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which I had out for a week, she must with- excited so much admiration in Henry Benton. draw it all from me." The scene at the cottage often recurs to his memory. Since the evening of which we speak, he has seen Jane Gleason the centre

"Do not agitate yourself about it, Mrs. M." || said Miss Gleason, gently; “your wants shall be supplied until you are able to exert your-of attraction in the circle of her friends, exself without injury."

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"But, my dear young lady, I cannot but think of it. I should not have minded it for myself, for I am sure, unless I could hope to show my gratitude for your kindness, and to watch over my children, I have nothing to live for, but to think of them." Mr. Benton at this instant stepped in at the door, but not being perceived, he did not interrupt her, by accosting his sister. “I have seen them cry for bread, and I told Miss Roberts that, destitute as I was, I could sew for anything that would procure them bread. Long nights I have never slept, but laboured without a moment's rest to procure them something. And when I asked her for the money, she said she never paid those little sums till they amounted to something; and added, she could not stop, either, for she was going to some society, or 'Circle,' as she called, it, and could not listen. I came home, but I could support it no longer; I could not even go out to beg food, and oh, my children! I must have perished had it not been for this angel," said she, turning to Miss Gleason, with tears in her eyes, and then sinking back exhausted with the effort of speaking.

"She shall not be alone for the future, in her errands of mercy," said Catherine, hardly able to speak. "Rejoice," added she, turning, as she perceived her brother, "that I came here, Henry, for I have learnt a lesson not soon to be forgotten."

hibiting all the graces of mind and person; but never has she looked more lovely in his eyes, and never has found her less worthy to be the companion of joy and sorrow, the sharer and the heightener of one, the reliever of the other; than when in that poor dwelling he saw her dispensing alleviation to the afflicted, and affording such a striking contrast to fashionable benevolence.

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None of the duchess's charms, when they were at their proudest height, had been so fondly prized by the poor duke, her husband, as her splendid head of hair. Therefore, one day, upon his offending her, by some act of disobedience to her "sovereign will," the bright thought occurred, as she sat considering how she could plague him most, that it would be a hearty vexation to see his favorite tresses cut off. Instantly the deed was done: she cropped them short, and laid them in an ante-chamber he must pass through to enter her apartment; but, to her cruel disappointment, he passed, entered, and re-passed, calm enough to provoke a saint, neither angry nor sorrowful, seemingly quite unconscious both of his crime and his punishment. Concluding he must have overlooked the hair, she ran to secure it. Lo! it had vanished, and she remained in perplexity the rest of the day.

The next, as he continued silent, and her The character and life of Jane Gleason looking-glass spoke the change-a rueful one were indeed worthy of being remembered she began to think she had for once done a and imitated. With a gifted and cultivated foolish thing. Nothing more ever transpired mind, she had a feeling heart and firm princi- || upon the subject until after the duke's death, ples. Although every way fitted, if she had when she found her beautiful ringlets carebeen so inclined, to become "the glass of fully laid up in a cabinet, where he kept whatfashion and the mould of form," she chose ever he held most precious. We deem this alrather to improve the talents committed to most affecting. What an adorable vixen she her charge, to higher and nobler purposes.must have been! The duchess survived her In her charity she was constant and kind, and illustrious husband not less than twenty-two scrupulously followed His example who years, dying at the age of eighty-four, in 1744. "went about doing good ;" and although her The love she had for the duke may in no small name might never have been seen in the public || degree be imagined from the following anecprints, as "lady president" or directress of dote:-Though in her sixty-second year, she public societies, or a graceful presider over a still possessed some attractions, insomuch that fair, it was graven in the heart of many a she was sought in marriage by Lord Conwidow and orphan, whom she gladdened by ningsby and the Duke of Somerset. What kindness. To those who feel interested in her answer was to the former, is, we believe, the fate of Mrs. M., we will add, that she did || nowhere upon record. That to the Duke of recover, and through the efforts of her friends, Somerset is highly characteristic, and greatly was enabled to maintain herself and her to be admired :-"Marriage is very unsuitable family comfortably, of course with more gene- at my age; but, were I only thirty, I would rous employers than Miss Roberts, who still not permit even the emperor of the world to continues her enthusiasm for public charity, succeed in that heart which has been, all my although we will confess, it has never since life, devoted to John, Duke of Marlborough."

