[Footnote 4: Be it remarked, that this is not entirely the case. In all parts at France frogs are still in high repute. The snail, _escargot_, is a favourite food of the people of Lorraine; and, in the south of France, I have been asked whether I liked _anguille de haie_ or _anguille de rivière_; meaning, whether I preferred eels or snakes.] -------------------- He was about sixty, and as thin as could be well desired. His complexion was _café au lait_, set off by a pair of small eyes, high up in his head, as black as jet, and sparkling like the charcoal under his saucepans; while his hair, as white as snow, stuck out in full friz, like a powder-puff, and supported a candid nightcap, which, leaning slightly to one side, let the tassel sway peacefully over his left ear. Whether it was from constantly leaning to the side of royalty (for he had been an _émigré_), or from some accident, I do not know, but one of his legs was rather shorter than the other. This, however, nothing deteriorated the dignity of his deportment; and when he appeared in the midst of stews and sauces, with his gray jacket, his snowy apron, and his knife by his side, my imagination became exalted: his nightcap assumed the appearance of a wreath; his jacket transformed itself into pontifical robes; his knife became the instrument of sacrifice; the _b[oe]uf au naturel_ changed to the bellowing victim; the kitchen to the porch of the temple; and I began to fancy myself in ancient Greece, when suddenly he advanced towards us with a smiling air, and placed chairs for us by the fire. "Sit down English gentlemans," said he, in a barbarous corruption of my native language; "sit down, sit down. Oh! I go make you nice dinner. I be in England; I make the kitchen to Lord Salisbury. Do you understand Lord Salisbury? _Connaissez-vous_ Lord Salisbury." What between himself and his English, I have seldom met any thing equal to him. He had all the importance, too, of his profession; there was a gravity in his emptiness, and a politeness in his gravity. When he cooked, his whole soul seemed in the dish; but when any one addressed him, his face relaxed into a smile, and the dish was forgot. The pride of his heart was in his saucepans, which hung up in innumerable shining rows above our heads, burnished like the armour of Achilles, and from those saucepans he produced fare worthy the great Lucullus. Indeed, he was the best cook I ever met; but that is easily accounted for. He had been cook to a seminary of Catholic priests, and quitted it upon some quarrel. The good father directors, soon finding how much their palates lost by his absence, wished him to return; and he showed with no small triumph a letter he had received to that effect. I copied, and give it word for word. The colouring might be heightened, but it is better as it is; and, as a specimen of an epistle from a priest to a cook, it is unique:-- "MON CHER MONSIEUR, "_Paris_, 8 _Juillet_ 1823.