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VOL. I.
TIIE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
Is published every Thursday Morning.
IN COLUMBUS, GA
BY WM. H. CHAMBERS,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
Office up stairs, Corner of Broad and Randolph sts.
Terms of Subscription.
Y)ne copy twelve months, in advance, - - - $2 50
“ ** “ At the end of the year, 300
“ “ “ “ After the year expires, 400
Rates of Advertising.
Ybte square, first insertion, - - - . $1 00
“ Each subsequent insertion, * . 50
Contracts will be made for advertising hv the quarter,
*or by the year, at liberal deductions from the above rates.
All obituary and marriage notices must be accompanied
by a responsible name, and where they exceed one square
‘they will be charged as other advertisements.
To Correspondents.—All communications must be
Addressed (post paid) to the Proprietor at this place.
Contributions must be accompanied with the real name
‘of the writer.
Sturgis St
AinrOGINEYS AY LAW,
Biteim Vista, JHarion county, Cia.
\Y r ll,l, practice in nil ibecounties of rheChnttahoochce
and adjoining counties ol the South Western Circuit.
Tlf AD. STURGIS, E. \V. MILLER.
Feb. 15,1349 7 ts
Cl CORGI A, MUSCOGEE COUNTY —Where-
JBT as Abner C. Flewellen, Elvira Flewellen and
William 11. Chambers, apply for letters of Adminis
tration upon the estate of Abner Flewellen, late of
said county, deceased:
These are therefore to cite and admonish all and
singular the kindred and creditors of said deceased
to show cause, (if any they have,) within the time
prescribed by law, why the administration of said es
tate should not be granted to the said applicants.
Given under my hand this 30th January, 1850.
JNO. JOHNSON, C. C. O.
January 31, 1850. 5 5t
<M\TY SURVEYOR.
FMIHE undersigned informs his friends and the
-■ Planters of Muscogee county, that he is pre
pared to make official surveys in Muscogee county.
Letters addressed to Post Office, Columbus, will meet
with prompt attention. WM. F. SERRELL,
County Surveyor, j
Office over E. Barnard &. Co.’s store, Broad street, j
Columbus, Jan. 31 , 1850. 5 lv
NortSi Cui'olina
mutual Life Insurance Company.
LOCATED AT RALEIGH, N. C.
f It HE dinner of (his company gives important ndvnn-
Jl tages lo the assured, over most other companies.
The husband can i.rsure his own life for the sole use .
mid benefit of his wife and children, free from anv othei
claims. Persons who insure for life participate in the
proliis which are declared annually, and when the pre
mium exceeds S3O, may pay one half inn note.
Slaves are insured at two thirds their vuluw for one or
five years.
Applications fur Risks mav be made to
JOHN MUNN, A gent, Columbus, Ga. j
[PF* Office at Greenwood &. Co.’s \V alehouse.
November 15.1319. ts
IMPORTANT
TO MILL OWNERS AM) PLANTERS.
rjSMUE undersigned will contract for building!
_M_ Rock Dams, or any kin dos rock work and j
Pitching, in any part of this State or Georgia, in the
most improved manner.
TIMOTHY B. COLLINS,
Fort Mitchell, Russell, Cos. Ala. i
Dec. 6,18-19. 49 Cm. !
SSO REWARD
RANAWAY from the subscriber, about the 15th j
February last, a small mulatto woman, by the
name of FR .4 NCES. she is about four feet ten or ele
ven inches high, speaks quick and laughs loud, with ra
ther a squeaking voice, her nose and mouth project ra
ther more than is common for mulattos; she had rings
her ears when she left, and always wears something
on her head. I will pay fifty dollars for the apprehen
sion and safe keeping of her so that 1 can get her. I
will also pay a liberal reward for woof sufficient to con
vict any person of harboring her, us I have reasons to bc
fieve she is concealed by someone.
S. T. AUSTIN.
November 1. 44 ts
Hags ! Hags! Hags!
The Rock Island Factory
IS prepared to purchase clean LINEN, HEMP or Cot
fin RAGS, and will pay 3j cents per pound for One
Hundred Thousand pounds, delivered at the Mills, on
the Chattahoochee river, three miles above Columbus,in
quantities of net less than 1 00 pounds.
OCF* Me re. 1 1 ants and Tiaders in the surrounding country
would do well to draw the attention oftlieircuslomers to
the advantage of SAVING RAGS, and exchanging them
for Goods and Wares.
CASH will always be paid for Rags at “Rocklslnud
Factory.” Bv order of the Board.
GEORGE W. WINTER, Sec’y.
Columbus, Ga. March l, 1849. 9 if
TO P H YSICI AN S, DRUG GISTS
AND
COUNTRY MERCHANTS.
Dll. J. N. KEELER &, BRO. most respectfully
solicit attention to their fresh stock of English,
French, German and American Drugs, Medicines, Che
micals, Paints, Oils, Dye-stuffs, Glassware, Perfumery,
Patent Medicines, &c. Having opened anew store No.
994 Market-sL, with a full supply of Fresh Drugs and
Medicines, we respectfully solicit country dealers to exa
mine our stock before purchasing elsewhere, promising
ene and all who may be disposed to extend us their patron
age, to sell them genuine Drugs and Medicines, on as
liberal terms as any other house in the city, and to faith
fully execute all orders entrusted to us promptly and with
dispatch. One of the proprietors being a tegular physi
cian, affords ample guarantee of the genuine quality of
all articles sold at their establishment. We especially
invite druggists and country merchants, who may wish
to become agents for Dr. Keeler's Celebrated Family
Medicines, (standard and popular remedies,) to forward
their address. Soliciting the patronage of dealers, we
respectfully remain,
,J. N. KEELER A BRO. Wholesale Druggists,
Oct. 11,1849. lv N0.294 Market-st. Phil’a.
Daiicim* Academy.
MR. R. POWELL, (late of New York,)
has the honor to announce to the Ladies
and Gentlemen of Columbus, and its vicinity, that he ex
pects to open a class sometime in January next, should
he receive sufficient patronage, for the purpose of giving
instruction in that polite art, in all its varieties. In ad
dition to the plain style of Dancing and Waltzing, the fol
lowing
FASHIONABLE AND FANCY DANCES
will bo taught during the season :
Cachucha, El Jaleo Xeres, La Sylphide, Cel
larius Waltz, Cracovienne, Muscovienne, Re
gatta Hornpipe, Redowa Waltz, \ arsovienne, 1
Highland Fling, Wreath Waltz, Cing Temps,
Polka Waltz, &<•,.
Together with the fashionable Quadrilles of Polka ,
Mazurka, Ist and 2nd sets, and new Quadrilles of
Redowa, as danced in the principal cities and fash
ionable watering places in the State.'.
Ladies who may wish to lekrn tlie more fate and
fashionably styles, such as Polka, Mazurka, Redowa
knd GellariuS Waltzing; or Polka, Mazurka, and
Rpdowa Quadrilles, will be wailed on at their resi
dence, on day and hours to suit their convenience. •
Parents and guardians entrusting their children
to my charge, may rely on the strictest attention
being paid to their ease, grace and general deport
ment.
Terms, and other details may be known on appli
cation to me.
, Dec i 20,1849, 51 ts
THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
The Voices at the Throne.
BV T. WESTWOOD.
A little child,
A little meek-faced, quiet, village child
Sat sinwing, by her cottage door at eve,
A low, sweet, .Sabbath song. No human ear
Caught the faint melody—no human eye
Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile
That wreathed her innocent lips the while they
breathed
The oft repeated burden of the hymn,
“Praise God! praise God!”
A Seraph by the Throne
In the full glory stood. With eager hand
He smote the golden harpstrings, till a flood
Os harmony on the celestial air
Welled forth, unceasing. Then with a great voice,
He sang the “Holy, Holy, evermore,
Lord God Almighty ! ” and the eternal courts
Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and burned
With vehement adoration. Higher yet
Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,
To its full strength ; and still the infinite heavens
Rang with the “Holy, Holy, evermore ! ”
‘l’ill trembling from excess of awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the Throne,
With a mute hallelujah. But, even then,
While the ecstatic song was at its height,
.Stole in an alien voice—a voice that seemed
To float, float upward from some world afar—
A meek and child like voice, faint, but how sweet!
That blended with the seraph’s rushing strain,
Even as a fountain’s music with the roll
Os the reverberate thunder. Loving smiles
Lit up the beauty of each angel’s face
At that new utterance. Smiles of joy that grew
More joyous yet, as ever and anon
Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
“Praise God ! praise God !” And when the seraph’s
song
Had reached its close, and o’er the golden lyre
Silence hung brooding—when the eternal courts
Rung but with echoes of his chant sublime,
Still through the abysmal space, that wandering voice
Game floating upward from its world afar,
Still murmuring sweet on the celestial air,
“Praise God ! praise God !”
[From the Flag of our Union.
THE FATHER AND SON.
AN INCIDENT OF REAL LIFE.
BY PAUL OREYTON.
One night last winter, while pursuing my
way along one ot the most obscure streets in
Boston, I was aroused from the. revery in which
• I was indulging, by hearing footsteps close by
my side. Turning quickly, I beheld a young
girl, apparently not more ihan twelve years old,
following as if she was anxious lo speak to me ;
and when I observed by the dim light of a neigh
boring street lump, that she was poorly clad,
trembling, thin and pale, I asked her, in a tone
of kindness, what she wanted.
‘•lt you please, sir,” site replied, in a voice
that was almost choked with sobs, yet which
struck me as soft and peculiarly silver-toned—
“lf you please, sir, will you go back with me
just a little way, and see my father, who is very
sick r
i “What is the matter with your father ?” I
l asked, afraid of being deceived.
