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VOLUME 11. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER,
IP ® E Y K Y .
TO MARY.
Mary ! I love that holy name ;
It minds me of departed days—
Os boyish hopes—of Scotland’s shame—
Her glory *nd her Poet’s bays.
-Mary! there is that in the word
Which moves my heart to tenderness,
And awakens feelings which have stirr'd
It oft with joy and happiness.
Mary ! if blessing may I* aught
To one so pure, and true, and fair,
The bard will bless thee—in his thought
Thou ’ll live for ave, and in his prayer !
g(EIL[E©TEID) T^ILUSo
Translated from the French.
the MARRIAGE ENGAGEMENT;
Or the Broken Vote.
CHAPTER i.
In a modest lodging in a little town sitn
n!e about fifteen leagues from Paris, upon
the road to Normandie, two females were
still at work a long time after the town
clock had struck mid-night. One of them
had passed her sixtieth year, the other was
in the flower of her age, and her smiling
face, surrounded with beautiful flaxen curls,
revealed the innocence of a life, filled
with active employments and chaste affec
tions. Soon, however, the eyes of the old
lady closed, her head heavily fell upon her
breast and her hands abandoned the wotk
which she held. The young gil l smiled at
this sight ; site drew adroitly the work from
her, then returned softly to her seat, care
fully keeping the dry joints of the old
piece of furniture from creaking, and ap
plied herself to the task of finishing the
wotk commenced by her companion.
At that moment a distant noise announced
the approach of a carriage. The noise
grew louder. The wheels, rattling over
the rough pavement, indicated the entrance
of the vehicle into the principal street. It
approached, jolting over the ruts and ridg
es, and stopped before the door of the
house above described, and presently after
a young man, with an anxious and pre-oc
cupied air, entered the apartment.
“Good morning, mother ; good morning,
my dear Anna ; I ant delighted to find you
both in good health.”
“You here, my son, my Eugene,"replied
Madame Moreau, divided between the
pleasure of seeing her son, and a vague pre
sentiment of some misfortune. \ou are
not sick, I hope 1”
•• No mother, no, I am very well. My
presence is for the purpose of talking with
you upon an important allair, and if my
cousin Anna will have the goodness to al
low us, we will commence without delay.”
The young girl rose to retire, her heart
wounded with this unexpected indifference
of her cousin. The mother of Eugene re
marked the chagrin of her ward. “It
seems to me,” said she to her son, “ that
you are very cold towards Anna, aftei an
absence so long.” “Go my child.” contin
ued she, kissing the forehead of her niece,
“ go, and may heaven bestow upon you all
the happiness you merit.”
While the young girl went to wet her
pillow with the first tears that love had cost
her, the mother and the son remained in
private conversation. Ihe latter seemed to
seek the best means of beginning a painful
disclosure.
“ In truth, mother,” said he at last, “ 1
■know not why 1 hesitate to explain to you
the nature of the important affair which
brings me here.”
“My son,” replied the old lady, with se
verity, “ we can utter without trouble the
words’ that conscience approve, but speak
and explain to me your projects, without
preface or evasion.”
“Well then, mother,” replied Eugene,
bluntly, “ I will tell you, without preamble,
that l am about to many.”
“ To marry, and why so soon ? Was it
not understood that you should not espouse
Anna until after you hud graduated 1 This
was the last wish of your father at bisdeatb.”
•• It is not with my cousin,” replied the
Noung man, resolutely. There was a de
sign, it is true, of uniting us, but the onion
would be disadvantageous to both. If my
faiher were still living, he would be of my
mind.” . , , ~ , ,
••Good Heaven!” cried the old lady,
raising her hands to heaven, •* have I heard
him right 1 Is it true that you wish not to
marry Anna?” ... , ,
•‘Listen to me, mother,” repled the
young man, “ my cousin Anna possesses no
fortune, and you know for my pai t I am ah
aolutely without a cent. The widow s pen
sion, upon which we three live, is not more
than sufficient for you alone. What would
Anna and l do when we should have united
our poverty V
“ You could do what your father ami 1
have done, my son; you could work.”
