A phenomenon of another type was Colonel North. Soldier, philanthropist, and nitrate expert, it matters not what regiment had the privilege of being commanded by him; it was in the latter industry that he endeared himself to his species. Liberal, bluff, and accessible to all, his daily free lunches at the “Woolpack” were partaken of by all the halt and the maim—and occasionally the blind—within the four-mile radius.
Impecunious Irish lords, with ancestral bogs sadly in need of re-digging, now saw their opportunity, and a huge industry sprang into existence, where, for a consideration—in shares—the meteor was introduced to certain higher lords who, holding broad theories on “meum and tuum,” in their turn arranged dinner parties where the most exalted were to be met with. Often did the rafters of Connaught Place rattle during these festive gatherings, and sheaves of shares changed hands till no one was sent empty away, and so by the aid of nitrate, “the Colonel” was wafted amid the highest pinnacles of Society. Occasionally a false note was struck when some over-eager recipient put his shares on the market—but even these faux pas were soon forgotten, for “the Colonel,” if not “Plantagenet blood,” had the instincts of a gentleman. That the owner of such vast wealth must needs own racehorses goes without saying, upon which ’bus drivers and unsuccessful authorities on horseflesh came upon the scene, and thus the sphere of Nature’s bountiful providence became more extended. North, however, never attained prominence in a pursuit he was probably utterly indifferent to, though his colours were frequently to be seen (last) at the various race meetings.
It was a sad day in Bohemia Minor when “the Colonel” was gathered to his fathers; and the diminution in white waistcoats and immaculate attire in Gracechurch Street and Northumberland Avenue was lamentably apparent; the rockets that had temporarily fizzled gradually expended themselves, their very sticks were soon untraceable; straw hats and macintoshes (during the dog days) gradually resumed their ascendency, and Society recovered from the topsy-turveydom with which it was once temporarily threatened.
CHAPTER XVII.
SOME CURIOUS FISH OF THE SIXTIES.
Sir Henry De Hoghton, a wealthy baronet who was above the horizon in the Sixties, though possessed of a fine estate and a palatial residence, preferred the hand-to-mouth existence of an hotel, and lived at Meurigy’s, now the supper-house yclept the Chatham. Never visible to the naked eye by day, he wandered into the Raleigh about midnight, and casting furtive glances in various directions, would settle down without a word. To punters he was a very oasis in a dry land, for, although the very worst écarté player in Christendom, no stakes were too high for him, and after losing a game or two his proposals were literally appalling.
To ask him to play was the signal for his abrupt departure; to ignore his presence was tantamount to £100 a game within twenty minutes.
Fred Granville, who about this period was considerably out of his depth, had a peculiar experience with him. On one occasion, having lost to the eccentric baronet some £3,000, De Hoghton, who evidently knew that a settlement was precarious, said, “Why don’t you go to ‘Jellybelly’?”
What occurred at the suggested interview it is difficult to arrive at, but within the week it was generally known that De Hoghton financed the Hebrew money-lender, and by such disinterested advice as above was invariably paid, leaving the onus of recovery to the astute Bob Morris.
Another drunken baronet who lived in Eaton Square, and had married an houri of a very inferior type, had for his chief hobby the surrounding himself with pugilists and comic singers.
Living entirely on the ground floor, the drawing-room, which was carpetless, was got up like a cockpit. Here nightly orgies were held, to the annoyance of every one within hearing, and when too much port—with which the cellars were filled—had done its duty, rows were not infrequent between this disreputable couple. On one occasion I can recollect her drunken ladyship—very lightly clad—ordering a powdered six-foot flunkey to put out the lights instantly, and her drunken spouse’s rejoinder, “If you dare to touch a candle, you leave my house this moment.” After which a domestic scrimmage and a stampede ensued, and, seizing hats and coats, the guests hurriedly departed.