heroic deeds. Hot from the field, and chafed with the heroio events of the day, your general unslieaths his trenchant blade, eighteen inches in length, as you will remember, and with energy and remorseless fury he slices the water-melons that lie in heaps around him, and shares them with his surviving friends. Others of the sinews of war are not wanting here. Whiskey, Mr. Speaker, that great leveller of modern times, is here also, and the shells of the water-melons are filled to the brim. Here again, Mr. Speaker, is shown how the extremes of barbarism and civilization meet. As the Scandinavian heroes of old, after the fatigues of war, drank wine from the skulls of their slaughtered enemies, in Odin's halls, so now our militia general and his forces, from the skulls of the melons thus vanquished, in copious draughts of whiskey assuage tha beroic fires of their souls, after a parade day.

METAPHYSICS.-FRANCIS HOPKINSON.

PROFESSOR and STUDENT.

Professor. What is a SALT-BOX?

Student. It is a box made to contain salt.
Prof. How is it divided?

Stu. Into a salt-box, and a box of salt.

Prof. Very well!-show the distinction.

Stu. A salt-box may be where there is no salt; but salt is absolutely necessary to the existence of a box of salt.

Prof. Are not salt-boxes otherwise divided?

Stu. Yes; by a partition.

Prof. What is the use of this partition?
Stu. To separate the coarse salt from the fine.

Prof. How?-think a little.

Stu. To separate the fine salt from the coarse.

Prof. To be sure it is to separate the fine from the

coarse: but are not salt-boxes otherwise distinguished?

Stu. Yes; into possible, probable, and positive.

Prof. Define these several kinds of salt-boxes.

Stu. A possible salt-box is a salt-box yet unsold in the hands of the joiner.

Prof. Why so?

Stu. Because it hath never yet become a salt-box in fact, having never had any salt in it; and it may possibly be applied to some other use.

Prof. Very true; for a salt-box which never had, hath not now, and, perhaps, never may have, any salt in it, can only be termed a possible salt-box. What is a probable salt-box?

Stu. It is a salt-box in the hand of one going to a shop to buy salt, and who hath sixpence in his pocket to pay the grocer; and a positive salt-box is one which hath actually and bona fide got salt in it.

Prof. Very good; but is there no instance of a positive salt-box which hath no salt in it.

Stu. I know of none.

Prof. Yes; there is one mentioned by some authors: it is where a box hath by long use been so impregnated with salt, that although all the salt hath been long since emptied out, it may yet be called a salt-box, with the same propriety that we say a salt herring, salt beef, etc. And, in this sense, any box that may have accidentally, or otherwise, been long steeped in brine, may be termed positively a salt-box, although never designed for the purpose of keeping salt. But tell me, what other division of salt-boxes do you recollect?

Stu. They are further divided into substantive and pendant : a substantive salt-box is that which stands by itself on the table or dresser; and a pendant is that which hangs upon a nail against the wall.

Prof. What is the idea of a salt box?

Stu. It is that image which the mind conceives of a saltbox, when no salt-box is present.

Prof. What is the abstract idea of a salt-box?

Stu. It is the idea of a salt box, abstracted from the idea of a box, or of salt, or of a salt-box, or of a box of salt.

Prof. Very right; and by these means you acquire a most

perfect knowledge of a salt-box: but, tell me, is the idea of a salt-box a salt idea?

Stu. Not unless the ideal box hath ideal salt in it.

Prof. Is an aptitude to hold salt an essential or an accidental property of a salt-box?

Stu. It is essential; but if there should be a crack in the bottom of the box, the aptitude to spill salt would be termed an accidental property of that salt-box.

Prof. You are very right. I see you have not misspent your time.

A DEAR YOUNG LADY.-LONDON PUNCH.

A YOUNG lady has said

That she no man will wed

Who's worth less than six hundred a year;
One would fancy, to keep,

A white elephant cheap,

If compared to a damsel so dear.

Full one hundred; no less,
She must spend upon dress,
Every year of her conjugal life;

Only somebody who

Is as rich as a Jew,

Could afford to maintain such a wife.

Oh, how lovely must she,

To expect so much, be!
But who prizes mere beauty's a goose.
Like the plum's bloomy rime,

'Tis brushed off in no timic,

And how then if your wife's of no use?

What can this girl, then do?

Can she bake? Can she brew?

Can she wash? Can she cook? Can she mend?

Or is she nothing worth

Than the fruits of the earth

To consume, and a fortune expend?

THE THREE WARNINGS.-MRS. THRALE.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dobson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room;

And looking grave, "You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you, and quit my Susan's side! With you!" the hapless husband cried; "Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared." What more he urged I have not heard; But Death the poor delinquent spared. Yet, calling up a serious look,

Ilis hour-glass trembled while he spoke : "Neighbor," he said, "farewell. No more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour. And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have, Before you're summoned to the grave: Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased, the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,

How calmly he pursued his way,
And what he did from day to day,
The willing muse shall tell;

IIe chaffered, then, he bought, he sold
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace;

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year,
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dobson cries. "Soon, do you call it ?" Death replies:

Surely, my friend, you're but in jest,

Since I was here before,

'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined, "To spare the aged would be kind;

Besides, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings, But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least;
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength."
Hold," says the farmer; "not so fast;

66

I have been lame these four years past.”