dined in peace at about 6.30. We came down
after our tea, rushing along the dark passage and descending the stairs
with that rhythmic series of bangs peculiar to children. I do not know
that we were really frightened at passing certain dark doorways, but I
certainly remember enjoying a sort of sham terror. One of these doors
led into my mother's room and also to a store-room; I cannot think that
this had any "night fears" for us, because it smelt so strongly of such
everyday earthly things as soap and tallow candles. Why it was placed
next to the bedroom I do not know. I have no clear remembrance of what
we did in the evenings, but I seem to see a round table and a moderator
lamp, such as occurs in John Leech's pictures in _Punch_. I have also a
faint recollection of black-coated uncles sitting by the fire and not
unnaturally objecting to our making short-cuts across their legs. It was
no doubt a pity that we were not reproved for our want of consideration
for the elderly, and that, generally speaking, our manners were
neglected. One of our grown-up cousins was reported to have called our
midday dinner "a violent luncheon," and I do not doubt that she was
right. We were fortunate in having a set of simple, kindly,
old-fashioned servants with whom we could be on friendly terms. Thus it
happens that recollections cluster about the kitchen and pantry. I have
a vague remembrance of a Welsh cook, Mrs Davis, who was very kind to us
in spite of constant threats of "tying a dish-cloth to your tail," which,
so far as I know, remained a threat, and was indeed never understood by
me. We certainly could generally extract gingerbread and other good
things from Daydy, as we called Mrs Davis. The butler, Parslow, was a
kind friend to us all our lives. I do not remember being checked by him
except in being turned out of the dining-room when he wanted to lay the
table for luncheon, or being stopped in some game which threatened the
polish of the sideboard, of which he spoke as though it were his private
property. He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised
everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for
the postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a
troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb's friend
Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the
simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day: with how
g