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I. N. DAVIS, Sr., 1 Editor and Proprietor, j VOL. 11. Uctcd -i’oHv u. , W *3 PAY DAY. “The melancholy dvs have come, The saddest of tue year,” When notes jm* due and lengthy bills Come in from far and near; HJien a small account of yours,” Id a h jit*red in our ear, , Won t you please to settle now?” % au the talk you hear. You scarce &kn take a morning walk, w’ Without ere met By Mr Snook-, wbb wants to know If you can’t ‘‘settle'’ yet? And at the hour of dusky eve, When you do homeward hie, llpon the parlor table, lo ! A pile of hills dc lie. Ye chaps whoso salary amounts To ten limes ten a year, Who sport your patent leather boots With such a “graceful air,” And wear your thirteen-dollar pants And shiny buttoned vest, We wonder not when New Year comes Yon seek in vain for rest. Ye girls with empty bonnets stuck Upon your empty heads, With high-priced silk and satin things, And lmops, and flowers, and beads, We wonder what papa will say When Mr. JSpriggins calks With just that little bill of his For bonnets, hoops and shawls. And now, dear stylish little chap And fashionable little maid, We'll tell you what you'd better do, When those long paid: Just spend ns many dollars now Upon your addled brain As you have spent for costly clothes, And see how much you’ll gain. JSn -(Original jrlorn- H EL EN St. C E A 1 11. ■ ‘~.T~*t*‘-o. W: BAltmm. CHAPTER VI. tl Tlie course of true love. Never did run smooth. 7 Old Mr. St. Clair sat in liis lil.rary. Ilia feet were lifted almost to a level with liia head. In his mouth, there was a ei- j jjar, from which there arose little pulls of blue smoke, which curled in fantastic wreaths around his person. liis head was throw’ir hack, and his eyes partially) shut, lie was alone, and evidently deep-j 4y buried in thought. Perhaps he was | musing upon some election, for the old gentleman was a liery politician, and of ten bet large amounts of money upon the success of certain parties. Perhaps lie was uttering a mental an athema against the Freemasons, for onec, when he was candidate for a certain of fice he imagined the masons had com bined against him, and prevented his election. There was no positive proof of this, but the old man firmly believed it, and with him, supicion often stood in the place of evidence. Even since that de feat, he had nurtured in his bosom a dead ly hatred to the whole fraternity—a hatred which he took especial pains to manifest upon all possible occasions. In his hand he now held a letter—a letter which however he oohld not be reading, for as we have beforo said, his eyes were nearly shut.. Afterawhile, how ever, he put out his hand and touched the bell. Snlhe, the servant, soon un —jysYTCtT M:i summons. 1 ‘ “Isyour Mi.-s Helen at home?” asked the old man. I‘ Yea, ?jr, ?])<* is in the drawing room.” t‘ Is any one with her Mr. Elliott is here.” h )Vhat Elliott?” Mr. Charles Elliott, sir.” “1. he iu tlie ltal.it of coming here, giallie ? !lus he been here before ?” II Ljt 1 yea, muster, many and many a time. Haven’t you seen him? lie’s al most always with Mu? Helen now n-days. When Colonel llobiuson is away, Mr. Kljiptt is always sure to be here.” The old man moved his head uneasily. “ It’s that same Elliott,” he said more to himself than to the servant, “ whose father beat mo at the Crayton Election. Robinson was my friend then—my fjrm political adherent, as he has ever been. Well, this will do ? We shall see. Sul lio, t 11 your young mistress when this young sprig leaves, that I have some thing lo say to her in the library.” “ Very well, sir.” “ Intimate terber, moreover, that she is not to ask her visitor to stay to dinner I do not want my house polluted long with his presence.” S Ifoumul;—fli-rotfil to ‘XitcratmT, SYrts and .Wirnrc.s, iAijriniUnrc, liovikitHitvc, ilViiqinu', &r. Snllie cailed Helen from the parlor, and faithfully delivered the message. The girl looked surprised for a moment, -then she gave her head a decisive toss, and simply said, “ say to my father that I will come when I atn at liberty,” and quietly returned to her seat on the sofa, not far from where young Elliott was sit ting. The two laughed and talked long together; “ for as a sweet poem and a sweet air are wedded to each other, so were the lives of those two set to each other of God.” They never lacked things to talk about. The words of one, even upon the most indifferent topic, waked up an echo iu the other's soul, and who shall say, that when two spirits are thus linked and intertwined with one another, man, with rude hand, is privileged to burst them asunder ? It was nearly two o'clock before the old man heard the front door slam to, be hind the young man's retreating form. When Helen came in, he sat with liis