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.