As there was no suitable work round about there, near home, for
me--as, after being in large places I would not go into a small one--I
determined to go back to London, and try my fortunes there. On arrival
I found lodgings, the same place I had before, near Belgrave Square, on
the first occasion of my coming to London. To my consternation I found
that I had stopped growing, at five feet nine inches: and had broadened
out, not flabily, but firmly. My chest measure was forty inches, waist
forty inches, arm muscles sixteen and a half, neck the same, calf of
leg the same, and as strong and healthy as a young bull. So I thought,
“It’s good bye to all thoughts of ever being the King’s butler.” I
had heard that the King’s Household was governed by almost military
control, so I did not have many regrets on that point: it sounded of
red tape.
I also heard at the time, when King Edward was Prince of Wales, it was
usual for him to go and see the servants’ Christmas dinner laid out.
He met a boy with a Christmas pudding, the boy was carrying it up the
corridor on his head, saying “God bless the Queen for this enormous
Christmas pudding.” The Prince said, “That’s all right, my boy, but
carry the dish in a proper manner.” I have waited on, and conversed
with, both our present reigning Majesties, but more of that later on.
Now here were two young fellows, my brother and I, who could have
done with a “leg up” in the world. Full of life, strength and energy,
determined to get on; but money: we had very little of that comodity.
As for a “leg up,” we might whistle for that till we were tired, or
thirsty. My mother had got too old to go out to work. Still, the home
had to be kept together somehow. Charity we would not accept, though
none was offered from any quarter. I myself have lent friends money
when they were down, saying, “If you make good pay me back, but if not
don’t trouble about it.”
I looked round for a place on my arrival in town but to see the
servants at the registry offices, waiting to be hired, all looking so
meek and humble, filled me with a sence of nausea. I did not feel meek
and humble by a long chalk, but more inclined to rebel against it all.
One day I was passing a large railway station in the West End, I
wondered if they could offer me any suitable employment. Nothing in
the clerk line without experience in railway matters was available,
all they had to offer was a porter’s job, in corduroys. I thought
the matter over, weighed this and that. I should certainly get more
liberty in life than being a servant. But the rough, dirty work? The
poor food. Well, I knew what that was when I was a boy. So I said, “All
right, sir. I’ll take the job.”
I easily produced the references as to character, without troubling the
Bold Bad Baron, and started work. The shifts were of eight hours each,
from 6 A. M. to 2 P. M. from 2 P. M. to 10 P. M. from 10 P. M. to 6 A.
M. When off duty I had a sense of freedom that did my heart good, when
compared to gentleman’s service. Night duty consisted of sweeping out
trains, the rest was platform duty, except once a month two of us were
told off to couple the engines on to the trains as the engines came
back; dirty work, and a bit dangerous. I was happy enough, though dirty
and oily. One day the head porter called me to take a guard’s van off a
train to the yard. I suppose for repairs or something, but that did not
concern me. I stood ready to couple on the engine when it came back. I
rested my left arm on the buffer, as the signal was against the engine
coming back. The head porter shouted, “Look out.” I had not noticed the
engine creeping back. I naturally dropped my arm off the buffer just
in time for my elbow to be caught between the two buffers. It is usual
if you shout for the engine driver to put on steam and back further,
thinking I could not get the link over the hook. Had he done so my arm
would have been crushed to a jelly. But the head porter saw what had
happened, and signalled to the engine driver to go forward. He made no
mistake. My arm dropped down. I managed to get the coupling on, and get
up on to the platform. I jumped into the van, and then the pain began.
Doubtless the reader has seen a worm squirm when trodden on in a garden
path. Well, that’s how I squirmed in the guard’s van. I rolled in agony
on the floor of the van. I took no heed as to where we were going.
After a time I rolled up my sleeve. Two rivet holes pierced my elbow,
half an inch deep, but as I could raise my arm I concluded no bones
were broken, only crushed. Next day my arm was very stiff, but I said
nothing, and managed to do my work. Probably it was noticed I was a cut
above the common, as often I was sent on local trains as rear guard. I
knew little of this work at first, and often the engine driver had to
whistle for the brakes to be put on to prevent the train from running
past the stations, but I soon got to learn and watch for a certain
mark, such as a tall chimney, a particular house, before the train got
into the stations. One day, when at a City station, I was speaking to
a porter about some luggage or something, I looked round and saw my
train going out of the station, it looked as though I was going to
be left behind. I put on a spurt and just caught an iron rod as the
train got to the end of the platform and on to the bridge crossing the
Thames. There was not enough room between the train and the bridge for
me to open the door of the guard’s van. I hung on, but had there been
any projection on the bridge I was bound to be swept off; sometimes
it was a very close shave, but I flattened myself against the van
wondering if I should get caught or not. After we got over the bridge
I worked my way along the footboard and into the van. My chums used
to say, “Here’s the next one to get the guard’s clothes.” I thought I
was getting on all right, when one day I was told to go to the station
master’s office. He told me he had to send a porter to an out of the
way station in the country, and as I was one of the last men taken on
he was going to send me. “Well,” I thought, “this is rotten, to go to
a place where there were perhaps two lots of luggage to handle in a
day, miles away from anywhere. That won’t suit me.” So I immediately
gave a week’s notice to leave. So, as it was not much use sending me
there for one week, he sent some other porter. “This is a little bit of
all right,” thinks I, “out on the stony rocks again.” Here endeth my
railway experiences.
It is said a rolling stone gathers no moss; but it gets most devilishly
well polished, and I don’t think there were any flies on me. I was
down, but I was not out. The more I met adversity, the fiercer I was
to overcome it. I hated the thought of gentleman’s service, but that
was the only game I knew to play properly. Every day I cast round,
studying advertisements, and walking miles, but found nothing suitable
that I could do that would produce a living wage. So I said to myself,
“Well, my man, it’s gentleman’s service or starve.” So I cut out the
railway episode and asked the Bold Bad Baron for a reference. I felt
that I would rather go as under butler in a first-class place, than
as first footman in a second-class place; and I knew the trick of
polishing and frosting silver, which is quite different from simply
cleaning it. It was not long before I met with an under butler’s place
to a Noble Earl, who had a house in London, in the country, and one in
Scotland. It requires great strength to polish silver, also great care
and endurance. An under butler is generally a strong man, and I _was_
strong at that time. It does not matter about his being two or three
inches shorter than the footmen, as he does not appear at the “front”
till late dinner. Here our livery was very smart. Scarlet breeches
and waistcoat, blue coat with scarlet collar and cuffs, trimmed with
inch wide silver lace, and one epaulet on the left shoulder, white
stockings, and buckles. There were twenty-five indoor servants at
this place, besides housemaids at the other houses. The butler did
no manual work, he only superintended the men, the work was all done
for him. All he had to do was to walk into the dining room, the boy
carrying his wine basket, at the last minute, cast his eye over the
table, when all was ready to begin. But he was a rotter to his men
under him. Very ignorant, one could scarcely read his writing, and as
to arithmatic, he was hopless. He thought it lowering to his dignity
to speak to an under servant, in fact he seldom did unless it was to
give his orders. He was not good to his wife and children. He had a
good house in the village. But he had his downfall. It was his height,
being six feet, that kept him where he was. His downfall was caused by
backing slow horses and fast women. This place was the best regulated
situation that I have ever been in, and I have either lived in, or
visited, when I was a valet, some dozens of the best houses in the
kingdom.
When the bell rang to clear breakfast, the butler would answer it. Her
Ladyship was the sister of a Duke. She would remain in the breakfast
room, give the butler his orders for the day, how many visitors (if
any) and which rooms they would occupy, the number that would be at
meals, also orders for the carriages. Then he would come out, and the
housekeeper would go in and get her orders, she would come out and the
cook would go in. Then the butler would ring the bell twice for the
footman to clear away breakfast. All this only took a few minutes to
do. The butler would come to the pantry and give us our orders. Perhaps
he would say to me, Eighteen, or twenty, for dinner, use the silver,
or the gilt service, as the case may be. I had to see to the rest. To
the footmen he gave orders as to the carriages: and when addressing him
we had to say “Sir”--and don’t forget it. The housekeeper would give
her orders to the head housemaid, and stillroom maids. The cook would
do the same to her kitchen and scullerymaids. Everything went like
clockwork, no confusion, no jealousies, no treading on each other’s
toes; no occasion for saying I didn’t know this or that; for each
department got their orders, and acted up to them. The Castle was a
fine old place, with a wide moat, with water about five feet deep all
round it; the depth of the water could be increased, by stopping the
outlet, to ten feet. The place was beseiged by Oliver Cromwell, who
left his marks on it, and some leaden bullets still remain in the front
door; a portcullis; and three drawbridges, two of which were pulled
up by the footmen when closing the house at dark. The bridge to the
servants’ quarters was a fixture. Inside the front door were holes in
the roof, or ceiling, where boiling pitch would be poured on the enemy,
should he gain an entry. Suits of old armour, pikes, swords, muskets,
pistols, were in profusion. The Earl was a fine specimen of an English
gentleman; he was well over six feet in height, and broad shouldered.
He kept his own pack of foxhounds, and we brewed our own beer in March
and October. Everyone who knew the Earl liked and respected him, for he
was fair and just in his dealings with everybody. One evening a footman
forgot to put the chain across, before he drew up the bridge--he did
not know his Lordship was out. His Lordship dropped into the moat in
his hunting kit.
