THEIR MAJESTIES AT MEAT.
There was an old custom at Pisa, the origin of which may be traced to the anti-judaical days of persecution. On a certain day in the year, I believe, Good Friday or Easter Sunday, every Jew discovered in the streets, was hunted down by the populace. When the game was caught he was weighed, and compelled to ransom himself by paying his own weight of sweetmeats. It was an advantage, then, at Pisa for a Jew to be of a Cassius cast. It was different in other days, and climes, with regard to kings. Nations used to weigh their monarchs yearly, and if the register showed an increase of dignified obesity, great was the popular rejoicing thereat. If, on the other hand, the too, too solid flesh of the potentate had yielded to irresistible influences, and the father of his people exhibited a falling away in his material greatness, the body of loyal subjects went into mourning and tears, and deplored the evil days on which they had fallen, when monarchs could not be kept up to the old monarchical standard of corpulency. Kings who cared for the affections of their people were, accordingly, disinterestedly solicitous to support their corporeal requirements; for to be fat was to be virtuous, and he was really the greatest of monarchs who required the greatest circumference of belt. You must understand, however, that if kings encouraged their own increase, it was disloyal in the people to imitate them. The monarchs of old, in this respect, were like our Henry VIII, who never stintedhis own appetite, but who imprisoned the Earl of Surrey in Windsor Castle, for daring to touch a lamb chop on a Friday.
The most gigantic of royal feeders placed on the record of ancient history, was Thys, king of Paphlagonia, at whose table “the entire animal” was served by hundreds. When he fell into the power of Persia he exhibited more appetite than grief, and banqueted in such a style that the courtiers spoke of it wonderingly to their king Artaxerxes. He replied significantly, “Thys is making the most of the shortness of life.”
The kings of Persia were but sorry hosts to dine with. Their table was in a little recess divided from the outward hall by a low curtain. The king sat alone in his alcove, and could behold, without being seen, the guests in the outer hall. The latter were of the highest rank; mere younger brothers, civilians, and undignified people of that sort, sat at meat in the galleries. It was only on two or three high days that the king sat at the same table with his subjects. The royalty of old Persia had once a reputation for temperance, but to be “royally drunk” was no uncommon characteristic of his majesty and the princes of the blood. He generally made drinking parties of a dozen favourites. These sat on the ground, while the king lay on a gold couch, and the conclave drank like dragoons, and got infinitely more tipsy.
In the banquets of state there were a few singularities. Horses and ostriches appear in the bill of fare, among a hundred other delicacies; but no guest did more than just taste what was placed before him; and what he did not eat, he carried home with him. A dainty bit from the king’s table was a present meet for lover to make to his lady; and a wooer who brought a rump-steak of horse-flesh in his hand, straight from the regal banquet, was scarcely a man to be refused anything.
There was something of grandeur in the banquets of Cleopatra, when Antony dined with her. The service was in gold, and she made a present of it to her visitor. On the following day there was a new service, and it was again presented to “the favoured guest.” Antony himself exhibited infinitely less taste at Athens. He erected in the public theatre a scene representing the grotto of Bacchus, dressed himself like the god, and, with a party of followers as worthless as himself, sat down at day-break, in presence of an admiring and crowded “house,” and got dreadfully drunk before breakfast-time. And this knave aspired to rule in Rome!
Alexander, and, as may be seen in another page, Augustus, was given to this sort of theological masquerading. The first-named accepted banquets from his great officers; and these exhibited their taste by having all the fruit on the table covered thickly with gold, which, when the fruit itself was presented to the guests, was torn off and flung on the ground, for the benefit of the servants. The father of Alexander had shown in his time a better example of economy. He had but one gold cup, and to prevent that from being stolen, he placed it every night under his pillow, and went to sleep upon it. The mad Antiochus, of Syria, was of another kidney, for whenever he heard of a drinking bout in his own city, he used to order his chariot, and taking with him a measure of wine and a goblet, he would rush down to the place and take a seat uninvited. He was such indifferent company, however, that the guests could not be prevailed upon to tarry, and even the offer of his golden goblet was unable to bribe a man to sit and get drunk with a witless king.
But the most extraordinary meal I have ever heard of was that made by Cambes, king of Lydia. He was a great eater, a great drinker, and of insatiable voracity. It is told of him that he one night cut up his wife and devouredher, and that he awoke the next morning, with one of her hands sticking in his mouth. But I have little doubt that something of an allegory lies under this royal story. Cambes probably had had an argument with his consort,—a lady of the sort spoken of by Dr. Young as one who
Shakes the curtain with her good advice.
Shakes the curtain with her good advice.
Shakes the curtain with her good advice.
Shakes the curtain with her good advice.
His logic “cut up” her assertions, and thereon he addressed himself to sleep; but he no sooner awoke in the morning than her hand was upon his mouth, to prevent his speaking while she reiterated her follies of the previous night. Poor Cambes! he cut his throat in order to escape from a too loquacious consort, of whom he is accused of being the murderer by the libelling Xanthus.
I may add to the record of these exemplary persons, the name of Dionysius of Heraclea, who, through good living, fell into such a condition of obesity and somnolency that he could only be made conscious by running fine gold needles into his flesh. What a droll thing it must have been for his morning visitors who found the huge mass fast asleep at table! Shaking hands with him, or any other equivalent ceremony, would have been useless. They accordingly took a gold needle from his girdle and tenderly run it into his fat. When it reached a vital point, the uneasy monarch snorted and opened one eye; and this being taken as an acknowledgment of their presence, he straightway went to sleep again. Ptolemy, the seventh king of Egypt, was in nearly as deplorable a condition, and Magas of Cyrene was perhaps even worse. The Ephori, it will be remembered, had a horror of the Lacedæmonians getting fat, and to prevent this undesirable consummation, the youth were obliged to present themselves undraped to the magistrates. Woe to the offenders with prominent stomachs, for they had them punched till the owners hardlyknew whether they stood on their head or their heels, and could not digest a dinner for a month afterwards.
