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VOLUME 10.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN
,* PCBLIBHED VERY FRIDAY MORN INC r.Y
L F. \V. ANDREWS.
()KK I, E —/'i Horne s HhUillh/j, ('henry Street,
TV” D ior* Mow Third Street.
TERM' —$2.00 |irr annum, in *iltan<r.
lJ*frti<';nrul* at th* nyu nr charge \.i'l Tie One
h'i+'trr i trordt or leu*, f r the f r>< inser
. .’jbi‘l y-ftv ‘-‘ent* ff i-acli Kateotatut Iwillai. All a.l
-- ;ki -twitte.! a to time, will I* piil.'UlKd until
,Mi ~,-,.1 cU.rnt arcunlttmly. A Liberal dWuiiirt allowed
*li. _iv,-rtLs- by the year.
era! r-aii|teiie-uU rna.lr * im t'..aiit>-o®rvr*. Drueyists
_H„ - ■neet'. Her ant*. ud other*, who ■)’ i-h to make
i* r , mal amt Hu-iness Card* will le in- rtet un
, *heal. *1 the folioa'iiitt rate*. \ Iz :
:, rf.-'inent of tai* cia-w wiil i*e ailrnitletl. uulem yalti ’
fer inalva: , nor for a les* t no than twelve movtb. A<l
F-tSsenietib* ot over ten lines will le charms! pro rah. Art
rfkt::tit* not paid lor in advance wii. be charged at the
OMman Vtticca of orrr Un Una, will 1* charged at the
.font t 1 If Ptanf candidate* for office to be paid fora
thv usual rates, when in.wrtecl.
-aii- of lunid and Yeartic*. by Executors, A<*-oinistra
l. r - and Iluardians are reijumsl > v lew to lie ad.erti-cd in a
rCI i. iraie't •- forty ly previous tip the dav ot rule. There
L ,-must te held on the first Tue-lay in the ni-ti’h, between
the k'litrs f tea in the fnteanon and three in the afiemnotu |
~i the Cimtt-honse in the county in w hich the property is s.tu
wales of Personal Property most be advertised in like 1
V tire to Debtors and t redllorw “f an E-tale must Is
\ollrr ‘ltd ,irplication will be maile to the Onlinarr for
hire til sell Land and Negroes, must be published weekly for
tllali ius for Letters of Admlalatra'fon. thirty daya; for
IMsala-ion rom Admlnistritlon. nmnthlv, six oioi. hu: for
JMsmiadon from tinanl'ian.-hip, weekly, forty days.
Rules for F’orrclo* ini of Mnrtsacrs. nionthiv, f.,;:
-unths: lor establish off !• st |*tiers. for the full -pats- of tore 1
n like; fur comjHlin* title* from executors or adn.inistra ‘
t.,r- where a lewd hs- tieen given by the deceased, the full !
i av ofthree month*.
;i : Vliacdlanij. .
The Three Ring's.
TRANSLATED ERUM THE HERMAN OF LESSIXU.
In “Nathan, the Wise,” a drama by Les
-ing, the Sultan ask? Nathan, a Jew, which
of the three religions u the best—the Jewish,
th£ Christian, or the Mahonmicdan. Na
than replies by the following beautiful alle
gory :
lu ancient time* there lived, in eastern lands.
A man who had a rino of prtcelt s* worth,
The sift of n loved tut nil. An opal stone
It had. which hundred dazxUim colors played.
And had the wund'roua power io make him loved.
Hr Ood and man, who wore with tnisting lu-ai t
The priceless gem. Can we then wonder that
The eastern wearer never would consent
To take it from his tinner, and desired
The talisman ns heirloom in his house
To keep. And thus he did—He left the rinsr
Into Ins son who dearest to his heart
Had been, and unto him commanded then
That he should choose amongst his soil* theone
That he loved best, and to lum give the ring.
And that without regard to birth, he should,
A- wearer of the ring, be prince, lie head
ttf all his house.
Titus passed this ring, from son to son. until
It reachi-d a father parent of throe sons.
H hi• to all three an espial love did give:
And loved with *ucli an etjual love that ne'er
‘••iild lie see a difference, saving when
He chanced to he with one, flic other, or
The third alone—and when his flowing heart
shared not the presence of the other two:
Then seemed the one who in hi* presence stood.
The worthiest of the ring. Thu* had his love
And gentle tenderness to each in mm
The promise given to leave the ring to him.
Thus matter* stood until the tunc approached
For death to summon him lieforo God* throne;
And then the ring occasioned to his heart
A sad enilatrrnssment. What should he do*
i woof his son* who npou hi* word relied.
He could not disappoint to please the third.
Ih-tres-ed thus in mind In- sought an artist out.
Andi Tile red him in secret that lie should
Make two more ring*, loth fashioned like his own.
‘nil that no cost or trouble should Is- spared
To make the three exactly similar
In form, in *i*e, in shape. in workmanship.
The artist did as was commanded—and
Hith such cunning art did form the rings.
That e'en the owner's practiced eve could not
The model from the other nngs detect.
•biyons then he calls each sou alone to him.
Vnd give to each his Messing and a ring
And di
W hat follow s here need scarce lie told, for when
The fuller died, did each son elaim to tw
I he owner of the ring: and each desired.
As prun e o'er all the bonne to lie esteemed.
Angry wrangling jars arose, w hich shook
The p ace of nfl—lwt still, the pateiil ring
H.-ritain*-d unknown—jnst as is now to Its
The true lelief.
1 he sons invoked the law. and inch one swore
That froin his tat hers hand lie had the ring
Received—and true it wa*; and also -wore
That unto liim the promise had lieen given
That he should he the owner—not less true:
I'liat he possessed the most his father's love.
And that his father could not use deceit;
And rather than helieve of such a man
fliat Iw could wet a fal*eho<*l tie would first
With sain believe that his la-other had licit:
And further, each one aw ore that he would find
The traitor out that lie might liave revenge.
Th*n -pike the Jurigp—“lf your father dead ean
Be made t>> apeak and give h'is Toiee |i>r one.
To him will I award. Bot thi* to <lo,
Jni[i.nNr! And a* I iunnot find
The truth unless he speak—or that the ring
Should speak, a thing alike impo-.-iliie.
