There were still interesting old survivals from an earlier period in costume. I remember old Lord Sandham still going about in a starched collar, and, I rather believe, starched cuffs. He was very proud of himself for still having his own teeth, which he used to attribute to the fact that he had never chewed gum in his life, or rather, not since they broke him of the habit in his nursery. He was proud, too, of never having been up in any kind of aircraft: and the story is told of him that when he first came up to London after the first moving platforms had been put in in Piccadilly and elsewhere, he and an equally countrified friend walked for about a quarter of an hour up the slow platform, thinking that they were getting to their club, when they were really standing quite still! I can still see Sir Mark Adgate, too, with his watch in his waistcoat pocket, tied on to the end of a gold chain, with which he used gravely to take it out whenever he wanted to know the time. Mrs. Grant (better known as “Phyllis Meadowes”) was the last woman I ever saw wearing ear-rings. I believe my own uncle, Lord Trecastle, was the last man who appeared in fashionable society with a beard and moustaches. In his generation, of course, to be clean-shaven meant a considerable personal effort: the depilatories then known were either harmful to the health or painful in their application, and it was only by scraping with a sharp razor every morning that the unwelcome growth could be removed. But indeed, I have lived through extraordinary changes in the matter of toilet elaborateness. Towards the end of the thirties, owing, I believe, to the great number of Anglo-Indians who came back after Home Rule was granted, the bath became a perfect obsession, and hardly any men thought they could get on without washing all over with water and soap twice a day. It may be imagined how slow and cumbrous this process was! And yet all this time we never used anything but a vacuum cleaner for our carpets and curtains—as if carpets and curtains were more entitled to the benefits of civilization than Man!
We had also (as what fashionable Society has not?) our dare-devils; the people who were always taking on eccentric bets and issuing fantastic challenges. I suppose physical courage among men tends always to decline; or is it that the objects over which we are called upon to exercise physical courage differ from one generation to another? I suppose, if you come to think of it, helico-driving needs nerve; and yet we would shrink from some of the tests to which our fathers put themselves. I have seen, as late as the forties, a man jump a five-barred gate on horseback.[7] One of the most reckless men in London was John Ducie, who accompanied a friend’s helico from London to Paris hanging on by his hands, and on another occasion drove his old motor-bicycle through a hundred yards belt of some new gas that was being tried at Aldershot, holding his breath all the way. He also challenged a friend to see how many volts of electricity each could stand, and I forget what fantastic record he achieved. The curious thing about him was that he did not in the least care how high or how low the stakes were: one heard that his London-to-Paris flight was only for a bet of five pounds. Dame Louise Merewether was another of these reckless challengers: it was she who shot the tide-trap water-race at Greenwich in a canoe, and, as Archie Lock said, all but got turned into electric power.