.—”There is a sort of salad commonly gathered in the spring, consisting of divers young herbs and sprouts of both trees and herbs, which, being gathered discreetly, wi h nothing but what is very young and tender, and so that no one thing exceed the other, but there may be a fine agreement in their relishing, so it will be very acceptable to many. Violets, small sprouts of burnet, young leaves of primroses, and flowers, mint sorrel, buds of gooseberries, roses, barberries, flowers of borage, bugloss, cowpagles, and archangel.”
“In early spring the heart of man, by natural instinct, lighdy turns to thoughts of salad. Before the days of forcing-frames and canned tomatoes this instinct became a passion ; people aspired after green food with a sort of thirst, watched for the first leaf eagerly as Noah, and when it came, like the little bride of the Holly-Tree Inn, ‘abandoned themselves to it with a perfect looseness.’ Even now, despite modern improvements, which give us green peas (slightly flavored with tin) in January and hot-house strawberries at Christmas, the first crisp bouquet of re:il garden lettuce is an event—significant as a violet—forerunner of a long, delightful vegetable train. There is poetry in salad. It has its literature—its history. The sage Evelyn did not disdain to discourse of Salletts, nor Sydney Smith to sing its praise in rhyme. Reputation has been won by a Mayonnaise, and place and ribbon not thought too good for the lucky inventor. The variety is infinite. From simple vinegarand sugar to Vivian Grey’s cucumber, which, when complete, was thrown out of the window, every note of the gamut of taste is sounded. There is a kind and degree to suit each various fancy, and a bard for every sauce.”—Scribnet’s Monthly.
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