Chapter XII

Nothing short of being in the service of the family of a Marquess would suit me this time: at a large Castle not many miles from the South Coast. The Marquess was seldom in residence, he preferring either his London, or one of his other country houses to live in. There was a family of four or five sons, all over six feet high, and two twin daughters. I have taken a note in for one of the ladies, but the fact of their being exactly alike, and they used to dress alike, that I did not know which of them to hand it to. They would ask me, “Who’s it for?” I said, “It’s for Lady Jane.” “Then it’s for me,” she replied. They were all Aristocrats of the first water, though there seemed to be a “kink” in the brain of some of them, for they did some curious things at times.

There was a large lake in the park, full of fish. At certain periods nothing pleased the Marquis better than to get a lot of men off the estate, and with a net reaching across the lake, drag it from one end to the other. Some of the men had to walk in the water to support the net. On the bank a fire was lit, and a large kettle, supported gypsy fashion, full of hot gin and beer, mixed. With this he would supply the men pretty frequently, till they got merry. It pleased him to see the men topple over in the water. It was quite a day of amusement and fun. The Marquess would stand on the bank and shout at the men: “Now Edwards, you are doing nothing.” Edwards replied, “Beg pardon, my Lord, I’m working like a b—— horse.”

When in residence he would have his own butler (who had been in his service for thirty years—he had pensioned him off) up from the village. On these occasions I had to take a step down, and act as groom of the chambers. On one occasion the Marquess sent him a telegram from London saying, “Twenty to dinner.” This made every one busy, but we were ready. When the Marquess arrived in the evening his butler said: “None of the company has arrived yet, my Lord.” The Marquess replied: “You old fool, don’t you know what day it is?” It was the first of April. When he was packing up to go anywhere, and when his valet was packing, he would pitch the things at him. Hair brushes, boots, anything, saying, “Take that, and that.” The valet had to be quick to dodge them. When his valet put his account book for wages and other items on his writing table for payment he always found it thrown under the table; he would put it on the table again, but found it under the table again. So it would go on, till it pleased him to pay it. But one could not help liking them all, for they were Aristocrats of the first water. The son, who was always in residence, and ran the show, was also the Master of hounds—their own pack.

On the occasion of a large dinner party the old butler, who was an enormous big man, and had very large feet, took an empty toast rack off the table in front of the Marquess, to whom he was very attentive, dropped it on the floor, went to pick it up, kicked it, sent it skidding along the polished floor, right under a table in the corner of the room. One of the servants said quietly, “Goal.”

To anyone outside the Castle on a certain early morning in November, it would seem evident that something out of the common run of things were going on inside, for lights were flitting here and there; every servant was about and doing earlier than usual. In fact it was the opening Meet of the season.

And great throngs were expected that morning. Preparations had to be made accordingly, and as the Marquess was not in residence, I had to take command, and see that everything was in order. A hunt breakfast had to be prepared for fifty, or more if required, in the Baronial Hall: a fine appartment with suits of armour standing at intervals round the walls. Old regimental flags, dating back to the Wars of the Roses, and Cromwell’s time, hung from the walls higher up. A fine roof with carved oak rafters. At nine o’clock people could be seen wending their way from all directions through the Park towards the Castle. Men on foot from miles around, intending to have a “run for it.” Later on ladies and farmers’ wives and daughters came in dogcarts, governess cars, and carriages of various sorts, in many of which were children, delighted to see the hounds. I am writing of the time before that “stink pot,” the motor car, was invented, which rush backwards and forwards across the line the fox would take, cutting him off here, cutting him off there, so that the poor devil don’t know “where he are.” It was not a large meet like one sees at Manby Gate, but it was a fine company. Farmers, well-to-do tradesmen, who had left their horses at the stables, came trooping towards the front entrance of the Castle. It is astonishing what a sence of shyness farmers, and such like, show when asked to sit down at the table of their “betters,” but this wears off after a bit after a glass or two of old ale, or a whiskey and soda. It was always the custom of having an enormous round of cold spiced beef, at one end of the table, and which was well patronized. It took two men to carry it in, one at each end of the great silver dish. Besides this were game pies, pork pies, legs of roast pork, cold hams, pastry, apple tarts and cream, jellies, cakes. Cheese and butter all down the table. At every space between were jugs of home brewed ale, sherry, claret, port and whiskey. Also choice flowers from the greenhouses.

