Martin Fone's Blog, page 304
February 16, 2017
On My Doorstep – Part Seventeen
The great circus raid of 1916
Circuses are somewhat infra dig these days but you can imagine in earlier and less politically correct times the frisson of excitement that would pass through a community when it was announced that a travelling show would visit the area. So it was when it was announced that a circus would pitch up on some land owned By George Doman along the Frimley Road one Monday in September 1916. Some three or four thousand were drawn to the attraction, drawn from the neighbouring villages of Frimley, Frimley Green and Camberley.
But the circus that evening would feature another attraction, not advertised on the bill board which for some would have a life-changing effect. The local army recruiting officer, Colonel Ponsonby Watts, figured that the allure of the circus would be irresistible for the youth of the area and a magnet for “eligible men who had not yet reported themselves for service”. The redoubtable Colonel put plans in foot to carry out a raid of the circus with the assistance of the local police, the special constabulary and a platoon of the Volunteer Training Corps.
The performance began at 8 o’clock and the raiding party waited in nearby Woodlands Road whilst the Colonel and Sergeant Kenward notified the proprietors of the circus of what they intended to do. The raiding party was moved into position, securing all exits from the big top and Ponsonby Watts and Kenward marched into the ring, announced to all assembled that in the name of the King they were going to examine the papers and documents of all men present of military age. They were invited to enter the ring where the inspection took place.
For some the game was up but one or two who were “shy” in the words of contemporary reports either stayed in their seats or tried to escape. One fled under the tent but was captured by three Volunteers while a female performer dressed as a man enquired whether they needed her to sign up.
The tent was lit by acetylene jets supplied by a generator at the foot of the centre tent pole. The lights suddenly went out – it was thought that someone anxious to evade detection had shut the gas supply off – and many of the women and children in the audience started to shriek and cry. A match was then thrown on the generator which started a fire, although this was quickly extinguished. Order was restored, although the gas jets could not be re-ignited and the light was so gloomy that the inspection had to be abandoned.
Sergeant Kenward then thanked the crowd for their forbearance and the coolness with which they had behaved, reminding them that what had taken place was in the national interest. To round the proceedings off, as you do, he conducted the audience in a rousing rendition of the National Anthem. The crowd then dispersed, robbed of their evening’s entertainment but given something to talk about for months to come. The newly formed B Group had the names of some 60 or so lads under the age of 18 who would soon swell their ranks.
A novel way of recruiting, for sure, and another reason for giving the circus a swerve.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: Camberley circus top raid 1916, circus used to attract army volunteers, Colonel Ponsonby Watts, Sergeant Kenward, unusual recruiting methods, Woodlands Road Camberley
February 15, 2017
Book Corner – February 2017 (2)
The Man Who Ate The Zoo – Richard Girling
I have always been fascinated by zoophagy. If there is a creature on a menu that I haven’t tasted before, then I have to try it. Often from a taste perspective I wish I hadn’t but then, as Aeschylus said, experience teaches. I would have loved an invitation to dine with the 19th century naturalist, William Buckland, who regularly treated his guests and family to meals of hedgehogs, snails, puppies and, the speciality of the house, mice on toast, a treat John Ruskin was disappointed to have missed.
With a father like that, it is no wonder that Frank, the subject of Girling’s magnificent romp of a book, would be a convert to zoophagy. As a boy he was forever catching, dissecting, cooking and eating small animals, a penchant that not only got him into the occasional scrape with the beak but also ensured that his lodgings were enveloped in the miasma of stench and decay. At Oxford, like Byron, he kept a bear (sampled after its demise) as well as a monkey and various other pets, treating his contemporaries to a running commentary as to the merits of various creatures as food. Earwigs were horribly bitter, moles disgusting and the head of a porpoise was like broiled lamp wick. He also befriended keepers at the London Zoo who would contact him when one of the animals died to see if he wanted to eat it.
There was a serious point to the zoophagy. Food famines were rife and the hunt was on to see if there were other sources of protein that could be brought to Blighty to feed the malnourished. This led to the birth of the Acclimatisation of Animals movement, of which Frank (natch) was a leading light, that tried to find species that would prosper in our climate and would be tolerable to eat. Elaborate feasts were held to try out kangaroo and sea cucumber. Buckland’s enthusiasm for exotica did have limits. He thought the 1868 campaign to promote hippohagy would not get anywhere, even though it climaxed in a dinner attended by 160 of the great and good who chomped their way through several courses of horse.
Buckland was a great conservationist and, perhaps, his most lasting legacy was the work he did, ultimately as one of Her Majesty’s Inspector of Salmon Fisheries, to understand the lifecycle of fish and the effect of pollution on their habitat. He would often be found in the rivers themselves, seeing how best a salmon might leap up a waterfall and positioning a jump exactly to suit. Alas, his enthusiasm was his undoing, a soaking fatally weakening his health.
For me, the second half of the book detailing his professional career was not as engaging as the first but that is a minor quibble. Girling’s book is well-paced, light, engaging and amusing and thoroughly recommended, if you have a spare book token over from Christmas.
And why is Buckland now forgotten? Girling posits three reasons. He was a popular scientist – he was a prolific writer using what was in those times an amusing, light touch to explain the wonders of nature. Serious scientists aren’t supposed to be popular. Secondly, he backed the wrong horse. He was not an adherent of Darwin, even though some of Buckland’s observations brought him perilously close to thinking that there may be something in this evolution nonsense but his ingrained faith made him loyal to the idea of a divine master plan. And finally, one of his last deeds was to publish a report stating that fish stocks were inexhaustible and there was no need to restrict fishing. Girling, to his credit, resists the temptation to argue that Buckland was so ill that someone else wrote the report for him. Buckland, to the last, was a creature of his time.
Filed under: Books, Culture, Science Tagged: Acclimatisation of Animals Society, Frank Buckland, hippophagy, Richard Girling, The Man Who Ate The Zoo, William Buckland, zoophagy
February 14, 2017
Gin o’Clock – Part Twenty Three
As anticipated, Santa obliged by bringing me a couple of gins to continue my exploration of the ginaissance. Both, in their different ways, reflect the trend to find diverse and unusual botanicals to give their hooch that extra bit of pizazz.
First up is Whitley Neill, a London Dry Gin which is described, according to the label, as “a handcrafted gin of exceptional quality, inspired by the captivating flavours of Africa”. The bottle is dumpy using a rather austere frosted black glass with a red image of a baobab tree in the centre and the legend, “Whitley Neill, handcrafted dry gin” underneath. It is so distinctive that you will not miss it on the supermarket shelf – a marketing coup, if there ever was one. About seven-eighths of the way down the bottle is a light brown label giving some guff about the hooch together with the all-important ABV – 43% which gives it a kick –the batch number – 20 in my case – and the signature of the creator, Johnny Neil.
Neill is from the fourth generation of the Greenall distilling family and the inspiration for this gin – the only one that comes out of the Whitley Neill stable – is his African-born wife. The African exotica is provided by the use of baobab fruit – supposed to be very good for you – and cape gooseberries to the more traditional botanical line up of juniper, coriander, lemon and orange peel, angelica root, cassia bark and orris root. The base spirit is 100% grain into which the botanicals are steeped before being distilled in an antique copper pot, using the purest of water (natch).
On removing the natural cork stopper the aroma is a delicate mix of pine and citrus, giving the sense immediately that this is going to be a classic and restrained hooch. The spirit is clear and to the taste the mix between the juniper and the other botanicals is well-balanced. Surprisingly, it seemed a little sweet and the aftertaste was prolonged and slightly peppery. The whole experience made for an extremely smooth, sophisticated and satisfying taste. It may be my taste buds but I didn’t detect any overt influence from the baobab and gooseberries – a tad disappointing – but they may have contributed to the prominent citrus and fruity effect. Mixed with a good tonic, it made a great G&T.
My second gin comes from the Greenall’s stable and is their Wild Berry Gin. Available since September 2014 it is exactly what it says on the tin, or perhaps I should say what is on the bottle – Greenall’s London Dry Gin to which has been added raspberry and blackcurrant. The fruits are added after distillation to give a fruity berry-flavoured twist to the hooch. It comes in a standard Greenall’s bottle – tall and octagonal – but the labelling is a pinky purple, giving the spirit in the bottle a pinkish hue. When poured out, though, it is clear.
The bottle comes with a screw cap and the immediate sensation to the nose is of fruit. To the taste it is rather sweet and has for me more than a hint of Ribena and whilst in the aftertaste you can sense the juniper and peppers, the overwhelming sensation is that of fruit. But then, that is what you should expect. At 37.5% ABV it is at the lower end of the strength spectrum and makes a very satisfying opener for the evening. When the weather warms up, I might consider having it with some strawberries and cream. It is that kind of gin and is distinctively different. A welcome addition to the gin family.
Until the next time, cheers!
Filed under: Gin Tagged: baobab fruit, Cape Gooseberries, ginaissance, Greenall Distillers, Greenall's Wild Berry Gin, Johnny Neill, Whitley Neill
February 13, 2017
Motivated By Curiosity And A Desire For The Truth – Part Twenty Six
The other week I suffered a minor mishap which resulted in a sharp blow to the Niagaras. Jolly painful it was too. Gentlemen of a certain disposition, I am led to believe, actually enjoy having pain inflicted on their testicles and are even induced to part with their hard-earned cash for the pleasure. Astonishing as that may seem, I have unearthed a couple of scientists who carried out a bizarre series of experiments which involved crushing their testicles with weights in the name of science.
The intrepid duo were Dr Herbert Woollard of the Department of Anatomy at St Bartholomew’s Hospital Medical School and E. Arnold Carmichael of the National Hospital Research Unit in Queen’s Square in London and an account of their experiments and eye-watering findings was published in the September 1933 edition of the Brain. What the mad-cap scientists were researching into was the phenomenon known as referred pain or reflective pain. This is where pain is perceived in a part of the body other than where the painful stimulus has occurred. Examples are where someone suffering from an angina attack would feel pain in their back, neck or shoulders rather than in their chest and where amputees attribute pain to a limb that has been amputated. As a medical phenomenon, referred pain has been acknowledged since the 1880s but there is still no definitive explanation for it.
In the early 1930s this would have seemed a fruitful area of research for Woollard and Carmichael. I have noted before that what marks out a scientist from the hoi polloi is their ability to make a massive and astonishing leap in logic to find a new and unchartered line of enquiry to explore. Their light-bulb moment was to realise that of all the internal organs the testicles were the most accessible to investigating referred pain and so they set to it.
The report is a creature of the time and so we do not know who had their balls crushed, how they were selected or whether they took it in turns. As to methodology, the victim lay spread-eagled on a table, exposing his testicles and then his colleague placed one into the pan of a scale before placing weights of varying sizes on to it. The reactions were duly noted and published. At 300 grams the victim experienced “a slight discomfort in the right groin”, at 550 grams “severe pain on the inner side of the right thigh with indefinite testicular sensation” and at 650 grams “severe testicular pain on the right-hand side of the body”.
The problem was that from the perspective of investigating referred pain, these findings were not very helpful as they had not eliminated the feeling of pain from the affected body part. So Woollard and Carmichael developed a further twist, so to speak, by numbing all the nerve endings leading to the testes. Quite how this was accomplished was not revealed in the report and so the mind is left to boggle. The experiments began again but the scientists’ ambitions were thwarted because try as they could they were unable to eliminate the pain experienced in the testicles.
So this line of enquiry shrivelled like a wrinkled prune because despite their convenience the testicles proved to be a tad too sensitive. Unsurprisingly, no other scientists have picked up the baton.
Filed under: History, Science Tagged: Edward Carmichael, forms of referred pain, Herbert Woollard, referred pain, reflective pain, scientists test reaction to weights dropped on testicles, The Brain
February 12, 2017
Offence Of The Week
Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Claire.
Claire who?
Claire Bowden, if a story I came across this week is to be believed. She was given a two month suspended prison sentence by the local beak for breaching an order prohibiting her from knocking on her neighbours’ doors in Shifnal in Shropshire.
Is that what is known as getting a bad rap?
Filed under: Humour, News Tagged: a bad rap, Claire Bowden, Shifnal, woman banned from knocking on doors
February 11, 2017
Traffic Offence Of The Week (2)
Drinkers beware – they are out to get you. I’m old enough to remember the time when our elders and betters would think nothing of having a few pints and then jump in their car and drive home. Thankfully, the introduction of the breathalyser and more robust drink driving laws put a dampener on that sort of behaviour.
