Is this year resumed, but we think it is not so successful as, were its
previous _fasciculi_. The "_literary_" is a good epithet for its sale
among would-be authors, like the "_Gentleman's_" Magazine among a certain
class of worthies. But of what use are such articles as the following
to literary men:--_The Seasons_, by a Man of _Taste_, (like the _carte_
of a restaurateur;) _Sayings of a Man about Town; Remonstrance with J.F.
Newton; Lines on Crockford's &c._--all amusing enough in their way, but,
in a literary pocket-book, out of place, and not in good taste. The
"lists," too, the only useful portion of the volume, are, in many
instances, very incorrect. Apropos, how long has Morris Birbeck been dead?
Our Illinois friend might be alive when the editor published his last
pocket-book; but if he stands still, time does not. There is, too, an
affectation of fashion about the work which does not suit our sober taste;
but as a seasonable Christmas extract, we are induced to quote _Winter_
from the _Seasons_:--
Now is the high season of beef; beef, which Prometheus killed for us at
first, ere he filched the fire from heaven, with which to constitute it a
beef-steak--that foundation of the most delightful of clubs, and origin
of the most delightful of all memoirs of them. Nor be the sirloin, boast
of Englishmen, forgot! nor its vaunted origin; which proves that the age
of chivalry, despite of Burke, is not yet gone! Stewed beef too, and ample
round, and _filet de boeuf saute dans sa glace_, and stewed rump-steaks,
and ox-tail soup.
"Spirits of beef, where are ye? are ye all fled?"
_Henry the Eighth_.
No--when beef flies the English shores, then you may, as the immortal bard
exquisitely expresses it, "make a silken purse out of a sow's ear." But
mutton, too, invites my Muse. It is calculated that fifteen hundred
thousand sheep are annually sacrificed in London to the carnivorous taste
of John Bull. "Of roast mutton (as Dr. Johnson says) what remains for me
to say? It will be found sometimes succous, and sometimes defective of
moisture; but what palate has ever failed to be pleased with a haunch
which has been duly suspended? what appetite has not been awakened by the
fermentation that glitters on its surface, when it has been reposing for
the requisite number of hours before a fire equal in its fervency?"
We quite agree with Dr. Johnson; but a boiled leg of mutton, its whiteness
transparent through the verdant capers that decorate its candour, is not
to be despised; nor is a hash, whether celebrated as an Irish stew, or a
_hachis de mouton_, most relishing of _rifacciamenti_! Chops and garlic
_à la Francaise_ are exquisite; and the saddle, cut learnedly, is the
Elysium of a gourmand.
Now also is the time of house-lamb and of doe-venison. Now is the time of
Christmas come, and the voice of the turkey is heard in our land! This is
the period of their annual massacre--a new slaughter of the innocents!
The Norwich coaches are now laden with mortals; that, while alive, shared
with their equally intelligent townsmen, _fruges consumere nati_, the
riches of their agricultural county.
Let others talk as they will about the Greek and the Ottoman!--in cookery,
I abhor Greece, and love Turkey. And yet how inconsistent I am in my
politics! for I sometimes regard the partition of Turkey as a thing well
purchased by the sacrifice of every Ottoman in the world--would they
were all _under my feet_!--especially when I have the gout. I confess,
the dismemberment of Poland did not affect me much. A man who is much
accustomed to dismember fowls, will not care much about that of kingdoms.
Nor be the cod (a blessing on his head--and shoulders!) forgotten.
Beautifully candid, his laminae separate readily before the tranchant
silver, and each flake, covered with a creamy curd, lies ready to
receive the affusion of molten (not oiled) butter, which, with its
floating oyster-islands, seems in impatient agitation for the moment
of overflowing the alluring "white creature," as a modern poet styles it.
* * * * *