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he grew pale; slipped from his chair; groaned; was dead! The Abbe was shocked; lifted the head of his poor friend; felt his pulse; saw that it was over; rushed into the outer room, exclaiming, ' Les artichaula—tous h Vhuile!' 'Let all the artichokes be served with oil!'

"It is of course not the sort of story to be thoroughly vouched for, but yet it is a good story, and a characteristic story. Another one, in the same fashion, I think can be fully authenticated. I may say indeed that I have myself had the honor of seeing the principal party, and a very pretty woman she is.

"Her name is Laura, and she had a pretty friend who shared her phacton nearly every day, in fhe pleasant drives through the Bois de Boulogne. On a certain occasion, not very far back, there was to be an extraordinary performance at the Grand Opera; tickets were in great demand, and stalls were hardly to be found for favor or money. The friend of Laura had, however, by some special manoeuvre, secured a billet for a first circle stall. She rode with Laura upon the evening of the grand performance, wearing the pink billet stuck boastingly in her corsage.

"They had accomplished half the circuit of the Bois de Boulogne, when Laura was shocked at the sight of a deadly pallor which overspread the countenance of her friend. She spoke to her, but the friend did not reply. There was no doubting the urgency of the case; the friend had been threatened with a disease of the heart; the blow had come; she was dying. Laura snatched the stall ticket from the corsage of her expiring friend, drove back to her lodgings, and was at the play in the evening!

"And this is the philosophic way in which Parisians deal with life and with death.

"The other day—a week is not gone since the event—a pretty girl threw herself into the Seine. There was nothing unusual in seeing a cast-away creature floating on the turbid, spring flow of the Paris river. But the girl in question was very beautiful and young. Her hair flowed in ringlets on the yellow water, and her dress showed that she had lived in the enjoyment of wealth. About her neck was a blue ribbon, and to the ribbon was attached a paper carefully guarded against alt harm from the wet, and reading somewhat in this way : 'You can not find me out. I live far away from the city; I am miserable, and therefore I wish to die. My mother died when I. was young—would to God she had lived! My father married again; and though he loved me, my second mother did not; and when she came to have children of her own, I was no more than a servant in the house, where I was before so happy. And now my father is turned against me; what is there left now to live for?

"' My father, and this other mother he has given me, will find my story in the papers, and they will read this last farewell of mine. He will relent, I know he will, and be sorry he could not say adieu to the child he once loved, or save her from so dreadful fate. But it is too late now. I hope he may be happy. It is all I have to say; and may God have mercy on me!'

'' Does not this sort of philosophy grow very naturally out of the reading of Balzae, and Eugene Sue, and Dumas! Let your Editor of the serious part tell us; and tell us further, if the cheap reissue of such literature will not by-and-by bring sentimental suicides to tho East River docks, who will think—like this poor girl—they commit great acts of heroism in jumping into deep and dirty wa

ter? If this were the place for it, I might drop a hint here, moreover, about the copy-right affair, which seems now to be swallowed up in Cuba and in Russia. Query: Why not pass it, and so publish nothing but what is worth paying for? Cheap things are always dear in the end.

"ann While I am in this half-sermon way of talk about French morals and philosophy, pray let me aak you, have you seen M. Veron's last volume of his Bourgeois Life? You know who M. Veron is—lale proprietor of the Constitutionnel, and former manager of the French opera—a man who has dined with princes and coquetted with Duchesses ; who has handled his hundreds of thousands, and been closeted with political strategists; a man of an easy, gossiping pen, and a very dining-out way of chit-chat , a man who had reputation for shrewdness, and who only sold out his paper when he was growing in bad odor with Louis Napoleon, and was determined to devote himself thereafter to gossip and filets. Well, this last volume of his descends to discussion about the habits and natural history of opera-girls, both dancing and singing. I think he inclines, on the score of morals, to the former; for the reason that they do not desert their children when they have them. Indeed, it is quite curious to see how the old gentleman discusses the domestic habits of these forlorn creatures ; clothing them in very bright-colored hues (as if he thought of assuming again operatic direction); praising their good parts; speaking kindly of their little weaknesses; regretting cavalierly the informality of their marriages; but never telling us a word of the old age of the wretched creatures whom he 'real* so coquettishly with his pen. Indeed, it is a tubject not apt to be treated on by feuilletonist*, or Parisian writers of any stamp. Indeed it would be a queer subject; 1 fling it out as a bait on your side of the water—the old age of opera-girls and gnsettcs!

