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& JFatuUs JLetoHwaper : Brtootcd to SLCteratwre, tfie &rts, Science, &&?icuUttre, .f&ecftanicg*, Strucattou, jFoveCfln ant* domestic KntelUgcnce, scc. BY C. B. HANLEITER. IP ® E T IS Y. “ Much yet remains unsung.” For the Southern Miscellany. THE LIFE OF MAN. I now invoke the muse, her aid to lend, Till 1 shall tell of childhood's sunny hour; And manhood’s prime, and joy that has an end; When youthful love has lost its sacred pow’r. Hard by the banks of Georgia’s brightest stream,* There is a spot, from which the smoke ascends In summer's time, and winter’s paling gleam. It is a lovely spot, and waving bends In wild luxuriance the creeping vine, That shades the cottage doorway with its green, And blooms in rich prolusion eglantine; While in vases rare geraniums are seen. These were a lovely mother's care in spring, And hers the task to watch them budding forth; When ‘neath Flora’s step, flow’rs strange beauties fling, And veers midsummer's sun towards the north. I do remember, w hen I found my way To a point, that overhung this fairy place i ‘Twaslate at eve on an autumn day, When the caveering sun had ceased his race. And as I leant against a forest tree, In the door of that cottage there appear'd A pair of bright beings fram’d in beauty, A mother and her son—her beauty not sear'd, But softened by the changing hand of age, And his that o( the light and trembling fawn: They were a matchless pair—he eeem'd the page Os her the Goddess of that fairy lawn. 1 mus'd upon the change that time would bring, And then resolv’d a score of years to wait To find if he would l>e the world's changling, Knowing what ‘twas to feel revenge and hate. Twenty years from that time I found my way, And sought the spot, the loveliest e'er was view’d; When there it seem’d as if ‘twas but yesterday, • And yet the vines their blossoms had renew’d; And twenty short summers pass’d o'er that vale irince I, full of hope, had seen the lovely pair; It was not chang’d, there was the garden pale, The vines and flowers all were there. I paused awhile—the mother of that bay Came forth, hut how chang'd was her mein and look, And where is he her darling and her toy? Fur glory he had gone dangers to brook, And in distant lands made himself a name— While tie had known what ‘twas to stand the shock, To hear his proud fie tin charge lond proi la in, While his ratiks stood linn as un ocean rock. But see! from yonder gnte a horseman come, And the mother's eye, dimm’d by age, has caught The form of her lost boy returning home— The world's ways in many a lesson taught. Scarce had that mother clasp'd him to her breast, Parting the flowing locks from off his brow, And on her withered face his cheek had press’d, When startl'd she cri’d, “thv face is chang’d now! “Are these then the rewards which glory grants; “ Is this the price with which to buy renown 7 “Are these the gifts for which ambition pants? “ And this the form that noble feelings own 7” To whom her sou in falt’ring words repli'd, “ I've wak'd the fiend ambition in my soul; “’Tis tny wish before t’was done I had di'd ; “ For ‘tis a thorny path and has no goal: “ But I am doom'd to speed me on t ill death, “And never know what ’tis from it to cease, “Until my form shall rest the clods beneath, “And my fretted soul gain its last release.” Yet one more score of years, and there again I found myself, the actors and the scene Unchang'd with but the marks of age and pain: The place the same with sunset's shade serene. Soon forth issuing from that lowly cot That pair appear'd with hoary age low bent; They had thus far outliv’d man’s common lot, For temperance in youth lengthy age had lent. They had till now gone down the vnle of years, And linger'd totl’ring on the shores of age Like the last autumn leaves, that winter tears From their frail hold, and scatters in its rage. 1 press'd my hand upon my furrow’d brow. O'er which there hung lime thinn'd my own white locks, And well I knew those two were dying now, As they fix’d their graves near some time-worn rock*. ‘Twas but too true, for on the coming year They both were gather'd to their long last rest As is gather’d the crispen leaf so sear That slow sinks when the sun is in the west. “Few are the days of man in which he strives ;'* So wrote the prophet in the olden time ; And now with us some gray-hair’d sire yet lives Whose tott'ring footsteps of this a pantomime; ( For ’twas but yesterday and he was-young, And bright hopes bade him on life’s track to spring; But now his form is bent and nerves unstrung, And sorrow darkling conies his lieart to wring: The life of man! how chequer’d ‘tis with fears From the prattling hour of his infancy Till its sun in life's meridian wears, Joy and gnef hold alternate revelry. I first be he id him, when a liny boy His faltering steps slowly found their way To his play ground, where pleasures never cloy, And seems briefest the longest summer day. When last I gaz’d upon him, passions storm Had mark'd his brow and bleach'd his raven hair; Bending in its fury his manly form. And left fines time shall plough but deeper there. CLAUDE. * The Oconee. . REASON. Dim as the borrow’d beams of moon and atara To lonely, weary, wnnd'ring travellers, 1* reason to the soul; and as on high Those rolling fires discover but the sky, light us here, so reason’s glimmering ray Was lent not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upwards to a better day, And as those mighty tapers disappear, When day'* proud Lord ascends our liemitphere, 80 Pale grows reason at religion’s eight So dies and ao dissolves in aupernat'ral light. DANGER. The absent danger greater still appear*; Lees fear* ftp who ie near the thing he feats.*’ ©a ® m hpho ©& l □ BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. Among the ennobling studies that consti tute our enlightened system of education, there are few that yield a more gratifying recompense to the student, and none that inspire him with a spirit of affectionate rev erencefor theliheral institutions of ourfavor ed country, more than the study of such bio graphical sketches of the sages and heroes of the American Revolution, as have been enrolled in our country’s archives, and among the distinguished statesmen and illustrious patriots who formed the constellation of A merican worthies in ’76. There was not one, whose inflexible patriotism, indomita ble resolution aud indefatigable vigilance, contributed more to the establishment of our national independence and the moral and scientific elevation of national character, than the sagacious and philosophical Franklin. We, therefore, commend a sketch of his useful life to the perusal of all who honor industry, admire fortitude, and would merit such fame as he acquired by doing his duty to his country. —Savannah Georgian. Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston, January 17, 1706. He was the youngest of seventeen children, and was intended for his father's business, which was that of a soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, but being dissatisfied with this employment, lie was apprenticed to his brother, who was a prin tet. This occupation was more congenial to his taste, and he used to devote his nights to the perusal of such hooks as his scanty means enabled him to buy. By restricting himself to a vegetable diet, he obtained more money for intellectual purposes, and at 16 he had read Xenophon’s Memorabilia, in addition to many other w’orks. Having tncurred the displeasure of his family, he determined to procure the cancelling of his indentures, and leave Boston. This he ac complished, arrived at New-York, walked thence to Philadelphia, and entered the city of Friends with some articles of dress in his pockets, adollurin cash, and a loaf of btead under his arm. Here he obtained employ ment as a printer, and Sir William Keith, the governor, observing his diligence, per suaded him to go to England, to purchase materials for a press on his own account. — This was in 1725, hut he found be was the bearer of no letters that related to himself, and he was accordingly obliged to work at his trade. He returned to Philadelphia, where, in a short time, he entered into busi ness with one Meredith, and about 1728, began a newspaper, in which he inserted many of his moral essays. He published Poor Richard’s Almanac, which is well known. At the age of twenty-seven, he be gan the study of the modern and classical languages. He founded the University of Pcnnsylvaniaand the American Philosophi cal Society, and invented the Franklin stove, which still holds its place even among the variety of modern inventions of a similar kind. In 1746, he made his experiments on electricity and applied his discoveries to the invention of the lightning rod. In 1751, he was appointor] deputy post master general for the colonies. After the defeat of Brartdock, a bill for organizing a provincial militia having passed the assem bly, Franklin was chosen colonel. In 1757, he was sent to England with a petition to the king and council against the proprieta ries who refused to bear a share in the pub lic expenses. While thus employed, he published several works, which gained him a high reputation, and the agency of Massa chusetts, Maryland, and Georgia. In 1762, Franklin was chosen fellow of the Royal Society, and made doctor of laws at Oxford, and the same year returned to America. In 1764, he was again deputed to Eng land as agent of his province, and in 1766, was examined before the House of Com mons on the subject of the stamp-act. His answers were clear and decisive. His con duct in England was worthy of his previous character. Finding him warmly attached to the colonies, invective and coarse satire were levelled against him, but his integrity and matchless wit formed an invulnerable defence. He was next offered “any reward, unlimited recompense, honors and recom pense beyond his expectations,” if he would forsake his country, but he stood firm as a rock. He returned to America in 1775, and was immediately chosen a member of Con gress, and performed the most arduous du ties in the service of his country. Ho was sent as commissioner to France in 1776, and concluded a treaty, February 6, 1778, in which year he was appointed minister plenipotentiary to the couit of Varseilles, and one of the commissioners for negocia ting peace with Great Britain. Although he solicited leave, he was not permitted to return till 1735. He was made president of Pennsylvania, and as a delegate to the convention of 1637, approved the federal constitution. He died April 17, 1790. he was beloved both at home at!|d abroad, the various honors which he r?ceived show. Incorruptible, talented, and virtuous, ho merited the eulogium of Lord Chatham, who characterised him as one whom all Europe held in high estima tion for his knowledge and wisdom; who was an honor, not to the English nation on ly, but to human nature.” His wit and hu mor rendered his society acceptable to every class. On one occasion, ho was dining with MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 23, 1842. the English ambassador, and a French func tionary at Paris. The former rose, and gave the following sentiment: “ England—the brigliUuu whose rays illuminate the world!” The French gentleman, struggling between patriotism and politeness, proposed, “France —the moon whose mild beams dispel the shades of night.” Doctor Franklin, rising in turn, said : “General George Washing ton—the Joshua, who commanded the sun and moon to stand still—and they obeyed him!” Franklin’s witand humor are hap pily displayed in an epitaph which he wrote years before his death. The body of Benjamin Franklin, Pripter, (Like the cover of an old book, Its contents tom out, And stripped of its lettering and gliding.) Lies here, food for worms; Yet the work itself shall not be lost, Foritwill (as he believed) appear once more In anew And beautiful edition, Corrected and amended By The Author. IMQStDELLAWY. SQUIRE FETLOCK. HORSES VERSUS BOOKS. At the end of a hard day’s hunting, Mr. S , a friend of mine, invited one of his sporting neighbors, Squire Fetlock, to dine with him. Excepting that both were keen sportsmen, would ride you thirty miles to cover and then begin the day’s work, and take a ten foot wall, if it stood in their way, as soon as a quickset hedge, there was not one point of congeniality b tween them. My friend was a man of elegant learning and refined taste: his neighbor wasas coarse as one of his own hop-sacks, and as illiterate as his horse. But fox-huuting, like misery, sometimes brings one acquainted with strange bed-fellows. We were summoned to coffee in the library. Fetlock looked around him with an air of astonishment At length he exclaimed— “ Well, if ever I did see ! Dash me! Why, mister ! May I never get across old Hannibal again if ever I did see such a lump of hooks in my life! Have you read any of them.” “ I can venture to say, Sir, there is not a volume on my shelves which I have not read.” “ All!! Upli! Hold her head in, or she’ll be off with you. Come, come, not all.” “ I don’t imagine you doubt the truth of what I say, the less so considering there is nothing very extractdinaiy in what 1 have asserted.” “ No, I don’t mean to say there is any thing extraordinary in it—Upli! but it’s ’nation cuiious though, notwithstanding; and dash me if I shouldn’t like to have the showing of you at a fair. Folks would give a