Newspaper Page Text
Till. BAPTIST BANN
BY JAS. N. ELLS & CO.
VOL. IV.
W gaanw,
devoted to religion and literature,
le published every Saturday, at Atlanta, Georgia, at the
subscription price of tour dollars per year.
JAMES N. ELLS A CO.,
’ Proprietors,
JUST YEARS AGO.
Do you remember, Tom, the place
VA h-re oft we used to roam ?
That little cot beneath the trees
We called our forest home?
Oh, yes! I know you’ll ne’er forget,
Wherever you may go,
That cherished spot, in which we dwelt
Just fifteen years ago.
Do you remember how the hours
All gailv wandered by Y
How, hand in hand, we often roamed
When stars were in the sky ?
Oh, tho e were bright and joyous days
We ne’er again shall know,
Such joy and bliss as that we fell
Just fifteen years ago.
Last summer time I wandered, Tom,
To where we used to play,
The school-house was not on the hill,
1 he brook had dried away ;
The woodman's axe had felled the trees,
Tne cottage was laid low;
The face* were not those we knew
Just fifteen years ago.
I wandered to the old church-yard.
And stepped beyond the wall;
The graves were many, and the grass
O’er them was thick and tall;
Upon the stone* I read the names
Os those who slept below,
And they were names we loved to hear
Just fifteen years ago.
I mused awhile, then turned away,
And gained the dusty road,
And from that spot, so deiw to me,
With rapid step I strode;
I could n >t bear to look around,
It made me sad to know
That all were gone whom we had loved
Just fifteen j ears ago.
My eyes are wet with tears, Tom,
They’re falling while I write—
Forms that I loved are in the tomb,
And I am sad to-night:
But. Tom, our sorrows soon will end,
Life’s stream will eea«e to flow,
And we shall rest where oft we played
Just fifteen years ago.
“POLITENESS PAYS.”
AN EVERYDAY SKETCH.
i MONG the acquaintances of my youth
/x there was one Peter Cox; and I am
sorry to say that, from what little stock of
patience he may have possessed, he invested
none of it in Politeness. At all events, he
did not do it when he entered business.—
Peter was a builder by trade, and one of
the most thorough and faithful workmen in
the country. If he undertook a contract,
he was sure to perform his part punctually
and properly. Still he was not always
employed, for many, who might otherwise
have hired him, were repulsed by his un
couth manner of treating them, and sought
assistance elsewhere.
“ Peter,” said his wife to him one even
ing, “do you know that you have lost a good
job just by offending Mr. Graham'?”
Peter looked up from his paper, and
usked her what she meant.
“1 mean,”she replied, “that Mr. Graham
has hired Leavitt to build his new house.
“ Well, what of it ? ” said Peter, rather
crustily.
“Why, I am very sure that he meant to
have hired you to do the job, and that he
would have done so had you not offended
him.”
“How did I offend him?”
“ By not listening to him when he wished
to describe his plan for the building.”
“ His plan was a foolish one.”
“ Well, suppose it was ; if you had felt
it to be your business to tell him so, you
might have done it in a polite way.”
“ Bah ’.” cried Peter, with a snap of his
finger, “ don’t talk of politeness in business.
If I were to bother myself to be polite to
everybody who happened to call upon me,
I should have my hands full.”
“ I think it would pay,” ventured the
wife.
Peter pooh'd at the idea, and then told
his wife that he wanted to read.
About a month after this, Peter came
home in unusual spirits. He had been out
of work for some time, and had been rather
moody and crusty. His wife noticed the
change and asked him what had happened.
“ There’s a prospect of work,” he replied.
“We are to have better times in town.
Sumner Wilkins,of Byfield, has bought the
whole of the water-power on our stream,
and is going to erect a factory here. 1
think I’ll get the job. They say that Wil
kins had rather have some one here to do
it, and my friends will recommend me."
Mrs. Cox was highly delighted, for she
knew that such a job must pay well; and
she hoped that her husband might not be
disappointed.
A few days afterwards an order came
for some window blinds ; and one afternoon
while he was busy at his bench, a mao
came and watched him at his work for some
few seconds without speaking. He was a
middle aged man, rather coarsely clad ; and
Peter supposed it must be some one who
wanted work.
“ How d’ye do ? ” said the stranger, as
Peter laid aside the slat which he bad just
finished.
“ How ’rye? ” returned Peter, iu a sort
of uncouth grunt.
