back swiftly, as the tell-tale glare searched for him, and fell upon his face.

Before he could reach the shelter of the inner den, the one he had wronged saw him, and, with the leap of a staghound, hurled himself upon him, and dragged him from the depths of the vault forward into the full light of the flames. The slight limbs of the Athenian had no force against the vengeance of the man who saw in him at once his murderer and her paramour; he was torn out from his lair and tossed upward, as a wrecker's hands may toss a beam of driftwood.

Erceldoune forced him downward into the circle of the burning pines, so that full in their light and full in her sight he should take his justice on the wretch who had once struck at his life, and now took far more than life from him. He only knew that this was the man who had sought to assassinate him; that this was the man for whom and to whom she betrayed him. Yet, beyond the memory of his vengeance, beyond the violence of his hatred, beyond the rage of jealousy in his soul, was a terrible pathos of wonder that looked out at her from the reproach of his eyes; it was for a thing so vile as this she had betrayed him! it was for a life so infamous as this that she had given herself to guilt!

Reeling, swaying, striving, they wrestled breast to breast, strangers from the far ends of the earth, yet bound together by the kinships of wrong and of hate, while she, who had cast herself between them, strove to part them-strove to tear them asunder-strove with desperate strength to end their contest. Erceldoune thrust her back, and flung her heavily off him.

"You stayed my hand once-not again. Stand there, and see the felon you harbour die as curs die !"

His face was black and swollen with the lust for blood that she had seen there when he had fought with the Neapolitan Churchman. Wound in one another, they struggled together, seeking each other's lives, with the breath of the flames hot upon them. The Greek's lips were white with fear, but they laughed as he glanced aside at her.

"You love to see men at each others' throats? You love to see tigers play? So, so, Miladi!-then look here."

He slipped loose with a swift, supple movement, and freed his right arm. There was the glisten of steel in the light; the blade quivered aloft to strike down straight through heart or lung; before it could fall his wrist was caught in a grip that snapped the bone, and wrenching the knife from his hand, flung it far away into the depths of the cavern, while the sinewy arms of the man he had wronged gathered him fresh into their deadly embrace. The slender southern limbs had no chance, the serpentine suppleness had no avail, the fox-like skill had no power, against the mighty frame and the ruthless will of the avenger who at last had tracked him; a shrill scream broke from him as the steel was twisted from his grasp, the numbness of dread overcame him as he was choked in the arms of his victim, and down into his looked the unbearable fire of the eyes he had left for the carrion-birds to tear. A sickly horror, a fascination of terror, held him breathless and unresisting to the will of his foe; Erceldoune swung him upward, and held him, as though he were a dog, above his head, his own height towering in the glow of the flames. "Oh, God!" he cried, in the blindness of his agony and of his hate. "Is there no death worse than what honest men die for this brute?"

She threw herself on him, she seized the loose folds of his linen dress, she held him so that he had no power to move unless he trod her down beneath his feet.

"Spare him!-for my sake, spare him!"

"For your sake! You dare plead by that plea to me?"

Oh, Heaven, what matter what I plead by! Give me his life-give me his life."

"The life of a murderer to the prayer of a wanton? A fit gift! Stand back, or I shall kill you with your paramour."

"Wait!-you do not know what you do! I saved your life from him-let that buy his life from you!"

He stood motionless, as though the words paralysed him; all the tempest of his passions suddenly arrested; all the wild justice of revenge, that had made him strong as lions are strong, turned worthless as at last he grasped its power in his hands. The blow that struck him was memory-the memory of that death-hour when through her hands life had been given back to him.

By that hour he had sworn that she should ask what she would of him, and receive it. At last she claimed her debt; claimed by it the remission of her sins-claimed by it mercy to the companion of her guilt.

He stood motionless a moment, the leaden night-like shadows heavy as murder on his face and on his soul-then at her feet he dashed the Greek down, unharmed.

"What you ask by my

honour-take by your shame."

And, without another look upon her face, he went down through the gloom, and out to the air, to the sea, to the day, ere his strength should fail him, and the stain of blood-guiltiness lie on his hands.

SOCRATES.

BY GEORGE SMITH.

Is this the end and summit of my hope,
Myself to take the life man never gave,
To wing the soul to that eternal world
Whence it shall ne'er return? To be no more?
By these grey hairs, which never were disgrac❜d,
Who charges Socrates with vice or wrong,
And he will hold his peace? Has ever friend
Found black deceit in me, foe treachery?
Have I not fought the people's wars with them,
Lived for their good, and built them up in truth
And holy knowledge, sinking self in all?
Yet must I die and that by mine own hand.
But this shall lead to glory; men will know
That I resolved to brave the last great fear,
And honour truth in me. Open, ye shades!
Nov.-VOL. CXXXVIII. NO. DLI.

2 A

I long t'explore your dark and vast domain,
To quench this everlasting thirst to know,
And bare the secrets of the silent grave.

I never knew a fear and cannot now;
This hand holds firm the draught of hemlock here
As though 'twere sweetest cordial; every drop
Is fraught with greatness in the after time,
When tyranny is judg'd by equal eyes,
And we are seen uncover'd as we are.
Then will the harvest fall to Socrates,

And men will wonder how the world should act
Their folly, thinking to kill light in me.
Pile life on life, and make the earth a pyre,
Burn up the greatest and the best of men,
Yet Truth will conquer, and in humble souls
Shine forth, to make them monarchs of the world.
The proud Athenian is not sovereign now,
Nor are victorious generals mightiest souls,
Arms, splendours, wealth, are minions of the dust,
Kings fall and their dominions pass away,
Truth only indestructible remains.

Plato, I had not thought to leave thee thus,
And thou, too, Xenophon; pupils ye are
Both dear to me; yet give a listening ear,
While I unravel how this deed is done.
'Tis mine own act; I lived before the age,
Saw vice triumphant, and the priests enthron'd
With almost regal pow'r, and worshipp'd not
At their high bidding. Furious and distraught
In that they could not grapple with the thews
Of argument, and seeing all their fanes
Deserted, their false glory overshadow'd,
And hating virtue and a simple life,

They will'd my death; and now, as though mine age
Were not sufficient safeguard 'gainst all folly,
Charge me with multiplying on the gods.
How base such charge is ye do know full well,
For ye have been with me in all my moods:
Yet can I see through Time's dim horoscope
How priests will be the curse of this weak world
Through all the ages-blind with bigotry,
And mad to stop the passage of free thought.
Me they could never conquer; no, nor ye,
Nor any who shall place the life sublime
Higher than fear or the applause of men.

Soft, soft, that subtle poison now doth work,
Already are the unseen pow'rs upon me!
Plato! thy hand, bear witness how I die,
And all ye great ones o'er the dark confines
On which I enter, now receive me! Death!
Is this then he who kills the strongest pulse?
I meet him with a smile; cowards draw back,
Not heroes. Who best knoweth how to live,
Knows how to die. Earth, take my feeble life,
Eternity, take thou my stronger soul.
I fail, I die; friends, foes, a long farewell!

TRANSCENDENTAL COOKERY.*

ser

THERE is as much difference between "Les Serviteurs de l'Estomac," that is to say, the simple and necessary articles of nutrition, and “ Les Nouveautés de la Gastronomie Princière," or "Novelties in Princely Gastronomy," as there is between servants of the stomach and slaves to their stomachs. The amiable author of the "History of a Mouthful of Bread" does not, however, take precisely this view of what are the “ vants of the stomach;" he comprises as such all the organs of the human frame, the chief functions of which are, he argues-in as far as mere animal life is concerned—to furnish to the organs of nutrition what are necessary for the sustenance of life generally. "In order to concoct a civet of hare, first catch a hare,' your mamma's cookery-book will tell you. That is the first condition imposed upon the cook, upon my lord the stomach, as well as upon the rest, and in order to catch a hare, it requires help. Many organs contribute their part towards effecting this preliminary act, without which no nutrition is possible; and these organs do not serve solely for walking—they are destined to place us, each in its own manner, in connexion, or in relation, if you like it better, with the substances which shall be so far honoured as to be permitted to take up their abode with us."

Nothing more disgusts your true artist in cookery as to treat of his science after such a fashion. Catching your hare, roasting, boiling, frying, or broiling it, no more constitute the sublime art of cookery with him than the daub over a wayside inn constitutes painting in the eyes of a Royal Academician. The greatest praise ever bestowed by a cook was upon the person of Talleyrand, of whom it was said, that had he not been a diplomatist, he might have aspired to the honours of the "cordon bleu."+ Alexandre Dumas, senior, has made attempts in the same line, but we have only heard of his success at second hand.

