coming step ! There was very mu
sic in it! But now the sound of his
tread makes me shudder; I listen for it
as before, but it is in dread. I hear the
unsteady step, and my soul sinks within
me. That dear little boy, how he loved
his father! He clambered about him,
and romped and played with him, and
the father colt a proud joy in his young
son. But that joy, too, was poisoned
by the growth. of the new craving for
drink which set in upon him, and I even
feared that the father began to grudge
the food that was necessary to nourish
the little thing, as it limited the means
of self-indulgence. All is a dreary blank
1 found that the poor child had been
called up one cold, raw night, to let the
lathsr in, while the mother, unable to
rise, was confined to bed with her new
born infant. A severe cold was caugh:,
which soon assumed the form of croup,
and death fixed his relentless talons on
the doomed child. That father ! how
much had he to answer for! and, did a
spark of fatherly feeling yet remain in
him, how horror-stricken must he be,
when finding the shocking result of his
own sinful conduct !
I left the house, giving the poor wo
man such comfort us the circumstances
would permit; and, truth to say, they
were extremely slender. But I resolved
in my own mind to have an interview
with the man himself, and to point out
to him the consequences of his conduct.
A few hours after, when the morning
light had dawned, I returned to the
house. The child had breathed its last
a few minutes before I entered. The
mother, almost heart-broken, was stunn
ed with grief, and tears were all her ut
terance. A man, bowed down and hag
gard, sat by the fire, the very picture of
wretchedness. He started up when I
' entered, and made to the door, but I
stood before him and said, "I should
like to have a word with you before you
go. You are, I presume, the father of
that child 1"
"I am, sir," he replied.
"And you are aware of the cause of its
death V" He hung down his head and
"I do not wish to speak severely to
you, my friend, at such a time ; but you
must take this as n special and solemn
warning to yourself—one sent, 1 hope,
by Providence, to withdraw you from
the guilty course you are now pursuing,
which must inevitably end in utter ruin
and misery to yourself, your Wife, and
your children."
"I know it, sir, he gasped, "I know it!
But I have been infatuated—mad—and
cruel to my family in the extreme. I feel
it all now ; I see the horrid guiltiness of
my course, and I have vowed never to
drink again. I have sworn it over the
body of my poor child, whose love I had
begun to forget, whose comfort I had
lately altogether neglected; and you
will see, sir, I shall persevere in my de
"I am glad to hear it," I said; "aban
don wholly this habit ou have given
yourself up to. Do not even taste, for
the ant drop does the mischief; and I
shall be glad to learn that you have be
come restored to usefulness as it mem
ber of society, and to the renewed love
and respect of your family."
"I faithfully promise," lie said, and
seized my hand and pressed it; 1 shall
swear, if that be necessary."
Several months passed, and, being
much occupied, the circumstance had
almost passed from my mipd, until one
morning a visitor called to inquire for
his account, and gave his name, which 1
at once remembered as the occupant of
the dottage of Smith's Yard. I had some
difficulty in recognizing him again ; he
was clean, healthy-looking, and well
dressed ; a change seemed to have come
over the entire man.
•" I hesita•
"I have kept my promise, sir," were
his first words. I have not tasted one
drop of intoxicating drink since that sad
morning, and with God's help shall ne
ver taste another drop while I live. I
have found the good consequences in
my restored self-respect, in the restored
enjoyment of my home and family. 1
have taken a cottage in a clean and heal
thy part of the town ; for do you know,
sir, my craving for stimulants stuck by
me so long as I breathed the air of that
filthy court. Who knows how many
drunkards these unwholesome courts
and yards of our town annually make
I am now a tee-totaler, and already a
member of an association, just formed,
for improving the health of the town.—
None can join so zealously in such good
causes as those who have suffered from
the evils they are intended to cure; and
I trust 1 am not the least zealous among
he members of these movements."
I expressed my cordial delight at lear
ning the radical cure that had been ef
fected in his case, encouraged him to
proceed, and settled the business about
which he had called.
I afterwards watched his progress,
and had frequent occasions to meet him
as a fellow-laborer in theexcellent move
ments in tvhich he had so heartily join
ed ; and to this day, I believe, he is at
work—a useful, industrious, and gener
ally respected member of the society
amidst which he lives.
Thus Providence sent its warning in
time. Would that all the dispensations
of God were thus turned to profit, and
made as fruitful in good consequences.
Oh! Love, Young. Love.
Jonathan Dunbutter saw Prudence
Feastall at meeting. Jonathan kind o'
sidled up to Prudence after meeting, and
she a kind o' sidled off. He went clo
ser, and axed her if she would accept
the crook of his elbow. She resolved
she would, and plumbed her arm right
around his. Joi,athan felt all (liverish,
and said he liked the text—'Seek and ye
shall find'—was purely good readin.—
Prudence hinted that 'Ask and you shall
receive' was better. Jonathan thought
so too, but this axing was a puzzle:. A
fellow was apt to get into a snarl when
he axed, and snarling was no fun. Pru
dence guessed strawberries and cream
were slick. Jonathan guessed they wan't
so slick as Prue's lips. 'Now, don't,'
said Prue, and she guv Jonathan's arm
an involuntary hug, He was a leetle
I startled, but thunk his farm wanted
some female help, to look arter his house.
Frue knew how to make rale good bread.
'Don't,' said Prue. 'lf I should,' said
Jonathan. 'Don't,' said Prue. 'Maybe
you wouldn't,' and slink all over. Pru
dence replied, 'if you be coming that
game, you had better tell fayther.'—
'That's jist what I want,' said Jonathan.
And in three weeks Jonathan and Pru
dence were 'my old man,' and 'my old
Savage Landor publishes an article in
the Loudon Examiner, in which he pre
dicts that the United States will proceed
in annexing foreign States and establish
ing in them the English language and
laws, till the Union will embrace all fra
ternities and climates !
Great minds are charitable to
their bitterest enemies, aid can sympa
thize with the failings of their fellow
creatures. It is only the narrow-mind
ed who make no allowance for the fautta
of others.
To PARENTS.—Boys that have been
properly reared are men to point of use
fulness at sixteen, whilst those that have
been brought up in idle habits are nui-
I sances at twenty•ono.
The Flower that Looks Upwards.
A group of young and light•hcarted
girls sat together in the twilight, busily
arranging the flowers they had been
gathering in the pleasant woods and
6 6 What beautiful things flowers are!"
said one. "And what a pleasant amuse
ment it would be now that we are all
sitting here so quietly, if each were to
choose what flower she would rather be
Just as if there could be any choice,"
exclaimed Laura Bennet, a little proud
ly—and holding tip a moss rose as she
spoke.—" Among all the flowers that
grow, there is none to vie in beauty with
the rose. Let me be the queen of flow
ers or none !"
"For my part," observed her sister
Helen, "1 should like to resemble the
luxuriant rhododendron, so beautifully
described in our book of flowers. When
any one, in passing, shakes it roughly,
it scatters, as we are told, a "shower of
honey dew from its roseate cups, and
immediately begins to fill its chalices
anew with transparent ambrosia;" teach
ing us to shower sweetness even upon
the hands that disturb us, and to fill
again with pure honey drops the chali
ces of our inward thoughts. Oh! who
would not wish to be meek and forgiv
ing like the rhododendron, if they could 'I
But it is very difficult," added poor Hel
en, with tears in her eyes.
"It is indeed," said Lucy Neville, gen
tly, "if we trust only to our strength.—
It is only when my father looks at me
in his grave, kind manner, that I have
the slightest control over myself. What
a pity it is," said Lucy simply, "that we
cannot always remember that the eye of
our Heavenly Father is upon us'!"
"I wish I could," replied Helen.
"I have heard my mother say," obser
ved Lucy, "that praying is better than
Now Clara°" interrupted Laura Ben
net, turning impatiently toward a fair,
gentle looking girl by her side, "we are
waiting for you."
f,lara smiled, and immediately chose
the pale convolvulus, or bindweed, wind
ing so carelessly in and out among the
bushes, flinging over them a graceful
covering, an emblem of meek beauty
and loving tenderness. "The only pity
is," said she, "that it should so soon
close up and fade."
"But what says our dear Lucy," ex
claimed Helen.
"I think that I can guess," said Clara
Seymour, "either a violet or heart's ease
--am I right I"
"Not quite," replied Lucy with a
deep blush, "although both the flowers
that you have mentioned are great favor
ites of mine. But I should like to resem
ble the daisy most, because it is always
"Do tell me," said Helen, as they
walked home together, carrying the
flowers which they had gathered to adorn
their several dwellings; do tell me why
you wished, just now, to be always look
ing upward like the daisy."
"0, Helen, can you ask 1 What more
do we require for happiness than to be
able, let the cloud be ever so dark, to
look upward with the eye of faith, and
say, It is the Lord's will and there-fore
it is best 1"
" Do you always think thus ?" asked
"Alas no !" replied poor Lucy, while
the tears fell fast, "hut I am trying and
praying to God to teach me."
Kiss Cotillions.
4e editor of the Windsor Journal—
an obatihate sort of a bachelor—learns
that "Professors of Dancing" in New
York, have recently introduced a new
style of cotillion called the kiss cotillion,
the peculiar feature of which is, that
you kiss the ladies as you swing corners.
