grave

titude than any or all of the duellists who have gone to the with their hands imbrued in the life-blood of their fellow beings. Let every woman imitate Mrs. D. in those heart-searching, heartrending hours, and the duelist will no longer have a place in respectable society, but will be justly classed with the outcasts of community.

If talented and influential women are found in the haunts of dissipation, or frequent public amusements, will it not encourage their associates, both male and female, in treading the broad road, and will not the contagion spread through all ranks in society? Most surely it will. And each member of every family exerts an influence in community; and thus it is that woman's influence is unmeasured, and immeasurable; and thus it is that the vicious pass along, not with the mark of Cain, as it were, branded on their brows by public opinion, but with bold countenance and haughty mien-and the river of mental, and moral, and eternal death still flows on, though the prayers of the homeless widow and her desolate children ascend even to heaven. Thus it is that the theatre is filled with thousands and scores of thousands, led on to sin and ruin in this world, and to a fearful judgment hereafter. Thus it is that a love of display, and a blind regard for fashion, are permitted to rule the ascendant in the female mind, and do their perfect work of injury upon the rising generation, when woman has the power to renovate the whole, and make the moral landscape engaging and lovely.

In one of the largest southern states there resided, in 183–, a gentleman high in public office, and universally respected. He was noted for his benevolence, and his common friends supposed him a model of virtue and temperance. But those who knew him best saw that he tarried long at the wine, that frequently his eye displayed unusual brilliancy, and his frame excitement. But they dared not sound the "tocsin of alarm," they judged it too delicate an affair for unskilled hands to manage. There was one gentle being, frail as "the lily of the valley," and the last of his family, who saw the danger and mourned in secret. She knew she was beloved by that father; but then he was a proud and gifted man. Would he receive advice from a child? It was a lovely morning, and E. walked forth in the porch, so common an appendage to southern dwellings; the father was there, and as he marked the sadness of that lovely countenance, and her tearful eyes, he anxiously inquired, "What disturbs my E. this morning?"

" We

are alone, dear father," she exclaimed; "all the world to each other, are we not?" A glance of tenderness was the mute response. "But," she continued, "is there not a worm beginning to prey upon our happiness, and shall we not fear him?" And her cheek was very pale as she whispered, "the worm of the still." Perchance the stern brow of that proud man was somewhat blanched,

and his lip quivered the past was before him, with all its hoarded memories of love and untold tenderness-the recollection of a wife and children cold beneath the clods of the valley was there-and the future he saw at a glance its deep dark shadows, and he shuddered. "Blessings on you, my child," he exclaimed, “you have saved your father." And thenceforward the name of Judge B. was on the officers' list of the county temperance society; and community felt the power of that young girl's influence; for her father was ever after an active and energetic advocate of temperance, and saved many from a drunkard's woe and a drunkard's grave.

Woman's influence is truly kingly in general society. It is powerful in a daughter and a sister; but it is the mother who weaves the garlands that flourish in eternity.

"She stamps the lines so indelible on the young soul,

That all the water-floods of time erase them not,
And which stern death peruses, when he seals the scroll
Of life up for the judgment bar."

She may plant in the heart the strong oaks of virtue and religion,
which will defy the storms of infidelity and the lightnings of sar-
casm, or she may suffer the evil passions of human nature to go
unchecked and unrestrained, which, as years are added to years,
will prove moral death to all within their influence. A wealthy
and influential family formerly resided in the city of T.; the fa-
ther was one of the most distinguished jurists in his native state,
and was also among the councils of the nation. Mrs. L. was a
lady in the most extensive sense of the word, and a domestic lady,
but her station in society was an exalted one; and while she
trained her daughters in the paths of virtue and piety, she allowed
her sons to imbibe corrupt principles, and indulge in evil habits.
The wine cup was there placed to the lips of those who called,
and the children learned to love the sparkling of the choice beve-
rage. They were allowed to frequent the theatre, the circus, and
the streets of that crowed city, where lessons of vice were early
instilled into their hearts, and which were only strengthened with
their years. At the time of my acqaintance, the eldest son was
perhaps twenty years of age, and dissipation had already begun to
do its work. Noble and commanding in appearance, he graced
the circles of fashion-possessing an intellect of the highest order,
he had already acquired a liberal education, and was admitted to
the bar. Surely life seemed fair to him; but the serpent from the
decanter had coiled round his vitals, and a few years since the ele-
gant, accomplished and talented young lawyer died of delirium
tremens. And his soul-its destiny is recorded in the book of
Him who hath said, "No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of
Heaven." The second son was perhaps then fourteen-a brilliant
youth, amiable and engaging in his manners.
He also had sipped

the poison at his father's table, had gone to the circus, and become fascinated with its excitement. His name is enrolled among the wanderers who go homeless from place to place, scattering moral disease and death through our land; and he will probably ere long lie down in a drunkard's grave. There was another-then twelve years of age. If personal loveliness, if the silken locks, the lofty marble brow, and the dark eagle eye-if an aptitude for learning, and a knowledge beyond his years could have augured his destiny, then truly had it been a glorious one. But he loved wine, he loved fiction, and revelled amid the enchanting descriptions of the novelist until they imbued his whole being. A life of excitement only had charms for him; land was too tame; he gloried in the idea of a sailor's home on the deep, he wished for the ocean storm, yea, and the booming of the cannon, the clash of the polished steel, and the conflict for life where every inch of space is of untold worth on the fathomless waters. And he died there, and his body rests in the ocean. Was it a natural death? Ah! no, it was for crime he yielded up his life; and his name will long be remembered as one who, young in years, was old in sin. Did he repent? He who knows the heart, only knows the destiny of the gifted C., for his sentence was soon executed. Could those young men have been saved from the wine cup, and consequently from the road of crime, doubtless they would have been an honor to their family, and useful members of community; but the evil they increased by their influence and station in society, and the souls they led on to endless woe, can only be known in eternity.

[To be concluded.]

BROTHERLY LOVE.

"He that despiseth his neighbor sinneth." Prov. xiv. 21.

Despise not another, whate'er he may be;
Nor think that his welfare is nothing to thee;
The Lord of the universe came from above,
To teach us this lesson, this lesson of love.

Shall we despise any, treat any with pride,
For whom the great Lord of the universe died?
Shall the love, which our Saviour has purchased thus,

Be coldly disdained when bestowed upon us?

The prayer of the helpless is heard high in Heaven,
And to it a merciful answer is given;

At the prayer of the penitent angels rejoice;

And shall man turn away with contempt from his voice?

The wisdom and science of earth we may praise;
But their honors are fading, and numbered their days;
We may praise the fair stars, and the glorious sun,
But the soul of our brother outlives every one.

And what is its value? Its ransom was paid

When the blood of Heaven's Lord on earth's altars was laid.
Against whom, then, do we in haughtiness rise,
When our lowliest brother we learn to despise ?

Though pride may at first seem distinction to claim,
Her end is destruction, her glory is shame,
Though scorned be humility, great is her part,
For God dwells in the humble and penitent heart.

THE WIFE.

BY MRS. LUCY K. WELLS.

"Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel,

For ever covetous to feel,

And impotent to bear;

Such once was hers-to think and think
On severed love, and only sink
From anguish to despair

But nature to its inmost part,
Had faith refined, and to her heart
A peaceful cradle given;

Calm as the dew-drops, free to rest
Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast
Till it exhales to Heaven."

WORDSWORTH.

THE scene was one of deep and mournful interest. The mother, evidently in a deep consumption, and so reduced as to be confined to her chamber, was now, for the first time, to avouch the Lord Jehovah to be her God, and devote her children to him in baptism. She was sitting in an easy chair, pale as the white drapery that enveloped her emaciated form, save one bright spot upon her cheek, whose unearthly bloom told that the heart was wasting. The pastor was seated by her side, and her children were clustered around her. The two eldest were daughters just blooming into womanhood, and the saddened expression of their countenances showed that grief and fear were busy at their hearts, and formed a melancholy contrast to the joyous faces of the little ones, who

"Knew not yet how much they had to lose."

But where was the manly arm which should have been her support in an hour like this? Where was the eloquent, the highly gifted being to whom some few years before she had yielded all

the warm affections of her confiding heart? Methought now, the kind tones of that manly voice should have spoken comfort and cheer, and his arm should have sustained her in this hour of trial. Alas! he was an inebriate and a gambler, and now, though all were assembled, he was yet lingering around his accustomed haunts. He came at length, but with a flushed cheek and an unquiet eye. The mother took the vows of God upon her, and that Father received the little ones from her trembling hand and led them to the sacred font. She was calm and self-possessed. One tear alone dropped from her eye when she gave the last, a sweet infant, to his arms; but what her feelings were no one knew. Hitherto she had buried all in the recesses of her own bosom, for in that slight and now wasted form, was a soul formed to endure with patient, uncomplaining sorrow, and capable of such perfect self-control, that to a careless eye she seemed not to suffer. She had shrunk from observation, and lived almost unknown even by the villagers around her. The only occupation which seemed to interest her cultivated and delicate mind, was the instruction of her children; and well did the budding graces of those dear ones tell what that mother might have been, had her virtues been unfolded by the cheering sun of prosperity. But a fatal blight had fallen upon her cherished hopes-poverty had laid his withering grasp upon her-exhausting toils had depressed her spirit and weakened her frame, and now she stood upon the threshhold of eternity, far from the friends of her youth, with only such a father to whom she could confide her little ones. Yes, there was another-the ever present Jehovah was her God, and surely he will be a father to those more than fatherless orphans.

*

Some days had elapsed, and Anna, a warm-hearted young girl, who delighted to watch by the interesting sufferer, and minister to her wants, was seated by her bedside. Anna,' "said Mrs. N., "will you read to me?" Anna took up a small volume and read the tale of Gertrude, which has come down to us from olden times. Of Gertrude, the devoted, the heroic wife, who stood undismayed by her husband during a long night of fearful agony, while at the command of a tyrant he was suffering the torture of the rack. Gay as Anna seemed, there was a fount of deep feeling in her bosom, and as she read, tears gushed from her eyes, and her voice was choked by emotion. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "what sorrows fell to the lot of woman in those days of darkness and cruelty." True," replied Mrs. N., "but there are deeper, bitterer griefs than hers. Sit nearer to me, my dear girl, and ere the clods of the valley close over this wasted form, I will draw aside the veil from my life and heart, that you may see what woman is sometimes—yes, often called to endure, even in this favored Christian land. The recital will be but melancholy, yet to you, I trust, it may not be useless. It may teach you to curb your excessive sensibility, and