juice, and a large glass of port. Place the jar in a saucepan
     of boiling water, and let it remain till the mixture is very
     hot, but not boiling. If bottled directly after made, the sauce
     will keep for a week, and may be used for duck, goose, pork, or
     (Christopher adds) "any broil." But there is but _one_ broil
     sauce, the GUBBINS SAUCE, already mentioned in this work.

                          _Sauce for Hare._

What a piece of work is a hare! And what a piece of work it is to cook
him in a laudable fashion!

     Crumble some bread--a handful or so--soak it in port
     wine, heat over the fire with a small lump of butter, a
     tablespoonful of red-currant jelly, a little salt, and a
     tablespoonful of Chili vinegar. Serve as hot as possible.

Mackerel is a fish but seldom seen at the tables of the great. And yet
'tis tasty eating, if his Joseph's coat be bright and shining when
you purchase him. When stale he is dangerous to life itself. And he
prefers to gratify the human palate when accompanied by

                         _Gooseberry Sauce_,

     which is made by simply boiling a few green gooseberries,
     rubbing them through a sieve, and adding a little butter and a
     suspicion of ginger. Then heat up. "A wine-glassful of sorrel
     or spinach-juice," observes one authority, "is a decided
     improvement." H'm. I've tried both, and prefer the gooseberries
     unadorned with spinach liquor.

Now for a sauce which is deservedly popular all over the world, and
which is equally at home as a salad dressing, as a covering for a
steak off a fresh-run salmon, or a portion of fried eel; the luscious,
the invigorating

                           _Sauce Tartare_,

so called because no tallow-eating Tartar was ever known to
taste thereof. I have already given a pretty good recipe for its
manufacture, in previous salad-dressing instructions, where the yolks
of hard-boiled eggs are used. But chopped chervil, shallots, and
(occasionally) gherkins, are added to the _Tartare_ arrangement; and
frequently the surface is adorned with capers, stoned olives, and
shredded anchovies.

In the chapters devoted to dinners, no mention has been made of the
sucking pig, beloved of Charles Lamb.[8] This hardened offender should
be devoured with

                           _Currant Sauce_:

     Boil an ounce of currants, after washing them and picking
     out the tacks, dead flies, etc., in half a pint of water, for
     a few minutes, and pour over them a cupful of finely grated
     crumbs. Let them soak well, then beat up with a fork, and
     stir in about a gill of oiled butter. Add two tablespoonfuls
     of the brown gravy made for the pig, a glass of port, and a
     pinch of salt. Stir the sauce well over the fire. It is also
     occasionally served with roast venison; but not in the mansions
     of my friends.

What is sauce for Madame Goose is said to be sauce for Old Man
Gander. Never mind about that, however. The parents of young Master
Goose, with whom alone I am going to deal, have, like the flowers
which bloom in the spring, absolutely nothing to do with the case.
This is the best

                        _Sauce for the Goose_

known to civilisation:

     Put two ounces of green sage leaves into a jar with an
     ounce of the thin yellow rind of a lemon, a minced shallot, a
     teaspoonful of salt, half a ditto of cayenne, and a pint of
     claret. Let this soak for a fortnight, then pour off the liquid
     into a tureen; or boil with some good gravy. This sauce will
     keep for a week or two, bottled and well corked up.

And now, having given directions for the manufacture of sundry
"cloyless sauces"--with only one of the number having any connection
with _Ala_, and that one a sauce of world-wide reputation, I will
conclude this chapter with a little fancy work. It is not probable
that many who do me the honour to skim through these humble,
faultily-written, but heartfelt gastronomic hints are personally
acquainted with the cloyless

                              _Sambal_,

who is a lady of dusky origin. But let us quit metaphor, and direct
the gardener to

     Cut the finest and straightest cucumber in his crystal
     palace. Cut both ends off, and divide the remainder into
     two-inch lengths. Peel these, and let them repose in salt to
     draw out the water, which is the indigestible part of the
     cucumber. Then take each length, in succession, and with a
     very sharp knife--a penknife is best for the purpose--pare it
     from surface to centre, until it has become one long, curly
     shred. Curl it up tight, so that it may resemble in form the
     spring of a Waterbury watch. Cut the length through from end to
     end, until you have made numerous long thin shreds. Treat each
     length in the same way, and place in a glass dish. Add three
     green chilies, chopped fine, a few chopped spring onions, and
     some tiny shreds of the Blue Fish of Java. Having performed
     a fishless pilgrimage in search of this curiosity, you will
     naturally fall back upon the common or Italian anchovy, which,
     after extracting the brine and bones, and cleansing, chop fine.
     Pour a little vinegar over the mixture.

"Sambal" will be found a delicious accompaniment to curry--when
served on a salad plate--or to almost any description of cold meat
and cheese. It is only fair to add, however, that the task of making
the relish is arduous and exasperating to a degree; and that the
woman who makes it--no male Christian in the world is possessed of a
tithe of the necessary patience, now that Job and Robert Bruce are
no more--should have the apartment to herself. For the labour is
calculated to teach an entirely new language to the manufacturer.

                              CHAPTER XV

                                SUPPER

                            "We are such stuff
                    As dreams are made of."

     Cleopatra's supper--Oysters--Danger in the Aden
     bivalve--Oyster stew--Ball suppers--Pretty dishes--The _Taj
     Mahal_--Aspic--Bloater paste and whipped cream--Ladies'
     recipes--Cookery colleges--Tripe--Smothered in onions--North
     Riding fashion--An hotel supper--Lord Tomnoddy at the "Magpie
     and Stump."

That cruel and catlike courtesan, Cleopatra, is alleged to have
given the most expensive supper on record, and to have disposed of
the _bonne bouche_ herself, in the shape of a pearl, valued at the
equivalent of £250,000, dissolved in vinegar of extra strength. Such
a sum is rather more than is paid for a supper at the Savoy, or the
Cecil, or the Metropole, in these more practical times, when pearls
are to be had cheaper; and there is probably about as much truth in
this pearl story as in a great many others of the same period. I
have heard of a fair _declassée_ leader of fashion at Monte Carlo,
who commanded that her _major domo_ should be put to death for not
having telegraphed to Paris for peaches, for a special dinner; but
the woman who could melt a pearl in vinegar, and then drink----_halte
la!_ Perhaps the pearl was displayed in the deep shell of the oyster
of which the "noble curtesan" partook? We know how Mark Antony's
countrymen valued the succulent bivalve; and probably an oyster feast
at Wady Halfa or Dongola was a common function long before London knew
a "Scott's," a "Pimm's," or a "Sweeting's."

Thanks partly to the "typhoid scare," but principally to the
prohibitive price, the "native" industry of Britain has been, at the
latter end of the nineteenth century, by no means active, although in
the illustrated annuals Uncle John still brings with him a barrel of
the luscious bivalves, in addition to assorted toys for the children,
when he arrives in the midst of a snow-storm at the old hall on
Christmas Eve. But Uncle John, that good fairy of our youth, when
Charles Dickens invented the "festive season," and the very atmosphere
reeked of goose-stuffing, resides, for the most part, "in Sheffield,"
in these practical days, when sentiment and goodwill to relatives are
rapidly giving place to matters of fact, motor cars, and mammoth rates.

The Asiatic oyster is not altogether commendable, his chief merit
consisting in his size. Once whilst paying a flying visit to the city
of Kurachi, I ordered a dozen oysters at the principal hotel. Then I
went out to inspect the lions. On my return I could hardly push my
way into the coffee-room. It was full of oyster! There was no room
for anything else. In fact _one_ Kurachi oyster is a meal for four
full-grown men.

More tragic still was my experience of the bivalves procurable at
Aden--which cinder-heap I have always considered to be a foretaste
of even hotter things below. Instead of living on coal-dust (as
might naturally be expected) the Aden oyster appears to do himself
particularly well on some preparation of copper. The only time I
tasted him, the after consequences very nearly prevented my ever
tasting anything else, on this sphere. And it was only the comfort
administered by the steward of my cabin which got me round.

"Ah!" said that functionary, as he looked in to see whether I would
take hot pickled pork or roast goose for dinner. "The last time we
touched at Aden, there was two gents 'ad 'ysters. One of 'em died the
same night, and the other nex' mornin'."

I laughed so much that the poison left my system.

Yet still we eat oysters--the _Sans Bacilles_ brand, for choice. And
if we can only persuade the young gentleman who opens the bivalves
to refrain from washing the grit off each in the tub of dirty water
behind the bar, so much the better. And above all, the bivalves
should be opened on the _deep_ shell, so as to conserve some of the
juice; for it is advisable to get as much of the bivalve as we can
for the money. Every time I crunch the bones of a lark I feel that I
am devouring an oratorio, in the way of song; and whilst the bivalve
is sliding down the "red lane" it may be as well to reflect that
"there slips away fourpence"; or, as the Scotsman had it, "bang went
saxpence!"

In connection with Mr. Bob Sawyer's supper party in _Pickwick_, it may
be recollected that "the man to whom the order for the oysters had
been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing
to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork: and very
little was done in this way."

And in one's own house, unless there be an adept at oyster-opening
present, the simplest way to treat the bivalve is the following. It
should be remembered that a badly-opened oyster will resemble in
flavour a slug on a gravel walk. So _roast_ him, good friends, in his
own fortress.

                    _Oysters in their own Juice._

     With the tongs place half-a-dozen oysters, mouths
     outwards, between the red-hot coals of the parlour or
     dining-room fire--the deep shell must be at the bottom--and the
     oysters will be cooked in a few minutes, or when the shells
     gape wide. Pull them out with the tongs, and insert a fresh
     batch. No pepper, vinegar, or lemon juice is necessary as an
     adjunct; and the oyster never tastes better.

At most eating-houses,

                         _Scalloped Oysters_

taste of nothing but scorched bread-crumbs; and the reason is obvious,
for there is but little else in the scallop shell. _Natives only_
should be used.

     Open and beard two dozen, and cut each bivalve in
     half. Melt two ounces of butter in a stewpan, and mix into
     it the same allowance of flour, the strained oyster liquor,
     a teacupful of cream, half a teaspoonful of essence of
     anchovies, and a pinch of cayenne--death to the caitiff who
     adds nutmeg--and stir the sauce well over the fire. Take it
     off, and add the well-beaten yolks of two eggs, a tablespoonful
     of finely chopped parsley, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice.
     Put in the oysters, and stir the whole over a gentle fire for
     five minutes. Put the mixture in the shells, grate bread-crumbs
     over, place a small piece of butter atop, and bake in a Dutch
     oven before a clear fire until the crumbs are lightly browned,
     which should be in about a quarter of an hour.

                            _Oyster Stew_

is thoroughly understood in New York City. On this side, the dish
does not meet with any particular favour, although no supper-table is
properly furnished without it.

     Open two dozen oysters, and take the beards off. Put the
     oysters into a basin and squeeze over them the juice of half a
     lemon. Put the beards and the strained liquor into a saucepan
     with half a blade of mace, half a dozen peppercorns ground,
     a little grated lemon rind, and a pinch of cayenne. Simmer
     gently for a quarter of an hour, strain the liquid, thicken it
     with a little butter and flour, add a quarter of a pint (or a
     teacupful) of cream, and stir over the fire till quite smooth.
     Then put in the oysters, and let them warm through--they must
     not boil. Serve in a soup tureen, and little cubes of bread
     fried in bacon grease may be served with the stew, as with
     pea-soup.

Be very careful to whose care you entrust your barrel, or bag, of
oysters, after you have got them home. A consignment of the writer's
were, on one memorable and bitter cold Christmas Eve, consigned to the
back dairy, by Matilda Anne. Result--frostbite, gapes, dissolution,
disappointment, disagreeable language.

                           _Ball Suppers._

More hard cash is wasted on these than even on ball dresses, which is
saying a great deal. The alien caterer, or _charcutier_, is chiefly to
blame for this; for he it is who has taught the British matron to wrap
up wholesome food in coats of grease, inlaid with foreign substances,
to destroy its flavour, and to bestow upon it an outward semblance
other than its own. There was handed unto me, only the other evening,
what I at first imagined to be a small section of the celebrated _Taj
Mahal_ at Agra, the magnificent mausoleum of the Emperor Shah Jehan.
Reference to the bill-of-fare established the fact that I was merely
sampling a galantine of turkey, smothered in some white glazy grease,
inlaid with chopped carrot, green peas, truffles, and other things.
And the marble column (also inlaid) which might have belonged to King
Solomon's Temple, at the top of the table, turned out to be a Tay
salmon, decorated _à la mode de charcutier_, and tasting principally
of garlic. A shriek from a fair neighbour caused me to turn my head
in her direction; and it took some little time to discover, and
to convince her, that the item on her plate was not a mouse, too
frightened to move, but some preparation of the liver of a goose, in
"aspic."

This said ASPIC--which has no connection with the asp which the fair
Cleopatra kept on the premises, although a great French lexicographer
says that aspic is so called because it is as cold as a snake--is
invaluable in the numerous "schools of cookery" in the which British
females are educated according to the teaching of the bad fairy
_Ala_. The cold chicken and ham which delighted our ancestors at the
supper-table--what has become of them? Yonder, my dear sir, is the
fowl, in neat portions, minced, and made to represent fragments of
the almond rock which delighted us whilst in the nursery. The ham
has become a ridiculous _mousse_, placed in little accordion-pleated
receptacles of snow-white paper; and those are not poached eggs atop,
either, but dabs of whipped cream with a preserved apricot in the
centre.

