It was a bold thing to do; but on this small capital I went to work, and succeeded. At least, Jacobus Kirchelheimer said so—and he ought to know, for he was a first-rate fellow, and sent me over and above the price agreed upon, a dozen bottles of Rudesheimer. A suspicion seemed indeed to haunt his mind that the portrait resembled himself much more than it did the late Herr Kirchelheimer, pére,—but he speedily found comfort in the following reflection:
'Ven I kits to be more older it will do shoost as goot for mine bicture as for de old one.'
It wasn't very self-flattering—that of hoping to resemble the Old One; but I said nothing. And no more at present from
Yours truly,
POPPY OYLE.
James Buchanan—not satisfied with hoping for the parings of a nomination to the Senate after having eaten the Presidential apple, has pushed his impudence so far as to attempt to vindicate Floyd from the charge of stealing, although the theft was by Floyd self-confessed and gloried in. This is proving more than the record. What will Floyd say for Buchanan?
The Raven said: 'Of birds I know,
The very whitest is the Crow.'
The Crow declared: 'While birds endure,
The Raven will be whitest, sure!'
The Raven said: 'I do believe
The Crow knows not what 'tis to thieve.'
The Crow inquired: 'Who ever heard
The Raven was a stealing bird?
'He calls himself a thief, I know,
But I can prove it is not so.'
The Raven swore by wet and dry,
The Crow was never known to lie.
The Crow swore out by hot and cold,
The Raven's word was good as gold.
The Crow flew o'er an old oak tree;
'Caw me,' he croaked, 'and I'll caw thee.'
It is an old story, and one which will last while rogues endure—be they broken-down politicians, craving, like Buchanan, a little more paltry notoriety, or any other variety of the great family of the Dishonest. And they will go their way adown the road of time and into history, properly brandmarked. The truth ever comes to light.
'And that isn't all—either.' For even as we write, the following is handed us by a friend:
Take, oh, take his pen away,
That so feebly runs on paper;
Keep him quiet, or he'll play
Other trait'rous prank and caper.
Why apologize for treason,
Or for stealing give a reason?
Hide, oh, hide his pens and ink;
Try to keep him silent: do!
Would you let him lower sink,
He'd defend the Devil too.
Keep him silent, let him be:
He has not escaped Scott-free.