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We have no wish to inflict any such long quotations on our readers, but a few examples of the style and spirit of the author will not be out of place. Grimod is speaking of popular superstitions, such as spilling salt at table or being one of thirteen guests, and he adds a comforting reflection. “This number,” he says “need cause you no anxiety except the fear that there may not be enough to eat for more than twelve. As to the salt-cellar, the essential point is not to upset it into a good dish.” He denounces general invitations: “The only acceptable invitations are those given for a fixed day, and it is better they should be in writing.” In another passage he lays down a rule which some of the selfish diners-out of the modern school might well take to heart: “You should never speak badly of a man who has just been your host, and your forbearance should be proportioned to the excellence of the dinner he gave you. For an ordinary dinner eight days would be a sufficient limit for your patience; but it need never exceed six months, after which date your tongue regains full liberty of speech. But,” he adds, “your Amphitryon has always the power of binding you afresh by another invitation given at the proper moment.” Again: “Indigestion is the most ordinary form of death which befalls princes of the Church, and, without doubt, is the pleasantest and most honourable for a true gourmand.” As to the argument against eating robin-redbreasts on the ground of cruelty, he sagely remarks that “if one were to have compassion on all the world, one would eat nothing; and, putting the question of pity aside, it must be confessed that this amiable bird makes an excellent roast.” Some of his phrases have become almost classical, such as “the turbot is the pheasant of the sea,” and “veal is the chameleon of cookery,” because it can assume so many forms in an entrée.

But we must leave the ‘Almanach’ and pass to another work on cooking, which appeared a few years later, and is perhaps even more celebrated, or at least more widely read. This is ‘La Physiologie du Goût,” by Brillat Savarin, which has had the somewhat doubtful honour of being translated into English in recent years. This book, like its predecessor, abounds in aphorisms and philosophical reflections on matters connected with the table, but it is more amusing because it is more personal; indeed nothing can be more charming in its way than the delightful egotism of the writer, his candid avowal of his likes and dislikes, and the sincerity of his faith in gastronomy as being the highest of the arts and sciences, Added to this, the purity and picturesqueness of the language make it a model of literary style.

One has only to glance at the headings of the chapters in the ‘Physiologie du Goût’ to see that almost every subject connected with the art of dining has its place among them: taste, appetite, digestion, food, good living, sleep, corpulence, fasting, and other kindred topics, are discussed in turn, and the writer’s convictions are supported by numerous personal anecdotes and experiences. Yet, if we may believe Caréme and others who knew the writer of these charming essays, he was not a gourmand in the proper sense of the word, but simply a gros mangeur, talked little at table, was wanting in ease of manner, had a lourd air, and looked like a country