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■ Jfamiln flraimig.
THE FALSE CHRIST.
A fALB 07 TUB SBC0N1) FALL 07 JERUSALEM
CHAPTER I.
The tide of civilization had not yet swept
away from the East, nor had Mohamme
danism yet spread the death-like folds of its
sensual .fatalism over the earliest-peopled
and richest regions of the earth—the re
gions which first echoed to heaven the
musin of human voices—which had first
been enriched with the visible results of
human thought—which hacFcaught the first
accents of the faith. Toe revelation, which
W?.s to give new life.to the nations, had not
y<- t left the Holy Land a silence and a
waste—the reaction of vanquished Pagan
ism had not yet. paralysed church*, s where
the first disciples were called Christians.
There was stwl light in the Land of the
Morning.
In Antioch, it- wa»still remembered how
“Paul and Bmabns” lias been “recom
mended to the grace of God ;” the marvels
wrought by God, through them, amongst
the Gentiles, in the coasts and islands,
around, were still talked of. No commen
taries had weakened the words, or super*
»oded the writings of the apostles. The only
Jives of saints yet written were those of the
Twelve, with such brief glimpses of Mary
the Bless and Mother, the M igdalene, and
the family which Jesu3 loved, as made
the heavens they had so recently entered
seem no strange dwelling place.
At Joppa# there still might have been old
men. who had gazed, as vvonderingchildren,
on Dorcas, when, at St. .Peter’s, words tLe
dead eyelids unc'osed, and she again enter
ed on her earthly labours of love. The
lives of these, and Priscilla, and Aquila,
and Stephen, anci John the Beloved, were
the most r cent biographies the Church
then 1 a i: not as far from themasWhi efi Id
and We-tey, and Z r-zendorf are hom us.
'And in the villages, and seapcris, and
mountain-cities of Palestine, the effects of
6 . Pau’;3 arguments —the look with which
St. John spoke of his Master, when ell the
wild frenzy of the Son of Thunder had been
steeped in the deeper glow of the L*ve be
had dwelt with—the tone which softened
St. Peter’s Galilean accents when he plead
ed for the Saviour he had denied—must
have been spoken of familiarly in Chris
tian homes, where little chi.dren gathered
around the aged; for the volume of the
Book, though collected from Ephesus, and
Collosse, and Corinth, and Rome, was scarce
ly complete in every village church, far hs?
in every h and; and the Church in that age
needed something to compensate the iost
presence of apostolic men, and the incom
plete disiribu*ion of apostolic writings—
though r ch beyond all the stores of family
or local tradition, was the little company
of believers to whose lot bad fallen a Gos
pel or Epistle, with someone learned
enough 10 decipher the black abbreviated
manuscript. Happy for them that persecu
tion kept them close in the darkness to Him
who is H maeif the Light, and . that they
were too often called to endure bonds and
death for the ram* 1 of Christ, to hat e time
to speculate about His dec rice—too bus in
contending against the low materialism of
idolatry to mater alise Christianity—too con
stantly exposed to perroual conflict and suf
fering, to substitute abstraction for persons,
in their creed.
Adrian seems to have been amongst these
emperors who enj the exercise of rul
ing, more than the luxury of possessing
empire. The empire was to him a field
for energetic action, not a mere magazine of
pomp; and in the “perpetual journey” of
his life, he was now at Athens, erecting
temples which were never finished, receiv
ing apologies from the Christians, and de
creeing compassion to their religion, as a
.harmless superstition—not more dangerous
than the Egytian worship of allegorical or
substantial animals.
One hundred ears since, the Son of God
had returned to H s eternal dwelling-place.
Tue story of His lite, and death, and res
urrection, of the redemption He had
wrought, of the heaven He had entered
and opened, was slowly undermining the
whole fabric of Pagan society and religion,
and neither P gtn nor Christian knew it.
Thespir.tof martyr after martyr was re
ceived into heaven. Paganism triumphed,
and Christians loosed for the manifestation
of the heavenly kingdom, and wondered
when the heavenly cijy would descend out
of heaven from God. Seventeen centuries
roll between this time and that—all things
have changed their forms. What seemed
most solid in that old world, has passed
away; only .some of is thoughts have lived,
and the memory of a few of its men and
woin6n. But the world and the Church
still exist—the darkness contending against
the light—the light seeking to penetrate
the darkness; and before us still is the
same Hope. It must be nearer. How
much of the way yet remains ?