Now the crowd is getting greater outside. The ladies are shown into the library, where trays of refreshments are laid out. Something light, cherry brandy, sloe gin, coffee, cakes and biscuits. In the meantime footmen are running about among the carriages, and gentry who will not dismount and come into the Castle, with trays of cherry brandy, sloe gin, whiskey and soda, cake and biscuits, perswading them to partake of it, as the morning is chilly, though fine. The ladies say, “No thanks,” but after second thoughts, “I will, just a thimbleful of cherry brandy.” She cocks her little finger, makes a face as though she don’t like it. But she does all the time. The foot runners, who did not care to enter into the Baronial Hall, were well provided with ale and bread and cheese in the courtyard. Neither was the huntsman and whips forgotten, though they at first refused, but were persuaded to take a little “jumping powder” in a shamefaced sort of way, as much as to say, “you made me take it, though I didn’t want to do it.” “Ah, ah, good morning, my Lady,” says old General Currypepper, raising his hat, “What a lovely morning.” “Yes,” replied my Lady, “I think the scent will lie, and we shall have a good run.” “Won’t you go in and have something?” This to Lord Foozler, with a window in his eye. “No; thanks awfully, my Lady. It is much too early in the day for me.” “Ah, who is this coming up the drive curvetting sideways on his nag like a crab?” “Why, it’s Gusset, the tailor. He rides as though he sat on a box of tin tacks.” “But, who is that on the outskirts of the crowd?” “Why! No one else but our friend, the Curate; on old Ribbones, an old hurdle jumper, he has borrowed from the baker. Ribbones is cocking his ears, and dancing as if in expectation of a great treat.” The sight of the hounds and scarlet coats seemed to have taken ten years off the age of Ribbones. The young Curate was an exception as Curates go. Well built, and athletic, fight curly hair, laughing blue eyes. He was not the sort to be found drinking tea in old ladies’ drawing rooms. He did not think it necessary, because one happened to be religious, to go about with a long face, and a miserable look. His idea was, “O, be joyful in the Lord.” He was a favourite with all who knew him; being of a good family. There was not an atom of “Swank” about him. He had not been at his post long before he had got enough money together to build a tin gymnasium and reading room, and he kept the young men and youths together by his lectures, readings, and boxing lessons (for he was a good boxer). He would teach them that religion was shown by our daily actions, and if they were slow to understand it he punched it into them, and was always pleased if any among them were good enough with the gloves to give him a “licking.” In his sermons he was outspoken, although the gentry were among the congregation. He often came very near hitting the nail bang on the head when he spoke of lying, backbiting, slandering, and bad tempers. If the cap fitted, any of them were welcome to wear it. I remember him finishing his sermon by reminding them that there was no room in Heaven for people with bad tempers.

In the Baronial Hall things were going on merrily. After the first glass or two, they let their tongues loose, conversation became general. All the visiting valets were enlisted to assist as waiters for the occasion. “Say, waiter,” said a farmer, with his mouth full of cold beef, “What’s that purty wobbly stuff over there?” “Blanc-mange,” said the waiter. “Right ho! Gie me some Blue-monge.” By the time we had got to handing them little glasses of sloe gin, cherry brandy, cigars and cigarettes, one of them, thinking it was only a sample of cherry brandy, said, “Hi, waiter; I likes this stuff fine. Bring I some in a joog.” On one of the young Lords looking in, he noticed a farmer drinking claret, so had a glass himself, observing, “A decent drop of claret that, Huskley!” “Aye, my Lord, it be purty, but I have been drinking it for the past half hour but I don’t seem to get any ‘forrader.’” Many were the jokes bandied across the table after they had got more at home with each other. Those that were wise got up and went towards the stables where their horses were. On the appearance of the “Master,” everyone seemed to have a touch of the “fidgetts.” The carriages and dogcarts began to draw off to a point of vantage where a good view of the expected rim could be obtained. Suddenly a few blasts of the Master’s horn is heard, and cries of, “They’re off,” a general scuttle off to the stables. Those of the foot runners who know the country are taking short cuts across the park and fields, towards the covert appointed to be drawn first. The hounds are waved in by huntsman and whips. Everyone is on the tapis of expectation. The huntsman shouting at a hound by name occasionally. After a time comes the “View Hollo,” for they have found “Reynard” at home. He slips away out of the far end of the covert, taking a line across country. A few blasts on the horn, “Toodly toot, toodly toot,” and away they go. Our friend the Curate has trotted Ribbones to see the throw off, just that and nothing more. But Ribbones has ideas of his own. With ears pricked, away he bolts after the rest of the field, and clears his jumps like an old hand. The pace became hot, soon stragglers were left behind, foot runners were taking what they thought a short cut across country to the spot they thought the fox was making for. The line was lenthening out, a few croppers could be seen, but Ribbones kept his feet. After fifty minutes clinking run the hounds pulled down their fox. But who is that close up to the hounds, in the black coat? Why, it’s the Curate! Ribbones may have taken him against his will. Who knows? But what will his Bishop have to say about it. We all forgave him, though he does button his collar at the back of his neck.

