and obliged him to take refuge in a marsh. Master Jacques, in the retirement of Sainte- Beaume, led an ascetic and contemplative life, when one of his pupils, by some called Jeron, and by others Jamais, betrayed him to his enemies: a kiss which he gave the venerable solitary was the signal to five assassins, who stretched him on the earth with a stab of each of their daggers. Ever since, the sectaries of Father Soubise have been pursued by the adverse faction as accessories to this vile homicide. A spirit of revenge, evidently engendered from the primitive rivalry of two contemporaneous societies, divides the companionships into two armies, and, by a strange aberration, the principle of fraternal association has given rise to hostile and sanguinary encounters. In the month of August 1841, the bakers and the carpenters fought a regular battle in the fields adjoining the city of Toulouse, and it was not until many of the combatants on both sides had fallen grievously wounded, that the inhabitants of the suburbs were able to disperse them. The master baker lives a stranger to both the quarrels and advantages of the Companionship, and he is equally free from all participation in the manual labour of his craft; his functions being confined to the purchase of the farinaceous material, and the general superintendence.

The master's ambition is to be chosen syndic of the boulangerie, and to avoid every and any altercation with the civil functionary, mayor, or commissioner of police, who is continually on the look-out for contraventions of the law. It is a difficult thing for a baker to be never in default; to have always on hand exactly the month's provision required by the decrees; and never to be defective some hundredth of a grain in the weight of a loaf that he sells. Too often, it must be confessed, the default in legal weight is not the result of an error; too often judicial condemnations deliver over to public reprobation the practices of a rapacious knave, who, flattering himself that he shall escape the active surveillance of the authorities, shamelessly plunders the poor by the sale of light bread. Let us leave these unworthy citizens to the scourges of justice and public opinion, and oppose to them the honest baker, him to whom fraud is unknown, who gives long credit to the poor in time of need, and who has even been known, in seasons of distress, to obliterate an unpaid score from his books-preferring the treasure of their gratitude to a hoard of five franc pieces unworthily acquired.

local authorities distributed daily to the indigent poor. It is my wish,' said he, to contribute to the solace of the destitute.' In 1828, the price of bread having risen suddenly to a great height, Bachelard sold it to the operatives of his district at twenty-five per cent. below the current rate. At this period he had been charged by the authorities to send weekly a certain quantity of bread to an infirm old woman: at the end of some weeks he received a counter order; he continued, nevertheless, to supply the usual quantity, and never revealed to the object of his charity the fact that she had changed her benefactor. Such a man is an honour to the profession; and if virtue be preferable to intellectual endowment, it ought to be prouder of M. Bachelard than of the bakerpoet of Nismes, whose talents and good qualities we wish by no means to call in question.

In England, capital and enterprise have now attained such a height, that extreme scarcity of food is not likely to occur. As soon as there is any appearance of a dearth, merchants, on their own account, despatch orders to foreign countries for grain, and the stores thus accumulated save the nation from famine. France has not yet reached this point, whether from lack of capital, or of enterprise, or both, it is unnecessary here to inquire. The consequence is, the law interferes to perform that which private arrangements should alone effect. It being felt that a dearth in Paris might produce a revolution, as it helped materially to do in 1789, every baker is not only compelled to provide a stock of flour in advance proportioned to the number of sacks which he consumes daily, but he is further obliged to make what is called a guarantee deposit, which, at Paris, is fixed in the following ratio, by an ordinance of the 17th July 1831:

The baker using 4 sacks a-day, deposits 84 sacks.

using less than 2 sacks,

66

48 18

Every sack must contain one hundred and fifty-nine kilogrammes of flour of the first quality. The quantity of flour so deposited in a great storehouse is watched with jealous care by the authorities.

What a feebleness in the social system of Paris is revealed by this compulsory arrangement! Left to the care of a single principle in political economy-supply live securely in the belief that, so long as money is in following demand-the two millions of people in London their pockets, the baker never will be without flour,

and the breakfast-table never be without a loaf.

THE OLD SCHOOL.

His pious duty accomplished, he married a respectable girl, and opened a hotel at Coligny, where we might wish him prosperity, and bid him farewell, seeing that we have here to do with bakers, and not with rambling gentlemen in search of entertainment for man and horse.' But it was not so to be. The establishment, it is true, prospered at first; but the allied armies burst like a cloud of locusts upon the department of Ain; they plundered the whole stock and provisions of the unfortunate hotel-keeper, who soon found all the fruits of his industry in the possession of his majesty the king of Prussia. Ruined in his first experiment, he turned baker, and when the indemnities were distributed to the victims of invasion, he renounced his own share in favour of the poor. This was the first of the good actions of this noble man which merit an honourable mention in this article. In the scarcity of 1816 and 1817, he manufactured gratuitously the bread which the

little Joseph, looking up from the amusing and instructive occupation of putting together a dissected map. 'I have often heard you say that such a person belongs to the old school, and wondered what it could be. Is it a school for old people?'

