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How some successful were, how others crost;
Then to the sparkling glass would give his toast,
Whose bloom did most in his opinion shine,
To relish both the music and the wine.

Why am I styl'd a cook, if I'm so loth
To marinate my fish, or season broth,

Or send up what I roast with pleasing froth;
If I my master's gusto won't discern,
But, through my bashful folly, scorn to learn?
When among friends good-humour takes its birth,
"Tis not a tedious feast prolongs the mirth;
But 'tis not reason therefore you should spare,
When, as their future burgess, you prepare
For a fat corporation and their mayor.
All things should find their room in proper place;
And what adorns this treat, would that disgrace.
Sometimes the vulgar will of mirth partake,
And have excessive doings at their wake:
Ev'n tavlors at their yearly feasts look great,
And all their cucumbers are turn'd to meat.
A prince, who in a forest rides astray,
And, weary, to some cottage finds the way,
Talks of no pyramids of fowl, or bisks of fish,
But, hungry, sups his cream serv'd up in earthen
dish;

Quenches his thirst with ale in nut-brown bowls,
And takes the hasty rasher from the coals:
Pleas'd as king Henry with the miller free,
Who thought himself as good a man as he.
Unless some sweetness at the bottom lie,
Who cares for all the crinkling of the pye?
If you would have me merry with your cheer,
Be so yourself, or so at least appear.

The things we eat by various juice control
The narrowness or largeness of our soul.
Onions will make ev'n heirs or widows weep;
The tender lettuce brings on softer sleep;
Eat beef or pye-crust if you'd serious be;
Your shell-fish raises Venus from the sea;
For Nature, that inclines to ill or good,
Still nourishes our passions by our food.

Happy the man that has each fortune tried,
To whom she much has given, and much denied:
With abstinence all delicates he sees,
And can regale himself with toast and cheese:
Your betters will despise you, if they see
Things that are far suppassing your degree;
Therefore beyond your substance never treat;
'Tis plenty, in small fortune, to be neat.
'Tis certain that a steward can't afford
An entertainmeut equal with his lord.
Old age is frugal; gay youth will abound
With heat, and see the flowing cup go round.
A widow has cold pye; nurse gives you cake;
From generous merchants ham or sturgeon take.
The farmer has brown bread as fresh as day,
Aud butter fragrant as the dew of May.
Cornwall squab-pye, and Devon white-pot brings;
And Leicester beans and bacon, food of kings!

At Christmas-time, be careful of your fame, See the old tenants' table be the same; Then, if you would send up the brawner's head, Sweet rosemary and bays around it spread: His foaming tusks let some large pippin grace, Or midst those thundering spears an orange place; Sauce like himself, offensive to its foes, The roguish mustard, dangerous to the nose. Sack and the well-spic'd hippocras the wine, Wassail the bowl with ancient ribbands fine, Porridge with plums, and turkeys with the chine.

If you perhaps would try some dish unknown,
Which more peculiarly you'd make your own,
Like ancient sailors still regard the coast,
By venturing out too far you may be lost.
By roasting that which your forefathers boil'd,
And boiling what they roasted, much is spoil'd.
That cook to British palates is complete,
Whose savoury hand gives turns to common meat.

Though cooks are often men of pregnant wit,
Through niceness of their subject, few have writ.
In what an aukward sound that ballad ran,
Which with this blustering paragraph began:
"There was a prince of Lubberland,

A potentate of high command,
Ten thousand bakers did attend him,
Ten thousand brewers did befriend him:
These brought him kissing-crusts, and those
Brought him small-beer before he rose."

The author raises mountains seeming full,
But all the cry produces little wool:
So, if you sue a beggar for a house,
And have a verdict, what d' ye gain? A louse!
Homer more modest, if we search his books,
Will show us that his heroes all were cooks;
How lov'd Patroclus with Achilles joins,
To quarter out the ox, and spit the loins.
Oh could that poet live! could he rehearse
Thy journey, Lister, in immortal verse!

