THE SPOON:
WITH
UPWARDS OF ONE HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS,
PRIMITIVE, EGYPTIAN, ROMAN, MEDIÆVAL, AND MODERN.
BY HABBAKUK O. WESTMAN,
OF THE GLOBE TAVERN;
FORMERLY TEACHER OF A PUBLIC SCHOOL.
BEING A PART OF
THE TRANSACTIONS OF THE SOCIETY OF LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CHIFFONIERS,
ILLUSTRATING THE PRIMITIVE ARTS IN DOMESTIC LIFE.
LONDON:
WILEY & PUTNAM, 6, WATERLOO PLACE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
‘THE SPOON’ is the first of a series of papers designed to elucidate the
origin, history, and value of several primitive devices, which, from
their apparent insignificance, have been overlooked by writers on the
useful arts; but which have not been without their influence on the
progress of civilization. As it was out of the question to treat every
subject with the gravity due to historical research—to do so a writer
must be the personification of melancholy herself—the idea was adopted
of embracing them under the ‘Transactions’ of a Society, whose name
should indicate their miscellaneous character, and relative value among
literary merchandize. Small as this value may be, there are persons
simple enough to suppose the annals of the shuttle and needle, of
bellows and boilers, &c. possess higher claims on the attention of the
moralist, philosopher, and historian, than many dignified tomes of
acknowledged history; for what are these, when divested of extraneous
matters, but records of the club, sword and bayonet, the musket, cannon,
and scaffold?
THE PUBLISHERS.
PREFACE.
A Turkish shepherd tending his flocks in the vicinity of Adrianople,
bethought of solacing himself with a few whiffs of tobacco. Seated on
the ground, under the shade of a tree, he drew from a pouch his
apparatus for striking fire, but found the piece of flint missing. He
therefore arose, looked about for a stone, and at length picked up a
pebble, which answered the purpose so well that he used it daily for a
year or more. It came to pass that a Jewish pedlar one morning
approached as the boor was lighting his pipe. The Israelite took a fancy
to the stone, and bought it for a few aspers—soon after which, it shone
the largest and brightest gem in the turban of Mahomet IV:—Now every
reader of this book will either resemble the disciple of Moses or the
Mahommedan keeper of sheep. It is true, diamonds are not concealed
within the leaves; yet he who has wit to detect, _aurum e stercore_,
gold from dirt—will certainly meet with something more than materials to
light a cigar.
_New-York, February, 1844._
INTRODUCTION:
_Embracing a Sketch of the Origin and Organization of the Society of
Chiffonniers._
COURTEOUS READER:
In the character of an author I beg leave to salute
thee as my reader; and, as host of “The Globe,” as my guest. Having for
some time kept an establishment for the accommodation of travellers—that
is, for supplying at moderate charges such conveniences and refreshments
as are necessary to comfort and strengthen the body or outer man, I have
lately been induced, indeed in a manner compelled, by the rage of
competition, to add a new branch to the business; a department for
providing various cates and delicious dainties to cheer and invigorate
the spirit or inner man—to the end that both the mental and material
palates of my patrons may be gratified at my table.
This, it is suspected, will become a general practice. As libraries are
expelling decanters from steamers; sojourners at hotels will next
require landlords to furnish literary as well as culinary food—books as
well as butcher’s meat; philosophical essays and fashionable novels as
well as pasties and beef à la mode. A change is passing over the world
and none feel it more than those in my line. Temperance has already
turned bar-rooms out of doors; while, from the efforts made by new
doctors on diet, it is likely kitchens will soon have to follow. So far
as I am concerned, the change will not be disagreeable, for I still
prefer Horace to Kitchiner, and Tully to Mrs. Glasse. I can have no
objection to imitate Phædo, who kept a victualing shop, and entertained
those whom he fed; for like him I may peradventure have a Socrates for a
boarder. May I hope, gentle guest, our acquaintance will be as agreeable
to thyself as to me—that the fare to be set before thee will be to thy
taste, and that I and my family may often have the prof—I mean the
pleasure of thy company.
Ahem—It never was my wont to make excuses when my stock of viands was
low; yet, sooth to say, the pantry is at present bare of fresh meats and
of game. Vegetable and other watery aliments have been so much cried up
in these parts, that old dealers in sirloins and haunches have been
driven from the trade; some have taken stands in the fish-market, others
opened stores for the sale of garden truck, and not a few have begun to
vend “cookies and candies,” which last, strange to say, are found the
most profitable. All I can therefore promise thee on the present
occasion is a simple dish, or rather a wholesome bowl of spoon-meat—_un
dejeuné à la cuiller_. I pray thee let not thine anger kindle at this
announcement, for, on my veracity and hopes of public favor, it is a
pleasant and not an unsubstantial food—a rather thick, but still an
agreeable, acidulous fluid—one in which thou wilt find (what Englishmen
erroneously attribute to beer) both meat and drink—though certainly not
washing and mending, which Irishmen, it is said, formerly ascribed to
their whiskey.
Its appearance may not be enticing to “queasy” appetites, but I have
seldom known a customer who, after once tasting it, did not lick the
dish clean. Pray excuse me: I am oblivious in bringing into the parlor
expressions belonging to the kitchen. But I scorn to take advantage of
any one—to decoy customers by false colors; _i. e._ by hanging out
signboards which promise what I cannot supply. Thou hast seen my
_signum_ on the title page, where it honestly indicates, as honest signs
should do, the entertainment to be had within; and to convince thee of
the liberal principles on which I am determined to build up my business,
I ask not a doit for the meal of which thou art about to partake—all
that is required of thee is to meet the small charge of the publisher
for this “bill of fare.” Having done that—there is a seat—here comes thy
food—now sit thee down, and in the language of mine ancient brethren of
the spigot and spit, “much good may it do thee.”
There is one thing it behooves me to say, since it will, I trust,
assist in making our acquaintance more lasting than from a temporary
visit it otherwise might be. People of my profession are natural
judges of character. Without knowing how, we become practical
physiognomists—comprehending at a glance a stranger’s disposition, his
station in society, and often the state of his purse—not that the
latter excites my curiosity as it does that of unworthy members of the
craft—men whose attentions are graduated by their ideas of the
repletion or collapsion of a customer’s pockets. Now there are traits
in thy countenance of a cultivated and ingenuous mind—marks stamped by
Nature on her favorite offspring. Hence it is not less my duty than my
desire to make thy short stay with me agreeable.
It was formerly a custom of respectable hosts to entertain an esteemed
guest during his first refection with pleasant stories, traditions,
local news, or other matters; on which account, chiefly, inns or taverns
became known as “houses of entertainment.” Attached as I am to the good
old ways of our forefathers, I will take this chair and relate some
particulars which will not be distasteful to so amiable a spirit as
thine. They will prepare thee for the company of a number of gentlemen,
whom I hope to have the honor of introducing to thee, members of a
society whose meetings are held once a week in my house. If I have not
misjudged thy character, thou wilt be amused with their conversation;
and wilt moreover learn the names of some new dishes, which, with their
assistance, I hope shortly to serve to my customers.
