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THu BAPTIST BANNER.
by a co.
VOLUME IV.
®lic gnptfel gwwr,
DEVOTED TO RELIGION SfND LITERATURE,
la published every Saturday, at Atlanta, Georgia, at the
eubecripti -u price of fiyb dollars per year.
DAYTON, ELLS & CO.,
./• Proprietors.
A. C. DAYTON. JAS. N. ELLS. S. D. NILES
K’BOMHnnouaKnraamaMMßainHHaßMaaaMaa
Abide with me.
“Abide with us; for It is towards evening, and the day
is far spr.nt.” Lena 24: 29.
Abide with me : fast falls the even tide,
The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide \
When other helper* fail, and comforts flee,
Help, of th A helplese, Oh abide with me.
t Swift to Sts close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away ;
Change and decay in all around I see :
Oh, thou who changcat not, abide with me.
Not a brief glance I beg, n passing word,
But as thou dwell’st with thy dtciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free;
Come, not to sojourn, but to bide with m*. *
Como, not in terrors as the King of kings,
But kind and good, with healing on thy wings;
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:
Come, friend of rjnners, thus abide with mo.
Thon on my head in early yontl* did smile,
And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left inc, oft as I left thee:
On to the close, Oh Lord, abide with mo.
I need thy presence every passing hour;
What but thy grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be ?
Through cloud r-d suntJiine, Oh, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with theeet hand to bless ;
Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness :
Where is death’s sting ? where, grave, thy victory ?
I triumph 'till, if thou ftbidc with me.
Hold up thy crof* before my closing eyes,
Shine t hrough the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven’s morning bracks and earth's vain shadows
• flee:
In life, in death, Oh Lord, abide with me,
AN HONEST ARAB.
(>
U*JE had been on a fishing tour in the
I T Highlands.and. en roa/f to town, were
idling a day or two in “thegrey metropolis
of the north.” “ Scotchman, Xpress, Mer
kerry, Fewzees, pennyahunder—this day’s
Scotchman, sir !” shouted a shrill piped,
ragged little imr at the fag end of a cold,
wet., bitter day in October, as we stood
blowing a cloud at the door of the New
Royal in Princess street.
“ No, wo don’t want any.”
“Fewzees, penny n bunder, sir; this I
day’s paper sir—half price, sir—only a
bawbee;” persisted the young countryman
of Adam Smith, as the market showed
symptoms of decline, and threatened to
close decidedly fiat.
“Get along. Bird’s-eye, don’t want any,”
growled Phillips. ,
“ They’re gude fewzees, sir, penny a bon
der.”
“ Don’t smoke,” Phillips, loquitur, whit',
whif, whif.
“ They’re gude sir, hunder and
twenty tor a penny, sir,” coming round on
my flank.
“ No, don’t want ’em, my boy.”
The keen blue face, red bare feet ingrain
ed with dirt, and bundle of scanty rags
looked piteously up at me, moved off a lit
tle, but still hovered round us. Now, when
I put down my first subscription to the One
Tun Ragged School in Westminster, [took
a mental pledge from myself to encourage
vagrant children in the streets no more.—
Somehow in this instance that pledge
would’nt stand by me, but gave way.
“ Give me a penn’orth, young ’un.”
“Yes, sir, they dinna smell.”
“ If the lucifers don’t, the son of Lucifer
doos,” threw in Phillips.
“Ah, I haven’t got a copper, little’un,
nothing less that a shilling ; so never mind,
my boy, I'll buy from you to morrow. - ’
“ Buy them the nitch, if you please. I'm
very hung-gray, sir.”
“He’ll give you his cheque for the bal
ance, Geff.”
His little cold face, which had lighted up
now fell, for, from his bundle of papers 1
saw .that his sales had been few that day.
“ I’ll gang for change, sir.”
“ Well, little ’un, I’ll try you—there is a
shilling—now be a good boy, and bring me j
the change to-morrow morning to the hotel
—ask for Mr. Turner.”
“Give my friend your word of honor, as
a gentleman, as security tor the bob.
