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j. H. SEALS, ) and > EDITOKM. E. A. STEED, ) !W SERIES, VOL 1. THE TEMPERANCE BANNER, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY EXCEPT TWO IK THE YEAR, BY JOHN H. SEALS. The BANNER ha* a larife circulation, which i* daily in creasing, and bid* fair to become the most popular paper in the South. It i* offered, with confidence, (owing to its circulation be ing *o general,) to Merchants, Mechanics, and Professional men, as an ADVERTISING MEDIUM through which their business may be extended in this and adjoining States. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. $1 ,00 per annum, If paid in advance. $1,90 “ “ if not paid within six months. s2,t)o “ M if not paid until the end of the year. TERMS OF ADVERTISING. 1 square, (eight lines or less,) first insertion, • 1 00 Each continuance, ftO Professional or Business Cards, not exceeding 9 lines, pr yr 5 00 !§ rANDING ADVERTISEMENTS. 1 square three months, without alteration, $ 5 00 1 •* six “ altered quarterly, 100 1 “ twelve “ 44 * 4 12 00 9 squares 44 44 44 * 4 18 00 g • M * M It 21 0” u t tt tt tt 25 00 Advertisements not marked with the number of Insertions, will be continued until forbid, and charged accordingly. Merchants, Druggists, and others, may contract for adver Using by the year, on reasonable terms. 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.