"Sir, Respect Your Dinner; idolize it, enjoy it properly. You will be many hours in the week, many weeks in the year, and many years in your life the happier if you do."—Thackeray.

A review of the dinner-table were incomplete without a reference to several writers, other than those already cited, who have wielded a more or less pronounced influence on gastronomy. Of such, two English authors deserve especial mention, each of whom has sought to prove that the art of the gastronomer is the art of being happy; and that, if blessed with a good appetite and sound digestion, one may round off many a corner of life's miseries.

To Dr. William Kitchener the merit of reforming English cookery as it existed during the early part of the past century is due to no inconsiderable degree. The overladen table, with its pompous decorations, heavy viands, and superabundance of wines, was first severely censured in "The Cook's Oracle," and later in Thomas Walker's periodical, "The Original," since reprinted in book form. The first edition of the "Oracle" appeared in 1817; and, like Mrs. Glasse's "Art of Cookery," was subsequently much amended and enlarged.[40] An eccentric and would-be dietetic reformer, the author was ridiculed at first, as is often the case with those who advance new ideas or attempt to disturb existing conditions. "Christopher North," whose own Pegasus was often inclined to strange curvets, reviled him as he also did Tennyson; and Hood addressed him in three mock-heroic odes. But beneath his mannerisms and diatribes there remained much practical sense, an extended culinary knowledge, and no little shrewd observation.

It was the author's endeavour to "improve plain cookery and to render food acceptable to the palate without being expensive to the purse"—a precept altogether admirable. The preface to the third edition emphasises, very truly, that among the manifold causes which concur to impair health and produce disease, the most general is the improper quality of food, this most frequently arising from the injudicious manner in which it is prepared. Yet it remains to be added that since the days of the "Oracle" man has greatly improved in this respect, even in England; that despite the multiplicity of diseases, hygiene is becoming far better understood by the masses; and that for the various ills arising through the stomach, chemistry and the doctors have devised numerous simple correctives which have proved of inestimable value.

The key-note of the "Oracle" is contained in the sentence, "Unless the stomach be in good humour, every part of the machinery of life must vibrate with languor,"—a sentiment with which all those who have touched twoscore will profoundly agree. It is for elderly stomachs whose bloom may have been somewhat brushed off that the doctor's counsels will be found preËminently deserving of attention. To the epicure he likewise proved an excellent mentor; to the dyspeptic, a friend in need.

That he was strongly influenced by the writings of Grimod de la ReyniÈre is readily perceptible, though he states in the introduction that his work is a bona-fide register of practical facts, and that he has not printed a recipe which has not been proved in his own kitchen. Before undertaking his task, he had consulted all the treatises obtainable on the subject, amounting to no less than two hundred and fifty volumes. These, he asserts, vary very little from one another, and any one who has occasion to refer to two or three of them will find the recipes almost always the same—equally unintelligible to those who are ignorant, and useless to those who are acquainted with the business of the kitchen. The numerous "Good Housewife's Closets," "Ladies' Companions," and "Gentlewomen's Cabinets," in fact, are virtually identical, save for their titles and forewords.

With the recipes of the "Oracle" the reader need not be as much concerned as with its spirit and its epicurean principles, which reveal a strongly marked individuality, and a comprehension far in advance of the time in Great Britain. Oracular and discursive, the author ambles pleasantly along the road of Conviviality, scattering his maxims and dispensing his formulas, while dipping into volume after volume to emphasise his text. The "Oracle" may be briefly described as a quaint medley of cookery, hygienic precepts, science, gastronomy, and domestic economy, written by a bon vivant. A long chapter is devoted to the subject of invitations to dinner, wherein punctuality is strictly insisted upon—dining, according to the writer, being the only act of the day which cannot be put off with impunity for even five minutes. He would have the cook the warden in chief, as defined by Mercier, a physician who cures two mortal maladies, Hunger and Thirst; or a Hominum servatorem—a preserver of mankind, as designated by Plautus. A good dinner, he maintains, is one of the greatest enjoyments of human life; but it should never be at the mercy of belated guests,—"what will be agreeable to the stomach and restorative to the system at five o'clock will be uneatable and indigestible at a quarter past." When he himself gave a dinner-party, the guests were invited for five o'clock, and at five minutes after the hour specified, the street door was locked, and the key, by his order, was set aside. But it is perhaps in the chapter on advice to cooks, and in his directions as to the minutiÆ of boiling, baking, roasting, and frying, that he is most suggestive. A characteristic farewell to the reader concludes the volume, which even to-day may be consulted with profit—an observation that will also apply to many portions of its companion treatise, "The Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life."

