spirit. The younger children were more submissive, but the example of their sister made it almost impossible to exert any paramount influence over them.

In the course of a few years three children of her own gave her an occupation which partially drew her mind from the many annoyances with which she had to struggle. But, as they became older, they seerned at times to add to the pain which the conduct of her step-children gave her; for she feared that they also would imbibe those feelings and habits which she had endeavored so earnestly, but with so little success, to eradicate. Unceasing were her efforts to shield them from evil; but alas! her deepest solicitude could not avert the consequences of such an injurious example.

Her eldest boy, named Henry, was now a beautiful bright-eyed little fellow, between five and six years of age. In character he resembled his mother; resolute and determined, he would often, although possessing many noble qualities, assert his own will in defiance of the remonstrances or commands of others. Earnestly did his mother endeavor to portray to him, sometimes by a few serious words, and occasionally by an anecdote, the importance of implicit and habitual obedience.

The following little incident which she narrated to him appeared to make a deep impression on his mind, as it was connected with the childhood of his uncle Theodore, for whom he entertained a strong affection: When your uncle Theodore,' she said, was about the age of my little Henry, he was once engaged in games with his older brothers in a room in which was built a large, old-fashioned fire of wood, whose bright blaze incited the highest spirits of the children. As their boisterous mirth was at its height it was suddenly hushed by a loud cry from Theodore. Absorbed in sport, he had heedlessly approached too near the dangerous blaze, and, his clothes taking fire, he was soon enveloped in flames.

The frightened child rushed immediately to the stair-way, calling for his mother with loud out-cries. She heard his screams, and hastened to his assistance. What was her horror to see her beloved child in this alarming situation! Instantly perceiving that every step increased his danger, she almost shrieked the words, 'Stop, my child!' He heard the voice which was always obeyed, and stood motionless. His mother was at his side in a moment, and with her own garments extinguished the flames, which were now mounting to his neck and forehead. Had it not been for his instantaneous obedience, it is probable that his life would have fallen a sacrifice to his sad waywardness.'

Little Henry listened to this narrative with the utmost attention, and, looking up with tearful eyes,

'I will try always to obey your commands, dear Mamma,' he said ' and be like uncle Theodore, whom I love now more than ever I did before.'

For some time he kept his promise, but the influence of his young companions was stronger than his resolution, and it was difficult for him to struggle against temptation.

It was a damp and chilly April afternoon, and, Henry's health being delicate, his mother gave orders that he should not be permitted to leave

the house to join any out-door amusement. Enticed, however, by the example of the older children, and knowing that his mother was occupied with company in the drawing-room, he made his escape, and, joining his sister and brothers, the youthful party proceeded to a neighboring pond, where they spent some hours experimenting with some little sail-boats, which had been made by them a few days previous.

When Henry's absence was discovered, his garments, which were not adapted to the inclemency of the weather, were saturated with moisture, and his limbs chilled with the cold. Every precaution was taken to prevent any serious consequences from an exposure to which he was unaccustomed; but it was too late, and that night he was violently attacked with delirium and fever.

For many days and nights did the anxious parents hang over their unconscious boy, but the disease kept on its steady progress; and as all earthly assistance seemed unavailing, they could only keep their prayerful vigils at his side until the crisis of his disorder, which the physician informed them would probably take place on the ninth day. No words can describe the intensity of hope and fear with which they watched him through the eighth night. To-morrow's dawn would bring to them a day of brightness, or one of such agony that the mother dared not allow her mind even for a moment to dwell upon it, as being within the limits of possibility.

The morning at length came. Little Henry had fallen into a slumber more quiet than any since the commencement of his illness. The mother's hopes grew strong as, with breathless anxiety, she gazed upon him and awaited his return to consciousness.

Suddenly he started up from his couch, and while his eyes sparkled with more than their usual brilliancy, he exclaimed:

'Mother, dear mother!'

The mother's arms were around him, but a kiss was the only answer she could make, as, extending his little arms also, he attempted to return the embrace. Do not weep, dear mother, but forgive, he faintly articulated. He would have said more, but nature was exhausted; the last effort was made; that darling voice was silent, no more to be heard. One faint smile, and all was over.

For some moments the stricken mother could not believe that, like a lightning's flash, the spirit had so quickly departed. She pressed her lips to his, vainly hoping that an answering pressure might yet be returned. But no human efforts could recall the pure seul to its tenement of clay; it had joined the seraphs on high, and perhaps was even then looking down upon its sorrowing parent; and, if it still retained aught of earthly feeling, was mourning that she should wish to keep him from those realms of bliss.

