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 . 5, 1861.] but so to change oneself as to be really insensible is unnatural. Don’t care what they eat! Take an extreme case. There must be something wrong about a man who would munch with uniform indifference a pine-apple or a carrot. Those, however, who profess not to care for delicacies, when it comes to the proof are often found to mean that they don’t care for what other people esteem delicacies, having themselves a particular appetite for and enjoyment in tasting some vulgar dish—such as sheep’s-head and trotters. In fact, their boast generally ends in establishing only the coarseness of their own taste. It would be curious—yes, instructive—to inquire how far epicures help to educate and civilise a people. Man has been defined as a cooking animal. Delicate eating accompanies other refinements. But how far is its cookery the measure of a nation’s worth? I leave my readers to pursue these thoughts, noticing myself one apparent good result from dainty and expensive feeding. Every fruit and vegetable sold at a large price is a reward of skilful scientific gardening. Did no one really care for very early peas, or what not, probably few or none would be grown. Horticulture, as a science, would want its strongest support if there were no bon-vivants. Think how much stimulus is given to gardening as well as to cookery by an elaborate and expensive meal. A dinner at so many guineas a-head represents genuine talent and work in several professions, though it may imply some sensuality in the guests. In forming a fair judgment on the matter we must consider those who produce, quite as much as those who consume. If, as Sydney Smith says, the object of all government is roast mutton, what the newspapers call “recherché entertainments” may be closely allied with political power, and the Ministerial Fish-dinner measure the strength of the cabinet.

There is, no doubt, a waste of supporting power in the cookery of many poor people. I do not refer merely to the material—the meat which is burnt or the gravy which is spilt—but to the small solace and comfort got in proportion to the bulk of food which is prepared at last. It is not so nice, and therefore not so nutritious, as it might be. Soyer was one of the greatest of philanthropists; but even his shilling book is too elaborate for very uneducated people. The thousands which have been sold must have cheered many a home; we want, however, something simpler—best of all, more practical elementary teaching about cookery in connection with national schools. If inspectors required less physical geography and had an examination in (say) boiling potatoes, it would be a step in the right direction. I would have the girls bring up their exercises in clean wooden bowls. The children should be allowed only such cooking means as they had at home. In the upper classes there might be prizes for puddings and other portions, cheap though not nasty.

Indeed, without some practical knowledge of the art, books on cookery are almost useless, just as the juiciest description of a dinner is thrown away on those unnatural people who do not care what they eat.

As an illustration of the influence of cookery, I will mention an anecdote which you may have stumbled on yourself. A great eater, famed more for capacity than discernment, bet that he would consume in ten minutes any two shillings’ worth of wholesome human food, however combined. His adversary took four pots of threepenny ale, and emptied them into a very large pie-dish, then he soaked in it twelve penny rolls, and, presenting the result to the eater, with a spoon, bade him begin. He did so, but could not finish the mess within the wagered limit.

Of course there is much more to be said about dinner. Under what forms does dinner appear? The greedy debauch—the prolonged civic feast—the sudden, but complete meal, quite French, that which is provided, say at Macon, for travellers between Paris and Geneva, or Marseilles, where you find the cork of your bottle of wine ready drawn, and see the last plate or two of soup poured out as the train “arrests itself,” and the guard says “Macon,” “vingt minutes.”

Then there is the lunch-dinner,—a delusive compound. The monotonous chop, over which the unimaginative bachelor grins, day after day. The heavy tea—also a mistake. The felon’s dinner rations—sullen hunger, and a scraped pannikin.

Some persons object to the smell of cooking. That depends. Who does not recollect Dickens’s description of the stew-pot at the Jolly Sandboys, in “The Old Curiosity Shop”? How, when the cunning landlord took off the lid, and the savour of the mess filled the room, not a traveller but made up his mind to stop,—altogether dismissing what feeble thought he had about pushing on another mile or two that night. As for the smell of dinner, I say that depends. One man rings the bell violently, and is fierce about the kitchen door; another sniffs, and is silent.

Which is best? A good appetite, and a bad dinner; or bad appetite, and a good dinner?

Don’t answer without thinking. There are good sauces besides hunger. A bad dinner is not only unpleasant, but unwholesome. Conceive great appetites and bad dinners universal. The blacks in Australia will eat eight or ten pounds of strong kangaroo at one go. There is much to be said in favour of less hunger and better food. Well! I suppose there is a medium in the matter,—as the hearsay philosopher affirms.

At any rate, please don’t pretend a contempt for cookery. There is nothing in the world, my good friend, which you could so ill afford to lose. You don’t care what you eat! You deserve to have every spit, range, and pot pass out of creation, and to die of scurvy!

Charity dinners are, though not exclusively, yet eminently English. There is first, the fact of dinner on which to build, around which the floating philanthropy gathers, under which it developes itself. The feeder of the hungry must first be fed himself. There is, I say, first the realisation of the charity in company with the word “dinner,” then the actual influence of the food upon the donor. The old Madeira—the mellow speech of the honourable chairman—the donation—the—well, I suppose I had better be honest—the curtain lecture—. But I must have done, though I might say much more. The subject is endless: every one is more or less a