"And after this, when you see a woman whose conduct to you is quite unexplainable, and full of mystery, listen, dear friend, and bid those around you listen a little more earnestly, to the voice of _human love and Christian charity_; and trust _me_, the number of women _who have the power_ to act _long_ in direct opposition to all the better impulses of woman's nature, is _surprisingly small_. "If your trust continues in me still unshaken, as in the days gone by, come ere long to Wisconsin, and I will insure you a husband of the 'free soil,' who shall bear as little resemblance to _our_ faithless George, as my Ned does--and a home in the wilderness, this glorious wilderness. "God bless you, love--good bye!----." "I have not yet obeyed the call of my friend to the far west," _now_ her happy home. Do you think it advisable that I should place myself in the hands of such a--; but first let me ask you, _Do_ you think Florence Cleveland was a coquette? And--_is_ this _once_ prolific topic _yet_ exhausted? I cannot conclude this discourse, "my hearers," without repeating to you a song, which appeared some years ago in "Graham." It is by Miss Barrett. Has it ever yet been "set to music?" if not, I would advise some composer to neglect no longer so beautiful an effusion. And when the _deed is done_, let every lady learn the song, and every gentleman stand by and listen to it humbly. Here it is. THE LADY'S YES. "Yes!" I answered you last night-- "No'!" this morning, sir, I say; Colors seen by candlelight, Cannot look the same by day. When the tabors played their best, And the dancers were not slow, "Love me" sounded like a jest, Fit for "yes" or fit for "no." Thus the sin is on us both; Was the dance a time to woo? Wooer light makes fickle troth-- Scorn of _me_ recoils on _you_. _Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high-- Bravely, as in fronting death, With a virtuous gravity._ Lead her from the painted boards-- Point her to the starry skies-- _Guard her by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries_. By your truth she shall be true-- Ever true, as wives of yore, And her "yes" once said to you, Shall be yes for evermore. THE RECORD OF DECEMBER. BY HENRY MORFORD. Write--with the finger of the angel-born, Upon the tablet of the human soul, That old December, wearied and outworn, Drags on his failing footsteps to the goal. Write--that the Christmas bells ring on till morn Peace and eternal pardon to the whole, And I, before I drop my farewell tear, Must lay December's closing record here.