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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. The IIAN.MFK a druiUtion, whkh i daily in creasing, and bids fair to tfcome the mo*t popular paper in the i Bouth. It is offered, with (©wlrqr to it* circulation b*- Injr *o ireneral,) to Merchant*, MectwiXiioH, and I’rofcaaJonaJ men, at an ADVRRTIBINO MRPTCM through wlxlch their may be extended in thin and adjoining Plate*. term** op i:BacmrrioK. sl,ftO per annnm, if paid In advance. $1,50 44 44 1/ not paid withiu six oioothe. $2,00 44 44 if not paid nntll the eud of tha year. TERMS OP ADVERTISING. 1 aquare, (eight line* or lea*,) flret iuwtion, $ 1 00 Each continuance, 50 ProfvMlonai or Bulneea Card*, not exceeding 5 line*, pr yr 5 00 STANDING ADVERTISEMENTS. I square three month*, without alteration, $ 5 00 1 “ lx 44 aitere-d quarterly, TOO 1 44 twelve “ “ 44 Id 00 2 squaree 44 44 44 44 18 00 8 44 44 44 44 44 fl 00 4 44 44 “ 44 44 25 00 $3D F “Advertisements not marked with the number of Insertions, will be continued ntU forbid, and charged accordingly. HF” Merchants, Druggist*, and others, may contract for adver tising by the year, oh reasonable term*. 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.