Chapter XVII: Sweets to the Sweet 428 (7)

"The Viscount had two hours in which to dine--from seven to
nine.

"He could talk or not, as he chose.

"At the appointed hour the Viscount appeared, saluted the
judges, and turned towards the table.

"The bill of fare was to remain a mystery to his adversaries;
they were to have the pleasure of a surprise.

"The Viscount sat down. He was served with twelve dozen
Ostende oysters, with a half-bottle of Johannisberger.

"The Viscount was in excellent appetite; he asked for another
twelve dozen oysters, and another half-bottle of the same
growth.

"Then came a soup of swallows' nests, which the Viscount
poured in a bowl and drank as a bouillon.

"'Really, gentlemen,' said he, 'I am in fine trim to-day, and
I have a notion to gratify a whim.'

"'Go on, _pardieu_, you are the doctor.'

"'I adore beefsteak and potatoes.'

"'Gentlemen, no advice, if you please,' said a voice.

"'Pooh! waiter,' said the Viscount, 'a beefsteak and potatoes.'

"The waiter, astonished, looked at the Viscount.

"'Don't you understand me?' said the latter.

"'But I thought that Monsieur le Vicomte had made up his bill
of fare?'

"'That is true, but this is an extra; I will pay for it
separately.'

"The judges looked at each other. The beefsteak and potatoes
were brought on, and were promptly despatched.

"'Now for the fish!'

"The fish was brought on.

"'Gentlemen,' said the Viscount, 'it is a trout from Lake
Geneva. I saw it this morning while I was breakfasting; it
was still alive; it was brought from Geneva to Paris in the
waters of the lake. I can recommend this fish to you--it is
delicious.'

"Five minutes later only the bones remained.

"'The pheasant, waiter!' said the Viscount.

"A truffled pheasant was brought on.

"'Another bottle of Bordeaux of the same growth.'

"The second bottle was brought.

"In ten minutes the pheasant was disposed of.

"'Monsieur,' said the waiter, 'I think you have made a mistake
in calling for the truffled pheasant before the salmis of
ortolans.'

"'Ah! that is so. Fortunately it is not stated in what order
the ortolans are to be eaten; otherwise I should have lost.
The salmis of ortolans, waiter!'

"The salmis of ortolans was brought on.

"There were twelve ortolans--twelve mouthfuls for the Viscount.

"'Gentlemen,' said the Viscount, 'my bill of fare is very
simple. Now for some asparagus, green peas, a banana, and
strawberries. As for wine, a half-bottle of Constance and a
half-bottle of sherry that has made the voyage to India. Then,
of course, some coffee and liqueurs.'

"Everything appeared in its turn--vegetables and fruit were
conscientiously eaten, and the wines and liqueurs were drunk
to the last drop.

"The Viscount was an hour and fourteen minutes in dining.

"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'has everything gone right?'

"The judges acquiesced.

"'Waiter, the carte!'

"At this epoch the term _addition_ was not used.

"The Viscount ran his eye over the total, and passed the carte
to the judges.

"This was the carte:

_fr._ _c._

Ostende oysters, 24 dozen 30 "
Soup of swallows' nests 150 "
Beefsteak and potatoes 2 "
Trout from Lake Geneva 40 "
Truffled pheasant 40 "
Salmis of ortolans 50 "
Asparagus 15 "
Bananas 24 "
Strawberries 20 "
Green peas 12 "

_Wines._
Johannisberg, one bottle 24 "
Bordeaux, _grand crû_, two bottles 50 "
Constance, a half-bottle 40 "
Sherry, _retour de l'Inde_, a half-bottle 50 "
Coffee, liqueurs 1 50
______
Total 548 50

"The sum total was verified and the carte was taken to the
adversary of the Viscount, who was dining in an adjoining room.

"In five minutes he appeared, saluted the Viscount, took six
bills of a thousand francs from his pocket, and presented them
to him.

"It was the amount of the wager.

"'Oh, Monsieur,' said the Viscount, 'there was no hurry;
besides, perhaps you would have liked your revenge.'

"'You would have granted it to me?'

"'Surely!'

"'When?'

"'Immediately.'"

But the reputation of the Viscount as a _belle fourchette_ was exceeded by that of a Swiss guard in the employ of the Maréchal de Villars, an account of whose prowess is related by the "Journal des Défenseurs":

"One day the guard was sent for by the Maréchal, who had heard
of his enormous appetite.

"'How many sirloins of beef can you eat?' he tentatively asked.

"'Ah! Monseigneur, for me I don't require many, five or six at
the most.'

"'And how many legs of mutton?'

"'Legs of mutton? not many--seven to eight.'

"'And of fat pullets?'

"'Oh! as to pullets, only a few--a dozen.'

"'And of pigeons?'

"'As to pigeons, Monseigneur, not many--forty, perhaps fifty.'

"'And larks?'

"'Larks, Monseigneur?--always!'"

Another example of marvellous capacity is furnished by the French army, a captain wagering one day that a drummer of his company could eat a whole calf. The drummer, proud of his distinction, promised to do honour to the captain's compliment. Accordingly, a calf was prepared in various appetising ways, and was being promptly disposed of by the drummer. When he had finally consumed about three quarters of the repast, he paused for another draught of wine, and, placing his knife and fork on his plate, said to his superior officer:

"You had better have the calf brought on, had you not? for all these little kickshaws will end in taking up room."

