Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.