"Do they ever reach age? Or what becomes of them all? Did a man ever see a gray-haired grisette? Will the suicides tell us any thing of it, or the stone tables of the Dead House?

"Amono other matters of gossip, let me set down this. A pretty woman, young, and only three years a wife, has latterly set a certain quarter of the town agog by deserting her husband; and, after being ferreted out of a suburban convent, she has stoutly declared she will never go back to him, and an action for divorce is brought, at trial of which the quidnuncs may find a world of fat gossip.

"The truth is, the wife is young, and has just now inherited a great fortune from her father. The husband is old and titled. He has fulfilled his part of the marriage-bargain, in giving his title; she wishes to enjoy the title without giving him the money. It is to be sure a very nice case ; and suggests another one not very unlike, which is nearer to a ripening.

"The fat wife of a pursy broker found herself not long ago a widow, with one daughter, and a vast fortune. The broker had been a sensible man in his way, and never sought for other connections than wero fitting and agreeable to his tastes; ho had hoped to marry his daughter some day to an honest bourgeois, who would bo kind, and take good care of her fortune.

The widow, however (who had the misfortune to inherit a more sonorous family name than belonged to her bourgeois husband), was ambitious. Sho formed grand designs for her daughter, and took means to carry them into effect. The girl was pretty; her wealth was known; and there are always a plenty of broken-down old Counts hanging round the dark streets of the Faubourg St. Germain, who are quite willing to bargain their noblesse for the possession of youth, beauty, and money. They can hardly be thought to lose much by the bargain. Indeed, it is said that such old gentlemen have a very keen scent for American heiresses. I can not say justly whether this be so or not.

"However, the daughter of our broker's widow

found an eligible admirer in a certain Count h ,

who, though not absolutely reduced, was still in a position that eminently needed the bolstering capacity of the dowry of the pretty daughter of the dead broker.

"The mamma was satisfied with the aristocratic resonance of the Count's name, and with a little coyly managed difficulty gave her consent to his proposals of marriage.

"In short, the affair was accomplished, and Madame the widow of the broker could speak proudly

of her daughter, the Countess L ;a very pretty

thing to be sure.

"But the Count L wss a man of the world

and of mode. Ho took occasion to say to the mother-in-law, in a quiet way, shortly after the ceremony: ' My dear Madame, we shall be very happy to see you here on occasion in a private way; the Countess will be charmed to take you up occasionally on a drive; but you will perceive, Madame, that when we have society it would be excessively awkward to announce you.' And the Count appealed to the good sense of his mother-in-law, insisting strongly upon the parvenu character of the name she bore. The old .'ady, indeed, was not insensible to the difficulties which her husband's name threw in her way: she relieved herself by dropping it altogether, and, assuming her own family-name, ventured the prefix of Countess. With this change, she appealed boldly to the generosity of her son-in-law. The son-in-law, never forgetting that a million or two of inheritance was in prospect from the worthy dame, overlooked the informality of the old lady's action, and consented that, as a Countess, she should enjoy free entree of his salon.

"A night of entertainment arrived, and the old lady made her appearance in the antechamber in the richest brocades of the day. It happened that a certain Duchess arrived at precisely the same hour with her. The two doors of the salon were opened, and the Duchess being announced, entered with a magnificent rustle of silk and of feathers. The doors were closed after her; a single one was

then opened, and the Countess (the broker's

wife) was announced. The poor lady was excessively annoyed by the distinction made between herself and the Duchess in the matter of the doors. She made an angry appeal to her son-in-law, and received this very satisfactory explanation:

"' My dear Madame, among your people of the Bourse, money is every thing; but with us, we keep alive certain distinctions of rank ; thus, the double doors of the salon are thrown open for Princesses and Duchesses, while Countesses and Baronesses enter by a single one. Pray, my dear Madame, be content with a single door.'

"But the widow of the broker was ambitious; she had three millions: it is a large sum any where, especially so in the Faubourg St. Germain. The old lady had already some experience in the management of marriage schemes. She addressed her

self, in confidence, to her former agent. Three millions and a fat widow were in the market; nothing but a dukedom would secure the prize. The agent was active and zealous, for the percentage on such arrangements is always large.

"An old Duke in the country presently came to his knowledge, who had expended the greater part of his estate in unfortunate bets at Chantilly. Negotiations were opened; the Duke declared that, with three millions, he would accept any woman; he wanted no description; it was quite useless.

"In this way the affair was arranged in the most harmonious manner, the reversion of the widow's estate lying in the husband's family.

"When the Count L gave his next entertainment (for the matter had been quietly managed), the widow-bride was invited under the old false title of Countess. She gave, however, her true address to the footman of the antechamber; and, with a magnificent entry through the double doors, was announced as the Duchess of Blank, hanging on the arm of the Blank old Duke.

"The Count L—— felt a pang; not for any flaw in the forms, but in the thought that the opening of the double doors had cost him three millions of francs!

"1 ought to mention, perhaps, that the parties to this story are not American.

"Ann now I will clinch this story with another, which, if it be true, will more than take away the satiric edge from the last. I must freely admit, however, that it has not one half of the same air of vraisemblance, and seems altogether too romantic to be true.

"This is the way it begins: A great many of the poor Germans who come from Bavaria and the Rhenish provinces, to find a new home in the far away prairies by Wisconsin, pass through Paris. They arrive by the railway from Strasbourg, and usually traverse the city on foot, to reach the station of the Havre Railway, which is in an opposite quarter of the city. Almost all this distanfe they traverse upon the most thronged portion of the Boulevard—passing down from the Porte St. Martin as far oftentimes as the Place de la Madaleine. It is an interesting, and yet a melancholy sight, to see the poor outcasts from their own German land, in all the quaint fashions of frock and head-dress, which have outlasted centuries, trooping along in the middle of the gayest scenes of Paris—exiled forever from one home, and wholly uncertain where the future one will be.

"Of course, never before in their lives have they seen such beautiful sights as meet their eye upon the Paris streets; and therefore they linger along the walks, prying eagerly into shop-windows—turning to gaze at a passing equipage—staring in wonderment at the brocaded ladies.

"Not long ago there lingered a group of this kind at the showy shop-front of the Messrs. Goupil and Vibert—looking eagerly in at the pictures of Russian soldiers, of English horses, and Swiss mountains, which always keep a crowd at the door. Among the lookers-on in this German group was a young girl from Alsatia, clad in the picturesque costume of her country, and more intent than any upon the pictures of wide-apart scencs.which hung within the shopman's window. Indeed so intent was she that she did not notice the leave of her companions, but remained rapt in the contemplation of a lit. tie Swiss-valley view, which recalled to her very fondly the land she had left behind her forever.

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"Recovering herself presently, she looked around lor her companions: up and down .the street she looked vainly. She could not tell which way she had come ; her head was turned by the busy crowd around her. She ran fast, hoping to overtake them; but, by a natural enough error, she ran in the wrong direction. On and on she flew, growing nervously excited as she went, until her eye caught sight of a group of people down a side-street, whom she thought she recognized as her own. She ran swiftly toward them, only to be thoroughly frightened by her mistake. Her head was completely turned. She appealed loudly to the passers-by. She forgot that not one could comprehend her Alsatian dialect. Some smiled at her ; others, thinking her a beggar, offered her money; still others met her wild look with insulting gestures.

"From these she turned and ran madly away. The train her party was to take left at five ; the ship was to leave Havre the following day. Utterly fatigued and disheartened, the poor girl presently heard a clock strike five. She could sustain herself no longer, but fell with a groan upon the pavement. A crowd immediately gathered around. A lady who was passing (1 would give her name if I knew it) ordered her carriage to be stopped, and interested herself in inquiries about the poor stranger; no person could tell any thing of her.

"The lady, attracted by her appearance, or directed by the impulses of a naturally sympathetic nature, ordered her to be placed in her carriage, and drove with her to her own home. The best medical advice was obtained, and an interpreter was secured to make known the wishes of the poor girl. But it was too late now to follow her party, if she had chosen. A fever, moreover, had seized upon the poor child, and kept her fast in the wilds of a delirium for weeks. Then she raved in her Alsatian tonguo about the wooded hills and the sweet brooks of her green Alsatia—lost to her forever! Or, with a change in her wild nights of fancy, she seemed to be following down the gay Paris streets her lost companions; they sweeping out of reach, and out of sight before, and she crying out despairingly for them to stop one little moment.

"But the fever passed; health came to the poor girl again . and she told her story intelligibly to the kind lady who had befriended her. The father and the mother were both dead; it was with kind kinspeople that she was going beyond the water to find a home. She might go now, and find them if she would; but the lady who had cared for her through that long and dreary illness, when visions of home floated dreamily over her bed, was now dearer to her than the kinspeople. She wished to stay and serve her: and the lady, not slackening her kindnesses, would make no servant of her; but employed for her the best teachers of Paris, and grafted on her graceful Alsatian songs the finish of the metropolitan schools.

"The fair-faced stranger, so bright, so rich in color, so coquette with her own native graces, drew the attention and the remark of all the evening promenadert in the Bois de Boulogne. Her name received such addition as made her pass for the young kinswoman of her kind benefactress, and she treated her always as a child. People knew that a large do wory would belong to the fair Alsatian stranger; and whether it was this or her own graces I can net tell (nobody ever can), she was wooed by a brave suitor, who succeeded in his suit, and in a week to-day (I write on Thursday) she is to be

come Countess of—no matter what. But the story is a pretty one; is it not?

"I wish with all my heart it were true.

"Well—what next r Arc you tired of gossip? While speaking of gossip, I feel a little curious to know if the American branch of the Bonapartes, by reason of their citizenship and quietude at home, are out of the reach of print-talk.' How seems it to you? Oris yourcuriosily to know what the Princo Jerome has made of them so great as to overbear all your notions of delicacy 1 It is odd, by-the-by, how curiosity, or interest, or what not, will at times overrun and drown all common notions which we live by, and pin our faith to ordinarily. 1 was struck by it the other day, in taking up a late (to me) copy of that staid old journal, the Evening Post—immensely conservative and proper, as we all know. Well, what should I see in the Evening Post but a long programme of an approaching marriage (it did not say in high life, but I presume conveyed the idea by ellision), with as many names of bridesmaids and groomsmen as ever appeared in a Saratoga letter of the Herald f I must confess that I rubbed my eyes. It seemed to me droll. That the elegant old conservator of proprieties—the highly respectable Evening Post, should chronicle such a matter, seemed to me most extraordinary. Just the journal (I had thought) to forbear mention of names in speaking even of the approaching marriage of the Emperor of France, or of the young Princess of England ; just the one to squat upon its stateliness in the matter of kingdoms, and to soar always in an elegant cloudregion of high conservatism.

"I come back now to my moutont. The American Bonapartes are living, like any and all good American citizens, at v Paris hotel. You will agree with me that they ihow their good sense in this, and have done wisely (supposing them unwilling to fling off their other-tide citizenship), to declme the Prince's invitation to take quarters at his palace.

"They have dined with him. to be sure, from day to day; and a crowd of idle ones in the palace-court have gathered in the evening to have a look at the citizens Bonaparte enjoying their cigars upon the palace terrace.