I ■ annot judge. Bui to my counsel lossl—
)ou say the ring doth have the wondrous power
To make the wearer loved tiy lki and man—
I bis will de<*ifle. for in the other rings
liiere lies no power like this. >Say. uhieh of you
ho two hive most* Wlmt! are you silent all?’
Tlien on the wearer art your rings alone.
An-t not ou others. Kwh one loves lumself.
And none possess the ring—hut all deceive—
Ah vmir rings are false—the trne one lost—
to hide whieh loss the faliter made
Three rings iustead of one.’’
Then further spoke the Judge—“ If you w ill not
1 nto my eounsel, hear, theu go your way;
Bm this I do advise, that yon should take
As best whatever is. Kwh from your father
Has a ring reeeived. Tlien believe yon each.
The true ring yonrs. lVrhaps ynur f.ither wishetl
Ad longer that his house should tie beneath
Joe tyrant power of a single nng
An<l. loving all. he would mil two oppress
h> please the third. Theu strive you all to gain
The general love, that each may make the stone ‘
By him professed shine brightly—this you ean
By kindness, love and noide eharitv.
And firm reliance on your tiod etti-et.
IK) this; and then in ages yet iinl*>ni.
A wiser aaan than I will have my seat.
And he will judge t -etween you of your claim-,
bo. now, in peace •” 80 slsik e the rigtiteou- Judge
A A
Some dezen years ago, I passed a couple
of early summer months in Devonshire, fish- j
iug; changing one picturesque scene of sport
for another, always disbelieving that 1 should
find so fair a place as that last quitted, ami
always having pleasantly to acknowledge
myself wrong. There is indeed an almost
inexhaustible treasure of delicious nooks in
that fertile country, which comprehends every
element of landscape beauty,—coast and in
land, hill and valley, moor and woodland,) —
*nd excels in nothing more than in its curved
rivers. What cliff-like and full-fo iaged banks
al>oat their sources! and what rich meadows,
‘prinkled with unrivalled kine, as they broad
en toward the sea ! At the close of my tour.
1 was lodging in a farm-house near a branch
°* the Exe, rather regretful at the thought
ot so soon having to shoulder my knapsack
and return to native Dorset, near a certain
provincial town of which county, and in a
Neighborhood without a tree within sight,
’, r a stream within sound, it was inv lot to
dwell. We had lately thrown out a bow
window to the drawing-room there, but
w 7) I cannot tell, for there was certainly
nothing to see trom it. What a difference
’ etween such a spot and my theu abode.
r 9 m the windows of which a score of miles
’ - undulating and varied landscape could be
seemed, with the old cathedral towers of
e capital city standing grandly up against
11 -” southern sky.
It is not true that the people who live in
[ ure ?*l a ® places do not appreciate them,
tin i° U t * lat require to be made to
understand their goad fortune. Michael
fr ort f! o *7’ K°°d man of the farm, and
bs L cU3s > * thorough stay-at home,
could not discover what I found in that look
j ont front his boose to make such a fu*s about;
bnt his wife who had once paid a visit to her
son when in b isiness at B.rminghain. knew
• erfectly w ell. Concerning whichon Robert,
by the by. there was a sad tale. lie was the
or.ly chil-J cl’ the good pair, and one who
.-liou'd have been there at Cowles, the right
tiuod cf his father, and the comfort of Ins
loxing mothe r ; but the jmung man had de
cided otherwise. He had never taken to
fanning, but liad grieved his father hugely
by a hankering after mechanical studies,
which the old hgrieulturist associated a!mo~t
with the black art itself. Thinking himself
to have a gitt for the prac'iea! science*,
Robert was apprenticed in Birmingham,
and for a tune bid fair to acquit himself well.
But it had not been farming to which lie
was in reality averse, so much as to restraiut
of any kind; and finding alter a little, that
he could not be his own master at the lathe,
any more than at the plough, lie forsook his
second calling likewise. This had justly an
gered Michael, and drawn from him, on the
return of the lad, certain expressions which
, his young spirt undutifuily resented. There
| was a violent scene in that peaceful liome
, stead of Cowles one d;-.y; and on the next
morning, when the house \va3 astir, it was
tonnd tnat Robert had gone away in the
night time, nor hail he since either returned
home or written of his whereabouis.
It was a year ago and more by this time,
i during which periy-1 Mrs. Courtenay had
j grown older than in the 1 a!t-d->zen years
before, while the old man hims-ls, said the
j farm people, had altered to the full as much
as she, although, for his part, he had never
owned to it. It was not lie who told me of
I the matter, but the gudewile who was fond
‘of me—ns my vani'y wss obliged to confes*.
mainly because I was of the age of her lost
i lad, and so reminded her of him. I slept in
i the very loom which had formerly been her
i Robert's, and a very comfortable little room
it was.
Here it was, very early one May morn-
I ing, before even the earliest risers of the
farm wc*® up, that I was awakened by
| these three words pronounced close by
me in the distinctest tones: “The ferryman
waits."’
So perfectly conscious was I of having
been really addressed, that I sat up in my
bed at once and replied : “Well and what
is that to me before the absurdity of the
intimation had time to strike me. The snow
white curtains of the little bed were com
pletely undrawn, so that no person could
nave been hidden behind them. Although
it was not broad daylight, every object was
clearly discernible, aa-i through the half
opened window, came the cool, delicious
summer air with quickening fragrance. I
heard the dog rattle his chain in the yard as
he came out of liis kennel and shook himself,
and then returned to i: lazily, as though it
was not time to be up yet. A cock crew,
but very unsatisfactor.ly, leaving oil” in the
middle of his performance, as though he had
been mistaken in the hour. My watch, a
more reliable chronicler, informed me that
it wanted a quarter of four o’clock. I was
not accustomed to be awakened at such a
time as that, and turned myself somewhat
indignantly on the pillow, regretful that I
had eaten clotted cream for supper the pre
ceding evening. I 1-y perfectly still, with
niy eyes shut, endeavoring, since I could not
get to s’eep again, to account for the pecu
liar nature ol my late nightmare, as I had
made up ruy mind to consider it, until the
cuckoo clock on the oaken chair outside,
sti uck four. The last note of the mechani
cal bird had scarcely diet! a vay.wlien again,
close to the pillow. I heard uttered, not only
with distmctness.biit with a most unmistaka
ble earnestness, the same piece ol informa
tion which had once so startled me already:
“The ferryman waits.’’
Tnen 1 got up and looked under the little
bed, and behind it; into the small cupboard
where my one change of boots was kept,
and where there was room for scarcely any
thing else. I sounded the wall nearest mv
bed s head, and found it solid enough; it
was also an outside wall; nor from any of
the more remote ones could so distinct a
summons have come. Then I pushed the
Window-casement fuliy back, and thrust my
head and bare neck into the morning air.—
If I was asleep, I was determined to wake
myseil, and then :f I should Lear the mys
iericus voice again, I was determined to obey
it I was not alarmed, nor even disturbed iu
my mind, although greatly interested. Tiie
circumstances of rny position precluded auy
supernatural terror. Tiie animals of the farm
yard were lying in the tumbled straw close
by, and near enough to be startled at a shout
ot mine , some pigeons were already circ ing
round the dove-cote, or pacing sentinel-like,
the little platforms, be!ore their domiciles;
and the sound of the lasher, by whose cir
cling eddies I had so often watched for trout,
came cheerily and with invitiug tone across
tire dewy meadows. The whole landscape
seemed instinct with new-born life, and to
have thoroughly shaken off the solemnity
of dreary night. Its surpassing beauly and
freshness so entirely took possession of me,
1 indeed that in its contemplation. 1 absolute-
I ty fjrgot the inexplicable occurrence which
j liad brought me to the window. I was
j wrapped iu the endeavour to make out
’ whettier those tapering lines, supporting,
! as it seemed, a mass of southern cloud, were
| indeed the p.nnacles ot the cathedral, when
j close by my ear, close by, as though the
I speaker had his face at the casement like
wise, the words wen* a third time uttered:
j ‘‘The ferryman waits.”
Ttrere was a deeper seriousness in its tone
j on this occasion, au appeal which seemed to
have a touch ol pathos as well as gloom;
I but it was the same voice, and one which I
shall never forget. I did not hesitate an
other moment, but dressed myself as quick
ly as I could, and descending the stairs,took
down the vast oaken door-bar, and let my
se.i out, as I had been wont to do when I
went betimes a fi--hing. Then I strode south
ward along the footpath leading through die
tie-ds to where the river ferry was, some
three miles ofl, now doubting,now believing,
. that the ferryman did wait there at such an
unusual hour, and fur me. I made such good
I of my legs, thai it was not five o’clock
when I reached the last meadow that lay
, between me and the stream; it was higher
i ground than its neighbor land, and every
step I took, I was locking eagerly to come
in sight of the ferry-house, which was on
I the opposite bank, and by no means within
; easy hailing distance. At last, I did so, and
! observed to my astonishment, that the boat
was not at its usual moorings. It must
needs, therefore, have been already brought
! over upon my own side. A lew steps
farther, brought me into view of it, with
the ferryman stand ng up in the stern, lean
. ing on his punt-pole, and looking intently in
| my direction. lie gave a great “hollo” Avhen
| he recognised me, and I returned it, for we
were old acquaintances.
“Well master Philip, ’ cried he, as I drew
nearer, ‘you are not here so very much be
times, after all; I have been waiimg for you
i nigh upon half an hour.”
* “Waiting for mes” echoed I. “I don't
know how that can be, since nobody knew
that I was coming; and indeed I didn't know
it myself, till” And there I stopped
myself upon the very verge of confessing
myself to have been fooled by a voice. Per
haps the ferryman himself may be concerned
in the trick, thought I, ami is now about to
charge me roundly for being taken across
out of hours.
“Well, sir,’’ retimed the Genius cf the
river, turning his peakless can, hind befoie,
which was his fashion when puzzled, and
certainly a much more polite one tliau that
common to the brethren cf the land, ot
scratching their heads—“all I can say, is,
as I was roused at half past three or so, by
a friend of yours, saying as though you
would be waiting me in a little, on the
north bank.”
“What friend was that?” inquired I.
“ Nay, sir, for that matter, I can’t say,
s-nce I didn t see him, but I heard him well
enough at all events, and as plain as 1 now
bear you. I was asleep whpti he first called
me from outside yonder, and could scarcely
make any sense of it; but the second time
1 aras wide awake; and the third time, as I
was undoing the window, there could be no
mistake about it—‘Be ready for Philip Rea
ton on the nor’ bank,’ he said.”
“ And how was it you missed seeing my
friend ? ‘ inquired I, as carelessly as I could*
“ He was in such a hurry to be gone, I
reckon, that as soon as he heard my window
open, and knew he had roused.me, he set
ofi. His voice came round the east corner
of the cottage, as though he went Exeter
way. I wouldn’t have got up at such a
summons, lor many other folks but you,
I do assure you, Master Philip.”
“Thank you,” said I, though by no means
quite convinced ; “you re a good fellow, and
here's five shillings for you. And now put
me across, and show me the nearest way by
which I can get to the city.”
“Now it, by some inscrutable means, the \
ferryman—who bad become the leading
figure in my mind, because of the mysteri- i
ous warning—or any accomplice of his bail
played me a trick, and trumped up a story
lor my further bewilderment, they had not,
I flattered myself, very much cause for boast
ing. I had evinced but slight curiosity about j
the unknown gentleman who had heralded ;
my approach at daylight, and I had a real
object in my early tising—that of reaching
the capital city, at least ten miles away. But
my own brain was, for all that, a prey to
the most conflicting suggestions, not one of
which was of final service towards an ex
planation of the events of tiie morning.
Tit ere was I, at a little after o, a. m , with
a walk before me of ten, and a walk behind
me of tlnee good Devon miles, breakfastless,
without the least desire to reach the place 1
was bound for—and all because of a couple
of vox-et-jmi terra nihil\ voices without a
body between them. I consumed the way
in mentally reviewing all the circumstances
of the case again and again,and by no means
in a credulous spirit; but when I at length
arrived at the city upon the hill, I was as far
from the solution of the matter a* when I
started. Thar, the ferryman himself, a sim
ple countryman, should be concerned in any
practical joke upon me, a mere lly-fi.-hing
acquaintance of a couple of weeks’ standing:
or that such people as the Courtenays should
have permitted the playing of it upon a guest
at Cowles, was only less astounding than
the perfection of the trick itself—if trick it
really was. But neither my feelings of anger
when I looked on the matter in that light,
nor those of mystery, when I took the more I
supernatural view of it, in anywise interfer
ed with the gradual growth of apperitc: and
when I turned into a private roo nos he
Bidtop Head in High Street, the leading
idea in iny mind, alter all my cogitations,
was breakfast. If seven and forty mysteri
ous voices had infirmed me that the ferry
man was waiting then, I should have respond
ed: “ Then let him wait—at ail events, till
1 eat my breakfast and sundries.”
Although Exeter is as picturesque and
venerable a city as any raven could desire
to dwell in. it is riot a lively town by any
means, in a general way. A saintly, solemn,
quiet spot, indeed, it is; excellently adapted
for a sinner to pass bis last days in—although
he would probably find them among the
longest in his life, and peculiarity adapted to
that end, in its very great benefit of (Episco
pal) clergy; but for a hale young gentleman
of nineteen to find himself therein at nine
o’clock on a fine summer morning, with
nothing to do, and all the day to do it in,
was an embarrassing circumstance.
“Nothing going od, as usual, I suppose?”
inquired I, with a yawn at the waiter,when
I bad finished a vast refection.
“ Going on sir? Yes sir. City very gay
indeed, sir, just now. Assizes, sir, now
sitting. Murder case—very interesting for
a young gentleman like yourself, indeed,
sir!”
“ How do you know what is interesting?” !
retorted I. with the indignation of Hobble- j
dehoybood, at having its manhood called iu
question.
“ Convicted s’r? No sir; not yet sir.—
We hope he will be convicted this morning,
sir. It's a very bad case, indeed, sir. A
journeyman carpenter, one Robert Moles,
have been and murdered a toll keeper—killed
biurt in the dead of night, sir, with a hatchet; j
and his wife's the witness against him.”
“That’s very horrible,’’ remarked I. ‘ I
didn't know a wife could give evidence.”
“No sir, not his wife sir; it’s the toll
keeper’s wife, sir. She swears to this Moles,
although it happened two months ago or
more, sir. Murder wll out they say ; and
how true it is! He’ll be hung in front of
the jail, sir, in a hopen place upon an ’ill, so
as almost everybody will be able to see it,
bless ye!”
‘ I should like to hear the end of this trial,
very much indeed, waiter.’’
“ Should you sir ?’’ fondling his chin. “It
couldn’t be done sir—it could not be done:
the court is crowded into a ma3h already.—
To be sure, I've got a . But no sir, it |
could not be done.”
“ I suppose it’s merely a question of how
much? ’ said I, taking out my purse. “Didn’t
you say you had a.”
“A cous'n as is a javelin-man, yes sir.—
Well I don’t know but what it might be
done, sir, if you’ll just wait till I’ve cleared
away. There they're at it already.”
While he spoke, a fanfaronade of trum
pets without proclaimed that the judges
were about to take their seats; and in a few
minutes the waiter and I were amoDg the
crowd. The javelin-man, turning out to be ,
amenable to ngtson and to the ties of rela
tionship, as well as not averse to a small re
compense, I soon found standing room for
myself in the court house, where every seat
had been engaged for hours before. As I
had been informed, the proceedings were all
but concluded, save some unimportant indi
rect evidence, aDd the speech of the pri
soner's coensel. This gentleman had been
assigned to the accused as counsel by the
court, since be had not provided himself
with any advocate, nor attempt to meet the
tremendous charge laid against him, except
by a simple denial. All that had been elit-
MACON, CIA., FRIDAY, JILY 29, 1859.
ited from him since liis apprehension, it
seemed was this: that the toll-keeper’s wife
was mistaken in his identity, but that he
had led a wandering life of late, and could
not produce any person to prove an alibi;
that he was in Dorsetshire when the murder
was done, mi'es away from the scene of its
commission ; but at what place on the par
ticular day in question—the stli of March
lie could not recall to mind. This taken in
connection with strong condemnatory evi
dence, it was clear would go sadly against
him with the jury as a lame defence indeed;
although, as it struck me who had only
gleaned this much from a bystander, noth
ing was more natural than that a journey
man carpenter, who was not likely to have
kept a dairy, should not recollect what place
he .had tramped through upon any particu
lar date. Why where had I been on the sth
of March ? thought I. It took me several
minutes to remember, and I only did so by
recollecting that I had left Dorsetshire on the
day following, partly in consequence of some
altercations going on at home. Dorsetshire,
by the by, did the prisoner say ? Why sure
ly I had seen that face somewhere before,
which was now turned anxioudy and hur
riedly round the court, and now, as if asham
ed ot meeting so many eyes, concealed in
his tremu'ous hands ! R ,bert Moles! No,
I certainly never heard that name, and yet 1
began to watch the poor fellow with singu
lar interest, begotten of the increasing con
viction that he was not altogether a stranger
to me.
The evidence went on and concluded; the
j counsel for the prisoner did his best, but his
speech was, of necessity, an appeal to mercy
j rather than to justice. All that had beer,
confided to him by his client was this: that
the yom.g man was a vagabond, who had
deserted his parents, and run away’ from his
indentures, and w.-s so far deserving of little
pity ; that he had however, only been vi
cious, and not criminal: as lor the murder
with which he was charged, the commission
ol such a hideous outrage had never enter
ei his brain. “Did the lad look like murder?
Ur did he not rather resemble the Prodigal
Son, penitent for his misdeeds, indeed, bnt,
not weighed down by the blood of a fellow
creature ?”
Ail this was powerfully expressed, but it
was not evidence; and the jury without re
tiring from their box, pronounced the young
man ‘‘Guilty',” and a silence which seemed
to corroborate the verdict. Then the judge
put on the terrible black cap, and solemnly
inquired for the last time whether Robert
Moles had any reason to urge why sentence
should not be passed upon him.
“My lord,” replied the lad, in a singularly
low voice, which recalled the utterer to my
recollection on the instant, “I am wholly in
nocent of the dreadful crime of which I am
accused, although I confess I see in the doom
that is about to be passed upon me a fit re
compense for my wickedness and disobedi
ence. 1 was, however, until informed of it
by the officer who took me into custody, as
ignorant of this poor man’s existence as of
his death.”
“My lord, ” cried I, speaking with an en
ergy and distinctness that astonished ntyself,
“ibis young man has spoken the truth, as I
can testify.”
There was a tremendous sensation in the
court at this announcement, and it was some
minutes before I was allowed to take my
place in the witness box. The counsel for
the crown objected to my becoming evidence
at that period of the proceedings at all, and
threw himself into the legal question with all
the indignation which he had previously ex
hibited against the practice of midnight mur
der : but eventually the court overruled him,
and I was sworn.