hands over his face, and his elbows rest ing upon his knees. Hut as the girl sat quietly down beside him, he raised his head and said : “ Why were you so long in coming, daughter ?” “ 1 was engaged, father, and could not leave without showing great rudeness to a visitor.” “ How egme that man a visitor in my house, H*[|p? Who introduced him here?” “ lie has been coming here a long time, father. I was accidently introduced to him at first, biff that was a long time ago. I know him Very well, indeed, now: I know him and like him too.” “You do? Well, that's more than 1 con say. Do yon know-that his father was at one titnejpy rankest political ene my ?” “ No, sir.” M “-lA\ll,ssojj>-a£a knew it, and 1 vaunt you to think of it 100. That young man cannot visiltat By house —much less as pire to one day be my son-in-law.” “ lie was not to blame. //* never was your enemy, I am sure. Because that * fathers eat must their chil dren's teeth bo K on edge?’ Oh, no, papa 1 this is not generous—this is not good.” J “ / httue soi'/ it,” answered the old man, laying -flown his hand decisively upon tlie table that stood near. “An Elliott never can wed here; but I hold in my hand in letter from Colonel Robin son. In that letter, he asks liberty to ad dress my daughter; in other words, to become a suitor for her hand. A\ hat think ydu of that ?” “Iqliink,” said the girl, raising her self ftp with the dignity of a queen, “ that much as I love, much as 1 revere the .tnjfu sos my father, a Robinson-never can wed here, and I want him now, at the outset, to distinctly understand this truth.” ” “Helen!” “ Well, father, what ?” “ Think what you are saying. The Colonel has always been my friend. — When those rascally lnasyns combined, he ferretted out their plans, and kept me well posted in regard to all their move ments.” “ How could he, father ? He was not admitted into their secret councils, llad he been, he could not have revealed them without the basest deception—the black est falsehood.” “Nevertheless, he did it, child.” “ lie told you much that was not true, l dare say, sir, and tried to prejudice you continually against a body of men, who, let their secrets and their private councils be what they may, exhibit in their lives, benevolence, charity, temperance, sobri ety, and many other virtues. lam very sorry, pifya, that you ever took such a man as Colonel ltobinsou for an adviser, much more that you iiovy desire him for a son-in-law,” “ And 1, my daughter, am very sorry rtliat you prefer for your husband, a man whose family I abhor, whose principles l detest, and whose friendship I do not care to have shown even towards a dog belonging to nip, Very sorry indeed.” “ Why do you dislike tho Elliotts, fa ther ?” “ They are Freemasons,” “ And this is the head and front of their offending?” “ This comprises my entire objections. They nro rich enough—learned enough —honorable enough in other respects, “ TRULY THE LIMIT IS SWEET, AM) \ PLEASANT THING IT IS FOR TIIE EVES TO BEHOLD THE SUN.” GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, -I A XIA WY 28, IRGI. but I, you well know, dislike the Free masons ; especially old Elliott. He work ed against me at the election.” “ Who said so ?” “ Robinson.” “1 am grieved, papa. I like Charles, and to-morrow he will ask you for my hand.” i “ And get refused for his trouble,” I said the old man hastily “ No. I shall spare him the pain of a j refusal by not suffering him to ask,” said ■ the girl. “ I shall not permit him to j come to you as he designs doing. Perhaps j when you have thought of it longer, you will think better of liis proposals.” “ Never,” said the old man, setting his teetli together. “If you take him, you must leave me. But marry Robinson, and you shall have, not only my consent, hut blessing.” Helen got up and leaned one arm against the mantle-piece, while she gazed steadily forward into the heap of glow ing coals in the grate. “ Father,” she said, “ I cannot do it. Ido not believe the man loves me. I be lieve he is after my fortune. Hut putting his love for me entirely out of the ques tion, still 1 entertain none for him. Shall 1 make mockery of the sacred institution ot marriage ? Shull I, with a falsehood upon my lips, take the solemn vows that will link me indissolubly with another, and so go faltering on my way, with a galling chain pressing into my heart. No, I cannot do it. I will not attempt it. If Colonel Robinson wants a wife, lie must go elsewhere after her,” and Helen raised her head again, and prepared to leave the room. “That decides the matter I suppose,” said the old man sternly. “ Well, 1 shall not compell you to marry according to my wishes, but 1 do say that if you marry Elliott, not a oent shid* ever he yours. I will give my fortune to the founding of a charity hospital first. What think you of that?” “ l think,” said Helen stopping, “ that (lie loss of fortune would he something ; sad, but the loss of my father’s approba tion and love would be sadder still. Nev ertheless, if my father is entirely unmind ful of liis dauglifer’s happiness, the es trangement will not grieve him much. We love those most, whoso happiness wo have most at heart.” “Or rather,” said the old man,” we have the happinessof those most at heart, whom we love. I love you, and I wish j you to be happy, but you must go my ’ way, and win happiness where 1 direct.” “ A thing, I am sorry to say, I cannot do in this instance, papa,” and so tho two parted almost in anger. CHAPTbR VII. Clivo me one sweet, ne blessed hour, with him 1 love and trust 1” Again, Helen St. Clair lay upon the sola at twilight, and the old shadow was upon her soul. Sho could not banish it away. The moonbeams came us of old, softly through the window, and the min gled breath of night-flowers filled the air. The stars, like solemn watchers, wero out on high, and the murmur of the Cliicko tulatehia was distinctly audible. The door-bell rang, and Helen started upright in an instant. “Mr. Elliott, Miss Helen. He wants to see you in the par lor,” said Sallie, thrusting a card and her head in through the open door at the same lima. The girl arose and went instantly out. In the parlor, Charles Elliott waited her arrival. The soft light of the lamp fell upon the young man’s form, as lie stood erect in the middle of the room, and he looked singularly handsome. His eye was bright with excitement and expec tation. His raven hair was combed away from his high, thoughtful forehead, and hung in clusters around his neck and ears- there was intellect ami power in every glance ot liis dark, pleasant eye. As Helen came forward, he took her hand tenderly in both of his, and looked eager ly into her fair, flushed face, Instantly the smile died upon his lips. His i|uick glunco hail detected the ‘shadow’ that brooded over ber soul. “VVbut is the mttter?” ho said, taking hold of her chip al| d turning her face, so that bo could look directly into her eyes--“sick ? or has something gone wrong? It is not usual for you to look so sad. I don’t l.ielicye you are glad to see j me.” “Vos [ am, C es—.glad that you come. lam nlw glad to see you.— Don't say llmt.” 1 < -till great tears hail stolen to the gill s, and now rolled down her checks. “Sit down her. e said, drawing her to him on the sot’ £ 1 throwing his arm around Iter w r Sit down here and I tell me what all t',..- .-ans—l am curious jto know. 1 earn/ to-night to ask your father for this tint’little wee bit of hand, now clasped in in it t < oit 1 don't believe you’re going to b > no do it. 1 believe you have thought better about it since I was here, and tv - nt- >1 your bargain— hey?—speak ■” ad tell me the worst. Has Colonel ltd -01 been here and cut mo out f 1 belt con my faith some thing of the kind lias happened.” “No 1 no!! Charles 1 love you as well ns ever. Indeed, I never expect to love anybody el ;*l>ut you must nut ask my father for no t -nn lit. If you do, you will meet wil d a tjat. and, l fear, not very kind refusal “ “What, is the old gentleman in an ill humor ?—troubled with a fit of gout or I something of the kind, perhaps. Well, I can wait until h gets over his pet. 1 reckon he'll lot it” have you then. At any rate, he’ll never find anybody who’ll | take better care of you,” and the man i bent over and touched her brow with his lips. “lie does not like you, Charles, lie dislikes your whole family.” “Why ?” and ah the young man asked [ this, he looked surprised. “Because you are a Frrrtnamn —you belong to a family of Freemasons.” The young man bore burst into a laugh. ‘‘You arc not in earnest, Helen,” be said “Mr. St Clair does not urge that as an objection to me. If ho does, be is jest ing. dust trv'e to tease us a little. So * - v ! dry up your tears, my pet,” and he wiped ! the tears from her cheeks with his hand . kerchief. “No, ho is in earnest, Charles —dread- fully in earnest. You do not know my father. Once during a heated political campaign, when masonry was made, per haps, a sort of test question, your father and my father, chanced to disagree. Your * father was a successful candidate—mine. ! was beaten. Officious and bad friends— one in particular, did everything he could |to aggravate jealousy, and stir up anger in my father's bosom, lie was successful. My father has never forgiven your family. I fear he never will. The young man's face had grown very serious again. “Who was that friend— that officious friend of your father’s, 1 Helen?” The girl hesitated, but her lover’s eye was fixed kaenly upon her face. “That man,” he continued, “was my