o 



08 The Gardens of the Sun. [ch. xv. 



is nasty with a soupgon of something rather sweet and 

 nice. On opening a fruit for yourself, however, } r ou find 

 that the perfume, like that of the musk plant, ceases to 

 be evident after you have once had a fair whiff at it at 

 close quarters. The flavour of the straw-coloured, custard- 

 like pulp which surrounds the four or five rows of large 

 chestnut-like seeds is perfectly unique : to taste it, as 

 Wallace tells us, is " a new sensation, worth a journey to 

 the East to experience ; " but much depends on a good 

 fruit being obtained when perfectly, not over ripe. You 

 then find the pulp sweet, rich, and satisfying ; it is indeed 

 a new sensation, but no two persons can agree as to the 

 flavour — no two descriptions of it are alike. Its subtle 

 action upon the palate — and perhaps this best explains 

 the unceasing popularity it enjoys — is like the music of a 

 well-played violin on the ear, rich, soothing, sweet, 

 piquant. The flavour of durian is satisfying, but it never 

 cloys ; the richness seems counteracted by a delicate 

 acidity, the want of grape-like juiciness is supplied by the 

 moist creamy softness of the pulp as it melts away ice- 

 like on your tongue. 



It is said that the best of whisky is that made by. 

 blending several good kinds together, and Nature seems 

 to have blended four or five good flavours together when 

 she made the durian. "A mackloine of fruits," says a 

 modern author, "when well made and judiciously flav- 

 oured, is a delicious sweetmeat. The grape, the peach, 

 the apricot, and the pine, meet in welcome harmony ; 

 the pear, the apple, and the cherry, and their friendly 

 companionship, and all these opposing elements of flavour 

 are blended with a soft and soothing syrup." In a word, 

 the durian is a natural macedoine — one of Dame Nature's 

 " made dishes " — and if it be possible for you to imagine 

 the flavour of a combination of corn flour and rotten 



