How is it that we always think of the grape rather as a wine-producer than as a fruit? Perhaps because the earliest historical record of it is when Noah began to be a husbandman and planted a vineyard, and, instead of being content, as so good a man should have been, to eat the fruit of his vines in a rational way, or to press out the pure juice into his cup - as the temperance people, had they then been living, would have persuaded him was the only true wine - he set to work to make experiments, and, as people do under such circumstances, got bemuddled over them, until he did not know exactly what he was about, and hence the vine has been associated with wine, and the juice of the grape with drunkenness, ever since.

And yet the grape as a fruit is excellent, as we all know, and the great luscious bunches which hang in our green-houses are tempting in the extreme; but these are only produced at a cost which puts them beyond the reach of the million, and fits them only for a place on the table of the millionaire.

In countries where grapes grow with little care, the ripe clusters are gathered and eaten as required, and the rest are thrown into the wine vat, for it is a fruit which will not bear much handling and packing, although of late years it has been found possible to pack the ripe bunches in barrels, filling up the interstices with sawdust or with cork-dust, and thus the London market is supplied all the year round with a fruit always grateful to the palate, especially of invalids, at a ridiculously low price. The best qualities of these foreign grapes seldom exceed a shilling a pound, and they are sometimes to be had for fourpence. Most of these grapes come from Lisbon, but some were sent over from Australia during the Colonial and Indian Exhibition, and arrived in good condition.

It seems a pity that in lands so remote, the superabundant grapes should not be converted into raisins, and sent to us in that form, for grapes au naturel are of no use in the kitchen; but the dried grapes, both raisins and currants, are indispensable. Where would be our country's boast, sent all over the world now - the Christmas plum pudding - if we could not get raisins and currants? What dismay there would be amongst our cooks, if the markets of Malaga and Valencia were closed to us! And yet we have seen raisins from Cape Colony and Natal equal to any of these.* Why do they not send us more of them, and of dessert fruit, too, - muscatels dried on the stalk, which, with almonds, blanched or not, are the delight of all children, and not despised by those of more mature age, for we have seen grey-haired men discuss a dish of them with considerable relish, without thinking much of Tommy's disgust at finding the dish empty.

* Two Australian colonies, of which the chief is Milcura in Victoria, have lately been formed for the cultivation and drying of raisins, figs, apricots, peaches, etc., so that we may soon hope to have sun-dried fruit in the market, from the Antipodes.

Greatly as grapes are esteemed and valued, especially by invalids, it would seem possible to have too much of them sometimes, as those know who have been ordered to Meran in the Tyrol, to undergo that celebrated grape-cure, wherein the patient, beginning with a pound or two a day, has to increase the dose to nine or ten pounds, of course eating nothing else. It might be supposed that such a regimen would not only cure the patient of his disease, but would so disgust him with grapes that he would never eat another, but it is said people have been known to return again and again for the grape-cure.

Dried raisins bring us naturally to another favourite dessert fruit - dried Turkey figs, as they are called, although they certainly do not all now come from Turkey, whatever may have been the case originally, but the Smyrna brand is still regarded as the best.

The fig, quite unlike the grape, is grown only as a fruit, and a very delicious fruit it is, too, when ripened under a good hot sun; but in England, although the fig will thrive and bear fruit, it always appears to us wanting in flavour and in lusciousness. Singularly enough, the fig tree will flourish and grow to an immense size, even in the dirt and smoke of London. There is one house, close to the Foundling Hospital, which is covered to the very top with a fig tree of most luxuriant growth, but I have never seen any fruit upon it. The fig tree is said to have been first introduced into England by' Cardinal Pole, but it was probably known here long before his day, for there are many historical fig trees, and one is spoken of as an old tree in the time of James I.; it grew in the Dean's garden, Winchester, and bore small red figs, and on the stone wall near was an inscription to the effect that in 1623 King James I. tasted of the fruit with great pleasure. We, however, certainly do not much relish the ripe fig in this country; it has, in fact, passed into a term of contempt - ' I don't care a fig for it.' But very different is the estimation in which it is held in the East, and in the south of Europe. The constant references to it in the Bible prove how important it was considered by the Israelites, the two or even three crops a-year produced by fig trees in the East, causing it to be looked upon as a staple food, the failure of which meant famine. The first of these crops comes to maturity about June, whilst the second is forming; it is the second which is dried for export, and then in some climates a third crop appears, which hangs and ripens on the tree after the leaves are shed.

The fig entered largely into the food of the Greeks, for, when Lycurgus ordained that the Spartans should dine in a common hall, almost everyone contributed wine, cheese, and figs to the fare. Those who have not studied the origin of words will be surprised to hear that our word sycophant comes from two Greek words signifying 'a fig' and 'to show,' and that in its original meaning it was applied to those who informed against the breakers of an edict made by the Athenians against the export of figs, and, even as used by our older writers, sycophant means a tale bearer. The French still use the word in the sense of liar and impostor, instead of flatterer only.