"Every time little Anna nurses, I feel so sick and faint, that sometimes it seems that 1 must give up. And yet, the thought of letting the dear little angel draw her food from another bosom than mine, makes me fainter and sicker still. Can nothing be done to help me, Ma?"

"We must see the Doctor and consult with him. Perhaps he can do something," Mrs. Beaufort replied, in a mechanical, abstracted

tone.

That day the family physician was called in, and a long consultation held. The result was, a decision that Amanda must get a nurse for her child, and then try the effect upon her system of a change of air and the use of medicinal waters. In a word, she must put away her child and go to the springs.

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Indeed, Doctor, I cannot give up little Anna," the invalid mother said, while the tears started to her eyes. "I will be very careful of myself, and try and learn her to take a little food early, so as to relieve me as much as possible. It seems as if it would kill me, were I forced to resign to a stranger a mother's dearest privilege and holiest duty." "I can but honour your devotion to your child, Amanda," the old family physician said, with a tenderness unusual to one whose daily intercourse was with suffering in its varied forms. 66 Still, I am satisfied, that for every month you nurse that babe, a year is taken from your life."

There was, in the tone and manner of the doctor, a solemn emphasis, that instantly aroused the young husband's liveliest fears, and sent a chill to the heart of Mrs. Beaufort. For a moment or two, Amanda's thoughts were turned inward, and then looking up with a smile of strange meaning, while her eye grew brighter, and something like a glow kindled upon her thin, pale cheek, she said, drawing her babe at the same time closer to her bosom

"I will risk all, doctor. I cannot forego a mother's duty."

"A mother's duty, my dear young friend," the physician replied, tenderly, for his heart was touched, "is to prolong, by every possible means, her own life, for the sake of her offspring. There are duties which none but a mother can perform. Reserve yourself for these, Amanda, and let others do for your babe all that can be done as well as you can perform it. Take my advice. Leave little Anna at home with your mother and a careful nurse; and then, with your husband, and some female friend, upon whose judicious care you can depend, go to the springs and spend a few weeks."

The advice of the physician was taken, and the young mother, with clinging, though lacerated affections, resigned to the care of a

hired nurse, the babe over which her heart yearned with unutterable tenderness.

Three weeks were spent at one of the Virginia Springs, but little apparent benefit was the result. The young mother grieved for the loss of her babe so deeply and constantly, often giving way to tears, that all the rennovating effects of changed air and medicinal waters were counteracted, and she returned home, drooping in body and depressed in spirits. Her infant seemed but half restored to her, as she clasped it to a bosom in which the current of its young life had been dried up. Sad, sad indeed, was her realization of the immutable truth, that the way of transgressors is hard!

Two years more of a painful and anxious existence were eked out, and Amanda again became a mother. From this additional shock she partially recovered; but it soon became evident to all, that her shattered and enfeebled constitution was rapidly giving way. Her last babe was but four months old, when the pale messenger passed by, and gave his fearful summons.

It was toward the close of one of those calm days in September, when nature seems pausing to note the first few traces of decay which autumn has thrown upon garden, field and forest, that Mrs. Beaufort, and the husband of her daughter, with a few friends, were gathered in the chamber of their beloved one, to see her die. How sad, how very sad is the death-bed of the young, sinking beneath a premature decay! In the passing away of one who has met the storms of life, and battled with them through vigorous maturity, and sinks at last in the course of nature, there is little to pain the feelings. But when the young and beautiful die, with all their tenderest and earliest ties clinging to them-an event so unlooked for, so out of the true order of nature-we can only turn away and weep. We can extract from such an affliction but few thoughts of comfort. All is dreary, and blank, and desolate.

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Bring me my children," the dying mother said, rousing up from a state of partial slumber, with an earnest emphasis, that brought both her mother and her husband to her bedside.

"What did you want, dear Amanda?" the husband asked, laying his hand gently upon her white forehead, that was damp with the dews of coming dissolution.

"My dear little ones," she replied in a changed tone, rising up with an effort. “My Anna and Mary. Who will be a mother to them, when I shall be laid at rest? O, that I could take them with me!"

Tears came to the relief of her overwrought feelings, and leaning her head upon the breast of her husband, she wept and

her mother, and laid in her arms, when she had a little recovered herself.

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"O, my baby! my sweet baby!" she said, with tender animation. "My sweet, sweet baby! I cannot give you up!" And she clasped it to her breast with an energy of affection, while the large drops rolled fast over her pale cheek. “And Anna, dear little girl! where is my Anna?" she asked.

Anna, a beautiful child, a few months passed her second birth day, was brought in, and lifted upon the bed.

"Don't cry, Ma," said the little thing, seeing the tears upon her mother's cheeks, "don't cry; I'll always be good."

"Heaven bless you and keep you, my child!" the mother said, eagerly kissing the sweet lips that were turned up to her's; and then clasped the child to her bosom in a strong embrace.

The children were, after a time, removed, but the thoughts of the dying mother were still upon them; and with these thoughts were self-reproach, that made her pillow one of thorns.

"I now see and feel," she said, looking up into the face of her mother, after having lain with closed eyes for about ten minutes, "that all my sufferings, and this early death, which will soon be upon me, would have been avoided, if I had only permitted myself to be guided by you. I do not wonder, now, that my constitution gave way. How could it have been otherwise, and I so strangely regardless of all the laws of health? But, my dear mother, the past is beyond recall; and now I leave to you the dear little ones from whom I must soon part forever. I feel calmer now than I have felt for some time. The bitterness of the last agony seems over. But I do not see you, nor you, dear husband! Give me your hands. Here, let my head rest on your bosom. It is sweet to lie thus-Anna-dear child! Mary-sweet, sweet babe!—"

The lips of the young wife and mother moved feebly, and inarticulate whispers fell faintly from her tongue for some moments, and then she sank to sleep-and it was a sleep from which none wake in the body.

Thus, at the age of twenty-six, abused and exhausted nature gave up the struggle; and the wretched individual, who had violated the laws of health, just at the moment when her tenderest and holiest duties called loudest for performance, sunk to the earth.

Who, in this brief and imperfect sketch, does not recognise familiar features? Amanda Beaufort is but one of a class which has far too many representatives. These are in every town and village, in every street and neighbourhood. Why do we see so many pale faced mothers? Why are our young and

their maternal duties? The answer, in far too many cases, may be found in their early and persevering transgressions of the most palpable physiological laws. The violation of these is ever followed, sooner or later, in a greater or less degree, by painful consequences. Sometimes life is spared to the young mother, and she is allowed to linger on through years of suffering that the heart aches to think of. Often death terminates, early, her pains, and her babes are left a legacy to the cold charities of an unfeeling world. How sad, how painful the picture! Alas! that it is a true one.

Written for the Ladies' Garland. SAMUEL ELVERTON; OR, SISTERLY LOVE. A LEAF OF REAL LIFE.

In Three Parts.-Part II.

BY HENRY J. BOGUE.
Oh, dash the cup down to the earth,
For I will drink no more;

It cannot fill the heart with mirth,
That grief hath wounded sore;
For serpents wreath its sparkling brim,
And adders lurk below;

It hath no soothing charm for him
Who sinks oppressed with woe.

MS. Poem.

Every man moves in that circle, in which his influence will be felt, his actions imitated. It is here that even the humblest may do much. Not by boisterous denunciations of intemperance against all who may feel the importance of the subject less deeply than himself--but by a meek and unostentatious, yet firm and consistent rejection of those things, daily and nightly, which lead to misery. He must remember that they whom he would gain over, are not so wicked as they are weak, and that it is not in the capacity of a judge that his labours are required, but in the more endearing character of a friend. His strongest persuasions must be those of practice. There is no lecture so eloquent as the silent lesson of a spotless example. He may not witness sudden conversions to total abstinence-he may even sometimes hear the coarse taunt of the scorner, as Samuel did when once, and once only, he urged his former friends to live soberly, not thinking that they watched a favorable opportunity to draw him back to wretchedness.

Nothing should shake the lover of temperance from his purpose. He must persevere. By time and patience the leaf of the mulberry tree becomes satin. In good season he will behold the harvest of his labours ripening

Each virtuous mind will wake,
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads;
Friend, kindred, neighbour, first it will embrace,
His country next, and next all human race.

It was on a delightful evening near the last of May, that Samuel, while walking alone, was overtaken by one of his former companions, to whom he had once been much attached. This friendship, which late events had not entirely subdued, together with some amiable traits of character, and the pleasing manners which he possessed, gave him peculiar advantages for the accomplishment of his design. He at first contrived to interest deeply his companion in conversation, and then, by very artful management, to awaken in Samuel's breast, feelings and passions which had long been in subjection. As they were returning from the walk, he earnestly persuaded Samuel, who consented, with considerable reluctance, to call for a few moments at his room. Wine was produced and both of them tasted it.

One of their former associates soon came in, as if accidentally; another and another followed; each warmly welconied Samuel with apparent cordiality, and endeavoured to drown the apprehensions which he began to manifest, by pleasantry and mirth.

Their guest wished to leave them, but they always opposed his faint attempts with so much good humour that he could not resist. They gradually turned their attention to the wine; Samuel sat with them, but he said little, smiled occasionally; he appeared as if in a state of stupified amazement. But the dead calm in his countenance did not indicate freedom from commotion within. There was a work of conflict and destruction going on in his soul, which defied all expression in his action and utterance, and he sat like one overwhelmed by some powerful emotion, whose workings almost suspended the operations of vitality.

They only who have been in such circumstances, can tell with what irresistible power the associates of other days will come over the soul, when it is unexpectedly exposed to scenes and temptations which have for some time been successively avoided. Samuel had accustomed himself to banish from his thoughts every thing which could have a tendency to awaken that hankering after forbidden pleasures, which he knew to be so tempting; and the moral principles which he had endeavoured to establish, in their stead, had begun to strengthen themselves within him. His soul had undergone a revolution, and was

and most powerful attack was too strong for a government not yet perfectly confirmed, and for an hour a warfare was maintained between conscience and moral principle on the one hand, and on the other the old propensities and passions, which had been for a time subdued, but which were now, by the temptations of this scene, called up afresh in all their power. Wherever his unhallowed propensities gained a momentary ascendancy, they prompted him to raise a glass to his lips; and although he set it down again to renew the conflict, the better side was weakened by the previous defeat, and by the influence of the sparkling liquid, which soon began to animate and gladden.

All Samuel's resolutions were soon forgotten. Many rounds had been drunk, anecdotes were told, and calls were made for songs. William Wilkins was an excellent singer, and having been requested to sing, he politely declined; but Samuel, who was passionately fond of songs, urged him; then he did not refuse, but sang

THE BUMPER OF WINE.

I.

Give me wine, rosy wine, that foe to despair,
Whose magical power can banish all care;
Of friendship the parent, composer of strife,
The soother of sorrow, and blessing of life;
The schools about happiness warmly dispute,
And weary the sense in the phantom pursuit;
In spite of their maxims, I dare to define,
The grand Summum Bonum's a bumper of wine.
II.

To the coward a warmth it ne'er fails to impart,
And opens the lock of the miserly heart;
While thus we carouse it, the wheels of the soul
O'er life's rugged highway agreeably roll.
Each thinks of his charmer who never can cloy,
While fancy rides past to the regions of joy;
In spite of dull maxims, I dare to define,
The grand Summum Bonum's a bumper of wine.
III.

'Tis the balsam specific that heals every sore,
Yet the oft'ner we taste it, we love it the more:
Then he who true happiness seeks to attain,
With spirit the full flowing bumper must drain;
And all who the court of fair Venus would know,
Undaunted through Bacchus's vineyard must go;
In spite of dull maxims, I dare to define,
The grand Summum Bonum's a bumper of wine.

"Bravo! bravo!" cried one. "Well done, Bill," said another. "How comes it that others cannot sing?" "I-I-do not kno-know," stammered one, who was intoxicated.

"One thing is evident that you cannot sing, for you cannot speak without stuttering."

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"So much for the bumpers of wine."
Heigho," said Samuel.
"What's the matter?"

All eyes were directed to Samuel. He felt a little feverish. Wine was given to revive, but it failed. The window was opened, and

the balmy breeze played on his feverish forehead.

"Are you better?"

No answer was returned. The mind was at work. His eyes looked wild; his vision was double; the pupils were much dilated. His lower lip protruded; his jaw fell, and his mouth foamed.

From the Knickerbocker. THE SPIRIT WORLD.

It is related by an elegant writer, once greatly admired, but we fear only occasionally talked of, and seldom read in these days of the thrilling and "exciting" in literature, that there is a tradition among a certain tribe of our Indians, that one of their number once

Part III. in next No.

From the Lady's Book.

THE LAST SONG.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

"Sing to me, love; thy voice is sweet;
It falls upon my ear

Like summer gales o'er breathing flowers,
And makes e'en sickness dear.
Sing to me, love; the hour is meet-
This twilight hour serene;

Too dim to let officious care

Intrude high thoughts between.

“Sing to me, love; the time is short,
I feel my strength decay;
The ties that bound my soul so fast,
Melt like a dream away."

She sang, his pensive mood to cheer,
A deep, melodious strain;

The changeless bliss of heaven, how pure,
And earthly joys how vain!

At first, all tremulous and faint,
Awoke the warbling tone;
Then clearer, higher rose, and caught
An ardour not its own;
Strength-strength—as for an hour of need,
As if her lips were made
The harp, on which some spirit-hand
Celestial measures play'd.

It ceas'd; and from the casement near,
The curtain's fold she drew,

And the young moon, 'mid quivering leaves,
Look'd lone and peaceful through:
Where was the sigh of tender praise?
Love's ne'er forgotten word?
Sleeps he?-How pale!-Alas, no breath
Her sweeping tresses stirr'd.

A cry broke forth.-He heeds it not!
Young wife, thy lot was blest,
To charm the pang of mortal pain,
And sing him to his rest;
Entranc'd, the listening spirit soar'd
Heavenward, on balmy air,
And pass'd from love and music here,
To love and music there.

of souls, or as we call it, in the other world; and that upon his return he gave his friends a distinct account of every thing he saw among these regions of the dead. He stated that after having travelled for a long space under a hollow mountain, he arrived at length on the confines of the world of spirits, but he could not enter it by reason of thick forests, made up of bushes, brambles, and pointed thorns, so perplexed and interwoven with one another, that it was impossible to find a passage through it. While he was looking about for some track or pathway, that might be worn in any part of it, he saw a huge lion crouched under the side of it, who kept his eye upon him in the same posture as when he watches for his prey. The Indian immediately started back, while the lion rose with a spring, and leaped towards him. Being wholly destitute of all other weapons, he stooped down to take up a huge stone in his hand; but in his infinite surprise grasped nothing, and found the supposed stone to be only the apparition of one; if he was disappointed on this side, he was much pleased on the other, when he found the lion, which had seized his left shoulder, had no power to hurt him, and was only the ghost of that ravenous creature which it appeared to be. He no sooner got rid of his impotent enemy, but he marched up to the wood, and, after having surveyed it for some time, endeavoured to press into one part of it that was a little thinner than the rest; when again to his great surprise he found the bushes made no resistance, but that he walked through briars and brambles with the same ease as through the open air; and, in short, that the whole wood was nothing else but a wood of shades.

He immediately concluded that this huge thicket of thorns and brakes was designed as a kind of a fence of quick set hedge to the ghosts it enclosed; and that probably their soft substances might be torn by these stubble points and prickles, which were too weak to make any impression in flesh and blood. With this thought he resolved to travel through this intricate wood; when by degrees he felt a gale of perfumes breathing upon him, that grew stronger and sweeter in proportion as he had advanced. He had not proceeded much farther, when he observed the thorns and briars to end, and give place