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Scarlet Women, London, 1870 |
From"Palace and Hovel, Or Phases of London Life", By Daniel Joseph Kirwan,
1870
CHAPTER XXII, SCARLET WOMEN
WE were standing on the smooth, grassy lawn, at Goodwood,
amid the bustle and nproar which are always adjuncts to a Race Course
in any country.
It was the first day of the annual races, which are run
for three days in every year, at Goodwood, the princely residence
and grounds of the Duke of Richmond. This is the most aristo-
cratic race meeting held in England, and it is always frequented
by the nobles and people of high social position, with their wives,
daughters, and lady friends.
It was a beautiful and unclouded English July noon, and the
smell of the hawthorn hedges, and the faint breath of hollyhocks
made a perfume in the air, which banished all humors and
sulkiness from the crowds of well dressed and well bred people
who had been waiting to hear the saddling bell rung before the
start. Lithe and sinewy little jockeys walked the fresh-looking,
symmetrical-limbed horses up and down the velvety green sward,
to give the high bred English girls an opportunity to inspect
their favorites,
Under high, sheltering greenwood trees, cosy seats were
arranged for the ladies, who made the Lawn picturesque with
their bright colored dresses that shone with splendor as their
owners gathered in brilliant patches on the velvety turf, and
chatted while their menfolk made wagers, and drew from their
coat-pockets small betting books to record the sums invested.
Here were gathered all the well-known aristocratic patrons of
the turf in England, men who would be seen at Newmarket or
Epsom, and here again were the racing men, whose names are
met with everywhere in England.
As the day grew apace, the swarms of people became more
densely packed until all classes of the sporting multitude were
represented.
Sauntering this way, where I stand in a shady spot with my
American friend, are two “heavy swells,” dressed in the height
of fashion, and mincing their vowels in a feminine manner; yet
effeminate as their language sounds, they are both massive-look-
ing fellows, and now I recollect having seen both leaning out of
the bow window of the Guard’s Club, in Pall Mall, and one of the
pair I have also noticed trooping his company at St. James’
Palace, at the unusually early hour — for him — of nine o’clock of
a summer’s morning.
Men are gambling, and singing, and eating, and drinking, and
betting shillings and sovereigns all around us, and my companion
seems stunned by the noise and uproar, as we move from place to
place seeking a quiet nook where we may commune together.
There is suddenly a discordant hum and a party of strolling
minstrels halt before a carriage and commence to serenade the
fair lady listeners, who fling sixpences to them languidly. These
minstrels have their faces blacked, and are appareled in hideous
check coats with very small bodies, and have very large buttons
sewed on to the skirts, which are ornamented with ridiculously
long tails. The songs generally sung by those wretched minstrels,
are slangy and sound senseless to an American’s ear.
The course was lined and packed with every known manner
of vehicle and equipage. Many of the turn-outs were adorned
with the crests of noble families, and some few bore the princely
cognizances of great Continental houses.
One of these large, roomy, and handsomely-constructed, open
barouches, drawn by four gray horses, served as a focus for many
glances drawn toward it. Some of the glances bestowed on the
female occupants of the handsome barouche were very unfriendly
— and when some proud patrician girl rode by, her eyes shot fire at
the borrowed splendor of the three Scarlet Women, who reclined
lazily upon the softly-cushioned seats, and no less hostile were the
glances thrown on the graceful wavy figure of the handsome girl
who sat her thorough-bred and silken-eared and shapely chestnut
bay mare by the side of the barouche, and who bent over like
a reed to chat with the principal female figure leaning back on
the cushions.
I looked at these four gaily dressed, handsome women, with
their loud chatty manners, their indescribably bold flashes of the
eye, their familiar and free conversation with the titled fools and
giddy young lordlings, and baronets and rich young commoners,
and as I looked I saw these four women represented the Great
Social Plague Spot of England. While I looked, a police inspector
from London whom I knew, who had come down to keep an eye
on the race crowd, sauntered over to where we stood and in-
formed us as to the character of the magnificently attired women.
“They are the four gayest women in England, Sir,” said he.
“Those four ladies are ‘Mabel Grey,’ ‘Anonyma,’ ‘Baby Hamilton,’
and ‘Alice Gordon.”
