introduction produced so great an economical revolution among the

peoples of the earth. And were the potato itself lacking, the _Apios tuberosa_, or ground-nut, with its violet-scented blossoms--a tuber in use by the aborigines--would stand ready as a substitute, and yield innumerable varieties under cultivation. Although the early history of the potato is obscure and has been the subject of much discussion, the great botanist De Candolle states that its true home is Chili, where it grows wild; that before the discovery of America its cultivation was diffused from Chili to New Grenada; that it was introduced about the latter part of the sixteenth century into Virginia and North Carolina, and, finally, was imported into Europe between 1580 and 1585, first by the Spaniards and afterwards by the English at the time of Sir Walter Raleigh's voyages to Virginia. The first potato was planted on Sir Walter's estate in Cork, and employed for food in Ireland many years before it became familiar to England, the esculent still remaining the truffle of the Emerald Isle. Gerarde, long before the Lyonnaise or pomme soufflée was dreamed of, defines two varieties--the _Sisarum Peruvianum_, or skirret, of Peru, and the _Battata Virginiana_, or Virginian potato. In his "Great Herbal" the qualities of the "battata" are thus set forth: "The temperature and virtues be referred to the common Potatoes, being likewise a food, as also a meate for pleasure, equall in goodnesse and wholesomenesse unto the same, being either toasted in the embers, or boyled and eaten with oyle, vinegar and pepper, or dressed in any other way by the hand of some cunning in cookerie." The origin of the sweet potato is more doubtful, a number of authorities holding to its American and others to its Asiatic origin, though Brazil is usually credited as being the land of its genesis. During the old colony days of the eighteenth century catfish and waffle suppers were in great repute in the taverns on the picturesque Schuylkill near Philadelphia, these being still popular, though planked shad is more commonly called for. The turtle was a great favourite with our epicurean forefathers, who were accustomed frequently to hold turtle feasts or, as they were then termed, turtle frolics. Returning sea captains from the West Indies were expected to bring home a turtle for this purpose, together with a keg of limes, lime-juice being considered the best of all tart accompaniments for the punch-bowl. Of these feasts, with their accessories, a travelling clergyman named Burnaby gave this account in 1759: "There are several taverns pleasantly situated upon East River, near New York, where it is common to have these turtle feasts. These happen once or twice a week. Thirty or forty gentlemen and ladies meet and dine together, drink tea in the afternoon, fish, and amuse themselves till evening, and then return home in Italian chaises, a gentleman and lady in each chaise. On the way there is a bridge, about three miles distant from New York, which you always pass over as you return, called the Kissing Bridge, where it is part of the etiquette to salute the lady who has put herself under your protection." No wonder that, with such delightful privileges, the days of our roistering greater-grandfathers were referred to as "the good old colony times." It has been properly held that austerity of diet, though not always productive of austere morals, invariably leads to an acerbity of temperament inimical to social and artistic development, that poor food is a begetter of dyspepsia, and that in dyspepsia lurks crime. A well-nourished nation becomes a progressive nation, and poor nourishment results in intemperance and maleficence. The mobile human face, first to show the effects of the emotions and the passions by its lines, is no less indicative of meagre or improper alimentation. "Both in mind and body, where nourishment ceases vitality fails," and hence a perfect cuisine must prove the best of doctors if supplemented by the adage, "Know thyself, obtain a sufficiency of sleep, and exercise abundantly in the outer air." As to the ideal cuisine, this may be briefly defined as that which supplies an abundant variety of the best procurable material prepared in the most wholesome manner, in distinction to innumerable mixed and highly spiced viands, which assuredly have their place, but which require to be employed with precaution. The merit of the best American cookery consists in its comparative simplicity. Writing in 1852, Count d'Orsay complained that even then the culinary art had greatly deteriorated in Paris, and had been transferred to England. At the time referred to, the Frères Provençeaux, Philippe, and the Café de Paris were the most famous restaurants at the French capital, Véry, Véfour, and the Café Anglais having declined in favour. His remarks concerning England applied of course to the nobility, who could outbid the titled classes of France, as to-day America in its turn is enabled to command the greatest culinary skill. A similar complaint was made by Nestor Roqueplan in 1866 in "Le Double Almanach Gourmand": "The French cuisine has lost much of its originality and special characteristics. We no longer find places devoted to the Flemish kitchen, others to the Normandy, Lyonnaise, Toulousian, Bordelaise, and Provençale kitchens. But France nevertheless is still the country where eating is found at its best." That French cookery, or, to speak more correctly, Parisian cookery, has deteriorated of recent years there would seem to be abundant evidence. Or is it that such retrogression is owing to the advances in other countries, and that the Parisian cuisine suffers more from such comparison than from any real falling off in merit? Certain it is that the alien who is capable of judging will charge it with having become too rich and highly spiced, if not too careless. There are those who go so far as to say that its future will lie chiefly in the speech of the menu, that none of the strange spellings of "rosbif" will change the nature of the viand, the same remark applying to the cut which is called a "biftek" everywhere save in the land of its origin and in the United States. The fact is that the French, in many arts, unjustly claim a taste so superlative as to be unattainable by other nations, and that French cookery has been tacitly accepted as unparalleled on the same principle that a titled personage is supposed to possess superior accomplishments. Yet French must necessarily remain for all time the classic language of the bill of fare. Still, the preparation of food continues to be better understood by the average practitioner in France than in any other country. For, as in angling it is "not so much the fly as the hand directing it that secures the trout," so in cookery it is less the recipe than the fine perceptivity of the artist that achieves the perfect dish. So far as America is concerned, it is less the want of capable chefs than the scarcity of good female cooks that is to be deplored. A competent cuisinière is becoming more and more uncommon, and by the average servant cooking is too often considered a mere function to be performed with as little trouble and as much despatch as possible. Besides the lack of proper training, crass ignorance is too frequently a factor which the housewife has to contend with in those who profess to have a perfect understanding of the art of the kitchen. A new cook had come, and there were to be smelts with a tartare sauce to follow the soup. "Can you make a good tartare sauce?" asked the mistress; "if not, I can show you." "Oh, yes; I've often made one." In due time the fish, shorn of heads and tails and flanked by a very yellow sauce with a strange taste, made their appearance, and were promptly returned to the kitchen. "Surely, you don't call this a tartare sauce, which is always cold. Besides, where are the chopped pickle, the onion, the capers, the parsley? And what gives it such a queer taste?" "But this is a hot tartar sauce, mum; I asked for the 'tartar,' and the maid gave it to me; I supposed you wanted a cream-of-tartar sauce." The corrective for such a state of things is difficult to prescribe, unless it be a better understanding on the part of the housewife and the establishment of cooking-classes in all female schools. Another remedy might be to imitate the French of two hundred years ago, and provide an entertaining illustrated text-book for children, artfully designed to foster a love of gastronomy. Thus, in a work of this nature entitled "Roast Pig," the text is freely interlarded with appetising pictures of viands and table scenes, accompanied by such maxims as these: "A well-minced ham is fine eating, but not without something to drink"; "pâté of venison and craquelins are not intended for naughty children"; "damask prunes are delicious to eat for those who deserve them"; "venison is better in a pâté than with any sauces, if it is well seasoned and accompanied with wine."[32] [Illustration: "RÔTI-COCHON" Facsimile page from volume, 1696] The excellence of the _morale_ of a work of this nature cannot fail to impress itself on those of mature years whose incentive to learning in youth was more often the ruler and the rod than sugar-plums and wine. But while the advantages of such a method for moulding the youthful taste are to be extolled, it presents the objection that much valuable time must elapse before the results would become tangible, and hence its benefits would accrue too late save for the younger generation and its successors. It were well, withal, in furtherance of the advance of the art, if a society were formed for the suppression of the filet, the consommé with whipped cream, and also the sweetbread in its usual form, which are so frequently employed in "company" dinners, the bill of fare of which is left by the housewife to the cook or the purveyor who is engaged for the day. In such cases the guest often needs no menu to know what is forthcoming--the lukewarm Blue Points, the flavourless broth, the overdone halibut, the tasteless tenderloin and green peas, and the half-mixed salad deluged with tarragon vinegar. As for the wines, one may be reasonably sure of a woody-tasting sherry, a sour and watery "claret," and a still more asperous _brut_ champagne that is doled out, when appetite has waned, to chill the dessert and render the sweets the more indigestible. Not that this menu is the general rule by any means in the United States, but it is of far too frequent occurrence, and should be placed under ban--a charge that concerns the host and hostess alike. For whatever difficulty the mistress may experience in procuring trained culinary skill, a simple bill of fare, daintily served, is always at her command; while there can be no excuse on the part of the master for presenting a sharp _brut_ champagne at the end of the repast, if indeed it be presented at all; and as for a reputable Bordeaux, if such be not in his cellar, it is or should be obtainable at his club. Where champagne is permitted to diffuse its sunshine, it goes without saying it should be of irreproachable quality and dealt out with a liberal hand. To stint in Ay or Sillery is as unpardonable as to ice one's Burgundy. The host should watch the various brands attentively from year to year, noting their improvement or deterioration, judging them by their quality only, and choosing them irrespective of their vogue or the plaudits of those who may not be capable of judging. The introducer of the dry flint cracker in place of fresh bread to go with the cheese, though never definitely ascertained, is said to have been a dentist who in this wise succeeded in obtaining many wealthy patients. A person who is guilty of offering hardtack to his friends may be expected to pour a mayonnaise dressing over his cucumbers and beat up his lettuce and tomatoes in a salad. To serve cheese with the salad is a syncretism, besides being a great injustice to the roast to which the salad rightly appertains. The absence of butter which is often noticeable at formal repasts has no _raison d'être_. It is wanted at most dinners, particularly for corn, baked potatoes, etc., and is always needed for bread; its non-employment in Europe is only a consequent of economical custom. A vice it were seemingly useless to protest against, so universal is the practice, is the serving of raw fruit after a hearty dinner. As long as courses are presented in a tempting way, so long will the unthinking majority continue to taste them, even if it be fruit,--"gold in the morning, silver at noon, and lead at night,"--- after the final sweets. The only one who has exclaimed against this custom, to the writer's knowledge, is the Ettrick Shepherd in the "Noctes": "As for frute after fude, it's a downricht abomination, and coagulates on the stomach like sour cruds." Nor may the wineless dinner be passed unnoticed, at which unfortunate guests sometimes find themselves unwittingly present with no means of escape. To those who are unaccustomed to their glass of claret or other vinous beverage at home its exclusion may not materially signify, though at a protracted repast there are not a few among such who find it a great aid to digestion. In the case of those who are habituated to it its absence becomes of serious moment, much the same as if a meal were deprived of salt or the post-prandial cigar were proscribed. In vain may the unfortunate guest attempt to philosophise on the virtues of abnegation as he contemplates his glass where the gold gleams without, instead of sparkling from within, and he mournfully recalls the couplet of Monselet and the dinners that are past: "Sauternes, Haut-Brions, Latour, Margaux, Lafittes, Grands crûs de la Gironde, ah! quel bien vous me fîtes!" (Sauternes, Latour, Margaux, Lafitte, and O'Bryan, Grand growths of Gironde, let us make haste to try 'em!) The least that the dinner-giver could do who may be intent on restricting the product of the vine, out of respect for those whose happiness it befits him to consider,--aye, for which he is directly responsible during the entire period they remain under his roof,--would be to apprise his guests on their invitation cards that his filet was to be accompanied by water. Then any possible uncertainty would at once become a certainty, and no one need be ensnared. Otherwise his dinner must border too closely on the very questionable form of entertainment tendered by the fox to the stork. "Let no man," says an old writer in "Blackwood's," "who has been so unfortunate as to be accustomed to drink water be afraid all at once to begin to drink wine. Let him without fear or trembling boldly fill a bumper to his most gracious majesty the king--then the Duke of Clarence and the navy--then Wellington and the army. These three bumpers will have made him a new man." The fact that the host may not be a wine-drinker himself is no reason why he should select a dinner-party as the field for enforcing his views on hydropathy. And if from sentiment or through physical reasons he prefer water, no one assuredly will question his right to abstain from vinous beverages. There was an old gentleman, it is related, who was fond of entertaining his friends, and who gave them wine of the very best. He himself would drink with them, but only from a particular decanter which was placed before him. An inquisitive neighbour at his table contrived to help himself from the same bottle, and discovered that, under a colourable imitation of sherry, his host was drinking cold tea. He was a total abstainer from principle, but he was too courteous a gentleman to flaunt his conviction in the face of his guests or to reflect upon the weakness of his friends by confessing himself superior to them. Above all things, an invitation to dine should convey on its face the spirit of a refined, broad-minded hospitality and an assurance of perfect creature comforts, embodying in the fullest measure the sentiment expressed by Châtillon-Plessis, "_Se soigner en buvant d'excellents vins et en mangeant d'excellents mets, voilà la bonne, la vraie médication!_" (To care for one's self by drinking excellent wines and by eating excellent dishes,--this is the proper, the true medication.) In all instances where the entertainer may be opposed to serving wine, it were better to dispense with the dinner and substitute a tea or a reading in its stead. A wineless dinner is justifiable only where every guest is a professed teetotaler and has become inured to Oolong and sparkling waters. An editorial in the London "Spectator" deals summarily with such alleged entertainers, terming them "would-be hosts." "What!" [exclaims the writer] "shall a man be invited to a feast? shall he don his white tie with care and take his way through the inclement weather to his friend's home, determined, though weary and jaded with his daily toil, to shine at his best, and repay with the blithest company his friend's entertainment? and shall he be offered lemonade to drink? It is enough to curdle the milk of human kindness in his breast forever. Or iced water? Why, it would throw a chill upon the warmest good will, and freeze the speech even upon the lips of a lover. The man is neither a wine-bibber nor a sot. But he is accustomed to drink his glass of wine, even as he is accustomed to eat his dinner, and one is as necessary to him as the other. Well, we do not imagine that he dines with him twice." The Sunday two- or three-o'clock dinner is a barbarism which calls loudly for suppression--a custom that has no justifiable motive, inasmuch as the only pretence for its existence is of questionable benefit to the servants, who are obliged to share equally the penalty visited upon every one by whom it is tolerated. As well establish a weekly custom of a Saturday banquet at midnight in order to allow the cook a full afternoon for visiting. For what are the inevitable results? Accustomed to the dinner in the evening and the luncheon at noon, for which the machinery of digestion is set in perfect accord, the stomach is called upon to fast on the day devoted to rest until long after the period for the performance of its regular offices--to be surfeited with excessive ingestion at a time when appetite is ravenous and the secretory organs are unable to perform their customary functions. Gluttony and subsequent lethargy are a necessary consequent, followed by a disturbed state of the digestion perhaps for days afterwards. The pathological deduction of irregular eating is a simple one. The stomach, having supplied its secretions at the accustomed time, waits but a brief period before it allows such secretions to be absorbed when deprived of the aliments that aid in the production of fresh supplies. After a few such experiences the secretions diminish in amount and in activity, even when food is introduced in the digestive tract, and stomachic disturbance is an inevitable sequence. It will thus be manifest that the Sunday-afternoon dinner and late Sunday supper become the greatest of all invitations to gastric disorders, and that the master and mistress of the well-regulated household should firmly resent this almost universal imposition. No one knows better than the physician the serious ailments caused by Sunday engorgement and irregular eating. And yet no one in this respect remains more passive to his own welfare or that of his patients. The seven-o'clock theatre dinner, while less obnoxious than the Sunday evil, is nevertheless a positive discomfort and a direct incentive to flatulence and dyspepsia. It should likewise receive the stigma of public disapproval, and either be entirely abolished, out of comfort both to hosts and guests, or set at a sufficiently early hour to ensure their well-being and that of the audience it invariably disturbs. In any event, a formal repast of this nature can scarcely be partaken of with a sense of comfort, and it were better for all concerned if a supper after the performance were substituted. To be regretted also is the growing tendency of adjourning the evening dinner-hour. Six o'clock, the hygienist will maintain, is the latest period in the day at which those who set a proper value on their health should begin to dine. It will be claimed, notwithstanding, by many who may be directly concerned, that this is too early for invited guests to assemble at table--that the toiler in the business mart may not always call his time his own. Let the hours of the business man and the professionalist be shortened, so that life may contain a broader margin. There still remain but twenty-four hours in the day, and the existing hours of business are too long and do not enable the majority to regulate the conditions of life properly. Let us not be ever hastening on, as though the goal were to be attained only by whip and spur!--"the wisdom of a learned man cometh by opportunity of leisure, and he that hath little business shall become wise." The ideal hour for dining would be half-past six, with fifteen minutes' grace at the utmost, when one need neither sit down in a half-famished condition nor be sent to bed with an overcharged stomach. Seven o'clock certainly is as late as one may dine with comfort. A deferred dinner means either a too substantial luncheon or a distressing feeling of "goneness," which frequently makes itself unpleasantly audible long before the announcement that dinner is served; while lateness in dining implies additionally an insufficient interim between the dessert and the night's repose. No period of the day begins to be as tedious as that which is often mistakenly extended for the benefit and encouragement of the unpunctual. Would that the laggard who thus mars the comfort of others might feel the true force of Boileau's stricture: "I have always been punctual at the hour of dinner, for I knew that all those whom I kept waiting at that provoking interval would employ those unpleasant moments to sum up all my faults." To wait for tardy guests, it cannot be emphasised too strongly, is to try unwarrantably the temper of the remainder of the company and jeopardise the excellence of the repast. All such stumbling-blocks to the perfect advance of gastronomy, however, will doubtless be removed in time, and the pleasures of the table eventually be realised to their fullest extent in America. Again, turning from the state of cookery in this country to that in England, it must be admitted that advancement has been far less manifest. "In general," a French writer remarks, "the English are little inclined to epicurism; it is apparent that their palate is not apt to appreciate the finish, the delicacy of a dish artistically prepared." It cannot be said that this stricture is entirely just, despite existent conditions. Neither may it be charged that the general state of English cookery is entirely the result of supineness on the part of a considerable portion of those whose interests are most affected; for the travelled Briton is the first to complain of the sameness and lack of progress which characterise his native kitchen. With abundant material and the best of meats and fish, there is little variety and a conspicuous want of daintiness in the English bill of fare; while even in the capital the English restaurants, with few exceptions, are scarcely to be commended. One must perforce suppose that these conditions are more the outcome of the national conservatism--the tendency to "let well enough alone"--than that they are not realised by a certain portion of the community. The Englishman is the last one, however, to stint at his table, whereon the ample roast invariably figures, and whatever may chance to be served appears in generous profusion. Nor can one imagine a more delightsome host than the cultured Briton, who was first to proclaim the virtues of old-vintage champagnes, and who is still willing to undergo the martyrdom of gout for the sake of an after-glass of port which may not be equalled elsewhere. And if the English table be designated as "heavy" compared with that of the United States, it must be considered that climate has much to do with the form of a nation's alimentation. The national roast beef and ale are a fuel for the body in a land where fogs and mists prevail, and where the heating of dwellings and buildings is often inadequate. The chop-house is essentially English, and so far as its bill of fare extends its merits are unquestionable. The Englishman will also say, and his claim cannot be disputed, Is there a better substantial soup than turtle, or even ox-tail and mulligatawny? is any _friture_ equal in delicacy to that of whitebait? and is not the English beefsteak incomparably superior to the larded filet of the French? But turtle and turbot and beef and ale need not necessarily preclude the lighter forms of nutrition which the British lack, or that minute attention to detail without which the cuisine must languish. It is true that the kitchens of the very wealthy are presided over by skilled foreign chefs, as is the case in most other countries, and that my lord and my lady do not lack for the most exquisite refinements that the disciples of Carême can contribute. A rich ancestral English country-seat, shaded by its immemorial elms and limes, with its splendid conservatories and gardens, its game-preserves and trout and salmon waters, is perhaps the best expression of refined and luxurious hospitality to be found; and here, assuredly, the table does not yield in bounty and munificence to any in the world. Outside of comparatively few dishes, however, there is but little to commend in general English cookery; and it would seem that what else is specially characteristic and also good consists largely in the cold pieces, such as game-, pigeon-, and rabbit-pie, spiced beef, the lordly venison pasty, and similar comestibles. That there is no such thing as fine modern English cookery the Englishman will be first to acknowledge. Broadly speaking, all which is good is old, and all which is modern is French.[33] The cooking of vegetables is notoriously poor, and variety in preparation is as limited on the ordinary table as the variety of the vegetables themselves during a major portion of the year. The seedsman and the market-gardener cannot be held accountable, for the seedsman produces excellent varieties in profusion, many of which are grown in this country, and market-gardeners abound who must raise them. And no gardener may excel, if equal, the Englishman, whether his operations extend to the kitchen-or the flower-garden. But where are his vegetables to be met with in perfection of variety and perfection of cooking?--a question that becomes almost as great a problem as was the universal absence of male birds among the chaffinches or the mysterious disappearance of the ring-ouzels to Gilbert White. During the limited season, let us admit, there are some vegetables which may not be surpassed, like green peas and beans, cauliflower, asparagus, and many varieties of lettuce, especially Cos, which cannot be grown to equal advantage under our hot summer sun. It is unfortunate that potatoes are cooked only in about one way, for few potatoes can compare in flavour with those raised in England. All such vegetables as demand continuous midsummer heat for their perfect maturity, together with late-ripening varieties of fruits, are necessarily raised at a disadvantage in most portions of Great Britain. Yet it would seem that the frowns of Vertumnus were far less responsible for this dearth of variety than the apparent apathy of the nation itself or those who are principally responsible for its alimentation--the cook, the epicure, the restaurant, and the housewife. Thus, in so simple a matter as the pumpkin-pie, which one occasionally meets in the southern and southwestern shires, it is hardly surprising that it is held in slight estimation when one reflects that the material is cut up in pieces, and then, with half apple and half pumpkin, a pie is made similar to the ordinary English apple-pie, and this in a climate where a pumpkin of good quality may not be grown out of doors. Contrary to general opinion, pumpkin-pie is not an American but an old English dish improved upon by the New England housewife. Three hundred years ago, when known as the "pompion," they were made into pies by cutting a hole in the side, extracting the seeds and filaments, stuffing the cavity with apples, and baking the whole. The nectarine, peach, and apricot, as raised under glass in England or grown as espaliers in favoured localities, are always superior, while the glass-grown "pine" nowhere else reaches such perfection. Superlative, too, is the glass-grown muskmelon--netted, ribbed, and laced; spherical, oval, and globe-shaped; green-fleshed and scarlet-fleshed; and melting, juicy, and delicious. But some will ask, what can be more delectable than the scented orange-scarlet flesh of our own "Surprise," or the Hymettus sweetness that is hived beneath the wattled ribs of the little "Green Nutmeg"? The watermelon, with its great, luscious, rosy core, like corn and the sweet potato and its varieties, is not to be grown in England. Of hardy fruits America is the chosen home, unless it be of the grape for wine-making, wherein France reigns supreme. And of all districts where soil and climate unite to second the skill of the horticulturist, there is perhaps none in which nearly all the finer species and varieties of fruit attain such superiority, combined with keeping qualities, as in the smiling garden of the Empire State--the Genesee Valley of New York. Excellent fruits are raised in France and southern Germany, but only to a limited extent compared with our own country. To the French we are indebted for many of the finest varieties of pears, though these are rarely seen in France itself. Fruit in Europe is always dear and often difficult to obtain. Yet in the noted Parisian restaurants it is a rare occurrence when one cannot obtain a couple of peaches for twenty-five francs, or revel in a melon for thirty, much the same as pineapples may be obtained in London at a guinea apiece. It will readily be conceded that the fish and meats of the French and Germans are usually much inferior to those of the English--the veal of Germany and the Pré-Salé mutton of France excepted. But, unlike the continentals, the English fail to make the most of their opportunities and better materials. A contemporaneous English writer thus alludes to the state of cookery and this lack of progress in his own country: "The adage 'God sends meat and the devil sends cooks' must surely be of native parentage, for of no country is it so true as of our own. Perhaps had it not been for the influx among us of French and Italian experts we should not have progressed much beyond the pancake and oatmeal period. But foreign chefs limit their efforts to those who can afford to pay them for their services. The middle classes do not fall within the pale of their beneficence. The poor know them not. So it happens that even as I write the greater part of the community not only cannot afford professional assistance in the preparation of their meals, which goes without saying, but from ignorance expend on their larder twice as much as a Parisian or an Italian in the same rank of life, with a very indifferent result. There are handbooks of instructions, it is true, both for the middle and for the lower classes. These books are at everybody's command. But they are either left unread, or, if read, they are not understood."[34] Let it not be supposed by the stranger to the table of London that one may not dine there to advantage, or that the criticisms as to strictly English dinners apply to all hostelries and to many first-class restaurants of the capital where the French _haute cuisine_ prevails. London has likewise numerous Italian restaurants whose table d'hôte is not to be despised--if one knows where to find them. But even in those restaurants whose specialty is French cookery the menu is singularly incommensurate in variety to the varied native products, both in vegetable and animal foods. Even the delicious sole and turbot, however well prepared, become a weariness through constant iteration, while _petite marmite_ and _croûte-au-pot_ are so frequent as to cause one to yearn for Julienne with inexpressible longing. No doubt, with a trained and old-time diner who knows his London thoroughly, one might happen on not a few gastronomic oases whose good English cheer would cause even the fog of the metropolis to melt into golden sunshine. Many old dishes still exist in the English provinces on which much store is set in their respective localities, as, for instance, a certain pudding, rarely found outside of Derbyshire, called Bakewell pudding, after the little town on the Wye, which is also celebrated for its trout. Although the ancient recipe for this, handed down from one generation to another, is said to be possessed only by the landlady of the Chesterfield Arms in Bakewell, it is asserted that a successful imitation may be made as follows: Line a pie-tin with puff-paste and fill the centre with these ingredients--first layer, lemon cheese; second, raspberry jam; third, lemon cheese. Then strew on the top blanched sweet almonds and strips of candied peel of lemons, oranges, and citrons. Bake for about twenty minutes in a brisk oven, and dust very lightly with fine sugar. Of the innumerable forms of preparing the cutlet, the following recipe can at least lay claim to originality, and is thoroughly English: The cutlets should be cut from the neck of mutton, then egged and breadcrumbed, finely minced tongue or ham having been mixed with the crumbs. Fry a delicate brown. For the centre of the dish use the whites of three eggs steamed in a cup. Place in a saucepan gherkins, mushrooms, ham, and tongue cut into small bars, adding to this a sauce of good brown gravy, with a dessertspoonful each of red-currant jelly, Harvey's sauce, mushroom ketchup, and tomato sauce. For the quality of this recipe the writer cannot vouch further than to observe that, like its predecessor, it emanates from the daintiest of feminine fingers of Wargrave, where the excellence of the contributor's kitchen is equalled only by the beauty of her flower-garden. The universal employment of bottled sauces, such as Worcester, Halford, Harvey's, etc., and pungent condiments, like gherkins, mustard, chow-chow, and ketchup, would seem to be more or less necessary in England, owing to the monotony of her roast beef and mutton and the extensive use of cold meats, poultry, and game. Harvey's sauce, mentioned among the ingredients of the above-mentioned recipe, owes its origin to this circumstance: During the middle and later years of Mr. Meynell's mastership of the hounds in the celebrated Quorn country there often appeared in the field Captain Charles Combers, who was born at Brentwood in 1752, and who was more familiarly known as "The Flying Cucumber" from the manner in which he put his horses along. On one occasion, when on his way to Leicestershire, he stopped, as was his wont, at Bedford to dine at the George, then kept by a man named Harvey, where he ordered a steak; and when it was served Combers requested Harvey to let his servant bring from his buggy a quart bottle which contained an admirable sauce. Having poured some of it into his plate and mixed it with the gravy of the steak, he asked Harvey to taste it, and the host pronounced it to be a most excellent relish. "Well, Mr. Harvey," said Combers, "I shall leave the bottle with you to use till my return, only be careful to reserve enough for me." On the next day Harvey had to provide a wedding dinner and introduced the sauce, which afforded such general satisfaction that several smaller parties were made up, and the contents of the bottle were soon exhausted. In due time Captain Combers returned, and, having been told that no more sauce remained, said: "Never mind; I can make some more from my mother's recipe; and, by-the-bye, I will give you a copy of it." He was as good as his word. Harvey made it in large quantities, sent it to the different shops in London, advertised it as "Harvey's Sauce," and by its extensive sale realised a large income. He subsequently sold the recipe for an annuity of £400 or £500, which he received for the remainder of his life. Among old English dishes, "Bubble and Squeak" is the fanciful name applied to fried beef or mutton and cabbage,-- "When 'midst the frying-pan, in accents savage, The beef so surly quarrels with the cabbage,"-- for the preparation of which widely varied recipes are given in the vade-mecums of English cookery. Kitchener even set the lines to music, and furnished a sauce for the dish. Such a dish illustrates the excellent digestion of the English. To the French it would be impossible, and a German would think twice before attempting it. But this were harmless compared with an English green sauce for green geese or ducklings, the prescription for which reads: "Mix a quarter of a pint of sorrel-juice, a glass of white wine, and some scalded gooseberries. Add sugar and a bit of butter, and boil them up." To cavil is easy, however, and in matters relating to cookery it were well to bear in mind the philosophic lines of King, a contemporary of the late lamented Mrs. Glasse: "Good nature will some failings overlook, Forgive mischance, not errors of the Cook; As, if no salt is thrown about the dish, Or nice crisp'd parsley scatter'd on the fish; Shall we in passion from our dinner fly, And hopes of pardon to the Cook deny, For things which Mrs. Glasse herself might oversee, And all mankind commit as well as she?" And if English cookery and English restaurants leave much to be desired, one should not forget that the art is still far from having attained perfection in the United States, where the stranger in like manner might find ample cause for complaint, particularly in the poor and slipshod cookery of the hostelries of its country towns. Certainly all who have visited in England will recall the generous hospitality of its people, the almost homelike comfort and cleanliness of its inns, and a service that may not be equalled by that of any other nation. When to these are added the glories of the English countryside--the idyllic setting amid which many a repast has been savoured--one may well overlook any trifling lapses of the cook, in view of enchantments that must ever be retained in tender recollection. [Illustration] AT TABLE WITH THE CLERGY "Bishop and Abbot and Prior were there; Many a Monk and many a Friar." INGOLDSBY LEGENDS: The Jackdaw of Rheims. Whether cookery is indebted to the Roman Catholic Church to the full extent that is commonly supposed is questionable. It is certain, however, that the olden monks and friars performed considerable service in preserving ancient recipes and inventing new formulas, many of which have been improved upon as the science has advanced. Previous to the Renaissance the higher cultivation of cookery was confined largely to the monasteries, which prided themselves upon their excellent cheer and the hospitality they extended to distinguished visitors. Indeed, numbers of food preparations may be traced to the monastic orders, especially forms of cooking fish, eggs, and various soups. The introduction of soup, which is mentioned for the first time in history at the beginning of the fifteenth century, is closely connected with the clergy. Then it was that, during the fêtes attendant on the marriage of Catherine de Valois to Henry V of England, the Archbishop of Sens, at the head of a procession of his priests, bore the soup and the wine to the royal chamber, accompanied by the blessing of the Papal See. [Illustration: NON IN SOLO PANE VIVIT HOMO From the original oil-painting by Klein] Around the art of larding is likewise shed the halo of sanctity, its discovery having occurred during the Council of Bâle in 1440, when Amadeus of Savoy, elected pope under the name of Félix V, was tendered a larded capon by his cook. Julienne, or a soup somewhat similar, it is more than probable, is an old monastic dish having special reference to days when meat was proscribed, the same observation applying to numerous fish and vegetable soups and ragoûts. There is much reason to suppose that not a few treatises on cookery and on wines have appeared whose authors were dignitaries of the church, or at least connected with clericalism, but whose rôle forbade them attaching their names to works of this nature. Thus, during the year 1671 there was published at Molsheim, in southern Germany, an excellent cook-book which treated of the various branches of the science, by Bernardin Buchinger, Abbot of Lützel, having for its title "Koch-Buch so für Geistliche als auch Weltliche Grosse und Geringe Haushaltungen," etc.,--"Cook-Book for large and small Religious as well as Laical Establishments,"--a culinary grammar of much merit which has since passed into several editions. In this work the hierophant's name was omitted, the authorship being announced as "Durch Einen Geistlichen Küchen-Meister desz Gotteshauses Lützel beschrieben und practicirt,"--"described and practised by a religious Master-Cook of the Monastery of Lützel." An important volume of three hundred pages by Vittorio Lancellotti, published in Rome, appeared in 1627, in which is presented month by month a description of a large number of feasts given by various prelates in honour of eminent personages at the commencement of the seventeenth century. The volume was dedicated to Cardinal Ippolito Aldobrandino, and is addressed chiefly to the clergy, whose good taste in the matter of good cheer and luxury in entertaining are minutely set forth.