es which adorn a White face after an evening's innocent
enjoyment at the Club, and it fails signally to absorb the delicate
tint of yellow not unfrequently perceptible near the outer corners of
the busy dental department of the tobacconizing White man's
physiognomy.

Taking all these facts into calculation, my boy, it is plainly evident
that the variously-ornamented White skin is an article much superior to
the Black, and certainly designates its wearers as beings intended to
move in nothing but the highest natural circles.

Such being the case, we cannot blame the White Man for entertaining a
wholesome contempt and loathing for the Black Man; and the truly hearty
manner in which many of our more pallid fellow-countrymen breathe
ingenious execrations whenever the latter is mentioned, may be accepted
as a beautiful and touching proof that they appreciate God's benignity
in giving them a superiority of skin; even though He may have seen
best, in His infinite wisdom, to leave them occasionally without
brains.

Having been informed that the ancient and spectacled Mackerel Brigade
had returned from its monthly walk toward the well-known and starving
Southern Confederacy, I ascended to the roof of my architectural steed,
the Gothic Pegasus, on Thursday morn, my boy, and galloped slowly to
the stamping ground of the unconquerable veterans. Let me pass over the
events of the day in camp, when the sedentary warriors, whom it is my
glory to celebrate, were reviewed after the manner of Napoleon's Old
Guard. Let me pass over this, and come directly to Christmas Eve, and
the literary entertainment in the Mackerel Chaplain's tent. Captains
Villiam Brown, Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, a young reporter from
Olympus, the Chaplain, and myself, were the members of the party, and
we sat round a camp-table with two lanterns swinging right over the
bottles.

Rear Admiral Head shortly came in; and when the Olympian reporter was
requested to open the intellectual festival with a song, he
complimented the iron-plated branch of the service with

"THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL.

I.

"The lights upon the river's brink
In constellation bright,
Are winking down upon the tide
That twinkles through the night;
When in a gayly dancing skiff
The boatswain leaves his ship,
And as his oars a moment cease
Within the flood to dip,
He winds his call,
The boatswain's cheery cal