For the world must see a nation, spoiled of
its strength, like Samson blind and shorn, led
out to make a spectacle for its masters.

LEAVES FROM THE MAHOGANY TREE.

ECCENTRICITIES OF COOKS.

A CERTAIN marquis of the time of Louis
Quatorze (is there anything that those
marquises did not do?) invented a musical spit,
which only moved to the genteelest of tunes,
such as Water Parted from the Sea, and
The Minuet in Ariadne. Even Tony Lumpkin's
friend, the proprietor of the dancing bear,
would have appreciated the foresight and good
nature of the epicurean marquis who wished to
maintain harmony among his cooks. The fish
simmered in six-eight time; the impatient fries
hissed to an allegro; the ponderous roasts
circled gravely "spirituoso e con expressione;"
the stews blended their essences to solemn
anthems. The snowy-garbed cooks bore up
the dishes in rhythmical steps—the very marmitons
tripped in cadence from stove to stove.
All was melody and order; the ears were gratified
at the same moment that the nose was
regaled and the palate satisfied. The gathering
so many pleasures into one grand bouquet was
an idea worthy of Apicius himself. Why
Béchamel, his Majesty's maître d'hôtel, did not
carry this great thought further we do not know;
but, possibly, the turnspits, with their bandy
legs and stolid persistence, may have been
preferable to the barrel organ, with its dreary
mechanism of sound. But then Béchamel
invented an immortal sauce, and the search for
that must have taken up half his life, and left
no time for lesser cares.

Only one great cook, as far as we know, ever
destroyed himself from a fanatical love of his
profession. Robert was a great chef, but he
did not imitate Brutus; Beauvilliers simmered
away his life over charcoal fires, but he never
leaped down a coal pit to rival Curtius; Carême
was daring in the invention of side dishes, but
he never joined the Imperial Guard at Waterloo
to devote himself to death like Decius, for a mere
abstract idea. This honour of martyrdom was
reserved alone for that eminent disciple of St.
Laurence, Vatel, the maître d'hôtel of the hero of
Rocroi—the great Condé himself. The story has
been often told, yet seldom told at length.
Repeated from mouth to mouth, without reference
to the best original authorities, it has become
like a coin, duller, fainter, and blunter with
every hand it has passed through. Correctly
told, it is a singular example of temporary
insanity, caused by the sudden excitement of one
uncontrolled idea, and by a paroxysm of wounded
pride. Madame de Sévigné relates the event with
a strong sympathy for the poor enthusiast. Louis
the Fourteenth had long promised a visit to the
old general at Chantilly, but had postponed it
from time to time, fearing to cause Condé trouble
by the sudden influx of a gay and numerous
retinue. We have, too, a shrewd suspicion that the
old palace at Chantilly had grown rather mouldy,
and that the life led there had become grave,
methodical, and, perhaps, a trifle dull. The king,
however, finally, screwed up his courage and
went. The plumes of the laughing courtiers
brushed the cobwebs off the old doorways, and
impatient hands pushed back the dingy tapestries
from rusty doors long unopened. The king
arrived on a Thursday; the collation was served
in a room hung with jonquils. All was as could
be wished. Vatel was in full feather; but at
supper, many persons coming who had not been
expected, the roast was wanting at several
tables. This struck the faithful servant to the
heart. It seemed to him an imputation on his
master, the great captain; a brand of disgrace
for ever. He would be pointed at in Paris and
sneered at in Vienna. He was heard to say
several times, "I am dishonoured; I am
dishonoured; this is a disgrace that I cannot
endure."

Vatel had evidently been long overworking his
brain. He had been thinking of nothing for
weeks but how to make the king's visit a success,
his reception worthy of the grandeur,
fame, and hospitality, of the prince his master.
He said to his friend Gourville, "My head is
dizzy, I have not slept for twelve nights; pray
assist me in giving orders." The roast being
wanting at the inferior tables was the one idea
now tyrannising over his mind. Gourville,
alarmed, told the prince; the prince, with all
the kindness of his nature, went himself instantly
to the chamber of Vatel, and said to him,

"Vatel, all is going on well; nothing could
equal the supper of the king."

Vatel replied, "Monseigneur, your goodness
overpowers me; but the roast was wanting at
two tables."

"Nothing of the sort, Vatel; nonsense," said
Condé. "Do not distress yourself; all is going
well."

But Vatel's regret was not to be appeased.
Night came; alas! the fireworks failed—wheels,
stars, rockets—all, sixteen thousand francs'
worth. This also, no doubt, distressed Vatel.
The faithful fellow was restless. He rose
at four next morning, determined to attend
to everything in person. Never again should
the roast be wanting at even the fifth table
of the Condé's hall. To his mortification
and disgust, everybody was asleep—steward,
undercooks, scullions, even the turnspits—
fools, pigs, abominations—no one with a
thought, no one with a care for the roast
and the boiled. At the courtyard gate he
meets one of the mere serfs, a purveyor
with two straw-bound packages of fish—mille
tonneres! only two, and three hundred or
so guests. "Is this all?" says Vatel, who
has sent to a dozen seaports. The drowsy
purveyor, horribly tired with everything that
tends to early rising, especially supplies of fish,
replies carelessly, "Yes, monsieur," believing
Vatel to refer to Calais or Dieppe, or wherever
the two baskets had come from. Vatel waited
at the gates for an hour, no other purveyors