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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. Home's BuiUUng, Cherry Street, Ticv Dotnrs Mow Third Street. TKKVI-: —(*2.00 err annum, in idianrr. a ?rfi“iH > iiN the wihr charge* will lc Omt ItfJlar t <ji>c hn+dred wvrd* or icxn, f.r the fir*t <! *** CM*peach Mbneqvtut ln*?rt!<*t. All ad ■ gii mt m t*> tiuii, * lit !** fnihliAul mil Jj 7 l . h:tr- aee<>niiii*fy. A literal di.-omut allowed | Tbe | • :ir. arrangeruetito nude with CuUiify Officers. . ” a* iiiiiffif BwiMwi'erdivill be Inserted un 1 r x i. at tiu.* MJowin# vis; r - five fee*, per annum, # 5 00 lines do* irmrrrrrrrrrrrrrjrrrrrr io< v, ftweßW*nt <*f tfk ckiam will tie admitted, uni em paid t ■ r. -r hr a less U rut than twelve hu-mRs. Ad . . _ T i, „} over ten line* will he charged pro min. Ad hent* iwt paid lor in mdVance wilt he charged ut the ,! i!iin Mkn 1 *nt ten lines, will 1* cliargl at the * ■ *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 . . iIV . that nnpticaiWn will he made to the Ordinary fw . ! 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 from rn inliinrtif|’. weekly, forty days. 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