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I mean in preyin' till one busts

On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts

To very privit uses.

I du believe hard coin the stuff

Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard



on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,

An' gives a good-sized junk to all, I don't care how hard money is,

Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul

In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal

An' in the traces lead 'em ; Palsied the arm thet forges yokes

At my fat contracts squintin', An' withered be the nose thet pokes

Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give

Wut's his'n unto Cæsar,
Fer it's by him I move an' live,

Frum him my bread an' cheese air; I du believe thet all o' me

Doth bear his superscription, Will, conscience, honor, honesty,

An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise

To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs, — in every thin' thet pays,

But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill,

This lays all thought o' sin to rest, I don't believe in princerple,

But oh, I du in interest.

I du believe in bein' this

Or thet, ez it may happen One way or t other hendiest is

To ketch the people nappin’; It aint by princerples nor men

My preudunt course is steadied, I scent wich pays the best, an' then

Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves

Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves

To hev a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret,

I could n't ax with no face, ’uthout I'd ben, thru dry an' wet,

Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash

'll keep the people in blindness, Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash

Right inter brotherly kindness,

Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball

Air good-will's strongest magnets,
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,

Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe

In Humbug generally,
Fer it's a thing thet I perceive

To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful shepherd ben,

In pasturs sweet heth led me,
An' this 'll keep the people green

To feed ez they hev fed me.

[I subjoin here another




before-mentioned discourse.

“Wonderful, to him that has eyes to see it rightly, is the newspaper.

To me, for example, sitting on the critical front bench of the pit, in my study here in Jaalam, the advent of my weekly journal is as that of a strolling theatre, or rather of a puppet-show, on whose stage, narrow as it is, the tragedy, comedy, and farce of life are played in little. Behold the whole huge earth sent to me hebdomadally in a brownpaper wrapper !

“ Hither, to my obscure corner, by wind or steam, on horseback or dromedary-back, in the pouch of the Indian runner, or clicking over the magnetic wires, troop all the famous performers from the four quarters of the globe. Looked at from a point of criticism, tiny puppets they seem all, as the editor sets up his booth upon my desk and officiates as showman. Now I can truly see how little and transitory is life. The earth appears almost as a drop of vinegar, on which the solar microscope of the imagination must be brought to bear in order to make out anything distinctly. That animalcule there, in the pea-jacket, is Louis Philippe,

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just landed on the coast of England. That other, in the gray surtout and cocked hat, is Napoleon Bonaparte Smith, assuring France that she need apprehend no interference from him in the present alarming juncture. At that spot, where you seem to see a speck of something in motion, is an immense mass-meeting. Look sharper, and you will see a mite brandishing his mandibles in an excited manner. That is the great Mr. Soandso, defining his position amid tumultuous and irrepressible cheers. That infinitesimal creature, upon whom some score of others, as minute as he, are gazing in open-mouthed admiration, is a famous philosopher, expounding to a select audience their capacity for the Infinite. That scarce discernible pufflet of smoke and dust is a revolution. That speck there is a reformer, just arranging the lever with which he is to move the world. And lo, there creeps forward the shadow of a skeleton that blows one breath between its grinning teeth, and all our distinguished actors are whisked off the slippery stage into the dark Beyond.

“Yes, the little show-box has its solemner suggestions. Now and then we catch a glimpse of a grim old man, who lays down a scythe and hour-glass in the corner while he shifts the scenes. There, too, in the dim background, a weird shape is ever delving. Sometimes he leans upon his mattock, and gazes, as a coach whirls by, bearing the newly married on their wedding jaunt, or glances carelessly at a babe brought home from christening. Suddenly (for the scene grows larger and larger as we look) a bony hand snatches back a performer in the midst of his part, and him, whom yesterday two infinities (past and future) would not suffice, a handful of dust is enough to cover and silence forever. Nay, we see the same fleshless fingers opening to clutch the showman himself, and guess, not without a shudder, that they are lying in wait for spectator also.

“ Think of it: for three dollars a year I buy a seasonticket to this great Globe Theatre, for which God would write the dramas (only that we like farces, spectacles, and the tragedies of Apollyon better), whose scene-shifter is Time, and whose curtain is rung down by Death.

“Such thoughts will occur to me sometimes as I am tearing off the wrapper of my newspaper. Then suddenly that otherwise too often vacant sheet becomes invested for me with a strange kind of awe. Look ! deaths and marriages, notices of inventions, discoveries, and books, lists of promotions, of killed, wounded, and missing, news of fires, accidents, of sudden wealth and as sudden poverty ;-I hold in my hand the ends of myriad invisible electric conductors, along which tremble the joys, sorrows, wrongs, triumphs, hopes, and despairs of as many men and women everywhere. So that upon that mood of mind which seems to isolate me from mankind as a spectator of their puppet-pranks, another supervenes, in which I feel that I, too, unknown and unheard of, am yet of some import to my fellows. For, through my newspaper here, do not families take pains to send me, an entire stranger, news of a death among them ? Are not here two who would have me know of their marriage ? And, strangest of all, is not this singular person anxious to have me informed that he has received a fresh supply of Dimitry Bruisgins ? But to none of us does the Present continue miraculous (even if for a moment discerned as such). We glance carelessly at the sunrise, and get used to Orion and the Pleiades. The wonder wears off, and tomorrow this sheet, (Acts 2. 11, 12,) in which a vision was let down to me from Heaven, shall be the wrappage to a bar of soap or the platter for a beggar's broken victuals.”—H. W.]

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