langes, she writes, "Corbinelli writes me marvels of the good men who assemble at Mademoiselle de l'Enclos; and notwithstanding what M. de Coulanges may say, she collects every thing, male and female, around her in her old days." But her old days were still far off. Ninon was fifty-six when she inspired the Marquis de Sevigné with that romantic passion which his mother has so humourously immortalized. At seventy, she made her conquest of the Baron de Benier, of the royal family of Sweden; and at eighty, she achieved the better-known victory over the heart of the Abbe Gédoyn, a young Jesuit. In her cabinet, in her favourite apartment, the spot is still traditionally pointed out where Molière read to her the finest of his compositions; as is that place, in the garden under her windows, where the unfortunate and accomplished Chevalier de Villiers fell upon his sword, on discovering that the object of his fatal passion was his mother. This tragical event is, by some, supposed to have happened at her villa at Picpus, near Paris, where she had invited her son, for the purpose of declaring to him the secret of his birth, as the only means of curing him of his ill-fated attachment. At this period she was upwards of sixty-seven.

This event made the most profound impression upon her; and it is from this time, we may say, that Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, estimable, solid, and attached, succeeded to the dissipated and inconstant Ninon; and from this time till her death, she was only known by the former name. It was in this apartment that she listened with transport to Molière's "Tartuffe ;" and with ennui to de Tourville's " Demosthenes," an imprudence which converted the most ardent of her lovers into the bitterest of her enemies; for wounded vanity knows no tie. The architrives and cornices of this interesting apartment are emblematic, and composed of doves and flowers. All the sculpture is rich and finished. Here Ninon wrote her first letter to de Sevigné, and her last to St. Evremont. Here too she was found at her toilette by the noblest of her lovers, curling her beautiful hair with the contract of marriage, and bond for four thousand louis he had given her the night before. Here she restored to de Gourville the deposit of half his fortune, which he had left with her when driven into exile-the other half, confided to the Grand Pénitencier, the mirror of priestly austerity and devotion, who affected to have forgotten the transaction, and threatened his credulous friend with the consequences of his persisting in his demand. Thus deceived by the churchhe did not even think of applying to Ninon, whom he imagined to be so much more likely to have spent his money. She sent for him, however, and said, "I have to

man,

reproach myself deeply on your account; a great misfortune has happened to me in your absence, for which I have to solicit your pardon.' Gourville thought at once, that this misfortune related to his deposit, but she continued, "I have lost the inclination I had for you; but I have not lost my memory. Here are twenty thousand crowns you trusted to my care. Take the casket in which they still are, and let us live for the future as friends." In this apartment, too, in her last days she gave out those maxims of sentiment and philosophy, which now form a little code of good sense and good taste, while the youthful Frontenelle listened with reverence and admiration: and Voltaire then but ten years old, came to look at the miracle of that "siècle" to which he was himself destined, at a future day to add so much glory. Here old age with its infirmities and humiliations, at last found her patient, cheerful and resigned, and in possession of all that rendered her life respectable, and her faults endurable, her benevolence and her intellect.

M. ROTHSCHILD'S COOK, AND

PARISIAN GASTRONOMY.†

How strange that the names of Madame de Sevigné and Votel, chef de cuisine to the grand Condé, should go down to posterity inseparably connected! It was after reading the learned work (relative to his art) of M. de Carème chef de cuisine of the Baron de Rothschild, in the morning, and eating a dinner of his confection in the evening, that I naturally observed, "Here is another Votel worthy of another Madame de Sevigné, for Carème must some day, like his great predecessor, die au champ l'honneur. He may not fall upon his own sword, like Votel, on the non-arrival of the sea-fish, since fortunately for the preux of the kitchen, time and space are now very different things from what they were in the reign of Louis XIV.; but great mental anxiety, and great bodily fatigue incidental to the practical philosophy of the kitchen will extort that penalty, from which genius of higher callings cannot escape. No writer, no practitioner of the culinary science, has ever entered more deeply into the polemics of the kitchen than Carème, or brought so much experience or so much deep philosophy to his subject. In his learned and very curious work, "Le Maitre d'Hotel Français," he enters into the causes of the splendour of the ancient kitchen in a spirit of philosophical inquiry. The works, the story of Carème was known to me. I was

† Ibid.

