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JOHN HENRY SEALS, )
and > Editors.
L. LINCOLN VEAZEY, )
NE¥ SERIES, VOL’ I.
THPIMII WMDIB.
PDBLI9HEP
EVERY SATURDAY. EXCEPT TWO,. IN THE YEAR,
BY JOHN H. SEALS.
TERMS I
f.1,00, in advance; or $2,00 at the end of the year.
RATES OF ADVERTISING.
1 square (twelve lines or less) 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
STANDING ADVERTISEMENTS.”
1 square, three months, 5 00
1 square, six months, < 00
1 square, twelvemonths, 12 00
2 squares, “ “ 18 00
3 squares, “ “ 21 00
4 squares, “ “ 25 00
not marked with the number
of insertions, will be continued until forbid, and
charged accordingly.
Druggists, and others, may con
tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms.
LEGAL ADVERTISEMENTS.
Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators,
Executors, and Guardians, per square,— 500
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 —lor 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.
23iF”Publications 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, arc 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 prima facie evidence of inten
tional fraud.
0. 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.
PKOS l* E 4: X f; s
OF TIIE
TEMPERANCE CRUSADER.
[quondam]
TEMPERANCE BANNER.
A CTUATED by a conscientious desire to further
Am tVie 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
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 vet 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 contcm
noraries, 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 eive us their influence 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.
p-enfield, Ga., Dec. 8,1866.
Uttoteir to Cempranct, Hturaliijr, Jitaaittre, (faral stttdlipa, JJetos, It.
THE INTEMPERATE.
“Come along,” said James Harwood to
his wife, who, burdened with two children,
followed in his steps. Her heart was full,
and she made no reply.
“Well, be sullen if you choose, but make
haste you shall, or I will leave you in the
woods.”
Then, as if vexed because his ill-humor
failed to irritate its object, he added in a
higher tone —
“Put down that boy. Have not I told
you twenty times, that you could get along
faster if you had but one to carry ? He
can walk as well as I can.”
“lie is sick,” said bis mother ; feel how
his head throbs. Pray take him in your
arms.”
“I toll you, Jane Harwood, once for all,
that you are spoiling the child by your
foolishness. He is no more sick than I
am. You are only trying to make him la
zy. Get down I tell you, and walk,” ad
dressing the languid boy.
He would have proceeded to enforce obe
dience, but the report of a gun arrested
his attention. He entered a thicket, to
discover whence it proceeded, and the
weary and sad heartened mother sat down
upon the grass. Bitter were her reflec
tions during that interval of rest among
•the wilds of Ohio. The pleasant New Eng
land village from which she had just emi
grated, and the peaceful home of her birth,
rose up to her view—where, but a few
years before, she had given her hand to
one whose unkindness now strewed it with
thorns. By constant and endearing atten
tions he had won her youthful love, and
the two first years of their union promis
ed happiness. Both were industrious and
affectionate, and the smiles of their infant
in his evening sports or slumbers, more
than repaid the labors of the day.
But a change became visible. The hus
band grew inattentive to his business, and
indifferent to his fireside. He permitted
debts to accumulate, in spite of the econ
omy of his wife, and became morose and
offended at her remonstrances. She strove
to hide, even from her own heart, the vice
that was gaining the ascendancy over him,
and redoubled her exertions to render his
home agreeable. But too frequently her
efforts were of no avail, or contemptuous
ly rejected. The death of her beloved
mother, and the birth of a second infant,
convinced her that neither in sorrow or
sickness could she expect sympathy from
him, to whom she had given her heart, in
the simple faith of confiding affection.—
They became miserably poor, and the
cause was evident to every observer. In
this distress a letter was received from a
brother, who bad been for several years a
lesident in Ohio, mentioning that he was
induced to remove further westward and
offering them the use of a tenement which
his family would leav vacant, and a small
portion of cleared land, until they might
be able to become purchasers.
