Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

Tin: BAPTIST BANNER. BY JAS. N. ELLS Y CO. VOL. IV. She DEVOTED TO RELIGION AND LITERATURE, Ib published every Saturday, at Atlanta, Georgia, at the subscription price of three dollars per year. JAMES N. ELLS & CO., Proprietors. Jas. N. Ells. S. D. Niles. A. K. Seago. Steam Press of Franklin Printing House —J. J. Toon A Co. MISCELLANY. Little Gerty. A STORY FOR THE NEW YEAR It wr s only a small rent in the white apron, but poor Gerty was sadly frightened. Her mother had been very angry when she tore her cloak at school, and threatened to punish her if anything of the kind occurred again. So now, with fear and -trembling, the child kept one hand carefully over the rent, while her head was busy studying how she could best explain the accident to her mother. Presently, however, for some service, both hands were required, and then, notwithstanding Gerty’s precautions, sharp eyes spied the tiny triangular tear, and a voice no milder than the eyes pronounced “ Careless child.” Then followed an awful pause, while the iron woman, standing there in her inflexible sternness, eyed t he shrinking child, who was struggling hard to keep down the rising tears. Iler mother would be still m >re dis pleased if she cried, so she fought bravely against it, but before she could speak the decree came. “Go directly to your room. You need not come down again to night.” “ But, mother ” “Not one word, Gertrude.” And the child crept silently up stairs to her own apartment. The chamber was chilly and dark, but Gertrude cared nothing for this. Better both cold and darkness, than the frowning, freezing presence she had just left. But her punishment had been unmerited, and feeling this most bitterly, the sensitive nature re belled against the injustice. So now she threw herself upon the low bed, wetting its pillows with her tears, while the little chafing, sorrowing spirit found vent in con vulsive. sobs and choking words. “1 wasn’t to blame. Tom was passing with wood, and he tore. it. \V hy couldn’t mother let me toll her just, that? She doesn’t love me—nobody loves me now.— O, why did God make my own mamma die ? Ah, why, poor child? Other sobbing voices than yours, all over this weeping world, and through all ages, have sent up that same, weary cry to the throne of God. Piercing the cloud and the darkness, it has reached the ear of the Eternal, and one day, you and 1 and they will know why, hut not now here. It was a beautiful home. The soft light lay upon the rich carpets and velvet cush ions, and upon the walls were hung costly pictures —pictures, gazing at which you seemed standing far away upon the vine clad hills of Italy, and pictures of faces whose dark eyes haunted your dreams for days.— Here you saw an exquisite statuette, and there an antique vase,and everywheresome thing to study or admire. Yonder, through partly-opened doors, you had a glimpse of a well-filled conservatory, and the air was heavy with the perfumes of tropical plants. Yes, it was a beautiful home, and she bad loved it, the low-voiced, gentle woman who had come hither as a bride, and who, only two years, had been borne out from it to a longer and darker abode. Six months had passed since the second marriage. The present Mrs. Allen was a model woman —at least, so her fnewds said, and so she thought. A woman who did | everything systematically, and who gave thanks daily that she was not as other wo-1 men were, or subject to like failings with { them. If that ingredient, termed tender- ' ness, had ever formed one of the component I parts of her nature, she mint have done away with it years ago, and now stood a woman no more susceptible to gentle influences than is an iceberg of the Northern sea to the warming influences of the stars. She placed the whole game of life according to a code of laws, every article of which was as unalterable as a decree of the Medes and Persians. Nobody ever knew Mrs. Allen to be lute to dinner. She never said can’t tor cannot, or made use of any other abbre viated English. She never put on her gloves in the street, or omitted her daily exercise. In slant, she was the feminine embodiment of So all the world looked at Ger- ty. and said. “How fortunate a child has so excellent a step-mother.” Fortunate ’ — Certainly. Wasn’t her hair always parted exactly m the middle and brushed so smooth Iv back ? Wasn’t her hat always put on with the most rectangular propriety, and tied in an even bow ? Didn t she always sit with her hands folded so like a lady, while other mothers’ daughters were romp ing about and trailing their hats by the ribbons through the dust ’ Os course she did. The care which she had from her mother was so wonderful. Yes, but my good friend, if your child ask bread, w ill you give her a stone 1 And if she plead A BEBWMMJS &K» iMSSABI £®WB3PAS > EB. ATLANTA, GEORGIA, JANUARY 10, 1863. for your love, do you imagine that any amount of attention to her physical needs can satisfy a soul framed of God to feed upon kind looks and fond words? God pity the woman whose heart the wear and