firt ) - itio 11-Egister Ie published in the Borough of Allentown Lehigh County, Pa., every Wednesday, by HAINES & DidENDERFER, At $l5O per annum, payable in advance, and $2.00 if not paid 'until the end of the year.— No paper discontinued until all anent-ages are paid. (Orr ICE in Hamilton street, two doors west. of the German Reformed Church, directly oppo site Moser's Drug Store. OZnettOrS on business must be POST PAID, otherwise they will not be attended to. JOB PRINTING, Having recently added a largo assortment o fashionable and most modern styles of type, we aro prepared to execute,. at short notice, all kinds of Book, Job, and Fancy Printing. acorn(. I TIIOUGHT I LOVED. I thought I loved—but now I know Thou west not What my fancy made ; BO east thee from my mind. for 0, • I cannot love—l'll not upbraid. I only feel that thou and I No more may meet as once we met ; And though my bosom heaves a sigh, ''Tis not for thee I nurse regret. I thought I loved—alas, too long fancied thou wert pure and true ; But now I burst the airy thong, And all thy trifling follies view. Nor would I have thee cherished now One thought that I lament the past ; For I have learned that smiling brow Was fair and faith!ess to the last. Yes, I have learned what all must learn. Who prize those smiles of thine so fair ; That in thy breast no love can burn, For selfishness is centered' there. I thought I loved, but now f t know Thou art unworthy man's esteem ; So cast thle from my mind, for 0. 'Twits but a false, though pleasant dream ti 2firrfing 611:ml . THE IRON WILL. ' Fanny ! I've but one word more to sny on the subject. If you marry that fellow, I'll hive nothing to do with you. I've said it and you may be assured that I'll adhere to my de termination.' Thus spoke, with a frowning brow and a stern yoke, the father of Fanny Crawford, while the maiden sat with her eyes bent upon the floor. Nei a worthless, good-foriothing resumed the father. ' and if you marry him, you wed a'life of misery. Don't come back tu me, fur I will disown you the day you take his name. I've said it, and my decision is unal terable,' Still Fanny mace no answer, but sat like a statue. 'Lay to heart what I have said, and make tour election, girl.' And with these words. 311.. Crawford retired from the presence of his daughter. On that evening, Fanny Crawford left her father's' house, and was secretly married to a young man named Logan, whom, spite of all Lis faults, she tenderly loved. • When this fact became known to Mr. Craw ford, he angrily repeated his threat of utterly disowning his child : and he meant what he maid—for he was a man of stern purpose and unbending will. When, trusting to the love she believed him to bear fur her, Fanny ven tured hoMe, she was rudely repulsed. and told that she no longer had a father. These cruel words fell upon her heart, and ever after rested there an oppressive weight. Logan was a young mechanic; with a good trade, and the ability to earn a comfortable Batt Mr. Crawford's objection to him was well founded, and it would have been much better for Fanny if she had permitted it to in fluence her ; for the young man was idle in his habits, and Mr. Crawford too clearly saW that idleness would lead to dissipation. The father had hoped that his threat to disown his child would have deterred her from taking the step he so strongly disapproved. He had, in fact. made this threat as a last eftbrt to save her from a union Out; would inevitably, lead to unhap piness. But having made it, his stubborn any offended pride caused him to adhere with stern inflexibility to his word. When Fanny went from under her father's roof, the old man was left alone. The mother. of his only child . ..4ad been many years dead. For her father'sVake, as well as for her oivn, Aid Fanny 'ivisiCto return. She loved her parent with a most earliest affection, and - • ' rrloomily an 1 ot him as corn pardonless in that home so long made light and cheerful by her voice and smile. pours and hours would she lie awake at night, thinking of her father, and weeping for the. estrangement of his heart from her. Still, there was in her. bosom an ever living hope that he would re lent ; and to this she clung, though he passed her in the street without looking at tier, and steadily denied her admission, when, in the hope of some change in.his stern purpose, she would go to his house and seek to gain an en trance. As the father had predicted, Logan 'added, in the course of a year or two, dissipation to idle habits, and neglect of his wife to both. They had gone to housekeeping in a small way, when first married, and had lived comfortably enough for some. time. But Logan did not like to work, and made every excuse he could to take a holiday, or be absent from the shop. The effect of this was an insufficient income. Debt came with its mortifying and harrassirig com 'plaints, and furniture had to be sold to pay those who were not, disposed to wait. With two little children, fanny was removed by her . , . ...