sets out to gather and arrange the various fruits which
as yet formed the whole range of food for man :—
With despatchful looks in haste

She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent:
What choice to choose for delicacy best;
What order, so contrived as not to mix
Tastes, not well joined, inelegant; but bring
Taste after taste upheld with kindliest change:
Bestirs her then, and from each tender stalk,
Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields
In India East or West, or middle shore
In Pontus or the Punic coast, or where
Alcinous reigned; fruit of all kinds, in coat
Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded husk, or shell,
She gathers, tribute large, and on the board
Heaps with unsparing hand. For drink the grape
She crushes, inoffensive must, and meaths
From many a berry, and from sweet kernels pressed
She tempers dulcet creams; nor these to hold
Wants her fit vessels pure; then strews the ground
With rose and odours from the shrub unfumed.'

Here is no regal pomp,' no dishes piled,' no meretricious splendour! All chaste and simple, yet varied and abundant. The primitive purity of the Eden-life forbade the shedding of blood-the destruction of lifefor the purposes of food; and consequently here we have no savoury meats, no fowl of game,' or 'fish from every shore;' no stately sideboard, and no fragrant wines. Innocent and nutritious fruits, gently appeasive rather than provocative of appetite, with inoffensive must and meaths' to satisfy the promptings of thirst-not rich and costly wines to tempt the cloying palate to intoxicating excess. The description is perfect-unless, perhaps, we might be permitted to ask (though it is almost heresy even to hint a fault in so complete a master of the proprieties' as Milton) how the conventional word board (in 13th line) has been permitted to slip into such a passage?—especially when, in a few lines afterwards, we are told that

-Raised of grassy turf

Their table was.'

Yet the poet may have used it only as a convenient common synonyme for table, intentionally overlooking

its purely conventional origin.

From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing;
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran

As if that jewel, large and rare,
The ruby for which Kublai-Khan
Offered a city's wealth, was blushing
Melted within the goblets there!'

Our next transition is not so great or sudden. To step from Milton to Moore is to descend from the golden clouds to something like ordinary earth; but to pass from Moore to Byron is only crossing the boundary of two tangent dominions of poesy. The table, then, which we are next to look upon, though similar in some of its features to those already described, is quite different in its general air and character. The poet is describing the feast given by Haidée to her lover in the dwelling of her pirate father. He tells us that they

- Sate

At wassail in their beauty and their pride:
An ivory inlaid table spread with state

Before them, and fair slaves on every side;
Gems, gold, and silver formed the service mostly,
Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly.

The dinner made about a hundred dishes;

Lamb and pistachio nuts-in short, all meats,
And saffron soups, and sweet breads; and the fishes
Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets,
Drest to a Sybarite's most pampered wishes;
The beverage was various sherbets

Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice,
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.
These were ranged round each in its crystal ewer,
And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast;
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure,

In small fine china cups came in at last ;
Gold cups of filigree made to secure

The hand from burning underneath them placed:
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boiled

Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoiled.' How lightly touched, and yet how vivid is this luxu rious or even voluptuous picture! We can see the white and jewelled hands of the two lovers moving among the fruits and sweetmeats of the heaped-up other to the tempting delicacies, and talking languishtable. We can imagine them playfully helping each ingly about the blushing fruits and the sparkling wines.

Yet, on the whole, this picture of a set feast by the modern poet is not so finely coloured as that which we haps was it requisite that it should be so under the difhave quoted from his elder brother, Milton; nor per

ferent circumstances. There is a sort of carelessness, an air of dilettanteism, about Byron's description, arising perhaps from the peculiar style in which it, in common with the whole of the poem from which it is extracted, is written, that does not tell beside the seriousness of Milton's grand Milton's account of the Satanic feast.

extract:

'The board was spread with fruits and wine: With grapes of gold, like those that shine On Casbin's hills-pomegranates full

Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest apples that Cabul

In all its thousand gardens bears;
Plantains, the golden and the green,
Malaga's nectared mangusteen ;
Prunes of Bokhara, and sweet nuts
From the far groves of Samarcand,
And Basra dates, and apricots,

Seed of the sun, from Iran's land;
With rich conserve of Visna cherries,
Of orange flowers, and of those berries
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells.
All these in richest vases smile,

In baskets of pure sandal-wood,
And urns of porcelain from that isle
Sunk underneath the Indian flood,
Whence oft the lucky diver brings
Vases to grace the halls of kings.
Wines, too, of every clime and hue,
Around their liquid lustre threw;
Amber Rosolli-the bright dew

rich meats and glowing fruits, and would fain stretch forth our hand to touch and taste them. But we can look at the Byronic feast-banquet with comparative indifference. Everything there is very fine and attractive in its way, but somehow or other it is not so sorely tempting to frail human senses.

But we wave our magic wand-as did Dr Snatchaway before the greedy eyes of Governor Sancho-and all these fine dishes disappear. The next poetical picture which we present to our readers deserves to be shaded by silken curtains. It is from The Eve of St Agnes,' a beautiful poem by that wonderful young poet Keats. It was an ancient superstition that if, on the eve of the day devoted by the rules of the Roman Catholic church to St Agnes, a maiden should observe certain appropriate rites and ceremonies before retiring to rest, she would, till midnight, enjoy sweet dreams about her lover.* Around this legend of the olden time Keats has woven one of the most beautiful poems in the English language. We do not intend to give anything ||

* Somewhat akin to some of the Scottish superstitions about Halloween. St Agnes's Eve, however, is nearly three months later in the scason of winter than Halloween-the latter being in October, the former in January.

but the merest glimpse of the sunny brightness of this poetic gem; but it is necessary to the right understanding of the general character of our extract, that we should preface it by the information that Madeline-a beautiful young lady-has observed the necessary rites, and gone to sleep fusting (an important part of the charm, it would seem), in the hope of dreaming of her lover Porphyro, and that he has gained admittance to her chamber, with the view of persuading her to steal away with him from among her cruel kinsmen, to his home beyond the southern moors.' He prepares for her a slight repast, and waits her awakening, that he may by his actual presence fulfil, as it were, the visions which he hopes have visited her.

'Then by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set

A table, and, half-anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet. ** And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrops tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes, and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light.' How much of united delicacy and richness is here! There is no overloading, no gaudy ornament-all is chaste and refined, but at the same time exquisitely rich and luxurious. It is a collation worthy of Elysium, to be partaken of by Apollo and the Muses. It must be remembered that a fully-furnished feast would have been quite out of place on such an occasion; yet something somewhat substantial was requisite, seeing that Madeline had retired to rest fasting. Let your eye wander again, good reader, over the lines we have quoted, and think how welcome must have been such sweet provision. Nothing could be finer or more appropriate. Here,' says Leigh Hunt, that fine poet and exquisite critic-here is delicate modulation, and super-refined epicurean nicety.

"Lucent syrops tinct with cinnamon," make us read the line delicately, and at the tip-end, as it were, of one's tongue.'

We shall conclude, for the present at least, these pickings from the tables of the poets-appropriately enough with a supper; a supper set out by Leigh Hunt himself. It is from a fine fanciful poem, one of his earlier works, entitled, 'The Feast of the Poets,' in which Apollo is represented as having descended to hold a sort of levee with the living poets of the time, and at which Byron, Campbell, Montgomery, Rogers, Scott, Crabbe, Moore, Keats, Shelley, Landor, Southey, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and others, were present. Apollo bestows upon each of them an appropriate wreath, wherewith their brows are encircled, and they all sit down to sup with him. The whole scene being purely imaginary, the poet could give full wing to his fancy; and accordingly we have a glow of magnificence worthy of the brightest dreams of the imaginative East:

- Rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams,
Not epicure civic, or grossly inclined,
But such as a poet might dream ere he dined;
For the god had no sooner determined the fare,
Than it turned to whatever was racy and rare:
The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,
On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun :
The wines were all nectar of different smack,
To which Muskat was nothing, nor Virginis Sac,
No, nor even Johannisberg, soul of the Rhine,
Nor Montepulciano, though king of all wine.
Then as for the fruits, ye might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;

And all on the table no sooner were spread,
Than their cheeks next the god blushed a beautiful red.
'Twas magic, in short, and deliciousness all.
The very men-servants grew handsome and tall;
To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turned,
The service with opal and adamant burned,
Each candlestick changed to a pillar of gold,
While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould,
The decanters and glasses pure diamond became,
And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame:
In a word, so completely forestalled were the wishes,
E'en harmony struck from the noise of the dishes."

But we must linger no longer amid such tempting fare, lest we get intoxicated even with the fumes. We trust, however, that we have given specimens sufficient to show that poetry can, when it chooses, deal successfully with very commonplace subjects. As for those who seriously object to it on opposite grounds, we do not hesitate to say that the fault is in themselves. They are incapable of understanding or appreciating it. Such persons cannot of course be expected to enjoy the fine descriptions which we have been quoting; nor can they, we will even venture to affirm, enjoy to their full extent, or in their finer elements, the realities of such descriptions; while, on the other hand, a poetical mind is always able to add charms to actual delights of whatever class or quality they may be-to draw forth riches from its own exhaustless stores wherewith to crown the feast, or fill the cup to overflowing.

VEGETABLE CURIOSITIES.

THE vegetable kingdom has often supplied the natural theologist with the most striking and forcible of his illustrations in proof of the lavish goodness of the Creator. He has seen in its varied productions the exhaustless skill of the All-creative hand; in their adaptation to the wants and necessities of man, His wisdom; and in the gratifications they present to his eye and to his taste, the clear evidences, that while utility has been amply regarded, the enjoyment of the creature has been equally remembered, rian products of this kingdom we are sufficiently familiar; and abundantly provided for. With most of the utilitabut with regard to its more exquisite gifts, we believe a good deal of ignorance to prevail, which it will be our endeavour, though imperfectly, to dissipate.

The Rev. Dr Walsh, in a paper upon plants growing in the neighbourhood of Constantinople, contained in the 'Horticultural Transactions,' speaks in an interesting manner of several of the gourd tribe, which grow luxuriantly in that district. One of the curious varieties was the Cucurbita claviformis, or Jonah's Gourd,' which is believed to be really that plant which was caused to grow up over the head of the prophet in a single night. It forms a beautifully green dense arbour, through which the rays even of the Easterns delight to sit and smoke; while overhead the eastern sun are unable to penetrate; under its shade the singular fruit of the plant hangs down in long, delicate, tempting clubs, somewhat like very stout candles. The fruit is not eaten in the uncooked state; but the central part being scooped out, it is filled with forcemeat, and boiled, forming a very delicate and relishable repast. Another remarkable gourd is the ‘Turk's turban,' botanically the Cucurbita culariformis; in form, it is like a large quince placed on the top of a flat melon, thus bearing a pretty close resemblance to a turban. The history of its origin is curious, and more wonderful than true,' as we fear. A gourd was once planted in Campania, near a quince; and an affection apparently springing up between the two, the gourd came to the resolution of adopting the form of the quince in addition to its own glossy rotundity, and the result was the form we have just noticed. It is used as an excellent addition to soups. Another species is the white gourd, or Cucurbita pepo; this is found in the markets principally in the winter, and is commonly piled up in heaps, like cannon-balls, or more like pyramids of snow-balls. Romantic associations attach to this chaste production; it is presented at every native marriage ceremony to the married pair, and is supposed to insure peace and prosperity to them and their house. The Momordica elaterium, a member of the same family, is otherwise known as the 'Squirting Cucumber,' from its possessing the strange property of squirting out its contents on one of the ends being pulled or touched. It is a common piece of gardener's wit

