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[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
FLOWERS. FROM THE GRAVEYARD.
BY MRS. JI'LIA L. KEYES.
Still lingering vet is the roseate dye
Which garnish'd my flowers, in a bright Southern sky,
Scarce i>aled by the passing of years—
No breezes are swaying their delicate stems,
No showers have sprinkled them over with gems—
But, oh! they are watered by tears.
In fancy, I see through the opening glade.
The roses’rich tints, o’er the white balustrade,
By glittering sunbeams illumed —
Now, the moon, with its lustre gleamingiy bright,
So mournfully resting on marble-stones white,
Where sweetly these blossoms once bloomed.
I went, when the East was beginning to glow,
With the first tints of morning, three Aprils ago.
And gathered these roses from there,
With a sprig of the ivy. that covered the mound
Where the dearest of treasures were laid in the ground
■Which nourished these flowers so fair.
The bright vcsi>er-dew still in diamond-drops lay.
On each leaflet that gathered the sun’s early ray,
And I felt the still presence of Goth
In that temple so sacred, beneath the soft shade.
Where the songsters of Heaven sweet melody made,
And idlers ne’er carelessly trod.
Then mem’ry renewed, with each sigh of the air.
Some sweet thought of those that were slumbering there
W'hoonce caught the notes, on the breeze,
Os the Oriole singing amid our gay bowers,
Who had gathered with us earth’s beautiful flowers __
And walked in such places as these.
1 lived in that moment, those partings anew.
When I bade that dear spot an anguish’d adieu.
And gazed a last look on the scene—
But I thought of a bower of perennial bloom.
Where no sorrow or gloom, no shades from the tomb.
Would sere like the Autumn its green.
Oh ! never, I fear, will my footsteps retrace
The path which leads to that hushed resting place.
Where beloved ones, in quiet, repose;
But that hallowed love o’er my spirit will rest.
Like the golden glow, from the sun-bright West.
Which brightens the day. at his close.
Montgomery, Ala.. July 6th, 1559.
— —
[Written for the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ALIENE,
Oli
THE RECOVERED TREASURE.
A PRIZE TALE.
BY
MAUD MORETON.
CHAPTER 1.
“ Is not the red man’s wigwam home.
As dear to him, as costly dome ?
Is not his loved one’s smile as bright.
As the proud white man’s worship'd light?"
The balmy breezes of a spring morning were
whispering through the leaves, and swaying the
huge oaks, which lx>rdered the banks of a beau
tiful stream. In one of the shady nooks, in its
windings, were seated a group, which for pic
turesque combination and contrast could scarce
ly be surpassed, nor could a more romantic spot
be well imagined. The river at this point
tumbles over a bed of rocks, for some miles,
with a dashing impetuosity. The luxuriant
foliage on its banks, the overhanging trees, with
their graceful drapery of moss, and the soft
grass, that, like velvet, borders its edge, pre
sented to the eye a beautiful picture of varied
and exuberant nature.
On the extreme slope of the bank, sat a
small Indian boy, watching with quiet movement
and patient eye* a long line and pole, and, ever
and anon, drawing up, and depositing with a
pleased smile, the struggling treasures caught
from the water, llis form was lithe, and supple
as a young willow, his eye had none of the
fierceness of his tribe, but beamed mild and
soft as a dove's, and his small feet and hands
were feminine in their moulding and symmetry.
His costume was simple enough, and combined
neatness and a certain display of taste, as if
even in savage life the mother's careful hand
had labored to decorate the caressed pet of
their rude home.
