Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 11, 1856, Image 1

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The heart has depths of bitterness,
As well as depths of pleasure ;
And those who love, love not unless
They both of these can measure.
Unfading hope! when lire's last embers burn—
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return—
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour
0, then, thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth•born rapture
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye,
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day.
You'll be forgotten, as old debts,
By persons who are used to borrow ;
Forgotten, as the sun that uses,
When shines a new one on the morrow;
Forgotten, like the luscious peach,
That bles ed tho schoolboy last September;
Forgotten, like a maiden speech,
Which all men praise, but none remember.
But pleasures aro like poppies spread ;
You seize the Bower—its bloom is shed ;
Or like the snow-falls in the river—
A moment white—then lost forever ;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point the place ;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm.
,*tiett gate.
su foe—
It is to our taste to have things of this
kind done something in this way.
Annie had arrived at the mature age of
(do not start reader) twenty-seven, and was
yet in a state of single-blessedness. Some
how or other she had not fallen in love as
yet. "Had she no offers?" What a sim
ple question ! Did you ever know half a
million of dollars to go begging ? Offers?
Yes, scores of them. It may be account
ed one of her oddities, perhaps. but when
ever the subject happened to be mentioned
by her father, Annie would say she want
ed some one to love her for herself. and
she must have assurance of this, and how
could she in her present position ? 'Thos
matters stood when Annie was led to form
and execute what will appear a strange re
solution ; but she was a resolute girl. We
must now go buck six years.
One dark. rainy morning iq November.
as our old friend was looking composedly
at the cheerful fire in the grate of his erten
ting-room, really indulging in some serious
reflections on the past and figure, thi far
future too, a gentleman presented himself
and inquired for Mr. Bremen. The old
gentleman uttered not a word, but merely
bowed. There was that in his looks which
said, am he."
The stranger might have been thirty
years of age ; he was dressed in black, a
mourning weed was in his hat, and there
was something in his appearance which
seemed to indicate that the friend whose
loss he deplored had recently deonrted
The letter of introduction which he pre
sented to Mr. Bremen was quickly, yet
carefully perused and•es it was some what
unique, we shall take the liberty of sub.
mitting it to the inspection of the render :
t‘, 11 ma., 18—.
"FRIEND Psui,.—This will introduc'e to thee
Charles Copeland. He bus comets thy city in
pursuit of business. I have known him from a
youth up. Thou maycst depend on him for
ought that ha can do. and shall not loan as on
a broken reed. If thou canst do anything for
him thou mayest peradventure benefit thyself,
and cause to rejoice
Thy former and present friend,
.1111cAm Loomis."
"It is not every one who can get old Mi
gab Loomis' endorsement of his character,'
said Paul Bremen to himself, as he folded
up the letter of a well known associate of
former days. "Old Nicoll is good for a
quarter of a million, or for anything else—
jt will do--I want him—getting old—Misi
riess increasing— must have more help—
now as well as any time."
The old gentleman looked at all this as
he stood gazing in perfect silence on the
man before him. At length he opened his
, Vlr. Copeland, you know all about the
books ?'
'I have a few years experience.'
'Any objection to a place here?—pretty
close work—a thousand a year.'
'None in the world.'
'When can you begin 1'
A real smile shone on the old man's face.
It lingered there like the rays of the set
ting sun among the clouds of evening. It
lighted up those seemingly hard, dark fea
A stool was pushed to the newcomer,
books were opened, and matters explained
directions given, the pen was dipped in the
ink, and in short before an hour had past
ed away, you would have thought that the
old man and the young man had known
each other for years.
In reference to our new friend, it will
be sufficient to remark that he had been li
berally educated, as the phrase goes, and
though he had entered early in business,
he bad not neglected the cultivation of
mind and heart. He had found time to
cherish acquaintance with the most note
worthy authors of the day, both literary
and religious, and with many of past dines.
