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Tllli BAPTIST BANNI-B.
BY JAS. N. ELLS & CO.
VOL. IV.
Sto gajrtfet gansiw,
devoted to religion and literature,
]s published every Saturday, at Atlanta, Georgia, at the
subscription price of three dollars per year.
JAMES N. ELLS & CO.,
Proprietors.
Jas. N. EUs. S. D. Niles. A. K. Seago.
'"is this a time to dance?
The breath of evening sweeps the plain,
And sheds its perfume in the dell, 1
But on its wings are sounds of pain, J
Sad tones that drown’d the echo’s swell; (
And yet we hear a mirthful call, .
Fair pleasure smiles with beaming glance,
Gay music sounds in the joyous hall;
Oh, God 1 is this a time to dance?
(
Sad notes, as if a spirit sighed,
Float from the crimson battle -plain,
As if a mighty spirit cried
In awful agony and pain.
Our friends we know there suffering lay,
Our brother, too, perchance,
And in reproachful accents say,
“ Loved one, is this a time to dance ? ”
Oh ! lift your festal robes on high !
The human gore that flows around
Will stain their hues with crimson die;
And louder let your music sound
To drown the dying warrior’s cry !
Let sparkling wine your joy enhance,
Forget that blood has tinged its dye,
And quicker urge the maniac’s dance.
But stop 1 the floor beneath your feet
Gives back a coffin's hollow moan,
And every strain of music sweet
Wafts forth a dying soldier's groan..
Oh, sisters! who have brothers dear
Exposed to every battle’s chance.
Brings dark Remorse no forms of fear
To fright you from the heartless dance ?
Go fling your festal robes away!
Go don the mourner’s sable veil!
Go bow before your God and pray !
If yet y<>ur prayers may aught avail.
Go face the fearful form of death 1
And trembling meet his chilling glance,
And then, for once, with truthful breath,
Answer, Z.t this a time to dance?
Tlie Broken. Flower-Pot.
MY father was seated on the lawn before
the house, his straw hat over his eyes
■ —it was summer, —and his book on his
lap. Suddenly a beautiful blue and white,
flower-pot, which had been set on the win
dow-sill of an upper story, fell to the ground
with a crash, and the fragments spluttered
up around his legs.
“ Dear, dear ! ” cried my mother, who
was at work in the porch, “ my poor flow
er-pot that I prized so much ! Who could
have done this? Primmins, Primmins!”
Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of
the fatal window, nodded to the summons,
and came down in a trice, pale and breath
less.
“ Oh ! ” cried my mother mournfully, “ I
would rather have lost all the plants in the
green house—l would rather the best tea
set were broken ! The poor geranium 1
roared myself! Then the dear, dear flow
er-pot Mr. Caxton bought for me my last'
birth day ! That naughty child must have
done this ! ”
Mrs. Primmins cried promptly, “No,
madam, it was not the dear boy, ble*s his
heart; it was I.”
“ You ’ How could you be so careless ?
And you know how I prized them both.—
<>h, Primmins!’’
“ Do not tell tibs, nurse," said a small j
voice, and Master Sisty, coming out of the
house as bold as brass, continued rapidly,
“ Do not scold Primmins, mamma; it was
I that pushed out the flower-pot.’’
“Hush!” said nurse, more frightened
than ever, and looking aghast towards my
father, who had very deliberately taken off
his hat, and was regarding the scene with;
serious eyes. “ flush ! And if he did break
it, madam, it was quite an accident; he was i
standing so, and he never meant it. Did
you, Master Sisty ? Speak ! (this in a
whisper) or pa-will be so angry.”
“Well,” said my mother, “1 suppose it,
was an accident; take care in future, my
child. You are in sorrow, 1 see, to have
grieved me. There is a kiss; do not fret."
“ No, mamma, you must not kiss me; L
do not deserve it. 1 pushed the flower-pot
ont on purpose.”
“ Ha! and why ?” said my father, walk ■
ing up. Mrs. Primmins trembled like a
leaf.
For fan ! ” said 1, hanging my head,!
“just to see bow you would look, papa ;,
and that is the truth. Now punish me; II
deserve iu"
My father threw his book fifty yards off ■
a, s&smwsous ahb usrrar; aaw, sjpa, s*
stooped do vn, and caught me to his breast.
