Several years ago the newspapers told us of the discovery of a new perfume called the emerocallis, a bulbous plant, which has an odor not unlike the jasmin. I am very curious, and was, therefore, induced in all probability to go to, the Foubourg St. Germain, where I could find the perfume. I was suitably received, and a little flask, very well wrapped up, was handed me, which seemed to contain about two ounces. In exchange for it I left three francs. An etourdi would at once have opened, smelled and tasted it. A professor, however, acts differently, and I thought modesty would become me. I took the flagon then and went quietly home, sat on my sofa and prepared to experience a new sensation. I took the package from my pocket and untied the wrappings which surrounded it. They were three different descriptions of the emerocallis, and referred to its natural history, its flower, and its exquisite perfume, either in the shape of pastilles, in the kitchen, or in ices. I read each of the wrappings. 1. To indemnify myself as well as I could for the price I have spoken of above. 2. To prepare myself for an appreciation of the new and valuable extract I have spoken of. I then opened, with reverence, the box I supposed full of pastilles. To my surprise, however, I found three other copies of the edition I had so carefully read. Inside I found about two dozen of the cubes I had gone so far for. I tasted them, and must say that I found them very agreeable. I was sorry though, that they were so few in number, and the more I thought of the matter, the more I became mystified. I then arose with the intention of carrying the box back to its manufacturer. Just then, however, I thought of my grey hairs, laughed at my vivacity, and sat down. A particular circumstance also recurred to me. I had to deal with a druggist, and only four days ago I had a specimen of one of that calling. I had one day to visit my friend Bouvier des Eclats. I found him strolling in a most excited state, up and down the room, and crushing in his hands a piece of poetry, I thought a song. He gave it to me and said, "look at this, you know all about it." I saw at once that it was an apothecary's bill. I was not consulted as a poet, but as a pharmaceutist. I knew what the trade was, and was advising him to be quiet, when the door opened, and we saw a man of about fifty-five enter. He was of moderate stature and his whole appearance would have been stern, had there not been something sardonic about his lips. He approached the fire-place, refused to sit down, and I heard the following dialogue I have faithfully recorded. "Monsieur," said the general, "you sent me a regular apothecary's bill." The man in black said that he was not an apothecary. "What then are you?" said the general. "Sir, I am a pharmaceutist." "Well," said the general, "your boy--" "Sir, I have no boy." "Who then was the young man you sent thither?" "My pupil--" "I wish to say, sir, that your drugs--"