A most excellent autumn salad is celeriac well boiled, cut in slices like beetroot, mixed with a light mayonnaise sauce half oil and half cream, surrounded by a wreath of what they call in Germany 'garden-cress,' which is merely the cress we grow in spring in a box, allowed to grow out of doors in summer till about the size of parsley. It grows all the summer through in the garden, and can be cut over and over again. When grown in boxes in the winter it should be allowed to grow on, instead of cutting it quite young.

I have always considered salads a strong point with me, and was much amused the other day, when reading Sydney Smith's 'Memoirs' by his daughter, at the following description of his experiences with salads. I think his receipt so clever that I have extracted it, with the feeling it was better to have it in two books than in only one, so that it may give pleasure to more people. He says: 'Our forte in the culinary line is our salad. I pique myself on our salads. Saba always dresses them after my recipe. I have put it into verse. Taste it, and if you like it I will give it to you. I was not aware how much it had contributed to my reputation till I met Lady------at Bowood, who begged to be introduced to me, saying she had so long wished to know me. I was of course highly flattered till she added: "For, Mr. Smith, I have heard so much of your recipe for salads that I was most anxious to obtain it from you." Such and so various are the sources of fame!

To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boil'd eggs; Two boil'd potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give. Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault To add a double quantity of salt. Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca brown, And twice with vinegar procured from town; And lastly o'er the flavour'd compound toss A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate cannot harm me - I have dined to-day.'