The process of killing a calf is a refinement of cruelty worthy of a Grand Inquisitor. The beast is, while alive, bled several times; in summer, during several hours of the night, and frequently till it faints; when a plug is put into the orifice till “next time.” But the lengthened punishment of the most unoffending of animals is at the actual “killing.” It is tied together, neck and heels, much as a dead animal when packed in a basket and slung up by a rope, with the head downwards. A vein is then opened, till it lingeringly bleeds to death. Two or three “knocks” are given to it with the pole-axe whilst it hangs loose in the air, and the flesh is beaten with sticks, technically termed “dressing” it, some time before feeling has ceased to exist. All this may be verified by those who insist on seeing the penetralia of the slaughter-houses; or the poor animal may be seen moaning and writhing—by a mere glance—on many days of the week, in Warwick Lane, Newgate Street. This mode of bleaching veal is not only a crime, but a blunder. The flesh would be more palatable and nutritious killed speedily and mercifully. But were it otherwise, and had it been twenty times more a luxury, who, professing to honour the common Creator, would, for the sensual gratification of the palate, cause the calf to be thus tortured? “ALL THINGS IN THE WORLD MUST CHANGE.” Would’st thou have it always Spring, Though she cometh flower-laden? Though sweet-throated birds do sing? Thou would’st weary of it, Maiden. Dost thou never feel desire That thy womanhood were nearer? Doth thy loving heart ne’er tire, Longing yet for something dearer? Would’st have Summer ever stay— Droughty Summer—bright and burning? Dost thou not, oft in the day, Long for still, cool, night’s returning? Dost thou not grow weary, Youth, Of thy pleasures, vain though pleasant— Thinking Life has more of Truth Than the satiating present? Would’st have Autumn never go? (Autumn, Winter’s wealthy neighbour), Stacks would rise, and wine-press flow Vainly, did’st thou always labour. When thy child is on thy knee And thy heart with love’s o’erflowing, Dost thou never long to see What is in the future’s showing? When old Winter, cold and hoar, Cometh, blowing his ten fingers, Hanging ice-drops on the door Whilst he at the threshold lingers, Would’st thou ever vigil keep With a mate so full of sorrow? Better to thy bed and sleep, Nor wake till th’ Eternal morrow!