Some writers assert that the apple was originally an African; but a Negro with a red nose would be an anomaly; and the apple-tree does not look as if it came from the country of the children of the sun. Nevertheless, historians assert that it crossed the Mediterranean, and reached Normandy through Spain and France. The apple has been as productive of similes as of cider; and perhaps the prettiest is that of Jeremy Taylor, who says, in his Sermon on the “Marriage Ring,” that the “celibate, like the fly in the heart of an apple, dwells in a perpetual sweetness; but sits alone, and is confined, and dies in singularity:”—a figure of speech, by the way, not highly calculated to frighten a bachelor. But, after all, the sentiment of Jeremy Taylor is preferable to that of Gregory of Nazianzum, who calls a wife “an acquired evil; and, what is worse, one that cannot be put away.” However this may be, apples were once productive of matrimony in Wales. When the fruit-dealers there could not find a market, they proclaimed a dance. The revellers paid entrance-money, and received apples in return. These meetings were called “apple lakings;” and the fruit was sauce for many a consequent wedding-dinner. The finest used to be kept for accompaniment to the roast goose eaten on St. Crispin’s Day. Brides, in remote times, used to carry a love-apple in their bosoms; as fond thereof as the pitman’s wife of Northumberland was of the two lambs which she suckled, after their dams had been killed in a storm. This was a more creditable affection than that of Marc Antony’s daughter for a lamprey, which she adorned with ear-rings, and which she exhibited at dinner; as Lord Erskine did the leeches which had cured him of some complaint, and which, enclosed in a bottle, he sent round with the wine. He called one “Cline” and the other “Home,” from the great surgeons of those names; and noble guests, before filling their glasses, gravely inspected the leeches, and then duly passed on the reptiles and the wine.
This is what a Frenchman would have called a “triste plaisanterie, à l’Anglaise;” and, by the way, I may remark, that Théophile de Garancières imputes the alleged melancholic nature of Englishmen to the great use which we make of sugar. Our sires used to make one curious use of sugar, undoubtedly; namely, when they put it into the mouth of the dying, in order that their souls might pass away with less bitterness!
There is a German proverb which says, that “it is unadvisable to eat cherries with potentates.” In English this might mean, “Do not make too free with your betters.” Few royal families, however, have given their inferiors more frequent opportunities to “eat cherries” with them, than that of Prussia. I am reminded of this while upon the subject of pine-apple, a slice of which was once given by Frederick William III. to a lad employed in the gardens at Sans Souci. “Here,” said the King, pleasantly, “eat, enjoy, and reflect while thou art eating. Now, what does it taste like?” The boy looked puzzled, as he munched the pine; thought of all the most delightful things that had ever passed over his palate and clung to his memory, and, at last, with a satisfied expression, exclaimed, “I think,—yes, it does,—it tastes like sausage!” The courtiers laughed aloud; and the King, philosophizing on the boy’s answer, said, “Well, every one has his own standard of taste, guiding his feelings and judgment, and each one believes himself to be right. One fancies he discovers in the pine-apple the flavour of the melon; another, of the pear; a third, the plum. Yon lad, in his sphere of tastes, finds therein his favourite food—the sausage.”
The lad’s answer was as much food for mirth at Sans Souci, as was that of the Eton boy who was invited by Queen Adelaide to dine at Windsor Castle, and who was honoured with a seat at Her Majesty’s side. The boy was bashful,—the Queen encouraging; and, when the sweets were on the table, she kindly asked him what he would like to take. The Etonian’s eyes glanced hurriedly and nervously from dish to dish; pointing to one of which, he, in some agitation, exclaimed, “One of those twopenny tarts!” His young eye had recognised the favourite “tuck” he was in the habit of indulging in at the shop in Eton, and he asked for it according to the local phrase in fashion. Reverting to the lad who compared pine-apple to German sausage, I may remark, that pine-apple is most to be enjoyed when the weather is of that condition which made Sydney Smith once express a wish, that he could “slip out of his fat, and sit in his bones.”
The quince is a native of Cydon, in Crete; and first Greece, and then Rome, Gaul, and Spain, learned to love the fruit, and drink a quince wine, which was said to be excellent either as a stomachic or as a counter-poison.
Galen recommended the pear as an astringent, which is more than a modern practitioner will do. St. Francis de Paul introduced one sort into France when he paid a medical visit to Louis XI. The species was named from the saint, “le bon Chrétien.”
The apple may lay fair claim to antiquity of birth. The fruit has been diversely estimated by divers nations; but the general favour has usually awaited it. In ancient times, both in Greece and Persia, it was the custom for a bridegroom at his nuptial feast to partake of a single apple, and of nothing else. The origin of the custom is said to arise from a decree issued by Solon. It was the sight of an apple that always put Vladislas, King of Poland, into fits. It is the best fruit that can be taken as an accompaniment to wine; and the best sorts for such a purpose are the Ribstone Pippin and the Coster Pearmain. The golden apples stolen by Hercules were lemons; and they are suspected to have been the “Median apples” of Theophrastus. The Romans, at first, employed this Asiatic fruit only as a means for keeping moths out of garments; from this household use it passed into the ancient pharmacopœia, and it took rank among the counter-poisons. Its acknowledged reputation in scurvy and punch, if I may so express myself, was not made until a much later period of civilization. The orange disputes with the lemon the honour of being the “Hesperides apples,”—which is a dispute of a very Hibernian character. China was probably its native place; and the Portuguese oranges are merely descendants of the original “Chinaman.” It was not known in France until introduced there by the Constable de Bourbon. In England, an orange, stuck full of cloves, was a fitting New Year’s present from a lover,—being typical of warmth and sweetness.
The fig-tree appears to have been, like the vine, very early used as a symbol of peace and plenty. It was a tree of Eden; yet the Athenians claimed it as a native tree, asserting, by way of proof, that it had been given them by Ceres,—not reflecting that Ceres may have brought it from a region farther east. If it be commonly employed in Scripture as a symbol, so an American poet has taken it, with its scriptural allusions, to illustrate worldly marriages, of which he says, that—
——they are like unto
Jeremiah’s figs: