WHAT THE
BUTLER
WINKED AT
[Illustration: MATCHED FLUNKIES, OLD STYLE]
WHAT THE BUTLER
WINKED AT
Being the Life and Adventures of
ERIC HORNE (BUTLER)
_For Fifty-seven Years in Service with the Nobility
and Gentry_
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THOMAS SELTZER
1924
Copyright, 1924, by
THOMAS SELTZER, INC.
_All Rights Reserved_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
_I have purposely changed the names and localities in the following
reminiscences; but doubtless there are people still living who will
know they are all true._
_Your Humble Servant_,
ERIC HORNE.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
_The Publishers had thought of putting this biography into more
conventional form before sending it to press, but on reconsideration
they decided that, as it was such a real human document, it would be
better to print it in the exact form in which it was received from the
author._
CONTENTS
PAGE
FOREWORD v
CHAPTER I 1
‘You cannot make a Silk Purse out of a Souced Mackerel’--The
Big House Fifty Years Ago--Two Matched
Footmen--The Swells Lounging in Their Copious Chairs--‘It
requires the Temper of an Angel’--‘Slavey Markets’--A
Question for the Gentry--A Mistrustful Bos--A well
thought-out Plan of Robbery--Engenuity worthy of a
Better Cause--A Gallon of Beer to Compensate--My
Early Days--Poor but very Proud Parents--Bread a
Shilling a Loaf--A Strain of Fighting Blood--The Mysteries
of Music--To Blow out Mother’s Copper--An Old
Horse Pistol--My Wet Clothes--Phneumonia--‘Out Oars’--My
Father’s Way of Settling Matters--Pleased to Earn a
Shilling--Enjoying the Evening Air--What Ho!--Choir
Boys--‘I Didn’t Throw the Stone’--‘Your Boy is a Dam
Nuisance’--In a Fine Pickle.
CHAPTER II 29
My Mother Made Me an Eton Jacket--I Go to Work
for a Printer--Our Weekly Allowance of Hair Oil--The
Page Boy--I Become Odd Boy at a Doctor’s--A Dare
Devil Footman--The Black Pony--I Get a Whiging--W.
G. Grace was There--A Grand Stand of Our Own--Mrs.
Vicar had been on the Rummage--He Filled the Half-Lemon
with Cayenne--The Cook Gave Me a Good Scrubbing--I
am put into Footman’s Livery--I carry Her Books
Behind Her--Why Footman are Pasty-faced--The Cook
Disappears--The Housemaids’ Room.
CHAPTER III 45
I go as Footman to Eastbourne--I Join a Torchlight
Procession--‘Unposted Letters’--‘I Learn to do Crochet Work’
I go as Second Footman to a Baronet--Sixty-three Lamps
to Clean--The ‘Pugs’--Rules in the Servants’ Hall--Sunday
Dinner--An Enormous Funeral--A Dishonest Hoax--I go
to London to Look for a Place--‘Not Right for London
Wear’--Service with a Baron--An Old Elizabethan
Mansion--‘Parting the Baron’s Hair’--‘A Goodly Company in
the Servants’ Hall’--A Kiss--Housekeepers in Those Days--Sunday
Service in Church--Where the Menservants Sleep--‘Teasing
the Under Butler’--‘Nearly Caught’--‘A Tight
Squeeze.’
CHAPTER IV 62
‘A Grilled Bone for Tea’--The Baronial Household--‘Waiting
on Other Servants’--‘Our Dress Liveries’--Preparation
for the Great Ball--Cleaning the Windows of the
Dressing-room--Our Chef--Some Other Chefs--Gentry and
Foreign Servants--‘Entering the Wrong Room’--‘The Lady
in the Bath’--After the Ball--‘A Patent Handle Required’--‘A
Punting Party on the Lake’--The Maids in the Water--The
Baron in Town--Servants and the London Season--Falling
Asleep on the Box--‘A Footman’s Duties’--Entertaining
Poor Relations--Tips--The Parson and the Trousers--A
Pillow Fight--I Give Notice--I Lose my Father--A
Garden Party--Nearly Drowned.
CHAPTER V 80
I go Back to Town--A Set-back--The Prince and the
Christmas Pudding--At the Registry Office--I Try a Job on
the Railway--Happy Though Oily--An Accident--Another
Close Shave--The End of my Railway Experiences--I Become
Under-Butler to an Earl--How to Polish Silver--Smart
Liveries--The Butler’s Dignity--Everything Like
Clockwork--The Castle and its Three Drawbridges--The
Earl Falls in the Moat--Keeping up Old Customs--Christmas
Morning--‘Red Face Day’--Hot-Spiced Ale and the
Village Band--The Servants’ Dances--‘One Great Big
Happy Family’--Theatricals at the Castle--‘I Play to the
Gallery’--An Encore--Jealous Gentry--The Flight of a
Melon--Photo Lessons.
CHAPTER VI 97
Sports in the Park--The Valet’s Black Thumb--Having
to Wait at Dinner--Visiting Valets--A Striking
Livery--Hair-powdering--Borrowing Servants--Betting in the Servants’
Hall--The Butler who came a Cropper--The Empty
Chest--We go to Scotland--My High Bicycle--The Earl’s
Scotch Household--Shooting Parties--The Lost Jewell Case--The
Six Pipers--The Servant’s Knife, Fork and Spoon--Queuing
up for Whiskey--The Footman and the Ham--The
Marquis and the Port--I Catch a Salmon--Trolling
with the Keepers--A Salmon-Fishing Stunt--Family
Prayers.
CHAPTER VII 119
Life as a Valet--Smart as his Master--‘A Lively Week
Visiting an Earl’--The Farmer’s Ball--Charge of the Cloak-Room--Dinner
for Five Hundred--Busy with my Camera--A
Thousand Gallon Tun of Ale--A Dance in the Steward’s
Room--‘But I Got Nothing!’--What Became of the
Hall Porter--A Grand Show--An Effeminate Young Gentleman--The
Great Banqueting Hall--‘Not Responsible for
Visitors’ Luggage’--At the Castle of a Duke--A Noble
Lord who could not Bear Light--I Get Another Place--My
New Master’s Gift of Language--A Royal Duke Gets
the Palm--Loading for Sir Cayenne--Sir Cayenne at a
Luncheon Party--‘Learning Him to Bicycle’--‘I Can’t Bear
the Sight of Blood’--Luncheon in a Hurry--Compensations--A
Poacher--‘Letting Out’--Dressing for Dinner--I Keep
Near the Poker--Regret.
CHAPTER VIII 138
‘My New Bos’--Well Hated by Everyone--‘His God was
his Clothes’--The Duke of Cambridge at a Shooting Party--‘Where’s
the Lark Pudding?’--The Duke and my Gun--A
Fad of the Noble Lord--Frozen Beer--Pigs With Pimples--Trout-fishing
with a Worm--At an Hotel with the Noble
Lord--Not a Married Butler’s Place--‘Can’t Get up in the
Morning’--The Curate Too Late--My First Place as Butler--A
Typical M.P.--‘The House is Falling Down’--Rights!
What Rights!--Service with a Duchess--A Demoralised
Place--‘Duty be Damned’--‘They Knew Her Ways’--At
the Telephone--‘The Second-raters’--‘They were a Thirsty
Lot’--‘Sucking at the Empty Bottles.’
CHAPTER IX 158
Trials of a Butler--Giving the Footmen a Chance--‘You
Can Dam Well Stop Out’--‘Where the Footmen’s Laugh
Comes In’--Friends of the Gentry--‘The Cook Don’t Lay
the Cloth’--‘Pull Down the Blind’--Some Dirty Work Somewhere--I
Go as Butler-Valet--The Trouble with my New
Bos--‘I Asked you for Whiskey’--At His Club--On the
Yacht--Life on the Moors--Shooting White Hares--‘£50 to
the One who Marries First’--An Explosion--Footman with
Religious Mania--Free Supper for Converts--A Dose of
Cayenne Pepper--‘It Takes a Man to get Sober’--We send
for the Doctor--No rest at Home--Fetching Him from the
Club--‘Dead to the World’--Refuses Cocoa.
CHAPTER X 176
A Tour Abroad--‘Walking to the Pyrinees’--Return to
London--Alas!--‘Where Shall I Look for Him?’--Something
to Stop his Craving--A Crowd Round the Door--Dead--A
Butler with a Peppermint in his Speech--‘Light
Up’--A Tableau--‘Take the Butler Away’--The Old-Time
Butler--I Look for a Job--A Titled Lady--Service with a
Real Gentleman of the Old School--The Cricket Fortnight--‘Don’t
you Dare to Run Short of Anything’--Burgundy
Cup, Champagne Cup, Moselle Cup--The Valet’s Boast--The
Fumes of Whiskey--Shooting Luncheons--The Bos’
Shooting Cap--‘People Often Thought it was the King’--Race
Meetings--The Coachman in the Lift--‘A Darned
good Run for my Money’--The Valet gets the Sack--The
‘Mongrel’--The Best Employer I Ever Had--A Great Loss--A
Break-up--An Experience at the Funeral--The Mistrustful
Heir--‘Ornaments off a Christmas Cake!’
CHAPTER XI 199
‘A Better ’Ole’--A Prince of the Blood Royal--‘A Watch
to the Good’--What Servants Talk About--Palm Oil--Alluring
Advertisements--Servants must be Caught Young--The
Housemaid with a Headache--The Gardener who
Courted the Cook--Ascot Races--The Lost Five Pound
Note--Suspicion--The Charwoman--A ‘Funny Fish.’
CHAPTER XII 214
I Become Butler to a Marquess--‘Aristocrats of the First
Water’--The Marquess Fishes in the Lake--A Large Dinner
Party--The Butler and the Toast Rack--The Opening Meet
of the Season--A Hunt Breakfast--‘A Sence of Shyness’--‘Refreshments
for the Ladies’--‘Jumping Powder’--The
Curate on Rib-bones--‘They’re Off’--In at the Death--Clearing-up--The
Trayful of Glasses--‘No ‘Sprit de Corps’--The
Hounds at the Hunt Breakfast--‘Jacko,’ the Monkey--The
Best Bulldog I Ever Saw--The Stingy German
Cook--The Lively Footman--‘Why Don’t you Run, Fellow?’--‘Not
too Damp for the Butler.’
