DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16516#0149
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
145
THE POETRY OF THE PALATE.
FILL-OLOGY.
" The soul of poetry is sentiment. "We hear much of the Sentiment
<sf Flowers, and we know that the star of evening, the morning
Dew, the moss-rose, and the ivy-mantled tower, cum quibusdam aliis,
are also considered to stand in a special relation to the mental
-diathesis so called. But the fact is, that sentiment, like monlight,
is capable of investing the most common-place—nay, the vilest objects,
with a hue of* beauty. Beneath the silvery smile of Night's mild
'Queen, a pig-sty becomes picturesque—a union workhouse inter-
esting. Then why may not Imagination gild a stew, or cast her
rose-tents of loveliness on a round of beef?
She may. and does—the subjoined epistle will demonstrate the
fact. How it came into our hands—no matter, let it suffice to say,
•thai both the writer and recipient are cow no more. The former, a
youth of great promise, came to an untimely end fiom a malady
which, but for the kind cruelty of Fortune, would probably have
-abbreviated the career of the great Johnson. He was guilty of an
-amiable indiscretion, which the voracious moralist, it is said, com-
plained that he never had an opportunity of committing ; he got, one
i'oul day, as much wall-fruit as he could eat, and ate it. He was
•speedily attacked by cholera, and is now " not where he eats, but
where he is eaten." " Peace !" as he would have pathetically
•expressed it, "to his hash!" The object of his affections, she to
whom the fond effusion was addressed, may also be said to have
■ceased to exist; for she is not what she was. She was Miss Cutlett—
she is Mrs. Dollop. Her heart was broken by the loss of her beloved
(which destroyed her appetite for a day, and sensibly affected her
for several),—so she threw it away on a Common Councilman.
The ensuing letter preceded but a few days a lock of hair and a
ibarrel of oysters, his dying gifts to the idol of his soul.
London, Sept. 23, 18—.
Ml ever DEAR MARY AnNE,
The affection which I entertain for you is intense as that of the
turtle for his mate—or of the Alderman for his turtle. And this
•reminds me, duck, to inform you, that I yesterday enjoyed, for the
■first time, the pleasure of tasting turtle-soup. How often, while we
were roaming by moonlight, you have longed to know what it was
■like !—and now, at last, I can satisfy you. What do I say ? Alas !
Words are inadequate to the description of its charms. What my
.palate felt, my tongue is unable to tell. The shadow of a shade of
■ecstacy is all that I can express. But what then ?—" I give thee all
I can : no more." What a happy thing it is, sweet, that we so entirely
-coincide in our taste—nay, in our tastes ; for we not only agree in
liking good things, but also, with a few exceptions, (of which more
hy and by,) have the same ideas as to what is good. So that, should
our conversation, when we come to participate in domestic bliss, be
only " whether the mutton shall be boiled or roast," there will be
no chance of our having "a dispute about that."—But the soup is
•getting cold.
You must know, that yesterday I received my quarter's salary.
Immediately on leaving the office, I repaired to that excellent dining-
house, the " Blue Posts." "Well," said % "waiter, what have you
got?" "Why, sir," said he, "there's cod-fish and oyster-sauce, and
■haddock, and soles, very nice ; and then, sir," (and he lowered his
voice, and looked religious) "there's turtle!" "There is, is there ?" I
■exclaimed : "then bring me some turtle." " Turtle for one, sir ?—yes,
«ir," he replied, and disappeared.
I recollect, dear chicken, when, after receiving that ever-to-be-
■cherished note of yours, I went at ten minutes to nine on that beau-
tiful summer evening (if you remember, you had had hashed mutton,
you said,for dinner) to wait for you beneath your lattice. I watched the
light in it for a quarter of an hour, and at last you came. Never had I
■endured such an agony of expectation before, and till yesterday never
have I since. But while I was waiting for the luxury I had ordered,
■(I should tell you that I was as hungry as if I had fasted five hours,)
I certainly was as nearly as possible in the state of mind in which I
felt during that long, long fifteen minutes which elapsed before you
gladdened my sight. I tried . to amuse myself with the Times ; and
read—but apprehended not. I then endeavoured to beguile the lin-
gering moments by counting the letters in the leader, and afterwards
by trying to learn one of Robins's advertisements by heart. At last,
after what seemed an eternity, the turtle came. It was served up in
plate, an honour which at this establishment is never paid to inferior
viands.
Imagine to yourself the one moment of rapturous impatience du-
ring which I was filling my plate ;—the rich incense of the steam
which, regaling my nostrils, formed a brief prelude to the more sub-
stantial treat which was presently mine.
