Although the history of the whipping-post is nearly worthless to one seeking to know what its value might be under all the favorable conditions with which it could be surrounded now and here, yet it is possible to point readily to one trial that should have been, and probably was, a fair one. A very few years ago--perhaps four or five--garroting became a terror to the London pedestrian. For assault and robbery, without intent to kill, the death penalty was too terrible, and the other penalties failed to intimidate, as they generally do when the crime is lucrative, easily accomplished, and not immediately dangerous. It could not be trifled with, and something had to be done. A "barbarous" whipping of the bare back was resorted to, and garroting subsided. The result was what the public wanted. Sentimental eyes may show their whites, horrified hands may go up, floods of twaddle may come forth in sympathy with the discouraged garroter, but men of common sense, especially if they have been garroted themselves, will say the end was worth what it cost, and believe in the inhumanity that achieved it. Nothing has been said of Delaware. No valuable lesson could be drawn from her without considerable investigation, and perhaps not then. She may do too much flogging, or she may not do enough. Her ministers of justice may be models of enlightenment, or they may be models of debasement. The lash there may be still a class instrument, or it may not. She has no great city--an exceedingly important consideration--and two portions of her people are jostling each other as nominal equals in the race of life, who but the other day held the relation of master and slave. She is probably not indifferent to a good name, and her retention of the whip under all the sneers she receives is some evidence that she at least regards it as still having a defensible use. CHAUNCEY HICKOX. RENUNCIATION. Could I recall thee from that silent shore Whence never word may reach our longing ears, To gaze upon thee thro' my happy tears, And call thee back to life and joy once more, Could I refrain? If at my touch Death's door Would open for thee, and thy glad eyes shine With swift surprise of life, straight into mine, And we might dwell with love for evermore, Could I forbear? God knows, who still denies. Yet being dead, thou art all mine again: No fear of change can break that perfect rest, Nor can I be where thou art not; thine eyes Smile at me out of heaven, and still my pain, And the whole pitying earth is at thy breast. KATE HILLARD. THE EASTERN QUESTION.