After a few years success in the pursui's to
which he devoted himself, misfortunes
came thick and fast upon him. He found
himself left with scarcely any property,
and alone in the world save ins two lovely
As year after year passed away, he gre
steadily in the confidence of his employer.
who felt. though he sa i d not, that in him
he possessed a treasure.
Very little, indeed, was said by either
of them not c , nnected with the routine of
businfaA.and there had been no intercourse
whatever between them, save in the coun
ting-room. Thus six years went by, tow
ard the close of which old Mr. Brennan
was found looking forward with much fre
quency ass earnestness to the young man
before him. Something was evidently
brewing in that old head. What could it
be ? And then. too, at home he looked so
curiously. The Irish servant was puzzled.
'Sure,' said James, •something is corning.'
Annie, too, was somewhat perplexed, for.
those looks dwelt much nn her.
4W hat is it, father!' said she to him one
morning at tho breakfast table, as he sot
gazing steadfastly in her face. 'What is
it ? Do tell me'
wish you'd have him!' horst forth like
nn avalanche, 'You're known him for
six years—true as ledgar = a gentlemth—
real sensihle man—don't talk much—regu•
lar as a clock—prime for business—worth
his weight in gold ' _
, Have who;lather? What are you talk-
ing about ?'
My lined clerk, Copeland—ynu don't
know hint—l do--harn't seen any body
else worth nn old quill.'
Annie was puzzled. She laughed how
ever, and said :
•Marry my father's clerk ! what would
the world say ?'
*Hutnhug. child, all humbug—worth for
ty of your whiskered, lounging, lazy gen•
try—soy what they will—what du I care?
—what do you cure ?—what's money after
all ?—got enough of it—want a sensible
man—want somebody to take care of it—
all humbug,'
.11 . hat's all humbug, father ?'
, Why. peoplo's notions on these matters
—Copeland is poor—so was I ouco—may
be again—world's full of changes—seen
a great many of them in my day—can't
stay here long—got to leave you, Annie—
wish you'd like him.'
*Father, ore you serious?'
'Serious child!' and he to led so.
Annie was a chip from the old block—a
strong minded, resolute girl. A new idea
seemed to strike her.
'Father, if you are really serious in tl:is
matter, I'll see this Copeland ; I'll get ao
quatnted with him. If he likes me, and I.
like him, I'll have him, but he shall love
me for myself alone ; I must know 4.-
11'111 you leave the :natter tome?'
'Go ahead my child; and do ns you like.
Good morning.'
Stop a moment, father. I shall alter
my name a little ; F shall appear to be a
poor girl, a companion of our friend Mrs.
Richards, in Fl— street ; she shall know
the whole affair ; you shall call me by my
middle name, Peyton ; I shall be a rela
tive of yours ; you shall suggest the busi
ness to Mr Copeland, as you call hitn,and
arrange for the first interview. The rest
will take care of him.'
.1 see, I see,' and one of his rare smiles
illuminated his whole face. It actually gut
between hie lips, parted them asunder,
glanced upon a set of teeth but little the
worse for wear, and was resting there as
he left the house for his counting room.
The twilight of that smile was not yet
gone when he reached the well known
spot, and bowed, and looked "good morn.
mg" to those in his employ, for old l'aul
was alter his fashion, a polite man, On
the morning of that day what looks were
directed to our friend Charles ! so many,
so peculiar, an full of something, that the
head clerk could not help noticing them,
and that too with some alarm. W' lint was
, coining 1 At last the volcano burst forth.
'Copeland, my good fellow, why don't
you get a wife 1'
Had it thunderbolt fallen at his feet he
could not have been more astonished. D.d
! Mr. Bremen say that, and in the counting
room, too 1 The very ledger seemed to
blush at the introduction of such a subject.
He for the first time, made a blot on the
fair page before him.
say, why don't you get a wife ?--just
the thing for you—prime article---poor e
nough to be sure—what of that, a fortune
in a wife, you know---a sort of relation of
mine---don't want to medele with other
people's affairs- -know your own business
best-- can't help thinking you will be hap
pier—must see her.'
`Now the fact is, that Charles had for
some time past th Right so himself; but how
the old man could have completely divin
ed his feelings was quite a puzzle to him.
