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VOLUME 10.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN
, s PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY
L. F. W. ANDREWS.
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i-Histdlnni).
THE INFANT S DREAM.
O, cradle me on thy knee, mam tea.
And ting me the holy strain.
That soothed me last, as you fondly preared
Mv glowing cheek to your sett white breast;
Fir I saw a scene when 1 slnmtered last.
That 1 fain would teega‘n. mamma;
That I fain would see again.
And smile as you then did smile, mamma.
And weep as yon then did weep;
Then fix on me the glistening eye.
And gaze and gaze till the tear be dry;
Then rock me gently, aud sing and sigh.
Till you lull me taut to sleep, mamma :
Till you lull me fast to sleep.
For I dreamed a heavenly dream, mamma.
While slumbering on thy knee.
And lircd ia a land where forms divine,
1c kingdoms of glory eternal! v ehiue ;
And the world I would give, if the world were mine.
Again that land to see. mamma ;
Again that land to see.
1 fancied we roamed in a wood, mamma.
And we rested as under a bough ;
When near me a bnttertly Haunted in pride.
And 1 chased il away through the ferret wide,
Hut the night came on, I had lost my guide.
And 1 knew not what to do, mamma ;
And 1 knew not w hat to do.
My heart grew sick with fear, mamma.
And loudly I wept forthee;
But a white !ot,ed maiden appeared in tt e air.
And she flung back the curls of her golden hair.
And she kissed mu softly, ‘ere I was aware,
S>} ing, “ Come, pretty babe, with me,” mamma :
Saying. “ Come, pretty babe, wtth me.”
My tears and fears she quelled, mamma.
And she led me *ar a wav ;
We entered the door of a dark, dark tomb.
And pasted through a long, long vault of gloom.
And then opened our eves in a lane of bloom.
And a sky of endless day. mamma ;
And a sky of endless day.
And heavenly forms were the re, mamma.
And lovelv cherubs brigLt;
They smiled when they saw me, but I was amazed.
And wondering, round and round me gazed.
While songs were heard, and sunt y rot esblazed.
All giortoW in the land ot light, mamma ;
All glorious in the land of light.
But toon cameathlnirg throng, mamma.
Ut w bite- winged babes to me:
Their eyes looked love, and their sweet line smiled,
lor ‘lev niatveiltd to meet with an earth-born chi and.
And they gloried that I Horn earth wasextled,
haying. “Here ever blets'd shalt thou be pretty babe.
Cl here ever blest shalt thou be.”
Then I mixed with the heavenly throng, mamma.
With seraphim •• nd cherubim fair;
1 saw as l roamed in the regions of peace.
The spirits who bad fled in-tu the world of distress,
Afid theirs were the joys t,o tongue could express;
For they knew no sorrow there, mamma.
For they knew no sorrow there.
Do von mind when sister Jane, mamma.
Lay dead—short time aro ?
And you gazed un the sad, but lovely wreck.
With a full flood of woe, that yon c uid not check.
And your h. art was ao sore, that you wished it would j
break ;
But it lived, and yr u. aye, sol lied on. mamma :
lint it lived, and you, aye, sobbed on.
But O, had ton been with me. mamma.
In the realms unknown to care.
And seen what 1 saw. you ne'er had cried.
Though they buried pretty Jane in tie g-ave when she
dUd;
Far shining with the blest, and adorned like a bride.
My sister Jane was there, mamma :
Sweet tister Jane was there.
Do you mind of the silly o'd mar, mamma,
W ho came lately to our d< or;
When the night was dark, snd the tempest loud ?
O. his heart was meek, but his soul was proud.
And his ragged old man le served for his shroud.
Ere the midnight watch was o'er, mamma:
Ire the midnight watch waa o'er.
And think what a weight of woe. mamma.
Made heavy each h og-drawn a'gh:
As the good man ret upon i-apa's old chair,
W hile the ram drip'd down fn m his thin gray hai ,
As fast as the big tear of speechless care. ‘
Kan down fr> in his glazing ey e. mamma;
Kan down from bis glazing eye.
And think what a hear, award look, mamma.
Flashed through each trembling tear,
A* he told how be went to the Baron’s stronghold.
Saving. “ O let me in, for the night Is cold.”
But the rich mas cried. “ Uo,sleep on the world.
For we shield no ia-gcars here, old man ;
For we shield ao beggars here 7“
Well, he was in glory too. mamma.
As happy as the blest can te ;
He needed no alms in the mansion of l'ght.
For be mixed with the Patriarchs, clothed tn white.
And there was not a seraph had a crown more bright.
Or a costlier robe than be, mamma ;
Or a cuetiier robe than Le.
Now slug, for 1 fain would sleep, tuaiuma.
And dreim a* I diermeti Isrore;
For sound waa slumber, and sweat was my rest.
While my spirit in the kingdr tn of light was a guest.
And the heart that has throbbed ia the dimes ol the blest.
Can love this wo; Id ao mine, mamma ;
Can love this world ao more.
Living Beyond One's Meant.
The following article, though taken
from the “money column” of the Inde
pendent, contains just as good morality
And sound religion, as if il had appeared
under the editorial head :
We have once or twice, recently, al
luded to a practice prevalent among bu
siness men, of living beyond their means
—and thus bringing upon themselves a
failure which was no fault of their mode
of business, but only of their manner of
living. It is not safe to look only at a
man's store to know his standing in bu
siness ; you must look also at his house.
His splendid profits may entirely merge
themselves in his splendid dwelling; so
that if he should suddenly fail, his assets
would be found to consist chiefly of car
ets, mirrors, frescoes, pictures, marbles,
t irniture, and a variety of similar arti
-1 ‘ es i all belonging to the inside of a
brown stone front.” Now, if what is
[ Oared into the top of a pitcher runs out
through a hole in the bottom, it will take
continual pourftig.to keep it full; a sud
n stoppage will leave it empty and
‘try. \S e need hardly say that it takes
1 business to support a fine house;
J 1 when the fine house takes the busi-
e *s to its utmost, a small reverse, which
‘Wi.-e a man would hardly have felt,
, } occasion his ruin. The foun
*tlon “* a 1111111 fortune is laid on two
stones—one in his store, the oth
r 111 his house. If he builds too heavi- *
- on either of these, he will have the
wh u r °L^ < * own on bum Many a man
has been known as the ‘‘architect of
his own fortune,” has built unwisely on
one or the other of these foundations,
and has at last been surprised with a
worse fall than the tumbling of the State
Arsenal.
It is true, the line of difference between
living within one's means and living be
yond them, may sometimes be difficult to
draw, so as to give the greatest proper
limit to free expenditure. For instance,
a inan may be able to keep a horse and
buggy, and live within his means, who,
if he were to keep two horses and a car
riage, would be living beyond them A
man may keep a fine honse in the city,
and be able to afford it, who, as soon as
he builds another in the country, is go
ing farther than his money will follow.
A man may give an ice cream party, and
not feel it, who, when he gives a fancy
dress ball, will suffer for a month after- j
wards. A man may p-ck his teeth on
the steps of the St. Nicholas, and be liv
ing frugally within his means, who, if he
were once to pay for his dinner at the
hotel, would not have a cent left for his
supper! When a man is conscious that
he is straining a point for a splendid
house, or a fast horse, or a grand soiree,
or an extravagant table, he may be sure
that he is the man who is “living beyond
his means! ’
The temptations to such extravagance,
in such a city as this, are very great. In
this respect, the improved architectural
taste exhibited in our modern dwelling
houses has exerted a favorable and also
an unfavorable influence on the commun
ity—favorable, so far as the progress of
art and the culture of the people are con
cerned ; but unfavorable, in having in
cited a desire for ambitious display, in
which men seek to indulge themselves
beyond their means. What would have
been called an elegant residence twenty
years ago, is now regarded as a mere
common three story house. Compare
old aristocratic Bleeker street with new
aristocratic Fifth avenue! The best
bouses in Bleeeker street —which were
the finest that our fathers or elder broth- j
ers thought ot building—are now mere
respectable brick fronts—nothing more!
But the least pretentious houses in
Fifth avenue are solid brown stone, or
solid white marble—nothing less ! This
change is, on the whole, an improvement
in the increased beauty of the city, yet
it cannot be denied that the rage for lux
urious yet ostentatious living, incited and
fostered by the introduction of this new
element into our private architecture,has
never before been so great as now ! In
fact, nine out of every ten opinions giv
en, in accounting for the late commercial
crisis, alleged this general extravagance
as the cause of the revulsion. When
one-third of the merchants of a great
city hang one-third of their fortunes upon
the lace mantles of their wives, merely
to make a glitter by gas light at a grand
soiree, it is not at all surprising that the
ghost of a mercantile crisis should be
seen stalking behind the guests after they
leave in the dead hours of night! The
expense of a well dressed wife or daugh
ter, in the simple article of jewelry, for
a single evening, is oftentimes as much
as would have originally bought the en
tire island of Manhattan, before the
times of Peter Stuyvesant! When the
“ little bills ” for these trifles are sent in
and paid, the crisis may be imagined as
bringing up the rear, like Banquo’s
ghost !
We write a true epitaph when we say
that many a man's failure has resulted
not from losses in his business, but from
losses to which he is blind, because they
are hidden in parlor carpets, enamelled
furn : ture and gilded cornices, or in pearl
necklaces, topaz brooches and diamond
rings!
Simplicity of Faith.
All men are born with faith. Faith is
as natural to a man as grief, or love, or
anger; one of the earliest flowers that
spring up in the soul; it smiles on a
mother from her infant's cradle ; and liv
ing on through the rudest storms of life,
it never dies till the hour of death. On
the face of a child which has been left
for a little time with strangers, and may
be caressed with their kisses, and court
ed with their smiles, and fondled and
dandled in their arms. 1 have seen a
cloud gathering and growing darker till
at length it burst in cries of terror and
a shower of tears. The mother returns;
and when the babe holds out its little
arms to her, I see in those the arms of
faith ; and when, like a believer restored
to the bosom of his God. it is nestled in
its mother’s embrace, and the cloud
passes from its brow, and its tears are
changed into smiles, and its terror into
mild serenity, we behold the principle of
faith in play. Ibis is one of the earliest
at and —so far as nature is concerned—one
of its most beautiful developments.
So natural, indeed, is it for us to con
clude, and trust, and believe, that a child
believes u hatever It is told, until expe
rience shakes its confidence in human ve
racity. Its eye is caught by she beauty
of some flower, or it gazes up with won
der on the starry heavens, and with that
inqusitiveness, which in childhood, active
as a bee, is ever on the wirg, it is curi
ous to know who made them, and would
believe you if you said you made them
yourself. Such is the faith which nature
gives it in a father, that it never doubts
his word. It believes all he says, and is
content to believe where it cannot com
prehend. Foi this, as well as others re
sons, our laord presented, in a child, the
living models of a Christian. He left
Abraham, father of the faithful, to his
repose in Heaven ; he left Samuel, un
disturbed, to enjoy the quiet rest of his
grave; he allowed Moses and Elias, af
ter their brief visit, to return to the
skies, and wing their way back to glory.