“O, sir, I don’t know,” she answered, in the
i same tone as beiore ; “but I fear he is going to
die. Do, sir, go and see him.”
The earnest manner of the broken-hearted
i girl made me ashamed of having doubted her at
: first, and 1 resolved to comply with her request.
| I was in just the mood for some adventure where
| there was an opportunity of accomplishing an
; object of benevolence, and willingly followed
my timid, sorrowful little girl back to her home.
The girl led me into a small and somewhat
dilapidated house, and invited me to ascend a
small and narrow staircase. At the head of
the stairs I heard her groping about until her
hand touched the latch of a door, which she
opened, asking me in a low voice to follow her
into the room,
I did so, and found myself in an humble apart
! meat, where scrupulous neatness seemed sting
i gling against absolute want. The dim light of a
j flickering lamp which stood upon a small table
near the door, revealed to me the scanty furni
ture, which I found to consist of a few chairs, the
table already mentioned, and among other arti-
I cles of minor importance, a bed in the most re
i tired part of the room.
The girl sfepped along before me, and point
j ed to the bed.
j “Come this way, sir, if you please,” she whis*
j pered ; “here’s father.”
As she turned to approach the bedside of the
sufferer, to apprise hint of my presence, I silent*
j ly brushed away a tear, which the sight of her
: grief-worn pallid cheeks, and eyes red with
’ weeping, caused to start through my eyelids.
My youthful guide bent over the sick man,
; and laying her cheek close to his, while her
i arms encircled his neck, whispered something
lin his ear. A moment after, she arose, and
placing a chair at the bedside, begged me to ap
proach.
Seating myself in the chair she placed for
me, I took the hand of the invalid, and gazed for
the first time full in his face, 1 shall never for
get the spectacle. Although much emaciated,
his features betrayed the spirit of pride in the
midst of poverty, of resolution in adversity, and
ot the stern endurance, during his moments of
i agony, which dwelt within his breast.
| I was about to address him when he cut me
short by speaking first :
“You find me in a bad condition, sir,” said
he, with a smile, I thought rather bitter. “I
can’t deny that I am actually crushed by sick
ness and misfortunes; this you will readily be
lieve, for I could never have stooped to ask as
sisiance ot any one, had I not been perfectly
helpless. And even now, sir, I doubt whether
I would not have died before asking a favor of
any one, had it not been for the broken-hearted
gill who conducted you hither.”
I cannot describe my sensations on hearing
these words, so full ot pride and candor, fall
from the lips of a man who might be dying. It
was plain to be seen that the invalid had once
, known better days, and moved in circles of re
finement, and I was sure that his intellect was
of the finest order. It was owing to these pe.
culiar circumstances of the case, that I became
i deeply interested in my new acquaintances, and
! feit anxious to relieve them, and at the same
time lpar;i something of their history. After
conversing with the invalid for a few moments,
he intimated to me that he would willingly let
me into the secrets of his history, provided the
girl was not present to listen.
Accordingly 1 directed “little Hetty,” as the
old man called her, to go for a physician of my
acquaintance, telling ft or \ wriuld stay by her
father until she returned. The night was not
cold, and I felt that it would benefit her body
and divert her mind to take a walk in the city,
with the ways of which she was very well ac
-1 quainted.
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 28, 1850.
Hetty hat! scarcely left the house when the
door-bell rang. The sick man said that the
lower part of the house was not occupied, and
requested me to see who Was at the door.
Carrying the lamp in my hand. I proceeded
down the stairs. I found a well-dressed man at
the door, who seemed surprised at seeing me at
such a place.
“Does Mr. Farley reside here ?” he asked.
“I don’t know that he does,” I replied.
“Well, then, is there no more than one fami
ly living in the house?”
“There is only one family, I believe.”
“And you don’t know whether the name of
the family is Farley or not,” said the stranger
with a smile.
I saw the drift of his remark, and replied that
1 was not acquainted in the house, never having
been there before.
“The name of the family may be Farley,”
said I, “but I have not heard it. All I know
is, there is an old man and his daughter, and he
calls the girl Hetty.”
“The same,” said the stranger—“he is the
man I would see.”
Hoping he might bring relief to my new ac
quaintance, I readily conducted him up stairs,
and into the apartment I had left.
On approaching the bedside, 1 found that Mr.
Farley had fallen asleep during my absence from
the room.
“Let me sit here,” said the stranger, quietly
I seating himself at the foot of the bed, and sha
ding his brow, which l observed betrayed some
emotion, “and do not tell the old man I ant here.
It is the girl 1 would see ; and I will wait here
until she returns.”
Scarcely was the stranger seated, when, as
I approached the beside, the invalid awoke.