They were beaten almost as badly as the unlucky official who went, in Parthia, by the name of the king’s friend. It was the duty of this minister to seat himself on the ground at the foot of the lofty couch on which the king lay, and from which the sovereign flung refuse bits to his “friend.” If the latter ate too voraciously, his meat was snatched from him, and he was beaten with rods till he had hardly strength left to thank his majesty for the entertainment. Of course, if he ate too slowly, he was subject to similar castigation. The moral, perhaps, is, that “fast” or “slow,” it is safer not to be “friends” with the king—of the Parthians.
But let us turn from the ancient records of how the monarchs of old deported themselves at their solemn boards, and contemplate a few brief table traits in connexion with the sovereigns of more modern times.
Clovis was a Christian king, but his behaviour at dinner was not always so exemplary as might have been desired. But the Chesterfields of his time were not exacting, and they probably thought Clovis a gentleman when, on Bishop (St. Gerome) taking leave of him after dinner, the monarch pulled out a hair and placed it in the bishop’s palm; the civil ceremony was imitated by the courtiers, and the prelate left the rude palace with more hairs on his hand than he had on his head.
But dismissing the idea of running regularly through the “Tables of the Sovereigns of Europe,” and elsewhere, I will simply relate such incidents as are exemplary of royal table life, without pausing to be very nice with regard to chronological order. Thus it occurs to me that Russia, in modern times, exhibits as much barbarism as the court of Clovis, where Christianity and civilization were, as yet, hardly known.
When Peter the Great and his consort dined together, they were waited on by a page and the empress’s favourite chambermaid. Even at larger dinners, he bore uneasily the presence and service of what he called listening lacqueys. His taste was not an imperial one. He loved, and most frequently ordered, for his own especial enjoyment, a soup with four cabbages in it; gruel; pig, with sour cream for sauce; cold roast meat, with pickled cucumbers or salad; lemons and lampreys; salt meat, ham, and Limburgh cheese. Previously to addressing himself to the “consummation” of this supply, he took a glass of aniseed water. At his repast he quaffed quass, a sort of beer, which would have disgusted an Egyptian; and he finished with Hungarian or French wine. All this was the repast of a man who seemed, like the nation of which he was the head, in a transition state, between barbarism and civilization; beginning dinner with cabbage water, and closing the banquet with goblets of Burgundy.
Peter and his consort had stranger tastes than these. This illustrious pair once arrived at Stuthof, in Germany, where they claimed not only the hospitality of the table, but a refuge for the night. The owner of the country-house at which they sought to be guests was a Herr Schoppenhauer, who readily agreed to give up to them a small bed-room, the selection of which had been made by the emperor himself. It was a room without stove or fire-place, had a brick floor, the walls were bare; and the season being that of rigorous winter, a difficulty arose as to warming this chamber. The host soon solved the difficulty. Several casks of brandy were emptied on the floor, the furniture being first removed, and the spirit was then set fire to. The czar screamed with delight as he saw the sea of flames, and smelt the odour of the Cognac. The fire was no sooner extinguished than the bed was replaced, and Peter and Catherine straightway betook themselves totheir repose, and not only slept profoundly all night in this gloomy bower, amid the fumes and steam of burnt brandy, but rose in the morning thoroughly refreshed and delighted with their couch, and the delicate vapours which had curtained their repose.
The emperor was pleased, because when an emergency had presented itself, provision to meet it was there at hand. Napoleon loved to be so served at his tables when in the field. He was irregular in the hours of his repasts, and he ate rapidly and not over delicately. The absolute will which he applied to most things, was exercised also in matters appertaining to the appetite. As soon as a sensation of hunger was experienced, it must be appeased; and his table service was so arranged that, in any place and at any hour, he had but to give expression to his will, and the slaves of his word promptly set before him roast fowls, cutlets, and smoking coffee. He dined off mutton before risking the battle at Leipsic; and it is said that he lost the day because he was suffering so severely from indigestion, that he was unable to arrange, with sufficient coolness, the mental calculations which he was accustomed to make as helps to victory.
As Napoleon, the genius of war, was served in the field, Louis XV., the incarnation of selfishness and vice, was served in his mistress’s bower. That bower, built at Choisy for Pompadour, cost millions; but it was one of the wonders of the world. For the royal entertainments, there were invented those little tables, called “servants” or “waiters;” they were mechanical contrivances, that immortalized the artist Loriot. At Choisy, every guest had one of these tables to himself. No servant stood by to listen, rather than lend aid. Whatever the guest desired to have, he had but to write his wish on paper, and touch a spring, when the table sunk through the flooring at his feet, and speedily re-appeared, laden withfruits, with pastry, or with wine, according to the order given. Nothing had been seen like this enchantment in France before; and nothing like it, it is hoped, will ever be seen there or elsewhere again. The guests thought themselves little gods, and were not a jot more reasonable than Augustus and his companions, who sat down to dinner attired as deities. When kings ape the majesty of gods, it is time for the people to shake the majesty of kings.
Perhaps Louis XV. never looked so little like a king as when he dined or supped in public,—a peculiar manifestation of his kingly character. The Parisians and their wives used to hurry down to Versailles on a Sunday, to behold the feeding of the beast which it cost them so much to keep. On these occasions he always had boiled eggs before him. He was uncommonly dexterous in decapitating the shell by a single blow from his fork; and this feat he performed weekly at his own table, for the sake of the admiration which it excited in the Cockney beholders. But an egg broken by the king, or Damiens broken alive upon the wheel, and torn asunder by wild horses,—each was a sight gazed upon, even by the youthful fair, with a sort of admiration for the executioner!
The glory of the epicureanism of Louis XV. was his “magic table,” and the select worthless people especially invited to dine with him thereat. In 1780 the Countess of Oberkirch saw this table, even then a relic and wreck of the past. She and a gay party of great people, who yet hoped that God had created the world only for the comfort of those whom He had honoured by allowing them to be born “noble,” paid a visit “to the apartments of the late king” in the Tuileries. There, among other things, she saw the celebrated magic table, the springs of which, she says, “had become rusty from disuse.” The good lady, who had not the slightest intention in theworld to be satirical, thus describes the wondrous article, at the making of which Pompadour had presided:—“It was placed in the centre of a room, where none were allowed to enter but the invited guests of Louis XV. It would accommodate thirty persons. In the centre was a cylinder of gilt copper, which could be pressed down by springs, and would return with its top, which was surrounded by a band, covered with dishes. Around were placed four dumb waiters, on which would be found everything that was necessary.” In 1789 the Countess says,—“This table no longer exists, having been long since destroyed, with everything that could recall the last sad years of a monarch, who would have been good if he had not been perverted by evil counsels.”
After all, the gastronomic greatness of Louis XV. was small compared with that of his predecessor, Louis XIV. The “state” of the latter was, in all things, more “cumbersome.” To be helpless was to be dignified; and to do nothing for himself, and to think of nothingbuthimself, was the sole life-business of this very illustrious king. A dozen men dressed him; there was one for every limb that had to be covered. Poor wretch! His breakfast was as lumbering a matter as histoilette; and he tasted nothing till it had passed through the hands of half-a-dozen dukes. It took even three noblemen, ending with a prince of the blood, to present him a napkin with which to wipe his lips, before he addressed himself to the more serious business of the day.
Louis XIV. could not be properly got to the dinner-table, entertained there, and removed, without a still more fussy world of ceremony, and that of a very Chinese or Ko Tou character. The ushers solemnly summoned the guard when the cloth was to be laid, and a detachment of men under arms were at once spectators and guardians at the dressing of the table. They stood by, exceedingly edified,no doubt, while the appointed officers touched the royal napkin, spoon, plate, knife, fork, and tooth-picks, with a piece of bread, which they subsequently swallowed. This was the “trial” against poisoning. The dishes in the kitchen were tried in the same way, and were then carried to table escorted by a file of men with drawn swords. As the dishes were placed on the table, the loyal officials bowed as though some saintly relics were on the platter!
If there was ceremony at the coming in of the meat, how much more was there at the coming in of him who was about to eat it! Unhappy wretch! what splendid misery enveloped his mutton-chop! He was looked upon as very august, but decidedly helpless. Did he wish to wipe his fingers; three dukes and a prince only could present him with adampnapkin; but a dry one might be offered him at dinner, without insult, by a simple valet. Philosophical distinction! Changing his plate required as much attendant ceremony as would go to the whole crowning of a modern constitutional king; and when he asked for drink, there was thunder in heaven, or something like it. The cup-bearer solemnly shouted the king’s desire to the buffet; and the buffeteers presented goblets and flasks to the cup-bearer, who carried them to the thirsty but necessarily patient monarch; and, when he finally received the draught into his extended throat, all loyal men present seemed the better for the sight.
But Louis XIV. was so well-used to this, and much more ceremony than I have space to detail, that it interfered in nowise with the comfortable indulgence of his appetite. He was a very gifted eater. The rough old Duchess of Orleans declares in her Memoirs, that she “often saw him eat four platesful of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a platefull of salad, mutton hashed with garlick, two good-sized slices of ham, a dish of pastry, and afterwards fruit and sweetmeats!” At the end of such a repastas this, this “most Christian” king (very much so, indeed!) must have been in something of the condition of the young gentleman who went out to dine, and who, after taking enough for three boys of his size, and being invited to take more, answered that he thought he could, if they would allow him to stand!
The Duchess of Orleans, however, is by no means astonished at the Baal-like ability of the king. Of her own performances in that way she says, “I am not good at lying in bed; as soon as I awake, I must get up. I seldom breakfast, and then only on bread and butter. I take neither chocolate, nor coffee, nor tea, not being able to endure those foreign drugs. I am German in all my habits, and like nothing in eating or drinking which is not conformable to our old customs. I eat no soup but such as I can take with milk, wine, or beer. I cannot bear broth; whenever I eat anything of which it forms a part, I fall sick instantly, my body swells, and I am tormented with colics. When I take broth alone, I am compelled to vomit even to blood, and nothing can restore the tone of my stomach but—ham and sausages!” Poor lady! she reminds me of the converted cannibal Carib, who was once sick, and who being asked by a missionary what he could eat, answered sentimentally, that he thought he could pick a bone or two of a very delicate hand of a young child!
