pepper. Also particles of the tail-feathers of Spanish flies. He will
tell you that if you continue to use pepper like that for a long
duration--say seventy or eighty years--you will have iron enough in your
stomach, from the filings, to make a ten-pound dumb-bell, and blistering
stuff sufficient from the Spanish fly to draw all the interest of the
National Debt. If the pepper happens to belong to the Cayenne
persuasion, he magnifies it into a hod of bricks. It is his hod way of
accounting for it. Keep using it daily for half-a-century, says he, and
see if you don't wake up some fine morning and find yourself a brick
chimney stuck up on the roof of a house for bats to live in. It will be
a just judgment on you; and small will be to you the consolation should
some poetical friend pen an epigrammatical threnody to your memory,
telling in "In Memoriam" stanzas how you "went up like a thousand of
bricks."

"Beef?" says the microscopic man, probing the meat with a pencil of
light that beams from his right eye (the other being closed for
concentration purposes), "Beef, sir?--not a bit of the _bos taurus_
about it, sir. Horse, donkey, mule, zebra--what you will, but not a
single fibre of ox. Did you ever see the fibres of beef run in a
direction due north and south, like these? If you did I should like to
know it, sir. I inspected this meat raw, sir, to-day, on the butcher's
stall, and the minute _ova_ perceptible in it were those of the horse
gad-fly, not the ox gad-fly, sir. Yes, begad, sir, and I'm prepared to
maintain the fact upon oath, sir."

Porter and other malt liquors are favorite subjects for the analysis of
the microscopic man. As you are placidly enjoying your pint of
GUINNESS'S brown stout, he will look at you for minutes with a
compassionate smile. Then, suddenly plunging into his favorite horror