PACHYDERMATA, OR THICK-SKINNED ANIMALS.

What do our African brethren consider tit-bits? Ask Gordon Cumming. He will enumerate a list longer than you can remember. Study his ‘Adventures,’ and you will become learned in the mystery of African culinary operations. What are sheep’s-trotters and insipid boiled calves’ feet compared to baked elephants’ paws?

Listen to his description of the whole art and mystery of the process of preparing them:—

‘The four feet are amputated at the fetlock joint, and the trunk, which at the base is about two feet in thickness, is cut into convenient lengths. Trunk and feet are then baked, preparatory to their removal to headquarters. The manner in which this is done is as follows:—A party, provided with sharp-pointed sticks, dig a hole in the ground for each foot and a portion of the trunk. These holes are about two feet deep and a yard in width; the excavated earth is embanked around the margin of the holes. This work being completed, they next collect an immense quantity of dry branches and trunks of trees, of which there is always a profusion scattered around, having been broken by the elephants in former years. These they pile above the holes to the height of eight or nine feet, and then set fire to the heap. When these strong fires have burnt down, and the whole of the wood is reduced to ashes, the holes and the surrounding earth are heated to a high degree. Ten or twelve men then stand round the pit and take out the ashes with a pole about sixteen feet in length, having a hook at the end. They relieve one another in quick succession, each man running in and raking the ashes for a few seconds, and then pitching the pole to his comrade, and retreating, since the heat is so intense that it is scarcely to be endured. When all the ashes are thus raked out beyond the surrounding bank of earth, each elephant’s foot and portion of the trunk is lifted by two athletic men, standing side by side, who place it on their shoulders, and, approaching the pit together, they heave it into it. The long pole is now again resumed, and with it they shove in the heated bank of earth upon the foot, shoving and raking until it is completely buried in the earth. The hot embers, of which there is always a great supply, are then raked into a heap above the foot, and another bonfire is kindled over each, which is allowed to burn down and die a natural death; by which time the enormous foot or trunk will be found to be equally baked throughout its inmost parts. When the foot is supposed to be ready, it is taken out of the ground with pointed sticks, and is first well beaten, and then scraped with an assagai, whereby adhering particles of sand are got rid of. The outside is then pared off, and it is transfixed with a sharp stake for facility of carriage. The feet thus cooked are excellent, as is also the trunk, which very much resembles buffalo’s tongue.’

Elephants’ petit(?) toes, pickled in strong toddy vinegar and cayenne pepper, are considered in Ceylon an Apician luxury. As soon as it is known that an elephant has been killed in Africa, every man in the neighbourhood sets off with his knife and basket for the place, and takes home as much of the carcase as he can manage to carry. The flesh is not only eaten when fresh, but is dried and kept for months, and is then highly esteemed.

The manner in which the elephant is cut up is thus described by the author and sportsman I have already quoted:—‘The rough outer skin is first removed, in large sheets, from the side which lies uppermost. Several coats of an under skin are then met with. The skin is of a tough and pliant nature, and is used by the natives for making water-bags, in which they convey supplies of water from the nearest vey, or fountain (which is often ten miles distant), to the elephant. They remove this inner skin with caution, taking care not to cut it with the assagai; and it is formed into water bags by gathering the corners and edges, and transfixing the whole on a pointed wand. The flesh is then removed in enormous sheets from the ribs, when the hatchets come into play, with which they chop through and remove individually each colossal rib. The bowels are thus laid bare; and in the removal of these the leading men take a lively interest and active part, for it is throughout and around the bowels that the fat of the elephant is mainly found. There are few things which a Bechuana prizes so highly as fat of any description; they will go an amazing distance for a small portion of it. They use it principally in cooking their sun-dried biltongue, and they also eat it with their corn. The fat of the elephant lies in extensive layers and sheets in his inside, and the quantity which is obtained from a full-grown bull, in high condition, is very great. Before it can be obtained, the greater part of the bowels must be removed. To accomplish this, several men eventually enter the immense cavity of his inside, where they continue mining away with their assagais, and handing the fat to their comrades outside till all is bare. While this is transpiring with the sides and bowels, other parties are equally active in removing the skin and flesh from the remaining parts of the carcase.

‘In Northern Cachar, India, the flesh of the elephant is generally eaten. The Kookies encamp in the neighbourhood of the carcase until they have entirely consumed it, or are driven away by the effluvia of decomposition. Portions of the flesh that they cannot immediately eat are dried and smoked to be kept for future consumption.

‘Fat of any kind is a complete godsend to the Bechuana and other tribes of Southern Africa; and the slaughter of an elephant affords them a rich harvest in disembowelling the carcase, and mining their way into the interior of the huge cavity to remove the immense layers furnished by such a large animal if in good condition.’

Galton, the African traveller, in his hints for bush cooking, tells us:—

‘The dish called beatee is handy to make. It is a kind of haggis made with blood, a good quantity of fat shred small, some of the tenderest of the flesh, together with the heart and lungs of the animal, cut or torn into small shivers, all of which is put into the stomach and roasted, by being suspended before the fire with a string. Care must be taken that it does not get too much heat at first, or it will burst. It is a most delicious morsel, even without pepper, salt, or any seasoning.’

In all the large rivers of Southern Africa, and especially towards the mouths, the hippopotami abound. The colonists give them the name of sea-cows. The capture of one of these huge beasts, weighing, as they sometimes do, as much as four or five large oxen, is an immense prize to the hungry Bushman or Koranna, as the flesh is by no means unpalatable; and the fat, with which these animals are always covered, is considered delicious. When salted it is called zee-koe speck, is very much like excellent fat bacon, and is greatly prized by the Dutch colonists, not only for the table, but for the reputed medicinal qualities which are attributed to it. In Abyssinia, hippopotamus meat is commonly eaten.

The hog is one of those animals that are doomed to clear the earth of refuse and filth, and that convert the most nauseous offal into the nicest nutriment in its flesh. It has not altogether been unaptly compared to a miser, who is useless and rapacious in his life, but at his death becomes of public use by the very effects of his sordid manners. During his life he renders little service to mankind, except in removing that filth which other animals reject.

A delicate sucking pig, a Bath chap, or a good rasher of bacon are, however, tit-bits not to be despised.

Lord Brougham hoped to see the day when every man in the United Kingdom would read Bacon. ‘It would be much better to the purpose,’ said Cobbett, ‘if his lordship would use his influence that every man in the kingdom could eat bacon.’

In British India, only Europeans and the low Hindoos eat pork, but wild hogs are very abundant, and afford good sport to the hunter. The avoidance of pork arises as much from religious scruples as the deep-rooted aversion to the domestic swine all must imbibe who have only seen it in the East, where it is a tall, gaunt, half famished, and half ferocious-looking brute, which performs the office of scavenger.

The legend which ascribes to the eating of human flesh the origin of one of the most loathsome of diseases, scarce offers a more horrible picture to the imagination than is presented by a letter recently published in the Ceylon Examiner. The beautiful islands of Mauritius and Bourbon are largely supplied with pork from Patna, a province of Hindostan that has been over-run by the cholera. Both there and at Calcutta the bodies of the natives are consigned to the Ganges, instead of being interred. ‘Let any person,’ says the writer in the Ceylon paper, ‘at daybreak start from the gates of Government House, Calcutta, and, whether his walk will be to the banks of the river or to the banks of the canals which on three sides surround the city, he will see pigs feeding on the dead bodies of the natives that have been thrown there during the night. During the day the river police clear away and sink all that remains of the bodies. Bad as is the metropolis of India it is nothing compared to Patna. Hundreds upon hundreds of human corpses are there strewed along the strand; and fattening, ghoule-like, upon these are droves upon droves of swine. These swine are slaughtered, cut up, and salted into hams, bacon, and pickled pork, and then despatched to Calcutta.... The great market for this poisonous swine produce is the Mauritius and Bourbon, where it is foisted on the inhabitants as the produce of Europe. Moreover, as these swine are sold in Calcutta at 3s. or 4s. each carcase, it is stated that the inferior class of homeward-bound vessels are provisioned with them, and thus this human-fed pork is introduced into Europe and America.’

