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“MIN HENRY SEALS, )
T . „ T „ AND > Editors.
L. LINCOLN VEAZEY. )
NEW SERIES, VOL I.
IMPERAW CRUSADER.
PUBLISHED
EVERY SATURDAY, EXCEPT TWO, IN THE YEAR,
BY JOHN H. SEALS.
TERMS:
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of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must
be published weekly for two months.
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published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin
istration, monthly , six, months —for Dismission from
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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 three
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G. The United States Courts have also repeatedly
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son to take from the office newspapers addressed to
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JOB PRINTING,
of every description, done with neatness and dispatch,
at this office, and at reasonable prices for cash. All
orders, in this department, must be addressed to
J. T. BLAIN.
PROSPECTUS
OF TIIE
TEMPERANCE CRUSADER.
[quondam]
TEMPERANCE BANNER.
ACTUATED by a conscientious desire to further
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 conve
nient and acceptable size. And being conscious of
the fact that there are existing in the minds of a
large portion of the present readers of the Banner
and its former patrons, prejudices and difficulties
which can'never be removed so long as it 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 chronicle the triumph of its principles.
It has stood the test —passed through the “fiery fur
nace,” and, like the “Hebrew children,” re-appeared
unscorched. It has survived the newspaper famine
which has caused, and is still causing many excel
lent journals and periodicals to sink, like “bright ex
halations in the evening,” to rise no more, and it has
even heralded the “death struggles of many contem
poraries, laboring for the same great end with itself.
It “still lives,” and “waxing bolder as it grows older,”
is now waging an eternal “Crusade” against the “In
fernal Liquor Traffic,” standing like the “High Priest”
of the Israelites, who stood between the people and
the plague that threatened destruction.
We entreat the friends of the Temperance Cause
to give us their inliuence in extending the usefulness
of the paper. We intend presenting to the public a
sheet worthy of all attention and a liberal patronage;
for while it is strictly a Temperance Journal , we shall
endeavor to keep its readers posted on all the current
events throughout the country.
as heretofore, sl, strictly in advance.
** JOHN H. SEALS,
Editor and Proprietor.
Pen field, Ga., Dec. 8, 1855.
fetateii is Canpermter, pintJ% fitoatare, general Migrate, lefts, ttt.
ONLY MY MUSIC TEACHER.
BY ELLEN ASHTON.
“It’s only my music teacher. Miss Bu
rv,” said Clara Neal. “Sho\s the orphan
daughter of a country clergyman, or school
master, or some such thing. At least that’s
her story. But for my part I never con
cern myself about those I employ.”
The speaker, as she concluded, threw
herself back into the luxurious chair, in
her mother’s drawing room, and began to
fan herself languidly, for it was a hot June
day.
“I never heard so sympathetic a voice,”
replied her companion. “I thought, when
I was first shown in, and saw her at the
piano, that it was some friends of yours.
Her style is certainly distingue , and she
sings beautifully.”
“Do you think so ? Well, you are the
queerest creature, Ada; always seeing style
in dress-makers and such creatures; ro
mances have turned your head, cousin. 1
didn’t feel like taking a lesson, to-day; but
told her she might practise the new song
if she pleased; you know it is that famous
one of Mr. Morton's, the poet,-who has
just returned from Italy ; and she hadn’t
seen it before.”
“I am sorry that I interrupted her. The
moment I entered she rose and left. I
really wish I could have heard the song
out, for her manner of singing it brought
teare to my eyes.”
Clara laughed. “Really, my dear you
are entirely too sentimental. If you care
so much to hear the song, however, come
to-morrow, and I’ll make her sing it.”
“Perhaps she’d prefer not to, at least be
fore a stranger.”
“Pshaw! What right has she to have
preferences ? She’s only a music teacher.”
“I am so interested in her appearance,
and so eager to hear the song, that I’ll
come,” answered the visitor, mentally re
solving to be kind to the poor orphan. ‘But
leave me, if you please, to make the re
quest.”
“Certainly, if you wish it. But what a
fuss you make over a music teacher. To
change the conversation, have you met
this Mr. Morton ?”
“No.”
‘Tom knew him when abroad. I shouldn’t
wonder,” and she lowered her voice, as she
glanced through the open door, and across
the hall, to where a closed door told that
her brother had guests in the library, “if
he was with Tom now. Avery handsome
man, just such a one as Mr. Morton is said
to be, went in there, awhile ago; and I
think I heard Tom call him Fred, which
is Mr. Morton’s first name.”