It was only the other day that I read in a journal written by ladies
for ladies, of a dainty dish for luncheon or supper: _croûtons_
smeared with bloater paste and surmounted with whipped cream; and
in the same paper was a recipe for stuffing a fresh herring with
mushrooms, parsley, yolk of egg, onion, and its own soft roe. I am of
opinion that it was a bad day for the male Briton when the gudewife,
with her gude-daughter, and her gude cook, abandoned the gude roast
and boiled, in favour of the works of the all-powerful _Ala_.

And now let us proceed to discuss the most homely supper of all, and
when I mention the magic word

                               _Tripe_

there be few of my readers who will not at once allow that it is
not only the most homely of food, but forms an ideal supper. This
doctrine had not got in its work, however, in the 'sixties, at about
which period the man who avowed himself an habitual tripe-eater must
have been possessed of a considerable amount of nerve. Some of the
supper-houses served it--such as the Albion, the Coal Hole, and more
particularly, "Noakes's," the familiar name for the old Opera Tavern
which used to face the Royal Italian Opera House, in Bow Street,
Covent Garden. But the more genteel food-emporiums fought shy of tripe
until within three decades of the close of the nineteenth century.
Then it began to figure on the supper bills, in out-of-the-way
corners; until supper-eaters in general discovered that this was not
only an exceedingly cheap, but a very nourishing article of food,
which did not require any special divine aid to digest. Then the price
of tripe went up 75 per cent on the programmes. Then the most popular
burlesque _artiste_ of any age put the stamp of approval upon the new
supper-dish, and tripe-dressing became as lucrative a profession as
gold-crushing.

There is a legend afloat of an eminent actor--poor "Ned" Sothern,
I fancy, as "Johnny" Toole would never have done such a thing--who
bade some of his friends and acquaintance to supper, and regaled them
on sundry rolls of house flannel, smothered with the orthodox onion
sauce. But that is another story. Practical jokes should find no
place in this volume, which is written to benefit, and not alarm,
posterity. Therefore let us discuss the problem

                         _How to Cook Tripe_.

     Ask for "double-tripe," and see that the dresser gives
     it you nice and white. Wash it, cut into portions, and place
     in equal parts of milk and water, boiling fast. Remove the
     saucepan from the hottest part of the fire, and let the tripe
     keep just on the boil for an hour and a half. Serve with whole
     onions and onion sauce--in this work you will not be told how
     to manufacture onion sauce--and baked potatoes should always
     accompany this dish to table.

Some people like their tripe cut into strips rolled up and tied with
cotton, before being placed in the saucepan; but there is really no
necessity to take this further trouble. And if the cook should forget
to remove the cotton before serving, you might get your tongues tied
in knots. In the North Riding of Yorkshire, some of the farmers'
wives egg-and-bread-crumb fillets of tripe, and fry them in the drip
of thick rashers of ham which have been fried previously. The ham
is served in the centre of the dish, with the fillets around the
pig-pieces. This is said to be an excellent dish, but I prefer my
tripe smothered in onions, like the timid "bunny."

Edmund Yates, in his "Reminiscences," describes "nice, cosy, little
suppers," of which in his early youth he used to partake, at the
house of his maternal grandfather, in Kentish Town. "He dined at two
o'clock," observed the late proprietor of the _World_, "and had the
most delightful suppers at nine; suppers of sprats, or kidneys, or
tripe and onions; with foaming porter and hot grog afterwards."

I cannot share the enthusiasm possessed by some people for SPRATS,
as an article of diet. When very "full-blown," the little fish make
an excellent fertiliser for Marshal Niel roses; but as "winter
whitebait," or sardines they are hardly up to "Derby form."

Sprats are not much encouraged at the fashionable hotels; and when
tripe is brought to table, which is but rarely, that food is nearly
always filleted, sprinkled with chopped parsley, and served with
tomato sauce.

This is the sort of supper which is provided in the "gilt-edged"
_caravanserais_ of the metropolis, the following being a _verbatim_
copy of a bill of fare at the Hotel Cecil:--

                             SOUPER, 5s.

                      Consommé Riche en tasses.
                     Laitances Frites, Villeroy.
                  Côte de Mouton aux Haricots Verts.
            Chaudfroid de Mauviettes. Strasbourg evisie.
                               Salade.
                            Biscuit Cecil.

A lady-like repast this; and upon the whole, not dear. But roast loin
of mutton hardly sounds tasty enough for a meal partaken of somewhere
about the stroke of midnight. Still, such a supper is by no means
calculated to "murder sleep." Upon the other hand it is a little
difficult to credit the fact that the whole of the party invited by
"My Lord Tomnoddy" to refresh themselves at the "Magpie and Stump,"
including the noble host himself, should have slumbered peacefully,
with a noisy crowd in the street, after a supper which consisted of

                "Cold fowl and cigars,
                 Pickled onions in jars,
                 Welsh rabbits and kidneys,
                 Rare work for the jaws."

                             CHAPTER XVI

                         SUPPER (_continued_)

                      "To feed were best at home;
                From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony;
                Meeting were bare without it."

     Old supper-houses--The Early Closing
     Act--Evans's--Cremorne Gardens--The "Albion"--Parlour
     cookery--Kidneys fried in the fire-shovel--The true way
     to grill a bone--"Cannie Carle"--My lady's bower--Kidney
     dumplings--A Middleham supper--Steaks cut from a colt by
     brother to "Strafford" out of sister to "Bird on the Wing."

The Early Closing Act of 1872 had a disastrous effect upon the old
London supper-houses. What Mr. John Hollingshead never tired of
calling the "slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed law" rang the knell of many a
licensed tavern, well-conducted, where plain, well-cooked food and
sound liquor were to be obtained by men who would have astonished
their respective couches had they sought them before the small hours.

                              _Evans's._

The "Cave of Harmony" of Thackeray was a different place to the
"Evans's" of my youthful days. Like the younger Newcome, I was taken
there in the first instance, by the author of my being. But Captain
Costigan was conspicuous by his absence; and "Sam Hall" was _non est_.
I noted well the abnormal size of the broiled kidneys, and in my
ignorance of anatomy, imagined that Evans's sheep must be subjected
to somewhat the same process--the "ordeal by fire"--as the Strasbourg
geese. And the potatoes--zounds, sirs! What potatoes! "Shall I turn
it out, sir?" inquired the attentive waiter; and, as he seized the
tuber, enveloped in the snow-white napkin, broke it in two, and
ejected a floury pyramid upon my plate, I would, had I known of such
a decoration in those days, have gladly recommended that attendant
for the Distinguished Service order. In the course of many visits I
never saw any supper commodity served here besides chops, steaks,
kidneys, welsh-rarebits, poached eggs, and (I think) sausages; and
the earliest impression made upon a youthful memory was the air of
extreme confidence which pervaded the place. We certainly "remembered"
the waiter; but not even a potato was paid for until we encountered
the head functionary at the exit door; and his peculiar ideas of
arithmetic would have given Bishop Colenso a succession of fits.

Who "Evans" was, we neither knew nor cared. "Paddy" Green, with his
chronic smile, was enough for us; as he proffered his ever-ready
snuff-box, inquired after our relatives--"Paddy," like "Spanky" at
Eton, knew everybody--and implored silence whilst the quintette
_Integer Vitæ_ was being sung by the choir. We used to venerate
that quintette far more than any music we ever heard in church, and
I am certain "Paddy" Green would have backed his little pack of
choristers--who, according to the general belief, passed the hours of
daylight in waking the echoes of St. Paul's Cathedral, or Westminster
Abbey, and therefore, at Evans's, always looked a bit stale and
sleepy--against any choir in the world. As for Harry Sidney, the fat,
jolly-looking gentleman who was wont to string together the topics of
the day and reproduce them, fresh as rolls, set to music, we could
never hear enough of him; and I wish I had now some of the half-crowns
which in the past were bestowed upon Herr Von Joel, the indifferent
_siffleur_, who was "permanently retained upon the premises," and who
was always going to take a benefit the following week.

"Kidneys and 'armony"--that was the old programme in the "Cave." And
then the march of time killed poor old Paddy, and another management
reigned. Gradually the "lady element" was introduced, and a portion of
the hall was set apart for the mixed assembly. And then came trouble,
and, finally, disestablishment. And for some time before the closing
of the Cave as a place of entertainment, it was customary to remove
the fine old pictures (what became of them, I wonder), from the walls,
at "Varsity Boat Race" time. For the undergraduate of those days was
nothing if not rowdy. Youth will have its fling; and at Evans's the
fling took the form of tumblers. Well do I recollect a fight in "the
old style" in the very part of the "Cave" where eminent barristers,
actors, and other wits of a past age, used to congregate. The premier
boxer of Cambridge University had been exercising his undoubted
talents as a breaker of glass, during the evening, and at length the
overwrought manager obliged him with an opponent worthy of his fists
in the person of a waiter who could also put up his fists. Several
rounds were fought, strictly according to the rules of the Prize Ring,
and in the result, whilst the waiter had sustained considerable damage
to his ribs, the "Cambridge gent" had two very fine black eyes. Well
do I remember that "mill," also the waiter, who afterwards became an
habitual follower of the turf.

If Cremorne introduced the fashion of "long drinks," sodas, and
et ceteras, the suppers served in the old gardens had not much to
recommend them. A slice or two of cold beef, or a leg of a chicken,
with some particularly salt ham, formed the average fare; but those
who possessed their souls with patience occasionally saw something
hot, in the way of food--chiefly cutlets. The great virtue of the
cutlet is that it can be reheated; and one dish not infrequently did
duty for more than one party. The rejected portion, in fact, would
"reappear" as often as a retiring actor. "I know them salmon cutlets,"
the waiter in _Pink Dominoes_ used to observe, "as well as I know my
own mother!" In fact, Cremorne, like the "night houses" of old, was
not an ideal place to sup at.

But, _per contra_, the "Albion" _was_. Until the enforcement of
the "slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed" policy there was no more justly
celebrated house of entertainment than the one which almost faced the
stage door of Drury Lane theatre, in Great Russell Street. One of the
brothers Cooper--another kept the Rainbow in Fleet Street--retired
on a fortune made here, simply by pursuing the policy of giving his
customers the best of everything. And a rare, Bohemian stamp of
customers he had, too--a nice, large-hearted, open-handed lot of
actors, successful and otherwise, dramatic critics ditto, and ditto
journalists, also variegated in degree; with the usual, necessary,
leavening of the "City" element. The custom of the fair sex was not
encouraged at the old tavern; though in a room on the first floor
they were permitted to sup, if in "the profession" and accompanied
by males, whose manners and customs could be vouched for. In winter
time, assorted grills, of fish, flesh, and fowl, were served as supper
dishes; whilst tripe was the staple food. Welsh rarebits, too, were in
immense demand. And I think it was here that I devoured, with no fear
of the future before my plate, a

                           _Buck Rarebit_.

During the silent watches of the rest of the morning, bile and
dyspepsia fought heroically for my soul; and yet the little animal
is easy enough to prepare, being nothing grander than a Welsh
rarebit, with a poached egg atop. But the little tins (silver, like
the forks and spoons, until the greed and forgetfulness of mankind
necessitated the substitution of electro-plate) which the Hebes
at the "Old Cheshire Cheese" fill with fragments of the hostelry's
godfather--subsequently to be stewed in good old ale--are less harmful
to the interior of the human diaphragm.

A favourite Albion supper-dish during the summer months was

                       _Lamb's Head and Mince_.

I have preserved the recipe, a gift from one of the waiters--but
whether Ponsford, Taylor, or "Shakespeare" (so-called because he bore
not the faintest resemblance to the immortal bard) I forget--and here
it is:

     The head should be scalded, scraped, and well washed.
     Don't have it singed, in the Scottish fashion, as lamb's
     wool is not nice to eat. Then put it, with the liver (the
     sweetbread was chopped up with the brain, I fancy), into a
     stewpan, with a Spanish onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of
     parsley, a little thyme, a carrot, a turnip, a bay leaf, some
     crushed peppercorns, a tablespoonful of salt, and half a gallon
     of cold water. Let it boil up, skim, and then simmer for an
     hour. Divide the head, take out the tongue and brain, and dry
     the rest of the head in a cloth. Mince the liver and tongue,
     season with salt and pepper, and simmer in the original gravy
     (thickened) for half-an-hour. Brush the two head-halves with
     yolk of egg, grate bread crumbs over, and bake in oven. The
     brain and sweetbread to be chopped and made into cakes, fried,
     and then placed in the dish around the head-halves.

Ah me! The old tavern, after falling into bad ways, entertaining
"extra-ladies" and ruined gamesters, has been closed for years. The
ground floor was a potato warehouse the last time I passed the place.
And it should be mentioned that the actors, journalists, etc., who,
in the 'seventies, possessed smaller means, or more modest ambitions,
were in the habit of supping--on supping days--at a cheaper haunt in
the Strand, off (alleged) roast goose. But, according to one Joseph
Eldred, a comedian of some note and shirt-cuff, the meat which was
apportioned to us here was, in reality, always bullock's heart,
sliced, and with a liberal allowance of sage and onions. "It's the
seasoning as does it," observed Mr. Samuel Weller.

Then there was another Bohemian house of call, and supper place,
in those nights--the "Occidental," once known as the "Coal Hole,"
where, around a large, beautifully polished mahogany table, many of
the wits of the town--"Harry" Leigh and "Tom" Purnell were two of
the inveterates--sat, and devoured Welsh rarebits, and other things.
The house, too, could accommodate not a few lodgers; and one of its
great charms was that nobody cared a button what time you retired to
your couch, or what time you ordered breakfast. In these matters, the
Occidental resembled the "Limmer's" of the "Billy Duff" era, and the
"Lane's" of my own dear subaltern days.

                          _Parlour Cookery._

It was after the last-named days that, whilst on tour with various
dramatic combinations--more from necessity than art, as far as I
was concerned--that the first principles of parlour cookery became
impregnated in mine understanding. We were not all "stars," although
we did our best. Salaries were (according to the advertisements)
"low but sure"; and (according to experiences) by no means as sure
as death, or taxes. The "spectre" did not invariably assume his
"martial stalk," of a Saturday; and cheap provincial lodgings do not
hold out any extra inducement in the way of cookery. So, whilst we
endured the efforts of the good landlady at the early dinner, some of
us determined to dish up our own suppers. For the true artist never
really feels (or never used to feel, at all events) like "picking a
bit" until merely commercial folks have gone to bed.

Many a time and oft, with the aid of a cigar box (empty, of course),
a couple of books, and an arrangement of plates, have I prepared a
savoury supper of mushrooms, toasted cheese, or a _kebob_ of larks, or
other small fowl, in front of the fire. More than once have I received
notice to quit the next morning for grilling kidneys on the perforated
portion of a handsome and costly steel fire-shovel. And by the time I
had become sufficiently advanced in culinary science to stew tripe and
onions, in an enamel-lined saucepan, the property of the "responsible
gent," we began to give ourselves airs. Landladies' ideas on the
subject of supper for "theatricals," it may be mentioned, seldom
soared above yeast dumplings. And few of us liked the name, even, of
yeast dumplings.

But perhaps the champion effort of all was when I was sojourning in
the good city of Carlisle--known to its inhabitants by the pet name
of "Cannie Carle." A good lady was, for her sins, providing us with
board and lodging, in return for (promised) cash. My then companion
was a merry youth who afterwards achieved fame by writing the very
funniest and one of the most successful of three-act farces that was
ever placed upon the stage. Now there is not much the matter with a
good joint of ribs of beef, roasted to a turn. But when that beef
is placed on the table hot for the Sunday dinner, and cold at every
succeeding meal until finished up, one's appetite for the flesh of
the ox begins to slacken. So we determined on the Wednesday night to
"strike" for a tripe supper.

"Indeed," protested the good landlady, "ye'll get nae tripe in this
hoose, cannie men. Hae ye no' got guid beef, the noo?"

Late that night we had grilled bones for supper; not the ordinary

                           _Grilled Bones_

which you get in an eating house, but a vastly superior article.
We, or rather my messmate, cut a rib from off the aforementioned
beef, scored the flesh across, and placed the bone in the centre of
a beautifully clear fire which had been specially prepared. It was
placed there by means of the tongs--a weapon of inestimable value in
Parlour Cookery--and withdrawn by the same medium. Some of the black
wanted scraping off the surface of the meat, but the grill was a
perfect dream. The GUBBINS SAUCE, already mentioned in this volume,
had not at that time been invented; but as I was never without a
bottle of TAPP SAUCE--invaluable for Parlour Cookery; you can get it
at Stembridge's--we had plenty of relish. Then we severed another rib
from the carcase, and served it in the same manner. For it was winter
time and we had wearied of frigid ox.

Next morning the landlady's face was a study. I rather think that
after some conversation, we propitiated her with an order for two for
the dress circle; but it is certain that we had tripe that evening.

An ideal supper in _miladi's boudoir_ is associated, in the writer's
mind, with rose-coloured draperies, dainty china, a cosy fire, a
liberal display of _lingerie_, a strong perfume of heliotrope and
orris root--and _miladi_ herself. When next she invites her friends,
she will kindly order the following repast to be spread:--

                         Clear soup, in cups.
                     Fillets of soles Parisienne.
                        Chaudfroid of Quails.
                         Barded sweetbreads.
                            Perigord pâté.

By way of contrast, let me quote a typical supper-dish which the "poor
player" used to order, when he could afford it.

                          _Kidney Dumpling._

     Cut a large Spanish onion in half. Take out the heart, and
     substitute a sheep's kidney, cut into four. Season with salt
     and pepper, join the two halves, and enclose in a paste. Bake
     on a buttered tin, in a moderate oven, for about an hour.

     _N.B._--Be sure the cook _bakes_ this dumpling, as it is
     not nice boiled.

An artistic friend who at one time of his life resided near the great
horse-training centre of Middleham, in Yorkshire, gave a steak supper
at the principal inn, to some of the stable attendants. The fare was
highly approved of.

"Best Scotch beef I ever put tooth into!" observed the "head lad" at
old Tom Lawson's stables.

"Ah!" returned the host, who was a bit of a wag, "your beef was cut
from a colt of Lord Glasgow's that was thought highly of at one time;
and he was shot the day before yesterday."

And it was so. For Lord Glasgow never sold nor gave away a horse, but
had all his "failures" shot.

And then a great cry went up for brown brandy.

                             CHAPTER XVII

                            "CAMPING OUT"

                  "Thou didst eat strange flesh,
                   Which some did die to look on."

     The ups and downs of life--Stirring adventures--Marching
     on to glory--Shooting in the tropics--Pepper-pot--With the
     _Rajah Sahib_--Goat-sacrifices at breakfast time--Simla to
     Cashmere--Manners and customs of Thibet--Burmah--No place to
     get fat in--Insects--Voracity of the natives--Snakes--Sport
     in the Jungle--Loaded for snipe, sure to meet tiger--With the
     gippos--No baked hedgehog--Cheap milk.

The intelligent reader may have gathered from some of the foregoing
pages that the experiences of the writer have been of a variegated
nature. As an habitual follower of the Turf once observed:

        "When we're rich we rides in chaises,
    And when we're broke we walks like ----"

Never mind what. It was an evil man who said it, but he was a
philosopher. Dinner in the gilded saloon one day, on the next no
dinner at all, and the key of the street. Such is life!

Those experiences do not embrace a mortal combat with a "grizzly"
in the Rockies, nor a tramp through a miasma-laden forest in Darkest
Africa, with nothing better to eat than poisonous _fungi_, assorted
grasses, red ants, and dwarfs; nor yet a bull fight. But they include
roughing it in the bush, on underdone bread and scorched kangaroo, a
tramp from Benares to the frontier of British India, another tramp
or two some way beyond that frontier, a dreadful journey across the
eternal snows of the Himalayas, a day's shooting in the Khyber Pass,
a railway accident in Middlesex, a mad elephant (he had killed seven
men, one of them blind) hunt at Thayet Myoo, in British Burmah, a fine
snake anecdote or two, a night at Cambridge with an escaped lunatic,
a tiger story (of course), and a capture for debt by an officer of
the Sheriff of Pegu, with no other clothing on his body than a short
jacket of gaily coloured silk, and a loin cloth. My life's history is
never likely to be written--chiefly through sheer laziness on my own
part, and the absence of the gambling instinct on that of the average
publisher--but like the brown gentleman who smothered his wife, I have
"seen things."

In this chapter no allusion will be made to "up river" delights,
the only idea of "camping out" which is properly understood by the
majority of "up to date" young men and maidens; for this theme has
been already treated, most comically and delightfully, by Mr. Jerome,
in the funniest book I ever read. My own camping experiences have been
for the most part in foreign lands, though I have seen the sun rise,
whilst reclining beneath the Royal trees in St. James's Park; and as
this book is supposed to deal with gastronomy, rather than adventure,
a brief sketch of camp life must suffice.

On the march! What a time those who "served the Widdy"--by which
disrespectful term, our revered Sovereign was _not_ known in those
days--used to have before the continent of India had been intersected
by the railroad! The absence of one's proper _quantum_ of rest, the
forced marches over _kutcha_ (imperfectly made) bye-roads, the sudden
changes of temperature, raids of the native thief, the troubles
with "bobbery" camels, the still more exasperating behaviour of the
_bail-wallahs_ (bullock-drivers), the awful responsibilities of the
officer-on-baggage-guard, on active duty, often in the saddle for
fifteen hours at a stretch, the absolutely necessary cattle-raids,
by the roadside--all these things are well known to those who have
undergone them, but are far too long "another story" to be related
here. As for the food partaken of during a march with the regiment,
the bill-of-fare differed but little from that of the cantonments; but
the officer who spent a brief holiday in a shooting expedition had to
"rough it" in more ways than one.

There was plenty of game all over the continent in my youthful days,
and the average shot need not have lacked a dinner, even if he had not
brought with him a consignment of "Europe" provisions. English bread
was lacking, certainly, and biscuits, native or otherwise--"otherwise"
for choice, as the bazaar article tasted principally of pin-cushions
and the smoke of dried and lighted cow-dung--or the ordinary
_chupatti_, the flat, unleavened cake, which the poor Indian
manufactures for his own consumption. Cold tea is by far the best
liquid to carry--or rather to have carried for you--whilst actually
shooting; but the weary sportsman will require something more
exciting, and more poetical, on his return to camp. As for solid fare
it was usually

                             _Pepper-pot_

for dinner, day by day. We called it Pepper-pot--that is to say,
although it differed somewhat from the West Indian concoction of that
name, for which the following is the recipe:--

     Put the remains of any cold flesh or fowl into a saucepan,
     and cover with _cassaripe_--which has been already described in
     the Curry chapter as extract of Manioc root. Heat up the stew
     and serve.

Our pepper-pot was usually made in a gipsy-kettle, suspended from
a tripod. The foundation of the stew was always a tin of some kind
of soup. Then a few goat chops--mutton is bad to buy out in the
jungle--and then any bird or beast that may have been shot, divided
into fragments. I have frequently made a stew of this sort, with so
many ingredients in it that the flavour when served out at table--or
on the bullock-trunk which often did duty for a table--would have
beaten the wit of man to describe. There was hare soup "intil't" (as
the Scotsman said to the late Prince Consort), and a collop or two of
buffalo-beef, with snipe, quails, and jungle-fowl. There were half the
neck of an antelope and a few sliced onions lurking within the bowl.
And there were potatoes "intil't," and plenty of pepper and salt. And
for lack of cassaripe we flavoured the savoury mess with mango chutnee
and Tapp sauce. And if any cook, English or foreign, can concoct a
more worthy dish than this, or more grateful to the palate, said cook
can come my way.

The old _dak gharry_ method of travelling in India may well come under
the head of Camping Out. In the hot weather we usually progressed--or
got emptied into a ditch--or collided with something else, during
the comparative "coolth" of the night; resting (which in Hindustan
usually means perspiring and calling the country names) all day at one
or other of the _dak bungalows_ provided by a benevolent Government
for the use of the wandering _sahib_. The larder at one of those
rest-houses was seldom well filled. Although the _khansamah_ who
prostrated himself in the sand at your approach would declare that
he was prepared to supply everything which the protector-of-the-poor
might deign to order, it would be found on further inquiry that the
_khansamah_ had, like the Player Queen in Hamlet, protested too
much--that he was a natural romancer. And his "everything" usually
resolved itself into a "spatch-cock," manufactured from the spectral
rooster, who had heralded the approach of the _sahib's_ caravan.

                             _A Rajah's_

ideas of hospitality are massive. Labouring under the belief that
the white _sahib_ when not eating must necessarily be drinking, the
commissariat arrangements of Rajahdom are on a colossal scale--for
the chief benefit of his _major domo_. I might have bathed in dry
champagne, had the idea been pleasing, whilst staying with a certain
genial prince, known to irreverent British subalterns as "Old
Coppertail"; whilst the bedroom furniture was on the same liberal
scale. True, I lay on an ordinary native _charpoy_, which might
have been bought in the bazaar for a few _annas_, but there was
a grand piano in one corner of the apartment, and a buhl cabinet
containing rare china in another. There was a coloured print of the
Governor-General over the doorway, and an oil painting of the Judgment
of Solomon over the mantelshelf. And on a table within easy reach of
the bed was a silver-plated dinner service, decked with fruits and
sweetmeats, and tins of salmon, and pots of Guava jelly and mixed
pickles, and two tumblers, each of which would have easily held a
week-old baby. And there was a case of champagne beneath that table,
with every appliance for cutting wires and extracting the corks.

Another time the writer formed one of a small party invited to share
the hospitality of a potentate, whose estate lay on the snowy side
of Simla. The fleecy element, however, was not in evidence in June,
the month of our visit, although towards December Simla herself is
usually wrapt in the white mantle, and garrisoned by monkeys, who
have fled from the land of ice. Tents had been erected for us in a
barren-looking valley, somewhat famous, however, for the cultivation
of potatoes. There was an annual celebration of some sort, the day
after our arrival, and for breakfast that morning an _al fresco_ meal
had been prepared for us, almost within whispering distance of an
heathen temple. And it _was_ a breakfast! There was a turkey stuffed
with a fowl, to make the breast larger, and there was a "Europe" ham.
A tin of lobster, a bottle of pickled walnuts, a dreadful concoction,
alleged to be an omelette, but looking more like the sole of a tennis
shoe, potatoes, boiled eggs, a dish of Irish stew, a fry of small
fish, a weird-looking curry, a young goat roasted whole, and a plum
pudding!

The tea had hardly been poured out--Kussowlie beer, Epps's cocoa, and
(of course) champagne, and John Exshaw's brandy were also on tap--when
a gentleman with very little on proceeded to decapitate a goat at
the foot of the temple steps. This was somewhat startling, but when
the (presumed) high-priest chopped off the head of another bleating
victim, our meal was interrupted. The executions had been carried out
in very simple fashion. First, the priest sprinkled a little water on
the neck of the victim (who was held in position by an assistant), and
then retired up the steps. Then, brandishing a small sickle, he rushed
back, and in an instant off went the head, which was promptly carried,
reeking with gore, within the temple. But if, as happened more than
once, the head was not sliced off at the initial attempt, it was left
on the ground when decapitation had been at length effected. The deity
inside was evidently a bit particular!

Nine goats had been sacrificed, ere our remonstrances were attended
to; and we were allowed to pursue our meal in peace. But I don't think
anybody had goat for breakfast that morning.

