Alexis Soyer

A general, indeed almost universal, interest has been evinced for the loss of the late Madame Soyer, by reason of her celebrity as an artist, whose close adherence to nature procured for her in France (from her pictures which were exhibited in the Louvre in Paris) the famed name of the English Murillo. Her paintings evinced a great partiality for the same subject, and a like boldness of effect and sentiment were introduced in all her compositions, though never having copied or tried to imitate this celebrated master.[30] The amiable character of a life but too short, induces me to give an engraving from a portrait of herself, the finished touches of which were put upon the canvas but a few days previous to her lamented decease; her career was one, while it lasted, of great success, and must, had it not been so fatally brought to a close, have resulted in the highest fame; as it was, crowned heads of many nations paid homage at the shrine of her talents, and the cultivated sensibility of the aristocracy of this and other civilized nations has at once appreciated her artistic excellences by the spontaneous expression of admiration upon the examination of her works.

I feel, and am proud in the possession of such an emotion, most strongly—I trust not too much so,—upon this sensitive point. Such reasons, together with the fact that Madame Soyer being an English woman, are amongst my motives for giving here a short biography of her private and industrious life, which, although it appeared in nearly every journal of interest at the period of her unexpected death, will yet, I am assured, possess claims upon the sympathy of her countrymen and women.

In the fullness of my own individual regard for her memory and of her rare gifts, and with a view to perpetuate a memorial of her extraordinary genius, I have for some while been adding to my collection, and at any expense, all those of her paintings which may come within my reach.

The last purchase I made was No. 43 in the catalogue, a Buy-a-Broom Girl and Boy, from the celebrated Saltmarsh collection; this, and many of her other works are to be met with in the galleries of men of the greatest taste and judgment.

BIOGRAPHY.

“August 29. Died in London, in her 29th year, Emma, the wife of M. Soyer, of the Reform Club House, Pall Mall.

“Madame Soyer (formerly Emma Jones) was born in London in 1813. Her father died when she was only four years of age, and left her to the care of a fond mother, who sacrificed the prospect of an increasing fortune to devote her time entirely to the education of her child, who showed great inclination for study. The usual instructions were received with success, the French and Italian languages soon acquired, and music became a favorite amusement; in fact, it appeared that whatever was undertaken was of easy accomplishment.

“About the year 1817, M. Simonau, a Flemish artist, pupil of the celebrated Baron Gros, visited London, and brought with him some of his works, which were purchased by an antiquary, who advised him to open an academy for drawing and painting, which he did, and in a short time gained great celebrity. Mrs. Jones having heard of the fame of M. Simonau, went to him with her little girl, and wished him to give her lessons; the extreme youth of the child at first made him hesitate, but at length he consented, and when Emma had been with him about six months, she showed such decided talent, that her mother proposed to remunerate him for the loss of all his other pupils if he would give his whole time to her daughter’s instruction; to this, after some consideration, he agreed, and every succeeding year her improvement was so great, that before the age of twelve she had drawn more than a hundred portraits from life with surprising fidelity.

“During the same time she advanced wonderfully in music, under the eminent pianist, Ancot, who, at that time, was patronized by her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent, and was a great friend of Rossini and Weber—the last of these heard little Emma play a passage of his ‘Der Freischutz’ with so much execution, that he declared, in the most flattering terms, that she would become a brilliant star in the musical world. M. Ancot strongly recommended that she should adopt music as a profession; and, as her mother feared that drawing would injure her health, his opinion was for some time adopted. Through the following circumstances, however, painting was finally chosen instead of music. Mrs. Jones (who, in 1820, had become the wife of M. Simonau) having gone to the continent for her health, young Emma one day looking out of a window at Dunkirk, saw some children blowing bubbles, and immediately, with a piece of charcoal, made a sketch of the group upon the wall: the execution of this rude drawing evinced so much power, that it was at once finally decided by her mother and M. Simonau to adhere to the original intention of making painting her principal study, and that music should only be cultivated as an accomplishment. A few years after a picture from this sketch was sold at Liverpool for sixty pounds.

“At an early age many original paintings and portraits bore ample testimony to the perseverance of the mother, the care of the master, and the genius of the young artist.

“In 1836, Miss Emma Jones was married to M. Soyer at St. George’s church, Hanover square.

“In 1839, the poor mother died, happy that her daughter had attained eminence by her talents, and enjoyed prosperity with the husband of her choice. But, alas! the happiness of nearly six years was destroyed in a few hours; Madame Soyer was taken in premature labour, and died on the same day, regretted by all who knew her. She was of a most amiable and cheerful disposition, a kind friend, excellent and affectionate wife, too modest to set much value upon her works, leaving the palette to attend to her household duties.

“The acuteness of her husband’s feelings was painfully increased by his unfortunate absence, being at Brussels at the time with the suite of the Duke of Saxe Cobourg-Gotha, who had seen M. Soyer in his culinary department at the Reform Club, and having greatly admired several of Madame Soyer’s pictures, did her the honour to subscribe for a print from her picture of the ‘Young Israelites,’ which has since been dedicated, by permission, to his Serene Highness.”[31]

“The death of this lady has been a source of great regret to all the lovers and encouragers of art. Cut off at a moment when her reputation was about to make her fortune, and when, in spite of all obstacles, her merits were become known to her countrymen, it is a sad reflection that she can no longer enjoy the encomiums she so justly deserves, nor share in those rewards which were about to be conferred on her. Besides an immense variety of drawings, sketches, and studies, she had painted upwards of 400 pictures, some of them of very high merit, and some of them which, when exhibited in the Louvre, obtained the highest meed of praise. No female artist has exceeded this lady as a colorist, and very few artists of the rougher sex have produced portraits so full of character, spirit, and vigour, and that boldness and breadth of light and shadow which constitutes one of the highest triumphs of art. She was exceedingly clever in recognizing the character of those who sat to her, so that her portraits convey the mind as well as the features of the sitters, their thoughts and sentiments. Her group, already mentioned, depicting Two Boys selling Lemons, has been recently engraved by Gerard of Paris, in mezzotint, and is a fine illustration of the talents of the deceased. It partakes of the style of Murillo; but, though in his manner, it has not the subserviency of imitation, nor the stiffness of copy. There are a few of Madame Soyer’s paintings at the Reform Club-house, which will well repay a visit from those who have a taste for genuine merit and real nature.”—Times.

The three following letters are selected from a numerous correspondence, as exhibiting at once sympathy for her loss, and admiration for her talents.

“Gotha, le 4 Janvier, 1843.

A MONSIEUR ALEXIS SOYER.

“Monsieur,

“Je vous suis trÈs obligÉ du dessin original fait du feue Madame votre Épouse, ainsi que des gravures d’aprÈs le tableau des jeunes Israelites, que vous avez bien voulu m’envoyer.

“C’est avec beaucoup d’intÉrÊt que j’adjoindrai À ma collection de dessins les produits d’un talent aussi distinguÉ que celui de feue Madame Soyer.

“En vous disant mes remercÎmens et en souhaitant que le temps adoucit votre grande et juste douleur sur sa perte prÉmaturÉe, je vous assure encore de toute mon estime.

“Ernest Duc de Saxe-Gotha.”

“Cambridge House, le 21 Mai, 1846.

“Monsieur,

“Je suis chargÉ de la part de S. A. R. Monseigneur le Duc de Cambridge de vous remercier pour l’envoi des trois tableaux, peints par feue Madame votre Épouse, qui ont ÉtÉ dÛment admirÉs et apprÉciÉs, non seulement par S. A. R., le Duc, mais aussi par Madame la Duchesse, ainsi que par ceux À qu’il a ÉtÉ donnÉ de les voir.

“J’ai l’honneur d’Être, Monsieur,
“Votre trÈs humble et obÉissant serviteur,
“Le Baron de Knesebeck.”

“Stafford House, Vendredi.

“La Duchesse de Sutherland prÉsente ses compliments À M. Soyer, et accepte avec plaisir la dÉdicace de la gravure[32] d’aprÈs le tableau peint par feue Madame Soyer.

“Elle a appris avec bien du regret la perte immense qu’il a faite.”

MEMORIAL TO THE LATE MADAME SOYER, THE CELEBRATED ARTIST.

“The inauguration of a splendid monument, erected to the memory of Madame Soyer, whose name is so intimately connected with the genius of art, took place on Sunday, before a numerous and distinguished party, at Kensal Green Cemetery. The design, which is quite new, is by M. Soyer, her husband, and reflects the greatest credit upon that gentleman, who is so well known from his position at the Reform Club. It consists of a pedestal, about twelve feet in height, surmounted by a colossal figure of Faith, with her right hand pointing towards heaven, and the left supporting a golden cross. At her feet, lightly floating upon clouds, are two cherubims, the one holding a crown over the head, and the other presenting a palm to a beautiful medallion of the deceased; the latter executed in white marble, and surrounded by the emblem of eternity. A palette and brushes, embellished with a wreath of unfading laurels, is gracefully placed beneath the medallion. M. Puyenbroaek, of Brussels, one of the principal sculptors to his Majesty the King of the Belgians, has added to his fame by this new example of his talent. Although the figures of the monument are larger than life, so light and elegant is their construction, that the observer might almost fancy they were leaving this terrestrial sphere, while the cherubims, poised upon the ascending clouds, convey such an idea of buoyancy, that one is led to believe that the heavy and solid stone (like the pure and eternal spirit of her who sleeps below) had taken its departure from earth, and was following that shade whose memory it was erected to perpetuate. We are informed that the palette and brushes, with the laurel and her initials, were sketched by the lamented artist the morning previous to her death, she being then in perfect health; while the medallion is from her portrait by M. Simonau, her father-in-law, and only master.

“Amongst the parties present at the inauguration we perceived the fair Cerito, bestowing upon the shrine of her sister artist a wreath funÉraire, made from a crown placed upon her head in La Scala, at Milan, before several thousands of her country people. Such feeling impressed all with the highest respect for that fairy child of Terpsichore, and deserves a distinguished place in the history of art. The wreath, together with the palette of the artist, will be placed in a glass case, and fixed at the back of the pedestal. The inscription upon the pedestal will be simply the words ‘To Her,’ without any addition whatever.”—Morning Post, 1844.

EXTRACTS FROM THE PRESS.

“L’Angleterre sera vengÉe par une femme de l’Échec dont Messieurs Foggo sont tombÉs les victimes. Madame Soyer de Londres nous a envoyÉ deux morceaux exquis; si nous pouvions disposer d’une couronne au plus digne, c’est assurÉment À elle que nous rendrions cet hommage; ne pouvant pas prÉsenter de lauriers, donnons lui la premiÈre place dans nos colonnes: pour la correction du dessin, la vigueur, le modÈle et la puretÉ du coloris, ce sont lÀ les qualitÉs qui seraient enviÉes par les plus habiles de nos maÎtres. Mais ce que nous admirons par-dessus tout, dans son sens le plus vrai, est la touche delicate, la douceur du coloris, toujours plein de souplesse et de naÏvetÉ.”—La Revue des Deux Mondes.

“Une Glaneuse, par Madame Soyer, de Londres, a passÉ inaperÇu. Les critiques et le public se sont bien gardÉs d’en parler, parce que ce tableau, quoique renfermant de trÈs grandes qualitÉs, ne plaÎt pas au premier abord. Nous ne connaissons point Madame Soyer; nous ne pourrions mÊme dire si ce nom est un pseudonyme, ou s’il est vÉritablement celui de cette artiste. Ce qu’il y a de singulier, c’est que jamais aucune femme n’a peint avec autant de verve, de chaleur et d’entrain. Madame Soyer (en supposant toujours que Madame Soyer soit une femme) est aux autres peintres ce que Madame George Sand est aux littÉrateurs. Nous verrons plus tard si cette femme-peintre se soutiendra, et si ses productions prochaines vaudront celles de cette annÉe.”—La Capitole,

“The appearance of a very beautiful engraving of the picture of ‘The Jew Lemon-sellers’ reminds us of the loss which art has sustained in the death of Madame Soyer. This gifted lady, better known, perhaps, as Miss Emma Jones, has been snatched away in the midst of a career, the opening success of which fully justified the most flattering anticipations of her numerous friends. Some of Madame Soyer’s pictures exhibited here were the subjects of very general admiration, and such of our readers as visited the last exhibition at Paris (where Madame Soyer was even more popular than in England) will recall with pleasure her picture, in the style of Murillo, of ‘The Two Israelites,’ which received so much praise from the French critics. The devotion of Madame Soyer to the art which she so much adorned by her talents is illustrated as much in the number as in the excellence of her works, which form the basis of a lasting and honorable fame. Although but twenty-nine years of age when she died, she had already painted no less than 403 pictures. Many of them are in the possession of the most distinguished collectors in this country.”—Morning Chronicle.

KITCHEN OF THE REFORM CLUB.

“We copy the following, by the Vicountess de Malleville, from the last number of the Courrier de l’Europe. Without subscribing to the justice of all the writer’s remarks, we think, as the opinion of an intelligent foreigner, that the article will be read with some interest.

“‘We now quit the upper regions and follow the secretary of the club, and the politest and most obliging cicerone in the world. Theatrically speaking, we have as yet only seen the stage and its sumptuous decorations from the boxes and pit; we now go behind the scenes, among the scene-shifters and the machinists. But unlike in a theatre, we see no naked walls behind the scenes—no tattered draperies—no floors strewed with sawdust. This fine apartment is the kitchen—spacious as a ball-room, kept in the finest order, and white as a young bride. All-powerful steam, the noise of which salutes your ear as you enter, here performs a variety of offices: it diffuses a uniform heat to large rows of dishes, warms the metal plates, upon which are disposed the dishes that have been called for, and that are in waiting to be sent above; it turns the spits, draws the water, carries up the coal, and moves the plate like an intelligent and indefatigable servant. Stay awhile before this octagonal apparatus, which occupies the centre of the place. Around you the water boils and the stewpans bubble, and a little further on is a moveable furnace, before which pieces of meat are converted into savoury rÔtis—here are sauces and gravies, stews, broths, soups, &c.; in the distance are Dutch ovens, marble mortars, lighted stoves, iced plates of metal for fish, and various compartments for vegetables, fruits, roots, and spices. After this inadequate, though prodigious nomenclature, the reader may perhaps picture to himself a state of general confusion, a disordered assemblage, resembling that of a heap of oyster-shells. If so, he is mistaken. For, in fact, you see very little, or scarcely anything, of all the objects above described; the order of their arrangement is so perfect, their distribution as a whole, and in their relative bearings to one another, all are so intelligently considered, that you require the aid of a guide to direct you in exploring them, and a good deal of time to classify in your mind all your discoveries.

“‘The man who devised the plan of this magnificent kitchen, over which he rules and governs without question or dispute, the artiste who directs by his gestures his subalterns tricked out in white, and whose eye takes in at a glance the most difficult combinations in the culinary art—in a word, the chef by whom every gourmet admitted within the precincts of the Reform Club swears, is M. Soyer, of whom it may justly be said that he is not more distinguished as a professor of the science of the Vatels and Caremes, than as a well-behaved and modest man. Allow him, therefore, to give you the history of his discoveries and improvements; let him conduct you into the smallest recesses of his establishment, the cleanliness of which would shame many a drawing-room; and listen to him, also, as he informs you that those precious pictures which crowd his own parlour are from the pencil of a wife who has recently been taken from him by a premature death. Of this you might almost doubt till he again affirms it, for, judging from the poetry of the composition, and the vigour of the colouring and the design, you might swear that these pictures were the work of Murillo when he was young.

“‘Let all strangers who come to London for business, or pleasure, or curiosity, or for whatever cause, not fail to visit the Reform Club. In an age of utilitarianism, and of the search for the comfortable, like ours, there is more to be learned here than in the ruins of the Coliseum, of the Parthenon, or of Memphis.’”—Chambers’s Journal.

“Workhouse Cookery.—The disclosures in the Andover Union have thrown quite a new light on the science of cookery, which not even the inspiration of a Soyer could have hit upon. That ingenious chef de cuisine has blended together pastry and politics; with considerable skill he has invented a CrÊme d’Angleterre, consisting of charms borrowed from the female aristocracy; but those ingredients, imaginary and unsubstantial as they are, must be considered as solids when compared with the materials used for constituting the dishes served up to the paupers in the Andover Union. Butter, according to the new poor law cookery, is made from the skimmings of grease pots, and parochial tea is made from boiling old leaves which have already had their strength drawn out of them.

“A new cookery book, edited by M’Dougal, the master of the Andover Union, is evidently a desideratum in culinary literature, which even Soyer’s universal genius has hitherto left unsupplied.”—Punch.

THE GASTRONOMIC REGENERATOR.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

THE TIMES.

The Gastronomic Regenerator.—The Modern Cook.—“Any body can dine,” says the clever and profound author of the ‘Original,’ “but very few know how to dine so as to ensure the greatest quantity of health and enjoyment.” The pith and truth of this remark are unquestionable; and, indeed, we know nothing more painful than that utter disregard of the very first principles of gastronomic science evinced by so many unprincipled and reckless individuals of the present day, who eat as though the sole object of eating were to sustain life. Not that they take the best means for accomplishing even that ignoble end. The rules, whose observance renders eating a luxury and an art, also conduce in the highest degree to health. Sacrifices to Ceres and Bacchus, in the very act of the offering, should have a sweet fragrance in the nostrils of Hygeia.

Who shall affix a boundary to the possible progress of an art? Let the vulgar do so, who, struck by apparent perfection, conclude at once that the force of genius “can no further go.” We assert fearlessly that the limits of human creation and improvement are yet unknown. Least of all are they to be defined with reference to that great art which has been styled “the standard and gauge of human civilization,” and which Montaigne, with less respect, denominated the science de la gueule. Sceptics were they who, revelling at the table of Louis XIV in the sauces of a Bechamel, or lingering at the board of the great CondÉ over the chefs d’oeuvre of a Vatel—that illustrious martyr to a point of culinary honour!—or inhaling gently and delicately, and degustating slowly, and with marvellous discrimination, the exquisite and quintessential results of the vigils of an Ude, who refused, in their turns, to believe that the science professed by these great men could be capable of improvement, or was susceptible of higher elevation. Alas! have we not lived to vote the resources of all perruque and rococo, and to behold the precious laurels that wreathed the temples of the culinary demigods of the 18th century, transferred by acclamation in the 19th to the mighty brows of a CarÊme and a Beauvilliers, a Soyer and a Francatelli—great names every one—poetizers of the spit, philosophers of the larder, sublime fire-worshippers, high priests of a kitchen fuller than Druidical groves of deep and sacred mysteries?

The two bulky and important volumes before us are characteristic of the distinguished artists to whom we own them. Written, the one by a Frenchman, the other by an Englishman (for Mr. Francatelli, in spite of his name, boasts of an Anglican origin), they differ greatly in form, although in substance, as far as the uninitiated may judge, they are equally excellent. The Modern Cook enters upon his task in a grave and business-like fashion, never tempted into digression, never moved into metaphor, ever keeping in view his main object, which, we an proud to say, is eminently patriotic, for he seeks to elevate the character and position of the English Cook, and to produce a work creditable to the gastronomic knowledge of the nation. “The Gastronomic Regenerator” is a different personage. He can afford to garnish his prose with the flowers of fancy, as his material dishes are crowned with croustades and atelettes; he handles with equal ability the quill of Pegasus and the larding-needle, and records with the former the achievements of the latter, in a strain of enthusiasm and heroic sensibility that are not to be surpassed even in the odes of a poet laureate. We confess at the outset that there is much to marvel at in the recondite pages of the Regenerator, but there is nothing to admire more than his matchless modesty, his courteous urbanity, his devotion to the fair sex, and his occasional touching and highly imaginative digressions.

“Why do you not write and publish a Cookery-book? was a question continually put to me. For a considerable time this scientific word caused a thrill of horror to pervade my frame, and brought back to my mind that one day, being in a most superb library in the midst of a splendid baronial hall, by chance I met with one of Milton’s allegorical works, the profound ideas of Locke, the several chefs d’oeuvre of one of the noblest champions of literature, Shakspeare; when all at once my attention was attracted by the nineteenth edition of a voluminous work: such an immense success of publication caused me to say, ‘Oh! you celebrated man, posterity counts every hour of fame upon your regretted ashes!’ Opening this work with intense curiosity, to my great disappointment what did I see,—a receipt for Ox-tail Soup! The terrifying effect produced upon me by this succulent volume made me determine that my few ideas, whether culinary or domestic, should never encumber a sanctuary which should be entirely devoted to works worthy of a place in the Temple of the Muses.”

Why, then, great artist, transgress this noble resolution? Why commit a desecration which, indeed, is no desecration, save to your own pre-eminent and too fastidious judgment? Ah, shall we confess it? It is the old story, familiar to the playgoing public, and to the printers of playbills. “The particular desire of several persons of distinction,” and especially of the ladies, to whose appeals M. Soyer Informs us he could never turn a deaf ear, has dragged the sage from his retirement, and compelled him to do violence to a settled conviction and a holy purpose. Some idea of the sacrifice which M. Soyer was called upon to make by the entreaties of the ladies and the distinguished individuals adverted to, may be gathered from the history of the hero during the composition of his work. For ten months he laboured at the pyramid which the remotest posterity shall applaud; and during the whole of that period he was intent upon providing the countless meals which a living generation have already approved and fully digested. Talk of the labours of a Prime Minister or Lord Chancellor! Sir R. Peel was not an idle man. Lord Brougham is a tolerably busy one. Could either, we ask, in the short space of ten months—ten “little months”—have written ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’ and furnished 25,000 dinners, 38 banquets of importance, comprising above 70,000 dishes, besides providing daily for 60 servants, and receiving the visits of 15,000 strangers, all too eager to inspect the renowned altar of a great Apician temple? All this did M. Soyer, and we back him for industry against even the indefatigable Brougham.

That more than one of the 38 banquets were of the highest moment, and must at the time have engrossed the mind of their accomplished author, to the serious derangement of his literary avocations, admits of no question the moment we peruse one bill of fare which M. Soyer places before our dazzled and admiring eyes. A memorable dinner was given at the Reform Club, upon the 9th day of May of the present year, to a select party of ten highly-gifted connoisseurs; none of your gobble-and-gulp people, who, in their melancholy ignorance, swallow a potage À la Comte de Paris, or a rissolette À la Pompadour, with the same frightful nonchalance as a sailor will devour his pea-soup, or a rustic bolt his bacon; but creatures of ethereal natures, devotees of what the painters call “high art;” men who feed their bodies only to give elasticity and vigour to their souls. The Diner Lucullusian À la Sampayo was ordered with a magnificent contempt of expense. No money was to be spared in obtaining the most novel, luxurious, and rare compounds that ingenuity could discover or gold procure. Stimulated by the anxious and repeated visits of a noble-spirited, and judicious guide, a Grove and a Jay, a Townsend and a Morel, a Slater and a Solomon, surpassed themselves in the quality of the viands they purveyed. One dish, the “Buisson d’EcrÉvisses Pagodatique au vin de Champagne À la Sampayo” cost something more than seven guineas—a trifle! Two large bottles of Perigord truffles, value four guineas, were stewed with the ÉcrÉvisses in champagne. We have no heart to proceed, for “the author regrets that, in fulfilment of an agreement between him and M. Sampayo, he is restricted from giving the receipt of crawfish À la Sampayo.” Why was the dish mentioned at all, if the world is still to be deprived of the receipt? The loss is a national one. Doubtless it would have been very popular at the small clubs, and in great request with gentlemen of limited incomes! But to return to the incomparable dinner. There were dotrelles aux feuilles de vignes, and there was miroton de homard aux oeufs de pluvier, and there were many other dishes, too, enough as you would think to crown the happiness of a cook, and to satisfy the ambition of the proudest caterer in Christendom. You know not cooks. At page 608 of ‘The Regenerator,’ the soft sigh of a Soyer falls painfully upon the reader’s ear; and no wonder! A brilliant thought—one of those superb inspirations, the property of great minds—had occurred to our author during the procreation of this matchless banquet. Mentioned by him to the mysterious and too exclusive Sampayo and his friends, they caught with joy the idea. Two dozen of ortolans and twelve of the largest and finest truffles were to be procured, and in each of the latter a hole was to be dug, wherein one of the unctuous and semi-transparent little volatiles was to be buried. Yes, the delicate native of Provence gloriously interred in the choicest production of Perigord; then must a piece of calf or lamb’s caul (exquisite minuteness of description!) cover the aperture and shelter the imprisoned bird; then was there to be braising in a gravy of fowls and LachrymÆ Christi, poached forcemeat upon the dish, the truffles in pyramid. Upon that, a purÉe with the truffle that bad been dug out of the graves, and a garniture of roasted ortolans. Stupendous thought! we have read of superior minds overcoming obstacles long deemed insurmountable, and have gathered from the perusal strength for the difficult struggle of life. Such strength find we here. “An ortolan,” said Alexis Soyer, pondering on the difficult and self-appointed task, “an ortolan can hardly be truffled, but I will undertake that a truffle shall be ortolaned!” He might have added, “‘Tis not in mortals to command success; we’ll do more, Sampayo, we’ll deserve it;” for great as the Regenerator’s conception was, it was not destined to be realized. The elements were unpropitious, and the ortolans did not arrive in time from Paris, whence they had been ordered. This, however, was the only failure. Everything else was to the turn, the minute. At seven o’clock the Severn salmon arrived alive, and by express from Gloucester. Ten minutes later it smoked upon the board. Happy Sampayo!—happier guests!—immortal Soyer!