At a later period even than that of the Duchess of Orleans above mentioned, the German taste could hardly be said to have improved. For instances of this, I need only refer to the Memoirs of the Margravine of Bareuth. This lady was the daughter of that Frederic William of Prussia, whose portrait is graphically drawn also by his own son, and with additional light and shade by Voltaire. The Princess Frederica subsequently married the Prince of Bareuth—amésalliancewhich did not displease her easy parents;—they were not as proudly vexed at it as Isaac andRachel were at the marriage of their son Esau with the daughter of Beeri the Hittite, which certainly sounds as if Esau’s father-in-law had been a pugilistic publican;—the Princess Frederica, I say, paints a portrait of her father in very broad style. He used to compel her and his other children to come to his room every morning at nine o’clock, whence they were never allowed to depart till nine in the evening, “pour quelque raison que ce fût.” The time was spent by the affectionate sovereign in swearing at them, and he added injury to insult by half-famishing them. He begrudged them even a wretched soup made of bare bones and salt. Occasionally, they were kept fasting the whole day; or, if he graciously allowed them a meal at his own table, the royal beast would spit into the dishes from which he had helped himself, in order to prevent their touching them. At other times he forced them to swallow compositions of the most disgusting description—“ce qui nous obligeait quelquefois de rendre, en sa présence, tout ce que nous avions dans le corps!” He would then throw the plates at their heads; and, as his children rushed by him to escape his fury, the paternal brute, whom it is too much flattery to himself, and too much injustice to the brute creation so to name, would strike fiercely at them with his crutch, and was eminently disappointed when he failed to crack their little, hard, royal, but very dirty skulls. It is known that this madman would have slain his own son, “the rascal Fritz,” as he, “the great Frederic,” as the world afterwards was used to call him; and little doubt can exist that the great Frederic owed most of his great vices, and none of his great qualities, to the education which he received at the knees of his infamous sire.
The history of the German courts abounds in traits connected with the table, but I am compelled to go little beyond the announcement of such a fact. One or twomore, however, I may be permitted to notice before finally leaving this section of my multifaced subject.
Ernest the “Iron” was, perhaps, the least luxurious of his race. He married Cymburga of Poland, the lady who brought into the Austrian family the thick lips, which to this day form a characteristic feature in the imperial physiognomy. Cymburga cracked her nuts with her fingers; and when she trained her fruit-trees, she hammered the nails into the wall with her clenched knuckles! Their table was at once copious and simple. Their son Frederic had less strength both of body and judgment. At near fourscore years of age he suffered amputation of the leg, in order to get rid of a cancerous affection. He was “doing well” after the operation, when he resolved upon dining on melons. He was told that such a diet would be fatal to him, as it had already been to one Austrian archduke of his house. Frederic reflected that he would probably die at all events, and that he had already reigned longer than any emperor since the days of Augustus, namely, fifty-three years. “Iwillhave melons,” said he, “betide what may!” He ate unsparingly, and death followed close upon the banquet.
Frederic would neither drink wine himself, nor allow his consort to do so, although physicians declared that, without it, she was not likely to achieve the honours of maternity. She did abstain, and despite what the oracular doctors had asserted, she became the mother of Maximilian, a prince who drank wine enough to compensate for the abstinence of both his parents. His second wife, Bianca of Milan, whom Maximilian the “Moneyless” married for her dowry, was, like the lady in Young’s Satires, by no means afraid to call things by their very broadest names; and she died of an indigestion, brought on by eating too voraciously of snails! They were of the large and lively sort, still reared for the market in the field-preserves nearUlm. If my readers should feel sick at the thought, let them remember their juvenile days, and “periwinkles,” and be gentle in their strictures. Leopold the “Angel,” the second son of the Emperor Ferdinand, surpassed even his father in abstinence. He reared the most odoriferous of plants, but inflicted on himself the mortification of never going near enough to scent them; and, poor man! he thought that thereby he was adding a step to a ladder of good works, by which he hoped to scale heaven!
The grandson of Ferdinand, Joseph I., was a somewhat free liver, and his intemperate diet was against him when he caught the small-pox. But the medical men were fiercer foes than his way of life; for when the eruption was at its worst, they hermetically closed his apartment, kept up a blazing fire in it, gave him strong drinks, swathed him in twenty yards of English scarlet broadcloth, and then published, on his dying, that his majesty’s decease was contrary to all the rules of art. His brother and successor, Charles, did for himself what the doctors did for Joseph. In 1740 he had the gout, andwouldgo out hunting in the wet. He was subsequently seized with what would now be called incipient cholera, and hewouldeat—not melons, like some of his obstinate and imperial predecessors, but that delicate dish for an invalid, mushrooms stewed in oil! He ate voraciously, and the next day symptoms ensued which, he was informed, heralded death. Charles, like Louis Philippe, would not believe his own medical advisers; and there was some reason in this, for they stood at his bed-side, disputing as to whether mushrooms were a digestible diet or the contrary. The emperor dismissed them from his presence, ordered his favourite mushrooms, ate the forbidden “fruit” with intense gastronomic delight, and died in peace.
The table of the great Frederic of Prussia was regulated by himself. There were always from nine to a dozendishes, and these were brought in one at a time. The king carved the solitary dish, and helped the company. One singular circumstance connected with this table was, that each dish was cooked by a different cook, who had a kitchen to himself! There was much consequent expense, with little magnificence. Frederic ate and drank, too, like a boon companion. His last work, before retiring to bed, was to receive from his chief cook the bill of fare for the next day; the price of each dish, and of its separate ingredients, was marked in the margin. The monarch looked it cautiously through, generally made out an improved edition, cursed all cooks as common thieves, and then flung down the money for the next day’s expenses.
The late King of Prussia was a sensible man with respect to his table arrangements. On gala days, and when it concerned the honour of Prussia that the royal hospitality should assume an appearance of splendour, his table was as glittering and gastronomic as goldsmiths and cooks could make it. But in the routine of private and unofficial life, it was simply that of an opulent merchant, something, perhaps, like that of Sir Balaam after he had grown rich. Even then he partook only of the least savoury dishes, and it was seldom, indeed, that he exceeded a third glass of wine. His example enforced moderation, but it did not mar enjoyment, for he loved every man around him to be merry and wise.
His own wisdom he manifested by a characteristic trait in 1809. The royal family had returned to Berlin for the first time since the war had broken out in 1806. The court marshal, deeming that the piping times of peace were going to endure for ever, waited on Frederic William, and asked what amount of champagne he should order for the royal cellars. “None,” replied the king; “I will drink neither champagne nor any other wine, until all my subjects—even the very poorest—can afford to drink beeragain.” The incident was made public, and the king’s poor neighbours were especially delighted. Many of them testified their gratitude by sending from their gardens or little farms various articles for his table. The king ate thereof with pleasure, and didnotforget the givers.
I have spoken of his moderation, but here is an additional trait from his table worth mentioning. When he came to the crown, the grand marshal proposed a more extended list of viands for the royal table. “Marshal,” said the king in reply, “I do not feel that my stomach has become more capacious since I became king. We will let well alone, and dine to-day even as we have done heretofore.”
In another page I have spoken of Bishop Eglert supping with the king. Such a guest was not an unfrequent one at the royal dining-table. On one occasion the bishop had preached before the court in the morning from Luke xiv. 8-11: “When thou art bidden of any man to a wedding, sit not down in the highest room, lest a more honourable man than thou be bidden of him; and he that bade thee and him come and say unto thee, Give this man place, and thou begin with shame to take the lower room,” &c. &c.
The bishop profited by the opportunity to expatiate on the virtues of diffidence and humility, insisting on their observance as necessary for the preservation of our happiness. Now, many dignified officials were present at the banquet in question, and the bishop, who had entered the saloon last, (which does not say much for the courtesy of those who preceded him,) meekly took his place at the lower end of the table. There the king’s scrutinizing eye fell upon him; and “Eglert,” said Frederic William, “I see you are self-applying the text from which you preached to us to-day. But, if I remember rightly, it is also written, ‘Friend, go higher.’ Come, then, take this chair that isnear to me!” and the simple but highly embarrassed prelate walked blushingly to the station appointed him, and all in his vicinity began to recognise a man whom the king himself delighted to honour.
This anecdote reminds me, albeit it be “rue with a difference,” of one told of the second of the seven Dukes of Guise, Duke Francis. This celebrated individual was, during one part of his bloody career, engaged in the service of the Pope, to fight the battles of the latter against the King of Naples. He was not successful, and his holiness showered down upon him mordant epigrams and invitations to dinner. He had accepted one of the latter, and repaired to the sacro-regal board, after a day in the course of which he had been engaged serving as acolyte in the Papal chapel, and holding up the trains of very obese cardinals. In the banqueting-hall of the descendant of the poor fisherman, he meekly took the lowest seat. He had scarcely done so, than a French lieutenant endeavoured to thrust in below him. “How now, friend!” said the haughty enough Guise; “why pushest thou so rudely to come where there is no room for thee?” “Marry!” said the soldier, “for this reason, that it might not be said that the representative of a king of France had taken the last place at a priest’s table!” It was a bold piece of table-talk to so powerful a man as Guise, who recovered, and added to his reputation when he subsequently regained, Calais from the English. Previously to this last feat, when the occupation of Calais formed the subject of conversation at social boards, there arose the proverbial expression applied to the bravest of untried men, and honourable to the reputation of our own ancestors,—“Heis not the sort of man to drive the English out of France!” The proverb died out of French society from the day when Guise drove old Lord Wentworth out of Calais, and cheated his duchess out of the silks which he foundtherein, and in which he attired the courtesans whom he invited to his ducal butnotdignified table.
It may fairly be asserted that kings may wear as graceful an aspect as guests at others’ tables, as they do when enacting the host at their own. The Prince Regent, dining off the mutton which he had helped to cook at Colonel Hanger’s, is indeed no very edifying spectacle. I will introduce my readers to a royal guest of what Hamlet would call “another kidney.”
When the Prussian general Koeckeritz had completed his fiftieth year of service in 1809, he was residing in modest apartments, becoming his celibate condition, near the Neustadt Gate at Potsdam. On the dawn of the day of his martial jubilee, he was harmoniously greeted by the bands of the garrison; but the hautboys did not discourse such sweet music as was conveyed to him in a letter from the king, full of expressions of gratitude for services rendered by him during a long half century to the crown. At a grand review held in honour of the day, the king embraced him in presence of the army, giving in his person the accolade to every other faithful soldier who had served as long; and when this had been done, Frederic William not only declared he would escort the old warrior to his plainly furnished lodgings, but requested to be invited to thedéjeuner à la fourchette, which he assumed must then be wanting. Koeckeritz had the pride of Caleb Balderstone, and he turned pale at the idea of exposing his domestic economy to the eyes of a king and court. He grew eloquent in excuses, protested that he was unworthy of the honour designed for him, and piteously muttered an apologetical phrase about “old bachelors.” “Then why are you a bachelor?” asked the monarch: “I have often counselled you to marry, and this very day you shall be punished for your disobedience.” “Well,” said the general, with a sigh, denoting the resignation of despair, “if itmust be so, I trust your majesty will allow me a few hours in order to make fitting preparation.” The spirit that possessed Caleb Balderstone suggested this petition. “Not five minutes!” exclaimed the sovereign; “you surely have a crust of bread and a glass of wine to give to us who are your comrades, and we desire no more! Come along, gentlemen!”
Of course, no further resistance was to be thought of, and the gay and brilliant escort led the grave Koeckeritz along, looking very much like a criminal who was about to be hanged with riotous solemnity at his own gates.
But, when he reached those gates, his surprise was extreme. The threshold was covered with flowers, the little hall was lined with the royal servants in their state suits, and the space in front of the house was partly occupied by a score of “trumpets,” who no sooner perceived the approach of the hero of the day than they received him, as our theatrical orchestras do stage kings, with a “flourish.” It is hardly necessary to add, that when the old general conducted his guests within, he found there such a banquet as Aladdin furnished his widowed mother with by means of the lamp. Everything was there, whether in or out of season; and the rare-looking flasks promised pleasure less equivocal than that held out by a Calais Boniface upon his cards, whereon his English visitors were told, that “the wine shall leave you nothing to hope for!”
“Oh! oh!” exclaimed the king, “here is bachelor’s fare with a vengeance! Let us be seated, and show that our appetites can appreciate what our comrade Koeckeritz has provided for them.” Monarch and servant, honouring and honoured, sat side by side; and so gay and so prolonged was the festival, that the king surprised all those who knew how strictly he lived by rule, by ordering the dinner at the palace to be retarded for a couple of hours. At that banquet he entertained the veteran, affecting to do so inreturn for the hospitality displayed by the latter in the morning. The scene was not without its moving incidents, for the king had contrived another surprise whereby to gratify his old friend and servant. As the monarch led him by the hand to the dining-room, there stood before him three of the surviving friends of his youth who had fought with him in the Seven Years’ War, and whom he had not seen for years. The king had got them together, not without difficulty; the general joy that ensued was as unalloyed as humanity could make it, and never did monarch sit at meat with more right to feel pleased, than Frederic William on this day of Koeckeritz’s jubilee. It was a day that Henri IV. of France would have delighted in. That king is said never to have dined better than one evening previous to the battle of Ivry, when he was sojourning in a country-house under the name of a French officer. There were no provisions there, but the solitary lady who was the chatelaine intimated that there was a retired tradesman who lived near, who was the possessor of a fine turkey, and who would contribute it towards a dinner, if he were only invited to partake of it. “Is he a jolly companion?” asked the supposed officer. The reply being affirmatively, the citizen and turkey were invited together, and two merrier guests never sat down with a lady to cut up a bird and crush a bottle. Henri was in the most radiant of humours; and it was when he was at his brightest, that thebourgeoisavowed that he had known him from the beginning, and that after dining with a king of France, he trusted that the monarch would not object to grant him letters of nobility. Henri laughed, which was as good as consenting, and asked what arms his countship would assume? “I will emblazon the turkey that founded my good fortune,” answered the aspirant for nobility. “Ventre Saint-Gris!” exclaimed the king, laughing more immoderately, “then you shall be a gentleman, and bearyour turkey ’en pal’ on a shield!” The happy citizen purchased a territorial manor near Alençon, and le Comte Morel d’Inde wasnotaconte pour rire.
The Russian Empress Catherine used to affect the good-fellowship that was natural to the first of the Bourbon kings of France. When she dined with the highly honoured officers of the regiment of which she was colonel, she used to hand to each a glass of spirits before the banquet commenced. At her own table the number of guests was usually select, generally under a dozen. The lord of the bed-chamber sat opposite to her, her own seat being at the centre of one of the sides, carved one of the dishes, and presented it to her. She took once of what was so offered, but afterwards dispensed with such service. In her days, many of the Russian nobility kept open tables. Any one who had been duly introduced, and knew not where to dine, had only to call at a house where he was known, and to leave word that he intended to dine there in the afternoon. He was sure to be welcomed. At the present time, the Russians are more civilized and less hospitable.
Jermann describes the imperial kitchen at St. Petersburg as good, delicate, and “meagre,”—the latter being a consequence of the continual eating that is going on, and the necessity which follows of providing what is light of digestion. The imperial household tables in the days of Paul were divided into “stations,” an arrangement which took its rise from a singular incident. The late empress, like our own Queen Adelaide, was given to inspect the “domestic accounts,” and she was puzzled by finding among them “a bottle of rum” daily charged to the Naslednik, or heir apparent! Her imperial Majesty turned over the old “expenses” of the household, to discover at what period her son had commenced this reprobate course of daily rum-drinking; and found, if not to herhorror, at least to the increase of her perplexity, that it dated from the very day of his birth. The “bottle of rum” began with the baby, accompanied the boy, and continued to be charged to the man. He was charged as drinking upwards of thirty dozen of fine old Jamaica yearly! The imperial mother was anxious to discover if any other of the Czarovitch babies had exhibited the same alcoholic precocity; and it appears that they were all alike; daily, for upwards of a century back, they stood credited in the household books for that terrible “bottle of rum.” The empress continued her researches with the zeal of an antiquary, and her labours were not unrewarded. She at last reached the original entry. Like all succeeding ones, it was to the effect of “a bottle of rum for the Naslednik;” but a sort of editorial note on the margin of the same page intimated the wherefore: “On account of violent toothache, a teaspoonful with sugar to be given, by order of the physician of the imperial court.” The teaspoonful for one day had been charged as a bottle, and the entry once made, it was kept on the books to the profit of the unrighteous steward, until discovery checked the fraud,—a fraud, more gigantically amusing than that of the illiterate coachman, who set down in his harness-room book, “Two penn’orth of whipcord, 6d.” The empress showed the venerable delinquency to her husband, Paul; andhe, calculating what the temporary toothache of the imperial baby Alexander had cost him, was affrighted at the outlay, and declared that he would revolutionise the kitchen department, and put himself out to board. The threat was not idly made, and it was soon seriously realized. A gastronomic contractor was found who farmed the whole palace, and did his spiriting admirably. He divided the imperial household into “stations.” The first was the monarch’s especial table, for the supply of which he charged the emperor and empress fifty roubleseach daily; the table of the archdukes and archduchesses was supplied at half that price; the guests of that table, of whatever rank, were served at the same cost. The ladies and gentlemen of the household had a “station,” which was exceedingly well provisioned, at twenty roubles each. The graduated sliding scale continued to descend in proportion to thestatusof the feeders. The upper servants had superior stomachs, which were accounted of as being implacable at less than fifteen roubles each. Servants in livery, with finer lace but coarser digestions, dieted daily at five roubles each; and the grooms and scullions were taken altogether at three roubles a head. “A wonderful change,” says Jermann, “ensued in the whole winter palace. The emperor declared he had never dined so well before. The court, tempted by the more numerous courses, sat far longer at table. The maids of honour got fresh bloom upon their cheeks, and the chamberlains and equerries rounder faces; and most flourishing of all was the state of the household expenses, although these diminished by one-half. In short, every one, save cook and butler, was content; and all this was the result of ‘a bottle of rum,’ from which the Emperor Alexander, when heir to the crown, had been ordered by the physician to take a spoonful for the toothache.”
Herr Jermann, who was manager of the imperial company of German actors in St. Petersburg, frequently dined at the table of the “second station,” or officials’ table. There were six dishes and a capital dessert. He describes the “drinkables” as consisting of one bottle of red and one of white wine, two bottles of beer, one of kislitschi, and quassad libitum. The dinner he speaks lightly of, as inferior on the point of cookery to that of the best restaurants in the capital. The wine was a light Burgundy; the beer heavy and Russian. The kislitschi must have been a powerful crusher of the appetite, itbeing a sour-sweet drink, prepared from honey, water, lemon-juice, and a decoction of herbs. Quass is a plain, cheap beverage, the better sort of which is extracted from malt, while an inferior sort is an extract of bread-crusts. It is the national drink of the lower orders. A stranger finds it at first detestable; but he not only soon becomes reconciled to it, but generally prefers it to any other beverage, especially in the brief scorching summer of St. Petersburg, when the cooling properties of quass are its great recommendation.
To talk of the fierceness of a Russian summer seems paradoxical, but it is simple truth; and probably the court of Naples itself, throughout its long season of heat, does not consume so much ice as their imperial Muscovite majesties do in the course of their slow-to-come, quick-to-go, and sharp-while-it-lasts summer. Nay, the whole capital eats ice at this season. Ice is thought such a “necessary” of life, that the first question in taking a house is, probably, touching the quality and capability of the ice-cellar, wherein they pack away as much of the Neva as they can in solid blocks. They eat it and drink it, surround their larders with it, and mix it with the water, beer, quass—in short, with whatever they drink. Nay, more, when there is a superabundance of the material, they place it under their beds and on their stoves to cool their apartments. So tremendous is the dust and heat of a Russian summer, that, for inconvenience, it is only the opposite extreme of annoyance to that experienced in the wintry visitations of frost. The ice-tubs of the popular vendors in the streets are enveloped and covered with wet cloths, to protect them from the heat of the sun. I need not say that this isnotthe season at which a visitor should resort to the capital. St. Petersburg in January, and Naples in July, are the respective times and places to be observed by those who can bear the consequences.
I do not know what may be the case with regard to the fruit eaten at the imperial table; but, generally speaking, fruit is never eaten by a Russian until it has been blest by a priest. Jermann, alluding to this custom, praises it on sanitary grounds, for, he says, the fruit has no chance of earning a benediction unless it be ripe; but if it then be taken to church, the blessing is granted with much attendant solemnity.
I do not believe that the czars were ever accustomed to dine in such state as the kaisers. The old emperors of Germany, on state occasions, were waited on at dinner by the two happy feudatory princes of the empire. On one of these occasions, we are told that old General Dalzell, the terrible enemy of the Scottish Covenanters, was invited to dine with the kaiser, and the prince-waiter nearest to him in attendance was no less a personage than the Prince of Modena, head of the house of Este. Some years afterwards, the Duke of York (James II.) invited Dalzell to dine with himself and Mary of Modena. That proud lady, however, made some show of reluctance to sit downen famillewith the old general; but the latter lowered her pride by telling her, that he was not unacquainted with the greatness of the princes of Modena, and that the last time he had sat at table with the Emperor of Germany, a prince of that house was standing in attendance behind the emperor’s chair.
There were other good points about Dalzell’s character; in proof of which may be cited his dining with Dundas, an old Covenanting Scotch laird, who wouldnotforego his long prayers before dinner, and who especially prayed that Dalzell and his royal master might have their hard hearts softened towards the Covenanting children of the Lord. When the prayer was ended, and dinner about to begin, Dalzell complimented his host on his courage in fearing man less than God. The anecdote reminds me ofone in connexion with a dinner given by a gentleman of one of our “Protestant denominations,” in honour of the presence of a new minister and his bride. Prayer preceded the repast, and it was given by the host, who, introducing therein the welcomed strangers, said, “We thank thee, O Lord, that thou hast conducted hither in safety thy servants, our new minister and his wife. It is thou, O Lord, who preservest both man and beast!” This was more like a kick than a compliment; but it only called up a smile on the pretty features of the minister’s lady.
Let us now cross the Atlantic, with Cortez and his companions, and contemplate Montezuma in his household and at his table. Barbarian as the Spanish invaders accounted him to be, he was superior in many respects to most of his royal contemporaries in Europe. He was not less magnificent than Solomon, and he was far more cleanly than Louis XIV.
On the terraced roof of his palace, thirty knights could tilt at each other, without complaining of want of space. His armouries were filled with weapons almost as destructive as any to be found in the arsenals of civilized Christian kings. His granaries were furnished with provisions paid by tributaries; three hundred servants tended the beautiful birds of his aviaries; his menageries were the wonder and terror of beholders; and his dwarfs were more hideous, and his ladies more dazzling, than potentate had ever before looked upon with contempt or admiration. His palace within and without was a marvel of Aztec art. It was surrounded by gardens, glad with fountains and gay flowers. One thousand ladies shared the retirement of this splendid locality, with a master more glittering than anything by which he was environed,—who changed his apparel four times daily, never putting on again a garment he had once worn, and who, eating off and drinking from gold, (except on state occasions, when his table was coveredwith services of Cholulan porcelain,) never used a second time the vessels which had once ministered to the indulgence of his appetite.
