which they are brought together. They do
not sit there, sir, to admire paintings or
objects ot art exquisitely carved, but to dine
as well possible, and converse sociably."
Who shall gainsay Monsieur Gogué in this
matter ? Or, indeed, in that other hint
concerning the carpet? It should be thick and
very soft, for the double debt " of imparting
a grateful warmth" (une douce chaleur)
"to the feet ot the guests, as well as to
deaden the sound of the movements of the
servants."

In the matter of table linen—that article,
it is conceded on all sides, must be of a spotless
character, still must we avoid that other
extreme—"Take care that it be not like a
species of pasteboard, very inconvenient in
the handling, and by no means acceptable to
the mouth of the guest." It is a little
superfluous on the part of our chief to direct us to
lay the fork upon the left, the knife upon the
right of the plate, such rudimentary elements
being implanted by nature in the breast of
every dining mortal. The napkin should be
arranged " with taste, but without assumption."
By which hint he would have us
avoid those strange eccentricities which a
fantastic waiting mind sometimes evolves
out of a simple piece of damask.

Not content with establishing himself in
the dining-room, Monsieur Gogué goes up
grand staircase into my lady's boudoir, where
she is writing her notes, and has a word to
say as to the character and quality of the
guests to be bidden, their number, and
professions. The question of number has been
battled over and over again. Monsieur
Gogué, looking at it from a French point of
view, says the question has lain between
three and nine—not less than three, or more
than nine. Unblushing Gogué! Little recks
he of your true Briton's twenty-two, of his
eighteen and his twenty covers! These
numbers of nine and three have a relation to
the Muses and Graces. " But," continues he,
drolly enough, " leave alone the Graces and
the Muses, who have nothing in the world to
do with dining, and let us be guided by
common sense. As to that fatal number
thirteen, we are far from taking it under our
protection; nay, are rather of the opinion of
the gentleman who would be to sit down
thirteen every day, provided the dinner
was good." The fact is, that mysterious
number comes awkwardly for the arrangement
of the guests, and on that account
should be eschewed, to say nothing of this
further reason, "why gratuitously render
uncomfortable very worthy people, inoffensive
creatures, who ask nothing more than to
dine well, to dine quietly, and without a
care?" Why, indeed ? Then never have
thirteen!

"Should children be allowed in?" our
chief asks gravely. " A question," he says,
"answered almost as soon as put. A certain
witty man, fond of whist, once heard a child
cry when sitting down to his game. 'I
always love to hear children cry,' he
remarked. 'Why?' ask those about him.
'Because,' says the witty man, ' they are sent
to bed then.' " Monsieur Gogué would not
be so harsh. " I would not send my children
to bed," he goes on, " the moment my guests
sit down, but would banish them to a remote
chamber. Besides, they over-eat themselves
before company, and are very restive in
disposition, but too often kicking their
neighbours' limbs."

On the head of servants there is very
much to be said. The exact number who
should wait at a feast is another of those
moot points which so embarrass cookery as
a science. It quite depends on the character
of your matériel. Monsieur Gogué has known
of two intelligent, active spirits, with willing
mind, ever-roving eyes, and unwearied limbs,
proving equal to a dozen of the common
pattern. But how rarely in this vale of tears
do such treasures cross our path! But, en
thèse générale, as our chief puts it, one for
every five guests is about the proper allowance.
" We would have," Monsieur Gogué
writes, warming with his subject, "on the
day of a grand dinner each domestic calm
and cool as a soldier on the eve of a battle;
he should carry out quietly and collectedly
such orders as he shall have received, and do
everything at its proper time. We would
not have him abstracted, mooning it in the
air when his eyes should be on the table—
listening to the conversation of a guest when
he should be offering him bread." Admirable
counsel! So spoke Doctor Goldsmith, some
eighty years since, through the mouth of Mr.
Hardcastle, whom Monsieur Gogué, we may
swear, has never known. " You must not
be so talkative, Diggory." he tells his
following, in that richly humorous and immortal
Rehearsal Scene, " you must be all attention
to the guests; you must hear us talk and not
think of talking; you must see us drink and
not think of drinking; you must see us eat
and not think of eating. . . . Then, if I happen
to tell a good story at table, you must not all
burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of
the company." Which brings on, as every
humour-loving reader knows, that plea of
Diggory in favour of the story concerning
Ould Grouse in the Gun-room, the significance
of which name— whether it attach to
man or animal, or whether dear Goldy, whom
we all so love (and who shall shortly be
standing in the open thoroughfare of the
Irish metropolis, wrought out in breathing
bronze, not in absurd poetical masquerade,
but in his own bloom-coloured coat, the
fashion of his time)— whether he had in his
mind's eye a name much given to Irish
sporting-dogs; these are questions with which
we have no concern, and which have
certainly small relation to the great cooking
science.

On the score of wines we must carefully