THE WHIMS OF AMPHITRYON.
Reading edition
Isn't our good friend of the P. M. G. a little extravagant with his culinary raptures? However, we will not be outdone. If he rhapsodises the "Magnificent Mushroom," we have discovered a still more exalting theme, which, taking "whelk" as pronounced, we will call
THE WITCHERY OF THE WHELK.
Would you learn the divinest glory of a goddess among molluscs? Would you note the gastronomic charms of a succulent sea-nymph? Ostracise, then, from your table the blue-point impostor that foists his bearded banality on the faithful elect. Let the cult of that lusty Titan, the Limpet, sink awhile into the limbo of outworn idolatries. Forbear, if you are wise, to hymn the stern masculinity of the Mussel, gregarious demi-god but taciturn, hermetically sealed within the wilful valves of a sulky self-effacement. And let that other fakir of the sea-marge, the fantastic and Pharisaic Scallop, ply his Eleusinian rites, unrevered by the devout and metaphor-mixing epicure. Rather let it be ours to celebrate, though baldest prose were all-insufficient, the allurements of a pandemic Aphrodite, the seductive Whitechapel Whelk, and the coy grace of her sister, the wanton Winkle of Rosherville.
Let us take the first—assume that the siren is yours, then consider how fitliest she shall be dressed. And here it shall be seen whether you have true chivalry and romance in your soul, or whether you grovel in mere sensual gourmandise. What says Master Bill Nupkins, master-cook to the Blue Pig chop-house in Skittle-alley? Is there not an idyllic flavour of Cocaigne, a very fervour of simplicity about his spelling which goes straight to the gizzard of the whelk-worshipper? Listen to his wise counsel on whelks à la Shoreditch:—
"Tyke three 'aputh of whilks, 'Erne By sort fer choice, and chuck 'em wiv a saveloy and a kipper into a sorcepan, if you can nick one from a juggins. Bile 'em till they're green, and add 'arf a glorss of unsweetened, tho it's a pity to wyste it. If toimes is 'ard, the kids and the missus can 'ave the rinsings, or go wivout. Taike my tip, and don't you be a bloomin' mug. You can blyme well stick to the juggins' sorcepan. You may, I dessay, raise arf a dollar on it." There speaks the true gourmet, with single-hearted straight-forward egotism, worthy of a City alderman, in all the glory of a civic banquet. To none but an artist in guttlery would that touch of genius about the kids and the missus occur.
Again, disdain not the sweetly subtle recipes and romantic fancies that you may gather during your sojourn at Colney Hatch. For there, far from the dull Philistinism of house-dinners and fried-fish shops, with all wild Mænad orgies may your divinity be adored. Learn but one magic formula, and you shall see the wizard-working of your incantation, as, like an enchantress herself bewitched, she assumes you an ensorceled, faery shape. Here, mark you, is this potent spell, culled from the inspired lips of a frenzied chef.
To Make Whelk Fritters.—Take one ripe whelk, draw and truss it until you are black in the face, tie up the forequarter with chickweed, sit down, and smoke a pipe; parboil anything you like for a few hours, or don't, if you don't care to; rub the purée through a tammy (I don't know what this is); flavour with elbow-grease, egg-faisandé, mud-salad, and bêtes noire; dredge the gallimaufrey, and hold your nose; write some letters; the vol-au-vent will then explode; wrap the pieces in an old sock, and bury for six weeks; take the 2.13 train to town, and have your hair cut, or pay some calls; then start again with another whelk, and proceed as before; but it is better to buy the fritters ready-made."
Is not this a lesson in devotion and perseverance? Rejoice greatly, and work out your sybaritic salvation.
And now that you have food for pious reflection, after a space you shall, to your exceeding great advantage, be further instructed in the liturgy of the Winkle.
"ALL IS NOT GOLD," &c.
Gentleman (in waiting for his Wife, at "Great Annual Sale," to Head of Department). "You must do an enormous Business on Days like this."
Head of Department. "Not so much as you might fancy. The great majority of the People here to-day are Shopping—not Buying!"
THE WORST OF HAVING "A DAY."
Edith. "Here come those dreadful Bores, the Brondesbury-Browns! How Tactless of them, to come and see us on the only Day in the Week we're at Home!"
"NOBODY LOOKING!" ["We will not evacuate Madagascar ... we will pursue the advantages we have gained ... Madagascar will become a flourishing French Colony. (Cheers.) ... Our freedom of action is complete. There can be no foreign interference."—M. Hanotaux on the French Expedition to Madagascar.] Lupus, on the prowl, loquitur:— Oh, those Malagasy muttons! They are homicidal beasts, Very dangerous, and desperate, and spiteful. Yet, taken young, they furnish quite the toothsomest of feasts, And my hunger for a meal is getting frightful. My "attitude towards them" is—oh! well, the usual one Of the Wolf toward the Lamb the wide world over; The "attitude" of the imprisoned Bear toward the Bun, And I'm free—as free as song's romantic Rover! Yes, I'm free, though not "afloat." There's a feeling in my throat That my foes might call omnivorous voracity, But it is a noble hunger; on nobility I doat; And black baa-lambs are so given to—pugnacity. So full of ill-will, too, in all circumstances! Yes, They turn nasty at the thought of being eaten up! But omelettes still need eggs, as they ever will, I guess, And the eggs have to be broken and well beaten up! You can't tie lambs to treaties, that's the worst of the false things, Though you supply the treaty and the tether. They bolt from my Protectorate as though the brutes had wings, And they will not trust a Wolf as a bell-wether! It is very, very vexing! In such quiet times as these, When "the elements of peace" are fairly uppermost, They ought to be so willing to do anything to please. (Gn-a-r-r! Do I want "redress," now, or my supper most?) All the world is doing homage to that peaceful creature, Bruin, Who is almost as unmilitant as I am; Yet these Malagasy muttons would the entente simply ruin. They're as fierce as the ferocious sheep of Siam. At the lovely "words of concord and of peace" they simply—bleat, A sound that fills the Dove—and me—with terror! They think, because he's gentle, that the Wolf they'll kill and eat. The Wolf must try to show them they're in error. A "policy of division and of discord" must inspire The world with horror and with apprehension. Of "watching o'er my interests and my honour," I shan't tire, And I think there's little fear of—intervention. All the other brutes are busy at their several little games, Inspired by various—peaceful—emulations! These rivalries—of peace—will not set the world in flames, Or "compromise" relations between nations. So I think while no one's looking, I may drop down on these sheep With moral and magnanimous severity. Ah! there's a black-faced baa-lamb! On her track I'll slowly creep, I can go with boldness, though "without temerity." A peaceful time like this is my time to make a pounce; The dogs are all asleep, there's no one looking. Ah! there's nothing like a blend of magnanimity and bounce. Yum-yum! 'Tis a choice morsel, scarce needs cooking; She comes this way, amusingly unmindful of her fate. Aha! my Hova lambkin, I shall have you, I shall eat you up! There's no one will object, until too late, There's no one near will trouble take to save you!
[Prowls on.
"NOBODY LOOKING!"
French Wolf (to himself). "AHA! THE SHEEP-DOGS ARE ASLEEP! I SHALL EAT YOU, MY LITTLE DEAR!"
"Our freedom of action is complete. There can be no foreign interference."—Speech of M. Hanotaux.