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UNKNOWN.
BY EMILY HAWTHORNE. (K. T. CHARLES.)
With flowers we deck the soldiers' graves,
While over all our standard waves;
When flowers and lawn the dewdrop laves,
And breath of spring is softly blown
O'er mounds where, on the simple stone,
The record says they were—Unknown.
With flowers—the brightest ones that bloom—
Ke garlanded eacli soldier's tomb,
While sunbeams chase away the gloom;
ouell then the sigh, and still the moan.
Where head-post stands, like guardain lone,
Telling the oft told tale—‘Unknown.’
Bring flowers and strew them thickly where,
In leafv shade or sun's bright glare.
The hillocks rise—pay tribute there;
There be your fairest chaplets thrown,
Though grass unkempt and rankly grown
Waves where no headstone says—‘Uuknown.'
Then cull the loveliest flowrets bright,
And slowly move with footfall light.
Where sleep brave battlers for the right;
While sleeping breezes sob and moan,
Or zephyrs sigh in monotone.
Like plaintive wail, for those Unknown.
We And them here, and find them there;
We see them rising everywhere,
These head-boards o'er the hillocks fair;
Standing like mourners sad and lone.
Upon whose faces thought-lines shown
Form that one saddening word, Unknown.
From north to south, from east to west,
O'er all this land in freedom blest.
By 1 breath of peace once more caressed,
A dozen summers’ suns have shone.
Where death his seed hath thickly sown
Withlriend and foe alike Unknown.
• ~ '~iod-
My father oid, with pride uprose—
A patriot marched to meet the foes;
In southern soil he found repose.
Bear, loved one, whom I scarce had known,
My heart-thoughts be the flowrets thrown
To find thy grave—to me ‘Unknown.-
Two brothers growing side by side.
In beardless youth, next filled with pride,
‘In hospital'one brother died;
I cannot quell the rising moan,
I seem tosee him ill and lone,
Hying, midst faces all 'Unknown.'
That some hand scatter flowers, I pray,
O'er these I loved who marched away.
And came not back from day today,
O’er all the land be flowersstrown
Where sleep the brave—their faults condone—
Let strife and discord be ‘Unknown.'
And blooming flowers your fragrance shed
, i'er heroes' graves who fought and bled
In days of yore—our patriots dead.
A hundred years have swiftly flown;
On history's page their deeds are shown,
What though their names be all ‘Unknown,’
Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.
They stood, a meagre patriot band,
Aod nobly won a victory grand
That won us peace, and made our own,
The fairest land on which e'er shone
Heaven's sunlight—o'er their graves Unknown?
Then Germantown remember still,
And Brandywine and Bunker Hill.
While Trenton makes our bosoms thrill.
\t Yorktown freedom’s banner shone,
bh sacred dust of crumbled bone
Erstwhile our sires—now all ‘Unknown.'
Forgetting not that later day
Of C’erro-Gordo—Monterey?
Those graves find, too -their veterans gray
So aged now and feeble grown;
Whose bouvant youth with years have flown;
In all the throng, are they ‘Unknown?’
With flowery wreath shall all be crowned;
Sweet flowers of rhyme for every mound;
From northern slope to southern bound.
Rise harmony and monotone,
While sunbeams fall, sunkisses thrown;
With flowers of hope for those ‘Unknown.’
In Memory's garden long I sought,
To cull the fairest flowers of thought,
A northern tribute to have brought;
But the winged flowers, by zephyrs blown,
Soared upward to the great white throne;
For all the ‘Unknown,' there are known.
Indianapolis, May 30th, '77.
Waiting for flip Danr*
BY IRENE INGE COLLIER,
CHAPTER III.
The sun rose brightly on the day of the long
talked of May picnic. The neighborhood was
all astir with preparations for the excursion. A
ride out to a beautiful grove and spring, the
coronation of the May queen,—Carrie Farman’s
pretty niece Jeannette,—a dinner under the
green trees (such a dinner as it would be too !)
and then any amout of fun, plays, flirting, stroll
ing and a return home in the dewy twilight. Such
was the day’s programme.