Mary Anne ! you ha ve tasted mock turtle, I know. Mock turtle
is very nice ; but, oh ! it is nothing to real. It no more resembles it
than Clara Wyat does my Mary Anne when she is dressed like you.
The complexion, the eyes, the hair, are alike ; but how different the
tout-ensemble ! So in colour, consistence, and ostensible ingredients, do
the two dishes agree ; the disparity lies between the spirit, the soul,
the essential but intangible flavour which pervades each. The one
great distinction between you and Clara is, that yrou have a mind, and
she next to none. What your mind is to hers, green fat is to calPs-
head. Then there is an indescribable sensation which comes over
one while regaling on this most exquisite of dainties, but which mock
turtle does not excite ; a sort of feeling which must have rewarded
the courage of the man who first ate an oyster ; a dizzy, dreadful,
delightful consciousness that you are banqueting on a species of
reptile.
You will ask what I thought of the meat, or fleshy part of the
turtle. It was savoury in the extreme, and, I assure you, quite de-
fies imitation. But the green fat, the green fat!—those are morsels
for the gods. By the by, there is a passage in Milton's " Paradise
Lost," which, I remember, struck me exceedingly when I read it; and
what I have just said brings it to my mind. It represents the Father
of Mankind, and his celestial visitant, Raphael, enjoying themselves
in a shady bower. Thus it proceeds :—
" So down they sat.
And to their viands fell; nor seemingly
The Angel, nor in mist, the common gloss
Of Theologians, but with keen despatch
Of real hunger, and concoctive heat
To transubstantiate."
Oh! my Mary Anne, if in the mansions of the blest the happy
spirits dine, who knows if even the delicacy of which I yesterday par-
took may not hereafter seem to us scarcely more relishing than
common ox-tail does now \
COLONIAL PRODUCE.
They brought me a lemon with my soup. I first took a spoonful
or two without, and then with that condiment, which, I think, im-
proves it if used in moderation. But what a long letter 1 have
written ! Let me be brief. Oh, my heart's treasure ! would you had
been with me yesterday ; then, indeed, there would have been, instead
of one, as the waiter expressed it in calling below to the cook, " Two
turtles in No. 4."
Let me seriously advise you, my own pigeon-pie, to eat apple-sauce
with goose ; it improves it amazingly-—it does indeed. And, pray, do
not be afraid of sage and onions, either with that or with roast pork.
It would indeed be a pity if we felt differently on a subject so peculi-
arly important as this.
145
THE POETRY OF THE PALATE.
FILL-OLOGY.
" The soul of poetry is sentiment. "We hear much of the Sentiment
<sf Flowers, and we know that the star of evening, the morning
Dew, the moss-rose, and the ivy-mantled tower, cum quibusdam aliis,
are also considered to stand in a special relation to the mental
-diathesis so called. But the fact is, that sentiment, like monlight,
is capable of investing the most common-place—nay, the vilest objects,
with a hue of* beauty. Beneath the silvery smile of Night's mild
'Queen, a pig-sty becomes picturesque—a union workhouse inter-
esting. Then why may not Imagination gild a stew, or cast her
rose-tents of loveliness on a round of beef?
She may. and does—the subjoined epistle will demonstrate the
fact. How it came into our hands—no matter, let it suffice to say,
•thai both the writer and recipient are cow no more. The former, a
youth of great promise, came to an untimely end fiom a malady
which, but for the kind cruelty of Fortune, would probably have
-abbreviated the career of the great Johnson. He was guilty of an
-amiable indiscretion, which the voracious moralist, it is said, com-
plained that he never had an opportunity of committing ; he got, one
i'oul day, as much wall-fruit as he could eat, and ate it. He was
•speedily attacked by cholera, and is now " not where he eats, but
where he is eaten." " Peace !" as he would have pathetically
•expressed it, "to his hash!" The object of his affections, she to
whom the fond effusion was addressed, may also be said to have
■ceased to exist; for she is not what she was. She was Miss Cutlett—
she is Mrs. Dollop. Her heart was broken by the loss of her beloved
(which destroyed her appetite for a day, and sensibly affected her
for several),—so she threw it away on a Common Councilman.
The ensuing letter preceded but a few days a lock of hair and a
ibarrel of oysters, his dying gifts to the idol of his soul.
London, Sept. 23, 18—.
Ml ever DEAR MARY AnNE,
The affection which I entertain for you is intense as that of the
turtle for his mate—or of the Alderman for his turtle. And this
•reminds me, duck, to inform you, that I yesterday enjoyed, for the
■first time, the pleasure of tasting turtle-soup. How often, while we
were roaming by moonlight, you have longed to know what it was
■like !—and now, at last, I can satisfy you. What do I say ? Alas !
Words are inadequate to the description of its charms. What my
.palate felt, my tongue is unable to tell. The shadow of a shade of
■ecstacy is all that I can express. But what then ?—" I give thee all
I can : no more." What a happy thing it is, sweet, that we so entirely
-coincide in our taste—nay, in our tastes ; for we not only agree in
liking good things, but also, with a few exceptions, (of which more
hy and by,) have the same ideas as to what is good. So that, should
our conversation, when we come to participate in domestic bliss, be
only " whether the mutton shall be boiled or roast," there will be
no chance of our having "a dispute about that."—But the soup is
•getting cold.
You must know, that yesterday I received my quarter's salary.
Immediately on leaving the office, I repaired to that excellent dining-
house, the " Blue Posts." "Well," said % "waiter, what have you
got?" "Why, sir," said he, "there's cod-fish and oyster-sauce, and
■haddock, and soles, very nice ; and then, sir," (and he lowered his
voice, and looked religious) "there's turtle!" "There is, is there ?" I
■exclaimed : "then bring me some turtle." " Turtle for one, sir ?—yes,
«ir," he replied, and disappeared.
I recollect, dear chicken, when, after receiving that ever-to-be-
■cherished note of yours, I went at ten minutes to nine on that beau-
tiful summer evening (if you remember, you had had hashed mutton,
you said,for dinner) to wait for you beneath your lattice. I watched the
light in it for a quarter of an hour, and at last you came. Never had I
■endured such an agony of expectation before, and till yesterday never
have I since. But while I was waiting for the luxury I had ordered,
■(I should tell you that I was as hungry as if I had fasted five hours,)
I certainly was as nearly as possible in the state of mind in which I
felt during that long, long fifteen minutes which elapsed before you
gladdened my sight. I tried . to amuse myself with the Times ; and
read—but apprehended not. I then endeavoured to beguile the lin-
gering moments by counting the letters in the leader, and afterwards
by trying to learn one of Robins's advertisements by heart. At last,
after what seemed an eternity, the turtle came. It was served up in
plate, an honour which at this establishment is never paid to inferior
viands.
Imagine to yourself the one moment of rapturous impatience du-
ring which I was filling my plate ;—the rich incense of the steam
which, regaling my nostrils, formed a brief prelude to the more sub-
stantial treat which was presently mine.
Mary Anne ! you ha ve tasted mock turtle, I know. Mock turtle
is very nice ; but, oh ! it is nothing to real. It no more resembles it
than Clara Wyat does my Mary Anne when she is dressed like you.
The complexion, the eyes, the hair, are alike ; but how different the
tout-ensemble ! So in colour, consistence, and ostensible ingredients, do
the two dishes agree ; the disparity lies between the spirit, the soul,
the essential but intangible flavour which pervades each. The one
great distinction between you and Clara is, that yrou have a mind, and
she next to none. What your mind is to hers, green fat is to calPs-
head. Then there is an indescribable sensation which comes over
one while regaling on this most exquisite of dainties, but which mock
turtle does not excite ; a sort of feeling which must have rewarded
the courage of the man who first ate an oyster ; a dizzy, dreadful,
delightful consciousness that you are banqueting on a species of
reptile.
You will ask what I thought of the meat, or fleshy part of the
turtle. It was savoury in the extreme, and, I assure you, quite de-
fies imitation. But the green fat, the green fat!—those are morsels
for the gods. By the by, there is a passage in Milton's " Paradise
Lost," which, I remember, struck me exceedingly when I read it; and
what I have just said brings it to my mind. It represents the Father
of Mankind, and his celestial visitant, Raphael, enjoying themselves
in a shady bower. Thus it proceeds :—
" So down they sat.
And to their viands fell; nor seemingly
The Angel, nor in mist, the common gloss
Of Theologians, but with keen despatch
Of real hunger, and concoctive heat
To transubstantiate."
Oh! my Mary Anne, if in the mansions of the blest the happy
spirits dine, who knows if even the delicacy of which I yesterday par-
took may not hereafter seem to us scarcely more relishing than
common ox-tail does now \
COLONIAL PRODUCE.
They brought me a lemon with my soup. I first took a spoonful
or two without, and then with that condiment, which, I think, im-
proves it if used in moderation. But what a long letter 1 have
written ! Let me be brief. Oh, my heart's treasure ! would you had
been with me yesterday ; then, indeed, there would have been, instead
of one, as the waiter expressed it in calling below to the cook, " Two
turtles in No. 4."
Let me seriously advise you, my own pigeon-pie, to eat apple-sauce
with goose ; it improves it amazingly-—it does indeed. And, pray, do
not be afraid of sage and onions, either with that or with roast pork.
It would indeed be a pity if we felt differently on a subject so peculi-
arly important as this.