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VOL. IT AIR 10.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN
. mblisued evert nun at morning jn t
L F. W. A N D R E\V S.
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TKKVI-: —(*2.00 err annum, in idianrr.
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t <ji>c hn+dred wvrd* or icxn, f.r the fir*t
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■ gii mt m t*> tiuii, * lit !** fnihliAul mil
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| Tbe | • :ir.
arrangeruetito nude with CuUiify Officers.
. ”
a* iiiiiffif BwiMwi'erdivill be Inserted un
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lines do* irmrrrrrrrrrrrrrjrrrrrr io<
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hent* iwt paid lor in mdVance wilt he charged ut the
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* ■ *n ! -late# f..r c* In 1* paid f..r a
’* Land and Vsrom, **v Fxtmrtnr*.
1 (, -<■*.. m. required l*y law to be * |u a
> ‘ tut, itiv. wrvhxu to the dar of Bale. These
1 S | the And TuaObiy in the un nth, ladween
. \,a of ten in fttrenouti and three in the aficrnoon.
~ O urt-hou* in Iktutiitj in which the property i* wtu
, a l„ „f Priwtoal I’rtiperiy mnt U- advertised iu Bke
>- in Oelrtnr* and t redtlora “f an E.-*ate uiu4 he
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. ! Land :aid Negroes unit be published weekly for
aw tM ,s f.,r Letters of AdniUdstra*l**n, thirty fcrt; for
j, -inn n*nt Administration. n**nthlv, 4x months; for
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Rule, for Korcelii. in3 of Mortaatm, n.,.nthlv. four
e . - marucatos or aduiitfuar*-
xifie * hood h t- leMti given l>y the deceased, the (till
J-.ttisc.ellrnu).
= = •=
WORTH ver*u WEALTH.
“ What an elegant girl !**
This was ihe inward exclamation of Harry
Stephen! l , as a gaily dressed young lady ,
assed by his office window, one balmy May
morning. Very gracefully was the mantilla ‘
folded ahout her pretty person, and very
gracefully and daintily her light feet pressed ;
the graveled sidewalk; yet there was an air ,
of haughtiness in the carriage of her head, ,
aaJ in the flush MJier cold blue eye?, which ;
was not quite sTpleasing to the searching
trUr.ce of the youug lawyer.
lie bad spoken truly. Helen Fowler was
au elegant girl, m laee, form and mind , but,
as often happens, that meagre word tltyant j
described her thoroughly. Underneath her
calm elegance there was nothing deeper —
nothing to be unfolded, Hower-lijce. by the
sunshine of friendship or love. Her educa
tion was elegant, not varied nor profound.—
She could speak the French language excel
lently, she could dance enchautingly, and
play gracefully all the fashionable music of
the clay. In manners she was faultless; in
conversation the quickness of her wit gen
erally concealed the shallowness of her bram.
Her brain too* shallow, and her heart, too; (
yet she was an elegant girl, and the only
laughter of the richest man in the flourish
ing village of Weston.
She had scarcely turned the corner, when
another young form appeared, and another
!:ght footstep sounded beneath Harry’s win- |
Uow. But this figure, though dressed with
neatness and grace, was not so airily robed
as that ot the heiress who had preceded her.
nur did she bear herself with such an air ot
conscious beauty. But just as she passed
ihe window she looked up. and eyes ot such
deep, rare loveliness met Harry’s earnest
iraze, that Ins book tell Irom his grasp un
heeded, an 1 he watched her retreating form
until she was out of sight.
“Hek-n Fowler is certainly an elegant
girl, he said, as he paced up and down h:s
ertice door; 44 but Agnes Bryan is something
more. Heleu is rich, proud and graceful: |
is |oor iu worldly wealth, simple in
manners, yet rich in graces of the heart and
m ellect. Helen would shine in the loftiest !
station to which I could ever attain; Agnes
w mld be a household angel to the rich mat: j
or the poor man. At which shrine shall I j
bow—that of wealth or worth if”
And leaving him to decide this rnomcn- ,
a question, we will inform the reader that ,
Henry Stephens had lately located himself
n Weston; and being now established in
business, aud able to have a home of his j
own. he was looking about him iu search of!
twite. Two only of the village girls had
yet found a favored place in his thoughts—
though, if the truth were told, a great many
were ready to smile upon him. These two, j
Helen Fowler and Agnes Bryan, he had met :
several times at the social gatherings of the I
vhiage, and he admired both. He had called j
once at the home of each, when he was j
vharmed by the animation and wit of the
one. and by the uuaft'ected sweetness of the j
otner. Both received him graciously, for in
tha eyes of both he had found favor. Though
one acknowledged tins to herself boldly, the
other felt the admiration which she would
not confess. Helen liked him because he
belonged to an aristocratic family, and pos
sessed a pleasing and polished manner; Ag- i
nes. in listening to his eloquent and varied
conversation, had discovered that there was
* chord in his soul and in here which vibra
ted to one and ihe same harmony.
Alter both graceful forms bad disappeared,
Harry suddenly remembered that he was in
vited to a social party that evening, where
he would undoubtedly meet the two who
had lately occupied so large a space in his
thoughts; lor Helen Fowler, being the belle
cl the village, was always invited, and he
knew that Mrs. Temple, w ho gave the party.
WdS a warm friend to Agnes.
44 1 will choose to-night,” said he. “whether
I dial I offer my suit at the feet of the beau
ulul heiress, or at the heart of the lowly but
’ rvely music teacher.”
At night, if Harry Stephens had been
gifted with a pair of magic spectacles, mak
ing brick walls and closed blinds transpa
rent, he might have seen Helen Fowler in
her dressing room, standing irresolute a nid
* profusion of silks, laces and jewelry, h rom
one rich robe she turned to another, saying
softly to herself:
” I wish I knew which are his favorite
colon I thought he looked admiringly at
t!.is purple satin the other evening, but the
P*le blue is more becoming. I must lock as
t'eautiful as I can to-night, for when we were
Mrs. Grey’s, bs setoaliy taiked half an
r-vur with that nobody, Agnes Bryan.’
And with the same magic glasses, Harry
®ight have seen Agues Bryan givirg the
last music lesson of the day to a stupid pu-
P<l who either could not or would not un
derstand the spirit of a simple waits, which
sac was practising, but persisted in drum
ta &g it lorth as if it were a march for the
’ field. But at last the fired pupil was
dismissed, and Agnes, weary, bat light
hearted, went to prepare for the party.
“’hen you are ready, come and read to
10 *• * httle,” said her invalid mother.
I will,'’ replied Agnes, cheerfully; “you
* l,jW it never takes me long to dress.”
,_And in a few moments she came down,
•- --ed in a delicate fresh colored muslin,
..vr dark hair falling in simple ringlets, re-
j quiring neither wreath nor gem to enhance
her quiet loveliness. “ I hope that he will
be there,” was the thought that flitted
through her mind as she took up a book and
began to read aloud.
When Harry entered Mrs. Temple’s par
lor, he found Helen already there, and look
’ ivig more brilliant than he had ever seen her
before. The glances of her bright eyes
quickly attracted birn to her, and for a whole
hour he yielded himself to the spell of her
fascinations She was beginning to think
her triumph sure, when Ha-ry, on turning
suddenly, met the clear, soft glance of Ag-
Ines Bryan’s dark eyes. He bowed smiling
ly, and by an irresistible impulse would have
’ approached, but a quick word from Helen
| chained him again.
“ Do you know Miss Bryan?” he asked,
after listening a few moments to her gay sal
. lies, which had suddenly grown stupuL
“ Miss Bryan?” she repeated. ‘‘No: I
believe she gives music lessons to my little
brother, but I have no acquaintance with
her.”
“ There is a great deal of character in her
face.” he continued.
“Indeed! Do you think so?” said the
proud beauty, with a slight, very slight lock
of scorn at the object of their conversation.
‘‘She niakev a very good music teacher, 1
am told.”
The tone and lock hail not escaped the
quick observation of Harry, and he went on
rather roguishly:
44 And do you not know that it takes qual
ities of a very high order to make a good
music teacher? There must be patience,
| quickness of perception, firmness, enthusi
asm for the art; all these are necessary re
| quirements, and all these I can discover in
Miss Bryan’s fac®. Do you not see firmness
in her well termed mouth, enthusiasm in her
large eyes— ’
“O, do not go on, Mr. Stephens!” said
Helen, interrupting him with a forced laugh,
j“lam no physiognomist. But you were
asking ine to play something, a httle while
go. I have just remembered something
which I am snre you would like.” She
seated herself at the instrument, and as her
white fingers glanced over the keys, he
j coulJ not help smiling at her jealousy of
Agnes.
In the meantime, Agnes drew near, and
’ stood a quiet listener, with the group winch
now surrounded the piano. Heleu played
with brilliancy and almost faultless grace of
execution; but Harry looked in vain for that
enthusiasm which he had predicted, in the
1 calm eyes of Agn*s Bryan. She felt what
he did not perceive until a few minutes later,
that Heleu played as well as one could, who
hal not soul enough to comprehend more
than the mechanical part of music.
“ Miss Bryan, you must favor us now,” he
said, when Helen, looking quite radiaut with
the consciousness ofttheadmiration she must
have excited, rose from the piano. Aeues
hesitated a single moment, then blushing,
seated herself at the instrument.
What a touch succeeded the rattle and
da-h of Miss Fowler’s performance! The
very fragrance of music breathed through
the silent room, for, as the first low, floating
accents swelled iato the grand and deep,
then melted again to liquid,flowing harmony,
a stillness fell over all, and they listened with
hushed hearts, to the voiced’ the true melo
dy. Harry felt the difference in the two
players, and felt the cause, too, lying deep !
down in the character of both.
She rose quietly, ati 1 before he could J
thank her she had glided away. He paused
a moment, seeking her with his eyes, and
then the ringing voice of Helen called him
to another part of the room.
“We are talking about woman’s rights.— j
- I don't believe in them. I don’t think it
bnlougs to woman to earn money,” she said,
gaily. “Do you, Mr. Stephens?”
“ I think she has a per feet right to earn it, j
if she needs it,” he replied; 44 and I must j
confess, I prefer to see young ladies who are I
( not wealthy e~gaged in some profitable
| employment, raiiier than living idly at
; home.”
“ Oh, it does not look well! ’ said she, toa
i sing her pretty head. “ I prefer to see them
j contented with their lot, for it looks avari
-1 cious in a woman to earn money.”
‘‘ls there avarice iu trying to helponeself.
j rath r than be a buiden ?” asked Agnes
BryaD, who, unseen by Harry, bad stood
I near, aud w hom these cold words had stung,
! perhaps not unintentionally. “Is there ava
i rice in choosing industry and independence
j to idleness and want? ’
Miss Fowler’s eyea flashed for a moment
j haughtily ou Agnes, but Harry prevented
; her from replying.
“ I agree with Miss Bryan,” said he.—
I “ The true object of life, both to male and
| female, is improvement, and we all know’
, that this b never to be gained by idleness.”
‘‘Perhaps Miss Bryan would not only wish
to wotk with the men, but to vote with
them?” said Helen.
“ No,” said Agnes, answering the sarcas
tic tone with one of calm sweetness. “I
think that a true woman's influence is worth
mue.h more than her vote.”
Helen answered only with a look of dis
i dain, and she turned haughtily away, leav
i ing the argument unfinished. Harry s first
: impulse was to follow her, but he paused. —
i In that moment of his indecision, two pic
! lures rose vividly before his imagination. —
One was a home made splendid by the pres
ence and the wealth of an heiress; a home
of fashion and brilliancy. The reigniug queen
of all this magnificence was an elegant wo
man, au ornament at the table aud in the
drawing-room of her house—a star in the
j society which fluttered admiringly around
her. The picture dazzled, but tie turned
away, and, turning, saw another vision.
He saw a home with a fireside in it—with
a deep, holy, quiet heart, reigning and diffu
sing brightness there. lie saw a noble, wo
manly mind, unfolding into more perfect
richness, year alter year, and a spirit blend
ing more and more harmoniously with his
own. Fate held before him, in that moment,
a gotden bauble and a pore pearl, and whis
pered, “Which shall I give you—wealth or
worth T*
Good angels helped him, and he chose the
! pearl.
Years after. I saw Harry in his home, and
found his vision more than realized. He had
, risen to eminence in the city to which lie
had removed, but Agnes was still the flower
of his home and his heart.
If a Silly were lame in the arm and
in the left leg ; if site was blind in one eye
and couldn’t see with the other; if she had
a hump bellied,and to nuke amends, was per
fectly tiat before; and if she was club footed
and had a cancer on fer nose; and if she
had a spit-fire temper, and forty-nine ne
groes, with seventy-fire thousand dollars
cash ; how many suitors would she have ?
pjjT They have a loam nature in Cincin
nati. in the shape of an Irish ehild seventeen
months old, who never cries or talks, but
whistles instead. He doesn't whistle tunes,
of course, but bis whistle is as clear as an
adult's. A young locomotive probably.
What a Pretty Little Hand.
BV MARY CLARKE.
lam not a bashful man. Generally
sptaking, 1 am full confident and forward
as most of my sex 1 dress well, sing
tolerably ; 1 don’t tread on ladies’ dress
es I make my bow; aud 1 have not the
trick of coloring to the roots of my hair
when lam spoken to. Yet there was
one period iti my life, when my merit
seemed to my own eyes insignificant, and
I felt modest not to say bashful. Jt was
when I was in love. Then 1 sometimes
did not know whore to put my hands
and feet. D.d 1 mention that in said
hands and feet consisted my beauty 1
Thsy arc both small.
Three years ago I fell in love. I did
not w alk iu it quietly, weighing my idol’s
perfections against her defects. 1 fell in
head and ears two seconds after the intro
duction.
‘Mr. Ilaynes, Miss Arnold,’ said a
mutual friend, and lo ! I was desperately
in love. She was a little fairy bke crea
ture with long brown curls floating over
a snowy neck and shoulders, and falling
down on the waist of an enchanting sky
blue dress. Her large dark-blue eyes
were full of saucy light, yet oh ! how
tender and loving they could look. (This
I found out later.)
Os all the provoking, tantalizing little
coquettes, that ever teased the heart out
of a poor man, Susy Arnold was the
most bewitching. 1 would pass an even
ing with her, and go home certain that
one more interview would make me the
happiest of men ; but the next time 1 met
her, a cool nod and indifferent glance
threw- down all my castles. She was
very cautious. Not a word did she drop
to make me believe she loved me; and
yet her hand would linger in mine, her
color rise if 1 looked my feelings and her
eyes droop, to be raised again in an in
stant, full of laughing defiance. !>he de
clared her intention to he an old maid
most emphatically, and in the next sen
tence would add, 4 1 never did love, but
if I should take a fancy to anybody, I
should love him like—like a house on
fire. Though,’ she would say carelessly,
4 I never saw anybody yet worth settling
my thoughts upon.’
1 tried in a thousand ways to make
her betray some interest in myself. Pro
pose outright, 1 could not. She had a
way, whenever I tried it, of balking in ‘
my face with an air of grave attention,
of profound interest, that was equivalent ;
in its effect, to knocking me down, it took
all the breath out of me.
One evening, w hile there, I was seized
with a violent headache. I told her that
I was subject to such attacks, and the lit
tle gipsy, putting on a grave face, gave
me a lecture on the subject of health, j
wind up w-ith—
‘The best thing you can do, is to get a
wife to take care of you, and keep from
over study. I advise you to do it: if
you can get anybody to have you.*
‘lndeed,’ said I, rather piqued, ‘there
are only too many. I refrain from a se
lection for fear of breaking others’ hearts.
How fond all the ladies aie of me !’ I ad
ded, conceitedly, ‘Though 1 can’t see that
1 am particularly fascinating.’
‘Neither can 1/ said Susy, with an air
of perfect simplicity.
‘Can’tyou?’ said 1, 4 I hoped—hoped,—
< >h ! that dreadfully attentiveface of hers.
‘That is, Miss Susy, I thought, perhaps—
oh! my head! my head!’ and I buried
my face in my cushion.
‘Does it ache so very badly V she as
ked, tenderly, and she put her cool little
hand among my curls* 1 felt the thrill
her fingers gave, all the way to the toes
of my boots.
My head being really very painful,‘l
was obliged to leave ; but all the way
home, the soft, cool touch of those little
fingers lingered upon my brow*.
Soon after this, it became necessary
for me to leave the city on business.
An offer of a lucrative partnership in the
South, in the office of a lawyer friend of
mine, made me decide to extend my trip,
and see how the ‘land lay.’ One thing
was certain, 1 could not leave home for
months, perhaps years, without some an
swer from Susy. Dressed in my most
faultless costume, and full of hope I went
to Mr. Arnold’s. Susy was in the par
lor, at the piano, alone. She nodded
gavly, as I came in, but continued her
song. It was, ‘l’ve something sweet to
tell you.’
At the w'ords. 1 love you ! I adore you,’
she gave me such a glance. 1 was ready
to prostrate myself; but, sweeping back
the curls with laughing defiance, she war
bled, ‘But I’m talking in my sleep.’
‘Then,’ I cried, ‘you love me when you
sleep ? May I think so?’
‘(>h ! yes, if you choose : for Rory O’-
More says that dreams go by contraries,
you know.’
I sat down beside her. ‘Ah!’ I said,
sighing, ‘Rory’s idol dreamed she hated
him.’
‘Yes,’ said Susy,’ ‘that was the differ
ence between his case and yours.’
\Ve chatted away for a time. At last
I began:
‘Miss Susy, I came up this evening to
: tell you that I—l ’
How she was listening! A bright
thought struck me: I would tell her of
my journey, and in the emotion she was
j certain to betray it would be easy to de
elaie my love.
‘Miss Susy,’ I said, ‘I am going South
to-monw.’
She swept her hands across the keys
of the piano into a stormy polka. I tried
to see her face, but her curls fell over it.
I was prepared to catch her, if she fainted,
or comfort her if see wept. I listened
for sobs I fancied the music was intend
ed to conceal: but throwing back the
curls with a sudden toss, she struck the
last chord of the polka, and said gaily.
‘Going away V
‘Yes, for some months.’
‘Dear me! distressing! Just stop at
Levey’s as you go home, and order me
some extra pocket-handkerchiefs for this
melancholy occasion, will you?’
MACON, GA., FRIDAY, JUNE 17, 1859.
‘You do not seem to require them,’ I
said rather piqued. ‘I shall stay some
months.’
‘Well, write to pa, won’t you ? And
if you get married or die, or anything,
let us know.’
‘1 have an offer to be a partner in a
law office in Kentucky,’ I said determin
ed to try her, ‘and if 1 accept it, as 1 have
some thoughts of doing, I shall never ie
turn.
Her face did not change. The old
saucy look was there, as I spoke; but 1
noticed that one little hand closed con
vulsively over her watchchain, and that
the other fell upon the keys, making, fur
the first, time, a discord. *
‘Going away forever?’ she said, with a
sad tone, that made my heart throl*.
‘Miss Susy, I hoped you, at least,
w-ould miss me, and sorrow in my ab
sence.’
She opened her eyes with ati expres
sion of profound amazement.
‘1 ?’
‘Ye?, it might change all my plans if
my absence would grieve you.’
‘Change all your plans?’
‘Yes, I hope—though ’
Oh! that earnest, grave face. My
cheeks burned, my hands .and feet seem
ed to swell and I felt a cold chi 11 ail over
me. I could not go on. 1 broke down
for the third time.
There was an awkward silence. 1
glanced st Susy. Her eyes were rest
ing on my hand, which on the arm of
the sofa. The contrast between the black
horse hair and flesh seemed to strike her.
‘What a pretty hand,’ she said.
A brilliant idea passed through my
brain.
‘You may have it if you will,’ I said
offering it.
She took it between her own, and toy
ing with the fingers, said,
‘May 1 V
‘Yes if—if you will give me this one,’
and 1 raised her beautiful hand to my lips.
She looked into my face. What she
read there I cannot say ; but if ever eyes
tried to talk, mine did then, ller color
rose, the white lids fell over the glorious !
eyes, and the tiny hand struggled to free
itself. Was 1 fool enough to release it? j
What I said, I know not, but I dare !
say my wife can tell you. Five minutes
later, my arm encircled the brown dress,
the brown curls fell upon my breast, and
my lips were in contact with—another
pair.
Selected for the Christian Spiritualist.
Confessions of the Infidel Rosseau
“l will confess to you, that the majesty of
the Scriptures strike me with apmiration, as the
purity of the Gospel hath its influence on my
heart. Peruse the works of our philosophers:
with all their pomp of diction, how mean, how
contemptible are they, compared with the
Scripture. Is it possible that a book, at once
so simple and sublime, should be merely the
work of man? Is it possible that the sacred
Personage whose history it contains, should be
himself a mere man? Do we find that he as
sumed the tone of an enthusiast or ambitious
sectary ? What sweetness, what purity in his
manner. What an affecting gracefulness in his
delivery. What sublimity in his maxims.—
What profound wisdom in his discourses. What
presence of mind, what subtility, what truth
in his replies. How great the command over
his passions. Where is the man, where the
philosopher, who eoflld so live, aud so die, with
out weakness, and without ostentation ?
“ When Plato described his imaginary good
man, loaded with all the shame of guilt, yet
mciiling the highest rewards of virtue, he de
scribes exactly the character of Jesus Christ •
the resemblance was so striking that all the
fathers perceived it.
“What prepossession, what blindness must
it be, to compare tLe son of Sophroniscus to
the Son of Mary. What an infinite dispropor
tion there is between them. Socrates, dying
without pain or ignominy, easily supported his
character to the last: if his death, however
easy, had not crowned bis life it might have
been doubted whether Socrates, with all his
wisdom, wus anything more than a vain soph
ist. lie invented, it is said, the theory of mor
als. Others however had before put them in
practice. He had only to say therefore, what
they had done, and to reduce their examples to
precepts. Aristides had been just, before Soc
rates defined justice; Leonidas had given up
his life for his country before Socrates declared
patriotism to be a duty ; The Spartans were a
sober people before Socrates recommended so
briety; before lie had even defined virtue,
Greece abounded in virtuous men.
“But where could Jesus learn, among his
competitors, that pure and sublime morality of
which he only hath given us both precept and
example? The greatest wisdom was made
known among the most bigoted fanaticism, and
the simplicity of the most heroic virtues did
honor to the vilest people upon earth. The
death of Socrates, peaceably philosophizing with
his friends, appears the most agreeabl e that
could be wished for: that of Jesus, expiring
m the midst of agonizing pains, abused, insult
ed. and accused by a whole nation, is the most
horrible that could be feared. Socrates in re
ceiving th3 poison, blessed indeed the weeping
executioner who administered it; but Jesus, in
the midst of excruciating tortures, prayed for
his merciless tormentors. Yes, if the life and
death of Socrates were those of a sage, the life
and death of Jesus are those of a God Shall
we suppose the evangelic history a mere fiction?
Indeed, my lrieud, it bears not the marks of
fiction; on the contrary the history of Socrates,
which nobody presumes to doubt, is not so well
attested as that of Jesus Christ. Such a sup
position in fact only shifts the difficulty, with
out obviating it: it is more inconceivable that a
number of persons should agree to write such
a history, than that only one should furnish the
history of it. The Jewish authors were inca
pable of the diction, and strangers to the moral
ity contained in the Gospel, the marks of whose
truth are to striking and inimitable that the
inventor would be a more astonishing character
than the hero.” Treatise on Education, or
Emile, b. IV. Works, voL IX. pp. 147-151. —
Geneva, 1782.
Jacob Jones was elected sheriff. Jacob
was very pompous, very self complacent,
very proud of the honor. His neighbors
called to see him. said Jacob;
“approach very near. Though lam sheriff
elect, I feel that I am still oue of you.”
APPARITIONS.
FROM REV. JOHN WESLEY’S JOURNAL, VOL. 111.
LONDON EDITION.
Wednesday, May 25, 17G8, and the two
following days, being at Sunderland, I took
down, from one who had feared God from
her infancy, one of the strangest accounts I
ever read; and yet I find no pretence to dis
believe it. The well-known character of the
person excludes all suspicion of fraud; the
nature of the circumstances themselves ex
cludes the possibility of a delusion.
It. is true that the English in general, and
indeed most of the men of learning in Eu
rope, have given up all accounts of witches
and apparitions as mere old wives’ fables.
I am sorry for it; and I willingly take this
opportunity of entering my solemn protest
against this violent compliment which so
many that believe the Bible pay to those
who do not believe it. They well know
(whether Christians know it or not) that the
giving up of witchcraft is, in effect, giving
up the Bible; and they know, on tiie other
hand, that if but one account of the inter
course of men with separate Spirits be ad
mitted, their whole castle in the air, Deism,
Atheism, Materialism, tails to the ground.—
I know no reason, therefore, why we should
sutler even this weapon to be wrested out of
our hands.
One of the capital objections to these ac
counts, which 1 have known urged over and
over, is this: “Did you ever see an appari
tion yourself?” No, nor did I ever see a
murder, yet I believe there is such a thing;
yea, and that in one place or another mur
der is committed every day. Therefore 1
can not, as a reasonable man, deny the fact,
although I never saw, and perhaps never
may. The testimony of unexceptionable
witnesses fully convinces me both of the one
and the other.
This premised, I proceed to as remarkable
a narrative as any that has fallen under my
notice. The reader may believe it, if he
pleases, or may disbelieve it, without any
offence to me. Meantime, let him not be
offended if I believe it, till I see better reason
to the contrary.
Elizabeth Hobson was born in Sunder
land, in the year 1744. Her father dying
when she was three or four years old, her
uncle, Thomas Rea, a pious man, brought
her up as his own daughter. She was seri
ous from a child, and grew up in the fear of
God. Yet. she had deep and sharp convic
tions of sin, till she was about sixteen years
of age, when she found her peace with God,
aud from ttiat time the whole tenor of her
behavior was suuable to her profession.
On Wednesday, May 25, 17GS, and the
three following days, I talked with her at
large; but it was with great difficulty I pre
vailed on her to speak. The substance of
what she said was as follows:
“ From my childhood, when any of our
neighbors died, whether men, women or
children, 1 used to see them, either just
when they died, or a little before; and I was
not frightened at all, it was so common.—
Indeed, many times I did not then know
they were dead. I saw many of them both
by day aud by niitht. Those that came
when it was dark brought light with them
I observed all little children, and matiy grown
persons had a bright glorious light round
them. But many had a gloomy, dismal
light, and a dusky cloud over them.
“1 was between fourteen and fifteen, wiien
I went very early one morning to fetch up
the kine. I had two fields to cross, into a
low ground which was said to be haunted. ;
Many persons had been frightened there, !
aud I had myself often seen men and wo
men (so many, at times, that they are out
of count) go just by me, and vanish aw*ay. !
This morning as I came toward it, I heard a
confused noise as of many people quarreling.
But I did not mind it, aud went on till I
came near the gate. I then saw, on the
other side, a young man dressed in purple
who said, ‘lt is too early; go back from
whence you came. The Lord be with you
and bless you;” and presently he was gone.
“ YY’heu I was about sixteen, my uncle j
fell ill, and grew worse and worse lor three
months. One day, having been sent out on |
an errand, I was coming home through a
lane, when I saw him iu the field, coming
swiftly toward me. I rati to meet him; but
he was gone. YY'hen I came home, I found
him calling for me. As soon as I came to
his bedside, he clasped his arms round my
neck, and bursting- luto tears, earnestly ex
horted me to continue in the ways of God.
lie kept his hold till he sunk down aud died;
and even then they could hardly unclasp his
lingers. I would fain have died with him,
aud wished to be buried with him dead or
alive.
“From that time I was crying from morn
ing till night and praying|that I might see
him. I grew weaker and weaker, till one
morning, about oue o’clock, as I was iying
crying, as usual, I heard some noise, and ris
ing up saw him come to the bedside. He
looked much displeased, shook his head at
me, and in a minute or two went away.
“ About a week after, I took to iny bed
and grew worse anil worse; till, in six or
seven days, my life was despaired of. Then
about eleven at night my node came in,
looked well pleased, and sat down on the
bedside. He came every night alter, at the
same time, and stayed till cock-ciowing. I
was exceedingly gladj and kept my eyes ,
fixed upon him all the time lie stayed. If I
wanted a drink or anything, though I did
not speak or stir, he fetched it, and sat on
the chair by the bedside. Indeed I could
not speak ; many times I strove, but could
not move my tongue. Every morning when
he went away, he waved his hand to me,
and I heard delightful music as if many per
sons were singing together.
