Almost adjoining this is a place emulative of Bellamy's Kitchen at the House of Commons. A steak or beef-skirt, reeking from the gridiron, charms many an epicure in the course of the day. The 'three-course houses' come in due order of enumeration. Government officials, on the west side of Temple Bar, know them better than City people. A favorable type is the Strand Hotel, where a good dinner, consisting of soup, fish, flesh, with vegetables at discretion, and bread and cheese afterwards, is given for a shilling. Open from one o'clock mid-day till eight at night, it suits the convenience of a very numerous and lengthy line of guests. Now we are in the West, we might look in at some of the Restaurants. Frenchmen congregate near the parks: lovers of promenade, they get the best approximation to their own Tuileries and Champs Elysées. The moustachoed gentry affect the style of their country, and, as nearly as possible, imitate the inimitable dinners of Paris. For two francs, or two and a half, you may get a firstrate dinner in France, or for a franc and a half more you may dine à la carte, or at the table d'hote of your hotel. In London you may get a dinner cheaper, but such a dinner you couldn't get at any price. We have, however, to do particularly with the City. His Lordship's Larder,' in Cheapside, aims at French style, and takes well, to judge from the constant succession of patrons all day long. The waiters are quite French in attention and noiselessness. Springy as a felt-shod ghost walking on india-rubber, they stand before you directly you think of a dish, and vanish to execute your order. A clerk, too, after French ideasexcept that it is a man, not a woman-receives payment instead of garçon, and trusts to your honor to make out an accurate verbal bill for yourself. · Some folks have an unlimited capacity at a dinner-table. Such very sagaciously choose the substantial ordinary,' rather than a bill-of-fare dinner, where every dish is an extra. Ordinaries | abound in London. Almost every tavern boasts of one, ranging from a shilling to half-a-crown ahead; in some cases including wine-an announcement always seeming to us equivalent to 'avoid the place.' Even the dubious praise of 'the rarest vintage,' with which the allurement is decorated, makes us no less cynical; truly of a vintage very rare-a concoction only to be met with at a cheap dinner-table. orderly people these, with whom we have spent more than one sensible hour. We have dwelt upon the methods of provisioning London by day only where they present anything characteristic or peculiar. Regular eating. houses, whose windows tempt appetite with floured legs-of-lamb, and calves'head choking with a huge lemon, require no particular notice: they are the same in every large town. Not merely are they useful, but indispensable in a busy emporium like London, where the quarter of an hour's leisure for a 'consummation' cannot be counted upon by many till it comes of itself, or is snatched in the course of the day. Last upon our Иst, but first in our sympathy, are the Coffee-rooms. Constitutionally staid, we love their comparative quiet, and, more frequently than not, when we go to town, we save ourselves the vexation of thinking of a dinner-hour at home, by dropping into a snug corner long since recog nised as our own. The cosy way in which we sit there would raise the envy of Addison himself, little as a modern coffee-house compares with the smoking receptacle of his day. It is the pleasant conceit of a motropolitan, when his purse lacks a sou, and his card-rack a billet, to affect the table of the mythic magnate Duke Humphrey. Dining with the nobleman is a Barmecide banquet, where a joke usurps the place of turtle. Jedidiah Jones's explorations in town, after 'Hick's Hall,' and the Standard in Cornhill,' and 'St. Giles's Pound,' were never more bootless than have been ours in search of the duke's open house. Coffee-houses have revolutionised London, and, unlike revolutions in general, have made society all the better. Single gentlemen such as we, who luxuriate in a limited suite of apartments of a suburban villa, have reason to bless old Pasqua for his invention. What can we do with a dinner at home au complet? It is a week's expedition to get round a loin or a leg. A solitary chop is our last resource, to escape from which we would e'en run off to the Diggins. Let us introduce you to our own coffee rooms in special. Assuredly, since Pasqua the Greek opened the first in Lombard Street, there has not been one where everything is so nice, clean, quiet, and comfortable. You will say so if you go there: nor can you well mistake the place for, towards the close of the day we shall be there working up our 'notes,' and ready to greet you. It is a sober-looking place, as befits the important purpose to which it is dedicated. Its walls are not hung with glittering mirrors, nor its roof upheld with massive columns of glass, like the cafés of the Boulevards. Compared with themwhose splendor would make one imagine eating and drinking to be pleasures of life, instead of sheer duty to an inexorable old dame-ours is dingy. Consistent with the gravity of our countrymen, and the idiosyncrasies of coffee-room architects, it is divided into boxes, each separating half-dozens of apparently very precious or very ferocious animals. The Commercial Boarding-houses keep an open table in many parts of the City: supplying generally, with a thoroughly good and cheap dinner, not merely the sojourners at the house, but their friends, and any wayfarers who may please to drop in. These are amongst the quietest methods of renovation with City men. A few of the most respectable of such establishments have their yearly circle of tenants, and a nearly uniform daily company. The regularity of procedure is not often broken in upon by a strange face. A social party rather than a public dinner thus taken place every day. Such tables seem to be in- Englishmen are getting a little more gregarious digenous to Basinghall Street and its vicinity. than they were. Facility of locomotion has The same faces recur, and the same topics :- brought them into contact with countries where business, politics, the departure and arrivals from Restraint and Stiffness feel less at home. Our and to the house, according to season. Quiet, i church has lately shown this. A year or two ago we couldn't peep over our pew; now we have a pleasant sight of the congregation. The same influence has been at work with our coffee-room, where, in lieu of hiding a man all but his periwig, a goodly part of his eyes, nose, and mouth are now displayed. By and by we shall get down to his shoulders, and in the end, when we begin to surmise that other folks are likely enough as good as ourselves, we shall raze the wooden walls, and associate. Why dinner in public should not be cheerfulised with the smiles of pleasant faces, though it still were heresy to speak, puzzles us as much as why a coffee-room dinner is so preternaturally glum, long-faced, solemn, and silent. It were a commendable crusade to start, which constitutional diffidence interdicts on our part, to establish cheerfulness as a concomitant of an English dinner. It takes a long time to make acquaintance, even at a regular ordinary; at coffee-rooms it would be the work of years. With peculiarly amiable sociability, every Englishman shrinks quite into himself and his Times.' Yet we could tell, from our point of observation, a good deal that would surprise our genial friends of their private life and character:-knowledge with which they, in blissful unconsciousness, have made us acquainted. An intelligent gentleman at our side is a familiar friend. He has been a visitor as long almost as we: yet, all the same for that, it is only for a week or two that we have been on conversational terms. The oddest event brought about what our box at the coffee-rooms never would have done. According to custom, we evacuated our position at home, when the dog-days were over, to enjoy a little laziness-the most serene of nature's bounties. By a concatenation of events, we were musing over the little square garden-grave of Marshal Ney, in Père la Chaise, and transfusing our own with the requiem of sighs which his guardian mourners, the four lofty poplars piercing the angles of his resting-place, breathe continually over him as they sway with the wind. Bringing our thoughts to earth, a glance encountered ours -surely not unknown. Instinctively our hat rose, and the suggestion dared to make itself heard, after a moment's English silence, that the rencontre was not the first. Our friend went through a similar process of thought, and acquiesced: but how? when? why? where? Could it be at our coffee-rooms, in-but you know where-where we had sat at the same table, day after day, for a year or two, without speaking? Such suggestion was a flicker of light, which at last quite flared up, and a sudden thought struck us-we would swear eternal friendship;' in this matter breaking through the good old English custom, which made the two students who met on the top of Mont Blanc part without speaking, because, though they sat on the same form at the Oxford lecture-room hundreds of times, they had never ligence more than common, as well as a neatness and modesty of demeanour, bespeak her superior to her position; while, on the other hand, her genius-for you shall in the end acknowledge she has genius-makes her duties dovetail into so nice and compact a piece as would grieve us to see broken. Look at her now from our own corner; neither she nor her visitors know 'A cheil's amang them takin' notes.' So quiet, so attentive, so polite, so smiling, you No; really the dozen quills in a box together, just let out of the Our visitors are all of a quiet caste. Half a counting-house for half an hour, comprise onr fastest visiters Even they, to whom the maid has gone, are not boisterous, though full of fun. Sometimes a few Whether we systematise our company by their reading, by their manners, or by their appearOur incipient ance, we get the same divisions. princes of London trade read novels, smile when they give orders, and dress as near dandyism as the governor' will bear. quite fast drop in. They don't read at all, but laugh and talk immoderately about the theatres and cider cellars, and are very precisely brushed indeed. Chivalry is the thing' in this class. but chivalry arising out of a belief in their own irresistible graces, and the universal frailty of the fair. Their gallantry is indirect insult in a coffee-room, The position of the handmaid gives them an loud enough to make the modest girl blush. We occasional claim to whisper a poor joke, just regard it as a special duty to be kind, and polite Our maid deserves a little chapter quite to her- and affable to her, were it but to mollify some of self; and indeed we can talk of other folks while the disagreeablenesses of her office; and we susspeaking of her. She is a light and pretty re-pect it brings its reward, and tells on the number presentative of her class: a representative paint- of plums in our tart. Well it is that her temper ed by a poet, who depicts his copies, not as they keeps unrippled. One would scarcely think that actually are, but as they ought to be. An intel- the equable face she carries only hides the work been introduced. We talk now. ings of a heart as sensitive to rudeness as the collodion to light. Quiet, elderly folks compose the next class, whose reading is the Times.' They are City men, past the follies of adolescence, and may be seen regularly as the clock strikes putting on their glasses to peep at the funds and the markets. They have time, too, for a 'leader,' which forms the basis of their politics till the next day's reading. The originality of their ideas is very striking, to any one who by chance has read the paper beforehand. Dressed soberly, and conversational to the extent of a good morning, sir,' it is they who give character to the house. When evening comes, these go home to their families; the dandies go to the casino, and the first class play chess and draughts in their own box. an air of authority demands all the papers in turn, and gets passionate, and stalks about when they don't come, is her special aversion. Somehow people will keep the paper more than ten minutes,' if he bespeak it. Any one who bellows his commission from one end of the room to the other gets into her bad books at once, and is sure to find the paper he asks for-engaged. It pleases her now and then to play with our own peculiarities, as far as she imagines she may safely venture. 'Will you take tart, sir ?—Yes, if you please,' has been given as a matter of course. In a few moments after its removal the little plague, in apparent forgetfulness, has inveigled us into another 'Yes, if you please,' for the self-same thing. On one occasion, and we believe at the instigation of a malicious friend, she actually caused us to demolish two dinners in succession. Our particular friends, when they fill the corner we invariably claim, form another grouping, distinct in pursuit and character. It is a casualty their We have already referred to the inquisitive coming in, except 'Magazine-day,' when we lux-spirit of our handmaiden. It shows itself in a uriate for an afternoon over the monthlies, and variety of ways. If, as the chance has been, she have a delicious tete-a-tete literary gossip and has occasion to speak of a past occurrence, she criticism. Evidently we are a learned coterie, mentions visiters by name. The day when Mr. thinks the maid, though she can't make us out. Dyer and Mr. Thresher sat at your table, sir; She looks out for this periodical' mirth with our but who Mr. Dyer and Mr. Thresher are, she friends, as naturally as for our own individual alone knows of us two. Or she will allude to a silence on other days. gentleman, our casual companion, the printer,' she confidently adds, and is astonished when we assure her that her information about his profession dosen't help us at all. She was right, not withstanding, as we confirmed her, when by accident we found out what our friend was. But, as we argued with her, and argue with you, if the knowledge of these little things ever become necessary to friendship, they will make themselves known in good time, and need not our prying eyes in advance. You shall allow the maid has genius, we promised you. How else is it that she tells from the look of a customer what he wants? One just now came in; she was located in her own sanctum, and merely looked up, when the order for tea and a tea cake, with water-cresses, issued from her lips. A gentleman followed, whose physiognomy at once indicated that he wanted a 'chop.' It would test the cleverest of you to do it as cleverly. We imagine that, though we can claim few acquaintances at our coffee-rooms, we are not altogether unknown. At any rate our seat is recognised; and seemingly, the fancy we have that dinner isn't satisfactory in any other. Frequently we have met the silent acknowledgement of our right, by one relinquishing the position on our appearance. They know not-though they now shall-how much beyond our thank'ee' they oblige. ་ Our little ancilla very quickly became acquainted with all our peculiarities, and humours them to a gratifying degree. 'Yes, if you please,' was our invariable answer to whatever she asked of us. She soon knew how little we liked bother, and frequently brings us dinner throughout on her own responsibility. That is just as we like it. Vanity was it not a Ciceronian failing?tempts us to think that we are somewhat of a favourite certainly we are much favoured. On our arrival we usually find the 'Times' placed ready, and theweeklies' piled up for us on their proper days. 'H. W.' and 'Chambers,' Leisure Hour,' and 'Eliza Cook,' make us a repast attractive enough to send the 'lamb and pease' or 'raspberry tart' into temporary oblivion. Even our less ambitious 'Family Herald' we enjoy as entremet: and on 'Review-days' and 'Magazine-days' we have quite a Guildhall feast. Mary is not so carefully attentive to every one. She has her little revenges upon an offender, though the victim is unconscious. One who with A gilded glass announcement on the walls tells people that our coffee-rooms are closed on Sunday. It wasn't always so: and the change is one for the best. London coffee-houses generally are to be commended for Sunday-closing. We must not inquire the reason too deeply, or perhaps the inference would be, that London goes out of town. Let us give coffee-house-keepers the benefit of a doubt, and believe that better motives influence them. Worthier people than our own host and hostess do not live. More honest and upright could not be found. The domestics have to thank them for their Sunday rest. We have learned from Mary herself, that her daily duties are ended with family prayer, over which she has more than once wickedly fallen asleep. After so many hours of business it is not to be wondered at, nevertheless we gravely