University of Virginia Library

THE EPICUREAN: A GASTRONOMIC TALE, INTERSPERSED WITH SUTTABLE REFLECTIONS.

—Prior

It was on the evening of a dull, damp, dreary,
weary, melancholy, miserable day, towards the
latter end of November, when Titus Dodds, esq.,
of Cornhill, merchant, closed his counting-house
door, and proceeded homeward to his residence, No.
42 Brooke-street, High Holborn, in quest of palatable
nutriment. The prospect before him was any
thing but alluring. All surrounding substances,
animate and inanimate, wore a most wretched and
wo-begone aspect. The streets were greasy and
slippery, the half-washed houses looked lonely and
cheerless, while the Bank, the Mansion House, the
Exchange, and other awkward and well-smoked

edifices, as seen by the equivocal light of four
o'clock, presented a peculiarly grim and repulsive
appearance. The chilly, drizzly atmosphere penetrated
to the very marrow of the shivering citizens
as they crawled along to their respective domiciles,
causing the most unpleasant alterations in the “human
face divine;” cheeks and noses exchanged
their appropriate tints; and many well-meaning,
inoffensive people, whom their worst enemies could
not charge with literary propensities, looked intensely
blue. The shopmen sat behind their deserted
counters, buried in profound meditation;
street minstrels, vocal and instrumental, suspended
their unfeeling persecutions; the starved, gaunt,
miserable hackney and stage horses, from whose
spavined limbs the “speed of thought” had long
since departed, stood trembling, and ruminating
doubtless on the “flowery fields and pastures
green” of their infancy; while their red-visaged
proprietors clustered together in small groups around
the doors of the adjacent gin-shops, in impatient
expectation of a customer.

“A coach, sir, a coach!” cried a dozen voices,
as Mr. Dodds approached; but he strode onward
without deigning a reply, followed by the bitter
maledictions of his disappointed fellow-creatures.

But it is time some explanation was entered into

of the character and habits of the hero of this history.

Mr. Titus Dodds was a plain, honest, kind-hearted,
sensible-enough sort of man. When a
census of the population of the metropolis was
taken, he counted one; but excepting on those occasions,
never attempted to cut a figure in the
world. If one asked his opinion respecting the domestic
and foreign policy of the cabinet, he used to
reply, that he was no politician; if another requested
his views upon controversial points of religion,
he would answer, that he was no theologian; and
if any one desired to know his opinion concerning
the probability of finding a passage round the North
Pole, he would say, he thought it likely it might be
discovered some time or other, adding, however, by
way of qualification, that it was a great chance if
it ever were. Holding these inoffensive tenets respecting
law, divinity, politics, and science, and
professing a total ignorance of poetry and the fine
arts, he managed to get through the world with
considerable ease and comfort to himself, and little
or no inconvenience to his neighbors. As he was
provided with an heiress to his small property, he
was not troubled with the civilities and delicate attentions
of friends and relatives; and as he made
it a rule to keep out of debt, few people, of course,
felt an interest in his fate.

Such was the appearance which Mr. Dodds presented
to the superficial observer; and such indeed
was his real character, as far as it went; but beneath
all this placidity and quiescence lurked strong
passions—ardent desires—unconquerable longings.
It seemed as if all the sharp points of his character
had flown off and concentrated themselves under
one particular head. The fact is, Mr. Dodds liked
his dinner; so much so, indeed, that were I inclined

