Fainting on the steps of Our Lady of the Mountains, he was carried to the house of one Zaccarelli, a butcher, where he breathed his last. "The saint is dead! the saint is dead!" was shouted up and down the street, next day, all over the neighbourhood. The whole of Rome was agitated. Crowds came to Zaccarelli's house, demanding to see the body, and forcing an entrance. Zaccarelli resolved that the funeral should be magnificent, and took the expenses upon himself." The curés of two adjoining parishes, each anxious to secure the body for his own church, disputed in which of the parishes Zaccarelli's house stood. The relic market was clearly on the rise. The exposure of the body and the interment were the occasion of scenes of fanaticism which were only repressed by the presence of soldiers and by the closing of the church. The tomb was enclosed by a railing, around which a military guard had to remain two months, to prevent riot and scandal. Scarcely was the holy man under ground, when his portrait was engraved; the prints were distributed before they were dry. Like nesses in all sorts of attitudes were sold by hundreds of thousands. Everything that had belonged to him, far and near, was importunely sought for, and treasured as precious relics. His rags, and everything attached to his personal uses, were torn and broken up, to be dispersed bit by bit. The wood and stone of the places where he used to pray, was scraped and grated; the spout of the fountain where he or dinarily quenched his thirst, disappeared. Pious enthusiasm felt no remorse at pious thefts. Labre was canonised by the voice of the people. A number of miraculous cures followed his death some two hundred miracles in all. We fail to appreciate them. One of the most remarkable was the conversion to the Roman faith of Mr. Thayer, an American, and a Protestant minister. A nun in the convent of Saint Apollonia broke a blood-vessel in her lungs, which so weakened her that she could take no nourishment. She invoked the venerable Labre, and drank, with faith, a liquor in which one of his relics had been steeped. She was cured in an instant. That very day she joined the other nuns in the choir, and ate her dinner without any unpleasant consequences, as testified by the lady superior and six nuns of the same community. In 1784, the then bishop of Boulogne-sur-Mer solicited the beatification of the holy pauper, as likely to afford an admirable spectacle for angels and men. The storms by which St. Peter's bark was subsequently assailed, postponed the scheme till 1807. Again interrupted by new vicissitudes, the cause was resumed in 1817; fresh miracles had fixed attention and excited confidence. But the matter remained in suspense until 1847, when it was resumed under the pontificate of his Holiness Pius the Ninth, now reigning. On Ascension Day, 1859, the Holy Father solemnly decreed the desired beatification; and on the 20th of May, 1860, the basilica of St. Peter was most splendidly adorned, to celebrate the solemn fête of the humble pilgrim's canonisation. If candles could do it, the ceremony was effectual. More than five thousand wax tapers shed their light around; more than forty thousand persons were present. Benoît was, one of the celestial hierarchy at last. Poor Benoît, in the flesh, was a harmless creature; a little vain of his dirt, a little cunning in his devotion. But is he an example for general imitation? In the first place, if everybody were like him, the human race would speedily come to an end-and would richly deserve that consummation. Do we want any more new saints? If we did want them, should we want such dirty and do-nothing saints? A succession of saints like Benoît Labre, would raise the price of chloride of lime and sulphur ointment. Monseigneur Parisis, who brought the saintly bones from Rome, and who got up the meeting and show at Arras, is the same prelate who vainly endeavoured to exclude Protestant children from French schools, under pain of excommunicating the Roman Catholic masters and mistresses who should receive them without working hard at their conversion. For that move, his grandeur got a gentle rebuke from the minister; but he cares so little for it, that he is ready to attack heresy in any form, and almost with any weapon. At this moment there is a hard struggle between the French government and the Ultramontane priesthood. On the first proposal of the religious fêtes, authority forbade the procession to pass through the streets, believing it intended as a manifestation of sympathy and an ovation for Monseigneur Dupanloup, Bishop of Orleans and libeller of the dead. Monseigneur's absence being guaranteed, the out-door pageantry was reluctantly permitted. But the whole affair is less an apotheosis of a wretched ascetic than a menace-to this effect: "Take care, you in high places, how you press too hard on the temporalities of the Pope. You see how we can assemble and rouse the people; our spiritual power is not yet paralysed. If with one dead saint we can rally around us the devout supporters of his Holiness, with another, perhaps, we may send you to Jericho, and bring back our beloved Henry the Fifth." SONNETS ON GODSENDS. I. STRAIGHT from the hand of God comes many a gift, And yet from which we blindly shrink and shift, Work itself, hard, drudging