Meanwhile the outlook was becoming serious for the owner of the famous pleasaunce. Every post brought the poor man letters from the promoters of bean-feasts and Sunday-school treats cancelling their dates. In moments of desperation the brain sometimes becomes superactive. At such a moment Warner was the subject of an inspiration, or, as he himself put it, “an ’appy thought struck him.” He drove off to Jamrach’s, the famous dealers in wild animals, in the Ratcliff Highway, and there he purchased the cheapest bear in the market. The brute was taken to the Welsh Harp in a van and at dead of night. The following morning the animal was found tied up to a tree in the grounds, and Warner triumphantly issued to the Press a purely imaginary account of its pursuit and capture. The consequences of the ruse were satisfactory all round. Nobody seemed to remember anything at all of Warner’s pathetic denials of the existence of a bear. The accuracy of the Press reporters was vindicated, and the publication of Warner’s circumstantial account of the chase and capture attracted thousands of sightseers to the Welsh Harp—most of them thirsty. In a few days the ingenious designer of this public deception was able to recoup himself for the losses sustained owing to the alleged ravages of an ursine “Mrs. Harris” by the production of a real bear—a hired, harmless, and humiliated brute.
Time has been kind to the old Welsh Harp, and I fervently hope that the day is far distant ere even a garden city shall be established by the shores of the wonderful lake whereon the Cockney sailed and fished in the summer, and skated—and was periodically immersed—in the winter months. For a little while at least its memory will be kept green by Chevalier’s “Coster’s Serenade”:
“You ain’t forgotten yet that night in May
Dahn at the Welsh ’Arp, which is ’Endon way?
You fancied winkles and a pot of tea;
‘Four ’alf,’ I murmured, ‘’s good enough for me.
Give me a word of ’ope that I may win.’
You prods me gently with the winkle pin.
We was as ’appy as could be that day
Dahn at the Welsh ’Arp, which is ’Endon way.”
CHAPTER XVIII
OLLA PODRIDA
Two American managers had made themselves very well known to the Street of Adventure in the early eighties. It was before the advent of the mighty Frohman and other engineers of the great combine. The one was known as “Johnny” Rogers, and the other was W. W. Kelly. The last-named gentleman must be, I imagine, still to the fore, for during the last General Election I visited two provincial centres, and saw, peeling from the walls of each, the mammoth posters of that wonderful Napoleonic melodrama “A Royal Divorce.” I wonder whether, if the spirit of my old friend, W. G. Wills, revisited these “glimpses of the moon,” he would recognize his workmanship and marvel at sight of the crowds it still attracts.
Kelly was a tall, florid man, flamboyant in manner, and gifted with an eloquence which was never ungarnished. Rogers was a little man, with a nice taste in diamonds. The time that he did not spend in the theatre writing Press notices about his “star” was devoted to running around the newspaper offices seeking publicity for his lucubrations.
Rogers managed for a little lady called Minnie Palmer, who appeared at the Strand Theatre in a sort of pinafore-and-golden-curls part. She continued playing the pinafore ingénue until she was well over forty. Poor little “Johnny,” who had taught the lady all she knew, was quite broken-hearted when she left his for another management. Kelly also made his reputation in London as manager for an actress. This performer was called Grace Hawthorne. Miss Hawthorne took the Olympic and the Princess’s, and spent quite a fortune in the attempt to establish the position of her theatres.
Kelly had a humour of his own, which, if Irish in its origin, was American in its expression. In the Junior Garrick Club one afternoon some men were assembled in the hall (the hall-porter, called “Tap,” was a bit of a bookmaker, and we loyally accepted his ridiculous prices). The conversation turned on lying, and some of us were relating our experiences of great liars whom we had known, and quoting examples of their skill. Kelly entered during the recital with a member whose guest he was, and listened quietly for a while; then, taking advantage of the first pause, he said:
“I guess what you fellows know about lyin’ ain’t worth a cent. There are only three liars in the world . . . is one, and Rogers is the other two.”
When Wilson Barrett produced Mr. Caine’s “Ben My Chree” at the Princess’s, Kelly had some rights in either the piece or the theatre. After the first performance, Kelly went round to Barrett’s dressing-room, and urged the actor to cut down the dialogue before again presenting the piece. The critics, Kelly assured him, were very much annoyed by the length of some of the speeches. “Don’t you believe it,” replied Barrett reassuringly. “To-morrow morning every paper in London will have over a column of unadulterated praise, and the booking-office will be besieged by a public mad to buy seats!”