tear of life have indurated, until they have left there no soft spot for a lov ing nature to impress itself upon ; and God pity the child whose earnest, craving spirit comes in contact with such a woman only , to be frozen by her influence. This was the New Year’s eve, and Gerty, from her solitary room, could hear the re , peated closing of the great hall-door, each | time announcing a new arrival; for Mrs. Allen received company to-night, and a gay company it was. ; “ Where is Gerty?” asked the father. ; I thought best for her to retire at her ; usual hour,” was the reply, and the busy . host thought no more of his child. Meanwhile, the little one had cried until the fountains were dry, and the feverish , cheeks were sore; so she curled herself up , by the low window, and looked out into i the night. Away up in the dark-blue Heav en shine the thousand stars, while the snow is white and glistening upon the lawn and meadow, and afar on the outlying kills. Gerty remembers the starry nights of long ago, when there was some one. to fold gen tle arms about her, and whisperingly lavish on her a thousand pct names ; and bitterly, how bitterly God knows, the young heart' feels that she has no one to love her. Papa is kind, but he is away so much, and then, since this new mother came, he doesn’t no tice her as much as he once did. Suddenly the child starts up from her old seat, and with parted lips and dilated eyes, stands listening. The sound of music comes up from below, and amid all the artistic ad ditions and variations, her ear detects the notes of an old and familiar refrain. It is the same sweet evening song, her mother’s lullaby. She used to sing it in the purple twi light, with Gerty’s golden head nestling in her bosom, ami now, with this gentle, gliding measure, those far oft nights come : floating back to her on their starry wings, and she sees her own mother once more.— I She stands before her, with her drooping! head and her long fair hair. Ge. ty hears | her low, sweet voice keeping time with the music; she stretches out her arms towards her—but the music has ceased, and her mother, beckoning with her hand, whispers, “ Come, my child,” and then vanishes silent ly into starlight. Gerty waited but an instant. Her moth er had said “come,” and she would go. — l So, noiselessly as a spirit, she glided down the broad stair-case, and flitted past the open doors of the parlor. Out into the : clear, cold night, her hair streaming behind i her and her feet scarcely touching the frozen ground, on past the great houses and over the lonely ways, never halting or turning until under the dark old pines, she reached a snow-covered grave. Here it was. This was poor mamma’s home now ; here they had brought her on | that sad, snow falling day, ami left her' —; left, her all alone, with her closed eyes and her folded hands; and here she, her little l girl, would come and stay with her always.. No feeling of fear entered the child’s heart now. She clasped and kissed the cold, white head-stone, and its coldness and whiteness only reminded her more of the! pale brow, which they bad lifted her to kiss > just two years before. The, night was bit ter cold, but Gerty knew it not. What though the little feet were freezing—she' ' felt it not, she was so happy. There was a i glorious light in the sky and all over the I hills. The pines above and around her murmured and whispered, and she thought, they were singing to her mother’s cradle song. Ami so repeating to herself the lit tle prayer which always came after the' I song, the child felt a delicious drowsiness! steal over her, and dreaming of Heaven, | and her mother, she fell asleep. Poor Gerty ! Heaven and her mother ! were no longer a dream, when they carried' j her little lifeless figure home next morning,! I ami silently laid it in her own room, still , wearing the little torn apron. Who are not Speculators ?—ls a ques tion that might well be asked at this time. An incident occurred in this city which well illustrates the fact. A clergyman called at ih stare a few days since, wishing to pur chase an overcoat. A tine one was shown ; him at the price of for.y dollars. The j merchant received a considerable lecture or. . extortion, and the would be purchaser was I about leaving. He turned to the merchant land inquired if he would purchase some ■jeans, and offered them at five dollars per »; yard- The merchant then reminded him J -I that the price of the coat in the cheapest I times was thirty dollars, and that he had' j added only 25 per cent, on his articles, i while the lecturer on extortion was asking I four hundred per cent, on his. The Shep j herd of the Flock was glad to drop the , subject of extortion. [.Vacua Messenger. * - * The love of children is like the love of - flowers —sweet and budding flowers—holy and innocent; and the man who is fond of 1 them cannot be the possessor of a brutal or 1 bad heart. HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE. A ggeautiful Utile Story. A few years since, in coming down the North river, I was seated in the cabin of the magnificent steamer Isaac Newton, in conver sation with some friends. It was becoming late in the evening, and one alt another, seeking repose from the cares and toils of the day, made preparations to retire to their berths. Some pulling oil their boots and coats, laid themselves down to rest; others, in the attempt to make it seem as much like home as possible, threw off more of their clothing—each one a.s their comfort or ap prehension of danger dictated. 