We had an annual cricket match and sports in the park, between servants
of another large house not far off and our own servants. On one
occasion we were practising racing, when the Earl passed. He said, in
fun, “There they go, running for a gallon of my beer.” On one occasion
when playing in a cricket match the opposing batsman sent up a “skyer.”
I had to step backwards, keeping my eye on the ball, to make a catch;
the ball came down on the top of my thumb, knocking the top joint down
level with the lower joint. My little dumpty thumb did look comical,
but I did not let it set, but pulled it quickly back into its place
again, but my hand went black with the bruise. The sports ended up
with a good supper, plenty of tobacco, and long churchwarden clay
pipes, which are seldom seen now-a-days, songs, and a speech or two,
all tending to good fellowship. Of course our “String Band” came, and
the maids, and all who wished danced on the cricket ground before the
supper. The injury to my thumb reminds me of an incident that happened.
Often when visiting valets are staying in a house, they will help the
butler wait dinner, if there is a large party. On this occasion a
valet was waiting dinner; the gentleman noticed that his servant’s
thumb nail was black and looked dirty. The next time his valet handed
him something he slipped a piece of paper into the valet’s hands: on
it was written, “Go and clean your nails.” The valet wrote underneath,
“Please, Sir, it’s where I hit it with a hammer,” and slipped it into
his Master’s hand when handing him the next dish. Though this having to
wait dinner is not liked by visiting valets.
There was a place near Ashby de la Zouche where the butler had no
difficulty in that matter. (For it is no joke to wait dinner after a
day’s shooting and loading, also having to clean the guns, and shooting
clothes, and perhaps dry them ready for the next day.) At this place
(I won’t mention names) the butler kept a list of the valets who had
helped him wait dinner. When your visit ended a brace of phesants and
a hare, or a brace of phesants and two rabbits, with a label with the
valet’s name on was given him to take back to London.
One does not generally get as much as “Thank you” for waiting dinner
when visiting, though by doing so you save them employing and paying
waiters. The usual trick is for the valets to hop off out of the way to
the village or town, to avoid being asked to wait, or to say they have
not brought their dress clothes with them.
At the above-mentioned place the dress liveries of the footmen were
most striking. They wore white coats, black breeches and waistcoats,
black silk stockings, silver buckles, powdered hair; the liveries were
profuse in silver lace, but the peculiar part was they wore a kind of
loose velvet outside sleeve which had a tassel at the end: a memorium
of an ancestor, who in a scrap or battle of some sort (the enemy having
caught him by the sleeve) tugged till the sleeve came out, leaving it
in the enemy’s hand, and he so escaped.
It must be forty-five years ago when the following incident happened.
At the time I was third footman to the Earl of ----. The house was full
of company, with a lot of visiting valets staying at the Castle. After
our work was finished for the night, about a dozen or so footmen and
valets used to congregate in the pantry to play “nap.” The butler did
not object as long as we did not make a noise. Sometimes they played
till well on into the morning. The under butler and second footman
slept in the pantry in let down beds. One night the second footman (a
six foot young fellow) did not want to play any longer, but wanted to
go to bed, but could not do so, as the card players were in the way, he
could not let down his bed. He kept worrying them about it, saying, “I
want to go to bed, you fellows; I got to be up early.” “Oh, shut up,
you silly fool,” but he would not shut up, so they bundled him into
the plate room; a kind of vault with an iron air-tight door to keep
the valuable plate from tarnishing, but they forgot about it being
air-tight. He went to sleep in a different way. When they had finished
playing cards they unlocked the iron door to let him out. There he lay
on the stone floor, apparently dead. We carried him out, and by putting
the ammonia bottle under his nose, and rubbing him, he gradually came
round and opened his eyes.
Just a word about the hair powdering business. I have often thought how
much better it would have been for each footman to have had a wig made
of white hair, tied at the back with a black ribbon bow, each man to
have his block to put it on when not in use, the footman to keep his
hair cut very short, so that it did not show. It would be much better
than the powder, for when I did it I constantly had a cold in the head
through having to re-powder after going out with the carriage, one’s
head is seldom dry. But I am tumbling over myself. Let us get back to
the moated Castle again.
