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2 library, and Reginald found no difficulty in persuading his brother to go with him. “ One word,” said ’Duke, after Emily had bidden them good-night and good bye. “ You will not say anything of this to Amy. You know what I mean—the matter we were speaking of when this message came.” *• I will not speak of it, certainly not,” replied Emily. Because something might occur to make it unnecessary,” said Duke; and it were best not to mention it just yet;” “ True,” said Emily, not comprehend ing his meaning though, ‘vl trust some thing may prevent it; you deserve to be happy, ’Duke, and 1 trust, will be.” Reginald went up to his room to pre pare for his departure. They were to start at early dawn, and it was not far from that now. Eugenia closed her eyes when she heard the door opened, and when Regie glanced at her he thought her sleeping. Silently he moved around the room, packing a few things together himself, for he would not call a servant at such an unseasonable hour. ’Genie’s glowing eyes were fixed upon his graceful form as it flitted about the room, and she almost lifted her hand to caress his hair, so eagerly did she desire to touch it. But Regie did not see her looking at him, and when, at last, all his preparations were completed, he reso lutely turned his eyes away from her, lest lie might be too stiongly tempted to press one farewell kiss upon her lips, and left the room. “ Gone'.” murmured ’Genie, burying her face in the pillow; “Gone! and with out one word, without one look 1” The soft gray of morning was spread over the sky, when the travelling car riage passed the park gates, and the sun was shining when it passed through the village. Midway*the main street, alight handsome carriage dashed by them. The occupant leaned far out of the window, and gaily waived his baud to Reginald, who bowed coldly. ‘* A right handsome fellow, upon my word,” said ’Duke, ” Who is it, Regie?” “ Lord Vernon,” growled Regie. “ The Earl of Hastings ! He is going to our house, is he not?” “ I suppose so. Heaven forgive me, I wouldn t care if he were to break his neck before be gets there !” “ Oil! hush, Reginald; don't encourage such fearful feelings. Why don’t you let him know that his presence is disa greeable :” “ Let him know it? He must know it; but if I were to say anything to him, ’Genie would never forgive me.” ’Duke looked at his brother. What advice could lie offer ? None. And so they rode on in silence, each one inusiug over his own misery. CHAPTER XVII. The King’s messenger had given Regi nald no information that was not con tained iu the note; but, as they neared the city, the rumor of the calamity threat ening the nation, reached his ears. The Queen was ill, very ill, lying at the point of death. William waited in his private cabinet for Reginald. All was quietaround; the palace seemed deserted, for, after being ad mitted through the outer door, Reginald found none of the gaily dressed lords and ladies who usually thronged the rooms at that hour. He looked around in amazement, and scarcely dared knock at William’s door. His tap, light as it was, reached the King’s ear, and lie darted forward, open ing the door himself, ‘•Ah! it is you, Reginald! I have wished for you.” Reginald bowed gravely. “What! have you nyt forgiven me yet ? JSV even now, when the direst of War evil prophecies are being fulfilled! Know you not that the Queen Is dying, alone and desolate !” “ Death is the common lot of all,” re plied Regie ; but, desolate, and alone, so great a Queen can never be !” “ You have not noticed, then, that my reception rooms arc empty *” asked William. ■» v “ I have noticed it, your majesty; but con'd not account for it. “ Ah ! Reginald, there are no diseases that make even our dearest friends shrink from us. Small-pox is one oi them!” “ I>o you mean to say that the Queen has small pox,” exclaimed Reginald. • ‘ In its most malignant form,” groaned the King. “ Do you not remember —if you do not Ido —your evil prophecy ? I have lived to see my beautiful Mary a loath some object to those around her!” Oh! my dear lord, forget those wild words; 1 knew not what 1 was saying 1 meant not to wish that this terrible misfortune might befall you," exclaimed Reginald, in great agitation. “ 1 suppose not, my friend ; but I see the hand of Providence in this; the blood of Glencoe has called aloud to Heaven for vengeance, and theory has been heard,” answered the King, hopelessly. “ But a few short months ago, the knife of the assassin sought my life, from that time I have lived with the constant fear of death