TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD PANMURE, K.T.
ETC. ETC. ETC.
My Lord,
Grateful, indeed, do I feel for the unlimited confidence reposed in me by your Lordship during my late Mission in the East, and especially so for your kind condescension in permitting me to dedicate to your Lordship this work, which at once puts the final seal to your Lordship’s appreciation of my humble services.
With the most profound respect,
I have the honour to remain,
My Lord,
Your Lordship’s most humble and dutiful Servant,
Alexis Soyer.
THE Author of this work begs to inform his readers that his principal object in producing his “Culinary Campaign” is to perpetuate the successful efforts made by him to improve the dieting of the Hospitals of the British army in the East, as well as the soldiers’ rations in the Camp before Sebastopol.
The literary portion the Author has dished up to the best of his ability; and if any of his readers do not relish its historical contents, he trusts that the many new and valuable receipts, applicable to the Army, Navy, Military and Civil Institutions, and the public in general, will make up in succulence for any literary deficiencies that may be found in its pages.
At the same time, the Author takes this opportunity of publicly returning his most grateful thanks to the late authorities at the seat of war for their universal courtesy, friendship, and great assistance, without which success would have been an impossibility.
Old Drury—Juvenile mirth—A sudden arrest—An invitation—No excuse—Getting home—Mind your pockets—A trip to the “Wellington”—An intelligent waiter—Reading the news—A sudden inspiration—Letter to the Times—The stupid waiter again—Little Jack—Supper fare—Receipts—Tough kidneys—How to cook them—Kidneys à la Roberto Diavolo—Kidneys à la brochette—New bill of fare for London Suppers.
“Hurrah! hurrah! bravo! bravo!” For a few minutes rounds of applause and shouts of laughter from the juveniles were heard and loudly re-echoed throughout the vast cupola of Old Drury, sending home the delighted spectators, in fits of sneezing and coughing, through a variegated atmosphere. Sir Henry W——, turning to me, exclaimed, “Hallo, Mr. Soyer, the pantomime is over early this evening!” and looking at his watch, continued, “Why, it is only half-past eleven o’clock.”
“Yes, Sir Henry; but quite late enough for children, who after this time begin to mingle gaping with laughter.”
“True enough,” replied Sir Henry; “it is painful to see those dear cherubs kept at the theatre till midnight, or even later. Have you been long here?”
“No,” I replied, “only a few minutes; just time enough to witness the grand finale, and to hear the screaming and laughter of the children, which to me is always very amusing.”
“Very true, very true; I am of your opinion, and never tire of children’s mirth.”
In a few minutes the theatre was nearly emptied of spectators, but still full of smoke. Considering myself that evening as free as a butterfly on a spring morning, though unable, like that light-hearted insect, to flit from flower to flower, I was trying to escape, with the swiftness of an eel, down the gigantic and crowded staircase, hoping to get off unobserved, as I had to start early in the morning for the country, when suddenly a friendly hand pressed me forcibly by the arm. The owner of the same cried, “Stop! stop! my friend; I have been hunting all over the theatre for you.” I at once recognised an old Devonshire acquaintance, whom I was indeed much pleased to see, having received a most kind reception from him at my last visit to that delightful county—so justly named the garden of England.
“Well, my dear sir,” said he, “myself and several acquaintances of yours are here for a few days, and have ordered a supper this evening at the ‘Albion.’ We heard you were at Drury Lane, and I have come to ask you to join us.”
“I must say it is very kind of you, Mr. Turner; but you must excuse me, as I am going as far as St. James’s-street, by appointment; besides, I leave for the country early to-morrow morning. But I shall be happy to spend to-morrow evening with you and your friends; therefore, I beg you will apologise for me.”
“To-morrow very likely we shall be off again; we only came for a couple of days, to breathe the London air, and then return.”
“I beg your pardon—you mean London fog, not air.”
“Why, yes, fog should be the word; but for all that, I love London in any season; so no excuse—I shall not leave you; you must join us, or your friend the squire will be greatly disappointed. He came from the Great Western Hotel this evening on purpose to see you.”
Finding it almost impossible to get out of it, and my friend having promised we should break up early, I accepted, saying, “You must allow me to go as far as the ‘Wellington,’ as I have an appointment there; I will be back in about half-an-hour.”
My incredulous country friend would not grant permission till I had assured him that I would faithfully keep my promise, and return.
This dialogue took place in the entrance of the vestibule, where a number of ladies and children were waiting—some for their carriages and broughams, others for those public inconveniences called cabs. This bevy of beauty and group of children, the pride of young England, seemed to interest my provincial friend so much, that I had some trouble to get him out. It was then nearly twelve o’clock. The front steps were also crowded; the weather was chilly and damp; a thick yellowish fog, properly mixed with a good portion of soot, formed a shower of black pearls, which, gracefully descending through the murky air, alighted, without asking permission, upon the rosy cheeks of unveiled fair dames, spotting their visages, if not à la Pompadour or à la Watteau, at least à la Hogarth. A few steps lower we entered a dense crowd—a most unpicturesque miscellany of individuals, unclassically called, the London mob. “Mind your pockets,” said I to my country friend.