It is said eulogistically of his cooks, that they had thirty different ways of preparing meat,—a poor boast, perhaps, compared with that of the Parisianchefs, who have six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress eggs! Three hundred dishes were daily placed before the monarch; and such as were required to be kept hot at table were in heated earthenware stands made for the purpose. And it is even asserted, that this autocrat occasionally killed time before dinner by watching the cooking of his viands, a practice in which, according to Peter Pinder, that honest old English king used to indulge, who dined off boiled mutton at two, and to whom the funniest sight in the world was the clown in a pantomime swallowing carrots.
The ordinary dishes of Montezuma consisted of very dainty fare; namely, domestic fowls, geese, partridges, quails, venison, Indian hogs, pigeons, hares, rabbits, and other productions of his country, including—it is alleged by some and denied by others—some very choice dairy-fed baby, when this choice article happened to be in season! In cold weather enormous torches, that flung forth not only light but warmth and aromatic odours, lent additional splendour to the scene; and to temper at once the glare and the heat, screens with deliciously droll devices upon them, framed in gold, were placed before the brilliant flame.
The sovereign sat, like his links, also protected by a screen. He was not as barbarous as the most Christian kings of France, who fed in public; nor was he personally tended like them by awkward Ganymedes of a middle age. Four Hebes stood by the low throne and table of their master, and these poured water on his hands, and offered him the napkin, white as driven snow, or as the cloth onwhich the four hundred dishes stood waiting his attention. Women as fair presented him with bread; but even these fair ministers retired a few steps, when his sacred majesty addressed himself to the common process of eating. Then a number of ancient but sprightly nobles took their place. With these Montezuma conversed; and, when he was particularly pleased with a sage observation or a sprightly remark, a plate of pudding bestowed by the royal hand made one individual happy, and all his fellows bitterly jealous. The pudding, or whatever the dish might be, was eaten in silent reverence; and while an Aztec emperor was at meat, no one in the palace dared, at peril of his life, speak above his breath. Montezuma is described as being but a moderate eater, but fond of fruits, and indulging, with constraint upon his appetite, in certain drinks which were of a stimulating quality, such as are found in countries where civilization and luxury are at their highest.
“One thing I forgot, and no wonder,” says Bernal Diaz, “to mention in its place, and that is, during the time Montezuma was at dinner, two very beautiful women were busily employed making small cakes, with eggs and other things mixed therein. These were delicately white, and when made, they presented them to him on plates covered with napkins. Also, another kind of bread was brought to him on long leaves, and plates of cakes resembling wafers. After he had dined, they presented to him three little canes, highly ornamented, containing liquid amber, mixed with a herb they call tobacco; and when he had sufficiently viewed and heard the singers, dancers, and buffoons, he took a little of the smoke of one of those canes, and then laid himself down to sleep. The meal of the monarch ended, all his guards and attendants sat down to dinner, and, as near as I could judge, about a thousand plates of those eatables that I have mentioned, were laid before them, with vessels of foamingchocolate, and fruit in immense quantities. For his women and various inferior servants, his establishment was of a prodigious expense, and we were astonished, amid such a profusion, at the vast regularity that prevailed.”
What a contrast with the meal of this splendid barbarian is that of princes of the same complexion, but of different race, the Arab! We may fittingly include among sovereigns those Arab princes whose word, if it be not heeded far, is promptly obeyed within the little circle of their rule. Skins on the ground serve for table-cloths; the dishes are, in their contents, only the reflection of each other, and in the centre of the array whole lambs or sheep lie boiled or roasted. The chief and his followers dine in successive relays of company. Sometimes the skin is spread before the door of the tent, whether in a street or in the plain, and the passers-by, even to the beggars, invited with a “Bismillah,” In God’s name, fall to; and having eaten, exclaim, “Hamdallilah!” God be praised! and go their way.
Not less may we include, in the roll of Majesty at Meat, those Pilgrim Fathers who were the pioneers of civilization and liberty in America. Scant indeed was the table of that “sovereign people,” until they found security to sow seed, and reap the harvest in something like peace. The first meal which they enjoyed, after long months of labour, disease, and famine, was when they had constructed the little fort at Plymouth, behind which they might eat in safety and thankfulness. “The captain,” says Mr. Bartlett, in his “Pilgrim Fathers,” “had brought with him ‘a very fat goose,’ and those on shore had ‘a fat crane, and a mallard,’ and ‘a dried neat’s tongue.’ This fare was, no doubt, washed down with good English beer and strong waters; and thus, notwithstanding the gloom that hung over them, the day passed cheerfully and sociably away.” Such was the first official dinner of the “majesty of the people” beyond the Atlantic.
And having got to the “majesty of the people,” I am reminded of a “popular majesty,” the citizen king, Louis Philippe. He was a monarch economically minded, and kept the most modest yet not worst furnished of tables. His family often sate down before he arrived, detained as he often was by state affairs. When all rose as he quietly entered the dining-room, his stereotyped phrase was, “Que personne ne se dérange pour moi,” and therewith ensued as little ceremony as when “William Smith” and his household sate down to an uncrowned dinner at the little inn at Newhaven.
They who are curious to see how admirably Louis Philippe was constituted for making a poor-law commissioner, or a parochial relieving overseer, should peruse the graphic biography of the king written by Alexander Dumas. Therein is a list, made out by the monarch, of what he thought was sufficient for the table of the princes and princesses; and Louis of Orleans condescends to name the number of plates of soup, or cups of coffee, that he deemed sufficient for the requirement and support of the younger branches of his house. It shows that the soul of a crafty “gargottier” was in the body of the citizen king. But we have not yet contemplated the appearance and behaviour of our own sovereigns at table, out of respect for whom we now allot a chapter, but a brief one, to themselves.