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At A LETTER OF ADVICE. To Araminta, in Augusta, from her Friend in Charleston. BY 8. A. D. So. you're Baft in Augusta, my darling, Where beaux can be counted by dozens, With numerous friends of both sexes, And can claim three real, live male cousins ? Be sure von accept each invite To walk, dance, or drive with a bean; But if asked to be third in a party, ny dear Araminta, say No. The ‘Club 1 ’ you will surely attend; (Debating, the mind saves from rust,) Do writeme what subjects you choose. And if people, or things are discussed. Of course such a ••Club” admits men (To keep all in order, you know,) If they hint at a petticoat party, My dear Araminta, say No. 1 know there are some—you’ll discover Ere long—of the “genus homo,” Who are cut out by Fate for a lover; Whose smile can bring pleasure or woe; Be sure, if one asks yon to meet him “By moonlight alone,” you don’t go, Though the next Congress promise to seat him— My dear Araminta, say No. For the soil of Augusta produces Deficient specimens from your own State; Fast women, f«et men. and fast manners, And other things at the same rate; So, a novice like you. may believe “AH that glitters is gold”—not mere show; Love from such, if you’re asked to receive, My dear Araminta, say No. I hear there is some one who dances The “German” delightfully ; still His heels have not been educated At thu cost of his head. He can fill The Professor’s or President’s chair— His language always comme il fant; But If he be named “Jones” or “Smith,” My dear Araminta, say No. Will he take you to Paris this year; Can you find in his jewels a flaw; Does he bore you with Russians and Turks; Will he give you a Mother-in-law f W’ill he throw awsy pipes or cigars, If you plead in a voice sweet and low ? Yet dares to belong to a “Lodge, ” Tht n, dear Araminta, say No. If he reads not the whole of the papers, If he ever gets sick when at sea; If he dares have the blues or the vapors; If he’s cross or impatient for tea; If he parteth his hair in the middle— Says the “(Quadrille” and “Glide” are “no go;” If he loves not the sound of a fiddle, My dear Araminta, say No. If he talks of his travels for hours; If he does not look grand as he talks; If he dotes not on music and flowers, Nor like a young demi-god walks; If he thinks Hampton only a mortal. And Gordon “a little too slow,” Taough he enters society’s portal, My dear Araminta, say No. If he mentions the taxes before yon; If he likes not the style of your dress; If he swears not he’ll ever adore you, And when in the wrong will confess; If ever his converse seems flat; If his forehead or stature is low; If he is not a staunch Democrat, My dear Araminta, say No. TAKE CARE WHOM YOU TRUST. BY COMPTON READE. CHAPTER XXIII. ‘Chase away foul melancholy,’ rang the merry tones of yoang Ralph, as he tried to cheer np his downcast friends of the dreary Portobello Park lodgings. ‘ There is a trner wisdom in the maxims of the old madrigal writers than mel ody.’ ‘ Very good advice,’ said Mr. Lovett; ‘ let ns adopt it. Adine.’ Whereupon, without further ado, Mr. Ralph offered them seats in a box at the Opera that very evening. Mdlle. Neillson was to sing in ‘La Traviata.’ • Delightful!’ exclaimed Adine, at once emerg ing from her cloud. ‘Truly delightful. How kind of you. Whose box is it ? ’ ‘ My friend, Lady Montresor’s,’ responded Raiph timorously, not without a tell-tale blush, much observed of Adine. ‘But I haven’t a dress fit for the Opera, Dore.’ And a little sigh escaped the fair breast. ‘ I shan’t be ashamed of you.’ smiled her hus band. But Adine was not reassured; she would go and think over her wardrobe, to ascertain if the proposed relaxation was compatible with her toilette. In a few minutes she returned very much bet ter. Art had hit upon a combination of vest ments which would render the Opera a possi bility and a pleasure. Accordingly a brougham was ordered, a fan purchased, with two pairs of gloves, and sundry other essentials, all of which cost money, and in due time they found themselves ushered into a box on the grand tier, for the first time in their lives. Rosa Montresor, when they were introduced by Ralph, was looking very lovely. Placed by the side of Adine, the contrast was, perhaps, rather betwten art and nature. Both were very beautiful; for Adine under all circumstances never lost one iota