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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