I have here an abridged history of the association, drawn up by the
secretary. It commences thus:
“The society was organized by a few plain individuals whose time was
taken up during the day with the current occupations of life. Men of
moderate capacities and attainments, they united to a little general
knowledge a pretty large amount of ambition, for they determined not to
be overlooked in the general herd of the living, and _not_ to sink into
instant oblivion at death. They had no idea of having their
individualities amalgamated with the myriads travelling with them to the
grave—like drops of rain in a shower, undistinguishable from each other
while falling, and never to be identifiable afterwards. They therefore
cast about for the means of making some noise in the world, or of so
performing their parts on its theatre, that if they could not secure the
applause conferred on first rate actors, they would try to avoid the
silence of contempt, that attends the entrance of poor ones, and the
momentary shrug conferred on the exit of quiet ones.
“Impressed with these views, they concluded to form themselves into some
kind of library or philosophical society, this appearing the most
promising mode of acquiring notoriety. They hoped in this way to
accomplish jointly what they could not do individually, viz. get up
something in the shape of a BOOK, which should make them known while
they lived, and remain a memorial of them after their decrease. It
signified little how poor the performance might be, or how unfit they
were to perform it, for they were aware that the more incapable an
author is the more likely he is sometimes to be remembered; his
unfitness being the very cause of his notoriety. They instanced the case
of W. READ, an English baronet, who published a work on optics, and
could neither write a line of it nor peruse one; or even tell when his
book was upside down—a circumstance by which alone he is still
remembered, and his name renewed in print.
“Then, as for the number of copies sold—should they be many or few—some
stray ones would be almost sure to wander through a century, if not a
longer period; and suppose the leaves _then_ distributed by grocers, as
envelopes of tea, cheese, or soap; or pasted as linings in trunks; they
might perchance call up some recollections of, or enquiries about, the
authors. Nay, if a dozen copies only were printed, future bibliomaniacs
would certainly treasure them up like Queen Anne’s farthings—or like the
twenty-six volumes of sermons by WILLIAM DAVY, a Devonshire clergyman,
of the last century, of which the first and only edition consisted of
fourteen copies. A bookworm prizes one of these as a treasure; and
hence, the members of the proposed association hoped some bookworms of
the twentieth century would cluck over a few impressions of their work,
as brooding hens over their callow young.
“The first thing was to agree on a plan, as success would depend
principally upon the wisdom with which it was drawn up, and the energy
and prudence with which it was carried out. Several meetings were held,
and numerous measures suggested. Mr. Delf thought it would not be amiss
to run over a host of institutions already established. Perhaps, (said
he,) by modifying or by joining one of them, our objects might be
attained. The idea was acted on, but none were found to be precisely
what was wanted. Mr. Digwell remarked, that it would not answer at all
to unite with any. We are (he observed) men of ordinary abilities, of
humble pretensions, and never can attain distinction among abler
persons. Instead of seeking initiation into Lyceums, Academies, and
other bodies of the learned, among whom we can only be hewers of wood
and drawers of water, lighters of lamps and riddlers of ashes—‘helps,’
not members of the family—we ought to establish ourselves on
independent, unoccupied ground. Let us have a field of our own, however
small it may be—one that borders on no other people’s property. [‘A
pretty large field, that,’ observed Dr. Swallow.] I beg pardon; I meant
one so clearly defined, so well enclosed, that there might be no danger
of us trespassing on our neighbor’s grounds, or they hunting on ours.
“I am not prepared at this moment to say where such a field is, but I am
persuaded it is to be had. One to which other associations have no
claim—to which their ‘tracks’ do not lead. It would indeed be unworthy
of us to attempt a location where the title might be disputed; and sure
I am we could not start a new settlement in the vicinity of our
predecessors without being abused as intruders, if not served with writs
of ejectment.
[Illustration:
_Plate 1_ _Primitive_
_Lith. of E. Jones 123 Fulton S^t. N.Y._
]
“Look at the hosts of regular associations for the promotion of
_science_ in general, and others to extend its separate departments; the
world is full of them; they swarm every where. It is the same with
_literary_ societies: these are as common as ‘Common Schools,’ and
excite about the same amount of interest. Academies of the _fine arts_,
and institutions for _agricultural_ and _mechanic arts_, abound in every
village. Their name is legion. So it is with _religious_, _moral_, and
_active benevolent_ societies. The best, at any rate the most
attractive, sites are all taken up—not a yard is left between those
cultivated by national institutes, and such as are covered by parish
associations for the gratuitous distribution of soup.”
[These sentiments were evidently approved, but as the evening was far
advanced, a proposal was made to adjourn; when Mr. Jacob Christener rose
and begged leave to say a few words.]
“The gentleman is right, Mr. Chairman, and I thank him for so clearly
opening the way for a motion I have to make. He has strengthened my
convictions of its propriety, and given me the confidence I lacked to
bring it forward. It seems to me, sir, the only plan open to us is the
one I am about to propose, and if we don’t lay hold of it, others will.
It has hitherto been unthought of, but cannot long remain concealed.
Reject it, and farewell to the happiness anticipated from our union
while we live, and to the odor that is to exhale from our names after
death. Adopt it, and this night we become the parents of a society whose
auxiliaries will rise up in every land. In twelve months, we shall want
a travelling agent, a foreign sec—”
[Here the speaker was interrupted with cries of “What is it?” “There’s
no time for a preface to-night!” “Order!” &c.]
“Well, gentlemen, to be short, then: I propose that we organize
ourselves into ‘_The Society of Literary and Scientific Chiffonniers_.’
[On this announcement, an explosion burst forth simultaneously from
every mouth, except the speaker’s, and some good humored remarks were
exchanged. When the excitement had a little subsided, he continued:] I
was prepared for this; I expected as much; but hear me out, and then be
as merry as you please. If a better plan be not brought forward—one
equally original, and less open to objections—why, then it will be my
turn to laugh.
“Here have we been engaged this evening five mortal hours, without
agreeing on the character of the proposed association, chiefly from the
difficulty of steering clear of those already established. We admit the
latter are too numerous to allow an additional one of the same kind any
chance of success. Why, then, excite a competition we lack means to
carry on? It would be folly to attempt it; besides, we are agreed that
no modification of any old institution can meet our wants. Now, the plan
I propose is derived from and indebted to none. It crowds on and
interferes with none, but gives to all a wide berth. There is no danger
of our ever being amalgamated with any. Our identity will be preserved,
for none will be in a hurry to adopt our designation or infringe on our
labors.
“Let us be candid, at least among ourselves. We are, then, philosophical
mendicants. We have no property of our own—not a scrap—and we confess
inability to originate any. Whatever we get must come from other people;
hence, as members of established societies, we could not succeed, or
even be respected, for we have nothing to command respect; and I risk
little in saying, if we made application for admission, nine-tenths of
us would be blackballed. As well expect Chambers of Commerce to offer
scavengers seats and votes at their boards; or extensive dealers in dry
goods to receive the owners of apple stands into their firms. There are
but two ways to realize anything—honestly and roguishly; or, as the
saying is, ‘by hook or by crook.’ Now, as we disavow all ideas of hooks,
(except the small and harmless ones by which chiffonniers raise moist
matters into their baskets or bags,) we must, to succeed in any other
society, give value for the property we acquire—but this we cannot do—or
receive it as alms—which we won’t do. What, then, is left for us, but to
pick up what others throw away? From my experience, gentlemen, I assert
there is more to be thus got, than you are aware of. With industry, we
can acquire wealth—a local habitation and a name—wealth that none will
dispute with us; for it will consist of a mass of minute matters, which,
individually considered, the owners will be ashamed to claim. If we
cannot deal in webs and wholesale packages of fresh goods, we shall
become extensive jobbers in fragments of old goods.