Later on, the fun of the fair commenced, and the _paharis_, or hill
men, trooped in from miles round, with their sisters, cousins, and
aunts. Their wives, we imagined, were too busily occupied in carrying
their accustomed loads of timber to and fro. Your Himalayan delights
in a fair, and the numerous swings and roundabouts were all well
patronised; whilst the jugglers, and the snake charmers--in many
instances it was difficult to tell at a glance which was charmer and
which snake--were all well patronised. Later on, when the lamps had
been lit, a _burra nâtch_ was started, and the Bengali Baboos who
had come all the way from Simla in _dhoolies_ to be present at this,
applauded vigorously. And our host being in constant dread lest we
should starve to death or expire of thirst, never tired of bidding us
to a succession of banquets at which we simply went through the forms
of eating, to please him. And just when we began to get sleepy these
simple hill folks commenced to dance amongst themselves. They were
just a little monotonous, their choregraphic efforts. Parties of men
linked arms and sidled around fires of logs, singing songs of their
mountain homes the while. And as they were evidently determined to
make a night of it, sleep for those who understood not the game, with
their tents close handy, was out of the question. And when, as soon
as we could take our departure decently and decorously, we started
up the hill again, those doleful monotonous dances were still in
progress, although the fires were out, and the voices decidedly husky.
A native of the Himalayas is nothing if not energetic--in his own
interests be it understood.

A few months later I formed one of a small party who embarked on a
more important expedition than the last named, although we traversed
the same road. It is a journey which has frequently been made since,
from Simla to Cashmere, going as far into the land of the Great Llama
as the inhabitants will allow the stranger to do--which is not very
far; but, in the early sixties there were but few white men who had
even skirted Thibet. In the afternoon of life, when stirring the
fire has become preferable to stirring adventure, it seems (to the
writer at all events) very like an attempt at self-slaughter to have
travelled so many hundreds of miles along narrow goatpaths, with a
_khud_ (precipice) of thousands of feet on one side or the other;
picking one's way, if on foot, over the frequent avalanche (or "land
slip," as we called it in those days) of shale or granite; or if
carried in a _dhoolie_--which is simply a hammock attached by straps
to a bamboo pole--running the risk of being propelled over a precipice
by your heathen carriers. It is not the pleasantest of sensations
to cross a mountain torrent by means of a frail bridge (called a
_jhula_) of ropes made from twigs, and stretched many feet above the
torrent itself, nor to "weather" a corner, whilst clinging tooth
and nail to the face of a cliff. And when there is any riding to be
done, most people would prefer a hill pony to a _yak_, the native ox
of Thibet. By far the best part of a _yak_ is his beautiful silky,
fleecy tail, which is largely used in Hindustan, by dependants of
governors-general, commanders-in-chief, and other mighty ones, for the
discomfiture of the frequent fly. A very little equestrian exercise on
the back of a _yak_ goes a long way; and if given my choice, I would
sooner ride a stumbling cab-horse in a saddle with spikes in it.

But those days were our salad ones; we were not only "green of
judgment," but admirers of the beautiful, and reckless of danger.
But it was decidedly "roughing it." As it is advisable to traverse
that track as lightly laden as possible, we took but few "Europe"
provisions with us, depending upon the villages, for the most part,
for our supplies. We usually managed to buy a little flour, wherewith
to make the inevitable _chupati_, and at some of the co-operative
stores _en route_, we obtained mutton of fair flavour. We did not know
in those days that flesh exposed to the air, in the higher ranges of
the Himalayas, will not putrefy, else we should have doubtless made
a species of _biltong_ of the surplus meat, to carry with us in case
of any famine about. So "short commons" frequently formed the bill
of fare. Our little stock of brandy was carefully husbanded, against
illness; and, judging from the subsequent histories of two of the
party, this was the most miraculous feature of the expedition. For
liquid refreshment we had neat water, and _thé à la mode de Thibet_.
Doctor Nansen, in his book on the crossing of Greenland, inveighs
strongly against the use of alcohol in an Arctic expedition; but I
confess that the first time I tasted Thibet tea I would have given
both my ears for a soda and brandy. The raw tea was compressed into
the shape of a brick, with the aid of--we did not inquire what; its
infusion was drunk, either cold or lukewarm, flavoured with salt, and
a small lump of butter which in any civilised police court would have
gained the vendor a month's imprisonment without the option of a fine.

The people of the district were in the habit of gorging themselves
with flesh when they could get it; and polyandry was another of their
pleasant customs. We saw one lady who was married to three brothers,
but did not boast of it. Thibet is probably the most priest-ridden
country in the world, and ought to be the most religious; for the
natives can grind out their prayers, on wheels, at short intervals, in
pretty much the same way as we grind our coffee in dear old England.

But we reached the promised land at last; and here at least there
was no lack of food and drink. Meat was cheap in those days; and one
of the party, without any bargaining whatever, purchased a sheep for
eight annas, or one shilling sterling. Mutton is not quite as cheap at
the time of writing this book (1897), I believe; but in the long ago
there were but few English visitors to the land of Lalla Rookh, and
those who did go had to obtain permission of the Rajah, through the
British Resident.

With improved transit, and a railroad from Rangoon to Mandalay,
matters gastronomic may be better in British Burmah nowadays; but in
the course of an almost world-wide experience I have never enjoyed
food less than in Pagoda-land during the sixties. And as a Burmese
built house was not a whit more comfortable than a tent, and far
less waterproof, this subject may well be included in the chapter
headed "Camping Out." Fruits there were, varied and plentiful; and
if you only planted the crown of a pine-apple in your compound one
evening you would probably find a decent-sized pine-apple above
ground next--well, next week. At least so they told me when I arrived
in the country. This fruit, in fact, was so plentiful that we used
to peel the pines, and gnaw them, just like a school-boy would gnaw
the ordinary variety of apple. But we had no mutton--not up the
country, that is to say; and we were entirely dependent upon Madras
for potatoes. Therefore, as there was only a steamer once a month
from Madras to Rangoon, which invariably missed the Irrawaddy monthly
mail-boat, we "exiles" had to content ourselves with yams, or the
abominable "preserved" earth-apple. The insects of the air wrestled
with us at the mess-table, for food; and the man who did not swallow
an evil-tasting fly of some sort in his soup was lucky.[9] As for the
food of the Burman himself, "absolutely beastly" was no name for it.
Strips of cat-fish the colour of beef were served at his marriage
feasts; and he was especially fond of a condiment the name of which
was pronounced _nuppee_--although that is probably not the correct
spelling, and I never studied the language of that country--which was
concocted from a smaller description of fish, buried in the earth
until decomposition had triumphed, and then mashed up with _ghee_
(clarified--and "postponed"--butter). There was, certainly, plenty of
shooting to be obtained in the district; but, as it rained in torrents
for nine months in every year, the shooter required a considerable
amount of nerve, and, in addition to a Boyton suit, case-hardened
lungs and throat. And, singularly enough, it was an established fact
that if loaded for snipe you invariably met a tiger, or something
else with sharp teeth, and _vice versa_. Also, you were exceptionally
fortunate if you did not step upon one of the venomous snakes of the
country, of whom the _hamadryad's_ bite was said to be fatal within
five minutes. I had omitted to mention that snake is also a favourite
food of the Burman; and as I seldom went home of an evening without
finding a rat-snake or two in the verandah, or the arm-chair, the
natives had snake for breakfast, most days. The rat-snake is, however,
quite harmless to life.

I have "camped out" in England once or twice; once with a select
circle of gipsies, the night before the Derby. I wished merely to
study character; and, after giving them a few words of the Romany
dialect, and a good deal of tobacco, I was admitted into their
confidences. But the experience gained was not altogether pleasing,
nor yet edifying; nor did we have baked hedgehog for supper. In
fact I have never yet met the "gippo" (most of them keep fowls) who
will own to having tasted this _bonne bouche_ of the descriptive
writer. Possibly this is on account of the scarcity of the hedgehog.
"Tea-kettle broth"--bread sopped in water, with a little salt and
dripping to flavour the soup--on the other hand, figures on most
of the gipsy _menus_. And upon one occasion, very early in the
morning, another wanderer and the writer obtained much-needed liquid
refreshment by milking the yield of a Jersey cow into each other's
mouths, alternately. But this was a long time ago, and in the
neighbourhood of Bagshot Heath, and it was somebody else's cow; so let
no more be said about it.

I fear this chapter is not calculated to make many mouths water. In
fact what in the world has brought it into the midst of a work on
gastronomy I am at a loss to make out. However here it is.

                            CHAPTER XVIII

                           COMPOUND DRINKS

                   "Flow wine! Smile woman!
                    And the universe is consoled."

     Derivation of punch--"Five"--The "milk" brand--The best
     materials--Various other punches--Bischoff or Bishop--"Halo"
     punch--Toddy--The toddy tree of India--Flip--A "peg"--John
     Collins--Out of the guard-room.

The subject of PUNCH is such an important one that it may be placed
first on the list of dainty beverages which can be made by the art or
application of man or woman.

First, let us take the origin of the word. DOCTOR KITCHENER, an
acknowledged authority, during his lifetime, on all matters connected
with eating and drinking, has laid it down that punch is of West
Indian origin, and that the word when translated, means "five";
because there be five ingredients necessary in the concoction of the
beverage. But Doctor Kitchener and his disciples (of whom there be
many) may go to the bottom of the cookery class; for although from the
large connection which rum and limes have with the mixture, there
would seem to be a West Indian flavour about it; the word "five,"
when translated into West Indianese, is nothing like "punch." Having
satisfied themselves that this is a fact, modern authorities have
tried the East Indies for the source of the name, and have discovered
that _panch_ in Hindustani really does mean "five." "Therefore," says
one modern authority, "it is named punch from the five ingredients
which compose it--(1) spirit, (2) acid, (3) spice, (4) sugar, (5)
water." Another modern authority calls punch "a beverage introduced
into England from India, and so called from being usually made of
five (Hindi, _panch_) ingredients--arrack, tea, sugar, water, and
lemon juice." This sounds far more like an East Indian concoction than
the other; but at the same time punch--during the latter half of the
nineteenth century at all events--was as rare a drink in Hindustan as
_bhang_ in Great Britain. The _panch_ theory is an ingenious one, but
there are plenty of other combinations (both liquid and solid) of five
to which the word punch is never applied; and about the last beverage
recommended by the faculty for the consumption of the sojourner in the
land of the Great Mogul, would, I should think, be the entrancing,
seductive one which we Britons know under the name of punch. Moreover
it is not every punch-concoctor who uses five ingredients. In the
minds of some--youthful members of the Stock Exchange, for the most
part--water is an altogether unnecessary addition to the alcoholic
mixture which is known by the above name. And what manner of man would
add spice to that delight of old Ireland, "a jug o' punch?" On the
other hand, in many recipes, there are more than five ingredients used.

But after all, the origin of the name is of but secondary importance,
as long as you can make punch. Therefore, we will commence with a few
recipes for

                            _Milk Punch_.

     1. Three bottles of rum.
     The most delicately-flavoured rum is the "Liquid Sunshine" brand.
     One bottle of sherry.
     13 lbs of loaf-sugar.
     The rind of six lemons, and the juice of twelve.
     One quart of boiling skimmed milk.

     Mix together, let the mixture stand eight days, stirring
     it each day. Strain and bottle, and let it stand three months.
     Then re-bottle, and let the bottles lie on their sides in the
     cellar for two years, to mature. The flavour will be much
     better than if drunk after the first period of three months.

It is not everybody, however, who would care to wait two years, three
months, and eight days for the result of his efforts in punch-making.
Therefore another recipe may be appended; and in this one no "close
time" is laid down for the consumption of the mixture.

     2. Put into a bottle of rum or brandy the thinly-pared
     rinds of three Seville oranges, and three lemons. Cork tightly
     for two days. Rub off on 2 lbs of lump sugar the rinds of six
     lemons, squeeze the juice from the whole of the fruit over
     the 2 lbs of sugar, add three quarts of boiling water, one
     of boiling milk, half a teaspoonful of nutmeg, and mix all
     thoroughly well together until the sugar is dissolved. Pour in
     the rum or brandy, stir, and strain till clear; bottle closely.

There is more than one objection to this recipe. (1) Rum, and not
brandy (by itself), should be used for milk punch. (2) There is an
"intolerable amount" of water; and (3) the nutmeg had better remain in
the spice-box.

     3. Cut off the thin yellow rind of four lemons and a
     Seville orange, taking care not to include even a fragment of
     the _white_ rind, and place in a basin. Pour in one pint of
     Jamaica rum, and let it stand, covered over, twelve hours.
     Then strain, and mix with it one pint of lemon juice, and two
     pints of cold water, in which one pound of sugar-candy has
     been dissolved; add the whites of two eggs, beaten to a froth,
     three pints more of rum, one pint of madeira, one pint of
     strong green tea, and a large wine-glassful of maraschino. Mix
     thoroughly, and pour over all one pint of boiling milk. Let the
     punch stand a little while, then strain through a jelly-bag,
     and either use at once, or bottle off.

Here let it be added, lest the precept be forgotten, that the

                        _Very best Materials_

are absolutely necessary for the manufacture of punch, as of other
compound drinks. In the above recipe for instance by "madeira," is
meant "Rare Old East Indian," and _not_ marsala, which wine, in
French kitchens, is invariably used as the equivalent of madeira.
There must be no inferior sherry, Gladstone claret, cheap champagne,
nor potato-brandy, used for any of my recipes, or I will not be
responsible for the flavour of the beverage. The following is the best
idea of a milk punch known to the writer:--

     4. Over the yellow rind of four lemons and one Seville
     orange, pour one pint of rum. Let it stand, covered over, for
     twelve hours. Strain and mix in two pints more of rum, one pint
     of brandy, one pint of sherry, half-a-pint of lemon juice, the
     expressed juice of a peeled pine-apple, one pint of green tea,
     one pound of sugar dissolved in one quart of boiling water, the
     whites of two eggs beaten up, one quart of boiling milk. Mix
     well, let it cool, and then strain through a jelly-bag, and
     bottle off.

