MOTT’S AND CREMORNE.
LONDON in the sixties possessed no music-halls as at present except the
London Pavilion and a transpontine establishment unknown to the West End.
This former had not long previously been transformed from a swimming bath
into an undertaker’s shed, which in its turn gave place to the dingy hall
which eventually made the fortune of a waiter from Scott’s. But such
excitement (!) hardly met the requirements of progressive civilisation,
which found an outlet in the Argyll, Cremorne, the Café Riche, Sally
Sutherland’s, Kate Hamilton’s, Rose Young’s, and Mott’s. It seems but
yesterday that one was sipping champagne at Boxall’s stall in the Café
Riche (now a flower shop adjoining the Criterion) waiting for young
Broome the pugilist, who was to pilot one in safety to “the big fight
between King and Heenan.” In those halcyon days cafés remained open all
night, and three a.m. was the hour appointed for our start for London
Bridge. What splendid aid was then given legitimate sport by the
authorities, as driving through rows of police across London Bridge one
reached the terminus in comfort by simply displaying one’s ticket. With
a pork pie in one pocket, and a handkerchief in another, one’s peace of
mind was delightful, and hands in every pocket—aye, and knives to cut one
out if necessary—were accepted only as a portion of a novel and
delightful excitement.
Pitching the ring again in one field and being warned off by the Kent
constabulary, how invigorating the tramp through ploughed fields, till
again we found a spot—this time undisturbed—in the muddy plains of
Sussex. Wisps of straw provided for the more favoured by the attention
of their punching cicerones, the biting of King’s ear to bring him to
“time,” the two giants half blind, swinging their arms mechanically, the
accidental blow that felled the brave Heenan, and the shameful verdict
that denied him the victory ten minutes previously, the return to the
“Bricklayers’ Arms”—how vivid it all seems! And yet principals, seconds,
lookers-on, where are they?
The Café Riche of the long-ago sixties was perhaps the most successful
and best regulated of the haunts of vanished London. Slack to an extreme
till about 11 p.m., the huge mass of humanity as it poured out of the
Argyll made straight for it. As one traversed the almost impassable
Windmill Street along the narrow path kept by a bevy of police, all
thoughts turned towards the Café Riche, where the best of suppers,
oysters, and champagne prepared one for the more arduous exertions of
Cremorne or Mott’s. Cremorne in those days was a delightful resort, with
an excellent band, and frequented by the most exalted of men and the most
beautiful of women. Here might be seen nightly during his stay in London
a late ruling monarch (then Crown Prince) whose moustache the ladies
insisted on twisting; here, too, occasionally big rows took place,
affairs that originated in some trifle, such as the irritation of an
excitable blood on seeing a harmless shop-boy dancing in the ring.
King-Harman probably was the principal originator of these encounters.
Naturally of an amiable but plethoric disposition, a sight such as the
above was like a red rag to a bull, and in no time the fight became
universal and furious. Gas was turned off, the ringleaders bolted,
pursued by police. A run as far as Chelsea Hospital with a “bobby” in
full cry was by no means an uncommon occurrence.
On the occasions when exalted foreigners like Prince Humbert were going,
the ground in a way had to be salted. Intimation was privately conveyed
to certain well-known roysterers at Long’s, the Raleigh, and elsewhere,
that an exalted personage asked them to abstain from rows; a puncher and
two or three bloods were told off to accompany, and a special envoy was
instructed to warn Johnny Baum (the lessee) not to be aware of the angel
he was harbouring and to resist the temptation of any gush and “dutiful”
toadyism; and so on the eventful night Humbert lolled unrecognised
through the revelling crowds, whilst ghastly veterans in harlotry twitted
him on his huge moustache and thrust cards into his fist as tokens of
British hospitality.
Mott’s, too, was a unique institution, select it might almost be termed,
considering the precautions that were taken regarding admittance. Every
man who entered was known by name or sight. A man of good birth or
position, no matter how great a roué, was admitted as it were by right,
whilst parvenus, however wealthy, were turned empty away. It was told
indeed that on one occasion, being importuned for admission by a wealthy
hatter, old Freer, having been requested by the indignant shop-boy to
take his card, had replied, “Not necessary, sir. Not necessary. I have
your name in my hat.” And so the line that divided the classes in the
sixties was religiously respected. In those benighted days tradesmen
sent in their bills apologetically, and if a tailor began to importune, a
fresh order met the case. Flats were unbuilt, and people did not hear
what was going on all day and all night at their next door neighbour’s;
inferiors said “Sir,” and “Right you are” was a phrase uncoined; if you
dined at Simpson’s or Limmer’s you were served on silver, and no waiter
ventured to ask you who won the 3.45 race; club waiters literally stalked
one as they approached with a dish, and the caravanserais that now
dominate the entire length of Piccadilly had not pulled down club
averages nor reduced the prestige that attached to club membership. The
great gulf was fixed as immovably as between Dives and Lazarus when
Abraham was the umpire, and things probably found their level as well as
in these advanced days, when money is everything, and £20,000 judiciously
applied will ensure a baronetcy.
