“_The preparation of meats and bread and drinks, that they may be rightly handled, and in order to this intention, is of exceedingly great moment; howsomever it may seem a mechanical thing and savouring of the kitchen and buttery, yet it is of more consequence than those fables of gold and precious stones and the like._”—BACON.
WE live in an age which may well be called the age of the purveyor; and, if we continue travelling along the road upon which we have entered, the time cannot be far distant when it will be held ridiculous to do anything at all for ourselves. To appreciate, to criticize, to display taste in selection—these are the hall-marks of to-day, and home is but another name for a private restaurant. Homes such as those in which Goldsmith and Dickens delighted are now calculated to bring a blush to the cheeks of the superior and the “artistic.” Of few of our fine ladies can it be said that “they are excellent Housewives, and as capable of descending to the kitchen with propriety as of acting in their exalted stations with dignity.”
We are nowadays far more willing to applaud and reward the woman who throws her “Letters”—real or imaginary—before the eyes of the bored and lazy world, than the one who is merely efficient in the sphere allotted to her sex by nature. An occasional grant, such as Stow records as being made by Henry VIII., would do much to remedy the position of the housewife. King Henry’s grant was of an estate in Leadenhall Street to “_Mistris Cornewallies, widdow, and her heires, in reward of Fine Puddings by her made_.”
(_From Baker’s “Jewell of Health,” 1576._)]
But suppers have gone out—not the midnight meals of the Strand and Piccadilly—cider has gone out, and home-cured hams, with home-brewed ale and home-stilled cordials, have gone the way of Mrs. Primrose’s gooseberry wine and Mr. Frank Churchill’s spruce beer.
Little economies are now as unfashionable as quiet generosity, hospitality, and comfort. If it is not beneath the dignity of a man to spend enjoyable hours of labour in laboratory or malthouse, in sick-ward or workshop, woman need not feel degraded by the apportionment to her of those duties which are more immediately bound up with the creation of happy and refreshing homes.