When shaken violently, and lifted to a sitting posture, he
recovers. After a fit, he feels a great horror of going to bed again.
If one were to seize him at his boarding-house, his chance would be
bad, because if any heard his snortings, they would not probably know
what was the matter. These two afflictions might seem enough to make
one man miserable, yet he appears in pretty fair spirits.
He is a Methodist, has occasionally preached, and believes that he has
an assurance of salvation immediate from the Deity. Last Sunday, he
says, he gave religious instruction to a class in the State's Prison.
Speaking of his political hostilities, he said that he never could
feel ill will against a person when he personally met him, that he
was not capable of hatred, but of strong affection,--that he always
remembered that "every man once had a mother, and she loved him."
A strong, stubborn, kindly nature this.
The City-Crier, talking in a familiar style to his auditors--
delivering various messages to them, intermixed with his own
remarks. He then runs over his memory to see whether he has omitted
anything, and recollects a lost child--"We've lost a child," says he;
as if, in his universal sympathy for all who have wants, and seek the
gratification of them through his medium, he were one with the parents
of the child. He then tells the people, whenever they find lost
children, not to keep them overnight, but to bring them to his office.
"For it is a cruel thing"--to keep them; and at the conclusion of his
lecture, he tells them that he has already worn out his lungs, talking
to them of these things.
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