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It hath been aptly and truly said, that “there
is reason in the roasting of an egg.” But, assuredly,
if the roasting of an egg to please every
palate requires great discretion, the boiling
of one is a matter of much more difficult attainment.
Some people like their eggs as hard as a
bullet, in defiance of that mortal foe to good
eating, erewhile known by the name of the
spleen, afterwards christened bile, and now of
universal acceptation, as the dyspepsia. Others
will have their eggs raw, or so nearly raw, as to
puzzle human reason to decide whether they
are raw or boiled. A third party, who may be
denominated tertium quids, prefer them half
boiled, and so on, through every gradation,
from one extreme to the other.

It is astonishing, what a number of families

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there are, both in the old and new world, whose
peace almost entirely depends on the judicious
boiling of those oddities, which, from the first
cackling of the hen to their being served up at
the breakfast table, or hatched into chickens,
seem destined to give great trouble to the fair
sex. Certain it is, that the boiling of eggs is
a matter of great moment to the peace of society
and the happiness of mankind. We have
seen a lord of the creation put out of humour
for a whole day, because his egg had been kept
ten seconds too long in the skillet. Nay, we
have more than once beheld a lively, good-humoured
Frenchman, who was the life of a stage
coach all night long, eat twenty hard boiled eggs in
the morning at breakfast, and grumble all the
while at the cook, the house, and all within it,
except the pretty bar maid.

And here we will observe, that the best possible
test of a gentleman is his behaviour at a
dinner, breakfast, or supper table, in a hotel or
steam-boat. It is there that his pretensions are
put to the touchstone, and that fine clothes fail to
hide from observation the clown that lurks beneath
them. If we find him snatching at every
dish within his reach; filling his plate with fish,
flesh and fowl; eating as if his last, or rather

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his first meal were come; and, at the same time,
looking about with eyes as wide open as his
mouth, to see what next to devour—not velvet
cloth coat, dandy pantaloons, or corset dire,
will suffice to place him in the rank of gentlemen.
Were we to express our idea of a wellbred
man in one word, we would say, he was a
gentleman, even in his eating; nor would we
hesitate to place any man in that class, who, being
fond of soft eggs, should be able to eat them
boiled hard, without grumbling. We remember,
for we delight to remember every thing
connected with that gay, good-humoured,
sprightly old gentleman, Deidrich Knickerbocker,
that he always superintended boiling
his eggs himself, by a stop watch, and more
than once came near to scalding his fingers, in
his haste to rescue his favourites from the boiling
element, ere the fatal crisis was passed.

This diversity of taste extends to almost every
enjoyment and luxury of life, more especially
to books, in the composition of which, notwithstanding
so many appearances to the contrary,
we will venture to say, that almost as much
reason is necessary, as in the roasting or
boiling of eggs. Some readers like what are
called hard studies, as some men like hard eggs;

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while others luxuriate in raw sentiment, and
melting, drivelling, ropy softness. Some delight
in impossible adventures, and others in
common-place matter of fact. In short, it is
quite unnecessary to insist on what the experience
of all mankind verifies every hour of the
day.

It is in order to accommodate, as far as possible,
every class of readers, that we have endeavoured,
in the course of this work, to do
what we are fully convinced can easily be done,
namely, please all sorts of people, whether lovers
of hard or soft eggs. We mean all those
who are naturally inclined to be pleased with
every thing; which class includes, beyond
doubt, a majority of mankind; for, as to the
critics, and other ill-disposed people, whose
pleasure consists in being displeased, we have
nothing to say to such unreasonable people, except
that whatever faults are incorporated in
this work, were wilfully placed there, for the
sole purpose of affording them the pleasure of
grumbling a little.

Our introductory chapters are intended for
the deepest philosophers, who will find therein
matters of weighty import; our historical details
are for the inveterate lovers of truth; our

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love scenes for all whom it may concern; our
gravity for the aged; our jests for the young;
our wisdom is at any body's service that can
find it out; and the sublime declamation of the
Frizzled Head is particularly intended for the
refreshment of ladies and gentlemen of colour,
who, it is presumed, will become ere long sufficiently
enlightened to scold their masters, and
bully their mistresses, into a proper sense of
equality.

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