A hunting shirt of dark blue cotton cloth,
fringed with a wide border or white, descended
below the knee, and was confined at the waist
by an embroiled belt of colored beads—his
small feet were cased in mocassins of the same
description, and around his shoulders was
thrown a hunting pouch, of the same elaborate
and fanciful work, more it seemed for ornament
than use. His hat of straw, ornamented by a
waving plume of brightly dyed feathers, lay on
the grass beside him, while his dark hair was
thrown back, with a careless grace, from a
beautifully defined brow, and gave to view the
gentle expression of a face feminine in its
sweetness and delicacy. He was apparently
not more than seven years old, but with the free
dom so universally accorded to earliest child
hood in wild savage life, he was as much at
home in the depths of the forest, or in the
sparkling waters by which he sat, as in the
shelter of his father's wigwam. In his very
unconsciousness of danger, he was perfectly
fearless.
Somewhat in the rear of the boy, but near
enough to form one of the party, leaned a little
child, on the soft grass, her lap filled with flow
ers—one of her baby feet, having escaped from
its tiny slipper, rested on the rough back of a
huge mastiff, and her clear laugh rung out on the
air, as she tossed the flowers in heaps upon the
shaggy head and coat of her canine friend
and protector.
The idea of strength and power was con
veyed by a single glance at his immense form,
his massive head, and his huge, extended paw.
Courage and fidelity spoke from his large, open
eye, while a latent fierceness slumbered in the
depths of its quiet glanc9, and warned th.e un
wary to pause before arousing his ire.
By the side of this little fay of the forest,
and evidently in attendance upon her, stood a
young girl of ebony blackness, her honest face
shining in its good natured expression and
freedom from care, so characteristic of her race
and state. Her teeth, of ivory whiteness, glis
tened, as with bursts of laughter she responded
to the noisy glee “of her little chaise.
The three races, with their distinctive fea
tures and position, the romantic scenery, and
their harmonizing pastime, presented a picture
striking in its contrast, and peculiar in its pic
turesque combination.
Presently a voice, in clear manly tone, called
aloud “Aliene, Aliene, how anxiously I have
sought you,” and a tall figure stepped from the
embowering woods, through a narrow winding
path, and with an earnest expression of anxiety
quickly approached the youthful party. Taking
up the child, caressingly in his arms, and laying
her head upon his shoulder, he playfully said:
“ Ho, you little gipsey, what have you been
doing?”
“Oh! I have been fishing, papa.”
“Fishing ? Are these the fish you have been
ra&u ms wmMnmm*
catching,” said he, picking up the fallen flowers,
“but conic, let us go home, for mamma is very un
happy about you. and is w’ondering what has
become of her little Aliene. Daphne,” turn
ing to the little negro girl, “you have done very
wrong in bringing Miss Aliene so far from home, ’
and the fault must not be repeated.”
The huge dog arose with a bound, and dashed
to the side of his master, where, with wagging
tail and upward eye, he awaited his share of
notice.
“Kh! Dragon, good fellow." said his master,
stroking his head, to which the grateful animal
responded, by quick, sharp barks of delight, and
pitching back and forth, around and around, with
wild joy and excitement.
“ What success have you had, my little fel
low?” said Mr. Moreland, to the little Indian.
“Oh! my basket is nearly full, already.”
“Are you very fond of the sport. Tenawkie ?”
“I delight in it; I sometimes sit here, nearly
all day. and never go home with an empty
basket."
‘Which do you like best, Tenawkie, fishing or
hunting ?”
“I like fishing best; it is so pleasant to sit here
in the cool shade, and watch the fish as they
glide towards the bait, and then dart back again,
as if they knew the danger they had escaped—
and then the delight ol'drawing up a huge trout;
Ugh! nothing pleasanter. Aliene likes to fish,
too.”
“I do fish sometimes, but they won't bite for
me.”
“But you must not do so again, my little
daughter; there is danger in your coming so far
from home, and danger of your falling into the
water, too.”
With a kind nod to the little Indian, Mr. More
land moved with quick tread up the bank, and
was soon lost to sight in the overhanging foliage.
The little fisher held up a string of captured
trout, and. with a quiet smile, gave it into the
hands of the girl, intimating they were for the
use of her mistress.
