Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

VOLUME 10. THE GEORGIA CITIZEN , s PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY L. F. W. ANDREWS. Office — In Horne * Building, Cherry Street , Tiro Itoor* he loir Third Street. TKRBti:—#T.OO ir annum. in ndtaurr. ■ —- Afoefli M th* rffiV flaw will l* ftnr D”'l ir HtManliir i<-. i rui.- r-- . mt i, re an*l y r'tv o*l* for each suttfequeut iuwrtlon . All Ml terti-w nf not mreillrd a* t< tlm-. >l.l Nr puMialit-l until f.,rblil. axl rharcN cc<>niinfflv. A Ulntl diw-ouut allowed to th .ire who Olivetti** by the year. Li . ral uni|Mdi made wMfnaiitfOiem. Dni/zri’*''. A’icsi'.neers. Mm .ant*, and others who may wi4i to make limited coutiac'a. Pmfi wiiinil nni HndiireiCiHteiU be lueerted un’ der thir head, at the folio wine rate*, viz: p.ir Five lines, per annum $S 00 f. r -even lines, do '# j.* Tea Raea, do 10 00 No advertineinent of this ela* will tie admitted, unless paid f, r n advance, aor fr*r a tear t- no than twelve moxtha. Ad v, rt sementi ot over ten Uimm will be charged pro rain. Ad veftLwmenta not paid lor in ailvaitce will be chanted at the milar rates. Oldtuary I*lirr* f errr lea Kara, w ill be charged at thet *1 naJe*. \nii.MincumrfiU -f aiwMalw tow oice to be paid for * tbi tuHttl rates, when ffioerted. •ate* <’f l-niid and \r*rur* fcy Y&cutons Adnilnttfra ton and GttarnuH, are iyqu r*d by lw to h* ffdvevtiaed in a rMitnie gazette, forty days provosts to the day rrf ale. These : u „ must tie belli on the flrst Tueodav in the no n-h. between Ihr bouts of ten In the forenoon and three in the afternoon, it the Court hotn* in the county la which the property is situ- Min (if IVrwiaal Prttiwrly most be advertlaed in like manner, forty ilavs V.ltc- to Itehtors and t rrdltorw i's an Estate must be published forty days. Notice ‘hat application will be made to the Ordinary for leave to sell Land arid Negroes, mtist be published weekly for two months. Illations for Letters of AdminUtra ion. thirty days; for Ir.aini'-.i'ii run Adniinistnitiou. monthly, six months; for Dismixi'in from <ii.ardiansh‘p. weekly, forty days. Rules for Korecloelnrc f tlortzaan, monthly, four mouths; for estaMish;ng bit papers, for the full spare of three m r,ths; f..r coin [telling titles from executors or administra tors where a bond levs been given by the deceased, the full space of three months. 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.