The Jewish nation also had its hope.
The desiruction of Jerusalem by Titus wa3
an event of the past generation. Many of
the J-wa had lingered through, all the sub
sequent horrors in their Land of Promise,
and multitudes were now returning, impel
led by the restless“longings of patriotism
and faith. They had not yet grown accus
tomed to be a byword amongst all nations
—l6 the contempt and homelessness of their
self-imprecated destiny. All their ambi
tion had not yet been crashed into that
lowest form of it—the lust of money. They
w re again in their land in considerable
fr-rce, and in a state of restless expectation,
which exposed them to be the ready tools
of any ambitious leader coming “in his own
name.”
In Cyprus, they had risen in mad rebel
lion against the yoke, and massacred the
population there. The Emperor, and the
R mans in general, hated them with that
bitter hatred which springs from mingled
contempt and dread.
Meantime, in Palestine many desolate
places began again to blossom. On the
hill s', 5 ', were the clneiful voices of the vine
dresses; on the plains, the feet of the
husbandman; and in sheltered nooks, or
On the level crests of mountains, towns and
villages began quietly to rise from their
Tuins.
A cottage, with its vineyard, rose into the
sunshine on tjie bright side of a deep val
ley. The roughnesTof its architecture broke
its outlines into all kinds of pictur sque
light and shadow ; and in the shadow of
the low doorway stood a young girl, her
slight form “making a sunshine in the sha
dy place,” as she watched an athletic-look
ing boy working among the vines below.
At length with a mix ure of scorn and
coildisti glee, he threw his tools on the
ground and joined his sister.
“There, Acbsah ; the day’s work is fin
ished—the last stone is laid on the highest
terrace—the channel from the weal is com
pleted ; and to-morrow the cool waters
shall moisten the roots of the vines. Now
come and sit with me under this old olive
which looks as if it had fluttered its gray
leaves over the patriarchs ”
* Our mother says woman’s work is never
done/’ said Achsah, looking into the cot
tage to see if she was wanted, with the
superiority of a girl of twelve over a boy ot
fifteen.
‘ Oar mother’s never is,” murmured the
boy, glancing at a delicate woman who sate
ju-t within the shadow of the vineyard
lodge, chanting a young child to sleep
whilst she w. s weaving. “You don’t want
Achsah, mother?”
A consenting inclination of their mother’s
head, without raising her eyes, or interrupt
ing her low, monotonous song, answered
the children, and they startea together for
the well on the hill, which was thtir lavour
ite retreat, with its date-pa'ms and thick
herbage, prudently taking their pitchers
with tncm. Achsah sate on the edge and
plaited grass; her brother leant gainst the
wall beside her ; the shadow of the arched
waters was behind them, above the sky (all
its blue absorbed in the intense light)—be
low, the reach of the valley ot K dron, in
that place widaaedjnto a hollow, strewn
with stores and fragments of rock. The
desolations of the torrent remained; the
good it had done seemed to have died with
it. Brjond, the hills again liepimed the
valley into its usual character of a steep
ravine , but over the summits of the lower
hills rose in the distance the crests of the
mountains around Jerusalem, sacred to the
children by all the sublime memories and
hopes of the nation, yet wit hout its divinest
associaiions, for to them the world seemed
o be what it never has been—without a
Temple, and without a Piiest.
. “It is d.ffert n* from our father’s palace
at Rome, Aci.s ah.”
“It is, AzOr !’ ; she replied, her lsrge eyes
expanding as the vision of splendor rose
before her. “The slaves—the purple cur
tains —th maible floors—the golden cups
and vases, and that inner garden, with the
flowers and the fountains where we used to
lie on the couches and dream what we
would be!”
“It was not the dreaming I cared for, but
the power,” he said.
“And then,” continued Achsah, “I re
member how theGeniile women g zed at
our mother’s pearls and rich dresses. They
used to speak of thtir husbands and brothers
being with the Emperor’s armies—of their
heavy duties to the state—and the high,
burdensome offices they held, and say they
envied us our humble and more peaceful
lot.”
