Part 7

But venture to speak jokingly of the Queen, and your Englishman, be he Liberal or Conservative, will fly at you like a bull-dog.

The reason is simple enough.

According to the Conservatives, a Liberal Government never has done, and never will do, anything right.

According to the Liberals, a Conservative Government never accomplished, and never will accomplish, anything but blunders or atrocities.

But in insulting the Queen, who can do nothing wrong, and is thus placed in a position of safety, removed from all party jealousies, you are insulting England, and on this point the Englishman is not to be trifled with; and indeed, be not deceived, this is the very secret of his strength.

Happy the country that has sons ready, when the hour of danger comes, to forget their own quarrels, and rally as one man around her standard!

Go to a theatre, a concert, to the athletic sports of schoolboys, and when the band strikes up "God Save the Queen," to announce that the entertainment is at an end, you will see every man and boy bare his head, every face grow serious, and, in the midst of this imposing silence, this solemn attitude, you will be struck with admiration and respect for this nation in whom the sound of a monotonous hymn can awaken the deepest feelings of love for the mother-country.

Yet this boundless respect is less an act of homage to the monarchy than to a court, which is untainted by the breath of scandal, and a virtuous Queen who understands the duties of a constitutional sovereign so well, that the best informed statesmen, whether Liberals or Conservatives, declare that they know not to which side her heart leans.

Not that the Queen's conservatism is not known to be of the strongest kind; but she has always had enough tact, and respect for the convictions of her subjects, to dissimulate her personal sentiments so far, that a statesman may always pretend not to know them without seeming to insult the common sense of his audience.

To read the speeches and decrees of the Queen, studded as they are with the phrase "_it is our royal pleasure_;" to hear her royal assent given to bills passed by both Houses of Parliament under the formula of _La reyne le veult_, you would believe yourself in the Middle Ages, or at least in the seventeenth century, under a despotic, absolute monarchy. All these vestiges of old royal prerogatives are carefully preserved in England, but they are merely empty forms: the will of the Queen is not more terrible than the Tower of London, from which you can now emerge as easily as you enter, and more easily too, for you must pay sixpence to go in, and you can come out for nothing at all. If a photograph could sign documents, the Queen's would replace her quite well.

"Gouvernement facile et beau, A qui suffit, pour toute garde, Un Suisse, avec sa hallebarde, Peint sur la porte du château."

The royal speeches and decrees are ratified and signed by the Queen, and no doubt she previously reads them or has them read to her, but not one phrase is hers, and if you would form an exact idea of her as a woman, it is not her speeches and decrees that will help you.

In the second volume of the Queen's "Life in the Highlands," published this year, you will look in vain for the slightest allusion to politics; it is the journal of a country gentleman's wife, who takes but small interest in anything outside the family circle. It is the diary of a queen that gives her people but one subject of complaint, which is that they do not see enough of her.

Happy queen! happy nation!

With the exception of _table d'hôte_ colonels' widows, and Polish counts, who, in England as in every other country trodden of man, know all the secrets of all the royal families in the world, and will tell you with a mysterious look: "Oh! the Princess of _So-and-So_? I know on excellent authority that she had to be married in all haste." Or: "You know that little baby the Countess of ... had the other day? Dear child! it will never know what it owes to His Royal Highness;" with the exception, as I say, of these worthies, you will never hear anyone in England tell you shady stories about one of the ladies of this court, so pure and strict on the subject of conduct, that it is said the Queen will not suffer a woman separated from her husband to be presented to her, even were she a marchioness or a duchess.

It is by setting the example of a pure life; by allowing her people to govern themselves as they think fit; by sympathising in the joys and sorrows of her humblest subjects; by creating bonds of affection between the cottage and the throne, that this Queen, this model mother, has inspired in her subjects a love that is akin to worship.

* * * * *

The Queen's daughters are artists. One has exhibited at the Royal Academy; another has published some of her sketches in a monthly magazine. You see them constantly visiting picture galleries and painters' studios.

Their education has been such as a careful middle-class mother would give to her daughters, and everyone knows that at the Swiss Cottage, at Osborne, the young princesses learned to sew and keep house.

In 1866, Princess Alice, the wife of Prince Louis of Hesse, who in 1877 succeeded to the grand-ducal throne of Hesse-Darmstadt, wrote to her mother, the ruler of the greatest empire in the world: "I have made all the summer out walking dresses, seven in number, with paletots for the girls, not embroidered, but entirely made from beginning to end; likewise the new necessary flannel shawls for the expected. I manage all the nursery accounts and everything myself, which gives me plenty to do, as everything increases, and, on account of the house, we must live very economically for these next years."

The letters of the Princess Alice, in which the house-mother is seen in every line, were published in German a few years ago. Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein has just given them to the world, in English. The letters reveal in all its beauty the character of this Princess, who lavished the care and tenderness of a heart full of filial love upon her father in his last illness, and exactly seventeen years after, fell a victim to the devotion with which she nursed her husband and children through the terrible malady that was raging at the time throughout the Grand-Duchy of Hesse-Darmstadt.

I was one day in Soho Bazaar with two or three English ladies. A few steps from us the Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, accompanied by her husband, was making some purchases. After having chosen what she required: "You will send me these things," she said to the young person who had served her.

----"To what address?"

----"To Buckingham Palace."

----"What name, madam?"

----"Oh!... Mrs. Christian!" cried the Princess gaily, at the same time glancing at her husband, with an expression that betrayed her enjoyment of the fun of the thing.

Marie Antoinette, the haughtiest of queens, loved to play the shepherdess.

* * * * *

In the month of September, 1883, the Poet Tennyson saw a little of the King of Denmark's Court. Seated one evening near the young Empress of Russia and her sister the Princess of Wales, he felt ill at ease, not knowing by what title he ought rightly to address those royal ladies: "I do not know," he said to them, "what I ought to call you?"

"Oh!" cried the charming Princess of Wales, "there is no difficulty: Minnie and Alec, to be sure!"

The Princess's name is Alexandra, and that of the Empress of Russia Marie Fedorovna.

Surely this was a very pretty answer, and such as one would expect from the Princess _en vacances_.

Poor Tennyson! Mr. Gladstone has raised him to the peerage. The Poet Laureate of England has consented to change his glorious name into that of Lord Tennyson. For a long while, the news was treated by the republic of letters as a hoax or a poor joke; but, alas! the report was only too true. The graceful Saxon bard, who has so sweetly sung of King Arthur and his knights of the Round-Table, takes his seat in the House of Lords, just like Mr. Guinness, the manufacturer of double stout. _Ah! quel honneur, Monsieur le Sénateur!_

It is a very shabby trick Mr. Gladstone has played him.

The word _esquire_ seemed quite ridiculous enough after the two names: Alfred Tennyson; but Lord Tennyson! No, it is almost too much for one's ears.

Where is the Frenchman who says _Monsieur_ Victor Hugo in speaking of our immortal poet? And yet imagine, if you can, something still more unseemly, fancy he had to be called _Monsieur le baron_ Victor Hugo, and you will be able to form an idea of the public feeling here, when it was known that Tennyson was going, of his own free will, to stick the title of Lord in front of his name.

No one ever thought of reproaching Lord Byron for being titled: it was an accident; he was but eleven years old when he inherited the title and property of his great uncle. It is said that he wept for joy on learning the honour that the accident of birth had conferred upon him. What bitter tears Tennyson must have shed upon seeing himself, at the close of his brilliant career, _the noble lord the Poet Laureate_! It is a perfect suicide.

There was, too, in the genealogy of Alfred Tennyson wherewith to satisfy the most ardent craving for distinction: among his ancestors are to be found princes, kings, and even saints.

The Laureate's descent from John Savage, Earl Rivers, implies descent from the first three Edwards, Henry III., John, the first two Henrys, William the Conqueror, Edmund Ironsides, Ethelred, Edgar, Edmund I., Edward the Elder, Alfred, Ethelwulf, and Egbert: then Edward III., being the son of Isabelle, daughter of Philip the Fair, one may count Saint Louis, Philip-Augustus, and Hugh Capet, among the Laureate's ancestors. And these are not all. The _St. James's Gazette_, which a short while ago gave the entire genealogy, showed that to the above names might be added those of Ferdinand III., King of Castile and Leon, canonised by Pope Clement X., the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, and several Scottish kings.

This is a grand array of noble names, or I am no judge. What can have demoralised the descendant of such men?

Was it the voyage to Denmark?

Could it be a visit to the Court of Copenhagen, at a time when the Czar of all the Russias, the Czarina, and the Princess of Wales were there? Surely, even that was not enough to turn the head of the most illustrious son of Albion.

What is Lord Tennyson going to do in the House of Lords? Will he vote, he who has never mixed in politics, except perhaps when he was about twenty (a long time ago), and the tone of his writings was decidedly Radical? His presence in this august and venerable assembly will prove once more that it is of no use looking upon the House of Lords as a serious legislative body.

But, alas! England has no National Academy. Almost the only rewards she has to offer a man of genius are a pension, a seat in the House of Lords, or a corner at Madame Tussaud's.

XIV.

The Governess and other Servants of Mrs. John Bull's Household--Lady-helps--English and French Servants--Burglar Chase: the Policeman is successful for once.

