agreed on this, which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commentaters and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's carcer, we shall not, in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere lad little William attended the Grammer School, because, as he said, the Grammer School wouldn't attend him. This remarkable remark, coming from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin there might be something in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet and George Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to London to accept a posi tion in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow pupils to deliver a fare well address. "Go on, sir," he said, "in a glorus career. Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall all be gratified! That's so."

C. F. Brown.

THE IRISHWOMAN'S LETTER.

And shure, I was tould to come in till yer honor,
To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat,
He's gone for a soger, is Misther O'Conner,
Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat.

And what 'ill ye tell him? shure it must be aisy
For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen,
Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy,

(The baby, yer honor,) is better again.

For when he wint off, so sick was the crayther
She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face;
And when I'd be cryin he'd look at me wild like,
And ax "would I wish for the country's disgrace."

So he left her in danger, and me sorely gravin,
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy;,
And it's often I drame of the big drums a batin,
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy.

Tell him to sind us a bit of his money,

For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake, And-shure there's a tear on your eyelashes, honey, I' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake.

I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I'll find some one willin-oh, what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me.

Dead! Patrick O'Conner! O God, it's some ither, Shot dead! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by, And the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother, It hasn't had time yet, yer honor, to dhry.

Dead! dead! O God, am I crazy?

Shure it's brakin my heart ye are, tellin me so, And what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy? O what can I do? where can I go?

This room is so dark I'm not seein yer honor;
I think I'll go home. And a sob, hard and dry,
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner,
But never a tear drop welled up to her eye.

NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD.

O no, no,-let me lie

Not on a field of battle, when I die.

Let not the iron tread

Of the mad war-horse crush my helmed head;
Nor let the reeking knife,

That I have drawn against a brother's life,
Be in my hand when death

Thunders along, and tramples me beneath
His heavy squadron's heels,
Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels.

From such a dying bed,

Though o'er it float the stripes of white and red,
And the bald eagle brings

The clustered stars upon his wide-spread wings, To sparkle in my sight,

O, never let my spirit take her flight!

I know that beauty's eye

Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly,
And brazen helmets dance,

And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance;
I know that bards have sung,

And people shouted till the welkin rung,
In honor of the brave

Who on the battle-field have found a grave.

I know that o'er their bones
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones.
Some of those piles I've seen:
The one at Lexington, upon the green
Where the first blood was shed,
And to my country's independence led;
And others on our shore,

The "Battle Monument" at Baltimore,
And that on Bunker's Hill.

Ay, and abroad a few more famous still:
Thy "tomb" Themistocles,
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas,
And which the waters kiss

That issue from the gulf of Salamis;

And thine too have I seen,

-

Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed in green,
That like a natural knoll,

Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll,
Watched by some turbaned boy,

Upon the margin of the plain of Troy.

Such honors grace the bed,

I know, whereon the warrior lays his head,
And hears, as life ebbs out,

The conquered flying, and the conqueror's shou
But, as his eye grows dim,

What is a column or a mound to him?

What, to the parting soul,

The mellow note of bugles? What the roll
Of drums? No, let me die

Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly,
And the soft summer air,

As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white hair,
And from my forehead dries

The death damp as it gathers, and the skies
Seem waiting to receive

My soul to their clear depths. Or let me leave

The world, when round my bed
Wife, children, weeping friends, are gathered,
And the calm voice of prayer

And holy hymning shall my soul prepare,
To go and be at rest

With kindred spirits,--spirits who have blessed
The human brotherhood

By labors, cares, and counsels for their good.

In my dying hour,

When riches, fame, and honor, have no power
To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup
That all must drink at last,

O, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds

That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds,
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven.
And though no grassy mound

Or granite pile says 'tis heroic ground
Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope,-vain hope, perhaps,-that those
Whom I have striven to bless,-

The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless,—

May stand around my grave,

With the poor prisoner and the lowest slave,
And breath an humble prayer,

That they may die like him whose bones are moulder

ing there.

John Pierpont.

ON BEING FOUND GUILTY OF TREASON.

A jury of my countrymen have found me guilty of the crime for which I stood indicted. For this I entertain not the slightest feeling of resentment towards them. Influenced, as they must have been, by the charge of the lord chief justice, they could have found no other verdict. What of that charge? Any strong observations on it I feel sincerely would ill befit the solemnity of this scene;

but I would earnestly beseech of you, my Lord,-you who preside on that bench,-when the passions and prejudices of this hour have passed away, to appeal to your own conscience, and to ask of it, was your charge as it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent between the subject and the crown?

My Lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in me, and perhaps it will seal my fate. But I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost; I am here to regret nothing I have ever done, to retract nothing I have ever said. I am here to crave, with no lying lip, the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it, even here-here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their footprints in the dust; here on this spot, where the shadows of death surround me, and from which I see my early grave in an unanointed soil opened to receive me,—even here, encircled by these terrors, the hope which has beckoned me to the perilous sea upon which I have been wrecked, still consoles, animates, enraptures me.

No; I do not despair of my poor old country,—her peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country, I can do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island up; to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of being the meanest beggar in the world; to restore her to her native powers and her ancient constitution,-this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails the penalty of death; but the history of Ireland explains this crime, and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal, I deserve no punishment. Judged by that history, the treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, is sanctioned as a duty, will be ennobled as a Facrifice. With these sentiments, my Lord, I await the sentence of the court.

Having done what I felt to be my duty, having spoken what I felt to be the truth,-as I have done on every other occasion of my short career,-I now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my passion, and my death; the country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies; whose factions I have sought to still; whose intellect I have prompted to a lofty aim; whose freedom has been