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[Illustration: _The Author._
_From a Photograph by Bingham, (Paris)_]
SOYER’S
CULINARY CAMPAIGN.
BEING HISTORICAL REMINISCENCES
OF THE LATE WAR.
WITH
THE PLAIN ART OF COOKERY
FOR
MILITARY AND CIVIL INSTITUTIONS, THE ARMY, NAVY,
PUBLIC, ETC. ETC.
BY ALEXIS SOYER,
AUTHOR OF “THE MODERN HOUSEWIFE,” “SHILLING COOKERY FOR THE PEOPLE,”
ETC.
LONDON:
G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
NEW YORK: 18, BEEKMAN STREET.
1857.
[_The right of translation is reserved._]
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS,
CHANDOS STREET.
TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD PANMURE, K.T.
ETC. ETC. ETC.
MY LORD,
Grateful, indeed, do I feel for the unlimited confidence reposed in me
by your Lordship during my late Mission in the East, and especially so
for your kind condescension in permitting me to dedicate to your
Lordship this work, which at once puts the final seal to your Lordship’s
appreciation of my humble services.
With the most profound respect,
I have the honour to remain,
My Lord,
Your Lordship’s most humble and dutiful Servant,
ALEXIS SOYER.
PREFACE.
The Author of this work begs to inform his readers that his principal
object in producing his “Culinary Campaign” is to perpetuate the
successful efforts made by him to improve the dieting of the Hospitals
of the British army in the East, as well as the soldiers’ rations in the
Camp before Sebastopol.
The literary portion the Author has dished up to the best of his
ability; and if any of his readers do not relish its historical
contents, he trusts that the many new and valuable receipts, applicable
to the Army, Navy, Military and Civil Institutions, and the public in
general, will make up in succulence for any literary deficiencies that
may be found in its pages.
At the same time, the Author takes this opportunity of publicly
returning his most grateful thanks to the late authorities at the seat
of war for their universal courtesy, friendship, and great assistance,
without which success would have been an impossibility.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
INTRODUCTION.--A SUPPER AT THE “ALBION,” AND
ITS CONSEQUENCES 1
I. BY RAIL AND COACH TO VIRGINIA WATER 13
II. A SUMMONS TO STAFFORD HOUSE 29
III. OFF TO THE WAR 36
IV. DELIGHTS OF TRAVEL 49
V. COMFORT ON SHORE AND PENANCE AT SEA 57
VI. THE LAND OF THE MOSLEM 70
VII. A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF CONSTANTINOPLE FROM PERA 83
VIII. FIRST VIEW OF THE SCENE OF ACTION 91
IX. COMMENCEMENT OF THE CULINARY CAMPAIGN 101
X. A TOUR ROUND THE KITCHENS 111
XI. FIRST OPERATIONS 124
XII. THE SCUTARI MISSION ACCOMPLISHED 134
XIII. DEPARTURE FOR THE CRIMEA 147
XIV. COMMENCEMENT OF MY CAMPAIGN IN THE CRIMEA 160
XV. THE ENGLISH AND TURKISH COMMANDERS-IN-CHIEF 180
XVI. A NEW ENEMY 191
XVII. RECEPTION AT ENGLISH AND FRENCH HEAD-QUARTERS 200
XVIII. A UNIVERSAL CALAMITY 213
XIX. HAPS AND MISHAPS IN CAMP 227
XX. EXPEDITIONS ON HORSE AND ON FOOT 239
XXI. MATTERS GRAVE AND GAY 250
XXII. PREPARATIONS FOR ANOTHER TRIP 266
XXIII. OUR STEAM VOYAGE IN THE “LONDON” 289
XXIV. THREE WEEKS AT SCUTARI 297
XXV. FESTIVITIES AT SCUTARI AND VISITS TO FRENCH HOSPITALS 315
XXVI. MY SECOND TRIP TO THE CRIMEA 325
XXVII. CAMP LIFE AT HEAD-QUARTERS 334
XXVIII. MY GREAT FIELD-DAY 350
XXIX. THE EIGHTH OF SEPTEMBER 364
XXX. FALL OF THE DOOMED CITY 375
XXXI. ILLNESS AND CHANGE OF SCENE 385
XXXII. CAMP OF THE FOURTH DIVISION 400
XXXIII. HOSTILITIES AT TABLE 415
XXXIV. CRIMEAN FESTIVITIES 433
XXXV. LAST DAYS OF BRITISH OCCUPATION OF THE CRIMEA 459
XXXVI. LAST SCENE OF OUR STRANGE EVENTFUL HISTORY 484
ADDENDA 513
ERRATA.
In page 6, _for_ “Little Jack,” _read_ “Little Ben.”
Page 32, line 12, _for_ “I think,” _read_ “She thinks.”
A CULINARY CAMPAIGN
BY
A. SOYER
ILLUSTRATED BY H. G. HINE.
[Illustration: Title Page]
INTRODUCTION.
A SUPPER AT THE “ALBION,” AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Old Drury--Juvenile mirth--A sudden arrest--An invitation--No
excuse--Getting home--Mind your pockets--A trip to the
“Wellington”--An intelligent waiter--Reading the news--A sudden
inspiration--Letter to the _Times_--The stupid waiter again--Little
Jack--Supper fare--Receipts--Tough kidneys--How to cook
them--Kidneys _à la_ Roberto Diavolo--Kidneys _à la brochette_--New
bill of fare for London Suppers.
“Hurrah! hurrah! bravo! bravo!” For a few minutes rounds of applause and
shouts of laughter from the juveniles were heard and loudly re-echoed
throughout the vast cupola of Old Drury, sending home the delighted
spectators, in fits of sneezing and coughing, through a variegated
atmosphere. Sir Henry W----, turning to me, exclaimed, “Hallo, Mr.
Soyer, the pantomime is over early this evening!” and looking at his
watch, continued, “Why, it is only half-past eleven o’clock.”