I stated that I did not know the prisoner
by name, hut that I could swear to his iden
tity. I described how upon the sth of
March last, the local builder, being in want
ol hands, had hired the accused to assist in
the construction of a bow-window in the
drawing-room of our house in Dorsetshire.
‘I he counsel for the prosecution, affecting
to disbelieve my sudden recognition, of the
prisoner, here requested to know whether
a; y particular circumstance had recalledhim
to my m;nd, or whether I had only a vague
and general recollection of him.
“1 had only that,” 1 confessed, “until the
prisoner spoke ; his voice is peculiar, and I
remember very distinctly to have heard it
upon the occasion I speak of; iie had the
misfortune to tread upon his foot rule and
break if, while at work upon the window,
and overheard him lamenting that occur
rence.”
Here the counsel for the accused remind
ed the court that n broken foot-rule had been
found upon the prisoner’s person, at the time
of his apprehension.
Within some five rninute3, in short, the
feelings of judge, jury, and spectators en
tirely changed; and the poor young fellow
at the bar, instead of having sentence of
death passed upon him,found himself,through
my means, set very soon at liberty. He came
over to me at the inn to express his sense of
my prompt interference, and to beg to know
how he might show his gratitude. “I am
not so mean a fellow a? I seem,” said he,
“and I hope, by God’s blessing, to be yet. a
credit to the parents to whom I have be
haved so ill.”
“What is your real name?” inquired I,
struck by a sudden impulse.
“My real name,” replied the young man,
blushing deeply, “is Courtnay, and my home,
where I hope to be to-night, is at Cowles
Farm, across the Exe.”
And so I had not been called so mysteri
ously at four o'clock in the morning, without
a good and sufficient reason, after all.
Kindness.
BY M. MORTON DOWLER.
J can conceive nothing more attractive
than the heart when filled with the spirit
of kindness. Certainly nothing so em
bellishes human nature as the practice of
this virtue; a sentiment so genial and
so excellent ought to be emblazoned up
on every thought and action of our life.
The principle underlies the w hole theory
of Christianity, and in no other person
do we find it more happily exemplified
than in the life of our Savior, who, while
on earth, went about doing good. And
how true it is that
“ A little word in kindness spoken,
A motion, or tear.
Has often heal’d the heart that's broken.
And made a friend sincere!”
1 he benefits resulting from its prac
tice are two fold: it begets while it be
stows blessings. This law of compensa
tion we see every day illustrated in the
physical as well as the moral world.—
\\ hen the spring returns to unbind the
frozen streams, they leap downward to
the sea, imparting life and beauty in
their course, and the ocean, ever prompt
to duty, sends greeting back to earth the
grateful shower. May our lives thus
ever flow forth in deeds of love, and
under heaven prove a blessing to our
race!— Ladies’ Repository.
“.Mother Made It.”
A few weeks since, while in one of
the beautiful inland cities of Wisconsin,
■ an incident occurred which awakened in
my mind a train of reflections which
j possibly may be written and read with
advantage.
I was hurrying along the street, when
1 my attention was arrested by a little
1 boy on the side of the pavement, selling
candy, lie was not really beautiful nor
was he decidedly the reverse. His age
was about nine years; his clothes were
old and faded, but well patched, liis
candy was spread upon a course, white
cotton cloth, neatly stretched over what
had been a japanned server, lie was
surrounded by a group of small boys,
evidently belonging to different grades
! of society.
As I came nearly opposite him, the
oft-repeated interlud?, “candy sir?” fell
upon my ears, and, although opposed to
the excessive use of candy, I stepped
aside to patronize the light-haired, pale,
freckled, homespun little representative
of trade. I purchased of him for his
encouragement, but with particular te
ference to the friendship of the little
folks of the family with which I was the
temporary guest.
The candy was as white as the cloth
beneath it,being free from the poisonous
coloring ingredients t-o extensively used
in the confectionery art. I tasted it,
and found it delicately flavored and very
nice.
“My boy,” said 1, “your candy is very
good. Lee me have a little more. ’ i |
immediately saw that my remark awak
ened in his young heart emotions which,
in themselves, were quite abstract from
the candy trade, his countenance beam
ed with joy, as he raised his large eyes, ;
sparkling with delight, as he observed,
in reply :
“ It is good, isn’t it? Mother made *7.”
In those few words was embodied an
unconscious exhibition cf character.—
Here was a spontaneous outburst of fili
al affection.
Now, this incident, in itself, was tii
fling ; but the spirit of the language car*
ried my mind back through life more j
than thirty years, and at irregular inter- ,
vals bade me pause and apply this senti
ment to some item connected with my
own history.
Before making the application, how
ever, 1 wish to disabuse myself of the
charge which such application may incur,
of appropriating to myself the nobility
of character which 1 have above attribu
ted to the candy boy. Holding myself
exempt from this arrogance, 1 would
simply say, 1 am not ashamed of the
profession of affection for my parents,
and 1 hope 1 may not outlive that profes
sion.
When 1 was a little boy, at school,
and carried my dinner In a satchel made
of calico, some of my schoolmates car
ried theirs in fashionable willow baskets,
and sometimes teased me because 1 car
ried mine in a “poke.” I felt vexed, but
reconciled myself with the recollection,
that if 1 did carry a calico poke, “moth
er made it.” In les3 than twenty-five
years after that time, one of these school
mates was happy to avail himself of tiie
privilege of sending his children to my
school to receive gratuitous instruction,
proffered in view of his extreme pover
ty. 11 is children came to school without
any dinner. They had no nice willow
basket; they needed no calico “poke.”
William Foster ruled his copy book
with a pencil set in a fine silver case. —
He said he would not carry such a great
ugly club of a pencil as mine. 1 com
pared the pencils. llis was the hand
somest, but no better than mine. I had
a good lead pencil, hammered out of a
piece of lead. Mother made it, and I
was satisfied vi ith it. After we grew up
to be men, William Foster came to me
to calculate interest on a small note, at
<> per cent, per annum; he carried a pen
cil Worth four cents. 1 had no gum
elastic ball; but 1 had one made of wool
en ravellings and covered with leather.
“ Mother made it.”
When in my tw'enty-second year, 1
left home to attend school in L. There
were in that school some fast young
men, the sons of wealthy parents.—
There were others whose good sense was
not annihilated by pecuniary advanta
ges. Os the former class was John
Stokes, who wore very fine broadcloth.
My best coat was not so fine ; the cloth
cost two dollars and fifty cents a yard ;
my mother traded check of her own
manufacture for it, while J was working
so assist my father in 1 Rising his family;
she paid fifty cents for getting it cut, and
made it herself. John Stokes came one
day to my desk, held out his arm, com
pared his coat sleeve with mine, and in
quired, ironically, where 1 got such a fine
coat. 1 proudly told him, ‘"Mother made
it!” lie feigned great surprise, and
sarcastically observed he had mistaken
it for imported goods; he wished he
could get such fine cloths, and wondered
if mother would not get him up a fine
coat.
A short time afterwards, while in a
tailor shop one morning with a fellow
student, John Stokes’ fine coat was
brought in by a lad, with instructions to
scour and press it. He was not in his
class that day ; he had been seen the
previous night on Water street, rolling
in the mud, drunk as Bacchus. He left
the school in disgrace. He now lies in
a drunkard’s grave.
1 boarded myself while attending
school here. I walked nine miles home
at the end of each week, and returned on
Monday morning with a loaf of bread
under my arm. It would become stale
before Friday evening, but I always rel
ished it when 1 recollected that mother
made it.
I am now so far advanced in life that
my friends begin to call me old. But I
have not lived long enough to learn why
I should not still respect ray mother and
regard her affectionately. She is quite
advanced in years, and has nearly lost
her sight. She sits within a lew feet of
me, sewing up a rent in my linen coat
while I write this. She has been a wi
dow eight years, and is still toiling for
the welfare of her children. She has
never studied grammar, philosophy, or
music—these things were seldom taught
in her young days—but she knows their
value, and has toiled hard many a day to
purchase books for her children, and sup
port them at school. And shall I now
curl the lip of scorn, or blush in com
pany, to hear her substitute a verb of
unity for one of plurality, or pronounce
a word twenty years behind the Web
sterian era ? Never—no never ! Tne
old dilapidated grammar in my library
might testify against her style ; but its
testimony would be infinitely more ter
rible against my ingratitude. I recol
lect well when she rode seven miles one
cold winter’s day, to sell produce and
purchase that book for me, w hen I w as a
little boy. It required a sacrifice, but
“mother made it.”
Sympathy: A Scene
As wide as the gulf is between the
highest and lowest grades of Society,
that gulf is sometimes bridged in an hour
by the power of sympathy. Between
the refinements of the Fifth Avenue, and
the squalid misery cf “ Cow Bay,” the
distance seems immeasurable. Who
could conceive for example, of a lady,
educated among the luxuries and niceties
of w ealth, taking to her bosom the child
of some wretched and depraved woman
ot Five Points? Yet precisely this was
lately done, under circumstances which
w e shall proceed to narrate.
A lady, w'hose aversion for hovels and
squaliduess is extreme, and who could
never touch a street beggar, was led to
pay a visit to one of those mission sta
tions in the Five Points. It so happen
ed that at the moment of her arrival,
the establishment was stirred with the
excitement of anew rescue. A child
had been taken from the brtast of an
iinbruted mother, and brought to the
home in a state of neglect which could
not be exceeded. The little thing had
not a thread of clothing, except a w rap
per which had been borrowed for the mo
ment.
As the child was unrolled, the lady
looked on, as perhaps Phan ah’s daugh
ter looked at Moses in his ark of rushes!
The sight was enough to melt a stone,
how much more the heart of a mother !
The infant looked up with as sweet a
smile and as bright an eye as ever glad
dened the nursery of a palace. Our fas
tidious lady was dissolved into tears of
pity. She followed the nurse to the bath;
saw the human flower washed from the
soil in which it grew ; was charmed with
the beauty and perfection of the infant;
witnessed the process of perhaps the
first dressing that little boy ever had ;
she saw that under the tilth of utter neg
lect there had been concealed a babe of
exquisite loveliness. The child smiled
and looked into the lady's face precisely
like a white robed darling which that
mother had left at home. She wept
again and again upon the child, until it
was time to retire. After going out of
the apartment, that fastidious mother re
membered that the poor ehiid seemed
hungry. She went baek, and next, the
friendless outcast of Cow Bay was in
that lady’s arms, as happy as any young
nursling could be, as it fed to its little
heart’s content.
We forbear comment where so little
is needed, and so much is possible. An
incideut like this reveals a power of
sympathy, whicli God has imparted in
human hearts for the noblest ends.—
Could these sympathies have free play ;
could the tears of the refined and pros
perous oftener moisten the soil of neg’
lect and misfortune ; could the extremes
of society more frequently meet in our
hospitals and homes for the outcast;
what untold blessings would be inter
changed ; what burdens lifted; what
sorrows averted ; what fountains of sin
dried up; and what scope afforded for
the imitation of Hinl who lcfo Heaven’s
palace, to dwell--an angel of m^rcy—in
the dreary abode of our ruined race.
Can a Mother Forget.
Can • a mother forget ? Not a morn
ing, noon or night but she looks into the
corner of the kitchen in which you read
Robinson Crusoe, and thinks of you as
yet a boy. Mothers rarely become
conscious that their children are grown
out of their childhood. They think of
them, advise them, write to them, as if
not full fourteen years of age. They
cannot forget the child. Three times a
day she thinks who are absent from the
table, and hopes the next year at the
farthest, she may have “just her own
family there and if you are there, look
out for the fat limb of a fried chicken,
and that coffee which none but every
body’s own mother can make. Did
Hannah forget Samuel ? A short sen
tence, full of household history, and run
ning over with genuine mother-love is
tellingly beautiful. “Moreover, his moth
er brought it to him from year to year,
when she came up with her Hhsband to
the yearly sacrifice.”
A mother mourning at the first-born’s
grave, or closing the dying eyes of child
after child displays a grief whose sacred
ness is sublime. But bitterer, heavier
than the death stroke is the desperation
of a son who rushes over a crushed
heart, in vices which he would hide even
from the abandoned and vile.
Napoleon once asked a lady what
France needed for the education of her
youth; and the short, profound reply
was, “ Mothers ! ”
Hear no ill of a friend, nor speak any
of an enemy; believe not all you hear;
and appear what you are.
Men long inured to vice, and hab
ituated to lolly, afford rare instances
of reformation ; youth is the proper sea
son.
From the Sumter Republican.
A DISCUSSION
or THR
DOCTRINE CF UNfVERSALISM
BIT WEEN
Rev. IF. .7. Scott, Methodist, and Rev. D. B.
Clapton, ln i versa list.
Rev. D. B. Clayton,
Dear Sir: —l might justly complain
of the allegation in your last article, that I
have indulged in “splenetic personalities”
and thereby violated the courtesies of debate.
This is not only a very grievous accusation,
bnt if I atri not deceived, both with refer
ence to my own feelings, and the significa
tion of my own words, en accusation, un
supported by facts. And as nothing is gained
by these side issues, I do hope that when
the sober second thought returns, your
own sense of justice will induce its retrac
tion.
A public disputant, mv dear sir, may ex
pect to be sometimes gal’ed by the fire of
his adversary, and if lie has not an ample
-’took of patience and philosophy, and a good
deal of charity besides, he ought to keep
aloof from the arena of controversy. A
man moreover like yourself, confident of ul
timate victory, ought not to suffer an occa
sional buffeting to sour hi3 temper, or
ruffle the’ surface of his self-complacen
cy. After this personal explanation, I shall
proceed to notice those points in your
fourth article that are pertinent to the
issue.
1 find you still tugging with dogged per
severance at that troublesome passage from
Job. Like the unmannerly Ghost of Ban
quo, it will not go down at your bidding.—
our last shift to get rid of it, is the worst
of nil. While you admit that Job did use
“words without knowledge,” you intimate
that these words are only found in the clos
ing chapters of the book. What then will
you do with the 3rd chapter, where he im
patiently “ curses his day” and utters many j
naughty and foolish wmrds? Doe3 he j
exhibit in this a meek or a se!f-r:ghte- j
ous spirit? Are these “words without
knowledge” or words of truth and sober
ness ?
Towards the close of the Book, as we
have already said, he becomes humbled by
right view's of Ids own exceeding sinfulness,
and then he commands our heartiest appro
bation From this it will be seen that yonr
last argument is felo de se, and serves you
like McFiPgal’s gun,
Which though we l ! aimed at dnek and plover,
Shot wide the mark aid kicked the owner over.
e advise you to “pick veur flint and fry
it again,’’ or what perhaps would be more
effectual, get the new versionists to expunge
it as a lie.
\ on favor me with another criticism on
the English word creed, and take m*- to task
for sryingthat, Universalism was not deemed
worthy of a “passing notice,” in the early
ages of the church. While upon this sub
ject of creeds, it might have been well fbr
you to have furnished our readers with some
extracts from the fifteen creeds, (excepting
the creed of Origen) that were compiled
previous to the 4th century, refuting my pro
position. Instead of that, you refer with an
air of triumph, to the decision of the sth
General Council at Constantinople, condemn
ing the opinions of Origen. I was apprised
of the existence of this pretended decree.—
I had long since learned, however, that it
was a spurious document. If the learned
Edi'or of Mo. hcin’s Ecclesiastical History,
is a reliable authority, tho Council of the Con
stantinople did not condemn Origen’s doc
trines. The notion that it did is derived i
from the Greek Cano xs, in regard to which !
very lithe is known, but which are certainly
different from she acts of the Council.— ;
They are indeed of hardly mire historical
value, than the Sibylline Oracles —an ad
mitted forgery. and which yet your wri
ters have the hardihood to quote as proof
that Universalism was current in the second
century'.
But suppose we take the Greek Canons,
what according to their testimony, were !
some of the opinions of Origen. Ist. That
the sun, noon and stars, had rational souls. —
2nd. That the torments of the damned were
limited in duration, and that as Christ was.
crucified in this world for the sics of men, he
would be crucified in the next for the sins
of the Devils. If this be Universalism, make
the most of it. I think, however, that it
would be wiser to give up the claim to a
high descent, than to acknowledge such a
pedigree.
You are quite as unfortunate in your
Greek criticisms, as in your Historical re
searches. I ventured to suggest counter
worked as a more significant word in Ist
Cor. 15th, 20th, than destroyed. And for this
offence I am confronted with the huge lexi
con of Liddell and Scott, and a formidable
array of scriptures. It is some relief to find
that while Mr. Clayton scouts the sugges- j
tion that Dr. Adam Clarke sustains my view,
and that the learned Commentator Oishau
sen sanctions the idea, if not the very term
employed. Indeed we can conceive of no
way of destroying natural death but by
counterworking it in the resurrection. What
need then of an appeal to Lexicons to show
that Katargeo means to make useless, void,
to abolish, or more correctly still, to leave
unemployed. The etymology of the term
Kata intensive, and Atmos without work, es
tablishes that point. The term destroyed
however, to which I objected in the autho
rized version, is not countenanced by a ma
jority of Lexicographers. But not satisfied
with your appeal to the Lexicons, you go'to
the Greek Testament and adduce a variety
of passages, and iu doing so make a strange
jumble of the Active and Passive forms of
the verb. Amongst other passages you
mention Ist Cor. 13, 8, “whether there be
tongues they shall cease, whether there be .
knowledge it shall vanish away.” Here you -
add for the information of the unlearned
reader, this word Katargen “occurs twice,
and is rendered cease, vanish away.” This is
your statement, whereas, the truth is the
word rendered cease is neither Katargeo nor
one of its derivatives, but the very different
verb Pousontai. Wuether this was an over
sight or not, it may very well enforce your
precept that “a critic should keep both eyes
open’’ especially when lie is striving to be
7iypercritical.
While upon this subject of Greek critic
ism, I had as well expose another blunder
you have committed. I stated in my argu
ment upon your proof-text, Col. Is*. 19,
that the phrase that “it pleased the Father
that in him all fullness should dwell,” taken
in connexion with the foregoing part of the
: chapter, was an assertion of the proper di
vinity of Christ. Just as I expected, you
!l“d to the Socinian refuge, the 3rd Chap, of
I Ephesians.where Paul prays that the Ephe
sian disciples may be “filled with all the full
ness of God.” You say correctly that in
both places the Greek term is pleroma. But
; while it is pleroma tou Them, the fu'lneet of
God in Ephesians, in your the reader
| will see by comparing it with Col. 2,9, it is
| pleroma tts Theotetos, the fullness oj the 6 oa-
I head. The former, according to McKnight,
> Olshausen. Clarke, &c., &c., meaning the
N l 31 BEK 18.
rfts of the spirit, and the latter, the essence
and attributes of the Deity. So that it re
: mains true that yonr proof-text from Colos
■ sians es'ablishes the Divinity of Christ,
which Universalism utterly denies, and is
constrained to deny or give up it most cher
ished dogmas.
I shall not pause here to correct your sev
eral misrepresentations of my argument.—
Our reai’e s can do this without my assis
tance. IS or will I suffer myself to be di
verted from the subject-matter of our con
troversy by your attacks on Methodist The
ology. It will be well understood by all
that you do this because it is far easier to rail
t an to reason, and because ycu can better
indulge in sweepmg denuncia'n ns of Meth
odism, than defend your own darling Uni
versalism.
I shall now consider your two additional
proof-texts. The first passage is Isa. 45, 23,
24, in which Jehovah says that “every knee
shall bow and every tongue shall swear,
surely shall say, in the Lord have I righte
ousness and strength.” You will not deny,
I presume, that the term swear in the text
is of the same import with confess. So the
Septuagint renders it, and so Paul interprets
it in your parallel passage from Phillippians,
where it reads “every tongue shall confess.”
McKnight informs us that the Hebrew means
to give an account upon oath. Having set
tled this point, the next thing to be ascer
tained is the time and place of this univer
sal confession. We refer you to another
parallel passage, lUm. 14, i(), 11, 12. which
it is a little remarkable you should have over
looked. It reads. “We shall all stand before
the Judgment Seat of Christ.'’ How do
you know, Paul? \ for ,” he adds, “it is writ
ten, As I live sailh the Lord, every knee
shall bow to me anti every tongue shall con
fess to God. So then every one shall give an
account of himself to God.” If Paul then is
a trust-worthy witness, this confession shall
be made at the General Judgment. An
gels, men and Devils, shall then confess
Christ to be Lord, to the glory of God the
Father.
He who makes the of man to praise
him, will likewise make the punishment of.
the guilty to glorify hirn. But you may in
sist on the phrase “In the Lord have I right
eousness and strength.” We reply that this
phrase may be rendered “In the Lord there
j is all righteousness and strength.” And so
it would leave your construction without a
semblance of propriety. But taking it as it
I stands in the English SeriDtures, we have
! only to finish the verse of which this phrase
jis but a part, and it then reads—“ In the
j Lord have I righteousness and strength.—
Mven to him shall all men come, and all that
are incensed against him shall be ashamed.”
! There will be two classes then, those who
arc ashamed,and those who are not ashamed
|at his coining. Upon the whole, this proof
• text establishes a future judgment, and re
| lutes the Universalist notion that the day of
i J pigment was at the destruction of Jerusa
’ lem, and that the damnation of the world
has been going on for 1800 years.
Your next proof text is Is*. Tim. 4, 10, in
which Paul says God “is the Savior of all
i men, especially of them that believe.” Let
■ the reader observe that the Apostle says
that “God is the Savior of all men” in the
present tense. Mr. Clayton says he is not
the Savior of all except in t .e future tense,
and so he quarrels with his own witness.—
We think Mr. Clayton is mistaken and that
St. Paul is right. God we maintain is the
Savior of all men note from a thousand spir
itual and temporal evils. His Providential
care extends to all, but especially to the be
liever who, as Paul informs us, two verses
hack, has “the promise of the life that now
is, as well as that to come.” In this sense
it is said in the 3Gth Tsalm, that he saves
both man and beast. In cur version it is
rendered “ preserveth both man and beast.”
but Mr. C. knows that the Greek of the
Septuagint is the same that is rendered Sa
vior in his proof text. It follows that if he
can prove from the text in Timothy that
God saves all men in Heaven. Father Wes
ley can by the same process prove from the
text in the 3Gth Psalm, that the beasts will
be saved. A nice Heaven we would have
if it is made up of the unsanctified refuse of
the Brothel and (he Rumhc'e, with a sprink
ling of Swine, and all manner of cattle. But
even if we were to allow that the text re
fers to eternal salvation, and if, besides, we
talcs the Universalist view of if, what does
it signify iH the present discussion. What,
according to Universalism, i3 this common
salvation that all men enjoy ? Is it a salva
tion from Hell ? No. From sin ? No.
From the purishmentof sin? No. What
then is it? It is a salvation, according to
their best writers, from the grave. And is
this the boastedykn? tidings of Universalism?
Why even the orthodox, in the language of
St. Paul, have hope towards God of a resur
rection both of the just and unjust.
And what is the special salvation of the
believer ? It consists in a salvation from sin
and ignorance, and the fear of death. Let
us apply their Theology to facts. The An -
tediluvians were great sinners, so much so,
that the earth stank in the nostrils of God.
They of course enjoyed only the commpn
srlvation. Noah, upon the other hand, had
Faith, and enjoyed the special salvation. It
cume to pass that God sent a flood of waters
and drowned all except Noah and those who
were with him in the Ark. While there
fore those wicked sinners who had the com
mon salvation were in Heaven, feasting with
the Patriarchs, Noah who was specially
saved, was left for some hundreds of years
to toil at his husbandry, and get there at last
through great tribulation.
From such a Theology, Good Lord deliver
us! Its absurdity is so well shown in some
lines of my friend Peck, that I must beg
your pardon for again quoting him :
The men who lived before the flood
Were made to feel the rod ;
They missed the ark, but like a lark
AVere washed right up to God.
But Noah, he, because you see
Much grace to him was given,
He lmd to toil and till the soil,
And work his way to Heaven.
Your idea at the close of your article that
Paul was reproached as aUniversalist preach
er, must surely be a ‘piece of pleasantry.
How does such a notion harmonize with his
own statement that he became the “servant
of all,” and that he was “made all things to
all men that he might by all means save
some” What a pity someone had not re
lieved his anxiety by telling him that “God
was the Savior of all men,” and that he
needn’t give himself any great concern
about them. But we must now dismiss
your affirmative argument, and devote the
remainder of this article to our objections to
your system of Faith.
And first,We object to Universalism be
cause it makes Christ either dishonest or an
incompetent religious Teacher. Let us ex
amine each branch of this proposition. It
will be remembered that at the period of
Christ’s advent, the doctrine of the endless
punishment of the wicked was the establish
ed faith of the Jews and also of the Greeks
and Romans. The ancient Mythologies