A long time ago, an estimable lady fell at the feet of an habitual publisher, and prayed unto him:—<br /><br />“Give, oh! give me the subject of a book for which the world has a need, and I will write it for you.”<br /><br />“Are you an author, madam?” asked the publisher, motioning his visitor to a seat.<br /><br />“No, sir,” was the proud reply, “I am a poet.”<br /><br />“Ah!” said the great man. “I am afraid there is no immediate worldly need of a poet. If you could only write a good cookery book, now! ... What I want,” said the publisher, “is a series of essays on food, a few anecdotes of stirring adventure—you have a fine flow of imagination, I understand—and a few useful, but uncommon recipes. But plenty of plums in the book, my dear sir, plenty of plums.”<br /><br />“But, suppose my own supply of plums should not hold out, what am I to do?”<br /><br />“What do you do—what does the cook do, when the plums for her pudding run short? Get some more; the Museum, my dear sir, the grea
