Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

some will say, what the necessity 'Or this great change? I know not what may be the views of the ministerial breth ren, but I think that I express the sen timents of the great body of the intelligent iaity when I say that we feel the necessity to be most pressing. As members of the church, we need and desire a more intimate communion with those that are appointed to minister to our spiritual wants, and that can be attained only by a longer association than we have heretofore enjoyed. As parents, we need the influence of the pastor to assist us in saving our children from the spirit of the world, and leading them to the fold of Christ. Here—here is the tender point. Here—here lies the great necessity; and just here, I hazard nothing in charging that the Methodist Church is most defective in her working machinery. Her chief reliance for saving the children to the church seems to be in her system of Sabbath schools. These may work very well as far as they go, but my observation leads me to the conclusion that there is a large class, the older boys, or “young men,” who are brought but very slightly under their influence. To this it may be replied, that the fault is not with the church, but is at tributable to a defect in the family govern ment. Admit it, and then we appeal the more earnestly to the church to help us as parents, by giving us the assistance of the pastorate. But is it not a requisition of the Discipline that the preacher in charge shall attend to the religious instruction of the children? True—very true ; but your sys tem of constant chan ye prevents him from the efficient discharge of the required duty, for it must be remembered that “confidence is a plant of slow growth,” and requires to be carefully and 'patiently nurtured, in order to bring it to a full development. In conclusion, I will only remark, that our children constitute “the seed of the church,” and unless we make better arrangements for the careful preservation of that seed than we now have, we may soo 1 find ourselves in the condition of the thriftlcsss husbandman. There is no influence so potent to this end as that of the faithful and pious pastor. To accomplish the proposed object, I see no necessity to interfere with the limitation of two y ears, now prescribed for the itineracy. Let that remain as it is, but give authority to the appointing power to continue the preacher so long as he may be acceptable to his charge. 11 is acceptability will always be an unerring test of lus usefulness in the as signed work. Layman. Florida , March 3(7, 1866. Jfmnilj THE FALSE CHRIST. A TAUS or TU* SECOND FALL OF JERUSALEM. CHAPTER IX. [Concluded.] Cyril came at length, with torches and meD, and after a few whispered words with Lucia, they succeeded in carrying Azor away, still sleeping, whilst Shelomith bore the body of the child to a house Cyril had found for them among the ruins. Happiness was the best narcotic to Lucia: and weariness brought the same blessing of sleep to Shelomith and Achsah. Lucia was the first to wake ; and lifting up her eyes, they rested on her husband, who sate watching beside her. It was wak ing to uumixed joy, as she placed her hand in his and closed her eyes again. He watehed her in silence, and thought how sweet it would be to wipe out evesy trace of sorrow from that face, so youmrand fresh, yet so marked by anxiety and sorrow. He fancied she was sleeping, so childlike was the smile that rested on her lips; but they moved slightly, and when her dark eyes opened on him again they were full of tears. She had been praying, and prayer had recalled her to the care of those around. She looked round on the sleeping forms of Shelomith and Achsah, and rising softly, spoke to her husband of the dead. “The child is buried,” he replied. “Where?” she asked. “In the place where you met and prayed on that morning,’’ he said, “across the brook.’’ She looked up suddenly, and a hope dawned on her so precious, she dared not risk its being overthrown by asking any questions. “Could you not have waited until she woke ?” “Why ?” he asked, gloomily, “you could not have ventured near the place ; it was better over, the valley was covered with mangled corpses.” She shuddered. “Let us escape from this doomed place, Cyril.” “All is ready, ’’ he replied; “to day we must be on our way to Antioch, and then away from this doomed land for ever.” “Is my child there, and my mother, and father, and Irene ?’’ “All.” She was again lost in her happiness. When Shelomith awoke, she felt and then looked wistfully around as if she had lost something; then arousing herself complete ly, she came to Lucia, and asked softly— “ Where is Bencni? Where is my child ?’’ “He is laid in the grave,’’ said Lucia, too full of the sorrow to disguise the truth. She feared a burst of passionate grief. But Shelomith only said reproachfully— “ That was scarcely kind, Lucia. You might have known I could have borne it.” And then she added more vehemently— “He was mine—no one had a right to touch him. Where have they laid him ?’’ , Lucia’s eyes sank before that piercing gaze, and she said, with reverent tender ness— “He is laid near where He was in agony, and prayed three times that the bitter cup might pass, and it did not pass.” The look of passionate determination was changed to one of unresisting an guish, and she sank down on the couch, and hid heT face in her hands—not moving even when her daughter’s arms were thrown around her; and Lucia left them alone to gether. “Cyril was right,’’ she thought, as she went to prepare for the journey; and when, an hour afterwards, she returned and found the mother bending over Azor, and lavish ing on him in his weakness the tender love with which she had soothed his infancy, she felt that God had provided a balm, and that this second sorrow would heal the first. The next morning they left Jerusalem. The early light fell on nothing but desola tion and death :—the hills around laid waste; the city itself in ruins ; fires smoul dering in the streets, consuming the dead that filled them; vines and corn trampled or cut down. For once, Nature seemed to share in the misery of man ; on the desola ted mountain slopes and shaded valleys full of corpses, and among the wasted vine yards, sate hopeless groups of captives. The work was done at last; the heart of the na tion was broken, and since then Judea has never again become a home for the Jew. The roof of the house at Antioch looked over the sea, and below, in the harbor, lay the vessel which was to convey the family to the “isles of the Gentiles.” Cyril and Nicias were in the city with Azor making, arrangements; Shelomith sate looking to wards the lulls of Palestine, and Achsah leant over the balustrade beside her; on the other side, a little dark-eyed girl was be guiling into all kinds of play and caresses a dignified matron who had never condescend ed to any such endearments towards her own children; and watching them, and look ing towards the blue horizon of the Medi terranean, sate Lucia and Irene in close conversation. Irene’s manner had in it a mixture of reverence and tenderness which had perplexed Lucia. “You are not towards me as you used to he,’’ she said, half reproachfully—“there seems a distance between us; I know I nev er can be like you, Irene, but you surely do not love me less.” Irene’s voice faltered as she replied— “ls there not a distance between us? have you not been among the professors ? were you not willing to be a martyr ?” Lucia looked down— “l could not help it, you know, Irene,” she said, “1 was never very willing to die, I wished so much to live, to see you all again ; and I asked that I might, and now I am so happy and thankful ” “But you preferred death to denying Him ?" Lucia coloured deeply. “I could not have done that; —nor could you,’’ she added, looking at her with a beam ing smilt. “I have not been tried,’’ was the reply. “You would have been nobler thar/l was ; you would not have asked to escape.’’ “I have not what you have to live for,” was the quiet answer, “though I have in deed much. But do you think I grudge you that crown : I only reverence you for the honor God has given you; I longed for it once,’’ she said with a sigh, “but not now, it is best as He wills.” “The Bishop said that was the sacrifice He accepts, ’’ said Lucia, “simply submit ting willingly to the will of God. No” she added with an affectionate smile, “you are the martyr, Irene !” Then, suddenly chang ing her tone, she said—“ You must indeed have suffered, Irene; I have not thought of it half enough. How terrible it must have been to return without me! Were they cruel to you ?’’ “Your husband protected and cherished me as his sister; he said he felt as if I were yours.” Then remembering the bitter words and furious threats with which she had been greeted, she continued—“lt was natural they should attribute their loss to me, and dread my influence over the child, though at first it was hard not to be allowed to touch her, when my heart so yearned to wards her.” She said nothing of the curses and indignities which had been heaped on her—the slaves exaggerating the hatred of their mistress; nor of the death which noth ing but Cyril’s watchful firmness saved her from; nor did she tell the keen pang ofloneli ness which had smitten her when, in the first minutes of the joyful re-union, Lucia had scarcely seemed to see the slave who stood drinking in her every look and word; that had been repressed at once as selfish and sinful, aud forgotten in the cordial recogni tion which followed. With Luci?, one happy thought absorbed the rest. “Cyril!’’ she said, “it was like him ; I knew you were safe with him—for I did think of you, Irene, though often my heart was so full of selfish hopes and I fears;” and before the morning they were |on board the little merchant vessel, and launched on the calm sea. | One by one the hills of Palestine faded | into soft grey outline, and then disappeared , altogether from their view, as they made | for the coast of Cyprus ; aud when there was ! no loQ ger anything to watch, Lucia looked I around in a calm of thankful joy, aud felt j that all her treasure were with her, and the | thought led to her saying some tender hope ful words to Shelomith and the orphans, which called up smiles in their sorrowful faces, as they turned from the coast they had beeu watching so painfully, to answer her. “There is but one thing, Cyril; I should have liked to save that book of our holy wri tings.” u I have it here ,” he said, laying her hand on his heart. And meeting his eyes, she read there a cons rination of her best hopes. SOUTHERN CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE. “This is the best joy of all,” she murmur-! ed, as soon as the happy tears which choked her voice would let her speak, “Oh, Irene, ! Ia martyr! I had not courage or faith to ask if this could be possible. This is the best joy of all.” And in calms on the broad blue Mediter ranean, or at anchor among the sunny creeks of the Greek Islands, the history of the months of separation was gradually unfolded to Lucia. “I took up your sacred books a gain Lu cia,” said Cyril. “I thought the hands which so diligently copied them for me might be cold and powerless ; I knew the hopes they opened must have been your strength, and as I read them, the ice of my proud criticism melted, and my heart lay open to the truth. What more was needed ?’’ “You found Him !’’ “I found myself revealed to Him. All the dim wants and unnamed burdens under which I had been restlessly struggling were called by name, and, I felt, by the true name. I found all the philosophical names I had been giving to things within me, and above me, were mere mists of words to hide the , depths I could not fathom. I had been ! trying to count and name the stars, and af ter all the stars were countless, and my names were human names, and meantime my household fire had gone out ; I awoke from the ‘abysses’ amidst which I had been shivering, and the ‘fulnesses’ which left me an hungered. I found myself standing be fore the throne of God, with sin upon and sin within me, part of my being and na ture.” “That was no gospel.’’ “Any abyss was less awful to gaze into than those holy omniscient eyes.” “But then ’’ “Oh, Lucia, you know ! I read of His unspeakable Gift. 1 saw Him who was in the beginning with God, who is God. I saw Him bleeding and forsaken on the cross, made a curse for us. I looked up, and in the heavens I saw Ilim again. The curse was gone, and the sin ; and as the heavens were clear of it, so was my unburdened heart, for llis blood cleanseth from all sin. I looked up, Lucia, through Him and in Him—beneath the cross I looked up through out the universe, and met the gaze of a Fa ther.” And Martia in a moment of confidence, with lautho playing near them, said—“l cried for you Lucia, to all the gods in heaven ; I offered them sacrifices ; I wept and promised the most precious things I had; but the heavens were as iron, and I felt as if my clamours only exasperated them. How could a shade of grief sully the brow’of an immortal ? I seemed to hear from within the golden gates the sound of feasting and music, and I felt that no cry of human mis ery could be suffered to enter. So, in the sullenness of my grief, I let Cyril read aloud in my presence from your books. It was of a man who had beer! dead four days; and He wept with the H'.e spoke with a ioud voice and raised t&r -khd ; but was not so much to me— He wept. The words haunted me day and night—a God who could weep ! And, scarcely knowing what I did, I called on Him. It was the cry of despair, not of faith, Lucia; but He heard. I said—l shudder sometimes to think what I said. I made Him no prom ises, 1 offered Him no sacrifices—l felt as it they were all useless. I came :o Him with nothing but my despair and my great need, and I entreated Him to have compas sion on me, even on me.” “He was sure to hear.” “Yes, the strange thing was, the thing I asked for came not. You were still away. I knew not but that you were dead; yet 1 was sure I was heard. And by degrees I learnt to feel that He Lad given us so costly a gift, that beside that* \ft every blessing He can heap on us is r clothing. And so Lucia, I learnt totrus/ p[v Lucia’s eyes filled with tears. “The expiation, the sacrifice, the cross, the agony, were all His; our sacrifice, moth er, is all thanksgiving—our worship is all joy.” * * * * * * “I told you it would never answer,” said Nicias, as he rescued Martia from the rough caresses of little lantliie. “I told you per secution would never answer,’’ he solilo quised, with an air of contented perplex ity. They have made Lucia a martyr ; and here are we, Greeks, Romans, Jews and Pagans, in a fair way to follow her exam ple. It is very unphilosophical; but I see no help for it. We shall have to attend catechetical lectures with our granddaugh ter, Martia !’’—But as he pressed the child’s soft cheek to his, there was a great tender ness in hi3 eyes which contradicted the lightness of his words. Thus the little household of faith sailed forth on the “great sea,” a living branch and type of the one redeemed Family, with all its varieties of history, and character. They* left the shores w'here Polycarp died, and Ignatius witnessed for the Christ he bore in his heart, and went westward among the Greek cities ofthesouth of Gaul,.where not long afterwards, the martyrdoms of Vi enne and Lyons revealed to history the treas ures of faith which otherwise might have been unknown to us until the day of the manifestation of the sons of God. For seventeen hundred years these faithful wit nesses have been resting with their Lord • and the appioving love with which He welcomed them has not lost its first fresh ness. Yet, through the inconceivable re pose of the “better” place, beams the deep er light of a hope which is “far better” still the blessed hope of that day of Christ, when He shall enter into the fulness of His joy and all His redeemed with Him—when the creation shall be delivered from its long bondage, and earth and heaven be no more estranged. For this we on the battle field also wait, amd to this we haste. The age of martyrdopi is not past. The faith which trusts God’s love amidst every trial, and the Jove which acquiesces in His will, and confesses Him by rejoicing in Him at all times, are as dear to Him on the daily path as in the bloody amphitheatre. He has not left one member of His Church with out some alabaster box of very costly per fume, precious in His sight, however poor in ours, to break and pour on Tlis feet. Ev ery hour is testing whether it is the world, or “the disciples’’ we are seeking to please, or, before all, Him to whom wo owe all. “Lovest thou Me more than these?’’ is the question asked us through every gift and privation, every joy and sorrow; and the one response which consecrates martyrdom as well as every lowly act of obedience is— “ Lord, Thou knowest all things,’’ my sins and the love against which I have sinned, yet, “Thou knowest that I love Thee.” THE END. Emmie’s New Mamma. “Mamma, Hattie Grey is going to have a party; Cousin Nelly said so. She’s going, and I may go, too; can’t I mamma? The great browo eyes were very eager as they looked up into Mrs. Bell’s. “My dear,’’said mamma, as she smoothed the rumpled curls, “Hattie is a young lady, and her party isn’t going to be for little girls, but for young ladies and gentlemen.” “0, mamma, let me go ! I like Hattie so more than most anybody, and I’m sure she’ll let me. If I’m little I shan’t take up but little room Please mamma.” “No, Emmie,” said Mrs. Bell, kindly, “my wee girlie would be out of place among all the large people, aud Hattie would rath er see you some other time.” “No, mo,” said Emmie, “Hattie always like to see me; she said so. Mamma, Jo let me go. I’ll be very good. Hattie won’t like it if I don’t go. Don’t you know you went to Mr. Smif’s party because you’se ’fraid she’d be ’fended if you didn’t ? You see, mamma, I must go.’’ “Come, ’darling,” answered Mrs. Bell, smiling, “you and I will have a nice time at home, and we’ll have Hattie here one of these days to make up for it. So be a good girl and forget all about it.” “0 mamma, mayn't I go ? Not if I’ll be so very good ? Not if I’ll wear my old cloak, and not mus it ? Not if I’ll bring you some cake, and a pocketful of candy?” “No, Emmie darling,” said mamma, firmly, “you cannot go. Now see what a brave little girl you can be.” “Mamma, you don’t love me one bit,” cried Emmie, with angry flashes in her brown eyes. “I wish I was Mrs. Mornon’s little girl, she’d be good to me.” ‘A ery well,” answered mamma, sadly, “if you want Mrs. Morgan for a mamma, you can go and see if she will take you/’ Emmie went out of th# room without a word, and up the stairs to the pleasant chamber where every night Mrs. Bell tucked her and Amy and Nettie snugly between the sheets. Presently she came back to Mrs. Bell, attired in a cloke and hood, with a bundle in her hands. “Good-by,’’ said she, “I’m going to be Mrs. Mornon’s little girl. I’ve got my night-gown. I didn’t take my new muff; you may wear it sometimes.” “Very well,’’ said Mrs. Bell, calmly. “Good bye.” Mrs. Morgan’s house was only a few steps away. Little Mrs. Morgan was sitting be side baby Eddie’s cradle, when there was a soft knock at the door that tried to be loud. Bridget opened the door, and Emmie came in. “O, is it you Emmie said Mrs. Mor gan. “I m glad to see you. “llow’s mam ma and the baby ?” “Mrs. Bell isn’t my mamma any more,’’ said Emmie, putting down the night-gown and untying the strings of her hood. “She isn’t good to me. 1 brought my night-gown and I’m going to be your little girl. I think her baby isn’t as pretty as Eddie. Mam ma may I carry this night-gown up stairs into my room ? Emmie went. Mrs. Morgan went on with her sewing, by no means understand ing her, but deciding to let her take her own course, and see what would come of it. Emmie amused herself quietly all the morning with some books and trinkets about the room, apparently quite happy. She sprang out to meet Mr. Morgan as he came, home to dinner, calling him “papa.’ 5 “Whew ! so I have a little girl,” said he. “Yes’’ answered his wife, “she says Mrs. Bell isn t good to her. She wants me for a mother.” “Come, papa, Bridget says dinner is ready,” called Emmie in the hall, where she was hanging up Mr. Morgan’s hat. “I’m hungry. May I sit beside papa, mamma ? I think you have better dinners than my other niaffima.’’ Dinner over, she brought Mr Morgan’s hat and overcoat, and went with him to the door. “Be good, and I’ll bring you some candy,’’ said he. “Now kiss me. Good-by, daugh ter.’’ “Good-by, papa.” The street door was shut, and Emmie went demurely back to the sitting-room and her plays. By and by she asked leave to go over the house, and went through the rooms, pronouncing at the end, “My other mamma’s house isn’t as nice as this. Do you have nice things in your pantry, mamma ? May I go and see ? “No,, dear,” said Mrs. Morgan, “I do not think that is best.’’ “Well, mamma,” replied Emmie, submis sively The short afternoon was quickly over, Emmie seeming quite contented and happy. She had a kiss for “papa” at tea-time. “But I declare, puss, I forgot your candies. That’s too bad.” “My other papa never forgets,” said Em- mie, gravely. At evening, when Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were going out to a lecture, it became° a puzzle what to <lo with Emmie. “Now Emmie,” said Mrs.|Morgan, “don’t you want to go home ? ‘•This is home,’’ said Emmie. “But think howlonely your mamma must be without her little girl.” •“I am your little girl,” said Emmie. “But you will not want to stay here alone all this evening?” “Yes.” “No, Emmie,’’ said Mrs. Morgan deci dedly; “that won’t do. Put on your hood and cloak and I will take you hoine.’’ Emmie obeyed without a word. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan went on, and Em mie was left in the hall at home. “Why Emmie,” said Mrs. Bell, “how is this? I thought you were Mrs. Morgan’s little girl.’’ “Well,’’ answered Emmie, ‘they weren’t p’lito to me. Mr. Mornon and Mrs. Mor non have gone away, and they wouldn’t let me stay.” “Well,” said Mrs. Bell, coolly, “I suppose you must stay here to-night, but to-morrow you can go back to your mamma.” Emmie’s firm lips quivered, the brown eyes filled with tears, and throwing herself into Mrs Bell’s arms she cried, “Mrs. Mornon isn’t my mamma. You’re my mamma. I’m your littlegirl; and I wont think naugh ty to you again one even minute so long as I live.” The tears were wiped away, the mother’s forgiving kisses left on the grieving lips, and Emmie’s face was bright again as she bid her mother good-night at bed-time, whis pering, “You’re my own mamma, my best mamma, my prettiest mamma.” Some little bird told kind Hattie Grey all about this ; and the next day she came her self for her little pet Emmie and her sisters, to “have a little party all by themselves,’’ she said. And a merry time they had of it, with games and singing, books and pictures, and a feast of nice things at the end, from which Emmie saved some of the choicest bits that fell to her share for “my own mam ma.’’ So mamma knew best after all; and isn’t it funny mamma always knows best?— Little Pilgrim. MASON & HAMLIN’S CABINET ORGANS. THE CABINET ORGANS VARY IN capacity fiom an instrument having one set of reeds of four octaves’ compas ■, to one having six seta of reeds, and seven octave*’ compass in all Each siia may be had in cases of different styl s. plain or ele gant according to the use for whicn designed. The luterior work is of the same excellence in all; there is noi difference in their working qualifies. The Rose wood cases are varnished and highly polished, the veneers being alwa s the best (btainable. The Black Walnut and Oak cases are of solid wood, with plain oil finish, smooth, but not polished, and have an advan tage in that they are not easily scratched or defaced. Eor churches, halls, etc., the p ain cases are most suit able; for private houses the choice of cases is a matter of taste or correspondence w.tli other furniture. The carved and paneled cases are very elegant, and an> now most fashionable. JU3T RECEIVED: FIVE-OCTAVE SINGLE REED CABINET ORGA2ST, with Automatic Swell, Double Bellows. Combination Valves and Swe 1 Pedal. Length, 3 feet 6 inches; hetght, 2 feet 9 inches; depth, 1 foot 10 inches. Weight about 135 pounds. * No. 17, in Black Walnut or Oak Case $165 00 ARRIVE THIS WEEK: EIGHT STOP CABINET ORGAN] 1 rwiflTor P Ta a -‘ f jen S th - 4 feet 2 inches; height, 3 ft. Depth. 2 feet 8 inches. Weight about 235 pounds. 1 h!s is the best instrument fir general purposes. It differs from the largest size only in lacking the Pedal B;1s3, which, though it adds much to the capacity of the instrument, yet requires the aid of a second person dev'iTp Us fun powers meWhal ex P eri ®“ ce d to There are four sets of reeds, eight stops, two key boards of five octaves’ compass, from CC to cco. The advantage of two key-boards is very great, ren dering available much more variety and many fine effects which would not otherwise be attainable. No 12, in Black Walnut Case $460 00 The above are New York prices, with freight added. Any style of these Organs will be ordered at short notice, and supplied at New York prees, with freight addei. Call and examine. .... xt xx t, J -W. BURKE & CO., febl9 Next to Baptist Church, Macon, Ga. A CAPITAL BOOK! THE BRITISH PARTIZAI; A Tale of the Olden Time. BY Miss M. E. MOIIAGNE, op S. C. rPHIS IS AN ADMIRABLY WRIT ■ ten Story of the first American Revolution, full ?r ttie rn l ? flost exciting scenes and incidents, drawn from ate. Ine scene is laid on the Savannah river, in South Carolina and Georgia. A more intensely interesting book has not b°en published in this country. “ It appro iches more nearly to the style and geniu# of teir Walter Scott, than a iy novel that has been writ ten this s.de of the Atlantic.” Knickerbocker Magazine, (N. F.) "Gems are strewn at random throughout its pages.* ~ T i . , , .. , Charleston Courier. it is a tale of true love, wrought out amid the stir ring scenes and harsh vicissitudes cf partizan strife, m which the actors are the representatives of real characters, whose aspirations and passions, whose virtues and vices, trials and sufferings, triumphs and misfortunes, are devoloped and portrayed in an ideal history of intense dramatic interest” W. T. Thompson, author of Major Jones' Courtship. Price 50 cents. Sent by mail, postage paid, on the receipt of the price. J. W. BUfiKE & CO., l ao3i Macon, Ga. Snwnip BY RECENT IMPROVEMENTS, this Label has been rendered Water-proof, and ia stronger than any other LABEL or TAG tit the market. Dennison’s Tags, for Express Companies’ use,* Dennison’s Tags, for Grccers’ use. • Dennison’s Tags, for Druggists’ use. Denfiison’s Tags, for Milliners’ use. Dennison’s Tags, for Jewelers' use. J - w- BURKE Sc CO. , n~r*Merchant’s sizes printed to order. GEORGIA Immigration Company! JSSaT SHARES $lO EACH! Capital Stock, : : SIOO,OOO. Subscriptions received by JOHN W. BURKE, mhl Macon, Georgia.