And, lest we forget, the wonderful drink that made Alice grow and grow to the ceiling of Wonderland contained not only strawberry jam but toasted cheese.
Then there's the frightening nursery rhyme:
The Irishman loved usquebaugh,
The Scot loved ale called Bluecap.
The Welshman, he loved toasted cheese,
And made his mouth like a mousetrap.
The Irishman was drowned in usquebaugh,
The Scot was drowned in ale,
The Welshman he near swallowed a mouse
But he pulled it out by the tail.
And, perhaps worst of all, Shakespeare, no cheese-lover, this tune in Merry Wives of Windsor:
'Tis time I were choked by a bit of toasted cheese.
An elaboration of the simple Welsh original went English with Dr. William Maginn, the London journalist whose facile pen enlivened the Blackwoods Magazine era with Ten Tales:
Dr. Maginn's Rabbit
Much is to be said in favor of toasted cheese for supper. It is the cant to say that Welsh rabbit is heavy eating. I like it best in the genuine Welsh way, however—that is, the toasted bread buttered on both sides profusely, then a layer of cold roast beef with mustard and horseradish, and then, on the top of all, the superstratum, of Cheshire thoroughly saturated, while, in the process of toasting, with genuine porter, black pepper, and shallot vinegar. I peril myself upon the assertion that this is not a heavy supper for a man who has been busy all day till dinner in reading, writing, walking or riding—who has occupied himself between dinner and supper in the discussion of a bottle or two of sound wine, or any equivalent—and who proposes to swallow at least three tumblers of something hot ere he resigns himself to the embrace of Somnus. With these provisos, I recommend toasted cheese for supper.