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Een though with fire th' unnavigable deep

Bubbled and seethed; nor while to thee I haste,

Fear I the dangerous sea, or shudder at The heavy murmur of the tumbling main."-Verses 203-206.

If Hero will but hold out a torch, he will not gaze at the setting Boötes, the stormy Orion, or the Bear that never dips his feet in the western waters. We must here quote a few bright lines from Ovid :—

"Non sequar aut Helicen, aut quâ Tyros utitur Arcton;

Publica non curat sidera noster amor. Andromeden alius spectet, claramque

coronam

Quæque micat gelido Parrbasis Ursa

polo.

Est aliud lumen multo mihi certius istis, Non erit in tenebris, quo duce, noster amor."

Euge poeta ! And so turning back to Musæus, we read Leander's last touch of flattery. Hero has asked him his name; he gives it, with no trumpery title attached; he is no Proxenus of this place, or Harmost of that, he is Leander, "the husband of the garlanded Hero."

And so at last they finally agree upon future meetings. She is to hold the torch, he to breast the waves. They part, she to her tower, while Leander (as Jean Paul has it) is "left alone with the night." However Leander is a fine, practical, business-like fellow; he examines his ground, takes landmarks, and so sails back to Abydos.

The wished-for time of meeting

draws near; Leander goes down to the beach, and for one short moment, as he gazes into the blackness of the night and hears the cold, plunging waters, he trembles, the flesh yields for a second, but the spirit burns as bright as the torch that is now streaming across the Hellespont. How different is the Leander of Musæus from the Leander of Ovid! The latter hero is but a poor weakling, who trembles at every gale :—

"Ter mihi deposita est in siccâ vestis arenâ.

Ter grave tentavi carpere nudus iter." And so he tosses himself into the cold flood and the dead night;

"Himself the rower, passenger, and
bark."

While he is thus beating aside the waters, let us for a moment look at Hero. There she stands on her airy tower, like the evening star, shading her torch from the rude wind with her outspread mantle,* until at length her bold lover touches the shores of Sestos.

This is, perhaps, the only place where Ovid excels Musæus; he represents Hero as running to the beach to meet him. The old crone tries to keep her young charge back, but she will greet her lover on the very margin of the sea. All goes on well for a time; Hero escapes the notice of her parents, and the bold sailor crosses the deep every night. But the laughing summer passes away, and the tempests of winter thunder across the narrow strait, sounding bodefully in the ears of the lovers :

"But when the time of hoary winter

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* Line 258.

The word in the original is dixes. All commentators, except Kromayer, have made a needless fuss about it. The shore is called dixas because the sea divides it from the opposite coast.

VOL. XXXIII. NO. CXCVI.

GG

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The youth was driven onwards; till his limbs

Did fail him, and his ever-moving bands Sunk feebly. Down his throat the water gush'd

Spontaneous, and he drank the brackish

wave.

Meanwhile a cruel wind beat out the torch,

And with it sad Leander's life and love." Verses $13-329.

Poor Hero stands on the opposite shore full of distracting fears, the extinguished torch in her hand, dabbled with the drifting rain, and deafened with the tumult of waters beneath her. So she stands, heartbroken, till the next morning discloses to her, at the very base of her tower, the pale, bruised, and lifeless body of Leander.

"When at her feet she saw her lover's corpse

Torn by the rocks, she rent her flower'd robe,

And with a rushing sound from off the

tower

Sprang headlong."-Verses 335-338.

We will not not add a line of comment. Thus ends one of the most touching stories of old times, described with a beauty and vividness of language that shall not be diluted with our weak and insufficient praise. "They were lovely in their lives, in their death they were not divided."

*Georgics, iii. 259.

DINING OUT.

STRANGE as it may seem, "yet pity 't is 't is true," you cannot get a chop or a steak at a tavern in London west of Temple Bar that's worth eating. The science of cooking chops and steaks begins at Aldgate, and ceases at the Cock and the Rainbow by Temple Bar, where Shire Lane divides the City from the shire. Heaven knows the man (a clergyman, we are told) was not far wrong who confined his catalogue of questions to the new she-cook that came to him, to the simple but important one of, "Can you boil a potato well?" fancying, we suppose, and rightly, that a woman who could do this well had got beyond the mere first rudiments of her art, and was, withal, likely to improve. He had, however, done better, we have often thought, had he asked her in addition, if she

understood and could cook a chop

or a steak to the satisfaction of one whose taste was fostered before the gridiron at "Joe's" in the City, and the box by the fire at the Cock near Temple Bar. The least hesitation had been favourable; a ready admission that she could, a sure sign that she knew "nothing at all about the matter."

There are two things we never wish to have for dinner at home, or at a friend's house-A CHOP AND A STEAK. Chops at home are generally too tallowy, too raw, or ill cut, or done over bad fire; in short, any thing but what they ought to be; and then your home-cooked steaks stick in your teeth with toughness, and trouble you for a whole evening; or they are too slowly done, or too hurriedly done, or too near when done to a "gassy" flame; or, perhaps, it was the butcher's fault, perhaps they were badly cut, or the meat was too newly killed, fresh from the back of an Abyssinian beast described by Bruce in his clever and entertaining Travels.

It really seems a hard case that a man cannot have a chop or a steak tolerably cooked at his own home. Harder still, perhaps, that he cannot at a London club. Your west-end cooks confine their labours and attention, and devote the whole of their skill to "kickshaws," and things that provoke you to eat, and merit and

demand your approbation while at table. All well enough in their way; wonders in art, the result of a long life of attentive observation, but really not to be preferred, any one of them singly, to a chop or a steak at Joe's in Finch Lane, or Colnett's at the Cock near Temple Bar. Different tastes incline to different objects:

"Hard task to hit the palate of such guests,

When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests."

There are few things better than a chop or a steak when cooked by the cunning tongs of our friend at Joe's, or watched over by the judicious eye of Colnett's City Soyer."

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A man may spend the period of an apprenticeship in London, and really not know half-a-dozen good taverns where he can get a chop or a steak cooked to perfection, and at a reasonable cost. We have even met with men who have lived in London for a much longer period of time, as raw on the subject as the last arrival in London from the tinmines of Cornwall, or the dreary wastes of Dartmoor and Hay Tor. You cannot get a chop at Stevens's or Long's in Bond Street, equal in quality or flavour to a chop at the Cock in Fleet Street, or a steak at the Reform Club or the Clarendon equal in excellence to a steak at "Joe's" in Finch Lane; or those masterpieces in their way which "Ben," mine host of the Cheshire Cheese, snatches with a cunning hand from a clean gridiron over a clear fire in Wine Office Court in Fleet Street.

A man wants a good appetite to enjoy a steak to perfection; he must be in full health; and what's more, in good spirits. There is no enjoying a steak in the middle of the day; eat it, and you are fit for nothing but your supper after. Five o'clock's the time, we contend, the best adapted for a tavern dinner. Only be sure of an appetite. Spare no exertion to acquire it. Remember the story told by Pope :

"There was a Lord Russell, who, by living too luxuriously, had quite spoiled his constitution. He did not love sport,

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but used to go out with the dogs every day, only to hunt for an appetite. Whenever he felt a twinge of hunger he would cry out, Oh, I have found it!' and though they were in the midst of the finest chase, he would turn short round and ride home again. It was the same lord who, when he met a beggar, and was entreated by him to give him something because he was almost famished with hunger, called him A happy dog!' and envied him too much to relieve him."

This man knew the necessity of a good appetite; he should have sat at table with Vitellius or Heliogabalus.

A man may dine for very little in London. A shilling or fifteen-pence will procure a dinner more than sufficient to keep body and soul together, without resorting to the potatostands and hot cockle-stalls in St. Clement's Churchyard, in the Strand, or the kidney-pies that attract attention at the Surrey end of Westminster Bridge. Many have dined, and still continue to dine, for a less amount than we have here set down. Cheaper still was the dinner of a certain grave citizen "worth a plum," of whom Colman records that he saw him at a little eating-house in a dark alley behind the Exchange, make a twopenny mess of broth with a chop in it, more than enough for a single meal. When the broth was brought him he scooped the crumb out of a halfpenny roll, and soaked it in the porridge for his present meal; then carefully placing the chop between the upper and under crust, he wrapt it up in a checked handkerchief, and carried it off for his morrow's repast. Cheaper still was the daily meal of a miserable usurer of the time of Charles I., who contracted with a cook in London, to let him have "a mess of pottage" about noon, a draught of small beer (if required), as many chippings of bread in his pottages as he chose to put in; the benefit of the fire in winter; and in summer a further allowance of small beer; and all, so Peacham tells us, for a penny. Your rich, penurious rascal who would dine in this way, would have stolen a meal of steam from a cook's stall in Little Eastcheap, or have dined with Duke Humphrey in Old St. Paul's, could he have kept but life in his body by the former plan, or the latter had not been an absolute waste of time and shoe-leather :

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"The family that dines the latest Is in our street esteem'd the greatest; But latest hours must surely fall'Fore him, who never dines at all." HENRY FIELDING.

The custom of asking for a plate of veal "cut with a hammy knife," is a piece of economical refinement only of late introduced among us,— when, and by whom, no industry has yet been able to discover.

There are two ways of eating in this town, for people of your condition, said Roderick Random's landlord to the carroty-pated Rory, fresh from Scotland, and altogether a novice in these matters, "the one more creditable and expensive than the other. The first, is to dine at an eatinghouse frequented by well-dressed people only; and the other is called diving, practised by those who are either obliged or inclined to live frugally." There was a time when a pint of wine was sold for a penny, and bread to drink with it was given free in every tavern in London. "I have read," says Stow, "of a countryman, that then having lost his hood in Westminster Hall, found the same in Cornhill, hanged out to be sold, which he challenged, but was forced to buy or go without it, for their stall, they said, was their market. At that time the winedrawer of the Pope's Head Tavern (standing without the door in the high street), took the same man by the sleeve, and said, 'Sir, will you drink a pint of wine?' Whereunto he answered, A penny spend I may ;' and so drank his pint: for bread nothing did he pay, for that was allowed free." "I used to dine," said Dr. Johnson, “ very well for eightpence, and with very good company, at the Pine Apple,in New Street, Covent Garden. It used to cost the rest a shilling, for they drank wine; but I had a cut of meat for sixpence, and bread for a penny, and gave the waiter a penny; so that I was quite as well served-nay, better than the rest, for they gave the waiter nothing."

"Each mortal has his pleasure: none deny

Scarsdale his bottle, Darty his ham-pie.

There was Boyce the poet, of whom it is told that he laid out the last half-guinea he possessed in truf

fles and mushrooms, eating them in bed, too, for want of clothes, or even a shirt to sit up in; and when once on the very verge of starvation, as Otway was before him, refused to partake of a piece of roast beef that was offered him-because there was no ketchup!

Certain people have cherished certain predilections. Pope was fond of warming potted lampreys in a silver saucepan. Charles Lamb preferred roast pig. Hasty-pudding and a whitepot were the favourite dishes of Sir Roger de Coverley, who possessed a receipt for them (the best in England) in his grandmother's own handwriting. George III. was fond of the middle of the neck-of-mutton and turnips. Lord Byron, when dining with Mr. Rogers, refused the meats and entremets one after the other, and made a meal of-what? potatoes and vinegar! The late

Lord Eldon had a particular fancy for liver and bacon. Theodore Hook, when at home, after a fortnight's excess at the late Lord Hertford's, and obliged to order dinner for himself, ordered what he calls in his Diary his "old favourite pease-soup." Justice Shallow, in Shakspeare, was fond of a short-legged hen; so was "Rare Ben Jonson," witness his poem inviting a friend to supper,—

"You'll have, to rectify your palate, An olive, capers, or some better salad, Ushering the mutton; with a short-legg'd ben,

If we can get her full of eggs, and then Lemons and wine for sauce.'

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The great lexicographer," Sam," was fond of a fillet of veal, when Wilkes was by to assist him. Pray give me leave, sir," said Wilkes, sitting by his side, "it is better here! a little of the brown-some fat, sir! -a little of the stuffing-some gravy! Let me have the pleasure of giving you some butter!-Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orangeor the lemon, perhaps, may have more zest!" There was no refusing. The veal was done to a turn-better it could not have been with a whole synod of cooks to superintend it; and Wilkes was irresistibly attentive. “Sir, sir, I am obliged to you!" More could not be said. It was enough to have said this, and at such a time. Think of the City aldermen,

in Curtis's mayoralty, over a third supply of turtle. "A fine view from the window, sir! I never saw the river look so gay before-" interrupted by his neighbour on the right with, "Is that a schooner?" No reply. The same question repeated. Something must be said. "Sirsir," was the angry answer, spoken in a hurried and broken manner, "when I'm at dinner, I never look off my plate!"

The capacity of some men's stomachs is hard to be conceived. A turtle-sandwich in the middle of the day seems barely sufficient to supply a single chink in the craving void of the human appetite. There is still a great tun of Heidelberg to fill by the narrow aperture of the mouth. It is really wonderful what men will perform in this way. Only look round your own circle of acquaintance, at your own or at a friend's table, at Lovegrove's at Blackwall, at the Crown and Sceptre at Greenwich, or the Star and Garter at Richmond! A plate of turtle is like a rub on a strop to the edge of one of Weiss's razors. Three plates of fish, and the exhalation inhaled from a variety of other kinds, only allays the demon that sits unappeasably within. Silence seems to assist digestion for the first half-hour, and then a reply seems a new provocative to proceed. A fresh looker-on at every course would fancy he had arrived too late and was making up his leeway. One who watched him throughout would think he was laying in provant, like Dugald Dalgetty, and was fit, when filled, to have lain in Jellalabad with Sir Robert Sale, to have sailed with Parry in the Hecla, to have stood a tenyears' siege like Troy, or played the part of Ugolino in the dungeon, without a wrinkle in his face to suggest a line to Sir Joshua Reynolds. Your thin, spare fellows, with their watches in their waistcoat-pockets, eat as heartily at times as your rotund little gentlemen, with bushy bunches of seals in front of their corporations. It is, however, your thick, shortnecked men who eat the most. There was Chantrey, standing five-feet five with the aid of a pair of thick-soled boots, with an appetite for delicacies quite remarkable. He had little or no neck, but he ate of venison with a

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