friendly smile with which the poet of the Highland glen was greeted. Yet there was peace between the rivals. M'Dougal continued to frequent the shop, and was invited to the back parlour. The bookseller praised him. His acquaintances and friends increased. It was the period of patronage in our city; for the lesser lights had the example of Scott before their eyes, and the Highlander became, in the language of one of our shop Jeffreys, the Hogg of the Parliament Square.' M'Dougal was treated with toddy, and invited to suppers by all the admirers of literature in that vicinity. There he sang his own songs, which were printed clandestinely by obliging devils,' and circulated at small tea-parties by poetical shopmen. The more exalted luminaries at length became aware of their existence, and a subscription was proposed in order to bring out his volume. My master's friendship kept pace with the poet's popularity. It was of that cautious order that never outsteps its neighbours. Besides, he believed that M'Dougal had little chance with Barbara: and the young Highlander himself seemed to be of the same opinion, for his journeys up the common stair had grown less frequent, greatly to the relief of Mrs M'Clatchie, who styled him, in his absence, A plackless ne'er-doweel,' and talked of nothing in his presence but the iniquity of toom pockets.' The city was working no promising change on him. He had learned late irregular hours, never known in Stra'clathick, and was often heard chanting the praises of Highland hills and lasses down the High Street, under the inspiration of waters stronger than those of Helicon, at the wrong side of two in the morning. Thus matters went on, and so did the subscription list. Tighter and tighter still the bookseller drew the bonds of intimacy. I, as well as my shopmates, occupied the most of my leisure hours in wondering where this would end; but when the subscriptions had attained to three hundred, the mystery was solved: my master was to be the publisher. Publishing had been the dream of his bookselling ambition; it was the only glory wanted to make his name and business overtop those of his early and longstanding rivals in the High Street; and now that the subscription made it safe, he became M'Dougal's publisher. Never shall I forget the solemnity with which the fact was announced in the shop, or the quiet importance of my master as he talked of octavos and duodecimos with old Watson the printer. It was a great day for the shopmen when the poet arrived with his manuscript, the arrangement of which occupied him and the choicest spirits of the back parlour for at least a fortnight, their toils being nightly concluded with a supply of oysters and toddy, paid for according to lot, after which the company separated with a general burst of song, prolonged by M'Dougal to the entrance of his own lodgings. The proof-sheets were corrected under similar circumstances; but at last the labours of the press were finished, and the volume appeared on my master's counter a thin octavo, bound in marble paper with leather corners in the newest fashion of the period. Some surviving copy may yet be found among the bookstalls of Leith Walk or George IV. Bridge, the last refuge of forgotten poets. It may seem poor and unpromising now; but not so in its first days. Then my master grew great over it, for his name was on the title-page; M'Dougal was glorious, for his songs were in a book; old Watson was satisfied, for he had printed it; and we were all delighted, for the event was new. That night a supper was given to the poet by his friends in John Dowie's tavern, at which the publisher, the printer, and even the apprentice were present. But let me not enlarge on the glories of the evening, for their light is seen through shadows. How my master proposed the poet's health at the sixth tumbler, with a speech which began with the triumphs of genius, and ended with the respectability of his own family; how M'Dougal returned thanks, and finished his oration with a Highland howl over the cruelty of Barbara Johnstone; and how old Watson fell under the table, vociferating for some one to drink prosperity to the printer, are matters on which I will not dwell; suffice it, that if not the whitest, the night remains among the merriest in my recollection. Divine wisdom has averred that in the multitude of counsellors there is safety.' I suspect the passage does not apply to books; at least in the case of poor M'Dougal, it soon became evident that a more vulgar proverb, regarding two stools, was applicable. All sorts of advices were given and taken in the publication of the volume; twice the number subscribed for were printed, from the assurances of sundry friends that they must be sold. But as things proceeded, it was discovered that neither the trade nor the public agreed in their pecuniary valuation of the work. Scores of subscriptions remained unpaid, and dozens of the most zealous subscribers could nowhere be found. Promises made how fervently over toddy, took to themselves wings and fled away from the promisers' minds; and the poet, who was by this time puffed into a conceit which made him a considerable trial to the patience of others, became first impatient, and then furious, at these repeated disappointments. He ascended one evening to tell his wrongs, and seek consolation in Barbara's workroom; but some observations