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Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt
Wrong the soft passion in the world without,
Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere,
One thing is certain: Love will triumph here!

Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,-
The world's great masters, when you're out of school,-.
Learn the brief moral of our evening's play:
Man has his will,—but woman has her way!
While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire,
Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,-
The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves
Beats the black giant with his score of slaves.
All earthly powers confess your sovereign art
But that one rebel,-woman's wilful heart.
All foes you master; but a woman's wit

Lets daylight through you ere you know you're hit.
So, just to picture what her art can do,
Hear an old story made as good as new.

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade,
Alike was famous for his arm and blade.
One day a prisoner Justice had to kill
Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill.
Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed,
Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd.
His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam,

As the pike's armor flashes in the stream.
He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go;
The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow.

“Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act,"
The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.)
"Friend I have struck," the artist straight replied;
'Wait but one moment, and yourself decide."

He held his snuff-box,-" Now then, if you please!"
The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze,"
Off his head tumbled,-bowled along the floor,-
Bounced down the steps;-the prisoner said no more!

Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye;

If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die!
Theu takest hearts as Rudolph took the head;
We die with love, and never dream we're dead!

The prologue went off very well, as I hear. No alterations were suggested by the lady to whom it was sent, so far as I know. Sometimes people criticize the poems one sends them, and suggest all sorts of improvements. Who was that silly body that wanted Burns to alter "Scots wha hae," so as to lengthen the last line, thus ?

"Edward!" Chains and slavery

Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was what is called a "teetotaller." I received a note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined, with the emendations annexed to it.

"Dear Sir,-your poem gives good satisfaction to the committee. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community. I have therefore con

sulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem. Please to inform me of your charge for said poem. Our means are limited, etc., etc., etc. "Yours with respect."

HERE IT IS, WITH THE SLIGHT ALTERATION!

Come! fill a fresh bumper,-for why should we go

logwood

While the nectar still reddens our cups as they low.

decoction

Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,

dye-stuff

Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.

half-ripened apples

The purple gebed clusters their life-dews have bled;

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How sweet is the breath of the fragrance-they-shed!

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For summer's last reses lie hid in the wines

stable-boys smoking long-nines.

That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vine

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Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a eheer,

strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer

For all the good wine, and we're some of it here

In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,

Down, down, with che tyrant that masters us all!

Leng live the gay servant that laughs for us all!

The company said I had been shabbily treated, and

advised me to charge the committee double,-which I did. But as I never got my pay, I don't know that it made much difference. I am a very particula person about having all I write printed as I write it. I require to see a proof, a revise, a re-revise, and a double re-revise, or fourth-proof rectifie:1 impression of all my productions, especially verse. A misprint kills a sensitive author. An intentional change of his text murders him. No wonder so many poets dic young!

I have nothing more to report at this time, except two pieces of advice I gave to the young women at table. One relates to a vulgarism of language, which I grieve to say is sometimes heard even from female lips. The other is of more serious purport, and applies to such as contemplate a change of condition, matrimony, in fact.

-The woman who "calc'lates" is lost.

-Put not your trust in money, but put your money in trust

III.

[THE "Atlantic" obeys the moon, and its LUNIVERSARY has come round again. I have gathered up some hasty notes of my remarks made since the last high tides, which I respectfully submit. Please to remember this is talk; just as easy and just as formal as I choose to make it.]

I never saw an author in my life-saving, perhaps, one-that did not purr as audibly as a fullgrown domestic cat, (Felis Catus, LINN.,) on having his fur smoothed in the right way by a skilful hand. But let me give you a caution. Be very careful how you tell an author he is droll. Ten to one he will hate you; and if he does, be sure he can do you a mischief, and very probably will. Say you cried over his romance or his verses, and he will love you and send you a copy. You can laugh over that as much as you like—in private.

Wonder why authors and actors are ashamed of being funny?—Why, there are obvious reasons, and deep philosophical ones. The clown knows very well that the women are not in love with him, but with Hamlet, the fellow in the black cloak and plumed hat. Passion never laughs. The wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession.

It

If you want the deep underlying reason, I must take more time to tell it. There is a perfect consciousness in every form of wit-using that term in its general sense-that its essence consists in a partial and incomplete view of whatever it touches. throws a single ray, separated from the rest,-red yellow, blue, or any intermediate shade,-upon an ›bject; never white light; that is the province of wisdom. We get beautiful effects from wit,-all the prismatic colors,—but never the object as it is in fair daylight. A pun, which is a kind of wit, is a

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