![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Tom, Tom, the Butler's Son
Jan. 20th, 2026 10:41 pmToday I turn to my great-great-grandfather Thomas - or Tom, to his siblings. Tom is the middle child, between Weeden and Anne (older) and Fanny and George (younger), though we mustn't forget little Isabella, who is the youngest of all and not yet old enough to write.
We first meet Tom on 5th October 1822, shortly after his thirteenth birthday. It's a short letter, but it paints an enthusiastic picture, perhaps of a trip to Harrow:
Tom's father (also Weeden) was in the habit of appending notes of his own to his children's letters to his eldest son. In this case, he adds: "The children, dear Weeden, not your father, sang merrily. I was glad to notice their joy. W.B." Was he worried that it might appear undignified in a father, a priest, a headmaster, to sing about a Frog's adventures? Weeden had been widowed earlier that year, and perhaps that too was an element in his reassurance.
Tom was something of a worry to his sisters. Here's Fanny complaining about him to Weeden in a letter written in the Autumn of... well, I'm not sure which year, because it's undated (even the season is only implied by her concern for fires and muffetees). But I'm guessing 1822 or 1823, because it seems a little on the young side.
Perhaps Fanny's mind is set on misers because their next-door neighbour at the time, John Camden Neild, was a notorious miser, who (according to Wikipedia): "was so frugal with worldly pleasures that for a while he had not a bed to lie on. His dress consisted of a blue swallow-tailed coat with gilt buttons, brown trousers, short gaiters, and shoes which were patched and generally down at the heels. He never allowed his clothes to be brushed, because, he said, it destroyed the nap. He continually visited his numerous estates, walking whenever it was possible, never went to the expense of a great-coat, and always stayed with his tenants, sharing their coarse meals and lodging."
Anyway, Fanny's letter prompts another paternal PS:
Tom's laziness is not his only fault. Anne reports to Weeden on 27th April, 1824 about a more serious trespass:
Thank goodness for the magical power of the Strachey name! I'm not sure exactly which Strachey this is, by the way, though his is certainly the family that later gave rise to Lytton of that ilk. A couple of months earlier Anne had described him in strict mourning ("He looks thinner than ever in black") for his aunt, Lady Strachey - Julia, wife of Sir Henry the first Baronet, who died on 12th February. But my idle Googling has so far failed to turn up any younger brother of Sir Henry to be his father, and no "Sir John" at all in that generation. Clearly some mistake - but mine, Anne's, or the magistrate's wife's? I feel a visit to the Strachey tombs in Chew Magna coming on. In any case, being the nephew of a baronet (or one of the nephew's companions) is, then as now, a sound method for getting away with petty crime.
We don't hear of Tom indulging in similar adventures thereafter, but Anne is still worried about his future. On 6th July she writes again, in the wake of the death of a young friend, William Gardiner, probably from tuberculosis:
In retrospect, it seems ironic that a boy who considered becoming a scavenger, a bookseller or an auctioneer should end up as Assistant Secretary to the British Museum during its most, shall we say, acquisitive period. But this is to peer too curiously into the glass of futurity. At the end of August Tom, not yet quite 15, moved to Bordeaux to work for his wine merchant uncle. His last letter from what we might called the Weeden Schooldays collection, from 21st May 1825, is prettily written, but speaks of a certain homesickness, I think:
Poor, stranded Tom. And less than three years ago he was singing about frogs.
We first meet Tom on 5th October 1822, shortly after his thirteenth birthday. It's a short letter, but it paints an enthusiastic picture, perhaps of a trip to Harrow:
My dear Weeden
I have not written you a letter for a long time. This morning after 10 O’clock we had a theme, it was on “Truth”. I wrote down to the bottom of the second page. I daresay that little George thought it rather funny that we dissapeared, for he must have thought so, I think as he did not see us go away. I hope you spent the day very agreably. I am sure I did, as we were coming home in the coach we began to sing “A Frog he would a wooing go”, &c. I dare say the people who passed by did not much care for our beautiful singing, or the Coachman either. We were at home at about a quarter after 11 O’clock. —Not quite so late.
I remain, yours,
ever affectionately,
T. Butler
Tom's father (also Weeden) was in the habit of appending notes of his own to his children's letters to his eldest son. In this case, he adds: "The children, dear Weeden, not your father, sang merrily. I was glad to notice their joy. W.B." Was he worried that it might appear undignified in a father, a priest, a headmaster, to sing about a Frog's adventures? Weeden had been widowed earlier that year, and perhaps that too was an element in his reassurance.
Tom was something of a worry to his sisters. Here's Fanny complaining about him to Weeden in a letter written in the Autumn of... well, I'm not sure which year, because it's undated (even the season is only implied by her concern for fires and muffetees). But I'm guessing 1822 or 1823, because it seems a little on the young side.