For a pattern of faith he took a boy
from his mother’s side, and setting him
up, in his gentie, blushing, shrinking
modesty, before the great assembly, he
said, “ Whosoever shal“ not receive the
kingdom of God as a little child, shall in
no wise enter therein.”
The Obator. Quarterly — Edited by D.
T. Styles. April. A sprightly miscellane
ous magazine, published at Buffalo, N. Y.,
apparently mostly of selections, which are
well chosen, vigorous passages from the ora
tions of Everett, Curtis, Banks, Beecher,
and others, figuring by the poetry of Poe.
W e notice several racy ballads with a quaint
popular flavor. Here is something in the
humorous old spelling-book style :
THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.
A district school, not far away,
’Mid Berkshire hills, one winter day
M as humming with its wonted noise
Os three score mingled girls and boys;
Some few upon their tasks intent,
But more on furtive mischief bent.
The while the master’s downward look
Was fastened on a copy-book,
Rose sharp and clear, behind his back,
A rustling, rousing, cracking smack,
As ’twere a battery of bliss
Let oft” in one tremendous kiss!
“What's that ?” the startled master cries.
“That, thir,” a little imp replies,
“Wath William Willith, if you pleathe,
I thaw him kith Thuthannah Penthe!”
With frown to make a statue thrill,
The master thundered “Hither, Willi”
Like a wretch taken in his track,
With stolen chattels on his back,
W ill to the awful presence came—
A great, green, bashful simpleton,
The butt of nil good-natured fun.
With smile suppressed and birch upraised,
The threatener faltered, “ I'm amazed
That you, my biggest pupil, should
Be guilty of an act so rude !
Before the whole set school, to boot,
What evil genius put you to ’t ?”
“’T was she herself, sir!” sobbed the lad;
“I did not mean to be so bad ;
But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered I was ’fraid of girls,
And dursent kiss a baby’s doll,
I couldn’t stand it, Sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot.
1 know—boo, hoo—l ought to not;
But somehow, from her looks —boo, hoo,
I thought she kind o’ wished me to!”
The Land Beyond the Mountains.
The little child was dying. 11 is wea
ry limbs were racked by pain no more.
The flush was fading from his thin cheeks,
and the fever that had been for weeks
drying up his blood, was now cooling
rapidly under the touch of the icy hand
that was upon him.
There were sounds and tokens of bit
ter but suppressed grief in that dim
chamber, for the dying boy was one very
dear to many hearts.
They knew that he was departing, and
the thought was hard to bear; but they
tried to command their feelings that they
might not disturb the last moments of
their darling.
The father and mother, and the kind
physician, stood beside dear Eddy’s bed,
and watched his heavy breathing. He
had been silent for some time, and ap
peared to sleep. They thought it might
be thus that he would pass away ; but
suddenly his blue eyes opened wide and
clear, and a beautiful smile broke over
his features. He looked upward and
forward first, then turning his eyes upon
his mother’s face, said in sweet voice,
“ Mother, w hat is the name of the beau
tiful country that 1 see beyond the moun
tains—the high mountains 1”
“ I can see nothing, my child,” said the
mother; “there are no mountains in sight
of our house.”
“ Look there , dear mother,” said the
child, pointing upwards, “yonder are the
mountains. Can you not see them now ?”
he asked in tones of the greatest aston
ishment, as his mother shook her head.
“ They are near me now —so large and
high, and behind them the country looks
so beautiful, and the people are so happy
— there are no sick children there. Papa,
can you not see beyond the mountains?
Tell me the name of that land.”
The parents glanced at each other and
with united voice replied, “The land you
see is heaven, is it not, my child ?”
“ Yes, it is heaven. I thought that
must be its name. O, let me go —but
how shall I cross those mountains? Fa
ther, will you not carry me ? take
me in your arms and carry me, for they
0 11 me from the .other side, and I
must go.”
There was not a dry eye in that cham
ber, and upon every heart there fell a
solemn awe, as if tlt cur ain which con
cealed its mysteries was about to be
withdrawn.
“ My son,” said the father, “will you
stay with us a little while longer? You
shall cross the mountains soon, but in
stronger arms than mine. Wait—stay
with y our mother a little longer; see how
she weeps at the thought of losing you.”
“ O, mother—O, father—do not cry,
but come with me, and cross the moun
tains —O come!” and thus he entreated
with a strength and earnestness which
astonished all.
The chamber was filled with wonder
ing and awe stricken friends. At length
he turned to his mother, with a face
beaming with rapturous delight, and
stretching out his little arms for a last
embrace, he cried, “ Good by, mother, I
am going; but don’t you be afraid— the
strong man has come to carry me over the
mountains.”
These were his parting words; upon
his mother's breast he breathed his last,
and they laid the little fair baby down
again upon the pillows, and closed the
lids over the beautiful blue eyes, over
which the mists of death had gathered
heavily, and bowing by the bed-side, they
prayed with submissive, though bleeding
hearts, and said, “ The Lord gave, and
the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be
the name of the Lord.”— Exchange.
