musical gifts are concerned, though in this respect he might have been
more discriminating in the use of his adjectives. Why "troublous" and
"unmelodious," in place of expressing his thrilling _arpeggio_ of song?
But it is for qualities more sterling than those of a vocal nature
that the confrère of the cook deserves recognition. He has his
trifling faults, to be sure--who is without them? He is obstinate
in being driven to market, perhaps, knowing the fate which awaits
him, and possibly his assurance may be somewhat obnoxious at public
gatherings. It is admitted also that his _savoir faire_ at table,
while distinguished for _aplomb_, is not entirely without alloy. But
although the ill-mannered among his tribe occasionally thrust their
feet not under but upon the mahogany, and are sometimes guilty of
elbowing one another at mealtime, yet it must be conceded that they are
never late at their engagements to dine; neither do they ever commit
that unpardonable breach of etiquette--eating with a knife. It is a
_belle fourchette_ rather than a fine blade they ply.
The late Horace Greeley, to repeat a well-known story, tells of a
farmer who drove a herd of Yorkshires to market,--
"When meads with slime were sprent, and ways with mire,"--
the march proving so fatiguing to his charges that they shrank in flesh
and had to be disposed of at a sacrifice on finally arriving at their
destination. When asked on his return how much he had realised from
the transaction, he replied he had made nothing out of his charges
themselves--"_he had had the pleasure of their company, though_."
This point, through a singular oversight,--the idea is the same and
equally charming everywhere,--Leigh Hunt has not touched upon in his
essay "On the Graces and Anxieties of Pig-Driving." It may be of
interest to those whose manuscripts have been rejected to know that
Hunt's exquisite conceit was refused by the magazine to which it was
addressed, but fortunately it was not on this account consigned to the
waste-basket, but lives and is embalmed with Lamb's dissertation.
"I could never understand to this day," writes Hunt in his
autobiography, "what it is that made the editor of a magazine reject
an article which I wrote, with the mock-heroic title of 'The Graces
and Anxieties of Pig-Driving.' I used to think he found something
vulgar in the title. He declared it was not he who rejected it, but the
proprietor of the magazine. The proprietor, on the other hand, declared
that it was not he who rejected it, but the editor. I published it in a
magazine of my own, 'The Companion,' and found it hailed as one of my
best pieces of writing."
This reference of Hunt's recalls a piquant _épigramme_ of lamb that
is not down in the cook-books. It was when the writer was taking his
departure from an old Paris bookstall, a number of years ago, that, as
he turned to leave, the proprietor remarked:
"Monsieur perhaps might like to glance at an English work, '_sur
l'Agneau_,' which came in with some other volumes recently."
The volume in question referred, indeed, to "lamb," and proved to be
the excessively rare first edition of "The Essays of Elia" (London,
1823). It was slightly foxed, but otherwise in excellent condition,
and contained some marginal annotations in manuscript. On carefully
examining the handwriting, we became convinced it was that of Charles
Lamb--there could be no possible doubt of it. The only writing on the
fly-leaf was, "To W. W., from C. L."--the "W. W." presumably being
William Wordsworth. In the volume, since attired by the binder as it
deserves, are several slight alterations in "The South Sea House," and
some addenda to "Valentine's Day."
But by far the most important annotation occurs in "A Dissertation
on Roast Pig." It is apparent at a glance that this was a serious
afterthought ere the volume left the author's hands and the types
confronted him with any lapses he had made--an apology, in fact, on
the part of the author for whatever reference might be considered
disparaging or in any wise inconsiderate as regards the worth of the
elder animal. For, in consistency, a jewel that sparkles throughout the
pages of "Elia," the parents might not be reviled without reflecting
upon the children. Moreover, however "mild and dulcet" a nursling
pigling, roasted _secundum artem_, may be to those of educated tastes,
it is a dish that cloys from its very mellifluence if repeated too
often, whereas in pork matured it is invariably a case of cut and come
again.
