reads the other side. He discusses with friends and antagonists. He feels the responsibility of his vote. He expects to have to justify it himself. Even the juryman hears the sober statement of the Judge, and talks the case over with his associates of the panel in the quiet seclusion of the juryroom. The Judge himself must state the reasons for his opinions, which are to be read by a learned and critical profession and by posterity. The speaker's argument must be sounded, and rung, and tested, and tried again and again, before the auditor acts upon it. Our people hear some great orators as they witness a play. The delight of taste, even intellectual gratification, caused by what is well said, is one thing. Conviction is quite another. The printing-press and the reporter, the consultation in the jury-room, the reflection in the Judge's chamber, the delay of the election to a day long after the speech, are protections against the mischief of mere oratory, which the ancients did not enjoy.

Of a' the Airts

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best;

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill between;

But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air;

There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green;

There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

ROBERT BURNS.

The Revel

BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.

[The inspiration of this poem is said to have been a plague in an English garrison in India. So isolated that they were unable to leave, and believing death to be inevitable, the officers abandoned themselves to a spirit of revelry, resolved that their last hours should be as merry as possible.]

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they shout back our peals of laughter
It seems that the dead are there.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!

We drink in our comrades' eyes:
One cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
"Tis cold, as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
And soon shall our pulses rise:

A cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's many a hand that's shaking,
And many a cheek that's sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!

"Tis here the revival lies:

Quaff a cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Time was when we laugh'd at others;
We thought we were wiser then;
Ha ha! let them think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses, steady!
The thoughtless is here the wise:
One cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
Come stand to your glasses, steady!
"Tis this that the respite buys:
A cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's a mist on the glass congealing,
"Tis the hurricane's sultry breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of Death.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
For a moment the vapor flies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul can sting no more?
No! stand to your glasses, steady!
The world is a world of lies:

A cup to the dead already

And hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betray'd by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind-

Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!

"Tis all we have left to prize:

One cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Da 'Mericana Girl

BY T. A. DALY.

From the "Catholic Standard and Times."

I gatta mash weeth Mag McCue,
An' she ees 'Mericana, too!

Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so,
You weell no calla me so slow

Ef som' time you can looka see
How she ees com' an' flirt weeth me
Most evra two, t'ree day, my frand,
She stop by dees peanutta-stand
An' smile an' mak' da googla-eye
An' justa look at me an' sigh,
An' alla time she so excite'
She peeck som' fruit an' taka bite.
Oh, my, she eesa look so sweet
I no care how much fruit she eat.
Me? I am cool an' mak' pretand
I want no more dan be her frand;
But een my heart, you bat my life,
I theenk of her for be my wife.

To-day I theenk: "Now I weel see
How moocha she ees mash weeth me,"
An' so I speak of dees an' dat,
How moocha playnta mon' I gat,
How mooch I makin' evra day

An' w'at I spand an' put away,
An' den I ask, so queeck, so sly:
"You theenk som' pretta girl weell try
For lovin' me a littla beet?

Oh, my! she eesa blush so sweet!—
"An' eef I ask her lika dees

For geevin' me a littla keess,

You s'pose she geeve me wan or two?"
She tal me: "Twanty-t'ree for you!
An' den she laugh so sweet, an' say:
"Skeeddoo! Skeeddoo!" an' run away.

She like so mooch for keesa me
She gona geeve me twanty-t'ree!
I s'pose dat w'at she say-" skeeddoo "-
Ees alla same "I lova you."

Ha! w'at you theenk? Now, mebbe so
You weell no calla me so slow!

A Dialogue from Plato

BY AUSTIN DOBSON.

Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu'on perd." -Claude Tillier.

I'd "read" three hours. Both notes and text
Were fast a mist becoming;

In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,

And filled the room with humming.

Then out. The casement's leafage sways,

And, parted light, discloses

Miss Di., with hat and book—a maze

Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am—and you?"

"O, mine's a mere romancer!"
"So Plato is." "Then read him-do;
And I'll read mine in answer."

I read. "My Plato (Plato, too—
That wisdom thus should harden!)
Declares blue eyes look doubly blue
Beneath a Dolly Varden."'"

She smiled. "My book in turn avers
(No author's name is stated)

That sometimes those Philosophers

Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear the next's in stronger style;

The Cynic School asserted

That two red lips which part and smile
May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more: "My book, I find,
Observes some modern doctors

Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors."