Egypt, than any other gentleman of my acquaintance, but he goes far beyond Mohammed.

Sunday. As my two beloved spiritual guides are both absent from the city, I did not go to church to-day. I cannot endure the Maultexts and the Mangletexts who supply their pulpits, and who are always prating about what they are pleased to call a good life as essential to religion. But what a blessed institution the Sabbath is! I know not how a poor creature like myself, busily engaged from morning till night on week days, could ever get along but for the intervention of this precious day of repose. On Sunday I always feel so tranquil and collected, that, between sermons, I review my transactions of the past week, and lay my plans for that which has just commenced. Sometimes, when the sermon is not very edifying, I devote the time of service to meditating on the best ways and means of increasing my riches, and consequently advancing the welfare of my poor fellow travellers to eternity. To-day, as I did not go to church I spent most of the time in posting my books. Posting books on a Sunday, as a general practice, I do not approve; but works of necessity must be attended to. I should not exactly like my friends of the Journal of to know how I was employed, though I was so wary it is almost impossible that my conduct should bring any scandal on the cause of religion.

Monday.-Rumors have of late been afloat that the "great financier" has turned Loco-Foco. They sorely trouble some of our friends, especially those in the Middle States, on whom he has been pressing heavily, in order that he may strengthen his means for bringing the South-Western States into complete subjection. But such reports do not affect me. I know the man too well to believe that he can ever turn Loco-Foco, except in the same sense that my son Bob became a Democrat. That such a change should take place in appearance is quite possible, for he has political as well as pecuniary objects to advance; and, I have no doubt, would rather see himself President than either the "Hero of Tippecanoe," or the "Orator of Ashland," or even "the god-like man of our American Athens. Still some of his movements were rather puzzling. But that tranquillity of mind which the blessed Sabbath always brings with it, has enabled me at length, as I think, to fathom his designs. He has already established one agency at London, and another at Liverpool. To these he probably means to add others in various parts of South America, at Canton, and other parts of Asia, to say nothing of Botany Bay and Van Dieman's land. I hope sincerely he will embrace New South Shetland in his plan. By agencies thus numerous, and remote from one another, he may establish a system of "kite flying" which will, by its magnificence, utterly astound the inventors of that noble art. He will draw a bill on Rio, and take that up by a bill on Valparaiso. This he will redeem by a bill

on the North West Coast, and then redeem that by a bill on Canton. When this is due, take it up by a bill on Botany Bay, (there are several banks there already) and that by a bill on Van Dieman's land, (where there is at least one bank.). The next step will be to New South Shetland, and then he can proceed round and round the globe. This system will come nearer the plan my excellent friend Newcraft has for many years been trying to discover, than any thing I have ever met with. Newcraft's grand object has been to mature a system of bauking by which the disagreeable necessity of ever paying at all, may be avoided. Postponing payment indefinitely, by drawing and counterdrawing on all the towns in the universe, is the next thing to never paying at all—and if the "great financier's" bank should chance to be bursted in bringing the system to perfection, why, then there will be only a verbal difference between postponing payment indefinitely and never paying at all.

I sometimes think this may be part of the "great financier's" design. No greater evidence can be given of skill in the art of banking, than by now and then breaking a bank at the proper time. He is extremely fond of comparing banking and steam-power, and I have often had occasion to think of the comparison, in reflecting on the fate of that noble steam-boat, the “Nick Biddle.” When that magnificent vessel first made her appearance in front of the orderly city of Vicksburg, where there seem to be more banks than churches, the multitude on the shore greeted her with loud huzzas. Her name alone sufficed to inspire in that calm and Quaker-like population this hearty enthusiasm. But, in some few months after, the noble boat burst her boiler, and now nothing more is heard of her.

McThwackem tells a story so pat to the point, that if I had any body to listen to me I would endeavor to repeat it.—As it is altogether too good to be lost, I must tell it to myself.

In the western part of New York is the beautiful village of JackDowningsville, to which the Slickville Yankees go to finish their education, before they venture to extend their benevolent labors to the inhabitants of "that great moral wilderness," the valley of the Mississippi, just as certain Swiss go to Holland to be polished before they repair to Paris. At this interesting little place a juggler was once exhibiting his powers, and his skill was so great that he utterly astonished even that worthy people, to whom legerdemain, in some at least of its branches, is so easy, that it seems to have been born with them. He thrust swords down his throat till nothing but the hilts were visible, and yet remained unwounded. He swallowed prussic acid by the spoonful, and yet remained unpoisoned. He squeezed him

*See autobiography of Ferret Snapp Newcraft, Esq., Democratic Review for May, 1838.

self into a pint-bottle, and yet retained his natural size and shape. Loud were the plaudits he received, which increased as the entertainment was prolonged, for each trick seemed more wonderful than that which had preceded it. At length, when the admiration of the spectators had reached a point it seemed impossible to surpass, he exclaimed, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will perform a feat greater than any you have yet seen." Without more ado, he took a pistol and blew his own brains out. The company, having seen the wonders he had previously performed, waited for some time in silent expectation that he would collect his brains again, and stand before them a living man as at first. At length they became impatient, and loud cries of "go on! go on!-what next? what next?" resounded through the room. But the poor juggler could go no further. This wonderful feat was his last.

