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Laura, who was indeed a very charming and
amiable young lady, with jet black hair, and eyes
as blue as the ocean in a calm, had never seen
her guardian so lively, so enthusiastically com
plimentary as he was that evening. He beat
Orlando K. Boggs “ all hollow,” and that brazen
buttoned and cerulean young gentleman retired
that night with the impression upon his bewil
dered mind that Mr. Tobias Vaughan could talk
faster and more to the purpose than any six law
yers he had ever met—and being an erratic j
vouth, he had met several —in Court!
<• Demmy !” said Orlando, as he tumbled him
self into bed, and drew the cover up to his nose.
“ Demmy, I believe, profoundly, aw that the j
guardy loves the wardy 1 Ho wonder; she is
is aw deucedly handsome, and ravisliingly art- |
less. That Tobias Vaughan is not a bad look- j
ing fellow, either. He must be nearly forty ;
but he don’t look thirty. It is strange how some
of these old fogies preserve their youth and
good looks, while we youngsters of twenty- j
three look forty or more. Demmy—aw, must
quit smoking ; positively, aw must. Sweet Lau
ra —ah I you are the angel of my dreams f’
But she wasn’t. The angel of his dreams was
an immense Tobias Vaughan, who heaped moth
ers and grandmothers, and grandfathers and mo
ther’s step-daughters, and step-mothers all
around him, and made him hunt for Mrs. Boggs’
marriage certificate —beating him on the head
the while, with a Family Bible as big as a
Church 1
Yes, Mr. 0. K. Boggs, give up smoking,
chewing, drinking, gaming, racing, betting, late
hours, and several other favorite amusements of
that spindle-shanked, tallow-faced, bold-eyed,
hollow-hearted and dissipated demon, called
“Young America,” and you may live to see your
fortieth birth-day.
A week; two weeks, three weeks —bless my
soul I—a month passed fleetly by, and still Mr.
0. K. Boggs remained a guest beneath the hap
py roof of Tobias Vaughan, his presence begin
ning to haunt that worthy gentleman’s thoughts,
as the demon did Faust.
“lam afraid she loves him,’’.said Tobias one
day, as he retired to a sofa, ostensibly to read,
but really to observe the laughing pair at the
grand piano. “ I know he loves her —fortune 1
What in—bless my soul, I believe I cursed —
why didn’t I have that marriage prohibited in
the will, or, as it wasn’t there, why didn’t I in
sist upon its insertion. I am afraid I shall
grow savage, and wish the brass-buttoned mon
key in some place whose name begins with an
H—say Halifax, or Havre-de-Grace —not Ham
burg—that’s too near—but in any place whose
name has an enormous II at the hilt!
“If you want money to set you up in busi
ness in California, Mr. Boggs,” said he one day,
as an intensely brilliant idea struck him, “ I
will advance you a few thousand with pleasure.
Why, bless my soul! those fellows will dig up
all the gold, if you don’t make a break for San
Francisco soon. I know of an excellent opening
for a smart young man like you, yonder in the
Sandwich Islands. Your brass buttons would
make a fortune there. I need a corresponding
clerk in Calcutta, too. Good situation—rupees
and beegums thick as blackberries there. Better
start this week —wasting time here.”
“ Aw —do you really think so,” drawled Mr.
Boggs, smoothing his delicate moustache.
“ Rewally, now, I am profoundly obliged to
you. But I expect some funds shortly, aw, and
must wait, my dear Uncle.”
“ Bless my soul, I ain’t your uncle, ’ exclaim
ed Tobias, wrathfully. “You see, your mother’s
mother ”
“ I see—aw, I understand,” interrupted 0. K.,
turning away. “ That is all as clear as pitch to
me, and—aw, I must go and purchase a new
song for my cousin Laura.”
“The impudent rascal!” exclaimed Tobias,
glaring clubs and pickaxes after him? “He
calls her cousin. Bless my soul! I'll do some
thing desperate,”—whereupon he knocked over
an inkstand.
“ He’d give me ten thousand dollars to go
away,” said Mr. Boggs that night, as he tum
bled himself between his sheets, and pulled
the blankets up to his exulting nose. “ Ten
thousand crab-apples! They say the girl is
worth half a million. She is aw profoundly
enraptured with me. What’s that noise! Ah,
some befooled serenaders —pipe up, moi boys!
Lull me to aw profound repose. You think
this is the room of aw the adorable Laura!
Happy aw omen! I intend it shall be. Ah!
demmy! somebody is shooting fire-arms from
the window below me! That’s cruel Tobias!
Very cruel indeed! Aw, rewally now, I like
this digging for gold in pleasant quarters, beau
tiful pawlors, handsome gawdens, and in a love
ly aw damsel’s eyes, much better than in the
mud and aw water of California. Demmy! it is
much more agreeable to all parties. Aw good
night everybody. I shall aw dream of my ado
rable Lauwra!”
But he didn't! He dreamed that a Tobias
Vaughan, with an enormous segar, red-hot, wa3
running him a guantlet through five hundred
enraged serenaders, who hammered him with
fiddles, chunked him with flutes, pelted him
with accordeons, flailed him with guitars, and
that the triumphant Tobias shot him on the bare
back with a piece of pork-rind as big as a barrel
head!
While Orlando was thus tortured, a dialogue
was going on below in the parlor between Tobias
and his charming ward.
Tobias, after saluting the serenaders with a
handful of dried peas, which peppered and rout
ed the whole troop, had returned to the parlor
and found Laura still seated at the piano.
That instant, he determined to bring the
affair to a focus—to a crisis.
“ Laura, my dear, I have something very im
portant to say to you, before we separate,” ano
ther intensely brilliant idea flashing upon his
mind.
“ What is it, Papa ?” said Laura, seating her
self upon the sofa by his side, and resting her
dainty snowy hand upon his stout and handsome
arm.
“Bless my soul! don’t call me Papa! I am
not your Papa!” cried Tobias, upon whom this
affectionate appellation splashed like a bucket
of ice-water—he gasped at the idea!
“ Why, I have called you * Papa ’ for I don’t
know how many years,” said Laura, in some as
tonishment. She feigned it—the minx!
“ Not so very many, my dear Laura; only
eight. Call me Toby!”
“Toby! Ha! ha! What a ridiculous name!"
and the little hands and little feet of Miss Laura
danced with merriment.
“ Toby is not a name to be grinned at!” cried
the nettled Tobias. “Hitch Vaughan to it—
slap it on a piece of paper—a bill of exchange—
and write two hundred thousand dollars on it,
and, bless my soul, it would be as good as gold.
But, Laura, where do people go when they get
married ? What becomes of them ?”
“ What a question! Why, they live together
—love each other as they ought—never care for
anybody else in the whole world—but, Papa—
Toby, I mean—l declare I can’t help laughing,”
and the lively hands patted a lively tune on the
shoulder of Mr. Tobias, in *n ecstacy of mirth
xxts somratsas vtm mmd wmxnmm.
“Go it! It is my desire that, under the pres
ent exhiliratiDg circumstances, you should go it.
Laugh away! Call me Turkey Buzzard! I
heard that fellow with the horn flints and wood
en nutmegs call me Bull Frog! I don’t care!
lam going to marry,” rattled Tobias fiercely.
“l—o —« are going to marry ?” said Miss
Laura, growing grave at once.
“J a —ingoing to marry, Miss Lively-chops!
la — m! Why not! Bless my soul! lam
not too old!—only thirty-nine—and there’s pith
enough in me to pitch forty-nine such laths as 0.
K. Boggs—flannel, sausages, and all—over the
Savannah! Say, yon minx, am I too old, eh ?
Am I too old ?” exclaimed Tobias.
“No, not too old,” said Laura, slowly and
mournfully. “ But I thought ”
“Eh 1 what did you think ?” cried Tobias,
springing up. “ Bless my soul, I believe you
thought nobody would have me! That’s it! I
know six—l know a dozen who would snap at
me—do you hear? Snap at Tobias Vaughan!”
“I do not mean that,” said Laura. “I mean
—tell me, dear guardian, for dear to me shall
you ever be, married or single—can I not love
you enough ? Must you go marry to be loved?”
said Miss Minx, turning the full blaze of her
brilliant beauty upon him.
