feasted in their houses, every one on his day;” (which is explained as
being the _birth_-day;) “and sent and called for their three sisters
to eat and drink with them.” We know what materials the joyous family
had to make a superb feast; and doubtless he who presided thereat was
as proud as the Knight who, by virtue of triumphing in the tournament,
alone had the right to carve the peacock which was placed before
him--plumage, tail, and all--by the fairest “she” to be found in the
vicinity. After all, the peacock was inferior to the succulent and
sweet-throated thrush. The proper time for eating thrushes, and,
indeed, much other of the small game of the bird species, is towards
the end of November. The reason assigned by a French epicure is,
that, after they have been fattened in the fields and vineyards,
they then give a biting, bitter aroma to their flesh by feeding on
juniper-berries. The Romans fed them on a paste made up of figs, wheat,
and aromatic grains. The Roman epicures were as fond of them as the
Marquis de Cussy was of red partridges, one of which he ate on the
day of his death, and after a six months’ illness. It was his last
act; and, in gastronomic annals, it is recorded, as Nelson’s calling
for sealing-wax amid the thunders of Copenhagen, or his writing to
Horatia before he went to meet death at Trafalgar, is noticed by the
biographers of our naval heroes. Statistics, which are as pleasantly
void of truth as poetry, generally speaking, set down the enormous
total of nearly fifty-two millions of francs as the sum expended
yearly in France for fowls of all species. Taking the amount of
population into consideration, this would prove that France is a more
fowl-consuming nation than any other on the face of the globe.
In a dietetic point of view, it would be well for weak stomachs to
remember, that wild birds are more nutritious than their domesticated
cousins, and more digestible. But the white breast or wing of a chicken
is less heating than the flesh of winged game. Other game--such as
venison, which is dark-coloured, and contains a large proportion of
fibrine--produces highly stimulating chyle; and, consequently, the
digestion is an easy and rapid affair for the stomach. But, though
the whiter meats be detained longer in the stomach, furnish less
stimulating chyle, and be suffered to run into acetous fermentation,
their lesser stimulating quality may recommend them when the general
system is not in want of a spur. Meats are wholesome, or otherwise,
less with reference to themselves than to the consumer. “To assert
a thing to be wholesome,” says Van Swieten, “without a knowledge of
the condition of the person for whom it is intended, is like a sailor
pronouncing the wind to be fair, without knowing to what port the
vessel is bound.”
Cardinal Fesch would have made an exception in the case of
“blackbirds.” His dinners at Lyons were reverenced for the excellence
and variety of these dishes. The birds were sent to him weekly from
Corsica; and they were said to incense half the archiepiscopal city.
They were served with great form; and none who ate thereof ever forgot
the flavour which melted along his palate. The Cardinal used to say
that it was like swallowing paradise, and that the smell alone of his
blackbirds was enough to revivify half the defunct in his diocese.
Quite as rich a dish may be found in the pheasant which has been
suspended by the tail, and which detaches himself from his caudine
appendage, by way of intimation that he is ready. It is thus, we are
told, that a pheasant hung up on Shrove Tuesday is susceptible of being
spitted on Easter-day! It is popularly said in France of the pheasant,
that it only lacks something to be equal to the turkey! A wise saying,
indeed! but, the truth is, the two cannot be compared. Our own popular
adage regarding the partridge and woodcock has far better grounds for
what they assert:--
“If the partridge had but the woodcock’s thigh,
’Twould be the best bird that ever did fly.
If the woodcock had but the partridge’s breast,
’Twould be the best bird that ever was dress’d.”
The partridge is much on the ground, the woodcock ever on the wing; and
these parts, and the immediate vicinity of them, acquire a muscular
toughness, not admired by epicures.
The vegetarians may boast of a descent as ancient as that claimed
by the Freemasons. In ancient days, if, indeed, flesh-meat was not
denounced, unmeasured honour was paid to vegetables. Monarchs exchanged
them as gifts, wise men and warriors supped on them after study
and battle, Chiefs of the noblest descent prepared them with their
own hands for their own tables, agricultural chymists tended their
planting, and pious populations raised some of them to the rank of gods.
The Licinian Law enacted their use, while it restricted the consumption
of meat; and the greatest families in Rome derived their names from
them. Fabius was but General _Bean_, Cicero was Vice-Chancellor _Pea_,
and the house of Lentulus took its appellation from the slow-growing
_Lentil_.
