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by layers of prescription. But I still insist on o, democratic liberty of choice, and I go for the man with the gallery of family portraits against the one with the twenty-five-cent daguerreotype, unless 1 find out that the last is the better of the two.

- I should have felt more nervous about the ate comet, if I had thought the world was ripe. But it is very green yet, if I am not mistaken; and be. sides, there is a great deal of coal to use up, which I cannot bring myself to think was made for nothing. If certain things, which seem to me essential to a millennium, had come to pass, I should have been frightened; but they haven't. Perhaps you would like to hear my

LATTER-DAY WARNINGS.

When legislators keep the law,

When banks dispense with bolts and locks,
When berries, whortle-rasp-and straw-

Grow bigger downwards through the box,

When he that selleth house or land

Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,-
When haberdashers choose the stand

Whose window hath the broadest light,

When preachers tell us all they think,

And party leaders all they mean,-
When what we pay for, that we drink,

From real grape and coffee bean,

When lawyers take what they would give,

And doctors give what they would take-
When city fathers eat to live,

Save when they fast for conscience' sako,

When one that hath a horse on sale

Shall bring his merit to the proof,
Without a lie for every nail

That holds the iron on the hoof,

When in the usual place for rips

Our gloves are stitched with special care
And guarded well the whalebone tips

Where first simbrellas need repair,

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When publishers no longer steal,

And pay for what they stole before,
When the first locomotive's wheel

Rolls through the Hoosac tunnel's bore;

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The company seemed to like the verses, and I promised them to read others occasionally, if they had a mind to hear them. Pof course they would not expect it every morning. Neither must the reader suppose that all these things I have reported were said at any one breakfast-time. I have not taken the trouble to date them, as Raspail, père, used to date every proof he sent to the printer; but they were scattered over several breakfasts; and I have said a good many more things since, which I shall very possibly print some time or other, if I am urged to do it by judicious friends.

I finished off with reading some verses of my friend the Professor, of whom you may perhaps hear more by and by. The Professor read them, he told me, at a farewell meeting, where the youngest of our great Historians met a few of his many friends at their invitation.

Yes, we knew we must lose him,—though friendship may claim
To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame ;
Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own,
"Tis the whisper of love when the bugle has blown.

As the rider that rests with the spur on his heel,
As the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel,-
As the archer that stands with his shaft on the string,
He stoops from. his toil to the garland we bring.

What pictures yet slumber unborn in his loom
Till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom,
While the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes
That caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies !

in the alcoves of death, in the charnels of time,
Where fit the gaunt spectres of passion and crime,
There are triumphs untold, there are martyrs unsung,
There are hernes yet silent to speak with his tongue !

Let us hear the proud story which time bas bequeathed
From lips that are warm with the freedom they breathed !
Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom,
Though he sweep the black past like Van Tromp with his broom!

The dream flashes by, the west-winds awake
On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake,
To bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine,
With incense they stole from the rose and the pine.

So fill a bright cup with the sunlight that gushed
When the dead summer's jewels were trampled and crushed:
The TRUE Knight OF LEARNING,—the world holds him dear,-
Love Bless him, Joy crown him, God speed his career!

IL

I REALLY believe some people save their bright thoughts, as being too precious for conversation. What do you think an admiring friend said the other day to one that was talking good things,good enough to print ? “ Why,” said he, "you are wasting mechantable literature, a cash article, at the rate, as nearly as I can tell, of fifty dollars ap

hour." The talker took him to the window and asked him to look out and tell what he saw.

Nothing but a very dusty street,” he said, " and a man driving a sprinkling-machine through it.”

“ Why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be the state of the highway, of life, if we did not drive our thought-sprinklers through them with the valves open, sometimes ?

“ Besides, there is another thing about this talking, which you forget. It shapes our thoughts for us ;the waves of conversation roll them as the surf rolls the pebbles on the shore. Let me modify the image a little. I rough out my thoughts in talk as an artist models in clay. Spoken language is so plastic,you can pat and coax, and spread and shave, and rub out, and fill up, and stick on so easily, when you work that soft material, that there is nothing like it for modelling. Out of it come the shapes which you turn into marble or bronze in your immortal books, if you happen to write such. Or, to use another illustration, writing or printing is like shooting with a rifle; you may hit your reader's mind, or miss it ;-but talking is like playing at a mark with the pipe of an engine; if it is within reach, and you have time enough, you can't help hitting it.”

The company agreed that this last illustration was of superior excellence, or, in the phrase used by them, • Fust-rate.” I acknowledged the compliment, but

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