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VOL. XVIII. THIS TEMPERANCE BATJNER IS THE Ortran of the Sons of Temperance ” AND OF THE State Convention of Georgia: PUBLISHED WEEKLY, BY BENJAMIN BRASTLY. [' EKM , One Dollar a year,in advance. Letters must be Post paid, to receiveat tention. g Banner Almanack, for 1852. | X . ,- • - -5 T- ” r ‘ V & i s immiK a PtlliUMiJ 5 ] hill if c telly* | gsgggss Ssss*jsi*s i = i “ill a 7 a Ilii!i2 n 4 ,*< ,i us 2J g IP 19,2” 21122.23 24 L * >;? } X 21 2-i L7.2S;ffl 30 I;* •* 2j 27 1 “ C3 A u., | ii— ! | 5B 7 8 Not—.— 12 3 ®|* V O 9i li> 11! 12 n 1411.1 71 s 9l 112 U Q Ur 17 WlO -*0 • *>•■> 114 1.0 16 17 1 * C: 9, IKIS A 229 21 22 2* 21 25 26.27 \ | mzm iiilsilsi Spill aW 1 I 126 27 ! 25i29 3” 3> Q lE.,rr m.,a i, in “f boooralr- % <irnnkar>l who is in BTerT °* th, habit Sirinkingnoient spmts, , T,.hiiwsrm. I 11. When he is at work. C 5 2. wZ hei. 3T >2, When 1 ‘>'?*■ b 3 Wheu h'i-< ivt. ? ,3. Hctnre meals. /g i When heisdrv. ) 14. After meals. X 5 When bis dull. ( .*. When begets op. / i! h „ iB live'y- ( 16. When he goes to bed. -Kh tr‘vek ) 17. On holli-lays. . ij I. Kt is at homo. ( IS. On Public occasion* 9 When he is in company ( 19. On any day. , or *Lr 10. When he is any o.‘c:i>ion ; g *qr- Every friend to Temperance p should take the Temperance Banner:O uif Temperance men will not support x the Temperance Press, who wjUT “MORALAND'RELIiiIOUS. For the Temperance Banner. The Funeral Bell! How solemn is tlie sound oi the slow, tolling bell, which nnnounceth that an other mortal is cold in death ; that an other short-lived creature of earth hath ceased to hope and strive, and fear; aud that another soul haih gone to witness the strange tilings of eternity ! It bids us repair to the silent grave yard, where rest the dead, in undis turbed repose, to see another added to she number that sleep in the grave, in the dreary tomb “where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” There (low the tears of friendship and affection. There are breathed the sighs and groans of the bereaved, ming ling in nainful harmony, with the low rumbling clods that fall heavily on the dead. Profound is the sleep of the dead; unconscious are their slumbers. The spring may come, and flowers bloom, and birds may chant their joy ful melodies at morn and eve ; summer may be clothed in greenest verdure, — the ripening harvest may teem with golden fruits , and winter may come, Y*with drifting snows and howling winds, but all is alike to them that slumber in the grave. P. 11. B. No. 1. Coma to Je3U3. Listen, dear fellow-sinner. How kind, how wonderful an invitation is this ! God speaks, and speaks to thee. The Father says “come.” The Son says, “come.” The Holy Spirit says “come.’ The blessed angels echo the cry, “come.” Many poor sinners who have accepted the call, join their voice in the appeal, and say, “come to Jesus.” This little book unites in the entreaty, poor sinner, and with all earnestness, plainness, and affection, implores thee to ‘‘come to Jesus.” When he was himself on earth, well knowing and full of pity for the suffer ings and sins of men, as he looked round on the crowd which one day surround ed him, he tenderly said : “come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy la den and I will give you.rest,” Matt. 11: 28-30. What he said then, he says JVow. The invitation he gave to the men of that day, he gives to there my fellow-sinner: “come untome.” Art thou not heavy laden with guilt? O then “come to Jesus,” and thou shalt find rest. He promises rest. But far better ’ than rest of body is rest of soul. It is wretched to boa slave, to groan, bleed, toil; but far worse to be Satan’s bond- j man, dragging about an evi! conscience and an aching heart. Rest from this cannot be had but by coming to Jesus. A,nd if we come, he will lighten every other load. Are you poor? come, and he will make you rich forever. Are you sick ? come, and he will cure your worst disease. Are you sad ? come, and he will wipe away your tears. — Are you bereaved ? come, and he will j he to thee a.brother in adversity, who! changes not, and never dies. Is sin a burden ? O then come to Jesus and he j will take it all away. Do you dread j the day of death and judgment ? come, and that day will be the dawn oflife and glory ! O then come. To be merely called by such a person, should be enough to make us glad. Os a strang er we might say : “Perhaps he intends me no good ;” of a poor man ; “He cannot assist me, however ;” of a self ish richtnan : “Who can expect aught from him ?” But it a Howard or a Wilbcrforce said to a mourner, “come,” lie might feel quite sure some kindness intended. Now he who invites thee, sinner, is