I always got back from my music or photo lesson at seven o’clock,
in time to get the silver plates hot for dinner, make the salad and
mayonaise sauce, and get into my dress livery, in fact everything ready
by eight o’clock. I also kept my eyes open, and learnt all there was
to learn for my next step up the ladder; namely, to be a valet.
It is no uncommon thing when entertaining Royalty for the entertainers
to borrow servants from their friends for the occasion, in the same way
the poor borrow a frying pan, flat iron, or a rub of the soap, thus
showing a servant is considered as a chattel, “Do what you like with
them” sort of idea.
A curious antique “toast” servants had amongst themselves, a sort of
jangle, ran thus:--
“Here’s to those that are in, here’s to those that are out,
May the Devil turn him inside out
That tries to get his fellow servant out.”
The idea is there, but the poetry is rotten.
Betting is the downfall of a great many servants. Probably more so now
than ever it was. The mid-day papers show plainly what is going on, and
give tips. It all looks so simple, and an easy way to get money for
nothing. I have nothing to say against betting or any other game, the
only harm is when one invests more than one can afford to lose. The
servant generally has a few shillings to spare: he has not to pay for
his clothes, lodgings, or food, and generally has his humble shilling
or two on, when he had far better have bought himself a couple of pairs
of socks. I have dabbled in it in a small way. (The poor must have a
little spice in their lives, for their lives are drab enough.) Though
taking it altogether, I am sure I am out of pocket. The game is far
too intricate for ordinary mortals. The game consists of the following
emotions, hope, doubt, disappointment, remorse. Still, they go at it
again the next day, hoping to retrieve their losses, and a bit more:
they go through the same emotions again, and so the game goes on.
I mentioned previously about the butler at this place coming a
“cropper.” He used to bet far more than he could afford: a disreputable
fellow used to come from the town every morning to take his commissions.
It is an old saying, “Give him enough rope, and he will hang himself.”
Well, he did it. About six months after I left he got the “Order of the
Boot.” He managed to get a situation with another Noble Earl. Still he
could not leave the gee-gees alone.
On the family coming to London for the season, certain drawing
room ornaments, such as antique watches, brooches, medals, jewels,
bric-a-brac, that was all kept in a plate chest of its own. These
things were not displayed as they should have been. Her Ladyship told
him to put them out; still they did not appear; he said he could not
find the key. At last they lost all patience. His Lordship came down
to the pantry. The butler said he had not found the key. His Lordship
sent for a carpenter and burst the chest open. It was empty. The next
thing his Lordship did was to send to Vine Street Police Station.
Shortly afterwards two gentlemen in plain clothes appeared. Then the
butler made a clean breast of it, showed them no end of pawn tickets,
and collapsed generally. At the trial he was found guilty and sentenced
to six months.
The last I heard of him was that he was seen outside a pub in the north
of London, holding horses’ heads. So that’s that.
No: betting is best left alone altogether, unless one has the will
power, and knows how far to go, and when to stop. It is an exciteing
but fatal pastime.
The time soon came round for us to pack up, to go to Scotland to pay
our attentions to the grouse and salmon.
During all this time my youngest sister and her “waster” of a husband
had found their way to our home. He would not work at a job for any
length of time, and by his disgraceful “goings on,” and staying out at
all hours of the night, he was gradually driving my mother into her
grave, as eventually he did his wife. Such was the state of affairs
when my brother, not being able to find any suitable work round that
part of the country, was obliged to return to gentleman’s service,
leaving my mother in the care of my youngest sister. He happened to get
a place as footman at a house in Scotland, about four miles from us,
but seperated by the river Tay. We both had bicycles, and used to meet
each other, perhaps half-way. On one of these occasions I was a little
late in starting, so thought I would take a short cut that would save
me a mile and a half if I went by the road. I had previously walked
down this path to the ferry, and took my chance of riding down it on
my fifty-two inch old-fashioned bike. These bikes had a happy knack of
pitching one over the front wheel at the least provocation, such as
meeting a stone in the road, and invariably the small wheel at the back
would come over and hit one on the back of the neck. Often on going
downhill the brake would not have sufficient power. To save myself I
have often ran the bike straight into a hedge at the side of the road.
