is probably some
truth in the saying of Hippocrates, "Whatever pleases the palate
nourishes"; but one cannot fail to recognize the wisdom of M. Soyer,
that prince of the _cuisine_, who maintains that the digestibility of
food depends, not on the number of articles used in its manufacture, but
in their proper combination. Says M. Soyer, "I would wager that I could
give a first-class indigestion to the greatest _gourmet_, even while
using the most _recherche_ provisions, without his being able to detect
any fault in the preparation of the dishes of which he had
partaken,--and this simply by improperly classifying the condiments used
in the preparation." This gives a hint of the nicety of the culinary
art, the genius required to practise it, and the fine physical effects
that hinge upon it. It is no wonder that Vatel committed suicide before
the great banquet which he had prepared for his master, the Prince of
Conde, because he feared it was to fail. It is certainly enough to alarm
ordinary amateurs,--and such are the most of us; for, while Americans
place all due stress upon the table, they neglect to emphasize the
_cuisine_. Instead of this _nonchalance_, we have yet to discover that
cookery belongs to the fine arts; that it is exhaustive alike of
chemistry and physiology, and touches upon laws as sure as those which
mingle the atmospheric elements, hourly adjusting them to man's nicest
needs. And we should count it among the best of the progressive plans of
our country, if to the new Industrial College under subscription at
Worcester were to be added an elaborate culinary department, with the
most accomplished professor that could be obtained. Perhaps, as M. Soyer
was philanthropic enough to go to the Crimea, and teach the English to
make hospital soup, he would even come here and give our nation a
glimpse of those marvellous morsels that have made Paris the envy of
epicures the world over.

And if there is a proper harmony to be attained in the combining of
various ingredients, making every perfect dish a poem, there is no less
harmony in combining the various dishes for a repast, making a poem in
every perfect meal. For every leading dish has its kindred and
antagonistic ones: as, at dinner, one would not serve cauliflower with
fricasseed chicken, nor turnips with boiled salmon, nor, at tea,
currants with cream-toast, nor currants with custard. But this is
something that cannot be fully taught or learned. It is almos