246 THE COOKERY OF THE PHEASANT 



birds are rising simultaneously by the score, and the 

 guns may be shooting jealously, too many pheasants are 

 killed at short range, and come down shattered or 

 maimed. Then the cripples picked up by the keepers 

 next day have been deteriorating through a long 

 night of thirst and agony. Independently of conside- 

 rations of the palate, nothing is more disagreeable 

 or unsightly when carving, than to come upon thighs 

 hanging by ligatures, and on wings and breasts suf- 

 fused with blood. Indeed, the cooks might say, 

 ' Vive k braconnier,' for no systems of killing are so 

 satisfactory as snaring or dropping point blank with 

 an air cane. 



When the pheasant first made his reputation in 

 France, neither preserving nor regular battues had 

 been dreamed of. Nor yet in those days did the 

 restaurant exist. He was forwarded to the royal 

 palaces or the hotel of raonseigneur by the keepers 

 who ranged the rides in limitless forests, and nearly 

 as often, we dare to say, by the poachers. The Grand 

 Monarch, who did everything on a magnificent 

 scale, had pheasant covers of his own around Ver- 

 sailles, Marly, and St. Cloud. The French nation had 

 little reason to bless his memory, but it must be said 

 to his credit that he was the founder and munificent 

 patron of the intelligent school of French cookery. like 