Just at this moment, a small canoe shot across
the stream, and from it leaped a light and agile
figure, the brother of the patient little angler.—
He sprang to his side, and waving aloft the
trophies of his day’s sport, gave several loud
shouts, and threw himself by the side of the
quiet little figure on the bank.
There was something singularly interesting
in this dark-browed child of the forest. He
appeared a year or two older than his brother,
of the same dusky hue, the same symmetrical
form, and regular features—the same waving
hair, and wild grace of movement. His eye
flashed with the excitement and eagerness of
the day’s sport, and his rapid gesticulation, so
unusual with his race, evinced his keen relish
for his wild, roving life. He was more reserved
in his association with the whites, and seldom
approached their homes or mingled with their
families. There was a gentleness in his manner
towards his brother, and an ingenuousness in
his countenance, ivhich insensibly attracted to
wards him a feeling of confidence and trust.—
The boldness of his eye. and the firmness of his
lip. bespoke a soul fitted for struggle and for
conquest.
CHAPTER 11.
"All, all our own shall the forests be.
As to the bound of the roebuck free;
None shall say 'hither no further pass;
We will track each step through the wavy grass:
We will chase the elk, in his speed and might.
And bring proud spoils to the hearth, at night.”
• We will give the names of our fearless race
To each bright river, whose course we trace;
We will leave our memory with mounts • ml floods,
And the path of our during, in boundless foods!
Ami our works unto many a lake's green shore,
Where the Indian graves lay, alone, before.”
On the borders of one of the dashing rivers
of the West, there dwelt, many years ago, a
family whose romantic history is still invested
with an intense interest. Scenes and incidents
in real life, are often so peculiar and poetic, that
we are always indebted to the glow of a fervid
imagination, or the airy visions of a dreamy
fancy, for the development of romance.
For some years a sort of predatory warfare
was kept up on the part of the Indians in the
neighborhood of C , a flourishing town, in
one of the frontier States, until the whites, be
coming exasperated by the repetition of midnight
assassination and wholesale plunder, arose in all
their strength, and determined upon summary
punishment and final conquest.
The hostility between the whites and Creeks
lasted for several years, but after the constrained
removal of the most troublesome of the tribe,
to the far West, peace once more smiled upon
the land, and prosperity followed in the foot
prints of civilization. A lew scattered families
of the red man still lingered near their old
haunts, and mingled but distrustfully with their
more powerful white brethren. They maintain
ed apparently a friendly intercourse—cultivating
small portions of land, and bartering their pro
duce for such necessaries as their rude life
required.
Among the lew who refused to yield to the
whites the graves and homes of their fathers,
and to barter their birth-right for the miserable
“mess of pottage,” was a family singularly in
teresting, from their ready adoption of the hab
its and customs of the whites, and their willing
ness to receive overtures of friendship. The
chief and head, a man about thirty years old,
was handsome in the attributes that constitute
beauty in Indian estimation —tall, erect, and im
posing in figure, stern and unbending in man
ner, with the flashing eye and haughty lip of his
tribe.
He possessed large tracts of valuable land,
which, with a sagaeitj’ unusual with his nation,
he had refused to sell to the crafty whites for
the miserably inadequate compensation offered.
His sons were mere children, and for their sakes
he determined to remain in his old home, and in
possession of his fertile acres.
He had, too, some slight appreciation of civilized
life, and although tenaciously dinging to the rude
customs of his tribe, he did not utterly disdain
the softening and refining influences of educa
tion. He encouraged his sons in their asso
ciation with the children of the white settlers,
and endeavored to excite in them a desire for
knowledge—but their wild natures resisted the
thraldom of schools, and delighted in the free
dom of forest life. Fishing and hunting, chasing
the wild deer, and roving the woods in the in
dulgence of their native tastes, constituted their
sole pursuit.
The younger boy, milder in his nature, sought
more readily the homes of the white man, and
his gentle disposition assimilated more nearly
to their lives and habits. He would sometimes
pass days in the grounds and gardens that sur
rounded their dwellings, and gradually became
familiar with their language, and somewhat iden
tified with their interests and customs.
Richard Moreland, a young, enterprising and
intelligent man, incited by a spirit of adventure,
and the hope of acquiring an independence,
moved from his native State, Virginia, and with
his young wife, located himself in the neighbor
hood of C , adjacent to the hunting
grounds of the Creeks. For several years l^e
maintained a friendly intercourse, and his justice
and generosity won even from their rude natures
respect and confidence. He took no advantage
of their ignorance and unprotected state, and
uniformly accorded to them sympathy and kind
ness.
His refined and gentle wife became much in
terested and attracted by the roving, docile In
dian boy, and many a rosy-cheeked apple and
nice cake found their way into his eagerly ex
tended little hand. Kind words and gentle
looks lured him often into her homo. His young
heart expanded to the gentle touch of kindness,
and he would bring and lay at her feet, as to
kens of his gratitude, the result of his expert
ness as a sportsman. Strings of fish, and
bunches of wild pigeons, or other game, con
stantly added to the supply of her household
stores —and small baskets of wild strawberries
were, during the season, the almost daily offer
ing of his unrestrained life and affectionate dis
position.
Little Aliene, her infant child, was Ins especial
delight, and he would pass whole days in search
of birds-eggs, or wild flowers, to please her
childish eye or charm her infantile fancy.
CHAPTER 111.
“I have left the snolior’s dwellings
For-evennore behind:
Unmingled with their household wonts.
For ine shall sweep the wind.
Alone amidst their hearth-fires,
I watch'd my child decay;
Uncheered I saw the spirit-light
From his young eyes fade away.”
Aliene had now attained her third year, and
a little stranger nestled in the soft cradle she
had deserted. Her delight and wonder, as she
gazed upon the tiny features, and the little
dimpled hands that rested on the coverlet, were
curious to behold. She would steal on tip-toe
to the side of the slumbering babe, and watch
with breathless quietness her soft breathings,
and note the bright smile that flitted over her
baby face, as angels whispered peace to the
sleeping child.
One day the babe had been placed by the
careful mother, in its little cradle, out upon the
piazza that surrounded their dwelling—her
own presence being often required in an ad
joining room—and watchful Dragon, left as
guard, by the side of the infant. The little
Aliene was playing about, glancing now here,
and now there* like a bright sunbeam, and
her merry shouts of childish glee, as she teased
and worried the wary animal, awoke the echoes
of the surrounding hills. Her noisy merriment
attracted the attention of her little Indian com
panion, who, with liis gun, was roving the
woods in quest of game, and lie drew near with
slow and cautious step.
The watching dog rose up, and with uneasy
glance and low growl, confronted the little in
truder, and again prostrated himself by the side
of the cradle. The timid little Indian retreated
hastily, and withdrawing to a short distance,
gave furtive glances to the peaceful scene of
domestic life so expressively displayed by the
clustered group.
A stillness, striking in contrast to the late re
sounding noise, settled upon the scene, —the
dozing sentinel, heedless of the flies that buzzed
about his head and ears, and apparently uncon
scious of the soft breathing of the little nursling
of the cradle. With an impulse of curiosity, the
mute little figure in the distance approached
again, and with stealthy step drew near to the
slumbering child. He meant but to gaze upon
its soft features, not to disturb its quiet repose.
Bending over the cradle, he cautiously extend
ed his hand to touch the tiny fingers that lay
upon the snowy cover.
The dog, aroused from his slumbers, without
an instant's warning, sprang upon him, and with
the ferocity of a tiger, buried his teeth in the
neck of the writhing little Indian. Loud
screams of fear and pain broke from his lips,
but the aroused animal clung with fierceness
to the quivering flesh of the helpless little suf
ferer.
The tumult and cries of distress reached Mrs.
Moreland, and she rushed out to his rescue.
Her first word to the infuriated animal was
instantly obeyed, and relinquishing his hold, lie
crouched at her feet, and endeavored to express
his penitence and submission by low whines
and supplicating looks, as the servants inflicted
punishment, and blow after blow descended
upon him.
“How did tliis happen? Why did you'not in
terfere to protect this poor boy ?” said Mrs. More
land to the cook.
"I can't tell, ma’am. I heard him scream, and
ran as fast as I could, but Drag won’t mind me,
ma’am, when he gets in them tits. But mistis,
we better ’tend to the poor child first, and settle
with Drag afterwards, for lie is powerful bad
ofl',” replied the sable Hose.
“Take a horse, and go for Dr. Post, imme
diately. Ask him to ride quickly,” said Mrs.
Moreland, as John, who, already anticipating the
order, was moving quickly to the stable.
She gently raised the prostrate and bleeding
little figure in her arms, and compassionately
bore him into the house. She used every effort
to staunch the flowing blood, and soothe the
laceration of his tom flesh. Tenderly she dressed
the wounds, and comfortingly fell her low voice
upon the ear of the little sufferer.
“Poor child, I wish I could have spared you
this, but you bear it like a mau, and I will
do all I can to help you. Have you much pain
now?”
“Xot so much now,” murmured he faintly, and
seeing his exhaustion, she forbore further ques
tioning.”
Her gentle nature was deeply shocked at the
violence of the enraged animal, and the suffering
of the innocent little victim, and her own tears
flowed fast and free frorr) her sympathizing
eyes.
She awaited tremblingly the expected arri
val of medical aid, and labored unceasingly to
staunch the welling stream that poured from the
lacerated neck; all her efforts seemed vain.
The sharp cry of pain was succeeded by the
faintness of utter exhaustion, and the little re
laxed, lifeless form lay helplessly in her arms.
His closed lids and blanched cheek filled her
with an unutterable apprehension—his pulse
was scarcely perceptible to her touch, and his
little heart, that had so lately bounded with life
and joy, was throbbing languidly in his bosom.
The crimson tide continued to gush forth in
jets, in spite of all her efforts—the breathing be
came fainter—the ghastly hue of death gathered
over the delicate features—and long before aid
reached them, the pulse had ceased to flutter—
the slow, muffled beating of the heart was no
longer perceptible.
The servants had flocked in, upon the first
wild cry of pain, blit without the ability or self
possession to second Mrs. Moreland in her un
ceasing efforts to relieve him. Her husband
was absent, and thrown uponlier own resources,
her self-reliance and skill did not desert her at
this appalling crisis. But vain was every effort,
futile every expedient. The carotid artery
had been severed, and long after the little form
lay in the stillness of death, the crimson current
continued to gush forth in a sanguinary tide.
The horror-stricken household gathered in
dismay, in the apartment where the little victim
lay, anil exchanged glances of terror and con
sternation as they fearfully anticipated the com
ing of the exasperated and revengeful father,
for whom a messenger had been dispatched.
A dark shadow fell upon the window that
opened upon the piazza, and in another moment
a tall figure strode into the room, and stood
silently in their very midst. Xo emotion of ten
derness was visible on his features, no sorrow
gleamed from his lowering eye. With a look of
dogged, sullen exasperation, he moved to the
side of his lifeless child; and without a single
word to the gathered circle, he lifted the light
form in his arms, and with an angry glance of
concentrated venom, he glared upon the infant
children of the weeping mother, and slowly and
sulkily stalked from the house.
With an involuntary instinct of tenderness
and protection, Mrs. Moreland pressed her babe
to her bosom, and cast her arms around the ter
rified little girl at her knee.