From the volume and chapter in question we transcribe the annotation,
_verbatim et literatim_, where it follows, as a postscript, the
concluding line, "he is a weakling--a flower":
"Methinks my mind (animadverted by the infant pearl) hath been
too evasive. There is he who, having shed the downy robes
of childhood, is clad in the _toga virilis_ of a glorious
chief. Hast thou ever on occasion savoured his matured nether
extremities, if haply thou wert blessed with an appetite and
appreciation commensurate with their unctuous worth? Regard
those feet--those parsley-garnished feet! See the pearly
whiteness of the ankles, the coral pink of the petitoes!
Meseems a man might arise in the small hours of a winter
morning to savour such a dish. It should summon the shade of
Lucullus. It should not only reconcile man to his lot, but it
should render him thankful for it. Imagine the passion of a
stricken youth (stricken by the pedal glories and faultless
poise of a Taglioni), and then note by comparison the exalted
rapture which should be engendered by _such_ feet as these!
"In wandering through Covent Garden market, and passing from
floral dreams to the vegetables, I often pause before the
peas. Do I yearn for them in their adolescence? do I associate
them with the duckling and the lamb? Nay; I await a time when
they shall have folded and creased within themselves their
_perfected_ saccharine excellence, to be released in the
kitchen of the winter.
"I can see a pig--a pig of one hundred and eighty
pounds--classical in all the tints of its marble freshness.
It sheds its internal graces in an excellent and cleanly
market. With deft execution the white-aproned purveyor removes
a _spare-rib_ from a side. Then in front of the site of the
_spare-rib_ there remains an area of unequalled promise--a
tract of the most delightsome possibilities. Let a piece be
cut about fourteen inches long and eight wide, when after it
has hung two or three days, I counsel thee to submerge it in
sweet pickle for a week. Then boil it with a quart of the
garden peas, with a shred, a hint, a sigh of onion. Allow it
to cool, and when freed of every vestige of vegetable matter,
place it in a garnished dish.
"No poem ever stirred the human heart, no slab of tessellated
pavement ever fired the archæologist, with respectful interest
akin to that evoked by this entrancing esculent. It is a fresh
wave in the sea of sapors--an approximation, a convolution
of two entities divinely transfused, which to conceive, it
must be tasted. It elevates the sense of taste to the highest
pinnacle of human aspiration. It is a _memory_ to inspire
gentle thoughts and tranquillize the mind; a _presence_ that
is a beatitude, and that looms in the visions of the future as
a thing to live for."
Less secretive than communicative in most of his ways, the hog is
nevertheless an enigma as regards his natural term of life. Not that
for a moment his native modesty forbids his announcing his age, or
that his lease of life equals that of Epimenides, but that, owing to
circumstances over which he has no control,--the greed and voracity
of man,--he is handicapped from proclaiming the full extent of
his longevity. "The natural age of a hog's life is little known,"
observes the learned Hampshire rector-naturalist; "and the reason is
plain--because it is neither profitable nor convenient to keep that
turbulent animal to the full extent of its time." The man were a dolt
who would take exceptions to White's natural-history observations, so
lucidly and delightfully set forth in the pages of "Selborne." And yet,
so great was his sympathy for all animals and dumb creatures, may not
the term "turbulent" have been possibly a slip of the pen or fault of
the types for "buoyant" or "complacent," with no malice prepense, as in
the case of Spenser and the generality of the poets?
His _bonhomie_ and engaging nature are seldom considered, unless
by a few humanitarians or interested trainers of animals. Yet what
possibilities does he not present as a companion to man, were man
not so eager for his slaughter, and were he to receive the same
encouragements as the cat and the dog! A case is cited by Frank
Buckland of a hog at Guildford that followed its master daily on his
walks, and whose instinct, agility, and affection could be equalled
only by the canine species. Hamerton also mentions a wild boar in
France which became domesticated and regularly accompanied his master
to the village church and would not be excluded, but came at last, by
the toleration of the curé, to hear mass like a Christian, till finally
he grew to an alarming size and was sold to a travelling menagerie.
The hog has been known in numerous instances to set and retrieve
various kinds of game with an intelligence equal to that of the most
blue-blooded pointer or setter, and even to exceed the canine species
in acuteness of scent and staunchness. A wager was once made in England
that with a hog trained on game the owner could kill more grouse on the
moors than either of his two competitors with their dogs, the result
being considerably in favour of the challenging party.
"If the pig had wings and could soar above the hedges," says an
appreciative writer in the old German "Kreuterbuch," "he would be
regarded as the best and most magnificent of fowls!" Is he not,
moreover, with his boon companion the domestic goose (likewise a
_douceur_ of the table when served with applesauce), one of the most
reliable of weather prophets, becoming restless and uttering loud cries
at the approach of a storm?
In any event, whatever deprivation the non-development of his
social qualities may have occasioned, he still shines supreme as a
utilitarian, a stimulus to gastronomy, and a promoter of the polite
arts. Some there are, perchance, who have cursorily regarded the
obligations we owe him as a purveyor of our comforts so far as relates
to the hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, and nail-brushes he has kindly
provided. The saddler and trunk-maker no doubt appreciate him after
a fashion, as did the conscientious bookbinder of old, with whom he
figured indirectly as a confrère in _belles-lettres_. But who among the
recipients of his many bounties has paused to consider the inestimable
influence he has exercised upon one of the greatest of the romantic or
fine arts, without which the most celebrated canvases of the world had
never existed, and the art of painting, if not utterly abandoned, must
languish of necessity for lack of his bristles to lay on the pigments?
For, with the exception of the minute brushes made from the soft fur
of the red sable for detail work, he contributes, if not the artist's
genius itself, at least the chief vehicle with which it is possible to
render it enduring.
One by one he has felt the pictures of Raphael, Titian, Correggio,
and Guido pulsate beneath the artist's brush; while later, in another
land, he was instrumental in fixing the harmonics of Velasquez's and
Murillo's marvellous colouring. He has witnessed the growing fame of
Turner and surveyed the miles of glowing flesh that Rubens has painted.
With Watteau and Boucher, he has gazed on many a fair shepherdess
and pastoral scene, and, with Jacque and Mauve, helped the shepherd
drive his fleecy flock. He has basked in the sunny atmosphere of Cuyp,
Wynants, and Van der Neer, and watched the radiant face of woman assume
a heightened charm through the genius of Lely and Reynolds. He has
viewed the frail beauties of the harem with Gérôme, and marked the
roseate twilight deepen over Venice with Ziem. A silent spectator of
the great pageant of Art, he has beheld Le Brun and Vernet depict the
carnage of the battle-field, and Poussin, Claude, and Constable open
enchanting vistas of landscape. Contemplating the progress of modern
art, he sees Diaz and Daubigny, Bouguereau and Meissonier, Vibert and
Verestchagin, Corot and Inness, and how many others! seated upon the
throne of undying fame and wielding the sceptre which he himself has
supplied.
His illustrious Bristleousness! Were it not for man's ingratitude and
his overpowering worth upon the shambles, he would long since have been
canonised and figure as the joint symbol of the useful and the romantic
arts.
Consider him likewise in his ferine state as most closely related
to nature, moving majestically through the fastnesses of his native
stronghold, toothed and tushed for war, indigenous and mighty as the
oaks which yield him their mast or the trees of the jungles through
which he treads. "The jungle path is his as much as the tiger's,"
writes the Indian sportsman and naturalist, Shakespeare; "the native
shikarries affirm that the wild boar will quench his thirst at the
river between two tigers, and I believe this to be strictly the truth.
The tiger and the boar have been heard fighting in the jungle at night,
and both have been found dead alongside of one another in the morning."
It was a wild boar that slew Adonis; and by none, not even by Baryé,
has the animal been more vividly depicted than by Shakespeare in the
warning of Venus:
"'Thou hadst boon gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this
But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O be advised! thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes, never sheathed, he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.
"'On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret,
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
Being moved he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.
"'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part; through whom he rushes.'"
