à la jardinière,"-chops after the manner of the she-gardener. How is he to know the peculiarities of the she-gardener's chops? Among other items in this work there is an "Epigramme d'agneau;" but this, luckily, is translated, "breast of lamb;' otherwise it might be difficult to know whether the epigram was food for the mind or the body. Another dish is, "Rognons sautés au vin de Champagne"-kidneys stewed in Champagne; still great obscurity hangs over this stew. But what startled us most, was a viand called "Charlotte Russe aux fraises." "Charlotte Russe! we exclaimed; Russian Charlotte, "aux fraises," with strawberries! What dish is this? Are we amongst cannibals, who, with her strawberries, will have us eat the strawberry girl? To know merely the English of these titles is unavailing; they are like portions of certain Greek choral odes, which we can translate, but cannot comprehend their translation. Let a full description of each dish be given in the margin, or at the foot of the page. At present we defy even a Templar to understand this book, unless he has eaten at least his three years' terms at Paris.

MR. CAUDLE HAS REMAINED DOWN STAIRS TILL PAST ONE, WITH A FRIEND.

A pretty time of night to come to bed, Mr. Caudle. Ugh! As cold, too, as any ice. Enough to give any woman her death, I'm sure. What! I should n't have locked up the coals, indeed? If I had n't, I've no douot the fellow would have staid all night. It's all very well for you, Mr. Caudle, to bring people home-but I wish you 'd think first what's for supper. That beautiful leg of pork would have served for our dinner to-morrow and now it's gone. I can't keep the house upon the money, and I won't pretend to do it, if you bring a mob of people every night to clear the cupboard.

I wonder who'll be so ready to give you a supper when you want one; for want one you will, unless you change your plans. Don't tell me! I know I'm right. You'll first be eaten up, and then you'll be laughed at. I know the world. No, indeed, Mr. Caudle, I don't think ill of everybody; don't say that. But I can't see a leg of pork eaten up in that way, without asking myself what it's all to end in if such things go on? And then he must have pickles, too! Couldn't be content with my cabbage-no, Mr. Caudle, I won't let you go to sleep. It's very well for you to say let you go to sleep, after you've kept me awake till this time. Why did I keep awake? How do you suppose I could go to sleep, when I knew that man was below drinking up your substance in brandy-and-water? for he could n't be content upon decent, wholesome gin. Upon my word, you ought to be a rich man, Mr. Caudle. You have such very fine friends. I wonder who gives you brandy when you go out?

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No, indeed, he could n't be content with my pickled cabbage-and I should like to know who makes better-but he must have walnuts. And

you, too, like a fool-now, don't you think to stop me, Mr. Caudle; a poor woman may be trampled to death, and never say a word-you, too, like a fool-I wonder who 'd do it for you-to insist upon the girl going out for pickled walnuts. And in such a night too! With snow upon the ground. Yes; you're a man of fine feelings, you are,

I know you-fine feelings, indeed! to send the poor girl out, when I told you and told your friend, too-a pretty brute he is, I'm sure that the poor girl had got a cold and chilblains on her toes. But I know what will be the end of that; she 'll be laid up, and we shall have a nice doctor's bill. And you'll pay it, I can tell you-for I wont.

"Wish you were out of the world! Oh! yes, that's all very easy, I'm sure I might wish it. Don't swear in that dreadful way! Ain't you afraid that the bed will open and swallow you? And don't swing about in that way. That will do no good. That won't bring back the leg of pork-and the brandy you 've poured down both of your throats. Oh, I know it! I'm sure of it. I only recollected it when I'd got into bed-and if it had n't been so cold, you'd have seen me down stairs again, I can tell you-I recollected it, and a pretty two hours I've passed, that I left the key in the cupboard-and knew it I could see by the manner of you, when you came into the room-I know you've got at the other bottle. However, there's one comfort; you told me to send for the best brandy-the very best-for your other friend, who called last Wednesday. Ha! ha! It was British-the cheapest British-and nice and ill I hope the pair of you will be to-mor

row.

"There's only the bare bone of the leg of pork: but you'll get nothing else for dinner, I can tell you. It's a dreadful thing that the poor children should go without-but, if they have such a father, they, poor things, must suffer for it.

"Nearly a whole leg of pork and a pint of brandy! A pint of brandy and a leg of pork. A leg of-leg-leg-pint—”

And mumbling the syllables, says Mr. Caudle's MS., she went to sleep.

THE THIRD CLASS TRAVELLER'S PETITION.

Pity the sorrows of a third class man,
Whose trembling limbs with snow are whitened
o'er,

Who for his fare has paid you all he can :
Cover him in, and let him freeze no more!
This dripping hat my roofless pen bespeaks,

So does the puddle reaching to my knees;
Behold my pinch'd red nose—my shrivell'd cheeks:
You should not have such carriages as these.
In vain I stamp to warm my aching feet,
I only paddle in a pool of slush;
My stiffen'd hands in vain I blow and beat;

Tears from my eyes congealing as they gush. Keen blows the wind; the sleet comes pelting down,

And here I'm standing in the open air! Long is my dreary journey up to Town, That is, alive, if ever I get there.

Oh! from the weather, when it snows and rains, You might as well, at least, defend the poor; would not cost you much, with all your gains: Cover us in, and luck attend your store.

It

BATHS FOR THE POOR.

We understand that some of the Railway Companies, desirous of carrying out the project for

From Jerrold's Magazine. CHAPTER V.

SHORT was the distance from Covent Garden Theatre to Covent Garden watch-house; and therefore in a few minutes was young St. Giles arraigned before the night-constable. Cesar Gum had followed the offender as an important witness against him; whilst Bright Jem and his wife certainly attended as sorrowing friends of the prisoner. Kitty Muggs was of the party; and her indignation at the wrong committed "on so blessed a baby"- -we mean of course St. James-would have burst forth in loudest utterance had she not been controlled by the moral influence of Bright Jem. Hence, she had only the small satisfaction of declaring, in a low voice to her sister, "that the little wretch would be sure to be hanged-for he had the gibbet, every bit of it, in his countenance." With this consolation, she suffered herself to be somewhat tranquillized. "The Lord help him!" cried Mrs. Aniseed. "Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to say such a thing!" whispered Kitty Muggs.

Bright Jem was sad and silent. As Cesar, with unusual glibness, narrated the capture of the prisoner with the stolen property upon him, poor Jem, shading his eyes with his hand, looked mournfully at the pigmy culprit. Not a word did Jem utter; but the heart-ache spoke in his face.

"And what have you got to say to this?" asked the night-constable of St. Giles. "You 're a young gallows-bird, you are; hardly out of the shell, yet. What have you got to say?"

"Why, I did n't take the at," answered young St. Giles, fixing his sharp black eyes full on the face of his interrogator, and speaking as though he repeated an old familiar lesson, "I did n't take it the at rolled to me; and I thought as it had tumbled out of a coach as was going on, and I run after it, and calling out, if nobody had lost a at, when that black gentleman there laid hold on me, and said as how I stole it. How could I help it, if the at would roll to me? I did n't want the

at."

"Ha!" said the constable, "there's a good deal of wickedness crammed into that little skin of yours-I shall lock you up. There-go in with you," and the constable pointed to a cell, the door of which was already opened for the reception of the prisoner.

And did young St Giles quail or whimper at his prison threshold? Did his young heart sink at the gloomy dungeon? Oh no. Child as he was, it was plain he felt that he was acting a part: he had become in some way important, and he seemed resolved to rise with the occasion. He had listened to tales of felon fortitude, of gallows heroism; and ambition stirred within him. He had heard of the Tyburn humorist, who, with his miserable jest in the jaws of death, cast his shoes from the cart, to thwart an oft-told prophecy that he would die shod. All these stories St. Giles had listened to, and took to his heart as precious recollections. While other children had conned their books-and written maxim copies and learned their catechism-St. Giles had learned this one thing to be " game." His world-the world of Hog Lane had taught him that; he had listened to the counsel from lips with the bloom of Newgate on them. The foot-pad, the pickpocket, the burglar, had been his teachers: they had set

him copies, and he had written them in his brain for life-long wisdom. Other little boys had been taught to love their neighbor as themselves.' Now, the prime ruling lesson set to young St. Giles was "honor among thieves." Other boys might show rewarding medals-precious testimony of their schooltime work; young St. Giles knew nothing of these; had never heard of them; and yet unconsciously he showed what to him was best evidence of his worth at the door of his cell, he showed that he was game." Scarcely was he bidden to enter the dungeon, than he turned his face up to the constable, and his eyes twinkling and leering, and his little mouth quivering with scorn, he said "You don't mean it, Mister; I know you don't mean it."

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"Come, in with you, ragged and sarcy!" cried the constable.

"Well, then," said the urchin, "here goesgood night to you," and so saying, he flung a summerset into the cell: the lock was turned, and Bright Jem-fetching a deep groan-quitted the watch-house, his wife, sobbing aloud, following him.

"What can they do to the poor child?" asked Mrs. Aniseed of Jem, as the next morning he sat silent and sorrowful, with his pipe in his mouth. looking at the fire.

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Why, Susan, that's what I was thinking of. What can they do with him? He isn't old enough to hang; but he's quite big enough to be whipped. Bridewell and whipping: yes, that's it, that's how they'll teach him. They'll make Jack Ketch his schoolmaster; and nicely he'll learn him his lesson towards Tyburn. The old story, Susan-the old story," and Jem drew a long sigh.

"Don't you think, Jem, something might be done to send him to sea? He'd get taken away from the bad people about him, and who knows, might after all turn out a bright man." Such was the hopeful faith of Mrs. Aniseed.

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Why, there's something in that to be sure. For my part, I think that's a good deal what the sea was made for-to take away the offal of the land. He might get cured at sea; if we could get anybody as would take him. I'm told the sea does wonders, sometimes, with the morals of folks. I've heard of thieves and rogues of all sorts, that were aboard ship, have come round 'straordinary. Now, whether it's in the salt water or the bo'swains, who shall say? He would n't make a bad drummer, neither, with them little quick fists of his, if we could get him in the army.'

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Oh, I'd rather he was sent to sea, Jem," cried Mrs. Aniseed, "then he 'd be out of harm's way."

"Oh, the army reforms all sorts of rogues, too," averred Jem. "Sometimes they get their morals pipeclayed, as well as their clothes. Wonderful what heroes are made of, sometimes. You see, I suppose, there's something in some parts of the trade that agrees with some folks. When they storm a town now, and take all they can lay their hands on, why there's all the pleasure of the robbery without any fear of the gallows. It's stealing made glorious with flags and drums. Nobody knows how that little varmint might get on."

Here Jem was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a woman hung with rags and looking prematurely old. Misery and vice were in her face, though the traces of evil were for the time

softened by sorrow. She was weeping bitterly, and with clasped trembling hands, ran into the room. It was the wretched mother of young St. Giles; the miserable woman who more than six years before had claimed her child in that room; who had borne her victim babe away to play its early part in wretchedness and deceit. She had since frequently met Jem, but always hurried from him. His reproofs, though brief, were too significant, too searching, for even her shame to encounter. "Oh, Jem! Jem!" she cried, save my dear child-save my innocent lamb." "Ha! and if he isn't innocent," cried Jem, "whose fault's that?"

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"Woman," said Jem, "I would n't like to hurt you in your trouble; but haven't you no shame at all? Don't you know what a bit of truth is, that even now you should look in my face, and tell me such a wicked lie?"

"I don't, Jem-I don't," vociferated the woman. "He's as innocent as the babe unborn."