"It would seem, and does seem to many, that a lithe young scion of the Imperial house (albeit there may lie a cross in the grain from the old Imperial divorce) may yet be very available in view of tho present circumstances; for the heir-apparent, the Prince Napoleon, is certainly a most heavy-headed man, and has nothing but his striking likeness to his uncle to make him in any way a man of mark. Would it not be a strange play of fate if the next Emperor of France were to be the son of an American lady, and educated at West Point!

"In that event, I suppose we might look forward to the growth of a Baltimore nobility; and I should not be greatly surprised to find every inhabitant of

Maryland (even to our old friend II , of the

East-shore) taking on a title!

"Have you noticed Thackeray's quiet hit at an Honorable Major General Poker, of Cincinnati, residing in Paris? It makes a body wince to confess it, but there is not only one, but a great many Major General Pokers in Paris, from the United States— not only of the army, but of the navy—not only of the navy, but of the militia—and not only of the militia, but of the New York target-corps!

"Upon my honor I confess to you, that I have been more awed in the presence of the dashing footmen attached to American carriages than even in that of the Emperor himself.

"I have nothing more to tell you for this month; so, adieu."

tEuitor's Drum

THE Dog-days are over, and our canine friends can now walk the streets unmuzzled, without fear of those amateur and professional dog-killers, whose eagerness is stimulated by the reward of half a dollar offered for their slaughter. The doglaw is doubtless necessary for human safety, and so should be enforced; but there are few who could avoid sympathizing with the hero of the following true story:

Not many years ago, while His Honor the Mayor of New York was enjoying his morning's newspaper over the matutinal coffee and roll, he was startled by a sharp and angry ring at the door-bell. Being summoned down-stairs, he found a black-bearded and mustached little Frenchman pacing the hall in a state of great excitement. .

"Monsieur le Maire!" exclaimed the stranger, jumbling together his French and English in the oddest manner, "I am corae to you vid un grand mecontentement. Dis morning, very soon, mon beau chien, my beau-tiful dog Nep-tunc was my door before, and one of your people, un coquin noir, a black miscreant, come up vid un gros baton, what you say, one great club, and"—here the poor fellow burst into a flood of tears—" and strike him sur la t$te, upon de head, and kill him so dead as can be. Mes pauvres enfants stand by the window and cry. The Madame she come up to see, and fall into une passion hysterique, and den she not know nothing more at all. I come, but de mis-creant is quite gone, or I would murder him. Je vous demande justice. Show me the coquin, and I will him murder vid dis!" drawing from his bosom a ferocious looking pistol.

His Honor tried to soothe the poor fellow, telling him to call at the Mayor's Office at ten o'clock, and justice should be done him. Monsieur, after another grand explosion of tears, went his way, promising to make his appearance at the appointed hour.

The Mayor had barely reached his Office, when the Gaul appeared, not at all pacified during the interval.

"Je vous demande justice encore," he exclaimed. "The Madame est insensible, et mes pauvres enfants are desolees. I would so soon he did kill mon enfant Jean as my beautiful dog Nep-tune. Show me his name, and he will die!" he added, grinning fiercely through his tears.

After a while, and by dint of much sympathizing, the Mayor, who knew that " a soft answer turneth away wrath," succeeded in calming the irate Gaul, and persuaded him to forego his meditated vengeance against the slayer of his canine friend. He took his departure more in sorrow than in anger, sobbing:

"Mon beau chien Nep-tune! Mon pauvre Neptune! Mes pauvres enfants!"

Next morning at breakfast His Honor was again summoned from his roll and coffee. On going downstairs he beheld an odd spectacle. There was the little Frenchman overflowing with joy; by his side was the Madame, his rosy wife, radiant with smiles, and in the rear were their four children in clean pinafores and broad-brimmed hats with blue ribbons.

They were grouped around a magnificent blaek Newfoundland dog, whose head was bound up with an embroidered cambric handkerchief.

