Lee, John B. Floyd, Henry A. Wise, Lawrence M. Keitt, Judah P. Benjamin, David L. Yulee, and others of the same 66 school," have been arranged with ours, as though we were deep-dyed as they. While protesting against this wholesale defamation of character, we remonstrate that we have at the most only sought to live by our wits, while this school of banditti, the villains aforesaid, have conspired to ruin a mighty people, and to steal the wealth of an entire republic-to beggar and enslave a continent. No thief at the coffin's side, no operator in the panel crib, no midnight burglar, ever conceived a plot so base. Trusting your honorable Board will perceive this injustice, we respectfully petition that the portraits of the traitors, robbers, and sneak-thieves aforesaid, now in arms against the Government which has provided them with bread, may be removed from the Rogues' Gallery." And your petitioners will ever pray.

BLINKY RILEY.

LITTLE FELIX, alias Felix Duval, alias Thomas
Wilkins.

JACK DAVIS, alias Jack the Fiddler.
MYSTERIOUS JIMMY.

SAILOR JACK, alias Jack Harris.

LITTLE DAVIS, alias Sammy Davis.
LONG DOCTOR, alias Bill Johnson.
ISADOR GOLDSTEIN.

GEORGE VELSOR, alias Old Sheeny.

JIM PATTERSON, alias La Grange, alias Fancy. ED. ARGENTINE, alias Burns, alias Osborne, alias Wilson.

JACK CARPENTER, alias Murphy, alias Dobbs.

WHITE CLOUD. NED TIMPSON.

A GOOD SAMARITAN.-A letter from Washington on the battle of Bull Run, says:-"While in the quarters of the Michigan Fourth this morning, I met with a very intelligent corporal, who became separated from his regiment during the retreat, and was obliged to seek shelter among the bushes. When night came, he wandered along and lost his way in the woods. Being slightly wounded in the leg, his progress was somewhat slow. By Wednesday night he had only reached the environs of Fairfax. Exhausted and completely dispirited, he espied a Confederate picket, and deliberately walked up and told the sentry who he was. To his utter surprise the soldier poured out some whiskey, gave him food, told him where he could find a stack of arms, and where he could sleep during the night in perfect safety in a negro hut. He added: I am a Union man, but preferred to volunteer to fight rather than to be impressed. I thus save my property, and will trust to luck. If we meet again in battle, I will not try very hard to shoot you, and mind you don't me.' Truly a good Samaritan, and a wise man."-Phila. Bulletin, Aug. 2.

THE LONDON "TIMES" ON AMERICAN,
AFFAIRS.

John Bull vos a-valkin' his parlor von day,
Ha-fixin' the vorld wery much his hown vay,
Ven igstrawnary news cum from hover the sea,
Habout the great country vot brags it is free.

Hand these vos the tidins this news it did tell,
That great Yankee Doodle vos going to―vell,
That he vos a-volloped by Jefferson D.,
Hand no longer "some punkins" vos likely to be.
John Bull, slyly vinkin', then said hunto he:

My dear Times, my hold covey, go pitch hinto he; Let us vollop great Doodle now ven 'e is down; Hif ve vollops him vell, ve vill 'do 'im up brown.'

"His long-legged boots hat my 'ed 'e 'as 'urled,
I'd raither not see 'em a-trampin' the vorld;
Hand I howe him a grudge for his conduct so wile,
In himportin' shillalahs from Erin's green hile.

"I knows Jefferson D. is a rascally chap,
Who goes hin for cribbin' the Guvurnment pap;
That Hexeter 'All may be down upon me,
But as Jeff. 'as the cotton, I'll cotton to be.

"I cares for the blacks not a drat more nor he,
Though on principle I goes for settin' 'em free;
But hinterest, my cove, we must look hafter now,—
Unless principle yields, it are poor anyhow."

So Bull he vent hin the blockade for to bust;
The Christians they cried, and the sinners they cussed;
There vos blowin', and blusterin', and mighty parade,
And hall to get ready to break the blockade.

Ven hall hof a sudden it come in the 'ed
Hof a prudent hold covey, who up and 'e said:
"Hit's bad to vant cotton, but worser by far,
His the sufferin' hand misery you'll make by a war.
"There his cotton in Hingy, Peru, and Assam,
Guayaquai and Jamaica, Canton, Surinam;
Arf a loaf, or 'arf cotton, tight papers hi call,

But a 'ole var hentire his the devil and hall."

So he sent not 'is vessel hacross the broad sea,
Vich vos hawful 'ard lines for poor Jefferson D.,
Hand wrote hunto Doodle, "Old hon, and be true!"
And Jonathan hanswered Bull, "Bully for you! "

SEQUEL AFTER-TIMES.

Has Bull vos valking in London haround,
'E found the Times lyin' hupon the cold ground,
With a big bale hof cotton right hover 'is side;
Says Bull,"Hi perceive 'twas by cotton he died!"

MANASSAS.

BY FLORENCE WILLESFORD BORRON.

A requiem-raise the solemn strain,
Until it fires each mighty vein,
Till the great voices of the main
Speak in the tempest-strife;
Not for the hands in quiet laid,
Nor hearts that in the ranks arrayed,
The muster-roll of death obeyed-
The requiem raise-for Life!

A feeling thrills the ocean deep;
E'en Nature's self bends down, to weep
The tear above a nation's sleep,

Its night upon the wave;
They come the guardians of the land;
They come that noble patriot band;
They come heroes in heart and hand,
Those "bravest of the brave."

They fought where Glory, pale and low,
Lay wasted with the life below;
They rolled like thunder on the foe,

On lost Manassas' field;
'Gainst onward charge and rallying cry,
Though hope had fled, and death was nigh,
They bore, with gallant hearts and high,
Their eagle-flashing shield.

They came-in glory, power, and pride,
With trophies glittering by their side,
With banners won in battle's tide,

In triumph and in fame!

War-worn and stern-bankrupts of life-
Broken amid the fatal strife,

Scarred where Death's shot and shell were rife,
Those shattered columns came.

Before that Southern wall of dead,

What horror round their path was spread!
E'en Bunker Hill's dark annals bled,
To be in fame outdone.

Back from the army of the slain,
From old Virginia's stern campaign,
The wreck from forth that iron rain
A mournful honor won.

Wake, glorious Union-save thy realm!
Upon the quicksands strikes thy helm!
Thy "morning-star" the storms o'erwhelm-
Thy "talent" buried lies.
Wake! by the sullen cannon's roar
That tumult bears from shore to shore,-
By HIM who cannot watch thee more,
Save downward from the skies.

Antæus-like, thy sons rebound, Uprising from the ensanguined ground, Unflinching heart and hand-around Shall peal the battle strain;

* Washington.

FREMONT'S BATTLE-HYMN.

Now, three rousing cheers for the Union!

As we are marching on!

CHORUS.

Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah! Glory, halle-hallelujah!

Hip, hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!

-N. Y. Tribune, July 28.

THE BATTLE SUMMER.

BY JAMES G. CLARK.

Oh, spirits of Washington, Warren, and Wayne!
Oh, shades of the heroes and patriots slain !
Come down from your mountains of emerald and
gold,

And smile on the banner ye cherished of old;
Descend in your glorified ranks to the strife,
Like legions sent forth from the armies of life;
Let us feel your deep presence, as waves feel the
breeze,

When the white fleets, like snowflakes, are drank by the seas.

As the red lightnings run on the black jagged cloud, Ere the thunder-king speaks from his wind-woven shroud,

So gleams the bright steel along valley and shore,
Ere the combat shall startle the land with its roar.
As the veil which conceals the clear starlight is riven,
When clouds strike together, by warring winds driven,
So the blood of the race must be offered like rain,
Ere the stars of our country are ransomed again.

Proud sons of the soil where the Palmetto grows,
Once patriots and brothers, now traitors and foes,
Ye have turned from the path which our forefathers
trod,

And stolen from man the best gift of his God;
Ye have trampled the tendrils of love in the ground,
Ye have scoffed at the law which the Nazarene found,
Till the great wheel of Justice seemed blocked for a
time,

And the eyes of humanity blinded with crime.

Come on with your "chattels," all worn, from the soil
Where men receive scourging in payment for toil;
Come, robbers! come, traitors! we welcome you all,
As the leaves of the forest are welcomed by fall.
The birthright of manhood awaits for your slaves,
But prisons and halters are waiting for knaves;
And the blades of our "mud-sills" are longing to rust
With their blood who would bury our stars in the dust.

They die unlamented by people and laws,
Whose lives are but shadows on Liberty's cause;
They slumber unblest by Fraternity star,

Who have blocked up the track of Humanity's car;
Regarded, when dead, by the wise and the good,
As shepherds regard the dead wolf in the wood;
And only unhated when Heaven shall efface
The mem'ry of wrong from the souls of the race.

The streams may forget how they mingled our gore,
And the myrtle entwine on their borders once more;
The song-birds of Peace may return to our glades,
And children join hands where their fathers joined

blades:

Columbia may rise from her trial of fire,

More pure than she came from the hand of her sire;
But Freedom will lift the cold finger of scorn,
When History tells where her Traitors were born.

"MY MARYLAND."

[WORDS ALTERED.]

BY J. F. WEISHAMPEL, JR.
AIR-"My Normandy."

The traitor's foot is on thy shore,
Maryland, my Maryland!
His touch is on thy Senate door,
Maryland, my Maryland !

Avenge the patriotic gore

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, When vandal mobs thy banners tore,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Hark to the nation's loud appeal,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Before no perjured traitors kneel,
Maryland, my Maryland!