The sun had not dried the dew-drops, before
numbers of pretty little Misses in white frocks,
with pink, blue or scarlet sashes might be s ea
hurrying across to the Institute, where all the
school flock were to assemble preparatory to
starting. Each young heart beat high, each
round cheek was flushed with pleasure, each
little girl had her beau attendant or in pro
spective.
Wagon after wagon rolls out of the Institute
gate freighted with the picnicers.
The last in the line was an open platform, on
which sat the Queen of May surrounded by her
maids of honor.
“ And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace
Of fairer form, or lovlier face."
Every body was going. Buggies with hand
some cavaliers and smiling maids crowded the
hilly road.
About two miles from the town, directly on the
road was a large farm house built of logs with
four main rooms, two up stairs, and two below,
with an ell running back and a wide hall run
ning through the house. This is the home of
the Farmans’ Indian creepers, white star jessa
mine and dark-green ivy so cover the white
washed sides of this Southern home, that at a
casual glance one cannot disoern that its walls
are homely logs.
A long piazza ran in front hung with wood
bine and honey suckle in full bloom; the under
hall was covered with cool matting, the large
windows of the parlor were open and gave a
glimpse into a handsome interior where a pretty
papering hid tbe rough walls, a rich carpet
covered the floor and a handsome piano and
elegant furniture farther adorned the room.
Some well executed water color sketches, pencil
drawings and two or three oil paintings hun»
upon the walls. These were the work of Cariie
and Anna, her sister.
Carrie and Anna and their brothers Sam and
Sydney with several young people of both sexes
were on the piazza as the picnicers came in
sight. They waved to them gaily, and the next
moment the Farman carriage came around to
the front gate and drew up beside two buggies
that were already there. Into these buggies
Messrs. Sam and Sydney soon handed the ladies
of their choice. As they were preparing to drive
away, Mr. Fred Denman drove up, threw the
reins to one of the nnmerons little negro by
standers and walked np to tbe daughter of the
honse, saying ‘Good morning Miss Carrie; am I
too soon ?’
‘Oh ! she laughed ‘I wouldn’t think of being
np bat for the picnio. I wish to wait here for
Eloise, if yon do not object Mr. Fred.'
'Not L It’s quite pleasant waiting if yon’ll
talk to me.'
‘I’ll try, or Fll let yon do the talking. Let
ns sit oat here in the shade. Here comes ma-
my; listen to her parting instructions.'
A fat negro woman came oat oarrying an im
mense champagne basket, followed by a small
regiment of grinning little negroes, every one
toting' something for mammy Vina to deposit
in the Jersey wagon.
Mammy was to be alone in all her glory, with
only Mose to tell all the way how folks did
this and that in old 'North Caleiny whar she
had been raised.’
Tbe gate was held open and mammy waddled
triumphantly through, deposited her basket,
felt of her gorgeous turban to see if it had been
misplaced, then turned to give her parting in
junctions.
'Jim, yon black rascal, git down onten dat ar
carriage.’
‘Yas, mammy,’ and Jim dodged to keep out
of reach of her big arms.
‘Here, Berry take care wid dat dar basket,
you know its got misstisses flue ohanny dat
massa fotohed back from Orleans, when he
went dar wid cotton in oleaning times.’
'Ise a gwine ter.’
‘M'indy take good care of them little folks,
and don’t let little Kit scratch Peggy’s eyes oat,
and take her hot Iicker. Tell Riar ter spin all
them thar cuts,and let Cressy to fix dat dar but-
er and milk. For the lo c sake don’t let Mose’s
yaller dogy git into dat frizzle hen’s nest, and
bless my soul!’ shading her eyes and looking
down the road, ‘it yonder don’t come dat dar
black eyed school marm wid de man what got
so much money in his store. I told you so;
dun gone and cotched Miss Anna's bow, I tole
you so,’ with a wise nod of her head. ‘Dey
aint ridin’ out in dat ar fine buggy ever day
fer nuffln, when Ise a milking. I ’clare they
fairly sails by,’ and with her eyes rolled back
ward to get another glimpse and a frown at the
trash gang, as she called them, holding on be
hind, the wagon lumbered off, mammy’s voice
still heard giving instructions, for she was
‘gwine ter de picnic.’
