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j. H. SEALS, )
and > EDITOKM.
E. A. STEED, )
!W SERIES, VOL 1.
THE TEMPERANCE BANNER,
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BE SURE YOU CACL.
o
BY CHARLES SWAIN.
It was a rustic cottage-gate,
And over it a maiden leant,
Upon her face and youthful grace
A lover’s earnest eyes were bent:
“Good night,” she said, “once more, good night,
The evening star is rising high ;
But early in the morning light
Be Rurc you call as you pass by,
As you pass by,
Be sure you call as you pass by.”
The Kprinfrhad into the summer leaped,
Brow n Autumn’s hand her treasures threw,
When forth a merry party swept
• In bridal garments, two by two :
I saw it was the maid that blessed
The evening star that rose so high :
For he, as I suppose you’ve guessed,
Had often call’d as he passed by,
As he passed by,
Had often call’d as he passed by.
Oh, blissful lot where all’s forgot,
Save love, that wreaths the heart with flowers,
Oh, what’s a throne to that dear cot
Whose only wealth is happy hours 1
I know to leave their home they’re loath,
Although the evening star be high ;
But if you wish to sec them both,
Perchance they’ll call as they pass by,
As they pass by,
Perchance they’ll call as they pass by.
THE OLD, OLD HOME.
o
When I long for sainted memories,
Like angel troops they come,
If I fold my arms to ponder
On the old, old home.
The heart has many passages,
Through which pure feelings roam,
But its middle aisle is sacred,
To thoughts of old, old home.
Where infancy was sheltered,
Like rose-buds from the blast,
Where boyhood’s brief elysium,
In joyousness was past;
To that sweet spot forever,
As to some hallowed dome,
Life’s pilgrim bc-nds his vision ;
’Tis his old, old home.
A Father sat how proudly
By that clear hearth-stone’s rays,
And told his children stories
Os his early manhood’s days,
And one soft eye was beaming,
From child to child ’twould roam;
That a Mother counts her treasures
In the old, old home.
The birth-day gifts and festivals,
The blended vesper hymn,
(Some dear ones who were swelling it,
Arc with the Seraphim,)
The fond “goodnight*” at bed time,
How quiet sleep would come,
And hold us altogether,
In the old, old home.
Like a wreath of scented flowrets,
Close intertwined each heart,
But time and change in concert
Have blown the wreath apart;
But sainted, sainted memories,
Like angels ever come,
If I fold mv arms and ponder
On the old, home.
ANECDOTE OF J.tCISSOS.
While ho wan connected with the army, an offi
cer complaiaed to hini that some of toe soldiers “er
making a great noise in ttie tent.
‘•What are they doin''? asked the General
“They are praying now, hut they have b en sing
ing was tin- reply.
“And is that a crime?” asked Jackson, with em
phasis.
“The articles of war,” the offi er said, orders pun
ishment for any unimuil inn e ’
••O-sl forbid!” replied Jack-on, w ith much feeling,
“that praying shou and he as unusual noise in my
camp,” and advised tlie offi er to join them.
Debate*) to (temperance, literature, QDcncral Intelligence, nnb tjie latest flctos.
K A T E VALE’S .U A ÜBIAGE.
“If ever 1 marry,” Kate Yale used to say, half in
jest, hall in earnest, “the happy nian—or the un
happy one, if you please, ha! ha!—shall be a person
possessed of these three qualifications:
“First, n fortune.
“Second, good looks.
“Third, common sense.
“I mention the fortune first, because I think it the
most needful and desirable qualification of the three.
Although I never could think of marrying a fool, or
a man whose ugliness l should be ashamed of, still I
think to talk sense for the one, and shine for the oth
er with plenty of money, would be preferable to liv
ing obscure with a handsome, intellectual man—to
whom economy might be necessary.”
I do not know how much of this sentiment came
from Kates heart. She undoubtedly indulged in
lofty ideas of station and style—for her e location in
the duties and aims of life had been deficient, or ra
ther erroneous ; hut that she was capable of deeper,
better feelings, none ever doubted who have obtain
ed even a partial glimpse of her true woman’s nature.