In the course of the day a note was pat,
into Mr. Breman's hands by James, his I
rish servant, the contents of which produ
ced another grim sort of a smi e. When
the moment for his return home arrived,
Mr. B. handed a sealed document of rath
er imposing form to Charles. saying :
'Copeland. you'll oblige me by leaving
that at N 0.67 11—. Place it only to
the hands to whom it is directed—don't
want to trust it to any one else.'
The clerk saw on the outside, ~M rs.
Richards, INo. 67, H- street." The
door bell was rung. The servant ushered
Copeland intott small, neat parlor, where
sat a lady apparently twenty five or thirty
years of age, plainly dressed. engaged in
knitting a stocking. Our friend bowed,
and inquired for Mrs. Richards.
'She is not in, but is expected presently;
will you be seated ?'
There was an ease and quietness. and
an air of self command about this person.
which seemed to Copeland peculiar. lie
felt at home, (you always do with such
persons,) made some common place re
mark ; which was immediately responded
to ; then another; and soon the conversa
tion grew so interesting that Mrs. Richards
was nearly forgoven. Her absence was
strangely protracted, but at length she
made her appearance. The document was
presented. A glance at the outside.
Mr. Copeland.' Charles bowed.
Peyton.' fhe young lady bowed
and th us they were introduced. There
was no I articular reason for remaining Any
(anger, and our ft iend took his departure
Tim night Annie said to Mr. a,
like his appearance, hither.'
.Forward---march.' said old Pont, and ho
looked at his daughter with vast satisfac-
, The nld man's as swine as a new pot, aniall river that emptied itself into the
to!' said James to the conic. , forks. Early in the morning tilt, ascend-
The next day Charles Copeland came ed the river in a canoe, to examine the
very near writing several times, •To Miss traps. The banlispn each side were high
and perpendicular, end cast a shade over
Peyton. Dr.' as lie was making out some
bills of merchand,se sold, the stream. As they were softly paddling
'Delivered the paper last night ?' along, they heard the tramping of many
Copeland bowed. feet upon the banks. Colter immediately
. . . . .
Ilichuid, is an old friend—humble gave the alarm of , Indians !" and was for
in circumstances—the young lady, Peyton instant retreat. Potts scoffed ut him for
worth her weight in gold any day—have being frightened at the trampling of a herd
of buffaloes. Colter checked his uneasi
her myself if I could!
* r s * s * a a ness and paddled forward. They had not
'How much you remind me of Mr. Bre- gone much further when frightful whoops
man,' said Charles one evening to Annie; and yells burst forth iron each side of the
'I think you said you were a relation of river, and several hundred Indians appear
his 1' I ed on either side of the river and attemp-
.1 am related to him through my moth- I ted to make the hunters came to the shore.
or,' was the grave reply. Sig,. were I nude to the unfortunate trap-
Mrs. Richards turned away to conceal pers to come on shore. They were °Wig.
a emit. ed to comply. But before they could
. ,
Somewhat later than usual on that day, get out of their canoe a savogr• seized the
Annie reached her father's house. There rifle of Potts. Cutter sprang on shore,
was no mistaking the expression of her wrested the weapon from the hand of the
countenance, Happiness was plainly Indian, and restored it to his companion,
written there. ' wt•ho was still in the canoe, and immediate
.1 see, I see,' said the old man ;'the ac- ly pushed into the stream. There was
count is closed-••books balanced —have it a sharp twang of a bow, and Putts cried
all through now in short order. You are out that hu was wounded. Colter urged
a sensib'e girl-•-no foolish puss--•,lust what hint to come on shore and submit as his on
I want••-bless you, child, bless you.' Ily chance for life. But the other knew
The next day Paul came, for almost the that there was no prospect for mercy, and
first tone in his life, rather late to his coun- determined to die guise. Levelling his ti
ting room. Casks and boxes seemed to be fie, he shot one of the savages deed on the
staring with wonder. I spot. The next moment he fell himself,
. - lopeland, heard from Mrs. Richards... pierced with numerous arrows.
