Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 449

It may, indeed, be predicted with tolerable certainty, that the qualities of 'beauty and utility' possessed by gold will be for a long time guarantees for its 'scarcity' whatever be its abundance. Its fine colour and brilliancy are not its only beauties. No metal is so ductile, so malleable, so indestructible by fire or chemical tests. It does not rust, it scarcely tarnishes, and it admits of the most exquisite workmanship. India alone would absorb the results of many years' digging; and when direct steam communication commences between it and Australia, gold will begin to flow into that great country, with its hundred million of people, in one continued stream, to supply their insatiable desire for it. They habitually invest their savings in gold ornaments, which they wear on their persons; and at this day, it is not uncommon to see the wife of a native under-secretary, whose salary and property altogether do not amount to much more than L.300 a year, wearing gold in this manner to the value of L.500. The treasure of this kind possessed by the rich natives is probably extraordinary; and so great is their desire to accumulate it, that it is impossible to keep up a gold-currency in the country: the coin is immediately melted down, and made into ornaments.

But whatever amount of gold is absolutely required at present as a circulating medium, and whatever amount is likely to be absorbed by the requirements of luxury, an amount far greater is likely to be needed to keep pace with the increasing prospects of prosperity in this country. Now that the restrictions on trade are nearly all removed, Britain may become the centre of the world's commerce: situated as she is in a temperate climate, between the Old and the New World, her harbours never closed by ice, there is nothing to limit the extent of her markets, nothing to check the development of her resources, nor the division of her labour. The extraordinary impetus given to emigration by the discovery of the gold-fields, has already begun to create new and great countries; and every emigrant that leaves our shores becomes a source of wealth and strength to the mother-country, which has cast off the fetters that so long restrained its enterprise, and is open to trade with all the world; while the discovery of rich coal-mines in most parts of the globe, favours the communication by steam-power between both hemispheres, and almost from pole to pole; and while we hear of new discoveries that may make the air a motive power instead of steam, and thus render railway transit possible in arid deserts; and while the electric telegraph not only connects us with the continent of Europe, but is about to cross the Atlantic. With all these powers at command, men will not long be confined to the narrow boundaries in which they are at present congregated; and in comparison with future improvements in every branch of industry, the present time may come to be regarded as one when they were bunglers in industrial art, and mere scratchers of the soil instead of cultivators.

And not the least important among the elements of national prosperity, will be found an abundance of the circulating medium. ''Tis certain,' says Hume, 'that since the discovery of the mines in America, industry has increased in all the nations of Europe, except in the possessors of those mines; and this may justly be ascribed, amongst other reasons, to the increase of gold and silver. Accordingly, we find that in every kingdom into which money begins to flow in greater abundance than formerly, everything takes a new face—labour and industry gain life; the merchant becomes more enterprising; the manufacturer more diligent and skilful; and even the farmer follows his plough with greater alacrity and attention.'

The exception of Spain alone is a curious example and warning to nations, as shewing how the best gifts may be abused and converted into a curse instead of a blessing; for, believing the possession of gold and silver to be the only true wealth, they attempted to accumulate these metals by preventing the exportation of them by absurd restrictions; and this policy, added to her bigotry and persecution, has left Spain to this day an example of the results of restriction, powerless and poor, a haunt of the robber and the smuggler.

An abundance of the circulating medium will always be found to be an important element in national prosperity; and so great has been the conviction of this fact, that a whole school of political economists have advocated a paper-currency, in order to escape from the danger of restriction. 'Give us,' say they, 'paper-money, the basis of which shall be, not this scarce, restrictive gold, but the real wealth of the country in commodities of every kind.' It was Sir Robert Peel who explained the danger of these views, by shewing that paper-notes issued against commodities would tend to increase the fluctuations of the prices of those commodities. By the act of 1819, therefore, he established that a pound sterling, or the standard, by reference to which the value of every other commodity is ascertained, and every contract fulfilled, should be itself fixed to be a piece of gold of a certain weight and fineness, and that whatever paper-notes were issued, the holder should be entitled to demand standard coined gold in exchange for them at the Bank, at the rate of L.3, 17s. 10-1/2d. of notes per ounce. Undertaking always to pay in coin when demanded, the Bank was allowed to use its own discretion in the amount of notes it might issue. Such discretion, however, was found to work badly, for the trading community in particular; and therefore, by the act of 1844, the issue of bank-notes was limited to the certain amount of L.14,000,000 against securities; and it was enacted that any further issue must vary with and be equal to the amount of bullion deposited in the coffers of the Bank. The reason why L.14,000,000 in notes against securities was the sum fixed on, was partly that this was the smallest sum that had been known to be in the hands of the public for a very long period; and it is probable that numbers of these notes will never appear again, so many being perpetually lost by fires, shipwrecks, or carelessness. However, it is said, that only the other day a bank-note was presented for payment, bearing the date of 1750.

