111J)TINGDON-. JOll-1 - Nik„ L DOOM to General ilutettigence, gibbtrttotng,lttico, Etterature, Stitoratttg, invto, Atieittto, fagrttutture, sltottronnent, szt., kg. `3?QI)aQ SSY'ZZUU9 Q:D. SilZ24 DAY, GERRISH Ilt, CO. GENERAL. PRODUCE, Commission and Forwarding Merchants. Granite Stores, lower side of Race street, on the Delaware, Philodelphta. rftESPECTFULLY inform their friends %IA and the merchants generally, that they have taken the large Wharf and Granite Front Stores, known as Ridgeway's Stores, immediately below Race street, in addition to their old wharf, where they will con tinue the produce commission business, as :lso to receive and forward goods toiall points on the J uniata, and North and %Vest branches of the Susquehanna Rivers. via. the Tide Water,•lnd Pennsylvania, and Schuylkill and Union canals. . This establishment has many advantages over any other in the city in point of room and convenience fur the accommodation of boats and produce. Being one of the largest wharves on the Delaware, and the stores extending fern Water street to Delaware Front. Five or six'boats may at the same time be loading and discharging. The usual facilities will be given on all consignments entrusted to their charge, which will be thank fully received and meet with prompt atten tion. Salt, Fish and Plaster, constantly . on hand and for sale at the lowast market price. References, Philadelphia. J. Ridgway,Esq. J Brock, son & Co Jacob Lex & Son Waterman & Osbourn Mulford & Alter Scull & Thompson Wilson, Seiger & Bro E J Etting & Bro Bray, Barcroft & C o Morris, Paterson & co Lower & Barrow. Lewistown. 3 & J Milliken A & G Blimyer Patterson & Horner 3 McCoy, Esq. Intersireet. Stewart & Harrell H W Wike, Esq. February 8,1843.-6 m. THE GIRARD LIFE INSURANCE. asamaavts zi.ow ianote COZIPAIIT OF 7 1 111.L4DELP111.1: Office No. 159 Chesnut Street. Make insurances of lives, grant anninuities and Endowments, and receive and execute Trusts. . . Rates for insuring $lOO, on a single life. Age. For 1 year. For 7 years. For life. annually. annually. 20 60 91 80 95 $1 77 30 1 31 • 1 36 2 36 49 1 69 1 83 i ( 2 )8 50 8 90 2. vu 60 4 35 4 91 7 00 EXAMPLE :—A person aged 30 years, by paying the company $1 31 would secure to its family or heirs $lOO. should he die in one year—or for $l3 10 he secures to theni s:000 Or for $l3 60 annually for 7 years, he se cures to them $lOOO should he die during the 7 years—or for $23 60 paid annually du ring life he provides for them 1000 dollars whenever he dies— for 865 50 they would re ceive 5000 dollars, should he die in one year. Further particulars respecting Life Insur ance. Trusts, or management of Estates and property confided to them, may be had at the office. B W. RICHARDS. Pt esident. JNO. F. JAMES, Actuary. Phil'a. April 19, 1843.-6 m. BOOTS AND SHOES, Leghorn and Straw Bonnets, PALMLEAF AND LEGHORN HATS, Merchants and others from Huntingdon and adjacent places, are respectfully reques ted to call and examine the stock of the above kinds of goods, which is full and extensive. and which will be sold at prices that will give satisfaction to purchasers, at No. 168 Market. street southeast corner of sth street, Philadelphia. CEO. W. & LEWIS B. TAYLOR. pila. Feb. 6,1843.-6 mo. W. 11. bIoRRI4, R. M. KIRKBRIDE WILLIAM IIMORRIS&CO. iiunmwaaaa aocgfaula AND Commission Merchants, HAVRE DE GRACE, MARYLAND. itrIAVING taken the large and commodi ousaa Wharf and Warehouse situated di rectly on the Canal Basin, are now prepared to receive consignments of goods for tran shipment or sale. A general assortment of Groceries, &c., consisting of Loaf and Brown Sugars, Coffee, Molasaes, Sperm Oil and Candles, White, Yellow and Brown Soaps, Fish, Salt, Plaster, &c., together with all kinds of Spices and Paints—and also ready made Clothing will be kept constantly on hand and disposed of ini city terms or exchanged for country pro duce, Coal, &c. April 19. 1843.