e Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody,
Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death and Life."

"Well, the choice which lay before me on one particular barrow was fully
as wide, or perhaps wider than that which met the poet's eye, but after
I had espied a little yellow paper-covered book with the title La Cucina
Partenopea, overo il Paradiso dei gastronomi, I looked no farther. What
infinite possibilities of pleasure might lie hidden under such a name.
I secured it, together with the Story of Barlaam and Josaphat, for
thirty-five centesimi, and handed over the coins to the hungry-eyed old
man in charge, who regretted, I am sure, when he saw the eager look upon
my face, that he had not marked the books a lira at least. I should now
be a rich woman if I had spent all the money I have spent as profitably
as those seven sold. Besides being a master in the art of cookery, the
author was a moral philosopher as well; and he addresses his reader in
prefatory words which bespeak a profound knowledge of life. He writes:
'Though the time of man here on earth is passed in a never-ending
turmoil, which must make him often curse the moment when he opened his
eyes on such a world; though life itself must often become irksome
or even intolerable, nevertheless, by God's blessing, one supreme
consolation remains for this wretched body of ours. I allude to that
moment when, the forces being spent and the stomach craving support, the
wearied mortal sits down to face a good dinner. Here is to be found an
effectual balm for the ills of life: something to drown all remembrance
of our ill-humours, the worries of business, or even family quarrels.
In sooth, it is only at table that a man may bid the devil fly away with
Solomon and all his wisdom, and give himself up to an earthly delight,
which is a pleasure and a profit at the same time.'"

"The circumstances under which this precious book was found seem to
suggest a culinary poem on the model of the 'Ring and the Book,"' said
Mrs. Sinclair, "or we might deal with the story in practical shape by
letting every one of us prepare the same dish. I fancy the individual
renderings of the same recipe would vary quite as widely as the versions
of the unsavoury story set forth in Mr. Browning's little poem."

"I think we had better have a supplementary day for a trial of the sort
Mrs. Sinclair suggests," said Miss Macdonnell. "I speak with the memory
of a preparation of liver I tasted yesterday in