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J. H. SEALS, >
A.VI> > HDITOHS.
E. A. STEED, S
NEW SERIES, VOL L
THE TEMPERANCE BANNER,
PVBLIMITHD BVRHT BATTRDAT RXCT9PT TWO IX TOR TRAR,
BY JOHN H. SEALS.
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Ot'H SCHOOLDAYS.
INSCRIBED TO MISS IDA SEMPLE.
r>
BT VIROrVtA P. TOWXSRXD.
. „o
Do you remember, Ada,
The dearie days of yore V
Has memory kept them, Ada,
A pleasant, precious store! 1
Ah! moons have waxed, and moons have wan’d
Above the swelling sea,
And twice has earth the spring-time claim'd,
To keep her jubilee,
Since la6t upon that stranger breeze,
Thy gleeful voice was thrown,
To meet ainid the rustling trees
The echoes of my own;
And twice the autumn mists have hung
The hills and valleys o’er,
Since from the boughs the * ild birds sang,
My mournful glance I tore.
But folded leaves within my heart,
Have burst their clasp to-day,
And records of tho Past, a part,
Are strewing all my way.
Do you remember, Ada,
The twilight of the West?
I wonder what scenes, Ada,
You no remember best!
There's not a morn, there’s not an eve,
But has some charms for me,
Some by-gone joy, for which I grieve
That mine no more ’twill be.
The night time when the vestal star,
The newly born on high,
Lay floating ’mid tho silver bars
That stretched along the sky;
The lawn to which tho summer gave
It’s kirtle dark of green ;
The moon that iooks so bright und brave,
The bending boughs between.
Do you remember, Ado,
The music of the chimes,
That on tho hushed air, Ada,
Rang out at vesper times V
Tho graceful form that used to fill,
The low-roof’d chapel there V
Comes solemn to your spirit still
Tho holy Sabbath prayer V
The vesper hymns that used to rise
To meet the hymns on high?
Do tresses fair, heforo your eyes
Go sometimes gleaming by
With pictures of each pleasant path,
Through which we loved to roam,
When sunset gave its golden hath
To forest, field and dome?
Do you remember, Ada,
The sad and tearful day,
When from those bright scenes, Ada,
Our life-paths turned away V
The shadow of New England hills
Doth now around me rest,
And you are where the night-wind fills
The Prairie’s broad green breast.
But whan at night those starry eyes.
Look on the stars on high ;
The picture that the past supplies,
I know will wonder by:
Then, should the lips whose girlish praise
Was once so dear to me,
Be warbling one of all my lays,
“Oi k Schooldats” may it be!
New Haven, May 3-1. 1852.
LABOR NOBLE.
“There is,’’ says Carlyle, “a perennial nobleness !
and sacredness even in work.” But work, though
like fire, a servant of servants, is not at all to be cho
sen as a master. It must be entered upon, not nar
row-mindedly and with a selfish aim alone, but with
the memory that we are the creatures of time, that
we are bound by a thousand links to all our fellows,
and that it is due loth to them and to ourselves that
we contribute somewhat to lessen the pains and in
crease the pleasures of the world around us. By no
means will this properly be accomplished, though
large our charities, and litt'e our sins of waste, if we 1
shut up the heart forever in the ugly casement of un
sympathizing labor. Family, friends, acquaintances,
our home, our country —all demand a share of our
exertions. Then, and only then, when the spirit of
generosity widens, and the angel of affection sancti
fies. is true the language of our author “B.eeEed is
llfbotfl) to Ccmpcrancc, literature, General Intelligence, anb the fa test flctos.
he who has found his work; let him ask no other
blessedness. * * Labor is life.”
THE CRADLE AWAY UP IV THE GARRET.
BT M. LOI'ISA CHITWOOD.
It was an old fashioned little eiadle. The proud
daughter-in-law would acorn to have it in the nurse
ry. Her children sleep in dainty cribs ; amTthe rcl
■ic of olden times is pushed into a darkened corner,
away tip in the garret It is a quiet autumnal day ;
such days arc full of memories; and the old grand
mother is thinking, thinking. She arises, at length,
and totters up, and up, the lofty flights of stairs ; she
passes through the elegant rooms ; she gain’ the
garret, and sinks down beside that unsightly cradle;
and bows her trembling head over it, as if watching
the slumbers of a babe. That little garret, with one
long beam of sunlight streaming from tho high win
dow ; and the spider webs woven over the rafters,
and one cricket, singing lonesomely from some silent
comer, is a good place to dream. Memory is un
folding picture after picture, for the grandmother to
look npon.
She sees a cabin home. It is in the Hush of sum
mer time ; there are green boughs in the fire-place,
and around the clock, and over the mantle board.—
There are short, white, muslin curtains, drawn par
tially across tho windows. There are two beds, with
a bureau between, standing in tho eastern part of the
room ; and a little stand, with a Iliblo and hymn
book upon its white fringed rover, beneath the little
looking-glass. There is her cupboard, with its
brightly polished pewter, and the pine table, scoured
by her own hands. And she is sitting by the win
dow, her foot gently touching that same dear little
cradle ; and her eyes, lifted from her sewing, now
and then, to see if her heart's pride is coming. How
deliciously her heart is stirred to tho music of sweet
thoughts. It is her first-born, her darling Johnny,
sleeping in the cradle. Never yet have his dewy,
rose-bud lips murmured “mother but his dimpled
arms clasp her neck ; his velvet cheek nestles against
her breast, his clear blue eyes look lovingly into her
own. Sho is tho young mother again, as memory
paints that sweet baby face. She hears the bees
humming in the little bed or pinks, below the win
dow. She sees the shadow leaves of the Virginia
creepers, playing upon the grass, in the sunlight, as
the breeze stirs the long clasping arms that cling
about the rough logs.
She hears the rivulet’s ripple ns it winds through
mossy spots, and leaves the roots of the old syca
more, whose shadows fall upon her roof. She hears
the birds singing, away off in the woods. She sees,
oh ! best of all, Iter husband coming home from his
daily labor. His step is on the sill, his merry voice
speaks her name, and then little Johnny is clasped
to his heart.
Another picture. She is a little older now. It is
winter ; there aro drifts of snow on the eaves; as far
as she can look, one unbroken mass of snow. She
hears the winds moan through tho sycamore. The
flowers are dead ; the rivulet frozen; the birds si
lent. But there is a bright fire upon the hearth, and
the cabin home warm with its crimson light. John
ny is playing with father; and a baby girl, the little
Lizzie, is in tho cradle; fragile, delicate, beautiful;
she has dark eyes, like mother's, only they bear a
sadder, softer look, and her baby smile seems sad
| also , her hands aro clasped and thrown above her
| head and she smiles in her sleep, as if the angels
| wero whispering to her.
I Another picture. It is in the month of May, und
i all out of doors is so beautiful. Flowers in tho wood
j land ; birds in the woodland ; Joyous music every
where. Everywhere? No, thero is sadness in the
j cabin house. There is another babe in tho erahle.—
ilt is robnt, and the blood of health flows in its veins.
!It is Charlie. Why are they sad, then ? Johnny
| sits with his fare hidden in his mother’s bosom, and
| she is sobbing. Under the front window is some
thing covered with white. The neighbor women arc
I moving noiselessly about, speaking but little. Lizzie
is in her coffin. There is an empty grave where but
! ter-enps dot the grass. Dear little Lizzie. Joy that
the angels took theo home so early.
Another picture. Johnny has grown up to near
ly manhood. Charlie is n stout, merry boy, and
there are others about the fire side. The mother is j
a good deal older now. Her hair is streaked a little J
with silver ; her brow furrowed ; and her cheek very ‘
faded. There are fair daughters and sons, that have J
been born unto her since Lizzie died. Grac, with
her dazzling blue eyes and golden hair. Mary, with (
sad dark eyes, like her dead sister. Annie, tv ith her j
bps ever dewy with love and joy. Reginald, with ;
eyes and brow so like his father’s. And Louis tho
youngest, the pet and the darling. An unbroken j
family, but not for long.
