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folks. I recollected, that about a year before, on returning to town from the country, I wondered, as I walked along the streets, what had become of all our young women. They used to look so lovely. Now, however, I found none but dames with hunchbacks and rumps sticking out, bent almost double, and saw nothing but puffs, and plaits, and flounces, and grandmothers' bonnets. On my word, unless I had looked more nicely into the faces hidden under these tremendous bonnets, than was becoming either in a bachelor or married man, I must have set down all I met, on an average, at fifty and upwards.

Even at assemblies, and other dress parties, old age was by no means abandoned. Not a dress that did not seem in its colouring to have been imitated from Harlequin's. Not a colour of the rainbow but crowded and glowed in every part of it. As for the heads, which, when adorned only in the style of nature, form so beautiful a portion of the females of the island, they seemed to have exhausted all the flowergardens at Chelsea, and indeed round town. There were tiers of every kind of gawdy flower, heaped up, and squeezed so close, that the flower-woman's basket, about the end of May, on her first sallying forth with her ruddy bouquets at a penny a-piece, is scarcely better stored. Old age was the ton-old fashionedness the rageand grotesque deformity quite the thing. But this is rather a dangerous subject for a view-hunter, and I pass from it.

Calais is said to contain 7600 souls. It is of importance, by the way, for a traveller to state the population of a place, when it is known, and whether this be increasing or decreasing. According to the genuine principles of statistics, when the number of the inhabitants of a town, and their state as to increase or decrease, are given, we can form a guess at the quantum of employment the style of living-the rate of prices, and other circumstances; particularly, if it have few or no manufactures. These connect it with an external population; and when a town is of the manufacturing class, the results will be of the combined number of the latter, and the residents. Calais has scarcely any manufactures. It seems to be in a stationary condition. Saw no new buildings.

The Table d'Hôte, and French Cockery.

I passed into the Salle a Manger, and waited with some anxious curios ity for dinner, as I had never yet dined at a table d'hôte, or in a French house. Both, therefore, particularly awoke my attention as a view-hunter. The room was spacious. It had a paper of t great staring pattern, in squares, with vivid colours in the French style. The squares contained four different groupes. Two were of Highlanders."

Among the various expectants, I found an English gentleman, whom, from his frankness and ease, I took to be an officer out of reginentals, er else a tourist who had seen much of the world. He gave me some useful information. He was going to make a tour in France in a gig with a ser vant. On my expressing my anxiety about receiving back, in time, my pass port, which the officer had obtained from me at the quay, he begged me to be quite at my ease, as it would be forthcoming when it was wanted. He advised me to leave all these things to the French themselves, and let them take their own way. I should find, he said, they would not disappoint

me.

The only information I received was from this gentleman. It is s tonishing how little most tourists can or will give of the intelligence we want, unless we know as much of country ourselves as to ask the ques tions we wish to have answered.

We sat down to dinner at four o'clock. About sixteen of us of both sexes, More than one half British. The guests seemed to be of various ranks: some of them appeared to be resident of Calais. A little man, on the left f the person at the head of the table evidently a priest, particularly attract ed my attention. He ate with great complacency, constancy, and persever ance, without saying any thing, et seeming to notice the company, for he looked neither to the right hand mer to the left. There was a kind of fixed smile on his countenance, containing mixture of satire and benevolence: It was doubtful which prevailed. He was a Corsican, as I afterwards learnt.

The dinner was abundant, but al in the French style of cookery. Stew ing and frying with butter, or oil and vinegar, seem the basis of the style. The object of the French cook, as of all French artisans, is not to follow but to excel nature; or, as our crities

of the coxcombical genus (a numerous one), whether of the literary, the painting, or musical tribes, express themselves, the ideal nature which they imitate is a nature above nature: that is, in this case, as in all other cases of the sort, it is a nature that is unnatural

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The French seem to plume themselves as much on being the first cooks, as on being the first soldiers, in Europe; and certainly, Europe in general, at least her rich and epicurean folks, rather concede the former palm to them. That is nothing to me. I must, and I will, think for myself in this as in all other cases, let the numbers against me be what they may. Though not affecting to know much of the practice of the pleasing art of cookery, I conceive I know a little of the general theory of it. And if the French cook would allow those legitimate authorities, and the only legitimate ones that I acknowledge, nature and reason, to decide, I should have no objection to break a lance with him. But the nature which he, in common with all Frenchmen, acknowledges, is French custom; and his reason, with respect to any changes in it, is French fashion. To his argument, decisive with him and Frenchmen, it is the French custom and the best, I can only reply, I admit the fact, but I reject the authority. And therefore, if I mean to reason on the subject, it must be with others,..

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The intention of food is to recruit the strength of man, and to keep him in sound health. Nature has also benevolently rendered the various foods which are useful for this purpose, though differing greatly in flavour, agreeable to his palate. The proper intention of the cook, therefore, is so to prepare those foods as to make them as nutritive and palatable as possible.

It is found, that flesh meat, when barely done, is more strengthening than when it is much done; for, in the former state, it possesses more of what tends to enrich the blood, and communicate a due supply of the various juices of the human body to every part. On this head the French cook uniformly errs. All his meats are so much overdone, that scarcely any of this natural juice is left in them. They are all nearly in a state ofcoput mortuum. It may be alleged, that though the juice has been fried

or stewed out of the meat, still, however, it is found in the sauce or gravy. To this, I should reply, only a very small portion of it in most cases. By far the greatest part of it has evaporated, and is lost.

Overdoing his meats, and depriving them of their natural juices, he is obliged to have recourse to artificial juices or sauces. Here again he as essentially offends against nature as in the former case. The various sorts of flesh, poultry, and fish, have naturally each their peculiar flavour. And these are almost uniformly agreeable, though some are more or less pleasing to the generality. The natural intention of the cook must be to render each of these different natural flavours as poignant in their own case as art can make them. This must be, by adopting sauces which tend to heighten those peculiar flavours. It is meant, when these are necessary. For, in some sorts of food, all artificial sauce is unnecessary, and injures the pleasing flavour of the meat; take, for example, the beef-steak and the roasted sirloin. But the French cook, so far from being guided by this fundamental law of the art, almost uniformly acts on the principle of opposing it. In this he is so successful, that it is frequently difficult to tell whether the dish he presents you with consists of fish, flesh, fowl, or game. Butter, oil, milk, vinegar, and sugar, are the materials of the common French sauces; and these are applied so copiously, that it is almost immaterial which is the meat you bespeak. All are so smothered with the thin pudding formed by those ingredients, that they have the same luscious indiscriminate flavour.

And yet further, the French cook not only completely spoils the flavour, but also the appearance of his foods. Instead of that elegant and varied show which the different kinds of Nature's food yield on the table, when properly prepared, every thing in France, with the exception of the gigot, and a few other articles, has the same unvarying inelegant appearance of a whitish hash, or pieces of solids plunged in a mass of butter.

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In short, French cookery, like almost all other productions off the French, whatever be their kind, exhibits the same contempt of the relegance of nature, and the same fond

ness for artificiality and gawdy frip pery. It has, indeed, attained to high fame throughout Europe; and among many of the leading families of the different nations it has been in some points imitated and adopted, particular ly in made dishes; but, if the laws of nature are to decide, with as little good reason as in most other cases; instead of ranking it the first in Europe, I should be disposed to rank it nearer the bottom. It is true, that as Par tridge, and numberless others, have said, de gustibus non est disputandum. Every man for himself. I certainly will never choose a French cook for my kitchen.

Yet though I by no means think French cookery a good species, I have no antipathies in the case. In travelling, I have never allowed my native custom, or squeamishness, to prevent me from yielding to the custom of other countries. I ate heartily, though few of the dishes suited my palate. I must, however, except from this charge their broth with bread, which I found excellent. Some persons may reckon it poor, but I consider it by far the best dish I met with in France. It is not rich; but it has the real flavour of the meat, and it is not spoilt with any of the unpleasing flavours of their sauces.

But to return to our table d'hôte: The British part of the guests, both male and female, seemed to be the genuine children of John Bull, though they had come, like the rest, to spend their money in France. They criticised every thing with the most unbounded freedom, and, generally, with severity. Many a comparison was instituted, and, of course, always ended in favour of the island.

