Thou speakest well. Dr. Doran has pleased us with his Table Traits, but a great book yet remains to be written on the social power of meals. The immortals were never so lordly as when assembled at the celestial table, where inextinguishable laughter went the rounds with the nectar. The heroes of Valhalla were most glorious over the ever-growing roast-boar and never-failing mead. Heine suggests a millennial banquet of all nations, where the French are to have the place of honor, for their improvements in freedom and in cookery, and Master Rabelais could imagine nothing more genial than when in the Moyen de Parvenir, he placed all the gay, gallant, wise, brave, genial, joyous dames and demoiselles, knights, and scholars of all ages at one eternal supper. Ah! yes; it matters but little what is 'gatherounded,' as a quaint Americanism hath it, so that the wit, and smiles, and good-fellowship be there.

It is stated in the newspapers—we know not on what authority—that Charles A. Dana, late of the New-York Tribune, will probably receive an important appointment in the army. A man of iron will, of indomitable energy, undoubted courage, and of an inexhaustible genius, which displays itself by mastering every subject as by intuition, Dana is one whom, of all others, we would wish to see actively employed in the war. We have described him in by-gone days as one who was 'an editor by destiny and a soldier by nature,' and sincerely trust that his career will yet happily confer upon him military honors. No man in America—we speak advisedly—has labored more assiduously, or with more sterling honest conviction in politics, than Charles A. Dana. The influence which he has exerted has been immense, and it is fit that it be recognized. Men who, like him, combine stern integrity with vigorous practical talent, have a claim to lead.

Among the most striking songs which the war has brought forth, we must class that grim Puritanical lyric, 'The Kansas John Brown,' which appeared originally in the Kansas Herald, and which is, as we are informed, extensively sung in the army. The words are as follows:

THE KANSAS JOHN BROWN SONG

Old John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, While the bondmen all are weeping whom he ventured for to save; But though he lost his life a-fighting for the slave, His soul is marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! His soul is marching on. John Brown was a hero undaunted, true and brave, And Kansas knew his valor when he fought her rights to save; And now, though the grass grows green above his grave, His soul is marching on. He captured Harper's Ferry with his nineteen men so few, And frightened Old Virginia till she trembled through and through; They hung him for a traitor—themselves a traitor crew, But his soul is marching on. John Brown was John the Baptist of the Christ we are to see; CHRIST, who of the bondmen shall the Liberator be; And soon through all the South the slaves shall all be free, For his soul goes marching on. John Brown he was a soldier—a soldier of the LORD; John Brown he was a martyr—a martyr to the WORD; And he made the gallows holy when he perished by the cord, For his soul goes marching on. The battle that John Brown begun, he looks from heaven to view, On the army of the Union with its flag, red, white and blue; And the angels shall sing hymns o'er the deeds we mean to do, As we go marching on! Ye soldiers of JESUS, then strike it while you may, The death-blow of Oppression in a better time and way, For the dawn of Old John Brown is a-brightening into day, And his soul is marching on. Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! Glory, glory, Hallelujah! His soul is marching on.

There! if the soldiers of Cromwell and of Ireton had any lyric to beat that, we should like to see it. Among its rough and rude rhymes gleams out a fierce fire which we supposed was long since extinct. Verily, old Father Puritan is not dead yet, neither does he sleep; and to judge from what we have heard of the effects of this song among the soldiers, we should say that grim Old John Brown himself, far from perishing, is even now terribly alive. There is something fearful in the inspiration which can inspire songs like this.

'GALLI VAN T' is welcome, and will be 'welcomer' when he again visits us in another letter like this:

DEAR CONTINENTAL: I have a friend who is not an artful man, though he be full of art; and yesterday evening he told me the following:

'In my early days, when I took views of burly farmers and their bouncing daughters in oil, and painted portraits of their favorite horses for a very moderate honorarium, and in short, was the artist of a small country town—why, then, to tell the truth, I was held to be one of the greatest painters in existence. Since studying abroad, and settling down in New-York mdash;—'

'And getting your name up among the first,' I added.

'Never mind that—I'm not 'the greatest painter that ever lived' here. But in Spodunk, I was. Folks 'admired to see me.' I was a man that 'had got talent into him,' and the village damsels invited me to tea. There were occasional drawbacks, to be sure. One day a man who had heard that I had painted Doctor Hewls's house, called and asked me what I would charge to paint his little 'humsted.' I offered to do it for twenty dollars.

'He gave me a shrewd gimlet-look and said:

'Find your own paint—o' course?'

''Of course,' I replied. What color?'

''Why, the same color you now have,' was my astonished answer.

''Wall, I don't know. My wife kind o' thinks that turtle-color would suit our house better than Spanish brown. You put on two coats, of course?'

'I now saw what he meant, and roaring with laughter, explained to him that there was a difference between apainter of houses and a house-painter.

'One morning I was interrupted by a grim, Herculean, stern-looking young fellow—one who was manifestly a man of facts—who, with a brief introduction of himself, asked if I could teach 'the pictur business.' I signified my assent, and while talking of terms, continued painting away at a landscape. I noticed that my visitor glanced at my work at first as if puzzled, and then with an air of contempt. Finally he inquired:

'''S that the way you make your pictures?'

''That is it,' I replied.

''Do you have to keep workin' it in, bit by bit, slow—like as a gal works woosted-patterns?'

''Yes, and sometimes much slower, to paint well.'

''How long 'll it take to learn your trade?'

''Well, if you've any genius for it, you may become a tolerable artist in two years.'

''Two—thunder! Why, a man could learn to make shoes, in that time!'

''Very likely. There is not one man in a hundred, who can make shoes, who would ever become even a middling sort of artist.'

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