delicacy, which was first introduced to our acquaintance by Gingham.
This was no other than a kid, baked whole. I take the liberty, my
dear sir, of very particularly and pointedly calling your attention
to the dish in question. I have, on previous occasions, ventured to
offer gastronomic hints. But a kid thus dressed is a real delicacy,
worthy of a place on any table. N. B.--If you bake, envelop in paste.
Should you prefer roasting, cover with paper. Let the roasting be
_gentle_, but _complete_. Of course you don't stretch out the legs.
Double them up, and skewer to the sides. For sauce, chop up the
pluck. Sauce should be piquant, with lots of cayenne, subacid. Or
make a separate dish, with the pluck and heart.
Pensive regret was mingled, in the face of Barnacles, with intense
curiosity, while he viewed this novel _entrée_, as it made its
appearance in a case of dough. Capsicum asked no question; sent him
a plateful; a great part of which he was forced to send away. It was
clear Mr Barnacles was now beat to a standstill.
The dish, though, was rather rich; and what he had eaten took effect.
His countenance changed. Suddenly he became pallid, with an effort to
look _degagé_. This lasted about a minute, in which time he swallowed
two successive bumpers of madeira. The dose so far kept him right,
that Barnacles didn't leave the table: but he was evidently _hors de
combat_.
Mr B. being now brought to a standstill, the _joke_ was so far
successful. Yet was not the _hoax_ complete, unless there appeared
something on table that he liked, and yet something of which he could
not partake.
The sweets now made their appearance, and were viewed by Mr Barnacles
with indifference. But when the table was wellnigh covered, and space
remained for only a single dish--
Enter a splendid plum-pudding--yes, a regular English
plum-pudding--its summit hoary with pounded sugar, its sides
distilling brandy sauce.
The eyes of Barnacles lit up again--sparkled. He was alive in a
moment. Once more his fist went bang into his hand; once more his
hands embraced and rubbed, as in mutual congratulation. Forgetting
all his previous performances, he accepted a substantial slice of the
plum-pudding. Alas! he had kept no corner!
"You don't seem," said Capsicum, "to like your pudding, Mr Barnacles."
"Oh yes! Oh yes!" said Barnacles, with emotion. "Indeed I do, sir.
It's what I never, never expected to see again till my return--till
my return to the British metropolis. But"----It ended in a
watering-pot scene--a regular boo-hoo. He put his handkerchief to his
face. It was too much for his feelings. Plum-pudding before him as
good as could be got in London, and he not able to eat a mouthful!
The poor man cried.
He made up after dinner, though, by copious potations. After coffee,
sat down to a rubber. One of the party proposed guinea points. But
Capsicum saw how matters stood with Barnacles, and wouldn't stand
it. "No, no, gentlemen," said he; "no stakes; no stakes." In the
course of the evening Mr Barnacles disappeared. Alarmed by his
prolonged absence, Capsicum sent a servant, who came back with the
report that he was not very well. He returned--took a stiff glass
of whisky-punch--again disappeared. I, by Capsicum's request, went
this time in search. Found him at length in the stable. He was trying
to saddle his horse;--couldn't. He wanted to steal away. I reported
to Capsicum, who at once decided. "Mr Barnacles must not go home
to-night. We must find him a shake-down on the premises." In one way
only could this arrangement be effected. Mr Wowski consented to turn
out, and accompanied me to my billet.