“Pray, who can interfere with our ranging the bye-paths and alleys, the
cellars and garrets of science, in search of lumber—to pick up, as it
were, bits of rags, bones, and glass, with other small matters, which
the wealthy throw out, and the proud step over? None. On the contrary,
we can rake at our leisure the kennels, and stir up heaps of cinders and
street sweepings, without let or hindrance; and, depend upon it, we
shall every now and then meet with a godsend, (as our prototypes often
do, in the shape of a silver spoon or fork, thrown out in slops by
slipshod scullions.) Yes, industrious chiffonniers, we shall bring many
rare and lost things to light—things singularly _recherché_—curious and
useful as those found in historical and antiquarian collections. If we
are true to ourselves, the ‘Chiffonniers’ Repository’ will soon equal in
interest any other.
“Our labors will be pleasant; we can carry off what we fancy, and leave
what is disagreeable. They will be profitable. Many a chiffonnier has
purchased the house in front of which he once looked out for chiffons,
has changed conditions with its owner, thrown off his professional garb
and stepped into the parlor, lounged as a gentleman on his own sofa, and
listened to the warblings of his daughters at the piano! And who knows,
Mr. Chairman, but we shall do so too—shall hold our meetings in stately
buildings now belonging to other societies, compete with the wealthy
Nestors of knowledge in their own halls, and perhaps at last turn them
out of their own doors! [Cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ interrupted the
speaker.]
“Think, gentlemen, how interesting our meetings will be. When a member
brings in his budget and displays his gatherings, who can sit still? Who
can restrain his curiosity? Verily, not one of us! Then what original,
erudite, and racy remarks will be made! Here, a speaker descanting on
the value of spoons, or the history of gridirons; there, another
relating the adventures of a stocking foot, which he proves once had a
place in Queen Elizabeth’s or Madame Maintenon’s wardrobe. This member
gives a lecture on the value of many simple and primitive devices which
the world never thinks of; and that, shows the claims which the trammel
and tinder-box have on the gratitude of mankind!
“Another word, and I have done: We shall have a jubilee once a year; for
I propose that we offer a collection of chiffons at public sale, every
spring or fall. Then will buyers of miscellanies crowd our marts, and
bring us their wealth in exchange for our wares! We shall make a kind of
Leipsic Fair of it! Gentlemen, our prospects are glorious; they brighten
as we gaze at them. I feel animated by anticipations of success. I see
that as Chiffonniers we shall ascend the rugged mount on which stands
the temple of Fame, and get there before others who are now half way up.
Bless us! what a welcome the old lady will give us to her abode! What a
blast she will blow in honor of chiffonniering!—in praise of a new set
of men who have cut a new path to her dwelling!”
[The speaker sat down amidst much acclamation.]
“The discussion here closed for the evening, and was resumed on the
following one, when an extended and animated debate was kept up to a
late hour. Various slight modifications of the plan suggested were
brought forward. They will be understood from the style or title by
which each speaker proposed to designate the body. The most striking
were: ‘Odds and Ends Association,’ ‘Literary Rag Society,’ ‘Scientific
Scrap ditto,’ ‘Miscellany Club,’ ‘Chiffonniers’ Institute,’ ‘Society for
reviving the claims and preserving memorials of sundry Primitive
Inventions,’ ‘Emporium of Philosophical Small Wares.’ The general
feeling settled on the fourth and fifth. At the first ballot, the votes
stood equally in favor of the Miscellanarians and the Chiffonniers—but
on the second, the street rovers and rag pickers were triumphant.
“The Chiffonniers admitted ‘The Miscellany Club’ would be a more
respectable designation; and the Miscellanarians conceded that ‘The
Chiffonniers’ Institute’ was characteristic and select. By a subsequent
and unanimous vote, the latter was changed to ‘_The Society of Literary
and Scientific Chiffonniers_,’ as at first proposed.
“A constitution was next agreed on. It declares the objects of the
society to be, the picking up of literary, philosophical, mechanical, or
other fragments, from unusual or neglected sources, and to revive the
claims of simple, and what are generally deemed insignificant, devices.
It is the duty of each member to visit odd and out of the way places,
open to him, in search of chiffons. Common subjects of discussion are
excluded at the meetings. A paper on matches or walking-sticks would be
applauded, while one on the strength or other properties of timber would
be a signal for the author’s expulsion. A communication on costume would
be received perhaps with indifference, but if confined to a single
article of apparel, or to a fragment of one, would be hailed with
acclamation. A lecture on any regular manufacture, as glass making, iron
founding, earthen ware, the furniture of a parlor or kitchen, &c. would
hardly be admissible; but one on a bottle, or part of one, on a caldron,
a pipkin, a broken chair, or a cheese grater, would rejoice the hearts
of the members. Every chiffonnier to prepare a paper or lecture on a
chiffon, in his turn.
“At the first meeting under the constitution, the expressive apothegm
‘_Vive la Bagatelle_’ was selected as the Society’s motto. The author of
the plan adopted was chosen President, but as Mr. Christener persisted
in declining the chair, to which he was entitled, the late Dr. Nathan
Swallow was elected, though not by a unanimous vote. No other member
possessed such varied qualifications. His experience with men and
matters was extensive, for he had dabbled in almost every thing, but
succeeded in few.
“Had been every thing by starts, but nothing long.”
“How he came by his title is a vexed question, as he was never known to
have studied medicine, nor to have dealt in drugs, except one which no
longer holds a place in the pharmacopia. Alchemy was his favorite study,
and he is said to have made a near approach to projection; _i. e._ to
the composition of a powder which, thrown into certain ingredients,
transmutes them to gold. Certain it is, he realized money by a secret of
this kind, while others who tried it were ruined. One person of property
lost his all in two years; and another was beggared in less time, and
consigned, a hopeless maniac, to a lunatic asylum; but the history of
modern as well as ancient alchemy is full of such things.
“He talked on all subjects, practical or theoretical, physical or
metaphysical; on the properties of iron and whiskey, colors and
calicoes, filial obedience and the philosopher’s stone; on the evils of
theatres, and the performance of crack actors. He occasionally performed
Falstaff, and without stuffing, for he was what the French call _chargé
de cuisine_. Columbus himself was not more embued with the spirit of
adventure. Within a fortnight of first hearing the terms geognosy,
hornblende, serpentine, trilobite, and madrepore, in a conversation
between two geologists, he had a person at work labeling a basket of
minerals; and getting the names of a dozen by heart, boldly proposed to
undertake the survey of a state. An extraordinary chiffonnier, he dashed
without hesitancy into every opening where chiffons were likely to be
had—he was not one of those who confine themselves to street sweepings,
but was ever on the _qui vive_ for wholesale speculations. Dryden
certainly must have dreamt of him when describing Buckingham, for
He was often in the course of one revolving moon,
Author, actor, artist, cook, chemist, and buffoon:
“And in another month as many more.