Another picture. She is a widow now. Her be
loved sleeps with little Lizzie. God knows how be
reft she is; to Him she looks for ba'in ; to him she
prays ft ff her dear children, and mo c t -Tall for Regi
nald—the proud, the passionate, wilful Reginald.—
Ah, the mother’s heart! How it goes w ith her chil
dren. How it would bear every pang, that they
might be saved. Yet, how often it .s tom, crushed,
broken by those she has sheltered in her bosom!—
God pity the mother whose h art thus beats against .
thorns.
Another picture. 0 God, have pity ! The house- j
hold altar is almost desolate. Years have gone by I
—sad years. No wonder the palsied band trembles |
as it clasps the cradle. No wonder tears fail where ;
sunny heads once nestled. No wonder the old grand
, mother cries out, “Father have mercy!” for she
, feels the need of strength and love. Johnny is still
PEHEIjD, EEoßr.ll, SVTI'RDU, DECEMBER 1,1855.
with her; he is growing wealthy. Mary is in the
grave, stricken in early womanhood, when life seem
ed so bright. beautiful Grace, is gone, she knows
not w hither. Beauty, to her, was a curse, ami she
fled to a distant land with one fascinating as the ser
pent, but already wed< ed. Annie joinod her for
tunes to one, alas! unworthy, and died far from her
mother’s house, of a broken heart. Reginald went
into the gay world—was tempted—was lostl—and
the grave of the debauchee closes over
his bright head. Louis, the pet, the youngest, is
winning himself a name beneath Italian skies ; the
beautiful life of the poet painter is his own, and his
face is inspired, almost, by the beautiful associations
about him. Over the ocean do bis mother’s prayers
often go to him.
Another picture—Oh no, it is too real. The old
garret—the to-day—the empty cradle. She is living
with Johnny’, in his costly home. She is considered
an intruder by the daughter-in-law; and her son—
her Johnny the first-born, whom she has watched
over, and cradled on her breast, and loved so, says:
“Mother is getting to be quits’ troublesome ; she
is growing childish.”
The desolate old grandmother knows this, and
longs for the grave. She has outlived all that makes
life attractive, tlod compass that weary, almost
worn-out heart, with His love, and take her to his
house of many mansions.”
i worm not dir at all.
I would not die in Spring time,
When worms begin to crawl.
When cahi.age plants are shooting up,
Ar.d frogs begin to squall;
‘Tis then the girls are full of charms,
And smile upon the men ;
When lambs and pease arc in their prime:
I would not perish then.
I would not die in Summer,
When trees are filled with fruit,
And every sportsman has a gun,
The little birds to shoot.
The girls then wear the Bloomer dress,
And half-distract the men—
It is the time to sweat it out:
I vv ould not perish then.
I would not die in Autumn,
When new-inown hay smells sweet,
And the little pigs are rooting round
For something nice to eat;
Tis then the huntsman's wild halloo
Is heard along the glen,
And oysters ‘gin to fatten up;
I would not perish then.
I would not die in Winter,
For one might freeze to death,
When blustering breezes sweep around,
And take away one's breath;
When sleigh-bells jingle, horses snort,
And buckwheat cakes are tall—
In fact, this is a right good world :
I would not die at all.- Winron. Argvt.
AN INDIAN EXECUTION IN MICHIGAN.
The Clinton county fMich.) F.xpress publishes the
following, and vouches for its authenticity. It is
certainly a curious history :
In different parts of central Michigan there are two
tribes of Indians, the Ottowas and Chippcwas. They
arc friendly to each other, and during the hunting
season, frequently encamp near each other. In the
Fall of 1853, a party of one tribe built their cabins
on the banks of Maple River, and a party of tbo oth
er tribe, about eighty in number, encamped in what
is now the town of Dallas. It Is unnecessary to
speak of their lives in these ramps- suffice it to say
that the days were spe,nt in hunting, and the nights
in drinking “fire water'’ and carousing. In one of
tho revels at the camp on Maple River, an Indian,
maddened by liquor, killed bis squaw, and to conceal
the deed, threw her body upon the fire.
Recovering from the stupor of tho revel, he saw the
signs of his guilt before him, and fearing the wrath
ol Ids tribe, ho fled toward the other encampment.
Ilia absence was noticed the charred remains of
tho poor squaw w ere found, and the cry for blood
was raised. The avengers wero soon upon his track
—they pursued him to tho encampment of their
neighbors—ho was found, apprehended, and in sol
emn council doomed to the death which, in the stern
old Indian code, is reserved for those only who shed
the blood of their kin. It was a slow, torturing, cru
el death. A hatchet was put in tho victim’s hands,
he was led to a large log that was hollow and made
to assist in fixing it for his coffin. This was done by
cutting into it some distance on the top, in two places
about the length of a man apart, then slabbing off",
and digging the hollow until larger, so an to admit his
I>odj. This done he was taken back and tied fast
to a tree. Then tiey smoked and drank of the “fire
water,” and when evening raine, they kindled large
fires around him, at some distance, off, but so they
would shine full upon him. And now commences
the orgies—they di ink to intoxication—they danced
and sang in their wild Indian manner, chanting the
dirge of the recreant brave. The arrow was fitted
to the bow string, and ever and anon with its shrill
twang it sc t a mi-silo into the quivering flesh of the
homicide; und to heighten his misery they cut off
his ears and nose.
Alternately drinking, dancing, beating their rude
drums, and shooting their arrows mto the victim,
the night passed.
The next day w as spent in sleeping and eating, the
victim, meanwhile still
i reflections were we of course cannot tell, but be boro \
, bis punishment as a warrior should.
A\ hen night was closed around it brought his ext- i
cutioners to their work again. The scene of the first |
night was re-enacted, and so it was th. next night,
and the next, nnd tho next, and so on for a week.—
Seven long and weary days did he stand there tor
tured with the most cruel torture, before his proud
head drooped upon his breast, and his spirit left its
clayey tenement for the hunting grounds of the
• ireat Spirit. And when it did they t'M>k the body,
wrapped it in anew clean blanket, and placed it in
the log coffin he had helped to hollow.
They put his hunting knife by his side, that ho
might have something to defend himself on the way,
his whisky bottle that ho might cliocr his spirits
with a draught now and then, and his tobacco and
pipe, that ho might smoke. Then they put on tho
cover, drove down stakes each side of tho log, and
filled up between them with logs and brush. The
murdered squaw was avenged. The camp was bro
ken up, nnd the old stillness and quiet once more
reigned over the forest spot where was consummated
this signal act of retributive justice.
Our informant has visited the spot often since then;
the log is still there with its cover on: and beneath
may still be seen the skeleton of the victim.
Let no Ohc-mo-ke-mum call this a deed of barbar
ity. It was an act of simple justice; there was a
double murder, it is true, but the palc-face who sold
the fire water that crazed the poor victim and caused
him to shod the blood of his squaw has them to an
swer for in the day of final reckoning.
AGE.
But few men die of old age. Almost all of disap
pointment, passional, mental or bodily toil or acci
dent. I’be passions kill men sometimes even sud
denly. The common expression, “choked with pas
sion,” has little exaggeration in it; for even though
not suddenly fatal, strong passions shorten life.
Strong bodied men often die young weak men live
longer than the strong, for the strong use their
strength nnd the weak have none to use. The latter
take cure of themselves, the former do not. As it is
with body, so it is with mind and temper. Tho
strong are apt to break down, or, like the candle, to
run ; the weak bum out. The inferior animals,
which live, in general, regular ami temperate lives,
have generally their prescribed term of years. Tin
horse lives twenty-five years; the ox fifteen or twen
ty; the lion about twenty; the dog ten or twelve; the
rabbit eight; the guinea pig six or seven years.
These numbers all bear a similar proportion to the
time the animal takes to grow to its full size.