This punch is calculated to make the epicure forget that he has just
been partaking of conger-eel broth instead of clear turtle.

                       _Cambridge Milk Punch._

     This a fairly good boys' beverage, there being absolutely
     "no offence in't." Put the rind of half a lemon (small) into
     one pint of new milk, with twelve lumps of sugar. Boil very
     slowly for fifteen minutes, then remove from the fire, take out
     the lemon rind, and mix in the yolk of one egg, which has been
     previously blended with one tablespoonful of cold milk, two
     tablespoonfuls of brandy, and four of rum. Whisk all together,
     and when the mixture is frothed, it is ready to serve.

                           _Oxford Punch._

There is no milk in this mixture, which sounds like "for'ard on!" for
the undergraduate who for the first time samples it.

     Rub off the yellow rind of three lemons with half-a-pound
     of loaf sugar. Put the result into a large jug, with the yellow
     rind of one Seville orange, the juice of three Seville oranges
     and eight lemons, and one pint of liquefied calf's-foot jelly.
     Mix thoroughly, then pour over two quarts of boiling water,
     and set the jug on the hob for thirty minutes. Strain the
     mixture into a punch-bowl, and when cool add one small bottle
     of capillaire (an infusion of maidenhair fern, flavoured with
     sugar and orange-flower water); one pint of brandy, one pint
     of rum, half-a-pint of dry sherry, and one quart of orange
     shrub--a mixture of orange-peel, juice, sugar, and rum.

After drinking this, the young student will be in a fit state to
sally forth, with his fellows, and "draw" a Dean, or drown an amateur
journalist.

I have a very old recipe, in MS., for "Bischoff," which I take to
be the original of the better known beverage called "Bishop," for
the manufacture of which I have also directions. For the sake of
comparison I give the two.

                             _Bischoff._

     Cut into four parts each, three Seville oranges, and
     slightly score the rinds across with a sharp knife. Roast the
     quarters lightly before a slow fire, and put them into a bowl
     with two bottles of claret, with a little cinnamon and nutmeg.
     Infuse this mixture over a slow heat for five or six hours,
     then pass it through a jelly-bag, and sweeten. It may be drunk
     hot or cold, but in any case must never be allowed to boil.

                              _Bishop._

     Two drachmas each of cloves, mace, ginger, cinnamon, and
     allspice, boiled in half-a-pint of water for thirty minutes.
     Strain. Put a bottle of port in a saucepan over the fire, add
     the spiced infusion, and a lemon stuck with six cloves. Whilst
     this is heating gradually--it must not boil--take four ounces
     of loaf sugar, and with the lumps grate off the outer rind of a
     lemon into a punch-bowl. Add the sugar, and juice, and the hot
     wine, etc. Add another bottle of port, and serve either hot or
     cold.

I am prepared to lay a shade of odds on the "op" against the "off."

Another old recipe has been quoted in some of my earlier public
efforts, under different names. I have improved considerably upon the
proportion of the ingredients, and now hand the whole back, under the
name of

                            _Halo Punch_.

     With a quarter pound of loaf sugar rub off the outer rind
     of one lemon and two Seville oranges. Put rind and sugar into
     a large punch-bowl with the juice and pulp, mix the sugar well
     with the juice and one teacupful of boiling water, and stir
     till cold. Add half-a-pint of pine-apple syrup, one pint of
     strong green tea, a claret-glassful of maraschino, a smaller
     glassful of noyeau, half-a-pint of white rum, one pint of
     brandy, and one bottle of champagne. Strain and serve, having,
     if necessary, added more sugar.

Note well the proportions. This is the same beverage which some
Cleveland friends of mine, having read the recipe, thought _boiling_
would improve. The result was--well, a considerable amount of chaos.

                           _Glasgow Punch._

The following is from _Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk_, and is from
the pen of John Gibson Lockhart:--

     The sugar being melted with a little _cold_ water, the
     artist squeezed about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer,
     and then poured in water enough almost to fill the bowl. In
     this state the liquor goes by the name of sherbet, and a few of
     the connoisseurs in his immediate neighbourhood were requested
     to give their opinion of it--for in the mixing of the sherbet
     lies, according to the Glasgow creed, at least one-half of the
     whole battle. This being approved of by an audible smack from
     the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I
     suppose, in something about the proportion from one to seven.

Does this mean one of sherbet and seven of rum, or the converse?

     Last of all, the maker cut a few limes, and running each
     section rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough
     of this more delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In
     this consists the true _tour-de-maitre_ of the punch-maker.

Well, possibly; but it seems a plainish sort of punch; and unless the
rum be allowed to preponderate, most of us would be inclined to call
the mixture lemonade. And I do not believe that since Glasgow has been
a city its citizens ever drank much of _that_.

A few more punches, and then an anecdote.

                             _Ale Punch._

     One quart of mild ale in a bowl, add one wine-glassful of
     brown sherry, the same quantity of old brandy, a tablespoonful
     of sifted sugar, the peel and juice of one lemon, a grate of
     nutmeg, and an iceberg.

     _N.B._--Do not insert old ale, by mistake. And for my own
     part, I think it a mistake to mix John Barleycorn with wine
     (except champagne) and spirits.

                          _Barbadoes Punch._

     A tablespoonful of raspberry syrup, a ditto of sifted
     sugar, a wine-glassful of water, double that quantity of
     brandy, half a wine-glassful of guava jelly, liquid, the juice
     of half a lemon, two slices of orange, one slice of pine-apple,
     in a long tumbler. Ice and shake well and drink through straws.

                           _Curaçoa Punch._

     Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted
     sugar, one wine-glassful of brandy, the same quantity of
     water, half a wine-glassful of Jamaica rum, a wine-glassful of
     curaçoa, and the juice of half a lemon; fill the tumbler with
     crushed ice, shake, and drink through straws.

                           _Grassot Punch._

     This has nothing to do with warm asparagus, so have
     no fear. It is simply another big-tumbler mixture, of one
     wine-glassful of brandy, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, a
     squeeze of lemon, two teaspoonfuls sugar, one of syrup of
     strawberries, one wine-glassful of water, and the thin rind of
     a lemon; fill up the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and put
     slices of ripe apricots atop. Drink how you like.

Most of the above are hot-weather beverages, and the great beauty
of some of them will be found in the small quantity of water in the
mixture. Here is a punch which may be drunk in any weather, and either
hot or cold.

                           _Regent Punch._

     Pour into a bowl a wine-glassful of champagne, the same
     quantities of hock, curaçoa, rum, and madeira. Mix well, and
     add a pint of boiling tea, sweetened. Stir well and serve.

_Apropos_ of the derivation of "punch," I was unaware until quite
recently that Messrs. Bradbury's & Agnew's little paper had any
connection therewith. But I was assured by one who knew all about it,
that such was the case.

"What?" I exclaimed. "How can the _London Charivari_ possibly have
anything to do with this most seductive of beverages?"

"My dear fellow," was the reply, "have you never heard of Mark
_Lemon_?"

I turned to smite him hip and thigh; but the jester had fled.

And now a word or two as to "TODDY." One of the authorities quoted
in the punch difficulty declares that toddy is also an Indian drink.
So it is. But that drink no more resembles what is known in more
civilised lands as toddy than I resemble the late king Solomon. The
palm-sap which the poor Indian distils into arrack and occasionally
drinks in its natural state for breakfast after risking his neck in
climbing trees to get it, can surely have no connection with hot
whisky and water? Yet the authority says so; but he had best be
careful ere he promulgates his theory in the presence of Scotsmen and
others who possess special toddy-glasses. This is how I make

                           _Whisky Toddy_.

     The Irish call this whisky punch. But do not let us
     wrangle over the name. Into an ordinary-sized tumbler which
     has been warmed, put one average lump of sugar, a ring of thin
     lemon peel, and a silver teaspoon. Fill the tumbler one quarter
     full of water as near boiling point as possible. Cover over
     until the sugar be dissolved and peel be infused. Then add one
     wine-glassful--not a small one--of the best whisky you can
     find--the "Pollok" brand, and the "R.B." are both excellent.
     Then drink the toddy, or punch; for should you attempt to add
     any more water you will incur the lifelong contempt of every
     Irishman or Scotsman who may be in the same room. If Irish
     whisky be used, of course you will select "John Jameson."

     'Twixt ale-flip and egg-flip there is not much more
     difference than 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. Both are
     equally "more-ish" on a cold evening; and no Christmas eve is
     complete without a jug of one or the other.

                             _Ale-flip._

     Pour into a saucepan three pints of mild ale, one
     tablespoonful of sifted sugar, a blade of mace, a clove, and
     a small piece of butter; and bring the liquor to a boil. Beat
     up in a basin the white of one egg and the yolks of two, mixed
     with about a wine-glassful of cold ale. Mix all together in the
     saucepan, then pour into a jug, and thence into another jug,
     from a height, for some minutes, to froth the flip thoroughly
     but do not let it get cold.

                             _Egg-flip._

     Heat one pint of ale, and pour into a jug. Add two eggs,
     beaten with three ounces of sugar, and pour the mixture from
     one jug to the other, as in the preceding recipe. Grate a
     little nutmeg and ginger over the flip before serving.

Were I to ask What is

                               _A Peg_?

I should probably be told that a peg was something to hang something
or somebody else on, or that it was something to be driven through or
into something else. And the latter would be the more correct answer,
for at the time of my sojourn in the great continent of India, a peg
meant a large brandy-and-soda. At that time whisky was but little
known in Punkahland, and was only used high up in the Punjaub during
the "cold weather"--and it is cold occasionally in that region, where
for some months they are enabled to make ice--but that is _une autre
histoire_. Rum I once tasted at Simla, and gin will be dealt with
presently. But since the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, a peg
has always signified a _whisky_-and-soda. And yet we have not heard of
any particular decrease in the death-rate. Despite what those who have
only stayed a month or two in the country have committed to print,
alcohol is _not_ more fatal in a tropical country than a temperate
one. But you must not overdo your alcohol. I have seen a gay young
spark, a fine soldier, and over six feet in height, drink _eight_ pegs
of a morning, ere he got out of bed. There was no such thing as a
"split soda"--or a split brandy either--in those days. We buried him
in the Bay of Bengal just after a cyclone, on our way home.

By the way, the real meaning of "peg" was said to be the peg, or nail,
driven into the coffin of the drinker every time he partook. And the
coffin of many an Anglo-Indian of my acquaintance was all nails. A

                            _John Collins_

is simply a gin-sling with a little curaçoa in it. That is to say,
soda-water, a slice of lemon, curaçoa--and gin. But by altering the
proportions this can be made a very dangerous potion indeed. The
officers of a certain regiment--which shall be nameless--were in the
habit of putting this potion on tap, after dinner on a guest night.
It was a point of honour in those evil, though poetical, times, to
send no guest empty away, and more than one of those entertained by
this regiment used to complain next morning at breakfast--a peg, or
a swizzle, and a hot pickle sandwich--of the escape of "Private John
Collins" from the regimental guard-room. For towards dawn there would
not be much soda-water in that potion--which was usually served hot at
that hour.

                             CHAPTER XIX

                          CUPS AND CORDIALS

            "Can any mortal mixture
             Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?"

             "The evil that men do lives after them."

     Five recipes for claret cup--Balaclava
     cup--Orgeat--Ascot cup--Stout and champagne--Shandy-gaff
     for millionaires--Ale cup--Cobblers which will
     stick to the last--Home Ruler--Cherry brandy--Sloe
     gin--Home-made, if possible--A new industry--Apricot
     brandy--Highland cordial--Bitters--Jumping-powder--Orange
     brandy--"Mandragora"--"Sleep rock thy brain!"

I suppose there are almost as many recipes for claret cup as for a
cold in the head. And of the many it is probable that the greater
proportion will produce a cup which will neither cheer nor inebriate;
for the simple reason that nobody, who was not inebriated already,
would be physically capable of drinking enough of it. Let us first of
all take the late Mr. Donald's recipe for

Claret Cup:

      _A._ 1 bottle claret.
           1 wine-glassful fine pale brandy.
           ½ do. chartreuse yellow.
           ½ do. curaçoa.
           ¼ do. maraschino.
           2 bottles soda or seltzer.[10]
           1 lemon, cut in thin slices.
           A few sprigs of borage; not much.
           Ice and sugar to taste.

Here is a less expensive recipe:

     _B._ Put into a bowl the rind of one lemon pared very
     thin, add some sifted sugar, and pour over it a wine-glassful
     of sherry; then add a bottle of claret, more sugar to taste,
     a sprig of verbena, one bottle of aerated water, and a grated
     nutmeg; strain and ice it well.

Once more let the fact be emphasised that the better the wine, spirit,
etc., the better the cup.

Here is a good cup for Ascot, when the sun is shining, and you are
entertaining the fair sex.

     _C._ Put in a large bowl three bottles of claret (St.
     Estephe is the stamp of wine), a wine-glassful (large) of
     curaçoa, a pint of dry sherry, half a pint of old brandy, a
     large wine-glassful of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one
     lemon cut into slices; add a few sprigs of borage and a little
     cucumber rind, two bottles of seltzer water, and three bottles
     of Stretton water. Mix well, and sweeten. Let it stand for an
     hour, and then strain. Put in a large block of ice, and a few
     whole strawberries. Serve in small tumblers.

Another way and a simpler:

     _D._ Pour into a large jug one bottle of claret, add two
     wine-glassfuls of sherry, and half a glass of maraschino. Add
     a few sliced nectarines, or peaches, and sugar to taste (about
     a tablespoonful and a half). Let it stand till the sugar is
     dissolved, then put in a sprig of borage. Just before using add
     one bottle of Stretton water, and a large piece of ice.

My ideal claret cup:

      _E._ 2 bottles Pontet Canet.
           2 wine-glassfuls old brandy.
           1 wine-glassful curaçoa.
           1 pint bottle sparkling moselle.
           2 bottles aerated water.

     A sprig or two of borage, and a little lemon peel.

     Sugar _ad lib._: one cup will not require much.

     Add the moselle and popwater just before using; then put
     in a large block of ice.

Those who have never tried can have no idea of the zest which a small
proportion of moselle lends to a claret cup.

My earliest recollection of a cup dates from old cricketing days
beneath "Henry's holy shade," on "a match day"--as poor old "Spanky"
used to phrase it; a day on which that prince of philosophers and
confectioners sold his wares for cash only. Not that he had anything
to do with the compounding of the

                             _Cider Cup_.

     Toast a slice of bread and put it at the bottom of a
     large jug. Grate over the toast nearly half a small nutmeg,
     and a very little ginger. Add a little thin lemon rind, and
     six lumps of sugar. Then add two wine-glasses of sherry, and
     (if for adults) one of brandy. (If for boys the brandy in the
     sherry will suffice.) Add also the juice of a small lemon,
     two bottles of lively water, and (last of all) three pints of
     cider. Mix well, pop in a few sprigs of borage, and a block or
     two of ice.

Remember once more that the purer the cider the better will be the
cup. There is an infinity of bad cider in the market. There used
to be a prejudice against the fermented juice of the apple for all
who have gouty tendencies; but as a "toe-martyr" myself, I can bear
testimony to the harmlessness of the "natural" Norfolk cider made at
Attleborough, in the which is no touch of Podagra.

For a good

                           _Champagne Cup_

_vide_ Claret Cup _A._ Substituting the "sparkling" for the "ruby,"
the ingredients are precisely the same.

A nice, harmless beverage, suitable for a tennis party, or to
accompany the "light refreshments" served at a "Cinderella" dance, or
at the "breaking-up" party at a ladies' school, is

                            _Chablis Cup_.

     Dissolve four or five lumps of sugar in a quarter of a
     pint of boiling water, and put it into a bowl with a very
     thin slice of lemon rind; let it stand for half-an-hour, then
     add a bottle of chablis, a sprig of verbena, a wine-glassful
     of sherry, and half-a-pint of water. Mix well, and let the
     mixture stand for a while, then strain, add a bottle of seltzer
     water, a few strawberries or raspberries, and a block of ice.
     Serve in small glasses.

                           _Balaclava Cup._

                      "Claret to right of 'em,
                       'Simpkin' to left of 'em--
                       Cup worth a hundred!"

     Get a large bowl, to represent the Valley--which only the
     more rabid abstainer would call the "Valley of Death." You
     will next require a small detachment of thin lemon rind, about
     two tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the juice of two lemons,
     and half a cucumber, cut into thin slices, with the peel on.
     Let all these ingredients skirmish about within the bowl; then
     bring up your heavy cavalry in the shape of two bottles of
     Château something, and one of the best champagne you have got.
     Last of all, unmask your soda-water battery; two bottles will
     be sufficient. Ice, and serve in tumblers.

                            _Crimean Cup._

This is a very serious affair. So was the war. The cup, however, leads
to more favourable results, and does not, like the campaign, leave a
bitter taste in the mouth. Here are the ingredients:

     One quart of syrup of orgeat (to make this _vide_
     next recipe), one pint and a half of old brandy, half a
     pint of maraschino, one pint of old rum, two large and one
     small bottles of champagne, three bottles of Seltzer-water,
     half-a-pound of sifted sugar, and the juice of five lemons.
     Peel the lemons, and put the thin rind in a mortar, with the
     sugar. Pound them well, and scrape the result with a silver
     spoon into a large bowl. Squeeze in the juice of the lemons,
     add the seltzer water, and stir till the sugar is quite
     dissolved. Then add the orgeat, and whip the mixture well with
     a whisk, so as to whiten it. Add the maraschino, rum, and
     brandy, and strain the whole into another bowl. Just before
     the cup is required, put in the champagne, and stir vigorously
     with a punch ladle. The champagne should be well iced, as no
     apparent ice is allowable in this mixture.

                              _Orgeat._

     Blanch and pound three-quarters of a pound of sweet
     almonds, and thirty bitter almonds, in one tablespoonful of
     water. Stir in by degrees two pints of water and three pints of
     milk. Strain the mixture through a cloth. Dissolve half-a-pound
     of loaf sugar in one pint of water. Boil and skim well, and
     then mix with the almond water. Add two tablespoonfuls of
     orange-flower water, and half-a-pint of old brandy. Be careful
     to boil the _eaû sucré_ well, as this concoction must not be
     too watery.

                             _Ascot Cup._

Odds can be laid freely on this; and the host should stay away
from the temptations of the betting-ring, on purpose to make it.
And--parenthetically be it observed--the man who has no soul for
cup-making should never entertain at a race meeting. The servants will
have other things to attend to; and even if they have not it should
be remembered that a cup, or punch, like a salad, should always, if
possible, be mixed by some one who is going to partake of the same.

     Dissolve six ounces of sugar in half-a-pint of boiling
     water; add the juice of three lemons, one pint of old brandy, a
     wine-glassful of cherry brandy, a wine-glassful of maraschino,
     half a wine-glassful of yellow chartreuse, two bottles of
     champagne. All these should be mixed in a large silver bowl.
     Add a few sprigs of borage, a few slices of lemon, half-a-dozen
     strawberries, half-a-dozen brandied cherries, and three bottles
     of seltzer water. Put the bowl, having first covered it over,
     into the refrigerator for one hour, and before serving, put
     a small iceberg into the mixture, which should be served in
     little tumblers.

How many people, I wonder, are aware that

                   _Champagne and Guinness' Stout_

make one of the best combinations possible? You may search the wide
wide world for a cookery book which will give this information; but
the mixture is both grateful and strengthening, and is, moreover, far
to be preferred to what is known as

                      _Rich Man's Shandy Gaff_,

which is a mixture of champagne and ale. The old Irishman said that
the "blackgyard" should never be placed atop of the "gintleman,"
intending to convey the advice that ale should not be placed on the
top of champagne. But the "black draught" indicated just above is well
worth attention. It should be drunk out of a pewter tankard, and is
specially recommended as a between-the-acts refresher for the amateur
actor.

                              _Ale Cup._

     Squeeze the juice of a lemon into a round of hot toast;
     lay on it a thin piece of the rind, a tablespoonful of pounded
     sugar, a little grated nutmeg, and a sprig of balm. Pour over
     these one glass of brandy, two glasses of sherry, and three
     pints of mild ale. Do not allow the balm to remain in the
     mixture many minutes.

One of the daintiest of beverages is a

                            _Moselle Cup_.

     Ingredients: One bottle of moselle. One glass of brandy.
     Four or five thin slices of pine-apple. The peel of half a
     lemon, cut very thin. Ice; and sugar _ad lib_. Just before
     using add one bottle of sparkling water.

                           _Sherry Cobbler_

     although a popular drink in America, is but little known
     on this side of the Atlantic. Place in a soda-water tumbler
     two wine-glassfuls of sherry, one tablespoonful of sifted
     sugar, and two or three slices of orange. Fill the tumbler with
     crushed ice, and shake well. Drink through straws.

                         _Champagne Cobbler._

     Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted
     sugar, with a thin paring of lemon and orange peel; fill the
     tumbler one-third full of crushed ice, and the remainder with
     champagne. Shake, and ornament with a slice of lemon, and a
     strawberry or two. Drink through straws.

                            _Home Ruler._

     This was a favourite drink at the bars of the House
     of Commons, during the reign of the Uncrowned King. It was
     concocted of the yolks of two raw eggs, well beaten, a little
     sugar added, then a tumbler of hot milk taken gradually into
     the mixture, and last of all a large wine-glassful of "J.J."
     whisky.

                             _Cordials._

In treating of cordials, it is most advisable that they be _home
made_. The bulk of the cherry brandy, ginger brandy, etc., which is
sold over the counter is made with inferior brandy; and frequently the
operation of blending the virtue of the fruit with the spirit has been
hurried.

We will commence with the discussion of the favourite cordial of all,

                           _Cherry Brandy_.

     This can either be made from Black Gean cherries, or
     Morellas, but the latter are better for the purpose. Every
     pound of cherries will require one quarter of a pound of white
     sugar, and one pint of the best brandy. The cherries, with the
     sugar well mixed with them, should be placed in wide-mouthed
     bottles, filled up with brandy; and if the fruit be previously
     pricked, the mixture will be ready in a month. But a better
     blend is procured if the cherries are untouched, and this
     principle holds good with all fruit treated in this way, and
     left corked for at least three months.

                             _Sloe Gin._

For years the sloe, which is the fruit of the black-thorn, was used in
England for no other purpose than the manufacture of British Port.
But at this end of the nineteenth century, the public have been, and
are, taking kindly to the cordial, which for a long time had been
despised as an "auld wife's drink." As a matter of fact, it is just
as tasty, and almost as luscious as cherry brandy. But since sloe
gin became fashionable, it has become almost impossible for dwellers
within twenty or thirty miles of London to make the cordial at home.
For sloes fetch something like sixpence or sevenpence a pound in
the market; and in consequence the hedgerows are "raided" by the
(otherwise) unemployed, the fruit being usually picked before the
proper time, _i.e._ when the frost has been on it. The manufacture of
sloe gin is as simple as that of cherry brandy.

     All that is necessary to be done is to allow 1 lb. of
     sugar (white) to 1 lb. of sloes. Half fill a bottle--which need
     not necessarily be a wide-mouthed one--with sugared fruit, and
     "top up" with gin. If the sloes have been pricked, the liquor
     will be ready for use in two or three months; but _do not hurry
     it_.

In a year's time the gin will have eaten all the goodness out of the
unpricked fruit, and it is in this gradual blending that the secret
(as before observed) of making these cordials lies. As a rule, if you
call for sloe gin at a licensed house of entertainment, you will get a
ruby-coloured liquid, tasting principally of gin--and not good gin "at
that." This is because the making has been hurried. Properly matured
sloe gin should be the colour of full-bodied port wine.

                          _Apricot Brandy._

     This is a cordial which is but seldom met with in this
     country. To every pound of fruit (which should not be quite
     ripe) allow one pound of loaf sugar. Put the apricots into
     a preserving-pan, with sufficient water to cover them. Let
     them boil up, and then simmer gently until tender. Remove the
     skins. Clarify and boil the sugar, then pour it over the fruit.
     Let it remain twenty-four hours. Then put the apricots into
     wide-mouthed bottles, and fill them up with syrup and brandy,
     half and half. Cork them tightly, with the tops of corks
     sealed. This apricot brandy should be prepared in the month of
     July, and kept twelve months before using.

                         _Highland Cordial._

     Here is another rare old recipe. Ingredients, one pint of
     white currants, stripped of their stalks, the thin rind of a
     lemon, one teaspoonful of essence of ginger, and one bottle of
     old Scotch whisky. Let the mixture stand for forty-eight hours,
     and then strain through a hair sieve. Add one pound of loaf
     sugar, which will take at least a day to thoroughly dissolve.
     Then bottle off, and cork well. It will be ready for use in
     three months, but will keep longer.

                              _Bitters._

     One ounce of Seville orange-peel, half an ounce of
     gentian root, a quarter of an ounce of cardamoms. Husk the
     cardamoms, and crush them with the gentian root. Put them in a
     wide-mouthed bottle, and cover with brandy or whisky. Let the
     mixture remain for twelve days, then strain, and bottle off for
     use, after adding one ounce of lavender drops.

                           _Ginger Brandy._

     Bruise slightly two pounds of black currants, and mix
     them with one ounce and a half of ground ginger. Pour over
     them one bottle and a half of best brandy, and let the mixture
     stand for two days. Strain off the liquid, and add one pound of
     loaf sugar which has been boiled to a syrup in a little water.
     Bottle and cork closely.

                          "_Jumping Powder_"

comes in very handy, on a raw morning, after you have ridden a dozen
miles or so to a lawn meet. "No breakfast, thanks, just a wee nip,
that's all." And the ever ready butler hands round the tray. If you
are wise, you will declare on

                           _Orange Brandy_

which, as a rule, is well worth sampling, in a house important enough
to entertain hunting men. And orange brandy "goes" much better than
any other liqueur, or cordial, before noon.

     It should be made in the month of March. Take the thin
     rinds of six Seville oranges, and put them into a stone jar,
     with half-a-pint of the strained juice, and two quarts of good
     old brandy. Let it remain three days, then add one pound and
     a quarter of loaf sugar--broken, not pounded--and stir till
     the sugar is dissolved. Let the liquor stand a day, strain it
     through paper till quite clear, pour into bottles, and cork
     tightly. The longer it is kept the better.

                            _Mandragora._

"Can't sleep." Eh? What! not after a dry chapter on liquids? Drink
this, and you will not require any rocking.

     Simmer half-a-pint of old ale, and just as it is about to
     boil pour it into a tumbler, grate a little nutmeg over it, and
     add a teaspoonful of moist sugar, and two tablespoonfuls of
     brandy. Good night, Hamlet!

                              CHAPTER XX

                          THE DAYLIGHT DRINK

                    "Something too much of this."

                    "A nipping and an eager air."

     Evil effects of dram-drinking--The "Gin-crawl"--Abstinence
     in H.M. service--City manners and customs--Useless to argue
     with the soaker--Cocktails--Pet names for drams--The free lunch
     system--Fancy mixtures--Why no Cassis?--Good advice like water
     on a duck's back.

Whilst holding the same opinion as the epicure who declared that good
eating required good drinking, there is no question but that there
should be a limit to both. There is, as Shakespeare told us, a tide
in the affairs of man, so why should there not be in this particular
affair? Why should it be only ebb tide during the few hours that the
man is wrapped in the arms of a Bacchanalian Morpheus, either in
bed or in custody? The abuse of good liquor is surely as criminal a
folly as the abstention therefrom; and the man who mixes his liquors
injudiciously lacks that refinement of taste and understanding which
is necessary for the appreciation of a good deal of this book, or
indeed of any other useful volume. Our grandfathers swore terribly,
and drank deep; but their fun did not commence until after dinner. And
they drank, for the most part, the best of ale, and such port wine
as is not to be had in these days of free trade (which is only an
euphemism for adulteration) and motor cars. Although mine own teeth
are, periodically, set on edge by the juice of the grape consumed by
an ancestor or two; although the gout within me is an heritage from
the three-, aye! and four-, bottle era, I respect mine ancestors,
in that they knew not "gin and bitters." The baleful habit of
alcoholising the inner sinner between meal times, the pernicious habit
of dram-drinking, or "nipping," from early morn till dewy eve, was not
introduced into our cities until the latter half of the nineteenth
century had set in. "Brandy-and-soda," at first only used as a
"livener"--and a deadly livener it is--was unknown during the early
Victorian era; and the "gin-crawl," that interminable slouch around
the hostelries, is a rank growth of modernity.

The "nipping habit" came to us, with other pernicious "notions," from
across the Atlantic Ocean. It was Brother Jonathan who established the
bar system; and although for the most part, throughout Great Britain,
the alcohol is dispensed by young ladies with fine eyes and a great
deal of adventitious hair, and the "bar-keep," with his big watch
chain, and his "guns," placed within easy reach, for quick-shooting
saloon practice, is unknown on this side, the hurt of the system
(to employ an Americanism) "gets there just the same." There is not
the same amount of carousing in the British army as in the days
when I was a "gilded popinjay" (in the language of Mr. John Burns;
"a five-and-twopenny assassin," in the words of somebody else). In
those days the use of alcohol, if not absolutely encouraged for the
use of the subaltern, was winked at by his superiors, as long as the
subalterns were not on duty, or on the line of march--and I don't
know so much about the line of march, either. But with any orderly or
responsible duty to be done, the beverage of heroes was not admired.
"Now mind," once observed our revered colonel, in the ante-room, after
dinner, "none of you young officers get seeing snakes and things, or
otherwise rendering yourselves unfit for service; or I'll try the lot
of you by court martial, I will, by ----." Here the adjutant let the
regimental bible drop with a bang. Tea is the favourite ante-room
refreshment nowadays, when the officer, young or old, is always either
on duty, or at school. And the education of the modern warrior is
never completed.

But the civilian--sing ho! the wicked civilian--is a reveller, and
a winebibber, for the most part. Very little business is transacted
except over what is called "a friendly glass." "I want seven hundred
an' forty-five from you, old chappie," says Reggie de Beers of the
"House," on settling day. "Right," replies his friend young "Berthas":
"toss you double or quits. Down with it!" And it would be a cold
day were not a magnum or two of "the Boy" to be opened over the
transaction. The cheap eating-house keeper who has spent his morning
at the "market," cheapening a couple of pigs, or a dozen scraggy
fowls, will have spent double the money he has saved in the bargain,
in rum and six-penny ale, ere he gets home again; and even a wholesale
deal in evening journals, between two youths in the street, requires
to be "wetted." Very sad is it not? But, as anything which I--who am
popularly supposed to be something resembling a roysterer, but who
am in reality one of the most discreet of those who enjoy life--can
write is not likely to work a change in the system which obtains
amongst English-speaking nations, perhaps the sooner I get on with the
programme the better. Later on I may revert to the subject.

Amongst daylight (and midnight, for the matter of that) drinks, the
COCKTAIL, that fascinating importation from Dollarland, holds a
prominent place. This is a concoction for which, with American bars
all over the Metropolis, the cockney does not really require any
recipe. But as I trust to have some country readers, a few directions
may be appended.

                          _Brandy Cocktail._

     One wine-glassful of old brandy, six drops of Angostura
     bitters, and twenty drops of curaçoa, in a small tumbler--all
     cocktails should be made in a small silver tumbler--shake, and
     pour into glass tumbler, then fill up with crushed ice. Put a
     shred of lemon peel atop.

                        _Champagne Cocktail._

     One teaspoonful of sifted sugar, ten drops of Angostura
     bitters, a small slice of pine-apple, and a shred of lemon
     peel. Strain into glass tumbler, add crushed ice, and as much
     champagne as the tumbler will hold. Mix with a spoon.

                          _Bengal Cocktail._

     Fill tumbler half full of crushed ice. Add thirty drops of
     maraschino, one tablespoonful of pine-apple syrup, thirty drops
     of curaçoa, six drops of Angostura bitters, one wine-glassful
     of old brandy. Stir, and put a shred of lemon peel atop.

                         _Milford Cocktail._

                      (Dedicated to Mr. Jersey.)

     Put into a half-pint tumbler a couple of lumps of best
     ice, one teaspoonful of sifted sugar, one teaspoonful of orange
     bitters, half a wine-glassful of brandy. Top up with bottled
     cider, and mix with a spoon. Serve with a strawberry, and a
     sprig of verbena atop.

                        _Manhattan Cocktail._

     Half a wine-glassful of vermouth (Italian), half a
     wine-glassful of rye whisky (according to the American recipe,
     though, personally, I prefer Scotch), ten drops of Angostura
     bitters, and six drops of curaçoa. Add ice, shake well, and
     strain. Put a shred of lemon peel atop.

                         _Yum Yum Cocktail._

     Break the yolk of a new-laid egg into a small tumbler, and
     put a teaspoonful of sugar on it. Then six drops of Angostura
     bitters, a wine-glassful of sherry, and half a wine-glassful
     of brandy. Shake all well together, and strain. Dust a very
     little cinnamon over the top.

                           _Gin Cocktail._

     Ten drops of Angostura bitters, one wine-glassful of gin,
     ten drops of curaçoa, one shred of lemon peel. Fill up with
     ice, shake, and strain.

                         _Newport Cocktail._

     Put two lumps of ice and a small _slice_ of lemon into
     the tumbler, add six drops of Angostura bitters, half a
     wine-glassful of noyau, and a wine-glassful of brandy. Stir
     well, and serve with peel atop.

                         _Saratoga Cocktail._

     This is a more important affair, and requires a large
     tumbler for the initial stage. One teaspoonful of pine-apple
     syrup, ten drops of Angostura bitters, one teaspoonful of
     maraschino, and a wine-glassful of old brandy. Nearly fill the
     tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. Then place a couple
     of strawberries in a small tumbler, strain the liquid on them,
     put in a strip of lemon peel, and top up with champagne.

                          _Whisky Cocktail._

     Put into a small tumbler ten drops of Angostura bitters,
     and one wine-glassful of Scotch whisky. Fill the tumbler with
     crushed ice, shake well, strain into a large wine-glass, and
     place a strip of peel atop.

But the ordinary British "bar-cuddler"--as he is called in the
slang of the day--recks not of cocktails, nor, indeed, of Columbian
combinations of any sort. He has his own particular "vanity," and
frequently a pet name for it. "Gin-and-angry-story" (Angostura),
"slow-and-old" (sloe-gin and Old Tom), "pony o' Burton, please
miss," are a few of the demands the attentive listener may hear
given. Orange-gin, gin-and-orange-gin, gin-and-sherry (O bile where
is thy sting?), are favourite midday "refreshers"; and I have
heard a well-known barrister call for "a split Worcester" (a small
wine-glassful of Worcester sauce with a split soda), without a smile
on his expressive countenance. "Small lem. and a dash" is a favourite
summer beverage, and, withal, a harmless one, consisting of a small
bottle of lemonade with about an eighth of a pint of bitter ale added
thereto. In one old-fashioned hostelry I wot of--the same in which
the chair of the late Doctor Samuel Johnson is on view--customers who
require to be stimulated with gin call for "rack," and Irish whisky
is known by none other name than "Cork." The habitual "bar-cuddler"
usually rubs his hands violently together, as he requests a little
attention from the presiding Hebe; and affects a sort of shocked
surprise at the presence on the scene of any one of his friends or
acquaintances. He is well-up, too, in the slang phraseology of the
day, which he will ride to death on every available opportunity. Full
well do I remember him in the "How's your poor feet?" era; and it
seems but yesterday that he was informing the company in assertive
tones, "Now we _shan't_ be long!" The "free lunch" idea of the
Yankees is only thoroughly carried out in the "North Countree,"
where, at the best hotels, there is often a great bowl of soup, or
a dish of jugged hare, or of Irish stew, _pro bono publico_; and by
_publico_ is implied the hotel directorate as well as the customers.
In London, however, the free lunch seldom soars above salted almonds,
coffee beans, cloves, with biscuits and American cheese. But at
most refreshment-houses is to be obtained for cash some sort of a
restorative sandwich, or _bonne bouche_, in the which anchovies and
hard-boiled eggs play leading parts; and amongst other restorative
food, I have noticed that parallelograms of cold Welsh rarebit are
exceedingly popular amongst wine-travellers and advertisement-agents.
The genius who propounded the statement that "there is nothing like
leather" could surely never have sampled a cold Welsh rarebit!

                          _Bosom Caresser._

     Put into a small tumbler one wine-glassful of sherry,
     half a wine-glassful of old brandy, the yolk of an egg, two
     teaspoonfuls of sugar, and two grains of cayenne pepper; add
     crushed ice, shake well, strain, and dust over with nutmeg and
     cinnamon.

                            _A Nicobine_,

(or "Knickerbein" as I have seen it spelt), used to be a favourite
"short" drink in Malta, and consisted of the yolk of an egg (intact)
in a wine-glass with _layers_ of curaçoa, maraschino, and green
chartreuse; the liquors not allowed to mix with one another. The
"knickerbein" recipe differs materially from this, as brandy is
substituted for chartreuse, and the ingredients are shaken up and
strained, the white of the egg being whisked and placed atop. But,
either way, you will get a good, bile-provoking mixture. In the

                            _West Indies_,

     if you thirst for a rum and milk, cocoa-nut milk is the
     "only wear"; and a very delicious potion it is. A favourite
     mixture in Jamaica was the juice of a "star" apple, the juice
     of an orange, a wine-glassful of sherry, and a dust of nutmeg.
     I never heard a name given to this.

                            _Bull's Milk._

This is a comforting drink for summer or winter. During the latter
season, instead of adding ice, the mixture may be heated.

     One teaspoonful of sugar in a _large_ tumbler, half-a-pint
     of milk, half a wine-glassful of rum, a wine-glassful of
     brandy; add ice, shake well, strain, and powder with cinnamon
     and nutmeg.

                            _Fairy Kiss._

     Put into a small tumbler the juice of a quarter of lemon,
     a quarter of a wine-glassful each of the following:--Vanilla
     syrup, curaçoa, yellow chartreuse, brandy. Add ice, shake, and
     strain.

                        _Flash of Lightning._

     One-third of a wine-glassful each of the following, in a
     small tumbler:--Raspberry syrup, curaçoa, brandy, and three
     drops of Angostura bitters. Add ice, shake and strain.

                             _Flip Flap._

     One wine-glassful of milk in a small tumbler, one
     well-beaten egg, a little sugar, and a wine-glassful of port.
     Ice, shake, strain, and sprinkle with cinnamon and nutmeg.

                          _Maiden's Blush._

     Half a wine-glassful of sherry in a small tumbler, a
     quarter of a wine-glassful of strawberry syrup, and a little
     lemon juice. Add ice, and a little raspberry syrup. Shake, and
     drink through straws.

                            _Athole Brose_

is compounded, according to a favourite author, in the following
manner:--

     "Upon virgin honeycombs you pour, according to their
     amount, the oldest French brandy and the most indisputable
     Scotch whisky in equal proportions. You allow this goodly
     mixture to stand for days in a large pipkin in a cool place,
     and it is then strained and ready for drinking. Epicures drop
     into the jug, by way of imparting artistic finish, a small
     fragment of the honeycomb itself. This I deprecate."

                           _Tiger's Milk._

     Small tumbler. Half a wine-glassful each of cider and
     Irish whisky, a wine-glassful of peach brandy. Beat up
     separately the white of an egg with a little sugar, and add
     this. Fill up the tumbler with ice; shake, and strain. Add half
     a tumbler of milk, and grate a little nutmeg atop.

                              _Wyndham._

     Large tumbler. Equal quantities (a liqueur glass of each)
     of maraschino, curaçoa, brandy, with a little orange peel,
     and sugar. Add a glass of champagne, and a _small_ bottle of
     seltzer water. Ice, and mix well together. Stir with a spoon.

                            _Happy Eliza._

     Put into a skillet twelve fresh dried figs cut open, four
     apples cut into slices without peeling, and half a pound of
     loaf sugar, broken small. Add two quarts of water, boil for
     twenty minutes, strain through a--where's the brandy? Stop!
     I've turned over two leaves, and got amongst the _Temperance
     Drinks_. Rein back!

                            _Mint Julep._

     This, properly made, is the most delicious of all American
     beverages. It is mixed in a large tumbler, in the which are
     placed, first of all, two and a half tablespoonfuls of water,
     one tablespoonful of sugar (crushed), and two or three sprigs
     of mint, which should be pressed, with a spoon or crusher,
     into the sugar and water to extract the flavour. Add two
     wine-glassfuls of old brandy--_now_ we shan't be long--fill up
     with powdered ice, shake well, get the mint to the top of the
     tumbler, stalks down, and put a few strawberries and slices
     of orange atop. Shake in a little rum, last of all, and drink
     through straws.

