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the stranger she once loved. Dark and mysterious as your path may seem, mine shall be united with it to the last. I loved you not for your beauty, Semid, it was for the charms of your discourse, the riches of your mind, and, above all, the new world of thought and imagination which you opened to me; when I left you, those scenes and glowing pictures haunted me still; in my dreams they came to me, and with all, your image was for ever blended. Radiant with beauty it came, and now thus fallen, it is still the same Semid who speaks to me, it is his spirit that casts its spell around mine, and death cannot break it."

"It is vain," said Semid; "the hour is near that will close these eyes for ever.

Azrael comes to summon me; already I hear the rushing of his wings. Look where the last light of day is resting on the mountain snows; it will soon disappear; but when it rests on this pillar, and encircles this weary head, you will see your Semid expire." "Leave me not thus," exclaimed Malahie weeping bitterly; "but soon shall I cease to be alone, I feel my heart is breaking, it has struggled for rest without you, but it may not be."

She ceased; for the sun leaving the darkening plain below, threw over the temple a golden hue, and rested

on the pillar on which Semid was reclining. His look was sadly fixed on the crimsoning sky, his frame trembled, and as the red light was fading the young Syrian clasped her arm round his neck, and gazing on him as if for the last time: " Ŏ! Semid,” she murmured, " my first, my only love; together we will quit this world of sorrow, and Melahie will not be parted in death, or in eternity." At these words he suddenly rose and drew the ring again on his finger, the lustre came to Melahie's eye, and the colour rushed to her cheek, for she gazed once more on the blooming and devoted Semid, who, clasped her to his breast, "It is mine at last," he exclaimed; "the blessing I implored of Allah, but never hoped to find-a woman who truly loved me; we will go to the banks of the Orontes to my father's cottage, and live amidst the scenes of my childhood. O Prophet of my faith! who amidst thy sufferings didst find in Cadija a true and imperishable love: when I sought beauty alone, my hope perished, and thy mercy left me. Thou hast taught me by bitter sorrows that the value of a faithful and tender heart is above that of the richest charms of form and feature-of wealth or splendor-thy blessing shall rest upon our path for ever."

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Seek out the noblest dame of all,

And whisper in her ear,

That thou lov'st her more than ever before
Lov'd knight and cavalier.

Say she is fairer than summer rose,

(As thy father said to me,)

And thou'lt bring at thy side a wealthy bride From merry Normandy."


"No! mother, no! I cannot part
With the maiden of my home:
A bride more kind I shall never find,

Though the whole world through I roam.

No! mother, no! I cannot leave

My own beloved countree;

Though 'tis bleak and wild, I still am its child, And want not Normandy.


But I will don my best attire,

And seek my lovely girl,

Whose eyes are bright as the clear starlight,
And whose teeth are white as pearl.

And thou wilt own that the rose just blown

Is not more fair than she;

And that she may claim as pure a name
As the best of Normandy.


In the day of age she'll cherish thee

With all a daughter's care,

And walk with thee, and talk with thee,

And bind thy silvery hair.

She will bring to thee Spring's earliest flowers,

And fruits from the choicest tree;

And thou wilt forget, and ne'er regret,

The maids of Normandy.


She will guide thee when thy limbs are weak,
And thy sight begins to fail;

Or breathe a song, and when nights are long
Beguile them with a tale.

And when thou'rt gone to the sleep of death,

(Oh! distant may that be!)

She will wet thy bier with many a tear,
Though not of Normandy."


"My son, put on thy best attire,

And seek thy lovely girl,

Whose eyes are bright as the clear star-light,

And whose teeth are white as pearl.

And may she prove a source of love

When I have pass'd from thee,

And ever claim as pure a name
As the best of Normandy."


Of Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders.-Othello. To the Editor of the London Magazine. SIR, I AM an alderman and button-maker in the city, and I have a taste for sea-coal fires, porter, roastbeef, and the LONDON MAGAZINE. My son Bob, and my daughter Fanny, on the contrary, used to dislike all these good things-the last excepted: and prevailed with me to go and spend a month or two in Paris in the spring of this year. I knew that my son loved me as well as French cookery-and my daughter nearly as well as a French gown: so I unfortunately and affectionately complied with their desire-and have repented it ever since. However, my journey has not been altogether thrown away, as it has reconverted Bob to beef, and as it gives me an opportunity of relating the wonders of French cookery-a matter which in all your articles upon the French you have unaccountably neglected. The subject strikes me as highly important in all points of view: and it is a favourite theory of mine that the manners and tastes of a nation may be known from their cookery even better than from the bumps on their heads. The French Revolution was no doubt brought about by the national fondness for necks of mutton and inen à l'écarlate: and the national hatred to the English is still visible in their attempts to poison them with their dishes:-a consummation not at all to my taste, even with the prospect of being buried in Pére la Chaise. As for me, I am a plain man, alderman and button maker, and should prefer being interred in Aldermanbury.

he conceives the idea of fountains of love, starry aniseed, capons' wings in the sun, and eggs blushing like Aurora-followed (alas! what a terrible declension!) by eggs à lu Tripe? I consider their beef in scarlet, their sauce in half mourning, and their white virgin beans, as examples of the same warm and culinary fancy.*

Their ingenuity is sometimes shown in the invention of new dishes, as well as in the epithets they attach to them

It has long been the reproach of the French, and you are among those who have echoed it, that they are not a poetical people. But at least their cooks are. Must not a cook, Mr. Editor, be inflamed with the double fires of the kitchen and poetry, when

another poetical symptom. Not to say any thing of the vulgar plates of frogs, nettles, and thistles, what genius there is in the conception of a dish of breeches in the royal fashion, with velvet sauce-tendons of veal in a peacock's tail and a shoulder of mutton in a balloon or a bagpipe! Sometimes their names are so fanciful as to be totally incomprehensible, especially if you look for them in a dictionary: such as a palace of beef in Cracovia-strawberries of veal-the amorous smiles of a calf-a fleet with tomata sauce-and eggs in a looking glass.†

But there are many of their dishes which are monstrous; and in my mind not only prove the French capability of eating poisons, but their strong tendency to cannibalism. Great and little asps-fowls done like lizards-hares like serpents—and pigeons like toads or basilisks-are all favourite dishes: as are also a hash of huntsmen, a stew of good Christians, a mouthful of ladies, thin Spanish women, and four beggars on a plate. One of their most famous sauces is sauce Robert, which I remember to have read of in Fairy Tales as the sauce with which the Ogres used to eat children. My daughter found one dish on the carte which alarmed us all-Eglefin à la Hollandaise: and after trying a long time, she remembered it was something like the name

Puits d'amour.-Anis etoilé.-Ailes de poularde au Soleil Œufs à l'Aurore.— Bœuf à l'écarlate.-Sauce en petit deuil.Haricots Vierges.

+ Culotte à la Royale, sauce velouté.-Tendons de veau en queue de paon.-Epaule de mouton en ballon, en musette.-Palais de boeuf en Cracovie. Fraises de veau.- Ris de veau en amourette.-Flotte, sauce Tomate.- Eufs au miroir.

of somebody of whom she had taken lessons of memory. I suppose they had taken the poor devil from his name to be a Dutchman, and had accordingly drest him à la Hollandaise. * They like liver of veal done to choke you, and pullets like ivoryso called, I suppose, from their toughness and hardness. Other dishes are, on the contrary, quite shadowy and unsubstantial: such as an embrace of a hare on the spit-partridge's shoe-soles-a dart and a leap of salmon-the breath of a rose-a whole jonquil—or biscuits that would have done honour to the Barmecide's feast.t

The French have a way of serving up their dishes which is as extraordinary as the rest. What should we think of whitings in turbans-smelts in dice boxes-a skate buckled to capers gooseberries in their shifts, and potatoes in their shirts? Should we not think any Englishman very filthy whose cook should send up cutlets in hair-papers-truffles in ashes-and squirted seed-cakes ?— and whose dinner-bell should announce to us what they call a dingdong in a daub? ‡

The military dispositions of the French are discoverable even in their cookery. They have large and small bullets-carbonadoes innumerable syrup of grenades—and quails in laurels: and I have often heard dishes called for, which sounded to my ear very like "ramrods for strangling," and "bayonets for the gendarmes."§ But I may easily have been mis

taken in French words, when I can't
understand what they call English
ones-some of which seem to have
undergone as complete a change by
crossing the Channel, as most of our
Who could recog-

nize, for example, in wouelche rabette,
hochepot, panequet, misies paës, plom-
boudine, or mache potetesse, the primal
and delightful sounds of Welsh rab-
bit, hotch-potch, pancake, mince-
pies, plumb-pudding, and mashed
potatoes? But the French seem
fond of far-fetched dishes: they get
their thistles from Spain, and their
cabbages from Brussels, and their
artichokes from Barbary in Turkish


The French boast that their language is the clearest in the world. I should like to know what they mean by a skate fried raw, or big little peaches? I can easily comprehend mouton à la Gasconne, however: and an epigramme d'agneau is as insipid as a French epigram always is.

As I have got a corner of my paper still blank, my son Bob begs me to let him spoil it with a few verses which he says are German to French Cookery: I therefore hasten to conclude my epistle with the expression of my best wishes, and the assurance that I am, with great esteem and respect, Sir, your very obedient humble servant,

Button-maker and Alderman.




It has often been printed in books,

And I'm going to say it once more,
That the French are a nation of cooks,-
Though I never believed it before.

Grand et petit Aspic.-Poulet en lézard-Lièvre en serpent.-Pigeon à la Crapaudine, en basilic.-Salmi de chasseurs.-Compote de bons Chretiens.-Bouchée de Dames. -Espagnoles maigres.-Quatre mendians.

+ Veau à l'étouffade.-Poulets à l'ivoire-Accolade de lièvre à la broche.-Semelles de Perdrix.-Une darde et un sauté de Saumon.-Souffle de rose.-Une jonquille entière.-Biscuits manqués.

Merlans en turban-Eperlans en Cornets.-Raie bouclée aux câpres.-Groseilles et pommes de terre en chemise.-Cotelettes en papillotes.-Truffes à la cendre.-Massepains seringués -Dindon en daube.

§ Gros et petits boulets-Carbonades de mouton, &c.—Sirop de grenades.—Cailles aux lauriers. In the last two names our worthy Correspondent probably alludes to Ramereaux à l'étouffade, and Beignets à la gendarme.


Cardons d'Espagne.-Choux de Bruxelles.-Artichauts de Barbarie en bonnet de

** Raie frite à cru.-Pêches grosses-mignonnes.

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Bob calls cooks "the devil's own legion," from the well-known fact of their being sent from even a hotter place than they occupy upon earth. He alludes in the last part of the verse to the kind of bean called vierge, which the French stew, and to the bon Chrétien grillé.

+ Pigeons à la crapaudine.-Aspic de veau.-Feuilletage.-Tendons de mouton aux racines. Lièvre en serpent.-Pigeon en basilic.-Poulet en lézard.-Civet de lièvre.

Bœuf à l'écarlate.-Sauce en petit deuil.-Fanchonnettes.-Charlotte de pommes. -Bouchée de Dames, a kind of cake.-Raie au beurre noir.-Blanquette de volaille. § Bœuf en ballon.-Epaule d'agneau en musette-Dents de loup, a sort of biscuit. -Macarons jumeaux.-Truffes à la Serviette.-Eufs à l'Aurore.Queues de mouton au Soleil.-Raie frite à cru.

|| Veau à l'étouffade.--Poulets à l'ivoire.-Noix de veau à la gendarme.-Mouton à la Gasconne.

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