aware that he was the descendant of that famous French chef of the infallible kitchen of the Vatican, who under Leo X., received the brevet of immortality (it was well it was not his canonization), for a soup maigre, which he invented for his holiness, during a black Lent, and from which he derived his name of Jean de Carème, or Jack of the Lent. Born to the splendid inheritance of the family organization, Carème had at an early age exhibited the genius of his great ancestor, which broke fourth in a sauce piquante, still bearing his name, and peculiarly applicable to fast dinners. After he had made his probation under one of the most celebrated rotisseurs of his time, he became the élève of the renowned M. Richant," fameux sauciere de la maison de Condé," with whom, to use his own words, he studied le travail des sauces. When perfected in this high branch of his art, he passed into the classes of M. Asne, when he mastered "the finer department of cold services," the least known perhaps, and the most exquisite of the results of scientific gastronomy. The disciple of so many masters had scarcely received his diploma, and taken the professor's chair when his reputation became European. The admirable Crichton of the kitchen was sought by all the sovereigns of the continent; and, like Titian, he refused some royal and some imperial invitations, to preside in foreign lands, over the art in which he exalted in his own. He declined among other offers, those of the Emperor of Russia; and though repeated solicitations induced him to undertake the administration of the table of George IV. of England, then Regent, he remained but eight months in his service. It has been said, Caréme gave as an excuse for this short residence at Carlton House, that it was a ménage bourgeois. This, however, was an epigram made for him; and he has explained, in his own works, the motives of his return to France, which were purely patriotic and national. "My truly French spirit could not be contented to live out of France." It was his peculiar good fortune to find in France a service which reconciled his interests with his patriotism. He became the chef of M. le Baron Rothschild, at a salary beyond what any sovereign in Europe might be able to pay, even those assisted by M. Rothschild, without whose aid so many sovereigns would scarcely have been able to keep cooks at all. We happened to have with us two noted amphitryons (English and French), when a dinner invitation from Monsieur et Madame de Rothschild was brought in by the servant. "Quel bonheur !" exclaimed my French friend, as I read aloud. "You are going to dine at the first table in France-in Europe! You are going to judge, from your own personal experience, of the genius of Carème." -“In England," said my British Apicius, "I remember immense prices being given

for his second-hand pates, after they had made their appearance at the Regent's table." Anecdotes were then given beyond number of the pomps and vanities of the life of Carème, of his sumptuosity and taste, increasing my desire to make the acquaintance, through his " œuvres completes," of a man who was at the head of his class. It was on a lovely July evening that we set forth on our dinner visit to the Chateau de Boulogne, the beautiful villa of M. de Rothschild, and from the moment when the gates of the domain were thrown open for our admission, we found ourselves enclosed within a paradise, to which no one enjoyment incidental to the first Eden seemed wanting. Flowers of all regions, fruits of all climes, tropical birds, English verdure, French sunshine, living waters, sparkling on marble basins, and fresh

"As the dews which deck the morning flowers, Or rain-drops twinkling in the sun-bright showers;" delicious music, self-played, with ready, not obtrusive services, noiselessly performed, were the preludes to admission into that saloon, where we found the lady of the enchanted palace, not as my heated imagination expected, another Armida, but in all the simple, honest charm of motherhood, surrounded by her lovely children. A large society of persons, of both sexes, induced a desultory and amusing conversation during that mauvais quarte d'heur, generally so dull, which precedes the dinner. A few of the finest productions of the ancient and modern Flemish school adorned the apartments. The most superb toys that ever filled a round table, and scarce editions, and ornamental works, occupied those who were indisposed to join in discussions carried on in all languages. Still, while talking to Gerard, and expecting Rossini—the immortal Carème was uppermost in my thoughts. Gerard was my old friend, Ros sini my old acquaintance; but I was already acquainted with their works. But of the works of Carème, I had yet to experience. I had yet to judge, in his own words, of those ameliorations in his art, produced by the "intellectual faculties of a renowned practitioner." I did not hear the announce of "Madame est servie" without emotion. We proceeded to the dining-room, not as in England, by the printed orders of the red book, but by the law of courtesy of nations, whose only distinctions are made in favour of the greatest strangers. The evening was extremely sultry; and in spite of Venetian blinds and open verandas, the apartments through which we passed were exceedingly close. A dinner in the largest of them, threatened much inconvenience from the heat. But on this score there was no ground for apprehension. The diningroom stood apart from the house, in the