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JOHN HENRY SEALS, )
and— ‘• Editors.
L. LINCOLN VEAZEY, )
NEW SERIES. VOL. I.
TiIPMCK CRUDER.
published
EVERY SATURDAY, EXCEPT TWO, IX THE YEAR,
BY JOHN H. SEALS.
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will always be continued accord- j
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t. The United States Courts have also repeatedly
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JOB PRINTING,
of every description, done with neatness and dispatch,
at this office, and at reasonable prices for cash. All
orders, in this department, must be addressed to
ts. T. BLAIN.
PROS V F,CTr H
oy Tnn
[qcoxdam]
TEMPERANCE BANNER.
4 CTUATF.D bv a conscientious desire to further
{ ** ir Jy cni ln ~ - LA^Lii'/LlLlll^
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,
wc 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 ot a
large portion of the present readers of the Banner
and its former patrons, prejudices and difficulties
which can never bo 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.”
Tins 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.
Wc entreat the friends of the Tcinperauqe Cause
to give us their influence in extending the usefulness
of the paper. Wc 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.
JgSp’Pricer as heretofore, sl, strictly in advance.
JOHN H. SEALS,
Editor and Proprietor.
Penfield, Ga., Dec. 8, 1855.
jßttttli tn Canptnmte, Piorriitg, UTiterature, (feral fiddfipte, fktos, so.
I Sdi
I Cousin Ben; Or, the Good Deed Rewarded.
“ Visitors !” exclaimed Kate Bennett im
j patiently, as she laid aside the book she had
i been reading, and in which she had been
i deeply’ interested, and took the cards which
| the servant presented.
’ “Dear me, how provoking! Just as lam
in the most exciting part of the story —and
that pert, disagreeable Emily Archer, Xu
she added, reading one of the cards; “whe
else I wonder ?”
Was there magic in that simple bit of
paste-board, inscribed with only two words,
“Richard Warren !’* It would almost seem
so, so instantaneous did her countenance
change. The frown that disfigured her
beautiful brow disappeared, her eyes spark
led, and without another thought of the
book, she hastily assured herself by’ a glance
in the mirror, that her toilet was unexcep
tionable, and left the room.
As she entered the drawing room, and
greeted her guest with all that grace and el
egance of manner for which she was distin
guished, Emily Archer surveyed her with
one rapid, critical glance ; ..but dress, as well
as manner, was faultless,
“It must be confessed that Kate Bennett
enters a room like a Queen,” she thought,
with a pang of envy r and jealousy', as in
Richard Warren’s face she read undisguis
ed admiration of the lovely girl before them.
What casual, observer, who had marked
the meeting of these two ladies, would have
dreamed that, under all their outward friend
liness, each hated the other with her whole
heart ? Yet so it was. Kate and Emily
were rival belles, and their claims to admi
ration were so equally balanced that it re
quired no little exertion on either side to
gain the ascendancy, and be acknowledged
the victor.
IfKate, with her classical features, queen
ly dignity, elegant figure, and exquisite taste,
at first sight threw her rival in the shade,
Emily’s piquant style and sprightly conver
sation were by many preferred to Kate’s
statuesque beauty'. It was impossible to
decide which was the loveliest—each had
her adherents and admirers—but as they
were equally numerous, it seemed probable
that the season would draw to a close with
out the all-important decision of the ques
tion which had been, par excellence , the
belle.
Just at this time Richard Warren return
ed from Europe. The arrival of so unde
niably elegant, handsome, and wealthy a
gentleman, was an event —ail the fashiona
ble world was in a flutter, and the rivals
saw at once that the important epoch had
arrived. She whose claims he advocated,
whom he favored with his admiration,
would at. once stand upon the precarious
pinnacle of belle-ship, though their tactics
were entirely different.
Emily brought to bear upon him the bat
teries of her sprightly wit, while Kate
adroitly laid the mine of apparently queenly
indifference. As yet, though it was evi
dent that Richard admired both, his prefer
ence was not known—perhaps he hardly
I knew himself which one he thought the
most charming.
But during this exposition of the claims
of the rivals a lively conversation had been
going on. The last new novel and the ope
ra had been discussed, as well as some of
their mutual friends, and in the midst ot
some wickedly witty remarks of Emily up
on a would-be fashionable lady, aloud voice
was heard in the hall. It came nearer the
door, and the words could be distinctly’ un
derstood.
