THE GLORIES OF THE KITCHEN.

HINTS TO SERVANTS:

BEING A
POETICAL AND MODERNISED VERSION OF DEAN SWIFT'S CELEBRATED
"DIRECTIONS TO SERVANTS;"
IN WHICH SOMETHING IS ADDED TO THE ORIGINAL TEXT, BUT
THOSE PASSAGES ARE OMITTED WHICH
CANNOT WITH PROPRIETY BE READ ALOUD IN
A KITCHEN.
BY AN UPPER SERVANT.

"Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,
Yet touched and shamed by Ridicule alone!"
POPE.

ILLUSTRATED WITH
TWELVE ORIGINAL DESIGNS, BY KENNY MEADOWS,
ENGRAVED BY JOHN JACKSON.

LONDON:
EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE,
T. AND W. BOONE, NEW BOND STREET,
1843.

LONDON:
Printed by Maurice and Co., Howford-buildings,
Fenchurch-street.

PREFACE,
ADDRESSED TO ALL MY FELLOW-SERVANTS.

Once on a time a Rev'rend Dean

There lived, (and you know whom I mean,)

Keen as a hawk each fault to seize,

And Swift to blame, as slow to please;

Swell'd up with pride to height of tumour,

Though all admired his dogged humour.

But since our Pompey knew not how

To speak, as 'twere, but in 'bow wow!'

The Muse invites me to rehearse

His constant bark in doggrel verse:

Keen irony can't hope to chime

Without some small relief from rhyme,

Though where you'd feel the sharpest tingle,

You lose the smart amidst the jingle!

Doubtless (like Swift) we've now-a-days

Both lords and ladies shy of praise,

Of errors, ills, for ever mumbling,

Yet love 'em for the sake of grumbling.

Had Swift known how to hold his dish up,

I'm told he might have been a Bishop.

I've tried to make him look more recent,

And dock'd him where he's quite indecent.

On one thing you may quite rely,—

I am no busy, base Paul Pry.

My best advices really flow

From what I really 'happ'n' to know,

Nor could escape in any wise,

Save shutting both my ears and eyes.

My book may sell, or fall dead flat,—

Yet Meadows makes me safe from that;

Since, to inspire, I've given him some

Of Master's truly 'precious rum,'

Deeming him best of all the bunch—

But mum! for what relates to 'Punch!'

And may each critic's 'ifs and buts'

But vie with his good-humoured cuts:

For I profess the constant aim

Of yielding ev'ry one I name

(Thus pleasing all, e'en to the letter)

Either a laugh—or something better.

Now if I've well explained my plan,

Why, farewell Master! farewell Man!

And free from fuss, I make no bones

To sign,

Yours thoroughly,

John Jones.

CONTENTS.

THE BUTLER.

Of servants, whether best or worst,

The Butler seems to rank the first;

Whose sparkling aid calls up the Nine,—

Such virtue dwells in rosy wine.

There's none can draw a cork like you,

You're such a perfect 'thorough screw.'

Who else can keep within the tether

Mirth and economy together?

At home for ever to a shaving,

In all the honest arts of saving.

Since those who dine at the same table

Are friends, why shouldn't you be able

To make one glass, or two at most,

Serve for both company and host?

Thus saving both fatigue and breaking,

And, most of all, the wine they're taking.

Serve not one guest amidst the feast,

Till he has call'd three times at least;

Further his temp'rance you may fix

By sundry nasty little tricks,

More fit, because your own invention,

For you to use than me to mention.

On your behaviour stands confest

The pain or ease of ev'ry guest;

You can ensure a hearty greeting,

Or make it like a Quakers' meeting.

From what your Master seems to do,

You and the footmen take your cue;

At least your Lady'll teem with praise,

You've got such 'shrewd, discerning ways.'

Should any one desire small beer,

The end of dinner somewhat near,

Gather the droppings (exc'lent fun)

Of all the glasses into one.

This you may do and none perceive,

"The eye don't see, the heart won't grieve:"

Thus you may make a mighty chatter

Of saving in the smallest matter.

But when they chance to call for ale,

More bright the joke more brisk the tale,

Down to the vaults, and if not filling

The largest tankard till o'erspilling,

Then you're not fit to hold your station,

Not fit to fill—your situation:

The company just drink two glasses,

And you the rest amongst the lasses.

The same thing with respect to wine;

It's only just the whilst it's fine

It suits our masters: good, i'fegs!

So half the bottle goes for dregs;

Ha! ha! we're then, instead of napping,

Like the woodpecker,—always 'tapping.'

Of course, occasion'ly you tell o'er

The true contents of all the cellar.

Again of course, the choicest bottle

Scarce greets at all your Master's throttle.

The deuce a bit (if you've the tact)

You care, if he suspects the fact;

Then, to ensure his constant favour,

Treat him, sometimes, for good behaviour!

Wipe knives, rub tables, clean your plate,—

What can be more appropriate?

With table-cloths: 'tis bold, and dashing,

But saves in dusters and in washing.

In cleaning plate some talk of 'tricks,'

Leaving the whiting in the nicks;

The same with things in brass and copper:

But I contend it's right and proper;

Shows that you never kept aloof on't,

But did the thing—and left a proof on't!

I know no writer yet that handles

The saving article of candles;

But whilst convinc'd how much depends

On ev'ry mortal's private 'ends'

The subject, I'll not wholly doff it,

It yields us all such glaring profit.

Nor light them soon nor burn them low,

And part upon the Cook bestow;

No wretch alive would be that despot,

To go to rob the woman's grease-pot!

Though some may say you rob their pockets,

By what is wasted in the sockets:

A plague on all such meanness! scout it,

And never vex your sconce about it.

The noblest task in all your line,

Is bottling off a Pipe of Wine;

Not that you drink wine from the vat,

You know a 'trick worth two of that,'

But that it makes you (yet no stealer)

A reputable private dealer.

Choosing small bottles,—no large lumber,

Your Master gets his proper number;

Whilst, mod'rate in your views of pelf,

You get six dozen for yourself,—

Nay, were your Master quite a miser,

Pray 'who's to be a bit the wiser?'

Make from the cask your brethren cosey,

Of course not drunk, yet vastly dozy:

If fault be found you drain his wealth,

'Twas all with 'drinking Master's health.'

Put 'em to bed to sleep it off,

Say they've a cold—a shocking cough;

'Tis ten to one your Mistress orders

What you think good for all disorders,

At which, before, you've often laugh'd,—

A more and more composing draught!

Follow all guests towards the door,

If they have slept a night or more;

'Tis ten to one you've half-a-crown,—

Else 'show 'em up,' instead of down.

If they rebel and still resist,

Get all the servants to assist;

Whilst other plans you yet may try,

As I shall show you by and by.

Good Butlers always break their corkscrew,

So that it won't the lignum work through,

Or do the job for which intended,

Yet ne'er have time to get it mended:

The jovial service never balk,

Perform it with a silver fork!

Now for the Gent who often dines,

And eats your meat and drinks your wines,

Yet gives no vails,—torment him thence

'No end of ways' for the offence.

He calls, but you seem not to hear;

If asking wine, present him beer,

And, to prolong the pleasing strife,

A spoon when he desires a knife.

At last he'll do what fits his station,—

Or never more get invitation.

Whoe'er comes in, whoe'er goes out,

Your game is sure for ball or rout.

To fortune straight you'll make your way,

If once your Lady takes to play;

It pays beyond all formal dinners,

Only pay homage to the winners,

Which I'll be bound you always do,

At least I would if I were you.

Now if I've told you e'er a thumper,

Fine me, when next we meet, a bumper:

Yes, give us truth without a sting,

A bottle of the old 'Bee's Wing.'

THE COOK.

Although French Cooks be much too common,—

I speak now to an English woman,—

You would not wish to learn from books,

How you might stock the pastry-cooks,

And make my Lord pay carriage hence,

For gimcracks made at his expense!

Although, quite fearless of detection,

Some have 'arrived' at this perfection;

And yet, I fear, I must conclude

There's nothing of the kind in Ude,

And therefore you must farther look,

If wanting a "Complete French Cook!"

Be with the Butler always 'friends,'

And so make sure of both your 'ends.'

When all the rest are safe in bed,

As silent as if all were dead,

You find the Butler dainty prog,

Repaid as sure with luscious grog;

But still, if you outrun your tether,

'Tis odds you 'bundle' both together.

Avoid it,—treat him like a brother,

For you may 'never like another.'

You can make friends with every one,

So mind how my instructions run:

My lessons suit both town and country,

If you've the requisite effrontery.

Be sure to send up nothing 'cold,'

Unless particularly 'told;'

Get rid of it to some dear crony,

No matter whether fowl or coney.

If miss'd, then lay it to the rats,

Strange greyhounds or domestic cats:

(Poor things! 'tis hard that you should scout 'em,)

But harder still to do without 'em.

Then talk of 'magpies' for blue moons,

When 'maids' run short of forks and spoons:

I must confess how I do glory,

In that most true, most 'moving story.'

If there's no paper for your use

To light a fire or singe a goose,

Swear by the poker, tongs, and shovel,

You'll tear some from the 'last new Novel.'

If forc'd to own that you're the thief,

Say you'll "turn over a new leaf:"

Nay, should you rob (no new proceeding)

The very work your Master's reading,

Say that 'there's more besides the Cook,'

Should take a "leaf from Master's book."

If you should serve a family

So rich, they don't live crammily,

Broils you may have—nay, constant broiling,

Yet free from common roasting, boiling:

But stews and hashes bring much bother,—

Encourage neither one nor t'other;

Good Cooks still hate all diddle-daddle,

Constant, eternal fiddle-faddle.

But snipes and larks, that come as presents

(Instead of partridges and pheasants)

Placed in the pan, (a sort of toasting,)

Will cook themselves, whatever's roasting:

'Plague on't!' you wish the paltry elves

Would 'keep their presents to themselves.'

And so for once I catch you tripping,—

You long again for joints and dripping.

Would I be called on of a sudden

To make a plaguy 'sparra' pudden?'

I say at once, then, downright "No!

I'd see'em all at Jericho!"

And if they grumble, then give warning,

'As sure as eggs is eggs,' next morning;

And beg they'd please, in lieu of more freaks,

To "suit themselves as that day four weeks."

Who cares for their 'contempshus looks,'

Their "God sends meat, the devil cooks;"

They're only better sort of 'varments,'

I says, "good Masters makes good Sarvants."

If you're allow'd the kitchen stuff,

Be sure the meat's done quite enough;

But if your Mistress 'claps her paw,'