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A Chapter on croakers.

We heard a gentleman say the other day that were he an absolute monarch he would have every croaker seized, clapped into uniform, and sent off at once to the army. We should proceed differently, were we the supposed potentate. We should have them every one seized, clapped into petticoats, and confined in a nunnery, or, as there are no nunneries hereabouts, we would have one built for their special benefit. They are not wanted in the army. There are none but men there, and the world seems to be divided just about this time into men, women, and croakers. Of these the women are infinitely more heroical than the croakers, and furnish infinitely better material for soldiers, where some thing more is to be done than wearing fine uniforms, and going through evolutions on parade. It is true there is a gradation among the tribe. Some are much worse than others. A few of them are almost as masculine as their mothers and sisters, but the proportion is not large.

Cannot the creatures see the mischief they are doing? This is a crisis that requires, if ever crisis did, all the energies which every man is capable of exerting. For that reason nothing but words of encouragement should be spoken, for every man knows how contagious despondency is, how apt each is to catch the prevailing tone from his neighbor, what care is necessary that it pass not like the electric spark through the entire body of society. And yet these croakers — these libels upon manhood — these men, born to be slaves, and to lead the minds of other men into a condition fit only for slavery — pass their whole time in sighing, and turning up the whites of their eyes, as though the Day of Judgment were at hand, and they were momentarily expecting the first blast from the Archangel's trumpet. Out upon the chicken hearted, lily liveried crew, with all that aid, abet, and encourage them in their unpatriotic labors. They call themselves true to the cause. They speak falsely. No man was ever true to any cause in which he had no faith. It is a moral impossibility.

The times are difficult — dangerous, if you will. What of that? Is that any reason for sitting down and giving up everything, with out a single exertion to set them right? --When the ship is in danger of drifting upon a rock, are the crew to fold their arms, wring their hands, and not only do nothing themselves, but discourage everybody else from trying to save it? The times are difficult. If they are, can there be a greater reason why every man that is a man should nerve himself to meet their utmost exigencies? Anybody can steer the vessel in fair weather, over an unruffled sea. It is only the man of courage that can encounter the billows in their wrath, and obtain mastery over the fury of the whirlwind.

One croaker can do more harm in a community than a dozen Yankee spies. You can catch the spies and hang them; but with the croaker you can do nothing. His example in facts a whole neighborhood. Men become despondent, dejected, ready to give up the cause, and unwilling to make any more sacrifices for it. And all through the influence of a single poor spirited creature, who has not the manhood to look his situation in the face, seeking to frighten all others because he is frightened himself.

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