'I see no difficulty at all,' said the worthy widow; 'and if you will only let me manage for you, I will answer for its all succeeding a merveille; but it must be a la Francaise.'

'But the fish?'

'Oh, your fish shall come first; soyez tranquille.'

'Anything you please, then,' answered I, gaining comfort from her easy, confident manner. I resolved to follow her instructions faithfully; for I was persuaded somehow that, whether she managed well or ill, her plan would probably be better than mine, and the result shewed I was right.

In the middle of the table, fresh flowers in a valuable china bowl did duty as an epergne; port and sherry—the only wines I would, or, indeed, could present—stood at each corner; and round the bowl the little dessert, tastefully decorated with leaves, looked well, although consisting only of common dried fruits, preserved ginger, oranges, and cakes. But the plate was bright, the crystal clear, the table-cloth and napkins of the finest damask, and there was abundance of room for sauces, glasses, plates, and all the little things we might happen to require. As the company consisted of my private friends, not inhabitants of our town, Madame Miau herself—attired in a Bolognaise cap, long gold earrings, cross, fluted lace tucker up to her collar bones, and black silk gown—condescended to wait upon and carve for us. She had each dish and its proper accompaniments brought by Rose to the side-table, where all was neatly divided into portions, and handed round, one dish at a time, hot from the fire. We had, first, ox-tail soup; second, fried soles; third, oyster pates; fourth, Maintenon cutlets and cauliflower; fifth, roast lamb and potato-ribbons; sixth, pheasant, with both bread-sauce and toast. Tartlets and creams followed, and a cream-cheese finished the repast; then we were left to our dessert and conversation, the latter of which we soon resolved to terminate with our coffee in the drawing-room, where a purer atmosphere awaited us. All went off quietly and comfortably; no noise, no bustle, no asking will you have this or that; everything was brought round without questioning, and conversation was never for an instant interrupted. My fastidious cousin, Jack Falconbridge; his foolish fine-lady sister; her common-place lord; and her 'talented and travelled friend,' Miss Scribbleton, expressed themselves equally pleased, although there was nothing recherche, nothing expensive, nothing extraordinary. At the rich Mr Goldscamp's, where they had dined the day before, things were, they all agreed, very far inferior. Five or six inexperienced young footmen jostled against each other, whilst rushing about with sauces and condiments; the table groaned under a gorgeous display of plate, and loads of unnecessary glass and china.

'I was,' said Miss Scribbleton, 'really quite afraid to move, lest I should overturn or break something, and felt like a bull in a china-shop.'

'The cookery,' continued the Honourable John, 'was atrocious; everything half cold, and we rose hungry, to partake of watery coffee and lukewarm tea.'

'Ah!' sighed his sister, 'I was bored to extinction by everything and every person.' And then followed compliments to me upon my little unpretending entertainment, which I felt were sincere, for everything was good of its kind, and I presented nothing that Rose could not cook perfectly under Madame Miau's directions, except the soup and pates, which the pastry-cook supplied—all was hot, and all was quiet.

I have forgotten in the above enumeration the crowning dish of all, the Braousa, which drew down applause from the company; the Mayonnaise, in short, which Madame Miau concocted with her own hands. Every one thinks they can make the Mayonnaise sauce, because they find the ingredients given in various treatises upon cookery; but there is a secret, gastronomic reader, a very simple one; and this small secret I shall now unfold, by which, if you try, you will see that oil, vinegar, and egg, end in a very different result than when the usual mode of mixing them is employed. But ere I enlighten you, let me suggest to the Mesdames Jones and Thompsons, who will persist in giving dinners with few servants and small means, that if they adopt the above plan, they will better content their company, to say nothing of saving their money, than by pursuing the accustomed mode of killing off their acquaintance—namely, a huge 'feed' dressed by a common cook, and served by hired waiters, who, scuffling amongst strange plates and glasses, invariably crack many and break some.

A Mayonnaise.—Beat the yolk of a large quite freshly-laid egg, adding a little salt, with a teaspoonful of lemon juice: use a flat dish and a silver fork, and beat them thoroughly well together. Then take nearly a pint of the finest Lucca oil, which has been kept well corked from the air, and drop one drop. Keep beating the egg all the time, and add another drop—drop by drop at a time: it will take half an hour to do, and must be so thick as to require to be lifted by a spoon. Prepare your cold meat, lobster, chicken without skin, veal, or rabbit. Cut all in neat pieces, and set them round the centre of your dish; then take the very inside hearts of two or three cabbage lettuces, which have been well crisped in cold water, and place them round the meat. Cut two hard-boiled eggs in quarters, and some beet-root in strips, and place them tastefully, contrasting the colours. Now, with a spoon cover all with the sauce, laid on thickly, and upon it an anchovy cut in strips. Finish off with a nasturtium at the top, and also a row all round the outward edge.

Several days having elapsed since I had seen the friend in need, who had proved to me a friend indeed so lately, I went to ascertain whether her unusual exertions of body and mind had not made her ill, but was happy to find her in perfect health, seated at dinner with a very fine gentleman, all curls, compliments, gilt chains, and earrings, whom she introduced as 'Mon neveu Antonio'—the son of her husband's sister, who had married an Italian, and who, like his father, was at once cook and courier. Their dinner consisted of the following friture, from M. Antonio's own private recipe-book: Have ready, half-cooked, 1st, thin slices of calves' liver; 2d, artichokes cut in half quarters or quarters, according to their size; 3d, cauliflower—only the flower, divided in small pieces; 4th, calves' brains, previously soaked in salt, vinegar, and water, for twenty-four hours, cut in little bits: make a light batter, and fry each separately of a golden brown in the right order, having the dish in which they are to be served on a hot hearth. Cover the dish with the liver, then the artichoke, then the brains, and, lastly, the cauliflower, each distributed so as to decrease towards the top, which is covered with a larger sprig of cauliflower.

Madame Miau fried beautifully, and, under her nephew's directions, tried a pretty dish I had never before heard of—namely, the flower of the cucumber-plant, or vegetable mallow—which is usually, and, I believe, incorrectly, called marrow—nipped off with the little fruit attached to it. It was dipped in butter, fried lightly, and served quite hot.

Creams are very good, made according to the following simple, inexpensive recipe, which is just enough to fill twelve small cups or glasses. Take good milk sufficient to fill them, and boil it with two ounces of grated chocolate, and six of white sugar; then beat the yolks of six eggs, to which add slowly the chocolate-milk, turning steadily one way. When quite mixed, pass the whole through a search, fill your cups, and, if you have not a regular bain-marie, a flat sauce-pan will do, filled to a proper height, so as not to overtop the creams, and which must continue boiling a quarter of an hour. For a change, instead of the chocolate, boil the milk with a pod of vanille broken in pieces, or any other flavour you may fancy.

Spinach Cream.—Boil your spinach, and let it thoroughly drain in a cullender; then press it through a hair-sieve with a spoon, as for food. Take the pulp that has been pressed through the sieve, and mix it with cream, or very good milk, and two additional yolks of eggs. Pass the yolks of six eggs through a sieve, add six ounces of white sugar in powder, and two table-spoonfuls of trebly-distilled orange flower-water, and, as before mentioned, place the cups in a bain-marie for a quarter of an hour.

I requested the good-natured nephew to dress me a dish of macaroni, which he did as follows, one of his many modes of preparing it: He boiled it till just tender, and no more. The English cook it too much, he said. When drained, he grated a sufficient quantity of both Gruyere and Parmesan cheese, and alternately put upon the dish, first macaroni, and then cheese, finishing with the cheese. Over this he poured strong beef-gravy, in which some tomatoes had been dissolved, and put it a few minutes in the oven, and then a few more before the fire in a Dutch oven; but he preferred a hot hole, and to cover it with a four de compagne, or cover upon which you place hot embers. He also assured me the following sauce was better even than the beef-gravy:—

Tomato Sauce.—Warm your tomatoes until you can skin them; beat the pulp with finely-grated ham, onion, parsley, thyme, salt, and Lucca oil, all as small as possible; pass through a sieve, and pour over your macaroni. Serve hot.

Tomatoes are good skinned, the seeds taken out, and with a little butter and finely-chopped herbs, beaten into a paste with eggs, and fried in a light batter.

Fried Asparagus.—Do not boil it too much, but enough to cut in pieces and pass through a sieve; mix this with grated ham and Parmesan cheese, and with butter make it into a paste of good consistency, which fry in a light batter. Celery is also very nice treated in the same way. As I like butter, as the French do, without any salt at all, I found much difficulty in keeping quite sweet what a farmer obligingly so prepared for me. Without water, it got bad. Made into pats, and kept in water, it lost flavour; but Madame Miau soon put me upon a plan by which it remained for ten days as if new churned. As soon as I received my quantum, I had it well washed in spring-water, for sometimes the milk had not been taken clean out of it; and then it was put down with a spoon in a salad bowl, to which it adhered. Every morning, fresh water, in which was dissolved a little salt, was poured upon it, and the top curled off for use with a tea-spoon or a small shell. To the very last, it was sweet and tasteless; and I consider this a very valuable hint, in hot weather especially.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Nos. 388 and 416.



AMUSEMENTS FOR THE PEOPLE.

We have become so accustomed to the idea of a soul-and-body-ruining intemperance amongst the lower portion of the working-classes, that only some startling details connected with it make any great impression upon us. Yet it is verily a most awful thing to exist in the midst of enlightened, advancing England. There are 1300 beer-shops in the borough of Manchester, besides 200 dram-shops. Thirty-nine per cent. of the beer-shops are annually reported by the police as disorderly. One dram-shop receives 10,000 visits weekly. In those of Deansgate, which are 28 in number, 550 persons, including 235 women and 36 children, were found at one time on a Saturday night. Many of the beer-shops are a haunt of the young of both sexes among the factory people, 'the majority with faces unwashed and hair uncombed, dancing in their wooden clogs to the music of an organ, violin, or seraphine.'

A considerable number of the public-houses of Manchester have music continually going on as an attraction. Twenty-four such houses are open on Sunday evenings. Two of them received 5500 visitors per week last winter. The most innocent of the favourite haunts of the people are casinos, or music-saloons, where multitudes assemble to witness scenic representations, feats of jugglery, tumbling, &c. Twopence is paid for admission, and for this the value is given in refreshments, most frequently consisting of ginger-beer. These places are comparatively innocent, but still are far from being what is required in that respect.[3]

It is a tremendous problem—how are we to give innocent amusement to the people? Perhaps there is none of our day more momentous. We try the lecture, and win an audience of units out of the thousands whom we seek to benefit. The reading-room, with penny cups of coffee, holds out its modest charms, and does much good, but still leaves the masses as it finds them. Something else is wanted, but it is difficult to say what it should be. Perhaps some clever person will hit upon it by intuition, or some ordinary one by accident, and so solve the problem. Perhaps it will be left to the philosopher to consider the human nature of the case, and divine what should be done. We can imagine him saying something like this: 'Man is a creature that requires novelty, variety, and excitement. He cannot be kept at duty continually; he must have pleasure too. He cannot be always at work on the real; he demands the ideal also. Even in the course of exertions which he relishes as conducing to his material interests, he every now and then requires a change of scene and of occupation. Something to divert the mind from its ordinary series of ideas—something to enable us to lose ourselves in a temporary illusion, were it only a jocular supposition of our being something a good deal worse than we are—something, above all, to stir the hearty laugh, which proves its being good for us by the very help it gives to digestion—is required at frequent intervals—all free from what tends to debase and corrupt. Such is the theory of Amusement; and nothing which does not fulfil that theory will be effective for its ends. Here is a perquisition somewhat more startling than that of Xerxes, putting a prize upon a new pleasure. Happy will be the man who can devise truly available means of supplying this grand want in our Work-World! It is plainly for want of some such device that the public-house thrives, and that human nature is seen in such unlovely forms amongst the lower circles of society.'

It occurs to us, that there can be no social want which society itself is not competent to satisfy. In the variety of the human faculties, there are some which immediately tend to give pleasure and amusement, and certain men possess these in a greater degree than others. The troubadour, the jongleur, and the joculator, are natural productions of all time, in a certain proportion to the bulk of their kind. Accordingly, all through the various grades of society, we find clever people, exhibiting a gift for music, for mirth-making, for narration, and for dramatic effect. In the upper circles, these voluntary and unprofessional powers form the main dependence for the amusement of the evening. In the inferior walks of life, they are comparatively lost for want of a fair field to work in: they only find a vulgar and unworthy outlet in the coarse scenes of the tavern. Suppose we address ourselves to making arrangements by which humble society could be enabled to take advantage of the powers of amusement which lie within itself?

We can pretend to nothing like a scheme, and perhaps so much the better. We can imagine, however, that in certain circumstances, the desideratum could be tolerably well supplied without much outlay or formality. We have coffee and reading rooms already. Say that to such an institution, we add a music and conversation room; this, as a beginning. There, when the newspaper or book had ceased to charm, let a group assemble, and, according as there might be power present, enjoy itself with a tune, a song, a chorus, a recital, an elocutionary reading, a debate on some question, or a scene from a play. Presuming that the house is under the care of an honest, well-meaning person, there could be little fear of impropriety of any kind as resulting from such amusements. The amateur spirit guarantees plenty of such volunteer effort. Let it simply be understood, as in ordinary society, that each should do his best to promote the hilarity of the evening. If a single room succeeded, let two be tried—one for conversation alone, or for such games as cards and draughts (under strict regulation, to prevent any beyond nominal stakes); while the other served for music, and other entertainments not inferring silence. In the long-run, there might be further additions, allowing rooms for mutual instruction in various arts and accomplishments, sheds and courts for out-of-doors amusements, and so on.

If such establishments were ever to reach a public character, under what regulation should they be placed? We have no suggestion to make; but we embrace and maintain the principle, that the more they were understood to be under the protection of the public opinion of the class for whose benefit they are designed, the better. The patronising puritanism of another class would ruin everything. Let the other classes, if called on to assist, agree to view all that went on with a certain liberality of judgment, remembering that, although there may be some little possibilities of abuse, the whole project is, after all, an alternative from something infinitely worse; and in a fair course, improvement is to be expected. It is one unfortunate necessity of the case, that a very small abuse in a system under a responsible administration, makes a great scandal against the administration itself; the public not reflecting, that that administration may be all the time tending to the repression, not the promotion of such abuses: hence the difficulty of getting responsible administrations in such cases at all. These, however, are difficulties to be struggled with, not given way to.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] The facts here adduced are from a recent contribution of Dr J. W. Hudson to the Manchester Examiner.



CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL.

BY MARIE J. EWEN.

There were footsteps on the Corso in the morning twilight gray, And gatherings in the Forum ere the rosy blush of day; Loud voices round the Capitol, and on the marble stair, A breathless crowd assembled, as for a triumph there.

The chimes of San Giovanni, how merrily they ring! As if to all the city a soul of joy to bring: There's noise of many chariots, and sounds of trampling feet, Of horses with their trappings gay, and minstrels in the street.

And the balconies, what mean they with their tapestry so fine? And why are garlands wreathed around the arch of Constantine? What mean those banners streaming bright o'er tower and glittering dome, Ye ladies fair and gentlemen, that throng the streets of Rome?

It is a day of triumph, and the brightest of its kind; The victory of genius and the mastership of mind; Corinna, the pride of Italy, descends the flower-wreathed way, For at the proud old Capitol she will be crowned to-day.

