and onion, 1½d. Put into a pan two ounces of dripping; set it on the
fire; and when it is quite hot and a faint blue smoke arises from it,
put in an onion, cut small. Let it brown well; then add a tablespoonful
of flour, and when that is browned also, one pint of cold water,
pepper, salt, four cloves, and a little mace. Cut one pound of beef
into small pieces; put them in, and let it simmer, not boil, for two
hours. Put in a bowl a quarter-pound of flour; a little salt, pepper,
chopped parsley, thyme, and marjoram; two ounces of finely chopped
suet, and half a teaspoonful of baking-powder. Make into a paste with
cold water; form into small balls, and drop them into the stew half an
hour before it is wanted.
_Christmas Pudding._—Flour, one pound, 2d.; baking-powder, a
teaspoonful and a half, ¼d.; ginger, half a teaspoonful, ¼d.; suet,
quarter-pound, 2d.; treacle, half-pound, 1d.; raisins, two ounces, ½d.;
currants, two ounces, ½d.; milk (skim), ½d. Chop the suet finely; stir
all the dry ingredients well together; add the treacle, warmed, and
about a teacupful of skim-milk. Stir well; put it into a greased tin or
basin; cover with paper; steam it in a pan of boiling water for an hour
and a half or two hours.
No one who has seen how well these and many other dishes are cooked
by the children entirely without assistance at their practical
examination—no one who has heard how well and intelligently they
answer questions on the subject, can doubt that cooking can be taught
successfully in our schools. The one question remains, Does it pay? The
outlay is of two kinds—the primary outlay, which will not recur, for
stove and utensils; and the recurring expenses of teacher’s salary,
food, and fuel. In many places, friends of education, learning the
need, have fitted up classrooms with all that was required at a cost
of about seven to eight pounds. In Liverpool, the Education Council
offered to fit up six classrooms in voluntary schools as centres at
which several neighbouring schools could attend; but as many poor
schools are without such benevolent friends, the Northern Union of
Schools of Cookery has petitioned the Science and Art Department to
give grants for this purpose.
The teacher’s salary, as already mentioned, is about five pounds, with
a varying sum in addition for travelling expenses. The average cost of
the food to be cooked is about thirty-seven shillings for the whole
course. The additional amount of fuel used is very trifling; therefore,
the expenses stand: Teacher’s salary, £5; food, £1, 17s.; travelling
expenses, say 10s.—Total, seven guineas. To meet these expenses,
there are the following sources of income: The government grant of
four shillings a head for fifteen girls, £3; extra pence paid by the
children for their cooking lessons, twopence each for twenty lessons,
£2, 10s. This payment cannot be enforced; but it is found that in most
cases, even among the poorest, it is willingly paid, as the parents
value the lessons. Sale of food cooked, at cost price, £1, 17s.—Total,
seven guineas.
It may be mentioned that the food sells more readily among the very
poor children than among those who are better off. There is little or
no difficulty in disposing of it without loss.
It will be seen that this calculation allows of no margin whatever.
If all goes well, there is neither profit nor loss. But it cannot be
expected that everything will be perfectly successful; the children
will miss a lesson now and then, or some dish will be spoiled. We would
wish, therefore, to remind managers that there is another source of
income open to them. It is both easier and better to teach cookery
and domestic economy together than separately; and every girl who in
the cooking class is earning a grant of four shillings, may also earn
another four shillings if she passes in domestic economy, without
any additional outlay or cost. Only, we would urge all managers to
be careful always to secure a properly qualified teacher, holding
a diploma from some good School of Cookery, and trained to teach
children. Lastly, the experience of the manager of a large Roman
Catholic school in a very poor district may be quoted. ‘I would hardly
hesitate to say’—we give his own words—‘that not only will a class
of cookery in elementary schools pay itself, but will even become a
pecuniary advantage; and for this reason, parents look with much favour
upon the teaching of cookery; and whereas it is too often the case that
they withdraw their children from school the moment they are free to
do so, and so prevent a school from receiving a grant for them by their
passing an examination, I can say from experience that my class of
cookery has been the means of retaining at school several children who
would otherwise have left, and for each of them I expect a substantial
grant. I have also observed that since the introduction of this
subject, the children who attend this class attend much more regularly.’