occupation, Rankle from wounding words and looks unkind, The desolation of friends' eyes averse, Nay, e'en the anguish of a recent loss, II. Work is a Godsend most divine, direct : When beaten prostrate like the wind-blown reed And grow around fresh shoots of budding hope, Preserving them from frost of chill despair,Will keep them free from canker-slough, with scope For spreads of tender leaflets, and prepare The way for future blossoms that may twine ΙΠ. All the year round come Godsends evermore, Than hall for dancers' footing, where the hours Bring speedy blur: proudly the foxglove towers, Behung with white or purple bells, a store Of pyramided beauty; faintly blush Hemlock; meek-eyed violets, amid the rank IV. Not more variety in wayside weeds Than in the Godsends lavishly bestow'd On man, who takes them often like a load Of worthless or unvalued waifs; and heeds No jot their purpose, nor discerning reads Their undevelop'd good; upon the road He lets them lie, trod like the toad Beneath his foot; and, thoughtless, on proceeds. But, like the jewel in the reptile's head, Or, like the wholesome virtues in the herb, Latent, unnotic'd, dully left unread, Cast by in carelessness, or mood acerb, The gem-bright eyes unseen, the healthful juice unsought, The Godsend's sacred lesson still remains untaught. V. A stormy sky, with glimpse of promise fair; Where loud roaring ends in laughter gained; That lies above the head we daily miss For which they are vouchsaf'd to those on whom THE SYSTEM JONES. A GREATER man than Soyer is no more. Mr. Hyacinth Jones died suddenly at his villa near London, in the sixtieth year of his age. He was a great benefactor to London society, yet he may be said to have died almost unknown by the gay and thoughtless and light-hearted, who eat and drink and dance through the butterfly months of this vast Babylon; but he was well known to those who wear the "iron crown" of housekeeping. It was by his wonderful efforts alone that the master and mistress of the house their own dinner-tables; nay, positively to enjoy were enabled to sit without aching brows at the gastronomic triumphs of the repast. Hyacinth Jones's place of business was situated in one of the offshoot streets of Bond-street-a small private house. You knocked at the door, a respectable waiter-like person gave you admittance. No repulsive steam of dinners offended the nose; you were at once ushered into a wellfurnished room. A faint, disagreeable smell was observable. This arose from a mass of newlyprinted books, pamphlets, blue-books, reviews, journals, magazines, British and foreign, which were arranged in order on mahogany ledges against the walls. At one glance round that room you beheld the sum total of the world's latest intellectual efforts, damp and steaming from the press. Then there were auctioneers' catalogues of all recent sales of interest-rare books, old wine, pictures, china, coins, old furniture, and the thousand other curious objects of taste which circulate through rich society. Above the ledges were shelves filled with valuable books of reference on every conceivable subject-history, natural science, politics, theology, sport, &c. &c. And who read all this mass of print? Hyacinth Jones ?" "You doubt, madam? Remember the catalogue of books Mr. Buckle has read." "But what has all this to do with dinners ?" In a little while, you shall know, madam." Some folks affirm that a partisan ought not to be a biographer. But, behold my dilemma! I am a partisan, yet, as Hyacinth Jones was far more unreserved with me than with any other person living, I alone possess the materials necessary to sketch his life. He was, in truth, remarkably secretive, rivalling the present Napoleon in that quality; but, with regard to the outer man, and particularly in the character of his face, he always reminded me of the portraits of the greater Emperor. I did not make Mr. Jones's acquaintance until middle age had destroyed the fineness of his features, rendering them full and puffy; but even then his eyes possessed great force. In earlier years, the poetic period before he had eaten many dinners and begun to philosophise, his eyes must have been dominant over all his features, like the deep eyes of young Napoleon, as you see him in that French picture riding on the dromedary in the shadow of the pyramid. all I had to do was to keep my mind perfectly was the greatness of cookery. I was governed by the ideas which surrounded me. I should have certainly seized with as great enthusiasm upon the aesthetic principles of poetry, sculpture, or painting, had either of those arts been the object of our lives, as I did of cookery. As soon as I was old enough I was placed under There is an aphorism attributed to the the care of the great chef Jerichau. I was his Emperor Napoleon which was always in the pet pupil-I was so easy to teach, so enthumind of Mr. Jones: "Men are governed by siastic. I would sit alone for hours in my their stomachs." He acknowledged the truth room over the creation of an entrée. At these of this assertion up to a certain point. "Eat-times I have almost fainted for want of food; ing," he would affirm, "is a condition of our nature, the very basis of our well-being and happiness, but not the summum bonum of our lives. Its limitations are too contracted to satisfy the boundless aspirations of the soul. I challenge," said he, "the greatest gastronomists to deny this. Their science affords them certain cardinal principles, distinctive flavours recognised by the palate, to deal with. They have the power of treating certain constituents in a pure form, which group themselves under specific heads; thus, savoury, sweet, acid, hot, cold, &c.; these are subject to all the modifying conditions of consistence, proportion, and quality. Upon this elemental basis rises the highest art of cookery, the mixed form, the blending by certain laws of these distinctive flavours, producing as the result an harmonious union, or a totally new flavour. This has been not inaptly termed the thorough bass' of cookery. Undoubtedly, the mathematician could show you the possibility of varying these blendings ad infinitum, just as the musician can vary sound; but the palate, far inferior in its sensitiveness, to the ear, cannot appreciate these delicate distinctions: after a certain period the originality of cookery is exhausted." I well remember the evening when he defined these limitations of cookery. Like all great men, he loved to be sometimes alone. I had broken in suddenly upon his reverie. I saw there were tears in his eyes. "Papa Jones," said I-that was my familiar mode of addressing him-" why do you weep?" "Behold, my son!" and he pointed to the table. There was a singed moth close to the foot of the candlestick. I knew what he meant; his sympathy was with the symbolic idea, not with the individual insect. "It has ceased to affect me, the moral of singed moths and skylarks," I replied. "Poets and philosophers have worked the subject threadbare." "The moral is true for all that," said Papa Jones, mournfully. Ah me!" he continued, with a sigh," why wasn't I content with that ?" And he drew from his waistcoat a white cotton cap, which he had evidently hidden away when I entered the room, and placed it on the table. "Is it possible?" I exclaimed. Then, in a sudden burst of confidence, he answered: "I began my life in the kitchen; my father, my grandfather, were great cooks. The talk of greatness which fired my young ears "Ah," said he, "it's almost impossible for you to comprehend my feeling for cookery. What do you understand by the term 'beautiful? For my part, I consider it to be a latent sense of harmony in the soul, which is capable of being excited by numberless methods, many paths to a common goal-whether music, by appealing to that sense through subordination to its own laws of harmony-or painting, by submission to the laws of colour and outline-or science, by revealing to us the harmony of the laws of nature. I need not multiply instances. If my theory is correct, it enables us to dispense with a vast amount of the pity with which we regard certain avocations of man. That chamber of the parchment-visaged lawyer becomes a shrine of the beautiful'-the perfect logic of a fine argument, dry and wearisome to the natural man, is an inlet to the learned counsel's sense of harmony-the law books in calf hold the laureates of equity. In like manner, to the mathematician, are the laws of numbers and proportion. 66 "I don't doubt for a moment" (pursued Mr. Jones) "but that Lord Eldon and Sir R. Bethell minister to some men's sense of the beautiful,' just as Raphael and Titian do to others--that Babbage's calculating machine may produce exactly the same inward effect as a symphony of Mozart. "Cookery had this effect upon me, I felt 'the beautiful' in the harmony of its laws. But after all, ambition formed the basis of my efforts. Those words of Napoleon sounded in my ears like an unconscious prophecy which was yet to be fulfilled: Mankind are governed by their stomachs.' I aspired to give a power and influence to cookery of which the world had never dreamt of. "My master possessed the highest talent and the most generous spirit. In a very short time he declared that I had learnt all that he could teach that a European fame awaited me. One day I submitted to him the rough notes of a new entrée hastily jotted down on the inspiration of the moment. With the high power of the great artiste he could realise the full flavour of a dish from the receipt, just as the great musician, by merely reading the score, can realise the full significance and harmony of the music with all its light and shade. Generally Jerichau was demonstrative in his admiration, but he perused my MS. in silence. As I watched his countenance, I could perceive the inward struggle which was taking place. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The marmitons, moved by unconscious sympathy with their master, had left their occupations to gather round him. He strove to address me, but was unable to utter a word. He drew this very cotton cap off his head and placed it on mine, and then, pressing his lips to my forehead, he left the kitchen." Papa Jones," said I, "I can realise the situation; it was the general tearing the cross off his own breast to place it on the breast of the heroic soldier." No, my son," he replied, "it was far grander than that. It was the formal act of abdication. I have searched history in vain for a more magnanimous deed. Charles the Fifth was gouty and worn out when he gave the crown to Philip; Jerichau was in the full vigour of his life and the full tide of his reputation." "It was a magnificent triumph!" I exclaimed. "It was," he answered; "but I only regarded it as a means to my great end-the power of influencing mankind. I know my comrades were perplexed by my showing so little elation; such insensibility in an artiste was incomprehensible; but I hid my aspirations in my own bosom." He paused awhile in his narrative, and seemed buried in thought. Ah, me!" he exclaimed, breaking from his reverie, "that was the beautiful period of my existence; life carpeted with rose-leaves; intuition and faith which vanquished every difficulty without a struggle, and achieved every object without the curse of labour. And yet I know my faculties were but half developed; I had never reasoned, because I had never doubted. "One day I grew dissatisfied with my efforts. My work appeared to grow less and less original. I was forced to reflect, and, to my dismay, I found for a long period that I had been only working in a circle. Do what I would, I could never advance beyond a certain point. Could it be possible that I had already arrived at the boundaries of my art? I strove and strove, as a bird beats against the bars of its cage, but it was all in vain. brilliancy in the bright rows of copper stewpans, and now the gleam was horrible to my eyes. Day by day my powers left me; my hand, which had been as light as the most delicate woman's, but nerved with steel, grew as heavy as lead. Í became far less capable than the lowest marmiton, against whose crass stupidity my master, in the grief of his soul, used to protest by perpetual oaths. They tried in vain to account for this change. Was it my bodily health? The doctor declared I was perfectly well. Was it love? The doctor shrugged his shoulders and smiled, in default of a better answer. They could never comprehend my case. Neither my father, nor my uncles, nor Jerichau, and they held many anxious consultations on the subject. "I said that I had exhausted cookery. Think of the splendid engagements your genius will command,' exclaimed my father, overcome by sorrow no less than anger. "The mouth of Europe watering for your efforts' cried Jerichau, with poetic energy. What is cookery ?' I asked. "The science of feeding the world,' they answered. "If that was their definition of cookery, it was impossible that they could ever understand the grandeur of my aspirations, so I held my peace and wept." And then, Papa Jones?" said I to him, gently, for he was quite overcome by his narrative. "Through the greatness of the idea I rose; through the greatness of the idea I fell. The moral, my son, of singed moths and exhausted skylarks." In the agitation of the moment, he wiped his eyes with the cotton cap. Up to the time of this confession, I had been completely puzzled how it came to pass that Mr. Jones was continually making use of that aforesaid expression of the Emperor Napoleon, but at the same time urging the fallacy contained in it, and asserting the dominant influence of intellect. I then perceived that he acted on the principle of a zealous convert, whose old dogmas might be perpetually in his mouth for the purpose of denying their truth. To describe the "system Jones."—Thousands had felt the inadequacy of gastronomic science to satisfy the soul of man, but Hyacinth Jones had felt it with an intensity which led him to seek and discover a remedy. Thousands had sat, as guests, bored and gloomy over the most artistic cookery, and had experienced a dismal vengeance, as hosts, by beholding their friends bored and gloomy in return, till at length the thought of a dinner party was associated with a dulness felt like the darkness "Slowly and painfully, I reasoned out the in Egypt, falling, like the catastrophe of the limitations of that organ of sense, the palate, Dunciad, with a pall on the spirits. Now many through which I sought to address the soul. In people of superficial mind believed that this my exultation at the unbounded possibilities miserable condition was induced by some latent numerically of combining flavours, I had entirely error in the science of cookery itself, and conoverlooked the rigid limits of the capacity of sequently sought a remedy by extraordinary taste. I shall never forget the utter bitterness culinary efforts, ignorant that the capabilities of of heart with which I struggled to this convic-the art were stretched to their utmost verge. tion, and beheld the fallacy of my hopes. In Some persons gifted with clearer perceptions the early days, there used to be such thrilling managed to hit the true source of the evil, and endeavoured to get professed "diners out" to enliven the tedium of the table. But the practical success of the truest principle depends upon its being worked on a sound system. At times the "diner out" was not up to the mark, or he was sulky and silent owing to the presence of a rival, or his position at the table prevented him from talking with effect, and finally all minor matters being favourable, it frequently happened that his mental bias was not in unison with that of the company generally. Nevertheless, a belief in the necessity of mind at the dinnertable was the chief point to be gained. It was the glory of Mr. Jones that he created a systematic association of intellect