rival, Colonel Robinson. L have known that scoundrel for a long time, but l nev er mention lus name here, simply because he chances to be, like myself, an aspirant for your band. I think it mean to dis j para go another, because he loves that I love, and had I spoken against him, you and others, might have thought that i was actuated by a feeling of hatred and animosity, growing purely out of rival ship. But there is nothing of this feel ing about me. I dislike him because 1 know him to be full of falsehood and de ception-—-because he is low-lived and mean.” Again Charles Klliott’s lip took the contemptuous curl it wore in the val ley on the night of Helen's first meeting with him, while Colonel Robinson dashed by with his splendid hays. “1 have no doubt, Helen,” be said, “but that that man has heaped falsehood upon falsehood in this matter. Is there nothing we can do to disabuse your fath er's mind ? No way in which we can separate the true from the false ?” “I tear not, Charles. Time is a great revoaler of events. We oan watch and Wait. Perhaps something will occur to Open his eyes to Colonel Robinson's true character. No words of ours, however, I will influence hini.” “And so we must ‘watch and wait, must we? I must not speak with hint to-night on this subject so vital to my hap piness. Well, he it so. Jacob served seven years, for Rachel. 1 Would serve seventy and seven for you.” A faint smile came to Helen’s lip.— “You would be too old to see me then,” she said. “I hope we shall not have to Wait all those y ars. lint we will con* 1 |cnt ourselves for the present in watching what the days bring forth. lam sure, if I do not marry you, 1 shall not marry any one. 1 never loved any one before I never expect to love any one again.” “Say those words again, Helen,” said he, lifting her face up so that he could look into it, “gay those words again.— There is music in them sweeter than 1111 .Eolian harp. You menu them, do you not ?—solemnly mean them while you re pent them ?” “Solemnly, Charlie.” “And l. Helen, have never found one like \ou When lam with you the hours fly by on eagle wings. 1 have a quiet confidence in your love and good nature, which nothing can shake. I should not he afraid to come to you with any mighty secret. 1 believe that if 1 were to lay my hand over your lips and say, “breathe it not,” your mouth ever after would he like a sealed hook. ! do not hesitate to tell you what the brain conceives, as well as that the heart hopes, and lonjiilciu't’ with me, Helen, is the corner-stone of love.” “I think there can be little affection without it, Charles.” “Little affection ; and yet how often is confidence betrayed, ami consequently, pure affection ship-wrecked ! How often do my sex, especially, steal viper-like into young and unsuspecting hearts, and pois on and sting the soul that trusts in them ! 1 hear them boasting of their coquets — laughing over confidence betrayed, and affections won hut to he trampled on ! O, girl. I blush sometimes for my sex— over their paltry meanness—over their low-lived, deceitful ways ” Helen did not reply, but her thoughts reverted to Colonel Robinson, and she felt that nothing on earth could ever have inspired her with confidence in him.— Never could she have permitted him to have wound liis aim around her slender form, and held her in a confidential trie, it trie us Charlie was now doing. Oil! could she have seen at that moment the haggard form —the glittering eyes —and heard the wild, unearthly shrieks, which came from the bosom of the poor maniac at the Asylum in A , she could have loathed liis image more than ever.— Door Hazel I ndorwood ! duped into madness'. rave on ! Heaven holds a sure ami swift avenger. [TO UK C-ONTIM ED I\ OLII NBXT.] [wtiitTkn for tii k Cum |‘a NT or. J THE OLD YEAR. RY lIKV. W\ C. DOONK. Mortal? love, Roinetinii's, to stand on the dividingninc between “root events,and sur vey the vast scones laid out before the eye. So, also, do they love to stand be tween great periods mid view the past, and the future refleeted from the mirror of the past. Wl.nt period is more appro priate to he stopped at for a survey, than the end of the year ? From it, and to it, nations count their age and their prog ress. And why not ? for tho masses, also, suppose that the greatest event re corded on history's page —the uniting of heaven and earth by the advent of the Savior of tlie world—occurred at the di viding point between the years. Then let us, with tho great masses, stand still and review for a moment, the huge proportions of the old year, ns lie gives us the parting hand, and takes his everlasting exit into the dim shadows of the eternity past, AY hat of our persons? For myself, 1 can answer. Thou, departing year, didst find me, at our first acquaintance, in an other land than this. Thou didst at thy birth bring me disappointment and sor row. Thou gavest mic earnest anxiety for my food, and tears for my drink.- Hut in thy youth, thou didst somewhat lighten thy heavy hand, and in the prime of thy life, 1 sought and found a better day. Thy early dark and gloomy clouds rolled away from my sky. Thy howling winds blew past my home, and left my air and sky calm and serene us spring time's cloudless mori). Thus, like one whose early days wore spent in reckless riot mid dissipation, until a ruined con stitution forced him to be striotly obser. vunt ol the rules of sobriety, hast thou re tired from the sueno. One, perhaps tho largest, of the few hand-like aloud? that have hung carelessly on the mild face of thy declining days, has been that thou hast driven me as an exile to find a liuluej ill thin lnnd of strangers. Yet, I am us a mortal sufficiently happy even hero. So far ns concerns my mental improve ment, and it maybe, moral too, thou, hor rid old miscreant, hurrassed me out of all application which 1 love, and so fondly anticipated, and, as a sure result, ‘must de prived me of the great progress which 1 might otherwise have made. What of nations ? Whatever may have been the dealings of thy hand with ether nations, thy dealings with our own so far exceeds them all in interest, at least to us, that we must for the time lose sight of all others, and think of our own.— Thou didst find our nation the. happiest of earth, the terror of tyrants, and the wonder mid admiration of the world Asa mighty giant, our happy nation stood in this most favored spot of earth W bile the snows of winter were on its head, i) laved its hands in the briny waves of two oceans; and while around its feet were strewed in rich profusion the fruits and rich garlands of eternal Spring to he pick ed up at any time, to supply tho wants of the body and head, the body was all clothed in goodly raiment of evo'ry name, sucli as royal monarchs never wore. Hut thou, vile year, cuuldst not pass by and leave untouched our glorious her itage. While with us, thou didst let us love and cherish it, hut as thou wast go ing, a poisoned shaft from thy quiver, sent hot the injured blood through every vein and artery of ita body. It writhes, even now, iu the pangs of death ; and the quickly coming future may .have on ly to witness its demise, and tell tlie sad tale that the glory of the world, and the dread of tyrants, is no more. All! even the convulsive tliroc.s now upon it, make mankind stand iu bfcathlcssooutoinplation of what is coming, while they send a thrill of delight through every fibre of the souls of despots. Do not the shades of our il lustrious dead, now with ghastly paleness, frightful even to itirgmien shades rfi<=<.* sclves, weep over our fate! How soon may the lament, “ No more,” long since written on the blood-stained, dust-covered escutcheon of every former enemy of des pots, he also migrated on ours ! He it so; our country’s fata is ours : be also the God of nation ours, and ail is well. Other questions might be asked, hut let us stay with these and await the event. Thou, old year, lnt us tell thee that thou hast disappointed hopes, blighted prospects, and buried loves in thy foul embrace. Hut, mortal, hadst thou an en emy who lias fallen amid the conflicts of that retreating year? go, stand at liis grave and forgive. Hast thou a friend whose kindness thou hast repaid, except, it may he, by inattention nr rudeness ? go quiekly, owe thou no mall anything. Hast thou, in thought, word, or deed, wronged one who walks tlie paths of life by thy side no more ? go, thou, weep over liis grave tears of unavailing sorrow, and resolve to do thy duty hoi tor to the living. Now, thou, old year, we hid thee fare well. Time and paticnco would fail us to recount thy deeds. Some we shall cherish, others let us forget. Thy huge proportions fade in tho distant past, and as thy funeral rings upon our cur, for thy deeds we ran not bless thee—we will not curse thee. Go in peaoe, The Secret of Happiness. The most, common error of men and women is that of looking for happiness somewhere outside of useful work. It lots never yot boon found when thus sought s and never will be while the world stands ; and the sooner this truth is learned, the better for evrey one. Ii you doubt tbo proposition, glance around among your friends and acquaintances, and select those who appear to have the most enjoyments in lile. Are they the idlers, and pleasure seekers, or the earn est worker '! We know what your answer will be. Os all miserable human beings it has been our fortune, or misfortune, to know they were the most wretched who had re tired from useful employments, in ordor to enjoy themselves \\ by