Ved ; (0 u7n ( 7 7 2 Ttno / 6,1' c---• • VOLUME XVII. TERMS OF PUBLICATION: THE "HUNTINGDON JOURNAL" is published at the following rates, viz : If paid in advance, per annum, $1,50 If paid during the year, 1,75 If paid after the expiration of the year,• 2,50 To Clubs of five or more, in advance,• • 1,25 .Tita above Terms will be adhered to in all cases. No subscription will be taken fora less period than Six months, and no paper will be discontinued un til all arrearages are paid, unless at the option of the publisher. POETICAL. HOME Then the disciples went away unto their home."—Jonx xi. 40. Where burns the fire-side brightest, Cheering the social breast? Where beats the fund heart lightest, Its humble hopes possessed ? Where is the hour of sadness With meek eyed patience borne— Worth more than those of gladness, Which mirthful checks adorn? Pleasure is marked by fleetness, To those who ever roam, While grief itself has sweetness, At home--sweet home ! There bend the tics that stretigthcu Our hearts in hours of grief; The silver link's that lengthen Joy's visits, when most brief; There eyes, in all their splendor, And vocal to the heart: And glances, bright and tender, Fresh eloquence impart; Then lost thou sigh for pleasure? 0 ! do not wildly roam ; But seek that hidden treasure At home—sn eet home! Does pure religion charm thee Far more than ought below? iVouldst thou that she shouldst arm thee Against the hour of woo ? Her dwelling is not only In temples built for prayer; For home itself is lonely Unless her smiles be there ; Wherceer we may wander, 'Tis all in vain we roam, If worshipless her altar, At home—sweet home FAMILY CIRCLE. Be Not Troubled. Let not yotfr heart be troubled. You have not a larger shoe of sorrow than falls to the lot of man. Turn where you may, and look into the chamber of the souls of those that yet meet, and you will not se lect one in a score who has less trouble than yourself. It is the lot of man to sor row; and they only who suffer wrong—who do not fall before the blast of adversity— are in reality the happiest. Do not yield. Do not brood over your afflictions. The sooner you forget them and pass on, the happier you will be. To linger in the grave-yard will not bring back a departed friend. Figuring up your losses will not make them good. Indulgence in the feel ings of hate and revenge will not bring peace and comfort to your heart. Forget your losses, banish unkindness from the bosom, and anticipate a glorious meeting with your friends beyond the grave. Take things as they are. Cull the blos soms of life. See good in everything.— Then you will not deem your troubles un bearable, and look with a favorable eye on the pistol or the noose. Prepare for Reverses. A mau knows not how soon ho may be reversed. In its unceasing revolutions, the wheel of Providence may one day place him among the poor. How many at this moment are languishing in all the horrors of the most abject destitution, who wore once rich in this world's goods, and whose lips dwelt in perpetual sweetness on the self-deluding promise--- ,, To-morrow shall be as this day, and much more abundant' Remember the poor. In yonder gloomy prison is one who made gold his Idol. Ho forgot the needy in his prosperity, and ap peals of the needy awoke no sympathy in his heart. He was not his brother's keep er, so he hoarded up his surplus lucre in his coffers, and permitted the dying and the destitute to meet their doom; but as he me ted out to them, even so has it been meted out to him. Not a ray of affection cheers now the gloom of his prison walls. Loft alone with the phantoms of the past, how agonizing his remorse! Remember the past, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, minister to the distressed, and their pray ers and blessings may fall upon your head like rich incense, more desirable than gold or jewels. TUE USE OP Boolcs.—There never was wit at the bar so ready as Curran. Upon one occasion, where he had laid down some points which did not find favor in the eyes of the presiding judge—"if that be the law," said Lord Clare to Curran, I may as well burn my books." "Better read them, my lord," said Curran. The Family Altar—lts Influence upon the Young. At no time does the family below pre sent to my mind so faithful and striking a type of the family above, as when with one accord they have met in one place, to offer praise to the Father of mercies. True it is with this, as every illustration of life in that better country, much imperfection is mingled. A large share of our devotional exercises consist of confession of sin, and supplication for strenght against the time of temptation; besides which, wandering thoughts and the fatigue of jaded spirits too often mar Our worship, and render our solemn service vain. Yet, nevertheless, the family has been repeatedly used by God himself, as an emblem of his trium phant church; and scarcely could one have been selected which would appeal so for cibly, because so sweetly, to the hearts of all men, in all ages. I have been led to these remarks, by reviewing some of the occurrences of a va ried life, and contemplating the vast power the domestic altar retained over me in my youth, even when far removed from the place of its erection. The residence of my father was inland,. and remote from facilities for acquiring a commercial education. After mature re flection, my parents consented that I should follow the bent of my own inclination, and seek such advantages in a distant city. The history of my first year was similar to that of many other ambitious youths.- 1 was acquiring a knowledge of men and manners, but the narration now is not ma terial. About this time a fit of sickness render ed it necessary for me to seek a maternal care, under whose blessed influence health soon returned. The day before I again left home to plunge more extensively than I had hitherto done into the whirl of busi ness, I was sitting by my mother, and pour ing into her willing ear some account of cares and annoyances. She heard me pa tiently, and when I had concluded my sto ry, put her arm around my neck, and kiss ing my forehead said, ~i dly son—my dear son, never think yourself forgotten by us. Your father mentions your name night and morning. I understood this perfectly. From my. 'earliest infancy I had heard fervent peti tions offered at such times, for the tempo rarily absent one, and now I was going out into the world—perhaps never to return —the remembrance of this circumstance was a comfort to me. I knew the paths of youth were slippery, for I had seen suf ficient of the world, even in a year, to be well aware of the fact, and in some de gree realized the privilege of being so re membered. Years rolled on—business nearly en grossed the whole of my secular time, but I never forgot my mother's impressive speech. Occasionally anxiety would pre vent me for offering the merest form of prayer myself—then I would think of my father's earnest petition, offered for me that morning and in strength granted, in answer to it, rise beside the trial, if not immediately victorious over it. Some times pleasure would lure, by her siren voice, to a participation in unholy amuse ments, but the charm was powerless when I thought of my father's prayer. I have been young and now am old yet those words still ring in my ears and infitt once my conduct. The lips which then supplicated for me have exchanged suppli cations for everlasting praises; yet in times of sorrow or perplexity, I feel my mother's lips on my fevered brow, and her words are cordial to my heart. In time of joy and prosperity I remember them, and they act as a moderating agency to the sanguine restlessness of ambition. Parents! throw around the hearts of your children a similar indestructible chain. At the family altar, teach them, by suitable petitions, that you sympathise with them, in their feeble attempts to do right; there, let confession be made for family sins, and grateful praise returned for family mercies; then may you hope for a re union of your families in a better country, even heavenly. Now.—" Now" is the constant syllable tickling from the clock of time. "Now" is the watch-word of the wise. "Now" is on the banner of the prudent. Lot us keep this little word always in our mind ; and whenever anything presents it self to us in the shape of work, whether mental or physical, we should do it with all our might, remembering that "Now" is the only time for us. It is indeed a sorry way to get through the world, by putting of till to-morrow, saying, "Then' I will do it. No ! this will never answer, "Now"' is ours "then" may never be. U. When the immortal Sydney was told that ho might save his life by telling a falsehood—by denying his hand-writing he said, "When God bath brought me into a dilemma, in which I 'must assert a lie or loose my life, be gives me a clear indioation of my duty, which is to prefer death to falsehood." HUNTINGDON, 1 3 A., THURSDAY, JUNE 10, 1852. MISCELLANEOUS. Effects of Night Air. An error which exerts a most pernicious influence is the belief that the night air is injurious. This opinion hinders the intro duction of ventilation more than all other errors together. Now, there is not a par ticle of proof i nor have we any reason whatever to believe, that the atmosphere of oxygen and nitrogen undergoes change during the night. But there are certain causes in operation at night which are known to exercise over us an injurious in: fluence. Wd will investigate them to see if closed doors and windows will shut out or stop their operation. First, it is known that there is a slight increase of carbonic acid from plants during the night; but this poison is generated in much larger quantity from the lungs of animals, and accumulates immensely more in close rooms than in the open air. It is therefore cer tain that nothing is gained in this respect by refusing ventilation. The next differ ence betwden night and day, to be noticed, is the fact that sunlight exercises a most important influence on plants and also on animals; but it is evident that shutting out fresh air will not restore his rays. Another fact is, that all bodies, animate or inanimate, exposed at night to the dir ect rays of a clear sky, radiate heat with great rapidity, and their temperature is quickly and greatly reduced; and it is well known that it is dangerous to the health of men for the temperature of their bodies to be greatly and rapidly reduced. But persons sleeping in a ventilated room, even if the windows are open, are not exposed to the direct rays of a clear sky, (and the law does not apply to any other combina tion of circumstances;) therefore, this fre quent source of injury to persons exposed, does not reach those in a sheltered house. As to the injury to be feared from a cold current of air, I would observe that it is gross carelessness for any one to expose himself to this danger, night or day, whether the house is ventilated or unventilated. I believe there is not known any other cause winch can be supposed to produce any spe cial injurious effect at night, and the least reflectionwill show that not any one of those mentioned can by any possibility in jure a person more in a ventilated than an unventilated house. It therefore follows that the objection of the night air being injurious is utterly futile. The pure atmosphere has nothing what ever to do with causing the death of per sons exposed at night within the tropics; nor does it produce the cough of the con sumptive and asthmatic, nor the languor and misery which the sick so frequently ciperience.. 'these and other sufferings experienced, more particularly at night, are caused by carbonic acid, absence of sunlight, rapid reduction of temperature, the air being saturated with moisture, &c., and not by that air, without which we cannot live three minutes. It is absurd to suppose that fresh air supports our life and de stroys our health at one and the same time. The same thing cannot possess the utterly incompatible character of good and evil, of supporting life and destroyed it.—Spple ton's Mechanics' Magazine. Maell Wisdom in Little. In Hunt's Merchants' Magazine we find a great deal of practical good sense, but the following advice to young men is particular ly excellent:— Keep good company or none. Never be idle. If your hands cannot be usefully em ployed, attend to the cultivation of your mind. Always speak the truth. Make few promises. Live up to your engage ments. Keep yonr own secrets, if you have any. When you speak to a person look him in the face. Good company and good conversation are the very sinews of virtue. Good character is above all things else.— Your character cannot be essentially injured except by your own acts. If any one speak evil of you, let your life be so that none will believe him. Drink no kind of intox icating liquors. Ever live, misfortune ex cepted, within your income. When you retire to bed, think over what you have been doing during the day. Make no haste to be rich if you would prosper. Small and steady gains give competency with tranquility of mind. Never play at any game of chance. Avoid temptation, through fear you may not withstand it. Earn mon ey before you spendlt. Never run in debt, unless you sec a way to get out again.— Do not marry until you are able to support a wife. Never speak evil of any one. Bo just before you aro generous. Keep your self innocent, if you would bo happy.— Save when you aro young to spend when you are old. Read over the above maxims at least once a week. FOR CRAMP IN THE STOMACHL—Warm water sweetened with molasses or brown sugar and taken freely, will in many cases remove the cramp in the stomach, when opium and other remedies have failed. American Statesmen's Wives. MRS. MADISON, MRS. HAMILTON, MRS CLAY. A lady who has spent her life in Wash ington, could write a most attractive histo ry of men and events. Mrs. Madison sur vived her husband many years, and to the last retained the freshness and vivacity of her mind. In her old age, it was gratify ing to see how she was welted upon by high and by low. Successive Presidents made her a sort of household divinity, and at tended upon her wants. She was one of the links that united the dead past with the living present; a sort of contrast between the customs and the opinions of another age, and the advancing impetuosity of our own. She died two or three years ago. The widow of the polished and powerful Alexander Hamilton is still alive. I saw her at the last President's levee, looking remarkably venerable and well—an object of prcfound and respectful interest to all. In the crowd of beauty, ambition, and youth, by which she was surrounded, she seemed to be, as it were—indeed she was— the type of another era living among her own posterity. Her husband was the con fidante and companion of Washington, of the elder Adams, and of the great men who ,stood on the threshold of the nineteenth century, and saw that Government launch ed into being which in fifty years has be come the political marvel of the world.— She knew these mighty intellects, find doubtless, in her own day, bloomed among the loveliest of the social circle. She has seen them retire, one by one, from the bu sy stage of affairs; their high resolves, their god-like aspirations, their bright hopes, their fears, their rivalries and their enmi ties,—all quenched in the impenetrable "gloom of the grave." Her own great loss —the sad, the sudden, the world-regretted death of the brave, eloquent and learned Haniilton—was the master-sorrow of her career; and she seems to have been spared to experience the wholesome truth how keenly a great nation can cherish the me mory of its devoted sons. It is no longer a party that reveres the example of Ham ilton; his great abilities have left their im press upon the nation; and if some of his opinions have been tested and discarded, many more have boon proved and adopted. Mrs. Hamilton is now ninety-five years of l age. _ _ _ Do you know that Mrs. Clay has never visited Washington? Her domestic char acter seems to have been formed for the quiet shades of Ashland; and though her woman's heart beat high when she saw "young Harry with his beaver on," in the midst of the greatest events that have made his name immortal, yet, by her, blessings of home and of fireside were to bo prefer red. Now that the statesman is wasting