“But they did not I” exclaimed Azor. “It
is better to be here, Achsah. The land is
our own. I understand our father. If r
were a great man, —or when I am, I will dress
my si ves in jewels and silks and myself
wear plain armour. We were like slaves
there ; —here we may soon be princes.—
Who cart s for splendor who can have pow
er ? 1 liked ti e young Romans we knew at
Rome so much better than the Greeks or
our own people! They scorned me, I could
see. 1 would have done the same, liact I
been they. What is the me of horses un
less you can ride them to battle, or of a
palace unless one can rule men from it?”
“But here,” said Achsab, quietly, “we
have neither splendor nor-power.”
‘ But we have hope, sister; and even now
I feel more of a man. If we cannot be what
by birth we are—princes of our tribe—it is
better, at least, to be men and women, and
not mere curiosity hunters or gold-collec
tors. Those terraces and that lodge are
our work. You and our mother depend on
us-'-and I like that;” and among the bro
ken terraces around them, the stones in
some places dislodged by the wild growth
of the rich southern vegetation—the vines
trampled, by wild goats, or withered beside
the choked-up water courses—their eyes
rested complacently on the green p tch of
.maize, the neat terraces, and trained vines
of the little rescued plot.
Achsah forgot the splendor in the happi
ness, and said—
‘ Yes, it is better tKtas.”
“It is better to be here,” replied the boy
hastily, “but nOt thus. We wait lor better
days; the Promise of our fathers has yet to
come.”
A slight rustling among the large leaves
around them checked him.
‘I knew the creature would be here!”
said Achsah, joyfully. “It has come here to
drink every evening for the last week ;”
and, rising, she filled one of her pitchers,
and emptied it into the open basin before
the well. ’A sharp face peered round the
corner, and the bright eyes of a young fawn
glanced timidly about. At first it shrank
from the boy, but a little encouragement
Irom Acbsah’s soft v.oice reassured it, and
the graceful neck was bent over the water.
Another rustling, and the sound of ap
proaching footsteps, and it vanished like a
spirit.
“It is mine; it is mine,” exclaimed a
happy girlish voice from below; and a
young girl, on a mule, attended by an E=*ypt
iaa female slave and an escort, appeared in
the valley. There seemed to be a discus
sion, but the girl had her way, and rushing
up the steep sides of the hill, she was soon
beside the Hebrew children, leaving the
Egyptian panting after her. “Indeed it is
mine,” she said; “it was consecrated to
Diana, because it is so white; but I saved
its life, and I garland iteviry day,and feed
it with perfumed cakes, as if it were the
goddess herself, which, I am sure, must
please her better.* Lily, Lily !” she called,
and at the well-known voice •the little crea
ture came bounding to its mistress, and was
captured and led away. Then turning back
the maiden said— V
• Y m have been kind to it; may I give
you something ?’’
And, palling the slave, she offered Achsah
money, which she took, not knowing how
to refuse it; nut Azor impetuously threw
the glittering pieces into the dry bed of the
Kidron below.
The stranger colored, and her dark eyes
flashed; then she said, laughingly, taking
Achsab’s hand in hers—
“ Forgive my presumption ; I forgot you
were a nation of princes,” and after taking
off her golden necklace, she threw it over
Achsah’s necK, and said, kissing her—“My
SOUTHERN CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE.
name is Lucia; my father is called Nicias ;
every one knows him; we live in Jerusa
lem : will you come and see me sometimes ?
I want a sister.”
And with an air between that of an em
press and a wilful child, she descended the
hill with her arm around the neck of her
favorite.
The Hebrew children sate by the well;
but to Azor all was changed. “Those
heathens!” he exclaimed, adding other
Oriental epithets less moderate, “they think
they grant us a boon in permitting us to
toil where our fathers reigned.”
The shadows lay black on the rocky val
ley as they returned, and the feeble lamp
glimmered faintly through the slit windows
of ihe cot‘ago. There sate the mother, pa
tiently and peacefully piecing old garments
together. Achsah began to help her moth
er/ while Az r moodily apart. The
mother looked up
• Those faggots you cut will p v cvide us
well for the winter, but they are scattered
about unbound.”
