did frame A pie, which still retains her name. Though common grown, yet with white sugar stewed, And butter’d right, its goodness is allowed. King.

King.

Pare, core, and mince fifteen French rennet apples; put them into a frying-pan with some[105] powdered loaf sugar, a little pounded cinnamon, grated lemon-peel, and two ounces and a half of fresh butter; fry them a quarter of an hour over a quick fire, stirring them constantly. Butter the shape the size the Charlotte is intended to be; cut strips of bread long enough to reach from the bottom to the rim of the shape, so that the whole be lined with bread; dip each bit into melted butter, and put a layer of fried apples, and one of apricot jam or marmalade, and then one of bread dipped into butter; begin and finish with it. Bake it in an oven for an hour. Turn it out to serve.

[105]

BATTER PUDDING.

A frugal man, upon the whole, Yet loved his friend, and had a soul; Knew what was handsome, and would do’t On just occasion, coûte qui coûte. He brought him bacon (nothing lean); Pudding, that might have pleased a dean; Cheese, such as men of Suffolk make, But wished it Stilton for his sake. Pope.

Pope.

Take six ounces of flour, a little salt, and three eggs; beat it well with a little milk, added by degrees, till the batter becomes smooth; make it the thickness of cream; put it into a buttered and[106] floured bag; tie it tightly; boil one and a half hour, or two hours. Serve with wine sauce.

[106]

APPLE DUMPLINGS.

By the rivulet, on the rushes, Beneath a canopy of bushes, Colin Blount and Yorkshire Tray Taste the dumplings and the whey. Smart.

Smart.

Pare and scoop out the core of six large baking apples; put part of a clove and a little grated lemon-peel inside of each, and enclose them in pieces of puff paste; boil them in nets for the purpose, or bits of linen, for an hour. Before serving, cut off a small bit from the top of each, and put a teaspoonful of sugar and a bit of fresh butter; replace the bit of paste, and strew over them pounded loaf sugar.

SWEETMEAT FRITTERS.

If chronicles may be believed, So loved the pamper’d gallant lived, That with the nuns he always dined On rarities 

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