so generous, so public-spirited, as to relieve the suppliant, to raise up the prostrate, to communicate happiness, to avert danger, to save a fellow-citizen from exile and wrong? Can aught be more desirable than to have always ready those weapons with which we can at once defend the weak, assail the profligate, and redress our own or our country's injuries?

"But, apart from the utility of this art in the forum, the rostrum, the senate, and on the bench, can anything in retirement from business be more delightful, more socially endearing, than a language and elocution agreeable and polished on every subject? For the great characteristic of our nature-that which distinguishes us from brutes-is our capacity of social intercourse, our ability to convey our ideas by words. Ought it not, then, to be pre-eminently our study to excel mankind in that very faculty which constitutes their superiority over brutes?

"Upon the eloquence and spirit of an accomplished orator may often depend, not only his own dignity, but the welfare of a government, nay, of a people. Go on, then, ye who would attain this inestimable art. Ply the study you have in hand, pursue it with singleness of purpose, at once for your own honor, for the advantage of your friends, and for the service of your country."

THE SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING. Not long since a sober middle-aged gentleman was quietly dozing in one of our railroad trains, when his pleasant, drowsy meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sharp voice of the individual by his side. This was no less a personage than a dandified, hot-blooded, inquisitive Frenchman, who raised his hairy visage close to that of the gentleman he addressed.

"Pardonnez, sare; but vat you do viz ze pictair

As he spoke, monsieur pointed to some beautiful steel plate engravings, in frames, which the quiet gentleman held in his lap, and which suited the fancy of the little French connoisseur precisely.

The quiet gentleman looked at the inquisitive foreigner with a scowl which he meant to be very forbidding, and made no reply. The Frenchman, nothing daunted, once more approached his hairy visage into that of his companion, and repeated the question.

"Vat you do viz ze pictair-hein?"

"I am taking them to Salem," replied the quiet gentleman, gruffly.

"Ha! you take 'em to sell 'em!" chimed in the shrill voice of the Frenchman. "I be glad of zat, I like ze pictair. I buy 'em of you, sare. How much you ask?

"They are not for sale!" replied the sleepy gentleman-more thoroughly awake, by-the-by, and not a little irritated.

"Hein?" grunted monsieur, in astonishment. "Vat you say, sare?"

"I say I don't want to sell the pictures!" cried the other, at the top of his voice.

"Peste! c'est drole!" exclaimed the Frenchman, his eye beginning to flash with passion. "It is one strange circumstance, parbleu!. I ask you vat you do viz ze pictair, and you say you take 'em to sell 'em, and zen you vill not sell 'em! Vat you mean, sare—hein?”

"I mean what I say," replied the other, sharply. "I don't want to sell the engravings, and I didn't say I did."

"Morbleu!" sputtered monsieur, in a tone loud enough to attract the attention of those of his fellow travelers who were not already listening; "morbleu! you mean to say I 'ave not any ear? Non, monsieur, I hear ver' well vat you tell me. You say you sell ze pictair. Is it because I one Frenchman, zat you will not sell me ze pictair?"

The irritated gentleman, hoping to rid himself of the annoyance, turned his back upon his assailant, and made no reply.

But monsieur was not to be put off thus.

He laid his

hand on the shoulder of the other, and showing his small white teeth, exclaimed

"Monsieur, zis is too much. You've give me one insult, and I shall 'ave satisfaction." Still no reply. "Monsieur," continued the Frenchman, "you are not one gentleman, I shall call you one poltroon, vat you call 'em?— coward!"

"What do you mean," retorted the other, afraid the affair was getting serious; "I haven't insulted you, sir." "Pardonnez, monsieur, but it is one grand insult! In America, perhaps not; but in France, one blow your

brains out."

"For what, pray?"

"For vat? Parbleu ! you call me one menteur-how you speak 'em-liar! You call me one liar!"

"No, sare! I've got ears. You say you vill sell ze pictair; and ven I tell you vat you say, you say ze contrarie-zat is not so!"

"But I didn't tell you I would sell the pictures," remonstrated the man with the engravings, beginning to feel alarmed at the passion manifested by the other. "You misunderstood

"I tell you no! It is not posseebl'! When I ask

vat you do viz ze pictair, vat you say?"

"I said I was taking them to Salem."

you

Yes, parbleu!" exclaimed monsieur, more angry than ever, 66 you say you take 'em to sell 'em "No, no!" interrupted the other, "not to sell them, but Salem-the City of Salem."

Ze city of Sell 'em!" exclaimed the Frenchman, amid the roars of laughter that greeted his ears. "Zat is one grand mistake. Pardon, monsieur! Que je suis bete! The city of Sell 'em? Ha-ha! I will remember zat mistake!" And he stroked his moustache with his fingers, while the man with the engravings once more gave way to his drowsy inclinations.

THE DYING BRIGAND.

She stood before the dying man,

And her eye grew wildly bright:
"Ye will not pause for a woman's ban,
Nor shrink from a woman's might;
And his glance is dim that made you fly,
As ye before have fled:

Look, dastards! how the brave can die-
Beware! he is not dead!

"By his blood you've tracked him to his lair!
Would you bid the spirit part?

He that durst harm one single bair
Must reach it through my heart.
I cannot weep, for my brain is dry;
Nor plead, for I know not how;

But my aim is sure, and the shaft may fly,
And the bubbling life-blood flow!

"Yet leave me, while dim life remains,
To list his parting sigh;

To kiss away those gory stains,

To close his beamless eye!

Ye will not! no-he triumphs still,
Whose foes his death-pangs dread;

His was the power, yours but the will-
Back, back, he is not dead!

"His was the power that held in thrall.
Through many a glorious year,
Priests, burghers, nobles, princes-all
Slaves worship, hate, or fear.

Wrongs, insults, injuries thrust him forth
A bandit-chief to dwell;

How he avenged his slighted worth,
Ye, cravens, best may tell!

"His spirit lives in the mountain breath,
It flows in the mountain wave;

Rock-stream-hath done the work of death
Yon deep ravine-the grave!

That which hath been again may be!

Ah! by yon fleeting sun,

Who stirs, no morning ray shall see—
His sand of life has run !"

7

Defiance shone in her flashing eye,
But her heart beat wild with fear;
She starts-the bandit's last faint sigh
Breathes on her sharpened ear.
She gazes on each stiffening limb,

And the death-damp chills her brow: "For him I lived-I die with him! Slaves, do your office now!"

OUR FOLKS.-ETHEL LYNN.
"Hi! Harry Holly! Halt,-and tell
A fellow just a thing or two;
You've had a furlough, been to see
How all the folks in Jersey do.
It's months ago since I was there,-
I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks.
When you were home, old comrade, say,
Did you see any of our folks?

"You did? Shake hands,-oh, aint I glad;
For if I do look grim and rough,
I've got some feelin'-people think
A soldier's heart is mighty tough;
But, Harry, when the bullets fly,

And hot saltpetre flames and smokes,
While whole battalions lie afield,

One's apt to think about his folks.

"And so you saw them-when? and where? The old man-is he hearty yet? And mother-does she fade at all?

Or does she seem to pine and fret

For me? And Sis?—has she grown tall?
And did you see her friend-you know,
That Annie Moss-(how this pipe chokes!)
Where did you see her-tell me, Hal,
A lot of news about our folks.

"You saw them in the church, you say;
It's likely, for they're always there.
Not Sunday? No? A funeral? Who?
Who, Harry? How you shake and stare!

All well, you say, and all were out.
What ails you, Hal? Is this a hoax?

BB