-3 m. WASHINGTON HOTEL, - MARKET SQUARE, HARRISBURG, Pa The subscriber respectfully announces to his friends and the public generally, that he has taken the above named well known Tavern Stand, (formerly kept by W m. E. Camp,) where he will endeavor to serve those that may call upon him in the most satisfactory manner: The House is centrally and plea. santly located, and is furnished throughout with the best of bedding and other furniture, and his accommodations are such as to make it a convenient and desirable stopping place. (U••No exertions will be spared to make it agreeable in all its departments to those who may favor him with a call. FREDERICK J. FENN. December 21, 1842. BLANK DEEDS. of an improved form, for sale at this office. Alga BLANK PETITIONS TOR .V47II4LIZATION. THEODORE H. CREMER, c:l3oZlc.F.CsablEl. The "Joeux.ti." will be published every Wed nesday morning, at $2 00 a year, if paid in advance, and if not paid within six months, $2 50. No subscription received for a shorter period than six months, nor any paper discontinued till all ar rearagee are paid. Advertisements not exceeding one square, will he inserted three times for $1 00, and for every subse quent insertion 25 cents. If no definite orders are given as to the time an advertisement is to be continu ed, it will be kept in till ordered out, and charged ac cordingly. POETRY. From the New York Mirror. The Pilgrim's Address to the Deity. From the variety of musical compositions presen ted to us by Mr. Henry Russel, each bearing the feature of his characteristic genius, wo select one which appears to us the least familiar to purreaders. It is a sacred melody, termed " The Pilgrim's Address to the Deity," written by Henry John Sharpe, of this city, and first introduced by the gift ed composer at the grand musical festival in Bir minghtuu with great eclat. We consider it one of the happiest efforts both of the writer and the composer.. It is a beautiful theme for sacred minstrelsy.— Frail humanity, bending the knee of reverence iu adoration at the footstool of his Creator's throne! If there be one subject for the medium of song more elevated and exalted than every other, it is the spontaneous effusion which a greatful heart insensibly offers up to the great and glorious Author of the Universe. Thou art, 0 God ! the fount divine, From whence all earthly blessings flow; Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things praise thee here below. The radiant sun which gilds the day, The countless stars that gem the night, Owe all their splendor to thy sway, Great source of all things fair and bright ; If pilgrim pray'rs avail on high, All things adore thee; so do 1, Thou reign'st, 0 God ! in realms of light, Mujectic, solemn and alone! In adoration to thy might, Creation bends beneath thy throne ; The thunder's roar, the lightning's glare, The murmuring of the boundless sea, Which nature offers up to Thee ! If pilgrim thoughts ascend onhigh, All things adore Thee !—so do I. We hail, 0 God! the vital ray With holy inspiration rife-- Its bright reflection points the way Which leads to everlasting life ; The changing seasons as they roll, Thy power and wisdom, Lord proclaim! All creatures join, from pole to pole, . In loud ho's . antas to thy name; If pilgrim pray're arc heard on high, All things adore Thee!—so do I. The following beautiful composition, full of sub limity and heart-stirring conceptions, was the pro duction of Dr. JOSEPII RODMAN DRAKE, the cele brated Senior Croaker. There is nothing to compare with it so fur as relates to the subject, in the English language. No American pen has ever rendered such a proud tribute to the symbol of our country. Drake died a premature death, in 1821, at the early age of 25, cut oil' by a constitutional pulmonary , disease, in the very prime of life, and at the zenith of his reputation, beloved and regretted by all who knew hint. He was remarkable for his personal elegance of form, the symmetry and beauty of his features, and the amiable and polished man ners. Helleck, his associate in the Croakers, is the surviving depository of his deceased friend's fame and genius. Every body is acquainted with his char ming compositions. He wrote the lust verse only of the American Flag. The American Flag.' When Freedom from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azuro robe of night And set the stars of glory there ! She mingled with its gorgeous dies The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white With streakings from the morning light! Then from her mansion in the sun, She culled her Eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The ;ymbol of her eiiose'n lend! Dialectic monarch of tho cloud ! Who rears't aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest triumphing loud, And see tho lightning lances driven, When strides the warrior of the storm And rolls the thunder drum of Heaven! Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free— • To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its bleedings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war The harbinger of victory! Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the signal trumpet's tone, And the line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life blood, warm and wct, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet— Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn, To where thy meteor glories burn, And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance ! And when the cannon's mouthings loud, Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight poll! Z2Pcsa.b olarszym a€D4o,e3.. IZIEICMLLAMEOUB• From Graham's Magazine for June 1843. DAUGEMEIRS OF LA ROCHE. .1 Story of the affections. HT ROBERT MORRIS. Author of "The Angel and the Demon," "The Hasty Marriage," &e. "They grew in beauty side by side." Who that has attended the death-bed of the loved and cherished, can ever forget its touching and pain ful scenes? The sands of life passing rapidly away—the pulse becoming feebler and fainter— the voice lower and weaker—the light fading from the glossy and spiritual eyes—the mingled expres sion of love, hope and agony resting upon the thin, pale features. And, when at last the lamp goes out —the hands fall cold upon the motionless bosom— the limbs become rigid, and the spirit wings its flight to another world, who can forget the heart• screams of the denting mourners—the grief long suppressed, but now bursting forth as a torrent— the tears, the cries, and the exclamations, half in love and half in madness ! I once was present at the death-bed of a mother— a true martyr-like woman—who had hurried herself to a permature grave, in an effort to provide for the comforts of two young and lovely daughters; and were I to live a thousand years, the memory of the hour will still linger vividly in my mind. She died, too, in the full faith of a blessed hereafter—con scious of the purity of her life, and cherishing, as the jewels of the soul, the sublime truths of the Christian religion. But her daughters—her young and unprotected daughters! She left them to the tender mercies of a hollow world, and thus with the undying fondness of a mother's heart, fixed her straining eyes upon their sad but beauteous features, even as the soul parted front the body, and the faith ofa blessed religion brightened the pathway to a clime of bliss. Sobs and tears and loud lamentations came from those lovely orphans. They were now indeed alone • in the world ; and though they had been taught in some measure to prepare themselves for so frightful a bereavement, they could not realize all its gloom and desolation. They had never known a father's care, for he had been taken from them in their early childhood, before they were capable of appreciating his amino Tu.:. . • to them--she had watched them m their hours of illness—had prayed fur them, and with them—had pointed out the paths of danger in the ways of life —had indulged them beyond her means—had de prived herself of many a luxury, ay, many a neces sity in order to administer to their comfort and im provement, and now, as they looked upon her cher ished form, cold and still in the icy embrace of death, oh ! God, how wretched and lonely seemed their condition. In vain their few friends endeavor ed to soothe their sorrow—to soften the anguish of their grief. Tears, and teals alone seemed to afford them relief; and they wept in very bitterness for hours ! Mrs. La Roche was a French lady by birth, and, with her husband and her young daughters, clime to this country during the troubles of the lastFrertch revolution, Compelled to abandon his native land at but a few hours notice, the father was able to collect but a small sum of money to assist his family in the coun try of his exile. He survived his arrival in the Uni ted States only two years--merely long enough to acquire a knowledge of the English language, and, with his lady, to attempt the establishment of a school of instruction in the French. The daughters were, at this time, too young to assist, but the mo ther, though utterly unused to a life of toil, saw and appreciated her position, and roused all her energies to the undertaking. She continued the school, and with partial success, after the decease of her hus ' band. Compelled to economize in every possible way, she looked forward to the period when tier children would be able to assist her, and thus her teak would be greatly lightened. Increasing, as they hourly did, in beauty and intelligence, and man ifesting, in every possible way, thCir appreciation of her love, and her untiring exertions spent in their behalf, her heart warmed toward them with every breath which they drew, and she would freely