Bracebridge Hall

Family Servants

In my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may often be tempted to dwell on

circumstances of a trite and ordinary nature, from their appearing to me

illustrative of genuine national character. It seems to be the study of

the squire to adhere, as much as possible, to what he considers the old

landmarks of English manners. His servants all understand his ways, and,

for the most part, have been accustomed to them from infancy; so that,

upon the whole, his household presents one of the few tolerable

specimens 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 housekeeper, 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 pointed 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 legacy

of some former dame of the family, or an inheritance from her mother,

who was housekeeper before her. I have a reverence 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

antiquated brocade in the dress of some one of those long-waisted dames

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 primitive, 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 anecdote 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 previously

smiled on.

The old butler, who was formerly footman, and a rejected admirer of

hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those little cabals

that will occasionally take place among the most orderly servants,

arising from the common propensity 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 rebukingly 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 scarlet, with his hair craped

and powdered, and his three-cornered hat.

She has an orphan 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 scraps of novels, and inheriting

second-hand 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

housekeepers' savings; not to mention the hereditary 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

habitual respect and attachment, 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 mischievous, and has been apt to play tricks upon her from

boyhood.

I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony which, I believe, is

peculiar 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 dignified

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, technically

dressed; they move about the house without hurry or noise; there is

nothing of the bustle of employment, or the voice of command; nothing of

that obtrusive housewifery that amounts to a torment. You are not

persecuted 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 laconic 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 animated marks of affection

to their employers; yet, though quiet, they are strong in their

attachments; and the reciprocal regard of masters or servants, though

not ardently expressed, is powerful and lasting 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 irresistible 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 enjoyment 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 retired, and

pass the greater part of their time in the country. As to the powdered

menials that throng the walls of fashionable town residences, they

equally reflect the character of the establishments to which they

belong; and I know no more complete epitomes of dissolute heartlessness

and pampered 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 prattling 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 paternal roof, and only return

thither at intervals, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that

of our parents; who, now grown grey and infirm with age, still totters

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 chamber 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, confidential servant to George

Birch, Esq. of Hampstead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused

this inscription to be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity,

diligence, and continence. He died (a bachelor) aged 84, having lived

44 years in the same family."

The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham churchyard:

"Here lie the remains 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

lamented by the sole survivor."

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 follower of his race, who had been, no

doubt, a living memento of times and friends that had passed away; and

in considering this record of long and devoted services, I called to

mind the touching speech of Old Adam in "As You Like It," when tottering

after the youthful son of his ancient master: