s his return! Sleep
fails to perform its office--she weeps while the nocturnal shades of the
night triumph in the stillness. Bending over some favorite book, whilst
the author throws before her mind the most beautiful imagery, she
startles at every sound. The midnight silence is broken by the solemn
announcement of the return of another morning. He is still absent; she
listens for that voice which has so often been greeted by the melodies
of her own; but, alas! stern silence is all that she receives for her
vigilance.

Mark her unwearied watchfulness, as the night passes away. At last,
brutalized by the accursed thing, he staggers along with rage, and,
shivering with cold, he makes his appearance. Not a murmur is heard from
her lips. On the contrary, she meets him with a smile--she caresses him
with tender arms, with all the gentleness and softness of her sex. Here,
then, is seen her disposition, beautifully arrayed. Woman, thou art more
to be admired than the spicy gales of Arabia, and more sought for than
the gold of Golconda. We believe that Woman should associate freely with
man, and we believe that it is for the preservation of her rights. She
should become acquainted with the metaphysical designs of those who
condescended to sing the siren song of flattery. This, we think, should
be according to the unwritten law of decorum, which is stamped upon
every innocent heart. The precepts of prudery are often steeped in the
guilt of contamination, which blasts the expectations of better moments.
Truth, and beautiful dreams--loveliness, and delicacy of character, with
cherished affections of the ideal woman--gentle hopes and aspirations,
are enough to uphold her in the storms of darkness, without the
transferred colorings of a stained sufferer. How often have we seen it
in our public prints, that woman occupies a false station in the world!
and some have gone so far as to say it was an unnatural one. So long has
she been regarded a weak creature, by the rabble and illiterate--they
have looked upon her as an insufficient actress on the great stage of
human life--a mere puppet, to fill up the drama of human existence--a
thoughtless, inactive being--that she has too often come to the same
conclusion herself, and has sometimes forgotten her high destination, in
the meridian of her glory. We have but little sympathy or patience for
those who treat her as a mere Rosy Melindi--who are always fishing for
pretty complements--who ar