That a broadcloth coat argues sin, if not felony; If a man has the tact in the world to get well on, he Cannot be else than a thorough-paced scamp; That the "villanous rich" wear a cloak and a mask, all, And the greater the riches, the greater the rascal. That the cardinal virtues only endure, In the atmosphere with the "virtuous poor;" That nowhere are found the true Christian graces, Save closely allied to the dirtiest faces. I shall not contradict this delightful tradition, But beg--No, I won't, I will take it--permission, To state, that I think there's a word to be said, From a different text, on the opposite head. And so I'll invent, as well as I'm able, A new home-made, allegorical fable; And my honest purpose shall be, to see If the scoundrel rich have not borne a part In those noble charities, which are The pride of this jolly old city's heart. And if I shall find that the virtuous mob Have ever been known one farthing to pay, Without hoping a hundred-fold profit to make: Where the "rich man," the "miser," "aristocrat," "snob," Has poured out his thousands for Charity's sake, I'll lay down my pen, and have "Nothing to Say." * * * * * I shall not describe the SPIRIT OF CANT, Of popular humbug, and vulgar rant, And tell how he looks in a tangible form, And give the length of his horns and claws, The spread of his wings, the width of his jaws, And detail the other proportions grim, Which belong to a powerful demon like him. Go and look at the melodramatic stage, When a "spectacle" piece is all the rage; And there, in the midst of some "property" storm, While the sheet-iron thunder is rattling its best, And the rosin lightning, and all the rest Of the elements are, for some tragedy-reason, Making the "awfullest gale of the season--" See, at the sound of the prompter's tap, The fiend come up through the "Vampyre trap;" Take a mental photograph then, and there, Of that imp, with his "fixins" all complete-- The elfish grin, the tangled hair, The dragon wings and the scaly feet-- And you'll have a notion of him I mean, The demon of this, my opening scene. I might go to Milton, and steal, bit by bit, A description to suit my Spirit of Cant, A second-hand suit, but a "shplendid fit," As a Jew would assure me--but then I sha'nt. His work is to preach the humbug which passes For gospel among the "down-trodden masses;" And to prate of the "wrongs and indignities," which Are heaped on their heads by the "cold-hearted rich." * * * * * This Spirit was busy at work one day, Amongst a crowd of Bowery boys, When CHARITY happened to come that way; And she stopped to listen--though, sooth to say, She seldom is fond of clamor and noise. * * * * * "Now, pray, Mr. Author, wait just a minute, Stop! Drop