“Rich in Apician lore, he could enumerate the famous dishes of old, from
those placed on the table of Heliogabalus to Spartan broth and Athenian
porridge, and could name the ingredients of all. In modern cookery, he
was more at home; nothing escaped his observation, and but little his
palate. His taste was equal to Pollio’s; his knowledge of the mysteries
of the kitchen surpassed that of M. Beaujeu. See him take his seat at a
supper party; watch him draw a laden dish towards him, and you would
shudder from a dread that his eyes were about to drop into his plate—as
if attached like those of the chameleon to the ends of flexible tubes,
so fearfully did they advance and recede. He was at one time known as
‘Spoonie,’ and ‘Eating Nat,’ for he had an appetite equal to Galba’s—a
stomach capacious as that of Vitellius. His spoon, and he had one for
his exclusive use, might apply to him, with a slight alteration, an
epigram by Boileau:
Here lies my owner, and heaven knows,
Not less for mine than his repose.
“An excellent representative of the god of raillery and ridicule—that
is, if Momus was a short and squab fellow of forty, with a droll leer, a
shambling gait, and a touch of Silenus or Bacchus about him. Exceedingly
facetious, the Doctor told stories equal to Matthews or Hackett, and
rivaled Braham in singing. He was full of first rate though second hand
wit. His physiognomy was prepossessing, though his friends used to joke
him about a devil lurking in his eye, which, they said, appeared sly as
Sancho’s, and mischievous as the solitary one in Ichabod Crane’s nag.
“His knowledge was said by his friends to have been universal. In
science, an Arago; in philosophy, a Newton; in chemistry, a Farraday or
Berzelius; in general knowledge, a Crichton. Well versed in Thaumaturgy,
he certainly could beat conjurers at their own weapons. An adept in
Metoposcopy, he saw at once the various points in human character, and
by some mesmeric influence could always open a communication between
himself and those in whose affairs he wished to take an interest.
“All great men have their enemies, and Doctor Swallow was not without
his. He had to pay the usual penalty exacted by envious detractors.
These insisted that he was a literary Bombastes, in veracity a
Mandeville, in morals a Mephistopheles, in scheming a Machiavel, and in
every thing except humbugging a humbug. A retailer of other men’s ideas,
which (said they) he claimed as his own, and, like all liars, often
forgot himself and claimed them in the presence of those from whom he
received them—that his life was a lie. There is little doubt, that both
parties were wrong. He never was the angel one made him, nor the devil
the other called him; but, whatever he was, he was made President of the
Society; and, all things considered, it was thought a better selection
could not have been made; for, as an old chiffonnier, he had picked up
more chiffons, and knew how to make more of them, than any other artist
who lived by the hook.
“Popular with most of the members, nearly all consulted him on subjects
they brought forward. Ever ready to give advice, and seldom more pleased
than when asked for it. Though he never wrote a paper but one, and of
the authorship of that some doubts have been raised, he was a judge of
what would ‘take;’ or, what often amounts to the same thing, he had that
reputation.
“When conducted to the chair, he rose with smiles playing round his lips
and satisfaction sparkling in his eyes, and thus commenced his opening
address: Gentlemen, I ... I know not how to thank you for this honor.
I ... I ... d—n it, I cannot make a formal speech—I never could—unless I
had it by heart. I tried once before at extempore, but it was no go;
after getting rid of a few sentences, a kind of mental and physical
lock-jaw seized me, and there I stood—my mouth wide open, and without
the power to close it, or to call to mind what I meant to say. It was
said I stood grinning like a Barbary ape, and in my efforts to
articulate might have stood longer, if Medlar had not pulled me down by
the skirt, while saying loud enough (hang him) for half the room to
hear, ‘don’t make an ass of yourself, Nat.’ Gentlemen, that man is now
here, and I never see him without thinking of the predicament I was in,
and the ugly epithet he gave me. I cannot go on unless he goes out, and
I am not sure even then. But, gentlemen, if I cannot thank you as I’d
like to, I can treat you to something better—something to eat. Will not
a member move an adjournment to my house, where we can discuss matters
more at ease, and amuse ourselves at intervals with a cold cut and a
drop of”—[Ere the proposition was finished, the meeting adjourned amidst
cries of ‘Bravo!’ ‘Excellent!’ ‘A first rate speech, that, Doctor!’]
“Rëassembled at his dwelling, the party partook of a substantial supper,
during which a curious conversation arose on variety of tastes for food.
Mr. Milder, an amiable and highly intelligent young man, but rather odd
in some of his views, thought it artificial; others, with the Doctor,
contended that it was natural. Nature, it was said, never designed men
to live on one kind of food; if she had, she would not have furnished
them with so many. She moreover produces no one in sufficient quantities
to supersede all others, nor has she distributed any one over the whole
earth. That’s true, observed the Doctor; if we were designed to have but
one dish, as pork, beef, mutton, or turkey, bread, cabbage, potatoes, or
yams, I should like to know where _enough_ is to come from? The case is
different with drink. Water may be the natural beverage of animals and
men, for it is every where, and every where abundant; but not so with
either animal or vegetable food. It was further observed by the
advocates for variety, that we might as well read only one book as eat
of one dish; for if material palates are originally moulded after one
pattern, so are literary ones. But no, said they; Nature has made both
to vary as much as the minds and persons or faces of men. The Doctor
thought if men had but one dish for the body and another for the mind,
it would save a world of trouble to booksellers and keepers of eating
houses; yet, even with those people, he was sure things were better as
they are, because, said he, different tastes bring into action diverse
talents, and so give employment to hosts of writers, and, what is
better, to swarms of cooks. It is therefore right that what suits one
stomach should not be the thing to tickle all others. Here is my friend,
Sam Tortiller, imagines a connection between the bent of man’s genius
and his favorite food; as if by knowing the general course of a person’s
studies one could tell what he craves for his dinner, and _vice versa_.
I don’t believe a word of it. A writer on morals may love pork, and an
author of romances abhor it; but, to my knowledge, all pork eaters are
not righteous men, nor those who let pigs alone composers of fiction.
Professor Freeling often digests turkey, but it’s not every chemist who
can afford to put that into his digester. Then there is Finelli, a lover
of shell fish—but what then?—if the lady that poets call the Genius of
Song sometimes visits an oyster cellar, she does not confine her favors
to those who either chew or eschew clams, crabs, and lobsters. Mr.
Milder, let me help you to a slice of this ham; I believe you have not
tasted it.”
“Not any for me; I never eat any, Mr. President.”
“Not eat ham! Why, you are neither a Jew nor a Turk, I hope, to
abominate those glorious animals that supply us with the richest of all
relishes?”
“No; but I prefer hams from China, if I must eat any.”
