"The organ which my humble talents keep a-going is strictly independent, and I have no choice of candidates. I care only for my country, one and individual," says the editor, touchingly, "and can make no arbitrary discrimination of mere parties; but as you both advertise your tickets in my moral journal, a sense of duty may induce me to favor the side whose advertisement weighs the most." After this gentle insinuation, my boy, each chap hastily commenced to write his advertisement. The Republican inscribed his upon a _very_ heavy piece of brown wrapping-paper to make it weighty; but the Democrat selected a plain bit of foolscap, only putting in a hundred-dollar Treasury Note, to keep it from blotting. When the editor came to look at the two, he coughed slightly, and says he: "I have always been a Democrat." "But my advertisement certainly weighs the most," says the Republican chap, hotly. The editor ate a chestnut, and says he: "Not in an intellectual sense, my friend." "My paper is twice as heavy as his," says the chap; "and as to the Treasury Note, I had some scruples--" "There!" says the editor, interruptingly, "you tell the whole story, my friend. In the temple of a free and reliable press, as well as elsewhere, some scruples bear very little proportion in weight to one hundredweight." The American press, my boy, might occasionally adopt as an appropriate motto, the present Napoleon's observation, that "_L'Empire c'est la_ PAY." Turning from intellectual matters, let me glance at our country's hope and pride, the Mackerel Brigade, each member of whom feels confident of ultimately crushing out this hideous Rebellion as soon as national strategy shall have revealed the present whereabouts of the affrighted Confederacy. Last week, my boy, the Brigade moved gorgeously from Accomac, headed by the band, who played exciting strains upon his night-key bugle; and was only fired upon from the windows of wayside houses by helpless women, against whom the United States of America do not make war. Woman, my boy, is the most helpless of God's creatures; and is so far from having power to help any other being, that she even can't help being herself sometimes. The sun shone brightly down upon the spectacles of the ancient Mackerels as they once more took the road toward Paris; and as the light was reflected from the glistening glasses upon the carmine noses of which they were astride, it seemed as though each warrior had a rose in the middle of his countenance to symbolize the beautiful idea, that they had all arose for their distracted country's preservation. Captain Villiam Brown, mounted on his geometrical steed, Euclid, was conversing affably with Captain Bob Shorty, as they rode along together, when a Lieutenant of the Anatomical Cavalry came dashing toward him, and says he: "Captain, there's something missing from the rearguard." Villiam assumed a thoughtful demeanor, and says he: "Is it a miss fire?"