“Boy,” he said, “you have done wrong;
you shall repair it by remembering all your
life that your father blessed God for having
given him a son who spoke the truth in spite
of fear. Oh ! Mrs. Primmins, the next fa
ble of the kind you try to teach him, we
shall part forevei ! ”
Not long after this event I received a
present far exceeding in value those usual
ly bestowed on children. It waT.a beauti
ful, large domino box, in cut ivory, painted
and gilt. This domino box was my delight.
I was never weary of playing at dominoes
with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with it un
der my pillow.
“Ah!” said my father to me one day,
when he found me ranging the ivory squares
in the parlor, “ ah ! and you like that better
than all your play-things, eh ? ”
“ Oh, yes, papa.”
“ And you would be sorry if your moth
er should throw your box out of the win
dow and break it, for fun?” I looked be
seechingly at my father, and made no an
swer.
“ But perhaps you would be very glad,”
he resumed, “ if suddenly one of those good
fairies you read of could change the domino
box into a beautiful geranium in a blue and
white flower-pot, and that you could have
the pleasure of putting it on your mother’s
window-sill.”
“ Indeed I should,” said I, half crying.
“ My dear boy, 1 believe you ; but good
wishes do notjnend bad actions; good ac
tions mend bad actions.” So saying, he
shut the door and went away. I can not
tell you how puzzled I was to make out
what my father meant by his aphorism.—
But I know 1 played no more dominoes
that day.
The next morning my father found me
seated under a tree in the garden ; he paus
ed, and looked at me very steadily with his
grave, bright eyes.
“My boy,” said he, “ I am going to walk
to town —will you come? By-the-by, fetch
your domino box ; 1 should like to show it
to a person there.” 1 ran in for the box,
and not a little proud of walking with my
father on the high road, 1 set out with him.
“ Papa,” said I, by the way, “ there are
no fairies now.”
“ What then, my child?”
“Why, how then can my domino box be
changed into a geranium in a blue and white
flower-pot ? ”
“Mv dear,” said my father, leaning his
hand on my shoulder, “everybody who is
in earnest to be good, carries two fairies
about with him—one here,” and he touched
my forehead, “ and one here,” and he touch
ed my heart.
“ I do not understand, papa."
“ I can wait till you do, Sisty.”
Mv father stopped at a nursery garden,
and, after looking over the flowers, paused
before a large double geranium. “Ah,
this is finer than the one your mamma was
so fluid of. What is the cost, sir ?”
“Only seven shillings and sixpence,”
said the gardener.
My father buttoned up his pocket. “ I
can not afford it. to-day,” said he gently,
and we walked out.
On entering the town, we stopped again
at a china warehouse. “ Have you a flow
er pot like that I bought some months ago ?
Ah, here is one marked three shillings and
sixpence. Yes, that is the price. Well,
when your mother’s birth day comes again,
we must buy her another. This is some
months to wait. And we can wait, Sisty.
■ For truth, that blooms all the year round.
! is better than a poor geranium ; and a word
1 that never is broken is better than a piece
| of delf.”
“ I have called to pay your little bill."
said my father, entering the shop of one of
■ those fancy stationers e< in mon in country
I towns, who sell all kinds of nicknacks.
j “ And by the way, he added, as the smi-
I ling shopman looked over the books tor the
I entry, “I think my little boy here can show
■you a much handsomer specimen of French
workmanship than that work box which
you enticed Mrs. Caxton infilling for last
winter. Show your domino box, my dear.’
I produced my treasure, and the shopman
’ was liberal in his commendations. “It is
always well, my boy, to know what a thing
i is worth in case one wishes to part with it.
If my young gentleman gets tired of his
i play thing, what will you give him for it?”
ATLANTA, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MARCH 14, 1863.
HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE.
“ Why, sir,” said the shopman, “ I fear
we could not afford to give more than eigh
teen shillings for it,.unless the young gen
tleman took some of those pretty things in
exchange.”
“ Eighteen shillings ! ” said my father;
“you would give that? Well, my boy,
whenever you do grow tired of your box,
you have my leave to sell it.”