'To what end,' it is sometimes argued—'since even the advocates of gold-currency resort to paper-money as more convenient for practical purposes—is the accumulation of treasure in the vaults of the Bank of England? Why, after all the labour of digging it out of the earth in the antipodes, is it buried again here? Why not coin it, and lend it out at interest?' The remark is, of course, not unnatural, but has a ready reply. The gold in the vaults of the Bank of England belongs, not to the Bank, but to the holders of the bank-notes. They prefer notes to gold to carry in their pockets, but these rags of notes have no value in themselves; their sole value is as representatives of a certain portion of gold. People cannot have notes and the gold represented by the notes at the same time: they may have either that they like. If they prefer to have gold spoons, or gold candlesticks, or gold watches, or gold anything else; or if, as traders, they require to make purchases in any parts of the world where their notes would not pass current, or where those from whom they buy do not require any commodity manufactured in this country, then they can have their gold at the Bank any day by presenting their notes. As, moreover, the holder of every bank-note has an equal claim, pro tanto, on the bullion in the Bank coffers, the more gold there is in them, the more will his note represent. In short, the act of 1844, above alluded to, established the security of the Bank-of-England-note in a way that seems perfect.

On the whole, therefore, it appears that a condition requisite to national prosperity is in prospect for our country. Individual exceptions there may be in the persons of annuitants, but even here counteracting circumstances are continually at work. By improvements in machinery, and facility of communication, the cost of production is so much reduced as, in a greater or lesser degree, to balance the rise of price consequent on an abundance of gold, should any such condition of things actually occur; and an abundance of gold would undoubtedly, as we have shewn, be favourable to all these improvements. Already, the cost of production, or small amount of labour with which commodities can be produced, compared with former periods, is an important fact in all questions of income. The quantity of cotton wool, for example, taken for consumption in the United Kingdom in 1814, was 53,777,802 lbs., and in 1849 was 775,469,008 lbs.; but its value, which in 1814 was L.20,033,132, had only increased in 1849 to L.26,771,432: so that fifteen times the quantity at the latter period cost only about a third more money than the much smaller quantity in the former. The price of cotton-yarn was 8s. 9d. per lb. in 1801, and only 2s. 11d. in 1832, owing to improved machinery. Such examples might be multiplied, and would increase in accelerated ratio in times of increased prosperity. Other compensations would not be wanting. If the actual income of an annuitant should be lowered, his taxes would be lightened, his poor-rates perhaps abolished, his sons and daughters able to find openings in every direction. He would not be called on for charity; he might become enterprising and successful like his neighbours. It is scarcely possible that individual adversity should long co-exist with national prosperity.

A period may indeed arrive, discoveries may be in store, which may render a change in the standard of value an absolute necessity. Such a period, however, must be remote, and must be met by wise legislation as it gradually approaches. Meanwhile, we see nothing to stop the development of our resources, nor the increase of our wealth, so long as we use our good gifts and do not abuse them.

FRENCH COTTAGE COOKERY

CONCLUDING ARTICLE.[2 - Nos. 388 and 416.]