“ As sure’s death, sir, I’ll bring the change
the morn,” was the promise of young Lu
cifer before ho vanished with the shilling.
« Well, Turner,” as we strolled along
Princess street, “ you don't expect to see
your brimstone friend again, do you ?”
“ 1 do.”
“ Your friend will dishonor his I. O. I .
as sure rs—”
“ Well. 1 won’t grieve about the money ;
but I think I can trust yon boy.' •
■•(’’u? Why, you have trusted him ;
and sour deliberation savors remarkably
of the wisdom of th* historical stable-keep
er, who began to think about shutting the
door' -hen—but the illustration don’t seem
to strike ou a novelty.”
“ We’!. e’ll see.”
“ Ycs, onders, but not Bnrr-tone
and you? mon?-.”
Next mornin 'we ere on t u e Roslin
Stage tn “co” th. -onderful little chapel
ther-.. It is.; perfect little geic, *nd its
tracery, and ita witchery, and its flowers,
▲ BJSMSXOira AS® S’ABOMT
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1863.
and fruits, and stony stories, charm and de
light the civilized eye and soul as fresh to
day, as they did the rude barbarians four
long centuries ago. I never visit Edinburg,
but I go and see that liitle chapel at Roslin,
and always endeavor to have a fresh com
panion with me, to watch the new delight
and joy he received, and of which I am a
partaker, too. But to return to the Roslin
stage. We were stopped near the Univer
sity by a crowd congregated round some
wretch brought to grief by the race-horse
pace of a butcher’s cart. A working man
raised something in his arms, and, followed
by the crowd, bore it off.
“It was over thereabouts, Phillips,” I
said during the block-up, “that Lord Darn
ley, of exalted memory, was blown up in
the Kirk o’ the Fields, to which sky-rocket
ing Mary of Scotland and the Isles, Re
gina,-hie beauteous, loving, and ill-starred
spouse, was said lobe privy and consenting
party.”
“ Nothing peculiarly interesting or un
common in that episode of connubial bliss,
I should think, friend of mine. Blown up,
my boy I One of dearest woman’s dearest
privileges—that’s what you may look for
ward to-when you pledge your plighted
troth.”
“ Blown up by gunpowder, Charley, Guy
Faux fashion, though. That’s Darnley’s
gai den-wall close by that public house, and
that’s the door-way of it built up.”
“ Quite right, too. No backways to the
tap, say I. And ’Darnley be darned and
blowed, too; But why don’t Jehu handle
his ribbons, and stir up his thoroughbreds.
Now, then, one o’clock the stage waits.”
“ Did ye say ane o’clock, sir,” returned
Jarvie, rustling his ribbons, after we had
gone a little way. “ I’m thinkin ye’re gey
weel acquaint wi’ that hour, ‘ the wee short
hour ayont the'twal,’ as. Robbie says. Wad
ye hae me drive on, regardless o’ life or lim,
and may be Vender anither bairn lifeless, or
an object for life. Na, na ; ane o’clock kens
better.”
“ What’s put your pipe out, Charley, y ou
neither smoke nor speak. Has ‘ane o’clock’
put on the stopper?”
“ I hoop not, sir—meant line offence, sir,”
said Coachee, who heard me. “ Look ye,
there’s Craigmillar Castle, where puir
Queen Mary spent a few o’ her happy
days; and there’s Blackford Hill, where
Sir Walter says Mannion stood and saw
‘Such dusky grandeur clothe the hight,
Where the huge Castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down,
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high.
Mine own romantic town!’
And that’s Liberton, where Mr. Butler, in
the heart of Mid-Lothian, was Dominie.—
And yonder’s Burdie House; there’s rare
fossil fish and other creatures got at its lime
quarries, fchey tell me. Ah I I’ve many a
time seen puir Tlugh Miller, wha’sdead and
gone, not here ladened wi’ bits o’ stans that
heca’d fine specimins, and gae’d lang neb
bed foreign names to. Burdie House, ye
ken, is Scotch for Bourdeaux House, a place
where some of Mary’s foreign courtiers
lived ; and that village you see ow’r by my
whip, was built for her French flunkeys,
and is Little France to this very day.”
On our return to the inn, I inquired:
“ Waiter, did a little boy call for me to
day ?’,
“Boy, sir?—call, sir? No, sir.”
“Os course, Geff, he didn’t. Did you
really expect to see your young Arab
again ?”
“ Indeed I did, Charley. I wish he had
proved honest.”
“ Then, oh ! Lucifer, son of the morning,
how thou art fallen !”
Later in the evening a small boy was in
troduced, who wished to speak with me.—
He was a duodecimo edition of the small
octavo of the previous day, got up with less
outlay of capital—a shoeless, shirtless, ;
shrunk, ragged, wretched, knee-witted Arabi
of the streets and closes of the city. He
was so very small and cold and child-like—
though with the same shivering feet and
’ frame, thin, bine c<»ld face, down which tears
had worn their weary channels—that I saw
at once the child was not my friend of the
previous night.
“ Enter Antonio to redeem his bond !”
Phillips, loquitur.
He stood fora few minutes diving and
rummaging into the recess of his rags; at
last little Tom Thumb said :
“ Are you the gentleman that boucth
fewzees from Sandy yesterday ?”
“ Yes, my little man.”
“ Well, here’s sevenpence (countingout
divers copper coins). Sandy canna come ;
; he’s no weel; a cart run ow’r him the day,
and broken his legs, and lost his bannet,
; j and his fewzees, and your fourpence-piece,
' and his knife, and he’s no weel. He’s no
.1 weel ava, and the doc—tor says—says he’s
, dee —dee —in, and that’s a’ can gieyou noo,”
i and the poor child, commencing with sobs,
ended in sore fit of crying.
I gave him food, for, though his cup of
> sorrow was full enough, h’s stomach was
empty, as he looked wistfully at the display
! on the te* table.
“ Are ~ou Sandy’s brother ?”
. “ Aye* ir;” and the floodgates of his
( | heart again opened.
HIS BANNER OVER US IS LOVE.
“ Where do you live ? Are your father
and mother alive?”
“We bide in Blackfriars Wynd in the
, Cootgate. My mither’s dead, and
, awa ; and we bide whiles w’ our gudemith
er,” sobbing bitterly.
“ Where did accident happen V’
“ Near the college, sir.”
Calling a cab, we were speedily set dow’ti
at Blackfriars Wynd. I had never penetra
ted the wretchedness of these ancient closes
by day, and here I entered one by night,
and almost alone. Preceded by my little
guide, I entered a dark, winding stair, until
climbing many flights of stairs in total
darkness, he opened a door, where a light
maintained a feeblejunequal struggle with
the thick, close-smelling, heavy gloom.—
My courage nearly gave way as the specta
cle of that room burst upon me. In an
appartment, certainly spacious in extent, but
scarcely made visible by one fluttering can
dle stuck in a bottle, were an overcrowded
mass of wretched beings sleeping on miser
able beds spread out upon the floor, or
reclining upon the cold unfurnished boards.
Stepping over a prostrate, quarrelling
drunkard, I found little Sandy on a bed of
carpenter’s shavings on the floor. He was
still in his rags, and a torn and scanty cov
erlet had been thrown over him. Poor lad !
he was so changed. His sharp pallid face
was clammy and cold—beads of the sweat
of agony standing on his brow—his bruised
and mangled body lay motionless and still, |
except when sobs hnd moaning heaved his!
fluttering breast. A bloated woman in •
maudlin drunkenness (the dead or banished
father’s second wife, ani not his mother),
now and then bathed his lips with whisky
and-water, while she, applied to iu r own a
bottle of spirits to drown the grief she hie
cuped and.assumed. A doctor from the
Royal Infirmary had called and left some
medicine to soothe the poor lad’s agony (for
hjs case was hopeless, even though he had !
beeh taken at fust,as he ought to have been,
to the Infirmary in the neighborhood,) but
his tipsy nurse hail forgotten to administer
it.’ 1 applied rt, and had him placed upon'
d less miseraj&te. bed of straw; and feeing
a woman, an occupant of the room, to at
tend him during the night, I gave what.di
rections 1 could, and left the dnarsided
squalid house.
