Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,- Lets daylight through you ere you know you're hit. Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. “Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act," He held his snuff-box,-" Now then, if you please!" Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die! 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; How sweet is the breath of the fragrance-they-shed! 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 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 |