It must be remembered that Dr. Johnson said no woman
could write a cookery-book; and he threatened to write one himself. And Sir
Kenelm had many serious rivals among his own sex.

In such an _embarras de choix_ as given by all these drink receipts, we may
be in doubt whether to try "My Lord Gorge's Meath," or "The Countess of
Newport's" cherry wine, or "The sweet drink of my Lady Stuart," or of Lady
Windebanke, or "Sir Paul Neile's way of making cider," or "my Lord
Carlisle's Sack posset"; but one is strongly influenced by such a note as
"Sir Edward Bainton's Receipt which my Lord of Portland (who gave it me)
saith, was the best he ever drank." I had thought of Saint-Evremond as
warrior and wit, delightful satirist and letter-writer. But here is a
streak of new light upon him: "Monsieur St. Euvremont makes thus his potage
de sante of boiled meat for dinner being very valetudinary.... When he is
in pretty good health, that he may venture upon more savoury hotter things,
&c." The most rigorous Protestants will relax to hear how "To make a Pan
Cotto as the Cardinals use in Rome." And if "My Lord Lumley's Pease
Pottage" sounds homely, be it known, on the word of the eloquent Robert
May, that his lordship "wanted no knowledge in the discerning this
mystery." What fastidious simplicity in the taste of the great is suggested
by "My Lord d'Aubigny eats Red-herrings thus boiled"!

But if Sir Kenelm consorted only with the great, it was with the great of
all social ranks. It was not merely on high questions of science he
discoursed with the discoverer of the circulation of the blood--witness
"Dr. Harvey's pleasant water cider." Then there was that "Chief Burgomaster
of Antwerpe," with whom he must have been on pretty intimate terms, to
learn that he "used for many years to drink no other drink but this [mead];
at Meals and all times, even for pledging of healths. And though He was an
old man, he was of an extraordinary vigor every way, and had every year a
Child, had always a great appetite, and good digestion; and yet was not
fat." Digby was too great a gentleman to be above exchanging receipts with
the professors of the "mystery," such as the Muscovian Ambassador's
steward; and when "Master Webbe who maketh the King's meath," on the 1st of
September, 1663, came to his house to make some for him, Sir Kenelm stood
by, a little suspicious lest the other great artist was bamboozling him. He
had an eye for all--though it may have be