ficed to our appetites, has a little niche of its own in our memory. Either the cook who made it had a genius for pie, or our hunger gave it an excellence which no combination of crust, meat, and jelly has since presented to us. For years we persisted in ordering cold pie as a bonne bouche after a long tramp, but the relish of that night remains still a memory and a tradition. A bowl of maccaroni served in the inn (La Luna) at Amalfi is associated with a delicate sense of epicurism which time has rather refined than weakened. What that maccaroni would have been without such accessories as the sweet still air we breathed, the calm moonlit waves we looked upon, and the beautiful outline of the hills o'er which we had won our way, we know not. We care not to dissect the sensations. Nor are we curious to define the limit between body and spirit, but are content to rejoice in the result of our humanity, without inquiring where the appetite ends or the mind begins. There is a scene in another clime, and another hemisphere, which arises in the dim distance before us. It is in an inn near Halifax. We are standing before the stove, battered, tired, and mud-soiled. We had lost our way in the woods, had fallen into a honey-pot, had bruised our shins against fallen trees, and were out of humour with ourself and the world, when suddenly there steals upon us from a neighbouring apartment an odour fragrant as a zephyr, and soothing as a south wind. Every moment it comes stronger and more fragrant, until our soul grows calm within us. We feed on it, we feast on it, until our hostess, buxom and ample, appears bearing in the reality. It was a wild duck stewed in some way, we know not how, save that there was a delicious gout of onion and lemon. Curious housewives have often asked us for the recipe of that dish, but we could never give it; we only know that it left us nothing to desire save the glass of mulled wine and the soft bed which finished the adventures of the day. A pilau eaten, sans knife and fork, with a Sheik of the Lebanon, is also a tender recollection; so is a stew shared with comrades over a bivouac

fire, and a bit of pork frizzled on the top of a ramrod, which was once presented to us on a piece of biscuit after a long march; so is a spatched guinea-fowl, which, by dint of coaxing and bullying, we induced a quadroon hostess to prepare for us in one of our West Indian rambles. Whether, oh friend of our travel! thy merry laugh and genial spirit, which could brighten even the sullenness of niggers, did not more for our dish, and the sangaree which followed, than cayenne or lemon, we cannot tell, but as a whole the thing was perfect.

There are men too-to us nameless -mere shapes and phantoms, towards whom we feel a tender gratitude. The nobleman who has magnanimously declined the immortality of associating his name with the Worcestershire sauce, how often, when a few drops of the precious condiment have given a relish to our dry chop or cold bone, have we wished him all the pleasures which await on good digestion; and the men-the inventors of soluble coffees and chocolates, of pastes and patés, have we not again and again hoped that their steaks would be ever tender, their chops juicy that they may have Soyers for their cooks, and Griseldas for their wives?

These "Providences," we believe, make the highest as well as the purest joys of the palate. They are to Palais-Royal dinners and Guildhall banquets, as going afoot is to riding in carriages-as the pace of a Red Indian is to the saunter of a park lounger-a nature, not an art. We remember once witnessing a sensation of this sort, which would have deserved the price offered by the advertiser for a new pleasure - a sensation worth more to Apicius than the prawns for which he journeyed to Africa-a sensation which a Curtis or a Temple never imagined, save, perhaps, when they dreamed of their youth, if men bound over to turtle and entrées ever do dream of youth. We were sitting under the walls of Phyle. We had trodden that rugged pass under a hot sun, and were resting under the shade of an oak. We had eaten and drunken, and were luxuriously watching the smoke of

our cigar as it curled amid the leaves, and the lizards as they crept and glided amid the huge old stones; when suddenly there stood before us a young Greek, perfect in form and feature as an Antinous, wild and savage as a colt of the Ukraine. Curiously he eyed us and our costume; more curiously still his eye fell on the fragments which lay beside our wallet. With the benevolence of a full-fed man we threw him a bone of lamb. He clutched it eagerly, eyed it suspiciously, smelt it as monkeys do when in doubt, bit at it cautiously at first, then snatched three or four mouthfuls hurriedly and greedily, then threw up his hands and shouted in ecstasy, then returned to the attack, and proceeded to tear off every morsel until the bone was whiter and more bare than our trusty Ponto-best of polishers could have left it. We thought, at first, that we were witnessing the ravenings of hunger, but there was more of novelty than of craving in the young savage's delight; and the truth then dawned upon us that we were looking on a creature, genus homo, who had tasted flesh for the first time. The fact was a phenomenon to us, who, though not so voracious as the piper's son, yet heard in our consciences the lowings and bleatings from a sort of small Smithfield which had been sacrificed to our appetite.