“ And you see what has resulted, mother :
privations during your earlier years, dis
tress later in life, and poverty in your age ;
continued labor and watchfulness even at a
time when by the laws of nature repose is
required.” .
Better live in honorable poverty, than
in dishonorable riches, my son.”
•‘Ah, good heavens, mother, I know that,
Jk W®®My If©■wisjpajpoif s 23)®v©ti®dl 4® IP®M4fi(Ss s IL£4®mtar® s &©„
but why such fine sentiments? Have I the
intention of committing a dishonorable ac
tion ?”
“ You wish to violate your pledged word;
you wish to pierce the heart of a child, who
j h s placed, alas ! all her happiness in you.”
I “ Her happiness? I wish to promote it;
for the rich marriage that I intend to make
; will allow me to think of some establishment
j for my cousin, and I shall not fail to effect
j an advantageous union for her; certainly,
; in giving her u proper dowry, 1—”
j “Ingrate,” cried the angered mother,
‘ “do you think that you can with mercy re
pay tier for the happiness of which you have
| robbed her?”
Eugene made a slight movement of his
J shoulders.
“ I beseech you to speak in a manner
! less positive,” replied he. “ Thirty thou
i sand francs, that I shall endeavor to give
i Anna, are not to he despised. Besides,
| since it is necessary to tell you all, believe
1 me that there is no other expedient forme
than this marriage. It is my only recource.
Ho you think, mother, that a young man
can live honorable in Paris with nine hun
dred francs per year ? I have been compell
ed to borrow money from the usurers, and I
owe a considerable sum that it is necessary
to pay. These are notes of mine, mother,
, due, which must be paid, or 1 shall go to
j prison. Thanks to heaven, a brilliant mar
riage will save me from such an extremity.
My creditors have consented to wait some
weeks for the conclusion. Time presses
you see. It waits hut your consent, and its
| for that consent that I have come here.”
j Overwhelmed with this revelation, the
j mother of Eugene maintained an alarming
j silence. He believed it necessary to insist.
I “Consider, mother—consider all the ad
j vantages of this union. It will secure my
! future. It will guaranty the establishment
■ of my cousin, and then it will improve your
own condition, and relieve you of the
j painful toil my heart bleeds to see you sub
i jected to.”
“ Silence !” said his mother, rising.—
j “ Daie you indeed tempt me through cupid
) ity 1 \on desire my consent to a marriage
| I disapprove; that consent I neither give
| yon nor refuse. Do what pleases you, 1
I wish to remain a stranger to your resolu
j tion. Leave me: your presence is a binth
jen to me. Bring not your wife here.—
Though she is innocent of your faults, my
I heart can never open to her, until that An
j na has forgotten you, until she is consoled
I for your ingratitude. I shall devote myself
| to that task, and with the blessings of Hcav
j en, I shall succeed. Quit this dwelling at
j once, that Anna may not see you when she
j returns.” .She tjuit the apaitrnent as she
I uttered these words; her son, after hesita-
ting an instant, wrapped himself in bis
cloak and departed.
The day had now begun to appear. A
sunbeam glanced through the shutters and
absorbed in its smiling light I lie last flicker
ing rays of ihe lump. Rising with the
lark, Anna advanced & cautions foot from
her chamber. Emboldened by the silence
ami solitude of the apartment, she ran across
the space that separated her sleeping room
from Madame Moreau, and knocked lightly
at the outer door. The steward opened
it and handed her a letter.
‘‘lt came yesterday evening,” said the
steward.
Anna surprised, broke the seal, which
bore the stamp of a notary of Brest, and
read as follows.—
“ Mademoiselle :
“ Capt. Julien D’Alboize died about eight
months ago of a wound received in a suc
cessful combat 1 hat his vessel sustained with
a Portuguese piiate. lit his last moments,
he declared that his niece, Anna d'Alhoize,
is his only heir. Will you, then, Mademoi
selle, collect the proofs which can establish
your identity, in order that I may temit in
to your hands the sum of one bundled and
ninety-two thousand six hundred and fifty
seven francs, thirty-five cents, which consti
tutes the Captain’s share of the prize mo
ney ?
I have the honor to be, &c.”
Anna ran to the chamber of Madame
Moreau, hearing the letter in her hand.
” Read aunt, read,” said she.
But the spectacle which presented itself
to her eyes changed the course of her
ideas. Madame Moreau was not in bed;
she was sitting still in the same place in the
arm-chair in which she threw heiself on
quitting her son ? her hand pressed her
forehead, as if to restrain the violent agita
tion of her thoughts. Tears were rolling
down her cheeks, while herface announced
the affliction of the most profound grief.
“ Ah, my mother,” cried the young gill,
precipitating herself into the arms of her
to whom She was accustomed to give this
tender name, “ what misfortune has hap
pened, Eugene?”
“ My daughter, my poor dear child, Eu
gene is gone!”
“Gone! gone without saying adieu?
gone to undertake a long journey, pet hups?”
“ Alas! he is gone forever !”
“ What do you say?”
“ My child,” continued the old Indy, giv
ing free vent to her sobs, “Eugene is lost
to you ! ho intends to marry another!”
Anna turned pale, stammered a few
words, extended her hand in the empty
space, where she seemed to seek a support,
and fell insensible upon the knees of her
adopted mother,
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 1, 1843.
CUAPTER 11.
The marriage of Eugene Moreau was
celebrated some days after his return to
Paris. ‘] he ceremony was conducted with
the presumed wealth of his father-in-law,
who was arh h leather-dresser. He had as
signed, by cimtiact, a dowry to his daugh
ter of” two hundred thousand francs.
The day succeeding his marriage, Eu
gene found his hall filled with interested
visiters, who presented to him his protested
notes.
“ All ! gentlemen,” cried lie, “ I have not
yet touched the dowry ! Give me a delay of
some four days.”
1 his time, however, his creditors showed
themselves inexorable. Threatened with
sleeping in a prison the night following, he
took the recource of going immediately to
demand some money of his father-in-law.
He embraced his wife and inhumed her
that business would keep him from her du
ring the whole of that day.
It was nearly 8 o’clock. The dealer in
skins was not yet up, when Eugene w’ns in
troduced into a private loom, where he was
requested to wait. This cabinet was sepa
rated from the sleeping room hut by a par
tition. Eugene heard at first the niimnur
of a conversation between the currier and
his wife. Presently the words became
more distinct; anger raised the diapason
of their voices. Some phrases, verv sig
nificant, were pronounced in the heat of the
dispute. Eugene caught the words—un
fortunate speculations—lost credit—moit
gaged house—manufactory at the point of
being suspended. The wife exhorted her
husband to renounce trade. The husband
spoke of launching into new enterprises
with the money of his son-in-law.
“You wish, then, to ruin him, also?”
said the one,
“ Speak lower, if you please,” replied the
other, and the discussion became unintelli
gible to Eugene. But the interlocutors, in
the fire of passion, forgot again his presence.
The currier lesumed his discoure, which
reached, di-jointedly, the ears of the impa
tient listener.
“ You have heard nothing of that—a su
perb affair—lie if worth a hundred thous
and francs—if I had them—this marriage
—the repugnance of our daughtei—re-es
tablish my lot tune.”
‘fie situation of Eugene was terrible;
with eager eye and outstretched neck, he
caught with avidity those words which de
stroyed all his hopes. Twenty times he
was on the point of rushing into the cham
ber of his father-in-law to put an end to his
cruel uncertainty ; the desire of learning
more withheld him. Nevertheless, the
quailed increased in warmth, and the currier
anti his wife, in their animosity, neglected
all preci udon.
shall inform my daughter's husband !”
said the wile.
“ I ran prevent you.”
“ I defy you.”
At that moment Eugene appeared in the
apartment, arid the angry couple at sight of
him put on immediately a smiling air.
“You surprise us in the midst of a little
discussion, my snti-in-law,” said the currier.