After a session the sensible drinker will resort to shanks’ pony and stagger somewhat unsteadily in the general direction of their home, happy in the knowledge that they are beyond the reach of the long arm of the law. But not in Windhoek in Namibia, I read this week.
The police will treat any pedestrian who is worse for wear and involved in a traffic accident no differently than if they were a driver. A spokesperson in an attempt to justify this draconian action said “most of the time, the victims will be coming from bars and under the influence of alcohol, which makes it difficult for them to fully concentrate on the road”.
There is one chink of light, though. Drunken pedestrians involved in traffic accidents will only have the book thrown at them if they survive. So if you have one over the eight in Namibia and have a contretemps with a vehicle, make sure it kills you.
You have been warned!
Filed under: Humour, News Tagged: breathalyser, drink driving, drunk pedestrians to be treated like drunk drivers, Namibia, over, Windhoek
February 10, 2017
What Is The Origin Of (115)?…
Up to snuff
Some of us use this slightly odd phrase to denote that somebody or something is of the required standard. I have more usually found it with the negative not at the start of it, denoting, obviously, a deficiency.
The snuff in the phrase refers to powdered tobacco which was ingested up the nose, a rather peculiar habit, it always struck me, but one which was popular in the 17th to 19th centuries. You can always tell someone who has taken snuff – they are prone to bouts of volcanic sneezing fits and their handkerchiefs are smeared with brown stains. Alexander Pope penned some lines on the habit, “just where the breath of life his nostrils drew,/ a charge of snuff the wily virgin threw:/ the gnomes direct to ev’ry atom just;/ the pungent grains of titillating dust”. Another way of taking it was to rub it into the teeth and gums. Snuff was often scented with the perfume of roses, lavender, jasmine, cloves and the like. When it was first introduced snuff came ready grated but later users would buy ungrated snuff called rappee and carry graters, often in elaborately decorated boxes, to do it themselves.
The origin of the word snuff is by no means clear. It is thought that it came from the Middle Dutch verb snuffen which meant to sniff or snuffle which makes sense, I suppose. Alternatively, it may have been an abbreviation of snuftaback or sniff-tobacco.
Leaving aside the bogus medicinal properties attributed to snuff which we reviewed a while back in our discussion of Angelick snuff, aficionados of snuff claim that it gives them a brief feeling of exhilaration and a sense of well-being. The earliest sense in which our phrase was used has the sense of sharpness, being keen and alert, not easily deceived. John Poole whose usage in his play Hamlet Travestie of 1811 may be the first example in print, used it in this sense, “He knows well enough the game we’re after; zooks he’s up to snuff”.
By the time Charles Dickens came to use it some twenty-five years later in Pickwick Papers – “up to snuff, and a pinch or two over” – it had taken its modern usage of being up to standard. The pinch or two over clearly added to the sense – it was better than the standard.- and gives confirmation, if one was needed, that it is a reference to the tobacco concoction. Dickens’ phrase made an earlier appearance in the inestimable Grose’s Dictionary in which the lexicographer defines it as meaning flash. Another variant was up to snuff and twopenny. Sir Walter Scott in chapter 66 of Waverley talks of a bottle of two-penny which was the name given to the strongest beer and reflected its price for a quart. Its usage in our phrase is to reinforce the sense that everything was in order.
When the phrase crossed the pond, it had slightly changed its meaning, and was used to refer to a person’s physical condition. If you wake up feeling up to snuff, you are in good shape.
I just hope you find this post up to snuff.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: a bottle of two-penny, Alexander Pope, Angelick snuff, etymology of snuff, origin of up to snuff, rappee, snuff, up to snuff and a pinch or two over, up to snuff and twopence
February 9, 2017
Everything Is Possible For An Eccentric, Especially When He Is English – Part Two
William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, 5th Duke of Portland (1800 – 1879)
When I started researching this series I began to wonder where the point at which eccentricity ended and madness began lay. Perhaps eccentricity is the label we attach to someone who is rich enough to indulge their lunatic tendencies. A case in point would be the Fifth Duke of Portland whose eccentricities earned him the nickname, the Tunnelling Duke.