have laid down her life to ensure their welfare. But what will not a another do for the beings of her af fection! What will she not submit to ! Well and touchingly was it remarked by a Venetian lady, with regard to Abraham and Isaac, that "God would nev er have commanded such a sacrifice of a mother." Mrs. La Roche had thus with difficulty, but still in a spirit of great cheerfulness, conducted her little school for four years after the decease of her hus band. But, her health now began to fail. She had ovcrtasked her powers; her constitution, which was naturally feeble, gave way. Still, she struggled on in the most heroic manner. "A few years longer," she flattered herself, "and I may abate my labors.— Then my children will be able greatly to assist me, if not wholly to take my place." She saw them ri pening in beauty—and the natural dream of a mo ther's heart raised up suitors in abundance. So lovely—so correct—so imbued with the pure prin ciples of religion--so accomplinhed! The heart of the widow rejoiced in the anticipated triumph of her offspring. Alas ! even then the seeds of death were at work, stealthily and its silence. A little longer and the body refused to administer to the wishes of the mind. Mrs. La Roche was prostrated on her 'Rath bed. and lter children, a already de.eribed, were orphans in the fullest and most painful sense of the term. Amy La Roche, the younger sister, at the period of which we write, was thirteen; Clotilde, the el der, was sixteen years of age. A lovelier pair never mingled their tears together by the cold corpse of a parent. Taught to regard her as the soul and centre of their social world—as the being to whom they must lock for counsel and advice next to the Al mighty—they clung to each other in their desolation, oath striving to soothe the other, and each uncon sciously adding to the poignancy of the other's grief. Clotilde wept wildly, but the sorrow of the younger seemed more heart-felt. The one was all feeling and impulse, and her agony of grief was relieved, in aome measure, by the violence of the paroxysms— the fury of her despair. The younger was natural ly of a thoughtful and melancholy nature, and her mild, blue eyes seemed to mirror, in their gentle lustre, the very depths of her soul. She was too young, moreover, to have a thought of fondness for another being on earth beyond her mother. No other passion of her nature had been called even into fancied existence, and thus the poor girl pitted day by day until site became thin and pale, and the elder found it necessary to conceal her own sorrow, in' order to bring back the spirit of girlhood and joy to the fair features of her dearest Amy. Throughout the crisis of their bereavement they were visited assiduously and constantly by but one individual. Pierre Martin, or neighbor Pierre, as they called him, was intimate with their father in the more prosperous portion of his life, and had, like him sought this country as a place of refuge during the perils of the revolution—perils which destroyed his family and left him lone and wretched. He had, neverthe'.ess, accumulated a considerable fortune in the United States, and, at the period of the widow's decease, was on the eve of returning to France. Touched, however, by the sad condition of the sisters, he delayed his departure, and called day after day in the noble duty of watching over two fair beings, so entirely helpless and unprotected, and of adminiatering every comfort and assistance in his power. This faithful friend was now in hie sixtieth year--still, manly and gentlemanly in his appear ance, and exhibiting but little of the weakness or infirmity of age. Week after week ho postponed the day of his leave-taking, and yet ho steadily per sisted in his determination to return, at the same tiine condoling with the orphans, assisting them as tiltliatS l lk%Pagiifi - Mit inisfar ' tune. Clotilde saw and admitted all this, but what could she dot She still continued to keep up her little school, which her mother had bequeathed to her as an inheritance, but her experience and youth unfitted her, in a great measure, to exercise sufficient authority over the pupils, and thus, while she found them constantly diminishing in number, she discov ered, with horror, that the health of her young sis ter was rapidly sinking. The color was fading from her cheeks—the bright light from her eyes.