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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.