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. 11, 1860.] inferiority of white animals, in strength and power of resistance, to otherwise harmless agents, is related by a Mr. Youatt. He says: “A cow, for the most part white, but having some black spots, fell sick, and became bald in every part of the white surface. On “thesethese [sic] parts the epidermis detached itself from the subjacent true skin, while the dark spots continued perfectly healthy.” A similar fact is related by a veterinary surgeon named Erdt.

To this day, in Ireland, the thrifty housewife will always call out for the white calf to be killed; and if you ask her why—little versed in Natural History, but shrewd enough in experimental observation—she remarks, “The white calf is ever dawny [sickly], and the white cow is a bad milker.”

A few years ago, there was a dinner-party given in the city of Dublin by an eminent dignitary of of the Church, famed for learning and eccentricity; and in the course of the evening, during the “feast of reason and flow of soul,” the host proposed the following strange conundrum: “Why do white sheep eat more than black ones?”

Taken aback at once by the strange simplicity of the question, which, on account of the well-known ability of the interrogator, was supposed to involve a moat intricate maze of solution, not one of the noble, learned, and accomplished guests could give an answer! They were fairly nonplused. Said the Archbishop: “Do you give it up? Do you give it up, Miss Lind?” (for the world-famed and accomplished cantatrice was present.) “Do you give it up, my Lord Chief Justice? Do you give it up, Mr. Vice-Provost? What! all give it up? Well, then, it is because there are more of them!”

This may do very well for our country; but were the learned and accomplished prelate in Tarentino, his question might possibly have been reversed.

H. R.

my first arrival in Paris, being a thorough idler, and having nothing to do after dining at a Restaurant, which pleasure could not be well extended beyond seven o’clock, I went a few times to the theatres, although doing so was contrary to my rule of only indulging in amusements which cost nothing. However, either from the actors speaking too quickly, or from my limited knowledge of French, I only made out half what was said, and lost all the points; so I gave it up. But when I came to understand what the natives said, even when they were talking among themselves, I visited the pit of every theatre in Paris, except the opera, which was beyond my finances.

One day, I proposed to Madame Blot, that we should make a party for one of the theatres. Madame, who loves an outing in summer, can scarcely be induced to cross the threshold in winter; but the natural love of a Frenchwoman for a theatre overcame her expected sufferings from cold feet, and we arranged to go the following Sunday to the Gymnase, to see a piece called Les Parents, which had been acted one hundred and seventy-four times, and still drew houses. The party consisted of Madame and Marguerite, the lieutenant and myself, the chéri being left at home to guard the house, and to have a hot supper ready when we came home. The feet of Madame being carefully encased in woollens, boots, and galoshes, so as entirely to stop the circulation, and the evening being fine, we started to walk, and arrived in about twenty minutes at the doors, where we joined the queue. There is no crowding or crush at the doors of a French theatre, as in a civilised place like London, but the people fall in, two and two, like a company of soldiers in file, sometimes extending sixty or seventy yards along the trottoir. I do not know whether this is done by mutual consent, or by orders of the police, but an attempt is never made to get in front of those who are already in the queue. Half an hour before the play begins, the bureau is opened, and about six or seven of the two queues (for there is a second one for the gallery) are admitted at a time. They pay their money through a wire grating, and are ushered into their places, without the most tender female suffering any annoyance. This would never do in England. It would be infringing on the liberty of young Bull, if he was not allowed to jostle the old lady and her two daughters, and to make their visit to the play as disagreeable as he could.

All this is a pleasant contrast to our system; but indeed the whole business of a theatre is better organised there than in England. The seats are more comfortable, and even in the pit there is room for the legs—a great consideration to a man of six feet. The house holds a certain number, and that number is admitted, and no more. It is well ventilated, and sufficiently lighted with one large chandelier and the foot-lights. There is no shouting or uproarious applause. A spectator may be amused, but he is not expected to applaud more than he would do in a drawing-room. Those men in front of us, in the first and second rows of the pit, are the claqueurs—that is their chêf with the diamond breastpin—and they do all the applause. They pay nothing for their places, and receive a small allowance from the actors: a curious system, but it saves a deal of confusion. The audience is very well behaved, great courtesy being shown to ladies. Indeed the audience never gave me any other idea than that it was composed of a quiet set of ladies and gentlemen who came to be amused at something going on in a large drawing-room. The door-keepers are women, who practise a little extortion on their own sex—but it is only for a few sous, for footstools.

There was only one piece to be acted, Les Parents, which means “relations” as well as parents. It was in seven acts and eighteen tableaux—something to undergo; but the interest of the audience never flagged for a moment. The intrigue, or plot, was not only considerably involved, but the thread of it was nearly lost to me altogether, when several events, which had happened previous to the first act were told by an old negress in nigger-French, a language I do not