before me; and now, my Queen, my wife. Oh! Reginald, be satisfied! Your sister is avenged!” “Forgive me!” cried Reginald, kneel ing at the King’s feet; “ forgive me, my lord, and offer me once more that hand which I have clasped in dearest friend ship. You hesitate! Ah! I deserve it, my lord!” “ I hesitate, it is true,” said the King, “ but it is because 1 fear to convey to you the disease.” “ Then, do not hesitate,” interrupted Reginald, clasping William’s hand, “I do not fear the disease, and if I were to take it, what difference would it make?” “ It would make a great difference,” answered William ; “ 1 would not like to see your face seamed and marred, as it would he, even if you did not die. Your wife would not thank me for it, Reginald.” “ The Queen has sent for your majes ty,” said a physician, entering the room at this moment. “ Y r ou will remain here until I return?” said the King to Reginald. “ As long as your majesty wishes,” answered Regie. One hour, two hours, passed by, and still the King did not return. Wearied by his hurried journey, and lulled by the quiet repose of everything around him, Reginald was dozing in an arm-chair, when a servant touched him on the shoulder. “ The King is in his bed-room, and desires to see you, sir.’’ “ Lead on,” said Reginald, wideawake in an instant. [to be continued.] [Selected.] Before the Blessed Sacrament. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. Teach me, O! God, the truest adoration : Give me to know, in Thy mysterious ways, Shall hymns of joy and fervent aspiration, Or tearful silence best proclaim Thy praise? Whene’er I bow in humble prayer before Thee, So great my load of sorrow and of sin— So great my joy one moment to adore Thee— Sobs and hosannahs strive my heart within. Wo for the soul that cannot here discover Her own Creator and the angels’ King— King of the angels—but Man’s more than lover, Tortured and Blaiu for our vast ransoming! And yet the vilest dust coucealcth wonders, Teems with strange marvels, miracles indeed; And Heaven hath distanced splendor, time and numbers Tho lordliest mind shall never grasp and read. Still, Man, who sees Thee in tho humblest flower, Who knows so little round him or above, While he, perforce, admits Thy boundless power, Presumes to set a limit to Thy love! Had Heaven to me the shining sceptro yielded Os some strong angel, whose bright throne maybe O'er many a starry myriad lightning-shielded, In glory marehiug thro’ Eternity— % Oh! happier far, in humble adoration, Were I, to bend my pride, head, heart and knee — And feel, no more a discord in creation, My soul in harmony with her and Thee! Before Thee then this world seems cold and narrow, The spirit blossoms like the prophets rod; And every sigh becomes a burning arrow Whose bright point flashes thro’ the heart of God! Thou hast unnumbered Seraphim to sing Thee Adoring canticles from pole to pole— But we, alas! faint praise, poor offering bring Thee, Yet Thou hast died for this—the human soul! Oh, make it Thine by grace and tribulation, And when life’s brief calamity is o’er, Crown us in love’s sublimcst adoration, Where faith is lost in vision ever more! For the Banner of the South. AN UNHAPPY MAN ON NEW YEAR’S EVE. FROM THE GERMAN OF RICIITER. At midnight, on New Year’s Eve, an old man stood at his window, and looked out, with a look of despair, on the im movable ever shining Heavens above, and on the still, pure, snow-covered Earth beneath, on which there was no one so joyless and sleepless as himself. His grave was not tar (iff] it was baic in the snow of old age, not covered with the ver dure of youth; for, out of the riches of life he had brought nothing but errors, sins, and follies, a wasted body and blighted soul, a heart full of bitterness, and an old age filled with despair. The beautiful days of his youth arose around him like spectres, and recalled to his mind the peaceful morning on which his father had placed him on the cross road of life. To the right stretched tho sunny path of Virtue, which led to a distant, quiet land, full of light, harvests, and Angels; to the left, through the wide tracks of Vice, stretched the path leading to a black pit full of ever-dropping poison,, crawling serpents, and dank, sultiy mists. Alas! the serpents hung around his breast, the poison drops on his tongue, and he knew not where he w as. Half frantic, and with inexpressible grief, he cried up to Heaven, “Give me back my youth ! O, father, place me once more on the cross-road of life that I may choose differently-” But his father and his youth were in the dim and distant Past. He saw will o’-the-wisps dancing over the swamps, and disappearing in the graveyard, and he said, “Those are the days of my folly.” He saw a star shoot from the sky, and glittering in the fall, lie scattered on the Earth. “Such am I,” said his bleeding heart, and the serpent’s teeth of despair guawed deeper into his wounds. His heated imagination showed him night walkers flying along the roofs, and the wind-mill raised its threatening arms as if to crush him, and a ghost lingering in the dead-house gradually assumed his likeness. In the midst of these horrors and struggles within, suddenly the music of the New Year flowed gently down, as if from distant Church choirs. lie was touched, and looking around the horizon, and over the white Earth, thought of the friends of his youth who were now teach ers of men, fathers of happv children, and blcsse<b Christians; and he exclaimed, “0! I, too, c -uld sleep now like you, on this first night of the year, with dry eyes, if I had wished. 1 could be happy, dear parents, if I had only fulfilled your New Year’s prayers and teachings ! In the leverish remembrances of his young days, it seemed as if the spectre in the dead-house rose up, and, finally, from the belief in the superstition that, on New Year’s night, are shown us the Spirits of the Future—it was turned into a living young man. He could look at it no more; he covered his eyes; a thousand hot tears streamed from his eyes, and sank in the snow; he still moaned out, gently, “Only return, days of my youth, return once more. And they did return; for, on this New Year’s eve, he had only had a frightful dream. He was still a youth, his sins only were now turned into a dream. He thanked God that he, still young, could turn back on the dark paths of Vice, and gain once more the sunny path which leads to the land of rich harvests. Turn with him, 0! young man, if thou still lingerest in the paths of Vice. This frightful dream shall, in future, be thy judge, and should you ever once call out, “return, oh! happy youth”—it will be in vain, for it never returns. From the Melbourne rirgus. AN UNPUBLISHED INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Mr. Alexander Dick,, of Drummond street, Carlton, has sent us an account of an incident in Goldsmith’s life, which is now published for the first time, and which, we arc sure, will be read with much interest and pleasure. This is not the first occasion on which additions have been made to the life histories of the illustrious dead from the traditions, or records of Australian families, for some years ago, an original anecdote of Dr. Johnson was discovered in a MS., domes tic memoir in Sydney, and published; and there have been some other similar cases. The anecdote of Goldsmith, now to be submitted is charmingly character istic of the man. Affectionate, confiding, and eminently sympathetic, he could not have done otherwise, than as the narrative describes without violence to his own na ture. The biographers tell us that his heart was so tender, and his manner so sweet, that none could know without lov ing him, and that even his tailor telt so completely under his influence, that he preferred supplying his wardrobe for nothing, to losing the pleasure of his visits. On the day of his death, the stairs of his apartment were occupied by the old and the infirm, to whom, he had never turned a deaf ear, even when he was struggling with poverty, and who mourned his early death with sobbing and lamentation. Nearly one hundred years have passed since then, and Gold smith’s genius and virtues still hold their place in the public estimation. There is no British poet remembered with greater affection, or whose verses are more fre quently quoted. Every reader has bits of “ The Traveler,” and the “Deserted Village” at his tongue’s cud, and knows the “Vicar of Wakefield” almost by heart; while playgoers make a prime favorite of Tony Lumpkin, anu like to trace reminiscences by the author in the careless geniality of the “ Good-natured Man.” Even Johnson, by whose massive intellect and greater learning, Goldsmith was overshadowed during life, is now much less known to the general public; and for one that knows “ Ilasselas,” a dozen are familiar with the “Animated Nature.” The great anxiety that the reading public have always evinced to know all about Goldsmith’s private file, has caused the compilation of many bi ographies. and diligent seui.ch has been made at different times lor new facts and anecdotes, the biographers sometimes quarreling fiercely over the proprietor ship of this or that incident or episode. The addition now to be made would have afforded much gratification to Percy or Prior, IrviDg or Foster, had he been the first to record it; and it is no diminution from its value that it has been stored up for one hundred and sixteen years, and it is now published for the first time in an antipodean city only thirty-three'years old. The story runs: “ On his farm near Falkirk, and about the year 1750, my grandfather,'William Dick, was caught by the press-gang, and compelled to serve in the Regiment of Pi cardy. My grandmother, Mary Dalg leish, or Douglass, joined him. The Regiment passed to Ireland, and it was ordered on foreign service. Mary was debarred from accompanying her hus band. They had three children—Adam, Willie, (my father,) and Jeauuie. It was now 1752, aud the children were seven five, and three years of age. Mary resolved to return to Edinburgh. She had not travelled a fortnight when she was robbed, as she slept, of her money, her clothes, and her children’s clothes. It was a lone house, and the people had no clothing to bestow. Marv and her child ren went forth in their night-dresses. Desponding, despairing, she travelled on, but a ministering Angel was at hand, and saved her. Oliver Goldsmith, on horseback, met her. No salutation pass ed. Willie and Jcannie were behind. Jcannie—flow three years old—was ashamed of her dress, and to hide from the gentleman she got close to Willie. He pushed her into a ditch, and ran. Goldsmith cried: “What sort of a wo man are you, that you do not look better after your children ? ” Mary turned round, and saw her daughter getting to her feet quietly. Goldsmith drew near, and Mary replied, “ I am the wife ot an impressed soldier, and on my way to Edinburgh, but last night I was robbed of our money, and our clothes, and 1 am almost distracted.” Goldsmith saw that she was an educated lady, and he begged pardon for the harsh manner iu which lie had spoken to her, and said: “I am sorry that I cannot give you more than £1; but I wont leave you till I see you all better clothed.” He turned back some miles. They came to a mansion. Gold smith addressed the inmates, told them his name, begged clothes for his com panions, and said that he would return and pay for all that they could give. The inmates gave Mary decent material to make clothes for herself, and her children. Mary got to Muiravonside, but she did not go to Edinburgh. The friend that she had lodged with there had died. She was a widow that kept a small shop at the foot of the Canongate. My grand father’s brothers had occasion to call on her successor. Goldsmith arrived in Edin burgh, and he called frequently at the shop to inquire alter Mary’s welfare. He was informed that William had been bought oft for £4O, and that he was work ing at Cathcart, for 8d a day, that Mary was sewing, and the children knitting, and paying the money by instalments. He sent them a few pounds- Honored be the memory of Goldsmith, lie said that it was the information that Mary gave him of Edinburgh College that made him make up his mind to come to it. Goldsmith set out on a tour to the North and West Highlands, and to visit Mary at Cathcart; but his money failed him, and he had to cut his tour short. He expressed hiniselt greatly disappointed that he had not seen the Loch Lomond district, and that he had not seen Mary, lie spoke constantly of taking another tour, but lie did not set out a second time. This incident occurred in tho period between 1749 and 1752, during which Goldsmith made unsuccessful attempts to enter the Church, and to commence the study of the Law. Being disappointed in both, he set off for Cork, with the in tention of proceeding thence to America; but, having paid his passage, he managed to be out of the way when a favorite wind set in, and the Captain set sail with out him. On his retuni s from Cork to his home at Ballymahon, he met with a little adventure, something like the one just narrated, which, in a letter to his mother, he described as follows: “Upon the way, 1 met a poor woman all in tears, who told ine her husband had been ar rested for a debt he was not able to pay, and that his eight children must now starve, beieft as they, were of his industry, which was their only support, and 1 parted with a moiety of all my store (he was 100 miles from home, and hud only 5s in his pocket;) “and pray, mother, ought I not have given her the other half crown, for what she got could be of little use to her ? ” The ultra Tory journals are in a white heat over the appointment of .Judge iO’Haganto the Chancellorship , simply ' because he is a Catholic. NEW ORLEANS (LA) CORRESPONDENCE OF THE BANNER OF THE SOUTH. The Holidays in the Crescent City— The Church—The Little Sisters of the Poor, Etc. New Orleans, Dee. 23, 1808. Banner of the South : These are days when it is pleasant to reside in New Orleans. The Winter Examinations of the Public Schools being over, the streets are enlivened by th e joyous throngs of boys and girls who are now turned loose for the Christmas holi days. The windows of the retail shops are blooming with attractive displays of brilliant novelties in jewelry, silverware, costly robes, parlor ornaments, books, paintings, and the infinite variety of cun ning toys that Santa Claus manages each year to invent for the delectation of children, big and little. The solid at tractions of the Restaurants, and the sweet ones of the Confectioners, are especially honored by the incessant admiration of the longing eyes and watering mouths of youthful watchers, to whose itching fingers the envious plate glass offers a cruel barrier. In tine weather, such as we have had the latter half of this week, the crowds in front of these show-windows a e a serious obstacle to foot passengers, and afford a fine chance for pickpockets, who are always at hand for such opportu nities. Resides these crowds, others are ! gathered around the peripatetic hawkers of “Indestruotible Pens—bettor than gold three for a quarter;” the portable Astronomical Observatory, whose eight foot telescope offers a “full view of the spots on the sun for five cents;” the Chariot of the • ’Chinese Grip—warranted to mend all wares, leather, wood, &c., so they cannot be broken agaiu;” the patent “Lung Tester —for discovering incipient consumption;” the countless bands of wandering Minstrels, whose harsh voices, with accompaniments of twanging harps and screeching fiddles, make all hours hideous; the übiquitous knife-grinder, with his soul-haunting bell; and—biggest attraction of all—the Balcony Brass Bands of the Theatres, on St. Charles Street, whose curb-stone audiences often block the way for vehicles as well as for pedestrians. Now, when you consider that die regular number of our citizens is always doubled, at this season, by the accession of sight seers, health-seekers, and adven turers, male and female, of all nationali ties—but chiefly from that neighboring nation, self-dubbed the Universal—you may form some idea of the almost impene trable mass of humanity that swarms upon Canal, Chartres, Royal, Camp, St. Charles, and other leading streets, every sunny day of Winter. Our venerable Archbishop, notwith j standing his weight of years, and the : physical infirmities which cause him in ■ cessant suffering, is indefatigable in the ! performance of his pastoral duties. He has just issued his order for the Annual 1 Christinas collection for the support of his I Seminaries; another for the clerical re : treat to be held about the middle oi 1 January; and a third, convening the j Diocesan Synod on the 28th proxim >. The next thing in order will be the in stallation of the newly arrived Little Sisters of the Poor, whose advent here brings hope and consolation to many an afflicted victim of poverty, disease and old age. One of the most lovely and superhuman traits of these devoted Indies is their assimilation to the condition of their poor proteges, by sharing and par ticipating in their every discomfort, as regards food, raiment, and shelter; ami, in addition to all this, they assume the responsibility of providing for all, and performing, with their own hands, all tin menial duties of the heterogeneous family. The exercise, in our midst, of sueff heroic charities, must bring upon our City an accumulation of blessings, that will go far to offset the political cursi s that are being re-imposed upon us in tn ■ shape of negro policemen and unscrupu lous magistrates. In the Third District, the zealuns Father Foltier, who has recently com pleted the erection of the solid and capa cious Church of St. Vincent de Paul, fu made arrangements with the Sisters the Holy Gross to take charge of hi-' parochial schools. Thus steadily m°' v ' s forward the Church of true progres- n her grand mission of Religion, Char.q and Education. Southern Radical A letter from Charles Kickharn, one t the Fenian prisoners, gives a narrative the terrible sufferings endured by hitnse; and others at Pentonville. The whole English Church property in Irelaud is set down by the Cork r. ammer, at three-quarters of a million a’- nually. ’Tis understood that as soon the Church disendowmeut shall have ae. place, the available proceeds will he M" plied in the reduction of the poor ran