"Muse, sing the man that did to Paris go, That he might taste their soups, and mushrooms know!"

Oh, how would Homer praise their dancing dogs, Their stinking cheese, and fricasee of frogs! He'd raise no fables, sing no flagrant lie, Of boys with custard choak'd at Newberry; But their whole courses you'd entirely see, How all their parts from first to last agree.

If you all sorts of persons would engage, Suit well your eatables to every age.

The favourite child, that just begins to prattle, And throws away his silver bells and rattle, Is very humoursome, and makes great clutter, Till he has windows on his bread and butter: He for repeated supper-meat will cry, But won't tell mammy what he'd have, or why. The smooth-fac'd youth, that has new guardians

chose,

From play-house steps to supper at the Rose,
Where he a main or two at random throws:
Squandering of wealth, impatient of advice,
His eating must be little, costly, nice.

Maturer age, to this delight grown strange,
Each night frequents his club behind the 'Change,
Expecting there frugality and health,
And honour rising from a sheriff's wealth:
Unless he some insurance-dinner lacks,
'Tis very rarely he frequents Pontack's.
But then old age, by still intruding years,
Torments the feeble heart with anxious fears:
Morose, perverse in humour, diffident,
The more he still abounds, the less content;
His larder and his kitchen too observes,
And now, lest he should want hereafter, starves;
Thinks scorn of all the present age can give,
And none these threescore years knew how to live.
But now the cook must pass through all degrees,.
And by his art discordant tempers please,
And minister to health and to disease.

Far from the parlour have your kitchen plac'd, Dainties may in their working be disgrac'd.

In private draw your poultry, clean your tripe,
And from your eels their slimy substance wipe.
Let cruel offices be done by night,

For they who like the thing abhor the sight.

Next, let discretion moderate your cost,
And, when you treat, three courses be the most.
Let never fresh machines your pastry try,
Unless grandees or magistrates are by:
Then you may put a dwarf into a pie.
Or, if you'd fright an alderman and mayor,
Within a pasty lodge a living hare;
Then midst their gravest furs shall mirth arise,
And all the Guild pursue with joyful cries.

Crowd not your table: let your number be
Not more than seven, and never less than three.
'Tis the dessert that graces all the feast,
For an ill end disparages the rest:
A thousand things well done, and one forgot,
Defaces obligation by that blot.

Make your transparent sweet-meats truly nice,
With Indian sugar and Arabian spice:
And let your various creams encircled be
With swelling fruit just ravish'd from the tree.
Let plates and dishes be from China brought,
With lively paint and earth transparent wrought.
The feast now done, discourses are renew'd,
And witty arguments with mirth pursued.
The cheerful master, 'midst his jovial friends,
His glass "to their best wishes" recommends.
The grace-cup follows to his sovereign's health,
And to his country, "plenty, peace, and wealth."
Performing then the piety of grace,

Each man that pleases re-assumes his place;
While at his gate, from such abundant store,
He showers his god-like blessings on the poor.
In days of old, our fathers went to war,
Expecting sturdy blows and hardy fare:
Their beef they often in their murrions stew'd,
And in their basket-hilts their beverage brew'd.
Some officer perhaps might give consent,
To a large cover'd pipkin in his tent,
Where every thing that every soldier got,
Fowl, bacon, cabbage, mutton, and what not,
Was all thrown into bank, and went to pot.
But, when our conquests were extensive grown,
And through the world our British worth was
known,

Wealth on commanders then flow'd in apace,
Their champaign sparkled equal with their lace;
Quails, beccoficos, ortolans, were sent
To grace the levee of a general's tent;
In their gilt plate all delicates were seen,
And what was earth before became a rich terrene.
When the young players once get to Islington,
They fondly think that all the world's their own:
Prentices, parish-clerks, and Hectors meet;
He that is drunk, or bullied, pays the treat.
Their talk is loose; and o'er the bouncing ale
At constables and justices they rail;
Not thinking custard such a serious thing,
That common-council men 'twill thither bring;
Where many a man, at variance with his wife,
With softening mead and cheese-cake ends the
strife.
[discourse,
Ev'n squires come there, and, with their mean
Render the kitchen, which they sit in, worse.
Midwives demure, and chamber-maids most gay,
Foremen that pick the box and come to play,
Here find their entertainment at the height,
In cream and codlings revelling with delight.