“I never asked whether he was hand
some,” said the visitor, “but his poetry is
beautiful. It is so full of feeling and the
love of all suffering humanity.”
The fashionable Clara opened her eyes
at this outburst. “He is as rich as he, is
handsome,” was her reply, and she played
with her fan, “and belongs to one of our
first families. But there’s a good deal in
his poetry I don’t understand. I intend to
set my cap for him, however,” she added,
lowering her voice again, “lie’s the great
catch of the season, and it. would make all
the girls die with envy.”
Ada rose to go. Ada had made a love
match, about a year before, with a young
lawyer, without a fortune. She had some
property, but, not much, and on this they
managed to live, by exercising strict econ
omy; and as both she and Mr. Allen be
longed to families of high social position,
they continued to be visited, though Ada
was regarded by Clara, and others like her,
as a poor, weak, sentimental little dunce.
“You’ll come, then, at one o’clock,” said
Clara.
“Yes, thank you!”
Clara had been right in her surmise that
Mr. Morton was in the library. But she
did not know that every word she had
said, even when she lowered her voice,
had been overheard. It was a warm June
morning, and as the library had two doors
opening on the hall, the back one had been
left open, so that Clara’s hard, metallic
voice had easily reached the visitor’s ear.
Clara’s brother, too, had gone up stairs,
fora moment, to look for some old souvenir
of travel, about which they had been talk
ing; and when he came down again, the
conversation was over. What Mr. Morton
thought about it, was partly betrayed at
once; for he reminded his friend that he
hau a sister, and solicited the honor of an
introduction.
Clara was delighted, after Mr. Morton
had left, that the presentation had been at
his own request. This fact, coupled with
his very affable manners, threw her into a
flutter of delight. In fancy, she already
saw herself his bride, the possessor of the
family diamonds, and the secret envy of all
her unmarried friends who flocked to con
gratulate her.
“Morton’s a capital fellow,” said her
brother, in his easy, free way, her divining
thoughts, “but you’re not good enough for
him. He’s struck by your beauty, sis, for
yon are a showy girl: and for your sake, I
hope you’ll get him. But he’ll lead a deuce
oi a life, with such a fashionable good-for
nothing unless love brings you to your
senses, and you settle down into a quiet,
domestic companion.”
The only answer of Clara was a sneer at
her somewhat bookish brother’s ignorance
PEKFIELD, GA„ SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1856,
of the world, in supposing that woman, in
her position, ever married for love, or ex
pected to sink into domestic wives ; and
with this sneer on her lips she left the room.
The next day at one o’clock, came Miss
Bury, and soon after Ada. Mr. Morton
was in the library; he had “dropped in,”
as. he phrased it, -‘to clmt quietly half an
hour” with Tom; “he would pay his re
spects to Miss Neal,” he said, “directly,”
The back door was again open, and Mr.
Morton managed to seat himself near “it.
Soon a piano, touched by a skilful band,
was heard; Mr, Morton raised bis finger
for silence; and then one of the sweetest
voices he had ever heard poured forth a
gain the words of one of his songs. Ever
since yesterday, when the entrance of a
visitor had stopped the singer midway,
that voice had been lingering in his ears.
He had dreamed of it even at night. When
it ceased, he drew a long breath, mentally
saying, as Ada had said, “what a sympa
thetic voice.” For it seemed to give a
deeper meaning to his song.
One or two other songs followed, and
then voices were heard in conversation.
It was easy to distinguish that of the mu
sician, it was “that most excellent thing
in woman,” a low, sweet voice. The
thoughts, which it expressed, moreover,
were in harmony with the voice; they were
tokens, Mr. Morton said to himself, of a
refined and elevated heart and mind. “It
is hardly fair,” he said at last, mentally,
“to sit- here listening.” And rising, be
proposed to his friend, to go into the par
tor, “for the ladies,” said he, “seem to have
finished their music.”
Clara received him ‘with a conscious
blush, and an exulting glance at Ada, for
she attributed the visit to herself. Fora
few minutes, she almost engrossed his
time. She had, indeed, presented him to
Ada, but had immediately demanded his
attention by a question; the introducing
“a music teacher” to him or any other
guest, she would have thought preposter
ous. Very soon, however, with his usual
success in whatever lie undertook, Mr.
