chants, and, after vainly attempting to reinstate himself, he had retired. from business, paying however all his creditors. His misfortunes, however, did not stop here. His daughter, to whom he was passionately attached, disappeared. It was generally thought she had been drowned in the Rhone, but the body was never found. This event drove Dumont to despair, and one day, without saying anything to any of his friends, he also disappeared from Lyons, and had not since been heard of. Was Dumont, Laporte? The incidents of his life as narrated by Collet did not contradict the supposition. Laporte, according to the letters I found in his lodgings, had been married, had had a daughter, and his sister-in-law lived with him in Lyons. According to the letters Laporte's daughter was forcibly detained from him. Dumont's daughter had disappeared. Lastly, Dumont himself had disappeared, and if he came to Paris he might have assumed the name of Laporte, and no one would have sought for the former tenant of No. 10, Place d'Or, in Jourdain's lodging, Rue d'Argenteul. The coincidence was at least sufficiently remarkable to justify farther inquiry. I called accordingly on Monsieur B., the gentleman occupying No. 10, Place d'Or. I had ascertained that he was about to leave Lyons, and I introduced myself as a party who had some intentions of succeeding him as tenant, and wished in the first place to see the house. He was very polite, and showed me over it himself. During the inspection we got into general conversation, and, as it turned out that I knew some friends of his, it ended in an invitation to dinner. It was not difficult after dinner to lead the conversation on the subject of the former tenant. He had known Dumont well. He had been his particular friend, and he spoke of him in terms of the highest respect. He corroborated Collet's account of the leading incidents in his life, but entered more into detail. He said that he, for one, never for a moment doubted the commercial honour of Dumont, and his only feeling was surprise when he heard reports against it. "These reports," said I, "would be the reason of the falling off of his credit, to which Collet alluded." "They were," said my host, "and the curious thing about these reports, which were numerous, was, that they came from all quartersmost of them evident lies, some exposed as cunning conspiracies, and all of them put to silence by his disappearance, which would naturally have been expected to have given them greater probability and currency. I have not the least doubt," he added, "when I think over the matter, that they all arose from the fiendish malignity of some secret enemy, and it has often occurred to me that the disappearance of his child might be accounted for in a similar way." Such was the story of Monsieur B., and soon after I got hold of a piece of real evidence, which left no doubt that Dumont and Laporte were the same. In a jeweller's shop one day I noticed a silver-spoon with Laporte's crest, a hand with a flag, and the jeweller told me it had formed part of the property of M. Louis Dumont, and had been sold after his disappearance from Lyons. About this time a letter from Albert was forwarded to me by Jourdain. I transcribe it here: and fetch me your you "MY DEAR SMITH,-I am very sorry you have left, and would come back by force if that obstinate fellow Jourdain would give address; but it seems you have made him your confidant, and he is on his honour. Now I think you might have paid me that compliment, but I daresay you think I can't keep a secret, and I have no hesitation in telling you, if you thought so, you were quite right. I can no more keep a secret than keep the change of a Napoleon when it gets into my pocket. In proof of that I will tell you a secret. Adèle, my little cousin, loves you, and has not been over happy since you left. She made me her confidant, under the strictest promises of secrecy. I wonder if she thought I would keep them? Of course she supposes you have all the good and noble qualities in the world; in short, that you are altogether such as she herself, and I need not tell you she is, in my humble opinion, very near perfection-a little, pert, forward, generous, open-hearted angel, who will tease and provoke one past all endurance, but would do anything to serve a friend; full of retort and cutting remark, but who will on no account hear from others any word of disparagement of those whom she just the moment before tried to make as ridiculous as possible. 66 'Well, I said she is not very happy; but there is reason for that, over and above your absence. Uncle and aunt press hard upon her to take the count, and will not admit it as any excuse that she does not love him. By-the-by, no more do I, for I have found out there are secrets between him and my aunt, and knowing her as I do, these secrets cannot be of the most innocent kind. Whatever they may be, he seems to have a hold on her, and she has a hold on my uncle, who, besides, is intent on the marriage for his own purposes. So you see here is a ready-made romance, only requiring a hero to put it all right. "I think I can answer for Adèle holding out as long as she can ; but uncles and aunts, in general formidable enough, are terrible when they appear in the shape of le Baron Lagrange and his lady. I suppose the baron is news to you? He was made so lately, of course on account of some well-timed treachery, which he will some day tell me with the greatest self-approval. He is by no means, however, content, and Excelsior is his motto; and unless he is brought up by apoplexy, or some other gentle obstacle, I know of no one surer to rise. In this purest of all régimes in which we live at present, his peculiar merit will assuredly have its reward. "Another piece of news. My aunt has all of a sudden taken the greatest interest in you, and pesters me to know where you are. I don't know how you have gained her affections so suddenly, but she expresses the greatest interest in your welfare. Of course she is as wise as I am about your present abode. "The count also has been pleased to say he takes an interest in you, on account of the service you did to Aděle, and desires me to say he will do anything for you in his power. So that if you have faith enough to believe these people-and you English have more faith than we French-I don't know but that you might succeed tolerably well in our court. "I am, &c., "ALBERT TReller." This was enclosed in a letter from Mr. Jourdain, in the following terms: "Respected SIR,-I still regret your absence, and my lodgings are still at your command. Madame Jourdain mourns over you, and desires me to say she will be delighted to see you again. There have been no letters except the enclosed. The lady has called here again, and wished to see the apartments, which she says she still intends taking for a friend. Also there has called an agent of police, who made some inquiries as to your relationship to Monsieur Laporte, which I answered, I hope, satisfactorily. I showed him the inventory, of which he took a copy. I told him I did not know where you were. For which story my wife has gone to church, and after confession got absolution. All she confessed was that her husband had said he did not know where a friend stayed, while in point of fact he did. The priest ordered her to say the Rosary of the Virgin ten times over, which she and I have managed to do betwixt us. You may depend upon me keeping your secret. I feel proud of being entrusted with it. "I am, &c., "LOUIS JOURDAIN." It was with mingled feelings I perused these letters. I need hardly say that pleasure at first predominated, for who that has ever known what it is to hear that he is beloved by her he loves, can forget that moment of ecstatic pleasure, in comparison of which all other joy is as nothing? This is the first impression; afterwards, when we get over the delicious surprise, it may be that the very knowledge we are loved inflicts the most poignant anguish. Are we in a position to return this love? Can we take her to our heart and say rest here, O my beloved? If we cannot, if poverty or convention forbid, then not only have we our own unhappiness to bear, but the reflection that we have made another unhappy for whom we would have died. Such was my position. After the first throb of intense happiness there rose up betwixt me and her the recollection of my hopeless condition, my loss of rank and wealth, my want of a home, even of a name, and I said it can never be; happen what may, I must keep away from her. But her friends insisted she should marry another, who, if I could believe Albert, was unworthy of her. Never until now, though many had been the bitter thoughts that had passed through my mind, had I felt so acutely my misfortunes and my powerlessness. The chalice of love was presented to my lips, and I must dash it to the ground. The other incidents mentioned in Albert's letter and Jourdain's made at the time no impression on me. In my reply to Albert, I said that his letter had given me the greatest pain, since I must abjure a happiness beyond my brightest hopes, and also abstain from assisting her for whom I would have died a thousand deaths. I entered somewhat more into the detail of my former life, retaining my incognito, but extenuating nothing, and pointing out how it was necessary that I should, if possible, banish all thought of his cousin. I said I would try to do so, and hoped that time and change would have their effect. I said so, and wrote as coldly as my fevered brain would permit, because I felt sure that Albert would show the letter to his cousin; and the story of my former life, and the possibility I expressed of being able to efface the impression she had made on me, might lower me in her eyes, and dissipate what I believed to be the mere transient and romantic affection of a young girl. "HOST AND GUEST," OR GASTRONOMY IN ALL AGES. FROM the days of Heliogabalus and Vitellius to those of Alderman Curtis, so many centuries later in European annals, the useful gastronomical art has been held in high esteem. When its high priest, in the person of the former emperor, and in the year 220, passed in his chariot, drawn by six milk-white steeds, through the thoroughfares of Rome, clad in rich robes of silk and gold, how the hearts of the Udes, Vereys, Bechamels, and Rundells of the time must have exulted at the triumph of their refined profession. Then it was, we infer from Gibbon, that the utmost powers of this sensual art were summoned to do honour to the master of the world, to revive his jaded appetite, and to get citizens of refined taste knighted for the invention of a new sauce. The senate of Rome had, it is true, in the way of precedent, been consulted about the dressing of a turbot by a former emperor, and the honour paid by Heliogabalus to the art was like a preceding decision of a modern court of