birds, have gone in search of them. This was the case with the oily
Jesuit, Fabi, who so loved beccaficoes. “As soon as the cry of the
bird was heard in the fields around Belley,” says the author of the
“_Physiologie du Goût_,” “the general cry was, ‘The beccaficoes are
come, we shall soon have Father Fabi among us.’ And never did he fail
to arrive, with a friend, on the 1st of September. They came for
the express purpose of regaling themselves on beccaficoes, during
the period of the passage of the bird across the district. To every
house they were invited in town, and they took their departure again
about the 23rd.” This good Father died in our “glorious memory” year
of 1688; and one of his choice bits of delirium was, that he had
discovered the circulation of the blood before Harvey!
And now do I not hear that gentleman-like person at the lower end of
the table remark, that the circulation of the blood was a conceived
idea long before Harvey? You are quite right, my dear Sir; and your
remark is a very appropriate one, both as to time and theme, for
the circulation of the blood is one of the results of cooking. As
for preconception of the idea, it is sufficient for Harvey, that he
demonstrated the fact. The Doctors of ancient Roman days supposed that
the blood came from the liver; and that, in passing through the _vena
cava_ and its branches, a considerable quantity of it turned about, and
entered into the right cavity of the heart. What Harvey demonstrated
was, that the blood flows from the heart into all parts of the body,
by the arteries, from whence it is brought back to the heart again, by
the veins. Well, Sir, I know what you are about to remark,--that Paolo
Sarpi, that pleasantest of table-companions, claimed to have made the
demonstration before Harvey. True, Sarpi used to say, that he did not
dare publish his discovery, for dread of the Inquisition; but that he
confided it to brother Fabi da Aqua-pendente, who kept it close for
the same reason, but told it in confidence to Harvey, who published it
as his own. Well, Sir, Sir George Ent exploded all that, by proving
that Sarpi himself had first learned the fact from Harvey’s lips.
The Italians have the same right in this case, as they have to their
boast of having produced what old Ritson used to style, “that thing
you choose to call a poem, ‘Paradise Lost.’” It was an invention or
discovery at second-hand.
What conceits Cowley has in his verses on Harvey! He makes the
philosophical Doctor pursue coy Nature through sap, and catch her at
last in the human blood. He speaks, too, of the heart beating tuneful
marches to its vital heat; a conceit which Longfellow twisted into
prettiness, when he said, that our “muffled hearts were beating funeral
marches to the grave.” You will remember, Sir, that Shakspeare makes
Brutus say, that Portia was to him “dear as the drops that visit this
sad heart.” Brutus himself would, perhaps, have said “liver;” and, by
the way, how very much to the same tune is the line in Gray’s “Bard,”
wherein we find,--
“Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes.”
But there is in tuneful Edmund, in our ever-glorious friend Spenser,
a stanza which contains something that may pass for the circulation
theory. You remember, in the first canto of the Second Book, where the
bleeding lady is found by the good Sir Guyon:--
“Out of her goréd wound the cruel steel
He lightly snatch’d, and did the flood-gates stop
With his faire garment; then ’gan softly feel
Her feeble pulse, to prove if any drop
Of living blood yet in her veynes did hop;
Which when he felt to move, he hopéd faire
To call back life to her forsaken shop.
So well he did her deadly wounds repaire,
That at the last shee ’gan to breathe out living aire.”
And now, Sir, I shall be happy to take a glass of wine with you,
obsolete as that once honoured custom has become. And allow me to send
you a slice of this venison. A little more of the fat? Certainly;
but, if you _will_ take currant jelly with it, the sin be upon your
own head. It has always been the approved plan, you say. Ah, my dear
Sir! think what the approved plan was, for years, in the treatment of
small-pox. That was not a gastronomic matter, you say? I am not so
sure of that; for the patient, swathed in scarlet cloth, had to drink
mulled port wine. But, on a question of diet, time and numbers, you
think, may be taken for authority. Alas, my dear Sir! did you ever
try the once popular receipt of Apicius for a thick sauce to roasted
chicken? Never! of course you have not; for, in such case, your young
widow would already have touched that pretty life-assurance we wot
of. English tastes, you urge? Ah! in that case, if old rule be good
rule, you must camp in Kensington Gardens, and eat acorns. In Germany,
where venison is a national dish, the idea of currant jelly would ruin
the digestion of a whole company. But I see you are incorrigible, and
William is at your elbow with the doubtful sauce.