What these approve the great men will dislike:
But here's the art, if you the palate strike;
By management of common things so well,
That what was thought the meanest shall excel;
While others strive in vain, all persons own
Such dishes could be dress'd by you alone.

When straiten'd in your time, and servants few,
You'll rightly then compose an ambigue:
Where first and second course, and your dessert,
All in one single table have their part.
From such a vast confusion 'tis delight,
To find the jarring elements unite,
And raise a structure grateful to the sight.
Be not too far by old example led,
With caution now we in their footsteps tread:
The French our relish help, and well supply
The want of things too gross by decency.
Our fathers most admir'd their sauces sweet,
And often ask'd for sugar with their meat;
They butter'd currants on fat veal bestow'd,
And rumps of beef with virgin-honey strew'd.
Insipid taste, old friend, to them who Paris know,
Where rocombole, shallot, and the rank garlic,
grow,

Tom Bold did first begin the strolling mart,
And drove about his turnips in a cart;
Sometimes his wife the citizens would please,
And from the same machine sell pecks of pease;
Then pippins did in wheel-barrows abound,
And oranges in whimsey-boards went round:
Bess Hoy first found it troublesome to bawl,
And therefore plac'd her cherries on a stall;
Her currants there and gooseberries were spread,
With the enticing gold of ginger-bread :
But flounders, sprats, and cucumbers were cried,
And every sound and every voice was tried.
At last the law this hideous din suppress'd,
And order'd that the Sunday should have rest;
And that no nymph her noisy food should sell,
Except it were new milk or mackarel.

There is no dish but what our cooks have made,
And merited a charter by their trade.

Not French kickshaws, or oglios brought from
Spain,

Alone have found improvement from their brain;
But pudding, brawn, and white-pots, own'd to be
Th' effects of native ingenuity.

Our British fleet, which now commands the
Might glorious wreaths of victory obtain, [main,
Would they take time; would they with leisure
work,
[pork;
With care would salt their beef, and cure their
Would boil their liquor well whene'er they brew,
Their conquest half is to the victualler due.

Because that thrift and abstinence are good,
As many things if rightly understood,
Old Cross condemns all persons to be fops,
That can't regale themselves with mutton-chops.
He often for stuft beef to Bedlam runs,
And the clean rummer, as the pest-house, shuns.
Sometimes poor jack and onions are his dish,
And then he saints those friars who stink of fish.
As for myself, I take him to abstain,
Who has good meat, with decency, though plain :
But, though my edge be not too nicely set,
Yet I another's appetite may whet;
May teach him when to buy, when season's past,
What's stale, what choice, what plentiful, what

waste,

And lead him through the various maze of taste.

The fundamental principle of all

Is what ingenious cooks the relish call;
For, when the market sends in loads of food,
They all are tasteless till that makes them good.
Besides, 'tis no ignoble piece of care,
To know for whom it is you would prepare:
You'd please a friend, or reconcile a brother,
A testy father, or a haughty mother;
Would mollify a judge, would cram a squire,
Or else some smiles from court you may desire;
Or would, perhaps, some hasty supper give,
To show the splendid state in which you live.
Pursuant to that interest you propose,
Must all your wine and all your meat be chose.
Let men and manners every dish adapt:
Who'd force his pepper where his guests are clapt?
A cauldron of fat beef and stoop of ale
On the huzzaing mob shall more prevail,
Than if you give them with the nicest art
Ragouts of peacocks brains, or filbert-tart.
The French by soups and haut-gouts glory raise,
And their desires all terminate in praise.
The thrifty maxim of the wary Dutch
Is, to save all the money they can touch:
"Hans," cries the father, "see a pin lies there;
A pin a day will fetch a groat a year.

To your five farthings join three farthings more;
And they, if added, make your halfpence four!"
Thus may your stock by management increase,
Yourwars shall gain you more than Britain's peace.
Where love of wealth and rusty coin prevail,
What hopes of sugar'd cakes or butter'd ale?

Cooks garnish out some tables, some they fill,
Or in a prudent mixture show their skill:
Clog not your constant meals; for dishes few
Increase the appetite, when choice and new.
Ev'n they, who will extravagance profess,
Have still an inward hatred for excess :
Meat, forc'd too much, untouch'd at table lies,
Few care for carving trifles in disguise,
Or that fantastic dish some call surprise.
When pleasures to the eye and palate meet,
That cook has render'd his great work complete :
His glory far, like Sur-loin's knighthood, flies;
Immortal made, as Kit-cat by his pies.

Good-nature must some failings overlook,
Not wilfulness, but errours of the cook..
A string won't always give the sound design'd
By the musician's touch and heavenly mind:
Nor will an arrow from the Parthian bow
Still to the destin'd point directly go.
Perhaps no salt is thrown about the dish,
Or no fried parsley scatter'd on the fish,
Shall I in passion from my dinner fly,
And hopes of pardon to my cook deny,
For things which carelessness might oversee,
And all mankind commit as well as he?
I with compassion once may overlook
A skewer sent to table by my cook:
But think not therefore tamely I'll permit
That he should daily the same fault commit,
For fear the rascal send me up the spit!

Poor Roger Fowler had a generous mind,
Nor would submit to have his hand confin'd,
But aim'd at all; yet never could excel
In any thing but stuffing of his veal:
But, when that dish was in perfection seen,
And that alone, would it not move your spleen?
'Tis true, in a long work, soft slumbers creep,
And gently sink the artist into sleep.

Ev'n Lamb himself, at the most solemn feast,
Might have some chargers not exactly drest.

Tables should be like pictures to the sight, Some dishes cast in shade, some spread in light, Some at a distance brighten, some near hand, Where ease may all their delicace command: Some should be mov'd when broken; others last Through the whole treat, incentive to the taste. Locket, by many labours feeble grown,

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Up from the kitchen call'd his eldest son: Though wise thyself," says he, "though taught by me,

Yet fix this sentence in thy memory:
There are some certain things that don't excel,
And yet we say are tolerably well:
There's many worthy men a lawyer prize,
Whom they distinguish as of middle size,
For pleading well at bar, or turning books;
But this is not, my son, the fate of cooks,
From whose mysterious art true pleasure springs
To stall of garter, and to throne of kings.
A simple scene, a disobliging song,
Which no way to the main design belong,
Or were they absent never would be miss'd,
Have made a well-wrought comedy be hiss'd:
So in a feast no intermediate fault
Will be allow'd; but, if not best, 'tis naught."

He that of feeble nerves and joints complains, From nine-pins, coits, and from trap-ball, abstains;

Cudgels avoids, and shuns the wrestling-place,
Lest vinegar resound his loud disgrace.
But every one to cookery pretends;
Nor maid nor mistress e'er consult their friends.
But, sir, if you would roast a pig, be free,
Why not, with Brawn, with Locket, or with me?
We'll see when 'tis enough, when both eyes out,
Or if it wants the nice concluding bout:
But, if it lies too long, the crackling's pall'd,
Not by the drugging-box to be recall'd.

