TRAGIC END

Gisborne Times, Volume LXXIII, Issue 11955, 27 May 1933, Page 5

TRAGIC END

HORATIO BOTTOMLEY DEAD

NOTABLE FIGURE IN WAR ’" TIME. I FROM AFFLUENCE TO POVERTY, WORRIED OVER REFUSAL OF* OLD AGE -PENSION. (U.P.A. by Elec. Tel. Copyrighl) (Received May 26, 11.50 p.m.) LONDON, May 26. The death lias occurred of Mr. Horatio Bottomley, a former wellknown figure, and founder of “John Bull.” '• Airs. Lowe, Air. Bottomley’s lifelong friend, says that death was hastened by the cruel refusal of the old age pension.

NOT’ENOUGH!

BOTTOMLEY AND HIS PENSION. .. RECALLS HIS CHAMPAGNE DAYS. Iu the London Daily Mail last month the following special article appeared: Mr. lioratio Bottomley is an Old Ago Pensioner. Ten shillings a week from the State. “Not enough to live on,” Jie says, “and you, of course, may not sec the necessity for my living at all. But I can think of one or two reasons why I should like lo live a couple of years longer.” Air. Bottomley is 73. He is living at present with friends in a Bloomsbury square, and has no immediate plans for his future. Prolonged illness has left him a little frail and deaf. “But iny. memory,” lie will tell you pointedly, “is" still very good indeed.”

He has little to sav about this matter of the pension. “I can t talk about it,” ho said, “I haven’t even got it yet. And I caii’t tell you about any I’iiture ’plan.s at present because 1 haven’t made any.

‘“But I can’t really believe” —he smiled wryly—“that Mr. PI. B. is going to end like this.”

THE SPOON LAY IDLE, He was sitting at a little table, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown fastened across the throat with a safety pin. Ris hair, long and white, lav over the collar of it.

“You don’t mind, do you,’’ he said “If I finish my pudding while we talk? I don't eat- very much, you know, but I’m fond of cold plum pudding.” He ate it slowly, and once he had begun to talk forgot it, and the spoon lay idle in Ins fingers. “[’m not asking for sympathy,” lie said. “All the same. I’ve been inun-dated—-inundated —with kind letters from hundreds of people. Aou know (or perhaps you dou t know, you re too young to remember before the war), I had the biggest following of any man in England, and they ha\o not forgotten me.

“They write lo me all the time, especially the people in Hacklier the constituency I represented in Parliament a good many years ago. They write and tell ine about their children, and about what’s wrong with tlie mangle . . .” He paused and then sighed and picked up his spoon again.

AN EXTRAORDINARY LIFE. “L wouldn’t like this to be the end of me,” he said, “though Ive hud an. extraordinary life. 1 could have got anywhere—-been anything il' I hadn’t made a fool of myself. “But as to that.” lie added confidentially, “if you knew all I know about certain matters, you wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen sitting talking to me.” He put on a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez and looked for a moment alriiost dike the Bottomlcy of ten years ago. “I’vo been a great personality, ho said simply, “and that’s what the people like. Colour, something that stirs their imagination. A great personality doesn’t have to he as puie as driven show l'or the public to love him.' That’s what 1 was, a gieat personality. ...”

THE' OLD ASSURANCE. lie took off his glasses and brooded. Suddenly lie apologised for liis “dirty, unshaven condition.” “I’m not well,” he said. But his old assurance had not entirely deserted him.

“I promise' you,” he Said, “that if a great meeting were advertised at the Albert Hall this week, to discuss —oh, anything—the present silly disarmament situation, for instance, and the speakers were to Lloyd Ceorgc, Ramsay MacDonald, Baldwin and Miv Bottomlcy . - I dare promise you I’d get tho most enthusiastic reception and the greatest applause. “That’s an impudent thing to have said, my dear, but I believe it, and when I can still believe in my following to that extent, it’s a rather wonderful thing. ’ ’ His mind went back ot the war days. “They used to call John Bull the ‘Soldier’s Bible,’ you know, he said seriously. “Do you remember me in those days? I really did wonderful work. “Kitchener said to me himself, several times, tjiat I alone had made his Army. ‘Nino out of ten in'Kitchener’s Army are Bottohiley s men, he said. Those wore liis very words.

JUST A NAME.

“Yes. . . lie said, his voice dropping rather oddly, “I’ve seiit thousands of tliem to their graves.

Ilis confidence seemed suddenly to have deserted him. “So much has happened since,” ho said, and was silont. After a pause: “I’ve been doing a little work in cinemas,” he said without bitterness, “giving libido talks on my career., - - . hut I dou 1 ' if I’m Wro than a name to the younger generation. They didn t know what I was talking about.”

This little, blue-eyed old man, sitting staring with the pudding plate in. front of him, wi.sps of white hair trailing on his collar, a large safety pin fastening liis thick gown under his shrunken chin. . . was this the powerful Sir. Bottomloy one remembers' from childhood? The man who wore such massive fur collars and' always talked about patriotism, and was reputed to throwaway thousands in gilts and gambling, and always pressed champagne ovon upon the hairdresser who shaved lnm? Mr. Bottoinley, twice a millionaire, who (some said) might one day ho Prime Minister ? “1 don’t want it to end like this,” he'said, “I don’t, in many wavs. I’ve been several kinds of a fool, but I might not have come off so badly if I'hadn’t boon so loyal to my friends. That’s one of my few—very few—principles and virtues. . . loyalty to niy friends. “And tho public,” lie said carefully, “are still my friends, I think. ‘Whatever his lapses,’ they say, ‘Mr Bottomlcy did a lot of good in his time” ” ' This reflection seemed to comfort him. Ho changed tho' subject abruptly,: and shuffling through tlie papers lying - hesido liis plate began to talk shrewdly of other things'. V . : , ■ ( <