BOOKIES AND OTHER WILD-FOWL
MEMBERS of the literary staff of a newspaper were, in the far-off and
half-forgotten days, deputed to write graphic descriptions of what are
known as “the classic events” of the turf. A big newspaper would send as
many as three special correspondents to “do” the Derby. One
correspondent devoted himself to the journey down by road, a second
described the journey by rail, and a third gave an animated pen-sketch of
the course. Indeed, some journals whose motto was “Thorough,” were
accustomed to send a man to potter about the course the night before the
Derby—a writer with the James Greenwood touch, who might be depended upon
for a dramatic and humorous column and a half.
Ascot and Goodwood were the other “classic events” to which the
descriptive writer would be despatched. Goodwood was always supposed to
necessitate the employment of certain venerable clichés. And very old
journalists used, therefore, to consider it a great privilege to be sent
to that aristocratic meeting. Ascot naturally gave considerable scope to
the journalist who flattered himself on an intimate knowledge of Society
with a capital “S.” For a whole delirious week he never left Society.
He watched its menials depart for the Thames Valley on the Sunday before
the meeting, and on the Sunday after he was pretty certain to turn up at
Boulter’s Lock, where some representative ornaments of Society should be
on view.
Out of all the men on the daily Press who have been commissioned to
attend race-meetings as descriptive writers, I have never known one who
became a victim of the betting habit. Yet I have known several
sub-editors whose functions did not take them near a race-course, but
whose real business in life seemed to be betting, their sub-editing being
regarded as a temporary means of obtaining the original stake which, some
day, was to supply the foundation of a fortune. Members of the sporting
Press were betting men to a scribe. And so it happened that, no matter
what the salary of a writer on the sporting Press might be, he was always
in financial difficulties. If these gentlemen, presumably “in the know,”
found the game unprofitable, what chance should there be, I reflected,
for an outsider? Nevertheless, and holding these virtuous views, I have
from time to time fallen from grace. These occasional lapses have
usually followed a casual bet where the odds have been long and the “tip”
has “come off.” But eventually the bookies have always got their own
back again—and a bit over and above.
This moralizing strain reminds me of the appearance of Robert Buchanan,
the poet, as a backer of horses. Some graceless men were inclined to
regard the contact of Buchanan with the Ring as something in the nature
of a joke. To me it constituted a pitiful and sordid tragedy. Buchanan
was another of those men who always wanted money, and who was ever on the
lookout for some easy way of getting it. I do not know who it was that
introduced him to the turf as a likely method of adding to his resources.
But I should not care to be the man with that sin on my soul. If
Buchanan knew a horse from a cow, it was about as much as he knew. As to
the significance of the weights in a handicap he was entirely ignorant.
He had got into his head that by luck and good advice large sums might be
made out of the Ring. About twenty years ago I first came across him
while he was thus engaged. It was at Epsom the day after the Derby. The
grand-stand was but sparsely inhabited. In the interval between the last
race and the last but one, I saw Buchanan coming across the course. I
went down to meet him. He was in a flurried and excited condition. He
had experienced a “rotten” day. Nor was I surprised when he proceeded to
explain to me his _modus operandi_. It was this:
He had engaged the services of an infallible tipster. This infallible
young person I afterwards discovered to be one of the notorious “boys” of
the American Bar of the Criterion, the rendezvous from which the hero of
Ardlamont, it will be recollected, chose his associates. For himself and
this egregious seer he had taken rooms for the week at the Sun in
Kingston, the pair of them driving over to the course each morning in an
open landau. As he eagerly explained to me the unsuspected occurrences
which had upset the calculations of his adviser, and within how very
little he came of pulling off some uncommonly good things, I was
profoundly moved. Here was the author of a work of fiction of the
quality of “God and the Man,” and of poems like “Fra Giacomo,” plunging
on a race-course with the most sordid motives and with the most
ridiculous equipment, and associating with an adviser with whom no
self-respecting sportsman would care to be seen talking.
He had a very strong tip for the next race, and he was anxious that I
should share in any good fortune that might result from backing it. I
looked at my card. Among the starters I saw a horse named Tandragee. I
said, half in earnest, that, if I had a bet at all, I should back
Tandragee. He inquired very anxiously whether I had heard anything. I
assured him that I knew nothing whatever, but that the animal bore the
name of “Kim” Mandeville’s place in Ireland. Buchanan looked at me
reproachfully, as if to suggest that I was treating in a spirit of levity
a very serious, and even tragic, business. I made inquiries about
Tandragee, and a member of Tattersall’s ring laid me ten to one against
it. My horse won easily, and Buchanan’s “certainty,” about which he had
only got three to one, was not placed.
With the most ordinary care Robert Buchanan should have acquired a nice
little fortune. As it was, he lived in a series of financial straits,
and when he paid the debt of nature he left all his other debts
undischarged.
My recollections of race-meetings will always be dominated by the figure
of Caroline, Duchess of Montrose. I was young and impressionable when I
first saw this formidable _grande dame_. I first beheld her on the lawn
at Goodwood. She was accompanied by her husband, Mr. Sterling Crauford,
one of the very best and most aristocratic of racing men. Her Grace had
a really wonderful vocabulary. She could have debated a point with a
bargee starting at even weights. Only once was she talked down. That
was by the Thersites of the outer ring—Dick Dunn. This was an Homeric
encounter. Rich and rare were the gems in Dick Dunn’s armoury of
invective. While the battle lasted, it was a veritable interchange of
torpedoes. But the vituperative book-maker won, and the Duchess burst
into tears.
Caroline, Duchess of Montrose, was once in a towering rage over the
defeat of one of her husband’s horses, which she had backed heavily, and,
as was her wont, she was violently abusing the unhappy boy who had
ridden. I rather think it was little Gallon, but am not sure. “You
young rascal!” exclaimed the angry Duchess, “did I not tell you to get
through and come right away before reaching the bend?”
“Yes, your Grace, you did,” blubbered the boy; “b-b-b-but I couldn’t come
without the horse!”
When Sterling Crauford died, the Duchess selected as her third husband a
youth who might have been her grandson.
I have just mentioned Dick Dunn, the bookmaker. This redoubtable
penciller was of Irish nationality, his real name being O’Donoghue. He
was an extremely good-looking, well-set-up fellow, and, casually
encountered, one would never have believed him capable of the heights and
depths of picturesque objurgation to which he rose and sank. But he was
really a good-natured chap, with a fund of quaint and characteristic
humour. I once attended a smoking-concert promoted at Hampton for a
charitable purpose, at which Dick Dunn had been asked to preside. Things
went very well until a local celebrity—an octogenarian—was called upon to
sing. The old man began to intone a very long ballad in very slow time.
The audience were getting tired, and the chairman was getting very
fidgety. At last the vocalist gave the chairman his opportunity. He was
trolling out a fresh verse commencing with the two lines:
“He went into a barber’s shop,
There for to get him shaved.”
“Well!” roared out Dunn, bringing his hammer sharply down on the table,
“what do you suppose he _would_ go in for—_to buy onions_?”
The audience broke into laughter, and the abashed warbler sat down.
They tell me that the present is an uncommonly bad time for bookmakers.
At the Albert and Victoria they are betting with each other—a tame
business, and comparable only (as one of the fraternity recently put it
to me) to “kissing one’s sister.” The occupation of “Oh, yell, oh!” is
gone. But in my early Press days he flourished like a green bay-tree.
In the early seventies Steele and Peach of Sheffield were the magnates of
the Ring. Steele was a big, heavy-faced, sleepy-looking man. He
commenced his commercial career by hawking fish through the streets on a
barrow. Peach, who was far smarter in appearance, was of equally low
origin. The two leviathans of the Ring were closely related by marriage,
and ended up by becoming owners of one of the richest steel-works in
Sheffield.
I can well remember Olney of Manchester and Steve Mundell of Durham.
Olney was a stout, white-haired, red-faced man, who would have been a
little one but for the extra weight in fat he carried. He was grumpy,
but straight, and his prices were simply awful. Mundell was known as
“the Durham Ox.” He was, as his sobriquet may suggest, a big, beefy man.
His Durham acquaintances were very proud of him; and, indeed, he was not
half a bad sort. He was fond of coursing, and kept a few greyhounds of
his own.