“My w ife wishes to purs.uade me to re
nounce business, and to retire to an estate
in the country that we will purchase in
common. As for me, lam not inclined to
quit trade, above all a moment when there
presents a very promising speculation, in
which I wish yon to participate—a magnifi
cent affaii, which ought to yield us tluee
hundred per cent, a real mine of gold w hich
will cost hut a hundred thousand francs up
on your part.”
“ It is impossible to enter into that ento*-
prise.” replied Eugene. “ 1 have on the
contrary, want of money for an operation in
which I am engaged.”
“It cannot he so advantageous rs that I
offer you,” said I lie father-in-law, alarmed,
“ I say not to the contrary, hot 1 am en
gaged. 1 have even counted upon you for
a sum of sixty to eighty thousand francs
that it is necessary for me to have this verv
day.”
“ Sixty toeiglity thousand francs !” cried
the father-in-law, with astonishment.
“Yes, indeed, 1 do not claim now t lie
entire sum of two hundred thousand fin tics
that you owe me, by contract. Take your
time. I shall wait willingly seven or eight
davs. But it is absolutely necessary that 1
shall receive to-day the money that I usk of
you.”
“ How is it that you are so straightened ?
a man who keeps his horses !”
“ Intend to retrench.”
“ A carriage and livery.”
“ I mean to sell the carriage, and dismiss
the men who wear the lively.”
“ You, then, are not rich ?”
“ Sir, 1 am not obliged to reply to that
question. Yon owe me two hundred thou
sand fiancs ns the mairiage poition of your
daughter. I repeat that it is necessary for
me to have sixty thousand to-day. You
may pay me in money or whatever else you
please. 1 will give you time for the pay
ment of the remainder.”
“ Well, then, let me inform you,” replied
the fnthei-in-law, “ that l myself have need
of a hunt red fiancs to make up the amount
of a dowry.”
“ 1 shall then modify the proposition, and
say give me the two hundred thousand
francs of the dowry, and I shall lend yon a
hundred thousand for your speculation.”
“ So, sir, you have deceived me !” repli-
ed the father-in-law. “The horses, the
carriage, the livery, were but borrowed lux
uries ?”
“ It is I whom am deceived, dishonored ;
for l am in the power of unpitving credi
tors, and have no other resources than your
broken credit, your mortgaged property,
your unfortunate speculations, your estab
lishment on the point of being suspended,”
cried Eugene, repeating in his despair the
words which lie had overheard.
“ We ore mined,” said the leather dress
er, overcome by his enumeration, “ ruined,
completely ruined.”
“ Ruined, without remedy,” repeated his
wife.
“ This shall not pass so easily. You shall
return us out daughter.”
” Our only wealth !”
“ We shall obtain satisfaction !”
“ Listen to me,” said Eugene, his voice
almost choked with rage. “If your daugh
ter had not received my name, 1 should tell
you to take her, and never let me see her
again. But she is my wife! Take care,
then, what you do, or by my honor, I shall
expose yourwhoie conduct in this marriage
business, and that revelation will not be of
a nature to sustain your credit.”
He left at these words, and returned to
his conjugal mansion. The servant utter
ed a cry of suspicion on seeing him. The
astonishment of his wife w as no less great;
hut in the condition of his mind he paid no
attention to this disorder, w hen the noise of
a piece of furniture overthrown in the din
ing room, contiguous to the bed-room, rais
ed his suspicions. He went to the door,
someone on the inside endeavored vainly to
prevent his opening it. Behind that door
sat crouched the principal clerk of his fa
ther-in-law !!
CHAPTER lit,
A few days after, Eugene returned to
the dwelling of his mother. Madame Mo
reau saw him arrive on foot, a stick in his
hand, dressed in an old dirty blouse, his face
pale and emaciated, and his beatd unsha
ven.
He found nothing altered in the paternal
mansion, except the appearance of his mo
ther and c-'usin. Both were thinner than
usual, and their eyes bore the traces of
tears shed in secret, and which each endea
voted to conceal. On seeing him again
who hail now ceased to be constantly pres
ent to their reniembiance, they uttered cries
of surprise and joy. Eugene kneeled sad
ly before his mother.
