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ROYAL EPICURES

Royalty in times past has had many an accomplished epicure, as learned in culinary lore as in the practice of the cuisine. Charlemagne took a warm personal interest in the management of his table, and Hardicanute, one of our Danish kings, was so great a gourmand that he was designated “Swine’s Mouth”—his table, it is said, having been covered four times a day with the most costly viands that the air, sea, or land could produce. It was Henry de Valois who brought into fashion aromatic sauces and various spicy dainties, inheriting his taste for cooking from Catherine de Medicis, who introduced into France not only ices, but much of the culinary art from Italy; while the Prince de Soubise, immortalised by the sauce named after him, was a connoisseur of no mean order. He could boast of an excellent cook, but a man with princely notions of expenditure. One day the Prince announced his intention to him of giving a supper, and demanded an estimate. The first article on which the Prince cast his eyes was this: “Fifty hams;” whereupon he inquired, “Are you going to feast my whole regiment?”

“My lord,” replied the cook, “you do not understand our resources; give the word, and these fifty hams which confound you, I will put them all into a glass bottle no bigger than my thumb.” Accordingly the Prince nodded, and the article passed.

Charlemagne once ate cheese mixed with parsley seeds at a bishop’s palace, and liked it so much that ever after he had two cases of such cheese sent yearly to Aix-la-Chapelle—a device which Gay has noted:—

“Marbled with sage, the hardened cheese she press’d.”

Charles the Great ate venison with special pleasure, and Henry IV. of France ate melons and oysters whenever possible—a taste which reminds us of that of Frederick, son of Ernest “the Iron,” who on recovering from amputation of the leg one day resolved on dining on melons, his favourite dish. He was told that such a diet would be fatal to him, as it had already been to one Austrian archduke of his house; but he took no heed of the advice. “I will have melons,” said he, “betide what may!” Of melons, accordingly, he ate to his heart’s content, and death followed shortly afterwards.

Louis XIII. was fond of early fruit, and he had strawberries in March, and figs in June. Fagon, physician to Louis XIV., was a famous expert in the culinary art, and in the declining days of his illustrious master devised for him the cotelette à la Maintenon. It appears that the mutton cutlets of Madame de Maintenon were enveloped in curl papers, but Fagon arranged a more artistic and nourishing dish, in which unboned cutlets were spread with nourishing sauce, minced vegetables, and seasoning. The appetite of Louis XIV. in the prime of life had been prodigious, and the Duchess of Orleans tells us in her Memoirs that she had often seen him eat four plates full of soup, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a plate of salad, mutton hashed with garlic, two slices of ham, a dish of pastry, in addition to fruit and sweetmeats. Hence it is not surprising that in this monarch’s reign cooking made the most rapid advances, being at one time employed to give a zest to his glories, and at another to console him in their decline.

It is fortunate for royalty that the history of gastronomy can boast of few such rash acts as that committed by the ex-Emperor Wenceslaus, who, when residing at Prague, where he reigned as King of Bohemia, after his ejection from the imperial throne, once punished a cook who had sent up to him an ill-dressed capon by roasting him on a spit before his own fire. The story, as Dr. Doran says,[24] “might be held to be groundless, were it not that of petty German potentates there are similar stories told which are well authenticated.” But a tragic occurrence of a different character happened in the reign of Louis XIV., who was devoted to gastronomy, and for whose use liqueurs were invented in his old age when, it is said, he could scarcely endure existence without a succession of artificial stimulants. The closing scene of Vatel has often been told, who, to quote the words of the Almanach des Gourmands, “immolated himself with his own hands because the sea-fish had not arrived some hours before it was to be served. So noble a death ensures you, venerable shade, the most glorious immortality. You have proved that the fanaticism of honour can exist in the kitchen as well as in the camp, and that the spit and the saucepan have also their Catos and Deciuses.” Madame de Sévigny, narrating this pathetic instance of self-devotion, thus writes:—