By some of his operations the "great financier" has astonished the commercial world quite as much as the juggler by his feats amazed the people of the little town in the west of New York. Is this magnificent system of exchanges to be his last, or are we to exclaim "WHAT NEXT?"

Cætera desunt.*

* In a private note to us, Deacon Graball states that the line in Latin with which he closes, was presented to him gratuitously by his beloved pastor, the Reverend Dr. McThwackem, to whom he had applied for something pithy and pertinent to finish with. He adds, he was induced to wish for at least one classical quotation to adorn this part of his diary, from having observed how pretty the sprinkling of Latin appeared in the celebrated “black broth and iron money" speech of the illustrious Conservative from South Carolina. "I know not," says the Deacon, "what may be the meaning of my Latin sentence, but I hope there is nothing wicked in it."

We must tell the Deacon that there is something very wicked in it, for it means, if we apprehend it rightly, that this is the last we are to see of his diary. If so, the rising generation will be deprived of all that moral benefit they could not fail to derive from a perusal of other private memorials of so very pious a man, and so very patriotic a citizen. Is it not wicked in him to withhold from others a knowledge of the means by which he has acquired his wealth, and to which he owes his usefulness, seeing that he thereby prevents them from becoming as wealthy and as useful as himself?

There is, however, another sense in which the Latin line may be taken, and this we hope is the right one. It may mean simply that the history of "the great financier" is not finished. The preparations for the last great feat being but just begun, the catastrophe, of course, cannot now be given.

THE SPEECH OF THE MUMMY.

["The victory in New York is so great, such a perfect Waterloo to Democracy and its Sub-Treasury, that the Mummy in its Sarcophagus, would cry out against all true Whigs if we were not to rejoice with the overwhelming exultation that befits the occasion." — Whig Paper.

'Twas still o'er Egypt's storied land

While proudly walked the Queen of Light

Amid her glory beaming band,

And lighted up the " Noon of Night."

Upon the arid waste were cast

The Pyramids' long shades of gloom,
While they, huge relics of the past,

Towered 'mid the skies the Mighty's tomb.

The Bedouin Arab slept from blood,
The Wild Dog's howl had died away,

Afar the Nile's reviving flood

Sent flashing back the glancing ray,
Old Cairo's fanes in beauty glowed,

The marble palace softer grew,—
The Night Owl hooted to the Toad,
And Bats through Pharaoh's ruins flew,
'Twas such a night as Poets love,
When mind communes with mind above.

The Watchman on the Pacha's tower,

Had blown the trumpet note of time,
While in the dark eyed Jewess' bower,
The turbaned lover slept in crime;
A voice now came upon the breeze,

It echoed o'er Old Memphis' dust-
It pealed through Memnon's cypress trees—
And over Thebes' foundation burst-
Peal after peal, the echoing note,

Swept round the ruin's mossy peak,
As though the Whigs by every vote,
Had lease of power for a week,
And now it shook the solid land,

While temples rattled in their places,
As though the "Callithumpian Band"
Had given a concert to the Graces.
Such was the Whig's exulting shout,

Raised when the "Three Day's" work was done,

When through New York 'twas noised about

That Marcy lost, and Seward won.

The Snoozing Mummy burst his lid,
And came to speak of future time
From Cheop's mighty Pyramid,
Upreared by cruelty and crime.
And while he sported his segar,

(A kind down East, they call long-nine,) He freed his yellow lips from tar

With Arthur Tappan's "Temperance wine," Then with a hoarse sepulchral tone,

As Wise or Bell have ever lifted,

He sat upon the crowning stone:

And thus the Whigs of Gotham sifted, And while in Saxon tongue he spoke, Columbia started and awoke.

"What noisy Roysters break my sleep?— Has Pharaoh Primus got permission His Court on Earth again to keep,

By means of some new Whig 'Magician?' Has Israel's wandering host returned,

To bring new curses deep and strong:

Or have the Infernal Spirits learned
The last new fashionable song?

Has Queen Victoria got a Beau,

Or Britain's sway been made complete,

In Canada's fond hopes laid low,

And Freedom crushed beneath her feet?

Has grim Diogenes been able

To find an honest man on earth?

Or have the tribes beneath Old Babel
A second time been scattered forth?
Has Hercules the mighty come
To do the labors of a God?
Or has far Lapland's sorcerer's drum
Awoke the sleepy land of Nod?
No! no! but 'pon my time-dried soul,
The shout is from a tipsy Tory-
A self-styled Whig, who gained the poll
Of Gotham, at the price of glory.

Dark Ethiopia stretch thy wings,

No more regret thy children's color

For thee a Bradish loudly sings

And Seward, too, though somewhat duller.

And since their children's curly heads

Became so dear to every ranter.

The Whigs can't sleep upon their beds "Till they amalgamate instanter.

And backed by ancient maids and madams,

They preach and pray, and grin sardonic,