In all seriousness, we hope that the days of the tubular hat are numbered, and that in this instance philosophy in sport will become reformation in earnest." PROFESSIONAL DEVOTION. Lord Campbell said lately in the House of Lords, that the bill for the Registration of Assurances was drawn by Mr. Duval, and he related an anecdote illustrative of that gentleman's entire devotion to his professional pursuits. A gentleman one day said to him, "But do you not find it very dull work poring from morning until night over those dusty sheep-skins?" "Why," said Duval, "to be sure it is a little dull, but every now and then I come across a brilliant deed, drawn by a great master, and the beauty of that recompenses me for the weariness of all the others." "THE WILFULNESS OF WOMAN." In an early number of _The International_ we mentioned a MS. comedy by the late Mrs. OSGOOD, in connection with the commendations which the dramatic pieces of that admirable woman and most charming poet had received from Sheridan Knowles and other critics in that line. We transcribe the opening scene of the play, which strikes us as excellently fitted for the stage. The friends of the lamented authoress will perceive that it is an eminently characteristic production, though having been written at an early age it scarcely illustrates her best style of dialogue. ACT FIRST.--SCENE FIRST. _A room in the Chateau de Beaumont. Victorine de Vere and Rosalinde--the former sitting._ ROSALINDE.--But consider, sweet lady, you have been betrothed from childhood to my lord the Count. You say it was your father's dying wish that you should marry him, and he has been brought up to consider you his own. VICTORINE.--And for that reason wed I _not_ the Count; I might have loved him had I not been _bid_, For he is noble, brave, and passing kind. But, Rosalinde, when 'mid my father's vines, A child I roamed, I shunned the rich, ripe fruit Within my reach, and stretched my little arm Beyond its strength, for that which farthest hung, Though poorest too perchance. Years past away, The wilful child is grown a woman now, Yet wilful still, and wayward as the child. (_She Sings._) Though you wreathe in my raven hair jewels the rarest That ever illumined the brow of a queen, I should think the least one that were wanting, the fairest, And pout at their lustre in petulant spleen. Tho' the diamond should lighten there, regal in splendor, The topaz its sunny glow shed o'er the curl, And the emerald's ray tremble, timid and tender-- If the pearl were not by, I should sigh for the pearl! Though you fling at my feet all the loveliest flowers That Summer is waking in forest and field, I should pine 'mid the bloom you had brought from her bowers For some little blossom spring only could yield. Take the rose, with its passionate beauty and bloom, The lily so pure, and the tulip so bright-- Since I miss the sweet _violet's_ lowly perfume, The violet _only_ my soul can delight!