artists; he was well acquainted
with that irritability which is said to be the characteristic of the
creative power; genius always found in him an indulgent arbiter. He was
convinced that if the feelings of a rare spirit like Leander were hurt,
they were not to be trifled with. He felt responsible for the presence
of one so eminent in a country where, perhaps, he was not properly
appreciated; and Lord Eskdale descended to the steward's room with the
consciousness of an important, probably a difficult, mission.

The kitchen of Montacute Castle was of the old style, fitted for
baronial feasts. It covered a great space, and was very lofty. Now
they build them in great houses on a different system; even more
distinguished by height, but far more condensed in area, as it is
thought that a dish often suffers from the distances which the cook
has to move over in collecting its various component parts. The new
principle seems sound; the old practice, however, was more picturesque.
The kitchen at Montacute was like the preparation for the famous wedding
feast of Prince Riquet with the Tuft, when the kind earth opened, and
revealed that genial spectacle of white-capped cooks, and endless stoves
and stewpans. The steady blaze of two colossal fires was shrouded by
vast screens. Everywhere, rich materials and silent artists; business
without bustle, and the all-pervading magic of method. Philippon was
preparing a sauce; Dumoreau, in another quarter of the spacious chamber,
was arranging some truffles; the Englishman, Smit, was fashioning
a cutlet. Between these three generals of division aides-de-camp
perpetually passed, in the form of active and observant marmitons, more
than one of whom, as he looked on the great masters around him, and
with the prophetic faculty of genius surveyed the future, exclaimed to
himself, like Cor-reggio, 'And I also will be a cook.'

In this animated and interesting scene was only one unoccupied
individual, or rather occupied only with his own sad thoughts. This was
Papa Prevost, leaning against rather than sitting on a dresser, with his
arms folded, his idle knife stuck in his girdle, and the tassel of his
cap awry with vexation. His gloomy brow, however, lit up as Mr. Harris,
for whom he was waiting with anxious expectation, entered, and summoned
him to the presence of Lord Eskdale, who, with a shrewd yet lounging
air, which concealed his own foreboding perplexity, said, 'Well,
Prevost, what is the m