— Her existence to have lost its spring and fountain on the decease of Mrs. La Roche, and, although the sweet girl struggled earnestly to assume a degree of cheerfulness and an air of satisfaction, she could not conceal from the penetrating eyes of Clotilde that there was a canker within. Neighbor Pierre, also, noticed !the change, and his heart melted him at this new source of anxiety and distress. He sent for and consulted one of the ablest physicians of the city—for his nature warmed strangely and unconsciously toward the orphans, since he had visited them so frequently—and he was told that a change of air would alone save the life of the fading beauty. He pondered long upon this painful intelligence ; at first unwilling to communi cate it to the elder sister, for he knew that it would strike like an arrow through her soul. What could be done? what was his duty under the circuntstan cos / He pressed his hand upon his forehead and mused painfully for hours. A thought darted to his brain. But no—he repelled it as unworthy—as unmanly—as treacherous to the friendship he had felt and professed for the dead father of the sisters. And yet it returned again, and grew stronger and stronger, until he had no power to resist its infiu- CRC. Accuse him not harshly, gentle reader—pro- nounce not against him harshly. He was alone in the world, and they were without friends and pro tectors. He was compelled by circumstances to re visit France, and yet he felt a voice within him as sert that he had a duty to perform to the children of his deceased countryman. How could he best per form that duty? To subject two young, inexperi enced and beautiful girls to the snares of the vicious and the reckless—to desert them in the hour of the greatest need—to abandon them to the charities of a cold world—or worse, to the accursed arts of the profligate and libertine—the thought was full of an guish. Again ho paused. He ascended to his chamber, and there, kneeling in prayer, ho sought advice and counsel from the Searcher of all hearts.— lie rose from his knees refreshed in spirit, and com paratively calm and resolved. The next hour found Idni at the dwelling of the sisters. The younger inure evidently weaker than on the day before, while the countenance of Clotilde wore a still more melan choly aspect. He looked steadily upon the beauti ful features of Clotilde, where all was yet litb and hope and youthful splendor, only mellowed and spiritualized by the tender anxiety of a sacred love, and his heart again misgave him. But he rallied his courage and drew her aside. lie announced to her, in as kindly ternos as possible, tha opinion of the physician , and, as Ile saw the big tear start to her eyes ut the eensciou,ness of her inability to at:- company Amy to a milder climate—softer and sun nier skies—he took her hand, and offered to become her husband. "Thus," he added, " dear Clotilde, I will obtain a right to protect you. Titus may we immediately sail for France, and, with the blessing of Heaven, a hope may be indulged of the restoration of our lovely Amy." He alluded to his deaparity of years, and his reluctance to venture ouch a proposi tion, but he implored her, no matter what her deter mination, to judge his motives generously. As he lived and had faith in the Divinity, he believed that he was influenced purely, justly, and virtuously. Clotilde covered her face with her hands. She had unbounded confidence in the principles of her father's friend—for ho had ever conducted himself with the most scrupulous delicacy. She saw, too, the position of her sister, and she felt that the life of that dear and affectionate girl was as dear to her as her own; and yet she knew not what'to do or say. One only thought—one only dream interfered with the course which she believed to be dictated by duty. The path of her young life, chequered and darkened as it had been, had not been all shadow. A mo mentary rainbow had flashed its glories above. A youthful form sometimes mingled with her dreams, A voice deeper and sweeter than those of the every ' day world sometimes rose to her memory, and whispered to the listening spirit of her soul. She was now nineteen years of age—a full and perfect woman --and how seldom is it in our land that the fair and the beautiful, the enthusiastic and the warm-hearted pass through so many summers without discovering some being in the crowd purer and holier than the rest—some kindred spirit—some sympathising soul ! A look—a word—a pressure of the hand will some times give tone to the story of life. Cloth& La Roche and Arthur Morvilic had met when "Life seemed bathed in Hope's romantic hues." She was but seventeen, and he twenty-two. But a few months