My father paid his bill and went out. 1
lingered behind a few moments, and then
joined him at the end of a street.
“Papa, papa!” I cried, clapping my
hands, “ we can buy the geranium—we can
buy the flower-pot.” And I pulled out a
handful of silver from my pockets.
“Did I not say right?” said my father,
passing his handkerchief over his eyes;
“you have found the two fairies! ”
Oh! how proud, how overjoyed was I
when, after placing vase and flower on the
window-sill, I plucked my mother by the
gown, and made her follow me to the spot.
“It is his doing, and his money!” said
niy father; “good actions have mended the
bad.”
What! cried my mother, when she
had learned all; “and your poor domino
box that you were so fond of! We will <*o
o
to-morrow ‘<nd buy it back, if it costs us
double.”
“Shall we buy it back, Sisty?” asked
my father.
“Oh, no—no—no! It would spoil all,”
I cried, burying my face on my father’s
breast.
“My wife,” said my father, solemnly,
“this is my first lesson to our child—the
sanctity and the happiness of self-sacrifice;
undo not what it should teach to his dying
day !” And this is the history of the bro-1
ken flower pot.
[For Baptist Banner.]
A CONVERSATION
ABOUT
DAXCITSTG-.
[concluded. ]
“ I had no idea, brother Arthur,” said
Mrs. Sinclair, “ that my thoughtlessness
could lead to such serious results.”
“ It was more than thoughtlessness, sister
—it was wickedness. You know I love you
sister, and 1 am sure you love me and will
not be angry if 1 tell you the truth.”
“No, brother Arthur,” said she, as she
looked up into his honest old face through
her tears. “ You have been like a father to
me, and 1 thank you not only for the kind
ness of past years, but for your present
cure. Tell me all you think of my wicked
ness, or whatever you choose to call it; I
want to see the worst, though it already
seems dreadful.”
“ I can’t tell you the worst, my precious
sister. The worst, can not be known till
1 the revelations of Eternity have brought to
light how many others you have led to re-
1 ject Christ for the pleasures of the world,
and what it is to sin against the Lord by
■ causing His children to sin. Did you ever;
notice what the Saviour said ’ —lf you have
caused one of the feeble ones who believe i
I in Him to stumble and fall into sin, it were
’ better for vou to have had a millstone tied
about your neck and you cast thus into the
depths of the sea. Pau! says, ]f r hen you ■
: sin th us against the brethren and wound their
I weak conscience, you sin against Christ."
i Airs. Sinclair covered her face and wept,
' but the old man went on :
i “ You did it ignorantly, my sister, but it
was not less truly sin. You kneeled down |
and prayed ‘ Lead us not into temptation? ;
yet you determined to pay your money to
, the Godless dancinu master to prepare Bet
tie more easily to fall before the temptation
you expected to lay before her as soon as
she should be old enough to feel its power.
! \ou prayed ‘ Thy kingdom, Come,' and vet
| you have lent the. influence of your exam
ple, and encouraged Thomas in lending his,
to build up the kingdom of the Devil as
' represented in the pleasures of the world.
You prayed ‘ Thy will be done on earth as
1 is in heaven? and you read that it is His
1 will that you should deny yourself, take up
’ vour cross and follow Christ, and whether
vou eat or drink, or whatsoever you do, do
i all to the glory of God—and yet you have
C not thought o/ His will in regard to these
I amusements, but only of your own pleasure.
. i You have read ‘Be not conformed to this
s world.’ ‘ If any man love the world the
’' love of the Father is not in him,’ ‘lf one
j live to pleasure, she is dead while she liveth,’
—yet you were so bent on this worldly
pleasure, so afraid of being called ‘ right
eous overmuch,’ not by Christians, but by
dispeople of the world, that you have al
ready brought sorrow on your son and re
proach on the church.”
“ Oh, Arthur ! Arthur! Don’t say any
more; 1 am broken-hearted now !”
“ Well, you know where to take a broken
heart to have it made whole again. Go to
Jesus with it, sister. lie loves a broken
and a contrite heart. You have been proud
of your children ; you wished to show them
off before the world as models of beauty and
grace. Jesus loves better that you train
them so that HE CAN SHOW THEM
OFF, in the presence of the assembled uni
verse, as models of humble piety and trust
in Him.”