Aye! press her light form close to thy side,
young mother —shelter her under the wing of
thy protecting love—let not thy loving, watch
ful eye cease its vigilance—let not her roving
little feet leave thy shielding presence. Lurks
there danger in the glancing sunshine, in the
balmy breezes, in the birds, and flowers, and
leafy boughs, that lure her out to their enjoy
ment!
IV.
“Domestic happiness! thou only bliss
Os Pnrailise, that has survived the fall:
Though few now taste thee, unimpaired and free,
Or tasting long enjoy thee; too intirm,
Or too incautions, to preserve thy sweets,
ITnmixed with drops of bitter.”
Months had passed away since the painful
event recorded above had occurred. Mrs. More
land's affectionate heart had been rudely shock
ed, and even now the faintest allusion to it
brought tears to her eyes, and moved her to hys
terical sobbing. She had never once seen “Bald
Eagle,” as he was called, nor had the brother of
her little unfortunate protege been near their
home. The apprehension she had at first en
tertained of his vengeance had gradually sub
sided into a calm feeling of security as time
glided on, and no indication of his resentment
had assailed their peaceful home.
True, the fiery dog had expiated his fault by
death, and the conviction that Indian vindictive
ness had been instrumental in his destruction,
served for a time to awaken anew the anxieties
and fears that had at first tortured her. He
had been kept closely chained, and rigidly guard
ed for weeks; his forfeited life spared, as a pro
tection to the family, in their remote and isola
ted position. As a close prisoner, ho boro his
punishment angrily, and he chafed and fretted
under the galling bondage.
One morning he slipped his chain, and found
his way out into his old range, the woods; as
night drew on he returned home, and staggered
to the feet of his master, where, with blood-shot
eye and foaming mouth, with swollen and pro
truding tongue, lie lay before him in strong con
vulsions—a few gasps—a few convulsive shud
ders —a quivering of the extended limbs—a be
seeching glance from the intelligent eye of the
poor animal, and all was over. A suspicion of
poison immediately flashed across the mind of
Mr. Moreland, and aroused afresh his appre
hension of the unforgiving red man, whose ven
geance never sleeps, never is satiated. Fear lest
his merciless foe should molest his family in a
treacherous and secret revenge, tortured him for
sometime with a ceaseless anxiety.
With the exception of this little incident, their
lives glided on with calm and peaceful flow.—
Mr. Moreland engaged in his pursuit of planting,
and the gentle mistress and mother finding but
few idle moments in her busy, but quiet life.—
The training of her little Aliene, the care of her
infant, the gentle discipline of her household—
her presence there essentially a silent, unseen,
but all pervading influence—was the happy oc
cupation of her simple and devoted nature. The
patter of her little girl’s feet followed her in her
daily round of domestic engagements, through
garden and grounds, through dairy and poultry
yard, and her sweet companionship whiled away
the long summer noons, in her husband’s ab
sence, with a charming sense of refreshment and
happiness. The conscientious young mother
fondly believed that the subtle influence of ex
ample and the mild teachings from loved lips,
would make every movement, every lesson in
her young child’s life, the seed-time of future
good.
She would sit within the shaded and pleasant
rooms of her spacious dwelling in the long sum
mer days, her little girl at her side, with toy, or
book, or in awkward attempts of miniature wo
manhood, drawing in her baby hands the glanc
ing needle, in playful rivalship to ths gliding
fingers of her more expert mother, —or romping
in noisy glee with the little sister of a few
months, whose soft cooing, in the innocent and
inexpressible joy of infancy, fell like music on
the ear of the happy mother.
As twilight deepened into the soft calm of
peaceful night, she would lay to sleep the young
est treasure of her nursery, and taking her first
born in her arms, she would point to the starry
worlds above, that twinkled with a trembling
lustre, or beamed with steady brilliance, and
teach her of that Almighty Power who reigns,
and rules, and loves. In rapt fervor, with holy
thoughts, and with meek and trusting faith, she
would commend her to the care that never fail
eth, to the love that never forsaketh the humble
and seeking spirit.