The ladies who frequented Mott’s, moreover, were not the tawdry
make-believes that haunt the modern “Palaces,” but actresses of note,
who, if not Magdalens, sympathised with them; girls of education and
refinement who had succumbed to the blandishments of youthful lordlings;
fair women here and there who had not yet developed into peeresses and
progenitors of future legislators. Among them were “Skittles,”
celebrated for her ponies, and Sweet Nelly Fowler, the undisputed Queen
of Beauty in those long-ago days. This beautiful girl had a natural
perfume, so delicate, so universally admitted, that love-sick swains paid
large sums for the privilege of having their handkerchiefs placed under
the Goddess’s pillow, and sweet Nelly pervaded—in the spirit, if not in
the flesh—half the clubs and drawing-rooms of London.
This remnant of old-fashioned homage was by no means unusual, and at
fancy bazaars it was an almost invariable custom to secure the services
of the belle of the hour to sell strawberries at 2s. 6d. apiece, which
the fair vendor placed to her lip and then pushed between the swain’s.
Years later a matronly creature, forgetting that her charms had long
since vanished, essayed to fill the coffers of a charity bazaar by
similar blandishments, and as one looked at the hollow cheeks and
discoloured tusks one was fain to wonder what the effect of the
“treatment” would be on the most robust constitution.
Situated in an unpretentious house in Foley Street, the ballroom at
Mott’s (as it appeared in the sixties) was a spacious octagon with a
glass dome. At the side, approached by a few steps, was the supper room,
where between 2 and 3 a.m. cold fowl and ham and champagne were
discussed, the fiddlers descending from their loft, and revelry fast and
furious took the place of the valse.
Not many years ago, impelled by an irresistible impulse, I visited the
hall of dazzling light; a greasy drab opened the street door, and
conducted me into a dingy apartment, which she assured me was the old
haunt. Sure enough, there stood the dilapidated orchestra perch, and,
yet a little way off, the steps that led to the supper room; and whilst I
was contemplating them with something very like a lump in my throat, a
squeaky voice addressed me, and I beheld a decrepit old man—all that was
left of poor old Freer—whom memory associated with an expanse of white
waistcoat, essaying hints such as, “Now, then, lady’s chain,” or
hob-nobbing with some beauty, or remonstrating, “Really, my lord, these
practical jokes cannot be permitted.” This temple of the past may still
be seen with all the windows smashed and on the eve of demolition.
Lord Hastings in those far-off days was the chief culprit in every
devilry. Beloved by police and publican, he occupied a privileged
position; nothing vicious characterised his jokes, and he had but one
enemy—himself. His advent at a ratting match or a badger drawing was a
signal to every loafer that the hour of his thirst was ended, and that
henceforth “the Markis was in the chair.” Six cases of champagne
invariably formed the first order, and as old Jimmy Shaw shouted, “’Ere,
more glasses there, and dust a chair for ’is Lordship,” the four ale bar
closed in, as it were, and duke and dustman hobnobbed and clinked glasses
with a deferential familiarity unknown in these levelling days.
Lord Hastings selected his companions on facial and other merits, and no
meeker, more guileless-looking youths existed than Bobby Shafto and
Freddy Granville. “Bobby,” said the Marquis, on one occasion, when he
had arranged a surprise at Mott’s, “we must go round to Jimmy Shaw’s.
I’ve to pick up a parcel there, and, look here, old man, you must smuggle
it in somehow; old Freer always looks carefully at me, but he’ll never
suspect you; you must carry it under your cape, and when we get inside
mind, don’t go down to the supper room. I’ll run down for a second, and
then join you; you know the spot I showed you near the meter?”
Arriving in Windmill Street, no time was lost in preliminaries.
“Is it all right, Jimmy?” inquired the Marquis, and in reply a cadaverous
individual dressed like a gamekeeper respectfully approached his
lordship. This was the professional rat-catcher, who traversed the main
drains half the day, and supplied the various sporting haunts with
thousands of rats nightly.
