In my casual anecdotes9 of the Hall, I may often be tempted10 to dwell on circumstances of a trite11 and ordinary nature, from their appearing to me illustrative of genuine national character. It seems to be the study of the squire12 to adhere, as much as possible, to what he considers the old landmarks13 of English manners. His servants all understand his ways, and, for the most part, have been accustomed to them from infancy14; so that, upon the whole, his household presents one of the few tolerable specimens15 that can now be met with, of the establishment of an English country gentleman of the old school. By the by, the servants are not the least characteristic part of the household; the housekeeper16, for instance, has been born and brought up at the Hall, and has never been twenty miles from it; yet she has a stately air that would not disgrace a lady that had figured at the court of Queen Elizabeth.
I am half-inclined to think that she has caught it from living so much among the old family pictures. It may, however, be owing to a consciousness of her importance in the sphere in which she has always moved; for she is greatly respected in the neighbouring village, and among the farmers' wives, and has high authority in the household, ruling over the servants with quiet but undisputed sway.
She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes, and pointed17 nose and chin. Her dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears a small, well-starched ruff, a laced stomacher, full petticoats, and a gown festooned and open in front, which, on particular occasions, is of ancient silk, the legacy18 of some former dame19 of the family, or an inheritance from her mother, who was housekeeper before her. I have a reverence20 for these old garments, as I make no doubt they have figured about these apartments in days long past, when they have set off the charms of some peerless family beauty; and I have sometimes looked from the old housekeeper to the neighbouring portraits, to see whether I could not recognise her antiquated21 brocade in the dress of some one of those long-waisted dames22 that smile on me from the walls.
Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and she wears over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down under the chin. Her manners are simple and primitive23, heightened a little by a proper dignity of station.
The Hall is her world, and the history of the family the only history she knows, excepting that which she has read in the Bible. She can give a biography of every portrait in the picture gallery, and is a complete family chronicle.
She is treated with great consideration by the squire. Indeed, Master Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote8 current among the servants, of the squire's having been seen kissing her in the picture gallery, when they were both young. As, however, nothing further was ever noticed between them, the circumstance caused no great scandal; only she was observed to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, and refused the hand of the village innkeeper, whom she had previously24 smiled on.
The old butler, who was formerly25 footman, and a rejected admirer of hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those little cabals26 that will occasionally take place among the most orderly servants, arising from the common propensity27 of the governed to talk against administration; but he has left it off, of late years, since he has risen into place, and shakes his head rebukingly28 when it is mentioned.
It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell on the looks of the squire when he was a young man at college; and she maintains that none of his sons can compare with their father when he was of their age, and was dressed out in his full suit of scarlet29, with his hair craped and powdered, and his three-cornered hat.
She has an orphan30 niece, a pretty, soft-hearted baggage, named Phoebe Wilkins, who has been transplanted to the Hall within a year or two, and been nearly spoiled for any condition of life. She is a kind of attendant and companion of the fair Julia's; and from loitering about the young lady's apartments, reading scraps31 of novels, and inheriting second-hand32 finery, has become something between a waiting-maid and a slip-shod fine lady.
She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as she will inherit all her aunt's property; which, if report be true, must be a round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated wealth of two housekeepers33' savings34; not to mention the hereditary35 wardrobe, and the many little valuables and knick-knacks treasured up in the housekeeper's room. Indeed the old housekeeper has the reputation among the servants and the villagers of being passing rich; and there is a japanned chest of drawers and a large iron-bound coffer in her room, which are supposed by the housemaids to hold treasures of wealth.
The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, who, indeed, pays a little court to her, as to a person high in authority: and they have many discussions on points of family history, in which, notwithstanding his extensive information, and pride of knowledge, he commonly admits her superior accuracy. He seldom returns to the Hall, after one of his visits to the other branches of the family, without bringing Mrs. Wilkins some remembrance from the ladies of the house where he has been staying.
Indeed all the children in the house look up to the old lady with habitual36 respect and attachment37, and she seems almost to consider them as her own, from their having grown up under her eye. The Oxonian, however, is her favourite, probably from being the youngest, though he is the most mischievous38, and has been apt to play tricks upon her from boyhood.