"Why, so he is, as far as he knows what's right and what's wrong. He has innocence; that is, the innocence you've taught him. Teach a child the way he should go," cried Jem, in a tone of some bitterness, "and you've taught him the way to Newgate. The Lord have mercy on you! What a sweet babby he was, when six year and a half ago you took him from this room-and what is he now? Well, well, I won't pour water on a drowned mouse," said Jem, the woman crying more vehemently at his rebuke, "but how you can look in that child's face, and arterwards look up at heaven, I don't know."

"There's no good, not a ha'porth in all this preaching. All we want to know is this. Can you help us to get the young 'un out o' trouble?" This reproof and interrogation were put in a hoarse, sawing voice by a man of about five-andthirty, who had made his appearance shortly after St. Giles' mother. He was dressed in a coat of Newgate cut. His hat was knowingly slanted over one eyebrow, his hands were in his pockets, and at short intervals he sucked the stalk of a primrose that shone forth in strong relief from the black whiskers and week's beard surrounding it. "And who are you?" asked Jem, in a tone not very encouraging of a gentle answer.

That's a good 'un, not to know me. My name's Blast-Tom Blast; not ashamed of my name," said the owner, still champing the prim

rose.

"No, I dare say not," answered Bright Jem. "Oh, I know you now. I've seen you with the boy a singing ballads."

"I should think so. And what on it? No disgrace in that, eh? I look upon myself as respectable as any of your folks as sing at your fine play-house. What do you all pipe for but money? Only there's this difference; they gets hundreds of pounds-and I gets half-pence. A singer for money's a singer for money-whether he stands upon mud or a carpet. But all's one for that. What's to be done for the boy? I tell his mother here not to worry about it-'t wont be more than a month or two at Bridewell, for he 's never been nabbed afore but it 's no use a talking to women, you know; she won't make her life happy, no how. So we've come to you."

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"I see," cried Jem, with glistening eyes, set him up in trade. God bless that muffin-man." "That's what he meant, Jem; but it wasn't to be-it wasn't to be," cried the woman with a sigh.

"No-it warn't," corroborated Mr. Blast. "You see the young un-all agog as he wasbrought the muffins to the lane. Well, we had n't had two dinners, I can tell you, yesterday; so we sells the basket and the bell for sixpenn'orth of butter, and did 't we go to work at the muffins." And Mr. Blast seemingly spoke with a most satisfactory recollection of the banquet.

"And if they'd have pisoned all of you, served you right," cried Jem, with a look of disgust. "You will kill that child-you won't give him a chance-you will kill him body and soul."

"La, Jem! how can you go on in that way!" cried the mother, and began to weep anew. "He's the apple of my eye, is that dear child."

"None the better for that, by the look of 'em," said Jem. "Howsomever, I'll go to Mr. Capstick. Mind, I don't want neither of you at my heels; what I'll do-I'll do by myself," and without another word, Bright Jem took his cap, and, unceremoniously passing his visitors, quitted the room. His wife, looking coldly at the newcomers, intimated a silent wish that they would follow him. The look was lost upon Mr. Blast, for he immediately seated himself; and seizing the poker, with easiest familiarity beat about the embers. Mrs. Aniseed was a heroic woman. Nobody who looked at her, whilst her visitor rudely disturbed her coals, could fail to perceive the struggle that went on within her. There are housewives whose very heartstrings seem connected with their pokers; and Mrs. Aniseed was of them. Hence, whilst her visitor beat about the grate, it was at once a hard and delicate task for her not to spring upon him, and wrest the poker from his hand. She knew it not, but at that moment the gentle spirit of Bright Jem was working in her; subduing her aroused passion with a sense of hospitality.

"A sharp spring this, for poor people, is n't it, Mrs. Aniseed" observed Mr. Blast. "It seems quite the tail of a hard winter, does n't it?" Mrs. Aniseed tried to smile a smile-she only shivered it. "Well, I must turn out, I 'spose; though I have n't nothing to do till night-then I think I shall try another murder: it's a long while since we 've had one."

"A matter of two months," said the mother of St. Giles, "and that turned out no great things." "Try a murder," said Mrs. Aniseed with some apprehension, "what do you mean?"