A MOST curious dream haunted my mind throughout the night, one of those indescribable phantasmagorian illusions which set all the vibrations of the heart at work without moving the frame, or in imagination only, quite depriving our senses for the time of the true sense of existence. Scarcely had the first gleam of Aurora peeped through my curtains, than a double knock was heard at the street door, apprising me that the time for rising had come, and forthwith brought back my wandering senses to the realities of human life: a minute after, a friend popped into my dressing-room, exclaiming, “Hallo! so you are going to the seat of the war, I hear.”

“The seat of the war! who told you so?”

“Why, the Times, to be sure; I have just read your letter, which, at all events, is very likely to carry you as far as Constantinople.”

“You don’t say so! What! is my letter in the Times to-day?”

“Of course it is,” he replied.

“I sent it so late last night, I did not suppose it could appear till to-morrow, if at all.”

“They would not have inserted it, arriving so late, I assure you, had they not thought it of great importance, and that you were likely to improve the hospital diets. No doubt you will soon set them to rights. I read the article, and must say I was much pleased when I saw your letter, and that is what brought me here so early: but mind, it is a long journey, and rather a dangerous one.”

“Well, my dear friend, if Government honour me with their confidence, I shall be happy to start immediately, and rough it for a short time—say a couple of months, which will be about the time required.”

“My opinion is, that you will soon hear from the authorities.”

“I say again, they are perfectly welcome to my humble services.”

“Are you going out this morning?”

“Yes, I am; excuse my shaving.”

“Oh, by all means; which way are you going?”

“Anywhere but to a wintry place.”

“Where’s that—Gravesend or Margate?”

“Oh dear, no—Virginia Water.”

“To stay?”

“No; only to settle a few important matters there, prior to my departure for Paris.”

“You were there the best part of last summer.”

“So I was; who told you that?”

“Don’t you recollect the party you gave there, when Messrs. R—— and ladies were present, with myself, my wife, and two daughters? We never enjoyed such a day in our lives; it really was a splendid affair altogether; and what an excellent dinner you gave us in the open air, in the long avenue of beech trees facing the lake! I shall not forget it as long as I live—I may say we, for my young ones often talk about it. There were about twenty-four guests—you recollect, of course?”

“Certainly I do now, and what a lovely day it was!”

“Never saw a finer,” said my friend; “the ladies walked round the lake without their bonnets, and with nothing but their parasols to screen them from the sun. But I tell you who was most amusing amongst the party—that old Yorkshire farmer.”

“Ha, ha! old Lawrence—he is a squire now, if you please, and has retired. He was very kind to me on the occasion of the grand agricultural dinner at Exeter; the ox I roasted whole upon that occasion came from his farm; it was roasted by gas, and in the castle yard.”

“Ah, I recollect seeing an engraving of it in the Illustrated London News; I can’t help laughing when I think of the old man, for at every fresh dish of which he partook—and he tasted a good many—he exclaimed—‘Well! hang me, if I know what stuff I am eating, but it’s precious good!’”

“I know he is very eccentric; he stayed with me nearly a week, and really made me laugh heartily with his genuine repartee. He is a good and a charitable man, I assure you. I taught his housekeeper how to make cheap soup while I was at his residence, and ever since the old gentleman has given it four times a-week to the poor round his small estate, during the winter season.”

“I know the soup you mean. I cut the receipt from the paper in the year ‘47, at the time of the famine in Ireland, when you were sent there by Government.”

“Exactly.”

“We tried it ourselves; and my wife’s mother has ever since given it throughout the winter to about twelve or fifteen poor people. The old lady was at first obliged to make it herself, her cook saying that no soup could be made with such a small quantity of meat. She would not even attempt to make it.”

“I believe you; but those people are not aware that in Scotland, where the strongest people in the British dominions are to be found, and especially in the Highlands, they live principally upon oatmeal porridge and vegetables, partaking of a very small portion of animal food;—and did you ever see a finer carnation cheek, or purer blood, than that which flows through the frame of a Scotch lassie, or in the veins of the descendants of the Bruce?”

“No, never; not even on the Continent. But, to return to the receipts: I would advise you to publish them. They would be eagerly purchased, and would render greater service. You must be aware that a slip from a newspaper is often lost.”