away, her presence would doubtless allevi ate his sufferings and prepare him for his final reckoning. But now she is too old to come. She could not bear the toilsome journey from Lexington and she remains as it were a watcher for the fatal news. A , few days ago, she sent a boquct of flowers, but when they reached here they were fa ded)—a melancholy evidence that both the giver and the receiver were fast hastening to that bourne whence no traveller returns. The old man eloquent held it to his lips for a few seconds, and said, with a mournful pathos, "the perfume is almost gone !" But not so with his fame. That will live forever green' in the memory of man. his physical frame will decay, but his great history will never be forgotten. Of him and of his plaoo, in the regard of mon, in the dim future?it may well ho said : " YOu may break, you may ruin, the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still." Characteristics of Great Men. Tasso's conversation was neither gay nor brilliant. Dante was either taciturn or satirical. Butler was sullen or biting. Gray seldom talked or smiled. Hogarth and Swift were very absent minded in company. Milton was unsociable, and even irrita ble when pressed into conversation. Kirwan, though copious and eloquent in public addresses, was meagre and dull in colloquial discourse. Virgil was heavy in conversation. La. Fontaine appeared heavy, coarse and stupid; he could not speak and describe what he had just seen, but then he was the model of poetry. Chaucer's silence was more agreeable than his conversation. • Dryden's conversation was slow and dull, his humor saturnine and reserved. Descartes was silent in mixed compa ny. Corneille in conversation was so insipid that he never failed iu wearying. He did not oven speak correctly that language of which he was such a master. Ben Johnston used to sit silent in com pany and suck his wine and their hu mors. Southey was Miff, sedate, and wrapped up in asceticism. e a. Addison was good company with his in timate friends, but in mixed company he preserved his dignity by a stiff and reser ved silence. Junius was so modest that he could scarcely speak upon the most common sub ject without a suffusion of blushes. Fox in conversation never flagged ; his animation and variety were inexhausti ble. Dr. Bently was loquacious. Grotius was talkative. Goldsmith wrote like an angel, and talk ed like poor Poll. Burke was eminently entertaining, en thusiastic, and interesting in conversa tion. Curran was a eonvival deity ; he soared into every region and was at home in all. Dr. Birch dreaded a pen as he did a torpedo ; but he could talk like running water. Dr. Johnson wrote monotously and. pon derously, but in conversation his words were close and sinewy ; and if his pistol missed fire, he flocked down his antagonist with the butt of it. Coleridge, in converewtion, was fall of acuteness and originality. Leigh Hunt has been well termed the philosopher of Hope, and likened to a pleasant stream in conversation. Carlyle doubts, objects, and constantly demurs. Fisher Ames was a powerful and effect ive orator, and not the less distinguished in the social circle. He possessed a fluent language, a vivid fancy, and a well stored memory. Affecting Anecdote. On one of the many bridges in Ghent, stand two large brazen images of father and son; who obtained this distinguished rank of the admiration of their fellow citi zens, by the following incidents : Both father and son were; for some of fence against the State, condemned to die. Some favorable circumstances appearing on the side of the son, he was granted a re mission of his share of the sentence, under certain provisions: in short he was offered a pardon on the most cruel and barbarous condition that ever entered into the mind of even monkish barbarity; namely, that he would become the executioner of his fath er! He at first resolutely refused to pre serve his life by means so fatal and detes table. This is not to be wondered at; for I hope there are few sons, who would not have spurned, with abhorrence, life sustain ed on a condition so horrible and unnatu ral. The son, though long inflexible, was at length overcome by the tears and en treaties of a fond father, who represented to him, that at all events, his (the father's) life was forfeited, and that it would be the greatest possible consolation to him in his last moments, to think, that in his death, ho was the instrument of his son's preser vation. The youth consented to adopt the horrible means' of recovering his life and liberty; he lifted the axe—but as it was about to fall, his arm sunk nerveless, and the axe dropped from his hand! Had ho as many lives as hairs, he could have yield ed them all ono after another, rather than again conceive, much less perpetrate such an act. Life, liberty, everything vanished before the dearer interest of filial affection —ho fell upon his father's neck and em bracing him, triumphantly exclaimed, "My father! my father! we will die together!" and then called for another executioner to' fulfil the sentence of the !mt.' Hard must their hearts indeed be, bereft of every sentiment of virtue, every sensa tion of humanity, who could stand insensi ble spectators of such a scene. A sudden peal of involuntary applause, mixed with groans and sighs, rent the air. The exe cution was suspended, and on a simple re presentation of the transaction, both were pardoned, high rewards and honors were' centered on the son; and, finally those two admirable brazen images were raised to commemorate a transaction so honorable to human nature, and transmit it for the in struction and emulation of posterity. The statue represents the son in the very set of letting fall the axe. V - 5 7- - Fitz Henry Warren, first Assis. Postmaster General, has tendered his res ignation, to take effect immediately, or at any time before the first of July. It is understood that the resignatian has arisen from Mr. Warren's avowed preference for General Scott as the Whig nominee for President, which the Postmaster General said it was unbecoming in the head of a bureau to express. CC?" An editor down east says that but ter is as scarce as piety, and a good deal des r er. 