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THE BAPTIST BANNER. BY JAS. N. ELLS & CO. VOL. IV. gaptfet DEVOTED TO RELIGION AND LITERATURE, In 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 Fraukliu Printing House—J. J. Toon 4 Co. X MtSCELLANY. Shall we Know each other There ? When we hear the music ringing Through a bright, celestial dome, When sweet angel voices singing, Gladly bid us welcome home To the land of ancient story, Where the spirit knows no care — In the land of light and glory— Shall we know each other there? When the holy angels meet us, As we go to join their band, Shall we know the friends that greet us' In the glorious spirit land ? Shall we see their dark eyes shining On us, as in days of yore ? Shall we feel their loved arms twining Fondly round us as before ? Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices, And my weary heart grows light, For the thrilling angel voices, And the angel faces bright, That shall welcome us in Heaven, Are the loved of long ago, And to them ’tis kindly given, Thus their mortal friends to know. . i O I ye dreary ones and lost ones, Droop not, faint not by the way; Ye shall join the loved and lost ones, In the land of perfect day. Harp strings, touched by angel fingers, Murmur in my raptured ear— Evermore their sweet tone lingers— We shall know each other there. FORGIVENESS. A TALE. BY DINAH MARIAH MUI.OCK. “ Nevertheless, in spite of your prejudi ces, Marion, I am sure you will like cousin Oliver when you see him.’’ The young girl to whom the words were addressed shook her head, in doubtful re ply- “ You do not know how agreeable he is,” pursued her companion, a tall and rather stately looking young man, whose scarcely handsome but pleasant face bore the firm ness and composed aspect of eight and t.weiity years. “It is really quite impossi ble not to like him.” “ We. shall see,” said Marion smiling. The two whose short conversation we have quoted were walking slowly up and down the walks of a lovely garden. High walls shut out everything but the tops of ( surrounding trees, so that but for the indis tinct rumble of wheels and the various sounds that now and then came from the great city of cities, this place might have been in some fur distant countiy solitude. Trees bending with ripe apples, peaches glowing amidst their green shelter, and one rich, full-leaved, ripe-fruited mulberry tree, adorned the garden ; while climbing over the old fashioned house, the fragrantclema tis Moore's “ night blooming cereus” of sweet memory —shook down its perfumed showers of white blossoms, and allured the! few wandering bees ol autumn. In this beautiful garden strolled the two lovers —for that such they were was evident from the young man’s earnest, almost whis pering tone, wliich no man ever uses save t.y the woman he loves, or pretends to love. Ami Marion, too, in her answers, pro nounced his name —the common but ever sweet name of William —with that linger ing, loving intonation, which makes even a less pleasant word sound beautiful, when falling from affectionate lips. William Blair’s affianced wife was much: younger than himself —at least ten years.— He had known her all his life; had fondled her on his knee when an infant; had watch-1 ed the fairy-like, graceful child grow up into the beautiful girl, until he could hardly tell the period when his affection for his pet ami play fellow changed into his love for the woman whom he wished to make his companion t<»r lite. And \\ i lliam Blair did not woo in vain: it would have been strange if he had, for the high qualities of his mind, and his pleasing looks ami man ners. were calculated to win any girl's heart —-even one so light, almost thought less, as that of Marion Hilliard—the spoiled child of a widowed father, Hers was that pliable nature which, under the guidance of a firm ami noble character, might be mould ed to an\ good : and therefore it was well tor her —ami even her father felt it so—that she was. in early youth, bound by such ties to a man like William Blair. Mr. Hilliard and his only daughter lived in the retired suburban cottage we have spoken of. seeing little society : for the old naval otHeer was averse to much company, and onh cart'd to see William Blair, who came, as might be expected, almost daily. Marion might have regretted this seclusion; but her heart ami thoughts were too full ot her lover, to care for any society but his.