of his gentle cousin regarding his irregular habits, enlarged upon in rather ungentle terms by Mrs M'Clatchie, drove him swearing down to the square again, and from thence to John Dowie's tavern; after which he visited the ninth storey no more. In the meantime, the volume went off in various ways; and every new burst of wrath at its injuries from the hands of false friends or foul critics, was finished with what M'Dougal had learned to call a glorious (but, in reality, a drunken) evening. Debts were contracted, and creditors referred to the period of winding up accounts, at which the half-wild and undisciplined Highlander still expected the long-promised supply. That day came at last. Much had been left to the discretion of Mr Morrison. That worthy gentleman was new in the publishing department, but old in the matter of attending to his own interest. What was his particular mode of managing the affair, I never clearly understood; nor, I believe, any one else, as he kept the details in profound secrecy; but there was a meeting in the back parlour, at which the door was kept fast shut. Through it we could hear voices in long-continued altercation, which gradually rose higher and higher. At last the door flew open, and out came the poet, dragging old Watson along by the collar, and literally kicking my master before him. Of course we all rushed to the rescue, and Morrison roared for the City Guard, three of whom, in a few minutes, made their appearance. After a desperate struggle, the poet was captured, and borne off under a charge of assault, to be dealt with by the bailie. But, in passing Blackfriars' Wynd, he burst his bonds, overthrew the guardians of the peace, and darting down that memorable close, escaped the jurisdiction of the law, as we afterwards heard, by making his way to Leith, and embarking as a common seaman on board the Royal Charlotte, a vessel engaged in the whale fishery, which sailed the following week for the coast of Greenland. Of the history of that meeting there remained no record for us, but a perfect mass of written papers, so torn, that they were utterly illegible, which the bookseller declared to be his accounts-a rather long-winded and unintelligible story, which he and Watson were in the habit of telling contrariwise-two black eyes with which my worthy master was invested-and the sincere congratulations of Mrs M'Clatchie to the whole 'land' (which is an Edinburgh term for one of its accumulations of houses) on the departure of the 'graceless, plackless, randy creature.' It was early in the spring when poor Dugald left us; and scarcely had his vessel cleared the Firth of come a travelling agent, and the other a clerk to the Forth, when one of those continuous storms which some-establishment. I was exalted to their former station, times visit our coasts at that season came on. For a and another apprentice had taken my place; but change whole week it blew a hurricane from the north-east, to in my master there was none. He was the same smooththe demolition of infinite chimney-pots and tiles. When spoken, carefully-dressed, and cautious individual, only the weather cleared, a gray-haired but strong and ven- somewhat more important, and given to converse only erable-looking man walked into the shop one morning, with men of capital. whom Mr Morrison recognised, with considerable embarrassment, as the Rev. Duncan M'Dougal. He had come to Edinburgh to inquire after his son, strange rumours of whose conduct had been the only answers to his late letters of warning and advice. He was taken into the parlour; old Watson and two or three friends were sent for; but in the midst of their explanations, the Edinburgh Courant was brought in, containing, among other tidings of disasters at sea, the intelligence that the Royal Charlotte had foundered in the recent tempest off the Shetland Isles, and every soul on board perished. I heard something fall heavily as the news was announced, and rushed into the room just in time to assist in raising the old clergyman from the floor. But he never uttered a word except 'The Lord's will be done!' and left the shop in about half an hour, leaning heavily | on his staff. I have heard that neither he nor his family ever left their Highland glen after that event, and the old pastor was specially remarked for his earnest watchfulness over the young of the flock. On his next visit to the ninth storey, the bookseller found Mrs M Clatchie engaged in stitching threepence worth of crape on her ancient bonnet, and her first salutation was, that she hoped the lad had gotten fair play,' since she 'was put to a' that expense for the credit o' the family.' Poor Barbara's eyes filled with tears as she hoped he had been kind to Dugald. Mr Morrison, finding the workroom somewhat uncomfortable, made his visit short, and from that time exhibited symptoms of drawing off. Barbara took no measures to draw him on; she had thought of the man more than the bookseller; but Mr Morrison knew that the same kindly welcome awaited him whenever he pleased to return, and valued his own time and attentions accordingly. I know not how it was, but from the publication of that unlucky volume, my master's business prospered; customers increased, friends multiplied, his concern was enlarged, and, having entered the publishing department, he became gradually known in it, and brought out sundry safe works of medicine and theology, under college patronage, and with secure profits, before my apprenticeship expired. Barbara continued to stitch in the ninth storey with the same patient though unprospering industry; but close application to her sedentary business, dreams of the far Highland hills, or visions of the shop below, began to tell upon both health and spirits, for she grew paler, and ascended the long stair with a more weary step than formerly. My master's prudence kept pace with his prosperity; his conviction of his family's respectability deepened every year; he was now remembered among the arrangements for evening partieshad gone to the assembly,' and been rallied regarding the daughter of a wealthy merchant in Leith; but still he stole up stairs at times, though now with greater secrecy than before, as if whatever served him in lieu of a heart lingered still about the poor dressmaker, in spite of her gracious aunt's occasional hints, that he was nae better than a fause-hearted loon!' Four years had elapsed since the wreck of the Royal Charlotte, and Dugald and his volume were forgotten in Edinburgh, except by Mr Morrison, who retained him as a warning for all the tuneful brethren-by the way, an abundant commodity in the Modern Athens to none of whose proposals could he be induced to listen, always declaring, with a rueful shake of the head, that M'Dougal's poems had almost ruined him. There were changes among us. Of the two shopmen, one had be It was the night of the 1st of March 1807. The circumstance I am about to relate has engraven the night on my memory. The almanac reckoned it spring; but winter was with us still in all its severity. The snow lay deep on the streets, and the night set in with intense frost and brilliant moonlight, which charmed out the citizens, young and old, as if to begin another day. But hour after hour passed: the crowds had melted away: the latest shops in the High Street were closed, and only the door of our own remained open. The apprentice had put on the shutters, the clerk had settled the ledger, and I had cleared the till under the eye of Mr Morrison, who, having increased in prosing as well as property, now stood delivering, for our general edification, a minute statement of the mode of keeping accounts adopted by his uncle in London, who was a considerable merchant, and the glory of the Morrison name. From our hearts we wished the worthy Londoner at the bottom of the Thames, for all were tired of his greatness and the piercing air. Our backs were to the open door. I solemnly declare I heard no coming step, when, from behind the bookseller, a loud voice demanded, Ha'e ye got an account for me?' and turning, we saw a man in a sailor's garb, dripping wet, and sprinkled with snow, with his hat drawn down, as if by way of protection from the frosty air. For you, sir?' said my master in his usual cautious manner. 'Ahem, what's the name?' 'Dugald M'Dougal!' shouted the stranger, raising the hat, and turning full upon him. Are all the copies sold yet?' We all knew the voice and figure, and with one accord rushed out of the shop, and through the square. I will confess that the young apprentice stumbling over me was the first thing that recalled my presence of mind; and finding the clerk close to my side in the clear moonlight, and three of the guard coming up at the moment, we at once walked back in a body to see what had become of our employer. The shop was as we had left it, but the stranger was gone, and the bookseller lay stretched behind his own counter, pale and cold as a corpse. We raised him, and medical assistance was speedily procured; but it was long before the man came to himself, and when he did, no one could draw from him the smallest explanation or account of what had happened in our absence. Indeed he seemed resolutely determined on silence. Whatever it was, that night wrought a strange alteration in him. Ever after, he was grave and thoughtful, but so anxious to get out of business, that he disposed of his whole stock in trade to a relative within a fortnight from the occurrence. The following morning he was seen descending from the ninth storey, and in Scottish parlance, he and Barbara Johnstone were cried in the kirk next Sabbath,' much to the amazement of the neighbourhood, and especially that of Mrs M'Clatchie, who, it was confidently said, received a certain amount of money to waive all further claim on her niece's exertions, and return in peace to Stra'clathick; at all events, thither the old lady went, and I heard no more of her. Mr Morrison's after-proceedings were still more extraordinary. He purchased for himself a handsome house and grounds in one of the neighbouring villages, and having established Barbara there in matronly state, commenced a course of studies for the church, which he completed with credit, and became the laborious and rigidly-pious pastor of a country parish. It was said he made an excellent husband; and Barbara looked happier in that handsome country-house than ever she had seemed in the ninth storey, under the It is hardly two o'clock in the morning when he administration of Mrs M'Clatchie. But nothing ever leaves his bed. The roots, plucked and tied in bundles transpired to clear up the mystery of that singular visit. the evening before, are methodically arranged in the Only about the time, there was a Swedish vessel in the well-worn vehicle. The cultivator makes the best of harbour of Leith, with one very drunken seaman on his way to market, and, transformed into a merchant board, supposed to be a native of Scotland. Whether till seven o'clock in the morning, divides his commoit were possible for poor Dugald to have appeared in the dities among the fruiterers, market-women, and hotelParliament Square, wearing the garments of the living, keepers of the capital. He frequently, it is true, disor not, could never be determined, as neither his family poses of his produce of a certain kind, in the mass, nor any of his former friends received the least token of but he is still compelled to go to market himself with his existence; but often when passing the neighbour- the greatest portion of his crop. Returning home, he hood, the scene of that strange night occurs to my throws himself upon his bed, which he is soon comrecollection, along with the ghastly face of my terror-pelled to quit, in order to dig, to hoe, to rake, to plant, struck master. to pluck, to weed, and, above all, to water his precarious charge. THE MARSH-GARDENER OF THE PARISIAN dener is of ingenious simplicity. The well is situated SUBURBS. THE term marsh' naturally suggests to the mind the image of a greenish lake, shallow, miry, and ill-odorous, enamelled with water- lilies and waving rushes, and swarming with frogs in summer, and with snipes in winter. This, however, is not a description of the locality called the Marsh in the environs of Paris; it was doubtless, at a former period, the receptacle of seasonal inundations, which, having no outlet, gave it the character from whence it derived its present name; it has long, however, been drained and cultivated, and transformed into a vegetable garden. The method of watering adopted by the marsh-garin the centre of the grounds, and surmounted by an axle-tree or cylinder, round which the rope is entwined; a couple of old cart-wheels, placed horizontally at about four feet distance from each other, and united by laths, ordinarily compose the cylinder. A living skeleton of a horse causes the vessels attached to the rope to ascend or descend alternately, according as his movements are directed to the right or the left. To obtain from the poor animal this mechanical docility, they cover his eyes with a cowl-blind him, in short-that he may not go astray, but perform with more certainty his monotonous revolution. Alas! it is easy to see, by his meagre flanks and melancholy aspect, that the starved steed is already oppressed with the presentiment that his present position is but the antechamber to Montfauçon and the knacker's yard! The master is there, barefooted, for the perpetual moisture would speedily render useless every species of foot-covering. He pours the contents of the buckets into a cask, which at first sight seems, like the sieves of the Danaides, to empty itself as fast as it is filled; the cause of this being an extensive communication by subterraneous tunnels with a number of other casks, half-buried in the ground, at various convenient spots in the garden, so that the maraicher, whatever portion of the ground he may wish to irrigate, finds the means of doing so always at hand. Destined solely for the culture of edible plants and roots, these marshes or market-gardens surround the capital on every side, both within and without the enclosure of the walls. By whatever barrier you leave the city whether you follow the dusty route of the castle of Vincennes, or the imposing avenue of Neuilly --whether you visit the funeral shades of Pere-laChaise, or the sandy plain of Grenelle-the scene that everywhere meets the eye is a series of interminable parallelograms, planted with salads, spinage, carrots, cabbages, horse-radish, and haricot-beans. Not an inch of land is wasted in these enclosures. The pathways running between the squares are scarcely wide enough to afford a passage to a single pedestrian: the glazed sashes which cover the melons sparkle in the sun like The dexterity with which the marsh-gardener maplates of silver. The neatness which reigns in these nages his two watering-pots surpasses that of the conplots of ground, the vigour of the vegetation, the exqui-juror with his loaded staff, or of the juggler who hurls site condition of every little bed and border-all announces that the art of cultivation is there carried to the highest point of development. In a corner of the enclosure rises some few feet above the soil a cabin covered with thatch. Judging by the taste which presided at the erection of such a habitation, by its ruinous condition, but ill-concealed by the undulating branches of the vine, and by its miserable aspect, one would imagine it not the dwelling of a French citizen, at the gates of the French capital, but the squalid lair of a savage, reared a hundred leagues from all examples of civilised life. The interior is void of flooring and papering, and nearly so of furniture. From a hook over the chimney-piece hangs horizontally a flint-gun with ponderous butt and rusty barrel; here and there a few queer images hide, but do not adorn, the dilapidated walls; near this vile domicile stands a shapeless shed, which serves as a stable, a cart-house, and a magazine; and near the dwelling is the smallest of possible pleasure-gardens, evidently spared with regret from more profitable cultivation, where, at the foot of an apricot-tree, the violet, the rose, the clematis, and the sweet-basil diffuse their welcome odours. Let us now glance at the inmate of this undesirable dwelling-place. The animals which are considered the symbols of labour and industry- the beaver which builds his cabin, the ant which digs his sinuous granary beneath the sward, the bee which labours profitably from dawn to sunset, the woodpecker whose patient beak perforates the bark of the oak-are inactive beings, indolent, torpid, compared to the marsh-gardener. aloft his gleaming weapons. Grasping the vessel by the spout, he plunges it into a cask; and seizing it as it rises by the handle, with astonishing celerity distributes to each plant its liquid ration, without wasting a single drop. The maraîcher, as he is called in French, sows and reaps all the year round. In winter he digs up the soil, spreads the manure, prepares the beds for the spring produce, and if the temperature is mild, waters them. He is as great a utilitarian as the members of the Commune of Paris, who, in the days of the Revolution, caused the ornamental squares in the gardens of the Tuileries to be planted with potatoes. He hardly consents to tolerate a flower at the extremity of his enclosures. He draws from the land all that it is susceptible of producing. He makes three seasons-that is to say, three harvests-in the course of a year; but this is only accomplished at such an outlay for manure, as reduces his profits to the minimum. Upon two acres of land, upon which are established ten or a dozen sets of glazed frames, and about fifteen hundred plant-beds, each small enough to allow of being watered by hand, the manure and litter of thirty horses is required; and one of the laborious occupations of the marsh-gardener consists in going from one mansion to another collecting the indispensable material, which ennobled proprietors do not disdain to sell him at the highest possible price. The maraîcher, however, does not cultivate indiscriminately all edible vegetables. Potatoes and green pease he will have nothing to do with, as being articles too unprofitable. The melon is his favourite fruit. and receives most of his attention, and he knows well the means of imparting to it a flavour which it does not acquire even in more southern latitudes. He never rears more than two in one frame, that they may have plenty of space to grow. He waters them abundantly, but with discretion, and protects them against the rigour of the seasons with paternal solicitude. Alas! this is no case of similis simili gaudet; for while the melons swell to an enormous size, he continues lean and worn with watching, anxiety, and beggarly diet. The toil of his long days and wakeful nights procures him but a scanty remuneration. In vain he practises economy to the verge of avarice; in vain he sells his miserable horse at the approach of winter, to buy another in the spring; in vain he lives upon vegetable food, to avoid the expense of butcher-meat; it rarely happens that he can amass sufficient to provide for the necessities of old age, but continues in harness, so to speak, to the last, watering and weeding to the day of his death; and dies at length, pitcher in hand, and, like the Emperor Vespasian, on his legs. Perhaps he had dreamed of a retreat from toil; perhaps he had often yearned after a shelter, like that so ardently desired by Rousseau-a white cottage with green shutters; but it is seldom more than a dream. Outworn and broken down with fatigue, the marsh-gardener, for the most part, dies on the field of his labours, and rests but in the grave. One great cause that contributes to the poverty of the maraîcher, is the plunder to which he is subjected by bands of marauders made up of the scamps and scoundrels of the vicinity. The mastiff kept on the grounds is redoubtable for nothing but his bark, since, if he were let loose after a thief, he would do more mischief than a battalion of foragers. Wo to the cultivator whose hotbeds are far from his dwelling, or near a public thoroughfare! He may lose in a night the fruits of months of labour, and neither his dog nor his firearms may protect him from the spoliation of these audacious bandits. Moreover, in open day let him but turn his back for a moment, and he is the victim of thoughtless and culpable depredations, which go far to justify the mortal hatred he bears to all Parisians. Sunday is come: mechanics, costermongers, grisettes, are let loose upon the country; the confinement imposed upon them by labour is interrupted for a day; they smooth their care-wrinkled fronts, assume their gayest attire, and hasten in all their adornment to the open fields, with joy in their hearts, and laughter and song upon their lips. It is a festive day for them; but not so for the cultivators of the environs, who look upon their arrival as that of so many devastators and pillagers; and not without reason. There is not a hedge which they do not escalade, not a patch of corn which they do not trample down, not a garden which they do not despoil. They destroy a hundred ears of corn in plucking a single poppy; they lop unmercifully the young trees of a nursery to make a walking-stick, which they throw away the next minute, or unceremoniously plunder a garden, to add to their pic-nic a lettuce or a plump melon. His resentment towards the inhabitants of the city is probably the cause of the marsh-gardener's backwardness in civilisation. Be that as it may, it is certain that, although brought up near the source of science, he has never imbibed a single drop of the stream. His ignorance is as complete as that of the butcher of Morvan, or the herdsman of the Cevennes. He commences labour at too tender an age to have leisure to learn the art of speaking and writing correctly. With strong and deep-rooted prejudices, he is a foe to all innovation, especially in matters of culture. Unlike the rest of the world, he has escaped the reformatory influence of the Revolution, and still preserves his ancient costume pure from all the inroads of fashion, even to the gigantic ear-rings peculiar to his class during the past century. The commune or corporation of which the maraîchers formed part in times long past was that of the horticulturists. The first regulations dated from 1473; new statutes were published, by the sound of the trumpet, in 1545, confirmed by Henri III, Henri IV., Louis XIV., and registered by the parliament in 1645. This corporation had the sole right of selling melons, cucumbers, artichokes, herbs, fruits, saplings, &c. It elected four judges, who, twice a year, visited the marshes, gardens, and all land under similar cultivation, to prevent the employment of noxious matter as manure. The apprentices served four years under the master, and two years as companions. Those who aspired to mastership, unless they were the sons of masters, were never received but upon the production of some proof of merit in the shape of fruit of superior flavour or unusual dimensions. Notwithstanding the abolition of their privileges, the maraîchers still preserve their esprit de corps, and solemnise their annual holiday together with the members of their ancient body. They persist in keeping at a distance all the other industrial classes; and the daughter of one is never given in marriage but to a man of the same profession; in truth, her talents-her sole dowry-would be of little advantage to any other artisan, consisting, as they mainly do, in the arts of weeding, hoeing, raking, and planting cabbages. The wife of the marsh-gardener, his sons and daughters, dig, sow, and cultivate the ground in company with him. The only alien auxiliaries that they admit are the soldiers of the garrison of Paris, whom they hire at three-halfpence an hour during the great heats of summer. On this subject we offer the reader a curious and authentic anecdote. It was on the 14th Thermidor, in the year 5; or, to speak more Christianly, on Thursday the 1st of August 1797. Some detachments of the army of the Sambre and Meuse, sent for to Paris by the Executive Directory, came to manoeuvre in the enclosure of Saint Lazare. The general had alighted from his horse, and was walking with some officers, when at the end of the Faubourg Poissonnière he stopped at the gate of a marsh-garden. Without troubling himself at the presence of so dignified a personage, the cultivator, an old philosopher, continued drawing his water. Good-day, Father Cardin,' cried the general. 'What! you know me?' said the old fellow amazed, respectfully baring his white head. To be sure, old friend, ever since '87. I was then but nineteen. I served in the regiment of the French Guards, of which Marshal Biron was then colonel; and was quartered at the barrier Poissonnière. Have you forgotten me?' Faith I have then. Let me recollect: there were then at the barracks two companies of fusiliers, and one of grenadiers: to which did you belong?' To the grenadiers: you used to employ many of them occasionally to assist in watering your garden. Do you recollect, amongst others, the son of the kennelwarden at Versailles?' 'Stop a bit! Was he not recommended to me by his aunt, a fruit-seller at the same place?' 'Precisely.' Hadn't he the trick of buying books with the money I paid him, and paying another man to mount guard for him, that he might have time to study them?" 'Your memory is returning, Father Cardin.' 'He used to warble like a nightingale; I recollect he told me one day, that when a child, he used to sing in the choir at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Ah, I remember him well now! What is become of him?' 'He is become general-in-chief of the army of the Sambre and Meuse; I am the self-same man, old comrade.' 'You! Upon my soul I shouldn't have known you,' said the old fellow naïvely. You have got a gash there on the right side of your nose, which spoils your handsome face; then your mustaches have grown like a bed of spinach; and you have a crop of epaulettes to boot. Faith! I wish my son, who is a corporal in the twenty-fifth demi-brigade, may make his way as well as you.' 'That shall be my business, Father Cardin. I will make inquiries concerning him, and if the reports are favourable, I will see that he does not want advancement. So soon as I return to Wetzlar I will have him sought out.' Then remounting his horse, the general departed. Left alone, old Father Cardin stood long silently by the well-side, and founded a thousand castles in the air upon the protection promised by the general; but unfortunately, one month from that day, he received the unwelcome intelligence that apprised him of the death of his former workman-LAZARE HOCHE. THE POETRY OF DIET. POETRY, for the most part, deals with the higher and more refined feelings of our nature; but we must be allowed to assert that it can handle, and (in so far as the subject admits of it) with equal success, topics of an ordinary and commonplace character. It can speak not only of the nobler thoughts and emotions which throng through the human soul, but also of greatly less elevated ideas and feelings. What, for instance, can be more commonplace, what more ordinary, what more nearly approaching the low and vulgar, than the gratification of our alimentiveness? Yet this commonplace act poetry by no means shrinks from describing. We do not allude to a well-known class of comic productions, in which drinking in particular is glorified, but propose speaking of poetry of an elegant as well as serious order. We go at once to the very highest kind of poetry, and opening the pages of Paradise Regained,' we find that even the muse of Milton can condescend to describe, with an almost epicurean minuteness and appearance of relish, a feast of extraordinary richness and profusion. It is true that the tables are lighted up by the coloured lamps of fancy, but the viands are solid and substantial, the wines odorous and sparkling : A table richly spread, in regal mode, With fruits and flowers from Amalthea's horn. * * From their soft wings, and Flora's earliest smells, This ample provision for temporal wants was, according to Milton, displayed by the Tempter to the pure eye of our Saviour when he was an-hungered-fasting in the wilderness. It is undoubtedly intended as an exposure of the indulgences of appetite. Charles Lamb calls it 'the severest satire upon full tables and surfeits; but this does not render it less applicable to our present purpose. Indeed this view of the passage rather tells in our favour, inasmuch as we may infer that the poet had known by experience, and could estimate at their true value, such sensual gratifications. But how fine is * What a fine chord of reflective morality is here incidentally track! It keeps vibrating in our ear, in an undertone, through all the rest of the passage. the description of the profuse provision!-the varied incitements to appetite!-with all the refinements which taste could suggest, applied to decorate and cover with ornament the grosser elements of the display! Even the metrical construction of the passage is in accordance with its spirit. Observe how many commas are in it!— how much it is broken up into separate little clauses!-as if, when we read it, we were actually hanging, with longing admiration, over the well-furnished table it describes. We cannot read it quickly onward; it must be perused deliberately, mouthful by mouthful, tasting as we go. The fine critic whom we have just mentioned, in one of his delightful essays, playfully objects to the richness and luxury of this feast and banquet, and contrastingly approves of the simple fancies which Milton supposes to have previously visited the Saviour in his dreams. As this passage, too, is akin to our purpose, we are induced to quote at once the remarks and the extract. 'I am afraid,' says Charles Lamb, the poet wants his usual decorum in this place. Was he thinking of the old Roman luxury, or of a gaudy day at Cambridge? This was a temptation fitter for a Heliogabalus. The whole banquet is too civic and culinary, and the accompaniments altogether a profanation of that deep, abstracted, holy scene. The mighty artillery of sauces which the cook-fiend conjures up, is out of proportion to the simple wants and plain hunger of the guest. that disturbed him in his dreams, from his dreams might have been taught better.* To the temperate fantasies of the famished Son of God, what sort of feasts presented themselves? He dreamed, indeed, As appetite is wont to dream, He "Him thought he by the brook of Cherith stood, The strength whereof sufficed him forty days: Nothing in Milton is finelier fancied than these temperate dreams of the Divine Hungerer.' Turn we now alike from these dream repasts, and from the gorgeously-appointed table of the tempting Enemy-which, whether we account it as having been purely imaginary, or real and substantial, created for the time-being by evil power, was dismissed as it appeared, untouched and unpartaken off-to one described as having been actually enjoyed, and so described also, by the same poet. When Raphael (according to the Miltonic account in 'Paradise Lost') was sent down to Eden to warn our first parents of the danger which threatened them from the wiles of the great Enemy, Adam-seeing from a distance his glorious shape,' which Seemed another morn desired his fair partner to prepare a fit repast for their expected angelic guest. They have first a short, pretty, and domestic-like discussion about what the materials of the said repast shall be; and then, while Adam advances to meet their heavenly visitant, Eve blame the poet, but in this last sentence he appears to blame the Tempter. In our opinion, Milton clearly intends that we should regard the feast as a grand mistake on the part of Satan, who imagined that the pure desires of Christ were to be tempted by such 'pompous delicacies,' and was therefore proportionately mortified when he despised and contemned them. In this view, then, the passage, far from being in the slightest degree inappropriate, bears a far higher moral significance. *There is a little indistinctness here. The critic first seems to |