No sooner did the little Frenchman catch a glimpse of the Mayor, than he sprang forward with true Gallie demonstrativeness, and made a desperate attempt to embrace him. But as he measured barely five feet one, while His Honor stood full six feet, with a proportionate breadth of beam, the attempt was rather a failure,

"Monsieur le Maire!" he exclaimed, as soon as his feelings would allow him vocal utterance, " you were so very kind, dat I must come and tell you the coquin noir have not murdered quite mon beau chien Nep-tune, and Monsieur le Medecine say he shall not at all die; and I am come vid the Madame et mes enfants pour vous remercier."

He then went on to explain, in mingled French and English, eked out by abundant gesticulations, that shortly after he had reached his homo the previous day, the dog had made his appearance at the door, covered with mire and blood, and almost exhausted. It seems that he had been dumped out of the cart into the water, which had revived him; he had swum ashore, and crawled back to his master's house. Upon examination his wounds proved to be severe rather than dangerous; so that this morning, after having enjoyed a good night's rest, there was little, save a sort of languid convalescent expression in his fine eye, as he returned the caresses of the children, and his comical looking headdress, to denote the rough treatment he had undergone.

"Old Jacor Barker !"—how many associations his name calls up among our "older inhabitants !M Among the new generation of Wall Street he is comparatively unknown; but there was a time when Jacob made his mark upon the stock-brokers and money-changers of that monetary locality. He now lives and thrives in the "Crescent City." Jacob is as active and buoyant as most men at thirty-five; he can not be said, however, to enjoy a green old age, for there is nothing "green" about him, unless we discover it in the suppleness he displays, so peculiar to youth. An amusing story is related of him, where a gentleman called at his office and denounced, in the most unmeasured manner, certain persons who had swindled him (the gentleman, not Jacob) in some stock transactions. Barker listened to the whole matter with professional zest, and finding that every thing had been done "right," urged the indignant victim not to po on so, but to forget the thing entirely; "for, * said Jacob, consolingly, " if you thrade in stocks, you must call thealing threwdness, or you will constantly be out of themper!"

Dentistry is now a science; but there are travJ eling operators "on the frontiers," who set the teeth on edge without any scientific knowledge whatever. A certain notable of this questionable kind, who was known among the " masses" as a "tooth carpenter," was fortunate in receiving an order from an old lady for the manufacture and placing of an " entire set." He went to work with commendable zeal, and in due time—much to the momentary satisfaction of his patient—lightened up her smile with the "counterfeit presentment" of pearly rows. In a few days, however, matters changed, for one tooth after another dropped from their golden encasements, and were eschewed from the mouth with almost the plentifulness of cherry

stones. The Dentist was sent for, and charged with unprofessional skill: he stoutly denied any want of merit in his work, and ascribed the mishap to some constitutional peculiarity of his patient. After much speculation, he asked his victim if she had not, in the course of her long life, taken a great deal of calomel? Upon being answered in the affirmative, he gravely told her that this calomel had so entirely entered into her system as to make it impossible even for false teeth to stay in her head; and, with an expression of injured innocence and real professional sagacity, he bowed himself out of the presence of his astonished patron.

"While there is life there is hope," is an old adage, and it is sometimes curiously illustrated. Persons given up to die are often saved by the superior energy of a nurse who has hope; but many keep off the king of terrors, for a time at least, by their superior determination. Old Major Dash, who won his brevet in the war of 1812, was suddenly taken down with the cholera. It was at the time of its first appearance on this continent, and our physicians had very little experience. The Major sank rapidly, and a consultation was called. Several doctors, after "putting their heads together," came to the conclusion that the patient was fatally sick, past recovery. No one, however, would make the announcement; when the Major, suspecting the cause, turned to a young doctor present, and said, "What is the report?" "That you can't live." "Not a chance ?" asked the Major with severity. "Yes," continued young hopeful, "just one chance

in a hundred thousand." "Then, why the

don't you work away on that chance?" returned the Major, with a voice of thunder. The hint was taken, and the invincible soldier was saved. The white hairs and the glistening sword of this old soldier waved along the victorious lines of our troops in Mexico; but he at last had to yield to a foe, if not more courageous, yet more insatiable, and he now sleeps upon his native banks of the Hudson.