If a dog was backed to kill one thousand rats in a specified time the
supply never failed to be equal to the demand, despite the hundreds that
were pitted nightly against ferrets, or produced at so much a dozen for
young bloods to try their dogs on.
To see this rat-catcher plunge his hand into a sack full of huge and
ferocious sewer rats and extracting them one by one by the tail count the
requisite amount into the pit was a sight beyond description, as
legislators, cabinet ministers, peers, and army men threw sovereigns at
him in payment of the sport supplied.
Carrying a sack in his hand this individual respectfully replied: “All
right, my lud, two hundred as varmint a lot as iver I clapped eyes on.
Thanks, your lordship, good luck to yer,” and he pocketed his fee.
“But are they tied all right?” inquired Bobby, as the parcel was
presented to him.
“Right, sir? Why, you’ve only to slip this string like, and there you
are.”
“Yes, I know where I should be,” suggested Bobby; “but I mean now. I’ll
be d—d if I’ll put them under my cloak for a thousand till you make a
regular knot.”
“Well, there you are, sir,” replied the expert with a pitying smile, as
he performed the requisite function.
“Now we’re all right, Bobby,” added the Marquis. “Come on, we must catch
them at supper. I’ve got a knife, come on,” and directing the hansom to
Foley Street, the conspirators proceeded on their mission.
“Very quiet!” remarked the Marquis, as Freer received them at the door.
“Supper, my lord, supper; and, beg pardon, my lord, no larks to-night,
please; we’ve a rare lot here to-night, my lord; Lord Londesboro’ is here
with Miss Fowler and no end of toffs.”
“Why, Freer, what are you talking about? Look at me,” and he displayed
his white waistcoat, “and Mr. Shafto here, he doesn’t know London or your
infernal place. I’m showing him the rounds, Freer; we shan’t stay long,”
and, preceded by the unsuspecting old sinner, the pair proceeded as
arranged.
Sitting in the deserted room, Bobby scanned the empty orchestra loft,
whilst shouts intermingled with the popping of corks arose from the
supper room beyond, so shifting his position to nearer proximity to the
meter, he awaited the return of his companion.
“All right, old man, they’ll be up in ten minutes, but don’t budge till
the fiddles strike up; here’s the knife, blade open; don’t cut till I say
‘Now,’ and bolt like h— once the gas is out.”
The requisite wait was not of long duration. First came old Freer, as,
casting a sheep’s eye at the Marquis, he contemplated the orchestra;
next, producing a watch, he shouted, “time, gentlemen,” and half a dozen
seedy instrumentalists ascended the stairs. The pianist, it was evident,
was in his cups, but no notice was taken of this—it being admitted that
he played better when drunk than when sober, and had even been known to
supply impromptu variations and improvements to the “Mabel Valse” and
“Blue Danube” when under the exhilarating influence of Freer’s brut
champagne. Then followed a bevy of fair women—Nelly Fowler and her
worshipful lord; “Shoes,” who eventually became Lady W—; Baby Jordan,
Nelly Clifford, the innocent cause of dynastic ructions twelve months
later at the Curragh—closely followed by Fred Granville, Lyttleton,
Chuckles, John Delapont, of the 11th, and a mob of flushed men, and as
the fiddles began to twang, and the dancers took up positions, the
Marquis thought fit to add a word in season. “Talk away, old man, as if
it was something private, or some one will be coming up and spoiling the
game; go on, man; now then, look out, is the knife all ready? Shake ’em
well out, old man, they can’t hurt you; look out, are you ready? Now.”
To describe what followed is impossible. Two hundred men and women, and
two hundred sewer rats, compressed within the compass of forty feet by
thirty, and in a darkness as profound as was ever experienced in Egypt.
Bobby and Hastings meanwhile were driving towards Cremorne with the
complacency of men who had done their duty.
Cremorne on a Derby night baffles description; progress round the dancing
platform was almost impossible. The “Hermit’s Cave” and the “Fairy
Bower” were filled to repletion, and to pass the private boxes was to run
the gauntlet of a quartern loaf or a dish of cutlets at one’s head. Fun
fast and furious reigned supreme, during which the smaller fry of
shop-boys and hired dancers pirouetted within the ring with their various
partners. But as time advanced, and the wine circulated, the advent of
detachments of roysterers bespoke a not-distant row. A Derby night
without a row was, in those days, an impossibility, and the night that
our contingent started from the Raleigh was no exception to the rule.