“In about six weeks I grew better. I
was then musing, one night, whether I did
well in desiring he might come ; and I was
praying that God would do his own will,
when he came in and stood by the bedside.
But he was not in his usual dress; he had
on a white robe, which reached down to his
feet He looked quite pleased. About one
o’clock, there stood by him a person in white,
taller than him and exceedingly beautiful
He came with the singing of many voices, !
and continued till near cock-crowing. Then
my uncle smiled, aud waved his hand to
ward me twice or thrice. They went away
with inexpressible sweet music, and I saw
him no more.
“ In a year after this, a young man cour- !
ted me, and in some months agreed to be
married. But he proposed to take another
vdyage first, and one evening went aboard
his ship. About eleven o’clock going out to j
look for my mother, I saw him standing at
his mother’s door with his hands in his
pockets, and his hat pulled over his eyes. 1
went to him and reached my hand to put
up his hat; but he went swiftly by me and
I saw the wall, on the other side of the laue,
part as he went through, and immediately
close after him. At ten the next morning
he died.”
George Holman died near Richmond, Ind.,
on the 24th ult, aged nearly 100 years. He
was bom iu Rent county, Md., in 17G0.
From the Sumter Republican.
A DISCUSSION
OF THK
DOCTRINE OF UNIVERSALISM
BETWEEN
■ Rev. iV. J. Scott, Methodist, and Rev. D. B.
Clayton, Universalist.
| Rev. D. B. Clayton:
Dear Sir— Before resuming my ex
amination of your argument in support of
j Universalism, I propose to glance at your
I review of my first article.
It is a well known device of a bad reader
l to skip the hard words in a lesson, and you
i are not the first controversialist who has
I been shrewd enough to skip the hard places
in an opponent's argument. Here is anoth
: er compliment, you perceive, hut this time
less to your candor than to your adroitness.
You venture, however, to question my in
terpretation of Malachi, and deem it very
preposterous tor me to allege* that the* phrase
“ leave them neither root nor branch,”
when applied to the wicked, is equivalent to
their “ everlasting destruction.” I submit
to our readers if it is more so than to say in
effect with you that it is equivalent to their
being eternally saved in Heaven. lam sat
isfied to leave the matter to their arbitra
ment, believing that their decision will be
that in this instance at least, your attention
to the mote in my eye, has made you blind
to the beam in your own.
The only reply you make to my remarks
on the infinite nature of sin, comes in the
shape of an attack on the proof-text from |
Job. Your manner of disposing of Elipliaz j
and liis testimony, is quite characteristic, J
but allow me to say that mere assertion, j
however confident, will not be taken as proof j
in this controversy. The charge of Job
which you allege brands my witness with i
falsehood, is not preferred against Eliphaz, i
but against Zophar, the Naamathite, for it
was to Zophar that the reply of Job was ad
dressed. This you might have ascertained
for yourself, if you had carried your search j
a little beyond the point at which you found
it convenient to stop. But again, if Eliphaz
is implicated it must be for something he
said in the loth chap., and certainly not for j
a remark which he had then uttered. If,
however, you persist in ‘the assertion that !
Job’s charge of falsehood applied to Eliphaz, 1
and to his anticipated statement of the in
finity of sin, then w'e do not hesitate to sav
that this expression of Job’s is amongst the
“words without knowledge,” which God
himself charges him with having uttered j
when he answered him out of the whirlwind.
(See Job 38, 1 and 2.) For Job, although j
a good man, had “justified himself rather
than God’’—waa“righteous in his own;
eyes,” hut when he came afterwards to see i
that his “wickedness was great, and his \
iniquities infinite,'’’ and when he beheld the
terrible majesty of Jehovah, he exclaimed
“Behold I am vile ! ” Wherefore “I repent
in dust ashes.” You must then, my dear
sir, try some other explanation, or continue
at issue with the Bible as to the infinity of sin.
AYhile on this point, I repeat the call for a
single passage that teaches unequivocally
that all men will be saved. Excuse me if 1 |
am “a little pressing.” Certainly the “bless-I
ed doctrine” has some scriptural basis. —
Where is it ? Surely it doesn’t rest on far
fetched constructions and wire-drawn infer- ,
ences. We insist that you produce the text,
or else have the magnanimitv “to confess
that it cannot he found.”
In reply to my correction of your blun
der about the teaching of the orthodox
creeds, you very gravely inform me that
creed comes from Credo. Your etymology
is correct, but perhaps it would he well to
remember that creed is an English word. —
If you will turn to Webster, you will dis
cover that its proper and primary significa
tion is a summary of doctrine, as the Augs
burg Confession, or a symbol, as the Apos
tle’s creed. 1 hope that now you understand
the distinction between the 39 articles of
the English Church, and the witings of Je
remy Taylor, or Richard Hooker. The fact
you mention while upon this point, that the
doctrine of endless punishment is not found
in the creeds had better have been omitted.
These creeds were framed by the Fathers as
a safeguard against current heresies, and al
though your chief dogma has always been
esteemed a pestilent heresy, yet it was so lit
tle agitated in those curly times, as not even
to require a passing notice. No sane man
would look for an account of the Peninsular
war in the pages of Froissart, or for a dis
cussion on the steam engine, in Newton’s
Principia, and still less would he look for a
notice of modern Universalism, or its next
of kin,modern Spiritualism, in these ancient
formulas of the Church’s faith. Your sys
tem is too young by many years, and for the
present must “tarry at Jericho.”
Having disposed of your review of mv
first article, I shall now examine your addi
tional proof texts for Universalism. First in
order is the text from Isaiah 57th chapter,
and another of similar import from Lam.
