‘Salt,’ according to MORESINUS, ’is sacred to the infernal deities,’—­for which reason, we presume, those who were seated ’below the salt’ at the banquets of the Middle Ages were always ‘poor devils.’  Attic salt is always held to be more pungent when there is a touch of the diabolical and caustic in it,—­and therefore caustic itself is known as lapis infernalis.  ‘Poor Mr. N——­,’ said a country dame, of a recently deceased neighbor who was over-thrifty, ’he always saved his salt and lost his pork.’  ‘Yes,’ replied a friend, ’and now the salt has lost its Saver.’  The reader has doubtless heard of the lively young lady, named Sarah, whom her friends rechristened Sal Volatile.  Apropos—­a New Haven friend writes us that—­

My chum, Dr. B., is not a little of a wag.  At a social gathering, shortly after he had received his diploma, the young ladies were very anxious to put his knowledge of medicine to the test.  ‘Doctor,’ queried one of the fair, ’what will cure a man who has been hanged?’ ‘Salt is the best thing I know of,’ replied the tormented, with great solemnity.

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According to a cotemporary—­the Boston Herald—­the best Christians may be known by the pavements before their houses being cleaned of ice and snow.  This reminds us of a spiritual anecdote.  A deceased friend having been summoned through a medium and asked where he had spent the first month after his decease, rapped out,—­

‘I-n—­p-u-r-g-a-t-o-r-y.’

‘Did you find it uncomfortable?’

’Not very.  While I lived I always had my pavements cleared in winter, and all the ice and snow shoveled away was given back to me in orange-water ices, Roman punch, vanilla and pistachio creams, frozen fruits, cobblers, juleps, and smashes.’

Somebody has spoken in an Arctic voyage of the musical vibrations of the ice.  There is certainly music in the article.  ‘Take care,’ said a Boston girl to her companion, as they were navigating the treacherously slippery pavement of our city a few days since; ’it’s See sharp or Be flat.’

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Somebody once wrote a book on visiting-cards.  There is a great variety of that article; an English ambassador once papered his entire suit of rooms with that with which a Chinese mandarin honored him.  MICHAEL ANGELO left a straight line as a card, and was recognized by it.  Our friend H——­ once distributed blank pasteboards in Philadelphia, and everybody said, ‘Why, H——­ has been here!’ Not long since, a lady dwelling in New York asked her seven-year-old GEORGY where he had been.

‘Out visiting.’

‘Did you leave your card?’

‘No; I hadn’t any, so I left a marble!’

GEORGY’S idea was that cards were playthings.  And cartes de visite are most assuredly the playthings for children of an older growth, most in vogue at the present day.  Go where you will, the albums are examined, nay, some collectors have even one or two devoted solely to children, or officers, or literary men, or young ladies.  The following anecdote records, however, as we believe, ‘an entirely new style’ of visiting-card:—­