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 g