‘Fred, did you not enjoy it?’ laughed Carrie,
‘but here conies Mr. Bertram and Miss Eloise.
Mr. Bertram seems annoyed, does be not?’
‘Yes he does, I am afraid Miss Eloise has said
the wrong word.’
They exchanged a pleasant greeting, Eugene
spoke cheerfully, and Carrie and Eloise ascend
ed the stairs to give a few fiDal touches to their
toilettes.
Off they started soon, and reached the grounds
just in time to hear the last burst of glee from
the children. E icta had acquitted her self
admirably. Their queen had been borne in
trinmph to a large grape vine swing. Some
were chatting others playing. A number sur
rounded the newly arrived, when a slight rus
tle in the bushes and a lithe form holding np
her wreath of flowers, parted them and came
np to Carrie.
‘Auntie,’ cried the pretty queen, ‘you treated
me so badly; did not come in time to hear my
speech, and I said it so well.’
‘I hoped I was not too late; but hold Mr. Den
man responsible.'
‘No, Miss Jeanette, it was not I; there is the
delinquent,’ pointing to Carrie.
‘Well, I was satisfied you would acquit your
self with honor. I hear yonr uncle Sam call
ing you, Jennie.’
“Yes Uncle, in one minute," and away she
bounded followed by her maids.
“Come here; assert your rights as ‘Queen of
the May,' and make Miss Eloise sing for us* Jen
nie,” said Sam,
“Quite young to command, are you not little
pet ?” said Eloise.
“Yes ma'am I guess so; but I must have you
sing.”
“If I refuse ’’
“Threaten her with the gnllotine then Jennie,
she mast obey the Qaeen's mandate,” Baid Sam.
“I think I mnst do as Uncle says if you don’t,”
retorted the Queen.
“ ‘A bird that can and will not sing must be
made,’ ” quoted Carrie.
“I succumb; spare me!” Eloise said, holding
np her hands in deprecation.
“Shall the strain be gay or wild my Lady
Queen,” and without waiting
ally through the woods. When the song was
done they pleaded for another and she complied
again and again.
“Now, give me a reprieve," she said at last,
and as she spoke a voice called her name and
turning she saw Miss Susie Carroll, who had
come to town the day before and in whose home
Eloise and Carrie had passed such a pleasant
week last Christmas.
“A week I never, never can forget,” Eloise said
earnestly, as the three stood a little apart.
“You must come again this Summer Miss En
nis, you and Carrie too. There is a young gallant
lant there who is broken hearted since you left.
He will not sing a single note for us, and he
has grown romantically pale.”
Carrie laughed and Eloise smiled, but it was
a forced smile and soon gave way to paleness.
“Well, there is no use in saying how much I
enjoyed that Christmas week. I fell in love with
everybody, old and young,” Carrie declared.
“You mean you made everybody fall in love
with you; you have that happy faculty mu chere,"
Susie said tapping the girl's round cheek. “You
were born to be made a pet of.”
“What is that about love and petting?” said
Sam Farman coming up. ‘Girls have no busi
ness talking of these things among themselves. It
is only admissible among those of opposite sex.
Come, Miss Susie, lets go and gather Traveler’s
Delight in the woods, and yon may talk as much
love to me as you like. ’
He drew her hand within his arm, gave a
saucy nod to his sister and Eloise and the two
strolled off' under the green trees, Sam calling
back,
‘Look for ns at dinner time.’
‘A handsome couple,’said Eugene, who had
come np with Sam, ‘Miss Carroll is charming.’
‘She is,’ asserted Eloise, ‘especially when she
is talking. She is so frank and earnest Don’t
you think so Mr. Denman ?’
‘ Can’t say I do, ’ responded that young gen
tleman laconically.
‘ Oh! I forgot; yon are her cousin, and it is
not to be expected you will praise her. Why
did you not tell ns she had come ? ’
‘ I don’t think I remembered the fact, ’ he
answered rather carelessly.
After the bountiful dinner, spread in a cool,
shady place, had been enjoyed by young and
old, the company formed themselves into par
ties according to their pleasure, and strolled off
among the woods; the children in merry groups
and the grown up people in smaller parties;
each young gentleman preparing to take the
lady ot his choice.
‘ Let’s find some daisies and try our fortune,’
whispered Fred to Carrie. ‘Do you remember
sweet Margaret’s ‘loves me, loves me not?’
Eugene and Eloise had wandered some dis
tance from any one. The fresh young trees
shut them out of sight, almost out of sound of
the others. Both were unusually silent, and
conversed in an almost preoccupied way.
At last, Eloise taking an envelope from her
pocket, said:
‘ This is my brother’s letter I spoke to you of,
I wish you to read it. He is coming in three
months as you will see. Eugene will you
promise me one thing?’
* What is it?’ coldly.
‘ Will you reveal that secret—reveal it to the
world before my brother comes ? *
* , Eloise. _ I have told you I would not
re Tw-n lt nnt * 1 beoame absolutely neoessary.’
Will you not release me from the rash prom-
ti v I eannot bear this concealment
It has become an intolerable burden to me. A
secret is foreign to my nature. I entreat you,
Eugene, as you prize my happiness, release me
from that promise.’
She olaspad her hands and looked earnestly,
beseeohin,iy into his face.
His own face changed, but he answered with
a slight curl on his lip:
‘My dark-eyed beauty, you are disposed to
be tragic. Why did you so readily make that
rash promise, as you now oall it ?’
‘I hardly know. It was impulsive, thought
less. I deeply Tegret it now. Oh, Eugene,
don’t turn from jne so coldly. If you knew how
unhappy I am ! Do you wish to make me mis
erable?’
‘ It is you who wish to ruin me. What wrong
have I done you to call forth these tragic decla
rations ? I only ask you to keep a promise you
readily made and that it would be dishonorable
in yon to break. ’
‘It may be misery to keep it. Something, it
may be the voice of my dead parents, warns me
that it is wrong. That vow of secresy, made
in a moment of impulse, s urely under the cir
cumstances it will not be sinful to break it. ^ If
you do not tell the secret yourself, I will, les;
this is now May; if you do not reveal it betore
December, I will, Eugene.’
‘Do not be so impetnous. Eloise, I assnre
you, if it were possible, I would be the first to
prepose to release you. I honor you for your
feelings. Your brother will not be here until
August: before that time many changes may
take place. It may be that— Hush ! there
comes some one; we will talk this over as we
return, or, I will see you this evening. You
stay to-night with Miss Carrie. I will be over;
and you must manage te give me an hour alone
with you. You can arrange it; you have so
much tact. Au hour on the piazza or in the
garden, Eloise. Ah! Miss Carrie, you have
handsful of pica ^ treasures; moss and flowers
and a chain of daisies. Did you tell your for
tune? Come and tell me the result. Never
mind Fred, he lias had you too much to him
self. ’
They returned to the spot where they had
eaten dinner, and where many of the others had
now gathered in groups. Eloise threw herself
at the foot of a moss-cushioned oak. Her every
attitude, however, unstudied, was fall of grace.
She was very lovely, but in spite of her efforts
to be cheerful, her sweet face wore a shade of
sadness. Carrie came up behind her and
crowned her with the wreath of daisies. ‘Queen
of Hearts ’ she announced, bending her knee
gaily before her. ‘ Now in return for my loyal
ty give ns one last song, queen Eloise.’ And
Eloise, genfly smiling compliance, sang ‘In
the Days when we went gypseying . ’ Then ,
with her eyes resting on the daisies which Car
rie had thrown in her lap, she glided into a
sadder strain and sang ‘ Under the Daisies’ with
such exquisite pathos and sweetness that tears
filled the eyes of her auditors.
Eugene stood apart and looked at her. ‘How
pure she is; how/air,’ he thought. ‘How these
people, old and young, admire and love her.
Why did I ever deceive her? Why can I not love
her* I do love her. Why can I net let that
vow be forgotten^
An hour afterwards, the sun was sinking in a
glory of golden clouds, and the picnicking party
loaded with blossoming boughs were returning
home, making the woods echo with their laugh
ter and merry songs.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
MARGERY’S TEMPTATION.
BY STEPHEN BRENT'
“So your mind is fully made up Margery?’’
“Yes I believ9 it is.”
“And you will marry Mr. Clare for his
money, and live miserable ever after? ”
“By no means Guy. I intend to be perfectly
happy. Who wouldn’t be, as the mistress of
one of the finest places in the country?”
“You won’t be’ I know. You had better
accept my^offer ji/j jfiarry for love.”
in one little sM ^, e - u a< l t myself
into a blister. B v. , r0 ° m ’ -Something more
than bread and csJlnff. and two print dresses
per annum.”
Guy Chesly laughed lazlily. But you know
mqney is the root oi all evil, is it not?” turning
to ’ Margery's sister who sat by the window
sewing.
“Yes, and I am sorry to hear Margery talk as
if only money was necessary to her happiness.”
“Indeed it is, and I’ll take a goodly share
of the root however evil it may be,” balancing
herself on the kitchen table, making that useful
article of household furniture creak dismally.
She was a slender, graceful girl, with hazel eyes
and dark hair; not exactly pretty but very at
tractive. A dainty piquant girl, with a tender,
loving heart hidden under her willfulness.
Guy left the window, and went over to the
table. Laying his hands lightly on her
shoulders, he looked down smiling into her
eyes and said:
“I have a presentiment that you will never
marry Mr. Clare, and that we will live in the
stuffy room yet.”
“Well your presentment is wrong then,” de
fiantly, “ for—for—”
“He has proposed?”
“Yes ” flashing to the edge of her silky hair.
“And you have said yes ? moving away from
her.
“No I shall not give him his answer till after
the ball.”
“But it will be favorable ?”
“Yes I’m sure it will.”
“I congratulate you Margery, on your fine
sense of honor, and your truthfulnes. You
have always been trying to instil those useful
virtues in my mind, but now I think I could
turn teacher.” His voice was as quiet, and
cool as ever, but there was a change in it, a ring
of scorn that Margery felt.
‘Well I dont care,’recklessly, ‘poverty is
hateful, always trying to make something out of
nothing, and always failing. As for honor, and
truth, they are considered quite old fashioned
now.’
‘Margery I am shocked at you,' cried Miss
Norman dropping her work.
‘Well you know It is so, sister.’
Guy Chesly laughed.’ You are getting quite
cynical Margery, where did you learn so much
worldly knowledge?’
‘Never mind, so I know it.’
‘Well’ glancing at his watch, ‘your conversa
tion highly conducive to one’s moral and spir
itual growth, but I regret to say I must forego
the pleasure of any more of it this morning.
I must go. You are going to the ball too are
you not ?’ turning to gentle fair-haired Rath.
■Of course she is, do you suppose I would
go without her ?’ interrupted Margery. Ruth
smiled with a loving glance at her young sister.
‘Yes I must go with Margery.’
‘I will send you some flowers then,’ and Guy
left.
Handsome Guy Chesly !
Margery walked to the window, and watched
the tall figure going down the walk. Her old
friend and playfellow, and her lover now. It
was wicked and aH that to marry for money, but
what could she do? Teaoh the village sohool?
be the village dressmaker ? or—marry Guy and
be poor all her life ? With the glamor of the
brilliant life she could spend, as Donald Clare’s
wife, over her, Bhe felt she could, not do either
of the three things, no matter how mnob she
might love Guy.
Her siBter interrupted her musing by saying.
‘Will yon go gather some strawberries for
dinner ?’ and Margery, glad to escape from her
own thoughts; seized the basket and went*
When Mr. Chesly arrived at his boarding
house ther was a letter for him. He didn’t feel
the least bit ourious about it; he was toe indolent
for curiosity; calmly lita cigar—a man’s comfort
er under all aflliotion—ana elevating his feet in
ths window, broke tbe seal. It was only a law
yer's communication, but it told him his last
relative was dea i, and he was worth half a mil
lion. Half a million! Guy Chesly sat and
stared out into the bright sunny street. In all
his six and twenty years, he had not been so
utterly surprised, so completely upset,
It seemed almost like a dream, but it was not
one; that was clear. His first composed thought
was of willful Margery Norman, and a tender
light came in his eyes as he said:
‘She shall marry me now, but not for the
money’s sake.’