“You must know,” said he, continuing
the subject of his history in a manner which
showed that his slumber had been light, “you
must know that I have not always been in the.
condition of poverty you .see me now in. I was
once in excellent circumstances, and enjoyed a !
high standing in society.” |
“How did you become reduced?” I asked.
“By a series of misfortunes, of which I need j
not tell you. By degrees I lost, until l became
quite fortuneless, quite friendless !”
“Is the girl who brought me here your only j
child ?” I inquired.
“Ah, it is of that I would speak,” sighed the |
sick man, pressing my hand—“l had another
child—a son—”
“And he is dead ?”
“No—hut he is dead to me. I lost him
through my pride—my worse than folly !”
“Where is he now ?”
“Alas, I know not.”
“Has he deserted you ?”
“No—l drove him from my door. It was in
my days of pride and affluence that I disowned
and cast him off penniless.”
The old man pressed his feeble hand upon his
brow, as if to still its throbbing, and closed his
eyes with a suppressed groan.
“I loved my son,” he continued after a pause ;
“l was proud of him, too, but even he could not j
change the firmness of my will. It is that
which has estranged us.”
“In what manner ?”
“Can you guess ? Had you known Edward,
you would have discovered ere this. His gen
erous soul, so unlike my own, was totally free
from the family pride and prejudice to which I
owe my ruin. He had no idea of the aristocra
cy of wealth; and when he found among the
laboring classes a maiden whom he thought
might make him happy, he cared not for her
humble condition, but resolved to win her heart
and hand.”
“And you opposed him ?”
“Firmly—bitterly—blindly opposed him !” ex
claimed the ojd man. “He was a major, and 1
could not enforce my commands, but 1 threaten
ed, little thinking my threats were in vain. I
told him in a moment of calmness that the hour
which saw him united lo the poor girl he was
wooing, saw him no longer my son. But his
soul, like mine, was above compulsion, and un
like mine, it scorned the allurements of wealth.
He believed that toil and poverty were honor
able, and that worth was oftener found with them
than with luxury and riches. He trusted that he
had found a priceless jewel in the person of the
humble girl he loved, and he boldly, unhesita
tingly offered her his hand, although he knew
I would disinherit him.”
“And he married her ?”
“Yes—and from that time 1 have never seen
him. He provided a home for himself and wife in
Boston, and wrote me a letter. In that he
begged me to excuse —he did not say forgive—
his acting against my wishes—but said not a
word—not a syllable about being received once
more as my son and heir. He ended by inviting
me to visit him in his now humble abode, and
expressing a desire that we might live on friend
ly terms. I was 100 proud to visit him, and he
never saw fit to cross my threshold again ”
“And he continued to reside in Boston—in
the same city with you, his father ?”
“Yes, for a time ; but he was poor, and could
not bear, I presume, the sight of those of his
old associates who ceased to know him when he
was no longer able to live in style. He scorn
ed them, it is tiue, but he hated the sight of
them, and therefore removed from the city.”
“And he never came to you or wrote to you
afterwards ?” said I.
“Never. The last I heard of him he was
in New York, and in tolerable circumstances.
O, what a triumph it would be to him could he
see me thus reduced —shorn of my pride and
wealth !”
“You see I am left alone in this unfriendly
world with the child who brought you hither.—
As my riches failed me, being swept away by j
misfortunes, my old friends dropped off one by
one ; and now sickness has reduced me to the
helpless, miserable condition in which you be
hold me. There is not an individual living who
cares for me and mine! You have already
shown some kindness to us—for which Heaven
reward you!—but you are the only one—only
one.”
The sick man turned his eyes upwards, then
closed them with a sigh.
At this moment I observed that the stranger,
who at first appeared to take no interest in the
old man’s story, had gt length drawn Us chair
closer to the bedside, as if to listen.
“My pride is humbled now,” resumed the in
valid, after a long pause. “I think I might be
brought to ask relief of the very son I have dis
owned. O, God, how just has been my punish
ment; to think that be whom I cast off is now
very probably, able to laugh at my fall in the
midst of his growing prospeiity. But think you
he would do it ? Think you tny Edward, who
was once my joy and pride, would have the heart
to triumph over me in my misery ?”
“No, he would not!” said a deep earnest
voice behind me, which made me start.
On looking round I saw the stranger I had ad
mitted approaching the bedside. As the light
fell upon his brow, I beheld it dark with agony,
and there was a tear glistening in his eye.
“Who spoke? What voice is that?” de
manded ihe invalid, turning on his pillow.
I made way for the stranger and he drew
near the bed. He bent over the form of the
old man, and their eyes met.
“It was I that spoke,” said the stranger, in
hurried, husky tones, “if was my voice.”
The old man stared at him wildly.
“And who are you ?” he demanded.
“Doyou not know me?” murmured the other
—“Oh, God ! that it should come to this—that I
am forgotten by my father.”
“Edward ! my son Edward !” sobbed the in
valid, “Oh. my injured—my noble and forgiving
boy!”