Written for the Ladies' Garland. SAMUEL ELVERTON; OR, SISTERLY LOVE.

A TALE OF REAL LIFE.
In Three Parts.-Part III.

BY HENRY J. BOGUE.

Take hence the cup! O deadly foe
Of happiness the whole!
Away-away! I feel its blow,

True palsy of the soul!
Henceforth I ask no more of thee,
Thou bane of Adam's race!
But to a heavenly fountain flee,

And drink the dews of grace!

MS. POEM.

The whole work of reformation which had been begun in Samuel's soul, was soon in ruins. He gradually lost sense of the danger and guilt of his situation: by joining in the merriment and glee, he soon abandoned himself without reserve, to the unhallowed emotions of the scene.

A maddening delirium took possession of his brain, and late at night he sunk down into insensibility, in complete and confirmed subjection to his besetting sin.

When he awoke he found himself in his bed, in the room where he was accustomed to sleep in his father's house. The light with which the apartment was filled, immediately informed him that the morning was far advanced; but its beams were connected with none of his accustomed associations of cheerfulness. He gazed about a moment, with a look of bewildered amazement, but the dizzing and aching sensation of his head, to which he had so often in former times awakened, the feverish irregular pulsations with which his whole body was throbbing, and the recollections of the past night, which began to flash upon him, although they were mingled with the terriffic phantoms that had haunted him in his sleep, soon informed him what had passed, and where he had been spending his precious time.

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My ruin then is fixed," said he, with a most bitter emotion, as a cool conviction of the reality of the scene succeeded the indistinctness of his first recollections.

"Yes-my destruction is sure;-I have tried with all my power to contend against this demon, but in vain; I will try no moreall attempts are useless."

extended themselves—a fit of shuddering and sobbing came over him, which seemed about to separate the soul from the body.

He was, however, soon composed, and his mind settled down into a state of sullen despair. He arose from his bed, and went down to join the family, whom he once loved, and who were once so inseparably attached to him: but he found not the bright and cheerful looks which he had been accustomed to meet among them in happier days. His sister was sitting in the parlor in tears; his father, he was told, was at his mother's bedside-she had sunk under the shock which her son's relapse had given her, and was now a prey to wild insanity. Samuel stalked from room to room, overwhelmed with remorse and horror. In a few moments he met his parent in the passage, from one room to another, and with a voice trembling with emotion, he said to him,

"Father, I would have spared you this sorrow, if I could, but I have tried and cannot. I am unable to resist this temptation, and I have now nothing left but to drown the remorse that I feel, while the means are in my reach. Let me have one look at my devoted mother, and then, if you can but forget that such a one as I ever had existence, I will trouble you no more."

He pressed by his father, after having said this. The father was too much bewildered and confounded to make any resistance, and Samuel entered hastily his mother's apartment, and gazed a moment at her death-like appearance-her quivering lip—her fixed and glassy eye.

The mother turned her care-worn face towards him, and looking a moment, asked with a melancholy tone

"Is this my son ?"

Samuel turned quickly away, went down stairs in the greatest perturbation, and rushed out of the house-and he then formed a resolution never to return to his sorrowful home.

His first step was to resort to a tavern, and by an additional potion of what had been the cause of all his sorrows, to restore a kind of composure to his mind. He then went on board a packet, and engaged a passage to a distant city, where he resolved to give himself up, without restraint, to the dominion of intemperance.

"Whatever shall come upon me," thought he, “after death, I suppose I must endure; As he cast his eye forward unto the future, but I can at least drown conscience while and there flashed upon it a glance of the conse-breath animates this body." quences which attend the desperate resolution of giving himself up, without further struggle, to his fate-his own prospects in life ruined-his father and mother brokenhearted and the gloomy view beyond the grave, to which his thoughts involuntarily

But it would be tedious, and too great a trespass on the reader's patient attention, to trace particularly the remainder of his career, in the paths of dissipation. It was that of every other traveller on this broad road to ruin.

