THE COOKERY OF THE PHEASANT 255 



Mrs. Baker that eating a pheasant after dinner is 

 wasting one of the best gifts of Providence, and that a 

 man should have a pheasant all to himself. Both 

 propositions are undeniably sound, but everything 

 depends on the roasting. The cook selects, as a 

 matter of course, the plump young bird that has been 

 properly kept, and then he possesses the material 

 for realising a great though simple inspiration. The 

 rStisseur, like the poet, nascitur nonfit; there are the 

 instincts of genius in the regulation of the fire which 

 is to bring out the rich and appetising colouring. 

 Look upon this picture and on that. The pheasant, 

 with his gay plumage glittering in the sunshine, may 

 be said to gain and be transfigured in the golden glow 

 of his glorified demise. He melts in a gush of tender 

 sympathy to the slightest incision, and the sweet 

 savour of his virtues and well-spent life goes up into 

 the nostrils of the mourner, who thinks fondly of 

 him when finally disposed of. Nor is there anything 

 better than the natural gravy, and we hold that there 

 is something heterodox in the continental practice of 

 tampering with the native sauce. Delicately browned 

 bread crumbs and potato chips are always suitable 

 accompaniments to low-country game, and as for bread 

 sauce, that has been consecrated by old custom, and 

 with better reason than the sauce of the apple which 



