Mercuriosities

Carve that bird! Dismember that fowl! Another look back at The Stamford Mercury for items about eating at Christmas in December, 1927.

“JUST CARVING

Synonymous though Christmas is with feasting, most children will be satisfied, as will their parents, with an admixture of turkey or goose, pudding, mince-pies, nuts and oranges. Certainly none of those strange dishes which graced our forefathers’ tables will be seen in many households. But no matter the nature of the the joint or bird which we shall eat with relish on Christmas-day – and, perhaps, rue on ‘Boxing-day – the dismemberment of the carcase is invariably referred to as ‘carving.’ We will, in these days of stereotyped production, have none of those weird and fanciful terms which a professional carver would apply to the disintegration of the various delicacies, placed before him on which to work. Father will not ‘disfigure’ a peacock, nor ‘spawl’ a hen, nor ‘break’ a deer, nor ‘rend’ a goose, nor ‘barb’ a lobster, not ‘ally’ a pheasant, nor ‘mince’ a plover. He will just carve, and if you ‘come again’ as you must do on Christmas-day, he will carve again. After all, the food’s the thing.

A BAN ON MINCEMEAT

There was a time in England when the Christmas mince pie was the subject of fierce controversy. The Puritans regarded the making and easting of these delicacies as a superstitious observance savouring of Popery, and Bunyan, when in prison refused to eat them lest he should ‘injure’ his morals. The reason was that the ingredients of the mince-pie, especially the spices, were supposed to have reference to the offering of the Wise Men. The pastry cover was oblong in shape, to represent the creche or manger where Our Savious was born. In the seventeenth century mince-pies were made of meats, tongues, chicken, eggs, sugar, currants, and lemon and orange peel, with various spices.”

The Stamford Mercury, 23rd December, 1927.

Looking back to Christmas, 1927, there are a number of interesting ‘snippets’ in the Mercury, mainly regarding the food and drink of yesteryear.

” DIMINISHING APPETITE

Some folk delight to assert that in the Christmas season there is too much over-eating, and that as a consequence the people who reap the benefit are the chemists and doctors. But a dip into old-time menus of feasts in the Christmas season impels one to the conclusion that individually much less is now eaten than in the old days, when gargantuan appetities, as we should think them now, appeared to be the rule, and not exceptions. Some of the dishes, too, were extremely outlandish, and items appeared in the list of good things that are scarcely ever heard of now, and, even if they are, would not be assiciated with the idea of providing an excellent dish. The lordly peacock, lamphreys*, and other items outside the ken of the up-to-date chef figured prominently.

AN EARLY MENU

Are Britishers less robust at the table, or is it that wisdom has grown with the years? Yet the heavy eaters of other days did not appear to suffer in health from their heartiness. They lived to a ripe old age and did the work of Old England, taking the difference of education into account, quite as well as those of a later generation. The account of a supper party, given by Madame de Sevigne in 1677, is intriguing. It mentions sundry soups, rounds of beef, sausages, spiced stews, calves’ and pigs’ tongues, hot pasties, a Christmas lamb surrounded by partidges, pheasants, turkeys, leverets, and capons, followed by salmon, trout, carp pie, thrushes, larks, ortolans, and fat quails. Then there were various kinds of pudding and liberal dessert for such as had a few corners to fill. Madame de Sevigne’s feasting did not appear to impair her faculties; she died in her 77th year.”

The Stamford Mercury, 23rd December, 1927.

* Now usually spelt ‘Lamprey‘.

A gallon of beer was the penalty for falling into the Thames in the nineteenth century dockside – if you wanted to be rescued.