3d chapter. The first you allow refers to
the Jews, but the second you think has a
wider application. In the former of these
passages, it is declared that “God will not
contend forever,” and in the latter, that “he
will not cast off forever.” This, according
to vour construction means that he will not
contend with or ca-t oft’ the sinner to all
eternity. (Let the reader make a note of
this position.) A hare reference to the con
text of the passage from Isaiah will show
that the expression is conditional, and made
in regard to the penitent sinner. It teach
es the same truth with the Prophet Ezekiel,
that “if the wicked man turn from his evil
way he shall not die, he shall surely live.”
It sustains this view that in the verse pre
ceding your from Isaiah, God
speaks of reviving the spirit of the humble
and contrite ones, and expresses his will to
heal them, or in the words of the Prophet,
his determination not “to contend with
them forever,” but to forgive their trans
gressions. And then it is immediately ad
ded but “the wicked are like the troubled sea
they cannot rest.” “There is no peace saith
my God to the wicked.” The last expres-
sion refers to those incorruptible sinners who
will not repent of their ungodly deeds. The
same construction will suffice for the passage
in Lamentations, in which it is saiu “God
will not cast off forever.” In both instan
ces it is implied that the sinner repents. —
That your exposition cannot he correct, is
evident for the additional reason that it flat
ly contradicts the Scriptures. Look at the
passages in Ist. Chron. 28tli chap, and flth
verse, in which David says to Solomon “il
thon peek him (God) he will be found of thee,
but if thou forsake him, lie will cast thee off
FOREVER.” What God would do to Solo
mon he would do to others who finally for
sake him. We leave you to patch up your
argument, and if possible to adjust the dif
ference with the sacred writer. Your only
chance of escape is to quibble about eis telos
or else attack the credibility of the witness,
as in the case of Eliphaz.
Your next proof-texts nrc those “which
teach the destruction of man’s enemies.”
and under this head you simply refer to Heb.
2d, 1 t, and Ist John 3rd, which speak of the
destruction of the devil, and of the devil’s
works. It is very considerate in you to con
tent yourself with a simple reference to
those texts. It might not l>o very conveni
ent for youi future argument to adnyt that
the Devil is anything more than a rhetorical
figure, or at the most, the Jewish High
Priest, either Annas or Caiaphas. Regard
ing the Devil, however, as a veritable per
sonage, you would argue from these passa
ges that he is to be destroyed. Well, how
do you get rid of him ? “There’s the rub”
,my dear sir ! Will you purge him with fire
as you did the wicked of their “5 per cent
alloy,” and take him horns and hoofs into
; the heavenly world ? That proposition
might startle even a Universalist. Will
j you for the nonce consign him to “cheerless
; annihilation?” You will surely not treat a
I jHtor sinner with such orthodox cruelty. Be
| sides, the Devil is not to be annihilated, hut
destroyed, according to the passages you
have cited. The question recurs how will
Mr. Clayton manage to destroy the Devil ?
Excuse me, my dear sir, if I am “ a little
pressing” with this enquiry. Before you
answer, jiermit me to suggest that it will not
do to say that he is already destroyed, nor
will it do to destroy him at this passage, for
the reason that you will want to destroy him
again in the valley of Ilinnom, when we
come to discuss the 25th chapter of Matthew.
We will relieve you of your painful embar
rassments by referring you to Rev. 20th
chap, and 10th, where we read that the De
vil will be cast “into the lake of fire and
brimstone?” It is subsequently said that !
“this is the second death.” There is no need
then of apprehending a failure of Christ’s
mission so far as the destruction of the De
vil is concerned. The destruction of his
works referred to in your other passage will
be secured by the everlasting destruction of
all who were led captive by him, and who
obey not the Gospel of our Lord Jesus
Christ. Hence it is written in the same
chapter of Revelation, that all whose names
“were not found in the Book of Life, were
cast into the lake of fire,” and tormented
day and night forever and ever. Os course
according to Universalist teaching, this aw
ful doom is only temporal punishment.
You request that I “pause” a little with
you ou your next proof-text, Ist. Cor. 15th
chap. 2Cth verse. You object to the render
ing of the authorized version, and I will al
low that the pronoun that is improperly sup
plied. Let us then take McKnight’s ren
dering, “the last enemy, death, shall be de
stroyed,” and see if it will help Universal
ism. It is evident, we think, that the death
her spoken of, is natural or physical death.
The tenor of the entire chapter establishes
this, and indeed I do not know that Univer
salists have ever controverted that proposi
tion. Now, this death, according to the
Apostle’s reasoning,is to be destroyed. The
original Greek term translated destroyed,
properly signifies counter-worked. Natural ;
death then is to he counter-worked hv a ‘
“resurrection of the dead, both the just and
the unjust,” And it follows that the false
teachers at Corinth, who denied the resur
rection, or taught that it was already past,
were inculcating a mischievous error. This
is the simple atul only teaching of the pas
sage ; but you endeavor to wring from it a
testimony in behalf of your favorite dogma.
For this purpose you lay a good deal of
stress on the fact that death is said to be last
enemy. You seem to think that last here
necessarily refers to the order of time in
which the Christian’s enemies are to be de
stroyed. Passing by the fact that the orig
inal might have been correctly rendered
greatest instead of last enemy (which at least
would overthrow your present argument)
we assert that death may be called the last
enemy, for several reasons. It is the last of |
that series of conflicts which the Christian
has in liis earthly warfaring, thenceforth his
J f’
sword is sheathed and his shield hung up in
the halls of victory. Other reasons might
be assigned, but we merely add the opinion
of Chrysostom that death is called the last
enemy because it was the last to enter the
world. First was the Devil, secondly sin !
and lastly death, as the consequence of sin.
You gain nothing then by the fact that death
is called the last enemy : and there is still
room after the resurrection (when death shall
be destroyed) for the destruction of other
enemies. But we ask you to consider that
it is not said at all in the text that death is
the last enemy to be destroyed. That is your
inference, and it amounts to a perversion of
the Scriptures as well as a begging of an im
portant part of the question at issue between
us. For we maintain that the Scriptures
teach that after the destruction of death,
the dead, small and great, shall be judged,
and wicked angels and wicked men driven
away in tlieir wickedness, from the “ pres
ence of the Lord, and the glory of his pow
er.”