It may be gathered from the two former papers, that I am not in affluent circumstances; the intimation, therefore, that four distant relations, occupying a sufficiently high position in society, intended to dine with me, was received with a feeling the reverse of pleasurable, both by myself and my single servant. The dining-room and its table were so very small, that I never gave even family dinners. Rose had no idea of waiting; and, moreover, to cook and wait at one and the same time, is by no means an easy task for any one. I could not bear the idea of hired waiters and cooks, and the attendant noise, fuss, and expense. What was to be done? I thought over my dinner, but there was no room to place it on my small table, and the apartment would not hold a larger one conveniently. Rose could cook two dishes very well for my solitary self, but how were her unpractised powers equal to sending up a dinner for five persons, two of them men! It never struck me that Madame Miau could help me in this particular dilemma; nevertheless, as I wished to consult her about a sauce, I unconsciously unfolded my cause of annoyance.

'I see no difficulty at all,' said the worthy widow; 'and if you will only let me manage for you, I will answer for its all succeeding à merveille; but it must be à la Française.'

'But the fish?'

'Oh, your fish shall come first; soyez tranquille.'

'Anything you please, then,' answered I, gaining comfort from her easy, confident manner. I resolved to follow her instructions faithfully; for I was persuaded somehow that, whether she managed well or ill, her plan would probably be better than mine, and the result shewed I was right.

In the middle of the table, fresh flowers in a valuable china bowl did duty as an epergne; port and sherry—the only wines I would, or, indeed, could present—stood at each corner; and round the bowl the little dessert, tastefully decorated with leaves, looked well, although consisting only of common dried fruits, preserved ginger, oranges, and cakes. But the plate was bright, the crystal clear, the table-cloth and napkins of the finest damask, and there was abundance of room for sauces, glasses, plates, and all the little things we might happen to require. As the company consisted of my private friends, not inhabitants of our town, Madame Miau herself—attired in a Bolognaise cap, long gold earrings, cross, fluted lace tucker up to her collar bones, and black silk gown—condescended to wait upon and carve for us. She had each dish and its proper accompaniments brought by Rose to the side-table, where all was neatly divided into portions, and handed round, one dish at a time, hot from the fire. We had, first, ox-tail soup; second, fried soles; third, oyster patés; fourth, Maintenon cutlets and cauliflower; fifth, roast lamb and potato-ribbons; sixth, pheasant, with both bread-sauce and toast. Tartlets and creams followed, and a cream-cheese finished the repast; then we were left to our dessert and conversation, the latter of which we soon resolved to terminate with our coffee in the drawing-room, where a purer atmosphere awaited us. All went off quietly and comfortably; no noise, no bustle, no asking will you have this or that; everything was brought round without questioning, and conversation was never for an instant interrupted. My fastidious cousin, Jack Falconbridge; his foolish fine-lady sister; her common-place lord; and her 'talented and travelled friend,' Miss Scribbleton, expressed themselves equally pleased, although there was nothing recherché, nothing expensive, nothing extraordinary. At the rich Mr Goldscamp's, where they had dined the day before, things were, they all agreed, very far inferior. Five or six inexperienced young footmen jostled against each other, whilst rushing about with sauces and condiments; the table groaned under a gorgeous display of plate, and loads of unnecessary glass and china.

'I was,' said Miss Scribbleton, 'really quite afraid to move, lest I should overturn or break something, and felt like a bull in a china-shop.'

'The cookery,' continued the Honourable John, 'was atrocious; everything half cold, and we rose hungry, to partake of watery coffee and lukewarm tea.'

'Ah!' sighed his sister, 'I was bored to extinction by everything and every person.' And then followed compliments to me upon my little unpretending entertainment, which I felt were sincere, for everything was good of its kind, and I presented nothing that Rose could not cook perfectly under Madame Miau's directions, except the soup and patés, which the pastry-cook supplied—all was hot, and all was quiet.

I have forgotten in the above enumeration the crowning dish of all, the Braousa, which drew down applause from the company; the Mayonnaise, in short, which Madame Miau concocted with her own hands. Every one thinks they can make the Mayonnaise sauce, because they find the ingredients given in various treatises upon cookery; but there is a secret, gastronomic reader, a very simple one; and this small secret I shall now unfold, by which, if you try, you will see that oil, vinegar, and egg, end in a very different result than when the usual mode of mixing them is employed. But ere I enlighten you, let me suggest to the Mesdames Jones and Thompsons, who will persist in giving dinners with few servants and small means, that if they adopt the above plan, they will better content their company, to say nothing of saving their money, than by pursuing the accustomed mode of killing off their acquaintance—namely, a huge 'feed' dressed by a common cook, and served by hired waiters, who, scuffling amongst strange plates and glasses, invariably crack many and break some.

