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huge wall which the dense foliage hides from the view of a careless observer. When the traveller enters this city, (if city it can be called,) he is astonished to find it destitute of houses; on every hand he sees beautiful, and elaborately carved columns, towering pyramids, and the ruins of solemn temples; but whether they were used for the worship of idols of wood and stone, or the people bowed in homage to the bright orb of day, when he first rose from the ocean's bosom, none can tell. How very different is this from the cities before mentioned. History tells us of their origin, their conquests and dominion, whilst it points with sorrow to the causes of their downfall. The works of art here displayed, show that the people were somewhat advanced in civilization; but we know them only by their mournful relics. This place has been so long desolate, that the little plant springing up from the crevice of a column, has grown to a mighty tree, and overturned the stately pile from which it gained its strength.

No tradition, handed down from father to son, through a long line of generations, records the history of these ruins, and the people dwelling near have no more knowledge of them than the travelling stranger, upon whose sight they have first arisen with startling wonder. Orators may have urged their fellow-citizens to maintain their honor, and warriors may have nerved their arms in defence of their nation; but their deeds are unrecorded and have been swallowed in the sea of oblivion. Priests may have stood at the threshhold of these temples, whilst the people at early dawn gathered around them in one vast concourse, to raise their voice in an anthem of praise. But why these speculations? The people have been swept away and their ruined city alone remains, which reminds us that the works of man are stamped with the signet of mortality.

We give the following article a place in the Garland, not so much because we approve of the sentiments it contains, or rather the manner of expressing them, as for the sake of having an opportunity to make a remark or two on-the subject.

In the first place we may premise that we have no faith in modern Prophets, of any description whatsoever, great or small. of any denomination, taking that word in its generally understood acceptation. But at the same time we do not feel ourselves at liberty to go so far as some do, and say we know there are none but/o/afl ones, " lest haply we should be found fighting against God;" and also for the reason that we, as well as our fellow.beings, positively knoio but very little.

That the end of the world will take place, we of course cannot doubt; because the word of God has so declared; but as to the time when it will take place, the

inhabitants of the earth have, through wise and benevolent purposes of the Creator, been left in ignorance.

"E'en the earth itself,
Sole object of our hopes and fears,
Shall have its period, tho' to man unknown."

Under all the circumstances, we are surprised at the course some pursue in this matter—even to the neglecting of their business, and the ordinary cares of life, thus bringing great anxiety, and sometimes distress, upon their families and friends. But the most singular feature in the matter is, that Death, though it bring to each one, so far as futurity is concerned, the same consequences as the end of the world, that is, (he judgment, seems toexcite comparatively but little attention. Vet all are morally certain that they will die, and many may be upon the very verge of the grave, and have not another week, nay, not another day, or even an hour to live, yet with these positive and certain truths before them, they are less alarmed than by the mere opinions of men on a subject of which all are entirely ignorant: and strange to say, a number of persons have become idiots by giving heed to these opinions.

But even suppose there were strong probability that this grand event should take place in our time, or within the time set by the Millerites, is it not best to be found in the performance of our duties, both of a spiritual and temporal nature? God does not approve of idleness under any circumstances so far as we have been able to learn his will from his word.

Note.—Though Mr. Miller denies that he is a prophet, or the son of a prophet, but only an expounder of the scriptures, we contend that where so much learning has been expended on any subject as on this one, without success, but generally with an humble acknowledgement of incapacity in the examiners to understand it. it never could have been known to one so little skilled in biblical learning as the above named gentleman, unless by the direet revelation of the Almighty. Then it follows that Mr; Miller, having been duly commissioned, and enabled to see (for the learned tell us that the word prophet means a seer,) that at a certain time in the future, a great event is to take place, which he is authorized to promulgate and teach to the world just the as prophets of old did, must himself be a prophet. If not, what more, we would ask, is wanting to constitute a. prophet? We strongly suspect Mr. M. and some of his followers are " beside themselves" in this matter.

Written for the Ladies' Garland.

THE VICTIM OF DELUSION.

BY AMELIA. ELTON.

