EPICURUS.
Epicurus—born 337 years B.C., in the market-town of Gargettus, near Athens—taught in his gardens a system of philosophy, which, though indulgent towards the requirements of the senses, possessed the merit of a sovereign disdain for every kind of superstition. Epicurus had a great number of disciples among the ancient pagans, and the sensual philosophy of modern times hails him as a patron. At this very day the dainty livers rally under the joyous banner of the moralist of Gargettus, and his cherished shade inspires the guests and presides over the soothing intoxication of banquets.
MODERN BANQUETS.[E]
We have endeavoured to describe in the preceding pages some of those antique entertainments, which seem to be the summum bonum of the gigantic power of those shameless dominators of the Roman empire, whose reigns might be counted as so many banquets, and for whom the entire world was transformed into one vast market.
We are reduced to despair when we attempt to depict such sensualism, and we also despair of inspiring belief. When one goes back into those old pagan times,—when one shuts out the world as it is, to evoke the manners and customs of days gone by, and breathe in their atmosphere,—the mind experiences a sort of stupefaction, so much is it immersed in the senses, so thick is the moral darkness, so low has man fallen!
And, as if it had been decreed that everything should concur to consummate the annihilation of the human species, on the one hand, almost the whole family of man was, for the first time since their dispersion, collected into one body under the Roman domination, which spread its corruption throughout the several members; while, on the other hand, the hordes of barbarians who pressed round—like ferocious beasts waiting till the arena opened—were about to over-run the earth, in the absence of any civilising element that could interpose to stay the destruction, by snatching the conquered from the hands of victory, and the conquerors themselves from their own ferocity.
It belongs not to us to portray this fearful cataclysm, this sudden transition from the development of all the arts which perpetuate the enjoyments of life to the profound ignorance, the savage rudeness, which the northern conquerors imposed on enslaved Europe.
The fifth was the last century of Rome. It was then that barbarism became everywhere victorious. The Vandals were masters of Africa, the Lombards of Italy, the Visigoths of Spain, the Franks of Gaul. Literature followed the destiny of the empire, and seemed to perish at the same time. It is, however, impossible for nations not to receive, as an inheritance from people civilised before themselves, a great part of their intellectual cultivation. Happily modern Europe was swayed by this law: the barbarians reduced Rome by the force of arms,—Rome triumphed in the long run over the barbarians by the genius of civilisation and her arts.
It is known that even after the introduction of vulgar idioms, the learned of the middle ages continued the use of Latin, and that in the 15th century that beautiful language, purified from barbarian corruptions, became once more classic, particularly in Italy.
At that epoch, an obscure inhabitant of Mentz, John Guttenberg, immortalised himself by the discovery of printing, just as the love of antiquity was causing the old literary masterpieces to be sought out, and creating a demand for copies of the manuscripts.
Then, as if they had risen from their tombs after a thousand years of forgetfulness, all the writers of antiquity re-appeared, to charm, instruct, and renovate the world.
It was the era of regeneration, when you, O, beloved masters! Pliny, Apicius, Petronius, Athenæus,—and you, ingenuous and faithful chroniclers of the gastronomic follies of the people-king,—were resuscitated in all your glory! Others instructed the universe in philosophy, eloquence, and history,—you taught man how the ancients dined; and, thanks to your lessons, our fathers began to comprehend that, since the table is the great scene of life where bonds of friendship are formed and cemented, banqueting is indispensable to the prosperity of nations.
No one will accuse us, we hope, of endeavouring to establish a paradox for which we could hardly find an excuse, in our love of the culinary art, as long experience, and public facts within the memory of all, victoriously confirm our assertion.
Let us interrogate the 19th century. Hardly had the lamentable wars which divided the nations of Europe ceased,—hardly had the vibration of the last cannon-shot died away,—when the people of every clime—too long disunited—sealed by fraternal banquets their tardy but frank reconciliation. The destructive genius of war is succeeded by those grand struggles of commerce and industry, which, aided by the arts and sciences of civilisation, dispense to all the blessing of reproductive wealth.
And then dinner is the sine quâ non,—to that goal all our efforts tend. The Englishman dines in Paris, the Frenchman dines in London; the time-honoured national dishes become cosmopolite, like those who dwell on the banks of the Thames or the Seine; on both sides the people are proud to communicate the arcana of those delicate preparations, which have only to cross the frontier to obtain, under a favourable sky, a more ample illustration and a new right of citizenship. Appetite, the roasting-jack,—in a word, gastronomy, serves perhaps to unite men much more firmly than motives of interest; and more than one thought useful to the human species has often originated in the midst of the creative excitement of a banquet, where, to say the least, we meet with that hearty goodwill and friendly aid which might be wanting elsewhere.
Shall we mention that prodigious enterprise with which a noble prince—the enlightened protector of industry and the arts, and so worthy of our love and respect—has deigned to couple a name dear to public gratitude?
The royal plan was nothing less than this: to erect an immense, costly, and sumptuous palace, in which each nation should deposit the material proofs of its intelligence. Neither Rome nor Greece ever conceived such a thought! Louis XIV., with all his magnificence, and the magic pomp of his reign, imagined nothing equal to it!
This great and complex idea struck many persons no doubt with surprise; but England—we must do her the justice which facts prove to be her due—is always ready to undertake impossibilities, and generally performs them.
However, it was necessary to bring together a certain number of influential, scientific, patriotic, and wealthy men, and obtain their co-operation to realise that modern arch of crystal, into which the industry of the world would be summoned to send its most marvellous productions. Banquets were proposed, and banquets took place, in honour of a prince who was about to connect all parts of the globe in the bands of commercial fraternity. The Lord Mayor of the city of London—that celebrated factory of the world’s trade!—invited all the mayors of the three kingdoms to come and place themselves by the side of the august spouse of their sovereign, at a feast worthy of such guests by its delicate profusion and splendid magnificence. There his Royal Highness Prince Albert received the enthusiastic assurance of the realisation of a colossal project, a philanthropic thought,—the union of nations, by rousing the noble pride of their nationality!
In their turn, the mayors of Great Britain and Ireland were desirous of offering to the Lord Mayor of the city of London a banquet, at which his Royal Highness would be present; and this feast, a grandiose and sympathetic demonstration on the part of the votaries of the memorable London Exhibition, took place the 25th October, 1850, in the gothic Guildhall of York, where remembrance of the past was blended with hopes for the future.
It was resolved to intrust us with the direction of the gastronomic department, and, let us add, the artistic arrangement of that banquet, which, by reason of its unprecedented richness and truly magic aspect, no pen can describe, owing partly to the magnificence of the maces, swords, banners, &c., of each county being for the first time displayed under the same roof. The engraving which we present to our readers[F] will perhaps convey an idea of a portion of the splendour of the entertainment.
The guests at the royal table consisted of the following distinguished personages:
The Lord Mayor of York being in the chair, there were seated on his right his Royal Highness Prince Albert, his Grace the Archbishop of York, Earl Fitzwilliam, Lord John Russell, Earl Minto, Lord Overstone, Lord Beaumont, and the Right Honourable Sir Charles Wood. On his Lordship’s left were the Lord Mayor of London, the Marquis of Clanricarde, the Earl of Carlisle, the Earl of Abercorn, Lord Feversham, the Earl Granville, the High Sheriff of Yorkshire, the Right Honourable Sir G. Grey, Bart., and Sir J. V. Johnstone, Bart.
As this table formed a prominent feature in the entertainment, the following distinct bill of fare was provided:—