"Depuis longtemps j'avais un mot À dire de Brillat-Savarin. Cette figure, souriante plutÔt que riante, ce demi-ventre, cet esprit et cet estomac de bon ton, me tentait."

Charles Monselet.

Most noted of literary tributes to the table is that of Brillat-Savarin, who has discoursed on gastronomy with all the knowledge and discursiveness, with all the verve and raciness displayed by Ninon de l'Enclos in descanting on love in her letters to the Marquis de SÉvignÉ. He is at once the corypheus of good cheer and its most refined exponent. Few subjects are as difficult to treat without grossness as those relating to the gratification of the appetite, the pleasures of eating and drinking, which he has handled with such felicitous skill. Accompanying him along his alluring ambages, whose aisles are redolent of truffles and vol-au-vents in lieu of balsams and flowers, all other arts appear secondary to that of gastronomy; for through it alone, it becomes obviously manifest, may its sister arts receive their proper inspiration and man attain that hygienic beatitude which is essential to the greatest creative genius.

Whether he was as accomplished in reality as he appears upon the printed page, whether his practice was equal to his theory,—a question some of his contemporaries have disputed,—is of trivial moment in view of the abiding attractiveness of the "Physiologie du GoÛt." In his essay the distinction of a gourmand and a gourmet was first distinctly set forth, and throughout its length and breadth the topic is discussed with the dexterity that the author would observe in the preparation of his favourite fondue. Rarely has a subject found a writer whose qualities so eminently fitted him for its elaboration. With a touch light as gossamer, he has run the entire gamut of taste, investing his theme with new and subtle harmonies. The pheasant and the turkey have gained in savour since he has passed them under review, and the truffle derived an added flavour through the sixth Meditation.

In viewing the portrait of Savarin, we see before us a man of imposing presence, full-faced and florid, large, massive, robust, with bright eyes, rounded chin, and sensuous mouth. The high, broad forehead and protuberances above the eyebrows denote the reasoning and imaginative mind, while the full nostrils and lips point to a highly developed physical organism—to one who might be a lawyer, physician, banker, or diplomat, but whose features in any event proclaim the genial companion, the ready raconteur, and one upon whom the pleasures of the senses exercise an important influence. It was this nice adjustment of the mental and physical, this happy balance of mind and being, that combined to produce a work which may justly be classed among the most original of the nineteenth century.

"To fulfil the task I propose to myself," observes the author in his preface, "it was necessary to be a physician, a physiologist, and even more or less of a classical scholar." To these qualifications he added those of a thorough man of the world, a natural epicure, a keen observer, a metaphysician, and a writer unusually gifted with style and sententiousness of expression. Impressed by his masterly grasp of his subject, La ReyniÈre, on reading the volume for the first time, immediately proclaimed its supremacy, asserting that it should open the doors of the Academy if they were to be opened by a superior mind. Among the many recognitions of the writer's genius none is more appreciative than that of Balzac, whose "Physiology of Marriage" was inspired by the "Physiology of Taste." Treatises innumerable on gastronomy have since appeared, but few are worthy of serious consideration, the majority being more or less offensive or mere echoes of a familiar strain.

With Savarin gastronomy became an all-absorbing enthusiasm—a prolific vein that hitherto had been imperfectly explored. It was, above all, an art, a potent factor in the pleasures of life, a valuable auxiliary to health, a means of advancing the amenities of existence—a finesse, in short, of which he was to be the analyst and interpreter, the La BruyÈre and the Sainte-Beuve. Like the sprightly Ninon in her letters, who at eighty was still able to captivate and charm, Savarin might have written of the meditations of his advanced age: "We are not indulging in what is termed fine conversation—we are philosophising."

The reader who will look to the "Physiology" for practical directions on cookery will be disappointed. In place of a cook-book he will find a reflective dissertation on the Æsthetics of the table, replete with wit, humour, and anecdote; a treatise dealing more with physical functions than the fashioning of sauces, and with the fork and wine-glass rather than with the chef and casserole.

Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, or Brillat de Savarin, was born at Belley, in the department of the Ain, in 1755, the "Physiologie du GoÛt" appearing in 1825, a year previous to his death. The volume was the outcome of a lifetime of preparation for which his temperament and circumstances afforded abundant opportunity. Like La ReyniÈre, he was a lawyer by profession, and, like him, he became an exile for a considerable period. He had received a careful education, the early part of his life being devoted to his legal practice, medical and chemical studies, and epicurean pleasures. He was fond of music, the fair sex, and good dinners, this triple penchant revealing itself frequently in his anecdotes. When thirty-eight years of age, he was elected mayor of Belley. Later, after sojourning in Switzerland, he visited the United States for a period of three years to introduce to New England the fondue—a dish which he proclaims of Swiss origin and from which the "Welsh rarebit" was derived. On his return to France he became a commissary of the government in the department of Seine-et-Oise, afterwards being appointed a counsellor in the Court of Cassation, a position he occupied during the remainder of his life. While engaged in this tribunal, his volume was leisurely composed.

Lyons, celebrated for its cervelas, chestnuts, beer, and vin de Rivage, was but a short distance from his native place, and it may be assumed that when tired of home fare he availed himself occasionally of its numerous markets and restaurants, and enjoyed the hospitality of its bons-vivants. Game was abundant in the Ain, a region he describes as "a charming country of high mountains, hills, rivers, limpid brooks, and cascades." Nor were trout wanting in its crystal waters—a delicacy that often graced his table and furnished him with one of his most picturesque recipes. He is speaking in his oracular way to his chef, in the admirable Meditation entitled "The Theory of Frying," a chapter that every cook should learn by heart:

"I say nothing about choosing oils or fats, because the various cook-books which I have placed in your library give sufficient information on that hand. Do not forget, however, when you have any of those trout weighing scarcely more than a quarter of a pound and caught in running brooks that murmur far from the capital—do not forget, I say, to fry them in the very finest olive oil you have. This simple dish, properly sprinkled and served up with slices of lemon, is worthy of being offered to a cardinal."

One can almost hear the music of the stream as it purls over its pebbly bed and whispers to the overhanging alders, while one marks the leap and glitter of trout and their prompt transition to the basket and the frying-pan. And lest these lovely denizens of spring-fed waters be overlooked in a subsequent chapter, it will be well to attach at once the instructions as to their mode of cooking of another author, in whom one is sure of an admirable guide, philosopher, and friend:

"They are so perfumed, these little trout," says Baron Brisse, "that it is sufficient to cook them in a light court-bouillon, and as soon as they are perfectly cold to eat them au naturel; all seasonings detracting from their savour. Truites au court-bouillon. Clean the trout by the gills, dry them carefully, tie up the heads, then cook them in a court-bouillon made of white wine seasoned with slices of onion, sprigs of parsley, thyme, bay-leaf, and salt, adding a little bouillon; let them simmer until completely done, dry them, and serve on a napkin garnished with parsley. If a sauce is desired, mix a part of the court-bouillon with butter and flour, reduce one half on a lively fire, and serve. Truites À la Vosgienne. After dressing the trout, sprinkle with salt and let them stand an hour. Then place them on the fire with the necessary quantity of white wine for their cooking, seasoning with onions, cloves, a bouquet-garni, a clove of garlic, salt, pepper, and butter mixed with flour; cook on a lively fire, lay out the trout on a platter, and mask them with the sauce passed through a sieve."

These modes of preparation, all of which are delicious, will not interfere with preparing them À la matelote and au gratin, or the more common manner of frying them in butter, with a thin slice or two of salt pork and a dash of lemon and sprinkling of chopped parsley added to the sauce of the cooking. The best of sauces, however, is the sauce of catching the trout one's self—to hear with one's own ear the cool lapse of streams "that murmur far from the capital," and view the rubies at first hand as they flash from the Salmo's roseate sides.

If, as was stated by the Marquis de Cussy, Brillat-Savarin "ate copiously and ill, chose little, talked dully, and was preoccupied at the end of a repast," no fault can be found by the most captious critic with the conversationalist and host of the "Physiology." There is not a dull line within its covers, or a page unmarked by brilliancy. Beginning with a dissertation on the senses in general, he proceeds with a most recondite analysis of the senses relating to taste. He explains that the empire of taste has its blind and its deaf, that the sensation of taste resides principally in the papillÆ of the tongue, though every tongue has not the same number of papillÆ, but that in some there are thrice as many as in others. Hence, with two persons sitting at the same table, one may be deliciously affected by the viands and wines, whereas the other will seem to partake of them with restraint. Taste, he maintains, is a sense that, all things considered, procures us the greatest number of enjoyments:

"1st. Because the pleasure of eating is the only one that, taken in moderation, is never followed by fatigue;

"2d. Because it belongs to all times, to all ages, and to all conditions;

"3d. Because it occurs necessarily at least once a day, and may be repeated without inconvenience two or three times in this space of time;

"4th. Because it may be combined with all our other pleasures and even console us for their absence;

"5th. Because the impressions it receives are at the same time more durable and more dependent on our will;

"6th. Because in eating we receive a certain indefinable and special comfort which arises from the intuitive consciousness that we repair our losses and prolong our existence by the food we eat.

"Lastly," he asserts, "the tongue of man, by the delicacy of its texture and the various membranes which environ it, sufficiently indicates the sublimity of the operations for which it is destined. It contains at least three movements unknown to animals, which he terms spication, rotation, and verrition. The first is when the tongue in a conical shape comes from between the lips that compress it; the second, when the tongue moves circularly in the space comprised between the interior of the cheeks and the palate; the third, when the tongue, curving upwards or downwards, gathers anything remaining in the semicircular canal formed by the lips and the gums."

Like the seasoned and thoroughbred hunter who is sure of his sinew and his stride, and before whom the stile, the ditch, and the five-barred gate present no obstacles, so may Savarin be freely allowed his head and be followed over the fragrant fields of taste, with no fear that anything appertaining to its province will prove impossible or difficult for him to surmount.

The influence of smell on taste is closely analysed:

"For myself, I am not only persuaded that without the participation of smell there is no perfect taste, but I am even tempted to believe that smell and taste form only one sense, of which the mouth is the laboratory and the nose the chimney; or, to speak more exactly, that the tongue tastes tactile substances, and the nose gases. This theory may be vigorously defended.

"All sapid bodies must be necessarily odorous, which places them as well in the empire of smell as in the empire of taste.

"We eat nothing without smelling it with more or less consciousness; and for unknown foods the nose acts always as a sentinel, and cries, 'Who goes there?'

"When smell is interrupted, taste is paralysed. This is proved by three experiments, which any one may make successfully: First, when the nasal mucous membrane is irritated by a violent cold in the head, taste is entirely obliterated. In anything we swallow there is no taste. The tongue, nevertheless, remains in its normal state. Second, if we eat whilst holding tight our nose, we are much astonished to experience the sensation of taste only in an obscure and imperfect manner. By this means the most nauseous medicines are swallowed almost without tasting them. Third, we see the same effect if, at the moment we have swallowed, instead of bringing back the tongue to its usual place, we keep it close to the palate. In this case the circulation of the air is intercepted, the organs of smell are not affected, and taste does not occur. These different effects depend upon the same cause, the lack of coÖperation of the smell, which makes the sapid body to be appreciated only on account of its juice, and not for the odoriferous gas that emanates from it.

"These principles being thus laid down, I regard it as certain that taste gives rise to sensations of three different orders, namely: direct sensation, complete sensation, and reflex sensation. Direct sensation is that first perception which arises from the immediate operation of the organs of the mouth, whilst the appreciable body is yet found on the point of the tongue. Complete sensation is that which is composed of this first perception and of the impression which originates when the food abandons this first position, passes into the back part of the mouth, and impresses the whole organ with both taste and perfume. Reflex sensation is the judgment of the mind upon the impressions transmitted to it by the organ."

To no other writer may one turn so satisfactorily for an interpretation of the word "gastronomy," a word which belongs by right to him. Previous to his exegesis, gluttony and gastronomy had been more or less confounded. It is true that the poem of Berchoux is entitled "La Gastronomie," but the term was not defined by the poet, nor do the piquant pages of the "Almanach" refer to the art "of having excellent cheer" under that term. The true epicure, as distinguished from the gross eater, had long stood in need of the definition and distinction. "The gastronomer is nearly always a sage," it has been observed—a statement borne out by the "Dictionnaire de la Conversation," which characterises this science as "the art of living, of eating worthily, properly, as a man of taste, character, and judgment." It will prove of interest, therefore, to those who are unfamiliar with the "Physiology" to refer to the third Meditation, and note the French savant's elaborate analysis of the word:

"Gastronomy is the rational knowledge of all that relates to man as an eater.

"Its object is to watch over the preservation of men by means of the best nourishment possible.

"It arrives thereat by laying down certain principles to direct those who look for, furnish, or prepare the things which may be converted into food.

"Thus it is gastronomy that sets in motion farmers, vine-growers, fishers, hunters, and the numerous family of cooks, whatever may be their title, or under whatever qualification they may disguise their occupation of preparing food.

"Gastronomy is connected—

"With natural history, by its classification of alimentary substances.

"With physics, by the investigation of their composition and their qualities;

"With chemistry, by the different analyses and decompositions which it makes them undergo;

"With cookery, by the art of preparing food and rendering it more agreeable to taste;

"With commerce, by the search for means to buy at the cheapest rate possible what is consumed by it, and selling to the greatest advantage that which is presented for sale;

"Lastly, with political economy, by the resources which it furnishes to the authorities for taxation, and by the means of exchange it establishes among nations.

"Some knowledge of gastronomy is needed by all men, since it tends to increase the allotted sum of human happiness; and the more easy a man's circumstances, the more advantages does he gain from such knowledge."

Summing up, he pronounces its material subject to be everything that may be eaten; its direct object, the preservation of individuals; and its means of execution, cultivation which produces, commerce which exchanges, industry which prepares, and experience which invents the means of turning everything to the best account.

It will thus be perceived how little understood, even at this advanced age, is the term in question, and how few, comparatively, there are who comprehend the true significance of the pleasures of the table—pleasures where grossness does not enter, but where taste, refinement, the amenities, and hygiene assert their sway. Life is short at its longest; but who shall harvest its sweetnesses so fully as the accomplished gastronomer! The rustling forest glades, radiant in the pomp of October, may be summoned by the appearance of a finely larded grouse; the tinkle of liberated brooks be heard with the advent of the first April trout; the flute of the whitethroat be recalled by the floral tributes to the table; and all that is sunshine in nature be distilled when the cork sets free a noble vintage of the MÉdoc or the Marne.

If the term "gastronomy" was imperfectly understood until the definition in the "Physiology," as much may be said of the word gourmandise, which oftener served as a designation of gluttony than as a synonym of refined epicureanism.

Gourmandise, Savarin defines as "an impassioned, rational, and habitual preference for all objects which flatter the sense of taste. It is opposed to excess in eating and drinking. Physically, it is an indication of the wholesome state of the organs on which nutrition depends, and, morally, it marks implicit resignation to the commands of the Creator, who, in ordering man to eat that he may live, invites him to do so by appetite, encourages him by flavour, and rewards him by pleasure. It is, moreover, most favourable to beauty, imparting more brilliancy to the eye, freshness to the skin, more support to the muscles; and as it is certain in physiology that it is the depression of muscles that causes wrinkles, those formidable enemies of beauty, it is equally true that, all things being equal, those who know how to eat are comparatively ten years younger than those ignorant of that science." It was also left for him to discover that gourmandise, when it is shared, has a marked influence on the happiness which may be found in the conjugal state.

Let us follow the accomplished chancellor farther in his physiological studies, and refer to the thirteenth Meditation, which treats of "gastronomic tests." In a previous chapter a famous bill of fare of the renowned Rocher de Cancale has been presented, which it may be well to compare with what approaches nearest to a menu or series of menus in the "Physiology." It will then be for the reader to decide whether he would rather have assisted at the feast of the Rocher alluded to, or at that prescribed by Savarin for an income of thirty thousand francs in the early part of the century. In both instances the list of accompanying wines is wanting, and therefore the menus are necessarily incomplete as a dinner chronicle of the times. Happily, the long and heavy dinners of former days have given place to repasts of a far more simple nature, as the heavy wines of Oporto and the South and the highly saccharine products of the vine have been replaced by lighter and more wholesome kinds. It is possible now to dine well and generously and escape a headache or an indigestion the following morning.

By "gastronomic tests," which the author claims as a personal discovery that will honour the nineteenth century, he understands dishes of acknowledged flavour, of an excellence so undoubted that the mere sight of them ought to move, in a well-organised man, every faculty of taste; so that all those whose faces under such circumstances neither flash with desire nor beam with ecstasy may justly be noted as unworthy of the honours of the banquet and its attending pleasures. A test destined for a man of limited means, he explains, would have little reference to a head clerk, and would scarcely be perceived when a select few dine together at a capitalist's or a diplomatist's. Should such dishes as a truffled turkey seem out of keeping for an income of fifteen thousand francs, and the list of the "third series" appear too elaborate for an income of double that sum, due consideration should be taken of the value of the franc at the period to which the author refers. It is also to be presumed that such a bill of fare was not often served by any one person, and was therefore more highly prized and more easily digested.