No man in his senses brought a watch, and if his coat was torn and his
hat smashed, what matter? And if he lost the few shillings provided to
meet cab fare and incidental expenses the loss was not a serious one,
always supposing a cab was to be found, and one was not in the clutches
of the law.
“There’s King-Harman,” remarked Hastings, “let us stick near him; there’s
bound to be a row before morning, and we may as well be together. Can
you run, Bobby? Not with that cape, though; you’ll have to chuck that;
but what does it matter, it’s done its duty, and it’s unworthy of a less
honourable distinction?”
“Yes,” replied Bobby. “I don’t fancy wearing it after those infernal
rats. But why should there be a row?”
“A row, man,” replied his mentor, “of course there’ll be a row; what did
we come here for but a row? What did King-Harman come here for, do you
suppose, but a row? And look here, when they turn the gas out—as they
always do—run like blazes; you’re not safe till you get to Chelsea
Hospital, and don’t run into the arms of a policeman; they sometimes stop
chaps running, on spec.,” and with these words of wisdom they mingled
with the crowd.
The expected dénouement was not long in coming, and in a second, and
without apparent warning, sticks were crashing down on top hats, tumblers
flying in every direction, and fists coming in contact with anything or
anybody whose proximity seemed to suggest it.
The fiddlers had meanwhile made a hasty retreat, the gas was put out, and
with the exception here and there of an illumination (a dip steeped in
oil), the free fight continued till a bevy of police appeared upon the
scene.
_Sauve qui peut_ was then the word, and helter skelter, old and young,
Jew and Gentile, soiled doves and hereditary legislators dashed like the
proverbial herd of swine towards the gates. Often did this stampede
continue for a mile, till straggling cabs, on their way to their stables,
picked up the stragglers, and landed them in less disturbed districts.
But the night was by no means over, not certainly the Derby night for
roysterers like Lord Hastings.
“We’ll have a rasher of bacon, Bobby,” he explained, as they descended in
Piccadilly Circus. “Why, it’s barely five o’clock,” and they entered an
unpretentious coffee-house in rear of the colonnade, much frequented by
roysterers and market gardeners.
“_Qui hi_;” shouted a voice as they took their seats in an uncomfortable
pew, and old Jim Stewart, of the 93rd, and a companion hailed them from
behind a mountain of eggs and bacon.
But their adventures were not to end with this wholesome repast, as,
coming out, they espied an empty cart, into which they all proceeded to
climb.
“Hi, master,” shouted the owner, disturbed at his meal, “that be moine.”
“Not it, man,” yelled Hastings; “it’s mine; jump in,” and, without a
murmur, the worthy man obeyed.
“Where to, master?” was the next inquiry. “I be going for a load of
gravel to Scotland Yard.” And within half an hour four bucks with white
ties were shovelling in gravel as if their lives depended on it.
Scotland Yard in those days was a public gravel-pit, and its name did not
convey the painful suggestions of after years.
“Where now, master?” inquired the yokel again, and St. John’s Wood was
the order.
Here, before a palatial mansion, the cart pulled up, and the load was
shot on to the steps. Johnny MacNair, the handsomest man in the Highland
Brigade, who was too “exhausted” to be moved, was then pushed into the
hall, and the cortège again departed.
To describe further would be a physical impossibility. Exhausted nature,
bad wine, possibly the bacon and eggs, all combined to make memory a
blank. Suffice that the house was the private residence of a corpulent
ratepayer and respected member of St. Stephen’s Church, who appeared in
the “Court Directory” as Mrs. Hamilton.
The final episode was the appearance of Johnny MacNair at Rawling’s Hotel
at three in the afternoon very irate, and only appeased on being assured
that the episode was a blank to others beside himself.
People may say how scandalous all this reads, and how thankful we ought
to be to be living in these decorous twentieth century days! But
reflect, virtuous reader. The sixties, if apparently bad, were not so
bad as the days of the Georges, which again compare favourably with the
golden days when Charles (of blessed memory) was King. Vigilance
societies did not then exist as now, and fifty institutions with their
secretaries and staff had not to be supported by seekers after morality.
London was not even blessed with a County Council, and John Burns
probably could have robbed a birds’ nest as deftly as the veriest
scapegrace in those long-ago roystering days.
Place a file of the Divorce Court proceedings in the scales, add the
scandals that occasionally get into print, and, having adjusted them
carefully, decide honestly whether the balance is much against the London
of the long-ago sixties.