A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; | strangely impressed upon me the effects of and, instead of moping about in solitary cor- speech: "We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor ners, like some of us, he would mount the most are we children at all. The children of Alice mettlesome horse he could get, when but an call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less imp no bigger than themselves, and make it than nothing, and dreams. We are only what carry him half over the county in a morning, might have been, and must wait upon the and join the hunters when there were any out tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before -and yet he loved the old great house and gar- we have existence and a name"--and immedens too, but had too much spirit to be always diately awaking, I found myself quietly seated pent up within their boundaries—and how their in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by was handsome, to the admiration of every my side-but John L. (or James Elia) was body, but of their great-grandmother Field gone forever. most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boyfor he was a good bit older than me-many a mile when I could not walk for pain;-and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled sometimes) rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W-n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial, meant in maidens-when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript,* which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Chofang, literally the Cooks' Holiday. The manuscript goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder-brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner following. The swineherd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian makeshift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, perished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the labour of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely *The manuscript, and the Chinese names (except that of Confucius the great philosopher), are fictitious, but the tradition itself, which Lamb obtained from the traveller Thomas Manning, is an ancient one. | Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretense, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that remained of the litter. sufferers, an odour assailed his nostrils, unlike | half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still any scent which he had before experienced. shouting out, "Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, What could it proceed from?-not from the father; only taste-O Lord!"-with such-like burnt cottage he had smelt that smell before barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while -indeed this was by no means the first acci- as if he would choke. dent of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young fire-brand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted—crackling!1 Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now; still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding, that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hail-stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure, which he experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig, till he had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue ensued. "You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what-what have you got there, I say?'' "O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats." Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbours would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the nighttime. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed intɔ the box. He handled it, and they all handled it; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given, to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present-without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty. The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself, that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig. The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharp-at the manifest iniquity of the decision; and ened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser 1 The crisp skin of roast pork. when the court was dismissed, went privily, and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his Lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to | fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance. Behold him, while he is "doing"-it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string!-Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of that tender age! he hath wept out his pretty eyes-radiant jellies-shooting stars?— be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. The insurance-offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke,2 who made a discovery, that the flesh of swine, or See him in the dish, his second cradle, how indeed of any other animal, might be cooked meek he lieth!-wouldst thou have had this (burnt, as they called it) without the necessity innocent grow up to the grossness and indoof consuming a whole house to dress it. Then cility which too often accompany maturer swinefirst began the rude form of a gridiron. Roast- hood? Ten to one he would have proved a gluting by the string, or spit, came in a century or ton, a sloven, an obstinate disagreeable animal two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such-wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation. slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the From these sins he is happily snatched awaymost useful, and seemingly the most obvious arts, make their way among mankind.— Without placing too implicit faith in the account above given, it must be agreed, that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favour of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be found in ROAST PIG. Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis,3 I will maintain it to be the most delicate-princeps obsoniorum.4 I speak not of your grown porkers-things between pig and pork-those hobbydehoys5 but a young and tender suckling-under a moon old-guiltless as yet of the sty-with no original speck of the amor immunditiæ, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest-his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble and a grumble-the mild forerunner, or præludium, of a grunt. He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled-but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument! There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called— the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance-with the adhesive oleaginous -O call it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it-the tender blossoming of fat -fat cropped in the bud—taken in the shoot-in the first innocence-the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food-the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna-or, rather, 2 John Locke, a British 4 chief of tidbits philosopher. 3 world of edibles 5 youths at the awk- 6 love of dirt Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, his memory is odoriferous-no clown curseth, He is the best of sapors.9 Pine-apple is great. She is indeed almost too transcendent —a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender-conscienced person would do well to pause-too ravishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth the lips that approach her-like lovers' kisses, she biteth— she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her relish-but she stoppeth at the palate-she meddleth not with the appetite-and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton chop. Pig-let me speak his praise-is no less provocative of the appetite, than he is satisfactory to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man may batten on him, and the weakling refuseth not his mild juices. Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably interhe is good throughout. No part of him is bettwisted and not to be unravelled without hazard, ter or worse than another. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. He is the least envious of banquets. He is all neighbours' fare. wished never ingly impart a share of the good things of this | risy of goodness; and above all, to see the face again of that insidious, good-fornothing, old gray impostor. life which fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my friend's pleasures, his I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young students, when I was at St. Omer's,15 and maintained with much learning and pleasantry on both sides, "Whether, supposing that the flavour of a pig who obtained his death by whipping (per flagellationem extremam) superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a man more intense than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified in using that method of putting the animal to death?'' I forget the decision. Our ancestors were nice14 in their method of relishes, and proper satisfactions, as in mine sacrificing these tender victims. We read of own. "Presents," I often say, "endear Ab-pigs whipt to death with something of a shock, sents."' Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, as we hear of any other obsolete custom. The barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic10 age of discipline is gone by, or it would be fowl''), capons, plovers, brawn,11 barrels of curious to inquire (in a philosophical light oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them. merely) what effect this process might have I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue towards intenerating and dulcifying a subof my friend. But a stop must be put some-stance, naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh where. One would not, like Lear, “give every- of young pigs. It looks like refining a violet. thing.' 9712 I make my stand upon13 pig. Me- Yet we should be cautious, while we condemn thinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all the inhumanity, how we censure the wisdom of good flavours, to extra-domiciliate, or send out the practice. It might impart a gustoof the house slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I know not what), a blessing so particularly adapted, predestined, I may say, to my individual palate-it argues an insensibility. I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at school. My good old aunt, who never parted from me at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweet-meat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, had dismissed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. In my way to school (it was over London Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar saluted me (I have no doubt at this time of day that he was a counterfeit). I had no pence to console him with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and the very coxcombry of charity, schoolboy-like, I made him a present of the whole cake! I walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction; but before I had got to the end of the bridge, my better feelings returned, and I burst into tears, thinking how ungrateful I had been to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift away to a stranger that I had never seen before, and who might be a bad man for aught I knew; and then I thought of the pleasure my aunt would be taking in thinking that I-I myself and not another would eat her nice cake and what should I say to her the next time I saw herhow naughty I was to part with her pretty present! and the odour of that spicy cake came back upon my recollection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in seeing her make it, and her joy when she had sent it to the oven, and how disappointed she would feel that I had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last-and I blamed my impertinent I had no repugnance then-why should I now spirit of alms-giving, and out-of-place hypoc-have?-to those little, lawless, azure-tinctured His sauce should be considered. Decidedly a few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are-but consider, he is a weakling—a flower. FROM THE LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA I have an almost feminine partiality for old china. When I go to see any great house, I inquire for the china-closet, and next for the picture-gallery. I cannot defend the order of preference, but by saying that we have all some taste or other, of too ancient a date to admit of our remembering distinctly that it was an ac quired one. I can call to mind the first play, and the first exhibition, that I was taken to; but I am not conscious of a time when china jars and saucers were introduced into my imagination. grotesques, that, under the notion of men and | those times!) we were used to have a debate women, float about, uncircumscribed by any two or three days before, and to weigh the for element, in that world before perspective-a and against, and think what we might spare it china tea-cup. out of, and what saving we could hit upon, that should be an equivalent. A thing was worth buying then when we felt the money that we I like to see my old friends-whom distance cannot diminish—figuring up in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet on terra firma still-paid for it. for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue, which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, has made to spring up beneath their sandals. I love the men with women's faces, and the women, if possible, with still more womanish expressions. Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a salver-two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect! And here the same lady, or another-for likeness is identity on tea-cups-is stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this calm garden river, with a dainty mincing foot, which in a right1 angle of incidence (as angles go in our world) must infallibly land her in the midst of a flowery mead—a furlong off on the other side of the same strange stream! Farther on-if far or near can be predicated of their world-see horses, trees, pagodas, dancing the hays.2 Here a cow and rabbit couchant and coextensive so objects show, seen through the lucid atmosphere of fine Cathay.3 I was pointing out to my cousin last evening, over our Hyson (which we are old-fashioned enough to drink unmixed still of an afternoon). some of these speciosa miraculas upon a set of extraordinary old blue china (a recent purchase) which we were now for the first time using; and could not help remarking, how favourable circumstances had been to us of late years, that we could afford to please the eye sometimes with trifles of this sort when a passing sentiment seemed to overshade the brows of my companion. I am quick at detecting these summer clouds in Bridget.6 "I wish the good old times would come again," she said, "when we were not quite so rich. I do not mean that I want to be poor; but there was a midle state'-so she was pleased to ramble on-in which I am sure we were a great deal happier. A purchase is but a purchase, now that you have money enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury (and O! how much ado I had to get you to consent in "Do you remember the brown suit, which you made to hang upon you, till all your friends cried shame upon you, it grew so threadbareand all because of that folio Beaumont and Fletcher* which you dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent Garden?7 Do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we could make up our minds to the purchase, and had not come to a determination till it was near ten o'clock of the Saturday night, when you set off from Islington,s fearing you should be too late-and when the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty treasures-and when you lugged it home, wishing it were twice as cumbersom—and when you presented it to me -and when we were exploring the perfectness of it (lating, you called it)—and while I was repairing some of the loose leaves with paste, which your impatience would not suffer to be left till day-break-was there no pleasure in being a poor man? or can those neat black clothes which you wear now, and are so careful to keep brushed, since we have become rich and finical, give you half the honest vanity with which you flaunted it about in that overworn suit-your old corbeau-for four or five weeks longer than you should have done, to pacify your conscience for the mighty sum of fifteenor sixteen shillings was it?-a great affair we thought it then-which you had lavished on the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book that pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me home any nice old purchases now. "When you came home with twenty apologies for laying out a less number of shillings upon that print after Lionardo,10 which we christened the Lady Blanche;' when you looked at the purchase, and thought of the money and thought of the money, and looked again at the picture was there no pleasure in being a poor man? Now, you have nothing to do but to walk into Colnaghi's, and buy a wilderness11 of Lionardos. Yet do you? 7 A square in the heart of London, best 8 In northern London. 9 black coat 10 Leonardo da Vinci, the Italian painter. 11 Merchant of Venice, III, i, 128. with notes in it by Coleridge, is now in the British Museum. |