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And beside this, a crowd of birds,
Doves, and ducks, and geese, and sparrows,
Thrushes, larks, and jays, and swans,
The pelican, the crane, and stork,
Wag-tails and ousels, tits and finches.' — Athen. IV., 9.

Owls and puppies were also in the mouths of every people. We can easily imagine that from grasshoppers, young sows' haslets, puppies, owls, and assofætida some rare dishes must have been concocted, which, eaten with the garum of which I have before spoken, must have been truly delectable. With such dishes, and the recumbent position, the ancient banquet must have been no trifling affair. How the guests could ever struggle through one without slobbering their long beards and bedaubing their cænatory garments is a marvel to me; but fashion and extreme laziness sanction a great many absurdities and inconveniences. It was customary at the conclusion of Grecian banquets to make libations and sing praises to the gods. Plato, in his Banquet, says : Upon this he told me that Socrates reclined himself, and took his supper, did the rest, and that they made libations, and sang the praises of the God.' So in Xenophon, after the feast, effusion of wine was made in honor of the gods. The manner in which these libations were performed was, according to Theophrustus, who died B.c. 286, as follows: The unmixed wine which is given at a banquet, which they call the pledge-cup, in honor of the Good Deity, they offer in small quantities, as if reminding the guests of its strength, and of the liberality of the god, by the mere taste. And they hand it round when men are already full, in order that there may be as little as possible drunk out of it. And having paid adoration three times, they take it from the table, as if they were entreating of the gods that nothing may be done unbecomingly, and that they may not indulge in immoderate desires for this kind of drink, and that they may derive what is honorable and useful from it.' I give one of the scolia sung by the Deipnosophists upon their libations :

"O thou Tritonian Pallas! who from heaven above

Look'st with protecting eye

On this holy city and land,
Deign our protectress pow to prove,

From loss in war, from dread sedition's band,
And death's untimely blow, thou and thy father, Jove.'

And now for the moral of my discourse. We see gastronomy, as an art, keeps pace with civilization ; that it is its concomitant, and that it is subject to no laws of retrogression. We observe that those nations where it is unknown are sunk in savagery. Thus you see what a wide field of investigation our subject opens. It would afford me infinite pleasure to trace the effects of cooks and cookery upon the world, from the earliest ages to the present time ; but that is a work only for a philosopher. The ancients did not fail to discover its beneficent influences upon mankind. Athenion, in his Samothracians, introduces a cook arguing philosophically about the nature of things and men, saying :

"Cook. Do you not know that cookery has brought

More aids to piety than aught beside ? VOL. XLVI.


Slave. Say by what means.
"Cook. Attend and you shall hear.

The art of cookery drew us gently forth
From that ferocious life when, void of faith,
The Anthropophaginian ate his brother!
To cookery we owe well-ordered states,
Assembling men in dear society.
Wild was the earth, man feasting upon man,
When one of nobler sepse and milder heart
First sacrificed an animal; the flesh
Was sweet, and man then ceased to feed on man !
And something of the rudeness of those times
The priest commemorates ; for to this day
He roasts the victim's entrails without salt.
In those dark times beneath the earth lay hid
The precious salt - that gold of cookery!
But wben its particles the palate thrilled,
The source of seasonings, charm of cookery, came.
They served a paunch with rich ingredients stored ;
And tender kid within two covering plates,
Warm melted in the mouth. So art improved.
At length a miracle not yet performed
They minced the meat, which, rolled in herbage soft,
Nor meat nor herbage seemed, but to the eye,
And to the taste, the counterfeited dish
Mimicked some curious fish; invention rare!
Thus every dish was seasoned more and more,
Salted, or sour, or sweet, and mingled oft
Oat-meal and honey. To enjoy the meal
Men congregated in the populous towns,
And cities flourished, which we cooks adorned

With all the pleasures of domestic life.
Slare. Oh! rare! where will this end?

Cook. To us you owe
The costly sacrifice. We slay the victims,
We pour the free libations, and to us
The gods themselves lend a propitious ear,
And for our special merits scatter blessings
On all the human race; because from us
And from our art maukind were first induced
To live the life of reason, and the gods
Received due honor.' — Athen. XIV., 81.

But what is this I see? Poeta and Venator walking arm-in-arm ; Poeta swinging his hat, and Venator brandishing a bottle. Alas! they have taken to drink; and, hark ! they are singing some rollicking song.

PISCATOR : By my halidom! it is my own flask which Venator swingeth.

VENATOR : Huzza ! huzza ! my worthy master; huzza! my brave Scholiast. Truly saith Poeta, we have found the fountain of Hippocrene. Drink.

POETA : The maiden fair, with lips so rare, and eye of ebon blackness, with witching form, all ripe and warm, can give no rapture like this. Oh! the good red wine! oh! the blood-red wine! of life the very nectar ; without which all were 'neath a pall, and Joy a shivering spectre. Drink deep, dear friends, for, till it ends, blow winds, come clouds, storms roar; with rare old wine we 'll keep sunshine within our bosom's core.

Piscator : You are villainously given to jesting, my scholars, for there is naught herein. Nay, my dear Scholiast, not so much as a drop ; and thus, thou seest, though our life be very gentle and quiet, yet we shall

not escape all crosses. Now let us sce what great fish there be upon our hooks, for it is near three hours they have been in the water.

VENATOR : So master, I have one as long as your finger!

SCHOLIAST : Master, see; I have a large one. Nay, I have broken my hook.

PisCATOR : Surely he must have been a strong one to have bitten it off. Marry, Poeta, see what a fine one I have. Catch hold of him.

POETA: Aha! master, I am hurt.

PISCATOR : HEAVEN forefend! You have taken the bull-head by the horns. But see what a cloud of dust doth hang over yonder village ; and lo! there comes the lightning and thunder, lashing and urging on the storm. Let us hence.

VENATOR : Marry, now! how the rain doth sweep over yonder field ; and, with its drifting columns, it doth look like an advancing army. And now the wind striketh the tree above and maketh its high head to wag. Here comes the blinding rain scudding along. How sharply it lightens, and how quick the hoarse thunder growls after it! Let us stay under this sheltering oak.

Piscator : Nay, good my scholar. Know that lightning doth much incline to strike high objects ; and further down I hope to take a brace of suckers for our supper.

Here we are, and the shower is past. What a blessed thing is rain; for it hath sobered you, Poeta and Venator, and washed off the dust which I got by our tumble. How gracefully the river bendeth here. We will down upon this craft. Ha! I have a shiner as long as your second finger.

VENATOR : By my faith! good master, I envy your luck. But what shall we do with so many fish? -- for we have now three.

Piscator : We will bestow this, and that fish of thine upon some poor person. What dost thou with that book, Poeta ?

POETA : Huzza! my brave comrades. Is this not a bait for a whale ? 't is my pocket Milton. Leviathan himself will nibble at it, and the great sea-serpent dislocate his back-bone to taste it. Ha! what a glorious bite! Lo! the lure is gone. How sayest thou now, Scholiast, will the fishes not sing like thrushes now?

SCHOLIAST : For a verity, I think they will. See how the dust stoopeth to the surface of the stream; and list! I hear the plaintive whippoor-will calling for her lost mate. The Indians have a legend concerning this bird which I will, when next we go to the angle, repeat to thee, for it is very beautiful.

PISCATOR : I shall be glad to hear it. Now let us go; for we have a brace and a half of fish, and yonder stands our inn. We will walk under this bank, lest Poeta bring shame upon us - for he is yet quite drunken — and lest pestilent fellows ask us of our luck.

VENATOR : Bless me! master, some good house-wife hath placed a salt mackerel in the stream to freshen. Let us take it, and prevail upon our worthy host to fry it for our supper.

PISCATOR : 'T is a good thought ; and we will leave some money in its stead. So we shall have two brace, and the half of them shall fur

nish us a meal. We have had most excellent luck. But I have no change.

VENATOR ; We will return betimes and place some here. Lo! I have it.

PISCATOR : Now let us throw away these rods. We will enter the back-door of our inn, and change our clothes, and make merry with a bottle of small-beer over our smoking meal.

SCHOLIAST : Oh! most delectable. How my mouth doth water at the thought of it. When next thou goest to the angle, pray let me be advised, for I have been mightily pleased.

Piscator : And now the evening hath come. Let us go in, and we will eat our supper heartily, drink our beer gratefully, pay our bill thankfully, call down blessings on our kind and jovial host, and some other day, with honest and quiet minds, go a-angling.

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Far from this dull prosaic land,

Many a weary league away,
Stretches a beach of whitest sand,
Spread out by Ocean's mighty hand,

And glittering with his pearly spray.
Scattered thereon in richest store

Are tinted shells of color rare,
And, following on the breakers' roar,
The sea-breeze drifts the foam it bore

In snowy masses through the air.
Along the beach, some near, some far,

Dropped by the wave's returning flow,
Lies many a shattered mast and spar,
Relics of elemental war,
Blackened, as battle's trophies are,

Memorials of distress and woe.
And far to sea, the frothy crest

Of many a rolling breaker glancing,
Shoulders its way above the rest,
As seeking in its earnest quest
To view the shore upon whose breast,

Like charging squadron, 't is advancing.

Nestled beneath a mighty rock,
*(St. ANNE's Cape the name it bore,)
The “Faery Isle' escapes the shock
Of billows, and their rage may mock;

Looking a jewel from the shore,

Heaved from the sea — a shred of land

Scarce larger than a fisher's boat, A glittering ring of silver sand, Close plumed with shrubs whose flowers expand, A many-colored glorious band,

And on the ocean seem to float. Within the isle a little well

Of purest, freshest crystal sprung, Whose bubbling column, legends tell, Opened, before the proper spell,

The glittering road to Faerydom.
A charmed spot: for faery aid,

So mortals said, was often given
To those who by the well had prayed;
And many a loving youth and maid
Their frequent vows together paid

Beside that shrine, as if to HEAVEN.
Oft to the font young EDWARD came,

With murmured prayer for faery favor.
His whispered snit was still the same;
For Emma's love -- no other name
E'er crossed his lip — no other flame

E'er shone beside the love he gave her.
He won the maid ; by faery power

Or lover's art I know not, tell not;
Or whether it chanced at vesper hour
On the white sea-beach, or in secret bower,
Or by the faery fountain's shower:

From EDWARD's lip the secret fell not.
The lovers plighted their faith; and who,

If he seeks through earth to its utmost bound, E'er met a maid but her faith was true,

Or a woman false to her promise found?

One summer eve, as the sun declined,

Hung in the red and glowing West, · Like a burning thought in a poet's mind, Or a passionate lover closely twined

On the blushing curve of his maiden's breastYoung EDWARD sought the faery well,

And lo! beside its margin stood
A figure like Eve's before she fell,
Or the women of old, whom poets tell

The angels stooped from heaven and wooed.
The blue of her eye was the hue of the sky,

Her hair like the streakings of morning light, As it shoots from the cloud, an airy shroud,

Which veils from the earth the sun-day bright.

Fler face was young and wondrous fair,

(A girl she was, or little older,) But in its rest there was an air Of power, and something scornful there

There lurked, which daunted the beholder.
And on her brow a shimmering star

Seemed ever and anon to quiver,
As ye see the lights in heaven that are
Stoop from their aërial home afar,

And shine reflected in a river.

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