"1 cannot think what ails Louisa, these few weeks past," said Mrs. Colmar, to her sister Eliza. "Frequently have I caught her hurriedly pacing the room, her face bathed in tears, and her hand pressed to her forehead, asif she were oppressed with painful thoughts. She used to be the gayest of the gay—now it seems a task for her to see any company."

"O, she will soon get over.it; perhaps a little something has vexed her that you do not know of," replied Eliza.

"I only hope that she may, sister;—but if I begin to question her, she always smiles, and manages to elude answering."

"Just leave her alone, Sarah," answered Eliza, " and I'll warrant you she'll soon go into enough company to please you. It is only a slight quarrel with some of her friends, or something in thai way.*'

Still Mrs. Col mar was not satisfied, and she determined, the first opportunity, to question her daughter more closely.

One soon offered. It was a dreadful stormy night; the rain poured down in torrents, and ever and anon, a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, rent the air. Louisa was seated near a table, her elbow resting upon it, and her hand drawn over her eyes. Mrs. Colmar noticed her air of abstraction, and slowly approached, and gently laid her hand upon her daughter's shoulder.

Louisa gave a piercing shriek, and would have fallen upon the floor, had not her mother caught her in her arms.

"Mother! mother! how you frightened me !" was her first exclamation.

"Nay, nay, love, this is childish," replied Mrs. Colmar, "you had better sit down;" and drawing the sofa nearer the fire, she seated herself and her danghter upon it, and taking her hand, gently said,—" Louisa, my love, you cannot deceive me; there is something preying upon your mind—something that disturbs you; confide in me, dearest, for what secret should there be between a mother and her only child V

Louisa at first remained motionless and silent, but soon starting up, she hurriedly paced the apartment, exclaiming—"Yes, mother, there is something upon my mind! Oh, mother! mother! the Lord will come in his glory, and we are not prepared !—No time is allowed!—The devouring angel will claim us as his own!— Us, mother, and all our friends! My brain is on fire! Oh, dreadful —maddening thought!" She could say no more, and sank almost senseless into a seat. Mrs. Colmar rushed to her daughter's side; she clasped her in her arms, and raising her eyes to heaven, mournfully exclaimed—"Oh, Father, spare me my only child!"

Louisa shortly revived; her mother begged her to retire to bed, but this she refused to do, saying she had something on her mind which she was bound to tell.

"Mother, our days are numbered !—we have but a few short months to live!—Christ will soon again revisit the earth, and take into his fold the believers and the faithful! Mother! are you prepared ?" she asked, in a low, sepulchral tone.

Mrs. Colmar was startled at her daughter's strange tone, the unnatural glistening of her large dark eyes, and her motionless attitude;

the veins of her forehead were distended, and her teeth closely pressed together. She at first could make no reply, but quickly recovering, asked,—"Where, Louisa, did you learn that pur days were numbered, and the time of Christ's again revisiting the earth?"

"Mother, has not the Prophet, sent by the Lord—has not Father Miller warned us of our hastening doom V

"Nay, Louisa, I thought you had more strength of mind. How did Father Miller learn the exact time of that which the Bible tells us shall come upon us as a thief in the night."

"Mother! mother! 'tis useless to reason!" said the unhappy girl. "You will not take heed of the warning sent by God in his mercy. His curse is upon us; and sure as yonder flash of lightning illuminates the heavens, we are doomed! we are doomed!" She was exhausted by the tempest that raged within her; her strength forsook her, and she fell senseless upon the sofa. The distracted mother caught her in her arms, and rang the bell for aid.

It was a terrible and mournful sight to see that beautiful girl stretched upon the bed, uttering broken exclamations, and tossing wildly to and fro with pain.

She fell by listening to the vague and false notions of a pretended prophet!

» * # # *

Louisa Colmar never regained her senses. She pined slowly away, until death claimed her as his own. She remained a confirmed maniac, until a few minutes before she closed her eyes in death, when, awakening out of a tranquil slumber, she smilingly exclaimed to her mother, who was weeping by her bedside,—" Mother! dear mother! farewell; I die in the arms of Jesus!"

Thus died a lovely flower, the martyr to a wide spread delusion.

The shock was too much for the affectionate mother. She soon followed her daughter to the grave, and they now repose, side by side, in the church yard.

