which the pig-bristle lends its aid; there are
painting-brushes and dusting-brushes,
whitewash-brushes and distemper-brushes, stair-
brooms and hearth-brooms, shoe-brushes
and clothes-brushes, scrubbing-brushes and
bottle-brushes, hair-brushes and tooth-
brushes—brushes round and brushes flat,
brushes hollow and brushes solid, brushes
with handles and brushes without (or sine
manubrium, as an inventor has leamedly
named them). Bristles are also, as we
know, employed by the cobbler; and they
are used in making the tough ropes with
which the Shetland fowlers carry on their
perilous trade.

In Mexico and other countries where pigs
are reared on a large scale, many
manufactures are carried on in which pig-produce
bears a part. Cincinnati seems to take the
lead of all other towns in this respect. Mrs.
Trollope complains that she never saw a
newspaper without remarking such
advertisements as the following: "Wanted
immediately, four thousand fat hogs;"  "For sale,
two thousand barrels of prime pork;" and
that it is impossible to walk the Cincinnati
streets without encountering snouts of various
degrees of uncleanness. It is said that the
Cincinnati pig-trade began about 1835, at a
time when the Germans formed a notable
proportion of the population. Some speculators
began by making pickled pork of the
sides and hams of the pigs; others thought
that the "trotters" and the "cheeks" might
command a sale; others established sausage
manufactories; while the butchers were
willing to kill the pigs for the sake of the
skin and bristles. A Frenchman established
a brush-work, and bought and used all the
bristles; another collected the finer hair
from the animal, washed and curled it, and
used it as a stuffing for mattrasses. Then
came a lard speculator; machines were
invented for pressing oil out of lard (and
beautiful oil this seems to be, as the late
Great Exhibition testified); and the solid
residue of this pressed lard became the basis
of an extensive stearine candle manufacture.
Then came a chemist, who mourned over the
red streams which polluted the streets of the
town; he "killed two birds with one stone,"
by removing the unsightly refuse, and
establishing a large manufactory for obtaining
prussiate of potash from the pigs' blood.

Good reader; we have not, it is true,
supplied that autobiography of which the
opening paragraph treated; but we have, it is
hoped, gone "the whole hog" in showing the
main points in the life and death of a pig, and
the varied services which—willingly or not—
he renders to man. Many persons profess to
go "the whole hog," without knowing the
origin of the phrase; and we may therefore
tell them that Virginia is reputed to be its
birthplace. When a Virginian butcher kills
a pig, he is said to ask his customers whether
they will "go the whole hog," as, in such case,
he sells at a lower price per pound than if
they pick out the prime joints only.

A PAGE FROM A SAD BOOK.

IN the winter of 1851 I left Philadelphia,
at that time my place of residence in the
United States, to make a short stay in Boston.
My acquaintance with Boston is but slight;
for I visited it during a period of cheerless
cold, heightened by the constant prevalence
of east winds; and my own engagements
prevented many wanderings. One excursion,
however, which I took in its vicinity, put
me in possession of a document which I
think may prove not uninteresting to the
readers of "Household Words."

About fifteen miles from Boston stands
Salem, which will now be known to many
through Nathaniel Hawthorne's introduction
to the "Scarlet Letter." In this story,
allusion is made to the belief in witchcraft,
which, nearly two centuries ago, spread like
an epidemic not only over portions of
England and the European continent, but also in
these far off colonies; and, most virulently of
all, in the now unimportant little town of
Salem. Hearing that in the court-house
of Salem a few records of the examination
of some of the victims of a wild and
destructive superstition were permitted to be
seen, I was glad to have the opportunity of
accompanying a friend on a short visit to
the town.

Our first visit was to the Custom House.
We found it exactly as described by
Hawthorne- a dreary-looking brick building, very
much out of repair; the paint-work worn
and dingy, and the grass growing in the
chinks of the stones around it, rather conveying
the idea of a deserted mansion of faded
gentility, than an office in which some little
segment of national business was daily being
transacted. We first entered a room on the
ground-floor, in which a number of official-
looking personages were assembled, at that
time apparently not very actively employed;
and, in one or two of whom I fancied I
recognised some resemblance to those very
respectable fixtures of Government service
Hawthorne unceremoniously introduced to
the public. As in his days of surveyorship,
the floor was thickly strewn with grey sand;
but, in place of a stove, an immense pile of
wood logs was blazing and crackling on the
hearth; casting around the most cheerful
and inspiring glow. After warming ourselves
for a few moments, we ascended to the second
story.

The room we entered was a large,
unfinished apartment, covered with the dust of
years, and serving no other purpose than that
of a lumber-room. It was a strange, suggestive
place; a chamber for ghost revels, in
which you could not long remain without
raising mental ghosts for yourself. In one
corner several barrels were piled, in which