I should surmise that the soul of the famous Parisian
gourmand, the Abbe C.[1] after quitting the body
of that dignitary, had crossed the channel, made
the best of its way to Brooke-street, High Holborn,
and taken up its residence, for the time being, in the
person of Mr. Titus Dodds. He was none of your
showy, superficial fellows, that dilate with counterfeit
rapture upon the pleasures of the table merely
to gain credit for superior discrimination and delicacy
of palate; he was none of your gastronomic
puppies, that prate everlastingly of the impropriety
and horrid vulgarity of brown meats and white
wines—of the indelicacy of cheese, and the enormity
of malted liquors. No—he was a man who
had a real, simple, and sincere love for the birds of
the air, the beasts of the field and the forest, and
the fish of the seas, rivers, lakes, and fresh-water
streams; and one gifted at the same time by nature,
with an eminently lively sense of the pleasing
essences and grateful flavors which are capable of
being extracted therefrom. He did not like or dislike—or
admire or abhor, according to the caprices
or mutabilities of fashion. His tastes were formed
by long experience, aided by much patient, minute,
and subtle, though quiet and unobtrusive analyzation
and investigation; and provided his dinner
was to his liking, he cared little of what metallic
substances those modern substitutes for fingers,
yclept forks, were composed, or whether the number
of their prongs corresponded with the prevalent
notions of propriety on that subject. In fact, he
was that rare thing—an independent man, without
the slightest taint of obstinacy or stubbornness.
Though not above learning from, he was no slave
to the dogmas of cookery books; he honored their
authors—he respected the labor and research displayed
in their pages; but their most specious or
authoritative doctrines were alike insufficient to
shake his principles or unsettle his ideas of right
and wrong. Like a wise man, he ate what he
liked best, cooked as he liked it best, without the
slightest reference to what the world in general, or
his friends in particular, might say about the
matter.

To a philanthropist—to a man with an enlarged
love for the human species, a Howard or a Shelly,
it would have been a pleasing sight to see Mr. Titus
Dodds, after the honorable fatigues of the day, sit
down to what he most worshipped—ducks stuffed
or impregnated with onions. To have marked the
smile of calm though intense satisfaction which
overspread the countenance of the good, middle-aged
man, as he gazed upon them;—to have noticed
the waters of pleasure involuntarily overflowing
his eyes and trickling down his cheeks, as the
delicious though pungent odors emitted from his
favorites, steamed round his head and proceeded
up his olfactory department to his brain;—to have
listened to the long-drawn sigh (certainly not of

sorrow,) with which he eased his o'erfraught breast,
as he drew himself up to carve;—to have observed
the slowness, or additional emphasis, with which
he masticated the choice morsels—all this, I say,
would have done their hearts good, and would have
convinced even the veriest misanthrope, that the
world was not altogether the huge den of misery
which he took it to be; but that even the most
humble and unknown individuals have often
sources of pleasure within themselves, of some sort
or other, which enable them to bear the burden of
life with resignation, and lay it down at last, like
the misanthrope himself, with reluctance.

Titus Dodds (as has been previously mentioned,)
was a man in easy circumstances, yet he had not
often ducks for dinner. If any are curious to know
the reason, it will be a sufficient reply—at least to
the matrimonial portion of the querists—to state
that Mr. Dodds was a married man. Mrs. Dodds
was by no means a contradictious or contumacious
helpmate; but still she had a will of her own; and
in addition to this, notions had been infused into
her by Mrs. Alderman Scales, the butcher's wife,
regarding the extreme vulgarity of such a dish;
and though Mrs. Dodds was a woman under the
middle stature, she perfectly detested any thing low.
Touching the onions, she was peculiarly pathetic

in her remonstrances, inasmuch as they frequently
brought tears to her eyes; but Titus was firm, and
occasionally carried his point. He had succeeded
in doing so on the day on which our story commences
(and ends,) and the last words that ran
along the passage, as he closed the door after him
in the morning, were—“precisely at five.”

But to return to Mr. Dodds, whom we left just
entering Cheapside. Scarcely had he proceeded as
far as Bow Church, when the dense fog, which had
been brooding over the city for the last twelve
hours, and resting itself on the tops of the more
elevated buildings, came tumbling down all at
once, bringing with it the whole of that day's
smoke, which had been vainly endeavoring, since
the first fire was lighted in the morning, to ascend
to its usual station in the atmosphere. As soon as
this immense funereal pall was spread over the city,
things fell, as was naturally to be expected, into
immediate and irremediable confusion. Pedestrian
bore violently down upon pedestrian, and equestrian
came in still more forcible contact with equestrian.
Cart overturned cart—coach ran against coach—
shafts were broken—wheels torn off—windows
stove in; passengers shouted and screamed, and
the language of the drivers, though copious and
flowing, became characterized rather by energy

than elegance. But a London fog cannot be described.
To be appreciated it must be seen, or
rather felt; for it is altogether impossible to be clear
and lucid on such a subject. It is the only thing
which gives you an idea of what Milton meant
when he talked of “darkness visible.” There is a
kind of light, to be sure, but it only serves as a medium
for a series of optical delusions; and for all
useful purposes of vision, the deepest darkness that
ever fell from the heavens is infinitely preferable. A
man perceives a coach a dozen yards off, and a
single stride brings him among the horses' feet,—
he sees a gas-light faintly glimmering (as he thinks)
at a distance, but scarcely has he advanced a step
or two towards it, when he becomes convinced of
its actual station by finding his head rattling against
the post; and as for attempting, if you get once
mystified, to distinguish one street from another, it
is ridiculous to think of such a thing.

At the end of Cheapside there was a grand concussion
of wheeled vehicles, and Mr. Dodds found
some difficulty in preserving that intimate connexion
which had so long satisfactorily subsisted between
his mortal and immortal parts. The danger
of being jostled, overturned, and trodden under foot,
confused, unsettled, and perturbed his local ideas
considerably, so that, instead of holding his way

along Newgate-street, in a westerly direction, he
pointed his nose due north, (up Aldersgate-street)
and followed it according to the best of his ability.

“They will be overdone!” soliloquized Titus;
and he groped vigorously forward, until, as the
clock struck the appointed hour of five, he found
himself at the Angel at Islington, just about as far
from his domicile as when he left his counting-house.
There are limits to the power of language,
and therefore I shall leave Mr. Dodds's state of
mind, on making this singular discovery, to the
imagination of the reader. But there was no time
to be lost. He struck his ratan on the pavement,
wiped the perspiration from his forehead, inquired
out, as his nearest way, St. John's-street Road, and
plunged at once into its mysterious recesses. 'Twere
painful and vain to tell of his dismal and dubious
wanderings in those complex regions which lie
between the aforesaid road and Gray's Inn; suffice
it to say, that he at length succeeded in reaching
the latter, and began once more to entertain
hopes of seeing his home again, when he became
aware of something in his path, and a voice from
the mist thus broke upon his ear:—

Mr. Dodds was a patriotic man; in his way; and
a disabled prop of the naval power of his country
seldom appealed to him in vain, but, on this occasion,
he passed on, and the man with no eyes
paused in his strain to bestow a passing benediction
on those of Mr. Dodds.

“For the love of mercy spare a trifle to a poor
widow with seven small children,” said a miserable
object seated on a door-step. Mr. Dodds was a charitable
man, but he delayed not.

“Mind that are puddle, sir, and valk over this
'ere plank,” vociferated a little scrub-headed urchin,
the proprietor of a frail deal board, which he had
placed across “the meeting of the waters” from two
or three street-ends, to benefit travelers, and serve
his own pecuniary purposes. Titus did so, and
passed over the confluence of the kennels dry-shod.
“Remember the accommodation plank, sir,” bawled
the boy, half-imploringly, half-indignantly, as he
perceived Mr. Dodds's body in motion on the opposite
side. Dodds was far from being an ungrateful
man, but he sought not for copper. At length,
panting, wearied, worried, and worn out, he found
himself, as the clock struck six, at Middle Row,
Holborn, a full quarter of a mile from his habitation.

A skilful portraiture of human suffering, up to a
certain point, is far from unpleasing, and rather

beneficial, arousing, as it does, the hidden sympathies
of our nature which might otherwise remain
dormant; but when it passes this point, when it
becomes of agonizing intenseness, minute description
is then shocking and repulsive. We will, therefore,
quit Mr. Dodds for the present, and shift the
scene to his residence.

The accumulated wisdom of ages has recorded
that there is nothing so deceitful as appearances.
The chilliness and serenity of the outside of Mount
Etna give not the slightest hint of the volcanic fires
roaring and raging within; and as little did the
demure, quiet appearance of 42 Brooke-street, High
Holborn, betoken the agitation which prevailed
therein. The causes of this agitation were threefold.
Mr. Dodds, as has been before stated, ordered
dinner precisely at five, and as his wife, clock, and
cook, were tolerably well regulated, there was a reasonable
prospect of his saying grace about that time.
But wives are not infallible—clocks are not chronometers—cooks
are not impeccable. Mrs. D. had
been flatteringly invited to give her opinion upon
some new purchases of Flander's lace, made by her
neighbor Mrs. Blenkinsopp. Where lives the woman
that can tear herself from lace? The consequence
was, that Mrs. Dodds was half an hour
past her time in issuing her orders to the cook; the

cook was discussing the benefits derivable from triennial
parliaments with the aforesaid Mrs. Blenkinsopp's
housemaid, who was a septennialist, and a
quarter of an hour more was lost without settling
the question after all. To crown the whole, the
clock, which had heretofore conducted itself in a
commendable manner, thought proper to come to
a full stop, and ten minutes elapsed before the cook
was aware of the resolution it had taken. As soon
as Mrs. Dodds became fully conscious of this unfortunate
concurrence of circumstances, the house, as
the saying is, “was hardly large enough to hold
her,” although it contained many apartments of
respectable proportions.

What a short-sighted creature is man! He knows
not what is best for him. Had Mr. Dodds only been
aware of these seeming misfortunes, how would he
have felicitated himself on this eventful evening.

Seven minutes had now elapsed since the authoritative
voice of St. Giles's had bawled out to the
surrounding districts, “six o'clock,” and Mrs. Dodds
began to be seriously alarmed at the most unaccountable
absence of Mr. Dodds; so much so, indeed,
that faint visions of the unbecomingness of
widow's caps kept involuntarily flitting across her
imagination. Being a notable, prudent personage,
she placed her smelling-bottle on the table, laid her

white muslin-cambric handkerchief beside it, and
arranged the easy armchair at a convenient distance
so that she might not be found altogether
unprepared, in case it was announced to her that
she was a desolate woman. Just at this juncture,
however, the street-door opened, and a heated, flurried,
perspiring piece of animated nature, bearing a
striking resemblance to Mr. Dodds, rushed in, and
made the best of its way to the drawing-room,
but nothing (at least to the purpose) met its eager
glance.

“They can never have eaten them,” exclaimed
Dodds, (for it was he)—“Oh no, no, no!—they
could not, would not, durst not!”—and, without
tarrying for the slow medium of servants, in order
to effect a communication with Mrs. Dodds, away
he sallied, in order to know the worst at once, in
quest of his stray lamb—or, to speak with greater
agricultural precision, his ewe, for she was long past
the flowery days of lambhood.

“Titus Dodds!” cried Mrs. Dodds, (she called
him “Titus” in her loving or juvenile moods;
“Dodds,” when she wished to be familiar; “Mr.
Dodds,” when she was ill-tempered or imperious,
and “Titus Dodds,” when she aimed at being singularly
impressive,) “Titus Dodds, where have you
been?”

“It matters not,” replied Titus, in a tremulous
voice, “it matters not! I suppose all is over, and
there is nothing but cold meat in the house—well,
well!”

Far be it from me to violate the sanctity of domestic
privacy, by detailing the conversation which
ensued. It is sufficient to say that a mutual and
satisfactory explanation took place—the ducks were
finally served up, done to a turn, and Titus Dodds
was indeed a happy gentleman. The partner of
his past life contemplated the subdued rapture depicted
in the countenance of the man of her choice,
as if she were very well satisfied with the turn
affairs had taken; while their pretty daughter
Bessy, a lively girl, with an amazing relish for a
piece of snug humor, paused in the midst of a cut
off the breast, took in the pleasantry of the scene
at a glance, and then went on with her occupation.
It was, as I said before, a scene that a philanthropist
would, indeed, have gloried in contemplating.

how strangely and incongruously dost thou mix
thyself up with the fabric of things! Wealth and
power, and glory, ofttimes give thee not, and yet thou
may'st be extracted (as has been shown) from even
the commonest commodities. Independent creature!—the
high and mighty magnates of the earth
command thee to their footstools, but thou turnest
up thy nose, and strayest away unto some peasant's
homely hearth; and, when it so pleaseth thee, thou
leavest the emperor on his throne, the peer in his
palace, the beauty in the ball room, and takest up
thy abode in uninviting habitations, amid the nameless
children of obscurity. Democratic divinity! I
gratefully worship thee, for I am even now sensible
of thy presence; and it may be, that thou hast, this
very night, deserted the luscious soups and fragrant
wines of some luxurious alderman, to hover over the
simple mutton-chop and sparkling bottled ale, that
await my acceptance, as soon as I have attached
my brief and insignificant signature to this humble
tale, destitute of a plot and unprotected by a moral.