avers that pigs have small holes and scars on their forefeet in remembrance of the fate that befell their Gadarene brethren, the holes showing where the devils entered, and the scars perpetuating the marks of their claws.

It

When we leave the joints and come to the poultry, the goose naturally sug gests first of all the story connecting it with Queen Elizabeth and the Spanish Armada. Her Majesty, the familiar tale goes, was on September 29 dining at the house of one of her subjects-a not altogether unusual occurrence with the economical monarch-when goose furnished the pièce de résistance. Her Majesty had just quaffed a goblet to "the destruction of the Spanish Armada," when a messenger arrived with tidings of its dispersal. And thereupon she decreed that goose should always be eaten on that happy day to com memorate the great deliverance. has been pointed out that the dates do not tally, but it is always a pity to allow soulless things like dates to interfere with a good story. As a matter of fact, the goose is said to have been sacrificed on that day or thereabouts in Pagan times to Proserpine in her character as goddess of the dead; and in Egyptian mythology we find the bird as the god Seb, the great cackler. A later legend narrates that S. Martin was once so much annoyed by the persistent cackling of a goose that he killed, cooked, and ate it; and as he died post hoo if not propter hoc, it became the custom to sacrifice the goose as a sort of retaliation. But if the bird had saved the saint's life, it would probably have been sacrificed just the same; geese did save Rome, but were none the less in demand for kitchen purposes on that account. An old Persian adage averred that the tongue of a live goose cut out and applied to the breast of a man or woman was an infallible charm to elicit a full, true, and particular ac

count of all the misdeeds which he or she had ever committed.

With regard to the duck, perhaps the most interesting piece of old lore is that it was amongst the various singular articles of diet which Mithridates, King of Pontus, was in the habit of taking as antitoxicants.

The

Partridges and pheasants have an exalted genealogy. The Hindoo mythology tells us that when Indra killed the three-headed son of the god Toashtri, a partridge sprang from his blood; and the gods of Olympus changed Talus, nephew of Dædalus, into the same bird after he had been treacherously killed by his uncle. The pheasant we discuss with so much relish may claim as its ancestor that Itys whom his mother Procne slew and served up, a fearful dish, to her husband Tereus; or, if we accept another legend, Itylus, whom his mother, Aedon, jealous of her sister's progeny, killed by mistake. quail, said by some old writers to have cured Hercules of epilepsy, was chosen by Jupiter as the bird into which the amorous father of gods and men transformed Latona, that so she might elude argus-eyed Juno and reach Delos in safety. The origin of the bird, as given in old "Travellers' Tales," is not particularly appetizing, reminding us in a way of the venerable account of "Barnacle Geese." The sea, it appears, casts great tunnies upon "the coasts of the Libyan Desert." These breed worms, which after fourteen days become quails.

Pigeons naturally recall the story of Mahomet's "familiar," and, from a still earlier date, the mystic bird which gave the oracles at Dodona. A Carpathian legend invests them with a yet more remote and more important rôle, as it was to a pair of pigeons that the creation of the world was due. Pigeons may, too, in a way serve as the didactic "skeleton at the feast," for pigeons, old folklore tells us, are the last food that

dying people crave for, while, by a seemingly paradoxical connection, death

is kept at bay if the mattress or pillows on which the moribund lies is stuffed with pigeons' feathers. Turkeys are also associated with Mahomet, who is said to have cursed the whole race because he once had to wait an inconveniently long time while one was being cooked.

As to the hare, pages might be written.

It goes almost without saying that it was a divinity in Egypt, but few of us realize the fact that according to an American Indian myth, the Great Hare was the Creator of all things. Strange memories suggest themselves of the mystic reverence in which the hare was held amongst our British forefathers; we recall how Boadicea "let a hare escape from her dusky robes" when speaking words of fire to the gathered warriors; age-old tales and fables and proverbs occur to us in which the hare plays a part; we remember how Burton warns us against its flesh as "melancholy meat," and how Fletcher gives voice to the old belief about "hares that yearly sexes change." These and similar reflections will doubtless give an added zest to the dainty meat, and we shall find ourselves endorsing con amore the old eulogy on "the leg of a hunted hare."

Nor are our vegetables without their traditions. If we suffer from rheumatism it will be well if the cook can contrive to let the portion of potato that falls to a guest's share be stolen, for the efficacy of a pilfered potato is great. The cabbage was the first thing eaten at meals by the Egyptians, who considered it worthy of divine honor. The old Romans attributed to it the virtues moderns ascribe to strong coffee or a couple of red herrings and soda water, so efficacious was it after a "heavy night." The classical medical faculty, indeed, considered it a sort of panacea, paralysis and colic being es

Its

pecially amenable to its influence. virtues may possibly have been accounted for by the legend that the cabbage was produced from the tears of Lycurgus. It should not be forgotten, moreover, that it was in a field of cabbages that S. Stephen was captured-a fate which, according to some, befell that very dissimilar personage, Jack Cade. The bean has to be taken even more seriously. The old Pythagorean theory was that it held the principle of human life; it was said to be the first food eaten by mankind; it was in a way sacred to Apollo; for the introduction into Europe of the haricot bean we are indebted to no less a person than Alexander the Great; the smell of beans in blossom is credited with all sorts of effects on minds and morals.

The salad which, if we are wise, accompanies most meals is a veritable pot pourri of old beliefs and legends. Its principal ingredient, lettuce which, as we sometimes forget, means milky vegetable, from its sap-was not only the favorite food of beautiful Adonis, but shared with Juno the parentage of pretty Hebe, to whom the Queen of Heaven gave birth as a consequence of eating the crisp plant. The endive was once a love-lorn German girl, who, after weary wayside waiting for her lover, died and was changed into a vegetable; the garlic, so beloved in old Egypt as to be worshipped there, is, as everybody ought to know, an invaluable prophylactic against witches and vampires; the fragrant mint was once Minthe, the too fascinating daughter of Cocytus, who, being suspected of a flirtation with Pluto, was changed by Proserpine into the herb. Sage-for our salad shall be for the nonce largely catholic-has so many virtues that its very name is derived from salvere, to be in health: it grows best where the wife rules, and fades or thrives with the fortunes of its owners; parsley, which, the Greeks said, provoked excitement

and which they used for chaplets, sprung, they believed, from the blood of the hero Archemoras.

With the dessert we "inwardly digest" a fresh collection of legends, of which, however, space will only allow a few to be taken at random. The fig might almost have a book written about its traditions. The fig-tree is one of those which have been identified as the Mosaic Tree of Life; the fig was in some mystic way a representation of Dionysos; it has been associated with the weird story of Atys; it was one of the anti-poison comestibles of Mithridates. The strawberry has both a pagan and a Christian reputation. It was a favorite with the goddess Frigga, who was wont to go a-berrying with the children at the summer solstice. Afterwards it was placed under the patronage of the Blessed Virgin, and on S. John's Day, "no mother who has lost a little child will taste a strawberry, for if she did her little one would get none in Paradise. Mary would say to it, you must stand aside, for your mother has already eaten her share, so none remains for you." The date is another fruit of which a graceful Christian legend is told. When the Blessed Virgin was travelling through Egypt, she rested under a palm-tree with her Son in her arms. And the tree, recognizing its Creator, bent down its branches till the fruit fell into the Virgin Mother's lap, and the O shown on the stones of the date perpetuates her wondering exclamation. The pomegranate, poor Catherine of Arragon's emblem, of course recalls that pretty story of Proserpine, whose bereaved mother at last obtained from Jupiter the promise that "if she had eaten nothing" in Hades she might return to earth. But alas! she had eaten pomegranate seed, and so was doomed to pass half the year in the realm of Pluto. Should there by chance be blackberries on the table, it will be as well, if it be after September

29, to act on Mr. Bailey's memorableadvice at Todgers'-"Don't have none of him." For on Michaelmas Day the Devil-regardless, it would seem, of thorns, or perhaps impervious to them -stamps-some say spits-on all the blackberry bushes, and naturally vitiates them. We are not at all likely to find elderberries on the table unless it be for ornament-and few shrubs are prettier-but we must not think too disparagingly of them, for tradition tells us that the fruit of the elder was as good as that of the vine till Judas hanged himself on it. And this reflection, together with the proximity of a dish of walnuts, which not all their association with diablerie can make us refuse, naturally turns our attention to the decanters and their contents. If the wine flows a quarter as fast as the stream of reminiscence it conjures up. it is to be feared that the consequences may be disagreable. But even then, given only an average soundness in the wine, we shall have cause to congratulate ourselves that we did not live in classical times. When Herod, in the Golden Legend, calls for wine of Tyre. he suggests that pomegranate juice, calamus, and drops of myrrh should be stirred therein, and this, awful as it sounds, was a mode of "mixing the liquor" comparatively innocent when compared with the sea-water, tar, turpentine, resin, powdered pitch, spikenard, cardamoms, cassia and saffron advocated by Columella, or the pine leaves, southernwood, myrtle leaves, and bitter almonds preferred by other authorities.

Ingenious efforts have been made to prove our modern wines the direct representatives of those in favor "in old heroic days." Pramnian, for instance, which Nestor in the "Iliad" recommends for the wounded Machaon, has been by some identified with port, despite the dictum of Aristophanes that its dietetic effect was to shrivel the fear

ures and upset the digestion; "mighty Falernian" is, we are told, with us still in the shape of Madeira or sherry; the sweet wines of the Greeks which the Homeric heroes quaffed so manfully were like Constantia and Tent. The Persian wines were probably akin to

Herod's favorite vintage already mentioned.