And the time arrived when Kate was to take tlmt
all-important step of which she had often spoke so
lightly—when she was o demonstrate toiler friends
how much of her heart was in the words we have
just quoted.
At the enchanting age of eighteen she had many
suitors; but as she never gave a serious thought to
more than two, we will follow her example, and, dis
carding all others, except those favored ones, consid
er the relative claims.
If this were any other than a true story, I should
certainly use an artist’s privilege, and aim to produce
an effect by making a strong contrast between the
two favored individuals. If I could have my own
way, one should he a poor genius and something of
a hero, the other a wealthy fool, and somewhat of a
knave.
But the truth is—
Our poor genius was not much of a genius—not
very poor either. He was by profession a teacher
of music, and lie could live very comfortably by tin
exercise thereof—without the most distant hope,
however, of ever attaining to wealth. Moreover,
Francis Minot possessed excellent qualities, which
entitled him to be called by elderly people, a “fine
character,” by his companions, a “noble good fellow,”
ami by the ladies generally, a “darling.”
Kate could not help loving Mr. Frank, and he knew
it. He was certain she preferred his society even to
that of Mr. Wellington, whom alone lie saw fit to
honor with the appellation of rival.
This Mr. Wellington, (his companions called him
“Duke,”) was no idiot or humpback, as 1 could have
wished him to be, in order to make a good story.—
On the contrary he was a man of sense, good looks,
and fine manners, and there was nothing of the knave
about him, as I could ever ascertain.
Besides this, his income was sufficient to enable
him to live superbly. Also, he was considered two
or three degrees handsomer than Mr. F. Minot.
Therefore, the only thing on which Frank had to
depend, was the power he possessed over Kate’s
sympathies and affections. The “Duke,” although
just the man for her in every sense, being blessed
with a fortune, good looks, and common sense—had
never been able to draw these out, and the amiable,
conceited Mr. Frank was not willing to believe that
she would suffer mere world consideration to control
the aspirations of her heart.
However, one day, he pressed her to declare his
fate—she said to him, with a sigh :
“Oh, Frank! 1 am sorry wc ever met!”
“Sorry!”
“Yes; for we must part now.”
“Part!” repeated Frank, turning pale. It was ev
ident he had not expected this.
“Yes —yes,” said Kate, casting down her head
with another piteous sigh.
Frank sat by her side; lie placed his arm around
her waist, without heeding her feeble resistance; In
lowered his voice and talked to her until she—proud
Kate wept, wept bitterly.
“Katie,” said he, then, with a burst of passion, “I
know yon love me ! but you are proud, ambitious,
selfish! Now, ifyou would have me leave you, say
the word and I go.”
“Go,” murmured Kate, feebly, go.”
“Have you decided V” whispered Frank.
“I have.”
“Then, love, farewell!”
lie took her hand, gazed a moment tenderly arid
sorrowfully iq)o her b< autiful, tearful face, and then
clasped her to his bo-’ ni.
She permitted the c i brace. She even gave way
to the impulse, and twine I her artnß around his neck; j
hut in a moment h r resolution c me to her aid, and j
she pushed him from hr r with a sigh.
“Shall 1 go?” he articulated.
A f- lib- “v s” fell from her lips—and an instant j
! later site was lying on th sofa, sobbing and weeping ;
I alone.
1 To tear the tenacious root of love out of h< r heart 1
hat --ist to r mor-- than she e<>u*d have anticipated ; i
and the certainty of a golden life of luxury proved!
I hilt a poor con- latino, t seemed, f r the sacrifice
she ha 1 made.
S e Isv long -.-on the -ofi, 1 say, u ‘ bh-ng and
, oping p s-. it at- !v Gr and oa”y lor grief appeared
to exhaust its If Her tears era >1 to Ho", and at
! length herey-sand eh ‘ks were dr . Her h<-ad was
j • lowed on her a>-m. and to r lace *1- half led leri in
a f!-e.d of beautiful oris.
The struggle wa< over. T’ <■ agony was past. .She
-a v Mr. V\ • liiiigtonenr rand rosechc. rs dly to meet
him. His mantlets i lea- and tr —1 i- station and so -
tune fascinated her more. He offer and her his h. n i
PEIIELD, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, mi
, —she accepted it. A kiss sealed the engagement —
but it was not such a kiss as Frank bad given her,
and she could scarce repress a sigh 1
There was a magnificent wedding. Splendidly at
tired, dazzling the eye with her beauty thus adorn
ed, with everything around swimming in the charm
ed atmosphere of fairv-laml. Kate gn\ e her heart to
the man her ambition—not her loves—had chosen.
But, certainly ambition could not have made abet
ter choice. Already she saw herself surrounded by
a magnificent court, of w hich she was the acknowl
edged and admitted queen. The favors of fortune
w ere showered upon her, she lloated luxuriously up
on the smooth anu glassy wave of a charmed life.
Nothing was wanting in the whole circle ofluu
existence! to adorn it, and make it bright w ith hap
piness. But she was not long in discovering that
there was something w anting in her breast.
Her friends were numerous, her husband tender,
kind, and loving; but all the attentions and all’ei
lions could not fill her heart. She had once felt it
ehord and sympathy moved by a skilful touch— she
had known the heavenl y charm of the deep, delicious
hai luony, and now they were silent—motionless, muf
lied, so to speak, in silks and satins. These chords
weie still and soundless; her heart was dead—none
the less so because killed by a golden shot, having
know n and fell the life of sympathy in it, uncoiisoled
by the life of luxury. In short, Kate in time, became
magnificently miserable, splendidly unhappy.
Then a change became apparent to her husband.
He could not remain long blind to the fact that his
love was not returned. He sought the company of
those whose gaiety might lead him to forget the sor
row and despair of his soul. This shallow joke, how
ever, was unsatisfactory, and impelled by a power
ful longing for love, he went astray to warm his
heart by a strange fire.
Kate saw herself now in the midst of a gorgeous
desolation, burning with a thirst unconquerable bv
golden streams that flow ed around her—panting w itli
a hunger which not all the food of flattery and ad
miration could appease.
She reproached her husband for deserting her thus,
and he answered her with angry and desperate taunts
of deception, and a total lack of love, which smote
her conscience heavily.
“You do not care for me,” lie cried, “then why do
you complain that I bestow elsew here the affection
you have met with coldness.”
“But it is wrong—sinful,” Kate remonstrated.
“Yes, 1 know- it,” said tier husband fiercely. “It
is the evil fruit of an evil seed. And who sowed that
seed? Who gave me a hand without a heart? Who
became a sharer of my fortune, but gave me no share
in her sympathy ? Who devoted me to the fate of a
loving, unloved husband ? Nay, do not weep, and
clasp your hands, and sigh and sob with such des
peration of impatience, for 1 say nothing you do not
deserve to hear.”
“Very well,”said Kate. “I do not say your re
proaches arc undeserved. But granting I am the
cold, deceitful thing yon rail me, you know this state
of things cannot continue.”
“Yes, 1 know it.”
“Well ?”
Mr. Wellington’s brow gathered darkly—his eyes
flashed with determination—his lips curled with
scorn.
“I have made up my mind,” said he, “that we
should not live together any longer. lain tired of
being called the husband of the splendid Mrs. Wel
lington. I will move in my circle ; you shall •■■hiiie
in yours. 1 will place no restraint on your actions,
nor shall you on mine. We will be free.”
“But the world I”—shrieked poor Kate, trembling.
“The world w ill admire you the same—and what
more do you desire?” a>-kcd her husband bitterly.—
“This marriage of hands and not of heart s is mocke
ry. We nave played the farce long enough. Few
understand the true meaning of the terms husband
and wife ; but do you know w hat they should mean?
Do you feel that the only true union is that of love
and sympathy ? Then enough of this mummery.—
Farewell. Igo to consult friends about the terms of
separation. Nay, do not tremble and cry, and eling
to me now—l shall be liberal to you. As much of
my fortune shall be yours as you desire.”
He pushed her from him. She fell upon the soft
From a heart torn with anguish she shrieked aloud:
“Frank ! Frank ! why did I send you from me?
Why was I blind until sight brought me mis< ry.”
She lay upon the sofa sobbing and weeping pas
sionately. Gradually her grief appeared to exhau-t
itself; her breathing became calm; her eyes and
cheeks dry ; her head lay peacefully on her arm,
over which swept her dishevelled tresses. —until, with
i a start, she cried :
“Frank! oh, Frink —come back I”
“Hi re I am,” said a soft voice by lo r side. She :
I raised her head. She opened her astonished eyes.
! Frank w as standing before her.
“You have been asleep,” he said, smiling kindly.
“Asleep !”
1 “And dreaming, too, I shoal I (jay —not pleasantly
i either.”
“Dreaming?” murmured Kate, “and is it all aj
i dream ?”
“1 hope so replied Frank, taking her hand. “You !
could not mean to send me away from you so cruel
ly, I knew. So ! waited in your father's study, where
I have been talking with him all of an hour. I cairn
back to p'l'ad o V cunt <m e more, and found you
here where I left you asleep.”
•qyh! what a horrible dream!” mur-Hired Kate,
riibb-ng h< t eves. “It ws- -o like a terrible leal it),
bat I shudder now to t ink of it Ith ought Iwa
j married!”
“And would that be so horrible?” asked Frank.—
“1 hope, then, you did not dream you were mairicd
to me ?”
“No, 1 thought I gave tny hand w ithout my heart.”
“Then, if you gave me your hand, it would not bo j
w ithout your heart.”
“No, Frank,"said Kate ; her bright eves beaming ;
happily through her tears, “and here it is.”
\nd soon there w as a real marriage— not a splen
did, lmt a happy one—followed by a life of love and
contentment; and that was the marriage of Frank
Minot and Kate Yale.
-*•<*•*—
THREE JO I I,Y HI’SBtNPS.
Three jolly husbands out In the country, by the
names of Tim Watson, .Joe Brown, and H II Walker,
sat Into one < veiling drinking, at the village tavern,
until, being pretty well corned, they agreed that
each one, on returning home should do the first
tiling that his wife told him, in default of which he
should the next morning pnv the bill. They srpar-,
•led Ibr tbo night, engaging to meet again the next
morning, and give an lion. st. account of their pro
ceedings at home, so far as they related to the b*lk
The next morning Walker and Brown weie early
at their posts, but it wns some time h< loro Watson
mad. bis appearance. Walker began drat.
“You sen, when I entered my house tho candle
eas out, and the fire gave but a glimmer of light, I
came near walking into a pot of batter that the pan
cakes were to be made of in the morning. My wife,
who was dreadfully out of humor, said tome, sar
castically :
“Bill, do put your foot in the batter!
“Just as you sav Maggy,” said I, “and without
the least hesitation I put my foot in the butter, and
then went to bed.”
Next, Joe Brown told his story:
“My wile had already retired in our usual sleeping
room, which adjoins the kitchen, and the door ol
which was ajar; not being able tonavigatc perfectly,
vou know, I made a dreadful clattering among the
household furniture, and my wife, in no very pleas
ant. tone, baw led out:
“Do break the porridge pot!”
“No sooner said than done. I seized hold of the
bale of the pot, and striking it against the chimney
jamb, broke it into a hundred pieces. After this ex
ploit I retired to rest, nnd got a curtain lecture all
night for my pains.”
It was now Tim Watson’s turn to give nn account
of himself, which he did with a very long face, as
follows:
“My wife gave me the most, unlucky command in
the word; for I was blundering up stairsin thedark,
when she cries out:
“Do break your neck—do Tim I”
“I’ll he cursed if I do, Kate,” said I, as I gathered
myself up, I’ll sooner pay the bill.”
“And so, landlord, here’s the Cash for) on, and
this is the last time I'll over risk live dollars on the
command of my wife.”
WHY HE DIDN’T PLAY.
“No, I don’t play on any instrument,” said our
friend, Tom Fringle, in answer to our question.—-
“Totell the truth, I became discouraged by a slight
misconception, when I was a young man. I wasn’t
appreciated, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
And over our friend’s large, honest face stole a look
of quiet drollery and amused recollection, which
loused our curiosity.
“Well, you see,” said he, in reply to another
question, “It was about twenty years ago, when I
was study ing law-, and my brother was a medical slu
dmit, that we both fancied welmda wonderful talent
for music. So John bought a flute, and I fiddle, and
turning one of the attics into a study, wo practised
there half the night through. Wo didn’t want anv
one to know about it, especially our father, who had
very strict notions us to the value of time; and to
make him think us usefully employed, I had quanti
ties of law books heaped up, and John had a skull,
and all sorts of bones scattered about. We knew
that up in our “study,” no one could hear us, hut
Betsy, the lion-,i keeper, and h sho was our old
nursvi flt sure she would keep our secret. One
molding, after we had been wldling the long night
boms away with our music, to nur own mutual de
light, we <aiu<; down lute to breakfast, looking I aup
posc, souk w bat iinrcfi eshed.
“You iniii t not study too hard, boys,’’ said our
If the rconsiderately.
“Yes,sir,” said I, gravely.
Just then, Betsy appeared at tlio door, and looked
| mysteriously at my mother.
“Yes, what i i?” aid mother, surprised at Bct
i y's excited manner. “What is it, Betsy.”
“Well, ma'am, 1 w ili to say, ma’am,” —Betsy al
way- spok<- io that hort nipping way, when she was
what she railed worked up,—“l must leave you,
tna am.
“L'-av nn I why?” a-ked mother.
“Y< ma'am, it’s twenty-five years that I’ro betn
i.-.h you, ma’am nnd it i the Isiyg al last, ma’am.
I can’t i.i ind it, and I ain't going to. ‘lt’s notChris
i ’..Ti-likc, ma’am.”
“W hat have the boys been doing?” asked mother,
“f ’dr. John, ma'am an 1 sometimes I think Mo
i .n h Ip-ihim. lie’s got some poor ci’ tur upstairs,
ma’ oii, and lr t"*inents him awful. He screaks ad
oo- - all the night through. It is worse nor tic
honihen**, I’ve stood it for more nor awe- k. I didn't
get a w ink of sleep last night, and wliat that poo’
• re:ur went though was dreadful. I know they nay
neb things must lx- done by doctor*, but I ain’t go
mg to i iy s here It i-, and I never thought that John
was the one to do it.”
And here B t-> gaic my brother & look of wither
in condemnation.
I My mother was acute enough to see that aomr-
VOL, XXI.--MMBER 44.
thing unusual was going on in our study, and telling
| Betsy that she’ would inquire into it, ditnissed her
, for the present.
1 hat was the end of our musical practice, though
not the end of tin l story, for our father took good
; care we should not forget it. It was n long time t<-
fore we heard the last about “that poor erctur up
stairs.”—A’. V. Dutfhmun.
“I’VE BU*U IT.”
A gentleman in the city of Boston who was in the
habit of using wine, was asked by one of hi prom
isiug boys if lie might go to one of our meetings,—
“Yeamy hoy, you may go; hut you must not sign
the pledge,” Now in out cold water army, we don't
allow the children to sign the pledge wi'lciit the
consent of their parents. We believe the boy’s lir,-t
duty is to obey bis father and mother. Well, the
boy came; he was a noble fellow; full of lire, and
life, ami ingenuousness. We sang and sang, anil the
chorus was shouted by the children :
“Cheer Up my lively lads,
Ju spite of rum and cider:
Cheer up my lively !a Is,
We’ve signed the pledge together.”
Wc sung it eight or ten times, and the little fellow
I speak of sung it too. As he was walking home,
however, the thought sirtek him that lie bad been
singing what was not true—“Wc have sfgri’ and the
pledge together;’ be had not signed the pledge.—
When he reached home, he sat down at the table;
and on it was a jug of cider. “J> in,” says one of bis
brothers, “will you have some cider f “No, thank
you,” was the reply. “Why not—don’t yon like it?”
“Oh, I’m never going to drink any more cider, —
nothing more that is intoxicating for mol” “My
hoy,” said his father, “you have not disobeyed me ;
you have not signed the pledge ?” “No, lather,”
said lie, sobbing, “I have not signed the pledge, but
I’ve sung if, and that’s enough for in —(Loud
cheers from the children.) That father came up to
the Temperance Met ting, st which BUOO people were
assembled and told the story, and said, “I’ll not be
outdone by my boy,—though 1 bave|not sung the
obdge. I will sign it.” 110 did so, and is at the.
! present day one ot the truest and noblest supporters
jof the cause. Now, I fil eto see Conscientiousness,
[ and children ore conscientious bet ire thev become
warped and stultified be contact with the world ; and
if wo can bring them to the right point at starting,
wo may feel assured they will go on, bv God’s grsc ,
to a glorious ruiiMumnmt'on. Some persons -av,
“What is the use of letting a child of six or seven
years old sign the pledge? They don’t uiideratand
it.” Now dull Iran understand a great deal more
than we give them credit for. They do understand
what is meant by the pledge, ami by temperance, and
they understand also and often use the argumenix.—
J. U. (jo utjh.
CHRISTfAIV UlEklil I LIVESS.
Christian cheerfulness is honorable to God, and of
happy influence oil man. ‘‘Let the cho- ring and
tranqiiilizing power of the gospel bleak forth and
shine from your character. Jor-miali sung psalms
in the dudgeon; Luther translated the Bible in pri
son; John bo’ eld the brightest vision of the New
Jerusalem in Patinos; Biinyan, in latter days, com
posed his Pilgrim in confinement. There is a very
impressive power in Christian happiness on those
who see it from without. It is sunshine amid drip
ping clouds a Sabbath heart in a week-day body,
anil Sabbath speech amid the dialects of Babel. It
is brightest, when all around it, is black st. When
our natural affections cea-ic their mu-ic, we then
hear, sting out of the sky, unutterable melodies,
w hich ear hath not heard ; when the world is :dl
gloom, a reg nerated soul triads glories out of every
pebble, and sees the stars as ailcries along w hich
pulsations of felicity reach him. He can say w ith I
llahakkuk, “Although the tig-tree shall not blossom, I
neither shall fruit be in the vine, the labor of the I
olive shall fall, and the fields shall yield no meat, the I
flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall I
te no herd in the st ills, yet I will rjoice in the Lord, I
I will joy in the God of my salvation.”— Oh. Mirror. I
THE tliiEs of REFUGE.
“Who have fled lor refug-, to lay hold of the hope!
set before un."--fl'/i. 0 : Id.
In Exodus 21 : 13, G and said he would appoint al
place of refuge whither the slayer might tie -. Ini
Num. 85: 11, the Israelites were to do it. In Dcut.B
4:41, we are told that Moses did it on this side offl
Jordan. In Deut. 1'.): 7, the Israelites were t.
it on the other side of Jordan. In Josh. ‘2O: 7,
Joshua and the Ira lit's did it, by Moses’ cominm.dl
received from Ood, thus ri conciling tlo-se appareuH
contradictions, and t'ulfi ling God’s purpose. ■
The names of these eiti'-s were: SB
Ist. “BeZ'-r,” which signifies “rock.”
2d. “Ramoth,” w liieh signifies “Ae/A quo.” jfl
Bd. “Gol'.n,” w hich signifies ‘'grout joy.” 11
4th. “Kisioh,” which signifies ‘ /lolinaoi.”
6 b. “Sht-rhein,” which signifies “ quietne *.”
Bth Kiijath Aiba,” which signifi-a‘Vwicfp.”
So those v ho flee for its ige to the “rock”
Je-us, s’ a 1 have fellowship with the “Aii/A uutn’M l
holy, 01-i-s and. nml glorious Trinity; t)ic>,:i^H
ordy they, are the p-rsolt.s who have occasion
‘goal j< y /’ ill’ y are the ‘ 7.y/t<st, /-coyU ; ’ tiny
know wliat “true /once and ‘/oietncin'’ is ; and
tr- tie s’ who sha.l ne ,-ur- to find “ ocieiy" —SO^H
Will. Wl.oio tics ran nave fellow slop and .
both here ami hereafter.
Dear reader, have you fled for refuge to lay
upon the hope k< t before you? Are you
within the city “f refuge? II found without,
must perish, ev n were > ur On t upon the
old of it-gate. Vmi must i>o “found i/t Christ,
you will perish eternally!
A JAMES T. BLAIN,
\ WUNTKH.