四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第19部分

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of　gravy　starts　under　the　carving　knife！　Each　of　our　vegetables　yields　its　separate　and　characteristic　sweetness。　It　never　occurs　to　us　to　disguise　the　genuine　flavour　of　food；　if　such　a　process　be　necessary；　then　something　is　wrong　with　the　food　itself。　Some　wiseacre　scoffed　at　us　as　the　people　with　only　one　sauce。　The　fact　is；　we　have　as　many　sauces　as　we　have　kinds　of　meat；　each；　in　the　process　of　cookery；　yields　its　native　sap；　and　this　is　the　best　of　all　sauces　conceivable。　Only　English　folk　know　what　is　meant　by　GRAVY；　consequently；　the　English　alone　are　petent　to　speak　on　the　question　of　sauce。
To　be　sure；　this　culinary　principle　presupposes　food　of　the　finest　quality。　If　your　beef　and　your　mutton　have　flavours　scarcely　distinguishable；　whilst　both　this　and　that　might　conceivably　be　veal；　you　will　go　to　work　in　quite　a　different　way；　your　object　must　then　be　to　disguise；　to　counterfeit；　to　add　an　alien　relish……in　short；　to　do　anything　EXCEPT　insist　upon　the　natural　quality　of　the　viand。　Happily；　the　English　have　never　been　driven　to　these　expedients。　Be　it　flesh；　fowl；　or　fish；　each　es　to　table　so　distinctly　and　eminently　itself　that　by　no　possibility　could　it　be　confused　with　anything　else。　Give　your　average　cook　a　bit　of　cod；　and　tell　her　to　dress　it　in　her　own　way。　The　good　creature　will　carefully　boil　it；　and　there　an　end　of　the　matter；　and　by　no　exercise　of　art　could　she　have　so　treated　the　fish　as　to　make　more　manifest　and　enjoyable　that　special　savour　which　heaven　has　bestowed　upon　cod。　Think　of　our　array　of　joints；　how　royal　is　each　in　its　own　way；　and　how　utterly　unlike　any　of　the　others。　Picture　a　boiled　leg　of　mutton。　It　is　mutton；　yes；　and　mutton　of　the　best；　nature　has　bestowed　upon　man　no　sweeter　morsel；　but　the　same　joint　roasted　is　mutton　too；　and　how　divinely　different！　The　point　is　that　these　differences　are　natural；　that；　in　eliciting　them；　we　obey　the　eternal　law　of　things；　and　no　human　caprice。　Your　artificial　relish　is　here　not　only　needless；　but　offensive。
In　the　case　of　veal；　we　demand　〃stuffing。〃　Yes；　for　veal　is　a　somewhat　insipid　meat；　and　by　experience　we　have　discovered　the　best　method　of　throwing　into　relief　such　inherent　goodness　as　it　has。　The　stuffing　does　not　disguise；　nor　seek　to　disguise；　it　accentuates。　Good　veal　stuffing……reflect！……is　in　itself　a　triumph　of　culinary　instinct；　so　bland　it　is；　and　yet　so　powerful　upon　the　gastric　juices。
Did　I　call　veal　insipid？　I　must　add　that　it　is　only　so　in　parison　with　English　beef　and　mutton。　When　I　think　of　the　〃brown〃　on　the　edge　of　a　really　fine　cut　of　veal……！
VIII
As　so　often　when　my　thought　has　gone　forth　in　praise　of　things　English；　I　find　myself　tormented　by　an　after…thought……the　reflection　that　I　have　praised　a　time　gone　by。　Now；　in　this　matter　of　English　meat。　A　newspaper　tells　me　that　English　beef　is　non…existent；　that　the　best　meat　bearing　that　name　has　merely　been　fed　up　in　England　for　a　short　time　before　killing。　Well；　well；　we　can　only　be　thankful　that　the　quality　is　still　so　good。　Real　English　mutton　still　exists；　I　suppose。　It　would　surprise　me　if　any　other　country　could　produce　the　shoulder　I　had　yesterday。
Who　knows？　Perhaps　even　our　own　cookery　has　seen　its　best　days。　It　is　a　lamentable　fact　that　the　multitude　of　English　people　nowadays　never　taste　roasted　meat；　what　they　call　by　that　name　is　baked　in　the　oven……a　totally　different　thing；　though　it　may；　I　admit；　be　inferior　only　to　the　right　roast。　Oh；　the　sirloin　of　old　times；　the　sirloin　which　I　can　remember；　thirty　or　forty　years　ago！　That　was　English；　and　no　mistake；　and　all　the　history　of　civilization　could　show　nothing　on　the　table　of　mankind　to　equal　it。　To　clap　that　joint　into　a　steamy　oven　would　have　been　a　crime　unpardonable　by　gods　and　man。　Have　I　not　with　my　own　eyes　seen　it　turning；　turning　on　the　spit？　The　scent　it　diffused　was　in　itself　a　cure　for　dyspepsia。
It　is　very　long　since　I　tasted　a　slice　of　boiled　beef；　I　have　a　suspicion　that　the　thing　is　being　rare。　In　a　household　such　as　mine；　the　〃round〃　is　impracticable；　of　necessity　it　must　be　large；　altogether　too　large　for　our　requirements。　But　ories　does　my　mind　preserve！　The　very　colouring　of　a　round；　how　rich　it　is；　yet　how　delicate；　and　how　subtly　varied！　The　odour　is　totally　distinct　from　that　of　roast　beef；　and　yet　it　is　beef　incontestable。　Hot；　of　course　with　carrots；　it　is　a　dish　for　a　king；　but　cold　it　is　nobler。　Oh；　the　thin　broad　slice；　with　just　its　fringe　of　consistent　fat！
We　are　sparing　of　condiments；　but　such　as　we　use　are　the　best　that　man　has　invented。　And　we　know　HOW　to　use　them。　I　have　heard　an　impatient　innovator　scoff　at　the　English　law　on　the　subject　of　mustard；　and　demand　why；　in　the　nature　of　things；　mustard　should　not　be　eaten　with　mutton。　The　answer　is　very　simple；　this　law　has　been　made　by　the　English　palate……which　is　impeccable。　I　maintain　it　is　impeccable！　Your　educated　Englishman　is　an　infallible　guide　in　all　that　relates　to　the　table。　〃The　man　of　superior　intellect；〃　said　Tennyson……justifying　his　love　of　boiled　beef　and　new　potatoes……　〃knows　what　is　good　to　eat〃；　and　I　would　extend　it　to　all　civilized　natives　of　our　country。　We　are　content　with　nothing　but　the　finest　savours；　the　truest　binations；　our　wealth；　and　happy　natural　circumstances；　have　allowed　us　an　education　of　the　palate　of　which　our　natural　aptitude　was　worthy。　Think；　by　the　bye；　of　those　new　potatoes；　just　mentioned。　Our　cook；　when　dressing　them；　puts　into　the　saucepan　a　sprig　of　mint。　This　is　genius。　No　otherwise　could　the　flavour　of　the　vegetable　be　so　perfectly；　yet　so　delicately；　emphasized。　The　mint　is　there；　and　we　know　it；　yet　our　palate　knows　only　the　young　potato。
IX
There　is　to　me　an　odd　pathos　in　the　literature　of　vegetarianism。　I　remember　the　day　when　I　read　these　periodicals　and　pamphlets　with　all　the　zest　of　hunger　and　poverty；　vigorously　seeking　to　persuade　myself　that　flesh　was　an　altogether　superfluous；　and　even　a　repulsive；　food。　If　ever　such　things　fall　under　my　eyes　nowadays；　I　am　touched　with　a　half　humorous　passion　for　the　people　whose　necessity；　not　their　will；　consents　to　this　chemical　view　of　diet。　There　es　before　me　a　vision　of　certain　vegetarian　restaurants；　where；　at　a　minim　outlay；　I　have　often　enough　made　believe　to　satisfy　my　craving　stomach；　where　I　have　swallowed　〃savoury　cutlet；〃　〃vegetable　steak；〃　and　I　know　not　what　windy　insufficiencies　tricked　up　under　specious　names。　One　place　do　I　recall　where　you　had　a　plete　dinner　for　sixpence……I　dare　not　try　to　remember　the　items。　But　well　indeed　do　I　see　the　faces　of　the　guests……poor　clerks　and　shopboys；　bloodless　girls　and　women　of　many　sorts……all　endeavouring　to　find　a　relish　in　lentil　soup　and　haricot　something…or…other。　It　was　a　grotesquely　heart…breaking　sight。
I　hate　with　a　bitter　hatred　the　names　of　lentils　and　haricots……those　pretentious　cheats　of　the　appetite；　those　tabulated　humbugs；　those　certificated　aridities　calling　themselves　human　food！　An　ounce　of　either；　any　pounds？……of　the　best　rump…steak。　There　are　not　many　ounces　of　mon　sense　in　the　brain　of　him　who　proves　it；　or　of　him　who　believes　it。　In　some　countries；　this　stuff　is　eaten　by　choice；　in　England　only　dire　need　can　pel　to　its　consumption。　Lentils　and　haricots　are　not　merely　insipid；　frequent　use　of　them　causes　something　like　nausea。　Preach　and　tabulate　as　you　will；　the　English　palate……which　is　the　supreme　judge……rejects　this　farinaceous　makeshift。　Even　as　it　rejects　vegetables　without　the　natural　conitant　of　meat；　as　it　rejects　oatmeal…porridge　and　griddle…cakes　for　a　mid…day　meal；　as　it　rejects　lemonade　and　ginger…ale　offered　as　substitutes　for　honest　beer。
What　is　the　intellectual　and　moral　state　of　that　man　who　really　believes　that　chemical　analysis　can　be　an　equivalent　for　natural　gusto？……I　will　get　more　nourishment　out　of　an　inch　of　right　Cambridge　sausage；　aye；　out　of　a　couple　of　ounces　of　honest　tripe；　than　can　be　yielded　me　by　half　a　hundredweight　of　the　best　lentils　ever　grown。
X
Talking　of　vegetables；　can　the　inhabited　globe　offer　anything　to　vie　with　the　English　potato　justly　steamed？　I　do　not　say　that　it　is　always……or　often……to　be　seen　on　our　tables；　for　the　steaming　of　a　potato　is　one　of　the　great　achievements　of　culinary　art；　but；　when　it　IS　set　before　you；　how　flesh　and　spirit　exult！　A　modest　palate　will　find　more　than　simple　fort　in　your　boiled　potato　of　every　day；　as　served　in　the　decent　household。　New　or　old；　it　is　beyond　challenge　delectable。　Try　to　think　that　civilized　nations　exist　to　whom　this　food　is　unknown……nay；　who　speak　of　it；　on　hearsay；　with　contempt！　Such　critics；　little　as　they　suspect　it；　never　ate　a　potato　in　their　lives。　What　they　have　swallowed　under　that　name　was　the　vegetable　with　all　its　exquisite　characteristics　vulgarized　or　destroyed。　Picture　the　〃ball　of　flour〃　（as　old…fashioned　housewives　call　it）　lying　in　the　dish；　diffusing　the　softest；　subtlest　aroma；　ready　to　crumble；　all　but　to　melt；　as　soon　as　it　is　touched；　recall　its　gust　and　its　after…gust；　blending　so　consummately　with　that　of　the　joint；　hot　or　cold。　Then　think　of　the　same　potato　cooked　in　any　other　way；　and　what　sadness　will　e　upon　you！
XI
It　angers　me　to　pass　a　grocer's　shop；　and　see　in　the　window　a　display　of　foreign　butter。　This　is　the　kind　of　thing　that　makes　one　gloom　over　the　prospects　of　England。　The　deterioration　of　English　butter　is　one　of　the　worst　signs　of　the　moral　state　of　our　people。　Naturally；　this　article　of　food　would　at　once　betray　a　decline　in　the　virtues　of　its　maker；　butter　must　be　a　subject　of　the　dairyman's　honest　pride；　or　there　is　no　hope　of　its　goodness。　Begin　to　save　your　labour；　to　aim　at　dishonest　profits；　to　feel　disgust　or　contempt　for　your　work……and　the　churn　declares　every　one　of　these　vices。　They　must　be　very　prevalent；　for　it　is　getting　to　be　a　rare　thing　to　eat　English　butter　which　is　even　tolerable。　What！　England　dependent　for　dairy…produce　upon　France；　Denmark；　America？　Had　we　but　one　true　statesman……but　one　genuine　leader　of　the　people……the　ears　of　English　landowners　and　farmers　would　ring　and　tingle　with　this　proof　of　their　imbecility。
Nobody　cares。　Who　cares　for　anything　but　the　show　and　bluster　which　are　threatening　our　ruin？　English　food；　not　long　ago　the　best　in　the　world；　is　falling　off　in　quality；　and　even　our　national　genius　for　cooking　shows　a　decline；　to　anyone　who　knows　England；　these　are　facts　significant　enough。　Foolish　persons　have　prated　about　〃our　insular　cuisine；〃　demanding　its　reform　on　Continental　models；　and　they　have　found　too　many　like　unto　themselves　who　were　ready　to　listen；　the　result　will　be；　before　long；　that　our　excellence　will　be　forgotten；　and　paltry　methods　be　universally　introduced；　together　with　the　indifferent　viands　to　which　they　are　suited。　Yet；　if　any　generality　at　all　be　true；　it　is　a　plain　fact　that　English　diet　and　English　virtue……in　the　largest　sense　of　the　word……are　inseparably　bound　together。
Our　supremacy　in　this　matter　of　the　table　came　with　little　taking　of　thought；　what　we　should　now　do　is　to　reflect　upon　the　things　which　used　to　be　instinctive；　perceive　the　reasons　of　our　excellence；　and　set　to　work　to　re…establish　it。　Of　course　the　vilest　cooking　in　the　kingdom　is　found　in　London；　is　it　not　with　the　exorbitant　growth　of　London　that　many　an　ill　has　spread　over　the　land？　London　is　the　antithesis　of　the　domestic　ideal；　a　social　reformer　would　not　even　glance　in　that　direction；　but　would　turn　all　his　zeal　upon　small　towns　and　country　districts；　where　blight　may　perhaps　be　arrested；　and　whence；　some　day；　a　reconstituted　national　life　may　act　upon　the　great　centre　of　corruption。　I　had　far　rather　see　England　covered　with　schools　of　cookery　than　with　schools　of　the　ordinary　kind；　the　issue　would　be　infinitely　more　hopeful。　Little　girls　should　be　taught　cooking　and　baking　more　assiduously　than　they　are　taught　to　read。　But　with　ever　in　view　the　great　English　principle……that　food　is　only　cooked　aright　when　it　yields　the　utmost　of　its　native　and　characteristic　savour。　Let　sauces　be　utterly　forbidden……save　the　natural　sauce　made　of　gravy。　In　the　same　way　with　sweets；　keep　in　view　the　insurpassable　English　ideals　of　baked　tarts　（or　pies；　if　so　you　call　them）；　and　boiled　puddings；　as　they　are　the　wholesomest；　so　are　they　the　most　delicious　of　sweet　cakes　yet　invented；　it　is　merely　a　question　of　having　them　well　made　and　cooked。　