Now, though from an economical, moral
restraint, self-denying point of view, the honourable
gentleman, whom an American would have
justly called "a whale at partridges," was a
glutton, still, as a gourmet, we venerate his
memory; he must have been a great, if not
altogether a good, man, for if there is a plump,
delicious, appetising dish in the world, it is a well
roasted, little, young hen partridge. The month
is now September, and walking all day over
hair-brushes—viz. wheat stubble—has sharpened
your naturally keen appetite to an almost
dangerous edge. Then with your gun in the
corner, your shooting-boots warming themselves
against the fender for another day's work, and
a pleasant friend opposite, you could eat a live
horse, you would not stick at hashed
hippopotamus; but you have a dish of smoking
partridges before you, a small sea of delicious
bread-sauce, and a little Greek hand-lamp full
of gravy clear as Madeira; you are a man whose
cornucopia of happiness a kind fate has for
the moment brimmed almost to overflowing.
It is in the very essence of real sporting that
Nimrod, as well as Ramrod, should make
his meal of the game he has spent the day in
chasing. The ruffling walks among the long
wet green and sallow turnip-leaves, and the
bristling hair-brushes aforesaid, the peering
over brows of hills, the keen watching of
your favourite liver-coloured pointer, require,
as a fitting consummation, the solemn
sacrifice of the kitchen. The swift bright-eyed
bird that this morning broke screeching over
the stubbles with all his flurried ladies of the
harem (as frightened as the Arabs in Vernet's
picture of the Smala), lies now before you
featherless, his bright eyes are shrivelled
cinders,  with a drop of gravy distilling sweetly
from each, his neck is a corkscrew, his legs
are crossed in mute and changeless gesture of
humility and supplication. He is now an
abstract article of food; motion, volition, gone; no
fear, no love, no hatred. He lies there on his
back, a mere delicious offering to the sense of
taste. Carve him fair, that's all, and don't
meanly hide away a wing under the débris as
our friend Gorbly does when he carves, in order
to discover it with triumphant wonder just after
he has helped us to the forlorn wreck of the
back, which has been lying on the dish for some
time in front of the ambuscaded wing.

And here allow us to bait for a moment at
the roadside inn of an episodical remark—one
affectionate word to young and inexperienced
persons beginning life, on carving. Remember
the wise dictum of Dr. Johnson (who, by-the-by,
was purblind, and could not help himself),
"Pray consider, sir, the great utility of the
decorums of life; cease to disparage them,
sir, and let me no longer hear your sneers
against the art of carving; you should praise
not ridicule your friend, who carves with as
much earnestness of purpose as though he were
legislating. Whatever is to be done at all
should always be well done." Good carving is
the father of economy; a well carved joint
goes further, and is far better fare than meat
mangled, chopped, and mashed. Bad carving is
an insult to your guests (as Ude said, far more
forcibly than Dr. Johnson, who, worthy old
gentleman, to tell the real truth, did not quite
know what he was talking about); "it is also
inconsistent with good manners and economy,
and evinces in those who neglect it not only
a culpable disrespect to the opinion of the
world, but carelessness, inaptitude, and
indifference to an object of real utility."

Now let us return to covert, and pick up the
covey again as quickly as possible. In the first
place, as to choosing partridges in shops. The
following rules are from the mouth of one
of our most eminent French cooks. Young
birds are known by their yellowish claws; grey,
or even bluish, legs and claws may be of
a tender age, but lamentably seldom. If
the bird is tender, the beak should be black,
and the extreme tip point of the wing bone
sharp pointed and whitish. Old partridges are
only fit for hiding away in consommés, in
cabbages, purées of lentils, sauces, or cold patties.
The best partridges in France are those of
Cahors in Languedoc, and the Cévennes. In
the north of France those of Carhaix carry
away the palm. The red-legged partridges, so
common in the south of France, are abominated
by our sportsmen, because they run for ever
without rising. The white partridges, found
only in the Alps and in the Pyrenees, are the
most esteemed; the grey are of far less value.
French cooks applaud the red-legged bird (the
bartavelle) as having whiter and more delicate
flesh than its grey and snowy cousins.

Perhaps a partridge cannot be cooked too
simply. He is beautiful in his integrity. Still
he is dainty larded (piqué or bardé); and they do
wisely, who advise us to wrap the savoury and
juicy bird in vine-leaf winding-sheets, which
concentrate the flavour and retain the volatile
essences. He is good, too, à la Polonaise, à
l'Orange, à la prévalie, with parmesan, with
truffles, en biberot, and in curling-papers. He
makes a soup, a hot pie, and a famous
vol-au-vent, with tomatoes. The partridge pies
of Cahors and Perigord are as admirable as
the terrines of Nérac, in which the happy
partridges repose on beds of truffles and truffles
on layers of partridges, alternately. The heads
emerge from the centre of the pies like
weathercocks, and are at once an ornament
and an invitation. The ways of cooking partridge
are innumerable; the complaisant bird
lends itself to many pleasant disguises. Partridges
are charming à la braise and à la daube,
exquisite with carp sauce, not bad à maître
Lucas, and delicious à la Czarine and à
l'étouffade. The partridges à la Montmorenci
are larded, then stewed, and served with a
ragoût à la financière. The true French cook
often tries to minister to the sense of sight
at the same time that he titillates the palate,
just as the clumsier Elizabethan cooks
delighted in perfuming their dishes, so as at
once to gratify the nose and charm the mouth.