[35] To the ancient ecclesiasts the vineyards producing the finest wines of the world owe their existence and their fame--the Johannisberg, Steinberg, Hochheim, Dom Dechanei, Rauenthal-Pfaffenberg, and numerous other growths of the Rheingau; the Forster Kirchenstück and Jesuitengarten of the Rheinpfalz; the Stein and Leisten wines of Franconia, the Liebfrauenmilch Enclos Klostergarten of Rhenish Hessia, and the Kloster Neuberg of Austria. No less celebrated in other lands are the rich endowments of the monastery--the Romanée, Chambertin, and Clos-Vougeot of the Côte d'Or; the Hermitage and Château-neuf-du-Pape of the Rhône; Saint-Emilion and Sainte-Croix-du-Mont of the Gironde, as well as many of the priceless growths of the Haut-Médoc. Like the odour of old arras, around the roseate and golden clusters of the vine clings the incense of prelacy and circles the aureole of the church. One were more than ungrateful, too, to forget the invaluable services rendered by Dom Pérignon in contributing to the vinous delights of the table. Fancy, if one can, a world without champagne--not as a daily beverage, but as a talisman to loosen the tongues of the timid and a wand to evoke the joyous sally and brilliant repartee! With what other potable may one so appropriately pledge not only _le beau sexe des deux hemisphères, mais les deux hemisphères du beau sexe_? Almost equally to be commended are the Carthusian friars of Dauphiné, who evolved the greens and golds of _Chartreuse_; the cenobites of La Grâce-Dieu, who produced _Trappistine_; the Trappists of l'Allier, in whose cloister originated the elixir of long life, _de Sept-Fonds_; and the holy fathers of Rouen, who invented the delicious balm of _Bon-Secours_. The religious orders were early famed for their distillations. In the account of his travels in Italy the observant Seigneur de Montaigne mentions the Jesuits of Vicenza, who had a liqueur-shop in their monastery, as well as the monks of Verona, who were excellent distillers of _eau de naffe_, a liqueur made with the flower of citron. The famous _Bénédictine_, however, a rival of _Chartreuse_, though at present made by the monks of Fécamp in Normandy, and therefore possessing the stamp of monachism, was not of spiritual inspiration. Like the _eau de vie des Carmes_, _Liqueur des Evèques_, _Eau Archiépiscopale_, _Liqueur des Chartreux_, _Plaisir des Dames_, and _Huile des Jeunes Mariés_, it was worldly in its inception. Its history is interesting. In 1803 M. Le Grand, an enterprising wine-merchant of Fécamp, set about its manufacture, advertising it to the amount of eight hundred thousand francs,--his entire fortune,--the claim being made that the secret of its fabrication was consigned by a Benedictine brother to a manuscript in 1510 and opportunely discovered by the vender. The venture proved successful, as indeed the virtues of the liqueur merited, its annual sale now exceeding a million bottles. At first the clergy protested loudly against the bald appropriation of the name of an abbey, and Cardinal Bonnechose[36] petitioned Napoleon III to put an end to the scandal, the restored order eventually taking up the manufacture of the cordial and signing it with the name of the inventor, whose final _Benedicite_ was recently pronounced. The present Archbishop of Rouen came to bless the most recent constructions of the abbey, among which is a superb _Salle des Abbés_, and, at the banquet following the ceremonial, during the dessert he compared the inventor of the liqueur to several of the heroes of Christianity. Benedictine (_ad majorem Dei gloriam_) is the only important liqueur thus far which has escaped analysis, although imitations of this and all others that have proved successful are freely placed upon the market. Curaçoa, it is said, was discovered by a French _chanoine_, and the aroma of the wild cherry imprisoned in Maraschino by an Italian _frate_. A German _Pfarrer_, it is averred, first dissolved gold in the _eau de vie de Dantzig_, and through a Spanish _sacerdote_ is said to have come _Santa Cruz_, the rum of the Holy Cross. In the quest for the elixir of life the monastery became the great alembic of liqueurs, the study of essences, spirits, and distillations varying with the labour of illuminating missals and the routine of religious devotions. During the thirteenth century Arnaud de Villeneuve formulated the question of the elixir of life in these terms, which became a dogma for all his monastic successors: "This is the secret, viz., to find substances so homogeneous to our nature that they can increase it without inflaming it, continue it without diminishing it, ... as our life continually loses somewhat, until at last all is lost." The outcome of the patient labours of these religious alchemists was numerous elixirs and liqueurs, of which the secret composition was transmitted from generation to generation in convents and monasteries. These liqueurs were in their origin simply a pharmaceutic product; it is only within a comparatively short time that they have been converted into after-dinner _douceurs_. Every useful art, however, must find perfection of expression sooner or later, notably an art which is a necessity and which likewise appeals to the lawful gratification of the senses. And if cookery was fostered by the cloisters of Europe, and reached its zenith during the early part of the past century in Paris, it is equally true that at no time in the history of the world has it attained such general excellence as at present. But let the religious orders and the priesthood be credited with their full share in its advancement. They are no exception to the generality of mankind in being blessed with appetites, but they are sufficiently intelligent to recognise that in a well-appointed cuisine there exist both a prophylactic to ennui and the best of pharmacopœias. Let the spit turn merrily, therefore, and the carp fatten in their ponds; let the flower of the vine and the pressings of the grape distil for them their fragrance; let them repeat their paternosters and chant in concert their penitential psalms: "1. One herring and one herring make two herrings, Two herrings and one herring make three herrings. "2. Three herrings and one herring make four herrings, Four herrings and one herring make five herrings. "3. Five herrings and one herring make six herrings." . . . . . . . . . . And so on up to a hundred herrings. "From salted, red, or smoked herrings, _libera nos_, _Domine_; From cold water as a beverage, _libera nos_, _Domine_. _A- a- a- amen!_" It is most unfortunate that La Reynière omitted to bequeath to posterity a certain monastic recipe of marvellous merit used in connection with wild fowl and all manner of game-birds, which is thus described in the brilliant opening essay of the first year of the "Almanach," the author's reference being to the wild duck, which he advises to be cooked _à la broche_, as it thus preserves all its _fumet_ without losing any of its other qualities: "After it has been roasted and carved" [he proceeds to say] "a sort of poignant _salmis_ may be prepared on the table, the recipe for which we have been in possession of for a long time, and which was given to us by the _procureur_ of a Bernardin abbey--the sole riches that the Revolution could not confiscate from him; this formula, however, we must reserve for our most intimate friends. The recipe is not to be found in any nutritive dispensary, and it becomes all the more precious inasmuch as, not being applicable to the duck alone, it may be utilized with all kinds of dark-fleshed feathered game, and especially with partridges and woodcock--which renders it inappreciable." Far less can be said of the Protestant clergy on the score of cookery or with respect to the improvement of the vine and the invention of beverages. Nearly all clerical roads lead through Rome, it would seem, in so far as relates to gastronomy. Moreover, in Protestant countries--at least among the lesser lights of the church--it is rather the rector who is fêted than who does the fêting, and who, even were he inclined to asceticism, would scarcely be allowed to practise it by his parishioners. In one of his essays, "The Country Sunday," Richard Jefferies tells how the chapel pastor is entertained at table in Wiltshire: "There is no man so feasted as the chapel pastor. He dines every Sunday, and at least once a week besides, at the house of one of his stoutest upholders.... After dinner the cognac bottle is produced, and the pastor fills his tumbler half full of spirit, and but lightly dashes it with water. It is cognac, and not brandy, for your chapel minister thinks it an affront if anything more common than the best French liquor is put before him: he likes it strong, and with it his long clay pipe. Very frequently another minister, sometimes two or three, come in at the same time, and take the same dinner, and afterwards form a genial circle with cognac and tobacco, when the room speedily becomes full of smoke and the bottle of brandy soon disappears. In these family parties there is not the least approach to over-conviviality; it is merely the custom, no one thinks anything of a glass and a pipe; it is perfectly innocent; it is not a local thing, but common and understood. The consumption of brandy and tobacco and the good things of dinner, tea, and supper (for the party generally sit out the three meals) must in a month cost the host a good deal of money, but all things are cheerfully borne for the good of the church. Never were men feasted with such honest good-will as these pastors; and if a budding Paul or Silas happens to come along who has scarce yet passed his ordination, the youthful divine may stay a week if he likes, and lick the platter clean." One also remembers the curates' dinner as described in "The Professor" by that keen observer, Charlotte Brontë: "The curates had good appetites, and though the beef was tough, they ate a great deal of it. They swallowed, too, a tolerable allowance of the 'flat beer,' while a dish of Yorkshire pudding and two tureens of vegetables disappeared like leaves before locusts. The cheese, too, received distinguished marks of their attention; and a 'spice-cake,' which followed by way of dessert, vanished like a vision and was no more found." Anthony Hayward, in "The Art of Dining," tells the story of the phenomenal appetite of a chaplain during the Old Bailey sittings, when it was the custom to serve two dinners (exact duplicates) a day, the first at three o'clock, the second at five: "The first course was rather miscellaneous, varying with the season, though marrow-puddings always formed a part of it; the second never varied and consisted exclusively of beefsteaks. As the judges relieved each other, it was impracticable for them to partake of both; but a little chaplain whose duty it was to preside at the lower end of the table was never absent from his post. This invaluable public servant persevered from a sheer sense of duty till he had acquired the habit of eating two dinners a day, and practised it for nearly ten years without any perceptible injury to his health. We had the pleasure of witnessing his performance at one of the five o'clock dinners, and can assert with confidence that the vigour of his attack on the beefsteaks was wholly unimpaired by the effective execution a friend assured us he had done on them two hours before." The last communication from the Rev. Sydney Smith to Canon Barham, better known as Thomas Ingoldsby, related to gastronomy, with the ethics of which he was so conversant, the canon having just sent him a pannier of pheasants. "Many thanks, my dear sir, for your kind present of game," wrote the appreciative recipient. "If there is a pure and elevated pleasure in this world, it is that of roast pheasant and bread-sauce; barn-door fowls for dissenters, but for the real churchman, the thirty-nine times articled clerk, the pheasant! the pheasant!" Why the witty rector of Combe-Florey declared that when he found himself seated next to a bishop at a dinner-party he became so nervous that he could do nothing but crumble his bread, and when his place adjoined that of an archbishop he crumbled it with both hands, seems inexplicable, unless it had been his mischance to encounter among his superiors in office more accomplished epularians than himself. Besides his celebrated poetical recipes for a salad, which are presented in a following chapter, his less familiar "Receipt to Roast Mutton" may not be omitted from references to ecclesiastic good cheer: "Gently stir and blow the fire, Lay the mutton down to roast, Dress it quickly, I desire, In the dripping put a toast, That I hunger may remove-- Mutton is the meat I love. "On the dresser see it lie; Oh! the charming white and red; Finer meat ne'er met the eye, On the sweetest grass it fed: Let the jack go swiftly round, Let me have it nicely brown'd. "On the table spread the cloth, Let the knives be sharp and clean, Pickles get and salad both, Let them each be fresh and green. With small beer, good ale, and wine, O ye gods! how I shall dine!" Canon Barham, no less than Sydney Smith, wielded a valiant spoon, and to the unpunctual at dinner he has delivered one of his most forcible sermons in "The Lay of St. Cuthbert": "When asked out to dine by a Person of Quality, Mind and observe the most strict punctuality! For should you come late, and make dinner wait, And the victuals get cold, you'll incur, sure as fate, The Master's displeasure, the Mistress's hate. And though both may, perhaps, be too well-bred to swear,-- They'll heartily wish you--I need not say _Where_." Grace before meat is usually well expressed by the reverend clergy, and perhaps the brief introductory thanksgiving of the late Canon Shuttleworth is as happy as any: "For good life and good health; for good company and good cheer, may the Giver of all good things make us thankful." So far as orthodox graces are concerned, it were difficult to improve upon the two fervent thanksgivings of Psalms XXXIV and CXLV: "The lions do lack, and suffer hunger: but they who seek the Lord shall want no manner of thing that is good. "The eyes of all wait upon thee, O Lord: and thou givest them their meat in due season. "Thou openest thine hand: and fillest all things living with plenteousness." So many Protestant denominations exist in America that the manner of entertaining the ministry varies considerably. In no religious sect does _fine champagne_ or any other form of cognac figure, as a general rule, though the use of vinous beverages is less denounced at present than formerly. The most genial hosts and guests among Protestant divines are unquestionably the Episcopalians. But if claret and alcoholic beverages are the exception on the tables of many denominations, the pastor does not lack for substantial aliments when entertained by his parishioners, who here, as in England, fairly dispute for his possession. That the duck at least, among the toothsome contributions to the table, is appreciated by the Protestant clergy no less than the laity is apparent from the apostrophe to the canvasback of the Rev. Joseph Barber, who has addressed the king of the _Anseres_ in these colourful stanzas: "A duck has been immortalized by Bryant, A wild one, too; Sweetly he hymned the creature, lithe and buoyant, Cleaving the blue. But whoso says the duck through ether flying, Seen by the bard, Equals the canvasback before me lying, Tells a _canard_. "Done to a turn, the flesh a dark carnation, The gravy red; Four slices from the breast--on such a ration Gods might have fed. Bryant, go to: to say that thy rare ghost-duck, Traced 'gainst the sky, Could e'er at all compare with this rare roast duck, Is all my eye."[37] As regards wine the case is vastly different in Europe, among both the clergy and those who welcome them. When Urban X resolved to remove the Papal See from Avignon to Rome grave discord resulted among his cardinals, several of whom refused to accompany him. Petrarch, in reply to a letter received from the Pope soon afterwards, wherein his Holiness expressed his astonishment at their action, explained the reason thus briefly: "Most holy Father," he wrote, "the princes of the church esteem the wine of Provence, and know that the wines of France are more rare than holy water at Rome." The anecdote of the curé of a village in the Bordelais would indicate, furthermore, that the cloth prefer their wine in a non-diluted state. On the occasion of a wedding dinner at which the officiating pastor was present, he would exclaim after every course, as he raised his glass: "My children, with this you must drink some wine." The turn of dessert arriving, he repeated his injunction for the tenth time, again setting the example himself. "Pardon, Monsieur le Curé," one of the guests interrupted, "but with what do you not drink wine?" "With water, my son!" During the episcopate of Bishop Timon of Buffalo, a Roman Catholic prelate of great ability but of small stature, complaint was entered against a certain German priest of the diocese for his over-conviviality and partiality for the foaming glass of Gambrinus, the offender being a man of Falstaffian proportions. The priest was accordingly summoned, and, after being severely reprimanded, was asked by the bishop if he could bring forward any extenuating circumstances with regard to his conduct. "Your Reverence is a small man, and my detractors are men of small calibre, who require but little beer," was the reply. "I am a large man, as you are aware, with a large appetite, and what might suffice for others were scant pittance for me: the vessel should be filled according to its capacity." That so distinguished a church dignitary as a bishop should dine well goes without saying. How else might he be so urbane, so stately, and so contented! And without wine how might he dispense such sunshine or pronounce his blessings so sonorously! For a bishop, dean, or archdeacon to be tendered scanty fare or be toasted with ice-water were as incongruous as to deprive the beverage termed "bishop" of its main ingredient. When Bishop Magee of Peterborough, afterwards Archbishop of York, was "entertained" by another church dignitary he was told on his arrival that he would find wine in his room. The dinner which he afterwards sat down to was a wineless one. A few weeks later the positions of host and guest were reversed, whereupon the bishop, shaking hands heartily with his visitor, informed him that he would find water in his room and wine upon the table. "Scarcely any bishop," says Sydney Smith, "is sufficiently a man of the world to deal with fanatics. The way is not to reason with them, but to ask them to dinner. They are armed against logic and remonstrance, but they are puzzled in a labyrinth of wines, disarmed by facilities and concessions, introduced to a new world, and come away thinking more of hot and cold and dry and sweet than of Newman, Keble, and Pusey." A number of years ago, when long tables were in vogue at the great hostelries at Saratoga, Bishop Onderdonk of New York was among the guests. The bishop, in accordance with his station, was seated at the head of the table, where the attentive head waiter had just placed his bottle of hotel "Pontet-Canet." Among the other clerical guests was a Connecticut divine and teetotaler who had come to test the restorative virtues of Congress water, so delicious when drunk at the fountainhead in the morning. "Ah!" said the cynical dominie to a ministerial vis-à-vis, as he frowned over his Oolong and the portly prelate beamed over his Bordeaux, "he wants to prove his apostolic descent by showing that if he drink of any deadly thing it shall not hurt him." Later, when his Right Reverence was informed of the remark, he observed, quoting Ecclesiasticus as his would-be detractor had quoted St. Mark, "'Wine measurably drunk and in season bringeth gladness of the heart and cheerfulness of the mind,' and as a churchman it were heretical for me to take exception to so orthodox a precept." The minister whose knowledge of gastronomy is far exceeded by his zeal in "reforming," notably in an attempted extermination of all joyous fluids, is far more prevalent in the United States than abroad. While no one will object to his denunciation of "King Rum" or the "Wine-cup,"--though rum is but little used as a beverage, and wine is supposed to be consumed in glasses at the dinner-table,--one must nevertheless deplore the inconsistency which would annihilate all alcoholic fluids and permit the grossest heterodoxness of diet to pass unscathed. Not undeserved, perchance, are the lines addressed to this class of the clergy by a Western versifier: "He preached 'gainst whisky, rum, and gin, All use of liquor he'd decry; He said that drinking was a sin-- But eat the toughest kind of pie. "He said there was no greater vice Than that which made of man a sot-- But took not water without ice, And gorged himself on biscuit hot. "He flouted the advice of Paul To drink wine for the stomach's sake-- But give him dumpling in a ball, And any quantity he'd take. "Tobacco in each form he spurned, Its soothing virtues he denied; For him no soft Havana burned-- But he would eat a beefsteak fried. "Jaundiced he lived, and died of spleen, And some kept green his memory then-- Called him 'reformer,' who had been The most intemperate of men." On more catholic lines is the gastronomic experience of a distinguished Baptist doctor of divinity of western New York, who, though always temperate, still believes in the sentiment of the grace that was once uttered by an English Episcopal clergyman: "God hath given us all things richly to enjoy; let us enjoy them." The learned divine in his younger days was one of a party of four who were concluding a long sojourn abroad, and ere leaving Paris he was desirous of testing the much-vaunted cuisine of the "Trois Frères Provençeaux." His suggestion that the appetising odours which greeted the passer-by from without be verified from within having met with immediate approval, the _officier de bouche_ of the famous restaurant was interviewed and a dinner arranged for the following evening. [Illustration: LA CONTENANCE DE LA TABLE Facsimile of title-page, early part of sixteenth century "Enfant tu ne dois charger Tant de la première viande Se plusieurs en as en commande Que d'austres ne puisses menger." ] "What will be the price of a nice dinner," inquired the ecclesiast,--"a dinner that will leave us no cause for regret? We do not care for the menu in advance, as we prefer a surprise; but we wish a perfect dinner, neither too little nor too much." The reply was promptly forthcoming, and here we transcribe a leaf from the ecclesiast's note-book: "'Pour vingt francs un dîner ordinaire. "'Pour quarante francs un très joli dîner! "'Pour cent francs un grand dîner!!'--the voice of the restaurateur rising with the advancing prices." These interesting notes then follow: "Tuesday, June 3, 1860. Present:----,----,----,----. Dinner at 7 P.M. Dress suits. _Voiture de remise._ _Portier_ with red waistcoat. Cabinet in entresol hung with pink silk tapestry. Three _garçons_, fine china, silver and table appointments. A bouquet of roses. Perfect service. "Menu. Nine courses:--_Melon musqué d'Algiers._ _Potage à la bisque_ (red soup with little red shrimps in centre of each dish). _Vol-au-vent de saumon_.... _Salade_. Checkerboard ice-cream (sixteen different colours and flavours). Great strawberries. Coffee (_demi-tasse_), cognac, cigars. Four wines: Sauterne, claret, and two champagnes." Unfortunately, the menu itself has been lost, and the memory of our clerical informant has retained only a portion of the carte, which we have transcribed from the memoranda he has contributed. Was there a _chapon à la Toulouse_ or _noix de veau à la Soubise_ for the _relevé_; did lamb's _ears à la Tortuë_ or _carbonnades de mouton à la Macédoine_ form the entrée; did a _caneton de Rouen_, a _poularde truffée_, or a _coq-vièrge_ do the honours of the roast; could _des truffes au vin de Champagne_ or a _gelée au marasquin_ have figured as the entremets; and, finally, what might have been the _grosse pièce_? Alas! these questions, like many questions of theology, must remain unanswered. It will be observed, notwithstanding, how the wall furnishings, the roses, the red of the _bisque_, the ripe hues of the melon and the salmon, the erubescence of the strawberries, and the very waistcoat of the _avertisseur_ were happily combined; and also that as far back as 1860 the muskmelon had already been employed as an admirable prologue of the dinner during warm weather. As for the checkerboard _crême glacée_, with four flavours and four colours for each person, it is an addition to the dessert that is almost worthy of a sermon. The following supplementary notes conclude the interesting account of the dinner: "The solid part of the menu I have no record or memory of. All I know is that we ate pretty much everything that was in sight, and then had just enough and no more. The dinner concluded with four toasts and four speeches, the only one I recall being on the theme, 'The Four Homes'--not one of the four speakers having at the time set up a home of his own. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever. We went upon the Latin maxim, _In medio tutissimus ibis_, and so we took the _très joli dîner_, which, with _vins compris_, cost us forty francs or eight dollars apiece. But the recollection of it has been worth at least two dollars a year since then: and as it is forty years ago last summer, and two times forty is eighty, I now count that I then paid only ten per cent. of its value." It is needless to add that the sermons and addresses of the ecclesiast in question, which join to their fervour and scholarship an originality all their own (were they not inspired by the dinner at the "Trois Frères"?), are always listened to with marked attention by his large and appreciative audiences. It also goes without saying that he has distinguished himself in literature, and that his presence is invariably in demand either at a dinner or a debate of theologians. Of dishes invented by the Roman Catholic priesthood, the _omelette à la purée de pintade_, devised by the Capuchin Chabot, is well known, although "The Curé's Omelette" for which Savarin stands sponsor is far more in evidence and is difficult to improve upon either for fat or meagre days. Should the recipe be already familiar, it will well bear repetition--one cannot dine too often with a broad-minded divine; if unknown, the reader should become acquainted with it--it is one of the most sprightly of the _Variétés_. The tunny prescribed is not obligatory, and for this and the carp-roes the resources of the American sea-coast will furnish abundant equivalents: "Every one knows that for twenty years Madame R.[38] has occupied the throne of beauty unchallenged. It is also well known that she is extremely charitable, taking interest in most of those schemes whose object is to console and assist the wretched. "Wishing to consult M. le Curé on something connected with that subject, she called upon him at five o'clock one afternoon, and was astonished to find him already at table. She thought everybody in Paris dined at six, not knowing that the ecclesiastics generally begin early because they take a light collation in the evening. "Madame R. was about to retire, but the curé begged her to stay, either because the matter they were to talk about need not prevent him dining, or because a pretty woman is never a mar-feast for any man; or perhaps because he bethought himself that somebody to talk to was all that was wanted to convert his dining-room into a gastronomic Elysium. "The table was laid with a neat white cloth, some old wine sparkled in a crystal decanter, the white porcelain was of the choicest quality, the plates had heaters of boiling water under them, and a servant, demure but neat, was in attendance. "The repast was a happy mean between the frugal and the luxurious. Some crab soup had just been removed, and there was now on the table a salmon-trout, an omelette, and a salad. "'My dinner shows you what perhaps you did not know,' said the pastor, with a smile, 'that according to the laws of the church meat is forbidden to-day.' The visitor bowed her assent, but at the same time, as a private note informs me, slightly blushed, which, however, by no means prevented the curé from eating. "Operations were already begun upon the trout, its upper side being fully disposed of; the sauce gave proof of a skilful hand, and the pastor's features betokened inward satisfaction. That dish removed, he attacked the omelette, which was round, full-bellied, and cooked to a nicety. At the first stroke of the spoon, there ran out a thick juice, tempting both to sight and smell; the dish seemed full of it, and my dear cousin confessed that her mouth watered. "Some signs of natural sympathy did not escape the curé, accustomed to watch the passions of men; and, as if in answer to a question which Madame R. took great care not to put, 'this is a tunny omelette,' said he. 'My cook has a wonderful knack at them. Nobody ever tastes them without complimenting me.' 'I am not at all astonished,' replied the lady visitor; 'for on our worldly tables there is never seen an omelette half so tempting.' "This was followed by the salad--a finishing item which I recommend to the use of all who have faith in my teaching, for salad refreshes without fatiguing, and strengthens without irritating. I usually say it renews one's youth. "The dinner did not interrupt their conversation. Besides the matter in hand, they spoke of the events of the time, the hopes of the church, and other topics. The dessert passed, consisting of some Septmoncel cheese, three apples, and some preserved fruit; and then the servant placed on a small table a cup of hot mocha, clear as amber, and filling the room with its aroma. Having sipped his coffee, the curé said grace. 