passed, and the ocean divided them. He was the son of a bankrupt merchant utterly penalises and prospectless, and thus when an oppor tunity presented of a voyage to Chine, as the agent of an extensive commercial house, he was compelled by the force of circumstances to embrace it, even at the risk of an absence of live years. Thus they parted. He never told his love" in words, hut the heart must be cold and insensible that requires ictc"nilidE was mingled with his prayers, and her image haun ted his sleep—the brightest, sunniest angel of his dreams. And he was not forgotten. She did not strive to forget, and if the effort had been made it would have been a vain one. Two years had now gone by, and Arthur was yet abroad. Foolish and timid as they were, no cor respondence had been agreed upon, and he uncon scious of the interest he had excited, was afraid to write. He was poor—little better than a beggar —when he left his kindred and his home. He had no claim upon one so beautiful and lovely, and the pen wasdashed to the earth in despair whenever he ventured a letter. But the offer of Pierre ;Warden! It revived the early dream 'in the bosom of Clotilde fully and vi vidly. Yet her sister was dying ! She saw her failing every hour. The delay of a single week might prove fatal. God of the orphan, advise and counsel her in this her hour of trial. She sent for the friend of her father and told him all. If he would take her for his wife under these eir cumstaneee, she would freely accord his consent. Nay, she believed his motives to be generous and noble, and she honored him therefor. More touched than ever—seeing the evident sa crifice she was about to make as a tribute of duty and her love for her sister—the old inns hesitated. Again ho meditated upon the subject, questioned his own heart closely, and endeavored to penetrate his motives. It was finally agreed that they should immediatly sail for France—that the engagement should be announced before their departure—and the mar riage should take place immediately after their arrival. 13ut why prolong the story ? The God of the orphan watched over and protected the sweet sisters. 'rite voyage was pleasant beyond their most san guine expectations. Amy gained health and strength with every favoring breeze, and when they landed at Havre her eyes again sparkled with the fire of youth and joy, and her cheeks glowed with hues of beauty. Clotilde, too, seemed more lovely than ever, the sea-air had greatly improved her. Her spirits mounted—her soul again rejoiced—and even the apprehension which occasionally crept into her breast, in connection with the coining marriage, gave less anxiety than she could have be lieved a few weeks before. They landed on a bright summer morning. The arrival of a foreign ship had collected a group around the place of debarkation. Among them were seve ral Americans-they could have been singled out in a world of foreigners. And sec! whose form is that pres sing forward so eagerly 1 It is—it is—much chan ged—but not enough to escape the quick eyes of youth and the mind of love-fraught memory. Yes, Arthur hlorville rushes forward—the wanderer from the far East! What a meeting! How joy ous—how unexpected ! Even the presence of strangers is forgotten. Eyes sparklo--cheeks glow —breasts heave—and hearts respond. The old man looks on, first in surprise, and then with a quiet benevolent smile inelle, ing his features, ad- v;Zi'Llum)llcs) Z`J'aD4 ISDEEIC.V. vancing to Clotilde ho whiepers, .De not abashed— your joy is my joy—and all will yet be well." A few weeks thereafter and Clotilde La Roche became the wife of Arthur Merville. Pierre Martien gave the bride away, at the same time publicly recognizing the young couple and the beautiful Amy as his adopted children! Heaven, say we, soften the pillow and hallow the dreams of the friend of the fatherless! WOMEN AND I have speculated a great deal upon Matrimony. I have seen young and beautiful women, the pride of gay circles, married—as the world says—well.