The firemen of Constantinople are accused of sometimes discharging oil from their engines instead of water.

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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FLIES.

Cruelty to animals is a subject which has deservedly attracted parliamentary investigation.  It is not beneath the dignity of a Christian legislator to prevent the unnecessary sufferings of the meanest of created things; and a law which is dictated by humanity can surely be no disgrace to the statute-book.  Who that has witnessed the barbarous and unmanly sports of the cock-pit and the stake—­the fiendlike ingenuity displayed by the lord of the creation in teaching his dependents to torture, mangle, and destroy each other for his own amusement—­the cruelties of the greedy and savage task-master towards the dumb labourer whose strength has decayed in his service—­or the sufferings of the helpless brute that drags with pain and difficulty its maimed carcass to Smithfield—­what reasonable being that has witnessed all or any of this, will venture to affirm that interference is officious and uncalled for?  Yet it is certain that Mr. Martin acted properly and wisely in excluding flies from the operation of his act—­well knowing, as he must have done, that the feeling of the majority was decidedly averse from affording parliamentary countenance and immunity to those descendants of the victims of Domitian’s just indignation; although it is understood that such a provision would have been cordially supported by the advocates for universal toleration.  The simple question for consideration would be, whether the conduct and principles of the insect species have undergone such a material change as to entitle them to new and extraordinary enactments in their favour?  Have they entirely divested themselves of their licentious and predatory habits, and learnt now for the first time to distinguish between right and wrong?  Do they understand what it is to commit sacrilege?  To intrude into the sanctum sanctorum of the meat-safe?  To rifle and defile the half roseate, half lily-white charms of a virgin ham?  To touch with unhallowed proboscis the immaculate lip of beauty, the unprotected scalp of old age, the savoury glories of the kitchen?  To invade with the most reckless indifference, and the most wanton malice, the siesta of the alderman or the philosopher?  To this we answer in the eloquent and emphatic language of the late Mr. Canning—­No!  Unamiable and unconciliating monsters!  The wildest and most ferocious inhabitants of the desert may be reclaimed from their savage nature, and taught to become the peaceful denizens of a menagerie—­but ye are altogether untractable and untameable.  Gratitude and sense of shame, the better parts of instinct, have never yet interposed their sacred influence to prevent the commission of one treacherous or unbecoming