'I never drink spirits,' he said as they rose; 'it is a superfluity I offer to my guests, but personally reserve as a resource for old age should it please God that I live so long.' "In the meantime six o'clock had arrived, and Madame R., hurrying home, found herself late for dinner, and several friends waiting for her whom she had invited for that day. I was one of the party, and thus came to hear of the curé's omelette; for our hostess did nothing but speak of it during dinner, and everybody was certain it must have been excellent. "Thus it is that as a propagator of truths I feel it my duty to make known the preparation; and I give it the more willingly to all lovers of the art that I have not been able to find it in any cookery book. "Hash up together the roes of two carp, carefully bleached, a piece of fresh tunny, and a little minced shallot; when well mixed throw the whole into a saucepan with a lump of the best butter, and whip it up till the butter is melted. This constitutes the specialty of the omelette. "Then in an oval dish mix separately a lump of butter with parsley and chives, and squeezing over it the juice of a lemon, place it over hot embers in readiness. Next complete the omelette by beating up twelve eggs, pouring in the roes and tunny, and stirring till all is well mixed; then, when properly finished, and of the right form and consistence, spread it out skilfully on the oval dish which you have ready to receive it, and serve up to be eaten at once. "This dish should be reserved for breakfasts of refinement, for connoisseurs in gastronomic art--those who understand eating, and where all eat with judgment; but especially let it be washed down with some good old wine, and you will see wonders." Among the dignitaries of the Roman Church, Richelieu was preëminent as an entertainer, his table being renowned for its excellence, and no one being more exacting with his cooks. _A chartreuse à la Cardinal_ or a _boudin_ of fowls _à la Richelieu_ at once recalls his Eminence, and the brilliant reign during which he himself virtually wielded the sceptre. "I do not think very highly of that man," said the Comte de M. in speaking of a candidate who had just secured an important position: "he has never eaten _boudin à la Richelieu_, and is unacquainted with cutlets _à la Soubise_." During the war of Hanover, when the surrounding country had been devastated by the French army, Maréchal Richelieu, grandnephew of the cardinal, wished to give a suitable dinner to a large number of distinguished captives before setting them free. He was informed by his cooks that the larder was empty. "But it was only yesterday that I saw two horns passing by the window." "That is true, Monseigneur, there is a beef and some few roots; but what would you do with them?" "What would I do with them? _Pardieu_, I would have the best supper in the world!" "But, Monseigneur, it is impossible." "Nothing is impossible. Rudière, write out the menu that I will dictate. Do you know how to write out a menu properly?" "I acknowledge, Monseigneur, that--" "Give me your pen." And with this the maréchal, taking the place of his secretary, improvised a classic supper worthy of Vatel. At the end of the bill of fare was added: "If through any mischance this repast is not an excellent one, I will deduct one hundred pistoles from the wages of Maret and Rouquelère. Begin, and doubt no more. RICHELIEU." There was a certain Bishop of Burgundy who took his share of responsibility in consuming, with a humour all his own, viands which had not been come by legally. Desiring to eat venison when not quite in season, he sent half the body of the deer that tempted him as a present to the prefect, who lived in the same town, accompanying the gift with the following note: "_Partageons la responsabilité: chargez-vous du temporel; je me charge du spirituel._" (Let us share the responsibility; charge yourself with the temporal part; I will attend to the spiritual.) Equally felicitous is an incident recounted of Archbishop de Sanzai of Bordeaux, who was especially fond of the fowl which Savarin pronounced one of the finest gifts of the New World to the Old. Having won a truffled turkey on a wager from a grand vicar of his diocese, the archbishop, after waiting a week, became impatient at the delay of the loser in providing the bird. Accordingly, he took him to task and reminded him that delays are dangerous, to which the vicar replied that the truffles were not good that year. "Bah, bah!" was the rejoinder, "we will chance the truffles; depend upon it, it is only a false report that has been circulated by the turkeys." "There needs to be two to eat a truffled turkey," the Abbé Morellet was accustomed to say; "I never do otherwise. I have one to-day; we will be two--the turkey and myself." It may be of interest to note that the importation of the turkey to Europe has been attributed by various scholiasts to the Jesuits, in proof of which they assert that in many French provinces it was formerly termed a _jésuite_, and that in some of the more remote departments it was the custom to refer to it in the following manner: "Come to dine with me; we will have a fat jésuite." "Monsieur, will you pass me some of the jésuite?" It is also said to have been referred to as a _jésuite en capilotade_ and a _jésuite au feu d'enfer_. Savarin gives the period of its importation by the order in question as the latter part of the seventeenth century; while the Marquis de Cussy states it was imported a century earlier from Paraguay by the Jesuits, and was served for the first time in public at the marriage of Charles IX of France, when, according to Montluc, the young king disposed of the left wing. The true date of the turkey's flight into history is the early part of the sixteenth century, when the learned confessor and historian to Cortez, Fra Agapida, returned to Spain from his first visit to Mexico, and wrote a brief narrative of the wonders of the New World. In this account he called attention to the abundance of fine fish-food, and the excellence of the venison and a variety of "wild cattle." "There is also a bird," adds the discerning presbyter, "much greater in bigness than a peacock, that is found within the forests and _vegas_ (meadows) all over this country. It surpasses as food any wild bird we have found up to this time. The natives do shoot these birds with arrows and catch them in various kinds of springes and snares. They are sometimes very large, being as much as thirty pounds in weight. They can fly, but prefer to run, which they can do with exceeding swiftness." No less is the introduction of the potato from South America due to the monks, who first brought it to Europe in the proud galleons of Spain. In Canon Barham's "A Lay of St. Nicholas," where the temptations of the flesh proved stronger than the spiritual powers of the head of the abbey, turkey and chine figure as the pieces of "resistance," with old sherris sack, hippocras, and malmsey to flank them,-- "The Abbot hath donn'd his mitre and ring, His rich dalmatic and maniple fine; And the choristers sing as the lay-brothers bring To the board a magnificent turkey and chine." The capon, however, appears to have been the greatest favourite with the clergy; its frequent companion, the carp, doubtless owing its popularity to the fact that it is so easily raised, rather than that it is more esteemed than numerous other species of fish. Even more than the capon, the carp suggests the cenobites, bringing up a whole train of monastic orders--with the cloister and the abbey as its most congenial home. It is inalienably associated with the cassock and chasuble, the rosary and censer, the peal of the organ and the glory of old stained glass. It is essentially the sacred fish--the true "sole" of piety. It whispers of sanctity and breathes of _Benedicites_. In fancy one sees the abbot, rotund and rubicund, presiding at table, with one eye upon the fish and the other lifted aloft, uttering his _Bonum est confiteri_ ere the loud "Amen" resounds through the vaulted chamber, and carp and capon are bathed in the red juices of the monastery vineyard. Or it may be a pike, a mullet, or a dish of eels that, cunningly prepared by the master-cook of the brotherhood, steeps the refectory with the perfume of shallots and fine herbs, and justly merits a _Benedic, anima mea_ from the partakers of the repast. From an anecdote related by the Franciscan Jean Paulli de Thann, it would appear that the olden monks had learned from the Scriptures a particular method of carving fowls when they partook of them in secular company. A gentleman had invited his confessor, who was a monk, to dine in company with his wife, his two sons, and two daughters. There was a fine capon for the roast, which the host requested the guest to carve. The latter excused himself, but the host insisted. "Inasmuch as you demand it," replied the monk, "I will carve the fowl according to biblical principles." "Yes," exclaimed the hostess, "act according to the Scriptures." The theologian therefore began the carving. The baron was tendered the head of the fowl, the baroness the neck, the two daughters a wing apiece, and the two sons a first joint, the monk retaining the remainder. "According to what interpretation do you make such a division?" inquired the host of his confessor, as he regarded the monk's heaping plate and the scant portions doled out to the family. "From an interpretation of my own," replied the monk. "As the master of your house, the head belongs to you by right; the baroness, being most near to you, should receive the neck, which is nearest the head; in the wings the young girls will recognize a symbol of their mobile thoughts, that fly from one desire to another; as to the young barons, the drumsticks they have received will remind them that they are responsible for supporting your house, as the legs of the capon support the bird itself." In England, during Elizabeth's reign, fish was largely consumed on the festival of St. Ulric, a pious custom referred to by Barnaby Googe: "Wheresoever Huldryche hath his place, the people there brings in Both carpes and pykes, and mullets fat, his favour here to win. Amid the church there sitteth one, and to the aultar nie, That selleth fishe, and so good cheep, that every man may buie; Nor anything he loseth here, bestowing thus his paine, For when it hath been offred once, 't is brought him all againe, That twise or thrise he selles the same, vngodlinesse such gaine Doth still bring in, and plenteously the kitchen doth maintaine. Whence comes this same religion newe? What kind of God is this Same Huldryche here, that so desires and so delightes in fishe?" With fish much is possible in the way of a generous dietary during the Lenten penance and on meagre days. To the devout Thomas à Kempis nothing was more delicious to the taste than a salmon, always excepting the Psalms of David. The possibilities of a fish diet, however, have nowhere been more appreciably set forth than by Father Prout on the occasion of the classic "Watergrasshill Carousal," when Sir Walter Scott was among the guests. And though the turkey which was in readiness was forgone on account of the day being Friday and therefore a fast-day, the repast, nevertheless, did not languish. The trout, it will be remembered, the witty priest had caught himself from the neighbouring stream, as well as a large eel from the lake at Blarney. To these were added from the excellent market at Cork a turbot, two lobsters, a salmon, and a hake, with a hundred of Cork-harbour oysters. Besides these figured also a keg of cod-sounds, a great favourite of the bishop of the diocese, which invariably appeared at the table of Father Prout when his lordship was expected. With eggs, potatoes, sauce piquante, lobster-sauce, whiskey and claret in addition, the sacerdotal banquet proved a signal success, fully bearing out the sentiment expressed by the shepherd in the "Noctes" at the end of a Scottish repast,--"We 've just had a perfec' dinner, Mr. Tickler--neither ae dish ower mony, nor ae dish ower few." Fish naturally demands a white wine; but a carp may be prepared--and doubtless is prepared--so sauced and spiced and aromatised by practised cloistral hands that a red wine, the favoured colour of the cowl, may accord with it perfectly. This is not saying that an abbot who may be as renowned for his gastronomic abilities as for his oratory necessarily confines himself or his followers to red wine with fish. Much will depend, of course, upon the mode of preparation,--it is to be supposed that the cellarer has both red and white wine at command to draw from as occasion demands; to be confined to a single variety must be as onerous to the cloth as to the layman. When the celebrated vineyard of Clos-Vougeot was the property of the Bernardin monks, before it was confiscated and declared national property, Dom Gobelot was the father-cellarer. It was he who, after being forced to retire to private life at Dijon, with a hundred dozen bottles of a famous year of his vineyard as a souvenir, proudly replied to the young Bonaparte, conqueror in Italy and returning from Marengo, when he requested some old Vougeot for his table: "If he wishes some forty-year-old Vougeot, let him come and drink it here; it is not for sale." And does not history record that Pope Gregory XVI, in the year 1371, made the Abbot of Clos-Vougeot a cardinal to express his gratitude for a present of a basket of his best old wine which the abbot had sent him? The famous wine of "Est, Est, Est" owes its celebrity to a German bishop named Fuger, who, while on a journey to Italy, sent his secretary in advance in order to provide the best accommodations. He was especially charged to test the wine in all the inns en route, and wherever he found it best to write the word "Est" on the wall of the _albergo_. Arriving at Montefiascone, a small town on the highroad from Florence to Rome, the secretary found the wine so superior that he was at a loss to describe it until he bethought him of the inscription that a sultan of Lahore had engraved on the door of his seraglio,--"If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!" Accordingly, he wrote the word "Est" thrice in large characters on the wall of the principal inn--a fatal word for the bishop, who tarried so long and drank so freely that he died ere reaching his destination--Rome. His tomb exists at Montefiascone. On either side of his mitre and his arms his secretary had carved a reversed glass, with this epitaph on the stone: _Est, Est, Est, et propter nimium est Johannes de Fuger dominus meus mortuus est_. The explanation of the epitaph and emblems is given by the Roman prelate, Valery. It is still further averred that the death of Cardinal Mauri, a distinguished Italian prelate, whose remains were interred near those of the German bishop in the Church of St. Flavien, was also hastened by his fondness for the Montefiascone wine. The story of the bibulous bishop was told in 1825 in German, in a poem of fourteen stanzas, by Wilhelm Müller, father of Professor Max Müller.[39] It has also been excellently rendered in English verse by an American poetess whose name the efforts of the writer have been unable to trace: "Men have ridden for love, And men have ridden for gold, And men have ridden for honour In the chivalrous days of old. Little of love recked he, Nor honour, nor golden store, But the Abbot would ride for dinner, And he rode for good wine more. 'I will travel the world, Travel the world in quest-- Taste red, white, and yellow,' Cried this jolly old fellow, 'Till I find the wine that is best.' _Vanitas vanitorum!_ "'My servant leal,' said he, 'Now ride thou on before, And drink where'er the branches Hang withering at the door. Then, if the wine be worthy, That I should stop at all, Write "est"--but if it is not, Write "non" upon the wall.' "Promptly rode the man, In hamlet, city, and town, _Albergo_ and _osteria_, He gulped the good wine down. Where'er the wine was worthy There they slept or dined,-- Before, the trusty varlet, The lazier monk behind. "Among the hills and valleys, Festooned with wreathing vine, Where purple grapes and opal Drop red and golden wine, There is a wine delicious In a hamlet little known, With a taste like the mountain flower That blooms in spring alone. Here pause, O wandering Abbot! Thy ponderous frame can rest, Lo! the prudent, observant, Intelligent servant Has written here 'Est, Est, Est.' "The Abbot he drank at dinner, The Abbot he drank at night, And he called for more _fiasci_ When dawned the morning light. He murmured, 'I go no farther, _Per Bacco!_ I cease my quest; Wine of Hymettus sweetness, Nectar of gods,--_est, est_! "But even an Abbot has limits, Though his were exceeding wide; He passed them and, as you can fancy, Dropped from the table and died: Drowned as it were in the nectar, Dead of the wine that is best, In his hand the empty wine-cup, His last words '_Est, est, est_!' _Vanitas vanitorum!_ "This very same wine we are drinking To-night in classic Rome, Sipping it after dinner In our quiet foreign home. I have told as I heard the story, And now the white wine that is best, Let us all fill a bowl of-- Here's peace to the soul of The monk of the _Est, Est, Est_!" To judge of the quality of Montefiascone, one must drink it at its home; like other white wines of the former Papal States, it will not bear the shock of distant carriage. As for the German ecclesiast, one should not take him too seriously, but consider him rather from the picturesque point of view, as Rowlandson and Combe have done with the reverend Syntax. "Other times, other manners,"--to-day his reverence would have made the journey by rail and not by post, and thus, doubtless, would have missed the _fiasci_ of Montefiascone. One must also bear in mind that the wine in question, being of the muscat type, is extremely heady and exciting to the nerves, its deleterious effects being masked by its unctuousness and engaging aroma; so that an unsuspecting beer-drinking bishop, accustomed to copious libations of a milder fluid, might readily and unwittingly find himself under the table, and, even though a hierarch, prove an easy subject for a _De Profundis_. Many years have elapsed since the prelate's demise; and it is to be supposed that, meanwhile, the nectar of _Est_ has been rendered less potent and even more delectable in heavenly vineyards. [Illustration: PROMENADE DU GOURMAND Frontispiece of "Le Manuel du Gastronome ou Nouvel Almanach des Gourmands" (1830)] [Illustration] SUNDRY GUIDES TO GOOD CHEER "Sir, _Respect Your Dinner_; idolize it, enjoy it properly. You will be many hours in the week, many weeks in the year, and many years in your life the happier if you do."--THACKERAY. A review of the dinner-table were incomplete without a reference to several writers, other than those already cited, who have wielded a more or less pronounced influence on gastronomy. Of such, two English authors deserve especial mention, each of whom has sought to prove that the art of the gastronomer is the art of being happy; and that, if blessed with a good appetite and sound digestion, one may round off many a corner of life's miseries. To Dr. William Kitchener the merit of reforming English cookery as it existed during the early part of the past century is due to no inconsiderable degree. The overladen table, with its pompous decorations, heavy viands, and superabundance of wines, was first severely censured in "The Cook's Oracle," and later in Thomas Walker's periodical, "The Original," since reprinted in book form. The first edition of the "Oracle" appeared in 1817; and, like Mrs. Glasse's "Art of Cookery," was subsequently much amended and enlarged.[40] An eccentric and would-be dietetic reformer, the author was ridiculed at first, as is often the case with those who advance new ideas or attempt to disturb existing conditions. "Christopher North," whose own Pegasus was often inclined to strange curvets, reviled him as he also did Tennyson; and Hood addressed him in three mock-heroic odes. But beneath his mannerisms and diatribes there remained much practical sense, an extended culinary knowledge, and no little shrewd observation. It was the author's endeavour to "improve plain cookery and to render food acceptable to the palate without being expensive to the purse"--a precept altogether admirable. The preface to the third edition emphasises, very truly, that among the manifold causes which concur to impair health and produce disease, the most general is the improper quality of food, this most frequently arising from the injudicious manner in which it is prepared. Yet it remains to be added that since the days of the "Oracle" man has greatly improved in this respect, even in England; that despite the multiplicity of diseases, hygiene is becoming far better understood by the masses; and that for the various ills arising through the stomach, chemistry and the doctors have devised numerous simple correctives which have proved of inestimable value. The key-note of the "Oracle" is contained in the sentence, "Unless the stomach be in good humour, every part of the machinery of life must vibrate with languor,"--a sentiment with which all those who have touched twoscore will profoundly agree. It is for elderly stomachs whose bloom may have been somewhat brushed off that the doctor's counsels will be found preëminently deserving of attention. To the epicure he likewise proved an excellent mentor; to the dyspeptic, a friend in need. That he was strongly influenced by the writings of Grimod de la Reynière is readily perceptible, though he states in the introduction that his work is a bona-fide register of practical facts, and that he has not printed a recipe which has not been proved in his own kitchen. Before undertaking his task, he had consulted all the treatises obtainable on the subject, amounting to no less than two hundred and fifty volumes. These, he asserts, vary very little from one another, and any one who has occasion to refer to two or three of them will find the recipes almost always the same--equally unintelligible to those who are ignorant, and useless to those who are acquainted with the business of the kitchen. The numerous "Good Housewife's Closets," "Ladies' Companions," and "Gentlewomen's Cabinets," in fact, are virtually identical, save for their titles and forewords. With the recipes of the "Oracle" the reader need not be as much concerned as with its spirit and its epicurean principles, which reveal a strongly marked individuality, and a comprehension far in advance of the time in Great Britain. Oracular and discursive, the author ambles pleasantly along the road of Conviviality, scattering his maxims and dispensing his formulas, while dipping into volume after volume to emphasise his text. The "Oracle" may be briefly described as a quaint medley of cookery, hygienic precepts, science, gastronomy, and domestic economy, written by a _bon vivant_. A long chapter is devoted to the subject of invitations to dinner, wherein punctuality is strictly insisted upon--dining, according to the writer, being the only act of the day which cannot be put off with impunity for even five minutes. He would have the cook the warden in chief, as defined by Mercier, a physician who cures two mortal maladies, Hunger and Thirst; or a _Hominum servatorem_--a preserver of mankind, as designated by Plautus. A good dinner, he maintains, is one of the greatest enjoyments of human life; but it should never be at the mercy of belated guests,--"what will be agreeable to the stomach and restorative to the system at five o'clock will be uneatable and indigestible at a quarter past." When he himself gave a dinner-party, the guests were invited for five o'clock, and at five minutes after the hour specified, the street door was locked, and the key, by his order, was set aside. But it is perhaps in the chapter on advice to cooks, and in his directions as to the minutiæ of boiling, baking, roasting, and frying, that he is most suggestive. A characteristic farewell to the reader concludes the volume, which even to-day may be consulted with profit--an observation that will also apply to many portions of its companion treatise, "The Art of Invigorating and Prolonging Life." Less pretentious, and dealing more with the æsthetic side of good living, are the essays of the "Original," by Thomas Walker, barrister at law and magistrate, which treat of the pleasures of the table under the titles, "The Art of Attaining High Health" and "The Art of Dining."[41] These critical dissertations originally appeared in 1835 in a weekly periodical of which he was the editor, the series terminating with his death the subsequent year. And if the influence of the "Almanach" is readily discernible in the case of Dr. Kitchener, so in like manner one detects a flavour of the "Physiology" in the genial pages of Walker. Kitchener undoubtedly proves himself the more valiant trencherman, while Walker remains the more refined and philosophic host. His golden rule was, "Content the stomach and the stomach will content you." A little irregularity in agreeable company he deems better than the best observance in solitude. When dining alone is necessary, however, he adds that the mind should be disposed to cheerfulness by a previous interval of relaxation from whatever has seriously occupied the attention, and by directing it to some agreeable object. And so contentment ought to be an accompaniment to every meal. Punctuality becomes the more essential, and the diner and the dinner should be ready at the same time. Concerning dining in comfort, he holds that a chief maxim is to have what you want when you want it, and not be obliged to wait for little additions to be supplied, when what they belong to is half or entirely finished. The plates should be brought in before the dish, and the dish and its adjuncts appear simultaneously; in other words, the necessary condiments should always be at hand, and the wines should stand ready to be poured out at the moment required,--the lesson of patience, however desirable, is not a virtue that should be inculcated at the dinner-table; and prompt service must ever form a great desideratum of the perfect meal. In dining, more than anything else, perhaps, whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well, though this were far from meaning that lavish expenditure need enter into the hospitable relations of host and guests. Forethought and careful personal attention, it may be reiterated, play a most important part at the board of Good Cheer; and simple dishes unexceptionally prepared and served, with the beverages that naturally accompany them at the proper temperature, will garnish any table with a cloth of gold. "A good soup, a small turbot, a neck of venison, ducklings with green peas, or chicken with asparagus, and an apricot tart," the Earl of Dudley was accustomed to say, "is a dinner for an emperor." There are those possibly who might prefer the much more simple menu of a French gourmet,--"A bottle of Chambertin, a _ragoût à la Sardanapale_, and a pretty lady _causeur_, are the three best companions at table in France." But it will be rendering greater justice to the author to permit him to speak for himself on some of the niceties connected with the art he has expounded so wisely and so well: "Anybody can dine, but few know how to dine so as to ensure the greatest quantity of health and enjoyment" [he agrees with Dumas and Fayot]. "Indeed, many people contrive to destroy their health; and as to enjoyment, I shudder when I think how often I have been doomed to only a solemn mockery of it; how often I have sat in durance stately, to go through the ceremony of dinner, the essence of which is to be without ceremony, and how often in this land of liberty I have felt myself a slave. "There is in the art of dining a matter of special importance--I mean attendance, the real end of which is to do that for you which you cannot so well do for yourself. Unfortunately, this end is generally lost sight of, and the effect of attendance is to prevent you from doing that which you could do much better for yourself. The cause of this perversion is to be found in the practice and example of the rich and ostentatious, who constantly keep up a sort of war-establishment, or establishment adapted to extraordinary instead of ordinary occasions, and the consequence is that, like all potentates who follow the same policy, they never really taste the sweets of peace; they are in a constant state of invasion by their own troops. It is a rule at dinners not to allow you to do anything for yourself, and I have never been able to understand how even salt, except it be from some superstition, has so long maintained its place. I am rather a bold man at table and set form very much at defiance, so that if a salad happens to be within my reach, I make no scruple to take it to me; but the moment I am espied, it is nipped up from the most convenient into the most inconvenient position. See a small party with a dish of fish at each end of the table, and four silver covers standing unmeaningly at the sides, whilst everything pertaining to the fish comes, even with the best attendance, provokingly lagging, one thing after another, so that contentment is out of the question; and all this is done under pretence that it is the most convenient plan. This is an utter fallacy. The only convenient plan is to have everything actually upon the table that is wanted at the same time, and nothing else; as, for example, for a party of eight, turbot and salmon, with doubles of each of the adjuncts, lobster-sauce, cucumber, young potatoes, cayenne, and Chili vinegar, and let the guests assist one another, which with such an arrangement they could do with perfect ease. This is undisturbed and visible comfort. "A system of simple attendance would induce a system of simple dinners, which are the only dinners to be desired.... With respect to wine, it is often offered when not wanted; and when wanted, is perhaps not to be had till long waited for. It is dreary to observe two guests, glass in hand, waiting the butler's leisure to take wine together, and then perchance being helped in despair to what they did not ask for; and it is still more dreary to be one of the two yourself. How different when you can put your hand on a decanter the moment you want it!" "Perhaps the most distressing incident in a grand dinner" [the author continues] "is to be asked to take champagne, and after much delay to see the butler extract the bottle from a cooler, and hold it nearly parallel to the horizon in order to calculate how much he is to put into the first glass to leave any for the second. To relieve him and yourself from the chilling difficulty, the only alternative is to change your mind and prefer sherry, which, under the circumstances, has rather an awkward effect. These and an infinity of minor evils are constantly experienced amidst the greatest displays. Some good bread and cheese and a jug of ale comfortably set before me, and heartily given, are heaven and earth in comparison.... The legitimate objects of dinner are to refresh the body, to please the palate, and to raise the social humour to the highest point; but these objects, so far from being studied, in general are not even thought of, and display and an adherence to fashion are their meagre substitutes." To be niggardly with one's champagne we have already alluded to as despicable. Yet the amount of this wine that may be dispensed at dinner should depend on the cellar of the entertainer; and where Yquem or a grand Deidesheimer, Lafite, or La Tâche of well-succeeded years is also to figure, it is wise for the host to let the fact be known, and for him to curtail the flow of sparkling wine, in order that proper justice may be rendered to its companions. On this subject the "Original" again proves itself a valuable signboard, and its doctrine as to the conduct of the dinner forms a tenet worthy of all praise,--"If the master of a feast wishes his party to succeed, he must know how to command and not let his guests run riot, each according to his own wild fancy." We cannot agree with the "Original" and some others that it is correct to serve a sparkling wine, to the exclusion of all others, throughout an extended repast. The palate and the eye weary of a single beverage, however brilliant the vintage, and yearn for a contrast in flavour and colour. Simplicity is constantly urged throughout "The Art of Dining," and again and again does the author insist upon the necessity of having whatever dish that may be served preceded by all its minor adjuncts, and accompanied by all the proper vegetables quite hot, so that it may be enjoyed entirely and at once. The liquid accessories he would have placed upon the table in such a manner as to be as much as possible within the reach of each person; and as Mathew Bramble, in "Humphrey Clinker," talks, in his delights of rural life, of eating trout struggling from the stream, so he would have his dishes served glowing or steaming from the kitchen, a quality which lends a relish otherwise impossible. "There are two kinds of dinners" [he goes on to say]--"one simple, consisting of a few dishes, the other embracing a variety. Both kinds are good in their way, and both deserve attention; but for constancy I greatly prefer the simple style.... In the first place, it is necessary not to be afraid of not having enough, and so to go into the other extreme and have a great deal too much, as is almost invariably the practice. It is also necessary not to be afraid of the table looking bare, and so to crowd it with dishes not wanted, whereby they become cold and sodden. 'Enough is as good as a feast' is a sound maxim, as well in providing as in eating. The having too much, and setting dishes on the table merely for appearance, are practices arising out of prejudices which, if once broken through, would be looked upon, and deservedly, as the height of vulgarity. The excessive system is a great preventive of hospitality, by adding to the expense and trouble of entertaining, whilst it has no one advantage. It is only pursued by the majority of people for fear of being unlike the rest of the world." Every gastronomer will endorse the sentiment that in proportion to the smallness of a dinner ought to be its excellence, both as to the quality of materials and the cooking. Nor is there less truth in the complaint that it is an existing evil that everybody is prone to strive after the same dull style--the rule generally followed being to consider what the guests are accustomed to; whereas it should be reversed, and what they are not accustomed to should rather be set before them. This stricture he applies to the serving of wines as well as of viands--"we go on in the beaten track without profiting by the varieties which are to be found on every side." To order dinner well he defines as a matter of invention and combination, involving novelty, simplicity, and taste; whereas in the generality of dinners there is no character but that of dull routine, according to the season. Too little attention, he complains, is paid to the mode of dining according to the time of the year, summer dinners being for the most part as heavy and as hot as those in winter, with the consequence of being frequently very oppressive, both in themselves and from their effect on the room. In hot weather the chief thing to be aimed at is to produce a light and cool feeling, both by the management of the room and the nature of the repast; in winter, warmth and substantial diet afford the most satisfaction. It may be held with reason that some of the inconveniences pointed out with reference to service could be obviated by the service _à la Russe_--discarding its medley of dishes on the table, and utilising its features of carving and serving. But Walker's great aim was that of a simple style of dinner-giving to a select few whose number he would limit to eight. Under these circumstances it is easy to understand how it were more appetising to dispense with any dishes in waiting which serve to cloy rather than to stimulate appetite, and more advantageous to have the carving performed by the master himself. At a men's dinner, more especially, where a saddle of mutton, a haunch of venison, or other roast forms the _pièce de résistance_, and where, therefore, "cut and come again" is the motto of the hour, the less formal style is certainly preferable, and productive of the best results to the guests. It is only on one occasion that we find him wavering in the dogmas he advances so emphatically and withal so aptly, this incertitude occurring in connection with a dinner he had ordered at Blackwall, the menu of which may be appropriately transcribed as a practical illustration of his ideas on gastronomy: "The party will consist of seven men beside myself, and every guest is asked for some reason--upon which good fellowship mainly depends; for people brought together unconnectedly had, in my opinion, better be kept separate. Eight I hold to be the golden number, never to be exceeded without weakening the efficacy of concentration. The dinner is to consist of turtle, followed by no other fish but whitebait, which is to be followed by no other meat but grouse, which are to be succeeded simply by apple-fritters and jelly; pastry on such occasions being quite out of place. With the turtle of course there will be punch, with the whitebait champagne, and with the grouse claret: the two former I have ordered to be particularly well iced, and they will all be placed in succession on the table, so that we can help ourselves as we please. I will permit no other wines, unless, perchance, a bottle or two of port, if particularly wanted, as I hold variety of wines a great mistake. With respect to the adjuncts, I shall take care that there is cayenne, with lemons cut in halves, not in quarters, within reach of every one for the turtle, and that brown bread and butter in abundance is set upon the table for the whitebait. The dinner will be followed by ices and a good dessert, after which coffee and one glass of liqueur each, and no more." Surely, an excellent repast, if the cooking was all that could have been desired, as the author happily informs the reader was the case. But in his comments on the dinner occurs this qualifying sentence,--"There was an opinion broached that some flounders, water-zoutcheed, between the turtle and whitebait would have been an improvement"; and, for once, the "Original" proves vacillating, and adds--"Perhaps they would." Yet, if we are to believe no less an authority than Thackeray, the dish under consideration is one for which room may always be appropriately found--a dish that, when well prepared, possesses ambrosial qualities. He is discoursing of a flounder-souchy in the sketch entitled, "Greenwich Whitebait"; and one's mouth fairly waters as he reads it: "It has an almost angelic delicacy of flavour; it is as fresh as the recollections of childhood--it wants a Correggio's pencil to describe it with sufficient tenderness." The recipe for a water-souchy is thus given by Kitchener, to be made with flounders, whiting, gudgeons, or eels: "After cutting the fish in handsome pieces, place them in a stewpan with as much water as will cover them, with some parsley or parsley roots sliced, an onion minced fine, and a little pepper and salt, to which sometimes scraped horseradish and a bay-leaf are added. Skim carefully when boiling, and when the fish is sufficiently done send it up in a deep dish lined with bread sippets, and some slices of bread and butter on a plate. Some cooks thicken the liquor the fish has been stewing in with flour and butter, and flavour it with white wine, lemon juice, essence of anchovy, and catsup, and boil down two or three flounders to make a fish broth to boil the other fish in, observing that the broth cannot be good unless the fish are boiled too much." This does not sound as palatable as a sole _au gratin_ or _en matelote Normande_, or even whitebait--that "little means of obtaining a great deal of pleasure"; but one can scarcely forget Thackeray's sentence, even if his appreciation may have been heightened by the surroundings of the Ship Tavern and congenial companionship. Nearly ten years after Walker's day we find Thackeray also condemning many similar evils: "I would have" [he urges, and the advice is still pertinent]--"a great deal more hospitality and less show. Everybody has the same dinner in London, and the same soup, and the same saddle of mutton, boiled fowls and tongue, entrées, champagne, and so forth. Who does not know those made dishes with the universal sauce to each: fricandeau, sweetbreads, damp dumpy cutlets, etc., seasoned with the compound of grease, onions, bad port wine, cayenne pepper, and curry-powder, the poor wiry Moselle and sparkling Burgundy in the ice-coolers, and the old story of white and brown soup, turbot, little smelts, boiled turkey, and saddle of mutton?... What I would recommend with all my power is that dinners should be more simple, more frequent, and should contain fewer persons. Ten is the utmost number that a man of moderate means should ever invite to his table; although in a great house managed by a great establishment the case may be different. A man and a woman may look as if they were glad to see ten people; but in a great dinner they abdicate their position as host and hostess,--are mere creatures in the hands of the sham butlers, sham footmen, and tall confectioners' emissaries who crowd the room,--and are guests at their own table, where they are helped last, and of which they occupy the top and bottom." Thackeray has written frequently on the pleasures of the table, and his name may well figure in the annals of gastronomy as one of its shining lights, if only for his delicious essays "Memorials of Gormandising" and "On Some Dinners at Paris," to which in their entirety the reader is referred. Still later, Charles Dickens keenly satirises the existing pomp and the lack of simplicity of the English table, notably among the higher classes, where he finds so much Powder in waiting that it flavours the repast, pulverous particles getting into the dishes, and Society's meats having a seasoning of first-rate footmen--society having everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner. Perhaps in no connection with the art of which the "Original" treats is the advice more practical than in the remarks on variety, with which the reference to Walker may be terminated: "Although I like, as a rule, to abstain from much variety at the same meal, I think it both wholesome and agreeable to vary the food on different days, both as to the materials and mode of dressing them. The palate is better pleased and the digestion more active, and the food, I believe, assimilates in a greater degree with the system. The productions of the different seasons and of different climates point out to us unerringly that it is proper to vary our food; and one good general rule I take to be, to select those things which are most in season, and to abandon them as soon as they begin to deteriorate in quality. Most people mistake the doctrine of variety in their mode of living; they have great variety at the same meals, and great sameness at different meals. These agreeable varieties are never met with, or even thought of, in the formal routine of society, though they contribute much, when appropriately devised, to the enjoyment of a party. With respect to variety of vegetables, I think the same rule applies as to other dishes. I would not have many sorts on the same occasion, but would study appropriateness and particular excellence. One of the greatest luxuries, to my mind, in dining is to be able to command plenty of good vegetables, well served up. Excellent potatoes, smoking hot, and accompanied by melted butter of the first quality, would alone stamp merit on any dinner; but they are as rare on state occasions, so served, as if they were of the cost of pearls." It may be subjoined to the many pertinent observations respecting the duties of the entertainer, that so far as it is within his power he should consider his guests individually, weighing their personal likes and dislikes to such extent as may comport with the general welfare. The first thing he should recognise as his imperative duty is to please. Yet while a surprise in the components of the dinner is to be desired, the choice of dishes should nevertheless be made with reference to the taste of the majority, in distinction to one's own preference or the predilections of the few. With the stiff and formal dinner, or with large dinner-parties, fine discrimination is less practicable, these functions being necessarily a burden to all concerned. _Les dîners fins se font en petits comités_; and, equally, in informal gatherings. The deft hand and nice judgment may be thoroughly manifested only among intimate friends, where the personality of the master may guide and direct, free from the trammels of conventionality. Then that false etiquette which prescribes that the entertainer should never rise from the table may be waived; and where he may enhance the pleasure of his friends by an impromptu visit to the wine-cellar in pursuit of some special vintage that the moment calls for, or carry out a happy thought that the occasion may create, it is his bounden duty to perform for himself what others may not perform as well, or perform not at all. With the absence of formality, the wit may rise to the full height of his genius, the humorist may shine, and the accomplished and graceful liar draw a treble measure of delight from the font of a genial and exuberant fancy. [Illustration: LA TABLE Frontispiece of the Second Canto of "La Conversation" of the Abbé Délille, 1822] "The Art of Dining" also forms the title of a work by the scholarly essayist Abraham Hayward, a rearrangement of two articles he had contributed to the "Quarterly Review" in 1835 and 1836.[42] By few writers has the subject been treated so invitingly. There is no taint of grossness throughout his review; and if it be true that next to partaking of a good dinner is to read about one, we must thank him for the enjoyment he has contributed. A distinguished scholar and epicure, he had travelled widely, and was equally at home in the French and English capitals. All the celebrated restaurants, chefs, and maîtres-d'hôtel of Paris were familiar to him, while few have shown themselves as conversant with the literature of his theme. He had, moreover, an entrée into the most distinguished circles; and, last but not least, possessed a marvellous memory to recall the people he had met, and the dinners and festivities at which he had assisted--with the bon-mots, repartees, and anecdotes that the popping of corks without number had set free. As a raconteur, with an unlimited repertory of incidents concerning the notables who were prominent in society, politics, and gastronomy, he is said to have been unsurpassed. His subject, he states, has been discussed with the object of facilitating convivial enjoyment and promoting sociability; and in these matters he will be found both a brilliant _causeur_ and connoisseur. Passing by his anecdotal review of Parisian cookery, his reference to the simple expedients by which the success of a dinner may be insured will serve to show his resources, and his grasp of the practical side of the topic: "We have seen Painter's turtle prepare the way for a success which was crowned by a lark pudding. We have seen a kidney dumpling perform wonders; and a noble-looking shield of Canterbury brawn from Groves's diffuse a sensation of unmitigated delight. One of Morell's Montanches hams, or a woodcock pie from Bavier's of Boulogne, would be a sure card; but a home-made partridge pie would be more likely to come upon your company by surprise, provided a beefsteak be put over as well as under the birds, and the birds be placed with their breasts downwards in the dish. Game or wild fowl is never better than broiled; and a boiled shoulder of mutton, or boiled duck or pheasant, might alone found a reputation. A still more original notion was struck out by a party of eminent connoisseurs who entertained the Right Hon. Sir Henry Ellis at Fricœur's, just before he started on his Persian embassy. They actually ordered a roasted turbot, and were boasting loudly of the success of the invention when a friend of ours had the curiosity to ask M. Fricœur in what manner he set about the dressing of the fish. 'Why, sare, you no tell; we no roast him at all; we put him in oven and bake him.'" Some there are who would seriously object to boiled mutton as opposed to roast, and who assuredly would cry out in horror at a duck or game-bird boiled. Yet boiled mutton with capers is orthodox--like corned beef and cabbage, or the _Rindfleisch_ with horseradish sauce, which blends so well with the Münchner where one meets it in the middle of the day in Germany. A broiled teal, wood-duck, or butterball, by all means; but a roast canvasback, redhead, or mallard in preference always. "Marrowbones are always popular" [the author continues]. "So is a well-made devil or a broil. When a picture of the Dutch school, representing a tradesman in a passion with his wife for bringing up an underdone leg of mutton, was shown to the late Lord Hertford, his lordship's first remark was, 'What a fool that fellow is not to see that he may have a capital broil!' A genuine _hure de sanglier_, or wild boar's head, would elevate the plainest dinner into dignity. The comparative merits of pies and puddings present a problem which it is no easy matter to decide. On the whole, we give the preference to puddings, as affording more scope to the inventive genius of the cook. A plum-pudding, for instance, our national dish, is hardly ever boiled enough. A green apricot tart is commonly considered the best tart that is made: but a green apricot pudding is a much better thing. A cherry dumpling is better than a cherry tart. A beefsteak pudding, again, is better than the corresponding pie; but oysters and mushrooms are essential to its success. A mutton-chop pudding with oysters, but without mushrooms, is excellent." Never having tried the last-mentioned "remove," the writer is willing to trust to its excellence, and to the general good taste of Hayward. But one has his doubts sometimes, the proof of the pudding being in the eating; and possibly a mutton-chop and oyster compound may be spoiling two things intrinsically good in themselves, and the dish deserve to be placed in the same category with a boiled pheasant or a wild fowl. Moreover, what may taste or appear excellent in one place does not always appear the same in another, this holding true with many things besides dishes, which may be affected by the climate, the surroundings, or one's mood at the time. The topic of fish is particularly well treated by Hayward. On the subject of game, he has this to say concerning a native marsh-bird of the sandpiper tribe, highly prized for its eggs and flesh, which has become even yet more rare with the draining of the English meres and fens: "Ruffs and reeves are little known to the public at large, though honourable mention is made of them by Bewick. The season for them is August and September. They are found in fenny countries (those from Whittlesea Meer in Lincolnshire are best), and must be taken alive and fattened on boiled wheat or bread and milk mixed with hemp-seed, for about a fortnight, taking good care never to put two males to feed together, or they will fight _à l'outrance_. Prince Talleyrand was extremely fond of ruffs and reeves, his regular allowance during the season being two a day: they are dressed like woodcocks. These birds are worth nothing in their wild state; and the art of fattening them is traditionally said to have been discovered by the monks in Yorkshire, where they are still in high favour with the clerical profession, as a current anecdote will show. At a grand dinner at Bishopthorpe (in Archbishop Markham's time) a dish of ruffs and reeves chanced to be placed immediately in front of a young divine who had come up to be examined for priest's orders, and was considerately (or, as it turned out, inconsiderately) asked to dinner by his grace. Out of sheer modesty, the clerical tyro confined himself exclusively to the dish before him, and persevered in his indiscriminating attentions to it till one of the resident dignitaries (all of whom were waiting only the proper moment to participate) observed him, and called the attention of the company by a loud exclamation of alarm. But the warning came too late: the ruffs and reeves had vanished to a bird, and with them, we are concerned to add, all the candidate's hopes of Yorkshire preferment are said to have vanished too. "A similar anecdote is current touching wheatears, which, in our opinion, are a greater delicacy. A Scotch officer was dining with the late Lord George Lennox, then commandant at Portsmouth, and was placed near a dish of wheatears, which was rapidly disappearing under his repeated attacks. Lady Louisa Lennox tried to divert his attention to another dish. 'Na, na, my leddy,' was the reply, 'these wee birdies will do verra weel.'" In vivid contrast to the works of Walker and Hayward is a volume entitled "Apician Morsels" (London, 1829), wherein the author, who veils his identity under a facetious pseudonym, has unblushingly garbled whole chapters from the old historians, the "Almanach," and various writers, interspersed with coarse stories of gluttony. It is to be deplored that La Reynière cannot arise from his final resting-place to administer the castigation the author deserves. From him it is refreshing to turn to the "Dipsychus" of Arthur Hugh Clough and read his animated poem, "Le Dîner," with its resonant refrain which, strangely, has been omitted from the later editions: "Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes past, And he who came first had to wait for the last. The oysters ere this had been in and been out; While I have been sitting and thinking about How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! How pleasant it is to have money! "A clear soup with eggs; _voilà tout_; of the fish The _filets de sole_ are a moderate dish _A la Orly_, but you're for red mullet, you say. By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day How pleasant it is, etc. "After oysters, Sauterne; then sherry; champagne; Ere one bottle goes, comes another again; Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, And tell to our ears in the sounds that we love How pleasant it is, etc. "I've the simplest of tastes; absurd it may be, But I almost could dine on a _poulet au riz_, Fish and soup and omelette, and that--but the deuce-- There were to be woodcocks, and not _charlotte russe_! So pleasant it is, etc. "Your Chablis is acid, away with the Hock, Give me the pure juice of the purple Médoc; St. Péray is exquisite; but, if you please, Some Burgundy first, before tasting the cheese. So pleasant it is, etc. "As for that, pass the bottle, and hang the expense-- I've seen it observed by a writer of sense That the labouring classes could scarce live a day If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. So useful it is, etc. "One ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend, Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend. And so, suppose now, while the things go away, By way of a grace we all stand up and say, How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho! How pleasant it is to have money!" To English guides, so far as the metropolis is concerned, should be added Lieutenant-Colonel Newnham-Davis' recent volume--a veritable Murray to the table of London.[43] In this gossipy and sprightly manual one may dine by proxy in nearly all the leading restaurants as well as in many of the more Bohemian resorts. The appointments and surroundings of each are picturesquely set forth, with the exact menu and price of each dinner, together with an occasional recipe of some distinguished foreign master of the range, or a dish for which a restaurant is especially renowned. And while one may marvel at the writer's facile receptivity for an almost unvaried round of vintage champagnes, and sympathise with him in the frequent iteration of certain dishes, one must recognise, nevertheless, that if the dinners he discussed as an official representative of the "Pall Mall Gazette" could be duplicated by the average diner, London were not to be despised as a stamping-ground for the accomplished gastronomer. The author does not hesitate to criticise, though his exceptions are usually in the nature of a sauce piquante, rather than a drastic condiment; and it is evident in the majority of the feasts he passes under review--now with a boon companion, and now with a pretty and well-gowned _causeuse_--that the special resources of the chef and maître-d'hôtel, who are duly introduced to the reader, have been brought into Aladdin-like play for his special delectation. The Benedict will doubtless envy him his _petits-dîners_ with so varied a menu of charming women to stimulate his appetite and share his champagne and _entremets de douceur_; the bachelor will recognise how a prolonged series of such dinners with supplementary flowers, a _loge_ at the theatre, and a concluding supper swell the _addition_, and render rising with the lark or any attention to business the following morning utterly beyond the compass of mortal power. To assist in a repast with Colonel Davis, however, is to be assured of dining excellently in London, with pleasant company and a double assurance of the truth of the aphorism, that one can never grow old at table. Reference has already been made to numerous French minor writers on gastronomy; among whom should not be omitted the name of the eminent Dr. Réveillé-Parise, author of several works on hygiene, whose dissertation on the oyster, presented with all the charm that a brilliant style and profound erudition may impart, is unrivalled in the language.[44] Much has naturally been said, both by English and by French writers, concerning the restaurant. The celebrated Dr. Véron, who was nearly always accustomed to dine at a restaurant in preference to dining at his own home, gave these as his reasons: "In your own home the soup is on the table at a certain hour, the roast is taken off the jack, the dessert is spread out on the sideboard. Your servants, in order to get more time over their meals, hurry you up; they do not serve you, they gorge you. At the restaurant, on the contrary, they are never in a hurry, they let you wait, and, besides, I always tell the waiters not to mind me; that I like being kept a long while--that is one of the reasons why I come here. Another thing, at the restaurant the door is opened at every moment and something happens. A friend, a chum, or a mere acquaintance comes in; one chats and laughs; all this aids digestion. A man ought not to make digestion a business apart. He ought to dine and digest at the same time, and nothing aids this dual function like good conversation. Perhaps the servant of Madame de Maintenon, when the latter was still Madame Scarron, was a greater philosopher than we suspect when he whispered to his mistress, 'Madame, the roast has run short; give them another story.'" It was after a dinner in a Fifth Avenue restaurant, at which terrapin and '89 Pol Roger, canvasback, and '78 Haut-Bailly figured, that while smoking his Vuelta-Abajo--impressed with the excellence of the repast, and smitten at the thought of his absent ones--the host observed to his companions, "Heavens! how I wish I could afford to treat my family to a dinner like this!" The stomach also has its conscience. But Thackeray has covered precisely such a case in the essay, "On some Dinners at Paris." "What is the use," he asks, "of having your children, who live on roast mutton in the nursery, to sit down and take the best three-fourths of a _perdreau truffé_ with you? What is the use of helping your wife, who doesn't know the difference between sherry and Madeira, to a glass of priceless Romanée or sweetly odoriferous Château Lafite of '42?" Besides his sonnets "Le Toast" and "Barrière du Maine," Charles Monselet has written most entertainingly of the restaurant under the title, "Les Cabinets Particuliers," a sketch which figured in "Le Double Almanach Gourmand" of 1866, of which he was the editor for several years. In this publication appeared Albert Glatigny's "Rue des Poitevins," one of several poems with the restaurant as their theme, the stanzas being not unworthy of the melodious lyre of "Les Vignes Folles" and "Les Flèches d'Or": "C'est le vieux restaurant où vont les écoliers Qui n'ont point submergés les cols brisés encore. Dans l'atmosphère chaude et franche on voit éclore, Entre deux brocs de vin des refrains cavaliers. "Les peintres, les rimeurs,--leurs soucis oubliés,-- Y vont rire le soir d'un bon rire sonore, Et pour mon compte, moi dans mon for, je m'honore D'avoir allègrement grimpé ses escaliers. "Des escaliers du temps de la serrurerie, Larges, la rampe en fer, ouvragés, bien dallés, Donnant sur un cour propre à la rêverie. "Maison Laveur! hier, c'était là qu'attablés Devant la soupe aux choux, nous guettions, mon Lemoyne, La petite servante aux rougeurs de pivoine." The student of Glatigny, who must always admire the rhythm and melody of his Muse, will also remember his quaint sonnet published in "Gilles et Pasquins," entitled "Monselet devoured by the Lobsters." The works of Henri Murger are replete with epulary sketches of the old Latin Quarter of Paris, a district from which Victor Hugo has also drawn. Théodore de Banville has likewise depicted many a picturesque restaurant scene in his airy "Odes Funambulesques." The lyrists, too, have not been unmindful of the poetry of the kitchen. Many visitors to Paris will remember dining at Bignon's, and doubtless will equally recall the figures of the _addition_. Of this restaurant, whose carte was devoid of prices, it was said that a man who dined at the corner table for a period of years became a cosmopolite--in every capital of Europe he would be recognised and fêted; for that matter, he did not need to rise from his chair, as all Europe would pass in review before him. A provincial dining there in April, on perceiving melons on the card, ordered one. "What!" he exclaimed, after examining his bill, "thirty francs for a melon! You are joking!" "Monsieur," replied Bignon, "if you can find me three or four at the same price, I will buy them immediately." "Fifteen francs for a peach?" inquired Prince Narischkin; "they must be very scarce." "It isn't the peaches that are scarce, _mon prince_; it is the Narischkins." "Monsieur Bignon, a red herring at two and a half francs! It seems to me that is excessive." "But these prices are marked in your interest," rejoined the restaurateur. "It is the barrier I have established between my clients and the vulgar. Why do you come here? To be among yourselves, to avoid embarrassing or compromising surroundings. If I changed my prices, the house would be invaded, and you would all leave." Another patron who complained of a sauce was asked, "Did you dine here last evening?" "No," he replied. "That is the trouble, then; you spoiled your taste in the other restaurant." Still another guest objected to the charges on his bill, comparing it with an identical breakfast of a few days previous which amounted to eighteen and a half francs, whereas the breakfast in question was charged twenty-one francs, eighty centimes. "I will investigate the mistake," said Bignon, who, with the two bills, proceeded to the desk, returning shortly afterwards. "It is very true, Monsieur, that a mistake was made in your favour last Monday; but I make no claim for restitution!" Do the anecdotes and cook-books and treatises on eating and drinking savour of gluttony to some who eat only to live, and who are lacking in the finesse of Good Cheer? Let all such consult a volume written by one of the gentler sex, and hearken to her admirable definition of the Tenth Muse: "Gluttony is ranked with the deadly sins; it should be honoured among the cardinal virtues. To-day women, as a rule, think all too little of the joys of eating; they hold lightly the treasures that should prove invaluable. They refrain to recognise that there is no less art in eating well than in painting well or writing well. For the _gourmande_, or glutton, duty and amusement go hand in hand. Mind and body alike are satisfied. The good of a pleasantly planned dinner outbalances the evil of daily trials and tribulations. By artistic gluttony, beauty is increased, if not actually created. Rejoice in the knowledge that gluttony is the best cosmetic. Gross are they who see in eating and drinking nought but grossness. Gluttony is a vice only when it leads to stupid, inartistic excess."[45] [Illustration] OF SAUCES "Je la redoute, cette sauce. Avec elle on mangerait toujours. La lecture seule de sa recette donne faim." BARON BRISSE: La Petite Cuisine. The supreme triumph of the French cuisine consists in its sauces; for nothing can so vary the routine of daily cookery as the different combinations of herbs and seasonings that may be utilised by a competent artist as an adjunct and a finish to a dish. King's "Art of Cookery" has admirably versified the mission of the sauce: "The spirit of each dish and zest of all Is what ingenious cooks the Relish call; For though the market sends in loads of food, They all are tasteless till that makes them good." [Illustration: A SUPPER IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY From the engraving after Masquelier] As without flattery there were no society, so without sauces there were no gastronomy. Properly prepared, with a thorough understanding of the hygienic nature of flavourings and their harmony with reference to the special viands they are to enhance, a finely composed sauce is a digestive as well as a stimulus to the organs of taste. No better illustration of the qualities of a perfect sauce occurs in the annals of the art than that of Baron Brisse, which refers to sauce béarnaise, and La Reynière's comment on anchovy sauce,--"_Lorsque cette sauce est bien traitée, elle ferait manger un éléphant_. This is La Reynière's recipe, including its proper belongings, as given in the sixth year of the "Almanach": "The anchovy figures as a stimulant and aperient in a great number of sauces, whose presence imparts to them their principal virtues. Such are the sauces _à l'Allemande_, _à l'anchois_, _aux câpres_, etc.; we shall confine ourselves to the recipe of that which bears its name. Anchovy sauce is prepared by first carefully washing the anchovies in vinegar; the bones are then removed, the fish finely minced and placed in a stewpan with a clear _coulis_[46] of veal and ham, pepper, salt, nutmeg, and fine spices; after heating reduce to the proper consistence and give it the finishing touch. This sauce serves for the roast. The anchovy plays the principal rôle in the sauce served with roast sirloin of beef and hare _à la broche_. It is made with their juices and a little bouillon, anchovies coarsely chopped, capers, fine herbs, tarragon, pepper, salt, and vinegar. With this sauce well prepared, one might eat an elephant. "Anchovy sauce is also employed in several sorts of gravies, and one may say that it is not misplaced in any piquante sauce: for it is in itself an excellent _épigramme_. It follows from these remarks that the anchovy is an indispensable adjunct to good cheer. Its body figures admirably for the déjeuner and with the hors-d'œuvres, and its spirit makes itself distinctly felt in all sauces that it permeates. It imparts to them a savour which stimulates the appetite and agreeably captivates the palate." In the middle ages the office of the _saucier_, or master sauce-maker, was invested with great importance. A chief functionary in all grand houses, under him were clerks, varlets, and youths termed _galopins de saucerie_, who stood ever ready to do his bidding. Old woodcuts depict him presiding over his receptacles--as imposing in his dignity as the master-carver himself. Even then the adage held good that the sauce was often worth more than the fish. Indeed, the sauce is the sonnet of the table, as varied in its forms as the structure of the sonnet itself. The Gaul is its master, and to him belongs the majority of its most pleasing tenses. In the words of the distinguished Marquis de Cussy, who maintained that a good cook can remove your gout as you would remove your gloves,--"_Point de sauce, point de salut, point de cuisine_; where would we be if the grand sauces, the lesser ones, and the special ones that have rendered the French school illustrious had not been discovered by men of the greatest genius? The life labours of one alone would not have sufficed. What a brilliant ladder to scale, that which, leaving the last round--the sauce pauvre homme--is lost in the clouds with the velouté, the grande and petite espagnole, and the réductions!"[47] Sauce Soubise, sauce d'Orléans, sauce d'Uxelles, and sauce à la Régence are all credited to great minds of the eighteenth century, so prolific of new culinary discoveries. Through their piquant instrumentality we may in imagination summon the splendours of the Regency and the reign of Louis, surnamed "le Bien-Aimé," with the brilliant toilets of its gay and pretty women--the high-heeled pointed shoe, the powdered hair, the rouge and beauty-spot, the painted fan and walking-stick of _fille_, duchesse, and marquise that still look at us from the canvases of Boucher and Watteau. We may see, too, the V-shaped satin corsage, the expansive pannier, the diaphanous _robe déshabillée_,--flounced, frilled, flowered, and furbelowed,--the embroidered petticoat and surge of lace and ribband, as fair dame and plumed gallant repair to the suppers of the Palais-Royal and the Parc aux Cerfs, or sit down amid umbrageous glades to the revels of a _fête champêtre_. Almost as many varieties of sauces exist as of soups. But these may vary little or largely from their usually accepted names. The cook will tell you, if you are unacquainted with the fact yourself, that by adding to simple melted butter a liberal amount of finely chopped parsley (some ruin the relish with grated nutmeg, a spice which should be used with great discretion), salt and pepper, and a dash of lemon, you have what is termed a maître-d'hôtel sauce. Add to this finely minced garden-cress, chervil, and a little tarragon and burnet, and you produce a different sauce under the same name. Thus plain onion sauce and sauce Soubise, in each of which the onion forms the dominant chord, may differ equally, and sauce piquante and sauce Robert vary only in their titles and the additional mustard called for by the latter. Sauce poivrade, in like manner, is a sauce piquante with an increased supply of pepper and without the pickled cucumber. Among the most valuable of all sauces, though employed only cold and served with cold viands, is that which at once suggests what Jules Janin in an inadvertent moment termed the "cardinal of the seas," and that at a luncheon or a late supper possesses a merit distinctively its own. This Carême has dealt with at length in his treatise on cold sauces. The origin of the word "mayonnaise," a blending supposed to be the invention of the Maréchal de Richelieu, has always remained in doubt. Its etymology has been attributed to Mahon, a town of southern France. Yet this supposed derivation is extremely dubious; and as it was also known as "bayonnaise," it might be ascribed equally to Bayonne, famous for its hams, its cheese, and its chocolate, and for having invented the bayonet.[48] It has been variously termed mahonaise, bayonnaise, mahonnoise, magnonaise, and mayonnaise. But Carême, after minutely describing its preparation, from the first drop of oil to its final silky, white, and unctuous cream, denies its accepted derivation, and pronounces it _magnonaise_, from the verb _manier_--to stir; as it may be prepared only through the continual stirring it undergoes, which results in a marrowy, velvety, and very appetising sauce, unique of its kind, and bearing no resemblance to others that are obtained only through reductions of the range. Despite this ingenious explanation, the word is still written "mayonnaise"; and while lights shine brilliantly, and champagne sparkles, and the great crawfish, sublimated into salad, receives the encomiums of appreciative guests, the famous chef of the Empire is forgotten, and the chapter of the "Cuisinier Parisien" exists only as a tale that is told. It may be observed that a good sauce should be perfect in flavour, colour, smell, and consistency. It should be savoury, flowing, and well defined. On the proper _liaison_, a correct apportionment of the flavourings, a knowledge of the range, and a discriminating palate, supplemented by long experience, depends its triumph. Of course the _bain-marie_ will be readily accessible when the sauce is obliged to wait, the butter will be unexceptionable, and the shallot especially will never be lacking when its virtues are in request. As has been previously stated in the case of numerous other culinary preparations, success depends more upon the practitioner than the formula. It is as difficult, therefore, to describe the subtle chiaroscuro of a perfect sauce as to define the hues that mantle the petals of the rose "Beauté Inconstante," or the combined odours hived by a windless night of June. Comparatively few sauces may suffice for the modest household to supplement the espagnole, or brown sauce, and the velouté, or white sauce, the foundations from which most others are compounded. These two rudimentary sauces, to be well made, should not be greasy, but contain just enough fat, according to the authorities, to present the velvety appearance of a full-blown damask rose. Carême devotes twenty-five pages to these "mother sauces" and their two slight modifications, béchamel and allemande; while Francatelli points out that although great care and watchful attention are requisite in every branch of cookery, the exercise of these qualities is most essential in the preparation of the grand stock sauces. In the home kitchen these are naturally prepared in an infinitely more simple manner than according to the elaborate recipes of the great professors of the table. The mistress of the household who would render herself trebly appreciated, and who by ministering to man's palate may the more readily guide, direct, and control his character, should train herself unerringly in the art of compounding appetising and wholesome sauces. To be sure, some of these manipulated by competent masculine hands--but how often slurred by some fatigued or indifferent _sous-chef_!--may be obtained at one's club or the better-class restaurants. But here in many instances the wine-cellar is apt to be uncertain; while frequent dining out is not to be compared with the sense of comfort of dining at home when the kitchen, even though unpretentious, is carefully administered, the menu varied, the wines perfect of their kind, and where Her Gracious Serenity's address may have conjured some dainty entrée whose sauce, sapid and velvety, leaves nothing to be desired. One might tire of this, perchance, with no change for a sixmonth, as one might weary of constant sunshine or a too lavish profusion of tender epithets. Yet it is a desirable condition, nevertheless, to fall back upon; and in the end far the safest for digestion. And this despite Balzac, who well understood the cuisine no less than the "Comédie Humaine,"--that "marriage must necessarily combat a monster who devours everything--daily routine"; or his other definition in the "Physiology of Marriage," a physiological study that was inspired by Savarin's "Physiology of Taste,"--"_Pressurez le mariage, il n'en sortira jamais rien que du plaisir pour les garçons et de l'ennui pour les maris._" The wise woman will have many side-lights in her composition; and in the kitchen her sauces will have many shadings. Let us toast her in a glass of sparkling St. Péray, and acknowledge that without her there were no home cuisine and consequently no home life. So closely does the art advocated by the late lamented Mrs. Glasse touch upon the fundamental happiness of mankind; and sauces which render it an art supreme still further accentuate the amenities. It has been said that it is not obligatory for lovely arms and shoulders to be acquainted with rhetoric. However this may obtain--and there are admirers both of shapely shoulders and of the graces of languages, there can be no doubt that charming women who possess a taste for gastronomy which they can put to practical use upon occasion, are an infinitely greater desideratum than whose energies may be centred strictly upon flounces or the study of metaphysics. With the following sauces, besides the simpler forms of espagnole and velouté, much may be accomplished at home: cream béchamel, sauce piquante, sauce bordelaise, maître-d'hôtel and béarnaise, hollandaise, sauce an vin blanc, sauce au beurre noir (plain, or with shallots and parsley added), tomato sauce and its special form _à la Richelieu_, and, finally, Francatelli's sauce Number 65 for mutton and dark-fleshed game.[49] If, apart from those enumerated, madame be an artist in the fashioning of sauce tartare, the mayonnaise and its shadings, and a plain French salad dressing, all will be lovely sailing. What's sauce for the goose, however, is not necessarily sauce for the gander, and _vice versa_. Women will prefer the cream béchamel, mayonnaise, and Francatelli, and the sterner sex will like them all. It may not prove entirely without profit if to these be added sauce _à la Schönberg_, which harmonises not only with halibut, flounder, sea-bass, and sole, but with chicken-breasts and white-fleshed game-birds as well, when one desires a change from the usual modes of preparation: "_Sauce à la Schönberg._ Make a roux of a tablespoon of butter and flour, brown slightly, add two shallots finely minced, and a pint of chicken broth, three tablespoons of tomato sauce, a small bay-leaf, two cloves, some finely minced parsley, a teaspoon of cognac, and a little white wine. Season with salt and pepper, and strain. Then add a half can of mushrooms, slice and brown them in a little butter with a few dice of sweetbreads previously cooked, and, just before removing from the range, the yolk of an egg and a half cup of cream." The professional chef may possibly criticise it,--mesdames the "'Compleat' Housewives" will discover in it a fragrant note of satisfaction. Will new sauces continue to be invented? Assuredly; of culinary as well as other novelties there will always be an abundant supply, however bizarre or lacking in excellence compared with the old. But in new dishes it will be new combinations for the most part, varying but little from the classics and those already known, rather than any distinctly novel forms of superior merit, such as have been recently evolved in floriculture, for instance. For the art of cookery is of ancient time, while the evolution of the flower, especially the floral queen, the rose, is comparatively new; and where the one has still untold possibilities, the other has well-nigh attained its full tide of savour and perfection, at least in theory and understanding, if not nearly so often in practice as were to be desired. An extended disquisition, redolent of truffles and odorous of the herb-garden, might be devoted to the subject of sauces, of which Charles Ranhofer in his recent manual, "The Epicurean," presents two hundred and forty-six. But this were invading the practical domain of the cookery books, and wandering too far from the lines of the subject under consideration--the history and province of Gastronomy. [Illustration] THE SPOILS OF THE COVER "It is difficult to imagine a happier conjunction than the blending of the symbols when the arms of a sportsman are quartered with those of a cook. The tints of the autumnal woods reflected in the plumage of mature and lusty game are types of rich experiences and genial sentiments which flit about the sportsman's board and linger at his hearth with as gracious a fitness as that which diffuses a faint blush through the russet of a well-cooked mallard's breast, and with a zest equal to the relish which lurks within a woodcock's thigh."--JOHN ALDERGROVE. How that beechwood on a distant hillside, its tall trees despoiled of their foliage, and its skirts lighted with the clinging gold of the saplings, stands out against a hoar November sky and the tablets of memory, as one recollects an accommodating covey of grouse, a successful "right and left," and the hoarse clamour of the crows whose conclave was disturbed by the salvo of the barrels! Of the wealth of aliments bestowed upon man by a bountiful Providence for his sustenance and delectation, none lends a greater grace or ministers more to the variety of the table than game. The offspring of wild nature, nursed upon its fruits, its mast, and its vegetation, and exhaling the very essence of its most secluded recesses, it sheds an added lustre even upon the most elaborate repast. Its comparative rarity, together with that quality which may be best defined as distinction, invests it with a heightened charm; while to the sportsman it is indelibly associated with scenes the recollection of which causes the pulse to throb with a renewed joy in the sense of living. Its pursuit naturally leads to an abiding love for nature; so that the bird in the thicket, the wild fowl in the marsh, and the hare in the covert become to the votary of sport more than mere adjuncts of gustatory delight. Who shall ever forget the first game-bird he has killed, or the first "pound trout" he has captured with the fly?--the souvenir comes like a burst of autumnal radiance, or the redolence of vernal flowers. To what enchantments is not game the open-sesame; and what halcyon visions does it not enshrine! It is the emblem of plenteousness, the symbol of maturity. The gilded woods and ripened fruits, the teeming fields and garnered sheaves, the purple haze and mellow afterglow, the harvest moon and the elixir of the frost--all the largesse of the year is typified in the least of the wild life that is included in the term "game." [Illustration: THE SPANISH POINTER From the engraving by Woollett, after the painting by Stubbs, 1768] These woodcock, for instance, do they not at once bring to mind the beauties of their native haunts?--the devious alder tangle and jungle of wild grape where the dragon-fly flits above the murmurous stream, and the cardinal-flower reflects itself within the glassy pool. This ruffed grouse, in turn, how he recalls the pageant of the upland! Once more you scent the breath of the wildwood and drink the exhilarating draught of October. Again are you thrilled by the roar of strong pinions as the quarry rises in his strength, to fall beneath the leaden charge and fold his wings in everlasting sleep. Or, with the advent upon the board of that much-in-little, the snipe, the lonely marsh with its whispering flags and shifting cloud-shadow extends in imagination before you--where the killdeer calls, and the bittern booms, and the bird of mottled breast twists away with raucous cry to be lost in the grey horizon's marge. Thus game to the sportsman embodies an æsthetic attribute unknown to the majority, the very associations of sport in themselves conferring the keenest appreciation of the true instincts of gastronomy. The range and the breech-loader are closely allied, and the field and the table become merged in ties of mutual affinity. Nor may we overlook the great worth of game in the sick-room, and as a ministering agent for the invalid and convalescent. It possesses, in addition, a virtue equalled by scarcely any other form of food, in calling forth the bouquet and flavour of wine--whether it be a white wine with the denizens of fresh and salt water that figure as game-fish, or a grand growth of Bordeaux or Burgundy that is appropriately served with the furred and feathered tenants of Sylva's court. Then if one has killed it himself, or a friend whose skill has checked its flight has been the means of contributing its graces, its quintessence becomes all the more adorable. Combining so many advantages, it is to be deplored that the preservation of game in this country is not more carefully guarded, and that the scarcity of many species is becoming more and more apparent. The practice of spring shooting of snipe, duck, and shore-birds, when on their migrations to their northern nesting-grounds, cannot be too severely censured; while the laxity in enforcing the laws and the dissimilarity of close seasons in different counties operates still further to cause the depletion of wild life. The pot-hunter and the spaniel, the trap and the gin, are gradually exterminating the ruffed grouse; the olden flocks of plover and wild pigeon have well-nigh vanished; while snipe, woodcock, quail, and duck are now as rare in many localities where they formerly abounded as the trout which once swarmed in the streams. Deer and its congeners, it is true, have received better protection of recent years, the increasing numbers of deer at least attesting the wisdom of stringent laws stringently enforced. It will therefore be readily evident that preservation and protection become a question of paramount importance which may no longer be loosely considered, or soon the last grouse will have sounded his reveille, and the whistle of the woodcock will remain only as a memory. The remedy is easily prescribed, and may be briefly summarised--legitimate shooting and fishing, rigid enforcement of the laws with heavy penalties for the offender, a single close season for the smaller species that are found in proximity, abolishment of spring shooting, and a rigorous surveillance of the covers. By this means the table may possess one of its greatest luxuries in abundance, and sport resume its former sphere as the greatest of recuperative and edifying recreations. In its relation to the table, the term "game" is held to include wild fowl as well as most furred and feathered spoils of the chase. Or, defined more accurately in its connection with gastronomy, it embraces everything belonging to the province of sport that is edible. Correctly speaking, no species of wild fowl, or species like the plover, rail, pigeon, etc., may be accounted game, the quality of which consists in the subtle presence of scent, instinctively recognised and followed by thoroughbred dogs,--a trait expressed by Hollar's lines, "The Feasant Cocke the woods doth most frequent, Where Spaniells spring and pearche him by the sent." Yet species foreign to the blue blood of flax and feather may, nevertheless, afford sport, and prove acquisitions for the table. The little spotted sandpiper, accordingly, whose musical _peet, weet, weet_ rings along the brooksides and moist meadow-lands, and even the squirrel if killed in cold weather, are entitled to rank as table-game, providing they be properly prepared. It should not be supposed, however, that all individuals of a given species taste alike, flavour being the result of two important conditions. Neither should it be presumed that a game-bird, usually referred to as masculine, is preferable for the larder in that gender; the truth being that for culinary purposes the hen is generally preferable to the cock. Every sportsman will recall the difference in the taste of certain game-birds, more especially snipe and woodcock--depending upon the nature of their feeding-grounds, and upon the season. Like celery, moreover, most game requires a touch of the cold to develop its qualities. The snipe that bores in sweet, moist pastures, and the woodcock shot on high grounds during late autumn, would hardly be recognised as the same birds bagged under widely dissimilar conditions. The bobolink of our summer fields is scarcely prized until as a migrant he has fattened on the rice-fields of the South, to acquire an added bloom under the name of reed-bird or rice-bunting. Similarly, the sheep of Pré-Salé, the succulent salt-marsh mutton of the Brittany coasts, renowned for its delicious flavour, owe this quality largely to the herb absinthe which grows amid the herbage on which they browse. The mutton of sheep fed on pastures where thyme abounds also acquires a particularly fine savour. In like manner, when the ruffed grouse through stress of weather has been compelled to feed on birch-buds, or when he has dined on the berries and foliage of the wintergreen, his aroma is strikingly accentuated, becoming a veritable "steam of rich-distilled perfumes." The wild duck is an apposite example of the effect of food upon flavour; and even a pheasant _à la Sainte Alliance_ must pale before a celery-fed canvasback or redhead bathed in its own carmine juices. The redhead, who dives down for the roots of the _Vallisneria_ which the lazier canvasback purloins, is identical in quality with the latter when shot on the same feeding-grounds; the only difference between the two when cooked consisting in the larger size of the canvasback. Equally, the blackbird and starling, when killed on the shocked corn-fields where the hazy sunlight broods, or in autumn woods where they are garrulously discussing the date of their approaching flight and marvelling at the exquisite gradations of the maples' changing hues, become possessed of a tenderness and succulence unknown to the glare and greenness of summer. Another much esteemed native table-bird is the sora, crake, or Carolina rail, who should not be confounded with the British and European corn-crake or land-rail whom Michael Drayton refers to as "seldom coming but on rich man's spits," and Gilbert White represents as crying _crex! crex!_ from the low, wet bean-fields of Christian Malford and the meadows near Paradise Gardens at Oxford. The sora throngs the marshes of the Atlantic coast in early autumn, congregating in the greatest quantities south of the Rappahannock, where he is slaughtered by wholesale with comparatively little diminution of his ranks. He is a small dark-fleshed bird of great delicacy when broiled, and by many is prized more highly than the toothsome reed-bird or the golden plover. Though resembling the corn-crake in many ways, his nearest relative abroad is the spotted crake. The great-breasted or king-rail of the fresh-water marshes is likewise much esteemed. In flavour the sora is not unlike the wild duck; or, if the comparison may be made, a cross between the qualities of a teal and a snipe--deriving his special richness from the seeds of _Zizania aquatica_, or tall, wild reed of the tidewater shores. The juicy little bobolink whose rippling _scherzo_, flung over the fallows and buttercups of June, is basely forgotten by the epicure in the fall, may be crunched in a mouthful; the sora is thrice his size, and, though seldom as fat, is richer in the quality of his ruddy flesh. It were a parlous task to attempt to describe from memory the respective merits of the reed-bird, the famed European ortolan, and the English wheatear, fieldfare, and mistletoe-thrush. One stands helpless under such a contretemps, and must necessarily await the advent and the edict of another La Reynière. The fig-pecker of southern Europe is more easily passed upon, and readily ranks first among small table-birds. The tall yellowshank or stone-snipe, with his slim gilded stilts and snow-white breast, familiar to the gunner as a migrant and a frequent companion of the upland-plover, would be esteemed by the sportsman-epicure if only for the recollection of his splendid spread of wing, his graceful circlings, his loud whistling notes, and his lovely silvery plumage. Although considered less desirable than the snipe and woodcock, the upland- or grass-plover--in reality a sandpiper--should by no means be overlooked. One intuitively thanks him for the scenes he graciously leads to--the placid September day steeped in sunshine, the tender green of sprouting wheat-fields, the pageant of asters, and the billowy roll of mushroom-studded pastures. One hears anew his weird, plaintive cry in the arc overhead--like the bleat of distant folds--audible long ere the grey forms are discernible, as the sportsman imitates their notes, and the wavering flock, with a flutter of white wings, drops down to the sward below. Besides the salad which should accompany all species of game, the upland-plover, therefore, should be garnished with his accessory, the field-mushroom, whose snowy pileus and pink gills his dainty tread is constantly brushing, but never ruffling, amid the old pastures, stump-lots, and sheep-walks he frequents. But the graceful Bartramian sandpiper has other aliases than those of upland-, field-, and grass-plover. Besides his common appellation of "tattler," he is known in Louisiana as the "pepperpot," and more generally as the "papabotte"--a local name, from the Creole French, significant of all that is most prized in edible game. "Arriving from the vast prairies of Mexico and Texas, where they spend the winter," says Audubon, "the dry upland plains of Louisiana called Opellousas and Attacapas are amply peopled with this species in early spring as well as in autumn. About New Orleans they appear in great bands in spring, and are met with on the open plains and large grassy savannahs." Upon the restaurant cards of New Orleans and other Southern cities he figures much as the truffle does in France--his particular food imparting to his flesh a peculiar flavour and certain peculiar virtues. The favourite mode of preparing him by the New Orleans clubs is to roast him and serve him slightly underdone with the trail finely minced on toast. His appearance is nearly simultaneous with that of a blister-beetle known as the "Spanish fly"--one of the extremely numerous members of the genus _Coleoptera_ and family _Cantharididæ_, of which a large portion are common to the haunts of the bird. This destructive insect comes in myriads to prey upon growing vegetation, but the papabotte consumes vast numbers until his disappearance during latter September, as the upland-plover does of grasshoppers and crickets in the North--waxing so fat upon his favourite diet that when he falls before the gunner he often bursts open like an overripe fruit. He is known chiefly as the plover in Texas, where, in addition to a diet of grasshoppers, etc., he subsists largely on the striped blister-beetle (_Lytta vitatta_), and doubtless also on the black blister-beetle (_Lytta atrata_), which is likewise quite common to Texas during certain years. It is probable that both these species of cantharides form a large portion of his diet in Louisiana as well. A wary bird when approached on foot, and not lying to the dog, he is frequently hunted on horseback, or by employing a horse and wagon, when he is easily brought to bag. The flesh of the cantharide-fed bird is always extremely heating in its effects; and, indeed, owing to the absorption of cantharidin, the active principle of the insect, it not unfrequently acts as a violent irritant and poison. Yet the papabotte is eagerly sought for, and by the epicure his flesh is more highly esteemed than that of the woodcock, snipe, or sora.[50] Notable among indigenous game-birds are the ruffed grouse, the quail, the pinnated grouse, and the woodcock, together with numerous other varieties of the family _Tetraonidæ_, variously classed by the ornithologists, that are less familiar or less widely distributed, and are locally known under various names. With these may be included not a few species that do not figure properly as game, such as the wild turkey, canvasback duck, etc. All things considered, the ruffed grouse--the "partridge" of the North and "pheasant" of the South--is entitled to rank first among feathered game. Nothing swifter or more valiant in plumage tests the sportsman's nerve and skill. So far as sport is concerned, he may be placed, from his alertness, swiftness, and the trying nature of his usual habitat, on a par with the trout of the clear Hampshire chalk-streams, whose fastidiousness in rising to the artificial fly so taxes the angler's resources on the placid reaches of the Itchen, the Anton, and the Test. He is preëminently the bird of the woodlands, supreme in his sturdiness and his strength. His roll-call awakens the wind-flower, and his thunderous _whir!_ fans the September air into freshness. He blends with the buffs of the beech and russets of the oak, and is eloquent with the lustihood of the ripened year. And how artfully he assimilates with the shadows and thrusts a tree-trunk between himself and the gunner! See him as he springs from the tangle of the saplings, a shaft of mottled splendour where the sunlight strikes his sides; and the hoarse boom of the double-barrel fails to check his tumultuous flight. Behold him in the spring while he struts upon his chosen log with extended tufts and expanded feathers, beating the air with his wings, and sounding his reverberating peal of defiance and of love. Consider him amid the rigours of the frost, loyal to his native haunts, true to the instincts of his race, when most of his companions have deserted him for more congenial climes. Observe him once more when the deadly volley has stopped his career, and he falls upon the russet carpet, in glossy black ruff, and plumage in blended hues of olive, brown, black, and grey--the noblest game-bird that treads the forest aisles! [Illustration: PARTRIDGE SHOOTING, I. LA CHASSE AUX PERDRIX From the coloured print after Howitt, 1807] And if no other member of his family requires more address in bringing to bag, none may surpass, if equal, him in his wild woodland flavour. His back is the very incarnation of poignancy, while no bird that flies can vie with the whiteness and plumpness of his breast. This is saying nothing against the prairie-chicken in his younger stage, or the eastern quail, or even the two long-billed beauties beloved by the sportsman and the epicure. But the assertion may be safely ventured that he will lend himself to more varieties of wine in evolving their _sève_ than any other representative of the haunts of Pan. _Bonasa umbellus!_ may birch-bud and beech-nut, wintergreen and partridge-vine, never fail thee in snow and storm! With the speckled trout, the rainbow-trout, the sunapee-trout or saibling, the black-bass and muscalonge should also be included among distinctly native game-fish. The brown trout of Europe has recently been introduced into many American waters, as the Mongolian pheasant has been introduced in the fields. But the American speckled trout, who is in reality a char and smaller than the European trout, is higher flavoured, and, like the saibling and the rainbow-trout of the Rockies, is a far more beautiful fish. The brown trout thrives under warmer conditions than the speckled trout, and consequently is an acquisition. But as he attains a much larger size, it is unwise to place him in waters tenanted by the native species, as the larger fish has already proved very destructive to the smaller fry of the _Salvelinus fontinalis_. It is superfluous to state that fish cannot be too fresh, in which respect it is the reverse of game. The quail, and especially the ruffed grouse, should be hung long enough to develop their flavour. Eaten too soon, they do not represent game, as their quality is not attained; hung too long, on the other hand, they are not fit for the table. To cook quite fresh game is to deride its mission on earth. A happy medium should be observed in the ease of maturing most species. The duck, woodcock, and snipe should only be mellowed or kept under favourable conditions for a short period. They are like a peach, which is best when recently plucked, as opposed to a pear, which requires to be slowly ripened after gathering. It is possible to eat a "high" grouse or pheasant, if not too gamy; but a duck past the meridian of maturity is well-nigh impossible, as is also a shore-bird or either of the long-bills. There is no occasion to bury the wild boar, as is sometimes done in Europe for the purpose of mellowing him; inasmuch as he does not exist in America, and the razorback hog of the South, however well he may have feasted on beech-mast, cannot take his place. But in place of the wild boar we have the lordly moose, elk, and caribou, and the picturesque Rocky Mountain sheep and goat, which, if not all desirable for the larder, nevertheless afford magnificent sport; while by many a young caribou or elk, as also a mountain sheep, is considered among the graces of edible furred game. The relative time of keeping all game to savour it under the best conditions will depend upon the weather. It is always better when hung in the fur or feathers, and where it may have a circulation of air, than when confined in a close receptacle. When frozen it loses in flavour and succulence. Dark-fleshed birds, with few exceptions, are best rather underdone--rosy, but not raw. White-fleshed birds should be done sufficiently, but not cooked to the extent of drying their juices. The cooking of mutton will serve as a type for the one, and veal for the other. Most game-birds are best plainly roasted or broiled, although for variety they may be served in various appetising ways. In roasting the smaller species, the vine-leaf and a strip of larding-pork should not be overlooked; and where these or well-buttered paper are not employed, as in the case of over-fat birds, the basting-spoon should be kept in constant agitation. Larding lightly often improves a white-fleshed bird where he has not been enveloped in pork. Especially, let game be zealously watched in the cooking; let its appropriate wine be carefully considered; and let no delay occur in its flight through the butler's pantry to the dining-room. Its garnishing also should be studied, that it may flatter the eye as well as the palate; and, for the most part, with feathered game watercress or filets of lemon should lend their colour and their zest. Game-birds should always be hung by the head, not for the purpose of sending the juices to the legs, as is fantastically supposed by some, but to allow the lower viscera and their contents an approach to the natural exit. Were they hung by the feet, the visceral machinery--softening more and more, as it always does--would of course press upwards to their bodies and probably taint them. A game-bird should never be drawn until that office is performed by the cook. Hares are usually hung by their hind legs, it is true; but hares, if hung for any time, are invariably "paunched," so that no lower viscera remain in them. Fish, it has been pointed out, should never be covered up, or it will suffer fatally from the condensation of the steam. It may be noted that for an all-round sauce for broiled fish, none wears better than a maître-d'hôtel and, occasionally, its modification, a sauce _au beurre noir_. A well-made bread-sauce, an accessory which we owe to England, always accords with quail and grouse, and is not amiss with prairie-chicken, even if they are already well moistened with the sauce of cooking them with pork and basting with bouillon. Francatelli's delicious sauce, Number 65, the recipe for which has been presented in a previous chapter, will need no recommendation as an adjunct for venison and mutton where it has once been enjoyed. Apple-sauce is indispensable with the domestic duck, and boiled onions should not be omitted by way of a vegetable accompaniment. _Canard saignant_ is reprehensible, and equally so is the overdone bird. A wildling should be fresh and sweet, and "passed through the kitchen" not "once," but thrice; the domestic fowl will, of course, be allowed more time on the range to plume himself for the table. The celery-fed bird (_O avis jucundissima!_) calls for no other sauce than his own, but with some species a stuffing of olives and an olive sauce are excellent additions. Then, if your bins of _têtes de cuvée_ of the Vosne be not lacking, you may hear your whistler simply praying to be engulfed in Richebourg or Romanée. The wild turkey, the "spruce-partridge," and the "cottontail" will prove more desirable subjects for the seasonings and provocative sauces of the French cookery books than their more princely companions. The wild turkey, notably, despite his splendid wattles and emerald plumage, it must be conceded cannot compare with the tamer fowl in edible qualities; and it were well, where a stately gobbler has been sent as the result of the prowess of a friend, to dispense at once with his drumsticks, which, owing to his roving habits and wide ranging, have become tougher than the ham-strings of a patriarchal sage-cock. He should be treated as a somewhat plain-looking woman, who has passed the hey-day of her charms, pranks and accoutres herself for a ball, and the aid of art be summoned to amplify his good points and gloze over any of his deficiencies. His resonant voice of course will be stilled by the cooking, but his voluptuous breast will remain. Thus by neatly cutting across the lower part of the back and thighs, removing his shapely legs, and then inverting him, he will have been formed into a boat-like receptacle for an artistic chestnut stuffing. One may then proceed to lard him; and, while roasting, baste him thoroughly, send him to the table with some oak-leaves _en couronne_, a currant-jelly sauce in a _saucière_, and, with the assistance of a perfumed and generous red wine, make the most of his seductive contours. All this may be contrary to the tenets of Savarin, who pronounces the wild turkey superior to the tame. But it must be remembered that he is speaking of a wild turkey that he had the good fortune to kill by his own hand while in Connecticut--a fact which, with the appetite engendered by his shooting-outings, will readily account for the preference he expresses for the wild form of this noble member of the _Phasianidæ_. At a certain season, however, when he has fattened on pecan-nuts, the flesh of the wild turkey is of excellent flavour; and to this circumstance Audubon's eulogy is probably due: "The ruffed grouse, in my humble opinion, far surpasses as an article of food every other land bird which we have in the United States, except the wild turkey when in good condition." Furred game is more amenable to variety in preparation than feathered; and while _marinéd_ venison and a civet of hare may be delicious, the fewer culinary frills on a grouse, woodcock, or snipe the better. A salmis, nevertheless, has its virtues; and as for the lord of the woodlands, when tired of him _au naturel_, if that be possible, he may be invested with a new glory as partridge _aux choux_, if one but follow the counsels of Baron Brisse, whose prescript is well worth transcribing and comes within the compass of all: "_Perdrix aux choux._ All housewives do not succeed with _perdrix aux choux_. This is the way to set about it in order to be complimented. Pluck, draw, singe, truss, and tie up the partridges. Blanch some cabbages, cut in quarters from which the cores have been removed; put them to soak in fresh water, dry them and press out all the water. Blanch also a small piece of lean pork from the breast. Make a light _roux_ in a large stewpan, put the cabbages in with the small pieces of pork, some uncooked sausages, some carrots, an onion _piquéd_ with two cloves, a _bouquet-garni_, salt and pepper. Plunge the partridges in the centre of the cabbages, cover with broth and cook gently in a closed stewpan. When done, remove the birds, the pork and sausages, dry off the juice of the cooking, then drain the cabbages--that is, turn them in a stewpan, on a quick fire, until they are free from liquid. Untruss and dress the partridges on a platter, on a bed of cabbages, with the backs underneath, cut the pork and sausages in pieces, slice the carrots, and garnish with all. Partridge _aux choux_ is accompanied with a sauce made from a _roux_ moistened with broth and added to the juice of the cooking."[51] The touch of the baron in everything relating to the all-important office of eating is invariably delicate and sure. Nevertheless, if one may venture to suggest an improvement, not in the mode of cooking, wherein he is impeccable, but in the shading of the _plat_, it would be to remove the birds after they have simmered sufficiently in the cabbage, glaze them with melted butter, and place them for an instant in the oven, with a very lively fire, in order to brighten their otherwise somewhat blanched complexion. Sauerkraut, instead of cabbage, is frequently employed by the French, but with far less happy results. With care in its employment, the Brussels sprout, after it has felt the finger of the frost, might be used as a medium with no regrets unless on the score of a slight indigestion. Were one an ostrich, nothing could serve as a more delicious or colourful vehicle than the German _roth-Kohl_. Of sausages, the highly spiced little _Wienerwurst_ is best adapted to the dish. A game-pie composed of numerous spoils of field and cover--seasoned and stuffed with herbs, shallots, bay-leaf, mushrooms, truffles, chestnuts, sweetbreads, and various vegetables, and cooked in broth and red wine, with a fingerful of brandy and another or two of Madeira--is a triumph of the chef when well executed. But to indulge in this requires a vigorous digestion and toes impervious to arthriticism. In its relation to wine, the maturity of game should be taken into consideration; as, for example, with dark-fleshed birds that are comparatively fresh, a fine Bordeaux; with those that are more matured, and particularly duck, the warmer and more generous red vintages of the Côte d'Or and the Côte du Rhône. For a well-hung prairie-chicken, a red wine will naturally be selected; for a "partridge" that inclines to freshness, either champagne or Bordeaux, Burgundy or a Deidesheimer _Auslese_ may serve for a bath with equally good results. But game is too often undeservedly treated and served at the end of a dinner of numerous courses, when, whatever its merit or that of its accompanying wine, the palate and appetite are in scant mood to appreciate it. With the advent of the autumnal equinox the calendar of seasonable sport begins. There is then an exhilaration in the air that irresistibly invites to out-of-door exercise and an exploration of the covers. Game is then matured, fleet of foot and strong of wing; and at no other period do upland and vale present such varied attractions. September is the true adagio of sport, October and November the allegro, and December the diminuendo. For pure sylvan beauty, no month may compare with October, when the torch of autumn kindles the woodlands into living flame, although the dreamy Indian summer possesses a charm that is matched only by May when she rolls away the resurrection-stone. Then when the purple landscape lies hushed in slumber, one may recall anew the forgotten ode of an unknown bard, in whose haunting cadences are subtly expressed all the rest and peace and rhythm, all the tone, the tenderness, and benediction, of the latter-year: I. Nothing stirs the stillness save a leaf that slowly rustles down, Dim, through sunny mists the trees uplift their branches bare and brown; Winds are hushed, and skies are soft and grey, and grassy slopes are sere,-- Calm and sweet and still, ah! sure is this the twilight of the year. II. There is this in these November days, the message that is sent-- Peace undying, rest, and sweet and measureless content; Life's wild fever over, sleep's soft mood enchanting, such as fills Golden dreams of gods immortal, sits enthroned upon these hills. III. Offered in day's golden chalice, sweet and dreamy peace is mine; All's forgotten, lying here and watching tides of glorious light divine Slowly sweep along the hills, and vaguely thrilling to their sway-- All that love hath lost or wrong hath won, O calm and royal day! Days there are in late November and December, too, when the beauties of leafless vegetation are scarcely surpassed by the pomp of October or the glamour of the Red Man's summer; when tender tones of russet and grey bask over bare fields and fallows, and wanton amid mysterious woods; and strange, ripe hues, rich as those of old tapestries, smoulder and gleam the livelong day from the southern horizon's verge. There is a charm as well in the clear crispness of a winter's day, when the woods are cushioned with snow on which the sylvan denizens have left their imprint, and when one may penetrate into the swamp's most secluded labyrinths, where the hare and fox have gone before. But October and November for the delights of the chase and glories of the countryside! The gay medley of summer has passed, and in its place are the aster and goldenrod hosts, the bright berries of bittersweet and black alder, the fragrant life-everlasting and lingering yarrow. Ceased is the drone of insect choirs, and birds are silent save for the chattering of congregating flocks and call-notes of passing migrants. But through the rustle of Autumn amid her falling leaves the quail cries aloud from the coppice, "I am here!" the squirrel barks, and far within the woodland's depths the drum of the grouse proclaims the reign of sport. [Illustration: "PARTRIDGE SHOOTING--SEPTEMBER" From the coloured engraving by Reeve, after the painting by R. B. Davis, 1836] What more appropriate at this most alluring moment, when everything incites to an outing, than a hunting-party in the woods?