cabbage were swimming about, and a sprinkling
of green chives and orange marigold leaves
floated on the surface. Need I mention the
junket, the pride and glory of Devon? It has
been sung by Shakespeare, and Spenser, and
Milton, and many other ancient bards, and I
may note, by the way, that it was not
introduced from Italy, and is not the gioncata from
which etymologists have too hastily pronounced
it to be derived, and that the clotted cream
peculiar to the west of England, and the south-
eastern coasts of the Mediterranean, whence
came the Phoenicians to purchase tin in
Cornwall and Devon, is a sine quâ non in its
composition.

The chimney hearth occupied a considerable
portion of the kitchen. Movable seats,
called settles, were arranged on the two sides
within the hearth, and sometimes a brick bench
formed part of the original construction. Coals
were never used, but yeth turves and tan turves
were supplied from the bogs and the tanneries;
logs from the hoods (woods), and dry vuzz from
the moors, were always at hand when a cheerful
blaze was wanted. Hanging down the chimly
on an iron crook, was a crock with three short
legs, the crock being filled with water and
lowered down upon the fire when hot water was
in demand. A trivet was generally at hand,
sometimes serving for a stand on which a cloam
(earthenware) basin was placed. The ashes,
which were carefully preserved in order to be
potted for washing purposes, were kept together
on the sides by a pair of dogirons, which were
in some places adorned with a brass head, while
a movable bar of iron—now and then, but not
always—served for a fender in front. There
was generally a competition for the best seat on
the settle, as there was always a chance of being
stifled with smoke or scorched by heat, or left
in the cold, but the guest was always placed in
the most comfortable position.

Farmers " well to do" lived almost wholly in
their kitchens, which were frequently paved
with stones and covered with sand. A long
table, where the labourers ate their meals with
their employers, all sitting on the same benches,
the men on one side, the women on the other,
and the dame presiding and distributing the
food—two or three rude wooden chairs, one
with arms for the maester, and sometimes a log
of wood for seats, shelves filled with cloam plates
and basins, a case or cuckoo-clock, flitches of
bacon hanging from the reck, were among the
common kitchen appendages. There was a
parlour used on the rare occasions when friends
were invited to tay, often without a carpet,
whose walls were covered with gaudy papers,
on which were hung highly-coloured pictures of
prize horses, naval fights, lads and lasses courting'
scriptural scenes, framed samplers with
flowers and texts, seldom exposed to the common
gaze. It was a grand event to receive an
invitation to an evening party. After tea, there
were cards—beggar my neighbour for the young
people, loo or cribbage for the adults—a
substantial supper, geneva, rum, and brandy, the
rummers filled once and again, some smoking,
some singing, and then goodnight, and whoam
(home)!

LOVE AND GLORY.

My acquaintance with Mr. Tiddijohn
commenced with an abruptness that might have
startled a pilgrim less familiar than myself with
the ways of this remarkable world.

"You are admiring my wife, sir," said Mr.
Tiddijohn, walking suddenly up within six
inches of my person. (We were on a voyage
from the port of Southampton to that of Cowes,
and the sea was—I am not aware if the expression
be technical—wobbly.)

"Sir," I replied, " if the lady in the striped
Garibaldi be your wife, it is impossible not to
admire the composure, the grace, with which she
adapts herself to the singular motions of—of
this—uneasy vess—Bless me, how she rolls!"

"The sea is lively, sir," said Mr. Tiddijohn.
"But the spirit of my wife soars superior to the
hailments common to humanity, and never—-
Eh! Yes, my dear. . . . Excuse me, sir. . . .
Here stewardess!"

And he darted away.

"She is better, sir," resumed Mr. Tiddijohn,
presently returning.

"I am rejoiced to hear it, sir," said I.

"Glory loses no lustre on these occasions,
sir," continued my friend, a punchy little man,
with a curious mixture of stateliness and
vulgarity.

"Glory, sir, has more to do with heart than
stomach," I observed.

"You are right, sir," said Mr. Tiddijohn.
"Nevertheless, half a dozen caraway-seeds
would have done no harm."

"I beg your pardon?"

"They might have absolved her from this
necessity, sir," said Mr. Tiddijohn. " In another,
the situation would have been humbling. Glory
makes everything attractive."

"Even sea-sickness?" said I, laughing.

"I cannot join in your mirth, sir," replied my
queer little companion, drawing up his squat
figure to its full height. "When I see such a
being stretched, limp, and pale, upon a saltish
bench, rejecting the offices of friendship, and—
and a good deal more—and with a countenance
expressive of the most profound indifference as
to the eventualities of the voyage—I ask myself,
can this be Glory?"

"Glory?"

"Glory, sir. My Glory. My wife's name is
Gloriana. Our family name is Tiddijohn."

I bowed.

"I have the honour, sir," resumed my friend,
"to be the husband of that lady, on whom I
noticed that you were bestowing very marked
attention. I feel it—I always do—as a compliment
to myself. I accept your homage in the
best spirit. I took the liberty of addressing