“Very true; and I intend to give a series of new receipts on food for the poor, still more simplified.”[2]

“With reference to our conversation about old Lawrence: no doubt he is a good fellow, and a genuine rough diamond into the bargain.”

“Yes,” said I, “and you may add, of the finest water. By the bye, didn’t he go to bed rather top-heavy?”

“Ah, that he did, and fancied himself at home blowing up his old woman, as he calls her, for having let the cat into the dairy, and being unable to find his gun to shoot her. What most astonished the old boy, he told me on the coach next morning on our way to London, was having no headache and feeling as hungry as a hunter—as I did myself. He made sure, after such a mixture of dishes, wines, liquors, and spirits of all kinds, that he should be ill and unable to eat anything for a couple of days. Quite the contrary, however: when at Staines, we made a hearty breakfast at the hotel; and for my part, I never felt better in my life.”

“And do you know,” I replied, “I should have been surprised if my dinner had produced the contrary effect; rest assured, that a dinner well conceived and properly executed, coupled with well-selected beverages, is more than half digested. As Hippocrates says, very justly, ‘What pleases the palate nourishes;’ and we may add, greatly helps to accelerate the digestion when properly cooked. The palate alone can relish the charm of degustation, and only feels satiated when the stomach, being the working organ, refuses to deal with improper food, never failing to acquaint you physically of its ill treatment, both as regards ill-cooked food or bad beverages. Now, to illustrate this argument more forcibly, I would wager that I could give a first-class indigestion to the greatest gourmet, even while using the most recherchÉ provisions, without his being able to detect any fault in the preparation of the dishes of which he had partaken; and this simply by improperly classifying the condiments used in the preparation; thus deceiving the cleverest doctors and the finest palate by a mere counterbalance of unctuous seasoning, which no doubt caused the celebrated Leibnitz to say, in his treatise upon the chemistry of food, now translated into English, and to which I have already referred in my Shilling Cookery Book, ‘That among all the arts known to man, there is none which enjoys a juster appreciation, and the products of which are more universally admired, than that which is concerned in the preparation of our food. Led by an instinct which has almost reached the dignity of conscious knowledge, as the unerring guide, and by the sense of taste, which protects the health, the experienced cook, with respect to the choice, admixture, and preparation of food, has made acquisitions surpassing all that chemical and physiological science have done in regard to the doctrine or theory of nutrition.’”

“Well, no doubt if the celebrated Leibnitz, who is considered one of the greatest authorities of the age, says so, you cannot be wrong, having had so much practice in the culinary art.”

“I also maintain that with the simplest and cheapest of all aliments, when in good condition, I have turned out a most wholesome and palatable food, quite worthy of the most refined palate, or of that of the initiated epicure. For instance, if only first-class provisions could be converted into succulent dishes, the gastronomic bill of fare of this sublunary world would indeed be so limited that more than two-thirds of its inhabitants would be classified as martyrs to the Mageric art—or, more plainly speaking, martyrs to the science of cookery—a too often neglected art, though of daily requirement; for, believe me, the everlasting pleasures of the table, which favour all ages, are not only the basis of good health when properly managed, but also the soul of sociability, not merely in high circles, but in every class of society, no matter how humble, the stomach of each individual having been nursed according to rank and wealth. Those most to be pitied are the real epicures of limited means, or the wealthy man without appetite or of bad digestion. The proverb is quite correct, ‘What the eye does not see the heart cannot grieve;’ and appetite being the best of sauce, will cause the coarsest food to be digested with delight by a robust stomach. By the same rule, what is more relished by our noble epicure than a dry sandwich or a coarse crust of bread and cheese at a farmhouse after a hard day’s sport?”

“Upon my word, you are perfectly right; appetite is really the best of sauce, for I often make a good and hearty supper upon baked potatoes, a little salt, and butter.”

“Now, my friend, I am ready to start; come with me—it is a fine frosty morning, and will do you good—come on.”

“I wish I could, but my City business is very heavy this morning, so I must decline; besides, we have a railway meeting called for three o’clock at the London Tavern.”

