Jephthah sent for answer, that the country belonged to the Gileadites by right of conquest, and that they had held quiet possession of it for three hundred years. The Ammonites were not to be appeased, and Jephthah prepared for war. But before he took the field, he made a vow, that, if he returned with victory, the first thing that came forth from his house to meet him, he would sacrifice to the Lord. To make a vow was not in itself culpable; the error lay in not considering before he took the vow, the consequences which might follow.

Jephthah having delivered his country from foreign enemies, and quelled a dangerous insurrection among the Ephraimites, returned home in triumph; when, as he approached his own house, his only child, a lovely and beloved daughter, at the head of a company of virgins, with garlands and musical instruments, came forth to meet him, and to congratulate him on his victories. What a sight was this! The exultation of the general and conqueror, was lost in the grief of the father. He covered his face with his mantle, and cried, 'Alas! my daughter!'

The astonishment of his daughter was soon changed into grief, when she understood the vow her father had taken; but, dutiful and submissive, she said, 'My father lament not, but if thou hast made a vow unto the Lord, perform it.'

The question whether she was sacrificed or not, has employed the pens of many learned men; many think she was not; for it appears altogether improbable that so tender a father as Jephthah is represented to be, would sacrifice an innocent dutiful child, in discharge of a rash vow; when, according to the prescription of the law, (as you may see by consulting the book of Leviticus, 27: 5,) he might have redeemed her for ten shekels of silver. It is, therefore, natural to infer, that he consecrated her to God, and devoted her to a single life, and to live in retirement all her days, secluded from all society but that of the young maidens, her companions, who went once every year to condole with her on her solitary state. For, as she never could marry, her father's family would become extinct at her death (she being his only child); and this solitary state they lamented the more, as all the Israelitish women were ambitious of becoming mothers; each one hoping that she might be the mother of the promised Messiah.

Most probably, when she was devoted to a life of austerity and

seclusion, her father bade her an eternal farewell; and surely it was a great affliction, to see a beloved child, thus cut off from all intercourse with the world; a child whom he had once, perhaps, fondly hoped to have seen wedded to some great and powerful man, endowed with wealth, and raised to honor; whose children might have perpetuated his name, and to whom his wealth might have descended for many generations. This, surely, was sorrow and disappointment sufficient to make him rend his clothes, and refuse comfort

Original.

THE INFLUENCE OF A SISTER.

BY MRS. FANNY AVERY.

How graceful and lovely the position of an amiable and discreet daughter; the pride of a father and the support and comfort of a mother. One who seeks to return back in some measure the good she has received, 'even as the branches of a tree return their sap to the root whence it arose.'

The sister is not without an influence, direct and powerful, particularly an elder sister. If she choose that which is virtuous and good, the younger members of a family will imitate her excellences. If she is pious, the younger ones will most commorly become so too. The society of virtuous and well-informed sisters, does much in refining and perfecting the character of the brothers, in softening the roughness of their nature, and elevating the standard of moral excellence.

Female influence is intwined with every social relation, and diffuses itself through every circle where there is mind to act upon. It gives the tone to religion and morals, and forms the character of man. It has been well remarked, that 'the rank of woman determines that of the race.' All are associated in some way with children or youth, and all contribute their influence by precept or example, to form the characters of a future generation. Every young woman has her little sphere of influence, and is the centre around which others move. She may send forth beams which will enlighten and warm the heart, and nourish the seeds of virtue, or shed a baleful influence which will shroud those with whom she associates in moral darkness.

Marblehead, Mass., Feb., 1845.

Original.

TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION.

BY REV. GEO. W. WEEKS.

It was a beautiful morning in June, 1819, when I left my play, at the call of my mother, took my dinner from her hand, received her usual counsel,-'be a good boy to-day, George,' - and hastened away to school. O, how those days of innocence and joy come back on memory's wing. They are green and sunny spots in this cold world. They are springs and running brooks to the parched and weary traveller over life's desert. O, the memories of early days— days gone forever, yet loved for what they were.

On my way to school, I lingered for a moment beneath a lofty elm, whose spreading branches shaded the neat little cottage of the widow W., and sat down till her son, my school-mate, would be ready to go with me. He was later than usual. While he tarried, I heard loud words, and casting my eyes toward the house, I saw Mary, the widow's only daughter, standing in the door, smoothing her long tresses, which fell in rich profusion around her neck. Her mother soon stood beside her, and it was evident that something uncommon was stirring the passions of both mother and child. Billy soon made his appearance from a back door, and I rose from my grassy seat to depart, when I heard the mother utter, in tones which even now seem to vibrate on my ear, the following solemn sentence: Mary, I tell you, once for all, if you follow that vile seducer, and leave your mother in her old age, you will break my heart, and ruin yourself, both soul and body.'

Mrs. W. was the widow of a kind and generous man, who had for some years been dead. She was left, however, with ample means for the support of herself and these two children.

Mary at this time was only seventeen; young, handsome, thoughtless, and gay, with little knowledge of the world, and less of the human heart. Billy was about twelve, a good boy, sober and thoughtful; and his love for his mother and sister was little less than adoration. Poor Billy! he died before sixteen summers had cast their light upon him.

There was in our neighborhood a gentleman dancing-master. He was just like most men of his profession, and just what such professions are well calculated to make of any man: conceited, hol

low, heartless, and intemperate. It was against the wiles of such a man, that I had heard the mother warning her lovely daughter. But with this creature, despite the fearful warnings of her mother, the gay Mary soon eloped.

Sadness and sorrow veiled the poor mother's dwelling; for the sunlight of youth and innocence which had cheered her heart so long, had set forever, had set in shame and infamy! The childless, broken-hearted mother, soon followed her darling boy to the grave. Poor woman! The iron had entered her soul. The last we knew of the poor deluded Mary, she was in New York city.

Years rolled away,

'They never wait for mortals' care or bliss.'

Time changes all things earthly, and, ah, how sad the change we sometimes see! Time's changes had obliterated from my memory all recollection of this family, except so much of it as might still linger in its secret silent chambers.

*

It was a bitter day in February, 1834. The storm of the preceding night had increased to a perfect tempest of snow and hail, and I was compelled to give over my journey, and halt for the day, six miles to the north of Providence, R. I. All day the storm had raged without abatement, and approaching night threw a sullen gloom over earth and sky. I stood by a window gazing on the scene before me. 'God help the poor traveller,' thought I, 'who has no shelter in such a night.' I was just turning away, when I beheld a poor horse endeavoring to make his way into an adjacent shed. He halted. In an old box-sleigh, from beneath snow, hay, and rags, issued a man and woman, followed by five children. I will not attempt to describe the dress or appearance of this miserable group. They were the wretched workmanship of intemperance, and its attendant vices. At first, the landlord refused them admittance, but another stranger and myself plead the cause of suffering humanity, and they entered the bar-room. The man was intoxicated, and while the woman was holding in her arms, and endeavoring to warm the stiffened limbs of her infant, the big tears ran down her pale and careworn cheeks. I gazed on the scene before me, with feelings of unmingled pity. At length she ventured to look up, and for a moment our eyes met. A thrill, like a shock of electricity, passed through

my whole frame. A spark had fallen on memory's altar, and was lighting up her slumbering fires.

'Where is your native place?' I asked.

It was not until I had repeated this question several times, that I obtained an answer. At length, with faltering voice she said, 'P., in New Hampshire, was my home.'

'And your mother was the widow W.' I added. With some effort she rose from her seat, cast into my face a searching glance, reeled for a moment, then sunk down on the floor. With some effort she was restored to consciousness, when I learned from her own lips, the following brief history of one, who, by the curse of disobedience and ingratitude, had been made to drink deep of the waters of misery and despair.

Soon after arriving in New York, she began to see things in their true light. In less than a year her paramour had become so degraded as to be unable to support her, and she was obliged to earn a scanty subsistence with her own hands. Step by step the guilty. man descended to the lowest depths of vice, infamy, and crime. For two years he was confined in prison, while she was reduced to the most deplorable state of poverty and wretchedness. She had no home, no friends, no employment, and was left in a land of strangers, to struggle with life, death, and misery. Sometimes she was the object of public, sometimes of private charity. She had embraced the meanest and most servile employments to keep from starvation. At length her guilty companion was released from prison. They sought and found each other. She had since endured years of shame and suffering with him, which none can know but those who feel them. She had at length prevailed on him to leave the city and go into the country; but, wherever they wandered, the wages of sin had been his portion, and the misery consequent upon disobedience to a kind parent, hers.

6

They were now endeavoring to make their way back to New Hampshire, in the vain hope of relieving a guilty conscience, and finding sympathy among early friends. To return and die among her native hills, seemed to be her only wish. To return,' said she, 'and lay me down on my mother's grave and die, is all I ask. O, for that hour!' Her heart was bursting! Sobs choked her utterance. I turned away and wept. Alas! alas! for poor human nature. My heart bleeds, while I rehearse its tales of woe. I weep