ght.

I hate with a bitter hatred the names of lentils and haricots--those
pretentious cheats of the appetite, those tabulated humbugs, those
certificated aridities calling themselves human food! An ounce of
either, we are told, is equivalent to--how many pounds?--of the best rump-
steak. There are not many ounces of common sense in the brain of him who
proves it, or of him who believes it. In some countries, this stuff is
eaten by choice; in England only dire need can compel to its consumption.
Lentils and haricots are not merely insipid; frequent use of them causes
something like nausea. Preach and tabulate as you will, the English
palate--which is the supreme judge--rejects this farinaceous makeshift.
Even as it rejects vegetables without the natural concomitant of meat; as
it rejects oatmeal-porridge and griddle-cakes for a mid-day meal; as it
rejects lemonade and ginger-ale offered as substitutes for honest beer.

What is the intellectual and moral state of that man who really believes
that chemical analysis can be an equivalent for natural gusto?--I will
get more nourishment out of an inch of right Cambridge sausage; aye, out
of a couple of ounces of honest tripe; than can be yielded me by half a
hundredweight of the best lentils ever grown.

X.

Talking of vegetables, can the inhabited globe offer anything to vie with
the English potato justly steamed? I do not say that it is always--or
often--to be seen on our tables, for the steaming of a potato is one of
the great achievements of culinary art; but, when it _is_ set before you,
how flesh and spirit exult! A modest palate will find more than simple
comfort in your boiled potato of every day, as served in the decent
household. New or old, it is beyond challenge delectable. Try to think
that civilized nations exist to whom this food is unknown--nay, who speak
of it, on hearsay, with contempt! Such critics, little as they suspect
it, never ate a potato in their lives. What they have swallowed under
that name was the vegetable with all its exquisite characteristics
vulgarized or destroyed. Picture the "ball of flour" (as old-fashioned
housewives call it) lying in the dish, diffusing the softest, subtlest
aroma, ready to crumble, all but to melt, as soon as it is touched;
recall its gust and its after-gust, blending so consummately with that of
the joint, hot or cold. Then think of the same potato cooked in any
other way, and what sadness will co