both able and willing to help, i He hasclothes for the naked, food for the hungry, wealth for the poor, eternal life for all. Ilis word, “come,” is e nough to make thee glad. A blind beg gar by the way-side, hearing lie was passing, cried : “Mercy, mercy !” The people told him to be quiet; but he shouted the louder: “Have mercy on me!” Jesus invited him; and then some said, as though he might now be quite sure of a blessing : “Be of good comfort; rise, lie calleth thee.” They knew Je.sus never called and then re : fused ; and so they told him to rejoice. Sinner, be you of good cheer; the same Jesus calleth (Are. As the blind man threw off* his cloak lest it should hind er him, do you cast off your sins that would stop you —rush through every crowd ot difficulties, and, falling at the i feet of Jesus, say : “Have mercy on !me ! lam blind, lam lost; save, or 1 j perish.” Are you too great a sinner ? | The more need to come. Have you a guilty conscience? With that guilty | conscience come. Have you a wicked i heart? With that wicked heart come, j Have vou nothing with which to pur chase ids favor? “Without money,’ j come. Rich and poor, masters and ! servants, old and young, white man and | black, sinners of every class, come. Note—Read Isa. 55 ; Matt. 8 : 1,- 1 17; 28-30; Matk. 10, 47-52; llev. 22 : 17. [S electedfor the Banner. Beautiful Sketch. I have worshipped blue eyes, and there is a no radiance so heavenly as | that which gleams from them. But black are more bewildering; and when a shadow of melancholy fulls over the forhead, it softens their beauty, while it does not dim them. * * * If you will go with me now to a glen in the Highlands, and a willow shaded nook, i will point out to you the very spot where, years ago, there stood a rude bench, on which many times I have seen the fair girl I write of sitting, and by which I once saw her kneeling.— The cottage under the hill is occupied by strangers, atid its broad hall and large rooms now ring to the laughter ot | those that knew not her, whose gentle spirit haunts their very chambers. She was beautiful as a dream. Nev er was holier forehead shaded by raven tresses; never were tresses so glorious |as those. If I tell you that I loved Su i rah D , you will call me an enthusi | ast, and ascribe my admiration to my ! passion. 1 did love her, but only as a i boy worships a being very far above j him. 1 used to lie at her feet on the j grass, and gaze into her face, and watch j the play of Iter exquisite features. It j was th<-re 1 learned first, how higli and i pure, and worshipful humanity may ! be. { She was young and beautiful. What ; need to add that she was loved, for such ias she lives on affection, and die tor | lack of it! Her father devoted his foi | tune and his life to her; and she was ! heiress to a large estate. As might be | expected, she had numberless suitors of | every rank and variety. 1 cannot now ! remember all ot them, although i kept j the run of them tolerably well. But j of all there were only two that appear |ed to have any prospect of success ; ; and the village gossips were occupied in discuissing their relative chances. Frank R was the gayest, best hearted fellow in the world, and had I you seen him on his horse by the side of Sarah D , you would have said that he has made for her ; so wild was his laugh, and so joyous her response. Yet, had you been behind the closed shutter of the window in front of the large white house on the hill, as they rode by, and had you there watched the compressed lip, the broad, calm fore head, the pale face and the speaking eye of Joseph S ,as he saw them pass ing, you would have prayed that that fair girl might belong to that noble man, even as I, a boy, then prayed. God has answered my prayers.—; When the long way was travelled over, and the rugged and difficult steepsur mounted—when her fairy foot was pressed on the r ck at the summit of the hill oflife, and her eyes gazed into the deep blue sky, with a longing gaze, there, even there, beyond the blue, his outstretched arms.received her, ar.d his embrace was heaven ! Go preach to blocks and stones, ye < who believe that love is of the clay ! Go preach to the dead, yo who deny 1 1 PENFIELD, GA. MARCH 20, 1852. the immortality of the affections. Go I reason with trees, or images of wood, or with your own motionless, lifeless, I icy souls, ye who believe that, because there is no marrying yonder, there shall j be no embracing, or because, we may not use the general words “my wife,” we may not clasp these snnctified forms into our own holy arms! I tell you, man, that immortality would be a glo rious cheat, if with our clay died all our first affections. I tell you, that an nihilation would be heaven, if I be lieved that when my head at length rests on its confined pillow, and my lips sink to the silence and repose of death, i these loving eyes will never look into’ mine again, this pure clasp I around my neck, this holy caress ne- ! ver bless me more! But see how I hasten in advance of my story. And yet, like Canning’s knife-grinder, I remember now that I have a story to tell, or at best it is a sim ple story. She loved Joe. His calm and earn est way of loving her, won her whole soul. He did not say much in her com pany, nor of her; but when they were alone, or only some of ihe children near, his voice would be musical, and she sat entranced with his eloquence. I have seen them seated on a bench by the side of the stream, and have heard him lead her gentle soul, step by step, with him from earth to stars, and then from star to star, until she seemed to be in heaven with him, and listening to the praises of the angels. I am unable to tell how it happened Joseph S left his profession (which had been the law) and entered the min istry; nor am 1 able to state, though I might guess at the cause operating in his own mind. The father of Sarah D was not a religious man, and I am sorry to say, was one of the small classes of men who not onlv deny the truths of our most holy creed, but take every opportunity to cast ridicule on its teachers. It was, therefore, with great pain that his daughter observed his coldness and rudenes to Joseph S , and was not surprised, however much she was grieved, when an open rupture rendered the suspension of his visits at the house absolutely necessary. They had never spoken ot love.— Each knew the secret of the other’s af fection, and what need of words to tell it? It would have been but a repetition of hacknied phrases. And yet there is no music in the world so sweet as those three words: “I love you,” from the lips we love to kiss. But the father of our gentle friend had feared the ex istence of bond between them, and per emptorily required his daughter to break if it did exist. She replied to hkn, relating the simple truth, and he desired her to refuse thenceforward to see or speak to Jo seph. A month of deeper pain than can | well be imagined, succeeded this com mand, during which they did not meet. It was on a moonlight night in Au gust that she walked out with me, (then a boy, three years her junior) and sat on the bench by the side of the stream. The air was clear, the sky serene, and no sound disturbed, but the soft voice of the wind among the tree tops made a pleasant music, and we listened and were silent. The stillness was broken by the voice of Joseph S . You will pardon me it I pass over that scene. I dare not attempt a de scription of it. It was my first lesson in human suffering, and though I have learned it over and over since then, though the iron has entered my soul, and seared and scarred it, yet I have never seen, and I do not believe I have ever felt, more agony than those two felt, as they parted that night to meet no more on earth. He bowed his lips to her forehead, and murmured the solemn word, “for- i ever.” She woke at this word, and I exclaimed with startling vehemence— “No, no, there is no such word Joe.” “We shall not meet again on earth, my gentle one-” “And what is earth?” Her tall form grew more queenly, and her dark eje flashed divinely, as she rose and ex claimed in clear and silvery tones, “and what is earth? These things must end. I will name a tryst dear Joe, and 1 you shall keep it. If you pass first in-1 to the other land, wait for me on the’ bank, and if I go hence before you, I j will linger on the other shore until you 1 come. VVill you remember?” “I will live and diein this memory.” She lifted her face to his, and her arms to his neck, and they clung to gether in a long and passionate em brace. Their lips did not separate, but were pressed close together, until he felt her form cold, and her clasp re laxed, and he laid her gently down on the old seat, bowed over her a moment in prayer, and was gone. I heard him say, “Take care of her, W and: so I strove to recall the life that had left her lips, and cheeks, and eyes. It came slowly, and she awoke as we wake in the morning after death has 1 entered our charmed circle, with an op.’ pression on the brain, and a swimming, swollen, senselessness of soul. At length she remembered all; and raised herself with a half-articulated exclamation of agony, broken by a sob; and then fell on her knees by the bench and buried her face in her hands, and remained thus for nearly an hour. When she arose, her face was as the face of an angel. It were that same ex- j ailed look until she died. I think