“I wus not born to bind faggots, mother.”
No reply ; and Azor felt the silent indus
try an insult.
“When the ship sank, mother,” he said,
at length, “which carried my father’s pro
perty, arid we were wrecked, was nothing
saved? Why cannot we have a house in
Jerusalem ?”
• Your father devotes what is left of our
wealth to the national cause.”
“What national cause, mother?” said the
boy, impatiently drawing close to her. “W e
have come back to Palestine in two3 and
threes, until more than a million of us are
here rgain mocking the prophecy of R>-
man and Christian that we were exiled for
ever ; but we are not a nation —we have no
power.”
‘ Power grows in secret, my son ; your
father says revolutions are prepared under
ground.”
“But, mother, do you hope?”
She raised her pale face from her work,
and clasping her hands, she said :
“We have sinned, we and our fathers;
gracious is our G:,d a; and merciful, but He
will by no means clear the guilty or exalt
the proud. We have re!urn< and to (ur land,
but have we returned to our God ?”
“But do not the R ihbis say we have suf
fered double for our sins ?” asked the boy,
eagerly ; “and will not G'Ct’s anointed King
come to us at our lowest ?”
“It is said so,” she replied. ‘I haye an
unbelieving, unhoping heart ; but in my
childhood the siege of Jerusalem was not
forgotten. My father liv and tor this hope,
and he was burnt with the Temple, still
looking for the Deliverer amidst the flames,
like the Three Children of old ; my broth
ers foughtfor it—two of them* were cruci
fied, and turee are slaves scattered I know
not where ; and now my husband and my
children have caught its terrible light, the
light which has led all I loved to ruin !”
“But the day must come, mother, and we
mi y be the generation which shall see it !”
“Fow, my children I” she said, mournful
ly.
* ‘Had you never a sister, mother ?”.asked
Achsah, after a long silence.
“I had one- my daughter.”
“Is she living ?” Achsah inquired timidly.
“She died ! Dirty years ago ”
“In the same hope, mothet ?”
‘ No, not in the same hope, Achsah. She
died rrjojping. She believe., the Promised
One had come.”
• Toe Messiah had come !” said Achsah,
wonderirglv.
“Hush, Achsah !” whispered Azor, “our
mother means she was a Nazarene.”
A heavy frotstep was heard on the thresh
old ; the children rushed to meet their
father. The mother rose timidly, as if she
had been opening a forbidden casket.
Eleazar threw himcelf on the bench near
eat the door and wiped his brow.
“You are weary,” said the wife.
“No, Shelomith, not I; only my limbs.
There is a rising of our people in the E st,
and the Romans have fallen back. The
tidings are dim as yet, but surely the days
of our mourning are endtd, and.my timid
dove shall yet nest e among the palaces of
Dividr l thought to have placed yoji thrre,
Shelomith, in your youth and prime; but
there is new youth for us yet. Oar children
shall have their birthright.” Then closing
the door and encircling his wife and chil
dren in one embrace, he said, in a low, deep
tone— ‘ The star of Jacob has arisen! The
Messiah is come at last!’’ and tears rolled
over his stern, sunburnt face,-.find the mo
ther and children wept together - in a tu
mult of joy.
But another emotion swelled the tide in
Shelomith’s heart. ‘ The Messiah is come!”
—these had been the last words on the lips
of her dying sister.
A low cry from the room within caught
her ear, and hastening to her youngest
child, she found his face flushed and his
lips quivering as with some uneasy dream,
whilst outside she heard the howl of some
wild animal. Tenderly she laid him on her
bosom, and carried him up and down until
the flushed face was calm, and the quiver
ing lips entranced into a smile. Then sit
ting down with her child on her knee; the
hopes and fears of a faith which had be
come little more than political, and the
sorrows of a nation to whose every day life
tragedy had become familiar, were all for a
while absorbed in the deep content of a
mother’s love. For beneath the eddies and
stormy waves of political change, ever flows
the deep current of our common human
life.
Cjplbrett.
CARLETTA;
OR, “going to sing in heaven.”
“If I could have your faith. Hawkins,
gladly would I; but I was born a skeptic.
