vulgarity," while the effect produced by it he stigmatized as being "far removed from real and refined enjoyment." After describing the absurdity, the many mistakes, and even the nuisance of the overladen table, the unnecessarily long bill of fare, and the tedious service, he boldly advocated that dinners should be composed of few but really good dishes, each of which, thoroughly complete in regard to its adjuncts, should be brought in separately with as little parade and waste of time as possible. Together with this he urged the abolition of the senseless practice of ornamentation, and the placing of hideous "centrepieces" and epergnes upon the table. In plain En. glish these ideas were at least fifty years in advance of the time when they were written. Even Mr. Hayward, who reviewed the papers in the Quarterly Review in 1836, was evidently too warmly prejudiced in favor of the exist ing fashions to accord the full meed of praise that Thomas Walker's contentions, viewed from the modern standpoint, merited. he allowed that the smali dinner might be all very well for certain people and certain occasions, "but to desire the gorgeous establishments of our first rate Amphitryons to be broken up, and the ornate style of living to be totally suppressed, would be," said he, "as unreasonable as to propose the suppression of palaces because houses are better fitted for the ordinary purposes of life." This, of course, was an evasion of the question argued in "The Original." Walker did not suggest the breaking up of any establishments but a general simplification of the method in vogue on the grounds of good taste, artistic feeling, and the service of food at its best. Things have by degrees worked round to that standard, and in the last decade of the century we are able to appreciate the right judgment and cultivated mind of the man who lifted up his voice against the Philistinism of sixty years ago. The selection of agreeable combinations of food is a task that few can hope to fulfil to the satisfaction of every reader. The written menu is at best a sugges

tion which is open to correction or alteration according to taste, and on this account, doubtless, some of Walker's sketches of little dinners might be improved. Still, his principles are excellent, and I take it that some readers of "The Original" who have come to riper years have felt considerable respect for a host who, in the thirties, could magnanimously protect his guests from the tyranny of turkey and roast heef on Christmas day, and bid them take for their pièce de résistance woodcocks "at discretion," one or more as each might desire, brought in hot and hot. In the matter of wine, however, is there not a smack of the good old times in this?"With the turtle there will be punch; champagne and claret afterwards; the two former I have ordered to be well iced. I shall permit no other wines, unless perchance a bottle or two of port, as I hold variety of wines to be a great mistake." From this we gather that a few bottles of port more or less were a mere bagatelle, hardly worth mentioning, even in the opinion of the author of "The Original." Lastly, the most brief. summary of Thomas Walker's writings would be incomplete without advertence to his many happy phrases, which, if quoted separately, might take rank as equal, if not superior to the aphorisms of Brillat Savarin. For instance, referring to the "monstrous absurdity" of attempting to entertain in an elaborate style with insufficient means and an inadequate establishment, he says: "State without the machinery of state is of all states the worst." Again, in explaining the characteristics of port and champagne: "There is about the same difference between these two that in poetry exists between "Paradise Lost" and "The Rape of the Lock." And this: "Ostentation excites disgust or contempt, and destroys enjoyment for the sake of display, by introducing variety without reference to reason. "Thomas Walker," wrote Mr. Henry Morley in an introduction to a reprint of "The Orig inal" in 1887, "frankly delivered himself, and brought the way of life, as it was seen by a refined and social gentleman, well educated, shrewd, and with

out one low thought, so plainly within view of his reader that neither young nor old, rich or poor, learned or unlearned, could read through his book without having been in some degree amused and taught through his experience."

And now a few words about the very able little treatise on "The Art of Dining," by the writer whose name I have mentioned so often, Mr. Abraham Hayward. This book was made up by a rearrangement, in 1853, of two articles which he had written in the years '35 and '36 for the Quarterly Review-the one to which I have already referred about "The Original," and the other entitled "Gastronomy and Gastronomers." his object having been 'to bring down and adapt to the present time the disquisitions, descriptions, and directions contained in them." Here we find that, in addition to his remarks upon the reform suggested by Thomas Walker, Mr. Hayward gave a very careful analysis of the "Physiologie du goût" and traced the history of gastronomy from its earliest days to the period of his personal experiences. No name of any note in connection with the subject is omitted in this work, and terrupted flow of genial humor and anecdote which will probably never be Detter managed by any writer who may aspire hereafter to carry on the chronicles of the aesthetics of the dinner table. Not only was Hayward very well read in regard to the past records of food and feeding, but he lived for many years in the midst of all that was clever and entertaining in the society of two capitals. He knew his Paris almost as well as his London. Of most of the leading Amphitryons of his time he was a personal friend, and with no restaurant or chef of repute was he unacquainted. As a tale-teller with an inexhaustive répertoire of incidents both interesting and amusing concerning people of note politically, socially, and gastronomically he was probably without a rival. From this store he throughout the resumé there is an uninseems to have drawn in a pleasant chatty way without a trespass beyond

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the boundaries of kindness and good taste. A frequent diner-out, he made the most of his opportunities, and being an appreciative disciple of Gastræa, very naturally acquired a great experience and became an acknowledged authority on what Walker called "aristology." As I have already pointed out, the fashion of his time was not the fashion of these our modern days as far as the comparison and serving of a dinner were concerned. ought not, therefore, to wonder that the menus he proposes for the four seasons are far too long and heavy for the present generation. The dinner he describes which was given to Lord Chesterfield at the Clarendon, on his quitting the office of master of the buckhounds, may be taken as a sample of the highly-finished banquet of that period. The party consisted of thirty, the price was six guineas a head, and the dinner was ordered by Count d'Orsay. There were thirteen entrées and fifteen entremets, and before the reader loses the thread of the narrative in "et cetera," he can count fifty-two different dishes! The mention of Count d'Orsay's name reminds me that Hayward quotes in extenso a letter from that undoubtedly reliable authority on the subject of the Parisian restaurants of 1852. Knowing, as most of us now do, that one by one nearly all the celebrated places have disappeared, it is interesting to read Count d'Orsay's gloomy opinion of them as far back as forty-three years ago. Writing from Paris he says with regret that "the culinary art has sadly fallen off,” and goes on to name four first-rate, four second-rate, and four third-rate houses, but adds: “At none of the places could you find dinners now such as were produced by Ude; by Soyer, formerly with Lord Chesterfield; by Rotival, with Lord Wilton; or by Perron, with Lord Londonderry." He complains of the expensiveness and vulgarity of the cooking-"a sort of tripotage of truffles, cockscombs, and crawfish, mounted on the back of a fillet of beef, and not a single entrée which a connoisseur can eat; the roast game tourmentés and

again before they are served up." "French gastronomy," adds he, in conclusion, "has emigrated to England, and has no wish to return. We do not absolutely die of hunger here, and that is all that, can be said." A recapitulation of even half of the stories told in this entertaining book would occupy far more space than I can possibly take up, but an instance or two of the author's light and pleasing style ought not to be omitted. Speaking of conversation at dinner, and the very necessary part it plays in the enjoyment of a party, he observes, "but what a deceased clerical wit called 'flashes of silence' may occasionally intervene. We were once dining with the author of 'Vanity Fair' at the Rocher, when a matelote of surpassing excellence was served up. 'My dear fellow,' exclaimed the distinguished moralist, ‘don't let us speak a word until we have finished this dish.'" In another place, apropos of Thomas Walker's advice to those who have to dine alone, i.e., to approach the table with a cheerful mind after an interval of relaxation from whatever may have seriously occupied the attention, and then to fix it upon "some agreeable object," he says, "We don't know what 'agreeable object' was particularly meant here, but the author of "The Parson's Daughter,' when surprised one evening in his armchair two or three hours after dinner, is reported to have apologized by saying, 'when one is alone, the bottle does come around so often.' It was Sir Hercules Langrishe who, being asked on a similar occasion, 'What! have you finished all that port (three bottles) without assistance?' answered, 'No-not quite that I had the assistance of a bottle of Madeira.'" For the next writer of note on the subject we are discussing, it is necessary again to cross the channel and consult the "Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine," by Alexandre Dumas the elder. As I mentioned in a former article, this work was partly a cookery-book, the practical part of which was supplied to a very great extent, by M. Vuillemot, the proprietor of the "Tête Noire" at St. Cloud,

knew, and partly, to use the words of Sir Henry Thompson, "a medley of scientific jottings, with plenty of gossip and numerous anecdotes." It is, of course, only with the latter part that we need now concern ourselves. After having read "Les Classiques de la table," the reader will find that a considerable part of Dumas' chit-chat came from that source, but here and there he tells a good story, such as that to which I have just referred in connection with the Marquis de Cussy. One of Napoleon will bear repeating, because it gives an improved version of an incident which as generally described is no doubt familiar to many. The old story, according to Hayward, was that the emperor, annoyed with some occurrence or other at a Conseil d'Etat, sat down to breakfast one morning in one of his worst tempers, and had hardly tasted a mouthful when stung to madness by some exasperating recollection, he drew his chair back, and with one kick overthrew the table and all its contents, then rose and paced the room with rapid strides indicative of frenzied rage. Dunand, the maître d'hôtel, looked on unmoved, and quietly gave his directions to the staff who cleared away the wreck; and, as if by magic, rapidly laid out a duplicate of the déjeuner, which was announced, as if nothing had occurred, with the customary "Sa majesté est servie." Napoleon, appreciating the delicacy and tact of the action, turned to the maître d'hôtel with one of his inimitable smiles, and said, "Merci bien, mon cher Dunand," thus showing that the hurricane had blown over. Dumas is much more circumstantial. It was a time of political gravity, a rupture with Prussia imminent. The emperor sat down, took a few mouthfuls of soup, and then removed the cover of one of the dishes which contained his favorite crépinettes de cochon, when, becoming suddenly enraged he kicked over the table, the whole of the breakfast with the broken china being scattered over a priceless Persian carpet. The next moment he strode in an ungovernable passion from the room. Dunand, think

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more impressively saintly than those of any of his contemporaries. have enjoyed the bright originality

A. KENNEY HERBERT.

From The Contemporary Review. TWO ARCHBISHOPS.

of

yet

All who know the Church England best and love her most are well aware of the serious drawbacks to her influence, of the perilous phases through which she passes from time to time, of the many defects and weaknesses in her organization. But her worst enemies cannot deny that in the present and the passing generation, and within the personal memory of thousands who have not reached their threescore years and ten, a multitude of men have appeared in the ranks of her ministry who would have adorned any Church at any epoch-men of the most varied and brilliant endowments, of wide learning, of great eloquence, of high spiritual power. In early days we used to delight in the ornate and thrilling periods of Melville, the polished oratory of McNeile, the fervid earnestness of Hugh Stowell, the thoughtful and illuminating insight of F. W. Robertson. We knew and may have listened to the two men-widely different from each other, yet each so eminent in his own sphere-whose departure into another fold was the severest blow from which, in this cen. tury, the Church of England has suf'fered-Cardinals Newman and Manning. Some of us were brought up at the feet of the prophet of the last generation, F. D. Maurice, a man who more truly recalls the ideal of some of the Hebrew prophets than any divine of this century; a man whose wisdom was more humble, whose heart was deeper and nobler, whose life was

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ley. We have thrilled to the impassioned periods of Samuel Wilberforce, whom, together with John Bright and Mr. Gladstone, I would call the three most truly eloquent speakers whom I have ever heard. We have listened by the hour to the fine English and lofty thought of Canon Liddon. have known, and heard, and loved Arthur Stanley, a man whose intellect, learning, and-as Lord Beaconsfield phrased it with his usual felicity-whose "picturesque sensibility" revivified for us those Bible stories which, for many, had long been given over as a prey to feeble conventionality. In spite of rancorous party attempts to disparage his labors, Dean Stanley rendered higher and more permanent services to theology, in its truest sense, than ninety-nine hundredths of the critics who looked down upon him from the whole height of their inferiority; and he will be remembered and honored a hundred years after the Church reviews and newspapers which heaped scorn on him have sunk into the oblivion from which for a week or a month they sometimes emerge.

Who can ever forget the radiant charm of his unaffected simplicity, of his transparent sincerity, of his childlike saintliness? It would take a large space to attempt the characterization of men so very diversely endowed, yet each in their degree so gifted and so good, as Deans Merivale, Plumptre, Jeremie, Church, and Wellesley. We have gained vast stores of information from the writings of Deans Hook and Goode and Milman; of professors and masters of colleges like Sidgwick, Whewell, Jowett, Pusey, and Hort; of bishops so wise, learned, and sincere, as Lonsdale, Thirlwall, Lightfoot, Selwyn, and Fraser; of archbishops so conspicuous for great qualities, as Tait, Trench, Thomson, Magee, and Benson. And yet I have not even mentioned half the names of admi