Not many years ago, in one of the popular dairy-refreshment shops in
Holborn, the prim manageress and her white-capped waitresses were just
commencing their day’s work when a couple of sturdy green-aproned men
swooped down on the place from a large pantechnicon van, and to the
amazement of the young ladies commenced to clear the shop.
“There you are Bill. Hand up them chairs, and look slippy.”
“Right o’, mate.”
“Good gracious me, what are you men doing?” shrieked the alarmed
manageress.
“Doing, miss, doing? Why moving the furniture. This is the lot ain’t
it?”
“No, no, no; there must be some mistake. You must have come to the
wrong place.”
“Mistake, wrong place? No miss. ’Ere, look where’s that letter?” And
Jack placed a begrimed document before the lady.
The letter seemed right enough. It read beautifully, a plain direction
to clear the shop and remove the stuff elsewhere; it only lacked the
official heading of the company. But the joint inspection was rudely
broken in upon by the arrival of a couple of the knights of the brush
who had come “to do the chimbley, maam”; and ere they could be disposed
of vans of coals began to draw up, more pantechnicons, more sweeps,
loads of furniture, butchers with prime joints, plump birds from the
poulterers, fish of every conceivable kind, noisy green-grocer boys,
staggering under huge loads of vegetables; florists “to decorate,”
gasfitters, carpenters “to take down the counter, miss”; others “to put
it up.”
* * * * *
Pandemonium is quiet compared with that shop. The poor manageress was
in tears, deafened with the exasperated, swearing representatives
of, apparently, all the tradesmen for miles around. The thing had
been well done. No sooner had the provision merchants worked clear
and the streams of vans, waggons and carts been backed away to the
accompaniment of much lurid language, than ladies began to arrive with
boxes of mysterious long garments which, they assured the indignant
lady in charge, they were instructed were urgently needed for an event
they referred to as “interesting.” There was no monotony, for fast and
furious--very furious sometimes--came other maidens laden with more
boxes and still more boxes, filled with costumes, bonnets, and other
creations dear to the feminine mind. Then came servants “in answer to
your advertisement, madam.” They flocked in from all directions, north,
south, east and west. Never was seen such a concourse of servants:
dignified housekeepers, housemaids, parlourmaids, and every other
sort of maid, seemed to be making for that unfortunate manageress.
Sleek-looking butlers popped in, as uniformed nurses popped out.
Window-cleaners had to be torn from the windows they insisted they
had got orders to clean; carpet beaters sought carpets which did not
exist. Never had mortal--aye and immortal--requirements been thought
out with more thoughtful care. From the needs of the unborn baby, to
the “poor departed one,” whom melancholy gentlemen in seedy black came
to measure, all were remembered, and the man for whose especial benefit
presumably were intended beautiful wreaths, crosses, harps, etc., which
kept constantly arriving. Throughout that live-long day to the “dewy
eve” beloved of the poet the game went merrily on.
As a hoax the thing was worked for all it was worth. Not only had
shoals of letters evidently been sent out, but advertisements, too, had
been freely distributed among the press. Needless to say that, despite
the closest investigations, its author or authors, discreetly silent,
remained unknown.
The joke was not new by any means. Well nigh a century before
mischief-loving Theodore Hook had stirred all London by a similar
prank--the famous Berners Street Hoax. In those days Berners Street was
a quiet thoroughfare inhabited by fairly well-to-do families. Indeed
it was this very sedate quietness which drew upon it Hook’s unwelcome
attention. Fixing on one of the houses, which happened to be adorned
with a brass plate, he made a wager with a brother wag that he would
cause that particular house to become the talk of the town: and he
certainly did--for not only the town, but all England shrieked with
laughter when the result of his little manœuvre became known.
One morning, soon after breakfast, waggons laden with coals began
to draw up before the house with the brass plate, No. 54. These
were quickly succeeded with tradespeople by the dozen with various
commodities. These in turn were followed by van loads of furniture;
followed by a hearse with a coffin and a number of mourning coaches.
Soon the street became choked: for, what with the goods dumped down
as near as possible to the house--pianos, organs, and cart loads of
furniture of all descriptions, the anxious tradesmen, and the laughing
mob of people quickly attracted to the scene, confusion reigned
supreme. About this time the Lord Mayor and other notabilities began
to arrive in their carriages. His Lordship’s stay was short. He was
driven to Marlborough Street police office where he informed the
magistrate that he had received a note purporting to come from Mrs.
T., the victimised widow resident at No. 54, saying she was confined
to her room and begging his lordship to do her the favour of calling
on her on important business. Meanwhile, the trouble in Berners
Street was growing serious, and officers belonging to the Marlborough
Street office were at once sent to keep order. For a time even they
were helpless. Never was such a strange meeting: barbers with wigs;
mantlemakers with band-boxes; opticians with their various articles of
trade. Presently there arrived a couple of fashionable physicians, an
accoucheur, and a dentist. There were clockmakers, carpet manufacturers
and wine merchants, all loaded with specimens of their trade; brewers
with barrels of ale, curiosity dealers with sundry knickknacks;
cartloads of potatoes; books, prints, jewellery, feathers and furbelows
of all kinds; ices and jellies; conjuring tricks; never was such a
conglomeration. Then, about five o’clock servants of all kinds began
to troop in to apply for situations. For a time the police officers
were powerless. Vehicles were jammed and interlocked; the exasperated
drivers were swearing, and the disappointed tradesmen were maddened
by the malicious fun of the crowd who were enjoying the joke. Some
of the vans were overturned and many of the tradesmens’ goods came
to grief; while some of the casks of ale became the prey of the
delighted spectators. All through the day and late into the night this
extraordinary state of things continued, to the dismay and terror of
the poor lady and the other inmates of the house with the brass plate.
Theodore Hook had taken precautions to secure a good seat for the
performance, having taken furnished-apartments just opposite the house
of his victim, where he posted himself with one or two companions to
enjoy the scene. Hook’s connection with the mad joke was, fortunately
for him, not known until long afterwards; it seems he had devoted three
or four whole days to writing the letters, all couched in ladylike
style. In the end the novelist seems to have been rather frightened at
the result of his little joke, for he made a speedy departure to the
country; and there is no doubt that, had he been publicly known as its
author, he would have fared badly.