“Yes, Sir Henry; but quite late enough for children, who after this time
begin to mingle gaping with laughter.”
“True enough,” replied Sir Henry; “it is painful to see those dear
cherubs kept at the theatre till midnight, or even later. Have you been
long here?”
“No,” I replied, “only a few minutes; just time enough to witness the
grand finale, and to hear the screaming and laughter of the children,
which to me is always very amusing.”
“Very true, very true; I am of your opinion, and never tire of
children’s mirth.”
In a few minutes the theatre was nearly emptied of spectators, but still
full of smoke. Considering myself that evening as free as a butterfly on
a spring morning, though unable, like that light-hearted insect, to
flit from flower to flower, I was trying to escape, with the swiftness
of an eel, down the gigantic and crowded staircase, hoping to get off
unobserved, as I had to start early in the morning for the country, when
suddenly a friendly hand pressed me forcibly by the arm. The owner of
the same cried, “Stop! stop! my friend; I have been hunting all over the
theatre for you.” I at once recognised an old Devonshire acquaintance,
whom I was indeed much pleased to see, having received a most kind
reception from him at my last visit to that delightful county--so justly
named the garden of England.
“Well, my dear sir,” said he, “myself and several acquaintances of yours
are here for a few days, and have ordered a supper this evening at the
‘Albion.’ We heard you were at Drury Lane, and I have come to ask you to
join us.”
“I must say it is very kind of you, Mr. Turner; but you must excuse me,
as I am going as far as St. James’s-street, by appointment; besides, I
leave for the country early to-morrow morning. But I shall be happy to
spend to-morrow evening with you and your friends; therefore, I beg you
will apologise for me.”
“To-morrow very likely we shall be off again; we only came for a couple
of days, to breathe the London air, and then return.”
“I beg your pardon--you mean London fog, not air.”
“Why, yes, fog should be the word; but for all that, I love London in
any season; so no excuse--I shall not leave you; you must join us, or
your friend the squire will be greatly disappointed. He came from the
Great Western Hotel this evening on purpose to see you.”
Finding it almost impossible to get out of it, and my friend having
promised we should break up early, I accepted, saying, “You must allow
me to go as far as the ‘Wellington,’ as I have an appointment there; I
will be back in about half-an-hour.”
My incredulous country friend would not grant permission till I had
assured him that I would faithfully keep my promise, and return.
This dialogue took place in the entrance of the vestibule, where a
number of ladies and children were waiting--some for their carriages and
broughams, others for those public inconveniences called cabs. This bevy
of beauty and group of children, the pride of young England, seemed to
interest my provincial friend so much, that I had some trouble to get
him out. It was then nearly twelve o’clock. The front steps were also
crowded; the weather was chilly and damp; a thick yellowish fog,
properly mixed with a good portion of soot, formed a shower of black
pearls, which, gracefully descending through the murky air, alighted,
without asking permission, upon the rosy cheeks of unveiled fair dames,
spotting their visages, if not _à la_ Pompadour or _à la_ Watteau, at
least _à la_ Hogarth. A few steps lower we entered a dense crowd--a most
unpicturesque miscellany of individuals, unclassically called, the
London mob. “Mind your pockets,” said I to my country friend.
“By Jove, it’s too late,” said he, feeling in his pocket--“my
handkerchief is gone!”
“Is that all?” I inquired.
“Well, let me see,” he observed, feeling again: “yes, thank God! my
watch and purse are quite safe.”
“Ah,” I continued, laughing, “the old adage which prompts us to thank
God for all things is quite correct; for you are actually thanking Him
for the loss of your handkerchief.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “I was thanking Him for the safety of my watch
and purse.” After a hearty laugh we parted, he going to the “Albion,”
and I to the “Wellington.”
On my arrival there, I found that my friend had been and was gone. My
intelligent cabby soon brought me back through the dense atmosphere to
that far-famed temple of Comus, at which crowds of celebrities meet
nightly--some to restore themselves internally, others to sharpen their
wits at that tantalising abode of good cheer. Upon entering, I inquired
of a waiter, a stranger to me, if he could inform me where my six
friends intended to sup.
“Yes, sir, directly.” Speaking down the trumpet: “Below! a Welsh rabbit
and fresh toast--two kidneys underdone--scalloped oyster--a chop--two
taters! Look sharp below!” To the barmaid: “Two stouts, miss--one
pale--four brandies hot, two without--one whisky--three gin--pint
sherry--bottle of port!”
“What an intelligent waiter!” thought I, “to have so good a memory.”
Having waited till he had given his orders, I again said, “Pray, my fine
fellow, in which room are my friends going to sup? They have a private
room, no doubt?”
“Yes, sir, a private room for two.”
“No, not for two--for six.”
“Oh! I don’t mean that, sir: I want a rump-steak for two,” said he;
“stewed tripe for one--three grogs--bottle pale Bass.” And off he went
to the coffee-room.
“Plague upon the fellow!” said I to myself.
As the barmaid could not give me any information upon the subject, and I
perceived through a half-opened door on the right-hand side of the bar a
table laid for six, I went in, making sure it was for my friends, and
that they had not yet arrived. Indeed, I had myself returned from my
appointment much sooner than I had expected. I sat down, and was reading
the evening paper, when a waiter came in. “After you with the paper,
sir.”
“I have done; you may take it.”
“There’s the _Times_, sir, if you have not seen it.”
“No, I have not; let me have a look at it.” After reading one of the
leaders, my attention was drawn to a long article written by the Crimean
correspondent of that journal. When I had read it carefully a second
time, a few minutes’ reflection on my part enabled me to collect my
ideas, and established in my mind a certain assurance that I could, if
allowed by Government, render service in the cooking of the food, the
administration of the same, as well as the distribution of the
provisions. These were matters in which I could detect, through the
description of that eye-witness, the writer of the above-mentioned
article, some change was much needed. I therefore wrote the following
letter to the _Times_, it being then nearly one o’clock in the
morning:--
THE HOSPITAL KITCHENS AT SCUTARI.
