From Frances Adelaide Smyth’s memoir of life at White Lodge
My first clear memory of my parents is of cosy, fire lit afternoons,
when we children "came down" at half past four. The
Grandfather's Clock on the landing, upstairs, was made to strike
at the half-hour, so there was no question of the time. As soon
as our hands and faces were washed, our hair brushed, and our
afternoon frocks and aprons mere put on we collected on the
landing to watch the clock and impatiently wait for the strike.
What a tribe of us there was. Latterly we had to have two nurses,
the middle-aged Betsy whom we disliked, and a silly little under-nurse,
whom we despised, and whom Frank used to mimic. There was also
the much-loved house-keeper, Miss Allen, who went by various
names of our composition - Shan, Sallen, Lolla.
Well, at last the deliberate old clock begins to strike and
before it had finished we older ones were down at the dining-room
door, on tip-toe for Betsy with the large, blond, square baby,
to give her knock, Susan just behind with the next-sized baby.
"Come in" says our mother's sweet voice and we burst
in and flood the room; Betsy in a triple gladness, deposits
her burden on the mother's knee, the under-nurse does the same
to the father and another child climbs onto his other knee,
for we love his jolt and song "The Dusty Miller" and
never tire of it. We sit dreaming of that mill and think it
is the old one we pass on Mill Hill, and we hear its creaking
timbers and the clatter of its wheels and cogs; we see the big
miller with the white all over his clothes and hat. "And
the hopper goes clither clather" sings Papa, imitating
his country-men's pronunciation, and we love the sound of it.
Meanwhile the other children have said "Mamma, may we have
dominoes, or lotto, or one of the dissected maps out of the
drawing-room cupboard?" I do not think we ever obtained
permission without a strict caution about not losing any pieces,
and putting everything carefully back. While they were being
fetched some of us might ride the large American rocking chair,
a fine side-saddle horse if you balanced on an arm, a safe and
cosy retreat if you were an "inside passenger", or
on some-one's knee, that is if the energetic rockers did not
work too violently and turn you out on to the floor; and the
boys and tom-boys could stand on the projecting rockers behind
the solid stuffed horse-hair beck, a pleasure accompanied by
the excitement of danger as if you slipped off at the wrong
moment you might get your feet badly pinched.
All this time you had the feeling that Mamma with the baby in
her arms, tossing it gently, and saying sweet little endearing
words, was perfectly happy. Mamma had such a wonderful way with
babies. I never knew one to be naughty with her; as soon as
she took it troubles ceased however exasperating they had been.
She had a pretty little sound that she made with her lips and
teeth for babies' edification; one cannot spell it, but it was
the letter T softened and said quickly many times, and the babies
seemed to love it. She would look entirely satisfied when she
had a baby in her arms, and papa's face broadened and beamed
as he sang his little song and jolted us on his knees.
When the nurses returned to take us back to the nursery there
were groans of despair, and such questions as "Oh, Mamma,
can't we just finish this game?" I have since learnt that
of all the children, Allan was the one who showed the greatest
desire to stay and who invented little ways of delaying his
exit. I think she liked to sit best in the dining room because
the nursery was over it and she could hear what went on to a
certain extent. Sometimes the extent was considerable and a
great bump accompanied by a loud cry would bring her pounding
up the stairs in a very anxious state. Or we played horses too
noisily and a message would come for us to stop.
Betsy was not supposed to hit us but she did it at times, when
greatly incensed. We had heard Mamma say it was dangerous to
hit a child on the head, so one day when Betsy was combing Allan's
hair and she gave him a severe box, I promptly jumped up, ran
out of the room before she could stop me and went and told Mamma.
I do not remember the sequel.
Besides the coming down to see our parents at half past nine
in the morning and half past four in the afternoons we also
saw them out driving on the Irish jaunting car, and we were
sometimes allowed in the surgery where we were lifted up on
to the counter and sat on the Day Book, big enough for two,
and were given honey out of a brown jar on a spatula. I miss
the taste of steel in the honey of today. The surgery window
was a lattice casement overlooking the yard. Papa would open
the middle part and shout in a loud, commanding voice “Henry,
put the horse into the gig”. “May we go; may we
go?” we would clamour. “You must ask your Mamma”
he would reply and off we trooped to find her. “Whose
turn is it?” she would ask, and if it was the holidays
two might go. I think I was only about five when Papa allowed
me to drive. It was a momentous occasion and I had to give up
the reins when we came to a toll-bar or a village. The first
time I drove through a toll-bar gate Papa nearly frightened
me to death by suddenly calling out "Look there. Only an
inch to spare',' and he took the reins from me and I felt disgraced
for life.
In going his rounds I used to notice that women liked to talk
to Papa and that they could bring a smile to his face. I can’t
help thinking that sometimes on bitter cold days when we were
waiting shivering for an hour or so that it was not all professional
that kept him, and that he was being regaled by a spicy story
and some wine and cake. Sometimes people brought out good things
for us to eat, and how welcome they were! Never have I tasted
such delicious mince pies as those Mrs. Marsh brought out to
us. In one of my drives alone with Papa, in the high gig, the
mare Bessie, who had gone somewhat blind and consequently tended
toward the side of the road, ran up a bank; fell over on her
side, and the gig turned over on its side. Said Papa "My
dear, are you hurt? Can you find my glasses?" He could
not see anything without his glasses and I soon found them,
while Bessie lay panting, fortunately not trying to get up.
A groom, exercising a fine blooded horse came up at that moment.
He put the bridle of his horse into my hand and went to assist
Papa. I was not up to the nose of my spirited charge and I felt
such a mite compared with him that I trembled violently, but
I kept my hand on his bridle and he behaved well. Papa had been
driving when we had the accident and whether he had been vexed
at something and failed to be patient with the poor blind animal,
or for what other reason, when we got started again he humbly
put the reins into my hands for me to drive home. I do not think
I said a word to anyone about the affair when I got home, so
extremely reserved we all were.
Note: Mrs. Marsh was the Miss Allen who had been house-keeper
and left to get married.
From Beatrice Alice
Smyth’s memoir
Forbears - An Introduction
Coming so late in the family, twenty years between my eldest
sister (Frances Adelaide) and me, I think both my grandfathers
were probably dead, certainly my Irish one.
Mother’s father had a house at Sunbury, with long gardens
down to the Thames. His father was Solomon Marriott, and I believe
was a page to George IV, but it must have been long before he
came to the throne or my mother was born - about 1825 - and
he was her grandfather.
She had a younger sister and two brothers, Montague and Alfred.
Their mother must have died when they were all young and her
father had a housekeeper, a Mrs. Feest, an Australian widow.
Mother's aunt, married to the rector of East Bridgford, Dr.
Hutchins, about 3 miles or so from Bingham in Nottinghamshire,
they invited my mother when about 11 to visit them and she was
so happy with all the young cousins there that she stayed on
for years. Papa was their medical man, the Bingham doctor, and
was much attracted by "Emma" and they married when
she was about 20.
Her eldest brother, Montague and Aunt Annie lived in Montpellier
Square, Brompton, London, and he managed the estate, which comprised
most of the houses in the square at that time.
Family Life at Bingham, Notts.
All my generation was born at
Bingham, Nottinghamshire, then a small country-town, and my
father was the principal doctor, if not the only one, as he
had to go quite long distances into the country to visit patients
at all the villages round in his high gig. Sometimes he would
take my mother and me with him, I wedged in between them and
feeling very high up. He was an Irish-man and very popular
with his patients. My mother at that time was blind, having
lost her sight when only 27, then having four children, after
which she had 8 more, I being the last. Those were the days
of plenty of servants, hard to realise now. We had a cook
and housemaid, nurse and under-nurse, a man-servant who attended
to the horse, and no doubt had other duties, and also waited
at table. I think he slept at his home, as I remember no room
available in the house (see commentary on 1871 census). Mother
also had a housekeeper after she became blind, who remained
a firm friend of the family till her dying day, and only left
to be married. When that occurred, my eldest sister Emma,
who was twenty years older than I and was being educated at
Queens' College, Harley Street, London, had to come home to
keep house under Mother, who, though blind, was a most capable
person and was well in command of her household; every sound
meant something to her and when one of our parlour maids was
laying the table, Mother corrected her for something she did
incorrectly and she told Cook that she did not believe Mistress
was blind! She saw her also going about the house like anyone
else.
The House at
Bingham
My memories of Bingham are few (not surprising as she was
only four years old!), but I remember the house perfectly
and the two gardens. The house was right on the street, but
ran back a long way and there was a yard at one side which
led to the surgery entrance, the back door and the stabling,
behind which was an old garden. A new garden had evidently
been taken in on the other side of the house, where there
was a small lawn outside the dining-room window, and the rest
in shrubs and vegetables. My father was a keen gardener and
spent most of his spare time on it. There was also a large
walnut tree with a swing attached, close to the Rectory garden
next door. (This must be the piece actually purchased in 1914;
clearly it was rented from the Earl of Carnarvon from a much
earlier time.)
I was taken to church at any rate once on Sundays. There was
a legend that my grandmother, who was a staunch Ulster Protestant,
when visiting us, not approving of Mr. Miles' rather high
Church practices when the congregation turned to the East
at the Creed, turned to the West, but I think it more likely
that she only did not turn to the East when facing South or
North, which is not so conspicuous.
Leaving for London 1871
Before he was 60 my father had to sell his practice, as his sight was failing. This he did in 1871 and we emigrated to London. Two of my elder brothers were already in offices there, one of my sisters had died in 1869, and one boy had died as a baby. So we were not such a large party, but enough to fill a railway carriage, which were not so comfortable as in these days, and no corridor. Arthur, the eldest son, met us at Liverpool Street Station and took me off to friends at Plaistow. I remember going along on his shoulder to save time along the crowded streets to Fenchurch Street Station, and holding on round his neck. We had a warm welcome –indeed. Arthur was at that time engaged to Mary Maxwell, one of two sisters. I was then five years old (ie 1872).