6

all respects like a peach, except that it is flattened out into a cake: this fruit is well known at Canton; its colour is a pale yellow; when cut into, a beautiful circle of pink is seen surrounding the stone, and radiating into a mass of delicately-coloured pulp. In the indulgence of their dwarfing propensities, they manufacture, for such it is, miniature fruit-trees of various kinds by the method now become familiar to most persons. Large sums are set on the heads of those diminutive trees in proportion to their ugliness and their abundance of fruit. Venerable old plum-trees, a foot high, laden with fruit, are without a price; while finger-fruits, marygos, peaches, carambolas, and grapes, come in for subordinate attention. The beautiful orange the mandarin' (Citrus nobilis), one of the recent importations into this country, is remarkable for having a deep crimson rind when ripe, which is quite detached from the fruit. The whole,' writes Sir J. F. Davis, has a flattish aspect, and is sometimes four or five inches in diameter; and the loose skin, when broken, opens like a puffball, disclosing the juicy lobes surrounded with a kind of network of fibres.' The celebrated finger-fruit comes very manifestly into our category, and is a curious result of an ingenious horticulture. It is a peculiar kind of citrus, which, by some means or other, is made to run entirely into rind, the whole terminating at the head in several long narrow processes like fingers: it has hence been named 'Fo show,' or the hand of Fo. Its odour is very powerful, but is considered as very fine. So entirely, however, is this strange production the result of art operating upon nature, that it does not appear a second time after the plant has been purchased. The Chinese have also some curious oranges, known as the horned oranges, from the circumstance of a number of little horn-like processes projecting from its upper end. It may be mentioned in connection with these plants, that the productiveness of the orange is something quite enormous. A single tree at St Michael's has been known to produce 20,000 oranges fit for packing, exclusively of about one-third more of damaged fruit. Mr Fortune supplies a curious account of the production of vegetable tallow.' The seeds of the tallow-tree, after having been steamed and bruised, are heated over the fire; the tallow is thus completely separated, but it looks like coarse linseed meal; subjected to expression, it exudes in a semi-fluid state, and beautifully white, soon hardening and becoming solid. It is then made into cakes, and exposed for sale in the markets, for the manufacture of candles; but as these are apt to get soft, they are often dipped in wax of various colours, and sometimes are finely ornamented. But this is a subject with an unconquerable tendency to expansion; let us therefore, having gone thus far, take a hasty leave of it at once.

THE ARTIST'S FIRST WORK. Nor far from the splendid Palazza Falliero at Possagno, in the Venetian states, stood the humble cabin of an aged mason named Pasino. One evening that, wearied with his work, he lay sleeping soundly after the labours of the day, he was suddenly awakened by a loud knock at the door of his cabin. He rose, ran hastily to open it, and notwithstanding the darkness of the night, perceived that it was a little boy who stood without.

Who are you, and what do you want here?' brusquely inquired Pasino.

'Antonio,' replied the timid voice of a child. 'What Antonio?'

'Your own Antonio, dear grandpapa.'

Is it thou, my child? And what has happened then?' said the mason, quickly changing his tone, and drawing the little fellow kindly towards him, whilst he sought even by the faint light of the moon to read in his countenance what unexpected cause could have occasioned this late visit. But speak then, my child! Why hast left thy mother?-Is she ill?-Hast displeased her?-Has she turned you out of doors?'

'No: I left home of my own accord.'

And for what reason?' again inquired the old man, as he led the child into his cabin, and struck a light. 'Madonna Santissima! why did you leave your mother?' Pasino had now succeeded in lighting a lantern, and was able more plainly to examine his grandson's countenance. He then perceived that the child was in tears,

and carried a small bundle slung on the point of a stick over his shoulder.

'I could not stay any longer at home,' said the boy, as he threw his little packet on the floor. 'I was no longer master there; some one else had everything his

own way.

Oh what a country boor that Venetian is! If I were only ten years older, I would turn him out of the house. Alas! why am I only eleven years old?' And a pretty rogue you are,' said the grandfather, laughing at the childish passion of Antonio. So you want to be master in your mother's house?'

When my father died, he left no other son: I am therefore the head of the house.'

A fine house truly!' replied the old man, who was by this time thoroughly awakened from his slumbers: 'four stakes, a few stones, and a little straw! If it were a palace indeed, like that of Falliero, it would be something worth talking of.'

