recommend " Wilkins " (Christian name
unknown), the lady's-maid of middle age, and
domesticated habits, who was with Mrs.
Colonel Stodger during the whole of the Sutlej
campaign; who is not too proud to teach
the cook how to make curries; is reported
to have ridden (with her mistress) in man's
saddle five hundred miles on camel's back in
India, and to have done something considerable
towards shooting a plundering native
discovered in Mrs. Stodger's tent. Nor would I
have you overlook the claims of Martha
Stirpenny, who is a "young ladies'-maid," and is
not above plain needlework; or of Miss Catchpole,
the maid, nurse, companion, amanuensis,
everything, for so many years to the late
Miss Plough, of Monday Terrace, Bayswater,
who ungratefully left all her vast wealth in
Bank and India Stock to the " Total Abstinence
from Suttee Hindoo Widows' Society,"
offices Great St. Helens, secretary, G. F. L. B.
Stoneybatter, Esq.; and bequeathed her faithful
Catchpole, after twenty years' service, only
a silver teapot and a neatly-bound set of the
Reverend Doctor Duffaboxe's sermons. All
these domestics want places, and all letters to
them must be post-paid.

AS COOK (professed) a Person who fully understands
her business. Address L., Pattypan Place,
Great Brazier Street.

There is something honest, outspoken, fearless,
in this brief advertisement. L. does not
condescend to hint about the length and
quality of her character, or the distinguished
nature of the family she wishes to enter.
"Here I am," she seems to say; " a professed
cook. If you are the sort of person knowing
what a professed cook is, and how to use
her, try me. Good cooks are not so plentiful
that they need shout for custom.
Good wine needs no bush. I stand upon
my cooking, and if you suit me as I suit
you, nought but a spoilt dinner shall part us
two."  L., whom we will incarnate for the nonce
as Mrs. Lambswool, widow, is fat and forty,
but not fair. The fires of innumerable kitchen
ranges have swarthed her ruddy countenance
to an almost salamandrine hue. And she is
a salamander in temper too, is Mrs. Lambswool,
for all her innocent name. Lambswool,
deceased (formerly clerk of the kitchen to the
Dawdle club), knew it to his cost, poor man;
and for many a kept back dinner and
unpraised made dish did he suffer in his
time.

If Fate could bring together (and how
seldom Fate does bring together things and
persons suited for one another), Mrs. Lambswool
and Sir Chyle Turrener, how excellently
they would agree. Sir Chyle—who dwells
in Bangmarry Crescent, Hordover Square,
and whose house as you pass it smells all
day like a cook-shop—made his handsome
competence in the war time by contracts for
mess-beef as execrable, and mess-biscuit as
weevily, as ever her Majesty's service, by sea
and land, spoilt their digestion and their
teeth with. He is, in these piping times of
peace, renowned as the most accomplished
epicure in the dining world. He does not
dine often at his club, the Gigot (though that
establishment boasts of great gastronomic
fame, and entertains a head man cook at a
salary of two hundred and fifty pounds a
year): he accuses M. Relevay, the chef in
question, of paying more attention to the
greasing and adornment of his hair, and the
writing out of his bills of fare in ornamental
penmanship, than to the culinary wants of
the members; he will not have a man cook
himself: " the fellows," he says, " are as
conceited as peacocks and as extravagant as
Cleopatra." Give him a woman cook—a
professed cook, who knows her business,
and does it; and the best of wages and the
best of places are hers, at 35, Bangmarry
Crescent.

Let us figure him and Mrs. Lambswool
together. Sir Chyle—a little apple-faced old
gentleman with a white head, and as fiery
in temper as his cook—looks on Mrs. Lambswool
as, next to the dinners she cooks
and the government annuity in which (with
a sagacious view towards checking the prodigality
of his nephew and expectant heir) he
has sunk his savings, the most important
element in his existence. He places her in
importance and consideration far beyond the
meek elderly female attached to his household
in the capacity of wife—used by him chiefly
in forming a hand at whist and in helping
soup (catch Sir Chyle trusting her with fish!)
and by him abused at every convenient
opportunity. He absolutely forbids any interference
on her part with the culinary economy
and discipline. " Blow up the maids as much
as you like, Ma'am," he considerately says,
"but don't meddle with my cook." Mrs. L.
crows over her mistress accordingly, and if
she were to tell her that pea-soup was best
made with bilberries, the poor lady would,
I dare say, take the dictum for granted.
Sir Chyle Turrener is exceedingly liberal in
all matters of his own housekeeping—although
he once wrote a letter to the Times virulently
denouncing soup-kitchens. When a dinner
of a superlative nature has issued from his
kitchen, he not unfrequently, in the warmth
of his admiration, presents Mrs. Lambswool
with gratuities in money; candidly admitting
that he gives them now, because he does not
intend to leave his cook a penny when he
dies, seeing that she can dress no more dinners
for him, after his decease. On grand occasions
she is summoned to the dining room, at
the conclusion of the repast, and he compliments
her formally on this or that culinary
triumph. He lauds her to his friends Tom
Aitchbone, of the Beefsteak club, Common
Councillor Podge, Sergeant Buffalo, of the
Southdown circuit, and old Sir Thomas
Marrowfat, who was a pronothotary to