The Café de Paris, first opened in 1822 on the Boulevard des Italiens in the large suite of apartments formerly occupied by Prince Demidoff, was the best restaurant in Europe during the forties and in Dumas' time--a position it probably occupies to-day, since the closing of Bignon's. Alfred de Musset was accustomed to say that "one could not open its door for less than fifteen francs." But if its charges were high, its cuisine and service were unsurpassed. Those who dance must pay for the piping, and the cotillion of the casseroles is no exception to the rule. Every one who honoured the establishment, it is said, was considered by the personnel a grand seigneur for whom nothing could be too good. When Balzac one day announced the arrival of a distinguished Russian friend, he asked the proprietor to put his best foot forward. "Assuredly, Monsieur, we will do so," was the answer, "because it is simply what we are in the habit of doing every day." Balzac's favourite dish was _veau à la casserole_, a specialty of the Café de Paris in the forties.

Rossini, a contemporary and friend of Balzac and Dumas, was not alone a famous musician,--composer of "Tell" and the "Stabat Mater,"--but was also a distinguished _fourchette_ and a cook of ability. One of his most celebrated compositions--that of a certain manner of preparing macaroni which is said to have vied in seductiveness with the sweetest strains of the "Barbier de Seville"--is unfortunately lost to the world through a prejudice of Dumas.

One day the great romancist, who never ate macaroni in any form, asked the noted composer for his recipe, being anxious to add it to his culinary repertoire. "Come and eat some with me to-morrow at dinner, and you shall have it," was the answer. But the host, perceiving that his guest would not touch a dish on which he had bestowed so much pains, refused to give him the formula, whereupon Dumas circulated the report that it was his cook, not Rossini, who was master of the secret, and forthwith presented at length a recipe given him by the famous Mme. Ristori as "the true, the only, the unique manner of preparing macaroni _à la néapolitaine_."

Already in 1830 the excessive charges of the fashionable restaurants were loudly complained of. On this subject the "Nouvel Almanach des Gourmands" of that date says:

"The Boulevard Italien is the privileged seat of the
cafés-restaurants: there one may dine excellently, but it must
be confessed one is cruelly plucked. From this fact has arisen
the proverb, 'One must be very hardy to dine at the Café
Riche, and very rich to dine at the Café Hardi.' May it not
be added that one needs to be an English peer to dine at the
Café Anglais, and a millionaire Parisian to try the Café de
Paris? One may dine well at Véry's, but one will ruin himself;
while the fish which is excellent at the Rocher de Cancale is
scarcely exchanged for its weight in five-franc pieces."

Often in the midst of a dinner, on tasting of some novel dish at his favourite restaurant, the Café de Paris, Dumas would lay down his fork--"I must get the recipe of this dish." The proprietor was then sent for to authorise the novelist to descend to the kitchens and hold a consultation with his chefs. He was the only one of the habitués to whom this privilege was ever allowed; these excursions were usually followed by an invitation to dine with Dumas a few days later, when his newly acquired knowledge would be put into practice.

There were those, nevertheless, that previous to the advent of the "Dictionary" were sceptical as to Dumas' culinary accomplishments. Among such was Dr. Véron, author of the "Mémoires" and founder of the "Revue de Paris," who, with several other notabilities, had been invited by the novelist to partake of a carp of his own preparation. For days and days Véron, who was extremely fond of fish, talked of nothing else to his _cordon-bleu_.

"Where did you taste it?" said Sophie, becoming somewhat jealous of this praise of others,--"at the Café de Paris?"

"No,--at Monsieur Dumas'."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas' cook and get the recipe."

"That's of no use," objected her master. "Monsieur Dumas prepared the dish himself."

"Well, then, I'll go to Monsieur Dumas himself and ask him to give me the recipe."

Sophie was as good as her word, and at once betook herself to the Chaussée d'Antin. The great novelist felt flattered, and gave her every possible information, but somehow the dish was not like that her master had so much enjoyed at his friend's. Then Sophie grew morose, and began to throw out hints about the great man's borrowing other people's feathers in his culinary pursuits, just as he did in his literary ones. "It is with his carp as with his novels--others write them, and he merely adds his name," she said one day. "I have seen him; he is a _grand diable de vaniteux_."

Influenced by his cook's remarks and the failure of the dish, and forgetting that surroundings often add much to flavour, Véron, on his part, felt inclined to think that Dumas had a clever chef in the background, upon whose victories he plumed himself. A few days afterwards, meeting Véron at the Café de Paris, Dumas inquired after the result of Sophie's efforts. The doctor was reticent at first, not caring to acknowledge Sophie's failure. When one of the company at last mentioned the suspicions attached to the carp, Dumas became furious. Then, after a pause, he said, "There is but one reply to such a charge: you will all dine with me to-morrow, and you will choose a delegate who will come to my house at three to see me prepare the dinner."

"I was the youngest," says the author of "An Englishman in Paris," who relates the story, "and the choice fell upon me. That is how my lifelong friendship with Dumas began. At three o'clock next day I was at the Chaussée d'Antin, and was taken by the servant into the kitchen, where the great novelist stood surrounded by his utensils, some of silver, and all of them glistening like silver. With the exception of a _soupe aux choux_, at which, by his own confession, he had been at work since the morning, all the ingredients for the dinner were in their natural state--of course, washed and peeled, but nothing more. He was assisted by his own cook and a kitchen-maid, but he himself, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a large apron round his waist, and bare chest, conducted the operations. I do not think I have ever seen anything more entertaining, and I came to the conclusion that when writers insisted upon the culinary challenges of Carême, Dugléré, and Casimir they were not indulging in mere metaphor.