Pork-eaters may believe as much of the following remarks as they please. ‘It is said that the Jews, Turks, Arabians, and all those who observe the precept of avoiding blood and swine’s flesh, are infinitely more free from disease than Christians; more especially do they escape those opprobria of the medical art, gout, scrofula, consumption, and madness. The Turks eat great quantities of honey and pastry, and much sugar; they also eat largely, and are indolent, and yet do not suffer from dyspepsia as Christians do. The swine-fed natives of Christendom suffer greater devastation from a tubercular disease of the bowels (dysentery) than from any other cause. Those persons who abstain from swine’s flesh and blood are infinitely more healthy and free from humors, glandular diseases, dyspepsia, and consumption; while in those districts, and among those classes, of men, where the pig makes the chief article of diet, tubercle in all its forms of eruptions, sore legs, bad eyes, abscesses, must prevail.’

These are the remarks of an American journalist, which, however, have not, I conceive, the shadow of foundation.

‘It appears somewhat singular,’ remarks Mr. Richardson, in his history of the pig, ‘that the flesh of the hog was prohibited in the ceremonial of the Jewish law; the same prohibition being afterwards borrowed by Mahomet, and introduced into the Koran.’ Great difference of opinion prevails as to the cause of this prohibition; some alleging that this food was unsuited to the land inhabited by the Jews. As, however, the kinds of food to be eaten and rejected—doubtless to prevent that luxurious epicurism unsuited to a growing and prosperous nation—were to have a limit, this limit was fixed by two distinctive marks: they must ‘divide the hoof, and chew the cud;’ that principle of restriction admitting only a limited range to the food permitted. The pig, the horse, and the camel were excluded. It was only in a state of low nationality, or in times of great degeneracy, that the Jew ever tasted pork.

The food of the hog varies in different localities, and probably materially influences the flavour of the meat. In the River Plata provinces they feed them on mutton. After describing the purchase—8,000 at eighteen-pence per dozen (?)—by a Mr. M. Handy, a traveller adds, ‘As soon as the sheep became fattened on his own lands, he killed about a thousand, sold the fleeces at five shillings per dozen, and with the mutton he fed a herd of swine. Mentioning this fact to a large party of Europeans, at the dinner table of Lord Howden, when in Buenos Ayres, my statement was received with a murmur of scepticism; but I offered to accompany the incredulous to the pastures, where the remainder of the sheep were then feeding.’—(Two Thousand Miles’ Ride through the Argentine Provinces.) But the Yankees beat this, according to a late American paper. In North America they generally feed them on maize, but in some of the States, apples form a principal portion of their food, and the ‘apple sauce’ thus becomes incorporated with the flesh. A gentleman travelling down East, overtook a farmer dragging a lean, wretched-looking, horned sheep along the road. ‘Where are you going with that miserable animal?’ asked the traveller. ‘I am taking him to the mutton mill, to have him ground over,’ said the farmer. ‘The mutton mill? I never heard of such a thing. I will go with you and witness the process.’ They arrived at the mill; the sheep was thrown alive into the hopper, and almost immediately disappeared. They descended to a lower apartment, and, in a few moments, there was ejected from a spout in the ceiling four quarters of excellent mutton, two sides of morocco leather, a wool hat of the first quality, a sheep’s head handsomely dressed, and two elegantly-carved powder horns.’

In America they speak of hogs as other countries do of their sugar, coffee, and general exportable staple crops; and even when packed and cured they occasionally compute the produce by the acre. Thus, the Louisville Courier stated recently, that there were five or six acres of barrelled pork piled up three tiers high, in open lots, and not less than six acres more not packed, which would make eighteen acres of barrels if laid side by side, exclusive of lard in barrels, and pork bulked down in the curing houses, sheds, &c. Besides the above slaughtered hogs, there were five or six acres more of live hogs in pens, waiting their destiny.

In the Western States pork is the great idea, and the largest owner of pigs is the hero of the prairie. What coal has been to England, wheat to the Nile or the Danube, coffee to Ceylon, gold to California and Victoria, and sheep to the Cape and Australia, pork has been to the West in America.

The phrase, ‘Going the whole hog,’ must have originated in Ohio, for there they use up the entire carcases of about three-quarters of a million of pigs, and the inhabitants are the most ‘hoggish’ community of the entire Union. What crocodiles were in Egypt, what cows are in Bengal, or storks in Holland, pigs are in Cincinnati, with this trifling difference, their sacredness of character lasts but as long as their mortal coil; and this is abbreviated without ceremony, and from the most worldly motives. In life, the pig is free, is honored; he ranges the streets, he reposes in thoroughfares, he walks beneath your horse’s legs, or your own; he is everywhere respected; but let the thread of his existence be severed, and—shade of Mahomet!—what a change! They think in Cincinnati of nothing but making the most of him.

Historically, socially, gastronomically, the pig demands our careful attention. The connection with commerce, with the cuisine, and even with the great interest of fire insurance, have all made him an object of particular regard. In the early days of the Celestial Empire—as we learn from the veracious writings of the witty and voracious essayist, Charles Lamb—a wealthy Chinaman was so unfortunate as to have his dwelling destroyed by fire. Prowling around the smoking ruins, and seeking to save some of his valuables which the conflagration might have spared, his hand came in contact with the smoking remains of a poor pig which had perished in the flames; instantly, smarting with the pain, he carried his hand to his mouth, when a peculiar flavour greeted his palate, such as the gods (Chinese ones I mean, of course,) might in vain have sighed for. Regardless of pain he applied himself once more, and drew forth from the smoking cinders the remains of the pig. Carefully brushing off the ashes, he regaled himself with the feast before him, but closely preserved the secret he had learned. In a few short months, however, the taste for roast pig came back so strong, that John Chinaman’s house was burned down again, and again was a pig found in the ashes. This was repeated so often that the neighbours grew suspicious, and watched until they ascertained that the reason for the conflagration was the feast that invariably followed. Once out, the secret spread like wildfire; every hill-top shone with the flames of a burning habitation—every valley was blackened with the ashes of a homestead; but roast pig was dearer to a Chinaman than home or honour, and still the work of destruction went on. Alarmed at a course which bid fair to ruin every insurance office in the empire, the directors petitioned in a body to the General Court of China, for the passing of an Act that should arrest the evil and avert their threatened ruin; and a careful examination of the revised statutes of China would probably show stringent resolutions against the crime of burning houses for the sake of roasting pigs.

Since the invention of the modern cooking stove, however, although incendiarism has decreased only in a slight degree, still it has ceased to be attributed to this cause, and a juicy crackling is no longer suggestive of fallen rafters, or a houseless family.

‘There is an old adage, ‘Give a dog a bad name, and his ruin is accomplished.’ Such may be true of the canine race; but the noble family of animals of which I am treating, furnishes a striking illustration that the proverb applies not to their numbers. A goose, it is said, saved lordly Rome by its cackling; and had not their list of Divinities just then been full, a grateful people would have found for him a sedgy pool and quiet nest in Olympus. How did the ancestors of that same people repay the pig for a service scarcely less important?

‘The veriest smatterer in the classics knows, that, when from flaming Troy ‘Æneas the great Anchises bore,’ seeking in strange lands a new home for his conquered people, a white sow, attended by thirty white little pigs, pure as herself, pointed out to him the scene of his future empire. But what did he and his people do for the pig in return? Did they load him with honours? Did they cherish him with corn? Did they treat him with respect? No! with black ingratitude, which still merits the indignation of every admirer of the pig, they affixed to the animal the appellation of Porcus; and ‘poor cuss’ the pig would have been to the present day, had not the Latin tongue long since ceased to be the language of the world. But, ‘poor cuss’ he is no longer, when in Worcester county he spurns his classic name, and, adopting the vernacular, he ‘grows the whole hog,’ that he may ‘pork us,’ in return for the care which we bestow upon him.

‘For the sake of our farmers, who are anxious to make a profit from pig-raising, it is greatly to be regretted that the thirty-at-a-litter breed has disappeared from the face of the earth. Breeding swine with such a rate of increase must be almost as profitable as ‘shaving’ notes at two per cent. per month; but still the impression is irresistibly forced upon us, that, in a family so numerous, those who came last to dinner, at least in their infant days, would not have gained flesh very rapidly. Indeed, in such a family it would seem almost impossible to dispense with the services of a wet nurse, in order to bring up profitably the rising generation.

‘The course of the pig, like that of the Star of Empire, has ever tended westward. From China we trace him to Italy, the gloomy mountains of the Hartz, the broad plains of Westphalia, the fertile valleys of France, and to the waving forests of ‘Merrie England;’ all have known him since the days when their bold barons and hungry retainers sat down to feast on the juicy chine of the wild boar, and the savoury haunch of venison. In green Erin, piggy has been an important member of society; true, he has shared his master’s meal, and basked in the comfortable warmth of his cabin; but, like a ‘gintleman’ as he is, he has ever paid the ‘rint;’ and St. Patrick, in the plenitude of his power and influence, never saw the day he could have banished him from that ‘gem of the ocean.’

‘When the pig first crossed to this western world remains in doubt. Whether he came with the Pilgrims, pressing with the foot of a pioneer the Blarney-stone of New England, and scanning with fearless eye the cheerless prospect before him, or whether, regardless of liberty of conscience, and careful only of his own comfort, he waited till the first trials and toils of a new settlement had been met and overcome, we have no record; enough for us that he is here; how or where he came concerns us not. He is among us and of us. From souse to sausage we have loved him; from ham to harslet we have honoured him; from chine to chops we have cherished him. The care we have shown him has been repaid a hundred-fold. He has loaded our tables, and lighted our fire-sides, and smiling plenty has followed in his steps, where hungry famine would have stalked in his absence.

‘But still further towards the setting sun has been the arena of the pig’s greatest triumphs; there have been the fields of his widest influence. Beneath the vast forests of Ohio, raining to the ground their yearly harvests of mast—through her broad corn-fields, stretching as far as the eye can see, he has roamed, and fed, and fattened. From him, and the commercial interests he has mainly contributed to establish, has grown a mighty State, scarcely second to any in this confederacy; from his ashes has arisen a new order in society—the ‘Bristleocracy of the great West.’

‘A broad levee bustling with business, lofty and spacious stores and slaughter-houses, crowded pens, and a river bearing on its bosom steamboats in fleets—all attest the interest which the pig has exerted on the agricultural and commercial interests of the great State of Ohio. He has filled the coffers of her bankers, and has bought the silks which cover her belles. He has built the beautiful palaces which adorn the ‘Queen City of the West,’ and feeds the princely luxury of those who inhabit them. There he is almost an object of worship, and his position is considered as about equivalent to a patent of nobility. Fancy dimly paints the picture, when a few years hence, the wealthy pork merchant, who justly boasts his numerous quarterings, shall, in the true spirit of heraldry, paint on the pannel of his carriage, and on the escutcheon over his door-way, a lustrous shield, bearing in brilliant colours a single pig, his bristles all rampant, his tail closely curlant, and his mouth widely opant, till the lions, the griffins, and the unicorns of the Old World shall fade into insignificance before the heraldic devices of the New.’[7]

‘Your Spanish pig, who, by the way, is a no less important character in his country than is his cousin in Ireland, is not raised for the vulgar purpose of being fried to lard, or salted down to pork. He has, in fact, no more fat than he has hair on him. He is a long-legged, long-snouted, and long-tailed fellow, and would have been described by Plato as an animal without hairs. But though the pickings on his ribs be small, they are sweet. The Spaniard rolls the morsels under his tongue as he does his easily-besetting sins. It is nut-fed flesh; and has the flavour of acorns. This taste is as much prized in the roasted joint as that of the skin in the sherry. Pig is game in Spain. The porker does not live there in the chimney corner, and sit in the best arm-chair, as in Paddy’s cabin; but he roams the fields, and goes a-nutting with the boys and girls. He eats grass, as there are no cows to eat it; and would milk the goats, doubtless, if they would let him. He evidently knows more than the same animal in other countries; and is, in consequence, more willing to be driven. He will squeal when he feels the knife, but for no other reason. Nor is his squeal the same as that heard at the North. There are more vowel sounds in it. It is also less through the nose than in New England; and has some gutturals even farther down the throat than those of a Dutchman. Your wild boar is a monster compared with him. The flesh of the latter is to that of the former as the crisp brown of roast pig is to the tanned hide in your riding saddle. Accordingly, to refuse pork at a Spanish table is to pronounce yourself ‘of the circumcision;’ and should you decline a cut of a particularly nice ham, you would be set down as no better than a heathen. However, you never would do it—particularly after having read this essay. I assure you that when you may have eaten up all the chickens which were stowed away in your saddle bags, you cannot do better than to attack your landlord’s roast pig—provided you can get it. Only it may cost you dear in the reckoning, as it is thought a dish to set before the king. You may like pork, or you may not; but one thing is certain, it is the only meat in the Peninsula which has juices in it. Mutton may have a very little; and should you travel far in the country, you would see the day when you would be glad of a leg of it. But the beef is dry as ‘whittlings.’ An entire joint of roast beef would kill a man as effectually as a joist of timber. Whoever should undertake to live on Spanish beef a twelvemonth, would become at the end of that time what he was, in fact, at the beginning—wooden-headed. Make up your mind, therefore, to eat the meat of the uncircumcised, if you have any thought of going to Spain. You will often have to take your choice between that and nothing; and my word for it, ’tis much preferable. For the land is leaner far than pork; and happy is that traveller, who, when he is reduced to pickings, can find a spare-rib to work upon. Forewarned—forearmed.[8]’

Pork is the great food of the Brazilian people. It is prepared and eaten, according to Dr. Walshe, in a peculiar manner. When the pig is killed, the butcher dexterously scoops out the bones and muscular flesh, leaving behind only the covering of fat. In this state it is salted, folded up, and sent in great quantities to Rio, where it is called toucinho. All the stores and vendas are full of it, and it is used commonly for culinary purposes, and forms an ingredient in every Brazilian article of cookery.

The flesh of the peccary (after cutting away the fetid orifice on its back) and of the wild or musk hog, both known under the Indian appellation of quanco in Trinidad, is much preferable to that of the domestic swine.

The flesh of the rhinoceros is eaten in Abyssinia, and by some of the Dutch settlers in the Cape Colony, and is in high esteem. The flesh of the hippopotamus used also to be eaten on the east coast of Africa, roasted or boiled, and fetched a high price as a delicacy. The fat was used in making puddings, instead of butter. The Portuguese settlers were permitted by the priests to eat the flesh of this animal in Lent, passing it off as fish from its amphibious habits, and hence their consciences were at ease.

The flesh of the tapir, when roasted, closely resembles beef, especially if it be young; and that of the water hare is also considered excellent food, being white and delicate, and much of the same flavour as that of the tapir.

HORSE-FLESH.

At Paris, where all eccentricities are found, and even encouraged, one of the latest gastronomic innovations is the use of horse-flesh. The French are always adding to their dietetic regimen by introducing new articles of food. This social phenomenon of making the horse contribute to the nourishment of the human race, is not altogether new. The ancient Germans and Scandinavians had a marked liking for horse-flesh. The nomade tribes of Northern Asia make horse-flesh their favorite food. It has long been authorized and publicly sold in Copenhagen.

