“I, Gervase Markham, of London, Gent, do promise hereafter never to write any more book or books to be printed of the diseases or cures of any cattle, as horse, oxe, cowe, sheepe, swine and goates, &c.  In witness whereof, I have hereunto sett my hand, the 24th day of Julie.

“GERVIS MARKHAM.”

He seems to have been a man of some literary accomplishments, and one who knew how to turn them to account.  He translated the “Maison Rustique” of Liebault, and had some hand in the concoction of one or two poems which kindled the ire of the Puritan clergy.  There is no doubt but he was an adroit bookmaker; and the value of his labors, in respect to practical husbandry, was due chiefly to his art of arranging, compacting, and illustrating the maxims and practices already received.  His observations upon diseases of cattle and upon horsemanship were doubtless based on experimental knowledge; for he was a rare and ardent sportsman, and possessed all a sportsman’s keenness in the detection of infirmities.

I suspect, moreover, that there were substantial grounds for that acquaintance with gastronomy shown in the “Country Housewife.”  In this book, after discoursing upon cookery and great feasts, he gives the details of a “humble feast of a proportion which any good man may keep in his family.”

“As thus:—­first, a shield of brawn with mustard; secondly, a boyl’d capon; thirdly, a boyl’d piece of beef; fourthly, a chine of beef rosted; fifthly, a neat’s tongue rosted; sixthly, a pig rosted; seventhly chewits baked; eighthly, a goose rosted; ninthly, a swan rosted; tenthly, a turkey rosted; eleventh, a haunch of venison rosted; twelfth, a pasty of venison; thirteenth, a kid with a pudding in the belly; fourteenth, an olive pye; the fifteenth, a couple of capons; the sixteenth, a custard or dowsets.”

This is what Master Gervase calls a frugal dinner, for the entertainment of a worthy friend; is it any wonder that he wrote about “Country Contentments”?

* * * * *

My chapter is nearly full; and a burst of sunshine is flaming over all the land under my eye; and yet I am but just entered upon the period of English literary history which is most rich in rural illustration.  The mere backs of the books relating thereto, as my glance ranges over them, where they stand in tidy platoon, start a delightfully confused picture to my mind.

I think it possible that Sir Hugh Platt may some day entertain at his Bednall-Greene garden the worshipful Francis Bacon, who is living down at Twickenham, and who is a thriving lawyer, and has written essays, which Sir Hugh must know,—­in which he discourses shrewdly upon gardens, as well as many kindred matters; and through his wide correspondence, Sir Hugh must probably have heard of certain new herbs which have been brought home from Virginia and the Roanoke, and very possibly he is making trial of a tobacco-plant in his garden, to be submitted some day to his friend, the French Ambassador.