intemperate fanatics out of bedlam. Others, again, oppose the march of Catholicism, and their cry is, 'Popery! popery!--our country will become priest-ridden; we must put down popery, at whatever cost.' But by far the greater number are weeping over the sorrows, not of Werter, but of the 'poor blacks,' who are fostered, fed, and kindly treated, in return for their services. Thus wags the world; each man has his hobby, in riding which, it would be well for him not to trample on the rights of his neighbor. THE TIMES. 'THE times! the times!'--the burden of that sound Falls ever on my ear, most dismally; And as from rock to hill its echoes bound, I ask my heart, 'And can it truly be, That 'Providence, which oft afflicts the just,' Has fore-ordain'd that all the banks should _bu'st_?' 'The times! the times!'--the cry of terror goes From field to field, o'er mountain, vale, and glen, And in a thousand anguish'd accents flows From half the 'doubting, doting' sons of men; While they are joined the cadence of the hymn in, By half the girls, and all of the old women. Though these be days of steam-revolving pistons, And labor-saving tools, of every kind, Yet do we moderns slay our own Philistines, Much in the manner you may call to mind Of him of yore, who, neither weak nor lazy, Abstracted, one dark night, the gate of Gaza. Yea, prophets prophecy, and dreamers dream, While stupid men look on in wild derision, Nor things of sober earnestness they deem The workings of each cabalistic vision, Which tells the causes of the things that ail 'em, As clearly as the ass explained to Balaam. ''Tis for your sins!'--as Pollux link'd with Castor Is ever seen, so guilt with punishment; Each mortal sin provokes a fresh bank 'plaster,' Precisely at the rate of cent per cent. Oh! deeds of crime, at which the bosom sickens. Ye've hatch'd indeed a pretty brood of chickens! 'Twas not for nought we made the Indians shank it, Far to the westward of the Mountains Rocky; While a tobacco-pipe, and three-point blanket Was all the guerdon of each hapless jockey: Fancy the march in dioramic views, Ye who have seen the 'Exit of the Jews!' The negroes! Hold we not this seed of Ham's In durance, equally inhuman, fully, To that which brought old Pharaoh to the clams? And why? Because their occiputs are woolly; Their lips are thick; their cheeks display no roses: And then, to cap the climax, oh! what noses! And meanwhile, drunkenness, on every hand, Hath rear'd her gilded shrines, and never rested; Till now, within the borders of the land, The only _draughts_ that don't come back 'protested,' But currently are taken, till the stock fails, Are alcoholic potions, christen'd 'cock-tails.'