Less pretentious, and dealing more with the Æsthetic side of good living, are the essays of the "Original," by Thomas Walker, barrister at law and magistrate, which treat of the pleasures of the table under the titles, "The Art of Attaining High Health" and "The Art of Dining."[41] These critical dissertations originally appeared in 1835 in a weekly periodical of which he was the editor, the series terminating with his death the subsequent year. And if the influence of the "Almanach" is readily discernible in the case of Dr. Kitchener, so in like manner one detects a flavour of the "Physiology" in the genial pages of Walker. Kitchener undoubtedly proves himself the more valiant trencherman, while Walker remains the more refined and philosophic host.

His golden rule was, "Content the stomach and the stomach will content you." A little irregularity in agreeable company he deems better than the best observance in solitude. When dining alone is necessary, however, he adds that the mind should be disposed to cheerfulness by a previous interval of relaxation from whatever has seriously occupied the attention, and by directing it to some agreeable object. And so contentment ought to be an accompaniment to every meal. Punctuality becomes the more essential, and the diner and the dinner should be ready at the same time. Concerning dining in comfort, he holds that a chief maxim is to have what you want when you want it, and not be obliged to wait for little additions to be supplied, when what they belong to is half or entirely finished.

The plates should be brought in before the dish, and the dish and its adjuncts appear simultaneously; in other words, the necessary condiments should always be at hand, and the wines should stand ready to be poured out at the moment required,—the lesson of patience, however desirable, is not a virtue that should be inculcated at the dinner-table; and prompt service must ever form a great desideratum of the perfect meal. In dining, more than anything else, perhaps, whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, though this were far from meaning that lavish expenditure need enter into the hospitable relations of host and guests. Forethought and careful personal attention, it may be reiterated, play a most important part at the board of Good Cheer; and simple dishes unexceptionally prepared and served, with the beverages that naturally accompany them at the proper temperature, will garnish any table with a cloth of gold. "A good soup, a small turbot, a neck of venison, ducklings with green peas, or chicken with asparagus, and an apricot tart," the Earl of Dudley was accustomed to say, "is a dinner for an emperor." There are those possibly who might prefer the much more simple menu of a French gourmet,—"A bottle of Chambertin, a ragoÛt À la Sardanapale, and a pretty lady causeur, are the three best companions at table in France."

But it will be rendering greater justice to the author to permit him to speak for himself on some of the niceties connected with the art he has expounded so wisely and so well:

"Anybody can dine, but few know how to dine so as to ensure the greatest quantity of health and enjoyment" [he agrees with Dumas and Fayot]. "Indeed, many people contrive to destroy their health; and as to enjoyment, I shudder when I think how often I have been doomed to only a solemn mockery of it; how often I have sat in durance stately, to go through the ceremony of dinner, the essence of which is to be without ceremony, and how often in this land of liberty I have felt myself a slave.

"There is in the art of dining a matter of special importance—I mean attendance, the real end of which is to do that for you which you cannot so well do for yourself. Unfortunately, this end is generally lost sight of, and the effect of attendance is to prevent you from doing that which you could do much better for yourself. The cause of this perversion is to be found in the practice and example of the rich and ostentatious, who constantly keep up a sort of war-establishment, or establishment adapted to extraordinary instead of ordinary occasions, and the consequence is that, like all potentates who follow the same policy, they never really taste the sweets of peace; they are in a constant state of invasion by their own troops. It is a rule at dinners not to allow you to do anything for yourself, and I have never been able to understand how even salt, except it be from some superstition, has so long maintained its place. I am rather a bold man at table and set form very much at defiance, so that if a salad happens to be within my reach, I make no scruple to take it to me; but the moment I am espied, it is nipped up from the most convenient into the most inconvenient position. See a small party with a dish of fish at each end of the table, and four silver covers standing unmeaningly at the sides, whilst everything pertaining to the fish comes, even with the best attendance, provokingly lagging, one thing after another, so that contentment is out of the question; and all this is done under pretence that it is the most convenient plan. This is an utter fallacy. The only convenient plan is to have everything actually upon the table that is wanted at the same time, and nothing else; as, for example, for a party of eight, turbot and salmon, with doubles of each of the adjuncts, lobster-sauce, cucumber, young potatoes, cayenne, and Chili vinegar, and let the guests assist one another, which with such an arrangement they could do with perfect ease. This is undisturbed and visible comfort.

