adjective, at
least? But look once more at the hot-house Pig in question, as he
stoops thoughtfully to the cabbage which derisive Man has esteemed
perfectly sound. He pushes it once with his nose; he raises his eyes,
blinking in the glorious sunshine; his tail vibrates a moment; a solemn
wink,--a grunt of deep reflection,--and he _turns to another cabbage_!

Yes! this despised little roasting-pig, this unconsidered Flower, as it
were, has surpassed all the vaunted wisdom of stuck-up Man, and
discovered the worm at the core of the sensitive cabbage!

Woman's heart, my boy, in its days of youthful immaturity and vegetable
development, is a metaphorical Cabbage with a figurative worm at its
palpitating core. That worm is a passionate yearning for TRUE SYMPATHY.
Heartless but wealthy Man comes along, and says: "This Cabbage is in
perfect health, and I will Husband it." He _does_ Husband it my boy,
and what is the consequence? Not knowing anything about the existence
of the worm, he cannot, of course, furnish that TRUE SYMPATHY which is
necessary to end its horrible gnawings; and so the worm keeps feeding
until the Cabbage Heart becomes a mere shell, when the least zephyr
will break it. How different the result had that Heart been--or, that
is to say, how changed would the case have been had she--or, in other
words, what an opposite spectacle might we--or, rather she--if he--if
she--

Really, my boy, I am all in a cold perspiration; for I find that I must
have made some dreadful mistake in my argument. Hem! There really
_must_ be some strange mistake in it, my boy; for I cannot follow it
out without making it scandalously appear, that a man, to really
understand a Woman's Heart, must be something of a Pig. This conclusion
would be very insulting to the women of America, and there certainly
must be some mistake about it.

What led me into this philosophical vein of analytical thought was a
touching poem of the home affections, which was sent to me for perusal
on Monday by one of the intellectual Young Women of America. It is one
of those revelations of Woman's inner-self which move us to tearful
compassion for a sex doomed to be the victim of man's selfishness and
its own too-great sensibilities. The terrible picture of woe is called

"WOMAN'S HEART.[5]

"BY SAIRA NEVERMAIR.

"We went to the world-loved Ball last night,--
Claude and I, in our robes of gold;
He in a coat as black as jet,
A