“Master, here’s a Hansom coming this way; shall I call it?”

“Yes, Annette, that’s a good girl.” I shook hands with my friend, and jumped into the cab—“I say, coachman, look sharp and drive to the Windsor railway station; I fear I shall miss the special train.”

“No, you will not,” said my friend, looking at his watch, “you have full twenty minutes; good-bye, a pleasant journey.”

“Well, adieu! I shall see you some evening at Jullien’s or Drury Lane Theatre.”

“Very probably.”

“Stay a minute, cabby;”—to the servant—“Annette, put any letters which may come on my desk; if anybody calls, say I shall be here to-morrow or next day at the latest.”

“Very well, sir, I will do so.”

On my arrival at the station, I merely had time to take my ticket and run to the train, which was just on the move. In a few seconds we were flying over rows of houses like vampires, leaving the then desolate Royal property, Vauxhall tumble-down theatre, with its skeleton firework frame, on the left. We passed through Chiswick, Barnes, Mortlake, Kew, with its toyish pagoda, leaving to the left Richmond, with its picturesque banks, cheerful villas, heroine of the hill, and its exquisite maids of honour; at the same time crossing the Thames, cheerfully smiling beneath us in its serpentine bed. Its limpid currents flowed merrily downwards to the mighty ocean through green bushes, aquatic plants, and the alabaster-coloured plumage of hundreds of swans. In twenty-five minutes we arrived at Staines station. I descended and immediately ascended again, but on the top of the Virginia Water coach, which generally waits for the special train. “Very frosty this morning, coachman.”

“Hallo, Mr. Soyer! is that you? We have not seen you God knows how long. I suppose you have left us for good now?”

“No, not quite; but your flat and unpicturesque country looks so dull and unsociable at this time of year.”

“Then you prefer town just now?” said he.

“I certainly do; there is always something to be seen there, and to keep one alive, morning, noon, and night.”

“Very true, Mr. Soyer; we are very dull here in winter.” The top of the coach was loaded with passengers. “Well, boy, what are you about below?”

“All right, coachman,” cried the parcel-boy. “Pst! pst! Go it, my Britons!”

We were now at full trot, the north wind in our faces, and a kind of heavy sleet, which in a few minutes changed the colour of our noses to a deep crimson, very much like the unfashionable colour of beet-root, freezing our whiskers and moustaches like sugar-candy, but by no means quite so sweet-tasted. By way of a joke, I said to the coachman, “This is the good old English way of travelling, is it not?”

“That it is, sir; and I’m very glad to see you know how to appreciate it. Talk about your railways, it’s perfect nonsense compared with a good four-in-hand coach, sir.” As he said this, he whipped his horses, “Pst! go ahead, my true blue! I recollect the good old time when we took from fourteen to fifteen hours from London to Dover, changing horses and drinking your glass of grog at almost every inn on the road—in fact, enjoying ourselves all night, especially when the widow was out.”

“What widow?” said I.

“The moon, to be sure!”

“That is a bright idea of yours. I was not aware the pale queen of night was a widow.”

“Lord bless you, sir, she must be a widow, for she always comes out alone, and keeps very late hours; a maid or a married woman can’t do that, you know,” said he, laughing heartily.

“If your remark is not correct, it is at all events very original.”

“But to come back to coach-travelling—then you really knew if you were travelling or stopping at home; while now they pack you up under lock and key, in strong wooden boxes, such as we keep our horses in at the stable; and at the head of them they have a kind of long iron saveloy, full of nothing, which runs away with the lot like mad, belching and swearing all the way, taking sights at us poor coachmen just so,” putting his hand to his nose, “when we go by, as though we were a set of ragamuffins. Call that a gentlemanly way of travelling, sir! They make fun of all the passengers who are a little behind time, saying the like of this: ‘Don’t you wish you may get it?’ If you drop anything by accident, the deuce a bit will they stop to pick it up; and you are no sooner in than they turn you out, and pocket your money without blushing, the same as though they had dragged you about from morning till night, as we used to do in the good old time. That was indeed money honestly earned, sir!”

“There certainly is a great deal of truth in your argument,” said I, laughing at his devotion to his old business.

“Is it not brimful of truth, sir?”