Next morning I was again in Blackfriars
Wynd, its close pestilential air, and tow
ering antique, dilipidated mansions (the
abode of the peerage in far-off’times) now
struck my senses. Above a doorway was
carved upon the stone, —“ Except- ye Lord
do build ye house ye builders build in
vain.”
I said the room was spaciJus ; it was al
most noble in its proportions. The walls
of panelled oak sadly marred, a massive
marble mantlepiece of cunning carving,
ruthlessly broken and disfigured, enamelled
tiles around the fireplace, once representing
some Bible story, now sore despoiled and
cracked, and the ceiling festooned with an
tique fruit and flowers, shared in the general
wreck. With the exception of a broken
chair, furniture there was none in that sti
fling den. Its occupants, said the surgeon,
whom I found at the sufferer’s bed, were
chiefly of our cities’ pests, and the poor
lad’s stepmother—who had taken him from
the ragged school that she might drink of
his pitiful earnings—was as sunk in infamy
as any there.
For the patient medical skill was naught,
for he was sinking fast. The soul looking
from his light blue eyes was slowly ebbing
out, his cheeks were sunk and thin, but con
sciousness returned, and his lamp was flick
ering up before it sunk forever. As 1 took
his hand, a flicker of recognition seemed to
gleam across his face.
“ I got the change and was coinin’ ”
“My poor boy, you were very honest.
Have you any wish—anything, that 1 can
ido for you ? I promise to ’’
I “ Reuby, I’m sure I’m ceein’; who take!
i care o’ you noo?”
Little Reuben was instantly in a fit of i
crying, and threw himself prostrate on the '■
bed. Oh, Sandy ! Sandy ! Sandy I” sobbed |
his little heart.
“ I will see to your little brother.”
“ Thank you, sir I Dinin—dinna leave'
me, Reu—Reu—by. I’m coinin', cornin’;
“■WVisht 1 wisht!” cried little Reuh, look
ing up, and turning round to inplore some
silence in the room. That moment the
calm faded smile, that teemed to have
alighted as a momentary visitant upon his!
face, slowly passed away, the eyes liecamel
blank and glazed, and his iltle life imper
ceptibly rippled out.
I The honest boy lies in the Canongate
churchyard, not far from the gravestone put
’ up by Burns to the memrrv of Fercuson,
’ his brother poet, and I have little Reuben
’ al Dr. Guthrie’s ragged school, and receive
! I excellent account of him asd from him.
“What of your young Arab, Turner?*'
’ said Phillips, the following afternwui. —
“ Was he honest, and is he really ill?*’
“ Aec, Phillips, he was an hunt-st Arab;
s but now h ’ is ‘ Where the wicked cease
from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”'
s Religion of the heart may justly and truly
be sailed the heart of religion.
r THE SOLDIERS' COLUMN.
i Th© Soldier’s Dream.
s "
“in his blanket on thb ground ’’
Weary, weary, lies the soldier,
In his blanket on the ground,
With no sweet “Good night” to cheer him,
And no tender voice’s sound
j Making music in the darkness,
Making light his toilsome hours,
Like a sunbeam in the forest,
; Or a tomb wreathed o’er with flowers.
> Thoughtful hushed he lies, and tearful,
! As his memories sadly roam
To the “ cozy little parlor”
And the loved ones of his home—
And his viking and his dreaming
Softly braid themselves in one,
As the twilight in the mingling,
Os the starlight and the sun.
And when sleep descends upon him,
Still his thoughts within his dream
Is of home, and friends, and loved ones,
And his busy fancies seem
To be real as they wander
lA> a mother’s cherished form,
As she gently said in parting:
“ Thine in sunshine and in storm.
Thine in helpless childhood’s morning,
And in boyhood’s joyous time.
Thou must love me now—God watch thee
In the manhood’s ripened prime.”