Galen could not appreciate venison as the early Patriarchs and the
Jewish people did, and as the Roman ladies did, who ate of it as a
preserver of youth, as well as a lengthener of life. A roebuck of
Melos would have brought tears of delight into the eyes of Diogenes.
The deer was preferred to the roebuck at Rome; but the wild boar was
also a favourite; and the Sicilian slave, _chef_ to Servilius Rullus,
cooked not less than three of different sizes in one. The largest had
baskets of dates suspended to its tusks, and a litter of young ones in
pastry lying in the same dish. Within the first was a second, within
the second a third, and within the third some small birds. Cicero, who
was _the_ guest for whom the dinner was got up, was as delighted with
the culinary slave, as Lucullus had been a few days before, when he
had eaten a dish of sows’ paps prepared by the same artist; and the
enraptured gastronome thought that all Olympus was dissolving in his
mouth!
A wild boar was at marriage feasts what our wedding cakes are at those
dreadful destroyers of time and digestion,--wedding breakfasts,--an
indispensable accompaniment. Caranus, the Macedonian, has the
reputation of having exceeded all others in his nuptial magnificence;
for, instead of one boar at his banquet, he had twenty. But I have seen
more than that at many a breakfast in Britain.
The ancient Britons abstained from the hare, like the Jews. Hippocrates
held that, as a food, it thickened the blood, and kept people from
sleep; but Galen--and such instances among the faculty are not
uncommon--differed from his professional brother. People followed the
advice of Galen; and though few, like Alexander Severus, could eat a
whole hare at every repast, yet many ate as plentifully as they well
could, accounting such diet profitable both to health and good looks.
Hares were nearly as injuriously abundant in Greece as rabbits were
in Spain, where the latter animals are said to have once destroyed
Tarragona, by undermining it in burrowing! Nay, more: the Balearic
Isles were so overrun with them, that the inhabitants, afraid of being
devoured, sent an embassy to Rome; and Augustus dispatched a military
force, which not only slaughtered the enemy, but ate the half of them!
The more refined gluttons of Rome did not dine on the rabbit after this
fashion. They only picked a little of the young taken alive from the
slaughtered mother, or killed soon after birth. They were preferable to
the rabbits of the Parisian _gargottes_, where _fricassée de lapins_
is invariably made of cats. And these, perhaps, are as dainty eating
as the hunch of the camel, or the feet of the elephant,--pettitoes for
Brobdignagian lovers to sup upon.
But we _almost_ as villanously disguise our poultry. The latter, if not
_now_, used--according to Darwin--to be fed for the London market, by
mixing gin, and even opium, with their food, and keeping them in the
dark; but “they must be killed as soon as they are fattened, or they
become weak and emaciated, like human drunkards.”
Game was almost as sacred to the Egyptian Priests, as eggs to the
sacerdotal gentlemen of some of the modern tribes of Africa. Under the
head of “game,” we no longer admit the birds which, according to Belon,
figured at the gastronomic tables of France in the sixteenth century.
These were the crane, the crow, and the cormorant, the heron, the swan,
the stork, and the bittern. The last-named bird was in high estimation,
although the taste for it was confessedly an “acquired” one. The larger
birds of prey were not then altogether despised by epicures, some of
whom could sit down with an appetite to roast vulture, while they
turned with loathing from the plump pheasant.
This eastern bird, however, has, with this exception, enjoyed a
deserved reputation from the earliest ages. The Egyptian Kings kept
large numbers of them to grace their aviaries and their triumphs.
The Greeks reared them for the less sentimental gratification of the
stomach; and a simple Athenian republican, when giving a banquet,
prided himself on having on his board as many pheasants as there were
guests invited.
Pheasants’ brains were among the ingredients of the dish that Vitellius
invented, and which he designated by the name of “Shield of Minerva.”
They were greedily eaten by many other of the Cæsars; and an offering
of them to the statue of Caligula was deemed to be propitiatory of
that very equivocal deity. The Emperors generally esteemed them above
partridges, which were trained for fighting, as well as fattened for
eating. Roman epicures fixed on the breast as the most “eatable”
portion of the gallant bird. The Greeks thought of it as we do of the
woodcock; and with them the leg of the partridge was the part the most
highly esteemed. At a Greek table would not have occurred the smart
dialogue which is said to have taken place at an English dinner. “Shall
I send you a leg or a wing?” said a carver to a guest he was about to
help. “It is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” was the reply;
and it is _not_ a courteous one. “It is a matter of equal indifference
to me,” said the first speaker, at the same time resuming his own knife
and fork, and going on with his dinner.
Quails are variously said either to have recalled Hercules to life, or
to have cured him of epilepsy. The Romans, however, rather feared them,
as tending to cause epileptic fits. Galen thought so; Aristotle took a
different view, and the Greeks devoured them as readily as though they
had Aristotle’s especial authorization; and the Romans were only slowly
converted to the same way of thinking. Quails, like partridges and the
game-cock, were long reared for the arena; and legislators thought that
youth might learn courage from contemplating the contests of quails!
The thrush was perhaps the most popular bird at delicate tables in
Greece. They were kept from the young, lest the taste should give
birth to permanent greediness; but when a girl married, she was sure
of a brace of thrushes, for her especial eating at the wedding-feast.
They were still more popular in Rome, where patrician ladies reared
thousands yearly for the market, and made a further profit by selling
the manure for the land. The thrush aviary of Varro’s aunt was one of
the sights of Rome, where men ruined themselves in procuring dishes
composed of these birds for their guests. Greatly, however, as they
abounded, there was occasionally a scarcity of them; for when the
physician of Pompey prescribed a thrush, by way of exciting the wayward
stomach of the wayward soldier to enjoyment, there was not one to be
found for sale in all Rome. Lucullus, indeed, had scores of them; but
Pompey, like many other obstinate people, chose rather to suffer than
put himself under an obligation; and he contrived to get well on other
diet.
The diet was, nevertheless, held to be exceedingly strengthening; and
blackbirds, also, were prescribed as fitting food for weak digestions.
It was perhaps for this reason that the celebrated
“Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,”
were the dainty dish set before the legendary and, presumedly,
dyspeptic King! In later times, we have had as foolish ideas connected
with them. The oil in which they were cooked was said to be good
for sciatica, or hip-gout; and Vieillot says that freckles might be
instantaneously removed from the skin, if----but ladies would never try
what Vieillot recommends.
The blackbird was not imperially patronized. The stomachs of the
gastronomic Cæsars gave more greedy welcome to the flamingo. Caligula,
Vitellius, and Heliogabalus ruined their digestions by _ragoûts_ of
this bird, the tongues of which were converted into a stimulating
sauce. Dampier ate the bird, when he could get nothing else; and
thought the Cæsars fools for doing so when they could get any thing
beside. The ancients, whether Greeks or Romans, showed more taste
in eating beccaficoes,--that delicate little bird, all tender and
succulent, the essence of the juice of the fruits (especially the
fig) on which it feeds. The only thing to be compared with it is the
ortolan. Had Heliogabalus confined himself to these more savoury birds,
instead of acquiring indigestion on ostrich brains and flamingoes,
his name would have held a more respectable place in the annals of
gastronomy. But master and people were alike barbarous in many of
their tastes. Who now would think of killing turtle-doves for the
sake of eating their legs “devilled?” And yet _we_ eat the lark, that
herald of the skies, and earliest chorister of the morn. We eat this
ethereal bird with as little compunction as we do the savoury, yet
unclean, of the earth, earthy, duck. And this thought reminds me of a
story, for which I am indebted to a friend, himself the most amiable
of Amphitryons, the good things at whose table have ever wit, wisdom,
mirth, and good-fellowship attendant, as aids to digestion.[1]
A LIGHT DINNER FOR TWO.
Many years ago, when railways were things undreamt of, and when the
journeys from Oxford to the metropolis were inevitably performed on
that goodly and pleasant high road which is now dreary and forlorn, a
gentleman and his son, the latter newly flushed with College fame and
University honours, rode forth over Magdalen Bridge and the Cherwell,
purposing to reach London in a leisurely ride. A groom, their only
attendant, carrying their scanty baggage with him on a good stout cob,
had been sent on in advance to order dinner at a well-known road-side
hostelry, where Oxford nags baited, and where their more adventurous
riders frequently caroused, out of reach of any supervision by
Principals or Pro-Proctors.
Pleasant is the spot, well approved by past generations of Freshmen,
picturesque and charming to an eye content with rich fields, luxuriant
meadows, and pretty streams, tributaries of the now adolescent Thames,
whose waters had not at that date been polluted by barge or lighter at
that point of its course. The neighbourhood is famous for its plump
larks; and whether in a savoury pudding, swimming with beefsteak gravy,
or roasted, a round half-dozen together, on an iron skewer or a tiny
spit, those little warblers furnished forth a pretty adjunct on a
well-spread table, tempting to an appetite somewhat appeased by heavier
and more substantial viands. Mine host at our road-side quarters had a
cook who dressed them to a nicety; contriving to produce or develope a
succulency and flavour which meaner practitioners would scarcely have
deemed practicable. Now Martin, pursuant to his master’s instructions
for securing a repast of ducks and the dainty lark, finding the
landlord brought out from his shady porch by the clatter of the horse’s
hoofs on the well-beaten road, announced the approaching arrival, and
ordered dinner. “My master wishes to find a couple of larks, and a
dozen of ducks, well roasted, on his arrival at four o’clock.” “Did
I understand you rightly, young man?” said Boniface. “O!” said the
varlet, pettishly, “in Oxford no landlord needs twice telling;”--and
betook himself to the stables, looking forward to the enjoyment of a
tankard of good house-brewed ale,--no brewer’s iniquitous mixture,--and
the opportunity of shining with some lustre in the tap, or the kitchen,
before country bumpkins, eager to listen to a man like himself, who
had seen racing at Newmarket and Doncaster, and high life at Bath and
Cheltenham. Meantime, his masters came leisurely along the road, nor
thought of applying a spur, until the craving bowels of the younger
horseman, whose digestive organs were unimpaired by College theses and
examinations, suggested a lack of provender; and, their watches, when
consulted, indicating the near approach of the dinner hour, they broke
off their chat, and soon drew rein at their place of temporary sojourn.
Finding the cloth laid, and the busy waiter’s preparations nearly
complete, they glanced with satisfaction at a table of somewhat
unnecessary dimensions, considering the limited extent of the party,
which our young Hellenist would have described as a “duality.” Just as
our travellers were growing impatient, the landlord, having previously
satisfied himself, by obsequious inquiry, that his guests were quite
ready, re-entered, bearing a dish with bright cover, and heading as
good a procession of domestics, each similarly laden, as the limited
resources of his modest establishment admitted. The large number
of dishes rather surprised the elder of the twain, whose mind was
less absorbed by the suggestions of appetite; and, having dispatched
the sole attendant left for a bottle of the best Madeira the cellar
could supply, and a jug of that malt liquor for which the house had
obtained some notoriety, he proceeded to look under the formidable
range of covers. Seeing under the first a couple of ducks, he said,
“Come, this is all right!” but finding the next, and the next, and
still the next, but a repetition of the same, either with or without
the odour of seasoning, he fairly stood aghast, when six couple of
goodly ducks stood revealed before him. The young collegian’s mirth
was great, his laugh hearty, at the climax of two pretty little chubby
larks which closed the line of dishes. Apple sauce and gravy, broccoli
and potatoes, stood sentries, flanking the array. Upon his ringing
the bell with no gentle hand, the landlord himself stepped in from
the passage, where he appeared to have awaited a summons; and, in
answer to a question the reader may easily anticipate, replied that
the servant’s order was precise, and that it was impatiently repeated
