His face was grim, his nose upturned,
As if the very ground he spurned-
And like a trumpet sound was heard,
The accents of that awful word,

Char-co-o-al!

In muddy streets he did descry

The "moire antiques" held high and dry,
With feet and ankles shown too well,

And from his lips escaped a yell!—
Char-co-o-al!

"Don't go there!" was the warning sound; "The pipes have all burst underground, The raging torrent's deep and wide;" But loud his trumpet voice replied,

Char-co-o-al!

"Oh stop!" good Biddy cried, "and lave
A brimful peck upon this pave.'
A smile his inky face came o'er,
And on he went with louder roar,
Char-co-o-al!

"Beware of Main street crossing deep,
Away from Walnut gutter keep!"
This was the sweeper's only greet,
A voice replied far up the street,
Char-co-o-al!

At set of sun, as homeward went,
The joyous men of cent. per cent.,
Counting the dollars in their till,

A voice was heard, both loud and shrill,
Char-co-o-al!

A man upon the watchman's round,
Half-steeped in mud and ice was found,
Shouting with voice, though not so strong,
That awful word which heads my song,
Char-co-o-al!

There in the gas-light, dim and gray,
Dreaming unconsciously he lay,

And from his nose, turned up still more,
Came sounding like a thrilling snore-

Char-co-o-al!

THE

THE DEMAGOGUE.

Observe the most careful conversational style.

HE lowest of politicians is that man who seeks to gratify an invariable selfishness by pretending to seek the public good. For a profitable popularity he accomodates himself to all opinions, to all dispositions, to every side, and to every prejudice. He is a mirror, with no face of its own, but a smooth surface from which each man of ten thousand may see himself reflected.

He glides from man to man, coinciding with their views, simulating their tastes, and pretending their feelings; with this one he loves a man; with that one he hates the same man; he favors a law, and he dislikes it; he approves and opposes; he is on both sides at once, and seemingly wishes that he could be on one side more. He 'attends meetings to suppress intemperance,—but at elections makes every grog-shop free to all drinkers. He can with equal relish plead most eloquently for temperance, or toss off a dozen glasses of whiskey in a dirty doggery.

He thinks that there is a time for everything, and therefore at one time he jeers and leers, and swears with a carousing blackguard crew; and at another time, professing to have been happily converted, he displays all the various features of devotion. Indeed, he is a capacious Christian-an epitome of faith.

He piously asks the class-leader of the welfare of his charge, for he was always a Methodist, and always will be, until he meets a Presbyterian; then he is a Presbyterian, Old School or New, as the case requires; however, as he is not a bigot, he can afford to be a Baptist in a good Baptist neighborhood, and with a wink he tells the pious elder that he never had one of his children baptized, not he! He whispers to the Reformer that he abhors all creeds but Baptism and the Bible. After this, room will be found in his heart for the fugitive sects also, which come and go like clouds in a summer-sky.

Upon the stump his tact is no less rare. He roars and bawls with courageous plainness, on points about which all agree; but on subjects where men differ, his meaning is nicely balanced on a pivot that it may dip either way. He depends for success chiefly upon humorous stories. A glowing patriot telling stories is a dangerous antagonist; for it is hard to expose the fallacy of a hearty laugh, and men convulsed with merriment are slow to perceive in what way an argument is a reply to a story: men who will admit that he has not a solitary moral virtue, will vote for him, and assist him in obtaining the office to which he aspires.-H. W. BEECHER.

THERE'S a euchre,

THERE'S

GO IT ALONE.

game much in fashion,-I think it's called

Though I've never played it, for pleasure or lucre,—
In which, when the cards are in certain conditions,
The players appear to have changed their positions,
And one of them cries, in a confident tone,

I think I might venture to "Go it alone."

While watching the game-('tis a whim of the Bard's,) A moral to draw from the skirmish in cards,

And fancy, he sees in the trivial strife

Some excellent hints for the battle of life,

Where, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne,
The winner is he, who can "Go it alone."

When Kepler, with intellect piercing afar,
Discovered the laws of each planet and star,

And doctors, who ought to have lauded his name,
Derided his learning and blackened his fame;

"I can wait," he replied, "till the truth you shall own," For he knew in his heart, he could "Go it alone."

When great Galileo proclaimed to the world.
That the earth in its orbit was ceaselessly whirled,
He got not a convert for all of his pains,
But only derision and prison and chains.

It moves for all that, was his answering tone,
For he knew, like the earth, he could "Go it alone."

There is something, no doubt, in the hand you may hold,
Health, Culture, Wit, Beauty, and Gold,

The unfortunate owner may fairly regard,
As each in its turn a most excellent card,

Yet the game may be lost, with all these for your own,
Unless you've the courage to "Go it alone."

In Battle or Business, whatever the game,
In Law or in Love, it is ever the same;
In the struggle for power, or scramble for pelf,
Let this be your motto, "Rely on yourself,"
Then, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne,
The victor is he who can “Go it alone.”—J. G. SAXE-

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

To be, or not to be, that is the question!

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them.—To die—to sleep,—
No more!—and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.

To die, to sleep ;—

To sleep!-perchance to dream-aye, there's the rub! For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause! There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?