1 had noticed on the deck a fine looking boy, about six years of age, following around a man, evidently his father, whose appear ance indicated him to be a foreigner, prob ably a German, a man of medium height and respectable dress. The child was unu sually fair and fine looking, lUmdsomely featured, with an affectionate expression and countenance, and from under hj»s German cap fell chestnut hair, in thick clustering curls. After walking about in the cabin for a time, the father and son stopped in a few feet of where we were seated, and began preparation for going to bed. I watched them. The father adjusted and arranged the bed the child was to occupy, which was an upper berth, while the little fellow was undressing himself. Having finished this, his father tied a handkerchief around his head, to protect his curls, which looked as if the sunlight from his happy heart always rested there. This done, I looked for him to seek his resting place, but instead of this, he quietly kneeled down upon the floor, put his little hands together so beautifully, child like, and simple, resting his arms on the lower berth, against .vhich he knelt to begm his prayer. The father sat down by his side and wait ed the conclusion. It was, for a child, a long prayer, but well understood. I could hear the murmuring of his sweet voice, but could not distinguish the words he spoke. There were men around it—Christian men, retiring to rest without prayers ; or if pray ling at all, a kind of mental desire for pro Itection, without sufficient courage or piety j to kneel down in a steamboat cabin, and be ! fore strangers, acknowledge the goodness of God, or ask His protecting love. This was the training of some mother. Where was she now ? How many times had her kind hand been laid on those sunny locks, as she had taught him to lisp his prayer? A beautiful sight it was, that child at prayer in the midst of the busy, thought less throng. He alone of this wordly mul titude, draws nigh to heaven. I thank that | parental love that taught him to whisper his evening prayer, whether dead or living, whether far oil’or nigh. I could scarce re frain from weeping then, nor can 1 now, as I see again that sweet child, in the crowded I tumult of a steamboat’s cabin, bending in | devotion before his Maker. But a little while before, 1 saw a crowd iof admiring listeners gathering about a 'company of Italian singers in the upper sa ! loon, a mother and her two sons, with voice land harp and violin, but no one cared for . the child at prayer. When the little bov had finished his even \ ing devotion, he arose and kissed the father I most affectionately, who put him into bis berth to rest for the night. I felt a strong desire to speak to them, but deterred it till ! morning. When morning came, the con tusion of landing prevented me from seeing them again : but if ever 1 meet the boy in his happy youth, I’ll thank him for the in fluence and example of that night’s devo . tion, and bless the name of the mother that taught him. Scarcely any passing incident of my life ever made a deeper impression upon my I mind. I went to my room and thanked God I that I had witnessed it, and tor its influence on my heart. Who prays on a steam boat? Who teach their children to pray even at ! home ? A l aiihitil fl'reacher. The following discourse was delivered by the Rev. James Axley, a renowned Methodist preacher of East Tennessee. It is related by Hugh L. White, for many yearsa distinguished judge in that State, and ! afterwards a conspicuous member in the Senate of the United States. It had been noised abroad that Mr. Axley would preach on the morning of the following Sabbath. The famous divin' was a great favorite ; with none more so than : with Judge YVhite. At the appointed hour, I the judge, in company with a large emigre-! gat ion, was in attendance. The services were begun by another preacher, at the close of whose address Mr. Axley rose, and stood silently surveying the cvnuregation. All were hushed in ex pectation. Every eye was riveted on him. He then began : “Mv friends, it is a very painful, but a very nee ssary duty, fora Minister of the gospel to reprove vice, misconduct, and sin, w herever found: and be assured I will not I’ shrink from the duty on this occasion. “And now,’’ continued the speaker, f pointing with his long finger, “that sandy ' haired man, sitting yonder by the door, I who got up and went out while the brother was preaching, and staid out so long; who got his boots full of mud, and came in and stamped the mud off at the door, making such a noise that nobody could hear the preacher;—that man thinks 1 mean