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H. C. HOItNADY, )
EDITOR and PROPRIETOR. j
VOLUME HI.
The Banner and Baptist
JS PUBI.IBHKD EVERY SATURDAY MORNING,
AT ATLANTA, GA
price—Thre Dollars per year, In advance.
H. 0. Uobxady, Proprietor.
A DISH OF GOSSIP SPOILED.
“So Mr. Pricely is dead ?” sai 1 Mrs.
Edmonds. She, with Uncle Allen and
Aunt Lina Bronson, as they were familiarly
Galled, and several other*, were spending
the day with Mrs. Jones. Her remark
was addressed to a Mrs. Ilall, whose con
versational powers were generally expend
ed upon neighborhood affairs. The great
knowledge that Mrs. Hall possessed con
oerning such affairs made her the wonder
and admiration of a certain set, that was
ever on the alert for something ‘ new ’ in
the way of * news.’ Indeed, she could re
late little things with such an air that her
auditors always felt sure the half was not
told, and they watched her close, for that
reason, that they might guess the balance.
Bhe replied to Mrs.Edmonds by saying:
“ Yes, he died lately. Have you heard
the particulars? ”
“ No, I have not,” replied Mrs. Edmonds,
“ but 1 suppose his wife was glad of it? ”
“ Of course she was,” said Mrs. Hall.
At this reply several of the ladies drop
ped their work, and looked at Mrs. Hall, as
shesa r rocking her portly person back, with
a knowing, self-complacent air, which said,
plainly, “Imagine what you like."
Then followed a pause that, on the part
of M rs. Hall, was intentional; she waited
for her words to take effect before speaking
again. All soon resumed their work, ex
cept Aunt Lina; she sat with her dear eyes
henfc upon the floor in deep thought, while
she slowly passed her knittingmeedlc back
and forth through the silver-stranded hair,
that was put back plainly from her clear
brow, which, from its fairness now, must
have once rivalled the lily.
Dear, good Aunt Lina, she was beautiful
even in age, but her beauty did not consist
of form, for time had robbed that of its
fulness; nor features, for age had marred
their regular outlines with many a wrinkle.
No, it was not these that made aunt Lina
beautiful; but ‘ the glow of soul * that was
over all.
She was thinking of those words “ Of
course she was,” and she feit that, should
thev reach her to whom they referred, they
would pierce her heart with a sting keener
than any dagger. Glad ! How could any
one rejoice at the death of an immortal be
ing, who had lived without preparing for
eternity ? Aunt Lina knew that Mrs.
Pricely was not glad.
•‘She will be married soon,” said Mrs.
Hall, in her peculiarly snappish voice, as,
with a rock backward, she drew forth her
needle, which was threaded with a thread
whose length, no doubt, compared favora
bly with the story the could tell. Just as
her arm swung back as far as the limit of
her thread would allow, she raised her eyes
and met aunt Lina’s full gaze. Mrs. Mall
could tell what that gaze expressed, and why
the extended arm was so slowly withdrawn,
and why her hand trembled so that the
next stitch pierced her finger. Was it the
presence of a power that was not unknown
to, if utifelt by, her, that was revealed in the
depths of the gaze which met. her own ?—•
Surely, it was not the sight of the crimson
drops resting upon the wounded finger
which made her face redden so, as aunt
Lina said:
“ 1 think you are mistaken, Mrs. Hall, In
both of your remarks concerning Mrs.
Pricely.”
“ Do you know her? ” pertly replied Mrs.
Hall, in a tone which expressed a hope of an
answer in the negative.
“I am but slightly acquainted with Mrs.
Prieely, but from that slight acquaintance I
formed a very favorable opinion of her, and
I know she has many friends who esteem
her highly.’*
As aunt Lina said this, she glanced across
the room where her venerable husband sat;;
he was engaged, apparently, in reading—
his favorite occupation —and payi. g no at
tention to the conversation. Mrs. Hall,
reassured, said :
“ I know her, and I must say l haven’t
any love for her. She always acted as if
she thought herself better than her hus
band’s relations. He was related to my
mother. As to my being mistaken in what
I said about her—well, l believe it. It’s
like her. She has made some people be
lieve in her hypocritical goodness, but she
can’t deceive me. Just let me tell you
how good she is. She brought suit for
•ome property which ”
“Mrs. Hall! 1 ' Uncle Allen's book had
closed with a snap, and the force with which
his open palm descended upon it was not
more startling than the firm, decided tones
that addressed the now astonished ladv.
“ Mrs. Hall,” he repeated, “ i advised
Mrs. Pricely to bring suit for that property,
and if any one is to blame it is myself.—
JShe did right in so doing, and no one who
is acquainted with the ci ream stances should
blame her. You, madam, have just ac
knowledged your want of ‘love’ fur her, acd
for that reason I hope you will not enlight.
n the present company as to ‘ her good,
ness.’ 1 hava known Mr*. Pricely Inti.
ATLANTA, GA., AUGUST 2, 1862.
mately since she was achild, and in my first
wife’s life time, when Mrs. Pricely was a
young lady, she often spent weeks at a time
at ‘ Uncle Allen’s,’ as she always called me.
I have seen much in her to admire, and but
little to condemn; and as my good wife
has scarcely formed her acquaintance, I
hope you will say nothing to influence her
unfavorably, for I am tyrant enough to
want her to love those I love.”
As he said this he looked at Aunt Lina,
and a smile, like a sunbeam glancing on
troubled waters, sparkled in bis eyes, and
relaxed the rigid lines about his mouth.-
He added, in a softened tone :
“Excuse, Mrs. Hall, the blunt spoken
words of an old man. I am a friend to
Mrs. Pricely, and I would bo unworthy of
the confidence which she has placed in me,
if I heard her slandered without defending
her, who merits all and more than I have
said.”
He passed from the room, thinking he
had spoiled one dish of gossip for the noted
Mrs. Hall; thinking, too, of those words
of Holy Writ, that, 1 Whoso privily slan
dereth his neighbor, him will I cut off.’
It is needless to add.that Mrs. Pricely’s
name was mentioned no more that day ;
or to remark the power that one word from
a true friend possessed to silence the un
friendly tongue.
THE TOST INHERITANCE.
The train from Paris to Lyons stopped at
the station of Joigny, a town upon the
route, and after leaving a few passengers,
agaiu went on. The station, for a moment
crowded with railway porters and lookers
on, was soon deserted by all but two indi
viduals. One of them was an old man,
dressed in the garb of a well-to-do farmer;
the other, a youth of five and twenty, who
seemed to be waiting for someone to come
and meet him. To this person the old man
presently addressed himself:
“ May I presume, sir,” said he, “ to en
quire if you are Clement B. ? ”
“ Yes, my good man,” replied the youth, j
with haughtiness of manner, “and I have]
no doubt you are Mr. Martin.”
“ At your service, sir,” replied the other.
“Weil, Mr. Martin,”continued Clement
in the same tone, “ 1 began to think you in
tended to keep me waiting. That would
not have been the beat manner in which to
have insinuated yourself into my good
graces.”
The old man, iustead of replying, let his
head fall upon his breast as if in deep af.
flietion, and conducted the new oomer to
wards a large old-fashioned carriage, to
which a rough-looking horse was harnessed.
“ That my carriage, sir! ” cried Clement.
“ Why I will be taken for a travelling ped
dler! "
But a few days before, Clement 8., who
now put on so many fine airs, was a simple
clerk, in a crockery warehouse in Paris,
and possessed the reputation of being a
quiet, unpretending little fellow. What
then had brought about this sudden and
radical transformation? He had become,
since the previous day, a rich man—and it
may well be understood that the possessor
of an income of twenty thousand francs a
year, finds it difficult to retain the modest
demeanor of a poor clerk. On the previous
day, while dusting the large piles of crock
ery under his charge, a letter arrived for
him by the post, conveying to him the
startling intelligence that one of bis uncles,
of whom he nad often heard as an eccentric
and very wealthy old man, but whom he
had never seen, had just died at his resi
dence in Burgundy, leaving his nephew,
Clement, sole heir to his estates, to the ex
clusion of many other heirs.
The letter was from a notary in the pro
vince, who desired him to leave Paris im
mediately, for Joigny, the town near where
his uncle had resided, where he would be
met by Mr. Martin, an old confidential ser
vant of the deceased, and conducted to the
‘Hermitage,’ the name which the deceased
had given to the estate.
Almost driven out of his senses by such
lan unexpected stroke of fortune, Clement
| hastened to obey the notary’s directions,
, and on his arrival at Joigny, joined Martin
!as we have seen.
