modestly, in his preface, "I may add, without vanity, that I was educated in the midst of the men of that time. Under M. Richaut, the famous sauceman of the Condés, I learned that difficult art of concocting sauces; at the grand fêtes given by the Hôtel de Paris, and under the orders of M. Lasac, I learned the advantages to be derived from cold dishes (la belle partie du froid); at the Elysée Napoléon, under the auspices of MM. Robert and Laguipière, I also learned, and I dare to say it, the elegance of the modern kitchen and the ensemble of a great administration. Since the regeneration of the art, I have been constantly employed at dinners and great fêtes; hence, I have been able to see much, make fruitful strides, and I have drawn profit from them." It is necessary to have read carefully the "Maître d'Hôtel Français" to understand all the modesty of these words, apparently so haughty. I say it sincerely, and putting aside the eternal pleasantries attaching to the subject of the kitchen, that in Carême's work there are a rare erudition and a peculiar genius. He has preceded his table of modern cartes, as he understands them, by a treatise on the old kitchen, which has demanded profound researches, and announces a true love for his profession. Nothing can be more curious than a carte, found by Carême I know not where, and served in 1745 to Louis XV. by one Héliot, ordinary groom of the mouth" to the dauphiness. This dinner was entirely of beef! From the shin-of-beef soup au naturel, down to the briquet of ox brains with lemon, nothing but this rustic and citizen animal figured on the monarch's table. Carême states that a cook of Marshal Davoust, when Governor of Hamburg, during the siege of that city, produced a dinner all of horseflesh. But he adds, very judiciously, that necessity compelled him, and that he deserved praise, while the cook to the dauphiness, author of such a melancholy dinner, was only an ignorant and second-rate man. As to myself, all the descriptions of old dinners quoted by Carême appeared to me disgusting, and I shall own sincerely the contempt inspired in him by fillets of beef à la boot-heel, soups à la woodenleg, and other such atrocities. The "Patissier Royal Parisien" is a book dictated by the feeling which gained Juvenal immortality-indignation. I might note the Latin verse so well known, but I have as much horror of a quotation as of a cold hors d'œuvre. Carême could not see, without a profound disgust, that men, utter strangers to the art, allowed themselves to publish cookery books to satisfy the miserable speculations of a publisher, and dared to announce an eating-house-keeper as the father and restorer of the modern cuisine. A single sentence enables Carême to reply to these compilers. "Your kitchen," he says, further on, "is to a great kitchen what your pastry is to mine." I can best furnish an idea of the universality of Carême's genius, by saying that, not satisfied with giving his advice as to the execution of the dishes, he has added to this treatise an orthographical vocabulary of words so frightfully metamorphosed by the practitioners. The "Cuisinier Parisien" is dedicated to the manes of the great Laguipière, who died during the disaster of Moscow, which cost us one hundred thousand men and fifty cooks. "Oh, my master!" Careme exclaims, in his dedication, "during life you were persecuted, and at last died in the most cruel agony, amid the icy cold of the North." "Oh, Laguipière !" I am tempted to exclaim in my turn, "what a destiny was yours!-you who fed so many people in your time, fated to die of hunger at last." Carême, in conclusion, must be regarded as the legislator of the great kitchen. His labours as theorician, sauce-mixer, pastrycook, and chemist, place him at an immense height above those who preceded him in this career. His works will be read, as they were eaten, with avidity, and his name will be placed among those superiorities which expire and never have their room filled up; with the queue of M. de Narbonne and the white nightcap of Carême, the last courtier and the last culinary artist disappeared from the gaze of France. We are pleased to find French writers expressing a more favourable opinion about English cookery than was formerly the case. It is quite true that the progress of the table has been very tardy among us. It remained for a long time rude and clumsy beneath our foggy sky, whose misery good cookery would probably ameliorate. Still, a French writer is prepared to allow that progress has arrived with that solid English richness which opulent Europe is now striving to imitate. We no longer strive, as formerly, to furnish a specimen of the riches we possess, but to give in a pleasant meeting destined to our friends the measure of our taste and generosity. England has at length begun to understand that at table polished fraternity embellishes existing relations as it adorns language. The most perfect models of the English table exist in the splendid London clubs. There the doctrines of M. de Talleyrand, as to savoir vivre, or of the marquis of Louis XV., are kept up in perfection. The old English appetite has disappeared: it is no longer large and brutal: it no longer consists in cutting off and swallowing. It is still sharp, but there is a decided disposition to reanimate life at the true sources of dining and conversation. What a blessing is that analytical cookery which may preserve to the state for ten or fifteen years longer a celebrated minister, an orator, a sailor, or a charming actress? But our progress is in a great measure owing to the inimitable Soyer, who rendered the Reform Club a model of the mansion of a rich man, rather than a camp where chance assembled delicate adepts for a few moments. It must be borne in mind, too, that the much greater intercourse with France that has obtained during the last ten years has done very much to diminish our national prejudices, and we accept with becoming gratitude the good things offered us by our gallant allies. Not that we can ever hope to equal them; we are not naturally cooks, like every Frenchman, and the Crimean war amply testified the bad policy of not instructing our soldiers at least in the rudiments of the noble science. Yet several of our noblemen have worthily held their own even in Paris, and their dinners have created considerable sensation. For instance, we may quote the description of a dinner given by Lord W., at the Rocher de Caucale, under the presidency of a general officer. The dinner was served at six o'clock precisely. Each guest was handed six Marenne oysters, and then six spoonfuls of soup. Of the latter there were two sorts: one of clear crab, very delicate; the other, spring soup-the latter producing the first great sensation. There was a moment, though, when the success of the dinner was imperilled an inexperienced maître d'hôtel tried to serve between the two courses punch à la Romaine, instead of a sorbet au rhum. A cloud collected on the countenances of the guests, but it was soon dissipated by the tact of the Amphitryon. A single glass of Madeira and one of vermuth restored some slight joy to their countenances. Among the specialities noticeable, was a ham roasted on a spit, and resting on a bed of spinach; there were also gélinottes, arrived that morning straight from Scotland. The French guests were in ecstasies, and allowed there was some hope of improvement in brumous England when a scion of a noble house could thus appreciate the necessity of carefully studying the art of dining. At a period when good wine is not to be had at any price, and we are exposed to all the naughty tricks of our wine-merchants, who mercilessly torture us with Gerupiga and rhubarb champagne, it makes one's mouth water to read of the stores Louis Philippe had collected in his cellars of Neuilly, Eu, and the Tuileries. At the revolution, the cellars of Neuilly were found to contain 74,000 bottles, but only 1200 were saved; 224 casks survived out of 1500 originally there. The cellars at the Château d'Eu were justly praised: they greatly improve Burgundy, but Bordeaux does not succeed anywhere on the coast of the Channel. At the sale of the wines the prices realised were, however, very small, in comparison with their value. First-rate Madeira and sherry only reached 5fr., and Johannisberg in the wood, a present from Metternich, only fetched 6fr. 50c., to the great disappointment of all the amateurs. average price of the best growths of inland and foreign wines did not exceed 3fr. We wonder what became of all these dainty wines, and whether any of them are still to be met with at the same prices. The Our space warns us not to continue this interesting subject further, else we had much to write still about good eating and good drinking. We have shown, however, we believe, that Paris is still the capital of good cheer, and that all improvement among ourselves must emanate from that centre of gastronomic intelligence. But even there many complain of the degeneration of the art: there are no men who devote their lives to the welfare of their fellow-men, or study fresh combinations of cookery which may render their names immortal. They could not have a better time to continue their researches. Europe is in a state of profound tranquillity, and any new culinary discovery would be hailed as an event. May we then hope that some apostle may speedily spring up and strike out fresh lights in this glorious profession! There is a noble field now left open, and we have still so high an opinion of the French, in spite of their recent relaxation in their exertions, that we confidently believe they will duly appreciate the importance of their mission, and render Europe happy by one dish more. MY CANARY WHO CARES FOR NOTHING. BY WALTER THORNBURY. ROSE-LEAVES blow about the lawn, Rose-leaves blow about the sky, Little sister went to sleep In the churchyard, dearest Clary! Carelessly-our pet canary. * A LEGEND OF SAINTE-BARBE. I. It was the 5th of July, 1839, a glorious summer day, when the Turkish fleet lay at anchor in the Dardanelles. Above the other vessels towered the Montebello, once a French ship of the line, but sold some years previously to Sultan Mahmud by Louis Philippe, to serve as a model ship. She had not only retained her original name, but there were many other marks of her nationality to be noticed, which reminded a visitor of la belle France. A large portion of the crew had entered the Turkish service, and instructed the Turkish sailors, who assuredly required the lesson. The present captain had been second lieutenant in the old times: he was an excellent sailor, educated at the naval school at Brest, and so attached to the old hooker that he could not bear to part from her. Hence, with the permission of the Prince de Joinville, he had entered the Turkish service, where he held the rank of bey, and was known as Rifaat Bey, although the French sailors called him, as before, Captain Sanglade. The oldest inhabitant on board the Montebello was the gunner, Pierre Selèvre, who had really grown up with the ship. He knew her while still on the stocks, and had watched, with growing interest, her gradual conversion into a noble man-of-war. While she was building, it was his delight to visit every portion of her, and his ambition was to take the first voyage in her. At length she was all ready for sea, and was intended to fight the English. Lists were opened, and volunteers asked to join her at Toulon. You may be quite sure our Pierre was one of the first at the office, and his wishes were gratified-he joined the Montebello. There was one gloomy spot in the gigantic ship which Pierre watched with jealous glances of affection. It was a dangerous place, but that enhanced the charm. It was at the very bottom of the hold, far below the waterline, and carefully separated from the rest of the ship by ironplated doors: a lantern, that stood in a vessel of water, was the only light, and this could only be opened and trimmed from the outside. It was a gloomy spot, and Sainte-Barbe a name on board the Montebello, which made even the most courageous man feel uncomfortable. Pierre, however, delighted in the magazine, and as he earnestly requested the post of gunner, he soon received the keys, and became sole lord of this dark and dangerous spot. As gunner of the Montebello Pierre had visited every part of the globe. The Montebello was launched in 1781, and in 1837, when she was handed over to the Turkish commission at Smyrna, he was still gunner, though seventy-five years of age. He had gone through many perils; the worst of all, perhaps, when the Trocadero blew up, and hurled a mass of fire on board the sister ship. So long as the danger lasted, Pierre stood at his post, but when as the fire was extinguished he sank down in a fit, and it was a long time before he could leave the hospital. There were two great days in Pierre's life: one, when he received the cross of the Legion for his fifty years' service; the other, when the Prince de Joinville patted him on the shoulder, when the ship was handed over to the Turks, and said, heartily, "Bravo, gunner!" old sailor looked up tearfully to the tricolor flag, which was so soon to be removed, and a peculiar feeling overpowered him. How often had he seen the ensign changed!-first, the lilies of Louis Seize; then the tricolor of the Republic; next, the Imperial flag; and then again the lilies; and then, for only eight weeks, the eagle again; then the lilies once more, and then the tricolor came back; and now, the Montebello was to hoist the crescent flag of the Sultan. Well! well! he would do his duty as he had always done; he had a new master, but that was no reason he should shirk work; and Pierre Selèvre entered the Turkish service after all only for the sake of the dear old ship, from which it would have broken his heart to part. For a time the Montebello was stationed off Beshiktash, for Mahmud was very proud of her; but in 1838 she joined the fleet in the Dardanelles, to take part in the festivities accompanying the accession of Abd-ul-Medjid. II. Two gentlemen made their appearance on the quarter-deck of the Montebello: the one was Captain Sanglade; the other, who wore civil clothing, was a young man of about thirty, and his features revealed a great amount of intelligence. "I assure you, my dear Lattas, this is the place for a man to make his fortune," said the captain, in his quick, sailor manner; "great things will take place here soon, and any man who has the luck to be mixed up in them will be made for life. The bow will not endure the pressure much longer." "You really believe that it will come to a great war, in which the European powers will take part ?" "I am certain of it. If the powers seriously mean to maintain the integrity of Turkey, they cannot hold off much longer. Suppose we examine matters calmly. Let us leave out of the question the reports that roused such alarm yesterday in Stamboul, that the Seraskier had been beaten at Nisib by the Egyptians, but does not Mehemet Ali's power increase daily? What will not this man yet effect, if he continues his progress and fortune still adheres to him? There are many persons who can remember Mehemet Ali as a trader in a dirty Cairo shop. The French occupation of Egypt made him take up arms, and you should gain an example by him, my dear Lattas." "I fear lest French obstinacy will paralyse the English and Austrian exertions to maintain the integrity of Turkey," said Lattas, thoughtfully. "No, no," Sanglade violently interposed. "I am sorry to be forced to side against my own country, but I see no good resulting to France from this conflict. The want of chivalry in helping a rebel against his lord will yet be bitterly avenged! If the news of the defeat be confirmed, the misfortune will prove of incalculable benefit to the young Sultan, for the great powers must interpose at once." "I cannot explain this inactivity of the fleet during the struggle on the Euphrates," said Lattas, gloomily. "A diversion would have proved |