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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.