Bread；　again；　we　are　getting　used　to　bread　of　poor　quality；　and　ill…made；　but　the　English　loaf　at　its　best……such　as　you　were　once　sure　of　getting　in　every　village……is　the　faultless　form　of　the　staff　of　life。　Think　of　the　glorious　revolution　that　could　be　wrought　in　our　troubled　England　if　it　could　be　ordained　that　no　maid；　of　whatever　rank；　might　bee　a　wife　unless　she　had　proved　her　ability　to　make　and　bake　a　perfect　loaf　of　bread。
XII
The　good　S…　writes　me　a　kindly　letter。　He　is　troubled　by　the　thought　of　my　loneliness。　That　I　should　choose　to　live　in　such　a　place　as　this　through　the　summer；　he　can　understand；　but　surely　I　should　do　better　to　e　to　town　for　the　winter？　How　on　earth　do　I　spend　the　dark　days　and　the　long　evenings？
I　chuckle　over　the　good　S…'s　sympathy。　Dark　days　are　few　in　happy　Devon；　and　such　as　befall　have　never　brought　me　a　moment's　tedium。　The　long；　wild　winter　of　the　north　would　try　my　spirits；　but　here；　the　season　that　follows　autumn　is　merely　one　of　rest；　Nature's　annual　slumber。　And　I　share　in　the　restful　influence。　Often　enough　I　pass　an　hour　in　mere　drowsing　by　the　fireside；　frequently　I　let　my　book　drop；　satisfied　to　muse。　But　more　often　than　not　the　winter　day　is　blest　with　sunshine……the　soft　beam　which　is　Nature's　smile　in　dreaming。　I　go　forth；　and　wander　far。　It　pleases　me　to　note　changes　of　landscape　when　the　leaves　have　fallen；　I　see　streams　and　ponds　which　during　summer　were　hidden；　my　favourite　lanes　have　an　unfamiliar　aspect；　and　I　bee　better　acquainted　with　them。　Then；　there　is　a　rare　beauty　in　the　structure　of　trees　ungarmented；　and　if　perchance　snow　or　frost　have　silvered　their　tracery　against　the　sober　sky；　it　bees　a　marvel　which　never　tires。
Day　by　day　I　look　at　the　coral　buds　on　the　lime…tree。　Something　of　regret　will　mingle　with　my　joy　when　they　begin　to　break。
In　the　middle　years　of　my　life……those　years　that　were　the　worst　of　all……I　used　to　dread　the　sound　of　a　winter　storm　which　woke　me　in　the　night。　Wind　and　rain　lashing　the　house　filled　me　with　miserable　memories　and　apprehensions；　I　lay　thinking　of　the　savage　struggle　of　man　with　man；　and　often　saw　before　me　no　better　fate　than　to　be　trampled　down　into　the　mud　of　life。　The　wind's　wail　seemed　to　me　the　voice　of　a　world　in　anguish；　rain　was　the　weeping　of　the　feeble　and　the　oppressed。　But　nowadays　I　can　lie　and　listen　to　a　night…　storm　with　no　intolerable　thoughts；　at　worst；　I　fall　into　a　passionate　sadness　as　I　remember　those　I　loved　and　whom　I　shall　see　no　more。　For　myself；　there　is　even　fort　in　the　roaring　dark；　for　I　feel　the　strength　of　the　good　walls　about　me；　and　my　safety　from　squalid　peril　such　as　pursued　me　through　all　my　labouring　life。　〃Blow；　blow；　thou　winter　wind！〃　Thou　canst　not　blow　away　the　modest　wealth　which　makes　my　security。　Nor　can　any　〃rain　upon　the　roof〃　put　my　soul　to　question；　for　life　has　given　me　all　I　ever　asked……　infinitely　more　than　I　ever　hoped……and　in　no　corner　of　my　mind　does　there　lurk　a　coward　fear　of　death。
XIII
If　some　stranger　from　abroad　asked　me　to