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About The Georgia citizen. (Macon, Ga.) 1850-1860 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 26, 1850)
€'jje Curncr, The Alan. The weeds o'er ran tlio garden, The weeds usurped tlie field, For nothing but weeds and briars The idle land will yield ; When a burly man upstepping, A man I say— a man ! Cried out, “I will amend this, If a son of Adam can 1” To say it was to do it, When he had vowed his vow j So, full of hearty action, Himself he grasped the plough.. The neighbors flocked around him, And gazed, with purblind eyes, Or lifted up tlieir timid hands In marvelous surprise. Many tliere were who mocked him, And a few there were who then AY ent home with hearts uplifted, Wiser and better men. But the man wrought on undaunted, Nor stint nor stay he knew, Till where the wild weeds flourished , Fair grain and grasses grew. The stubborn glebe he tilleth, With an iron, resolute will, And the blossoms of the spring time, The air with fragrance fill: The autumn brought their fruitage,. The corn, oil, and the wine*, And the man, lie said, yet humbly, “ Lo ! these good deeds arc mine L Though I have read but little, Sure I have worked the more, And have made two blades of grass grow, Where one blade grew before.” By brave words and stout labor, llis high success be taught, And though liis phrase was homely, ’Twas Manhood spoke and wrought. And when his work was ended, He laid calmly down to rest, Full of years and reverend meekness, With the sunshine on his breast. And when flowers bloomed above him, And Time some years had won, Men began to know and love him For the good deeds he had done. If I were a Voice. BY C. M.VCKAY. If I were a voice, a persuasive voice, That could travel the wide world through, I would fly on the beams of the morning light, And speak to men with a gentle might, And tell them to be true ; I’d fly, I’d fly, over land and sea, “Wherever a human heart might be, Telling a tale or singing a song, In praise of the right—in blame of the wrong. If I were a voice, a consoling voice, I’d fly on tlie wings of air. The home of sorrow and guilt I'd seek, And calm and truthful words I'd speak To save them from despair, I'd fly, I'd fly, o’er the crowded town, And drop, like the happy sunlight, down „ Into the hearts of suffering men, And teach them torejoieo again. If I were a voice, a convincing voice, I’d travel with the wind, And whenever I saw the nations torn By warfare, jealousy, or scorn, Or hatred of their kind, I’d fly’ I'd fly, on the thunder crash! And into th-fir blinded bosoms flash, And, all their evil thoughts subdued, I'd teach them Christian brotherhood. If I were a voice, a pervading voice, I’d seek the kings of earth, I’d find them alone on their beds at night, And whisper words that should guide them right— Lessons of priceless worth *, I’d fly more swift than the swiftest bird, And tell them things they never heard— Truths which the ages for aye repent — Unknown to the statesmen at their feet. If I were a voice, an immortal voice, I'd speak in the people's ear; And whenever they shouted “ Liberty,” Without deserving to be free, I'd make their error clear. I'd fly, I'd fly, on the wings of day, Rebuking wrong on my world-wide way, And making all the world rejoice— If I were a voice—an immortal voice. JEkellamf. Gossip about Children. BY LEWIS GAYLORD CLARK. Grown people should have more faith in, and more appreciation of the statements and feelings of chil dren, When I read, some months since, in a tele graphic dispatch to one of our morning journals, from Baltimore, if I remember rightly, of a mother Mho in punishing a little boy for telling a lie —which after all, it happened that lie did not tell —hit him with a slight switch over his temple and killed him instantly—a mere accident, of course, hut a dreadful casuality, which drove reason from the throne of its unhappy mother—when I read this, I thought of what had occurred in my own sanctum only a week or two before; and the lesson which I received was a good one, and M ill remain with me. My little boy, dark-eyed, ingenious, and frank-hearted child as ever breathed —though, perhaps, “ I say it who ought not to say it” —still I do say it—had been playing about my table, on leaving which for a mo ment, I found on my return, that my long porcupine quill bended pen was gone. I asked the little fellow what he had done m ith it. After a reneM’ed search for it, I charged him in the face of his declaration, with having taken and mislaid or lost it. lie looked me earnestly in the face, and said— “ No, I didn't bike it father.” I then took him in my lap, enlarged upon the heinousness of telling an untruth, told him 1 did not care so much about the pen, and in short, bv the manner in which I reasoned with him, almost offered a reward for confession—the reward be it under stood [a dear one to him] of standing firm in his father’s love and regard. The tears had su*elled up into his eyes, and lie seemed about to “tell me the whole truth,” when my eye caught the end of the pen protruding from a portfolio, where I myself had placed it, in returning a sheet of manuscript to one of the co-partments. All this may seem a mere tri fle to you—and perhaps it is— yet I shall remember it for a long time. But I desire now to narrate to you a circumstance which happened in the family of a friend and corres pondent of mine in the city of Boston, some ten years ago, and the history of which will command itself to the heart of every father and mother who has any sympathy with or affection for, their children. That it is entirely true, you may be well assured. I Mas convinced of this when I opened the letter from L. ll* B , M'hich announced it, and in the detail of the event which was subsequently furnished me. A few days before he wrote he had buried his eld est son, a fine manly little fellow of some eight years of age, who had never, he said, known a day’s ill ness, until that which finally icmoved him hence to be here not more. His death occurred under circum stances which were peculiarly painful to his parents. A younger brother, a delicate, sickly child from its birth, the next in age to him, had been down for nearly a fortnight with an epidemic fever. In con sequence of the nature of the disease, every precau tion had been adopted that prudence suggested, to guard the other members of the family against it. But of this one the father’s eldest he said he had little to fear, so rugged Mas he, and so generally healthy. Still, htwever, he kept a vigilant eye upon him, especially forbade his going into the pools and docks near his school, which it M as his custom some times to visit; for he was but a boy, and “boys Mill be hoys,” and we ought more frequently to think that it is their nature to be. Os all unnatural things, a reproach almost to childish frankness aud innocence, save me from a boy man.’ But to the story. One evening this unhappy father came home, Mearied uitli a long day’s hard labor, and vexed at some little disappointment M’hich had soured his naturally kind disposition, and rendered him pecu liarly susceptible to the smallest annoyance. ‘While he Mas sitting by the tire in this unhappy mood of mind, his uife entered the apartment and said : “ Henry has just come in, and he is a perfect fright he is covered from head to foot with dock mud, and is as M et as a droM iied rat.” “ Where is he ?” asked the father sternly. “ lie is shivering over the kitchen fire. lie Mas afraid to come up here, uhen the girl told him you had come home.” “Tell Jane to tell him to come here this instant.” Presently the poor boy entered, half perished u itli fright and cold, llis father glanced at his sad plight, reproached him bitterly with his disobedience, spoke of tlie punishment which awaited him iu the morn ing, as a penalty of his offence, and, iu a harsh voice concluded with— “ Now, sir, go to your bed !” “But father,” said* the little fellow, “ I want to tell you—” “Not a word sir ; go to bed!” “ I only wanted to say, father, that—” With a peremptory stamp, an imperative wave of his hand towards the door and a frown upon his brow, did the father without other speech, again close the door of explanation or expostulation. “W hen tlie boy had gone supperless and sad to bis bed, the father sat restless and uneasy while his sup per uas being prepared; and at tea-table ate but lit tle. llis M’ife saw the real cause of his emotion, and interposed the remark — “ I think, my dear, you ought at least to have heard what Henry had to say. My heart ached for him, when he turned away, u itli his eyes full of tears. Henry is a good boy after all, if he does some times do wrong. He is a tender-hearted, affection ate boy. He ahvays Mas.” And there u ithal the water stood in the eyes of Mercy, in “ the bouse of the Interpreter,” as record ed by Bunyan. After tea the evening paper was taken up; but there u'as no news and nothing of interest for that father in the journal of the evening, lie sat for some time in evidently painful reverie, and then rose and repaired to his bed-chamber. As he passed the room M’here his little boy slept, he thought he M ould look upon him before retiring to rest. He crept to his low cot and bent over him. A big tear had sto len down the boy’s cheek, and rested upon it; but he Mas sleeping calmly and sweetly. The father deeply regretted his harshness as he gazed upon his son; he felt also the “sense of dutyyet in the night, talked the matter over u itli the lad’s mother, he resolved, and promised instead of punishing, as he had threatened, to make amends to the boy’s aggrieved spirit, in the morning, for the manner in which he had repelled all explanation of his offence. But that morning never came to that poor child in health. lie awoke the next morning, with a ra ging fever on his brain, and u itli delirium. In forty eight hours he was in his shroud. He knew neither his father or mother, when first called to his bed side, nor at any moment aftenvarff. -Waiting, watch ing, for one tdkeu of recognition, hour after hour, in speechless agony, did that unhappy father bend over the couch of his dying son. Once indeed he thought he saw a smile of recognition light up his dying eye, and he learned eagerly forward, for he would have given u'orlds to have uhispered one kind uord in his ear, and have been ansu ered ; but that gleam of apparent intelligence passed quickly away, and was succeeded by the cold unmeaning glare, and the u ild tossing of the fevered limbs, which lasted until death came to his relief. Two days after, the undertaker came uitli the lit tle coffin, and his little son, a playmate of tlie de ceased boy, bringing the lou’ stools on M’hich it uas to stand in the entry-liall. “ I was with Henry,” said the lad, “u hen he got into the u r ater. We were playing dou nonthe Long Wharf. Henry, Charles Munford, and I; and the tide was out very lou-; and there uas a beam run ning out from the wharf; and Charles got out on it to get a fish line and hook that hung over where the u’ater was deep, and the first thing u’e saw, he had slipped, and u’as struggling in the Mater. Henry threu- off his cap and jumped clear from the u harf into the water, and, after a great deal of hard u ork, got Charles out; and they waded up through the mud to M’here the uharf u as not so uet and slippe ry ; and then I helped them to climb up the side. Charles told Henry not to say any thing about it, for if he did, his father M ould never let him go near the uater again. Henry uas very sorry, and all the u’ay going home, he kept saying— “ What will father say when he sees me to-night? I wish u’e had not gone to the u harf.” “Dear, brave boy !’’ exclaimed the bereaved fath er; “and this uas the explanation uhich I cruelly refused to hear 1” and hot and bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. Yes, that stern father now learned, and for the first time, -that uhich he had treated u ith unwonted severity as a fault, uas but the impulse of a gener ous nature, which, forgetful of self, had hazarded his life for another. It uas hut the quick prompting of that manly spirit which he himself had always en deavored to graft upon his susceptible mind, and which, young as he was, had manifested itself on more than one occasion. Let me close this story in the very words of that father, and let the lesson sink deep into the heart of every parent who shall peruse this sketch. “ Everything that I now see, that ever belonged to him, reminds me of my lost boy. Yesterday I found some rude pencil-sketches which it was his delight to make for the amusement of his younger brother. To-day in rummaging an old closet, I came across his boots, still covered with dock-mud, as when he last wore them. (You may think it strange, but that which is usually so unsightly an object, is nou r most precious to me.) And every morning and evening, I pass tbe ground M’here my son’s voice rang the merriest among his playmates. “ All these things speak to me vividly of his ac tive life ; but I cannot— though I have often tried— I cannot recall any other expression of the dear boy’s face, than that mute, mournful one M’hen he turned from me on that night I so harshly repulsed him. Then my heart bleeds afresh ! “Oh, hoM’ careful should we all be, that in our daily conduct towards those little beings sent us by a kind Providence, M’e are not laying up for our selves tbe sources of many a future bitter tear ! How cautious that neither by inconsiderate nor cruel word or look, we unjustly grieve their generous feeling! Aud how guardedly ought we to Mcigh every ac tion against its motive, least in a moment of excite ment, we be led to mete out to the venial errors of the head the punishment due only to wilful crime! Alas ! perhaps feM- parents suspect how often the fierce the sudden blow is answered in their child)en by the terns, not of passion nor of physical nor of mental paiu, but of a loving, yet “i iexcd or I outraged nature.” J ° I fH 5 §S©I®II eiSISIH. I will add no word to reflections so true ; no cor relative incident to an experience as touching. Clara Sinclair. Clara Sinclair was an intelligent girl, studiously devoted to all her lessons, except arithmetic. “ Oh, mother!” she M ould exclaim, “ this is arith metic day. How I hate it.” “My daughter, do not make use of such expres sions,” said her mother. “ Nothing is wanting but attention and perseverance, to make that study as agreeable as any other. If you pass over a rule care lessly, and say you do not understand it from u’ant of energy to learn it, you will continue ignorant of important principles. I speak with feeling on this subject, for uhen I uent to school, a fine arithmeti cian shared the same desk with me, and whenever I was perplexed by a difficult sum, instead of apply ing to my teacher for an explanation, I asked Ame lia to do it for me. The consequence is, that even now I am obliged to refer to others in the most tri fling calculations. I expect much assistance from your perseverance, dear Clara,” continued she, affec tionately taking her hand. Clara’s eyes looked a good resolution, and she com menced the next day putting it in practice. Instead of being angry because she could not understand her figures, she tried to clear her brow to understand them better, and her tutor was surprised to find her mind rapidly opening to comprehend the most diffi cult rules. She now felt the pleasure of self con quest, besides the enjoyment of her mother’s appro bation, and for many years steadily gave herself up to the several branches of mathematics. Clara was the eldest of three children, avlio had been born in the luxuries of wealth, Mr. Sinclair u - as a merchant of great respectability, but in the height of bis supposed riches, one of those failures took place, which often occur in commercial transactions, and his affairs became suddenly involved. A nervous temperament, and a delicate constitution, were soon sadly wrought upon by this misfortune. Mr. Sin clair’s mind, perplexed and harrassed, seemed sink ing under the weight of anxiety. Clara was at this period sixteen years of age; her mind Mas clear and vigorous, and seemed ready, like a young faun, for its first bound. One cold autumnal evening, the children, with their wild gambols, Mere playing around tlie room, while Mr. Sinclair sat leaning his head upon his hand over a table covered uitli papers. Mrs. Sinclair was busily employed in seuing, and Clara, with her fin gers between the pages of a book, sat gazing at her father. “ Those children distract me,” said Mr. Sinclair, in a sharp accent. “Ilush, Robert come here Margaret,’’ said Mrs. Sinclair gently; and she took one on her lap, and the other by her knee, and whispering to them a lit tle story, calmed them to sleepiness, and then put them to bed. When Mrs. Sinclair had left the room, Clara laid doAvn her book, and stood by her father. “ L>o’t disturb me, child,” said lie roughly; “my head aches.” Then recollecting himself, lie took her hand, and continued. “1 >o riot feel hurt, my dear; my mind is perplexed by those difficult accounts.’’ “Father,” said Clara, with a smile, “1 think I can help you, if you will let me try.” “You! my love,” exclaimed her father, “why these papers M ould puzzle a u iser head than yours.” “ I do not wish to boast, father,” said Clara, mod estly, “ but my teacher said to-day—” Clara hesi tated. “ Well, uhat did lie say ?” asked Mr. Sinclair, en couragingly. “ lie said,” answered Clara, blushing deeply, “that I uas a quicker accountant than most men of busi ness ; and I do believe, father, continued she, earn estly, “ that if you wore to explain your papers to me, I could help you.” Mr. Sinclair smiled incredulously ; but unn illing to check his daughter’s wish for usefulness, he made some remarks, and opened bis ledger. Insensibly found himself entering with'herTnto the labyrinth of numbers. Mrs. .Sinclair came in on tiptoe, and seated herself softly at the table to sew. The accounts be came more and more complicated, but Mr. Sinclair seemed to gain energy under the clear, quick eye of his child ; her unexpected sympathy inspired him with new pou-ers. Hour after hour passed away, and his spirits rose at every chime of the village clock. “Wife,” said he, suddenly, “if this girl gives me aid like this, I shall be in a neu r uorld to-morrow.” “ My beloved child,” said Mrs. .Sinclair, pressing Clara’s fresh cheek to her ou n. Twelve o’clock struck before Clara left her father, M’hen she commended herself to God, and slept pro foundly. The next morning, after seeking his bles sing, she repaired to Mr. Sinclair, and sat by him, day after day, until his books M ere faithfully balan ced. “Father,’’ said she, “you have tried me, and find me worth something; let me keep your books until you can afford a responsible clerk, and give me a little salary to buy shells for my cabinet.” Mr. Sinclair accepted the proposition. Clara’s cab inet increased in beauty, and the finished female hand-writing in liis books and papers, Mas a subject of interest and curiosity to liis mercantile friends.— Mrs. Caroline Gilman. AN AGREEABLE SKETCH. The Game of Proverbs. [from TJIK FRENCH.] A party had assembled at the seat of Sir John Hatton to spend the Easter recess. The host and liostees were a little of the parvenu genus, but they were very amiable, and tlieir great wish was to make their country place, to which they had only lately succeeded, agreeable. As they were very rich, and had a magnificent house in a beautiful country, and as, moreover, Sir John kept a good table, had a first rate chief de cuisine, and was remarkable for his excellent wines, (for before the death of his cousin, tho late Sir John, lie had been a wine merchant,) Sir John and Lady Hatton had no difficulty in collecting a host of friends about them in town, and of these they determined to select only the quite f.ijte for their country party. The only difficulty was whom to choose. Lady Hatton, whose father had kept a shop, wish ed to invite only the great and fashionable; but Sir John, whose education bad been somewhat neglected in early life, preferred men of talent and science. Lady Hatton was too amiable to contend with her husband, and so Sir John invit ed all the first-rate statesmen, men of science, poets, novel ists, and artists he could get. Unhappily, however, the re sult was not exactly what lie expected. The men of sei eneo did not mix well with the men of letters and the artists; for, as they had no subjects in common, they felt as strangers to each other ; and each conscious of the celebrity attached to liis name, was afraid of committing himself and doing any thing which a stranger might think unworthy of his previous reputation. Nothing can cast a greater chill over society than a fear of this kind. It is a perfect wet blanket to the fire of genius. So the party, though consistin'’ of some of the cleverest men of the day, was undeniably slow; it was worse, it was dreadfully dull; and in spite of the good cookery, and the good wines, the dinners did not go oft’ well for the guests would not talk. In the drawing-room they were still silent; they sauntered about, opened hooks and laid them down again, and looked the picture of ennui, though Lady Hatton bustled and tried to make herself agreeable, and Mrs. Delcour, a young widow, who was pretty, and quite a ware that she was so, flirted with all the men she could get to liston to her. Lady Hatton’s own two daughters, who had just left school, gave no assistance in entertaining tho guests, for they were too shy to talk, and made so many difficulties about playing or singing, that it was quite painful to ask them. Only two days of the week, for which the party had been invited had passed, when it became quite evident to Mrs. Delcour that something must be done, to save the whole par ty from dying with ennui, or eloping how they could : indeed, one or two had already begun to talk about receiving letters on urgent business, which would compel them to tear them selves away, etc. Ac. Ac. On tire evening of the second day therefore, when the whole of the party had left the dining room, aud the gentlemen were lounging about the drawing room in a most disconsolate manner, Mrs. Deleour suddenly exclaimed, “We must get up a proverb.” “ What an excellent idea!” cried Lady Hatton, “ I have often heard of proverbs being performed by persons of rank and fashion.” “It shall be done,” said Mrs. Deleour. “ But how shall we set about it ? Stanhope, you are just the man to assist me. Don’t you approve of the plan ?” “ I think it admirable 1 but as to assisting you, I must beg you to excuse me.” “No excuse. You arc quite celebrated for tilings of this kind. I heard that you had the entire management of the proverbs at Lady Herber’s last winter.” “ It was precisely what happened there that has decided me never to attempt to get up a proverb again.” “ But what did happen there ?” “ You know Lady Herbert’s gouty old uncle, the Ad miral, and how much Lady Herbert always wishes to please him.” “ Oh, yes, yes! He's an old bachelor, and very rich— Well ?” “ 11c was to choose the proverb, and lie chose, ‘ Good wine needs no sign.” “ Rather an odd subject; but you have such talents, you can spiritulize any thing.” “ So they all said ; and so, at last, I suffered myself to be persuaided to undertake it. There is a line picture gallery at Herbert Castle, with an arch near the centre, from which it was easy to let fall a curtain, and doors at each end for the seperate ingress and egress of the performers and audience. There were plenty of performers, and the ladies were all crowding around me, eager to learn what they should wear. I told them what they pleased, so that they did but act as 1 pleased. They promised every thing tliat could be desired, and so I drew out my plan.” -J ‘‘l dare say you had a good deal of difficulty in making them learn their parts.” “Difficulty? Difficulty is no won! for it? It was absolute martyrdom ! They would not learn ; they would not re member, and I could never get them all together to re hearse.” “ But what was the end ?” “ You shall hear. Finding that some of my actors, who would perform in spito of every tiling, had neither memory nor presence of mind, the idea struck me to tell them if they found themselves in any difficulty, to say, ‘ I hear some one coming,’ and unfortunately I communicated this idea to them all.” “ But why unfortunately ? The idea appears to me a very good one.” “ So it did to me but it did not Work well.” “ llow so ?” “ The company were all assembled. All the beauty and talent of the neighborhood were collected together. Every body was in high spirits, and all were impatient for the per foranee to begin —and—as Lady Herbert had whispered about that the whole was arranged by me—all eyes were turned towards me, and—and—” “ Well ? well! We can imagine all that. Go on !” “The first person who was to appear was the sister of the Admiral, an old maid, tall, thin, and bony, with a very long neck,and a skin like shriveled parchment; and she would absolutely take the character of a Swiss peasant, with all the accoutrements complete.” “Oil! I see her! Miss Priscilla in a bodice, short petti coats, and a little fiat hat, stuck on the side of her head, 1 low absurd!” “ Absurd, indeed ! She was reclining in a pensive mood with a crook, when the curtain drew up, and when she came forward, waving her lean, naked arms and sighed deeply, the effect was so ludicrous that a suppressed titter ran through the assemblage; and the poor shepherdess losing her presence of mind, gazed wildly around, and then, pressing her hand upon her side, she exclaimed, ‘ 1 hear someone coming,’ and then she sat down, looking just ready to faint.” “ llow very droll!” “So the audience seemed to find it; but it was any thing but droll to me, for she should have made a long speech, which would have served as a key note to all the rest; and it nys now clear, that if others mi) remember their parts the audience would be in the dark as to what they were about, foAvvant of the explanation which was to have been given by < *g n^>v iitdueky shepherdess.” “ Well! what happened next?” ‘ “The second performer, who was rather dull, but who had worked hard to master tin; difficulties of his part., hearing his cue, rushed in, totally unconscious of what had happened, (for he was absorbed in what he was to do himself,) and be gan his first speech, which unluckily turning upon what the sheperdess ought to have said, but did not say, and which he was supposed to have heard, quite overcame the politeness of the audience and they hurst into peals of laughter ; and when the unhappy actor, whose part was tragic, and who could not think what made them laugh, after looking around for a mo ment or two in dismay, said, also, ‘ I hear someone coming,’ the effect was overwhelming. The audience, including even the Admiral and Lady Herbert, were almost in convul sions, and the curtain fell amidst vehement cries of ‘ Bravo! Encore!’ ” “ At any rate the audience were amused.” “Yes! And we laughed it off as well as we could; hut it was rather hard work, particularly as, during the remaining three or four days that 1 was obliged to remain in the house, if ever 1 hesitated or stammered about anything—and really I did make more blunders than ever I did before in my life —my friends were sure to laugh and to suggest that proba bly ‘ I heard someone coming.” During this dialogue the whole party had eoilected round Mrs. Deleour and Mr. Stanhope; and as the ludicrous distres ses of the latter made them laugh, it had the effect of thaw ing the ice that seemed to have bound up their faculties; and they all agreed to take a part in anew proverb, in perform ing which they promised to behave better than the unfor tunate performers at 1 lerbert Castle. /V proverb was se lected, and a rough outliue of the manner in which it was to bo worked out, having been settled, the rest was left to the performers to fill up, which they did so admirably, that everybody was delighted: and proverbs and charades wire performed alternately during the remainder of the week of vacation, which they all agreed was one of the pleasantest they had ever passed. Bronchitis. BY Bit. W. \V. HALL, OK CINCINNATI. T never know a case of Bronchitis, which was not attended with cough and large weakening expecto ration. Laryngitis, is characterized by inconvenience, if not pain, in swallowing; hoarsness or huskiness, without cough necessarily at first, or much expecto v ration. Consumption sometimes gives none of those symp toms ; not even cough or expectoration until within a few weeks ot death. In Bronchitis, the prominent symptoms are full ness and stricture; or tightness, binding in the breast, a ‘stopping up of the head,’ and watering of the nose and eyes. In Laryngitis, the uniform symptom is a greater or less impairment of the voice, or some unnatural and troublesome feeling about the ‘swallow,’ especially in the act of swallowing. In Consumption there is a dry cough, the weak ness pain in the chest, shortness of breath in walking up hill, or ascending a pair of stairs, quick pulse and general falling away. Consumption is at one end of the breathing or gans; Laryngitis at the other; while Bronchitis is located between the two. In Consumption, the slightest amelioration of symtoms is seized on with avidity. In Throat diseases, evident improvement is looked upon doubtingly. In Consumption the spirits are cheerful; the pa tient is full of hope ; is ever ready to embark in the occupations ot life; and to every inquiry replies ‘l’m better.’ In Throat diseases, a man is dull, desponding and listless; if he sits down he is never ready to get up; but will lounge, and loaf, and mope about the house for hours together; it requires an effort to put one foot before the other sometimes ; and often he feels as if he would be happy were he sure that he never would have any thing more to do as long as he lived. True Manliness. Children are very apt to suppose, that what is manly or womanly can be cut out of clothes made in the fashion of those worn by men and women, <fc will give additional consequence to the young who wear them. I knew a very little boy, who took great satisfaction in having loops sewed to his socks, so that he might draw them on as boots are draw n; and the eagerness so commonly displayed by children still young, to assume the coat, the cravat, boots, Arc., is hardly less childish. Thus they show their childishness in their attempts to be manly. This, however, would be a matter of very little consequence, if they were not apt to lose sight, in this w ay, of the essential attributes of manliness. To be manly, is to “dare to do,” not to wear “all that may become a man.’’ I will give you my idea of wliat it is for a boy to be manly, by two or three il lustrations. A boy six years old was required by bis father to bring the cows home every night. One dark rainy evening in the autumn, just as the family had settled themselves to their accustomed occupations, about a bright cheerful ’fire, the father asked, “ did you bring the cows home, my son ?” “ Yes, father,” he replied; adding after a moment’s hesitation, “ but I did not put up the bars.” It was manly in this boy to confess his omission, at the expense he foresaw, of a dismal drudge through the rain and darkness to repair it. I knew another boy of nine years old, who mount ed one day, in his father’s yard, a very spirited horse, and was thrown almost immediately, his father stood looking through a window, but did not interfere, when he saw his son preparing to mount a second time. He was throw n the second time. “ Thrown again, my boy ?” he exclaimed. “Yes, sir, but I'll conquer him yet.” A third time tlie boy mounted, and then made good his word, the horse yielded to him completely. This was a manly boy. Os another, twelve years old, it was told me, that being at a large school in one of our cities, he was visited in his room by two young men half a dozen years older than himself, who used very profane language. After bearing tor some time what was highly offensive to him, he said “Gentlemen, you must be so good as to abstain from this language, or leave my room.” They submitted to (lie rebuke, and remained. This was still a higher kind of man liness. It was true of another boy not so old as this, who had long been afflicted with a diseased and helpless leg, that being told, one Sunday morning, of the Surgeon’s decision to amputate it, he said, “ Then 1 will have it done immediately, before mother comes home from church, that she need not know anything about it; and it was done immediately. You will admit that the manliness exhibited by tliesc boys could in no case have been enhanced bv an}’ fashion of garments. I beg you to observe, the terms man and woman, manly and womanly, in their proper and full import, convey far more than those of gentlemen and lady, gentlemanly and ladylike, and a great deal more besides. There are men, and there are so-called gentlemen, who have little or nothing that ismanlv about them. lam sorry that the terms gentlemen and ladies, should be adopted in preference to the mere Christian, the nobler epithets of men and women. AYliile these striking differences exist in the three affections under consideration, it is at the same time true, tliat if allowed to go on unarrested, if permit ted simply to ‘take their course,’ if they are just iet alone,’ they do, with great uniformity, terminate in the same fatal symptoms. The Hoad and tlie Heart.—h ore is a beautiful thing from the |>cn of Mrs. Cornwall Wilson : ‘ Please, nix- laily, buy a nosegay, or bestow a trifle,’ was the address/jf a jwle, emaciated woman, holding a few with ered flowers in her hand, to a lady who sat on the beach at Brighton/ watching the blue waves of the receding tide. • I lunJt no ponce, my good woman,’ said ihe lady, tak ing up from the she was leading with a listless gaze; ‘ if I had, I would give them to you.’ ‘ I am a poor widow, with three helpless children depend ing on me. Would you bestow a small trifle to help us on our way ?” ‘ I have no half-pence,’ reiterated the lady somewhat |-t ----tislily. ‘ Really,’ she continued, as the poor applicant turned meekly away, ‘ this is worse even than the streets of London. They should have police on shore to prevent annoyance.’ They were thoughtless dictates of the head. ‘ Mamma,’ said a blue-eyed boy, who was playing on the beach at the lady’s feet, flinging jiebbles into the sea, ‘ I wish you had a penny for the poor woman does look hungry; and you know we arc going to have a nice dinner, and you have promised me a glass of wine.’ The heart of the lady answered the appeal of the child ; and with a blush of shame crimsoning her cheek at the tacit reproof his artless words conveyed, she opened her reticule, placed lialf-a crown in his tiny hand ; and in another moment the boy was bounding along the sand on bis errand of mercy. In a few seconds lie returned, his eyes sparkling with de light, and his features glowing with health aud beauty. ‘ Oh! mamma, the poor woman was so thankful, she wan ted to turn back ; but 1 would not let her : and she said— ‘ God help the noble lady and you too ; for my children will now have bread for these two days, and we shall go ‘on our way rejoicing.’ The eyes of the lady glistened as she heard the recital of her child, and her heart told her that its dictates bestowed a far greater pleasure than the cold reasoning of the head could afford. Keep your Temper.— “l never can keep any thing,” cried Emma, almost stamping with vexation. “Somebody always takes my things awav and loses them.” (She had mislaid some of her sewing imple ments.) “ There is one thing,” remarked mamma, “that 1 think you might keep, if you would try.’’ “ I should like to keep even one thing,” answered Emma. “ Well, then, my dear,” resumed mamma, “keep your temper; if you will only do that, perhaps you would find it easy to keep other things. I daresay, now, if you had employed your time in searching fur the missing articles, you might have found them be fore this time; but you have not even looked for them. Aon have got only into a passion—a bad way of spending time —and you have accused somebody, and very unjustly, too, of taking away your things and losing them. Keep your temper my dear; when you have mislaid any article, keep cool and search tor it. You had better keep your temper, if you lose all the little property you possess ; getting into a passion never brings anything to light except a distorted face; and by losing your temper, you be come guilty of two sins, you get into a passion, and accuse somebody of being the cause. So my dear, I repeat, keep your temper.” Emma subdued her ill humor, searched for the ar ticles she had lost, and found them in her own work bag. “Why, mamma, here they are; I might have been j sewing all this time, if I had kept my temper.” Manlike and Godlike.—A gentleman who had filled many high stations in public life, with the greatest honor to himself and advantage to the na tion, once went to Sir Earldley Wilniot, in great an ger at a real injury tliat he had received from a person high in the political world, which he was considering how to resent in the most effectual man ner. After relating the particulars to Sir Earldley, he asked if he did not think it would be manly to resent it? “Yes,” said Sir Earldley, “it would doubtless be manly to resent it but it would be God like to forget it.” This, the gentleman declared had such an instan taneous effect upon him, that he came away quite another man and in temper yeotirely altered from that in which he went. J €\)t innuoriot. Parody,—The following parody on Poe’s ITT” “ The Raven,” is nut bad : * “ Once upon an evening dreary, while I pon<W,i lone and weary*, over many an olden paper, readii . forgotten stories o’er; suddenly 1 heard a curious lonely, ghostly, strange, mysterious grating und et .’ neatli the floor—only this, and nothing more j again I trimmed the taper, and once more resum'd my paper—aged, forsaken, antique paper—p, jr j n , its ancient contents o’er; when the same mysteries grating, somewhat louder than before— and it ed like someone sawing wood beneath my 0 * floor; ’tis no mouse, thought I, but more. As I|j * tened, each particular hair stood upright, perpend* cular—cold, out-standing drops-orbicular, stranU mysterious terror, filled my soul with fear and la* ror, such its I never felt before; much I WO n<l i what this curious grating meant beneath the ffejp Thus I sat and eyed the door. And thus watching gazing, pondering, trembling, doubting, fc ar j n K / wondering, suddenly tlie wall was sundering ; ' IS f” Banquo’s ghost of yore—and while gazing miieh as tounded, instantly therefrom there bounded a Lii* ■ Rat upon the floor! Not the least obedience mad lie, careing naught for lord or lady; but a momen! stayed he, aud nothing more. And while gazin.r ‘each other, suddenly out sprang another, soinew], • grayer than the other, with tlie weight of years 1.• bore ; then with imprecations dire, high I raised ml boot and higher, aud a step advancing higher, whirl ed it across the floor; but the little mips had scat tered, and the door was bruised and battered— that I hit and nothing more.” Appeal of a California (andidale. We find in the Stockton Journal that Mr. John \Y Jr., (formerly of Lexington Ya.) has been U , meeting of citizens for councilman of that Town \\ her. upon Mr. Paine developed himself in the Ml.wing rptcch which is duly reported in the Journal aforesaid ; “Fellow Citizens : When I accidentally nude my adven tine appearance to-night in the stately mansions of this an made fabric, 1 did not contemplate being called on to ;>artici pate in the stormy and rantankerous vociferation, and Ixdstr - rous detonations, of tempest lions expatiation, but, as it seem* ( your determination, that I should address this Association my only contemplation is, that my expatiation may meet the , approbation of this whole Conglomeration. “We have met in congregation to take into eonsidentiwt those who are the most suitable for the situation as oft, cm f our corporation. This being your determination; and, to this consideration, I call co-operation, for it is my annuncia tion, that, if wo elect one who lias not the qualification for a situation in the Association who shall participate in the ad ministration of the laws of our corporation, would ruin jout estimation of the whole organization. Ido not have it in cun teuiplation that this organization should be considered amer-j declamation; but a solemn affirmation of the demondhaties and desolation which a bad administration would have on ev ery rank and station, in every occupation without qualifica tion. Then, fellow citizens, as lam a candidate for the situa tion of Common Councilman in your corporation, I hope it may meet your approbation, and that you will come to the determination or hesitation to vote my ticket, now in circula tion ; and the realization of your expectation shall lie a then* of exultation; and future generations, to all duration, a* far its imagination, without obscuration, can make exploration, will sla.ut congratulation tliat my elevation to a situation is the administration of j our corporation, has received the at testation of all creation ! ” Clerical Anecdote. —“Kn penshoog,” as Mr. WagstafT would say, writes anew contributor to the Knickerbocker, | 1 “1 saw in a Lite number of the Knickerbocker some anec dotes of a preacher, which reminded me of a liku character *way down East,’ in the btate of Maine. On one occasion he was endeavoring to give his congregation a specific idea f the magnitude of Noah's ark. He proceeded to tell them how manv anioiala went in thereat, beginning with the sinall rse ;md going up through ‘he euz,,., gradati.n* of iz* to the elephant; then raising his voice to the ffTgfirni pitch, lie exclaimed : * Yes, my hearers, and the gre-a-eat nha a les went in, bless the Lord ! and there was room for all on ’em!’ On another occasion he took his text from Revela tions, sixth chapter and fifth vers* : ‘Audi beheld, and !o! a black horse ; aud lie that sat on him had a pair of balances in his band.’ L’liliappily in reading the text, be mistook balance for bellowses, and went on to describe what kind of bellows they were. ‘These bellowses,’ said lie, ‘wasn’t the bellowses tlie house-wife blows the fire with; neither w.m they like them which the blacksmith uses ; but they was God Almighty sgrea-a-at cta-a-arnal bellowses, that lie blows sin ners into hell with !’ This is strictly true, and if any one of your readers shall doubt its entire authenticity. refer him to me. My name and address accompany this notelct.” No time hoa Swapping Horses.— An Indiatui man wan | t?xv*el!i;ig down the (fliio ou a steamer, with a marc and ttvo year o! I colt, when by a sudden careen of the boat, all three were tilted into the liver. Tlie I lousier, as lie arose, puffing and blowing above the water, caught hold of tlie colt, not having a doubt tliat the natural instinct of the animal would carry him safe ashore. The old mare took a “bee line” for the shore; but the (lightened eolt swam lustily down the current with its owner lmuging fast. “Ixt go of the eolt. and hang on to the old mare,” shunted some of his friend*. “Phretbuoh! ’ exclaimed the hoosicr, spouting water from his mouth, and shaking his head like a Newfoundland dog, “it s all very fine, your telling me to let go the eolt, but to a man that can’t swim, this is not exactly the time for swap ping horses.” KiSS Cotillions.—The Editor of the If7 vdsor Journal —a very obstinate sort of a Bachelor—learns that ‘l’rofessors of dancing,’ in New York have re cently introduced anew style of cotillion, called ‘Kiss cotillion,’ the peculiar feature of which is, that you kiss the lady as you swing corners. The editor is a crusty sort of person, who never dances, but says lie would not mind waiving his objection* t<> amusement so far a- to ‘swing corners,’ now and then, in this new cotillion !—the selfish scamp. H reminds us of an old lady who had an unato.tiubv ble aversion to rye, and never could eat it in anv form, ‘till of late they have got,’ she said. ‘ 1” * king it into whiskey, and l find I can, now and lie l '* worry down a little.” C. x A Laughable Mistake. —-While the steamer Michigan was lying in Detroit, on a late trip down, a raw-bone hoosier entered the cabin, and confronting a large pier glass which is framed and >-t something like a state-room, carelessly addressed his reflected image, with the inquiry, ‘ When’s this boat goin, out C Tending the answer, he leisurely cast his eyes around tlie cabin, surveying the accommodations, and receiving no resjronse, he hailed again : ‘ I sav, yeou, when’s this ere boat goin’ eout f He received no resj>on.se, but a loud guffaw from the chamber-maid, who witnessed the scene; and indignantly turning oa his heel, soliloquizing; ‘biddable stuckup, that chap; needn’t Iks quite so proud, for he didn't look as if he was much any how!’ Intellectual Capacitv. —A common council-man's to dy, paying her daughter a visit at school, and enquiring what progress she had made in her education, the governe* answered: “Pretty good, madam ; miss is very attentive, if she wants anything, it is capacity : but for that deficiency you know must not blame her.” “No Madam,,’ replied the mother, “but I blame you * ,>r not having mentioned it before. Her father, thank heau-n? can afford his daughters a capacity, and I beg she may Die out) immediately, cost what it may.” Women should give their hearts not lose them.
