THE WHITE FISH.
Of ven’son let Goldsmith so wittily sing, A very fine haunch is a very fine thing; And Burns, in his tuneful and exquisite way, The charms of a smoking Scot’s haggis display, But ’tis often much harder to eat than descant, And a poet may praise what a poet may want; Less doubt there shall be ’twixt my muse and my dish, Whilst her power I invoke, in the praise of white fish. All friends to good living by tureen or dish, Concur in extolling this prince of a fish, So fine on a platter, so tempting a fry, So rich in a broil, and so sweet in a pie, That even before it the red trout must fail, And that mighty bonne bouche of the land, beaver’s tail.
This fish is a subject, so dainty and white, To show in a lecture, to eat or to write, That equal ’s my joy, I declare on my life, To raise up my voice, or to raise up my knife; ’Tis a morsel alike for the gourmand or faster, White—white as a tablet of pure alabaster; Its beauty and flavor no person can doubt, If seen in the water, or tasted without; And all the dispute that opinion e’er makes, Of this king of lake fishes—this deer of the lakes,[12] Regards not its choiceness, to ponder or sup, But the best mode of dressing and serving it up.
Now this is a point where good livers may differ, As tastes become fixed, or opinions are stiffer; Some men prefer roasted—some doat on a fry, Or extol the sweet savor of poisson blanc pie; The nice petit patè, this palate excites, While that on a boiled dish and bouillon delights; Some smoked and some salted, some fresh and some dried, Prefer to all fish in our waters beside; And ’tis thought the main question of epicures’ look, Respects not the method so much as the cook; For, like some moral dishes that furnish a zest, Whate’er is best served up, is still thought the best.
There are, in gastronomy, sages who think ’Tis not only the prime of good victuals, but drink, That all sauces spoil it, the richer the quicker, And make it insipid, except its own liquor; These move in a wild epigastric mirage, Preferring the dish a la mode de sauvage, By which it quells hunger and thirstiness both, First eating the fish, and then drinking the broth: We leave this unsettled for palates or pens Who glean out of hundreds their critical tens, While drawn to the board where full many a dish Is slighted to taste this American fish.
The planter, who whirls through the region by steam, The Creole, who sings as he lashes his team; The merchant, the lawyer, the cit, and the beau, The proud and gustative, the poor and the low; The gay habitant—the inquisitive tourist, The chemic physician, the dinner-crost jurist, And even the ladies, the pride of the grove, Unite to extol it, and eat to approve. Full oft the sweet morsel, while poised on the knife, Excites a bland smile in the blooming young wife, Nor deems she a sea-fish one moment compares, But is thinking the while not of fish, but of heirs.
To these it is often a casual sweet, To dine by appointment, or taste as a treat; Not so, or in mental or physical joy, Comes the sight of this fish to the courier de bois; That wild troubadour and his joy-loving crew, Who sings as he paddles his birchen canoe, And thinks all the hardships that falls to his lot, Are richly made up at the platter and pot. To him there’s a charm neither feeble nor vague In the mighty repast of the grande Ticameg;[13] And oft as he starves amid Canada snows, On dry leather lichens and bouton de rose, He cheers up his spirits to think he shall still Of poisson blanc bouillon once more have his fill. “Oh, choice of all fishes,” he sings as he goes, “Thou art sweeter to me than the Normandy rose; And the ven’son that’s stol’n from the parks of the king, Is never, by half, so delicious a thing.”
The muse might appeal to the science of books To picture its ichthyological looks, Show what is its family likeness or odds, Compared to its cousins, the salmons and cods; Tell where it approximates, point where it fails, By counting its fins, or dissecting its scales; Or prove by plain reasons—such proofs can be had— ’Tis not “toothless salmon,” but rather lake shad; Here, too, might a fancy, to descant inclined, Contemplate the lore that pertains to its kind, And bring up tradition in fanciful strains, To prove its creation from feminine brains;[14] Or point out its habits, migrations, and changes— The mode of its capture, its cycles and ranges. But let me forbear—’tis the fault of a song, A tale, or a book, if too learned or long.
Thus ends my discussion. More would you, I pray, Ask Mitchell, or Harlan, Lesieur, or De Kay.