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JOHN HENRY SEALS, ) and > Editors, L. LINCOLN VEAZEY, ) NEW SERIES, VOL. I. TEMPERA!! lIM rr*UMrn> ! BTIET iTmAf, EXCBPT TWO, f® THB TEAR. BY JOHN H. SEALS. TBRMS: %1,00, ia a3ranc; or $9,00 a! th <rftd of (he year. HATTV OF At>VKKTIBIX<3. I square (twelve line* or l*s) first insertion,.. $1 00 Each eontin nance, .• * 30 Professional or Business Cards, not -exceeding six fines, per year, - 5 00 Annonneing Candidates for Office, 8 00 6TA2TDLX6 ATWTSRTISEMEjrTSv 1 square, threo months, 5 00 1 square, six months, 7 00 1 square, twdvo months, .12 00 2 squares, “ “ ... .18 00 8 gqaarcs, “ “ ~ ..21 00 4 squares, “ * 96 00 33$^ Advertisements not marked with the number of insertions, will bo continued antil forbid, and charged accord! nglr. tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms. LEGAL ADVKr.TISEM'EVTS. Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square,... 3 00 Sale p( Personal Property, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square, 8 26 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 8 25 Notice for Leave to Sell, 4 00 Citation for Letters of Administration, 2 75 Citation for Letters of Dismission from Adm’n. 5 00 Citation for Letters of Dismission from Guardi anship, 8 26 LEGAL REQCTREME2CTS. Bales of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the after foon,.at the Court House in the County in which the roperty is situate. Notices of these sales must be Sven in a public gazette forty days previous to the ly of sale. Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be given at least ten days previous to the day of sale. Notice to Debtors and Creditors of ah Estate must be published forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must 1 be published weekly for Uoo months. Citations for Letters of Administration must be published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin istration, iftanthly, s-kr month#-— for Dismission from \ Guardianship, forty days. Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub lished monthly for four months —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where a bond has been given by the deceased, the. full space of threo months. * Publications will always be continued accord ing to these, tiie legal requirements, unless otherwise * ordered. The Law of Newspapers. 1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to the contrary, are considered as wishing to continue their subscription. 2. If subscribers order the discontinuance of thefr newspapers, the publisher may continue to send them until all arrearages are paid, 8. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their newspapers from the offices to which they are di rected, they are held responsible until they have set tled the bins and ordered them discontinued. 4. If subscribers remove to other places without informing the publishers, and the newspapers are sent to the former direction, they are held responsi ble. 3. The Courts hare decided that refusing to toko ! newspapers from the offiee, or removing and leaving j them uncalled for, is prime fact* evidence of in tec- ; tional fraud. and. The United States Courts hare also repeatedly ! derided, that a Postmaster who neglects to perform f his duty of giving reasonable notice, as reqnired by j the Post Office Department, of the neglect of a per- j son to take from the office newspapers addressed to j him, renders the Postmaster liable to the publisher for the enbscription price. > JOB PRINTING, of every description, done with neatness and dispatch, ; at this office, and at reasonab’e prices for cash. All i orders, in this department, must be addressed to .T. T. BLAIN. | 1 —J!!. I . ■■'jL’jegJ'gg-iL I -". iup ■■in i mosPECTra i ; j | [qcoxdam] TEMPERANCE BANNER. A CTTTATED by a conscientious desire to further jL jL the cause of Temperance, and experiencing great disadvantage in being too narrowly limited in space, by the smallness of our paper, for the publica • tion of Reform Arguments and Passionate Appeals, we have determined to enlarge it to a more convc ! nient and acceptable size. And being conscious of the foet that there are existing in the minds of a large portion of the present readers of the Banner and its fori ft or patrons, prejudices and difficulties which can never be removed so long as tt retains the name, we venture also to make a change in that par ticular. It will henceforth be called, “THE TEM PERANCE CRUSADER.” This old pioneer of the Temperance cause is des tined yet to the triumph Os its principles. Stboa-cutest —passed through the “fiery fur- J iut'*e,” and, like the “Hebrew children,” re-appeared unscorchcd. It has survived th <&'newspaper famine Whioh has caused, and is still causing many excel lent journals and periodicals to sink, like'"bright ex ba&jyra m the evening,” to rise no mow, and it has evet/rteraided the “death struggles of many contem poraries, laboring for the same great end with itself. It “still fives,” and “waxing bolder as it grows older,” is now waging an eternal “Crusade” against the fernal Liquor Traffic,” standing like the “High Priest” of the Israelites, who stood between the people and Rio plague that threatened destruction. Waacutroat the friends of the Temperance Cause to gitf) us their influence in extending the usefulness es the paper. We intend presenting to the public a aheo^Worthy of all attention and a liberal patronage; for while it ia strictly a Temporan.ee Journal, we shall endeavor to keep its readers posted on all the current events throughout the country. aSBT“Prce, as heretofore, sl, strictly in advance, JOHN H. SEALS, . Editor amd Proprietor. MM4, I,IBM. pMA to ftnftraitte, I’itfratnrt, (feitral Inklligntcf, Ueto, so. 3 For th* Temperance Crusader. A SKETCH. “I do lore you dearest, Robert T and s*he threw her arms around bis neck, and clung weeping, to his bosom There was a hap py, and it may be, somewhat of a triumphant ] smile, on the handsome and expressive face that bent over her i ere he could reply in the eloquent and impassioned language of the lover and poet—for he was both—to this frank, and it may Ixs ‘-tinmaidenly confes sion, the young girl raised her head, and i sweeping back the long, clustering curl* from her fair brow, lifted her dark beautiful eyes to his sane and continued, “I do love you, Robert; yon cannot, must not doubt it: ] but*—” and her voice sank almost to a whis per, ‘*! can never be yours. Ob 1” she ex claimed, passionately, “I can never, never be happy. Not even with you, my own dear Robert, could l find true happiness; I would be ever craving wealth, and the pomp and power it brings, and if with another I possessed tiiese, the yearnings of my heart would be for love.” Robert Bruce stood before her. A change like that of the grave had chased away the bright smile of hope and love—yet he was calm, very calm : he laid his hand upon her shoulder, - “Clara.” She started, but without.raising her drooping head, motioned with her hand for him to leave her, “Go, Robert, go ; but oh 1 we must not part forever.” Thus, again she was cling ing to his bosom. “Kiss me, Robert, and then farewell.” He led her gently, tender ly, as one might lead a spoiled child, ba vk to thp sofa, and pressing his lips to her flushed and feverish brow, turned, and left her, so coldly, so calmly, that none might know of the strength, and crushing power of the in ward tempest. “Oh, Clara ! you have flung from you a true and loving heart, you have trampled on the best affections of a brave, and noble man. Such love, such devotion will never be your’s again. “Ay ! weep—weep.” “*T was night, the stars were gleaming cold and bright in a winter sky. St. Paul’s was brilliantly illuminated ; this church was one of those elegant and fashionable places of worship, where the aristocrats go clad in silks and velvet, to pray off the accumu lated sins and follies of the week; it was one of those stately edifices whose rich and gor geous architecture offers a striking contrast to the humble log meeting houses of our Pu ritan forefathers. Before the altar of this same St. Paul’s, stood a bridal pair—they were a strange couple—he was a dark aus tere man, past the prime of life; many a silver thread streaked his ebon hair; many a line of age and care wrinkled his stern brow—and yet, the bride that stood there beside him to pronounce those holy vows, was young and beautiful—ay, beautiful as the summer flowers She was noble and state ly; that satin robe, that fleecy veil, and the diamonds that circled her fair brow, as with a diadem oflight, became her very well— ay, well had she won them; as well as wo ! man can win such things by the sacrifice of ! a heart, by the perjury of a soul.’ That same night, the star*; shone into a j low casement of an attic room ; it was a j mean apartment, almost destitute of form [ture; and yet. even there, in the midst of j ; poverty, there were tokens of taste and re- j j finement. In the centre of the chamber ; ! stood n small table, covered with books and j i papers, a guitar, and a vase of rare flowers :! a young man sat before it, but unemployed. ; His treasured books were unopened, his bu- j sy pen lay idle, his sweet guitar was silent, ] and the lovely flowers wasted their fra- j ! granco unregarded. ! The young man sat there alone t his at-j [ titude was listless and dejected, his head \ I drooped on his breast, and the long fair hair j | fell in disheveled waves over his face ; ever j j and anon he would dash his hand hastily j across his brow, and press his fingers con-! vulsivelv to his throbbing temples, and then i start up, and traverse', With rapid steps, the I narrow limits of his quiet room. He was very handsome, exquisitely hand- j some. Those bright locks, snowy brow, i soft blue eyes, and a mouth’ of girlish sweet- j ness, formed a face that would have been J almost too fair for matt, too feminine in its i beauty, had it not % been redeemed by an ex-1 pression of firmness anddignitv rarely seen. There was intellect, a noble, godlike intellect j stamped on that youth’s every feature. The hours rolled on, twilight deepened into the darkness of night., and the stars grew brighter—still the young man sat there as quiet and motionless as n marble statue. Suddenly'the loud aad clear toned clock of St. Paul’s told the hour; as if impelled by some electric touch, he sprung to his feet, and listened with suspended breath till the last silvery chime died into silence, and then, as if stricken by some fearful blow, he reel ed backwards and pressed his hand to his heart. O ! heavens, the agony, the deep, soul- harrowing agony depicted dm that pap lid face, and in the wild heavings of that troubled breast. Oh ! my God, help him. Human nature cannot endure that intense suffering, that mighty struggle longer. It has passed—-he is himself again. No, not himself; there is a stern light in those blue eyes, a bitter scorn about his compressed lips, that was not there before. Robert Bruce is indeed changed. His warm, loving heart has been rudely chilled; PENFIELD. HA.. SATURDAY. JANUARY 19. 1856. ! big bright hopes ruthlessly destroyed. Life, | henceforth, has no sweetness, the world no ; happiness for him. But it has Glory, Re nown, and they shall he his. Ambition is henceforth his guiding star, his only earthly beacon. Many a changeful year had come and gone, many a revolution had* taken place some had been gathered to their fathers, and others had sprung up to fill their variant places—fort unes nad been lost and won and the world moved* on as usual. Robert Bruce stood once m.>r© on his native shore, | he was not the gentle, beautiful youth of ! yore, 8m a stern, proud man ; neither was he, as then, friendless and unknown. The laurel wreath hound his brow, and th© ; world’s, coveted homage was Iris. Men loved to praise his name, and women, gen tle women, vied with each other to do “him honor. He had made for himself a name renowned and great: he had won fame and wealth, and yet, “he was a mark for blight and desolation his heart was a bitter blank 1 that beauty’s smile had no power to fill. It was a calm, still, summer night. The city cemetery lay bathed in the soft- light of the moon. Each I all tombstone was silvered over till they shone like monuments of sno w. There a noble poplar reared its stately head; here a graceful willow waved its drooping plumes, and yonder a vine, whose many flowers gleamed like the stars above. It was a holy, beautiful scene; one likely to in spire the most unfeeling heart with aweand admiration; and yet it awakened no such feelings as these in the bosom of him who stood there. His eyes were fixed mourn fully on a lofty mausoleum, on which was inscribed, in black letters, that stood out clearly in the moonlight, “Clara.” Yes, she who had been the light of his boyhood—she who had taught him that woman’s vows may be lightly broken. The false, the faith less, slept there. “O ! Clara,” he murmur ed, “it was even as you said—wealth, and its mockeries, brought you no happiness; the gilded fetters with which you bound your loving heart, broke it. Gold and splen dor could not hush its passionate yearnings for—love. Oh, Clara. Clara, had you been mine, such an untimely fate would never have been your’s.” He paused, and bend ing down, plucked a little flower that grew at the foot of that stalely monument, and turned away. The morrow’s dflwn saw Robert Bruce take leave of his native land forever, EMMIE EMERALD. SAM BATES 3 ADVENTURE^” “Mr, Bates met Sally Jones for the first time at a quilting, and in sixty seconds after sight he had determined to court her. He sat beside her as she stitched, and even had the audacity to squeeze her hand under the quilt. Truth is mighty, and must be told. Although Sally did resent, the impertinence by a stick with her needle, she was not half so indignant as she ought to have been. I dare not say she was pleased, but perhaps I should not be far from the truth if i did.— It is undeniable that the more gentle and modest a woman is, the more she admires courage and boldness in the other sex. Sal ly blushed every time her eyes met those of her new beau, and that was as often as she looked up. As for Sam. the longer he gazed the deeper he sunk in the mire qf loves and ■ by the end of the evening his heart and his j confidence were both completely over : whelmed. As he undertook to see Sally j home, he felt a numbness in his joints that I was entirely new to him, and when he tried i to make known his sentiments as he had pre | viously determined, he found his heart was j so swelled up that it closed his throat, and ; he couldn’t utter a word. “‘What a darned, cussed sneak I was P ; groaned Sam, as he turned that night on his | sleepless pillow. ‘What’s come over me ! that I earn speak my mind to a pretty gal : without a-choklii’ ? O Lord ? but she is too j pretty to live on this airth. Well, I’m a-go- j ; to church with her to-morrow; nnu if 1 ! I don’t fix matters afore 1 git back, then drat j | me.’ . “It is probable Sam Bates had never j hearkened to the story of ‘Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia,’ or he would have been less j credulous while thus listening to the whis i pers of fancy, and less ready to take it for j granted that the deficiencies of the day ! would ho supplied by the morrow. To morrow came, and in due time Mr. Bates, tricked off in a bran-new twelve-dollar suit of Jews’ clothes, was on his way to meet ing beside the beautiful Sally. His horse, bedecked with anew fair leather bridle,and anew saddle with brass stirrups, looked as gay as his master. As they rode up to the meeting house door, Sam could not forbear casting a triumphant glace at the crowd of Sally’s adorers that stood around filled with mortification and envy at his successful au •dacity. Sally’s face was roseate with plea sure and bashfulness. “ ‘Stop a minute, now, Miss Sally ; I’ll jist git down and lift ye off!’ “Sam essayed to dismount, but in so do ing found that both feet were hopelessly fast in the stirrups. His face swelled and red dened like a turkey gobbler’s. In vain he twisted and kicked ; the crowd was expec tant ; Sally was waiting. ‘Gosh darn the steer up 1’ exclaimed Sam, endeavoring to break the leathers with his desperate kicks. At tins unwonted exclamation Sally looked upland saw heir beau’s predicament. The by-standers began te snicker. , Sally was grieved and indignant. Bouncing out of, her saddle, in a twinkling she handed her entrapped escort a stone. ‘Here, Sarnmv, chunk your foot out with this !’ “Oh, Sally Jones, into what an error did your kind hoart betray you, to offer this un timely civility in the presence of the assem bled country —admirers, rivals, and all! “Sam took the stone and struck a frantic blow at the pertinacious stirrup, but misaing his aim, it fell with crushing force upon a soft corn that had come from his wearing tight boots. ‘Whoa, darn ye I’ cried he, losing all control of himself, and threaten ing to beat, his hors©’;* brains out with the stone. “ ‘Don’t strike the critter, Sammy,’ said old Jones; ‘you’ll gin him the poll evil; but jist let me ongirth the saddle, and we’ll git you loose in no time.’ “In short, the saddle was unbuckled, and Sam dismounted with his feet stdl fast in the stirrups, looking like a criminal in foot-hob bles. With some labor he pulled off his boots, squeezed them out of the stirrups, and pulled them on again. The tender Sally stood by, all the while manifesting the kind est concern; and when he was finally ex tricated, she took his arm and walked him into church. But this unlucky adventure was too much for Sam ; lie sneaked out of the meeting during the first, prayer, pulled off his boots, and rode home in his stock ings. From that time Sam Bates disappear ed from society. Literally and metaphori cally he shut up shop, and hung up his fiddle. He did not take to liquor like a fool, but took to his axe and cleared I don’t know how many acres of rugged, heavy timbered land, thereby increasing the value of his tract to the amount of several hundred dol lars. Sally indirectly sent him divers civil messages, intimating that she took no ac count of that little accident at the meeting house, and at length ventured on a direct present of a pair of gray yarn stockings, knit with her own hands. But while every effort to win him back to the world was un successful, the yarn stockings were a great comfort in his self-imposed exile. Sain wore them continually, not on his feet, as Borne matter-of-fact booby might suppose, but in his bosom, and often, during the inter vals of his work in the lonely clearing, would he draw them out and ponder on them until a big tear gathered in his eye. ‘Oh, Sally Jones, Sally Jones I if I had only had the spunk to have courted ye Saturday night, instead of waiting till Sunday morning, things might ha ve been different !