of old, the aspirations of the patricians were for oratory or arms, and not a few, like Cæsar, excelled in both. The Senate convened or the people met in grand assembly to hear discussed the weighty questions affecting the welfare of the State. There the orator appeared. His whole brain and soul were bent on moving those whom he addressed-he had no thoughts beyond. If others disputed, it brought into play the highest flights of rival genius. Eschines, contesting with Demosthenes, called forth the "Oration on the Crown." The orators then were the leaders of the nation, the directors of public opinion, the controllers of legislation, the arbiters of peace or war. At home they were the idols of the people,-abroad they were the guests of kings. They were the marked men of the world.

But in these latter days there has risen a power mightier than an army of orators; a power that has dwarfed their genius, destroyed their influence, and lowered them to the level of ordinary mortals; a power that can banish kings, destroy dynasties, revolutionize governments, embroil nations in triumphant or disastrous wars, and for good or ill is changing the aspect of the civilized world. The glory of the orator sank when the printing press arose. The orator, at

best, can speak to thousands; the press to hundreds of thou sands. The orator speaks rarely; the press every day. The orator may, at the choicest moment, fail from ill health or one of many causes; the press, free from all the ills that flesh is heir to, moves on its mission with the facility, power, and precision of machinery. The orator may move an audience; the press can arouse a nation. The speech dies with the sounds that give it birth; the press lives forever on the imperishable page. The orator now addresses himself less to the audience of the evening than to the world of readers of the next morning.

Let us hope that the press may be faithful, pure, devoted to truth, right, justice, freedom, and virtue, as the orators have been. The orators-let me repeat it to their immortal honor-could never be silenced by the frowns of power, of bribed to desert a noble cause. They dared,—they defied tyranny, and preferred death to dishonor. If the press gloat in licentiousness; if it stoop to strike the private man; if it

expose to the public gaze the sacred privacy of homes; if it violate all decency in thrusting gentle woman to the gossips of the town; if it catch at idle rumor or envious tongues to malign the innocent; if it can be bribed to suppress the truth, or circulate the falsehood; if it shield the public wrong-doer, and denounce the faithful public servant; if it pander to the base passion of the populace-then we may grieve that this great engine should work such mischief to society.

If, on the other hand, its mission be to disseminate intelligence and truth, to educate the masses to be faithful to their country and just to their fellow-men, to expose with an unsparing hand to public execration the corrupt legislator or the unjust judge; if it be honestly independent instead of timidly neutral in all that concerns the city and State; if it lift up modest and true worth and hurl down brazen infamy; if all its aims be the public good, the honor of the nation, and the glory of God-then we may be well reconciled that the days of oratory are over.

"Loud as a scandal on the ears of town,

And just as brief the orator's renown;

Year after year debaters blaze and fade,

Scarce marked the dial e'er depart the shade.

Words die so soon when fit but to be said,

Words only live when worthy to be read."

THE PICTURE.

Matches are made for many reasons

For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite;
How many against common sense are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken
And when, at length, successful in his aim,

Be first mis-led, and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies,-speculating dears!--
Will make six matches in so many years,

So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite;
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light,-

Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.

Old men young women wed-by way of nurses;
Young men old women-just to fill their purses:
Nor young men only-for 'tis my belief

(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one,)
When folks in life turn over a new leaf,
Why very few would grumble at a gold one!

A worthy knight, yclept Sir Peter Pickle,

By love was made to look exceeding glumpy;

The maid whose charms had power his heart to tickle,
Was Miss Cordelia Carolina Crumpy;

This said Sir Peter was, as you shall hear,

Although a knight, as poor as any poet:

But handsome as Apollo Belvidere,

And vain Sir Peter seemed full well to know it. No wonder, then, that Miss Cordelia Crumpy Could not unmoved hear such a lover sue; Sweet, sympathetic maiden, fat and stumpy,

Green-eyed, red-haired, and turned of sixty-two!

But tell me, Muse, what charm it was could tickle
The once invincible Sir Peter Pickle:

Was it her eyes-that, so attached to one day,
Looked piously seven different ways for Sunday?
Was it her hump, that had a camel suited?

Her left leg, bandy?—or her right, club-footed?

Or nose, in shape so like a liquor funnel?

Or mouth, whose width might shame the Highgate tunnel? Was it the beauties of her face combined

A face-(since similes I have begun on,)

Not like a face that I can call to mind,

Except the one beneath the Regent's cannon?
No, gentle friends; although such beauties might
Have warmed the bosom of an archorite,

The charm that made our knight all milk and honey
Was that infallible specific-Money'

Peter, whom want of brass had made more brazen,
In moving terms began his love to blazon:

Sigh after sigh in quick succession rushes,
Nor are the labors of his lungs in vain;

Her cheek soon crimsons with consenting blushes
Red as a chimney-pot just after rain!

The license bought, he marries her in haste,

Brings home his bride, and gives his friends a gay day; All his relations, wondering at his taste,

Vowed he had better had the Pig-faced Lady! Struck with this monstrous lump of womankind, The thought of money never crossed their mind.

The dinner o'er, the ladies and the bride

Retired, and wine and chat went round jocosely; Sir Peter's brother took the knight aside,

66

And questioned him about the matter closely:
Confound it, Peter! how caine you to pitch
On such an ugly, squinting, squabby witch?
A man like you, so handsome and so knowing;
Your wits, my friend, must surely be a-going!
Who could have thought you such a tasteless oaf,
To wed a lump of odd-come shorts and bits,
That Madame Nature, in her merry fits,
Had jumbled into something like a face!
With skin as black as if she charcoal fed on,
Crooked and crusty, like an outside loaf;

A remnant of an ourang-outang face

Eve's grandmother, with the serpent's head on!
What spell could into such a hobble throw you?"
"Just step upstairs," says Peter, “and I'll show you.”

Upstairs they went:- -"There, there's her picture! say,
Is it not like her, sir?-Your judgment, pray."
"Like her, Sir Peter!-take it not uncivil-

"Tis like her-and as ugly as the devil;

With just her squinting leer; but, hang it! what

A very handsome frame it's got,

So richly gilt, and so superbly wrought!"

"You're right," says Peter, "twas the frame that caught:

I grant my wife is ugly, squabby, old,

But still she pleases-being set in gold;

Let others for the picture feel a flame,

I, my good brother, married for the frame."

BEN FISHER.-FRANCES DANA GAGE.

Ben Fisher had finished his harvesting,
And he stood by his garden gate,

One foot on the rail, and one on the ground,
As he called to his good wife Kate.

There were stains of toil on his wamus red,
The dust of the field on his hat;

But a twinkle of pleasure was in his eye,
As he looked at his stock so fat.

"Here, give me the babe, dear Kate, you are tired,
And I fear you have too much care;

You must rest, and pick up a little, I think,
Before we can go to the fair.

I'd hate to be taking fat cattle, you know,

Fat hogs, fat sheep, and fat cows,

With a wife at my elbow as poor as a crow,

And care-wrinkles seaming her brows.

Can't go! Why not? Can't afford the expense'!
I know, Kate, our crops aren't the best;

But we've labored together to keep things along,
And together we'll now take a rest.

The frost blighted the fruit, but 'Brindle' is prime,
And Jinny' and 'Fan' are a show;

Your butter and cheese can't be beat in the State,
So up to the fair we will go.

"You've ne'er seen a city, and Cleveland is fine,-
Never seen the blue, billowy lake;

Ne'er rode in a rail-car, nor been in a throng,-
So, Kate, this short journey we'll take;

And gather new feelings, new thoughts, and new ways,
If we find those that suit, as we roam;

And garner up strength in head, heart, and hand,
For the loves and the duties of home.

"I sometimes have thought, as I plodded along, For months, o'er the same weary round,

That another who had such a real hard time,

In Ohio could nowhere be found.

But when I've been called from my home for a while,
And seen how the world gets along,

I've come back to toil with a light, cheerful heart,
And, 'There's no place like home,' for my song.

"I wonder that mothers don't wholly despair,
Who ne'er from their cares get away,

But walk the same tread-wheel of duty for years,
Scarce stopping to rest, night or day.
No wonder they grow discontented sometimes,
Their feelings get raspy and cold;

For toil never ending, and labor uncheered,
Make women-and men sometimes—scold.”