— Therefore, w hen he told* her of this cousin Oliver, his old schoolfellow, who was com ing on a visit to him, Marion felt rather jealous ot au\ one who would possibly take a bkmssoto warn William’s thoughts and time away from her, than pleased at the prospect of. a new face. The young people continued their walk up and down the garden, and then rested in the little summer-house. "William again referred to his cousin—spoke of his talents, his brilliant conversation —and vainly strove to alter Marion’s prejudice against him. — The young girl laughed at his earnestness. “ You might be pleading at that disagree ble Chancery-court, where you have learned to be so grave and argue so well, William,” said she. But, suddenly becoming serious, Marion lifted, with her slender and light finger, one of the thick chestnut curls from her lover’s forehead, discovering a deep scar under the beautiful hair of which, to tell the truth, William was a little vain. “ This alone,” said Marion, “ would be enough to prevent my ever liking the one who did it, and did it wilfully too.” “ But that was so long ago —we were I only boys; Oliver was hasty and passion ate, and could not endure any one who sur passed him. I believe he was sorry for it afterwards.” “ That may be ; but the sin remains.” “No, Marion; for I have years since for gotten it, and forgiven Oliver.” “ That is because you are so good ; and i I will try to do the same; but, 1 shall never | shake hands wit h him without thinking how I nearly the stone that hand threw might have cost your life. And then I should not have been so happy as I am now, William,” added the girl, in a low voice. What lover could resist such argument? William Blair forgot cousin Oliver, his sins and his perfections, and only thought of Ma rion—his own beautiful and betrothed Ma rion. Oliver Chadwick came, and was intro duced by William to his intended bride and her father. It is true, Marion’s pretty lit tle hand did shrink at first from the touch of one she thought laden with the heavy sin of having once nearly killed her lover; but she soon forgot her horror in the charm of young Chadwick’s society. Cousin Oli ver fully bore out William Blair’s descrip tion of him—a rare circumstance, when a stranger has been much talked about before hand. He was a strikingly handsome young man; his statue like and faultless features were set off by a clear, dark, Italian com plexion, and hair of that perfect jetty hue so rarely seen; beside which the dark brown, and dusky, and brownish black tresses, which are politely termed black, sink into insignificance. In figure, Oliver was much less tall than his cousin, and slighter made; but in exact proportion.— [ His manners, too, were more courtly and insinuating ; he was ever on the watch to i perforin some trifling act of polite attention, of which the higher and more manly nature of William Blair never thought. Yet these attentions came so naturally, and were so equally distributed, that no one could say Oliver showed Marion anything but the courtesy due to his cousin elect. William’s upright, honest mind felt not the slightest jealousy of Oliver’s superior I personal attractions. He suffered him to lead the conversation, and gradu: lly to draw out Marion until she listened with pleasure, and talked without reserve, before him.— ! Many clever men have a faculty for hiding their talents, but Obver Chadwick’s were all of the brilliant kind. His conversation was most fascinating: not from his being one of those talkers who pour out one daz zling stream, and keep others admirii g lis teners, but because, by consummate skill, j which seemed like intuition, he encouraged j the timid, and show ed deference to the re-] [served, until all were set at ease, so as to take part in w hat was said, and all invaria- 1 ] bly went away wondering, yet pleased, at ■ their own courage, and charmed with him j I w ho had produced such effects. There must have been a mist over Wil j liam Blair’s eyes, when be could not see how dangerous might be the result of these all i fascinating pow ers on a young and romantic spirit like Marion's. But he had such entire j I trust in her love for himself, and thought so highly of his cousin, that he never suspected 'Oliver could be guilty of any but brotherly admiration for the girl who was to be his ; i cousin s wife. And the idea that Marion [ should think of < River, except, in this sister [ lv wav, never once crossed his mind. e . acknowledge that such unsuspecting confi- ideuce is rare—very rare; but it is from weak and changing love that jealousy springs; perfect love knows no distrust ; and such love was William Blair's for his Marion. Thus, even w beu, following his profession as a barrister, he set oil on the circuit—his first parting from Marion since they had ' been declared lovers—William felt not the slightest regret that Oliver Chadwick still lingered in the neighborhood, but was rather glad that Marion and her father would occa sional! v have a visitor to enliven their dull ness in his absence. Marion's feelings it would be impossible to analyze: they were so contradictory,she hardly could understand them herself. She wept at parting with her lover: it might be with grief —it might be w ith a feeling of self-reproach at her waning affection for him ; and then Oliver came, and read to her. and talked with her—talked about il liam, too —until her conscience was soothed ATLANTA, GEORGIA, JANUARY 17, 