I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony which, I believe, is peculiar39 to the Hall. After the cloth is removed at dinner, the old housekeeper sails into the room and stands behind the squire's chair, when he fills her a glass of wine with his own hands, in which she drinks the health of the company in a truly respectful yet dignified40 manner, and then retires. The squire received the custom from his father, and has always continued it.
There is a peculiar character about the servants of old English families that reside principally in the country. They have a quiet, orderly, respectful mode of doing their duties. They are always neat in their persons, and appropriately, and, if I may use the phrase, technically41 dressed; they move about the house without hurry or noise; there is nothing of the bustle42 of employment, or the voice of command; nothing of that obtrusive43 housewifery that amounts to a torment44. You are not persecuted45 by the process of making you comfortable; yet everything is done, and is done well. The work of the house is performed as if by magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing is done by fits and starts, nor at awkward seasons; the whole goes on like well-oiled clockwork, where there is no noise nor jarring in its operations.
English servants, in general, are not treated with great indulgence, nor rewarded by many commendations; for the English are laconic46 and reserved towards their domestics; but an approving nod and kind word from master or mistress, goes as far here, as an excess of praise or indulgence elsewhere. Neither do servants exhibit any animated47 marks of affection to their employers; yet, though quiet, they are strong in their attachments48; and the reciprocal regard of masters or servants, though not ardently49 expressed, is powerful and lasting50 in old English families.
The title of "an old family servant" carries with it a thousand kind associations in all parts of the world; and there is no claim upon the home-bred charities of the heart more irresistible51 than that of having been "born in the house." It is common to see grey-headed domestics of this kind attached to an English family of the "old school," who continue in it to the day of their death in the enjoyment52 of steady unaffected kindness, and the performance of faithful unofficious duty. I think such instances of attachment speak well for master and servant, and the frequency of them speaks well for national character.
These observations, however, hold good only with families of the description I have mentioned, and with such as are somewhat retired53, and pass the greater part of their time in the country. As to the powdered menials that throng54 the walls of fashionable town residences, they equally reflect the character of the establishments to which they belong; and I know no more complete epitomes55 of dissolute heartlessness and pampered56 inutility.
But the good "old family servant!"—The one who has always been linked, in idea, with the home of our heart; who has led us to school in the days of prattling57 childhood; who has been the confidant of our boyish cares, and schemes, and enterprises; who has hailed us as we came home at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday sports; who, when we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal58 roof, and only return thither59 at intervals60, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that of our parents; who, now grown grey and infirm with age, still totters61 about the house of our fathers in fond and faithful servitude; who claims us, in a manner, as his own; and hastens with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow-domestics in waiting upon us at table; and who, when we retire at night to the chamber62 that still goes by our name, will linger about the room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word about times that are past—who does not experience towards such a being a feeling of almost filial affection?
I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the gravestones of such valuable domestics, recorded with the simple truth of natural feeling. I have two before me at this moment; one copied from a tombstone of a churchyard in Warwickshire:
"Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential63 servant to George Birch, Esq. of Hampstead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused this inscription64 to be written in memory of his discretion65, fidelity66, diligence, and continence. He died (a bachelor) aged67 84, having lived 44 years in the same family."
The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham churchyard:
"Here lie the remains68 of Mr. James Tappy, who departed this life on the 8th of September 1818, aged 84, after a faithful service of 60 years in one family; by each individual of which he lived respected, and died lamented69 by the sole survivor70."
Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the glow about the heart that I felt while copying this honest epitaph in the churchyard of Eltham. I sympathised with this "sole survivor" of a family, mourning over the grave of the faithful follower71 of his race, who had been, no doubt, a living memento72 of times and friends that had passed away; and in considering this record of long and devoted73 services, I called to mind the touching74 speech of Old Adam in "As You Like It," when tottering75 after the youthful son of his ancient master:
"Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp76, with love and loyalty77!"
NOTE.—I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen somewhere in the chapel78 of Windsor Castle, put up by the late King to the memory of a family servant who had been a faithful attendant of his lamented daughter, the Princess Amelia. George III. possessed79 much of the strong domestic feeling of the old English country gentleman; and it is an incident curious in monumental history, and creditable to the human heart,—a monarch80 erecting81 a monument in honour of the humble82 virtues83 of a menial.
