been served! And this extravagance had been
of use to no human being, for even the servants
would not consider it a legitimate repast were
they obliged to dine on the remains of a former
day's banquet. Footmen are like cats; they take
a fancy only to what they steal, but are indifferent
about what is given them."

Now, these bitter and remorseful remarks
open up a really important and interesting
subject. What should be done with the broken meats
of a great household? The cook's desire, of
course, is to toss all spare mutton chops, touched
but not eaten, all flaps of beef and squarings of
joints, into the wash-tubs to swell their iniquitous
and, too often, thievish profits. Half tongues,
ends of legs of mutton, remainders of rounds
of beef, will, of course, go to their prowling
lovers (if they be young and unmarried), and
if old, and with husbands out of the house,
into their husband's pockets. The real honest
relics of a nobleman's kitchen would at least
feed four or five poor families a week. The
usual objection is, that it is somewhat demoralising
to feed the poor on dainties; but we reply,
that the proper leavings of a well-managed household
would be very useful to the poor to mix
with their simpler and less nourishing food, and
that such gifts of mercy (to hospitals, infirmaries,
and almshouses) would be twice blest.
As for the perishable residues of poulterers,
butchers, and fishmongers, they ought to be
sold cheap to street traders and to the poor at
recognised rates, and at certain hours; for
either to bury or destroy such food rather than
practise such charity is wilfully to add a pitch
to poverty.

To return to less serious matters. The
Duke of Orleans, whose petits soupers at the
Palais Royal shed lustre on a spot that even its
subsequent infamy could hardly efface, had a
cook who is said, according to Mr. Hayward, to
have excelled in a dindon aux truffes.

That miserable voluptuary Egalité, equally
dainty in his food and ostentatious in his
hospitality, came over to England to see his
estimable contemporary, teaching his fat friend
with his own plump fingers to cook cutlets
and fish in certain recherché modes
unknown in the outer barbarian world. Could
imagination picture a more typical scene—
Philip (drunk) teaching George (drunker) how
to cook cutlets. The future monarchs of two
great nations, in a time of volcanic turbulence,
and the strange swift growth of novelties, standing
over a charcoal stove discussing the frying
of a cutlet and the stuffing of a fricandeau!
Is it possible to conceive millions of brave and
wise men governed by two gross dull creatures,
who had not intellect enough to have carried
on a city eating-house even in partnership?
Arcades ambo, indeed, et nobile fratrum!

Our old Iron Duke, grim as he was,
liked a good dinner; for in his youth he had
been a dandy, a rake, and a bon vivant. Lord
Seaford finding Felix, an eminent French cook,
too expensive for him, allowed the duke to
transplant him to Apsley House.

Some months after, a friend of Lord Seaford's
observed that Felix's dishes still prevailed upon
my lord's table.

"So you've got the duke's cook to dress your
dinner?"

"Not the duke's, but mine," replied Lord S.
"Felix is no longer the duke's cook. The poor
fellow came back with tears in his eyes, and
begged me to take him back, reduced wages
or no wages at all, for he could not stay
any longer at Apsley House. 'Had the
duke turned rusty'? was my natural inquiry.
'O no, my lord,' replied Felix; 'he is the
kindest and most liberal of masters; but I serve
him a dinner that would make a Ude or
Francatelli burst with envy, and he say nothing.
I go into ze country, and leave him to try a
dinner ill cooked by a stupid dirty cookmaid,
and again he say nothing. It's dat, it's dat
hurt my feeling, milor.'"

We are not sure but that Felix, in adverse
circumstances, might have sacrificed himself as
bravely as Vatel. Felix was a man who would
have gloried in the King of Hanover's plan of
printing on the carte the name of the cook by
whom each dish was dressed. Nor would he,
though greedy of fame, have disliked the princely
custom at the table of the Regent Orleans, of
each guest slipping a piece of gold into every
dish of more than ordinary merit.

Carême, one of the greatest of French cooks,
first became eminent by inventing an appetising
sauce for maigre days. He then devoted several
years to the study of roasting, in all its branches;
he next mastered sauces and belles parties des
froids; and, lastly, he studied design and
elegance under the accomplished Robert l'Ainé.
His career was one of victory after victory. He
nurtured the Emperor Alexander; kept alive
Talleyrand through that long disease, his life;
fostered Lord Londonderry, and delighted the
Princess Bagration. An unworthy salary of
one thousand pounds a year induced him to
become chef to the Regent, but he left Carlton
House in a very few months. While in the
onerous position of pampering the Regent, it is
said that aldermen gave enormous prices for
stale pâtes that had been already served at the
royal table. Tempting offers were made to
Carême to return. The Regent was positively
inconsolable.

"No," said the true patriot, "my soul is
French, and can only exist in France."

Carême, therefore, overcome by his feelings,
at once accepted an unprecedented salary from
Baron Rothschild, and settled in Paris.

Lady Morgan, dining at the baron's villa, in
1829-30, has left a sketch of a dinner of Carême's
in her lightest and happiest manner. It was a
very sultry evening, but the baron's dining-
room stood apart from the house, and was shaded
by orange trees. In the oblong pavilion of
Grecian marble, refreshed by fountains, no gold
or silver dazzled and heated the eye, but porcelain,
beyond the price of all precious metals—
every plate a picture—imparted a general
character of sumptuous simplicity. There was no