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VOLUME I. | BY C, R. HANLEITER. (P©[Eir E3 Y a “ Much yet renlhins unsung.” NIGHT. BY BARRY COSSWYLI. ‘Tis niaht—'lis night—the hour of hours. When Love lies down with folded wings By Psyche in her starless bowers. And down his fatal arrow flings— Those bowers whence not a sound is Iteard, Save only from the bridal bird, Who ‘midst that utter darkness sings Sweet music like the running springs'; This her burthen, soft and clear— “ Love is here I Love is here I” ’Tis night I the moon is on the stream, Bright spells are on the soothed sea. And Hope, the child, is gone to dream Os pleasures which may never be! And now is haggard care asleep, And now doth the widow’s sorrow smile, And slaves are hushed in slumber deep, Forgetting grief and toil awhile. What sight can fiery morning show To shame the stars or pale moonlight ? What beauty can the day bestow Like that which falls with gentle night ? Sweet lady singl not aright? Oh, turn and tell me. for the day Is faint and fading far away: And now comes back the hour of hours, When love his lovelier mistress seeks, Sighing like wind ’mongst evening flowers, Until the maiden Silence speaks! Fair girl, meihinks—nay, hither turn Those eyes which ’midst their blushes burn— Mcthinks at such a time one’s heart Can better bear both sweet and smart; Love’s look—the first—which never dietli; Or death—which comes when beauty flietlt— When strength is slain, when youth is past, And all save truth is lost at last. ‘ffAILES. ! From the Liverpool Chronic !e. RONALD MOR, TIIB ATIIOLF. SMUGGLER. Ronald Mur (as bis cognomen amply in dicates) was a huge, gigantic fellow, mea suring upwards of six feet without his shoes; j in his younger days, a novelist, especially it lie had been accustomed to see a body of : Dutchmen, might feel disposed to set him up as a handsome young man of beautiful mould and symmetry ; but when I knew him, at the age of eighty-four, he stooped a good deal, and seemed hut the wreck of , former perfection. Yet, there was in that wreck something so imposing ami ovetaw ing, that one shuddered and involuntarily stepped back on first sight. When Burns, the poet, made the tour of the Highlands, and visited Athole in compa ny with his fiietid Nichol, Ronald was in the prime of life, full of fun, merriment and mischief. It was, perhaps, because lie had but one eye, that he looked upon all men as being on a footing of the nearest equality; hut whatever the reason, such was the fact. For thee-ing and thou-ing people he might he president of any con fraternity of “ Friends” in the kingdom ; yet, under his rule and blustering manners, there was an under current of touchiness and hospitality which oozes out on till fitting occasions. He had been returning from the hills, where lie had spent the preceding week, doing damage to his majesty’s reve nue in the shape of illicit distillation, and to his grace’s deer in the way of poaching, and met the duke, the poet, and the demine as tiiey turned from the turnpike road to the narrow winding pathway that straggled up the hill to the “Falls of Bruar,” render ed classic that day by the inimitable genius of Burns. The smuggler was bathed in perspiration ; he was humming some merry cliaunt, and carrying a huge red deer on his shoulder, which he hud just killed in the at tignous dingle. The duke, who piloted the tourists, stood still when he saw Ronald ad vancing, and tried to put himself in a vio lent fit of anger. “ Fine work this, Ronald, in broad day light! Know you not, villain, that the law puts it in my power to banish you fiom the country 1” “ 1 dinna understan’ meikle about law,” replied the huge figure before him, “ hut if it banishes a man for doing the bidding of his lord and master, l would no gie an ounce of draft’ for it, man.” “ At whose bidding have you killed one of my deer I” “ At whose bidding !” repeated Ronald, in seeming astonishment: “at your own, man; have you not sent me a message to the bothy to get a fine fat one for you, as the poet Burns an’ some other strangers was with you, at Blair Castle—say, as sure ns death, you haven’t, and I’ll believe you!” “ I never did ; but who told you so ‘!” “Oh, who told me! Nobody at all told me, but I dreamed it, an’it’s vet a seldom my dreams misgives me.” “ Very seldom indeed, if they bring you such household mercies as that noble fellow on your shoulder. But