A Dissertation Upon Roast Pig & Other Essays

by Charles Lamb

  O happy sick men, that are groaning under the want of that very thing the excess of which is my torment! O fortunate, too fortunate, if you knew your happiness, invalids! What would I not give to exchange this fierce concoctive and digestive heat, – this rabid fury which vexes me, which tears and torments me, – for your quiet, mortified, hermit-like, subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool, chastened inclinations, and coy desires for food!

  To what unhappy figuration of the parts intestine I owe this unnatural craving, I must leave to the anatomists and the physicians to determine: they, like the rest of the world, have doubtless their eye upon me; and as I have been cut up alive by the sarcasms of my friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the probability that this animal frame, when its restless appetites shall have ceased their importunity, may be cut up also (horrible suggestion!) to determine in what system of solids or fluids this original sin of my constitution lay lurking. What work will they make with their acids and alkalines, their serums and coagulums, effervescences, viscous matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious juices, to explain that cause which Nature, who willed the effect to punish me for my sins, may no less have determined to keep in the dark from them, to punish them for their presumption!

  You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what purpose is my appeal to you; what can you do for me? Alas! I know too well that my case is out of the reach of advice, – out of the reach of consolation. But it is some relief to the wounded heart to impart its tale of misery; and some of my acquaintance, who may read my case in your pages under a borrowed name, may be induced to give it a more humane consideration than I could ever yet obtain from them under my own. Make them, if possible, to reflect, that an original peculiarity of constitution is no crime; that not that which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, but that which comes out of it, – such as sarcasm, bitter jests, mocks and taunts, and ill-natured observations; and let them consider, if there be such things (which we have all heard of) as Pious Treachery, Innocent Adultery, &c., whether there may not be also such a thing as Innocent Gluttony.

  I shall only subscribe myself,

  Your afflicted servant,

  EDAX.

  Hospita on the Immoderate Indulgence of the Pleasures of the Palate

  To the Editor of ‘The Reflector’

  MR. REFLECTOR, – My husband and I are fond of company, and being in easy circumstances, we are seldom without a party to dinner two or three days in a week. The utmost cordiality has hitherto prevailed at our meetings; but there is a young gentleman, a near relation of my husband’s, that has lately come among us, whose preposterous behaviour bids fair, if not timely checked, to disturb our tranquillity. He is too great a favourite with my husband in other respects, for me to remonstrate with him in any other than this distant way. A letter printed in your publication may catch his eye; for he is a great reader, and makes a point of seeing all the new things that come out. Indeed, he is by no means deficient in understanding. My husband says that he has a good deal of wit; but for my part I cannot say I am any judge of that, having seldom observed him open his mouth except for purposes very foreign to conversation. In short, Sir, this young gentleman’s failing is, an immoderate indulgence of his palate. The first time he dined with us, he thought it necessary to extenuate the length of time he kept the dinner on the table, by declaring that he had taken a very long walk in the morning, and came in fasting; but as that excuse could not serve above once or twice at most, he has latterly dropped the mask altogether, and chosen to appear in his own proper colours without reserve or apology.

  You cannot imagine how unpleasant his conduct has become. His way of staring at the dishes as they are brought in, has absolutely something immodest in it: it is like the stare of an impudent man of fashion at a fine woman, when she first comes into a room. I am positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot help thinking they have consciousness, and will be put out of countenance, he treats them so like what they are not.

  Then again he makes no scruple of keeping a joint of meat on the table, after the cheese and fruit are brought in, till he has what he calls done with it. Now how awkward this looks, where there are ladies, you may judge, Mr. Reflector, – how it disturbs the order and comfort of a meal. And yet I always make a point of helping him first, contrary to all good manners, – before any of my female friends are helped, – that he may avoid this very error. I wish he would eat before he comes out.

  What makes his proceedings more particularly offensive at our house is, that my husband, though out of common politeness he is obliged to set dishes of animal food before his visitors, yet himself and his whole family, (myself included) feed entirely on vegetables. We have a theory, that animal food is neither wholesome nor natural to man; and even vegetables we refuse to eat until they have undergone the operation of fire, in consideration of those numberless little living creatures which the glass helps us to detect in every fibre of the plant or root before it be dressed. On the same theory we boil our water, which is our only drink, before we suffer it to come to table. Our children are perfect little Pythagoreans: it would do you good to see them in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, figs, raisins, and milk, which is the only approach to animal food which is allowed. They have no notion how the substance of a creature that ever had life can become food for another creature. A beef-steak is an absurdity to them; a mutton-chop, a solecism in terms; a cutlet, a word absolutely without any meaning; a butcher is nonsense, except so far as it is taken for a man who delights in blood, or a hero. In this happy state of innocence we have kept their minds, not allowing them to go into the kitchen, or to hear of any preparations for the dressing of animal food, or even to know that such things are practised. But as a state of ignorance is incompatible with a certain age, and as my eldest girl, who is ten years old next Midsummer, must shortly be introduced into the world and sit at table with us, where she will see some things which will shock all her received notions, I have been endeavouring by little and little to break her mind, and prepare it for the disagreeable impressions which must be forced upon it. The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I could see her recoil from it with the same horror with which we listen to a tale of Anthropophagism; but she has gradually grown more reconciled to it, in some measure, from my telling her that it was the custom of the world, – to which, however senseless, we must submit, so far as we could do it with innocence, not to give offence; and she has shown so much strength of mind on other occasions, which I have no doubt is owing to the calmness and serenity superinduced by her diet, that I am in good hopes when the proper season for her début arrives, she may be brought to endure the sight of a roasted chicken or a dish of sweet-breads for the first time without fainting. Such being the nature of our little household, you may guess what inroads into the economy of it, – what revolutions and turnings of things upside down, the example of such a feeder as Mr. — is calculated to produce.

  I wonder, at a time like the present, when the scarcity of every kind of food is so painfully acknowledged, that shame has no effect upon him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus’s Thoughts on the Ratio of Food to Population? Can he think it reasonable that one man should consume the sustenance of many?

  The young gentleman has an agreeable air and person, such as are not unlikely to recommend him on the score of matrimony. But his fortune is not over large; and what prudent young woman would think of embarking hers with a man who would bring three or four mouths (or what is equivalent to them) into a family? She might as reasonably choose a widower in the same circumstances, with three or four children.

  I cannot think who he takes after. His father and mother, by all accounts, were very moderate eaters; only I have heard that the latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and the former had a tedious custom of sitting long at his meals. Perhaps he takes after both.

  I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, Mr. Reflector, and give us your ideas on the subject of excessive eating, and, particularly, of animal food.

  H
OSPITA.

  The Months

  Rummaging over the contents of an old stall at a half book, half old iron shop, in an alley leading from Wardourstreet to Soho-square yesterday, I lit upon a ragged duodecimo, which had been the strange delight of my infancy, and which I had lost sight of for more than forty years: – the ‘QUEEN-LIKE CLOSET, or RICH CABINET’; written by Hannah Woolly, and printed for R. C. and T. S. 1681; being an abstract of receipts in cookery, confectionery, cosmetics, needlework, morality, and all such branches of what were then considered as female accomplishments. The price demanded was sixpence, which the owner (a little squab duodecimo of a character himself) enforced with the assurance that his ‘own mother should not have it for a farthing less.’ On my demurring at this extraordinary assertion, the dirty little vendor re-enforced his assertion with a sort of oath, which seemed more than the occasion demanded: ‘and now (said he) I have put my soul to it.’ Pressed by so solemn an asseveration, I could no longer resist a demand which seemed to set me, however unworthy, upon a level with his dearest relations; and depositing a tester, I bore away the tattered prize in triumph. I remembered a gorgeous description of the twelve months of the year, which I thought would be a fine substitute for those poetical descriptions of them which your Every-Day Book had nearly exhausted out of Spenser. This will be a treat, thought I, for friend HONE. To memory they seemed no less fantastic and splendid than the other. But, what are the mistakes of childhood! – on reviewing them, they turned out to be only a set of commonplace receipts for working the seasons, months, heathen gods and goddesses, etc., in samplers! Yet as an instance of the homely occupations of our great-grandmothers, they may be amusing to some readers: ‘I have seen,’ says the notable Hannah Woolly, ‘such Ridiculous things done in work, as it is an abomination to any Artist to behold. As for example: You may find in some Pieces, Abraham and Sarah, and many other Persons of Old time, Cloathed as they go now-a-daies, and truly sometimes worse; for they most resemble the Pictures on Ballads. Let all Ingenious Women have regard, that when they work any Image, to represent it aright. First, let it be Drawn well, and then observe the Directions which are given by Knowing Men. I do assure you, I never durst work any Scripture-Story without informing my self from the Ground of it; nor any other Story, or single Person, without informing my self both of the Visage and Habit; As followeth.