A Mayonnaise.—Beat the yolk of a large quite freshly-laid egg, adding a little salt, with a teaspoonful of lemon juice: use a flat dish and a silver fork, and beat them thoroughly well together. Then take nearly a pint of the finest Lucca oil, which has been kept well corked from the air, and drop one drop. Keep beating the egg all the time, and add another drop—drop by drop at a time: it will take half an hour to do, and must be so thick as to require to be lifted by a spoon. Prepare your cold meat, lobster, chicken without skin, veal, or rabbit. Cut all in neat pieces, and set them round the centre of your dish; then take the very inside hearts of two or three cabbage lettuces, which have been well crisped in cold water, and place them round the meat. Cut two hard-boiled eggs in quarters, and some beet-root in strips, and place them tastefully, contrasting the colours. Now, with a spoon cover all with the sauce, laid on thickly, and upon it an anchovy cut in strips. Finish off with a nasturtium at the top, and also a row all round the outward edge.

Several days having elapsed since I had seen the friend in need, who had proved to me a friend indeed so lately, I went to ascertain whether her unusual exertions of body and mind had not made her ill, but was happy to find her in perfect health, seated at dinner with a very fine gentleman, all curls, compliments, gilt chains, and earrings, whom she introduced as 'Mon neveu Antonio'—the son of her husband's sister, who had married an Italian, and who, like his father, was at once cook and courier. Their dinner consisted of the following friture, from M. Antonio's own private recipe-book: Have ready, half-cooked, 1st, thin slices of calves' liver; 2d, artichokes cut in half quarters or quarters, according to their size; 3d, cauliflower—only the flower, divided in small pieces; 4th, calves' brains, previously soaked in salt, vinegar, and water, for twenty-four hours, cut in little bits: make a light batter, and fry each separately of a golden brown in the right order, having the dish in which they are to be served on a hot hearth. Cover the dish with the liver, then the artichoke, then the brains, and, lastly, the cauliflower, each distributed so as to decrease towards the top, which is covered with a larger sprig of cauliflower.

Madame Miau fried beautifully, and, under her nephew's directions, tried a pretty dish I had never before heard of—namely, the flower of the cucumber-plant, or vegetable mallow—which is usually, and, I believe, incorrectly, called marrow—nipped off with the little fruit attached to it. It was dipped in butter, fried lightly, and served quite hot.

Creams are very good, made according to the following simple, inexpensive recipe, which is just enough to fill twelve small cups or glasses. Take good milk sufficient to fill them, and boil it with two ounces of grated chocolate, and six of white sugar; then beat the yolks of six eggs, to which add slowly the chocolate-milk, turning steadily one way. When quite mixed, pass the whole through a search, fill your cups, and, if you have not a regular bain-marie, a flat sauce-pan will do, filled to a proper height, so as not to overtop the creams, and which must continue boiling a quarter of an hour. For a change, instead of the chocolate, boil the milk with a pod of vanille broken in pieces, or any other flavour you may fancy.

Spinach Cream.—Boil your spinach, and let it thoroughly drain in a cullender; then press it through a hair-sieve with a spoon, as for food. Take the pulp that has been pressed through the sieve, and mix it with cream, or very good milk, and two additional yolks of eggs. Pass the yolks of six eggs through a sieve, add six ounces of white sugar in powder, and two table-spoonfuls of trebly-distilled orange flower-water, and, as before mentioned, place the cups in a bain-marie for a quarter of an hour.