As to the origin of wine, all sorts of stories are told. A pretty legend is related by Herder. When they were created, all trees and shrubs were rejoicing in their beauty and usefulness. The cedar boasted his majesty and fragrance; the palm its beauty and shelter; olive and myrtle, apple, fig, pine and fir, all extolled themselves. But the vine mourned in silence; to her it seemed that no charm was given, neither stem nor branch, blossom nor fruit. "I am but little use," she moaned, "but such as I am I will wait and hope." And then man found and trained her. the sun ripened the glowing grapes, and Adam tasted thereof and named the vine his friend, to whom it was given to make glad the heart of man and cheer the sorrowing and afflicted. other account tells us that Noah once saw a goat eat some grapes; it thereafter became filled with such strength and courage that the patriarch resolved to cultivate the fruit. He planted a vine, therefore, and manured it with the blood of a lion, a lamb, a pig, and an ape.

An

An amusing story is told apropos of the introduction of the "joy of Bacchus" into Persia. It appears that in the days of the Emperor Jamshid, one of his favorite queens had the misfortune to offend her lord. So, at least, runs one version of the story; another states that the lady had a severe attack of neuralgia. In either case life was unendurable, so she resolved to end it. Casting her lustrous eyes around for a The Gentleman's Magazine.

convenient means, they fell upon a large vessel in which her lord had stored a quantity of grapes. On his last investigation, Jamshid had found the juice acid, so, actuated by a kindly consideration for the gastric economy of the weaker members of his royal household, his majesty had fixed to the vessel a warning in large letters-"Poison! On no account to be drunk!" or the Persian to that effect. Here was the Sultana's chance. She drank. For a death-draught the taste was not unpleasant, rather the reverse, so she took a little more, and yet more, and then tottered or reeled-to her couch and laid her down to die. When consciousness returned she found that her spirit had not taken its flight. though the neuralgia had, as well as her views on the worthlessness of life. Evidently this was a poison to be studied, so with regal self-sacrifice her majesty paid frequent visits to the "cellar," and so thoroughly tested the beverage that when eventually the Emperor discovered his spouse's habit, only enough remained to enable the royal couple to pledge their reconciliation in a glass of wine. Before long the "poison" was both plentiful and fashionable in the land of the Lion and the Sun; the Emperor Jamshid reigned about seven hundred years, during which

Man seemed immortal, sickness Was unknown,

And life rolled on in happiness and joy.

Whether this was all due to the discovery of the honest wine masquerading under the name of "Poison," the Shalı Nameh declares not. But the story emphasizes one truth which is taught by meal myths as well as most other studies, that there is really a very great deal of human nature in man-and

Woman.

Walter Richards.

LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1830

CHAPTER V.

"And what has Cicely been doing with herself?" asked Mr. Lauriston. "Been existing gracefully. I suppose," he continued as his niece did not immediately respond to his invitation. to narrate her doings.

Cicely smiled. Many people exist; it is given to few to exist gracefully, and surely no more should be exacted from these favored ones. She, at least, considered it superfluous to do more; so much her smile expressed. "But I think you must do something this afternoon," said her uncle.

Such persistence aroused a lazy sus picion in Cicely's mind. At lunch they had discussed a sketch of Doris's, and Agatha's expedition to the village undertaken on behalf of the commissariat. Aunt Charlotte had her domestic experiences to recount and related various culinary incidents, somewhat abstruse to the lay mind perhaps, but, if rightly understood, evidently to the discredit of Martin. Then they all demanded to know the direction of Mr. Lauriston's walk; but Mr. Lauriston's strategy did not desert him even in the councilchamber. A flank attack can be itself out-flanked, and after murmuring something about lanes, hedges, and primroses (amended hurriedly to honeysuckle in deference to the season of the year), he had opened his batteries on Cicely, an entirely unprovoked diversion which, however, served his turn. "Yes, she must certainly do something this afternoon," assented Agatha. "I'll help to wash up," suggested the victim; "after tea," she added thoughtfully.

"That won't take long," observed Aunt Charlotte.

"It's Cicely who's going to do it," Mr. Lauriston reminded them.

"And tea is a long way off," said Agatha.

Miss Yonge came to her friend's rescue. "You might come and sketch with me," she said; "I'm going to do such a lovely old cottage."

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be very lovely when I've done it," demurred Cicely: "unless you let me copy yours," she added in a complimentary tone.

Mr. Lauriston unkindly suggested that tracing-paper would hardly be of much service in the reproduction of a painting. Now it had been darkly rumored that the use of this medium as applied to copying the masterpieces of the eminent Vere Foster had gained the younger Miss Neave the second drawing-prize at school, which she had generously resigned to another. Her generosity had been better understood by her drawing-mistress when she was promoted to copying real flower-pots. As she still resented any allusion to this ignominious discovery, she was moved to exclaim, "I wouldn't mind fishing, of course."

"Fishing!" they all exclaimed. "Wherever did you learn to fish?"

"Oh, I'm quite good at it," she said cheerfully. "At least I used to be; I'm a little out of practice now. There's nothing like fishing." she added with a touch of enthusiasm. "To land a-a twenty-pound trout is quite exciting." Fortunately, there was no expert present to challenge the attributes of the only fish whose name Cicely could remember.

"Why didn't you tell us, and we would have brought a rod for you?" said her uncle. "I dare say though

-." he checked himself abruptly. He had been about to remark that the house-boat contained a varied assortment of rods, and that he could no