“I wrote you yesterday that Vatel had killed himself. I here give you the affair in detail. The King arrived on the evening of the Thursday; the collation was served in a room hung with jonquils; all was as could be wished. At supper there were some tables where the roast was wanting, on account of several parties which had not been expected. This affected Vatel. He said several times, ‘I am dishonoured; this is a disgrace that I cannot endure.’ He said to Gourville, ‘My head is dizzy; I have not slept for twelve nights; assist me in giving orders.’ Gourville assisted him as much as he could. The roast which had been wanting, not at the table of the King, but at the inferior tables, was constantly present to his mind. Gourville mentioned it to the Prince; the Prince even went to the chamber of Vatel and said to him, ‘Vatel, all is going well; nothing could equal the supper of the King.’ He replied, ‘Monseigneur, your goodness overpowers me; I know that the roast was wanting at two tables.’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ said the Prince; ‘do not distress yourself, all is going on well.’ Night came; the fireworks failed; they had cost sixteen thousand francs. He rose at four the next morning, determined to attend to everything in person. He found everybody asleep. He meets one of the inferior purveyors, who brought only two packages of sea-fish; he asks, ‘Is that all?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ The man was not aware that Vatel had sent to all the seaports. Vatel waits some time; the other purveyors did not arrive; his brain began to burn; he believed that there would be no more fish. He finds Gourville; he says to him, ‘Monsieur, I shall never survive this disgrace.’ Gourville made light of it. Vatel goes upstairs to his room, places his sword against the door, and stabs himself to the heart; but it was not until the third blow, after giving himself two not mortal, that he fell dead. The fish, however, arrives from all quarters; they seek Vatel to distribute it; they go to his room, they knock, they force open the door; he is found bathed in his blood. They hasten to tell the Prince, who is in despair. The Duke wept; it was on Vatel that his journey from Burgundy hinged. The Prince related what had passed to the King with marks of the deepest sorrow.”[25]

Amidst his other luxuries, Louis XV. was not unmindful of the pleasures of the table, and it is generally understood that tables volantes were invented under his eye. “At the petits soupers of Choisy,” says the poet Rogers, “were first introduced those admirable pieces of mechanism—a table and a sideboard which descended and rose again covered with viands and wines. And thus the most luxurious Court in Europe, after all its boastful refinements, was glad to return at last, by its singular contrivance, to the quiet and privacy of humble life.” Louis XVI., on the other hand, is said to have been somewhat neglectful of his table, a circumstance which, it has been remarked, “was utterly inexcusable, since for a time the great Ude was a member of his establishment.”

But Louis XVIII. was an epicure of the first water, and was nicknamed “Des-huitres” (a pun on dix-huit), because like all the Bourbons he was a great feeder, and especially fond of oysters. One day, when his physician reproached his cook with “ruining the royal health by savoury juices, the dignitary of the kitchen remarked that it was the office of the cook to supply his Majesty with pleasant dishes, and that it was the duty of the doctor to enable the King to digest them.”[26] He had the Duc d’Escars for his grand maître d’hôtel, a disappointed man, however, as he died inconsolable at not having given his name to a single dish after having devoted his whole life to the culinary art. He did not lose the confidence of his royal master, with whom, when he was closeted to discuss some new dish, the ministers were kept waiting in the antechamber, and the next day the following announcement regularly appeared in the official journals: “M. le Duc d’Escars a travaillé dans le Cabinet.” The fate of M. d’Escars was the harder because he died a victim to gastronomy. It appears that Louis XVIII. had invented the truffes à la purée d’ortolans, and, reluctant to disclose the secret to an unreliable menial, he invariably prepared the dish with his own hands, assisted by the Duc. On one occasion they had conjointly prepared a dish of more than ordinary dimensions, and duly consumed the whole of it. In the middle of the night the Duc was seized with a fit of indigestion, and his case was declared hopeless. Loyal to the last, he ordered an attendant to awake and inform the King, who might be exposed to a similar attack. His Majesty was roused and told that the Duc was dying of his invention. “Dying!” exclaimed Louis; “dying of my truffes à la purée? I was right then. I always said that I had the better stomach of the two!”

The petits soupers of the Regent Duke of Orleans were famous, and conferred a celebrity on the scene of them sufficient to justify the reply of the Frenchman who, on being asked by a stranger in a remote part of Europe if he could tell him the direction of Paris, made answer: “Monsieur, ce chemin-là vous conduira au Palais Royal.” There is a vague tradition that the chef of the Regent was pre-eminent in a dinde aux truffes.

