This last-named individual was a morose, fire-eating Irishman, whose life had been soured by the seduction of his wife by his own colonel, and later by the ravages of small-pox that had seared his once-handsome face.
The son of a famous duellist of the days of the Regency, it was told how on one occasion on entering the Cocoa Tree a comparative stranger exclaimed: “I smell an Irishman!” To which “Fighting Fitz” replied: “You shall never smell another!” and sliced off his nose on the spot.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DRAMA—LEGITIMATE AND OTHERWISE.
The tercentenary of Shakespeare in ’64 suggested an experience that many of us were anxious to participate in. That we were likely to be successful was by no means certain, for numerous meetings, held at the Café de l’Europe, Haymarket—where motions innumerable and brandy ad libitum were proposed and carried—had decided that an event so strictly dramatic should not be diluted by outside association, but rather that scene shifters, stage carpenters, actors, everything and everybody strictly “legit.” should have the preference of guzzling and swilling to the memory of the immortal poet. But if our claims were weak, our advocates were strong, and so it came to pass that on the eventful evening we found ourselves awaiting the feast in the banqueting room of the Freemason’s Tavern.
That the thing was to be unique we were not long in discovering, as Ben Webster began grace by “For what we are about to receive may the spirit of Shakespeare hover over us.”
Whether it was Shakespeare’s spirit or the more powerful libations included in the dinner ticket must be left to greater dramatic authorities; suffice that long before the speeches began, practical jokes were in full blast, and eventually developed into a free fight.
It appears that some scene shifters with voracious appetites were sending again and again for a slice more ’am, till wags of a higher grade, who acted as croupiers, worn out and disgusted, piled plates with meats, custards, oranges, and mustard till the blood of every carpenter rose as one man, and dishes began to fly right, centre, and left. Even the waiters joined in the tournament, and one, in the act of placing a plate before me, yelled out, “Wait till I give this — his grub, and then I’ll let you know.” “Damn it,” whispered one of our party, “this isn’t Shakespearian, surely! For God’s sake let us clear out.” But “clearing out” was by no means so easy, for at that moment two or three repulsive ruffians in leather coats and rabbit-skin caps came upon the scene, whilst one, scowling in strictly melodramatic style, confronted us with “Well, what’s the matter with you?” But we managed to slip out without giving the desired explanation, and so ended the tercentenary and the spirit Ben Webster had invoked.
People nowadays would hardly realise that theatregoers in those long-ago days could wade through alleys and side streets by no means safe after dark to visit the (then) Prince of Wales’s in a slum off the Tottenham Court Road. With an excellent company, however, and with houris since translated to the peerage and knightage, the little house was nightly crammed, and white ties by the score blocked the thoroughfare in the vicinity of the modest stage door as resolutely as in later years they besieged the Philharmonic and the Gaiety.
Valentine Baker at the time was running the show, or a material portion of it, and much of the profits of his wife’s soap-boiling industry, it was said, found their way into the coffers of the unpretentious little temple in the slum. A wealthy cabinet maker, also in the vicinity, whose profits permitted the luxury of a four-in-hand, might usually be seen worshipping at the shrine, and a tag-rag and bobtail of less wealthy but aspiring young bloods fought and hustled for one glance, one sign of recognition, from the bevy beyond the footlights.
When Valentine Baker began casting sheep’s eyes at the demure maiden reading the Family Herald in a South-Western compartment, he little realised that the price he was paying might have been commuted elsewhere by the judicious expenditure of a five-pound note. Twenty thousand in hard cash, the command of a great regiment, and social annihilation—for what? And when Mr. Justice Brett began his charge to the jury by “a man we looked to to protect our women and children,” there was not an Army man present (and the Croydon Court House was crammed with them) that did not internally vow that henceforth, be it in a first-class or a third-class compartment, be it Piccadilly Circus or the British Museum, woman should be his constant care, and, if necessary, any tadpole that lawfully pertained to her.