absurdity. It is an eclogue, with strophe and
antistrophe, not quite after Virgil. But
instead of calling for pistols, they'll finish the
business by the aid of a few canons."

Madame smiled assent, and in
acknowledgment of my pun, as I hoped she would.
It would have been heart-breaking to strain
at wit in a foreign tongue, and then miss fire
utterly.

"Canons! what do you mean by that?"
asked Margaret.

"A canon is a small glass of beer much in
vogue: instead of drinking pearls of great
price as a proof of friendship, people here
swallow canons by the half-dozen. To make
the charm work effectually, the ceremony
which they call trinquer, and we hob-nobbing,
is indispensable. Those gentle swains, before
long, will play a merry tune on their musical
glasses."

While we were following the intrigue of
this genteel comedy, up comes a man, the
appariteur (a transition form between the
beadle and the bellman) of the town, with a
shabby old drum hanging round his neck, and
accompanied by another vagabond-looking
gent., who dragged a ricketty rush-bottomed
chair in one hand. They stopped, by mutual
consent, within a yard of us, and the drummer
commenced a fantasia on his instrument,
certainly the worst performed solo I ever
heard. I could have done it better myself.
The Arcadian dialogue ceased, and the
listeners crowded now around the oracular
chair, which was not far from being a tripod.
M. l'Appariteur's business was done, and he
vanished. The way-worn traveller mounted
the chair, took off his cap, looked up at the
sun as if for inspiration, cleared his voice,
and in a distinct deliberate style, with a
pause at every comma, and a rattle at every
r, delivered himself as follows:—

"Messieurs! There are men,—who have
devoted their youth and their fortune,—to
travelling and the acquirement of knowledge.
—They settle in a city;—they take a good
house; (pointing to the doctor's opposite);—
they practise medicine;—and they become
rich.—Yes, Messieurs!—And they deserve
it:—for I can afford to acknowledge the merit
of my brother practitioners.—I, too, have
travelled and acquired knowledge;—and for
a few hours,—this town shall have the benefit
of my vast experience.—Now, Messieurs!—
if I were to say that I can cure all diseases,—
I should lie!—There is only One who can
cure all diseases:—and He is,—là haut!
(Raising himself on tip-toe, and pointing
as high as he can reach; producing great
sensation and murmurs of approval.)—Some
diseases I can cure perfectly;—some which
I do not mention now:—for I am as
discreet as a wall.—Messieurs!—Amongst the
maladies to which human nature is subject,
—are,—warts and corns!—Look at my hands!
(Two brown paws variegated with orange
freckles.)—There were as many warts on them
as stars in the sky.—By intense study I found
an antidote.—Now I have not one.—For two
sous the remedy is yours:—this large packet
for two sous (it was instantly taken by a man,
who was about to walk off with his prize).—
Stop, my friend, and listen further!—It cures
corns also.—I could show you my feet:—one
of them was an immense mass of corns.—I
could not walk.—Now I dance so beautifully,
—that the girls quarrel to have me for a
partner. (More packets sold instantly.)—
Stop, my friends!—You have other maladies,
—of which you are not aware.—Look! (Here
he twisted a clear glass bottle, so as to make
a quantity of large white worms spin round
in a transparent fluid.) I cured a dear child
of these—and his mother—with tears in her
eyes—made me a present of them—of every
one.—This packet—for one sou—for ONE sou
—will put every worm within you to flight.
(The packets themselves took flight rapidly.)
—A single packet is enough for a child—two
packets for a grown person.—But stop,
Messieurs; understand!—If you use the
worm-packet to cure your corns—and make
your children, who have worms, swallow the
corn-packet—and then neither the warts, nor
the corns, nor the worms are put to flight—
do not, Messieurs, lay the blame on—"

"Come away," said Margaret; "what a
horrid creature!"

"Nay, not at all. The man must eat bread,
and he eats it honestly and openly, and by no
means extravagantly. He pleases me quite
as well as the genteeler chiropodists, who
inform the anxious British public that, on a
certain day, Lord Timbertoe had his corns
extracted to his entire satisfaction,—in which
happy release it is expected the entire public
will sympathise and rejoice. But make haste
with your marketing, Madame Dubois, or we
shall never breakfast. For Margaret's sake,
please buy this bunch of little dickey-birds;
and, for mine, that grey mullet which will be
so superb with a little good shrimp sauce."

"Shrimp sauce! And what is that, I pray
you?"

"Listen, Madame, and I will tell you how
to arrange it. You must make a little white
sauce—No; you must pretend to make white
sauce. But first you must bark a pint of
shrimps; with the bark, and the heads, and
the tails of the shrimps, you must boil a broth,
and with this broth you must make your
white sauce (which will be reddish brown)
dropping in your shrimps just before finishing
off. That's shrimp sauce, English fashion."

"What a beautiful invention!" exclaimed
Madame, raising her eyes. "It deserves to
be crowned by the Académie."

[N.B. Wandering, or lost epicures will
seize as a friendly clue the hint that, throughout
the Continent, when they ask for "melted
butter," they will get what they ask for and
what they do not want—butter converted by
heat into oil, and which is generally approved
of. It really is not bad, with perseverance