Often have I sat up all night with “Old Daddy” as we used to call him.
He had brewed the beer for the Castle for over fifty years, and listen
to his tales of olden times, of what they used to do in the previous
lords time. Still, a great many of the old customs were kept up; we
still ate our food off pewter plates and dishes, each with the coronet
and crest engraved on them, we also drank our beer out of horns. We
had the choice of small beer or tea for breakfast (as tea on its first
introduction into England was a guinea a pound, and was used only by
the gentry). Also, no conversation was allowed untill after the cloth
had been removed, and the health drank. The under butler stands up at
the bottom of the table, holds a horn of old ale up in his hands, taps
the table twice, and says, “My Lord and Lady,” the others replied,
“With all my heart.” This old custom was observed every day. At
Christmas another old custom was observed. Hot spiced ale and toast was
ready by six o’clock in the morning for anyone who chose to come to the
Castle for it. They used to drink it out of soup plates with spoons,
soaking the toast in the beer. We used to make a laundry clothes basket
full of toast. His Lordship used to call Christmas day “Red face day,”
for when we were all assembled in the little church, which was just
across the moat, he could see us all, with faces like peoneys. I used
to sing in the choir, and on Christmas morning everyone did “let out”
when singing the well known hymns--they had to: the hot toast and ale
made them do it.
A silver tankard of the same stuff was handed round in the dining room
every Christmas at dinner. When the mummers came, they went away full
up and quite merry. His Lordship used to tell the story that on going
for a walk one Christmas morning, after the village band had been to
the Castle to play, on going across the park he came across one fellow
lying in the snow hugging a big brass bass, a little farther on another
with a trombone, another farther on with a cornet, and the fellow with
the big drum could not get over the stile at all. They were not used
to having home brewed ale. They were all lying scattered about in the
snow. I never knew his Lordship speak to an under servant. He spoke
to me once when I was trying to ride an old-fashioned fifty-two inch
bicycle in the stable yard. He was walking through: he said: “Funny
horse to ride, isn’t it?” He was never known to speak in the House of
Lords, but once, then he said to an attendent: “Will you please shut
that window.” Servants seldom wanted to leave that place, unless they
had been there some time and wanted promotion. I think what kept them
together to a great extent was we were allowed a dance on the first
Tuesday in every month. The mason, who worked on the estate, played
the ’cello, his son played second fiddle, the tailor played first
violin. I played sometimes as well. The tailor’s father had played at
the Castle before him; in fact it had been an acknowledged institution
as long as anyone could remember. The under gardeners, the grooms, the
two whips from the kennels, and perhaps a friend or two would come
in, so there was no lack of partners for the maids. Sometimes when
visitors were staying in the Castle the ladiesmaids and valets would
come in the servants’ hall. The tables were put on one side, which
formed a band stand. Our programme consisted of lancers, quadrilles,
waltzes, schottisches, polkas, Valse of Vienna, Polka Mazurka, and
country dances. Fox-trots, jazz, bunnyhugs, and shimmy shakes, all
those sort of dances had not been dreamt of in those days. Everything
was conducted in a decent style, no rowdyism. Sometimes someone would
sing a song between the dances. The young servants soon learnt to
dance, and could dance the lancers with the best of them. I would play
my violin after supper for them to practice when opportunity offered. I
think this sort of thing keeps servants together, makes them just one
great big happy family. Sometimes the younger sons of the Earl, when
home from College, would come in, but not before knocking the door and
asking if they may. There were several sons and daughters of the Earl
still unmarried. In the winter, during the College vacations, they
would get a licence from the Lord Chamberlain and play theatricals, in
aid of her Ladyship’s hospital. Of course, I was in it. In one part I
played the part of a woman. A dresser came from London, and rouged and
painted our faces, also provided the costumes and wigs, also scenery.
These plays lasted a week. The Curate was prompter. We rehersed in a
large room in the Castle: it was very interesting fun. One of my faults
in playing, of which, no doubt, I had many, was that I always “played
to gallery.” I knew I should get very little applause from the gentry,
they knowing I was a servant: their exertions in that direction being
the exertion of tapping their thumb nails together, and perhaps not
that, but when I saw a chance of a “gag,” I put it in.