“ I have been culpable,” said lie, “ but
my misfortunes so far surpass my faults,
that you will judge me more worthy of
your pity than your anger.”
The following day Eugene learned that
his cousin had left the town.
“ I desctve to be abandoned,” said lie,
“ but why have you suffered that my pres
ence should deprive you of the care and
tenderness of Anna, it was I who should
have left you.”
The departure of Anna bad been deter
mined by Madame Moreau. The young
girl had submitted, for she understood the
necessity,and besides, she had the design of
extricating the affairs of her cousin from
their embarrassment. Artless, in mind,
strong in her principles, and with an excel
lent judgment, Anna was capable of man
aging properly that difficult enterprise.—
Moreover, money she was not in want of,
and for such a purpose she would readily
have sacrificed the entire sum to which she
had succeeded. She had entreated per
mission to infotm Eugene of the Fiappy cir
cumstance of her fortune, but she had en
countered from Madame Moreau a strong
resist!nee to that project.
“Eugene has been led away by luxury it
is necessary that he be instructed by misfor
tune.”
During the absence of Anna, Eugene
seemed to resign himself to his fate. Still
that resignation, so melancholy, caused the
most lively apprehensions in his mother’s
mind. He had taken to study some works
of law, hut it was easy to see the disgust
with which they inspired him. He mani
fested a kind of savage hatred to his fellow
mortals. His walks were always directed
to the most solitary places, and if some hap
py party crossed liis path, or chanced to
stop at the place of his meditations, he
would hasten hack to his house with an ad
ditional shade of sorioiv. Sometimes he
would remain shut up entire days and would
not present himself at his meals until after
his mother had repeatedly invited him.—
More than all, tio symptoms of confidence
showed itself in his actions.
One evening, Eugene, at the moment of
retiring into his chamber, approached his
mother and kissed her. Madame Moreau af
fectionately pressed him to her bosom, and
said, her eyes moistened with tears :
“ Eugene, my son, we were formerly so
happy.”
“ It is true, mother,said. Eugene,” bend
ing his head, “ and it was I who destroyed
your happiness ; 1 have afflicted all my rel
atives, and have destroyed myself. Poor
Anna, I loved her, but 1 shall never see her
again.”
“Alas, my son, it was your absence
which was the origin of all these evils.—
Why did you leave us?”
He quit the room, without replying, and
his mother heard him draw the bolt of his
chamber. At that moment Anna entered,
bright with smihs, and ran and threw her
self into the arms of Madame Moreau.
“ Piovidenre has interposed,” cried she.
“ She is dead ! He is free! as for his
debts they are already paid. Where is Eu
gene ?”
“ My poor Anna, you come in good time.
Eugene has frightened me—-he lias formed
some fatal design.”
“ Run, then, prevent it.”
And the young girl, followed by her
aunt, mounter! the stairs in haste. A vio
lent explosion suddenly arrested their stops.
The neighbors, attracted by the sound, ran
and forced the door of his chamber; one
of them hastily came out atid drugged the
two trembling females into their apartment.
Eugene Moreau had shot himself through
the head!
Anna has resisted all proposals of mar
riage which have since been made her.—
She lives in the exercise of good deeds ;
her house is the asylum of the unfoituiiate,
arid her fortune relieves the wants of the
poor.
Mo@©lL L fa M Y ■
A good Story. —Col. Johnson, in his talk
to the people of Trenton, told a capital sto
ry about a Baptist minister by the name of
Snckett, who is a near relative of the ex-
Vice President.
It seems that Suckett had been a dissolute
fellow and a great fighter; hut just before
the battle of the Thames, had suddenly
changed his course, and became pious. He,
however had a strong inclination for the
camp, and volunteered his services to assist
the Colonel against the enemy, under con
dition that he should have the privilege of
preaching to the soldiers in the camp. The
condition was gladly embraced, and Suck
ett was enstalled as major, under a sort of
certificate from the commanding officer.