I requested the good-natured nephew to dress me a dish of macaroni, which he did as follows, one of his many modes of preparing it: He boiled it till just tender, and no more. The English cook it too much, he said. When drained, he grated a sufficient quantity of both Gruyère and Parmesan cheese, and alternately put upon the dish, first macaroni, and then cheese, finishing with the cheese. Over this he poured strong beef-gravy, in which some tomatoes had been dissolved, and put it a few minutes in the oven, and then a few more before the fire in a Dutch oven; but he preferred a hot hole, and to cover it with a four de compagne, or cover upon which you place hot embers. He also assured me the following sauce was better even than the beef-gravy:—

Tomato Sauce.—Warm your tomatoes until you can skin them; beat the pulp with finely-grated ham, onion, parsley, thyme, salt, and Lucca oil, all as small as possible; pass through a sieve, and pour over your macaroni. Serve hot.

Tomatoes are good skinned, the seeds taken out, and with a little butter and finely-chopped herbs, beaten into a paste with eggs, and fried in a light batter.

Fried Asparagus.—Do not boil it too much, but enough to cut in pieces and pass through a sieve; mix this with grated ham and Parmesan cheese, and with butter make it into a paste of good consistency, which fry in a light batter. Celery is also very nice treated in the same way. As I like butter, as the French do, without any salt at all, I found much difficulty in keeping quite sweet what a farmer obligingly so prepared for me. Without water, it got bad. Made into pats, and kept in water, it lost flavour; but Madame Miau soon put me upon a plan by which it remained for ten days as if new churned. As soon as I received my quantum, I had it well washed in spring-water, for sometimes the milk had not been taken clean out of it; and then it was put down with a spoon in a salad bowl, to which it adhered. Every morning, fresh water, in which was dissolved a little salt, was poured upon it, and the top curled off for use with a tea-spoon or a small shell. To the very last, it was sweet and tasteless; and I consider this a very valuable hint, in hot weather especially.

AMUSEMENTS FOR THE PEOPLE

We have become so accustomed to the idea of a soul-and-body-ruining intemperance amongst the lower portion of the working-classes, that only some startling details connected with it make any great impression upon us. Yet it is verily a most awful thing to exist in the midst of enlightened, advancing England. There are 1300 beer-shops in the borough of Manchester, besides 200 dram-shops. Thirty-nine per cent. of the beer-shops are annually reported by the police as disorderly. One dram-shop receives 10,000 visits weekly. In those of Deansgate, which are 28 in number, 550 persons, including 235 women and 36 children, were found at one time on a Saturday night. Many of the beer-shops are a haunt of the young of both sexes among the factory people, 'the majority with faces unwashed and hair uncombed, dancing in their wooden clogs to the music of an organ, violin, or seraphine.'

A considerable number of the public-houses of Manchester have music continually going on as an attraction. Twenty-four such houses are open on Sunday evenings. Two of them received 5500 visitors per week last winter. The most innocent of the favourite haunts of the people are casinos, or music-saloons, where multitudes assemble to witness scenic representations, feats of jugglery, tumbling, &c. Twopence is paid for admission, and for this the value is given in refreshments, most frequently consisting of ginger-beer. These places are comparatively innocent, but still are far from being what is required in that respect.[3 - The facts here adduced are from a recent contribution of Dr J. W. Hudson to the Manchester Examiner.]

It is a tremendous problem—how are we to give innocent amusement to the people? Perhaps there is none of our day more momentous. We try the lecture, and win an audience of units out of the thousands whom we seek to benefit. The reading-room, with penny cups of coffee, holds out its modest charms, and does much good, but still leaves the masses as it finds them. Something else is wanted, but it is difficult to say what it should be. Perhaps some clever person will hit upon it by intuition, or some ordinary one by accident, and so solve the problem. Perhaps it will be left to the philosopher to consider the human nature of the case, and divine what should be done. We can imagine him saying something like this: 'Man is a creature that requires novelty, variety, and excitement. He cannot be kept at duty continually; he must have pleasure too. He cannot be always at work on the real; he demands the ideal also. Even in the course of exertions which he relishes as conducing to his material interests, he every now and then requires a change of scene and of occupation. Something to divert the mind from its ordinary series of ideas—something to enable us to lose ourselves in a temporary illusion, were it only a jocular supposition of our being something a good deal worse than we are—something, above all, to stir the hearty laugh, which proves its being good for us by the very help it gives to digestion—is required at frequent intervals—all free from what tends to debase and corrupt. Such is the theory of Amusement; and nothing which does not fulfil that theory will be effective for its ends. Here is a perquisition somewhat more startling than that of Xerxes, putting a prize upon a new pleasure. Happy will be the man who can devise truly available means of supplying this grand want in our Work-World! It is plainly for want of some such device that the public-house thrives, and that human nature is seen in such unlovely forms amongst the lower circles of society.'

