"'Yours smells excellent, Pélagie; but you were always a good cook.' "'Ah, sir! there is one thing that helps me to make good dinners for our men!' "'What is that, Pélagie?' "'A good appetite. They put to sea last night, and here they come, tired, wet, dying of hunger: all that is spice for a plain meal.' "The fishermen entered. "'Come along!' cried M. Malais, 'you have a famous soup waiting for you. Upon my word, it smells too good; I must taste it. Pélagie, give me a plate; I will eat a few spoonsful with you. Certainly, it is but a short time since I took my breakfast--what people call a good breakfast--but without appetite, without pleasure.' "'Indeed! M. Malais, you will do us the honour of tasting our soup?' "And Pélagie hastened to put a clean cloth upon the table. Berenice fetched a pot of cider. Onesimus _moored_ the horse in the shade; then they all sat down, taking care to give the best place to M. Malais, who eagerly devoured a plateful of soup." We refer to the book itself those who would know how the poor old gentleman made a second fierce assault on the tureen, and an equally determined one on the bacon and greens; to what expedients he was subsequently reduced; how it fared with the Countess Pulchérie and her scapegrace husband, and what were the struggles, sufferings, and ultimate rewards, of the courageous and simple-hearted Alains. The book may safely be recommended to all readers. This is more than we can say for the next that comes to hand--_Un Mariage de Paris_ by Méry. This we should pitch into the rubbish-basket after reading the first two chapters, did it not serve to illustrate what we have often noted--the profound and barbarous ignorance of French literary men on the subject of England and the English. Were this confined to the smaller fry, the inferior herd of _Trans-canalic_ scribblers, one would not be surprised. It is nothing wonderful that such gentlemen as M. Paul Feval and poor blind Jacques Arago, should take _le gin_ and _le boxe_ to be the Alpha and Omega of English propensities and manners, and should proceed upon that presumption in romances of such distinguished merit as _Les Mystères de Londres_ and _Zambala l'Indien_. But M. Méry is a man of letters esteemed amongst his fellows--a hasty and slovenly writer, certainly, but possessing wit, and tact, and style, when he chooses to employ them; and having, moreover, he himself assures us, in the pages of the singular production now under dissection, been all through England--although this we apprehend he effected by means of express trains, without stop or stay, from Folkestone to Berwick-upon-Tweed and back again. Even this much acquaintance with the British Isles is denied to many of his contemporaries, who evidently derive their notions of English habits and customs from the frequenters of the English taverns about the Places Favart and Madeleine at Paris. M. Méry is above this. He draws entirely upon his imagination for the manners, morals,