It strikes us that Universalism can derive
no comfort from this passage or its context.
The resurrection of the dead which is here
so clearly stated, is to be the preparatory ,
step to the final Judgment. Every man is j
to be raised “in his own order or band }
NUMBER 112.
some to a resurrection of life, and others to
a resurrection of damnation. The grave
cannot hide the wicked from God. They
must obey the voice of the Son of God and
come forth, and receive their just desert, for
it is said in this same chapter that all ene
mies, the finally impenitent included, “shall
be put under his feet.” This last expression
you must admit, is borrowed from the cus
tom of conquerors, and very forcibly repre
sents tho constrained submission of a van
quished enemy.
Your next class of proof-texts comprises
those that teach directly, according to your
judgment, that “all men will be saved,”
You then introduce Col. 19th and 20th, a
favorite text with Unive salists, and for that
reason I shall examine it at length. “For it
pleased the Father that in him all fullness
should dwell, and having made peace
through the blood of his Cross to reconcile
all things to himself by him. I say wheth
er they be things in earth or in Heaven.”
All things you say, include all men, and as
to be reconciled to God; is to be saved,
therefore you infer it is the pleasure of God
that all men shall be saved by Christ. If
you mean by this that God desires and wills
the salvation of all men by Christ the Media
tor, and that as an expression of his good
pleasure, he gave his Son to die for all, wo
shall have no quarrel with the proposition.
This however does Universalism no good
whatever, unless you can establish that the
reconciliation is an unconditional and neces
sitated reconciliation.
You affirm in your exjrosition of this pas
sage that “all things” in the text is to be
taken in the broadest sense, and refer us to
the loth verse where “we are twice told that
all things were created by him.” This, it
strikes me, makes the word reconciliation
commensurate with the v/ork of creation.—
And as ta panta, all things, including not
only men, but all animals, vegetables and
minerals, were alike created by hint, so it
must follow that they must also be reconcil
ed to him. Here is another conclusion that
you do not relish, unless you are now pre
pared to allign yourself with old Fath
er Wesley in contending “for the final sal
vation of the brute creati >n.” The fact that
one eminent Divine is disposed to make ta
panta all things, to signify tous pantes, all
men, will avail nothing, as the weight of au
thority is against the opinion, and besides
you have committed yourself to the former
opinion. There appears then an invincibic
necessity in the context itself, for the re-
I striction of this Universal term “all things”
unless you are prepared to preach the gospel
to the swine in the gutter, and to the cattle
upon a thousand hills. 3ut perhaps you re
ply that it ts the pleasure of God to recon
cile all men. We have granted that much
already, but does lie not do it by means and
upon conditions? The former part of the
proposition you will not deny. What then,
are the means ? Most clearly the preaching
of the Gospel, which is styled in one place
the ministry of reconciliation, and in anoth
er the power of God unto salvation. It is,
then, by obeying the Gospel and believing
upon the Savior, it reveals that men are re
conciled to God. But tre these means al
ways .effectual ? Arc there none who refuse
to be reconciled ? Every man’s experience
and observation teaches him that there aro
thousands who continue in a state of alien
ation and enmity to God, until they pass
away from earth. There is no chance then
for their reconciliation unless the Gospel is
to be preached in Hell! In reply to tho
question that may be st irted, Is not God’s
will defeated in regard to the salvation of
some of our race ? We answer affirmative
ly. “I have no plcasur<says he, “in tho
death of him that dieth ” God would liavo
saved the old world from being destroyed by
a deluge, and as an evidence of it he sent
Noah to warn them during the space of 120
years, but they would not harken, and wrath
came upon them to the uttermost. God wills
all men to Ims holy, but some are very wick
ed. God wills that “mer pray every where,”
but perhaps a majority ot them pray nowhere,
and so God wills that all men shall have eter
nal life, and presses it l y the strongest mo
tives upon their acceptance, but alas, too
many “will not come unto him that they
might have life.” Un’ess then itcoi’ld be
shown that God can and w ill compei men to
accept of otiered mercy, it by no means fol
lows from your passage “ that all men will
be savtd.”
Now that I have reviewed your exposition
ot this text, I wish to say, and to prove,
too, that it might serve for the funeral text
of Universalism. There are three points in
it, and any one of three cuts up your system
by th<> roots. Ist, “It pleased the Father
that in him all fulness should dwell.” This
is a distinct affirmation of the proper divin
ity of Christ. The Greek term, it is true, is
pleroma, but taken in connection with tho
foregoing part of the chapter, it is a very
emphatic and intensive assertion that Christ
is God. Now at this point there is a conflict
between vour proof-text and modern Uni
versalism. That teaches according to Fath
er Ballou, that “ Christ is a created and de
pendent being.” 2nd. It is affirmed in
vour text that God’s plan is to save men by
the blood of the Cross. There again tho
textis atissue with Universalism. ‘Wequoto
again from Ballou the father of your sys
tem : “Christians have loDg believed that
the temporal death of Christ made atone
ment for >in, and that the literal blood of tho
crucified man could cleanse from guilt, but
surelv this is carnality and carnal-minded
ness, if we have any knowledge of the Apos
tle’s meaning when he says, ‘to be carnally
minded is death.’” Ballou on Atonement,
tary individual, but of the great body of
Universal is ts. Abel C. Thomas, ono of
vour “greatest lights,” has stated publicly
that the last avowed advocate of a vicarious
atonement, Edward Mitchell of New York,
has been dead and buried twenty years. It
follows that Universalist Theology not only
extinguishes the fires of Hell, but it seeks to
expunge Christ as an atoning sacrifice from
the creed of Christendom. We regard it then
as exceedingly disingenuous for a modern