each other; except in the preface, they are

“Like in all else as one egg to another.”

“Ab uno, disce omnes,” cutting and pasting have been much oftener employed than the pen and ink: any one who has occasion to refer to two or three of them, will find the receipts almost always “verbatim et literatim;” equally unintelligible to those who are ignorant, and useless to those who are acquainted with the business of the kitchen.

I have perused not fewer than 250 of these volumes.

During the Herculean labour of my tedious progress through these books, few of which afford the germ of a single idea, I have often wished that the authors of them had been satisfied with giving us the results of their own practice and experience, instead of idly perpetuating the errors, prejudices, and plagiarisms of their predecessors; the strange, and unaccountable, and uselessly extravagant farragoes and heterogeneous compositions which fill their pages, are combinations no rational being would ever think of either dressing or eating; and without ascertaining the practicability of preparing the receipts, and their fitness for food when done, they should never have ventured to recommend them to others: the reader of them will often put the same quære, as Jeremy, in Congreve’s comedy of “Love for Love,” when Valentine observes, “There’s a page doubled down in Epictetus that is a feast for an emperor.—Jer. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts?”

Half of the modern cookery books are made up with pages cut out of obsolete works, such as the “Choice Manual of Secrets,” the “True Gentlewoman’s Delight,” &c. of as much use, in this age of refinement, as the following curious passage from “The Accomplished Lady’s Rich Closet of Rarities, or Ingenious Gentlewoman’s Delightful Companion,” 12mo. London, 1653, chapter 7, page 42; which I have inserted in a note,29-* to give the reader a notion of the barbarous manners of the 16th century, with the addition of the arts of the confectioner, the brewer, the baker, the distiller, the gardener, the clear-starcher, and the perfumer, and how to make pickles, puff paste, butter, blacking, &c. together with my Lady Bountiful’s sovereign remedy for an inward bruise, and other ever-failing nostrums,—Dr. Killemquick’s wonder-working essence, and fallible elixir, which cures all manner of incurable maladies directly minute, Mrs. Notable’s instructions how to make soft pomatum, that will soon make more hair grow upon thy head, “than Dobbin, thy thill-horse, hath upon his tail,” and many others equally invaluable!!!—the proper appellation for which would be “a dangerous budget of vulgar errors,” concluding with a bundle of extracts from “the Gardener’s Calendar,” and “the Publican’s Daily Companion.”

Thomas Carter, in the preface to his “City and Country Cook,” London, 1738, says, “What I have published is almost the only book, one or two excepted, which of late years has come into the world, that has been the result of the author’s own practice and experience; for though very few eminent practical cooks have ever cared to publish what they knew of the art, yet they have been prevailed on, for a small premium from a bookseller, to lend their names to performances in this art unworthy their owning.”

Robert May, in the introduction to his “Accomplished Cook,” 1665, says, “To all honest and well-intending persons of my profession, and others, this book cannot but be acceptable, as it plainly and profitably discovers the mystery of the whole art; for which, though I may be envied by some, that only value their private interests above posterity and the public good; yet (he adds), God and my own conscience would not permit me to bury these, my experiences, with my silver hairs in the grave.”

Those high and mighty masters and mistresses of the alimentary art, who call themselves “profess” cooks, are said to be very jealous and mysterious beings; and that if, in a long life of laborious stove-work, they have found out a few useful secrets, they seldom impart to the public the fruits of their experience; but sooner than divulge their discoveries for the benefit and comfort of their fellow-creatures, these silly, selfish beings will rather run the risk of a reprimand from their employers, and will sooner spoil a good dinner, than suffer their fellow-servants to see how they dress it!!!

The silly selfishness of short-sighted mortals, is never more extremely absurd than in their unprofitable parsimony of what is of no use to them, but would be of actual value to others, who, in return, would willingly repay them tenfold. However, I hope I may be permitted to quote, in defence of these culinary professors, a couple of lines of a favourite old song:

“If you search the world round, each profession, you’ll find,
Hath some snug little secrets, which the Mystery30-* they call.”