— Some have 'moved into coolly houses, and their friends have all come, and looked at their fine furni ture and their splendid arrangements for happiness, and they have gone away, and committed them to their sunny hopes, cheerfully and without fear. It is natural to be sanguine for the young, and at such times lam carried away by similar feelings. I love to get unobserved into a corner,and watch the bride in her white attire, and with her smiling face and her soft eyes moving before are in their pride of life, weave a waking dream of her future happiness, and persuade myself that it will be true. I think how they will sit upon the luxurious sofa as the twilight falls, and build gay hopes, and murtner in low tones the now forbidden tenderness; and how thrillingly the al lowed kiss, and the beautiful endearments of wee' led life, will make even their parting joyous, and how gladly come back from the crowd mid the empty mirth of the gay to each other's quiet company. I picture to myself that young creature, who blushes even now at his hesitating caress, listening eagerly for his footsteps as the night stela on, and wishing that he would come; and when he enters at last, and, with an affection as undying as his pulse, folds her to his bosom. I can feel the very tide that goes flowing through his heart, and gaze with him on her graceful form, as she moves about him for the kind offices of affection, soothing all his unquiet cares, and making him forget even himself in her young and ill/shad owing beauty. I go forward for years, and see her luxuriant hair put soberly from her brow, and, her girlish graces ri pening into dignity, and her bright loveliness elms tilted with the gentle meekness of maternal affee aLt..-Her husband looks on her with a proud eye, tendons which first won her, and fair children are growing about them, and they go on full of honor and untroubled years, and are remembered when they die. I say I love to dream thus when I go to give the young bride joy. It is the natural tendency of feel ing touched by loveliness that fears nothing for itself; and if ever I yield to darker feelings, it is because the light of the picture is changed. I am not fond of dwelling upon such changes, and I will not minutely now. I allude to it only because I trust my simple page will be read by sonic of the young and beautiful beings who daily move across my path ; and I would whimper to them, as they glide by joyously and con fidently, the secret of an unclouded future. The picture I have drawn above, is not peculiar.— It is colored like the fancies of the bride; and many, oh ! many an hour will she sit with her rich jewels lying loose in her fingers, and dream such dreams us these. She believes them too, and goes on for u while undeceived. The evening is not too long while they talk oT plans for happiness, and the quiet meal is a pleasant and delightful novelty of mutual reliance and attention. There comes soon, however. a time when personal topics become bare and weari some, and slight attentions will not alone keep up the social excitement. There are long intervals of si lence and detected symptoms of weariness : and the husband, first, in manhood, breaks in upon the hours they were wont to spend together. I cannot follow it circumstantially. There will come long hours of unhappy restlessness, and terrible misgivings of each other's worth and affections, till, by and by, they can conceal their uneasiness no longer, and go out sepa . rately to seek relief, and lean upon the hollow world for the support which one who was their lover and friend could not give them! Heed this, ye who are winning by your innocent beauty the affections of highminded and thinking beings. Remember that he will give up the brother' of his heart with whom he has had even a fellowship of mind, the society of his contemporary• runners in tlie race of fame, who have hold with him a stern companionship; and frequently, in his passionate love, ho will break away from the arena of his bur ning ambition, to come and listen to the " voice of the charmer." It will bewilder hint at first; but it will not long. And then, think you that an idle, blandishment will chain the mind that has been used for years, to an equal communion? Think you ho will give up, for a weak dalliance, the animating themes of men, and the search into the mysteries of knowledge 1 Oh, no, lady! believe me, no ! Trust not your influence to such light fetters. Cre dit not the old fashined absurdity, that woman's is a secondary lot, ninistoriug to the necessities of her lord and master. It is a higher destiny I would award you. If your immortality is as complete, and your gift of mind as mpable as ours, I would put no wisdom of mind against God's allotment. I would charge you to water the dying bud, and give it a healthy culture, and open its itauty to the sun; and then you may hope that, whettyour life is bound with another, you will go on equally„and in a fel lowship that still preyede every earthly ileert,t... .GM.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers