and order, and a determination to discountenance
lawlessness and disorder, may be relied
upon. As to one another, the people are a very
good Police, and yet are quite willing in their
good nature that the stipendiary Police should
have the credit of the people's moderation. But
we are all of us powerless against the Ruffian,
because we submit to the law, and it is his only
trade, by superior force and by violence, to defy
it. Moreover, we are constantly admonished
from high places (like so many Sunday-school
children out for a holiday of buns and milk-
and-water) that we are not to take the law into
our own hands, but are to hand our defence
over to it. It is clear that the common enemy
to be punished and exterminated first of all, is
the Ruffian. It is clear that he is, of all others,
the offender for whose repressal we maintain a
costly system of Police. Him, therefore, we
expressly present to the Police to deal with,
conscious that, on the whole, we can, and do,
deal reasonably well with one another. Him
the Police deal with so inefficiently and
absurdly that he flourishes, and multiplies, and,
with all his evil deeds upon his head as
notoriously as his hat is, pervades the streets with
no more let or hindrance than ourselves.

LEAVES FROM THE MAHOGANY TREE.

THE GLORIOUS VINTAGE OF CHAMPAGNE!

A FEW years ago, a certain German painter
of " still life " acquired a reputation by his skill
in depicting long taper glasses newly filled
with sparkling wine. It was of a delicious
golden straw colour, and through it rose a swift
little sparkling fountain of bright beady bubbles,
rushing upward like a swarm of fairies. There
they were, ever gushing up to the creaming
surface, yet fixed on the instant while darting aloft
by the magic skill of the Rhenish painter. It
was as good as having a glass of Sillery, to look
at that picture; two looks and a biscuit should
have been enough for any reasonable person's
lunch. The rector of the University of Beauvais,
whom the merchants of Rheims crowned
with laurel as a proof of their gratitude, sang
of champagne as

CUPID'S GIFT.

The laughing wine unprison,
The wine with the daybreak's gleam,
The wine that sparkles and dances
With a fountain's gushing stream;
The wine that chases sorrow
From the heart of toil and woe;
'Twas Cupid's gift to Psyche
In the ages long ago.

Hark to the soft susurrus,
'Tis the sound of the summer tide,
When waves melt all to music
On golden shores, sun dyed.
'Tis love's own sweet elixir,
Stolen from Jove, we know,
To fairest Psyche given
In the ages long ago.

The wine in Champagne planted
Was the gift of the laughing god;
Its matchless power and savour
Came from no earthly clod.
'Tis a spell to banish sadness,
The best the wise men know;
Bright Cupid's gift to Psyche
In the ages long ago.

Slightly flat, rather wanting in body, a little
too classical, and with as much no meaning
as ever song had; but still pretty well for a
doctor of Beauvais University, with the
unfortunate name of Coffin. And, considering that it
was penned in the reign of Louis the
Fourteenth by an old doctor of civil law, who knew
more of Justinian, we warrant, than of Ovid's
Art of Love, it may perhaps pass muster.

The wine of Epernay and Hautvilliers was
drunk freely through the helmet barred, before
the fifteenth century. The knights who rode
beside Joan of Arc, and who played at cards with
Charles the Simple, had quaffed Champagne, and
not without approval. In the fifteenth century,
the wine of Ay met with approval. Not very
long after the public approval, the kings of
Europe entered the vineyards of Champagne and
appropriated and sealed up all the casks they
could lay their royal hands on. They knew
what was good, but they could not keep the
secret.

"In 1328, Rheims wine," says Mr. Cyrus
Redding, who knows France well, and has written
much on the French wine trade, " Rheims wine
(Champagne) fetched ten livres only, while
Beaune fetched twenty-eight." In 1559 people
had become more educated. The Reformation
had opened people's eyes. Champagne was then
dearer than average Burgundy. In 1561, public
enlightenment went on. Champagne rose
as the world advanced. In 1571, Champagne
was eight times its original value; so we must
presume that all this time the cultivation of the
Champagne wine was improving, and the art of
pressing the grape improving too.

Champagne was much appreciated by Mr.
Froude's fat friend, Henry the Eighth; he and
Francis the First, equally admired it. Leo the
Tenth, drank papally of it; nor did long-headed
Charles the Fifth (rather a gourmand, even in
his last moments, as Mr. Stirling has shown)
neglect the most delicious secret of Bacchus.
Wise potentates! They had, each of them, a
commissioner at Ay: four men who spent their
lives in watching the grapes.

In the year 1397, Wenceslaus, King of
Bohemia, came to France under pretence of
negotiating a treaty with Charles the Sixth. He
reached the fatal city of Rheims, famous for its
cathedral—and its Champagne. The great
Bohemian drank, and got drunk. He drank
again, and got drunk again. To quote the old
negro's excuse, " the same old drink" held him
day after day. He never got sober any more;
he remained soaked in Champagne, forgot all
about Bohemia, all about the treaty, all about
Charles the Sixth and the disputed claims, all
about everything, but drank until he saw a bill