Since the publication of the 'Bill-Poster's Dream,' and of the extracts from Richmond papers containing the prophecies of the handwriting on the wall relative to the accomplice States of America, few things have so generally attracted pedestrian attention in our down-town streets as two enormous placards. The first bore the following legend: THERE'S A TEMPEST BREWING. Persons given to cryptical studies were inclined to consider this an esoteric form of advertisement, intended to convey to the initiated the information that A. STORM had gone into the beer business. But conjecture was set at naught by its fellow which appeared at its side on the day after its posting, in this shape: VIDELICIT Thê Prôphessor. Puncanhed, who was the first to call my attention to the placard, did so with the following statement: ''Tan't spelt right--and why couldn't the feller just as well use the 'good old English' word _viz._, as _'videlicit?'_' The query was unanswerable. But having some doubt as to the first word in the Greek line, by using which instead of the article 'O, the writer has shown not merely unconsciousness of the Greek particle, but ignorance of a particle of Greek, I put the first Hibernian who passed to the test of reading the sentence, which I am forced to say the indignant Milesian scornfully declined. I submit the whole question to the researches of your readers. HEMIPLEGIUS. Nay--we know not. 'The Professor' at the Breakfast-Table we do indeed know, and it is no unwonted thing for us to meet him in Tremont street, merry and wise as ever. But we have never seen him or any other Professor 'driven to the wall' in any way whatever; and albeit we suspect him of a knowledge of whist, we have beheld him pla-carded. We pass. * * * * * Do we say too much when we call the following poem truly beautiful? WITH FLOWERS. MAY MORNING, 1862. Reject them not! they come to plead for me; When you are cold, 'tis _winter_ in my heart; Till you are kind, 'sweet May' 'twill never be, And if you smile, summer will ne'er depart! 'My heart is weary,--waiting for the May,' _So_ sad and weary; will _you_ give it rest? Not _love_, but _rest_: it is not _much_ to say: 'Poor, tired child! once more be thou my guest.' Forgive my wild and wayward words, forgive! "We are dying of our thirst--'my heart and I!' Without love's sunshine, who can care to live? And when love shines, oh I who can bear to die? 'Ah! this love!' 'There is not much of it in life,' says Heine; but that little alone makes life tolerable. Rest, perturbed spirit, rest! In another land, there is love enough for all. CHIVALRY By R. Wolcott; Tenth Regiment