On jolted the queer vehicle in which our
hero had so contemptuously taken place,
until, af.er a ride of several miles, the occu
pants arrived at their destination. Martin
offered the honours of the Hermitage to the
new proprietor, called the servants and in
troduced them to their future master, and
then conducted the latter to his own rooms.
“ This was the sleeping chamber of your
uncle,” said Martin, as they entered a large
apartment furnished in old fashioned style.
“ It was in this room that he died ten days
ago.”
But the nephew, instead of evincing any
emotion upon being shown the chamber of
his benefactor, threw upou all around him
a look of scorn, and cried:
“ Upon my word I can’t say I think
much of the old boy’s taste ! 1 never saw
any thing so very ugly in all my life.”
u Notwithstanding, sir,” replied Martin,
“ it is the best we have here, and if you can
not content yourself, I really don’t know
where you will find other lodgings.”
“ 1 live here! ” exeiaimed the young man.
"hii umw ovbk" ns is "jora."
“You do not imagine I am such a donkey,
I hope ! For us young fellows, do you see,
Paris is the only place; so I shall sell this
old crazy rookery at once, and then be off.”
“ Sell the Hermitage! ” exclaimed Mar
tin, “ your uncle’s favorite place of resi
dence ! Impossible! And we servants,
who hoped to end our days under this roof,
what is to become of us? ”
“ Mr. Martin,” retorted the young man,
“ let me have none of your complaints, 1
beg. Get me some dinner, and afterwards
you will drive me to the notary’s.” •*
After eating a hearty meal,)notwithstand
ing he found the meat insipid|and the wines
sour, the legatee, still accompanied by Mar
tin, reentered the carriage and the two
started off.
“If I am not mistaken,” observed Mr.
Clement, after an hour’s ride, “we passed
this spot this morning; and that [pointing
to a building] is the railroad station. Du
we take the train there ? ”
“ You
companion, speaking very gravely, and in
a manner which caused the young man to
tremble in spite of himself. “1, sir, am
your uncle, andjhappily I am'not dead!—
Having heard good accounts of your con
duct, 1
possess; but before doing so, I wished to
ascertain if you were really deserving of
my generosity, and I had recourse to strat
agem, which has thoroughly exposed your
true character to me. Good-bye, Mr. Cle-'
ment; return to your business, and remem
ber that your arrogance and ingratitude
have lost you that which will (never again
be placed within your reach.”
The Good Husband.
You may know him on the street by his
elastic step and bright eye; by the ready
smile, and word of welcome he has for all
he meets. Hejs cheerful,for he has a stout
and hopeful heart. His life, perhaps, is a
hard one; his affairs do not prosper, his.
toil is not rewarded, a thick cloud seems
hanging over his fortunes. Often he is al
most in despair; but he thinks of the loved
ones at home who are dependent uponhim,
and, at the thought, again
—be feels renewed energy within him, and
hopefully and bravely he pushes onward
once more.
His may have been a life of joy and sor
sow, of youthful hopes suddenly crushed,
of energies wasted, of friendship betrayed.
Who has not experienced, who may not
fear, these evils in life 1 It is well for him
that he has those whom,at the close of day,
he can rejoin—in whom ha can unsuspect
ingly confida—in the * sober certainty ’of
whose love he may forget for a while the
troubles, cares and annoyances of the world
without
As the day declines and the evening
shadows lengthen, his heart and his step
become lighter, in pleasing anticipation of
the evening that approaches. He feels that
‘the long weary day,’ with its strifes, is over;
and he knows a white cottage by the road
side, where already there are eyes turned
to find him, and busy hands finishing for
him some little work of ever-thoughtful love.
What a beautiful smile illumine his face,
as, in imagination, he sees the little feet
that are running down the walk—the first
to meet him ! And he feels, as he holds
the little one to his heart, that life has no
toil too hard for him to undergo—no sorrow
that can be intolerable while the loved ones
remain to reward and bless him.
Thank God ! he has a brief elysium like
this; else, strong though he be, he might
fall in the battle of life, and bia spirit sink
within him. Thank God! he has loving
hearts to cheer him, that in the morn he
may go forth again refreshed and ready for
another day’s labor.