The ball was like all other balls. There was
the usual amount of dancing, and flirting, dis
appointments, and indigestibleffood. Margery
queened it right royally in white, pure as drift
ed snow, with pale, sweet roses in her dark
braids and at her round white throat. If there
had been any lingering doubts in her mind
about accepting Mr. Clare, they were cleared
away now, and she was recklessly indifferent as
to what the future might hold, thinking, en
joying only the present.
Guy was there and more aggravating than ever,
at least Margery (thought so. She snubbed him,
but he wouldn’t be snubbed, only laughing at
her in a provoking way. But there was a strong
determined will under his endurance, as Mar
gery knew of old, and his calm persistence ir
ritated her. She did not know the secret of the
letter lying in his pocket.
Dawn had nearly come when the revellers
started for home. The ball was four miles from
Russell, where Margery lived, and across the
river. They sent the carriage over first, then
the ladies gathering up their dainty dresses the
gay crowd started. No one could ever tell how
it happened, but the boat Margery and her par
ty were in turned over. All was wildest confu
sion. Margery felt the cold, dark waters clos
ing over her. She saw one of her young com
panions grasp Mr. Clare for support—saw that
gentleman tear loose the clinging hands, and
start for the bank, seeking his own safety—then
she looked up at the moon shining above her,
and as the water rushed over her, she murmur
ed, ‘ Guy, dear Guy.’
When consciousness returned she was lying
in her own room with the dear home faces bend
ing over her. She looked around bewildered.
* I—I thought I was in ths river.’
‘ So yon were my dear,’ her father said, ‘but
Guy saved you from drowning.’
Margery closed her eyes with a little moaD.
She felt disgusted with herself and all the
world when she thought how near she had come
to marrying the seldsh wretch, who would cast
a woman back to drown in order to save his
own life. When Mr. Donald Clare called the
next afternoon, he didn’t meet the eager smil
ing face he expected to see, bnt a cold, pale
girl, who said ‘No’ in the most uncompromis
ing manner.
Margery sat down by the window after he left
and laying her head down on the ledge cried
about—nothing in particular.
‘ Why, Margery, what is the matter ?’ It was
Guy’s pleasant voice, and Guy had lifted her
face, and was looking into her tear-wet eyes.
‘ Oh Guy ! is it you ? How can I ever thank
you lor saving my life.'
‘Now Margery,’ taking her trembling hands,
1 please don’t. You know I have a horror of
being thanked for anything. Now, what w
you crying about ?’
‘ I really do not know, unless it was beoause
I felt disgusted at my own wickedness.’
‘Ah yes, I met Mr. Clare as I came in.’
‘Well that is nothing to me,’ with great in
difference.
‘Indeed ! isn’t it? I was under the impres
sion that it was a great deal to you.’
‘ Don’t tease me Guy,’ her lips quivering,
‘ Well I will not, but really you don’t mean
io ten me you have reiusea jur Clare. -
‘Yes Guy, do you know I saw him push Alice
Carew away last night, when she clung to him
to keep from sinking in the water.’
‘ The cowardly wretch !’
‘ And then I was so near death,’ Margery con
tinued shuddering, ‘ that I could see so clearly
all the shame, and sinfulness, of what I intend
ed doing,’
A loving light was in Guy’s handsome eyes.
•And you will accept my love, and the one
room ?’
‘Yes, willingly,’ blushing.
Guy drew the dark head on his breast, and
bending down kissed the sweet tremulous
mouth.
‘ My darling ! I am so glad, but you hate pov
erty so, I am afraid you will be very unhappy.’
‘No, no ! I don’t hate it now Guy, I believe
I like it better than riches.’
‘ Indeed I am sorry for that.’
‘ Why ?’
‘Well you see my uncle died a few days ago
and very kindly made me his heir.’
Margery flashed and paled.
‘But Guy ’
‘ But my darling, I said I would win you with
out your knowing anything about the money,
and I have.’
Margery was always thankful that the temp
tation passed, and left her free, and guiltless of
wrong.
Emanuel Swedenborg - ;
—OR,-
The “Great Unknown.”
To those unacquainted with Swedenborg’s
writings, the titles to many of his books will
convey a very inadequate idea of their contents;
and an explanation of his system, or even a
statement of its leading points, would require
greater space than is usually allotted to news
paper articles.
He wrote more than a century ago and in
the Latin language, addressing himself to the
learned world rather than to the masses. From
that time to the present, he has been to some
on object of derision, to others a seer of unex
ceptional powers; to all a great mystery; but to
none, we believe, an impostor. Like Wesley,
with whom he was contemporary, he was uni
versally respected for his unaffected piety and
his exceptionally pure and upright character;
and like Wesley, though unconsciously and
not until many years after his death, he be
came the founder of one of the most respecta
ble and influential of the Christian sects.
In this he was unlike the great founder of
Methodism, that his fame was posthumous.
He was unlike him also in another particular.
He was not a clergyman, nor yet a communi
cant in any one of the numerous Christian de
nominations of his day. The earlier part of his
life had been spent in scientific research, and
he had, in this field of enquiry, won a reputa
tion which was to his time, what that of Tyn
dall and Huxley is to our own. Many of his
philosophical works are still extant, and in those
departments of natural soienoe, not thoroughly
revolutionized by recent discovery and exper
iment, are still high authority among the
learned.
But his theory of the creation is first the re
verse of that of modern materialists. Spirit or
mind, so far from being the result or outgrowth
of certain conditions of matter, is, according
to Swedenborg, the germ and antecedent cause
of matter. The spiritual universe not only an
tedates the material, bnt produces it There
is a physical or material world, because there
is a spiritual or celestial world. Consequent
ly there is a correepondanoe of all thing* in the
spiritual world with all things in the natural
world. Even spirit itself is, according to him,
a real substance. Heaven and hell are real
places, corresponding to the spiritual state or
condition of man in the natural world.
Man is not only a compound being, a dnai na
ture, representing both the animal and the
spiritual, bnt he is the connecting link between
the two. He is, in a qualified sense, in con
junction with the seen and the unseen, a den-
izon of the two worlds at the same time, and
therefore constantly receiving impressions
from both. He is then, according to Sweden
borg, while yet in the natural life, a member
of some one or other of the innumerable socie
ties in heaven or hell according to his spirit
ual state or condition—just as he has associa
tions and repulsions in the lower life on earth.
He is, therefore (though in most cases uncon
sciously) in tbe society either of angels or dev
ils, and controlled by good jor evil influences,
while yet in earth life; and these influences,'
according as the interiors of his mind may b»
open or closed, exert a powerful influence in
shaping his destiny in the next world.
Death, or the separation of soul and body, ig
according to Swendenborg, not the consequen
ces of sin, not the result of the curse of the Diety,
as taught by the orthodox creed; but a phenome
non of nature, the perfecting of man’s creation,
an appointed stage of his existence, and in per
fect harmony with reason and the general an-
ology of nature. As the transition of the worm
from its primary abode in the dust to the state
of the moth or beetle, is in perfect harmony
with the Divine plan, so is the passage of man
from earth to spirit life. His soul, his spirit,
his immortal nature is the real man, and this
has a ‘spiritual body,’ of which the animal is
merely a correspondent in shape and character.
So that when death or dissolution of the natural
body takes place, the spiritual body is merely
evolved therefrom, like the moth from the chrys
alis. And this is called the anostosis a ‘Resur
rection;’ the ‘raising up’ of the spiritual from the
natural body. The man himself—the real man
—passes into the spiritual world or Hades wholey
unchanged.
Swedenborg, like Wesley, believed in the re
ality and presence; oi spiritual intelligences;
and he believed, as above intimated, that there
is in many instances, a close alliance and com
munication between them and man. But the
distinctive character of Swedenborg’s system,
outside his wonderful theory of Correspondence,
consists in his claim to Seership. This, Mr.
Wesley never pretended to; though it is on rec
ord that he by no means regarded such a claim
»s preposterous or anti-scriptural; and it is re
lated to him that he always expressed the great
est desire to see Swedenborg, and that, at one
time, he actually planned a visit to Stockholm
in order to meet him.