Or, mayhap amid the phantoms
Teeming thick within his brain,
His dear father’s locks o’er silvered
Come to greet his view again,—
And he hears his trembling accents
Like a clarion ringing high, •
“ Since not mine are youth and strength, boy,
Thou must victor prove, or die.”
Or perchance he hears a .whisper
Os the faintest, faintest sigh,
Something deeper than word spoken,
Something breathing’of a tie
Near his soul as bounding heart blood ;
It is hers, that patient wile—
And again that parting seemeth
Like a taking leave of lite;
And her last kiss he remembers, *
And the agonizing thrill,
And the “ iMust you go?" and answer
“ I but. know jily Country's will."
Or the little children gather,
Half in wonder, round his knees,
And the faithful dog, mute, watchful,
In Lite mysiic glass he sees;
And the voied of song, and pictures,
. And the simplest homestead flowers
Unforgotteu crowd before him
In the solemn midnight hours.
Then his thoughts in Dreamland wander
To a sister’s sweet caress (
And lie feels her dear lips quiver
As his own they fondly press;
AinTYit. tieava T.c: j.iViKnj
'(Though sad tears are in her eyes,)
“Brave men tall, but live in Story,
For the Hero never dies !"
Or perchance his brown cheek flushes
And his heart beats quicker now,
As he thinks of one who gave him—
Him, the loved one, love's sweet vow ;
And, ah, fondly he remembers
He is still her dearest care—
E’en in his star-watehed slumber q<
That she pleads for him in prayer.
Oli, the soldier will be dreaming,
Dreaming often of us all,
(When the damp earth is his pillow,
And the snow and cold sleet fall,)
Os the dear familiar faces,
Os the cozy, curtained room,
Os the Hitting of the shadows
In the twilight’s pensive gloom.
Or when summer suns bum o’er him,
Bringing drouth and dread disease,
And the throes of wasting lever
Come his weary frame to seize—
In the restless sleep of sickness
Doomed, perchance, to martyr-death,
Hear him whisper “ Home”—sweet cadence,
With his quickened, labored breath.
Then, God bless him, Ideas the soldier,
And God nerve him for the tistbl, ;
May he lend his arm new prowess
To do battle for the right:
L*>t him feel that while he’s dreaming
In his fitful slumber bound,
That we’re praying— God watch o'er him
In his blanket on the ground.
Charleston, S. C. C. H. G. *
A Thought for the Koldicrs.
You have nobly consecrated your little
all in this life to your bleeding country. —
Your life, this is all to you.
But have you thought for a moment what
must be your life hereafter? Manyadear
i soldier in this war has taken his last fare-
I well of mother, of home, of all here.—
I Have you thought it may be so to you ?
Just as likely to be you as another. Sur
rounded as you are by associates, friends in
! camp, yon have time to think. Perhaps
■ you never swore an oath until you went
i into camp. You were never taught to
[swear by a mother, and in all prt»bability
! you solemnly promised her, as you were
i about to leave her, that you would not pro
fane the fjord’s name. Have you thought
of this ? At night, after the fatigues of the
i day, and in all probability after you have
[permitted many a wicked oath to escape
[your lips, does not the spirit of your mother
lin tears present her image before you ’ —
! And does not the thought that your mother!
prays for you condemn you ?
Write to the Soldier.
Persons who have friends in the army
[should write to them often. Nothing is so
I much appreciated by the weary, toil-worn
* soldier, as a jjearty, cheerful letter from
home. W e should set aside certain days
in each week in which to write to our soldier
friends. Any one who has visited our
camps, and witnessed the eagerness with
which the soldier inquires for letters —how
liligently they are read when received, and
how carefully he preserves those little mis
sives of love hnd friendship—can. not fail to
realize the amount of good he may do in
. this respect
TERMS—Five Dollars a-year.
Sumter in Ruins.
Ye batter down the lion’s den,
But yet the lordly beast goes free;
And ye shall hear his roar again,
From mountain height,from lowlandglen,
From sandy shorp, and reedy feh—
Where’er a band of freeborn men
Rears to Liberty.
The serpent scales the eagle’s nest, ’
And yet the royal bird, in air,
Triumphant wins the mountain’s crest,
And sworn for strife, yet takes his rest,
And plumes, to calm, his ruffled breast,
Till, like a storm-bolt from the west,
He strikes the invader in his lair.
What’s loss of den, or nest, or home,
If, like the lion, free to go :
If, like the eagle, wing’d to roam, •,
We span the rock and breast the foam,
Still watchful for the hour of doom,
When, with the knell of thunder-boom; ?
We bound upon the serpent fuel J.
i
Oh! noble sons of lion heart!
Oh! gallant hearts of eagle wing !
What though your batter’d bulwarks part, J
Your nests be spoiled by reptile art, —
Your souls, on wings of hate, shall staat
For vengeance, and with
Rend the foul serpent ere he sting !
Your battered den, your shattered*Wst,
Was but the lion’s crouching place;—
It heard his roar, and bore his crest,
His, or the eagle’s place of rest;—
But. not the soul in either breast !~x
Therms the twain, by* freedom bless’d,
To save and to avenge their raorf 1
[ IF. Gilmore Simms.
**
[Abr JBaptist Banner.]
Report.
Atlanta, Ga., Oct. 2, 1863.
Dear Brother Hornady: 1 now make my
report for last quarterly return, for by this
time you would like to hear from your
Colporteur, and know what he is doing. 1
have been endeavoring to distribute the
Word of God as much as has been in my
power. I have distributed six hundred
t. siiutieiits.inio iiacm. im: ma nunureu nymn
books. 1 have distributed tracts in abun
dance, and also religious periodicals, for
both the Banner and the Soldier's Friend
have furnished me their papers weekly; and
1 find that both the soldiers in the hospitals
and is the camp very destitute of Testa-
but seem to be very desirous for
them,.and likewise tracts or papers. I also
find many that seem to be inquiring the
Way of Life and Salvation. I endeavor to
point them to the Lamb of God, thattaketh
away the sin of the world, and try to preach
for them as often as 1 can, and my health
will admit of; and 1 feel anxious about
them ; and, likewise, to see the suffering of
humanity in she hospitals amongst the
wounded it is heart-rending. Do pray for
us, brethren, the Lord may help us to
comfort them.
Yours, truly, L. S. Coua.
[For the Baptist Banner.]
ItllN'loiiary’s Report.
MARIETTA, Ga., Oct,.», 18« S.
Dear brother Wood: I thought it would
be encouraging to yourself and the readers
of The Baptist Banner to hear that the Lord
is at work in the army, by accompanyng His
Gospel with the power and demonstration
of the Holy Spirit. For the last ten or
twelve days a meeting has been kept up at
this post among the convalescent soldiers
every night. The congregations are large,
:attentive, and serious. Under the invita
tion for prayer a goodly number present
themselves as seekers of religion. Some
have professed to have found the Saviour
precious to them. The work is spreading
and going out among the citizens. When
1 arrived at this post some days ago, 1 found
two young brethren, army missionaries,
carrying on this meeting. They request
ed me to join them in the work, which 1
concluded to do. The work is still progress
ing. Last night the meeting was very ea
’cooraging; a great many up for prayer, and
some of them seemed loath to give it up or
leave until they were saved. Those two
young ministers, from the lower part
of this State, seems to be faithful work
ers in their Master's vineyard, and 1
find it very pleasant to labor with
them. We have at this post some-
thing like twenty-live hundred sick and
wounded soldiers, including the convales
cents. In the day time we visit them in
[ their wards, and converse with tliem, and
I give them what religious reading we can
i pick up ; but it is scarce, and the soldiers are
anxious to read tract# and religious papers.
I wish you could supply their wants in that
particular.
j Among those attending preaching are
[prominent officers, who seem to take con
siderable interest in the meetings. I hope
that much good will be done in. the name of
: Christ.
I Pray that God’s word may run and be
’ glorified.
1 Yours in Christ,
P. A. KU«£LEA
NUMBER 47.