CHAPTER XIII 230
Service With a Russian Princess--Watched by Spies--First
to Build an Aeroplane in England--A Human Tragedy--Loss
of Estates--Sale of Jewels--Strike of Servants--Fight
with the Butler--Trying to Borrow Money--Butler’s
Loan--‘A Splash of Loyalty’--‘Rotten Swank’--My Wife
goes Blind--I try to get other Employment--A Shot at
Taxi-driving--Difficulties of Test--A Knock-down Blow--‘That’s
it, Smash the Damned Thing’--I Cannot Stand the
Outdoor Life--Cost of Taxi Venture--I take a Situation
with an Indian Prince--‘They Came to Enjoy Themselves’--‘Another
Thirsty Lot’--The Prince at Buckingham Palace--I
Act as House Steward--No Order of Regularity--The
Chauffeur and his Revolver--Only Good at Smoking
Cigarettes--My Son as Footman--Prince Takes House in
Scotland--‘Keep a Tighter Hand over the Drink’--Who
can eat the most Oysters?--Terribly Ill--An Outing for the
Servants--The King and Queen are to Lunch at the Castle--Waiting
for Them--The Prince Goes Off to London--‘The
King is Coming’--A Scratch Luncheon--The Prince’s
Disappointment--An Offer to go to India--How to Treat
Servants.
CHAPTER XIV 250
A Single-handed Butler’s Place--My Work for the Day--What
Would the Trades’ Union Think?--‘No Visitors nor
Smoking’--The Extinct Butler--More Interesting Than a
Mummy--The Cook who Snuffeled--‘The Old Confidential’--Calamity
at Home--‘Servants’ Swank’--‘Always use a
Serviette’--I Make a Mistake--The Gentry’s Old Clothes--‘A
Game of Flop’--The Gentry’s Children--One Sort of
Treatment--‘May They Perish’--The Value of a Kind Word.
CHAPTER XV 261
The Duke’s Discontent--The Rich Man’s Chance--‘Only
the Scum’--I take Service with an M.P.--An Outcry
Against Foreign Servants--‘To Shake Hands with the Common
Herd’--Power of Upper Servants--Success of Lying
Deceiver--Trials of a Servant’s Life--The National Insurance
Scheme--A Noble Lord’s Treatment of Butler and
Valet--The Cook gets the Sack--Something About Maidservants--A
Cross-eyed Servant?--‘Had I been Three
Inches Taller!’--A Butler in the Workhouse--A Clear Conscience--Au
Revoir.
CHAPTER I
Now that Old England is cracking up, as far as the Nobility is
concerned, who are selling their estates, castles, and large houses,
which are being turned into schools, museums, hospitals, homes for
weak-minded--things entirely different from what they were built
for--it seems a pity that the old usages and traditions of gentleman’s
service should die with the old places, where so many high jinks and
junketings have been carried on in the old days, now gone for ever. The
newly rich, who filled their pockets while Tommy was fighting--many of
them have bought these fine old estates--are a poor substitute for the
real thing. They will send their sons to Oxford or Cambridge, but for
generations they will not get the stains off their hands of what they
did in the great war; not forgetting who they did.
They may spend their money in giving fêtes, parties, balls, and use
every device to get into Society, or what is left of it, but all their
doings will only be a sham, a poor substitute. You cannot make a silk
purse out of a souced mackerel, neither will they command the same
respect; it is simply so much work for so much money, and there the
matter ends.
I have lived in the service of a noble family who were ruined by the
war; they were such nice people to their servants that, could I have
afforded to do it, I would have worked for them for nothing; in fact I
did work for them for a year without wages, but they had to continue to
reduce the number of indoor servants from twenty-five down to three,
outdoor servants in proportion. “How are the mighty fallen!”
Fifty years ago a Lord of the Manor, or a member of the Nobility, was
a little tin god on his estate in the country; the people touched
their hats to him, or his lady; they looked up to them for advice or
help in times of trouble--the villiage people generally living in the
same houses all their lives; so that their affairs were known to the
people at the Big House. Not so now; people are here to-day and gone
to-morrow, are better educated, can think for themselves, and generally
only for themselves. No respect is shown when passing each other on the
road; the lord in his car would perhaps prefer to run down some of his
own villiagers; for class hatred is growing fast; the gulf between rich
and poor gets wider and wider, servants seldom remain in one place long
enough, even if their employers were so disposed, to take any interest
in them.
On crossing Belgrave Square last season, I was comparing the change
that had come over things in the course of a few years. One used to see
about eight o’clock in the evening gaily comparisoned pairs of horses
and carriages, with footmen powdered and breeched, silk stockings, and
a lot of pomp and show.
What does one see now?
Gentry need not leave their own houses to go out to dinner, untill
within a few minutes that dinner should be on the table. They dart up
in a stinking car that sends out noxious fumes; offensive to everyone
but themselves.
They dart out of the car, and into the house, as though they had stolen
something, and did not want anyone to see them.
Compare this with what it used to be. Two matched footmen would get
down, march up to the door, and if a double knocker, both would knock
(which they had practised beforehand) then march back to the carriage
in a stately fashion, let down the steps, and hand out the ladies. Now,
everything is all hurry and scurry. They order out the car, tell the
chauffeur to drive to some place; when they get there they want to be
somewhere else, when they get _there_ they want to be somewhere else;
all is unrest; they keep the chauffeur at it sometimes for fifteen
hours at a stretch, go to some restaurant and get a snack, then go on
again. It does not matter if the chauffeur gets time to get his meals
or not: the engine does not get tired, neither must the chauffeur get
tired.
English home life is all broken up. The husband may meet his wife at
meals, and he may not; most probably not. At any given meal time,
or at any entertainment, the chances are that the gentleman will be
found dining with a “lady” not his wife, and the lady dining with some
gentleman, not her husband: and the chauffeur is waiting outside for
hours in the cold and wet.