“By Jove, it’s too late,” said he, feeling in his pocket—“my handkerchief is gone!”
“Is that all?” I inquired.
“Well, let me see,” he observed, feeling again: “yes, thank God! my watch and purse are quite safe.”
“Ah,” I continued, laughing, “the old adage which prompts us to thank God for all things is quite correct; for you are actually thanking Him for the loss of your handkerchief.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “I was thanking Him for the safety of my watch and purse.” After a hearty laugh we parted, he going to the “Albion,” and I to the “Wellington.”
On my arrival there, I found that my friend had been and was gone. My intelligent cabby soon brought me back through the dense atmosphere to that far-famed temple of Comus, at which crowds of celebrities meet nightly—some to restore themselves internally, others to sharpen their wits at that tantalising abode of good cheer. Upon entering, I inquired of a waiter, a stranger to me, if he could inform me where my six friends intended to sup.
“Yes, sir, directly.” Speaking down the trumpet: “Below! a Welsh rabbit and fresh toast—two kidneys underdone—scalloped oyster—a chop—two taters! Look sharp below!” To the barmaid: “Two stouts, miss—one pale—four brandies hot, two without—one whisky—three gin—pint sherry—bottle of port!”
“What an intelligent waiter!” thought I, “to have so good a memory.” Having waited till he had given his orders, I again said, “Pray, my fine fellow, in which room are my friends going to sup? They have a private room, no doubt?”
“Yes, sir, a private room for two.”
“No, not for two—for six.”
“Oh! I don’t mean that, sir: I want a rump-steak for two,” said he; “stewed tripe for one—three grogs—bottle pale Bass.” And off he went to the coffee-room.
“Plague upon the fellow!” said I to myself.
As the barmaid could not give me any information upon the subject, and I perceived through a half-opened door on the right-hand side of the bar a table laid for six, I went in, making sure it was for my friends, and that they had not yet arrived. Indeed, I had myself returned from my appointment much sooner than I had expected. I sat down, and was reading the evening paper, when a waiter came in. “After you with the paper, sir.”
“I have done; you may take it.”
“There’s the Times, sir, if you have not seen it.”
“No, I have not; let me have a look at it.” After reading one of the leaders, my attention was drawn to a long article written by the Crimean correspondent of that journal. When I had read it carefully a second time, a few minutes’ reflection on my part enabled me to collect my ideas, and established in my mind a certain assurance that I could, if allowed by Government, render service in the cooking of the food, the administration of the same, as well as the distribution of the provisions. These were matters in which I could detect, through the description of that eye-witness, the writer of the above-mentioned article, some change was much needed. I therefore wrote the following letter to the Times, it being then nearly one o’clock in the morning:—
THE HOSPITAL KITCHENS AT SCUTARI.
To the Editor of the Times.
Sir,—After carefully perusing the letter of your correspondent, dated Scutari, in your impression of Wednesday last, I perceive that, although the kitchen under the superintendence of Miss Nightingale affords so much relief, the system of management at the large one in the Barrack-hospital is far from being perfect. I propose offering my services gratuitously, and proceeding direct to Scutari, at my own personal expense, to regulate that important department, if the Government will honour me with their confidence, and grant me the full power of acting according to my knowledge and experience in such matters.
I have the honour to remain, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
A. Soyer.
Feb. 2, 1855.
After despatching this letter, I again inquired about my friends and my anticipated supper, which for some time had escaped my memory. “Did you ring, sir?”
“No, I did not, sir, but the bell has;” recognising my stupid waiter.
“Oh, sir! are you here?”
“Of course I am; don’t you see me?”
“Well, sir, your friends have had supper; they inquired everywhere for you; I told them you could not wait, as you had two ladies to see home as far as Brompton.”
“You foolish fellow! I never spoke to you about ladies, Brompton, or any such thing; I merely asked you where my friends were to sup; to which you replied, ‘Rump-steak for two, tripe for one, two taters, pat of butter, one pale Bass, and three kidneys for a gentleman, underdone.’”
“No more you did, sir. It was number three who told me to say so; not you, sir; you’re quite right, sir!”
“I am sure I am right; but as for you, your head is quite wrong!”
“Well, I assure you, sir, we have so much to do at times, we hardly know what we are about.”
“I don’t think you do,” said I, sharply.
“But I tell you what, sir, they are there still, and you had better go to them.”
“No, it is too late now; give them this note from me when they go out; and here is sixpence for yourself, for through your mistake you have after all rendered me a service. I did not wish to come here this evening, as I have an early engagement for to-morrow, so I will have a bit of supper and go home.”
“Well, do, sir; I thank you, and am very glad I have given you satisfaction at last.”
“Send Little Jack here; he knows what I like for supper.”
“Hallo, Mr. Soyer, everybody in the coffee-room has been inquiring after you this evening,” said Little Jack upon entering.
“I know; but that foolish waiter who was here just now made such a mull of everything, that he quite upset our party; I could not get any answer from him, so I made sure this table was laid out for us, and here I stuck.”
“No, sir, your friends supped in the coffee-room, and are still there, if you like to have your supper near them.”
“No, no; give me what you like here.”
“What shall it be, sir? oysters, broiled kidneys, chops, steaks, stewed tripe, broiled bones?”
“Have you nothing else?”
“Yes, sir, grilled fowl and scalloped oysters; only they will take some time preparing.”
“Well, give me scalloped oysters, and my favourite Welsh rare-bit, made in my style—you know; a pint of port wine, and fresh toast for the rare-bit.”
“Yes, sir; the cook knows—I’ll tell him it is for you.”
“But how is it you never vary your supper bill of fare? it is very scanty of choice for such a large tavern as this. I do not mean to complain, but give a little change now and then, by introducing a few new dishes.”
“Ah! you’re right, sir; it would please the customers, and be much better for us waiters, to have something new to offer; but, bless you, sir! I have been many years in this place, and it was always the same; and no doubt will remain so for as long again, unless a gentleman like you takes it in hand—they would then attend to it; but, of course, you have something else to do.”
“So I have; yet I don’t see why, in my next book upon cookery, I should not devote a few pages to the London suppers. I intend doing so, and, when published, I shall be happy to present you with a copy.”
“That will be first-rate, sir; I thank you, and wont I recommend the new dishes à la Soyer, as some of our customers call them!”
“Well, my man, upon second thoughts, as you seem so anxious about it, and I am not going to join my friends, give me a pen and ink, and while supper is preparing, I will write a few practical receipts, which can be easily introduced without interfering with your duty or the kitchen; they will, no doubt, prove agreeable to your customers, who are in general a class of bon vivants, fond of good things as well as of variety in the bill of fare.”
“Here is the pen, paper, and ink, sir.”
“Thank you; come again in about twenty minutes, and they shall be ready; or, if you are not in a hurry, stay.”
“No, sir, I am not; our supper business is over.”
“Well, now listen: first, I do not intend to criticise your bill of fare, which is as much varied, if not more so, than that offered at other large taverns, and it is quite as well executed. Now, respecting kidneys—you consume a large quantity of them?”
“So we do, sir.”
“Then I will give you a receipt or two for dressing them:—
No. 1.—Take two kidneys, split them lengthways as close to the sinew as possible without parting them; remove the thin skin, lay them flat upon the table, and season rather highly with salt and pepper; then run them crossways upon a wooden, metal, or silver skewer, forcing the sinew upwards; this will prevent their curling up again while cooking. Next dip them in some well-beaten eggs, to which you have added about a table-spoonful of dissolved butter; or rub them over with a paste-brush, which will do it more equally; roll them in fine bread-crumbs, and slightly beat them on both sides with the flat of your knife to cause the ‘crumbs to stick to the kidneys. Put them upon the gridiron, over a sharp fire, at a proper distance; they will require from five to eight minutes doing, according to size.
For the uninitiated, the following plan is the best to ascertain when they are properly done. Press with the prongs of a fork or the point of the knife upon the thick part of the kidney; if done through, it will feel firm and elastic to the touch. When the kidneys are done, slip them off the skewer on to a hot dish, and place in each a piece of butter, à la maître d’hôtel, about the size of a small walnut; send to table, and by the time it reaches the guest, the butter will be half melted; quite so when the kidney is cut by the customer, who, by turning the pieces and blending the butter with the gravy, will make a rich sauce, and partake of a delicious as well as a wholesome dish.
“Partaking of overdone kidneys at night is the forerunner of the nightmare.”
“You’re right, sir; that it is,” said Little Jack; “for at times we have some left, and keep them warm for supper; and they get as tough as pieces of leather, when after eating three or four—and I am always very tired at night—I never can sleep. Now I think of it, the tough kidneys must be the cause; and if I do sleep, Mr. Soyer, I have such awful dreams that I feel more fatigued when I rise than when I go to bed.”
“Of course,” I replied, “I am well aware of that; they cannot digest; therefore, you see the importance of having them properly done.”
“Very much so indeed; I quite understand it now, and perceive that if they cannot at all times be done to perfection, underdone is much preferable to overdone. I perfectly understand you, sir; but you see we require such a quantity.”
“Well, I have only given you the receipt for two. I will now, if you like, give you the receipt for a hundred.”
“Do, sir; that will suit us better.”
“I suppose they are most in request for supper?”
“Indeed they are, sir.”
“Then, in the course of the day, the cook should prepare a hundred precisely as the first—viz., ready for cooking. They should be put upon skewers, two, three, or four in a row; so that, when called for, he has only to remove them from the larder to the gridiron. About two pounds of butter à la maître d’hôtel should be prepared and kept in a cool place to be ready when required. By following this plan, you could easily cook several hundred during the evening, if called for. Should any remain unsold, they will keep till the next day, and will only require rolling in the crumbs again previous to broiling.”
“I see, sir; it will save a great deal of time by having them prepared beforehand.”
“But suppose you had none prepared beforehand, a dozen can soon be got ready by an active cook. The addition of the dissolved butter to the eggs keeps the kidneys fresh and moist, and inserting them upon the skewer retains them flat, and they are cooked more regularly in half the time; while without the skewer they curl up, and are frequently underdone on one side and cooked too much on the other.”
“I plainly understand what you mean.”
“These details upon the same subject are perhaps tedious to you.”
“Not at all, sir; I see the importance of them.”
“Well, the other receipts will come quite plain and easy to you. To tell the truth, I have had those overdone kidneys upon my conscience for some time. Mind, I do not intend to erase the plain broiled kidneys from the supper bill of fare, for I am very fond of them when properly cooked.”
“They are very good; and many gentlemen will not have them any other way.”
“Well, I do not blame them, for they are both agreeable and nutritious that way; but here is another appetizing receipt, which we will call à la Roberto Diavolo.”
No. 2.—Put two plain kidneys upon a skewer, and with a paste-brush butter them over. Set them upon the gridiron as near the fire as possible, for they cannot be done too fast; turn them every minute, and when half done season with salt, pepper, and a small spoonful of cayenne; chop some gherkins and a little green chillies, if handy; or, instead of either, a table-spoonful of chopped picolilli with the liquor. Put these on a hot plate, with a tea-spoonful of lemon-juice and a pat of butter. Take up the kidneys, and slip them burning hot from the skewer to the plate; turn them round four or five times in the mixture, and serve immediately. A small piece of glaze added to the butter will prove a great addition. Three, four, or five minutes will do them, according to the size.
Kidneys à la brochette, Paris fashion.
The Parisian gourmet would not eat a kidney if it was not served upon the silver skewer; the only merit of which is, that they keep hot longer and look better than when the skewer is omitted; as they often shrink, especially if the sinew has not been properly divided in the splitting of them.
“As, no doubt, you have something to do, you had better leave me; I will write a few more receipts. Bring me my supper in a quarter of an hour, and they will be ready.”
“Very well, sir; I will give a look round and order your supper.”
To the minute Little Jack walked in with the scalloped oysters, which I must admit looked remarkably tempting. He handed me my supper, but upon reflection I did not hand him the receipts, only a list of their names, intending to put them into the cookery-book I had promised him, knowing well enough that it was not in his power to bring them out. He thanked me for my lecture on cookery, as he called it, and the following bill of fare. I paid my bill, and left.
New Bill of Fare for Tavern Suppers.
Rump-steak and fried potatoes; ditto with shalot, pimento, and anchovy butter. Relishing steak, fillet of beef, à la Parisienne; ditto à la Chateaubriand.
Mutton chops à la bouchère; ditto semi-provençale; ditto Marseilles fashion; ditto with relishing sauce.
Plain cutlets with fried potatoes, à la maître d’hôtel, à la Sultana, semi-provençale.
Lamb chops à la boulangère, à l’Américaine, à la printanière.
Pork chops with pimento butter, à la Tartare; ditto camp fashion.
Veal cutlets en papillote; with maître d’hôtel butter; with relishing butter; with fried potatoes.
Kidneys on toast, semi-curried; ditto with sherry or port; ditto with champagne. For kidneys à la maître d’hôtel, à la brochette, and à la Roberto Diavolo, see Receipts, page 10.
Stewed and curried tripe; ditto Lyonnaise fashion.
Lobsters au gratin in the shell; scalloped ditto; curried on toast; lobster cutlets; new salad, Tartar fashion; plain salad with anchovies; crabs au gratin in the shell; crab salad with eggs.
Grilled chicken and Sultana sauce; à la Roberto Diavolo, with relishing sauce; new broiled devil, Mayonnaise sauce; chicken, American fashion.
Stewed oysters on toast; ditto American fashion, au gratin; fried oysters.
Omelettes with fine herbs, mushrooms, sprue grass, ham, and parmesan; poached eggs with cream; ditto with maître-d’hôtel sauce; semi-curried, with ham or bacon.
Buttered eggs with mushrooms, sprue grass, ham with shalots, parsley, and chervil.
Mirrored eggs with tongue, ham, or bacon; curried eggs; ditto with onion sauce and tomato sauce.
Rarebit à la Soyer with sherry or champagne.
Fried potatoes in slices; ditto with maître-d’hôtel butter; ditto with Cayenne pepper.
Cold asparagus salad, while in season; new potato salad, German fashion; ditto, French and haricot beans.[1]
For receipts in Bill of Fare, see Addenda.
A Hansom cab was waiting at the door, so I jumped in. “Beg your pardon, sir, I am engaged,” said cabby; “but if you’re not going far, I think I shall have plenty of time to take you.”
“Do so, my man; I live close by, in Bloomsbury-street, Bedford-square. Here’s a shilling for you—go ahead, cabby.”
Pst! pst! and off we were. In a few minutes, thanks to the evaporation of the thick fog and its having left only a feeble skeleton of its former substance, I found myself at my street door, and was trying for some time to open it with the wrong key, all the while thinking to myself what an extraordinary and uncomfortable evening I had passed to return so late. Perceiving my mistake, I changed the key; opening and shutting the door violently, I rushed up stairs with the intention of booking that evening in my daily tablet as one of the most tedious and uncomfortable I had spent throughout the series of cheerful years granted to me by a Supreme Power. The fire was out, the supper divided between my two friends the Angola cats, the servants in bed, the gas turned off, and the lucifers, I believe, gone to their Mephistophelian domain.
An early visit—Virginia Water—An eccentric friend—Rail v. coach—Humour of the road—The old coachman—The widow—Sally’s trouble—Another surprise—The “Wheatsheaf”—Beautiful scenery—Letter from the Duchess of Sutherland.
A MOST curious dream haunted my mind throughout the night, one of those indescribable phantasmagorian illusions which set all the vibrations of the heart at work without moving the frame, or in imagination only, quite depriving our senses for the time of the true sense of existence. Scarcely had the first gleam of Aurora peeped through my curtains, than a double knock was heard at the street door, apprising me that the time for rising had come, and forthwith brought back my wandering senses to the realities of human life: a minute after, a friend popped into my dressing-room, exclaiming, “Hallo! so you are going to the seat of the war, I hear.”
“The seat of the war! who told you so?”
“Why, the Times, to be sure; I have just read your letter, which, at all events, is very likely to carry you as far as Constantinople.”
“You don’t say so! What! is my letter in the Times to-day?”
“Of course it is,” he replied.
“I sent it so late last night, I did not suppose it could appear till to-morrow, if at all.”
“They would not have inserted it, arriving so late, I assure you, had they not thought it of great importance, and that you were likely to improve the hospital diets. No doubt you will soon set them to rights. I read the article, and must say I was much pleased when I saw your letter, and that is what brought me here so early: but mind, it is a long journey, and rather a dangerous one.”
“Well, my dear friend, if Government honour me with their confidence, I shall be happy to start immediately, and rough it for a short time—say a couple of months, which will be about the time required.”
“My opinion is, that you will soon hear from the authorities.”
“I say again, they are perfectly welcome to my humble services.”
“Are you going out this morning?”
“Yes, I am; excuse my shaving.”
“Oh, by all means; which way are you going?”
“Anywhere but to a wintry place.”
“Where’s that—Gravesend or Margate?”
“Oh dear, no—Virginia Water.”
“To stay?”
“No; only to settle a few important matters there, prior to my departure for Paris.”
“You were there the best part of last summer.”
“So I was; who told you that?”
“Don’t you recollect the party you gave there, when Messrs. R—— and ladies were present, with myself, my wife, and two daughters? We never enjoyed such a day in our lives; it really was a splendid affair altogether; and what an excellent dinner you gave us in the open air, in the long avenue of beech trees facing the lake! I shall not forget it as long as I live—I may say we, for my young ones often talk about it. There were about twenty-four guests—you recollect, of course?”
“Certainly I do now, and what a lovely day it was!”
“Never saw a finer,” said my friend; “the ladies walked round the lake without their bonnets, and with nothing but their parasols to screen them from the sun. But I tell you who was most amusing amongst the party—that old Yorkshire farmer.”
“Ha, ha! old Lawrence—he is a squire now, if you please, and has retired. He was very kind to me on the occasion of the grand agricultural dinner at Exeter; the ox I roasted whole upon that occasion came from his farm; it was roasted by gas, and in the castle yard.”
“Ah, I recollect seeing an engraving of it in the Illustrated London News; I can’t help laughing when I think of the old man, for at every fresh dish of which he partook—and he tasted a good many—he exclaimed—‘Well! hang me, if I know what stuff I am eating, but it’s precious good!’”
“I know he is very eccentric; he stayed with me nearly a week, and really made me laugh heartily with his genuine repartee. He is a good and a charitable man, I assure you. I taught his housekeeper how to make cheap soup while I was at his residence, and ever since the old gentleman has given it four times a-week to the poor round his small estate, during the winter season.”
“I know the soup you mean. I cut the receipt from the paper in the year ‘47, at the time of the famine in Ireland, when you were sent there by Government.”
“Exactly.”
“We tried it ourselves; and my wife’s mother has ever since given it throughout the winter to about twelve or fifteen poor people. The old lady was at first obliged to make it herself, her cook saying that no soup could be made with such a small quantity of meat. She would not even attempt to make it.”
“I believe you; but those people are not aware that in Scotland, where the strongest people in the British dominions are to be found, and especially in the Highlands, they live principally upon oatmeal porridge and vegetables, partaking of a very small portion of animal food;—and did you ever see a finer carnation cheek, or purer blood, than that which flows through the frame of a Scotch lassie, or in the veins of the descendants of the Bruce?”
“No, never; not even on the Continent. But, to return to the receipts: I would advise you to publish them. They would be eagerly purchased, and would render greater service. You must be aware that a slip from a newspaper is often lost.”
“Very true; and I intend to give a series of new receipts on food for the poor, still more simplified.”[2]
“With reference to our conversation about old Lawrence: no doubt he is a good fellow, and a genuine rough diamond into the bargain.”
“Yes,” said I, “and you may add, of the finest water. By the bye, didn’t he go to bed rather top-heavy?”
“Ah, that he did, and fancied himself at home blowing up his old woman, as he calls her, for having let the cat into the dairy, and being unable to find his gun to shoot her. What most astonished the old boy, he told me on the coach next morning on our way to London, was having no headache and feeling as hungry as a hunter—as I did myself. He made sure, after such a mixture of dishes, wines, liquors, and spirits of all kinds, that he should be ill and unable to eat anything for a couple of days. Quite the contrary, however: when at Staines, we made a hearty breakfast at the hotel; and for my part, I never felt better in my life.”
“And do you know,” I replied, “I should have been surprised if my dinner had produced the contrary effect; rest assured, that a dinner well conceived and properly executed, coupled with well-selected beverages, is more than half digested. As Hippocrates says, very justly, ‘What pleases the palate nourishes;’ and we may add, greatly helps to accelerate the digestion when properly cooked. The palate alone can relish the charm of degustation, and only feels satiated when the stomach, being the working organ, refuses to deal with improper food, never failing to acquaint you physically of its ill treatment, both as regards ill-cooked food or bad beverages. Now, to illustrate this argument more forcibly, I would wager that I could give a first-class indigestion to the greatest gourmet, even while using the most recherché provisions, without his being able to detect any fault in the preparation of the dishes of which he had partaken; and this simply by improperly classifying the condiments used in the preparation; thus deceiving the cleverest doctors and the finest palate by a mere counterbalance of unctuous seasoning, which no doubt caused the celebrated Leibnitz to say, in his treatise upon the chemistry of food, now translated into English, and to which I have already referred in my Shilling Cookery Book, ‘That among all the arts known to man, there is none which enjoys a juster appreciation, and the products of which are more universally admired, than that which is concerned in the preparation of our food. Led by an instinct which has almost reached the dignity of conscious knowledge, as the unerring guide, and by the sense of taste, which protects the health, the experienced cook, with respect to the choice, admixture, and preparation of food, has made acquisitions surpassing all that chemical and physiological science have done in regard to the doctrine or theory of nutrition.’”
“Well, no doubt if the celebrated Leibnitz, who is considered one of the greatest authorities of the age, says so, you cannot be wrong, having had so much practice in the culinary art.”
“I also maintain that with the simplest and cheapest of all aliments, when in good condition, I have turned out a most wholesome and palatable food, quite worthy of the most refined palate, or of that of the initiated epicure. For instance, if only first-class provisions could be converted into succulent dishes, the gastronomic bill of fare of this sublunary world would indeed be so limited that more than two-thirds of its inhabitants would be classified as martyrs to the Mageric art—or, more plainly speaking, martyrs to the science of cookery—a too often neglected art, though of daily requirement; for, believe me, the everlasting pleasures of the table, which favour all ages, are not only the basis of good health when properly managed, but also the soul of sociability, not merely in high circles, but in every class of society, no matter how humble, the stomach of each individual having been nursed according to rank and wealth. Those most to be pitied are the real epicures of limited means, or the wealthy man without appetite or of bad digestion. The proverb is quite correct, ‘What the eye does not see the heart cannot grieve;’ and appetite being the best of sauce, will cause the coarsest food to be digested with delight by a robust stomach. By the same rule, what is more relished by our noble epicure than a dry sandwich or a coarse crust of bread and cheese at a farmhouse after a hard day’s sport?”
“Upon my word, you are perfectly right; appetite is really the best of sauce, for I often make a good and hearty supper upon baked potatoes, a little salt, and butter.”
“Now, my friend, I am ready to start; come with me—it is a fine frosty morning, and will do you good—come on.”
“I wish I could, but my City business is very heavy this morning, so I must decline; besides, we have a railway meeting called for three o’clock at the London Tavern.”
“Master, here’s a Hansom coming this way; shall I call it?”
“Yes, Annette, that’s a good girl.” I shook hands with my friend, and jumped into the cab—“I say, coachman, look sharp and drive to the Windsor railway station; I fear I shall miss the special train.”
“No, you will not,” said my friend, looking at his watch, “you have full twenty minutes; good-bye, a pleasant journey.”
“Well, adieu! I shall see you some evening at Jullien’s or Drury Lane Theatre.”
“Very probably.”
“Stay a minute, cabby;”—to the servant—“Annette, put any letters which may come on my desk; if anybody calls, say I shall be here to-morrow or next day at the latest.”
“Very well, sir, I will do so.”
On my arrival at the station, I merely had time to take my ticket and run to the train, which was just on the move. In a few seconds we were flying over rows of houses like vampires, leaving the then desolate Royal property, Vauxhall tumble-down theatre, with its skeleton firework frame, on the left. We passed through Chiswick, Barnes, Mortlake, Kew, with its toyish pagoda, leaving to the left Richmond, with its picturesque banks, cheerful villas, heroine of the hill, and its exquisite maids of honour; at the same time crossing the Thames, cheerfully smiling beneath us in its serpentine bed. Its limpid currents flowed merrily downwards to the mighty ocean through green bushes, aquatic plants, and the alabaster-coloured plumage of hundreds of swans. In twenty-five minutes we arrived at Staines station. I descended and immediately ascended again, but on the top of the Virginia Water coach, which generally waits for the special train. “Very frosty this morning, coachman.”
“Hallo, Mr. Soyer! is that you? We have not seen you God knows how long. I suppose you have left us for good now?”
“No, not quite; but your flat and unpicturesque country looks so dull and unsociable at this time of year.”
“Then you prefer town just now?” said he.
“I certainly do; there is always something to be seen there, and to keep one alive, morning, noon, and night.”