But let us get back to the Banqueting Hall. Fox hunting never interested me a great deal, except the cleaning of scarlet coats, leather breeches, and top boots, which I could do as well as any man. When the hounds left the Castle, all the waiters left too. They wanted to see the draw, so that only I and the footmen were left to clear up and relay the table, in case any of the hunting folk came back that way. We left it ready untill four o’clock, as it was open house that day. The first footman was nearly as old as myself. I often wondered why he had not got farther advanced, but I soon found out. I asked them all to let the drink alone till after hounds had gone, when I would give them one, as I could not be everywhere at once, and there was plenty of drinks of all sorts about. When we were clearing away, the first footman brought a butler’s trayfull of dirty glasses to the pantry, dropped the lot flat on to the floor, said he thought the tray was on the table. I could then see what was the matter with him, he could scarcely stand he was so drunk. I made him drink a pint of hot mustard and water, and after he had brought the drink up, put him to bed, as he was no use to me. Some servants are all right as long as they keep away from the drink, but the first chance they see, especially of getting it for nothing, they cannot resist getting drunk. When I did leave, they made him butler, but a few months after, one fine morning, they found him drowned in the lake! Being younger then I am now, I did not like the idea of taking the step down to groom of the chambers when the old and confidential butler came up to take command. So I thought I could be doing better. I told his Lordship I did not like playing second fiddle on these occasions. “Second fiddle,” he replied. “You ought to think yourself lucky to be in the band at all.” Although this was not a bad sort of place, there were no old usages, no “Sprit de Corps,” among the servants, which was fast dying out. There was no pride in wearing the liveries of this or that high family as in the old days. Things were detoriating into a mere scrabble, and less and less servants were kept. I don’t suppose there are a dozen grooms of the chambers in Great Britain at the present day. Some there are who have to do those duties and valet combined. When in such a case they have their hands full.

A rather unusual thing happened at a house in Bucks that I was staying at. The foxhounds met there that day on the lawn opposite the front door. The hunt breakfast was ready, when suddenly the whole pack of hounds rushed into the dining room. I suppose they could smell the food, and, as hounds are never fed on hunting days, nothing since the night previous, untill they get back to the kennels after hunting, they were hungry. In a few minutes everything had disappeared. Beef, chicken, hams, pies, bread, pastry, all had been eaten. Dishes, plates, glasses, knives and forks, decanters of wine and spirits were all over the floor and broken. The huntsman could not get into the room, so the whips broke the glass and opened the French windows, and they drove them out that way. It spoilt that day’s hunting, for hounds won’t hunt when full of food.