"A system of simple attendance would induce a system of simple dinners, which are the only dinners to be desired.... With respect to wine, it is often offered when not wanted; and when wanted, is perhaps not to be had till long waited for. It is dreary to observe two guests, glass in hand, waiting the butler's leisure to take wine together, and then perchance being helped in despair to what they did not ask for; and it is still more dreary to be one of the two yourself. How different when you can put your hand on a decanter the moment you want it!"

"Perhaps the most distressing incident in a grand dinner" [the author continues] "is to be asked to take champagne, and after much delay to see the butler extract the bottle from a cooler, and hold it nearly parallel to the horizon in order to calculate how much he is to put into the first glass to leave any for the second. To relieve him and yourself from the chilling difficulty, the only alternative is to change your mind and prefer sherry, which, under the circumstances, has rather an awkward effect. These and an infinity of minor evils are constantly experienced amidst the greatest displays. Some good bread and cheese and a jug of ale comfortably set before me, and heartily given, are heaven and earth in comparison.... The legitimate objects of dinner are to refresh the body, to please the palate, and to raise the social humour to the highest point; but these objects, so far from being studied, in general are not even thought of, and display and an adherence to fashion are their meagre substitutes."

To be niggardly with one's champagne we have already alluded to as despicable. Yet the amount of this wine that may be dispensed at dinner should depend on the cellar of the entertainer; and where Yquem or a grand Deidesheimer, Lafite, or La TÂche of well-succeeded years is also to figure, it is wise for the host to let the fact be known, and for him to curtail the flow of sparkling wine, in order that proper justice may be rendered to its companions. On this subject the "Original" again proves itself a valuable signboard, and its doctrine as to the conduct of the dinner forms a tenet worthy of all praise,—"If the master of a feast wishes his party to succeed, he must know how to command and not let his guests run riot, each according to his own wild fancy." We cannot agree with the "Original" and some others that it is correct to serve a sparkling wine, to the exclusion of all others, throughout an extended repast. The palate and the eye weary of a single beverage, however brilliant the vintage, and yearn for a contrast in flavour and colour.

Simplicity is constantly urged throughout "The Art of Dining," and again and again does the author insist upon the necessity of having whatever dish that may be served preceded by all its minor adjuncts, and accompanied by all the proper vegetables quite hot, so that it may be enjoyed entirely and at once. The liquid accessories he would have placed upon the table in such a manner as to be as much as possible within the reach of each person; and as Mathew Bramble, in "Humphrey Clinker," talks, in his delights of rural life, of eating trout struggling from the stream, so he would have his dishes served glowing or steaming from the kitchen, a quality which lends a relish otherwise impossible.

"There are two kinds of dinners" [he goes on to say]—"one simple, consisting of a few dishes, the other embracing a variety. Both kinds are good in their way, and both deserve attention; but for constancy I greatly prefer the simple style.... In the first place, it is necessary not to be afraid of not having enough, and so to go into the other extreme and have a great deal too much, as is almost invariably the practice. It is also necessary not to be afraid of the table looking bare, and so to crowd it with dishes not wanted, whereby they become cold and sodden. 'Enough is as good as a feast' is a sound maxim, as well in providing as in eating. The having too much, and setting dishes on the table merely for appearance, are practices arising out of prejudices which, if once broken through, would be looked upon, and deservedly, as the height of vulgarity. The excessive system is a great preventive of hospitality, by adding to the expense and trouble of entertaining, whilst it has no one advantage. It is only pursued by the majority of people for fear of being unlike the rest of the world."

Every gastronomer will endorse the sentiment that in proportion to the smallness of a dinner ought to be its excellence, both as to the quality of materials and the cooking. Nor is there less truth in the complaint that it is an existing evil that everybody is prone to strive after the same dull style—the rule generally followed being to consider what the guests are accustomed to; whereas it should be reversed, and what they are not accustomed to should rather be set before them. This stricture he applies to the serving of wines as well as of viands—"we go on in the beaten track without profiting by the varieties which are to be found on every side." To order dinner well he defines as a matter of invention and combination, involving novelty, simplicity, and taste; whereas in the generality of dinners there is no character but that of dull routine, according to the season. Too little attention, he complains, is paid to the mode of dining according to the time of the year, summer dinners being for the most part as heavy and as hot as those in winter, with the consequence of being frequently very oppressive, both in themselves and from their effect on the room. In hot weather the chief thing to be aimed at is to produce a light and cool feeling, both by the management of the room and the nature of the repast; in winter, warmth and substantial diet afford the most satisfaction.

It may be held with reason that some of the inconveniences pointed out with reference to service could be obviated by the service À la Russe—discarding its medley of dishes on the table, and utilising its features of carving and serving. But Walker's great aim was that of a simple style of dinner-giving to a select few whose number he would limit to eight. Under these circumstances it is easy to understand how it were more appetising to dispense with any dishes in waiting which serve to cloy rather than to stimulate appetite, and more advantageous to have the carving performed by the master himself. At a men's dinner, more especially, where a saddle of mutton, a haunch of venison, or other roast forms the piÈce de rÉsistance, and where, therefore, "cut and come again" is the motto of the hour, the less formal style is certainly preferable, and productive of the best results to the guests.

It is only on one occasion that we find him wavering in the dogmas he advances so emphatically and withal so aptly, this incertitude occurring in connection with a dinner he had ordered at Blackwall, the menu of which may be appropriately transcribed as a practical illustration of his ideas on gastronomy:

"The party will consist of seven men beside myself, and every guest is asked for some reason—upon which good fellowship mainly depends; for people brought together unconnectedly had, in my opinion, better be kept separate. Eight I hold to be the golden number, never to be exceeded without weakening the efficacy of concentration. The dinner is to consist of turtle, followed by no other fish but whitebait, which is to be followed by no other meat but grouse, which are to be succeeded simply by apple-fritters and jelly; pastry on such occasions being quite out of place. With the turtle of course there will be punch, with the whitebait champagne, and with the grouse claret: the two former I have ordered to be particularly well iced, and they will all be placed in succession on the table, so that we can help ourselves as we please. I will permit no other wines, unless, perchance, a bottle or two of port, if particularly wanted, as I hold variety of wines a great mistake. With respect to the adjuncts, I shall take care that there is cayenne, with lemons cut in halves, not in quarters, within reach of every one for the turtle, and that brown bread and butter in abundance is set upon the table for the whitebait. The dinner will be followed by ices and a good dessert, after which coffee and one glass of liqueur each, and no more."

Surely, an excellent repast, if the cooking was all that could have been desired, as the author happily informs the reader was the case. But in his comments on the dinner occurs this qualifying sentence,—"There was an opinion broached that some flounders, water-zoutcheed, between the turtle and whitebait would have been an improvement"; and, for once, the "Original" proves vacillating, and adds—"Perhaps they would." Yet, if we are to believe no less an authority than Thackeray, the dish under consideration is one for which room may always be appropriately found—a dish that, when well prepared, possesses ambrosial qualities. He is discoursing of a flounder-souchy in the sketch entitled, "Greenwich Whitebait"; and one's mouth fairly waters as he reads it: "It has an almost angelic delicacy of flavour; it is as fresh as the recollections of childhood—it wants a Correggio's pencil to describe it with sufficient tenderness."

The recipe for a water-souchy is thus given by Kitchener, to be made with flounders, whiting, gudgeons, or eels:

"After cutting the fish in handsome pieces, place them in a stewpan with as much water as will cover them, with some parsley or parsley roots sliced, an onion minced fine, and a little pepper and salt, to which sometimes scraped horseradish and a bay-leaf are added. Skim carefully when boiling, and when the fish is sufficiently done send it up in a deep dish lined with bread sippets, and some slices of bread and butter on a plate. Some cooks thicken the liquor the fish has been stewing in with flour and butter, and flavour it with white wine, lemon juice, essence of anchovy, and catsup, and boil down two or three flounders to make a fish broth to boil the other fish in, observing that the broth cannot be good unless the fish are boiled too much."

This does not sound as palatable as a sole au gratin or en matelote Normande, or even whitebait—that "little means of obtaining a great deal of pleasure"; but one can scarcely forget Thackeray's sentence, even if his appreciation may have been heightened by the surroundings of the Ship Tavern and congenial companionship.

Nearly ten years after Walker's day we find Thackeray also condemning many similar evils:

"I would have" [he urges, and the advice is still pertinent]—"a great deal more hospitality and less show. Everybody has the same dinner in London, and the same soup, and the same saddle of mutton, boiled fowls and tongue, entrÉes, champagne, and so forth. Who does not know those made dishes with the universal sauce to each: fricandeau, sweetbreads, damp dumpy cutlets, etc., seasoned with the compound of grease, onions, bad port wine, cayenne pepper, and curry-powder, the poor wiry Moselle and sparkling Burgundy in the ice-coolers, and the old story of white and brown soup, turbot, little smelts, boiled turkey, and saddle of mutton?... What I would recommend with all my power is that dinners should be more simple, more frequent, and should contain fewer persons. Ten is the utmost number that a man of moderate means should ever invite to his table; although in a great house managed by a great establishment the case may be different. A man and a woman may look as if they were glad to see ten people; but in a great dinner they abdicate their position as host and hostess,—are mere creatures in the hands of the sham butlers, sham footmen, and tall confectioners' emissaries who crowd the room,—and are guests at their own table, where they are helped last, and of which they occupy the top and bottom."

Thackeray has written frequently on the pleasures of the table, and his name may well figure in the annals of gastronomy as one of its shining lights, if only for his delicious essays "Memorials of Gormandising" and "On Some Dinners at Paris," to which in their entirety the reader is referred.

Still later, Charles Dickens keenly satirises the existing pomp and the lack of simplicity of the English table, notably among the higher classes, where he finds so much Powder in waiting that it flavours the repast, pulverous particles getting into the dishes, and Society's meats having a seasoning of first-rate footmen—society having everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner.

Perhaps in no connection with the art of which the "Original" treats is the advice more practical than in the remarks on variety, with which the reference to Walker may be terminated:

"Although I like, as a rule, to abstain from much variety at the same meal, I think it both wholesome and agreeable to vary the food on different days, both as to the materials and mode of dressing them. The palate is better pleased and the digestion more active, and the food, I believe, assimilates in a greater degree with the system. The productions of the different seasons and of different climates point out to us unerringly that it is proper to vary our food; and one good general rule I take to be, to select those things which are most in season, and to abandon them as soon as they begin to deteriorate in quality. Most people mistake the doctrine of variety in their mode of living; they have great variety at the same meals, and great sameness at different meals. These agreeable varieties are never met with, or even thought of, in the formal routine of society, though they contribute much, when appropriately devised, to the enjoyment of a party. With respect to variety of vegetables, I think the same rule applies as to other dishes. I would not have many sorts on the same occasion, but would study appropriateness and particular excellence. One of the greatest luxuries, to my mind, in dining is to be able to command plenty of good vegetables, well served up. Excellent potatoes, smoking hot, and accompanied by melted butter of the first quality, would alone stamp merit on any dinner; but they are as rare on state occasions, so served, as if they were of the cost of pearls."

It may be subjoined to the many pertinent observations respecting the duties of the entertainer, that so far as it is within his power he should consider his guests individually, weighing their personal likes and dislikes to such extent as may comport with the general welfare. The first thing he should recognise as his imperative duty is to please. Yet while a surprise in the components of the dinner is to be desired, the choice of dishes should nevertheless be made with reference to the taste of the majority, in distinction to one's own preference or the predilections of the few. With the stiff and formal dinner, or with large dinner-parties, fine discrimination is less practicable, these functions being necessarily a burden to all concerned. Les dÎners fins se font en petits comitÉs; and, equally, in informal gatherings. The deft hand and nice judgment may be thoroughly manifested only among intimate friends, where the personality of the master may guide and direct, free from the trammels of conventionality. Then that false etiquette which prescribes that the entertainer should never rise from the table may be waived; and where he may enhance the pleasure of his friends by an impromptu visit to the wine-cellar in pursuit of some special vintage that the moment calls for, or carry out a happy thought that the occasion may create, it is his bounden duty to perform for himself what others may not perform as well, or perform not at all. With the absence of formality, the wit may rise to the full height of his genius, the humorist may shine, and the accomplished and graceful liar draw a treble measure of delight from the font of a genial and exuberant fancy.

"The Art of Dining" also forms the title of a work by the scholarly essayist Abraham Hayward, a rearrangement of two articles he had contributed to the "Quarterly Review" in 1835 and 1836.[42] By few writers has the subject been treated so invitingly. There is no taint of grossness throughout his review; and if it be true that next to partaking of a good dinner is to read about one, we must thank him for the enjoyment he has contributed. A distinguished scholar and epicure, he had travelled widely, and was equally at home in the French and English capitals. All the celebrated restaurants, chefs, and maÎtres-d'hÔtel of Paris were familiar to him, while few have shown themselves as conversant with the literature of his theme. He had, moreover, an entrÉe into the most distinguished circles; and, last but not least, possessed a marvellous memory to recall the people he had met, and the dinners and festivities at which he had assisted—with the bon-mots, repartees, and anecdotes that the popping of corks without number had set free. As a raconteur, with an unlimited repertory of incidents concerning the notables who were prominent in society, politics, and gastronomy, he is said to have been unsurpassed.

