up to the grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable animal-wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation-from these sins he is happily snatched

away

Ere sin could blight, or sorrow fade,
Death came with timely care-

his memory is odoriferous--no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon-no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages-he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure and for such a tomb might be content to die.

Charles Lamb.

A Salad

'O make this condiment, your poet begs

то

The pounded yellow of two hard-boil'd eggs; Two boil'd potatoes, pass'd through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt;

Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca brown,
And twice with vinegar procured from town;
And, lastly, o'er the flavoured compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious!

Oh, herbaceous treat !

'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat :
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day.

Sydney Smith.

Fish

MUCH do I love, at civic treat,

The monsters of the deep to eat ;

To see the rosy salmon lying,
By smelts encircled, born for frying ;
And from the china boat to pour,
On flaky cod, the flavour'd shower.
Thee, above all, I much regard,
Flatter than Longman's flattest bard,
Much honour'd turbot !-sore I grieve
Thee and thy dainty friends to leave.

Sydney Smith.

The Ballad of Bouillabaisse

A STREET there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;

The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is-
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace :
All these you eat at TERRE'S tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,

Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,

Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ;
The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is TERRE still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace:
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter-nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray? The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder"Monsieur is dead this many a day.” "It is the lot of saint and sinner,

So honest TERRE'S run his race."

"What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" "Tell me a good one."-" That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal." "SO TERRE'S gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

My old accustom'd corner here is,

The table still is in the nook;

Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is

This well-known chair since last I took.

When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces

My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing TOM is laughing yet;
There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage;
There's poor old FRED in the Gazette;
On JAMES'S head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we set the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting !
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place-but not alone.