he got hold of it, and the Schnaps fell, with a crash, to the ground.

The introduction of the cordial had, however, served to direct the mind of Miss Ruth to the propriety of procuring some refreshment for the sufferer. He certainly ought to have something, she said, for he was getting quite faint. What the something ought to be was a question of more difficulty-but the scholastic memory of Miss Priscilla at last supplied a suggestion.

"What do you think, Ruth, of a little horehound tea? »

Well, ask for it,» replied Miss Ruth, not indeed from any faith in the efficacy of the article, but because it was as likely to be obtained for the asking for in English-as anything else. And truly, when Miss Crane made the experiment, the Germans, one and all, man and woman, shook their heads at the remedy, but seemed unanimously to recommend a certain something else.

Ruth-what is forstend nix? »

Bnt Ruth was silent.

They all appear to think very highly of it, however, " continued Miss Priscilla, " and I should like to know where to find it."

It will be in the kitchen, if any where," said Miss Ruth, while the invalid-whether from a fresh access of pain, or only at the tantalising nature of the discussion-gave a low groan.

"

My poor dear papa! He will sink-he will perish from exhaustion!" exclaimed the terrified Miss Priscilla; and with a desperate resolution, quite foreign to her nature, she volunteered on the forlorn hope, and snatching up a candle, made her way without thinking of the impropriety, into the strange kitchen. The House-wife and her maid slowly followed the Schoolmistress, and whether from national phlegm or intense curiosity, or both together, offered neither help nor hinderance to the foreign lady, but stood by, and looked on at her operations.

And here be it noted, in order to properly estimate the difficulties which lay in her path, that the Governess had no

distinct recollection of having ever been in a kitchen in the course of her life. It was a Terra Incognita

a place of which she literally knew less than of Japan. Indeed, the laws, customs, ceremonies, mysteries, and utensils of the kitchen were more strange to her than those of the Chinese. For aught she knew the Cook herself was the dresser; and a rolling-pin might have a head at one end and a sharp point at the other. The Jack, according to Natural History, was a fish. The flour-tub, as Botany suggested, might contain an Orange-tree, and the range might be that of the Barometer. As to the culinary works, in which almost every female dabbles, she had never dipped into one of them, and knew no more how to boil an egg, than if she had been the Hen that laid it, or the Cock that cackled over it. Still a natural turn for the Art, backed by a good bright fire, might have surmounted her rawness.

But Miss Crane was none of those natural geniuses in the art who can extemporize Flint Broth-and toss up something out of nothing at the shortest notice. It is doubtful if, with the whole Midsummer holidays before her, she could successfully have undertaken a pancake,-or have got up even a hasty-pudding without a quarter's notice. For once, however, she was impelled by the painful exigency of the hour to test her ability, and finding certain ingredients to her hand, and subjecting them to the best or simplest process that occurred to her, in due time she returned, cup in hand, to the sick room, and proffered to her poor dear papa the result of her first maiden effort in cookery. "What is it?" asked Ruth, anxious as to the nature of so

naturally curious, as well as novel an experiment.

Pah! puh poof-phew! spluttered the Reverend T. C., unceremoniously getting rid of the first spoonful of the mixIt's paste-common paste!»

ture.

VOL. III.

(To be continued.)

10

ILLUSTRATION

OF

TWO ROMAN SEPULCHRES OF THE AUGUSTAN AGE,

DISCOVERED BY THE ILLUstrator, chEVALIER G. PIETRO CAMPANA.

[Sepolcri Romani, etc.] Rome, Monaldi.

A green waste, almost tree-less and house-less, surrounds the Eternal City, reaching between her few, half-inhabited, forlorn outposts, up to her very walls, and stretching away to the feet of the mountains far off. How often, as we wandered over this desolate expanse of verdure, while absorbed in our meditations upon its numberless mounds and other ruinous memorials, how often did we imagine it a vast Grave-yardanother Eternal City, a City of the Dead, whose mansions just heaved their roofs above ground, and whose denizens slept for ever beneath! So strong is the illusion, that even we, who are noways given to fanciful theories, felt at times persuaded that the hillocks after hillocks which rose before us, were the tumuli or barrows of a gigantic race,-Pre-Adamites, perhaps, or Ante-Diluvians, coeval and coequal with Behemoth and Leviathan, and those enormous nondescript creatures once existent though now extinct. But is not the Campagna, in truth, the cemetery of a bygone giant people? of their colossal works, too, as well as themselves? Are not these huge turf-clad undulations, in truth, heaped over a Titan brood, the cruel offspring of earth impregnated with blood? To what other name do their sanguinary temper, their prodigious energies, and their audacious deeds entitle them? If we did not

hear them groan from their burning tombs under our feet, like Enceladus and his brethren under Etna and the Phlegrean Fields, if we did not, with classical implicit faith, feel the earth tremble while they endeavoured to throw its weight off their shoulders, or tossed their restless limbs beneath it,-certain localities, we must aver, did send forth effluvia which made them much resemble vent-holes for the respiration of spirits in pain and for sulphurous sighs, while a yellow-green, brackish fluid was also discharged, that might be taken for the gall of bitterness, and the sweat of torture, and remorseful tears mingled together. However this may be, tillers of the Campagna could scarcely drive their ploughs through that soil without striking against a relic or rust-eaten implement of war or peace, a sarcophagus or a sepulchre, an architectural foundation or fragment of sculpture, and perhaps on the slightest further search turning up a coin, a trinket, a useful or an elegant production of art. But modern Romans seldom do so they refrain from disturbing the earth with plough or mattock as religiously as if it were, indeed, the sacred dust of their ancestors. Either that, or a filial aversion to disfigure the bosom of Alma Tellus, beautiful Mother Nature, makes almost all these her considerate children prefer the lazy shepherd-life to the agricultural, and keeps almost the whole suburban plain of Rome a wild, open, smooth-tufted cattle-walk. This is their idea of the Golden Age, which with them consists in idleness, not innocence! At great intervals, perhaps, they scarify the ground for a small garden, or trench or punch it about as deep as a fox-and-goose table for a field of - we beg Ceres' pardon-a bed of a grain. Nay, half Rome itself is pastureland, and more of it would be so but that it is altogether barren. Cacus might still feed Herculean oxen on Mount Aventine: Monte Testaceo (Potsherd Hill) would graze all the sheep which come to the Roman shambles, were it only covered with the immondizio that manures the Roman streets; in fact, such lean, dry, dark red carrion as calls itself mutton, does relish of the potsherds, and may be depastured among them like beetles for aught we know. Mounts Cœlius and Esquilinus are less deserted landscapes, yet large portions

of them are as silent and vacant as savannahs, their soil delved into by vermin alone, or buried beneath more rubbish than the cellars of fallen Babylon. Both the builder and the excavator fear trespassing on ground, which would seem either so very profane or so very sanctified; and should they be obliged to work there, proceed as leisurely as if they were about to raise their own gallows or dig their own grave.

Our remarks, being general, admit of some few exceptions. Certain scoopings, dignified with the name scawi, have been made at different points of Rome and her environs; perforations not altogether deep enough to let in day-light on Pluto, but enough for partial discoveries. One and another native of that land from which all Virtuosi, Cognoscenti, Dilettanti, derive these flattering titles, has endeavoured to merit them himself; while, for the most part, Hotspur's popinjay Lord could not stop his nose with more contempt at a dead corse, than a Roman Signor at the aroma of a freshly-opened antique sepulchre. Cavaliere Campana is a celebrated and successful explorer of subterranean regions, in especial of that immense terra incognita lying just under the feet of its proprietors Old classic Rome-which might as well lie as far under them as their antipodes, the whole world's axis beneath them as well as a barleycorn's depth! What care the modern Quirites about their progenitors-predecessors, we mean?

Due cose solamente bramano-Maccheroni ed il Corso '

Not many years ago Signor Campana disinterred these curious Sepulchres, now opened to us also by means of his splendid work, containing divers plans and illustrations, some coloured like the original objects, and all accompanied by ample and precise descriptions. Outside the Latin Gate is a spacious solitude, fringed near the walls with a few shrubs : another is inside the Appian Gate hard by, as if Desolation chose his town and country seats contiguous. Here, were the two Sepulchres respectively discovered. They are both of that multiple-tomb order denominated Columbaria, i. e. dovehouses, from the number of small, low niches in their sides for the reception of cinerary urns, miniature votive altars, &c.