“Don’t talk at present,” I answered; “I consider dinner one of the most serious duties of life.”
“Ah! ah! then you would not call Soyer a humbug to make this?”
“Soyer!” I said in disdain—“Soyer never made or invented a dish half as good in his life! Talk about French slops in comparison with prime English beef and onions! Bah!”
I was carried away by my enthusiasm, and quite forgot that I was at that moment eating part of the carcase of a wretched Armenian beast, that would not have fetched 50s. in an English market. At last dinner was over.
“One more glass of sherry,” said the stranger, “and then I go. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance, and I hope you will come and see me when you come down to Balaklava. I shall be on board the ship Edward in the bay. I am going to stop there a little time for my health. Come on board and ask for me.”
“With very great pleasure—and your name?”
“Oh! my name—Soyer,” said he; and he sat down and laughed till the tears stood in his eyes.
W. C.
Soon after I left Balaklava for Scutari on board the Imperador, Captain Brown. His humorous countenance would alone have sufficed to restore the gaiety of the most shattered constitution, setting aside his good-nature and continual kindness to his numerous passengers, particularly the invalids. What visitor to the Crimea has not known or heard of Captain Brown of the Imperador? His heart was as large as his ship, and his mind as brilliant as his gorgeous saloon: moreover, his table was worthy of any yachting epicure. He was in every way a credit to that noble class of men, the pet children of the ocean, the captain’s kingly race. At the time of my trip he was an invalid, having broken two of his ribs; but he did not consider the case a serious one, and consoled himself by saying this accident was nothing compared with the one he had met with a few months before. “Then,” said he, laughing, “I actually fell into the coal-hole, and broke my collar bone; and (showing his lame arm) I shall be lame for life through it. However, these broken ribs are nearly set again, and I shall soon be well. But pray do not make me laugh—come, let us have another glass of port,” closed his argument. (This was cheese-time dialogue.)
We had a fine passage, as well as agreeable companions in the passengers, amongst whom were three American gentlemen just returning from Russia. They were in Sebastopol during the storming on the 8th of September, and had been sent by their Government upon important duty. Owing to my weakness at the time, I have forgotten the purport of their mission. They had been introduced to the Emperor Alexander, and spoke in high terms of his Majesty’s courtesy. They had come from America in their own ship, which was at that time in the Bosphorus undergoing repairs. I was invited to dine with them some day, which I promised to do, but was not able to keep my promise, in consequence of my continued illness. “The dinner,” said one of them, “shall be cooked à la Soyer, for we have your book on board—the one called the Modern Housewife.”