THE TEETH AND STOMACH.

A day in May this verra year,
A curious wrangle I did hear.
A set o' teeth, lang used to chew
Tobacco, bullock-beef, an' stew,,
Determin'd richt or wrang to ken
How much they cou'd wi safety sen'
Into the stomach.

The kitchen bell
Repeated its accustom'd knell ;
An' watery keen they eager look'd
At the few victuals that were cook'd.
Not half enough! Let's hae some mair,
Not half enough for students there!
Why, how d' ye think a man can study
Wi'out a well-fed drowsy body!
Impossible! Ho! Cook, we say
Let's have enough for once to day.
Remember sir, we rise at five;

Then thro' the day its naught but drive,
Drive at Opticks-drive at Greek;
Go to dinner o'er the Creek;

Chop wood an hour; study; shave;
We have nae time to tell the lave.-
But sir, you see 'tis plaguy work
Thus to labour like a Turk.
Go to, we say; set out yir table;
Bring forth yir beef as fast as able.-
Electrified, the poor Cook sprang
Like Johnnie Gilpin in the sang.
Down sat the teeth resolv'd to eat
Of all an' every sort o' meat.
The stomach said: Gude sirs, I pray
Gie me nae mair ado this day.
At breakfast, ye consum'd enough
O' bread, melasses, an' sic stuff,
That really, sirs, I speak in sorrow,
"Twill serve me thawing till tomorrow.
No noise below-the teeth replied;
The stomach heard, lay still an' sigh'd.
O' beef an' roots a big half pund
Were by the masticators grund.
A johnnie cake-a sonsie fellow-
That swam in butter warm an' yellow :
O' apple sauce, a heapit platefu—
Was not sic gormandizing hatefu'!
Soon disappeared!; a pumpkin pie ;
A sweet cake that was rather dry;
A twirl'd bun, baith broun an' greasy,
Were masticated pretty easy;
An' next a jug o' table beer

Ran down the throat to guard the rear.

It mattered not what came to hand,
If free frae motes o' hair an' sand;
All was welcome, as if forsooth,
Naught was emptier than a tooth.
Oh! Oh! my life-now cried the maw-
An' this is what I lang foresaw !
"Tis all in vain; these cursed teeth,
Will surely ane day be my death.
Three times a day, against my will,
They with a wanton malice fill
Me choke full up, wi sauce an' caudle,
Enough an elephant to maudle.
An' then the tongue will tell an' say,
Oh how my head does ache to-day!
Last nicht I thocht it wad hae split,
Or sent me ravin in a fit.

I coudna sleep-my heart was sair;
"Twas walking in the nightly air,
That gae me this-Ye gowks, ye lie
Ye never blame the pumpkin pie,
The apple sauce, the buns an' cakes,
The table beer an' big beef steaks,
Ye swallow three times every day
To banish health an' ease away.
"Tis these, an' not the midnicht air
That makes yir head an' belly sair.
Thus spoke the stomach; for the teeth,
All this time lay quite out o' breath.
The Cook came in and clear'd the board,
And all things to their place restor❜d;
But really sirs, I canna say

How meikle was devour'd that day.

Yet this I vouch--if tisn't blunder'd

'Twas somethin near ae gude half hundred.

REFLECTIONS.

AT the musing hour of twilight gray,
When silence reigns around,

I love to walk the churchyard way:
To me 'tis holy ground.-T. Wells.

WANDERING among the tombs of the "departed dead," when the lingering sun flings its last golden rays on the distant hills, I love to muse over the time-worn marble,--the silent mansion-house of the dead-the grave. And here with a kind of melancholy pleasure, I now seat myself on the broken fragment of a moss-covered stone, which is overshadowed by the branches of the mournful

cypress, planted perhaps by the hand, which now lies entombed beneath its shade. Now, while the long-standing marble, which has for years defied the wreck of time, and the newly-erected monument, are successively presented to my observation, I wander back in imagination to the period when all these silent slumberers were acting their several parts in the great drama of life,--when they passed from the theatre of action, and, became dwellers in this land of silence. Here the honored and the lowly, the conqueror and the slave, sleep on together, undistinguished, save where the lettered marble marks the spot, which holds their bones, crumbling back to dust. Oh! what a place is this for the contemplative mind! It furnishes the theme with which the gifted HERVEY has touched with a master's hand the deep sympathies and feelings of the heart, gathering from them a might with which to sunder the chains of the grave—an assurance that death is not an eternal sleep. But I forbear; this is consecrated ground,-thought is the only language of this common abode. Here, on my right hand, lies one who long since finished his career on earth, and departed to slumber and be forgotten. I find by the inscription upon his tomb, that he was of those noble few, who clung to the illustrious WASHINGTON, in the darkest days of our revolutionary struggle. Blessed be his memory, and sacred the spot where he rests in peace! And where now is that last remnant of a nation's hopes, who with him sustained the sinking liberties of the American people, when the tyrant would have crushed us forever? Do they still live to participate in the rich blessings for which they fought and bled? No; there they lie! The elr waves its branches over them, and the wild flowers are blooming on the rising hillock-their grave:

"A sacred band,

They take their sleep together, while the year

Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves."

But here on my left, rises the dark gray marble, bearing the name of one of far different fortune. It is the grave of a noble youth. His career was short, but brilliant. A sudden stroke of fate snatched him away in early life, when the noble qualities of his mind were first budding into existence. When suffering under the pangs of dissolving nature, he exclaimed: "The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice," and yielded his willing soul to God who gave it. And here are many graves before me, marked only by the gentle mound which rises over them. Could we know who slumbers there, doubtless we should find the honorable, the statesman, and the scholar

And were we acquainted

laid near the child of poverty and want. with their history, we should find that they once pushed on in the course of life, with the same untiring zeal after wealth and fame, with the same grasping for honor and glory, which marks the character of some of the present age. And for what purpose was all this toil and strife, which now lies buried in oblivion? And why is it that one generation, toils, dies, and is forgotten, and then another, pursuing the same course, like the billows of the stormy sea, rise but for a moment, and then are dashed forever! Doubtless this continual movement keeps in action the elements of society, which would otherwise become dormant and inactive. Yet in this eternal stir of life, men often act as though they had endless duration at their disposal. And in the minds of some, a strange and awful mystery seems to hang about the final destiny of this being, called And shall this mind of thought, which can as it were take hold of futurity, possessed alone by the being who slumbers here, forever sleep? Shall the clay, which moulders here, confine forever that part of "heaven divine," which for a brief space of time astonished the world by its superior brilliancy? Shall not this form, "created in the image of its Maker," when the last trumpet shall sound, rise and put on immortality? O blessed anticipation! The undying mind, cannot always slumber! This assembly of the dead, which now sleep in silence, shall wake to an existence without end -to immortality.

man.

"The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,

Whose essence is ethereal; they may try
To darken and degrade it; it may rust
Dimly awhile, but cannot wholly die;
And, when it wakens, it will send its fire
Rekindled forth, intense and higher."

MY.

H:

A CHAPTER ON MIRRORS.

"Ye who do compass earth about, and dwell
In subtler essence-
e-Ye to whom the tops

Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things."-Byron.

WAS it Prometheus who made a man and endowed him with a soul? Truly he deserves all praise for the imitation. And perhaps in him began the work of discovery, and perchance it is his race (more venerable than the Piscatorian gentry,) who still work wonderful inventions. The most subtle and nicest of these-that nearest to "man creation" which "nature's apprentices" have wrought, is the invention-pardon me—the imitation of the Mirror. Do you doubt it? Consider-examine the thing itself. Has it not materiality and immateriality--body and soul? It reflects-and Locke says, "reflection is the action of mind upon itself;" this of course implies the existence of mind.

But even more than man can do,—it can prove its spiritual being. The most profound argument of human littleness in support of its "soul existence" is but this, "I think: ergo, I am." But who has not seen as his eye has glanced aeross his looking-glass--a forma shadow of a shade-flashing athwart it, seemingly the inhabitant of that brittle dwelling place? Aye, who has not seen the vision stop-remain stationary-return him glance for glance? But seek it-it's there it has gone--ou cannot trace it.--Advance, and, dash the mirror to fragments--still from every remnant you see those mysterious, yet recognised features peering out, and, gaze while you will, still will that steady look be fixed upon you; -in short, "you can but by annihilating, kill."

But of what advantage is it to man? How does it benefit his condition? For unless its utility can be proved, its "living soul" avails us nothing." True, friend, and I will satisfy you there, and I will prove to you its utility by such palpable demonstration, that, satisfied with admiring the result of such worship, you will tolerate even in your wife an adoration so improving as that she pays her mirror. And you will love her the more as you behold her, morning, noon, and night, giving her devoted glances to another; for that other is so like herself, whom you own angelic, why should not she love it as well as you?

Nature herself was the inventor of the mirror, and still she bears