nas! That accomplished Sybarite must have shuddered whenever he thought of that lost meal and the abominable stuff that kept its place in his memory. What a nauseous sound must the name of Nasidienus have been to him ever after! Fit company the fellow might be for wretches like his friends, Porcius and Nomentanus, but not for the lord of luxury. inans. The rough Saxons, though somewhat boorish feeders, seem to have plied their knives and bent over their trenchers with infinitely more relish than the delicate, mouth-wiping NorWitness that authentie chronicle of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and the difference there shown. Who would not rather have sat at Cedric's bountiful supper in the great hall at Rotherwood than have endured the heartburnings and sourness of that naughty, sarcastic banqueting which Prince John inflicted on his Saxon guests? Then, there are the grand funeral feastings in honor of Athelstane, which I protest I would have partaken of with infinite pleasure after the worthy thane had come to life again, if but to have seen him recompense himself for his enforced fasting. As for Wamba's shield of brawn, has not the mouth of at least one old soldier watered for it on many an unprovided day in the Virginia campaigns? Yea, verily; and Sir Dugald Dalgetty's noble principles touching the matter of "provant" have likewise been called to mind, with a wholesome purpose of discipleship, many a time and oft. There is a healthy sensuousness in Sir Walter's pictures that touches the human heart very sweetly. The brotherhood of genius understand well enough the relations between body and spirit, and neglect neither. "Sound soul in sound skin" is their safe maxim, and that is the secret of their perpetuity. ria, he was a very Solomon for wisdom, but was daily tortured with a worse than Barmecide feast, do we not feel for him most deeply, and rejoice when he is delivered from that fatal governorship-willing rather that his head should suffer diminution or obscuration than that portly, jolly, rotund paunch which befits the rider of Dapple? What a nice, little old-world dinner, dainty and substantial, does Mistress Mary Powell serve up for us in her "Journall," after it had been served up for her and her friends by Rose Agnew, the cousin, who was so pretty a housewife! Hearken to the bill of fare: "Eggs, bacon, roast ribs of lamb, spinach, potatoes, savoury pie, a Brentford pudding, and cheese cakes." Right English is that spread, and good country catering, that one might be very thankful for on many a spring afternoon. That occult dish, too, called Furmity, talked of in many an old English book, and alluded to in this diary-the stupid dictionaries persist in styling it Frumenty and Furmenty—as unknown to us as hominy to the trans-Atlantic barbarians: would we not all like to taste it, if only to compare it with our great matutinal pabulum? The lowland population of South Carolina and Georgia, quarum pars fui, rightly esteem the use of rice and hominy an infallible test of advancement in civilization. Who know not their charms know savagery in full frightfulness. This dictum is incontrovertible. But general maxims in culinary orthodoxy, as in every creed, may be stated with too extravagant a dogmatism. Witness the assertion of a friend of mine, undoubtedly based on sound doctrine, but enunciated in terms too sweeping. "The man or woman," said he, with solemn emphasis, "who has not tasted elegantlydeviled ham can not be said to be thoroughly tried and proven in virtue; for he or she is yet lamentably ignorant to what a fearful extremity tempation may be carried." Now, this is excess, and savors of fanaticism. Still, deviled ham is famous. Who does not rejoice with Sancho Panza, when, in the midst of all the hardships of his squire-errantry, he lights upon luck at last, and revels for a while amongst the flesh-pots of Camacho the Rich? Who, again, does not sympathize most heartily with those tender regrets so often poured forth by him when miserable fare, or none at all, reminded him sadly of what he had left behind? Then, in that evil time, when, as governor over the great island of Barata-ling: But what an exquisite morsel is Elia's roast pig! The veracious history of its discovery is good-nothing can be related more lovingly. But how delicious is the after dissertation! Every word of it is tender and full of feeling. Hear him discourse of crack "There is no flavor comparable, I will pipes, staying just long enough to impart s contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-softer music to the mirth that pursues them watched, not over-roasted crackling, as it is riotously. These superb sessions contain a well-called-the very teeth are invited to perfect carnival of feasting. Let us at rantheir share of the pleasure at this banquet dom dip into the record of them. There is in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance- sure to be a good glorification of edible with the adhesive oleaginous-O call it not graces. This, for instance-does it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness growing sound appetizing and provocative of tender up to it-the tender blossoming of fat-fat joys? cropped in the bud-taken in the shoot-in the first