In foreign kitchens

leaves the matter altogether to the mistress, savory Italian dishes are the result, and one finds that good eating is not a forgotten art, and that Italian cookery has its own very distinctive features. Storm-stayed in these very quarters, the next day gave us a cabbage soup in which part of the cabbage was served as salad with the sweetest oil and purest wine vinegar, while the rest, chopped fine, thickened a soup in which much rice and some grated cheese were discernible. Then came pig's kidneys, delicately fried with dice of salted pork; then a pair of chickens boiled and with a sauce; and last, a great stew, savory and steaming, of bits of meat of all orders, truffles, potatoes, little dumplings, and garlic. Fruit, cheese, coffee, — all good, ended the meal in which no vegetables had appeared save the cabbage and those in the stew. This is the first glimpse of Italian housekeeping, — a housekeeping in which past and present are jumbled. The Italian who has catered for generations of English tourists disgusted with any customs but their own, seeks to follow these customs as far as possible, and keeps his national dishes otit of sight. But if he discovers that the tourist is American and not English, his expression changes. He expands and beams, knowing that his labor is sure of recognition, and that his own methods are the ones desired. Then appear the really national dishes, — macaroni in its many forms; delicious risottos, also of several orders; minestra; and so on through a list which is more savory than ordinary French cooking, and has as its only fault a freer use of oil than the American palate likes. This is true of salads and a few sauces. But the frying in this sweet olive oil is of the most delicate order, both small fish, polenta, and many forms of croquettes being treated in this way, while the Italian stew puts the French pot-au-feu altogether out of countenance. The foreigner learns soon to enjoy polenta, a form of corn-meal mush thicker than the hasty-pudding of our youth, and eaten universally by Italians, either in its first state, or cut in thin slices after it has cooled, and fried a golden brown in sweet olive oil. These cook-shops are met at every turn. Fuel is costly, and the price of prepared food but the merest trifle beyond its value uncooked; and thus many a family relies altogether upon these shops, from which ascends the smell of ever-boiling broth bubbling in huge caldrons. In the windows are mountains of smoking-hot, golden polenta; heaps of fried minnows, crisp and brown; mounds of rice; great dishes of stewed snails, dear to all Italians, and the usual treat for festa days. Roast poultry are there also, and liver and other less definable mysteries. Here come the gondoliers and bargain for dinner with the cooks, whose huge ladles indicate what may be skimmed from these bubbling depths. In less pretentious shops may be found a delicacy peculiar to Italy, — the clotted blood of poultry of any order, fried in slices with onions; and another true Venetian dish, but found in Naples also, squasetto, a thick broth made of entrails and scraps beyond the art even of the sausage-maker, and loud with garlic. There are for every window, high or low, heaps of cufflers fried in oil, and each season has its peculiar dainties. During carnival it is whipped cream; St. Martin's shows regiments of gingerbread warriors; while Christmas has mandorlato, a candy made of honey and thick with almonds, and a mysterious confiture, — a thick conserve of fruits, yellow and stinging with mustard.