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1 —...- j --, - ii—mii ■■!iii ■> iii .V ii im 11 II IT I will —rnfß"s’ ‘ A • i■■ ■ —■ --- ... r ■>- • -r_. ~ ‘ - “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: in advance; or $2,00 at the end of the year. RATES OF ADVERTISING. I square (twelve lines or le.'.s) first insertion, - .$1 00 Each continuance, 50 Professional or Business Cards, not exceeding six lines, per year, 5 00 Announcing Candidates for Office, 3 00 ST A NDING ADVERTISEMENTS. 1 square, three months, 5 00 1 square, six months, 7 00 1 square, twelvemonths, 12 00 ► 2 squares, “ “ 18 00 3 squares, “ “ 21 00 4 squares, “ “ 25 00 Advertisements not marked with the number of insertions, will be continued until forbid, and charged accordingly. jJsgC*Merchants, Druggists, and others, may con tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms. I, EG AL ADV EET IS EMENTS. Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square,— 5 00 Sale of Personal Property, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square, 3 25 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 3 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, 3 25 LEGAL REQUIREMENTS. - Sales 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 noon, at the Court House in the County in which the property is situate. Notices of these sales must be given in a public gazette forty days previous to the day 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 an 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 be published weekly for two months. Citations for Letters of Administration must be published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin istration, monthly , six, months —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 three months. will always be continued accord ing to these, the 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 their newspapers, the publisher may continue to send them until all arrearages are paid. 3. 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 bills 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. 5. The Courts have decided that refusing to take newspapers from the office, or removing and leaving them uncalled for, is prime facie evidence of inten tional fraud. G. The United States Courts have also repeatedly decided, that a Postmaster who neglects to perform his duty of giving reasonable notice, as required by the Post Office Department, of the neglect of a per son to take from the office newspapers addressed to him, renders the Postmaster liable to the publisher for the subscription price. 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.