Swedenborg claimed to have been in direct
communication with angels and spirits; and to
have intercourse with them uninterruptedly for
more than a quarter of a century before he died.
He claimed to have been illuminated by the Holy
Spirit, and to have numerous and unmistakable
evidences of this. He claimed to have visit
ed, (with spirit,) the spiritual world, and to
have personally witnessed the things whereof
he wrote and that by means of this illumination,
to have discovered what he terms the ‘internal or
spiritual sense' of the Bible. This internal or
spiritnai sense of the Word is, as he tells us, to
the natural world what the soul is to the human
body; that the Bible, in its every sentence, is
the veritable word of God; and that its internal
meaning is studied aud sought for by the augeis
and celestial intelligences.
No one, we apprehend who carfully reads the
work of Swedenborg will be likely to suspect
him of insincerity, or of a purpose to deceive,
however incredulous they may be as to his reve
lations. He occupies much space, iu all his
worts, in relating what he saw and heard in the
spiritual world. But he does this in a manner
so simple, so matter of course, and with a pre
cision and minuteness of detail, often so ingen
iously interwoven with his logical expositions
of certain obscure passages of Scripture, as to
startle the most skeptical reader. His reports
of conversation had with his spiritual compan
ions, and his descriptions of localities and scenes
in the spiritual world, are put forth in language
at once simple and confident, and with a minute
ness of detail apparently so accurate that you
get the impression of a man describing the
habits, customs, manners and dress of the in
habitants of a foreign city—which he has visited;
a task impossible to any except to one who has
actually witnessed them.
This claim of Sesrsbip is of course an extraor*
dinary one; extraordinary, however, only in
this, that, according to the doctrines of the or
thodox Church, no such claim has been success
fully asserted since the third century, and that
all revelation ceased with the lives of the writers
of the New Testament Scriptures. But the long
and irreproachable life of Swedenborg; his stern
morality and consistency of Christian character,
his great learning and practical piety, and his
unexampled reverence for the Bible, manifested
in all his scientific, literary, and theological
works, have shielded him from that ridicule
which most religious reformers never fail to in
cur; and the ‘New Church’ of the present day
—the outgrowth of his teachings—numbers some
of the first intellects of beth hemispheres. In
the United States, as in Europe, the doctrines
which he promulgated more than a century ago
(and which lay dormant for the first half-centu
ry of their existence) are rapidly spreading
and taking deep root among the educated aud
thinking classes, both within and without the
compass of the orthodox Church. In the opin
ion of many, his theological works, which are
now translated into nearly all the modern lan
guages, afford the best antidote for that species
of materialistic Infidelity taught by modern sci
entists, as well as for the equally dangerous
heresy known as modern ‘Spiritism.’ His sys
tem meets both classes of persons upon their
chosen ground; and what is more remarkable,
he gave to the world this masterly refutation of
modern Infidelity a quarter of a century before
its advent. And his books, though then unread,
were written and published three-quarters of a
century before the advent of the modern ‘Spir
itism,’ which he therein foretold, and which to
day numbers thousands of adherents in this
country and in Europe.
Taken all in all, he is perhaps, the most won
derful man who has lived since the Apostolic
era; and while he is often beyond our compre
hension, he never ceases to be an object of in
terest to thinking men.
His Luck in the Black Hills. —He had been
gone from the paternal roof six months—left
home in the first bloom of summer, with a smile
upon his brow aud a pickaxe in his hand. The
Black Hills his destination; glory and gold the
goal. A summer spent amid the auriferous
rooks—industry, perseverance and a rare knowl
edge of chemistry and mineralogy his nsef ul tools
in addition to the pickaxe. Resalts are such
that he is enabled to return sooner than his
most sanguine expectations had allowed him to
dream of doing. Almost home, he pauses out
side the town until nightfall, and sends to his
waiting, expeotant parents, the following sug
gestive:
‘Bring me a large blanket and a pair of old
pants—I’ve got a hat’
A Carolina Fire.
Charleston, Jmne 4— Half of the business por
tion of the thriving town of Rook Hill, York
County 8. C., was destroyed by fire late last
night Loss, $100,000; insurance, abont $60,000.