1863. HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE. and her heart lightened. A few weeks passed, and Marion grew alarmed at her own feelings. She said to herself that she loved William still; but when she laid her head on her pillow at night—that moment when, whatever may have been the wanderings of the day, the heart and the thoughts always fly to what is nearest’and dearest —then, it was not the face of her betrothed, but of his cousin, that arose up before her ; her lips murmured the name, not of William, but Oliver. It is ever sad to trace the change of a faithless heart. One would fain believe that love can never change—never grow old ; and yet, alas I for frail human nature, it does both ; but not with all. Let us at once come to the truth —that, long before William’s return, his place in Marion’s heart was given to Oliver. Silently, slowly, and by means which he well knew how to em ploy, Chadwick had stolen away the young girl’s affections from her first love. To do the young man justice, however, he did not commit this willful and great sin, as many do, idly, to gratify his own vanity.— When he first saw Marion, and for some time after, he would have shrank from the accusation that he intended winning her heart. But yet, when he felt his own weakness, and knew that her beauty and gentle ways were stealing away the duty he owed to his cousin, he did not fly from the temptation, which soon became irresis tible, until Oliver resolved that, at all risks, could he succeed in gaining her, Marion should be, not his cousin’s wife, but his own. For the time, Oliver was his love; but he did not think that faith, once broken, would be broken again, and that a fi<kle heart is of little value. From his childhood, Oliver Chadwick had never controlled himself, or been con trolled by another. This, with an ambi tious spirit, which could not brook to be outdone by any one, had caused his first sin against his cousin, the mark of which Wil liam would bear all his life. This, too, caused the second and more grievous of fence against William’s peace. That his cousin would suffer through his fault, Oli ver never thought; or if he did, he judged of William’s love by his own, which had changed so often and so easily, that he hardly believed in constancy at all. With these arguments, Oliver quieted his own self-reproaches and those of Marion, while, amidst all this, both so effectually shielded their love from every eye, except those of each other, that the old lather never guessed the truth. Sin, like sorrow, never comes alone. The day before William Blair’s appoint ed return, the once dutiful and affectionate Marion secretly left her father’s house, and became the wife of Oliver Chadwick. William Blair returned to a desolate home. No tidings of Marion’s Hight could reach him, and to the very last, her let ters to him had continued ; to such a de gree had guileful influence worked upon her once innocent heart. He entered the cot tage full of hope and happiness, and left it a broken-hearted man. Yet William’s own sorrows did not make him insensible to the anguish of the father of his lost Marion.— The gray-haired old man sat continually gazing at his daughter’s vacant seat, bowed down to the earth with grief. Self-reproach es, too, mingled w ith his sorrow’; he im plored William’s pardon for not having better kept his treasure —for having suffered a stranger to steal it away. William felt j no anger towards the desolate old man, but I strove to lessen his anguish by cheering ! words. He spoke of Oliver’s worldly pros ipects; that, though poor, Marion would , not be destitute, and then her husband’s ] great talents would make their way. , Mr. Hilliard 1 ooked at the generousl I young man with astonishment. j “ How can you talk in this kind way, William ? Have you no anger toward them? have you forgotten your own wrongs ? ” i William turned his head away; but the ! quick heaving of his chest, and the convul- , sive clench of his hands, told how intense were his sufferings. The old man watched him almost in tear, until he grew calmer, and said in a suppressed tone —“ 1 have for given Oliver once already, and shall I not forgive poor Marion, w hoin I once so dearly loved—God help me! I must not say love, now. I have no anger against her." “ But your cousin ? ” “ Must 1 not forgive Marion’s husband ■" The words came forcibly from William’s : lips ; his heart failed him in the utterance, and a spasm passed over his features. The old man took both his hands, sa\ ing, with deep feeling, “ illiam, my son—in heart, at least— you are worthier than I.” • Years passed on, and Marion’s flight and marriage were forgotten. One visit only | j she had paid to her old home and her; ■ father; it was a few mouths after her mar- ' riage, just before she went abroad with her ■ husband, who had obtained an appointment ■ in one ot the Territories. Marion, tearful , and contrite, received her