The father smiled. Not exactly that, my dear, but the school in which old people were taught when they were young.'

'But was that anything different to the schools we have now?' the boy inquired. Do tell me, papa, all about it; for I suppose you went to it?' and Joseph left continents, oceans, and islands in one confused heap, to draw his little stool beside his father.

'No, I was not educated in the old school, still I can tell you something about it.'

'Were there desks, and forms, and books, and slates, and maps, papa? and were the boys taught in classes as they are at the school I go to?'

'You wholly mistake my meaning, my love,' Mr Darwin made answer. The word school, though literally signifying a place for education, is often used in another sense. Thus we speak of the school of experience, and the school of affliction, because these circumstances produce a change in the mind similar to that which is accomplished in a child by education. When we say, therefore, that an individual has been brought

up in the old school, we mean that he has imbibed the ideas of the age in which he lived. I will instance Mr

Barnaby Prim. You have seen him, Joseph, have you

not?'

Oh yes, papa, many times: you mean that old gentleman who wears such odd coats and waistcoats, and

that curious tail to his hair.'

6 The same. Mr Prim is so wedded to the costume of his youth, that he still adopts it, notwithstanding that it is now quite obsolete.'

'What a droll figure he cuts, papa! I have often wondered what could make him dress so oddly, and I once had a great mind to ask him.'

That would have been very rude, Joseph: it is a proof of ill-breeding to take notice of any one's peculiarities, especially in youth towards age. Mr Frim is a kind-hearted, right-thinking man on all subjects where the prejudices of his youth are not concerned; and these we can scarcely expect that he will give up after viewing them as great truths for so many years. One of his theoretical errors or perhaps I should say the errors he imbibed in the old school-is, that the invention of machinery, and the introduction of steam, are the cause of all the poverty existing among the labouring classes of our country. Another-that beyond the reading of the Bible, and the capability of writing a man's own name, education is positively injurious to them; he also asserts that war is the best thing in the world for making trade brisk. On these, and some other subjects, he is pertinaciously obstinate; but had be been born thirty years ago, instead of fourscore, it is most probable that he would have held very different opinions. Your grandaunt will serve for another instance of tuition in this school. You heard her this morning blame me for giving your sister Laura instruction in astronomy. She deems it quite proper that you should have some knowledge of the magnitude, movements, and distances of the heavenly bodies; but she has been taught to think that such studies are not only utterly useless for a young lady, but would necessarily induce her to neglect her domestic duties. She would rather, she said, see her in the kitchen learning to brew and bake. Now, I will allow that, in the present day, young ladies are apt to go to the other extreme, and overlook useful home-duties in their eagerness to acquire a superficial knowledge of the sciences, of which they afterwards make not the slightest use; though,' he addedglancing archly at his daughter, who sat opposite, busily engaged upon a curious piece of web-work, and looking ever and anon very earnestly on a little book which lay on the table- it appears as if the knitting mania would put the sciences to flight for a season.' Laura smiled. I am very glad I was not taught in the old school, papa!' Joseph warmly exclaimed.

You are quite justified in deeming that circumstance to be a blessing,' Mr Darwin rejoined; but you must at the same time bear in mind that, though society has thrown off some of its prejudices, it has not yet arrived at a state of perfection, and we, in our turn, may a century hence be termed the old school. I would likewise caution you never to show disrespect to those whom you may deem to be ignorant, otherwise your superior knowledge will only bring upon you deserved contempt. For be assured, my dear boy, that a pupil of the old school, with all his prejudices, if possessed of the social virtues which tend to make those around him happy, is really more estimable than the individual who has theoretically imbibed the philanthropic and extended views of the present age, if he fails to discharge the minor duties which make the aggregate of life's happiness.'

THE ABATTOIRS OF PARIS.

I have seen the abattoirs of Paris, and the difference is beyond all telling: it is exceedingly great indeed. Whitechapel is a scene of blood every day; there are streams of blood always flowing through the streets, from the number of cattle that are slaughtered there; and the terror

and nuisance in the streets to the passengers are very great, as the beasts are driven across the paved footpath into a the slaughter-house. At the abattoirs of Paris the beasts common shop door, and then forced through the shop into were driven in great quiet, there was abundance of alarmed, but were pinned down, and killed in a very short and the poor animals never seemed in one instance to be time. Evidence of Mr Gurney before the Select Committee on Smithfield Market.