His subject, he states, has been discussed with the object of facilitating convivial enjoyment and promoting sociability; and in these matters he will be found both a brilliant causeur and connoisseur. Passing by his anecdotal review of Parisian cookery, his reference to the simple expedients by which the success of a dinner may be insured will serve to show his resources, and his grasp of the practical side of the topic:

"We have seen Painter's turtle prepare the way for a success which was crowned by a lark pudding. We have seen a kidney dumpling perform wonders; and a noble-looking shield of Canterbury brawn from Groves's diffuse a sensation of unmitigated delight. One of Morell's Montanches hams, or a woodcock pie from Bavier's of Boulogne, would be a sure card; but a home-made partridge pie would be more likely to come upon your company by surprise, provided a beefsteak be put over as well as under the birds, and the birds be placed with their breasts downwards in the dish. Game or wild fowl is never better than broiled; and a boiled shoulder of mutton, or boiled duck or pheasant, might alone found a reputation. A still more original notion was struck out by a party of eminent connoisseurs who entertained the Right Hon. Sir Henry Ellis at Fricoeur's, just before he started on his Persian embassy. They actually ordered a roasted turbot, and were boasting loudly of the success of the invention when a friend of ours had the curiosity to ask M. Fricoeur in what manner he set about the dressing of the fish. 'Why, sare, you no tell; we no roast him at all; we put him in oven and bake him.'"

Some there are who would seriously object to boiled mutton as opposed to roast, and who assuredly would cry out in horror at a duck or game-bird boiled. Yet boiled mutton with capers is orthodox—like corned beef and cabbage, or the Rindfleisch with horseradish sauce, which blends so well with the MÜnchner where one meets it in the middle of the day in Germany. A broiled teal, wood-duck, or butterball, by all means; but a roast canvasback, redhead, or mallard in preference always.

"Marrowbones are always popular" [the author continues]. "So is a well-made devil or a broil. When a picture of the Dutch school, representing a tradesman in a passion with his wife for bringing up an underdone leg of mutton, was shown to the late Lord Hertford, his lordship's first remark was, 'What a fool that fellow is not to see that he may have a capital broil!' A genuine hure de sanglier, or wild boar's head, would elevate the plainest dinner into dignity. The comparative merits of pies and puddings present a problem which it is no easy matter to decide. On the whole, we give the preference to puddings, as affording more scope to the inventive genius of the cook. A plum-pudding, for instance, our national dish, is hardly ever boiled enough. A green apricot tart is commonly considered the best tart that is made: but a green apricot pudding is a much better thing. A cherry dumpling is better than a cherry tart. A beefsteak pudding, again, is better than the corresponding pie; but oysters and mushrooms are essential to its success. A mutton-chop pudding with oysters, but without mushrooms, is excellent."

Never having tried the last-mentioned "remove," the writer is willing to trust to its excellence, and to the general good taste of Hayward. But one has his doubts sometimes, the proof of the pudding being in the eating; and possibly a mutton-chop and oyster compound may be spoiling two things intrinsically good in themselves, and the dish deserve to be placed in the same category with a boiled pheasant or a wild fowl. Moreover, what may taste or appear excellent in one place does not always appear the same in another, this holding true with many things besides dishes, which may be affected by the climate, the surroundings, or one's mood at the time.

The topic of fish is particularly well treated by Hayward. On the subject of game, he has this to say concerning a native marsh-bird of the sandpiper tribe, highly prized for its eggs and flesh, which has become even yet more rare with the draining of the English meres and fens:

"Ruffs and reeves are little known to the public at large, though honourable mention is made of them by Bewick. The season for them is August and September. They are found in fenny countries (those from Whittlesea Meer in Lincolnshire are best), and must be taken alive and fattened on boiled wheat or bread and milk mixed with hemp-seed, for about a fortnight, taking good care never to put two males to feed together, or they will fight À l'outrance. Prince Talleyrand was extremely fond of ruffs and reeves, his regular allowance during the season being two a day: they are dressed like woodcocks. These birds are worth nothing in their wild state; and the art of fattening them is traditionally said to have been discovered by the monks in Yorkshire, where they are still in high favour with the clerical profession, as a current anecdote will show. At a grand dinner at Bishopthorpe (in Archbishop Markham's time) a dish of ruffs and reeves chanced to be placed immediately in front of a young divine who had come up to be examined for priest's orders, and was considerately (or, as it turned out, inconsiderately) asked to dinner by his grace. Out of sheer modesty, the clerical tyro confined himself exclusively to the dish before him, and persevered in his indiscriminating attentions to it till one of the resident dignitaries (all of whom were waiting only the proper moment to participate) observed him, and called the attention of the company by a loud exclamation of alarm. But the warning came too late: the ruffs and reeves had vanished to a bird, and with them, we are concerned to add, all the candidate's hopes of Yorkshire preferment are said to have vanished too.