Right nobly prance her snow-white steeds; behold the chariot come! Room, room for her, the star of all! ye citizens of Rome. Off with your hats, brave gentlemen! for genius is divine, And never hath she made her home in such a lovely shrine.

She comes! the fair Corinna comes! 'mid thunders of acclaim, That rush unto the lips of all at the murmur of her name. Scatter sweet roses all around; fling perfumes to the air; And strew her path with all that breathes of beautiful and fair.

Her car hath gained the Capitol—her foot is on the stair; She stands a form of matchless grace, the queen of thousands there. Bring forth the wreath that threw afresh a lustre round his name, Whose genius burned, a vestal fire, with never-dying flame.

Whose vision pierced the mantling mists that circle round the tomb, Where bitter groans resound for aye amid the starless gloom; Who saw the cities of the blest, and with as fearless tread Paced through the ebon halls of hell, the mansions of the dead.

The crown that might have cast a ray to light lone Tasso's gloom, But only drooped, a funeral wreath, to wither on his tomb; Ay, reach it down, that laurel crown, it never hath been given To one more rich in beauty's grace, and all the gifts of Heaven.

Oh, it is grand, a nation's love! a people's benison, The homage of ten thousand hearts flung at the feet of one; The rapturous glow that fires the soul, and thrills through every frame, At the mention of the worshipped one, the echo of her name.

Corinna at the Capitol! Oh, what a spell comes o'er me, As I view the gorgeous pageantry that passeth now before me; But I would I knew the meaning of the tears which like a stream In pearly drops are shining through the rapture of her dream.

Though laurel wreaths surround her brow, and glory lights her name, There is a chamber in her heart can ne'er be filled by fame; Lonely, amid adoring crowds, she deems, as well she may, The faithful love of one true heart were better worth than they.

And when the crowd is parted, and the festival is o'er, The many voices silent, and the music heard no more; She will think upon the triumph, the splendour that is gone, As the shadow of a dream, or the echo of a tone!



GOING AHEAD.

The reading of your paper on 'Railway Communication,' has given me great pleasure: your remarks about American railways are very well in the main, but the speed of travel is misstated, as it ranges from forty to fifty miles an hour; unless it be an omnibus railway, like the Haarlem, where they stop for passengers every few hundred yards. The Hudson River Railway, which passes by our mill at Yonkers, almost frightens my brother out of his wits by its speed, and he takes the steam-boat now to avoid it. The trains go very fast, but it is a superb road, and very safe, as the servants of the company, with their flags and lanterns, line the road the whole distance. They have twenty trains a day. The Erie Railway is also finished from New York to Lake Erie; the traffic on this line is immense, freight often lying two weeks before it can be put through. Its income is over three and a half million dollars. We have only one class of passengers, except emigrant trains: the fare generally ranges from a cent and a quarter to two cents a mile—on some of the shorter roads, as high as three or four cents. All the carriages are lined with mahogany and silk plush. The locomotives on our long roads weigh from twenty to forty tons. The fact is, that anything said about our physical development on data collected at any one period, is quite likely to be false or absurd within a twelvemonth. Though in the midst of it, and not one of the excitable kind, I am often astonished at it myself. I have several times mentioned that you would hardly know New York, or find any of your old landmarks; and yet New York would be comparatively a mean city, if you took away what had been built within a year. Steam-ships shew another phase of it: three years ago, we hardly had the shadow of one; now—and I have looked into the matter very carefully—I would not, as a commercial speculation merely, exchange forty of the best of our steam-ships for any other forty in the world: of course I don't refer to war-steamers. Some of the California steam-ships are perfect pictures in model, and put the Collins' Line into the shade. By the way, did you ever notice their passenger-list?—from 300 to 600 at a trip; and one vessel last year took 1125 passengers, paying very nearly half her cost in a single trip. In the summer, they slept about the decks like ants in a hill. A good education, including a college one to those who have the proper capacity, is open to every poor child in this city, free of cost. The immense sums necessary to pay for all this, are voted by the people themselves out of their own pocket.—Private Letter from New York.

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