- i. ... . 1 , ..; , '... .. , K .. • s, . .. ‘.. ' ' ‘-.• .!:!, j....`: . ' ':,.. &..... 1 , ii , • : 7 1‘. ^ . ' '` ~ : ...: '..1-5.5. , 117.; '0 - r.41i1V., f.. 'i,•'-' , . -, :*;• - 4" ';.•,,^. . \ '. , 0 . ...'ri. T, - ; - '''«:';':: -., At , t; k: -Ix ; ......41., - 1 QL.n : ;, 1 Vttiotr _Tod and antra AgriruJinn', motion, MoraMg, Inturnunt, 311arktt, &1., 4, VOLUME IX. husband into a cheap boarding house, after their things were taken and sold. The com pany into which she was here thrown, was far from being agreeable; but this would have been no source of unhappiness in itself. Cheer fully would she have breathed the uncongenial atmosphere, if there had been nothing in the conduct of her husband to awaken feelings of anxiety. But, alas ! there was muth to create unhappiness here. Idle days were more fre quent ; and the consequences of Lis idle days grew more serious. From work, he would come home sober and cheerful ; but after spend ing a day in idle company, or in the woods gun ning, a sport of which he was fond, he would meet his wife with a sullen, dissatisfied aspect, and often, in a state little above intoxication. ' I'm afraid thy son-in-law is not doing very well, friend Crawford,' said a plain spoken Quaker, to the father of Mrs. Logan, after the young man's habits began to show themselves too plainly in his appearance. Mr. Crawford knit his brows, and drew his lips closely together. Has thee seen young Logan, lately V don't know tlid young man,' replied Mr. Crawford, with an impatient motion of his head. Don't know thy own son•in law ! The hus band of thy daughter.' ' I have no son in-law ! No daughter !' snid Crawford, with stern emphasis. Frances was the dan;;hter of thy wedded wife, friend Crawford.' ' But I have 'disowned. her. I forewarned her of the consequences if she married that young loan. I told her that I would cast her off for ever ; and I have done it.' ' But friend Crawford,' replied the Quaker, ' thee has dune wrong.' ' I've said it and I'll stick to ii.' ' But, thee has doll wrong, friend Crawford,' repeated the Quaker. ' Right or wrong, it is done, and I will nol recall the act. I give her fair warning : but she took her cm . ll course, and now she must abide the consequences. When I say a thing. I mean it, I never cat my words.' Friend Crawford, said the Quaker, in a steady voice, and with his calm eyes fixed upon the face of the man lie addressed.— ' rhee was Wrong to say what thee did ; thee had not right to cast off thy child. I saw her to•day, passing slowly along the street. Her dress was thin and faded ; but not so thin and faded as her pale, young face. Ah ! if thee could have seen the sadness of that counte nance. Friend Crawford ! she is thy child still. Thee cannot disown her.' • ' I never change,' replied the resolute father. ' She is the child of thy beloved wife, non• in Heaven, friend Crawford.' ' Good morning r and Crawford turned and walked away. • Rash words are bad enough,' said the Quaker. to himself, but how much worse is it to abide by rash words after there has been time for reflection and repentance.' Crawford was troubled by what the Qu dcer said. but more troubled by what he saw a few minutes afterwards. as he walked along the street, in the person of his daughter's husband. He met the young man, supported by two others—so much intoxicated that he could not stand alone., And in this state he was going home to his wife—to Fanny. The father clenched his hands and set his teeth firmly together, muttered an imprecati . on upon the head of Logan, and quickened Ids pace homeward. Try as„hc would, he twnld not shut out from his mind the pale, faded countenance Of his child, as degcribed by the Quaker, nor help feeling an inward sliudde'r at that thought of what she must suffer on meeting her husband in such a state. . She had only herself to blame,' he said as he struggled with his, feelings. • I forewarned her. ' I gave her to understand clearly what she had to expect. My word is passed. I have said if ; and that ends, the matter. I am no childish trifler. What I say, ,I mean.' Logan had been from home all day, and, what was worse, had not been, as his wife was well aware, at the shop for a week. The woman with whom they were boarding came into the room during the afternoon, and, after some hesitation and embarrassment said— ' I am sorry to tell you, Mrs. Logan, that I shall want you to give up your room, after this week. You know I have had no money from you for nearly a month, and, from the way your husband goes on, I see little prospect of being paid any thing more. If I was able, fol. your sake, I would not say a word ;' but I am not, Mrs. Logan, and therefore must, in justice to myself and family, t)fuire you to get another boarding house.' • Mrs. Logan answered only with tears.