turn. A hare overdone is no longer a hare; she is wood-horn; she is flesh without taste or flavour, not worth the shot that killed her.

In order to ascertain if the hare be old or young (an essential thing to a cook), you should bend the paws of the fore legs to the knee. If the separation of the two bones is perceptible to the touch, she is young. A good hare is plump; her back is strong, large, and broad, but she is never fat.

The mountain hare is far better than those found in the low grounds; she feeds on herbs and wild thyme, and her flesh is perfumed with a charming flavour. Generally speaking, the drier the earth the better the hare. In Provence they are delicious, but rare: It is an event to kill one in that part of France; all are jealous of such luck. I could never understand why Moses forbade the Jews, and Mahomet the Moors, to eat hares. Pork I can understand: in warm climates the flesh is unwholesome; but the hare is always good. The Greeks and Romans served her on their tables only on

great occasions; and they have vaunted her efficacy in certain circumstances which I must decline entering into. Yet, while on this subject, Pliny tells us an old proverb of his time "When you eat hare, you are handsome for seven days following." Seven days! this is not bad. Martial says, "Inter quadrupedes gloria prima lepus." The Romans were persuaded that the flesh of a hare preserved freshness and beauty. Ladies, then, eat hares; and, according to the precepts of Pliny, make your husbands eat them also. The Emperor Alexander ate hare at every meal. Among the Greeks it was the emblem of fear, and never was emblem better judged. According to their custom of deifying, they placed a hare in the rank of constellations. In fact, to say one word in apology for the hare, I will add that Lucullus estimated it infinitely. Lucullus-do you understand the immense authority of this name in practical gastronomy? It is to be regretted that history has not preserved to us the receipt of the sauce served to this gentleman. The most

material points are ever precisely those which historians neglect. As, however, we have not the receipt adopted by Lucullus, permit me to give you that I use myself. Heretofore I ate hare à la sauce piquante. Since, however, I have done so with simple currant jelly, I have continued so to do without demanding the originator of this taste, and I recommend the same to all.

I will conclude this chapter by giving you a brief account of the finest hare-chase which exists in the memory of man. We were four hundred thousand men, French and Austrians. The above took place at a certain village named Wagram, a few leagues from Vienna. The plain was covered with hares; at every ten paces many got up before us. Our guns and cannons caused them much fright; they started, in the hopes of saving themselves; but at a short distance they met with two hundred thousand Austrians, afterwards beaten, little to their satisfaction. Then they returned; and you might see them running in troops between the two armies. A charge of

cavalry, in no manner made on their account, put them to the route; they pierced the ranks, passed between our legs they were killed by the bayonet or the sword, or taken alive. Alas! that day we beheld a butchery of men and hares! A hare killed caused a comrade to be forgotten; it was the farce to the tragedy. How many balls intended for the enemy were fired at these poor hares! Never were so many seen,

never were so many killed.

That night,

after the battle, conquerors and conquered

supped together on hashed hare.

Attire les paillards à elle.”—La Sire de Gargas.

PARTRIDGES Couple in the month of March; they lay in the month of May, at times in the end of April: about the 28th of June they fly this is a fact which is proved yearly by experience. The moment the young are hatched, the cock and hen birds move in a body, which is termed a covey.

Unfortunately partridges make their nests in clover, grass, and sainfoin, often preferring the grass, because it grows more rapidly, and offers them shelter; but the mower arrives before the young are hatched, and thus the covey is lost. Alas! why have