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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.