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    The Mistress of Stantons Farm
    The Mistress of Stantons Farm
    The Mistress of Stantons Farm
    Ebook238 pages3 hours

    The Mistress of Stantons Farm

    By Marcus Woodward

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    “The Mistress of Stantons Farm” is novel by naturalist and nature writer Marcus Woodward. This charming tale offers the reader an authentic and informative insight into traditional rural life in England, interwoven with interesting facts and tips on how to better appreciate nature. Not to be missed by those with an the English countryside and nature in general. Contents include: “Here Comes Grandma!”, “Life at the Farm”, “Grandma goes to Church”, “Grandma Receives Company”, “Grandma, the Sorcerer”, “Grandma's Herb Garden”, “Rural Worthies”, “Grandma Holds her Court”, “The Good Things of Sussex”, “A Tale of Wash-Tub”, “Baking Day”, “The Household Gods”, etc. Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with a specially-commissioned new introduction on homesteading.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA Thousand Fields
    Release dateJan 31, 2018
    ISBN9781528784252
    The Mistress of Stantons Farm

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      Book preview

      The Mistress of Stantons Farm - Marcus Woodward

      STANTONS FARM

      CHAPTER I

      I

      HERE COMES GRANDMA!

      PERMIT me to introduce you to Grandma.

      She awaits to greet you as in her photograph, posed as I remember her best, a queenly figure, most gracious, most kindly; making you at home, winning your heart and confidence with her smile, with the light in her eyes; yet before all impressing you with a sense of her power, her knowledge and her wisdom. She ruled the old Sussex farm-house where she had cast her lot—cast it, as I shall show, in a strangely literal sense—as a queen might rule, or the duenna of a feudal castle when her lord was absent in Palestine on a crusade. But I think of her as a queen, who had left her throne to share her life with the fortunes of farming folk, to be the mistress of ploughboys and milkmaids.

      To a discerning student of character her portrait will explain much that would be too hard a task for me to express in words. So, to a student of hand-writing, her signature would count for more than many descriptive words of her character. She was beautiful: as may be discerned in the faded photograph, and despite the quaint little bonnet of the early Victorian days, the side-curls, twisted with curious art, and the voluminous black silk gown, standing out a yard all round the shapely figure, of silk so stiff that it would stand by itself.

      Few of this time could write Susannah Hooker as Grandma wrote it on a day in 1828, with such perfection of lettering, such fine upstrokes on the rough paper of the inside cover of one of her receipt books, stuffed with housekeeping affairs, or with such bold downstrokes, or such flowing curves and triumphant flourishes, all bespeaking her pride and her power. I, Susannah Hooker . . . She was a born ruler, domineering of character, and spared not the rod in an unruly world. Her children and grandchildren, and many a little servant-maid of her court still living, can vouch for what it meant to be whipped by Grandma.

      The nature of the home from which Grandma ran away as a girl, secretly to marry a Sussex farmer, with four growing sons and a daughter, will give another clue to the secret of her dominance.

      It is very certain that her husband held her in awe: through all their married days he was never known to address her otherwise than as if she were the owner of the house and all therein.

      Her queenly attributes were felt, not in the courts of the farm alone, but in that microcosm of England, the Sussex rural parish, where the farm is over-lorded by a squire of great possessions, and by its church of almost Saxon times, with cottages clustered about, the scene breathing an aura of peace, security, and contentment. True it is that the distribution of wealth and the chance of contentment in life were as unevenly distributed, at the least, as they are in the parish at the present time. On the one hand was the great wealth of the landlords, coming into the hey-day of their prosperity with the revival of agriculture, the dawning of the industrial era, and much else which induced the wheel of Fortune to play into their hands. On the other, was the utter degradation and poverty of the poor on the land, the landlords’ tenants, labourers and servants.

      My great-great uncle and great-uncle owned the farm whereat Grandma had cast her lot, and owned an enormous stretch of the countryside, running northwards almost from the sea, thence over the lovely Sussex downs and stretching for miles into the depths of the Weald, embracing on the way a number of the fairest manors in this part of Sussex. The labourers, the men-servants and maid-servants, in the houses of such squires, lived under a feudal system of benign autocracy, and were veritable slaves. The wages of a field-labourer in those days were about twelve pounds a year in cash, while, of course, they were paid in kind too. Some of the farmer’s men lived in the farm-house, taking their meals with the farmer’s family, though at their own table. A maid of the house would be paid one shilling a week: and Grandma would see that she earned every penny.

      Grandma then, as a lady of quality, presented a paradox when she came as a bride to the fine old farm-house of Stantons, in the parish of East Chiltington, in East Sussex, five miles from the county town of Lewes, lying to the south-east. She had been born and brought up at a fine old Surrey manor, Smallfield Place, the daughter of a Mr. Thomas Hooker, a wealthy man, who had married Miss Mary Stanford, a lady of equal fortune. His elder brother, also a Thomas Hooker, was a famous sportsman in his day, and turned the old Surrey pack of harriers into a pack of foxhounds, which became noted for the fine sport they would show.

      Grandma loved to tell her grandchildren about her happy childhood, when she was the darling of devoted parents, and never seemed to have known a care. Tell us about when you were small! was a formula recognized by the grandchildren as likely to lead to an extension of their pre-bedtime hours in the parlour at Stantons in winter, and Grandma would launch into some such story as how on her eighth birthday her father gave her a white pony with a long mane and tail. On this little steed she rode daily, clad in a green habit with a full and long skirt, a green velvet coat and velvet hat with a long plume at the side, carrying a riding whip made of whalebone, beautifully plaited, with a gold-mounted ivory handle.

      We have a picture of her riding her pony, proving what a lovely child she must have been, with her big blue eyes and little head brimming over with sunny curls.

      The whip she kept at hand all her life, and it was never far from the great desk of the parlour which was virtually the estate-office. If a child or grandchild spoke without permission, or rested a hand or elbow on a dinner-table, the instant punishment would be what Grandma would call a spat with the whip. This was a favourite term of Grandma’s, and she would often threaten: I will give you a little spat, or, You shall have a good spat.

      If Grandma’s white pony felt the same pain from her spats, whether little or good, as did the lesser fry of her household, it is small wonder that she became the admiration of the Hunt for her dashing style of riding, as she did for her fearlessness in taking the country as it came. She and her brother, who rode a very fast brown pony, were well known for the way they sat their ponies, and for their jumping prowess.

      In her childhood, Grandma was initiated into the arts of good housekeeping by a very clever mother. Especially was she instructed in herb-lore, and at a tender age knew all the plants in the herb-garden, and their vertues, according to the old-time herbalists.

      She was to live to have a herb-garden famous through Sussex, and the products of her stills would be sought for by doctors from miles around. She had a herbal remedy for every human ill, and was to become as famous for her cures for cattle and domestic animals as for human sufferers. There is abundant testimony that it was believed she cured several outbreaks of the dreaded foot-and-mouth disease, on out-breaking with which, in these times, cattle are ruthlessly slaughtered. She was to reign for years as the wise woman of the countryside.

      Like all well-brought-up children, Grandma was set to work to sew a sampler, and much cause had her children and grandchildren to remember the fact. She would set them all work to stitch their alphabets, always with fear of a spat with the riding-whip hanging over their heads; stitches would have to be picked out a score of times before Grandma was satisfied with the perfection of the work.

      One granddaughter has especially poignant memories of sitting on her stool, stitching by the hour, with hot tears running down her nose on to her fingers and on to her needle, until it was hopelessly sticky, while Grandma would say, in the kindliest way in the world: You must just go on and on till you do it perfectly. Out of such Spartan-like training she made men and women strong to endure the buffets of Fate.

      As Grandma was beautiful, she was beset by many lovers, and there is evidence of several dashing affairs as to which she never considered it suitable to speak, either to her husband or her children. They ranged from the time when she was fifteen until she was twenty years old: her white pony, in the first place, may have had much to answer for. No doubt she might have made the brilliant match her parents had expected, and there were certain love-letters which were found after her death.

      Whatever might have been, for better or worse, she, when nearing her twentieth birthday, persuaded a charming girl cousin, one Mary Adds, to fall in with an amazing plot of hiring a coach, and driving from Smallfield Place to Cuckfield Church, in Sussex, and forthwith marrying, out of hand, Mr. William Stacey, widower, before his witnesses and hers. Nobody ever understood her motive, more especially as she was to become the step-mother of five growing children.

      She never lost her sense of dignity. She cooked, she washed, she managed the poultry and the dairy, she managed, indeed, the whole farm, and the affairs of half the population of the Sussex countryside: yet still there was none too proud to do her homage. The nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood tumbled over one another to see the beautiful girl who had arrived to queen it over ploughboys and milkmaids. Squires, parsons, doctors and neighbouring farmers all duly called, and went away enchanted and more amazed than before.

      Stantons soon became famed for its hospitality, and this though no effort was made by the hostess to change the natural ordering of a farm-house life. Dinners, it is true, were not ordinary farm-house dinners; the cooking was perfect, and as for the sherry, the port, the rum and the punches—contraband stuff, no doubt—there was no question. Even better of their class, and more potent, were the home-made wines for which Stantons was to become famous.

      When, therefore, Grandma gave a party, it was something to remember, and to dream about when hungry on future occasions: such wines, home-brewed ale and liqueurs, such syrups and cordials, tipsy-cakes, wine-jellies and syllabubs; such home-cured hams and marvellous patties and pies, with the flakiest pastry in the world. The pastry was almost as famous as other specialities of the house, like orange-wine, Garibaldi’s liqueur, or a potent drink called Devil’s-driver. The pastry was always made of equal portions of butter and flour, constantly beaten and rolled. That it was to be rolled one way was Grandma’s golden rule, and woe to the kitchen-maid who broke it; once to put the rolling-pin in the wrong direction would ruin the pastry, in Grandma’s opinion, as it would certainly ruin the day for the maid at fault.

      By established tradition, the Southdown Hunt held its first meet of the year at Stantons. Early every December would come a letter from the Master asking if hounds might come as usual, and Grandma always agreed with pleasure.

      The picturesque farm-house and the still more picturesque out-buildings, the lovely setting among the trees, the glimpse of the little Norman church in one direction up the lane, and of a long, narrow pond in the other, all helped to make a meet at Stantons a memorable event, having a quality to delight an artist’s eye.

      The house itself would be wearing its most hospitable air, being gay with Christmas decorations, and charged with the Christmas spirit. Lavish were the preparations made for all-comers. The coach-house would be swept, whitewashed, and garnished in readiness for the entertainment of a multitude of Hunt servants, grooms and runners, whose eyes would be gladdened by the mighty barrels of beer in evidence, and the high-piled platters of bread and cheese.

      To the kitchen would come the women-folk of the village for the good cheer of cake and wine. In the dining-room, tables groaned under the weight of an old-fashioned Hunt breakfast; while the sons of the house pressed spirits, wines and stirrup-cups on the guests. In the parlour, with its long window opening on to the lawn, Grandma held court, presiding over tables laden with a great variety of light refreshments, such as some of the ladies might prefer to more substantial faring. Every sort of cake, patty and pie, for which Stantons was famous, would be in evidence, and there would be no stint of Grandma’s finest cherry brandy and orange liqueur.

      In attendance on Grandma would be the Squire. The Master presently would look in, to pay his respects. The Squire would warrant he’d find a fox as soon as hounds were thrown in to his coverts. But as a precautionary measure, Grandma’s son, Frederick, had made sure that if no other fox were found, there should be one in waiting in Robin’s Ride.

      The last act of hospitality was the passing round of one of the famous liqueurs of Stantons, probably made with still-proof spirit, sweetened and flavoured. It was served in beautiful little goblets of coloured Bristol glass, and in this heartening cordial they toasted the lady of the house.

      Then the Master sounded his horn, and, all being very merry, moved to covert. Like her husband and sons, Grandma was quickly in the saddle, or else would follow Hounds in her pony-chaise, drawn by a fast and eager-hearted white pony. Knowing the lie of the land and the ways of the fox, she would always manage to see much of the sport.

      Once a year the Brookside Harriers came to Stantons, and the Surrey Staghounds were also entertained in the same lavish fashion.

      Grandma accepted the adulation she attracted with a calm dignity, and serenely continued to devote all her time and tireless energy to the ruling of her little kingdom, bringing to bear on the problems of the house and farm, and the poor neighbours around, all the force of her cultured mind and dominating will, and fascinating everybody by her wit, her charm and her beauty. By all in her house, until she had children of her own, she was treated as though she were a superior being from another world. None was more respectful than her husband. Him she would address by his surname only: he was Stacey, and never anything else. For his part, he addressed his wife always as Ma’am, as if speaking to the Queen. Never would he dream of bringing anyone into her presence without first seeking an audience and craving permission, and when, as years passed, her children began to make their presence felt in the home, they would follow the rule of their father.

      Here comes Grandma! was ever the watchword for decorous behaviour. Permission being sought for an introduction, Grandma might or might not accede, and usually there would be some close questioning.

      What do these people want? Where do they come from, and why are they here?

      When satisfied, she might say: I will receive them, but she would be likely to add: They must stay only a little time.

      There was scarcely a minute of Grandma’s day that could be spared for gossip.

      Her life was devoted to her people and to the poor at her doors. Her intellect was of the highest; her discernment like a flash of light. She was a martinet, and she chastised with scorpions; but the milk of her human kindness watered all the Weald for miles around.

      II

      FOOD FOR THE POOR

      GENERAL OBSERVATIONS

      IT is in the power of almost every mistress of a family to give something towards alleviating the distresses of the poor, from what remains of the daily consumption. Nothing should be thrown away. The boiling of meat, however salt, might, with the addition of vegetables, bones, and bits of meat collected from the plates, with rice, barley, oatmeal, or grits that have been boiled, etc., stewed for a length of time, be the means of affording nourishment for poor families.

      Fish-bones, heads, and fins, all afford great nourishment. After the fish is served, let part of the liquor be put by; the bones, heads, etc., bits collected from the plates,

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