poor in France, to that which they get in England from Doctor Bell of Lancaster.

When we landed at Callous, we were extremely well received, and I should have enjoyed the sight very much, but Mr. Fulmer, and another gentleman in the batto, kept talking of nothing but how turkey and grease disagreed with each other, which, in the then state of my stomach, was far from agreeable. We saw the print of the foot of Louis Desweet, the French king, where he first stepped when he returned to his country: he must be a prodigious heavy man, to have left such a deep mark in the stone; we were surrounded by Commissioners, who were so hospitable as to press us to go to their houses without any ceremony. Mr. Fulmer showed our passports to a poor old man, with a bit of red ribbon tied to his button-hole, and we went before the mayor, who is no more like a mayor than my foot-boy. Here they took a subscription of our persons, and one of the men said that Lavinia had a jolly manton, at which the clerks laughed, and several of them said she was a jolly feel, which I afterwards understood meant a pretty girl; I misunderstood it for fee, which, being in a public office, was a very natural mistake.

We went then to a place they call the DoAnne, where they took away the poll of my baruch; I was very angry at this, but they told me we were to travel in Lemonade with a biddy, which I did not understand, but Mr. Fulmer was kind enough to explain it to me as we went to the hotel, which is in a narrow street, and contains a garden and court-yard.

I left it to Mr. Fulmer to order dinner, for I felt extremely piquant, as the French call it, and a very nice dinner it was—we had a purey, which tasted very like soup: one of the men said it was made from leather, at least, so I understood, but it had quite the flavour of hare; I think it right here to caution travellers against the fish at this place, which looks very good, but which I have reason to believe is very unwholesome, for one of the waiters called it poison while speaking to the other: the fish was called marine salmon, but it appeared like veal cutlets.

They are so fond of Buonaparte still, that they call the table-cloths Naps, in compliment to him this I remarked to myself, but said nothing about it to anybody else, for fear of consequences.

One of the waiters who spoke English, asked me if I would have a little Bergami, which surprised me, till Mr. Fulmer said, it was the wine he was handing about, when I refused it, preferring to take a glass of Bucephalus.

When we had dined we had some coffee, which is here called Cabriolet; after which, Mr. Fulmer asked if we would have a chasse, which I thought meant a hunting party, and said I was afraid of going into the fields at that time of night—but I found chasse was a lickure called cure a sore (from its healing qualities, I suppose), and very nice it was— after we had taken this, Mr. Fulmer went out to look at the jolly feels in the shops of Callous, which I thought indiscreet in the cold air; however, I am one as always overlooks the little piccadillies of youth.

When we went to accoucher at night, I was quite surprised in not having a man for a chambermaid; and if it had not been for the entire difference of the style of furniture, the appearance of the place, and the language and dress of the attendants, I should never have discovered that we had changed our country in the course of the day.

In the morning early we left Callous with the Lemonade, which is Shafts, with a very tall post-boy, in a violet-coloured jacket, trimmed with silver; he rode a little horse, which is called a biddy, and wore a nobbed tail, which thumped against his back like a patent self-acting knocker. We saw, near Bullion, Buonaparte's conservatory, out of which he used to look at England in former days.

Nothing remarkable occurred till we met a courier a travelling, Mr. Fulmer said, with despatches; these men were called couriers immediately after the return of the Bonbons, in compliment to the London newspaper, which always wrote in their favour. At Montrule, Mr. Fulmer showed me Sterne's Inn, and there he saw Mr. Sterne himself, a standing at the door, with a French cocked hat upon his head, over a white night-cap. Mr. Fulmer asked if he had any becauses in his house: but he said no; what they were I do not know to this moment.

It is no use describing the different places on our rout, because Paris is the great object of all travellers, and therefore I shall come to it at once-it is reproached by a revenue of trees; on the right of which you see a dome, like that of Saint Paul's, but not so large. Mr. Fulmer told me it was an invalid, and it did certainly look very yellow in the distance; on the left you perceive Mont Martyr, so called from the number of windmills upon it.

I was very much surprised at the height of the houses, and the noise of the carriages in Paris: and was delighted when we got to our hotel, which is called Wag Ram; why, I did

not like to inquire; it is just opposite the Royal Timber-yard, which is a fine building, the name of which is cut in stone-Timbre Royal. The hotel which I have mentioned is in the Rue de la Pay, so called from its being the dearest part of the town. At one end of it is the place Fumdum, where there is a pillow as high as the Trojan's Pillow at Rome, or the pompous in Egypt; this is a beautiful object, and is made of all the guns, coats, waistcoats, hats, boots, and belts which belonged to the French who were killed by the cold in Prussia at the fire of Moscow!