” – On Wednesday the 16th Inst. a man of the name of Edwards, while working out a barge laden with coals at Queenhithe, had the misfortune to slip off the plank into the river. His companions, on hearing the splash in the water, ran to his assisstance, and instantly succeded in getting hold of his jacket; but, instead of immediately dragging him out, they barely kept his head above water, and began vociferating ‘Beer! beer!’ The man in the water in short time endeavoured to speak, but had no sooner opened his mouth than a wave, owing to his head being kept so low, gently glided down his throat, and prevented him; he was then allowed to stand up, the water being at the spot about four feet deep, but not to get out, and as well as the water in his throat would allow he bawled out ‘beer!’ His black companions on hearing him mention the word ‘beer,’ immediately assisted him in getting into the barge, and the whole gang of them shortly after repaired to the Farnham Castle, Trinity-lane, and ordered the landlady to send in a gallon of beer. On inquiring into these curious proceedings, it turned out that the coal-heavers have a standing rule, that if any man falls overboard, he is to be fined a gallon of beer; but as many of them, after being safely pulled out, have refused to comply with the rule, they now keep the unfortunate fellow in the water till he gives his consent by called our ‘beer!’ when they take him out, and proceed to a public-house, and drink a gallon at his expense.”

The Stamford Mercury, 25th April, 1828.

More reminiscences from Mercury memorist, “S.H.E.” Here she remembers a lonely man from Tinwell with a much-rumoured, tragic past.

“A tragic figure was Mr. Cooch, a recluse, who lived in a nice house near Tinwell: I forget its proper name, but it was commonly called ‘Rag Hall’. It was said to have been built with money made out of marine stores. There were curious tales told about this man – that he had man-traps and guns set in the grounds to keep away intrucders; that no woman was allowed in the house; and that there were two rooms kept locked from everyone but the owner – the dining room, where was set a wedding breakfast, with wedding cake complete, untouched, and a bedroom, where, on the bed, lay the bridal array of a fair young bride, who died on her wedding day. It was said that he was never afterwards seen to smile, and he rarely spoke to anyone.

Another tale they told was that he once took a vow never to enter the village of Tinwell, and he kept it! If he wanted to go to Ketton, he crossed the foot-bridge near the Mill, crossed the meadows and railway and skirted the parish. Various reasons were given for his vow. One was that he quarrelled with the Tinwell parson, but I somehow this it had to do with the tragedy of his youth. I saw him only once or twice in the town, always alone a speaking to no one – an erest spare figure, with rigid greyish features and tragic eyes, always looking forward, but , apparently, seeing nothing. Poor soul!

His style of dress was nost eccentric. I suppose it had been in vogue once, but it was sadly out-of-date. Here is one rig-out in which I saw him: BLakc and white check trousers (the squares at least half-an-inch square), a short black velvet jacket bound with braid. a winged collar (such as is usually associated with the last Mr. W. E. Gladstone) tied round with narrow blue ribbon, in lieu of a ite; patent leather shoes and silk socks; a glengarry bonnet on the side of his head; and a silver-mounted swagger cane with tassel. Altogether a weird sight!”

The Stamford Mercury, 6th May, 1938.

We now know it as a hotel and some will remember it as ‘home’ during the Stamford High School terms when it became a boarding house, but this is how Lady Anne’s House started life.

“In the early ‘eighties workmen were busy at the top of St. Martin’s turning three houses into one and building on at the back. The result was Lady Anne’s House. There were all sorts of rumourrs (sic) during the building operations. One was that Baron Rothschild was coming there to live. In the end, it turned out to be the Earl of Rosslyn – the fourth earl, with his stately wife and beautiful daughters. They would all come to church on a Sunday morning, giving us all something to look at. He was a fine, handsome man with a monocle and waxed moustache. In the winter he wore a coat with enormous sable collar and cuffs, each cuff as deep as a lady’s muff. he walked into church with a magnificent air, sat down and made his devotions into his glossy silk hat, which he held in his hand the while (we used to whisper ‘He’s counting them’). Then, having deposited his had, he stood up, fixed his eye-glass and gazed deliberately all over the church before settling down. He always joined very heartily in the service, as though he thoroughly enjoyed it.

It was said that he was a man given to language more forcible than polite. Once he was entertaining a dignitary of the church, when something annoyed him and he started to curse with his customary fluency. Suddenly he stopped and apologized, excusing himself on the grounds that he always called a spade a spade.