Our old friend the _Daily Telegraph_, writing about some meeting in a
flamboyant style, indulged in an allusion to “the genteel pencillers in
the velvet costumes.” This chance allusion was the making of Fred
Fraser. He and his brother—who clerked for him—always appeared dressed
in brown velvet coats, cord breeches, jack-boots, and sombreros. At one
time he ran a few horses, but his favourite sport was fishing, and his
record exhibition of objurgation was given in connection with the pursuit
of this comparatively innocent pastime. This was at Staines. He had
left his line in the water while he went into the town. During his
absence a friend fastened a dried haddock to his hook. On his return,
the deluded man saw that he had “got a bite,” and proceeded to “land.”
The “air went blue for miles” as the outraged fisherman expressed his
opinion of the practical jokers who had tampered with his tackle. Mr.
Fraser was, indeed, a gentleman who should have benefited by an extended
experience of the silent system; and this he was shortly to have. He was
sentenced to a long term for a particularly brutal outrage. And that was
the end of “the genteel penciller” so far as Society and the Turf are
concerned.
Billy Nicholls of Nottingham was a wealthy man and a “character.” He was
a member of the Town Council of his native borough, and a rather good
yarn used to be told of his action in this capacity when a certain matter
of great local interest was brought up before the _Patres Conscripti_ of
Nottingham. The burning question of “the town pump” had come up in
another shape. Public opinion was divided as to whether or not a wall
should be built round the cemetery; and, as the municipal elections were
at hand, the members of the Council were also much “vexed in their
righteous minds” as to how they should vote on the recommendation of the
committee. It remained for Billy Nicholls to settle the question by a
speech which was brief, to the point, and absolutely convincing:
“Muster Mayor, Haldermen, an’ gen’lemen hall,” he said, when he rose in
his place, “it’s like this yer: the pore chaps inside can’t get out, and
them what’s outside don’t want to get in. So I says, ‘No wall.’”
And “no wall” it was.
Charlie Head was a bookie of a different type. He was dapper, well
dressed—in fact, a bit of a dandy. The waxed ends of his moustache were
a source of general joy to his friends at a time when this mode of
treating what Mr. Frank Richardson would call “face fungi” was
comparatively neglected. I first met Head, not on the course, but at the
theatre. He was a devoted supporter of the drama, and it was only
reasonable that he should look to the drama to support him. This it very
generously did, when the Philharmonic in Islington was turned into a
theatre for the production of “Genevieve de Brabant,” one of the most
popular examples of _opera bouffe_ ever given in England. All the town
flocked lightly to the _terra incognita_ to see Emily Soldene in her
bewitching cook’s uniform, just as all the town some years before had
flocked to see Marie Wilton and her clever company in the equally unknown
little playhouse in Tottenham Street. In his management of the
Philharmonic Theatre, at this very profitable period of its history, Head
was associated with Charles Morton—a gentleman whose name was never
connected with failure.
Tom King, the well-known champion of the prize ring, was also making a
book in the seventies. King was a splendid chap, tall, and well set up
as a guardsman. His nose was slightly out of drawing—the result, no
doubt, of a professional misadventure. When he left the prize ring Tom
cultivated a beard and moustache, which were always carefully trimmed.
Anything more unlike a “bruiser” it would be impossible to imagine. His
“book” was not his only source of income: he enjoyed large profits as a
barge owner. King was a remarkable raconteur, and had a practically
inexhaustible collection of yarns, none of them quite suitable for
spinning in pages intended for general circulation.
Waterhouse was one of the best of his class. He was a short, fat man,
with a funny little _mouche_ on his lower lip. With the exception of
this spot, his chubby face was clean-shaven. He was a hot-tempered chap,
but as straight as a gun-barrel. He had made a hobby of pigeons, of
which he was a well-known and eminently successful exhibitor. Waterhouse
was commissioner for Lord Bradford’s stable, and won, I believe, a lot of
money when Sir Hugo, at 40 to I, beat La Flêche in the Derby of 1892—a
date, I should recollect, which lands me two years beyond the
chronological limits of these memoirs.
But, to my way of thinking, Charles Brewer was far and away the best of
the old bookmakers. He had his offices in Charles Street, St. James’s.
He was joint owner with Charles Blanton, the trainer of that famous
racehorse, Robert the Devil. Thousands of the British public, as well as
the owners, were bitterly disappointed when Robert the Devil failed to
pull off the Derby in 1880. The race was won, it will be remembered, by
the Duke of Westminster’s Bend Or. I saw that exciting finish. It was
lost to Robert the Devil owing to the cock-sureness of Rossiter, the
jockey. He took matters far too easy, and was imprudent enough to look
over his shoulder at the psychological moment. Archer, that king of
riders, saw his advantage in a flash, and caught his opponent at the
post.
And a curious consideration, not altogether unconnected with
psychological ramifications, appeals to me here. When I have been
deputed to go to a race-meeting for the purpose of making a column or so
of descriptive “copy,” the Ring has always presented itself to me as a
modern Inferno packed with raucous, foul-mouthed demons—rapacious,
brutal, sordid. Again and again have I reeled off impressionist
descriptions of what I conceived to be a very brutal exhibition. Yet, in
looking back to those old times, the picture of the betting ring does not
come back to me as a complete and vivid impression. Faces gaze out at me
one by one, and they are all the faces of men who have made their last
settlement. One becomes more charitable with the passing of the years, I
suppose, and Time teaches us to differentiate. I fail altogether now to
recall the Ring as a raging, seething pit. I only recall, with feelings
not estranged, some of its members whom I have known, and with whom I
have done a little business from time to time. Their manners may not
have been those of a Chesterfield, but their principles of commercial
morality were more commendable than those of the nobleman whose
“Letters,” according to honest Samuel Johnson, inculcated the morals of a
monkey and the manners of—well, of something even less respectable than
our simian ancestor.
But, having said so much in favour of the personal qualities of certain
members of the betting ring, and having admitted that the transactions of
the fraternity are as a rule honest and open, I venture to suggest that
the institution itself is capable of considerable improvement—that,
indeed, the time has come when it might, with benefit to the community
and to the Government, be improved off the face of the earth. We are a
nation of hypocrites, and are governed by a series of Ministries who play
up to our hypocrisy. To certain phases of certain subjects our
Government elects to remain blind. By a minority of our countrymen
betting is set down as a sin. This minority (many of whom make bets on
the sly) has an influence with those in power. Therefore the Government
of the day assumes that there is no such thing as wagering for money over
horse-racing. The bookmaker is a myth. In the words of Mrs. Gamp, a
Minister will tell you, “I don’t believe there’s no sich a person.” And
yet what an income is waiting for that Chancellor of the Exchequer who
will possess the courage to disestablish the betting ring by instituting
the system of _Paris Mutuels_! The “sin” of betting would not be
increased thereby, so that the moral minority should not be perturbed.
Absolute protection would be afforded to backers, so that the public
would be safeguarded and gratified. And the income derivable from
commission to the Government would go far towards providing a new
_Dreadnought_ every year, so that, in any event, the nation must be a
gainer.
Mr. Lloyd George might talk the matter over with ‘Dr.’ Clifford, Mr.
Silvester Horne, and the President of the Methodist Conference. The
predominant partner—Mr. John Redmond, to wit—would, I am confident, give
his consent to an experiment the object of which would be to give some
movement to treasuries which have long since ceased to be “flowing.”
I once spent some hours in the house of a bookmaker, and had an
opportunity of studying the penciller’s _ménage_. I had often had a bet
with Andy Anderson. His prices were a trifle short, but he was an
agreeable man to do business with—jovial, good-tempered, and amusing.
After a day’s racing at Hurst Park, he overtook “Boris” of the _Referee_
and myself, and suggested a “lift” as far as Surbiton—without consulting
us as to whether or not Surbiton was on our way home. “Boris”—who in
private life was Mr. Harry Bromhead—accepted the invitation. We were
given the back seats on Andy’s jobbed landau and pair, the bookie and his
clerk facing us, and his “runner” sitting on the box. The carriage
eventually drew up at a detached house standing back from an umbrageous
front-garden in one of the most highly respectable avenues in Surbiton.
