Acetaria: A Discourse of Sallets

In Short

This work serves as an eloquent defense of the "sallet," or the composition of raw herbs, roots, and flowers dressed with vinegar, oil, and salt. Far more than a mere collection of recipes, it functions as a manifesto for a frugal, plant-based diet, arguing that such sustenance promotes longevity, mental clarity, and moral integrity. By cataloging the qualities of various plants and providing instructions for their cultivation and preparation, the text champions a return to nature, positioning the kitchen garden as the cornerstone of a virtuous and healthy life.

The Story

The narrative arc begins with a deliberate act of humility and persuasion. The author, a dedicated scholar and man of the country, addresses his reader with the grace of a gentleman-philosopher. He admits that while he is known for his civic and scientific contributions, he has long harbored a quiet passion for the garden. He seeks to dispel the notion that he is merely indulging in a light, "lascivious" subject, insisting that the study of plants is a serious branch of natural history. He positions his work as a guide for the modern, busy man, suggesting that a well-dressed salad is a remedy against the excesses of a rich, meat-heavy, and ultimately decaying urban diet.

As the discourse progresses, the author moves from his philosophical justification to the "furniture and materials" of the salad. He guides the reader through a meticulous, alphabetically ordered catalog of greens, roots, and herbs. He describes the nature of each plant—whether it is hot or cold, cleansing or nourishing—and explains how it should be selected and prepared. He encourages the reader to move beyond the familiar lettuce, inviting them to consider the virtues of dandelion, sorrel, elder, and even the "sharp-pointed" dock. Along the way, he offers cautionary tales about exotic ingredients like mushrooms, which he views with deep suspicion, preferring the "innocent" offerings of the field over the "voluptuaria venena," or pleasurable poisons, favored by the decadent.

The heart of the argument lies in the transformative power of nature. The author contrasts the "Golden Age" of humanity, when our ancestors thrived on the fruits of the earth, with the contemporary decline in human health and lifespan, which he attributes to the consumption of slaughtered animals. He invokes the wisdom of classical philosophers and the observations of modern scientists to illustrate that man is naturally suited for a diet of herbs. He argues that the preparation of these greens is not a chore, but an act of "Hortulan" stewardship that requires both botanical knowledge and a refined, discerning palate.

The story concludes with a practical application of these principles. The author provides specific directions for dressing a salad—emphasizing the quality of the oil, the clarity of the vinegar, and the necessity of salt—and offers recipes for domestic preparations, including herb-infused wines and pickles. He ends by reaffirming that this is a way of life, not merely a meal. He invites the reader to step away from the vanity of the city and find true state, true health, and a clearer mind in the simple, grassy bounty of their own garden.

How It Unfolds

The philosophical foundation The author establishes his credibility by framing the salad as a "Part of Natural History," distancing himself from the accusations of being a mere glutton. He argues that a temperate diet is the key to preserving one's vital spirits in an age of excess.

The botanical inventory The text transitions into a structured catalog of plants, from Alexanders to Scurvy-grass. Each entry provides the Latin name, a brief assessment of its medicinal properties, and advice on whether it is best eaten raw, blanched, or boiled.

The warning against excess The author pauses to address the "rank and provocative" nature of certain fungi and the dangers of over-farming the soil near crowded, polluted cities. He maintains that true health requires soil that is "sweet, rising, and aery" rather than enriched with common refuse.

The historical and moral argument Drawing on the writings of the ancients and the early church fathers, the author builds his case for the "herby and sallet diet." He suggests that the human transition to a carnivorous life was a mark of a "hardened heart," and that a return to plants is a return to a more innocent state of existence.

The practical conclusion The book closes with specific "receipts" for vinegars and wines, effectively teaching the reader how to sustain this lifestyle. It provides a final, lyrical vision of a life lived in harmony with the natural rhythm of the garden, where true wealth is measured in the freshness of one's harvest.

The People

The author, John Evelyn, acts as our guide and moral conscience. He is a man of vast curiosity and civic responsibility, defined by his desire to instruct his peers in the art of living well. He wants the reader to abandon the "yesterday's surcharge" of heavy, meat-laden meals for the clarity and longevity offered by a diet of fresh, garden-grown plants. His main obstacle is the "luxury of the age," which favors rich, artificial, and often unwholesome foods over the simple, natural bounty of the earth. By the end, he presents himself as a moderate, thoughtful elder, hopeful that his reader will see the wisdom in his "Hortulan" philosophy.

The "learned persons" and "ancient philosophers" he cites, such as Seneca, Hippocrates, and Mr. Ray, serve as the moral chorus. They represent the weight of historical precedent, reinforcing the idea that the most virtuous civilizations were those that valued the garden over the butcher’s shop. Their desire is to align the human body with the order of nature.

Finally, the "reader" is treated as a person of potential—someone who is capable of discernment but currently distracted by the "expensive grandure" of modern life. They stand at a crossroads: they can continue to follow the path of the "sarcophagists" (the meat-eaters) or embrace the "innocence" of a salad-centered life. Through the author’s gentle, persistent guidance, the reader is encouraged to move from a state of physical and mental sluggishness to one of renewed vigor and, ultimately, a more "pleasant and agreeable" way of living.

In Its Own Voice

"The French Country-People eat the Roots; and 'twas with this homely Sallet, the Good-Wife Hecate entertain'd Theseus."

The author connects the humble dandelion to the mythic past to show that simple greens are food for heroes.

"And since there be so many ways of Dressing them, that I can incourage none to use them, for Reasons given... I forbear it; and referr those who long after this beloved Ragout... to what our Learned Dr. Lyster says of the many Venomous Insects harbouring and corrupting in a new found-out Species of Mushroms."

The author displays his characteristic skepticism regarding mushrooms by warning of the insects and corruption that often hide within them.

"See but how pale they look, how wretchedly, With Yesterday's Surcharge disturb'd they be! Nor Body only suff'ring, but the Mind, That nobler Part, dull'd and depress'd we find."

This translation from the Latin captures the author’s core critique of the gluttonous, heavy diets that he believes dull the human spirit.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an argument for temperance as a form of intellectual and physical liberation. It treats the act of eating not just as a biological necessity, but as a moral choice that reflects one's relationship with the environment and one's own mortality. The author posits that the "Hortulan provision"—the products of the garden—is the most natural fuel for a human life. Beneath the practical advice on how to grow and dress greens lies a profound anxiety about the corruption of the city and the loss of the "Golden Age" of human health. It asks: how can we live a life that is both productive and physically pure in a world that is increasingly noisy, crowded, and obsessed with excess?

Why Read It Today

If you have an interest in historical botany, the origins of the farm-to-table movement, or the seventeenth-century English mind, this work is an invaluable treasure. Reading it feels like sitting across a wooden table from a learned, well-traveled grandfather who is deeply concerned about your health and your soul. You will be struck by the author’s immense warmth, his sudden flashes of sharp, dry wit, and his uncompromising belief in the wisdom of the earth.

Be prepared for the period-specific language; the erratic spelling, the use of the "long s," and the frequent, dense injections of Latin and Greek can be an initial hurdle. The author’s digressions into the medicinal "humours" of plants may seem archaic to a modern ear, yet his underlying observation—that our health is inextricably linked to the quality of our food and the health of the soil—is startlingly relevant. What stays with you is the quiet, insistent plea for a slower, more deliberate life. It is a book that demands you put it down, go into your own garden, and consider what you are putting on your plate. It is a gentle, stubborn, and deeply human work that reminds us that the most profound improvements to our lives often begin with a simple handful of fresh greens.