Dr. Emmons’ advice to young preachers
was not to preach over thirty minutes, say
ing “there are no conversions after the first
half hour.” Wesley held the same opinion
and said in one of his letters, “if any
of the preachers then exce*d their time,
(about an hour in the whole service,) I hope
you will always put them in mind what is
the Methodist rule. People imagine that
the longer the sermon is the more good it
will do. This is a grand mistake. The help
done on earth God doeth himself: and he
does not heed that we should use many
words.”
It may be a question not easy to decide,
whether an individual, entitled to no sort
of respect, has a right to respect himself.
MACOX, GA.% FRIDAY, MAY 6, 1859.
JUDGE EDMONDS ON SPIRITUALISM.
NUMBER TWO.
MEDIUMSHIP.
To the Editor of the N. Y. Tribune:
Sir : I shall devote this and the next
paper to Mediumship and the Circles—
the chief instrumentalities of spiritual
intercourse. And I remark—
Fir?t—That the manifestation of the
spirit power seems to be generally con
'’ nected with the living human form. 1
say generally, because there seem to be
some cases where the phenomena do not
require or are not connected solely with
the person. Haunted houses are of that
kind. So are cases of inanimate objects
i moving in the absence of any person.—
Atid the brute creation are sometimes
affected. The devils’ entering the herd
of swine, and Balaam’s ass seeing the
angel before his rider did, are instances
of this. So 1 am informed of a case,
where a fierce watch dog saw a spirit at
the same moment his master did, and fled
affrighted. And in the “ Seeress of Pio
vost,” it is said—“ A black terrier that
was in the house was always aware of
the presence of the spirit, and crept
howling to his master; neither would he
lie alone at night.”
These, however, are exceptions to the
rule that the living hnman form is neces
sary to the intercourse.
Second—The existence of the medi
umistic power is the result of physical
rather than of mental or moral organiza
tion.
AV hat that peculiarily of organism is,
1 confess Ido not know. lat one time
thought the power was connected with a
nervous, excitable temperament; but 1
have seen it just as strong in a stupid,
stolid person. It does not depend upon
age, nor upon sex, nor upon color; not
upon climate or locality, nor upon con
dition ; for rich and poor, high and low,
educated and ignorant, married and sin
gle, male and female, young and old,
white and black, are alike developed as
mediums.
And my marvel is that men of science,
instead of acting like second children, do
not look into it like men of sense, and
find out what it is that is thus stiangely
affecting all classes. Surely, it may as
well be discovered as many other things
connected with man, which were once as
profound mysteries as this is. Its exist
ence in our midst cannot be ignored any
longer, nor will thinking people be much
longer satisfied with general denuncia
tions of its delusive or demoniacal na
ture. And science owes it to mankind
to meet the question, not with self-com
placent sneers—
The Atheist’s laugh’s a poor exchange
For Deity ott'ended—
but with careful, judicious investigation.
In France, it meets with such sensible
treatment. But among the savans of
America, with the exception of Prof.
Hare and Prof. Mapes, it is received as
the appearance of a comet was in the
days of my childhood among frightened
boys, with anything but philosophic
calmness.
Third—Mediumship is capable of be
ing improved by culture.
I have known physical mediumship to
begin with faint and almost inaudible
rappings, and end with loud, clear and
distinct sounds; to begin with a slight
motion of a table, and, after awhile, find
itself amid a riotous movement of inani
mate objects. 1 have known the mental
kind to begin with writing mere “ pot
hooks and hangers,” and unmeaning char
acters, and ere long to write with ease
and distinctness ; to begin with seeing a
faint, shadowy form, and end with so dis
tinct a vision of the spirit as to be able
to identify the person ; to begin with a
confused perception of something to be
communicated, and progress to the point
of receiving thought clearly and distinct
ly from this unseen intelligence.
It seems to be like other of our attri
butes—like our power to read, write or
cypher—to paint or make music—be
longing to us as part of our nature, and
capable of being made available by cul
ture.
1 found it so in my own case. The
first signs of mediumship in me came
when I was alone in my library, and in
the form of an impression on my mind.
It might be called imagination, for it was
very like the process of building castles
in the air, and > e f >1 different. It
was presenting to my consciousness an
acting, continuing scene, with a lesson
told by the totality of the incidents. —
The process was novel to me, and I
watched it with a good deal of interest.
I discovered that 1 had nothing to do
with it, but to be a passive recipient of a
train of thuught, imparted to me from a
source outside of, or beyond myself;
that is, the thoughts did not originate in
my intelligence.
My next step was to behold a scene
presented to my vision like a moving
panorama, and not merely a mental im
pression. I seemed to see, though I
know I did not see with my usual organs
of sight. And It was remarkable that
the intelligence that was dealing with me,
presented the picture more or less rap
idly, as it and scwvered I had taken in its
details ; ai.d going through with it once
thus deliberately, it presented it to me a
second time, but more rapidly, evidently
for the purpose of so impressing it on
my memory that I could narrate it.
My next step was to see an individual
spirit, that of an old friend who had
been dead six or eight years. 1 was in
my room at work, not thinking of him,
and suddenly 1 saw him sitting by my
side, near enough for me to touch him.
[ perceived that I could exchange
thoughts with him, for, in answer to my
question, he told me why he had come.
Next, I beheld spirit scenes, which I
was told were the actual, living realities
of the spii it-world, scenes in which indi
viduals and numbers were moving, act
ing, thinking, as we do in this life, and
couveying to me a vivid idea ot life in
the next stage of existence.