Gastronomic Tests.

First Series.

For a Presumed Income of 5000 Francs a Year (Mediocrity).

A large fillet of veal, well larded with bacon, done in its own gravy.

A country-fed turkey stuffed with Lyons chestnuts.

Fattened pigeons larded and cooked to a turn.

Eggs dressed À la neige.

A dish of Sauerkraut bristling with sausages and crowned with Strassburg bacon.

Remarks.—"Bless me! that looks all right! Come on! let us do honour to it!"

Second Series.

For a Presumed Income of 15,000 Francs (Comfort).

A fillet of beef underdone in the middle, larded and done in its own gravy.

A haunch of venison, accompanied by a gherkin sauce.

A boiled turbot.

A leg of mutton prÉsalÉ, done À la provenÇale.

A truffled turkey.

Early green peas.

Remarks.—"Ah, my dear friend, what a delightful sight! This is truly a wedding-feast."

Third Series.

For a Presumed Income of 30,000 Francs or more (Riches).

A fowl of about seven pounds stuffed with truffles till it becomes almost round.

An enormous Strassburg pÂtÉ de foie gras, in the shape of a bastion.

A large Rhein carp À la Chambord, richly dressed and decorated.

Truffled quails, with marrow, spread on buttered toast au basilic.

A river pike larded, stuffed, and smothered in a cream of crayfish secundum artem.

A pheasant done to perfection, with his tail-feathers stuck in, lying on toast À la Sainte-Alliance.

A hundred early asparagus, each half an inch thick, with sauce À l'osmazÔme.

Two dozen ortolans À la provenÇale, as described in some of the cookery-books already mentioned.

A pyramid of vanilla and rose meringues—a test sometimes useless unless in the case of ladies and abbÉs.

Remarks.—"Ah, my dear sir (or my lord), what a genius that cook of yours is! It is only at your table that one meets such dishes."

In order that any test should produce its full effect, the author advises that it be served plenteously, the rarest of dishes losing its influence when not in abundant proportion, as the first impression it produces on the guests is naturally checked by the fear of being stingily served, or, in certain cases, of being obliged to refuse out of politeness—a conclusion one may see verified frequently at a European table-d'hÔte when the parsimonious though perhaps extortionate landlord deals out the roast or the fish through the intermedium of the maligned garÇon or Kellner. There are certain dishes, nevertheless, whose zest consists in their very daintiness and lack of exuberance, such as numerous entrÉes, in the savouring of which even the forks and knives should be small and the proportions of the dish be restricted rather than augmented. But the rules in the "Physiology" as to a perfect dinner still hold good in the main, and will well bear reiteration:

"Let the number of guests not exceed twelve, so that the conversation may be constantly general.

"Let them be so chosen that their occupations are various, their tastes analogous, and with such points of contact that one need not have recourse to that odious formality of introductions.

"Let the dining-room be brilliantly lighted, the cloth as white as snow, and the temperature of the room from sixty to sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit.

"Let the men be witty and not pedantic, and the women amiable without being too coquettish.

"Let the dishes be exquisitely choice, but small in number, and the wines of the first quality, each in its degree.

"Let the dishes be served from the more substantial to the lighter; and from the simpler wines to those of finer bouquet.

"Let the eating proceed slowly, the dinner being the last business of the day, and let the guests look upon themselves as travellers who journey together towards a common object.

"Let the coffee be hot and the liqueurs be specially chosen.

"Let the drawing-room to which the guests retire be large enough to permit those who cannot do without it to have a game of cards, while leaving, however, ample scope for post-prandial conversation.

"Let the guests be detained by social attraction, and animated with expectation that before the evening is over there will be some further enjoyment.

"Let the tea not be too strong, the toast artistically buttered, and the punch made with care.

"Let the signal for departure not be given before eleven o'clock.

"Let every one be in bed at midnight.

"If any man has ever been a guest at a repast uniting all these conditions, he can boast of having been present at his own apotheosis; and he will have enjoyed it the less in proportion as these conditions have been forgotten or neglected."

Exception perhaps may be taken to the temperature of the dining-room as given in the above injunctions, 70° to 73° Fahrenheit being a more comfortable atmospheric medium of dining where it is possible. The tea and toast and the punch may also be dispensed with to advantage, and in their stead a liqueur glass of CuraÇoa sec be prescribed, one of the best, as it is one of the most agreeable, digestives after a substantial repast.

Game has been pronounced a delight of the table by Savarin—a food healthful, warming, savoury, and easy of digestion to young stomachs. Of small game or birds, he accords the highest place to the fig-pecker, saying that if this bird were as large as a pheasant it would be worth an acre of land. Savarin was a true sportsman, who knew his game and its proper preparation, and among the breeziest of his chapters are those relating to field sports, wherein due regard is paid to the luncheon. A portion of the fifteenth Meditation will be sufficient to show the counsellor in his hunting costume at the halt of a shooting party; he is in his happiest vein, his theme being "The Ladies." The morning has been fine, and the birds abundant. Appetite is not wanting, and at a prearranged hour a party of ladies arrive, laden with the treasures of PÉrigord, the triumphs of Strassburg, and the bubbles of Epernay, to assist in the repast. It is at the close of this that the chancellor becomes most eloquent and pronounces one of his most characteristic monologues:

"I have been out shooting in the centre of France and the most remote provinces, and seen arrive at the halt charming women, girls redolent with freshness, some arriving in cabriolets, others in simple country carts. I have seen them the first in laughing at the inconveniences of their conveyance. I have seen them display upon the turf the turkey in clear jelly, the household pie, the salad all ready for mixing. I have seen them with light foot dancing round the bivouac fire lighted on this occasion. I have taken part in the games and merriment that accompany such a gipsy feast, and I feel thoroughly convinced that, with less luxury, there is quite as much that is charming, gay, and delightful.

"Why when they take their leave should not some kisses be interchanged with the best sportsman, who is in his glory; with the worst shot because he is most unlucky: with the others so as not to make them jealous? All are about to separate, custom has authorized it; and it is permissible, and even commanded, to take advantage of such an opportunity.

"Fellow-sportsmen, ye who are prudent and look after solid things, fire straight, and bag as much as you can before the ladies arrive, for experience teaches us that after their departure sportsmen seem very rarely in luck...."[27]

As the lordly Asian pheasant is thriving and multiplying with us, it will be pertinent to present Savarin's famous and somewhat inaccessible formula of preparing him À la Sainte-Alliance for all such as may wish to try so elaborate a plat de luxe, it being well understood that the pheasant, above all birds, requires to be very fully matured by hanging:

"The bird is first to be carefully larded with the best and firmest lard. Then bone two woodcocks, put their flesh aside, and keep the livers and trails of the two birds separate. Take this meat and mince it, add some beef marrow, steamed, a little scraped bacon, pepper, salt, herbs, and enough good truffles to stuff the inner cavity of the pheasant. Be careful not to let the stuffing spread to the outside, which is sometimes a little difficult when the bird is rather high. Nevertheless, it can be done in various ways, and amongst others by fastening a crust of bread with a piece of thread on the stomach, which prevents its bursting. Cut a slice of bread longer and wider by two inches than the whole pheasant is; then take the livers and trails of the woodcocks, and pound them with two large truffles, one anchovy, a little scraped bacon, and a goodly lump of the best fresh butter. Spread this paste on the slice of bread, and put it under the pheasant stuffed as above, so that it may receive all the gravy dripping from it while roasting. When the pheasant is cooked, serve it up lying gracefully on its toast, put some bitter oranges round it, and await the result without any uneasiness. This high-flavoured dish ought to be washed down, in preference, with some of the best wine of Upper Burgundy. Treated according to the preceding prescription, the pheasant, already distinguished itself, is permeated from its outside with the savoury fat of the bacon which is browned and in its inside it is impregnated with the odoriferous gases from the woodcocks and the truffles. The toast, already so richly prepared, receives again the gravies of the triple combination which flow from the bird while roasting."

Has gastronomy progressed since the time of Brillat-Savarin? Replying to this question, Charles Monselet, writing in 1879, states that he "looks in vain for the tables that are praised or the hosts that are renowned. Where are the great cooks? What names have we now to oppose to those of CarÊme and Robert? Shall I speak of official cookery, of ministerial dinners? These are not the dinners to which people go to eat. There especially the cook is more proud of a Chinese kiosk on a rock in coloured and spun sugar, which no person dare touch, than of a carp À la Chambord treated in a masterly way. Since the days of CambacÉrÈs official cookery has ceased to exist." The similarity of dinners complained of by Walker and Thackeray during a previous era he refers to as existing in Paris: "That which you eat yesterday in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, you will eat to-morrow in the Faubourg Saint-HonorÉ. At the end of the week you recognise that you have merely changed your knife and fork. This poverty of imagination, this absence of research are unworthy of a country such as ours."

Apart from his neglect to mention the labours of his distinguished gastronomical predecessor, Savarin is also open to censure for failing to thank the Italians for their admirable lessons in the science of cookery, including that of frying in oil, which he particularly specifies as so desirable with trout "caught in running brooks that murmur far from the capital." To this day the Italian remains a great confectioner and pastry-cook, while an Italian maestro is a delight of the haute cuisine, his methods possessing much originality and holding nothing in common with the greasy dishes and their superabundance of garlic which one meets in the average inn and in many of the restaurants of the land beyond the Alps.

Upon one subject, it is to be regretted, we have not been advised by the philosophic and analytic mayor of Belley, who is silent concerning the physiology of the cocktail, or any form of beverage composed of spirits, taken before dinner. During La ReyniÈre's era, on the occasion of a grand dinner the rule was the so-called coup d'avant, the coup du milieu, and the coup d'aprÈs—the three spirituous graces, as it were, of an elaborate repast. Here was a lost opportunity for the "Physiology," which might have formulated a hygienic chapter apart from the Meditations on thirst and drinks. Unquestionably, there are reasons for and against the use of a liquid stimulant before the principal meal. The true gastronomer, and all those who are careful of their health, without which the best dinner may not be enjoyed, will at any rate eschew all strong alcoholic beverages until evening. The question of a stimulant before the dinner will then be one for individual consideration. Its daily use may scarcely be commended, particularly if it be followed by wine: one who is in possession of good health should not require a fictitious goad to appetite. Where a carefully planned dinner is in question, however, the dry cocktail—one, and one only—taken ten minutes before the moment of sitting down at table, is undoubtedly a stimulus to appetite and provocative of good-fellowship. It pitches the company in a pleasant key at the onset, and imparts a zest and an allÉgresse to the first part of the repast that were otherwise lacking. Then, if the sparkling wine be not postponed too long, and the dinner itself be meritorious, the host and hostess may rest secure, without a shadow of solicitude regarding its success. Impelled by its own geniality, the company will take abundant care of itself, and the stream of conversation and ripple of anecdote flow freely along, unimpeded by the boulders of formality or the aridity engendered by a dearth of joyous fluids.

Turning the leaves of the "Physiology," the reader will be impressed with the fecundity of an author who treats with equal fluency of foods and drinks, appetite and digestion, sport and old age, women and abbÉs, and all that appertains to the physiology of gastronomy. His portrait of a pretty gourmande under arms is a genre painting worthy of GÉrard Douw or Van Mieris, while his Meditation on the end of the world might have been composed by a doctor of the Sorbonne. The chapter on digestion is full of practical advice, and from this his disquisitions on repose, on dreams, and on the influence of diet are a natural succession. In the chapter on dreams we are told that all foods which are slightly exciting cause people to dream—such as brown meat, pigeons, ducks, game, and, above all, hare—the same property being also recognised in asparagus, celery, truffles, sweetmeats, and particularly vanilla. Equally suggestive are the essays on corpulence, leanness, and fasting, and the many racy anecdotes of the "VariÉtÉs," while his aphorisms must always occupy a place in epicurean literature.

Did Savarin feel a premonition of immediate death when he penned the verses which he entitled "The Agony—A Physiological Romance," and which conclude the work that has rendered his name a synonym for all that appertains to the table and its pleasures?

Numerous translations of the "Physiology" have appeared in various languages. Of these the most familiar one in English, entitled "Gastronomy as a Fine Art," is well interpreted as far as it goes. But many piquant passages are condensed, and portions of chapters and at least one half of the "VariÉtÉs" are omitted altogether. The most complete rendition is the large octavo volume, with its rather unsatisfactory illustrations by Lalauze, termed "A Handbook of Gastronomy," wherein the English reader may commune with the French writer almost at first hand, and not be obliged to forgo "The Pullet of Bresse," "The Dish of Eels," "A Day with the Bernardines," and "The Pheasant"—À la Sainte-Alliance.