With the high ruling prices of butcher’s meat, what think you, gentlemen and housekeepers, of horse-flesh as a substitute for beef and mutton? Are you innocently ignorant of the French treatise of that eminent naturalist and professor of zoology, M. St. Hilaire, upon horse for food? Banquets of horse-flesh are at present the rage in Paris, Toulouse, and Berlin. The veterinary schools there pronounce horse-bone soup preferable beyond measure to the old-fashioned beef-bone liquid, and much more economical.

Horse-flesh steak without sauce, and cold, is cited as a morsel superior to the finest game that flies! and cut, too, from a horse nearly a quarter of a century old; one of the labouring cavalry kind who pranced at the sound of the trumpet, and snuffed the battle from afar off, little dreaming he was doomed to steaks, soup, and washing-day hashes. Horse-flesh pie, too, eaten cold, is a dainty now at Berlin and Toulouse, and boiled horse, rechauffé, has usurped the place of ragouts and secondary dishes! What a theme, hippophology, to write upon. We shall soon hear in our city dining rooms, ‘A piece o’ horse, my kingdom for a piece of horse!’ ‘Waiter! a cut from the fore-shoulder, well done.’ ‘A horse sandwich and ale, and the morning paper.’ Our witty friend Punch had its horse-laugh recently upon the subject of the sensation this movement has created in equestrian circles.

A Frenchman, observes a recent writer, was one day remonstrating against the contempt expressed by Englishmen for French beef, the inferiority of which he would not admit. ‘I have been two times in England,’ said he, ‘but I nevere find the beef so supérieur to ours. I find it vary convenient that they bring it you on leetle pieces of stick for one penny, but I do not find the beef supérieur.’ ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the Englishman, ‘you have been eating cats’ meat for beef.’ What this Frenchman did in the innocence of his heart, his countrymen now do, it seems, with malice prepense.

And a Frenchman of considerable reputation, in a letter on alimentary substances, and especially upon the flesh of the horse, calls upon the whole world to put aside, what he considers, an ancient and absurd prejudice, and to realize at home that famous sentence in the geography we used to read at school, which, under the head of Norway, informed us ‘horse-flesh is publicly sold in the markets.’

‘M. Isidore St. Hilaire is very serious. He does not merely advocate the fillet of horse-flesh—the mare soup and fricasseed colt—in sarcastic allusion to the practice of Parisian restaurants. He comes gravely forward, with chapters of scientific evidence and argument, to contend that, while animal food is absolutely necessary to the proper nourishment of the human race, millions of Frenchmen eat no animal food, and every year millions of pounds of excellent meat are wasted. He knows how the cause he advocates lends itself to ridicule—he knows how difficult it has always been to get rid of a prejudice—he knows the fate of innovators; but, though a Frenchman, he braves ridicule, brings a heavy battery of facts to destroy what he deems a prejudice, and is already experiencing some of the triumph which follows a hard-won victory. For seven years he has been advocating the desirableness of eating horse-flesh—for seven or eight years he has been collecting evidence and gaining converts—and now he feels strong enough to appeal to the European public in a small volume.[9]

‘Since then, Germany has had its ‘Banquets of Horse-flesh’ for the wits to ridicule—public feastings at which ‘cats’ meat’ was served in various forms, as soup, as bouilli, as fillet, as cutlet; and all the feasters left the table converted hippophagists. In 1841, horse-flesh was adopted at Ochsenhausen and Wurtemburg, where it is now publicly sold under the surveillance of the police. Every week five or six horses are brought to market. At the Lake of Constance, a large quantity of this meat is also sold. In 1842, a banquet of 150 persons inaugurated its public use at Königsbaden, near Stuttgard. In 1846, the police of Baden authorized its public sale, and Schaffhausen followed in the same year. In 1847, at Detmold and at Weimar, public horse-flesh banquets were held with great éclat—in Karlsbad (Bohemia) and its environs, the new beef came into general use—and at Zittau, 200 horses are eaten annually. At Ling, after one of these banquets, the police permitted the sale of horse-flesh, which is now general in Austria, Bohemia, Saxony, Hanover, Switzerland, and Belgium. The innovation made rapid converts. In 1853, Berlin had no less than five abattoirs, where 150 horses were killed and sold. At Vienna, in 1853, there was a riot to prevent one of these banquets; but in 1854, such progress had been made, that 32,000 pounds weight were sold in fifteen days, and at least 10,000 of the inhabitants habitually ate horse-flesh.’ And now Parisian banquets of horse-flesh are common.

These facts are at all events curious. Think of the prejudices to be overcome, and think how unreasoning is the stomach!

Young horses are too valuable to be brought to the shambles, unless killed by accident. But our worn-out hacks, of which 250 or 300 die or are killed weekly in the metropolis,—old horses used up, are capable, we are assured, of furnishing good meat. An old horse, which had done duty for twenty-five years, was the substance of a learned gastronomic feast at Paris.

M. St. Hilaire, the champion of this new addition to our food resources, reasons in this fashion:—‘Horse-flesh has long been regarded as of a sweetish disagreeable taste, very tough, and not to be eaten without difficulty. So many different facts are opposed to this prejudice, that it is impossible not to recognize its slight foundation. The free or wild horse is hunted as game in all parts of the world where it exists—Asia, Africa, and America—and formerly, and perhaps even now, in Europe. The domestic horse itself is made use of as alimentary as well as auxiliary—in some cases altogether alimentary—in Africa, America, Asia, and in some parts of Europe.

‘Its flesh is relished by people the most different in their manner of life, and of races the most diverse, negro, Mongol, Malay, American, Caucasian. It was much esteemed up to the eighth century among the ancestors of some of the greatest nations of Western Europe, who had it in general use, and gave it up with regret. Soldiers to whom it has been served out, and people in towns who have bought it in markets, have frequently taken it for beef. Still more often, and indeed habitually, it has been sold in restaurants, even in the best, as venison, and without the customers ever suspecting the fraud or complaining of it.

‘And further, if horse-flesh has been often accepted as good under a false name, it has also been pronounced good by those who, to judge of its qualities, have submitted it to careful experiment, and by all who have tasted it in a proper condition, that is, when taken from a sound and rested horse, and kept sufficiently long. It is then excellent roasted; and if it be not so acceptable as bouilli, it is precisely because it furnishes one of the best soups—perhaps the best that is known.

‘It is good also, as experiments prove made by myself as well as others, when taken from old horses not fattened, whose age was 16, 19, 20, and even 23 years, animals thought worth no more than a few francs beyond the value of their skin.

‘This is a capital fact, since it shows the possibility of utilizing a second time, for their flesh, horses which have already been utilized up to old age for their strength; and, consequently, of obtaining a further and almost gratuitous profit at the end of their life, after they had well nigh paid the cost of their rearing and keep by their labour.’

Let us see what additional evidence M. St. Hilaire has to adduce. First, he appeals to his long experience at the Jardin des Plantes, where the greater part of the carnivora are habitually fed on horse-flesh, which keeps them healthy in spite of many unfavourable conditions. But this will not carry much weight with it. Our digestion is not quite so good as that of a lion. The condor has been known to eat, with satisfaction, food which Mrs. Brown would find little to her taste. No dietetic rule for men can be deduced from the digestions of tigers. We prefer the experience of human stomachs. Fortunately this is not wanting, and M. St. Hilaire collects an imposing mass of evidence. Huzard, the celebrated veterinary surgeon, records, that during the revolution, the population of Paris was for six months dieted with horse-flesh, without any ill effects. Some complaints, indeed, were made when it was found that the beef came from horses; but, in spite of prejudice and the terrors such a discovery may have raised, no single case of illness was attributed to the food. Larrey, the great army surgeon, declares that on very many occasions during the campaigns, he administered horse-flesh to the soldiers, and to the soldiers sick in the hospital; and instead of finding it injurious, it powerfully contributed to the convalescence of the sick, and drove away a scorbutic epidemic which attacked the men. The testimony of Parent Duchâtelet is also quoted to the same effect. M. St. Hilaire feels himself abundantly authorized to declare that horse-flesh, far from being unwholesome, is one of the most nutritious and wholesome of alimentary substances: and, to support this declaration, he adduces the testimony of historians and travellers, showing how whole tribes and nations have habitually eaten and highly esteemed it.

Having thus, as he considers, satisfactorily settled the question of wholesomeness, M. St. Hilaire proceeds to deal with the question of agreeableness. Is wholesome horse-flesh agreeable enough to tempt men, not starving, to eat it? It is, of course, of little use that historians and travellers tell of hippophagists—it is nothing to the purpose that soldiers in a campaign, or citizens during a siege, have eaten horses with considerable relish. Under such circumstances, one’s old shoe is not to be despised as a pièce de résistance; and one’s grandmother may be a toothsome morsel. The real point to be settled in the European mind is this—apart from all conditions which must bias the judgment, is horse-flesh pleasant to the taste? M. St. Hilaire cites the evidence of eminent men who, having eaten it knowing what it was, pronounced it excellent—all declaring that it was better than cow-beef, and some that there was little difference between it and ox-beef.

But perhaps the reader, having eaten German beef, has a not ill-grounded suspicion that horse-flesh might bear honourable comparison with such meat, and yet be at best of mediocre savour. Let us, therefore, says a writer in the Saturday Review, cite the example of Parisian banquets, where the convives were men accustomed to the Trois Frères, Philippe’s, and the Café de Paris. M. Renault, the director of the great Veterinary College at Alfort, had a horse brought to him with an incurable paralysis of the hinder extremities. It was killed, and three days afterwards, on the 1st December, 1855, eleven guests were invited—physicians, journalists, veterinary surgeons, and employés of the government. Side by side were dishes prepared by the same cook, in precisely the same manner, and with the same pieces taken respectively from this horse and from an ox of good quality. The bouillon of beef was flanked by a bouillon of horse, the bouilli of beef by a bouilli of horse, the fillet of roast beef by a fillet of roast horse; and a comparison was to be made of their qualities. Dr. Amédée Latour thus writes:—

‘Bouillon de cheval.—Surprise générale! C’est parfait, c’est excellent, c’est nourri, c’est corse, c’est aromatique, c’est riche de goût.

‘Le bouillon de bœuf est bon, mais comparativement inférieur, moins accentué de goût, moins parfumé, moins résistant de sapidité.’

The jury unanimously pronounced the horse bouillon superior to that of the ox. The bouilli, on the contrary, they thought inferior to that of good beef, although superior to ordinary beef, and certainly superior to all cow-beef. The roast fillet, again, they found superior to that of the ox; and M. Latour thus sums up the experiment:—

Un bouillon supérieur; Un bouilli bon et très-mangeable; Un rôti exquis.

Similar experiments have been subsequently tried, several times in Paris and in the provinces. They have been tried under three different conditions. First, the guests have known what they were going to eat; secondly, they have been totally ignorant; and thirdly, they have been warned that they were going to eat something quite novel. Yet in every case, we are told, the result has been the same. It is right to add, that the author anticipates the objection that the animals selected were young horses in splendid condition, and that such horses are too valuable to be sent to the butcher. The majority of these experiments have, we are assured, been made at veterinary colleges, upon horses incapacitated by age or accident from further work. The horse which M. Renault served up to his friends had already vingt-trois ans de bons et loyaux services. He was in good ‘condition’—that is to say, well-fleshed, although paralysed. In fact, all the horses, it is asserted, were such as are sold for fifteen or twenty francs—not such as are the pride of our stables. The younger the horse, the better his flesh; and as young horses die daily from accidents, these, we presume, would form the ‘prime cuts.’ But old horses, used up, unfit even for cabs, if allowed a little rest, are capable, we are assured, of furnishing beef better than cow-beef. But this serving up of horse-flesh is equalled by that of the maître de cuisine to the Maréchal Strezzi, who, at the siege of Leith, according to Monsieur Beaujeu, ‘made out of the hind quarter of one salted horse forty-five couverts, that the English and Scottish officers and nobility who had the honour to dine with the Monseigneur, upon the rendition, could not tell what the devil any one of them were made upon at all.’ M. St. Hilaire discusses at great length many other objections, with which we need not here trouble ourselves. But the taste is spreading and the advocates increasing. The public use of horse-flesh as human food is spoken of approvingly in Blackwood.

The New York Tribune thus endorses the fanatical idea of the French savans, (more properly ravens,) as to the propriety of eating horse-flesh:—

‘In the horse we have an animal which is much cleaner in its habits than the hog, herbivorous like the ox or sheep, whose flesh is rich in nitrogen, and as pleasant to the taste as that of either of the above-named animals. What prevents horse-flesh from being found on our tables? Nothing but a popular prejudice, which recent investigations in Paris show is entirely without any foundation whatever.

‘8,000 horses die, it is said, in New York annually, or about 22 per day’ (a great exaggeration no doubt); ‘but instead of fetching 17 or 18 dollars to press the carcase for grease, and to feed the hogs on to make pork for export, the prices will be greatly enhanced for meat for home consumption.’

Thus writes the Paris correspondent of the Indépendance Belge:—‘You know what interest is attached to-day—and very naturally so—to all questions relating to the public food. In connexion therewith, I have to mention a fact which is both curious and odd; it is, that there is being formed in Paris a society of economists, naturalists, and hardy gourmands, having for aim the introduction of horse-flesh into the category of butchers’ meat. It may perhaps be said, that this social phenomenon is not altogether new. Ten years ago, hippophagy made some noise in Germany, and, if I remember right, a society of eaters of the horse was formed, and attempted a public festival, at which all the meat should be of that quadruped, but were interrupted by the public, who, feeling their prejudices wounded, broke the tables to pieces. At Paris, where all eccentricities are found, and even encouraged, there is nothing of that kind to fear. Accordingly, hippophagy progresses. Do not consider this an exaggeration. The last number of the Revue des Cours Publics will prove to you, by means of a summary, that M. Geoffroy de St. Hilaire has made the subject the theme of one of his recent lectures, and that the learned professor was greatly applauded. I should add that his auditors included economists, agriculturists, and heads of benevolent institutions. When the orator concluded by saying that the day was come when the horse ought to contribute to the nourishment of the human race, as well as the ox, the sheep, and the pig, a hundred voices cried in chorus, ‘Oui! oui! très bien!’ This question, strange at first sight, has been raised, and it will not sleep again. I predict that it will have not only numerous adherents, but eloquent fanatics. As a commencement, many of the auditors wished to eat horse soup, horse steaks, and the same flesh under other forms.’ At the time at which I write, dissertations are made, brochures written, the regulations of a hippophagic society drawn up, and the establishment of horse shambles demanded. In 1832, M. Alphonse Karr, mocking the extreme zeal of the society for protection, exclaimed—‘Philanthropists! the horse has carried man long enough; it is now for man to carry the horse!’

There is very little doubt that horse-flesh, besides its application for ‘cats’ meat,’ enters, even now, largely into surreptitious use in certain quarters in this country as food for bipeds. Thus, a Blackburn paper tells us that ‘on Monday last Mr. Laverty seized and confiscated the carcase of a horse. The animal had been stuck and bled, and was taken very near to the premises of a noted brawn and black-pudding maker. We understand that horse-flesh is used in this town by a certain vender and manufacturer of brawn.’

Hoffman and Burns, makers and venders of horse-meat sausages, at Philadelphia, were recently tried, convicted, and sentenced to eighteen months’ imprisonment. Apropos of sausages, judging from the following anecdote, home-made ones are the more attractive.