' The editor is a crusty sort of a fellow,
who never dances, but says he would not
mind waiving his objections to the am
usement so far as to "swing corners"
now and then in this new cotillion!—the
selfish scamp. He reminds us of an old
lady whohad an unaccountable aversion
to rye, and never could eat it in any
form, "till of late years," she said, "they
had got to making it into whiskey, and
I find I can now and then worry down a
ID-A romantic youth, promenading
on a fashionable street the other after
noon picked up a thimble. He stood a
while, meditating upon the probable
beauty of the owner, when he pressed
it to his lips, saying, "0 ! that it were
the fair cheek of the wearer !" Just as
he had finished, a stout colored lady,
looked out of an upper window, and
said, "Boss, jig; please to frow dat
ble of mine in de entry. 1 just drapt it."
ri-Be calm and steady ; ncthing wi
grow under a moving harrow.
( i o
Sham Hays and his Bull-y Race.
Some forty years ago, the managers
of a race course near Brownsville, on
the Monongahela, published a notice of
a race, one mile heats, on a particular
day, for a purse of one hundred dollars,
"free for anything with four legs and
hair on !"
A man in the neighberhood, named
Hays, had a bull that he was in the hub-
it of riding to mill with his bag of corn,
and he determined to enter him for the
race. He said nothing about it to any
one, but he rode him around the track a
number of times on several moonlight
nights, until the bull had the hang of
the ground pretty well, and would keep
the right course. He rode with spurs,
which the bull considered particularly
disagreeable ; so much so, that he al
ways bellowed loudly when they were
applied to his sides.
On the morning of the race, Hays
came upon the ground "on horseback"
on his bull. Instead of a saddle, he had
a dried ox-hide, the head part of which,
with the horns still on, he had placed on
the bull's rump. He carried a short tin
horn in his hand.
He rode to the judges' stand and of
fered to enter his bull for the race, but
the owners of the horses that were en
tered objected. Hays appealed to the
terms of the notice , insisting that his
bull had g!for legs an!d hair on, and that
therefore he had a right to enter him.
After a good deal of "cussin" and "dis
cussion,'the judges declared themselves
compelled to decide that the bull had a
right to run.
- When the time for starting arrived,
the horses took their places. The horse
racers were out of humor at being both
ered with the bull, and at the burlesque
which they supposed was intended, but
thought that all would be over as soon
as the horses started. When the signal
as given they did start. Hays gave a
blast with his horn and sunk his spurs
' into the bull's sides, who bounded off
with a terrible bawl, at no trifling speed,
the dried ox-hide flapping up and down
and rattling at every jump, making a
combination of noises that had never
been heard on a race course before. The
horses all flew the track, every one seem
ing to be seized with a sudden determi
nation to take the shortest cut to get out
of the Redstone country, and not one of
them could be brought back in time to
save their distance. The purse was giv
en to Hays under a good deal of hard
swearing on the part of the owners of
the horses.
A general row ensued, but the fun of
the thing put the crowd all on tho side
of the bull. The horsemen all conten
ded that they were swindled out of the
purse, and that if it had not been for
Hays' horn and ox-hide, which he ought
not to have been permitted to bring on
the ground, the thing would not have
turned out as it did.
Upon this, Hays told them that his
bull could beat any of their horses any
how, and if they would put up a hun
dred dollars against the purse which he
had won, he would take off the ox hide,
leave his tin horn, and run a fair race
with them. His offer was accepted, and
the money staked. They again took
their places at the starting post, and the
signal was given. Hays give the bull
another touch with his spur, and the bull
gave another tremendotis bellow. The
horses remembered the horrible sound,
and thought the rest was coming as be
fore. Away they went again, in spite
of all the exertions of their riders ;
while Hays galloped his bull around the
track again and won the money. From
that time they nick-named him Sham
Hays. He afterwards removed to Ohio
but his 'nickname stuck to him as long
as he lived.—Spirzt of the Times.
I Suffering Youth,
44 Father 1 wants a dollar," said a
country boy—a strapping lad of sixteen,
who measured two az-handles in his
stockings—to his dad, one Sunday night
—"I wants a buzzum pin amazingly, all
the big boys in town have got 'em but
" Fudge," replied the sire, "a buzzum
pin ! nonsense ! You'd better get a
pair of shoes or a new felt, for a dollar,'
or suthin' o'some consekwense—but
b.u.z-z-u-m-p.i.n !—pshaw !"