“Mabel Grey?” said my friend, “I think I’ve heard of her
before — which is she?”
“That’s her, Sir, as is sitting back in the front seat with a plate
of chicken on her lap, with the golden butterflies in her lace
bonnet, and the splendid diamond cross hanging from her neck—
that’s the gal with the blue eyes and auburn hair. The gal that’s
holding the long necked green glass for that swell to pour cham-
pagne into it, is “Baby Hamilton “— ah, she is a wild one — many’s
the thousand pounds the young Jook of Hamilton squandered on
her, and so did the poor Marquis of Hastings, poor fellow — wuss
for him. The finest looking gal of all is that “Anonyma” gal — they
say it means “No Name,” but I know she has a name, for it used to
be Kate Bellingham when she came to London first. Oh, she’s
a high blooded one — just look at how she sits that chestnut mare
— I’ll warrant you that mare would bring six hundred guineas at
Tattersall’s — if she’d bring a pound — ye won’t ketch her drinking
in public, she’s too proud of herself to do that — no, Sir, she
wouldn’t be seen taking a drink from the Prince of Wales him-
self at a public place like the Race Course. Now there’s Alice
Gordon, she’s a quiet, orderdly, young creature, and as pretty as
a peach, poor little thing — God help her — she never knew a
mother’s care, and she was lost for want of a kind word and a
loving heart to guide her young steps.”
Now the saddling bell has rung amid the greatest excitement,
and the multitude who have been flirting, eating, and drinking,
betting and playing at divers games of chance, become suddenly
hushed, and a great quiet comes over the populated fields, as the
jockeys ride forth to the starting point, five famous horses held in
the leash and straining their necks with eagerness for the race,
The ladies of the demi-monde settled themselves well forward in
their seats.
Listen to that cheer and long-continued shout! They are off,
they are off; and the whole vast swarm of human beings is
aroused. The ladies clap their hands and utter weak sounds of
joy or distress, and the cadgers, tramps, and more polished pick-
pockets, are now beginning to reap their harvest in the midst of
the excitement and mounting frenzy.
The race is a two-mile stretch, and only five horses are entered.
The prize is the Goodwood Cup, valued at three hundred
sovereigns.
“Anonyma,” whose chestnut was pawing the turf in a frisky
manner, grips the bridle of the blooded mare, and pulls hardily
at her mouth. A number of roughs around a booth salute her with
not very choice language, and the blood mantles in her cheek as
a coarse blackguard repeats an opprobious epithet, and before he
can draw back she lays his cheek open with her dainty riding-
whip, and giving the mare more rope, the crowd opens wide for
her with a cheer, and she dashes across the Course on a canter,
just as Baron Rothschild’s jockey riding “Restitution,” with his
silken cap flying in the wind, sweeps by. The great banker’s
jockey swerving aside from his course, wins, by a miracle;
“Restitution” having been for a moment blinded by the long skirts
of “Anonyma,” in her mad canter across the turf, and now there
is a huzza, and a rending, wild hurricane, of applause, as Roth-
schild’s colors go forward to the Weighing Stand, and “Restitu-
tion” is pronounced winner of the Goodwood Cup of 1869.
Now the principal race of the day is ended, and great acclaim
having been given to the victor, the crowds disintegrate and
separate into little knots for refreshments, and hard-faced fellows,
in flashy costumes, may be seen puffing from capacious pockets,
greasy wallets, to settle their debts of “honor,” and much beer
is drunk among the humble people, and floods of costly wines are
poured out in drags and dog-carts, and bright eyes and smiling
lips meet one everywhere, and there is a clatter of knives and
forks, and a popping of corks in the vicinity of the carriages
occupied by the Scarlet Women of London, who are here to-day
in swarms, and who are caressed and welcomed as if their posi-
tion was assured and the dark shadow of a Shameful Life had not
fallen upon them.
Leaning over the side of the drag, and talking to Mabel Grey,
are three of the “fastest” young men in England, Lord Arthur
Pelham Clinton (since dead), Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and the
Duke of Newcastle, brother to Lord Arthur. All three are bank-
rupt in fortune as well as in morality. Lord Arthur’s mother, a
daughter of the former Duke of Hamilton, dishonored her hus-
band, and there seems to be a taint in the blood of the young
noble, who has been living on his wits for years. He is a languid-
looking fellow, and does not look as if he could fall-to and saw
a load of wood.