During all these steps of progress, I
could converse with the spirits whom I
saw, as easily as I could talk with any
living mortal, and i held discussions and
arguments with them as 1 have with mor
tals.
My daughter, who had long resisted
the belief, one day requested to witness
a manifestation, and 1 sought an inter
| view with her mother, in order to bring
it about advantageously. The spirit
| eame to me, and 1 communed with her
for hal*f an hour. We reasoned together
as in life, discussed various suggestions,
and concerted a plan.
It will hardly do to say this was im
agination in me; for the plan thus con
certed was, after the lapse of a few
weeks, carried out without my interven
tion. A female, a stranger to both
mother and daughter, was brought to my
house from a distant city, and through
her, when entranced and unconscious,
was finished to my daughter the parting
injunction of her mother, which death
had interrupted two years before.
Nor will it do to say this was a mere
reflex of the minds of the living, for my
daughter alone knew of the injunction
which had been given, and knew not the
conclusion until she thus heard it.
Thus has my mediumship progressed
from a shadowy impression of an alle
gory, to seeing spirits, conversing with
them, and receiving thoughts from them
with ease and distinctness. Why may
not this be equally true of every one?
Fourth—Mediumship has an infinite
variety of phase—the same that is wit
nessed in human character and human
action, and absolutely precluding the
idea of collusion.
Fifth—lt comes at its pleasure, and
not ours. By observing the proper con
ditions, we may aid its coming. So we
may surround out selves with circum
stances w hich will retard or prevent its
coming ; but we cannot make it come at
our pleasure. There is no greater anom
aly connected with the subject than the
extent and manner of our control over
it, and no part of it where improvement
by culture can be greater. This control
seems to belong to man as part of his
nature, and can be so acquired by him
as entirely to forestall any power to do
harm.
Sixth—Wherever it appears, In what
ever part of the world, it has the same
general characteristics. Thus, among
the slaves at the South, I learn that it
comes in the same form as among the
free at the North. 1 have been told by
a missionary in San Domingo, that such
was its appearance among the ignorant
negroes there. A French gentleman,
who had beeu in Algeria, described to
ine the same thing among the Arabs. —
Two Spaniards, who had never heard of
the phenomena, found it obscurely in Ca
diz with the same features. An English
gentleman came to my house out of curi
osity, and, hearing it described, exclaim
ed that it was the same thing which had
occurred at his father’s country mansion
years ago, but they did not know w hat
it was.
This accordance in feature every
where, is a pretty formidable argument
against the theory of collusion and delu
sion.
Seventh—Though I have said that it
depends mainly on physical organization,
1 must not be understood as implying
that mental or moral causes do not affect
it. 1 know of no kind of mediumship
that is entirely exempt from the effect of
the human mind, and I know many cases
where, the power being abused, it has
been interrupted. The most frequent
cause of interruption, is the perversion
of it to selfish purposes. One medium,
I knew, who became grasping, avari
cious, in spite of warnings. His power
was suspended until he reformed. A
young girl, taken from the streets as a
rag-picker, with great powers, was used
by an old woman to make money out of.
Not only was the child taken from her,
but the power taken from the child.—
When it is necessary tor my daughter to
rest from her labors’ the power is tem
porarily suspended.
But it is not always that it will be
stopped at our pleasure. When the de
sire to stop it is purely selfish, they will
often pay no attention to it. I know a
case w here a female, afraid that her busi
ness might be hurt, refused to be used.
She was followed by the manifestations j
until she yielded, and then all wa-, well.
My daughter and niece long resisted the
belief, and for a whole year my house
was haunted with noises and other per
formances until they yielded, and then it
stopped. If they omitted their evening
devotions on going to bed, they would
be disturbed until they said their pray
ers, and then all would be quiet.
1 could enumerate many kindred in
stances, but my space compels me to be
| content with saying, as the result of my
experience, that where the power is
> yielded to and used with good sense and
I from pure motives, it seldom hurts, but
is generally productive of good; but
when perverted to selfish purposes, it
will, first or last, be interrupted, or bring
punishment in its train, and sometimes
both.
Eighth—Mediumship very frequently
| changes in the same person in its form
of manifestation, and this is not at the
option of the instrument. I know one
who, at first, was a medium for rapping,
table-tipping, and the like; then she
wrote mechanically thoughts not her
own; then she spoke in many tongues;
then she sang and played words and mu
sic unknown to her; then she person
ated the departed ; then saw spirits; then
spoke by impression ; then was clairvoy
ant, seeing earthly distant objects; then
she prophecied; and then communed
freely with the dead, and conveyed their
messages of affection and instruction to
their surviving friends.
Ninth —1 have observed that though
ill health will not always prevent, yet a ,
sound state of health is most favorable
to the manifestation, and the health will
never be injured when the power is dis
creetly used. Over-indulgences in it, as j
in other things, will be injurious. ‘
And finally, (for want of space com
pels me to stop,) 1 have observed that,
in every form which mediumship has as
sumed, there has ever been manifest one
great oeject in view—steadily aimed at
throughout—and that was to open a com
munication between mortals and the’ in
visible world; and to that end intelli
gence displaying ever itself, and forcing
upon the rational mind this most impor
tant inquiry, Whence comes this intelli
gence / J. W. Edmonds.
New York, April 2, 1859.
Speaking Gently of the Erring.
[At any time the following lines by a
British fellow-journalist, in whose friend
ship we rejoice, would be worth re-printing,
but just now they have, we take it, an apt
significance.]—A r . F. News.