do carry it to Blair Castle; here is Mr. Burns, the poet, and he will probably thank you in rhyme for the deed.” Ronald threw down his burthen on the green sward behind him, and, rushing to wards Burns, whose face was beaming with satisfaction at what he had seen and heard, he flung his arms about his neck, and began & JFsituUg JlttosjjsKjjcv : Dcfcotcft to 2Utn*iturc, jfttecfuwtt#, iForrfsn aw?? Domestic XuteUCgence, szz. to caress him in the most affectionate man ner. “ Losh, man ! is it yourself ? You did a clever turn any hno, when he sent the dancing avva’ with the exciseman. Och ! everyday to you for that same—gu sio ruidh !” Again he flung his brawny arms about the poet, and pressed him fondly to his bosom ; anil then disengaging himself, he motions the duke and his party to follow him down the declivity. On the hanks of the Bruar, they came to a place of level ground about twelve square feet; it was a natural bower, such as a lady of eighteen might choose to breathe Iter first love sigh in. Ihe clirystaline river played, danced, □ml meandered in front; behind, on either side, it was densely embossed with alder and hitch wood ; the thrush and the lionet poured a flood of melody from the adjacent copse ; the turrets of Blair Castle rose in the distance; the intervening vale was re velling in the luxuriant mande of autumn, and all around was one universal scene of mellowness, grandeur and magnificence.— Arrived at the bower, the smuggler pulled oft his shoulder plaid, and, having wiped the perspiration from liis brow therewith, lie laid it on the grass for a table-cloth ; a grey-beard, full of 11 over-proof, was next produced, and next a capacious wooden quaicli, or dram glass. These were laid on the plaid, and forthwith flanked with frag ments of oaten cakes and cheese he had in his pocket. Ihe repast being prepared, the smuggler warmly invited the party to sit down and eat. “ Come, my hearties,” said lie, “ the brae before ye is hravv and tall, say ye maun tak’ a ‘Jacobus’ to help ve up— sit down 1” Resistance were useless—the quaicli circulated freely, but the duke and the dominie soon gave in, and Ronald Mor, with a look of mingled pity and contempt, drew his dirk, and threatened to take sum mary vengeance on any one who would not do ample homage at the shrine of the jolly god. “ Maybe, howsomever,” said he, “you would like to tak’ a wee bit rest ? Come, Bob, my honey ! let us hae a sang, man.” Burns hesitated, and the smuggler went on —“ Guid sake ! let us hear the Deil and Exciseman—hae ye ever heard ir ? 1 May he yruir.ledy play- 1 on die pinna- —go i on, Boh; go on, my hearty !” Upon the l.cathery highland hill, 1 met a man just frne his still, Wha made a poet drink his fill— A duke a little; Aa’ forded a teacher wi’ his steel To lick Ids spitt'e I' 1 Ronald, perceiving that the lines were extempore and apropos, sprung to his feet, and began to leap and gesticulate in tlie funniest way imaginable. In one of his croupades he shuffled in, wittingly or un wittingly, between his grace’s legs, and seiz ing him by the collar with both hands, pull ed him to the dance. The poet, ever the child of circumstances, yielding himself to the irresistible tom-foolery of the moment, pulled his fellow tourist on the carpet in an equally unceremonious manner; and there they were —the duke and the smuggler, the poet and the schoolmaster—dancing and leaping and flying away, like a thousand briks, never so long. When this ludicrous scene was over, Ronald gave them deoch an-dorius standing, and cordially shaking each of them by the hand, he bade them good day. He then flung the deer again on his shoulders, and was soon seen on the turnpike, wending his way, not to Blair Castle, but to his own home. * On the day prior to his rencountre, Ro nald had sinned grievously against the ex cise laws ; but pecadillos of this description were of such frequent occurrence that they became almost necessary to his existence, and he thought no more of driving the gau ger back from the lawful prey than a farmer would do of scaring a flock of crows from a harvest field. Ronald, indeed, was one of those dull-headed fellows who never chose to comprehend what eight any government whatever had to dictate to him, whether he should convert liis barley into meal or whis key. It was all gammon to talk to him about national debt, executive government, protective duties, free competition, and such like—he was a free trader of the first dye. He had been ten days in the bothy (by that name an illicit distillery is known in the Highlands,) and had barrelled thirty gallons of double strong, when the exciseman and supervisor came on him, like Catsar’s ghost, in an evil hour. It was perfectly obvious, at least to the smuggler himself, that infor mation, with a minute description of his lo cality, had been lodged against him. There was no other way of accounting for detec tion. He had erected his still within a na tural cave, near the base of one of the most inaccessible and alpine of the Grampians; on either hand it was protected by huge masses of rock thrown so closely together that all, except the native Celt and moun tain goat, shuddered from the contemplation of it. The only access was immediately in front, where it gradually sloped in a gentle declivity to the margin of a lake that gleam ed on the bosom of the mountains like an embossed mirror. This sheet of water well entitled to the distinction of being called a loch, was hut a part of the river Tift. It was about three miles in length and half a mile in breadth, guarded on either side by high perpendicular mountains. It grew narrower and narrower towards its outlet, and, after finding its way for about twenty yards from the loch in a narrow channel, it rose abruptly, and, with maddening impc MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 21, 1813. tuosity, tumbled over a tremendous rock eighty feet high, and thus formed one of the most imposing and sublime cataracts that the Highlands of Perthshire can boast of. It only remains to be told that below “ Ro nald’ ‘s cave” there was a sort of creek or landing place, w here the Duke’s fishing coll ide was always moored. Thus protected by natural bulwarks, Ronald felt peifectly at ease on the score of invasions ; and he, therefore, no sooner saw his door darkened by the supervisor than his face darkened al so, and he significantly muttered—“ betray ed !” “It serves you right, too, you gallows rascal! what are you doing here ?” vocifer ated the supervisor, as he advanced one step, and struck his sword stick onthe worm, till it sounded like a bass fiddle. “ Noo ! keep a hottnie tongue in your mouth neebour,” said the smuggler ; “ l’nr tendin’ my lawful calling; but what in the name of the planets, are you doing here ? Ihe hills is wet, an’ I’m afearee you hae mista'en your way, but sit down, till we tak’ something to heat our weasons !” “Blast your impudence !” said the gauger, “ we dr ink not with you ; hut we seize the whiskey, still, and all, in his Majesty’s name,” and he walked as if he was master of the the whole premises. “Stand back !” exclaimed the smuggler, shooting his tremendous fist into the excise man’s bosom, “ Stand back ! what’s the matter with his majesty noo, when he re quites so much w hiskey at once—has the cholics 1” “ Come, come ! Ronald, no resistance !” interposed the supervisor, “ we are two to one, so you’d better let busiuess be done smoothly.” “ The odds is in your favor,” said Ronald, coolly ; “ hut, nevertheless, I’ll mak’ ye look odd enough before I’m done wi’ ye; for look ye, I hae two on my side, likewise,” and he menaced them with two clenched fists as large and as big as any two ordinary anvils. Theofficersdrew their swordsticks, and a scuffie ensued. Ronald seized the gauger hv the collar of his coat and the seat i ..p i. % .. umi KioJiu linn uoml the hill; the supervisor soon followed. The distance between the mouth of the cave and the loch was only about twenty yards, and they soon rolled over it; but Ronald who descended with a free and easy race, was fortunately before them. I say for tunately, for the supervisor, by reason of t’ne rotundity of his carcase, gathered such velocity in the descent, that he would inev itably have landed in the loch and perish ed, had not Ronald snatched him from the brink. When they regained their feet, the smuggler asked them whether they looked odd enough now, hut to this query the only answer they deigned was a simultaneous rush upon him with their sword-sticks. Ex asperated beyond measure at the dogged tenacity with which they clung to a good opinion of their own strength, Ronald seiz ed each of them by the throat, and dragged them tovvaids the cobble. They perceived his design, and prayed earnestly for mercy, but to no purpose. He flung them into