I can not help my doubts more than I can
the results they lead to. I can not look upon
God and the future as you do; with my
temperament it is utterly impossible.”
Si said John H ir.vey as he walked with
a friend under a dripping umbrella ; for
the night was stormy and very dark, though
the brilliancy of the shop lamps made a
broad path of light along the wet sidewalk.
John Harvey was a skeptic of thirty years’
standing, and apparently hardened in bis
belief. Everybody had given him up as j
unconvertible. Reasoning ever so fa.ii ly
and calmly made no impression on the
rocky soil of his heart. Theologians dis**
liked the sight of his massive fr ee, and
humble Christians sighed as he passed them
A man with such capacities, they said,—
with such generous impulses, (for ev
ery body knew how kind he was ) with an
intellect so enriched, and powers of the
keenest metal, —and yet no God. no hope
of the future, —walking with the lamp at
his feet unenlightened. Alas ! it was sad,
very sad!
But one friend had never given him up.
When spoken to at out him— ‘ I will talk
with and pray for that man until I die,”
he said; “and I will have faith that he may
yet come out of darkness into marvellous
light. And oh, how wondertul that light
will seem to him, shut up so long 1”
And thus whenever he met him (John
Harvey was always ready fov “a talk”) Mr.
Hawkins pressed home the truth upon
him. In answer on that stormy night, he
only said, * God can change a skeptic John;
He has more power over your heart than
you have, and I mean still toy ray for you.”
‘Oh, I’ve no objections, none in the
world; seeing is believing, you know. I’m
ready for any modern miracle, but I tell
ycu it would take nothing short of a mira
cle to convince me. However, let’s change
the subject. I’m hungry, and it’s too far
to go up town to supper this stormy night.
Whew! how the wind blows! Here’s a
restaurant; let us stop here.”
How warm and pleasant it looked in the
long, brilliant dining-saloon! Clusters of
gas jats streamed over the-glitter and color
of pictures and gorgeous carpet®, and the
rows of marble tables reflected back the
lights as well as the great mirrors.
The twom rohan's bad eaten, and were
just on the point of r'sirg, when a strain
of oft music cone through an open door
—a child’s sweet voice.
‘Upon my word that is pretty,” said
John Harvey; “what marvellous purity in
those tones!”
‘ Oat of here, you little baggage.” cried a
hoarse voice, and one of the waiters point
ed angrily to the door.
“Let her come in,” said John Harvey,
springing to his feet.
“We don’t allow th-m in this place, s'r,”
said the waiter, “but she can go into the
residing room.”
“Weil let her go somewhere, for I w nt
to hear her,” responded the gentleman.
All this time the two had seen the shad
ow of something hovering back ands >r-r
warden the edge of the door; now they
followed a slight little figure, wrapped in
patched cloak, patched hood, and leaving
the mark of wet feet as she walked. Curi
ous to see her face—she was very small—
John Harvey lured her to the furthest part
of the great room, where there were but
few gentlrmen, and then m tioned her to
sing. The little one looked timidly up
Her cheek was of olive darkness, but a flush
rested there ; and out of the thinnest face,
under the arch of broad temples deepened
by masses of the blackest hair, looked two
eyes, whose softness and tender pleading
would htvve touched the hardest heart.
‘ That little thing is sick, I believe,” said
John Harvey, compassionately.
“What do you sing, child?” he added.
“I sing you Italian, or a little English,”
she said softly.
J ,hn Harvey had been looking at her
shoes. “Why !” he exclaimed, as bis lip
quivered, “her feet are wet to her ankles,
absolutely; her shoes are full of holes.”
By this tune the chi and had begun to sing,
pushing back her hood, and folding before
her, her little thin fir-gars. Her voice was
wonderful; and simp e and common as
were both air and words, the power and
pathos of the tones, drew together several
of the habitues of the reading room. The
little song commenced thus:—
“There is a happy land,
Far, far away.”
Never cou’d the voice, the manner of
that child be forgotten. There almost
see aed a halo round her head, and when
she had .finished, her great speaking eyes
turned toward John Harvey.
“Look here, child ; where did you learn
that song?” he asked.
“In Sabbath school, sir,” was the simple
answer.
“And you don’t suppose there is a happy
land ?” he continued, heedless of the many
eyes upon him.
“I know there is; I’m going toeing there//
she said so quietly, so decidedly, that the
men looked at each other.
“Going to sing there?”;
“Yes, sir. my mother said so. She used
to sing to me until she was sick ; then she
said she wasn’t going to sing any more on
earth, but in heaven.”
“Well, and what (hen ?”
“And then she died sir,” said the child,
tears brimming up and over on the dark
cheek, now ominously flashed scarlet.
John Harvey was silent for a few mo
ments. Presently he said, —
“Weil, if she died, my little girl, you
might live, you know.”
‘On, no, sir ! no, sir ! [very quickly.] I’d
rather go there, and be with mother. Some
times I have a dreadful" pain in my side,
and cough as she did.. There won’t beanv
pain up there, sir; it’s a beautiful world.”
“How do you know?” faltered on the
lips of the skeptic.
“My mother to and me so.”
Words how impressive! manner how
childlike, and yet how wise! John Harvey
had had a praying mother. His chest la
bored fo.r a moment—the sobs that strug
gled for utterance could be heard even in
their deeps—and still those large, soft, lus
trous eyes, like magnets, impelled his
glance toward them.
“Child you must have a pair of shoes.”
John Harvey’s voice was husky,
Simultaneously hands were thrust into
pockets, purses pulled out, and the aston
ished child held in her little palm more
money than she had ever seen before.
“ Her father is a poor, consumptive, or
gan grinder,” whispered one. “I suppose
he’s too sick to be out to-night.”
Along the sloppy street went the child,
under the protection of John Harvey, but
not with shoes that draDk the water at ev
ery step. Warmth ami comfort were now
hers. Down in the Hep, den-like lanes
oftbecßy walked the man, a little cold
child-band in his. At an open, broken
door they stopped—up broken, creaking
stairs they climled. At. last another door
way opened; a wheezing voice called out
of the dim arch, “CLrletta”
“0 fathei 1 father! see what I have brought
you! 1 ok at me 1 look at me 1” and down
went the hoarded silver, and, venting her
excessive joy, the child fell, crying and
laughing together, into the man’s arms.
Was he a man?
A face dark and hollow, ail overgrown
with hair,black as night and uncombed—
a pair of wild eyes—a body bent nearly
double —hands like claws.
“Did he g ve you all this?”
“Tney all did, father; now you shall hare
soup and oranges.”
(Concluded next week.)
Myles L. Greene was born February 6th
1826, and died in Fort Valley, Ga., Dec. Bth, ’GoL
Rejoined the M. E. Church in early life, but
never became a decided, experimental, active
and zealous Christian, until he was the head of a
family. From this time, the family altar was
erected, and his pious fidelity continued during
his entire after life. He served God long, zeal
ously, and faithfully, in the useful and honor
able stations in the church, of steward, class
leader and Sabbath-school superintendent. His
affectionate interest for the religious training of
the young, and especially of little children, was
deep and lasting, his efforts also, for the spiri
tual instruction and welfare of the blacks, were
efficient and laudable. Being blest by Provi
dence, with ample means, and being actuated by
a powerful sense of his obligations in this regard,
he was characterized by a large and generous
liberality towards the support of the gospel and
all its benevolent enterprises. Truly was ex
emplified in him, the announcement of the di
vine oracle, “the liberal deviseth liberal things,,
and by liberal things shall he stand.” His
kindness arid charities to the poor were.generous
yet unobtrusive. He was a most tender and
affectionate husband and father, and un upright
Christian master. Being entrusted for many
years with the management of the large estates
and interests of several of his orphan nieces and
nephews,,he was distinguished in the adminis
tration of this trust, by unexceptionable integri
ty, discretion and success. In all temporal af
fairs, he endeavored strictly and perpetually to
have an eye single to the glory of God, and to the
good of those committed to his care and of those
with whom he conducted his transactions. The
last scenes of his life were most touching. In
view of these, al' who were privileged to be pres
ent, were impressed with the truth of the senti
ment that ‘ the chamber where the good man
meets his fate, is above the common walks of
life quite on the verge of heaven.” During a
long and painful illness, he exhibited the Chris
tian’s humble resignation When on the verge
c f death's cold stream, he took an affectionate
farewell of all his loved ones, lie kissed his
little children, and praying for each one separ
ately, bade them meet him in heaven In an
swer to the inquiries of his sorrowing friends,
he gave the assurance that, “if it were God’s
will for him to live he was willing; if, to die,
he was willing; he had no will of his own, his
will was lost and swallowed up in the will of
God ” In this happy frame, he breathed his.
