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.

your palate, steep them in

Barbecue your whole hogs to

shalots, stuff them out with

but

plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are, consider, he is a weakling — a flower.

ALL'S WELL.

BY D. A. WASSON.

S

WEET-VOICÈD Hope, thy fine discourse
Foretold not half life's good to me;

Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force

To show how sweet it is to be!
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;

Yet what to plead for know I not;
For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped,
And aye to thanks returns my thought.
If I would pray,

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!
Eternity each moment given!

What plummet may the Present sound?
Who promises a future heaven?
Or glad, or grieved,
Oppressed, relieved,

In blackest night, or brightest day,
Still pours the flood

Of golden good,

And more than heartfull fills me aye.

My wealth is common; I possess

No petty province, but the whole; What's mine alone is mine far less Than treasure shared by every soul. Talk not of store,

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
For him who lives above all years,
Who all-immortal makes the Now,

And is not ta'en in Time's arrears,

"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

CARLAVERO'S BOTTLE.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

HE rising of the Italian people from under their unut

THE

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