"At half-past six the guests began to arrive; at a quarter to seven Dumas retired to his dressing-room; at seven punctually the servant announced that 'monsieur était servi.' The dinner consisted of the aforenamed _soupe aux choux_, the carp that had led to the invitation, a _ragoût de mouton à la Hongroise_, _rôti de faisans_, and a _salade Japonaise_. The sweets and ices had been sent by the _pâtissier_. I never dined like that before or after--not even a week later, when Dr. Véron and Sophie made the _amende honorable_ in the Rue Taitbout."

As a sample of Dumas' abilities in the _petite cuisine_, his _potage aux choux_ may be cited,--his mode of preparing Sauerkraut, like that of all French cooks, is not to be commended:

"Take a sound fresh cabbage, hash up all the remains of fowl
and game that may be on hand, and have a good yesterday's
bouillon, which pour in place of ordinary water on the beef
intended for the day's bouillon. Then cover the bottom of the
stewpan with a slice of fine ham, remove the leaves of the
cabbage, and introduce the forcemeat, tying up the leaves
afterwards so it will not be perceptible. Boil two hours,
filling with the bouillon of the pot-au-feu as the bouillon
of the boiling diminishes. After removing the bouillon from
the fire, let the bouillon, cabbage, forcemeat, and ham
simmer together for three quarters of an hour in the stewpan,
give a last turn to the bouillon, serve your cabbage in the
soup-tureen, allow it to cool a minute, and serve. Then you
may have the choice of eating your cabbage in the soup, or of
soaking some bread in the bouillon and making of your cabbage
a relevé of the soup. Cooked in this manner, the cabbage, the
bouillon, and the meat, each lending a part of its properties
to the other, attain the greatest sapidity it is possible for
them to attain."

This is the _potage aux choux_. The _soupe aux choux_ is another matter that sounds equally appetising and has the advantage to the eye of puffing up the cabbage to far larger dimensions.

The extended remarks on the pot-au-feu itself are well worth the careful attention of the housewife; the author declaring that the French cuisine owes its superiority to that of other nations to the excellence of its bouillon. Seven hours of slow and continuous boiling, he maintains, are necessary for it to acquire all the requisite qualities, _i. e._, to _faire sourire_ the soup. The term, "smile," is happily chosen. Every piece of bread in a good _croûte-au-pot_ wears a smile, and every dancing globule that remains after the skimmer has performed its office is a dimple on its face.

Of the basting of meats--and herein the average cook stands in need of constant advice and still more constant watching--he has this to say (he is speaking of a truffled turkey after the recipe of the Marquis de Cussy, which he suggests might be called _Dinde des Artistes_): "Above all, never moisten your roasts, of whatever nature they may be, except with butter mixed with salt and pepper. A cook who allows a single drop of bouillon in the dripping-pan should be instantly discharged and banished from France."

One of the brightest chapters of the volume is an essay which appears in the appendix--a eulogium of a certain mustard, in which Dumas out-Reynières Reynière. But one may overlook the subtle puffery that sheds a halo over the product of "M. Bornibus," in view of the vast erudition the writer displays and the grace with which the topic is invested. The essay first appeared in Monselet's entertaining "Almanach Gourmand" of 1869, the etymology of the word having been the subject of a wager between the writer and some of his friends. Of Dumas it may be said, as it has been said of the truffle, he "embellishes everything he touches"; or, to paraphrase Savarin's definition, "_Qui dit Dumas, prononce un grand mot._"

Among the most distinguished of modern professional cooks was Jules Gouffé, former _officier de bouche_ of the Jockey Club of Paris, whose "Livre de Cuisine" and "Livre de Pâtisserie" are unexcelled as guides to the greatest triumphs of the art of which they treat. The "Livre de Cuisine," which first appeared in 1865, is not a manual that can be utilised in the ordinary establishment, however; but a volume on a grand scale, written by a great chef for chefs. Francatelli, though very elaborate, is much more simple. At any rate, it is possible to simplify his recipes, or to derive many new ideas from them, even where his formulas may not be executed in the average household. But to follow Gouffé calls for the very highest professional skill and the most lavish expenditure,--the hand of a master, a larder of cockscombs, crawfish, truffles, plover and pheasants' eggs, not to mention a cellar of Château Margaux, champagne, and Chablis Moutonne. His recipe for quails _à la financière_, one of his nine elaborate ways of preparing the bird, will serve as well as any for illustration:

"Truss eight quails as for braising, put them in a stewpan,
cover them with thin slices of fat bacon, pour in one gill
of Madeira and one half pint of _mirepoix_, and let simmer
until the quails are cooked. Fill a plain border-mould one and
a quarter inches high with chicken forcemeat, poach it _au
bain-marie_, and turn the border out of the mould into a dish
and fill the centre with a _financière ragoût_ made of _foies
gras_, truffles, cockscombs, cocks'-kernels, and chicken
forcemeat quenelles mixed in _financière_ sauce. Drain the
quails, untie them, and place them half on the border, half
on the _ragoût_, the leg towards the centre, put a cockscomb
between each quail, and a large truffle in the centre; glaze
the border, the quails, and truffle with a brush dipped in
glaze, and serve with _financière_ sauce."

With Jules Gouffé, Urbain-Dubois, a chef of the highest order, and author of six important works on cookery, will be known to posterity as one of the greatest masters of the range of the second half of the nineteenth century.

