flesh of young pigs. It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should be cautious, while we condemn the inhumanity, how we censure the wisdom of the practice. It might impart a gusto. I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young students, when I was at St. Omer's, and maintained with much learning and pleasantry on both sides, "Whether, supposing that the flavor of a pig who obtained his death by whipping (per flagellationem extremam), superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a man more intense than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified in using that method of putting the animal to death?" I forget the decision. His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few bread-crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic, you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are, - but consider, he is a weakling - a flower. ALL'S WELL. BY D. A. WASSON. S WEET-VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force Thy witching dream And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power; Thy promise brave From birth to grave Life's bloom may beggar in an hour. Ask and receive, - 't is sweetly said; I've naught to say But this, that God may be God still, For Him to live Is still to give, And sweeter than my wish his will. O wealth of life beyond all bound! What plummet may the Present sound? Or glad, or grieved, In blackest night, or brightest day, And more than heartfull fills me aye. My wealth is common; I possess Than treasure shared by every soul. Millions or more, Of values which the purse may hold, But this divine! I own the mine Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. I have a stake in every star, In every beam that fills the day; All hearts of men my coffers are, My ores arterial tides convey; The fields, the skies, And sweet replies Of thought to thought are my gold-dust, The oaks, the brooks, And speaking looks Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust. Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow "All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith; "The wealth I am, must thou become Richer and richer, breath by breath, Immortal gain, immortal room!" And since all his Mine also is, Life's gift outruns my fancies far, In larger stream, As morning drinks the morning-star. CARLAVERO'S CARLAVERO'S BOTTLE. . BY CHARLES DICKENS. T HE rising of the Italian people from under their unut terable wrongs, and the tardy burst of day upon them after the long, long night of oppression that has darkened their beautiful country, has naturally caused my mind to dwell often of late on my own small wanderings in Italy. Connected with them is a curious little drama, in which the character I myself sustained was so very subordinate, that I may relate its story without any fear of being suspected of self-display. It is strictly a true story. I am newly arrived one summer evening, in a certam small town on the Mediterranean. I have had my dinner at the inn, and I and the mosquitoes are coming out into the streets together. It is far from Naples; but a bright brown plump little woman-servant at the inn is a Neapolitan, and is so vivaciously expert in pantomimic action, that in the single moment of answering my request to have a pair of shoes cleaned which I left up-stairs, she plies imaginary brushes, and goes completely through the motions of polishing the shoes up, and laying them at my feet. I smile at the brisk little woman in perfect satisfaction with her briskness; and the brisk little woman, amiably pleased with me hecause I am pleased with her, claps her hands and laughs delightfully. We are in the inn yard. As the little woman's bright eyes sparkle on the cigarette I am smoking |