Strong ale is, undoubtedly, the most nutritive of all malt liquors, but being digested with greater difficulty than the other sorts, it cannot with propriety be taken but by those who are strong, and who use much active exercise.  The best ale is made from fine pale malt, and with hops of the finest quality.  It should sparkle in the glass, but the smaller the bubbles the better.  I ought to add, that in some cases of general weakness, where the individual is certainly recovering, and is possessed of a good measure of strength of stomach, a little of the finest ale daily will be found highly restorative.

Porter, when good, is not an unwholesome drink; but it is very difficult to procure it of the best quality.  I cannot recommend it to those who are desirous of preserving their health.—­Sure Methods of Improving Health, &c.

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THE GATHERER.

“I am but a Gatherer and disposer of other men’s stuff.”—­Wotton.

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SAMBO’S SERMON,

(From the New York Statesman.)

“Strate is de rode an narrer is de paff which leadeff to glory.”—­“Brederen believers!—­You semble dis nite to har de word, and hab it splained and monstrated to you; yes, an I ten for splain it clear as de lite ob de libin day.  We’re all wicked sinners har below—­it’s fac, my brederen, and I tell you how it cum.  You see, my frens,

  “Adam was de fus man,
  Ebe was de todder,
  Cane was a wicked man,
  Kase he kill he brodder.

“Adam and Ebe were bofe black men, and so was Cane and Able.  Now I spose it seem to strike you a understandin how de fus wite man cum.  Why I let you no.  Den you see when Cane kill de brodder de Massa cum, and he say, ‘Cane whar you a brodder Able?’ Cane say, ‘I don’t know, Massa.’  He cum gin an say, ‘Cane whar you a brodder Able?’ Cane say, ’I don’t know, Massa;’ but de nigger noe’d all de time.  Massa now git mad—­cum gin—­peak mity sharp dis time,—­’Cane whar your brodder Able, you nigger?’ Cane now git friten, and he turn wite:  and dis is de way de fus wite man cum pon dis arth! an if it had not been for dat dare nigger, Cane, we’d neba been troubled wid dese sassy wites pon de face ob dis circumlar globe.  Now sing de forty lebenth hym, ticular meter.”

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EPIGRAM (FROM THE ITALIAN)

On a Father who would not allow his Son to marry until he had arrived at years of discretion.

  Poor Strephon is young, and lacks wisdom ’tis said,
  And therefore still longer must tarry;
  If he waits tho’, methinks, till he’s sense in his head,
  I’ll be sworn that he never will marry.

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