At a late hour of night, a while since, we were attracted by the appearance of a shrewish but healthy-looking Irish woman, sitting upon a curb stone near the City Hall, and pouring out her denunciations upon the world generally, and the Commissioners of immigration particularly. In her arms was a fine healthy infant of a few months old, and it was enough to call forth sympathy even from stonier hearts than ours, to behold the group compelled from want to find lodgings upon the "cold ground." Upon inquiring of " Bridget" what was the difficulty, she gave to us an incomprehensible statement about her home on Blackwell's Island, and the refusal of the Mayor, or some one else, to furnish ber money to get back to that "popular resort," winding up as follows: "You see, your honor, the State and the corporation have paid for my support, and the devil a bit of obligation am I under to any one for it." We have read a great deal about ill-advised and unappreciated charity ; but Bridget crowded a large number of heavy treatises into one paragraph; for all such recipients, individually, would say—if they were as honest as Bridget— "the devil & bit of obligation am I under to any one for it."

What is the reason that "Quackery," as it is termed, thrives and waxes fat, while the "scientific" and the " truthful" struggle on, and with dif

ficulty keep above the troubled tide of popular favor? The human system being " fearfully and wonderfully made," to keep it in repair has been the study of the wisest minds through all time; and yet the experiences of the sages have very little weight with the multitude of patients. Specific remedies for the complicated ills of humanity are the absurdost things in the world; yet men quickly make princely fortunes by the sale of medicines that are warranted to thread the mazes of our wonderful " temple," and find out and destroy pain, as a weasel after rats does the dark holes and out-ofthe-way places in a decaying building. The stranger who visits Philadelphia finds the most impressive "pile" in its fashionable thoroughfare devoted to the manufacture of plasters and tooth-powders. The most sumptuous palace of our " Fifth Avenue" was found in the sale of mock sarsaparilla; the finest store structure in our metropolitan city, the most massive granite pile that rears its dark front in Bwadway, and frowns over the upheaving tide of our population, has been paid for out of the surplus wealth acquired by compounding aloes pills. The man who made the " infallible" corn plaster limped through life, because he was so occupied in serving his customers that he had no time to apply his remedy to his own pedestals! The gentleman, who had "the certain remedy for bronchial complaints," "pegged out" with the consumption. The manufacturer of the celebrated "Life Pills" died at the prematuro age of thirty. Yet these remedies arc popular nevertheless; for so strange and incomprehensible is human nature, that it will pay a premium for being humbugged. The Galen who calls things by their right names, and tries to be honest with his patients, is generally whistled down the wind, having but little other reward for his labor than the approval of a good conscience ; the palaces and the "seven story stores" are the inheritance of the venders of specifies—the very people who, in spite of the proverb, advertise to do more impossible things than make silk purses out of sows' ears!

An eccentric lawyer, named Burgess, many years ago lived in a New England village, and became quite famous for his " skeptical notions." Attending a town meeting, after hs adjournment he lingered among the groups of substantial farmer deacons who composed it, and listened to the prevailing conversation. The bad weather, the fly, the rot, the drought, and the wet were duly discussed, when some one turned to Burgess, and asked, " How comes on your garden V "I never plant any thing," replied Burgess, with a solemn face ; " I am afraid even to put a potato in the ground." "It's no wonder," groaned one of the most eminently pious persons present, "it's no wonder, for a man who disbelieves in revealed religion could not expect to have his labors blessed." "I am not afraid of failing in a reward for my work," replied Burgess; "but I am afraid that agricultural labor would make me profane. If I planted a single potato, what would be the result? Why, I should get up in the morning, look about and growl—' It's going to rain, and it will ruin my potato;' then 1 should, in dry weather, say—' The drought will kill my potato:' then I should be unhappy, because the ' rot' might destroy my potato: in fact, gentlemen," concluded Burgess, in a solemn mnnner, "I should be afraid to do any thing that would induce me constantly to distrust Providence." The reproof was keenly felt by many present; and for months afterward, the

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