Good Book ascribes safety to a multitude, indeed, but not to a mob, of counsellours. Let us remember and perpend the words of Paulus Emilius to the people of Rome; that, "if they judged they could manage the war to more advantage by any other, he would willingly yield up his charge; but if they confided in him, they were not to make themselves his colleagues in his office, or raise reports, or criticise his actions, but, without talking, supply him with means and assistance necessary to the carrying on of the war; for, if they proposed to command their own commander, they would render this expedition more ridicu lous than the former.' (Vide Plutarchum in Vitâ P. E.) Let us also not forget what the same excellent authour says concerning Perseus's fear of spending money, and not permit the covetousness of Brother Jonathan to be the good fortune of Jefferson Davis. For my own part, till I am ready to admit the Commander-in-Chief to my pulpit, I shall abstain from planning his battles. If courage be the sword, yet is patience the armour of a nation; and in our desire for peace, let us never be willing to surrender the Constitution bequeathed us by fathers at least as wise as ourselves (even with Jefferson Davis to help us), and, with those degenerate Romans, tuta et presentia quam vetera et periculosa malle.

And not only should we bridle our own tongues, but the pens of others, which are swift to convey useful intelligence to the enemy. This is no new inconvenience; for, under date, 3d June, 1745, General Pepperell wrote thus to Governor Shirley from Louisbourg: "What your Excellency observes of the army's being made acquainted with any plans proposed, until ready to be put in execution, has always been disagreeable to me, and I have given many cautions relating to it. But when your Excellency considers that our Council of War consists of more than twenty members, I am persuaded you will think it impossible for me to hinder it, if any of them will persist in communicating to inferior officers and soldiers what ought to be kept secret. I am informed that the Boston newspapers are filled with paragraphs from private letters relating to the expedition. Will your Excellency permit me to say I think it may be of ill consequence? Would it not be convenient, if your Excellency should forbid the Printers' inserting such news?" Verily, if tempora mutantur, we may question the et nos mutamur in illis; and if tongues be leaky, it will need all hands at the pumps to save the Ship of State. Our history dotes and repeats itself. If Sassycus (rather than Alcibiades) find a parallel in Beauregard, so Weakwash, as he is called by the brave Lieutenant Lion Gardiner, need not seek far among our own Sachems for his antitype.

With respect,

Your ob humble serv,
HOMER WILBUR, A. M.

The critters milked an' foddered, gates shet fast,

Tools cleaned aginst to-morrer, supper past,

An' Nancy darnin' by her ker'sene lamp,

I love, I say, to start upon a tramp,
To shake the kinkles out o' back an'

legs,

An' kind o' rack my life off from the dregs

Thet's apt to settle in the buttery-hutch Of folks thet foller in one rut too much: Hard work is good an' wholesome, past all doubt;

But 't ain't so, ef the mind gits tuckered out.

Now, bein' born in Middlesex, you know,

There's certin spots where I like best to go:

The Concord road, for instance, (I, for one,

Most gin'lly ollers call it John Bull's Run,)

The field o' Lexin'ton where England tried

The fastest colours thet she ever dyed, An' Concord Bridge, thet Davis, when he came,

Found was the bee-line track to heaven an' fame,

Ez all roads be by natur', ef your soul Don't sneak thru shun-pikes so 's to save the toll.

Wal, neighbor, tell us wut 's turned up thet 's new?

You're younger 'n I be, -nigher Boston, tu:

An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin',

Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'.

There's sunthin' goin' on, I know: las' night

The British sogers killed in our gret fight

(Nigh fifty year they hed n't stirred nor spoke)

Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke:

Why, one he up an' beat a revellee With his own crossbones on a holler tree,

Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive

With faces I hain't seen sence Seventyfive.

Wut is the news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'.

Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'.