"Too many cooks"—"the proverb's something musty."

We have just had another new Cook; but too sure I am that, like the whole tribe of Cooks that enter our family, she will never pass the boundaries of the cognomen "New Cook." All our Cooks have been new. The oldest one we have ever had, in my remembrance, was a prodigy of a month's service in our kitchen; and although it must be confessed that, even during that period, she was twice threatened or warned by my mother, her long stay was astonishing to us all. Compared with her predecessors she was quite a fixture in the house.

It would take up "too much room in the Omnibus," to detail one half of the discrepancies of our Cooks. The great Cook who circumnavigated the globe—who traversed seas remote, and explored lands unknown, found no such curiosities among the monsters of the great deep, or the uncivilized eccentrics on shore. One, as my maiden aunt delicately observes, becomes quite "inebriated"—off she goes; another has "followers"—off she goes; another increases her "kitchen stuff" at the expense of the fat of the meat, which she cuts off to a nicety (and my father is particularly fond of fat)—off she goes—another cannot cook a potato—off she goes; another forms a clandestine match with the butler after a week's intimacy—off she goes—he too falling a victim and losing his place.

When I say that my mother seldom looks over the first offence, I explain pretty clearly how it is that every week finds us with a new cook. On the day of their engagement my sanguine parent invariably tells us "she has found a treasure;" a cook with such a character—never drinks—no followers—so honest—can cook anything;—such a woman for making "made up" (sometimes called French) dishes, &c. In a few days this treasure of a cook turns out to be, without a single exception, the very worst we ever had to endure (for it rather singularly happens that each in succession is "the very worst").—"Oh, that dreadful woman!" is the cry. She boils what she should roast, and roasts what she should boil; she is a snuff-taker, and almost everything she cooks is supposed to savour of Lundyfoot or Prince's mixture. Off she goes before we find out a fair half of her intolerable propensities.

If it be but a chop to serve up, I like it served up in a style that I can depend upon. Underdone or overdone is of less consequence, so that I know beforehand, by experience of the cook's performances, how it will be done. But this continual succession of "treasures" subjects us to a continual series of experiments.

If we don't settle soon, the office, so far as our family is concerned, will be in danger of abolition. Already has my distracted mother observed, on five different occasions, each time with deeper emphasis, "I wish it were possible to do without a cook." Yesterday, when this exclamation escaped her, my father, who, excepting in a taste for fat, is a man of very philosophical notions, caught up the note, and said, doubtingly, "My dear, do you consider it to be quite necessary to have a dinner every day!"

The last treasure we had only cooked our dinner on one day! She must have been a practitioner in some wholesale cooking establishment; cook to an ordinary on a grand scale, where dinners for a hundred and forty were daily prepared. We had to dine on cold meat for a week after she left us. You must know, that on the first day of her instalment in office, the butcher had been directed (we lived a few miles from town, and at a distance from any market-place) to send us a supply of animal food sufficient to last for about eight days. There were a leg of mutton—a saddle of mutton—a sirloin of beef—a round of beef, and various small nick-nacks for side dishes. Well, my dear credulous mother received the new cook as usual. She found her to be a most enormous treasure; and she can at this day make affidavit, if necessary, that she gave her the proper directions about the dinner. On the day the circumstance I am about to relate took place, we had merely the family at dinner. On entering the dining-room, I observed my mother gently start, as her eye encountered a great number of large dishes round the table. She, however, suppressed her astonishment, took her place at the head of the table (my father never carved), said grace, and was sinking slowly into her chair as the servant raised the first cover. My mother instantly started up, exclaiming, in a tone of alarm, and with turned-up eyes,

"Mercy on us! the leg of mutton!"

All eyes turned in a moment upon the uncovered mutton, and then on my agitated mother. The servant, after a pause, laid his hand on the second cover, upon which my mother had bent her looks. Up went the cover amidst curling wreaths of steam.

"Good gracious! look at the sirloin!" cried my mother.

We all looked accordingly at the sirloin, but without discovering in it anything peculiarly different from other sirloins.

The removal of the next cover exhibited the round of beef—another exclamation from my mother. We now all commenced staring, first, at the joints, then at my mother, and then at each other. We certainly began to think, when a fourth joint had appeared in view, that there was "something wrong." A pause ensued—my father broke it.

"In the name of wonder," said he, "what's the matter?"

"O that new cook," answered my mother, with a groan.

"What has she done?" inquired my father.

"The whole weeks marketing!" said my mother, sinking into her chair, for she had been standing all this time.

"Stupid woman," continued my father, "send her off immediately."

"Did you ever hear of such a dreadful creature?" said my mother. "Off she goes the first thing in the morning;" and sure enough our new cook gave place to another new one the very next day.

My chief object in taking a trip in the "Omnibus" is the hope of meeting somebody, in the course of its rounds, who may recommend to us some treasure of a cook, likely to suit my mother, and remain with her, say, for a month or two; for this changing once a week worries the life out of me. You all know the proverb that speaks of too many cooks. How true it is in our case! We want one, instead of a multitude.

I shall not mention the name of the personage who is proverbially said to "send cooks." Perhaps we have already had a protegÉe or two of his among our professors; but a cook of anybody's sending would be eagerly welcomed by me—so that she would but be a little steady, and stop!
W. S.