I had frequently heard that the vin ordinaire was for the most part just as good as any wine to be had at inns in the country, and that if we called for any other sort, the only difference, in general, would be a higher price. I meant to act upon this information. Some of the gentlemen entertained other ideas, and called for wine at five and six francs the bottle. They did not like it; and they owned that the vin ordinaire, which we were drinking, seemed to be quite as good. found it agreeable; and as their beer is abominable, Fresolved to adopt the custom of the country, as I had done

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before in Germany, and mix wine with water for my beer. The wine is brought in long necked bottles; and they do not use decanters. This renders their wine-drinking much less elegant in appearance than ours. However, I became reconciled to it.

Towards the close of the dinner, which consisted of three removes, including the dessert of pastry and fruit, a male and female musician entered; and, without saying any thing, as soon as they had taken their station, struck up. The man played the flute, and the woman a kind of hurdy-gurdy, to which she sang. She was of the middle age, not very pretty, but was decently dressed, and wore immense ear-rings. In the size of this ornsment, by the way, the lower women of Calais seem prodigiously to excel She sung in a very tolerable style. Some of the gentlemen asked for f vourite airs; and, at my request, she sang the national air, Vive Henri Quatre. Fond of whatever tends promote cheerfulness and innocent en joyment, I was much delighted with this trait of manners, which I after wards found to be a common one. The female at length came round the table with her tambourine. Each per son put in a sous or two. I thought the tribute, though the usual one, somewhat small; and, pleased with the agreeable treat, as well as com sidering that I was an Anglais for the first time in France, for the honour of our country, I gave her half a frant I received, in return, a very grateful courtesy.

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The company sat a very short while after dinner. I called for coffee. I had often heard how superior the French were at making this delight ful and exhilarating, without intoxi cating, beverage. I found, from the first cup, that their fame was not un justly won. They make it extremely strong and black. They use hot milk, which seems an improvement. The garçon, without being asked, brought me the usual accompaniment, soine chasse café, or a small glass of eau de vie; in plain terms, brandy, This I did not choose to touch. It was white, and looked well, but I did not try its flavour; and if I had, I am no judge. A small glass is a sous and a half, or three farthings. It is astonishing how much of this is drank in France by

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people of all ranks; and yet we seldom meet with a drunkard in that country.

My bill, including coffee and wine, for in general they do not make a se parate charge for wine when the vin ordinaire is used, was three francs and a half, or about three shillings. The half franc was for the coffee. I thought this very reasonable. A similar dinner with coffee, in Kent, exclusive of wine, would have cost me at least double the sum.

REMARKS ON GREEK TRAGEDY.

No IV.

(Philoctetes Sophoclis.)

THE Complaint that is sometimes made, that a poet has been unfortunate in the choice of his subject, is saying little more than that he has written a bad poem. The truth is, that any theme, into which the feelings, and the passions, and the sufferings, of men can be introduced, becomes interesting in the hands of genius. It is these that lend a charm to the wildest extravagancies of fiction, that redeem the absurdities of the Odyssey and the Arabian Nights, and render Thalaba, with all its deviations from nature, one of the most seductive poems in our language. Nothing is so interesting to man as man;the affections of the heart are the part of his nature the most suitable to the purposes of poetry; and where these may be introduced, the author must blaine something else than his subject if he is unsuccessful. In true history, as well as in the works of fiction, it is the simple expression of these that is most delightful to all classes of men, It is owing to these that the story of Joseph has been the favourite of na tions for three thousand years; and these, wrought into an endless variety of forms and combinations, render the Iliad to this day the most popular book in any language. It has seldom happened, however, that any author has trusted to these feelings, so exclusively of incident, as Sophocles in: the play of Philoctetes.

The situation, for it can hardly be called story, on which this drama is: founded, arises out of one of these VOL. I.

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aggravated or more hopeless than what appears in the following description. The fleet had sailed and left him asleep.

"What, think'st thou, were my feelings

when I woke ?

