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governs all. By tag-rag, tip top, dunces, scholars, There's nothing done without the dollars.

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golden wings, This solemn truth each biped knows, It makes him look strait down his nose, Το

see the way the money goes.

Sym.

The bachelor, tired of single life,
Resolves to venture on a wife;
His house is furnish'd all in taste,
And purse and pocket run to waste.
She orders sofas, couches, chairs,
Curtains, and carpets, and china wares,
French clocks, French lamps, and French
quelque chose,

Each day her taste more costly grow S
And that's the way the money goes.

Ere twelve months their course have run,
His wife presents him with a son,
Instead of making the pappy glad,
Th' expenses almost drive him mad.
Child's cap, child's frock, child's cradle,
child's chair,

Doctor and nurse-expensive pair-
Cordials, cake, and wine o'erflows,
Christening frolic-friends in rowsTM--
And that's the way the money goes.
All lottery tickets turn up blanks,
And those who play at pharo banks,
At poko, brag, or loo, or bluf,
Must all be sure to lose enough.
Of horses fond, you go to a race,
And back your favorite's time and pace;
Some better nag does him oppose➡➡
You lose and cursing fortune's throws,
Say, that's the way the money goes.
The ladies, by their love of dress,
Cause mankind's pockets deep distress,
Fashion's follies each one follows,
And plays the devil with our dollars.
Your wife just chucks you under the chin,
Hats, caps, gowns, shawls, are order'd in;
Daughters, sisters, fishing for beaux,
Want fresh bait who can oppose,
Or grudge that way the money goes?
A lot of real estate you buy-
To rent your houses out you try■■
Bat spite of all that you can do,
Repairs and taxes eat you through:
At last, and much to your delight,
Your tenant moves away at night;
Where he's gone you can't suppose➡➡
Of course a twelvemonth's rent he owes
And that's the way the money goes.

And then again the whole-soul'd boys,
Who will indulge in tavern joys,
And round the bar are daily found,
And bitters and wine and wit go round.
Sangarees and cocktails not a few,
Toddies, and slings, and juleps toe;
Champaigne in goblets freely flows,
Till drunk, they stagger home to doze,
And that's the way the money goes.

No wonder money is so scarce,
While market charges are so fierce;
The price of flour brings great distress,
And five cent loaves grow daily less;
In meat's high price there's no decrease,
In turkeys, fowls, or game, or geese.
How we're to live there's nobody knows,
Or pay for fire to warm our toes--
The devil knows how the money goes.

In summer time the dollars have wings,
The ladies all must see the springs;
Travelling charges hotel bills
Steamboats, railroads, and other ills.
In winter, parties and balls abound,
Or in a sleigh you skim the ground.
Stay out all night, though hard it snowsTM
Mull'd wine, hot punch, and no repose-
And that's the way the money goes.

Some folks, in hopes to cut a dash,
In stocks will venture all their cash,
And buy on time-in long and short,
S. O. or B. O.--Sold and bought.
When time is up, 'tis you who pay,
Or if you win, your friend's away.
Fall or rise, you're sure to lose,
How 'tis managed nobody knows,
But well you know your money goes.

Then since the times are really bad,
Your spirits will get dull and sad;
To cheer your minds and get delight,
Best crowd the theatre every night.
Care kill'd a cat, and life is short,
Enjoy yourselves in mirth and sport;
Come in hundreds, belles and beaux,
Crowd completely all those rows.
And well I'll say your money goes:

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

THE HISTORY OF ROME, FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHLOSSER, WACHSMUTH, NEIBUHR, AND WEEREN. One Volume, large octavo. Carey, Lea, and Blanchard.

Notwithstanding the existence of a thousand and one volumes purporting to treat of Roman History in all its possible bearings, we welcome the appearance of this work with considerable satisfaction, and congratulate the public upon its accession to their literary stores. We have long wanted a History of Rome which we could put into the hands of the unlearned, whether youth or adult, without having to explain or eradicate the legendary nonsense that encrusts the details of ancient history transmitted from our ancestors. The fables of Herodotus have too long been received by schoolmen with implicit veneration; it is due to the students of the present age to present them with a more careful analysis of reputed fact-to question the authority of impossible events-to separate, in truth, the fabulous from the historical, the prodigious from the possible, and not require them to believe in mythological results, upon the authority of men who lived many hundred years after the ages they pretend to describe. For five centuries, the Romans were without a historian, yet we are asked to place faith in the traditionary legends of an itinerant Greek, recited before the populace assembled to witness the Olympic Games. Rollin's extravagancies are still placed in the hands of inquirers, who are expected to believe in the unimpeachable sanctity of the oracles of Apollo, which the ardent Frenchman endeavors to inculcate, with other fooleries that long ago should have been driven from the page of history. En passant, why are not Guizot's valuable notes to Rollin given to the public in an English shape?

