him, he sustained the contest with credit to himself, because he had but little difficulty in keeping pace with the progress of science. During the two occupations of Paris, in 1814 and 1815, vehicles of all nations were constantly seen at his door; he knew all the foreign military commanders, and spoke all their languages, as well as was necessary for his business. Beauvilliers published towards the end of his life a work in two volumes, in 8vo. called L'Art du Cuisinier. This work, the fruit of long experience, bears the mark of enlightened practice, and is still as popular as when first it appeared. Up to that period the art had not been treated with so much minuteness and system. This book, which has gone through several editions, prepared the way for those works that have followed it, but which have not surpassed it. Beauvilliers had a prodigious memory; he recognized persons after twenty years, who had only dined with him once, or twice; he also had, in some cases, a system which was peculiar to himself. When be knew that a wealthy party had met in his saloons, he approached them with a courteous, obliging air, was all humility, and in fact, made them the objects of his special attention. He pointed out such a dish that they should not take; another that they should lose no time in ordering, and send for a third which no body thought of. He had wine brought up from a cellar of which he alone had the key; in fine, his manner was so obliging and so amiable, that all those extras passed as so many civilities. But this role of an agreeable host lasted but a moment; he disappeared after having performed it; and shortly after the size of the bill, and the bitterness arising from this quart d'heure de Rabelais" showed plainly that they had dined at a restaurant. Beauvilliers had made, unmade and remade his fortune several times; we know not in which of those different states death overtook him; but to judge from his executors, we do not think the residuary legatee was much to be envied. We find from an inspection of the bill of fare of first class restaurants, and particularly that of Véry, and the Trois Frères that he who takes his place in the saloon has at a moment's call, as materials for his dinner, at least 12 different Soups, 24 side dishes, Besides, the fortunate gastronomer can sprinkle all this with at least his choice of thirty different kinds of wine, from Burgundy to Tokay, or Cape, and with twenty or thirty different kinds of perfumed liqueurs, without counting coffee, and other mixtures, such as punch, negus, and many more. Of all those various things which constitute an amateur's dinner, the principal are produced in France, such as butchers' meat, fowl, and fruit; others are an imitation of England, such as beefsteak, Welsh rabbit, punch, &c. ; others come from Germany, as the sauer-kraut, Hambourg beef, chines from the Black Forest; others from Spain, as olla-podrida, garbancos, dried grapes from Malaga, spiced hams from Xeres, wines and liqueurs; others from Italy, as macaroni, parmesan, Bologna saussages, polenta, ices and liqueurs; others from Russia, as dried meats, smoked eels and caviar; others from Holland, such as cod, cheese, dried or pickled herrings, curaçao, anisette; others from Asia, as Indian rice, sago, karik, soy, wine from Schiraz, and coffee; others from Africa, as Cape wine; others again from America, as sweet potatoes, kidney potatoes, pine apples, chocolate, vanilla, sugar &c., which furnishes abundant proof of what we have elsewhere advanced, namely, that a repast, such as can now be had in Paris, is in every respect cosmopolite, where every country of the world is represented by its productions. Why is it that Frenchmen appear to have a natural taste for cooking? "Mr. Wadd," says Tim Moore in The Irish Lion, "I was'nt reared a tailor. My grandfather was a tailor, ny father was a tailor, and I being the eldest son of my father, by all the rights of primogeniture was born a tailor." Is it that Frenchmen are "born" cooks. See them in camp or quarters; in the workshop or the factory they are still able to turn their hands to the saucepan. Try the Star and Garter, 490 him, he st ness ar tions, but v Be after he a him salc Wa sp Wellington, try any of our large noted. Eng pem car clubs, and we find that the more perfect the Dertainly we may write the cook do a Frentzen, a Las acquired his science from a FreshL Then what must we say to our awful steam beta, de Scan, and Fleet-street dining rooms? Simpson's for exam Ir vers from the roar of the Strand. Å ling, dark, ser Lois before us; no bright-eyed dome du consi Easing mirrors; no waiter to glide at your nod, guests, shouting waiters, men in excton toda large dishes of steaming meat on ruling tables. Let your dinner in an atmosphere full of gir, fat, stran, and guttle. In our own part we always leave those Strand dining rooms tufishment that Englishmen should so generaĮ vists, and yet come back and endure, without comp such as is Nason's, or Anderton's, in Fleet-street, where **t a” parket by foul air, and are forced to select from a Just Want it is incongruity reminds one of the opening «lies a Ang's 4-1 of Cockery :— T mous Lester,* were a picture drawn Lia's farce, but with a neck like brawn; Work Peittar-SAVARIN. See ante, p. 471, note. ART. IV.-JOHN HOGAN. any a time as we sit in the stillness and security of our aney corner, and turn over the pages of a ponderous ime of universal history, or the hot-pressed leaves of e periodic Review-a less pretentious, but perhaps even re comprehensive world-picture-we pause and ponder, -aying far from the mere narrative to touch the very its of dream-land; and suffering imagination to clothe elf in the garb and spirit, as we fancy, of some earlier ne, we are filled with the greatness and glory of what is ne, and in the ecstacy of our vision cry out-“Well, it ust have been a grand thing to be alive in those days!" The marvellous culture of heathen Greece, when poetry, rt, and beauty, formed the ritual of its worship, the very aily bread of its existence, and the intellect, free for once of all moral and observant restraint, could do and dare all hat living intelligence might dream of; the magnificence of Roman dominion, when the first Cæsars sat enthroned in the Capitol, and the resources, the manifold tribute of all known kingdoms, flowed in the wake of victorious legions to the feet of the world's mistress; the enthusiastic passion of medieval ages, when Charlemagne defied Teutonic godsor the Hermit Peter led the wayward hordes which a new enthusiasm stirred from the ease of a growing security, and hurried out to the fabulous Last in search of adventure, renown, or the martyr's penalty and palm; the almost wild exultation which thrilled through men when a new world, a very universe as it seemed, was conquered for the nations by the faith and perseverance of one poor mariner; the Te Deums which echoed through delivered Europe when Sobieski overthrew the Moslem, and Don John of Austria won Lepanto-the memory, in one word, of scenes and events so momentous, and so full of wonder, and the r effect in the drama, as it is well called, of the world's history, so attract and enchain us, that "Looking before and after, we sigh for what is not,' and with somewhat of a querulous outburst regret that our own days have fallen in so poor a time. We are wrong, utterly. Imagination misleads us. If try the Wellington, try any of our large noted dining places, or our clubs, and we find that the more perfect the dinner, the more certainly we may write the cook down a Frenchman, or one who has acquired his science from a Frenchman. Then what must we say to our awful steam baths, the Strand, and Fleet-street dining rooms? Simpson's for example. In we rush from the roar of the Strand. A long, dark, sweltering room is before us; no bright-eyed dame du comptoi; no shining, flashing mirrors; no waiter to glide at your nod, hot roaring guests, shouting waiters, men in cotton coats shoving about large dishes of steaming meat on rolling tables, and you eat your dinner in an atmosphere full of gin, fat, steam, and gabble. For our own part we always leave those Strand dining rooms in a state of astonishment that Englishmen should so generally visit Paris, and yet come back and endure, without complaint, such dens as Simpson's, or Anderton's, in Fleet-street, where you are choaked by foul air, and are forced to select from a cuisine which in its incongruity reminds one of the opening lines of King's Art of Cookery : "Ingenious Lister, were a picture drawn With Cynthia's farce, but with a neck like brawn; By some rich farmer's wife and sister drest; That syllabubs come first, and soups the last. Perhaps, reader, we may have, next quarter, another talk with BRILLAT-SAVARIN. • See ante, p. 471, note. |