What were my lamentations, what the tears
I shed when I descried the Grecian fleet,
And my own ships, already far at sea?
Deserted, on a solitary Isle,

Without a human being near to aid me,
To grant me food or water, to apply
A balm to sooth the anguish of my wound.
I looked around me, and in all I saw
I found new cause of sorrow. Time rolled on,
But slow and melancholy were the hours.
Within this little cave I found a shelter,
And with my trusty bow I got me food.
When the wild pigeons flew within my shot,
With certain aim did I arrest their flight;
But painful were my steps, when forth I
halted

To fetch my prey, or water from the foun-
tain,

Or gather wood to kindle me a fire.
When winter shed its hoar-frosts o'er the
earth,

From the hard flint I struck the living spark,
To light the flame that warmed my shivering
hands,

And shed a kindly feeling thro' my frame;
Yet even then my agonies assailed me,
Amid a pause of pain and glimpse of joy.
Here is no station for the passing ship,
No place of refuge for the mariner
Tossed by the storm, no hospitable roof
Where he may rest him after toil and danger,
No mart to tempt him with the hopes of gain;
Or if the adverse winds bring strangers hither,
All that I can obtain from them is pity;
Perhaps a little food or single garment.
But all my supplications have been vain,
That they would bear me to my native land,
That land for which I've sighed for ten long

years,

Exposed to all the miseries of famine,
And torture caused me by a cureless wound."
After a dialogue, in which Philoc-
tetes inquires for several of his friends
among the Grecian chiefs, Neoptole-
mus wishes that the Gods may cure
his disease, and insinuates that he
must sail without delay, whom, fear-
ing that he was again to be deserted,
he addresses in this pathetic passage:
"Oh! by thy father's and thy mother's love,
By all that is most dear to thee at home,
Leave me not here in solitary sorrow.
I grant thee, I may be a heavy burden,
Yet, oh! my friend, be generous and save me;
Place me beside the pump, or prow, or stern,
Or any where, where I may give least hin-

Pqdrance.

By the Great Sovereign of the Universe,
Hear me, my son, thy wretched suppliant,
bow me to the earth and clasp thy knees.
Lame and infirm, oh! look upon my tears,
Leave me not here abandoned by my kind,

Where I may never more behold the smile,
Nor hear the music of the voice of man ;
But bear me to my home and to my kindred,
And to the much loved mansions of my fa
ther.

Oft have I sent to him by those who touched
At this lone Isle, that he would take me

hence;

But he is either dead, or those I trusted
Neglected me, for still I sorrow here.
Son of my friend, son of a glorious father,
Oh! hear my prayer, and pity me and save
me."

Neoptolemus complies; and a mriner arrives, and informs them, that Diomed and Ulysses had taken an oath to carry Philoctetes to Troy, either by persuasion or by forc This throws him into a paroxysm of rage, and brings on a violent attack of pain. Neoptolemus requests that be may be permitted to bear his bow, and have the pleasure of handling so cele brated a weapon. Though he had never before quitted it, he can refuse But let him speak for himself. nothing to so generous a benefactor.

"Take it, my friend, for it is but thy das Thou grantest me to look upon the sun, And to revisit the Etean fields,

My native land, scenes of my infancy,
That absence has made dearer to my soul
And to embrace my father and my friends
And triumph over all mine enemies."

Here the Poet has endeavoured t
excite sympathy by the exhibition of
bodily pain; and, hopeless as the at-
tempt may seem, not without success.
The sufferings of Philoctetes are 3-
cessive, and he utters loud lamenta
tions, till, overcome by torture, be
falls asleep. In real life, fortitude is
this species of affliction, the most te
rible to which our nature is subject.
excites sympathy mingled with admi-
ration; but complaints, if they do not
disgust us, lower the character of the
sufferer in our esteem. There is
point, however, at which the fortitude
of the strongest mind fails, and the
patient is not more accountable for his
cries than for any spasmodic affection
but nothing save a sense of duty,
the desire of affording rehef to a fellow
mortal, could induce us to witness such
sufferings. Even here Sophocles has
shewn judgment; for it is not so much
by the lamentations of Philoctetes that
the spectators, as by his struggles to
he aims at awaking the compassion of
suppress them, till, overcome by agony,
he can no longer refrain, by the utter
helplessness of his state, band, above

and

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