A MATCH OF AFFECTION. WELL, my daughter is married, the popular prints Are full of her blushes, her blonde, and her beauty, And my intimate friends drop me delicate hints, That my poor timid girl is a victim to duty: They talk about interest, mammon, and pride, And the evils attending a worldly connexion; How little they know the warm heart of the bride! She always was bent on a match of affection. Dear girl, when implored her fond lover to hear, At the mention of settlements how was she troubled! Sir Nicholas offered two thousand a-year,

space,

But she would not say yes, till the income was doubled: Still she clung to her home, still her eyelids were wet, But the sight of the diamonds removed her dejection; They were brilliant in lustre, and stylishly set,

And she sighed her consent to a match of affection.

I really want language the goods to set forth,
That my love-stricken Emma has gained by her marriage:
A mansion in London, a seat in the north,

A service of plate, and a separate carriage.
On her visiting list countless fashionists stand;
Her wardrobe may challenge Parisian inspection;

A box at the opera waits her command

What comforts abound in a match of affection!
Some thought Captain Courtley had won her young heart:
He certainly haunted our parties last season:
Encouragement, also, she seemed to impart,
But sober and quiet esteem was the reason.
When wooed to become a rich baronet's wife,
The captain received a decided rejection,
'She should hope as a friend to retain him through life,
But she just had agreed to a match of affection.'
Some say that Sir Nicholas owns to threescore,

That he only exists amidst quarrels and clamour;
That he lets his five sisters live friendless and poor,
That he never hears reason, and never speaks grammar;
But wild are the freaks of the little blind god,
His arrows oft fly in a slanting direction;
And dear Emma, though many her taste may deem odd,
Would have died had we thwarted her match of affection.
-MRS ABDY.

INTEMPERANCE.

understanding has a greater share in other vices, and there Drunkenness seems to me a stupid, brutal vice. The are some which, if a man may say it, have something generous in them. There are some in which there is a mixture of knowledge, diligence, valour, prudence, dexterity, and cunning; whereas this is altogether corporeal and terrestrial: other vices, indeed, disturb the understanding, but this totally overthrows it, and locks up all the senses; as Lucretius remarks—

"When fumes of wine have filled the swelling veins, Unusual weight throughout the body reigns; The legs, so nimble in the race before, Can now exert their wonted power no more; Falters the tongue, tears gush into the eyes, And hiccups, noise, and jarring tumults rise.' The worst estate of a man is that in which he loses the knowledge and government of himself; and it is said, amongst other things upon the subject, that, as must or wort fermenting in a vessel drives up everything that is at the bottom to the top, so wine makes those who drink it intemperately blab out the greatest secrets of another. So Horace

'The secret cares and counsels of the wise
Are known, when you to Bacchus sacrifice.'

-Montaigne.

Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by D. CHAMBERS, 98 Miller Street, Glasgow; W. S. OBE, 147 Strand, and Amen Corner, London; and J. M'GLASHAN, 21 D'Olier Street, Dublin.-Printed by W. and R. CHAMBERS, Edinburgh,

No. 173. NEW SERIES.

MY RETURN TO SCOTLAND. AFTER a lapse of a quarter of a century, I find myself once more in Scotland-in my own country. A quarter of a century! How can such a cycle have turned round? I know nothing but that the fact is so; and when I throw backward a glance of inquiry, I see nothing but shadowy appearances, filling up the space between youth and middle age. A quarter of a century works many changes in one who has been buffeted about the world, but so does it also effect revolutions even in the general aspect of affairs. I do not allude to family changes, to vacant places at the hearth, to the thousand gushing thoughts called up in the wanderer's breast at every shrine he revisits, dimming his eyes, and unnerving his limbs, and making him feel as if he were stumbling over old graves. These are the ordinary results of the mere lapse of time; and when their strangeness is over, the added shade they leave upon the heart is scarcely perceptible amidst the gloom of years. But there are changes around me that derive no portion of their effect from individual feelings. Scotland is a different country, the Scots a somewhat different people much of the old sectarian severity still clinging to them, but in other respects ameliorated, polished, and, should I add, considerably more tasteful in personal and domestic arrangements? Wealth has performed her usual wonders; but there would have been no wealth without industry, and the Scotch, in the midst of all their queer local polemics, have been working at a terrible rate these last thirty years.

Even the external aspect of the country is changed. From being a desert, it is transformed into a garden, variegated with dark-green plantations, hedgerows, trees, and handsomely-built edifices. Look at that magnificent river-my own queenly Clyde ! Where are the mystic bays, the lonely shores, the savage dells, that haunted my boyish imagination, when a stolen voyage down the Firth, in a small boat, with a single comrade, was like one of the adventures of Sinbad? It is now as beautiful as ever; but how different! Towns, villages, hamlets, seats, cottages, huts, line its banks; and groves and plantations behind meet the hills of the background. Civilisation has extended a continuous chain of posts down to the Atlantic, and steamers, darting out of every creek, fling bravely their banners of smoke upon the breeze. That river was a passion to me! I could not keep away from it. I ought by rights to have been drowned at least a dozen times; but I was reserved, it seems, for a different fate -to see what it should be like in a quarter of a century.

Perhaps it is only my old-fashioned way of viewing things, but I could not, in the midst of much to admire, refrain from feeling that the new refinements of the

PRICE 1d.

people had rubbed away much that was formerly agreeable in their character. They appeared to me more stiff and formal, more reserved, more afraid of 'committing' themselves-more, in short, like vulgar-genteel people. In the Clyde steamers, in which you may have a six hours' trip from Glasgow to Arran, through some of the finest scenery in Europe, for two shillings, you find yourself in the midst of as uninteresting automata as it is possible to imagine: dry, cold, stony images of human nature, which weary you by their dulness, but prevent you from sleeping by their strangeness.

I did not remain long enough in the west, however, to get behind the scenes-to observe the mandarins on their own chimney-pieces. My destination was Edinburgh; and I reached this city high in middle-aged hope, and warm in youthful memories. I had left the southrons behind me; I had bowed myself out of the soirées of London; and it was with long-lost and delightful sensations I prepared to re-enter the hearthcircle of the 'kindly Scots.' The visitings I expected to reciprocate! the socialities I expected to enjoy! Oh, thought I, for a tea-drinking of auld langsyne!— to see the teapot once more in charge of the lady of the house-to draw in my chair, as if to a meal-to hear the urn hissing on the table, or the kettle singing on the hob-to be offered bread and butter twice! Never did common council-man hunger more keenly for a lord mayor's dinner than I did for the privilege of 'going out to tea!'

An old comrade of mine, some years older than myself, had settled and married in Edinburgh about the time when I first turned my vagrant steps towards the south. His income was small, but sufficient to live upon with reasonable economy: he had a wife and two grown-up daughters; and, in short, his was just the family where my social dream might be realised. I found him in a street more imposing in appearance than I had expected; but it was on the first floor of a common stair, and the rent was probably moderate. He received me with much heartiness, and introduced me warmly to his three ladylike womankind; and after rather a long visit for the forenoon, I came away rejoicing. The next day he left his card in my absence; and I determined to break the ice of ceremony once and for ever, by going uninvited on the following evening to tea. But in the meantime there came an engraved ticket, desiring the honour of my company to dinner in ten days.

Honour! Ten days! This chilled me a little at first; but on reflection, I perceived that my friend's yielding to fashion in the matter of a dinner had no necessary connection with his everyday life, and I continued for several days to expect an invitation of quite another kind to fill up the interval. When the fifth day came without result, I saw that I was myself to blame. I had

not even returned his call. They thought me a stiff, Anglified personage, who cared for nothing but a great dinner, and would look with contempt upon an invitation to tea. I determined to prove to them practically that they were wrong-to take them by surprise-to bounce in upon them like a China meteor-and to show them how well I remembered and appreciated old customs by compearing exactly on the chap of six.' This great idea I successfully realised, and as the clock struck in a neighbouring church, behold me entering my friend's house on the first floor of the common stair.

I did take them by surprise; and yet they were doing no harm. The father was sitting at one side of the fire, the mother at the other, and the two daughters were lounging on a sofa, all apparently engaged in a social chat. When I entered the room, the tranquillity of the scene was suddenly broken, although they were too polite, or too good-natured, to betray their surprise at the intrusion, otherwise than by a somewhat alarmed stare at each other. My friend received me as cordially as before; the ladies by degrees got rid of their embarrassment; and by and by we were in the full flow of conversation. But this was not brought about all at once. For some time the party continued to exchange looks of inquiry, and to sink into fits of silence, as if expecting to hear what had occasioned the visitation. I could not understand the nature of the excitement I had caused. My friend's round, good-humoured face, after a few minutes, beamed with pleasure as it was turned towards his old crony. There was no appearance of tea; but, on the contrary, it seemed to me, from a heavy and pungent odour in the room, as if the honest man, at no great distance of time, had been solacing himself with a glass of toddy. I sat still, however, waiting for what might betide; and so happy was I in patient, not to say delighted, listeners to my adventures in foreign parts, that when the church bell struck eight I started in surprise.