« That looks like good lumber you are
yoking there,” remarked the visitor.
A RRmiOUS AO S'A.MIK.X' WWAiW.
“ It’s good enough,” was the response.
“ What is such lumber worth here ? ”
“ 1 don’t know.” And as Peter thus an
» swered, he took another slat and began to
plane it.
“ I suppose you buy some lumber, sir,”
said the stranger.
“ I do when I want it,” returned Peter,
without looking up from his work.
. “Is there any in town to be sold ? ”
“They’ll tell you at the mill. I don’t
saw lumber myself.”
“ But you know the value of it,” remark
ed the stranger, with a slight touch of feel
ing in his tone.
“ Who told you ? ”
“ I supposed, as you were in the habit of
using considerable lumber of various kinds,
that you Would be proper to ask.”
“ Well, sir,” said our grouty builder, in
his uncouth and ungentlemanly way, “it
so happens that I have something else to
attend to besides keeping the price of lum
ber for everybody who may happen to
want a few boards.”
“Ah ! yes; I didn’t know you were so
busy,” returned the visitor, in the coolest
and most polite manner imaginable.—
“ Pardon me if I have interrupted you.”
And with this, he left the shop.
Peter Cox had done no more in this in
stance than he had done a great many times
before ; but yet he could not put it from
his mind so easily. Somehow it clung to
him, and even after an hour had passed he
found himself wishing that he had treated
his visitor with a little more decency. But
it was too late now.
Peter got his blinds all made, and then
waited for news from By field, as it was ex
pected Sumner Wilkins would soon make
arrangements to commence operations.—
He felt sure of the job, as his friends had
seen Wilkins, and recommended him very |
strongly. It would be as good as five dob!
! lars a day to him for several months.
One morning, as Peter came out on to
the street, he heard it remarked that Wil
kins had got his hands all engaged, and
would break ground very soon. It could
not be possible, thought our builder.—
Surely he would have had some notice of
such a move. Half an hour after that, he
was standing at the door of a grocery, when
a man drove up in a carriage and came into
the store. He bowed to one or two who
stood there, but gave Peter only a cold
look. It was the rnan who had called at
his shop two weeks before and inquired the
price of lumber. lie was dressed plainly
as ever, but he drove a splendid horse, and
the carriage was a costly one.
“ Who is that man ? ” Peter asked, after
the stranger had gone.
“ That! ” returned a by-stander, in evi
dent surprise. “ Don’t you know him ? ”
“ No. Who is it ? ”
“ Why, that is Mr. Wilkins.”
“ Sumner Wilkins, of Byfield?—the man
who is going to build the factory ? ”
“ Yeß ”
Peter Cox left the room with a sinking
heart, and by the time he reached his shop !
he was almost sick. What a full it was ! !
He went home to dinner, and ere long his
wile had learned the whole story. She
had already learned that the great job had
been given to another, and now why it had
been done.
“ Why didn’t he let me know who he
was when he came into my shop ? ” said
Peter in a petulant mood.
“ That isn’t the question,” suggested his
wife, speaking as considerately as possible.
“ It would be better,” Peter, if you would
ask why didn’t you treat him respectfully ?
It seems, from your own account, that he
asked a very simple and proper question—
such a question as any man ought to an
swer with pleasure. I tell you, husband,
politeness pays. If you could only over
come your habit of treating strangers so
uncouthly, you would be greatly the gainer
thereby.”
For some days Peter Cox was sore and
morose. He saw the work commenced on
the factory, and he feared that he should
have but little business for some time toj
come. He had at first been inclined to
think very hard of Sumner Wilkins; but
when he came to reflect more calmly, he
thought differently. He could not wonder
that the man had been repulsed by his
rudeness.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Peter was
in his shop, doing nothing but thinking,
when some one entered. He looked up,
and saw Mr. Wilkins.
“ How d’ye do ? ” said the capitalist.
“ How d’ye do ? ” returned the builder, i
“ You are not very busy, I take it,” said
Wilkins.
| A quick, rough answer was making its
j way to Peter’s lips ; but he did not speak
Ik’ j ** o r * c °Uected himself in season. He'
u taKen a *olemn obligatlbn upon himself
i t at he would nnt allow any more such
I Nsor< s to go out from his mouth upon his
) fellow men.
•r • replied, as soon as the old
i spirit had been quelled ; “I not verv
t ( busy just now. ’ / |
•' Perhaps you would like to work fori
t me.
“As you wish it.”