proposal to my relation--Peyton -all right The vengeance of the savages was now
--done up well. Come to my house this turned upon Colter. He won stripped no
evening—never been there yet, eh l—eight Iced, and (having some knowledge of the
o'clock precisely—want to see you.- some• Blackfeet language) overheard a consulta
thing to say.' I tiun as to the mode of dispatching hint. so
'How much interest he seems to take in as to derive the greater amusement front
this matter,' said Charles. 'Re's a kind his death. Seine were for setting him up
old fellow in his way ; a little rough, but os a mark, and having a trial of skill at his
4 good heart.' i expense. The chief, however, was for
Yes, Mr. Charles Copeland even kind nobler, sport Ile seized Colter by the cut
er than you think for lar and demanded if he could run fast
At eight o'clock precisely the door bell 'lke unfortunate tra per was too well uc
of Mr. &entail's mansion rung. Mr. C. , (painted with Indian customs not to coin.
Copeland was ushered in by friend James. I prebend the drill dame quest,on. lie was
Old Paul took him kindly by the hand, to run for life to furnish it kind of human
and turning 'around abruptly introduced hunt fur his persecutors. Though in real.
him to ~ My daughter. Miss Annie Peyton ity he was known by his brother hunters
fireman," and immediately withdre..v. fur his swiftness on foot he assured the
.Clutrles you will forgive me this?' He chief that lie was a very bad runner. Ilis
was too much astonished to make any re. strntugein gained some vantage ground
ply. 'lf you know all my motives and He was led by the chief into the - prairie,
feelings I am sure you would.' about four hundred yards from the main
That the motive and feelings were soon body of savages, and turned loose to save
explained to his entire satisluotion no one himself if he could.
will doubt. A tremendous yell lot him know that the
4ropeland, my dear fellow,' shouted old I whole pock of blood bruin& were in full
Paul, as he entered the room, no use in a
long engagement!'
.0, Father!'
'Na use, I say, marry now—get reedy
afterwards ; next Monday stvening ; who
cares T want it over ; feel settled. Shan't
part with Annie, though; must bring your
wife here; house rather lorieseme; be still;
no words; must have it so; partner in busi
ness ; Bremen & Copeland ; got the pa
pers all drawn up to-day ; can't alter it • -
Be quiet, will you. won't stay in the room!'
I have now finished my story, reader.
I have given you the facts. I cannot say,
however, that I approve of the deception
practtsod upon our friend Charles. As.
however, our Lord commended the 'unjust
steward because Ito acted wisely.' so I
suppose the good sense shown by the lady
in choosing a husband for the sake of what
he was, rind not for the sake of what he
might hive possessed, merits approbation.
It is pot every one who has moral courage
enough to step out of the circle warn sur
rounds the wealthy. and seek for those
qualities of mind and heart Which the purse
can neither give nor take away
clcct SCC~Cilllll.
AY IyAsil!NGzux
Colter, with the hardihood of a ree4lar
trapper, had cast himself loose from the
party of Lewis and Clark, in the very heart
of the wilderness, and had remained to trap
beaver alone, on the head of the .11;ksouri.
Here ho fell in with a lonely trapper, like
himself, named Putts, and they agreed to
keep together. They were in the very
region of the terrible Blackfem, •
time thirsting to revenge the death
companions, and they knew they had no
mercy to expect at their hands. They
were obliged to keep concealed all day in
the woody margins of the rivers. setting
their traps at nightfall, and taking them
up before daybronk. it, was a fearful
risk for the sake of a few - Saver skins, but
such is the life of a trapper.
They were on the branch of the Mis
souri called Jefferson's Fork, and had set
their traps at night, about six males from a
4411.' ; e3'
• • ' I , - -, 1 - ii
- •
• )
cry. Colter flew rather than runt he was
astonished at his own speed ; but ho hail
six miles to travel before he could reach
Jefferson Ferk of the Missouri. How could
he hope to .hold out such a distance with
the odds against him? The plain, abound •
ed with prickly pear, which wounded his
naked feet. Still he fled on. dreading each
moment to hear the twang of a bow, and
feel an arrow quievring at his heart. Ile
did not oven dare to look around, lest he
should lose an inch of that distance on
which his life depended lie had nearly
run across the plain, when the soand of ,
pursuit grew somewhat fainter, and he
ventured to turn his head. The main ho.
dy of his pursuers were a considerable d is
tance behind him; several of the fastest
pursuers were scattered in the distance ;
tvhile one swift footed warrior, armed with
ra spear. was not more thane hundred yards
behind him.
Inspired with new hope, Colter redoub
led h:s exertions, but strained himself to
such a degree that the blood gushed frown
his mouth and nostrils, and streamed down
his breast Ile arrived within a mile of
the river. The sound of footsteps gather
ed u, op him A glance behind him show
ed his pursuer within twenty yards, pre
paring to launch his spear, Stopping short
he turned round and spread out his aims,
The savage confounded by the sadden ac
Lion, attempted to stop and hurl his spear,
but fell in the very act. His spear stuck
in the ground, and this shaft broke in his
hand Colter picked up the pointed part
ruined the savage to the earth and coutin
tied his flight. The Indians, vs they arri
ved at their slaughtered compacian, stoop
ow howl over him. Colter made the
most of this precious delay, gained the
skirts of the cotton wood ()ordering the ri
ver, dashed through it. and pintiged into
the stream. Ile s.vain to the ne:ghl oring
is •anti, against the end of which the drift
wood had lodged in such quantities as to
fors, a natural ralt ; under this he dived
arid swain until he succeeded in getting a
breathing place between the floating trunks
of ire., bushes arid brunettes formed a
covert several feet above the level of the
water. 'lite Indians as
,they come up
plunged into the river, and swam to the
raft, passing and reposing him in all di
rections. They at length gave up the
search, and he then swain silently down
the river, and made his escape.
Rom Harper's Magazine.
On Independence Day' we took a stea
mer for the county of Rocicland. determin
ed to pass the Fourth in peace and quiet
ness, and desirous of refreshing our patri•
otisrn amidst scenes hallowed by the sacred
memories of the Revolution. We visited
Washington's heed quarters at the little
village of Tappan, the 'Seventy six House
where Andre was confined, the Oise
where he was executed, the grave where
he was buried, and whence he was ex
humed. We conversed with a venerable
littly who gave him four beautiful peach
es on the morning in which he went forth
to die. tile thanked me with a sweet
smile,' she said. •liut somehow or , 'with
er, he didn't seem to have an appetite. He
only bit into one of ens.'
Standing by his grave, we could see a
cross the broad Hudson, the very place
wherehe was arrested by Van Wert, WTI.
limns and Paulding, and the gleaming of
the white monument erected to their mem
ory; the piece where Washington stood
when Andre went forth to die, and the
stone house where he was taken to die
upon n gallows.
The following account of Andre's exe
cution is one of the most minute and in
teresting that ice have ever read. It was
furnished by Mr William G. Haselbarth,
of Rockland county, the history of which
he is engaged in writing. It was taken
down from the lips of a soldier in colonel
Jeduthan Baldwin's regiment, n party of
which wits stationed a short distance from
where poor Andre suffered :
Otto of our men, whose name was
Armstrong, being one of the oldest and
btist workmen at his trade in the regiment,
was selected to make his coffin, which he
did and painted it black, as was the custom
at that period.
At this time Andre was confined in
what vine called the Old Dutch Church--
it small stine building with one door and
dowdy gaurded by six sentinels.
11 lien the hour appointed for his exe•
cation arrived, which was two o'clock in
the afternoon, a guard of three hundred
men were paraded at the place of h,s
confinement. A kind of procession was
formed by placing the guard in single file
on each bide of the road. In front were
a large number of American officers of
high rank on horseback, These were
followed by the waggon containing An
dre's coffin, then n large number of offi
cers on foot with Andre in their midst,
The procession wound slowly up a mod.
erately rifling ground, about a quarter via
nib to the west. On the top was a field
without any enclosure, and on this was a
very high gallows, made by setting up
two pules or crotchets, and laying a polo
on the top.
The wagon that contained the coffin
was drawn directly under the gallows.—
In a short time Andre stepped into the
hind end of the wagon, then on his coffin,
took off his hat and laid it down, then pla.
ced his hands upon his hips, and walked
very uprightly back and forth as for as the
length of the wagon would permit, at the
same time casting. his eyes up to the pole
over his head, and the whole scenery by
which he was surrouded.
He was dressed in a complete British
uniform. Ills coat was of the brightest
scarlet, faced and trimmed with the !oust
beautiful green. His under clothes, vest
and breeches were bright buff; he had a
long and beautiful head of hiss r which, a
greeably to the fashion was wound with
a black ribbon, and hung down his back.
Not 'nosy minutes after he took his
stand upon the coffin, the executioner
steppe d into the wazon with a halter in
his hand, on one end of wbich was what
the soldiers in those days called a 'hang ,
man's knot,' which he attempted to put
over the It ad and around the neck o An-'
dre ; but by a sudden movement of his
hand, this was preventell.
Andre now took off th 7 hndkerchief from
his neck, unpinned his shirt collar, and
deliberately tool: the co-d of the halter
put it over his head, placed the knot di.
recily under his right ear, and drew it
very snugly to his neck. He then took
from his coat pocket a handkerchief, and
tied it before his eyes. This done, the
officer who commanded spoke in rather a
, loud voice, and said %.
'His arms mu,l be
Andre nt once pulled down the hand
kerchief which he had just tied over his
eyes. and drew from his pocket a seccnd
our which he gave to the executioner,
and then replaced his handkerchief.
His arms nt this time were just tied a•
hove the elbows, and behind the back.
The rope was then made fast to the pole
overhead. The waggon was very sud
denly drawn from under the gallows;
which together with the length of the rope
gave him a most a tremendous swing back
and forth; but in a few moments he hung
entirely still.
Doling the whole transaction ho seem•
ed as little daunted as John Rogers when
he was about to be burnt at the stake, al
though his countenance Was rather pale.
He remained Imaging from twenty to thir
ty minutes, and during that time the chain
hers of death were never stiller than the
multitude by whom he was surrounded.--
Orders were given to cut the rope, and
fake him down without letting him fall.
This was done and hts body carefnlly laid
on the ground.
Shortly alter the gunyd was withdrawn,
and spectators were. permitted to come
forward to view the cor, se; but the crowd
was so great that it was some time before
I could get an opportunity. When I was
able to do this, his coat vest and breeches
had been ta.sen off. and his Leidy laid in
me coffin, covered by some under clothes.
Tho top of the coffin was not put on.
I viewed the corpse more carefully than
I had ever done that of any human being
before. bias head was very much on one
side, in consequence of the manner in
which the halter had drawn upon his neck.
His face appeared to be greatly swollen
and very black, resembling a high degree
of mortification. It sans indeed a most
shocking sighht to behold.
There were, at this time. standing at
the loot of the coffin, two young men of
uncommon short stature, They were not
more than four feet high. Their dress
was extremely gaudy. One of dawn bad
the clothes just mkt n from Andre hang.
mg on his arm. I took particular pains
to learn who they were, and was informed
that they were his servants, sent up from
New York to take care of his clothes.--
but what other business I did not !corn.
I note turned to take a view of the exe
cutioner, who was still mantling by one of
the posts of the gallon's. I walked near
enough to lay my hand upon his shoulder
and looked him directly in the face. He
appeared to be about twenty-five years of
age, and his whole face was covered with
what appeared to no to have been taken
front the outside of a greasy pot. A more
frightful looking creature I never beheld.
His whole countenance bespoke him a fit
instrument for the business he'd been do.
VOL. XXI. NO. 24
I remained upon the spot until scarce!,
twenty persons were left; but the coffit
was still beside the grave, which bad pre.
vtously been dug.
The Rev Natpthali Dagget, of Conn.,
was an exemplary &oldier of the Cross, and.
a zealous defender of his country. During
the times that tried men's souls he espous
ed the patriot cause, and though his pro
per avocation was to lead his flock in the
paths of righteousness. he sometimes lead
it on to fight the battles of the republic.—
On one occasion, when the enemy were
approaching his native village, he placed
himself at the head of the young men of
war of his congregation, and went forth to
meet the British. In the engagement which
ensued, his party was dyfiinted, and liiin•
self taken prisoner. Partly out of regeril
for the great age of the warlike pastor,
and partly through respect for his culling,
his captors contented themselves with giv
ing him a good beating with the flat of their
swords; and after advising him iii future
to preach peace to his tolteivers, and leave
war to soldiers, they sent him back to hit
I people. But the old man was so mortified
nt his defeat and treatment, that he no soon
er reached home than he took his bed, and
net er rose from it again. A few momen.s
before his deuth, one of his friends culled
to condole with him, and asked a history of
the battle, which the dying poster gave, in
the conventional language of the times, as
follows:—Behold, tidings came that the
Lejlilistines were approaching. arid I rose
and gathered my young men, and lead
them. armed in the good cause,against
the enemies of their God and their country.
When I came unto them I lifted up my
voice and cried, "Shoulder, each of you
your carnal weapon, and fire upon the un
godly." They. did as I commanded; but
my young men were stronger in grace
than in the weapons of the flesh; and the
' I wicked conquered. They caught me and
despitefully used ine ; but I thank the Lord
that L raised against them my carnal wee
pus. Whether I killed any, I know not,
i i I
I ! hut humbly trust in (Jed I did. With
I these words, the patriot parson breathed
i I
his last.
The Poisoned Valley of Java.
It is known as the tiueva Upas, or psi.
soned Valley ; and following a path which
had been made for the purpose, the party
shortly reached it with a couple of dogs
and some fowls, for the purpose of making
some experiments. On arriving at the
mountain, the party dismounted and scram
bled u•p the aide of the hill, a distance of a
quarter of a mile, with the assistance of the
branches of trees and projecting roots.
When a few yards from the valley, a
strong nauseous smell wan experienced ;
but on approaching the margin, the incon
venience was no longer found. The val
ley is about a inile in circumference, of an
oval shape, about thirty feet in length.—
The bottom of it appears to be flat with
out any vegetation, and a few large stones
scattered here and there. Skeletons of hu
man beings, tigers, bears and deers, and
all other sorts of Wild animals, lay about
in profusion. The ground on which they
lay at the bottom of the vale appeared to
ben hard sandy substanee,„,and no vapor
was perceived. Tito sides were covered
with vegetation. It was now proposed to
enter it, each of the party having lit a cigar
managed to get within twenty feet of the, where a sickening nauseous smell
was experienced, without any difficulty of
breathing. A dog wns now lastened at the
end of a bamboo, and thrust to the bottom
of the valley, while some of the party
with their watches in th it hands, obser
ved the effects. At the expiration of four
teen seconds the dog fell off his legs, with
out moving or looking around, and contin.
ued living only eighteen minutes. The
other dog now left the party and sought
his companion; on reaching him he obser•
ved to stand quite motionless, and at the
end of ten seconds fell down : he never
moved his limbs after and died at the end
of seven minutes. A fowl was now thrown
in, which died in a minute and a hall.—
Ori he opposite side of the valley to that
which was visited, lay a human skeleton,
the head resting on the right arm. The
effect of the wenther had bleached the
bones as white as ivory. This was prob•
ably the remains of some wretched rebel,
hunted towards the valley and taking shel
ter there, unconscious of its character.
Br The history of a minute—why. it
would give a birds eye view of every poi.
Bible variety in human existence. Won.
derful the many events that are happening
together—life and death; joy and sorrow;
the great and the mean ; the common and
the rare; good and evil, are all in the re ;
cord of that brief segment of time.