* and then he would pick up his axe and whack it into the next tree with the energy of despair. “At length the whole county was electri fied by the announcement that ‘Farmer Jones had concluded to sell out and go West.’ On the day appointed for the sale there could not have been less than a hun dred horses tethered in his barn-yard. Sam Bates was there, looking as uneasy as a pig in n strange corn-field. Sally might have been a little thinner than usual, just enough to heigten rather than diminish her charms. It was generally known that she was averse to moving West. In fact, she took no pains to conceal her sentiments on the subject, and her pretty eyes were evidently red with recent weeping. She looked mournfully around at each familiar object.. The old homestead, with its chunked and daubed walls; the cherry-trees under which she,; had played in childhood ? the flowers she had planted ; and then to see the dear old furniture auctioned off—the churn, the ap ple-butter pot, the venerable quilting frame,’ the occasion of so many social gatherings. But harder than all it was when her own white cow was put up; her pet. that., when a calf, she had saved from the butcher—it was too much, and the tears trickled afresh ‘ down Sally’s blooming cheeks, ‘Ten dol- j ten dollars for the cow !* ‘Fifty dol-! lars!’ shouted Bates. “‘Why, Sammy,’ whispered a prudent; neighbor, ‘she hain’t worth twenty at the j outside.’ j “‘l’ll gin fifty for her,” replied Sam, dog-! gedly. “Now, when Sally heard of this piece of! gallantry, she must needs thank the purcha- J ser for the compliment, and commend Sukey | to his especial kindness. Then she extend-; ed her plump hand, which Sam seized with j such a devouring grip that the little maiden j could scarcely suppress a scream. She did \ suppress it, however, that she might hear i whether ho had any thing further to say ; j hut she was disappointed. He t urned away ; dumb, swallowing, ns it were, great hunks j of grief as big as dumplings. When every thing was sold off, and dinner was over, the company disposed itself about the yard in groups, reclining on the grass or seated on benches and dismantled furniture. The conversation naturally turned on the events of the day and the prospects of the Jones family, and it was unanimously voted a cuss ed pity that so fine a girl as Sally should be permitted to leave the country so evidently against her will. “ ‘Hain’t none of you sneaking whelps the sperit to stop her V asked the white-headed miller, addressing a group of young bachel ors lying near. The louts snickered, turn ed over, whispered to each other, but no one showed any disposition to try the experi ment. “The aun was declining in the west. — Some of those who lived at a distance were already gone to harness up their horses.— To-morrow, the Belle of Cacapon Valley would be on her way tj> Missouri. Just then Sally rushed from the house; with a face all excitement, a step all determination. Arrived in the middle of the yard, she moun ted the reversed apple-butter kettle.* ‘I don’t want to go West—l don’t—l don’t want to leave Old Virginia; and I won’t leave, if there’s a man among ye that has spunk enough to ask me to stay.’ “But where is Southern Chivalry?—with ered beneath the sneers of cold-blooded ma lignity ? choked by the maxims of dol!ar-jin gling prudence ?—distanced on the circular race-course of progress?—bankrupt through the tricks of counterfeiting politicians? De luded querist, no ! Like a strong and gen erous Hon it sleeps—sleeps so soundly that even apes may grimace and chatter insults in its face, and puli hairs from its tail with impunity ; but give it a good hard poke, and you will hear a roar that wiil make the coward tremble and the brave prudent. “Hearken to the sequel of Sally Jones: “Scarcely had she finished her patriotic address when there was a general rush.