Still no word of tea-no overture of the kettle. It was now plain that the fragrant meal had been over before I appeared, and that I had mistaken the aroma of tea for that of toddy. Still, I was happily in for a long evening. I should of course pretend to rise, but only to be asked to remain. I should be pressed to stay, and-and-‘eat an egg.' Yes, that was the periphrasis. Eat an egg! You do not know what poetry there was to me in these words-words wedded to so many old affections, to so many home sympathies! Yes, friend of langsyne!' thought I; 'yes, wife! yes, daughters of my ancient comrade! I will stay with you and eat an egg!' I got up, however, and in the hypocrisy of my heart, amidst the love that was thence welling forth, and blending in one tide the present and the past, there came faintly the conventional words, I think it is getting late.' My friend rose and grasped my hand: he shook it. His wife rose also, and a small thin pressure answered to the silent gripe with which I bade a wondering good-night. The daughters smiled and bowed, and muttered something kindly and sweetly without rising; and in another instant I found myself on the outside of the door. As I passed through the hall, I saw a black tray upon the table, with delf cups and saucers, and a Britannia-metal teapot, and on the floor a dirty tin kettle. I had all this time been keeping the family of my old crony from their tea; and it was with a sour and impatient look the servant lass let out the untimely visitor.

I saw nothing more of my friends till the great dinner,

and that was so like other great dinners, that it is not worth describing. Indeed, if it were not a bull, I might say that it was more like than the originals. There was more care in the filling out-more elaborate crispness in the corners. If it had less ease than in houses more accustomed to such entertainments, it had more finish. It was wanting, it is true, in wealth and richness, but everything was there of a certain sort; and the affair may be said to have gone off as well as such things usually do.

At this dinner party I had the pleasure of sitting beside an aged gentleman, to whom I partly hinted my feelings of disappointment about the tea-drinkings. Ah, my dear sir,' observed my new acquaintance, 'all that kind of thing is quite gone now. Edinburgh is fast getting a modern English town. I often say it is little else than a suburb of London, down the Thames. Perhaps, like all imitators, the people here overdo London fashionable life a little; still, you will allow, they don't do things badly.'

But I want the old social manners.'

"These you will get only in fourth or fifth-rate country towns; and even there they are dying out. In proportion as carpets, pictures, and silver spoons intrude themselves, the old kindly customs disappear. I fancy it is the same thing all the world over-one of the penalties we pay for civilisation.'

It may be supposed that I was somewhat disconcerted by this outset in my search after sociality. I had been eating dinners, and dawdling through soirées, for many years, and now my heart yearned for something more-something better. Still I clung to my old friend and his family. The father and mother were very tolerable-very tolerable indeed; and the girls were engaging, and almost pretty; and the elder of the two, more especially, was endowed with a certain womanliness of nature which makes even downright ugliness charming. It was this wretched dinner, thought I, that upset them. While it haunted their imaginations, it was impossible for them to think of drinking tea, or eating an egg. Now that it is fairly over, let me give them a few days to subside, and then try another experiment. I think I could get attached, in the fashion of an old man, to that gentle baggage Mary. Let me call again in the forenoon-nay, in the morning-early, before the odious hour of card-dropping, and observe how she looks when as yet she belongs to the family, not to the public.

I was not destined, however, to see her in her morning-gown and slippers; for although hardly mid-day when I called, the two sisters were in full walking costume. There appeared to be an excitement of some sort in the family that morning. The girls had the air of being newly out of a bandbox; and the father and mother were anxiously scrutinising them, and every now and then readjusting some nameless trifle in their dresses. They told me at length, with considerable importance, that they were going several miles out of town to call on Mrs A- B- of C; and this explained the matter, for the lady named is a very great lady, of good family, and lives in a mansion which is a real country-seat. But this was not all. A young English nobleman, a certain Lord Orville, was at the moment a visitor at that country-seat; and here were our Mary and Jessie on the very brink of getting ac quainted with a baron. I confess I looked at their dress myself with some critical scrutiny after this announcement, and with my own hands I moved Mary's veil a little way aside to afford a view of her left eye brow.