An eccentric old lady who died about this time left her large fortune to a distant relative on the condition that she was never to be put below earth.
To obviate the slightest risk of losing the legacy, the astute recipient immediately purchased a house in London, and with all the pomp worthy of the occasion, placed the mass of corruption, securely boxed, on the roof, after which it was soldered on to the leads and encased in a glass shade.
The eyesore has long disappeared, but twenty years ago it was an object of interest to strollers in Kensington Gardens.
Ned Deering was a well-known figure in Pall Mall in the long-ago Sixties. The heir to one of the oldest baronetcies in the kingdom, he distorted his handsome features by wearing his hair down to his shoulders in imitation of Charles I. (of blessed memory), whom he imagined he resembled.
Eccentric to a degree, he married a few years later the lady known to posterity as Mrs. Bernard Beere, and great was the consternation in Kent lest a “small Beer” might eventually be enrolled in their local patrician ranks; but the scare was short-lived, and Ned, who meanwhile had turned Papist—as he would have turned Mohammedan had he lived in Morocco—died in a picturesque cottage with garden in front in Jermyn Street, imbibing buckets of champagne to the last, and with the encouraging assurance of a sure and joyful resurrection. The spot is now represented by the back entrance of the Criterion Theatre. No more amusing companion existed than Ned Deering, when the spirit moved him.
Amongst military characters, Lord Mark Kerr must assuredly be given the palm. Of overwhelming family interest, he ruled the 13th Somersetshire Light Infantry as a veritable despot. Mad as any March hare, he frequently appeared on parade with his shako reverse-ways on his head, and if his eagle-eye spotted some awkward-looking recruit, he would paralyse him by, “Ha! you come from Bath, eh? I suppose you consider yourself a Bath brick? But I consider you a Bath—” In the mess, too, he was equally harmlessly autocratic, and no officer was expected to take his seat till Lord Mark had said, “Be seated, gentlemen.” But there was no vice in this eccentric branch of the house of Lothian. Whether he would have been tolerated in these later days is another affair.
Major Francis, who was on the Smoking Room Committee of the Turf Club, was an admitted authority on cigars. Small in stature, the little man carried a cigar-case in every pocket of his numerous coats; not a cigar entered the docks but was sampled as a labour of love for the large importers by this unquestionable expert. And often have I accompanied him to St. Mary Axe, where box after box has been opened, and cigar after cigar lighted for our delectation, only to be laid aside after one whiff as we passed on to other brands. “But what becomes of all these wasted samples?” I inquired of Mr. Dodswell. “They’re not wasted,” he replied; “they become ‘Regalia Britannicas,’ such as these,” and he handed me a gilt-edged box of the most approved pattern that might well deceive any but an expert.
Major Francis created a revolution in the cigars that were supplied at the Turf, and instead of the “Golden Eagles” such as Dicky Boulton considered cheap at three shillings apiece, and others assessed as dear at any price, the finest exports of the Havanas were to be had for less than half the money.
Every youngster aspiring to importance in those days affected the possession of countless thousands of two-shilling cigars, and the walls of a large establishment in Bond Street were covered with boxes bearing in conspicuous type the various names and designations.
It may be stated, however, that the venture was a “credit” one, which, whilst pandering to the vanity of the owner, in no way injured the tradesman, who delicately withdrew any surplus stock where settlement appeared doubtful.