The cookery among the higher classes is for the most part plain and simple, and the few who have refined much upon the luxuries of the table are exposed to something of the same sort of contemptuous ridicule that the being called a dandy incurs among us. But a circumstance which early attracted the attention of the visitors was, that they found the animal food to consist (besides eggs, cheese, and various preparations of milk) entirely of fish and game. The pork, which they often met with, they found to be always the flesh of the wild swine: these were derived from those brought over by the first settlers, who turned them all loose into the woods; and the chase of the wild-boar is eagerly pursued by many of the gentry. Wild cattle are also met with in some parts, descended from such as had accidentally strayed; and the flesh of these is eaten, as well as that of the kangaroo, emu, and other indigenous animals: but the visitors one day, in the course of conversation in the eating-room, expressed their surprise at having never seen any mutton served up, though sheep were not uncommon. The Southlanders had never heard the word mutton; but, when it was explained to them that it meant the flesh of the sheep, they replied, “That they kept their sheep very carefully for their wool, and that there were no wild sheep in the country: but when it was explained to them that we kept both sheep and oxen chiefly for the purpose of feeding on their flesh, they were both astonished and disgusted that we should have retained such a barbarian custom (for they regard themselves as many degrees more civilized than their European ancestors) as that of killing and eating domestic animals.”
It was urged (and they freely admitted it) that the loss of life is no greater to a tame than to a wild animal: “That is true,” they said, “as far as the animal is concerned; but it makes a great difference to our feelings. A tame animal is a sort of friend, a member of the family: it seems a sort of treacherous breach of hospitality to kill in cold blood a creature which you have reared and fed from its birth, and then devour its flesh.” They expressed still more surprise (for they are keen sportsmen) at learning that some Europeans were vehement in their censures of hunting, fowling, and fishing, as cruel; and yet fed without scruple on beef and mutton. “We declare war,” they said, laughing, “perhaps an unjust war, against wild animals, and kill them as enemies; but you assassinate your friends.”—“We urged,” says the journalist, “the necessity of keeping within bounds the numbers of our domestic animals; and expressed our apprehension that the Southlanders would in time find themselves quite overstocked with sheep, oxen, and fowls.” They replied at the moment, merely, “that no such apprehension had ever occurred to them.”
But, on returning to what we should call the drawing-room, we soon found that much interest was excited by the accounts of what appeared to this most singular people our strange custom. We were surrounded by ladies, who inquired, with an amusing mixture of good-humoured ridicule, wonder, and horror, into all the particulars respecting mutton; and one lady surprised us by asking, among other things, what kind of flesh was that of horses, dogs, and cats, and by what name we called it. When informed that, though we kept these animals, we never thought of eating them, she replied, “Why, I had understood that you ate the flesh of domestic animals, and that you found it necessary to do so, for fear of their overstocking you with their numbers! How comes it that you are not overrun with horses, dogs, and cats?” To say the truth, we were rather dumbfounded by this question; having, in fact, assigned as a reason what we had been accustomed to hear and repeat without any examination into its soundness. We could only allege that, in all these points, we conformed to what had always been the practice of our ancestors and theirs, and of almost all other nations: in this we were borne out by the testimony of those of the company who were well read in antiquities.
Several of these people, indeed, are good scholars, and well acquainted with the history (as far as was known three hundred years ago) of other nations, besides their own. They adverted to the descriptions of Homer’s heroes: one of them would, when about to entertain his friends, have a sheep brought into his tent, cut its throat with his own royal hands, and then, with a skilful hand,—which the poet never fails to celebrate,—cut it up into slices and broil them on skewers over a charcoal fire. They remembered, also, the accounts given of some East-Indian tribes, who, when their relatives are grown old and infirm, kill them, to save them from lingering decay, and hold a pious and solemn feast on their flesh. But as these customs had worn away in the early progress of civilization, they wondered that a still further refinement had not, among us, confined the carnivorous propensity of man to wild animals exclusively, and led us, as it had them, to regard with disgust the eating of (as they expressed it) one of the family, whose eggs, milk, labour, or wool had long ministered to our comforts.
The description of our cities in their present condition, as contrasted with that of the sixteenth century, and of our whole mode of life, was exceedingly interesting to these people; but nothing did they admire more than our description of the gas-lights. In the midst, however, of their enquiries and admiration, one sly-looking old gentleman observed, “that if we would honour him with a visit in his city of Bath (capital of a state of the same name), he would excite even our admiration by the spectacle of an illumination still more splendid.” In our visit there, where we were most kindly received, our host walked through the streets with us, showing us the principal buildings, and introduced us into the Senate-house, where the public business was going on.
On our return to his house, he asked us (this was about seven o’clock in the morning) what we thought of the lighting of the streets. We answered, that we observed neither any lighting of them, nor need of it, as it was a bright sunshine. “And is not this,” said he, “as good a light as your gas? We have not,” he added, “gone so far as you in arts; but we have the advantage of you in availing ourselves of the gifts of nature; for, as you must have observed, we are all alert and about our business at day-break; while you, by your own account, allow three or four hours of daylight in the spring and summer to be utterly wasted, while you are abed; and then go about your business at night, like owls and bats, but without their advantage of being able to see in the dark; so that you are forced to light yourselves with gas. It was,” said he, “a very ingenious contrivance you were telling us of t’other day, by which you distil fresh water from the sea; but pray do you, when there are plenty of fresh springs, let all the water run to waste, that you may have the triumph of distilling from the brine?”
We endeavoured to explain to him the causes of our late hours; but we were astounded when he had made us compute the saving in oil, and gas, and tallow, which might be effected by a general resolution to use daylight as far as it would go.
The city at which this conversation took place is named from its celebrated warm baths, supplied by springs issuing from a mountain in the vicinity; one of the greatest curiosities in the country, both from the natural phenomena it exhibits (being evidently an extinct volcano), from which it received its name of Mount Peril, and from the extraordinary tradition of the superstitious ordeal formerly connected with it.