“Very true, Mr. Soyer; we are very dull here in winter.” The top of the coach was loaded with passengers. “Well, boy, what are you about below?”
“All right, coachman,” cried the parcel-boy. “Pst! pst! Go it, my Britons!”
We were now at full trot, the north wind in our faces, and a kind of heavy sleet, which in a few minutes changed the colour of our noses to a deep crimson, very much like the unfashionable colour of beet-root, freezing our whiskers and moustaches like sugar-candy, but by no means quite so sweet-tasted. By way of a joke, I said to the coachman, “This is the good old English way of travelling, is it not?”
“That it is, sir; and I’m very glad to see you know how to appreciate it. Talk about your railways, it’s perfect nonsense compared with a good four-in-hand coach, sir.” As he said this, he whipped his horses, “Pst! go ahead, my true blue! I recollect the good old time when we took from fourteen to fifteen hours from London to Dover, changing horses and drinking your glass of grog at almost every inn on the road—in fact, enjoying ourselves all night, especially when the widow was out.”
“What widow?” said I.
“The moon, to be sure!”
“That is a bright idea of yours. I was not aware the pale queen of night was a widow.”
“Lord bless you, sir, she must be a widow, for she always comes out alone, and keeps very late hours; a maid or a married woman can’t do that, you know,” said he, laughing heartily.
“If your remark is not correct, it is at all events very original.”
“But to come back to coach-travelling—then you really knew if you were travelling or stopping at home; while now they pack you up under lock and key, in strong wooden boxes, such as we keep our horses in at the stable; and at the head of them they have a kind of long iron saveloy, full of nothing, which runs away with the lot like mad, belching and swearing all the way, taking sights at us poor coachmen just so,” putting his hand to his nose, “when we go by, as though we were a set of ragamuffins. Call that a gentlemanly way of travelling, sir! They make fun of all the passengers who are a little behind time, saying the like of this: ‘Don’t you wish you may get it?’ If you drop anything by accident, the deuce a bit will they stop to pick it up; and you are no sooner in than they turn you out, and pocket your money without blushing, the same as though they had dragged you about from morning till night, as we used to do in the good old time. That was indeed money honestly earned, sir!”
“There certainly is a great deal of truth in your argument,” said I, laughing at his devotion to his old business.
“Is it not brimful of truth, sir?”
“Of course it is!” I was by this time about half frozen.
“Ah, sir, you’re a gentleman, and know life as well as I do. Depend upon it, sir, coach-travelling is the best after all—no danger of being smashed to pieces or of breaking your limbs. Not the slightest accident ever can happen. Hallo!” said he, stopping the horses short, “what the deuce is the matter with that horse? Look out, Bob!”
“Yes, sir; the old trace is broke again.”
“The deuce it is! Well, we must mend it.”
“You can’t—it’s broke in a fresh place, and we have no rope here.” The coachman getting down, unceremoniously threw the reins to me. “Hold them fast, sir.”
“Well, well, my lad, you must run back and fetch another.” The snow was then falling heavily, and we had not got more than a mile on the road. In about forty minutes the boy returned, perspiring terribly, though covered with snow.
“I’ve not been long, coachman, have I?”
“Not been long, my lad—why, my cargo is nearly frozen to death!”
“You’re right, coachman,” said an old gentleman. “And I promise you I will never travel by your coach again. This is the second time this month.”
“Well, sir, we are not travelling now—we are at a stand-still, and no mistake.”
“You may joke, but I don’t like it.”
“No more do I,” said coachman; “so we are of the same opinion.” At this we all laughed, except the old gentleman.
In a short time all was right again. The coachman had resumed his important position as well as the reins, which I abdicated to my great satisfaction, and we were on the move. “Very slippery, governor; my horses can scarcely keep their feet. Thank God, we are not in a hurry; we can do the journey much more comfortably.”
“Excuse me,” said I, “if I do not hold exactly the same opinion as I did just now about the railway.”
“My dear sir, are you in a hurry?” he asked.
“Yes, I am, and very cold besides.”
“What a pity you did not say so before! I should have made my stud fly, and beat to atoms that fussy stuff they call steam.”
“That’s a good man; show off a bit.”
“Pst! pst! pst! Look out for a full charge, Cossack; fly away, Cannon-ball. Pst! pst! that’s it, lads.” We were now nearly at a gallop.
“Coachman,” said I, “I see that your horses have martial names, if they have not a very martial appearance. Pray, who gave them such warlike titles?”
“The boys in the stable, sir. Everybody dreams of war now, sir; the very air we breathe smells of powder. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“No, I think it smells of cheese.”
“By-the-bye, there’s a basket of cheese for that foreign gentleman who lives at Virginia Water. Jump up, boy, and move that basket of cheese from here.”
We arrived at Wimbledon Common, and stopped to take up parcels and boxes, during which time the coachman pointed out to the old country gentleman with whom he had the argument, the window of the room where Cournet, the French officer of Marines, and the opponent of Barthélemy, who had just been hanged, died after the Windsor duel. He was saying that since Barthélemy had been hanged the house was no longer haunted, and that the pool of blood, which never could be washed out, had suddenly disappeared.
“Marvellous!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “I never heard anything like that in my life.”
“No more did I,” said our witty coachman, winking at me. The boy now called over the various parcels, and Cossack went off as fast as a cannon-ball. We made a few more stoppages at Englefield Green, to deliver several scolding letters and parcels from mistresses to their servants having charge of the summer abodes of wealthy merchants who reside in London during the winter. At one house, during the unloading of two or three boxes and a child’s cradle, a tidy-looking girl, who was waiting till they were taken in, had opened her letter, over which she appeared very sulky. The coachman, perceiving this, said, smiling—“Any answer, Sally?”
“No!” said Sally. “Oh, yes; tell the old lady that I will not live with her any longer;” and the girl cried.
“What’s the matter?” said the coachman.
“She’s an old plague! there’s my Harry of the 46th has not been here these four months, and she writes to say she hears that he comes every day.”
“Of course not—how could he? he’s been gone to the war with his regiment ever since last September.”
Sally, crying still louder, and wiping her eyes with her apron, exclaimed, “Perhaps the poor fellow is killed by this time, and don’t care a fig about me.”
“Well, well, lass, never mind that; soldiers are used to it.”
“Do you think I shall ever see him again, Mr. Coachman?”
“No doubt, my lass, but you must wait a little longer; and when he does come back, if he has distinguished, instead of extinguished, himself, he will have the Crimean medal, and perhaps be made a colonel—captain—general—marshal—or even a corporal; who knows? in these war times, every brave man has a chance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coachman, you make me very happy—I shan’t cry any more.”
“But, Sally, am I to tell your mistress what you said?”
“Oh, dear, no! because I should lose my place; they are not such bad people after all, and master is so very kind to me.”
“I shall say nothing about it.”
“Pray, say nothing.”
“Pst, pst! now, my true blues, full speed for Virginia Water.” In twenty minutes we were before the very picturesque inn called the “Wheatsheaf;” every living soul came out to welcome us, thinking some accident had happened. There was the landlord, landlady, thin and bulky barmaids, house and kitchen maid, cook, pot and post boy, and a number of customers.
“What has happened that you are so late to-day?” said the landlord to the coachman.
“Nothing particular, governor; only a trace broke, and we had to fetch another: besides, the roads are very slippery.” To the barmaid—“Give us a light, girl, and a go of keep-me-warm.”
“Don’t believe him, sir,” exclaimed an old lady, who, upon the sudden stoppage when the trace broke, had a quarrel with the coachman. In opening the window violently, she broke it in twenty pieces; popping her head, half of which was covered with snow, out of the window—“He is a perfect brute,” said she; “he tried to upset us, and then would not move for above an hour at least—see the state I am in; is it not a great shame, a woman like me?”
“Well, madam,” said the landlord, “why don’t you shut the window?”
“What’s the use of pulling it up?—it’s broken in a thousand pieces, all through that nasty fellow!”
“I can assure you, madam, he bears a very good character with the gentry about here.”
The coachman, lighting his short pipe, and coming near them, said, “Don’t take notice of the old lady, she means no harm.”
“Don’t I, though! I say again, before everybody, you are a brute and a villain!”
“Go it, marm, go it,” said he, getting up. “It’s nothing new to me—my wife tells me that every day, which is partly the cause we have no family.” The favourite horse language of the coachman was again, heard—“Fly away to the assault like a set of Zouaves!” and in a few minutes nothing but a small black spot, resembling a fly crossing a sheet of paper, was seen running up the snow-covered hill which leads to the small village of Virginia Water.
I speedily joined the worthy and well-known landlord of the “Wheatsheaf”—Mr. Jennings, and his cheerful wife and barmaid; all of whom gave me a hearty country welcome, shaking my hands and arms in every direction ad libitum, in anticipation, no doubt, of my remembering them for a few days at all events. At the close of this gymnastic exercise, I requested them to give me some breakfast, in the small pavilion near the garden; also some pens, ink, and paper. My request was at once attended to.
“Do you intend to stay with us a few days, Mr. Soyer?” asked the landlord.
“No; I shall try and get back this evening, if possible—but to-morrow morning, at the latest. I only came to close a few pending accounts of my last summer’s stay at your lovely Virginia Water, and am going to Paris for the Exhibition, having been offered the superintendence of a large establishment.”
“But I hear that the Exhibition is postponed till next year.”
“So it is; but this is to be quite a new building, and erected close to the Exhibition, if we can get permission granted.”
“Good morning, sir; I shall see you before you leave. I am only going to the farm.”
“Yes, you will.”
I was sitting down to my breakfast, when, to my annoyance, as I had much business to transact, some one knocked at the door, and, without waiting for the reply, came in. It was the landlord, with a face full of anxiety and astonishment, his glasses raised to his forehead, a newspaper in his hand, and looking as serious as if he had just been married, or had lost one of his favourite pups. “I say, master,” said he, “do you mean it?”
“Mean what, man?”
“But now, really! do you mean it?”
“I’m puzzled to know to what you allude. Is it about my trip to Paris?”
“Paris! no, that has nothing to do with the letter of yours I have just read in the Times of this day.”
“Oh! now I understand you, and can easily account for your long face and evident astonishment.”
“Now you understand me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”