— The less active were trampled over like puffed goat-skins at a bachanalian festival; ‘Miss Sally, I axes you ‘Miss Sally, I spoke first ; ‘I bespeaks her for my son Bill,’ squeaked an octogenarian, struggling for ward to seize her arm. To hide her confu sion, Saliv covered her face with her apron,, when she felt a strong arm thrown round her, and heard a stentorian voice shout, ‘She’s mine, by Gauley 1’ “Sam Bates cleared a swath as if he had been in a grain-field, bore his unresisting prize into the house, and slammed the door on the cheering crowd. “The wedding came off that night, and on the following morning Sam rode home, driving his white cow before and carrying his wife behind him.” THE MORALS OF DRESS. To be clothed with neatness and decen cy is something more than a matter of taste, it is morality. A man must, be of an eminent virtue who can survive habitu al shabbiness with no taint of degradation. If one in ten thousand of mature minds can so escape, not one in thrice that number of young lads and girls can grow up filthy and ragged without a deep moral stain, even if no other cause were operating to debase - them. In the mass, a decent exterior is neces sary to self-respect. A young man-among his fellows can easier smother the consci ousness of some petty vice or venial crime than of a hole in his elbows. A sense of inferiority is almost inevitable: and bis bearing will betray it, by a dogged ftub borncss of reserve, a sheepish submission, or a defiant attitude of struggling pride— in every ease an unamiable mood which is poorly worth cultivating for the sake of a few shillings. It the rich would dress modestly, the poor would not despair of dressing lecent ly; and a broadly-felt moral influence would result from the arrangement, for it is among the poor that thecurse of shabbiness will fall heaviest. A few ambitious to be equal to the best, rush to inevitable ruin by the excess of an impulse, highly commend able in itself, but unfortunate in the circum stances;. whilet.be many, taught something more than prudence by this fate, sink be low their actual means in pride or despair, j | or the degrading sense of inefficiency. Say that a certain amount of this result ! is the effect of vanity; wounded or excited, it docs not thereby alter its complexion in a moral point of view. Vanity is the growth of a universal faculty, which ie es sential to a social being; may wc not. say essential to a moral being? for a great share of the moral element has direct re gard to the approval of other than one’s self. Mon must be treated for the disease they have, whether that disease he logiti mate or not, and if wounded vanity drags down the moral nature and induces vice and crime, the moralist would ho but an unfaithful or an ignorant physician, who i should not aim to soothe the offended fac ulty, If the renovator of society ignores the sanitary effects of a clean shirt and a whole coat, a neat dress and pretty trim mings, he may as well give up his trade, or devote himself avowedly to a limited branch of the universal mission. A better philosopher and moralist will acknowledge, in his methods, the great truth that dress is a part of the man, and thus an exponent of the unseen nature which eliminates it. He will see that Bob and Harry are walking in the paths of sin, not “only because of some radical birth mark, some perversity of will, and an oc casional corruption, but also because they have shabby shoes and ragged or no stock ings. 110 will know that before Jenny and Lizzy can be clothed in the garments of purity, they must bo clad in clean frocks and learn from outward cleanliness to purge the darkened soul. Tailors and shoemakers are also of the brotherhood of moralists, if they only knew it. THE YOUTH THAT WAS HUNG, The Sheriff took his watch and said, u lf you have anything to say, speak now, for you have only five minutes to live.” The young man burst into tears and said, ‘T have to die. I had only one little brother, he had beautiful blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and I loved him; but one day I got drunk, for the first time 4u ray lie , and coming borne, 1 found my little troth- TIdITMS: 81.00 TX ADVANCE. J JAMES T. BLAIN. <5 f PBIJfTEB. VOL. nil -NUMBES 2. ’ r* „ ■> . -s..vfr iV. • :•0&519 er gathering strawberries in “The garden and 1 beeaiu,’ aagrv v, i:.u him without a cause, and killed.him at one blotv with hM rake. I did not know anything about itla until the next morning, when I from sleep, and found myself tied guarded, and was told where iny. little* brother was found, hie hair with blood and brains aud he waa dead.