Horne - What the Butler winked at: being the life and adventures of Eric Horne, Butler

Now that Old England is cracking up, as far as the Nobility is concerned, who are selling their estates, castles, and large houses, which are being turned into schools, museums, hospitals, homes for weak-mindedthings entirely different from what they were built forit seems a pity that the old usages and traditions of gentleman's service should die with the old places, where so many high jinks and junketings have been carried on in the old days, now gone for ever. The newly rich, who filled their pockets while Tommy was fightingmany of them have bought these fine old estatesare a poor substitute for the real thing. They will send their sons to Oxford or Cambridge, but for generations they will not get the stains off their hands of what they did in the great war; not forgetting who they did.

They may spend their money in giving ftes, parties, balls, and use every device to get into Society, or what is left of it, but all their doings will only be a sham, a poor substitute. You cannot make a silk purse out of a souced mackerel, neither will they command the same respect; it issimply so much work for so much money, and there the matter ends.

I have lived in the service of a noble family who were ruined by the war; they were such nice people to their servants that, could I have afforded to do it, I would have worked for them for nothing; in fact I did work for them for a year without wages, but they had to continue to reduce the number of indoor servants from twenty-five down to three, outdoor servants in proportion. How are the mighty fallen!

Fifty years ago a Lord of the Manor, or a member of the Nobility, was a little tin god on his estate in the country; the people touched their hats to him, or his lady; they looked up to them for advice or help in times of troublethe villiage people generally living in the same houses all their lives; so that their affairs were known to the people at the Big House. Not so now; people are here today and gone to-morrow, are better educated, can think for themselves, and generally only for themselves. No respect is shown when passing each other on the road; the lord in his car would perhaps prefer to run down some of his own Villiagers; for class hatred is growing fast; the gulf between rich and poor gets wider and wider, servants seldom remain in one place long enough, even if their employers were so disposed, to take any interest in them.

On crossing Belgrave Square last season, I was comparing the change that had come over things in the course of a few years. One used to see about eight o'clock in the evening gaily comparisoned pairs of horses and carriages, with footmen powdered and breeched, silk stockings, and a lot of pomp and show.

What does one see now?

Gentry need not leave their own houses to go out to dinner, untill within a few minutes that dinner should be on the table. They dart up in a stinking car that sends out noxious fumes; offensive to everyone but themselves.

They dart out of the car, and into the house, as though they had stolen something, and did not want anyone to see them.

Compare this with what it used to be. Two matched footmen would get down, march up to the door, and if a double knocker, both would knock (which they had practised beforehand) then march back to the carriage in a stately fashion, let down the steps, and hand out the ladies. Now, everything is all hurry and scurry. They order out the car, tell the chauffeur to drive to some place; when they get there they want to be some-where else, when they get there they want to be somewhere else; all is unrest; they keep the chauffeur at it sometimes for fifteen hours at a stretch, go to some restaurant and get a snack, then go onagain. It does not matter if the chauffeur gets time to get his meals or not: the engine does not get tired, neither must the chauffeur get tired.

English home life is all broken up. The husband may meet his wife at meals, and he may not; most probably not. At any given meal time, or at any entertainment, the chances are that the gentleman will be found dining with a lady not his wife, and the lady dining with some gentleman, not her husband: and the chauffeur is waiting outside for hours in the cold and wet.

When one is passing along Piccadilly on the top of a bus one can see the Swells lounging in their copious chairs, reading the newspapers, and smoking cigars. Pray don't envy them, for half of them go there to get out of range of their wives tongues, who make it too hot for them to stop at home.

As an instance of what they think of a chauffeur the following occurred this year. They had used the car all day, in the evening the chauffeur asked if he could have the evening off. The gentleman asked what he wanted the evening off for.

To go and see my sick wife. I also have a dead child lying at home, replied the chauffeur.

You are a damned nusiance, wanting time off. I wanted you to drive me to the theatre, and supper afterwards, replied the gentleman.

Then the chauffeur replied, You may dam well drive yourself, for I will never drive you another yard.

The inhuman monster. They are nearly all alike. Self, self, self again, and if any left, Self again.

Another amusing incident occurred a few years ago in Bruton Street. I know the lady and I know the chauffeur.

The lady, when she wanted to tell him something in the car, had the habit of poking him in the back of his neck with the ferrule of her umbrella. One day she called, Smith (jab in the back of the neck), why did you not go the other way? Soon after (jab), Now we are here, call at Wilkin's (jab), there it is, on the left (another jab). That was the last, for he drew the car to the side of the street, got out, took off his cap and coat, threw them in the car, and said, My lady, drive the car yourself. I have had enough of your jabs in the neck. He went away and left her there.

Any chauffeur driving in London has quite enough to do to watch and dodge the traffic, without being jabbed in the back of the neck with an umbrella.

It requires the temper of an angel to take the insults of some of the gentry; not that I supposean angel would enjoy being jabbed in the back of the neck with an umbrella more than a human being, but there is no accounting for tastes.

When a servant retaliates in this style they should take care to have something to fall back upon. In this case he went and drove for tradesmen. He said, No more of your gentry for me! Otherwise they are certain to down you; they won't give you a character, and do all they can to prevent you from earning a living. What care I how good you be, If you are not good to me. Tradesmen, when they come in contact with them, always tody, bow, and scrape, but they make them pay through the nose for it.