Shortly the book appeared.  It was the son who wrote the preface:  “There needs no Rhetoricating Floscules to set it off.  The Authour, as is well known, having been a Person of Eminency for his Learning, and of Exquisite Curiosity in his Researches.  Even that Incomparable Sir Kenelme Digbie Knight, Fellow of the Royal Society and Chancellour to the Queen Mother, (Et omen in Nomine) His name does sufficiently Auspicate the Work.”  The sale of the book is not recorded.  It is supposed that the Lady Middlesex, so many of whose recipes had been used, directed that her chair be carried to the shop where the book was for sale and that she bought largely of it.  The Countess of Dorset bought a copy and spelled it out word for word to her cook.  As for the Lady Monmouth, she bought not a single copy, which neglect on coming to the Digbys aroused a coolness.

To this day it is likely that a last auspicated volume still sits on its shelf with the spice jars in some English country kitchen and that a worn and toothless cook still thumbs its leaves.  If the guests about the table be of an antique mind, still will they pledge one another with its honeyed drinks, still will they pipe and whistle of its virtues, still will they—­

“Eat”—­A flaring sign hangs above the sidewalk.  By this time, in our noonday search for food, we have come into the thick of the restaurants.  In the jungle of the city, here is the feeding place.  Here come the growling bipeds for such bones and messes as are thrown them.

The waiter thrusts a card beneath my nose.  “Nice leg of lamb, sir?” I waved him off.  “Hold a bit!” I cried.  “You’ll fetch me a capon in white broth as my Lady Monmouth broileth hers.  Put plentiful sack in it and boil it until it simpreth!” The waiter scratched his head.  “The chicken pie is good,” he said.  “It’s our Wednesday dish.”  “Varlet!” I cried—­then softened.  “Let it be the chicken pie!  But if the cook knoweth the manner that Lord Carlile does mix and pepper it, let that manner be followed to the smallest fraction of a pinch!”

On Buying Old Books

By some slim chance, reader, you may be the kind of person who, on a visit to a strange city, makes for a bookshop.  Of course your slight temporal business may detain you in the earlier hours of the day.  You sit with committees and stroke your profound chin, or you spend your talent in the market, or run to and fro and wag your tongue in persuasion.  Or, if you be on a holiday, you strain yourself on the sights of the city, against being caught in an omission.  The bolder features of a cathedral must be grasped to satisfy a quizzing neighbor lest he shame you later on your hearth, a building must be stuffed inside your memory, or your pilgrim feet must wear the pavement of an ancient shrine.  However, these duties being done and the afternoon having not yet declined, do you not seek a bookshop to regale yourself?