In his early years Portland showed no signs of his later eccentricity, engaging in horse racing and serving in the army and then become the Member of Parliament for King’s Lynn, a seat which he resigned in 1826. In 1834 he sought the hand of the actress, Adelaide Kemble, in marriage but she was forced to decline his overtures because she was already married. Whether this tipped him over the edge or whether he developed some form of skin complaint – some rumours suggested he suffered from some form of leprosy – he became increasingly insular and when he inherited his title on his father’s death in 1854 he resolved to have as little to do with his fellow-men.
If you were to encounter him, you would always remember him. He wore an unfashionable brown wig, a hat that was two feet tall, at least one frock coat – he often wore two – and his trouser legs were secured by a piece of string a few inches above his ankles. His outfit was topped off with a big umbrella, not because he was concerned that he would be caught in a passing shower but because he didn’t want the hoi polloi to gaze on him. If he went out he travelled in a black carriage with the blinds down (natch) and if he went by train the railway company had to supply a special carriage on to which the carriage was loaded. At the other end the carriage would be unloaded and off he went.
Portland’s gaff was Welbeck Abbey in Nottinghamshire which dated from the 12th century. He only used four of the rooms in the place and requested that the servants, upon pain of dismissal, did not recognise his presence in any way. Each of the rooms he occupied were fitted with two post boxes, one for incoming mail and the other for outgoing, his preferred method of communicating with relatives and the outside world. The rooms were painted pink and had a lavatory pan in the corner for his convenience.
Astonishingly, Portland engaged in extensive building works, spending some two to three million pounds on constructing a huge library, an enormous billiard room and the largest ballroom in the country. Quite why a notorious agoraphobe would want to build rooms for essentially public entertainment is anyone’s guess. Portland even had a tunnel constructed, one and a quarter miles long, which ran from the coach house to the railway station at Worksop so he could catch the train unobserved. At least he created employment for 15,000 locals over the 18 years of construction.
When he died Portland was buried in Kensal Green cemetery and true to form he ordered that bushes be planted around the grave so that it would be obscured from view. Even when he was six feet under that was not the end of the eccentric duke. In 1896 Anne Maria Druce claimed that her hubby who was said to have died in 1864 was none other than Portland who was leading a double life. She wanted Mr Druce’s grave opened, feeling sure it would be empty, and pressed for her son to be recognised as the 6th Duke. The unfortunate Mrs Druce was consigned to a mental institution in 1903, perhaps making my point as to the difference between eccentricity and madness.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: 5th Duke of Portland, Adelaide Kemble, Anne Maria Druce, difference between eccentricity and madness, great English eccentrics, the Tunnelling Duke, Welbeck Abbey, William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck
February 8, 2017
On My Doorstep – Part Sixteen
Prisoner Of War camps in Frimley
What to do with German internees and prisoners of war? Well, send them to Frimley Common, of course. Opposite the Brompton Sanatorium, near what is now the Pine Ridge Golf Club, was a piece of common land near Frith Hill which was used prior to the outbreak of the First World War as a venue for a number of regiments, particularly the 3rd Battalion Royal Fusiliers and the London Scottish Regiment, to hold their annual summer training camps. When war broke out it was redeployed, as the Birmingham Daily Mirror reported on 17th August 1914; “forty acres of common are being enclosed near Frimley as a compound for German suspects and prisoners of war. The outer fence is 12 feet high and the inner fence 4 feet high, both being of barbed wire”.
The first internees were German and Austrian nationals who were living in England at the outbreak of war – the Royal family being a notable exception to this draconian measure – but after the Battle of the Marne two trains arrived at Frimley station and as The Times noted on 24th September 1914, “during this week between 1,500 and 1,600 prisoners taken at the battle of the Marne have arrived at Frith Hill”. As you can imagine, their arrival piqued considerable interest in what had hitherto been a sleepy village and crowds of onlookers were attracted to the area, giving the prisoners gifts of tobacco, cakes, fruit and ginger beer.
One of the visitors to the camp was Vera Brittan who recorded her visit in Testament of Youth, “at Frimley there is a camp of German prisoners, and though one feels almost mean in going to look at them as if one were going to the zoo, yet, since it is a sight that has never been seen in England before and probably never will be again after this war, it was of too great interest to be missed. Although there is a board standing by the entrance to the camp saying that this thoroughfare is forbidden to the public, the day we were there the public were so numerous that one could hardly see the thoroughfare”. Indeed, the officer responsible for regulating traffic commented that t was busier than at Ascot Races.