It occurs to us, that there can be no social want which society itself is not competent to satisfy. In the variety of the human faculties, there are some which immediately tend to give pleasure and amusement, and certain men possess these in a greater degree than others. The troubadour, the jongleur, and the joculator, are natural productions of all time, in a certain proportion to the bulk of their kind. Accordingly, all through the various grades of society, we find clever people, exhibiting a gift for music, for mirth-making, for narration, and for dramatic effect. In the upper circles, these voluntary and unprofessional powers form the main dependence for the amusement of the evening. In the inferior walks of life, they are comparatively lost for want of a fair field to work in: they only find a vulgar and unworthy outlet in the coarse scenes of the tavern. Suppose we address ourselves to making arrangements by which humble society could be enabled to take advantage of the powers of amusement which lie within itself?

We can pretend to nothing like a scheme, and perhaps so much the better. We can imagine, however, that in certain circumstances, the desideratum could be tolerably well supplied without much outlay or formality. We have coffee and reading rooms already. Say that to such an institution, we add a music and conversation room; this, as a beginning. There, when the newspaper or book had ceased to charm, let a group assemble, and, according as there might be power present, enjoy itself with a tune, a song, a chorus, a recital, an elocutionary reading, a debate on some question, or a scene from a play. Presuming that the house is under the care of an honest, well-meaning person, there could be little fear of impropriety of any kind as resulting from such amusements. The amateur spirit guarantees plenty of such volunteer effort. Let it simply be understood, as in ordinary society, that each should do his best to promote the hilarity of the evening. If a single room succeeded, let two be tried—one for conversation alone, or for such games as cards and draughts (under strict regulation, to prevent any beyond nominal stakes); while the other served for music, and other entertainments not inferring silence. In the long-run, there might be further additions, allowing rooms for mutual instruction in various arts and accomplishments, sheds and courts for out-of-doors amusements, and so on.

If such establishments were ever to reach a public character, under what regulation should they be placed? We have no suggestion to make; but we embrace and maintain the principle, that the more they were understood to be under the protection of the public opinion of the class for whose benefit they are designed, the better. The patronising puritanism of another class would ruin everything. Let the other classes, if called on to assist, agree to view all that went on with a certain liberality of judgment, remembering that, although there may be some little possibilities of abuse, the whole project is, after all, an alternative from something infinitely worse; and in a fair course, improvement is to be expected. It is one unfortunate necessity of the case, that a very small abuse in a system under a responsible administration, makes a great scandal against the administration itself; the public not reflecting, that that administration may be all the time tending to the repression, not the promotion of such abuses: hence the difficulty of getting responsible administrations in such cases at all. These, however, are difficulties to be struggled with, not given way to.

CORINNA AT THE CAPITOL

BY MARIE J. EWEN

There were footsteps on the Corso in the morning twilight gray,
And gatherings in the Forum ere the rosy blush of day;
Loud voices round the Capitol, and on the marble stair,
A breathless crowd assembled, as for a triumph there.

The chimes of San Giovanni, how merrily they ring!
As if to all the city a soul of joy to bring:
There's noise of many chariots, and sounds of trampling feet,
Of horses with their trappings gay, and minstrels in the street.

And the balconies, what mean they with their tapestry so fine?
And why are garlands wreathed around the arch of Constantine?
What mean those banners streaming bright o'er tower and glittering dome,
Ye ladies fair and gentlemen, that throng the streets of Rome?

It is a day of triumph, and the brightest of its kind;
The victory of genius and the mastership of mind;
Corinna, the pride of Italy, descends the flower-wreathed way,
For at the proud old Capitol she will be crowned to-day.

Right nobly prance her snow-white steeds; behold the chariot come!
Room, room for her, the star of all! ye citizens of Rome.
Off with your hats, brave gentlemen! for genius is divine,
And never hath she made her home in such a lovely shrine.