reprehend her, and hope she will not transgress again. The coffee-room library we can't tell you much about. Our experience goes only as far as the catalogue. The owner dosen't speak highly of his own property. If about to sell, he might do otherwise. Were we compelled to confess, we should say that for 'Blood' and 'Love' the stock was unequalled, and suits the class of readers; but for intelligent people to sit over a single one of them, would be to compromise their character. The little picture of our own coffee-room gives an idea of a class exceedingly numerous in Lon upon don. We have no doubt coffee-houses tell the character of London population, and by their numbers tend usefully to ba ance the blandishments of the tavern. They deserve every encouragement: we have promoted their interest in the present paper by writing so long, that readers who have been adventurous enough to get to this point must have grown hungry, and need their aid. LAMENT FOR THE RED HUNTER. Pity the hunter who traversed the wild, The bounding red-deer of the deep forest shade, And drank when he thirsted from waters that made A music he loved to share. "Yes there is," replied a man from behind the "What is the fare ?" was the next "Six crowns, office grating. question, in the Creole accent. "What "Here they are," and at the same time a little hand, whose small, white, slender fingers, peeped forth from a black silk mitten, laid upon the counter the six crowns. name shall I put down?" demanded the man as he took the money. After a moment's hesitation the little voice replied, "Mademoiselle Francoise." "Francoise!" repeated the man behind the grating, as he prepared to write it down. "I said Mademoiselle," replied she who bore the name of Francoise, in so haughty a tone, that every one in the office, men, women, and children, turned to look at the speaker. It was a little girl of about eight years old, taller than is usual at that age, and slight, like all children who grow too quickly; she was very pale, which rendered her exquisite fairness still more striking, while rich masses of chestnut hair fell in profusion on her neck. Her eyes were black, admirably set, and at times flashing haughtily when she was either addressed rudely or jostled by the crowd; but when in a state of repose, they wore an expression of timid gentle And when in the hours held sacred to thought, ness, full of interest and charm. The appear And dreams like reality grew; In the depth of a warm adoration he sought, The Spirit of good in the far distant ground; Where the shades of the warriors rest, Pity for him for his hunting ground, A home for the stranger is made; ance of the little girl was neat and elegant, like that of a child belonging to the higher classes of society; a dress of puce silk, a mantilla trimmed with lace, set off her pretty figure; whilst her whole air, perhaps a little too proud, and her case of manner, induced the beholder to look behind her in search of the lacqueys that she was doubtless accustomed to command; and it was matter of surprise when it was found that the young creature was quite unattended and alone. An aged woman, whose appearance betokened her the housekeeper of some noble family, gazed And his forefathers bones in their own sacred at her for some moments with the fixed attention mound, Are profaned by the plough and the spade. The pride of his native fores. is shorn,- NOTE-The sad fate of the Aborigines of North America driven from their hunting grounds, and from the spots held sacred by religious rites, and also as the graves of their forefathers, must excite emotions of pity in the bosom of every one who knows what they now are, and reflects on what they have been. G. W. THE EARLY DAYS OF MADAME DE CHAPTER I. Ar the close of the year 1643, on the 20th of November, a young, sweet voice, was suddenly heard from amidst the crowd thronging the coachoffice at Havre, inquiring if there was a place to Niort. of one who is endeavoring to recall some remembrance; and having apparently succeeded, she approached the little girl. "Have you no other name than Francoise!" inquired she. The little Creole answered by a gesture of astonishment, and one of those haughty glances, a flash of which her eyes retained for some moments. "Are you going to Niort, madame,' demanded she, without deigning any reply to the question of the housekeeper. "I am going further, mademoiselle," replied the woman, constrained by the haughty deportment of the little personage to accord her the title, which certainly everything about her seemed "But I intend to stop to prove belonged to her. If you are travelling there for a short time: alone, and I can be of any use to you—' "A poor little girl of my age has always need of protection; and you will be good enough, madame" "I shall be most happy, mademoiselle," replied Madame Germain-that was the name given in her passport-so much the more, as I myself have just been bringing a little girl of your age to my mother-in-law, who resides in this town; for certainly I should not be the one to leave my child to go about alone in the public roads." Madame," interrupted the little Françoise, warmly, her face flashing and her eyes filling with tears. "Do not blame my father or mother; they gave me in charge to a Creole lady, who was returning to France; and is it their fault that this lady died on the passage? Oh, how my poor mamma would grieve if she knew her little Françoise was obliged to disembark all alone from the great ship, and go alone to Niort. Oh! say nothing bad of my father and mother, they are both so good and both love me so much. It was their love for me that made them consent to send me away from them. They were not rich there; besides, my education could not be finished in America, so they have sent me to France. I am going to Niort." "To whom there ?" demanded Madame Germain, quickly, who had not taken her eyes for an instant off the little Creole. "I have my instructions, madame," replied Françoise. "The lady who died gave them to me in writing. She had more sense than I have, and knew better what ought to be done. As for me, I only know one thing, and that is, that at my age I ought to obey, and so I obey." "You can at least tell your father's name," exclaimed at once nearly every one in the office, who, whilst the little Creole had been speaking, had gradually approached her. She gazed earnestly at each of the persons who had addressed her; but doubtless, not perceiving in any of the curious, indifferent faces around, that nameless something which invites confidence, she merely replied, "You do do not know him, so it would be useless to tell you." "But you will tell me, who am going to take you under my care till we reach Niort, will you not?" said Marguerite Germain, in a low voice, kindly pressing the hand of Françoise. "Perhaps so, madame; listen awhile when I know you better." This extreme prudence at so tender an age astonished every one, and fixed every eye upon the child, who alone, in a public office, surrounded by strangers, behaved with as much propriety and steadiness as if in the presence of her mother; and united to the shrinking modesty of her sex that self-possession which commanded respect in her rather equivocal circumstances. At this moment the coachman mounted the box, summoned the passengers, who took their places in a wide carriage, where, thanks to the good offices of Madame Germain, Françoise was already seated. family such as yours should have been travelling alone." All else she had to say might have been imparted by word of mouth, or perhaps at that instant death had for ever paralyzed the hand which penned, and chilled the anxious heart that dictated the friendly counsel. CHAPTER II. After a journey of three days, which was considered very quick travelling at a time when railroads were as yet unknown, the carriage which had conveyed Françoise arrived at Niort, and we must do Madame Germain the justice to say, she was most assidiously kind to the little Creole. Perhaps there was a little of officiousness in this forwardness to oblige. Certain it is, that whether from natural disposition, from want of education, or from a motive which we do not as yet pretend to define, she was on this occasion most inquisi tive, prying, and meddling. Françoise found the greatest difficulty in evading the attempts made to surprise her into a disclosure of her name and destination. Sometimes it was a conjecture as to the rank held by the father of the little Creole; at other times, a guess as to the honse to which she was going; to all of which the young traveller observed the most complete silence. As soon as the coach stopped, Françoise, who was among the first to alight, looked about for a porter, and giving him a parcel to hold, took a letter from her bag and began to read over the address, in order to tell it to the man, who was awaiting her orders. As she was about to whisper it to him, she was anticipated by Madame Germain, who read over her shoulder "The Baroness de Neuillant! I know that lady right well. I will show you the way. There, take my parcel too," said she to the porter. "I am going the same road. Come." Françoise had only to make the best of a bad matter, so she followed Madame Germain. They walked together in silence for a long time, till having turned into a large street, so deserted that the grass grew in tufts through the pavement, as is so often the case in a provincial town, Margaret stopped, and said to her young companion There it is at the end, the last hôtel to the right; knock long and loudly-the servant is deaf." Then taking Françoise's parcel from the porter, and giving it to her, she went off, taking the man with her, and leaving the poor little stranger in the middle of a deserted street. As the coach drove off, Françoise drew a little paper from her pocket, folded square, and with the word "adieu" written upon it. She unfolded But the solitude, far from alarming Françoise, it, and read to herself,-"I feel, my dear child, only tended to re-assure her. It was broad day the approach of death; as I can now no other--it was noon, and happy in thought that her wise care for you, I write these few lines, which I could ask you always to carry about with you, to direct your conduct, now that I am no longer with you. Read and follow the advice of one who was for so short a time to fill the place of your mother. "On your arrival at Havre go at once to the coach-office for Niort, take your place there, and pay for it; but do not give any but your christian name, nor the name of the relation to whom you are going. You could not explain to every one that might see the name written upon a public sheet, by what accident a member of a journey was over, and that she would soon have a protector, and be no longer obliged to conceal her name and country, she walked straight to the docr of the hôtel, and knocked boldly. But though she knocked again and again, the door did not open, and the total silence that reigned in the interior of the hôtel, added to all the shutters of the windows being closed, made the little traveller think that every one must be dead, and at the idea, a cold shiver ran through her frame. "If you were to knock till to-morrow morning, and longer than that, too, they will not open a bit the more for you," said a hawker of vegetables, |