--especially as one remembers that both the fall woodcock and time are on the wing. To a shooting-jaunt, therefore, with a well-prepared luncheon in the hampers, the reader is invited; it being understood that this is to include, as nearly as possible, an equal number of both sexes. We will suppose a day in mid-October, after the frost has vivified the air, when the tints of vegetation vie with those of the noblest pressings of the vine, and the matured plumage of a game-bird in the cover far exceeds the liveliest gilding the chef may bestow upon him on the table. Here, still more than at the dinner-table, success will depend largely upon careful forethought; for even should the birds be unusually wary, and there be not enough game in the pockets to weigh very heavy, the excursion will prove none the less enjoyable, provided the party and the lunch be well composed. And whether the goal be within driving distance, or accessible only by train, the details will have been planned by one who is thoroughly conversant with the region to be visited, and the refection have been looked after by hands that never fail. Let the luncheon never be neglected. If the sportsman's efforts turn to good account, appetite is a certain sequence; if not, an appetising spread will help to bridge over any chagrin at lapses of marksmanship, or the drawing of sparsely populated covers. Thus, under the most divergent circumstances, a choicely filled hamper answers an admirable purpose. Granted that one may shoot better during the first hour after a meagre repast, yet should an outing possess other features than mere weight and numbers. For hath not wise Montaigne declared, "He who hath no jouissance but in enjoying; who shoots not but to hit the marke; who loves not hunting but for the prey; it belongs not to him to intermeddle with our schoole." The start will necessarily follow a reasonably early breakfast; and ere arriving at the final destination of the morning, various covers may be explored by the devotees of the gun. And while the music of the barrels rings through the painted woods, and the russet bird of October tops the ranks of the aspens, there will be sufficient novelty in the situation and in the attractions of their own company, no doubt, to prevent any ennui on the part of those in waiting. Meantime, while the bag of woodcock mounts, or an old cock grouse is neatly stopped in his rush through the thicket, the manifold beauties which the autumnal season weaves will naturally arrest one's attention; for he is callous indeed to all sense of beauty who even in the midst of exciting sport can fail to note the harmonies of the October countryside. To the true nature-lover, the shooting will be more of an excuse than the principal reason for the excursion, of which the surroundings and the joys of social companionship should constitute the greater entertainment. And thus ere leaving the scene of the last hour's sport, one involuntarily pauses at the skirts of the wood for a final survey,--to mark the gorgeous ambers of the beech, the garnets of the shad-blow and splendours of the dogwood and liquidambar; to view the fires of the swamp-maple, the ochres of the sassafras and clarets of the oak; while, fringing the edges of the thicket, the bronzed fronds of the ostrich-fern and gilded pennants of the aspens flutter their farewell to the passing year. On every side the insignia of autumn blaze. Thorns hang heavy with their burden of ruddy fruit, the black-alder berries gleam crimson in the swamp, hickory and elm shower down their ore. And but for the patter of dropping nuts, the robin's angelus, and the lisping of migrants pluming for their southward flight, one might suppose the arrased woodland halls had never hearkened to the hermit's song or echoed to the veery's strain. In the air overhead the midges are holding their final dance; while from the lengthening shadows and plaintive autumn breeze comes a whispered admonition to seize the fleeting moment and make the most of the golden hour. Nevertheless, however alive to the enchantments of nature, the tonical quality of the air will have asserted its sway, and the gunner's appetite have mounted apace with the bag. So, in that contented frame of mind and body which out-of-door exercise imparts, one arrives at the scene of the luncheon, which has been happily chosen in a glade through which the slanting sunbeam strays. And here the arrivals will note with delight the presence not only of certain vitreous receptacles with gilded capsules that are cooling in the stream, but also that of St. Ange, who so distinguished himself on a previous occasion with his wonderful salmis of quail. With the first glass of the foaming essence of the Marne, which blends admirably with the lobster-cutlets and tartare sauce, even the most enthusiastic of sportsmen will experience no regret at the change from the covers of the upland to those of the table. The more so as, passing to a vintage of the Haut-Médoc with its accompaniment of eggs _farcis_, chicken-breasts with a chestnut stuffing, lettuce sandwiches with _pâté de foie gras_, and the final tartlets of puff-paste, the brightness of bright eyes increases, the merry tale goes round, and St. Ange arises to this gastronomic homily: "The collation to which we have done such merited justice demonstrates that not only in the society of the fair sex may man enjoy a delightful hunting-jaunt, but that the care they are capable of bestowing upon the spread renders their companionship even yet more desirable. The best of all sauces is hunger engendered by exercise in the open air, and, equally, the best of digestives is pleasant company. But you have asked me to present my views of a _fête champêtre_. In the present instance, as I consider the excellence of the repast, and survey the ideal scene that surrounds us, where even the trees disburse a golden tribute, I have but to draw from the hour itself to find all the elements that are necessary for an ideal rural outing--congenial company, a faultless day, an unexceptionable lunch, and picturesque environment. As for the luncheon, its perfection consists in its piquancy and lightness. All heavy dishes should be scrupulously avoided. Taken at an unaccustomed time during the middle of the day, they are not only more or less indigestible and conducive to plethora, but they are inimical to the dinner which necessarily succeeds at a later hour, and which, however well prepared, must prove a failure without appetite. In planning the luncheon one should always see to it that some tart relishes, as well as sweets, accompany the more substantial portions; for the taste out-of-doors invariably craves one or the other, if not both. It is equally important that the wines be served at the right temperature,-- "'The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno's breath the claret warm,'-- and that some one person be held strictly accountable for their condition. Where exercise is to be freely partaken of, beer or ale and some effervescent water should always form a part of the provision-box. At all seasons during which an outing may be taken with comfort, ice should be liberally provided. Its absence may spoil the day. If not wanted, its burden is light; and if required, nothing can take its place. Where women lend their attractions to the party, champagne of a fine vintage, neither too sweet nor too dry, should be allowed to flow freely. The advantage of this form of wine consists not only in the exhilarating sparkle and play of its mantling life, where the beads that airily rise are ever in pursuit of those that have merrily passed; but in the magnetism it possesses above all other wines--of tempting the fair sex to drink an extra glass. The location for the midday symposium, if well chosen, will add greatly to the enjoyment of the occasion. This should be free from draughts, by the side of a stream if possible, and offer an attractive view. These conditions fulfilled, nothing but pleasant remembrances can remain until the next _villeggiatura_. "You have requested of me a new dish. And if you forget La Bruyère's sentence that 'all has been said, and we arrive too late by more than seven thousand years since man has lived and thought,' I may observe that cookery is older than literature, and that new dishes are as difficult to devise as new thoughts are to be born; it is only by new combinations in both that one may hope to achieve applause. Yet there is everything in a delicate touch in cooking, which is always more inherent than acquired, a connaissance of herbs and flavourings, and a natural love for the good things of the table, inspired by robust health and inheritance. With precisely the same components, no two artisans will produce the same results. There is an art even in the boiling of a potato, as there is in the blending of a salad, the gilding of a roast fowl, and a game-bird cooked _à point_. "Baron Brisse, you will recollect, has contributed an invaluable recipe for a _gigot rechauffé_, whereby a leg of mutton may be made to do duty for two consecutive days. Here is the mode to prepare a _gigot à la Richelieu_ which is not chronicled in the cook-books,--the allusion to the distinguished Cardinal referring both to its cardinal virtues and the colour of the sauce. It is unnecessary to state that this dish belongs to the dinner and not to the luncheon: "_Gigot de mouton à la Richelieu._ In the leg of mutton you have chosen, which should be that of a Pré-Salé or a South Down wether two years old and properly hung--the four-year-olds are too fat and are apt to taste tallowy--you will make a dozen incisions, placing in each its tithe or twelfth part of a clove of garlic. The _gigot_ will then be rubbed over with flour, salt, and a little cayenne. Then roast, basting thoroughly, and serve somewhat underdone, with a tomato sauce composed as follows: Take half a can of tomatoes, add half a clove of garlic, a small piece of bay-leaf, two cloves, a sprig of parsley, a stick of celery, two small carrots, and a small piece of raw ham. Cook half an hour, pass through a sieve; take a tablespoonful each of flour and butter and make a _roux_ in a separate stewpan; then add the tomato sauce, together with a little broth, salt and pepper, cooking until the proper consistency of the sauce is attained. On the sauce, to a great extent, depends the success of the dish, which, when well executed, is altogether too good to last for two consecutive days. I concede the merits of my deceased friend, the worthy baron; but try a _gigot de mouton à la Richelieu_! With this dish alone, including its vegetable accessories, and a salad, a bit of Rocquefort and a sound bottle of old Bordeaux, one may say with Joseph Délorme,-- "'_Jouissons, jouissons de la douce journée, Et ne la troublons pas, cette heure fortunée._' (To the fullest enjoy the sweets of the day, And stay the bright hour ere it passeth away.) "I have now only to propose the health of the ladies who have so enhanced the pleasures of the occasion; and, finally, to remind the sportsmen who, with all their distractions, have admirably distinguished themselves prior to the luncheon, that sending game, which one may have secured at the expense of many a league of toil through field and covert-side, to certain friends is sometimes a waste of good-will: "'It will soon be time for you to pull the trigger again,' observed one of two enthusiasts of the gun to a companion, as they were discussing the vinous virtues of the 1895 Clos-Lamarche, whilst the dun September evening rapidly shut out the twilight and proclaimed the advent of autumn once more. "'Yes,' was the rejoinder; 'I intend to try the woodcock to-morrow. But I shall not repeat the experience I had last year on the same date, when, sending my bag of the long-bills to a convalescing patient who was a connoisseur in art but not in _feræ naturæ_, I received a most appreciative acknowledgment by return mail, thanking me for the "delicious quail" I had sent him.'" But the cigars are finished, the golden afternoon is waning, and the chill of the autumnal evening will descend swiftly upon the scene. There remains time, ere the return, only for a brief drawing of a neighbouring cover of alders, where a flight of fall woodcock may be probing amid their secluded glooms. The birds prove plentiful, the pointers are staunch, and notwithstanding the somewhat prolonged repast, the aim of the sportsmen is true. A bevy of quail, which at the final moment rise wildly from the edge of the covert and twist down the hillside, must be left for another occasion, with but three of their number to swell the score. How darkly blue the contours of the distant hills, seen athwart a patch of flaming sumach and bramble! With what brilliancy the beams of the sinking sun irradiate the gold of the beeches and the spun silver of the gossamer! And how the bright eyes of those in waiting sparkle at the sight of the woodcocks, as the hampers are hastily repacked, and the orange crescent of the hunter's moon speeds the party onward through the paling twilight and a wan mist that is stealthily creeping over the landscape,--the grey ghost of the departed October day! [Illustration: TRUFFLE-HUNTING IN THE DAUPHINÉ From the Salon picture after Paul Vayson] [Illustration] TWO ESCULENTS PAR EXCELLENCE "Avec les truffes, et avec quelques-uns de ces excellents champignons si admirablement analysés par M. Roques, vous refaites la cuisine; vous en avez une du moins qui ne vieillit jamais, même pour vous."--MARQUIS DE CUSSY: L'Art Culinaire. The truffle! what a fragrance its very name exhales. A flower like the rose, but more enduring, say its admirers. This strange food product has been studied by botanists, sung by poets, extolled by epicures, and accorded certain rare attributes by physicians. Unseen, it is sought for by entire communities; and discovered, it is treasured as a priceless gem of the table. Savarin defined it as the diamond of the kitchen. By La Reynière it was previously referred to as a sample of Paradise, and later eulogised as possessing a torrent of delights; while by Dumas it was pronounced the _sacrum sacrorum_ of the gastronomer. It may, in truth, be regarded as the superlative of esculents, its powerful and delectable aroma dominating that of all other aliments with which it may come in contact. To the cuisine of winter it is what the violet is to the chaplet of spring. The old Greeks and Romans were extremely partial to it, although the varieties known to them and mentioned by Pliny differed from the famous Tuber melanosporum of southern France--the blackest and, as regarded by many, the most perfumed and delicious of its curious and widely distributed family. About 1825, under Minister Villèle, it came into greatest vogue in Paris, when the subject was taken up by the press, and so much was written in praise of the tuber that the demand soon increased threefold, and its price became correspondingly augmented. Like the mushroom, the truffle is impatient of keeping when gathered. Preserved truffles, as a rule, are but a semblance of the fresh product when eaten at its precise maturity; and those who know this thallogen only in the former state have little idea of its marvellous flavour when fresh and in full possession of its virtues, whether it be served by itself or utilised as a vehicle for heightening the flavours of other dishes. Its use demands the knowledge of an artist; for it is only with certain forms of aliments that it should be employed. The onion and the mushroom detract from its savour, and it is chiefly in conjunction with fatty substances that its most expressive results are attained. By French epicures it is tacitly understood that there can be no grand dinner without truffles. "Who would dare to say," exclaims Savarin, "that he has attended a repast where a _pièce truffée_ did not figure! However good an entrée may be, it should always be accompanied by truffles to set it off advantageously." Its harmonious association with grain-fed fowls is proverbial,--so much so, it has been remarked, that at a well-composed dinner every phrase which may have begun should be suspended upon the arrival of a truffled turkey. Berchoux thus alludes to its use with fowls,-- "L'abondance est unie à la délicatesse, La truffe a parfumé la poularde de Bresse." (The truffle yields its most adored caress When tuck'd within a tender fowl of Bresse.) At a dinner where the renowned naturalist Buffon was present, a truffled Périgueux turkey was brought in with great éclat. Inspired by the penetrating aroma, an elderly lady who was among the guests inquired of Buffon where the tuber grew. "At your feet, Madame," was the ready reply. The lady not understanding, it was thus explained to her: "_C'est aux pieds des charmes_" (at the feet of yoke-elm trees). The compliment passed as a happy one. Towards the end of the dinner some one asked the same question of Buffon, who, forgetful of his elderly vis-à-vis, innocently replied, "They grow _aux pieds des vieux charmes_" (old yoke-elm trees). The lady overheard him, and it is unnecessary to state was no longer impressed with his genius as a naturalist, or with the fact that a soup had been named in his honour by the great Carême. Though common to many countries, and comprising numerous species, the truffle attains its greatest excellence in France, unless the white truffle of Italy, which is considered equally good by many, be excepted. Its chosen haunts are clayey soils mixed with sand and limestone, moist, shaded, and temperate localities, southerly and easterly expositions, protected slopes, and especially the umbrage of oaks, as also of aspens, black poplars, nut-trees, yoke-elms, willows, and white birches. Limestone or carbonate of lime is accounted as necessary to its formation, while the presence of iron imparts to it an added firmness and aroma. Despite persistent efforts, all attempts to cultivate it have proved fruitless. It is only of recent years that it has become known in part how it is propagated or how it grows. Among trees, the oak is its most favoured companion, its artificial production having been accomplished wholly through the cultivation of oaks and certain other trees in soils and expositions corresponding to its natural habitat. By general consent Périgord is credited with producing the best truffles, the next in commercial repute being those obtained from Provence and Dauphiné; the finest of the former come from the canton of Sarlat, the best of Dauphiné from the cantons of Tain and Valence. Among authorities, Beauvilliers preferred the black product of Provence (T. melanosporum), of which there are two varieties, the so-termed violet and the grey; and Savarin the white species (T. magnatum), obtained preferably from Piedmont, where it occurs beneath poplars and oaks during summer. The whitish-brown truffle of Italy, in its early stage, similar to the whitebait described by Thackeray, possesses an "ambrosial flavour," and is difficult to surpass, combining as it does all the most ethereal qualities of the Allium tribe with the dulcet pungency of Gorgonzola when in its freshest flower. A species exists which emits a powerful scent of musk, while numerous others occur with odours so rank as to be utterly unfit for edible purposes. Northern Spain produces excellent truffles, but these are comparatively short-lived. T. æstivum, called "summer truffle," indigenous to many countries, is extremely plentiful in southern France. It is common to England, where it grows most frequently under beech-trees. This exhales a strong and penetrating smell which has been compared to that of sheep-folds. The effluvium of garlic is always very marked in the white truffle of Italy, and by some it is said to recall the odour of garlic mixed with onion, high game, and matured cheese. After standing for a time, when its garlic flavour has become somewhat modified, it is also suggestive of the flavour of vegetable-oysters. Indeed, the truffle is as strange in its odours as it is in its manner of growth, and in certain respects it brings to mind some characteristics of that strangest of flowers, the orchid. From November to March is the season when the prized dark tuber is most abundant, and during which its highest qualities are evolved. The black pearl of Provence and Périgord begins to take on its rich ebon hue in October, lasting until April: æstivum and its varieties being gathered during May and June in Provence, and from October to January in Burgundy and Champagne. The species of greatest repute in southern France is found at variable depths, mostly beneath certain oaks known as _chênes truffiers_, or truffle-oaks. With it often occurs another species, T. brumale, which is likewise held in much esteem and figures as a large commercial factor. Among the inhabitants the truffle harvest forms an extensive industry; pigs, dogs, and professional hunters being utilised for the quest, and the crop always commanding high prices, which are fixed by the Paris market. When the supply happens to be short, many inferior species are substituted or are mixed with the genuine. Of recent years artificial _truffières_ have been largely planted in the favoured districts of southern France. To M. Rousseau, a proprietor of Vaucluse, has been erroneously ascribed the discovery of this means of production. Already during the middle of the eighteenth century M. de Montclar, procureur-général at Aix, discovered truffles as the result of sowing acorns on his lands; but, the truffles disappearing subsequently, no further attention was paid to the matter, and the relation between cause and effect passed unnoticed or was forgotten. Since then Poitou, Périgord, and Provence have each claimed to be the discoverer of artificial truffle culture. It is within a comparatively short period only that the merit of originating the system, now a source of great revenue, was adjudged, after painstaking investigation, to Joseph Talon, a small landholder of Vaucluse, who about eighty years ago sowed some acorns in an unremunerative piece of ground. Ten years afterwards, while passing through the plantation with the pig he employed in hunting, he was not a little surprised to find truffles beneath the oaks; when, recollecting that he had obtained the acorns from a truffle-oak, he repeated the sowing on another plot, which in course of time proved equally successful. The theory was established beyond a doubt, and the result finally became generally known, despite his efforts to keep it secret. Many unsuccessful attempts at artificial truffle-raising have been made. In 1830 Alexander Bernholz, a German, published a long treatise on the subject, his theory being that by planting truffles in soil composed of certain ingredients, and in localities and expositions corresponding to their natural habitat, they could be successfully grown. Count Noé, in the south of France, is said to have succeeded in raising truffles in his woods by irrigating the ground, after a certain degree of preparation, with water in which the skins of truffles had been rubbed. But this statement, as well as other reputed successful attempts at reproduction, would not seem to have been borne out in France, where the planting of young truffle-oaks, the acorns of truffle-oaks, or certain other truffle-producing trees alone has accomplished the desired result. In artificial plantations the truffles form in from six to ten years, usually disappearing when the trees are twenty-five or thirty years old. Then, after a variable period of non-production, the tuber often forms again. As the truffle-tree develops, the vegetable growth which surrounds it begins to decline, a certain index that truffles are commencing to form--the ground round a truffle-producing tree being always sterile. When the truffles cease the herbage again appears. Though many unsatisfactory reasons have been ascribed for the phenomenon, it has been traced by M. Grimblot to the simple fact that the filaments of the mycelium invade and destroy the roots of herbaceous vegetation. Similarly, vegetation asserts itself when the cause is removed. With young trees the truffles are usually found close to the trunk, whereas with old trees they generally appear near the periphery of the circle formed by the outer roots, as well as at a distance further removed, but usually within the shade of the tree. To what extent the humus of the soil formed by the droppings of the leaves is responsible is not stated. In many respects the subject remains, as it has always remained, a complex phenomenon that baffles the naturalist, who is usually content to refer to the truffle as an "underground fungus," or "an order of sporidiiferous fungi of subterranean habit." Perhaps the definition of Dr. C. de Ferry de la Bellone, which may be summarised as follows, is as accurate as any: "A subterraneous mushroom with a mycelium or filamentous body, from which it is developed, like the mushroom, and which requires the roots of certain trees for its formation."[52] The theory that the truffle owes its genesis to the roots of trees, or is in some mysterious manner connected with them, might be accepted as satisfactory were it not that species are also found in open places where the argument could not apply. While the roots of most kinds of oaks, both deciduous and evergreen, appear to be favourable for its generation, it has been found that in a given region the best species to propagate are those which have already produced the tuber in the locality in question, certain varieties seeming to be more liable to reproduce it than others. Climate, altitude, and exposition are also to be considered as regards the choice of the kinds selected for plantations. The arboriculturist and mycologist will be interested in the various truffle-producing oaks that may be utilised, according to the site, soil, and climatic conditions. These embrace the following species and varieties: Quercus pedunculata, Q. ped. pubescens, Q. semi-ped., Q. sessiliflora nigra, Q. nigra sessil. glabra, Q. nigra sessil. pub., Q. sessil. pub., Q. sessil. laciniata, Q. sessil. magna pubes, Q. ilex, Q. coccifera. All kinds of nut-trees are likewise favourable to its production, and may be planted almost indiscriminately. The range of T. melanosporum is broadly defined as between latitude 49° north and 40° south; the question of quality depending, like that of many other esculents, largely on climate and habitat. As in the same vineyard certain portions yield a superior wine, so on particular slopes of localities that favour the truffle a product of finer quality is obtained. Besides the usual means of locating the truffle, its presence is revealed by several species of coleopterous and dipterous insects which, during late autumn and winter, on temperate days swarm in the truffle-woods, attracted by the scent. These insects seek the tuber in which to deposit their eggs, and are observed entering and leaving the ground--a circumstance which gave rise to the opinion that the truffle was only a gall. This form of truffle-hunting is practised chiefly by poachers, and is known as _la chasse à la mouche_. The statement that the canned truffle is but a shade of its original will bear modifying in certain instances where only the best species have been utilised, after scrupulous selection, before they are wormy or overripe, and where they have been preserved by the "Appert process," _au naturel_, without oil, brandy, or vinegar, in hermetically sealed cans, and used before they have been thus preserved for a long period. Under these conditions the species melanosporum and magnatum retain no little of their pristine virtues, and may still glorify a sauce or dignify a Châteaubriand. To the skill of the cook the result will be principally due. Inasmuch as the truffles have already been subjected to several hours' ebullition, they should only be finely sliced and gently heated in order that their flavour may not be dissipated by the cooking. The dish they are to grace should be prepared first, and so soon as the truffles are ready it should be immediately served under cover. Perhaps as good a medium for utilising the preserved product is a steak with a bordelaise sauce in which garlic or shallots should figure very lightly. The comparative excellence of the preserved truffle will depend, of course, upon freshness and the probity and care of the merchant. One may obtain all sorts of truffles with attractive labels, as one may obtain attractively labelled Château wines that may "leave everything to be desired." At a dinner where a _bon vivant_ was expected, the truffle figured in a novel manner. "A friend who is very fond of good things is to be my guest over Sunday," said the host to the cook, who was an excellent practitioner in certain lines; "and I want you to use truffles plentifully some way." "How shall I cook them, Mr. S? Mrs. S. isn't here." "Oh, I don't know; anyway, I'm in a great hurry, and I'll leave it to you." The soup was admirable, the lobster _à la Newburgh_ perfect, and the entrée and pommes soufflées left nothing to be wished for. To the surprise of all, a large, heaping dish of truffles, charred, highly spiced, and finely minced and served as a vegetable, appeared with the roast. The host remained imperturbable, a vestige of a frown clouded the usually placid face of madame, the butler poured the Chambertin, and the truffles were passed by. "You are the most expensive guest I have had in a long time," remarked the host, with a smile, the following day. "I must think what we can have this evening for dinner; or, better, consult with madame. There is plenty of champagne in which to cook truffles, if the cook and the truffles were in evidence. I told her I wanted plenty of truffles for you, and the remaining eleven cans of the dozen in the larder were tendered you last night." The truffle has formed the theme of numerous books and treatises. To the French gastronomer who may obtain the fresh product during a large portion of the year, the work of M. M. Moynier will unquestionably prove of the greatest value--a major portion being devoted to a scientific analysis of the various dishes, with their recipes, in which the esculent may properly figure. It is justly claimed by the author that wine is an indispensable accompaniment of this "astonishing production" or any dish in which it may enter; but that sweet champagne to which women are so partial masks rather than quickens its flavour.[53] The mycologist who simply wishes to know the species and habits of hypogæus fungi will no doubt prefer the monograph of Vittatini, Milan, 1831; that of M. Tulasne, Paris, 1852; and the instructive work of Dr. de Ferry already cited. Few more interesting fields for research offer themselves than that presented by the black pearl which is concealed beneath the soil--living its strange life beyond the ken of human eye, and revealing itself only through the agency of the animals employed by man to discover it, and of the insect tribes that hover above it in their dance of rivalry and love. Savarin, above all writers, has considered the truffle philosophically in his comparatively brief reference; and although he failed to answer the question, "What is the truffle, how is it produced, and how does it grow?" he has still appraised its virtues in his own inimitable way. That it is digestible has been amply proven before, and this point did not require his researches to substantiate. The only charges that history records against it are gluttony in eating it, and the fact that Lartius Licinius, a person of prætorian rank, while minister of justice at Carthage in Spain, upon biting a truffle found a denarius inside, which cost him the loss of a tooth--a proof to Pliny that it was nothing but an agglomeration of elementary earth. Of certain attributes it is supposed to possess, the sixth Meditation of the "Physiology," to which the reader is referred, will speak clearly for itself; and it will be sufficient to transcribe the conclusion of the learned chancellor's deductions: "_La truffe n'est point un aphrodisiaque positif; mais elle peut en certaines occasions rendre les femmes plus tendres et les hommes plus aimables._" Referring to Savarin's conclusion, Dr. de Ferry makes this statement, based on professional experience: "_Sur l'individu sain et bien portant, la truffe excite des fonctions spéciales.... La truffe peut ajouter seulement aux qualités de ceux qui possèdent; elle n'est plus d'aucun secours à ceux qui, n'ayant pas géré leur capital en bons pères de famille, ont consommé leur ruine._" Little attention has been paid to the question whether edible truffles equal to the best European species exist within the broad area of the United States, whence so many useful and delicious food products and flavourings have sprung. M. Moynier states that he has tasted most excellent truffles from Brazil; and that a grey species of merit, round in form, is found on the right bank of the Mississippi--a somewhat vague statement, in view of the length of that river. The only species that Saccardo's "Sylloge" credits to this country is T. macrosporum, said to have been found in Pennsylvania. Some years ago Mr. W. R. Gerard reported having discovered T. dryophilum on Staten Island. Rhizopogon rubescens, a puff-ball, grows underground in the Southern States, and is sometimes mistaken for the truffle; also certain species of Scleroderma, or puff-balls which are partially underground. There are besides some of the false truffles of the genus Elaphomyus in the Eastern States. It will thus be seen that the subterranean fungi belong to three distinct orders. Dr. H. W. Harkness, in 1899, issued in the California Academy of Science Proceedings an illustrated article on the Hypogæus Fungi of California, wherein he describes thirteen species, of which seven are new and all of which he pronounces edible, though few, if any, of them are found in abundance or are worth considering from a practical standpoint. [Illustration: "NOUVEL MANUEL COMPLET DU CUISINIER ET DE LA CUISINIÈRE" Facsimile of frontispiece, 1822] From this it may be inferred that if these fungi could be diligently sought for in other States by those who have carefully studied the haunts and habitat of the tuber abroad, many desirable species might be found to belong to our country. Dr. Harkness does not mention T. melanosporum among Californian species. At present we do not know whether this or T. magnatum, or some form possessing equally adorable qualities, occurs in our country at all; but they and others, it is possible, may yet be unearthed to disclose to the epicure a true "sample of Paradise." To do this, trained truffle-pigs and-dogs must be brought into requisition; and should the search then be unrewarded, the truffle-oak must needs be imported and planted under conditions corresponding to those of its native habitat. Let America add the truffle to her already rich alimentary resources, by all means, even if she must remain content with the wines of France as supplied from oversea. * * * * * If the truffle may be described as an occult vegetable substance with no stem, cap, or visible mycelium, in great repute with epicures, and most generally found firmly embedded beneath the surface of _pâté de foie gras_,--the mushroom, common to nearly all latitudes, grows in visible profusion, and may be readily obtained for the seeking. Some knowledge of genera and species, nevertheless, becomes necessary if one would avail himself of this nutritious esculent. One must know what to avoid as well as what to choose; for often highly dangerous sorts are very nearly allied to the harmless. Of recent years the study of fungi has received considerable attention, and the mushroom has become much better known with us than formerly. Compared with European countries, however, the average person still knows little concerning its edible varieties. Few are unacquainted with the most prevalent form, Agaricus campestris, whose shining white pileus dots the meadows, pastures, and roadsides. But whether familiar or unknown out of doors, no introduction to it will be required at table. Its very mention makes one's mouth water, and evokes a longing for the cool shadows of fall and the restful minor of the crickets' choir. To appreciate it thoroughly, one should gather it himself, or, rather, in congenial companionship. And as its form is typical of femininity in its rounded contours, its white satiny gown and rose-silk petticoat, to say nothing of its dainty veil and frill, it is eminently proper that madame or mademoiselle, as the case may be, should join in the quest. On a bland September day, therefore, let the lanes and pastures remote from the highway be explored in company when the first ripening sprays of the sugar-maple are commencing to brighten and the clusters of the everlasting are beginning to unfold. Then will the delights of the chase prove doubly enjoyable; and with the common agaric as the object of pursuit there will equally be little danger from mistaken varieties. At most, the harmless horse-mushroom may obtrude, to be plucked and cast aside. But the mushroom is far from being confined to the pastures and fields, or its duration limited to a few weeks of autumn; and despite the excellent general dietetic advice of the fourth satire of the second book, Horace's dictum should not be taken too seriously,-- "Best flavoured mushrooms meadow-land supplies, In other kinds a dangerous poison lies." By many A. Rodmani, the small compact species common to cities and found growing along the sidewalks and curb, is preferred to campestris. Less rich, it still possesses a full, nutty fragrance and flavour, and is more digestible. Even more distinguished is another agaric, Lepiota procura, or the tall parasol-mushroom--one of the most delicious of all edible fungi. Many valuable species throng the woods and shady places during a large portion of the genial season, to push through the mould or clothe the stumps and decaying logs--in most instances ungathered or unseen. And though Claudius, Tiberius, Pope Clement VII, Charles V of France, Czar Alexis of Russia, and many other celebrated personages met their death from eating deleterious mushrooms, and every year scores of families are poisoned through them, the esculent continues to occupy a highly exalted place among aliments. Ignorance and carelessness are almost entirely responsible for disastrous results, owing to its use as food, although ill effects naturally occur through over-indulgence in eating perfectly harmless varieties, or where these may have passed the edible stage. Extremely rich in nitrogenous elements as well as in sapid properties, mushrooms should be sparingly partaken of. Sliced and placed on hot toast which has been moistened with broth and the juices of the cooking, one may often obtain all the flavour of the mushroom by its employment in moderate quantities, and thus over-ingestion will be avoided. The study of fungi has always proved a fascinating one for the botanist. With the aid of nearly any of numerous monographs in which the various genera are described, as also faithfully reproduced in colours, the student and nature-lover may easily familiarize himself with at least the more important species. In his search for practical information he will be led through many a smiling scene removed from the haunts of man; while his chief precaution in his pursuit out of doors need only be to avoid the Taurus and the deadly Amanita. The trained mycologist, however, will readily distinguish between the beautiful toxic Fly-Amanita and the inviting edible orange variety, which, having graced the table of a Roman emperor, received the name "Cæsar's mushroom," whence its botanical appellation. This is the "Oronge" of the French and "Kaiserling" of