“O! O! I thought you knew what’s good! Well! I can’t say this fine
fellow ever ran through the streets of Canton; but, is the difference of
flavor between your oriental favorites and ours very sensible?”
“Very.”
“Ah! I must get my friend, Captain Drinker, to bring over a Chinaman
grunter, or a few hams; but, will these not spoil on the voyage?”
“No danger of that. The fact is, sir, I am not a consumer of animal
food; the joints I allude too are _vegetable_ ones. They are described
by La Compte and other travellers.”
“You are joking, (observed the Doctor, inquiringly;) Sam, here, says you
are a terrible bore that way!”
“Not at all, (replied Mr. Milder;) I almost hope to see the day when no
other hams will be used. You have heard of _wooden_ ones?”
“Yes! Carved blocks of wood, so neatly sewed up in hog skins, as to
deceive the eyes of the keenest pork butchers! Yes; I have read of
people boiling them, but I never heard of any having been _eaten_.”
“True; but even that is not so unlikely as you seem to think.”
“I pray heaven, (said the Doctor,) the practice may never become
general; the chine of a two year old shote is with me a favorite dish.
What reason have you for supposing it ever will, Mr. Milder?”
“Why, sir, you of course know that a few years ago, a German philosopher
discovered the nutritious elements of wheaten bread in wooden meal—that
he made wholsome cakes out of pine boards, and supported his wife and
five children for seven weeks on dumplings kneaded of dough formed of
fine sawdust and water. The paste, it is said, rose without leaven, and
when cooked was really delicious—especially so, when lubricated with
molasses, or sprinkled with the essence of sugar, extracted by Braçonnot
from old rags and scrap paper. Now, an ingenious friend of mine has been
engaged on a somewhat analogous subject for the last twelve months, and,
from an experiment I witnessed yesterday, I have no hesitation in
avowing my confidence in his assertion that he will shortly produce good
palatable pork out of whitewood, and well seasoned hams from red cedar.”
[Much laughter, during which the Doctor observed, in a suppressed voice,
to the gentleman at his right, “Sam, this fellow is a devil of a quiz; I
cannot believe he is serious, and yet what a solemn phiz he puts on.”]
“Now, sir, (continued Mr. Milder,) where is there a man of feeling who
would not rejoice at the success of my friend, in attempting to change
the world from a shambles for gratifying the carnivorous appetites of
our species—a slaughter house constantly flooded with gore and vibrating
with the shrieks of expiring victims? For my part, sir, I never see a
female cutting up raw flesh, her hands smeared with blood—now killing,
plucking, embowelling, and at last, with perfect nonchalance,
transfixing innocent fowls or sucking pigs on the spit, without
shuddering at the disgusting employment—at the horrible effects of
indulging unnatural appetites! O! how would the spirit of humanity exult
at the abolition of animal diet—or even at the general introduction of
vegetable hams! These would be a consummation in morals and science
devoutly to be wished—to be prayed for; all Nature, sir, would rejoice
at their manufacture—at any rate, sir, you will admit, all PIGS
would—and well they might, as they would (to use a vulgar expression)
then save their own bacon! Yes! Their days of mourning would then be
over.
“And why should they not save it, sir, as well as we preserve ours? Has
not a pig organs, dimensions, feelings, passions, affections? If struck,
does it not cry? If wounded, does it not bleed? If imprisoned and in
bonds, does it not struggle to be free? If driven to the shambles, does
it not refuse to go? When slain, does it not suffer the pangs of death?
In one word, sir, is not life as precious to pigs as to any of us? And
would they not have cause to rejoice were they and their offspring no
longer murdered ere living out half their days? Millions are slain in
their infancy, and their parents in the vigor of life! Upwards of a
century ago, not less than 52,500 sucking innocents were annually
immolated in London alone!
Lovely buds—their mother’s pride!
[Here, as at every other pause made by the speaker, excessive laughter
broke out afresh; but, unembarrassed, he continued:]
“There is something else, sir, in connection with this subject, which
every lover of his country should deplore. Slavery is an unmitigated
evil, and we are taught to admire the free States for shaking the
incubus off; it is, however, a melancholy fact, that the citizens of
what is called one of the most enlightened and liberal, are carrying to
a horrible extent, a system almost equally atrocious. As if regretting
their lost dominion over negroes, they seem determined to be revenged a
hundred fold upon a race, between which and ours Blumenbach, in his
remarks on varieties of complexion, has traced many analogies. Yes! The
capital city of Ohio is rapidly rising into power, on the bodies of
slaughtered swine! She is already known as ‘The Emporium of Pork’—a
designation which wicked Nineveh or more wicked Gomorrah would have
shrunk from. Her merchandise is flesh. Her bulletins are occupied with
its sales, and as the market price rises and falls, so does the value of
her real estate. Her merchants are butchers; her staple is stearine; her
palaces are built with the price of blood, and illumined at night with
the fat of her slain! All her lamps are replenished with lard! Like
Babylon, ‘seated on many waters, and drunken with blood,’ so reclines
Cincinnati, on a larger stream than the Euphrates, clothed in scarlet,
and proudly calling herself ‘Queen of the West!’ But let her beware—for,
depend upon it, sir, vengeance will not sleep forever; and when pigs get
their rights, she will meet her deserts!”
[On Mr. Milder concluding his remarks, a shout of laughter arose that
shook both floor and table. Some held their sides, and groaned with
pain; others screeched as they, ever and anon, glanced at the
imperturbable gravity of Mr. M. and the woful appearance of the
President’s face.]
* * * * *
But, indulgent guest, I am trespassing too much on thy patience. I will
therefore lay aside, for the present, this account of the Society, and
the rather since the author presses hard on the late President. They
never were friendly. The Doctor, like other men, had his faults; but he
had good qualities as well. Peace to his ashes! He was one of my best
customers in one respect though not in another; for he never was in a
hurry to wipe out his scores, and, to speak truth, some he never wiped
out. When my turn came round for a paper, I consulted him for a subject,
and submitted to him what I wrote. Desirous of not disgracing my former
profession of schoolmaster, I took particular pains; but the subject was
new, and embarrassed me much. When I left the choice to him, I little
imagined he would take a knife from the table, and insist that _it_
should be my text. However, I made out tolerably well; though he was
sparing of praise. He was, in fact, not altogether pleased with my
“Adventures of a Carving Knife;” but he made ample amends on another
occasion, as will soon be perceived.
My next attempt was a higher flight—a composition half dramatic. There
were passages in it of tragic interest: at least, _I_ thought so. The
subject—an ancient pincushion, brought over in the Mayflower. I had a
presentiment that I should take the Doctor by surprise—snatch him up, as
by a hurricane, into the regions of romance, and extort his praise ere
he had time to descend and recover his self-possession. And, sure
enough, something even more than this took place.
By appointment, I met him at his own house. He was in a happy mood,
having just risen from dinner. We retired to the parlor, and I handed
him the MS. Drawing his arm-chair in front of the fire, and desiring me
to take another, he made a remark about the high price of beef, and
commenced reading the first paragraph; but he made such murdering work
of the sense, running one sentence half way into another, and then
stopping as if brought up by a period, that I wriggled in the chair, and
felt my viscera squirming like eels in a bag. I stopped him to explain,
but he ascribed every thing to what he called my illegible hand. I
proposed to read it myself. To this, he consented; and, for the benefit
of light, I stepped to the window, some distance behind him; a
circumstance which increased my confidence, and left him free to enter
into the spirit of the story, unembarrassed with external interruptions.
I had not got through the first chapter before he gave utterance to some
short but flattering expressions. They encouraged me wonderfully, and
ere the second was finished became more frequent; the words “rich!”
“capital!” dropped from him several times. I felt elated, and went on
trippingly to the end—borne along by the kindness of his manner, and
quite lifted up with the confidence of having fairly gained his
approbation. The reading did not occupy over fifteen minutes; and, when
finished, I remained standing, ready, with pencil in hand, to make such
corrections and alterations as he might suggest. He seemed to be
balancing the merits of different parts; for he said, as if to himself,
“that was overdone;” “the other excellent;” “capital!” He resembled the
gentleman mentioned by Horace,
Who long imagin’d that he heard the tone
Of deep Tragedians on an empty stage,
And sat applauding, in ecstatic rage.
[Illustration:
_Plate 2_ _Roman_
]
My feelings quickly overcame my politeness, and I cried “Come, Doctor,
what is the sentence? Life or death?” (I had heard enough to know what
it would be.) As I said this, I resumed my seat beside him, and thanked
him for the kind attention he had given to the humble performance; but I
had scarcely finished the last word ere my old friend gave a memorable
proof of the intense interest he had taken in the story—of the fine
sensibilities of his nature, and the depth of his feelings. Now, Sir
Guest, what think you he did? Perhaps you say: ‘I suppose, Mr. Westman,
his cheeks were streaming with tears—his passions, excited by the
incidents of the story, had not recovered their natural tone! Or, did he
spring from his seat and embrace the magician, who had such power to
enchant him? Either would have been very natural.’
He did neither, sir; he was unable to rise.
‘Indeed! Why, what was the matter?’
His mental and bodily powers were prostrated.
‘What do you mean?’
He was dead! th—
‘_Dead!_ did you say, Mr. Westman?’
On my conscience, yes sir; that is, he was, as the saying goes, _dead
asleep_! As for tears, his cheeks were as free from them as the back of
my hand, and his face calm as an infant’s reposing on its mother’s
breast.
‘You really surprise me!’
I was astonished myself sir.
‘And how did you act on making this strange discovery?’
I don’t exactly know what I did, sir—nor what I thought—nor how I felt.
I was paralyzed—deprived of the powers of speech and motion. My
respiration was thick, and at last suspended. I believe I sat gazing on
him five minutes without breathing or moving a muscle, except those by
which the lower jaw is dropped to its farthest extent, and such as push
the eyes out of the head. There was no mistake about his slumbers; to
satisfy myself that they were genuine, I remember stretching my face
towards his till both were nearly in contact. His mouth was wide open,
and I had a full view of the horrible cavern within. What I suffered,
ere I had power to leave my seat, was dreadful. Impalement could hardly,
I should think, surpass it. When at last I rose and stepped in front of
him, heaven forgive me, for, though I say it myself, a quieter man does
not breathe, I felt as much inclined to push the end of my cane down his
gullet as ever I had to send any thing pleasant down my own.
On second thoughts, I took my hat, put the MS. in my pocket, and walked
softly to the door of the room; when I heard him mutter something about
“Betty ... sauce rich; veal ... overdone; rabbits ... excellent.” The
brute, sir—pardon the uncivil word—was dreaming about his dinner; but
that was not all, nor the worst; for it was now clear he had fallen
asleep almost as soon as he sat down, and the expressions of approbation
which I had foolishly taken to myself were in reality compliments to
Betty’s skill in roasting and boiling! When this truth flashed on my
mind, I felt keenly—my wrath rose, and Satan strongly urged me back to
take leave of him by no gentle shake of his person or tweak of his
proboscis—but either my good genius or his own interfered, and I
hastened out of the house, without meeting one of the family. I am
ashamed to say, I felt very unwell during the rest of the day, being
greatly more affected than a sensible mart should have been; but our
feelings are not in our power.
I mentioned the circumstance to a few members the same evening, and
learned the Doctor had been in gay company all the morning, and was
certainly half drunk at the time of my interview with him. I certainly
did notice something strange in him, but my mind was wholly absorbed on
the paper. We were anxious to know how he would face the matter out; for
no one believed he would for a moment acknowledge being asleep. Within a
few days, Medlar, Pickwell, and I, met him in the street; when,—would
you believe it?—without the slightest indication of embarrassment, he
began the following colloquy:
‘Neighbor Westman, further reflection has convinced me your last paper
will never do. It will gain you neither credit with the members nor
custom from their friends.’
_Further reflection_, did you say, Doctor!
‘There’s nothing in it, believe me, (said he,) neither life—’
Rather nettled, I abruptly asked _what_ he wanted in it.
‘I’ll tell you what I don’t want—(he replied;) a tale dull and
monotonous from beginning to end—one without a grain of piquancy in
it—flat and distasteful as buckwheat cakes without salt or sauce.’
Now I thought I had done better than could have been expected; but stop,
did you hear a word of—
‘_Expected!_ (he cried out, as if wanting to hear nothing more;) I
expect, and so will the members, something like the spices and pickles
at your ordinaries, and which you know full well often help an insipid
dish down. The paper has but one quality that can render it of any
service.’
What may that be?
‘It might serve on occasion as a soporific.’
I believe I colored at this, and said sharply, Yes, I understand. It
composed _you_ to sleep quick enough—or something else did.
‘No! not asleep; (said he, unabashed, as with a face of flint—absolutely
staggering me with the audacious falsehood;) I remember feeling a little
drowsy.’
Indeed! Do you recollect anything else?
‘No! nothing particular—ex—except that my strictures were perhaps too
severe; but I did not wish to mislead you by being less pointed.’
_Your strictures, eh!_ Why, you made none, and for the best of reasons!
Look ye, Doctor, you may, for aught I know, be able to catch authors
napping when you’re awake, but not when you’re actually snoring. I’ve
seen further into your head than you imagine.
Mr. Westman, (said he, in a bristling manner,) I hope you don’t mean
to—to—t—t—t—’
Yes, I do! and what’s more Doctor, I felt so confoundedly queer that I
had some difficulty in refraining from—
‘From what?’
Never mind; I’ve got over it now; but you don’t see another paper of
mine, I promise you, unless you will go through it before dinner.
“Further reflection,” as you say, has convinced me the last is yet
defective. I’ll revise, and we’ll read it some evening.
‘Better put it in the fire, some morning, (he said, resentfully, as if
caught in an unpleasant dilemma, and determined to get out with a bold
face; then assuming a patronizing tone, added:) Believe me, neighbor,
you, and others I wot of, will never succeed in life till you let
scribbling alone.’
Then, Doctor, let me tell you tha—
‘Peace, (he interrupted,) I pray you, peace! I know you, and Medlar, and
Fribble, and Delever, well. Your talents are good of their _kind_, and
may be useful in their _place_.’
In their place! Where is that?
‘_In the kitchen!_ Confine your energies to your proper vocations, and
you may do well. Stick to your fires and fuel, your andirons and
hearths, spits and bellows, pots and pans, knives and forks—to your
ladles and spoons—to—’
Enough! Enough! Egad, Doctor, you are right this time! (I exclaimed.)
Yes, we will! We’ll write papers on all of them; and I’ll begin myself
with THE SPOON.
On hearing this, he gazed intently on my face, and, as he turned on his
heel, whispered in my ear, “Habbakuk, thou hast been handling thy
decanters this morning!”
* * * * *
I have no more to add, except to appeal, courteous reader, to thy
judgment. Let me, therefore, entreat thee not to peruse the following
pages directly after dinner, lest Morpheus make his appearance, and thou
shouldst sin, like the President of the Chiffonnier Society, by
ascribing the imp’s visit to
HAB’K O. WESTMAN.
=The Spoon;=
ANCIENT AND MODERN.
CHAPTER I.
_Singular Subjects chosen by Authors—The Spoon, a popular and fertile
one—Sancho Panza, a Spoonmaker—Influence of this Profession on his
Adventures—Ingenuity of Cervantes—Pedro Garcia’s Purse—Selection of
the Spoon for a Theme, an Indication of Taste—One of the first things
wanted on coming into the world, and last parted with ere going
out—Its Domestic and Moral Influence—Ancient Fracas with Hot Broth._
Singular are the subjects on which authors have written: as Lucian on a
fly, Apuleius on the ass, Virgil on a gnat, and Homer on a pitched
battle between some frogs and mice. One writer is sublime on a flea,
another on the north wind, and a third on nothing. Here, one expatiates
on the social pipe; and there, goes a royal counterblast against
tobacco. Pope has a poem on a lock of hair, Gray wrote lines on a cat,
Prior on the ladle, and Cowper on the sofa. Tasso spun out twelve cantos
on a bucket, and John Heywood, in Henry the Eighth’s time, wrote
seventy-seven chapters on cobwebs and spiders.
The merry Dean of St. Patrick’s wrote an essay on a broomstick; and some
reviewer of a late work on hydraulics thinks the author could readily
compose a homily on pump handles, or a series of meditations on cistern
hooks. A fig for such subjects, and those who discuss them. A person’s
taste is seen in what he writes on, as well as in what flows from his
pen; and small must be the brains that think on such things. Every one
knows Swift’s head was worn out when kind Nature led him to muse on the
stump of a besom—an emblem of himself. As there was always something of
the wizard about him, he naturally selected the same hobby that
accommodates witches in their evening excursions. As for the other
gentleman, he must be a dry soul indeed, since he could hit upon nothing
but water, about which to fill up a book—or some rickety machines to get
at it.
Commend us to something better than either; and on the present occasion
to that which daily inspired the reverend wit, and at which it is very
certain every writer on water-works has labored oftener than at any pump
gearing—_videlicit_, A SPOON. Why, there’s life in the sound! To the
hungry and poor and rich, it conjures up visions of pleasure. Its very
picture moves the salivary glands into action, and sets the lickerish
muscles agog, while thoughts of the good things with which it often is
laden make mendicants draw in their breath and thrust out their lips, as
if about to salute it!
What gentleman cares for a broom, or a cistern pole, except to kick them
out of his way, as a fat neighbor of ours did yesterday? But for a
spoon, ah! how eagerly he seized it at dinner! Like the hand of a friend
for whom he had long anxiously waited, and from whom he could hardly be
prevailed on to part.
As a novel and a popular subject, the spoon is unrivaled—as a fertile
one, its equal never rose in the brains of Will Shakespeare or John
Baptiste Moliere; and that is strange too, seeing the implement so often
entered their heads. A Spanish writer of the sixteenth century, however,
did not let it escape him. His wanderings through various countries, and
in indifferent circumstances, made him too keenly alive to its value to
forget or neglect it. He has immortalized himself by recording the
adventures of a spoonmaker, in an inimitable piece of biography.
‘Indeed! (exclaims some reader.) Pray, of whom do you speak? Who was
this author, and who the mechanic he snatched from oblivion?’
Strange that at this day such a question should be asked! But, Miguel de
Cervantes Saavedra was the writer, and Sancho Panza the artist.
‘Sancho Panza! The short and fat husband of Tereza—the Governor of
Barrataria—he whose simplicity and shrewdness, jokes and proverbs, were
so pleasant; and whose witty conceits fell from him as thick as drops in
a shower—a maker of spoons?’
To be sure he was! And it was from this circumstance he became so expert
in handling them, and which led him to prefer olla-podridas, stews, and
hashes of cow beef and onions, to Milan godwits, Roman pheasants, geese
of Lavajos, and other kickshaws, which Doctor Pedro Rezio Aquero de
Tirteafuera and the steward talked about. Not that Sancho loved good
eating more than other people, but he naturally enough preferred those
kinds of food which were fluid, in the conveyance of which to his mouth
he had become quite familiar from his previous professions and habits.
Cervantes, to elucidate the association of ideas and the force of early
impressions, wittily concealed this employment of Sancho’s, and left it
till the knight was condemned by him of the ‘White Moon’ to refrain for
a whole year from using a sword, or going in quest of adventures. Then
the truth unexpectedly appears. Quixote proposed to pass the time in
pastoral pursuits. ‘O, Sancho! said he; we will turn shepherds for the
time I must live retired. I will buy sheep and all necessary materials.
We will range the mountains, the woods, and the meadows—singing here and
complaining there—drinking the liquid crystal of the fountains, of the
limpid brooks, and the mighty rivers. The oaks, with a plentiful hand,
shall give their sweetest fruit—the trunks of the hardest cork-trees
shall afford us seats, the willows shade, and the roses scent. The
spacious meadows shall yield us carpets of a thousand colors—the air,
clear and pure, shall supply breath, the moon and stars afford light,
maugre the darkness of nights—singing shrill furnish pleasure, and
complaining yield delight! Heaven be my aid! What a life shall we lead,
friend Sancho! What a world of bagpipes shall we hear! What pipes of
Zamora! What tambourets and rebecks!’
‘Before God, quoth Sancho, this kind of life squares with me exactly;
and no sooner will the Bachelor Sampson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas
the barber, have well seen it, but they will have a mind to follow, and
turn shepherds with us; and God grant that the priest have not an
inclination to make one in the fold; he is of so gay a temper, and such
a lover of mirth!’ After arranging about shepherdesses, each amateur
shepherd to have one, except the priest, who, according to Sancho’s
views, ought not to be associated with a lady; but if the bachelor
Sampson was inclined that way, why, his soul was at his own disposal.
Then the knight begins to anticipate the ditties he and his associates
would indite to the charms of their lady loves, when Sancho, mentally
recurring to occupations more agreeable to _his_ taste, and with which
he was more at home, exclaims in a rapture, ‘O! what SPOONS! What neat
WOODEN SPOONS will I make when a shepherd!’ An exclamation which he
never, of course, could have made had he not been engaged in that
business before. Then, like a sound philosopher, who only regards
science and the arts in proportion as they are applied to the purposes
of life, he instantly recurs to the _use_ of spoons, and, very naturally
to the agreeable visions they call up. “What crumbs! What cream! What
olla-podridas! What stews we shall have!”
Having thus shown that the Knight of La Mancha’s squire was, in the
early part of his career, a manufacturer of spoons, the reader will at
once concede the propriety of this reference to his labors; since he is,
beyond controversy, the most famed character of the kind in print. But
that is not all. There are other things in Cervantes which reviewers
never dreamt of. It were an easy matter to show, but would be out of
place here, that the celebrity of his great work is due chiefly to
spoons; for example, had he withheld from Sancho the penchant for
handling them, the history of Quixote might as well have been without
the owner of Dapple; and every body knows what an insipid affair it
would have been then. From what but the free use of spoons were the
jolly face and sly look of Sancho derived? To what else but their
neglect was to be attributed the ghastly appearance of him of the Rueful
Countenance? Silenus and a moving corpse!
Such are the wonders wrought by the Spoon: but, great as they appear,
they are not the greatest. Had the knight lived in the manner of Sancho,
he had never lost his wits; and had the latter dieted as his master, he
never would have had any. The moral of the romance is misunderstood. The
author designed to inculcate this truth—that the proper use of a spoon
can make a sensible man of a fool, and the neglect of it a fool of a
sensible man!
The Spoon is really the nucleus of the romance—the core on which the
party colored threads of the story are wound. Indeed, the whole affair
is nothing else than a mystic account of this useful little implement,
and written by Cervantes, most likely to fulfill a vow made on account
of the services it rendered him on some occasions of extreme
distress—occasions, from the checkered scenes of his life, believed to
have been of frequent occurrence.
These things, to be sure, do not stand up on the surface—they are not
seen at a glance. Cervantes, in concealing them from readers whose
obtuseness of intellect does not suspect them, or who will not take the
trouble to look for them, imitated the conduct of his witty and
ingenious countryman, Pedro Garcias, whose epitaph strangely announced
that his _soul_ lay under the slab. And there it did lay, without
exciting the least curiosity from the crowds walking over it, until a
poor and shrewd student of Salamanca, travelling that way, guessed the
truth, disinterred, and joyfully carried home the Licentiate’s soul in
his pocket. But to leave such matters: As every person on earth loves a
spoon, there are few who cannot relish an essay upon it; and all will
admit its selection for a theme, if no proof of genius, is at least a
strong indication of taste.
The Spoon is one of the first things wanted when we come into the world,
and one of the last we part with before we go out. It is the companion
of childhood, manhood, and age—the great nurse of mankind. It
administers comfort to ladies when they ‘lay in,’ and to every person
before being ‘laid out.’ Without it, no baby takes pap; nor boys and
girls porridge or soup; the man acquires strength by its aid, and it
assists in prolonging the years of the old and infirm. In the hands of
physicians, it drives sickness away; and when the angel of death comes
at last, it soothes the last moments of many.
Its influence is felt in every department of life—in manners, morals,
and even in national characteristics. Associated almost as much with the
soul as the body, it seems equally to modify both. It is a healer of
wounds, whether in the person or mind. What tempers has it not
subdued—what passions allayed! For it is always called in after a broil
to promote peace and good will. What evils, too, has it not extinguished
which want has conceived and poverty planned! Hunger and haggard despair
fly before it, while health and hilarity attend it! It is, and justly, a
universal favorite—as well with the savage as the sage—with ladies and
their maids—with children and their grandpapas.
What urchin has not felt more elastic when beholding his mother beating
up eggs for plum-cake with a spoon; or stood by when with it she scraped
out the bowl in which the pudding was made! And where is the youngster
with ‘a sweet tooth’ that has not thrust it with delight into ‘mush and
molasses!’ or with joy almost extatic made it dive into ‘samp,’ through
an ocean of melted butter and sugar! As for grown people, it daily works
the same wonders in them as it did in the Rev. Mr. Sampson when applied
by the hospitable hand of Mrs. Merriless. In barbarous and
semi-barbarous countries, few meals are prepared without it, but in
civilized life it is as regular an attendant at table as plates.
The moral influence of the spoon is remarkable. It preaches contentment,
and fosters no pride. It enters the cottage and comforts those who are
too poor to own either cottage or cot. It ascends into garrets, dives
into cellars, and forces its way into prisons, where, like a Howard or
Frye, it condoles with the children of sorrow. It is all things to all
men, for it adapts itself to the circumstances of all. To the humble or
poor, it appears in homely apparel; to the rich and the proud, it shines
forth in ivory and pearl—in silver and gold.
Some men talk about the ‘social glass’—of the pleasures it imparts, the
agreeable reminiscences it calls up; but what are they, compared to
those associated with the spoon? The former is selfish—men indulge in it
by themselves; but the latter is the innocent companion of both sexes—of
young and old. The glass too often destroys some joys—loosens domestic
ties; the spoon revives the one and strengthens the other. It gratifies
a natural, the glass an artificial, appetite. The one imparts happiness
to the abstemious, the other maddens the brain of the intemperate. Here
sits an industrious laborer at his evening meal; he has reached home
shivering with cold and faint with hunger; he sups the warm pottage his
wife has prepared, and finds his heart strengthened, and his energies
blessed. There carouses an acquaintance at the tavern; his eyes now
rolling with the maniac’s gaze, and now like an idiot’s, fixed on
vacancy. Reason has left her seat, and the character of the man is lost
in that of the beast. Such are the different effects of the ‘social
glass’ and the spoon.
A lover of domestic quiet, family jars cease in its presence; for unlike
the mischief loving ladle, the spoon enters into no broils. An
instrument of peace, it lends not itself to those illegitimate and
unconjugal uses to which enraged housewives are said sometimes to put
its taller associate. No! Instead of stirring up the caldron of family
feuds, the gentle spoon soothes the boiling elements, and, in the
pleasantest way imaginable, silences the squalling of infants, and the
grumbling of older folks.
It took no part in an ancient fray between the scholars of Oxford and
some Reverend companions of the Pope’s Legate, on a feast or saint’s
day; but the soup or rather the broth did. The peace loving spoon
withdrew ere the fracas began. “And at that tyme was maister Edmunde of
Abendon archbishoppe of Caunterbury, an holi man, in the twelff hundred
yere of our Lorde and foure and thritti. And at that tyme come the legat
Oter from Rome, and called a councelle of Bishoppes at London, and went
from thens to Oxenford, to the Abbey of Osney. And as certeyn of the
clerks come to speke with the legat, vppon Seynt Gregoryes day, one of
the legats men _cast hote broth_ vppon a scolore, and then come the
clerkes first, and besett Osney, and slew one of the legats men, and the
legat fled into the steple.” [_Peter Langtoff’s Chronicle_, _Hearne’s
Glossary_, vol. ii. 682.]
This quotation may serve as a little seasoning to the dish before the
reader. If any one questions its pertinence, and that of others
hereafter to be noticed, we beg to observe that what relates to the soup
can hardly be foreign to the spoon.