Our Cambrian fathers, sparing in their food,
First broil'd their hunted goats on bars of wood.
Sharp hunger was their seasoning, or they took
Such salt as issued from the native rock.
Their sallading was never far to seek,
The poignant water-grass, or savoury leek;
Until the British bards adorn'd this isle,
And taught them how to roast, and how to boil:
Then Taliessin rose, and sweetly strung
His British harp, instructing whilst he sung:
Taught them that honesty they still possess,
Their truth, their open heart, their modest dress,
Duty to kindred, constancy to friends,
And inward worth, which always recommends;
Contempt of wealth and pleasure, to appear
To all mankind with hospitable cheer.
In after-ages, Arthur taught his knights
At his round table to record their fights,
Cities eraz'd, encampments forc'd in field,
Monsters subdued, and hideous tyrants quell'd,
Inspir'd that Cambrian soul which ne'er can yield.
Then Guy, the pride of Warwick, truly great,
To future heroes due example set,

By his capacious cauldron made appear,
From whence the spirits rise, and strength of

war.

The present age, to gallantry inclin'd,
Is pleas'd with vast improvements of the mind.
He, that of honour, wit, and mirth, partakes,
May be a fit companion o'er beef-steaks;

His name may be to future times enroll'd
Great men have dearly thus companions bought:
In Estcourt's book3, whose gridiron's fram'd of Unless by these instructions they'll be taught,
They spread the net, and will themselves be
caught.

gold.

Scorn not these lines, design'd to let you know
Profits that from a well-plac'd table flow.

'Tis a sage question, if the art of cooks Is lodg'd by Nature, or attain'd by books: That man will never frame a noble treat, Whose whole dependence lies in some receipt: Then by pure Nature every thing is spoil'd, She knows no more than stew'd, bak'd, roast, and boil'd.

When Art and Nature join, th' effect will be
Some nice ragout, or charming fricasee.

The lad that would his genius so advance,
That on the rope he might securely dance,
From tender years enures himself to pains,
To summer's parching heat, and winter's rains,
And from the fire of wine and love abstains;
No artist can his hautboy's stops command,
Unless some skilful master form his hand :
But gentry take their cooks though never tried;
It seems no more to them than up and ride.
Preferments granted thus show him a fool,
That dreads a parent's check, or rods at school.
Ox-cheek when hot, and wardens bak'd, some

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And 'tis the vast ambition of their soul,
To see their port admir'd, and table full.
But then, amidst that cringing fawning crowd,
Who talk so very much, and laugh so loud,
Who with such grace his honour's actions praise,
How well he fences, dances, sings, and plays;
Tell him his livery's rich, his chariot's fine,
How choice his meat, and delicate his wine;
Surrounded thus, how should the youth descry
The happiness of friendship from a lie?
Friends act with cautious temper when sincere ;
But flattering impudence is void of care:
So at an Irish funeral appears

A train of drabs with mercenary tears;
Who, wringing oft' their hands, with hideous moan,
Know not his name for whom they seem to groan;
While real grief with silent steps proceeds,
And love unfeign'd with inward passion bleeds.
Hard fate of wealth! Were lords as butchers wise,
They from their meat would banish all the flies!
The Persian kings, with wine and massy bowl,
Search'd to the dark recesses of the soul;
That, so laid open, no one might pretend,
Unless a man of worth, to be their friend.
But now the guests their patrons undermine;
And slander them, for giving them their wine.

That is, "be admitted a member of The Beefsteak Club."-Richard Estcourt, who was a player and dramatic writer, is celebrated in the Spectator, as possessed of a sprightly wit, and an easy and natural politeness. His company was much coveted by the great, on account of his qualifications as a boon companion. When the famous Beefsteak Club was first instituted, he had the office of providore assigned him; and, as a mark of distinction, used to wear a small gridiron of gold hung about his neck with a green silk riband. He died in the year 1713. N.

VOL. IX.

Were Horace, that great master, now alive,
A feast with wit and judgment he'd contrive.
As thus:-Supposing that you would rehearse
A labour'd work, and every dish a verse;
He'd say, "Mend this, and t'other line, and this."
If after trial it were still amiss,

He'd bid you give it a new turn of face,
Or set some dish more curious in its place.
If you persist, he would not strive to move
A passion so delightful as self-love.

We should submit our treats to critics' view,
And every prudent cook should read Bossu.
Judgment provide the meat in season fit,
Which by the genius drest, its sauce is wit.
Good beef for men, pudding for youth and age,
Come up to the decorum of the stage.
The critic strikes out all that is not just,
And 'tis ev'n so the butler chips his crust.
Poets and pastry-cooks will be the same,
Since both of them their images must frame.
Chimeras from the poet's fancies flow:
The cook contrives his shapes in real dough.
When Truth commands, there's no man can
offend,

That with a modest love corrects his friend,
Though 'tis in toasting bread, or buttering pease,
So the reproof has temper, kindness, ease.
But why should we reprove when faults are
small?

Because 'tis better to have none at all.
There's often weight in things that seem the least,
And our most trifling follies raise the jest.

'Tis by his cleanliness a cook must please;
A kitchen will admit of no disease.
The fowler and the huntsman both may run
Amidst that dirt which he must nicely shun.
Empedocles, a sage of old, would raise
A name immortal by unusual ways;
At last his fancies grew so very odd,
He thought by roasting to be made a god.
Though fat, he leapt with his unwieldly stuff
In Etna's flames, so to have fire enough.
Were my cook fat, and I a stander-by,
I'd rather than himself his fish should fry.

There are some persons so excessive rude,
That to your private table they'll intrude.
In vain you fly, in vain pretend to fast;
Turn like a fox, they'll catch you at the last.
You must, since bars and doors are no defence,
Ev'n quit your house as in a pestilence.
Be quick, nay very quick, or he'll approach,
And, as you're scampering, stop you in your
coach.

Then think of all your sins, and you will see,
How right your guilt and punishment agree:
Perhaps no tender pity could prevail,
But you would throw some debtor into gaol.
Now mark th' effect of this prevailing curse,
You are detain❜d by something that is worse.

Were it in my election, I should choose,
To meet a ravenous wolf or bear got loose.
He'll eat and talk, and talking still will eat,
No quarter from the parasite you'll get;
But, like a leech well fix'd, he'll suck what's
good,

And never part till satisfied with blood.

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Nor were emperors less contributors to so great an undertaking, as Vitellius, Commodus, Didius Julianus, and Varius Heliogabalus, whose imperial names are prefixed to manifold receipts; the last of which emperors had the peculiar giory of first making sausages of shrimps, crabs, oysters, prawns, and lobsters. And these sausages being mentioned by the author which the editor pub

learned doctor irrefragably maintains, that the book, as now printed, could not be transcribed till after the time of Heliogabalus, who gloried in the titles of Apicius and Vitellius, more than Antoninus, who had gained his reputation by a temperate, austere, and solid virtue. And, it seems, under his administration, a person that found out a new soup might have as great a reward, as Drake or Dampier might expect for finding a new continent. My friend says, the editor tells us of unheard-of dainties; how " Æsopus had a supper of the tongues of birds that could speak ;" and that "his daughter regaled on pearls," though he does not tell us how she dressed them; how "Hortensius left ten thousand pipes of wine in his cellar, for his heir's drinking;" how "Vedius Pollio fed his fish-ponds with man's flesh;" and how "Cæsar bought six thousand weight of lampreys for his triumphal supper." He says, the editor proves equally to a demonstration, by the proportions and quantities set down, and the nauseousness of the ingredients, that the dinners of the emperors were ordered by their physicians; and that the recipe was taken by the cook, as the collegiate doctors would do their bills, to a modern apothecary; and that this custom was taken from the Egyptians; and that this method continued till the Goths and Vandals over-ran the western empire; and that they, by use, exercise, and necessity of abstinence, introduced the eating of cheese and venison without those additional sances, which the physicians of old found out to restore the depraved appetites of such great men as had lost their stomachs by an excess of luxury. Out of the ruins of Erasistratus's book of endive, Glaucus Lorrensis of cow-heel, Mithecus of hot-pot, Dionysius of sugar-sops, Agis of pickled broom-buds, Epinetus of sack-posset, Euthedemus of appledumplings, Hegesippus of black-pudding, Crito of soused mackarel, Stephanus of lemon-cream, Ar

I MUST communicate my happiness to you, because you are so much my friend as to rejoice at it. I some days ago met with an old acquaintance, alishes, from that and many other arguments the curious person, of whom I inquired if he had seen the book concerning soups and sauces. He told me he had; but that he had but a very slight view of it, the person who was master of it not being willing to part with so valuable a rarity out of his closet. I desired him to give me what account he could of it. He says, that it is a very handsome octavo;'for, ever since the days of Ogilby, good paper, and good print, and fine cuts, make a book become ingenious, and brighten up an author strangely; that there is a copious index; and at the end a catalogue of all the doctor's works, concerning cockles, English beetles, snails, spiders, that get up into the air and throw us down cobwebs, a monster vomited up by a baker, and such like; which, if carefully perused, would wonderfully improve us. There is, it seems, no manuscript of it in England, nor any other country that can be heard of; so that this impression is from one of Humelbergius, who, as my friend says, he does not believe contrived it himself, because the things are so very much out of the way, that it is not probable any learned man would set himself seriously to work to invent them. He tells me of this ingenious remark made by the editor, "That, whatever manuscripts there might have been, they must have been extremely vicious and corrupt, as being written out by the cooks themselves, or some of their friends or servants, who are not always the most accurate." And then, as my friend observed, if the cook had used it much, it might be sullied; the cook, perhaps, not always licking his fingers when he had occasion for it. I should think it no improvident matter for the state to order a select scrivener to transcribe receipts, lest ignorant women and housekeepers should impose upon future ages by ill-spelt and uncorrect receipts for potting of lobsters, or pickling of turkeys. Cælius Apicius, it seems, passes for the author of this treatise; whose science, learning, and discipline, were extremely contemned, and almost ab-chites of hog's-harslet, Acestius of quince-marmahorred, by Seneca and the Stoics, as introducing luxury, and infecting the manners of the Romans; and so lay neglected till the inferior ages; but then were introduced, as being a help to physic, to which a learned author, called Donatus, says, that "the kitchen is a handmaid." I remember in our days, though we cannot in every respect come up to the ancients, that by a very good author an old gentleman is introduced as making use of three doctors, Dr Diet, Dr. Quiet, and Dr. Merriman. They are reported to be excellent physicians; and, if kept at a constant pension, their fees will not be very costly.

It seems, as my friend has learnt, there were two persons that bore the name of Apicius, one under the republic, the other in the time of Tiberius, who is recorded by Pliny, "to have had a great deal of wit and judgment in all affairs that related to eating," and consequently has his name affixed to many sorts of aumulets and pancakes,

lade, Hickesius of potted pigeons, Diocles of sweetbreads, and Philistion of out-cakes and several other such authors, the great Humelbergius composed his annotations upon Apicius; whose receipts, when part of Tully, Livy, and Tacitus, have been neglected and lost, were preserved in the utmost parts of Transylvania, for the peculiar palate of the ingenious editor. Latinus Latinius finds fault with several dishes of Apicius, and is pleased to say they are nauseous; but our editor defends that great person, by showing the difference of our customs; how Plutarch says, “the ancients used no pepper," whereas all, or at least five or six bundred, of Apicius's delicates were scasoned with it. For we may as well admire that some West Indians should ab tain from salt, as that we should be able to hear the bitterness of hops in our common drink: and therefore we should not be averse to rue, cummin, parsley-seed, marsh-mallows, or nettles, with our common meat; or to have pepper,

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