she took cold that night; she was never well afterwards, and the next! winter she passed at the South, return in:,: in the spring very fragile, but very I beautiful. i Joseph S was sent abroad by I one of the Boards of Missions of the. Church, but his health failed, and he’ resigned his commission, while he trav-; eled through the Eastern world. Three yenrs fled with their usual j swiftness. To Sarah D , they were very slow and painful years, yet 1 she was happy in her quiet way, and no one dreamed of the strange tryst she was longing to keep on the other side of the dark river which men so shrink from. She grew feeble daily as the summer and autumn advanced, and in December she was evidently dying. One day her mother had been out of the house, perhaps making calls; she returned at evening, and among other in cidents of news which she had learned, | she mentioned to Sarah the death of her ! old friend Joseph S . The fair girl was reclining in a large arm chair looking out through the closed window, at the snow on the ground, and the pure moonlight which silvered it. There was no startling emotion visible as her mother mention ed the fact, which to her was the most solemn yet most joyful news the world could give ; for now, how much nearer was their meeting! I saw a smile flash across her face as the joyful news reached her ear. I saw her forehead raised to receive the caress which I knew she felt. She was silent for ma ny minutes, ar.d then spoke in feeble, yet very musical accents, and I boyish ly wept aloud. Then she smiled, and looked at me with finger upraised, and said : “ Wait a little while longer dear XV And then after a moment, she said, “Mother is ihe snow very deep ?” “Not very, dear; why do you ask ?” “Because, if it were dpep, I thought it would be difficult tor old Mr. Smith to find our lot in the grave-yard. Are all the head-stones covered, mother?” “What is the matter, Sarah? What if they are covered?” “Mother, dear, i, is useles to conceal it from ourselves, or from one another. You know, and I quite as well, that 1 am dying. I have not wished to live, only for one thing I did long for life, and I dreaded to meet death alone ! But now I shall riot. W. will tell you what I mean’ when I am gone. Yes, ! gone, dear mother: I shall not be here j any longer. This chair will stand ! here, and father and jou will rise and walk about, and visit, and go in and out, and sleep and wake again, and so on, day after day, and I shall have no part any longer in your cares and joys, dear mother.” And she uttered the ! last two words, she put her arms around 1 her mother’s neck, and kissed her fond -1 ly, and sank back into her chair again. I sat at her feet watching her mateb- I less features. A smile was flitting ! across them, now there, now gone, yet each time it appeared it lingered longer than before, until it became fixed, and so holy, so very holy, that I grew be wildered as I gazed, and a strange tre mor passed through my body- The breath of peace was fanning her glorious cheek! Her head was bowed a very little forward, and a tress, esca ping from its bond, fell by the side of her pure white temple, and close to her opened lips. It hung there motionless. No breath disturbed its repose! She slept as nn angel might sleep, having : accomplishen the mission of her God. Life and Romance in Mexico. A letter from Henry C. Pratt, of Boston, who has been travelling in com pany with the Commissioners for sur veying the boundary between the Uni ’ ted States and Mexico, is published in | | the Boston Courier. We extract the; ; following: We arrived last night (Sept. 19, 18- ‘51,) st the ruined Ranehe, from which this letter is dated. This morning ear. ly, we discovered two Mexican couri-, ers, coming on a trot on foot, over the hills towards our camp. They proved to be messengers from General Conde. They brought a letter from him. sta ting that after eight days’ march he had reached Santa Crux, and smt these : men to look after the main body of his party and us. The couriers say they saw Mr. Thurber and John Pratt, and ‘ avoided them, thinking they were In-’ dians, at the time they were within a t few miles of Santa Cruz —that the said t town is a day’s journey from this: 1 place, and they guide us to it, and that : c there we can get plenty of flour and 1 5 meat. This is good news, as our sup ply is nearly exhausted of flour, and for a few days we have been on what is called “half rations.” We are now waiting the return of some men sent to our camp on the San Pedro, for some provisions. When they return we shall start for Santa Ciuz, at which place 1 shall finish my letter. After we get provisions we shall return to the San Pedo, which empties into the Gila, and go at once to the latter river, and com mence the survey. As soon as 1 had! unsaddled my mule last evening, 1 went to the brook nearby, and with John’s assistance caught a fine string of small fish for supper, (or rather dinner) as we had eaten nothing but a few pric kly pears since morning. This morn ing caught thirty-two fish. We also found here, as almost everywhere on our route, the weed pursly, which we took for greens. Yesterday, on our way, we saw a large herd of antelopes, but could not get near them. Some of our party gave chase to a large ani mal, at first supposed to be a bear, but it turn out to be a wolf with ears litre a mule. The life we lead in this undertaking is full of adventure, and if we get our supplies of provisions, so as not to fear a short allowance, we shall enjoy it much. We go out alone anywhere, without any fear of the Indians. So long as the weather remains warm this camp life is pleasant. There is a clear brook running by our tent, and be neath the shade of trees, under which I found a supply of nuts. We have now plenty of mutton and bread; as to but ter and such delicacies, I have almost forgotten their use. If we get bread and meat we are satisfied. Sept. 23. We came last evening, ] about five o’clock, in sight of the tallest; corn that I ever saw; some of it was! sixteen feet high. It was on a piece of rich alluvial land, irrigated from a small stream running through it. I will now speak of Inez Gonzalez, whom I have previously mentioned. About a year ago a Mexican girl of wealthy family, was travelling with a female relative and a guard of ten sold iers through some part of Mexico. They were attacked by a strong party of Ap ache Indians, and some of the soldiers were killed. The females were cap tured. The older one soon escaped, but the girl remained captive for some time. Her father raised a large troop of soldiers and went in pursuit of her. He came upon the Indians and fought a battle, but as neither party was victo rious. he offered a high rasom for his daughter. The Indians refused to give her up, and sold her to a party of Mexi can traders, who were carrying her in to the interior to sell as a slave, when Mr. Bartlett, hearing of them, sent a party of soldiers to take her. They succeeded, and we are escorting her to her home. Captain Cremony has made a side-saddle for her and a sun-bonnet. After travelling along by the tall corn field for half a mile, we met a par-! ty of Mexicans, among whom was ala- j dy iiding on the same horse with an el- j derly gentleman; the lady clasped in! the arms of her cavalier, and sitting in front, as I have often seen the Mexicans ride at El Paso. This lady proved to bo the mother oi Inez Gonzalez, and had come with some of her frsends to meet the returning captive. Their meeting was truly affecting. “Mi querida ! mi querida !” was the cry. A mile far ther we came in sight of the town.— When we came near the walls, the la dies alighted, as did most of the party, and walked into the place, and went first to the church. The bells were rung in honor of our arrival, and some special ceremonies were enacted on the occasion. A Village Swept Away—One Hun dred Persons Missing. Lf.eds, Feb. 5.—A terrible calamity hus just occurred at Ilolmfirth, a large manufacturing village a few miles from Huddersfield. Several of the factories in ! the place are supplied with water from : roserviors in the elevated part of the locality. The rain during the past I few days has fallen heavily, and Caused ! such an extraordinary pressure of wa iter, that Bilbery reservior gave way, | and at two o’clock this morning burst ! its banks, and caused most appalling I devastation and loss oflife. The im mense body of water rushed with fear, ful force impetuously upon the village, and swept away, in its resistless course, whole rows of houses, hurrying the sleeping inmates into eternity. At the moment it is impossible to give an ade quate detail of the catastrophe. No*, only houses, but warehouses and mills were swept away in the mighty rush ofwater, and streets were block ed up with the v.