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Then honored be the charcoal man!
Though dusky as an African,
'Tis not for you, that chance to be
A little better clad than he,
His honest manhood to despise,
Although from morn till eve he cries,-

“ Charco': charco' !"
While mocking echo still replies,-

“ Hark, 0! hark 0 !"
“Charco' !"_"Hark, O !”—Long may the sounds
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds !

From Our Yourg Folks ''

JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT.-B. DISRAELI.

The broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and frequent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of bills, far more famous than those of Rome; for all Europe bas heard of Sion and of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are ignorant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts.

The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David; nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief, because there the most illustrious of the human as well as of the IIebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering and shame, which is now throughont all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honor; passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisat?k built bis mystie citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted the fanes which were raised to bis father and to himself in ibeir imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped be. fore every altar in Rome.

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the toinbs, and sighis among the cypress groves. The palnı-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe.

Is it the breeze that has travelled over the plain of Sharon from the sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that they could not save? Their spirits surely wonld linger on the land where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. Who can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the law-giver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed; the monarch whose reign bas ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the teacher whose doctrines have modelled civilized Europe; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and the greatest of reformers; what race, extinct or living, can produce three such mer as these?

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the purple sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid; all becomes as dark as the waters of Ke. dron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light.

FIRST APPEARANCE IN TYPE.-0. W. HOLMEL.

Ah, here it is ! I'm famous now;
An author and a poet,
It really is in print. Hurrah !
How proud I'll be to show it.
And gentle Anna! what a thrill
Will animate her breast,
To read these ardent lines, and know,
To whom they are addressed.
Why, bless my soul l here's something wrong;
What can the paper mean,
By talking of the “graceful brook,"
That ganders o'er the green ?”
And here's a t instead of r,
Which makes it “tippling rill,”
We'll seek the “shad" instead of “shade,"
And “hell" instead of “hill."
“Thy looks so”—what ?—I recollect,
'Twas “sweet," and then 'twas “kind;"
And now, to think,—the stupid fool-
For “bland" has printed “blind."
Was ever such provoking work?
('Tis curious, by the by,
That any thing is rendered blind
By giving it an i.)
The color of the “rose" is “nose,"
“ Affection” is “Affliction."
I wonder if the likeness holds
In fact as well as fiction ?
" Thou art a friend." The r is gone;
Whoever could have deemed
That such a trifling thing could change
A friend into a fiend.

QQ

“Thou art the same,” is reudered “lanie,”
It really is too bad !
And here because an i is out
My lovely “maid" is mad.
They drove her blind by poking in
Ani-a process new-
And now they've gouged it out again,
And made her crazy, too.
I'll read no more. What shall I do?
I'll never dare to send it.
The paper's scattered far and wide,
"Tis now too late to mend it.
Oh, fame! thou cheat of human life,
Why did I ever write !
I wish my poem had been burnt,
Before it saw the light.
Was ever such a horrid hash,
In poetry or prose ?
I've said she was a “fiend !” and praised
The color of her “nose.”
I wish I had the printer here
About a balf a minute,
I'd bang him to his heart's content,
And with an h begin it.

HELVELLYN.-SIR WALTER SCOTT.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiablo disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful dog, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide ; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,

And, starting around me, the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer bad died. Dark green was that spot ’mid the broad mountain beathez

Where the pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, bis mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defevded,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long did'st thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft dld'st thou

start? How many long days and long weeks did'st thou number,

Ere be faded before thee, the friend of thy lieart?
And, Oh ! was it meet, that no requiem read o'er him,
No motber to weep, and no friend to deplore bim,
And tbou, little guardian, alone stretched before bim-

Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?

Wheu a pripce to the fate of the peasant bas yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted ball;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleam-

ing ; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a clief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch, by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

DEACON HEZEKIAH.

Up! Hezekiah's a pious soul,
With bis phiz as long as a hickory pole,
And he wouldn't smile if you'd give him the whole

Of the gold in California.
There he sits, like a cloud, in his Sunday pew,
With his book in his band, in bis long-tailed blue,
And you'd better take care, or he'll look you through,

With a glance that says, 'I scorn ye.”

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