In the early days of which I was speaking, we had schoolroom tea with our governess, while our parents dined in peace at about 6.30. We came down after our tea, rushing along the dark passage and descending the stairs with that rhythmic series of bangs peculiar to children. I do not know that we were really frightened at passing certain dark doorways, but I certainly remember enjoying a sort of sham terror. One of these doors led into my mother’s room and also to a store-room; I cannot think that this had any “night fears” for us, because it smelt so strongly of such everyday earthly things as soap and tallow candles. Why it was placed next to the bedroom I do not know. I have no clear remembrance of what we did in the evenings, but I seem to see a round table and a moderator lamp, such as occurs in John Leech’s pictures in Punch. I have also a faint recollection of black-coated uncles sitting by the fire and not unnaturally objecting to our making short-cuts across their legs. It was no doubt a pity that we were not reproved for our want of consideration for the elderly, and that, generally speaking, our manners were neglected. One of our grown-up cousins was reported to have called our midday dinner “a violent luncheon,” and I do not
doubt that she was right. We were fortunate in having a set of simple, kindly, old-fashioned servants with whom we could be on friendly terms. Thus it happens that recollections cluster about the kitchen and pantry. I have a vague remembrance of a Welsh cook, Mrs Davis, who was very kind to us in spite of constant threats of “tying a dish-cloth to your tail,” which, so far as I know, remained a threat, and was indeed never understood by me. We certainly could generally extract gingerbread and other good things from Daydy, as we called Mrs Davis. The butler, Parslow, was a kind friend to us all our lives. I do not remember being checked by him except in being turned out of the dining-room when he wanted to lay the table for luncheon, or being stopped in some game which threatened the polish of the sideboard, of which he spoke as though it were his private property. He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for the postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb’s friend Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day: with how great an air would he enter the breakfast-room and address us:—“Ladies and Gentlemen, I wish you a happy Christmas, etc. etc.” I am afraid he got but a sheepish response from us. Among the outdoor servants there were three whom I remember well. There was Brooks,
the general outdoor man, who acted as gardener, cowman, etc. He had dark eyes and a melancholy, morose face. Of him I have told elsewhere [56a] the following anecdote:—
Brooks had been accused by the other gardener of using foul language, and was hailed before my father to be judged. I, as a little boy, standing in the hall, heard my father say, “You know you are a very bad-tempered man.” “Yes, sir” (in a tone of deep depression). “Then get out of the room—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” At this point I rushed upstairs in vague alarm and heard no more.
Brooks lived in a cottage close to the cow-yard, with his wife, in whom I took an interest because her name was Keziah, and because she was the best smocker in the village. I have a vague recollection of a private in the Guards to whom I was introduced as a son of Brooks—a statement I regarded as surprising. Mrs Brooks was as melancholy as her husband, and I remember many years later, when the pair were pensioned off in the village, hearing Brooks say in her presence, “She ain’t no comfort to me, sir.” To this she made no retort, though a tu quoque would have been most just.
The under-gardener, Lettington (the man who objected to being sworn at), was a kindly person and a great friend of mine. It was he who taught me to make whistles [56b] in the spring and helped me with my tame rabbits. He also showed me how to make brick-traps for small birds, and a more elaborate trap
made of hazel twigs. In this last I remember catching a blackbird: I imagine that I must have been rather afraid of my captive, for the unfortunate bird escaped leaving its tail in my hands. I do not think I ever wanted to kill the few other birds caught in traps, but let them go free. I clearly remember looking with envy and admiration at Bewicke’s woodcuts of traps, e.g. that of the woodcock springe, and another of a sieve propped up over grain sprinkled as bait.
To return to Lettington. It was he who helped my father in his experiments on the crossing of plants: he lived to a great age, dying as a pensioner many years later. My father used to tell with amusement how Lettington never failed to remind him of a bad prophecy:—“Yes, sir, but you said so-and-so would happen.” The third outdoor man was Thomas Price, generally known as the Dormouse on account of his somnolent manner of working. We, as boys, believed him to be a deserter from the army on account of the military set of his shoulders, and because he had arrived in the village an unknown wanderer. He was a bachelor and spent more than was wise on beer. For the last few years of his life my mother made him save money by the simple process of retaining part of his wages in her own hands. In this way he unwillingly acquired some £20 or £30, but as he refused to leave it to those who took care of him in his last illness, it went to the Crown, to whom I hope it made up for the loss of T. Price’s very doubtful military services.
In later years it occurred to us that the methods of gardening at Down were antiquated, and we persuaded our parents to engage an active young Scotchman whom I will call X, and who was placed in command of Lettington and the Dormouse (the gloomy Brooks having been pensioned). The two old servants were dreadfully bustled by X, and I well remember their flushed faces after the first morning’s digging in the serious Scotch manner. After a time, finding that matters were very little looked after, X began some mysterious dealings in cows with a neighbouring farmer, and it was suddenly discovered that a cow had disappeared. I remember my shame at finding I did not know how many cows we ought to have, nor could I swear to their personal appearance. But by dint of cross-examination I was enabled to draw up a statement of how cow A had been sold, cow B bought, and cow C exchanged for cow D, etc. Finally the ingenious X was discharged, and the rejoicing Lettington and Dormouse reinstated. But before this fortunate conclusion, I had at my father’s bidding taken steps to obtain a summons against X. I remember thinking what a fool I should look when cross-examined before the magistrates. Another circumstance is impressed on my mind. The affair occurred in that remarkable October in which the trees were greatly injured by a snowstorm, and as I drove in a dog-cart through Holwood Park in search of the summons, I thought, as the trees cracked like pistols, that it was hardly worth while being crushed to death for the sake
of any number of cows. Finally X was not prosecuted, and departed in peace.