"Falliero!-Falliero!' said the child, as he shook his little head in a determined manner; one may have spirit without belonging to the rich house of Falliero.' Tell me, Antonio, will you have some supper?' interrupted the old man.

No: I am not hungry.'

'But you have had a long way to walk from your mother's.'

'Only three miles: what is that?'

'Well, then, give me an account of your escape from home.'

'Yes, grandpapa, this is the history of it. You know that my mother contracted a second marriage with that low fellow Paesillo; and what annoyed me most about it was, that she changed her pretty name. Was it not a beautiful name, grandpapa?'

'Yes, to be sure. Well, go on.'

And it was my own name besides; and I think it disgrace that a son should bear one name and his mother another.'

a

'Yes, yes; but do finish your story, for I am going to sleep,' interrupted Pasino, drowsily turning into bed. The Signor Paesillo had hardly set foot within our house,' continued Antonio, when changes began to be made. In the first place, I was not caressed as heretofore; I was no longer given the best of everything-it was all for Signor Paesillo: I was unhappy, and they left me to myself: I complained, and they left me to complain; and no one said What aileth thee, little one? Come to dinner-come to supper:" so I would not eat either one or the other. I took my resolution, and said to myself, "There is my grandfather, who lives alone, who loves children, who will let me do as I please if I go and live with him. There I will go; and there, if nowhere else, I shall be master." Are you gone to sleep, grandpapa, instead of listening?'

No, no; all right! Now lie down on this fresh straw. Since you like so much to be master, I will soon make you a master-mason.'

'Oh, a mason is not the nicest trade.' 'You'll see what a nice one it is.'

'What! putting one stone on the top of another?always stones!'

Is it marble, then, you would wish for, you little madcap?'

Certainly that would be better, and more honourable too.'

'Well, then, stop chattering now, and let me go to sleep.'

The next day Pasino woke Antonio early, and after having offered up together a short prayer to Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows,' and partaken of a frugal breakfast, they wended their way to the Falliero palace, where the mason had been working for some days past. But it was all in vain that he attempted to keep his grandchild at work, for the little fellow was always mixing up mud or squaring stones. The old man could never turn his back for a moment, but Antonio was busy making either a Venus or a Policinello, or preparing clay with his trowel for the divers figures he wished to

fashion. And if Pasino scolded him, he would say, 'But you see, grandpapa, I am so tired!'

'But what are you doing now?'

Making a blessed Virgin and Child.'

And the poor grandfather, who for the most part could discover nothing but a shapeless mass of clay, rather than disappoint the boy, would praise the beauty of the Virgin, or the grace of the child, and prophesied that his little man' would one day become a famous mason, and even build palaces for the Fallieri themselves.

On the approach of the feast of St Cecilia, the Duke of Falliero gave orders that a grand banquet should be prepared in honour of the festival. Oh, if you could only have seen how many saucepans simmered on the heated braziers; how many spits groaned under the weight of pheasants, fowls, ducks, poulardes, strung on one after another!-If you could have had a glance at all the spiced meats, the savoury pasties, the rich jellies, the candied confitures, the fragrant fruits of every sort and hue, together with every variety of dainty which could please the eye or gratify the palate, it would have made your mouth water! Antonio, who had glided in amongst the cooks and assistants, opened his eyes wide, and went about admiring and smelling all these fine things, of which he had never before even formed an idea. All on a sudden, and just as dinner was about to be served, the major-domo uttered a loud cry, and striking his forehead with his hand, as if in despair, exclaimed, Oh, unhappy creature that I am!—oh, unfortunate Pietro!-Madonna Santissima! I am ruined, and with me the illustrious House of Falliero!' At this moment, while the poor man was finishing his doleful soliloquy, the duke himself happened to pass, and inquired what was the matter. Oh, illustrious duke,' replied the major-domo, beat me, kill me if you will; I am a wretch, an assassin!'

The duke cut him short with the inquiry, 'Well, but explain yourself, Pietro: how is it that my honour has been compromised as well as yours? Speak, and let me understand it.'