_To the Editor of the Times._
SIR,--After carefully perusing the letter of your correspondent,
dated Scutari, in your impression of Wednesday last, I perceive
that, although the kitchen under the superintendence of Miss
Nightingale affords so much relief, the system of management at the
large one in the Barrack-hospital is far from being perfect. I
propose offering my services gratuitously, and proceeding direct to
Scutari, at my own personal expense, to regulate that important
department, if the Government will honour me with their confidence,
and grant me the full power of acting according to my knowledge and
experience in such matters.
I have the honour to remain, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
A. SOYER.
_Feb. 2, 1855._
After despatching this letter, I again inquired about my friends and my
anticipated supper, which for some time had escaped my memory. “Did you
ring, sir?”
“No, I did not, sir, but the bell has;” recognising my stupid waiter.
“Oh, sir! are you here?”
“Of course I am; don’t you see me?”
“Well, sir, your friends have had supper; they inquired everywhere for
you; I told them you could not wait, as you had two ladies to see home
as far as Brompton.”
“You foolish fellow! I never spoke to you about ladies, Brompton, or any
such thing; I merely asked you where my friends were to sup; to which
you replied, ‘Rump-steak for two, tripe for one, two taters, pat of
butter, one pale Bass, and three kidneys for a gentleman, underdone.’”
“No more you did, sir. It was number three who told me to say so; not
you, sir; you’re quite right, sir!”
“I am sure I am right; but as for you, your head is quite wrong!”
“Well, I assure you, sir, we have so much to do at times, we hardly know
what we are about.”
“I don’t think you do,” said I, sharply.
“But I tell you what, sir, they are there still, and you had better go
to them.”
“No, it is too late now; give them this note from me when they go out;
and here is sixpence for yourself, for through your mistake you have
after all rendered me a service. I did not wish to come here this
evening, as I have an early engagement for to-morrow, so I will have a
bit of supper and go home.”
“Well, do, sir; I thank you, and am very glad I have given you
satisfaction at last.”
“Send Little Jack here; he knows what I like for supper.”
“Hallo, Mr. Soyer, everybody in the coffee-room has been inquiring after
you this evening,” said Little Jack upon entering.
“I know; but that foolish waiter who was here just now made such a mull
of everything, that he quite upset our party; I could not get any answer
from him, so I made sure this table was laid out for us, and here I
stuck.”
“No, sir, your friends supped in the coffee-room, and are still there,
if you like to have your supper near them.”
“No, no; give me what you like here.”
“What shall it be, sir? oysters, broiled kidneys, chops, steaks, stewed
tripe, broiled bones?”
“Have you nothing else?”
“Yes, sir, grilled fowl and scalloped oysters; only they will take some
time preparing.”
“Well, give me scalloped oysters, and my favourite Welsh rare-bit, made
in my style--you know; a pint of port wine, and fresh toast for the
rare-bit.”
“Yes, sir; the cook knows--I’ll tell him it is for you.”
“But how is it you never vary your supper bill of fare? it is very
scanty of choice for such a large tavern as this. I do not mean to
complain, but give a little change now and then, by introducing a few
new dishes.”
“Ah! you’re right, sir; it would please the customers, and be much
better for us waiters, to have something new to offer; but, bless you,
sir! I have been many years in this place, and it was always the same;
and no doubt will remain so for as long again, unless a gentleman like
you takes it in hand--they would then attend to it; but, of course, you
have something else to do.”
“So I have; yet I don’t see why, in my next book upon cookery, I should
not devote a few pages to the London suppers. I intend doing so, and,
when published, I shall be happy to present you with a copy.”
“That will be first-rate, sir; I thank you, and wont I recommend the new
dishes _à la_ Soyer, as some of our customers call them!”
“Well, my man, upon second thoughts, as you seem so anxious about it,
and I am not going to join my friends, give me a pen and ink, and while
supper is preparing, I will write a few practical receipts, which can be
easily introduced without interfering with your duty or the kitchen;
they will, no doubt, prove agreeable to your customers, who are in
general a class of _bon vivants_, fond of good things as well as of
variety in the bill of fare.”
“Here is the pen, paper, and ink, sir.”
“Thank you; come again in about twenty minutes, and they shall be ready;
or, if you are not in a hurry, stay.”
“No, sir, I am not; our supper business is over.”
“Well, now listen: first, I do not intend to criticise your bill of
fare, which is as much varied, if not more so, than that offered at
other large taverns, and it is quite as well executed. Now, respecting
kidneys--you consume a large quantity of them?”
“So we do, sir.”
“Then I will give you a receipt or two for dressing them:--
No. 1.--Take two kidneys, split them lengthways as close to the
sinew as possible without parting them; remove the thin skin, lay
them flat upon the table, and season rather highly with salt and
pepper; then run them crossways upon a wooden, metal, or silver
skewer, forcing the sinew upwards; this will prevent their curling
up again while cooking. Next dip them in some well-beaten eggs, to
which you have added about a table-spoonful of dissolved butter; or
rub them over with a paste-brush, which will do it more equally;
roll them in fine bread-crumbs, and slightly beat them on both
sides with the flat of your knife to cause the ‘crumbs to stick to
the kidneys. Put them upon the gridiron, over a sharp fire, at a
proper distance; they will require from five to eight minutes
doing, according to size.
For the uninitiated, the following plan is the best to ascertain
when they are properly done. Press with the prongs of a fork or the
point of the knife upon the thick part of the kidney; if done
through, it will feel firm and elastic to the touch. When the
kidneys are done, slip them off the skewer on to a hot dish, and
place in each a piece of butter, _à la maître d’hôtel_, about the
size of a small walnut; send to table, and by the time it reaches
the guest, the butter will be half melted; quite so when the kidney
is cut by the customer, who, by turning the pieces and blending the
butter with the gravy, will make a rich sauce, and partake of a
delicious as well as a wholesome dish.
“Partaking of overdone kidneys at night is the forerunner of the
nightmare.”
“You’re right, sir; that it is,” said Little Jack; “for at times we have
some left, and keep them warm for supper; and they get as tough as
pieces of leather, when after eating three or four--and I am always very
tired at night--I never can sleep. Now I think of it, the tough kidneys
must be the cause; and if I do sleep, Mr. Soyer, I have such awful
dreams that I feel more fatigued when I rise than when I go to bed.”
“Of course,” I replied, “I am well aware of that; they cannot digest;
therefore, you see the importance of having them properly done.”
“Very much so indeed; I quite understand it now, and perceive that if
they cannot at all times be done to perfection, underdone is much
preferable to overdone. I perfectly understand you, sir; but you see we
require such a quantity.”
“Well, I have only given you the receipt for two. I will now, if you
like, give you the receipt for a hundred.”
“Do, sir; that will suit us better.”
“I suppose they are most in request for supper?”
“Indeed they are, sir.”
“Then, in the course of the day, the cook should prepare a hundred
precisely as the first--viz., ready for cooking. They should be put upon
skewers, two, three, or four in a row; so that, when called for, he has
only to remove them from the larder to the gridiron. About two pounds of
butter _à la maître d’hôtel_ should be prepared and kept in a cool place
to be ready when required. By following this plan, you could easily cook
several hundred during the evening, if called for. Should any remain
unsold, they will keep till the next day, and will only require rolling
in the crumbs again previous to broiling.”
“I see, sir; it will save a great deal of time by having them prepared
beforehand.”
“But suppose you had none prepared beforehand, a dozen can soon be got
ready by an active cook. The addition of the dissolved butter to the
eggs keeps the kidneys fresh and moist, and inserting them upon the
skewer retains them flat, and they are cooked more regularly in half the
time; while without the skewer they curl up, and are frequently
underdone on one side and cooked too much on the other.”
“I plainly understand what you mean.”
“These details upon the same subject are perhaps tedious to you.”
“Not at all, sir; I see the importance of them.”
“Well, the other receipts will come quite plain and easy to you. To tell
the truth, I have had those overdone kidneys upon my conscience for some
time. Mind, I do not intend to erase the plain broiled kidneys from the
supper bill of fare, for I am very fond of them when properly cooked.”
“They are very good; and many gentlemen will not have them any other
way.”
“Well, I do not blame them, for they are both agreeable and nutritious
that way; but here is another appetizing receipt, which we will call _à
la_ Roberto Diavolo.”
No. 2.--Put two plain kidneys upon a skewer, and with a paste-brush
butter them over. Set them upon the gridiron as near the fire as
possible, for they cannot be done too fast; turn them every minute,
and when half done season with salt, pepper, and a small spoonful
of cayenne; chop some gherkins and a little green chillies, if
handy; or, instead of either, a table-spoonful of chopped picolilli
with the liquor. Put these on a hot plate, with a tea-spoonful of
lemon-juice and a pat of butter. Take up the kidneys, and slip them
burning hot from the skewer to the plate; turn them round four or
five times in the mixture, and serve immediately. A small piece of
glaze added to the butter will prove a great addition. Three, four,
or five minutes will do them, according to the size.
_Kidneys à la brochette, Paris fashion._
The Parisian _gourmet_ would not eat a kidney if it was not served
upon the silver skewer; the only merit of which is, that they keep
hot longer and look better than when the skewer is omitted; as they
often shrink, especially if the sinew has not been properly divided
in the splitting of them.
“As, no doubt, you have something to do, you had better leave me; I will
write a few more receipts. Bring me my supper in a quarter of an hour,
and they will be ready.”
“Very well, sir; I will give a look round and order your supper.”
To the minute Little Jack walked in with the scalloped oysters, which I
must admit looked remarkably tempting. He handed me my supper, but upon
reflection I did not hand him the receipts, only a list of their names,
intending to put them into the cookery-book I had promised him, knowing
well enough that it was not in his power to bring them out. He thanked
me for my lecture on cookery, as he called it, and the following bill of
fare. I paid my bill, and left.
_New Bill of Fare for Tavern Suppers._
Rump-steak and fried potatoes; ditto with shalot, pimento, and
anchovy butter. Relishing steak, fillet of beef, à la Parisienne;
ditto à la Chateaubriand.
Mutton chops à la bouchère; ditto semi-provençale; ditto Marseilles
fashion; ditto with relishing sauce.
Plain cutlets with fried potatoes, à la maître d’hôtel, à la
Sultana, semi-provençale.
Lamb chops à la boulangère, à l’Américaine, à la printanière.
Pork chops with pimento butter, à la Tartare; ditto camp fashion.
Veal cutlets en papillote; with maître d’hôtel butter; with
relishing butter; with fried potatoes.
Kidneys on toast, semi-curried; ditto with sherry or port; ditto
with champagne. For kidneys à la maître d’hôtel, à la brochette,
and à la Roberto Diavolo, see Receipts, page 10.
Stewed and curried tripe; ditto Lyonnaise fashion.
Lobsters au gratin in the shell; scalloped ditto; curried on toast;
lobster cutlets; new salad, Tartar fashion; plain salad with
anchovies; crabs au gratin in the shell; crab salad with eggs.
Grilled chicken and Sultana sauce; à la Roberto Diavolo, with
relishing sauce; new broiled devil, Mayonnaise sauce; chicken,
American fashion.
Stewed oysters on toast; ditto American fashion, au gratin; fried
oysters.
Omelettes with fine herbs, mushrooms, sprue grass, ham, and
parmesan; poached eggs with cream; ditto with maître-d’hôtel sauce;
semi-curried, with ham or bacon.
Buttered eggs with mushrooms, sprue grass, ham with shalots,
parsley, and chervil.
Mirrored eggs with tongue, ham, or bacon; curried eggs; ditto with
onion sauce and tomato sauce.
Rarebit à la Soyer with sherry or champagne.
Fried potatoes in slices; ditto with maître-d’hôtel butter; ditto
with Cayenne pepper.
Cold asparagus salad, while in season; new potato salad, German
fashion; ditto, French and haricot beans.[1]
For receipts in Bill of Fare, see Addenda.
A Hansom cab was waiting at the door, so I jumped in. “Beg your pardon,
sir, I am engaged,” said cabby; “but if you’re not going far, I think I
shall have plenty of time to take you.”
“Do so, my man; I live close by, in Bloomsbury-street, Bedford-square.
Here’s a shilling for you--go ahead, cabby.”
Pst! pst! and off we were. In a few minutes, thanks to the evaporation
of the thick fog and its having left only a feeble skeleton of its
former substance, I found myself at my street door, and was trying for
some time to open it with the wrong key, all the while thinking to
myself what an extraordinary and uncomfortable evening I had passed to
return so late. Perceiving my mistake, I changed the key; opening and
shutting the door violently, I rushed up stairs with the intention of
booking that evening in my daily tablet as one of the most tedious and
uncomfortable I had spent throughout the series of cheerful years
granted to me by a Supreme Power. The fire was out, the supper divided
between my two friends the Angola cats, the servants in bed, the gas
turned off, and the lucifers, I believe, gone to their Mephistophelian
domain.
CHAPTER I.
BY RAIL AND COACH TO VIRGINIA WATER.
An early visit--Virginia Water--An eccentric friend--Rail _v._
coach--Humour of the road--The old coachman--The widow--Sally’s
trouble--Another surprise--The “Wheatsheaf”--Beautiful
scenery--Letter from the Duchess of Sutherland.
A most curious dream haunted my mind throughout the night, one of those
indescribable phantasmagorian illusions which set all the vibrations of
the heart at work without moving the frame, or in imagination only,
quite depriving our senses for the time of the true sense of existence.
Scarcely had the first gleam of Aurora peeped through my curtains, than
a double knock was heard at the street door, apprising me that the time
for rising had come, and forthwith brought back my wandering senses to
the realities of human life: a minute after, a friend popped into my
dressing-room, exclaiming, “Hallo! so you are going to the seat of the
war, I hear.”
“The seat of the war! who told you so?”
“Why, the _Times_, to be sure; I have just read your letter, which, at
all events, is very likely to carry you as far as Constantinople.”
“You don’t say so! What! is my letter in the _Times_ to-day?”
“Of course it is,” he replied.
“I sent it so late last night, I did not suppose it could appear till
to-morrow, if at all.”
“They would not have inserted it, arriving so late, I assure you, had
they not thought it of great importance, and that you were likely to
improve the hospital diets. No doubt you will soon set them to rights. I
read the article, and must say I was much pleased when I saw your
letter, and that is what brought me here so early: but mind, it is a
long journey, and rather a dangerous one.”
“Well, my dear friend, if Government honour me with their confidence, I
shall be happy to start immediately, and rough it for a short time--say
a couple of months, which will be about the time required.”
“My opinion is, that you will soon hear from the authorities.”
“I say again, they are perfectly welcome to my humble services.”
“Are you going out this morning?”
“Yes, I am; excuse my shaving.”
“Oh, by all means; which way are you going?”
“Anywhere but to a wintry place.”
“Where’s that--Gravesend or Margate?”
“Oh dear, no--Virginia Water.”
“To stay?”
“No; only to settle a few important matters there, prior to my departure
for Paris.”
“You were there the best part of last summer.”
“So I was; who told you that?”
“Don’t you recollect the party you gave there, when Messrs. R---- and
ladies were present, with myself, my wife, and two daughters? We never
enjoyed such a day in our lives; it really was a splendid affair
altogether; and what an excellent dinner you gave us in the open air, in
the long avenue of beech trees facing the lake! I shall not forget it as
long as I live--I may say we, for my young ones often talk about it.
There were about twenty-four guests--you recollect, of course?”
“Certainly I do now, and what a lovely day it was!”
“Never saw a finer,” said my friend; “the ladies walked round the lake
without their bonnets, and with nothing but their parasols to screen
them from the sun. But I tell you who was most amusing amongst the
party--that old Yorkshire farmer.”
“Ha, ha! old Lawrence--he is a squire now, if you please, and has
retired. He was very kind to me on the occasion of the grand
agricultural dinner at Exeter; the ox I roasted whole upon that occasion
came from his farm; it was roasted by gas, and in the castle yard.”
“Ah, I recollect seeing an engraving of it in the _Illustrated London
News_; I can’t help laughing when I think of the old man, for at every
fresh dish of which he partook--and he tasted a good many--he
exclaimed--‘Well! hang me, if I know what stuff I am eating, but it’s
precious good!’”
“I know he is very eccentric; he stayed with me nearly a week, and
really made me laugh heartily with his genuine repartee. He is a good
and a charitable man, I assure you. I taught his housekeeper how to make
cheap soup while I was at his residence, and ever since the old
gentleman has given it four times a-week to the poor round his small
estate, during the winter season.”
“I know the soup you mean. I cut the receipt from the paper in the year
‘47, at the time of the famine in Ireland, when you were sent there by
Government.”
“Exactly.”
“We tried it ourselves; and my wife’s mother has ever since given it
throughout the winter to about twelve or fifteen poor people. The old
lady was at first obliged to make it herself, her cook saying that no
soup could be made with such a small quantity of meat. She would not
even attempt to make it.”