" Humph !" returned the juvenile,
"these ere things you spoke on are all
well enough in the fall ; wont my palm.
leaf dew for this summer, and can't I go
bare-foot now 1 But," sobbed out the
stripling, "I'm really suffering for a buz
zum-pin !
0:1-"The heart of the generous man
is like the clouds of heaven, which drop
upon the earth fruits, herbage, and flow
ers; the heart of the ungrateful is like
a desert of sand, which swalloweth with
greediness the showers that fall, but
burieth them in its bosom, and produ
, ceth nothing."
VOL. XV, NO. 26.
Irish Circumlocution.
If the Irish are to be distinguished as
a convivial and a musical, they must
also be noted as a circumlocutory people.
Observing one day an unusual commo
tion in the streets of Derry, I inquired
of a bystander the.reason ; and he, with
a mellifluous brogue, replied in the fol
lowing metaphorical manner:
The rason, sir ! Why, you see that
the justice and little Larry O'Hone, the
carpenter, have been putting up a picture
frame at the end of the strafe yonder,
and they are going to hang one of •Ad
am's copies' in it...
" What's that 1"
', Why, poor Murdock O'Donnel."
"Oh, there's a mnn to be hungl"
" Do they put up a gallows for any
other purpose 1"
" What's his offencel"
No offence, y our
, honor ; it was only
a liberty he took. '
Well, what was the liberty 1
Why, you see, sir, poor Murdock
was in delicate health, and his physi
cian advised that he should take exer
cise on horseback • and so, having no
horse of his own, be borrowed one from
Squire Doyle's paddock : and no sooner
was he on its showlders, than the d-1
put it into the cracher's head to go over
to Kellowgresn cattle 7 fair, where lie
!had a good many arquaintances ; and
when he was got there, Murdock spied
a friend at the door of a shebeen-house,
and left the animal grazing outside,
whilst he went in to have a thimbleful
of whiskey; and then, you see, they
got frisky and had another, and another,
till poor Murdock went to sleep on the
binch ; and when he wouke up, he found
the cracker gone, and his pocket stuff
ed full with a big lump of money.,'
" In short," said 1, "you mean to say
he has been horse-stealing."
Why, sir," he replied, stammering
and scratching his head, "they call it so
in England."
A POLITICAL JOHE.-A clerk in the
War Department died a few days ago,
and some anxious and expectant whigs
thought they would take titne by the
forerock to recommend a candidate.—
They called immediately upon the Sec
retary, and after stating their business
apologised for calling so soon after the
clerk's death. The Secretary blandly
assured the gentlemen that no apology
was necessary for so early a call, for the
vacancy was already filled.
amined in one of the Courts of Illinois,
upon trial concerning a horse trade, was
asked by the counsel for the defendant
how the plaintiff generally rode 1 Wit
ness—He generally rides a-straddle, sir.
Counsel—How does he ride in compa
ny 1 Witness-1f he has a good horse
he always keeps up. Counsel—How
does he ride when he is alone 1 Witness
—Really, sir, I cannot say, for I never
was in company with him when he rode
by himself. Court.—You may stand aside.
AN APOLOGY.-A lawyer in a neigh.
boring county, addressed the Court as .
"gentlemen," instead of your "Honors."
After he had concluded a brother of the
Bar reminded him of his error. He im
mediately rose to apologise thus :
" May it please the Court—in the
beat of debate I called your Honors gen
tlemen. I made a mistake your Honors."
The gentleman sat down, and we hope
the court was satisfied with the explana
(EP-A young beauty beheld one eve
ning two horses running off, at locomo
tive speed with a light wagon. As they
approached, she was horrified at recog
nising, in the occupants of the vehicle,
two gentlemen of her acquaintance.—
"Boys ! boys !" she screamed in terror,
"Jump out—quick—jump out—especial
ly Charley." It is needless to say that
her sentiments as to "Charley," were,
from that time forth, no secret.
A MALE FLIRT.—A monster in cassi
mere—a wretch, in short, who trifles
with the best affections of a young girl,
and then flings her aside as he would a
dead pink, or any faded flowers off of
which he had taken the bloom. Mrs.
Smithers says, such a man ought• to be
squeezed to death with mountains, with
out the benefit of hollering.
lEF-A Lowell boy, writing from Cali
fornia, by the late steamer, speaking of
the market says am not a prophet,
but I think it safe to send pork, dried
apples, dried peaches, beef, molasses,
sugar, good butter—and cheese—done
up to preserve it on the voyage—pickled
onions, cider, vinegar, Shaker brooms
and women."
I:l7“Cut your garment according to
your cloth,” is an old maxim, but the
sentiment is as true now as ever. A
life of gaudy show may do for a butter
fly, but never for a man and woman who
expect to survive ono season.