the slave at Ilia unform'd labor, or the hungry toiler for bread, were extremely happy in oon parison. Earnestly would we press upon young minds the truth we have stated. It lies at the foundation of all well lining, and well-being. It gives tranquility ami pleasure to tho youth just stepping across the threshold of rational life, as well as to the man whose years are hegining to rest upon his stooping shoulders. Re ever engaged in useful work, if you would bo happy This is the great secret. f TWO DOI,I<A US A YEAR ) Invariably in Advance. A Lady ok the Olden Time. —Mrs. Troupe, tin* accompli.shod wife of a cap tain of tho British navy, gives a lively account of a call she, with two other la dies, made upon Mrs. Washington, who, like hor hushatu - nmth.-r, distin | guished for hor :..m i 011,0? • of lomso | hold affairs. “ A A* v -aid t. L, so j grand a lady,” says M*h. i n.u, . thought wo must put on our host hihs and hands. So wo drossod oursolvos in our most elegant rufiles and silks, and wore | introduced to hor ladyship. And don’t you think, wo lound hor knittintj and ! mth a rhtt k apron on ! She received us very graciously and easily, but after tho ! compliments wore over, sh. knitting. There wo w n. w u .„.iich lof work, and sitting in r. t 1 ! oral Washington’s lady, with her own I hands, was knitting stockings for her hus- I baud.” •• ■* ♦ Too Thuk.—An exchange well says, when a youth goes astray friends gather around to bring him to tho path of virtue. Gentleness and kindness are lavished upon him to bring him hack to innocence and i peace. Xo one would ever suspect that !he had sinned. But when a poor confi- I ding girl is betrayed, she receives tho ! brand of society and is henceforth driven i from the ways of virtue, the betrayer is honored, respected and esteemed ; there is I no peace for her this side of tho grave. Society has no loving, helping hand for her, no smile of peace, no voice of forgive ness. These are earthly moralities un known tj heaven. There is a great wrong in them, and fearful are the consequences. The above extract is too true. Man may revel in sin and every species of crime until all hope is lost j yet ho may reform and bo taken into the embraces of society, recognized as a gentleman, live and die hou< red and re j oted But. nhis.t lor ponr v e misstep ru ins her—society discards her —and no re form, however complete, obliterate.- lit stain. .Death alone covers up her foibles in the grave of forgetfulness! We have but little confidence in the traduccr of woman's character. I’kiuianknt llomk.— “‘To have a lioiih’ which a limn has himself reared or purchased—a home which he has im proved or beautilied—a home, indeed, which, with honest pride and natural love, he calls his own—is an additional security for any man's virtue. Such a home ho leaves with regrnt; to it ho gladly returns, There he duds innocent and satisfying pleasures. There his wife and little ones arc happy and safe; and there all his best affections take root and grow. To such a pair, as time advances, this abode of their early and middle life, whence they have, perhaps, all departed, becomes constantly more dear ; for it is now a sceno of precious memories—the undisturbed shelter id’ their declining years. And say—what lapse of time, what traveled distance, what varied experience of pros- I erity, or sorrow, can ever efface the good impression made by such a borne on the tender heart of childhood ? To the tempted youth, to the wanderer from vir tue, to the sud victim of misfortune, such a remembrahoc has often proved a strength ening monitor, or a healing balm. Nor can this kindly influence wholly fail so long as the dear objects nt that scene retain a place in memory e mneet/uj, as they inseparably are, wtih thoughts of a father’s counsels, a mother’s tenderness, a sister's purity, and a brothel's love.I*’ 1 *’ Fanny Fkr.n Sick. —Fanny Fern must be seriously ailing, judging from tho following late protiunciaiuento: “I am sick of politics. lam sick of torch light fizzles, I aui sick of the Prince. I an, siok of men who never talk sense to women. I aiu sick of boys of seven smoking ci gars. lam sick of gloomy Pharisees, and worldly, idoaloss sermons, and narrow creeds. lam sick of lawless Sabbatarians, and female infidels, and frue-lovors. 1 am sick of unhealthy, diseased books, full of mystifications ami traiioondoittnl bosh. lam sick of‘chaste ribbons’ and ‘ravishing luoo.’ lam sink, of the age which produced a Bronte, and Brown iug, of tho prate of men wlm assert that every woman should be a perfect house keeper, and fail to add, that ovory man should be a perfect carpenter. I am as sick of women self-styled ‘literary,’ who think it a proof af genius to despise every-day household duties. NO. 3.