-- The woman tried to soften *hat she had said, and then went away. Not long alter this, Logan came stumbling up the stairs, and opening the door of his room, staggered in and threw himself heavily upon the bed. Fanny looked at him a few moments, A 2A231T HaIiSIAI-Ellll2lAll IR T 6111191111. ALLENTOWN, PA., FEBRUARY 7, 1855. and then crouching down, and covering her face with her hand, wept long and bitterly. She felt crushed and .powerled: %Cast off by her falter, wronged by her husband, destitute and about to be thrust from the poor home into which she had shrunk, faint and weary, it seems ed as if hope were gone forever. 'While she suffered thug, Logan lay in a drunken sleep..— Arousing herself at last, she removed his boots and coat, drew a pillow under his head, and threw a coverlet over him. She then sat down and wept again. The tea bell rang, but she did not go to the table. Half an hour afterwards, the landlady came to the door and kindly enquired if she would not have some food sent np to her room. Only a little bread and milk for Henry,' was replied. ' Let me send you a cup of tea,' urged the woman. 'No thank you. I don't wish any thing to night.' The woman went away, feeling troubled.--- From her heart she pitied the suffering young creature; it had cost her a painful struggle to do what she had done ; but the 1a nature of her own circumstances, required her to be rigidly just. Notwithstanding Mrs. Logan had declined having any thing, she sent her a cup of tea and something to eat ; but they remained tint asted. On the next morning Logan was sober, and his wife informed him of the notice which their landlady had given. He was angry and used harsh language towards the Nfoman. Fanny de fended her ; and had the harsh language trans ferred to her own head. The young man appeared as usual at the breakfast table, but Fanny had no appetite for food, and did not go down. After breakfast, Logan went to the shop, intending •to go to work, but found his Thee supplied by another journeyman, and himself thrown out of employ ment, with but a :Ingle dollar in his pocket, a manth's boarding due, and his family in need of almost every comfort. From the shop he went to a tavern, took a glass of liquor, and sat down to look over the newspapers, and think what he should do. There lie met an idle journeyman, who like himself, had lost his situation. A fellow feeling made them communicative' and confidential. If I was only a single man,' said Logan, ' wouldn't care. I could easily shift for myfielf.' Wife and children ! Yes,there's the rub,' returned the companion. ' A journeyman me chanic is a fool to get married.' ' Then you and I are both fools,' said Lo 'No doubt of it. I came to that conclusion. in regard to myself, long and long ago. Sick wife, and hungry children, and four or five backs to cover no wonder a poor tnan's nose is ever on the grindstone. For my part, lam sick of it. When I was a single than, I could go where I pleased : and I always had money in my pocket. Now lam tied down to one place, and grumbled at eternally : and if you were to shake me from here to the Navy Yard, you wouldn't get a sixpence out of me. The fact is, T'm sick of it.' • So But what is to be done? I don't believe I can get work in town.' ' I know yon can't. But there . is plenty of work and good wages to be had in Charleston or New Orleans.' Logan did not reply but looked intently into his companion's ,; I'm sure my wife would be a great- deal better offif were to clear Out and leave her.— She has plenty of friends, acid they'll not see her want.' 'Logan still looked at his felloW traveller. And yogi. Wife would be taken back tinder her,father's roof; where there is . enoughand ‘ to spare,. Of course, she would, be happier than she is now.' NO doubt of that. The old rascal hal treated her shabbily enough. .But„I am n'ell• satisfied, that if I were out' of the n•ay lie Would gladly receive her back again.' • • 'Of this there can be no question. So, it is clear, that with our insufficient income, our .presence is a curse rather than a blessing to our Logan readily admitted this to be true. His companion then drew anewspaper towards him, and after mining his eyes over it for a few mo ments, read : This day, at twelve o'clock, the copper fast ened brig Emily, for Charleston. For freight or passage, apply on board.' ' There's a chance for us,' he said, as he fin ished reading the advertisement. Let us go down and see if they won't let us work our pas sage out.' Logan sat thoughtful a moment, and then said, as he arose to his feet. Agreed. It'll be the best thing for us, as well as for our familieS.' When the Emily sailed, at twelve o'clock the two men were on board. Days come and passed, until the heart of Mrs. Logan grew sick with anxiety, fear, and suspense. No word was received from her ab• sent husband. She went to his old employer, and learned that he had been discharged ; but she could find no one who had heard of him since that time. Left thus alone, with two lit tle children, and no apparent means of support, Mrs. Logan, when she became, at length, clear ly satisfied that he, for whom she had given up' every thing, had heartlessly abandoned her, felt as if there was no hope for her in the world. ' Go to your father by all means,' urged the WornMt with whom she was still boarding.