As for his domesticated brother, to come back to our _cochons_, let
him be aspersed as he may--we have seen the manifold benefits he has
procured for us and the plane he rightly occupies in the evolution of
mankind. Without him the kitchen were well-nigh impracticable, and,
deprived of his services, gastronomy were an obsolete word.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AMERICAN _VS._ ENGLISH COOKERY
"The finest landscape in the world is improved by a good inn
in the foreground."
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Strictly speaking, there exists as yet no general high-class English
or American cuisine, beyond the natural alimentary resources of these
countries, supplemented by the efforts of foreign cooks. There are
certain native dishes of merit in England, to be sure, and there is a
so-termed Southern and Eastern kitchen in the United States where not
a few dishes are admirably prepared. But the art of baking bread and
of pastry-making, as well as that of frying, is, alas! lacking to a
great extent in both countries, while the entrée is still largely an
uncertain quantity with the housewife. There is a lack, likewise, both
in England and in America, of a proper understanding of sauces,
and this is the more to be regretted on the score of their appetising
qualities, the variety they impart to the flavour of viands, and, where
the properties of the numerous seasonings and condiments are thoroughly
understood, the beneficent effect they lend to digestion.
[Illustration: "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE!"
From the engraving by J. W. Snow.]
It were misleading, however, to decry the old-fashioned American home
kitchen. Smile as ye may, ye devotees of the Gallic art, the New World
has its dishes that are not to be despised. What fonts of delectation
well not forth from the apple-, the mince-, and the pumpkin-pie! And
what caressing sapors linger not in the buckwheat cake and nectar of
the maple grove, the corn and the sweet-potato "pone," the corned beef
and cabbage, and even the corn-on-the-cob itself, if of the "Country
Gentleman" or "Stowell's Evergreen" variety! The planked shad, the clam
chowder, the terrapin à la Maryland, the plebeian pork and beans, and
the more recent pâté of oyster-crabs and lobster à la Newburgh surely
need no one to sound their praises. The _Fuligula vallisneria_ of the
Chesapeake occupies so exalted a plane that it is sufficient to lift
one's hat at the mere thought of him; and then reflect how admirably
the ruffed grouse, the prairie-chicken, or a celery-fed redhead
may supply his place when occasion requires. And has not America
contributed the potato, the tomato, and tobacco, and taught the world
how to cross a continent in a dining-car! That the English are jealous
of American products cannot be doubted when one remembers the remark of
Sydney Smith, who was asked by one of his friends why he did not visit
America. "I fully intended going," was his reply, "but my parishioners
held a meeting and came to a resolution that they could not trust me
with the canvasback ducks; and I felt they were right, so I gave up the
project."
No better cookery, independent of any special school, is to be met
with than that of the superior restaurants and hotels of the American
metropolis and numerous clubs within and without its confines. The
cookery of the capital of the United States, as it exists in many of
the better restaurants and in private houses where Southern dishes
are especially well prepared, is deservedly celebrated. The New
Orleans kitchen has also its ardent admirers; but outside of New York
the restaurants of San Francisco are perhaps the most famous and
cosmopolitan. Receptive and creative, America has learned from all, and
added to acquired knowledge the results of her own inventive genius.
The era of fried steak, saleratus biscuits, and "apple floating-island"
has happily long since passed, and already in many instances an
American dinner has come to be recognised as among the very best it is
possible to obtain. A well-prepared Châteaubriand is no longer confined
to the Café Riche, or a bisque d'écrevisses to Voisin or to Lapérouse.
In none of the useful arts has progress been more marked in this
country during the past decade. Even in remote New England villages a
leg or a saddle of mutton is rarely sent to table with all its juices
and excellences dissipated, as one commonly finds it on the _tables
volantes_ of the prominent English restaurants. And for the omnipresent
"greens" of Great Britain in winter--the Brussels sprout, distended to
thrice its size and deprived of all its pristine delicacy by crossing
it with the cabbage--there are with us countless vegetables to choose
from.