Morton managed to be presented to Miss
Bury. The latter was sitting, embarrassed
and coloring at the music-stool, waiting
for leave to go, when he turned the con
versation on singing, begged pardon for
having overheard the music, and asked
Clara if it was she or one of her fair com
panions whom lie must thank for the pleas
ure he had been afforded. Ada, pitying
Miss Bury, bad gone to talk with her, and
overhearing this owned, in her frank way,
who was the singer, and then, as Mr. Mor
ton joined them, said, “Miss Bury, Mr.
Morton, Mr. Morton, Miss Bury;” and so,
in the most natural manner, and in spite
of Clara, the introduction took place.
At first, Miss Bury was embarrassed the
whole thing was so unexpected. But Mr.
Morton soon put her at ease, in his skilful
way. Clara gradually fell into a mere lis
tener, as the subjects discussed rose above
her reach; she sat, devoured with rage at
what she termed secretly the “impudence
of that creature.” Ada wondered and ad
mired, and thought that, in all her life, sjhe
had never seen two beings better suited for
each other. Miss Bury, always engaging
in appearance, was now really brilliant;
while Mr. Morton was as eloquent as in
his most impassioned poems.
Mr. Morton was the first to detect the
suppressed rage of Clara. “She’ll visit it
on this innocent girl,” he said, to himself
“and really, I have been rude in neglec
ting her.” So, on the instance, he ad
dressed a remark to Clara,” which again
brought her into the conversation; and
after a few moments, devoted principally
her, courteously took his leave.
But his effort to save Miss Bury proved
fruitless. When Ada went home, she told
her husband that “Miss Neal had discharg
ed her music teacher. And only to think,”
she added, “it was, I verily believe, be
cause Mr. Morton met her there to-day,
and talked more with her than with Clara.
I never saw a more despairing look than
Miss Bury had, when Clara told her, after
Mr. Morton left, that she might go, and
that she need not come again. I don’t
think the poor girl has many scholars, and
Clara’s ill-will can do her great harm. If
she wasn’t my cousin,” said the warm
hearted little woman, “I would never go
to see her again.”
“Mr. Morton,” replied her husband,
“should have known better. He is suffi
ciently a man of the world to be aware that
he would give mortal offence to a fashion-
able haughty, cold-hearted creature, like
Clara Neal, by preferring a music teach
er’s conversation to her own. But a man,
made much by society, little thinks what
harm he does, provided he gratifies his
vanity.” The speaker did not know Mr.
Morton, and as a lawyer, had an instinc
tive dislike of poets.
“I think you are unjust to Mr. Morton,
my dear,” said his wife, stoutly. “I’m
sure, he little dreamed that Clara would
turn Miss Bury off.”
“He ought to have thought of it, though
and that’s another reason why I blame
him,” said the husband. “But let the pup
py go. We’ll do what we can for the poor
girl, by recommending her.”
A few days after, Ada came home, in a
state of high excitement. “Who do you
think I met, just now,” she said, “walking
on Chesnut street?” Her husband said
he did not know. “Mr. Morton and Miss
Bury; I’m snre it will be a match ; she was
brooking down and blnshing ; and he was
talking as if his whole soul was in every
word.”
H<*r husband shook hie head. “It ie
rarely, my dear,” he said, “that a rich and
distinguished man, like Mr. Morton, mar- 1
rie-s a poor music teacher. The beet thing
for Miss- Bury is that she should never see
him again.”
Ada’s countenance fell. She had the
most implicit faith in her husband’s opin
ion. Bnt soon her faith in her favorite co
temporary poet returned, and eho did bat
tie, warm-heartedly, in his behalf.
“Well,” said her husband, at last, “ton
may he eight. Perhaps after all,” am! he
smiled archly, “you haven’t a monopoly
of disinterestedness. I called Mr. Morton
a puppy, the other day; but I have since
heard he is a man of sense, as honest as
steel, and even noblebearted. However, it
is easy to test him. You know Mies Bury
Ask her here to tea, some evening If Mr.
Morton is serious, he will be glad to meet
her, for the meantime I’ll seek nis acquain
tance, and ask him to come the same eve
ning.”
“Capital!” cried Ada, clapping her
hands. “I’ve an idea that Mr. Morton
only sees her in the street, for she’s too
proud to ask him to the humble place
where she lodges. Yet depend on it she
don’t encourage him, much as she secretly
loves him.”
