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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
101
And
the
food.
Here,
beyond
doubt,
there
is
grave
degeneracy.
It
is
impossible
to
suppose
that
the
old
travellers
by
coach
were
contented
with
entertainment
such
as
one
gets
nowadays
at
the
table
of
a
country
hotel.
The
cooking
is
wont
to
be
wretched;
the
quality
of
the
meat
and
vegetables
worse
than
mediocre.
What!
Shall
one
ask
in
vain
at
an
English
inn
for
an
honest
chop
or
steak?
Again
and
again
has
my
appetite
been
frustrated
with
an
offer
of
mere
sinew
and
scrag.
At
a
hotel
where
the
charge
for
lunch
was
five
shillings,
I
have
been
sickened
with
pulpy
potatoes
and
stringy
cabbage.
The
very
joint--ribs
or
sirloin,
leg
or
shoulder--is
commonly
a
poor,
underfed,
sapless
thing,
scorched
in
an
oven;
and
as
for
the
round
of
beef,
it
has
as
good
as
disappeared--probably
because
it
asks
too
much
skill
in
the
salting.
Then
again
one's
breakfast
bacon;
what
intolerable
stuff,
smelling
of
saltpetre,
has
been
set
before
me
when
I
paid
the
price
of
the
best
smoked
Wiltshire!
It
would
be
mere
indulgence
of
the
spirit
of
grumbling
to
talk
about
poisonous
tea
and
washy
coffee;
every
one
knows
that
these
drinks
cannot
be
had
at
public
tables;
but
what
if
there
be
real
reason
for
discontent
with
one's
pint
of
ale?
Often,
still,
that
draught
from
the
local
brewery
is
sound
and
invigorating,
but
there
are
grievous
exceptions,
and
no
doubt
the
tendency
is
here,
as
in
other
things--a
falling
off,
a
carelessness,
if
not
a
calculating
dishonesty.
I
foresee
the
day
when
Englishmen
will
have
forgotten
how
to
brew
beer;
when
one's
only
safety
will
lie
in
the
draught
imported
from
Munich.
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