patronised by the bon vivants of Cairo. We are next introduced to the kitchen, where we see a large caldron of bronze placed in a tripod over the fire, and nearly as portentous in size as that which figured at the Achillean festival,—

"A brazen caldron of capacious frame They bring and place above the roaring flame."

We behold one of the cook's assistants stirring the fire with a poker; another blowing it with bellows; a third skimming the surface of the hash or soup; a fourth stirring the ingredients of a caldron with a large fork; a fifth pounding salt or pepper, and seasoning the savoury viands. In one instance, a spit is passed through a goose intended to be roasted; a dwarf slave (such as the Romans patronised on account of their grotesque drollery) holds and turns it over a charcoal fire, while he uses a fan to keep the charcoal bright. *

The pastrycook's or confectionary department was separated. In this department we see assistants engaged in sifting and mixing flour, kneading paste, spreading it and rolling it, making sweetmeats and maccaroni, or forming the paste into various shapes of biscuits and rolls, cakes and tarts, over which were sprinkled seeds of the sesamum and carraway. Cakes and puddings, mixed with fruit, are also observable in process of formation; we may trace them to the baker, and afterwards to the shelves, on which they are deposited until required.

A wise man has said, "Is there any thing of which it may be said, Lo, this is new! Behold, it has been of old time, even before us! The thing which has been is the thing which shall be, and there is no new thing under the sun." The dinner frescoes under survey abundantly prove the axiom.

Butchers, it has been shewn, were employed in the kitchen for the pur

In

pose of dissecting the joints. Rosellini's Civil Monuments of Egypt (plate 83), one of these assistant butchers is sharpening a knife upon a steel suspended from his waist, and which is exactly similar to the butchers' steels employed at the present day.

Encore un coup: the preparations for a great dinner on a sumptuous and extensive scale are seen in the tomb of Menoptha at Saccareh. A subordinate tableau represents two pastrycooks occupied; the one in moulding, the other in baking, certain delicacies of a round or flat form, which, beyond a doubt, represent tartlets or patties, which seem to have been much in request among the Theban gastronomes, and for which the modern pastrycooks of Cairo, according to the ludicrous testimony of little Hunchback, in the Arabian Nights, have been traditionally famous. In another compartment, a pastrycook appears with a tray of these tartlets on his head, to which the symbol implying the arithmetical number "one thousand" (in Oriental language, the " man of a thousand tarts") is appended,—no doubt, with a view of signifying the large consumption of his trade. A Theban lad (perhaps a schoolboy) beneath, with admiring hands directed towards the tray, is in the act of making a purchase of the tempting luxuries. Well do we remember, in our schoolboy days, purchasing of the school pastrycook (whom the boys characteristically designated as Mr. Joseph Stale) certain compound friandises of fruit and pastry, ingeniously constructed in the shape of geese, lambs, and pigs. Who would not imagine that these were modern inventions in deference to juvenile gulosity? But no such thing. Lo and behold! the same unctuous rarities appear on the shelves of the "man of a thousand

tarts."

One little incident in a dinner fresco or tableau is really new—or,

The geese, in this instance, are plucked and broiled; but the favourite mode of treating them was to salt them, as is still practised in Ireland and Yorkshire. A modern epicure has pronounced the Irish salted goose a dish fit for Olympus," and few bon vivants are ignorant of that noble combination of rich interior and decorated exterior which, under the name of a Yorkshire Goose Pie, so often cheers and orna. ments the Christmas board.

at least, it may be pronounced new to modern practice. It occurs in the tomb of a "learned Theban" at Eilithyæ, a gentleman in the shipping trade, who has held an admiral's commission in the wars of Thothmos III., and who is represented as giving an official dinner to his brother-officers and the mercantile interest. There are two compartments. You see on one side the arrival of the aristocratic guest in his chariot, attended by a train of running footmen, one of whom hastens forward to announce his arrival by a knock at the door, sufficient to satisfy the critical ear and rouse the somnolent obesity of the sleepiest and fattest hall-porter of Grosvenor Square. The other compartment presents you with a coup d'oeil of the poultry-yard, shambles, pantry, and kitchen; and is completed by a side view of the novel incident to which reference has been made. A grey-headed mendicant, attended by his "faithful dog," and who might pass for Ulysses at his palace gate, is receiving from the

hands of a deformed but charitable
menial a bull's-head, and a draught
of that beer for the invention of
which we
beholden to the
Thebans.

are

Au reste, the busy preparations for the dinner represented in the latter compartment render the last tableau the most remarkable of all prandial frescoes. Boiling, baking, stewing, roasting, peppering, and salting, are going on with a bustling vivacity which does honour to the wealthy hospitality and learned gastronomy of the host, while the profuse amplitude of the preparations bear equal testimony to the gigantic appetites and admirable digestion of the shipping-master's convives. To quote a French proverb, which is certainly more expressive than reverential, they are as restlessly active as "milles diables dans un bénitier;" which may be done into the plainer English of the "shipping interest" by an analogous proverb, "As busy as the d- in a gale of wind.”

A FALSE ALARM,

A TRUE STORY.

HAIL, happy times! when man may lay his head
On downy pillow, free from strife and dread;
When deeds of forty thieves are only told
As bygone fears, and wondrous tales of old;
When goblin grim, and fearful warning sprite,
No more disturb our real Arabian night.
Ah, happy times! but how can these things be,
When dread, through sin, was made man's destiny?

There is a happy land, where Church and State
Together work to lighten human fate;
Laws and Religion have both ably wrought,
And peace and safety to its children brought;
And yet e'en there, where Confidence should dwell,
Old Dread starts up, and breaks the happy spell.

'T was in that land a peaceful pastor dwelt,
He plann'd no harm nor fear of evil felt;
It was a beauteous spot his cottage graced,
Nature and Art there lines of beauty traced.
One greater, too, than Nature bless'd the man,
And for him meet help furnish'd; heaven's wide span
Ne'er threw its mantle o'er a fairer form

Than hers, whom he call'd wife-his dearest charm!
For sun ne'er lighted up more loving eye,
Or warm'd a heart more full of charity.

From these there sprang five daughters, such as they,-
Pious, and wise, and fair; and many say

Such gifted creatures, so brought up, need fear
No harm hereafter, and no danger here.
A happy family! though means were small,
Those means were plenty to that happy all.
With good and pious works their days were fill'd,
In caring darling pets their leisure wiled;
Abroad to distant climes they would not roam
To gratify their fancy's wants,-at home
Was all Canary Isles and Java's shore,

Or India's groves, teeming with feather'd store,
Were nought to them; the glebe their wants supplied,
Horses, and pigs, and poultry, were their pride.
A nimble squirrel and a finch or two

Perch'd on the hand or in the window flew.
And once they had,—it was wild fancy's love,
For Venuses, of course, would choose a dove-
They had a daw--black, noisy, without sense,
They loved him dearly for his impudence:
Many a trick he play'd, and pass'd his jest!
Pert, prying, prigging, peppery-a pest!
Yet they loved him; but one they loved more-
Loved as no friend was ever loved before.
A dear and darling pet was that; ah, me!
Fair lady, I, too, venerated thee!

It was their friend-her father's only child-
No swan so graceful, and no dove so mild.

Oft would she come, though rain and mire would say, "Put not thy angel foot on earth this day,"

Would come to cheer her friends both young and old
With beaming eye and words that comfort told.
And once she came, 'twas an eventful hour,-
Breathe softly, muse! and tell the tale once more:

Flush'd from her broken sleep, portending storm,
Aurora rose, when fair Maria's form

Stepp'd from her father's door, and bent her way
To bless the pastor with her beams that day.
Arrived, the angel guest, for friendship's sake,
Brake with her friends the fast that mortals break.

The day was pass'd in profitable joy-
September's day, when Nature, growing coy
Of failing beauty, casts the veil of night
Early o'er her departing charms, from sight
To screen her blemishes; but 'neath that veil
Art loves to shine, and many a happy tale,
And notes of music soft, and softer still

The voice of melody, did through the bosom thrill,
As darkness lay upon the land, and late

Was the grieved hour that did that charm abate.
Then all was hush'd, and day's last work was done-
The spindle, needle, book and all were gone;

The glossy trees in paper nicely placed;

And then, 'neath muslin shrouded, neatly faced
With frill and crimp, safely the head is borne
On downy pillow, there to lie till morn.

Rashi confidence! One maid kept 'wake that night,
From China's nervous draught: she thought she might

*

Or hear the secrets of the talking dream,
Or tell who sang the songs that wives demean.
As wiling thus the night, she seem'd to hear
A knocking noise without-so very near.
It louder grew; she waked her fellow quick.
She heard, ""Tis thieves the kitchen window break!"
Fast to the pastor's room like doves they fly,
"Thieves, master, thieves!" the pastor rubb'd his eye.
"Who-what-where-when-which!" out from bed he

jump'd,

And on the landing on all hands he plump'd.
This roused the house, the dreadful panic flew,
All from their beds rush'd out like shipwreck'd crew,
Shivering and shrinking all; but one eye turn'd
Upon the pastor, and his courage burn'd.
"Fall in !" he cried aloud, "each maid now take
A taper in her hand for safety sake."

Then from the scabbard which adorn'd the wall
He drew a rusty blade, and 'fore them all
Begg'd pardon from above for blood that might
Flow from that blade that melancholy night.
A prudent leader! he his troop review'd,
As there array'd in uniform they stood.

White was the dress, the cheek, the trembling hand-
From head to foot it was a milk-white band;
But still they follow'd onward, near the spot
Where noise was heard, and where was laid the plot.
In manner firm the pastor challenged loud,

แ

In voice that spoke of death, without a shroud

"Who's there? Why this ado? Who breaks the law?" With tap-tap-tap the answer came-"Caw! Caw!"

"Ah, Jack, you rogue! 'tis you!" "Ah, Jack, you dear!"
Exclaim'd the Amazons in front and rear.

The daw replied, "Gainst me the door was shut:
To be neglected is a cruel cut-

More cruel still, when in the heart we see

Another dwelling where we used to be."

Now once again the cheeks with blushes bloom,

And back the maidens rush within their room.

And, strange! that she who arm'd the breast for fight,

Was now observed to be the first in flight.

"Stop! to conclude," the pastor spake with stress,
"This trying night a moral doth express.

MORAL.

Learn, timid youths, from this eventful story,
That valour is the safest road to glory;
And, maidens, mind! raise not your hope or fear
On ev'ry word that's whisper'd in the ear."

* Muse is pleased to call snoring a "song "— aliquando dormitat Homerus.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF CRIME, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM

FAMILIAR HISTORY.

No. II.

FRANCIS DAVID STIRN.

THE laws of all civilised nations, if not the eternal rule of right itself, have agreed to rate murder at the head of the various offences which moralists and jurists are alike accustomed to treat as crimes. Looking at the matter from the point of view whence jurists are taught to regard it, there is no just reason why this decision should be gainsaid. Life once taken away, can never be restored; and hence the state which assumes, or is supposed to assume, that every member of the community either is or may hereafter become useful to itself, watches over the lives of its subjects with a jealousy and a care such as are not called into operation by its anxiety to render secure either their good name their property. In like manner the moralist, if he confine his attention exclusively to the consequences of an offence as they bear only upon the party injured, has good ground for coinciding with the jurist. From the effects of any other wrong, be they ever so harassing and painful at the moment, a man may recover; but a blow once struck which deprives him of life, renders void his place in society, and sends him to his account, as Hamlet has it,—

"With all his imperfections on his bead."

-

or

account, not only the extent of evil which each works to its victim, but the sort of influence which they severally exercise on the moral nature of the perpetrators, as well in their commission as in the steps which lead to it. The murder which it was our business to describe in a former Number, brought, for example, the guilty career of a very bad man to a climax. It shewed that in him the last spark of humanity had become extinct; but the same thing cannot be predicated of all murders. Godwin, in his tale of Caleb Williams, has contrived to throw a great deal of interest round the character of a man whom he, nevertheless, stains with the crime of homicide, and with other offences against which our spirits rebel; and though the philosophy of the work be bad throughout, there is, nevertheless, truth in it so far that, the author's manner of working out his catastrophe contradicts but one circumstance (though that is an important one) in the results of our experience of every-day life. A gentleman grossly maltreated in a ballroom, however morbidly sensitive of insult, would hardly follow the person who had struck him into the street, and stab him in the dark. The very sensibility of character which Godwin attributes to Mr. Meadows would have withheld him from this; for he who has been publicly outraged can be satisfied with public reparation alone; and public reparation for such offences was to be procured a century ago only by what was called "an airing in the Park," that is, by a duel. Nevertheless, Godwin is right in treating a morbidly sensitive temper as a source, and a very fruitful source, of crime. Such a temper, unwisely dealt with, that is, indulged, instead of being restrained, and soothed, or humoured, when it ought to have been rebuked, ends not unfrequently in madness in which case, be the outrage committed what it may, the moral

We have nothing to object to this reasoning. The fiction of the jurist (for a fiction we must admit it to be, without calling in the authority of Mr. Malthus to support us) is an amiable one, and the principle which has been rested upon it works well; for where there is but imperfect security to life as in Ireland, and in the southern and western States of the American Union-civilisation cannot make head, except partially. So also the moralist, in the narrow view which he takes of the subject, sees clearly; but his view of the subject is a narrow one. To judge of the comparative heinousness of offences, it is necessary to take into