He was an energetic, stilling man, a capi
tal officer, and a zealous preacher. On the
day before the battle of the Thames, the
Colonel dropped into one of his meetings.
He was holding foith with a. stentorian
voice, and insisting strongly on the doctrine
of predestination, “All the destinies of
men,” said he, “are in the hands of rhe Al
mighty ; and not a sparrow falls to the
ground without his direction. He is, too,
the God of battles.” He directs the bullets
in the fight, as well as the peaceful opera
tions of the household ; and hence there is
just as little dangei on the field of battle, as
in the workshop or at the nlongh-tail. If
you are to die, you will die nt all events;
but if you are to livp, the Almighty can turn
the bullet out of its course as easily as lie
can number the hairs of your head. If your
time has come, you will die, w hether oil the
battle-field or not. But,” continued he, “ I
don’t believe your time lias come. 1 don’t
think, my friends, you are to die just now.”
The next morning, while preparations
were making for the battle, Johnson met
the preacher.
“ Well, Suckett,” said he, with a smile,
“we are likely to have serious work to day ;
and, as yon think flint a man can’t die till
his time comes, and that he’s just as safe in
one place as another, 1 should like to have
you charge at the head of your column; and,
maik me, now, don’t fire till the enemy has
discharged every gun ; then take aim nt the
whites of their eyes, and, having filed, stop
for nothing, but grapple them by the throat,
and make sure work of it.”
“Very well, Colonel,” says Suckett, “I’m
always willing totest myfaithby my works.”
Accordingly, Suckett took his position at
the head of his command, which was about
.500 strong, and received the fire of 700 of
the enemy. He stood it like a man, only
winking a little ns the balls came whizzing
past him in showers. But he obeyed his
orders to the letter ; and, having received
the 700 bullets of the enemy, lie advnnced
forward, pouted in a deadly fire, and imme
diately grappled hand to hand with the foe
—which soon decided the fate of the day.
After the action was over, the Colonel
remonstrated with him, good-humoredly, for
killing so many of the enemy.
“ Why Suckett,” said he, “this was alto
gether useless; half the number would have
answered every purpose. How came you
to cause such a useless waste of human life?”
“ Don’t know how it was. Colonel,” re
plied the preacher ; “ we only fired once ;
and I rnthcr think it was because their time
had, come.”
Suckett is still living, and preaches to this
day, in one of the Western States.
Anecdote. —During the last war, at the
time the British troops sallied ncross the
St. Lawrence and took possession of Og
detisburg, there was a citizen soldier in the
village, belonging to the neighboring town,
who made good bis retreat down the river
as the British soldiery advanced. After
gaining a mile or so, lie met his wife com
ing to town on horseback. He immediate
ly and earnestly directed her to dismount,
suggesting that he would take the horse and
she would follow on foot. His wife demur
red, and assuietl him that he could escape
much easier on foot than herself. To this
arrangement lie protested most vehemently,
andcoiißoled his wife with this argument:
“ My dear, it would he far better that two
women should be kilted than that one brave
soldier should be last to his country /”
j NUMBER 30.
W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR
Beauty of Form.—A hint to the Latliet.
—A coriespondent if the New York Tri
bune, writing from Genoa, says:
“ Sometimes you may travel all day and
see nothing but the ugliest faces, and you
wonder how nntuie could have gone so
awry in every instance; and then again in
another province you see at every step the
beautiful eye nnd lash, and flexible brow,
and laughing face of your true Itelian beau
ty. In form the Italians excel us. Larger,
fuller, they naturally arijuite a finer gait and
beating. It is astonishing that our ladies
should presist in that ridiculous notion that
a small waist is, and per neerseita, must be
beautiful. \\ hy an Italian lady tvould ery
for vexation if she possessed such a waist as
some of our ladies acquire, only by the
longest, painfullcst process. 1 have Bought
the reason of this difference, nnd can see no
other reason than that the ltaliana have their
glorious statuaiy continually liefnre them,
and hence endeavor to assimilate themselves
to them ; whereas onr fashionables have no
models except those Ftench stuff* and fignies
in the windows of milliners’ shops. Why
if an artist should presume to make a statue
with the shape that seems to be regarded
with us as the peifl ctinn of harmonious pro
portion, he would he laughed out of the
city. It is a standing objection against tho
taste of our ladie9 the wot Id over, that they
will practically asset t that a French Millin
er understands how they should lie made
better than nature herself.”