8 1
Jhelp, and should Id* to employ you. 11
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1863.
HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE.
meant to have employed you before ; and
perhaps you can imagine why I did not.—
- However,” he added, as he saw Peter’s
► countenance fall, “ there’s no need of re
ferring to that, only for the lesson it teach
’ es. 1 felt the cut of your rudeness very
deeply; and the more so because I could
not see wherein I had given any occasion
for it.”
“I was rude,” returned Peter, frankly ;
“and as you have intimated, I found a les
sonin the result; and I hope I may profit
“ That’s enough, sir. And so we’ll let
the past go.” Wilkins extended his hand
as he spoke, and Peter grasped it warmly.
“ And now,” the visitor continued, “ let’s
come to our business. The man whom I
had engaged to superintend the erection of
my mill, has so much other business that
he would like to be spared from this ; so if
you will take it, I will let him go.”
Os course Peter took it. And when the
mill was done, so well and faithfully had
he performed his work, that he had more
offers of valuable contracts than he could
possibly attend to.
But Peter Cox did not forget the prime
secret of this new success. He knew that
he was eminently qualified as an architect
and builder ; but this was not all. He also
knew that the last lesson he had learned was
the most valuable one—that the last in
vestment he had made was yielding him the
greatest interest. And, moreover, the in
come from the Politeness which he had
come to possess was not at all gross and
material. No, uu—one of its highest and
purest fruits was that which came to his
heart and which remained with him to
bless him, wherever he went.
+
A True and Touching Story.
A young man and his wife were prepar-'
ing to attend a Christmas party at the
house of a friend a few miles distant.
“ Henry, my dear husband, don’t drink
too much at the party today; you will
promise me, won’t you ?” said she, putting
her hand on his arm and raising her eyes ’
to his face with a pleading glance.
“No, Mollie, I will not —you may trust I
me.” And he wrapped his infant boy in a!
soft blanket, and they descended.
The horses were soon prancing over the
turf, and pleasant conversation beguiled the
way.
“ Now, don’t forget your promise,”
whimpered the wife as she passed up the
steps.
Poor thing I she was the wife of a man [
who loved to look upon the wine when red. |
But his love for his wife and their babe,
whom they both idolized, kept him back,
an J it was not often that he joined in Bach
i analian revelries.
; The party passed off pleasantly, the time:
of departing drew near, and the wife de
scended from the upper chamber to join'
her husband. A pang shot through’ the
trusting heart as she met him, for he was I
I intoxicated ’ he had broken his promise.
Silently they rode homeward, save when
the drunken man broke into vile snatches
of song or unmeaning laughter. But the
wife rode on, her babe pressed closely to
her grieved heart.
“ Give me the babe, Mollie—l can’t trust
you with him,” said he, as he approached a;
somewhat swollen stream. ;
After some hesitation ahu resigned her?
first born, her darling babe wrapped in the j
great blanket, to his arms. Over the dark I
waters the noble steed safely bore them, i
and when they reached the bank the moth
er asked for the child.
With much care and tenderness he placed
the bundle in her arms ; when she clasped
it to her bosom no babe was there ! It had
slipped from the blanket, and the drunken
father knew it not.
A wild shriek aroused him, as he turned I
just in time to see the little face rise one
moment above the dark waves, then sink
forever!
This is no fiction, but the plain truth.— i
: The parties were known by the friends of
the writer, and it should be a warning to
those who delight in intoxicating drinks
and resist the pleading of loving wives.
A Win’s Pbayik. —lf there is anything
that comes nearer the imploration of Nao
mi than the subjoined, then we have not (
seen it :
Lord! bless and preserve that dear per
son whom thou hast chosen to be my
husband; let bis life be long and blessed,
comfortable and holy ; and let me also be
come a great blessing and comfort unto
him; a sharer in all his sorrows; a meet
helper in all the accidents and changes in
' the world; make me amiable forever in
his eyes, and forever dear to him. Unite
his heart to me in the dearest love and ho
liness, and mine to him in all sweetness,|
charity and compliance. Keep me from!
ungentleness, all discontentedness, and un
reasonableness of passion and humor; and
make me humble and obedient, useful and
l observant, that we may delight in each other
according to Thy blessed word, and both of
j us may rejoice in Thee, having our portion
■in the love and service of God forever.—
1 Amen.
11 [For ths Baptist Bannsr.}
j THE HORRORS OF WAR.
BY W. A. SIMPSON.