ibe boat, and sent them adrift ori the loch, with out oars, helm, or sail! This, in ordinary circumstances, might be attended with no alarming aspect, hut it happened at the time the loch w r as overflowing, and should the current in the middle get hold of the cob ble, it would to a certainty sweep them along, and precipitate them over the water fall into the gulf beneath, when they would be dashed to pieces. There w’as a strong gale of wind blowing, however in the op posite direction ; and Ronald thought that the conflicting influences of the torrent and the wind might be so nearly equal as to put danger out of the way, at least till he should put his whiskey and smuggling apparatus beyond the reach of detection. Away went . Ronald, and away drifted the cobble. About an hour afterwards the smuggler was ascending a small knoll, about half way between the loch and the waterfall, when a shrill and lugubrious cry of “Oh, mercti! is there no one to save us from destruction]” burst on his ear. The cobble was within twelve yards of the rock ; with the bound of a madman Ronald rushed forward, and dashed into the foaming flood up to his chin. A moment longer, and the gaugers would have been in eternity; he got hold of the cobble by the gunwale and pulled it ashore, timid the benedictions of the supervisor.— , But the exciseman sat in sullen and gloomy silence, not deigning to take any notice of liis preserver, even after they found them selves out of the reach of danger. A weelofter the events recorded above, Ronald Mor might be seen on the road be tween Blair Athole and Perth driving a cart, loaded .with peats or turf. Ostensibly his business to the fair city was to dispose of his peats, while in reality it was a smug gling speculation, for he had three ankers jof whiskey concealed in his cart. He ar rived at Perth about two in the morning, and made direct for the inn of James Sea ton, Athole-Square—a man with whom he had transactions of that kind for years pre viously. Seaton was at home, and rose as soon as ho was apprised of his friend’s ar rival. After a great many “ feelers” had been put forward on both sides, Seaton said he was sorry ho could not tako the whiskey, as another customer of his had overstocked him the night before. “ However,” added he, “ as you are an old friend, and as I can depend upon the quality of the artielp, l shall give you six shillings per gallon for it.” “ Six shillings per gallon ! bout, tout, awa! Six shillings per gallon ! na, na, ye carina hae it at that.” 1 Can’t give more, upon my honor! bad times—very had times. But I’ll tell you what, there was a friend of mine speaking to me the other day to send something of tins sort his way. Go down Grey-street to No. Gl, rap at the door, and you’ll soon find a buyer.” “ Thank you, honey,” exclaimed the de lighted smuggler, as he rose and adjusted liis bonnet to proceed to his new destina tion. Seaton saw him to the street; he then bolted the door, opened it again—roared after him, “ don’t forget the number, Gl, Grey-street” —bolted it a second time, and retired to bed. A few moments brought the smuggler to Gl Grey-street. He rapped at the door again and again, but no one answered : at length, when on the eve of giving up ir. despair, an upper window opened, and a man having a red cap on, thrust his head and shoulders over it. “ Hallo ! vvliat now—any thing in the wind ?” demanded the man with the night cap. “ A prime chance,” answered Ronald, “ come down, if you please.” “I’ll be with you in a moment.” The window was shut, and in less than ten minutes the front door turned cautiously on its hinges, and Ronald was admitted. “Is it a smuggling concern I” inquired the man with the night cap. “ It is, avick, and the very best in Athole. But the proof of the pudding is the preeing o’ it,” replied the smuggler, and he pulled a bottle and quaich out of his coat pocket. “Hold, hold!” said the other. “YVho sent you to me I” “ Who, avick, but my worthy friend, Ja mie Seaton, over the way.” “ A worthy friend indeed,” said the man with the night cap, emphatically, and then he roused for about ten minutes, and vvalk ?AbacksYWl.acd.