a poor, weary mariner on the voyage of life, (in the steerage,) who has
been buffeted by reason, tempest-tossed by imagination, becalmed by
fancy, wrecked by stupidity, (other people's,) and is now whirling
helplessly in the Maelstrom of conundrums? (If that doesn't touch your
heart, then has language failed to accomplish the end for which it was
designed--to deceive others.)

I'm the great American searcher after truth, and, though I've been at
the bottom of every well, except the Artesian ones, I am still a
searcher. Can you refuse to throw a straw to a drowning man, or a crumb
to a starving fellow-creature? Knowing that you have a mammoth heart,
and abundance of straw, and lots of bread, I feel that you cannot. List!
oh, list! and I will my caudal appendage unfold.

Is enough as good as a feast, if the former is enough of walloping and
the latter is composed of pheasant and champagne? (i.e.: Is real pain as
good as champagne?) TOM ALLEN evidently got enough in his late fight,
but I'm inclined to think that he would rather strain his jaws at a
feast than at a fisticuff. The Young Democracy once got enough staying
out in the cold, but, when some of them were admitted to the feast, they
did not appear to be at all satisfied, but grabbed at the choicest
titbits.

Is one bird in the hand worth two in the bush, if the one in the hand is
the Police Board, and those in the bush are the Supervisorship and the
Health Board? And suppose you've succeeded in getting your fingers on
those in the bush, wouldn't you try to make a haul? Why, I can imagine a
man who might have the Governor's place in hand, and yet consider one
bird in the bush better, if that bird could sing an old tune called
White House.