Ada was right. The little tea-party of
four came off, and was tollowe 1 by many
more. Miss Bury is now a bride,
and Ada are fast friends; so also are the
two husbands; and their friendship will be
life-long, for itis founded on culture, intel
lect, and similar noble and elevated views.
Os course, the marriage made a great
talk, for merely conventional people could
not understand it. They were not up to
the standard, which mado the lover think
his fortune and fame nothing, when weigh
ed against the virtues of his bride, and
which made the latter conquer her pride,
through the sincerity of her love, and ac
cept one whom half the world said she
married only for his money.
In this half is Clara, who still, while
publicly doing homage to the rich and
powerful Mrs. Morton, privately calls her
“that mercenary, stuck-up thing,” who,
“but yesterday, was only* my music teach
er.”
THE DOINGSoFaLCOHOL.
On whatsoever hearth-stone my foot
shall he planted, the gladsome fire shall
go out, to be lighted no more forever ; and
the roof-tree shall fall and the voices of chil
dren be hushed, and all that men cluster
around them, to make their earthly homes
so much like heaven, shall vanish like a
wreath of smoke, and desolation brood over
the ruins. I will point the son’s knife a
gainst the father’s tliroat, and his gray hair
shall drip with gore. Where war and ven
geance are, I will rouse their fury to ten
fold rage, and blot from the soldier’s breast
the last vestige of humanity. The incen
diary’s torch shall, be my banner; the
crackling flames of burning innocence, the;
music of my march !
Pestilence shall follow me as a shadow ;
and I will open unto him the gates of a
million dwellings, which else had been
secure. I will spread famine and disease
even in the lands of plenty and health,
and will seal up the eyes of all my victims
so that they shall not see nor know that 1
their next plunge is into perdition. I will
sweep whole continents of their inhabi
tants; and give woes and sorrows and
‘•wounds without cause” to the whole race
iof nan. Yet, whosoever is wounded by
mo, shall seek me as hid treasures to be
wounded yet again. I will bind upon their
brows the iron crown of suffering, burning
with hell-fire, that shall scorch and sear
and eat into their brain and heart and soul,
yet shall they fall down and worship me.
and, for my sake, parr, with houses and
lands, and wife and children, and hope and
heaven.
Let Jehovah send forth spirits, pare as
the snowy-flake, to dwell in earthly bod
ies; I will seek them out, and kindle in
their hearts and nnquenchable fire that
shall consume them; and the cherubim
shall watch long for their Father in Hea
ven. The student at his books, the me
chanic at his toils, the laborer at the plow,
will I destroy, and none shall stav me. I
will coil myself in the brain of the sea
captain, and seal up his eyes, and so dis
tort them that be shall know neither chart
nor compass, and his vessel and all on
board shall be engulfed, and the bones of
the mariners whiten the bottom of the
ocean. I will be the omnipresent curse of
humanity, and under my guidance tho race
shall walk forever as in the shadow of an
eclipse. Eyes they have, bnt shall see not,
ears they have, but shall hear not, tho
ends ana the purport of the crooked paths
through which I will load them.
I will take the sons of the kings and the
mighty men, and the captains, and the
great ones of earth, and will mangle them
with horrid wounds, strip them of wealth,
reputation, life itself, and fill their last
hour with torment. Around their dying
couches I will send serpent formß, unfold
ing coil after coil from out the darkness,
brandishing their forked tongues to sting
them, and Tick their blood as a fierce flame
licks up its fuel. Thoughts shall become
thirtgs, living things, to mock and curse
them. And some in their agony shall leap
into this burning lake, in hope to escape
still greater torture; and some will I hold
npon the brink and rejoice when I see ev
ery nerve shrieking with agony, as I open
to their startled gaze the horrors of that
pit in which I plunge them forever!
Yet this is not all. I know that you
will laugh, (if fiends chii laugh) when I
tell that I will so manage that man
kino shall all alonpj think me frioncl !
Though it. is my mission to torture and do
stroy the whole race of Adam, yet so will
I mix with their business, their’pleasures
and their daily habits; so flatter and delude
their stupid senses, that they shall pro
nonnee me a “good creature,” nay a “crea
ture of God !” ‘At the wedding feasts 1 will
be the source of joy, and at the funeral
gathering, the solace of their sorrow. The
rank grass shall grow over those slain bv
my hand, and the mourners shall forget it,
and fall in their turn. The father shall
commend me to his son, and reeling to his
grave, shall leave him as an inheritance,
a fondness for me; and the son shall follow
in the footsteps of his father, down to per
dition. The physician shall invoke my aid
in sickness, and in all circles I will plant
myself seen rely, and make myself a com
panion and a familiar, and men shall never
be so merry as in the presence of their
deadliest foe.
Poetry shall lend me her rose-garland,
and music her charm; and the spirit of
melody shall speak from myriad harps to
sound my praises, and witch the world
with the idle dream that I am the ir.spirer
of mirth and the soul of happiness and all
good fellow-ship; and if there be one of all
that glorious race, from whom yon planets
from their golden urns pour down their
silent, everlasting cataract of light, who
excels his fellows, I will lure him with
soup and visions of beauty, and strew his
path with rose-leaves, till at last he shall
walk heedless into my coils. And, once
my slave, though a thousand should weave
their heart-strings around him, and weep
tears of blood, he shall, in all his pride and
beauty, sink deeper, and in tribulation
and anguish unutterable, dig his own path
way down to hell.— Richmond Dispatch.
COMPLAINING.
Neal the author of the Charcoal Sketch
es, thus admirably takes off that class of
people who are never so happy as when
they are making themselves miserable;
“How are you, Trepid ? How do you
feel to-day, Mr. Trepid V
“A great deal worse than I was, than
kee; most dead, I’m obliged to you; I’m
always worse than I was, and I don’t think
1 was ever any better, I’m very sure, anj r
how, I’m not going to be any better; and
for the future you may always know I’m
worse, without asking any questions, for
the questions makes me worse, if nothing
else does.”
“Why, Trepid, what’s the matter with
you ?”
“Nothing, I tell you, in particular, but
a great deal is the matter with me in gen
eral; and that’s the danger, because we
don’t know what it is. That’s what kills
, people, when they can’t tell what itis;
that’s what’s killing me. My great grand
father died of it, and so will I. The doc
tors don’t know; they can’t tell; they say
I’m well enough when I’m bad enough,
so there’s no help. I’m going off some of
‘these days right after my grandfather, dy
ing of nothing particular but of every
thing in general. That’s what finishesour
folks.”
ARE YOUR CHILDREN PLEDGED ?
Yes, parents, answer that question —are
your children pledged? Drunkenness among
the youn-g is on the increase. Boys of fif
teen carry convenient and portable brandy
casks in their pockets. Little children from
five to twelve, spend their pennies on those
accursed candy drops, filled with wine of
different kinds, with whisky, with rum.
Parents, are your children pledged ?
If, not, how can you go on your knees
night and morning and pray that you may
do your duty ? A solemn, an awful respon
sibility rests upon you now. Law is disre
garded and appetite perverse and pervert
ed,meets with new temptationsaX everyturn.
On you will rest the crimes of murders
yet to be committed. Hearts happy and
now innocent, will in their bursting anguish
curse you before they die. God have mer
cy—have mercy on the men who train their
children to the “love of the wine cup. God
have mercy on those cruel parents who
throw not the restraints of love, law and
moral discipline around the young hearts
they have taught to beat. God have mer
cy on the parents of that poor young girl—
yes, a young, sweet-faced girl, beastly
drunk; who, only a few days ago, fell down,
wallowing in her costly garments, upon the
floor of a store in this city, while the cheeks
of men burnt as they witnessed her degra
dation. Let every mother ask herself, “Am
I doing all I can to stay this fearful, this
overwhelming evil?” We tell you, you may
throw the shelter of the church about your
young, and hedge them in with prayers, but
unless you require of them a solemn prom
ise,, coupled with the written pledge, and
teach them from day today, sooner to take
the most deadly drug than to taste of the
wine in the wine-cup, your children are not
safe. They learn to dissimulate too soon,
C TERMS: #I.O(KIN ADVANCE.
j JAMES T. BLAJN,
l PHMTKU.
VOL. XXMUMBER 2(1.
heaven is witness ; but once tnught the sol
emn nature of a written oath, or pledge to
abstain; once trained in the courage to say
“no. I have promised God and my parents,
that I would taste not, touch not, handle not,”
and the gibes of a world of fashionable young
men drunkards, would not move the founda
tion of their determination.
