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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. TERMS I SI,OO, 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, 8 00 STANDING ADVERTI3EMENTS. 1 square, three months, 5 00 1 square, six months, 7 00 1 square, twelvemonths, 12 00 2 squares, “ “ 18 00 8 squares, “ “ 21 00 4 squares, “ “ 25 00 Advertisements not marked with the number of insertions, will be continued until forbid, and charged accordingly. |^F°iWerchants, Druggists, and others, may con tract for advertising by the year, on reasonable terms. LEGAL A DVERTISEMENTS. Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square,... 5 00 Sale of Personal Property, by Administrators, Executors, and Guardians, per square,... 325 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, 8 25 LEG A L HEQULR EMENTS. Sales of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to bo 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 gazett days previous to the day of sale. Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be j given at least ten days previous to the day of sale. Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate most j be published forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court) of Ordinary, for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must j be published weekly for two months. Citations for Letters of Administration must be published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin istration, monthly , six months —for Dismission from Guardianship, forty days. Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must be pub lished monthly for four months —for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where a bond has been given by the deceased, the full spare of three months. will always be continued accord- j ing to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise j ordered. The Lav/ of newspapers. 1. Subscribers who do not give express notice to the contrary, are considered as wishing to continue their subscription. 2. If subscribers order the discontinuance of their newspapers, the publisher may continue to send them until all arrearages are paid. 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to take their newspapers from the offices to which they are di rected, they are held responsible until they have set tled the bills and ordered ‘hem discontinued. 4. Ts subscribers remove to other places without informing the publishers, and the newspapers are sent to the former direction, they are held responsi ble. f>. The Courts have decided that refusing to take newspapers from the office, or removing and leaving them uncalled for, is prim a fame evidence of inten tional fraud. t. 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 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.