You no-brained, impudent jackanapes,
I’ll teach you manners; I’ll make you laugh
on t’other side of your mouth.
The door was flung open, and in walked
a tall, athletic young man, whose really fine
form was disguised in an ill-fitting suit i ’’
evidently domestic manufacture, and stood
for a moment awardly looking round him;
then hastily approaching Kate, he flung hL
arms around her, and gave her a loud smack
on the check.
lily from his embrace.
“Sir !” said she, with freezing diguitv.
“Law ! don’t ye know who’ I be V* ex
claimed the new comer, in no wise discon
certed. “Wall, now, 1 do actually believe
you ye lorgot me. Don’t yer know yer
cousin Ben l \ e see, I don’t like farmin’ no
how you can fix it, so I quit that and come
to the city. Jim Simpson was down to our
{ place, and he’s doing fust rate here. lie
said ’twas dreadful hard to get a start in
the city, but guess I ain’t a going to slump
through where he gets ahead. I’ll resk it
any how.”
Catharine, at the commencement of this
speech had alternately flushed and paled,
tor she was deeply mortified that Richard
Warren and Emily Archer should have
been the witness ot such a scene. She
caught a triumphant glance from Emily.—
It restored her pride.
With all the grace ot which she was mis
tress, she turned to the new comer
“You must excuse me, Cousin Ben,” she
said, “1 had forgotten you. A few years
make a change, and I can hardly retrace in
your countenance a feature that reminds
ine of the lad who went nutting with me in
the dear old woods of Hampton. Allow
me, Miss Archer.” she added, turning to her,
“to present to you my cousin, Mr. Adams
—Mr. YTarren, Mr. Adams,” and with per
PENFIELD, GA, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1856.
feet composure she saw his awkward bow
and scrape,
Emily at once commenced a conversation
with Mr. Adams, and was proceeding to
drag him out most ridiculously, when Kate
came to the rescue.
“You forget, Miss Archer,” said she, “that
my cousin has just arrived in town and has
not yet had an opportunity to see the lions.
He will be better able to give his opinion of
them in a few days, when I shall have the
pleasure of acting as his cicerone.”
Air. Warren, like a well-bred gentleman,
as he was, addressed some remarks to Mr.
Adams on subjects with which he was fa
milliar, and shortly after, he, with Miss Ar
cher, took leave. Kate could have cried
with vexation as she thought of the sarcas
tic and ludicrous description of the scene
which Emily would delight in giving, but
she controlled herself. She was a kind
hearted girl, and could not forget the visits
she had her dear uncle and aunt Adams, or
Ben’s untiring efforts to make her happy,
when at his father’s house. She resolved
to repay him now, and her graciousness of
manner quite fascinated poor Ben, as she
made all sorts of inquiries about the old
farm.
No sooner had Richard Warren, with
Miss Archer, left the house, than she be
gan, with all her powers of sarcasm, as
Kate had foreseen, to ridicule the scene
they had witnessed. Mr. Warren smiled
but seemed absent.
“I had no idea that the Bennett’s had such
vulgar relations,” continued Emily, know
ing well that the fastidious Richard War
ren would consider this serious objection to
the woman of his choice. “Notwithstand
ing all Kate Bennett’s elegance there is a
certain something about the family that be
trays low blood.”
“Yes,” returned Warren, hardly knowing
what he had said, and feeling that she had
gained one point, Emily walked on, in the
best possible spirits, internally triumphing
over the discomfiture of her rival.
That evening at the opera, who should be
at Kate’s side but cousin Ben; dressed in
taste, and evidently much interested in the
performance, while Miss Bennett listened
with polite attention to his frank and sensi
ble criticism. At parties, too, he was her
attendant; and this open acknowledgment
of her relations quite blunted the point of
Emily’s satires. Mr. Bennett assisted the
youth to a situation, and very speedily his
rusticity wore off. He had both good looks
and good sense. Under his cousin’s judi
cious training, he very soon did her no dis
credit, even among the crowd of fine gen
tlemen that surrounded her.
Emily Archer saw all, and bit her lip in
vexation. She could not but acknowledge
the superiority of Kate’s strategy, and she
had triumphed in the event which she hoped
would humiliate her.
From that time Richard Warren was her
constant attendant, and ere long he had
openly acknowledged his preference by of
fering her his heart and hand.
“Kate,” he said, shortly after betrothal,
“I shall never cease to thank Cousin Ben for
giving me my bride. I admired you as a
belle, but his coming and your reception of
him proved that you were something better
than a mere fine lady—that you were a true
woman, blest with that greatest of all at
tractions, a heart. Confess that you owe
him a debt of gratitude.”
#####-**
Many years had passed. In the sober
matron, Mrs; Warren, one would have hard •
ly recognized the dashing belle, Kate Ben
nett.
Blest with wealth, a cheerful home, a fond
husband and loving children, she had led a
happy life, and time had but increased the
attachment of the wedded pair. But cloud
less as her life had been, a storm was gath
ering. Her husband, always cheerful, grew
moody, restless and unhappy. She tried
in vain to discover the cause of his gloom,
but he only made evasive replies to her in
quiries, and could only guess at his troubles;
that they were connected with his business
she imagined. Her surmises were correct.
iioumcicu itie room one day where she
was sitting, and exclaimed, flinging himseli
on the sofa—
“ Kate, we are ruined. In vain 1 have
struggled for weeks past; it is useless to at
tempt it longer. To-day I shall be known
as a bankrupt—penniless, and worse than
penniless. In trying to double my fortune
1 have lost all. You and my children are
beggars.”
“Why should loss ol wealth trouble you,
Richard ?” said his wife tenderly, approach
ing and taking his hand. “That is after all
but a trifling misfortune. While we are
spared to each other, blest with health and
children, why should we repine at the mere
loss of fortune ?”
The husband groaned.
“Ah, to be dishonest, Kate,” he said, “fear
to look men in the face, because I am a
bankrupt—unable to pay my debts. Kate,
the very idea of this drives me nearly mad.
•To avoid this, what have I not done ? I
have passed sleepless nights and anxious
days, but all in vtiin.”
With soothing words the wife tiled to
comfort him; but alas, he paid little heed
to her efforts.
Just then a servant entered, saying that a
gentleman wished to see Mr. W arren.
“Tell him that I cannot,” replied his mas
ter, “I will see nobody.”
“But you will,” replied a cheerful voice,
and a gentleman closely followed the ser
vant as he entered.
“How is this, my dear Dick 1” he said;
“you are in trouble, and did not apply to me;
that was not right.”
“And of what use would it have been ?”
returned Warren. “I am weary of bor
rowing of one friend to repay the other, day
after day. Even that has failed me at last,
and I have come to hide myself from the
prying gaze of those who will soon be talk
ing of my disgrace.”
“I had heard rumors of this, Dick, and
went to your office to see you; as you were
not there, I folio vved you here. You have
two hours yet before bank hours are over.
Here is a blank check ; fill it up yourself,
and it shall be duly honored. Repay at
your convenience. No thanks; it is only a
loan. I know your business well, and that
in a little time, with perhaps a little assist
ance. all will be right again.”
Totally overcome, Richard could only
grasp his friend’s hand, while his eyes filled
with an unwonted moisture.
“How can we ever thank you, dearest
cousin Ben !” cried Kate. “How can we
ever repay you?”
“Tut, tut, Kate, I am only discharging a
part of a debt I owe you, my dear girl. I
owe all I possess—all I am—lo you. When
I first came here, a raw, ignorant, awkward
country booby, you were not ashamed of
me. You took me cordially by the hand, in
fluenced hour father to assist me, and more
than all, by unvarying kindness, offering me
a home and innocent amusements in your
society, kept me out of the many tempta
tions that beset a lonely, inexperienced lad,
such as without you I should have been. J
thanked you for it then, even when I didn’t
appreciate the sacrifice it was in a fine lady
to have a bumpkin like myself about her;
and when I knew more of the world and un
derstood the rarity of such conduct, I loved
you the better for it, and felt the more grate
ful. I had no opportunity to show it be
fore, in any substantial form. But now you
see you are under no obligations. I’rn only
getting rid of a little of the heavy load you
placed me under long ago. Be off with
you Dick, and hereafter rely on me in all
cases like the present. Don’t get discour
aged too easily—business men, of all others,
should have elastic temperaments. Good
bye, now,’ he added, as Warren disappear
ed, kissing the tears from Kate’s cheek', ‘and
be assured that Ben Adams, the millionaire,
has never forgotten, and will try to repay
your kindness to your poor and awkward
cousin.”
“I am richly repaid,” she muttered.—
“How little I dreamed, long ago, that twice
in my life I should owe my highest happi
ness to the trifling acts of kindness towards
my good cousin.”
Vibration.
There is no point in which the science of
the last fifty years has made more aston
ishing advances and discoveries than in re
gard to Vibration.
Sound , f r example, 13 nothing but this,
and the tympanum of the ear would ap
p°ar simply to be an instrument capable
of being set in corresponding motion, and
thus registering to the brain the number of
these undulations in a secoud, varying as
they do from thirty-two in a second to
twenty-four thousand in the same time.—
Sound is then simply a certain wave-like
motion communicated to the air. In a
chord, these vibrations strike together; in
a discord, they strike irregularly and be
tween each other.
Light, it is now also pretty well demon
strated, is nothing but a series of vibra
tions of a more subtle ether, and the eye
only an instrument for receiving and reg
istering them. There must be, it w'ould
seem, throughout all space that is certain
ly between us and the most distant fixed
star, an exceedingly subtle fluid, with none
of the grossness of our atmospheric air, but
capable of being set in undulatory motions
of extreme rapidity, and these so affect
the nerves oi the retina as to cause the sen
sation of light. 458 followed by twelve
ciphers, thii3 458,000,300,000,000 gives
the number of vibrations p r second which
produce the sensation on the eye of a sin
gle ray of red light. This is the smallest
number of any kind of light; a violet ray
is 727,000,000,000,000. Such is the una
dulatorj’ theory now generally received as
the least difficult to conceive.
Electricity, like light, used to be consid
ered as an extremely rare and subtle fluid,
moving with a rapidity about as great as
light. Now, however, many of its effects
are to be considered as most easily explain
ed by a theory of undulations of some ex
tremely subtle medium. In fermentation,
also, the changes produced seem all attrib
utable to. a certain vibratory motion, com
municated in some way by light and heat
to the fermenting body, water probably
serving as the medium of communication
between the particles.
In vegetable life, it would seem as if
light and electricity, not as fluids, but as
forces, are the means of developing all
grow'th. A single ray of yellow light beats
against the bulb of a plant, or the seed of
a tree, at the inconcievable rate of 535,-
000,000 times in the millionth part of a
second, and this acting upon the germ,
awakens within it some corresponding mo
tion, and is thus the force that in the
course of many years gives growth to the
tallest tree now in the forest, and weigh
UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY
ing tons of matter extracted from the at
mosphere.
Animal life exhibits many analogies to
vegetable, and the line between them is
not. easily drawn. All seems to be caused
by certain undulatory movements, waves
of light and electricity acting upon certain
monads and exciting them to motion, and
indeed to become in turn sources of motion
at first in voluntary, and afterwards volun
tary. All vegetable and animal life is thus
the work of unseen, unknown, moving for
ces such as those which w T e call light or
electricity, or what we please. But all
amounts to this, that beyond any traces
of matter, there are traces of a something
beyond matter acting upon it, moving it
and shaping it in certain forms, all express
ive of order, will, intelligence and harmo
nious design, from the frost upon the win
dow pane to the u ves of plants and their
colors; and from these again to the hand
i c man, and even the instincts and intui
tion with which he is endowed. All cre
ation thus becomes visibly the work of a
moving power, inconceivably, vast, but
carrying out harmonious and settled de
signs through innumerable ages. In a
word, as Agessiz has said, it is impossible
to understand the visible creation except
by regarding it as the expression of a tho’t
of God, the embodiment of a design of his.
If w'e now begin at the other end, and
instead of looking from inert matter in
ward to design, we look from design out
ward to its effects on matter, what do we
find ? Begin with the will of man, that
great moving power of civilization, that
free choice, the immateriality of which is
no less a matter ©f personal consciousness
to each one of ns, than its power over mat
ter. This it is which makes us conscious
causes, agents and not merely passive re
cipients. We resolve to lift an arm, and
we do lift it ; to set down a foot, and w r e
set it down. But where lies the point of
contact and connection between the spon
taneous thought, the immaterial will, and
the hand or the foot? Who shall answer
this? Motion is the nearest point of con
nection to which we can trace it all. That
hand may set in motion a forseen train of
causes that shall shake the solid earth for
miles, destroy navies, and move trains of
cars, ortons of coal. Or it may send mes
sages thousands of miles. All the other
links in this chain are easily traced, but
yet there is one link, that which unites
the will with the first motion, mind with
matter, wno shall trace ? We are all con
scious of will, and conscious of motion,
but bow does the one produce the other ?
A message we shall be told is in some way
sent along the nerves, perhaps by electri
city, and this moves the muscles; but by
the term electricity we only mean one par
ticular kind of vibratory motion, with
which we are familiar. Our inquiry now
is, what sets that motion moving? W.
cannot tell. All we can say is, that at tht
first point at which we find our thoughts,
and conscious immaterial wills producing
sensible efftcts on matter, there also w<
find the evidences of a higher thought, a
more amazing, harmonious, complete and
conscious will, acting upot the whole uni
verse, from the most distant star, the un
dulations of whose light reach us only at’
ter travelling for millions of years, to the
sound of the little insect, the vibrations
of whose wings are not less than 12,000 in
a second. Vibration seems to be the near
est point of junction between mind an©
matter which we can trace in all creation.
We can certainly approach as near to the
direct personal Deity’ presiding over crea
tion, as of a personal will in any other
being out of ourselves .—Phil&d. Ledger.
•
The Legend of the Wandering Jew.
A wild and terrible legend is that of the
middle ages, which personified the Jew
ish nation by the traits of the Wandering
Jew. It represents an old man, with na
ked feet, uncovered head, and long white
beard, wandering ceaselessly over the
earth. His face is pale, a mark of blood
is upon his forehead, his eyes burn like
sapphires beneath their oblique lids. With
an eagle-like nose, and blood-like lips,
squalid and harsh in features, and clad in
a coarse woollen gown, he ever pursues
with staff in hand his interminable jour
ney. Speaking all languages and travers
ing all lands, knowing not the purpose ot
God concerning himself, and ever driven
onward by a secret impulse, he is trans
ported from place to place with the speed
of the wind ; and as the long centuries
come successively to a close, his old age
renews itself with the vigor of youth in or
der that he may complete the weary round
of ages. The people wonder as he hastens
past. Once or twice only’ has he paused to
tell his story. He was of the Jewish na
tion. Ahasueras by name, and a shoema
ker by trade. Dwelling in Jerusalem he
persecuted our Saviour, and “was of those
who cried “Crucify him !” The sentence
of death having been pronounced, he ran
to his house, before which Jesus was to
pass on the way to Calvary. Taking his
child in his arms he stood at the door with
all ‘his family to behold the procession.—
Our Saviour, weighed down by the heavy
burden of the Cross, leaned for a moment
against the wall; and the Jew, to show hie
zeal, struck the innocent one with cruel
blows, and pointing to the place of execu
tion, bade him goon. Then Jesus, turn
ing to the unfeeling child of Israel, said:
TERMS: 81.00 IN AI3VA>
JAMES T. BLAIN,
PRINTER.
VOL. XHL-NDMBER
“Thou refuses rest for the Son of God ; IB
I {?o, for it must n. edn be ; |||l
But for thee there t>h<iil be no rest
Or repose until I return. |.|g|
Go forth on thy long journey, EJjH
Leave thine own ; traverse mountains fir fiHli
Pausing neither in the cities nor the deseHS
Nowhere—not even in the tomb. gjjj
As an example to the Universe, and
Everywhere the heavy weight of my
Much shalt thou long for death, thy dehvt HE
But shalt not die until the day of j'l'igiuei^^^B
lie assists at the Crucifixion, ami EH
goes forth a mysterious stranger, üßi
teet shall become familiar with all la nil
llow age after age he longs for the s vß|
<>f death and the repose of the tomb ! Hi
in spite of death he must live on; hisHi
shall not mingle with that of his ancesl
He drags himself from a gloomy cavei
Mt. Carmel, shaking the dust from Hi
beard, grown even to his knees. IB|
grinning skulls are before him. IJe toll
and burls them from the top of the mil
tain, and they go bounding down t|
rock to rock. They are the skulls offl
parents, of his wife and six small childHf
all of whom have been able to die ; hull
cannot. He rushes into the flames of I
ing Jerusalem, and attempts to bury (HI
self beneath the crumbling ruins of Rilf
but in vain. Flying from cities and nB
the wanderer seeks the solitary placeaß
the earth. He climbs the everlasting miß
tains; passing beyond the region of IJ|
dure and of dashing torrents his feet trß
the seas of amethyst and opal. Above B
are only peaks shrouded in mists and I
nal snows. The daring eagle soars notl
high. There are no sounds save the crl
lings of the glaciers. The sonl seems*
most to touch the heavens above. Tl|
surely the Wandering Jew shall rest. |
A pursuing angel unsheaths a swordß
flaming fire, and, lo ! the wanderer beh(|
once more in the heavens the drama of|
Crucifixion. The way from earth to hi
n is storied with myriads of celestial ly
ingß radiant with light. Before him K
ill the martysand saints and sages I
have ever lived and died. For a moml
he gazes upon the vision, and turns a\l
chased by the sword of flame and deml
of frightful form. Then he again waul
over the earth, ever with fine pieces of cl
per in his pocket, ever with the mu kl
blood upon bis forehead, Maddened wl
rhe agony of life, he throws himself il
the crater of J2cna, but the boiling liql
and sulphurous flames harm hun notl
The floods of lava vomit him forth, fori
hour is not yet come. Embarking ill
tbe sea, the wind raises its surface il
mountain waves—-the yessel divides, ;l
all perish save the Wandering Jew. ‘I
light to sink in the ocean, its waves c
■him upon the hated shore. He plunges
•o a hundred bloody conflicts with<
sword or shield. All in vain. The lea.
mils rain harmlessly upon him; battle a
rnd scimetars glance from his charu
body. Where mounted squadrons fli
with the fury of demons, lie casts h : m
under the feet of the horseman, an 1 is i
uarmed, so riveted are his soul and b<
together. He says to Nero, ‘ Thou
drunk with blood.” To Christian and M
sulman, “Drunk art thou with blood. 1
They invent the most horrible tortures
‘iis punishment, yet, injure him not. L n
irig, in his vain pursuit of death, the bi
that throb with life and industry, the W;
Jeriog Jew threads the solitary jungles
‘he tropics. He walks in poisoned air, a
fierce lions and flat-beaded Serpents u
only sport with him as he hastens by.
And thus he wanders :
“Traversing mountains and seas,
Pausing neither in the cities nor the deserts
Nowhere—not even in the tomb.”
Mercy of the Rum Seller.
A poor, sick woman sept her husba
for some medicine, That the errand mig
the more surely be performed, she call
her sou, a young lad, and said, “Here Ji
my, you go with your father, and, now,
hasten back, for I am in great pain.”
They started, and walked some distan
to a grocery. While there, an old co
panion meeting them, said to the mi
“Let’s take something to drink.” “N<
said Jimmy, “we had better go home,
ther; mother is waiting.” “What, boy
said the Rum seller, sneeringv, “do y<
teach your father when to drink ?” Tin
took a glass, and very soon, another, Jn
my, all the time, urging him to go hum
out without avail. Glass followed aft<
glass until twelve o’clock, when the she
was closed, and they started for home, flr
taking care to have his jug filled. Tt
night was as cold and unrelenting as tl
rumseller’s heart. The wind moaned thr
the boughs of the leafless trees, as if coi
scious of the fearful scene about to be ei
acted. Hour after hour the sick wife an;
iously awaited their return, but they can)
not. “ Morning dawned, but still no hn
band and son made their appearance.-
Finally, she sent for a neighbor, who wet
in search of them.
About a mile from the house, he fonn
the man lying upon the ground, a st.itfet
ed corpse, his jug by his side. Near bj
stood Jimmy, his elbows resting upon tb
fence, and his head upon his band, th
tears which flowed Iroin his now glaze
eyes, were congealed to ice upon his cheeki
He, too, was a frozen corpse.
Who will say the Rum seller should nc
bear the guilt? And, yet he pleads hi
license I— Binghamton Standard.