I dident notiss any bill-boards hangin about your mouth, savin as how “Rooms was to let in your sky-lofts;” but contrary wise, it’s my opinion there haint a tenement house in New York which is packed fuller of people than your figger-head is of slap-up idees.  You haint afeard to stand out baldly and face the sea of upturned red maskaline noses, or hily-frizzled, gorgeously-got-up femilines, and skatter Fiseology rite and left, not carin a pickaune who’s hit or who haint.

A man who scores up as you do, is bound to win in the long run, if he only keeps his eyes about him, and don’t undertake to go it blind.

Yoove got a futer ahead of you bigger’n a meetin-house.  Keep ploddin along in the evening tender of your way, and I predict you’l ocupy a front rank among the clergy.

I, the lait Gustise, which has served his country for 4 yeer as Gustise of the Peece, tells you so; and havin asshiated with a good many big guns in my day, my profetic vision is as clear as Rine wine.

You haint much like a preacher I once useter sleep under.

We called him OLD CLOROFORM.  His sermons were dredful soothin to take.

Old Mother WINSLOW couldent play 2nd fiddle to his preachin, and her sirop is better’n a club to put children to sleep.  Why, friend BEECHER, that ere minnister was warranted to talk a squallin young one to sleep in 30 seconds.

When our Doctors had a leg to saw off, they always sent for Dominy CLOROFORM to put the patient to sleep.

He dident preach “Rest for the weary” without practisin what he preached, by makin his weary congregation rest like kittens.

But the old man has been scooped in, and our drug store has gone up on cloroform.

His last words were:—­

“Sweet sleepers, I go.  I’le drug no more.”  And beneath the mirtle, the Canada thistle, and the gooseberry-bush he rests, with the follerin epitaff on his tombstun:—­

    Hee’s gone to rest, don’t wake him up,
      His labors heer are ore;
    He useter preach fokes fast to sleep,
      Who entered his church-door.

Minnisters, in gettin hold of the public heart, resort to different ways.

Some of ’em make love to the pretty little lambs of their flox of the femail persuasion.

Others indulge freely in gin and milk, and get boozy, while agin some others histe in mug after mug of lager beer, and then lay in with some Bohemian to rite ’em up.

This gives ’em a popularity which $500 worth of paid-for advertisements wouldent bring ’em.  And their church stock goes up to 200 per cent. above par.  Big crowds rush to hear the guzzlin divine extort.  And, sir! before you know it, that preacher is richer’n mud, and just as likely as not, owns stock in a race-course or a lager-bier brewery.  Thus, as SHAKSPEER says:—­

    “Their is a course somewhere which shapes
    Our latter ends, ruff hue ’em
    As we will.  The only truble is to
    Find that course—­and freeze to it.”