To illustrate this I will set down what happened when I sang at a
concert some years later; in one of the Eastern Counties. The lady got
up the affair in aid of one of her charities. I was butler there. The
house was full of company for the occasion, most of the performers
were of the family, or visitors staying in the house. I was the only
“commoner,” the others being all gentry. After an early dinner we all
drove to the Town Hall. Previously I had practiced my songs in the
front hall, one of the young ladies playing the piano. No remarks were
made about the songs, except that one of the gents said, “That fellow
can sing,” but they had never seen me in “character.” I slipped a hat
box under the seat when starting, and I knew a little about “making
up.” It was a crowded house. The concert began by one of the ladies
showing them how well she could play the piano. Then one or two songs
or duets, about the moon and love mixed. When it drew near my turn I
began to “make up.” Of course I was simply ignored by the gentry behind
the scenes. I thought to myself, after all that milk and water I will
give you something stronger. I had a pair of large check trowsers, a
white top hat with black band, a good false moustashe, black coat with
buttonhole, white spats, and a cane, not forgetting the rouge. I sang
my best. I never sang a song on a stage better; it was serio-comic,
and I fancy rubbed the gentry up the wrong way in parts. With a few
dance steps, and a trick or two I simply “brought down the house.” I
seldom suffered from stage fright, the remedy for which is to keep
moving about. Well, nothing but an “encore” would please them; so I
gave them a lively solo on my violin, which did the trick again. The
gallery wanted more, but the gentry would not let me go on again.
Then came the interval. I noticed the rest of the performers go into
a corner, and hold a conference. Then one of the gents came over to
me and said, “We have decided that you shall not go on in the second
part of the concert. Miss Soandso will sing in your place.” I nearly
said “Damn,” but I didn’t. When my turn came round, and the lady began
to sing, the whole back of the hall shouted, “Where’s Horne? We want
Horne; bring him out.” They would not let her sing for some minutes.
When they found it was no good she went on with her song. In any case I
would not have gone on again: “See them hanged first.” There’s gentry;
jealous because I got better encores than they did.
But let us get back to the moated Castle. These plays went off very
well, and were a financial success, as no one but the dresser from
London went to the treasury for wages. One night, though I was “word
perfect,” I was on the stage talking my part to a man sitting on the
opposite side of a table, when everything became a blank. I had lost
my cue; my back being towards the promter I could not catch it for a
bit. I had let my mind wander. But, altogether, those were jolly times.
One curious thing happened one summer evening. I had got a large tray
loaded with dishes of desert from the stillroom: on one of the dishes
was a round green melon, one of those with network all over them. To
get to the dining room I had to open a green baize door, which would
only open by pulling it towards me. I rested the tray on one knee,
opening the door; on doing so the melon rolled off the tray, and being
downhill, it went off down the passage “on its own.” All right, thinks
I, I will come back for you directly. On going back no melon was to be
seen. I asked the stillroom maid if she had seen it; she said no. No
one else was about at the time. I looked everywhere, then I went out
on the drawbridge. There I saw the melon bobbing about in the moat. I
rushed to the front door, got the punt, poled round, and captured it.
The stones in the passage had become worn through the years of use,
that a channel had been made in the centre; just the place for a round
melon to go carreering in, the farther it went, the faster it went,
in its wild and giddy flight. As I always had three or four hours to
myself every afternoon, which I devoted to studying photography,
music, and the violin, for I could always lay the dinner cloth directly
the footmen had cleared away the lunch, as none of the gentry went
into the dining room except to meals. I found that the old ale was
a detriment to study; so determined to give it up, as after a good
dinner, and plenty of ale, I always felt inclined for a nap. It was a
strain at first, but after the first month it was easy to go without
it. I have kept it up for the last thirty years, and my intelect is
clearer without it. Though by doing it I lost many friends. Even now I
have no objection to going into a public-house with friends. They have
what they like, I have ginger ale. But they soon get tired of that, and
say: “Oh, he’s no good; he’s a blooming ‘Tote.’” But it is a curious
thing that when servants meet the first question is, “Going to have a
tonic?”
I got to know the aforesaid photographer, he was a nice fellow. He said
if I came to his place he would soon put me in the way of it, and in
three months would be able to take a decent photo. I should also be a
help to him. So I used to bike over to the little town every afternoon
and get to work. He taught me retouching, and how to shade off a photo.
He said: yours is a very precarious profession; for the least fault,
real or imaginary, out you go, with a reference that will be of little
or no use to you. Now, I will put something in your hands that they
cannot take away. In the end I invested in a ten pound camera, and have
made it pay for itself over and over again.
It took me two years to get all the silver in good order, there was
such a lot of it. When I first went there the silver plates and dishes
were firstly taken to the stillroom to be washed, and then brought to
the pantry to be washed again. They carried them in laundry clothes
baskets, but that was knocking it about too much for me, so I stopped
it, and they were taken straight from the dining room to the pantry.
The stud groom, under gardener, and grooms came in and “washed up,” so
that by the time I came out of the dining room silver and glass was
all washed and put away; there was no lack of help. One piece of solid
silver, a wine cooler, took four men to carry it to the dining room,
there was also immense quantities of ornamental antique silver. I would
never work so hard at silver again, to get it to perfection for others
to benefit by it. Blistered hands were quite a common thing.