The compiler or editor of the History of Rome, announced above, has gone to work with the right spirit. He has held Cicero's maxim as a lantern light-" that a historian should never dare to relate a falsehood or conceal a truth." "The Analytical and Chronological Table," is in itself an epitome of history of transcendant value, and speaks in language not to be misunderstood of the nature of the rich and rare contents. In conclusion, we affirm that it is the most valuable, complete, and useful History that has ever emanated from the press, and the publishers deserve the thanks of the literary world for issuing an expensive and important volume, in the midst of the stagnation of commerce which yet affects our land.

THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE COLLEGIANS," &c. Two Volumes. Carey and Hart.

64

The Collegians” has generally been considered one of the best productions of this novel writing age—MrsCregan, Hardress, Danney Mann, and other characters that figure in the work, are skilfully drawn and exhibit the touch and finish of the master. The author, Gerald Griffen, attained the highest popularity, and inquiries were daily made for other emanations from his pen; but he seemed content with the laurel wreath he had won, and several years have elapsed since the phrase," by the author of The Collegians," graced a publisher's announcement. He has, however, again essayed the public; and if his new work does not compete with the old one in point of interest and strong development of character, it is every way worthy the public attention, and must prove a source of gratification to the lovers of historical novels and romances of reality.

The Duke of Monmouth, although chosen as the titular hero, is not the principal character; the Duke is despatched in the early part of the second volume, and a hero of a different temperament introduced to the reader's notice the notorious General Kirke, whose cruel butcheries after the battle of Sedgmoor obtained him an unenviable reputation. The author, in a fit of false delicacy, has injured the strong point of his work-the villany of Kirke, who, supplicated by a weeping lady of passing beauty and high birth, for the safety of her brother, promised to pardon the rebellious youth if she would share his bed. To save the life of a beloved one, the lady consented to her own disgrace, and was rewarded by the sight of her brother's corse hanging from a gibbet

beneath her window. The effect of this historical fact the author of "The Duke of Monmouth" has considerably weakened, in making the lustful general inveigle his victim by the stale artifice of a pretended marriage, and destroying the value of the maiden's sacrifice.

The novelist has not made the most of his materials. The base intrigues of the Duke with his friend the Earl of Shaftesbury are not included in the detail of his life-his campaign in Scotland, where the troops under his command achieved victory at the battle of Bothwell brig, is altogether omitted; and the manner of his death is not even described, although the conversation with the divines attending his dying moments is somewhat tediously spun out. The effect of the death of England's disturber upon the multitude assembled on Tower Hill, arising from the awkwardness of the executioner, who dealt his victim several blows before he could ef fect decapitation-the asseveration of several of the nobility that the sufferer was not the Duke of Monmouth, but a faithful adherent who rejoiced in the pains of death to save his beloved master-the opinion, which for a time, was freely expressed, that James dared not doom his brother's son to the death-the supposition that Monmouth was the Man in the Iron Mask-altogether afford materiel for an historical romance of the most exciting interest, but, strange to say, these enumerated incidents have been entirely omitted. The reader will form a correct idea of the work from the following extract, describing

THE BATTLE OF SEDG MOOR.

The night was clear, and the morning was still far distant, when, pursuant to a preconcerted plan, the army of Monmouth was drawn out in silence from the town. Lord Grey, at the head of the cavalry, was sent a little before, as the force least liable to suffer from a surprise. Monmouth himself followed with the main body of his army, nearly three thousand of whom were armed, and in some tolerable degree of discipline.

The men, who had been well-furnished with the excitement of strong liquor, marched with alacrity, and reached about one o'clock in the morning the edge of the moor. The royal army had, however, already taken the alarm. Lord Grey, at the head of five squadrons of horse, was ordered to push forward and burst into the camp of Feversham, but a wide and deep ditch which intersected the plan presented to both armies an unexpected but effectual obstacle. As they rode along in search of a place where a passage might be effected, volleys of musketry were opened upon them from the enemy's lines, and an awkward skirmish in the dark with a party of their own men, somewhat in advance of them, completed their confusion. Lord Grey himself, once more subdued by his infirmity, added a new disgrace to that of Brideport, by flying with his troops to a little distance, where he took up a position out of the range of musket-shot. The three remaining squadrons made a gallant attempt to force a passage, but were repulsed and obliged to retire in disorder. Monmouth now ordered the infantry to advance. After a long continued fire, which had only the effect of wasting the ummunition of the insurgents, day broke upon the combatants, and disclosed to the eyes of Monmouth the royal infantry eighty paces distant, quietly reserving their fire, and suffering the artillery alone to answer the volleys of the insurgents, while Feversham's cavalry, newly arrived from Weston, was posted on his right flank. Without losing a moment, the infantry was ordered to pass the ditch, a manoeuvre which was soon effected. The imposing sight of Feversham's disciplined troops, with their artillery and their calm and confident aspect as of men certain of success, might well have checked the ardor of a newly-levied force like that of Monmonth. The latter, however, did not spare to pursue their purpose. The signal for attack was given and with shouts of fury the insurgent yeomen dashed forward on the royal force. It was impossible to resist the terrific energy of the onset; and the royal generals were astounded at the gallantry displayed by these poor fellows, who found in their own courage a substitute for all the skill and knowledge that are only gathered from experience. It was in vain that Feversham put in practice all the manoeuvres of the field in order to resist the vehement charge of the insurgents-now drawing his men into line, now condensing them into squares and columns. The soldiers of Monmouth, in indiscriminate masses, rushed forward to the charge wherever they beheld a foe, and carried all before them with an impetuosity which nothing could resist. The royal army was routed and driven from the ground-it was rallied and routed again-there was not a man on Monmouth's side who did not labor as if he had been engaged in single combat, and that combat for his life. Astonished at what they beheld, the royal generals began to despair of the day, and their exertions now were bent to render the retreat as orderly as it was possible. But the triumphant yoemanry pressed too close upon their rear to admit of their recovering order.

"It is in vain, Kirke," said Feversham, as that officer galloped by him. "What are your lambs about? These fellows fight like furies. They will not leave a man of us to tell the news."

"They seem to have changed their minds already," said Kirke, " for they have ceased firing."

It was so in point of fact. Monmouth was at the instant exulting in his victory as a certain thing-a victory which would, in all probability, have effected a permanent change in the dynasty of England. His astonishment, therefore, was extreme when the firing ceased. The cause, unhappily, was irremediable, the ammunition of the troops had failed! The secret soon became evident to the adverse force, who gathered confidence and strength from the discovery. They rallied now with difficulty; and while the insurgents, perplexed and eager, seemed at a loss what next to do, a most destructive fire opened on them from the opposite army. The scene which followed leaves description powerless. It was to no purpose that the insurgents, unprovided with the means of maintaining an equal combat at a distance, rushed down in masses on the foe, and endeavored to effect by the mere momemtum of numbers what they could no longer do with the weapons. By skilful manœuvres the enemy evaded their onset, dividing into numerous bodies, and galling them from one quarter while they were striving to make an impression in another. It was to no purpose that many were seen dashing all unarmed upon the royal lines, and expiring beneath the pike and musket to which they offered their At this indefenceless breasts. The royal force prevailed, and Monmouth's army was on the point of ruin. stant Colonel Jones, the officer already named, who divided the command of the cavalry wih Grey, looked round in vain for Monmouth, and seeing the little army deserted by its commanding officers, took the only step which could have given them a chance of safety. Lord Grey, who had not ventured within range of musket shot

since his first impulse, was stationed with a considerable body of cavalry in reserve; the Duke supposing that the infantry could better conduct the heavy work of the day, and that the horsemen might be more advantageously called into action in a crisis than as partakers in the general engagement. By charging vigorously now in front, they might enable the infantry, who were at present suffering severely, either to effect a tolerable retreat, or to procure time for recovering confidence and order.

"Mr. Fullarton," cried Colonel Jones to Arthur, whom as being attached to no corps, he retained near him in quality of aid-de-camp, “ride to Lord Grey at once, and order him to charge in front with all his force." Arthur Fullarton put spurs to his horse, and galloped at full speed towards the rising ground on which the cavalry were stationed. The Colonel observed with an anxious eye the result of his dispatch. There was no movement amongst the cavalry. Young Fullarton was seen to use a hasty action, as if urging his message, but Lord Grey seemed obstinate. Again, at full speed, his horse all bathed in perspiration and scattering foam around him, young Fullarton returned to Colonel Jones to say that Lord Grey refused to act upon the orders. Before the former could make an observation, the fate of the engagement was decided. Disheartened at length by their associates, a general panic seized on the insurgents, and a disordered flight ensued, with all its accompanying horrors. The victorious royalists contined their fire while the routed army remained within the range of their shot; after which the pursuit was maintained by the dragoons alone. The musketry ceased firing, and no sounds were heard except the fierce shouts of the revengeful conquerors, the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the dying, mingled with the occasional thunder of the few pieces of artillery that accompanied the royal army. Colonel Kirke and his dragoons seemed thoroughly in their element, and revelled like exulting fiends in the havoc which their weapons made. A comparison of the loss on both sides shows, however, the desperation with which the insurgents fought. Three hundred men were killed or wounded on that of Feversham, while five hundred were left dead of the followers of Monmouth, in the course of three hours' fighting, and in the flight which followed. The prisoners taken were about three times that number. And so ended the battle of Sedgmoor, on which Monmouth's hope was set as on a single cast.

SCRIPTURAL ANTHOLOGY; OR, BIBLICAL ILLUSTRATIONS, Designed as a Present for all Seasons. By NATHAN C. BROOKS, A. M. Marshall and Co.

Messrs. Marshall, of Philadelphia, have issued a seasonable and befitting work, well calculated to answer as a Christmas Token or New Year's Gift, although professing to be designed as a Present for all Seasons. The majority of the poems contained in this little volume have already seen the public eye in the pages of the Lady's Book, a monthly publication, issued by Mr. Godey, of Philadelphia, and celebrated for the variety and excellence of its contributors. Several of the pieces are of first-rate excellence, and we are satisfied that Mr. Brooks has done sufficient to ensure him an honorable place among the poets of the land. "The Destruction of Sodom" deserves a higher encomium than it is in our poor power to bestow-the grandeur of the subjects is treated in appropriate language, and gems of poesy sparkle in every page. A deep and earnest feeling of piety pervades the whole tone of the work. We copy a specimen for the satisfaction of our read

ers.

Salem's sons,
In garb of battle, mailed proof, arrayed,
Stood forth the guardians of the holy towers,
Fencing the wall with palisade of spears-
Or cooling in the fount of Roman blood
Their thirsty falchions in the flying rout.
Beneath the walls in wildest horror raged,
Making sad havoc, warfare; while within
Faction, with torch infernal, lit the fires
Of hellish anarchy, and fanned their blaze;
Hate raised the steel against his brother's life,
And smote; the battlements ran streams of gore;
And corses blackening in the sun, bestrewed
The streets, by fratricidal arm struck down.

E'en with the victim's, he had brought to God-
His ephod sheltered not the priest; oppressed,
He sank, profaning with his blood the fires
His hands had kindled up for sacrifice.

The pestilence, from between her livid lips,
Blew poison; and the atmosphere was death;
Gaunt famine raised her pale and spectral form,
And hunger, with her sharp and skeleton claws,
Tore the pained vitals of all things that breathed.
Whole families fell by fasting-faint arose
The cry for bread, from children, as their tongues
Cleaved to their husky palate; sucklings cooled
Their burning lips in their dead mothers's blood;
Parents the morsel from their offspring wrenched,

Dire discord flagged her wings, dripping with blood And mothers tore the delicate infant limbs

Mad murder raged. In their paternal halls
Children were slaughtered in their parent's view,
Parents, before their children; and the steel,
Steeped in the life-fount of the bridegroom's breast,
Sluiced with its crimson rain the bride's white robe.
Pious and impious fell-the man whose heart
Gloried in slaughter and dark deeds of death,
Vengeance o'ertook-and the meek worshipper,
While at the altar, yielded up his life,

Their wombs had borne, and gorged themselves

thereon.

All hope-all love-all pity was extinct;
All natural affection had grown cold,
Benumbed by the torpedo touch of wo;
And as the fainting thousands fell around,
Straining their eyeballs to the holy house,
Their only hope, they called on Israel's God,
And mingling prayers and curses, madly died.

Various embellishments from Martin, West, and Westall, illustrate the subjects of the poems.

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