Contemplative cooks have long ago endeavoured to realise the truth of the system of compensations between good and evil, and to illustrate the bounties of Providence as displayed in their art in the existence of men capable of consoling nations in grief, by burying in oblivion the loss of their liberties and the tyranny exercised over their reason. It was the cooks, they tell us, who consoled the Carthaginians (whom Plutarch describes as great eaters) for the loss of their freedom, Corinth for the destruction of her museum, and Rome for the oppression of her emperors. Catherine de Medici crossed the Alps into semi-barbarous France accompanied by a troop of cooks, perfumers, astrologers, painters, and poets. It was at table, in the midst of the fumes of Burgundy and the

* Les Serviteurs de l'Estomac, pour faire suite à l'Histoire d'une Bouchée de Pain. Par Jean Macé. Paris: J. Hetzel.

Les Nouveautés de la Gastronomie Princière. Par Ferdinando Grandi. Paris: Audot,

†The origin of the title "cordon bleu" is not generally known. Messrs. de Souvré, d'Olonne, de Lavardin, de Montemart, and de Laval, used to keep open table in olden times. They were all "cordons bleus." Their dinners obtained so great a celebrity, that it became customary to say, when speaking of a good repast, it is a dinner of "cordons bleus," and of a cook, he is a cook of "cordon bleu," and then by abbreviation, "cordon bleu.”

savoury odour of rich dishes, that the queen-mother meditated the means of quelling a dangerous faction, or the destruction of a man who disturbed her repose. It was during dinner she had an interview with the Duke of Alba, with whom she resolved upon the massacre of St. Bartholomew. She must have been dining upon "hure de sanglier à la Huguenot," or "suprêmes de colombes à la auto-da-fé." The long reign of this woman, during which France did not enjoy a moment's repose, was fertile in splendid repasts. History speaks of two, which surpassed in magnificence everything hitherto related in the annals of good cheer. One was given at the marriage of her daughter Marguerite to Jean d'Albret, who died two days after, not, however, of indigestion; the other was given in honour of the execution of Cavagnes. Modern artists repel with utmost indignation the accusation of cooks having been the ministers of the queen-mother's vengeance, but they admit that Henry de Valois was a prince of good appetite, a lover of wine and good cheer, qualities which his mother had carefully fostered and cultivated, that she alone might hold the reins of government; but they extol the memory of the same appreciative prince, who spent whole days at table, and they declare that the constellations of the kitchen never shone with greater splendour than in his reign—not even excepting that of Heliogabalus of glorious memory! It is to this epoch that is attributed the invention of the "fricandeau," a discovery which, we are assured, required a greater "force de tête" than that of the New World by Columbus. But what is this compared with the discoveries of Gonthier d'Andernach, who in less than ten years invented seven cullises, nine ragoûts, thirty-one sauces, and twenty-one soups? "What Bacon was to philosophy, Dante and Petrarch to poetry, Michael Angelo and Raphael to painting, Columbus and Gama to geography, and Copernicus and Galileo to astronomy," we are gravely assured Gonthier was in France to the art of cookery.

Gonthier, we are told, first raised the culinary edifice, as Descartes, a century after him, raised that of philosophy. Both introduced doubtthe one in the moral, the other in the physical world. Descartes, considering our conscience as the point from which every philosophical inquiry ought to begin, regenerated the understanding, and destroyed that unintelligible empiricism which was the bane of human reason. Gonthier, establishing the nervous glands as the sovereign judges at table, overturned the whole scaffolding of received traditions, the sad inheritance of past ages. Gonthier was the father of French cookery, as Descartes was of French philosophy; but who can assert that Descartes has discovered as many facts?

Although the great influence Henry de Valois had over cookery is admitted, Italian taste in these important matters was not altogether approved of, and modern artists declare that he brought in fashion aromatic sauces, tough maccaroni, cullises, and brown sauces calcined by a process like that of roasted coffee. These sauces gave the dishes a corrosive acidity, and, as Jourdan le Cointe remarks, far from nourishing, communicated to it a feverish sensation, which baffled all the skill of physicians in their attempts to cure. Fortunately, we are told, Providence placed near the young King Charles IX. a man who kept a watchful eye over the dearest interests of France. Few people know now-a-days that the noblest political and literary character of the sixteenth century, the rival of Cicero and Horace, as Scaliger calls him