Pigs also possessed attractions for me, never having had an opportunity of observing their graces of mind and manner, till I came to Washington, whose porcine citizens appeared to enjoy a larger liberty than many of its human ones.  Stout, sedate-looking pigs, hurried by each morning to their places of business, with a preoccupied air, and sonorous greeting to their friends.  Genteel pigs, with an extra curl to their tails, promenaded in pairs, lunching here and there, like gentlemen of leisure.  Rowdy pigs pushed the passers-by off the sidewalk; tipsy pigs hiccoughed their version of “We won’t go home till morning,” from the gutter; and delicate young pigs tripped daintily through the mud, as if they plumed themselves upon their ankles, and kept themselves particularly neat in point of stockings.  Maternal pigs, with their interesting families, strolled by in the sun; and often the pink, baby-like squealers lay down for a nap, with a trust in Providence worthy of human imitation.—­Hospital Sketches.

SELECTIONS FROM TRANSCENDENTAL WILD OATS.

On the first day of June, 184-, a large wagon, drawn by a small horse, and containing a motley load, went lumbering over certain New England hills, with the pleasing accompaniments of wind, rain, and hail.  A serene man with a serene child upon his knee was driving, or rather being driven, for the small horse had it all his own way.  A brown boy with a William Penn style of countenance sat beside him, firmly embracing a bust of Socrates.  Behind them was an energetic-looking woman, with a benevolent brow, satirical mouth, and eyes brimful of hope and courage.  A baby reposed upon her lap, a mirror leaned against her knee, and a basket of provisions danced about at her feet, as she struggled with a large, unruly umbrella.  Two blue-eyed little girls, with hands full of childish treasures, sat under one old shawl, chatting happily together.

In front of this lively party stalked a tall, sharp-featured man, in a long blue cloak; and a fourth small girl trudged along beside him through the mud as if she rather enjoyed it.

The wind whistled over the bleak hills; the rain fell in a despondent drizzle, and twilight began to fall.  But the calm man gazed as tranquilly into the fog as if he beheld a radiant bow of promise spanning the gray sky.  The cheery woman tried to cover every one but herself with the big umbrella.  The brown boy pillowed his head on the bald pate of Socrates and slumbered peacefully.  The little girls sang lullabies to their dolls in soft, maternal murmers.  The sharp-nosed pedestrian marched steadily on, with the blue cloak streaming out behind him like a banner; and the lively infant splashed through the puddles with a duck-like satisfaction pleasant to behold.

Thus these modern pilgrims journeyed hopefully out of the old world, to found a new one in the wilderness.

The editors of “The Transcendental Tripod” had received from Messrs. Lion & Lamb (two of the aforesaid pilgrims) a communication from which the following statement is an extract: