Chapter XXXIII: Part 33

“The appearance of this ‘Crème d’Egypte à l’Ibrahim Pacha’ immediately caught his Royal Highness’s attention, who at once perceived the honour conferred upon him. He carefully took off the portrait _en carton_ in his hands to admire it; and after showing it to several of his suite, he affectionately placed it in his bosom near his heart, with the intention of never parting with it again. But what was his astonishment, on looking at the spot where the former portrait had been deposited, at seeing in the cream, as under a glass, the portrait of himself, as highly finished, and as striking a likeness as any miniature painter could have produced, and surrounded by a gilt-like frame! Monsieur Soyer, having been sent for by the party, was highly complimented by his Highness through his interpreter, who desired to know where and how he could procure such a likeness of his father, and how was his own so correctly drawn in the cream? ‘Please tell his Highness,’ said Monsieur Soyer to the interpreter, ‘that both were executed from the original sketches drawn by our celebrated artist Horace Vernet, whilst in Alexandria. The portrait in the cream is drawn on wafer-paper, which, placed on the damp jelly, representing the glass, dissolves, and nothing remains but the appearance of the portrait drawn in light water-colours. The imitation of the gilt frame is made with _eau de vie_ of Dantzic, and gold water mixed with jelly, the gold leaf of which forms the frame. After having been thanked by the Pacha, the pyramidal cream of Egypt was ordered to be shown to each guest, by sliding it from one to the other round the table (which was more than 250 feet), to the great satisfaction and admiration of every one present. Though everything was eatable in it, this magnificent dish was respected, and remained untouched, but every one tried to partake of the fruit which surrounded this extraordinary and appropriate culinary wonder.”

The above is given chiefly for the benefit of our Paris contemporaries, who do us the honour to mention that “_le Globe nous fait connaître les étranges discours qu’ils ont, l’un et l’autre_ (Lord Palmerston and Sir C. Napier), _recités à cette occasion_.” Waiving the question whether there was anything “strange” in either speech we beg our Paris contemporaries to observe that their compatriot, Monsieur Soyer had effected a most skilful diversion from all delicate topics whatsoever.

“Segnitus irritant animos demisan per aures
Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.”

Ibrahim Pacha’s interpreter, it now appears, had other things to do than to interpret either political retrospects or prospects, as touched by the several speakers. And surely it might soften the hearts of our jealous friends about the Palais Royal, to see how large a part of the triumph of the day was, in fact, a French triumph. Would we could stop here! But truth compels us to say that our ally, Monsieur Soyer, forces us, in the sequel, to feel strange doubts of his thorough devotion to English interests.

“The next dish which much amused his Highness was the one entitled the _Gateau Britannique à l’Amiral_, being the representation of an old man-of-war, bearing the English and Egyptian flag drawn on rice-paper, the ship being filled with ice _mousseuse aux pêches_, and loaded with large strawberries, cherries, grapes, and bunches of currants, being so placed on the table that the brave and gallant Commodore Napier had to help from this cargo the illustrious stranger, who did not cease smiling. During that process the moisture and liquor of the ice, which gradually melted, saturated the hull of the vessel, which was made of a kind of delicate sponge cake. Whilst the gallant commodore was in the act of helping the remains of the ice, the ship gave way, and formed a complete wreck, which caused great hilarity among the company who were close enough to witness the scene.”

The above might form a most fertile text for sinister inferences, if we possessed the talent in that line of some of our Paris contemporaries. We content ourselves with expressing our satisfaction that Monsieur Soyer never has been, and we hope never will be, intrusted with the charge of Surveyor of the Navy, in addition to that of Chef de Cuisine at the Reform Club. We have no objection to his building _gateaux Britanniques_, which “give way” in the heat of action; but we desire to see no _brioche_ of _his_ contriving in the Mediterranean.

THE SUN.

Who has not heard of the _cuisine_ of the Reform Club? Who has not heard of its _chef_, Alexis Soyer, and his _soufflet monstre à la Clontarf_, and his _créme de l’Egypte à l’Ibrahim Pacha_? Well, here we have the mighty gastronomic magician coming forward, in _proprié persona_, and informing us of the methods be employs to produce those results which astonish and delight the world. If we mistake not, this book of M. Soyer’s is destined to produce a revolution in the kitchens of England, and to substitute for the fat, greasy, unscientific school of cookery the science of gastronomy, a science which teaches the art of extracting from food, animal and vegetable, the nutritions portions in such a manner as to please the eye and the taste, while at the same time the material is economised to the utmost. The following passage shows that M. Soyer has had considerable experience on the subject of which he treats:

“During the last ten months, I had to furnish 25,000 dinners for the gentlemen of the Reform Club, and 38 dinner parties of importance, comprising above 70,000 dishes, and to provide daily for 60 servants of the establishment, independent of about 15,000 visitors who have seen the kitchen department in that lapse of time.”

The result of that experience we have in this volume. He gives us bills of fare for parties of all sizes, from a coronation banquet to a bachelor’s snug party in chambers. He also gives us plans of kitchens of all sizes, from the magnificent gastronomical laboratory of the Reform Club to my “Kitchen at Home,” which is suited to the means and requirements of the solitary bachelor. Let all those who are tired of the eternal roast and boiled, alternating with chop and steak--who think that mutton broth is not the only potage in the world--that there are methods of dressing fish other than plain boiling and frying, and other sauces than melted butter--purchase M. Soyer’s book. They will find that it is indeed that which it professes itself to be--a Gastronomic Regenerator.

BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

_Cookery and Civilization._ It is only after passing through an ordeal cruelly insidious, tolerably severe, and rather protracted, that we feel conscientiously entitled to assert our ability to dine every day of every week at the Reform Club, without jeopardy to those immutable principles which are incorruptible by Whigs and indestructible by Rats. A sneer, perhaps, is curling with “beautiful disdain” the lips of some Conservative Achilles. Let us nip his complacent sense of invulnerability in the bud. To eat and to err are equally attributes of humanity. Looking at ourselves in the mirror of honest criticism, we behold features as unchangeable as sublunary vicissitudes will allow.

“Time writes no wrinkles on our azure brow.”

Witness it! ye many years of wondrous alternation--of lurid tempest and sunny calm--of disastrous rout and triumphant procession--of shouting pæan and wailing dirge--witness the imperturbable tenor of our way! Attest it, thou goodly array of the tomes of Maga, laden and sparkling, now as ever, with wisdom and wit, science and fancy!--attest the unwavering fidelity of our career! All this is very true; but the secret annals of the good can never be free from temptations, and never are in reality unblotted by peccadilloes. The fury of the demagogue has been our laughing-stock--the versatility of trimming politicians, our scorn. We have crouched before none of the powers which have been, or be; neither have we been carried off our feet by the whirlwinds of popular passion. Yet it is difficult to resist a good dinner. The victories of Miltiades robbed Themistocles of sleep. The triumphs of Soyer are apt to affect us, “with a difference,” after the same fashion.

There was, we remember, a spirit of surly independence within us on visiting, for the first time, the “high capital” of Whiggery, where the Tail at present,

“New rubb’d with balm, expatiate and confer
Their state affairs.”

To admire anything was not our mood:

“The ascending pile
Stood fix’d her stately heighth; and straight the doors,
Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide
Within, her ample spaces, o’er the smooth
And level pavement.”

And as these lines suggested themselves, we recollected who the first Whig is said to have been, and whose architectural glories Milton was recording. We never yet heard a Radical disparage a peer of the realm without being convinced, that deep in the pocket, next his heart, lay an incautious hospitable invitation from the noble lord, to which a precipitate answer in the affirmative had already been dispatched. Analogously, in the magnificent edifice, whose tesselated floor we were treading gingerly, it seemed to us that we surveyed an unmistakable monument of an innate predilection for the splendours and comforts, the pomp and the _abandon_, of a “proud aristocracy.” This was before dinner, and we were hungry. To tell all that happened to us for some hours afterwards, would, in fact, force us to transfer to our pages more than half of the volume which is prompting these observations. Suffice it to say, that when we again stood on Pall-Mall, a bland philanthropy of sentiment, embracing all races, and classes, and sects of men, permeated our bosom. Whence came the mellowing influence, seeing that we had been, as our custom is, very innocent of wine? Nor could it be the seductive eloquence of the company. We had, indeed, been roundly vituperated in argument by the Liberator. Oh, yes! but we had been fed by the Regenerator.

To us, then, on these things much meditating--so Cicero and Brougham love to write--many of the speculations in which we had indulged, and of the principles which we had advocated, were obviously not quite in harmony with the views long inculcated by us on a docile public. Suddenly the truth flashed across and illuminated the perplexity of our ponderings. We were aware that, early in the evening, a much milder censure than usual upon some factious Liberal manœuvre had passed our lips. This took place just about the fourth spoonful of soup. The spells were already in operation under the shape of “_potage à la Marcus Hill_.” There is a fascination even in the name of this “delicious soup”--such is the epithet of Soyer--which our readers will better understand in the sequel. Again it was impossible to deny that we had hazarded several equivocal observations in reference to the Palmerstonian policy in Syria. But it was equally true that such inadvertencies slipped from us while laboriously engaged in determining a delicate competition between “_John Dorée à l’Orléannaise_” and “_saumon à la Beyrout_.” A transient compliment to the influence at elections of the famous Duchess of Devonshire was little liable to objection, we imagined, during a playful examination of a few “_aiguillettes de volaille à la jolie fille_.” More questionable, it must be admitted, were certain assertions regarding the Five Points, enunciated hastily over a “_neck of mutton à la Charte_.” No fault, however, had we to find with the cutting facetiousness with which we had garnished “_cotelettes d’agneau à la réforme en surprise aux champignons_.” The title of this dish was so ludicrously applicable to the consternation of the remnants of the Melbourne ministry--the cutlets of lamb--in finding themselves outrun in the race by mushroom free-traders, that our pleasantly thereanent was irresistible. It was difficult, at the same time, to justify the expression of an opinion, infinitely too favorable to Peel’s commercial policy, yielding to the allurements of a “_turban des cailles à la financière_.” And, on the whole, we smarted beneath a consciousness that all our conversation had been perceptibly flavoured by “_filets de bécasses à la Talleyrand_.”

The result of these reflections was, simply, an alarming conviction of the tremendous influence exercised by Soyer throughout all the workings of the British constitution. The causes of the success of the League begin to dawn upon us, while our gravest suspicions are confirmed by the appearance, at this peculiar crisis, of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator.’ What patriotism can withstand a superabundance of untaxed food, cooked according to the tuition of Soyer? How can public virtue keep its ground against such a rush of the raw material, covered by such a “_batterie de cuisine_?” Cobden and Soyer, in alliance, have given a new turn, and terribly literal power, to the fable of Menenius Agrippa.

“There was a time when all the body’s members
Rebell’d against the belly.”

Such times are gone. The belly now has it all its own way, while

“The kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye,
The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier,
Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter,”

are conjunctly and severally cuffed or bunged up, or broken, or stifled, unless they are perpetually ministering to the service of the great cormorant corporation. It is mighty well to talk of the dissolution of the League. The testament of Cæsar, commented on by Mark Antony, was eventually more fatal to the liberties of Rome, than the irrepressible ambition which originally urged the arch-traitor across the Rubicon. ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’ in the hands of every housewife in the country, is merely to convert the most invincible portion of the community into a perpetual militia of free-traders. All cooks proverbially encourage an enormous consumption of victuals. The study of Soyer will infallibly transform three fourths of the empire into cooks. Consequently, the demand for every variety of sustenance, by an immense majority of the nation, will be exorbitant and perennial. No syllogism can be more unassailable. We venture also to affirm that the judgment of posterity will be rigidly true in apportioning the endurance of fame which the conflicting merits of our great benefactors may deserve. It is far from unlikely that the glories of a Peel may be disregarded, forgotten, and unsung, when the trophies of a Soyer, still odorous, and unctuous, and fresh, shall be in everybody’s mouth.

The ‘Gastronomic Regenerator’ has not assumed his imposing title without a full appreciation of the dignity of his office, and the elevation of his mission. The brief and graceful “dialogue culinaire” between Lord M. H. and himself, illustrates the grand doctrines that man is a cooking animal, and that the progress of cooking is the progress of civilization. There is something prodigiously sublime in the words of the noble interlocutor, when he declares, “Read history, and you see that in every age, and among all nations, the good which has been done, and sometimes the evil, has been always preceded or followed by a copious dinner.” This language, we presume, must be considered, on the great scale, as applicable to the most solemn and momentous occurrences in the history of governments and countries. Not that we can exclude it from individual biography. Benevolence we have always regarded as a good sauce, and have often observed it to be an excellent dessert. The man who tucks his napkin under his chin immediately after conferring a benefit on a fellow-creature, invariably manifests marvellous capabilities for digestion; and, on the other hand, the man who has dined to his own entire satisfaction, if solicited in the nick of time, will frequently evince an open-handed generosity, to which his more matutine emotions would have been strangers. But--to reverse the picture--any interruption to the near prospect of a “copious dinner” is at all times inimical to charity; while repletion, we know, occasionally reveals such unamiable dispositions as could not have been detected by the most jealous scrutiny at an earlier period of the day. Nations are but hives of individuals. We understand, therefore, the noble lord to mean, that all the history of all the thousand races of the globe concurrently teaches us that every great event, social or political, domestic or foreign, involving their national weal or woe, has been harbingered or commemorated by a “copious dinner.” Many familiar instances of this profound truth--some of very recent date--crowd into our recollection. But we cannot help suspecting a deeper meaning to be inherent in the enunciation of this “great fact.” Copious dinners are, as it strikes us, here covertly represented as the means of effecting the most extensive ameliorations. To dine is insinuated to be the first step on the highway to improvement. In the consequences which flow from dining copiously, what is beneficial is evidently stated to preponderate over what is hurtful, the qualifying “sometimes” being only attached to the latter. In this respect, dinners seem to differ from men, that the evil is more frequently “interred with their bones,” while the “good they do lives after them.” This is, assuredly ringing a dinner-bell incessantly to the whole universe. We have ourselves, not half an hour ago, paid our quota for participating within the last week in congratulatory festivities to two eminent public characters. The overwhelming recurrence, in truth, of these entertainments, drains us annually of a handsome income; and, reading as we do daily in the newspapers, how every grocer, on changing his shop round the corner, and every professor of dancing, on being driven by the surges of the Utilitarian system up another flight of stairs, must, to felicitate or soothe him, receive the tribute or consolation of a banquet and demonstration, we hold up our hands in amazement at the opulence and deglutition of Scotland.

What shall become of us, driven further onwards still, by the impetus of the ‘Gastronomic Regenerator,’ we dare not fortell. The whole year may be a circle of public feasts; and our institutions gradually, although with no small velocity, relapse into the common table of Sparta. But never, whispers Soyer, into the black broth of Lycurgus. And so he ensnares us into the recognition of another fundamental principle, that the simplicity of Laconian fare might be admirably appropriate for infant republics and penniless helots, but can afford no subsistence to an overgrown empire, and the possessors of the wealth of the world! Thus cookery marks, dates, and authenticates the refinement of mankind. The savage cuts his warm slice from the haunches of the living animal, and swallows it reeking from the kitchen of nature. The civilized European, revolting from the dreadful repast, burns, and boils, and stews, and roasts his food into an external configuration, colour, and substance, as different from its original condition as the mummy of Cheops differs from the Cheops who watched, with an imperial dilatation of his brow, the aspiring immortality of the pyramids. Both, in acting so differently, are the slaves and the types of the circumstances of their position. The functions in the frames of both are the same; but these functions curiously follow the discipline of the social situation which directs and regulates their development. The economy of the kitchen is only a counterpart, in its simplicity or complication, its rudeness or luxury, of the economy of the state. The subjects of patriarchs and despots may eat uncooked horses with relish and nourishment. The denizens of a political system whose every motion is regulated by an intricate machinery, in which the teeth of all the myriad wheels in motion are indented with inextricable multiplicity of confusion into each other, perish under any nurture which is not as intricate, complex, artificial, and confused. What a noble and comprehensive science is this Gastronomy!