There are meals again of this kind which we remember as the direst needs of necessity. Such was a supper, in a Welsh cottage, on dry oatmeal-cake and buttermilk,—in a Portuguese venda, on a greasy dish of carne di porco, in an Irish skibbereen-house, on cold potatoes and salt. Rye-bread and raw saltfish would not look tempting in a bill of fare; and a loaf well drenched with oil, and studded with garlic, which we once shared with a Sicilian boatman, made a meal which we would not repeat except under the most urgent circumstances.

Philosophers say that no man is so bad but some good may be found in him. So say we of food. The cuisine of no country is so utterly wretched but it will furnish forth a good meal. If thy stomach reject oil and garlic,

and thou lovest not ollas, pucheros, maccaroni, cabobs, or pilaus, are there not ever eggs? the first and last resource of the wayfarer-eggs boiled eggs fried? eggs roasted? eggs poached-are there not swine in almost all lands? and what man, be he neither Jew nor Mahommedan, ever dared to turn up his nose at bacon or ham? Are there not, too, especially in southern and eastern climes, vegetables fresh and succulent, fruit rich and luscious, and which, lying, as we have seen them, heaped up together in marketplaces, with the green leaves shading the bright brilliant colours, seem to be the very riches of the earth? And is there not bread, the staff of life? Bread we have ever found tolerable, from the crisp, light, delicious roll of the St Petersburg hotel, to the unleavened cake which the Syrian bakes against the side of his stone oven, and then folds over his arm as provision for a journey. We would except the black bread of the north; even the most uncompromising Spartan might be justified in making a wry face at that.

In one thing we would advise thee, brother of the staff-be simple in thy drinks! Eschew compounds! Vex not thy stomach nor vitiate thy palate with such unnatural mixtures as cobblers, juleps, dog's-nose, et hoc genus omne. Half-and-half, or, as the French call it, marriage, may be an exception. We would not prescribe thy beverage, but only say, let it be simple. Milk, which perhaps thy soul loveth, is poison to us; and the tea, which refreshes and soothes us, might be mawkish to thy palate, and drive sleep from thine eyelids. Water is the natural drink of man. Need any one thirst when there are springs and fountains welling from the bosom of the earth? Granted. We respect the water-drinker, and envy the man who, at any pump or well, can find a joy which we purchase dearly in coins and headache over champagne and claret; but we must confess, in all humiliation, that we never took kindly to water, and prefer it ever dashed with sherry or eau-de-vie. At first we thought it might be the modus bibendi, and that if we could only hold up the pitcher

or jar as the Arab or Spaniard does, open our mouth and let the pure liquid flow down our throats in a full stream, that we might become a water-drinker. After several trials, however, in which we flooded our bosom, and were half choked, we were obliged to admit the failure. Whether the fault be in our organisation or in circumstances, we know not. Yet how delicious the draught to the herdsman of the sierra, or the horseman of the desert, as it seems to fall on his parched throat and baked clay like rain on the earth. Orangeades, lemonades, orgeat, and ice juices, are nice enough, but more worthy of loiterers in cafés and on prados than of one who with his foot takes possession of the earth, and the secret places thereof. If we must drink for luxury, let it be of Amontillâo pure and ripe by our fireside,

When autumn's skies are chill and drear, And autumn's leaves are red and scarof Lafitte, ruddy and cool, when summer breezes and summer scents breathe upon us through open windows, and we care not if it appear even in a black bottle, with a wet rag around it-of (let it not go beyond thine ear, oh brother pilgrim) whisky punch, screaming hot, and mixed, as the wife of our bosom alone can mix it, when winter nights are long, and winter nights are keen -of coffee, as French and Turks make it of Spanish chocolate, stirred and sipped delicately with a long thin biscuit. There have been, too, improvised drinkings, quenchings of thirst, and ticklings of the palate, which we regard rather as exceptional cases than as rules. A scene in the West Indies stands forth as a little oasis in our annals of thirst. We were tramping along the hard dry road in Barbadoes. The tropic sun was pouring its full tide upon us -not a leaf, or tree, or shade, sheltered our heads from the noontide heat; our lips grew hot, our throats parched, so that our attempts to troll a nigger melody ended in broken quavers, like the turns of a decayed hurdy-gurdy. Water, or wine, or brandy, would then have been fever, death. In our extremity we espied a plantation-house in the distance

we struck across the cane fields towards it. The first part we chanced on was an outhouse, where a group of male niggers, with shout and noise and gesture, were heaping and heaving stalks of cane into the jaws of a mill, whilst their dusky, white-teethed, thick-lipped, broadfooted mates danced and laughed and chattered as the juice spouted, foaming, tossing, and bubbling, into the reservoir beneath. The shade, the gurgling sound, the white frothing stream, were in themselves a relief, but there was still a deadly drought upon us, when a nigger advancing, and waving the brim of a hat, said "Drink, massa," accompanying the proposition by the pantomine of a turn of the hand and a sputtering in the throat. We nodded-away he ran to the house, and forthwith returned with a goblet out of which Polyphemus might have toped. This was held under the spout, until the liquor fell creaming, sparkling, and tumbling into it, and over it, and was then presented to us. The drink was new to us, and we sipped at first sparingly, but the cool gentle influences gradually widened our lips, until our throat became a free channel for a full draught. "Ha, ha," said our nigger, "hear how him friz!" Our comrade repeated the experiment, and we conscientiously recommend to wayfarers under like circumstances this same resource of cane-juice, as sustaining, innocent, and refreshing.

