The scene that followed we need not describe. The poor laborer at the wheel, for a dollar a day, had like to have been broken on his wheel, but the crowd in mercy spared him. As for poor Wiseacre, who had never been humbugged in his life, he was so completely "used up" by this undreamed of result, that he could hardly look any body in the face for two or three months. But he got over it some time since, and is now a more thorough disbeliever in all new things than before. "You don't humbug me!" is his stereotyped answer to all announcements of new discoveries. Even in regard to the magnetic telegraph he is still quite skeptical, and shrugs his shoulders, and elevates his eyebrows, as much as to say, "It'll blow up one of these times, mark my word for it." Nobody has yet been able to persuade him to go to the Exchange and look at the operation of the batteries there and see for himself. He doesn't really believe in the thing, and smiles inwardly, as the rough poles and naked wires stare him in the face while passing along the street. He looks confidently to see them converted into poles for scaffolding before twelve months pass away. THE SISTERS. BY G. G. FOSTER. [SEE ENGRAVING.] Nay, look not forth with those deep earnest eyes To catch the gleaming of your lovers' plumes; A dearer, surer, trustier passion lies In sisters' hearts than lovers' cheeks illumes. Man worships and forsakes; and as he flies From flower to flower their beauty he consumes; Then leaves the wasted heart and faded flower To die forgotten in their sunless bower. But sisters' love, like angels' sympathies, Is as the breath of Heaven and cannot change No earthly shudder taints its sinless kiss. No sorrow can your loving hearts estrange; No selfish pride destroy the priceless bliss Of loving and confiding. Oh exchange Not love like this, so heavenly and so true. For all the vows that lovers' lips e'er knew [Illustration: W. Drummond. A.C. Thompson THE SISTERS Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine.] BRUTUS IN HIS TENT. BY WM. H. C. HOSMER. How ill this taper burns!--hah! who comes here? SHAKSPEARE. On wall-girt Sardis weary day hath shed The golden blaze of his expiring beam; And rings her paven walks beneath the tread Of guards that near the hour of battle deem-- Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam; From tented lines no murmur loud descends, For martial thousands of the battle dream On which the fate of bleeding Rome depends When blushing dawn awakes and night's dark curtain rends.