The lettuce is to me a most interesting study.Lettuce is like conversation: it must be fresh and crisp, so sparkling that you scarcely notice the bitter in it.Lettuce, like most talkers, is, however, apt to run rapidly to seed.Blessed is that sort which comes to a head, and so remains, like a few people I know; growing more solid and satisfactory and tender at the same time, and whiter at the center, and crisp in their maturity.Lettuce, like conver-sation, requires a good deal of oil to avoid friction, and keep the company smooth; a pinch of attic salt; a dash of pepper; a quantity of mustard and vinegar, by all means, but so mixed that you will notice no sharp contrasts; and a trifle of sugar.You can put anything, and the more things the better, into salad, as into a conversation; but everything depends upon the skill of mixing.Ifeel that I am in the best society when I am with lettuce.It is in the select circle of vegetables.The tomato appears well on the table; but you do not want to ask its origin.It is a most agreeable parvenu.Of course, I have said nothing about the berries.They live in another and more ideal region; except, perhaps, the currant.
Here we see, that, even among berries, there are degrees of breeding.
The currant is well enough, clear as truth, and exquisite in color;but I ask you to notice how far it is from the exclusive hauteur of the aristocratic strawberry, and the native refinement of the quietly elegant raspberry.
I do not know that chemistry, searching for protoplasm, is able to discover the tendency of vegetables.It can only be found out by outward observation.I confess that I am suspicious of the bean, for instance.There are signs in it of an unregulated life.I put up the most attractive sort of poles for my Limas.They stand high and straight, like church-spires, in my theological garden,--lifted up;and some of them have even budded, like Aaron's rod.No church-steeple in a New England village was ever better fitted to draw to it the rising generation on Sunday, than those poles to lift up my beans towards heaven.Some of them did run up the sticks seven feet, and then straggled off into the air in a wanton manner; but more than half of them went gallivanting off to the neighboring grape-trellis, and wound their tendrils with the tendrils of the grape, with a disregard of the proprieties of life which is a satire upon human nature.And the grape is morally no better.I think the ancients, who were not troubled with the recondite mystery of protoplasm, were right in the mythic union of Bacchus and Venus.
Talk about the Darwinian theory of development, and the principle of natural selection! I should like to see a garden let to run in accordance with it.If I had left my vegetables and weeds to a free fight, in which the strongest specimens only should come to maturity, and the weaker go to the wall, I can clearly see that I should have had a pretty mess of it.It would have been a scene of passion and license and brutality.The "pusley" would have strangled the strawberry; the upright corn, which has now ears to hear the guilty beating of the hearts of the children who steal the raspberries, would have been dragged to the earth by the wandering bean; the snake-grass would have left no place for the potatoes under ground;and the tomatoes would have been swamped by the lusty weeds.With a firm hand, I have had to make my own "natural selection." Nothing will so well bear watching as a garden, except a family of children next door.Their power of selection beats mine.If they could read half as well as they can steal awhile away, I should put up a notice, "Children, beware! There is Protoplasm here." But I suppose it would have no effect.I believe they would eat protoplasm as quick as anything else, ripe or green.I wonder if this is going to be a cholera-year.Considerable cholera is the only thing that would let my apples and pears ripen.Of course I do not care for the fruit;but I do not want to take the responsibility of letting so much "life-matter," full of crude and even wicked vegetable-human tendencies, pass into the composition of the neighbors' children, some of whom may be as immortal as snake-grass.There ought to be a public meeting about this, and resolutions, and perhaps a clambake.
At least, it ought to be put into the catechi**, and put in strong.