'You, Antonio, what are you whispering about over there? Go, run and call your grandfather, and tell him to come here.'

Antonio, highly amused, darted off directly, and soon came back pulling the old man along by his white apron. When the latter had been made to understand what was the matter, he shook his head, and twisting his cotton cap (which he had taken off out of respect to the duke) in his thin hand, said, 'If you wanted me now to build up a wall, or repair the capital of a pillar, or'

'But it is to make a centre dish which is required, grandpapa,' cried Antonio, as if he were speaking to a deaf man.

I know it,' answered Pasino.

'And cannot you, who build houses and palaces, make a simple dish?'

'Hold thy tongue, boy, and do not talk so loud before monseigneur.'

Antonio, somewhat confused at the rebuke, began to murmur impatiently, 'If they would only listen to me!' The Duke Falliero, who had for some time admired the arch vivacity of Antonio's countenance, was struck with its expression at this moment. It bespoke contempt for so puerile a discussion; and the child's forehead was radiant with a consciousness of power. A half-malicious smile played around his mouth, while the two rosy lips, half parted, seemed so plainly about to say, Why do you not seek my help?' that the duke could not resist interrogating him.

'If we were to listen to you, then, what would be your counsel?' said the duke, as he playfully pulled Antonio by the ear.

Why, my lord,' answered the boy, colouring up to his eyes on being thus addressed, if the Signor Pietro would only give me a bit of paste, such as is used for making ornamental cakes'

'Do not listen to this little pickle, please your excellency!' said Pasino, at the same time motioning to the child to be silent.

The first service, my lord, is perfect-everything is composed in the most exquisite taste, the purest and most elegant style; the second corresponds to the first in every respect; the third, if possible, exceeds them both; but the fourth-the dessert-oh, Madonna Santissima! only think of the centre dish being spoiled the very crowning piece of the whole!'

What a piece of work about nothing!' exclaimed the little Antonio with an arch smile, as he stood in the corner of the kitchen: it is only to make another dish instead.'

'And can there not be another substituted?' inquired the duke.

'It is difficult it is impossible, may it please your excellency.'

Make some pyramid, some tower of-of something.' It is exactly this something which we are in want of; and besides, there is no time left-there is only half an hour to spare, and already the guests are beginning to arrive.'

I should know very well what to do,' muttered Antonio to himself, if they would only ask my advice.' 'Well,' said the duke somewhat anxiously to Pietro, 'what course do you mean to pursue?' 'Oh, if the architecture of the banquet were not of so pure and elegant a style, we couldBut no, it would ruin our reputation.'

The architecture, do you say? Well, go hold a consultation with Pasino the mason-he may be able to help you out of the scrape. You are laughing at the idea?'

'My ears, please your excellency,' boldly replied the boy.

Done, then,' said the duke: let us see what you can achieve.'

The banquet was sumptuous beyond any that the guests had ever beheld; and when the dessert was about to be served, the duke entertained the company by relating to them the history of the cook's failure, and of the opportune presumption of the little Antonio. As he spoke, the dessert made its appearance. Dish after dish was laid in exact order upon the table; but whether it arose from malice, or whether the poor Antonio had not been able to succeed, the centre of the table remained vacant, and the guests began to smile, and then to wonder, until at last their patience was well-nigh exhausted, when lo! the major-domo appeared, bearing in his hands a large dish, veiled by a light covering. It was laid before the duke, its covering removed, and a cry of admiration resounded through the hall. It was a beautiful lion, exquisitely modelled in sugared paste.

Bravo!-bravo!' exclaimed the guests on all sides. Where is the confectioner, the cook, the little architect?'

'Where is the artist?' inquired the duke in an authoritative tone.

Then appeared, half concealed behind Pietro, a handsome boy, blushing and confused, but with a countenance wonderfully expressive of genius for one of such tender years. The duke perceiving in the boy the marks of decided talent, requested permission of his grandfather to take him to Venice, where he placed him under the direction of the most distinguished mas