of her natural charms, and Rosa’s art, occasioned by reason of her varying health, was so artistic as simply to restore to her the brilliancy, which not long since, had been hers. Perhaps by the glaring gaslight art show ed to the best advantage—through an opera glass. Of coure the country people, gentle though they were, displayed the least little amount of mauvaise honte, not to say shyness. A title to some people acts as a repellant. Rosa, quick of perception, tried to form an estimate of them. ‘ Not a bad sort of fellow,’ she thought, as she watched Theodore Lovett. ‘He is engrossed in the music, and that covers a multitude of Bins. Besides, he is the friend of my friend.’ Alto- 'gether she thoroughly approved of the man. Of the lady her ideas were rather different: ‘ Very pretty indeed; knows how to blush; has known now to dress, but is rather deteriorated; over at tentive to my friend Ralph; he, too, looks as if those great blue eyes had their influence. Bah ! men are false, especially young men.’ And, Lady Montresor, finding that Mr. Lovett would not flirt, and that Ralph paid Mrs. Lovett equal attention to herself, fell oat of temper—genteel ly of coarse. She coaid not realise her lover’s friendship for Adine. Jealousy positively caused her to imagine that her ideal man would be guilty of the gross baseness of making love to the wife of his greatest benefactor; and all because he wish ed to make a pleasant evening as pleasant as pos sible. Such is woman. ‘ What a magnificent representation,’ cried enthusiastic Mr. Lovett, as he joined the thous and hands, who were testifying their warm ap proval of the exquisite Swedish vocalist. * Yes,’ answered Adine, ‘but I don’t quite like ’ ‘The morality,' langhed Lady Montresor,with • perceptible tinge of sarcasm. ‘1—I didn’t quite mean that,’ apologised AdiBe, blushing. ‘But it is bad morality,’ said Lady Montresor, raising her eyebrows defiantly. ‘And lovely melody,’ added Ralph. Wherenpon the Lovetts, alter the fashion of deputations to Cabinet ministers, thanked Lady Montresor ior her eonrtesy, and withdrew. * Do you like her ? ’ asked Adine as the broug ham rattled them homewards. * 8o so,’ replied her husband. ' She seems musical.’ * Shall I tell you a secret, Doee ? ’ ‘Eh?’ ‘ She is in love with Ralph, aud Ralph is in love with her.’ ‘ Nonsense, Adine; what an absurd suspicion. I’m sure Ralph is much too high-principled to ’ ButAdine’s laugh rather rebuffed this very feeble philosophy of his before it could well gain utterance. ‘ People don’t fall in love on principle,’ she said. Was she right? Lady Montresor drove Ralph back with her to Westbourne Terrace. There they found poor Miss Poodle in a state of yawn, but striving nev ertheless with praiseworthy zeal to exhibit her normal blandness. ‘ Poodle,’said her mistress sternly, ‘yon are tired and sleepy; drink three glasses of Moselle, and go to bed at once.’ ‘Indeed, dearest Rosa,’ was the patient re joinder, ‘ indeed I am not at all ’—a yawn—‘ not at all sleepy. ’ To tell the truth. Miss. Poodle was beginning to grow alarmed at Ralph’s influ ence with her ladyship. Consequently she in variably did her small best to render a tete-a-tete either impossible or brief. But Lady Montresor had a will of her own. Poodle, in spite of all remonstrances, did go to bed, in a very indifferent temper too; leaving Ralph to share with his lady-love lobster mayo- naise, and other gastronomic indigestibles dilu ted by vins mousseux, and ‘settled ’ by b. and s., with cigarettes of some mysterious compound that rendered back the thousand and one sweet odors of Eden. * You admire Mrs. Lovett ? ’ * She is indisputably pretty,’ he answered, in his innocence of woman’s nature, hardly appre ciating the drift of her words. Rosa Montresor sighed. She was reclining pensively enough on a sofa, which she was wont to compare to angel’s wings, it so completely supported a frame recumbent thereon. ‘And nice as she is pretty,’ continued Ralph, unheeding a sigh, which, to tell the truth, came from the depth. 1 Ah !’ broke forth Lady Montresor, ‘ how I wish I was indisputably pretty, and equally nice. Poor me! I languish here, the light of other days!’ And then Ralph began to perceive that he had committed a gaucherie. She was not offended : but there was a strange sadness in her tone. At once a brilliant flush rose to his cheek, and his tongue, which hitherto had failed to say aught but soft things, seemed nerved with a desire that be should quit himself like a man. * You are the light of my to-day,’ he exclaim ed, ‘ dear lady mine; ’ and flinging his cigarette from him he threw himself by her on the sofa, and seized her hand. She did not withdraw it. Nay, now he thought that he caught a strange look of pleasure in her softening eye, but the lids fell so as to hide her meaning as she murmured: ‘ I am not as ste is; I have no health on my face; I have no natural charms. You cannot feign admiration for mere patchwork.’ He was bending over her tenderly, and had pressed her unresisting hand to his lips and heart, when a strange thought flitted aero ss his brain. Could it be that this woman was p laying with him? He was practiced in the art of pleas ing. It was but a passing thought, aud he cast it forth from his brain as an evil. ‘I cannot feign,’he murmured, ‘fori know not how. I hare never loved before, and I shall never love again!’ True words. The noble eyes rose to ask his once and for ever if his lips spoke the language of his heart, and they read in one long glance that so it was. Then the great soul of Rosa Montresor carried her away. In a trice she had locked her boy- lover in her own white arms, with a vehemence which seemed to him as Elysium. She address ed him by a hundred endearing epithets, whilst the pent up stream of her mighty love, having burst its floodgates, welled forth with wondrous rapture. She called him her seraph—a punning pet name she had thought out of his initials and surname combined—and her little lord, and own treasure: and then somehow she seem ed to seek her rest on his bosom, for she lay there quiet, all except the breast which up- heaved quickly at first, then slower, slower, slower still, until suddenly she fell helpless, and be knew that her emotion had ended in a dead faint. His first impulse was to summon her maid. But no, that course might betray her. So he laid her tenderly on the sofa, and bathed her temples with iced water, and loosened her dress, though with fingers that trembled he knew not why, and just as despair began to whisper that Rosa Montresor had passed from him to the other world, and he cried to her to return, she awoke from her trance, smiling through her pain. ‘Ah, heart! traitor, false heart!’ she gasped, apostrophising the cause of her weakness. ‘Dearest, jou must leave me, or this great joy will prove too much for my weak life. To morrow, perhaps, to-morrow I may be calmer. You told your tale, Seraph darling, too sudden ly—and strange, I knew it before you spoke— but it was so delicious. Ah, love! We must count our love by hours, as others do by years.’ ‘By many, many Hours, I pray,’ he answered her. And so these two started on the strangest journey. Neither ventured to estimate what each could be to each. In the delirium of the moment they placed all their hopes for the fu ture, if indeed they thought of any future be yond to-morrow, which seemed to be gilded with a fascination so marvellous that it was as if earth had suddenly been transformed into a paradise more vivid than even oriental imagi nation could paint for those brains to whom piety is love. CHAPTER XXIV. Qa the morrow Ralph awoke early; dressed himself with the care and neatness which he had learned from his sojourn in London to be essential to civilization, and, we regret to add, having displayed much moral obliouity by writing to put off five pupils on the ground of severe headache, sallied forth to purchase some thing pretty in one of the various flower shops which are to be found in the neighborhood of Westbourne Grove. Having invested in about half a guinea’s worth of stephanotis—no very great quantity by the way—be walked slowly towards West- bourne Terrace. * Lady Montresor was ill—too ill to see any one to-day,’ said the servant ‘Send np my card,’ replied Ralph, authorita tively. ' Beg your pardon, sir,’was the reply, ‘Sir Joseph Toadie just been here, sir—commanded pnffect repose.' ' Could I see Miss Smith ?’ * She is not at home,’ answered the domestic, stolidly. There was nothing for him but to retreat He h :(1 lost five lessons, representing very nearly three pounds in hard cash; he was disappoint ed in not obtaining admission to his love; and was very anxious about her health. Still there was nothing for it but patience. He re solved to employ the time before he could in decency call again by visiting the Lovetts. At the end of Westbourne Grove he encount ered Mr. Barwyn. 