A funeral sermon, wherein we must tell

Its faults and virtues, as we sound its knell;
Call up again, in critical review,

The record of events we've just gone through,
Like docile scholars willing to be taught
The solemn truths with which the past is fraught.

There, for a sober introduction that will do—
Now for the spice and point of our review !-
For not as stern and carping critic
Seize I to-day the quill poetic;—

Not in a grum, fault-finding mood,
Come I to inter the dying year,
Nor, with my scorpion lash severe,

Stir up the wicked with the good:
The sermon, which I promised you,
Shall be as mild as it is true.

Well, 1855

With war and strife was all alive,
E'en from the day it took the floor

From 1854,

And still, contentious and prolix, (pro licks,)
To 1856,

Hands down, to be again renewed,

The dismal heritage of blood.

The scene of that long wasteful strife,
So prodigal of human life,

It seems to my poor weak idea,
Was christened properly, Crimea;

For sure its history, at this time,

Is one great, foul, o'ershadowing crime,
For which old England, Russia, France, or

All of them, must one day answer,
And Czars and Kings and Emperors feel

The judgment time shall soon reveal
Europe, just now, has one idea,
And that, in one word, is-Crimea ;
Her very being, heart and soul,
Is centered in Sevastopol,

And when the Malakoff was taken

She to her very core was shaken.

The Czar instanter started 'way off
To the stronghold of Nicolaieff.

England hurra'd, and France was frantic
To send the news across the Atlantic,
That Jonathan might know in season,
And be prepared to come his knees on.
The stoic Sultan smoked away,

As if he had not heard the fray;
Kossuth, Mazzini, and their peers,

Told of their hopes, their doubts, their fears;
Austria, two-faced, te Deum chanted,
While Russia was with tedium haunted,
And wished with all her heart, no doubt,
For some small crevice to creep out,
Cry quits with all her foes, and then
Make ready to begin again.

Nuff said of them-and so we drop them, Say what we will, we cannot stop them. Like old Kilkenny's feline fighters,

These most unfeeling human biters
Will snarl, and scratch, and growl away,
Swallowing each other, day by day,

Till men,

and arms, and money fail,

And nought is left them but-a tale.

"Our own, our native land”—and pray

Of her what shall the Carrier say?

She's carried us thus far along,

And we've stuck to her, right or wrong,
Though often, quite, it seems her luck
In moral pol'tics to get stuck.

We've had our strifes,-now ups, now downs-
In cities, villages and towns,

We've had our skirmishes and battles,
Triumphs, defeats, and loss of chattels,
But not so many broken bones,
Or orphans' tears, or widows' groans,
As makes each occidental gale
With Europe's misery shriek and wail.
We love to take and render knocks
Behind the sheltering ballot box,

And do our stabbing and our shooting,
By rushing on the polls, and-voting.

The Whigs are down. The Dems are-where ?
Soft-hard-and medium, I declare,

Native and Hindoo, make such pother,

I can't distinguish one from t'other,

And they, themselves-(I mean the soldiers) Don't know whose heads are on their shoulders. Our war is over-the upshot

Is one's elected-one is not;

And both, with stoic satisfaction,
Begin to arrange the next election;
Each, all, in this united lot,

Strike where you will, but pierce us not.
We've had a deal of flash and thunder,
Of rail-roads, on the ground, and under;
We've had a mighty press of matter,
Of din and bustle, fuss and clatter,
Of dough-faced cowards, boasting braves,
Hunting masters, fugitive slaves,
Judges quailing-lawyers honest, (?!!)
Habeas corpus-corpus non est,
And all that sort of thing--but now,
There's scarce a dog dares say bow wow,
Lest, 'twixt the parties, slave and free,
He should bark up the losing tree.
We've had, among our many humors,
If not red war, some squally rumors
Of fleets that look this way, perhaps,—
Of grave Buchanan on his taps,
Ready, with menace in his eye,
To bid the fairish queen good bye.
We've heard of Nicaragua, Cuba,
Kinney and Walker, whose exube-
rant benevolence can't wait

Till Time carves out a new slave State.

We've heard of Kane, how he turned jailor,

And t'other Kane, the re-turned sailor,

How one, resisting a contempt,

Shut Passmore in an ugly hole;

T'other persisting in the attempt

To find one pass more, and the pole;
Boldly both their parts enacting,
Both from peril's path retracting,
Both happier, wiser far, no doubt,
In coming back, than going out.

We've had-but not a word of that-
We've had our genial monthly chat,
Our little, quiet, cozy corner
Where neither politics, nor war, nor
Rise of stocks, nor price of bread,
Nor Kansas-our Procrustes bed-
Nor anything, but you who love us,
Has ever had the power to move us;
We've had our squabbles and our squibs,
Our nuts to crack-instead of ribs;
We've had our contests and our prizes,
With combatants, all sorts and sizes,—
Our cœur de lions, our Joans d'Arc,
"Black eyes" and "Blue eyes," beau and spark
Proud cavalier, and high-born dame,

All in the lists, awards to claim;

And then, we've had our Courts and Judges,
To show what's worthy, and what fudge is;
We've had our problems, y's and x's,-
One, to this day, our wranglers vexes;
We've had our puzzles, and our questions,
Riddles, conundrums, queer suggestions,
Rebus, charade, and every sort

Of quaint and entertaining thought,
From old and young, from grave and gay,
Each bound to amuse in his own way.
The year's gone by; and, pausing here,
To wish you all a happy New-Year,
I make my bow, and pass you over
To your true friend and faithful lover,
To Robert now, and now to Hiram,
(I know you love 'em and admire 'em,)
And so take leave, to make appearance
Before you all, about a year hence.

Harry Know-Nothing;

OR, WHICH END WILL YOU HAVE?

him.
road.

The

ARRY was a genu- When Harry was a very little boy, ine know-nothing- he had a kite given him, which was not such an one as taller than he was himself. He did not we have about now- know how to manage it, and would not a-days, who profess wait, till his father came home, to show great love for their He rushed out, at once, into the country, but show only love to His mother followed with little themselves; who know nothing Charley, and offered her assistance. But of the trué interests of their Harry, as know-nothings generally do, country, but know enough of thought he knew all about the matter. other things to be able to do a vast He laid the kite down on the ground, deal of mischief. Harry was a real and then, unrolling his string, ran furibona-fide know-nothing-an ignoramus, ously off, without heeding which way who loved play, and hated work, who the wind was blowing. As might be loved idleness, and hated books, and expected, he ran the wrong way. who, consequently, never learned any-kite did not rise, but was dragged along thing useful, or failed to learn anything in the dust, till it encountered a stone, mischievous. His mother was very in- and then, snap went the back-bone, and dulgent, and gave him a great variety the kite was spoiled. Harry took up of playthings, seeming to have no other the wreck, found the paper torn in wish than that Harry should "enjoy several places, and the whole toy utterly himself." His father did not quite ap- past mending. At this he cried violently, prove this kind of education, and used and blamed his mother, for not preoften to say, that, if Harry did not soon venting it. And then-for thoughtless alter his course, and learn something boys are always unreasonable-he fell useful, he would certainly "come out of into a passion with Charley, because he the little end of the horu" at last. laughed, and said "Mamma goodHarry naughty." Just then, Harry's father came along, and, when he saw how things were going, he took Harry into the house, and had a long talk with him, trying to show the folly of passion, and the evils of idleness. Harry, my dear," said he, "if you do not improve, you will surely come out of the little end of the horn."