Intemperance soon brought upon him those sordid and degrading vices, which ever follow in her train; and the once generous, educated, noble-minded Samuel Elverton became a sot, despicable even in the eyes of profligates like himself. He found, likewise, the drowning of conscience no easy task. Hideous spectres would haunt him in solitude; he could not close his eyes at night without seeing the ghastly look, which his dejected and disconsolate mother had turned to him in their last interview; and the sound of the words "Is this my son ?"-was continually in his ears. He lingered a year or two in this way, but existence was a weariness to him.

On a summer's afternoon, after he had been sitting alone in his room, apparently in a deep reverie, he started up from his seat, and said to himself, in a calm tone

"I can endure such a life no longer; I will know and try the worst that is to come upon me.

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He went to his closet and took one of his pistols which were hanging there. He loaded it, examined carefully the lock and flint, and went back to his seat. He took from the drawer of his table, pen, ink and paper, to write a farewell to his father and sister;the news of his mother's death he had read some months since in the papers. He continued uninterrupted at his employment, until supper was announced. He then concluded abruptly-folded, sealed and directed his letter, and laid it upon the table. He then joined the family, and partook with them the evening meal, in his usual silent dejection.

When the family arose from the table, he left the house, walked slowly through the city, until he came to its outskirts, near the|| Schuylkill, where a few boys were accustomed to assemble to enjoy their sports.

"O! were I one of you," thought he, as he passed them, "what I different life would I lead."

fellow watchmen were on the spot. They raised the man from the bloody place on which he lay, applied a handkerchief to his wound, and conveyed him to the house of a physician. By medical aid he was resuscitated. But during his unconsciousness he cursed the companions who allured him from the path of virtue. That intelligence caused the doctor to have a good watch at his bedside, and when reason resumed its sway, Samuel could scarcely look at his disinterested friends. Kind words were spoken to him, and he soon felt that he would recover. The wound was not mortal.

His absence from his lodgings, which was so frequent an occurrence, excited neither surprise nor alarm; and a lamp being left burning upon the hearth in his apartment, as usual, the family retired to rest.

On the following morning, at the hour of breakfast, the chamber-maid went to Samuel's room, and after knocking once or twice in vain, she softly opened the door, and was surprised to find that the bed, in which he should have slept, was undisturbed, and the dying flame of the lamp had not yet ceased its flickering.

She communicated the information to the family; the news of Samuel's disappearance was soon spread through the city, and in a short time three of the boarders were proceeding to the spot to which Samuel had directed his steps, under the guidance of some of the boys who had recollected the circumstances of the preceding evening. Samuel was not there.

The same watchman who had discovered Samuel, perceived their movements, and having heard their many anxious inquiries about Samuel, he joined them, told all that had occurred, and then guided them to the house in which their unfortunate friend was placed. The doctor would not allow them to see him, fearful that their appearance might be productive of injurious results, for they were considered to be the men who had allured Samuel to the scenes of dissipation.

The boys took notice of his miserable look, and it occasioned a slight cessation of their mirth; but the stranger passed on, a short turn round a corner soon hid him from their view, and the sensation he had awakened, like all other impressions upon child-ment ceased. hood, passed quickly away.

The report of a pistol, which followed, occasioned a little notice, and a passing remark; the boys gradually dispersed to their homes, and in a few hours nothing was disturbing the stillness of the night.

The watchman, when going his accustomed rounds, heard the groans of a man in agony. He hastened to the place whence the painful noise proceeded, and to his horror he beheld Samuel weltering in his gore. He sprung his rattle, and instantly many of his

When they returned to their home, all that had happened was told, and the excite

Four days after, a female, half frantic, knocked at the door of Samuel's boarding house-admittance was gained-she was told of his sudden disappearance from the house, his attempt to commit suicide, and his present abode. Unwilling to take refreshment or rest, even for a short time, she hurried, like a pursued deer, to the doctor's residence. She gained admittance from the servant to Samuel's room;-and being overcome with fatigue, she fell upon his bed;-weakness prevented him from raising himself up-but when her

bonnet was taken off, he looked at her, and he beheld his SISTER!

Day and night she watched by her brother's bed-side. He grew better-a sister's love was amply recompensed. She wrote to her father-and in that letter she dwelt upon the son's promise to lead a life of virtue.

A THUNDER STORM.

BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.

