Shall I state the difference between my town grievances, and my
country comforts? At Brambleton-hall, I have elbow-room within
doors, and breathe a clear, elastic, salutary air -- I enjoy
refreshing sleep, which is never disturbed by horrid noise, nor
interrupted, but in a-morning, by the sweet twitter of the
martlet at my window -- I drink the virgin lymph, pure and
chrystalline as it gushes from the rock, or the sparkling
beveridge, home-brewed from malt of my own making; or I indulge
with cyder, which my own orchard affords; or with claret of the
best growth, imported for my own use, by a correspondent on whose
integrity I can depend; my bread is sweet and nourishing, made
from my own wheat, ground in my own mill, and baked in my own
oven; my table is, in a great measure, furnished from my own
ground; my five-year old mutton, fed on the fragrant herbage of
the mountains, that might vie with venison in juice and flavour;
my delicious veal, fattened with nothing but the mother's milk,
that fills the dish with gravy; my poultry from the barn-door,
that never knew confinement, but when they were at roost; my
rabbits panting from the warren; my game fresh from the moors; my
trout and salmon struggling from the stream; oysters from their
native banks; and herrings, with other sea fish, I can eat in
four hours after they are taken -- My sallads, roots, and potherbs,
my own garden yields in plenty and perfection; the produce of the
natural soil, prepared by moderate cultivation.
Pages:
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222