Wealth, reputation, honours, high intelligence in a man--all or either of these--do not constitute him a good match for your child. Marriage is of the heart--the blending of affection with affection, and thought with thought. How, then, can one who loves all that is innocent, and pure, and holy, become interiorly conjoined with a man who is a gross, selfish sensualist? a man who finds happiness only in the external possession of wealth, or honours, or in the indulgence of luxuries? It is impossible! Take away these, and give her, in their stead, one with whom her affections can blend in perfect harmony--one with whom she can become united as one--and earth will be to her a little heaven. In the opposite course, alas! the evil does not always stop with your own child. The curse is too often continued unto the third and fourth generation--yea, even through long succeeding ages--to eternity itself! Who can calculate the evil that may flow from a single perversion of the marriage union--that is, a marriage entered into from other than the true motives? None but God himself! THE BROTHER'S TEMPTATION. "COME, Henry," said Blanche Armour to her brother, who had seemed unusually silent and thoughtful since tea time,--"I want you to read while I make this cap for ma." "Excuse me, Blanche, if you please, I don't feel like reading to-night," the brother replied, shading his face both from the light and the penetrating glance of his sister, as he spoke. Blanche did not repeat the request, for it was a habit with her never to urge her brother; nor, indeed, any one, to do a thing for which he seemed disinclined. She, therefore, took her work-basket, and sat down by the centre-table, without saying any thing farther, and commenced sewing. But she did not feel quite easy, for it was too apparent that Henry was disturbed about something. For several days he had seemed more than usually reserved and thoughtful. Now he was gloomy as well as thoughtful. Of course, there was a cause for this. And as this cause was hidden from Blanche, she could not but feel troubled. Several times during the evening she attempted to draw him out into conversation, but he would reply to her in monosyllables, and then fall back into his state of silent abstraction of mind. Once or twice he got up and walked across the floor, and then again resumed his seat, as if he had compelled himself to sit down by a strong effort of the will. Thus the time passed away, until the usual hour of retiring for the night came, when Blanche put up her work, and rising from her chair by the centre-table, went to Henry, and stooping down over him, as he lay half reclined upon the sofa, kissed him tenderly, and murmured an affectionate "good night." "Good night, dear," he returned, without rising or adding another word.