singularly detestable wretch Nero, who, in the
very height of his last dangers, sent Liburnian
heralds all through the city to summon
the senate in order that he might inform them
that he had made some improvements in the
construction of organs. It was such monsters as
these that used to throw their refractory slaves
into the tanks in which they kept their lampreys.

Of fish in the middle ages we will not say
much—partly from not, knowing much about the
subject. Those stalwart Norman kings were
many of them gluttons. One of the Henrys died
of a surfeit of lampreys (a favourite dish in
Gloucestershire), and King John died of peaches
and cyder. Queen Elizabeth ate porpoise and
sturgeon (the last a yellow, meaty, cartilaginous
fish of no great, merit); but what could we expect
of an old maid who drank ale for breakfast?
William of Orange preserved our Protestantism
from the Scarlet Lady; but he did more than
that—he introduced Water Zoutchet, a most
delicate Dutch way of serving boiled perch
between bread and butter.

It is difficult to say what great mind
invented whitebait, but it is not improbable that
Shakespeare ate them, and that is a gratifying
thing to reflect upon. Towards Blackwall, just
where the river gets sufficiently impure to feed
them, these delicious miniature fish move from
April to August. They are mentioned, as
early as 1612, as figuring honourably at the
funeral feast of that wise and benevolent
London merchant, Thomas Sutton, the founder
of Charter House. This was in the reign of
James the First, four years before the death
of Shakespeare, and the year before the Globe
Theatre was burnt down, the year that Henry
the Eighth was acting, and the year before the
New River was completed.

Every year these marvellous fish (an unclassified
species) assemble under the very windows
of the Trafalgar, waiting to be caught, as it
were, and eager to be cooked. There is
a rumour among icthyophagists that these
little bits of silver, disgusted (like some of the
corporation of London) at the great London
drainage and modern improvement, talk of not
coming up as far as Greenwich much longer.

Among the very few things we still covet in
this mutable world there is one thing. We want
to be a Cabinet Minister. The reader may
naturally ask why. Is it in order to be badgered in
the House by stultifying and criminating
quotations from one's own bitter speeches? Is it in
order to wear the ludicrous and uncomfortable
Windsor uniform, so like the dress of a stage
general or a court footman? Is it in order to be
talked at, frowned at, snapped at, barked at,
crowed at, brayed at? Is it in order to be held
up to ridicule in ceaseless caricatures? Is it in
order to double one's enemies and lose half one's
friends? No, it is in order to enjoy the annual
ministerial fish dinner, and to get whitebait
served in the best style.

This historical dinner originated with a
Scotch merchant, named Preston, who lived at
Dagenham Reach, in Essex. He used to ask
William Pitt down there, to rusticate and drink
port wine with his favourite, George Rose, the
Secretary of the Treasury. Pitt finding Essex
inconvenient, the friends then took to meeting
at Greenwich, and in course of time most of
the other Tory ministers were invited, each
paying for himself, but Sir Robert Preston
contributing a buck and the champagne. On Sir
Robert's death Mr. Long (afterwards Lord
Earnborough) officially summoned the guests.
The thirty-five or forty guests used originally to
drop down the river in a gilt Ordnance barge.

Whitebait is now sent to London daily by
railway; you see them in glittering silver heaps,
like masses of card-table pearl fish, on the marble
slabs of Bond-street and elsewhere. The fish is
a coy fish and must be cooked on the spot,
half an hour after coming from the net: otherwise
they mat together like overdone sprats.
Lifted out of the water on a skimmer, Dr.
Pereira says they should be thrown upon a
napkin covered with flour, and shaken. They
are then put in a colander and the superfluous
flour is sifted off. The fish are then dropped
into a stew-pan of hot lard that is fizzling
over a charcoal fire. They bathe there for
two minutes, are then lifted out with a tin
skimmer, thrown gently into a colander to
drain, and served up crisp and perfect; at
table you squeeze lemon-juice over them, and
season them with cayenne pepper, and eat with
slices of thin brown bread and butter, helping
their descent with iced champagne.

That tasteful epicure, Mr. Walker (the
Original), a worthy London police magistrate,
who, believing that his skin had the peculiar
power of resisting dirt, on principle never
condescended to wash his face, allowed no meat
but grouse to follow whitebait; but with the
grouse he tolerated claret. He then permitted
apple fritters and jelly, but no pastry; and ended
with ices, a good dessert, coffee, and one glass
of green chartreuse to each guest.

In one season, we are told, there have been
sometimes sold in Billingsgate, in one day, one
thousand tons of salmon. In one year there
have been sold at the gate of King Belin, one
million nine hundred and four thousand
lobsters, and eighty-seven thousand nine hundred
and fifty-six turbots. When we think of this,
does not London appear like some huge Indian
monster with millions of mouths perpetually
devouring heaps of turbots, cart-loads of salmon,
and tons of oysters?

Pic-nics are the most delightful of all
outdoor entertainments, if the weather be fine; a
pic-nic under umbrellas not being agreeable.
But of all pic-nics, commend us to a fishing
pic-nic, with a drive to the river in the sun,
and a drive back in the moonlight. A pretty
girl never (in our eyes) looks so pretty
as when fishing. The sport admits of a
thousand exquisite little coquetries. There
is the terror at the bait; the uneasy meal
worms, and the odious gentles. Then of course
you have to help to put on the bait. You have
to cheer, and to advise. There is a bite;
then you have to assist to get into the boat a
frightful and threatening perch with the