with gastronomic enjoyment. safety ask your friends pell-mell, and rest with happy confidence in the success of your dinner. The menu was an object of importance as a secondary point in Mr. Jones's calculations. His early studies with regard to the palate, as an inlet of consciousness to the mind, were by no means valueless to him, now that they were divested of youthful extravagance. The current of conversation was set in responsive harmony with the character of each plat, in the way that the mere gastronomist associates certain wines with certain dishes. So with a piquante sauce there was a stronger dash of irony and persiflage, a more serious tone with a brown sauce than a white sauce, lightest and most brilliant fancy with the soufflé, deepest tones of O reader! dwell awhile on the compre-all with the rôti. hensiveness of the "system Jones." Recollect Mr. Jones's final arrangements with regard to that dinner is the law of civilised humanity. the conversation were noted into a book under Cœnandum est omnibus! politicians and poets, the date of your dinner party. It will be obmen of science, men of art, men of sport, tran-vious, with such nicety of arrangement, that if scendentalists, materialists, stout-bodied theolo-one of the guests failed at the last, he or she gians, and slim damsels with golden hair and could only be replaced by a person whose tastes violet eyes-all, all are the slaves of that law. and sentiments were in accordance with those It was necessary that Mr. Jones should be of some of the original guests, because the en rapport with the whole circle of human introduction of an entirely new mental eleinterest, from the merit of the last prima donnament would have destroyed the plan of the and the crinoline question, up to the profoundest conversation. A few days after your interquestions of philosophy, and the combat of view with Mr. Jones, you received a note Savers and Heenan. The "system Jones" was carried on in the following method. I will suppose that you have asked your friends to dinner, and received their reply, taking care always to leave one or two vacant places at the table, and that you have finally decided on the menu with your chef. You then called by appointment on Mr. Jones, and gave him a list of your guests, with the best description in your power of their mental bias and taste, and also a copy of the menu. After making careful notes and asking a few definite questions, Mr. Jones bade you good morning, taking a preliminary fee of a guinea. On the evening of each day Mr. Jones carefully read over his notes and settled in his mind the topics of conversation, and the method of treatment which would be most interesting to your guests generally. I need scarcely say that this was a most difficult operation. For instance, given an evangelical Dean hot on revivals, and an enthusiastic fox-hunter, to find the bond of common interest between the two; and yet so great was the sympathetic power of Mr. Jones, that he was enabled to devise a line of conversation equally interesting to the parson and the sportsman. If this were wonderful in the case of two persons of opposite tastes, how much more wonderful the power he possessed of arranging a conversation which was capable of engaging the sympathy of perhaps half a dozen persons of distinct pursuits and inclinations? Of course this was very difficult to effect: the result often of hours of laborious thought. The charge for a dinner of this kind was far higher than for one in which the guests had been asked with some regard to community of sentiment; still, if you chose to pay for it, you might with giving the names of the two professional conversationalists who would attend your dinner; the places that they ought, if pos sible, to occupy at the table so as to give them the power of talking with due effect. Many people objected to giving up two chairs, but on this point Mr. Jones was very emphaticit was his maxim that the conversation must flow, that there must be no abrupt jumping at points. Unless the topic was opened by a second person it was impossible for the "talker" to make his points with apparent spontaneity. Mr. Jones affirmed that he had frequently known some of the most perfect stories and bons mots fall utterly lifeless because the narrator had been obliged to force them without a natural introduction; he would never guarantee the success of a dinner unless he was allowed to send a "leader," as he was technically termed, to open the line of conversation for his coadjutor. The two conversationalists duly arrived at the hour appointed for dinner, but never in one another's company,-they were ushered into the drawing-room, and received with the same courtesy as the real guests-the whole charm would have been broken had their professional character been for a moment suspected. With regard to those heavy, sullen minutes before dinner is announced, Mr. Jones confessed his inability to afford any relief; indeed, he held that all conversation at that period was an utter waste of power, as the human mind, like the caged tiger prior to feeding-time, was in too disquieted a condition to receive any impression with effect. Perhaps the most extraordinary circumstance connected with the "system Jones" was the fact that very frequently the professional talkers ap |