were here laid on Madam Esmond's board to feed his Excellency and the
rest of the English and American gentlemen. The gumbo was declared to be
perfection (young Mr. George's black servant was named after this
dish, being discovered behind the door with his head in a bowl of this
delicious hotch-potch, by the late Colonel, and grimly christened on the
spot), the shad were rich and fresh, the stewed terrapins were worthy of
London aldermen (before George, he would like the Duke himself to taste
them, his Excellency deigned to say), and indeed, stewed terrapins are
worthy of any duke or even emperor. The negro-women have a genius for
cookery, and in Castlewood kitchens there were adepts in the art brought
up under the keen eye of the late and the present Madam Esmond. Certain
of the dishes, especially the sweets and flan, Madam Esmond prepared
herself with great neatness and dexterity; carving several of the
principal pieces, as the kindly cumbrous fashion of the day was, putting
up the laced lappets of her sleeves, and showing the prettiest round
arms and small hands and wrists as she performed this ancient rite of
a hospitality not so languid as ours. The old law of the table was that
the mistress was to press her guests with a decent eagerness, to watch
and see whom she could encourage to further enjoyment, to know culinary
anatomic secrets, and execute carving operations upon fowls, fish, game,
joints of meat, and so forth; to cheer her guests to fresh efforts, to
whisper her neighbour, Mr. Braddock "I have kept for your Excellency
the jowl of this salmon.--I will take no denial! Mr. Franklin, you drink
only water, sir, though our cellar has wholesome wine which gives no
headaches.--Mr. Justice, you love woodcock pie?"

"Because I know who makes the pastry," says Mr. Laws, the judge, with
a profound bow. "I wish, madam, we had such a happy knack of pastry at
home as you have at Castlewood. I often say to my wife, 'My dear, I wish
you had Madam Esmond's hand.'"

"It is a very pretty hand; I am sure others would like it too," says Mr.
Postmaster of Boston, at which remark Mr. Esmond looks but half-pleased
at the little gentleman.

"Such a hand for a light pie-crust," continues the Judge, "and
my service to you, madam." And he thinks the widow cannot but be
propitiated by this compliment. She says simply that she had lessons
when she was at home in England for her education, and that there were
certain dishes which her