'Ha!' said that individual, 'here so early? Pray where do you hail from? Flowers, too! This is mysterious.’ ‘I’ve been to call on Lady Montresor,’ he simply said. Whereupon Barwyn burst into a hoarse laugh. ‘Sly dog!’ he oried. ‘There is no fathoming the depth of yon young men from the country. Se riously, however, Ralph, you must take care, you know.’ ‘Why? enquired Ralph, amazed. ' Because our vicar and curates are devilish ly sharp. Rosa Montresor is good game; in fact I had my own little affair with her, and very agreeable it was’—here Barwyn winked in vulgar style; ‘but these things are apt 'toi get round, *o prudence intervened, and I gave it up.’ ‘ Wha—hat the devil do you mean ?’ almost shouted Ralph, advancing in his wrath, as if to annihilate the man who dared asperse his love’s fair fame in this unmanly fashion. Barwyn paled. He was coward to the back bone. But his stock of inborn low cunning never deserted him. ‘ My dear fellow,’ he replied, retreating a step by way of caution, ‘ I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. Far from it. I had no idea you were so much in earnest. Bless the boy! why you’re never going to commit an assault in the street?’ ‘ You must unsay that insinuation of yours against Lady Montresor,’ he said sternly, hold ing Barwyn by the collar of his coat. Barwyn was silent, but loosed right and left for aid. ‘ You have lied,’continued Ralph. ‘I know all about your infamous conduct. Lady Mon tresor herself has narrated the story, and if I catch you again spreading such a false report about the purest and best lady who ever conde scended to utter to a rascal like you, I’ll break every bone in your skin, Mr. Barwyn, and tell your wife into the bargain.’ A knock-down blow this last, for Barwyn the worthless and dissipated was mainly dependent on his wife’s relations for his daily bread. ‘ If I could see a policeman ’ began Mr. Barwm, livid with rage. ‘ You’d give me in charge? No, you wouldn’t, unless I were to strike you, and then perhaps you might—onto! cowardice.’ With which he turned on his heel, leaving the man he had thus thoroughly insulted to devise vendetta with all the acumen of a mean, white - livered and diabolical nature. Mr. Barwyn’s brain traveled very fast indeed. Ere Ralph was out of sight he had bit upon an idea, which he was not slow at putting into ex- ecutton. Turning down Westbourne Terrace he march ed straight to Lftdv Montresor’s house, and in quired for Miss Smith. To him that lady was at home, and she seemed, too, poor fool, very delighted to see his not very veracious face. His greeting, when they were alone, was some what demonstrative for a married man, for he kissed her very warmly indeed, and to judge by the expression of her face she seemed in no wise displeased, or annoyed, or surprised. Mr. Barwyn’s lips were something short of stran gers to hers. This poodle—retriever would have been a better sobriquet—of Lady Montresor’s hiring, was certainly pretty. Perhaps, strictly speak ing, she was prettier than her mistress, bat she lackod the spirituel grace which is the very es sence of real beauty. She looked lovely enough as she accepted the caresses of Mr. Barwyn; a bright, irregular-featured, ignoble, but fascina ting thing, without one jot of moral principle, selfish and greedy, yet to her lover prepared for the very bathos of self-sacrifice. ‘How is Rosa?' he inquired. ‘ What do you want to know for?’ she replied, snappishly, ‘.Sd’^'tfhole form of- her face chang ing in a moment. ‘My pet,’ said he, playfully chucking her under a very pimpled chin, ‘ must not be silly. What do I care for Rosa Montresor? Didn’t I tell you that my only motive in making love to her was exactly the same as yours in being friends with her—a cheque?’ ‘ I can hardly believe you,’ she murmured, gazing at him dubiously, ‘Rosa is far better style than poor I.’ How strange it is that women imagine that a rake of a fellow like this Barwyn, who had al ways a dozen or so ot amours on hand, must perforce be in love with one woman, and with one woman only ! Barwyn was quite as much in love with Miss Poodle as with Lady Montre sor, and quite as much with Lady Mcntresor as with Miss Poodle. A little fondling by a practiced hand soon put the girl in a good temper with herself and her lover. Then he came to the point. ‘ Is that ill-mannered clown, Ralph, perpetu ally about her still ?’ ‘ He is,’ she Answered. ‘ But I’ve put a stop per on it for the present. Rosa came home with him from the opera last night. He got her to give seats to some country friends of his, a minor canon of Blankton and his wife ’ ‘ What, never Lovett ?’ cried Barwyn. ‘Why he married the prettiest girl in Blankshire. I remember her as Miss Sinclair; such a foot and ankle; such a ’ ‘ There, there !’ interrupted his fair hearer, not over-pleased at this laudation of Adine. ‘ Well, as I was going to say, Rosa brought this fellow home, and I was de trop, and told so, too, to my face.’ ‘ What impudence!’ ‘ And, would you believe it, my lady had a fit, aud when the maid came to help her to bed she was found partially undressed. Wasn't it hor rid of her ?’ ‘Whew!’whistled Mr. Barwyn. ‘Really the morals of this generation must be attended to. I wonder now that such a good, pious, straight- laced clergyman as Lovett doesn’t remonstrate with this erring brother. Perhaps he is not aware of the depths of degradation, etc. Ha ! ha! Well, I think I’ll give the Reverend Lov ett a hint.' And Mr. Barwyn seemed very much tickled indeediat his own sinister waggery. ‘ You haven’t heard the whole story, ’ she con tinued. ‘ My lady is actually ill this morning, so I sent for Sir Joseph Toadie, who came direct from the presence of royalty, and at my sugges tion prescribed absolute rest. Consequently’— and naughty Poodle quite lost herself in laugh ter over the notion—‘when the elegant Mr. Ralph ventured to call this morning, at the rather early hour of 10 A. m., Lady Montresor wasn’t at home, and she won’t be for some time.’ ‘But he will write.’ ‘ And I shall read and retain—all. mind you, under the doctor’s orders, and for dear Rosa’s good.’ And sne looked so deliciously serio comic, that Barwyn, in an ecstacy of enjoyment, began to waltz with her round the room, tread ing on her corns till he caused her exquisite suffering. 1 You’re a very good girl,’ he said, ‘ and with your aid we will eliminate Mr. Ralph from the visiting list of Rosa Lady Montresor.’ • You’re not going—yet,’ Bhe faltered, crest fallen at seeing him take up his hat. ' * Business, deary, calls, clamors. I’ve a dowager of fifty waiting impatiently to be ogled, and a miss of sixteen, her lovely daughter, to be saluted chastely over the piano.’ ‘You naughty man,* muttered Poodle, naif vexed. Poor soul, her love for this creature was such fatal earnest He Bhrugged his shoulders complacently. • When are you to have your holiday, sweet ?’ he asked with much tendresse. ‘ When she is well.’ • And then you are to go to your respectable parents in the north, eh? And if it should so happen that I should, ttiaver«ith you, and we stopped en route together at some pretty place for a week or so, should we be happy ?’ She squeezed his hand assentingly. Yet why did she shudder as be returned her squeeze ? Idiot! She had already put one foot over the brink of an awful precipice. That lover of hers, so accomplished in his acting, meant to effect her total ruin; and only pour s^amuser—vogue la galere ! Whilst these two amiable personages were plotting together against Ralph’s happiness he had arrived at the Lovetts’ unpretending lodg ing in Portobello Park, where he found Adine alone, and rather full of their many difficulties. To her he presented the blossoms of stephan otis intended originally for Rosa Montresor. Noblesse oblige. They were in his hand, and he could not confess that he had purchased them as the first love-offering for his love. Adine was charmed. * What a pretty woman your friend Lady Montreser is,’ she remarked, concealing a certain amount of shyness by bury ing her features in the stephanotis blossoms. He was delighted. ‘She is lovely,’ he said, ‘perfect, angelic. I hope you will know her, and like her; I’m sure she will like you. And I must tell you, too, that she is very hospitable, and her parties are the most jolly affairs you could conceive. She is to have one the day after to-morrow, and I will get you an invita tion. Stop though, I was forgetting—she mayn’t be well enough.’ Adine opened her eyes. ‘Why?’ asked she. ‘Is Lady Montresor ill? She seemed well enough last night.’ Ralph looked foolish. ‘The fact is,’ he stam mered, ‘I called there this morning, and—and she isn’t well; in fact, Sir Joseph Toadie has or dered her to be kept quiet. ’ Adine opened her eyes wider still—very much wider. ‘ You seem on very intimate terms with her ladyship,’ and a mischievous smile played round the corners of her mouth. ‘Ye—es. That is to say, we are very good friends, you know.’ ‘ How sweet this stephanotis is. I don’t think there is such a fragrance to be found in any other flower. But it is expensive. I’m afraid it cost you a great deal of money.’ ‘You musn’t ask,’ he replied, blushing fool ishly. YVhereat Adine laughed very knowingly in deed, causing his blushes to double. ‘What is the joke?’ he asked, biting his lips, for Adine continued her merriment. ‘ Why, you naughty boy, you never purchased these beautiful exotics for poor me. Y r ou know you didn’t. Not that I am less grateful for them; under anv circumstances they are accept able. But they were intended as an offering to Lady Montresor. Confess now.’ ‘ I am very fond or her,’ he said awkwardly, ‘and I thiau, indeed I’m sure, she likes me.’ ‘Butshe’s married,’ rejoined Adine, a trifle more seriously. ‘Yes, if you consider a confirmed lunatic a human being and a husband. She doesn’t, and I don’t.’ ‘ Oh, but that isn’t right. She at all events enjoys the poor lunatic’s fortune.’ ‘Just so. It was settled before her marriage on her after his death, and he is dead, to all in tents and purposes.’ ‘ Fie, fie, Raiph ! I’m afraid this charming lady has bewitched you.’ ‘She most certainly has, and I’m proud of it. Where is there such a heart as hers ? Where could I meet with one so kind, so good, so lov ing ?’ • Hush, hush, I don’t mind your rhapsodies, but you know that many people, Dore for in stance, would call you both downright wicked.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘if to love Rosa Montresor be wicked, all I can say is, I’d rather be wicked than good.’ He was beginning to fume at oppo sition. ‘ Oh, that’s shocking !’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s very wrong-headed reasoning, I’m sure. Dore takes such a warm interest in you that he would be grieved to hear of such an entanglement.’ At this last word the countenance of the young man changed. It was in a curious constrained tone that he said: ‘ I should not wish to hurt Mr. Lovett’s feelings—nay, more, I’m so fully sensible of my obligations to him that I would strain a point to please him. But in a matter of this sort I can but consider myself and her. I must live my own life.’ ‘Yes. But you are young, inexperienced, im pulsive. You surely would not wish, by placing yoursolf in a false position, to cut yourself off irretrievably from our friendship.’ Adine was quite in earnest now. ‘For all the world I never could give her up,’ he cried, starting to his legs. His was the fer vour of a first and a wondrous passion. You could see the hold it had on every fibre in the nervous energy of his manner, and the too bril liant flush on his cheeks, which seemed to tell its own tale of that disease which was luiking in his constitution. As for Adine she began to feel offence at his abrupt and excitable manner. ‘ Don’t you value my husband's friendship then ? she asked, in a dry, half-sarcastic tone. ‘ I do, I do,’ he rejoined, ‘ thoroughly. In deed, Mrs. Lovett, I quite hoped that Rosa— Lady Montresor I mean—would have helped you in your money-difficulties, for my sake, but ’ ‘ Quite so. You know that we could not ac cept assistance on such terms. It would be wrong. ’ ‘Then good morning,’ said he angrily. ‘I hope yon will think better of it for my sake, if not for your own.’ And with these words he left her. ‘One more drop of bitterness in my cup,’ aigbed Theodore Lovett as he listened to this recital. ‘Adine dear, we have but ourselves to live for, and the little soul whom God has given us.’ (TO BE CONTINUED.) Jewish Mode of Slaughtering Animals. In our lecture on “Thelock” we had an occa sion to illustrate the enomalous character of a crnel Jew, by the mode in which we have the animals killed, showing how much study and hard work the Jew imposses npon himself cen turies ago already, in order to spare the slaugh tered beast, unnecessary pains. Here is an ar ticle on the same subject, from the London Jewish W orld, which will be read with some in terest. “The method proposed by those hostile to the Jewish mode of slaughtering animals, may be*termed “shock to the brain.” Before con sidering it in detail, it were well to make some preliminary observations. In the first place, what are signs whereby we may ascertain if a living creature does or does not suffer pain ? We know of two only for animals, three for hu man beings. The former, when they suffer, otter orys and make movements; the latter, while frequently exhibiting these signs, possess i ret another, which they use still more frequent- y—that of speech; they declare the pain they suffer. Clearly the necessity for this third sign shows the insufficiency of the other two. Aud we may well ask: If a man may be suffering, without uttering a cry of pain, and without making a movement of his limbs, why may not it be so with animals? And in troth it is so. We see animals laboring under some ailment, refuse to eat, languid, exhibiting feverish symp toms: they do not cry, they do not move about, but the analogy of human beings laboring un der the same symptoms, assures us that they must be snffering much. Again, in almost all dis eases of the brain, it often happens that there is paralysis of movement with preservation of sensibility. In such cases, if the paralyzed limb be pricked, the man feels it, bnt still does not remove the limb. In other cases there is what is termed, “painful insensibility,” that is to say, the limb is paralyzed in movement and in sensatton; it cannot be set in motion, it does not feel the prick of a needle, yet the sick man tells us he suffers pain in that limb. Such a condition may exist in an animal withont onr knowing it, for the animal could not tell us he suffered. When an injury is inflioted npon any part of a man’s body, he Vfeels pain and instantly withdraws that part from contact with the in strument, which is causing the injury. The in jury, the pain, the withdrawal, are all seeming ly the work of the same instant, bat in truth they form part of a long series of successive operations. 1st. The instrument produces an impression on the exernal nerves which en close the body witha complete net worn; 2d, This impression is transmitted to the nervous centres; 3d. This,impression is received or formed at the centres ef the nerval system; 4th. The man becomes consciousof this impression; oth. He formulates the determination to avoid further injury and remove the injured limb; 6th. This determination is transmitted to the apparatus of movement; 7th The movement is made. Now these different operations are per formed by nervous cells or fibers of different orders. It is easily to be understood, then, that a disease of the nerves, or of the centre of the nervous system, the nerve fibers of differ ent orders may be injured in different degrees, and some continue their functions while others cannot, and that therefore the series of opera tions just described, cannot be entirely carried out; they go on until the consciousness of pain, bnt stop before reaching prodnetion of movement. In such a case, a man or animal, wounded with a knife, might suffer the utmost agony, without manifesting it by any move ment. Even a word could not be spoken, or a cry uttered, because that wouid require the movement of the muscles of the throat. Altogether the qnestion of determining what pain is suffered, is one beset with the greatest difficulties. The author of the work we are laying before our readers, Dr. Rabinowicz, re calls a case, that came under bis notice, when a student in a children’s hospital, the hospital of.St. Eugenie. A doctor of the establishment, a young man of 30 years of age, caught the croup and died of it in a few days. During the illness, he frequently told his colleagues that no author had described tbe disease thoroughly; they had not suspected the intensity of the ag ony it occasioned. Poor fellow! he knew it bet ter than his teachers. We do not declare the Jewish method of slaughtering animals to be a mode of inflicting death without pain. Nature has decreed that pain should be experienced in commencing and ending existence. All we contend is, that it is accompanied by as little pain as possible. For take the method proposed—death by brain shock. In the brain are three distinct sets of fibres, one appropriated to sensation, the other special to motion, the third presiding over in telligence. If these nervous fibres be smitten by a destructive instrument with very great force, they are annihilated and those functions abolished. If