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 before him and turning a stone-deaf ear to the learned prosecutor,—is one that must fill the breast of every lover of our free institutions with hope and joy.

Mr. Cohen is the honor of our Tribunals, the palladium of our Liberties, the conscience of our Press, the ornament of our Civilization, the fosterer and protector of our Arts, the inspiration of every public good, the refreshment of every private bosom.

To attempt to sum up an inexhaustible subject, Cohen is Cohen, whom not to know is to argue yourself unknown and hopelessly out of the running.

I repeat, Cohen is Cohen. Which is to say, pure New York!

THE DEAD MEN'S SONG.

F the year that is past brought no other cause for rejoicing, at least it discovered for us the man who wrote that ripping piratical blood-boltered ballad "Fifteen Men on the Dead Man's Chest." I do not refer merely to the original gruesome quatrain quoted in Robert Louis's "Treasure Island"—  

but to the elaborate piece of rhythmic devilry evolved and educed and expanded therefrom by a heretofore unknown or, at any rate, unaccredited hand. Here follows the sanguine sonata alluded to, an impeccable text favored with the latest revision of the only true and genuine author.

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest— Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest— Yo—ho—ho and a bottle of rum!

The mate was fixed by the bos'n's pike.

The bos'n brained with a marlinspike

And Cookey's throat was marked belike

It had been gripped By fingers ten;