  ‘If you work Jupiter, the Imperial feigned God, He must have long, Black-Curled hair, a Purple Garment trimmed with Gold, and sitting upon a Golden Throne, with bright yellow Clouds about him.’

  THE TWELVE MONTHS OF THE YEAR

  March. Is drawn in Tawny, with a fierce aspect, a Helmet upon his head, and leaning on a Spade; and a Basket of Garden Seeds in his Left hand, and in his Right hand the Sign of Aries; and Winged.

  April. A Young Man in Green, with a Garland of Mirtle and Hawthorn-buds; Winged; in one hand Primroses and Violets, in the other the Sign Taurus.

  May. With a Sweet and lovely Countenance; clad in a Robe of White and Green, embroidered with several Flowres, upon his Head a garland of all manner of Roses; on the one hand a Nightingale, in the other a Lute. His sign must be Gemini.

  June. In a Mantle of dark Grass green; upon his Head a garland of Bents, Kings-Cups, and Maidenhair; in his Left hand an Angle, with a box of Cantharides; in his Right, the Sign Cancer; and upon his arms a Basket of seasonable Fruits.

  July. In a Jacket of light Yellow, eating Cherries; with his Face and Bosom Sun-burnt; on his Head a wreath of Centaury and wild Tyme; a Scythe on his shoulder, and a bottle at his girdle; carrying the Sign Leo.

  August. A Young Man of fierce and Cholerick aspect, in a Flame-coloured Garment; upon his Head a garland of Wheat and Rye, upon his Arm a Basket of all manner of ripe Fruits, at his Belt a Sickle. His Sign Virgo.

  September. A merry and chereful Countenance, in a Purple Robe, upon his Head a Wreath of red and white Grapes, in his Left hand a handful of Oats, withal carrying a Horn of Plenty, full of all manner of ripe Fruits; in his Right hand the Sign Libra.

  October. In a Garment of Yellow and Carnation, upon his head a garland of Oak-leaves with Akorns, in his Right hand the Sign Scorpio, in his Left hand a Basket of Medlars, Services, and Chestnuts; and any other Fruits then in Season.

  November. In a Garment of Changeable Green and Black, upon his Head a garland of Olives, with the Fruit in his Left hand, Bunches of Parsnips and Turnips in his Right. His Sign Sagittarius.

  December. A horrid and fearful aspect, clad in Irish-Rags, or coarse Freez girt unto him, upon his Head three or four Night-Caps, and over them a Turkish Turbant; his Nose red, his Mouth and Beard clog’d with Isicles, at his back a bundle of Holly, Ivy, or Mistletoe, holding in fur’d Mittens the Sign of Capricornus.

  January. Clad all in White, as the Earth looks with the Snow, blowing his nails; in his Left Arm a Bilet, the Sign Aquarius standing by his side.

  February. Cloathed in a dark Skie-colour, carrying in his Right hand the Sign Pisces.

  The following receipt, ‘To dress up a Chimney very fine for the Summer time, as I have done many, and they have been liked very well,’ may not be unprofitable to the housewives of this century.

