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SONNET.

THE SWAN.

Queen of the silent lake,

Gliding majestic o'er the liquid court,
Deep in the shadowy break,

Where the imaginary water nymphs resort;
Where fox-gloves hang their bells,

And oaken-bowers their branches intertwine;
And solitude in leafy covert dwells,

That sanctuary, snowy queen, is thine.

Few violate the state-the timid deer

May drink the pure wave as he trots along,

The forest loving birds may hover near,

The nightingale may pour her stream of song,
Yet, queen acknowledged, on thy glassy throne,
Thou reignest in still majesty alone!

ON CARVING.

THE following excellent remarks on carving are selected from the Illustrated London Cookery Book, which has recently taken a standing as one of the best works on the subject:

"One of the most important acquisitions in the routine of daily life is the ability to carve well, and not only well but elegantly. It is true that the modes now adopted of sending meats, &c., to table, are fast banishing the necessity for promiscuous carving from the elegantly served boards of the wealthy; but in the circles of middle life, where the refinements of cookery are not adopted, the utility of a skill in the use of a carving knife is sufficiently obvious.

It must not be supposed that the necessity for this acquirement, is confined to the heads of families alone: it is important for the bachelor visitor to be familiar with the art, as it is for the host himself; indeed, he is singled out usually for the task of carving a side dish, which happening to be poultry of some kind, becomes a task most embarrassing to him, if he should be ignorant of the modus operandi of skilfully dissecting a fowl. He may happen to be on the right hand of the lady of the house, and at her request, very politely conveyed, he cannot refuse; he rises, therefore, to his task, as though one of the labours of Hercules had been suddenly imposed on him; he first casts around him a nervous glance, to ascertain whether any one else is carving a fowl, in order to see where they insert their fork, at what part they commence, and how they go on; but it generally happens, that he is not so fortunate as he desires, and therefore he is left to get through the operation as well as he can. He takes up his knife and fork desperately; he knows that a wing is good, a slice of the breast a dainty, and that a leg is a gentleman's portion, so he sticks his fork in at random, and slashes at the wing, misses the joint, and endeavours to cut through the bone; it is not an easy task, he mutters something about his knife not being sharp, essays a grin, and a faint

jeu de mot at the expence of the fowl's age, and finding the bone will not sunder by fair means, he puts out his strength, gets off the wing with a sudden dash, which propels the mangled member off the dish upon the cloth, sends the body of the fowl quite to the edge of the dish, and with the jerk splashes a quantity of gravy over the rich dinner dress of the lady seated next to him, much to her chagrin at the injury to her robe, and her contempt for the barbarous ignorance he has displayed. He has to make a thousand apologies for his stupidity, which only serve to make his deficiency more apparent: he becomes heated, suffused with blushes, and perspiration, continues hacking and mangling the fowl, until he has disjointed the wings and legs, and then, alas! the body presents itself to him as a terra incognito; what to do with it he is at a complete loss to imagine, but it must be carved; he has strength of wrist, and he crashes through it at the hazard of reaping the mishaps he commenced with. His task over, he sits down confused and uncomfortable, to find his efforts have caused the rejection of any portion of the fowl he has wrenched asunder by those who have witnessed his bungling attempt; he is disgusted with the fowl, himself, carving, and every thing else; loses all enjoyment for his dinner, and during the remainder of the evening cannot recover his equilibrium. He will possibly, too, have the very questionable satisfaction of witnessing an accomplished carver dissect a fowl; he perceives, with a species of wonder, that he retains his seat, plants his fork in the bird, removes the wings and legs, as if by magic, then follow merrythought and neck bones, then the breast, away come the two sidesmen, and the bird is dissected; all this, too, is accomplished without effort, and with an elegance of manner as surprising as captivating: the pieces carved look quite tempting, while there is no perceptible difference in the temperature of the carver-he is as cool and collected as ever, and assists the portions he has carved with as much grace as he displayed in carving the fowl. The truth is, he is acquainted with the anatomy of the bird; he has felt the necessity of acquiring the art, and has taken advantage of every opportunity, which has enabled him to perfect himself in the requisite knowledge to attain the position at which he has arrived.

Ladies ought, especially, to make carving a study; at their own houses they grace the table, and should be enabled to perform the task allotted to them with sufficient skill to prevent remark, or the calling forth of eager proffers of assistance from good natured visitors near, who probably would not present any better claim to a neat performance.

Carving presents no difficulties; it simply requires knowledge. All displays of exertion or violence, are in very bad taste; for, if not proved an evidence of the want of ability on the part of the carver, they present a very strong testimony of the toughness of a joint, or the more than full age of a bird: in both cases they should

be avoided.

A good knife, of moderate size, sufficient length of handle, and very sharp, is requisite; for a lady it should be light, and smaller than that used by gentlemen. Fowls are very easily carved; and joints, such as loins, breasts, fore-quarters, &c., the butcher should have strict injunctions to separate the joints well.

The dish upon which the article to be carved is placed, should be conveniently near to the carver, so that he has full controul over it; for if far off, nothing can prevent an ungracefulness of appearance, or a difficulty in performing that which in its proper place could be achieved with ease.

In serving fish, some nicety and care must be exercised here lightness of hand and dexterity of management are necessary, and can only be acquired by practice. The flakes, which in such fish as salmon and cod, are large, should not be broken in serving, for the beauty of the fish is then destroyed, and the appetite for it injured. In addition to the skill in the use of the knife, there is also required another description of knowledge, and that is an acquaintance with the best parts of the joint, fowl or fish being carved. Thus, in a haunch of venison, the fat, which is a favourite, must be served with each slice. In the shoulder of mutton there are some delicate cuts in the underpart. The breast and wings are the best parts of a fowl. The trail of a woodcock on a toast is the choicest part of the bird. In fish, a part of the roe, melt, or liver, should accompany the piece of fish served. The list, however, is too numerous to mention here; and indeed, the knowledge can only be acquired by experience. In large establishments the gross dishes are carved at the buffet by the butler, but in middle society they are placed upon the table.

TINTERN ABBEY, 1851.

THE speed of the "iron horse" has now brought this most attractive spot within an easy day's journey of our vast metropolis; and indeed, if we remember rightly, during the last great year of sight seeing, excursion trains started from London early in the morning, whirled hundreds down to Bristol, who were there embarked upon steam-boats, carried up the Avon to its junction with the Wye, then passed Chepstow, another most beautiful locality, up to Tintern, and sufficient time being allowed for full inspection of its loveliness, were brought back by the same route, arriving at London on the evening of the same day. Sailing up the Wye, the traveller cannot but be impressed with the charming scenery that surrounds him on all sides; but his delight receives a fresh and vigorous impulse when he approaches the ruins of the old abbey, which afford the most striking indication of the wealth, magnificence, and taste of the religious brotherhood to whom it belonged. It stands on a gently rising eminence, and was originally built in the form of a cathedral, having a nave, north and south aisles, trans

cept, and choir, with a tower rising from the intersections. The roof and tower, have fallen, but the exterior, viewed from a distance, is still eminently beautiful, but excelled by the yet more striking appearance of the interior, as the visitor enters the western doorway. From this point the eye traverses along the range of stately columns, and passing under the lofty arches that once supported the tower, rests upon the grand eastern window at the termination of the choir. From the length of the nave, the height of the walls, the imposing form of the pointed arches, the style of the edifice is that known as Early English decorated, and the size of the east window the first impressions one receives are those of grandeur and sublimity: but, on a close examination, these feelings are combined with those of admiration at the regularity of the plans, the elegance and the lightness of the architecture, and the exceeding delicacy of the ornamental work, mingled and partly covered in, some portions as it is, with a profusion of wild flowers, and masses of ivy and other climbing plants. We are accustomed to exclaim against the barbarisms of past ages, but how much have not these ages taught us of the noble and the beautiful!

SYDNEY SMITH'S RECIPE FOR A WINTER SALAD.
Two large potatoes passed through kitchen sieve
Unwonted softness to the salad give.

Of mordant mustard add a single spoon;
Distrust the condiment which bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt.

Three times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And once with vinegar procured from town.
True flavour needs it, and your poet begs,
The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs.
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,

And scarce suspected animate the whole;
And lastly, on the flavour'd compound toss

A magic tea-spoon of anchovy sauce.

Then, though green turtle fail, though venison's tough,

And ham and turkey are not boiled enough,

Serenely full the Epicure may say

Fate cannot harm me-I have dined to-day.

VERY ACCOMMODATING.

Better let

CABBY (politely)-Beg pardon, sir; please don't smoke in the keb, sir; ladies do complain o' the 'bacca uncommon. me smoke it for yer outside, sir.

66 mamma

"PLEASE, sir," said a little boy to a milk vender, says she don't like to buy milk of you." "Why not? Don't I give her good measure ?" Yes, sir; but mamma says you feed your cows on such watery turnips."

DISCONTINUING A NEWSPAPER.

MR. A believes he shall discontinue his paper, because it contains no political news; while B is decidedly of opinion that the same paper dabbles too freely in the political movements of the day. I declares he does not want a paper filled with the hodge, podge, doings and undoings of the Legislature. J declares that paper the best that gives the greatest quantity of such proceedings. K patronises the papers for the light and lively reading they contain. L wonders that the paper does not publish Dewy's Sermons, and such other solid matter. O likes police reports. P would not have a paper, in which these reports are printed, in his house. Q likes anecdotes. R wont take a paper, that publishes them, and says, that murders and dreadful accidents ought not to be put into papers. S complains that his miserable paper gives no account of that highway robbery last week. X will not take his paper unless it is left at his door before sunrise; while Y declares that he will not pay for it if left so early; that it is stolen from his house before he is up.

COBBETT'S NOTION OF A CORONATION.

THE king (God bless him!) is, it seems, to be crowned next Thursday. Some people are saying, that he might do very well without it. No, hang it; I don't think so; for a king without a crown and robes, is like a peacock without a topknot and tail.

RECOLLECTIONS OF WASHINGTON. THE following is interesting for its subject, a reminiscence of Washington, at New York, in 1797. Day after day my departure was postponed; and an invitation to dine with a gentleman, living at the same boarding house with General Washington, then at New York, induced me to postpone it still further. My recollection of that great man is, that he was very tall, perhaps six feet two inches to six feet four inches, very reserved and polite, clear and quick sighted, had an aquiline nose, and high forehead falling back. On being introduced to him as a British officer, he inquired if it were usual for gentlemen to enter the army as young as I appeared to be; he particularly asked if I were a German, the name belonging he thought to that country. On my replying, he asked if I were related to the Professor of Fortification, at Woolwich; he claimed me as an acquaintance, when he heard that I was his "Not personally, sir," he added, "but I have read some of your father's valuable works, which I admire, and have introduced them into the course of education at our Military College." No further conversation occurred worthy of being recorded. As soon as the cloth was removed, he rose, bowed, and left the room.— Adventures of Colonel Laundman.

son.

VOL. I.

3 B

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