The old man’s voice was choked by sobs, as
with his feeble arms he drew his son more
closely to his bosom. I turned to dash away
the tears that came unbidden to tny eyes, dim
ming their sight ; and when I looked again,
near a minute after, I beheld the father and son
still locked in each other’s arms. As I con
templated that silent, heartfelt embrace, I felt
rny eyes fill again with tears, and my bosom to
heave with sympathy.
“Oh, my son,” murmured the invalid at
length, “what good angel has brought you hith
er ? I am no longer what I once was—but
an humble, miserable wretch. Adversity has
taught nte a deep and holy lesson, and it is now
with joy and not with pain that I ask you to for
give me—”
“Father! father!” interrupted the young
man in a voice of agony, “speak not of the past.
Let us forgive and forget. Both of us may have
been in fault, but the days of our estrangement
are past now, and we are father and son once
more.”
“God bless you, my child !” murmured the
old man, “God bless you.”
“I am come,” resumed Edward, “to repay
the debt of gratitude I owe you.”
“The debt ot gratitude!”
“Yes—for what does not a son owe to his
father—especially to such a lather as you were
once to me ? My mother was taken away
when I was young, and Hetty Init an infant;
but you filled her place—you educated me—
you did every thing in your power to make me
happy. Now I am come to repay the debt as !
freely. 1 have a dear and happy home in New !
York, to which I will remove you and Hetty,!
as soon as you are able to leave your bed. Till ;
then, I will see that you are made comfortable ;
here. I thank Heaven for putting it in my j
heart to come back to Boston and search you ;
out !”
The old ntan strove to reply to these words of
kindness, but could not speak for sobbing. He
wept like a child.
My situation during this interview was pain
ful. It was relief to hear footsteps ascending
the stairs, and to see little Hetty enter a mo
ment after.
Seeing two strangers in the room with her
father, she started back surprised, for she was
far from recognizing her brother. The old man
saw her, and called her to his side.
Edward uttered not a word, but stood regard- !
ing her in silence.
“My child,” said the old man, “do you re
member your brother Edward ?”
“Oh, yes,” replied the girl, quickly. “I re
member him—he was always so kind to me.
Don’t you wish he was here now, fathei ?”
“My child, he is here!” exclaimed the old
man. The girl turned, and when she saw
her brother, regarding her tenderly and kindly,
opened his arms to receive her, she flew to his
bosom and flung her arms wildly about his neck.
At this moment my friend, the physician
Hetty had gone for, having followed her almost
immediately, rang at the door, and I hastened to
conduct him up Ihe stairs.
He gave the sick man encouragement of af
fording him immediate relief, and having pre
pared some medicines for his use, took his de
parture.
Thinking it best to leave the now united fam
ily alone, 1 shortly after arose to depart. The
old man and his son thanked me warmly for the
interest I had taken in their affairs, and the lit
tle girl, as she conducted me to the door and
bade me good night, besought me with tears in
her eyes to visit them again.
That night I went home a better man than
when I left a few hours before. What I had
learned had a peculiar effect upon my mind,
teaching me as it did the folly of family pride or
the pride of wealth, and the divine beauty and
sweetness of forgiveness.
When I visited the house again I found a
coach at the door, and being admitted by a ser
vant, I met little Hetty in the hall, dressed ready
for a journey.
The little creature flew to welcome me, and
fairly wept tor joy.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Oh,” said she, “father and I are going to
New York with brother Edward. Father
has got almost well, so that he can travel. We
are going to live with brother, and we shall be
so happy !”
At this moment Edward and his father came
down stairs, being ready for a start. Although
the old man was leaning on the arm of his son,
when he saw me he sprang-fbrward to grasp my
hand. Edward did the same, while Hetty stood
by, laughing and weeping by turns, from joy.
I saw them depart; and once more 1 retraced
my steps homeward, filled with admiration of
the old man’s proud, stern, but generous spirit,
the candor, beauty and single-heartedness of the
child, but above all, of the young man’s noble
ness of soul, and of his spirit of true Christian
benevolence and forgiveness.
Little by Little. —Those islands which so beau
tifully adorn the Pacific, were reared up from the hed
of the ocean by the little coral insect, which deposits
one grain of sand at a time. 1 have seen the picture
oi a mountain, with a man at its base, with his hat
and coat lying beside him, and a pickaxe in kis hand ;
and as he digs, stroke by stroke, his patient looks
correspond with his words, “ Little hy little .”
Moral. —So with human exertions. The greatest
results of the mind are produced by snub but contin
ued exertions.
O’ How many, in hot pursuit, have hastened to
the goal of wealth, but have lost, as they ran, those
apples of gold—the irfind, and the power to enjoy it!
Or in other words, how many rich fools do we meet
in a day’s walk !
An Equivocal Compliment. —“My brethren,”
said Swift in a sermon, “there are three sorts ol pride
—of birth, of riches and of talents. 1 shall not
speak of the latter, none of you being liable lo that
abominable vice .”
What kind ot a face should an auctioneer
have? A face that is forbidding,
Thoughts for a Voung Man.
Were a young man to write down a lj s t of
his duties. Health should he among the first
j items in the catalogue. This is no exaggera
tion of its value ; for health is indispensable to
almost eveiy forrtl of hOtritth enjoyment; it is
I the grand auxiliary of usefulness; and should a
I man love the Lord his God, with all his heart
and soul and mind and strength, he would have
I ten times more heart and soul and mind and
j strength to love Him with, in the vigor of health,
| than under the palsy of disease. Not only the
amount, hut the quality of the labor which a man
| can perform, depends upon his health. The
work savors of the workman. If the poet sick
ens, his verse sickens; if black, venous blood
j flows to an author’s brain, it beclouds his pages ;
and the devotions of a consumptive man scent
of his disease as Lord Byron’s obscenities smell
of gin. Not only “lying lips,” but a dyspeptic
stomach, is an abomination to the Lord. At
least in this life, so dependent is mind upon ma
terial organization,—the functions and manifest
ations ot the soul upon the body it inhabits, —
! that the materialist hardly states practical results
I too strongly, when he affirms that thought and
’ passion, wit, imagination, and love, are only
emanations from exquisitely organized matter,
just as perfume is the effluence of flowers, or
music the ethereal product of an vEolian harp.
In regard to the indulgence of appetite, and
the management of the vital organs, society is
still in a state of barbarism ; and the young man
who is true to his highest interests must create
a civilization for himself. The brutish part of
our nature governs the spiritual. Appetite is
Nicholas the First, and the noble faculties of
mind and heart ate Hungarian captives.—
Were we to see a rich banker exchanging eagles
for coppers by tale, or a rich merchant bartering
silk for serge by the pound, we should deem 1
them worthy of any epithet in the vocabulary of
folly. Yet the same men buy pains whose prime
cost is greater than the amplest fund ot natural
enjoyments. Their purveyor and market-man
bring them home head-aches, and indigestion,
and neuralgia, by hamperfuls. Their butler
bottles up stone, and gout, and the liver-com
plaint, falsely labelling them sherry, madeira, or
port, and the stultified masters have not sense
enough to detect the cheat. The mass of soci
ety look with envy upon the epicure, who, day
by day, for four hours of luxurious eating, suffers
twenty hours of sharp aching; who pays a full
price for a hot supper, and is so pleased with
the bargain, that he, throws in a sleepless and
tempestuous night, as a gratuity. English facto
ry children have received the commiseration of
the world, because they were scourged to
work eighteen hours out of twenty-four ; but
there is many a theoretic republican who is a
harsher Pharaoh to his stomach than this; who
allows it no more resting-time than he does his
watch ; who gives it no Sunday, no holiday, no
vacation in any sense. Our ancestors enacted a
law that suicides should be buried where four
roads meet, and that a cart-load of stones should
be thrown upon the body. Yet, when gentle
men or ladies commit suicide, qot by cord or
steel, but by turtle-soup or lobster salad, they
may be buried in consecrated ground, and un
der the auspices of the church, and the public
are not ashamed to read an epitaph upon their
tombstones, false enough to make the marble
blush. Were the barbarous law now in force
that punished the body of the suicide for the of
fence which his soul had committed, we should
find many a Mount Auburn at the cross-roads.
Is it not humiliating and amazing, that men, in
vited by the exalted pleasures of the intellect,
and the sacred affections of the heait, to come to
a banquet worthy of the gods, should stop by the
way-side to feed on garbage, or to drink of the
Circean cup that transforms them to swine !
If a young man, incited by selfish principles
alone, inquires how he shall make his appetite
yield him the greatest amount of gratification,
the answer is, by Temperance. The true epi
curean art consists in the adaptation of our or
gans not only to the highest, but to the longest
enjoyment. Vastly less depends upon the table
to which we sit down, than upon the appetite
which we carry to if. The palled epicure, who
spends five dollars for his dinner, extracts less
pleasure from his meal than many a hardy la
borer who dines for a shilling. The desidera
tum is, not greater luxuries, but livelier papillce;
and il the devotee ot appetite would propitiate
his divinity aright, he would not send to the Yel
lowstone for buffaloes’ tongues, nor to France
for pate de fois gras, but would climb a moun
tain, or swing an axe. With health, there is
no end to the quantity or the variety from which
the palate can extract its pleasures. Without
health, no delicacy that nature or art produces
can provoke a zest. Hence, when a man de
stroys his health, he destroys, so far as he is
concerned, whatever of sweetness, of flavor,
and ot savor, the teeming earth can produce.
To him who has poisoned his appetite by excess
es, the luscious pulp of grape or peach, the nec
tareous juices of orange or pine-apple, are but
a loathing and a nausea. He has turned gar
dens and groves of delicious fruit into gardens
and groves of ipecac, and aloes. The same
vicious indulgences that blasted his health,
blasted ail orchards and cane-fields also. Veri
ly, the man who is physiologically “wicked”
does not live out half his days ; nor is this the
worst of his punishment, lor he is more than
half dead while he appears to live.
Let the young man then remember, that, for
every offence which he commits against the laws
of health, nature will bring him intr judgment.
However graciously God may deal with the
heart, all experience proves that he never par
dons stomach, muscles, lungs, or brain. These
must expiate their offences un-vicariously.—
What wreck so shocking to behold as the wreck
of a dissolute man ; the vigor of life exhausted,
and yet the hi st step in an honorable career not
taken ; in himself a lazar-house of disease ;
dead, hut by a heathenish custom of society, not
buried ! Rogues have had the initial letter ot
their title burnt into the palms of their hands ;
even for murder, Cain was only branded on the
forehead ; but over the whole person of’ the de
bauchee or the inebriate, the signatures of infa- {
Tny are written. How nature brands him with j
stigma and opprobrium ! How she hangs labels
all over him, to testify her disgust at his exist- J
ence, and to admonish others to beware of his
example! How she loosens all his joints, sends j
tremors along his muscles, and bends forward his j
frame, as if to bring him upon all-fours with kin
dred brutes, or to degrade him to the reptile’s!
crawl,ng ! How she disfigures his countenance,
as it intent upon obliterating all traces of her own
image, so that she may swear she never made
him ! How she pours rheum over bis eyes,
sends foul spirits to inhabit his breath, and
shrieks, as with a trumpet, from every pore ol
his body, “Beholp a Bsast!” Such a man
may he seen in the streets of our cities every
day ; if rich enough, he may be found in the sa
loons, and £Lt the tables of the “Upper Ten ;”
hut surely, to every mail of p'drity and honor, to
every irian whose Vvisdoni rts well as whoso
heart is unblemished,the wretch whocomes crop
ped and bleeding from the pillory, and redolent
with its appropriate pdrfunids, wotlld be a guest
ora companion far less offensive and disgusting.
Now’ let the young man, rejoicing in his tr.an
lv proportions. and in his comeliness, look on
this picture, and on this, and then say, after the
likeness ot which rrtodel he intends his own
erect stature and sublime countenance shall be
configured. Hon. Horace Mann.
The Word Selah.
We have often Speculated on the meaning of this
word as it occurs in the Bible. Bplow we"give the
opinion of various pgfsohs concerning 11. I‘He trans
lators ot the Bible have left the Hebrew word Selah,
which occurs so often in Psalms, as they have found
it, and of cdtirse the English reader often asks his
minister, or some learned fHehd what it trieans, and
the minister or learned friend has most often been
obliged to confess his ignorance of its meaning, be
cause it is a matter m regard to which the most
learned have, by nti means, been of one mind. The
Targum and most of the Jewish commentators, give
to the word the meaning of eternally forever. Rabbi
Kimchi regards it as a sign to elevate the voice.
The authors of the Septuagint translation appear to
haVe regarded it as a musical or rythmic&l note.
| Herder regards it as indicating a change of tone;
Matheson as a musical note, equivalent, perhaps, to
the word repeat. According to Luther and others, it.
means silence! Gesenius explains it to mean: “Let
the instruments play and the singers stop.” \Vo
oher regards it as equivalent to sursum corda —Up;
my soul 1 Sommer, after examining all the seventy
tour passages in which the word occurs, recognizes
in every case “an actual appeal or summons to Je
hovah. They are calls for aid, and prayers to be heard,
expressed either with entire directness, or if not irt
thd imperative “Hear, Jehovah !” or awake Jehovah;
and tiie like, still earnest addresses to God th&l hfi
would remember and hear,” &.c. The word itself, he*
regards as indicating a blast of liumpets by the
pi itists Selah. itself, lie thinks an abridged “xpres
sion used for Higgaion, indicating the sound of the
stringed instrument, and Selah a vigorous blast of
trumpets.— Bibliotheca Sacra.
Burns and Scalds.
Scarcely a week passes, says the New York Cont
mercial Advertiser, in which the feelings of newspa
per readers are not painfully excited by published
accounts of dreadful accidents by fire, or steam, or
boiling water. We are confident, therefore, of ren
dering a service to humanity, by giving a larger pub
licity to the following passage from a highly interest
ing paper in the last number ot the American Jour
nal of the Medical Sciences, being the “Notes of lio4-
pital Practice at Bellevue,” by D. M. Reese, M. D.
resident physician :
Burns. --Among the most numerous cases brought
into the surgical wards of charity hospitals, every
where, may be reckoned the injuries received by
burns and scalds, which, When extensive, are tod Often
uital. In tiie treatment of these injuries we have
had great experience and uniform success, when the
patients were brought in soon after the injury. No
fatal case of recent burn or scald has occured in the
hospital, although several have been extensive and
severe. The universal treatment of all sucli cases is
to cover the parts with wheaten flohr, thrown over the
wounds by a dredging-box. which, if thoroughly done
so as to exclude the air, and prevent its temperature
from reaching the suffering tissues, will afford instant
relief from pain, and allay all that nervous irritation
which is the chief source of immediate danger in ail
cases of extensive burns. We have had opportunity
to test this practice in terrible burns occasioned bv
explosions ofgunpowder, in scalds from the bursting
of steam-boilers, in examples ot persons while drunk
tailing into the fire, and others in which the clothes
were burnt off the body by the combustion of spirit
gas, &c. In all these cases, and in some of them
scarcely any portion of the body had escaped—and
notwithstanding, in a few of them, the integuments
were literally baked, so that extensive and deep-sbat
ed suppuration and sloughing were inevitable, and
had altcrward to be endured—the external application
of the flour was in the first instance our only remedy;
and this was continued for one or more days, while
tiie acute effects oi the injury demanded it. The su
perficial portions of tiie burns or scalds would often
heal under this application alone; and the solutions
of continuity, more or less deep, which remained
op n and discharging, were then dressed with lime,
water and oil, by means of a feather; to which creo
sote was added it the granulations were siow,orth£J
.sloughs tardy in becoming loose. Under this dress
ing tiie most formidable burns have been healed ; and
even when tiie face lias been involved, tiiere has been
scarcely any considerable deformity, in one oi our
patients, the face being horribly burned by an acci
dental explosion of gunpowder, the grains of powder
having been imbedded in the skin, very great appre
hensions were indulged that tiie discoloration thus
produced would permanently disfigure and deform the
countenance. But, after the persistent application of
the flour for three successive days, and until I the
tumefaction of the face and head had subsided, it was
found that, with a few applications of the lime-wntet
dressing, the cicatrization was complete, and even
tiie discoloration was removed.
ft the simple remedy were resorted to in the severe
scalds sometimes occurring from explosions of steam
boat boilers, &c. there can be little doubt that the
fatality of such burns would be very rare; while
the popular and mischievous methods of applying raw
cotton oil, molasses, salt, alcohol, spirits of turpen
tine, sugar of lead water, ice, &c. to extensive and
deep burns, are all of them injurious, and olten de
structive to life.
Shade Tkees. —People are sometimes prevented
from planting trees by the slowness of their growth.
VV hat a mistake that is! People might as well ho
prevented trom being wed, because a man-child takes
one-and-twenty years to get out of his minority, and
a woman-child, except in hot climates, is rarely mar
riageable before fiiteen. Not tfie least fear in the
world, that Tommy and Thomasine and the Tree will
grow up fast enough—wither at the top and die ! it
is strange fear to feel—a strange complaint to utter
—that any one thing, animate or inanimate, is of too
slow growth ; for the nearer to its perfection, the near
er to its decay.
No man who enjoys good health, at fifty, or even
sixty, would hesitate, if much in love, to take a wife,
on the ground that he could have no hope or chance
of seeing his numerous children all grutfri up itfttf hob
bledehoys and Priscilla Tomboys. Get your children
first, and let them grow at their own leisure after
wards. In like manner, let no man, Bachelor or Ben
edict, be his age beyond the limit of conversational
confession, fear to lay out a nursery-garden—to tHf it
with young seedlings—and thenceforward, to keep
planting away, uphill and down brae, all the rest of
his li;p.
Besid 8, in every stage, how interesting, both a wood
and sap ir*e. and a tiesh and blood chib! ! I.ook at
a pre fy. tett-vear-old, rosy-cheOk. golden-haired Ma*
I ry. gazing, with all the blue-brightness of her eyes, at
j that large dew-drop, which the sun has let escape un
j melted even on into the meridian hours, on the top
; most pink-bud, within which the teeming leaf sfrug
] gles to expand into beauty—the topmost pink-bud of
j that little bone-tree, but three winters old, and half a
j spring ! Hark ! that is Harry, at home on a holiday,
rustling like a roe in the coppicewood, in search of
; the net of the blackbird or mavis yet ten years
j ago that rocky hill-side was unplanted, and “that
i bold boy, so bright and beautiful,’’ unborn. Who. then
f —be his age -what it may—would either linger,
‘•with fond, reluctant, amorous delay,” to take unto
himsell a wife, for the purpose of having children, or
to enclose a waste for the purpose of having trees 7
[ Blackwood.
O’ A lover, wishing to concentrate his ardor into
one burs! of passion, exclaimed—“Oh, Angelina Au
gusta. I leel towards you just like the burniug busfr
that Moses saw—l’m all afire, but ain’t consumed.’*
NO. 0.