With this testimony we may conclude, hoping that some at least of
those who glance at this paper may agree with the words of an old
working-woman, a grandmother, and herself a model of thrift, care, and
good management, who, when the cookery classes at the Board Schools
were mentioned before her, exclaimed: ‘Deed, and that’s the sensiblest
thing I ever heard of them Boards doing!’ and may therefore be willing
to do a little, either by giving time, money, or influence, to help
forward this good and greatly needed work.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _List of Utensils for an Artisan Practice Class._—Three tin
saucepans, two quarts, 6s.; three do., three pints, 4s. 6d.; three do.,
one pint, 1s. 6d.; one fish-kettle, 3s.; three small frying-pans, 1s.
9d.; one colander, 1s.; three strainers, 1s. 6d.; one set measures, 1s.
6d.; one scale and weights, quarter-ounce to one pound, 8s. 6d.; three
dripping-tins, 2s. 6d.; two small wire-sieves, 3s.; three graters,
1s. 6d.; six wooden spoons, 1s.; six iron tablespoons, 1s.; six do.
teaspoons, 3d.; six round tin moulds, 3s.; twelve knives, 7s. 6d.; six
vegetable knives, 2s.; three forks, 1s. 6d.; six chopping-boards, 9s.;
three rolling-pins, 2s.; one spice-box, 6d.; one handbowl, 1s. 3d.;
one knifeboard, 9d.; two galvanised tubs, 4s.; one galvanised bucket,
1s. 3d.; one water-can, 3s.; three scrubbing-brushes, 2s.; three
sink-brushes, 1s.; one set blacklead brushes, 2s.
_Crockery._—Three large bowls, 3s. 6d.; three smaller do., 2s. 6d.; six
small basins, 1s.; twelve handless cups, 6d.; twelve plates, 1s. 6d.;
three round baker’s, 9d.; three larger do., 1s. 3d.; three jugs, 1s.
6d.; three pie-dishes, 9d.
_Linen._—Six kitchen cloths, 3s.; one roller towel, 1s. 3d.; one hand
do., 4d.; three dishcloths, 6d.
_Sundries._—Kitchen paper, house flannel, soap, soda, blacklead,
bath-brick, oil, 5s.—Total, £5, 2s. 7d.
AN AMATEUR ‘CABBY.’
In ‘my salad days’ I was a striking example of that class of young
men who are unfortunately weighted with an extra crop of wild-oats to
dispose of ere they are transformed into conventional, steady-going,
tax-paying members of the community. My personal allowance being
considerable, I was able to indulge in all the follies of a man about
town. Fortunately or unfortunately, I soon probed to the bottom of
things, and speedily tasted the ashes in the cup of pleasure, so that
one folly after another was discarded and relegated to the limbo of the
past, until, like Heliogabalus, I sighed for a new delight, and would
have paid liberally for a fresh sensation. The turf and its wretched
gambling associations palled upon me; I was weary of the theatre,
both before and behind the curtain. The senseless chatter of my young
associates in the club smoking-room roused a feeling of boredom almost
intolerable. At this period, the great Cab question was the topic of
the hour. The character and remuneration of the London cabman were
discussed at every dinner-table in the metropolis. There were two
parties in this discussion, which advocated views totally opposed to
each other. On the one hand, the earnings of Cabby were described
as wealth; on the other, as poverty. He was portrayed as drunken,
extravagant, uncivil, and in fact as only fit to be the associate of
the most vile. The reverse side of the medal was that of a man sober,
frugal, civil, and so courteous in his intercourse with his fares,
that the late Lord Chesterfield might have taken lessons of him in
politeness.
A sudden determination possessed me. I would be a cabman for the nonce.
At all events, for twelve hours I would don the badge and learn for
myself the truth of the matter. I frequently employed the same cabman
on the rank in Piccadilly. He drove a thoroughbred mare, and his hansom
was a model of neatness and elegance. So I took an early opportunity
of interviewing the man, whose name was Smith; although in those days
‘interview’ was not classed as an active verb. I told him I wished to
hire his cab for a night. At first, Mr Smith was hazy as to my meaning.
I asked him how much he paid for the hire of his vehicle. He replied:
‘Seventeen shillings per night.’
‘Very well,’ I said; ‘I will give you that sum for the use of your cab
for twelve hours, and hand you over besides, the amount in fares I may
chance to receive during that period.’
I could see that my friend entertained doubts for a moment as to my
sanity; but I speedily explained matters to him.