When the short bright days of winter allowed,
Mrs. Moreland would tie on her little girl’s warm
hood, and with her young sable attendant stroll
out into the woods that adjoined their home, be
neath the glittering crystals that sparkled with
a thousand varying hues, as they hung pendant
from the bare limbs of the stripped trees. Aliene
often amused herself gathering the fallen nuts
that lay scattered under the large hickory trees,
or bounding along over rustling leaves and froz
en ground, her dark eyes beaming, her soft cheek
glowing, and her red lip smiling in the pleasure
and excitement of exercise.
As evening closed in, it was a pleasant and
comfortable sight to look in on the little group
that gathered round the social fireside; the
bright firelight, dancing with cheerful glow upon
the happy faces of the clustered circle—Mrs.
Moreland, with her small white fingers flitting
nimbly over the little embroidered garment, the
lamp light falling upon the glossy bands of dark
hair, that lay folded above her serene brow—
the steam from the hissing urn rising in wreaths
through the room—the large logs blazing brightly,
and shedding a red and flickering gleam upon
the snowy cloth, and the plain, but massive sil
ver tea service—Mr. Moreland, in a large and
rest-inviting chair opposite, a book lying closed
beside him, while on his knee sat the prattling
little Aliene, volubly recounting her day’s pas
time, and running her roving little fingers
through the clustering locks that swept above
his manly brow.
The happy wife and mother, as she sat oppo
site, working so noiselessly, and casting ever and
anon loving glances to the cherished objects of
her heart, would, in fulness of feeling, raise her
grateful thoughts to Him whose mercy had pro
vided for her happiness, in calm seclusion, in
domestic activity, and in maternal duty. She
sent no distrustful thoughts forth into the future,
but resting peacefully in her happy present, her
influence, like the rays of a beautiful star,
stretched out its beams with a hallowing ra
diance over the sacred precincts of Home.
[to be continued.]
PRESIDENTS OF FRANKLIN COLLEGE.
Franklin College, located at Athens, Clarke
county, is the oldest Institution in the State. It
was endowed by the Legislature as early as
1789, but did not go into operation until 1801.
Mr. Josiah Meigs was elected as the first Presi
dent. At the time of his election Mr. Meigs
was Professor of Nat. Philosophy and Astrono
my in Yale College.
Mr. Meigs resigned in 1811, and Dr. Kollock
was elected. He declined and Dr. Brown, Pro
fessor in Columbia College, S. C., was chosen.
He continued as President until 1816, when he
resigned. Dr. Finley, of New Jersey was next
selected. He accepted, and the prospects of the
Institution began to give hopes of success, when
his sudden death caused to waver the resolution
of its best friends. Rev. S. S. Beman was select
ed to fill the vacancy, but declined. In 1819,
Dr. Moses AA'addel was elected. He is known
by reputation to the whole South. Dr. Waddel
resigned in 1829, and Dr. Alonzo Church, the
present incumbent, was elected. Dr. Church
lias resigned, though his successor has not as
yet been elected.
Statistics of Mormon Population. —The
I 'alley Tan contains the following statistics of
Mormon population: The population of Mor
mons in the United States and British dominions,
in 1855, was not less than 68,700, of which
38,000 were resident in Utah, 5,000 in New.
York State, 4,000 in California, 5,000 in Nova
Scotia and the Canadas, and 9,000 in South
America. In Europe, there were 36,000, of
which 32,900 were in Great Britain and Ireland,
5,000 in Scandinavia, 2,000 in Germany and
Switzerland, and in France and the rest of Eu
rope, 1,000; in Australia and Polynesia, 2,400;
in Africa, 100; and on travel, 2,800.
