LITMIR.BIZ

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by Mr. Harry Hems of Exeter. He carved the bench-ends, and on one of them was a sea battle in which a member of the Bulteel family, whom we took to be Uncle Johnny, was seen hurling a stone from a mast’s crows’ nest in a sailing ship, on to a serpent which writhed in the waves. Hugo and I both sat for cherubs’ heads, which were carved in stone on the reredos. There were some stained-glass windows and a hand-blown organ on which John used to play on Sundays when it was ready.

      The church was consecrated by the Bishop of Exeter, Bishop Temple.

      Hugo and I learned to ride first on a docile beast called Emma, who, when she became too lethargic, was relegated to a little cart which used to be driven by all of us, and then on a Dartmoor pony called the Giant, and finally on a pony called Emma Jane.

      The coachman’s name was Bilky. He was a perfect Devonshire character. His admiration for my brothers was unbounded. He used to talk of them one after the other, afraid if he had praised one, he had not praised the others enough. My brother Everard, whom we always called the “Imp,” he said was as strong as a lion and as nimble as a bee. “They have rightly, sir, named you the Himp,” one of the servants said to him one day.

      During all these years we had extraordinarily few illnesses. Hugo once had whooping-cough at London, and I was put in the same room so as to have it at the same time, and although I was longing to catch it, as Hugo was rioting in presents and delicacies as well as whoops, my constitution was obstinately impervious to infection.

      We often had colds, entailing doses of spirits of nitre, linseed poultices, and sometimes even a mustard poultice, but I never remember anything more serious. Every now and then Hilly thought it necessary to dose us with castor-oil, and the struggles that took place when Hilly used to arrive with a large spoon, saying, as every Nanny I have ever known says: “Now, take it!” were indescribable. I recollect five people being necessary one day to hold me down before the castor-oil could be got down my throat. We had a charming comfortable country doctor called Doctor Atkins, who used to drive over in a dog-cart, muffled in wraps, and produce a stethoscope out of his hat. He was so genial and comfortable that one began to feel better directly he felt one’s pulse.

      When we first went to Membland the post used to be brought by a postman who walked every day on foot from Ivy Bridge, ten miles off. He had a watch the size of a turnip, and the stamps at that time were the dark red ones with the Queen’s head on them. Later the post came in a cart from Plympton, and finally from Plymouth.

      In the autumn, visitors used to begin to arrive for the covert shooting, which was good and picturesque, the pheasants flying high in the steep woods on the banks of the Yealm, and during the autumn months the nearing approach of Christmas cast an aura of excitement over life. The first question was: Would there be a Christmas tree? During all the early years there was one regularly.

      After the November interval in London, which I have already described, the serious business of getting the tree ready began. It was a large tree, and stood in a square green box.

      The first I remember was placed in the drawing-room, the next in the dining-room, the next in the billiard-room, and after that they were always in the covered-in tennis court, which had been built in the meanwhile. The decoration of the tree was under the management of D. The excitement when the tree was brought into the house or the tennis court for the first time was terrific, and Mr. Ellis, the house-carpenter, who always wore carpet shoes, climbed up a ladder and affixed the silver fairy to the top of the tree. Then reels of wire were brought out, scissors, boxes of crackers, boxes of coloured candles, glass-balls, clips for candles, and a quantity of little toys.

      Hugo and I were not allowed to do much. Nearly everything we did was said to be wrong. The presents were, of course, kept a secret and were done up in parcels, and not brought into the room until the afternoon of Christmas Eve.

      The Christmas tree was lit on Christmas Eve after tea. The ritual was always the same. Hugo and I ran backwards and forwards with the servants’ presents. The maids were given theirs first—they consisted of stuff for a gown done up in a parcel—then Mrs. Tudgay, D., and the upper servants. One year Mrs. Tudgay had a work-basket.

      Then the guests were given their presents, and we gave our presents and received our own. The presents we gave were things we had made ourselves: kettle-holders, leather slippers worked in silk for my father, and the girls sometimes made a woollen waistcoat or a comforter. Chérie always had a nice present for my mother, which we were allowed to see beforehand, and she always used to say: “N’y touchez pas, la fraîcheur en fait la beauté.”

      Our presents were what we had put down beforehand in a list of “Christmas Wants”—a horse and cart, a painting-box, or a stylograph pen.

      The house used to be full at Christmas. My father’s brothers, Uncle Tom and Uncle Bob, used to be there. Madame Neruda I remember as a Christmas visitor. Godfrey Webb wrote the following lines about Christmas at Membland:

      CHRISTMAS AT MEMBLAND

      “Who says that happiness is far to seek?

      Here have I passed a happy Christmas week.

      Christmas at Membland—all was bright and gay,

      Without one shadow till this final day,

      When Mrs. Baring said, ‘Before you go

      You must write something in the book, you know.’

      I must write something—that’s all very well,

      

      But what to write about I cannot tell.

      Where shall I look for help?—it must be found,

      If I survey this Christmas party round.

      There’s Ned himself, our most delightful host,

      Or Mrs. Baring, she could help me most,

      The Uncles too, if I their time might rob.

      Shall I ask Tom? or try my luck with Bob?

      Madame Neruda, ah, would she begin,

      We’d write the story of a violin,

      And tell how first the inspiration came

      Which took the world by storm and gave her fame.

      There’s Harry Bourke, with him I can’t go wrong,

      Could I but write the words he’d sing the song.

      So sung, my verse would haply win a smile

      From his bright beauty of the sister Isle,

      Who comes prepared her country’s pride to save,

      For every Saxon is at once her slave;

      But no, I must not for assistance look,

      So, Mrs. Baring, you must keep your book

      For cleverer pens and I no more will trouble you,

      But just remain your baffled bard.”

      G. W. (1879).

      Mr. Webb was a great feature in the children’s life of many families. With his beady, bird-like eye and his impassive face he made jokes so quietly that you overheard them rather than heard them. One day out shooting on a steep hill in Newton Wood, in which there were woodcock and dangerous shots, my father said to him, “You take the middle drive, Godfrey; it’s safer, medio tutissimus.” “Is there any chance of an Ibis?” Mr. Webb asked quietly. Another time, he went out duck-shooting. He was asked afterwards whether he had shot many. “Not even a Mallard imaginaire,” was his answer.

      Another Christmas event was the French play we used to act under the stage management of Chérie.

      When I was six I played the part of an old man with a bald forehead and white tufts of hair in a play called Le Maître d’Ecole, and I remember playing the part of Nicole in scenes from the Bourgeois Gentilhomme at Christmas

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