Chancery, to be acted upon again, no matter whether right or wrong. Fancy our House of Lords sitting in solemn discussion upon the dressing of what the French call "a pheasant of the sea.' ." The Lord Chancellor announcing the royal pleasure. Our lords the bishops, from the example of the Church in the middle ages, not of course later, taking a prominent part in the discussion, particularly their graces the archbishops, whose tastes may be supposed still more refined than those of their less elevated brethren, as their faith must be presumed to be of a more generous and enlarged nature in consequence of their position. But to descend a good many stages, where shall we find the art more honoured than in the little spot in the vast capital of England, called, par 'excellence, the "City ?" Could the present author find a parallel for it since Rome fell before the Goths? Small it is, and rapidly diminishing, but the sweet savour of its dishes must long continue to associate it with all that is grateful in gastronomy. Who can help recalling under the present topic the City knight, Sir William Curtis, whose name should be immortalised in all Apician works with a halo of glory around it? Who can help recalling, too, the knight's political as well as Apician friendships? There is much Christian charity in a good eater, and diplomatists train," to use a pugilistic term, with dinners of most refined concoction, formed under culinary disguises, to "season" them, as the people say in the West Indies, for the more troublesome maskings which envelope their crafty operations. Who that lived in that day, or has read his history, but must remember Lord Castlereagh's immortal expedition to Walcheren? His lordship, wishing to see a little of that which was to be his crowning exploit with posterity, embarked in the yacht of Sir William, * The French say that turbot, the king of fish, may be dressed the second day "en Bechamel;" but the first day it must be simply boiled, and taken with plain butter, "un beau cordon de persil à l'entour" its only accompaniment. It should be served with a silver-gilt fish-slice, or silver at least. All this plainness attaches to the royalty of the fish. It stands alone. This is its due: "Il a la simplicité des heros comme il en a la majesté; et toute l'espèce de parure l'offense bien plus qu'elle ne l'honore." whose culinary apparatus on board was of unrivalled excellence. How came Mr. Kirwan to pass over the finest judge of turtle that the age has produced? When the boat which carried Lord Castlereagh to his friend came alongside the yacht, he was heartily welcomed by Sir William, who was represented in a waggish picture of that time leaning over the vessel's side, with a greasy soup-ladle in his hand, welcoming the noble lord on board. Of the parody annexed we remember one stanza. It was on the old song of "Black-eyed Susan:" All in the downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, If my fat William sails among your crew ?" How Sir William and his lordship became cozy together was in this mode heroically related, and is now become, if not the theme of an epic, yet one of history, like Troy town. All, too, is possibly registered in the annals of Cokenay, among regal visits and important events, that is, if the corporation has yet learned how to record events of interest superior to their registries of comestibles, and their disposal of them, and other things to be nameless, in a snug way. These, it must be admitted, are still matters of a primary character in the only body of the kind which our rulers have not yet, Whig or Tory, had the nerve to purify: it is, perhaps, a little too Augean! However this may be, my Lord Palmerston and a cabinet minister or two dine in the City now and then, to keep up old recollections, but it is all forced work. The crowds of "quality" that used to feed and dance there occasionally, visit it no more. The great merchants and bankers keep offices and warehouses there, but find the air too thick for breathing, beyond a few hours at a time. The morning visit and afternoon departure tell how the estimation of the civic locality has fallen in the market. Only the fag end of a diminished population remains "the glory of Israel has departed." The fine, convenient old houses of the rich, and at one time of the great, are metamorphosed into offices and warehouses. Good heavens! what cookery they once saw! How chines and ale were dispensed there. Strong ales for breakfast-no coffee and tea slopping! Even the principal City heroes, the illustrious merchant and his cat, have ceased to be the boast of civic tongues-in fact, the poetry of the City is gone for ever, "obiit, evasit, eripuit!" The glorious days are passed when the begowned and beknighted, and as often benighted, complimented their more distinguished guests with a certain quaint originality. The feasting, however, has always been creditable to donors who would expire under the peλas (wpòs, or black broth of the heroic Spartans; but then civic men are not expected to be heroes in the field and at the table together. George IV., when Prince of Wales, was a man of profound gastronomical taste, and his friendship for the worthy alderman above named may be dated from that circumstance; yet we dare not call it dis General Tarlton has left upon record that at a Mansion House feast a corporation don addressed him, "Eat away, general! Eat away the finest; we pay all the same!" |