Mr Smith shook his head, and said he might lose his license if the fact
became known to the police that he had lent his badge, and so on, and
that an intimate knowledge of London streets was indispensable.
I pooh-poohed both these objections, especially the last, asserting
that I was capable of making a map of Western London, if circumstances
required it.
Eventually, Mr Smith agreed to my proposal, giving me several hints as
to my conduct; I remember one of these being, that I must on no account
ply for hire, as it is termed, while driving through the streets, but
wait till I was hailed.
The eventful hour arrived in due course, and at nine o’clock I met Mr
Smith by appointment in a quiet street in the parish of St James. It
was October; and the night being chilly, I wore an overcoat, somewhat
the worse for wear, and a wide-awake, which I could slouch over my
eyes, if occasion required; for my chief fear was, that I might, by an
unlucky chance, be recognised by some of my numerous acquaintances. I
mounted the box, and nodding gaily to Mr Smith, left that individual
transfixed with wonder that a gentleman of means and position should
voluntarily undergo the pains and penalties of a cabman’s life, even
for so brief a period as twelve hours.
I have stated that the mare was a thoroughbred, and in doing so I am
only recording a literal fact. In the famous days when Andrew Ducrow
reigned supreme at Astley’s Theatre, there was a very popular drama
which depicted the life of a racehorse through all its vicissitudes,
till it found itself in the shafts of a sand-cart. There is an
undoubted instance of a horse (Black Tommy, 1857) which only lost the
Derby by a short head, figuring subsequently in the shafts of a cab in
Camden Town.
For a time I imagined that I was the centre of observation, especially
by the cabmen on the ranks. Suddenly I was hailed by a short thick-set
man with a very red face, who in an imperious tone shouted ‘Orme
Square,’ and plunged into the recesses of my cab. I was floored
completely! My boasted knowledge of the topography of the metropolis
was at fault. I had never heard of Orme Square. I ventured to ask my
fare if he could direct me to the place. His surprise and indignation
were so excessive that I feared for a moment he would succumb to a fit
of apoplexy. But he relieved himself by a burst of strong language
such as I had rarely listened to in my life before. My first impulse
was an angry reply, but I fortunately nipped that impulse in the bud.
The line of Jerrold the dramatist occurred to me: ‘A rich man feels
through his glove, and thinks all things are soft.’ For the first
time I realised what a cabman has occasionally to submit to, and what
a Janus-headed thing Society was in its intercourse with the rich
and the poor. But it is a remarkable fact that although Orme Square
is situated in the Bayswater Road, immediately opposite Kensington
Gardens, not one Londoner in ten can define its locality. It is a small
unpretending square, with three sides only, the fourth side being the
great thoroughfare I have mentioned. I excused my ignorance by saying
that I was new to the neighbourhood. As I drove along, I placed my
present experience to the credit of the much-abused cabby. I received
my exact fare, for which I politely thanked my irritable friend, for
I was resolved I would do nothing to increase the prejudice existing
in so many quarters, against my brother-cabmen, but practise civility
under all temptations to the contrary.
I suppose it was about one o’clock, and I was proceeding leisurely
along Oxford Street, the ‘stony-hearted step-mother,’ as De Quincey
styles it in his immortal work, admiring the effect of the long vista
of gas lamps in the deserted street, when I heard a woman’s voice: ‘Are
you going Pimlico-way?’ I turned, and beheld two young girls, in gaudy
finery and painted cheeks. I replied that my services were at their
disposal. I suppose there was something in the words and manner of my
answer which created surprise in their minds, for they stared curiously
in my face before jumping into the cab.
In a few seconds I was careering along at the rate of ten miles an
hour. What a situation for the son of the much-esteemed rector of
Cawley-cum-Mortlock! My fares sang snatches of the popular melodies
of the day, sometimes as a solo, sometimes as a duet. When we arrived
at our destination, they sprang out of the cab and inquired my fare.
I replied: ‘Two shillings.’ The countenance of the younger assumed a
plaintive expression as she whispered: ‘Give the poor cabby an extra
tanner, Loo; I daresay he has a wife and children at home.’
As I did not wish to obtain money under false pretences, I modestly
disclaimed the honour of paternity, at the same time pocketing my fare.
As I did so, two gentlemen approached, and my feelings of dismay may
be imagined when I recognised in one of them Mr Spalland, my father’s
curate! There was a gas-lamp close at hand, so that my features must
have been plainly discernible. The girls had just bidden me good-night.
Observing the look of wonder and horror on Mr Spalland’s features, I
boldly took the bull by the horns, and exclaimed: ‘Cab, sir?’
‘The very voice!’ cried the curate. ‘What a marvellous resemblance!’
Then he whispered a few words to his companion, who was a stranger to
me.
‘Nonsense!’ came from his lips. ‘The thing is impossible.—What is your
name, cabby?’
‘Here is my ticket, sir,’ I promptly replied. ‘John Smith, Lisson
Grove.’
The curate indulged in another prolonged stare, and then they both
entered the cab, and I drove them to an address where I was as well
known as in my own home. I managed to drive rapidly away as soon as I
had deposited the worthy curate and his friend, as I did not wish to
undergo the critical examination of the hall porter, who might not have
been put off so easily.
At this moment I observed a crimson glow in the sky, which was clearly
caused by some conflagration, but evidently at a very considerable
distance. Notwithstanding, a man almost insisted on my driving him to
the scene of the fire, no matter what might be the distance. This I
declined to do, alleging that my horse was tired; and after a volley
of objurgations, the fellow departed, making some strong remarks about
the independence of cabmen and their large earnings. Up to this time, I
had not earned the amount of the hire of the horse and cab. Whether my
experience on this point was special or normal, I am unable to judge,
but I could easily picture the despair of a cabman who in similar
circumstances would have but a gloomy outlook for the morrow. True,
there were several hours remaining, and it was impossible to tell what
they might produce.
The aspect of a mighty slumbering city at early dawn is a remarkable
spectacle. The line of Wordsworth involuntarily recurred to me:
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
London at sunrise was by no means a novel sight to one who had kept
‘early hours’ for some years; but I do not think I was ever so
impressed with the sight as I was when perched on that elevated seat
at the back of a hansom cab. The first faint streaks of red in the
distant east, succeeded by a pale primrose light, and then the gradual
dispersal of the midnight gloom, was inexpressibly lovely. The scenes
I had witnessed had aroused certain trains of thought, more or less
painful, as I beheld the varied fortunes of my fellow-creatures, the
struggle for a bare existence, the sins and follies created in a great
measure by ‘iron circumstance.’
With the history of my final fare I must conclude this veritable
account of my experience as a cab-driver. It was exactly a quarter
to six, and I was crawling along Holborn, when a man of gentlemanly
appearance and address emerged rapidly from a side-street, and
springing into my cab, said: ‘Cabman—Victoria. If you can catch the six
o’clock train for Newhaven, I will pay you double fare.’
I glanced at the church clock, and found I had exactly a quarter of an
hour to accomplish a distance of nearly three miles. Fortunately, the
streets were comparatively empty, and I sent the mare along at a pace
of something like twelve miles an hour. Although I had only seen the
face of my fare for a couple of seconds, the expression and features
are indelibly impressed on my memory. It was a handsome face, but the
eyes were more like those of a hunted stag than of a human being. The
colour of the face was ashen gray, and I fancied the teeth chattered
somewhat as he addressed me. But the last circumstance I attributed
to the cold raw October morning. I felt so curious about my fare that
I cautiously lifted the small wooden flap in the roof of the cab, and
felt almost pleased to behold him imbibing brandy from a flask. One or
two policemen peered at the cab as it flew past, apparently undecided
whether or not to take cognisance of the excessive speed; but I cared
not; I felt as anxious to catch the train for Newhaven as if my life
depended on it. At length I sighted Victoria Station. The minute-hand
wanted two minutes to six. Passing a half-sovereign through the trap,
my fare shouted: ‘Never mind the change!’ and sprang out of the cab.
Involuntarily, I paused to watch the end of the affair. I saw him leave
the pay-box with the ticket, and then in half a minute I heard the
shriek of the engine, and congratulated myself on having accomplished
my task. Ere I could drive from the entrance of the booking-office,
another hansom deposited two men, who simultaneously rushed to the
booking-office. The horse of the cab was covered with lather, and
seemed completely blown. The men appeared again on the pavement with
vexation and disappointment plainly written on their features. Suddenly
their eyes lighted on the cab which I drove. They advanced, and the
shorter man of the two said: ‘Cabman, we are police-officers. Have you
just brought any one who was anxious to catch the six o’clock express?’
I had felt certain they were officers of justice. How is it that
policemen out of uniform and servants out of livery are always
distinguishable? There is a hall-mark, so to say, which stamps them.
I stated all I knew, which, as the reader knows, was not much. Then
they left me.
Whether they utilised the telegraph for the arrest of the unhappy
fugitive—a forger, as they told me—I never knew.
I examined my takings, and found they amounted to one pound five
shillings, making a profit of eight shillings. But it is not the luck
of every cabman to have as a fare a runaway forger who will pay so
liberally as ten shillings for three miles.
Mr Smith was quite satisfied with the result, and expressed his
willingness to lend his horse and cab again on similar terms. But this
was my first and last cab-drive. I cannot explain it, but that night
was a turning-point in my career. I married soon afterwards; and not
even the wife of my bosom is aware that her husband once officiated in
the character of a London cab-driver!
COLONEL REDGRAVE’S LEGACY.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
Mr Septimus Redgrave had attained the mature age of fifty without
losing either of his pet theories—that this world is anything but a
vale of tears, and that the wicked people in it are decidedly in the
minority. These comfortable doctrines were no doubt attributable to the
fact that Mr Redgrave was in the enjoyment of a small independence,
was master of his own time, possessed of good health, and had never
ventured on the uncertain voyage of matrimony. He had occupied the same
chambers in Bury Street, St James’s, for nearly a quarter of a century,
was a member of one of the oldest clubs in Pall Mall, a virtuoso
on a small scale, and a regular attendant at the picture-sales at
Christie’s. His natty, well-costumed figure was always to the fore
on the view-days, elbowing millionaires and picture-dealers in the
inspection of works of art, although his modest income precluded him
from becoming a purchaser, except in very exceptional cases.
His only near relatives were two maiden sisters, who were several years
his senior, and resided at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight. Their names
were Penelope and Lavinia respectively, and they were generous in
their advice on all occasions to their brother, whom they could never
realise as anything but a child, and consequently requiring guidance
and sisterly control. In truth, the intellect of their brother was none
of the brightest, of which fact he himself had a dim suspicion; but as
a slight compensation in lieu thereof, he availed himself of no small
share of a quality which could only be described as cunning, in the
ordinary acceptation of the word.
He had resided in Bury Street for some ten years, when his landlady,
Mrs Jones, announced that in consequence of her failing strength and
increasing years, her daughter Martha was about to resign her position
as companion to an old lady at Bristol, and assist in the management
of the house in Bury Street. Miss Jones duly arrived, and presented
a very agreeable spectacle. A florid-complexioned, black-eyed girl
of twenty, very vivacious and energetic, and by no means devoid of
education or natural ability. The domestic comforts of Mr Redgrave were
materially increased by the advent of Miss Jones, and he showed his
gratitude at certain times and seasons in a very marked and material
manner. Her birthday was always remembered by the precise bachelor on
the first floor; nor were Christmas or the New Year forgotten. It will
never be known whether the brain of Mrs Jones had originally conceived
the ambitious scheme of a union between the family of Redgrave and
that of Jones; but it is certain that as time went on, such a plan was
entertained by both mother and daughter. There was but fifteen years’
difference in their ages, and Martha was not only possessed of good
looks, but educated and accomplished. But the lynx eyes of the landlady
could never detect the smallest peg on which to hang a claim on behalf
of the incomparable Martha. Although frank and free in his intercourse
with the good-looking Hebe who ministered to his comforts, the actions
of Mr Redgrave were always regulated by the rules of the strictest
decorum; and if, during his occasional absences from town, the epistles
of Martha were couched in a somewhat sentimental tone, they met with
no response in the replies of the cautious and simple lodger of Bury
Street. Probably neither Mrs Jones nor her daughter had ever heard of
the celebrated French proverb, that ‘all comes to him who waits,’ but
it is nevertheless certain that they mutually acted on this maxim.
Years rolled on, and no change occurred in the relations existing
between lodger and landlady; Mr Redgrave was now fifty, and Miss Jones
thirty-five. The roses had long since departed from her cheeks, and the
sparkle from her black eyes, but, like Claude Melnotte in the play, she
still ‘hoped on.’ She felt that she was practically indispensable to
the unsusceptible and phlegmatic bachelor, and trusted that he would
eventually realise the fact, and reward his faithful housekeeper by
making her his wife.