Amidst the din of war and the monotony of headquarters society, I
was really glad to meet with a naturalist and man of science, and
cultivated the acquaintance of Mr Wowski accordingly. When, however,
I came to try him, he appeared to know about as much of botany
as I did myself. Neither, I remarked, in search of specimens, did
he visit the most out-of-the-way and likely places. He generally
sought those points, in preference, where the troops were moving in
masses; and apparently looked much more sharply after the movements
of the army than after bulbs. Once, when we had halted at a village,
which stood in a wide-spread plain, he invited me to ascend the
turret of the church. We reached the summit just in time to behold
a comical spectacle. From the church top we looked down vertically
on the _Place_, or open area of the village, which was full, at the
moment, of soldiers--British, Portuguese, and Spanish; muleteers,
camp-followers--men, women, children--a motley multitude. Just at
that moment a fellow rushed into the midst, shouting at the top of
his voice, and bearing something aloft in his two hands. It was a
bullock's bladder. The multitude gathered round him, eager for a
promiscuous game of football, which he soon commenced by a kick that
sent the bladder sky-high. Football, probably, you have seen played,
or have played at. But did you ever see it played by four or five
hundred persons at once, of four or five different nations, and you
looking right down upon them from the top of a church? Each was eager
to get a kick at the bladder; but a far greater number than succeeded
got kicks on their shins. It was a stormy sea of heads. The shout
came up to us. No one was more conspicuous in the throng than my
Spanish Capataz, whose activity was equal to his bulk. Being stumpy
as well as stout, he cut a droll figure viewed from above, as, with
sprawling arms and legs, he flung himself forward with a flying leap,
and a kick that, if it missed the bladder, was seldom expended on
the air. At length the bladder was driven down a street; the rush
followed it, shouting; the market-place again became quiet; and I
turned to address Mr Wowski, who, like myself, I supposed, had been
engaged in surveying the tumultuous scene beneath. Not he. Ensconced
behind the parapet, where no one could see him from below, he was
quietly looking in advance with a pocket-telescope, as if surveying
the movements of the troops. On my approach he started, slapped
together the joints of his glass, and hastily restored it to his
pocket, where, till that moment, I never knew he carried one.
Mr Wowski, highly recommended by letters, received a good deal of
attention. To Gingham he brought a letter from Warsaw. For my own
part, I saw reason to doubt whether he was really what he professed
himself. Two or three things about him struck me as strange; and,
when he spoke, never could I forget the voice at the river.[2]
[2] Having described in this Chapter a dish introduced to our
acquaintance by Gingham, I must here, though with an apology for
discussing a matter of such importance in a note, beg leave to
mention another dish, which I also partook of at Gingham's table
while residing at Bordeaux in the subsequent Autumn, a period not
included in the present narrative. I believe the dish is French; a
boiled turbot, cold, with jelly sauce. I mention it with a degree of
hesitation, because it is not exactly a dish for our climate, nor
would it harmonise with the general character of an English
"spread." The turbot, when boiled, should be kept in the coolest
place you have got, till brought to table. So should the jelly. It
is a dish for a _bonâ fide_ warm climate, and should come to table
_bonâ fide_ cold.
The same _entrée_ was part of a most splendid dinner given in one of
the seaports of southern Europe, by some French to some British
naval officers. This was at a more recent period,--my informant, the
Rev. W. G. Tucker, Chaplain of the Royal Navy, who was one of the
guests on the occasion, and whose approval may be safely deemed
definitive, in all matters of taste. In the discharge of his
professional duties, my Rev. friend is equally distinguished; and
should the authorities think fit to appoint a nautical Bishop--that
_prime desideratum_ in the service--he is their man.--G. Y.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Mr Wowski, during his short sojourn at headquarters, was one day
placed in an awkward position. In the south of France, we often met
with large fierce dogs, which in country places we sometimes found
ugly customers; though, in reality, not one in ten of them possessed
the pluck of an English pug. Early one morning, I had to ride a
little distance on duty. It was a cross country road, and Gingham
favoured me with his company. While ambling along, we overtook Mr
Wowski, who had started for one of his peregrinations on foot; and
slackened our pace, to secure the pleasure of his society. Presently
we came to a hamlet of some ten or a dozen houses, in passing which
we were savagely attacked by a gang of formidable-looking dogs. Had
Gingham and I been by ourselves, we should soon have been rid of the
annoyance, by the mere act of passing on. But the real danger was
our pedestrian companion's, whom the whole barking angry pack seemed
determined to assail. One shaggy, powerful ruffian led the van; he
might have sat to Schneider. His mouth, yawning like a sepulchre,
reuttered a deep, sonorous yow--yow; his fangs stood out, ready for
action; his eyes flashed fire; while, in size somewhere between a
wolf and a jackass, he rushed right up to the unfortunate Wowski,
whose only defence was a walking-stick. Wowski cut one, two--one,
two--with just sufficient energy to keep off the foe, who contrived
to maintain his nose in position, just an inch beyond the range of
the sapling. He was backed up by the rest of the curs, who, barking
and snarling, formed a semicircle, that threatened to hem in the
hapless Wowski. Gingham and I could do nothing. I had only a switch;
Gingham hadn't even that. Still the chief assailant, his back
bristling like a wild boar's, and his tail swollen and ruffled like
an angry cat's, pressed the attack; it was yow--yow on one side, and
cut--cut on the other. He jumped, he circled, he ramped, he flew up
in the air, spun round, and flew up again;--every moment I expected
to see him fly at Wowski's throat. I noticed a woman looking out from
the door of one of the cottages--called to her, and made signs--on
which she thought fit to disappear. Wowski was now becoming pale and
exhausted. "Shorten your stick," said I. He did so. The foe came
nearer. "Now give him the full length." Wowski took the hint, and the
big beast of a cur caught a crack on his muzzle--a regular smasher;
instantly turned tail, and cut away with dismal yowlings. The whole
pack, like so many humans, turned against him, and pursued; the great
powerful brute was half-a-dozen times knocked over and worried, ere
he found refuge in an outhouse. The woman now reappeared, armed with
a broomstick; and followed into the shed, where a fresh succession
of howls and yells announced a needful though tardy process of
castigation. Wowski walked along with us, flourishing his stick;
only wished it had been a lion! There may be really courageous dogs
among the big-limbed monsters of this part of France; but, from my
own observation, I should say the most part are a pluckless race.