Just under the shadow of the wide-spreading beech-tree, where
the drag is stationed, an itinerant preacher is about to commence
a phillipic against Vice and Crime. He could not have chosen
a better location than this, where the ears of these Painted
Women may be filled by him with some truths that they seldom
seek after.
“Alice Gordon,” fair-haired blonde, with the deep blue eyes,
condescends to bestow a glance at the preacher, who, now that he
is beginning to draw a crowd by his fiery invective, and denuncia-
tory language, directs a look of scorn and pity at the Lost Women
in the drag. The crowd, who naturally dislike women of the class
of Lais and Aspasia, give encouragement to the squat-figured and
harshly-spoken Boanerges. The swells round the drag, who are
now joined by Sir Frederick Johnstone, advise the Scarlet Women
to tell the coachman to whip up the horses and “drive the
dwag away from that beastly preacher — the howid little boah.”
The preacher thunders at them, “Go, you gaudy libertines, with
your harlots and your women of Sodom, England is cursed with
such as you. But God will punish you all, and will smite you in
your hour of pride.”
“Baby Hamilton,” one of the women in the drag, shudders at
these words and grows pale, while “Anonyma,’ who canters up
easily on her chestnut, asks Sir Frederick Johnstone:
“Did you pull off a pot of money on “Brigantine,” Sir
Frederick?”
“No, the doose of it was I lost two thousand on my own horse.
But I hedged and took ‘Restitution’ against the field, so I am not
so badly plucked.”
And this is the entertainment and conversation of some of the
hereditary rulers of England. Pardon me, readers, if I have
brought you into such loose and unprincipled company. I did it
to show you who are the female companions of a majority of the
young English nobility. It is this class of young men who patronise
these Social Pariahs, and look with contempt upon the manners
of a respectable girl, and vote the conversation of virtuous women
as a bore.
That woman with the sunny smile, laying back in the drag,
toying with her fan — Mabel Grey — was, five years ago, a
wretchedly-paid working girl, who eked out an existence as a
shoe-binder, in a shop in Oxford street, London, on a pittance
of seven shillings a week. Now, the diamonds on her fingers
would purchase a comfortable villa, and around her throat, which
is white as alabaster, is a necklace of pearls, that cost the Prince
of Wales five thousand pounds, it is said. She rides every day in
Rotten Row, the famous ride and fashionable drive in Hyde Park,
and her skirts often touch the garments of the Princess of Wales
as they pass each other in the crowded Row. And certainly the
Princess has no reason to look kindly at Mabel Grey. Mother
to five children, and daughter of the Vikings, with clear unsullied
Norse blood in her veins, she may well question herself, when
alone, “Why did I marry a profligate and a blackguard?”
Mabel Grey is the original of Boucicault’s “Formosa,” and it
was she who gave a name to Dan Godfrey’s famous “Mabel
Waltz.” Godfrey is the leader of the Guard’s band, and the
musician thought that it would be received as a delicate compli-
ment by his aristocratic patrons, to call a delicious piece of dance
music by the Christian name of the chief of England’s Hetairae.
In every shop-window the features of Mabel Grey are flaunted
at one along with the portraits of Nillson, Patti, the Queen, the
Princess of Wales, and other virtuous and good women. You may meet
her and “Anonyma” at the Opera, at the Chiswick Flower Show,
at Kensington Gardens, and other fashionable resorts, mingling
unrebuked among the noblest ladies in the land. She has a sumptuous
villa at St. John’s Wood, a suburb of London, and in her stables are
constantly kept twelve to fifteen blooded animals for the saddle or for
driving — these horses being the gifts of her numerous aristocratic admirers.
At Ascot she induced the Prince of Wales to bet on a certain horse,
whereby he lost the nice little sum of £20,000.
And it is this bold, brazen, and bad woman, who divides the heart of the
Prince of Wales with the Princess Alexandra, his lawful wife and mother
of his children, the other half being owned by Mabel Grey, together with
his pocket-book, which he is mostapt to keep closed to all others.