him. “No wonder that he thinks so. It is a disgrace to the State that he should have grown up here and have no better manners. Now, my friend, I advise you to go home, and learn how to behave yourself before you again come to the house of prayer. — But I do not mean him. “And now,” pointing again to his mark, “that little girl about the middle of the floor—l should judge her to be about sixteen years old—with flowers inside of her bonnet; she that was giggling and laughing and chattering all the time the brother was speaking; —she thinks I mean her. “And she ought to think so. I am sorry for any parents who have brought up a girl to her age without teaching her to behave modestly and properly ; they are to be pitied. Little girl, you have disgra ced your parents as well as yourself. But 1 do not mean her. “And now, that man on the bench in the corner, who is looking up as bright as if he had never been asleep in his life, and never expected to be, but vho was nodding and bowing and snoring all through the ser mon ; —that man thinks 1 mean him. “And, indeed, he may well think so.— My friend, the house of God is not intend ed fora place of sleeping. When you want to take a nap, go home, take off your clothes, and go to bed ; there is the place to sleep, not in church. But Ido not mean him.” And thus he went on, fixing his dark eye on each offender, till he had pointed out nearly every man, woman, and child who had, in any respect, deviated from strict propriety, ending each reproof with “1 do not mean him,” or “I do not mean her.” Judge White, sitting on the front bench, just in face of the preacher, was all the time enjoying the fun wonderfully. He laughed, he rubbed his hands, he chewed his : tobacco with the greatest vigor. As each new offender was brought up, he chewed more and more violently, till the floor be fore him became a puddle. “ Now,” said the preacher, drawing him-! self up with a reserve look, “I suppose I you want to know whom 1 do mean. I mean,” said he, pointing his finger as true as a needle to the pole, “ I mean that filthy tobacco-chewer, sitting on the end of the front, seat. Look at those puddles on the . floor ! A toad would be poisoned in them ; and think of the sisters’dresses being drag ged through such pollution !” Judge White’s laughter was checked as suddenly as if a thunderboldt had fallen. Every eye in the congregation was instant-1 I v fastened on him. lie has averreu that he : never afterwards dared to chew tobacco ini church. Almost Home. Almost home! shouts the merry school j boy,as he bounds along the shady lane) where his mother is, eager to pour into her| attentive ear a history of all that has hap. pened during this his first day at school.— How hard it seemed to be confined inside those dreary walls, when, without, the glad sunshine was smiling on tree and flower, and the merry birds were flitting joyously from branch to branch, carolling sweetly their songs of praise. He has counted ma ny times the long, long hours which stretch ed away between him and home. But they have all passed now, and he is hasten ing homewards, impatient to receive the: words of fond approval which he knows! will be gladly given him as a reward for' good behaviour duringall that long, tedious, day. Will ever accents of praise sound so sweetly to him in future years ? Fame may l wreathe her coronet ol brilliant flowers around his brow—the applause of multi 1 tudes may daily greet his ear but never . will aught bring to his heart that feeling of! setisfaction which the approving smiles of | his mother now cause. i Almost home! and the long absent one | wends her way slowly along the familiar : paths of her childhood home. How much . I the same everything seems as wh< n,a light . hearted, care-free child, she bounded along those flowery ways, or carefully concealed herself beneath that closu ring vine, whose branches, trailing so low, formed a perfect! screen from the merry group whoso eager ly sought her retreat. And she lingers a moment in that sweet spot near the cairn ! lake, in whose clear depths the tall trees, I which surround it on every side, are so beau ! tifully mirrored. How many happy hours ~ ! she has passed beneath the spreading hranch | es of this oak, when girlhood’s first hopes were strong and the future seemed encircled \ by a golden halo of love and joy. Tears* well slowly up to her eyes, as she feels that! all those bright dreams of the future have > proved to be but misty shad >ws of joys never realized ; that life is no dream, but a ■I stern reality. But, as she moves onward, .' and soon catches a glimpse of the old home stead, as it peeps forth from the clustering ' trees which so faithfully guard it, every .' other emotion is superceded by that of ■ earnest thankfulness, that, after years of , toil, she is to rest once more beneath the • old roof-tree of home. TERMS — Three Dollars a-year. Almost home! and the step of the weary laborer gains elasticity, and his eye bright ens, as he discerns, through the gathering twilight, the dim outline of his cottage home. It is Saturday