‘Indeed,’ said the cleric dryly, ‘I should have thought you would call it a damned agricultural implement.'”

The Stamford Mercury, 13th May, 1938.

S.H.E., reminiscing in 1938, looks back on the strange hobbies of some Stamford men in late Victorian times.

“A BLIND ORGANIST

Then, there was Mr. Hilary Hewitt. the blind organist at St. Mary’s. he lived with the petite, golden-haired Miss Hewitt, who kept a private school in St. Martin’s, next to Hibbin’s carriage works. You would see him tapping his stick at the edge of the pavement, usually humming cheerfully to himself. It was a great mystery to me how he learnt his pieces.

Three men stand out in my memory on account of their interesting hobbies. One was a chimney-sweep named Barlow, who lived in the Sheep-market. You went down two steps direct into his living-room – the brightest, cheeriest room you ever saw. How Mrs. Barlow gave her fire grate such a beautiful polish I do not know. She was as bright and as cheery as her room. But the great attraction was the pictures on the walls – needlework pictures worked in wool on canvas, the work of the sweep himself. He did not follow the usual method of counting the stitches from a copy – so many stitches of one colour, so many of another. No! He took an ordinary picture and made his own interpretation of it. I remember ‘Burghley House,’ ‘Peterborough Cathedral’ and ‘Melrose Abbey.’ I wonder if he finished the bunch of flowers he was engaged on, when a lady called with a handful of flowers, and he begged a water-lily for a model.

There was a wood-turner in Brookes’-court named Hawkins. He made cork models of public buildings with just a penknife and ordinary corks. he showed one at Stamford Fair one year. Now was it Burghley House or Peterborough Cathedral? I forget, but I know I paid a penny to go into a booth in Red Lion-Square, at the corner near Snarrt’s chemist shop, a the top of St. John’s-street.

I expect old Hitchcock is forgotten now. He was an old man with a fine head and face. He might have sat as a model for one of the twelve Apostles. I don’t know what his occupation was, but he collected the rents of the houses in Lumby’s-court (now terrace). It was said that he taught himself to read and write after he turned seventy, but the most extraordinary thing about him was his hobby. He had spent all his life trying to discover the secret of perpetual motion. Think of it!”

The Stamford Mercury, 6th May, 1938.

The Rutland Education Committee was opening a new school, which would appear to be what is now Casterton College, opened in 1939. It is not known whether earth closets were installed or if it had a change of heart and found the funds for flush toilets.

“If my information is correct – and I have no reason to think otherwise – the building sub-committee of the Rutland Education Committee have taken a remarkable attitude with regard to the new central school in Great Casterton.

The place, as is usual with all similar buildings, will be complete with all modern facilities, but there is one exception: the authorities have decided to instal earth closets – and in the year 1938 at that!

It is to be hoped that the decision is not final, for, with an adequate water supply such as Great Casterton is fortunate enough to possess, to build such antiquated and unhygienic conveniences is a step which should on no account be taken by any committee who pride themselves on being efficient.

It may be on the score of expense that the suggestion was agreed to , but is should be remembered that, with to-day’s restrictions, coupled with the recurring expense associated with the old-fashioned method of disposal, the latter may well be found to be the more costly. But in a question of this sort, which vitally affects the health of the rising generation, cost should not act as a deterrent, especially when one remembers the heavy expenditure incurred in other educational directions.

I hope the committee will rescind their resolution and thus save the name of Rutland, which, even if the smallest county in England, has the reputation of being among the most progressive and up-to-date.”

The Stamford Mercury, 13th May, 1938.

Boots, cleaning and blacking – another reminiscence from the nineteenth century by ‘S.H.E.’.

“ELASTIC-SIDED BOOTS FOR SUNDAYS.

Men, if course, wore heavy boots for work, but on Sundays they had lighter boots, laced, buttoned, or elastic sides. So did women. Elastic sides looked very smart when they were new, but were tiresome getting, on and off. Many a time I have had to pull off the elastic-sided boots of an elder. You took hold of the toe with one hand and the foot with the other and wriggled and pulled, until all at once you found yourself sitting on the floor, with the boot in your hand.