“Jacko” was the name of a monkey we had there. A sea captain had sent it as a present to his Lordship. When he arrived, in a tea chest, I had to unpack him. I wondered if he would fly out at me when I took the top boards off. But I found he was only a black baby monkey, and very affectionate, and very mischevious. We put him in a loose horse box, the last one of a long row, with thatched roofs. Sometimes he would get loose, climb up the water pipes at the side of the house, into the bedrooms. He was fond of anything shiny and bright, so he took the jewellery down to his box. He was very fond of a black kitten, which would sleep between his legs. He would turn her fur over with his fingers, as though he was looking for fleas. The stablemen found him handy for pulling out the weeds between the cobble stones in the stable yard, but if they did not watch when he had pulled them all up, and chain him in another place, he would pull the stones up as well. He grew very fast, and shed his first teeth just like a human baby. When the stablemen went for their beer at eleven o’clock each morning to the village pub, Jacko went too, and had a drink of it. One day he got his chain off the bar, and went off down the road jumping from one tree to another, with all the stablemen after him. He went thus for half a mile, when the crossbar of his chain got between the fork of a branch. One of them got up the tree, caught him, and led him home. He grew to be over three feet high when standing, but he got so mischevious and did so much damage that his Lordship presented him to the Zoo. When they put him in the cage with the other monkeys, he was soon Bos of the show. He would catch the other monkeys by the tail and swing them round and round. So they had to give him a cage to himself. His Lordship also had the best bulldog that I ever saw. If we told him to seize a chair leg, or a table, he would never leave go, until we twisted his tail. Near his kennel was a meadow in which the donkey used to graze. The donkey could get close to his kennel. What they said to each other no one knows. But one day the dog slipped his collar, went straight for the donkey, seized it by the throat, and hung on, untill someone went and screwed his tail, till he let go.

We had one other curosity at this place, in the shape of an old fat German cook. She would not give the servants enough food. I could not speak German, but I told her in pretty plain English that we should look after ourselves out of the dining room food, not to take it after it came out of the dining room, but before it went in. I fancy I can see her now. She wore elastic side boots, and the fat of her legs used to protude and hang over the tops of her boots.

The footman at this place was a lively sort of fellow, very smart and clean in dress and person. He had a habit of sitting and swinging on top of a sort of nursery, brass-topped fireguard in the pantry. One day he swang it out too far, went backwards, his head under the grate. In falling, he brought down the kettle of water, the kettle landing on his shirt front. Fortunately the water was not boiling. I laughed so loud that the Bos came out to see what was the matter. The Bos was a sort of “I-will-be-obeyed” sort of man.

On one occasion he hired four men to clear some land to enlarge the kitchen garden. It being in winter the weather was terribly cold and wet. They took their dinners, cold meat and bread, into the stokehole by the greenhouses, and to heat their tea bottles. The Bos came along, and turned them all out, saying he was not going to allow them to warm themselves by his fire. One day he had a letter for post after the postman had gone. He rushed out of the front door and shouted, as he could see him down the carriage drive; so the postman turned back to see what he wanted. He said, “Why don’t you run, fellow, when I call you?” “Because the Government pays me to walk!” replied the postman. Query: Did anyone ever see a postman run?

It was at this place that the Bos asked me where I kept his cartridges. I replied, “In my bedroom.” “Oh,” he said, “It’s much too damp for cartridges in there.” But it was not too damp for the butler to sleep in. One day during a sharp summer thunderstorm two men had taken shelter under the trees just inside the lodge gates, which led out on to the high road. The Bos spied them from a distance, called his gardener, put on his mackintosh, went down to them and said: “What are you doing on my property?” “Only taking shelter from the storm, mister.” “Well get out of it, you’re trespassing.” “Where can we get shelter,” they asked. “I don’t know, and don’t care. Get out.” So they put up their coat collars and went outside the gates, then turned back and shouted, after putting their hands to their mouths, and making a noise like a young motor horn: “Say, guv’nor, you don’t happen to be a bookmaker, do you?” That’s the sort of treatment they got, after four years’ fighting in France, in order that he, and more like him, could live in safety and comfort.

Footmen generally have to sleep in let-down beds in the servants’ hall, which, outside of being unhealthy, is not nice for the servants when they assemble for breakfast. Perhaps the footman had been out with the carriage to a ball the night before; all the same he has to turn out the same as usual in order that the other servants may have their breakfasts. A butler’s bedroom is generally close to the area door, damp and unsanitry, and would be condemed as a sleeping place in any other house but the gentry’s. Generally in the room is a cistern that is constantly trickling water, and a soil pipe from above close to his pillow, with periodical rushes down the pipe. I once knew of a hall boy who had to sleep in a let-down bed in the passage leading from the area door. Of course he could not go to bed untill everyone else had gone: but anything is good enough for men servants.