Poor Jane listened to this proposal with
gratitude. She thought she saw in it the
salvation of her husband. She believed
that if he were divided from his intemper
ate companions, he would return to his
early habits of industry and virtue. The
trial of leaving native and endeared scenes,
from which she would have shrunk, seem
ed as nothing in comparison with the pros
pect of bis reformation and returning hap
piness. Yet when all their"few effects were
converted into the wagon and horse which
were to convey them to a far land, and the
scant and humble necessaries which were
to sustain them on their way thither; “when
she took leave of her brother and sisters,
with their households ; when she shook
hands with the friends she had loved from
her cradle, and remembered that it might
be the last time ; and when the hills that
encircled her native village faded into the
faint, blue outline of the horizon, there
came over her such a desolation of spirit,
sr.ch a foreboding of evil, as she had nev
er before experienced. She blamed herself
for these feelings, and repressed their in
dulgence.
The journey was slow and toilsome.—
The autumnal rains and the state of the
roads were against them. The few uten
sils and comforts which they carried with
them were gradually abstracted and sold.
The object of this traffic could not be doubt
ed. The effects were but too visible in his
conduct. She reasoned—she endeavored
to persuade him to a different course. But
anger was the only result. When he was
not too far stupified to comprehend her re
marks, his deportment was exceedingly
overbearing and arbitrary. He felt that
she had no friend to protect her from inso
lence, and was entirely in his own power;
and she was compelled to realize that it
was a power without generosity, and that
there is no tyranny so perfect as that of a
capricious and an alienated husband.
As tlwy approached the close of their
distressing journey, the roads became
worse, and their horse utterly failed, lie
had been but scantily provided for, as the
intemperance of his owner had taxed and
impoverished every thing for its own sup
port. Jane wept as she looked on the dy
ing animal, and remembered his laborious
aud ill-repaid services.
“What shall Ido with the brute,” ex
claimed his master, “he has died in such
PENFIELD, GA.. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8. 1856, UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY
an out-of-the-way place, that I cannot even
find one to buy his skin.”
Under the shelter of their miserably bro
ken wagon, they passed another night, and
early in the morning pursued their way
on foot. Os their slender stores, a few
morsels of bread were all that remained.—
But James had about his person a bottle,
which he no longer made a secret of using.
At every application of it to his lips, his
temper seemed to acquire new violence. —
They were within a few miles of the ter
mination of their journey, and their direc
tions had been very clear and precise.—
But his mind became so bewildered and
perverse, that lie persisted in choosing by
} aths of underwood and tangled weeds,
under the pretence of seeking a shorter
route. This increased and prolonged their
fatigue—but no entreaty of his wearied
wife was regarded. The little boy of four
years old whose constitution bad been fee
ble from his infancy, became so feverish
and distressed, as to be unable to proceed.
The mother, after in vain soliciting aid
and compassion from her husband, took
himjn her arms, while the youngest whom
she had previously carried, and who was
unable to walk, clung to her shoulders. —
Thus burdened, her progress was tedious
and painful. Still she was enabled to go
on : for the strength that nerves a mother’s
arm, toiling for her sick child, is from God,
She even endeavored to press on more rap
idly than usual, fearing that if she fell be
hind her husband would tear the sufferer
from her arms, in some paroxysm of his
savage intemperance.
Their road during the day, though ap
proaching the small settlement where they
were to reside, lay through a solitary part
of the country. The children were faint
and hungry ; and as the exhausted moth
er sat upon the grass, trying to nurse her
infant, she drew from her bosom the last
piece of bread, and held it to the parched
lips of the feeble child. But he turned a
way his head, and with a scarcely audible
moan, asked for water. Feelingly might
she sympathize in the distress of the poor
outcast from the tent of Abraham, who
laid her famished son among the shrubs,
and sat down a good way off, saymg, “Let
me not see the death of the child.” Bat
this Christian mother, was not in the des
ert, nor in despair. She looked upward
to Him, who is the refuge of the forsaken,
and the comforter of those whose spirits
are cast down.
The sun was drawing toward the West,
as the voice of James Harwood was heard
issuing from the forest, attended by anoth
er man with a gun and some birds at his
girdle.
“Wife, will you get up now, and come
along? We are not a mile from home. —
Here is John Williams, who -went from
our part of the country, and says he is our
next-door neighbor.”