The kitchen-garden of Henry VIII. was worse supplied than that of
Charlemagne, who not only raised vegetables, but, as Gustavus Vasa’s
Queen did with her eggs and milk, made money by them. He was a royal
market-gardener, and found more profit in his salads than he did in
his sons. A salad, by the way, was so scarce an article during the
early part of the last century, that George I. was obliged to send to
Holland to procure a lettuce for his Queen; and now lettuces are flung
by cart-loads to the pigs. Asparagus and artichokes were strangers to
us until a still later period.
The bean has, from remote times, held a distinguished place. Isidorus
asserts that it was the first food used by man. Pythagoras held that
human life was in it. By others the black spot was accounted typical
of death; and the _Flamen_ of Jupiter would neither look upon it nor
pronounce its name. The Priests of Apollo, on the other hand, banqueted
on a dish of beans at one of the festivals of their god. Those of
Æsculapius taught that the smell of beans in blossom was prejudicial
to health; and farmers’ wives, in the days of Baucis and Philemon,
maintained that hens reared on beans would never lay eggs.
The “bean” was once the principal feature in the Twelfth-Night cake;
and he to whose share fell the piece containing the vegetable was
King for the night. The last Twelfth Night observed, with ancient
strictness, at the Tuileries, was when Louis XVIII. was yet reigning.
Among his guests was Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, who was lucky
enough to draw the bean, and thereby became Monarch for the nonce. “My
cousin,” said Louis XVIII., “is King at last!” “I will never accept
such title,” answered the over-modest Duke; “I acknowledge no other
King in France but your Majesty, and will not usurp the name even in
jest!” Excellent man! he was at that very moment intriguing to tumble
from his throne that very King, loyalty for whom he expressed with so
much of unnecessary and enforced ceremony.
The _haricot blanc_, or white kidney bean, deserves to be introduced
more generally into our kitchens. There are various methods of
dressing them; but the best is to have them softened in the gravy of
a leg of mutton; they are then a good substitute for potatoes. They
are nearly as good, dressed with oil or butter; and Napoleon was
exceedingly fond of them, dressed as a salad. Of course, we allude here
to the bean which, in full maturity, is taken from the pod, and eaten
in winter. In England we eat the pod itself, (in summer,) split, and
served with roast mutton and venison. The mature bean, however, makes
an excellent dish.
And, _à-propos_ to Monarchs, it is to Alexander that we are indebted
for the Indian “haricot;” and the vegetable had a fashion in Greece
and Rome worthy of its distinguished introducer. But this fashion was
not a mere consequence; for grey peas were as universally eaten. The
people were so fond of these, that political aspirants bought votes of
electors in exchange for them. They formed the principal refreshment of
the lower citizens at the circus and the theatre, where, instead of the
modern cry of “Oranges, biscuits, porter, and bill of the play!” was to
be heard that of “Peas! peas! ram peas! grey peas! and a programme of
the beasts and actors!”
Green peas were not known in France until the middle of the sixteenth
century. They were grown, but people no more thought of eating them
than we do the sweet pea. The gardener Michaux was born, and he it was
who first sent green peas to a Christian table.
When Alexander, son of Pyrrhus, wished to keep all the beans that grew
in the Thesprotian Marsh for his own eating, the gods dried up the
marsh, and beans could never be made to grow there again. So, when King
Antigonus put a tax on the healing spring that flowed at Edessa, the
waters disappeared; and the people were not, in either case, benefited.
What lumbering avengers were those heathen deities!
The cabbage has had a singular destiny,--in one country an object of
worship; in another, of contempt. The Egyptians made of it a god; and
it was the first dish they touched at their repasts. The Greeks and
Romans took it as a remedy for the languor following inebriation.
Cato said that in the cabbage was a panacea for the ills of man.
Erasistratus recommended it as a specific in paralysis; Hippocrates
accounted it a sovereign remedy, boiled with salt, for the colic; and
Athenian medical men prescribed it to young nursing-mothers, who wished
to see lusty babies lying in their arms. Diphilus preferred the beet to
the cabbage, both as food and as medicine,--in the latter case, as a
vermifuge. The same physician extols mallows, not for fomentation, but
as a good edible vegetable, appeasing hunger and curing the sore-throat
at the same time. The asparagus, as we are accustomed to see it, has
derogated from its ancient magnificence. The original “grass” was from
twelve to twenty feet high; and a dish of them could only have been
served to the Brobdignagians. Under the Romans, stems of asparagus
were raised of three pounds’ weight,--heavy enough to knock down a
slave in waiting with. The Greeks ate them of more moderate dimensions,
or would have eat them, but that the publishing doctors of their day
denounced asparagus as injurious to the sight. But then it was also
said, that a slice or two of boiled pumpkin would re-invigorate the
sight which had been deteriorated by asparagus. “Do that as quickly as
you should asparagus!” is a proverb descended to us from Augustus, and
illustrative of the mode in which the vegetable was prepared for the
table.
The gourd does not figure at our repasts as commonly as it did in
the east of Europe in mythological times, when it was greedily
eaten, boiled hot, or preserved in pickle. The readers of Athenæus
will remember, how a party of philosophers lost their temper, in a
discussion as to whether the gourd was round, square, or oblong,--how a
coarse-minded doctor interrupted the discussion by a very incongruous
remark,--and how the venerable sage who was in the chair called the
rude man to order, and then bade the disputants proceed with their
argument.
A still more favourite dish, at Athens, was turnips, from Thebes.
Carrots, too, formed a distinguished dish at Greek and Roman tables.
Purslain was rather honoured as a cure against poisons, whether in
the blood by wounds, or in the stomach from beverage. I have heard it
asserted in France, that if you briskly rub a glass with fingers which
have been previously rubbed with purslain, or parsley, the glass will
certainly break. I have tried the experiment, but only to find that the
glass resisted the pretended charm.
Broccoli was the favourite vegetable food of Drusus. He ate greedily
thereof; and, as his father, Tiberius, was as fond of it as he, the
master of the Roman world and his illustrious heir were constantly
quarrelling, like two clowns, when a dish of broccoli stood between
them. Artichokes grew less rapidly into aristocratic favour; the
_dictum_ of Galen was against them; and, for a long time, they were
only used by drinkers, against headache, and by singers, to strengthen
their voice. Pliny pronounced artichokes excellent food for poor people
and donkeys! For nobler stomachs he preferred the cucumber,--the
Nemesis of vegetables. But people were at issue touching the merits of
the cucumber. Not so, regarding the lettuce, which has been universally
honoured. It was the most highly esteemed dish of the beautiful
Adonis. It was prescribed as provocative to sleep; and it cured
Augustus of the malady which sits so heavily on the soul of Leopold of
Belgium,--_hypochondriasis_. Science and rank eulogized the lettuce,
and philosophy sanctioned the eulogy in the person of Aristoxenus, who
not only grew lettuces as the pride of his garden, but irrigated them
with wine, in order to increase their flavour.
But we must not place too much trust in the stories either of sages or
apothecaries. These Pagans recommended the seductive, but indigestible,
endive, as good against the headache, and young onions and honey as
admirable preservers of health, when taken fasting; but this was a
prescription for rustic swains and nymphs,--the higher classes, in
town or country, would hardly venture on it. And yet the mother of
Apollo ate raw leeks, and loved them of gigantic dimensions. For this
reason, perhaps, was the leek accounted, not only as salubrious, but
as a beautifier. The love for melons was derived, in similar fashion,
probably, from Tiberius, who cared for them even more than he did
for broccoli. The German Cæsars inherited the taste of their Roman
predecessor, carrying it, indeed, to excess; for more than one of them,
as may be seen in another page, submitted to die after eating melons,
rather than live by renouncing them.
I have spoken of gigantic asparagus: the Jews had radishes that could
vie with them, if it be true that a fox and cubs could burrow in the
hollow of one, and that it was not uncommon to grow them of a hundred
pounds in weight. It must have been such radishes as these that were
employed by seditious mobs of old, as weapons, in insurrections. In
such case, a rebellious people were always well victualled, and had
peculiar facilities, not only to beat their adversaries, but to eat
their own arms. The horse-radish is, probably, a descendant of this
gigantic ancestor. It had, at one period, a gigantic reputation. Dipped
in poison, it rendered the draught innocuous, and, rubbed on the hands,
it made an encounter with venomed serpents mere play. In short, it was
celebrated as being a cure for every evil in life,--the only exception
being, that it destroyed the teeth. There was far more difference
of opinion touching garlic, than there was touching the radish. The
Egyptians deified it, as they did the leek and the cabbage; the Greeks
devoted it to Gehenna,--and to soldiers, sailors, and cocks that were
not “game.” Medicinally, it was held to be useful in many diseases, if
the root used were originally sown when the moon was below the horizon.
No one who had eaten of it, however, could presume to enter the Temple
of Cybele. Alphonso of Castile was as particular as this goddess; and
a Knight of Castile, “detected as being guilty of garlic,” suffered
banishment from the royal presence during an entire month.