In marked contrast to those of Gouffé and Dubois are the numerous culinary works of Ildefonse-Léon Brisse, more familiarly known as Baron Brisse, and who was sometimes termed the Baron Falstaff. Two of his manuals, moulded on somewhat similar lines, are excellent mentors for the modest household--"The 366 Menus" (1868) and "La Petite Cuisine" (1870), of which many editions have appeared. In these a large number of good, uncommon, and simple dishes are presented, and both works may be comprehended by all who have a fair practical knowledge of cookery at command. According to Théodore de Banville, Baron Brisse was "at once an accomplished cook, a fine and delicate gourmet, and a gourmand always tormented with an insatiable hunger." It may therefore be assumed that all his recipes have been personally tested, and that those he particularly recommends are well worthy of trial, bearing out the sentiment he expresses in the preface to "La Petite Cuisine,"--"This book is a good action for which I will be duly credited in this world or the other." Besides his numerous volumes on cookery, he founded and contributed to several culinary journals. He laughed and ate. He was of enormous stature, and always was obliged to secure two places in the diligence between Paris and his home at Fontenay-aux-Roses, where he resided previous to his death in 1876. With Jules Gouffé he instituted a series of dinners where the guests were expected to dine in white frocks and round white caps, like the fat old cooks that Roland has painted--dinners presided over by the baron, whose _bonhomie_ was proverbial, and executed under the directions of Gouffé himself. But apart from his excellent cookery-books, Baron Brisse should be held in abiding reverence by all entertainers that are worthy of the name, if only for his splendid axiom,--"The host whose guest has been obliged to ask him for anything is a dishonoured man!"

From the etching by Charles Jacque]

THE COOK'S CONFRÈRE

"Les vûës courtes, je veux dire les esprits bornez et
resserrez dans leur petite sphère, ne peuvent comprendre cette
universalité de talens que l'on remarque quelquefois dans un
même sujet."--LA BRUYERE: Du Mérite Personnel.

It were ungracious to trace the development of gastronomy further, or to peruse its literature at greater length, without rendering justice to the chief cause of its progress, deprived of which a Carême and a Gouffé were impossible, and cookery, from a fine art, would resolve itself into a perfunctory obligation. The reader who has followed the writer thus far will surely not require to be told that the great evolutionist of the table is neither the cook nor yet the range or the pot-au-feu so much as the quadruped that Rome once selected for its badge and cognisance. _A tout seigneur, tout honneur!_--let us not be unmindful of the inestimable benefits the hog has conferred upon mankind. Where, indeed, may one find that universality of talents referred to by La Bruyère so combined in a single individual as in the animal which the "short-sighted and narrow-minded" has so unjustly maligned? To what utilities does he not lend and blend himself, and where among _Ungulata_ or ruminators terrene were his substitute--a _pièce de résistance_ for the poor, a _jouissance_ and benison for all.

If we accept the testimony of various pagan writers, pork, of which the ancients were so fond, originally came into use about a thousand years after the deluge, when Ceres, having sown a field of wheat, found it invaded one day by a pig. This so incensed the goddess that she forthwith punished the offender with death, and afterwards, having him cooked, discovered his superior virtues--to set the example of utilising him as food. The usual corn-cob placed in the mouth of a freshly killed porker, therefore, not only reflects the delicacy of his tastes, but is also classic in a measure--a symbol of his intimate relationship with mythology and his place amid the Graces.

By the ancient Egyptians the flesh of the swine was held to be impure. So was that of the camel, the cony, and the hare; so also the fat of the ox or of sheep or of goat. "Every beast of the wood or the hedge or the burrow, over and above the beasts of the chase and the warren, according to the ancient writers, is to be called 'rascal.'" The hog is likewise placed under ban by the Hindus and strict Buddhists, and is still generally regarded as unclean by the Mohammedans. But the Mohammedans and Hindus have no cuisine worthy of the name, and what were a cuisine without the resources supplied by his inexhaustible larder! The religious tenet of the Israelites by which the swine is proscribed as an article of diet is honoured more in the breach than in the observance. The Chinese have ever been fond of his savoury flesh, and it may be said that with nearly all nations he forms one of the leading staples of consumption. With the onion and that priceless herb parsley, which stimulates appetite, facilitates digestion, and renders nearly all sauces more attractive, he forms one of the most indispensable adjuncts of alimentation. Deprived of his lardship, the onion tribe, and parsley, cookery would soon decline, if indeed the skilled practitioner would not find it well-nigh impossible to exercise his art.

Despite what slanderous tongues of the East may utter to his discredit, therefore, the weight of evidence as to his utility remains overwhelmingly in his favour. We do not necessarily require him in our parlours; his true place is the kitchen and the dining-room. Think how unendurable life would be without him! Of all beasts he is the one whose empire is most universal, and whose worth is least attested. It is true that a eulogistic but now unprocurable work of forty-eight pages was written in Modena in 1761 by D. Giuseppe Ferrari, with the title "Gli Elogi del Porco." A treatise entitled "Dissertation sur le Cochon," by M. Buc'hoz, published in 1789, is also cited. But as this appeared in a series of monographs relating to coffee, cacao, and various fruits, and has been passed by without comment, it probably treats the quadruped merely from a sordid point of view, and possesses no interest unless to the husbandman and stock-raiser.

Few have sung his praises, and, with the exception of Southey's colloquial poem, no genethliac has been addressed to him in English rhyme. Monselet has apostrophised him in a poem wherein he terms him "cher ange," and M. Pouvoisin, in "La Mort du Goret," has tenderly referred to him as "mon frère." His _oraison funèbre_ is worthy of Bossuet:

"Fameux par sa naissance et par son éleveur,
Il est mort, le goret, célèbre à tant de titres:
C'est un deuil, mais un deuil qui n'est pas sans saveur;
Versons des pleurs, amis, surtout versons des litres!
Il était si mignon, si lardé, si soyeux:
Nous l'aimions! Maintenant qu'il a subi la flamme,
Qu'il est accommodé, qu'il est délicieux;
Nous lui servons de tombe, et nous en mangeons l'âme.
Dans la profonde paix des estomacs gourmands,
Son échine avec sa fressure vont descendre;
Il n'avait pas rêvé, dans ses gras ronflements,
D'un semblable caveau pour contenir sa cendre.
C'est un honneur bien dû. Quel que soit ton regret
Des repas plantureux, du son, de l'auge pleine,
Tu peux t'enorgueillir, ô mon frère, ô goret.
Nous allons te changer, nous, en substance humaine!"

(Of birth renowned, entitled well to boast,
And reared with care, the little pig is dead:
We sorrow, but we scent the savoury roast,
And mix a bumper while our tears we shed.
We loved him, silky-soft, and plump, and fine,
And now that he has felt the crisping fire
We wait his soul and body to enshrine,
A morsel for an epicure's desire.
He little thought, when grunting in his pen,
That, seasoned thus to tickle gourmand taste,
His chine would glide down throats of feasting men,
And to a noble tomb within us haste.
Regret not, little pig, thine early fate:
Honours are thine beyond the fattening sty,--
We eat thee, brother, and incorporate
Thy substance, thus, in our humanity.)[30]

Another poet, in a "Hymn to the Truffle," has accorded him a semi-complimentary stanza, referring to him as "a useful animal." A mediocre sonnet has also been addressed to him by Ernest d'Hervilly in a series of seven tributes to the oyster, the pig, the gudgeon, the rabbit, the roebuck, the herring, and the lobster.

"Man's ingratitude toward him," as Grimod de la Reynière remarks in the "Almanach," "has basely reviled the name of the animal that is the most useful to the human race when he is no more. He is treated as the Abbé Geoffroy treats Voltaire; his memory is defamed whilst his flesh is being savoured, and he is repaid with ironical contempt for the ineffable pleasures he procures for us."

His classic Porcosity! sacred to Thor, patron of St. Anthony, the device of Richard III, the favourite animal of Morland and Jacque, how ungenerously he has been treated!

"All his habits are gross, all his appetites are impure; his stomach is unbounded and his gluttony unparalleled," say his calumniators. Yet, in fact, he is no more unclean than most domestic beasts, any lapses in this respect being due to man and to the evil communications to which he has been subjected under domestication. The wild hog is proverbially cleanly, and is almost exclusively a vegetarian. In his natural state his courage is undaunted. The peccary will challenge the jaguar, while the wild boar is not unfrequently victorious in his combats with the tiger himself.

"In this animal," says Beauvilliers, "there is almost nothing to cast aside." Without him there were, in truth, an aching void and an empty cuisine,--no lard, no hams, no bacon; no sausages, no spare-rib, no larded _filets_ and game; no truffles and scientifically blended _pâtés_; no souse or headcheese; no "Dissertation on Roast Pig"; no chine "with rising bristles roughly spread." His ways are ways of fatness, and all his paths are progressive. He not only seeks to instruct, like Virgil; but seeks to please, like Theocritus. Civilisation radiates from him as light from a prism. With his increase culture advances, wealth accumulates, and cookery improves. And think of the services of his ploughshare to the farmer, whose orchards in many cases would otherwise remain untilled!

His unctuous Lardship! the very fat and marrow of the stock-exchange, the grease of the commercial wheel. Did he not directly furnish the inspiration to Dubufe for one of the grandest paintings the world has produced--the "Return of the Prodigal Son" who shared his husks--to say nothing of Hogarth and the Scottish poet Hogg, whose ode "To a Skylark" is scarcely excelled by Shelley's, and whose "Kilmeny" is enduring among poetic strains? And what were the spirited hunting scenes of Weenix, Sneyders, and Oudry without the great wild boar?

In the fourth canto of "The Faerie Queene" he is pictured as the symbol of gluttony:

"And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony,
Deformèd creature on a filthy swine.
His belly was upblown with luxury,
And eke with fatness swollen was his eyne.
Full of diseases was his carcass blew,
And a dry Dropsie through his flesh did flow,
Which by misdiet daily greater grew;
Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew."

But is he a glutton? and has he not been outrageously reviled by Spenser as well as by the poets in general? Is it fair to accept the dogmas and predications concerning his status, his vulgarity, and his voracity that have been bequeathed him from time immemorial? Is he not a _gourmet_ rather than a _gourmand_? Does he not infinitely prefer the smallest truffle of Périgord to the hugest pumpkin of the fat prairies of the West? Not only inordinately fond of the truffle, without which a pâté de foie gras were a flower without perfume, he is the great hunter of this highly prized esculent, recognising with Autolycus that a good nose is requisite to smell out work for the other senses. Yet even then he is thanklessly treated by man, who, instead of remunerating him with an occasional tuber, grudgingly tosses him a few kernels of corn. The despised razorback of the South, in like manner, steadfastly performs his mission of waging war upon the rattlesnake without ever having been chosen as the emblem of a State.