“ Yes, brother ; and, God helping me, I
mean to do it.”
“ God will help you, my sister. He is
more concerned for their salvation than you
can possibly be. And when I have men
tioned one more fact, I will go and hunt up
Thomas—unless you think it best to talk
with him yourself.”
“ That would probably be best. But
what is your other fact?”
“It is this : You have been accustomed
to think Dancing an innocent amusement,
and to teach others to regard it as such—”
“ I will never do it again. lam sure it
is a grievous sin ; Iftit even if J thought it
innocent, I could never commend it again
in view of what you have made me see to,
day.”
“ Well, I needn’t say anything more then,
I suppose. But 1 was going to call your at
i tention to a remarkable circumstance—and
| that is, that Christians never want to dance
lor encourage their children to dance in the
time of a revival of religion. When the
i me of God is strong in their heart, they have
no relish for worldly pleasures. And then
when a sinner is convicted of sin and begins
to seek salvation, he shuns the ball-room,
he shuns the dance; and if perchance he be
tempted and stray into such amusements,
he at once loses his anxiety or falls into
deeper distress, and it may be into despair.
This shows that the Spirit of God does not
consort with these scenes of revelry—the
Spirit of God is not the spirit of the dance ;
and the young convert who has, like Thom
as, been over-persuaded to participate in a
dance, loses the brightness of his.hope, if
not his hope itself. Thomas, if he be in
deed a true child of God, has had little
• peace since the ‘party,’ and will have little
till he repents and goes again to Jesus for
pardon. If he continues to have the same
enjoyment of religion as before, it is pretty
good evidence that the work in his heart
was not the genuine work of the Holy
Spirit, but that he has deceived himself
with a name to live while he is yet dead in
trespasses and sins.” A. C. D.
Evil Company.—According to the state
ment of a Greek historian, the domestics
and familiar friends of the ancient Ethiopi
an monarchs paid a most costly price for
the pleasure of intimate relations with roy
alty. “If the King by any cause or acci
dent was maimed in his limbs, they weak
ened themselves in those members; think
ling it uncomely for them to walk upright
while their king halted, or to possess per
fect vision, while he had but one. eye.”
Now, those who addict themselves to evil I
jcompany, pay for it a price more costly!
still. They do not mar their bodies after;
the pattern of a body marred; but. a mar-'
red soul becomes the pattern after which |
l they mar their souls.
Voluntary participation in the weakness
es and deformities of the outward man were
a slight matter compared with this volun
tary participation in the weaknesses and
deformities of the inner man —for the grave;
hides and ends the one: the other never
ends, but endures hidden throughout eter-1
nity. Oh, it were a thousand times better:
to have physical than spiritual maiming j
and blinding, as the condition of friendship. (
You may deride the folly of the compan- j
ions of the old Ethiopian kings, but they
were incomparably w iser than you, who, for
the. sake of association with wicked men, I
expose yourselves to the constant, the al
most inevitable risk of copying their irre-•
ligion and the vices that grow under its)
shadow —their wordliness, pride, frivolity,
ambition, idleness, profanity, covetousness,
duplicity, intemperance and lust.
If you wish to learn all your defects,
quarrel with your best friend, and you will
be surprised to find what a villain you are,
Jeven in the estimation of a friend.
The Baby is Dead.
A long, black scarf, trimmed with broad
white ribbon, hangs upon the door-knob.—
A death-like stillness pervades the entire
mansion ; all within moving with the soft
est tread, and speaking in softest whispers,
as if fearful of disturbing the repose of some
loved one. Those passing along the street
observe the sombre scarf,'and the instant
change in the countenance betrays the
thought, “the baby is dead!” Yes, the '
baby is dead, and not only those who have
been familiar with its sparkling eyes, but
the stranger, who receives the intelligence
solely from the scarf on the door, feels that
a home has been robbed of a precious idol.
How deep was the love.that had clustered
around the innocent babe; and oh! how
terrible is the blow its death inflicts!
The baby is dead ! It no longer clings
in innocent love to its mother’s bosom, or 1
stirs with fondest joy its father’s heart. Its
prattling has ceased forever, and its once ’
laughing eyes are closed in an eternal sleep. '
But even in death it seems to have lost none '
of its sweetness. It lies so calmly in its
silken-cushioned coffin, prepared with so !
much care; it has been arrayed in its cost- 1
best garments, its pure brow trimmed with !
a fragrant wreath, and flowers have been '
scattered over its lovely form. As it is '
thus arrayed, the babe seems olily to be
sleeping; but alas! it is that sleeping (
which knows no waking.
The baby is dead ! Around it are gath- 1
ered many whose sympathies it has aroused, (
and whose love it has excited. The minis- (
ter leans over the cold form, and, touched (
with the sight, tears trickle down his cheeks, (
while he exclaims, “Thussaith the Lord,
‘ Suffer little children to come unto me, and (
forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom
of heaven.’ ”
The baby is dead ! It is about to be
shut forever from the sight of those who
love it as no others could. O ! how the
mother clings to the lifeless form; and as ‘
she imprints the last fervent kiss upon its (
cold cheek, how her very heart strings
seem to break. And the father, though he ;
has manfully braved and dan
gers, now feels unmanned, and weeps like ,
a child, as he bends over the corpse of his
lost one. Sympathy, at other times conso
ling, is now of no avail, and the heart of
both suffer the deepest anguish.
The baby is dead ! Tears have wet its
grave, and crushed hopes lie buried with it.
Though its mortal existence may have been
brief, its death has desolated a joyous home.
Sweet babe ! Orators may announce a na- ‘
lion’s loss in the death of patriots great
and true, and poets sing in touching strains
the memory of the dead, who have accom
plished mighty things—none but angels of
heavenly birth will record the life, so pure
and beautiful, so early lost.
Prayer when Meeting Others. —Fa-
naticism often gropes its way to truths, and
holds them, so to speak, under cover of
night, when the eye struggles to trace their
form, but can not fix the line that parts dis
tortion from vision. This was the case
with the Roman Catholic order of monks,
who, dwelling in separate apartments, met
together only at the hour of prayer. Here
was a great truth, partly seen, partly dis
torted. We must needs meet our fellow
men, indeed, at other than seasorts of devo
tion ; and it was an error of no little mag
nitude not to recognize this. But, then,
there was the recognition of a principle
which can not be overlooked without equal
error ; the. principle, namely, that prayer —
ejaculatory prayer, at least—should always
mark our entrance into the society of oth
ers. Perhaps, when we pass into eternity,
it shall be found that the moments most
decisive of our state there, have been mo
ments of social, not of solitary life—mo
ments pregnant with undying results thro’
the mutual action and re-action of character)
—moments when we were moulded, it may!
be unawares, to the likeness of those around
us. Is not that meetly an hour of prayer,
j therefore, when we come within the sphere
and spell of this influence ? Should not the |
heart always rise to heaven with the sup
plication that we may neither give nor re-1
ceive, consciously or unconsciously, the
i slightest taint of evil; that we may lose,)
whether of purpose or through heedless-j
ness, no opportunity to impart or to accept
an impulse toward good 1 Oh, who shall!
assure us that the want of such prayerful-)
i ness, hut once, may not baa fountain of I
life long sorrow—of sorrow stretching on
ward through immortal being?
Manliness. —A man may have true
1 Christian manliness, and yet desire to serve
I himself; but no man who has true Chris
• tian manliness would ever serve himself
in such away as to infringe upon the rights,
or interfere with the interests of another.
True Christian manliness leads a man to de
sire to serve others as well as himself. A
man that in everything he does is open,
simple, direct, straightforward, truthful, so
that there is concordance between his in
ward thought and motive and his outward
life, is manly. Do you not know many
'such men? I do. As the forest is richer
for having oak trees in it, so the w’orld is
i' richer for having true men in it. They
1 walk through society as mighty steamers
TERMS— Three Dollars a-ye ar.
plough through the water, causing all the
cock-boats near them to dance nimbly on
the waves. Though they are sometimes
selfish, and though they sometimes abuse
their strength, their purposes are known to
be good, and men say of them, “They are
manly fellows, and there is honor and truth
in them.”
Affliction.—The valley has more of
cloud, and rain, and storm, than the moun
tain summit. But the harvest that feeds
the world—does it not wave there? So •
“the fruits of the Spirit” grow and ripen
most in the valley of humiliation. Earth
ly woe may “ guide the progress of the soul
to God.”
It is represented as the “liberal” prom
ise of an earthly king, that he would con
vert each tear ,of his brethren, as they wept
for their father, into an hour of happiness.
But Heaven pledges to its afflicted follow
ers an age— a long, immeasurable age— of
more than kingly, of celestial happiness, for
each tear of patient, unmurmuring sorrow.
• To a Joseph in affliction, how often are
given a Manasseh and an Ephraim ? That
is to say—how often is the grief stricken
son of Israel made to forget the bitterness
of his lot, and rendered fruitful in the land
of his tribulation ?
The Certain Victory.—When the na
tions of old engaged in war, inquiry was
made as to its issue; among the heathen,
through superstitious ceremonies and Sa
tanic oracles; among the Israelites, before
the prophets of the Lord. They felt that
doubt and perplexity hpng over, the ques
tion, and would fain clearjt away. :
But no doubt or perplexity exists with
regard to the issue of our spiritual warfare.
Here the end is known from the beginning.
Her#applies the eloquent fact that, in the
Hebrew language, “ the words whose first
meaning is injustice, or wickedness, mean
also defeat, or overthrow, and the words
which originally signify justice, innocence,
uprightness, likewise signify victory.” The
righteous must overcome. The just cause
is infallible prophecy of triumph. “Who
in the strength of Jesus trusts,” and strives,
“ is more than conqueror.”
The Scriptures instruct us to say, “With
us is the Lord our God, to help us and to
fight our battles.” llow can we fail when
He fights for us?
Nay, the Scriptures represent the battles
we light as “ the Lord’s battles.” How
can we fall when He is on our side fighting
for Himself?
No Middle Course.—Often do we hear
remiss professors strive to choke all for
ward holiness by commending the golden
mean. A cunning discouragement—the
devil's sophistry ! The mean of virtue is
between two degrees. It is a mean grace
that loves a mein degree of grace; yet this
is the staff with which the world beats all
that would be better than themselves.—
What! will you be singular—walk alone?
But were not the Apostles singular in their
walking, a spectacle to the world? Did
not Christ call for this singularity ? What
do ye more than others? Ye that are
God’s peculiar people, will ye do peculiar
things? Yc that are separate from the
world, will ye keep the world’s road?—
Must the name of a Puritan dishearten us
in the service of God ? St. Paul said, in
his apology, “ By that which they call her
esy, so worship I the God of iny fathers;”
and by that which profane ones call Puri
tanism, which is indeed zealous devotion,
so let my heart desire to serve Jesus Christ.
Words of Consolation to the Be
reaved. —Dr. J udson once wrote to a friend
in the hour of trial thus: “So the light
of your dwelling has gone out, my poor
brother, and it is all darkness there, only
as you draw down by faith some faint
gleams of the light of heaven. And cold
ness has gathered around your hearthstone,
your home is probably desolate, your chil
dren scattered, and you a homeless wan
derer over the face of the land. We have
both tasted of those bitter cups once and
again we found them bitter, and we have
found them sweet too. Every cup stirred
by the finger of find becomes sweet to the
humblebeliever. Do you remember how we
sat round the well curb in the mission premi
ses, at the close of day ? I can almost see
them sitting there, with smiling faces as I
look out of the window at which I am now
'writing. Where are ours now ? Clustering
around the well curb of the fountain of liv
ing water, to which the Lamb of Heaven
shows them the way, reposing in the arms
of infinite Love, who wipes away all their
tears with His own hand. Let us travel on
and look up. We shall soon be there. As
sure as I write and you read these lines we
shall soon be there. Many a weary step
we may yet have to take, but we shall get
there at last. And the longer and more te
dious the way, the sweeter will be our
repose.”
Our glass runs in heaven, and we can
not see how <nu?h or how little of the sand
I of God’s patience is yet to run down ; but
• this is certain—when that ,s run j
i there is nothing to be done for our souls.
, Terms of The Banner, $3 a year.
NO. 17.