Once again, on the eve of a hot day in Greece, we found ourself in extremis on the plains of Olympia. Not only were our mouth and tongue dry, but our whole frame pricked and ached under the pressure of heat. Our guide was more than frantic. He had howled, tumbled his fez, smitten his bosom, and gesticulated most wildly for some miles, when suddenly he dashed forward, made a somerset over a fence, tumbled head-over-heels into a little patch of green, which we had long eyed wistfully, and there lay grovelling. Suddenly we saw the flash of a knife, heard a squash and a gush, and then sobbings and sputterings, as though one were drinking hard, and stopping to breathe at whiles.

Suspecting somewhat, we followed his example, and soon found ourself buried to the head and ears in a watermelon. Brother pilgrim, do not the like! Ere night we repented, not in sackcloth and ashes, but in colic and blue-pill, the rashness of our thirst. Beside these droughty quenchings may we not place one palatal tickling not a rollicking debauch, but a little simple bout, which we indulged in then without remorse, and remember now without repentance? The streets of Cadiz are hot and sultry, as all who have been there must know. We had trodden them, picture-hunting, church-seeing, glovebuying, and, though not athirst, felt that irritation of flesh and spirit which coolness, rest, and drink can alone soothe. We were seeking some house of refuge when a friend met us. Well versed was he in the ways of the city; A hoard our wants, took us by the elbow, and led us up and down, in and out, until we came to an underground passage; down this we dived, a door opened at the foot, and we found ourses in a vaulted cellar, 'mid a range smacking of lips, guttural utterances, putting of smoke, and a mist of forms Presently the confusion cleared away, and we saw, around little tables placed on rude Fressels, men who, if they were not robbers or contrabandistas, there is no longer faith to be placed in physiognomy, belief in melodramatic exhibitions, nor is there truth in Borrow, Ford, or Irving all were eating, drinking, talking, smoking. We sat down at one of the tables, and presently a fat host, without sign or summons, set before us a little plate with slices of spiced sausage, rolls of crisp bread, tall glasses, and a bottle Following the cue of our company, we placed the slices of sausages between the bits of bread sandwichwise, then poured out the wine, and let it trickle slowly and gently over our palate. It was MusGadel not the nauseous stuff thou drinkest under that name in England, borber! but the juice itself of that delicious grape, luscious, rich, and www We care not to say how much Mausage we ate, how often the glasses were emptied, or the bottle appeared and disappeared; yet we know,

that though in the night we might have fancied ourself the Prodigal tending swine, and feeding on husks, or Tantalus straining after water-springs, we arose in the morning with a clear head and cool palate, ready for the breakfast of grapes, figs, bread, and chocolate which awaited us.

Alexander said once, that sleep was one of the things which reminded him that he was human. We must confess that we have ever hailed this symptom of our humanity without remorse or mortification. Nature's sweet restorer has been ever kind to us, and has visited our couch, whether we were roughing it on a sofa, swinging in a hammock, immersed in down, lying on a soft plank, or stretched on nature's naked bosom, not coyly or wantonly, but with a free and chaste embrace. We are not squeamish as to the places, but are particular as to the times. We cannot sleep with the sunlight falling full upon us. Our first night on a house-top in Palestine, we remember well, was sleepless. Our soul refused to shut itself out from the sight of the heavens which shed the glory of moon and star upon it, and from the music of the silence, the solemn stillness, which dwelt on the earth around.

We were more successful once on a hard table at Sidon. Though conscious at times of groans and moans from our comrade and bedfellow, we only awoke to a sense of his distress in the morning, when we saw his face bitten and swollen out of all shape and comeliness. We had escaped the torturers, but the enemies were in close contiguity, and hung in thick clusters to the ends of our flannel waistcoat. Verily, if it be true that the king of fleas keeps his court at Jaffa, he must have a well-accredited ambassador at Sidon-a very Stratford de Redcliffe.

The greatest aggravation on our power of sleep befell us at an inn in Ireland. After a wretched supper and some bad whisky we retired sullenly to our chamber. It was not inviting; the furniture was scanty, the jug wanted a handle, the basin was cracked, a bit of soap lay in the half of a saucer. In the corner, however, was a sight which compensated