public, to stand before you a captive,-the captive of Carthage. Though outwardly I am free, though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh,-yet the heaviest of chains-the pledge of a Roman Consul-makes me the bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, in the event of the failure of this, their embassy. My life is at their mercy. My honor is my own; --a possession which no reverse of fortune can jeopard; a flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, death cannot extinguish.

Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled successes of our arms,-of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to Carthaginian keeping, -I will not speak. For five years, a rigorous captivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of country, have been to me a recollection and a dream,-no more. But during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the hearts of the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors, to sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror, I know not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of the Senate-chamber:-Conscript Fathers! shall not Regulus be saved? Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors brandish before our eyes? With one voice you answer, No!

Countrymen! Friends! For all that I have suffered,— for all that I may have to suffer,-I am repaid in the com

pensation of this moment! Unfortunate you may hold me; but oh, not undeserving! Your confidence in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You have not forgotten the past. Republics are not ungrateful. May the thanks I cannot utter bring down blessings from the Gods on you and Rome!

Conscript Fathers! There is but one course to be pursued. Abandon all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage. Reject them wholly and unconditionally. What! give back to her a thousand able-bodied men, and receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever-wasted frame, this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale' and sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, can ever restore to health and vigor? It must not,-it shall not be! Oh! were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews and enervated his limbs, he might pause,-he might proudly think he were well worth a thousand of the foe; he might say, "Make the exchange! Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis gone,—that impetuosity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burden now. His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would fall harmless on his opponent's shield. But, if he cannot live, he can at least die, for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. Consider: every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They will forget his defeats. They will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily,-every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs,-will flash on their remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, though dead, fight as he never fought before, against the foe.

Conscript Fathers! There is another theme. My family, -forgive the thought! To you and to Rome I confide them. I leave them no legacy but my name,-no testament but my example.

NUMBER THREE.

Ambassadors of Carthage! I have spoken, though not as you expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, country is dearer than life, and integrity more precious than freedom!

DOW'S FLAT 1856.-F. BRET HARTE.

Dow's flat. That's its name,

And I reckon that you
Are a stranger? The same?

Well, I thought it was true,

For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view.

It was called after Dow,

Which the same was an ass,

And as to the how

That the thing came to pass,—

Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here

in the grass:

You see this yer Dow

Hed the worst kind of luck;

He slipped up somehow

On each thing thet he struck.

Why, ef he'd ha' straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 'ed get up and buck.

He mined on the bar

Till he couldn't pay rates;

He was smashed by a car

When he tunneled with Bates;

And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five

kids from the States.

It was rough, mighty rough;

But the boys they stood by,
And they brought him the stuff

For a house on the sly;

And the old woman,-well, she did washing, and took on

when no one was nigh.

But this yer luck o' Dow's

Was so powerful mean

That the spring near his house
Dried right up on the green;

And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.

Then the bar petered out,

And the boys wouldn't stay:

And the chills got about,

And his wife fell away;

But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous

way.

One day, it was June,

And a year ago, jest,—

This Dow kem at noon

To his work, like the rest,

With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a Derringer hid in his breast.

He goes to the well,

And he stands on the brink,

And stops for a spell,

Just to listen and think;

For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir,) you see, kinder made the cuss blink.

His two ragged gals

In the gulch were at play,
And a gownd that was Sal's
Kinder flapped on a bay;

Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,-as I've heerd the folks say.

And, that's a pert hoss

Thet you've got, ain't it now?

What might be her cost?

Eh? Oh! Well, then, Dow,

Let's see, well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow.

For a blow of his pick

Sorter caved in the side,

And he looked and turned sick,

Then he trembled and cried.

For you see the dern cuss hed struck-"Water?"--beg your parding, young man, there you lied.

It was gold, in the quartz,

And it ran all alike;

And I reckon five oughts

Was the worth of that strike;

And that house with the coopilow's his'n-which the same isn't bad for a Pike.

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat;

And the thing of it is

That he kinder got that

Through sheer contrairiness;

For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him certain to miss.

No?

Thet's so.

Thar's your way

To the left of yon tree;

But-a-look h'yur, say!

Won't you come up to tea?

Well then, the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow, and thet's me.

LITTLE BENNIE.-ANNIE C. KETCHUM.

I had told him, Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as full can be,
And attentive listening to me,

With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be good, won't we, moder?"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid.
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood,
Brimming high with dainty custard,
Sent me by a neighbor good.
But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loth,

Sat, by way of entertainment,
Lapping off the shining froth;
And, in not the gentlest humnor

At the loss of such a treat,