’ Man is the topmost round in the ladder
I of creation, and is endowed with reason and
i intellectual faculties far above the animal
world-; and with these reasoning powers he
often philosophises upon the cruelty and
■ ferociousness of the beasts of the field, in
'< preying upon and destroying one another;
That man is ‘lord of creation’ in many re-
■ spects we admit, but to the justness of his
denunciation of brute violence and erm ty
to one another we must object. We know
that animals prey upon and destroy each
other in vast numbers, and frequently, too,
in a most horrible manner, but then we
should remember that they are always (or
nearly so) actuated by a principle inherent
in all animated nature, namely, self-preserva
tion. It is this that impels the lion, the
tiger, and all beasts of prey to fasten their
terrible fangs on other creatures, often tear
ing their flesh assunder in a most horrid
and ghastly manner while the victim is yet
alive and writhing in death agonies.
But what plea has man—yea, enlightened
and civilized man —for a worse than beastly
wholesale butchery of their fellows? If an
assassin enters your bed-chamber stealthily
in the night and takes your life he is term
ed a murderer, and as soon as apprehended
he is brought before the . tribunal of his
country and denounced as the vilest of the
vile—is condemned, and then another mur
der follows when he is hanged! His crime
is looked upon as a heinous sin and shame,
and opprobious ephithets are heaped upon
his posterity without stint.
But let the supposed honor* of a tribe or
nation be assailed or slandered, then there
. is no stealth, but a grand marshalling of
forces, a great array of glittering arms, and
a rushing to and fro of warriors; the con
tending armies meet and a terrible murder
is the result; thousands of human beings,,
yea, brothers, are slain; the cries of the
.dying and wounded reach Heaven’s throne;
, the field is heaped with the victims wanton-|
ly butchered in cold blood. And now whatj
lis the verdict of public opinion? “ We’ve
gained a glorious victory—the enemy rout
ed and vanquished from the field, leaving
15,000 dead and s‘ooo wounded on the
battle ground! Thanks to the Lord of Hosts!
Our loss heavy.” We are further told “.that
General Fame-Hunter fell covered with
glory,” while executing the bloody murder
which he had planned. Also that “General
! Aspiration was mortally wounded While
i gallantly leading a charge.” Soon the whole
country is electrified and iu ecstacies over
the slaughter of perhaps 50,000 fellow mor
tals. Truly “consistency is a jewel,” but
it is not possessed by many in this age of;
i the world. Where’s our boasted civiliza
i tion? Wherein consists our superiority
o\erthe animal kingdom? Wherein do
you observe the difference between the
i murder of one man stealthily, and the
murder of ten thousand openly and boldly?
Echo answers “where!” The actuating,
causes by which such dire effects follow are
generally the same in both cases; and these
causes are ambition and revenge, which are
engendered by a sense of wounded honor
either real or imaginary.
! We close at present by quoting fouri
' monosyllables, which were thundered forth ;
j from Sinai’s cragged summit, for the med-j
1 of your readers:
“Thou shaLt not kill!”
♦ ♦ ♦
Mysteries.
Whenever we enter a railroad car in
these days, it is a mystery to us whence all
the people can be coming from, whither
they can be going to, and what all this
moving about can be for.
Whenever we reflect how many persons
have had to give up their old employments,
and to remove their families from home to
strange and distant places, and how dear
all the common necessities of life now are,
!it is a mystery to us how they all mtnage
: to live.
Whenever we hear of exemplifications of
extortion and covetousness, it is a mystery
to us how these things can be practised |
amongst a people or upon a people who
are exhibiting so much high patriotic prin
ciple and feeling. |
But there is a greatei mystery to be seen '
' at the present time than any one of these.
It is the Southern man or woman who can i
be cheerful, or even gay, at such a time as 1
this, without a personal hope in the mercy 1
of God through Christ, and without a cor- 1 i
responding confidence in His divine admin- I
istration of all things. For ourselves we
are cheerful, nay, hopeful, for God is at the i
helm. We have suffered grievous losses i
in common with the whole community, but <
we are happy, for we have peace with God, '
and whatever shall betide us, we know and
are assured it will all be well ; well for us, ■
and well with us, our anchor is within the J
■veil. But, reader, if you have not your 1
foundation on the Rock of Ages, how do i 1
your hopes abide all the sorrow and dark- 1
ness of these days, and how can*you face i
the future? * [Sow/Aem Prsslvtsrian.
He who knows himself, has occasion for
humility.
TERMS — Four Dollars a-i.
The Model Sister.
There is one in every home. The very
worst brother that ever refused to take his
sister out walking must recollect a model
sister.
It was she who was confidant of all his
boyish loves, and wrote his first attempt at
love-letters, and curled his hair when he
wished to be “ very stunning.”
It was she who always ran and opened
the door for him when it was raining, and
fetched whatever he wanted out of his bed
room, and always had “some change” when
he was going out, and was positive “she
could spare it.” These loans occurred
pretty often, and yet did she ever allude to
them or get tired of loaning? Brothers
have short memories—but you know it is a
fact. . .
If papa was angry at your being out so
late, was’nt she in the passage to warn you
and to ask you “how you could be so fool
ish?” If she was fearful of a disturbance,
did’nt she wait outside, and rush in, and
with her arms around her father’s neck, beg
of him “not to speak so harsh to you”? If
she knew you had no dinner was’nt the
cloth always laid for you in a private room;
while, by some means, she got you a glass
of milk, and came in and out to see if there
was anything you wanted? Again,lf you
had been out, and complained of being hun
gry, didn’t she steal down stdirs, and when
they were all in bed, smuggle a tray of
cold meat into your room; and never forgot
the pickles? And if any harsh voice called
out loudly:
“Who’s that up stairs?” did’nt she put
her hand over her mouth and call out:
“Its only me, papa!”
Besides, who in illness nursed you? Who
was it that brought you up your tea? and
gave you your medicines, and would tempt
you with puddings, sago, and such nice wa
ter gruel, and would sit up with you all
night, and bathe your templesand kiss you.
and be on-her feet if you only turned, and
[ask you a thousand times if you felt better,
and, half crying, call you “dear brother”?
—words, you know, that never sound so
I touching as in a sick roont. More than this,
i have you no recollection when you were
very, very ill, waking up and finding her
kneeling at your bedside? You have felt
this—you must —every one has, and you
have loved her with all your soul, though,
perhaps, you were too weak at the time to
say it. She was always kind ; always re
paying a brothers roughness with a sister’s
gentleness, and thinking herself more than
rewarded if you only walked out with her,
cr spared an evening, not more than one in
the whole year, to take her to the concert.
How grateful she was, .too, if you read to
her of an evening when she was working—
knitting, probably, a beautiful steel purse,
ithe destination of which was only learned
on your birthday.
You have not forgotten, either, her coining
to see you at school, and bringing you large
bags of gingerbread and oranges, and plum
cake made with her own hands; and her
walking with you, hand in hand, round the
, play-ground, or through the neighboring
fields, making you all the while display, by
affectionate questions, your wonderful store
of half-year’s learning, while mama listened
and admired your happy sister.
Who was it, too, that attended to your
i linen both when you were a boy and when
' you were at that neutral age, vibrating be
j tween. manhood and childhood, which is
called (no one can tell why) hobbydehoy
hood; and, when asked, replaced all stray
buttons, sewed missing strings on. collars,
hemmed your scarfs, was the first to teach
the difficult art of tying your hankerchief,
trimmed your nails, packed your box when
you were going anywhere, and even accom
panied you, taking courage from your own
cowardice, to the dentist’s?
Who was the companion of all your
romps, and used to pull your sprouting
whiskers, and make you quizzical presents
of bear’s grease, and bring you home
all the things she had heard
ladies say about her “darling brother”?
Who ever took such pains to make that
“darling brother” smart, or admired him
more, and danced only with him when she
would not dance with anybody else?
And when there was a little “disagree
ment at home,” and you were hiding in the
garret, nursing your pride, which had been
hurt by some hard word, or trying to cure
your young man’s dignity that had been
sadly wounded by an angry blow, who came
to see you oftener, bringing you always “a
few things that mother had put up for you,”
and by her kindness gradually led you
home, where she knew too well her father
was only waiting to receive you with open
arms? You were angry at the time at the
artifice, but soon lost your anger in the
depth of your affection, and the quick joy
of your reconciliation.
Who did all this? You must remember
—if ever you had a childhood—your heart
tells you it was your sister. If not sensible
then of all the love which was being daily
forced with such mildness on you, you must
feel it now, and will turn back with me,
and, in your brother’s Ijeart, try to thank,
with a life’s pent-up gratitude, that model
sister!
Terms of The Baptist Banner, S 4 a year.
NO. 31.