“Yes; you call me Papa, and love me as Pa
pa—l hate Papas!” cried Tobias, almost melting
before her resplendent charms. “ The fact is, I
want to marry—l intend to marry. lam rich,
not poor; lam strong, not feeble; lam young,
not old —bless my soul, lam tautological! But
am I not good looking, good natured, good all
around? You’ll be marrying somebody before
long—l can’t live alone —I must many. Pro
duce the woman and Tobias Vaughan is the
man—the homo /”
Laura, blushing and trembling like a rose-leaf
fluttering in the wanton breeze, rose from the
sofa, before which the worthy man was gesticu
lating in a very extravagant manner, and ap
proaching the handsome bachelor, took his ex
cited visage between her soft palms and, gazing
archly up into his good looking, manly counten
ance with those bewitching blue eyes of hers,
said—oh how sweetly!—
“ Will you marry me, Toby dear ?”
“ Bless my soul! Do you mean it?” exclaimed
Tobias, who felt, he afterwards said, as if some
body had emptied a wash basin of red ants be
tween his neck and shirt collar.
“ I do mean it, Guardy, as I am a woman—
though you have been very long in finding it
oat. I,* who have known you so long and know
you so well, guard}', and love you so much and
have loved you so long, do you think that I shall
let you marry anybody else but me?” said
Laura.
“She coos like a dove,” said Tobias, very
warm, very joyful and very wild. “ But—bless
my soul, this is pleasant—but him —you know
the fellow with the recipe for making lamp oil
out of ground nuts—the fellow with the invisible
horn flints—l mean Mr. Orlando Kosciusko
Boggs!”
“I detest the empty-headed ope. I never
wish to see him again,” said Laura, herself
greatly moved by the ordeal through which she
had iorced her maiden modesty, in order to over
come the hard lieadedness of her guardian, who
would certainly have lost another loving dam
sel, if “ popping the question” depended upon
him. Tobias would as soon have popped a rhi
noceros as have “ popped the question.”
“Bless my soul, that is much more.agreeable
to all parties! And so lam to have a wife at
last, and the dearest, nearest, sweetest —hur-
rah !” cried Tobias, already higher in the rosy
; heaven of love than e’er was Mahomet on his
| white ass Borak!
“ Isn’t it a shame that I should have been
! obliged to ask you to marry me ?” said Laura,
; nestling her burning cheek in the honest bosom
. of Tobias.
“Bess my soul! no. I never should have
dared to ask you to marry me. Besides, this is
leap year, and that makes it much more agree
able to all parties. As the ice, which was im
mensely thick, is now broken, my dear Laura,
let us marry to-morrow morning, before Horn
Flints gets down to breakfast.”
“You know I have always obeyed you,
guardy.”
“ Bless my soul, yes.” Let the reader imag
ine the kiss.
The following morning Mr. Orlando Koscius
ko Boggs, on descending to his breakfast at his
usual early hour of 10 o’clock, found to his sur
prise that Tobias and Laura were awaiting his
tardy appearance.
“ Profoundly aw agreeable! So both of you
slept late, too—aw, that’s very pleasant. Did
you hit any body last night, uncle ?” said 0. K.
Boggs, as lie sat down with sharp teeth.
“ Don’t—yes, do—call me uncle as much as
you please under the present exhilarating cir
cumstances. Will you accept my offer and go to
Calcutta?” asked Tobias.
“Never! I aw intend to purchase some real
estate on Green street —aw, and negroes—aw,
and get married. Why, demmy! uncle, you
are dressed as fine as a bridegroom.”
“ Bless my soul! lam one. While you were
determining to purchase all that fine property, I
went out a bachelor and came back a Benedict.”
“ Demmy! you aw astonish me profoundly!
Where is the bride ?” said Orlando, spearing a
waffle.
“ Here, at your service, Mr. Boggs,” said the
blushing Laura, with eyes as mischievous as
ever, in fact a little more so, thought Tobias.—
“Will you take tea, coffee or chocolate this
morning ?”
“Aw, rewally, aw—you must excuse me, aw
will take my leave, aw think aw’U go to Calcutta,”
said Orlando, rising and bolting from the room.
“ Demmy, this is profoundly queer.”
“Go!” said Tobias. “That is much more
agreeable to all parties—a little more sugar, my
love.”
0. K. Boggs sailed one week after for the
land of rupees, beegums and sacred cows.
■ - -»»■»•
Religious of the World.—The directors of
the Statistical Bureau of Berlin (Prussia) furnish
es the following relious statistics:
The followers of various Asiatic religions are
estimated at 600,000,000, Hahommedans at 160,-
000,000, and “ Heathens ” (the Gentiles proper)
at 200,000,000.
In the several nations of the earth there are
335,000,000, Christians : of whom 170,000'000
are Catholics , 89,000,000 Protestants , and 76,-
000,000, followers of the Greek Church. The
number of Jews amount to 5,900,000; of these,
2,890,150 are in Europe—namely: 1,250,000 in
European Russia, 753,304 in Austria, 234,248,
in Prussia, 192,176 in other parts of Germany,
62,470 in the Netherlands, 33,953 in Italy, 73,-
995 in France, 26,000 in Great Britain and 70,-
000 in Turkey.
The Israelite population in the United States
is estimated at about 200,000 souls who have
established 170 synagogues. Os these, 40,000
dwell in the city of New York, and alone out
number the entire Hebrew population resident
in the British Isles. Os this aggregate about
three-fourths are derived from the immigration
of the preceding twenty years.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TO A YOUNG POETESS.
BY ANXIK K. BLOUNT.
Tliy midnight eyes are beaming with a light—
A wild, fierce light of anguish and despair,
As thongh within the garden of thy heart
Each bud of happiness had perished there.
Upon the roses of life's youthful morn
There seems to lay a hidden winter blight,
And thy young glorious being now seems merged
Into a weary, rayless, endless night;
And from thy lute there comes a wailing, weeping,
As if a bitter hand its chords was sweeping.
Say, hast thou watched some noble ship at sea
Go down, when all was quiet and serene?
And hast thou wandered by some shore at eve,
And watched the wave where late a wreck had been ?
Perchance, thou too, hast seen at such a time,
A shapeless mass upon the waters float;
Some plank, to tell of that proud vessel gone,
Perhaps a broken torch, or oarless boat,
And thou hast said, when all seemed calm and fair:
How much of happiness has perished here !
Say, hast thou watched some sunset sky at eve,
And seen some star die out quick as a thought ?
And, as you marked it fading suddenly,
What flood of mußing it to fancy brought!
You could not tell the place of its retreat,
You senrccly missed it from the sky o'erhend:
Its young life was so brief, so quickly o’er,
That ere you saw its beauty, it had fled—
And yet you felt a momentary blight,
To know one star had left the brow of night!
And hast thou wandered through some garden bed
'Where bloomed rare flowers of every kind and lute;
Sweet-scented blossoms bowing each young head,
Beneath the kisses of the morning dew—
The dew which glistened on each tender leaf
Like diamonds in a glittering diadem—
Nor turned aside to mark some blighted flower,
Some fragile lily, broken at the stem ;
Which mans rude hand had brushed in passing by,
And left in loneliness, to fade and die ?
The ocean may seem calm and quiet now,
Yet wrecks are lying ’neath the treacherous wave,
And underneath those waters so serene,
Full many a golden venture found a grave.
The sky may seem as bright as e'er before,
Yet one soft light has left the starry sphere.
The garden still may bloom w ith beauty rich,
But yet it has one perished blossom there—
So thou hast watched the star, the flower depart.
And wrecks are lying in thy hidden heart.
These mournful images may best express
My feelings, when thy fair young face is seen;
Some truant sigh, which steals with thy gay words,
Is like the plank w hich tells that wreck hath been.
And though thy eyes may sparkle wondrous bright,
And though with smiles thy rose-leaf lips may part.
That sigh, half breathed, doth plainly tell to me,
Some ship of joy found wreck within thy heart.
I know some star has lately left thy sphere,
Some tender blossom died in beauty there.
Thy songs, fair poetess, are very sad,
Yet, like the dying swan’s, are wondrous sweet ;
They 'mind me of the wail of some caged bird,
That 'gainst the bar its weary wing doth beat.
Not quietly thy stream of music flows,
But like some restless river in its moan,
It dashes on wildly, tempestuously,
And ever hath a fierce despairing tone.
A wail is always on the troubled tide,
Begging for that which destiny denied
Thy cry for happiness is vain. To thee
Was given the sweet, but fatal gift of song;
Accept thy destiny, and bear its pangs,
For fame and joy to one, can ne'er belong.
The laurel-bud of praise—the rose of bliss,
Ne'er bloomed together in an earthly bed;
The first is thine, and it must be thy lot
To sec the other faded, pale and dead.
Thy doom is on thee—win a deathless name,
Weep not for happiness, but live on fame.
Go, sweep thy lyre once more, fair child of song!
But few will heed the bitter, broken chord
That mars the sweetness of thy gushing lays,
The world will listen, and the world applaud.
Yet, what is fame to icoman —what to her
The long, loud peal of popular acclaim ?
Gladly would she resign its emptiness,
To write on one fond faithful heart —her name;
Nor walk again Ambition's rugged streets,
If she could win of human lore , its sweets.
If joy might come to her, with noisy fame
And all its pomp and pride she'd gladly part;
And crush the laurel-wreath, if she might wear
The rose of happiness within her heart.
In rain —her path is chosen—nevermore
The flower of hope with fragrance rich and rare,
May shed its perfume on her lonely heart;
There lieth only withered blossems there.
And from the cradle to the chilling tomb,
No rose may 'round herdarkened pathway bloom.
Such doom, then, fair young poetess ! is thine,
Fate marked thee as a victim from thy birth;
Breathed in thy soul ambition’s proud desire,
And happiness thou ne'er shaltfind on earth.
The road thy feet must travel, never yet
Gave birth to buds of joy; and human love
Ne'er cast its starry lustre o'er the path
Which leads to fame's proud rocky heights above.
Thy lot is on thee —suffering and tears,
Must be thy portion through life's weary years.
Yet, thou wilt sigh for some warm, loving hand
To press thine own—some lip to touch thy cheek ;
And thou wilt long for tender, gentle words
No human voice to thee may ever speak ;
When thy young heart, warm as thy native clime,
Loves blindly, passionately, and in rain;
And life to thee, as yet so young in years,
Seems but a thing of weariness, and pain—
-1 Yet, weep not at the doom which fate has given,
i Perhaps thy soul may find its mate in Heaven.
Augnsta, Ga.
— • -»■ i
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TRAVELS IN PARIS—CHAPTER XHI.
BY A RESIDENT AMERICAN.
AT MONTPARNASSE.
The doors are hospitably open to all comers
down the lane. Enter with me, dear reader, if
you will take me as “ guide, philosopher and
friend” for the occasion; so shall you have in
one visit the summary of what I have gradually
seen and learned in many. The passage way is
full at this hour and season, 6 P. M., the first
Sunday in October. Push to the leftward with
a gentle perseverance, and you note a counter or
continuous table forming two sides of a square,
whose other two are bounded by the walls of
the room. On the counter and on shelves on
the right hand of the passage way are piles of
coarse crockery plates and bowls, and of iron
knives, '’spoons and forks. In the square, which
is anything but hollow, are furnaces, kitchen
ranges, as we say, besot with great cauldrons,
and pots and stew pans, and through an open
door you catch glimpse of an interior kitchen,
the preparatory department of this outer one,
where diligent cutting and spicing and saucing
and mingling of meats and soups and salads are
going on, with great clang and clatter of plates and
bowls which undergo some perfunetorial wash
ing process there. About the pots and pans
and spits do busy, white-capped cooks accoih
their forms half shrouded in savory vapors,
whose complicate aroma, snuffed up and ana
lyzed by keen-scented habilues , takes place of a
bill of fare. Printed or written bills of fare are
unknown at Cadet’s. Throughout his establish
ment there is great economy of paper and liter
ature. Financial transactions there are purely
oral and manual, on a cash basis.
If the proverb be in all applications true that
“ short reckonings make long friends,” then
should Monsieur Cadet count his customers
among the longest varieties known in the his
torical records of the most amiable of passions,
since 'the time of its successful cultivation by
Saul and Jonathan or Damon and Pythias.—
That stout old enemy of a bloated credit system,
Andrew Jackson, and his able coadjutor, the
vigorous defender of a hard money currency,
Thomas Benton, would have been charmed with
Cadet's practical exemplification of their theo
ries.
Suppose now (only an hypothesis, you under
stand, my dear, rich and well-fed reader, set up
here for purely rhetorical convenience,) you and
I are poor and sharp-set. We work our way up
to the counter and call, say, for a cotelette a la
jardiniere and a bowl of soup. One of the three
or four waiting cooks or culinary waiters in the
square that is not hollow, takes plate and bowl,
unless we hand them to him, from the above
mentioned piles and fills them with generous por
tions of the required provisions. The quantity
is abundant, and the quality, though certainly
not of the most delicate, not unhealthfully bad.
In an instant, for business operations here are
of the swiftest, the full bowls and plates are
stretched out to us or set on the counter before
us, but not to be taken into our possession until
previously or, at most, simultaneously, we have
stretched out remunerative coin, which is di
rectly clutched by a dame de comptoir of volum
inous proportions, who has reached apparently
the outer verge of the middle ages, but who re
ceives, makes and returns change with a ready
reckoning facility worthy of the latest, modem
improvements of this hurried nineteenth cen
tury.
We help ourselves now to knife and fork and
spoon, and steer through the crowd as best wo
can, taking care against projecting elbows and
opposing backs and other risks of breakage and
spillage, removing or avoiding all such obstacles,
generally, by due prudence and politeness, till
we have safely conveyed our provisions into the
dining salon. This is a large room, occupying
the rest of the ground floor of the building.—
The ceiling is supported by plain wooden posts.
As night comes on it is sufficiently, not brilliant
ly lighted. Its sole furniture consists of plain
board benches without backs, and dingy board
tables without cloths.
The absence of table linen in France is more
significant as its presence is more geneial than
in other countries. I well remember the sin
cerity of surprise, approaching, as near as re
spect for an old locataire would permit, to con
tempt and disgust, which my worthy concierge
expressed some years ago, when she chanced to
l learn that I was in the habit of dining off an
oil cloth at Madame Busquo’s round table. I
may, nay ought to, say that this excellent wo
man and cook, Mm’e. Busque, adopted long ago,
at the urgent representation of a certain New
Orleans gentleman, a linen substitute for the
suspicious oil cloth of the old roundtable, which
now, with her growing fortunes, has spread over
six neat “ Mahogany trees,” which bear night
and morning, savory fruits much relished by
American consumers. But Madame Busque
shall have a chapter to herself. She deserves it.
When I was used to see, last winter, the late
Judge Mason, our diplomatic reprepresentative,
enjoying her American cookery, I was tempted
to think, without any disrespect to his solemn
functions or his performance of them, that part
of his salary should be allotted to that worthy
woman. And why I was so tempted, shall ap
pear in your columns, if you will permit, in the
Busque chapter of my French travels.
In a tavern at Riom, where we stopped for the
nignt during our trip last September into Central
France, my inexperienced friend L. was quite
shocked at first appearances. The front door
opened directly in the kitchen, through which
we were conducted up a straggling staircase,
and along a dimly lighted corridor to our double
bedded room. The floors, staircase, the whole
premises in fine, showed painful symptoms of con
firmed, chronic hydrophobia. Though not au irra
tionally fastidious man, L. could not restrain
ejaculations of disgust at the idea of eating or
sleeping in such a place.
Non semper ea sunt quce videnlur ; decipit
Front prima
which means in English, turn down the calico
bedcover, and look at the sheets, my dear fellow.
He did so, and to his pleasant surprise found them
of snowy whiteness. Equally immaculate was
the cloth on which, presently afterward, was
served up a dinner, that St. Nicholas or St.
Charles or any other publican saint needed not
have been ashamed to patronize. But the dining
room floor of the Cheval Blanc at Riom was, and
doubtless yet is, considerably dirtier than stable
floors I have seen in Holland. One evening last
year, foot-sore and hungry after a long day’s
walk down the valley of the Loire, I turned into
a poor auberge in one of the little villages of
that beautiful country. There I dined, slept and
breakfasted. The rank of the inn may be guessed
from the bill, which the good natured hostess
counted up item by item on her red fingers till
she arrived at her thumb, and a total of one
franc and seventy centimes. (33 cents) “But
Madame 1” I exclaimed, fancying that she had
made a mistake against herself in the calcula
tion; “Monsieur forgets,” she replied, misinter
preting the tone of objection, “the bottle of sealed
wine he called for in place of the vin ordinaire."
What minimum the charges would have sunk
to, had I contented myself with a quart of
draught wine,the imagination must dive to reach.
It is true that even the “ sealed wine ” at the
sign of the Cog Ilardi in Varennes is not exactly
a chateau Latour, and the solider fare was not
made up of titbits; but it was spread on spot
less linen, and I had a napkin all to myself near
ly as large as the coarse clean sheets I dreamed
between after supper.
M. Cadet has dismissed all such vanities; of
course I mean e mensa ; to add et thoro would be
to speak out of my knowledge, and be wide
away from my subject, and undoubtedly wide
away from truth. Monsieur Cadet does a very
large business, is probably a rich man, is said to
give his daughter, who is to marry young
Ilichefeu, a handsome dot. I should estimate
the good will of his establishment to be w orth
to-day 50,000 francs.
Having reached the dining-room, we select
our seats and deposit our victual. If we are
provident men, we have brought our own bread,
purchased direct at the last baker’s on our way
hither. If we—or say you or I, for the singu
lar number will be more convenient—want
wine, and can afford it, you—very well then, I
—leave my dinner safely on the table, and re
turn to what, in English, we should call the bar,
which is in the same room as,and opposite to the
kitchen and counter just spoken of. Its long
! table is encumbered with glasses and with earth
en jugs. Behind it stands, sometimes a subor
' dinate, sometimes the stout, rosy, bonifaced Ca
det himself. I help myself to a jug, pint or
quart, according to the state of my finances and
appetite, literally paying as I go, and then work
my way back to the table. If, now, lam alone,
and discover no friendly face in the room, 1
easily make acquaintance, between mouthfuls,
with my right or left hand neighbor, or my
vis-a-vis; so that “feast of reason and flow of
1 soul” join with and help digestion of the grosser
meats and sour wines.
For eating, like all other possible of his opera
tions, is, with your Frenchman, a social exercise.
■Whence, perhaps, rather than from differences
of diet, climate, and physical constitution, it
comes that dyspepsia is a so much rarer malady
in his country than in ours. He eats, not simply
to gratify the palate or to support animal life,
but to gratify various senses and sensations,
and fully to live —tries to make of his meal,
however humble the viands, really good cheer
and social entertainment. There are sound phy
siological reasons for believing that the pancrea
tic hold or should' hold, an office in the victual
ing department of our economy next only to that
occupied by the gastric juices. Laugh and grow
fat, is a dietetic commandment better observed by
the French than by us. The French are right.
It is a little curious to observe that we American
Protestants—protestants par excellence —do in
our extravagant worship of mammon, of politics,
of professional advancement, of whatever we
entitle practically useful or intellectual or even
(here is the worst) evangelically Christian, accept
the sad old ascetic doctrine of mortifying and de
grading the flesh, the body. Since the Creator
of our spirits saw fit to clothe them in a mate
rial garment, does it not rather behoove us to
take all care of that garment, to utterly respect
it and, so far as possible, by all means preserve
it in His image ? And on the side of intellect
ual progress, or even of advance toward worldly
fortune, let us still remember that the Centaur
is the apt symbol of our nature —and that the
man can best get on as the animal bears him.—
The spiritual and material are so intimately
mingled in our composition as in some sort to
assimilate, so that, as a general rule, the thor
oughly sound mind is conditioned on a sound
body. Now the soundness of the body depends
largely on our dinner, but hardly more on its
quantity and quality than on the manner of its
eating. The Frenchman, being human, that is
intelligent and social, loves to eat intelligently
and socially. With Ins dish of meat he loves to
mingle a dish of discourse; and to bring into
play at once, as nature by their mere collocation
seems to have suggested, all the muscles and
other organs apt for eating and cfipversation.—
Thus he chews and chats, tastes and talks, sips
and smiles interchangeably— in fine, keeps the
whole man in play along with knife and fork.
The old tavern signs used to read “ entertain
ment for man and beast.” For the beast a suf
ficiency of oats and straw, feeding and sleeping,
fill his capacity of entertainment. But mine
host understood that to substantially fulfill the
promise of his sign, something more than pro
vender was to be furnished to his guest The
words tell the story, host and guest. The form
er was for the nonce to proceed toward the lat
ter as a temporary friend; to entertain him with
talk of crops, and the weather and the roads,
with discreet questions and cheery answers, and
so working and warming up his sympathies that
tlie traveler felt himself at home, with a friend.
Hence the old phrases, mine host, my inn.
BRITISH PARLIAMENTS AND PREMIERS OF
THE PRESENT CENTURY.
During the present century seventeen Parlia
ments have existed in England, as follows:
ASSEMDLED. DISSOLVED.
1. June 29, 1802
2. Nov. 15, 1802 Oct. 24, 180 G
Dec. 15, 180 C April 29, 1807
4. June 22,1807 I Sept. 29,1812
5. Nov. 22, 1812 June 10, 181 G
G. Jan. 14, 1819 Feb. 29, 1820
7. April 21, 1820 June 2, 1820
8. Nov. 14, 182 G July 24,-1830
9. Oct. 26, 1830 April 23, 1831
10. June 14,1831 Jan. 3,1832
11. Jan. 19, 1833 Dec. 30, 1834
12. Feb. 19, 1835 July 17, 1837
13. Nov. 15, 1837 Juno 23, 1841
14. Aug. 11, 1841 July 23, 1847
15. Nov. 18, 1847 July 1, 1852
16. Aug. 20, 1852 March 21, 1857
17. April 20, 1857 April 23, 1859
The following is a list of Premiers during the
present century:
January, 1801—Right Hon William Pitt,
having held office from December, 1783.
March, 1801—Right lion. Henry Addington,
afterwards created Lord Sidmouth.
May 1, 1804—Right Hon. Wm. Pitt.
February, 1806—Lord Grennville.
March, 1807—Duke of Portland.
December, 1808—Right Hon. Spencer Perci
val.
June, 1812—Lord Liverpool.
April, 1827—George Canning.
August, 1827—Viscount Goderich.
January, 1828—Dnke of Wellington.
November, 1830—Earl Grey.
Julj r , 1834—Viscount Melbourne.
December, 1834—Sir Robert Peel.
April, 1835—Lord Melbourne.
August, 1841—Sir Robert Peel.
June, 1846—Lord John Russell.
February, 1852 —Earl of Derby.
December,-1852 —Earl of Aberdeen.
February, 1855—Lord Palmerston.
February, 1858 —Earl o? Derby.
Origin of Various Plants. — Every gentlo
man farmer ought to be somewhat acquainted
with the origin and history of all ordinary plants
and trees, so as to know their nature, country
and condition. Such knowledge, besides being
a source of great pleasure, aud very desirable,
will often enable him to explain phenomena in
the habits of many plants that otherwise would
appear inexplicable.
Wheat, although considered by some as a native
of Sicily, originally came from the central table
land ofThibit,whereityetexistsasagrass. Bar
ley exists wild in the mountains of Himalay.
Oats were brought from North America. Millet,
one speciesi, s a native of India; another of Egypt
and Abyssinia. Maize (Indian corn) is of native
growth in America. Rice was brought from Af
rica, whence it was taken to India, and thence
to Europe and America. Reas are of unknown
origin. Vetches are natives of Germany. The
garden lean is from the East Indies. Buckwheat
came originally from Siberia and Turkey. Cab
bage grows wild in Sicily and Naples. The pop
py was brought from the East. The sunfiouei s
from Peru. Hops came to perfection as a wua
flower in Germany. Saffron came from Egypt.
The onion is also a native of Egypt. Ilorseradisi
from South Europe. Tobacco is a native ol V ir
ginia, Tobago and California. .Another species
has also been found wild in Asia. Lucerne is a
native of Sicily. The gourd is an eastern plan •
The potato is a well known native of Peru
Mexico.