'PLEASE EXCHA:ME,' SS the typo said when he offered his heart to a beautiful girl. Lock it np in your form, and I will,' was the. reply. PLrNTY—marriageable girls, in town NUMBER 28. AGRICULTURAL. Hirds—The Farmer's Friends. Some farmers look upon the birds as en= emies and treat them as such, destroying I them by every means in their power, This barbarous practice, however, has been ing way for several years to a more liberal and enlightened course of treatment, to the mutual advantage of both farmers and birds. 'Tis true that some birds are troublesome and annoying to the farnieri but to balance that they do him a great deal more good than he gives them credit for. When we consider the enormous number of grubs and insects devoured by them which, if not thus destroyed, would pray upon our fruits, plants and other crops, wo should rather extend to them our friend ship, and with a liberal hand strew grains of encouragement in their way. Boxes and other accommodations should be prepared for them in the garden, or chard and fields; this should be done at once. As they are now about building their nests, and will settle with those who hold oat to them the greatest inducenients to locate. Caution the children both big and little, against disturbing their nests, or otherwise annoying them. Besides their service in the destruction' of insects, &c., they are beautiful to look upon. The varied hue of their plumage, their agile and grateful movements give to the spectator a thrilP of pleasing sensation', that cannot be measured by (I.3llars and cents. Then, too, their music! Listen to it on a bright May morning as you emerge from your chainber; . whil'e . thc . sunlight from the east is producing rainbow tints - on' the dew drops of your shrubbery. How exhilerating! We are aware that long familiarity with these things lessen' their I value, apparantly; their real value,' how -1 ever, remains the same. Tarins. Adam was a farmer while yet in Para . - dise, and after his fall was commanded to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. Job, the honest, upright and patient, was a farmer, and his stern endurance has passed into a proverb. Socrates was a farmer, and yet wedded to his calling the glory of his immortal philosophy. St. Luke was a farmer, and divides with' Promethus the honor of subjecting the of for the use of man. Cincinnatus was a farmer; and the no- , blest Roman of them all. Burns was a farmer, and thelluse found him at his plough, and filled his sold With poetry. Washington was a farmer, and retired from the highest earthly station, to enjqy . the quiet of rural life, and pAselp to the world a spectacle of human greatness. To these names may be added a host of others, who sought peace and repose in the cultivatibfi'd their mother earth;' the enthusiastic Lafayette; the steadfast Pick ering; the scholastical Jefferson; the fiery Randolph, all found an El Dorado of con solation from life's cares and troubles in the green and verdant lawns that surroun ded their homesteads. Planting Fruit Trees. The Spaniards have a maxim, that a man is ungrateful to the past generation that Planted the trees fiom which he eats fruit, and deals unjustly towards the next gener ation, unless he plant's the seed that it may furnish food for those who come after him. Thus when a son of Spain &Asa peach or pear by the road side, wherever he is, hci digs a hole itr the ground with his foot, and ' fifers the seed. Conseipidatly, all• over Spain, by the road sides and elsewhere, fruit in great abundance tempts the taste and is over free. Let thiS practice be imitated in our comitry, and the very wanderer will be blest, and will bless the hand that minis tered to his comfort and joy. We are bound to leave the world as good or better than we found it, and he is a selfish churl who basks undor the shadow, and oats the fruit of trees which other hands have plan ted, if ho will not also plant trees which shall yield fruit to coming generations.— [Home Circle.. BUSHING TOMATOES.—Those who love good tomatoes, will take pains to cultivate them so as to insure them as near as may be in then- full perfection. There is no other fruit that delights more in air and sunshine than the tomato. They should have, therefore, abundance of room, and vines be sustained from billing to the earth. Stout brush firmly set around the plants, anwers the purpose better than any other method. The branches have room to ex tend themselves as they like, while the limbs of the brush keep them in their po sitions. By this method the fruit is more fully exposed to 'the genial influenees of the air and sunshini; wherby it attains a more delicious flavbil larger size, and I comes quicker to maturity.