correctness, and full of the most pleasing
and judicious remarks. How he formed that
unbounded admiration of Bonaparte, which
has lately transpired in his posthumous
Recollections of Foreign Courts, it is difficult to
say. The admiration, we have no doubt, was
driven into inconsistency by the hypocrisy
and broken promises of Bonaparte's enemies,
the kings and ministers, who pretended to
oppose him in behalf of freedom. Privately
the late Lord Holland will be remembered
only for his benevolence, and for the great
increase of pleasant associations which he has
given to Holland House; publicly, there is
one reigning circumstance in his career, which
will procure him a niche in the parliamentary
history of his times, equally unique and
beautiful—and that is, that whenever a measure
was carried through the House of Lords
which was not of a just or generous nature,
Lord Holland's "Protest" against it was sure
to be placed upon the records. There is a
book of his, also, which will live; another
posthumous work, entitled Reminiscences of
the Whig Party. It is written, not only with
correctness and elegance, but with a charming
mixture of acuteness and good-nature—
of the sharp and the sweet—the "true
pineapple flavour;" and contains some masterly
portraitures of character.

Lord Holland had a constitutional tendency
to gout, which, until he was married, he kept
under by hard riding and hunting. During
the last twenty years of his life his gout
conspired with his love of books to render him
less and less active, until at last he became
wholly confined to his chair, and the disease
killed him at the age of sixty-seven.

FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE COOKS.

ONCE, at least, in every year, that highly
important and well-considered part of the
Parisian population habitually confined to
Parisian kitchens, enjoys the chief emoluments
of a fair. When the fiery fingers of
autumn approach the splendid foliage of the
forest of St. Germains; when the melon
season of Paris is in its full glory; when
Tortoni's ice-house is nearly empty; when
English barristers are arriving in rapid
succession at Meurice's Hotel; when English
French may be heard in every walk of
Versailles; and when fashionable Parisians are at
their country seats—the cooks of the agreeable
capital, emerge from their fragrant kitchens,
put out their charcoal fires, divest themselves
of their white livery, and—to show their sense
of the important matter impending—wash
their faces!

Monsieur Victor, the greasy gentleman
who produces the far-famed delicacies of
the Bon Voyageur Restaurant—a cheap
establishment just on the right side of the Barrrière
de l'Etoile—is, usually, a very modest official,
dressed in a suit of questionable white; whose
officious thumbs are his tasters all day long.
Thus, usually, M. Victor is a man of business;
but look at him on the first day of the benefit
in honour of his class, and you shall perceive a
very exquisitely dressed gentleman. A hat that
glistens in the autumn sunlight; gloves that
fit exquisitely; boots that Hoby might have
made! With becoming dignity M. Victor leaves
the Bon Voyageur on the first morning of his
benefit, and seats himself in the omnibus which
will take him, for six sous, to the terminus of
the St. Germains railway. But he is affable,
even under these splendid circumstances.
From opposite quarters of Paris, other gentlemen
of M. Victor's honoured profession arrive
at the St. Germains railway station in
omnibuses. Many of them are attended by
companions of less pretension—companions who,
when their hearts are light, and they are
inflamed with wine, hope to reach the dignity
of the gentlemen they follow. But this daring
ambition which, uncurbed, might o'erleap
itself, and end in a spoiled Charlotte, is
properly checked, and the bees of the scullery
are kept in becoming subjection.

Deferentially attended by their obsequious
satellites, the artists of Parisian kitchens
take their places on the tops of the "wagons"
bound for St. Germains. There, the trains
have outside places, exactly like those fixed
upon the roofs of London omnibuses; these
places are popular among the holiday-makers
who smoke. Very cautiously the engine-
driver conducts the cooks of Paris to St.
Germains—past huge square houses devoted
to the suburban consumption of brandy,
barley-water, and currant-water—past
vineyards of luxurious growth—past a forest,
gay with autumn's lively colours—to the
palace of St. Germains. The station is within
a hundred yards of the palace gates.

Built upon the highest ground in the
neighbourhood, the palace commands a magnificent
prospect. An Englishman, walking along the
stately terrace in front of the building, must
recall vividly the associations which belong
to it, and which are bound up with the history
of his country. Considered as the house of
exiled greatness, it is a most pleasant
refuge. It has all the gay appearance of a
splendid French hotel: there is nothing of
the prison, and very little of the citadel about
it. Peppery little French soldiers of the line
are grouped about its entrances, and fiercely
warn off the intruding visitor; therefore, it
is not easy—if it were desirable—to describe
its interior attractions.

But, the scene before the railway station
is sufficiently gay to make any visitor arriving
on the holiday of the cooks, very
unceremoniously turn his back upon the Stuart's
home in exile, and avail himself of the
omnibus accommodation offered to him by the
most loquacious of conductors. And then he
is whirled away at a rapid rate through the
narrow streets of the town. Flags are
displayed everywhere; they hang from hundreds
of windows; they are raised upon high poles in