“Of course it is!” I was by this time about half frozen.

“Ah, sir, you’re a gentleman, and know life as well as I do. Depend upon it, sir, coach-travelling is the best after all—no danger of being smashed to pieces or of breaking your limbs. Not the slightest accident ever can happen. Hallo!” said he, stopping the horses short, “what the deuce is the matter with that horse? Look out, Bob!”

“Yes, sir; the old trace is broke again.”

“The deuce it is! Well, we must mend it.”

“You can’t—it’s broke in a fresh place, and we have no rope here.” The coachman getting down, unceremoniously threw the reins to me. “Hold them fast, sir.”

“Well, well, my lad, you must run back and fetch another.” The snow was then falling heavily, and we had not got more than a mile on the road. In about forty minutes the boy returned, perspiring terribly, though covered with snow.

“I’ve not been long, coachman, have I?”

“Not been long, my lad—why, my cargo is nearly frozen to death!”

“You’re right, coachman,” said an old gentleman. “And I promise you I will never travel by your coach again. This is the second time this month.”

“Well, sir, we are not travelling now—we are at a stand-still, and no mistake.”

“You may joke, but I don’t like it.”

“No more do I,” said coachman; “so we are of the same opinion.” At this we all laughed, except the old gentleman.

In a short time all was right again. The coachman had resumed his important position as well as the reins, which I abdicated to my great satisfaction, and we were on the move. “Very slippery, governor; my horses can scarcely keep their feet. Thank God, we are not in a hurry; we can do the journey much more comfortably.”

“Excuse me,” said I, “if I do not hold exactly the same opinion as I did just now about the railway.”

“My dear sir, are you in a hurry?” he asked.

“Yes, I am, and very cold besides.”

“What a pity you did not say so before! I should have made my stud fly, and beat to atoms that fussy stuff they call steam.”

“That’s a good man; show off a bit.”

“Pst! pst! pst! Look out for a full charge, Cossack; fly away, Cannon-ball. Pst! pst! that’s it, lads.” We were now nearly at a gallop.

“Coachman,” said I, “I see that your horses have martial names, if they have not a very martial appearance. Pray, who gave them such warlike titles?”

“The boys in the stable, sir. Everybody dreams of war now, sir; the very air we breathe smells of powder. Don’t you think so, sir?”

“No, I think it smells of cheese.”

“By-the-bye, there’s a basket of cheese for that foreign gentleman who lives at Virginia Water. Jump up, boy, and move that basket of cheese from here.”

We arrived at Wimbledon Common, and stopped to take up parcels and boxes, during which time the coachman pointed out to the old country gentleman with whom he had the argument, the window of the room where Cournet, the French officer of Marines, and the opponent of BarthÉlemy, who had just been hanged, died after the Windsor duel. He was saying that since BarthÉlemy had been hanged the house was no longer haunted, and that the pool of blood, which never could be washed out, had suddenly disappeared.

“Marvellous!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “I never heard anything like that in my life.”

“No more did I,” said our witty coachman, winking at me. The boy now called over the various parcels, and Cossack went off as fast as a cannon-ball. We made a few more stoppages at Englefield Green, to deliver several scolding letters and parcels from mistresses to their servants having charge of the summer abodes of wealthy merchants who reside in London during the winter. At one house, during the unloading of two or three boxes and a child’s cradle, a tidy-looking girl, who was waiting till they were taken in, had opened her letter, over which she appeared very sulky. The coachman, perceiving this, said, smiling—“Any answer, Sally?”

“No!” said Sally. “Oh, yes; tell the old lady that I will not live with her any longer;” and the girl cried.

“What’s the matter?” said the coachman.

“She’s an old plague! there’s my Harry of the 46th has not been here these four months, and she writes to say she hears that he comes every day.”

“Of course not—how could he? he’s been gone to the war with his regiment ever since last September.”

Sally, crying still louder, and wiping her eyes with her apron, exclaimed, “Perhaps the poor fellow is killed by this time, and don’t care a fig about me.”

“Well, well, lass, never mind that; soldiers are used to it.”

“Do you think I shall ever see him again, Mr. Coachman?”

