Sagacious Punch! Do you know the reason? It is because the more “diamonds” a woman owns, the more _precious_ she becomes in the eyes of your discriminating sex. What pair of male eyes ever saw a “crow’s foot,” grey hair, or wrinkle, in company with a _genuine diamond_? Don’t you go down on your marrow-bones, and vow that the owner is a Venus, a Hebe, a Juno, a sylph, a fairy, an angel? Would you stop to look (_connubially_) at the most bewitching woman on earth, whose only diamonds were “_in her eye_?” Well, it is no great marvel, Mr. Punch. The race of _men_ is about extinct. Now and then you will meet with a specimen; but I’m sorry to inform you that the most of them are nothing but coat tails, walking behind a moustache, destitute of sufficient energy to earn their own cigars and “Macassar,” preferring to dangle at the heels of a _diamond_ wife, and meekly receive their allowance, as her mamma’s prudence and her own inclinations may suggest. FATHER TAYLOR, THE SAILOR’S PREACHER. You have never heard FATHER TAYLOR, the Boston Seaman’s preacher? Well--you should go down to his church some Sunday. It is not at the court-end of the town. The urchins in the neighborhood are guiltless of shoes or bonnets. You will see quite a sprinkling of “Police” at the corners. Green Erin, too, is well represented: with a dash of Africa--checked off with “dough faces.” Let us go into the church: there are no stained-glass windows--no richly draperied pulpit--no luxurious seats to suggest a nap to your sleepy conscience. No odor of patchouli, or _nonpareil_, or _bouqet de violet_ will be wafted across your patrician nose. Your satin and broadcloth will fail to procure you the highest seat in the synagogue,--they being properly reserved for the “old salts.” Here they come! one after another, with horny palms and bronzed faces. It stirs my blood, like the sound of a trumpet, to see them. The seas they have crossed! the surging billows they have breasted! the lonely, dismal, weary nights they have kept watch!--the harpies in port who have assailed their generous sympathies! the sullen plash of the sheeted dead, in its vast ocean sepulchre!--what stirring thoughts and emotions do their weather-beaten faces call into play! God bless the sailor!--Here they come; sure of a welcome--conscious that they are no intruders on aristocratic landsmen’s soil--sure that each added face will send a thrill of pleasure to the heart of the good old man, who folds them all, as one family, to his patriarchal bosom.