When one is passing along Piccadilly on the top of a ’bus one can see
the “Swells” lounging in their copious chairs, reading the newspapers,
and smoking cigars. Pray don’t envy them, for half of them go there to
get out of range of their wives’ tongues, who make it too hot for them
to stop at home.
As an instance of what they think of a chauffeur the following occurred
this year. They had used the car all day, in the evening the chauffeur
asked if he could have the evening off. The “gentleman” asked what he
wanted the evening off for.
“To go and see my sick wife. I also have a dead child lying at home,”
replied the chauffeur.
“You are a damned nusiance, wanting time off. I wanted you to drive me
to the theatre, and supper afterwards,” replied the gentleman.
Then the chauffeur replied, “You may dam well drive yourself, for I
will never drive you another yard.”
The inhuman monster. They are nearly all alike. “Self, self, self”
again, and if any left, “Self again.”
Another amusing incident occurred a few years ago in Bruton Street. I
know the lady and I know the chauffeur.
The “lady,” when she wanted to tell him something in the car, had the
habit of poking him in the back of his neck with the ferrule of her
umbrella. One day she called, “Smith” (jab in the back of the neck),
“why did you not go the other way?” Soon after (jab), “Now we are here,
call at Wilkin’s” (jab), “there it is, on the left” (another jab). That
was the last, for he drew the car to the side of the street, got out,
took off his cap and coat, threw them in the car, and said, “My lady,
drive the car yourself. I have had enough of your jabs in the neck.” He
went away and left her there.
Any chauffeur driving in London has quite enough to do to watch and
dodge the traffic, without being jabbed in the back of the neck with an
umbrella.
It requires the temper of an angel to take the insults of some of the
gentry; not that I suppose an angel would enjoy being jabbed in the
back of the neck with an umbrella more than a human being, but there is
no accounting for tastes.
When a servant retaliates in this style they should take care to
have something to fall back upon. In this case he went and drove for
tradesmen. He said, “No more of your gentry for me!” Otherwise they
are certain to “down” you; they won’t “give you a character,” and do
all they can to prevent you from earning a living. “What care I how
good you be, If you are not good to me.” Tradesmen, when they come in
contact with them, always tody, bow, and scrape, but they make them pay
through the nose for it.
A few weeks ago I happened to be in one of the “Slavey Markets,” the
place where they hire servants. A man spoke to me: a stranger. He said:
“Thank God, I am to have nothing more to do with the gentry. My wife
and I have taken a little business. I think some of the gentry ought to
be boiled.” I replied, “Excuse me from differing from you in a little
detail; I think some of them ought to be baked.” The gentry would
simply laugh at this, for they know they hold the whip hand, every
time. They hold all the trump cards, and always win if a servant is the
opponent. Do they ever ask themselves this question, “Where did I come
from? and why? Where am I going to, and when?”
A certain scientist, a short time ago, valued the material commercial
value of the human frame at--Women, four shillings and twopence;
men--three shillings and sixpence. The women, having more fat on their
frames from which glycerine could be made. Now this is something to
“throw ones weight about” on, isn’t it? considering God’s creatures
are all made of the same stuff. But the gentry think they are best
china, the poor common clay. But the dressmakers and tailors find the
gentry’s frames handy to hang their expensive clothes and furs on.
Which goes to show that the brain, the soul, the thinking machine, is
all that matters; and I know several gentry that has no more brains
than a rabbit. They may have them, but they have never had occasion to
use them, further than to write out a cheque, take it to the bank, and
“carry on.” Although in this country one is supposed to be innocent
until proved guilty, a servant is generally watched at first untill he
or she has proved themselves to be innocent, and honest.
Some butlers delight in besting a mistrustful Bos. I knew one
personally. The Bos kept the keys of the wine cellar himself. When he
wanted wine out of the cellar he called the butler, handed him the
keys, stood at the cellar door, told the butler to get wine out of a
certain bin. The butler brought out the bottle carefully in front of
him, but he had another bottle in his coat-tail pocket for himself; he
locked the cellar door, handed the Bos the keys, and all was well.
Certainly there is a vim about “doing down” a mistrustful devil like
that, and as to the wine, it was like stolen kisses, “Sweet.”
A rather curious, well thought out plan of robbery happened in Berkeley
Square some years ago, at a titled lady’s house. The footman had been
given notice to leave as he was unsuitable. After he had left a man
called at the front door with a parcel of silk, to be taken to the
lady’s-maid at the top of the house: he was to wait for an answer. The
new footman asked the man to sit down in the hall and wait. The footman
came down with the parcel of silk saying, “It must be a mistake, the
lady’s-maid knew nothing about it.” The man said he would take it back
to the shop.
When her ladyship went to dress for dinner she found her jewel case
ripped open, and all her jewellery gone. This is how it was worked.
While the new footman was gone upstairs with the silk the man in the
hall opened the door and let in the old footman who, knowing the ways
of the house, hid himself in the dining-room, either behind a curtain
or under the table, until he heard the new footman let the man (his
confederate) out, and heard the new footman go downstairs. (He knew
the ways of the house, and had watched her ladyship go out in her
carriage.) He then crept upstairs, did the trick, came down, and let
himself out. But, not being professionals at the game, they did not
know how to dispose of the swag, and were caught trying to dispose
of some of the jewellery at a pawn-shop. The old footman afterwards
explained how it was done. Their enginuity was worthy of a better cause.
