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