Parsley has fared better, both with gods and men. Hercules and Anacreon
crowned themselves with it. It was worn both at joyous banquets and
funeral feasts; and not only horses, but those who bestrode them, ate
of the herb, in order to find the excitement to daring which otherwise
lacked. In contrast with parsley stood the water-cress, a plant
honoured and eaten only by the Persians. It was, indeed, medically
esteemed as curative of consumption, and, by placing it in the ears,
of toothache. But the wits and Plutarch denounced its use in any case;
and few cared to affect love for a plant which was popularly declared
to have the power of twisting the noses of those who put it into their
mouths!
Parsley was as popular in what may be called “classical” times, as the
asparagus has invariably been with a particular class in France. This
vegetable has ever been, I know not wherefore, a favourite vegetable
with the officials of the Gallican Church. One day, Monseigneur
Courtois de Quincy, Bishop of Belley, was informed that an asparagus
head had just pierced the soil in His Eminence’s kitchen-garden, and
that it was worth looking at. Cardinal and _convives_ rose from table,
visited the spot, and were lost in admiration at what they saw. Day by
day the Bishop watched the growth of the delicious giant. His mouth
watered as he looked at it, and happy was he when the day arrived in
which he might with his own hands take it from the ground. When he did
so, he found, to his disappointment, that he held a wooden counterfeit,
admirably turned and painted by the Canon Rosset, who was famous for
his artistic abilities, and also for his practical jokes. The joke on
this occasion was taken in good part, and the counterfeit asparagus was
admitted to the honour of lying on the Bishop’s table.
I have noticed, that asparagus has been suggested as one of the
substitutes for coffee. In this case, the seeds are taken from the
berries, by drying the latter in an oven, and rubbing them on a sieve.
When ground, the seeds make a full-flavoured coffee, not inferior, it
is said,--but that is doubtful,--to the best Mocha.
It was the opinion of Pliny, that nature intended asparagus to grow
wild, in order that all might eat thereof. That was esteemed the
best which grew naturally on the mountain-sides. The famous Ravenna
asparagus was cultivated with such perfection, that three of them
weighed a pound. Lobster surrounded with asparagus was a favourite
dish; and the rapidity with which the latter should be cooked, is
illustrated, as I have said, by a proverb: “_Velocius quam asparagi
coquuntur!_” There is a story told of an intrusive traveller forcing
his company at supper on another wayfarer, before whom were placed
an omelette and some asparagus. The intruder had not before seen any
“grass,” and inquired what it was. “O, it is very well in its way,”
said the other, “and we will divide both omelette and asparagus;” and
therewith, after carving the first, he cut the bunch in two, and gave
the white ends to the importunate visitor. The greatest indignation
ever experienced by Carême, was once at hearing that some guests had
eaten asparagus with one of his new _entremets_, and mixed it in their
mouths with iced champagne.
There is an opinion current in some parts of England, that they who eat
of old parsnips that have been long in the ground invariably go mad;
and on this account the root is called “mad-nip.” On some such “insane
root,” it is said, the Indians, named by Garcilasso, whetted their
appetites before they ate their dead parents. Such form of entombment
was accounted most dignified and dutiful. If the defunct was lean,
the children boiled their parent; but obesity was always honoured by
roasting. Fathers and mothers were religiously picked to the very
bones, and the bones themselves were then consigned to the earth. This,
however, is not an exclusively Indian custom. The Indians only devoured
their deceased parents; but I have seen, in Christian England, many a
son devouring father and mother, too, during their lives, swallowing
their very substance, and _then_, like the Indians, committing their
bones to the bosom of a tender mother,--earth.
Perhaps there is nothing, in the vegetable way, more insipid than
parsnips; but these are sometimes as mischievous as insipid persons.
This is the case, if the above-named tradition be worthy of credit,
wherein we are told, that _old_ parsnips are called “mad-nips,” and
that the maids who eat of them invariably become more like Salmacis
than the youth she wooed, and are as much given to dancing as though
they had been bitten by a tarantula. I fear the “mad-nip” is too much
eaten in many of our rural districts, and perhaps by the _acerba virgo_
of metropolitan towns and episcopal cities also. But let us look at our
ancient friend, the potato.
It has been well said, that the first art in boiling a potato, is to
prevent the boiling of the potato. “Upon the heat and flame of the
distemper sprinkle cool patience;” for without patience, care, and
attention,--extreme vigilance being implied by the latter, a potato
will never come out of the pot triumphantly well boiled.