-recks 0 f buildings, wool, casks of oil, the bodies of the dead, &c. By 4 o’clock in the morning the water had so far subsided that prepara- , lions were commenced for recovering ] the dead, and at 7 o’clock, A. M., 60 ( lifeless bodies had been taken up. In ( me row of houses swept down there were >4 persons. ‘ The Great Agitation. At no period since the commence ment of the Temperance reformation* has the agitation of the public mind been greater, or attended both with deeper solemnity and higher enthusiasm than at the present moment. And the rea son is, that things have assumed a sober aspect, effecting vast interests In the community and promising to the la borers in the cause the most important result. A shamfight in time of peace, on some great military gathering, is a very exciting and pleasing exhibition; I but very different emotions arise in the breast when there comes the tug of , war and words and bullets do their work |of death. Through many a weary ’ year wo have toiled to rear a sentiment !of condemnation against the vile liquor | traffic and we have gone up to our leg islatures asking them so to remodel our laws, that we and our children might have protection from its ravages; but | never till now has the vender dreamed of our success or been startled by the thought that his occupation would slip ! from under him and he be compelled ; to resort to some other means of sup port for himself and his family. Tha i Maine law has come upon supporters of intemperance like a thunderbolt. Th Legislature of a great State have said to the vender, “Thou shalt not pursua this vocation which murders men In their prime, and fills the land with mourning.” Other States see the bles sed result: —Peace and quietness reign ing:—Jails and penetentiaries almost tenantless; and they are exclaiming, cannot we have the same legislation, and sit do ton under the shadow of th* same vine. No wonder, burdened with taxation, horrified by crime, amid the corpses of murdered fathers and sons, they are inspired with hope. No won. tier the liquor dealer is filled with oon- I sternation. I Were a demon loose from the bottom less pit, burning with rancor toward the Godofthe Universe, and with power Ito vent his malignity upon some favor j ite province by the small-pox or cholera, ! which should torment a destroy thous j and before their time, and should the suffering beings in one part of the pro*, vince make a discovery which would forever prevent the infliction of these torments, wc can easily conceive with what hope men in other and distant part* of the province would receive the news, and with what rancor and bitterness, and rage, as he sat in his den, or walked up and down in the earth, he would con>- template the deliverance. So is it pow in the scence before us ? Never have good men been so satisfied ns they now are, that it is in the power of the civil government to bring intemperance to an j end, and without doing injuay to any | individual. In 1824, Chief Justic* Daggett, a man of rare discernment, I said, it would never cofne loan end un hit the trallic in ardent spirits was clas hed with counterfeiting and piracy.— j But even he presaged that it ever would 1 | be. What ought to be, men have de | spaired of witnessing in the depravity of I society. But God is on the throne,and’ the wheels, of his piovidence are roll , ing onward, and (ho thrones of iniquity,’ I established by law, are tumbling, and | the voice of jubilee ascends from many a down-trodiien and despairing spirit. It is not the voice of fanaticism that from one end of our country to the oth er shouts deliverance ; hut it is the voice of sound Christian philanthropy and true patriotism. The men who de cry the Maine law, decry the sober judgment of the most enlightened part’ of this great nation, while the hostile forces are instigated only by avarice or diabolical sensualism. Some, indeed; of the party profess a profound and ar dent attachment to temperance, and fear its overthrow by so stringent an enactment. Kind friends! The cause of temperance will trust the measure. Where, sho asks, as she sits triumph ant on the Capitol of Maine, where am l now here, or ever shall be a sufferer? i Others full of patriotism, tremble for 1 the agriculture and commence of the : country, as if the interests of commerce and agriculture were to be putin com petition with the interests of men, or could be promoted Ly that which saps the very foundation of human well-be ing We trust the agitation will roll onward, until it works out the dcliveranoe of the nation. Rhode Island may hope to give it a quietus by a rejection of the Maine law. The politicians at Albany,, and Harrisburg, and Columbus, and In. dtauapolis, may expect to do the same. But such a dicision of power and craft aguinst humanity, will only increase rather than diminishit, and the voice of the people at the ballot-box will be as the sound of mighty thundering*, saying, it shall he done ! Wo believe the hearts of the wise and the good 1 throughout this nation are now on this great subject as the heart of one man, and that, with God’s weapon in their hand for the overthrow of the monster of iniquity, they will rest not till it shall devour no more forever. —Journal o( the Amer. Temp. Union. NO. 12.