Speak gently to the erring—
Ye know not all the power
With which the dark temptation eame,
In some unguarded hour:
Ye may not know how earnestly
They struggled, or how well,
Until the hour of weakness came,
And sadly thus they fell !
Speak gently of the erring—
Oh ! do not thou forget,
However darkly stained by sin,
He is thy brother yet.
Heir of the self-same heritage,
Child of the self-same God,
He hath hut stumbled in the path
Thou hast in weakness trial.
Speak kindly to the erring—
For is it not enough
That innocence and peace are gone,
Without thy censure rough/
It surely is a weary lot,
That sin-crushed heart to hear;
And they who share a happier fate,
Their chiding well may spare.
Speak kindly to the erring—
Thou may’st lead them hack,
With holy words, and tones of love,
From Misery’s thorny track:
Forget not thou hast often sinned,
And sinful yet must he;
Deal kindly with the erring one,
As God hath dealt with thee!
F. G. L.
TRUTH.
BY S. E. LYNDE.
Tell me not ’tis all delusion,
These impressions of my soul.
For they point me ever truly
On to Heaven’s fairest goal.
And they tell me I must ever
Live devotedly and pure,
Serving God with all my powers—
Thus my heaven to secure.
And I listen to these voices
Coming from the life above,
Telling of the Father’s mercy,
Fraught with wisdom, truth and love.
Tell me not, then, all’s delusion—
That the spirits, bright and dear,
Never linger round our pathway
While we’re dwellers in earth's sphere.
Os their presence we are conscious,
Mingling in the scenes below;
And to mortals who receive them
They will give the truth they know.
Welcome, then, where'er it comoth,
Truth, by man or spirit given ;
This is what our souls are seeking,
Truth, that points us on to Heaven.
—Banner of Light.
From the Family Journal.
WHY I AM A BACHELOR.
BY ONE OF THE SMITH FAMILY.
My name is John Smith —John Smith.
1 am sixty years of age next birth day, and
unmarried. I have been in love, however —
hopelessly in love—and yet I am a bachelor.
Why I am so, I have now to tell.
During my young days, I had no time to
think of the other sex. I determined I would |
make my fortune first, and see about a wife j
afterwards. I worked and strove, accumula- j
ted and denied myself the mo3t harmless j
pleasures that cost money, yet I did not get I
rich as fast as I expected, and I had reached
forty years of age before I thought I was
justified io looking about me for a wife.
When that time came, I set about ray task
earnestly. lam a business man and always
go to work systematically. In the first
place, I looked all through my acquaintances
and friends. They were not numerous, and
I soon found there were no young ladies
amongst them who would suit me.
The.i I tried the boarding house scheme,
by which I mean, I advertised for bjard—
and answered all the replies in person.
Whenever I saw any girls in a house, there
I took board—but none of them would suit
me. At last I received an answer to my
advertisement from a widow lady with one
daughter. I called at the house and was
ushered into an elegantly furnished parlor
where a young lady was seated playiDg the
piano. In spite of Shakspeare’s denunciation
’ of a man who has no music in Lis soul, I
never had any music in mine. I don’t know
Yankee Doodle from Oldllundred—and yet,
strange to say. the music sounded quite pret
ty as it triokeled from her fingers. She did
not hear me enter, so continued to play. I
listened for some minutes, and then coughed
gently. She turned her head, and with a
blush rose from her seat. I think I had
never seen so beautiful a girl before. She
was not more than eighteen years of age —
tall and graceful—her lorm beautifully roun
ded—dark auburn hair, which hung in nat
ural ringlets on a swan-like neck. In short,
the moment I saw her I performed the imag
inary pantomime of slapping my trowsers
pocket, ana exclaimed mentally, “Here’s a
girl for my money.”
“Did you want to see my mother ?” asked
the lovely creature in a musical voice.
“Have I the pleasure of speaking to Miss
Clarkson ? ’ I asked.
“Yes Sir.”
“I have called, madam, in reference to a
note I received—l believe from your moth
er—stating that you wished to take a s.ngle
gentleman to hoard with you.”
“Yes, sir; I will call my mother.”
And the fairy bounded out of the room.
In a minute or two afterwards, the moth
er entered the room. If the daughter was
pretty, the widow was decidedly ugly. She
was past forty, thin, scraggy, wore false
teeth and false hair. When I looked at her
I almost felt tempted to leave the house —
but then I gazed at the daughter, and de
termined to remain. The preliminaries were
soon arranged, and the next day I took up
my abode under the roof of Widow Clark
son.
I soon felt quite at home, and determined
to nnke myself as agreeable as possible. I
was polite to the mother,tender to thedaugh-
I ter, and evidently pleased the old woman,
1 for I ate but little. Our evenings were very
pleasant —a young friend of the family used
to drop in occasionally, and we played whist.
; The young man was a cousin to the family
j —a rather pleasant young fellow, and the
1 time paesed very agreeably away. :
In the meantime I prosecuted my suit
earnestly. I have always held it as an axi
om, that if you want to succeed with the
young branches of a family, you must pay
attention to the head—there is nothing like
nrocuring a “friend at court.” This plan I
followed. I was very polite to Mrs.C'.arkson;
I waited on her at table; I escorted her
to the theater and opera,and read to her Cobb's
last. I got on finely. I soon saw that she
was very partial to me. In the mean
time I did not neglect my suit with the
object of my affections. I gazed on her
tenderly ; 1 pressed her hand whenever I had
an opportunity, and believed that I had made
corsideratli impression on her young heart
Things went on this way for more than
two months, when I thought high time that
I should bring matters to a crisis.
One evening I entered the sitting room
and found the charming gitl alone. The
cousin had not yet come, although he now
visited the house every night. This was too
good an opportunity to be lost.
“Miss Clarkson,” said I, approaching her,
“I wish to have a little conversation with
you.”
“I think I can guess what it is about,”
said she, as she smiled archly.
“You encourage me,” I replied, glad to
find that my attentions had not been thrown
away, and auguring the best results of this
cordial reception. “You think you know
my errand then.”
“Yes, indeed; vour attentions are too
pointed to be mistaken.”
“I am gratified to find you discerning—”
and I took her hand —“and now, dear Char
lotte, allow me to call you, since you have
penetrated my secret, I only want your con
sent to make me a happy man.’’
me set your mind at rest then, sir—
I have no objection whatever.”
I was rather surprised that she consented
so readily. I think I should have taken it
better if she had been a little more coy in
the matter.
“Dear girl!” I exclaimed, and claiming a
lover’s privilege, kissed her cheek. She did
not make the slightest opposition.
“You consent, then,” I exclaimed, “that I
shall be your protector through life? ’
“You are very kind, sir,” returned the
fair girl; “as I said before, I have no objec
tion.”
I thought she was very cold in her language,
but I put it down to maidenly modesty.
“Charlotte, your consent has made me
the happiest of men ; when shall the cere
mony take place ?”
“Don’t you think mamma had better an
swer the question ? You had better con- 1
suit her upon that matter.”
“True my dear child, I admire your deli
cacy—l run to her on the wings of love—
oh, what a happy man you have made me 1”
“I am sure, Sir, I am very glad it was in
my power to give you pleasure—l do not
think you had any reason to doubt my con
currence in your wishes.”
“There is no reading the human heart you
know—l thought perhaps the difference in
our ages —”
“What do two or three years signify?”
replied my darling, smiling.
“Dear girl, how kind ot’ you to say that,”
I returned, charmed with her delicacy in
considering twenty-two years only as two
cr three years. “But I will go to your
mamma at once; adieu, darling for a few
minutes.”
So saying, I hurried from the room. I
sent up a messsge to Mrs. Clarkson, that I
wished to see her in the dining room. In I
about a quarter of an hour she came down
stairs, dressed in a most gorgeous manner,
but in spite of her toilet, I could not help
remarking that she looked thinner and scrag
gier than ever.-
“Mrs. Clirkson,” I commenced, making a
most profound bow. “I wish to talk with
you on a very important matter— one which
nearly concerns my happiness.”
“ I shall be pleased to hear what you have
to say,sir,’’ replied the widow, taking a seat
on the sofa by my side.
“Dear Mrs. Clarkson,” I began, for I
thought it best to sooth her down. “I have
now been an inmate of your house for two
months. I need not dwell on the happiness
I have enjoyed in yotir charming society.—
Your charming daughter and yourself have
conspired to make me the happiest of mor
tals. Your own natural acuteness must have
long ago detected that ray heart is involved.
Ye?, my dear madam, I could not gaze on
that lovely form without being sensible that
this house contains a prize of the most peer
less worth. I have even dared to hope that
I may claim that prize as my own, and now
only await your consent.”
“Ileal’y, sir,” stammered the widow, glanc
ing on the carpet, “this confession has taken
me unwares; Ido not know if mv daugh
ter would like ”
“Make your mind easy on that score, nty
dear Mrs. ClarksoD. T have seen your daugh
ter, and have gained her consent to our mar
riage.”
“Thoughtful man!” exclaimed the widow.
I thought this was a strange reply to
make, but knew the mother was little eccen
tric, and put it down to that score.
“Now, my dear madam,” I exclaimed, “I
only wait for your answer. Will you con
sent to make me the happiest man in the
United States?”
“Really, sir, this is so unexpected. You
take me so much by surprise, I scarcely
know what reply to make. lam a poor
; lone widow, Mr. Smith. My dear, depar
ted husband was a kind husband to me.—
Respect for his memory ”
“My dear madam,” I interrupted, “I am
sure if the late Mr. Clarkson is looking down
from heaven this moment, he would give his
consent. lam rich, madam; you shall have
a house worthy of your kind heart”
“My dear John, I can resist no longer,”
and the widow deposited her head of false
hair on my heart.
I did not expect this demonstration, and
gently removed her head. Nor did I at
first understand her calling me John—but
then I thought as I was soon to be her son
; in-law, that she was addressing me filially.
“Johr,” she exclaimed, “dear John, I will
I confess the truth. I do love you.
“You love me!”
“Yes, dear John, your entreaties have pre
vailed. I cons< q". to be your wile ’ —and I
■ felt her scraggy arm passed around my neck,
while she hugged my face against her hard
cheek bones.
“Madam,” I exclaimed, “release me—l
hear a step.”
“No, dear John. I cannot release you.
.Are you not soon to become my own dear
husband ?”
And she hugged me agaiD. harder than
before. At that moment the door opened,
and the cousin and Miss Clarkson entered
the room. When they saw our loving atti
tude, they retired, laughing. . |
“Madam, there’s a mistake,” I exclaimed.
“I do not wish to mary you, but your daug
ter.”
“What, sir 1” exclaimed the ogress, releas
ing her hold. “What do you tell me. you
bold bad man? Is this the way you trifle
with a lone widow’s feelings? You know
NUMBER 6.
as well as I do, that my daughter is to be
married to her cousin next week. And
you dare to iosult me in this manner—if
there’s any justice in the land, sir, I will
have it.”