To the epicure he must ever bring to mind the perfumed product of the sunny provinces of Guienne and Dauphiné, the artists of Alsace, and the _Wurstmachereis_ of Germany. His fondness for the truffle, as instanced in the wild boar, far exceeds that of the hare, the squirrel, and the deer; and although the basset-hound and sheep-dog are also of service in locating the tuber, the pig not only points it, but deftly uproots it for the greedy hand of man. The pig seeks it by instinct; the dog, through long and patient training. The pig's education is accomplished in a few lessons by obtaining his confidence and appealing to his epicurean taste. A boiled potato accompanied with a few truffle peelings is placed in a mound of sand, after finding which the animal is rewarded by a few chestnuts, acorns, or kernels of maize--and the rest is left to his infallible memory. In fact, the discovery of the truffle is due to the animal under consideration. "His long snout," says La Reynière, "perceived the odour of this treasure at a depth of several metres. Up to this time, without a doubt, it had been reserved for the table of some evil genius jealous of the happiness of man; by his cunning he concealed it from the researches of the scientist, and some fairy, a friend of the human race, charged the pig, whose keen scent the goblin had forgotten to forefend, to mine the buried marvel and bring it to the light of day. However this may be, the first pig that discovered the truffle had excellent taste; there is no _bel esprit_ to-day who is not eager to imitate him."[31]

The boar's head, likewise, how suggestive of good cheer! It at once takes one back to the great baronial dining-halls, the Knights of the Round Table, and the feasts and wassails of eld. It suggests the joyous festivals of harvest-home and Yule, with the chief table on the dais and the tables for retainers and servants, when the family and attendants assembled amid the blaze of the great hearth-fire and the music of the harpers and minstrels.

Again, consider his lovely appetite, exquisite digestion, and imperturbable slumbers that many a millionaire would gladly part with half his riches to obtain. The papillæ of his tongue are never furred by dyspepsia, flatulence, gout, or the spleen. Proverbially on the best of terms with his stomach, he needs no podophyllin, bicarbonates, or Hunyadi. Sudden variations of temperature affect him not, while all latitudes are equally conducive to his longevity. Ennui is to him unknown, and life is never a burden, unless it be the trifling burden of the weight he carries. He sleeps and eats and digests, and in his own way solves the problem of content that is still unsolved by man.

His blithesome Porkship! his graces steal into the heart insensibly if one be a minute philosopher. No cock-crowing or turkey-gobbling, no lowing of kine or bleating of flocks, no screaming of hawks or cawing of crows may vie as an expression of the rural landscape with his complacent grunt of satisfaction and "high-piping _Pehlevi_" of triumph. A vibrant chord of melody when snouted and bristled disputants crowd and jostle around the trough or squeal and scramble within the pen, it yet requires a more potent mediumship to draw forth in its fullest measure the piercing treble of the porcine lyre. Rather let us hear it, _arrectis auribus_, rising sonorously along the highway or drifting adown some reverberant lane, with the dog as the plectrum of the ham-strings. Thomson, less gracious but more observant than Lamb, recognised his accomplishments as a lyrist, and in a stanza in "The Castle of Indolence," a complement to the stanza cited from "The Faerie Queene," thus apostrophises his power of song:

"Ev'n so through Brentford town, a town of mud,
An herd of bristly swine is pricked along;
The filthy beasts that never chew the cud
Still grunt and squeak, and sing their troublous song,
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among:
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on,
And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng
Make them renew their unmelodious moan;
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone."

Like Spenser, Thomson has grossly traduced him, except so far as his musical gifts are concerned, though in this respect he might have been more discriminating in the use of his adjectives. Why "troublous" and "unmelodious," in place of expressing his thrilling _arpeggio_ of song?

But it is for qualities more sterling than those of a vocal nature that the confrère of the cook deserves recognition. He has his trifling faults, to be sure--who is without them? He is obstinate in being driven to market, perhaps, knowing the fate which awaits him, and possibly his assurance may be somewhat obnoxious at public gatherings. It is admitted also that his _savoir faire_ at table, while distinguished for _aplomb_, is not entirely without alloy. But although the ill-mannered among his tribe occasionally thrust their feet not under but upon the mahogany, and are sometimes guilty of elbowing one another at mealtime, yet it must be conceded that they are never late at their engagements to dine; neither do they ever commit that unpardonable breach of etiquette--eating with a knife. It is a _belle fourchette_ rather than a fine blade they ply.

The late Horace Greeley, to repeat a well-known story, tells of a farmer who drove a herd of Yorkshires to market,--

"When meads with slime were sprent, and ways with mire,"--

the march proving so fatiguing to his charges that they shrank in flesh and had to be disposed of at a sacrifice on finally arriving at their destination. When asked on his return how much he had realised from the transaction, he replied he had made nothing out of his charges themselves--"_he had had the pleasure of their company, though_." This point, through a singular oversight,--the idea is the same and equally charming everywhere,--Leigh Hunt has not touched upon in his essay "On the Graces and Anxieties of Pig-Driving." It may be of interest to those whose manuscripts have been rejected to know that Hunt's exquisite conceit was refused by the magazine to which it was addressed, but fortunately it was not on this account consigned to the waste-basket, but lives and is embalmed with Lamb's dissertation.

"I could never understand to this day," writes Hunt in his autobiography, "what it is that made the editor of a magazine reject an article which I wrote, with the mock-heroic title of 'The Graces and Anxieties of Pig-Driving.' I used to think he found something vulgar in the title. He declared it was not he who rejected it, but the proprietor of the magazine. The proprietor, on the other hand, declared that it was not he who rejected it, but the editor. I published it in a magazine of my own, 'The Companion,' and found it hailed as one of my best pieces of writing."

This reference of Hunt's recalls a piquant _épigramme_ of lamb that is not down in the cook-books. It was when the writer was taking his departure from an old Paris bookstall, a number of years ago, that, as he turned to leave, the proprietor remarked:

"Monsieur perhaps might like to glance at an English work, '_sur l'Agneau_,' which came in with some other volumes recently."

The volume in question referred, indeed, to "lamb," and proved to be the excessively rare first edition of "The Essays of Elia" (London, 1823). It was slightly foxed, but otherwise in excellent condition, and contained some marginal annotations in manuscript. On carefully examining the handwriting, we became convinced it was that of Charles Lamb--there could be no possible doubt of it. The only writing on the fly-leaf was, "To W. W., from C. L."--the "W. W." presumably being William Wordsworth. In the volume, since attired by the binder as it deserves, are several slight alterations in "The South Sea House," and some addenda to "Valentine's Day."

