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BY JAS. N. ELLS & CO. VOLUME IV. She 'gHytW ganiwr, DEVOTED TO RELIGION AND LITERATURE,, Is published every Saturday, at Atlauta, Georgia, at the subscription price of foub dollars per year. JAMES N. ELLS A CO., Proprietors. FAITH. Ye who think the truth ye sow Lost beneath the winter snow, Doubt not, Time’s unerring law Yet shall bring the genial thaw. God in Nature ye can trust; Is the God of Mind less just * Real we not the mighty thought Once by ancient sages taught* Though it withered in the blight Os the mediaeval night. Now the harvest we behold ; See I it bears a thousand fold. Workers on the barren soil, Yours may seem a thankless toil; Sick at heart with hope deferred, Ll'ten to the cheering word: N .wfhe faithful sower grieves; Boon he’ll bind his golde i sheaves. If Great Wisdom have decreed Man may labor, yet the seed Never in this life shall grow, Shall the sower cea-e to sow ? The fairest fruit may yet be born On the resurrection morn I “CATCH TIMDS-Slfiiir A HOME STORY. T AM weary! Oh, so weary ! ” The speaker’s head sank back into the cushions of her easy-chair. She was young and still pretty, although the lips had lost their carnation tint and the cheek its roundness. Iler hair, once fine, but now faded and dry, was stretched back from her temples, unrelieved by ripple or bandeaux, and confined in a loose, untidy looking knot at the back of the neck.— Nor was her apparel better adapted to heighten natural comeliness or atone for the loss of personal charms. A cashmere robe, neither clean nor new—worn because it was comfortable, hid her figure in its clumsy fidds; and a pair of worsted slip pers, whose only recommendation must have been this same comfortableness, since they preserved on all sides a respectful distance from the tiny feet, rested upon the tiger-skin rug. The room betrayed none of the negligence of its mistress. It was tastefully furnished as a nursery-parlor, but with evident reference to the wants, intel lectual and physical, of children of a larger growth. The window-bars were concealed by azaleas and japonicus above whose ever green blanches hung j^canary’s cage ; choice pictures decked the walls; there were books in costly I indings in cases and upon tables; a cottage-pi ano, shut, stood against the further side of the apartment, and the stand at the lady’s side bore a small but beautiful bouquet ot the most fragrant flowers win ter can win from their allegiance to summer. The blinds of one window were bowed; those of the other closed, and in their shade a child was sleeping in her crib. The pout ing mouth and delicate skin weie the mother’s, but the forehead, clear and broad, and the wreath of chesnut curls must have been the father’s gift. She slept soundly, the very picture of happy innocence; one hand, like a plump white shell, folded over its pink lining, lay upon the outside of the coverlet, the other indenting her cheek. — Once she smiled in her slumbers, and at the same instant the mother stirred uneasily, and a fretful moan again moved the silent air. “ Weary ! weary ! ” The dov>r opened unheard, and the ad vance of the intruder was as noiseless.— There were no creaking hinges or thin car pets in that establishment. The rustle of garments caught the sick woman’s ear just as a smiling face, flushed with exercise in the frosty wind, bent over to leave a kiss upon hers. “ Hatty Dale ! lam glad to see you ’ ” was her greeting in a tone ot pleasure that formed a strange prelude to the languor with which she added, “ But you startled my poor nerves terribly coming in so ab ruptly.” "As if I did not always enter in the same way,” returned Miss Dale, pulling off her furred gauntlets to warm her fingers at the lire. " Nothing that is expected can be a surprise, disagreeable or pleasant, and I should like to inquire, Mrs. Temple, what you have to do, at this hour of the day, but w ait and wish for my coming ? ” She crossed over to look at the babe.— " 1 ill not kiss her just yet. Iler start at the touch of the tip of my nose would be more reasonable as well a* more genuine than was her mother’s. And now, my dear lady prisoner, how do you find yourself this morning I ” " Worse, if possible, than when you were here yesterday, ill as 1 appeared then, and this confinement is robbing me of my little remaining strength. I weaken every hour." “So 1 should think. Why don’t you go out ? ” “ Hatty! what are you saying) Go out in this weather ?” “This weather!” said Hatty, stoutly.— "A\hat if the thermometer does stand at rerot The air is as dry and pure as ever I breathed in the tropics, and tenfold more bracing. Are your lungs diseased !” Mercy! no, I hope not!” shuddering. I low thoughtless in you to put such a into my head ! 1 »hall not have a | moment’s |>eace of mind until I have an I au-eultativn. Candidly tell me, do you • deuetany symptoms of—’’ “Consumption, do you mean)” asked the other, coolly bringing out the word her nervous friend failed to articulate. "About as many as I detect in myself or in little Blanche there, lou may r<»t assured that I would JusuntJy commucicau any auapi- THE BAPTIST BANNER cions of that kind to you, for, should they prove well-founded, 1 should feel that I had done you a signal service instead of injury. My opinion, Mary, has always been that, when you discover what your disease is, you will cure it yourself.” It was hard to be angry, however cutting her language in its hidden meaning may have been, with that kind good-humored face before one’s eyes. Yet Mrs. Temple colored in vexation or embarrassment as she answered : "Thai is scarcely fair, Hat ty. You are well aware that Dr. Pilson, whose skill nobody questions, after a care ful investigation of my case, is completely at fault as to the seat of the complaiut.— How can I presume to judge for inyself? ” “Just what I said ! ” replied Hatty, steal ing a roguish glance at the kindling face.— “ 1 do not dispute Dr. Pilson’s skill when he can make out a ‘case,’ nor his ability, when he fails here, to make out a bill that, in length and clearness of details, must com pensate himself and the patient’s friends for the trifling disappointment in the first instance.” “ One fact you will admit,” said the oth er ; “my enforced extravagance in that re spect, if extravagance you choose to call it, is the only expensive folly in which I in dulge. My silks and furs and laces for the year do not draw heavily upon my hus band’s pocket ” " Better that they should. 1 venture to affirm that he had rather settle a milliner’s bill for a hundred dollars than balance that ‘ little account ’ of your courtly physician by half that sum. I have heard house own ers say that a continual outlay for repairs was very disheartening when the tenement operated upon seemed none the better for the labor and money expended. The best thing to be done then is to pull down en tirely or throw the property into market.” “ Which means, I suppose, that Horace ought to tire of me and wish me in my grave. 1 shall be there soon enough, Hat ty ; never fear.” “ Soon enough, 1 allow, dear Mary,” re joined Miss Dale, changing her bantering tone to one of earnest tenderness. "Many years hence will be too soon for your de voted husband and true friends to consign you to the tomb. It is to avert the terrible woe that would attend upon your untimely thflt T would J'ou to mode of existence. You have much to live for, Mary ; every thing that makes life de sirable and beautiful; yeti have often heard you declare it. to be a burden.” "It is!” sobbed the weak dyspeptic. — “You, who have never suffered a day’s ill ness, can philosophize and preach about the necessity of altering my habits, my ‘ mode of existence,’ and so on. I own Ido not live like a well person, for the obvious rea son that I am not well, an argument to which, as Dr. Pilson says, some exceedingly sensi ble, healthy people are strangely obtuse. — You ascribe your freedom from sickness and pain to your cheerfulness, and active exer cise in the open air. You sleep soundly ; you think it is in consequence of your con tented frameof mind, and because you have not done injustice to your digestive organs. Yuu see me sitting day after day in my easy-chair in this close, warm room, averse to undertaking even the trifling journey of a single flight of stairs ; capricious in appe tite and spirits; and you cry, ‘ No wonder she is sick ! ’ You confound cause and ef fect, Hatty.” "Well argued, Dr. Pilson!” laughed Hatty. "If my eyes had been shut, I could have fancied you tfie worthy Galen himself. There now, Mary, don’t get angry. It is to his interest to make you believe yourself sick ; it is to mine to convince you that you might be well if you would ‘make an effort,’ as Mr. Dombey’s sister says—what was her name ? ” “ I do not know, I am sure,” a little fret fully. “ I have never read the book.” “ No; but Horace told me he meant to read it aloud to you, since your eyes would not permit you to enjoy its contents for yourself.” "He offered to do so"—with a sigh ; " but L was too nervous to bear the rustling of leaves near me, especially in the evening, which is the only time be can spend at home. Aou think me very foolish, no doubt ; but I cannot help it.” “I do not say that you are ‘foolish ’; but I regret, as you must also, that this extreme susceptibility to light and noise deprives your husband ot what would otherwise af ford him great pleasure. He cannot read ! to himself, either, unless he withdraws to ; another room, which he will not do, I kno* while his presence gives you any comfort.” “ He never complains,” said Mrs. Tem ple in a voice that had a touch of offended pride. "And jou are longing to add: ■ When he does, it will be time for yu to interfere in our domestic arrangements,”’ finished Hatty. " You cannot quarrel with me. I Mary ; so give up the attempt. Aon Van not forget the depth and sincerity of mv love for you, and that, in my estimation. Horace has not his peer on this continent." t | The right chord was struck. The spark I in the eve was dimmed by dew, and the lip ; trembled while it smiled. Hatty went on: “Whatever may be your trials—and I know they are not tew — you have the blessing of one of the noblest, fondest husbands that ever was given to woman. You were his pride, his glory, while vour health lasted ; now ” —her eyes ran around the chamber—" you are no less ATLANTA, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 18, 1863. his idol, although the sick-room is your temple.” lhe wife s tears flowed afresh, but in a more abundant and healthful stream. It is true all true; and I, poor wretch ! can offer him no return for his goodness. I wish, sometimes, that I were out of his v ay, that he had a companion more worthy, more congenial.. You may well say that my trials are not light. Only four days ago I suffered extreme mortification—worse than that, agony of spirit—because I felt that I was depreciating in his eyes. Oh, if his love should wear out under these con stant tests, this incessant demand for his patient forbearance 1 ” " I hope there is no need of such a fear,” safd Hattie, soothingly. " But what is this new trouble ? ” “You may recollect Eleanor Stewart, whom it was said Horace addressed before he knew me—a dashing belle, who spent a winter here with her sister, Mrs. Manners ?” “ I do, perfectly.” " Whether his admiration was, in truth mingled with love, I cannot tell,” pursued Mrs. Temple; "but certain it is that he has always remembered her as the finest specimen of a certain type of beauty he ever saw. She had not seen him since his marriage until one day last week, when he met her on the street. He came home fairly raving about her. I wish you could have heard him. Three years, he said, had wrought no visible change in her, unless, indeed, they had added to her attractions. Her style peculiar—in its way, inimi- table. She had accosted him with the most engaging friendliness, congratulated him upon his happiness as a husband and father, and expressed a desire to become acquaint ed with me. He represented the state of my health which debarred me from visiting my most intimate friends ; whereupon, with what he called a ‘graceful disregard of eti quette,’—with what ‘I considered bold im pertinence—she begged to be allowed to pay her respects to m)e in person, at as early a day as might be convenient to me. She ‘could not think of standing upon ceremony with the wife of ai>old and esteemed friend.’ By the time thajahe got thus far, I was half mad with a nervy its headache, for he talked faster and loud -t than usual, and was in such a merry bustle that I positively feared Hlh head I to treat hit.-i first to lay aside tIX? poker, inasmuch as the fire did not need stiV ing, and he only used it to beat time uponjthe grate to the chant of Miss Eleanor’s then to : top chirping to the to throw the cover over the cage, for Micky, in reply, vias pi ping his shrillest nry.es; then please hot to finger my flowers/ and, finally, to sit down, and tell me, in \as few words as possible, what his commands were.” "Oh, Mary !” jittered Miss Dale, invol untarily. "Yes, I teas ; but if you had the least conception of what nerves are, you would sympathize with me. Well, he qui eted down, and asked my pardon for his thoughtlessness. ‘ I have no commands whatever, Mary,’ said he, ‘but it would please me to see Miss Stewart in my house, if the thought is not too repugnant to you ; and I believe that her society would do you good—she is so lively and entertaining.’— Think of that, Hatty, when Dr. Pilson has said, over and over, that excitement is the very worst thing in the world for me in my present condition ! and my favorite de testation is one of your so calleai ‘ lively ’ women.” "I had better take my leave, then,” said her visitor, rising. A hasty motion of Mrs. Temple’s arm stopped her. " You are too bad ! ” she said, half crying, half laughing. “As if I could mean you, my best, almost my only friend ! Sit down, and hear me through. The con clusion of the matter —for I was too weak and weary to dispute —was, that Miss Stew art might call the following morning, if agreeable t > her ladyship, and that Mr. Temple should be at home to receive her, for 1 could not sustain so much brilliancy alone. I was miserable all the forenoon, for my pauado was too sweet, and soured as soon as I had swallowed it; and I shall al ways be sure that that blundering house keeper of mine mixed green with my black tea, although --he has been told twentv times i that it is rank poison to me. Blanche, too, j according to her father’s directions, must be ’ dressed in her prettiest frock ; and when : the maid brought her to me to see that all i was right, I found that the stun.J creature ’ I had looped up her sleeves with • lue rib- i bons, instead of letting her wear the set of coral and gold I had ordered expressly for her. By the time this was corrected, 1 was, as you may suppose,completely worn j out, and made up my mind that 1 could not see company at all that day. If Miss Slew art called, Horace must meet her in the parlor, and explain matters. Just as I had I formed this determination, and resolved, i moreover, to send tor the doctor if 1 d i j not get better very soon, Horace came run -1 ning up stairs. 1 felt really s wry at the sight of his great disappointment; yet 1 ■ could not but think him somewhat incon : siderate when he tried to prevail upon me to alter my plan. ‘lt I would only let her | eotne up fur a few minutes.’ he urged, he ‘would notask more than this.’ He bad seen her down town but an hour previous, and informed her that 1 was in my usi health. Now. this was perfectly preposter ous, for, in addition to the fatigue of talking with a stranger, there was the trying pro ceas of dressing. For once, he was obst HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE. ■ nate in refusing to see the propriety of my reasoning; and I was worried to the very . brink of an hysterical attack,•when the con versation was cut short in a truly dramatic manner by John’s announcement —‘ Miss Stewart’’ and-, to my unutterable horror, the lady herself was at his heels. What 1 said or did, I hardly knew then, or can re call now. I have a confused recollection of the touch of her dainty glove, of her flutter ing silk flounces and waving white plumes, and that my old wrapper looked shamefully nup-ftu by contrast wbh her magnificence. — This was my first overwhelming impression; the hot blood began to retire from my brain and cheeks, I saw more clearly a tall, finely formed woman, dressed in the height of the mode, filling, overflowing with shining silken waves, a chair just opposite to me —a mocking sneer in her eyes that belied lhe polite accents her lips were form ing. 1 could not complain of any want of attention, for she addressed all her obser vations to me, in spite of Horace’s attempts to divert her notice. In speech, she ignored my disordered dress and deportment; but each flash of those eyes told me that noth 5 ng of all this escaped them, and that, at heart, she triumphed mercilessly in my discom fiture. Blanche 4vas, a‘love,’ an ‘angel,’and the very ‘miniature of her mother’; the chamber was a ‘ fairy nook, a bower of pleasure, the home of the graces; and it was easy to divine whose taste had been at work here.' She crushed me with flowers, flung and piled them upon me—musk-roses and other sickening sweets—until I was suf" focated into silence. Then, and not until then, when she- saw that I was ready to faint under the l*»ad of flattery, more intol erable than abuse, did she leave me alone. Horace attended her to the frontdoor, and, returning to the room, rang for the servant who had showed the visitor up. The man excused himself by stating that Miss Stew art had told him we were expecting her, which he supposed to be the truth from something my n aid had said in his hearing Horace dismissal him, and stood for a min ute looking at ire, oh, Hatty, with such an expression ! a n ’xtureof shame and sorrow I shall never forget; then quitted me with out a word. lle>was absent until tea-time. Dr. Pilson had called three times in the af ternoon, and m\ husband found me sick in bod, ayusToh has been made by eMfjßo*’ of us to the terrible scene of the morning ; and he is, if possible, kinder than ever be fore ; but his su.Tering must have been sur passed only by*mine. To live to be adis-* 8 grace to him, a source ot incessant anxiety, every thing except what his wife should be! —is not this grief greater than I can bear ? ” " Heavier than you should bear,” said j > Hatty, significantly. "Did it ever occur to you that you are exceedingly inconsistent both in language and action ? ” "No. How?” "You would die, you asseit, rather than lose your husband’s love; yet, when you are acquainted with the means of avoiding this catastrophe, j ou will not exert yourself to use them, through fear of bringing on one of your celebrated nervous headaches, which, however painful, will not, I am convinced, whatever Dr. Pilson may say to the con trary, endanger your life Positively,” she continued, "ifany modern Ccelebs were to consult me as to the necessary qualifications for a wife, 1 should advise him, above all things else, to seek one who never complain ed of this most fashionable malady. 