§ O R*IRtI. Vl\* bft.lvJ'by u.4* nald’s side, and, stretching out his hand, asked him, in a tone of the softest affection ; “ Ronald Steward, dor/t you know me ?” “ May he,” said Ronald, hesitatingly, “ may be you are somebody, if I had a Hglit!” “ I am M’Pherson, the supervisor, whose life you saved the other day. Y"ou have been betrayed, Ronald. Seaton, the scoun drel, is an enemy of yours. The thing is this—nay, nay, don’t get into a passion, else you’ll not he able to entrap your enemy in return. M’Culloch, the exciseman, who is on terms of matrimony w ith Seaton’s daugh ter, divulged the whole history of our ad venture at Glentilt the other week, and it is in pitiful revenge for the manner in which you frustrated our efforts to make a seizure there and then that you weie now goaded into my clutches.” “ By the ” “ Now, not another word, Ronald*; go back to Seaton’s—say that I am not at home, that you saw no one ; let him have the whis key at his own price, and I shall make it dear enough for him. Be sure and get your money from him ; for, whenever I sec you leave the house, I shall pop in, and seize the whole on his hands ; and, as he is an al most quarterly delinquent, he will assured ly he made to smart for it.” Ronald liked the proposal remarkably well; and, after hugging and caressing the supervisor as a father would a child, he re Maced his steps to teuton’s. Sitting vis-a vis over flowing bumpers, the smuggler told the result of his visit to Gl Grey-street, as instructed by the supervisor; and it was evident that the innkeeper felt chagrined at the failure of liis plot. But both felt an in terest in concealing real sentiments and feel ings. and a bargain was finally concluded. Tilf innkeeper counted down twenty pounds on the table—the smuggler pocketed the money —anil, as Seaton held the door open to let him out, the supervisor rushed in, and after some preliminary proceedings, put the government seal on every individual anker of it! A SKETCH Adapted to the Season. BY MISS C. M. SEOGWICK. It was on lhe last night of December, IS—, that the family of my friend Ellen Clay were lingering over the drawing-room fire, be tween tlie hours of eleven and twelve. There were Ellen Clay anil her father anil mother. They bad lapsed into deepsilence, seeming to have retired into the recesses of their own hearts; and, if ono might judge from the shadows that were gathering over their faces, there was nothing there partic ularly light or cheering. The last hour of the year is one of those marked points of time when Conscience, with a torch glowing with heavenly fire, throws a light over the whole track of the outrun year, showing ev ery wilful departure and every caieless de viation from the right path. Ellen sat on an ottoman beside her mo ther, her head resting on her mother’s lap ; both were abstracted. Mr. Clay bad been reading at the table. The book was still open before him, but his hands were clasped over its pages. There sat on the sofa a person who was a remarkable contrast to the other members of tlie parly. He was a man about sixty, of small ?>ta lure, and of so delicate a structure, that as you looked in his heavenly face, you won deied how that fiail body had servedso long to detain its celestial guest. Never was the record of a character anil life written more plainly than on that beaming countenance, where peace was stamped, and love and charity seemed every year of life to have been accumulating their treasures. If you would shrink from his far-seeing, penetra ting, spiritually discerning eyes, the benev olence enthroned on liis serene brow, and the gentle tenderness of liis countenance, manner, and voice, would have encouraged you to confide to him sins sedulously hidden from less perfect and therefore lesskind fel low-beings. It is “ perfection that bears with imperfection.” One might have told him the sorrowful tale o^j^tlf-condemnation with much the same feeling with which it is poured out in the confessions of secret pray er. I shall merely designate him as the Clays’ friend ; a friend he truly was, and is to the whole human race. He was the first to break the silence of the party by saying in a low thrilling voice—“ My fi iends, I have ever thought this hour between eleven and twelve of the closing year, ono of the gra cious periods of life. Our Heavenly Father seems interposing for us—stretching out His arm to us to help us over the dreary distance that some of us have interposed between Him and ourselves. It is one of those high points of life whence we see before as well as behind, and if the burden of sins, volun tarily borne thus far, weighs heavily, we are incited by its galling to throw it off. We perceive some glimmering of our immoital destiny ; we feel that the chords of our true life are interwoven witli every thing endu ring in the universe, and that when the sun, moon and stars, whose revolutions now mark to us the periods of our lives, shall he blot ted out; the site of their urns all spent; we shall still live in our spiritual relations to the JYVriarvrtPaTivi uufffiOing tremg. Does not this thought,” he continued, taking Ellen’s hand, ami addressing himself to her, “give a dignity to your present life 1 does it not make existence appear to you an infinite good ? It seems so to me.” Ellen looked in liis face for a moment, and then said, “It may to you—it should ; but to me”—she burst into tears and was again silent. “ My dear child,” he said, “ I fear there is something wrong here. Clouds should not hang over the closing year. Your fath er and mother looks sad too. An honest parent,” he added with a smile, “ may help you to separate the true charges of consci ence from false self-accusations; and per haps he may suggest to you some availing pilgrimage or penance. Come my dear El len, make me your confidante; tell me what trouble is on your mind.” Ellen looked to her father anil mother. “ Do, Ellen,” said her mother; “I will make my confession too.” “ Anil I mine,” said her father, “ end we will all be upon honor to tell the true story.” We must premise that there is in the tech nical sense of the word no story to tell.— There is nothing striking in the history or condition of the Clays. They are wealthy and respectable inhabitants of one of our large cities. Neither are their characters very strikingly marked, though like all oth er human beings they have their individual ities. Ellen Clay has a pleasing countenance without distinguishing beauty. She is well educated, in the common acceptation of that phrase, having passed through the thorough fare of English and French schools; but us she has reached unmarried the advanced age in American city life of four-and-twenty, anil as, having several joint heirs of her father’s property, her shuie is not enough to attract those worthies who make marriage a money contract, she began to feel the chill atmos phere that surrounds a reserved, modest young woman among the budding or fresh ly blown young people that constitute the gay society of our thawing moms. Ellen went to parties because it would seem odd if she did not; anil she gave them in her turn, because she was expected to givethem. She had the customary round of home occu pations. She rose late, nrul dawdled through the morning with devising changes in her dress, or reading the morning paper—or running through anew poem, or anew nov el. If the day were fine she made visits or received them, or shopped, or took a short stroll in the sunshine. After dinner she took a nap, and if the evening were passed without society, she occupied it with the monotonous varieties of hemming and stitch ing that fill a young woman’s work-box, or she might he so fortunate as to have on hand that most exciting of the needle-arts —a hit of worsted-work. Occasionally she played and sung agreeably a few tunes, or she sketched a head, or painted a flower, but she hail no passion for music ; nor u tuleut for drawing that could call forth her energy. Certainly there was nothing in such a life rs this to satisfy a creature endowed with a conscience! “ lain to go first to the confessional,” EU len said, following her tears with a smile— “ well, 1 must produce my condemnation book, as I regard it.” She left the room, aud returned with a little hook hound with | NUMBER 43. IY. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. green morocco, and lettered in gilt letters— “ Book of Resolutions for IS—.” “I bought this book,” she said, “onthe last day of the last year, and I wrote in it, as you sec, several pages of very good reso lutions. Not one of them have I kept.— Please to run your eye over them. You see I began with sundry resolves in relation to health.” “ Which you justly considered, I suppose, my dear Ellen, essential to usefulness and enjoyment I” “Certainly, sir, and accordingly you see vvliat fine plans I laid to keep in the fresh air a certain portion of every day; to pre pare my feet for boil walking, and then to defy it; to eat and drink in such modes as I found to contribute to the highest health, &c. &c. After the first month of the year, l never opened my book, and thought only of these resolutions when I was reminded of them by a headache or cold incurred by my own fully.” She paused for a moment, ami then as she saw her friend turn over leaf af ter leaf, without dwelling long enough on any one to peruse it, she said, “ You do not think it worth while to read them, but in deed I wrote tbern with an earnest desire to shun the faults I specified, and to do the good I proposed.” “ I do not doubt it, my dear child, and I rejoice to see in this multitude of things to he done and to be avoided, the evidenue off your high aspirations. But there are too many of them, Ellen. You have set fence behind fence, till you can scaicely yourself see the marked and fixed boundary between guod and evil. You have proposed to your self such a multitude of good deeds to do, that you have made a pressure on yourself from every side, so that you could not feel tin; force of any of them. Throw away the book, my dear child,and look into the depths of your own heart—consider your nature anil its capacities—your relation to your Heavenly Father, anil to his universe; the dignity of the existence which is hut begin ning to unfold before von, and I think you uG11,,.. r- i .-...j—. fcci. of Jesus When the fountain is filled anil purified, the streams will buisl forth ou eve ry side.” Ellen was silent ami sad for a few mo ments. She then Raid in a low voiar, as if breathing aloud her thoughts, “ hut the year is gone, ami here I am, with tnv broken res olutions and forfeited hopes. Who can give hack this lost vearl” • “ Could I by a spell restore it, Ellen, would your purpose be fir mer, your hopes renewed ]” Ellen was discouraged, and she hesitated before she ventured even to say, “1 do not know—l want something to rouse me— something to do.” “ Do always the duly nearest to you.” “But I want something more than little every-day duties to stimulate me, an action that when done shall make me feel as if I uaJ brought something to pass.” “ Well, my dear Ellen, I think I can point out such an employment to you. It was suggested to me yesterday, by your mother telling me what a skilful nurse you were to Anne when she had the billions fever. You need trot go on a mission to find good to be accomplished. Our Heavenly Father has given us a mission of love and mercy, about iiur very doors. My profession, Ellen, has carried me often among the sick poor; and I have often wished 1 lie young women, gift ed and instructed as you are in the modes of alleviating the suffering of illness, would make it their business to go among them to teach them the importance of ventilation; of airing their bedclothes, which may be done even if they have but a single change; to show them how best to give thpir medicines, and to prepare and regulate their food; how much relief might he obtained by rubbing and bathing-—means as much within the reach of the poor as the rich. These offices are often performed by the Sisters ofChar itVj in countries where poverty is most ab ject and revolting. It would be better if we Protestants derided the Catholics less, and imitated good deeds more.” The clouds began to clear away from El len’s face, and her friend continued, —“ I leave you to ponder on this, my child ; your mother is waiting to come to the confession al, and it is almost twelve o’clock. Mrs. Clay made her lamentation over res olutions formed at the beginning of the year now expiring—resolutions broken aud for gotten, till the recurrence of this solemn pe riod brought them before her conscience with the light of the Judgment hour. The loudest reproach seemed to be that she had done nothing towards subjugating an irrita ble, exacting temper. She concluded as her daughter had done :—“ The year is gone, and nothing accomplished.” “ What if I give it back to you?” said her friend. She raised her bead, startled by bis thrilling tone, and then sank down agaiu in silence aud despondence. Mr. Clay’s story was a common one.— “He was tho slave of business. Heliad no time for anything but business. None for domestic enjoyment—none for friendship— none for social life—none for the great phi lanthropicobjectsthat arc stirring the world’* heart—none for his God, Al jhe close of last year he had resolved it should be other wise, l ut instead of extricating himself h© had gone on multiplying aud complicating his cotweitH. Now he was utterly diss*ua.