In 1831 the Mile End New Globe Cricket Club was formed here, and in 1835 we hear of its beating the fashionable Montpelier Club. [70b] The garden had its concerts and occasional ballets, and its ballooning, of which a tale is told by Henry Coxwell, aeronaut, who made a series of ascents from this place. On a summer day in 1854 he received an unexpected summons for a balloon display. It was the benefit night of Francis, the manager, and Coxwell was anxious to oblige. But his balloon had just been oiled and it was a warm evening—too warm for the safety of the balloon. Yet a balloon had been promised and fireworks. About eight o’clock an anxious consultation took place in the gardens, and the concert, on Coxwell’s suggestion, was prolonged till it was pitch dark in the grounds. The gardens were now crowded, and there were impatient cries for lighting up. At last, after a little more delay, the reluctant balloonist was seen to enter—or rather to be pushed headlong into—the car. But all went well: the balloon ascended, its occupant bowed and waved his flag, and in a burst of fireworks was quickly lost to view. While all this was in progress a man, evidently suffering from a terrible cold, for he was greatly muffled up, and wearing whiskers—could they be false whiskers?—might have been seen anxiously skirting the edge of the crowd and making the best of his way to the Mile End Road.
Mr. Francis’s benefit was a success, but the next day there arrived at the New Globe a worthy farmer, bearing in a basket Coxwell’s duly ticketed balloon, which had descended in his field. ‘Greatly obliged to you,’ said the proprietor. ‘No lives lost, I hope?’ ‘No lives,’ said the farmer; ‘there was none to lose. The fellow found by my man Joe was thought to have expired, yet all the life he ever had was out of him; but you know and I know that he never had any, mister.’ The farmer spoke the truth: the Globe balloonist was a dummy!
[Newspaper advertisements; Read’s Annals of Cricket; Coxwell’s My Life and Balloon Experiences. There are three lithographs of the Globe and its gardens (circa 1839?) from drawings by H. M. Whichelo.—W.].
THE RED HOUSE, BATTERSEA
To picture the Red House and its surroundings, one must put out of sight the fine park of Battersea, and go back to the first fifty years of the nineteenth century. At that time there stood near the riverside, facing the south end of the present Victoria (or Chelsea Suspension) Bridge, a picturesque tavern of red brick, with white pointings and green-painted shutters. On a summer day the pleasantest place for alfresco refreshment was a small jetty in front of the tavern, beneath the elm-trees and the flagstaff that flew the colours of the house. On the east side was a garden with spacious boxes and arbours.
The Red House was the favourite goal of many Thames races, but in the twenties, thirties, and forties its fame was chiefly due to its shooting-ground, an enclosure about 120 yards square, where the Red House Club and the crack shots of the Metropolis were accustomed to meet. Pigeons were sold for the shooting at fifteen shillings a dozen, starlings at four shillings, and sparrows at two shillings. When sportsmen like Mr. Bloodsworth and Mr. ‘O.’ were on the spot the execution was deadly. Thus, in 1832, in the first match at 30 birds each, each shot 28; in the second, B. killed 25, O. 23; and in a third match B. killed his 25, and O. his 22.
At one time a half-witted man called Billy the Nutman drove his little trade near the Red House, and for a few pence would stand in the water while sportsmen of the baser sort took shots in his direction. Here, at any rate, pigeon-shooting did not encourage humanity or a sense of humour.
A nicer habitué of the Red House was the raven Gyp, the treasure of the landlord, Mr. Wright. [73] Gyp was not, indeed, universally beloved, especially by the prowling dogs of the neighbourhood, on whom he pounced with beak and claw. He was, moreover, not inexpert in thieving, and had, in many hiding-places, deposited the spoons and pairs of spectacles snapped up in leisure moments. He had also formed a coin collection by swooping down on the sixpences and shillings placed on the bar by customers paying their reckoning. He was a talking bird, but indulged neither in fatuous endearments nor horrid oaths. He was, in truth, a practical joker of the finest feather. His human ‘What’s a clock?’ elicited an answer from many a Cockney oarsman as he passed the Red House; and his ‘Boat ahoy! Our Rock, over!’ could be heard across the river. Now, at the White House (opposite the Red) was stationed a ferryman named Rock, and even Mr. James Rock was sometimes deceived. Twice on one day he had crossed to the Red House to answer the call of a non-existent passenger, but the third time he caught the raven in the act, and flung the handiest missile—a pewter pot—at the mischievous bird. The landlord was enraged, though Gyp escaped; but it was probably owing to this incident that Gyp was removed to a Midland county, where, in the absence of Cockneys and ferrymen, he pined away and died.
