guest on the rack by the awkward way in which he handles the plates. Where a page, with three tiers of buttons, his paws encased in white cotton gloves, inserts his thumb into the fish sauces, brings you potatoes with your paté, if you are bold enough to attempt a thick wall of doughy pastry, with a homœopathic supply of oysters unbearded within, and who generally deposits the contents of some greasy dish upon your coat, or your neighbour's dress. Where the butler (having been in a fume all day at his additional work, drilling gouty waiters, hiring extra plate, ordering Wenham Lake ice, which melts under the influence of the heat, and giving directions to what the four-in-hand club used to call "a scratch team") is literally in a state of damp heat. Where the footman, who has been on the tramp all day with notes and messages, gives warning just before the hour of dinner, having had a quarrel about some domestic affair. Where the professed woman cook has had no end to "disagreeables," as she terms them, from the kitchen fire smoking, the boiler nearly bursting, the fishmonger being late, and the butcher lad failing in his promise. Nor is the usual placidity of her temper at all improved at the unceasing ringing of the drawing-room bell, and the constant enquiry as to when dinner will be served. To masters and mistresses who get impatient, we would tender this piece of advice; never disturb your culinary artist during the process of serving or preparing dinner, as it will invariably tend to delay, if not to spoil it. Avoid a house where ostentation is the ruling passion,

and electro plate prevails. Where your host tells you long stories of his wonderful wines, and does not give you iced-water in July; where the table-cloth is strongly marked with black borders where the dishes have been placed. Where the giver of the feast prides himself upon things out of season, (such just being half enough to satisfy a tenth part of his guests,) and where nothing in season is worth touching. Where cheap champagne and ordinary French and Spanish wines do duty, from "his friend the Consul." Where the coffee is thick and cold as a November fog; and where the whole entertainment reminds one of the story of the man who, at an untidy Irish inn, desired the waiter to bring up the dinner on one plate, and the dirt on another. Such dinners have been seen, and although, as Baillie Nicol Jarvie remarks, "don't accept a man's hospitality and abuse the scoundrel behind his back," we cannot for the public good refrain from warning our readers against the horrors so faintly described. To return to good cheer, it requires some science to attain it, both in public and private. Set it down as a general rule, that no one except Russian Princes, or men with newly-acquired riches, and fools, ever order things out of season. Thick soups are a mistake; as a French author remarks, "three or four table-spoons of soup, with as many drops of sherry, are all that should be laid in for the foundation of a dinner." For a party of three, four, or five, a unicorn ought to be adopted. Soup removed by fish, two entrées, one white and one brown, and a small joint or poularde, thus forming the unicorn. We have

already alluded to a Russian dinner, which is the best served and most economical. It is always sent hot from the kitchen, and as the entrées are not exposed to the public gaze, there are fewer of them; the joints served at the side-board by an experienced artist, save trouble (but English people, justly proud of their superior meat, generally prefer to see the joint on the table). The waiting is rendered more easy; there is no stooping of servants over the shoulders of the guests, no moving against your arm when you are taking a glass of wine; no chance of having a shower-bath over your dress, when the hot water plates are being removed. Such a circumstance happened abroad: an English lady who had married a foreigner was dining with her husband at a large party; as a newly-married couple they got opposite one another. An English gentleman sat next the bride on one side, and having been on intimate terms with her family, struck up a friendly acquaintance; towards the end of the dinner, the husband's attention was attracted by an extraordinary look of digust on the part of his wife, who involuntarily shrank away from her talkative neighbour. Her countenance was the picture of despair. "What can have happened?" thought the husband, still the lover. Another start rendered him almost frantic, when his surprise was not a little increased at the Englishman offering the disconsolate lady his pocket-handkerchief. "Tears? a handkerchief!" inwardly exclaimed the now excited Othello, as he was about to leave his chair to ask an explanation, when the problem was solved by the

lady accepting the proffered cambric, and instead of her applying it to her beautiful, but somewhat dimned eyes, placed it behind her shoulders, and soon reproduced it covered with the richest gravy. A clumsy " help," as the Americans call their servants, had deposited the contents of a sauce-boat down her back; hence the start, the struggle, and the pallid countenance.

The old fashion of plastering the heads of servants with powder is gradually becoming exploded; to see a footman covered with pomatum and powder, as if he had borrowed the lard from the cook, and the flour from the dredger, is a most untidy and sorry sight. Nothing, too, can be more unmeaning than to see this miserable relic of bygone times of swords, buckles, garters, gold lace coats, embroidered vests, and cocked hats, kept up in these days of plain liveries and cleanly habits. In well-regulated establishments the following piece of advice is needless; but it is most necessary in others. Never let the cook send up a pin with the ornamental cut paper, that usually, "bouquet fashion," ornaments the end hone of the leg of mutton. It too often gets into the gravy; and although a small dose of steel may be recommended by the faculty, it is not at all desirable to take it in the form of this sharp-pointed article. Another hint to minor artists: never ornament with camellias cut out of red and white vegetables; never send up the feathered tail of a pheasant. Always treat a hare as Apollo did Midas, let his ears be apparent; a larded pheasant is not produceable; if you want to make this naturally

dry bird juicy, roast with a piece of bacon and sausage interiorly, or boil, and smother with a purée of onions. Rabbits, except in soup stock, ought not to have the honour of appearing at a gentleman's table. In ordering a dinner at a London tavern, at a suburban one, or a country inn, the bill of fare is the most misleading guide in the world; it usually contains seven or eight soups; fish, plain and dressed in twenty ways; with every dish that the ingenuity of man or woman can make out of beef, mutton, veal, and lamb, and in twentynine cases out of thirty it happens that what you particularly fancy out of the list is not to be had. Instead then of studying it, exercise your own judgment and discretion. A strong clear soup, the best fish of the day, a joint, or game, ought to suffice.

At Greenwich, Blackwall, or Richmond, forbid soup and the second courses, confining yourself at the two former places to white bait and fresh water fish, with either a duck, grilled fowl, rumpsteak, or beans and bacon, to follow. At the latter, to eels dressed in different ways, flounders in water suchee, lamb cutlets, or poultry, and a small joint; but it will save trouble if the order is given for dinner at five shillings per head. At a country inn, though the rail may be said to have almost driven all such off the road, we recommend a visit to the larder; if you order from the bill of fare a steak and a chicken, you are most likely to be served with a tough coarse piece of beef. If the larder is not well stocked, a stroll to the butcher's and poulterer's may repay you for your trouble: if not,