But enough of drinking.  It is not a pleasant subject.  Besides, I have not yet described the food of any but the working-class.  And if they live ten times better than their fellows at home, it is equally true that the middle, and especially the upper, class live ten times worse.  It requires the tongue and the pen of a Brillat-Savarin to give flavour to a Barmecide’s feast; but as victualling is as necessary a condition of existence here as anywhere else, I must do my best to enlighten you as to our situation in this respect.  May you never have practical experience thereof!  If it be true that, while the French eat, the English only feed, we may fairly add that the Australians ‘grub’.  Nor could it well be otherwise under the circumstances.  It is not merely because it is difficult to entice a good cook to come out here.  If he really wants a thing, the wealthy colonist will not spare money to get it; but how can you expect a man who—­for the greater part of his life—­has been eating mutton and damper, and drinking parboiled tea three times a day, to understand the art of good living?  Even if he does, he finds it unappreciated by those around him; and there are few men fond enough of the luxuries of life to be singular in their enjoyment.  It takes a lot of trouble to get and keep a good cook, and there is nothing the Australian abhors like trouble.  Consequently—­I am now speaking only of the wealthy—­he adopts one of two courses.

Either he gives occasional grand dinners, in which case he imagines he has got a good cook because he is paying L60 or L70 a year for him—­no very large salary even in England for a chef; or he is contented to live anyhow.  In the latter case he dines at his club (where, by the way, he gets a very fair meal) in the middle of the day, and has meat-tea in the evening.  In both cases the family dinner is much the same.  No. 1 cannot see the use of having what he would call a ‘spread’ for his own selfish benefit, and leaves his grand cook unemployed the greater part of the week.  The dinner consists of beef or mutton, roast or boiled, potatoes and greens, bread-and-butter pudding, and cheese.  The details change, but the type is always the same—­what his wife calls ’a good plain English dinner, none of your unwholesome French kickshaws,’ which are reserved for company.  Fortunately his cook, if not very expert in the ‘foreign’ dishes required to be concocted for company, has generally pretty correct notions within the limits of the family dinner.

But it is not so with No. 2, and with the large middle class who all live in the same way.  The usual female cook at 12s. a week is not even capable of sending up a plain meal properly.  Her meat is tough, and her potatoes are watery.  Her pudding-range extends from rice to sago, and from sago to rice, and in many middle-class households pudding is reserved for Sundays and visitors.  A favourite summer dish is stewed fruit, and, as it is not easy to make it badly, there is a great deal to commend in it.  At the worst, it is infinitely preferable to fruit tart with an indigestible crust.