A Culinary Romance

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!"