So saying, she bounded out of the room.
I received notice to quit that day —and
three days afterward an action for breach of
1 promise of marriage was commenced against
me. It was in vain my counsel tried to ex
plain the mistake. The evidence was too
strong against me, ard T was compelled to
pay five thousand dollars damages.
Since that day I have become a misanthro
pist. I hate both men and women—but
especially the latter.
The reader knows why I am a bachelor.
A Hint to Mammas.
How to make a Child take Cod Liver
Oil. —The Paris correspondent of the
New York Express tells the following
I storv:
“ Everybody knows how repugnant to
the taste is cod liver oil in any disguise
whatever. Its excellent qualities as a
medicament are equally undeniable, ar.d
grown people therefore manage to swal
low it when the doctor so ordains. But
who has ever contrived to get a child to
take a second dose of cod liver oil ? I
dare be sworn that such a prodigy of ad
dress never was accomplished until Mad
ame D., a Parisian mother, set the exam
ple. Madame D. has a son six years
old who is the incarnation of caprice and
self will, like many another spoiled child.
The family physician some time ago or
dered a table spoonful of cod liver to be
administered to the boy every evening.
The mother knew that if he swallowed
the nauseous extract once, it would be
for once only, unless force was em
ployed, and this means she was loth
to adopt. So Madame D., knowing
thoroughly the weak point of her son’s
character, hit upon an ingenious plan to
overcome the difficulty.
The family, consisting of five or six
persons, spend the evenings at home.—
The mother, in the child’s presence, de
| scribed in glowing terms a syrup from
the East, of which the Saltan and his fa
vorites are so fund that little could be ob
tained for exportation until lately. Even
now none but grown persons can sip this
marvellous elixir, whose virtues are
written in no language but Latin. Chil
dren have never been allowed to taste it
any more than they are permitted to
drink champagne, smoke cheroots, sit up
until midnight, wear boots, go to the
clubs, vote at elections, carry an eye
glass, talk politics, or do other things
which men only do. To taste this fa
mous syrup was declared even superior
to these exclusive privileges.
After all this had been carefully said a
dozen times, little Pitcher’s ears being
very wide open, tea was served, and with
it a bottle of delicious syrup in question,
which everybody—the grown up people
—tasted and pronounced exquisite—su
perb ! An uncle, who knew his part by
heart, smacked his lips, and begged for
; more. Between you and I, the beverage
was nothing but apple syrup. After all
had been served twice, the bottle was
carefully locked in the sideboard.
The same performance was solemnly
repeated for several evenings. At last
the child, who had not lost a joint of
what had occurred, and deeply mortified
to think that his youth stood between
him and the delightful syrup, ventured to
ask his mother to let him taste it —only a
spoonful.
“Is it possible that you can think of
such a thing!” exclaimed Madame D.,
“ Oh, dear, no! If it were known that
you drank Sultan’s syrup, no one would
consider you a little boy any longer, and
p ople would be asking you the time of
day, or the price of stocks !’’
All this, of course, only tended to in
crease the child’s curiosity; and the next
day, his mother appearing to yield to his
entreaties, promised that perhaps a spoon
ful might be given to him that evening.
On this occasion twin bottles were
brought forth, and while the comedians
each took a small glass of apple syrup,
as before, Master Alford gulped down a
good dose of cod liver oil. And he did
it with pride and joy, too, despite its hor
rible taste; fully persuaded, as he was,
that his elders were permitting him to
imitate them. Xo one asked him how
he liked it, and after lavishing new prais
es upon the elixir, it was again carefully
put away. The next evening, the same
performance was repeated, and the next,
and the next; the child’s vanity being al
ways excited to the requisite point. And
so well did Madame L>. and her accom
plices play out the comedy, that to this
day, whenever little Alfred is willful or
disobedient, or lazy, or obstinate, or
fretful, all his mother need say is, “if
you are not a good boy, you shall have
no syrup to-night.” And the menace
works like a charm !
A Citixese Hell.—A correspondent of
the Baltimore American describes a repre
sentation of the punishment of the wicked
after death according to the Budhist theolo
gy, which he witnessed in the suburbs of
Canton.
“ After a walk of about an hour we came
to the “ Temple of Horrors.” This is a hor
rible place—that is, the scenes are hideous.
The intention is to represent what a had
man will suffer after death. It is composed
of ten different groups of statuary, made of
clny, and many of them are tumbling to
pieces. The first group represents the trial
; of the man; he is surrounded by his family
and friends, who are trying to defend him;
the second, where he is condemned and giv
en over to the executioner; in the third ho
‘ undergoing a semi-transformation from
; the man to the brute: the fourth where he
is put into a mill, with his head downwards
and is being ground up; his dog is beside
the mill lieking up his blood. In the fifth
scene he is being p aced between two boards,
and is being sawed down lengthwise; sixth,
he is under a large bell, which is rung until
the concussion kills him: seventh, the man
is placed upon a table, and two men are pad
dling or spanking him with large wooden
paddles ; eighth, he is upon a rack, and the
executioners are tearing his flesh with red
hot pincers; ninth he is in a cauldron .of
boiling lend; the tenth scene represents him
upon a gridiron, undergoing the process of
roasting. In all of these scenes his family
are present; also a large figure who repre
sents the judge, executioners, little devils,
and various instruments of torture.