For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy patriotic strength reveal,
And gird thy Union host in steel,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou shouldst not cower in the dust,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Shake off thy sloth, wipe off thy rust,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Remember Washington's great trust, Preserve it from the foeman's thrust, And hope in God-thy cause is just!

Maryland, my Maryland!

Some months ago, a Secession song, set to a fine piece of music, and entitled "My Maryland," appeared in Southern papers, and was played and sung with great pleasure by the Secession ladies. The song had a line of real nerve running through it which rendered it very popular; but the sentiment was so false, and founded upon such gross misrepresentations, that it was offensive to any one not absorbed in the prevailing madness. The song was remodelled-its fire was turned against the enemy-and here we have it, the true utterance of a patriotism that still lives among the people of Maryland-as time will show. See page 93, Poetry and Incidents, vol. 1.

Hark, how the bells of Freedom toll,

Maryland, my Maryland!
And tyrants mock from pole to pole,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Better the ocean over thee roll,
Than sever the Union's kind control,
And slave thy children, body and soul,
Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland, my Maryland!
The rebel foes of Freedom come,

Maryland, my Maryland !
They menace thee with ball and bomb!
Thou art not dead, or deaf, or dumb-
Huzza! I hear thy fife and drum!

Maryland, my Maryland !

Drum out thy phalanx brave and strong,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Drum forth to balance Right and Wrong,
Maryland, my Maryland!
Drum to thy old heroic song,
When forth to fight went Liberty's throng,
And bore the Spangled Banner along,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Dear State! Beware the tyrant's chain,
Maryland, my Maryland!

Behold Virginia's throes of pain,

Maryland, my Maryland!

While rapine stalks her wide domain, Know this, that crime awhile may reign, But God will make all right again,

Maryland, my Maryland!

Our God will make all right again!
Maryland, MY MARYLAND!

October, 1861.

EIGHTY-FIVE YEARS AGO.

A BALLAD FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY.

BY A. J. H. DUGANNE.

Oh, how the past comes over me-
How the Old Days draw nigh!
Tramping along in battalia-
Marching the legions by,

With the drums of the Old Time beating,
And the Old Flag waving high!
And down from the mountain gorges,
And up from woodlands low,
Mustering for Liberty's conflict-
Eighty-five years ago!

Out of the streets of Lexington
I see the red-coats wheel;

And, back from the lines of Bunker,
Where Continentals kneel
And pray, with their iron musketry,
I see the red-coats reel ;
And, reddening all the greensward,
I mark the life-blood flow
From the bosom of martyred Warren-
Eighty-five years ago!

Hearken to Stark, of Hampshire:

"Ho, comrades all!" quoth he"King George's Hessian hirelings On yonder plains ye see!

We'll beat them, boys! or Mary Stark
A widow this night shall be!"
And then, like a clap of thunder,
He broke upon the foe,

And he won the battle of Bennington-
Eighty-five years ago!

Down from the wild Green Mountains
Our fearless eagle swooped;
Down on Ticonderoga

Bold Ethan Allen stooped,
And the royal red-cross banner
Beneath his challenge drooped!
And the stout old border fortress

He gained without a blow,

"In the name of the Great Jehovah!" Eighty-five years ago!

Out from the resonant belfry
Of Independence Hall,

Sounded the tongue of a brazen bell,
Bidding good patriots all

To give the oppressed their freedom,
And lessen every thrall;

And the voice of brave John Hancock,
Preached to the people below,
The Gospel of Independence-
Eighty-five years ago!

And out from Sullivan's Island,
From dark palmetto fen,
I hear the roar of cannonry,
And the rifle-shots again;
And the voice of valiant Moultrie,
And the shouts of Marion's men!
And I see our stricken banner

Snatched from the ditch below,
By the hand of Sergeant Jasper-
Eighty-five years ago!

Threefold outnumbered, Thinner and thinner grew Ranks without fear and true, Falling where firm they stood, Drenching the earth with blood, Wrapped in the smoke of deathNo more Nineteen Hundred; The river behind them, Forests to right of them, Forests to left of them, Forests in front of them, Filled with the storm of hell, Flashing with death-strokes. Bravely the gunners fell, Facing that storm of hellFighting till all went down; Then stood the guns alone, Silent their thunders. Still loud their leader's cry Cheered to the onset; Still bravely made reply All that remained yet Of Nineteen Hundred. Towered that noble form, Still aloft that gray head, Beacon 'mid the battle's storm. Dashed by a traitor's hand, Down sunk that beacon light. Crushed by the rushing mass, Threefold outnumbering, Charging on front of them, Charging on flank of them, Borne to the rugged bluffs, Nothing to stay them; Swamped in the crazy boats, Plunged in the roaring flood, Wounded and dying; Pelted by leaden hail, Fierce and unsparing, Making their passage good,

Many bold swimmers;