The consequence was the bike was left on one side of the hedge, and I
was on the other side in the field. They were dangerous things to ride.
One advantage was one could see the country, perched up so high.
Well, I turned the bike into the path that led down to the ferry, the
path winded in and out among the rocks: the farther I got the faster I
went. It required a lot of dexterity to steer between them. Eventually
my front wheel hit a rock full butt. I went over the front handles
like a stone out of a catapult. Instead of hedges at the sides of the
roads in Scotland there are mostly rough stone walls; one of these
stopped me from going any farther. When I woke up I found I sat in a
deep narrow ditch. I was looking at my toes, blood was running from a
wound in my head and side of my face, all down the front of my coat.
The stocking and breeches were clean cut off one knee, also all the
flesh off my knee cap. I pulled myself together, got my bike, which
had gone on a bit down the hill and toppled over. I went back to the
house, and asked them how long I had been gone; they said half an
hour, so that I had been in the land of Nod about twenty minutes. So I
did not see my brother that day. One does not like turning back, but
sometimes it is wise. For my part I always like to go forward, and
take the consequences. Lot’s wife was turned into a piller of salt for
looking back: but a fellow told me the other day his wife looked back
and turned into a pub. One cannot retrieve the past, but it is wise to
avoid past mistakes, and do better in the future.
At the place in Scotland there was one man in addition, a baker, thus
making eight men in the house. The baker, besides making the bread,
when visitors were in the house, had to put on dress livery, like
the footmen, and appear at the front. About thirty servants sat down
to dinner in the servants’ hall--the steward’s room party never
came in--but all livery stablemen came in, and they were not a few,
including two postilions. A long boat, mounted on wheels, was used
for taking out the shooting parties, drawn by four grey horses. The
postilions had a large silver badge on their left arms, which bore
the crest of the family. The stern of the boat was furnished most
luxuriously with silk cushions for the gentry, the servants and guns
rode in the bows of the boat. I never saw the boat taken off the
wheels. It was twenty feet long, and was intended for crossing rivers
where there were no bridges.
On occasions when the family go to Scotland in August the Butler has
to superintend the conveyance of all luggage by rail, from one house
to another, and see that nothing is lost. I myself have had over a
hundred packages to take to Scotland by passenger train. I may have
been fortunate, but I have never lost anything at any time. The best
way is to arrange with the railway company to convey it as “Luggage in
bulk.” On one of these occasions a curious thing happened. Travelling
by the same train was a certain Duchess going on a visit to another
Duchess farther North than our place, and the station we got out at.
We had several gentlemen and lady visitors going to our place by the
same train. On arrival at our station all our luggage was put out on
the platform, then carted up to the house, and taken to the different
rooms they were to occupy. All the gun and cartridge cases, fishing
rods, etc., taken to the gun room. It takes a bit of management to get
everyone settled, including servants in a large house. Finally we all
got settled down and in working order. In the next day’s papers we read
that a certain Duchess had lost her jewel case when travelling to the
North of Scotland on the previous day. They were supposed to be stolen
“en route,” and were valued at ten thousand pounds. After a fortnight
shooting our first batch of visitors left to make room for another
batch. On looking round as usual to see that the valets, loaders, or
ladiesmaids had taken all their belongings with them, I saw in the
gun room what appeared to be a cartridge case in the corner, which
certainly did not belong to any of our family. On examination I saw it
had a railway label for a station farther North but no address label.
I thought it best to send it to our stationmaster, as no doubt he may
have had enquiries about it, since none of our house party just gone
had owned it. So, as a gillie was going to the station with a small
cart, I gave him the case, telling him to give it to the stationmaster.
About two months after this some of the factor’s boys were playing
about outside, making no end of a noise, that I went out and told them
to be quiet. They shouted to me, “Mr Butler, come and see what we
have found.” I, thinking it was a “catch,” said, “Run away, with your
noise.” But one said, “Do come, it’s a box.” I went, and saw in the
small luggage cart the very case I had given the gillie to take to the
stationmaster two months before. I sent for him. He said he had put
the case in the cart when I gave it to him, but having occasion to use
a larger cart, he pushed the small cart to the back of the shed, and
forgot all about it. The cart was partly covered with hay which was
stored there, it was seldom used and might have staid there all the
winter, being too small for conveying much luggage. The case was at
once taken to the stationmaster, and proved to be the Duchess’ jewel
case, containing the ten thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery, and
for which detectives had hunted over the whole country, and further,
to find. We quickly had a visit from a detective, who wormed out the
facts of the affair. I got a wigging from the Bos for not being smarter
about things, and was told to hold myself in readiness to go before the
magistrates. However, the Bos wrote and explained to the Duchess, the
Duchess replied that she always packed her jewell case inside a strong
rough-looking leather case, in the guard’s van, as they travelled safer
that way. As I did not hear anything more about it I suppose it ended
up satisfactorily. The jewel case had been put out of the train with
our luggage by mistake.
Another remarkable affair was the six pipers. Immediately the cloth
was removed from the dining room table the large doors at the end of
the room were thrown open; three of them went one side of the table,
three the other: they crossed at the bottom, playing all the time; then
marched out of the room. This has been done in several large houses
I have visited in Scotland. Also a piper would play in the corridor
outside the Earl’s bedroom, when he was called every morning at eight
o’clock, though at some places they march round the outside of the
Castle at that time in the morning. The pipes sound nice at a distance,
but inside a house, at close range, I think it rotten, the notes have
not space enough to disentangle themselves from each other. I suppose
one has to be cultured up to a taste for it.
A curious custom in Scotland was that every servant had the care of
their own knife, fork and spoon. You took them to meals with you and
took them away again. I don’t know why; some put them on a ledge
underneath the table opposite their seat.
On shooting mornings the house steward would lock himself in his wine
cellar, and open a little hatch, like a ticket office at a railway
station. The valets and loaders would queue up, hand in his and his
Master’s flask, when they were handed back filled with whiskey: this
took place every morning at a certain time, and woe betide you if you
were late.
An incident occurred one season when in Scotland. A footman was
clearing away breakfast, when he set to work carving a few thick slices
off one of the hams in the breakfast room, he thinking there was no one
about. I don’t know why he did it, except it was from sheer greed, as
we always got plenty of good food in the servants’ hall. His Lordship,
who stood in the deep recess of one of the windows coughed, he had
seen it all. The footman dropped the carving knife and fork, put the
slices of ham in a napkin, and bundled it into the sideboard drawer.
Then his Lordship appeared and said: “Send the house steward to me!” He
came. His Lordship said, “Send that footman back to London by the next
train.” He went.
A similar incident happened in a large house, the home of a Noble old
Marquis. The dinner in the dining room was finished. The butler with
his friend, the groom of the chambers, went to the dining room to take
away his wines, and to ring the bell twice for the footmen to come and
clear the room. Taking the port decanter, he poured out two glasses
full: giving one to the groom of the chambers, he said: “Well, here’s
the Noble Lord’s health; may the old duffer live till he’s a hundred,”
when a small voice from the recesses of a deep armchair in front of the
fire said: “Thank you for your sentiments, but I don’t thank you for
drinking my port wine.” The butler thought everyone had left the room.
I often got a chance of my favourite sport, tickling up the rabbits.
I borrowed a gun from the head keeper. One day I put up a woodcock,
and could not resist, so brought it down. This was the only woodcock I
ever shot. I also only caught one salmon “on my own.” He lent me an old
salmon rod. I used to get up as soon as it was light in the morning,
and off down to the banks of the river Tay. The salmon flies I whipped
off, or hung up in the trees or bushes were legion: casting is a fine
art, and takes time to do it properly.
One morning at the very first cast I “got him.” I played him for half
an hour. I did not have a gaf with me. How to land him? that was the
question. When I got him near the bank he caught sight of me. Away he
went again. I was afraid he would go over a waterfall a short distance
down the river, and snap the line. It is very exciting to feel the
electric quiver come up the line.
I laid the rod on the bank, keeping hold of the line; ran my hands up
to the top of the rod, still holding the line, walked up to my waist
in the water, and gradually drew the salmon near and nearer towards
me. Eventually I caught him by the tail, and took him to the bank.
When I left go one hand he sprung away and was off down the bank into
the water again, but he did not get far. I had seen the keepers strike
them between the eyes with a stone or a short club, and so kill it
instantly. I tried it: the salmon bounded up three or four feet in the
air, and was nearly in the water again. I got him back, and repeated
the dose.
Just then I heard a roar of laughter from the rocks above me: it was
a keeper who had been watching my antics. He came down and killed the
salmon. It was an eighteen pounder, and clean run. Although I was not
actually poaching, in the strict sense of the word, I was enjoying a
bit of sport reserved for the rich, and “much too good for poor people.”
I have often been trolling with the keepers in a boat, with three rods
out at the stern of the boat, which is rowed backwards and forwards
across the river, it being allowed to float down a few yards each time
the boat crosses. Suddenly one of the reels start spinning, and the
line runs out at a great rate. We have hooked a fish. While one man
plays the fish, another reels in the two vacant lines, the boat is
rowed ashore. The fish is played from the bank, a man stands with a
gaf ready in the boat, the fish is brought up alongside the boat, and
gaffed. Sometimes eight or a dozen salmon can be caught in this way in
one day’s sport. And good sport it is. We used to take enough lunch for
all, not forgetting a dram or two. Many were the tales we told, and
jokes we cracked, while sitting in the boat, waiting for the reels to
start whizing round, and make their welcome noise. I can remember a few
of them; but for an Englishman to talk broad Scotch it is a good plan
to put three or four hazel nuts or pebbles in one’s mouth before one
can get the “crack” of it. I will relate one or two of them:--A Scotch
man and woman were having a few words. She said: “Mon, if I had a
husband like you, I’d gie him pizen.” The man replied: “If I had a wife
like you, by Gad, I’d take it.”
But for a dry and mouldy one the following one takes the oatcake:--A
man was sitting in a tramcar reading a paper, when a man o’er fu’
o’ whiskey got in and sidled up to the man reading the paper, and
said:--“Mon, did ye see me get on the car?” “Aye, I saw ye.” After a
while the o’er fu’ man said, “D’ye ken me?” “Na, I dinna ken ye, and
dinna want.” “Then how d’ye ken it was me that got on the car?” It took
a minute or two before I could see the “gist” of the foregoing, but
it is just what a drunken man would say. I was not to be beaten, so
chimed in with the following.
A man, smoking his pipe, was passing the railings of a lunatic asylum.
One of the “patients” said, “I say, mister, that’s nice tobacco you
are smoking. Will you give me a pipefull?” “Oh, yes; you are welcome
to a pipefull.” Then the lunatic said: “They put me in this place, but
there is nothing wrong with me. But they will never let me out again,
and as you are so kind I will tell you where I hid all my money, at the
foot of a certain tree before they caught me, if you will bring me a
pound of this tobacco, at this time to-morrow.” The man thought it a
good chance to get rich quick, so he said he would. On the morrow, he
brought the pound of tobacco, and handed it to the lunatic, and said,
“Now, tell me where you hid the money.” The “lunatic” replied: “Come
inside.”
Then another said:--“I was looking down the advertisements in the paper
the other day, when I saw this: ‘A young widow wants washing.’” He
said, “I would have taken the job on myself, but I was in a hurry, and
had to catch a train.”
Another said:--“A Jew and his son were waiting for a ’bus. When the
’bus did arrive, and they were about to get on a man rushed up and
pushed them aside, so that they were left behind. The following remarks
were made: “That was a very rude man, fadder, to push us away from
the ’bus.” “Yes, my son, he was a very rude man.” “Fadder, don’t you
think he ought to be punished? Will God punish him?” “He is allready
punished, my son, for I have got his watch.”
Yet another:--“Two peppery gents were walking down Piccadilly in
opposite directions and met full butt. Both said, ‘Beg pardon,’ and
side tracked, but both side-tracked the same way: ‘Beg pardon,’ again.