We beg the attention of the fair reader
to the foregoing. Hundreds perish annual
ly in this country, victims to corsets. And
yet.it will he seen that the models of beau
ty, as given by the celebrated sculptors, are
by no means characterized hy the hour-glass
waists of which so many of rhe gentle sex of
this country delight to boast. The truth is,
it is almost impossible for a female to sub
ject herself to the fashionable system which
has so long prevailed in the United States,
and yet be healthful, graceful, elastic in fig
ure and in spit its. She mny have a thin
waist, but the chances ate nine to one ihsl
her cheeks will be bloodless, bet movement*
languid, her frame feeble and her constitu
tion impaired. The question then is—i a
slender waist mote iirij o taut than rosy
cheeks, grace and ease of movement, elier r
fuloess of spirit aud general health ! To
suppose that gentlemen prefer these unnat
urally comptessed forms, is a great mistake.
Imposing Ctrcv'.ony—A Ilthirw WtJ
divg.—A Hebrew Wedding took place at
llit- Synagogue, in New York, on Wed
nesday. The ceremonies, as usual on such
occasions, were very impressive. A long
recitative in Hclnew was chanted by the
Piiest, from the altar, after which a canopy,
120 years old, resting on four uprights, was
brought out, and held over the herds of ih*
Reader and the groom, all wearing their
hats. The biidc was then brought in by
her bridesmaids and family, and closely
veiled, took her place also under the cano
py. The priest then chanted a prayer, and
alter that a glass of wine was brought him,
which he tasted, and then the tnidcgroMn
and bride. The wedding-ring wp.s then
placed by the groom on the finger of the
bride, accompanied by the admiss’on that
it was the evidence of their betrothing.—
The priest then chanted the seven blessings
from the prayers, w hich were appropriate to
such an occasion. The wine was again
tasted, and alter that, the glass in which it
was contained was dashed to the gn und andi
broken in pieces. It is done as an MT>blen>
of the modality of our race, and a mocreii
to of the destinotion of the Temple. Thin
ended the ceremony, and the married cou
ple immediately left the Synagogue.
Tie True Sou givesthe following account
of these ceremonies among the English’
Jews :
“ We und> istand it is rather an innova
tion upon the ancient practice to have these
weddings solemnized in the Synagogues.
Among tSie English Jews they usually take
piece at houses of public resoit. The Lon
don taverns are quite ce’ebrated in this re
spect. It is usual in England for an engage
ment to exist for six months or a year be
fore the marriage, and the cetemony of be
tiothiug is one at which there is much re
joicing among friends. A month 1 efoie the
wedding day, there is a circular sent round*
to the acquaintances of the betrothed, invi
ting friends to the ceremony. It is also
cuatommy there to read the marriage rota
tract under the canopy, (after placing the
ring upon the finger,) in which there are
very curious stipulations for the benefit
of the female, either as wife or widow.—
Hands of music are not unfrequenlly em
ployed at these weddings, and tl e pieces
performed are solemn Jewish melodies. AH
the guests bring presents proportioned t>
theii means, and such, sometimes, is tbe
profusion of their liberality, that the amount
received is very large.
It must not he forgotten, that the Jews al
ways considered marriage us a matter of
obligation, and the earlier their young peo
ple marry the more honorable is it in their
estimation. There were also some curious
customs and laws established by Moses,
most of which have fallen into disuse since
the final dispersion of their r; ee.”
“ Shall I have your hand 1” said an ex
quisite to a belle, as the dance was about
commencing. *• Wi/A nil my heart” was
the soft t esj>on jb.