As to my mesmerico-telegraphic discovery, it may pass for what it is worth.  I shall submit it at least to my cousin Moses, as soon as he returns from the South.  People may believe it or not.  People may say it may be of practical use, or not.  I shall overhaul my terminologies, and, with the “metaphysical aid” of my cousin, fit it with a scientific name which shall overtop all the ologies.

Having dressed my new Fact in a respectable and scholarlike coat, I shall let him take his chance with the judicious public,—­and content myself, for the present, with making him a sort of humble colporteur of the valuable tract on Human Brotherhood of which I have herewith furnished a few dry specimens.

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.

EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL.

The company looked a little flustered one morning when I came in,—­so much so, that I inquired of my neighbor, the divinity-student, what had been going on.  It appears that the young fellow whom they call John had taken advantage of my being a little late (I having been rather longer than usual dressing that morning) to circulate several questions involving a quibble or play upon words,—­in short, containing that indignity to the human understanding, condemned in the passages from the distinguished moralist of the last century and the illustrious historian of the present, which I cited on a former occasion, and known as a pun.  After breakfast, one of the boarders handed me a small roll of paper containing some of the questions and their answers.  I subjoin two or three of them, to show what a tendency there is to frivolity and meaningless talk in young persons of a certain sort, when not restrained by the presence of more reflective natures.—­It was asked, “Why tertian and quartan fevers were like certain short-lived insects.”  Some interesting physiological relation would be naturally suggested.  The inquirer blushes to find that the answer is in the paltry equivocation, that they skip a day or two.—­“Why an Englishman must go to the Continent to weaken his grog or punch.”  The answer proves to have no relation whatever to the temperance-movement, as no better reason is given than that island—­(or, as it is absurdly written, ile and) water won’t mix.—­But when I came to the next question and its answer, I felt that patience ceased to be a virtue.  “Why an onion is like a piano” is a query that a person of sensibility would be slow to propose; but that in an educated community an individual could be found to answer it in these words,—­“Because it smell odious,” quasi, it’s melodious,—­is not credible, but too true.  I can show you the paper.

Dear reader, I beg your pardon for repeating such things.  I know most conversations reported in books are altogether above such trivial details, but folly will come up at every table as surely as purslain and chickweed and sorrel will come up in gardens.  This young fellow ought to have talked philosophy, I know perfectly well; but he didn’t,—­he made jokes.