Girls, remember that the man who bows, smiles and says many soft compliments, has no genuine love; while he who loves most sincerely, struggles to hide the weakness of his heart, and in doing this he often appears decidedly awkward.'

Willis, speaking of a lady who married for money alone, remarks—" She married him for an establishment, but forgot he was a part of it—dazzled with the frame, she overlooked the hideousness of the picture."

HELEN MORETON;

OR, THE BEST OF SISTERS.

"Upon my word, Frank, you are in a strange mood to-night," said the light-hearted Ned Carleton, to his friend b'rank Somerby, at the close of an hour's conversation one cold evening in December, as they were sitting by a blazing fire in a handsome and well lighted apartment. "So you think there is very little worth living for in this cold-hearted and hypocritical world 1 You, too, have every thing apparently to make a man happy —being young, handsome, rich, standing high in your profession, a favorite, and nattered by all. You are a spoiled child of Fortune, Frank. Have you been frowned upon by the fascinating Florence, or the beautiful Clara? Or what is the matter with you'?"

"You know very well, Ned, a thing so light as a woman's smile or frown would have no effect upon me. I am weary of those brilliant butterflies fluttering away their brief round of existence, in the idle and frivolous dissipation of the fashionable world. Is there one among the number that a sensible man would choose as a companion and friend for life! I know not one."

"I cry your mercy, Frank," said Ned, smilingly, " I beg you to except one, at least, and not condemn my gentle and amiable Maria to a place she so little deserves."

"You are right, Ned, and I except her without hesitation, for under the care of a wise, pious, and pure-hearted mother, she has become a model to her sex, of which I am sure they all have need enough."

"I think you are too severe, Frank, and having a mother and sister like yours, should teach you more respect to woman-kind."

"Their brilliancy but makes the rest seem darker for the contrast. Why is it. as you say, that I am flattered and caressed by the society I move in? Not on my own account, nor from pure morals and cultivated mind, or any good quality, but because, forsooth, I am rich. It is always so; let a man be rich, ifj he be the veriest profligate in the world, society fawns upon him, excuses his weaknesses and is blind to his crimes. I will never marry until 1 find one who will love me for myself alone."

"And that may be the case sooner than you dream of. But come, Frank, I know no better remedy for low spirits, than to do good, to some body or other that stands in need ofj kindness. So if you like we will go and see that poor man I was telling you of yesterday, whose leg was broken by the accident that happened on the rail-road."

Frank was ever ready at the call of mercy and charity, and putting on their overcoats,

the young men sallied forth in the keen frosty air.

Frank Somerby's father died when his son was but a boy, ieaving an ample fortune to his widow and two children, Frank, and his beautiful sister, Maria. Frank had devoted his talents to the law, in which he had risen to an eminence rarely obtained by one so young. He had seen too much of the fashionable world not to be disgusted with the hypocrisy, artfulness, and hollow-breathed flattery which are apparent to even a superficial observer. He longed to turn aside from the great thoroughfare of life into the more shaded and quiet paths of domestic happiness.

It was some distance to the poor man's dwelling, and rather late when the young men reached it . They found him cheerful and resigned under his misfortune, and only anxious for his family, who depended entirely upon his labor. They told him not to be uneasy, but keep up a good heart and cheerful trust in Divine Providence, for his family should not suffer while he was unable to help them. The gratitude of the whole family more than repaid the young men for their walk, and Frank's heart felt lighter from the joy that a good action aiways brings with it.

They were proceeding with rapid steps towards their'homes, when, on passing a small and retired house, the window was suddenly opened, and the soft sweet voice of a young girl in tremulous accents begged them to come to her assistance. On their nearer approach, asking pardon for the liberty she had taken, she begged one of them to haste for Dr. H., as her brother was taken alarmingly ill. Ned immediately departed to perform her request, while Frank remained to see if he might not be of further service. The lady who had spoken to him was young, apparently about eighteen, of fine form and pleasant manners. Her countenance was remarkable, not for the beauty of mere regular features, but for its amiable and intelligent expression, although now clouded with anxiety for her brother. The latter, a boy of about fourteen, was lying on the sofa near the fire. His sister sat by his side, and began to bathe his forehead, gazing tenderly on him with tearful eyes.

