The Baron has recently been reading a new work, disinterestedly
recommended to him by M. ROQUES, the French publisher and French
bookseller of Bond Street, entitled _L'Ame de Pierre_, by GEORGES
OHNET. It is a strangely fascinating story; the picturesque
descriptions transport us to the very places; and the studies of life,
are, specially of certain phases of French life, most interesting
to an English reader. The cosmopolitan Baron DE B.W. wishes that
Frenchmen, however manly they may be, were not so easily and so
constantly moved to tears. This however, is only a matter of taste.
What the purpose of the novel may be--for GEORGES OHNET has written
this with a purpose--is not quite evident. Whether it is intended
to chime in with the popular theme of hypnotism, and illustrate it
in a peculiar way, or whether it is merely illustrating _Hamlet's_
wise remark that, "There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt
of in your philosophy," the Baron is at a loss to determine. It
is psychological, it is materialistic, it is idealistic, it is
philosophical, it is ... French. The _Vacuus Viator_ may have a worse
companion on a long journey than _L'Ame de Pierre_.
Talking of materialistic, "let us," quoth the Baron, "be grateful to
Mrs. DE SALIS for a bookful of '_Tempting Dishes for Small Incomes_,'
published by LONGMANS & Co." First of all get your small income, then
purchase this book, for eighteenpence, or less with discount; or (a
shorter and a cheaper way) borrow it from a friend. Let the Small
Incomer cast his watery eye over Lobster cutlets, p. 19, and Lobster
pancakes: let him reduce his small income to something still smaller
in order to treat himself and family to a _Rumpsteak à la bonne
bouche_, a Sausage pudding, and a Tomato curry. The sign over a
Small-Income House is the picture of a Sheep's Head, usually despised
as sheepish: but go to p. 28, and have a _tête-à-tête_ (_de mouton_)
with Mrs. DE SALIS about _Sheep's head au Gratin_.
Rabbit batter pudding, eh? with _shalot à discrétion_. How's that for
high? Let the Small Incomer get some dariole tins, mushrooms, chives,
rabbits, tripe, onions, oil, ducks, eggs, and with _egg kromeskies_
he'll dine like a millionnaire, and be able to appreciate a real
_epigram_ of Lamb (not CHARLES) and Peas. Don't let the Man with a
Small Income be afraid of trying _Un Fritot de Cervelle de Veau_,
simply because of the name, which might do honour to the _menu_ of
a LUCULLUS. "Blanch the Brains" for this dish--delicious!--"and fry
till a nice golden colour." Beautiful! Nice golden colour like dear
BLANCHE's hair: only often that's a BLANCHE without brains. And now
your attention, my Small Incomer, to _Eggs à la Bonne Femme_. This
work ought to be arranged as a catechism: in fact all cookery books,
all receipt books, should be in the form of Question and Answer.
_Question_.--Now, Sir, how would you do _Eggs à la Bonne Femme?_
Perhaps this query might be preceded by general information as to
who the particular "_bonne femme_" (for she must have been a very
particular _bonne femme_) was to whom so many dishes are dedicated.
[In the Scotch McCookery books, _Broth o' the gude-wife_ would be a
national name.]
_Answer_.--To make _Eggs à la Bonne Femme_, Mrs. DE SALIS says, "Get
as many eggs as there are guests (they should all be the same size)--"
Now this is a difficulty. It is not an easy matter to assemble round
your table a party of guests "all the same size:" still more difficult
is it to get together a lot of eggs all the same size as the guests.
But, when this has been got over, read the remainder at p. 55, and
then, as _Squeers's_ pupils used to have to do, go and reduce the
teaching to practice.
The receipt for _Potatoes à la Lyonnaise_ begins with, "Mince an
onion, and fry it in hot butter"--O rare! Why do more? Who wants
potatoes after this? And, when you've had quite enough of it, smoke
a pipe, drink a glass of whiskey-and-water, go to an evening party,
and then, if you won't be one of the most remarkable advertisements
for _cette bonne femme_ Madame DE SALIS, why I don't live in Baronion
Halls, and my name's no longer