father's blessing : | ■ but she came alone, and spoke but little of ■ her husband. She did not see or ask for William Blair. From that time her letters I; came occasionally, until Mr. Hilliard died, and then no more w'as heard of Marion or ' Oliver. » Now, we know well that, according to i the general rule in stories like this, the : wronged and forsaken lover ought never to forget his early attachment, but to live and , die devoted to its sad memory. Yet in > real life it is not so. The bitterest heart i sorrow, if hopeless, is not beyond the influ i ence of time’s healing hand ; and a loss i which death or any other cause has made < irremediable, is, after a lapse of a few years, forgotten, or at least, remembered without . pain. It is uncertainty, and the mingling > of still-lingering hope in the bitter cup, which make it so hard to be borne, and which keep the wound from healing. Thus, when Marion’s union with Oliver had forever parted her from himself, Wil liam’s heart grew in time less full of anguish. To the utter hopelessness of his love, was added the conviction of the unworthi ness of the object, and this feeling contrib uted to restore his peace. A virtuous heart cannot long feel love when esteem has fled. And yet, though his grief was healed, Wil liam did not entirely forget Marion. He thought of her with sorrow and pity—but she was his idol no longer. After many years, when he had reached middle age, William Blair married. The wife he chose was most unlike Marion.— She was not beautiful, scarcely even pretty; but her fine mind and gentle spirit invested even an unworthy exterior with their own purity and loveliness. There was little ro mance in the attachment between William Blair and his wife—all that had passed away with the bloom of their youth : for she, too, had loved before, and vainly ; still, there was a strong, calm, trusting affec tion between the husband and wife, which made their present life happy, and caused them to look forward to a peaceful, loving old age. Two children enlivened their home, and bound them still more together, until they looked on their first love as a morning cloud. “ 1 have had a visitor to-day—a st ranger,” said Mrs. Blair, when her husband returned one winter evening to his cheerful home, and they were sitting together in that, pleasant hour between dinner and tea, when; idleness and confidential talk seem to come naturally. “ Indeed,” said William, putting his feet on the fender, an act which brought no, frown to his wife’s brow. “ Indeed—was it ! a lady or gentleman I ” “ A gentleman—but one very young—al beautiful boy about ten years old; he w ould ! not go aw’ay without seeing you—and so I went down and spoke to him. He said his { name was Henry Chadwick, and his mother I wanted to see a Mr. Blair who lived here. I 1 thought it strange ; but, then I remember-, ed your mother’s maiden name was Chad-1 wick, so it might be some relation ; and the boy seemed so resolute, that, I asked where his mother lived, and promised that you should go.” While Mrs. Blair explained this, the flick ering fire had sunk into red embers, or she would have seen how William’s counte nance changed as she spoke. But even had] she read his thoughts, there was nothing! thereto give a single pain to the wife’s] heart. “ I think it must be a relative, Emma,” said he. “ I had a cousin abroad, whom J had lost sight of for many years. I will go and see.” “Go, William ; the place is not far, and you may be of use to them. The boy was thinly clad, poor fellow ; and when I gave him some cake, he ate it as if he were very hungry, so I made him carry it home.” “ You are always good, my dear Emma,” said William, taking his wife’s hand affec tionately. The same night, cold and snowy as it was, William Blair set forth on his errand, for his heart told him that the boy’s mother I was no other than Marion. He knocked] at the door of the room to w hich he was ] directed, but there was no answer, and he] walked in. It was a desolate apartment; the snow flakes, piled up on the sill of the 1 curtainless window’, made more visible the I blackness within, for the fire had gone out, and the one candle was flickering with its] long wick untouched. On a bed in one corner lay a woman asleep, and at her feet l a boy, also in deep slumber. They had j drawn about them the few garments they I had, poor souls! striving to forget their ’ coldness and weariness in sleep. i William Blair stepped lightly forward, I and once inors looked upon the face of his I Marion. Changed, mournfully changed it i was —but it was still Marion. The close l widow’s cap, which made her sharpened I features look still more hollow, told her tale. Oliver was no more, and if there had |i i been any resentment in William’s heart, it | < j would not have been cherished against the dead. Marion’s thin hand lay among her boy’s bright curls, who looked in his quiet, ] child like sleep so like what his mother I once was, that William could have wept i over him. But Marion herself—the bright, I ! red spot on her cheek, and her painful, au- Idible breathing as she slept, told that ill would not be long before the child was ; motherless. After a while the boy moved,; 1 and spoke indistinctly ; William retired 8; TERMS — Three Dollars a-year. step lest he should startle him. Henry awoke and saw the stranger. “Are you the gentleman whom I asked to come and see my mother?” cried the boy at once. Mr. Blair put his finger on his lips to si lence the child, but Marion was already half aroused. “ Who are you talking to, Henry ?” she said, feebly. “To Mr. Blair, mother, the gentleman you said I must go to if you were very ill; and I went this morning, only you did not know it.” “Is he here, is William Blair here ? ” almost shrieked Ma: ion, raising herself on her elbow. William advanced, took her hand without a word. And thus met the two who had once so fondly loved each other—the same face was before their eyes—the same voice fell on their ears—but the life of love was gone—for ever. Marion looked long and fixedly at her former lover, and then burst into tears. “Have you forgiven me?” she said.— “ How kind of you to come to me ! ” “ lou have a right to my kindness,” an swered William, in a gentle and soothing tone. “ You are my cousin—why did not Mrs. Chadwick send for me before ? ” “Oh ! do not call me so—call me Ma rion—let me forget every thing but old times. And my father—my poor father —to see you makes me think of him!” cried the sick woman, in passionate grief. William calmed her with kind words, and her boy clung around her neck caress ingly, until Marion’s excitement passed away, and she was able to talk of the past and present. She spoke of her husband’s death without tears; letting fall no re proach or complaint. Yet William needed no explanation to guess that Oliver’s death was a blessing. And now she had come home, feeling chat the mortal arrow was fixed in her own heart, to leave her boy with those who knew his mother. She had learned William Blair’s after-history, and guessing from the letter he wrote to her on her father’s death that he felt no anger against her, had told her child to go to him I as their only friend. i William talked of removing her to a place where she would be more carefully attended to. “ No,” said Marion, and a flush of linger j ing pride came across her brow. “J am not so poor as that-—] have enough to last [my poor remnant of life; but promise me ! to take care of my Henry.” “I will,” said William, earnestly. “And now 1 must think of you. Emma—that is my wife—shall come to see you to-morrow.’ Marion shrunk from this proposal.—“ But what will she think of me ? —does she know “She knows nothing—shall know noth I ing—except that you are my cousin. And now. farewell; forget the past, except that I was once your friend—your father’s friend, Marion.” And William kissed, with broth erly regard, the hand that was held out to him, spoke affectionately to the child, and went away to his own house. He kept his promise; and it was not ] until years after, when Marion’s beauty was long mingled with the dust, that Wil ■liam Blair told his gentle wife of the ties which had once bound her to him. And Mrs. Blair’s sweet and compassionate na ture regretted not fora moment, but re joiced, that her cares had soothed the dying moments of the woman, her husband once loved. And when she saw how tenderly and fatherly he reared up to manhood the son of Oliver and Marion, making no dif ference between Henry Chadwick and his own children, the wife felt not one jealous pang, but rather loved and revered the more the noble nature which had been wronged so sorely, and which had forgotten and for given so much. Unknown llcrocK, The Richmond correspondent of the Charleston Mercury, writes as follows con cerning the unknown heroes of the present war: “ Bishop Elliott’s proposed monument to the ‘ Unknown and Unrecorded Dead,’ sug gests the Unknown Heroes, which seldom fail to come up in conversation about the war. I have lately heard of three such he roes. At Cedar Run, a Colonel was seen leading his regiment in action, supported by the arms of two of his men. Wounded in the breast, and bleeding, he refused to go to the rear. Gen. Jackson made many es forts to find out the name of this Colonel, but failed. He tried also, but in vain, to ascertain the name of a color-bearer, who during the same battle, when his regiment was retreating, stood alone upon a little hill, flaunting his flag at the enemy, until the men of his regiment, for very shame, rallied around h'm and held the ground.— A third hero is a cavalry-man, said to be from Texas, who, unable to walk a step, carried a pair of crutches on horseback, and : with them continued to perform all the ar duous service required of him. His name i could not learn. At Manassas, I saw a Jcavalryman with a wooden leg.” NO. 9.