night. All the long week he has labored faithfully, and it is ith a careful, grateful heart that he ap proaches his pleasant home. He knows that the merry band of children within that home is impatiently waiting to welcome, with shouts of joy and twining arms, their father’s return. He knows that the calm, earnest eye of his wife 'will beam with a deeper joy, and those lips, which never ut tered an unkind word, be wreathed with smiles of welcome. He sees, in the light of the ruddy blaze, the tea-table neatly spread, and the loved ones eagerly listening for their father’s step. No wonder that, lured on by all these pleasant visions, he forgets his weariness ; and soon “Father’s coming !” greets his ear—he is at home. Almost home! shouts the sailor, as the shores of his native land rise to his view. But he turns aside to brush a tear from his eye, for in that moment of joy rises, unbid den, the thought that in the long years of his absence, changes have come. Perhaps that kind father, or loving mother, who so wisely counselled, or so fondly blessed him, when, for the first time, he went forth from the sacred influences of home, has gone to the land of the departed. It may be that the manly brother, who was his companion in every boyish sport, and whom he loved so well, or the cherished sister, whose affec tionate heart never suffered her to forget her absent brother in morning and evening supplication at the throneof Our Father, has gone to the spirit-land. All these thoughts pass through the mind of the long-absent one as he rapidly nears the destined haven ; and he longs, yet dreads, to cross the thres hold of th .t dearest place on earth. Almost home! These words sounded faintly yet joyously from the pale lips of a fair young girl, upon whose brow rested the cold hand of Death. “Young, loving, and beloved ;” does it not seem hard for one so blessed in life to turn away from the cup ere half its contents are quaffed ? Far away from the bedside of the suffering one, fath l er and mother, brothers and sisters, think, 1 with warm affection, of their distant child and sister, and anticipate, with earnest hope fulness, the time when they shall welcome her to the warm hearthstones of home; dreaming not that her pale hand is already clasped within the icy fingers of the angel of Death, who is leading her slowly, yet surely, down the dark valley ; no, not dark, for the radiance of the crown her Saviour extends lights up the way she is treading. I Many germs sparkle in that crown, for her i life, though short, has not been useless.— I Many a sorrowing one has blessed her for ! her ever-ready sympathy—many an erring i one for the loving counsel she gave, and the i purity of the life she lived—many suffering lone for the aid her hands have rendered. — i But those azure eyes are closed forever now i—the tones of that, sweet voice are hushed ! —the pule hands will never be clasped in I friendly greeting again. She is at home ! The king angel of Death has merciful ly ta ken her to her Saviour’s arms, ere sorrow had dimmed her eye or care had marked her brow. Tlw Sabbath. The eve of another Sabbath is approach ing—welcome harbinger of a peaceful to morrow —when the aching head may rest, and the weary hand lay aside its accustom ed toil, and the thoughts and heart turn to I Him, who bade “all that are weary and heavy laden to come to Him and He would ! give them rest ” Sad is the idea that so ! many of His creatures omit to avail tin m -1 selves of this blessed imitation; and sad- I der still, that, after six days spent in the pursuit of liirne and fortune, they eith. i I neglect or give up grudgingly fl e se\emh | to Ilis service, iu a hose har'd are tiie i.si-ues which may give, or withhold both; and sad der even than this, that when thr plotting brain and the busy hand are laid low by sickness, the idols for which they have toil ed so long seem to mock them by assu ming their real value. YY hen Death ap proaches, w ho that has thus wasted his exist enc even though he may have reach' d the j highest point of his ambition—ispreparedto meet it? YV’dl the King of Terrors assume a more kindly aspect to him on this ac count? YVill the \alley’ of the dark shad ow of death seem a ray less dark because he enters it covered with honor, and fame, and wealth ? No. Better far that his ar mor for that battle should be studded o’er with holy thoughts and noble deeds of char ity, than be thickly covered with the great est gift earth has to bestow. YY hcn the last, hour comes, well may he exclaim, with the haughty Queen of old, “ Millions of money for an inch of time.” How dif ferent from such is the death-bed of one who, while he has neglected no earthly du ty, has kept in mind the fact that we are hare but for a short time to prepare our selves for eternity ! When the call comes to render his account —though the spirit may falter and the heart grow sick at parting ’ fr< m the loved of earth —yet he is sustain ’ ed by the consoling promise of Hirn, that, the struggle once over, all will be at peace beyond. No broken Sabbaths rise up to NO. 8.