Mothers, particularly to you we speak.
We are in earnest about this thing. Every
word wells up from a full heart, anxious for
the welfare ot the young. We know how
mighty your influence, by the unbounded
respect we cherish lor her we call mother,
and who instilled the first principles of mor
ality, life and religion into our young heart.
You have a mighty power over children ere
yet they go forth into the betraying world.
O ! throw the shield of the pledge over them
if you would save them. Let minor mat
ters go, and attend to the one thing needful.
A child may learn to fear a fabulous ghost
in his infancy, so that when he grows old,
his white hairs shall rise with terror in the
lancy-peopled darkness; while reason and
revelation have long ago convinced him that
the dead come not back. Substitute the
wine cup, the hell lull of horrors, in place
of the ghost; plant a fear of this worse than
Banquo-spirit, with its flames and sepulchral
voice, in the infant mind—teach it to hold
the habit of drunkenness and abhorence—to
shrink from the poor drunkard-maker, who
is resolutely laying up wrath against himself
in the world of judgment, and your child is
safe, with God’s blessing. Above all see
that your children are pledged! Give not
sleep to your eyelids, nor slumber to your
eves, until your children are pledged.
WORSE THAN WAR, PESTILENCE AND
FAMINE.
War has its periods of destruction. But
although the strife is terrible, it is soon suc
ceeded by a long and tranquil reign of peace.
It has also rules of honor. A flag of truce
in the hottest battle is a signal for a cessa
tion of hostilities. It is a mark of dishonor
to destroy females or helpless infants; and
a cry for quarter is the cry of hope.
Pestilence *• walketh in darkness and
wasteth at noonday,” sweeping its hundreds
from the stage of life as with the besom of
destruction. But the miasmatic cloud re
turns. And where a few mon-hs before
naught was seen but desolation and the
black pall of death, now we behold the busy
hum of business.
Famine settles down upon a country, and
far as the eye can reach, from valley to
mountain-top, stretches one blasted, with
ered field. But again the rains descend up
on the thirsty earth, the mellow rains of the
sun succeed, and soon the whole face of na
ture is changed. Flowers of a thousand
different hues clothe the landscape with
beauty, the mellow blushing fruit ravishes
the most exquisite taste, and empty grana
ries once more groan beneath the golden
harvest.
But rum is ever destroying, without re
gard to truce or the cry of quarters, and
fattens on the blood of females and helpless
innocence. Its pestilential breath, like the
fatal Bohori-Upas, is ever felt, and poisons
all within its reach and its withered fields
ever increase in desolation. This rum
plague is not only diverse from other evils,
but appears to be the very embodiment of
all evil.— Spirit of the Age.
it t Q t ►
PRINCIPLES SETTLED BY FACTS AND
DISCUSSIONS.
1. No efforts, individual, associate or
mixed, directed against the evils of intem
perance merely, ever did or can promote
the reform.
2. The causes of intemperance were and
are the true point of attack.
3. Without the removal of these “cau
ses” the reform cannot be consummated.
4. These causes are not, and were not
found in free, hard, or intemperate drink
ing; neither in drunkenness nor selling to
drTinkards.
5. They are and were found in uaoder
ate, temperate drinking, and belling to
those who di' 1 and do not make beast of
themselves—who 1 and did not drink to
excess.
6. Moderate drinking’ creates the appe
tite for drunkness.
7. There is nostoppingplaee 1 Between the
most moderate use and beastly implication.
S. The two are united as natural V
surely as fire and heat—or cause and
9. So the pauperism, crime and woes oP
intemperance, are and were caused by the
most moderate drinking, and selling to
cautious, temperate drinkers.
10. The drunkard is less culpable than
the moderate drinker.
11. The drunkard is less culpable than
the seller.
12. Moral suasion without prohibition is
inadequate to the ends of the reform
13. Prohibition without moral suasion
can never he carried out.
14. Both must go hand in hand.
15. The pledge of total abstinence is es
sential to the reform.
IG. It must be pressed frequently.
17. Its necessity is founded in our nature.
18. Associated effort is indispensable.
19. Different forms of association must
be employed to meet different tastes, ages
and sexes.
20. Frequent temperance meetings, tem
perance lectnres and temperance reading,
must be maintained, -as vital and perma
nent elements of the reform.