‘A minister in one of our orthodox churches, while on his way to preach a funeral sermon in the country, called to see one of his members, an old widow lady, who lived near the road he was travelling. The old lady had just been making sausages, and she felt proud of them—they were so plump, round, and sweet. Of course she insisted on her minister taking some of the links home to his family. He objected on account of not having his portmanteau along with him. This objection was soon over-ruled, and the old lady, after wrapping them in a rag, carefully placed a bundle in either pocket of the preacher’s capacious great coat. Thus equipped, he started for the funeral.

‘While attending to the solemn ceremonies of the grave, some hungry dogs scented the sausages, and were not long in tracking them to the pockets of the good man’s over-coat. Of course this was a great annoyance, and he was several times under the necessity of kicking these whelps away. The obsequies at the grave completed, the minister and congregation re-passed to the church, where the funeral discourse was to be preached.

‘After the sermon was finished, the minister halted to make some remarks to his congregation, when a brother who wished to have an appointment given out, ascended the steps of the pulpit, and gave the minister’s coat a hitch to get his attention. The divine, thinking it a dog having designs upon his pocket, raised his foot, gave a sudden kick, and sent the good brother sprawling down the steps!

‘You will excuse me, brethren and sisters,’ said the minister, confusedly, and without looking at the work he had just done, ‘for I could not avoid it—I have sausages in my pocket, and that dog has been trying to grab them ever since I came upon the premises!’[10]

The reader may judge of the effect such an announcement would have at a funeral. Tears of sorrow were suddenly exchanged for smiles of merriment.

Mr. Richardson, officer of the Local Board of Health of Newton Heath, near Manchester, gave the following evidence before Mr. Scholefield’s Committee on Adulteration, before whom I was also examined as a witness.

‘We have in Newton five knackers’ yards, and there is only one in Manchester. The reason is, that they have so much toleration in Newton; and it has been a great source of profit to them, because they have the means of selling the best portions of the horse-flesh to mix with the potted meats.

‘I can say for a fact, that the tongues of horses particularly, and the best portions, such as the hind quarters of horses, are generally sold to mix with collared brawn, or pigs’ heads, as they are called with us, and for sausages and polonies. I understand, also, from those who have been in the habit of making them, that horse-flesh materially assists the making of sausages; It is a hard fibrin, and it mixes better, and keeps them hard, and they last longer in the shop window before they are sold, because otherwise the sausages run to water, and become soft and pulpy. I believe horse-flesh also materially assists German sausages; it keeps them hard.’

The instinct of the dog, the cat, and the rat, are so well known that one anecdote will suffice to illustrate the three. A terrier and a tom cat were pursuing a large rat down a street. The rat was almost caught, when it dodged suddenly and ran into a sausage shop. The cat and dog stopped convulsively at the door; and, looking at the sausages, hung their heads, and slunk away terror-stricken.

But in other quarters than England, unwholesome and infected meat is vended, for a year or two ago the editor of the Madras Athenæum thus wrote:—

‘We question whether since the days of Pelops a more filthy dish was ever offered to human beings, than those which are daily served up to the European inhabitants of Madras. With respect to the state of our market, we have never seen a more disgusting receptacle of all kinds of abominations than that market presents.

‘Unfortunate beings in the worst stages of leprosy, naked, and covered all over with the livid spots of that hideous disease, standing at the stalls, handling the meat, and talking with the butchers, is a sight as common as it is horrible. As for the small-pox, that is almost too abundant to allow of any cases being particularly noticed. It is very conspicuous on the native, on account of the pustules being white. The only disease bearing any resemblance to it is the itch. We have ourselves observed a dirty fellow, with his hands covered all over with one of these nauseous eruptions, coolly walking down the whole length of a set of stalls, and clapping those abominable hands, in a lazy manner, upon every piece of meat within his reach. Faugh! The very thought smells. When we were last there, the place swarmed with pariah dogs, the effect of which was to render the stench and filth accumulated round the stalls perfectly unbearable. We are aware the subject is a nasty one, but at the risk of spoiling the breakfast of Brown, Jones, or Robinson, as they take up our damp sheet this morning, we make the evil conspicuous, and bring it plainly into notice, that measures may be taken to sink it into oblivion ever after. If one could jest upon such a subject, one might say, that the market of Madras is as much the morning lounge of the filthiest wretches in the place, as the stables of Taylor and Co. are the morning rendezvous of the rank and fashion, who there do congregate, to look at the Australians and Arabs ushered to their notice under the winning smile of the worthy head partner. Is not the thought horrible, too, that the fairer part of the creation, who should be fed on

are offered such filthy and infected stuff?

‘We should also recommend attention being called to the practice, which we are afraid prevails, of ‘blowing the meat,’ to give it a good appearance. This is a cognizable offence, and butchers have, on occasion, most deservedly received a dozen or two for it; but the inducement to make their meat look tempting by filling it with breath, not quite so ‘fragrant as the flower of Amrou,’ is too profitable, we fear, to be disregarded upon the vague and distant contingency of a flogging or a fine. If the functionaries who are employed to superintend the market are insufficient in number, it would surely be poor economy not to increase them. If they are inattentive and remiss, discharge them. It would be pennywise, indeed, for a few paltry rupees a month, to allow a Secretary to Government, or a Member of Council, whose wisdom and experience have been purchased at an immense cost to the country, to be poisoned, which at present they are liable to be, by infected meat.

‘If by calling attention to the subject, some improvement is made, our object will be attained. We will gladly run the chance of spoiling a few dinners. Jones of the club, as he takes the cover off one of Maltby’s best entrées, may for once think of the leprous hand that has handled it; Brown may fancy for once he will catch small-pox from his beef-steak; Robinson may think of the dog licking the leg of mutton from which his whack is taken, and all may heartily anathematise the Athenæum for telling them the truth, but we will cheerfully put up with their wry faces and abuse, if the necessary reform we advocate be attained.’

Sam Slick, in his truthful, but satirical vein, alludes to the disguises of fashionable cookery.—‘Veal’ (he says) ‘to be good, must look like anything else but veal. You mustn’t know it when you see it, or it’s vulgar; mutton must be incog, too; beef must have a mask on; any thin’ that looks solid, take a spoon to; any thin’ that looks light, cut with a knife; if a thing looks like fish, you take your oath it is flesh; and if it seems real flesh, it’s only disguised, for it’s sure to be fish; nothin’ must be nateral—natur is out of fashion here. This is a manufacturin’ country; everything is done by machinery, and that that aint, must be made to look like it; and I must say, the dinner machinery is perfect.’

If horses are eaten, why not donkeys? The animal is more rare, and hence it would be the greater delicacy. The Greeks ate donkeys, and we must suppose they had their reasons for it. Has any modern stomach in Europe been courageous enough, knowingly, to try it?

The flesh of the common ass, though never eaten by us, is esteemed a delicacy in some countries, particularly in Tartary. The northern climate, pasturage, and freedom may have some effect on the flesh.

Travellers affirm that dogs’ flesh, which with us is intolerable, is one of the most savoury meats, when the animal has been kept for some time in the warm, tropical regions. This cannot, however, apply to the brutish pariah dogs that infest the streets of Madras, Constantinople, and other eastern towns.

The Roman peasants found the flesh of the ass palatable, and the celebrated Mæcenas having tasted it, introduced it to the tables of the great and rich, but the fashion of eating it lasted no longer than his life. Galen compares the flesh of the ass to that of the stag. It is said to be eaten plentifully in the low eating-houses of Paris, under the denomination of veal. The flesh of the wild ass is eaten by the Tartars, and is said to be very delicate and good, but when killed in a tame state, it is hard and unfit for food.

The wild ass, called Koulan by the Persians, is still common in many parts of Central Asia, from the 48° of North latitude to the confines of India. The Persians and Tartars hold its flesh in high esteem, and hunt it in preference to all other descriptions of game. Olearius assures us, that he saw no fewer than 32 wild asses slain in one day, by the Shah of Persia and his court, the bodies of which were sent to the royal kitchens at Ispahan; and we know from Martial, that the epicures of Rome held the flesh of the Onager, or wild ass, in the same estimation as we do venison.