1 have no consolation for you, Mary. You know your danger, which I also acknowledge; and you have a woman’s heart. I must go now. Forgive me if 1 have appeared harsh, un. sympathizing.” The tear sprinkled handkerchief was again pressed the invalid’s face. "1 am for saken ! comfortless ! ” was now her cry. Miss Dale laid her hau l upon her arm, and pointed to Blanche's crib. Through a crack in the shutters darted a solitary sun beam, falling directly across the babe’s cov erlet. The little one had probably been awakened by it, and was evidently highly delighted with the bright intruder. Both eager hands were outstretched to grasp the golden pened tlut broke into fragments in the dimpled fingers. " Catch the sunshine,” was all Hatty -aid, j as she kissed mother and child. [CONCLLQED NEXT WEEK. 1 To die Public. I j From and after the 29th Apr 1, 1863, in the sale of ‘ l he Confederate Monitor,’ and i ail other works published by me, twenty five cents, on each copy sold, shall be do nated to establish and support a Soldiers’ i Orphans' Ma! ■ and Female School, said I School to be established in Atlanta or its i vicinity. The editor <>f the Atlanta (Ga.) Baptist j Banner, is appointed to receive any and all i contributions made to th* l object and pur * pose above stated. I propose to be one of twenty who may donate SSO each into the hands of the par . ty above mentioned, as the stalling point j : tor the establishment of the institution '• | above des ribed, and hope that this huin- | . ble offering will be cheerfully responded! to < ven by more, and many mure, than the nineteen who are called upon in this article to lay the foundation of an institution which must eventually elevate to posts of honor and responsibility, "at •some future day in this infant Confederacy,’’ many of our now humble and destitute orphans of soldiers who have freely given their lives in defence of liberty and their homes and hearths, so sacred and dear to man. I herewith deposit SSO, together with! > 105, as the .amount of proceeds of the per i cent, set apart in the sal** of my publica tions since the 29 h April, 1563. Respectfully, die., Atlanta, May 23, 1I»3. H. W. R. JACKSON. [For The Baptist Banner.} ilow I Came to be a Baptht. BY AUNT EDITH. It was in the winter of-1854, while pass ing through a season of peculiar trial and affliction, that it pleased God in thepleifi •tude of His wondrous love to call me from sin and darkness into the light and liberty of the kingdom of Christ. The memory of that blessed night—the hour, the moment when, in all the joy of pardoned sin, my ransomed soul bowed before the throne of the Most High, securely and lovingly rest ing upon the rock Christ Jesus—is so indeli bly impressed upon mind that were 1 to live thousands of years it could never by any possible chance be effaced therefrom. Previous to that important event of my life, owing to the circumstances that surrounded me, I had not for more than four months entered the house of God, nor seen and talked with a minister or any child of God. The work was truly’ of God, His word and Spirit being the only means used. My re- training from childhood, no doubt, had its influence. Often after my conver sion did I long to hear the Word preached ; and as the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panted my soul after Christian converse. I wanted to unbosom myself to some child of God. But both privileges were denied me. We lived too remote from any church to think of attending thro’ the winter ; and if I met with any Christians, they were such as 1 could not confide in— their love had grown cold ; the new-born gushing light of my soul, that was continu ally venting itself forth, even to flowers, birds and trees, was to them something strange and inexplicable. My Bible was my only companion. Two months after my conversion 1 had the privilege of hearing a sermon, and none but those who have in like manner hunger ed after the bread of life can imagine what a feast that sermon was to my soul. Its subject, “growth in grace,” was exactly suited to my case ; and had the preacher, a Methodist divine, been intimately acquaint ed with me, he could not have selected a better subject to supply the spiritual wants of my soul. But I must hasten on to my subject. Just about the time of which I am spealc nig, <1.3, i returned to my native home and to the ISSfeorn of n?y friends. They had previously by letter been made acquainted with the joyful change in my heart and life, ami ns a natural consequence expected me immediately to attach myself to the church—the Methodist, of course, as with them I had been born and brought up, punctually attending the Sab bath school from my infancy ; and in fact I had no thought of doing otherwise at the time. My conscience was quick; I was anxious to do my duty ; and with the light then before me, I went forth in the discharge of it. My mother and seven sisters were members of the Methodist denomination.— So long had I remained aloof after the others had joined, they had almost given me over to hardness of heart; now there was much rejoicing at my corning in. One only of the family, a brother, was a Baptist, and none of us were pleased with the fact. As for in;, self, I must confess I cherished a sort of prejudice against that sect, the Baptists, and of course had no particular thought of joining them. Well, the week of my arrival at home brought around “Love-Feast,” and as is the custom, the door of the church was to be opened. I was reminded by my friends that this was a fitting opportunity, and ac cordingly made up my mind to discharge my duty. The night came; I went, and when the invitation was given, walked for ward and gave my hand to the minister, one whom I had known and reverenced from childhood. 1 was still basking in the sun light of my Master’s presence; my soul was filled to overflowing, and I longed to tell him what the Lord had done for me.— But no question, save the one, a little while after, of “ What class w ill you be put up on ? ” was a->ked ; and after several more had been received in like manner, and the congregation informed that the ordinance of “b: ptisrn ’’ wouid be administered on the coming Sabbath, we were dismissed. 1 had frequently in my life, dui ing my thoughtless girlhood, while talking toothers upon the subject of Baptism, admitted that 'immersion was right; but just now 1 seemed to have no thought upon the subject, was entirely passive in the hands of others, my great and ruling desire being to do my Sa viour’s will. Strange to say, 1 had never been “christened” in my infancy—so it was -plainly my duty to be baptized. 1 never thought of inquiring whether sprink ling was the act requited of me, but, be lieving it to be right, I submitted to the ordinance on Sabbath, and partook of the Lord s Supper. This was my first and last participation with the Methodists. I re- ! mained in my native place about three | weeks after joining the church, and during | that time had as many opportunities of at tending class-meeting, but somehow never felt it binding upon me to do so, and for this delinquency my soul suffered no dimi nution of its peace. In fact Jesus was con tinually with me, and 1 enjoyed most freely . at that period the humble hope that my • soul was growing in grace and the know ledge of my Saviour. Just before leaving home I called to see a dear old friend and teacher of mine, who is a sterling Baptist, and in the course of I I conversation I told him, in a timid manner, | : of the change in my life. I could not talk Baptist language then —the phrase “ pro fessed a hope ” was altogether unknown to me—l hardly knew’how to express myselfi unless I talked like the Methodist and said “got religion,” or “ embraced religion.”— But even at that stage of my new life in Christ, I shrunk from saying plainly that 1 was possessed of the pearl of great price-’— it seemed too great a blessing for such a sinner as I. I told my friend I had joined the church. He then, in his kind, fatherly way, commenced talking to me about the various so-called churches, and what consti tuted the difference; told me what a Gospel church was, and what the duty of a true believer was. J, as a matter of Course, tried in a feeble way to defend my church ; but I felt the force of his argumeifß, and when I bade him good bye and bent my steps homeward, it was with a mind wholly up set and in confusion. What it lam wrong? thought I, and have not really obeyed my Saviour? The Baptists profess to be gov erned by the word of God as w’ell as we do; there surely are some true. Christians among them ; and why this difference between us ? After all I may be wrong. I may be stand* ing upon slippery ground.—And thus med itating in my mind I reached home, having made the firm resolve that by the help of God I would search Tor myself and earnest ly beseech the Holy Spirit, if I was wrong, to place me right. With this desire upper most in my soul I hastened to my room, and alone on my knees, with my Bible be fore me, most fervently besought my Father in heaven to look upon my troubled mind and graciously lead me aright. If in the right path, I prayed to be established in it; if not, most earnestly did I plead to be taught to follow the* footsteps of my Master.