He has a great spirit, and willing hands,
and oh, what a kind heart! She who treads
life’s pathway by his side, can tell of that—
of care cast off for her, of risks incurred
that she might not suffer or fear—of sleep
less and anxious days—and of the cheerful
smile he ever wears that she may not be
disquieted and unhappy. He never brings
sorrow- home; no impatient words escape
to break the harmony that reigns when he
is there. No wonder she runs to meet him
—smoothing, in playful fondness, his care
worn brow ; no wonder every thing there is j
arranged for the approval of his eye, for j
the gratification of his taste; no wonder
she wears her neatest dress and her bright
est smile, though she too may be weary and
worn ; and no wonder, when she kneels
down at night, she pours out her soul to
God, in prayer that He will bless, and
spare to her, her hatband / for she knows
that without him life would be a dreary,
barren, hopeless waste,
j And we say, voo, God speed him ! Sure
ly he will be blest; and although for a sea
son clouds are over his sky, yet the sun will
cast out with cheering and brilliant rays at
last, and he will enjoy the fruits of alt bis
labors.
A speaker at a stump meeting declared
that he knew no East, no West, no North,
no South.
“ Then,” said a by-slander, 44 you ought
to go to school and learn your geography.”
[Wrtun for the Banner and Baptiat.]
Tlie World’s Great River.
While evening shades still hover’d round,
As some deep thought to learn,
I went that River’s rush and roar
To hear with strange concern ;
I sat me down in silence deep
And dashing brine,
Saw it whirUand rage and foam,
In spray-like silver shine. v.
The winds are calm and shoals are past,
And the face of nature grave,
But still the sluggish current rolls,
E’er rolls its onward wave.
Now darkness glooms the scene sublime,
The stars raiu pensive light,
And though the world is still and dead,
Those waves pursue their flight.
1 thought, and felt, and seem’d a god,
Beside the stilly deep,
Look’d'from the heights’of lofty thought,
The way those waters sweep ;
But now my soul began to shake
As softer day of light,
Revealingjruin, death, came down
From’the bridaljqueen of night.
Light stretch’d as far as thought can fly
Along that moonlight waste,
And saw a darkly world of things
All floating on in haste: —
The flower sweet, and ghastly tree,
The splendid city wreck,
The uptorn island surging on,
And now the tiny speck.
Ablaze in flowing silver robes,
With smiles and light and bliss,
Sweet Hope came gayly dancing on,
Each rising wave to kiss;
Her sunlike lustres gently fell,
And set the waves on fire —
She glittered, filled with holy dreams,
And loudly swept her lyre.
Then dear Joy came with swelling sail,
In simple vesture drest,
Now bounding, laughing, shouting loud,
And now with calmly breast;
Her face was like some infant sun
As yet not fully grown,
Kindling its slumb’ring fires to be
In brighter glory shown.
Next I saw a dark and dimly shade,
Known as frail Life below,
Fxding, trembling, quivering then,
Come floating on and slow;
Youth, manhood, stern and hoary age,
Those darkly shades enshroud,
And love, ambition, burning w-rath,
Faint lightnings of the cloud.
The stream grew vast and dark and deep
And high and heavy roll’d,
As by some dreadful god of storm
The waves were now controll’d;
And my heart began to swell and leap,
To shake with coward fear—
My soul to strangely flash and flame.
As dreader scenes appear.
Broad kingdoms, empires, natiou9 came,
Their pomp and stately pride
Whirling, crashing, thundering on,
To load the rushing tide;
Their shatter’d thrones and bleeding kings,
Their glory, wealth and might,
Swept in confusion splendid by,
Like stars and clouds of night.
Sorrow was sitting on the wreck,
Herself the shade of sin,
And black as famine’s blasted soul,
And tall and lank and thin ;
Wat’ry clouds gathered in her soul,
And from her languid eyes
An inky floodlike torrent poured,
As waters from the skies.
Then came that dreadful monster, Death,
The last proud king of all,
And sternly monarch of the grave,
High lifting now his call.
And now the wreck began to crash—
Men to weep, writhe and groan,
And pain was there, and roar of war,
And wails of sadly tone.
A groan, a wail, a piercing shriek,
And all was deeply still;
The whole grew dim, then downward sank,
Oblivion's depths to fill;
And darkness, wide as wings of night,
Her pall of sable spread
In eternal grandeur, starless,
Around the noble dead.
inwiTT Biix. i. C. w - D-
j TERMS: Three Dollars per annm*
) STRICTLY IN ADVANCE.
Our Church and Congregation.
BY ADELB.
