So

his feelin's. I'll do it now for I believe liquor is injurin' me; it's spoilin' my temper. Sometimes I gets mad and abuses Bets and the brats. I used to call 'em Lizzie and the children; that's a good while ago, though. Then, when I cum home, she used to put her arms around my neck and kiss me, and call me "dear William!" When I cum home now she takes her pipe out of her mouth, puts the hair out of her eyes, and looks at me and says, Bill, you drunken brute, shut the door after you! We're cold enough, havin' no fire, 'thout lettin' the snow blow in that way." Yes she's Bets and I'm Bill now; I a'nt a good bill neither; I'm counterfeit; won't pass-(a tavern without goin' in and getting a drink.) Don't know wot bank I'm on; last Sunday was on the river bank, at the Corn Exchange, drunk! I stay out pretty late-sometimes out all night, when Bets bars the door with a bed-post; fact is, I'm out pretty much all over--out of friends, out of pocket, out at elbows and knees, and out-rageously dirty. Bets says, but she's no judge, for she's never clean herself. I wonder she don't wear good clothes? May-be she an't got any! Whose fault is that? 'Taint mine! It may be whisky's. Sometimes I'm in; I'm in-toxicated now, and in somebody's coal cellar. I've got one good principle; I never runs in debt 'cause nobody won't trust me. One of my coat tails is gone; got tore off, I expect, when I fell down here. I'll have to get a new suit soon. A feller told me t'other day I'd make a good sign for a paper-mill. If he hadn't been so big I'd licked him. I've had this shirt on nine days. I'd take it off, but I'm 'fraid I'd tear it. Guess I tore the window-shutter on my pants t'other night, when I sot on the wax in Ben Sniff's shoe-shop. I'll have to get it mended up or I'll catch coli. I an't very stout neither, though I'm full in the face; as the boys say, "I'm fat as a match, and healthy as the small pox." My hat is standin' guard for a window-pane that went out the other day at the invitation of a brick-bat. It's getting cold down here; wonder how I'll get out? I an't able to climb. If I had a drink, think I could do it. Let's see, I an't got three cents; wish I was in a tavern, 1 could sponge it then. When anybody treats, and says "Come fellers !" I always thinks my name is fellers, and I've too good manners to refuse. I must leave this place, or I'll be arrested for burglary, and I an't come to that yet! Anyhow, it was the wheel-barrow did the harm, not me!

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.-W. C. Bryant.

LAY down the axe, fling by the spade;
Leave in its track the toiling plough;
The rifle and the bayonet-blade

For arms like yours are fitter now;
And let the hands that ply the pen
Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green, Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all his course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts-sce

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we Must beat the banded traiters back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,
And moved as soon to fear and flight;
Men of the glade and forest! leave
Your woodcraft for the field of fight.
The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;

His serried ranks shall reel before

The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.
Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence:
The blast as soon shall move the rock,

As rushing squadrons bear

ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,

Come from the depth of her green land
As mighty in your march as they;

As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne,

With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.

K*

And ye who throng beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,

And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck against his shore.

Few, few were they whose swords of old,
Won the fair land in which we dwell;'
But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well.
Strike for that broad and goodly land,
Blow after blow, till men shall see
That Might and Right move hand in hand,
And glorious must their triumph be.

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.-Susan Wilson.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, as one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630.

'TWAS morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
The early sunlight in one chamber there;
Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share

With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart,
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came, and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvas found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But, glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,

It almost seemed that there were given

To glow before his dazzled sight,

Tints and expression warm from heaven.

'Twas but a sketch-the Virgin's head-
Yet was unearthly beauty shed
Upon the mildly beaming face;
The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
Had separate, yet blended grace—
A poet's brightest dream was there!
Murillo entered, and amazed,

On the mysterious painting gazed;
"Whose work is this ?-speak, tell me !--he
Who to his aid such power can call,"
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,

"Will yet be master of us all;
Would I had done it!-Ferdinand!
Isturitz! Mendez !- say, whose hand
Among ve all?"With half-breathed sigh,
Each pupil answered,—“Twas not I!"`

"How came it then ?" impatiently Murillo cried; "but we shall see, Ere long into this mystery.

Sebastian!"

At the summons came

A bright-eyed slave,

Who trembled at the stern rebuke

His master gave.

For, ordered in that room to sleep,
And faithful guard o'er all to keep,
Murillo bade him now declare
What rash intruder had been there,
And threatened-if he did not tell
The truth at once--the dungeon-cell.
"Thou answerest not," Murillo said;
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.)
"Speak on!"-At last he raised his head
And murmured, "No one has been here."
"Tis false !" Sebastian bent his knee,
And clasped his hands imploringly,
And said, "I swear it, none but me!"

"List!" said his master. "I would know
Who enters here-there have been found
Before, rough sketches strewn around,
By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show;
See that to-night strict watch you keep,
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep.
If on to-morrow morn you fail

To answer what I ask,

The lash shall force you do you hear?
Hence to your daily task."

'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study-all were gone

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away.

'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, One bright-eyed boy was there-Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child-that boy had seen
Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lofty brow,
O'er which his locks of jet

Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said.
"The lash, if I refuse to tell

Who sketched those figures--if I do,
Perhaps e'en more-the dungeon-cell !"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came for soon in slumber laid,
He slept, until the dawning day
Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"and now

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried ;
Three hours of freedom I may gain,
Before my master comes; for then
I shall be but a slave again.
Three blessed hours of freedom! how
Shall I employ them ?—ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvas traced
Must be--yes, it must be effaced.”

He seized a brush-the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,

He cried, "Shall I efface it ?-No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye
Efface them ?-I would rather die !"

The terror of the humble slave

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.