From a passage in Pliny (lib. viii., c. 44), it would appear, that the Onager inhabited Africa; and that the most delicate and best flavoured lalisiones, or fat foals, were brought from that continent to the Roman markets. Leo Africanus repeats the same story of wild asses being found in Africa, but no traveller has since met with them; and, as far as we at present know, the species is confined to Asia.

The quaggas (Asinus Quagga) are often hunted in Africa by the Dutch for their skins, of which they make large bags to hold their grain, and by the Hottentots and other natives, who are very fond of their flesh.

Lieutenant Moodie (Ten Years in South Africa) says, ‘Being one morning at the house of a neighbouring farmer who had just shot one of these animals, I requested that he would have a piece of the flesh cooked for my breakfast. His ‘frow’ expressed some disgust at my proposal, but ordered a small bit to be grilled, with butter and pepper. I did not find it at all unpalatable, and certainly it was better than horse-flesh, to which I had been treated in the hospital at Bergen-op-Zoom in 1814, when lying wounded there, after the unfortunate failure of that well-planned attack.’

RUMINANTIA.

The ruminants furnish, as is well known, the largest portion of our animal food, being consumed by man alike in civilized or unsettled countries. The domestic animals require little notice at our hands. There are, however, some whose flesh is eaten in different countries that are less familiar. Thus the bison and musk-ox of North America, the reindeer of Greenland and Northern Europe—the various antelopes, the gnu, the giraffe, and the camel of Africa, and the alpaca tribe of South America, supply much of the animal food of the people in the districts where they are common.

The flesh of the camel is dry and hard, but not unpalatable. Heliogabalus had camels’ flesh and camels’ feet served up at his banquets. In Barbary, the tongues are salted and smoked for exportation to Italy and other countries, and they form a very good dish. The flesh is little esteemed by the Tartars, but they use the hump cut into slices, which, dissolved in tea, serves the purpose of butter.

The flesh of the Axis deer (Cervus axis, or Axis maculata) is not much esteemed in Ceylon, having little fat upon it, and being very dry. The India samver, or musk deer, is eaten there.

The flesh of the great moose deer or elk, of North America, the carcase of which weighs 1,000 or 1,200 lbs., is as valuable for food as beef, but from its immense size, much of the flesh is usually left in the forest.

It is more relished by the Indians and persons resident in the fur countries, than that of any other animal, and bears a greater resemblance in its flavour to beef than to venison. It is said that the external fat is soft like that of a breast of mutton, and when put into a bladder is as fine as marrow.

The flesh of the caribboo, a smaller animal, rarely exceeding 400 lbs., is less palatable than moose venison. Nor is the flesh of the red or Virginian deer much better, although the venison dried is very good.

Venison is not ‘meat’ in the parlance of the backwoodsman; that term, as Sam Slick tells us, is reserved par excellence for pork; and he is frequently too indolent or too much occupied otherwise, to hunt, although deer tracks may be seen in every direction around the scene of his daily rail-splitting operations. He considers it cheaper to buy venison of the Indians, when there are any Indians in the locality. But venison has some solid value even in those parts, and if salted and smoked, would be entitled to a place among the articles of household thrift.

Of the Arctic quadrupeds, the reindeer (Cervus tarandus) is most valuable, its flesh being juicy, nutritious, and well-flavoured, and easy of digestion. They abound in Greenland, and are tolerably numerous in Melville Island.

In Sweden, roast reindeer steaks and game are dressed in a manner preferable to that which prevails with us. The flesh is first perforated, and little bits of lard inserted; and, after being baked in an oven, it is served in a quantity of white sauce.

The flesh of the young giraffe is said to be good eating. The Hottentots hunt the animal principally on account of its marrow, which, as a delicacy, they set a high value on.

The Hottentots have a curious mode of cooking their antelope venison, which renders it, however, exceedingly palatable. After stewing the meat in a very small quantity of water, they take it out of the pot and pound it between two stones until reduced to the consistency of pap, when they mix it with a considerable quantity of sheep’s fat, and then stew it for a short time longer. This is an excellent way of preparing dry flesh of any kind.

‘On one occasion’ (says Lieut. Moodie), ‘after I had taken out my share of this mess, the Hottentots added a larger quantity of fat to it to please their own palates; and one of them ate so heartily of the greasy mixture, that he became seriously unwell, but recovered by chewing dry roots of the sweet-scented flag (Calamus aromaticus). This plant is very much used by the Dutch for stomach complaints, and they generally cultivate some of it in wet places in their gardens.’

The eland of Africa (Boselaphus Oreas) is the largest of the antelope tribe, its size being indicated by its generic name. The bulls attain to the height of nineteen hands at the shoulder, and frequently exceed 1,000 lbs. in weight. It fattens readily on the most meagre herbage of the desert, and to the delicious, tender, juicy, and wholesome nature of its flesh every hunter will bear witness, who has regaled himself on the steaks broiled in the homely style of South African cookery, with some of the usual condiments or spices to give them an unnatural relish. The flesh has a peculiar sweetness, and is tender and fit for use the moment the animal is killed.

It is hunted with avidity, on account of the delicacy of its flesh, but is very rarely found within the limits of the Cape Colony, having been driven beyond the Orange River by the progress of colonization.

The hartebeest, an antelope of the size of the Scotch red deer, though now rather rare, is much prized by the African sportsman. It is also called caama by the Dutch farmers, and is a favourite object of pursuit with both natives and colonists. The flesh is rather dry, but of a fine grain, more nearly resembling the beef of the ox than that of any other antelope, except, perhaps, the so-called eland or elk of the colonists (A. oreas, Pallas), and it has a high game flavour which makes it universally esteemed.

The meat of the sassaby (A. lunata, Burchell), a rare species, is tender and well tasted. The flesh of the ourebi of Southern Africa (A. scoparia, Schreber), though dry and destitute of fat, is esteemed one of the best venisons of the country.

The flesh of the bosh-bok, or bush goat, as its colonial name implies (A. sylvatica, Sparrman), makes good venison, that of the breast being particularly esteemed. The flesh of the rheebok (A. capreolus, Lichstenstein) is dry and insipid, and relished less than that of any other of the numerous Cape antelopes. The bush antelope (A. silvicultrix, Afzelius) affords excellent venison, and is much sought after on that account. The flesh of the ahu (A. subgutturosa, Guldenstaedt) is excellent, and of an agreeable taste. That of the gnu of South Africa is in great repute both among the natives and Dutch settlers. Though the meat has a wildish flavour, it is more juicy than that of most of the antelope tribe, and very much like beef.

The flesh of the alpaca and guanaco is sold in the public shambles of Peru, Chili, &c.

Sheep’s milk is a common beverage in Toorkistan, where the sheep are milked regularly three times a day. Goats are very scarce; cows not to be seen; but the sheep’s milk affords nourishment in various forms, of which the most common is a kind of sour cheese, being little better than curdled milk and salt.

If we think ox tails a delicacy, Australians (as we have seen) like kangaroo tails, and the Cape colonists have fat sheep’s tails requiring a barrow or a cart on which to support them. The broad fat tail, which often composes one-third of the weight of the animal, is entirely composed of a substance betwixt marrow and fat, which serves very often for culinary purposes instead of butter; and being cut into small pieces, makes an ingredient in various dishes.

The dried flesh of the argali, or wild sheep, is in Kamtschatka an article of commerce.

The domestic goat’s flesh is not in much favour anywhere, although that of a young kid, three or four months old, is very tender and delicate. Some of the goats are eaten in the Cape Colony, but the flesh is generally lean and tough. The Malabar goat is a delicate animal, that browzes on the rocks. It is more sought after than any game in Ceylon, for, contrary to the general nature of the goat, its flesh is tender and excellent when broiled.

