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has long resided in Buffalo, New York, a barber, noted for his scholarly attainments and gentlemanly deportment. Men of the most polished refinement visit his saloon, and, while being shaved, take pleasure in conversing with him; and all who know him feel that he was intended by nature for a higher position in life. This is James M. Whitfield. He is a native of Massachusetts, and removed west some years since. We give a single extract from one of his poems.

"How long, gracious God, how long

Shall power lord it over right?

The feeble, trampled by the strong,

Remain in slavery's gloomy night?

In every region of the earth

Oppression rules with iron power;

And every man of sterling worth,

Whose soul disdains to cringe or cower

Beneath a haughty tyrant's nod,

And, supplicating, kiss the rod

That, wielded by oppression's might,

Smites to the earth his dearest right,—

The right to speak, and think, and feel,

And spread his uttered thoughts abroad,

To labor for the common weal,

Responsible to none but God,—

Is threatened with the dungeon's gloom,

The felon's cell, the traitor's doom,