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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.