"_Only_ think--hiccup!--of a f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-d s-h-a-d-ow!!" echoed our hero, whose faculties were becoming gloriously illuminated by the profundity of his majesty's discourse. "Only think of a--hiccup!--fricasseed shadow!!! Now damme!--hiccup!--humph!--if _I_ would have been such a--hiccup!--nincompoop! _My_ soul, Mr.--humph!" "_Your_ soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?" "Yes, sir--hiccup!--_my_ soul is"-- "What, sir!" "_No_ shadow, damme!" "Did not mean to say"-- "Yes, sir, _my_ soul is--hiccup!--humph!--yes, sir." "Did not intend to assert"-- "_My_ soul is--hiccup!--peculiarly qualified for--hiccup!--a"-- "What, sir?" "Stew." "Ha!" "Souflée." "Eh?" "Fricassée." "Indeed!" "Ragout or Fricandeau--and I'll let you have it--hiccup!--a bargain." "Could'nt think of such a thing," said his majesty calmly, at the same time arising from his seat. The metaphysician stared. "Am supplied at present," said his majesty. "Hiccup!--e-h?"--said the philosopher. "Have no funds on hand." "What!" "Besides, very ungentlemanly in me"-- "Sir!" "To take advantage of"-- "Hiccup!" "Your present situation." Here his majesty bowed and withdrew--in what manner the philosopher could not precisely ascertain--but in a well-concerted effort to discharge a bottle at "the villain," the slender chain was severed that depended from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the lamp. THE UNITIES. Aristotle's name is supposed to be authority for the three unities. The only one of which he speaks decisively is the unity of action. With regard to the unity of time he merely throws out an indefinite hint. Of the unity of place not one word does he say. For the Southern Literary Messenger. LINES IN REMEMBRANCE OF THOS. H. WHITE, Who died in Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years. When nations prosper, they grow proud and vain, And give the reins to luxury and pleasure, Spurn their Creator and defy his power: To check their pride, Jehovah from his throne, Scatters his judgments o'er a guilty world. Forth from that idol land, where on the Ganges, The Mother to false Gods devotes her offspring, Or mounts the funeral pile--o'er half the earth Speedeth the Pestilence. Nor cold, nor heat, Mountains nor seasons can its course arrest. Realm after realm hath bowed beneath its power, Till o'er the vast Atlantic to our shores It brings the work of death. In early life I fell a victim to this deadly foe. Thanks to that blessed volume, which hath brought Light, Life and Immortality to Man, Death has no terror to the heir of heaven-- It is the portal to his Father's throne. This world is full of care, and toil, and suff'ring; Its joys are transient, vain and fleeting all, Illusive as a shadow. Happy he At peace with God, who quits it earliest For purer bliss. Rather rejoice than mourn That I so soon have earth exchanged for heaven. For the Southern Literary Messenger.