The cries of New York are quite going out, like everything else at home that is twenty years old. Shall I send you some of this eternal _poulet a la Marengo?_ I wish it were honest American boiled fowl, with a delicate bit of shoat-pork alongside of it. I feel amazingly _homeish_ this evening, Hugh!" "It is quite natural, my dear uncle Ro; and I own to the 'soft impeachment' myself. Here have we both been absent from our native land five years, and half that time almost without hearing from it. We know that Jacob"--this was a free negro who served my uncle, a relic of the old domestic system of the colonies, whose name would have been Jaaf, or Yop, thirty years before--"has gone to our banker's for letters and papers; and that naturally draws our thoughts to the other side of the Atlantic. I dare say we shall both feel relieved at breakfast to-morrow, when we shall have read our respective despatches." "Come, let us take a glass of wine together, in the good old York fashion, Hugh. Your father and I, when boys, never thought of wetting our lips with the half-glass of Madeira that fell to our share, without saying, 'Good health, Mall!' 'Good health, Hodge!'" "With all my heart, uncle Ro. The custom was getting to be a little obsolete even before I left home; but it is almost an American custom, by sticking to us longer than to most people." "Henri!" This was my uncle's maitre d'hotel, whom he had kept at board-wages the whole time of our absence, in order to make sure of his ease, quiet, taste, skill, and honesty, on his return. "Monsieur!" "I dare say"--my uncle spoke French exceedingly well for a foreigner; but it is better to translate what he said as we go--"I dare say this glass of vin de Bourgogne is very good; it _looks_ good, and it came from a wine-merchant on whom I can rely; but Mons. Hugh and I are going to drink together, a l'Americaine, and I dare say you will let us have a glass of Madeira, though it is somewhat late in the dinner to take it." "Tres volontiers, Messieurs--it is my happiness to oblige you." Uncle Ro and I took the Madeira together; but I cannot say much in favour of its quality. "What a capital thing is a good Newtown pippin!" exclaimed my uncle, after eating a while in silence. "They talk a great deal about their _poire beurree_, here at Paris; but, to my fancy, it will not compare with the Newtowners we grow at Satanstoe, where, by the way, the fruit is rather better, I think, than that one finds across the river, at Newtown itself." "They are capital apples, sir; and your orchard at Satanstoe is one of the best I know, or rather what is left of it; for I believe a portion of your trees are in what is now a suburb of Dibbletonborough?" "Yes, blast that place! I wish I had never parted with a foot of the old neck, though I did rather make money by the sale. But money is no compensation for the affections."