trifle to have a peep at the roan that has read all them hooks!” And then he again surveyed the shelves with an air of wonder and incredulity. “ I presume then, Sir, you yourself are no great reader “Iread! No,thankee. I’m not such a fool. I never looked into but one book in my life, and that was so full of blunders and nonsense that I chucked it into the fire. Be sides, of what good would reading be to me, when i have it all by experience? Have n’t I been at it since I was a child ? I know a horse inside aud out. 1 tell you what; I’ll give the best mare in my stud, and that’s Rosemary, to any farrier in this county, ay, and the next to boot, that can tell me what I don’t know; so why need I read theii books about the matter? It may be all very well for your ignoramuses, and it is for such like they are made; but as to giving me, ‘ Every Man his own Farrier’ to spell over—Lord bless you !” “ But there are other subjects than ” “Iknowit: there is What-do-you-call-him ‘On the Disease of Horses,’ and another chap with a book about brood mares, and But it is downright nonsense; and mark what I tell you, Sir: we had some thorough good ones out with us to-day, and you were not one of the worst! I say, how cleverly young Foster took that leap at the comer of Salter’s paddock ! but that little mare of his will go at anything—and if you are as good a hand in the stable as you are in the held, you don’t want much learning, that 1 can tell you; so do as I did : chuck all your books into the fire: an hour in the stable is worth a month in the library. And yet, books ace well enough in their way : the glitter on them makes a room look smart and handsome, doesn’t it, Miss ?” This ques tion he addressed to one of the young la dies, who, while she was pietenting to read, was, in reality, exerting all her ingenuity to suppress a laugh at his extraordinary opini ons of the value and utility of literature. He continued : “ You remember the little nook, exactly opposite the window in our breakfast-parlor, where I keep my best plated gig-harness, don’t you. Sir? Now I think that as pretty an ornament to a room as need be, and wouldn’t disgrace the King’s palace; but my good lady thinks otherwise, and saya that a few books would be more becoming in an apartment occupied by hu man beings; so when 1 can meet with a few, cheap and clean, I’ll humor her fancy. The fair sex must be humored now and then, mustn’t they, Miss 1” And, simultane ously with the utterance of this gallant re mark, he threw himself into the attitude of a man on horseback, preparing to take a five-bar gate, which he intended for a bow. There will be a sale of books at C y, on Tuesday next,” said my friend, “and I dare say you will he able to suit yourself advantageously. I shall attend it, as there is one work in the collection which I have long been anxious to possess, and I intend to purchase it.” “ Then, dash me! but I’ll go there !” ex claimed Fetlock. It must be remembered that the work in question was a very fine copy of Stuart’s “ Athens,” with early impressions of the plates, and splendidly hound. The conversation next turned upon the theatre. “ Are you fond of the theatre, Mi. Fet lock 1” “ Why, yes; I can’t say but I like a good play, and whenever I go to Lunuun 1 make a point of going, once and away—that’s to say if it happens to be something of Shak speare’s. I went the last time I was up, and saw • Guy Mannering.’ ” “ But ‘ Guy Mannering’ is not a play of Shakspeare’s.”* “ An’t it 1 come, what will you bet of that I I saw • Macbeth’ at the other house the very night before, and there are lots of sawneys in both ; that’s all I can tell you.” And he gave a knowing wink, which literal ly translated, meant, “ Parry that if you can.” “ Here is a novel of the same name, up on which the play you saw is founded,” said Mr. S , reaching down the first volume of “ Guy Mannering,” and putting it into ‘Fetlock’s hand; “it is written by Sir Wal ter Scott.” “ Scott ?