innocence-the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food-the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal mannaor, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance." Do you not honor this man for an ecstacy so nobly æsthetic? I could have hugged him to my bosom as he penned those words. Oh, Charles Lamb, thy like can never live again! Hear him once more at the close of this sweetly rhapsodical, though unversed lyric: "His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; you can not poison them, or make them stronger than they are-but, consider, he is a weakling-a flower." The germ of this rich eulogium is contained in a letter to Coleridge-better, I think, than the Elia essay, if that be possible-finer in point, neater in brevity, richer in gusto, because unpremeditated and intended for the private eye of his friend. I wish that my space permitted me to give it at large; but, that being not to be thought of, I will not spoil it with specimens torn from its beautiful texture. But the richest storehouse for dainties is the glorious room at Ambrose's, where Kit North and his compeers held their grand conclave. The mighty Ambrosian suppers steam with wit, wisdom and good-fellowship. Humor hovers over the Glenlivet as it passes round the table; laughter loves to linger by each plate; and pathos and tenderness travel upward with the smoke that rolls from their Enter Mr. Ambrose. Mr. Ambrose-Gentlemen, supper's on the table. North-Mr. Joyeuse, lend me your arm. (Exeunt, followed by the Opium Eater, Tickler the Shepherd, and Mullion.) SCENE II-BLUE PARLOR. Tickler-Now for the goose- a ten-pounder. All our geese are swans. There, saw ye ever a bosom sliced more dexterously? Off go the legs-smack goes the back into shivers-so much for the doup. Reach me over the apple sauce. Mullion, give us the old pun upon the sage. Who chooses goose? Mullion-I'll trouble you for the breast and legs, wi' a squash o' the apple crowdy. Ambrose, bread and potatoes, and a pot of porter. The Opium Eater-Mr. Ambrose, be so good as to bring me coffee. Shepherd-Coffee!! What the deevil are you gaun to do wi' coffee at this time o' night, man? Wha ever soops upon coffee? Come here, Mr. Ambrose, tak him over this trencher o' het kidneys-I never hae touched them. Tickler-Is your pullet tender, Kit? There be vulgar souls who prefer barn-door fowl to pheasants, mutton to venison, and cider to champagne. So there be who prefer corduroy to cassimere breeches, and the "Blue and Yellow" to green-gowned Maga. To such souls, your smooth-shining transparent grape is not so sweet as your small red hairy gooseberry. The brutes can not dine without potatoes to their fish Shepherd-What say ye, Mr. Tickler? wadna you eat potatoes to sawmont? I thought ye had kent better than to place gentility on sic like gruns. At the Duke's every one did just as he liked best himsell, and tell't the flunkies to take their plate to ilka dish that pleased their e'e, without ony restraint. But ye hae na been muckle in hee life these last fifty years. Tickler-My dear Mullion, I beseech you not to draw your knife through your mouth in that most dangerous fashion; you'll never stop till ye cut it from ear to ear. For the sake of our common humanity, use your fork. Shepherd-Never mind him, Mullion; be's speaking havers. I hae used my knife that way ever since I was fed upon flesh, and I never cut my mouth, to any serious extent, above a score of times in my life. (Mr. Ambrose sets down a silver coffee pot, and a plate of muffins, before the Opium Eater.) The Opium Eater-I believe, Mr. Hogg, that it has been ascertained by medical men, through an experience of some thousand years, that no eater of hot and heavy suppers ever yet saw his grand climacteric. I do not mention this as any argument against hot and heavy suppers, except to those persons who are desirous of attaining a tolerable old age. You, probably. have made up your mind to die before that period; in which case, not to eat hot and heavy suppers, if you like them, would truly be most unreasonable, and not to be expected from a man of your acknowledged intelligence and understanding. I beg now to return your kidneys, with an assurance that I have not touched them, and they still seem to retain a considerable portion of animal heat. Shepherd-I dinna ken what's the matter wi' me the night, but I'm no half so hungry as I expeckit. Thae muffins look gaeing inviting; the coffee comes gurgling out wi' a brown sappy sound. I wonder where Mr. Ambrose got that ream. A spider might crawl on't. I wish, sir, you would gie us a single cup, and a wheen muffins. (The Opium Eater benignantly complies.) | North-Pray, Tickler, what sort of an eater do you suppose Barry Cornwall? Tickler-The merry-thought of a chick-three tea-spoonfuls of peas, the eighth part of a French roll, a sprig of cauliflower, and an almost imperceptible dew of parsley and butter, would, I think, dine the author of The Deluge." By the way, there is something surely not a little absurd, in the notion of a person undertaking the "Flood," whom the slightest shower would drive under a balcony, or into a hackney-coach. I have no doubt that he carried "The Deluge" in his pocket to Colburn, under an umbrella. North-My dear Tickler, you can not answer the very simplest question without running into your usual personalities. What does Byron dine on, think you? Tickler--Byron! Why, bull-beef and pickled salmon, to be sure. What else would he dine on? I never suspected him, at least accused him, of cannibalism. And yet, during the composition of Cain, there is no saying what he may have done. Shepherd—I'm thinking, sir, when Tam Muir was penning his Loves of the Angels, that he fed upon calf-foot jellies, stewed prunes, the dish they ca' curry and oysters. These last are desperate for that. | Tickler-Did you ever hear it said that Mr. Rogers never ate animal food, nor drank spirits? North-I have seen him do both. Tickler-Well, you astonish me. I could not otherwise have believed it. Mullion-Never, never, never, in all my born days, did I eat such a glorious plate full of kidneys as that which Mr. Opium Eater lately transmitted to me through the hands of our Ambrose. I feel as if I could bump my crown against the ceiling. I hae eaten the apple o' the tree of knowledge. I understand things I never had the least ettling of before. Will ony o' ye enter into an argument? Choose your subject, and I'm your man, in theology, morality, anatomý, chemistry, history, poetry, and the fine arts. My very language is English, whether I will or no, and I am overpowered with a power of words. The Opium Eater (aside to Tickler)-I fear that Mr. Mullion's excessive animation is owing to a slight mistake of mine. I carelessly allowed a few grains of opium to slide out of my box into the plate of kindneys which Mr. Hogg sent for my delectation; and, ere I could pick them out, Mr. Ambrose wafted away the poisoned dish to Mr. Mullion, at a signal, I presume, understood between the parties. Mullion-I say, Opium Eater, or Opossum, or what do they call you, did you ever see an unicorn? What signifles an Egyptian ibis, or crocodile of the Nile? I have an unicorn at livery just now is in Rose street. Tickler, will you mount? Noble subject for John Watson. No man paints an unicorn better. North-John Watson paints every thing well. But (aside to the Shepherd) saw ye ever such extraordinary eyes in a man's head as in Mullion's? Mullion-Francis Maximus Macnab's Theory of the Universe is the only sensible book I ever read. Mr. Ambrose, Mr. Ambrose, bring me the Scotsman. Shepherd (to North)—I have heard there was something wrang wi' Mullion at school, and it's breaking out ye see noo. He's gaene clean wud. I wus he mayna bite. Tickler-Sell your unicorn to Polito, Mullion. Mullion-Polito!—ay, a glorious collection of wild beasts-a perfect House o' Commonswhere each tribe of beasts has its representative. Mild, majestic, towzy-headed, big-pawed, lean-hurdied lion-saw ye ever Mungo Park? Tiger, tiger, royal tiger-jungle-jumping, son-o'Sir-Hector-Munro-devouring tiger! (Rises.) Shepherd-Whare are you gaun? Wait an hour or twa, and I'll see ye hame. Mullion-I am off to the Pier of Leith. What so beautiful as the sea at midnight! A glorious constellation art thou, O Great Bear! Hurra! Hurra! (Exit, without his hat.) Opium Eater-I must give this case, in a note, to a new edition of my Confessions. If Mr. Mullion did really eat all the kidneys, he must now have in his stomach that which is about equal to 570 drops of laudanum. Shepherd-Eat all the kidneys! That he did, I'll swear. Opium Eater-Most probably, Mr. Mullion will fall into a state of utter insensibility in a couple of hours. Convulsions may follow, and then-death. Shepherd-Deevil the fears. Mullion 'ill dee nane. I'll wauger he'll be eating twa eggs to his breakfast the morn, and a shave o' the red roun'; luking fra him a' the time wi' een as sharp as darnin' needles, and paunin' in his cup for mair sugar. Such is one of the delightful suppers that a remote posterity will continue to enjoy in the records of the Noctes Ambrosianæ, even as we enjoy them at this day. There is plenty more as entertaining as this in the volumes that chronicle the witty talk of Christopher and his confrères; and to those unfortunate as yet unacquainted with these noctes cœnæque deorum, what better counsel can be given than that they hasten to make themselves happy? Even Milton, grand singer of a sacred theme, grave thinker, stern controversialist, and adherent of the Puritan party, sings a lay of eulogy to the luxuries of the table. Hear the light quavers of this Bacchanal, and say if it be not music: "Meanwhile, welcome Joy and Feast, And Advice with scrupulous head, With their grave saws in slumber lie," phrase of the celebrated ode of Alcoeus. The parody occurs in one of the earlier numbers of Blackwood: A FESTAL ODE. Not turtle calipash of verdant hue; French cooks a thousand relishes infuse; Not France's greater boast, high-fumed ragouts; Crowning a dish in which rich gravy lies; Which ruddy lobster sauce accompanies: And good digestion, turn into a feast And grinders manducate, and palate taste." This is sound truth and wholesome doc trine, as every old campaigner can testify. As for fruits, jellies, and such other delicate cates, if one wishes to enjoy a luscious description of such matters, I know of none more charming than that which Keats gives us in the "Eve of St. Agnes." There is a sensuous gusto in those rapturous lines which would send the strongest satisfaction into the soul of a Sybarite. How large a part does feasting play in those delicious pictures of the imagination, the Arabian Night's Entertainments! It would be an endless task to cite instances. Any one at all familiar with that charming panorama of wonders will not fail to remember scores on scores of glorious banquets, Bassora and Bagdad, Cairo and the Caucasus fairy grottoes and the palaces of the genii, all are laughing with luxury and resound with revelry in these magic pages. Hassan and Ali Baba, Camaralzaman and Paribanon, Ahmed and Habib, Dorathil-goose and Amine, Mesrour and Haroun, call up such visions by their very names. The best of the humorists were emphat ically men of the table. Such was Chaucer, most assuredly. Witness his savory allu Here, doubtless, are reminiscences of Christ's Church College and the days of youth, with the gay doings in which he must have had some share in spite of hissions in the Canterbury Tales, not here and prim cloister-life and the girlish face that got him the nickname of "Lady." His youth was pure, but it seems to have been bright and joyous as well. For the further illustration of this subject, I will quote here a part of a fine parody of Sir William Jones's noble lines on "What constitutes a State," being an elegant para there occurring merely, but surging up sweetly a thousand times and more from the pure spring of his right human poesy. Such were Shakspeare and Ben Jonson. Witness their works, so full of the wholesome sounds of real life and social joys; witness also their doings at the Mermaid, where the swelling tones of merriment never staled on the ear. Fielding was a roysterer. Smollett was not famed for his abstinence. Dick Steele, alas! was much given to festivities-more than was good for him. Addison reigned supreme in his club as well as in the Spectator, and was a trifle too fond of wine. Poor Gold, smith was a wild Irishman to the end of his days. The clatter of glasses was music to Fox; and Sheridan was as devoted to port as Falstaff to sack. Maginn was masterly at the trencher; and to Sydney Smith a good dinner was undoubtedly "a joy forever." Jean Paul, the most subtle and delicate in humor of all the Teuton Shandeans, must have quaffed the cup, that cheers as long as it does not inebriate, with infinite gusto, if we are to judge from his frequent and tender mention of Pontac in his inimitable writings. As for Rabelais, the great forerunner of them all, the old fantastic satirist rings with meat and drink through all his wild brain-meanderings, pealing a perpetual, profane Gaudeamus over the same, from first to last, with a devil's litany of word-torturings for accompaniment. North-Prime, choice, exquis. Short jigots of five year olds, taper-jointed and thick-thighed, furnished, but not over-loaded, with brown, crisp fat, deep-red when cut into, and oozing through every pore with the dark richness of natural gravy that overflowed the trencher, with a tempting tincture not to be contemplated with a dry mouth by the most abstemious of the children of men. Tickler-Go on, you dog; what else? Please, Mr. Joyeuse, ring the bell. Mr. Ambrose must bring us a devil. Or what do you say to supping over again? North-To such mutton, add potatoes, dry even in such a season; so great is the Shepherd's agricultural skill. Ay, dry and mouldering, at a touch, into the aforesaid gravy, till the potato was lost to the eye in a heap of san. guine hue, but felt on the palate, amalgamated with the mountain mutton, into a glorious mix. ture of animal and vegetable matter; each descending mouthful of which kept regenerating the whole man, and giving assurance of a good old age. Tickler-Why the devil don't Ambrose answer the bell? North-Then the salmon. In the Forest, fish Each follows flesh. It is the shoulder cut. flake is clear as a cairngorum-clear and curdled-sappy-most sappy. Tickler-I say, why the devil don't Ambrose answer the bell? In fine, it is in this matter that civilization | enjoys its most palpable triumph. Compare the disgusting picture given by the traveler, Parkyns, of an Abyssinian feast-greedy and gluttonous devouring of raw beef being its (Rises and pulls the worsted rope, till it snaps in main feature-with the rapturous recital with which another traveler, Jewett, entertains us, when he comes to treat of the Parisian cafés, and in particular that delicate dish, Turbot à la crême. Then, judge. I will not dilate upon the amusing narrative given by Petronius Arbiter in his "Saty. ricon" of the banquet of Trimalchio. It has a flavor of its own; but, unfortunately, it is such pitch as we would not counsel clean minds to touch, lest perchance they be defiled. One more quotation from the "Noctes" before I close: Tickler-Pray, North, tell us how you kissed the rosy hours at Hogg's? Did the Shepherd give you good prog? twain.) North-But then the moor-fowl! the browngame! the delicious mullattoes! the dear pepper-backs! Savoriness that might be sucked without satiety by saint and sinner for three quarters of an hour! Oh! James, that old cock! Shepherd-He was as gude a beast as I ever pree'd; but I did nae mair than pree him, for frae neb to doup did our editor devour him, as he had been a bit snipe. He crunched his very banes, Mr. Tickler; and the very marrow o' the cretur's spine trinkled down his chin frae ilk corner o' his mouth, and gied him for the while being, a most terrible and truculent feesi |