To these, if we add the different branches, in
cluding Strangeites, Rigdonites, and Whiteites,
the whole sect was not less than 126,000. In
1856, there appears to have been a decrease in
the population of Utah —the number being only
31,022, of which 9,000 were children, about
11,000 women, and 11,000 men capable of bear
ing arms. There are 2,388 men with eight or
more wives; of these, 13 have more than nine
teen wives; 730 men with five wives; 1,100
with four wives, and 2,400 with more than one
wife. Recapitulation—4,6l7 men, with about
16,500 wives!
——
The origin of the Methodist Society took place
in the following manner, at Oxford College, Eng
land, in 1729 : ‘ After the Revolution,” says an
authority, “when the principles of religious tol
eration were recognized amid the progress of
free inquiry, the clergy of the English Church
were thought by some to have sunk into a state
of comparative lukewarmness and indifference.
This alleged degeneracy was observed with pajn
by John AVesley and his brother Charles, when
students at the University of Oxford; and being
joined by a few of their fellow students who
were intended for the ministry in the Established
Church, they formed the most rigid and severe
rules for the regulation of their time and their
studies, for reading the Scriptures, for self-exam
ination, and other religious exercises. The ar
dent piety and rigid observance of system in
everything connected with the new opinions dis
played by the Wesleys and their adherents, as
in their college studies, which they never ne
glected, attracted the notice and excited the
jeers of the various members of the University,
and gained for them the appellation of the Meth
odists, in allusion to the Methodoei, a class of
physicians at Rome, who practiced only by
theory.”
m Jews in America.— From a lecture de
livered by Dr. Morris J. Franklin, in Provi
dence, recently and reported in the Provi
dence Evening Press, we gather some facts
in relation to the Jews in the United States.
The Jews in this country, the speaker said, now
number about 200,000. In New York city alone
there are 40,000. The attention of the Jews in
Europe is turned towards America, on account
of the persecution to which they are subjected
in somo countries on the continent, and a rapid
increase of their numbers here may be expect
ed by immigration. Many Jews in this country
are occupying prominent and influential posi
tions in politics and business. Messrs. Yulee
and Benjamin, of the U. S. Senate, and Messrs.
Zollicoffer, Oliver, Phillips, and Hart, of the
National House of Representatives, are num
bered among the children of Abraham. Instead
of reading the Scriptures in the Hebrew tongue,
understood only as the Rabbi interprets it, many
now use the English version. This class have
introduced many reforms into their mode of
worship—they now have their choirs, their or
gans, and their Sabbath Schools. The Hebrew
Christians, the converted Jews, in this country,
number three or four hundred, and of this num
ber nearly one hundred are engaged in preaching
the Gospel of Christianity, or in a course of
study preparatory to doing so.
Baptist Convention of the State of Geor
gia, 1859.—We give a summaiy of the “Statis
tical table of the denomination in Georgia :”
Summary. —Number of associations, 64 ;
number of churches, including eighty-nine in
adjacent States, 1406; number of members, in
cluding three thousand one hundred and forty
four in adjacent States, 93,457; number baptised
last year, 7,759 ; number of ordained ministers,
769 ; number of licentiates, 211; gain in mem
bership, compared with previous year, 7,665 ;
amount contributed for missions, as far as re
ported in the minutes of associations and con
ventions, $19,487.02.
Protestantism in France. —Mr. Guizot pre
sided recently at the yearly meeting of the
French Protestant Bible Society in Paris. In
his address he said that in 1858 sixty, and in
1859 fifty, Protestant parishes had incorporated
themselves with the Society, and only a few re
mained strangers to it. The receipts had risen
from 37,000 to 45,000 francs; and whereas, in
1855-56, only 7,000 Bibles had been distributed,
13,000 had been distributed in 1858-59.
More Camels. —Some more camels, says the
Civilian, of Galveston, are coming to Texas.
The importation now expected is to be made
from the valley of the upper Mongolia. They
are stronger than any other kind of camels, and
are accustomed to the severest kind of hardships.
They are to enter the United States via San
Francisco.