— ' Now that yotir husband is gone, he will re ceive you.' I cannot,' was Fanny's reply. But what will you do ?' asked the woman • Work for my children,' she replied arous ing herself, and speaking with sonic resolution. I have hands to work, and I am willing to work.' • ' Much better go home to your father,'• said the woman. That is impossible. He has disowned me. Has ceased to love me or care for me. I can not go to him again ; for. I could not bear, as I am now, another harsh repulse. No—no— I will work with my own hands. God will help me to provide for my children.' ,In this spirit, the almost heart-broken young woman, for whom the bearding-lit:Luso keeper felt more than a common interest—an interest that would not let her thrust her out from the only place she could call her home—sought for work, and was fortunate enough to obtain sew ing from two or three families, and was thus enabled to pay a light board for herself and children. But incessant toil with her needle, continued late at night and resumed early in the morning, gradually undermined her health, which had become delicate, and weariness and pain became the constant comp'anion of her labor. Sometimes in carrying her work home, the forsaken wife would have to pass the old home of her girlhood, and twice she saw her father at the window. Hut, either she was changed so that he did not know his child, or he would not bend from his stern resolution to disown her. On these two occasions she was unable, on her returning, to resume her wtrk. Her fingers could not hold or guide the needle ; nor could she, from the blinding tears that filled her eyes, have seen to sew, even if her hands had lost the tremor that ran through every nerve of her body. A year had rolled wearily by, since Logan went off, and still no word had come from the absent husband. Labor beyond her bodily strength, and trouble and grief that were too severe for her spirit to bear, had done sad work upon the forsaken and disowned child. She was but a shadow of her former self. Mr, Crawford had been very shy of the old Quaker, wha had spoken so plainly, but his words haiMtiade some impression on him, though no one would have supposed so, as there was no change in his conduct towtteds his daughter. Ho had forewarned her of the con sequences if she acted in opposition to his wishes. She had taken her own way, and pain ful as it was to him, he had to keep his word— his word that had ever been inviolate. He might forgive her ; he might pity her : but she must 'remain a stranger. Such a direct and flagrant act of disobedience to his wishes, was not to be forgotten nor forgiven. Thus, in stubborn pride, did his hard heart confirm it self in its cold and cruel estrangement. Was he happy ?No ! Did fie forget his child. No ! Ile thought of her and dreamed of her, day after day, and night after night. But—he had said it, and he would stick to it ! His pride WM unbending as iron. Of the, fact that the husband of Fanny had gone oft' and left her,with two children to pro- . vide for with the labor of her hands, he had been made fully aware, but it did not bend him from his stern purpose. , She is'nothing to me,' was his impatient reply to the one who informed him of the fact. •ThiS.Was all that could be seen, but his heart trembled at the intelligence., Nevertheless, he stood coldly aloof, month after month, and even repulsed, angrily the kind landlady with whom Fanny boarded, who had attempted, all unknown to the daughter, to awaken sympathy for her in her father's heart One day, the old Friend, whose plain words had not pleased Mr. Crawford, met that gentle man near his own door. The Quaker was lead ing a little boy by the. hand. Mr. Crawford bowed, and evidently wished to pass on, but the Quaker passed, and said— I should like to have a few words with thee, friend Crawford.' • Well, say on.' (4 ) Thee is known as a benevolent man; friend Crawford. Thee never refuses, it is said,' to do a deed of charity.' - ' I always give something when I am sure the object is deserving.' 'So I am aware. Do you see this little boy 7' Mr. Crawford glanced down at the child the Quaker held by the hand. As he did so, the NUMBER 18. child lifted Co him a gentle face,-with mild, ear nest loving eyes. It is a sweet little fellow,' said Mr. Craw ford, reaching his hand to the child. lie spoke with some feeling,, for there was a look about the boy that went to his heart. ' He is, indeed a sweet child—and the image of his poor, sick, almost heart-broken mother, for whom I am trying to awaken an interest.— She has twd children, and this one is the oldest. Her husband is dead, or what tnay be as bad, perhaps worse, as far as she is concerned, dead to her ; and she does not seem to have a rela tive in the world ; at least none who thinks about or cares for her. In trying to provide for her children, she has overtasked her delicate frame, and made herself sick. Unless some thing is done for her, a worse thing must fol low. She must go to the Alms-house, and be separated from her children. Look into the sweet innocent face of this dear child, and let your heart say whether he ought to ,be taken from his mother. If she have a woman's feel— ings, must She not love this child tenderly ; and can any one supply to him his mother's place ?' ' I will do something for her, certainly,' Mr. Crawford said. ' T wish thee would go with meth see her.' • There is no use in that. My seeing her can do no good.- Get . all you can for her, Q.nd then come to me. I will help in the good work cheerfully,' replied Mr. Crawford. • That is thy dwelling, I believe,' said the Quaker, looking around at a house adjoining the one before which they stood. • Yes that is my house,' resumed Crawford. ' IVill thee take thiilittle boy in with thee and keep him for a few moments, while I go to see a friend some squares off?' ' Oh, certainly, come with me my dear?'. And Mr. Crawford held out his hand to the child, who took it without hesitation, I will see thee in a little while,' said the Quaker, as he turned away. The boy, who was plainly, but very neatly dressed, was about four years old. He had a more than usually attractive face; and an ear nest look cut of his mild eyes, that made every one who saw him his friends. ' What is your name, my dear ?' asked Mr. Crawford, as he sat down in his parlor, and took the little fellow upon his knee. Henry,' replied the child. He spoke with distinctness ; and, as be spoke, there was a sweet expression of the lips and eyes, that was particularly winning. ' It is Henry; is it ?' ' Yes, sir.' ' What else besides Henry?' The boy did not reply, for he had fixed his eyes upon a picture that hung over the mantle, and was looking at it intently. The eyes of Mr. Crawford followed those of the child, that rested, he found, on the portrait of his daughter. What else besides Henry. ?' he repeated. Henry Logan,' replied the child, looking for a moment into the face H of Mr. Crawford, and then turning to gaze at the picture on the wall. Every nerve quivered in the frame of that man of iron will. The falling of a bolt from a sunny sky, could not have startled and surprised hitn more. He saw in the face of the child, the moment he looked at him, some:- thing strangely familiar and attractive. What it was, he did not, until this instant, compre hend. But it was no longer a mystery. Do you know who I am ?' he asked, in a subdued voice, after he had recovered, to some extent, his feelings. The child looked again into his face, but longer and more earnestly. Then, without answering, he turned and looked at the portrait on the wall. Do you kuow who I am, dear ?' repeated Mr. Crawford. • • ' No, replied the child ; and then again turned to gaze upon the picture. ' Who is that ?',and .and Mr. Crawford . pointed to the object that so fixed the littlo boy's at tention. My mother.' And as he said these words, be laid his head down. upon the bosom'of his unknown relative; and shrunk close to him, as if half afraid because of the mystery that, in his infantile mind, hung, around the picture on the wall. Moved by an impulse that he could not re strain, Mr Crawford drew his arms around the child and hugged him to. his bosom. Pride gaveway ; the iron will was bent ; the sternly uttered vow was forgotten. There is power for good in the presence of a little child. Its sphere of innocence subdues and renders im potent the evil spirits that rule in the hearts of 'selfish men. It was so in this case. Mr. Craw ford might have withstood the moving appeal of, even his daughter's presence,' changed by grief, labor, and suffering, as sho was. But his anger, upon which he had suffered the sun to go down, fled before tier artless, confiding, in nocent child. Ile thought not of Fanny—as the wilful woman acting from . the dictate of her own passions or feelings ; but as a little child, lying upon his bosom—as a little child, singing and dancing around him—as a little child; with, to him the face of a cherub ; and the sainted' mother of thatinnocont one by her aido. When the Friend came for the little bOy, Mr. Crawford said to him, in a low voice—made ) low to hide his emotion— I will keep the child.' Prom its mother ?' ' No ! Bring the mother, and the other child: I have room-for them all.' A sunny smile passed over the benevolent"' countenanco of. the Friend, as he hastily left the room. 'Airs. Logan, worn down by t exhausting labor, had at last been forced to give up. When she did give up, every long strained nerve of mind and body instantly relaxed , and she became almost as weak rand helpless as an infant.— While in this state, she was accidently discov ( ered by the kind-he ted old Friend, who. without her being aw e o f• what he was going to do; made his sii cessful attack upon her father's feelings. H trusted to nature and a good cause, and did no trust in vain. ' Come, Mrs. Logan, aid the kind womasi with whom Fanny was still boarding, an hour or so after little Harry had been dressed up to take a walk—where the mother did not know or think,—' the good Friend, who was here this morning, says you must ride out. lie has brought a carriage for you. It will do you good, I know. He is very kind. Como, get . yourself ready.' Mrs. Logan was lying upon her bed. ' I do not feel able to get up,' she replied , I do not wish to ride out.'. Oh, yes, you must go: The pure, fresh air s and the change will do you more good than . medicine. Come, Mrs. Logan, I will dress little Julia for you. She needs . the change u much as you do.' i ; Where is Henry ?' asked the mother. 'He has not returned . yet. But come ! Theo carriage is waiting at the door.' • • ' Won't you go with me ?' ' I would with pleasure—but I cannot leave home. I have so much to do.' After a good deal of persuasion, Fanny at length made the effort get herself ready to go out. She was so weak that she tottered about the floor like one intoxicated. But the woman with whom she lived, assisted and en couraged her, until she was, at length ready to go. Then the Quaker came up to her room, and, with the tenderness and care of a father, supported her down stairs, and when she had taken her place in the vehicle, entered with her youngest child in his arms, and sat by her side, speaking to her, as he did so, kind and encouraging words. The carriage was driven slowly, for a few squares, and then stopped. Scarcely had the motion ceased, when the door was suddenly opened, and Mr. Crawford stood before his daughter. My poor child !' he said, in a tender broken voice, as Fanny, overcome by his uaexpicted appearance, sunk forward into.his arms. When the suffering young creature opened her eyes again, she was upon her own bed, in • her own room, in her old home. Her father sat by her side, and held one of her hands tightly. There were tears in his eyes, and he tried to speak ; but, though his lips moved., there came from them no articulate sound. Do you forgive me, father ? Do you love me, father ?' said Fanny, in a tremulous whis- • per, half rising from her pillow, and looking ea gerly, almost agonizingly, into her father's face. I have nothing to forgive,' murmured the father, as he drew his daughter towards him so that her head could lie against his bosom. ' But do you love me, father ? Do you love • me as of old !' said the daughter. He bent down aid kissed her ; and now the cars fell from his eyes, and dny warm and glia ening upon her face. As of old,' he murmured, laying his cheek down upon that of his child, and clasping her • more tightly in his arms. Tho long pent up • waters of affection were rushing over his soul. and obliterating the marks of pride, anger, and ' the iron will that sustained them in their cruel dominion. lie was no longer a strong man.. stern and rigid in his . purpose; but a child, • with a loving and tender heart. There was light again in his . dwelling; not the bright light of other times ; for now the• rays were mellowed. But it was light. AndZ there was music again ; not so joyftil'; 141,t it was music, and its spell over his hart was. deeper, and its influence more elevating. The man with the iron will and atom purpose was subdued, and the power:that subdued-him, was the presence of a little child. • Singing Conduphre to lirealth., It Was the opinion of Dr. Rush that singing' by young ladies, whom the customs of 'society' debar from many other kinds of healthy excl.-- cise, should be cultivated,. not only as an accom--. plishment, but as a means of 'preservin g healtb:• Ito particularly insists that vocal music shouldl never be neglected in the education of a young: lady; and states, that besides:its salutary oper ation in soothing the cares of dorrrestio life, it has a still more direct and important acct.— ' I here introduce a fact,' says Dr. Rush, which. has been subject to me by my profissiOnl that is, the exercise of the organs of the breast' by singing contributes to defend' them very much from thoso diseases to which the climate' and other causes expose them. The Germabs. arc seldom afflicted witliconsumption, norhave I ever known more than one case of spitting blood amongst them. This, I- believe, is in part occasioned by the strength which their lungs acquire by exercising them frequently is vocal music which constitutes an essential' branch of their education:" The'musie ter of an academy,' says Mr. Gardner, ' has furnished me with an observation still more iw favor of this opinion. Ile informs me that he has known• several instances of persons strongly disposed to consumption, restored to health. by exercising their lungs in singing.
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