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250 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.