Luxuriant diversity, in fact, is a marked characteristic of American
cookery, whatever faults may be found with its methods as frequently
practised. Yet, the too lavish multiplicity of dishes, usually at the
expense of quality, which has characterised the breakfast and dinner
of the average hostelry conducted on a fixed charge is disappearing,
and hotels on the European plan are becoming more in request yearly.
The cooking-school, likewise, is rapidly contributing its share towards
the evolution of eating, wherein wholesomeness and variety are properly
regarded as a means of health, enjoyment, and longevity.
The luxuries of a few years ago have become necessities now; and
one notes on every hand the better physical development produced by
improved alimentation and an increased understanding of the laws of
hygiene. No nation possesses so wide a field for administering to its
most minute wants at all seasons and under all conditions. The woods,
the waters, and the plains vie with one another in their contributions
to the table. If we have not the truffle, we have the mushroom. If we
are without the turbot and sole, we have the whitefish, the shad, the
flounder, the bluefish, the weakfish, the striped-bass, the frost-fish
and pompano--the choice from ice-cold to tropical waters, the range
from the Atlantic to the Pacific--with oysters unequalled in delicacy
and cheapness; while we not only grow vegetables in profusion, but
in infinite variety and of superlative excellence. When one thinks
of the oysters, with their rank, tinny, fishy flavour and their high
admission fee, that do duty in England and on the Continent alike,
one may trebly appreciate the delicate Blue Point, the Narragansett,
Glen Cove, Millpond, Lynn Haven, Cherrystone, Rockaway, Shrewsbury,
and the many other tributes of the "deep sea" wherein the very essence
of the ocean seems concentrated. Of wholesome fruits the supply and
kinds are boundless, while animal food in nearly all its forms is
nowhere found in greater perfection. Nor is furred and feathered game
lacking to minister to the wants of the invalid and shed its graces
on the board of the epicure. The poor may have their ice as well as
the rich; and with her vast granaries America can provision the globe
with the staff of life. Her territory is unlimited and its fertility
unsurpassed. He who wills may possess his plot of garden ground, and,
like Marvell, reckon the lapse of time by the ripening of his fruits
and the blossoming of his flowers. In time, perchance, an American
judge may rise to emphasise the sentiment of Henrion de Pensey, the
French magistrate, who thus expressed himself to three of the most
distinguished scientists of their day: "I consider the discovery of a
dish which sustains our appetite and prolongs our pleasures as a far
more interesting event than the discovery of a star, for we have always
stars enough; and I shall not regard the sciences as sufficiently
honoured or adequately represented amongst us until I see a cook in the
first class of the Institute."
Such a benefactor was the Vice-President of the United States, General
John C. Breckinridge, the story of his discovery having been thus
related at a recent dinner at Chamberlin's, in Washington, by one of
a coterie of men who were in their political and social prime in the
early sixties. The month was March, and at nearly every table planked
shad was being served. "I wonder," said the raconteur, as he held up
his glass of Forster-Jesuiten-Garten to the light and savoured its
adorable bouquet, "if any of these people who are smacking their lips
over that delicious dish know that they are indebted for it to General
John C. Breckinridge. It was from him that the people of this part of
the country gained their knowledge of how to plank shad, and from here
it has spread out to every place where shad can be obtained.
"It was Breckinridge's custom, beginning with the first warm Sunday in
April and continuing till the middle of June, to drive slowly along the
picturesque road that skirts the north bank of the Chesapeake and Ohio
Canal until he reached the Guard Locks, fifteen miles up, at the Great
Falls of the Potomac. In the buff-bodied carryall would be stowed away
a two-gallon demijohn of Kentucky's best, lemons, sugar, mint, a large
cheese, and pounds of soda-crackers. Besides the negro driver he would
at times have a friend along, most frequently that only social intimate
of President Buchanan, 'Gentleman Bob' Magraw.
"When Breckinridge reached the falls he would walk into the little
house which served the double duty of keeper's home and public inn,
shake hands with everybody, have a word of pleasant banter with the
landlady, hand her a five-dollar gold piece by way of compensation
for the diversion of business from her protected to his free-trade
entertainment, and then map out the day's enjoyment.