OUR RIVER HARVESTS. 



281 



nidely scraped in a bank, is all the home that his 

 imagination can conceive or his needs require. 



But however widely different may be the polished 

 exquisite of London society, and the rude savage of the 

 antipodes, they both agree in one absolute want — 



HATCHUfO-TUOUGHS IX GREEXHOUSKS. 



namely, that they must eat or die ; and if we trace 

 effects to their causes, we shall find that our lamented 

 friend Soyer was not very far wrong in considering the 

 culinary art to be the mother of civilisation. 



As witli individuals, so with nations, which, after 



