visited his friend Liti-Li-Li-Ho-Ho, the powerful king of the Cannibal Islands. The king received his guest with all the pomp and honor usual in his cannibal empire. At the feast given in the Captain's honor the neighboring trees were decorated with girls bound fast and awaiting the moment when they should be served at the royal table. One of the most toothsome was destined for the dinner of the distinguished guest; and when the Captain was asked in what style he would have his girl served up, he astonished his cannibal friends with the words: "Your Majesty, I'll take mine raw." Now, my friends, let us continue to lead a more virtuous life, so that when in our hereafter the question is raised in what style we shall be served, our guardian angel may sing out like the Captain, "I'll take mine raw."

WE have all been charmed by the mediæval love of the great Scotch bard; we have identified ourselves with the valorous knight, and have fought his battles, made love to the Baronet's daughter till the romance came to an end and we had to return to stern reality, Latin grammar and the problem of Euclid.

Our sympathies with the champion of bygone days is but natural, for we are his lineal descendants and lawful heirs. The Bohemian is the knight errant of the nineteenth century, only he wields the pen instead of the battle-ax; his enemy is no more the feudal tyrant, but the modern fool; he owes his dress-coat to the tailor, not to the blacksmith. But the romantic instincts of

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into the banquet-hall, gazes around him, and his proud eye meets the eye of Sir Walter de Mestayer Sir Godfrey de Newcomb deliberately pulls off one of his iron gauntlets and flings it on Sir Walter's pet corn. A wild combat ensues. Sir Godfrey fells Sir Walter to the ground, he puts his knee to Sir Walter's chest, his poniard to his throat, and bids him to acknowledge that Sir Godfrey de Newcomb's lady love is the greatest beauty of all ages and countries. Sir Walter pleads that he has not the advantage of a personal acquaintance, never having been introduced; but Sir Godfrey tickles his throat with the poniard, and Sir Walter signs the certificate.

Alas! these happy days are gone forever. The age of iron has passed. It is true we have in this country considerable brass and steel-sometimes more than is agreeable to taxpayers; but essentially this is an age of flannel and underwear. And still the age of iron has not passed away entirely; it survives in one form. Don't be afraid; I do not