ungovernable rage. A young man suffering from the PEPPER-FEVER as

it is called, cudgelled another most severely for appropriating a
superannuated relative of trifling value, and was only pacified by

having a present made him of a pig of that peculiarspecies of
swine called the PECCAVI by the Catholic Jews, who, it is well

known, abstain from swine's flesh in imitation of the Mahometan
Buddhists.

"The bread-tree grows abundantly. Its branches are well known to
Europe and America under the familiar name of MACCARONI. The

smaller twigs are called VERMICELLI. They have a decided animal
flavor, as may be observed in the soups containing them.

Maccaroni, being tubular, is the favorite habitat of a very
dangerous insect, which is rendered peculiarly ferocious by being

boiled. The government of the island, therefore, never allows a
stick of it to be exported without being accompanied by a piston

with which its cavity may at any time be thoroughly swept out.
These are commonly lost or stolen before the maccaroni arrives

among us. It therefore always contains many of these insects,
which, however, generally die of old age in the shops, so that

accidents from this source are comparatively rare.
"The fruit of the bread-tree consists principally of hot rolls.

The buttered-muffin variety is supposed to be a hybrid with the
cocoa-nut palm, the cream found on the milk of the cocoa-nut

exuding from the hybrid in the shape of butter, just as the ripe
fruit is splitting, so as to fit it for the tea-table, where it is

commonly served up with cold" -
- There, - I don't want to read any more of it. You see that many

of these statements are highly improbable. - No, I shall not
mention the paper. - No, neither of them wrote it, though it

reminds me of the style of these popular writers. I think the
fellow who wrote it must have been reading some of their stories,

and got them mixed up with his history and geography. I don't
suppose HE lies; - he sells it to the editor, who knows how many

squares off "Sumatra" is. The editor, who sells it to the public -
By the way, the papers have been very civil haven't they? - to the

- the what d'ye call it? - "Northern Magazine," - isn't it? - got
up by some of those Come-outers, down East, as an organ for their

local peculiarities.
- The Professor has been to see me. Came in, glorious, at about

twelve o'clock, last night. Said he had been with "the boys." On
inquiry, found that "the boys," were certain baldish and grayish

old gentlemen that one sees or hears of in various important
stations of society. The Professor is one of the same set, but he

always talks as if he had been out of college about ten years,
whereas. . . [Each of these dots was a little nod, which the

company understood, as the reader will, no doubt.] He calls them
sometimes "the boys," and sometimes "the old fellows." Call him by

the latter title, and see how he likes it. - Well, he came in last
night glorious, as I was saying. Of course I don't mean vinously

exalted; he drinks little wine on such occasions, and is well known
to all the Peters and Patricks as the gentleman who always has

indefinite quantities of black tea to kill any extra glass of red
claret he may have swallowed. But the Professor says he always

gets tipsy on old memories at these gatherings. He was, I forget
how many years old when he went to the meeting; just turned of

twenty now, - he said. He made various youthful proposals to me,
including a duet under the landlady's daughter's window. He had

just learned a trick, he said, of one of "the boys," of getting a
splendid bass out of a door-panel by rubbing it with the palm of

his hand. Offered to sing "The sky is bright," accompanying
himself on the front-door, if I would go down and help in the

chorus. Said there never was such a set of fellows as the old boys
of the set he has been with. Judges, mayors, Congress-men, Mr.

Speakers, leaders in science, clergymen better than famous, and
famous too, poets by the half-dozen, singers with voices like

angels, financiers, wits, three of the best laughers in the
Commonwealth, engineers, agriculturists, - all forms of talent and

knowledge he pretended were represented in that meeting. Then he
began to quote Byron about Santa Croce, and maintained that he

could "furnish out creation" in all its details from that set of
his. He would like to have the whole boodle of them, (I

remonstrated against this word, but the Professor said it was a
diabolish good word, and he would have no other,) with their wives

and children, shipwrecked on a remote island, just to see how
splendidly they would reorganize society. They could build a city,

- they have done it; make constitutions and laws; establish
churches and lyceums; teach and practise the healing art; instruct

in every department; found observatories; create commerce and
manufactures; write songs and hymns, and sing 'em, and make

instruments to accompany the songs with; lastly, publish a journal
almost as good as the "Northern Magazine," edited by the Come-

outers. There was nothing they were not up to, from a christening
to a hanging; the last, to be sure, could never be called for,

unless some stranger got in among them.
- I let the Professor talk as long as he liked; it didn't make much

difference to me whether it was all truth, or partly made up of
pale Sherry and similar elements. All at once he jumped up and

said, -
Don't you want to hear what I just read to the boys?

I have had questions of a similar character asked me before,
occasionally. A man of iron mould might perhaps say, No! I am not

a man of iron mould, and said that I should be delighted.
The Professor then read - with that slightly sing-song cadence

which is observed to be common in poets reading their own verses -
the following stanzas; holding them at a focal distance of about

two feet and a half, with an occasionalmovement back or forward
for better adjustment, the appearance of which has been likened by

some impertinent young folks to that of the act of playing on the
trombone. His eyesight was never better; I have his word for it.

MARE RUBRUM.
FLASH out a stream of blood-red wine! -

For I would drink to other days;
And brighter shall their memory shine,

Seen flaming through its crimson blaze.
The roses die, the summers fade;

But every ghost of boyhood's dream
By Nature's magic power is laid

To sleep beneath this blood-red stream.
It filled the purple grapes that lay

And drank the splendors of the sun
Where the long summer's cloudless day

Is mirrored in the broad Garonne;
It pictures still the bacchant shapes

That saw their hoarded sunlight shed, -
The maidens dancing on the grapes, -

Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.
Beneath these waves of crimson lie,

In rosy fetters prisoned fast,
Those flitting shapes that never die,

The swift-winged visions of the past.
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim,

Each shadow rends its flowery chain,
Springs in a bubble from its brim

And walks the chambers of the brain.
Poor Beauty! time and fortune's wrong

No form nor feature may withstand, -
Thy wrecks are scattered all along,