the Germans, more prized, perhaps, than the Morel, the white Helvella, or the handsome Chanterelle. Its odour is said to resemble a combination of vanilla and truffles. The variety rubescens is also regarded as one of the best of edible mushrooms. Of all fungi the Amanitas are most to be feared; and while numerous other kinds possess unwholesome and forbidden properties, the dangerously poisonous belong principally to this single genus. To them Gerard's definitions, "excressences," "Toadstooles," "very venomous and full of poison," may well apply. By the seventeenth-century poet William Browne, bard of "Britannia's Pastorals" and "The Shepherd's Pipe," the mushroom is thus alluded to: "Down in a valley by a forest's side, Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves, I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride As if the lilies grew to be his slaves." Then, after praising the daisy, violet, and other flowers whose beauty was overpowered by the fungus, he thus concludes a much-admired sonnet: "These, with a many more, methought complained That Nature should those needless things produce, Which not alone the sun from others gained, But turn it wholly to their proper use. I could not choose but grieve that Nature made So glorious flowers to live in such a shade." Where noisome toadstools crowd out violets and daisies, it may be right for poets to protest. As it is, we have little in the description to guide us to the species, whether it was a desirable or an undesirable kind. There is no allusion as to its toxic properties, nor yet to its colour; and its seeming size--if the simile of the lilies be considered--may only be a license which poets are allowed. But the bard of Tavistock, whose "oaten melodye" still rings sweet and clear, has written too lovingly of trees to suppose he could perceive no use or beauty in a striking vegetable growth; and therefore the particular form he refers to would appear to have been a noxious one. Surely, it was not the lovely mauve-coloured Cortinarius, that seeks the "forest's shade"; the expanded pea-green cope of the sweet and nutty Russula; or the glowing orange hood of the dulcet Lactarius that incurred his disapproval! Nor can one conceive it to have been the tall-stemmed, fluted-capped Coprinus, or the stylish parasolled Lepiota, which stands as upright as the stilted Bartramian sandpiper, and that is held in equal esteem by the epicure. Rather let us suppose it was the great poison Amanita, which has slain its thousands, and whose brilliant reds and salmons and yellows, and white scales borne aloft on their hollow pedestal, cry aloud from every gill, "Beware!" Or if it was not this or the equally deadly A. phalloides on which his graceful sonnet was based, it must have been the Lycoperdon which cast its shade upon the violets--the giant puff-ball that the poet did not recognise as a valuable food product when neatly sliced and fried, and that it is still the rule to kick out of one's way. In like manner, one is curious to know what was the enormous fungus or mushroom Thoreau describes as meeting on one of his rambles, and which, in turn, incurs his malediction,--the huge thallogen he found and plucked high up on the open side of a dry hill, in the midst of and rising above the thin June grass, its sharply conical parasol in the form of a sugarloaf slightly turned up at the edges, which were rent half an inch for every inch or two. The whole length, he states, was sixteen inches, the cap being six inches long by seven wide, the stem about one inch in diameter and naked, the top of the cap pure white within and without. He marvels how its soft cone ever broke through the earth. It represents to him a vegetable force which may almost make man tremble for his dominion. It carries him back to the era of the formation of the coal measures, the age of the Saurus and the Pliosaurus, when bull-frogs were as big as bulls. What part has it to perform in the economy of the world? It brought before him pictures of parasols of Chinese mandarins; or it might have been used by the great fossil bull-frog in his walks. Returning home with it, he placed it in the cellar to note its decay. Like the mighty, it fell. By night there remained not more than two of the six inches of the height of the cap, and it went on rapidly melting from the edges upward, spreading as it dissolved till it was shaped like a dish-cover and the barrel head beneath it and its own stem looked as if a large bottle of ink had been broken there. It defiled all it touched. Is it not a giant mildew or mould? he inquires. The offspring of a night, it was wasted in a day. One thinks of Coprinus comatus--a colossal specimen of the "shaggy mane"; and doubtless this was the species encountered by the Walden sage, rearing its silver shaft through the thin June grass in his early morning tramp to Pinxter Spring. Who has not seen and wondered at the Fairy-ring, dotting the lawns or pastures, with its eccentric habit of growing in circles or arcs of circles, and shrinking and expanding under the influence of drought and moisture? Yet how few are acquainted with its admirable qualities! But even here one must distinguish between the false and the true, and not mistake it for two of its genus, the poison buff-coloured Champignon and poison Fairy-ring, which it resembles and with which it is sometimes found associated. In like manner, the rufous hues of several edible Russulas must not be confounded with the engaging crimsons of the alveolate Boletus, or the brilliant shades of the unwholesome R. emetica, one of the most tempting of fungi to the eye. Its glowing satiny scarlet cap, set off by its white stem and gills, forms a dash of colouration on the woodland carpet that immediately challenges admiration. With various others of the alluring but dangerous fungi, it suggests some luscious tropic fruit, the flame of tulips, or the flush of Ghent azaleas. What a revel of reds, what greens and golds, what soft violets and greys, what rich russets and maroons are not unfolded by these strange fungoid flowers! The beefsteak-mushroom (Fistulina hepatica) is familiar to many as it reveals its red velvety layers or shelves on the dead trunks of oaks and chestnuts in the midsummer woods. But despite its appetising name, it has a somewhat acid flavour and leathery taste, and cannot be said to possess very palatable qualities, conditions also shared by the common Agaricus ostreatus, or oyster-mushroom. While the canned French button-mushroom of commerce is not to be compared with the same species in its freshly gathered stage, it is nevertheless useful as a garnish, and possesses a certain flavour. Far different is the large French cèpe, one of the most delicious of esculents, corresponding to the German "Steinpilz" and our own edible Boletus, which is much less known than it deserves to be. Of the French Boletus there are two principal varieties--the _cèpe franc à la tête noir_ or _charbonnier_, common to oak woods, and the _tête rousse_ or _brune_, common to chestnut woods. The former is much more esteemed, and is most abundant in the southern departments. These, like the truffle in the preserved state, should be as fresh as possible, and those of the previous autumn gathering, put up _au naturel_ in large cans, be selected in preference. Boletus edulis, though not over-plentiful with us, may be found during warm, damp weather from July to September in woods and their margins, and sometimes in open places. Prepared _à la bordelaise_, it is a most delicious and nutritious dish, a form of preparation that may be utilised to advantage with many other firm-fleshed species. Dumas' favourite mode of preparing them was after Vuillemot's recipe; and for those who are not fond of oil, which the bordelaise and provençale manner calls for, this will doubtless prove more acceptable: "Cut and chop the stems, adding minced parsley, breadcrumbs, shallots, fresh butter, and a clove of chopped garlic; make a pâté of it all, season with salt, pepper, and a little allspice, garnish the bottom of the cèpes, sprinkle some breadcrumbs on top, brown in a hot oven, and serve." Here again, as Baron Brisse would say, "the trouble is trifling and the succulence extreme." The United States has a number of edible Boleti, some distinctive and some identical with the best French species. Unfortunately, the genus contains several deleterious sorts, and these frequently are not readily distinguishable from description alone. Several of the Boleti have long been considered as among the most dangerous of the toadstool or mushroom tribe; but recent investigations tend to show that the majority are at least harmless, while many are most desirable. Of Morels and puff-balls none is said to be poisonous. The puff-ball, however, is unfit for eating, if not absolutely poisonous, after the formation and ripening of its spores; and in gathering puff-balls great care should be taken not to mistake for them several of the poison Amanitas in their younger stage, these being similarly enveloped in a spherical sack or volva. Most mushrooms, apart from the Amanitas, are now regarded as not deadly poisonous. Indeed, McIlvaine declares that R. emetica, which he and others repeatedly partook of in liberal quantities while in the Carolinas, proved to be perfectly harmless. The viscid, glutinous types, all the so-called trembling toadstools, together with such as are unpleasant to the sense of smell, will of course be shunned, while those not well acquainted with fungi will also view with distrust the various beautiful and gorgeous species which haunt the shade. No reliance may be placed in the "test" of the silver spoon. The novice should first of all familiarise himself with the more common species through some of the less technical treatises, or take a practical lesson from a specialist out of doors. The manner of distinguishing doubtful varieties adopted by mycologists may also be utilised by the amateur: first be guided by the shape and smell, being careful to avoid all cup-shaped kinds, or those whose juices change colour on cutting; then taste sparingly without swallowing, when, if not acrid, burning, or disagreeable, a little of the juice may be swallowed the following day, increasing the amount day by day, if no feelings of nausea occur, until the wholesomeness of the species is demonstrated. By discarding all kinds with cups or suggestion of cups, the Amanitas will be avoided. "Any mushroom, _omitting the Amanita_, which is pleasant to the taste and otherwise agreeable as to odour and texture when raw, is probably harmless," says Gibson, "and may safely be thus _ventured on_ with a view of establishing its edibility." Still, it is always well, even by the initiated, to remember the apothegm of Gavarni, "Mushrooms are like men--the bad most closely counterfeit the good." Of the scores of treatises devoted to the subject may be specially instanced W. Hamilton Gibson's artistic volume,[54] the finely illustrated "Report of the New York State Botanist,"[55] Professor Atkinson's illustrated "Studies of American Fungi,"[56] and, finally, Captain McIlvaine's elaborate and exhaustive monograph.[57] Recipes for the cookery of mushrooms are abundant in the cook-books and treatises on fungi; and, like the cook-books themselves, these vary from good to bad and indifferent. Some general rules regarding their proper preparation are well and briefly laid down by the Marquis de Cussy in his "Art Culinaire": "This kind has a thick and firm texture--you will see that it is cooked long. This other has a fine and tender flesh--you will cook it gently in a hermetically sealed receptacle in order that its light particles, full of life and dainty fragrance, are not dissipated. If your mushrooms contain a fixed and resinous matter, sprinkle them with a dry wine to dissolve this sapid principle. With these plants you may make intoxicating mixtures, unique infusions. Turn to Carême, he will guide you and tell you what wine belongs to such and such kinds--whether Pomard with its fresh taste, or Saint-Georges; whether the delicate and sparkling Aï, or the stomachic Haut-Brion. Read also the witty and elegant pages of M. Joseph Roques." The group of fungi known as mushrooms and toadstools constitutes a valuable accessory, both in themselves and in their properties of accentuating the flavour of other foods; and to those who are capable of distinguishing their many delicious species they may form, through a considerable portion of the year, a marked addition to the variety and pleasures of the table. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE WOUNDED SNIPE From an engraving after A. Couquet, R.A.] [Illustration] SALLETS AND SALADS "First then to speak of Sallets, there be some simple, some compounded, some only to furnish out the table, and some both for use and adornation."--GERVAISE MARKHAM: The English Housewife. To remember a successful salad is generally to remember a successful dinner; at all events, the perfect dinner necessarily includes the perfect salad. The mere process of salad-making is among the most simple of all those that appertain to the table: a little oil, a little vinegar, of salt and pepper each a little, the onion and the mixing, with such other herbs and condiments as the artist may elect. And yet an unexceptionable salad is as rare in the average household as a piece of old Gubbio, or a fine old Ghiordes prayer-rug. Seldom, indeed, is this refreshing dish met with as one usually finds it in France--crisp, tender, and appetising, with none of its ingredients perceptibly dominant in the _liaison_ which, first pleasingly addressing the taste, is afterwards destined to soothe and tranquillise digestion. The reason is not difficult to analyse; the happy touch which is necessary in salads and sauces being largely a matter of individual address and a growth of advanced gastronomy. For in the preparing of salads no formula that is absolute may be given, success depending upon practice, a correct taste, and minute attention to detail. Here, as in everything else that is faultless, care and experience are factors requisite to attainment. But though an infallible recipe may not be laid down, certain broad lines may be specified, the observance of which, with application, will render a good salad possible even to the neophyte. At every season of the year some of the innumerable products of the vegetable world present themselves to be converted with the aid of the caster from the crude into the finished form; and more is the pity that the artists are not as numerous as the esculents. From the first tributes of the hot-bed--the lettuces, radishes, and garden-cress of early spring, and the cos, lettuces, and water-cresses of summer to the endives of autumn and corn-salad and chicory of winter, one has an abundance of material to choose from in what may be broadly designated the lettuce tribe, alone. When to these are added other esculents like celery, the tomato, cucumber, potato, beets, carrots, beans, celery-root, celery-turnip, etc., together with the manifold herbs and bulbous plants that may be utilised in connection with them, surely the roast should never be lacking in this its most harmonious _appoggiatura_, or the supper-table fail in one of its greatest attractions. The salad imparts a zest to the dinner that were otherwise unattainable. What were those most delectable of game-birds that reward the sportsman's skill--the snipe and the partridge--without it? It was rightly held by Evelyn that sallets are an essential part of the daily food of man, and that no dinner is complete without one; although those who are not confirmed devotees of the salad-bowl might possibly prove sceptical as to two forms which he specifies in "Sylva,"--"I am told that those small young _Acorns_ which we find in the Stock-doves Craws are a delicious fare, as well as those incomparable _Salads_ of young herbs taken out of the maws of Partridge at a certain season of the year, which gives them a preparation far exceeding all the art of Cookery." Of the virtues of lettuce, at any rate, there can be no doubt, Parkinson having declared that "Lettices all cool a hot and fainting stomache," and Gerarde averring that "Lettuce cooleth the heate of the stomache, called the heart-burning, and helpeth it when it is troubled with choller." And if these assertions be not sufficient, we have Savarin's assurance that "salad refreshes without weakening, and comforts without irritating"; not to mention the dictum of his illustrious predecessor La Reynière, that "the inseparable partner of the roast may reappear at each meal without ever wearying." In 1758 a German work by J. F. Schutze was published in Leipzig with the title, "Treatise on the Advantages and Disadvantages of Salads." It is difficult to imagine how a German could find aught but delight in this form of food, unless the native black radish was alluded to, or possibly the cucumber when improperly served. Rather let us at once accept the unqualified encomium of Jack Cade while in Iden's Kentish garden,--"I think this word 'sallet' was born to do me good." By the majority, the name of Sydney Smith is held to be almost synonymous with that of salad; and even though his recipe be widely familiar, it may not be overlooked in considering the literature of gastronomy: "Our forte in the culinary line" [says the witty prelate] "is our salads; I pique myself on our salads. Saba always dresses them after my recipe. I have put it into verse. Taste it, and if you like it I will give it you. I was not aware how much it had contributed to my reputation till I met Lady---- at Bowood, who begged to be introduced to me, saying she had so long wished to know me. I was of course highly flattered till she added, 'For, Mr. Smith, I have heard so much of your recipe for salads, that I was most anxious to obtain it from you.' Such and so various are the sources of fame. "To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boil'd eggs; Two boiled potatoes, pass'd through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give. Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, scarce suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault To add a double quantity of salt. Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar procured from town; And, lastly, o'er the flavour'd compound toss A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl. Serenely full, the epicure would say, 'Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day.'" This is the original and more familiar "A Recipe for Salad," as given by the author's daughter, Lady Holland, in her "Memoir"--a recipe that was subsequently placed by the gifted divine in somewhat altered form, slightly abridged, and the quantity of the ingredients in one or two instances slightly changed. In the variant it will be seen that the portions of potato and anchovy were increased and the relative quantities of oil and vinegar were amended.[58] It is a question whether this celebrated recipe, so enthusiastically expressed and so tempting to the uninitiated who would naturally be led astray by the climax of the ode, has done more harm or more good in the important interests of salad-making--whether the evil inculcated in the prescription as a whole has not overbalanced the good results of extolling the virtues of salad itself. The niceties of salad-making are so subtle--so little may make or mar--it were unwise to prescribe either eggs or potato to the inexperienced. The anchovy sauce must, perforce, be banished as fatal; while mashed potatoes should always be used with discretion. In corn-salad a little potato assuredly adds to the unctuousness; and where lettuce is inclined to be tough or stringy, it may be advantageously employed. It is likewise eminently useful where the vinegar may have been dealt out too liberally. But with tender, brittle, well-blanched cos or endive, who would think of utilising either egg or potato! And how may mustard be appropriately blended with chicory, water-cresses, or radishes, so rich themselves in pungency? In the employment of condiments one should ever well consider the special greenmeat to be treated, or what Montaigne has termed "the differences of Sallets according to their seasons." Cayenne, tabasco, and garlic are yet more dangerous in unpractised hands, and may readily, like the brass of an orchestra run riot, drown with their dissonance the _arpeggio_ passages and more dulcet notes of the other instruments. All things considered, the counsels to the little boys and girls in the olden French reader, "Rôti-Cochon," such as "the ham of the pig, well minced, is good to eat, but not without drinking," and "fresh eggs and salt herrings are good for Lent and other days either fat or meagre, according to one's appetite and the state of the market," are perchance safer gastronomic guides than the recipe of the worthy English prebendary. For in any formula bearing upon the fashioning of salads for the benefit of the many, it is better to hold strictly to oil, vinegar, pepper, salt, and onion, and thus create no confusion in the mind of the tyro, who should proceed by degrees until he becomes proficient in the art,-- "And thus, complete in figure and in kind, Obtains at length the salad he designed." But Sydney Smith has contributed such a host of good things, that any slight divergence from orthodoxy in his salad may be freely forgiven. Infinitely more baneful than anchovy sauce is the bottled "salad-dressing" of commerce, in whatever guise it may appear--that milky, mysterious compound which is set upon certain restaurant and hotel tables, and through the cajoleries of the merchant-grocer or blandishments of the advertiser often even invades otherwise respectable households. As for the abominations that so frequently masquerade as "pure olive-oil," and boldly flaunt themselves as "wine vinegar" in many hostelries, they are too dreadful to consider; and one's only recourse is to order them off, with the catsup, pepper-sauce, sour pickles, and other "incongruities of good cheer," and subsist in imagination on the salads that have been. If oil has been termed the soul of a salad, it is no less true that vinegar is its _vivendi causâ_. There should be no trouble in procuring excellent virgin olive-oil, French or Italian, at a moderate price. It should be bright and limpid, and possess a delicate, not a strong flavour of the olive from the first gentle pressing of the slightly underripe fruit. The juice expressed by heavy crushing of overripe fruit is to be avoided, being dark in colour and possessed of a strong taste. No other product, however refined or clarified, or however vaunted in the interests of trade, can take the place of olive-oil. For those who are indifferent to quality, cottonseed oil, as well as the juices of countless other seeds, will continue to be supplied or used as adulterants in connection with olive-oil. Good oil, like good wine, is a gift from the gods. The grape and the olive are among the priceless benefactions of the soil, and were destined, each in its way, to promote the welfare of man. It is even more rare to find good vinegar than good oil or wine on the average hotel, restaurant, or household table. Pure cider or sound wine vinegar should alone be employed, and this is best obtained by making it one's self and not trusting to the labels and brands of commerce. The best wine vinegar is that made from red Bordeaux or red or white Burgundy; the best cider vinegar being the product of fine, selected apples like the Russet or Northern Spy, with absolute cleanliness in manufacture. The liquid should draw clear and be possessed of a fresh vinous fragrance; and no other material should be mixed with it than what is necessary of the same kind for replenishing the barrel. Where vinegar is excessively sharp, it may be corrected, when using, by the addition of a little Bordeaux wine. Lemon juice is an excellent substitute for vinegar where this may be lacking in quality; and by some is preferred in the dressing of delicate salads like cos and lettuce. The use of tarragon vinegar is extremely unadvisable in company dinners. To many it is very disagreeable; and even to those who might not be averse to it occasionally, its frequent abuse causes them to anathematise instead of bless the architect of the salad. As regards pepper, the adulterated powdered article is far superior to the genuine Piper nigrum; the white pepper being the same condiment freed from its outer husk by maceration in water and subsequent rubbing. The genuine black peppercorn is much too spicy and high-flavoured to enter largely as a salad component; and where it is laboriously ground out from a mill at table, as is often the case,--the host preoccupied with the task where he should be considering the sequence and temperature of his wines,--it is always coarse; while its pronounced resemblance to allspice mars the delicacy which is the charm of a salad. Moreover, the energy which should be expended upon the mixing, where the nature of the salad renders it advisable to be made just before serving, is largely spent upon the exacting process of turning the box-wood mill.[59] "The difference between a perfect salad and one that has failed is immense," says the observant Baron Brisse. It must be remembered that in salad-making many forms of the crude material may not be prepared to advantage immediately before serving. Among such may be included corn-salad, dandelion, curled endive, cabbage, and all species of lettuce, endive, or chicory that may be in the least coriaceous. These require to be prepared a considerable period before using and to be thoroughly mixed, even to pressing them with the fork and spoon, in order that the dressing may be partly absorbed by the leaves to render them tender. The same rule will apply to all species in which the bitter element is pronounced. Thorough mixing should never be neglected. The bowl should be ample, the material dry and freshly plucked, and the onion, chives, parsley, celery, or whatever herbs are employed should not be chopped until just before they are required. Above all, a salad, like white wine, should be served cold. The too frequent latter-day custom of creating a separate course of salad and cheese, in order to prolong the number of courses, is incongruous. The salad belongs to the roast, and it should not be called upon to perform the service of a separate bridge between this and the sweets. The mission of the salad is to correct the too liberal ingestion of rich and fatty substances, to prepare for the dessert, to stimulate and divert the taste, and to promote stomachic harmony at a time when the appetite has begun to flag and the palate is impatient of a long delay between the roast and the _demi-tasse_. It is next to impossible, as has already been remarked, to give absolute directions for the compounding of a salad, so far as the precise amount of each component is concerned, some exacting more oil and salt, some more vinegar and pepper than others--the acidity of vinegar withal being an extremely variable quantity. Some are enhanced by mustard or red pepper, and with some the pounded yellow of the egg and mashed potato are improvements. The place of the salad, too, requires to be considered--whether it is to be an accompaniment of the roast or is designed as something more substantial for the luncheon or supper-table. In the latter case a macédoine of freshly cooked vegetables composed of beets, potatoes, turnips, carrots, parsnips, Lima beans, cauliflower, celery-turnip, etc., might be excellent, whereas it would hardly prove appropriate with roast game at the dinner. After all,--to revert to formulas,--the best recipe for a salad, perhaps, is the oft-quoted Spanish proverb which calls for a quartet to compose it--a spendthrift for oil, a miser for vinegar, a counsellor for salt, and a madman for mixing. An excellent addition to nearly any form of salad is chopped onion, parsley, and celery. Some onion, however small a quantity, is invariably required, unless chives be used instead, or the bowl be rubbed with garlic, or bread rubbed with garlic be stirred in, for those who may prefer. Of the several modes of mixing salads, each of which is extolled by different authorities, some may be better than others, but all are good, as a philosopher has observed with respect to the merits of whiskey. And of these different methods, again a distinction needs to be made according to the material. Once more it may be said, _plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose_, and that alone through practice and intelligent study of the perspective of blending may the art of salad-making be mastered. As simple and as good a so-termed French dressing as any for general use is to add to the minced onion the requisite quantity of salt, letting this stand for five or ten minutes; then, after adding to this the proper quantity of oil, vinegar, and pepper, stir thoroughly and pour over the salad. If English mustard is required, this should be previously incorporated with the oil. The result still depends upon the fine adjustment of the ingredients, the mixing, and the quality and character of the material. Another method is to mix the salt and mustard, where mustard may be employed, with the oil, incorporating them by degrees, then adding the vinegar; pepper the salad material separately, and lastly pour on and mix in the dressing thoroughly. Separate peppering of the leaves, however, possesses no advantage; on the contrary, it is more trying to the eyes, and the pepper is much less evenly distributed. A third method consists in placing the necessary salt and pepper in the salad-spoon, then pouring the vinegar into the spoon and stirring with the fork until the salt and pepper become well amalgamated with the vinegar. This is subsequently to be well mixed with the salad material, on which chopped onion and herbs have been placed, vigorously agitated, and afterwards, when the oil has been added, mixed a second time. By the jewelled white fingers of a pretty and well-gowned hostess who has a knack at salad-making this formula may be executed at table with highly artistic results. There is finally the plan adopted by Chaptal, which consists in saturating and mixing the salad material with oil, seasoned with pepper and salt, before employing the vinegar. By this treatment the salad can never become too acid, for should the vinegar happen to be excessive, it slips over the oil to the bottom of the bowl. This means, while advantageous for tender cos or lettuce, is not so desirable for any material that may have a tendency to toughness, as the vinegar may not as readily penetrate and soften the leaves. Good oil, vinegar, and pepper and careful incorporating of the ingredients, with a judicious use of herbs, and the tact born of experience, count for everything in the preparation of salads. Mayonnaise dressing of course belongs to certain greenmeat salads, as well as the so-called French dressing--the most easily prepared and wholesome of all. The mayonnaise is especially favoured by femininity, and the French dressing by the sterner sex; though for meat salads, as a general rule, the mayonnaise, mayonnaise _à la ravigotte_, or sauce _provençale_ is prescriptive. Growing salad is an art of the kitchen-garden, in which soil, selection of varieties, watering, shading, blanching, and protection have their part. But with a little space and care, salads may be had by almost every one during the greater portion of the year. For late autumn and winter use, the different varieties of endive, corn-salad, and chicory are easily raised: corn-salad requiring no other trouble than two or three sowings in August, a little attention in watering and shading, and the gathering of the hardy green tufts beneath the snow. Late endive calls for a dry, well-protected root-house, while chicory needs to be taken up by the roots and forced in boxes in the cellar, due attention being paid to excluding the light. Of this excellent winter salad, the comparatively new variety "Witloof," largely grown in Belgium for the Paris market, is an improvement on the old "Barbe de Capucin." Of late years the useful and easily grown, broad-leaved Batavian endive has deteriorated, having become coarser-grained and often recalling the cabbage in flavour. Cos is the most difficult of all salads to grow under our tropical summer sun, and unless well grown--brittle, blanched, and free from bitterness--it is next to worthless. Many good varieties of lettuce have a tendency to run out, and these should be carefully watched by the gardener. On the restaurant cards salads usually appear with their French appellations, which are sometimes confusing. In France, for instance, chicory is generally termed endive, and endive is termed chicory. Lettuce is naturally laitue, cos being known as romaine, broad-leaved Batavian endive as escarolle--the curled-leaved varieties of endive being familiar as chicorée frisée. Corn-salad is the mâche or doucette, chicory is the "Barbe de Capucin," though the variety "Witloof" passes current as endive. There is nothing mysterious, therefore, as some suppose, in French salads and French names of salads beyond the fact that in restaurants of the higher class special attention is paid to procure the best possible material from skilled market-gardeners, and the dressing is supposed to be performed by a competent practitioner who has the best of condiments at command. "The field is never wholly void of cypress and tulip," saith a ghazel of Hafiz; "one goeth, but another yet appeareth in its place." It is much the same with the successive profusion of sallets. By way of variety, a salad of raw celery-root with a mayonnaise dressing, somewhat thinned, in which a generous amount of mustard has been blended, affords a pleasing distinction from celery in the usual form and the green material which constantly offers itself; as does also an occasional salad of the scarcer celery-turnip, beloved by Europeans. Sliced radishes, and young green onions from the garden, as an accompaniment to the first trout or shad, need no apology. The appetising but indigestible and flatulent German black radish is not to be recommended, although one may retain the most grateful recollections of the potato, cucumber, and herring salads of the Fatherland. Spain has always borne a reputation for its salads in inverse ratio to that of its cookery; and if one is fond of pepper and peppers, green or red, as well as garlic, the Spanish salad, whether of tomato, cucumber, beans, potato, or lettuce, is to be commended. The Italian may be relied upon never to neglect garlic wherever any excuse for utilising it is presented; but the Spaniard, in addition, deems it a heresy if the live pepper does not sting, stimulate, and permeate. For the highest expression of the potato-salad--and the cucumber-salad should be equally included--we must go to the Germans, masters of sausage-and cake-making and everything appertaining to "Compots." However one may regard the Pumpernickel and the Maitrank, the specialties just enumerated must challenge our respect and admiration. Potato-salad is particularly appropriate with beer; and it is, therefore, natural that the home of Münchner and Nürnberger should excel in its preparation. In making a potato-salad, the Teuton for once forgets the caraway seed and substitutes the onion. In all the restaurants, Wirthschafts, and beer-gardens where the hungry and the thirsty throng, great bowls of it, dusted with the fresh greens of finely minced herbs, always stand ready for immediate use. It is served separately and employed with many other dishes--a chain of russet sausages may surround it, or it may inclose a mound of cheese, ham, or caviare. In some form it is ever present. Like Montgomery's daisy,-- "It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charm, Lights pale October on his way, And twines December's arm." To attain the best results, young potatoes of a firm kind, with no tendency to mealiness, known as "salad-potatoes," are chosen, boiled in salt water, allowed to cool, and then sliced and seasoned while they are fresh. Potato-salad may be combined with numerous esculents; and of its complementary adjuncts, none blend better with it than corn-salad and watercress. Deprived of the cucumber, the list of salads were equally shorn of one of its most useful and appreciated members. And whether, as Gerarde affirms, that "of the divers sorts--some greater, some lesser, some of the garden, some wilde, some of one fashion, and some of another--all of the cucumbers are of temperature cold and moist of the second degree, and yield unto the body a cold nourishment, and that very little and the same not good"--who would consent for a moment to have the cucumber eliminated from the list of edibles! Think of its hidden "Vertues"! "It openeth and clenseth, openeth the stoppings of the liver, helpeth the chest and lungs that are inflamed; and being stamped and outwardly applied instead of a denser, it maketh the skin smooth and faire." No wonder it was such a favourite with Tiberius, who was never without it, and had frames made upon wheels, by means of which the growing fruit might be moved and exposed to the full heat of the sun; while in winter they were withdrawn and placed under the protection of frames glazed with mirror-stone. No wonder that Isaiah, in speaking of the desolation of Judah, declared: "The daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers." The main point with the cucumber is to eliminate the prussic acid it contains, by slicing it and soaking it in ice-water and salt for a short time before using. Then, the Hock!