Brothers and sisters, and dear friends, will marry; and however pretty, fascinating, and agreeable a woman may have been, there comes a time when the little decided opinions and caprices that were deemed so pretty and cunning at eighteen, are pronounced by the saucy new-comers on life’s stage, “prim, old-maidish whimsicalities;” and even the fathers and mothers, who had formerly considered this same dear, single friend, the realization of womanly perfection when she was the belle of their young days, they also are often found, coinciding with their children in these saucy opinions. Now, members of my dear sisterhood, let me give you a little advice. True, I am but a new comer amongst you. I know I have not yet seen fifty summers—I only own to thirty-five, and scarcely to that, excepting when in company with those well “_booked-up_” on the subject of my age—I have no gray hairs or wrinkles, and yet I have experience; and my single-blessedness bids fair to be a happy state. Seek companions amongst the young. I do not mean for you to affect juvenile manners. Oh, heaven forbid! a _youthful_ old-maid is, in truth, ridiculous. But mingle with the young; sympathize with them; cultivate their friendship and love; make your presence a sunshine to them; be to them a friend, a confidant, and an adviser. Keep your feelings, your heart, your spirit young—your mind, by pleasant, but regular study, in a healthful state; in this way you will secure happiness. Then, to escape ridicule—ah! that is the hardest task of all—admit your age; it is the only safe way, believe me. Walk up to the cannon’s mouth boldly. Show them you do not care any thing about it, and the saucy opinions and laughs of these young ones will be averted; and depend upon it they will flutter around you, love you, and almost imagine you still retain the youthful charms and agreeability with which your cotemporaries so kindly invested you. I have found this plan successful, and have surrounded myself with a troop of young things. With one who is a fanatic, a pretty devotee to the divine study of sweet sounds, I practice music; and instead of falling back upon the “music of my day,” I find beauties in the music of her day. Mozart, Hayden, and Beethoven, Steibell, Clementi, and Dessek, are now banished from my music-stand, and only cheer my solitary hours, to make way for Bellini, Donizetti, and Auber, Thalberg, Herz, and Litz. With another, a gentle, little, imaginative creature, whose transparent cheek, and brilliant eye, warns us she is not long to dwell with us, I read old poets. But of all my youthful friends, there is not one among them who loves me better, or who is more companionable to me, than dear Kate Wilson. I have known her from her babyhood. I knew her mother before Kate was born; true, I was a tiny girl when Kate’s mother was married. She is a beautiful, rich belle, “petted, fêted, courted, and caressed;” and yet she daily comes to her “dear Miss Enna,”