Many is the good thing spoiled by the cook; it might almost be doubted in some parts of our country, whether we had any cooks, so awfully is everything overdone, underdone, or served by slovens. The great hotels might set an example, but they go beyond the needs of the case, and give such frightful names to their dishes that plain people are at a loss what to ask for. If our good people who are interested in education, would open a cook's school in every section, life would be greatly prolonged; indeed we are not sure that one of the questions of the life insurance companies, should not relate to the quality of the food usually consumed. Cooks, we know, are jealous of lectures, but they ought to be willing to learn what will keep those that pay them alive.

The Spartan cooks, even when their art was curbed and checked by the puritanical laws of their country, and their skill was doomed to evaporate in the steam of black broth, were as jealous of their honor as the most tenacious of modern artistes. One has gone down to all ages as reproving a monarch with equal boldness and wit, whilst resenting an insult to his own skill.

The king murmurs over the legal repast of his country - " the broth was naught".

" It lacks its seasoning," was the reply.

"What is that?"

" Labor and exercise, O king".

We suppose almost all readers know the story of the bet made by the French gourmands, one of whom asserted that he could detect the component parts of any dish put before him; the other, betting at great odds that he would not be able to tell the materials wherewith his cook would prepare a " savory dish " for them. The bet was taken; one confident in his quick natural sense; the other in the skill of his cook. The matter was of importance beyond a mere gambling transaction, because the fallen fortunes of a noble family would be raised by the timely pecuniary help. The cook - a Frenchman of course - exerted all his talents, and surpassed all praise. The dish was placed before the knowing epicure. He tastes, smacks his lips, tastes again, smells it - your epicures don't stand on elegance of manner in such a case! - tastes again. Alas! it is redolent of all rich odors; such sauces, so marvelously blended; such gravy, such solids - so soft, tender! What can it be? A wondrously prepared tripe? No! Calves1 head in a new shape? No, no, no! - a thousand "Nob." Our epicure gives it up. " It is old white kid gloves.'" is the cool explanation, when the bet is resigned up as lost.

To come again to American cookery; half the ill-health that so many people complain of is owing to the constant employment of improper or imperfectly cooked food. With all the French names in your bill of fare, the vegetables are but half done, while in the South all the young ladies call for fresh bread " red hot." An inspector of kitchens would be a useful public servant.