Indeed, an officer of the Guards, who had got out dogs from England,
complained to me that they lost their courage on a foreign soil.
Gingham himself, a few days after, had a much more serious adventure.
We were on the march together, after a wet and stormy night. The
morning was unsettled, but soon became sultry. Then followed a shower
of hail. Gingham began to philosophise; thought he could explain the
phenomenon of hail better than any one else. "It has been remarked,"
said I, "that hail is never formed, except where there are two strata
of clouds, one over the other."
"True," said Gingham; "and some meteorologists have imagined that the
hail is generated by the alternate action of the two strata, which
action they suppose to be electrical."
"Curious, if true."
"Yes," said Gingham; "but I question the theory altogether. According
to the best views of the subject which I have been able to form,
the hail is produced simply by a current of very cold air, passing
rapidly through hot air charged with vapour. Were the current less
rapid, or less cold, the effect would be merely condensation, and we
should have rain; but, being both cold and rapid in a high degree,
the effect is congelation, and we have hail. The noise which so often
accompanies hail-storms is the rush of this current of cold air.
Currents of air, I admit, in the higher regions of the atmosphere,
are usually mute. But, in this instance, the rush is rendered vocal
by the hailstones. As to the two strata of clouds, they merely mark
the superior and inferior limit of the intrusive current; and they
are due to the action of the cold, there more modified, on the
vapour. And as to electricity--"
Gingham's lecture was here interrupted by our reaching a river. The
bridge having been destroyed by the enemy, we could cross only by
fording; and just as we reached the ford, we saw some persons passing
on mules and horses. Half way over appeared a small island, which was
in fact only a bank of shingle, thrown up by some previous flood. We
perceived, by those who preceded us, that the depth was sufficient to
wet our boots, if we rode, as they did; and therefore it was resolved
to pass in the cart. The river, though not at the moment swollen,
was dark and rapid. It rushed sullenly on, with small whirlpools,
but without a ripple; and murmurs were heard at intervals, hoarse
and deep, which came not from its surface, but boomed up from the
gloomiest and most profound recesses of its vexed channel and hollow
banks. By the side, waiting for a passage, we found some slightly
wounded soldiers, a party of four. These Gingham mounted at once into
the cart; and I, calculating that with Joaquim the driver, Mr Wowski,
and Gingham himself, there were now quite passengers enough by that
conveyance, turned Sancho's head, and followed Coosey--who led the
way across the stream, mounted on one horse, and leading another,
while the cart brought up the rear. The cart, it appears, on reaching
the island, stuck fast. Its wheels cut into the loose gravel; and
there was no remedy, except for the passengers to alight. The wheels
were then lifted by main force; and, time having been given for
the whole party to remount, Joaquim drove on, and the remainder
of the passage was effected. All those who had started from the
opposite bank then got out, with one exception. Where was Gingham? My
attention was first attracted by an angry shout from Coosey:
"You Joe King, you precious willain, vhy, if you han't a-been and
left your master a-standin on the highland!"
To a geologist like Gingham, the loose stones of the bank of
gravel, shoved up by the force of the water from the depths of the
stream, presented an attraction which banished every other thought
from his mind. He had commenced picking up specimens the moment he
alighted from the cart; and was so intent upon this pursuit, that he
suffered the party to proceed without him. How they came to leave
him behind can only be explained by supposing that each, as soon as
he remounted, was occupied by the portion of the passage--it was
ticklish work--that remained to be effected, and therefore began
looking out ahead.
The moment Coosey spoke, I looked toward the island, and there,
sure enough, was Gingham, still intent on stone-picking, and, to
all appearance, utterly unconscious that the cart had left. The
river, meanwhile, had risen considerably. Its course was more turbid
and violent, its murmur louder and more continuous, and the island
already smaller. We shouted to Gingham--there was need to shout.
He looked up, and at once became aware of his position, which
was evidently far from eligible. He appeared perfectly cool, but
hesitated.
Suddenly, the water came down, in a sort of bank. It was less than a
foot high; but the rise left Gingham with much less ground to stand
upon, in the midst of the boiling flood. Large trunks of trees,
plunging and careering, were now brought rapidly down the current;
while the rush of the waters was like the roar of receding billows on
a storm-vexed strand. Coosey was about to dash into the flood, which
swept by the bank, boiling like a mill-stream. Had I not stopped
him, the plucky little Londoner would soon have been carried away,
prone and struggling on the angry torrent. He then sprang into the
cart; but Gingham made signs to prohibit the attempt, or both cart
and Coosey would probably have been lost. In our agony we tore off
the cords from the boxes, tied them together, and fastened the end
to a large stone, which Coosey attempted to pitch towards Gingham.
It fell near him; but out of his reach, in deep water. While we were
cautiously hauling it in, down came another freshet. The island was
now in great part submerged; and Gingham stood on a mere strip of
shingle, with the flood roaring down on each side. The stone was
pitched again; and this time went truer than before, but was at once
carried off into the deep water below. I again began to haul the
line home. It had caught, and wouldn't come in. What could be done?
Gingham, I really feared, was a lost man!
Down came another bank of water. Gingham had now scarcely
standing-room. The water rushed rapidly by him, and I began to fear
he might not long have a footing. At this critical moment, the trunk
of a tree, with most of its branches broken off, but here and there
a small bough still remaining, came right down towards Gingham,
shearing, surging on the tumultuous waters, hung for a moment on the
shallow, and then began moving on again with the current. Gingham
stooped forward to seize it--he did well, it was his only hope--but
lost his feet. He threw himself astride the timber, like Waterton
on the crocodile's back, and was borne off from the island, still
retaining his hold, though turned over and over by the violence of
the current. I saw no hope. What could prevent his being carried
away? Yet there was still a possibility of escape, though unforeseen.
The trunk, carried a few yards down, was caught by an eddy, and swung
round into the slack water below, where the current was broken by
the bank on which Gingham had just been standing. There the huge
log began slowly moving round in a circle, first ascending in a
direction opposite to the stream, then descending again. On reaching
the lowest point of the circle, the trunk, with Gingham upon it, was
again caught by an eddy, and twirled round like a spindle; then, with
solemn movement, began gradually to ascend again, describing the same
circle as before. This second time, though, in going down, it reached
a lower point ere it was again caught and twirled, by which law, it
was clear, the third time it would go with the current. Manfully did
Gingham still hold on, though so often under water; and now, for
the third time, he and his log began slowly to move in an ascending
orbit. A third time he reached the highest point; and a third time,
to all appearance the last, he began--I often dream of it--to go down
with the stream! We had given up all hope. Joaquim stood wringing his
hands; Coosey was like a man distracted; even the crippled soldiers
would gladly have given their aid, had any devisable expedient
presented itself. There was no visible alternative; this time he
must be carried away!--What's that? Something stirred at my feet! I
looked down. There was again a little movement. The rope twitched,
as if beginning to run out! My foot was on it, in an instant. The
next, I and Coosey held it fast. The tree, in moving round and round,
had fished hold, and disengaged it from the catch. "Pull away, pull
away!" shouted the soldiers.--"Now run him up to the bank."--"Now's
your time."--"Make haste!"
"Steady, Coosey, steady," said I. "Take time, or we shall loosen the
hitch, perhaps break the rope."
We did not pull. We merely held on. The log and Gingham swung to the
bank.
He was silent, almost exhausted. It was well there were hands to
drag him ashore; for he was too far spent to land himself. Awhile
he sat motionless on the bank. With eyes uplifted, and lips moving
inaudibly, he was apparently returning fervent and heartfelt thanks
to heaven, for his all but miraculous deliverance. Coosey, meanwhile,
had rushed for some brandy, which he administered with great apparent
benefit.
"Hadn't we better take you to the nearest cottage?" said I. "Here's
one at hand."
"No, no," replied Gingham, gasping. "Get me into the cart."
We lifted him in. Coosey then let down the tarpaulin, and assisted
his master in a thorough change of garments from head to foot.
Presently, with solemn look, and an air of authority, Coosey got down
from the cart.
"It's master's vishes," said he, "to be left, jist for a few minits,
alone by his-self."
Gingham ere long made his appearance, shifted and dry; and, though
still looking shakey and exhausted, remounted his horse. When I
once saw him fairly across the saddle, and just as we were about to
proceed, I turned with vindictive, with savage exultation, to take
a parting view of the angry torrent. The island had disappeared.
Where Gingham had stood there was now a small race of swift-following
rollers, which subsided, below the ledge, in tumultuous undulations
and foaming eddies, around a dark, deep fissure in the flood, which
gaped like a grave. Ha! Is it so? The hungry waters yawn for their
rescued prey, and brawl forth their disappointment in a lengthened
moan! We continued our march.
"And as to electricity," said Gingham, resuming where he broke off,
"it may, when hail is generated, be disengaged by the process, I
admit. But that it is in any way the medium of producing the hail,
I strenuously deny. Hail is sufficiently accounted for by the
supposition of a current of cold air passing rapidly through warm
air charged with vapour; and the same theory will solve all the
phenomena."
To which theory I, not being so deep in the subject as Gingham, urged
no objections. I remarked, however, that Mr Wowski, professedly a man
of science, manifested not the least interest in the question; did
not appear to have even an idea on the subject, let alone an opinion.
In the late critical scene at the ford, though, he was eminently
conspicuous; and, as far as skipping about, shrieking, and getting in
the way, his assistance was invaluable.
We lost the little botanist sooner than we expected. A mail--joyful
event!--arrived from England; and I was sent to the "Post Office" for
our departmental letters. This was not part of my regular duty; but
on the occasion in question I received express directions, and went
accordingly. Found the post office, a cottage with a front garden.
I could but admire the diligent and active exertions to meet the
general anxiety of the army, by sorting and delivering the contents
of the mail with the least possible delay. The whole lot, say three
or four bushels, had been shot out in the middle of the room on the
earthen floor. Newspapers, love letters, officers' letters, soldiers'
letters, there they lay, and there they were left to lie. In the
apartment were two persons, perhaps I ought to say personages. One
sat on each side of the hearth; each had torn open a newspaper; and
both were conning the news from England. I never saw two people more
comfortable in my life. When I entered, neither of them raised his
eyes, or took the least notice. They read on. I waited. Still they
read. I so far presumed as to announce my mission--had come for
the departmental letters. Paused for a reply--stood expectant. At
length one of the illustrious two favoured me with an utterance, in
a tone somewhat querulous though, and without looking off from his
reading--"Three o'clock."
"What, gentlemen!" thought I, "only four hours hence? Why, at this
rate, hadn't you better say three o'clock to-morrow?"
So thinking, (not saying,) I walked off. Just as I was going,
the one who had not spoken rose. He followed me out, and came on
walking by my side down the path toward the garden gate. I really
was green enough to fancy he was doing the polite--_seeing_ me to
the entrance; felt quite overwhelmed. Any approach, at headquarters
to "the sweet courtesies of life"--it was something new! I began to
deprecate--hoped he wouldn't. "Pray, sir, don't come a step farther.
I can mount without assistance--can open the gate for myself."
Without vouchsafing a reply, he began questioning.
"Know Mr Wowski?"
"Have known him for the last few days."
"What is he?"
"He professes himself a botanist, a man of science."
"What does he want at headquarters?"
"He states his object to be botanical research."
"_States_, you say; _professes_. Isn't he really a botanist?"
This was an awkward question, for I was beginning to have my doubts.
I remained silent.
"You must answer."
"For the last two or three days I have felt it a question, I confess."
"Why?"