It was not very nice, especially when you had come home tired from a long walk, and we took long walks in those days. When I was quite small the whole family would walk from Stamford to Barnack and back on a Sunday.

Elastic sides were usually made of a soft dull kid, which could not be cleaned with blacking. You could buy kid reviver, but many people used milk or ink, but whatever you used, it was sponged on and left to dry dull.

For other kinds of leather there were none of the tins of boot-polish we use today. All boots were black and there were two kinds of blacking – liquid in stone bottles that was put on with a small sponge on the end of a stick or pats of blacking wrapped in oiled paper. This last was emptied into a saucer or tin and thinned down with water. It was applied with a small brush or rabbit’s foot, worked well into the leather with a medium brush and then polished with a soft one. People who were very particular kept and old silk handkerchief to give a finishing touch. It took a lot of time and hard brushing to make your boots look nice, but I think the old-fashioned blacking was a better preservative. Or perhaps it was that the leather of those days was of a superior quality.”

The Stamford Mercury, 8th April, 1938.

Flames alerted people living in St. Georges’ Street to a fire raging in the home of a local carpenter early one morning. Luckily no one was harmed, although much damage was caused.

“At two o’clock on Tuesday morning the inhabitants of St. George’s-street in this place were alarmed with the cry of fire, and it was found that flames were raging with great force in the ground floor of Mr. Maugham, cabinet-maker. The fire-engines were promptly obtained; and through the well-directed exertions of the neighbours, the conflagration was subdued in an hour, though not until very considerable damage was done to the house, which is the property of Mr. Alderman Coddington, and fortunately was insured. Mr. Maugham, before retiring to bed, had been writing a letter at a bureau in the sitting-room, and it is imagined that the fire proceeded from the spark or snuff of a candle, which had been unobservedly shut up in the piece of furniture – as when the alarm was given, it was found that the bureau was almost entirely consumed, and the flames had extended to the ceiling of the room, which was also burnt through. But for the discovery of the fire by Miss Batson (a lodger in the house), who slept immediately over the apartment in which it began, the whole house must have been in flames in a few minutes; and as it was, the inmates escaped with difficulty in their nightclothes. A clock, and nearly all the other articles of furniture, were destroyed, as well as 3l. in money, which had been deposited in the bureau. Mr. Maugham’s circumstances making the loss severe to him, a subscription has been opened for his relief.”

The Stamford Mercury, 9th November, 1827.

A tooth extraction is remembered in a regular column by ‘S.H.E.’, entitled ‘As I Remember Stamford’ which was published in the 1930s. Here she looks back to her childhood in the late 19th century.

“EXPERIENCES AT THE DENTIST’S.

The first tooth I had out was extracted by Mr. Cotnam Field, the chemist, of Scotgate. He was a stout, fatherly man, and I remember the delicate touch of his plump, white hands. I was only eight years old and he assured me he would not hurt me very much, and he didn’t! He patted me and said I was very brave. Of course, he had never seen a tooth with such fangs in his life! I took the tooth home, wrapped in tissue paper, as a memento.

I think there was only one resident dentist at that time – the late Mr. A. S. Jones. He lived next to the Town-bridge, opposite the Conservative Club. We used to climb on the bridge to peep down at his aviary of pretty little birds. I believe they were all drowned in the July flood of 1880. How sorry we children were! For quite a long time we looked, at intervals, to see if he had a new collection.

There was a visiting dentist from Peterborough, named Eskell. He had his surgery in St. Martin’s at one time and afterwards in St. Mary’s-street. He had a very bright brass plate, and less than ten years ago, when I was spending a few days in Oxford, I suddenly stopped short for there was a brass plate – “Eskell, surgeon-dentist.” It must have been the same plate, as bright as ever, although the lettering was more worn. It was like meeting an old friend among strangers.”

The Stamford Mercury, 8th April, 1938.