I searched close around me to catch a glimpse of the short-lived saint before its spirit had quite departed; and was disappointed on finding nothing but a withered flower, that pensively hung its head, as if more in sorrow than resignation.

With a sudden determination to avoid all melancholy minstrels, I struck out into what I imagined was a by-let into the high-road of common-place comfort:-but I was again deceived; for, instead of arriving at any such locality, I was soon labyrinthed, and laid by the ears with the

It was now the twilight noon of a summer's night. I was beginning to be intoxicated with the very air I was breathing-it was so spiritualized by unearthly essences-when another strain with "dying fall" came o'er my ear "like the sweet south," and whence? O rapture! from a a bank of violets," that seemed anxious to conceal their dark-purple eyes beneath the shadows of some old trees' roots, although they could not prevent the murmur of their melody from lading the air with sweetness far around!

66

THE LAMENT

We cannot bring ourselves to say

A word about our own blue eyes,
Since, in our bower the other day,

A fair and gentle maiden sate-
And, as she doff'd her rustic hat,
Her glance was purer than the skies,
When dewy stars at evening rise!

OF THE VIOLETS.

Abash'd, we closed our purple lights
Within their green lids wet with
shame,

And bade adieu to summer nights,
For which we have been said and
sung:

But, hark! some gentle minstrel
tongue

It may not be wholly unnecessary to remind the classical reader, that it is the ancient poetical hyacinth (generally supposed to be our red martagon lily) that is here alluded to; and, at the same time, to request he will pardon the division of the Greek monosyllabic exclamation AI, for the sake of euphony.

"Sad souls are slain in merry company."-SHAKSPEARE.

Et toi, aimable violette, qui ne t'ouvres que pendant le silence de la nuit pour répandre tes odeurs balsamiques.-French Translation of Gesner.

Waked MUSIC with a fonder claim, Than ever poets did for fame. And SHE straight answer'd to the call Of that most sorrow-stricken maid, Who sang so sweet, that echoes all Kept still, the more to drink the strain, [pain! Half sprunk with joy, full dank with Our hearts, not eyes, were sore dismay'd [play'd.

For her lone voice our breaths out

We've lost the pride of scent aud hue,

Since in our bow'r that luckless
morn,

The melancholy maid we knew;
And heard the music of her sigh,
And saw the azure of her eye!
Remembering them we live for-
lorn,

And all our own poor beauty
scorn!

Looking to the east, I perceived a trickling glow of sunlight coming down the waters of an indolent stream. Morning was up, and all Nature seemed gladly preparing to receive her. Bees were humming in every direction around; birds, yet silent, were shaking the dew-drops from their wings, exhibiting a various sparkling of gay colours, that had been concealed by the night. Oh, what a beautiful world! said I, in an ecstacy of delight.

"Softly-softly," said a gentle voice,

"This world is all a fleeting show

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow—

There's nothing true but Heaven:

as you will find by attending to the

"SONG OF THE PANSIES; OR, TWO FACES UNDER A HOOD.” Come hither! come hither! in us you will find

True emblems of all sorts of hearts;

Sweet woman's, in every change of her mind;
Proud man's, in his deepest of arts.

When a maiden first time to a fond lover's sigh,
Says "no," in a petulant mood;

It's a thousand to one, from the glance of her eye,
She has two faces under a hood!

When an old maid of sixty on youth of sixteen
Tries hard with affection to gaze;

Then cries "how extravagant, dear, you have been!"
Same time his extravagance pays:

Why, he's deeply grateful; she's proud to assist;
But, from us, be it well understood,

Take one or the other, whichever you list,

There are two faces under a hood!

When two hearts are plighted in one holy vow,
And the hope-wreath of joy has been torn
By death and dishonour from his honest brow,
And HEART'S-EASE from her—the forlorn!
Oh! think, as a minstrel when ask'd to begin,*
'Mid a crowd that is joyous and rude,

Are not 66

PANSIES FOR THOUGHT" like her sorrow within,
For she's Two fuces under a hood!

In truth, there is nothing but falsehood around

In this treacherous planet of yours;

One moment, with beautiful flowers you are crown'd;
The next, but a thorn endures.

"Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !"-MOORE.

And yet you have spirits, whose whimsical spell
Can charm e'en Variety's mood;

Humour, wit, poesy, music, all dwell

In your two faces under a Hoop.