The spick-and-span appearance of the façade of the “desirable family
residence” suggested the home of a prosperous stockbroker—a class of
sportsman then affecting the neighbourhood. Anderson got out, followed
by his guests. The landau bowled off with the clerk and the “runner”
aboard, and Andy effusively invited us to enter.
We were shown into the drawing-room, where we found Mrs. Anderson—a
remarkably fine woman, with much of her husband’s easy good
temper—petting a remarkably uninteresting mongrel. Then occurred one of
those incidents which illustrated a strange boyish side of Andy’s
character. Having formally introduced us to his wife, he gazed at the
dog on her lap with an expression of amazement and admiration, and asked,
with great seriousness:
“Where did you get that dog, my dear?”
“Bought him off a man on the tow-path,” replied Mrs. Andy.
“What did you give?” he inquired.
“Five shillings.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Andy, “you’ve had a better day on the tow-path
than I’ve had on the course. Why, that dog is worth fifty quid. You
take great care of him, my dear.”
“What breed is he?” asked Mrs. Anderson.
“He’s a tripe-hound,” answered Andy, without moving a muscle, and still
regarding the wretched animal with the satisfied air of an expert.
Mrs. Anderson accepted the legend in deadly earnest. The next day, as I
afterwards heard, she went into Kingston, purchased a silver collar with
her name and address engraved thereon, obtained a lead, and appeared
every afternoon on the promenade by the river with her priceless pet.
When asked about its pedigree by friends, she explained that she was
obliged to take great care of him, as he was a tripe-hound. It was
Bessie Bellwood who eventually “gave the show away.” Making a call on
Mrs. Anderson, and feeling a curiosity to ascertain why such a woman
should make a pet of such an entirely hopeless hybrid, she asked about
it, and received the usual reply, given with an air of complacent pride
in possession. Bessie’s sense of humour was keen, and her expression of
it tumultuous. She burst into a fit of irrepressible laughter.
Explanations ensued. The tripe-hound was disposed of, and relations
between Andy and his wife became somewhat strained.
From the drawing-room, furnished in the most crowded fashion of Early
Victorian period, we were conducted to the dining-room, to have what just
at that time was becoming known as “a bottle of the boy.” Meeting with a
bookmaker socially always meant in those days a bottle of champagne. The
pencillers seemed to swim in it. It is different now. The simple and
less expensive whisky-and-soda is regarded by the majority of the Ring as
an excellent substitute for the exhilarating vintages of Ay and Épernay
and Grammont. In his own house Andy was the soul of hospitality. He
pressed us to remain to dinner. But we both had duties in town.
However, we sat listening to his anecdotes and experiences for an hour or
more. The most surprising of his reminiscences was that he, Andy
Anderson the bookmaker, was the son of a Baptist minister! At first I
was inclined to rate the confession with the legend of the tripe-hound,
but the statement was one of fact. I commend it to the consideration of
Nonconformist Turf-haters; they can take it either of two ways—as an
inducement to regard charitably a calling which provides fine openings
for the bright sons of Baptist ministers, or as an argument in favour of
the _Paris Mutuels_, whereby the temptation to become bookmakers would be
for ever removed from the precocious progeny of the “unco’ guid.”
The mention of Bromhead naturally reminds me of the paper which he served
so well for so many years. The _Referee_ was established by Henry
Sampson some few yew after Mr. Corlett found the continuous-paragraph
method so sudden and so triumphant a success. But the founders of the
new paper, while appreciating the main reason of their rival’s success,
were not slow to observe the departments in which the older paper was
“slack.” So from the start the _Referee_ gave a proper attention to
arrangement of contents and sub-editing. And the paper is still
distinguished for its care in these respects. In a former chapter I have
alluded sympathetically to the fact that death has dogged the footsteps
of Mr. Corlett’s staff. The _Referee_ has a more fortunate record. Of
the original staff of the _Referee_, four members are still living and
working. These are Mr. Richard Butler, Mr. H. Chance Newton, Mr.
Edwards, and Mr. George R. Sims. The “Handbook” on the first page has of
recent years become a valued feature. The best of the series was
contributed by the patient and reflective Nesbit, of the _Times_. He was
followed by Christie Murray. The present writer is Mr. Arnold White,
whose range is more limited than that of his predecessors. But he
strikes the patriotic note all the time. And the expression of his
patriotism never rings false.
In the seventies the _doyen_ of the racing Press was Comyns Cole, of the
_Times_ and the _Field_. In whatever society he might be found Cole was
always a striking personality. He was not only an accomplished
journalist, but he was a typical English gentleman of the school even
then becoming regarded as “old.” He possessed all the gracious courtesy
of a more formal age. At the time when I made his acquaintance he was
well over sixty, but he was erect in carriage, slim in figure, always
carefully dressed to suit the occasion, and impartially polite to Dukes
and jockeys. His carefully-cultured grey moustache gave him something of
a military appearance. His greatest charm was, perhaps, in a voice of
unusual sweetness. And on the Turf he was liked and respected by
everybody, high and low. Not merely was Cole a gentleman in thought and
act, but he spoke and wrote like one. He could never have become
contaminated by the baleful influences of the Press-room.
In my early days there were a lot of small race-meetings in the vicinity
of London which have ceased to exist, their suppression or extinction,
owing to natural causes, being a circumstance on which Society may be
greatly congratulated. Of these, Hampton was one of the most notorious.
It was a great Cockney carnival, and was held on the ground over which
Hurst Park now stretches. All the costers of the East End drove down to
this event on their “flying bedsteads,” in the shafts of which
conveyances were harnessed their “mokes.” On one side of the bedstead,
with legs hanging over the front, was the coster, urging his “moke” with
comic blasphemies. On the other side sat his “dona,” all hat and
feathers, howling snatches of the music-hall songs of the moment, and in
the intervals plying her “bloke” with beer. All the pickpockets,
welchers, thimble-riggers, and confidence-tricksters of the Metropolis
turned up at this event, and nowhere else would you be likely to come
across scenes of more unbridled blackguardism. The inhabitants of
Hampton—standing as it does on one of the prettiest of the nearer reaches
of the Thames—were naturally incensed by the annual Saturnalia.
Not all those who were attracted to the meeting came down for the sport.
Many of them hired skiffs and went on the water. These greatly daring
adventurers had but the most rudimentary use of the sculls, and their
immunity from accident can only be traced to that watchful Providence
which is believed to look after drunken men and infants. On one occasion
I happened during these races to be at Hampton, which is, of course, on
the other side of the river. I there saw a rather cranky skiff let out
by a local boat-owner to a party of a dozen happy Cockneys, male and
female of their kind, not one of whom could row and few of whom could
swim. As they zigzagged their way to midstream, I thought it my duty to
remonstrate with the boat-owner.
“I shouldn’t have let a boat to that lot: they’re sure to capsize,” I
ventured to suggest.
“It’s orright, guv’nor,” answered the man cheerily; “_I’ve ’ad a quid
deposit_!”
Funny thing, the point of view. I was solicitous about the safety of the
Cockney excursionists. My boat-hiring friend could only imagine that I
was anxious lest his skiff should come to grief, and was happy to assure
me that he had secured himself against all possible loss!
At Kingsbury there was another of these classic events. It was never my
proud privilege to witness the racing at Kingsbury; but the suppression
of that meeting was a never-ceasing cause of regret to Warner, of the
Welsh Harp, Hendon. I made the acquaintance of that illustrious man when
I was sent down to interview Mrs. Girling on the part of a daily paper
“whose name shall be nameless,” as a villain of melodrama once put it.
The name of Mrs. Girling, I imagine, will call up no memories in the
present generation. The poor lady, although she made a wonderful
commotion in her time, has failed to write her name with any legibility
on the page of history.
Mrs. Girling, then, was the president, or high-priestess, or boss of the
Shaker community, which at one time thought to establish itself in the
country of a hundred religions and one sauce. Notwithstanding all that
has been alleged to the contrary, the English still possess a certain
sense of humour, and their knowledge of the new sect was chiefly derived
from the writings of Artemus Ward, who had devoted a chapter of “His
Book” to the more salient eccentricities of the Shakers. One of the sect
he described as looking like “a last year’s bean-pole dressed in a long
meal-bag.”
The corybantic religionists who had come across the Atlantic with Mrs.
Girling in the pious hope of converting the islanders had been evicted
from their quarters in the New Forest, and had encamped on, and under,
the grandstand on the Kingsbury racecourse. The expulsion of the Shakers
from their Hampshire Eden became the subject of a great deal of comment
in the Press, and Warner, who was above all else a showman, at once saw
his way to make some money out of the eccentric exiles from the States.
So he philanthropically offered the evicted evangelists such shelter as
the Kingsbury grand-stand afforded. Mrs. Girling was grateful. Half
London flocked to Hendon to inspect the high-priestess and her faithful
following of Latter-Day Saints, and, incidentally, to partake of
refreshments at the Welsh Harp. It was on my way home after my interview
with Mrs. Girling that I made the acquaintance of Mr. Warner himself. He
was a large, jovial, effusive person—quite the typical Boniface, in fact.
I was about to write “the typical John Bull,” when I recollected that the
national nickname has acquired associations which render it—well, not
quite typical.
Warner appeared to spend most of his time sitting in a wooden armchair of
Brobdingnagian proportions. When in an anecdotal or reminiscent mood, he
could be extremely entertaining. One of his reminiscences may be worth
repeating. The Welsh Harp pleasure-grounds had become a favourite arena
for the managers of Sunday-school treats and high jinks of a similar
character. During the summer months thousands of children were carted
down from the lanes and alleys of the town to pick daisies in Warner’s
fields, to wander by the margin of Warner’s lake, and to “wolf” Warner’s
buns and ginger-beer amid delightfully rural surroundings.
Consternation, therefore, seized this particular section of Society when
there appeared in the papers the report that the pet bear of the Welsh
Harp had escaped from its den, and had taken refuge in some neighbouring
thicket. In vain did Warner write solemn disclaimers to the daily
papers. His pathetic denials of the existence of any bear on the estate
were received with frigid scepticism. The rumour had been sown
broadcast, and had taken root. The crop was accepted as first-class
fact. The more strongly did Warner protest, the more picturesque became
the newspaper reports of the bear-hunt, the methods of the trackers, and
their failure to trap their quarry.
Meanwhile the outlook was becoming serious for the owner of the famous
pleasaunce. Every post brought the poor man letters from the promoters
of bean-feasts and Sunday-school treats cancelling their dates. In
moments of desperation the brain sometimes becomes superactive. At such
a moment Warner was the subject of an inspiration, or, as he himself put
it, “an ’appy thought struck him.” He drove off to Jamrach’s, the famous
dealers in wild animals, in the Ratcliff Highway, and there he purchased
the cheapest bear in the market. The brute was taken to the Welsh Harp
in a van and at dead of night. The following morning the animal was
found tied up to a tree in the grounds, and Warner triumphantly issued to
the Press a purely imaginary account of its pursuit and capture. The
consequences of the ruse were satisfactory all round. Nobody seemed to
remember anything at all of Warner’s pathetic denials of the existence of
a bear. The accuracy of the Press reporters was vindicated, and the
publication of Warner’s circumstantial account of the chase and capture
attracted thousands of sightseers to the Welsh Harp—most of them thirsty.
In a few days the ingenious designer of this public deception was able to
recoup himself for the losses sustained owing to the alleged ravages of
an ursine “Mrs. Harris” by the production of a real bear—a hired,
harmless, and humiliated brute.
Time has been kind to the old Welsh Harp, and I fervently hope that the
day is far distant ere even a garden city shall be established by the
shores of the wonderful lake whereon the Cockney sailed and fished in the
summer, and skated—and was periodically immersed—in the winter months.
For a little while at least its memory will be kept green by Chevalier’s
“Coster’s Serenade”:
“You ain’t forgotten yet that night in May
Dahn at the Welsh ’Arp, which is ’Endon way?
_You_ fancied winkles and a pot of tea;
‘Four ’alf,’ I murmured, ‘’s good enough for _me_.
Give me a word of ’ope that I may win.’
You prods me gently with the winkle pin.
We was as ’appy as could be that day
Dahn at the Welsh ’Arp, which is ’Endon way.”