soul away sweetly and peacefully into the arms
of the Lord J esus In the death of Bro Greene,
one of the pillars of the spiritual temple on*
earth has been removed to the eternal temple
above. W T e would not depict him as incapable
of mistakes, or as free from all errors But, it
may most truthfully be said that the great fun
damental principle of his character, w’as to do
right and to please God in all his ways. One of
Zion’s bravest and most zealous banner-bearers
has fallen ; —but, it is a delightful consolation to
reflect that his pure and happy spirit has ascen
ded to the heavenly places forever to join in the
song of victory and eternal praise,
T. B. Russell.
William H. Antiiont, died in Columbia co ,
Ga., Oct. 25th, 1866, in the 46th year of his
age.
Rarely has it fallen to the lot of any commu
nity to mourn the loss of a more truly estimable
man, than the subject of this notice. Honesty,
integrity and benevolence, were prominent
traits in his character ; which won the respect
and esteem of those who were best acquainted
with him. About eleven years ago he made
profession of religion and united with the peo
ple of God, from which time, according to the
testimony of both saint and sinner, he led &
most orderly and exemplary life. Being natu
rally possessed of a modest, diffident disposi
tion, and perhaps underrating hig talents for
usefulness, he declined to take any active or
prominent part in the services of the sanctu
ary; yet, he, at the same time, endeavored la
maintain family religion, and to rear his chil
dren in the nurture and admonition of the Lord-
In him the poor ever found a strong, sympathis
ing friend, and one who was willing to afford
them assistance according to the extent of his
ability. But why should we attempt to portray
his virtues ? His record is on high ; he has
rested from “his labors” and his “works”
doubtless do follow him. He leaves a wife and
five small children to lament their irreparable
loss; and has gone, as we verily believe, to
join his three little ones that have preceded him,
to the better land. Thus has the community in
which he lived lost one of its most valuable citi
zens, and the Church one of its most pious and
exemplary members. “Precious in the sight of
the Lord is the death of the saints. C.
Elizabeth McLaughlin, was born October
179 2the daughter of Thomas and Margaret Hall,
of Oglethorpe, was awakened and converted
under the ministry of Rev. James Russell in her
12th year, and connected herself with the M E
Church. She was married to George McLaugh
lin fe lumber 24 1818, and died April 27th,’65
A great deal might be truthfully written in
praise of this excellent Christian woman. Bhe
made it a matter of conscience to attend regular
ly to all the services of the Church, circuit or
any other kind of preaching, class and prayer
meeting, unless providentially hindered, and
in fact attended often when almost any other
person would have felt perfectly justifiable in
staying'at home. Shewas notonly in her place
at church, but she was there for the sole pur
pose of being benefitted. She listened atten
tively to all that was said and devoutly prayed
that it might be a blessing to herself and ot hers.
She was a quiet, unobtrusive woman, but
industrious and as good a house-keeper as you
ever knew, Her hospitality knew no bounds.
She was universally kind—l have very little
doubt that she and her husband have fed and
entertained more religious people than almost
or quite any other two people in Oglethorpe
omiity t She was especially kind t Methodist
Preachers ; in her they found a mother, and at
her house a home. She was the mother in law
of two of the members of the Georgia Confer
ence, WHC Cone, who rests in heaven, and
J H Grogan who still lives to labor among us.
She was the mother of several children. She
always strove to impress them with the value
and importance of piety. Thus lived our sister
for many long eventful years, never turning ei
ther to the right or left. When she came to die
Dr. Lumpkin, the family physician, asked her
if she saw her way clear to the heavenly world ?
She answered yes. Her last words were “Jesus
is with me,” and died as calmly as one going to
sleep, without the moving of a muscle of the
face. H, H. Parks.