—O—ay Scott, the chap the King made a knight of. Well, if that wasn’t turning the world topsy-turvy, dash me! Betitleing a mail for fooling away his time at such work as this! just what any of ijs might do if we hadn’t lomethlng better to think of, and chose to set our wits at it! Now, my notion is—.” Here, while thumbing over the leaves witliulo* k of profound contempt, his attention xas suddenly attracted by something at th* commencement of the vol ume. He broight it nearer to his eyes, then held it at s greater distance, next took it to the light, then again looked closely at it, as if doubtful whether the passage that struck him was there or not. “ Why, now,dash me! Well, that is true! Now, where cotld he have picked that up ? Dash me if I dui’t think there is something in this chap after all.” “ What is it, Sir 1” “ * You may dwaystcll a gentleman by his horse !’” (His attention was caught by this remark of Mrs. H’Candlish to the postilion.) “ Come, now, that is true, dash me if it isn’t. Now, there’s a saying for you, sound wind and limb, and without a blemish. If all the book was like that—” “If you like to read it, you may take it home with you; and when you have finish ed that volume, the next will be at your ser vice.” “ Read it ? Why—read it! and yet I’ve a great mind to it, too: I eee at once he is no common chap: that is a clever saying, but as to leading—why—and yet —Come, I’ve given her her head, and won’t baulk her; she shall take it now’, rough or smooth, let what may be on the other side. I will read it, dash me if I don’t.” So saying, he thrust, or rather dug the book into bis pocket, with the desperate recklessness of conse quences of one who felt that a/iother mo ment’s reflection would deter him altogether from so rash an undertaking. / On the day of the sale, I accompanied my friend to C v, whither we went with the intention of purchasing Stuart’s “A thens.” We took our stand immediately opposite to the auctioneer. The l>ooks were selling, as he truly said, “dogcheap;” and, judging by the appearance of the persons present, who did not seem of a quality eith er to appreciate or desire so recherche a work, we expected to get it at a very mo derate price. At length it was put up; and, after a preparatory flourish from the auc tioneer, he, as is usual in such caies, declar ed himself confident that he was Very much within the mirk in valuing it at—what cer tainly was an outrageous price ; and, as is also usual in such cases, a dead silence en sued. ” Well, then, shall I say forty guineas for this splendid work ? Twenty? Ten? Consi der, gentlemen, this most magnificent ” And, after having exhausted all the flowers of auction-room ortgoty in its praise, he added, with a sigh which Reemed to come from the very bottom of his—pulpit, “Well, then, shall 1 say six ?” Here was a pause which, to us, was highly gratifying. “Five,” said Mr. S. “ Five guineas only are bid.—Six! Thank you, Sir.” “Seven” continued my friend. “Sever,” responded the auctioneer; — “Eight! l’hank you, Sir.” •The igntronceof Squire Fetlock upon so obscure a point, Willihe more readily be pardoned, when I mention tha.a certain cidcvant banker, who was anx ious to he considered as in the foremost rank amongst the admiren of the drama, and actually passed a good half of the tvening hours at the theatre, once said to me—“ Youll think me every stupid fellow fur asking, but one eal't remember every thing: is ‘Venice Pre aerved’ otwof Shakspearc's 7 or whose 7 Mr. S went on this way, gninea by guinea, till having hid thirteen, and the auc tioneer still thanking some viewless antago nist, for we heard no one make the biddings, nor did we see any liody nod. for an addi tional guinea, he inquired whether there was any order to buy the lot in at a certain price, as, if so. it would save time to declare it at once. Being assured that it was a sale with out reserve, he was led on in the same man ner to twenty-three guineas, (at which point he determined to stop,) where he was met as before. “ Twenty-three guineas are bid. Twenty-four. Thank you, sir. Twenty four; going for twenty-four. Gone! ‘Stu art’s Athens,”’ turning to his clerk, “for twenty-four guineas, to Squire Fetlock.” We turned round, and to our astonish ment, behind us there stood the identical and unquestionable Squire! “My dear sir, is it possible you have pur chased ‘Stuart's AthensV besides, didn’t you perceive that I was biddiug for that loti” “ To be sure I did, and that’s why I never los the scent for a moment. I know nothing about goods of this kind, and as you are a clever hand at them. I was certain I could not be very wide of the field, by keeping a guinea a-head of you.” “But you have purchased, at an extrava gant price, a work which will be utterly use less to you, whilst to me ” “Useless to mel Not such a fool neither. I don’t often buy a pig in a poke. My good lady came to look at them yesterday, and they are the very thing for the nook in the breakfast parlor.” “ But I assure you they