We turn to the pictorial portion of this notable book. After the agreeable portrait of the author, which faces the title-page, the first of the woodcuts that attracts attention is “The Table of the Wealthy,” with the motto, “Rien ne dispose mieux l’esprit humain À des transactions amicales qu’un dÎner bien conÇu et artistement prÉparÉ.” A great maxim of diplomacy! How many treaties of peace and commerce have owed their conclusion to the mollifying effects of a series of good dinners! What numerous misunderstandings have been arranged and thorny points happily settled, less by the wisdom of the ambassador than by the ability of the ambassador’s cook! On a judiciously-compounded sauce, or a rÔti cuit À point, or the seasoning of a salmi, or the twirl of a casserole, may depend the fate of a crowned head,—the marriage of a prince,—the weal or woe of a nation. Is cookery, then, no art? Truly is it—the highest, the noblest!

A second plate, “My Table at Home,” represents M. Soyer, in his foyers, presiding over a select party assembled round his hospitable and well-furnished board. Behold again the unrivalled gallantry of the country, and the individual finding a vent in a poetic and touching smile. “A gastronomical rÉunion, without ladies,” says the chief cook of the Reform Club,” is a parterre without flowers, the ocean without waves, a fleet without sails.”

Talking of fleets, let us pass on at once to the Turkey À la Nelson, which deceased but much honoured bird is placed with its tail in the prow of a Roman galley, duly provided with anchor, sail, and all fitting appurtenances, and surmounted by fictitious ducklings, manufactured, as we are informed, but should never have divined, of the legs of fowls. Further on we have the Gateau Britannique À l’Amiral, a comely corvette of cake, coppered with chocolate, displaying wafer sails and sugar rigging, tossing upon waves of gelÉe À la Bacchante,—her canvas swelling to a favouring breeze,—her sides dripping with wine and marmalade,—her interior, even to the hatchways, filled with such a freight as none but Soyer could provide, and perfect gourmets thoroughly appreciate. It is whispered that upon this gallant ship Commodore Napier did fearful execution in the presence of his quondam foe and present friend, Ibrahim Pacha, when that illustrious individual dined with the Commodore at his club. Assaulting the craft with the fierce impetuosity for which the hero of Acre is so renowned, and thrusting his boarding-pike—his spoon we would say—deep into the hold of the luscious craft, he destroyed in an instant Soyer’s labour of a day. Timbers were stove in or out,—sails came down by the run,—masts went by the board,—and all was wreck, where a second before all had been symmetry and perfection.

Nothing that relates to the kitchen or the table has been neglected or overlooked by the Regenerator. We have plans and drawings of kitchens of every description, from the matchless establishments of the Reform Club, with its ice drawers, slate wells, steam closets, bains marie, and fifty other modern refinements, to the unpretending cooking-places of the cottage or the bachelor. But perhaps the section of the book to be chiefly prized by the general reader and indifferent gastronome, is the short one relating to carving. Good carvers are almost as rare as good tenor singers. The proper dissection of flesh and fowl is a matter of high importance, rarely excelled in, but should be always studied. It is an accomplishment almost as indispensable as reading and writing, and quite as graceful. “If you should, unhappily,” says Launcelot Sturgeon, in his Essays, Moral, Philosophical, and Stomachic, “be forced to carve at table, neither labour at the joint till you put yourself in a heat, nor make such a desperate effort to dissect it as may put your neighbours in fear of their lives; however, if an accident should happen, make no excuses, for they are only an acknowledgment of[Pg xv] awkwardness. We remember to have seen a man of high fashion deposit a turkey in this way in the lap of a lady, but with admirable composure, and without offering the slightest apology, he finished a story which he was telling at the same time, and then quietly turning to her, merely said, ‘Madam, I’ll thank you for that turkey.’” To those who may not possess similar coolness, and the same stoical indifference to the fate of ladies’ dresses and the results of ladies’ indignation, M. Soyer’s improvements in carving are valuable indeed.

“Nature, says I to myself, compels us to dine more or less once a day; each of those days you are, honorable reader, subject to meet en tÊte-À-tÊte with a fowl, poularde, duck, pheasant, or other volatile species; is it not bad enough to have sacrificed the lives of those amimaus bienfaisans to satisfy our indefatigable appetites, without pulling and tearing to atoms the remains of our benefactors? it is high time for the credit of humanity and the comfort of quiet families, to put an end to the massacre of those innocents.”

Incomparable benevolence! Tenderest commiseration! Perfect humanity! “We will be sacrificers, not butchers, Caius Cassius.” The philanthropic progress of the century has reached the kitchen, and animal love is most intense in the vicinity of the stockpot. What would the kitchen of the Reform Club be without humanity and the liberal sentiments? No more will barbarous cooks be haunted by horrid visons of the night! Incipient porkers shall no longer pine away their sweetness, and strive to toughen their crackling in anticipation of a final flagellation. Eels shall no longer be required to give up their skins before their ghosts, and some humaner process than a surfeit of food, a deprivation of drink, and a gradual roasting near a scorching fire, will, let us hope, be discovered, to give to the livers of ducks that glorious expansion and pinguid richness so much appreciated by the epicure. We will not despair of witnessing, under the dominion of M. Soyer, the introduction and use of some instrument analogous to the guillotine, which by a stroke shall do its deadly necessary work: nay, might not advances lately made in Mesmerism be turned to good account in procuring painless death to those whom the feeling Soyer so beautifully calls our “benefactors?” A goose, in a state of coma, would be uncognizant of the penknife that divides its jugular; calves and sheep properly subjected to the action of the magnetic fluid would pass from life into the larder without a struggle or a groan. But to carving! For joints, our author gives most lucid directions, which, if properly studied, cannot fail to convert the merest tyro into an admirable carver. For game and poultry he has done more. He has invented an instrument, to be had at Bramah’s, in Piccadilly, and with which printed directions are given, by the aid of which the joints of birds are severed without the smallest detriment to their good looks. “Formerly,” he says, “nothing was more difficult to carve than wild fowl, the continual motion (when alive) of the wings and legs making the sinews almost as tough as wires, puzzling the best of carvers to separate them; my new method has quite abolished such a domestic tribulation.” For which, as well as for the many other benefits conferred by him upon the human race and the brute creation, we beg to reiterate our humble hearty thanks to the talented author of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator.’

THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

Alexis Soyer, the Gastronomic Regenerator.—Everybody who knows him, everybody who has sat before his dishes, everybody interested in the promotion of the Reform cause, or who likes to have a good dinner at home, has long since said in his heart “Why does not Soyer write a book about cookery?” When Reform was flagging, when Peel had it all his own way, before a country party was thought of, or a revolt seemed possible, when the idea of the Whigs coming in was hopeless, and the party therefore needed consolation, what did Soyer do? At that moment of general depression Alexis Soyer invented cutlets À la rÉforme. He didn’t despair, he knew the avenir that was before the party. He rallied them round the invigorating table, from which they rose cheered and courageous; flushed with victuals, their attack upon the enemy was irresistible (as under such circumstances the charge of Britons always is), and Downing-street may be said to be the dessert of the dinners in Pall-mall. He is one of the greatest politicians and pacificators in the world. If they had him in Conciliation-hall, even there they would leave off quarrelling. Look at his influence upon the diplomacy of our country! In this very day’s paper appears an account of a dinner at that very Reform Club which Soyer loves, and which has stood as sponsor to the great cutlets which he invented—of a dinner at which Lord Palmerston and Ibrahim Pacha had their hands in the same dish of pilaff, and the maker of that dish was Alexis Soyer. To such a noble and magnanimous spirit as Soyer’s evidently is, such a meeting will cause pride and thankfulness indeed. It is a happy omen. They have eaten salt together, and the peace of the world is assured.

How it was that Gibbon came to write the ‘Decline and Fall;’ under what particular circumstances Newton conceived the theory of gravitation; how Scott invented his works, &c., are historic anecdotes with which all persons interested in literature are familiar. It is always pleasant to know how and where a great thought came into the brain of a great man, and so it is agreeable to know how this cookery book, which all the world longed for, was suggested to Soyer. (See the Preface.)

Surely this preface is one of the most remarkable documents that ever ushered any book into the world. Soyer has made it a rule never to refuse anything in his power to the ladies (the rogue)!—and, amongst other favours, they asked him for a cookery-book. The request caused him “a thrill of horror;” but being in a library in the midst of a hall, where he met with one of Milton’s allegorical works, Locke’s profound ideas, and several chefs d’oeuvre of that noble champion of literature, Shakspeare, what should his eye turn to but a cookery-book closeted in such company! “The terrifying effect of that succulent volume” made him determine that he never would write a book of the culinary sort.

What was the consequence? The very determination not to write, forced him into “a thousand gastronomic reflections.” Write he must, and it was sheer modesty that generated the Regenerator. Mark the pleasantry upon the word “lost,” the last word in the preface, and fancy Soyer lost in Paradise. Tempter! if you had been in any such place, to what could you not have persuaded the first gourmand! In fine, Soyer determined to write this book, because he justly “considered that the pleasures of the table are an every-day enjoyment, which reflects good and evil on all classes.” And when we remember that he has written the work in ten months, during which he has also supplied 25,000 dinners to the gentlemen of the Reform Club, and 38 dinners of importance, comprising 70,000 dishes; that he had to provide daily for 60 servants, and to do the honours of the club to 15,000 visitors, one may fancy what genius and perseverance can accomplish. He says he is “entirely satisfied with the composition, distribution, and arrangement of the volume.” Exegit monumentum in fact. He has been and done it. He gives you his signature, his portrait en buste, and another full length, in which he is represented in his parlour at home (where, in spite of his avocations, he has leisure to receive his friends and consume a most prodigious quantity of victuals), surrounded by a select society of private friends, dispensing to them some of the luxuries which he describes in his 700 pages.

After a few prefatory observations about carving, for which he has invented a new and apparently successful, though unintelligible method—about larding, which he recommends to the English “middle classes”—the seasons of fish and game, &c.—the utensils for the kitchen—Soyer plunges into sauces at once, as the great test of culinary civilization. The key-sauces are the White Sauce, No. 7, and the Brown Sauce, No. 1. They are the principia of the science—they are the sauces which Soyer daily and principally uses. If the reader suspects that we are going to transcribe the formula for the preparation of these sauces, he is disappointed. No; let those who want the sauce buy the book, and enjoy both.

From sauces we go to “Potages or Soups” (and what are these, in fact, but diluted and agreeable sauce?), commencing with the clear light broth, or FIRST STOCK of soup, and proceeding to a hundred delicious varieties—the Louis Philippe, the Jerusalem, the Marcus-Hill, the Princess Royal, &c. Nothing can be more delicate or worthy of a young princess than this latter little soup; whereas the “potage À la comtesse,” beginning with “cut half a pound of lean ham with an onion,” is of a much stronger character. All these soups are flavoured with appropriate observations, as, for instance—“In fact it is much better for all thick soups to be too thin than too thick.” Louis Philippe soup, he says, should contain “Brussels sprouts, boiled very green.” Here is sorely some wicked satire here.

From soup we come to fish, as in the order of nature; thence to the hors-d’oeuvre and removes, to the flancs, the entrÉes, the roasts, the vegetables, the sweets, or the entremets, and the second-course removes. As the critic reads from page to page his task becomes absolutely painful, so delicious is the style, so “succulent” are the descriptions, and so provoking the hunger which they inspire. Every now and then you get anecdotes, historical and topographical allusions, &c. (See p. 472.)

How finely it is written! “Will your excellency call to-morrow morning?” Talleyrand’s friend says nothing, but you see his rank at once, and when his excellency is gone, the Prince of Benevent rings the bell and orders—some of his favorite dishes. There is an account in the volume of crawfish aux truffes À la Sampayo, which makes one almost frantic with hunger.

And what will the reader say to this dish, which is the invention, not of Soyer the cook, but of Soyer the poet:—“The Celestial and Terrestrial Cream of Great Britain.” (See p. 710.)

If this dish was provided for his Highness Ibrahim Pacha last night, no Eastern prince since the days of the Barmecide was ever so entertained. Ardebit Alexim. His Highness will be bribing away this Gascon genius at any price to Cairo. He will become —— Pacha, and the cause of Reform will begin to droop.

