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indeed she can then but perform half her vow: for she may love and obey but she cannot cherish, serve and keep him with that true duty which is ever expected.'
Markham is rarely so dogmatic. For the sake of the marriage tie it is as well, perhaps, that the opinion is not generally held.
To return to Gervase the poet. From what authoritative anthology of prose-poems (as the jargon runs) could this recipe for the compounding of an excellent sallet be omitted ?—
'Take a good quantity of blancht almonds, and with your shredding knife cut them grossly; then take as many raisins of the sun clean washt, and the stones pickt out, as many figs shred like the almonds, as many capers, twice so many olives, and as many currants as of all the rest, clean washt, a good handfull of the small tender leaves of red sage and spinage; mixe all these well together with good store of sugar, and lay them in the bottome of a great dish; then put unto them vinegar and oyl, and scrape more sugar over all; then take oranges and lemmons, and paring away the outward pills, cut them into thin slices, then with those slices cover the sallet all over, which done, take the fine thin leaf of the red cole flower, and with them cover the oranges and lemmons all over; then over those red leaves, lay another course of old olives, and the slices of well pickled cucumbers, together with the very inward heart of cabbage-lettuce cut into slices; then adorn the sides of the dish, and the top of the sallet, with more slices of lemmons and oranges, and so serve it up.'
What comely phrases! Contrast them with the bald and unalluring directions to be found in a modern Enquire Within,' such a work as Markham would have edited, and you will see how the felicities of language have passed from daily life.
Alas! what have we not lost in our search for brevity and precision? Where now are the raisins of the sun,' where the 'very inward heart'? And the niggard accuracy of avoirdupois has taken the place of the generous (if vague) abundance indicated by 'pretty quantity' and 'good store.' None the less one looks upon 'Enquire Within' as a valuable book. From a hasty survey I gather that much of the happiness of the English husband is dependent upon it.
Markham's March-pane recipe is another lyric:
'To make the best March-pane, take the best Jordan Almonds, and blanch them in warm water, then put them into a stone mortar, and with a wooden pestle beat them to pap, then take of the finest refined sugar well searst, and with it Damask Rose
water, beat it to a good stiff paste, allowing almost to every Jordan Almond three spoonfulls of sugar, then when it is brought thus to a paste, lay it upon a fair Table, and strewing searst sugar under it, mould it like leven, then with a rowling-pin rowl it forth, and lay it upon wafers washed with Rose Water; then pinch it about the sides, and put it into what form you please; then strew searst sugar all over it, which done, wash it over with Rose water and sugar mixt together, for that will make the Ice; then adorn it with comfits, guilding, or whatsoever devices you please, and so set it into a hot stove, and there bake crispy, and serve it forth.'
'To make sweet water of the best kind,' he directs elsewhere, 'take a thousand Damask roses.' A thousand damask roses! What opulence! And what a picture it calls up! The English housewife in her white sleeves, her keys at her side; the sunny morning-room; the mass of wine-dark petals on the table; laughing children running in from the rosary bringing more, more! Opulence is indeed the note under Markham's régime. Mother Earth is called upon to squander her vegetable riches; fragrant, spreading gardens are deplenished to assist the flavour of a single dish. And all is legitimate, all in due order; there is no violence, no distortion, as among Roman caterers and (shall one add?) the superfine caterers of to-day? Gervase Markham could not have been less shocked at a plate of nightingales' tongues than the poet Keats himself.
See what roots and fruits went to the perfection of the best Marrow-bone Pye:
'After you have mixt the crusts of the best sort for pasts, and raised the coffin in such a manner as you please; you shall first in the bottome thereof lay a course of marrow of beef, mixt with currants; then upon it a lay of the soals of artichokes, after they have been boyled and are divided from the thistle; then cover them with marrow, currants, and great raisins, the stones pickt out; then lay a course of potatoes cut in thick slices, after they have been boyled soft, and are clean pilled; then cover them with marrow, currants, great raisins, sugar, and cinnamon; then lay a layer of candied eringo roots mixt very thick with the slices of dates; then cover it with marrow, currants, great raisins, sugar, cinnamon, and dates, with a few Damask prunes, and so bake it; and after it is bak't, pour into it, as long as it will receive it, white wine, rosewater, sugar, and cinnamon and vinegar mixt together, and candy all the cover with rosewater and sugar only, and so set it into the oven a little, and serve it forth,'
Of that dish, despite the marrow-bone basis, a vegetarian might partake without sin.
Not only in the composition of each dish is this opulence to be found, but in the multitude and variety of them on the table. Gervase Markham's instructions to the docile housewife on the ordering of a royal feast may be left where they are, but the following counsel, being addressed to any Good man,' demands publicity:
'Now for a more humble Feast, or an ordinary proportion which any good man may keep in his Family, for the entertainment of his true and worthy friends, it must hold limitation with his provision and the season of the year; For Summer affords what Winter wants, and Winter is Master of that which Summer can but with difficulty have. It is good then for him that intends to Feast, to set down the full number of his full dishes, that is, dishes of meat that are of substance, and not empty, or for shew; and of these sixteen is a good proportion for one course unto one messe, as thus, for example: First, a shield of Brawn with mustard, secondly, a boyl❜d Capon; Thirdly, a boyld piece of beef, Fourthly, a chine of Beef rosted, Fifthly, a Neat's tongue rosted, Sixthly, a Pig rosted, Seventhly, a Chewets bak'd, Eighthly, a goose rosted, Ninthly, a swan rosted, Tenthly, a Turkey rosted, the Eleventh, a Haunch of Venison rosted, the Twelfth, a Pasty of Venison, the Thirteenth, a Kid with a pudding in the belly, the Fourteenth, an Olive-pye, the Fifteenth, a couple of Capons, the Sixteenth, a Custard or Dousets. Now to these full dishes may be added Sallets, Fricases, Quelque choses, and devised paste, as many dishes more, which make the full service no less than twoand-thirty dishes, which is as much as can conveniently stand on one Table, and in one mess; and after this manner you may proportion both your second and third course, holding fulness in one half of the dishes, and shew in the other, which will be both frugall in the spender, contentment to the guest, and much plea- ! sure and delight to the beholders.'
With this insight into our ancestors' appetites may we not understand more clearly the Elizabethan spirit-its breadth, optimism, radiance? Markham in the kitchen has himself something of the grand manner of the early dramatists. At a table groaning beneath such dishes, so wealthy in picturesque abundance, in essential sweetness and vigour, and withal racy of the soil, there must abide enthusiasm. Our own literature would perhaps be robuster if we could re-instate some of these old eating customs. E. V. LUCAS.
PAGES FROM A PRIVATE DIARY.
August 1st.-To Cambridge through Oxford and Bletchley-a most tedious journey. I travelled third class, not because there is no fourth, as the wits say, but hoping the unstuffed carriages would be cooler, as they proved. Besides, I enjoy in certain moods the humours of the masses;' and to-day I was not disappointed. A woman got in presently with two children, the skin of all three being concealed beneath a mask of dirt. But though filthy, she knew her manners. When one of the children sniffed, she sharply reprimanded her and bade her use her handkerchief; and the dear child produced from her pocket a rag as black as my hat. A party of workmen who entered later extinguished their pipes with complimentary references to this good woman, and laid themselves out to amuse the children; one who had red hair putting it out of window for a danger signal, &c. In the intervals of my observation I was reading the new and charming guide to Oxford by Mr. Wells. As I had no paper-knife and my railway ticket was somewhat flaccid with the heat, I was obliged to skip every other two pages; but what I read was excellently done. Some good friend, however, should suggest a revision of certain of the literary judgments and quotations. Milton had too good an ear to perpetrate such a line as
Who taughtest Cambridge, and King Edward, Greek (p. 211);
and Edmund Campion the Jesuit is an entirely different person from Thomas Campion the poet (p. 244). These are trifles; but on p. 306 I came on a sentence that nearly made me leap from the carriage: Daniel is more likely to be remembered for having given a book to the Bodleian than for any other of his performances.' And this is the man of whom Coleridge wrote the panegyric in the Biographia Literaria':
Both in respect of this and of the former excellence (i.e. austere purity of language and a correspondent weight and sanity of the thoughts and sentiments), Mr. Wordsworth strikingly resembles Samuel Daniel, one of the golden writers of our golden Elizabethan age, now most causelessly neglected: Samuel Daniel, whose diction bears no mark of time, no distinction of age, which has been, and as long as our language shall last will be, so far the language of the to-day and for ever, as that it is more intelligible to us, than the transitory fashions of our
own particular age. A similar praise is due to his sentiments. No frequency of perusal can deprive them of their freshness. For though they are brought into the full daylight of every reader's comprehension, yet are they drawn up from depths which few in any age are privileged to visit, into which few in any age have courage or inclination to descend.
Most people know, at any rate, two lines of Daniel, and to have given even two lines to the poetical currency of the nation is more, O Mr. Senior Proctor, than to have given a hundred volumes to the University library.
Knowing the Heart of Man is set to be
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!
I am fortunate in numbering among my books Wordsworth's copy of Daniel, which bears on almost every page marks of his appreciation. On p. 199 it might be added to the account of Dr. Arnold's not very successful topical verses' preserved in Corpus common room, that they were read a few years ago to Matthew Arnold on a visit he paid the college, and punctuated by that model of filial piety with Capital,' 'Capital'!
6th.-Bal. We are to spend three weeks here with who still shoots over his ancestral moor instead of selling the privilege to some wealthy Saxon. We travelled by the night train, Tom and Bob and I in a corridor compartment, the ladies in the wagon-lit. I fear I was but poor company. I had just been reading 'Les Aveugles,' for culture comes slowly up this way; and the portentous gloom of that work of imagination 'garr'd me grue,' as folk say up here. So completely had it hypnotised me that I found it impossible to contribute anything to the conversation but a repetition of the most insignificant of my neighbours' remarks, as though they were full of profound meaning. With growing sleepiness the conversation became still more Maeterlinckian, till it altogether dropped into silence. When we were roused at Carlisle by the official coming to examine tickets, the sight of my neighbours fumbling hopelessly about them, and the strange, impassive face of the collector between the two rows of us, so startled my dazed senses that for a moment I thought with horror that we were all ourselves in the play. We had a ten-mile drive from the railway terminus, and