“Are you not also,” says the philosophic Soyer, in the same interesting dialogue, “of opinion with me, my lord, that nothing better disposes the mind of man to amity in thought and deed, than a dinner which has been knowingly selected, and artistically served?” The answer is most pregnant. “It is my thinking so,” replies Lord M. H., “which has always made me say that a good cook is as useful as a wise minister.” Behold to what an altitude we are carried! The loaves and fishes in the hands of the Whigs, and Soyer at the Reform Club to dress them! Let us banish melancholy, and drive away dull care. The bellicose propensities of a foreign secretary are happily innocuous. The rumours of war pass by us like the idle wind which we regard not. Protocols and treaties, notes and representations, are henceforth disowned by diplomacy. The figure of Britannia, with a stewpan for her helmet, and a spit for a spear, leaning in statuesque repose on a folio copy of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’

“Surveys mankind from China to Peru;”

and with an unruffled ocean at her feet, and a cloudless sky overhead, smiles on the countless millions of the children of earth, chatting fraternally together at the round table of universal peace. Bright will be the morning of the day which sees the impress of such an image on our currency. Of course, it will be understood that we are entirely of the same mind, abstractly, as M. Soyer and Lord M. H. The _maître de cuisine_ appears to us unquestionably to be one of the most important functionaries belonging to an embassy. Peace or war, which it is scarcely necessary to interpret as the happiness or the misery of two great countries, may depend upon a headache. Now, if it were possible, in any case, to trace the bilious uneasiness which may have perverted pacific intentions into hostile designs, to the unskilful or careless performance of his momentous duties by the cook-legate, no punishment could too cruelly expiate such a blunder. We should be inclined to propose that the brother artist who most adroitly put the delinquent to torture, should be his successor, holding office under a similar tenure. It may be matter of controversy, however, at once whether such a system would work well, and whether it is agreeable to the prevalence of those kindly feelings which it is the object of M. Soyer, and every other good cook or wise statesman, to promulgate throughout the human family. The publication of ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ inspires us with better hopes. The tyro of the dripping-pan will be no more entitled to screen himself behind his imperfect science or neglected education, than the unlettered criminal to plead his ignorance of the alphabet as a justification of his ignorance of the statute law whose enactments send him to Botany Bay. The rudiments and the mysteries--the elementary axioms and most recondite problems--of his lofty vocation are unrolled before him in legible and intelligible characters. The skill which is the offspring of practice, must be attained by his opportunities and his industry. And if

“Fame is the spur which the clear spirit doth raise,”

it might, we trust, satiate the most ravenous appetite which ever gnawed the bowels even of a cook, not merely to secure the tranquillity of the universe, but to save his native land the expense of armies and fleets, and turn the currents of gold, absorbed by taxation, into the more congenial channel of gastronomical enterprise. The majestic and far-spreading oak springs out of the humble acorn. In future ages the acute historian will demonstrate how the “copious dinner” which cemented the bonds of eternal alliance between vast and consolidated empires, whose people were clothed in purple and fine linen, lived in habitations decorated with every tasteful and gorgeous variety which caprice could suggest and affluence procure, and mingled the physical indolence of Sybaris with the intellectual activity of Athens, was but the ripe fruit legitimately matured from the simple bud of the calumet of peace, which sealed a hollow truce among the roving and puny bands of the naked, cityless, and untutored Indian. So, once more, the perfectibility of cookery indicates the perfectibility of society.

The gallantry of Soyer is as conspicuous as his historical and political philosophy. He would not profusely “scatter plenty o’er a smiling land” solely for the gratification of his own sex. The sun shines on woman as on man; and when the sun will not shine, a woman’s eye supplies all the light we need. The sagacious Regenerator refuses to restrict to the lordly moiety of mankind a monopoly of his beams, feeling that, when the pressure of mortal necessity sinks his head, fairer hands than those of the statesman or the warrior, the ecclesiastic or the lawyer, are likely to be the conservators of his reputation. “Allow me,” he remarks, “to suggest to your lordship, that a meeting for practical gastronomical purposes, _where there are no ladies_, is in my eyes a garden without flowers, a sea without waves, an experimental squadron without sails.”

“Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Say what were man?--a world without a sun!”

The harrowing picture of desolation, from the pen of M. Soyer, may be equalled, but cannot be surpassed, by a line here and there in Byron’s ‘Darkness.’ The sentiment, at the same time, sounds oddly, as it issues from the penetralia of a multitudinous club. Our notion has hitherto been, that a club was an invention of which a principal object was to prove that female society was far from being indispensable to man, and that all the joys of domesticity might be tasted in a state of single-blessedness beyond the precincts of home for a small annual payment. A thorough-going club-man would very soon drive a coach and four through the Regenerator’s polite eloquence. For instance, a garden without flowers has so much the more room for the growth of celery, asparagus, artichokes, and the like. There could not possibly be a greater convenience than the evaporation or disappearance of the waters of the ocean; because we should then have railways everywhere, and no nausea. Sails, likewise, are not requisite now-a-days for ships; on the contrary, steam-vessels are so evidently superior, that the sail-maker may as well shut up his shop. The flowers of a garden are an incumbrance--the waves of the sea are an impediment--the sails of a ship are a superfluity. Garden, sea, and ship would be better wanting flowers, waves, and sails. On the same principles a club is preferable to a family fireside, and the lot of a bachelor to the fate of a Benedict. M. Soyer, speaking _ex cathedrâ_ from the kitchen of the Reform Club, would find it no easy matter to parry the cogency of this reasoning. He forgets, apparently, that he bares his breast to a most formidable attack. What right have MEN to be cooks? What hypocrisy it is to regret that women cannot eat those dinners which women alone are entitled, according to the laws of nature and the usages of Britain, to dress! Be just before you affect to be generous! Surrender the place, and the privileges, and the immunities, which are the heritage and birthright of the petticoat! Hercules with a distaff was bad enough; but where, in the vagaries and metamorphoses of heathen mythology, do you read of Hercules with a dishclout? What would the moon say, should the sun insist on blazing away all night as well as all day? Your comparisons are full of poetry and humbug. A kitchen without a female cook--it is like a flowerless garden, a waveless sea, a sailless ship. A kitchen with a male cook--is a monster which natural history rejects, and good feeling abhors. The rights of women are scarcely best vindicated by him who usurps the most precious of them. There will be time to complain of their absence from the scene, when, by a proper self-ostracism, you leave free for them the stage which it becomes them to occupy. These are knotty matters, M. Soyer, for digestion. With so pretty a quarrel we shall not interfere, having a wholesome respect for an Amazonian enemy who can stand fire like salamanders. To be candid, we are puzzled by the sprightliness of our own fancy, and do not very distinctly comprehend how we have managed to involve the Regenerator, whose thoughts were bent on the pale and slim sylphs of the boudoir, in a squabble with the rubicund and rotund vestals who watch the inextinguishable flames of THE GREAT HEARTH.

This marvellous dialogue, from which we have taken with our finger and thumb a tit-bit here and there, might be the text for inexhaustible annotation. It occupied no more than two pages; but, as Gibbon has said of Tacitus, “they are the pages of Soyer.” Every topic within the range of human knowledge is touched, by direct exposition or collateral allusion. The metaphysician and the theologian, the physiologist and the moralist, are all challenged to investigate its dogmas, which, let us forewarn them, are so curtly, positively, and oracularly propounded, as, if orthodox, to need no commentary; and if heterodox, to demand accumulated mountains of controversy to overwhelm them. For he, we believe, can hardly be deemed a mean opponent, unworthy of a foeman’s steel-pen, who has at his fingers’ ends “Mullets à la Montesquieu,” “Fillets of Haddock à la St. Paul,” “Saddle of Mutton à la Mirabeau,” “Ribs of Beef à la Bolingbroke,” “Pouding Soufflé à la Mephistophéles,” “Woodcock à la Staël,” and “Filets de Bœuf farcis à la Dr. Johnson.”

The constitution of English cookery is precisely similar to the constitution of the English language. Both were prophetically sketched by Herodotus in his description of the army of Xerxes, which gathered its numbers, and strength, and beauty from “all the quarters in the shipman’s card.” That imperishable mass of noble words--that glorious tongue in which Soyer has prudently written ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator,’ is in itself an unequalled specimen of felicitous cookery. The dishes which furnished the most recherché dinner Soyer ever dressed, the “Dîner Lucullusian à la Sampayo,” being resolved into the chaos whence they arose in faultless proportions and resistless grace, would not disclose elements and ingredients more heterogeneous, remote, and altered from their primal nature, than those which go to the composition of the few sentences in which he tells us of this resuscitation of the cœna of Petronius. A thousand years and a thousand accidents, the deepest erudition and the keenest ingenuity, the most delicate wit and most outrageous folly, have been co-operating in the manufacture of the extraordinary vocabulary which has enabled the Regenerator himself to concoct the following unparalleled receipt for “The Celestial and Terrestrial Cream of Great Britain.” (See p. 719.)

Half a century hence, when the simmering over the roseate fire is silent, may we, with M. Soyer, be present to gaze on the happy consummation of the conceptions of his transcendent imagination!

The Regenerator is too conversant with universal history not to know that his book, in crossing the Tweed northwards, approaches a people more familiar with its fundamental principles than any other inhabitants of these Fortunate Isles. England, for anything we care, may deserve the opprobrious title of perfidious Albion. Scotland--(“Stands Scotland where it did?”)--was ever the firm friend of France. Ages ago, when our southern cousins were incessantly fighting, we were constantly dining, with the French. Our royal and noblest families were mingled by the dearest ties with the purest and proudest blood of the adopted land of Mary. For centuries uninterruptedly was maintained an interchange of every gentle courtesy, and every friendly succour; and when the broadsword was not needed to gleam in the front ranks of Gallic chivalry, the dirk never failed to emit the first flash in the onslaughts of Gallic hospitality. The Soyers of those times--dim precursors of the Regenerator--did not disdain to alight on our hungry shores, and leave monuments of their beneficence, which are grateful to this hour in the nostrils and to the palate of prince and peasant. Nay, we shrewdly conjecture that some time-honoured secrets still dwell with us, of which the memory has long since perished in their birthplace. Boastful we may not suffer ourselves to be. But if M. Soyer ever heard of, or dressed, or tasted precisely as we have dressed and tasted, what is known to us and a very limited circle of acquaintances as “Lamb-toasty,” we shall start instantly from the penultimate habitation of Ultima Thule, commonly known as John O’Groat’s House, expressly to test his veracity, and gratify our voracity. Perhaps he may think it would not be too polite in us to transmit him the receipt. Not for a wilderness of Regenerators! Could we unfold to him the awful legend in connexion with it, of which we are almost the exclusive depositaries, the cap so lightly lying on his brow would be projected upwards to the roof by the instantaneous starting of his hair. The Last Minstrel himself, to whom it was narrated, shook his head when he heard it, and was never known to allude to it again; in reference to which circumstance, all that the bitterest malice could insinuate was, that if the story had been worth remembering, he was not likely to have forgotten it. “One December midnight, a shriek”--is probably as far as we can now venture to proceed. There are some descendants of the parties, whose feelings, even after the lapse of five hundred years, which is but as yesterday in a Highlander’s genealogy, we are bound to respect. In other five hundred years, we shall, with more safety to ourselves, let them “sup full of horrors.”

‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ reminds us of no book so much as the Despatches of Arthur Duke of Wellington. The orders of Soyer emanate from a man with a clear, cool, determined mind--possessing a complete mastery of his weapons and materials, and prompt to make them available for meeting every contingency--singularly fertile in conceiving, and fortunate without a check in executing, sudden, rapid, and difficult combinations--overlooking nothing with his eagle eye, and, by the powerful felicity of his resources, making the most of everything--matchless in his “Hors-d’œuvres”--unassailable in his “Removes”--impregnable in his “Pièces de résistance”--and unconquerable with his “Flanks.” His directions are lucid, precise, brief, and unmistakable. There is not a word in them superfluous--or off the matter immediately on hand--or not directly to the point. They are not the dreams of a visionary theorist and enthusiast, but the hard, solid, real results of the vast experience of a tried veteran, who has personally superintended or executed all the operations of which he writes. It may be matter of dispute whether Wellington or Soyer acquired their knowledge in the face of the hotter fire. They are both great Chiefs--whose mental and intellectual faculties have a wonderful similarity--and whose sayings and doings are characterized by an astonishing resemblance in nerve, perspicuity, vigour, and success. In one respect M. Soyer has an advantage over his illustrious contemporary. His Despatches are addressed to an army which as far outnumbers any force ever commanded or handled by the Hero of Waterloo, as the stars in the blue empyrean exceed the gas-lamps of London--an army which, instead of diminishing under any circumstances, evinces a tendency, we fear, of steadily swelling its ranks year by year, and day by day--a standing army, which the strong band of the most jealous republicanism cannot suppress, and which the realization of the bright chimera of universal peace will fail to disband. Before many months are gone, thousands and tens of thousands will be marching and countermarching, cutting and skewering, broiling and freezing, in blind obedience to the commands of the Regenerator. “Peace hath her victories no less than those of war.” But it is not to be forgotten that if the sword of Wellington had not restored and confirmed the tranquillity of the world, the carving-knife of Soyer might not have been so bright.

The confidence of Soyer in his own handiwork is not the arrogant presumption of vanity, but the calm self-reliance of genius. There is a deal of good sense in the paragraph which we now quote. (See p. xl.)

It seems a childish remark to make, that all salts do not coincide in their saltness, nor sugars in their sweetness. The principle, however, which the observation contains within it, is anything but childish. It implies that, supposing the accuracy of a Soyer to be nearly infallible, the faith in his instructions must never be so implicit as to supersede the testimony of one’s own senses, and the admonitions of one’s own judgment. It is with the most poignant recollections that we acknowledge the justice of the Regenerator’s caution on this head. We once, with a friend who shared our martyrdom, tried to make onion soup in exact conformity with what was set down in an Oracle of Cookery, which a foul mischance had placed across our path. With unerring but unreflecting fidelity, we filled, and mixed, and stirred, and watched the fatal caldron. The result was to the eye inexpressibly alarming. A thick oily fluid, repulsive in colour, but infinitely more so in smell, fell with a flabby, heavy, lazy stream into the soup-plate. Having swallowed, with a Laocoonic contortion of countenance, two or three mouthfuls, our individual eyes wandered stealthily towards our neighbour. Evidently we were fellow-sufferers; but pride, which has occasioned so many lamentable catastrophes, made us both dumb and obdurate in our agony. Slowly and sadly, at lengthened intervals, the spoon, with its abominable freight, continued to make silent voyages from the platters to our lips. How long we made fools of ourselves it is not necessary to calculate. Suddenly, by a simultaneous impulse, the two windows of the room favoured the headlong exit of two wretches whose accumulated grievances were heavier than they could endure. Hours rolled away, while the beautiful face of Winander mere looked as ugly as Styx, as we writhed along its banks, more miserably moaning than the hopeless beggar who sighed for the propitiatory obolus to Charon. And from that irrevocable hour we have abandoned onions to the heroines of tragedy. Fools, in spite of all warning, are taught by such a process as that to which we submitted. Wise men take a hint.

“Nature, says I to myself”--Soyer is speaking--“compels us to dine more or less once a-day.” The average which oscillates between the “more” and the “less,” it requires considerable dexterity to catch. Having read six hundred pages and fourteen hundred receipts, the question is, where are we to begin? Our helplessness is confessed. Is it possible the Regenerator is, after all, more tantalizing than the Barmecide? No--here is the very aid we desiderate. Our readers shall judge of a “Dinner Party at Home.” (See p. 636.)

We shall be exceedingly curions to hear how many hundred parties of eight persons, upon reading this bill of fare in our pages, will, without loss of time, congregate in order to do it substantial honour. Such a clattering of brass and brandishing of steel may strike a new government as symptomatical or preparatory of a popular rising. We may therefore reassure them with the information, that those who sit down with M. Soyer, will have little thought of rising for a long time afterwards.

We have introduced ‘The Gastronomic Regenerator’ to public notice in that strain which its external appearance, its title, its scheme, and its contents, demand and justify. But we must not, even good-humouredly, mislead those for whose use its publication is principally intended. To all intents and purposes M. Soyer’s work is strictly and most intelligibly practical. It is as full of matter as an egg is full of meat; and the household which would travel through its multitudinous lessons must be as full of meat as the Regenerator is full of matter. The humblest, as well as the wealthiest kitchen economy, is considered and instructed; nor will the three hundred receipts at the conclusion of the volume, which are more peculiarly applicable to the “Kitchen at Home,” be, probably, the portion of the book least agreeable and valuable to the general community. For example, just before shaking hands with him, let us listen to M. Soyer, beginning admirably to discourse of the “Choosing and Roasting of plain Joints.” (See p. 637.)

How full of milky kindness is his language, still breathing the spirit of that predominant idea--the tranquillization of the universe by “copious dinners!” He has given up “basting” with success. Men may as well give up basting one another. Nobody will envy the Regenerator the bloodless fillets worthily encircling his forehead, should the aspirations of his benevolent soul in his lifetime assume any tangible shape. But if a more distant futurity is destined to witness the lofty triumph, he may yet depart in the confidence of its occurrence. The most precious fruits ripen the most slowly. The sun itself does not burst at once into meridian splendour. Gradually breaks the morning; and the mellow light glides noiselessly along, tinging mountain, forest, and the city spire, till a stealthy possession seems to be taken of the whole upper surface of creation, and the mighty monarch at last uprises on a world prepared to expect, to hail, and to reverence his perfect and unclouded majesty.

THE MORNING POST.

_Cream of Egypt l’Ibrahim Pacha._ The novelty of the bill of fare which appeared in our columns of Saturday last relating to the banquet given to his Highness Ibrahim Pacha, by the members of the Reform Club, the day previous, having since been the topic of general conversation, our readers will perhaps feel interested in the description of two of the most novel and original dishes served on that occasion. The first, entitled “Cream of Egypt à l’Ibrahim Pacha,” and composed expressly for the occasion by M. Soyer, the _chef de cuisine_ of the club, was the admiration of the whole company, and especially so of the Pacha, who as soon as it was placed before him, quickly perceived the honour intended to be conferred upon him. This dish consisted of a pyramid about two feet and a half high, made of light meringue cake, in imitation of solid stones, surrounded with immense grapes and other fruits, but representing only the four angles of the pyramid through sheets of waved sugar, to show, to the greatest advantage, an elegant cream _à l’ananas_, on the top of which was resting a highly-finished portrait of the illustrious stranger’s father, Mehemet Ali, carefully drawn on a round-shaped satin _carton_, the exact size of the top of the cream. The portrait was immediately observed by his Highness, who carefully took it up, and, after showing it to several of his suite, placed it in his bosom. What was his Highness’s astonishment, however, on again looking at the spot, to observe in the cream, as under a glass, a highly-finished portrait of himself, surrounded by a very carefully-executed frame. M. Soyer, having been sent for by the party, was highly complimented by his Highness, through his interpreter. The Pacha desired to know where and how he could procure such a likeness of his father, and how his own was so correctly drawn in the cream? “Please tell his Highness,” says M. Soyer to the interpreter, “that both were executed from the original sketches drawn by our celebrated artist Horace Vernet, whilst in Alexandria. The portrait in the cream is drawn on wafer-paper, which being placed on the damp jelly representing the glass, dissolves, and nothing remains of the wafer-paper but the appearance of the portrait painted in light water-colours. The imitation of the gilt frame is made with the eau de vie of Dantzic and gold water mixed with the jelly, the gold leaf of which forms the frame.” After having been thanked by the Pacha, the pyramidal cream of Egypt was ordered to be shown to each guest by sliding it from one to the other round the table.

Though everything was eatable in it, this magnificent dish was respected, and remained untouched until the end of the banquet, though everybody tried to partake of the fruit which surrounded it.

The next dish which much amused the company was the one entitled the “_Gateau Britannique à l’amiral_,” being the representation of an old man-of-war, bearing the English and Egyptian flags, drawn on rice-paper, the ship being filled with ice _mousseuse aux pêche_. and loaded with large strawberries, cherries, grapes, and bunches of currants. It was so placed on the table that Commodore Napier had to help from this cargo the illustrious stranger, who appeared much amused at the incident. The moisture and liquor of the ice gradually melted and imbibed the carcase of the vessel, which was made of a kind of delicate sponge cake. While the gallant commodore was in the act of helping the remainder of the ice, the ship gave way, and formed a complete wreck, which caused great hilarity among the company who were close enough to witness the scene.

NEWSPAPERS, &c. IN WHICH M. SOYER’S WORK HAS BEEN NOTICED.

Athenæum.
Bell’s Life.
Blackwood’s Magazine.
Britannia.
Brussels Herald.
Builder.
Chambers’s Journal.
Colburn’s New Monthly.
Court Journal.
Courrier de l’Europe.
Douglas Jerrold.
English Gentleman.
Era.
Examiner.
Glasgow Constitutional.
Globe.
Guardian.
Hood’s Magazine.
Illustrated News.
John Bull.
Journal des Débats.
La Mode.
Dispatch.
Literary Gazette.
Liverpool Chronicle.
L’Observateur Français.
Morning Chronicle.
Morning Herald.
Morning Post.
Musical World.
Naval and Military Gazette.
Observer.
Petit Courrier des Dames.
Pictorial Times.
Punch.
Satirist.
Sharpe’s Magazine.
Spectator.
Sun.
Sunday Times.
Tablet.
Times.
Weekly Chronicle.
Windsor and Eton Journal
Atlas.

* * * * *

From ‘THE TIMES’ of the 19th FEBRUARY, 1847.

Third Edition.--Yes! a third edition of this truly national work now lies before us. The public, as we shrewdly foresaw, have not failed to appreciate the labour of its author. Alexis Soyer has received the reward that sooner or later is bestowed upon the philanthropist and the patriot. It may possibly be remembered that when the incomparable cook of the Reform Club was overcome, to use his own words, with “a thrill of horror,” by the request of several persons of distinction, “particularly the ladies,” who urged him to publish a cookery book, he suddenly recollected having been in “a most superb library,” where all at once his attention was attracted by the 19th edition of a voluminous work, which was supported on either side by the glories of a Milton and a Shakspeare. When the Regenerator found courage to open the precious volume, to his great disappointment he discovered “a receipt for ox-tail soup.” “The terrifying effect produced upon me,” says Monsieur Soyer, “by this succulent volume made me determine that my few ideas, whether culinary or domestic, should never encumber a sanctuary which ought to be entirely devoted to works worthy of a place in the temple of the Muses.” Alas, how rash are human resolutions! How little, in the obscurity of our spring-time, do we dream of the dazzling splendour that awaits our coming summer! Every library, from the London to the British Museum, from Brocket Hall to the Palace of the Tuileries, has welcomed the Regenerator to its choicest shelf, and edition follows edition with a rapidity which, in the case of so ponderous a work, is positively marvellous. Like Byron, M. Soyer finds himself famous in a morning. We do not grudge him his greatness, but we confess we do envy the succeeding generations, who, destined to be the offspring of men that have been taught by Soyer to eat--not to appease hunger, but to elevate the soul,--will have acquired a delight in existence for which their grosser grandfathers were physically unfit. We welcome with all respect the third appearance of this true child of civilization. We can do no more.

* * * * *

ARNEY’S PATENT JELLY & BLANC MANGE POWDERS.

For the last eighteen months, I have invariably used the above production, and must acknowledge that these Powders combine all the requisites generally expected in a new invention. It is well known that cooks, in the country in particular, are very often disappointed in obtaining calf’s feet, and it also happens at times that they do not always succeed in producing a clear and fine jelly, although good in taste, not pleasing to the sight; the above Powders obviate all disappointments. They can be in store, and used when required; then is an economy in the cost, economy of time, and a certainty of having a brilliant jelly at any time.--A. SOYER.

As these Powders are prepared with the very best material, they are equal to calf’s feet; and although already flavoured, can be altered according to taste.

Sold at 1s. per Packet, or 2s. per Bottle, at 33, Frith Street, Soho Square; and at ARNEY’s Factory, Willow Mills, Mitcham Common, Surrey.

_One Packet at 1s. will make a Jelly of one pint and a half; and a Bottle at 2s. three pints._

* * * * *

MAKEPEACE’S CULINARY HERBS.

I feel justified, from experience, in very strongly recommending “MAKEPEACE’S CULINARY HERBS”, which are admirably prepared for kitchen purposes, and of inestimable value for sea voyages. Their convenience and utility are decidedly of the greatest advantage in a well-organised kitchen; the cook having at all seasons of the year every species of herb used in cookery, which hitherto could only be partially obtained. The flavour is kept in high perfection; and the appearance of these herbs are really pleasing to the sight. Amongst the great variety of them, parsley, sage, tarragon, and winter savoy are particularly useful; the onion, garlic, and eschalot powders, when sprinkled over hot joints, steaks, or chops, impart a most delicious flavour to it. The veal and pork stuffing are very fine, and save an immense deal of trouble. In fact, I may say that no exception can be made, as all these excellent herbs are prepared, regardless of trouble and expense, in a most careful and scientific manner; which is a great credit to the patience of the inventor, and a benefit to society.--A. SOYER.

Sold in neat Boxes, sorted at 1_s._ and 2_s._ per Bottle, at 33, Frith Street, Soho Square and at MAKEPEACE’S Factory, Mitcham, Surrey.

* * * * *

SOYER’S MODEL KITCHEN.

_From the Times, Sept. 28, 1847._

“To the Editor of the Times.

“SIR,--The great interest you manifested in February last, when I made known my intention of erecting by subscription a model kitchen for the poor, was handsomely responded to by the public, and the scheme being considered by Government likely to be (at that distressing period) of immense advantage for Ireland, I was requested to lay my plans before the Lords of the Treasury, and being approved of, I willingly accepted the invitation of erecting my model kitchen in Dublin, instead of London, as I at first intended.

“Having successfully proved that the system was of paramount importance, both as regards the large quantity of superior food that could be produced, and the immense saving that could be effected, the Government then purchased my model kitchen, and the South Union Relief Committee of Dublin have had the use of it ever since the 24th of April.

“As I am certain, Sir, that my subscribers and the public will feel interested in the result of my plan, the following brief statement will, I hope, awaken all local boards (if at all anxious), and adopt a system which must save, on a very moderate calculation, at least 50 per cent. at any period of either scarcity or plenty.

“I leave to those who are better acquainted than I am with statistics what would be the amount saved to the ratepayers all through the country.

“From the opening of my model kitchen by me, on the 6th of April last,
to the 24th, the number of rations of 2½ lb. each was 40,000

“From the 26th of April to the 22d of May, by the South Union Relief
Committee, the number of rations, averaging 12,600 per day, was 300,000

“From the 24th of May to the 31st of July, also by the South Union
Relief Committee, the number of rations per day varying from 1,750
to 23,640, was 729,279

“From the 2d of August to the 14th, averaging 6,500 a-day, was 78,000

“Making 2,868,179 lb. of food, and of rations 1,147,279

“To supply that number of rations by the old plan of preparing food in
different depôts, would have cost, at 3d. per ration (which is rather
under the average), the sum of £15,536

“But, according to my plan of preparing food with my model kitchen, as
it was estimated in a report made to the Relief Committee by its
Secretary, on the 23d of April last, the cost of each ration, including
coals, expenses of house, carriage, labour, &c. came to 1⅜_d._, making
altogether, for 2,863,197 lb. of solid food, a sum of 7,788

“Effecting a saving in favour of the South Union Committee of 50 per
cent., or a sum of £7,768

“In support of the above statement, I beg to observe that the ratepayers of the North Union of Dublin have paid 3_s._ 4_d._ in the pound, whilst those of the South Union only paid 1s. This result, Sir, speaks volumes in favour of my system. In addition to the model kitchen, Messrs. Brown & Co., of Great Suffolk Street, Borough, have erected one of their patent steam-plate ovens, which can bake on an average 1,000 loaves of 4 lb each every 12 hours with three bushels of coke. The 1,000 loaves require 11 sacks of flour, consequently, 22 sacks can be worked in 24 hours, 132 sacks per week, at about 1_d._ per sack for fuel. What with the savings in baking, and also the new process of making bread, I have introduced, I calculate that full 25 per cent. can be saved on the cost of bread at all times.