1879. Man, it has been said, is a dining animal. Creatures of the inferior races eat and drink; man only dines. It has also been said that he is a cooking animal; but some races eat food without cooking it. A Croat captain said to M. Brillat Savarin, "When, in campaign, we feel hungry, we knock over the first animal we find, cut off a steak, powder it with salt, put it under the saddle, gallop over it for half a mile, and then eat it." Huntsmen in Dauphiny, when out shooting, have been known to kill a bird, pluck it, salt and pepper it, and cook it by carrying it some time in their caps. It is equally true that some races of men do not dine any more than the tiger or the vulture. It is not a dinner at which sits the aboriginal Australian, who gnaws his bone half bare and then flings it behind to his squaw. And the native of Terra-del-Fuego does not dine when he gets his morsel of red clay. Dining is the privilege of civilization. The rank which a people occupy in the grand scale may be measured by their way of taking their meals, as well as by their way of treating their women. The nation which knows how to dine has learnt the leading lesson of progress. It implies both the will and the skill to reduce to order, and surround with idealisms and graces, the more material conditions of human existence; and wherever that will and that skill exist, life cannot be wholly ignoble.
1880. Dinner, being the grand solid meal of the day, is a matter of considerable importance; and a well-served table is a striking index of human, ingenuity and resource. "Their table," says Lord Byron, in describing a dinner-party given by Lord and Lady Amundevillo at Norman Abbey,—
"Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
Albeit all human history attests
That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!—
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner."
And then he goes on to observe upon the curious complexity of the results produced by human cleverness and application catering for the modifications which occur in civilized life, one of the simplest of the primal instincts:—
"The mind is lost in mighty contemplation
Of intellect expended on two courses;
And indigestion's grand multiplication
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces.
Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration,
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources,
As form a science and a nomenclature
From out the commonest demands of nature?"
And we may well say, Who, indeed, would suppose it? The gulf between the Croat, with a steak under his saddle, and Alexis Soyer getting up a great dinner at the Reform-Club, or even Thackeray's Mrs. Raymond Gray giving "a little dinner" to Mr. Snob (with one of those famous "roly-poly puddings" of hers),—what a gulf it is!
1881. That Adam's "ration," however, was "simple," is a matter on which we have contrary judgments given by the poets. When Raphael paid that memorable visit to Paradise,—which we are expressly told by Milton he did exactly at dinner-time,—Eve seems to have prepared "a little dinner" not wholly destitute of complexity, and to have added ice-creams and perfumes. Nothing can be clearer than the testimony of the poet on these points:—
"And Eve within, due at her home prepared
For dinner savoury fruits, of taste to please
True appetite, and not disrelish thirst
Of nectarous draughts between….
…. With dispatchful looks in haste
She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent,
What choice to choose for delicacy best,
What order so contrived as not to mix
Tastes not well join'd, inelegant, but bring
Taste after taste, upheld with kindliest change—
* * * * *
"She tempers dulcet creams….
…. then strews the ground
With rose and odours."
It may be observed, in passing, that the poets, though they have more to say about wine than solid food, because the former more directly stimulates the intellect and the feelings, do not flinch from the subject of eating and drinking. There is infinite zest in the above passage from Milton, and even more in the famous description of a dainty supper, given by Keats in his "Eve of Saint Agnes." Could Queen Mab herself desire to sit down to anything nicer, both as to its appointments and serving, and as to its quality, than the collation served by Porphyro in the lady's bedroom while she slept?—
"There by the bedside, where the faded moon
Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half-anguish'd, threw thereor
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet.
* * * * *
"While he, from forth the closet, brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies smoother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon."