“Will you please tell me,” I said, in what I hoped was a very conciliatory voice, “who are those men behind the Apostles, in blue and red mantles?”
Never shall I forget the tones of thunder with which Mr Beer turned upon me. That anything so small and insignificant should arrest him in his career of graphic description, and ask him a question which, if the truth be spoken, he was as unable to answer as I was, was unpardonable. With a glance which I ought never to have survived, he exclaimed: “Sirs, we be not gods but men.” The reply was far from satisfactory, but it was Gospel truth, and as such I was obliged to receive it.
Another incident connected with my early days at Hampton Court appears to me to deserve a place here. It is a little romance, of which the hero is a butcher boy. In those bygone times, the butcher formed a prominent feature in the annals of the palace. There was very little competition in trade, and the butcher in particular was usually bound to make a rapid fortune.
One day I went with my mother (who by the way was an excellent housewife) to speak to the butcher, who had just arrived and set up shop. After a few preliminary arrangements as to future custom, my mother looked at the man for some time in a scrutinising manner, and then said to him: “It is very extraordinary, but I have an impression that I have seen your face before, and yet I cannot recall to mind where and when.” “I think you must be mistaken, madam,” he replied, “for I seldom forget a face; and yet, now you mention it, I have a sort of misty recollection that your features are familiar to me”; and so the lady and the butcher looked at each other for some time, but without clearing up the mystery.
THE HEROIC BUTCHER’S BOY
A day or two afterwards, my mother paid Mr Ives a second visit, and this time she was accompanied by my sister. “I am come,” she said, “to ask you one or two questions. Did you ever, many years ago—say ten or twelve—stop the carriage of a lady, in Oxford Street, when her horses ran away and the coachman was thrown off the box?” “Certainly,” answered the butcher; “I remember it all as if it were yesterday. I was but a lad then, and was sauntering along, with my tray on my shoulder, when I heard a great hallooing and screaming, and people rushing about. I turned round and saw a yellow chariot, drawn by a splendid pair of young black roans, dashing down the street at a furious pace, and at the window a beautiful lady with a little girl, calling distractedly for help. Nobody seemed inclined to make any effort to assist them. I was so sorry for the poor things, and I thought I would try my best, so I ran forward, and thrusting my tray before the horses’ eyes, made them stop quite suddenly.” “Quite right, quite right,” said my mother, “and here are the two ladies whose lives you saved. I was a witness of your brave action, and the moment I recovered myself I looked round for my preserver, but you were gone. I enquired of some of the bystanders what had become of you, but they could not tell me; you had disappeared, and in spite of all my endeavours to discover you, we never met again till the day before yesterday.”
The man smiled. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “there was no more for me to do; there were plenty of people too ready to help you, and I should only have been in the way.” He then finished his speech with no mean compliment to the beautiful girl who stood before him (the little child of that eventful day). “And what a pity it would have been, to be sure, if she had not lived!”—which conversation and conduct go to prove, in my opinion, that the butcher was not only a hero, but a gentleman.
My mother told the story right and left, and secured her friend, not only the custom, but visits from many of the inmates of the palace, and she related the incident so graphically to the Duke and Duchess of Clarence, that the custom of Bushey House, where H.R.H. resided as Ranger of the Park, was assured to him. So that in fact this early act of heroism helped to make the fortune of John Ives and of his son after him.
I naturally make frequent allusions to friends of all kinds and classes, and am therefore tempted to insert an anecdote about a feathered acquaintance of mine, which will not try the reader’s patience long.
“JOHN ANDERSON” AND THE THRUSH