Happy New Year's

There is something demoralizing about New Year's. Not at all tbat demoralization is the mam outcomo of tho institution ; but a man must be strong in the faith to withstaud the effect upon his meral system of the knowledge that New Year's brings, evon to tho best of us. For it is at this season of the year that a man, so to spoak, takes stock of hiniself. He takes his good resolutions, his good deeds, his bad impulses and actions, his mixed motives - in fact, his whole moral balongings and accomplishments, down from the shelves, dusts them, looks them over, and enters them in his books. There rnay be profit, growth, advance ; but there is apt to be melancholy side to the fairest showing. For suppose that, on tho whole, we have reason to bo encouraged by the condition of affairs revealed - there are few of us who do not find with each New Year's an increased sonso of limitation. For we are creatures of inheritance, and of habit; the spirit ui ay be willing, but O, how weak the flesh ! It is not inerely that we are too apt to fail in the spiritual, with all our striving ; but strange barriers loom along the intellectual horizon. As we grow older, the very element of Time, which in our youtli 8e6ins such a vague, shadowy enemy - if not friend of infinite largesse - comes bearing down upon us, mighty, resistless - au army with banners. There are so many things that for so many years I have been hoping to do before each succeeding New Year's Day. The oontemplated crusades of buyhood even hauut me as things desined to fortúnate occurrence. Surely the suinmer day is vet to come wheu I shall tako up my adventurou march on tbe CtosSt wicks turnpike; the same night pith my rag-carput tent in the mysterious Piues ; sleep to the entrancing music of the hyena and the jackal, and sally forth the next day to slay a white Polar bear with my ivory paper-cutter. Shall I confess how often, sinoe last New Year's, I have stood looking oyer therailing ot the ferry boat, and imagr'ne that at last the Moment hid comn : the rihild had fallen into the water; I hnd h nded my coat to the benevolent gent eman with a Quaker hat and blue spec tacles, my gold watch to a celebrated stock-gambler - (who is so much rftpressed by the genprous confidence, and the general snblimity of the scène, that lie is a reforiued man trom that moment) - and mn only whetber to plHce my pocket-book in the keeping of the prettv f ctoi y -girl with a pink parasol, or in that of the clerical-looking gentleman, who raay turn out to be a pickpocket in disguise, - beiore taking the final, heroic plungo. I was quitn certain I would have a Christmas story ready by this time ! For, bless you, I had found my plot at last ; or, at least my theme. There w;is to be a wöiuan in white, with a child in her anus, (standing ou the steps of Dr H.'s church, across the street ; a kind of an apparition you know, although, oircoursc, the explanation would be very simple, and would only need to be binted at in the last paragraph in order to niake it perfoctly satist'actory, without destroying the weird, supernatural effect. You see the way I cme upon the iüusi.in was this Ño ! I'll have that done by next Christmas. I'll have that done, or something better! For, after all, let me give you a bit of optimista, after having shown the glooniy side of the picture. The Naw Years have helped me to this belief, that a man is very apt to get, in some form or other - a man is very apt to accomplish, in this way or that - the houest thing he honestly and earnestly desires to win and accomplish. But the story may not be a story, remembor, or else no ' story of mine - perbaps only a good deed, i such as givinar the plot to Saxe Holm. - :