The Revolution in France bade fair to seriously check the progress of the culinary art, and “the destruction of the pre-existing races of Amphitryons and diners-out was actually and most efficiently accomplished by it.” But eventually the upstart chiefs of the Republic and the plundering marshals and parvenu nobles of Napoleon proved, as far as gastronomy was concerned, no bad substitutes for the old feudal nobility. When Napoleon was in good humour at the result of a diplomatic conference, he was in the habit of taking leave of the plenipotentiaries with, “Go and dine with Cambacérès,” who was second consul under the Republic and arch-chancellor under the Empire—a man who never allowed the cares of government to distract his attention from what he conceived to be the great object of life. His table was, in fact, an important state-engine, as appears from the anecdote of the Genevese trout sent to him by the municipality of Geneva, and charged 300 francs in their accounts. The imperial Cour des Comptes, having disallowed the item, was interdicted from meddling with municipal affairs in future. Among the many stories told of Cambacérès, it is said that on one occasion, being detained in consultation with Napoleon beyond the appointed hour of dinner, when the fate of the Duc d’Enghien was the topic under discussion, he was observed to grow restless and impatient. At last he wrote a note, the contents of which Napoleon suspecting, nodded to an aide-de-camp to intercept the despatch, which he found to be a note to the cook, conveying this message: “Gardez les entremets—les rôtis sont perdus.”

Napoleon himself was a very fast eater, and at a grand couvert at the Tuileries, from the moment he and his guests sat down till coffee was served, not more than forty-three minutes elapsed. They were then bowed out. It was a rule, too, with Napoleon that the moment appetite was felt, it should be satisfied; and his establishment was so arranged that at all hours chicken, cutlets, and coffee might be forthcoming at a word. But this habit of eating fast and carelessly is commonly supposed to have paralysed him “on two of the most critical occasions of his life—the battles of Borodino and Leipsic, which he might have converted into decisive victories by pushing his advantages as he was wont. On each of these occasions he is known to have been suffering from indigestion.” On the third day of Dresden, too, the German novelist, Hoffman, who was present in the town, asserts that the Emperor would have done much more than he did, but for the effects of a shoulder of mutton stuffed with onions.

The general order to his household was to have cutlets and roast chicken ready at all hours, night and day, a rule which was carefully observed by his maître d’hôtel, Dunand, who had been a celebrated cook. One day when Napoleon returned from the Conseil d’Etat in one of his worst tempers, a déjeuner à la fourchette, comprising his favourite dishes, was served up, and Napoleon, who had fasted since daybreak, took his seat. But he had scarcely partaken of a mouthful when “apparently some inopportune thought or recollection stung his brain to madness,” and, receding from the table without rising from his chair, he uplifted his foot—dash! went the table, crash! went the déjeuner, and the Emperor springing up paced the room with rapid strides. Dunand looked on, and quick as thought the wreck was cleared away, an exact duplicate of the déjeuner appeared as if by magic, and its presence was quietly announced by the customary, “Sa Majesté est servie.” Napoleon felt the delicacy, and “Merci bien, mon cher Dunand,” with one of his inimitable smiles, showed that the hurricane had blown over.

Prince Henry of Condé, in addition to his many other faults, was accused of being too fond of his ease, and when he was reproached with his immoderate taste for the pleasures of the table, he was wont to say, in a dull way, “They affirm that I am always at eating-houses since I left Paris; I have been there only twice.”

Another epicure of a high order was Frederick the Great, who was extremely fond of highly seasoned meats and French or Italian made dishes. Every morning, and sometimes the evening before, the bill of fare was presented to him, which he often altered himself; and during dinner he would make pencil marks against the different items of the bill of fare, which he discussed afterwards with the maître d’hôtel. In a kitchen account of the year 1784, it was stated that the extra consumption amounted to 25 dollars, 10 groschen, 1⅕ pfennig; but Frederick wrote under it: “Robbery, for there were about one hundred oysters on the table, price 4 dollars; cakes, 2 dollars; liver, 1 dollar; fish, 2 dollars; Russian cakes, 2 dollars—total, 11 dollars. As there has been an extra dish to-day, herrings and peas, which may cost 1 dollar, everything beyond 12 dollars is barefaced robbery.”[27]

The King kept at all times a sharp look out, and one day he remarked to his Minister of State, Von Herder, after reprimanding a servant who had put a bottle of wine in his pocket: “Have I not every reason to knock these ragamuffins on the head? Don’t you see that if I let them have their own rascally way I should soon not have a penny left to assist my distressed subjects.” His table was generally served with eight dishes—four French, two Italian, and two prepared according to his peculiar fancy, and from his own receipts. And it was one of his favourite maxims that “he who is not content with eight dishes will not be satisfied with eighty.” One of the last bills of fare—August 5, 1786—twelve days before his death, was as follows:—

August 5.—Dinner: His Majesty’s Table

Name of the Cook.
Henaunt	1 Soupe aux choux à la Fouqué.+
Pfund	1 Du bœuf aux pandis et carottes.+
Voigt	1 Des poulets en cannelon au concombres farcis au blanc à l’Anglaise (was struck out; the King substituted, Des cotelettes dans du papier).
Dionisius	Petits patés à la Romaine. 1 Young pigeon, roasted.
Pfund	1 Du saumon à la Dessau.
Blesson	1 De filets de volaille à la Pompadour avec langue de bœuf et croquets.
Dionisius	Portuguese cake (struck out; Des gaufres put instead).
Pfund	Green peas.+ Fresh herrings.+ Pickled gherkins.
(The crosses indicated his Majesty’s approval of the dish.)