One of them was cross-eyed. After another re-shuffle, one trod on the
other’s favourite corn. “I wish you would look where you are going,”
said the cross-eyed one. “Sorry,” said the other, “but I wish you would
go where you are looking.”
Then there was a sudden whizzing of one of the reels. We had caught
another fish, which put an end to our tale telling. There is many a
day’s sport not half so enjoyable as a day’s trawling, perhaps catching
a dozen salmon, perhaps none at all. But to illustrate the saying that
a “little” knowledge is dangerous, I will relate what happened to my
brother and I on a salmon fishing stunt. We had arranged to meet just
below a certain waterfall above Perth. I got permission to take one of
the boats from the keeper, he knowing we could both row. My brother
was to row, while I cast with the salmon rod, he to keep the boat just
out of the rough water of the river (which was just after a spate),
and letting the boat down the river gradually. I had a few casts,
when I found he had let the boat get into the rough water. At that
instant, the boat going down the river at a terrific rate, the bottom
of the boat struck an under-water rock. I went overboard into the rough
water. Luckily, I caught the gunwale of the boat with two fingers, the
force of the water held my body floating out straight. The boat--being
flat-bottomed--stuck on the rock. We stared at each other for a second
or two. I saw the rod was broken. I forced my legs down till I felt
the rock with my feet, told my brother to put the two other oars ready
in the rowlocks. We had to be quick, as the water was dashing over the
bows of the boat. I wobbled the boat till I found it moving, sprang
in, grasped the oars, and pulled with all our might out of the rough
water. As it was we were carried down the river a good distance but
got into the back-water just in time to prevent the boat being smashed
against some rocks. Then we rested a bit to get our breath. We went
that distance in a few minutes, but it took us two hours to get the
boat back to the place we found it. These boats are sometimes landed,
and taken up the river in carts, especially if there is a bend in the
river, which is much easier than rowing them up against the stream.
This was, I think, the last of my attempts at salmon fishing on my own
account, and the third near squeak from my being drowned. The Scotch
are well known to be a thrifty people, as the following tale will
show:--“An old Scotch gentleman died. In the conditions of his will,
in order to get their share of his money, his three sons had to say
a short prayer, and put a sovereign in his coffin to be buried with
him. The two youngest did this. Then the elder brother came, said his
prayer, took out the two sovereigns, and put in a cheque for three
pounds.”
In this place they kept up the old custom of family prayers. At nine
o’clock every morning the bell on the tower would ring, and servants
assembling from all directions, the maids tying on clean aprons, the
men putting on their livery coats, all queuing up, and marching in when
all were ready, the maids on one side, the men on the other, of the
Baronial Hall.
There is a story of a young housemaid who did not appear at prayers.
The housekeeper asked her the reason why. She replied that she did not
like his Lordship always praying “at” her. When his Lordship read out,
“O, Lord, who hatest nothing thow hast made,” she thought he said, “O
Lord, who hatest nothing but the housemaid.”
Well, taking it altogether, I don’t think these prayers did the
servants a bit of good: for no matter what job they had in hand at the
time, they had to leave it, and rush to prayers.
In Ireland, at a large place we were once on a visit, half the servants
were Roman Catholic. At a given time each morning they would down
tools, and rush off to the town to Mass. The others left behind being
Protestant had to finish their jobs.
It seems a curious religion that, no matter what sin, backbiting, lying
or slandering, or even worse, by going to Confession, everything is
wiped off the slate, so to speak, and they are free to begin the game
all over again. But what I cannot make out is, what happens to the one
that has been sinned against, the damaged one, where does he, or she,
come in, if no reparation is made bodily and spiritually? Perhaps I do
not know enough about it. But I never would believe that there is any
man on this earth who ever wore trowsers, or kilts for that matter, who
has any power whatever to forgive sin. It simply can’t be done. Arguing
about religion is a fruitless game, and always ends up at the point you
began at. We will conclude that all roads lead to Heaven, providing it
is the narrow one. The broad and easy road leads to destruction, both
of mind and body in the end.