’Meanwhile, see what a pulpit the editor mounts daily, sometimes with a congregation of fifty thousand within reach of his voice, and never so much as a nodder, even, among them!  And from what a Bible can he choose his text,—­a Bible which needs no translation, and which no priestcraft can shut and clasp from the laity,—­the open volume of the world, upon which, with a pen of sunshine or destroying fire, the inspired Present is even now writing the annals of God!  Methinks the editor who should understand his calling, and be equal thereto, would truly deserve that title of [Greek:  poimaen laon], which Homer bestows upon princes.  He would be the Moses of our nineteenth century; and whereas the old Sinai, silent now, is but a common mountain stared at by the elegant tourist and crawled over by the hammering geologist, he must find his tables of the new law here among factories and cities in this Wilderness of Sin (Numbers xxxiii. 12) called Progress of Civilization, and be the captain of our Exodus into the Canaan of a truer social order.

’Nevertheless, our editor will not come so far within even the shadow of Sinai as Mahomet did, but chooses rather to construe Moses by Joe Smith.  He takes up the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he may never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mutton.

  Immemor, O, fidei, pecorumque oblite tuorum!

For which reason I would derive the name editor not so much from edo, to publish, as from edo, to eat, that being the peculiar profession to which he esteems himself called.  He blows up the flames of political discord for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily boil his own pot.  I believe there are two thousand of these mutton-loving shepherds in the United States, and of these, how many have even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the duties consequent thereon?  Here and there, haply, one.  Nine hundred and ninety-nine labor to impress upon the people the great principles of Tweedledum, and other nine hundred and ninety-nine preach with equal earnestness the gospel according to Tweedledee.’—­H.W.]

I du believe in Freedom’s cause,
  Ez fur away ez Payris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
  In them infarnal Phayrisees;
It’s wal enough agin a king
  To dror resolves an’ triggers,—­
But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing
  Thet don’t agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want
  A tax on teas an’ coffees, 10
Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt,—­
  Purvidin’ I’m in office;
For I hev loved my country sence
  My eye-teeth filled their sockets,
An’ Uncle Sam I reverence,
  Partic’larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan
  O’ levyin’ the texes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
  I git jest wut I axes; 20
I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,
  Because it kind o’ rouses
The folks to vote,—­an’ keeps us in
  Our quiet custom-houses.