The potato has been found in an indigenous state in Chili, on the
mountains near Valparaiso and Mendoza; also near Monte Video, Lima,
Quito, in Santa Fé da Bogota, and on the banks of the Orizaba, in
Mexico. Cobbett cursed the root as being that of the ruin of Ireland,
where it is said to have been first planted by Raleigh, on his estate
at Youghal, near Cork. Its introduction into England is described as
the effect of accident, in consequence of the wrecking of a vessel on
the coast of Lancashire, which had a quantity of this “fruit” on board.
The common potato (_solanum tuberosum_) was probably first brought
to Spain from Quito by the Spaniards, in the early part of the
sixteenth century. In both of those countries the _tubers_ are known
by the designation of _papas_. In passing from Spain into Italy,
it naturalized itself under the name of “the truffle.” In 1598, we
hear of its arrival at Vienna, and thence spreading over Europe.
It certainly was not known in North America in 1586, the period at
which Raleigh’s colonists in Virginia are said to have sent it to
England; and in the latter country it was not known until long after
its introduction, as noticed above, into Ireland. In Gerard’s Herbal
(1597) the _Batata Virginiana_, as it is called, to distinguish it
from the _Batata Edulis_, or “sweet potato,” is described; and the
author recommends the root, not for common food, but as “a delicate
dish.” The sweet potato was the “delicate dish” at English tables long
before the introduction of its honest cousin. We imported it from Spain
and the Canaries, and in very considerable quantities. It enjoyed
the reputation of possessing power to restore decayed vigour. This
reputation has not escaped Shakspeare, who makes Falstaff exultingly
remark, in a fit of pleasant excitement, that “it rains potatoes!” The
Royal Society of England, in 1663, urgently recommended the extensive
cultivation of the root as a resource against threatened famine; but as
late as the end of that century, a good hundred years after its first
introduction, the writers on gardening continued to treat its merits
with a contemptuous indifference; though one of them does “damn with
faint praise,” by remarking, that “they are much used in Ireland and
America as bread, and may be propagated with advantage to poor people.”
As late as 1719, the potato was not deemed worthy of being named in the
“Complete Gardener” of Loudon and Wise, and it was not till the middle
of the last century that it became generally used in Britain and North
America. The “conservatives of gulosity” of that day continued long to
disparagingly describe it as “a root found in the New World, consisting
of little knobs, held together by strings: if you boil it well, it
_can_ be eaten; it _may_ become an article of food; it will certainly
do for hogs; and though it is rather flatulent and acid in the human
stomach, perhaps, if you boil it with dates, it may serve to keep soul
and body together, among those who can find nothing better.”
Some sixty years since, the Dutch introduced the potato into Bengal.
The produce was sold in Calcutta at 5_s._ a pound. The English tried
to raise them, and all their plants grew like Jack’s bean-stalk, but
lacked its strength. The Hollanders continually cut the swiftly-growing
plant, and so compelled it to produce its fruit beneath the ground.
The secret was as well worth knowing as that other touching potatoes
during frost. The only precaution necessary is, to retain the potato
in a perfectly dark place, for some days after the thaw has commenced.
In America, where they are sometimes frozen as hard as stones, they
rot if thawed in open day; but if thawed in darkness, they do not
rot, and lose very little of their natural odour and properties. So,
at least, they assert, who profess to have means of best knowing. The
potato is said to have been first planted, in England, in the county
of Lancashire, which was once as famous for the plant as Lithuania
is for beet-root. It is not much more than a century since cabbages
reached us from Holland. They were first planted in Dorsetshire, by the
Ashleys; and I may add here what I have omitted in speaking of it in
earlier times, namely, that the Athenians administered the juice of it
in cases of slow parturition. Let me farther add, that such terms as
“cow-cabbage,” “horse-radish,” “bull-rush,” and the like, do not imply
any connexion between the article and the animal. The animal prefix is
simply to signify unusual size. The prefix was commonly so applied by
the ancients: hence the name of Alexander’s charger; and a not less
familiar illustration is afforded us in the case of the “horse-leech.”
Cabbage used to have said of it what Lemery, physician of Louis XIV.,
more truly said of spinach; namely, that “it stops coughing, allays
the sharp humours of the breast, and keeps the body open.” Spinach,
to be truly enjoyed, should never be eaten without liberal saturation
of gravy; and French epicures say, “Do not forget the nutmeg.” This
vegetable goes excellently with swine’s flesh in every shape, but
especially ham, the stimulating flavour of which it strongly modifies.