In an English home the governess is a little more than a servant, a great deal less than a guest. Her wages are inferior to those of the cook, who seldom fails to remind her of it when she has a chance. The butler patronises her, and if he sees her looking a little pale, he will gallantly offer her a glass of port on his own responsibility. The word _sir_ almost rises to the lips of the poor outcast when she addresses this important personage. Her position is humiliating and wretched. Everyone in the house seems to have a definite place, except the poor governess. There is no welcome for her in the drawing-room; there is no room for her in the kitchen. The family find her presence a restraint; the servants think her proud and cordially hate her. With none is she at her ease. She regrets that she did not take an engagement of simple nurse; then she might have had an occasional chat with the lady's-maid, and her existence might have been tolerable.

I read the following advertisement in my newspaper: "A young lady, daughter and sister of clergymen, desires to enter a good family as governess to children from eight to twelve years of age, to teach English, drawing, music, arithmetic, French and German (acquired abroad). A salary willingly accepted."

There is nothing startling for me in this advertisement. I know governesses who have turned themselves into walking encyclopædias in return for their washing and the right of partaking of scanty fare at the family table; and many are there, who, disgusted with their thankless calling, turn shop girls, earn from £50 to £70 a year, and are well treated by their employers.

Many young girls belonging to families in easy circumstances go out as morning governesses for the sake of adding a little to their pocket-money. They have their homes and are independent; they are not subjected to the constant mortifications the poor resident governess has to endure.

A few certificated ladies, knowing how to command respect and good salaries, manage to render their position pretty tolerable.

Offer to give an Englishman lessons at two shillings an hour, and he will look upon you as a poor, needy wretch, and tell you "It's too dear." Put on a high and mighty look, and ask him for a guinea, and his eyes and mouth will grow round with respect; he will probably make you a respectful bow and, with a few flattering words, pay what you ask: _experto crede_.

I extract the following from the report of a case which was lately heard at the Court of Queen's Bench.

A young governess claims the sum of £7 10s. for six months' lessons. Her mistress refuses to pay her, because she left before the expiration of the term; upon which the plaintiff states that she had been struck by her mistress in the presence of the children, and had left in consequence. The case is tried:

_Judge._--"Did you sign a twelve months' engagement?"

_Governess._--"No, my lord, I should never think of signing such a thing."

_Judge._--"Why?"

_Governess._--"Because at the end of six months I always need a rest."

_Judge._--"I can understand that. I don't doubt that before long you will find engagements of three months' duration quite long enough to satisfy you." (Laughter).

_Governess._--"Neither do I, my lord." (Renewed laughter).

Later on the Judge addresses the defendant.

_Judge._--"Do you admit having struck the plaintiff?"

_Defendant._--"Yes, my lord, I gave her a slap."

_Judge._--"In the presence of your children?"

_Defendant._--"Yes, my lord; the plaintiff had insulted my little boy."

_Judge._--"In what way?"

_Defendant._--"She had called him 'rude little fellow' and 'little idiot.' Your lordship will quite understand that I could not put up with such conduct in a governess."

And, as she pronounced the words _in a governess_, the look of disgust on the face of the excellent lady must have been a sight to be seen. It would have been a charity to offer her a glass of water to rinse her mouth.

Who would be a governess and highly educated?

But unfortunately the fact is that in England a governess rarely is very highly educated. She becomes a governess much as many a man becomes a schoolmaster: to take revenge on the backs of a rising generation for mortifications endured in the battle of life.

Private teaching is a _pis aller_; it is a career, not lucrative it is true, but that you can embrace ... when you have tried all kinds of employments without succeeding at any, and things are looking bad.

When England possesses a teaching body recognised as professional; when no one will be permitted to teach without having previously obtained a certificate of capacity, a thing required of the apothecary's assistant; when the law forbids the dispensing of adulterated instruction, the governess will be able to hold up her head: she will have in her pocket a certificate of superiority over the mother of the children confided to her care; she will no longer have to blush for her calling, but, on the contrary, will be able to take a pride in it.

* * * * *

Correctly speaking, there are few servants in England; there are young ladies (pronounced _laïdies_) who, for a certain indemnity which they seldom deserve, consent to black your boots, clean your knives, wash dishes, and at the price of your tranquillity, save you the trouble of doing some rather disagreeable things, which you could easily do for yourself, if you had been taught better principles of equality in your youth, and had been brought up in habits more in accordance with the progress of democracy.

In America, among John Bull's cousins, you find no more servants: there are lady-helps whom the mistress of the house treats on terms of equality. The negro alone still consents, for a consideration, to lend the boots of the Yankee a little of the brilliant ebony of his own ugly muzzle. The lady-helps require references. Before engaging themselves, they make inquiries of the lady-helps who have preceded them, as to the character of the lady of the house, who, it is to be hoped, will soon have to keep her character book. The consequence is that many American ladies have given up house-keeping and taken to living in hotels.

A friend of mine visited America in 1876, the year of the Exhibition in Philadelphia. Provided with letters of introduction to several important personages in Washington, he looked forward to passing a pleasant time in American society. He soon received an invitation from a senator to go and pass a few days in his country-house near Washington. My friend accepted with alacrity, and repaired to the senator's residence on the following Saturday: it was a fine country house, it appears. After a very pleasant evening, spent with the family, he retired to his room, and went to bed, charmed with the two pretty daughters of his host, between whom he had had the pleasure of sitting, at table. Next morning, he rose, and after making an irreproachable toilette, gently opened the door to seize his boots. Great was his surprise to see them just in the same condition as they were the night before, when he had put them outside the door. They had not been touched. Was it an oversight or a mystification? What was to be done? My good friend was lost in conjecture, when the senator happened to come up, and seeing his guest's rueful countenance, tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and said: "My dear fellow, how careless I am! I quite forgot to tell you last night where to find the brushes and blacking."

But let us return to the daughters of John Bull.

In France, a servant is recognised by her little clean and coquettish-looking muslin cap; here she is known rather by her feathers. The Frenchwoman of the lowest classes has the love of linen, it is her ambition to have her cupboards full of it; not so the Englishwoman, she ignores it: while she is washing her chemise, she has none to put on her body. The French servant, in the provinces at all events, puts by her wages, so as to be able one day to retire to her native village and live on her little income. The English servant spends her modest wages on feathers, furs and furbelows of all sorts. It is in the blood.

A French lady of my acquaintance had a young housemaid, in whom she took an interest. Seeing that the girl spent all her earnings on worthless finery, and that the remonstrances she addressed to her on the subject produced no effect, she wrote to the mother, begging her to give her daughter some good advice: "Your daughter may perhaps one day marry some steady workman: you should teach her to be economical and careful," said she. The mother came in a furious state. "Mind your own business," cried she to my friend; "my daughter is as good as you, I suppose. Can't she be free to spend her money as she likes? I wonder what next! She does your work and doesn't interfere with your affairs! It's a pity you don't stay in your parlour and leave the kitchen alone." And this excellent mother, indignant, immediately took her daughter away.

In England, servants must be kept at a distance if you care in the least for your comfort; you give them their orders, you do not talk to them.

In France, we still have good old servants whom we can treat familiarly without fear of their taking any liberty on that account. In our good homely provincial life, which is not sufficiently admired and appreciated abroad, because it is ignored, it is not rare to see an old cook living on her five or six hundred francs a year, and to whom the children of her former master and mistress send a dainty dish or a bottle of old wine, whenever there is a _fête_ in the family. No, our home life is not understood. Because we are light-hearted and see the sunny side of things, we are called frivolous: we, the most economical and hard-working nation in the world. If we are not colonists like the English, it is because we are too fond of our homes, it is because we cannot bear to leave our beloved country. No, our family life is a closed letter for foreigners; I repeat it. Yet, it is of our homes that we may justly be proud, for it is there that beat some of the warmest hearts on earth. In the humblest French families, we find love, freedom and happiness, thanks to the cheerfulness and charming _bonhomie_ of the father, thanks to the kisses of the adorable mother; and it is not the coldness and solemnity of the British family circle, that a son leaves without a tear, or the slightest emotion, to go and settle in New Zealand or some other colony at the other end of the world, that can compare very advantageously with the charm of intimacy and unrestraint which reigns around the French hearth. The great problem to solve in life, is not only how to make colonies, but how to be happy and make happy those who live with us in the hallowed family circle.

This problem we have solved.

But there I am digressing again, I am very much afraid, and forgetting that I was going to talk to you, gentle reader, about English servants. Forgive me, but really I have my head stuffed full of all the things that I hear said about us by English people who study French life on the Boulevard des Italiens between eleven o'clock and midnight, or in novels of which all the heroes and heroines are stock exchange _roués_ and disreputable women.

* * * * *

Upper servants ask from £30 to £50 a year. In an ordinary middle-class house, where you have to be content with the general servant, that is to say the maid-of-all-work, who does none properly, and that you pay from £15 to £20 a year, the ladies of the house have to make the beds and cook the dinner. Her acquaintance with culinary art seems to be confined to the boiling of potatoes, and she appears to pass the greater part of her time in scrubbing the kitchen floor and cleaning the steps in front of the house. This latter operation is performed, kneeling, by means of a stone _ad hoc_, and damp cloths that are dipped in a pail of water and wrung out with the hands. Why this hard work is not done with a broom, which would save half the labour, and all the lumbago and diseases of the knees that are the consequences of it, I cannot imagine.

There is no affection whatever between mistress and maid, not even the slightest attachment, and it is rare to see a servant longer than twelve months in the same house. According to the servant, one place is as good as another; according to the mistress there is not much to choose between the maids. For the slightest reason a change is made, "This won't suit me. Good-day, good-bye."