Unclasping those little arms, now stiffened in death, Colonel Gardiner attempted to draw his wife from that motionless form, when a stupor stole over her senses, and it was long before she could be aroused to any perception of surrounding objects. That pride which had so long enabled her to bear the trials of her situation with unshrinking stoicism, was now felt to be but the shadow of a shade, and totally insufficient to

support an immortal mind in its pilgrimage here; it was swept away with the vanished form of her idolized boy. Many causes had combined to weaken a frame formerly so firm, and this last shock Mrs. Gardiner felt she could not long survive. Sending for her sister, she earnestly entreated her to take the charge of her two remaining children, whose feeble health already caused her great uneasiness. Mrs. W entered with the warmest sympathy into her sister's feelings, and promised to make every effort for the promotion of their future welfare.

In a short time Margaret's prediction was fulfilled. The destroyer made sure and rapid encroachments on the springs of life, and she soon calmly sank to that repose of which she had enjoyed so little while on earth.

Painful were Adeline's reflections as, accompanied by Margaret's children, she returned to her home after this sad visit. She felt that the ties of kindred could not be severed without suffering, and that in the death of an only sister the last cord had been broken which connected her with all those fond reminiscences of infancy and childhood which still clustered around her memory. She mentally contrasted her own life, checkered as it had been by many vicissitudes, with that of her sister. She had, indeed, encountered many storms in life's journey, but, through the ordination of a kind PROVIDENCE, Love had shone through them all, and brightened those which it could not dissipate, while the Pride which had been her sister's polar star, had, like the ignis fatuus, only appeared bright for a short time, and then disappeared to leave a still deeper darkness. With a cheerful trust did she look forward to the future; for, blessed with a home in which were cultivated the highest and holiest principles, she felt that the halo of contentment would ever surround them. And although a cloud might at times arise and partially obscure the horizon, still, while Faith, Hope, and Love brightly gilded its beams, to their gaze would ever be discerned its silver lining.

LINE S.

WHILE the evening air grows dim, and the shadows faintly stream
From the hill-tops o'er the vales; when the night-hawk 'gins to scream,
And the owl from distant wood joins in solemn, lonely hoot,

While the chirping Katy-did lifts its little human note,

Then I wander 'neath the stars, silent climbing through the night

Wander o'er the lonely hills by their dim and ancient light.

Through the slowly-rising mist then the hills as phantoms seem,
Brooding o'er the vales beneath, where the fire-flies, flitting, gleam;
Till the distant village lights, faintly shining far below,
Warn me of the falling dark: and I hear the rippling flow
Of the merry gurgling brook, and the deep and solemn roar
Of the distant mountain-fall, dashing wildly in its power.

The sound that lingers in our ear,
Like some old ponderous gong,
Is but the orchestra that e'er
Accompanies their song.

THE

ETIQUETTE

O F VISITING.

BY THOMAS BIBB BRADLEY.

A

My readers, there is nothing more delightful than visiting a pretty, black-eyed woman, on a pretty, starry night. I can tell you, a pretty woman is a good thing. a devilish good thing - bonum ovum! man in the presence of a lovely lady should graciously thank PROVIDENCE for His benignity in creating her. The RULER of the universe arranged all those beautiful curls on that pearly neck, that she might be attractive and pleasant unto man. Those rare lips and that snowy brow, and those heavenly eyes, and that swelling bosom were granted to her to render her a suitable partner for us. In our visits to her, then, let us remember it, and bow obedient to the shrine of her beauty.

Of course, every gentleman more or less frequently visits the ladies. Not to do so argues him unqualified for the balmy atmosphere of a lady's parlor, and unsuited for the sweetest pleasure of this short existence. The man who has no friends among the women is in a sad position. Than to be such a man, I would prefer to be suspended by a hair over the cliffs of Dover, or navigating the Arctic Ocean in a canoe. Even animals are sociable: pigs confabulate, and swine are capable of sustaining a conversation. Elephants visit each other, and alligators enjoy evening entertainments. Horses indeed have an established code of etiquette in their chit-chats. In fact, I once knew a silly beast who associated (by accident purely) with refined horse-company until he imagined himself an excellent riding animal, and full of spirit. The consequence was, he rendered himself ridiculous on all occasions by his intolerable vanity and abominable attempts at the imitation of his superiors.

If fondness for company is thus true of the lower animals, how much more true of man. The great question to be considered then is, how to render society and even a single visit pleasant and profitable. In the first place, it is generally conceded that no one should be present at any entertainment, public or private, or visit any fair lady, or in any manner whatsoever protrude himself upon genteel company, who cannot contribute his share to the interest of the occasion. Such a rule excludes boys with shirt-collars three inches high, and skull six inches