At the top of the pillow is a small apartment, which they call a pavilion, and over that a white flag, which I concluded to be hoisted as a remembrance of Buonaparte, being very like the table-cloths I noticed at Callous.

We lost no time in going into the gardens of the Tooleries, where we saw the statutes at large in marvel: here we saw Mr. Backhouse and Harry Edney, whoever they might be, and a beautiful grope of Cupid and Physic, together with several of the busks which Lavy has copied, the original of which is in the Vaccuum at Rome, which was formerly an office for government thunder, but is now reduced to a stable where the pope keeps his bulls.

Travellers like us, who are mere birds of prey, have no time to waste, and therefore we determined to see all we could in each day, so we went to the great church, which is called Naughty Dam, where we saw a priest doing something at an altar. Mr. Fulmer begged me to observe the knave of the church, but I thought it too hard to call the man names in his own country, although Mr. Fulmer said he believed he was exercising the evil spirits in an old lady in a black cloak.

It was a great day at this church, and we stayed for mass, so called from the crowd of people who attend it—the priest was very much incensed we waited out the whole ceremony; and heard Tedeum sung, which occupied three hours.

We returned over the Pont Neuf, so called from being the north bridge in Paris, and here we saw a beautiful image of Henry Carter; it is extremely handsome, and quite green-I fancied I saw a likeness to the Carters of Portsmouth; but if it is one of his family, his posteriors are very much diminished in size and figure.

A beautiful statute of Apollo with the Hypocrite pleased me very much, and a Fawn, which looks like a woman, done by Mons. Praxytail, a French stone-mason, is really curious.

A picture of the Bicknells is, I suppose, a family grope; but the young women appeared tipsy, which is an odd state to be drawn in. The statute of Manylaws is very fine, and so is Cupid and Physic, different from the one which I noticed before.

Mr. Fulmer showed us some small old black pictures, which I did not look at much, because he told us they were Remnants, and of course very inferior. A fine painting, by Carlo my Hearty, pleased me; and we saw also something, by Sall Vatarosa, a lady, who was somehow concerned with the little woman I have seen at Peckham Fair, in former days, called Lady Morgan.

Mr. Fulmer proposed that we should go and dine at a tavern called Very-because everything is very good there; and accordingly we went, and I never was so malapropos in my life: there were two or three ladies quite in nubibus; but when I came to look at the bill of fare, I was quite anileated, for I perceived that Charlotte de Pommes might be sent for one shilling and twopence, and Patty de Veau for half-a-crown. I desired Mr. Fulmer to let us go; but he convinced me there was no harm in the place, by showing me a dignified clergyman of the Church of England and his wife, a eating away like anything.

We had a voulez vous of fowl, and some sailor's eels, which were very nice, and some pieces of crape, so disguised by the sauce that nobody who had not been told what it was, would have distinguished them from pancakes; after the sailor's eels, we had some pantaloon cutlets, which were savoury: but I did not like the writing paper; however, as it was a French custom, I eat every bit of it; they call sparrowgrass here asperge, I could not find out why.

If I had not seen what wonderful men the French cooks are, who actually stew up shoes with partridges, and make very nice dishes too, I never could have believed the influence they have in the politics of the country: everything is now decided by the cooks, who make no secret of their feelings, and the party who are still for Buonaparte call themselves traitors, while those who are partizans of the Bonbons are termed Restaurateurs, or friends of the Restoration.

After dinner, a French monsheur, who, I thought, was a waiter, for he had a bit of red ribbon at his button-hole, just the same as one of the waiters had, began to talk to Mr. Fulmer, and it was agreed we should go to the playthey talked of Racing and Cornhill, which made me think the monsheur had been in England; however, it was arranged that we

were to go and see Andrew Mackay at the Francay, or Jem Narse, or the Bullvards; but at last it was decided unanimously, crim. con. that we should go to see Jem Narse, and so we went but I never saw the man himself after all.

A very droll person, with long legs and a queer face, sung a song, which pleased me very much, because I understood the end of it perfectly: it was "tal de lal de lal de lal," and sounded quite like English. After he had done, although everybody laughed, the whole house called out "beast, beast," and the man notwithstanding was foolish enough to sing it all over again.

THEODORE HOOK.

A GARDEN REVERIE.1

BY PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

I hear the sweeping fitful breeze
This early night in June;

I hear the rustling of the trees

That had no voice at noon:

Clouds brood, and rain will soon come down,
To gladden all the panting town
With the cool melody that beats
Upon the busy dusty streets.

But in this space of narrow ground
We call a garden here-
Because less loudly falls the sound
Of traffic on the ear;
Because its faded grass-plot shows

One hawthorn tree, which each May blows,
Whereon the birds in early spring

At sun-dawn and at sun-down sing

I muse alone. A rose-tree twines
About the brown brick wall,

Which strives, when summer's glory shines,
To gladden at its festival,
Yet lets upon the path beneath

Such pale leaves drop as I would wreathe
Around a portrait that to me
Is all my soul's divinity.

1 From Song-Tide, and other Poems, London, 1871. This is the first volume of a gentleman who is evidently destined to hold a high place in the realms of poetry. Critics have been unanimous in awarding high praise to the work. The Pall Mall Gazette says:-"There is much in these poems that impresses us with the force of real feeling and the grace of an esthetic life."

A face in no wise proud or grand,

But strange, and sad, and fair; A maiden twining round her hand A tress of golden hair; While in her deep pathetic eyes The light of coming trouble lies, As on some silent sea and warm The shadow of a coming storm.

From those still lips shall no more flow
The tones that, in excess

Of tremulous love, touched more on woe
Than quiet happiness,

When my arms strained her in a grasp
That sought her very soul to clasp,

When my hand pressed that hand most fair
That holds but now a tress of hair.

How look, this breezy summer night,

The places that we knew

When all the hills were flushed with light

And July seas were blue?

Does the wind eddy through our wood

As through this garden solitude?
Do the same trees their branches toss
The undulating wind across?

What feet tread paths that now no more
Our feet together tread?

How in the twilight looks the shore?
Is still the sea outspread
Beneath the sky, a silent plain
Of silent lights that wax and wane?
What ships go sailing by the strand
Of that fair consecrated land?

How hard it is to realize

That I no more shall hear The music of thy low replies,

As those deep eyes and clear Once looked in my faint eyes until I felt the burning colour fill My face, because my spirit caught In that long gaze thine inmost thought.

Alas! what voice shall now reply?
Not thine, arrested gale

That 'neath the dark and pregnant sky
Subsidest to a wail.

On a dusty city, silent plain,
And on thy village grave the rain
Comes down, while I to-night shall jest
And hide a secret in my breast.

OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see herAll, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces

roasting a covey of partridges, and a lamb or two, for the delicate maw of the Commander of the Faithful and his numerous household.

Oh! a single glance into the kitchen of the Caliph was a feast to the eyes and a provocative to hunger. The plump birds, trimly trussed and powdered for the polished spitsthe milk-white rice for the pilau-the delicate odour of the various spices-made the woodcutter slowly and instinctively project his bearded chin and raise his regaled nostrils in the fragrant air.

But the double-chinned, burly cook was too well fed to feel any sympathy for the hungry; and although a single kidney, a gizzard, or a liver plucked from the embrace of a chicken's wing would have satisfied the moderate desires of Kabak, he offered him nothing-not even payment for his services; indeed, Kabak dared not for his life ask such a thing of so great a man as the Caliph's cook; so, like many a well-bred modern shopkeeper, he stood playing significantly with his bill in his hand.

At last deigning to cast his little, peering, piggish eyes (which just glimmered through his fat heavy eyelids) upon the woodcutter, he uttered such a sharp, repulsive "Go!"

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

КАВАК.

CHARLES LAMB.

AN EASTERN TALE.

In the vicinity of the famous city of Bagdad, which standeth on the green and winding Tigris, like a precious jewel on the back of a coiling serpent, dwelt Kabak, the woodcutter, as good a Mussulman as ever stepped out of a sandal into a mosque, or indulged in the mastication of opium; and was particularly remarkable for the adroit and dexterous manner in which he handled his bill; although this is not so much to be wondered at when it is remembered that, like the vulture-he used his bill not only to feed--but to clothe himself too.

In the pursuit of his vocation Kabak was obliged one day to enter the gates of the city under cover of several bundles of wood which he had risen before daybreak to hew from the venerable trees of the wood wherein he resided, the Caliph's cook having commanded him to bring the said fuel for the culinary purpose of

that the cook had stuck the silver skewer in his gizzard instead of that of the turkey he was trussing. And confusedly making his salam, the trembling Kabak vanished.

His imagination, but not his stomach, filled with the inviting edibles his eyes had devoured, Kabak was making his retreat from this temple of luxury and temptation, when, passing through a latticed corridor, the shuffling of a score sandals on the tesselated marble pavement approaching him, in an instant scared away all the sumptuary reveries from his busy brain, and left it empty and confused as a vacated province before the march of a hostile army; for Kabak expected no less than to be decapitated by some whirligig scimitar sharper than his own bill.

Escape was vain: the group rapidly advanced; and his dizzy eyes beheld not only caftans and turbans, but veils too; and being veils, there were of course women, and to look upon these lovely houris was not only poetically but actually death.

Prostrate fell the trembling woodcutter—his forehead throbbing against the cold pavement. But his abject garb and his terror, but too evident in his quivering limbs, fortunately for his head (and this tale), only excited the mirth of the beholders, and the fair ones enjoyed a hearty laugh at his expense, which he doubtless

considered his profit, for he inwardly thanked Mahomet for his preservation.

His fears being lulled, Kabak, moved by curiosity, ventured when they had all passed him to raise his head and cast a glance askance at the retiring group of merry girls; and oh! most fortunate of woodcutters, his vision was blessed by the sunshiny face of a very sylph, who, coquettishly drawing aside her veil, smiled roguishly upon the recumbent Kabak, and the next moment faded like a rainbow from his sight.

Poor Kabak! He hurried back to his own hut again, lovesick as a nightingale, and forlorn as a frog in a stork's bill.

Never had he encountered so much and gained so little since he had commenced the arduous calling of lopping trees.

He had laboured early and indefatigably to chop up the six bundles of wood for the fat cook without even getting a stake or a chop for himself; and he had moreover found an appetite and lost a heart. These occurrences had completely turned Kabak topsy-turvy; so sinking listlessly upon his own block, his varying thoughts issued from his lips in an audible soliloquy.

"Oh! that I were rich! that I were a wise Caliph, or only a simple cadi, I would kick that cursed cook; and oh! how I would hug that beautiful, little, bright-eyed Georgian!what wicked eyes!-what pretty lips! By the beard of the Prophet!—that lazy blubberlipped cook should cut wood, and work till his sandals were no better than dripping-pans to his fat carcass! How would I make my slaves fly! More sherbet here!-rose-water!-pistachios-pilau-bring me a lamb!-I'll taste those partridges! Oh! I would be hungry and eat for a whole month! Oh! beautiful Georgian!-sweeter than new-blown roses; whose breath is more fragrant than the caravans of musk from Khoten; whose eyes are more bright and piercing than the spits of that ill-favoured cook, who gave me nothing but black looks and sharp words for my pains. O cook!-O Georgian! O Georgian!-O cook! one kills me with cruelty and the other with kindness. I'm pinched by hunger and consumed by love. Yet would I forget all my pains and pangs in the possession of such a nymph as she whom my eyes beheld to-day. What sorrow could possibly befall that her smiles could not have power to sweeten?"

Scarcely had he given vent to these complicated feelings of his heart when a small vapour issuing from the ground-floor of his humble cabin suddenly cut short his speech. Anon it

spread wider and wider, becoming more dense as it arose, when presently the cloud divided, and there appeared a beautiful female form to the enchanted eyes of Kabak. She bore the identical figure and face of the fair Georgian.

With silly wonder, half-joyed and halfabashed, the woodcutter, grasping the thumb of his left hand, leered with a smiling look, expressive of his inward delight, upon the sylph before him—not daring to approach her. Kabak," cried she, in a voice more melodious than the flute or the rebek, "lord of my heart, receive thy bride!"

"Eh! my-mine?" exclaimed the astonished woodcutter, encouraged by these bold advances, "mine-but art thou really mine? Don't be putting a jest upon me."

"Jest! I dare not jest with my spouse if it did not please him-I love my Kabak tootoo much!" and putting her left arm round her Kabak's neck, she playfully patted his cheek.

"This is a dream-love me-no-it cannot be," cried he; "what beautiful lips; whatmay I presume to-to kiss them?"

"Presume!" said the Georgian, "is not my lord the light of my eyes and the joy of my heart?"

"May I then?" said Kabak-licking his lips in anticipation, and pressing hers in reality, venting an exclamatory "Oh!" of delight after every ecstatic salute-"Oh, this is too much!"

But this pleasant dalliance was disagreeably interrupted by some one rapping loudly at the door.

Kabak was alarmed, and fearfully jealous that any human eye should behold the most precious jewel of his house.

Unfortunately, his economical establishment consisted only of one room; no haram; no closet; no trunk, save that of a tree: never was bachelor in such an awkward quandary-such a distressing dilemma.

The rapping continued, accompanied by the importunate voice of the burly cook! Kabak would as soon have encountered the devil: however, seeing no alternative, he hastily piled up some faggots, behind which, with many confused apologies, he placed his wouldbe wife; then unbarring his door, he cunningly yawned, and rubbed his eyes, as if he had just awakened from a sound sleep.

"You lazy dog!" cried the fat cook, "how dare you sleep when I am coming hither? Am I not thy patron, ungrateful slave? Do not I employ thee oftener, and consume more wood, than all thy customers put together, who are but as dust beneath my feet?"