On the other hand, Frederick William I. was served in the plainest manner, partly with the coarsest food, such as bacon and peas, or ham and green kale—his favourite dish. His two special fish were lobsters and oysters. There is still the draught of a bill of fare in existence which Frederick William gave as an example to the Crown Prince, when the latter was at Cüstrin:—

 Soup of veal with force meat balls of river pike, sorrel and chevril.

 Beef with white kale.

 Mutton-carbonade with green peas.

 River carp from the Spree, with cherry fool.

 Craw-fish with butter.

 Fricassee of young chicken.

 Pickled ox cheek and cow heel.

 Roast mutton with cucumber sauce.

But the pertinacity with which Charles V. of Spain gratified his appetite, under all circumstances, rivalled even that of Frederick the Great. It is said that before rising in the morning, potted capon was usually served to him, prepared with sugar, milk, and spices, after partaking of which he would turn to sleep again. At noon he dined on a variety of dishes, soon after vespers he partook of another meal, and later in the evening he supped heartily on anchovies, or some other savoury food; and after his abdication the same propensity accompanied him to his monastic retreat at Yuste. Fish of every kind was his taste—eels, frogs, and oysters occupying an important place in the royal bill of fare. Potted fish, especially anchovies, found special favour with him, and on an eel pasty he particularly doted. Soles, lampreys, and flounders were sent in large quantities from Seville and Portugal. The nobles in the neighbourhood, who knew his weakness for the pleasures of the table, constantly sent him presents of game and vegetables, and the churchmen were equally attentive. The Prior of our Lady of Guadalupe, the Archbishop of Saragossa, the Bishop of Plasencia, and the Archbishop of Toledo were liberal in their contributions. To wash down this extraordinary quantity of food, Charles drank in proportion. And Sastrow, who saw Charles V. at the Diet of Augsburg in the year 1546, states in his “Pomeranian Chronicle”: “His dinner was served by young princes and counts, four courses always of six dishes each. The dishes being placed before him, the covers were removed, and he shook his head at those of which he did not wish to partake; but if he fancied one he nodded, and drew it towards him. Goodly pasties, venison, and savoury-made dishes were sometimes taken away, while he kept back a sucking pig, calf’s head, or such like. He had no one to carve for him, nor did he use the knife much himself; but he first cut his bread in small pieces, then stuck his knife into the joint where he fancied a piece, scooped it out, or otherwise tore it with his fingers.”[28]

He was just turned thirty when his confessor, Cardinal Loaysa, wrote to him to urge him to leave off eating fish, which always disagreed with him, and he added, “I am told that your chest can often be heard farther off than your tongue.” Subsequent letters from the same honest counsellor contain many similar warnings, one of which closes with these words: “If your Majesty will give the reins to your appetite, I tell you that your conscience and bodily health must go down-hill.”

But these gastronomic excesses brought on intense suffering, nor did experience teach him moderation. With few teeth and impaired digestion, he “continued to eat from as many dishes, and to empty as many flasks, as in the days when his powers were great, his health flourishing, and his exercise regular. His medical men were his abettors, for they allowed him to satisfy every appetite, without attempting to restrain him.”[29] And it was by a strange irony of fate that when Death began to close his jaws upon the Emperor, there were those in his vicinity “who were suffering from a worse vertigo than that which springs from old age and an abused stomach—the vertigo of famine. In their sufferings the hungry peasantry forgot their respect for him. They stripped his kitchen-garden, plundered his orchards, impounded his cattle, drew the fish from his ponds, and waylaid and rifled his mules which traversed the hunger-district laden with dainties.”

Peter the Great was another very decided epicure, and one of his favourite dinners was the following: A soup with four cabbages in it, gruel, pig, with sour cream for sauce, cold roast meat, with pickled cucumbers or salad, lemons and lamprey, salt meat, ham, and Limburg cheese. And, it may be added, there is preserved in Ballard’s Collection in the Bodleian Library the bill of fare of a breakfast and dinner, which the Czar and his party—twenty-one in number—partook of at Godalming on his return from a visit to Portsmouth, consisting at breakfast of half a sheep, a quarter of lamb, ten pullets, twelve chickens, seven dozen of eggs, and salad in proportion, three quarts of brandy and six quarts of mulled wine; at dinner, five ribs of beef, weight three stone; one sheep, fifty-six pounds; three quarters of lamb, a shoulder and loin of veal boiled, eight pullets, eight rabbits; two dozen and a half of sack, and one dozen of claret. But, as it has been remarked, some of our own countrymen have almost rivalled the Czar and his companions. At Godalming—probably at the same inn that Peter the Great patronised—two nobles, dukes, are reported to have stopped, as they intended, for a few minutes, while sitting in their carriages, to eat a mutton chop, which they found so good that they devoured eighteen chops, and drank five bottles of claret.

Catherine II. of Russia did not care for elaborate cookery: her favourite dish was boiled beef with salted cucumber; her drink, water with gooseberry syrup. Among her cooks there was one who cooked abominably; but, when this was pointed out to her, “she refused to dismiss the man, as he had been in her service too long.” She merely inquired when his turn came, and on sitting down to table would say, “Ladies and gentlemen, we must exercise our patience, we have a week’s fast before us.”[30]

An enthusiastic epicure was the Polish King, Stanislaus Leczinski, who invented many a new dish, and succeeded in vastly improving the style of cooking, astonishing the Lorrainers, amongst other things, by having served up at his table dishes of meat with fruits, both of which had been cooked together. Geese which had been plucked when alive, then whipped to death, and marinées were set down in his bill of fare as foreign birds; and after a similar fashion turkeys were metamorphosed into coqs de bruyères, and were served at table buried under the strong-smelling herbs of Lorraine. One year was remarkable for the entire failure of the fruit crop, but Stanislaus would not be deprived of his dessert; for, turning his attention to confectionery, he made delicate compositions of sugared vegetables, especially turnips, and even now the Lorrainers dip their babas—cakes in which there are raisins de caisse and saffron—into their wine, and think of the royal inventor.

The story goes that on one occasion there appeared on the table of Stanislaus a large pie, and the guests were admiring its dimensions, beauty, and odour, when all of a sudden the almond cakes which covered it flew in all directions, and from beneath them leaped up Bébé, the ex-king’s favourite dwarf, armed like a knight. The whole table was in a roar of laughter, with the exception of one noble guest, whose nose the dwarf had pricked with his lance, and who vowed vengeance for the two or three drops of blood which fell. But, it is said, Stanislaus loved his dwarf so well that he provided for his security by placing him under the care of two soldiers of his bodyguard.

Then again, Ferdinand I. of Naples was an epicure in fruit, and was wont to pride himself on the excellent varieties which were produced in his royal gardens, one of which was designated “Paradise.” Many years ago, too, Prince Metternich first tasted rhubarb in this country, and was so delighted with it that he had some plants sent to his Austrian garden. On the occasion of a large party in the following year, the Prince ordered rhubarb to be served up dressed as it was in this country. But the cook knew nothing of the English mode of cooking it, and selecting the large leaves served them up as spinach. As might be expected, the guests made wry faces at this unsavoury dish, and henceforth rhubarb was discarded from the Prince’s table. And, it may remembered, Ludovico, the Duke of Milan, carried this kind of epicurean luxury so far that he actually had a travelling fruit garden, the trees being brought to his table that he might gratify his taste by gathering the fruit with his own hands. Charles XII. of Sweden was often satisfied with simple bread and butter, and Joseph II. of Austria with omelets and hard bread.

Don Sebastian of Portugal, being no epicure himself, determined to train his people by issuing a sumptuary edict that none of his subjects might have more than two dishes, and those of the simplest character, for their meals; but he forgot that no decree could alter the daily life of his people.

Bianca of Milan, whom Maximilian the “Moneyless” married for her dowry, died of indigestion brought on by eating too freely of snails—“the large and lively sort,” reared for the market in the fierce heat below. Royal fatalities of this kind have been numerous. Thus in 1740 Charles, the brother and successor of Joseph I., not only went out hunting in the wet when he had the gout, but persisted in eating voraciously of mushrooms stewed in oil. Like Louis Philippe, he would not believe his medical advisers as they stood at his bedside “disputing as to whether mushrooms were a digestible diet or the contrary;” but, dismissing them from his presence, he ordered his favourite delicacy, the penalty for eating which was his death.

