masses of ice, and thawed before cooking; in
Siberia, the winter store of flesh and fowl killed
during the summer is garnered in ice cellars,
and remains perfectly good throughout the
year. We have our own familiar uses of cold
—that is to say in the absence of heat—as a
preservative, but there is no known form in
which it can be applied upon a system that
shall make it possible to take fresh food in a
frozen state unchanged about the world. It
is not very difficult, however, to remove one
of the other two conditions. Carrots and
parsnips thoroughly dried and shrunk to about
an eighth of their original dimensions, may
be taken round the world a dozen times, and
soaked and boiled back at any time into
reasonable plumpness and good flavour. Meat
and other articles of food may in the same
way be formed into dry cakes, which must,
of course, be kept dry; or if air, instead of
moisture, be excluded—as the ancients knew
how to keep quinces and other fruits by casing
them with wax—so carrots, meat, &c., may be
readily preserved in air-tight canisters.

Meat so preserved is very cheap, as well as
good; and an extended demand for it would
make it cheaper. At present companies or
firms are engaged in the preparation of
preserved meat, not only in England, but also
in Australia, Tasmania, the Cape of Good
Hope, and Canada. In Australia flocks and
herds have long been slaughtered only for
their tallow, hides and bones. There is no
reason why an ounce of their meat should be
wasted; all of it might be, as some of it is,
preserved in air-tight canisters and sent into
the markets of the world. Good fresh meat
packed thus without waste in brine and bone,
in canisters that do not leak and are much
cheaper than casks, besides being more
convenient for stowage, could easily be supplied
at a price that would render it much cheaper
and in every way better for the supply of
troops and ships, than meat preserved in the
old-fashioned way by pickling. Moreover,
there is no reason why the surplus meat from
other quarters of the world should not be
brought—as it could easily be brought—into
the streets of London and the villages of
England, and supply good beef and mutton
ready cooked at about fourpence a pound to
the million. The preserved meat so brought
among us would be, pound for pound, nearly
as nourishing as meat that has been lately
killed; it would of course be altogether
wholesome, and would differ from the home-
cooked only as most preserved meats do differ
from it, in having a somewhat duller relish,
and in being, through the action of the very
little air remaining in the canister and of the
boiling water that expelled the rest, a little
softer than our meat at home usually is, and,
as it were, overdone.

Vegetables retain the delicacies of their
flavour, when preserved in canisters, more
perfectly than meat, at least that is the case
with such sweet vegetables as beet, carrots
and parsnips; the more mealy vegetables,
green peas for example, do not keep so
well.

DUNKERQUE TOWER.

IN the centre of that ancient bone of
contention, the business-like and well-besieged
town of Dunkerque, there rises a lofty, old,
and solid tower of brick, known to the
inhabitants as the Tour de l'Eglise. The tower is
now separated by a busy street, and by a
modern Corinthian portico, from its original
connection with the church of the Great
Saint Eloi—a hierarch less known as the
apostle of Christianity to this corner of
Europe, than as the hero of a homely ballad
in which good King Dagobert is a conspicuous
personage. The famous chimes, or carillon,
of Dunkerque, once tinkled from this very
tower; but, like many other prattling voices,
their sound has been effectually stifled by
revolutionary despotism. Six of the bells now
circulate through the empire, in the shape of
one and two-sous pieces; and the other
remaining twenty-three have undergone, by
re-casting, a change which has destroyed
their identity and, it is said, their tone. A
set of chiming bells may one day be possibly
remounted; but the veritable Dunkerque
chime to which naughty wits adapted naughty
words, can vibrate no more on modern ears.

This tower is visible, by sea and by land,
for many and many a distant league. It is
almost the sole wreck of the former town,
having survived all the bombardments,
plunderings, and massacres, with which the place
has been so repeatedly visited, we honourable
Englishmen bearing our full share therein.
In spite of all, the tower still stands, and is
firmly resolved to stand a little longer to
watch whether the generation to come intend
to be as mischievous as those that have
passed away. I point out this noble,
venerable building, in order that we may ascend
to its summit together.

Suppose, then, that we have mounted its
two hundred and sixty-five steps, each step
seven good inches high, and better adapted
for the legs of old, than for the degenerate
muscles of the nineteenth century. Suppose
that we stand upon the topmost platform,
and are guarded by its slightly-pierced
parapet of stone. In its centre is raised a
comfortable glazed watch-house, wherein
reposes, and spies, and quids, a solitary hermit
of the upper regions. His day is varied by
a descent into middle air, when he has occasion
to come half-way down to toll the bell
for a funeral. His services as indicator are
obligingly offered, instead of being impertinently
forced upon you; but your own clear
vision will tell you at once that you have
unexpectedly met with a remarkable coup d'Å“il,
or knock of the eye—to translate the words
literally.