— And right here, though I did not know it at the time, was my first step taken towards being a Baptist. When a Christian thus unsettled honestly places the matter before God and desires to be led by His Spirit in the right way, no matter where it should lead him, then the turning point is given ; and if he continues his search for the right path and acts up to his convictions, he is just as sure to take the path to the watery grave, and become a Baptist, as the sun is to send regularly his life-giving beams over our earth. There iswro stand still point ho turning .back —onward, onward, is the. .watchword. f My resolution taken, and the help of God implored, with a strong faith I commenced the work of searching after truth. No one but God knew of my design. I would not, on no account, have acquainted any one with my intentions; not that I had any idea at the time of becoming a Baptist—on the contrary I thought my search, under God, would more firmly fix me where I was— but I disliked for any one to know that I was unsettled in mind. I wanted to get through the work and become satisfied be- fore making it known ; consequently, when in the course of time I was made willing to become a Baptist, and avowed my intention of doing* so, my friends thought it matter for much surprise that 1 should so suddenly wish to change my relations, not knowing that it had cost me months of prayers and tears and stragglings. But I anticipate. My Bible now became my constant com panion, and after reading the New Testa ment carefully, my opinions, as I before intimated, being on the side of immersion, I was very soon convinced that alone was baptism and what the Saviour commanded. I had not, then, been baptized. About this time, in the providence of God, I was making my home for a season with my brother, the Baptist before allu. ded to. There was at the same time as an inmate of his family an old father in Israel, a Baptist of the deepest dye. I did not re joice at these facts, however, at the time.— I would much have preferred their being Methodists, for somehow I had imbibed the idea that Baptists did not enjoy religion much, and consequently I could not un bosom myself to them as I could to Meth odists—a very mistaken notion, and one I soon found out. At that period (and would to God I could say the same of myself as heartily now I ) 1 took no pleasure in any conversation that had not Jesus for its theme ; all light and foolish subjects I stren uously avoided, and preferred being alone to spending my precious time in a trifling manner. Our next-door neighbor was a Methodist preacher with his family. In company with them I several times attended their meetings at night, but upon no occa sion could I draw him or any of his family into experimental talk upon religion. 1 always left their company disappointed. — Although enjoying the highest peace with God, having daily sweet communion with Him through Christ, and realizing the pre cious value of Divine grace, yet, so far as connection with God’s people was concern ed, my soul at this time was in a state of unrest. I was continually longing for some haven. Lovp, the cord that binds brethren in Christ together, and which I have since found to be so strong among Baptists, was totally wanting in the few Methodist friends I associated with. 1 was of their faith and order, and, situated in a Baptist family— isolated and cut off, as it were, from them —ought to have provoked their sympathy and male them more desirousof taking care of one of the flock thus situated. But for- I tunately for me (unfortunately I thought at ' the time), they seemed to be void of love. ; My soul was longing for Christian confi- ' dence and companionship, and thrown off from them-, I naturally sought it from other I TERMS — Four Dollars a-year. sources. I knew what the peculiar doctrines of the Baptist church were; and having, as I said before, become perfectly satisfied on the subject of Biptism, I had at this time under reflection that of Election. My brother and his Baptist friend knew nothing of theinternal workings of my mind. We enjoyed frequent conversations on spiritual things, during which my mind be came gradually opened to the fact that Bap tists knew something of a change of heart as well as others; and it was by drawing them out at these times, to speak upon their favorite doctrines, that I gained a good deal of knowledge which otherwise I would not have received. I frequently attenled their meetings, and particularly at their prayer meetings enjipyed much of the presence of God. I hath related my Christian experi ence to my brother and his friend, and, as is usual with Baptists, they kept quiet and aloof, neither of them having any intention, by word or deed, of “proselyting” me, as it is called, and neither, 1 am persuaded, having the least idea that I was verging to wards the Baptists. In fact it was not as yet apparent to myself. I had never whis pered even to my own heart that I must leave the Methodists—that was something in the distance. At length, seeing my im portunity and desire to gain instruction, God put it into the heart of this good old brother .to be a little more communicative He became convinced I was really a seeker after truth, not merely a gainsayer ; a. d so interested did each and all become, that night after night was spent in discussions upon what seemed to me to be such terrible doctrines. I could not, at first, see how it was just in God to choose me to eternal life, and overlook one who might be so much more deserving; but by degrees more light beamed in upon my mind, I became humbled at the foot of the Cross, willing to acknowledge that God “was a Sovereign — and the truth of the precious doctrine of His eternal, electing love dawned upon my mind with so much force and beauty that it was impossible longer to resist; 1 be came a willing convert to it, and up to this day 1 thank God that such a precious truth is found within the lids of the Bible. That victory won over prejudice, it became as apparent as surflight "to my mind, that if God c>Uvse from eternity Hi's people to salvatjyn, He certainly would never differ one to be lost. 3he figure under which this was plainly illustrated to my soul, as sitting alone I thought upon the subject, was: “If the precious blood of Christ is upon the door-posts of my soul, the destroying angel must pass me by.— How can one who has been pardoned by Him who never changes be left to languish in hell?” I found that to believe one doc trine, I must receive also the other—for the last was based upon the first. Thus was truth slowly but surely gaining ground, and more light at every step beaming in upon me. The last point to be settled, now, was “close communion,” and to this 1 had more objections than all the others, thinking it the most unreasonable. I felt it was not right to be so exclusive, and I was harder to be convinced upon this point than any other. As I wrote to a sister at this time, whom it pleased God to be carrying through the same work, though a little harder, she » having been a Methodist some twenty years, , yet neither of us knew of the struggles 5 going on in the mind of the other, she was . my first confidant, and I said to her in my letter: “1 am now closely investigating the f reasons for‘close communion,’ and when, i dnder God, 1 am convinced of their Scrip tural validity, union with the Baptist church i is inevitable.” Not to be too lengthy, I was most powerfully convinced that the . Lord’s Supper is only for believers, and they . regularly baptized ones. I saw, in a word, r it was close baptism, instead of close com munion ; and thus vanished, like mists be fore the sun, all my scruples. I now reluctantly, but honestly and can didly, admitted to myself that it was my duty to unite with the Baptists; in fact, I saw no other course to pursue; remain where I was I could not —there wag no fel lowship between us. But this conclusion was not reached without great pain; in fact, now came the greatest trials of my experi ence. In my search after truth, I had to battle with my understanding, my pre judices, and in acknowledging each point as proved right, there was no sacrifice of feel ing. Now came the battle, and you may rest assured that the Adversary of Souls left untried no arts nor arguments in the endeavor to shake me. I felt it was a great undertaking to sever myself from the peo ple among whom I had been born and raised, and that it was proof of great presumption in me to take such a step, thereby saying to those old Christians, “you are wrong and lam right.” Th<re were many among the Methodi-t clergy that I had known and reverenced from my childhood. Bishop Pierce, J. E. E vans, Dr. Means, and oth ers, whose names had become household words—how could I leave them ? and, worst of all, how could I leave my mother? she who had lived to a good old age in the Methodist Church, and was fast wending her way to the tomb! The struggle was long and deep; days and weeks, with many prayers and tears, did I wrestle before God» entreating strength, and often, in the bitter ness of my soul, exclaiming, “If it be pos sible let this cup pass from me; yet not my will but thine be done.” Somt times I wondered if it would not do to be immers- I ed in the Methodist denomination, and re- NUMBER 35.