A set of pleasant spirits, in good sooth, said I, approaching a tuft of "pansies freakt with jet " now drying their gold and purple velvets in the morning ray. In stepping forward, I unwittingly trod upon a fragrant twig, which suddenly started up, opened the dewy lips of one of its blossoms, and commenced, as if in lieu of the answer I would have sought of the others, the

SONG OF THE BLUSH ROSE.

When earth was in its dawn of light,
By sages it is told,
The roses all were virgin white,

The maidens' hearts all cold:
LOVE, then a wanderer through the air,
Look'd down upon its bowers,
And thought they seem'd so wondrous
fair,

He'd like to have a dwelling there

Amid its fruits and flowers!

Long time he roved from sweet to sweet,

But nothing pleased the child:
Till one May morn he chanced to meet
A rose that just had smiled!
Within its snowy leaves he crept,

Not long he lay before a maid,

Who shunn'd the noontide hour,
Sought coolness in a fount that play'd
Beside his cradle flower.

She thought herself unseen, unheard,
As with a graceful leap,

The fountain's glassy breast she stirr'd.
But, what light shadow pass'd?—a bird
Seem'd startled from its sleep.

The maid, abash'd, look'd round, for then
E'en birds waked maidens' fear-
And, oh! her blush of beauty when

She saw Love smiling near!
With her that hour he went to dwell,'
But first her cheeks' soft flush,
He gave to me, and bade me tell :
"When Love warms maiden hearts,
farewell

HEART'S-EASE and MAIDENS'-BLUSH!',

And said:"no more I'll roam." Then, brushing off the dews that wept Their pearls upon the flower, he slept Contented with a home. This was not, in point of fact, an answer to the question I would have put to the "Pansies;" but, n'importe, I learned something from it. I turned away, once more bewildered as to the choice of path, and soon found myself in the presence of a flower, which seemed to be so conscious of its anomalous situation, that it thought it necessary to explain, even to another intruder, the cause of its present existence and locality. I accordingly listened with due attention to the

SONG OF THE SNOWDROP.

A snowdrop I 'mid summer flowers!

How came it thus to be?
The life they owe to summer hours,

Should prove but death to me.
My cradle should be winter's snow;
But, by its whiteness led,
I thought ALURA's bosom so,

And there reposed my head.
But, ah! though fair, and cold as
snow,

And fitting for my home,

I found Love warm'd it once ago,
And there again might come.

Might come!-Oh! if such fate were
giv❜n,

For ONE who hopes it be-
Alas! although for him 't were heaven,
'T would be the grave for me.
So, quickly from my throbbing nest,
I fled ere Love's return;
Lest, finding there a stranger guest,

He might my blossoms burn.
But, ah! I found, though short my stay
Within that heavenly home,
I've lost the charm of winter's day,
And long for summer's bloom!

A GASTRONOMIC SURVEY OF THE DINING-HOUSES IN LONDON.

MUCH has been said, and some little written, on the allurements and advantages held out to the lovers of good feeding by the restaurants of the French capital; yet, while I admit the countless variety of the Parisian establishments, and the ingenuity exercised by the proprietors in their vocation, I cannot be unmindful of the culinary comforts to be met with and enjoyed both east and west of TempleBar. In spite of the hyperbolical praises so lavishly bestowed by certain expatriated gourmands, on the superiority of French living, I am prepared to show that the cities of London and Westminster (the lawyers have made them two) can vie with the metropolis of France; at all events, in the quality of the eatables, if not the talent displayed in their final arrangement.

Gentle reader! I have travelled far and wide,-have visited every quarter of the globe; but on the whole surface of the earth (a wide field, by the way), there is no spot which yields such meat as dear old England. In the whole world there are not any such markets as Leadenhall and Billingsgate. I once inducted a Frenchman to these matchless bazaars, and he was lost in admiration and wonderment. There he saw fish, flesh, and fowl, in perfection; the luscious salmon, the tempting turbot, the rare but racy dory, the delicate smelt, and inimitable mullet; the plump and juicy joints of Southdown mutton, the far-famed sirloin, and snow-white veal. His amazement conquered all national prejudice, and he confessed that France could produce nothing equal to the splendid display before him. With such materials to work upon, he (for I speak not of cooks of the softer sex,) must be a botcher indeed who could fail to tickle the palate of the most fastidious. The greater craft may, indeed must, be called into requisition on the other side of the Channel, else how could a Parisian chef dish you up such appetizing friandises out of the tough, skinny, scraggy, tasteless, fatless, mutton and beef, on which he is doomed to waste his talent? In vain will the uninitiated traveller look for the accustomed accompaniment of fat. His bouilli and rôti are both alike ignorant of such an excrescence. He might as well look for the slippery morsel on the attenuated frame of the living skeleton, as on the flesh of a Continental ox or sheep. A facetious commentator has somewhere remarked that a French cook will concoct a palatable dish out of an old shoe. For myself, I never met with this savoury morceau, but the assertion tends to verify the Gallic adage, "C'est la sauce qui fait manger le poisson," and this I take to be the fond of foreign cookery.

The fund of invention in a Parisian chef de cuisine is inexhaustible; his gravies and his sauces are as various as the tastes of his customers; to-day you may at Very's partake of a poulet à la Marengo, and to-morrow the same dish at the Trois Frères Provençaux will be as different as a wild from a tame duck. Our Gallic neighbours begin to discover, that we are rather better versed in the science of gastronomy than we were wont to be, and the cynic who stigmatized us as a nation who had " Vingt religions et qu'une sauce," would be inclined in the present day to reverse the sarcasm. Now nothing

The fel

can be so unjust and unmerited as this sweeping censure. low knew nothing about it. It so happens that London is deluged with sauces. Go to any hotel, and the very cruet-stand, containing the pyramidical crystals, will give the lie to the assertion. Why, Burgess alone could furnish a list which would fill a dozen of their cartes. I will even ask any disinterested frequenter of a French restaurant, if he have not many a time and oft longed for his anchovy, Harvey, and Soy, while discussing his "portion" of very questionable fish in Paris? I anticipate a ready affirmative to this truly momentous question.

Reader, do you really and truly hold in affection that rarely-to-bemet-with, but never-to-be-sufficiently admired indigenous dish - a well-dressed rump-steak? One question more, and I have done : Did you ever meet with one in perfection out of England? With your good leave I will tell you where your longing may be gratified, and in so doing I beg to premise that I am perfectly unbiassed in the preference I may give to one or more knights of the gridiron; and the valuable information I am about to impart is the result of much research. When Sterne wrote of things being better managed in France than in England, he never bethought him of a rump-steak. To this day a Frenchman knows as little about the mystery of cutting and dressing this dainty as an Esquimaux. Not many years have elapsed since I was asked by the garçon at Vefour's, in the Palais Royal, if I preferred a bifteck de mouton, or a bifteck de veau !!! This is a fact. But, revenons à nos moutons.

We have all read of the wisdom of the East. Now, I hold it to be a component part of wisdom to find out where the best eatables are to be found; but, whether the wisdom of the East extended to the science of gastronomy, I will not pretend to determine; nevertheless, the men of the East of the present day lack not the wisdom I would glorify, inasmuch as they give proof of their knowledge of the good things of this life, by supporting the purveyors of delicacies in the vicinity of their houses of business.

In a parallel line with Sweeting's Alley is a narrow passage, called Sweeting's Rents, in which stands a small house, having on its door the sponsorial abbreviation of " Joe." In either window may daily be seen, symmetrically arranged, an appetizing assortment of rumps of beef of first-rate quality, flanked by chops and cutlets of every denomination. The eye is rivetted as if by magic upon this tempting display; to resist is impossible. On entering (for enter you must), you are accosted by Joe himself, in appropriate costume,-you point to the identical well-trimmed and marbled rump of beef you have selected in your mind's eye, and in a trice the coveted object is before you. A flourish or two on the steel pendant from his apron-string, and the keen blade has severed with a surgical neatness, a steak of just and proper thickness. But, ye lovers of juice and gravy! curb, I pray ye, Joe's barbarous propensity, -he beats it: it is a vulgar habit, and breaks the cells in which the gravy of the meat is contained, thereby rendering your steak dry and tasteless. Having rescued the precious object of your choice from the martyrdom I have described, the next process in which you are visibly interested, whilst ensconced within a box, six feet by two, is patiently to watch the fiery ordeal the matchless morsel is undergoing. The huge grate and gigantic gridirons are worthy a pilgrimage to the City to behold. The fire-proof worthy