--the shad, the whitefish, the pompano, the turbot, the sole! And when endive is nicely blanched, and the first dark-blue double violets appear in the greenhouse--though skies lower and the storm frown without--what in the varied round of the seasons presents itself more delicious than a blue-violet salad, with a flask of some noble vintage worthy to bear it company! The recipe, which cannot be too widely known, has been presented at length in a previous volume:[60] "There was a great bunch of double violets on the table, the lovely dark variety (_Viola odoratissima flore pleno_) with their short stems, freshly plucked from the garden, and the room was scented by their delicious breath. "A bowl of broad-leaved Batavian endive, blanched to a nicety and alluring as a siren's smile, was placed upon the table. I almost fancied it was smiling at the violets. A blue-violet salad, by all means! there are violets and to spare. "On a separate dish there was a little minced celery, parsley, and chives. Four heaped salad-spoonfuls of olive-oil were poured upon the herbs, with a dessertspoonful of white wine vinegar, the necessary salt and white pepper, and a tablespoonful of Bordeaux. The petals of two dozen violets were detached from their stems, and two thirds of them were incorporated with the dressing. The dressing being thoroughly mixed with the endive, the remaining flower petals were sprinkled over the salad and a half-dozen whole violets placed in the centre. "The lovely blue sapphires glowed upon the white bosom of the endive. "A white-labelled bottle, capsuled Yquem, and the cork branded 'Lur Saluces,' was served with the salad. You note the subtle aroma of pineapple and fragrance of flower ottos with the detonation of the cork--the grand vintages of Yquem have a pronounced _Ananassa_ flavour and bouquet that steeps the palate with its richness and scents the surrounding atmosphere. "Now try your blue-violet salad. "Is it fragrant? is it cool? is it delicious? is it divine?" The deep-golden, marrowy Yquem, _crême_, of 1861 and 1864 is now alas! unobtainable; and even were it to be procured, it must ere this have parted with much of its marvellous bouquet and _sève_. But the violet yet sheds its colour and distils its perfume for the gathering. Other vintages, too, have been pressed and have mellowed along the classic banks of the Ciron and the Rhein, that may worthily accentuate the violet and endive as the crown of the repast. [Illustration] [Illustration] SWEETS TO THE SWEET _Jam jam efficaci do manus scientiæ._[61] HORACE. Epode xvii. 1. However scholiasts may have interpreted Horace's line,--and by no two is it interpreted alike,--the repetition or intensification of the first word in connection with the thought that follows must certainly carry conviction to the gastronomer that no mere stress upon a common adverb was intended, but rather a definite allusion to some particular object. The more the sentence is analysed, the greater seems the emphasis laid upon the power of sweets to attract and charm. Apart, moreover, from the iteration of the subject extolled, one is impressed by the force of the expression "_do manus_," which means here, not, as one would suspect, to shake hands; but "I yield," "I surrender," "I throw up my hands"--the strongest form of complete capitulation. And when it is further considered that one who was so careful in his advice and hygienic precepts, as well as so dainty in epithet (_curiosa felicitas_), has expressed his love for an _entremets sucré_ in such emphatic terms, it should be conceded that woman is justified in her predilection for the final course of the dinner, which man is apt to decry. The question of dessert, indeed, is only another instance of where a man thinks he knows, but a woman knows better. [Illustration: "APRÈS BON VIN" From the engraving by Eisen in Fermiers-Généreaux edition of the "Contes et Nouvelles" (1762)] _Le dessert est tout le dîner pour une jolie femme._ Let her enjoy it and the sweet champagne or Muscat-Lunel that goes with it, even if to her opposite "things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour." For, after all, it is unquestionably to woman that we must look for the improvement of cookery. The highest art will still find its expression through the professional chef; the useful, the daily alimentation of the household, must depend upon the ministrations of the housewife and her capacity for extending and improving the list of dishes _à la bonne femme_. Assuredly, appetising cookery will tend more than any other means to maintain the masculine element in good humour, and thereby foster a spirit of liberality and the condoning of feminine foibles. The dessert is said to be to the dinner what the madrigal is to literature--it is the light poetry of the kitchen, addressed largely to the gentler sex. To the finer fancy of woman, the many forms of dainties which figure in the last course are mainly due; and that they are not more appreciated by man is no doubt owing to the fact that the consumption of tobacco and the use of ardent spirits have blunted his perceptivity in this respect. Herein he is the loser; the mission of the dessert being that of a comforter of the stomach, which, already appeased, nevertheless craves a little reflex flattery through the palate. There are those of the sterner sex, notwithstanding, who still preserve the sweet tooth of childhood, and others who enjoy pastry equally with its most devoted feminine admirers. Charles Lamb held that a man cannot have a pure mind who refuses apple-dumplings. Tasso was so fond of sweetmeats that he even ate his salad with sugar. Henry VIII presented a manor to the inventor of a new pudding-sauce. Goethe adored sweet champagne, and of Horace's partiality for sweets he has doubly assured us. For all such the cook whose pies are perfect will not have lived in vain; the more so as the artist in pie-making is usually an adept at frying,--and to bad frying and poor pie-making may be charged much of the misery inflicted upon mankind where eating is regarded solely as a necessary function. A cook, moreover, who can make fine puff-paste is more apt to succeed in all the more substantial parts of the art. So that to encourage the dessert and sweetmeats is to beguile and conciliate woman, and thus indirectly promote progress in other branches of cookery. With a little tact and perseverance it becomes relatively easy to persuade her that her fondness for sweets is injurious to her complexion; and this much instilled, it is the less difficult to lead her by gradual steps to the perfection of the entrée and dishes more favoured by man. There are comparatively few, nevertheless, who really are averse to the dessert if it unite all the qualities that should compose the final course--if it be light and palatable, if it flatter the eye, and if it convey the greatest amount of pleasure to the taste with little sense of fulness. Good pies or puddings and various _entremets de douceur_ are as much a feature of the well-appointed dinner as a well-made salad; and all have their part to perform. Coming last in the order of the repast, like the peroration of a discourse, they should receive more than ordinary attention, both with respect to their immediate impression and the sensation they leave. To the dessert is often unjustly attributed a consequent that really belongs to the reprehensible practice of serving _brut_ champagne at the end of the dinner, whereby digestion is seriously disturbed through the acidity it necessarily provokes. Already pernicious during the early stages, it becomes still more baneful when appetite has palled. The lamb thus must answer for the crime of the wolf; and woman is held responsible for what is directly the fault of man himself. If a sparkling wine must be served at the end of a dinner, to the exclusion of the early portion, let it partake of the nature of the dainties themselves, in order that it may leave the most dulcet souvenirs. But, apart from the dessert, sweets enter into many forms of aliments that lend variety and distinction to the table. Who is so wedded to acidity as not to hail with renewed pleasure the appearance of a rum omelette, or that entremets par excellence--omelette aux confitures--if served by a pretty woman at a dinner of two and accompanied by a Rhein _Auslese_ of noble growth? The soufflée, too, has its charms, if woman be present, for which one should always be grateful. What were the turkey without cranberry sauce, in which sugar forms a component, or a mallard without currant-jelly to match the rosy richness of his breast? But in lieu of this universal accessory to many forms of game, a pleasing variety may be had if a lesson be only taken from the Germans, with whom the "Compot" is so highly esteemed in various guises and various grades of sweetness. Of such, one of the most delicious is composed of strawberries and sour cherries in combination, flavoured with Kirsch. An exquisite preserve of southern Germany is the "Hagenmark," which one sees in brimming pails in the market-places during November: a conserve prepared by the peasant women from the hips of the wild dog-rose, as vivid in colour as a cardinal by Vibert. As for the strawberry, so fragrant and delicious when fresh, but so deadly to the uric-acid diathesis, how safely it may be partaken of when, through madame's deft manipulations, it attains the form of shortcake or preserves! Served with sugar and cream, after baking, as a prelude to the winter breakfast, even the flatulence of the apple is dissipated and the fruit which tempted Eve becomes innocuous. Through sugar and stewing, the currant loses its verjuice, the raspberry under similar treatment is transformed, the acrid quince acquires new virtues, the puckery crab-apple diffuses a silken softness. Cooked with sugar and brandy, the peach may appeal to the most hardened total abstainer, and the fruit of the Psidium, through the magic touch of saccharine, attain a magnificent triumph as guava jelly. To remove sugar from the kitchen were to deprive alimentation of many of its benefits and pleasures, as well as to rob woman of much of her allurement. She would become lean and scrawny, her rounded outlines would gradually disappear, the contours of her tailor-made gown would end by becoming rectilinear, and for her habiliment a strait-jacket would usurp the place of her proud corsage and bouffant petticoat. There would then be no more love-poetry, for there would exist no incentive for the poet, nor could a pretty heroine figure in a novel, or the bust of woman prove the most convincing illustration that the line of beauty is a curve. One should never lose sight of that excellent sentiment of Blaze de Bury, which will apply to desserts as well, _Qui ne veut point vieillir doit aimer les femmes, et, pour bien les aimer, il faut les aimer toutes_. What a wave of grateful coolness the ice and its yet more seductive sister, ice-cream, contribute when the dog-star reigns and cicadas have begun to shrill! Who among the calumniators of sweets could wish them banished in support of a fallacious theory that sweetmeats render woman more capricious, and are injurious to the roses and lilies of her skin? For the plainer form of these refreshing entremets we are indebted to Catherine de' Medici and her cooks who accompanied her to France from Italy, where ices were already much esteemed. The discoverer of ice-cream is said to be a French chef in the employ of the Duc de Chartres, who exultingly set the dish before him on a hot day in 1774. This was subsequent to the discovery of the pâté de Chartres, which, according to Anatole France, is of itself sufficient to make one revere the country of its origin. About this period the baba, beloved by the fair sex, met with great favour in France. The baba was the invention of King Stanislas Leszcynski of Poland, a noted epicure, to make amends for the harshness of his name; its ingredients being German yeast, flour, butter, eggs, cream, sugar, saffron, candied citron, Corinthian raisins, currants, and Madeira, Malaga, or rum. It is said to be a difficult entremets to "seize," so as to preserve its attractive reddish colour, which should recall a late October afterglow. It at once appealed to the sweet tooth of femininity, even though that most delectable of garden herbs, angelica, when candied, was overlooked among the sweet ingredients. Like the truffle as described by Savarin, the baba was supposed to render woman more plastic and man more expansive,--_rien que le voir, les yeux rient et les cœurs chantent_. The date of the introduction of plum-pudding and mince-pie is difficult to ascertain. As early as 1424 appears a mention in an English bill of fare of "Vyaunt ardent," which suggests the former and may have been its precursor. The original recipe of either must have been formidable to follow when one reflects how even now they are provocative of a nightmare, unless executed by the deftest of hands. Plum-pudding in anything like its present form does not appear in cookery books anterior to 1675. Previous to this, plum-porridge, which always served as a first course at Christmas, was prepared by boiling beef or mutton with broth thickened by brown bread. When half cooked, raisins, currants, prunes, cloves, nutmeg, mace, ginger, and other condiments were added, and after the mixture had been thoroughly boiled it was served with meats--a dish fit for the digestive capacities of Jack the Giant-killer. An essentially English product, the plum-pudding has rarely found favour in France, although Louis XVIII was accustomed to serve it at Christmas, and it has long had a place on the menus of many Parisian restaurants. A very elaborate recipe for "Plumbuting" is given by Beauvilliers; but preferable to all formulas is the comparatively simple one of Blot, a dish which may be digested as well as enjoyed, and which is within the range of the average cook. Of course plum-pudding is best during the holiday season, and best of all at the feast of Christmas day. Mince-pie is an ancient English dish which America has refined. The Year-Book of William Hone of the early part of the past century contains an extended "Ode to the Mince-Pye," which met the approbation of Scott, Lamb, and Southey. In this it is referred to as the "King of Cates," "whose pastry-bounded reign Is felt and own'd o'er pastry's wide domain: Whom greater gluttons own their sovereign lord Than ever bowed beneath the dubbing sword. . . . . . . . . . "Like Albion's rich plum-pudding, famous grown, The mince-pye reigns in realms beyond his own, Through foreign latitudes his power extends, And only terminates where eating ends. . . . . . . . . . "Sovereign of Cates, all hail! nor then refuse This cordial off'ring from an English muse, Who pours the brandy in libation free, And finds plum-pudding realiz'd in thee." But of all forms of pie, that with the apple for its basis is doubtless the most wholesome and by the majority is most relished. A woman who is infallible in her apple-pies and successful with her sauces deserves an annual trip abroad. But such, like first editions of "The Faerie Queene," are rare. No better instructions regarding the fashioning of apple-pies can be formulated than those of the late Henry Ward Beecher, who so thoroughly understood women, gems, sweetmeats, and gardening. His counsels are worthy of Elia, and the housewife should commit them to memory: "There is, for example, one made without undercrust, in a deep plate, and the apples laid in full quarters; or the apples, being stewed, are beaten to a mush and seasoned and put between the double paste; or they are sliced thin and cooked entirely within the covers; or they are put without seasoning into their bed, and when baked the upper lid is raised and the butter, nutmeg, cinnamon, and sugar are added, the whole well mixed and the crust returned as if nothing had happened. But, oh! be careful of the paste! Let it be not like putty, nor rush to the other extreme and make it so flaky that one holds his breath while eating, for fear of blowing it away. Let it not be plain as bread, nor yet rich like cake. Aim at that glorious medium in which it is tender without being too fugaciously flaky; short without being too short; a mild, sapid, brittle thing, that lies upon the tongue, so as to let the apple strike through and touch the papillæ with a more affluent flavour. But this, like all high art, must be a thing of inspiration or instinct. A true cook will understand us, and we care not if others do not! Do not suppose that we limit the apple-pie to the kinds and methods enumerated. Its capacity in variation is endless, and every diversity discovers some new charm or flavour. It will accept almost every flavour of every spice. And yet nothing is so fatal to the rare and higher graces of apple-pie as inconsiderate, vulgar spicing. It is not meant to be a mere vehicle for the exhibition of these spices in their own natures; it is a glorious unity in which sugar gives up its nature as sugar, and butter ceases to be butter, and each flavoursome spice gladly vanishes from its own full nature, that all of them, by a common death, may rise into the new life of apple-pie. Not that apple is longer apple. It, too, is transformed; and the final pie, though born of apple, sugar, butter, nutmeg, cinnamon, lemon, is like none of these, but the compound ideal of them all, refined, purified, and by fire fixed in blissful perfection." "Do you eat pie?" was once asked of Emerson. "What is pie for?" was the ready and philosophic reply. "Pie, often foolishly abused," said Artemus Ward, "is a good creature at the right time and in angles of thirty or forty degrees, although in semicircles and quadrants it may sometimes prove too much for delicate stomachs." But think of the pies of two centuries ago! To appreciate the improvement which has taken place in the dessert and the preparation of sweet entremets, one has only to refer to Mrs. Glasse or contemporaneous and previous treatises on cookery. One marvels equally at the strange recipes, the assimilative prowess of the dames of yore, and the progress of the centuries. Canon Barham, who never fails to introduce his bills of fare, though these may not always be strictly reliable from the point of view of the times and the manner of the service, presents this in "The Lay of St. Romwold" as the termination of an olden feast: "Then came 'sweets'--served in silver were tartlets and pies in glass, Jellies composed of punch, calves' feet, and isinglass, Creams and whipt-syllabubs, some hot, some cool, Blancmange, and quince-custards, and goosberry-fool." This was long before the dessert proper--from the French _desservir_, to clear the table--became an established course of the dinner; and when the sweetened dishes of eld might scarcely figure under the pretty Italian title of _Giardinetto_, or "little garden," sometimes applied to the dessert, and suggestive of all that is fragrant and ambrosial. While there is no reason for supposing that sweet champagne was not as greatly relished by the women of Colonial times as it is to-day, it is true, notwithstanding, that, owing to the greater need of economy, they were obliged to be content for the most part with saccharine tipples of a less expensive nature. Among such, besides mulled wine, was the sack-posset, a favourite drink at weddings and social festivities, borrowed from England, with its numerous ingredients, and favoured alike by miss and matron. The recipe in rhyme for this concoction, after Sir Fleetwood Fletcher, soon became as familiar as Sydney Smith's recipe for salad in the following century: "A recipe for all Young Ladies that are going to be Married. To make a Sack-Posset: From famed Barbadoes on the Western Main Fetch sugar half a pound; fetch Sack from Spain A pint; and from the Eastern Indian Coast Nutmeg, the glory of our Northern toast; O'er flaming coals together let them heat Till the all-conquering Sack dissolves the sweet. O'er such another fire set eggs, twice ten New born from crowing cock and speckled hen; Stir them with steady hand, and conscience pricking To see the untimely fate of twenty chicken. From shining shelf take down your brazen skillet, A quart of milk from gentle cow will fill it; When boiled and cooked put milk and Sack to egg, Unite them firmly like the triple league. Then, covered close, together let them dwell Till Miss twice sings, 'You must not kiss and tell!' Each lad and lass snatch up their murdering spoon, And fall on fiercely like a starved dragoon." Metheglin and negus were well known to our foremothers. There is no record to show that they became partial to "sack," except as sweetened and spiced according to the manner of posset. It is recorded, however, that, eschewing the stronger punch composed of spirits, they were fond of mulled wine, Malaga and Madeira, and were far from disdaining the universal beverage, cider, even in its "hard" form, when mulled. Cheese is naturally an obligatory portion of the dessert at all company dinners--at least at all dinners where men are present. By dint of persuasion, it has become tolerated by women, not a few of whom regard it with favour if Rocquefort or Gorgonzola is in question, or even Camembert or Brie when perfectly fresh. Its place in the order of the dinner is a matter somewhat in dispute. It figures variously after the roast,--as its successor before the sweets, or as the immediate precursor of the _demi-tasse_,--and it is also asked to do duty with the salad by some who elect to serve the salad as a course apart to succeed the roast. On the continent of Europe it is generally supposed to precede the coffee, after the sweets, and be ready for those who may not care for them; in England it is often served with celery before the dessert. The custom of serving it with the salad, which is purely American, is certainly not to be commended. The mission of cheese is twofold--to change the taste and to act as the concluding digestive. To subserve the latter purpose it should be old, if of a fine-grained kind; and as a digestive few such are equal to Rocquefort. As to its proper place at dessert, it must be recognized that it accords best with the coffee and final glass of port or other dessert wine where these may be employed, and leaves the taste fresher when it concludes the repast. Let appropriate sweets be served with it for those who desire them, but let it not destroy the salad which belongs to the roast, or anticipate the dulcitudes of the final course. A chapter might be devoted to this suave product of the dairy, but it will be sufficient to present a form of serving it that will appeal to many, inclusive of woman. Like the _fondue_, it is of Swiss origin. In Switzerland, where cheese figures largely, there is known to the initiated a sweet entremets termed "the hunter's sandwich," composed of bread, fresh butter, cheese, and honey in combination, its only drawback being the too cloying nature of the honey. In America this objection may be happily avoided by employing the nectar of the sugar-maple in its stead, and the dish prove all the better either for the sportsman out of doors or served at the dinner with the dessert. On fresh bread cut in thin slices for its base, you will place a layer of the freshest of butter, then a layer of Brie or other fresh cream-cheese, and, finally, a gilding of maple-syrup. For the dessert it may be shaped in various ways, and made as dainty as feminine fingers can devise. Its virtues need no panegyric,--it will succeed the ices with as buoyant a grace as the daffodil follows the snowdrop of spring. Captivated by its charms, the epicure will say, with the van-courier of Bishop Fuger in his chase for the ideal wine, "Est, est, est"; while madame and mademoiselle will attach a new significance to the poet's mellifluous lines,-- "As the last taste of sweets is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past." With the dessert the dinner ends; and with it, also, properly terminates a review of gastronomy. It may be asked, however, after the somewhat extended reference to cooks and cookery and the literature and ethics of the art, which of the numerous manuals referred to, or of the countless existing works that have not been enumerated, is the best and most serviceable for those who would perfect themselves in the subtleties of the range. The question is easier asked than answered. To specify any one authority, so far as any one writer on cookery may be considered authoritative, were scarcely satisfactory--a comprehensive answer being dependent to no inconsiderable extent upon the tastes, adaptabilities, and qualifications of the person concerned. As there is no one poet, moreover, who may satisfy all or even a single individual, so there is no one author-cook or compiler who has yet compassed the subject. "The cuisine," says Beauvilliers, "simple in its origin, refined from century to century, has become a difficult art, a complicated science on which many authors have written, without having been able to embrace it in its entirety." The model cook-book--the manual that should appeal to all, the vade mecum that would instruct and delight the amateur, that would tell him just what he should know, eliminating all he should not know--is still numbered among things unaccomplished. So long as every chef is jealous of his every competitor, so long as the professionalist writes solely from the standpoint of his elaborately mounted kitchen, with no deference to the requirements of the more modest household, so long as works on cookery continue to be a mere dry digest of the preparation of food, it will not be achieved. They have come nearer to such a work in France. But who may say that even Dumas' sprightly though bulky treatise is perfect, or that any of the voluminous "'Cuisiniers' des Cuisiniers" has indicated the perfect road to happiness? And of the enormous number of books on the subject, how many are not so technical as to be of little service, or so lacking in comprehensive grasp as to fall utterly short of their aim? The perfect cook-book, as near as a cook-book can be perfect, has yet to find its author and its publisher. [Illustration: LE PÂTISSIER FRANÇAIS Facsimile of title-page] It may be assumed, therefore, that it will be written by an amateur--a man devoid of prejudices so far as any rivalry in his craft is concerned, whose sole object will be to write for his own pleasure and the gratification it will afford his readers. For, it will be readily perceived, a cook-book for the professional is one thing; a manual for the amateur, another. To a lucid, delightful style and grace of expression its author will unite the widest familiarity with the cuisine of the past and the present. He will have at his beck and call a culinary library like that of Baron Pichon, an executive genius equal to Carême's, a physiological perceptivity rivalling that of Savarin, a knowledge of the subject in all that relates to its material sense as great as La Reynière's. A man of unbounded capacities, whose appetite can never be appeased, he will himself have savoured the multitudinous dishes he treats of, before recommending them to others of less assimilative capabilities than his own. Thoroughly conversant with hygiene and the constituent elements of foods, he will add, as it were, to the qualifications of a gourmet and epicurean mentor, the knowledge of a physician and chemist, or one who can distinguish the digestive sequents of different articles of diet. He will be a learned œnologist as well, acquainted with the wines of all countries, their best growths and most desirable vintages; as also the widely varying effects upon the system of different wines. Endowed with perfect physical faculties, furthered by long intimacy with and daily use of wine, his sense of taste and smell will have attained the highest possible development, enabling him to trace and compare the flavours and ethers of different growths; thus indicating what one should avoid, as also what one should choose, according to individual requirements. Supplementing his monograph on wines will occur as its natural consequent a profound dissertation on gout, dealing at length with the true causes of the malady in all its phases, and indicating a cure within the power of the wine-drinker to compass without abstaining from the beverage he loves. Some magical lozenge that is guileless of colchicum, some marvellous elixir distilled in the alembics of the past, or some special essence of the vine itself will be prescribed, to be taken with the dinner, when the afflicted may once more eat and drink in moderation, "without fear and without reproach." The author will have travelled far and wide, and will intelligently contribute the spoils of his gastronomic chase, retrenching from a dish here and elaborating there, if need be, as he dispenses his appetising formulas. Yet so delicate his taste, of such discriminating nicety his judgment, that, barring individual dislikes for certain aliments, one may trust implicitly to the form of preparation he prescribes. From the manuscripts of the ancient monks he will have rescued many a simple though priceless dish, and from Baudelaire, Théodore de Banville, and Jules Janin have committed many an unpublished poem of the table to his storehouse of delights. And while conversant with all that is best in existing works by the great masters of the art, as well as the lesser lights of the science, and quoting freely from them, he will nevertheless avoid the elaborate recipes and interminable menus that Gouffé and others pride themselves upon, which require a maître-d'hôtel to understand, a corps of assistants to execute, and a Crœsus to liquidate. Spiced with anecdote and seasoned with humour and philosophy, his chapters will glide on in lucid flow, and his recipes leave no nightmares behind. His text will be free from grossness, and be tainted with no worn-out aphorisms; so clear that all may understand, and, understanding, turn its counsels to practical account. He will be familiar, as a sportsman, with game; and will have contemplated the masterpieces of Weenix, Sneyders, and Hondius to impart additional colour in his references to the wild furred and feathered tribes. And to the further embellishment of his text, he will also have studied the other great pictures of still-life of the old Dutch and Flemish schools,--the fowls of Hondecoeter; the fruits of Utrecht and De Heem; the fishes of Seghers; the flower-laden tables of Van Huysum and Jan Fyt; the kitchen-pieces beloved by Metzu and Zorg; the eating-bouts of Brockenburg; the gay _Kermesse_ and merrymakings of Brouwer, Teniers, and Ostade. Nor will his knowledge of the products of the vegetable world, apart from those employed for food alone,--the spices and condiments that make or mar a dish, that aid or harm digestion,--be less carefully set forth upon his golden page. The volumes will be small, so they may be unburdensome to peruse, as inviting in their letterpress as the daintiest of Elzevirs. In fine, a combination of the qualities of the scholar, the master-cook, the painter, the gastronomer, the sportsman, and the pantologist, assisted by the skill of the bookmaker and etcher, will be required to compose the cook-book par excellence. In the interval, while it yet slumbers upon the shelves of dreamland, one must remain satisfied as nearly as may be with the manuals that are already accessible; and, like the wind in the trees, draw a note here and a chord there from the existing strings of the harp of Good Cheer. [Illustration] BIBLIOGRAPHY A few among English, American, and French works, both ancient and modern, that relate to gastronomy and cookery are presented herewith. As may be perceived at a glance, the list is not intended to be comprehensive, so multitudinous are the monographs relating to the subject, but a mere index or signboard pointing to the nature of the vast and varied literature, both good, bad, and indifferent, that the topic has inspired. Works relating strictly to wines and alcoholic beverages have not been included, as these, though intimately connected with the table, belong more properly to a volume on the cellar itself. It will be observed that works by women predominate in the English language, whereas, in French, masculinity for the greater part has superintended the larder and the saucepans and elaborated the literature of the art. The scholar who is especially interested in the bibliography of gastronomy may be referred to the valuable work of M. Georges Vicaire as the most comprehensive on the theme, particularly so far as foreign contributions to epulary literature are concerned. Evelyn (John). ACETARIA: A DISCOURSE OF SALLETS, 1706. (8vo.) THE AMERICAN SALAD-BOOK. By Maximilian De Loup. Second Edition. New York: McClure, Phillips & Co., 1900. (8vo.) pp. 144. Warner (Rev. Richard). ANTIQUITATES CULINARIÆ; OR, CURIOUS TRACTS RELATING TO THE CULINARY AFFAIRS OF THE OLD ENGLISH. London: Printed for R. Blamire, 1791. (4to) pp. 137. APICIAN MORSELS; OR, TALES OF THE TABLE, KITCHEN, AND LARDER. By Dick Humelbergius Secundus. New York: J. & J. Harper, 1829. (8vo) pp. 212. (A volume largely pirated from Grimod de la Reynière.) King (Wm.). THE ART OF COOKERY. A Poem in Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry. By the Author of a Tale of a Tub. _Coqus omnia miscet_--Juven. London: Printed, and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster, 1708. (Small folio) pp. 22. King (Wm.). THE ART OF COOKERY. With some Letters to Dr. Lister and Others, etc., to which is added Horace's Art of Poetry, in Latin. Printed for Bernard Lintott, 1740. (8vo) pp. 160. Hayward (Anthony). THE ART OF DINING; OR, GASTRONOMY AND GASTRONOMERS. London: John Murray, 1852. (4½ x 7 in.) pp. 137. BANQUETT OF DAINTIES: FOR ALL SUCHE GESTS THAT LOUE MODERATT DYATE. By Theo. Hackett. London, 1566. (8vo) pp. 42. Murrey (Thomas J.). THE BOOK OF ENTRÉES. New York: White, Stokes & Allen, 1886. (4¼ x 6 in.) Farmer (Fannie Merritt). THE BOSTON COOKING-SCHOOL COOK BOOK. By Fannie Merritt Farmer, Principal of the Boston Cooking School. Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1896. (8vo) pp. xxx, 567. BREAKFAST, DINNER, AND TEA: VIEWED CLASSICALLY, POETICALLY AND PRACTICALLY. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1869. (6 x 7½ in.) pp. 351. BREAKFASTS, LUNCHEONS AND DINNERS AT HOME. How to Order, Cook, and Serve Them. By Short. Sixth Edition. London: Kerby & Endean, 1886. (8vo) pp. 204. CASSELL'S DICTIONARY OF COOKERY. With Numerous Engravings and Coloured Plates, Containing About 9000 Recipes. London, Paris, and New York: Cassell, Petter & Galpin. n. d. (Large 8vo) pp. xcvi, 1178. Ronald (Mary). THE CENTURY COOK-BOOK. New York: The Century Co., 1895. (8vo) pp. 587. THE CHAFING-DISH SUPPER. By Christine Terhune Herrick. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1899. (12mo) pp. 112. A CLOSET FOR LADIES AND GENTLEMEN; OR, THE ART OF PRESERVING, CONSERVING AND CANDYING. With the Manner how to make Diverse Kindes of Syrupes, and All Kinde of Banquetting Stuffes, etc. London: Printed for Arthur Johnson, 1618. (16mo) pp. 190. THE CLOSET OF THE EMINENTLY LEARNED SIR KENELME DIGBY, KT., OPENED. Whereby is Discovered several ways for Making of Metheglin, Syder, Cherry-Wine, etc., Together with Excellent Directions for Cookery, as also for Preserving, Conserving, Candying, etc. London, 1677. (12mo.) Carter (Charles). THE COMPLEAT CITY AND COUNTRY COOK; OR, ACCOMPLISH'D HOUSEWIFE. Containing Several Hundred of the Most Approv'd Receipts in Cookery, Confectionary, etc. Illustrated with Forty-nine large Copper-plates. London, 1732. (8vo) pp. 280. Peckham (Ann). THE COMPLETE ENGLISH COOK; OR, PRUDENT HOUSEWIFE. Being a Collection of the Most General, yet Least Expensive Receipts in Every Branch of Cookery and Good Housewifery, etc. By Ann Peckham, of Leeds. The Third Edition. Leeds, 1770. (12mo) pp. 242. THE COMPLETE FAMILY PIECE. A very Choice Collection of Receipts in Cookery. Seventh Edition. London, 1744. (8vo.) Smith (E.). THE COMPLETE HOUSEWIFE; OR, ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEWOMAN'S COMPANION. Being a Collection of upwards of Seven Hundred of the Most Approved Receipts in Cookery, Pastry, Confectionary, etc., etc. The Seventeenth Edition, with Additions. London: Printed for J. Buckland, etc., 1766. (8vo.) pp. 364. THE COMPLETE SERVANT-MAID. London, 1682. (12mo.) THE COOK-BOOK. By "Oscar" of the Waldorf (Oscar Tschirky, Maître d'Hôtel, the Waldorf). Chicago and New York: The Werner Co., 1896. (Large 4to) pp. 907. Reeve (Mrs. Henry). COOKERY AND HOUSEKEEPING. A Manual of Domestic Economy for Large and Small Families. Fourth Edition. London and New York: Longmans, Green & Co., 1888. (8vo) pp. 540. Kitchener (Dr. Wm.). THE COOK'S ORACLE. Fourth Edition. London, 1822. (4½ x 7½ in.) pp. xviii, 545. Athenæus. THE DEIPNOSOPHISTS; OR, BANQUET OF THE LEARNED OF ATHENÆUS. Literally Translated by C. D. Yonge, B.A. 3 vols. London: Henry C. Bohn, 1854. (5 x 7½ in.) Child (Theodore). DELICATE FEASTING. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1890. (5½ x 6½ in.) pp. 214. Newnham-Davis (Lieut.-Col.). DINNERS AND DINERS: WHERE AND HOW TO DINE IN LONDON. A New Enlarged and Revised Edition. London: Grant Richards,