"A similar anecdote is current touching wheatears, which, in our opinion, are a greater delicacy. A Scotch officer was dining with the late Lord George Lennox, then commandant at Portsmouth, and was placed near a dish of wheatears, which was rapidly disappearing under his repeated attacks. Lady Louisa Lennox tried to divert his attention to another dish. 'Na, na, my leddy,' was the reply, 'these wee birdies will do verra weel.'"

In vivid contrast to the works of Walker and Hayward is a volume entitled "Apician Morsels" (London, 1829), wherein the author, who veils his identity under a facetious pseudonym, has unblushingly garbled whole chapters from the old historians, the "Almanach," and various writers, interspersed with coarse stories of gluttony. It is to be deplored that La ReyniÈre cannot arise from his final resting-place to administer the castigation the author deserves. From him it is refreshing to turn to the "Dipsychus" of Arthur Hugh Clough and read his animated poem, "Le DÎner," with its resonant refrain which, strangely, has been omitted from the later editions:

To English guides, so far as the metropolis is concerned, should be added Lieutenant-Colonel Newnham-Davis' recent volume—a veritable Murray to the table of London.[43] In this gossipy and sprightly manual one may dine by proxy in nearly all the leading restaurants as well as in many of the more Bohemian resorts. The appointments and surroundings of each are picturesquely set forth, with the exact menu and price of each dinner, together with an occasional recipe of some distinguished foreign master of the range, or a dish for which a restaurant is especially renowned. And while one may marvel at the writer's facile receptivity for an almost unvaried round of vintage champagnes, and sympathise with him in the frequent iteration of certain dishes, one must recognise, nevertheless, that if the dinners he discussed as an official representative of the "Pall Mall Gazette" could be duplicated by the average diner, London were not to be despised as a stamping-ground for the accomplished gastronomer. The author does not hesitate to criticise, though his exceptions are usually in the nature of a sauce piquante, rather than a drastic condiment; and it is evident in the majority of the feasts he passes under review—now with a boon companion, and now with a pretty and well-gowned causeuse—that the special resources of the chef and maÎtre-d'hÔtel, who are duly introduced to the reader, have been brought into Aladdin-like play for his special delectation. The Benedict will doubtless envy him his petits-dÎners with so varied a menu of charming women to stimulate his appetite and share his champagne and entremets de douceur; the bachelor will recognise how a prolonged series of such dinners with supplementary flowers, a loge at the theatre, and a concluding supper swell the addition, and render rising with the lark or any attention to business the following morning utterly beyond the compass of mortal power. To assist in a repast with Colonel Davis, however, is to be assured of dining excellently in London, with pleasant company and a double assurance of the truth of the aphorism, that one can never grow old at table.

Reference has already been made to numerous French minor writers on gastronomy; among whom should not be omitted the name of the eminent Dr. RÉveillÉ-Parise, author of several works on hygiene, whose dissertation on the oyster, presented with all the charm that a brilliant style and profound erudition may impart, is unrivalled in the language.[44]

Much has naturally been said, both by English and by French writers, concerning the restaurant. The celebrated Dr. VÉron, who was nearly always accustomed to dine at a restaurant in preference to dining at his own home, gave these as his reasons:

"In your own home the soup is on the table at a certain hour, the roast is taken off the jack, the dessert is spread out on the sideboard. Your servants, in order to get more time over their meals, hurry you up; they do not serve you, they gorge you. At the restaurant, on the contrary, they are never in a hurry, they let you wait, and, besides, I always tell the waiters not to mind me; that I like being kept a long while—that is one of the reasons why I come here. Another thing, at the restaurant the door is opened at every moment and something happens. A friend, a chum, or a mere acquaintance comes in; one chats and laughs; all this aids digestion. A man ought not to make digestion a business apart. He ought to dine and digest at the same time, and nothing aids this dual function like good conversation. Perhaps the servant of Madame de Maintenon, when the latter was still Madame Scarron, was a greater philosopher than we suspect when he whispered to his mistress, 'Madame, the roast has run short; give them another story.'"

