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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