esty is the best policy for everybody but me. I'll none of it. Not I.

I do not purpose to steal from any private individual, and make myself answerable to the laws; but if any man wants a job put through, by which the people can be robbed, and a large share of the plunder find its way into my pocket, you may count on me. I am not a common ruffian; I am a hightoned congressman. I do not knock a man down with a bludgeon, and go through his pockets; but I offer my congressional services, and then it is nothing to me who knocks him down after that. I can only say that I fear he would be poor picking after I get through with him.

I am a man of enterprise. I go in for railroads and canals-not so much because these things are public benefits, as because they open a channel for wealth to flow into my coffers from the pockets of the unsuspecting public. There is nothing better than money. My religion is money. My patriotism is money. I am perfectly willing to be a patriot, if I am paid for it. I am for sale. Whoever pays my price can have me.

I am not the only public-spirited patriot of this kind in the United States. You can find hundreds of them in every place of public trust, from a petty postmaster up to the most dignified senator. They all love their country-for money.

Grab and grasp is the watchword of the day. Steal while you can, for when you are dead, politically or physically, you cannot. A few addle-pates talk about putting honest men in office; but it can't be done. We have got the power, for we have got the money; and the more money we get the more power we shall have. We have struck a mine, and we don't mean to let go our grip. Honest men can't cope with us, because they are not up to all the tricks of the professional politician. Oh, no! I tell you honesty is at a fearful discount. The people don't want it. They prefer being bled by knaves and rogues; and I, for one, am perfectly willing to let them have their way. Let them bleed if they like it.

Fellow-citizens, these are not my sentiments. They are not the outspoken words of any office-seeker. Oh, no; but actions speak louder than words.

LAUGH AND GROW FAT.-W. M. PRAED.

There's nothing here on earth deserves
One half the thought we waste about it,
And thinking but destroys the nerves,
When we could do as well without it.
If folks would let the world go round,
And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners,
Such doleful looks would not be found
To frighten us poor laughing sinners.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

One plagues himself about the sun,

And puzzles on, through every weather, What time he'll rise-how long he'll run, And when he'll leave us altogether. Now matters it a pebble-stone,

Whether he dines at six or seven?
If they don't leave the sun alone,

At last they'll plague him out of heaven!
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

Another spins from out his brains
Fine cobwebs to amuse his neighbors,
And gets, for all his toil and pains,
Reviewed and laughed at for his labors;
Fame is his star! and fame is sweet:
And praise is pleasanter than honey-
I write at just so much a sheet,

And Messrs. Longman pay the money.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!

My brother gave his heart away

To Mercandotti, when he met her,
She married Mr. Ball one day-
He's gone to Sweden to forget her;
I had a charmer, too-and sighed

And raved all day and night about her;
She caught a cold, poor thing! and died,
And I-am just as fat without her.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
For tears are vastly pretty things,

But make one very thin and taper;
And sighs are music's sweetest strings,
Yet sound most beautiful-on paper!

"Thought" is the gazer's brightest star, Her gems alone are worth his finding; But, as I'm not particular,

Please God! I'll keep on "never minding." Never sigh when you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

Ah! in this troubled world of ours,
A laughter-mine's a glorious treasure;
And separating thorns from flowers,
Is half a pain and half a pleasure;
And why be grave instead of gay?
Why feel athirst while folks are quaffing?
Oh! trust me, whatsoe'er they say,

There's nothing half so good as laughing! Never cry while you can sing,

But laugh, like me, at everything!

IN MEMORIAM.-GEO. D. PRENTICE.

On the bosom of a river

Where the sun unloosed his quiver,
On the star-lit stream forever,
Sailed a vessel light and free:
Morning dew-drops hung like manna
On the bright folds of her banner,
While the zephyrs rose to fan her
Softly to the radiant sea.

At her prow a pilot beaming,

In the flush of youth stood dreaming,
And he was in glorious seeming

Like an angel from above:
Through his hair the breezes sported,
And, as on the wave he floated,
Oft the pilot, angel-throated,

Warbled lays of hope and love.

Through those locks so brightly flowing,
Buds of laurel bloom were blowing,
And his hands anon were throwing
Music from a lyre of gold:

Swiftly down the stream he glided,
Soft the purple wave divided,
And a rainbow arch abided

On his canvas' snowy fold.

Anxious hearts, with fond devotion,
Watched him sailing to the ocean,
Praying that no wild commotion
'Midst the elements might rise:
And he seemed some young Apollo,
Charming summer winds to follow,
While the water-crag's corolla
Trembled to his music sighs.

But those purple waves enchanted,
Rolled beside a city haunted
By an awful spell, that daunted
Every comer to her shore:
Night shades rank the air encumbered,
And pale marble statues, numbered
Where the lotus-eaters slumbered,

And woke to life no more.

Then there rushed, with lightning quickness,
O'er his face a mortal sickness,
And the dews in fearful thickness,
Gathered o'er his temples fair;
And there swept a dying murmur
Through the lively southern summer,
As the beauteous pilot comer
Perished by that city there.

Still rolls on that radiant river,
And the sun unbinds his quiver,
O'er the star-lit streams forever,
On its bosom as before:

But that vessel's rainbow banner
Greets no more the gay savanna,
And that pilot's lute drops manna.
On the purple waves no more.

THE OLD WIFE'S KISS.

The funeral services were ended; and, as the voice of prayer ceased, tears were hastily wiped from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the mourners prepared to take leave of the corpse. It was an old man who lay there, robed for the grave. More than three-score years had whitened those locks, and fur rowed that brow, and made those stiff limbs weary of life's

journey, and the more willing to be at rest where weariness is no longer a burden.

The aged have few to weep for them when they die. The most of those who would have mourned their loss have gone to the grave before them; harps that would have sighed sad harmonies are shattered and gone; and the few that remain are looking cradleward, rather than to life's closing goal; are bound to and living in the generation rising, more than the generation departing. Youth and beauty have many admirers while living,-have many mourners when dying, and many tearful ones bend over their coffined clay, many sad hearts follow in their funeral train; but age has few admirers, few mourners.

This was an old man, and the circle of mourners was small: two children, who had themselves passed the middle of life, and who had children of their own to care for and be cared for by them. Beside these, and a few friends who had seen and visited him while he was sick, and possibly had known him for a few years, there were none others to shed a tear, except his old wife; and of this small company, the old wife seemed to be the only heart-mourner. It is respectful for his friends to be sad a few moments, till the service is performed and the hearse out of sight. It is very proper and suitable for children, who have outgrown the fervency and affection of youth, to shed tears when an aged parent says farewell, and lies down to quiet slumber. Some regrets, some recollection of the past, some transitory griefs, and the pangs are over.

The old wife arose with difficulty from her seat, and I went to the coffin to look her last look-to take her last farewell. Through the fast falling tears she gazed long and fondly down into the pale, unconscious face. What did she see there? Others saw nothing but the rigid features of the dead; she saw more. In every wrinkle of that brow she read the history of years; from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and health, it was all there; when those children, who had not quite outgrown the sympathies of childhood, were infants lying on her bosom, and every year since then-there it was. To others those dull, mute monitors were unintelli

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