                              _Possets._

                   (An eighteenth-century recipe.)

     "Take three gills of sweet cream, a grated rind of lemon,
     and juice thereof, three-quarters of a pint of sack or Rhenish
     wine. Sweeten to your taste with loaf sugar, then beat in a
     bowl with a whisk for one hour, and fill your glasses and
     drink to the king."

We are tolerably loyal in this our time; still it is problematical if
there exist man or woman in Merry England, in our day who would whisk
a mixture for sixty minutes by the clock, even with the prospect of
drinking to the reigning monarch.

                            _Brandy Sour._

     This is simplicity itself. A teaspoonful of sifted
     sugar in a small tumbler, a little lemon rind and juice, one
     wine-glassful of brandy. Fill nearly up with crushed ice, shake
     and strain. WHISKY SOUR is merely Scotch whisky treated in the
     same kind, open-handed manner, with the addition of a few drops
     of raspberry syrup.

                            _Blue Blazer._

     Don't be frightened; there is absolutely no danger.
     Put into a silver mug, or jug, previously heated, two
     wine-glassfuls of overproof (or proof) Scotch whisky, and one
     wine-glassful of _boiling_ water. Set the liquor on fire, and
     pass the blazing liquor into another mug, also well heated.
     Pass to and fro, and serve in a tumbler, with a lump of
     sugar and a little thin lemon peel. Be very particular not
     to drop any of the blazer on the cat, or the hearth-rug, or
     the youngest child. This drink would, I should think, have
     satisfied the aspirations of Mr. Daniel Quilp.

One of the most wholesome of all "refreshers," is a simple liquor,
distilled from black-currants, and known to our lively neighbours as

                              _Cassis._

This syrup can be obtained in the humblest _cabaret_ in France; but
we have to thank the eccentric and illogical ways of our Customs
Department for its absence from most of our own wine lists. The duty
is so prohibitive--being half as much again as that levied on French
brandy--that it would pay nobody but said Customs Department to import
it into England; and yet the amount of alcohol contained in cassis is
infinitesimal. Strange to say nobody has ever started a cassis still
on this side. One would imagine that the process would be simplicity
itself; as the liquor is nothing but cold black-currant tea, with a
suspicion of alcohol in it.

                            _Sligo Slop._

     This is an Irish delight. The juice of ten lemons,
     strained, ten tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, one quart
     of John Jameson's oldest and best whisky, and two port
     wine-glassfuls of curaçoa, all mixed together. Let the
     mixture stand for a day or two, and then bottle. This should
     be drunk neat, in liqueur-glasses, and is said to be most
     effectual "jumping-powder." It certainly reads conducive to
     timber-topping.

Take it altogether the daylight drink is a mistake. It is simply ruin
to appetite; it is more expensive than those who indulge therein
are aware of at the time. It ruins the nerves, sooner or later; it
is _not_ conducive to business, unless for those whose heads are
especially hard; and it spoils the palate for the good wine which is
poured forth later on. The precept cannot be too widely laid down, too
fully known:

                    _Do not drink between Meals!_

Better, far better the three-bottle-trick of our ancestors, than the
"gin-crawl" of to-day.

                             CHAPTER XXI

                   GASTRONOMY IN FICTION AND DRAMA

                   "Let me not burst in ignorance."

                 "A chiel's amang ye, taking notes."

     Thomas Carlyle--Thackeray--Harrison Ainsworth--Sir
     Walter Scott--Miss Braddon--Marie Corelli--F. C.
     Philips--Blackmore--Charles Dickens--_Pickwick_ reeking
     with alcohol--Brandy and oysters--_Little Dorrit_--_Great
     Expectations_--Micawber as a punch-maker--_David
     Copperfield_--"Practicable" food on the stage--"Johnny" Toole's
     story of Tiny Tim and the goose.

Considering the number of books which have been published during the
nineteenth century, it is astonishing how few of them deal with eating
and drinking. We read of a banquet or two, certainly, in the works of
the divine William, but no particulars as to the _cuisine_ are entered
into. "Cold Banquo" hardly sounds appetising. Thomas Carlyle was a
notorious dyspeptic, so it is no cause for wonderment that he did not
bequeath to posterity the recipes for a dainty dish or two, or a good
Derby Day "Cup." Thackeray understood but little about cookery, nor
was Whyte Melville much better versed in the mysteries of the kitchen.
Harrison Ainsworth touched lightly on gastronomy occasionally, whilst
Charles Lamb, Sydney Smith, and others (blessings light on the man who
invented the phrase "and others") delighted therein. Miss Braddon has
slurred it over hitherto, and Marie Corelli scorns all mention of any
refreshment but absinthe--a weird liquid which is altogether absent
from these pages. In the lighter novels of Mr. F. C. Philips, there
is but little mention of solid food except devilled caviare, which
sounds nasty; but most of Mr. Philips's men, and all his women, drink
to excess--principally champagne, brandy, and green chartreuse. And
one of his heroines is a firm believer in the merits of cognac as a
"settler" of champagne.

According to Mr. R. D. Blackmore, the natives of Exmoor did themselves
particularly well, in the seventeenth century. In that most delightful
romance _Lorna Doone_ is a description of a meal set before Tom
Faggus, the celebrated highwayman, by the Ridd family, at Plover's
Barrows:--

     "A few oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham
     and eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collops
     of venison toasted, and next a little cold roast pig, and a
     woodcock on toast to finish with."

This meal was washed down with home-brewed ale, followed by Schiedam
and hot water.

One man, and one man alone, who has left his name printed deep on the
sands of time as a writer, thoroughly revelled in the mighty subjects
of eating and drinking. Need his name be mentioned? What is, after
all, the great secret of the popularity of

                          _Charles Dickens_

as a novelist? His broad, generous views on the subject of meals, as
expressed through the mouths of most of the characters in his works;
as also the homely nature of such meals, and the good and great deeds
to which they led. I once laid myself out to count the number of times
that alcoholic refreshment is mentioned in some of the principal
works of the great author; and the record, for _Pickwick_ alone, was
sufficient to sweep from the surface of the earth, with its fiery
breath, the entire Blue Ribbon Army. Mr. Pickwick was what would
be called nowadays a "moderate drinker." That is to say, he seldom
neglected an "excuse for a lotion," nor did he despise the "daylight
drink." But we only read of his being overcome by his potations on
two occasions; after the cricket dinner at Muggleton, and after the
shooting luncheon on Captain Boldwig's ground. And upon the latter
occasion I am convinced that the hot sun had far more to do with his
temporary obfuscation than the cold punch. Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen
were by no means exaggerated types of the medical students of the
time. The "deputy sawbones" of to-day writes pamphlets, drinks coffee,
and pays his landlady every Saturday. And it was a happy touch of
Dickens to make Sawyer and Allen eat oysters, and wash them down with
neat brandy, before breakfast. I have known medical students, aye!
and full-blown surgeons too, who would commit equally daring acts;
although I doubt much if they would have shone at the breakfast-table
afterwards, or on the ice later in the day. For the effect exercised
by brandy on oysters is pretty well known to science.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead as not to appreciate the
delights of Dingley Dell? Free trade and other horrors have combined
to crush the British yeoman of to-day; but we none the less delight
to read of him as he was, and I do not know a better cure for an
attack of "blue devils"--or should it be "black dog?"--than a good
dose of Dingley Dell. The wholesale manner in which Mr. Wardle
takes possession of the Pickwickians--only one of whom he knows
intimately--for purposes of entertainment, is especially delightful,
and worthy of imitation; and I can only regret the absence of a good,
cunningly-mixed "cup" at the picnic after the Chatham review. The wine
drunk at this picnic would seem to have been sherry; as there was not
such a glut of "the sparkling" in those good old times. And the prompt
way in which "Emma" is commanded to "bring out the cherry brandy,"
before his guests have been two minutes in the house, bespeaks the
character of dear old Wardle in once. "The Leathern Bottle," a
charming old-world hostelry in that picturesque country lying between
Rochester and Cobham, would hardly have been in existence now, let
alone doing a roaring trade, but for the publication of _Pickwick_;
and the notion of the obese Tupman solacing himself for blighted hopes
and taking his leave of the world on a diet of roast fowl bacon, ale,
etc., is unique. The bill-of-fare at the aforementioned shooting
luncheon might not, perhaps, satisfy the aspirations of Sir Mota Kerr,
or some other _nouveau riche_ of to-day, but there was plenty to eat
and drink. Here is the list, in Mr. Samuel Weller's own words:

"Weal pie, tongue: a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's: bread,
knuckle o' ham, reg'lar picter, cold beef in slices; wery good. What's
in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?"

"Beer in this one," replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple
of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap, "cold
punch in t'other."

"And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether," said
Mr. Weller.

Possibly; though cold beef in slices would be apt to get rather dryer
than was desirable on a warm day. And milk punch hardly seems the sort
of tipple to encourage accuracy of aim.

Mrs. Bardell's notion of a nice little supper we gather from the same
immortal work, was "a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted
cheese." The pettitoes were presumably simmered in milk, and the
cheese was, undoubtedly, "browning away most delightfully in a little
Dutch oven in front of the fire." Most of us will smack our lips after
this description; though details are lacking as to the contents of the
"black bottle" which was produced from "a small closet." But amongst
students of _Pickwick_, "Old Tom" is a hot favourite.

The Deputy Shepherd's particular "vanity" appears to have been
buttered toast and reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, which sounds
like swimming-in-the-head; and going straight through the book, we
next pause at the description of the supper given by the medical
students, at their lodgings in the Borough, to the Pickwickians.

"The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been
told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster
with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in
this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which
was from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar
predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the
cheese went a great way, for it was very strong."

Probably the oysters had not been paid for in advance, and the man
imagined that they would be returned upon his hands none the worse.
For at that time--as has been remarked before, in this volume on
gastronomy--the knowledge that an oyster baked in his own shells, in
the middle of a clear fire, is an appetising dish, does not appear to
have been universal.

It is questionable if a supper consisting of a boiled leg of mutton
"with the usual trimmings" would have satisfied the taste of the
"gentleman's gentleman" of to-day, who is a hypercritic, if anything;
but let that supper be taken as read. Also let it be noted that the
appetite of the redoubtable Pickwick never seems to have failed him,
even in the sponging-house--five to one can be betted that those
chops were _fried_--or in the Fleet Prison itself. And mention of
this establishment recalls the extravagant folly of Job Trotter
(who of all men ought to have known better) in purchasing "a small
piece of raw loin of mutton" for the refection of himself and ruined
master; when for the same money he could surely have obtained a
sufficiency of bullock's cheek or liver, potatoes, and onions, to
provide dinner for three days. _Vide_ the "Kent Road Cookery," in one
of my earlier chapters. The description of the journeys from Bristol
to Birmingham, and back to London, absolutely reeks with food and
alcohol; and it has always smacked of the mysterious to myself how Sam
Weller, a pure Cockney, could have known so much of the capacities
of the various hostelries on the road. Evidently his knowledge of
other places besides London was "peculiar." Last scene of all in
_Pickwick_ requiring mention here, is the refection given to Mr.
Solomon Pell in honour of the proving of the late Dame Weller's last
will and testament. "Porter, cold beef, and oysters," were some of the
incidents of that meal, and we read that "the coachman with the hoarse
voice took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without
betraying the least emotion."

It is also set down that brandy and water, as usual in this history,
followed the oysters; but we are not told if any of those coachmen
ever handled the ribbons again, or if Mr. Solomon Pell spent his
declining days in the infirmary.

In fact, there are not many chapters in Charles Dickens' works in
which the knife and fork do not play prominent parts. The food is,
for the most part, simple and homely; the seed sown in England by
the fairy _Ala_ had hardly begun to germinate at the time the novels
were written. Still there is, naturally, a suspicion of _Ala_ at the
very commencement of _Little Dorrit_, the scene being laid in the
Marseilles prison, where Monsieur Rigaud feasts off Lyons sausage,
veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good claret,
the while his humble companion, Signor John Baptist, has to content
himself with stale bread, through reverses at gambling with his fellow
prisoner. After that, there is no mention of a "square meal" until we
get to Mr. Casby's, the "Patriarch." "Everything about the patriarchal
household," we are told, "promoted quiet digestion"; and the dinner
mentioned began with "some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of
shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes." Rare old Casby! "Mutton, a
steak, and an apple pie"--and presumably cheese--furnished the more
solid portion of the banquet, which appears to have been washed down
with porter and sherry wine, and enlivened by the inconsequent remarks
of "Mr. F.'s Aunt."

In _Great Expectations_ occurs the celebrated banquet at the Chateau
Gargery on Christmas Day, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and
greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, a handsome mince pie, and a
plum-pudding. The absence of the savoury pork-pie, and the presence
of tar-water in the brandy are incidents at that banquet familiar
enough to Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., and other close students
of Dickens, whose favourite dinner-dish would appear to have been a
fowl, stuffed or otherwise, roast or boiled.

In _Oliver Twist_ we get casual mention of oysters, sheep's heads, and
a rabbit pie, with plenty of alcohol; but the bill of fare, on the
whole, is not an appetising one. The meat and drink at the Maypole
Hotel, in _Barnaby Rudge_, would appear to have been deservedly
popular; and the description of Gabriel Varden's breakfast is
calculated to bring water to the most callous mouth:

"Over and above the ordinary tea equipage the board creaked beneath
the weight of a jolly round of beef, a ham of the first magnitude,
and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice