Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging
enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages
ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just
as they do in Abyssinia to-day. This period is not obscurely hinted at
by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane
Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term
Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say,
that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the
elder brother) was accidentally discovered in the manner following.
The swineherd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as
his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the
care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of
playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some
sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread
the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was
reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian
makeshift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more
importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in
number, perished.
China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the
remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost
consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the
tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a
few dry branches, and the labor of an hour or two, at any time, as for
the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his
father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of
those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed his nostrils, unlike any
scent which he had before experienced. What could it proceed
from?--not from the burned cottage--he had smelt that smell
before--indeed this was by no means the first accident of the kind
which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young
firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed or
flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his
nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel
the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burned his
fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his
mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his
fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life,
indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted--_crackling_!
Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now,
still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit.
The truth at length broke into his slow understanding that it was the
pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and
surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing
up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was
cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire
entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and
finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's
shoulders, as thick as hail stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more
than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure which he
experienced in his lower regions had rendered him quite callous to any
inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters. His father
might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig, till he had
fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his
situation, something like the following dialog ensued.
"You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not
enough that you have burned me down three houses with your dog's
tricks, and be hanged to you! but you must be eating fire, and I know
not what--what have you got there, I say?"
"O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burned pig
eats."
The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He curst his son, and he curst
himself that ever he should beget a son that should eat burned pig.
Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked
out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half
by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, "Eat, eat,
eat the burned pig, father, only taste--O Lord"--with such like
barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke.
Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing,
wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural
young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had
done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn
tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he would for
pretense, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for
the manuscript here is a little tedious) both father and son fairly
sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had dispatched all
that remained of the litter.
Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the
neighbors would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable
wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God
had sent them. Nevertheless strange stories got about. It was observed
that Ho-ti's cottage was burned down now more frequently than ever.
Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in
broad day, others in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so
sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which
was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow
more indulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the
terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their
trial at Peking, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was
given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about
to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the
burned pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into
the box. He handled it, and they all handled it; and burning their
fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature
prompting each of them the same remedy, against the faces of all the
facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given--to the
surprize of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all
present--without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation
whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.
The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of
the decision; and when the court was dismissed, went privily, and
bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few
days his lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. The thing
took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fire in every
direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district.
The insurance offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter
and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of
architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this
custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, says my
manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery, that
the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked
(_burned_, as they call it) without the necessity of consuming a whole
house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron.
Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later, I
forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the
manuscript, do the most useful and seemingly the most obvious arts,
make their way among mankind.
Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must
be agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as
setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in
favor of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be found
in ROAST PIG.
Of all the delicacies in the whole _mundus edibilis_, I will maintain
it to be the most delicate--_princeps obsoniorum_.