ore upon a subject about which you are indifferent. Let me have them, and I’ll fill your nook with books which shall be equally valuable, and much more entertaining to you.” “ Entertaining! W hv, Lord love you, you don’t suppose 1 should ever think of rend ing those big devils—why, they are as big again as the church Bible; besides ” “For that very reason: and by making the exchange you will oblige me, and iu no way be n loser yourself.” “Why now, lookce; this is the first time in my life 1 ever bought books: if tl.ev are worth your money,they must be worth mine; so, at any rate, 1 haven’t made n gaby of my self, as i might have done if you hadn’t been here. As to changing them for a pack of your little hop-o’-my-thumbs, no bigger than the one you lent ine t’other night—! sup pose 1 should ask you to let me have the mare you rode o’ Thursday—and o clever mare she is. and worth a hundred aud thirty if she’s worth a pound: I say, suppose I should say to you, ‘Let me have that mare, Mr. S . aud I’ll give you half a score nice ponies for her.’ Why, setting the value out of the question, the thing wouldn’t be reasonable, you know. No, no! pray ex cuse me; besides, I promised my madam to humor her fancy; and, do the thing hand somely or let it alone, is my motto.” As the concluding part of this speech was de livered in somewhat of on angry tone, the attempt at negotiation was abandoned; and, for any thing I know to the contrary, to this day the splendid gilt backs of “Stuart’s Athens” constitute the chief ornament of Squire Felock’s breakfast-parlor. And here I should take leave of this wor thy, but for a puint which recalled him to mv recollection. Upon this occasion, as upon some others, subsequently he was asked how he liked “Guy Mannering,” and whether he had yet done with the first volume; and, indeed, some astonishment had been expressed by the family, at Squire Fetlock’s detaining ii so long—for several weeks, I believe. “And how do you like ‘Guy Mannering,’ Sir!” “O, n charming book, Sir; a charming book, indeed. ‘You may always tell u gen tleman by his horse.’ It is a charming hook. I never fail to take a light canter over it every after tea.” *• Then, by this time, you must want the second volume.” •‘No, thankee; you are very kind; but the one 1 have will do veiy well forme.” “How! I don’t clearly understand you.” “Why, Mr. S , I don’t know whether it may he the same thing with you, hut I’ll tell you how it is: you see, I sit down and read five or six leaves at night, and the next morning it is all clean out of my head; so that when I go to it again the reading is all fresh, and just the same as new to me; there fore, unless you want the book, it will do as well for me as any other.” SHORT PATENT SERMON. BY “DOW, JB.” By request, 1 will preach upon this occa sion from the following text: Beauty is a blossom that soon fades away, But virtue, once gotten, will never decay. II beauty and virtue in one woman be, If she is unmarried, pray send her to me. My hearers—there is quite af difference’ between bcautyand virtue, in regard to their nhl worth. The one is short-lived and fleet ing, the other is enduring and lasting. Beau ty is but an ephemeral, alluring blaze, that attracts the foolish insects of pride and fashion, oftentimes in a single day, to inevit able destruction, and then is extinguished forever, but virtue is a brilliant spark that continues to glow, even in the embers of declining age, and is destined to shine, like VOLUME I—NUMBER 17. a cat’s eye in a dark garret, through the countless ages of eternity. Ecaotyisbuta blossom that unfolds its charms w hile its pe tals are wet with the morning dews of youth. It soon begins to wilt beneath the withering noontide sun of maturity—that buying af ternoon hour of existence, the 3 o'clock, P. M. of a mortal’s life immediately succeeds, and we find thnt the bright hues of the fond flower are too fatally touched with the cor rosive sublimate of Decay to admit of De creptitude, when a lingering leaf of beauty may perchance still hang upon the present shrub, but almost every trace of its former loveliness is obliterated by the hoar frost shaken from the grey pinions of Time. The night of Denth then ensues, and the blossom of beauty, that lately was so inviting and fair, is crushed in the dnsf, as void of attrac tion as the scattered fragments of a toad stool in a cow yard. Beauty, my friends, is almost any thing that is fleeting or false. It is a rainbow thnt glows for a few moments, and then sinks into the dark bosom of its maternal cloud—it is the rosy blush of morn ing that soon pales in the broad glare of day —it is the crimson-winged harbingeref sum mer’s evening that lights itself to .bed with a blaze of glory, and is soon sound asleep beneath the dark mantle of night. Iu short, beauty is like the gaudy colors of Ameri can calico—very pretty for a time, hut ex ceedingly liable to fade by a few washings in the hot suds of matrimony. My dear friends—now I come to some thing more substantial, as the man said who found a bullet in his verision steak. 1 have reference to female Virtue. If Beauty be hut the blossom, surely Virtue is the frag rance of the flower. You may strip the corolla of its leaves, and endeavor to pre serve them by skill, ingenuity or art, and you will find that they will wither and de cay in spite of your utmost exertions; that if you extract the fragrance of the flower, arid cork it up tight with the stopple of pru dence, watchfulness and caution, it will last forever. Therefore, were I to make a choice from among the fair daughters of earth, 1 should say, give me virtue. 1 will leave it to your individual tastes, my friends, whether you would not prefer butter that looks pale and unpalatable, but is rich and relishing, to that which appears fair upon the outside, but is foul and frowy within, i know very well jliat you would choose the lattet. My heaters—what is the worth of beau ty without virtue] It is but a base counter feit coin, that passes current with the foolish and unsuspecting ; hut among the wise and discriminating it is decidedly no go. A woman, decked with the ornaments of per sonal attractions, but destitute of moral worth, may receive the homage of the weak tons of sili, the adoration of whom is cer tainly not to be prized above the value of a July oyster. Look at her as she flirts aud flourishes along that pestiferous path that leads straightway to perdition. The lillies of loveliness grace her snowy brow—the eriiiicitti roses of health seem to bloom up on her cheek—forty thousand devils are ambushed in her inviting eye—and she seems bound for % the gates of paradise, rather than for the realms of endless tor ment ; but my friends examine her as you would a watch l —take a look at her insides, aud see if she needs no cleaning. You will find that the main spring of morality hca wholly lost its elastic temper — that the reg ulator of her thoughts and actions is entire ly out of order—and the balance wheel of her mind has ceased to perfmm its duty for the want of a single drop of the oil of reso lution. Yon will see that the once fruitful soil of her heart, which nourished the pro mising plants of virtue, is now nvcigiown by the rank weeds of vice, and that every hud of youthful trampled to earth beneath the giant footsteps of that monster of all monsters —Temptation. Observe the situation, my friends, of that female, who lias had the misfortune to loose the golden key which unlocks the iron-barred doors that opens upon what the world calls vgEpcctoble society. She is left to wander friendless and alone over the barren desert of the world, with no one to aid her—none to snatch her from the flames towards w hich she is madly rushing—and no one to pay her short passage to eternity. She may have a worthy brother, who oftentimes may have called upon her in vain to forsake the paths of iniquity, and torn to the weysof happiness aud peace —a beloved sister may liave time and again, offered up prayers for her reclaimation—and parents, perchance who have shed their last tears of grief upon the grave of their daughter’s virtue, and bade adieu to the world aud to their long lost child, in the height of sorrow, but not in anger. My dear hearers—if there can be found such a mixture in this adulterated world as beauty and virtue combined in 8 single indi vidual of the feminine gender, I pray you to send her to me forth with, as 1 Lave a no tion to take unto myself a wile, ere the day* come when I shall say I have no pleasure in them, and a wife isn’t worth the wear of a the leather consumed in runuing after her. Give me a wife who is both goodlonkitig and good natured—whose virtue ia never at a discount—aud I will always be happy, contented and satisfied, so aa Provi dence allows me to stain the fair carpet of his creation with my polluted footstepa—- and may you, my unmarried brethren, en tertain sentiments similar to my own, abide by them to the last. So mote it be 1