Jane received this hearty welcome with
a thankful spirit, and arose to accompany
them. The kind neighbor took the sick
boy in his arms, saying—
“Harwood, take the baby from your
wife ; we do not let our women bear all the
burdens here in Ohio.”
James was ashamed to refuse, and reach
ed his hands towards the child. But ac
customed to neglect or unkindness, it hid
its face, crying in the maternal bosom.
“Yon see how it is. She makes the chil
dren so cross, that I never have any com
fort of them. She chooses to carry them
herself, and always will have her own
way.”
“You have come to anew settled coun
try, friends,” said John Williams; but it
is a good country to get a living in. Crops
of corn and wheat are such as you never
saw in New England. Our cattle live in
clover, and the cows give us cream instead
of milk. There is plenty of game to em
ploy our leisure, and venison and wild tur
key do not come amiss now and then on a
farmer’s table.
“Here is a short cut I can show you ;
though there is a fence or two to climb. —
James Harwood, I shall liko to talk with
you about old times and old friends down
east. Why don’t you help your wife over
ti e fence with her baby ?”
“So I would, but she is so sulky. She
has not spoke a word to me all day. I al
ways say let such folks take care of them
selves-.till their mad fit is over.”
A cluster of log cabins now met their
view through au opening in the forest. —
They were pleasantly situated in the midst
of an area of cultivated land. A fine riv
er, surmounted by a rustic bridge of the
trunks of trees, cast a sparkling line thro
the dee]), unchanged autumnal verdure.
“Here we live,” said the guide, “a
hard-working, contented people. This is
your house which has no smoke curling up
from the chimney. It may not be quite so
genteel as some you have left behind in
the old States, but it is about as good as
any in the neighborhood. I’ll go and cal
my wife to welcome you; right glad will
she be to see you, for she sets great store
by folks from New England.”
The inside of a log cabin, to those not
habituated to it, presents but a cheerless
aspect. The eye needs time to accustom
itself to the rude walls and floors, the ab
sence of glass windows, and doors loosely
hung upon leather hinges. The exhausted
woman entered and sank down with her
babe. There was no chair to receive her.
In a corner of the room stood a rough ta-
jbie, and a low frame resembling a bed
stead. Other furniture there were none.
Glad kind voices of her own sex, recalled
her from her stupor. Three or four mat
rons and several blooming young faces,
welcomed her with smiles. The warmth of
reception in anew colony, and the sub
stantial services by which it is manifested,
put to shame the ceremonious and heart
less professions, which in a more artificial
state of society, are dignified with the name
of friendship.
As if by magic, what had seemed al
most a prison, assumed a different aspect,
under the ministry of active benevolence.
A cherful flame rose from the ample fire
place ; several chairs and a bench for the
children appeared ; a bed with comfortable
covering concealed the shapelessness of the
bedstead, and viands to which they bad
long been strangers were heaped upon the
table. An old lady held the sick boy ten
derly in her arms, who seemed to revive
as he saw his mother’s face brighten, and
the infant, after a draught of fresh milk,
fell into a sweet and profound slumber. —
One by one, the neighbors departed, that
the wearied ones might have an opportu
nity of repose. John Williams, who was
the last to bid good bye, lingered a mo
ment as he closed the door, and said—
“ Friend Harwood, here is a fine, gentle
cow feeding at your door, and for old ac
quaintance sake, you and your family are
welcome to the use of her for the present,
or until you can make out better.”
When they were left alone, Jane poured
out her gratitude to her Almighty Protec
tor in a flood of joyful tears. Kindness
to which she had recently been a stranger,
fell as a balm of Gilead upon her wound
ed spirit.
“Husband,” she exclaimed in the full
ness of her heart, “we may yet be happy.”
He answered not, and she perceived that
he heard not. He had thrown himself up
on the bed, and in a deep and stupid sleep
was dispelling the fumes of intoxication.
This new family of emigrants, though in
This new family of emigrants, though in
the midst of poverty, were sensible of a
degree of satisfaction to which they had
long been strangers. The difficulty of pro
curing ardent spirits in this small and iso
lated community, promised to be the
means of establishing their peace. The
mother busied herself in making their hum
ble tenement neat and comfortable, while
her husband, as if ambitious to earn in a
new residence, the reputation he had lost
in the old, labored diligently to assist his
neighbors in gathering in their harvest,
receiving his payment in such articles as
were needed for the subsistence of his
household. Jane continually gave thanks
in her prayers for this great blessing; and
the hope she permitted herself to indulge,
of his permanent reformation, imparted
unwonted cheerfulness to her brow and de
meanor. The invalid boy seemed also to
gather healing from his mother’s smiles,
for so great was her power over him, since
sickness had rendered his dependence com
plete, that his comfort, and even his coun
tenance, were a faithful reflection of her
own. Perceiving the degree of her influ
ence, she endeavored to use it, as every
religious parent should, for his spiritual
benefit. She supplicated that the pencil
which was to write upon his soul, might
be guided from above. She spoke to him
in the tenderest manner of his Father in
Heaven, and of his* will respecting little
children. She pointed out His goodness in
the daily gifts that sustain life; in the glo
rious sun as it came forth rejoicing in the
east; in the gently falling rain ; the trail
plant, and the dews that nourish it. He
loved even the storm and the lofty thunder
because they came from God. She repeat
ed to him passages of Scripture, with
which her memory was stored, and sang
hymns, until she perceived that if he was
in pain, he complained not, if he might
but hear her voice. She made him ac
quainted with the life of the compassion
ate Redeemer, and how he called young
children to his arms, though the disciples
forbade them. And it seemed as if a voice
from Heaven urged her never to desist
from cherishing this tender and deep root
ed piety, because like the flower of grass,
he must soon fade away. Yet, though it
was evident that the seeds of disease were
in his system, his health at intervals seem
ed to be improving, and the little house
hold, partook, for a little time, the bless
ings of tranquility and content.
But let none flatter himself that the do
minion of vice is suddenly or easily broken.
It may seem to relax its grasp, and to slum
ber, but the victim who has long wore its
chain, if he would utterly escape, and tri
umph at last, must do so in the strength of
Omnipotence. This James Harwood nev
er sought. He had begun to experience
that prostration of spirits which attends the
abstraction of a habitual stimulant. His
resolution to recover his lost character was
not proof against this physical inconveni
ence. He determined at all hazards to grat
ify his depraved appetite. He laid his plans
deliberately, and with the pretext of making
some arrangements about the wagon, which
had been left broken on the road, departed
from his home. His stay was protracted
beyound the appointed limit, and at his re
turn, his sin was written on his brow, in
characters not to be mistaken. That he
had also brought with him some hoard of
intoxicating poison, to which to resort, there
remained no room to doubt. Day after day
did his shrinking household witness the al
terations of causeless anger and brutal ty
ranny. To lay waste the comfort of his
wife, seemed to be his prominent object.—
By constant contradiction and misconstruc
tion. he strove to distress her, and then vis
ited her sensibilities upon her as sins. Had
she been more obtuse by nature, or more
indifferent to his w%lfare, she might with
greater ease have borne the cross. But her
youth was nurtured in tenderness, and edu
cation had refined her sensibilities, both of
pleasure and of pain. She could not forget
the love he had once manifested for her, nor
prevent the chilling contrast from filling her
with anguish. She could not resign the
hope that the being who had early evinced
correct feelings and noble principles of ac
tion, might yet be won back to that virtue
which had rendered him worthy of her af
fections. Still, this.hope deferred was sick
ness and sorrow to the heart. She found
the necessity of deriving consolation, and
the power of endurance wholly from above.
The tender invitation by mouth of a proph
et, was as a balm to her wounded soul—“as
a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit,and
as a wife of youth, when thou wast refused,
have I called thee, saith thy God.”