Besides poetry, there are pictures in this incomparable volume. The dindonneau À la Nelson (of which the croustade is the bow of a ship, in compliment to the hero of Aboukir) is a picture worthy of Turner. The engraving of Soyer’s own parlour, where a pretty maid is in waiting (and an exceedingly pretty girl, by the way, is seated by the great artist) is an enticing interior, in which any man would like to let his portrait appear. The picture of “Salade de Grouse À la Soyer” is a capital portrait, and will be recognized by all who know and love the original. Soyer’s own portrait we have mentioned before. But perhaps the finest and most interesting work of art in the volume, is the plate at p. 294, which represents, of the natural size, a mutton cutlet, a pork cutlet, and a lamb cutlet. This cut—this plate of cutlets we should say—is incomparable.

THE MORNING POST.

In spite of all that we have heard for some years past about the enlightenment of the age, there are still certain vulgar errors, and errors on very vital subjects, to which the English adhere with all the constancy of martyrs.

Perhaps these errors are more abundant in relation to the preparation of food than to almost any other matter. At present, in the middle of the nineteenth century, the generality of people in England have only roast and boil, after a fashion; and there the culinary acquirements of the multitude find their extreme limits. Others, there are, indeed, who take a higher flight; they affect soups and gravies, and even aspire to put vegetables on their tables; but in all these cases nothing can be more inartificial than the system pursued. Hot water is the chief ingredient, and pepper the condiment. Thus, for soup;—fry two or three slices of coarse beef in plenty of fat, boil it in water, and saturate it with pepper and salt, and your tureen is provided for. Of mutton broth we are not so sure of the process; but the decoction has all the appearance of being composed of the eternal hot water, stirred with a tallow candle, to give the necessary number of globules of grease on the surface, and ornamented at the top with a few floating particles of parsley. A gravy in more frequent use is exceedingly simple. When a leg of mutton is roasted, the person miscalled a cook pours a teacupful of water over the joint, and the gravy is complete. Vegetables are only required to retain as much as possible of the fetid water in which they are boiled, and to be sunk as deep in melted butter as a river bound collier is in the sea, and they are considered “a dainty dish to set before a king.”

Such are a few everyday examples of the English practice of cookery—principles it evidently has none. In France they order these things differently. During a succession of revolutions, extending over a space of nearly sixty years, constitutions have been abandoned as soon as adopted; kings and nobles have been murdered; but La Cuisine has ever been held inviolate, and chefs deserving of the name have not ceased to be venerated. And what is the result?—that in France, where the raw material is, with the single exception of veal, perhaps, inferior to ours, a dinner can be produced worthy of Lucullus; in England, save under the superintendence of French artists, such a feat is plainly impossible. Surely, then, it behoves us to do what we may for availing ourselves, in their fullest extent, of the advantages we have received from nature, not perhaps by going the somewhat extreme length that we have heard suggested, of establishing professorships of gastronomy in our universities, on the broad ground that domestic is as well worthy of being encouraged as political economy, but by profiting, to the best of our abilities, under the instructions of those who really understand the art in which we are so lamentably deficient. So desirable an object has hitherto been baffled by the popular prejudice that good cookery is necessarily unwholesome. It is no such thing. An accomplished cook is an accomplished chemist; he knows the several affinities of substances for each other, and not only balances these with the utmost exactitude, but even prescribes, with the same view, the particular description of wine proper to each stage of his banquet. We all remember the celebrated answer of CarÊme to George IV, whose cuisine he superintended while that sovereign was regent. “CarÊme,” said the prince, “your cookery will be the death of me; see how I am suffering from indigestion.” “Sire,” replied the professor, “I am innocent of the charge; it is my duty to provide you with a dinner, the discretion to use it properly must originate with your royal highness.” So true is it that the evil lies in the abuse and not in the use of good things.

Another objection to elaborate cookery is the expense it is supposed to involve. Both the points have been satisfactorily met in the work before us. The many receipts furnished by M. Soyer, and they amount to nearly two thousand, afford evidence at once of careful study and of extreme delicacy. Everything gross is excluded, and the more nutritious portions of food are alone preserved, in such forms as to please the eye and the palate, without embarrassment to the digestive process. Neither of these objects is attained under the ordinary English system. Huge joints offend the sight, and half-raw meat tasks the organs of digestion beyond their power, by presenting to them masses of unbroken fibres. To save trouble to the stomach the fibre must be destroyed by the action of heat, and this can never be effected by exposing food to the fire during only half the time that is necessary.

Then, as to the expense of superior cookery, M. Soyer has taken the best means of refuting the error by showing that much improvement may be made without addition to the cost. In one portion of his book he provides materials for the dinner of an emperor; in the other, entitled, “My Kitchen at Home,” he enables the smallest private family, or even the solitary bachelor, to live well on small means.

It would be incompatible with our limits to discuss fully the two systems of the author, and to abstain from any illustration of them would be unjust to him and unsatisfactory to the reader. We will therefore give one example of each—the magnificent and the simple; and the first shall be a banquet served at the Reform Club, on the 9th of May last to a private party of ten persons (see page 609), and for a dinner party for eight persons, at home (see page 636).

Of the simple arrangement for a bachelor or a married couple, combining, as they do, elegance with economy, we cannot give a selection; because we would not offer a brick as a specimen of the house; but we strongly recommend them to all who are tired of conventional dinners composed of everlasting chops and steaks.

In short the work of M. Soyer is one that cannot fail of being extensively read. If it be worth while to spend as much time as everybody does in eating, it is surely advisable to see that our time is not thrown away—that we live like civilized beings rather than New Zealand savages. In this important point the system of M. Soyer is worthy of praise, and we feel that we only anticipate our readers in thanking him for the labour he has bestowed in elucidating a pursuit that, in despite of twaddle, is at least one of the minor amenities of life.

THE MORNING HERALD.

We approach with all due reverence and respect the discussion of the important and mysterious changes effected by the chemical action of that most potent of all galvanic agencies, whose resistless influence is acknowledged by sages, philosophers, and statesmen, and whose sympathetic vibrations finds response in every breast—the batterie de cuisine. ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator; a New System of Cookery.’ We have given both the titles, because in so deeply interesting a race, all parties from the Royal duke, whose gracious condescension sanctions the dedication in the title-page, to the humble artisan who sniffs the fragrant perfume as he passes the area of the Reform Club, are entitled to start fair; and to the uninitiated the pronomen would require a greater amount of consideration than accords with good digestion. For ourselves, we can only say, with the cockney lady in the play, “How delightfully unintelligible! how far-fetched! how French!” But we have a shrewd guess that the impracticable title was designed, like some of his sauces piquantes, as a cabalistic whet or provocative to the teeming fancies and gustatory glories of the interior, and that pronounced with due emphasis and discretion before a meal, it would “create an appetite under the very ribs of death.” The importance of a good dinner is become almost an axiom in morals and philosophy; with ourselves it has been elevated to the rank of an article of faith. We cannot, therefore, too highly appreciate the labours of distinguished men who, like M. Soyer, sacrifice themselves to a sense of public duty, and present to an admiring and hungry world those treasures of gastronomie which are the very triumph of artistic skill. The ancient proverb has it that “any one can dine,” to which modern political economy has added, “if he have the means,”—happily for the present generation they live in the third era of progressive advancement, when dining has become a science, and the good things which Providence has abundantly supplied to us are rendered subservient at once to health and refined enjoyment. M. Soyer tells us that nothing better disposes the human mind to amiable feelings than a dinner, bien conÇu et artistement prÉparÉ. How deeply grateful, then, should our countrymen feel who make dining the great business of life, and with whom a dinner forms the grand rallying point for every striking demonstration of pleasure, or business, or friendship, or charity, to one who in the proud humility of his unrivalled genius is content to rank a good cook only on the same footing as a wise counsellor! We have been accustomed to vaunt of our liberty, our independence, and our unbounded wealth, but to our eternal disgrace be it recorded that, while we enjoy the fruits of their labours, we are silent on the subject of our obligations to the accomplished cuisinier. The talent and research of a Vatel, a CarÊme, and a Bechamel have done much to place us on an equality with our more fastidious and artistic neighbours, the French—it remained for a Soyer to consummate the good work, and place the golden atelette upon the croustade of the dindonneau À la Nelson. M. Soyer has evidently a just appreciation of the dignity of the science of which he is so distinguished a professor; with a mind comprehensive enough to grasp all the most intricate and difficult combinations of the culinary art, he is above the littleness of discarding his guests because they may add salt to their soup, contenting himself with the sage maxim that “it is the duty of the cook to season for the guests, and not the guests for the cook.” And verily, if all our cooks were such “top” Soyers, it would be downright heresy to “paint the lily or add a perfume to the violet.” Since we read the work we have been tempted more than once to renounce our honest convictions, and sell our party for a mess of potage—À la Julienne. We had no idea that so much good could emanate from the Reform Club, and lived in the belief that their dinners were as dull as their dogmas, and their pÂtÉs as indifferent as their principles. But political discussions are interdicted over the dinner table, and with M. Soyer as caterer we honestly confess that we could dine in all love and amity with a Radical or a Repealer, and get “jolly” with a Chartist or an Owenite. We shall entertain a better opinion all our lives of a party so well served in the culinary department. Our readers will be naturally anxious to learn the moving cause of the thousand gastronomic reflections that crowd the volume—what powerful agency impelled him tot adire labores; and but for the habit of discursiveness which has marred our fortunes to the present hour we should have given it the prominence it deservedly obtains in the preface. Honour then to whom honour is due,—place aux dames—it is “at the request of several persons of distinction, particularly the ladies, to whom I have always made it a rule never to refuse anything in my power.” Never was there so touching a tribute of homage; never was the proverbial gallantry of his countrymen so strikingly or so gracefully exemplified. But we have all this time withheld our readers from a peep into the interior, and here our difficulties begin. We have rambled through the greater portion of the 700 or 800 pages of the book, and find every recipe an epic, every dish a picture, and every sauce a study. We are perplexed between the glories of the dÎner Lucullusian, the most recherchÉ dinner ever dressed, the pagodatique entrÉe, the gateau Britannique À l’amiral, the ortolaned truffles which Soyer devised, but the fates forbid, and the more unpretending but not less valuable details of “My Kitchen at Home,” redolent of savoury and appetitizing streams, which are within the reach of the middle and humbler classes. All are exquisite in their way; and had the Abyssinian prince, who roamed over half the globe in search of happiness, but lighted on this volume he would have sat down contentedly, ordered a new dish for every day in the year, and abandoned all thought of returning to the happy valley. Mais revenons À nos moutons, the approach to which is stopped by the cheveux de frise of a carving-knife and fork. Now carving, being, the coup de grÂce to cookery, rather unaccountably, but probably artistically, occupies the first chapter; and our author, after referring to the tribulation of carving “for appetites more or less colossal, and when all eyes are fixed upon you with anxious avidity,” opens his instructions with the following curious historic anecdote (see p. xii).

And then follow some very sage reflections upon the necessity of dining “more or less once a day,” and a pathetic appeal to the “manglers” not to tear to atoms the remains of our benefactors; and with this flourish of the knife enter “directions for carving,” which are extremely brief and simple, and which are wound up with the hint, seldom attended to by even experienced carvers, that nothing is more creditable to a carver than leaving a piece of meat, game, or poultry fit to reappear at table in an inviting state.

One extract more, and we shall terminate our pleasing labours, premising that our selection has been made more with a view to novelty than from any want of more recherchÉ and attractive materials. The fanfare is with reference to the French pot-au-feu (see p. 649).

But here we must pause, for we are almost cloyed with sweets and dainties. With the best appetite and inclination in the world, we are reluctantly compelled to subscribe to our artist’s doctrine, that a man can dine but once a day, and our literary banquet has been already a most seductive and profuse one. We purposed giving the recipe of the far-famed pot-au-feu, but we presume it is already, or shortly will be, in the hands of all the world, and if any of our readers have not yet made up their minds, we advise them to send without loss of time to Simpkin, Marshall, and Co.

THE MORNING ADVERTISER.

“The fame of the Reform Club and its matchless cuisine, under the direction of that great master of his art, Alexis Soyer, have gone to the uttermost ends of the earth. To render that fame imperishable, Soyer has composed his ‘Gastronomic Regenerator,’ a work which is destined to throw all others, from the time-honoured Mrs. Glass to the learned Eustache Ude, into the shade. The former, most loveable in her way, will henceforth only be remembered for her one receipt, “first catch your hare,” &c.; the piquancy, the utile et dulce characteristics of Soyer, like one of his own chyle-begetting and renowned sauces, entirely neutralises, absorbs, swallows up the greatest effort of Ude. Tempus edax rerum! Soyer is a wit and a wag of the first water; hence a perusal of the introduction to the goodly volume before us acts as a whet. “Laugh and grow fat” is an old and a true adage; read Soyer’s introduction, and the veriest valetudinarian will afterwards sit down and eat like a man! Soyer’s experience has been vast—magnifique! hear, on the important head, what he tells his readers:—“During the last ten months I had to furnish 25,000 dinners for the gentlemen of the Reform Club, and 38 dinner parties of importance, comprising above 70,000 dishes, and to provide daily for 60 servants of the establishment, independent of about 15,000 visitors who have seen the kitchen department in that lapse of time.” Authors frequently assign a reason for writing; Soyer, in this respect, is not behindhand; in his preface he says;—“At the request of several persons of distinction who have visited the Reform Club, particularly ladies, to whom I have always made it a rule never to refuse anything in my power, for, indeed, it must have been the fair sex who have had the majority in this domestic argument to gain this gastronomical election. Why do you not write and publish a cookery-book? was a question continually put to me. For a considerable time this scientific word caused a thrill of horror to pervade my frame, and brought back to my mind that one day, being in a most superb library in the midst of a splendid baronial hall, by chance I met with one of Milton’s allegorical works, the profound ideas of Locke, and several chefs d’oeuvre of one of the noblest champions of literature, Shakspeare; when all at once my attention was attracted by the nineteenth edition of a voluminous work. Such an immense success of publication caused me to say, ‘Oh, you celebrated man, posterity counts every hour of fame upon your regretted ashes!’ Opening this work with intense curiosity, to my great disappointment, what did I see,—a receipt for Oxtail Soup! The terrifying effect produced upon me by this succulent volume, made me determine that my few ideas, whether culinary or domestic, should never encumber a sanctuary which should be entirely devoted to works worthy of a place in the Temple of the Muses.” That section of the work entitled “Soyer’s new mode of carving” (worthy of the deepest attention) is thus ushered in:—“You are all aware, honorable readers, of the continual tribulation in carving at table, for appetites more or less colossal, and when all eyes are fixed upon you with anxious avidity. Very few persons are perfect in this art, which requires not only grace, but a great deal of skill. Others become very nervous; many complain of the knife which has not the least objection to be found fault with; or else they say, this capon, pheasant, or poulard is not young, and consequently not of the best quality. You may sometimes be right, but it certainly often happens that the greatest gourmand is the worst carver, and complains sadly during that very long process, saying to himself “I am last to be served, my dinner will be cold.” Soyer’s motto is, “cleanliness is the soul of the kitchen;” the cuisine of the Reform Club is a perfect embodiment of this healthful axiom. That portion of the work before us devoted to “The Kitchen at Home,” deserves the attentive perusal of every housewife who wishes to enjoy comfort herself and be the cause of it to others; the author is almost as earnest and enthusiastic in his directions for the production of a good rump-steak pudding for the stomach of common life as he is for that of the most aristocratic and indulged. The work is, in short, one suited to the palace of the prince, and the cottage of the peasant. The two thousand practical receipts it contains, adapted to the incomes of all parties, have been eaten by a “committee of taste,” who have pronounced a verdict in their favour. It is appropriately dedicated to his Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, and the volume is rendered more valuable by its numerous well-executed illustrations. The frontispiece is a fine portrait of the author, after a painting by the once-accomplished and now lamented Madame Soyer. It is a most truthful portrait; each feature indicates the man—the play of the eloquent lip in there, at once the portal of wit and the minister of intense palatic sensibility. Vive le Soyer!

THE GLOBE

The Impression grows on us that the man of his age is neither Sir Robert Peel, nor Lord John Russell, nor even Ibrahim Pacha, but Alexis Soyer.

Hazlitt has said that, if literary men directed the world, they would leave nothing standing but printing presses. We know that parliamentary leaders imagine parliamentary tactics, and talk the primum mobile of mankind. Eastern despots think it is the sword; but Alexis Soyer knows it is the saucepan. When Napoleon first started the distinction of the “Legion of Honour,” Moreau ridiculed it by proposing to confer a casserole d’honneur on his cook. But we beg to propose some “Soyer testimonial,” without any joke at all. Have we not had a “Hudson testimonial?”—are we not threatened with a “Lambert Jones testimonial?”—to recompense, amongst other things, the laying that heavy load upon mother earth, called the Royal Exchange. What then shall be done unto the man who reared that light fabric of a Pyramid À l’Ibrahim Pacha, on which twenty centuries doubtless looked down last Friday evening, as they had very good reason to do,—since they might have seen Pyramids any day these two or three thousand years, but it is not every day they could see a Pyramid with “an elegant cream À l’ananas” on the top of it, and on the top of that again “a highly-finished portrait of the Illustrious stranger (Ibrahim Pacha’s) father, Mehemet Ali, carefully drawn on a round shape of satin carton.”

The veracious chronicler to whom we are now indebted for some particulars, which the world would not willingly let die, of that dinner at the Reform Club which has frighted some of our Paris contemporaries from their propriety, proceeds as follows:

“The appearance of this ‘CrÈme d’Egypte À l’Ibrahim Pacha’ immediately caught his Royal Highness’s attention, who at once perceived the honour conferred upon him. He carefully took off the portrait en carton in his hands to admire it; and after showing it to several of his suite, he affectionately placed it in his bosom near his heart, with the intention of never parting with it again. But what was his astonishment, on looking at the spot where the former portrait had been deposited, at seeing in the cream, as under a glass, the portrait of himself, as highly finished, and as striking a likeness as any miniature painter could have produced, and surrounded by a gilt-like frame! Monsieur Soyer, having been sent for by the party, was highly complimented by his Highness through his interpreter, who desired to know where and how he could procure such a likeness of his father, and how was his own so correctly drawn in the cream? ‘Please tell his Highness,’ said Monsieur Soyer to the interpreter, ‘that both were executed from the original sketches drawn by our celebrated artist Horace Vernet, whilst in Alexandria. The portrait in the cream is drawn on wafer-paper, which, placed on the damp jelly, representing the glass, dissolves, and nothing remains but the appearance of the portrait drawn in light water-colours. The imitation of the gilt frame is made with eau de vie of Dantzic, and gold water mixed with jelly, the gold leaf of which forms the frame. After having been thanked by the Pacha, the pyramidal cream of Egypt was ordered to be shown to each guest, by sliding it from one to the other round the table (which was more than 250 feet), to the great satisfaction and admiration of every one present. Though everything was eatable in it, this magnificent dish was respected, and remained untouched, but every one tried to partake of the fruit which surrounded this extraordinary and appropriate culinary wonder.”

The above is given chiefly for the benefit of our Paris contemporaries, who do us the honour to mention that “le Globe nous fait connaÎtre les Étranges discours qu’ils ont, l’un et l’autre (Lord Palmerston and Sir C. Napier), recitÉs À cette occasion.” Waiving the question whether there was anything “strange” in either speech we beg our Paris contemporaries to observe that their compatriot, Monsieur Soyer had effected a most skilful diversion from all delicate topics whatsoever.

Ibrahim Pacha’s interpreter, it now appears, had other things to do than to interpret either political retrospects or prospects, as touched by the several speakers. And surely it might soften the hearts of our jealous friends about the Palais Royal, to see how large a part of the triumph of the day was, in fact, a French triumph. Would we could stop here! But truth compels us to say that our ally, Monsieur Soyer, forces us, in the sequel, to feel strange doubts of his thorough devotion to English interests.

“The next dish which much amused his Highness was the one entitled the Gateau Britannique À l’Amiral, being the representation of an old man-of-war, bearing the English and Egyptian flag drawn on rice-paper, the ship being filled with ice mousseuse aux pÊches, and loaded with large strawberries, cherries, grapes, and bunches of currants, being so placed on the table that the brave and gallant Commodore Napier had to help from this cargo the illustrious stranger, who did not cease smiling. During that process the moisture and liquor of the ice, which gradually melted, saturated the hull of the vessel, which was made of a kind of delicate sponge cake. Whilst the gallant commodore was in the act of helping the remains of the ice, the ship gave way, and formed a complete wreck, which caused great hilarity among the company who were close enough to witness the scene.”

The above might form a most fertile text for sinister inferences, if we possessed the talent in that line of some of our Paris contemporaries. We content ourselves with expressing our satisfaction that Monsieur Soyer never has been, and we hope never will be, intrusted with the charge of Surveyor of the Navy, in addition to that of Chef de Cuisine at the Reform Club. We have no objection to his building gateaux Britanniques, which “give way” in the heat of action; but we desire to see no brioche of his contriving in the Mediterranean.

THE SUN.

Who has not heard of the cuisine of the Reform Club? Who has not heard of its chef, Alexis Soyer, and his soufflet monstre À la Clontarf, and his crÉme de l’Egypte À l’Ibrahim Pacha? Well, here we have the mighty gastronomic magician coming forward, in propriÉ persona, and informing us of the methods be employs to produce those results which astonish and delight the world. If we mistake not, this book of M. Soyer’s is destined to produce a revolution in the kitchens of England, and to substitute for the fat, greasy, unscientific school of cookery the science of gastronomy, a science which teaches the art of extracting from food, animal and vegetable, the nutritions portions in such a manner as to please the eye and the taste, while at the same time the material is economised to the utmost. The following passage shows that M. Soyer has had considerable experience on the subject of which he treats:

“During the last ten months, I had to furnish 25,000 dinners for the gentlemen of the Reform Club, and 38 dinner parties of importance, comprising above 70,000 dishes, and to provide daily for 60 servants of the establishment, independent of about 15,000 visitors who have seen the kitchen department in that lapse of time.”

The result of that experience we have in this volume. He gives us bills of fare for parties of all sizes, from a coronation banquet to a bachelor’s snug party in chambers. He also gives us plans of kitchens of all sizes, from the magnificent gastronomical laboratory of the Reform Club to my “Kitchen at Home,” which is suited to the means and requirements of the solitary bachelor. Let all those who are tired of the eternal roast and boiled, alternating with chop and steak—who think that mutton broth is not the only potage in the world—that there are methods of dressing fish other than plain boiling and frying, and other sauces than melted butter—purchase M. Soyer’s book. They will find that it is indeed that which it professes itself to be—a Gastronomic Regenerator.

BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

Cookery and Civilization. It is only after passing through an ordeal cruelly insidious, tolerably severe, and rather protracted, that we feel conscientiously entitled to assert our ability to dine every day of every week at the Reform Club, without jeopardy to those immutable principles which are incorruptible by Whigs and indestructible by Rats. A sneer, perhaps, is curling with “beautiful disdain” the lips of some Conservative Achilles. Let us nip his complacent sense of invulnerability in the bud. To eat and to err are equally attributes of humanity. Looking at ourselves in the mirror of honest criticism, we behold features as unchangeable as sublunary vicissitudes will allow.

Witness it! ye many years of wondrous alternation—of lurid tempest and sunny calm—of disastrous rout and triumphant procession—of shouting pÆan and wailing dirge—witness the imperturbable tenor of our way! Attest it, thou goodly array of the tomes of Maga, laden and sparkling, now as ever, with wisdom and wit, science and fancy!—attest the unwavering fidelity of our career! All this is very true; but the secret annals of the good can never be free from temptations, and never are in reality unblotted by peccadilloes. The fury of the demagogue has been our laughing-stock—the versatility of trimming politicians, our scorn. We have crouched before none of the powers which have been, or be; neither have we been carried off our feet by the whirlwinds of popular passion. Yet it is difficult to resist a good dinner. The victories of Miltiades robbed Themistocles of sleep. The triumphs of Soyer are apt to affect us, “with a difference,” after the same fashion.

There was, we remember, a spirit of surly independence within us on visiting, for the first time, the “high capital” of Whiggery, where the Tail at present,

To admire anything was not our mood:

And as these lines suggested themselves, we recollected who the first Whig is said to have been, and whose architectural glories Milton was recording. We never yet heard a Radical disparage a peer of the realm without being convinced, that deep in the pocket, next his heart, lay an incautious hospitable invitation from the noble lord, to which a precipitate answer in the affirmative had already been dispatched. Analogously, in the magnificent edifice, whose tesselated floor we were treading gingerly, it seemed to us that we surveyed an unmistakable monument of an innate predilection for the splendours and comforts, the pomp and the abandon, of a “proud aristocracy.” This was before dinner, and we were hungry. To tell all that happened to us for some hours afterwards, would, in fact, force us to transfer to our pages more than half of the volume which is prompting these observations. Suffice it to say, that when we again stood on Pall-Mall, a bland philanthropy of sentiment, embracing all races, and classes, and sects of men, permeated our bosom. Whence came the mellowing influence, seeing that we had been, as our custom is, very innocent of wine? Nor could it be the seductive eloquence of the company. We had, indeed, been roundly vituperated in argument by the Liberator. Oh, yes! but we had been fed by the Regenerator.

To us, then, on these things much meditating—so Cicero and Brougham love to write—many of the speculations in which we had indulged, and of the principles which we had advocated, were obviously not quite in harmony with the views long inculcated by us on a docile public. Suddenly the truth flashed across and illuminated the perplexity of our ponderings. We were aware that, early in the evening, a much milder censure than usual upon some factious Liberal manoeuvre had passed our lips. This took place just about the fourth spoonful of soup. The spells were already in operation under the shape of “potage À la Marcus Hill.” There is a fascination even in the name of this “delicious soup”—such is the epithet of Soyer—which our readers will better understand in the sequel. Again it was impossible to deny that we had hazarded several equivocal observations in reference to the Palmerstonian policy in Syria. But it was equally true that such inadvertencies slipped from us while laboriously engaged in determining a delicate competition between “John DorÉe À l’OrlÉannaise” and “saumon À la Beyrout.” A transient compliment to the influence at elections of the famous Duchess of Devonshire was little liable to objection, we imagined, during a playful examination of a few “aiguillettes de volaille À la jolie fille.” More questionable, it must be admitted, were certain assertions regarding the Five Points, enunciated hastily over a “neck of mutton À la Charte.” No fault, however, had we to find with the cutting facetiousness with which we had garnished “cotelettes d’agneau À la rÉforme en surprise aux champignons.” The title of this dish was so ludicrously applicable to the consternation of the remnants of the Melbourne ministry—the cutlets of lamb—in finding themselves outrun in the race by mushroom free-traders, that our pleasantly thereanent was irresistible. It was difficult, at the same time, to justify the expression of an opinion, infinitely too favorable to Peel’s commercial policy, yielding to the allurements of a “turban des cailles À la financiÈre.” And, on the whole, we smarted beneath a consciousness that all our conversation had been perceptibly flavoured by “filets de bÉcasses À la Talleyrand.”

The result of these reflections was, simply, an alarming conviction of the tremendous influence exercised by Soyer throughout all the workings of the British constitution. The causes of the success of the League begin to dawn upon us, while our gravest suspicions are confirmed by the appearance, at this peculiar crisis, of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator.’ What patriotism can withstand a superabundance of untaxed food, cooked according to the tuition of Soyer? How can public virtue keep its ground against such a rush of the raw material, covered by such a “batterie de cuisine?” Cobden and Soyer, in alliance, have given a new turn, and terribly literal power, to the fable of Menenius Agrippa.

Such times are gone. The belly now has it all its own way, while

are conjunctly and severally cuffed or bunged up, or broken, or stifled, unless they are perpetually ministering to the service of the great cormorant corporation. It is mighty well to talk of the dissolution of the League. The testament of CÆsar, commented on by Mark Antony, was eventually more fatal to the liberties of Rome, than the irrepressible ambition which originally urged the arch-traitor across the Rubicon. ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’ in the hands of every housewife in the country, is merely to convert the most invincible portion of the community into a perpetual militia of free-traders. All cooks proverbially encourage an enormous consumption of victuals. The study of Soyer will infallibly transform three fourths of the empire into cooks. Consequently, the demand for every variety of sustenance, by an immense majority of the nation, will be exorbitant and perennial. No syllogism can be more unassailable. We venture also to affirm that the judgment of posterity will be rigidly true in apportioning the endurance of fame which the conflicting merits of our great benefactors may deserve. It is far from unlikely that the glories of a Peel may be disregarded, forgotten, and unsung, when the trophies of a Soyer, still odorous, and unctuous, and fresh, shall be in everybody’s mouth.

The ‘Gastronomic Regenerator’ has not assumed his imposing title without a full appreciation of the dignity of his office, and the elevation of his mission. The brief and graceful “dialogue culinaire” between Lord M. H. and himself, illustrates the grand doctrines that man is a cooking animal, and that the progress of cooking is the progress of civilization. There is something prodigiously sublime in the words of the noble interlocutor, when he declares, “Read history, and you see that in every age, and among all nations, the good which has been done, and sometimes the evil, has been always preceded or followed by a copious dinner.” This language, we presume, must be considered, on the great scale, as applicable to the most solemn and momentous occurrences in the history of governments and countries. Not that we can exclude it from individual biography. Benevolence we have always regarded as a good sauce, and have often observed it to be an excellent dessert. The man who tucks his napkin under his chin immediately after conferring a benefit on a fellow-creature, invariably manifests marvellous capabilities for digestion; and, on the other hand, the man who has dined to his own entire satisfaction, if solicited in the nick of time, will frequently evince an open-handed generosity, to which his more matutine emotions would have been strangers. But—to reverse the picture—any interruption to the near prospect of a “copious dinner” is at all times inimical to charity; while repletion, we know, occasionally reveals such unamiable dispositions as could not have been detected by the most jealous scrutiny at an earlier period of the day. Nations are but hives of individuals. We understand, therefore, the noble lord to mean, that all the history of all the thousand races of the globe concurrently teaches us that every great event, social or political, domestic or foreign, involving their national weal or woe, has been harbingered or commemorated by a “copious dinner.” Many familiar instances of this profound truth—some of very recent date—crowd into our recollection. But we cannot help suspecting a deeper meaning to be inherent in the enunciation of this “great fact.” Copious dinners are, as it strikes us, here covertly represented as the means of effecting the most extensive ameliorations. To dine is insinuated to be the first step on the highway to improvement. In the consequences which flow from dining copiously, what is beneficial is evidently stated to preponderate over what is hurtful, the qualifying “sometimes” being only attached to the latter. In this respect, dinners seem to differ from men, that the evil is more frequently “interred with their bones,” while the “good they do lives after them.” This is, assuredly ringing a dinner-bell incessantly to the whole universe. We have ourselves, not half an hour ago, paid our quota for participating within the last week in congratulatory festivities to two eminent public characters. The overwhelming recurrence, in truth, of these entertainments, drains us annually of a handsome income; and, reading as we do daily in the newspapers, how every grocer, on changing his shop round the corner, and every professor of dancing, on being driven by the surges of the Utilitarian system up another flight of stairs, must, to felicitate or soothe him, receive the tribute or consolation of a banquet and demonstration, we hold up our hands in amazement at the opulence and deglutition of Scotland.

What shall become of us, driven further onwards still, by the impetus of the ‘Gastronomic Regenerator,’ we dare not fortell. The whole year may be a circle of public feasts; and our institutions gradually, although with no small velocity, relapse into the common table of Sparta. But never, whispers Soyer, into the black broth of Lycurgus. And so he ensnares us into the recognition of another fundamental principle, that the simplicity of Laconian fare might be admirably appropriate for infant republics and penniless helots, but can afford no subsistence to an overgrown empire, and the possessors of the wealth of the world! Thus cookery marks, dates, and authenticates the refinement of mankind. The savage cuts his warm slice from the haunches of the living animal, and swallows it reeking from the kitchen of nature. The civilized European, revolting from the dreadful repast, burns, and boils, and stews, and roasts his food into an external configuration, colour, and substance, as different from its original condition as the mummy of Cheops differs from the Cheops who watched, with an imperial dilatation of his brow, the aspiring immortality of the pyramids. Both, in acting so differently, are the slaves and the types of the circumstances of their position. The functions in the frames of both are the same; but these functions curiously follow the discipline of the social situation which directs and regulates their development. The economy of the kitchen is only a counterpart, in its simplicity or complication, its rudeness or luxury, of the economy of the state. The subjects of patriarchs and despots may eat uncooked horses with relish and nourishment. The denizens of a political system whose every motion is regulated by an intricate machinery, in which the teeth of all the myriad wheels in motion are indented with inextricable multiplicity of confusion into each other, perish under any nurture which is not as intricate, complex, artificial, and confused. What a noble and comprehensive science is this Gastronomy!

“Are you not also,” says the philosophic Soyer, in the same interesting dialogue, “of opinion with me, my lord, that nothing better disposes the mind of man to amity in thought and deed, than a dinner which has been knowingly selected, and artistically served?” The answer is most pregnant. “It is my thinking so,” replies Lord M. H., “which has always made me say that a good cook is as useful as a wise minister.” Behold to what an altitude we are carried! The loaves and fishes in the hands of the Whigs, and Soyer at the Reform Club to dress them! Let us banish melancholy, and drive away dull care. The bellicose propensities of a foreign secretary are happily innocuous. The rumours of war pass by us like the idle wind which we regard not. Protocols and treaties, notes and representations, are henceforth disowned by diplomacy. The figure of Britannia, with a stewpan for her helmet, and a spit for a spear, leaning in statuesque repose on a folio copy of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’

and with an unruffled ocean at her feet, and a cloudless sky overhead, smiles on the countless millions of the children of earth, chatting fraternally together at the round table of universal peace. Bright will be the morning of the day which sees the impress of such an image on our currency. Of course, it will be understood that we are entirely of the same mind, abstractly, as M. Soyer and Lord M. H. The maÎtre de cuisine appears to us unquestionably to be one of the most important functionaries belonging to an embassy. Peace or war, which it is scarcely necessary to interpret as the happiness or the misery of two great countries, may depend upon a headache. Now, if it were possible, in any case, to trace the bilious uneasiness which may have perverted pacific intentions into hostile designs, to the unskilful or careless performance of his momentous duties by the cook-legate, no punishment could too cruelly expiate such a blunder. We should be inclined to propose that the brother artist who most adroitly put the delinquent to torture, should be his successor, holding office under a similar tenure. It may be matter of controversy, however, at once whether such a system would work well, and whether it is agreeable to the prevalence of those kindly feelings which it is the object of M. Soyer, and every other good cook or wise statesman, to promulgate throughout the human family. The publication of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ inspires us with better hopes. The tyro of the dripping-pan will be no more entitled to screen himself behind his imperfect science or neglected education, than the unlettered criminal to plead his ignorance of the alphabet as a justification of his ignorance of the statute law whose enactments send him to Botany Bay. The rudiments and the mysteries—the elementary axioms and most recondite problems—of his lofty vocation are unrolled before him in legible and intelligible characters. The skill which is the offspring of practice, must be attained by his opportunities and his industry. And if

it might, we trust, satiate the most ravenous appetite which ever gnawed the bowels even of a cook, not merely to secure the tranquillity of the universe, but to save his native land the expense of armies and fleets, and turn the currents of gold, absorbed by taxation, into the more congenial channel of gastronomical enterprise. The majestic and far-spreading oak springs out of the humble acorn. In future ages the acute historian will demonstrate how the “copious dinner” which cemented the bonds of eternal alliance between vast and consolidated empires, whose people were clothed in purple and fine linen, lived in habitations decorated with every tasteful and gorgeous variety which caprice could suggest and affluence procure, and mingled the physical indolence of Sybaris with the intellectual activity of Athens, was but the ripe fruit legitimately matured from the simple bud of the calumet of peace, which sealed a hollow truce among the roving and puny bands of the naked, cityless, and untutored Indian. So, once more, the perfectibility of cookery indicates the perfectibility of society.

The gallantry of Soyer is as conspicuous as his historical and political philosophy. He would not profusely “scatter plenty o’er a smiling land” solely for the gratification of his own sex. The sun shines on woman as on man; and when the sun will not shine, a woman’s eye supplies all the light we need. The sagacious Regenerator refuses to restrict to the lordly moiety of mankind a monopoly of his beams, feeling that, when the pressure of mortal necessity sinks his head, fairer hands than those of the statesman or the warrior, the ecclesiastic or the lawyer, are likely to be the conservators of his reputation. “Allow me,” he remarks, “to suggest to your lordship, that a meeting for practical gastronomical purposes, where there are no ladies, is in my eyes a garden without flowers, a sea without waves, an experimental squadron without sails.”

The harrowing picture of desolation, from the pen of M. Soyer, may be equalled, but cannot be surpassed, by a line here and there in Byron’s ‘Darkness.’ The sentiment, at the same time, sounds oddly, as it issues from the penetralia of a multitudinous club. Our notion has hitherto been, that a club was an invention of which a principal object was to prove that female society was far from being indispensable to man, and that all the joys of domesticity might be tasted in a state of single-blessedness beyond the precincts of home for a small annual payment. A thorough-going club-man would very soon drive a coach and four through the Regenerator’s polite eloquence. For instance, a garden without flowers has so much the more room for the growth of celery, asparagus, artichokes, and the like. There could not possibly be a greater convenience than the evaporation or disappearance of the waters of the ocean; because we should then have railways everywhere, and no nausea. Sails, likewise, are not requisite now-a-days for ships; on the contrary, steam-vessels are so evidently superior, that the sail-maker may as well shut up his shop. The flowers of a garden are an incumbrance—the waves of the sea are an impediment—the sails of a ship are a superfluity. Garden, sea, and ship would be better wanting flowers, waves, and sails. On the same principles a club is preferable to a family fireside, and the lot of a bachelor to the fate of a Benedict. M. Soyer, speaking ex cathedr from the kitchen of the Reform Club, would find it no easy matter to parry the cogency of this reasoning. He forgets, apparently, that he bares his breast to a most formidable attack. What right have MEN to be cooks? What hypocrisy it is to regret that women cannot eat those dinners which women alone are entitled, according to the laws of nature and the usages of Britain, to dress! Be just before you affect to be generous! Surrender the place, and the privileges, and the immunities, which are the heritage and birthright of the petticoat! Hercules with a distaff was bad enough; but where, in the vagaries and metamorphoses of heathen mythology, do you read of Hercules with a dishclout? What would the moon say, should the sun insist on blazing away all night as well as all day? Your comparisons are full of poetry and humbug. A kitchen without a female cook—it is like a flowerless garden, a waveless sea, a sailless ship. A kitchen with a male cook—is a monster which natural history rejects, and good feeling abhors. The rights of women are scarcely best vindicated by him who usurps the most precious of them. There will be time to complain of their absence from the scene, when, by a proper self-ostracism, you leave free for them the stage which it becomes them to occupy. These are knotty matters, M. Soyer, for digestion. With so pretty a quarrel we shall not interfere, having a wholesome respect for an Amazonian enemy who can stand fire like salamanders. To be candid, we are puzzled by the sprightliness of our own fancy, and do not very distinctly comprehend how we have managed to involve the Regenerator, whose thoughts were bent on the pale and slim sylphs of the boudoir, in a squabble with the rubicund and rotund vestals who watch the inextinguishable flames of The Great Hearth.

This marvellous dialogue, from which we have taken with our finger and thumb a tit-bit here and there, might be the text for inexhaustible annotation. It occupied no more than two pages; but, as Gibbon has said of Tacitus, “they are the pages of Soyer.” Every topic within the range of human knowledge is touched, by direct exposition or collateral allusion. The metaphysician and the theologian, the physiologist and the moralist, are all challenged to investigate its dogmas, which, let us forewarn them, are so curtly, positively, and oracularly propounded, as, if orthodox, to need no commentary; and if heterodox, to demand accumulated mountains of controversy to overwhelm them. For he, we believe, can hardly be deemed a mean opponent, unworthy of a foeman’s steel-pen, who has at his fingers’ ends “Mullets À la Montesquieu,” “Fillets of Haddock À la St. Paul,” “Saddle of Mutton À la Mirabeau,” “Ribs of Beef À la Bolingbroke,” “Pouding SoufflÉ À la MephistophÉles,” “Woodcock À la StaËl,” and “Filets de Boeuf farcis À la Dr. Johnson.”

The constitution of English cookery is precisely similar to the constitution of the English language. Both were prophetically sketched by Herodotus in his description of the army of Xerxes, which gathered its numbers, and strength, and beauty from “all the quarters in the shipman’s card.” That imperishable mass of noble words—that glorious tongue in which Soyer has prudently written ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’ is in itself an unequalled specimen of felicitous cookery. The dishes which furnished the most recherchÉ dinner Soyer ever dressed, the “DÎner Lucullusian À la Sampayo,” being resolved into the chaos whence they arose in faultless proportions and resistless grace, would not disclose elements and ingredients more heterogeneous, remote, and altered from their primal nature, than those which go to the composition of the few sentences in which he tells us of this resuscitation of the coena of Petronius. A thousand years and a thousand accidents, the deepest erudition and the keenest ingenuity, the most delicate wit and most outrageous folly, have been co-operating in the manufacture of the extraordinary vocabulary which has enabled the Regenerator himself to concoct the following unparalleled receipt for “The Celestial and Terrestrial Cream of Great Britain.” (See p. 719.)

Half a century hence, when the simmering over the roseate fire is silent, may we, with M. Soyer, be present to gaze on the happy consummation of the conceptions of his transcendent imagination!

The Regenerator is too conversant with universal history not to know that his book, in crossing the Tweed northwards, approaches a people more familiar with its fundamental principles than any other inhabitants of these Fortunate Isles. England, for anything we care, may deserve the opprobrious title of perfidious Albion. Scotland—(“Stands Scotland where it did?”)—was ever the firm friend of France. Ages ago, when our southern cousins were incessantly fighting, we were constantly dining, with the French. Our royal and noblest families were mingled by the dearest ties with the purest and proudest blood of the adopted land of Mary. For centuries uninterruptedly was maintained an interchange of every gentle courtesy, and every friendly succour; and when the broadsword was not needed to gleam in the front ranks of Gallic chivalry, the dirk never failed to emit the first flash in the onslaughts of Gallic hospitality. The Soyers of those times—dim precursors of the Regenerator—did not disdain to alight on our hungry shores, and leave monuments of their beneficence, which are grateful to this hour in the nostrils and to the palate of prince and peasant. Nay, we shrewdly conjecture that some time-honoured secrets still dwell with us, of which the memory has long since perished in their birthplace. Boastful we may not suffer ourselves to be. But if M. Soyer ever heard of, or dressed, or tasted precisely as we have dressed and tasted, what is known to us and a very limited circle of acquaintances as “Lamb-toasty,” we shall start instantly from the penultimate habitation of Ultima Thule, commonly known as John O’Groat’s House, expressly to test his veracity, and gratify our voracity. Perhaps he may think it would not be too polite in us to transmit him the receipt. Not for a wilderness of Regenerators! Could we unfold to him the awful legend in connexion with it, of which we are almost the exclusive depositaries, the cap so lightly lying on his brow would be projected upwards to the roof by the instantaneous starting of his hair. The Last Minstrel himself, to whom it was narrated, shook his head when he heard it, and was never known to allude to it again; in reference to which circumstance, all that the bitterest malice could insinuate was, that if the story had been worth remembering, he was not likely to have forgotten it. “One December midnight, a shriek”—is probably as far as we can now venture to proceed. There are some descendants of the parties, whose feelings, even after the lapse of five hundred years, which is but as yesterday in a Highlander’s genealogy, we are bound to respect. In other five hundred years, we shall, with more safety to ourselves, let them “sup full of horrors.”

‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ reminds us of no book so much as the Despatches of Arthur Duke of Wellington. The orders of Soyer emanate from a man with a clear, cool, determined mind—possessing a complete mastery of his weapons and materials, and prompt to make them available for meeting every contingency—singularly fertile in conceiving, and fortunate without a check in executing, sudden, rapid, and difficult combinations—overlooking nothing with his eagle eye, and, by the powerful felicity of his resources, making the most of everything—matchless in his “Hors-d’oeuvres”—unassailable in his “Removes”—impregnable in his “PiÈces de rÉsistance”—and unconquerable with his “Flanks.” His directions are lucid, precise, brief, and unmistakable. There is not a word in them superfluous—or off the matter immediately on hand—or not directly to the point. They are not the dreams of a visionary theorist and enthusiast, but the hard, solid, real results of the vast experience of a tried veteran, who has personally superintended or executed all the operations of which he writes. It may be matter of dispute whether Wellington or Soyer acquired their knowledge in the face of the hotter fire. They are both great Chiefs—whose mental and intellectual faculties have a wonderful similarity—and whose sayings and doings are characterized by an astonishing resemblance in nerve, perspicuity, vigour, and success. In one respect M. Soyer has an advantage over his illustrious contemporary. His Despatches are addressed to an army which as far outnumbers any force ever commanded or handled by the Hero of Waterloo, as the stars in the blue empyrean exceed the gas-lamps of London—an army which, instead of diminishing under any circumstances, evinces a tendency, we fear, of steadily swelling its ranks year by year, and day by day—a standing army, which the strong band of the most jealous republicanism cannot suppress, and which the realization of the bright chimera of universal peace will fail to disband. Before many months are gone, thousands and tens of thousands will be marching and countermarching, cutting and skewering, broiling and freezing, in blind obedience to the commands of the Regenerator. “Peace hath her victories no less than those of war.” But it is not to be forgotten that if the sword of Wellington had not restored and confirmed the tranquillity of the world, the carving-knife of Soyer might not have been so bright.

The confidence of Soyer in his own handiwork is not the arrogant presumption of vanity, but the calm self-reliance of genius. There is a deal of good sense in the paragraph which we now quote. (See p. xl.)

It seems a childish remark to make, that all salts do not coincide in their saltness, nor sugars in their sweetness. The principle, however, which the observation contains within it, is anything but childish. It implies that, supposing the accuracy of a Soyer to be nearly infallible, the faith in his instructions must never be so implicit as to supersede the testimony of one’s own senses, and the admonitions of one’s own judgment. It is with the most poignant recollections that we acknowledge the justice of the Regenerator’s caution on this head. We once, with a friend who shared our martyrdom, tried to make onion soup in exact conformity with what was set down in an Oracle of Cookery, which a foul mischance had placed across our path. With unerring but unreflecting fidelity, we filled, and mixed, and stirred, and watched the fatal caldron. The result was to the eye inexpressibly alarming. A thick oily fluid, repulsive in colour, but infinitely more so in smell, fell with a flabby, heavy, lazy stream into the soup-plate. Having swallowed, with a Laocoonic contortion of countenance, two or three mouthfuls, our individual eyes wandered stealthily towards our neighbour. Evidently we were fellow-sufferers; but pride, which has occasioned so many lamentable catastrophes, made us both dumb and obdurate in our agony. Slowly and sadly, at lengthened intervals, the spoon, with its abominable freight, continued to make silent voyages from the platters to our lips. How long we made fools of ourselves it is not necessary to calculate. Suddenly, by a simultaneous impulse, the two windows of the room favoured the headlong exit of two wretches whose accumulated grievances were heavier than they could endure. Hours rolled away, while the beautiful face of Winander mere looked as ugly as Styx, as we writhed along its banks, more miserably moaning than the hopeless beggar who sighed for the propitiatory obolus to Charon. And from that irrevocable hour we have abandoned onions to the heroines of tragedy. Fools, in spite of all warning, are taught by such a process as that to which we submitted. Wise men take a hint.

“Nature, says I to myself”—Soyer is speaking—“compels us to dine more or less once a-day.” The average which oscillates between the “more” and the “less,” it requires considerable dexterity to catch. Having read six hundred pages and fourteen hundred receipts, the question is, where are we to begin? Our helplessness is confessed. Is it possible the Regenerator is, after all, more tantalizing than the Barmecide? No—here is the very aid we desiderate. Our readers shall judge of a “Dinner Party at Home.” (See p. 636.)

We shall be exceedingly curions to hear how many hundred parties of eight persons, upon reading this bill of fare in our pages, will, without loss of time, congregate in order to do it substantial honour. Such a clattering of brass and brandishing of steel may strike a new government as symptomatical or preparatory of a popular rising. We may therefore reassure them with the information, that those who sit down with M. Soyer, will have little thought of rising for a long time afterwards.

We have introduced ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ to public notice in that strain which its external appearance, its title, its scheme, and its contents, demand and justify. But we must not, even good-humouredly, mislead those for whose use its publication is principally intended. To all intents and purposes M. Soyer’s work is strictly and most intelligibly practical. It is as full of matter as an egg is full of meat; and the household which would travel through its multitudinous lessons must be as full of meat as the Regenerator is full of matter. The humblest, as well as the wealthiest kitchen economy, is considered and instructed; nor will the three hundred receipts at the conclusion of the volume, which are more peculiarly applicable to the “Kitchen at Home,” be, probably, the portion of the book least agreeable and valuable to the general community. For example, just before shaking hands with him, let us listen to M. Soyer, beginning admirably to discourse of the “Choosing and Roasting of plain Joints.” (See p. 637.)

How full of milky kindness is his language, still breathing the spirit of that predominant idea—the tranquillization of the universe by “copious dinners!” He has given up “basting” with success. Men may as well give up basting one another. Nobody will envy the Regenerator the bloodless fillets worthily encircling his forehead, should the aspirations of his benevolent soul in his lifetime assume any tangible shape. But if a more distant futurity is destined to witness the lofty triumph, he may yet depart in the confidence of its occurrence. The most precious fruits ripen the most slowly. The sun itself does not burst at once into meridian splendour. Gradually breaks the morning; and the mellow light glides noiselessly along, tinging mountain, forest, and the city spire, till a stealthy possession seems to be taken of the whole upper surface of creation, and the mighty monarch at last uprises on a world prepared to expect, to hail, and to reverence his perfect and unclouded majesty.

THE MORNING POST.

Cream of Egypt l’Ibrahim Pacha. The novelty of the bill of fare which appeared in our columns of Saturday last relating to the banquet given to his Highness Ibrahim Pacha, by the members of the Reform Club, the day previous, having since been the topic of general conversation, our readers will perhaps feel interested in the description of two of the most novel and original dishes served on that occasion. The first, entitled “Cream of Egypt À l’Ibrahim Pacha,” and composed expressly for the occasion by M. Soyer, the chef de cuisine of the club, was the admiration of the whole company, and especially so of the Pacha, who as soon as it was placed before him, quickly perceived the honour intended to be conferred upon him. This dish consisted of a pyramid about two feet and a half high, made of light meringue cake, in imitation of solid stones, surrounded with immense grapes and other fruits, but representing only the four angles of the pyramid through sheets of waved sugar, to show, to the greatest advantage, an elegant cream À l’ananas, on the top of which was resting a highly-finished portrait of the illustrious stranger’s father, Mehemet Ali, carefully drawn on a round-shaped satin carton, the exact size of the top of the cream. The portrait was immediately observed by his Highness, who carefully took it up, and, after showing it to several of his suite, placed it in his bosom. What was his Highness’s astonishment, however, on again looking at the spot, to observe in the cream, as under a glass, a highly-finished portrait of himself, surrounded by a very carefully-executed frame. M. Soyer, having been sent for by the party, was highly complimented by his Highness, through his interpreter. The Pacha desired to know where and how he could procure such a likeness of his father, and how his own was so correctly drawn in the cream? “Please tell his Highness,” says M. Soyer to the interpreter, “that both were executed from the original sketches drawn by our celebrated artist Horace Vernet, whilst in Alexandria. The portrait in the cream is drawn on wafer-paper, which being placed on the damp jelly representing the glass, dissolves, and nothing remains of the wafer-paper but the appearance of the portrait painted in light water-colours. The imitation of the gilt frame is made with the eau de vie of Dantzic and gold water mixed with the jelly, the gold leaf of which forms the frame.” After having been thanked by the Pacha, the pyramidal cream of Egypt was ordered to be shown to each guest by sliding it from one to the other round the table.

Though everything was eatable in it, this magnificent dish was respected, and remained untouched until the end of the banquet, though everybody tried to partake of the fruit which surrounded it.

The next dish which much amused the company was the one entitled the “Gateau Britannique À l’amiral,” being the representation of an old man-of-war, bearing the English and Egyptian flags, drawn on rice-paper, the ship being filled with ice mousseuse aux pÊche. and loaded with large strawberries, cherries, grapes, and bunches of currants. It was so placed on the table that Commodore Napier had to help from this cargo the illustrious stranger, who appeared much amused at the incident. The moisture and liquor of the ice gradually melted and imbibed the carcase of the vessel, which was made of a kind of delicate sponge cake. While the gallant commodore was in the act of helping the remainder of the ice, the ship gave way, and formed a complete wreck, which caused great hilarity among the company who were close enough to witness the scene.

NEWSPAPERS, &c. IN WHICH M. SOYER’S WORK HAS BEEN NOTICED.

From ‘THE TIMES’ of the 19th FEBRUARY, 1847.

Third Edition.—Yes! a third edition of this truly national work now lies before us. The public, as we shrewdly foresaw, have not failed to appreciate the labour of its author. Alexis Soyer has received the reward that sooner or later is bestowed upon the philanthropist and the patriot. It may possibly be remembered that when the incomparable cook of the Reform Club was overcome, to use his own words, with “a thrill of horror,” by the request of several persons of distinction, “particularly the ladies,” who urged him to publish a cookery book, he suddenly recollected having been in “a most superb library,” where all at once his attention was attracted by the 19th edition of a voluminous work, which was supported on either side by the glories of a Milton and a Shakspeare. When the Regenerator found courage to open the precious volume, to his great disappointment he discovered “a receipt for ox-tail soup.” “The terrifying effect produced upon me,” says Monsieur Soyer, “by this succulent volume made me determine that my few ideas, whether culinary or domestic, should never encumber a sanctuary which ought to be entirely devoted to works worthy of a place in the temple of the Muses.” Alas, how rash are human resolutions! How little, in the obscurity of our spring-time, do we dream of the dazzling splendour that awaits our coming summer! Every library, from the London to the British Museum, from Brocket Hall to the Palace of the Tuileries, has welcomed the Regenerator to its choicest shelf, and edition follows edition with a rapidity which, in the case of so ponderous a work, is positively marvellous. Like Byron, M. Soyer finds himself famous in a morning. We do not grudge him his greatness, but we confess we do envy the succeeding generations, who, destined to be the offspring of men that have been taught by Soyer to eat—not to appease hunger, but to elevate the soul,—will have acquired a delight in existence for which their grosser grandfathers were physically unfit. We welcome with all respect the third appearance of this true child of civilization. We can do no more.

ARNEY’S PATENT JELLY & BLANC MANGE POWDERS.

For the last eighteen months, I have invariably used the above production, and must acknowledge that these Powders combine all the requisites generally expected in a new invention. It is well known that cooks, in the country in particular, are very often disappointed in obtaining calf’s feet, and it also happens at times that they do not always succeed in producing a clear and fine jelly, although good in taste, not pleasing to the sight; the above Powders obviate all disappointments. They can be in store, and used when required; then is an economy in the cost, economy of time, and a certainty of having a brilliant jelly at any time.—A. Soyer.

As these Powders are prepared with the very best material, they are equal to calf’s feet; and although already flavoured, can be altered according to taste.

Sold at 1s. per Packet, or 2s. per Bottle, at 33, Frith Street, Soho Square;
and at Arney’s Factory, Willow Mills, Mitcham Common, Surrey.

One Packet at 1s. will make a Jelly of one pint and a half; and a Bottle at 2s. three pints.

MAKEPEACE’S CULINARY HERBS.

I feel justified, from experience, in very strongly recommending “Makepeace’s Culinary Herbs”, which are admirably prepared for kitchen purposes, and of inestimable value for sea voyages. Their convenience and utility are decidedly of the greatest advantage in a well-organised kitchen; the cook having at all seasons of the year every species of herb used in cookery, which hitherto could only be partially obtained. The flavour is kept in high perfection; and the appearance of these herbs are really pleasing to the sight. Amongst the great variety of them, parsley, sage, tarragon, and winter savoy are particularly useful; the onion, garlic, and eschalot powders, when sprinkled over hot joints, steaks, or chops, impart a most delicious flavour to it. The veal and pork stuffing are very fine, and save an immense deal of trouble. In fact, I may say that no exception can be made, as all these excellent herbs are prepared, regardless of trouble and expense, in a most careful and scientific manner; which is a great credit to the patience of the inventor, and a benefit to society.—A. Soyer.

Sold in neat Boxes, sorted at 1s. and 2s. per Bottle, at 33, Frith Street, Soho Square
and at Makepeace’s Factory, Mitcham, Surrey.

SOYER’S MODEL KITCHEN.

From the Times, Sept. 28, 1847.

“To the Editor of the Times.

“Sir,—The great interest you manifested in February last, when I made known my intention of erecting by subscription a model kitchen for the poor, was handsomely responded to by the public, and the scheme being considered by Government likely to be (at that distressing period) of immense advantage for Ireland, I was requested to lay my plans before the Lords of the Treasury, and being approved of, I willingly accepted the invitation of erecting my model kitchen in Dublin, instead of London, as I at first intended.

“Having successfully proved that the system was of paramount importance, both as regards the large quantity of superior food that could be produced, and the immense saving that could be effected, the Government then purchased my model kitchen, and the South Union Relief Committee of Dublin have had the use of it ever since the 24th of April.

“As I am certain, Sir, that my subscribers and the public will feel interested in the result of my plan, the following brief statement will, I hope, awaken all local boards (if at all anxious), and adopt a system which must save, on a very moderate calculation, at least 50 per cent. at any period of either scarcity or plenty.

“I leave to those who are better acquainted than I am with statistics what would be the amount saved to the ratepayers all through the country.

“In support of the above statement, I beg to observe that the ratepayers of the North Union of Dublin have paid 3s. 4d. in the pound, whilst those of the South Union only paid 1s. This result, Sir, speaks volumes in favour of my system. In addition to the model kitchen, Messrs. Brown & Co., of Great Suffolk Street, Borough, have erected one of their patent steam-plate ovens, which can bake on an average 1,000 loaves of 4 lb each every 12 hours with three bushels of coke. The 1,000 loaves require 11 sacks of flour, consequently, 22 sacks can be worked in 24 hours, 132 sacks per week, at about 1d. per sack for fuel. What with the savings in baking, and also the new process of making bread, I have introduced, I calculate that full 25 per cent. can be saved on the cost of bread at all times.

“Therefore, admitting that the model kitchen, the new oven, and the new bread could only save 35 or 40 per cent. to the ratepayers, the system cannot be otherwise than particularly interesting to the whole community.

“I am, Sir, yours most respectfully,
“A. SOYER.

“Reform Club, Sept. 23.”

Under the Patronage of the Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of London.

SOYER’S PAROCHIAL MODEL KITCHEN,

FOR THE

POOR WEAVERS OF SPITALFIELDS.

From the Times of February 21.

“Sir—Having lately been introduced by several gentlemen of distinction to the Reverend Joseph Brown, the benevolent pastor of Saint Matthias, Spitalfields, with the view of relieving, if possible, at a trifling expense, the sufferings of that industrious but distressed class of society, the Weavers of Spitalfields; and having, with that gentleman, visited several of their abodes, we found, in many of the houses, five or six in a small room, entirely deprived of the common necessaries of life—no food, no fire, and hardly any garment to cover their persons, and that during the late severe frost. In one of the attics we visited we inquired of a woman how they subsisted. Her husband, she said, had no employment during the last four months, and that they merely lived on what he could get by begging in the streets; she added, that she and her children had not tasted a bit of food for twenty-four hours, the last of which consisted of apples partly decayed, and bits of bread given to her husband, which food we may consider, if even plentiful, to be pernicious to health. The only piece of furniture in that gloomy abode of misery was the weaving machine, now at rest, and which, in time of prosperity, was used to provide food, and made, if not a wealthy, at least a happy home for those now wretched and destitute families, and the scientific production of which has often, and even now, adorns the persons of thousands of the aristocracy and gentry of the country.

“I am quite convinced, Sir, that the wearers of those luxuries possess at all times the most charitable feelings towards their fellow-creatures in distress; and when they are made aware, through the medium of your powerful journal, of the facts of the present lamentable position of those who have by their industry so often gratified their sights and wishes, none of them will, I am certain, refuse a small token of charity towards the relief of those unfortunate martyrs of industry, whose poverty no one can blame, but whom everybody must pity. After having witnessed such distressing scenes, I immediately proposed that my Subscription Kitchen for the Poor, which was being made at Messrs. Bramah and Prestige’s factory, should be erected, without any loss of time, in the most populous district of Spitalfields, where there are no less than 10,000 poor people in one parish, and hardly any wealthy families among them to give them relief.

“I am happy to inform you, Sir, that my first experiment, made last Saturday, has been most successful, having been able to make a most excellent peas panada and meat soup in less than one hour and a half, and that at a very moderate expense—the quickness and saving of which are partly owing to the contrivance of my new steam apparatus, and which food was distributed, without any confusion, in less than twenty minutes, to about THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY children, who were selected for the occasion from the different schools, the remainder of the food, with bread, being given away to many poor families in the neighbourhood.

“The kitchen will remain open daily, and nothing will be given away except to those who are proved to be quite destitute; a quart of food or soup, and a quarter of a pound of bread, will be given for one penny.

“All information respecting the issuing of tickets and receiving of subscriptions will be made known by advertisements.

“I am aware that every nobleman, gentleman, and tradesman have to support their own poor, and therefore propose that not more than a guinea should be received from any one as a subscription; but from 6d. to the above sum will be most thankfully received, and disposed of with the greatest economy.

“I beg to observe, that any of the subscribers who should wish to keep their names private, will be pleased to make a private mark, that they may see it correctly entered in a catalogue, which will be published monthly, with an account of all the subscriptions received, expenses incurred, the quantity of ingredients consumed, with a correct list of the poor relieved.

“I trust, under all these circumstances, you will be good enough to give a place to this letter in your journal.

“With the highest consideration,
“I am, Sir, your most obliged,
“A. SOYER.

“Reform Club, Feb. 17.”