It was after a dinner in a Fifth Avenue restaurant, at which terrapin and '89 Pol Roger, canvasback, and '78 Haut-Bailly figured, that while smoking his Vuelta-Abajo—impressed with the excellence of the repast, and smitten at the thought of his absent ones—the host observed to his companions, "Heavens! how I wish I could afford to treat my family to a dinner like this!" The stomach also has its conscience. But Thackeray has covered precisely such a case in the essay, "On some Dinners at Paris." "What is the use," he asks, "of having your children, who live on roast mutton in the nursery, to sit down and take the best three-fourths of a perdreau truffÉ with you? What is the use of helping your wife, who doesn't know the difference between sherry and Madeira, to a glass of priceless RomanÉe or sweetly odoriferous ChÂteau Lafite of '42?"

Besides his sonnets "Le Toast" and "BarriÈre du Maine," Charles Monselet has written most entertainingly of the restaurant under the title, "Les Cabinets Particuliers," a sketch which figured in "Le Double Almanach Gourmand" of 1866, of which he was the editor for several years. In this publication appeared Albert Glatigny's "Rue des Poitevins," one of several poems with the restaurant as their theme, the stanzas being not unworthy of the melodious lyre of "Les Vignes Folles" and "Les FlÈches d'Or":

The student of Glatigny, who must always admire the rhythm and melody of his Muse, will also remember his quaint sonnet published in "Gilles et Pasquins," entitled "Monselet devoured by the Lobsters." The works of Henri Murger are replete with epulary sketches of the old Latin Quarter of Paris, a district from which Victor Hugo has also drawn. ThÉodore de Banville has likewise depicted many a picturesque restaurant scene in his airy "Odes Funambulesques." The lyrists, too, have not been unmindful of the poetry of the kitchen.

Many visitors to Paris will remember dining at Bignon's, and doubtless will equally recall the figures of the addition. Of this restaurant, whose carte was devoid of prices, it was said that a man who dined at the corner table for a period of years became a cosmopolite—in every capital of Europe he would be recognised and fÊted; for that matter, he did not need to rise from his chair, as all Europe would pass in review before him.

A provincial dining there in April, on perceiving melons on the card, ordered one. "What!" he exclaimed, after examining his bill, "thirty francs for a melon! You are joking!"

"Monsieur," replied Bignon, "if you can find me three or four at the same price, I will buy them immediately."

"Fifteen francs for a peach?" inquired Prince Narischkin; "they must be very scarce."

"It isn't the peaches that are scarce, mon prince; it is the Narischkins."

"Monsieur Bignon, a red herring at two and a half francs! It seems to me that is excessive."

"But these prices are marked in your interest," rejoined the restaurateur. "It is the barrier I have established between my clients and the vulgar. Why do you come here? To be among yourselves, to avoid embarrassing or compromising surroundings. If I changed my prices, the house would be invaded, and you would all leave."

Another patron who complained of a sauce was asked, "Did you dine here last evening?"

"No," he replied.

"That is the trouble, then; you spoiled your taste in the other restaurant."

Still another guest objected to the charges on his bill, comparing it with an identical breakfast of a few days previous which amounted to eighteen and a half francs, whereas the breakfast in question was charged twenty-one francs, eighty centimes.

"I will investigate the mistake," said Bignon, who, with the two bills, proceeded to the desk, returning shortly afterwards.

"It is very true, Monsieur, that a mistake was made in your favour last Monday; but I make no claim for restitution!"

Do the anecdotes and cook-books and treatises on eating and drinking savour of gluttony to some who eat only to live, and who are lacking in the finesse of Good Cheer? Let all such consult a volume written by one of the gentler sex, and hearken to her admirable definition of the Tenth Muse:

"Gluttony is ranked with the deadly sins; it should be honoured among the cardinal virtues. To-day women, as a rule, think all too little of the joys of eating; they hold lightly the treasures that should prove invaluable. They refrain to recognise that there is no less art in eating well than in painting well or writing well. For the gourmande, or glutton, duty and amusement go hand in hand. Mind and body alike are satisfied. The good of a pleasantly planned dinner outbalances the evil of daily trials and tribulations. By artistic gluttony, beauty is increased, if not actually created. Rejoice in the knowledge that gluttony is the best cosmetic. Gross are they who see in eating and drinking nought but grossness. Gluttony is a vice only when it leads to stupid, inartistic excess."[45]