So faithful was she in the discharge of
the difficult duties that devolved upon her
—so careful not to irritate her husband by
reproach or gloom—that to a casual obser
ver she might have appeared to be confirm
ing the doctrine of the ancient philosopher,
that happiness is in exact proportion to vir
tue. Had he asserted that virtue is the
source of all that happiness which depends
upon ourselves, none could have controver
ted his position. But, to a woman, a wife,
a mother, how small is the portion of inde
pendent happiness 1 She has woven the ten
drils of her heart around many props.—
Each revolving year renders their support
more necessary. They cannot waver, or
warp, or break, but ghe must tremble and
bleed.
There was but one modification of her
husband’s persecution which the fullest mea
sure of her piety could not enable her to
bear unmoved. This was unkindness to her
feeble and suffering boy. It was at first
commenced as the surest mode of distress
ing her. It opened a direct avenue to her
heart strings. What began in perverseness
seemed to end in hatred, as evil habits some
times create perverted principles. The
wasted and wild eyed invalid shrank from
his father’s glance and footstep as from the
approach of a foe. More than once had he
taken him from the little bed which mater
nal care had provided for him, and forced
him to go forth in the coid of the winter
storm.
“I mean to harden him, said he. All the
neighbors know that you make such a fool
of him that he will never be able to get a
living. For my part, I wish I had never
been called to the trial of supporting a use
less boy, who pretends to be sick only that
he may be coaxed by a silly mother.”
On such occasions, it was in vain that the
mother attempted to protect her child. She
might neither shelter him in her bosom, nor
control the frantic violence of the father.—
Harshness, and the agitation of fear, deep
ened a disease which else might have yield
ed. The timid boy, in terror of his natural
protector, withered away like a blighted
flower. It was of no avail that friends re
monstrated with the unfeeling parent, or
that hoary headed men warned him solemn
ly of his aims. Intemperance had destroy
ed his respect for man and his fear for God.
Spring at length emerged from the shades
of that heavy and bitter winter. But its
smile brought no gladness to the declining
child. Consumption fed upon its vitals, and
his nights were restless and full of pain.
“Mother, I wish I could smell the violets
that grew upon the green bank by our old
dear home.”
“It is too early for violets my child. But
the grass is beautifully green around us, and
the birds sing sweetly, as if their hearts
were full of praise.”
“In my dreams last night I saw the clear
waters of the brook that ran by the bottom
of my little garden. I wish I could taste
them once more. And I heard such music,
too, as used to come from that white church
among the trees, where every Sunday the
happy people meet to worship God.”
The mother saw that the hectic fever had
been long increasing, and knew there was
such an unearthly brightness in his eye, that
she feared his intellect wandered. She seat
ed herself on his low bed, and bent over
him to sooth and compose him. He lay si
lent lor some time.
“Do you think my father will come?”
Dreading the agonizing agitation which
in his paroxysms of coughing and pain he
evinced at the sound of his father’s well
known footstep, she answered—
“l think not, love. You had better try to
sleep.”
“Mother, I wish he would come. Ido
not feel afraid now. Perhaps he would let
me lay my cheek to his once more, as he
used to do when I was a babe in my grand
mother’s arms. I should be glad to say
good-by to him, before I go to my Savior.”
Gazing intently in his face, she saw the
work of the destroyer, in lines too strong to
be mistaken.
“My son—my dear son—say Lord Jesus
receive my spirit.”
“Mother,” he replied, with a sweet smile
upon his gastly features, “he is ready. I
C TERMS: #I.OO IN ADVANCE.
) JAMES T. BLAIN,
V. PItWTER.
VOL. BOL-NDMBEE 35.
desire to go to Him. Hold the babv to me.
that I way kiss her. That is all.’ Now
sing to me, and. oh ! wrap me •lose in your
arms, f<jr I shiver with cold.”
He clung with a death grasp, to that bo
som which had long been his sole earthly re
fu&\
“Sing louder, dear mother, a little louder,
I cannot hear you.”
A tremulous tone, as if from a broken
harp, rose above her grief, to comfort the
dying child. One sigh of iey breath was
upon her cheek, as she joined it to this—one
shudder—and all was over. She held the
body long in her arms, as if fondly hoping
to warm and revivify it with her breath.—<
Then she stretched it upon its bed, and kneel
ing beside it, hid her face in that grief which
none but mothers feel. It was a deep and
sacred solitude, alone with the dead. No
thing save the soft breathings of the sleep
ing babe fell upon that soletrgi pause. 7 hen
the silence was broken by a wail of piercing
agony. It ceased, and a voice arose, a
voice of supplication, for strength to endure,
as “seeing Him who is invisible V* Faith
closed what was begun in weakness. It
became a prayer of thanksging to Him who
had released the dove-like spirit from the
prison house of pain, that it might taste the
peace and mingle in the melody of Heaven.
She arose from the orison, and bent calm
ly over the dead. The thin, placid features
wore a smile, as when he had spoken of Je
sus. She composed the shining locks around
the pure forehead, and gazed long on what
was to her so beautiful. Tears had vanish
ed from her eyes, and in their stead was an
expression almost sublime, as of one who
had given an angel back to God.
The father entered carelessly. She poin
ted to the pallid, immovable brow—
“ See, he suffers no longer.”
He drew near and gazed on the dead
with surprise and sadness. A few natural
tears forced their way, and fell on the face
of the first-born who was once his pride.—
I'he memories of that moment were bitter.
He spoke tenderly to the emaciated moth
er; and she, who a short time before was
raised above the sway of grief, wept like an
infant as those few affectionate tones touch
ed the sealed fountains of other years.—
Neighbors and friends visited them, desirous
to console their sorrow, and attend them
when they committed the body to the earth.
There was a shady and secluded spot, which
they had consecrated by the burial of their
few dead. Thither that whole little colony
were gathered, and seated on the springing
grass, listened to the holy, healing words of
the inspired volume. It was read bv the
oldest man in the colony, who - had himself
often mourned. As he bent reverently over
the sacred page, there was that on his brow
which seemed to say “this has been my
comfort in affliction.” Silver hairs th niv
covered his temples, and his low voice was
modulated by feeling, as he read of the frail
ty of man withering like the flower of grass,
before it groweth up ; and of His majesty
in whose sight “a thousand years are as yes
terday when it is past, and as a watch in
the night.” He selected from the words of
the Compassionate One, who “gathereth the
lambs with his arm, earrieth them in his bo
som;” who, pointing out an example of the
humility of little children, said. “Except ye
become as one of these, ye cannot enter into
the kingdom of Heaven,” and who calleth all
the weary laden to come unto him, that he
may give them rest. The scene called forth
sympathy, even from manly bosoms. The
mother, worn with watching and weariness,
bowed her head down to the clay that con
cealed her child. And it was observed with
gratitude by that friendly group, that the
husband supported her in his arms, and min
gled his tears with hers.
He returned from the funeral in much
mental distress. His sins were brought to
rememberanee and reflection was misery.
For many nights sleep was disturbed by
visions of his neglected boy. Sometimes he
imagined that he heard him coughing from
his low bed, and felt constrained to go to
him, in a s f range disposition of kindness, but
his limbs were unable to obey the dictates
of his will. Then he would see him point
ing with a thin dead hand to the dark grave,
or beckoning him to follow to the unseen
world. Conscience haunted him with ter
rors, and many prayers from pious hearts
arose that he might now be led to repen
tance. The venerable man who had read
the bible at the funeral of his boy, exhorted
him to yield to the warning voice from
above, and to “break off his sins by righte
ousness, and in his iniquities by turning un
to the Lord.”
There was a change in his habits and con
versation, and his friends trusted it would be
permanent. She who, above all others, wai
interested in the result, spared no exertion
to win him back to the way of truth, and
sooth his heart into peace with itself and
obedience to his Maker. Yet was she
doomed to witness the full force of grief and
of remorse upon intemperance, onlyto'see
them utterly overthrown at last. The re
viving virtue, with whose indications abe
had solaced herself and even gave thanks
that her beloved son had not died in vaiq,
wai transient as the morning dew. Habits
of industry, which had begun to spring up,
proved themselves to be without root. The
dead, and his cruelty to the dead, were alike
forgotten. Disaffection to the chastened
being, who against hope still hoped for his
salvation, resumed its dominion. The
friends who had alternately reproved and