  ‘First, take a pack-thred, and fasten it even to the inner part of the Chimney, so high as that you can see no higher as you walk up and down the House; you must drive in several Nails to hold up all your work; then get a good store of old green Moss from Trees, and melt an equal proportion of Bees-wax and Rosin together, and while it is hot, dip the wrong ends of the Moss in it, and presently clap it upon your pack-thred, and press it down hard with your hand; you must make hast, else it will cool before you can fasten it, and then it will fall down; do so all around where the pack-thred goes; and the next row you must joyn to that, so that it may seem all in one; thus do till you have finished it down to the bottom: then take some other kind of Moss, of a whitish-colour and stiff, and of several sorts or kinds, and place that upon the other, here and there carelessly, and in some places put a good deal, and some a little; then any kind of fine Snail-shels, in which the Snails are dead, and little Toad stools, which are very old, and look like Velvet, or any other thing that is old and pretty; place it here and there as your fancy serves, and fasten all with Wax and Rosin. Then for the Hearth of your Chimney, you may lay some Orpan-sprigs in order all over, and it will grow as it lies; and according to the Season, get what flowers you can, and stick in as if they grew, and a few sprigs of Sweet-Bryer: the Flowers you must renew every Week; but the Moss will last all the Summer, till it will be time to make a fire; and the Orpan will last near two Months. A Chimney thus done doth grace a Room exceedingly.’

  One phrase in the above should particularly recommend it to such of your female readers, as, in the nice language of the day, have done growing some time: ‘little toad-stools, etc. and any thing that is old and pretty.’ Was ever antiquity so smoothed over? The culinary recipes have nothing remarkable in them, except the costliness of them. Every thing (to the meanest meats) is sopped in claret, steeped in claret, basted with claret, as if claret were as cheap as ditch water. I remember Bacon recommends opening a turf or two in your garden walks, and pouring into each a bottle of claret, to recreate the sense of smelling, being no less grateful than beneficial. We hope the chancellor of the exchequer will attend to this in his next reduction of French wines, that we may once more water our gardens with right Bourdeaux. The medical recipes are as whimsical as they are cruel. Our ancestors were not at all effeminate on this head. Modern sentimentalists would shrink at a cock plucked and bruised in a mortar alive, to make a cullis; or a live mole baked in an oven (be sure it be alive) to make a powder for consumption. – But the whimsicalest of all are the directions to servants – (for this little book is a compendium of all duties,) – the footman is seriously admonished not to stand lolling against his master’s chair, while he waits at table; for ‘to lean on a chair, when they wait, is a particular favour shown to any superior servant, as the chief gentleman, or the
waiting woman when she rises from the table.’ Also he must not ‘hold the plates before his mouth to be defiled with his breath, nor touch them on the right [inner] side.’ Surely Swift must have seen this little treatise.

  Hannah concludes with the following address, by which the self-estimate which she formed of her usefulness, may be calculated:

  Ladies, I hope you’re pleas’d, and so shall I,

  If what I’ve writ, you may be gainers by:

  If not; it is your fault, it is not mine,

  Your benefit in this I do design.

  Much labour and much time it hath me cost,

  Therefore I beg, let none of it be lost.

  The money you shall pay for this my book,

  You’ll not repent of, when in it you look.

  No more at present to you I shall say,

  But wish you all the happiness I may.

  H. W.

  London Fogs

  In a well mix’d Metropolitan Fog, there is something substantial and satisfying – you can feel what you breathe, and see it too. It is like breathing water, as we may fancy fishes do. And then the taste of it, when dashed with a fine season of sea-coal smoke, is far from insipid.

  It is also meat and drink at the same time; something between egg-flip and Omelette soufflée, but much more digestible than either. Not that I would recommend it medicinally – especially to persons that have queasy stomachs, delicate nerves and afflicted with bile; but for persons of a good robust habit of body, and not dainty withal (which such, by the by, never are,) there is nothing better in its way. And it wraps you all round like a cloak, too – a patent waterproof one, which no rain ever penetrated. No; I maintain that a real London Fog is a thing not to be sneezed at – if you can help it.