“I believe you; but those people are not aware that in Scotland, where
the strongest people in the British dominions are to be found, and
especially in the Highlands, they live principally upon oatmeal porridge
and vegetables, partaking of a very small portion of animal food;--and
did you ever see a finer carnation cheek, or purer blood, than that
which flows through the frame of a Scotch lassie, or in the veins of the
descendants of the Bruce?”
“No, never; not even on the Continent. But, to return to the receipts: I
would advise you to publish them. They would be eagerly purchased, and
would render greater service. You must be aware that a slip from a
newspaper is often lost.”
“Very true; and I intend to give a series of new receipts on food for
the poor, still more simplified.”[2]
“With reference to our conversation about old Lawrence: no doubt he is a
good fellow, and a genuine rough diamond into the bargain.”
“Yes,” said I, “and you may add, of the finest water. By the bye, didn’t
he go to bed rather top-heavy?”
“Ah, that he did, and fancied himself at home blowing up his old woman,
as he calls her, for having let the cat into the dairy, and being unable
to find his gun to shoot her. What most astonished the old boy, he told
me on the coach next morning on our way to London, was having no
headache and feeling as hungry as a hunter--as I did myself. He made
sure, after such a mixture of dishes, wines, liquors, and spirits of all
kinds, that he should be ill and unable to eat anything for a couple of
days. Quite the contrary, however: when at Staines, we made a hearty
breakfast at the hotel; and for my part, I never felt better in my
life.”
“And do you know,” I replied, “I should have been surprised if my dinner
had produced the contrary effect; rest assured, that a dinner well
conceived and properly executed, coupled with well-selected beverages,
is more than half digested. As Hippocrates says, very justly, ‘What
pleases the palate nourishes;’ and we may add, greatly helps to
accelerate the digestion when properly cooked. The palate alone can
relish the charm of degustation, and only feels satiated when the
stomach, being the working organ, refuses to deal with improper food,
never failing to acquaint you physically of its ill treatment, both as
regards ill-cooked food or bad beverages. Now, to illustrate this
argument more forcibly, I would wager that I could give a first-class
indigestion to the greatest _gourmet_, even while using the most
_recherché_ provisions, without his being able to detect any fault in
the preparation of the dishes of which he had partaken; and this simply
by improperly classifying the condiments used in the preparation; thus
deceiving the cleverest doctors and the finest palate by a mere
counterbalance of unctuous seasoning, which no doubt caused the
celebrated Leibnitz to say, in his treatise upon the chemistry of food,
now translated into English, and to which I have already referred in my
_Shilling Cookery Book_, ‘That among all the arts known to man, there is
none which enjoys a juster appreciation, and the products of which are
more universally admired, than that which is concerned in the
preparation of our food. Led by an instinct which has almost reached the
dignity of conscious knowledge, as the unerring guide, and by the sense
of taste, which protects the health, the experienced cook, with respect
to the choice, admixture, and preparation of food, has made acquisitions
surpassing all that chemical and physiological science have done in
regard to the doctrine or theory of nutrition.’”
“Well, no doubt if the celebrated Leibnitz, who is considered one of the
greatest authorities of the age, says so, you cannot be wrong, having
had so much practice in the culinary art.”
“I also maintain that with the simplest and cheapest of all aliments,
when in good condition, I have turned out a most wholesome and palatable
food, quite worthy of the most refined palate, or of that of the
initiated epicure. For instance, if only first-class provisions could be
converted into succulent dishes, the gastronomic bill of fare of this
sublunary world would indeed be so limited that more than two-thirds of
its inhabitants would be classified as martyrs to the Mageric art--or,
more plainly speaking, martyrs to the science of cookery--a too often
neglected art, though of daily requirement; for, believe me, the
everlasting pleasures of the table, which favour all ages, are not only
the basis of good health when properly managed, but also the soul of
sociability, not merely in high circles, but in every class of society,
no matter how humble, the stomach of each individual having been nursed
according to rank and wealth. Those most to be pitied are the real
epicures of limited means, or the wealthy man without appetite or of bad
digestion. The proverb is quite correct, ‘What the eye does not see the
heart cannot grieve;’ and appetite being the best of sauce, will cause
the coarsest food to be digested with delight by a robust stomach. By
the same rule, what is more relished by our noble epicure than a dry
sandwich or a coarse crust of bread and cheese at a farmhouse after a
hard day’s sport?”
“Upon my word, you are perfectly right; appetite is really the best of
sauce, for I often make a good and hearty supper upon baked potatoes, a
little salt, and butter.”
“Now, my friend, I am ready to start; come with me--it is a fine frosty
morning, and will do you good--come on.”
“I wish I could, but my City business is very heavy this morning, so I
must decline; besides, we have a railway meeting called for three
o’clock at the London Tavern.”
“Master, here’s a Hansom coming this way; shall I call it?”
“Yes, Annette, that’s a good girl.” I shook hands with my friend, and
jumped into the cab--“I say, coachman, look sharp and drive to the
Windsor railway station; I fear I shall miss the special train.”
“No, you will not,” said my friend, looking at his watch, “you have full
twenty minutes; good-bye, a pleasant journey.”
“Well, adieu! I shall see you some evening at Jullien’s or Drury Lane
Theatre.”
“Very probably.”
“Stay a minute, cabby;”--to the servant--“Annette, put any letters which
may come on my desk; if anybody calls, say I shall be here to-morrow or
next day at the latest.”
“Very well, sir, I will do so.”
On my arrival at the station, I merely had time to take my ticket and
run to the train, which was just on the move. In a few seconds we were
flying over rows of houses like vampires, leaving the then desolate
Royal property, Vauxhall tumble-down theatre, with its skeleton firework
frame, on the left. We passed through Chiswick, Barnes, Mortlake, Kew,
with its toyish pagoda, leaving to the left Richmond, with its
picturesque banks, cheerful villas, heroine of the hill, and its
exquisite maids of honour; at the same time crossing the Thames,
cheerfully smiling beneath us in its serpentine bed. Its limpid
currents flowed merrily downwards to the mighty ocean through green
bushes, aquatic plants, and the alabaster-coloured plumage of hundreds
of swans. In twenty-five minutes we arrived at Staines station. I
descended and immediately ascended again, but on the top of the Virginia
Water coach, which generally waits for the special train. “Very frosty
this morning, coachman.”
“Hallo, Mr. Soyer! is that you? We have not seen you God knows how long.
I suppose you have left us for good now?”
“No, not quite; but your flat and unpicturesque country looks so dull
and unsociable at this time of year.”
“Then you prefer town just now?” said he.
“I certainly do; there is always something to be seen there, and to keep
one alive, morning, noon, and night.”
“Very true, Mr. Soyer; we are very dull here in winter.” The top of the
coach was loaded with passengers. “Well, boy, what are you about below?”
“All right, coachman,” cried the parcel-boy. “Pst! pst! Go it, my
Britons!”
We were now at full trot, the north wind in our faces, and a kind of
heavy sleet, which in a few minutes changed the colour of our noses to a
deep crimson, very much like the unfashionable colour of beet-root,
freezing our whiskers and moustaches like sugar-candy, but by no means
quite so sweet-tasted. By way of a joke, I said to the coachman, “This
is the good old English way of travelling, is it not?”
“That it is, sir; and I’m very glad to see you know how to appreciate
it. Talk about your railways, it’s perfect nonsense compared with a good
four-in-hand coach, sir.” As he said this, he whipped his horses, “Pst!
go ahead, my true blue! I recollect the good old time when we took from
fourteen to fifteen hours from London to Dover, changing horses and
drinking your glass of grog at almost every inn on the road--in fact,
enjoying ourselves all night, especially when the widow was out.”
“What widow?” said I.
“The moon, to be sure!”
“That is a bright idea of yours. I was not aware the pale queen of night
was a widow.”
“Lord bless you, sir, she must be a widow, for she always comes out
alone, and keeps very late hours; a maid or a married woman can’t do
that, you know,” said he, laughing heartily.
“If your remark is not correct, it is at all events very original.”
“But to come back to coach-travelling--then you really knew if you were
travelling or stopping at home; while now they pack you up under lock
and key, in strong wooden boxes, such as we keep our horses in at the
stable; and at the head of them they have a kind of long iron saveloy,
full of nothing, which runs away with the lot like mad, belching and
swearing all the way, taking sights at us poor coachmen just so,”
putting his hand to his nose, “when we go by, as though we were a set of
ragamuffins. Call that a gentlemanly way of travelling, sir! They make
fun of all the passengers who are a little behind time, saying the like
of this: ‘Don’t you wish you may get it?’ If you drop anything by
accident, the deuce a bit will they stop to pick it up; and you are no
sooner in than they turn you out, and pocket your money without
blushing, the same as though they had dragged you about from morning
till night, as we used to do in the good old time. That was indeed money
honestly earned, sir!”
“There certainly is a great deal of truth in your argument,” said I,
laughing at his devotion to his old business.
“Is it not brimful of truth, sir?”
“Of course it is!” I was by this time about half frozen.
“Ah, sir, you’re a gentleman, and know life as well as I do. Depend upon
it, sir, coach-travelling is the best after all--no danger of being
smashed to pieces or of breaking your limbs. Not the slightest accident
ever can happen. Hallo!” said he, stopping the horses short, “what the
deuce is the matter with that horse? Look out, Bob!”
“Yes, sir; the old trace is broke again.”
“The deuce it is! Well, we must mend it.”
“You can’t--it’s broke in a fresh place, and we have no rope here.” The
coachman getting down, unceremoniously threw the reins to me. “Hold them
fast, sir.”
“Well, well, my lad, you must run back and fetch another.” The snow was
then falling heavily, and we had not got more than a mile on the road.
In about forty minutes the boy returned, perspiring terribly, though
covered with snow.
“I’ve not been long, coachman, have I?”
“Not been long, my lad--why, my cargo is nearly frozen to death!”
“You’re right, coachman,” said an old gentleman. “And I promise you I
will never travel by your coach again. This is the second time this
month.”
“Well, sir, we are not travelling now--we are at a stand-still, and no
mistake.”
“You may joke, but I don’t like it.”
“No more do I,” said coachman; “so we are of the same opinion.” At this
we all laughed, except the old gentleman.
In a short time all was right again. The coachman had resumed his
important position as well as the reins, which I abdicated to my great
satisfaction, and we were on the move. “Very slippery, governor; my
horses can scarcely keep their feet. Thank God, we are not in a hurry;
we can do the journey much more comfortably.”
“Excuse me,” said I, “if I do not hold exactly the same opinion as I did
just now about the railway.”
“My dear sir, are you in a hurry?” he asked.
“Yes, I am, and very cold besides.”
“What a pity you did not say so before! I should have made my stud fly,
and beat to atoms that fussy stuff they call steam.”
“That’s a good man; show off a bit.”
“Pst! pst! pst! Look out for a full charge, Cossack; fly away,
Cannon-ball. Pst! pst! that’s it, lads.” We were now nearly at a gallop.
“Coachman,” said I, “I see that your horses have martial names, if they
have not a very martial appearance. Pray, who gave them such warlike
titles?”
“The boys in the stable, sir. Everybody dreams of war now, sir; the very
air we breathe smells of powder. Don’t you think so, sir?”
“No, I think it smells of cheese.”
“By-the-bye, there’s a basket of cheese for that foreign gentleman who
lives at Virginia Water. Jump up, boy, and move that basket of cheese
from here.”
We arrived at Wimbledon Common, and stopped to take up parcels and
boxes, during which time the coachman pointed out to the old country
gentleman with whom he had the argument, the window of the room where
Cournet, the French officer of Marines, and the opponent of Barthélemy,
who had just been hanged, died after the Windsor duel. He was saying
that since Barthélemy had been hanged the house was no longer haunted,
and that the pool of blood, which never could be washed out, had
suddenly disappeared.
“Marvellous!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “I never heard anything like
that in my life.”
“No more did I,” said our witty coachman, winking at me. The boy now
called over the various parcels, and Cossack went off as fast as a
cannon-ball. We made a few more stoppages at Englefield Green, to
deliver several scolding letters and parcels from mistresses to their
servants having charge of the summer abodes of wealthy merchants who
reside in London during the winter. At one house, during the unloading
of two or three boxes and a child’s cradle, a tidy-looking girl, who was
waiting till they were taken in, had opened her letter, over which she
appeared very sulky. The coachman, perceiving this, said, smiling--“Any
answer, Sally?”
“No!” said Sally. “Oh, yes; tell the old lady that I will not live with
her any longer;” and the girl cried.
“What’s the matter?” said the coachman.
“She’s an old plague! there’s my Harry of the 46th has not been here
these four months, and she writes to say she hears that he comes every
day.”
“Of course not--how could he? he’s been gone to the war with his
regiment ever since last September.”
Sally, crying still louder, and wiping her eyes with her apron,
exclaimed, “Perhaps the poor fellow is killed by this time, and don’t
care a fig about me.”
“Well, well, lass, never mind that; soldiers are used to it.”
“Do you think I shall ever see him again, Mr. Coachman?”
“No doubt, my lass, but you must wait a little longer; and when he does
come back, if he has distinguished, instead of extinguished, himself, he
will have the Crimean medal, and perhaps be made a
colonel--captain--general--marshal--or even a corporal; who knows? in
these war times, every brave man has a chance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coachman, you make me very happy--I shan’t cry any
more.”
“But, Sally, am I to tell your mistress what you said?”
“Oh, dear, no! because I should lose my place; they are not such bad
people after all, and master is so very kind to me.”
“I shall say nothing about it.”
“Pray, say nothing.”
“Pst, pst! now, my true blues, full speed for Virginia Water.” In twenty
minutes we were before the very picturesque inn called the “Wheatsheaf;”
every living soul came out to welcome us, thinking some accident had
happened. There was the landlord, landlady, thin and bulky barmaids,
house and kitchen maid, cook, pot and post boy, and a number of
customers.
“What has happened that you are so late to-day?” said the landlord to
the coachman.
“Nothing particular, governor; only a trace broke, and we had to fetch
another: besides, the roads are very slippery.” To the barmaid--“Give us
a light, girl, and a go of keep-me-warm.”
“Don’t believe him, sir,” exclaimed an old lady, who, upon the sudden
stoppage when the trace broke, had a quarrel with the coachman. In
opening the window violently, she broke it in twenty pieces; popping her
head, half of which was covered with snow, out of the window--“He is a
perfect brute,” said she; “he tried to upset us, and then would not move
for above an hour at least--see the state I am in; is it not a great
shame, a woman like me?”
“Well, madam,” said the landlord, “why don’t you shut the window?”
“What’s the use of pulling it up?--it’s broken in a thousand pieces, all
through that nasty fellow!”
“I can assure you, madam, he bears a very good character with the gentry
about here.”
The coachman, lighting his short pipe, and coming near them, said,
“Don’t take notice of the old lady, she means no harm.”
“Don’t I, though! I say again, before everybody, you are a brute and a
villain!”
“Go it, marm, go it,” said he, getting up. “It’s nothing new to me--my
wife tells me that every day, which is partly the cause we have no
family.” The favourite horse language of the coachman was again,
heard--“Fly away to the assault like a set of Zouaves!” and in a few
minutes nothing but a small black spot, resembling a fly crossing a
sheet of paper, was seen running up the snow-covered hill which leads to
the small village of Virginia Water.
I speedily joined the worthy and well-known landlord of the
“Wheatsheaf”--Mr. Jennings, and his cheerful wife and barmaid; all of
whom gave me a hearty country welcome, shaking my hands and arms in
every direction _ad libitum_, in anticipation, no doubt, of my
remembering them for a few days at all events. At the close of this
gymnastic exercise, I requested them to give me some breakfast, in the
small pavilion near the garden; also some pens, ink, and paper. My
request was at once attended to.
“Do you intend to stay with us a few days, Mr. Soyer?” asked the
landlord.
“No; I shall try and get back this evening, if possible--but to-morrow
morning, at the latest. I only came to close a few pending accounts of
my last summer’s stay at your lovely Virginia Water, and am going to
Paris for the Exhibition, having been offered the superintendence of a
large establishment.”
“But I hear that the Exhibition is postponed till next year.”
“So it is; but this is to be quite a new building, and erected close to
the Exhibition, if we can get permission granted.”
“Good morning, sir; I shall see you before you leave. I am only going to
the farm.”
“Yes, you will.”
I was sitting down to my breakfast, when, to my annoyance, as I had much
business to transact, some one knocked at the door, and, without waiting
for the reply, came in. It was the landlord, with a face full of anxiety
and astonishment, his glasses raised to his forehead, a newspaper in his
hand, and looking as serious as if he had just been married, or had lost
one of his favourite pups. “I say, master,” said he, “do you mean it?”
“Mean what, man?”
“But now, really! do you mean it?”
“I’m puzzled to know to what you allude. Is it about my trip to Paris?”
“Paris! no, that has nothing to do with the letter of yours I have just
read in the _Times_ of this day.”
“Oh! now I understand you, and can easily account for your long face and
evident astonishment.”
“Now you understand me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“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:--
The Duchess of Sutherland will be much pleased to see Monsieur
Soyer at Stafford House at two o’clock this day; or ten to-morrow
morning, if more convenient to Monsieur Soyer.
7th February, 1856.
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.