Seventeen summers have passed over my
head with all their chances and changes,
and again I stand within the sacred portal*
of this little chapel, where in my infant
years I was wont to come upon each bright
Sabbath morning, and with childish curios
ity and wonder watch the gathering crowd,
and listen to the songs and prayer and
praise which swelled from those simple
hearts and ascended with such sweet ear
nestness to the Throne of Grace.
‘The place seems little changed,
The day as bright as then’;
but where are all the gay young girls and
gallant beaux, the dignified matrons and the
children, the sober men and mischievous
boys? No cheerful voices fall now upon
the ear, and no sound is heard save the
dropping of the autumn leaves and the mel
ancholy sighing of the pines. The very
breezes seem hushed into repose in this
same spot. Even my footsteps are muf
fled by the thick moss which time has placed
upon this rustic portal, and the birds only
twitter forth in whispers their loves and
joys beneath its mouldering eaves. Still
| the sun beams brightly now as then, and
I its rays, penetrating the thick foliage, play
lin fantastic shadows on the moss-grown
i roof and darkened walls. There stands the
well with its ‘old oaken bucket,’ wherq the
boys used to draw us water, and we would
watch our mirages reflected in the transpa
rent depths. Oh, how pretty we thought
we looked in our cottage bonnets and gay
ribbons, or new shoes and fresh muslins!—-
But those times are past now, and instead
of the little girl, I am a woman grown—
tall enough now to realize the ambitious
view s I then entertained of having my feet
touch the floor as I sat on the high straight
backed benches.
How nice I thought it must feel to be a
young lady, or at least a big girl, and wear
gay flowers in my bonnet, and sing out of a
little red hymn-book, like my pretty cousin
Lizzie, who always sat by me; and how I
used to puzzle my poor brains duriDg those
long sermons which made so many of the
old ladies and old gentlemen nod in their
pews, in trying to solve the problem of the
days and years that must pass before I at
tained to woman’s estate! These reflec
tions generally ended in a sigh, for it seem
ed an interminable length of time before 1
should reach what I deemed such a state of
felicity. And now that I had attained the
goal for which I sighed, the capability of
being gratified by such trifles has fled, and
new wishes, new hopes, crowd so thek and
fast into my busy life that the years go by
with more rapid strides, and 1 feel less im
patience at my lingering youth.
But where is now the congregation which
met and worshiped in this holy temple?—
The seats are vacant, the altar is deserted,
the Bible is mouldering on the faded cush
ion. The shepherd is gone, the flock is
scattered, and the tombstones, which gleam
so white and ghostly through the tangled
shrubbery and rank weeds of the neglected
church yard, alone proclaim to us that some
are gone to ‘that bourne whence no travel
ler returns.’
We miss the good old patriarch who used
to raise our tunes, and who always gave us
as a voluntary ‘On Jordan’s stormy banka
I stand,’ and we know that he has crossed
the foaming tide, and now stands on the
shore of that Canaan to which his longing
eyes were turned so long ago. And by
his side stands the grey-haired sire echoing
still his hearty 4 Amen,’ and joining in the
hallelujahs around the Throne.
In that graveyard, so still and lone, sleeps
dear old Aunt Betsy, with her kind good
heart and beaming smile, who always
brought a basket of nice rod apple* and po
tatoe pies for good-behaved girls. Ah !
her memory, like her presence, is as a ray
of sunshine which will light our youthful
feet in the path to Heaven. There, too,
rests one dearer than all —the father, who
used to lead me here, and whom God called
away in the pride and strength of early
manhood. How beautiful I thought him
as he lay pale and calm in his winding
sheet, for 1 knew not then the meaning of
death, and did not realize that my father
‘nevermore w'ould take me up, and let me
feel how nice it was.’
Tears rush unbidden at these childish
recollections, but not of sorrow. The bit
terness is all gone with the departed years,
and it is only a tender melancholy which
now blinds my eyes. Let no rude step
disturb the rest of those dreamless sleepers
—no hand pluck the wild roses which blos
som on their graves. Still let the ivy creep
about this mouldering pile, and the gret u
moss bide its rugged sides.
The winds and rains of many a winter
will yet beat upon its forsaken roof, and
still it will stand a monument to the con
gregation who praised and prayed within
: its humble walls.
Some authors write nonsense in a clear
'style, and others sense in an obscure one;
| some can reason without being able to per
suade; others can persuade without being
sable to reason.
NUMBER 37.
