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.
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.