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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 bas 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, be approached then 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 bis place in the saloon has at a moment's call, as materials for his dinner, at least

12 different Soups,
24 side dishes,

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15 or 20 dishes of Beef,
20

do. of Mutton,
33

do. of Fowl and Game,
19 or 20 do. Veal,
12

do. Pastry,

do. Fish,
15 Roast Joints,
50 dishes of First Course,

50 Desserts. Besides, the fortunate gastronomer can sprinkle all tbis with at least his choice of thirty different kinds of wine, from Bargundy 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 Gerinany, 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 Hollaud, 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,

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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 fuil 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;
With wings of Turkey, and with feet of calf ;
Though drawn by Kneller, it would make you laugh!
Such is, good sir, the figure of a feast,
By some rich farmer's wife and sister drest;
Which were it not for plenty and for steam,
Might be resembled to a sick man's dream,
Where all ideas huddling run so fast,
That syllabubs come first, and soups the last.
Hence, mackarel seem delightful to the eyes,
Though dress'd with incoherent gooseberries.
Crabbs, salmon, lobsters, are with fennel spread,
Who never touch'd that herb till they were dead;
Yet no man lards salt pork with orange peel,

Or garnishes his lamb with spitchcock'd eel." Perhaps, reader, we may have, next quarter, another talk with BKILLAT-SAVARIN.

*

• See ante, p. 471, note.

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Many a time as we sit in the stillness and security of our chimney corner, and turn over the pages of a ponderous volume of universal history, or the hot-pressed leaves of some periodic Review—a less pretentious, but perhaps even more comprehensive world-picture—we pause and ponder, straying far from the mere narrative to touch the very limits of dream-land; and suffering imagination to clothe itself in the garb and spirit, as we fancy, of some earlier time, we are filled with the greatness and glory of what is gone, and in the ecstacy of our vision cry out—"Well, it must have been a grand thing to be alive in those days!"

The marvellous culture of heathen Greece, when poetry, art, and beauty, formed the ritual of its worship, the very daily bread of its existence, and the intellect, free for once of all moral and observant restraint, could do and dare all that 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 gods-or 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 their effect in the drama, as it is well called, of the world's bistory, 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 we had lived in those desired times, even with our present boasted culture, and eager thirst for what is great, nay, with the power of appreciation we arrogate, no such fancied result of moral and intellectual exultation would have been our portion. Just as hundreds of years ago our ancestors whose fortune we so envy, being as it were" to the manner born,” accepted with equanimity enough the "course of events," and regarded as quite accountable occurrences all the pageants, which in the mid distance sweep by with so thrilling a magnificence : so would it have likewise been with us too, if somewhat closer to the foot-lights we cangbt a glimpse of the side scenes, and gained à too familiar acquaintance with the science of stage effect.

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“ The past will always win
A glory from its being far,
And merge into the perfect star

We saw not, when we moved therein." To the thinking mind, no doubt, there is mystery and significance enough in every event, be its importance hidden or revealed at the moment; and no form of real greatness need escape the ken of the seeing eye. But oftentimes leisure, as we say, fails, or the faculty is altogether wanting for such wide and deep observance. Besides, it is an article of our own belief that after all, the hour of a country's most apparent prosperity, of what is supposed to be its highest upward progress, is not the moment when the moral life of its people has reached its climax ; is not the moment when either the race is fullest of innate strength, or the individual best capable of receiving those marked influences, which result in the production of works which bear the stamp of genius, while preparing him to receive the impress of what is highest in the character of God-like human nature

. Ultimate perfection, it now needs no prophet to tell us, is not to be expected in individuals or in nations; and long continuance in any circumstance of well-being is not to be counted on. And it does so happen, as if by some strange instinct, that in periods to all appearance of the greatest national success, there is a universal hurry, as if men sought to seize with avidity the good that is at hand; there is a predominant rapacity as if for immediate and unlimited possession; there is a haste in all things; and from the abundance of resources the very expansiveness of individual

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