I was never a man of feeble courage. There are few scenes either of human or elemental strife, upon which I have not looked with a brow of daring. I have stood in the front of battle, when swords were gleaming and circling around me like fiery serpents of the air-I have sat on the mountain pinnacle, when the whrilwind was rending its oaks from their rocky clefts and scattering them piecemeal to the clouds-I have seen these things with a swelling soul, that knew not, that recked not of danger-but there is something in the thunder's voice that makes me tremble like a child. I have tried to overcome this unmanly weakness-I have called pride to my aid-I have sought for moral

To the honor of her sex be it said, that in the path of duty, no sacrifice is with woman too high or too dear-nothing is too arduous. The voice of pleasure may pass by unheeded, but the voice of affliction, never. The chamber of the sick, the pillow of the dying, the vigils of the dead, the altars of religion, never missed the sympathies of woman. Timid though she be, and so delicate that the winds of heaven may not too roughly visit her, on such occasions she looses all sense of danger, and assumes a preternatural courage, which knows not, and fears not conse-courage in the lessons of philosophy-but it quences.

Courage is most easily acquired by her who is already possessed of its firm basis, health; for when the body is enervated, the mind becomes enfeebled, torpid, and incapable of exertion; thus the invalid is rendered a prey to nervousness and fear, and trembles at the remotest symptom of danger; while the person in health looks with an intrepid eye on difficulties, sufferings and death, remaining undismayed by the appalling spectacle. For then she displays that undaunted spirit which neither courts difficulties, nor evades them:-that resignation which neither utters murmurs nor regrets:-and that patience in suffering, which seems victorious over death itself.

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One year passes away. A father, a son, and a sister enjoy happiness. Their benevolent breasts are fraught with a tenderness of feeling, whose luxury is known only to the virtuous. That son is rescued from the degradation and misery that heretofore attended his footsteps. He was led by degrees to resume that station in society for which nature had fitted him, but for which he was disqualified by an indulgence in habits which caused him to be shunned and despised.

Reader, if you do not wish to live in squallid misery, in degradation, and in infamy, and thereby suffer more than a thousand deaths, shun, Ŏ, shun, I beseech you, THE INTOXI

CATING BOWL.

SUNSET.

How beautiful is the setting of the great sun, when the last song of the birds fades in to the lapse of silence, when the islands of the clouds are bathed in light, and the first star springs up over the grave of day!

avails me nothing-at the first low moaning of the distant cloud, my heart shrinks, quivers, gasps, and dies within me.

My involuntary dread of thunder, had its origin in an incident that occurred when I was a child of ten years. I had a little cousin-a girl of the same age with myself, who had been the constant companion of my childhood. Strange, that, after the lapse of almost a score of years, that countenance should be so familiar to me. I can see the bright young creature-her large eye flashing like a beautiful gem, her free locks streaming as in joy upon the rising gale, and her cheeks glowing like a ruby through wreathes of transparent snow. Her voice had the melody and joyousness of a bird's, and when she bounded over the wooded hill or the fresh green valley, shouting a glad answer to every voice of nature, and clasping her little hands in the very ecstacy of young existence, she looked as if breaking away like a freed nightingale from the earth, and going off where all things were beautiful and happy like her.

It was a morning in the middle of August. The little girl had been passing some days at my father's house, and she was now to return home. Her path lay across the fields, and I gladly became the companion of her walk. I never knew a summer morning cloud was visible, and that seemed as pure more beautiful and still. Only one little and white, and peaceful, as if it had been the incense smoke of some burning censor of the skies. The leaves hung silent in the woods, and the waters of the bay had forgotten their adulations, the flowers were bending their heads as if dreaming of the rainbow and the dew, and the whole atmosphere was of such a soft luxurious sweetness, that it seemed a cloud of roses, scattered down by the hands of a Peri from the far off gardens of Paradise. The green earth and the blue sea lay abroad

in their boundlessness, and the peaceful sky bent over and blessed them. The little creature at my side was in a delirium of happiness, and her clear, sweet voice came ringing upon the air as often as she heard the tones of a favorite bird, or found some strange and lovely flower in her frolic wanderings. The unbroken and almost supernatural tranquillity of the day continued until nearly noon. Then, for the first time, the indications of an approaching tempest were manifest. Over the summit of a mountain, at the distance of about a mile, the folds of a dark cloud became suddenly visible, and, at the same instant, a hollow roar came down upon the winds, as it had been the sound of waves in a rocky cavern. The cloud rolled out like a banner-fold upon the air, but still the atmosphere was as calm and the leaves as motionless as before, and there was not even a quiver upon the sleeping waters to tell of the coming hurricane.

To escape the tempest was impossible. As the only resort, we fled to an oak that stood at the foot of a tall and ragged precipice. Here we remained, and gazed almost breathlessly upon the clouds, marshalling themselves like bloody giants in the sky. The thunder was not frequent, but every burst was so fearful that the young creature, who stood by me, shut her eyes convulsively, clung with desperate strength to my arm and shrieked as if her very heart would break. A few minutes and the storm was upon us. During the height of its fury, the little girl raised her finger toward the precipice, that towered above us. I looked up, an amethystine flame was quivering upon its gray peaks; and the next moment, the clouds opened, the rocks tottered to their foundations, a roar like the groan of a Universe filled the air, and I felt myself blinded and thrown, I knew not whither. How long 1 remained insensible, I cannot tell, but when consciousness returned, the violence of the tempest was abating, the roar of the winds dying in the tree tops, and the deep tones of the cloud coming in fainter murmurs from the eastern hills. I arose, and looked trembling almost deliriously around. She was there the dear idol of my infant love-stretched out upon the wet, green earth. After a moment of irresolution, I went up and looked upon her. The handkerchief upon her neck was slightly rent, and a single dark spot upon her bosom told where the pathway of death had been. At first I clasped her to my breast with a cry of agony, and then laid her down and gazed into her face, almost with a feeling of calmness. Her bright dishevelled ringlets clustered sweetly around her brow. The look of terror had faded from her lips, and an infant smile was pictured beautifully there, the

red rose tinge upon her cheek was lovely as in life, and as I pressed it to my own, the fountain of tears was opened, and I wept as if my head were waters. I have but a dim recollection of what followed-I only know, that I remained weeping and motionless till the coming on of twilight, and that I was then taken tenderly by the hand, and led away where I saw the countenances of parents and sisters.

Many years have gone by upon their wings of light and shadow, but the scenes I have portrayed still come over me, at times, with terrible distinctness. The old oak yet stands at the base of the precipice, but its limbs are black and dead, and its hollow trunk, looking upwards to the sky, as if "calling to the clouds for drink," is an emblemn of rapid and noiseless decay. A year ago I visited the spot, and the thoughts of by-gone years came mournfully back to me, thoughts of the little innocent being, who fell by my side like some beautiful tree of spring, rent up by the whirlwind in the midst of its blossoming. But I remembered—and oh there was joy in the memory—that she had gone where no lightnings slumber in the folds of the rainbow cloud, and where the sun-lit waters are never broken by the storm-breath of Omnipotence.

My readers will understand why I shrink in terror from the thunder. Even the consciousness of security is no relief to me-my fear has assumed the nature of an instinct, and seems indeed a part of my existence.

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From the Western Christian Advocate. THE YEARS.

BY JOHN N. MAFFITT.

My days are swifter than a post."-JOB.

As rolls the mighty river-on and on-
As fly the clouds were other clouds have gone-
As sweep the hurricanes in thunder past,
Too terrible in strength and wrath to last-
As glance the lightnings down the steep of heaven,
Through cloudy chasms by the tempests riven-
As the fleet arrow, buoyant through the air,
Bears rapid death, nor leaves a vestage there-
As hours of happiness that pass away,
Too big with love and ecstacy to stay-
As season chases season round the year,
Lashed by Time's gaunt and bony charioteer,
To find, by change of clime, perpetual spring,-
As ships, on ocean's green and trackless waste,
O'er deeps unknown in pauseless terror haste,-
As evening tales glide hurriedly, and end-
And travellers' weary footsteps homeward wend,-

So fly the years of life; so pass away
The world of men-the beings of a day,
So sudden does ther place forget to show
That ever they were dwellers here below.
Alas! alas! for those whose all of treasure
Is placed in giddy haunts of earthly pleasure!
Too soon for such the bank of time shall break,
And they in that strange waste shall wake,
Where, as they sowed-the reapers gathered in--
The righteous, righteousness-the sinners, sin.

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