“No doubt, my lass, but you must wait a little longer; and when he does come back, if he has distinguished, instead of extinguished, himself, he will have the Crimean medal, and perhaps be made a colonel—captain—general—marshal—or even a corporal; who knows? in these war times, every brave man has a chance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coachman, you make me very happy—I shan’t cry any more.”

“But, Sally, am I to tell your mistress what you said?”

“Oh, dear, no! because I should lose my place; they are not such bad people after all, and master is so very kind to me.”

“I shall say nothing about it.”

“Pray, say nothing.”

“Pst, pst! now, my true blues, full speed for Virginia Water.” In twenty minutes we were before the very picturesque inn called the “Wheatsheaf;” every living soul came out to welcome us, thinking some accident had happened. There was the landlord, landlady, thin and bulky barmaids, house and kitchen maid, cook, pot and post boy, and a number of customers.

“What has happened that you are so late to-day?” said the landlord to the coachman.

“Nothing particular, governor; only a trace broke, and we had to fetch another: besides, the roads are very slippery.” To the barmaid—“Give us a light, girl, and a go of keep-me-warm.”

“Don’t believe him, sir,” exclaimed an old lady, who, upon the sudden stoppage when the trace broke, had a quarrel with the coachman. In opening the window violently, she broke it in twenty pieces; popping her head, half of which was covered with snow, out of the window—“He is a perfect brute,” said she; “he tried to upset us, and then would not move for above an hour at least—see the state I am in; is it not a great shame, a woman like me?”

“Well, madam,” said the landlord, “why don’t you shut the window?”

“What’s the use of pulling it up?—it’s broken in a thousand pieces, all through that nasty fellow!”

“I can assure you, madam, he bears a very good character with the gentry about here.”

The coachman, lighting his short pipe, and coming near them, said, “Don’t take notice of the old lady, she means no harm.”

“Don’t I, though! I say again, before everybody, you are a brute and a villain!”

“Go it, marm, go it,” said he, getting up. “It’s nothing new to me—my wife tells me that every day, which is partly the cause we have no family.” The favourite horse language of the coachman was again, heard—“Fly away to the assault like a set of Zouaves!” and in a few minutes nothing but a small black spot, resembling a fly crossing a sheet of paper, was seen running up the snow-covered hill which leads to the small village of Virginia Water.

I speedily joined the worthy and well-known landlord of the “Wheatsheaf”—Mr. Jennings, and his cheerful wife and barmaid; all of whom gave me a hearty country welcome, shaking my hands and arms in every direction ad libitum, in anticipation, no doubt, of my remembering them for a few days at all events. At the close of this gymnastic exercise, I requested them to give me some breakfast, in the small pavilion near the garden; also some pens, ink, and paper. My request was at once attended to.

“Do you intend to stay with us a few days, Mr. Soyer?” asked the landlord.

“No; I shall try and get back this evening, if possible—but to-morrow morning, at the latest. I only came to close a few pending accounts of my last summer’s stay at your lovely Virginia Water, and am going to Paris for the Exhibition, having been offered the superintendence of a large establishment.”

“But I hear that the Exhibition is postponed till next year.”

“So it is; but this is to be quite a new building, and erected close to the Exhibition, if we can get permission granted.”

“Good morning, sir; I shall see you before you leave. I am only going to the farm.”

“Yes, you will.”

I was sitting down to my breakfast, when, to my annoyance, as I had much business to transact, some one knocked at the door, and, without waiting for the reply, came in. It was the landlord, with a face full of anxiety and astonishment, his glasses raised to his forehead, a newspaper in his hand, and looking as serious as if he had just been married, or had lost one of his favourite pups. “I say, master,” said he, “do you mean it?”

“Mean what, man?”

“But now, really! do you mean it?”

“I’m puzzled to know to what you allude. Is it about my trip to Paris?”

“Paris! no, that has nothing to do with the letter of yours I have just read in the Times of this day.”

“Oh! now I understand you, and can easily account for your long face and evident astonishment.”

“Now you understand me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, allow me to tell you frankly that you are very foolish; you are not a military man, and have made the offer, it is true, very likely in a moment of enthusiasm; but plead any excuse you can to get out of it if you are sent for; remain where you are—‘Good folks are scarce,’ says the proverb.”

“Thanks to the proverb first, and you afterwards,” said I.

“And if you do go, it is a hundred to one against your returning.”

“Many thanks for your frank advice; but I am determined to go, and if Government send for me, I wish to be ready at a day’s notice; so sure I am that I can render some services to my fellow-creatures by so doing.”

“I have no doubt you can—but you may catch the fever, or God knows what besides! Why, they are dying by fifties and sixties a-day in the hospital at Scutari; look, here is the latest account, the names of the poor fellows defunct, and number of their regiments. There is no mistake in that.”

“I am aware of all that; but mind you, my firm belief is, that no fruit falls from the tree to the ground till it is perfectly ripe; and I also believe that we are never gathered from this frivolous world till we are really wanted in the other.”

“Such being your determination, it is no use talking any more about it; I only hope your health will not fail you, and that you will return and keep us alive as you did last year. I can assure you, your joyful dinner party, or ‘feet shampeter,’ as Mary the barmaid called it, and you used to say in French, was the talk of the country round. It is only three days ago that Colonel Cholmondeley was inquiring after you, and asking whether you had left the neighbourhood.”

“Ah, really! how is the Colonel?”

“He looks remarkably well, I assure you, and will be very glad to see you.”

“When you see the Colonel, pray present my most sincere compliments.”

“So I will.”

“I’m off, but hope to see you this evening; good-bye, in case I do not.” The days being short, and my business more complicated than I had anticipated, prevented my visiting my favourite summer spot, the Paradis ChampÊtre of England.[3]

I slept that evening at the “Wheatsheaf;” I had given orders to be called the next morning at daybreak, and was crossing the avenue of lime-trees leading to the lake, in anticipation of witnessing, as I was wont of a summer’s morning, its interminable sheet of silvery waters and green moss velvet banks, sprinkled with myriads of daisies—or stars of the fields—intermixed with golden cups, covered with pearly dew, bordered also by mountainous trees forming a formidable forest; the glittering Chinese fishing temple, Corinthian ruin, the flag floating on the castle tower, “Royal George” frigate and barks, the swans, and the music of thousands of birds with their notes of freedom so wild and full of nature. Alas! all my illusions were dispelled, as I could scarcely see a yard before me; a thick veil, caused by a severe white frost, seemed to monopolise and wrap in its virgin folds the beauty of this lovely spot. Though greatly disappointed, I was returning to the humble country inn with my soul filled by sublime reminiscences of that charming spot, worthy of the enchanted gardens of Armida, when a deformed and awkward-looking lout of a stableman, peeping from a clump of evergreens, thus accosted me:—“Will you take a red herring for breakfast, sir?”

I leave my readers to imagine the effect produced upon my then exalted imagination. Pushing him violently from me, “Away with you! unsociable and ill-timed Quasimodo!” I said. Having thus unceremoniously repulsed my evil genius, and being by that electric shock entirely deprived of my appetite, I ordered a post-chaise in lieu of breakfast, and in a short time was at the turnpike-gate adjoining the inn, waiting for change to pay the toll. It was then about ten minutes to eight o’clock.

In three-quarters of an hour the post-chaise took me to the railway station, and an hour after I was ascending my homely staircase, when the servant apprised me that many persons had called; some had left their cards, and a mounted groom had brought a letter, saying he would call at noon for an answer. Amongst the various letters I found upon my desk, I recognised one in the hand-writing of the Duchess of Sutherland. It was as follows:—

I had scarcely read this letter, when a double knock was heard at the street door. It was the footman from Stafford House, sent for an answer. I at once informed him I was going to wait upon her Grace; but as he was there, he might say that, at two o’clock precisely, I would do myself the honour of attending at Stafford House. Concluding, naturally enough, that the summons had reference to my letter, I immediately began to reflect how I should explain the plan I intended to adopt, in case my services were required. In the first place, I had decided that the most important question of all would be the entire freedom of my actions when I arrived at Scutari. This, of course, could not be granted, unless the Government, impressed with the importance of the subject, thought proper to do so. The active part would easily develop itself to my free and experienced mind.