My dear Weeden
We began fires today. I got up at 8 o’clock this morning. Tom will not write to you because he says that it would be a waste of paper. Tom has been told more than once that he will be an old Batchelor & I think it is very likely to be true if he indulges such miserly opinions as these. Mr Dyer preached a sermon this morning that Papa says he remembers having read 4 or 5 times before. If you want some white muffetees for your wrists you can get them for 6d a pair at Carter’s. I remain
F. Butler
Perhaps Fanny's mind is set on misers because their next-door neighbour at the time, John Camden Neild, was a notorious miser, who (according to Wikipedia): "was so frugal with worldly pleasures that for a while he had not a bed to lie on. His dress consisted of a blue swallow-tailed coat with gilt buttons, brown trousers, short gaiters, and shoes which were patched and generally down at the heels. He never allowed his clothes to be brushed, because, he said, it destroyed the nap. He continually visited his numerous estates, walking whenever it was possible, never went to the expense of a great-coat, and always stayed with his tenants, sharing their coarse meals and lodging."
Anyway, Fanny's letter prompts another paternal PS:
Dear Weeden,
I let you have this letter for two reasons: first, to let you see the hurry of Fanny’s scrawl; which, secondly, exactly justifies Tom; who only declared he did not like to waste good paper by scribbling. Now, as I give the paper to them all, he could not object to writing out of covetousness; though, perhaps, he & Fanny are both idle. The one scrawls down what comes uppermost, the other declines such waste of paper.
I am, truly, yours,
Weeden Butler
Tom's laziness is not his only fault. Anne reports to Weeden on 27th April, 1824 about a more serious trespass:
My dear Weeden,
I have seen a great deal this week but do not know whether you will like to hear all about it. ...
Tom, Strachey & Charles Hancock were fishing in Kensington Gardens one day last week & ??? came & took them before a magistrate, he happened not to be at home & his wife did not like to let them go before he came home so she ??? ??? [staid?] with them in a room at his house. You may suppose that they were not a little frightened; the men talked of keeping them in the guard room all that night, & then writing to Papa the next morning. The Lady of the house heard the name of Strachey & asked him if he was a relation of Sir John & Lady Strachey, he said he was and she said she did not think a young gentleman of that name would have committed so bad an action as to rob the King of his property. Tom began to make apologies for himself & the others, Charles Hancock looked very grave, which made Strachey ready to laugh, but he was obliged to look very grave. Tom began to cry, & at last, when the Lady found that her husband did not come home, made them promise that they would never fish in the Gardens again, & then let them come home. They had been there two or three times before, but had escaped from the men. John Wyld used to give the men some money to get some bread, & then ask leave to fish, the men told him that he might fish if he took care not to let them see him, but if they saw him they should be obliged to take him up; when the men came to take them up, Tom advised them to run off, but they were too much afraid.
Thank goodness for the magical power of the Strachey name! I'm not sure exactly which Strachey this is, by the way, though his is certainly the family that later gave rise to Lytton of that ilk. A couple of months earlier Anne had described him in strict mourning ("He looks thinner than ever in black") for his aunt, Lady Strachey - Julia, wife of Sir Henry the first Baronet, who died on 12th February. But my idle Googling has so far failed to turn up any younger brother of Sir Henry to be his father, and no "Sir John" at all in that generation. Clearly some mistake - but mine, Anne's, or the magistrate's wife's? I feel a visit to the Strachey tombs in Chew Magna coming on. In any case, being the nephew of a baronet (or one of the nephew's companions) is, then as now, a sound method for getting away with petty crime.
We don't hear of Tom indulging in similar adventures thereafter, but Anne is still worried about his future. On 6th July she writes again, in the wake of the death of a young friend, William Gardiner, probably from tuberculosis:
Mrs Read went to see Miss Gardiner and Mrs Wishart, a few days ago, they were pretty well, but of course very dull and low-spirited. They say that poor William wrote a letter to Mr Gardiner, & another to Isabella about a month or six weeks before his death, and put them among his papers, which were not to be read till after his death. I think Tom will begin to think a little more seriously about the way in which he spends his time. I was talking to him last night about it, and he said with the greatest unconcern that at any rate he would go for a chimney sweeper or a scavenger. He seems to have a great desire to be a bookseller I think. He said also that he thought he should do for an auctioneer. I think I shall go to Chelsea church tonight. Tom says he intends to begin to study tomorrow. I advise[d] him to have some good historical or Geographical work in constant reading, as he has so very little idea of either history or geography.
In retrospect, it seems ironic that a boy who considered becoming a scavenger, a bookseller or an auctioneer should end up as Assistant Secretary to the British Museum during its most, shall we say, acquisitive period. But this is to peer too curiously into the glass of futurity. At the end of August Tom, not yet quite 15, moved to Bordeaux to work for his wine merchant uncle. His last letter from what we might called the Weeden Schooldays collection, from 21st May 1825, is prettily written, but speaks of a certain homesickness, I think:
In what part of the playground is the pump to be erected? You say near your willow is it close to the top bench in Fanny’s Garden, or where? Has H. Wylde still a garden in the old place. My last letter to you was written rather in a hurry, therefore I beg you will excuse me if you did not find it very interesting. I hope however that you were all contented with my letters to you. How does the violin get on. My music master is beginning to teach me some tunes. Did you see Strachey when he came to our house. I suppose you have been to see him and Stratford lately? Remember me kindly to them when you see them. My Uncle left Bordeaux rather sooner than I expected. Have you seen Edwin Dawes lately? How does he get on in the world. I believe it was settled that he should be a clergyman. Has he got rid of the impediment in his speech which he had when he was with us, if he has not I doubt if he will ever be able to preach so as to be well understood.
Poor, stranded Tom. And less than three years ago he was singing about frogs.