But by far the most important annotation occurs in "A Dissertation on Roast Pig." It is apparent at a glance that this was a serious afterthought ere the volume left the author's hands and the types confronted him with any lapses he had made--an apology, in fact, on the part of the author for whatever reference might be considered disparaging or in any wise inconsiderate as regards the worth of the elder animal. For, in consistency, a jewel that sparkles throughout the pages of "Elia," the parents might not be reviled without reflecting upon the children. Moreover, however "mild and dulcet" a nursling pigling, roasted _secundum artem_, may be to those of educated tastes, it is a dish that cloys from its very mellifluence if repeated too often, whereas in pork matured it is invariably a case of cut and come again.

From the volume and chapter in question we transcribe the annotation, _verbatim et literatim_, where it follows, as a postscript, the concluding line, "he is a weakling--a flower":

"Methinks my mind (animadverted by the infant pearl) hath been
too evasive. There is he who, having shed the downy robes
of childhood, is clad in the _toga virilis_ of a glorious
chief. Hast thou ever on occasion savoured his matured nether
extremities, if haply thou wert blessed with an appetite and
appreciation commensurate with their unctuous worth? Regard
those feet--those parsley-garnished feet! See the pearly
whiteness of the ankles, the coral pink of the petitoes!
Meseems a man might arise in the small hours of a winter
morning to savour such a dish. It should summon the shade of
Lucullus. It should not only reconcile man to his lot, but it
should render him thankful for it. Imagine the passion of a
stricken youth (stricken by the pedal glories and faultless
poise of a Taglioni), and then note by comparison the exalted
rapture which should be engendered by _such_ feet as these!

"In wandering through Covent Garden market, and passing from
floral dreams to the vegetables, I often pause before the
peas. Do I yearn for them in their adolescence? do I associate
them with the duckling and the lamb? Nay; I await a time when
they shall have folded and creased within themselves their
_perfected_ saccharine excellence, to be released in the
kitchen of the winter.

"I can see a pig--a pig of one hundred and eighty
pounds--classical in all the tints of its marble freshness.
It sheds its internal graces in an excellent and cleanly
market. With deft execution the white-aproned purveyor removes
a _spare-rib_ from a side. Then in front of the site of the
_spare-rib_ there remains an area of unequalled promise--a
tract of the most delightsome possibilities. Let a piece be
cut about fourteen inches long and eight wide, when after it
has hung two or three days, I counsel thee to submerge it in
sweet pickle for a week. Then boil it with a quart of the
garden peas, with a shred, a hint, a sigh of onion. Allow it
to cool, and when freed of every vestige of vegetable matter,
place it in a garnished dish.

"No poem ever stirred the human heart, no slab of tessellated
pavement ever fired the archæologist, with respectful interest
akin to that evoked by this entrancing esculent. It is a fresh
wave in the sea of sapors--an approximation, a convolution
of two entities divinely transfused, which to conceive, it
must be tasted. It elevates the sense of taste to the highest
pinnacle of human aspiration. It is a _memory_ to inspire
gentle thoughts and tranquillize the mind; a _presence_ that
is a beatitude, and that looms in the visions of the future as
a thing to live for."

Less secretive than communicative in most of his ways, the hog is nevertheless an enigma as regards his natural term of life. Not that for a moment his native modesty forbids his announcing his age, or that his lease of life equals that of Epimenides, but that, owing to circumstances over which he has no control,--the greed and voracity of man,--he is handicapped from proclaiming the full extent of his longevity. "The natural age of a hog's life is little known," observes the learned Hampshire rector-naturalist; "and the reason is plain--because it is neither profitable nor convenient to keep that turbulent animal to the full extent of its time." The man were a dolt who would take exceptions to White's natural-history observations, so lucidly and delightfully set forth in the pages of "Selborne." And yet, so great was his sympathy for all animals and dumb creatures, may not the term "turbulent" have been possibly a slip of the pen or fault of the types for "buoyant" or "complacent," with no malice prepense, as in the case of Spenser and the generality of the poets?

His _bonhomie_ and engaging nature are seldom considered, unless by a few humanitarians or interested trainers of animals. Yet what possibilities does he not present as a companion to man, were man not so eager for his slaughter, and were he to receive the same encouragements as the cat and the dog! A case is cited by Frank Buckland of a hog at Guildford that followed its master daily on his walks, and whose instinct, agility, and affection could be equalled only by the canine species. Hamerton also mentions a wild boar in France which became domesticated and regularly accompanied his master to the village church and would not be excluded, but came at last, by the toleration of the curé, to hear mass like a Christian, till finally he grew to an alarming size and was sold to a travelling menagerie. The hog has been known in numerous instances to set and retrieve various kinds of game with an intelligence equal to that of the most blue-blooded pointer or setter, and even to exceed the canine species in acuteness of scent and staunchness. A wager was once made in England that with a hog trained on game the owner could kill more grouse on the moors than either of his two competitors with their dogs, the result being considerably in favour of the challenging party.

"If the pig had wings and could soar above the hedges," says an appreciative writer in the old German "Kreuterbuch," "he would be regarded as the best and most magnificent of fowls!" Is he not, moreover, with his boon companion the domestic goose (likewise a _douceur_ of the table when served with applesauce), one of the most reliable of weather prophets, becoming restless and uttering loud cries at the approach of a storm?

In any event, whatever deprivation the non-development of his social qualities may have occasioned, he still shines supreme as a utilitarian, a stimulus to gastronomy, and a promoter of the polite arts. Some there are, perchance, who have cursorily regarded the obligations we owe him as a purveyor of our comforts so far as relates to the hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, and nail-brushes he has kindly provided. The saddler and trunk-maker no doubt appreciate him after a fashion, as did the conscientious bookbinder of old, with whom he figured indirectly as a confrère in _belles-lettres_. But who among the recipients of his many bounties has paused to consider the inestimable influence he has exercised upon one of the greatest of the romantic or fine arts, without which the most celebrated canvases of the world had never existed, and the art of painting, if not utterly abandoned, must languish of necessity for lack of his bristles to lay on the pigments? For, with the exception of the minute brushes made from the soft fur of the red sable for detail work, he contributes, if not the artist's genius itself, at least the chief vehicle with which it is possible to render it enduring.

One by one he has felt the pictures of Raphael, Titian, Correggio, and Guido pulsate beneath the artist's brush; while later, in another land, he was instrumental in fixing the harmonics of Velasquez's and Murillo's marvellous colouring. He has witnessed the growing fame of Turner and surveyed the miles of glowing flesh that Rubens has painted. With Watteau and Boucher, he has gazed on many a fair shepherdess and pastoral scene, and, with Jacque and Mauve, helped the shepherd drive his fleecy flock. He has basked in the sunny atmosphere of Cuyp, Wynants, and Van der Neer, and watched the radiant face of woman assume a heightened charm through the genius of Lely and Reynolds. He has viewed the frail beauties of the harem with Gérôme, and marked the roseate twilight deepen over Venice with Ziem. A silent spectator of the great pageant of Art, he has beheld Le Brun and Vernet depict the carnage of the battle-field, and Poussin, Claude, and Constable open enchanting vistas of landscape. Contemplating the progress of modern art, he sees Diaz and Daubigny, Bouguereau and Meissonier, Vibert and Verestchagin, Corot and Inness, and how many others! seated upon the throne of undying fame and wielding the sceptre which he himself has supplied.

His illustrious Bristleousness! Were it not for man's ingratitude and his overpowering worth upon the shambles, he would long since have been canonised and figure as the joint symbol of the useful and the romantic arts.

Consider him likewise in his ferine state as most closely related to nature, moving majestically through the fastnesses of his native stronghold, toothed and tushed for war, indigenous and mighty as the oaks which yield him their mast or the trees of the jungles through which he treads. "The jungle path is his as much as the tiger's," writes the Indian sportsman and naturalist, Shakespeare; "the native shikarries affirm that the wild boar will quench his thirst at the river between two tigers, and I believe this to be strictly the truth. The tiger and the boar have been heard fighting in the jungle at night, and both have been found dead alongside of one another in the morning." It was a wild boar that slew Adonis; and by none, not even by Baryé, has the animal been more vividly depicted than by Shakespeare in the warning of Venus:

"'Thou hadst boon gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this
But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O be advised! thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes, never sheathed, he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

"'On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret,
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
Being moved he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.

"'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part; through whom he rushes.'"

As for his domesticated brother, to come back to our _cochons_, let him be aspersed as he may--we have seen the manifold benefits he has procured for us and the plane he rightly occupies in the evolution of mankind. Without him the kitchen were well-nigh impracticable, and, deprived of his services, gastronomy were an obsolete word.

AMERICAN _VS._ ENGLISH COOKERY

"The finest landscape in the world is improved by a good inn
in the foreground."

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Strictly speaking, there exists as yet no general high-class English or American cuisine, beyond the natural alimentary resources of these countries, supplemented by the efforts of foreign cooks. There are certain native dishes of merit in England, to be sure, and there is a so-termed Southern and Eastern kitchen in the United States where not a few dishes are admirably prepared. But the art of baking bread and of pastry-making, as well as that of frying, is, alas! lacking to a great extent in both countries, while the entrée is still largely an uncertain quantity with the housewife. There is a lack, likewise, both in England and in America, of a proper understanding of sauces, and this is the more to be regretted on the score of their appetising qualities, the variety they impart to the flavour of viands, and, where the properties of the numerous seasonings and condiments are thoroughly understood, the beneficent effect they lend to digestion.

From the engraving by J. W. Snow.]

It were misleading, however, to decry the old-fashioned American home kitchen. Smile as ye may, ye devotees of the Gallic art, the New World has its dishes that are not to be despised. What fonts of delectation well not forth from the apple-, the mince-, and the pumpkin-pie! And what caressing sapors linger not in the buckwheat cake and nectar of the maple grove, the corn and the sweet-potato "pone," the corned beef and cabbage, and even the corn-on-the-cob itself, if of the "Country Gentleman" or "Stowell's Evergreen" variety! The planked shad, the clam chowder, the terrapin à la Maryland, the plebeian pork and beans, and the more recent pâté of oyster-crabs and lobster à la Newburgh surely need no one to sound their praises. The _Fuligula vallisneria_ of the Chesapeake occupies so exalted a plane that it is sufficient to lift one's hat at the mere thought of him; and then reflect how admirably the ruffed grouse, the prairie-chicken, or a celery-fed redhead may supply his place when occasion requires. And has not America contributed the potato, the tomato, and tobacco, and taught the world how to cross a continent in a dining-car! That the English are jealous of American products cannot be doubted when one remembers the remark of Sydney Smith, who was asked by one of his friends why he did not visit America. "I fully intended going," was his reply, "but my parishioners held a meeting and came to a resolution that they could not trust me with the canvasback ducks; and I felt they were right, so I gave up the project."