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

PROF. True:-and therefore an abstract idea cannot be either salt or fresh; round or square ; long or short : for a true abstract idea must be entirely free of all adjuncts. And this shows the difference between a salt idea, and an idea of salt.-—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. Very well! very well indeed !-What is the salt called with respect to the box?

STU. It is called its contents.
PROF. And why so ?

Stu. Because the cook is content quoad hoc to find plenty of salt in the box.

PROF. You are very right. I see you have not misspent your time: but let us now proceed to


PROF. How many parts are there in a salt-box ?
STU. Three. Bottom, top, and sides.
PROF. How many modes are there in salt-boxes ?

STU. Four. The formal, the substantial, the accidental, and the topsey-turvey.

PROF. Define these several modes.

Stu. The formal respects the figure or shape of the box, such as round, square, oblong, and so forth; the substantial respects the work of the joiner ; and the accidental depends upon the string by which the box is hung against the wall.

PROF. Very well— And what are the consequences of the accidental mode ?

Stu. If the string should break the box would fall, the

salt be spilt, the salt-box broken, and the cook in a bitter passion : and this is the accidental mode with its consequences.

PROF. How do you distinguish between the top and bottom of a salt-box ?

Stu. The top of a box is that part which is uppermost, and the bottom that part which is lowest in all


PROF. You should rather say the lowest part is the bottom, and the uppermost part is the top.—How is it then if the bottom should be the uppermost ?

STU. The top would then be the lowermost; and so the bottom would become the top, and the top would become the bottom: and this is called the topsey-turvey mode, which is nearly allied to the accidental, and frequently arises from it.

PROF. Very good.—But are not salt-boxes sometimes single and sometimes double?

STU. Yes.

PROF. Well, then mention the several combinations of salt-boxes with respect to their having salt or not.

Stu. They are divided into single salt-boxes having salt; single salt-boxes having no salt; double salt-boxes having salt; double salt-boxes having no salt; and single double salt-boxes having salt and no salt.

PROF. Hold ! hold !-you are going too far.




I do remember an old bachelorAnd hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted In suit of sables with a care-worn brow Conning his books; and meagre were his looks.Celibacy had worn him to the bones ; And in his silent parlour hung a cloak The which the moths had used not less than he ! Four chairs, one table, and an old hair-trunk Made up the furniture, and on his shelves A grease-clad candlestick, a broken mug, Two tumblers, and a box of strong cigars, Remnants of volumes, once in some repute, Were thinly scattered round to tell the eye Of prying stranger—this man had no wife.His tattered elbow gaped most piteously, And ever as he turned him round, his skin Did through his stockings peep upon the day.Noting his gloom, unto myself I said, An if a man did covet single life, Reckless of joys which Matrimony gives, Here lives a lonely wretch would show it him In such most dismal colours, that the shrew, Or slut, or idiot, or the gossip spouse, Were each a Heaven, compared with such a life.But this same thought does not forerun my

need, Nor shall this bachelor tempt me to wed.

As I remember this should be the house ;
Being Sabbath noon, the outer door is shut.

I do remember a precise old maidAnd hereabout she dwells—whom late I noted In rustling gown, with wan and withered lips, Demure and formal, dusting-cloth in hand, Rubbing her chairs, and meagre were her looks. Envy had worn her to the very bones ! And in her shining parlour flower pots stood, Decked with geranium, and jessamine, And orange trees, and roses, pinks and lilies, " Bachelor's buttons," crisp as she herself, And lowly passion-flower, the type of love! Six chairs, two tables, and a looking glass, Were burnished bright and oft; and round the room, On wall, in closet, or on mantel-piece, An old work-basket, sal-volatile, Portraits of maiden aunts, in ball-room suit, With lamb or lap dog hanging on their arms, Novels from Circulating Library, "Law's Serious Call to unconverted folks,” Love elegies, a Bible, and a cat, Were duly ranged, for ornament or use, As spleen prevailed or visiters came in. Listning, as through the house her shrill voice screamed, Scolding the servants, to myself I said, An if a man did wish to gain a wife, With show of courtship, here's an ancient maid, Whose lips have practised long before the glass, The faint refusal, and the eager yes Following as quick as echo to the sound ! And this same thought does but forerun my need. I'll instant seek—some younger maid to wed ! As I remember this should be the house. Being twilight-hour, she's out upon the trot To barter scandal for a dish of tea.



REMOTE from the intrigues of the court, and unruffled by the din of contention, our days were joyful and serene, like those which nurture the beautiful Halcyon. Enjoying the uninterrupted society of a friend whom I esteemed, and a wife whom I loved, the gods had left me nothing to wish. When I reflected upon the happiness which this intercourse produced, I could not but acknowledge the source of it. 66 How sweet to the soul of man,' would I exclaim, “is the society of a beloved wife! when, wearied and broken down by the labours of the day, her endearments soothe, her tender cares restore him. The solicitudes and anxieties, and heavier misfortunes of life, are hardly to be borne by him who has the weight of business and domestic vexations to contend with. But how much lighter do they seem, when, after his necessary avocations are over, he returns to his home and finds there a partner of all his griefs and troubles, who takes, for his sake, her share of domestic labour upon her, and soothes the anguish of his soul by her comfort and participation. By the immortal gods! a wife is not, as she is falsely represented by some, a burthen or a sorrow to man. No, she shares his burthens and alleviates his sorrows. For there is no toil nor difficulty so insupportable in life, but it may

be surmounted by the mutual efforts and the affectionate concord of that holy partnership.”

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