vegetables. When a plant begins to decay, it is at once the source of a new vegetation, in the shape of fungi, which destroy the plant, and, phoenix-like, raise from its dead ashes a new life.
Fruit-trees, particularly the peach, pear, and plum, are important victims to the same pest, and the choicest roses, the sweetest violets, and the stateliest products of the florist yield up their perfume, their beauty and their life to myriad forms of fungi. They exert a deleterious influence on man by destruction of his legitimate food, and in producing or aggravating diseases. They injure animals by diminishing their food-supply, and by fixing themselves as parasites on various parts of the body, and they wonderfully impede, prevent, and destroy vegetation. In a word, the subject is more curious, extensive and perplexing to the student than any other branch of botany, and is, therefore, all the more attractive.
UNBIDDEN GUESTS.
In the life of Theodore Hook it is recounted how that famous wit, accompanied by a friend, went one day to a party to which neither of them had been invited — how they fared well, and were well treated, and how at the end of an evening made charming by the vivacity of the uninvited pair. Hook, in one of his impromptu songs, revealed, to the astonishment of every one, the names of himself and his friend.
Now, the persons who could lay claim to a power of amusing others in any degree comparable to that of Theodore Hook are few and far between, and probably none of those would, even for a bet, do precisely as he did in the instance to which we have now referred. But there are, judging from all accounts, a vast number of people in this world of London, especially at this time of the year, to whom the rôle of the unbidden guest is one very familiar and constantly sought.
The habit which obtains in "society" of inviting not only the five hundred dear friends of the hostess to meet in rooms originally intended for not more than half of the number; and more, the custom of allowing other friends to bring friends who are personally unknown to the hostess, makes it easy for those who desire, unbidden, to view the proceedings of the upper ten thousand, to do so without any very great amount of difficulty. The hostess does not expect to know all her guests; the guests know that, unless in very exceptional cases, a bow and a hurried word constitute all the attention they will get from that much-occupied lady. No one expects to know all or even the majority of those present; and so it comes to pass that, given a correct evening dress and a passable manner and style, it is not difficult to understand how it is that persons, perfectly unknown to either hostess or guests, may descend from their vehicle, be it a carriage or fly, at the door of some mansion where an entertainment is evidently going on, may ascend the stairs, may give their proper names, and hear them shouted with more or less accuracy in stentorian tones, and enjoy what amusement they can extract therefrom, and may go away without having encountered the slightest risk of being found out.
Now and then, of course, if the party be given at a house where the host and hostess are in the habit of knowing something about the persons to whom they dispense their hospitality, the imposture must be found out, and expulsion more or less ignominious must follow. But those who will take pains enough to be admitted in this backstairs fashion within the doors of "society," will also, as a rule, know where they may safely intrude, and where the intrusion is likely to be found out.
Not long ago a large ball was given in the immediate vicinity of London. Hundreds of guests were invited. The givers of the ball were warned that, unless they were careful, they would certainly have more guests than they counted upon entertaining; the hint was taken, and it was arranged that all the really invited guests should bring their cards of invitation with them. This precaution was well understood, and acted upon. Nevertheless, at least thirty persons, entirely uninvited, who did not even pretend that they had lost their tickets, presented themselves during the evening — only, of course, to be refused admittance.
One wonders whether these people have a society among themselves, with whom they dance, to whom they talk, with whom they make appointments for the next occasion on which they may chance to appear among the invited. They certainly take some pains as to their preparation; they decorate themselves in evening costume; they go to
