Of birds which are not stupid, but knavish rather, even to much theft, Belon relates that the magpie is called Margot (the diminutive of Margaret, as Charles the First called his beautiful sister, the wife of Henry of Navarre); and the jay (Richard), each on account of their cry. Being somewhat skinny, the jay is thought rather a tough morsel by those who desire to dine upon him; but he himself eats everything that comes in his way, and is particularly fond of peas--green peas perhaps--at a guinea a pound. The common people think that the jay is subject to the falling sickness, nevertheless they eat him when they find him on the ground. It is, perhaps, a weakness in human nature which cannot be remedied, the tendency to make a meal of everything that has animal life. But for this, how severely might we not animadvert on the gluttony of those who, not remembering their song in spring, devour thrushes in the autumn: yet, that is the best time to eat them, for they are then perfectly delicious as you would say, with me, if you had made a diligence supper on thrushes travelling through the Ardennes. But, I fear, if I read any more of Peter Belon’s volume, I shall write an article on Gastronomy, a thing I had no notion of when I began. Let me conclude with something more serious than eating--if anything be more serious: let me lament, with all the world, that so useful a man as Peter Belon should have been cut off sadly in the prime of his life and full vigour of his intellect. He was only forty-five years of age when he was murdered one night as he traversed the Bois de Boulogne on his way to Paris; whether for the sake of plunder or revenge is not known. RHINE-LAND. We lean’d beneath the purple vine, In Andernach, the hoary; And at our elbows ran the Rhine In rosy twilight glory. Athwart the Seven-hills far seen The sun had fail’d to broaden; Above us stream’d in fading sheen The highway he had trodden. His farewell crimson kiss he left On clouds suffused with blushes: One star beam’d down the dewberry-cleft Across the mirror’d flashes. From cliffs of slate the vintage call’d In muffled leafage dusky: And down the river grandly wall’d, The grape reel’d ripe and husky. We reach’d entwining hands to seize The clusters round us glowing: Our locks were fondled by the breeze From southern sandhills blowing. The long-neck’d flask was not unbent, The globed green glass unemptied; The god of honest pleasure lent Young Love his powers, untempted. Home-friends we pledged; our bridal-maids; Sweet wishes gaily squander’d: We wander’d far in faëry glades, Up golden heights we wander’d. Like King and Queen in royal bliss, We paced a realm enchanted, A realm rose-vista’d, rich from this, Tho’ not from this transplanted.