"Don't be distressed for me, dearest Helen, I shall be better when our good doctor comes. Hark! do I not hear him V said he, as the sound of rapid footsteps rang from the frozen ground.

"I hope so, dear Arthur;" said his sister, as she rose to look out and see.

In a moment the door opened, and, with Ned, entered the kind and benevolent doctor, whose countenance expressed a kindly sympathy with the suffering around him. After speaking cheerfully to Helen, and shaking hands with Frank, with whom he was well acquainted, he turned to his patient, and feeling his pulse, he began to make some inquiries relative to his illness, which he soon renounced to arise from a violent cold, and aving given the necessary directions, he rose to take leave, saying he would call very early in the morning. The young gentlemen also rose, and after receiving Helen's thanks for their kindness, and begging permission to call again, they all retired.

On their way home, the doctor gave them some particulars of Helen's history. She and her brother were orphans. They had, till within a year or two, lived in affluence; but by the sudden death of their father, in the midst of one of those periodical tempests in the business world, they were reduced to poverty. Their mother had died about a year before. Their splendid mansion and its furniture were all sold, with the exception of a small library of valuable books, and the piano, which was their mother's, and which Helen was permitted to retain. With the small sum of money remaining after the sale, she had furnished the little cottage in which they found her, and supported herself and her brother, by giving lessons in music. She had been thoroughly educated herself, and undertook the charge of continuing the education of her brother, hoping to be able, with the assistance of a teacher in one or two branches, to prepare him for college.

The doctor was eloquent in praise of her kindness, her amiability, and force of character, and his words were not lost upon Frank Somerby, across whose mental eye, flitted, ever and anon, the vision of the beautiful girl.

On reaching home, Frank found his sister just returned from a visit to a friend, and he immediately related to her his whole night's adventure. She listened with gratifying interest, and on inquiring the name of the heroine, started, suddenly exclaiming,— "My old friend and school-mate, Helen Moreton! I must go and see her. She was one of the most amiable and gentle, yet resolute girls I ever knew."

Frank readily offered to accompany her; and they decided to go the next afternoon. Accordingly, the day being fine, they set out on their walk, and soon arrived at Helen's lowly abode. They rapped gently at the door, and after waiting a moment, it was opened by Helen, who started in pleased surprise at the sight of her old friend. Their recognition was mutual, and though Helen blushed slightly on conducting them into her simple home, yet all embarrassment was soon

dissipated by the affectionate kindness of Maria's manner.

They found Arthur in a high fever, and requiring much of Helen's attention, which was given with a watchful tenderness, and received with such loving glances from his expressive eyes, as showing how great was the affection existing between them. As Helen sat by his bedside and bathed his feverish hands and burning brow, with what gentle loveliness did these kind offices invest her, in Frank's regard, and he often applied to her the beautiful lines the poet has written of woman:

"When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou."

And the thought involuntarily came over him, if a brother were so fondly loved, what would be the measure of her love for that friend which is nearer than a brother 1

After offering to come and assist Helen, in the care of her brother, with an affectionate kindness that could not be refused, Maria and Frank departed. As they walked towards home they were earnestly engaged in devising means to be of use to Helen, without infringing on her refined and delicate feelings.

"Well," said Maria, "mother will be at home to-night, and we shall be guided by her wise benevolence, and I am sure we cannot err, if we follow her advice."

"There never was a mother like ours," said Frank, smiling, "she knows where, when, and how every thing should be done."

"And she is always ready to do it herself, too," added Maria.

After the departure of her visitors, Helen sat. for some time absorbed in reverie, while her brother was asleep. She revolved in her mind the singular circumstances which had brought her old school-mate to her humble dwelling, and she found that poverty had left her one friend. She had experienced the friendship which is common in fashionable life, and knew its falsity, and she felt therefore the more accutely, Maria's kindness, which was perfectly free from that insulting condescension that wounds the heart it pretends to heal. Did no thought of Maria's brother come across her mental vision? She could not have failed to perceive how earnestly his looks were fixed upon her, nor the approving expression of those sparkling eyes.

Helen sighed as she arose from her reverie, at the sound of her brother's voice, but she was all unconscious why.

Mrs. Somerby entered readily into the plans of her children, and promised to go herself and see Helen, in whom, from their de

P h

scription, she began to feel much interested. She thought the best thing to be done at present, was for Maria to stay with her and assist her if she would consent to the arrangement until her brother recovered, and then by their influence, they might procure her many friends and pupils.

After a little persuasion, Helen consented to Maria's plans, particularly when urged by Mrs. Sombery, who completely won her heart by her kind motherly manner, and she was happier than she had been since the death of her father.

Every day brought Frank to the cottage to inquire for Arthur, or on his sister's account; and every day discovered to him some new trait to admire and love; so that in Helen's society he soon began to feel happier than in any other situation.

A week or two had now passed away, and Arther had sufficiently recovered to be able to dispense with much of the kind attention so cheerfully bestowed and so gratefully received, and Maria left Helen with many assurances of her unalterable affection and many interchanged promises of frequent intercourse.

After the departure of her kind friend, Helen felt a sensation of loneliness stealing over her, which the increased attention she was obliged to give to her pupils, who had now began to return to her, was well calculated to dissipate. Arther, in his eagerness to perfectly recover, in order to continue his studies, was rather imprudent in exposing himself to danger of taking cold; so that she was so much occupied in thinking for him she could not have leisure to indulge her feelings of regret. Besides, Frank or Ned came with Maria several times during the week which followed her departure.

All Helen's earthly hopes were centred in her beloved brother, whose health continued frail; and she looked forward with hope, and yet with trembling, to the time when his name would be honored amid the high in intellect and the pure in heart. But, alas! the angel of death, with his broad wings outpread, already overshadowed him, and stood with "inverted torch," ready to usher him into the "land of the departed." What glorious hopes, what pure affections, what lofty aspirations after the good, the beautiful and the true, were to perish with that noble young heart! We may see the old man standing on the verge of the grave, with his venerable white hair, and the calm and quiet cheerfulness resulting from a well-spent life, and feel that it is well he should thus wait for death; hut when the destroying angel calls away youth in its fairest morning, we cannot but heave the sigh of regret, and shed the tear of disappointment .

The doctor had just returned from a visit to a distant patient, when a hurried messenger summoned him to the cottage. He lost not a moment in hastening thither, for he felt a deep and strong interest in the inmates of that lowly abode. Helen met him at the door with tearful eyes, which grew somewhat brighter at the sight of him, for in his skill she had great confidence, and his kindly sympathy had won him a place in her heart. On leaving the room after attentively examining his patient, with a countenance from which he strove to banish all discouraging expression, for he felt that Helen's eyes were rivited there, he told hershe must take the utmost care of him, for he required all her attention. But the quick eye of affection is not to be deceived, and in spite of the doctor's caution, Helen read in his expression the deeper meaning he would fain have concealed. She became deadly pale, as the thought flashed upon her that the beloved being so entwined about her heart might be taken away, and she would have fainted, had he not supported her. But with a strong effort she recovered herself, and then gently but firmly insisted upon knowing the worst. With the gentleness of a father, the doctor told het it was doubtful if her brother ever recovered; his constitution was frail, and would not probably be able to resist this second attack, brought on by again taking cold. All that was in the power of man should be done, and it might please Heaven to avert the stroke which threatened her. Helen succeeded in gaining an apparent cheerfulness, as in silent prayer she returned to administer the necessary remedies to her brother.

The doctor called on his way home, to tell Maria of her friend's situation. He found her just preparing to attend a splendid party at a fashionable acquaintance's. But all her sympathies were aroused with regard to Helen, and, turning her fine eyes, filled with tears, on her scarcely less agitated brother, she begged him to tell her if she should not go to her instantly.

"Follow the dictates of your own warm heart, my dear sister, and you eannot fail to do right," was his answer. And in a very few moments she had exchanged her costly apparel for a plainer dress, and the brother and sister proceeded rapidly on their way to the cottage. This ready kindness was more than Helen, in the excited state of her feelings, could bear, and leaning her head on Maria's shoulder, she wept freely. Frank gazed intently and mournfully upon her, and thought of the high hopes so soon to be destroyed in this world forever.

The good doctor came very often, and brought with him the most skilful of bis

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