Bison beef, especially that of the female, is rather coarser grained than that of the domestic ox, but is considered by hunters and travellers as superior in tenderness and flavour. The hump, which is highly celebrated for its richness and delicacy, is said, when properly cooked, to resemble marrow. The flesh of the buffalo, as it is misnamed, is the principal, sometimes the only, food of numerous tribes of North American Indians. It is eaten fresh on the prairies during the hunt, and dried in their winter villages.

The musk-ox (Ovibos moschatus) is of much importance from its size and palatable rich meat. It has occasionally furnished a rich meal to arctic explorers. When they are fat, the flesh is well flavoured, but smells strongly of musk.

CETACEA.

The flesh of the manatus is white and delicate, and tastes like young pork eaten fresh or salted, while the fat forms excellent lard. The cured flesh keeps long without corruption, and it will continue good several weeks, even in the hot climate of which it is a native, when other meat would not resist putrefaction for as many days. The fibres and the lean part of the flesh are like beef, but more red; it takes a very long time boiling. The fat of the young one is like pork, and can scarcely be distinguished from it, while the lean eats like veal. The fat, which lies between the entrails and skin has a pleasant smell, and tastes like the oil of sweet almonds. It makes an admirable substitute for butter, and does not turn rancid in the sun. The fat of the tail is of a firmer consistence, and when boiled is more delicate than the other.

Manatees, or sea calves, are found in certain parts of British Honduras in great numbers. They are, according to my friend, Chief Justice Temple, frequently caught and brought to the market of Belize, where they are snapped up with the greatest avidity. He states the flesh to be white and delicate, something between pork and veal. The tail, which is very fat, is most esteemed. This caudal luxury is generally soused or pickled. I do not, myself, fancy the flesh of this brute, for it is so inhumanly human—it reminds one so much of a mermaid, or of one of the fifty daughters of Nereus, that to eat it seems to me to be an approximation to cannibalism. It appears horrible to chew and swallow the flesh of an animal which holds its young (it has never more than one at a litter) to its breast, which is formed exactly like that of a woman, with paws resembling human hands. But these notions would be considered highly fantastic by those who masticate a monkey with the greatest relish, partake with gusto of rattlesnake soup, and voraciously devour an alligator stew. The manatus is commonly found in shallow water, at the mouths of rivers, where it feeds upon the marine herbage which there grows in great luxuriance. It has no teeth, but two thick, smooth, hard, unserrated bones run from one side of the mouth to the other. I am inclined to think that these bones might be used as a substitute for ivory.[11]

Mr. P. H. Gosse, in his interesting little manual on the Natural History of the Mammalia, remarks:—

‘From personal experience we can confirm Hernandez’s statement of the excellence of the flesh of the manatee; he truly compares it to well fatted pork, of pleasant flavour. The pursuit of it, on this account, has rendered it scarce in many localities, where it was formerly numerous; in the vicinity of Cayenne, it was at one time so common, that a large boat might be filled with them in a day, and the flesh was sold at 3d. per pound. About the middle of the last century it fetched, at Port Royal in Jamaica, 15d. currency per pound.’

The tongue of the sea-lion (Phoca jubata) is very good eating, and some seamen prefer it to that of an ox or calf. Thus Dr. Pernetty (Voyage to the Falkland Islands) says,—‘For a trial we cut off the tip of the tongue hanging out of the mouth of one of these lions which was just killed. About sixteen or eighteen of us ate each a pretty large piece, and we all thought it so good that we regretted we could not eat more of it.

‘It is said that their flesh is not absolutely disagreeable. I have not tasted it, but the oil which is extracted from their grease is of great use. This oil is extracted in two ways; either by cutting the fat in pieces and melting it in large caldrons upon the fire, or by cutting it in the same manner upon hurdles or pieces of board, and exposing them to the sun, or only to the air. This grease dissolves of itself and runs into vessels placed underneath to receive it. Some of our seamen pretended that this last sort of oil, when it is fresh, is very good for kitchen uses. It is preferred to that of the whale; is always clear, and leaves no sediment.’

Walrus meat is strong, coarse, and of a game-like flavour. Seal flesh is exceedingly oily, and not very palatable; but by practice, residents in the northern regions learn to relish both exceedingly.

The large tongue, the heart, and liver of the walrus (Trichecus rosmarus), are often eaten by whalers for want of better fresh provisions, and are passably good.

Commodore Anson’s party killed many sea-lions for food, using, particularly, the hearts and tongues, which they thought excellent eating, and preferable even to those of bullocks. The flesh of the female sea-bear (Phoca ursina, Lin.) they found very delicate, having the taste of lamb; while that of the cub could scarcely be distinguished from roasted pig.

Sir Edward Parry was once asked, at a dinner where Lord Erskine was present, what he and his crew had lived upon when they were frozen in in the Polar Seas. Parry said they lived upon seals. ‘A very good living, too,’ exclaimed the Chancellor, ‘if you keep them long enough.’

One of the ordinary acts of hospitality and civility on the part of the Esquimaux ladies, is to take a bird, or piece of seal-flesh, chew it up very nicely, and hand it to the visitor, who is expected to be overcome with gratitude, and finish the operation of chewing and digesting the delicate morsel.

The carcase and blubber of the whale at Bahia, in Brazil, are reduced to food by the poor.

To most of the rude littoral tribes of Northern Asia and America, the whale and seal furnish, not only food and clothing, but many other useful materials. The Esquimaux will eat the raw flesh of the whale with the same apparent relish, when newly killed, or after it has been buried in the ground for several months.

The whales on the coasts of Japan not only afford oil in great abundance, but their flesh, which is there considered very wholesome and nutritious, is largely consumed. No part of them, indeed, is thrown away; all is made available to some useful purpose or another. The skin, which is generally black, the flesh, which is red and looks like coarse beef, the intestines and all the inward parts, besides the fat or blubber, which is boiled into oil, and the bone, which is converted into innumerable uses,—all is made available to purposes of profit.

Both sperm and black whales abound on the coast of Western Australia. Sometimes a dead whale is thrown on the shore, and affords luxurious living to the natives. They do not, however, eat the shark.

The natives of New Zealand, when short of food, will not scruple to eat the flesh of the whale, when caught in their vicinity.

The deep has many food dainties as well as the land, as we shall shortly have to notice, and among these is the porpoise, which the reader may probably have seen dashing up our rivers, or, during a long voyage, disporting itself amid the briny waves, and rolling gracefully near the sides of the ship. This sea pig sometimes serves for a feast. When caught, it is cut into steaks, dried, and put into the ship’s coppers, with a quantum suf. of spices and condiments which nearly overpower the oily taste. The steaks turn blackish on being exposed to the air, but this is ‘a matter of nothing’ to those whose daily diet is usually limited to hard biscuits and salt junk. Landsmen may question the niceness of the palate which partakes of this dainty, but the old adage holds true everywhere, ‘de gustibus non disputandum.’ There is no disputing about tastes.

According to ancient records, salted porpoises were formerly used for food in this country.

In the olden times, when glass windows were considered an effeminate luxury, and rushes supplied the place of carpets, the flesh of the porpoise constituted one of the standard delicacies of a public feast. It was occasionally served up at the tables of the old English nobility as a sumptuous article of food, and eaten with a sauce composed of sugar, vinegar, and crumbs of fine bread. But tastes have altered, and even sailors will scarcely touch the flesh now. M. de Bouganville, in his voyage to the Falkland Islands, writes—‘We had some of the porpoise served up at dinner the day it was taken, which several others at the table besides myself thought by no means so ill-tasted as it is generally said to be.’

Porpoises are rather dangerous enemies to the shoals of fish. A porpoise, before taking in a barrel of herrings for its dinner, will often whet its appetite with a cod’s head and shoulders, leaving the tail part for some poor fisherman.