upon his own hesitation in accepting it. The respectability of the
landlord, and the evident truthfulness of his manner, stayed all
further questions. But the elder gentleman said firmly, that he should
not pay for what had been so absurdly provided; alleging, that no two,
or even three, persons could be found who would do justice to such
provisions. The landlord, like Othello, “upon that hint spake;” for he
saw a faint chance of righting a somewhat difficult matter. “O, Sir,”
said he, “I think I could find a man hard by, who would not consider
the supplies too much for his own appetite.” “Produce him,” said the
guest, “and settle the point; for, if you do, I will pay for the
whole.” The anxious landlord said no more; but, bowing, left in search
of a neighbouring cobbler, whose prowess with the knife and fork was
pre-eminent in the vicinity. Meantime, our hungry travellers sat down
to dinner with such good will, that each of them disposed of one of
the regiment; and, in a joint attack, a third fell mutilated, leaving
but fragmentary relics. A lark a-piece was a mere practical joke; and
cheese, with celery, left nothing farther wanting to appease those
cravings which had prompted them to action. While these little matters
were in progress, the landlord had found the shoemaker, and told his
story. “Well,” said Lapstone, “this is plaguy unlucky, for I’ve just
had a gallon of broth! Such a famous chance, too; for if there is any
thing I am particularly fond of, certainly ducks is a weak point, Sir.”
Boniface, thinking it his only chance, urged him to try; and the man
of bristles, nothing loth, consented. On being duly introduced, orders
were given for setting-to on the spot, to insure fair play, and defeat
any supplementary aid, or a deposit in any other pocket, save that with
which the savage in a nude state finds himself provided,--the stomach.
While the travellers sipped their wine, and trifled with their dessert,
the voracious cobbler fell heartily to work on the row of eight ducks
before him: one having been sent down for the undeserving groom, whose
blunder had proved a godsend to the man of leather. Wisely eschewing
vegetables, and eating scantily of bread, the _disjecta membra_ of the
doomed ducks rapidly yielded up their savoury integuments. But flesh
is weak, and cobblers’ appetites are not wholly unappeasable; so that
while the fifth victim was under discussion, a stimulant, in the shape
of “a little brandy,” was requested; and when the sixth was but slowly
and more slowly disappearing, poor Lapstone, who began to think farther
progress impossible, was seen whispering to the landlord. The gentleman
loudly demanded what the fellow was saying. “Sir,” said the landlord,
promptly and cunningly, “he says, he wishes there were half-a-dozen
more; for he is just beginning to enjoy them.” “Confound the rascal’s
gluttony,” cried the travellers; “not a bit more shall he have. Put
the remaining couple by for our supper; for we shall not leave your
house till to-morrow:”--an arrangement affording much relief to the
shoemaker, and entire satisfaction to the innkeeper.
* * * * *
To return to the lark. It is worthy of notice, that London is annually
supplied, from the country about Dunstable alone, with not less
than four thousand dozen of these succulent songsters. At Leipsic,
the excise on larks, for that single city, amounts to nearly £1,000
sterling yearly. The larks of Dunstable and Leipsic are, I presume,
“caught napping.” They are not, then, like the nightingale, who is said
to sing all night, to keep herself awake, lest the slow-worm should
devour her.
And this reminds me of a remark which I once heard made by one who
disputed the fact, that every thing had its use. Mr. Jerdan could
not conjecture what use there could be in the _cimex_, that domestic
“B flat,” which may be found in old beds and old parchments. So
my friend could not divine the utility of a slow-worm, or of that
unclean parasite, the “louse,” which, by the way, infects birds as
well as dirty humanity, and even reaches these same aspiring larks.
For the use of the slow-worm I referred him to natural history; for
that of the _pediculus_, I could only state that it is swallowed by
some country-people as a cure for jaundice! At Hardenberg, in Sweden,
it held a position of some importance. When a Burgomaster had to be
chosen, the eligible candidates sat with their beards upon the table,
in the centre of which was placed a louse; and the one in whose beard
he took cover was the Magistrate for the ensuing year. After the
ceremony, the company supped upon ducks, and sang like larks.