When the cartilaginous parts of tlu- bone become
ossified, the bone ceases to grow. This takes pine
in man t about twenty years on the average ; the
camel at eight; in the horse at five; in the ox at four;
in the dog at two; in tho cat at eight months; in the
rabbit st twelve; in the guinea-pig at seven. Five
or six times these numbers give the term of life; five
is pretty near the average; some animals greatly ex
ceed it. But man, of all the animals, is the one that
seldom comes up to his average. He ought to live a
hundred years according to this physiological law,
forfive times twenty are a hundred; but instead ot
that, he scarcely reachi s on the average four times
his growing period; whilst the dog reaches six times;
the cat six times; and the rabbit even eight times
the standard of measurement. The reason is obvi
ous -man is not only the inostirregularand the most
intemperate, but the most laborious and hard-work
ed of all animals. He is also the most irritable of all
animals; and there is reason to believe, though we
cannot tell what an animal secretly feels, that mon
ths!) any other animal man cherishes w rath to keep
it warm, arid consumes himself with the firo of his
own secret reflections.— BlnrlieootCn Mogaein*.
-
THE MAINE LAW.
“Would to God that the Maine Law could have
passed fifty years ago!” We turned to find an old
lady on the scat hack of us, venturing hor wish in
the rnidst of an earnest discussion between a Maine
Law Yankee and a red-nosed member of tho bottle
fraternity. “Yes,” continued tho old lady, “fifty
years ago. A husband would not then have gone
down to a drunkard’s grave, my daughters married
drunkards and lived lives of sorrow, or my boys have
li*-d in jail and the mad house. Look at me,”
arid with something of fire kindling up In her old
eyes, she laid her bony hand upon tho arm of the
liquor dealer, “and see a wreck of your accursed bu
siness. I win young, had enough of this world’s
goods, and my heart was full of happiness and hope.
My God! sir, how they have poured desolation into
this old heart I am olten bitter, and do you won
der? Sucli as you robbed uie of all iny children, and
at eighty years of age, I atn alone—do you bear
nloni/ And let me tell you, this hand never wronged
the least of God’s creatures. But you wronged me.
You, sir, talk about the domicil, and say it is sacred.
God forgive me, but I remember the day when my
home was entered by the constables and skinned of
all. I rcmemtier when the Bible my mother gave
me, was taken away for drink. I remember the time
when my first burn wt, laid in rny arms from a drun
ken husband's hands and its little life-blood ran warm
into my bosom from its u minds. Why, sir,” and
the old woman half-raised in her seat, “in God’s
holy name, did you come into my house to rob and
to kill? AVas that constitutional? I have one child
living—in an asylum —a muniae. It’s all the work
of your bunds. There u blood there ! JUood, rir!
Better sir, have a millstone around your neck titan
to sell rum. The curst- of the w idow is upon you.—
It will follow you. The serpents von s.-n.l
VOIt. ni.~IMBER 48.
tie.” Involuntarily, as it almost seemed, the liquor
■ lealer handed the old lady the bottle which he held
in bis hand. She dashed it out of the car window
and slowly resumed h--r seat The people who nd
crowd.;-, around w bile the train was slopping, n> h> .r
the c-n caution, slowly am! thoughtftilly dis|sr.. and
to their seats, nnd the now cowering liquor and. >:rr
looked the very embodiment of humiliate mind shame.
A\ ith a deep sigh we turned away, onr own tat h
made stronger by the Maine Lsw sermon we led
listened to. Alii how many in out-land would have
escaped tho bitterness >f life, had rum been banish
ed in their day I— Cayuga Chief.
<IWU
A LADY WHO WAS PRESENT AT THE BATTLE OF
SARATOGA.
Mrs. Margaret Martin, who is stopping at the resi
dence of her grandson, in this city, is 08 years of sgc.
She is one of the few remarkable women of the Re
volution who took part in the niomorablo occurrences
of thu struggle for Amoriran Independence. Her
husband, Uilbert Martin, was a sergeant in the an y
of Gates, and was engaged in the battlo of Saratoga.
Mrs. Martin, then a very young woman, was on the
field during both struggles constituting this battlo
and terminating in tho defeat of tho splendid army
which Burgoyne had transported with such immense
labor and expense from Canada, confidently antici
pating that he would be able w ith it to divide the
army of the patriots and secure Sir Henry Clinton
in possession of the southern lino of defences.
Mrs Martin represents tho struggle as most terri
flr. She says that toward evening, when Burgoyno,
maddened by tho consciousness that all his splendid
schemes were about to be defeated, directed his whole
reserve ami cavalry force upon the feeble army of
patriots, the contestants stood w ithin half musket
range of each other, and poured in their doadly vol
leys, while whole files on either side fell in their
tracks, and still neither gave one Inch.
Toward evening, Mr. Martin was wounded in tho
shoulder, and while his wifo was in the act of affixing
a bandage, she herself wus wounded in the hand.—
“Gilbert sprang up like a chafed lion. 1 Peggy,’ said
he, 1 I’ll go hihl teach those cowardly fellows bettrr
manners than to shoot at a woman;’ and I saw him
no more till the tight was over.”
Os such material were the men and women of the
Kevol ution.
We can readily imagine that the field of Saratoga
was a strange place for those of the “softer sex.”
Mrs. Martin, however, has evidently been a woman
of uncommon energy of character. Her frame still
exhibits evidences of strength, and her eye sparkles
as she recounts the deeds of that glorious day, or
speaks of “that coward, Gates, who staid safe and
sound all day in his tent, and cared not for the men
who were falling liku sheaves in tho harvest.”
One by one the survivors and landmarks of tho
Revolution are fading away.— Troy Whig.
——a
MARRIAGE AND REMUS.
Somebody says all women, no matter how school
i and, or what their attainments, have a yearning desire
to love and to be loved again. The head can never
be educated at the expense of the heart, consequent
ly if they cannot obtain such as they could most ven
erate and respect, they unite themselves to those who
tender them the love they have the need of; they
dream happiness and awake to disappointment—
They find themselves unappreciated, their tastes
shocked, their sensibilities derided, and drag out
lives of misery and wretchedness. Not alone are
women of genius thus unhappy. Men, too, are made
miserable by uncongenial minds. Who can doubt
that the life of Byron would have been a better and
happier one had his wife been ono who could have
syinj'ii daed with and understood bim. Milton's do
mestie ffiiclion sat heavily on his heart. Shelley's
first iniirringe was fraught with consequences teiri
hie to himself nnd others. Burns’ versts met with
no response from those gathered mound his heaitli
stone ; and many others equally great have had rea
son to curse in their hearts an ill assorted marriage.
KNEW HIS BOOTS.
When hoots of the present form first came in sash
ion, they were regarded as a great ornament, being
worn outside the pants, and none but the wealthy
and foppish could afford to wear them. In a certain
town, for a while, old Mr. Dalaby was the only per
son who enjoyed this luxury, He had a son who
“took a shine” to the daughter of a major who lived
in another part of the town. So the son rigged him
self in his Sunday best, and putting on his father’s
bools started for the major’s, smiling within himself
to think what a fovorable impression his boots would
make upon the affections of the daughter. After he
had arrived and was comfortably seated at the fire,
in came the major, who, after surveying tho young
ster from head to foot, said,
“This i Mr. Ilalaby's son, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir,” was the prompt reply of the lad.
“Well,” said the major, “I thought I knew his
boots.”
tit 1 Man has the power neither to eat, to walk,
nor to speak, until he is taught. Being the most
helpless of animals, the utmost of his earliest power
is to suck, to move his limbs, and to weep. Nor is
he the only animal that has the divine faculty of con
templation. Though the most intimate acquaintance
with vegetable anatomy discovers no organ that
bears any analogy with the seat of animal sensation,
it would, nevertheless, betray a species of ignorance
to deny sensation to plants. It would betray still
greater to deny reason to animals, since the facultv
< JAMES T. BLAIN,
| PIMATEB.