year, and that they would return to their Plutarch and Euripides with a zest and freshness which would surprise Dr. S. beyond measure. Conceive, too, with what novel and unbounded delight a week under canvas in the Windsor Home Park would be received by Eton. Why it would more than compensate it for the loss of its Montem. And we believe it would not be long before such an example would spread, and our English greens and commons would witness a wholesome revival of that manly pastime of peace which has fitted Englishmen so well for the stern exercise of war.
Nor would such a revival be without other, if secondary, importance to society. That so little sympathy exists just now between class and class is owing less to un-English pride on the one side, or unmanly reserve on the other, than to a want of opportunities of intercourse and labour-fellowship from which appreciation and mutual dependence would surely spring. The pastime which we recommend would soon attract our youth from hall and cottage alike. Show us the true English lad of any class, who will be able to refrain from taking part in play of this nature, established as it should be on our country commons and village greens. Before the spirit of honest emulation there engendered and fostered, the frostwork of conventionality will melt and disappear. The young gentleman will soon be piqued to owe his rank and position not so much to the accident of birth as to well-won superiority in physical pluck and strength. Should he succeed, a more willing and hearty respect will be conceded him. Should he fail, he will learn to respect his victors as superior to him in some respects at least, while they will admire and appreciate his generous self-denial. Such a pastime of peace which shall be at the same time an exercise for war, will knit future squire and yeoman, apprentice, master, and man in an honest, hearty fellowship which would surely be a sufficient recommendation for its speedy adoption, were other and more important ones wanting.
OUR PECK OF DIRT.
“What a fellow you are, Routitout, can’t you let us enjoy our breakfast in peace?” good-humouredly remarked handsome Fred, as he balanced on his fork the bright purple end of a polony at a bachelor’s breakfast-party.
Now old Routitout wasn’t a bit of a curmudgeon, but when he took up any subject nothing could induce him to let it go until, like a puppy with a new rug, he had tugged it to pieces. The report of the debate in the House of Commons on the adulteration of food had, unluckily, just caught his eye, and accordingly he went into the subject, with which he was really well acquainted, with as much gusto as Tom Sayers, a week ago, went in at the Benicia Boy.
“It’s all very well to say, ‘I don’t care for adulteration,’” he authoritatively exclaimed, “but you must: this breakfast-table is built up of adulterations; take that polony you think so spicy, what will you say to finding your toes rotting off in a month or two, like an old post in damp ground?”
“Come, that won’t do, old fellow, why should we take in the dry rot with German sausages?”
“My dear boy, that is precisely what you must take your chance of, if you will eat these poisonbags without inquiring; why, in all probability, that sausage is made from putrid meat—you may always suspect bad meat where there is high seasoning, and there are hundreds of instances on record of people rotting away at their extremities, from eating these putrid German sausages.”
We all looked up; Bob Saunders in his amazement spilt a spoonful of yolk down his handsome whiskers, and there was a general pause. There is nothing like opening a conversation with a startling fact, and this old Routitout knew full well, and proceeded to take instant advantage of the sensation he had created.
“Fact!” said he, “here is an account” (pulling an old German newspaper out of his pocket) “of three German students who gradually rotted away from eating putrid sausages at Heidelburg.”
“Well, they may keep their polonies for me,” said Bob, “I stick to eggs; what can you make of them, old fellow?”
“Why in all probability, the one you are eating ought to have been by this time a grandfather. Laid in some remote village of France this time last year, it has lain ever since pickled in lime water. The antiquity of your London eggs is marvellous. They come over here by the million at a time, and you don’t suppose the Continental hens hold monster meetings to suit the time of the exporter?”
“I wish you would turn the conversation,” Bob replied. “I taste the lime quite strong, and must wash it down with a cup of coffee.”
“Bean-flour, you mean,” replied his tormentor, “and possibly something worse. Just turn it over in your mouth again, and see if there is a saw-dust smack in it. The fine dark Mocha you get in the New Cut, for instance, is adulterated with mahogany sawdust.”
My friend, Ned Allen, a bit of a heavy swell, who affected to admire now and then a plebeian thing, struck in here in his lisping way:—
“Well, I musth declare the finesth cup of coffee I ever tasthted was at four o’clock in the morning at an itinerant coffee-stand after Lady Charlotte’s ball—’twas really delicious!”
I saw old Routitout’s eye twinkle, as much as to say, ‘now thou art delivered into my hands.’ “Fine body in it, eh! Such a ‘horsey-doggy’ man as you should have recognised the flavour of, &c., &c.”
“Good God! what can you mean?” exclaimed Ned. “Oh! nothing, nothing; no doubt you felt a sinking after that old skinfllint’s supper, and wanted some animal food.”
“Animal food in coffee, prepostwous!”
“Ah! my dear friend, I don’t like to disturb your equanimity, but it is a noted fact that the strong coffees used by the itinerant coffee standkeepers get their flavour from the knackers’ yards. There are manufacturers over in the Borough, where they dry and pulverise horses’ blood for the sake of adulterating cheap coffees; and then the cream, how do you think they could give you such luscious