While I am on the subject of robberies I will here set down a story
about burglary. I was in a hunting box in Bucks. for the season.
Burglaries had been frequent at several houses all round the county:
one happened very near us. One night the kitchenmaid came running to
me and said, “There is someone in my bedroom, the door is fastened and
I can’t get in.” I went outside and saw that her window was open. I
sent down to the hunting stables, asking that all the grooms and stable
helpers should come to the house, arming themselves with hay-forks,
sticks, and shovels. I got my revolver, placed the men outside the
window, while I and a footman went up to the door inside the house. I
tried the door, but it would not open. I shouted, “You are surrounded,
and bound to be taken; you had better come out and give yourself up. I
have a revolver, and shall have first shot.” No answer! So the footman
and I put our shoulders to the door to burst it open. I told him to
spring back to the side of the door, in case the burglar should shoot.
We pushed our hardest, the door gave way, we sprang back and listened.
Not a sound. We then went into the room, looked under the bed, in the
wardrobe, up the chimney, but found nothing. On examining the door we
found that a corner of the carpet had come unfastened, and so held the
door fast. The result of all this was I had to stand a gallon of beer,
to compensate the grooms and helpers for being disturbed in their rest.
I now propose to give the history of my life, from the very beginning,
giving all the incidents that has happened in the course of fifty
years’ service amongst the Nobility and Aristocracy of this country.
How many thousands of people pass the doors of the gentry in the
streets and squares in the West End of London, or see their country
mansions, have any idea of the internal workings of these houses?
I propose to open the doors of some of them, and what I will show you
about gentleman’s service, I hope will at least be interesting.
I was born of very poor, but very prowd parents not very far from
Southampton. When I say prowd I don’t mean the three P.’s: pride,
poverty, and pianos: but the pride of working, and paying one’s way,
and not borrowing a half-penny from anyone: though I own it must have
been a tight squeeze at times for my mother and father to find enough
for us to eat, and clothes to our backs, also pay for our education.
I had one brother and two sisters, another was born before myself but
died in infancy.
My mother was certainly from a better family than my father, in
education; and in every sence of propriety, a lady in disposition
without wealth. In the early part of the eighteenth century very few
people, perhaps ten in every hundred of the working class could read
and write. There were no board schools then: education had to be paid
for by the pupils, or their representatives.
My mother helped me in everything I ever learnt. As soon as I could
toddle, I went to an old Dames school. The old lady had come down in
the world, so took infants to learn them the alphabet, at three-pence
per week, and perhaps there was another consideration in it: she had
care of the infants, and so allowed the mothers to get on with their
work, which was certainly worth three-pence per week.
My mother’s father had a farm near Southampton. She and her brothers
and sisters used to ride to a good school in Southampton on ponies.
Eventually the farm was burnt down. It was not insured. Insurance was
not so common in those days. So the family was scattered. She and
her sisters going into service. My mother went as lady’s-maid to two
ladies in the town in which I was born, remaining with them till she
got married. My father worked for the same employers for more than
twenty-five years.
One has very little recollection of what happened the first two years
of one’s life, but I must have been about that age. I recollect being
allowed to play in our little parlour (a room kept sacred for Sundays
only) the occasion being that I had taken the medicine (we used to call
it “physic”).
My mother always gave us periodically a dose of rhubarb and jalap a
very nasty concoction. She put it in our mouths and held our noses, so
that we were forced to swallow it when we took the next breath. That
is the first thing on this earth that I can remember. I was allowed to
play in the parlour with an old wooden horse, on wheels, minus head or
tail: it had a red stripe round its body, but it had a fascination for
me. My mother used to help to keep the wolf from the door by keeping
the schools swept and clean, for a few shillings a week, probably not
more than three. She also went to the Vicar’s house to work, perhaps
one day a week, for about eighteen pence and her food. I feel sure she
often went short of food and nourishment herself in order that her
children should have enough to eat.
I remember asking her what was the meaning of the word “shubby.” She
said she had never heard it. But I said, “They sing it in church. As it
was in the ’ginning, is now, and ever shubby.” An explanation followed.
At that time the effect of the Russian War was still felt, especially
by the poor, bread being a shilling a loaf. My mother had a strain of
the fighting blood in her veins, for nearly all her relations were
sailors who fought in the old “wooden walls” of England, one being a
Quartermaster, and fought under Nelson. I remember a Bible we had, on
the fly leaf the Quartermaster had made notes of the sea battles, and
the names of ships that went into action, and names of enemy ships
taken.
In after years I have heard my mother say how prowd she was when he
took her to London after the Russian War, in his Quartermaster’s
uniform. She told me the Russians, who had been prisoners, drank the
oil out of the street lamps.
When I was old enough to go to the boys’ school I began at the bottom
class. Somehow I took to learning like a new-fledged duckling taking
to water, and greatly assisted by my mother, who could answer every
question I wished to ask, I could with safety be backed to be in the
“first three” in my class.
In after years, when about twenty years of age, I went to a
phrenologist, “just for fun.” I did not speak to him a single word,
to give him any idea as to what or who I was, but at once sat in the
chair. He “felt my bumps,” and said I was either fit to be an actor,
a lawyer, or a parson, but fate destined that I should be neither.
I continued at school untill I was strong enough to be useful to
somebody, and do some sort of work, probably at the age of ten or
twelve, working half a day, and going to school half a day. I was also
pleased to earn a shilling or two to give to my mother.
Our schoolmaster was one of the best. He found out I had a good
voice, and got me in the Church Choir, where there were sixteen boys
and twelve men, and a good organist who tried to drive some of the
mysteries of music and harmony into us: he might almost have had
sixteen monkeys to deal with.
We went to practice two evenings a week. The church at that time was
lit by colza oil lamps and candles. We used to play some awful games on
the organist. When the practice was finished us boys would rush down
the stairs, through the belfry, after putting a tin tack through the
rim of his top hat, fastening it to the seat, then putting out all the
lamps, leaving him to come down in the dark, also putting one of the
bell ropes across the stairs.
I do not propose to appear as a model boy--far from it--for if not the
ringleader of any mischief that was going on I was always willing to
take part in it, and took my punishment, in the shape of a cane and
numbers of lines to write, with a certain amount of pluck. Being near
Portsmouth, gunpowder had a rare fascination for us, but how to get
it? That was the question. Most of us used to be allowed a halfpenny a
week pocket money. We would agree to go seperately to the ironmonger’s
shop and ask for a penny-worth of it, “to blow out mother’s copper” on
washing days, or a wasp’s nest. We were generally successful, though
the shopmen must have known we had some mischief on hand.
Most of us had small brass cannons. I had one six inches long, but
we used to put too much gunpowder into them. One day I fired it off
outside the back door of our house, touched it off with a red-hot
poker, but I never saw the cannon again. It either burst, or went up in
the air.
On our visits to our uncle’s farm I always covetted an old horse
pistol that hung on the wall of the kitchen. Eventually he gave it to
me, cautioning me to be careful; he also gave me the mould for leaden
bullets. The pistol is sixteen inches long. Any sort of metal that
would melt was brought into requisition, sometimes the tablespoons were
missing to make bullets.
One day I heard a terrific bang. I saw my brother had fired it off at
a chalk bird he had drawn on the lavatory door at the bottom of the
garden. I ran down to see how near he was to his mark, and asked him
if anyone was inside the lavatory. He said, “I don’t know.” With much
trepidation we opened the door, there was no one there; but the bullet
had made a round hole through the door and knocked a brick out of the
wall at the back. Had there been anyone there they would have had a
hole through, about the waist line.
Those old guns and pistols were fired by a percussion cap. There was no
absolute certainty of their going off when the trigger was pulled, but
would often mis-fire, or hang fire.
On one occasion my brother and I were shooting thrushes in the orchard.
The gun mis-fired. I took it from my shoulder to put on another cap
when the gun went off, the shots passing my brother by a few inches. I
thought I had shot him.
The reader may say, “What has all this got to do with gentleman’s
service?” I simply want to show what sort of metal the writer is made
of. If the readers will only have a little patience I will take them
through gentleman’s service right enough, in every grade from hall-boy
to butler and house steward, and from scullery maid to housekeeper.
They will then see why so very few select the job in order to get a
living.
I must have been about eight or nine years old when a party of boys
went fishing for minnows in a river. The tide did not come up from the
sea as far as our fishing ground, but only as far as a flour mill--the
river water was collected in an immense mill pond--and drove the mill
when the tide was down, twice in every twenty-four hours. On the
landward end of the mill pond a bridge spanned the river, of twenty
feet high, on five arches. Here we fished, with our sticks and string
and a pennyworth of small fish-hooks and worms, turning our knickers up
as far as possible and wading in.
I happened to be on the top of the bridge, in the centre. I shouted
something down to my chums. At that moment my rod slipped out of my
hand and fell into the river. I shouted, “save my rod,” and lost my
ballance, and over I went. The next thing I saw was several people
standing round me. I was laid on my back on a red brick floor in
somebody’s house. When I opened my eyes somebody said, “He will be all
right now!” From that day to this I never knew who saved me: my only
trouble was that I had skinned my knuckles against the buttress of
the bridge as I fell. I was told to run away home. Outside, I found
my chums waiting expectantly; so we all went towards home. But what
about my wet clothes? They would tell the tale. So, on crossing a rough
piece of ground called the Oggplat (why it was called by that name I
never knew) and as the sun was very hot, I took off all my clothes and
laid them on the grass to dry, one of my chums lent me his jacket as a
footpath crossed the Oggplatt. When we thought my clothes were dry I
put them on, and we went home. My mother asked what made me so late for
tea. I laid low, and said nothing.
I was sitting on a stool having my tea, which had been put aside for
me, when some woman knocked at the door and asked how her son was.
Mother said: “Which one.” She replied: “Eric” (that’s me) “didn’t you
know he was drowned in the river?” “No,” said my mother, “he is in the
kitchen having his tea.” That gave the game away. Mother soon had my
partly dried clothes off, and she sent me to bed.
I must have had phneumonia, or some other fine thing, for I was jolly
bad the next day or so. I remember asking my mother, as she sat down
by my little bed, if I was going to die. She replied, “No: I hope
not.” Anyhow, no doubt it saved me from a good thrashing, as I was
told not to go fishing; and my father could lay it on a bit thick for
disobedience. I did not get much of it, but what I did get I deserved,
and more.
All this time I was making good progress at school. I passed the
examinations as they periodically came up. Our schoolmaster was a good
one. He would not allow any bullying. If he saw a big boy bullying or
striking a smaller boy he would call me or one of the others, and say,
“Go and give so-and-so a good licking,” and then discreetly disappear.
I would go up to the bully in the playground and ask him why he struck
a smaller boy than himself. This led to a “few words,” then suddenly
the cry, “A fight,” a ring was quickly formed, a line drawn on the
gravel with a boot (why, I don’t know, except that we had to toe it)
then we set to work. If one of us got knocked down it was unlawful for
the other to strike him when down, but if both were on the ground, it
was lawful to go on fighting. When the schoolmaster thought I had given
him enough he would appear. Both of us had to go up for punishment for
fighting. I got light strokes on the hand with the cane, the other
fellow got heavy strokes, and a good lecture about bullying small boys.
My father, in his trade, had to hire and pay a boy to assist him. So
I suppose he thought as I was clever enough to get into plenty of
mischief I was clever enough to assist him. I was taken from school
half a day. Every morning my father would leave the house at half-past
five. I left it at half-past six, in order to begin work at seven
o’clock. My father was not so well educated as my mother. He could
manage to read and write and keep his accounts. He had strong opinions
on politics, and things in general; and was always ready to back up his
opinions with his fists, if necessary. One idea he was very hot on. He
would say that Church and State walked hand-in-hand. The State would
punish you bodily for any offences against the law. The Church would
threaten you with eternal damnation after you are dead; and that is the
way they keep the people in order. Well, if you lift the curtain, he
was not very far wrong.
Nowadays, if anyone throws their empty lobster tins over into the
neighbors’ gardens, and pokes their tongues out at each other, they
take a summons out and you appear at the Police Court.
In 1840 they had a better and quicker way of settling the matter. My
father would say, “Just step outside for a few minutes. We will soon
settle it.” He could use his fists a bit. He also thought he could
dance a hornpipe. He could, in an old-fashioned way. When he was a
young man the Lord of the Manor would put up prizes at holiday times
for competitions in boxing, single-stick (the winner had to make his
opponent’s blood run an inch to win), also sides at a cricket match on
the village green, and all kinds of old-fashioned games; to end up with
a supper at the Inn, after which the “ladies” would join in a mazy
dance. Country dances and a polka was the extent of the programme. He
thought he was a champion, and an authority as to how it ought to be
done.
He was a keen sportsman, a remarkably good shot. He had two guns, one
had a barrel five feet long, the other shorter. About that time all
the commons, also the foreshores at low tide, were taken over by the
Government. People could no longer turn their cows, horses, and pigs
freely to graze, and roam free of cost. Give my father a gun, and
something to shoot, and he was happy. I have known him take a shot at a
starling, or even a sparrow in flight, during his dinner hour. I never
knew him to miss. The restrictions made it difficult to get a bit of
sport. I have known him to take his gun to pieces, put it inside his
coat, and off down to the foreshore on a winter’s night, for wild ducks
and geese. He seldom came back empty-handed, he would bring them down
with his long muzzle-loading gun. His idea was that God sent these
things for all to enjoy, all wild beasts and birds.
I have known him when he had his gun inside his coat going down the
road, on seeing a policeman coming up, to turn back and go another way.
He would never allow me to go with him on these excursions.
He used to tell me that when he was a young man he had a dog called
“Bob.” Father would place nets in the rabbit runs along the road, then
he would say, “Go on, Bob.” The dog would take a half-circle of about
two hundred yards on the opposite side of the hedge. It was not long
before he had his Sunday dinner in his pocket. If anyone should come
along father was out enjoying the evening air, what ho! If he had a gun
licence I never saw it.
He used to go to church on Sunday evenings. His dress was: half
Wellington boots, that went up under his trowsers; a black satin
waistcoat, with coloured flowers, hand-worked roses, I think, down the
front; his shirt collar was turned up, and a long silk neckkerchief,
put first round the front, crossed at the back, brought to the front,
and tied in a bow; a black coat; and top hat, not extra smooth; he also
carried a stick.
He was very fond of my reading the weekly newspaper to him in the
evening when he came home from work. Then he would criticise the
politicians and their doings. His mother’s house was burnt when he was
a young man. He told me that if a house or habitation was built on
common land, between sunset and sunrise with smoke coming out of the
chimney, that place was yours. He and his brothers did it for their
mother. I have seen it. Principally made of clay and wattle, and what
bricks they could collect from the ruins of the burnt house. I think
he called it “Keyhold.” There was just two rooms and a brick floor.
My youngest sister was quite a little housewife in her way. She had a
fascination for nursing babies after she got too old for dolls. One day
she had borrowed a neighbour’s baby to look after. She sat it on the
floor while she did the housework, my mother having gone out to work. I
was playing hockey with some boys in the road, when I saw her come to
the front door and shout to me, “I am all a-fire.” By the expression
of her face I thought she was laughing, but it was the contortion of
fear: then I saw the smoke. I bounded over the garden wall, took her
indoors, and with the short brush she had been sweeping with I beat out
the flames. She had been sweeping up the hearth, and in turning round
with the fender the back of her frock caught alight. I soon had all her
smouldering clothes off, and called in a neighbour. Her back was burnt,
and all her hair was burnt off. I was only just in time. But, curious
to relate, after the advice of a doctor, she had a beautiful lot of
hair, which grew on a scalp that before looked like a bladder of lard.
Just one or two more of my school-day escapades then I am off into
gentleman’s service.
We attended choir practice every Wednesday and Friday. It happened that
the estate steward and estate carpenter of a large gentleman’s house,
just outside the town, got themselves in bad repute through women, or
no woman, something of that sort; us boys did not know exactly what it
was, but the people broke all the windows in the steward’s house in
High Street. The affair caused a great commotion in the town.
Now, choir boys could not be out of an affair like this, so we agreed
to give the carpenter, whose house we passed on our way home from
practice, a volley of stones at his front door, then all bolt home as
fast as our legs could carry us.
That passed off all right, but the next practice night we agreed to
repeat the dose. We were bad stratigists, for the carpenter must have
known it was the choir boys; all other boys had gone to bed at that
time--9.30 P. M.--in a country town, also he could see the lights in
the church at the end of the street. We were all ranged up, each with
a stone in his hand, waiting for the word “Fire,” when out from the
side of the house popped the carpenter in his slippers. We scattered.
I accidently fell off the kerb and rolled into the gutter. I heard the
carpenter run past me, chasing the others. I got up and went another
way home, thinking I was lucky. My father and mother and all went to
bed early, as they had to get up early. My supper was always left
covered up with the table cloth, also the back door was left unlocked
for me. I locked the door and crept up to bed. My mother called out
from the next room, “Is that you, Eric?” I replied, “Yes.” She asked,
“Have you had your supper?” I said, “I was not hungry.” I thought I had
got out of that job all right, when, “Bang, bang,” someone was at our
front door. My father said, “Who is that?” and told me to answer the
door. I said I was in bed and did not want to go down. He asked, “What
mischief have you been up to now?” He got out of bed and opened the
window, and said, “Yes, what do you want?” The carpenter said, “Your
boy has been throwing stones at my door. I shall take a summons out
against him in the morning!” I said, “I was about to throw, but you
came out too quick, so I didn’t throw the stone.” “Oh, but George Coles
(another choir boy) said it was you.”
After a great deal of jaw my father shut the window and said to me, “I
have done with it; now you must take the consequences.” I laid in bed
and thought to myself, “Well, you have put your foot into it at last,
my lad.” But I felt sorry for George Coles--the first chance--though
he was a bigger boy than me. When I woke up the next morning it dawned
on me what had happened. I expected every minute to hear the policeman
knock at the door with the summons.
At dinner time nothing had happened. My mother tried to perswade me to
go to the carpenter’s house, and catch him at home in his dinner hour,
and beg his pardon. But I said, “I did not throw a stone, he came out
too quick for us. Why should I beg his pardon for what I did not do?”
Mother said, “He firmly believes you did, be advised by me and go: it
will be best.” Reluctantly I went round to his back door and stood in a
little stone yard, thinking how I should begin. I could hear the knives
and forks clattering inside. He must have heard and seen me. Presently
he came out and said, “What do _you_ want?” I said, “I have come to beg
your pardon for throwing stones at your door last night; but I didn’t
throw, you came out too quick, but I won’t do it again.” I suppose
the absurdity of my speech tickled his imagination, for he said, “All
right, don’t.”
He had two boys--they both attended the same school as myself--they
came out, and their father went off to work. The boys said, “Have you
seen our young chickens? Come up the garden and look at them.” They
were only a day or two old, there were about a dozen of them. I said I
should like to have one of them, a little yellow and black one; so I
gave the oldest boy a penny, which I had got from my mother by way of a
bribe to beg the father’s pardon. Having bought the chicken we all went
towards the school together. The “all-in” bell rang. I rushed indoors,
put the chicken in a basket with a lid, down by the side of the fire,
and off to school. When I came out I fed the chicken. My mother could
not make out what it was “Chirp, chirp,” all the afternoon. She thought
it was a cricket on the hearth. Then came explanations. Before I had
finished explaining, “Bang, bang,” came on the front door. It was the
carpenter. He said, “Your boy is a dam nusiance, first he throws stones
at my door, now he gives one of my boys a penny for one of my chicken;
the eggs cost more than that.” I had to give the chicken up, and lost
my penny, but had the consolation of knowing the boy got a thrashing
for selling me the chicken.
Just one more, then I have finished with school tales.
About half a mile from the school there were some clay pits, where the
clay had been dug out for making bricks. It having been a wet season
these pits were full of water. On the side was a wide plank, about
eighteen inches across, and of great length. One day, after dinner,
eight or ten of the oldest boys thought it would be a fine game to
launch this plank, all standing on it, pushing it along with poles. The
end of the plank was on land. When all was ready someone gave the order
to push off: we did. Some boys wobbled one way, some the other, the
end of it was the plank capsized, we were all struggling in the water.
After all had swam ashore, clambering up the bank, we found ourselves
in a fine pickle, wet through and our clothes covered with yellow clay.
At this time about a dozen of the oldest boys, who were nearly ready
to leave school for good, had to attend an advanced class, held in
the committee room, by the headmaster, on subjects as dry as dust,
mathematics, ancient history, Latin, grammer, etc. On this occasion
one of the boys said, “There goes the first bell.” Away we scuttled as
fast as we could run. Got there just in time. Most of us went to the
committee room and sat down at our desks. The headmaster came in. He
told us to form a half circle round his desk; then the trouble began.
He asked, “What is that on your clothes?” On closer inspection he saw
we were wet through. He went out of the room; in a few minutes he
returned with a cane in his hand; called each by name, as he stood by
the door, gave us three or four of his hardest strokes, told us to go
home to change our clothes, and come back. We got a few hundred lines
to write out over that escapade.
The examination time was drawing near, but I did not fear it. The
inspectors came down. I passed out the best boy of the school, on all
subjects, and got the first prize for that year.