She was the cause of the ruin of Captain Milbanke, of the
Guards, and she has destroyed dozens of young men in their
fortunes, social position, and masculine character.
“Anonyma” is, in many respects, a different woman from Mabel
Grey. This celebrated Lorette, unlike her frail sisters, has a taste,
or perhaps affects to have a taste, for literature. Originally a
clergyman’s daughter and born and bred in Sussex, she had, when
she came first to London, all the charms of a fresh country
girl, and, although exposed for a long time to temptation in her
station as a governess in the family of a rich commoner, whose
name is now often before the public, she held on her way firmly
as she could, and would have succeeded had not she met a man
who outraged her by a false or mock marriage.
The poor girl, whose real name is Brandling, when she found
that she was deserted with a few pounds in her pocket, went
almost mad. But she had to starve or else become what she is now.
Her father, overworked in his curacy of £150 a year, and having
a family of five children, refused to admit her to his home, and
gave as a reason that it would be setting a bad example to his
parishioners, which he, as a minister of the Gospel, could not do.
Driven from her birthplace, with despair in her heart, she fled
to London, and, sinking at once into the slough of iniquity, was
not heard of for a year, when she emerged in grandeur at the
opera in the company of a wealthy banker, who has since failed
and fled the country.
The girl, from her reticent disposition, her lady-like manner,
and the mystery attending her appearance in the world — no
one being able to tell her exact position — received the name of
“Anonyma” from the Saturday Review. Unlike the other women
of her types, this girl was never formerly seen in the company of
any woman whose position was affected by the slightest breath of
reproach. In the Park she never made acquaintances, and all
notes sent to her were sent back to the writers. To become
acquainted with “Anonyma,” though the seeker after her intimacy
were a prince, it was necessary to have a formal introduction
to the lady.
The “Kitten” is a young lady well known at the Cremorne
Gardens for her expensive suppers, loud voice, and magnificent
pony carriage, before which she drives sometimes a brace of
Shetland ponies, three in a tandem, I saw her at the Ascot Races
in company with Mabel Grey, the “Kitten” being mounted on a
splendid roan, which she managed with the skill of an old army
officer, and a dozen men belonging to the best known clubs in
London were clustering about her, and assisting her to luncheon,
looking after the wine, or doing a hundred little errands which
women of her character always find for men to do in a public
place. The “Kitten” is a blonde, with black eyes, a pretty, babyish
face, a dimpled chin, a profusion of golden hair which is not dyed,
and a capital seat in the saddle. She is always gloved to a nicety,
and her ensemble is of the best kind. She has a pert fashion of
saying sharp or impudent things, and this seems to be the chief
accomplishment of all this class of shameless women. They know
the stable-talk and the slang of the betting ring, and of the hunt,
but nothing more. The “Kitten,” five years ago — she is now 22 —
was a coryphee in a ballet of a London theatre, at the magnificent
salary of fifteen shillings a week, and now she has an annuity of
£2,000 settled upon her by a young fool of a lord, who has no
better use for his money.
The wardrobe of Alice Gordon, another of the Hetairae, is
valued at £12,000. She is a brilliant horsewoman.
“Baby Hamilton” is another celebrity of the Half-World. Many
stories are told about the recklessness of this girl. She forced her
way to a meeting in one of the shires when the hounds were all
assembled, and followed the hunt, despite the remonstrances of
the master, and regardless of the fact that more than half the
ladies who were present left the field on her appearance in a
hunting costume. She made a bet while in Paris with a wild young
duke that she would get a recognition from the Empress Eugenie.
The stake was a thoroughbred of the young duke’s which she
desired to have for her own use. The bet was made, and while the
Empress was riding in the Bois, the “Baby,” magnificently dressed
and mounted, placed herself in the way of the Empress, and
bowed quite reverentially. The Empress looked at her for an
instant, and, thinking that it was some English lady of rank,
bowed very graciously in return. The young duke — who is, by the
way, a relative of the Empress by marriage — saw the salutation.
It was too good to keep, and accordingly, before the next night,
the “Baby” had to leave Paris, by order of the Prefect of Police.
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 10 May 2006 )
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