Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 10, 1852, Image 1

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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.
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
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
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
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."
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
'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,
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.
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.
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,
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
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."
Characteristics of Great Men.
Tasso's conversation was neither gay nor
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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.