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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.