the nerves of sensation be shat tered, there is no more suffering; if the nerves of intelligence are thus destroyed, there is com plete loss of knowledge, and so on. If the force of the destructive instrument be not sufficiently great to produce complete destruction at the first shock, there are symptoms of intense ex citement and irritation such as delirium, con vulsions, frightful agonies, according to the nature of the nervous fibres injured. An ex amination after complete brain shock has not revealed any material alteration in the brain matter; consequently it is impossible to say which part was during life most greatly injured by the shock. But it is certain that all these parts are not equally injured, for we perceive complete loss of intelligence, while the move ments of respiration are still continued, show ing clearly that the brain matter governing in telligence has been injured to a greater degree than the brain matter directing motion. How about the brain matter concerned with sensa tion ? Is it injured like that connected with intelligence and abolished, or only like that regulating movements and therefore not abol ished, only irritated and causing intense suffer ing? If we may judge from analogy when it is impossible, as in this case, to have direct de monstration, we should say this: In almost all diseases of the brain where there is paralysis of motion sensation is very often still complete; hence we may conclude that brain matter con cerned with sensation is less susceptible of al teration by destructive agency than brain mat ter concerned with motion. It results then that if in brain-shock, motion is not completely de stroyed; in other words there is plain, the creature suffers. Let no one say that where there is losss of consciusness there can be no pain. When we say there is unconsciousness we mean only that there is no visible sign of intelligence—the pa tient makes no movement, utters no sound. We should pronounce him dead, if there were not still continuing, breathing and circulation. But. in the series of operations described above, which are made in succession when a limb re ceives injury and is drawn instantly away, it was shewn that the perception which causes the sensation of pain is the fourth operation, while the movement, which is the manifestation of the consciousness of pain is the seventh operation. Consequently pain is endnred before movement is made, and might exist where the latter had ceased to be possible, especially as pain is pro duced in the part of the brain concerned with sensation, while movement proceeds from an other part of the brain which susceptible of alteration. In this much vaunted humane method of slaughter—brain shock, then there is no certainty that the animal does not suffer; indeed, it is probable that the animal suffers much. Now by the method pursued by us, in which the animal dies by hemorrhage, there can be but very little suffering. We know most posi tively that sensation, and therefore, suscepti bility of pain, exists only in the nerves and in the brain and spinal marrow, and not one of these is touched with the exception of the nerves contained in the skin. Bnt the catting of the skin endures only for a moment, and is of no greater duration than the shock. As soon as the skin is ent, there is no more pain, because only the trachea aesophagus and the blood ves sels are cut, bnt no nerve is wounded, and so no suffering is experienced. Now for a moment let ns consider, when the two methods we are eomparing are employed by inexperienced hands, or when by some acci dent the animal is loft some time without the operation being fully completed. By the shock method, if the animal be not felled with suffi cient force, its sufferings mast be frightful be yond conception. By the Jewish method the moment the blood vessels are cat, if even in sufficiently, the hemorrhage will be less abnn- dant it is trne, and the pain endnred continued for a longer time; bnt death is certain, and withont great snffering, because neither brain nor nerves (except those of the skin) are hart. Again, by the shock method, if the blow be not effectual the animal may after, seeming for a time, retarn to life just as some painful incis ion is being made. What frightful agony must then be endured ? But with slaughter by cut ting the throat, the hemorrhage prevents all possibility of return to life.