—- Whisky has done this—it has ruined ine. ; I never was drunk but one**. I have only one more word to say, and then 1 am go ing to my final judge. I say to young peo ple never! n<cer ! ! never 1!! touch any thing. that can intoxicate.” As he pronoun ced these words lie sprang from tlfe box, and was launched into an endleee eternity, v I was moved to tears by the recital and the awful spectacle. My little heart seem ed as if it Would burst and break away | from my aching bosom, so intolerable were';, my feelings of grief. And there, in that | carriage, while on that cushioned goatyd looking with streaming eyes on- the body/: of that unfortunate as if Lung, : dangling and between and earth, as if for cither place, there if* was that; I took the pledge never to touch the hurtful poison. • Long years, forve since passed away,— . White JudrSmive thickened around these UiHßTpXstft li on so ruddy and so young, but I •; Trhve never forgotten the iasv words of that % young man. And I have m+t violated the ’ pledge. When the tempter has offered to me the sparkling goblet, the words of that young man have seemed to sound in mv ears again.— Old ‘Man's Story. And this is not the only case when con fessions have been made on the gallows that rum had brought the wretched culprit \ to that awful doom. Probably nine cases out of ten may be traceable to this as the prime cause. But this painful sketch ad-so dresses itself particularly to the youth.— - Let them read and ponder it well and give heed to the dying advice of this young culprit—never! never!! never!!! touch any thing that can intoxicate.” -i oi > ■■■ THE END IS NOT YET. Every day opens up new encouragements, new resources, new action, and adds new recruits to the Army of Reform; and the crusade against rum will wage fiercer and fiercer, until the fire of moral indignation shall sweep over and engulph the fire of the “still,” leaving but ruins and ashes where now exist works that spread desolation and death throughout the earth ! Humanity has long suffered the deep, damning degradation which flows out, as a consequence, from these manufactories ; but endurance, in this matter, has censed to be a virtue, and the scourge must be turned back. Men yet have hearts—those hearts are filled with principles as truefowith feelings as noble, deep and enduring; with sympathies as strong and impulsive; with sentiments as pure, holy and refined, as ever well’d up from the soul-fountains of man sh any age or under any circumstances. Those prin ciples, feelings, sympathies and sentiments, if they have slumbered, can never be crush ed out. No! they are re-awakened now, with thousands upon thousands, and but wait with eagerness hear the war-cry given, the signal sounded, that is to give | motion to the minds, bodies and muscles ; with which they are clothed, when they will strike the blow that carries consterna tion into the rum-ranks, and shout the death knell to rum-selling aTui rum-drinking. The aspirations to intelligence and virtue are a part and lot of every man—are in stincts implanted by God himself, there to dwell forever, within our spiritual existence —and he who,'by a base and immoral act, would darken those aspirations, is but black ening his own soul, and calls upon his own head the curses of (he victims of his base ness, which ore as sure to reach him. in full force, as are retributions sure to follow any crime. None can escape, except by re solving not to commit the act. Men are not yet sunken 90 low as to have lost all heart-—there are none but who have &tiu ” lingering .about them enough of the divine man to regenerate the degraded animal man, and we mean to fan the spark into a blaze —the blaze into a fierce fire—by'tho help and countenance of Almighty God, and the agents Hr has given to the work. No one need falter, need cherish the least fear, to join hs in this contest; for we shall take them prisoners if they do not volunteer: but to restore them liberty, in the enjoyment of which they will bo led to exclaim, “It is too great for me—it is bettei r than I de serve—it is broader—deeper-more vast, and rich, and pure, titan I supposed man to be capable of reaching!” It is this seated principle of excellence existing with in us, and appertaining tp our very natures that must be the preponderant feature of the world, and all -who desire to see the period hastened when love and truth and harmony shall enter into the whole existence of every human being—-clothe every moment of all lives with the purest enjoyments—must put their shoulders to the work, lift their voices in its behalf, and urge every friend and neighbor to join them. The end is not yet! A bright future is before us. Already the adherents and vo taries of King Alcohol begin to tremble, and they soon will retreat in oowardly fear.— Forward, then, and let us close up around, them to reclaim them to virtue and happi* * ness, ere they take the fatal leapl any.— Crusttter.