There were moments of odd humour. Prisoners played up to the locals by cursing the Kaiser, no doubt to acclamation and a reward of some tobacco. When a local businessman rode up on his motor cycle in the hope of conducting some business, he was greeted by prisoner who noticing the Bosch Magneto on his machine, remarked “I see you cannot make do without some things made in Germany” But the presence of so many prisoners was an occasion for patriotic pride, both in the way they were being treated in comparison with the alleged fate of British prisoners and because of their physical condition. The Camberley News wrote an article under the headline “No need to fear the Germans”, commenting “the average physique was not as good as the average of a battalion of a British infantry”.
But there were the occasional alarums. The same paper made a volte-face when on 30th September 1916 it announced, “German Prisoners escape from Frith Hill”. Five had absconded, prompting a massive search of the area with bloodhounds in attendance. Three were eventually captured near Ascot – there is no record as to what happened to the other two.
With the signing of the Armistice in November 1918 the camp was soon emptied and life got back to normal.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: escape of German POWs from Frith Hill, Frith Hill, Frith Hill frimley, Frith Hill internment camp, Testament of Youth, Vera Brittan
February 7, 2017
The Streets Of London – Part Fifty Three
Burlington Arcade, W1
This rather ostentatious and grandiose shopping arcade dissects Piccadilly and Burlington Gardens and is somewhere I have always shepherded TOWT through at some pace because the prices of the wares on display are beyond what my plastic can bear.
It owes its origin to a group of tossers. Lord George Cavendish whose gaff was Burlington House, the premises now occupied by the Royal Academy, was getting a bit peed off with the hoi polloi who took delight in throwing their oyster shells and other bits of detritus over the wall into his garden. As you do in those circumstances, he commissioned his architect, Samuel Ware, to build an arcade of shops “for the sale of jewellery and fancy articles of fashionable demand for the gratification of the public and to give employment to industrious females” to act as a barrier.
And so on 20th March 1819 the arcade consisting of a single straight walkway with seventy-two two storey units was opened to the public. A feature of the original arcade which is retained today is the glass roofing to give light and it was the forerunner of other glazed shopping arcades such as those to be found at Saint-Hubert Gallery in Brussels and The Passage in St Petersburg.
The hoi polloi were not entirely driven away, the arcade becoming a resort for sex workers who occupied many of the second storey rooms to ply their trade and pickpockets who roamed the arcade for easy pickings. Their enterprise gave rise to two unusual features of the arcade which are still to be observed today. Firstly, it is verboten to whistle in the arcade and, secondly, the arcade has its own security force, beadles decked out in top hats and frockcoats. The beadles originally were former members of Cavendish’s old regiment, the 10th Hussars. The sex workers would whistle to alert the pickpockets of the approach of the beadles and so whistling was prohibited. The arcade and fun are clearly antonyms.
Vehicular access to the arcade is prohibited by elegant bollards at either end of the arcade. It was not ever thus. In 1964 a Jaguar Mark X tore down the arcade, causing pedestrians to take cover and six masked men jumped out. They proceeded to smash the windows of the shop of the Goldsmiths and Silversmiths Association and got away with a haul worth some £35,000, despite office workers in adjacent buildings showering them with plant pots and furniture. It was gratifying to see a return of the tossers but more substantial deterrents were required – so to prevent a recurrence, the bollards appeared.
There are now just 40 retail units in the arcade, a number of the original units being merged and you can find on sale a range of what are termed high-end (aka expensive) clothing and footwear shops as well as antique dealers and jewellers, maintaining the original remit of the arcade. Of particular note are units 52 and 53, occupied by Hancocks, who have made every one of the 1,358 Victoria Crosses awarded since 1856. They are made from a lump of metal extracted from a Chinese cannon which may have been captured from the Russians during the Crimean War. Apparently there is enough metal left to make another 80 of the medals. Let’s hope there isn’t much call for them.
Well worth a look if you are in the are but keep your hand on your wallet.
Filed under: Culture, History Tagged: beadles of Burlington Arcade, Burlington Arcade, Burlington House, can you whistle in Burlington Arcade, Hancocks makers of Victoria Cross, Lord George Cavendish, oysters shells and Burlington Arcade, Samuel Ware