Among our early kings who in some measure patronised the culinary art may be mentioned Richard Cœur de Lion, who loved venison, “the stealers of which he punished by the most horrible of mutilations;” while his brother John, who was equally fond of venison, is reported to have given great offence to certain clerical gentlemen by a joke at dinner upon a fat haunch, which, he said, “had come from a noble hart that had never heard mass,” which was regarded as a reflection on their corpulency.

Edward III. paid every attention to good cheer; and as many as two thousand cooks are said to have been employed in the royal kitchen of Richard II., his chief cuisinier having been known by the initials C. S. S., under which he wrote a culinary work, “On the Forme of Cury,” in which Richard II. is spoken of as his royal master, “the best and royallest viander of all Christian kynges.”

A porpoise was a fashionable dish in the time of Henry V., who first had it at the royal table, and England, it is said, had never seen a king who gave dinners on so extravagantly profuse a scale as Edward IV.[31]

Henry VIII. was an epicure, and a liberal rewarder “of that sort of merit which ministered to the gratification” of his palate, on one occasion having been so well pleased with the flavour of a new pudding that he gave a manor to the inventor. It may be added that Cardinal Campeggio—one of the legates charged to treat with Henry VIII. concerning his divorce from Catherine—drew up a report on the state of the English cookery, as compared with that of Italy and France, for the special use of the Pope.

Anne Boleyn appears to have been very much of an epicure, and when staying, in the year 1527, at Windsor, Henry sent her by Heneage, who was the gentleman-in-waiting, a dish from his own table for supper; and yet even that did not content her, for all the time, it is said, she was hankering after Wolsey’s dainties, and expressing her wish “for some of his good meat, as carpes, shrimpes, and other delicacies.” And when in the year 1535 Viscountess Lisle, who was ambitious of obtaining appointments for two of her daughters in the royal household, sent her some dotterels, which were at that time esteemed a dainty dish, and calculated to tickle the palate of an epicure queen, she received from a friend the following note: “The Queen did appoint six of your dotterels for her supper, six for Monday dinner, and six for supper. My Lord of Rochford presented them himself, and showed her how they were killed new at twelve of the clock in Dover, of the which she was glad, and spake many good words towards your ladyship’s good report, as I was informed by them that stood by.”[32]

As for the royal table of Elizabeth, nothing could surpass the solemn order in which it was laid out, or the number of triple genuflections which accompanied every movement of the noble waiters; but all this was only for show, as the meat was finally taken off the table into an inner room, where the Queen herself dined in the utmost privacy and simplicity.[33] Her Sunday’s dinner on the 19th of November 1576 consisted of beef, mutton, veal, swan, goose, capons, conies, friants, custards, and fritters for the first course. For the second, lamb, kid, herons, pheasant, fowls, godwits, peacocks, larks, tarts, and fritters.

Her average dinner was varied with plovers, veal pies, custards, boiled partridges, boiled beef, snipes, pheasants, chicken pies, and tarts, and cost on an average £4 a dinner.

Her fish dinners were of great variety. The first course included long pike, salmon, haddock, whiting, gurnet, tench, and brill; the second, sturgeon, conger, carp, eels, lamperns, chine of salmon, perch, lobster, tarts, and creams; the side dishes were sturgeon, porpoise, fish collops and eggs, dories, soles and lampern pies, cod, boiled conger, bream, and red fish; the second course occasionally included warden pie, smelts, boiled veal, boiled mutton, pullets, partridges, and panado.

In the succeeding reign feasting was carried to a riotous extent, and it has been computed that the household expenditure of James I. was twice as much as that of Queen Elizabeth, amounting to £100,000 a year. A pig was an animal of which James had an abhorrence, and in his “Counterblast to Tobacco” he says, that were he to invite the devil to dinner he would place three dishes before him—first, a pig; secondly, a poll of ling and mustard; and thirdly, a pipe of tobacco to assist digestion. The state of cookery under Charles II. is indicated by the names of Chiffinch and Chaubert, to whose skill Sir Walter Scott has borne testimony in his “Peveril of the Peak.” But it is questionable whether epicures of the present day would appreciate the Duke of York’s taste, who, when instructed by the Spanish ambassador to prepare a sauce, recommended one consisting of parsley, dried toast pounded in a mortar, with vinegar, salt, and pepper. Charles II., however, if not a decided epicure, was fond of gastronomy, and in a ballad of the “New Sir John Barleycorn,” the knighting of the loin of beef has been ascribed to him:—