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Title: Forty Years of 'Spy'
Author: Ward, Leslie, 1851-1922
Language: English
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[Illustration: LESLIE WARD.]
FORTY YEARS OF 'SPY'
BY
LESLIE WARD
_Illustrated_
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS
PAGE
I come into the world.--The story of my ancestry.--My
mother.--Wilkie Collins.--The Collins family.--Slough and
Upton.--The funeral of the Duchess of Kent.--The marriage
of the Princess Royal.--Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the
Prince Consort.--Their visits to my parents' studios.--The
Prince of Wales.--Sir William Ross, R.A.--Westminster
Abbey.--My composition.--A visit to Astley's Theatre.--Wilkie
Collins and Pigott.--The Panopticon.--The Thames frozen over.
--The Comet.--General Sir John Hearsey.--Kent Villa.--My
father.--Lady Waterford.--Marcus Stone and Vicat Cole.--The
Crystal Palace.--Rev. J. M. Bellew.--Kyrle Bellew.--I go to
school.--Wentworth Hope Johnstone. 1
CHAPTER II
ETON AND AFTER
Eton days.--Windsor Fair.--My Dame.--Fights and Fun.--
Boveney Court.--Mr. Hall Say.--Boveney.--Professor and Mrs.
Attwell.--I win a useful prize.--Alban Doran.--My father's
frescoes.--Battle Abbey.--Gainsborough's Tomb.--Knole.--Our
burglar.--Claude Calthrop.--Clayton Calthrop.--The Gardener
as Critic.--The Gipsy with an eye for colour.--I attempt
sculpture.--The Terry family.--Private theatricals.--Sir John
Hare.--Miss Marion Terry.--Miss Ellen Terry.--Miss Kate
Terry.--Miss Bateman.--Miss Florence St. John.--Constable.--
Sir Howard Vincent.--I dance with Patti.--Lancaster Gate and
Meringues.--Prayers and Pantries. 27
CHAPTER III
MY FATHER'S FRIENDS
My father's friends.--The Pre-Raphaelites.--Plum-box painting.
--The Victorians.--The Post-Impressionists.--Maclise.--Sir
Edwin Landseer.--Tom Landseer.--Mulready.--Daniel Roberts.--
Edward Cooke.--Burgess and Long.--Frith.--Millais.--Stephens
and Holman Hunt.--Stanfield.--C. R. Leslie.--Dr. John Doran.
--Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall.--The Virtues, James and William.--
Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor.--A story of Tennyson.--Sam Lover.--
Moscheles _père et fils_.--Philip Calderon.--Sir Theodore and
LadyMartin.--Garibaldi.--Lord Crewe.--Fechter.--Joachim and
Lord Houghton.--Charles Dickens.--Lord Stanhope.--William
Hepworth Dixon.--Sir Charles Dilke. 48
CHAPTER IV
WORK AND PLAY
School-days ended.--A trip to Paris.--Versailles and the
Morgue.--I enter the office of Sydney Smirke, R.A.--Montagu
Williams and Christchurch.--A squall.--Frith as arbitrator.
--I nearly lose my life.--William Virtue to the rescue.--The
Honourable Mrs. Butler Johnson Munro.--I visit Knebworth.--
Lord Lytton.--Spiritualism.--My first picture in the Royal
Academy.--A Scotch holiday with my friend Richard Dunlop.--
Patrick Adam.--Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Lewis.--Mr. George Fox
and Harry Fox.--Sir William Jaffray.--Mr. William Cobbett.--
Adventures on and off a horse.--Peter Graham.--Cruikshank.--
Mr. Phené Spiers.--Johnston Forbes-Robertson and Irving.--
Fred Walker.--Arthur Sullivan.--Sir Henry de Bathe.--Sir
Spencer Ponsonby.--Du Maurier.--Arthur Cecil.--Sir Francis
Burnand.--The Bennett Benefit. 67
CHAPTER V
'SPY'
My coming of age.--The letter.--The Doctor's verdict.--The
Doctor's pretty daughter.--Arthur Sullivan.--"Dolly" Storey.
--Lord Leven's garden party.--Professor Owen.--Gibson Bowles.
--Arthur Lewis.--Carlo Pellegrini.--Paolo Tosti.--Pagani's.--
J. J. Tissot.--_Vanity Fair._--Some of the Contributors.--
Anthony Trollope.--John Stuart Mill.--_The World._--Edmund
Yates.--Death of Lord Lytton.--Mr. Macquoid.--Luke Fildes.--
Small.--Gregory.--Herkomer.--_TheGraphic._--Gladstone.--
Disraeli, etc. 89
CHAPTER VI
CARICATURE
Cannot be taught.--Where I stalk.--The ugly man.--The
handsome man.--Physical defects.--Warts.--Joachim Liszt and
Oliver Cromwell.--Pellegrini, Millais and Whistler.--The
characteristic portrait.--Taking notes.--Methods.--
Photography.--Tattersall's--Lord Lonsdale.--Lord Rocksavage.
--William Gillette.--Mr. Bayard.--The bald man.--The humorous
sitter.--Tyler.--Profiles.--Cavalry Officers.--The Queen's
uniform.--My subjects' wives.--What they think.--Bribery.--
Bradlaugh.--The Prince of Wales.--The tailor story.--Sir
Watkin Williams Wynn.--Lord Henry Lennox.--Cardinal Newman.
--The Rev. Arthur Tooth.--Dr. Spooner.--Comyns Carr.--Pigott.
--"Piggy" Palk and "Mr. Spy." 109
CHAPTER VII
PORTRAITURE
Some of my sitters.--Mrs. Tom Caley.--Lady Leucha Warner.--
Lady Loudoun.--Colonel Corbett.--Miss Reiss.--The late Mrs.
Harry McCalmont.--The Duke of Hamilton.--Sir W. Jaffray.--
The Queen of Spain.--Soldier sitters.--Millais.--Sir William
Cunliffe Brooks.--Holman Hunt.--George Richmond.--Sir William
Richmond.--Sir Luke Fildes.--Lord Leighton.--Sir Laurence
Alma Tadema.--Sir George Reid.--Orchardson.--Pettie.--Frank
Dicksee.--Augustus Lumley.--"Archie" Stuart Wortley.--John
Varley.--John Collier.--Sir Keith Fraser.--Sir Charles
Fraser.--Mrs. Langtry.--Mrs. Cornwallis West.--Miss Rousby.
--The Prince of Wales.--King George as a boy.--Children's
portraits.--Mrs. Weldon.--Christabel Pankhurst. 140
CHAPTER VIII
MY CLUBS
The Arts Club.--Mrs. Frith's funeral.--The sympathetic
waiter.--Swinburne.--Whistler.--Edmund Yates.--The Orleans
Club.--Sir George Wombwell.--"Hughie" Drummond.--"Fatty"
Coleman.--Lady Meux.--The Prize Fighter and her nephew.--The
Curate.--The Theobald's Tiger.--Whistler and his pictures.--
Charles Brookfield.--Mrs. Brookfield.--The Lotus Club.--Kate
Vaughan.--Nellie Farren.--The Lyric Club.--The Gallery Club.
--Some Members.--The Jockey Club Stand.--My plunge on the
turf.--The Beefsteak Club.--Toole and Irving.--The Fielding
Club.--Archie Wortley.--Charles Keene.--The Amateur Pantomime.
--Some of the caste.--Corney Grain.--A night on Ebury Bridge.
--The Punch Bowl Club.--Oliver Wendell Holmes.--Lord Houghton
and the herring. 161
CHAPTER IX
THE LAW
The Inspiration of the Courts.--Montagu Williams.--Lefroy.--
The De Goncourt case.--Irving.--Sir Frank Lockwood.--Dr.
Lampson, the poisoner.--Mr. Justice Hawkins.--The Tichborne
case.--Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush.--The Druce
case.--The Countess of Ossington.--The Duke's portrait.--
My models.--The Adventuress.--The insolent omnibus conductor.
--I win my case.--Sir George Lewis.--The late Lord Grimthorpe.
--Sir Charles Hall.--Lord Halsbury.--Sir Alfred Cripps (now
Lord Parmoor).--Sir Herbert Cozens-Hardy.--Lord Robert Cecil.
--The late Sir Albert de Rutzen.--Mr. Charles Gill.--Sir
Charles Matthews.--Lord Alverstone.--Mr. Birrell.--Mr. Plowden.
--Mr. Marshall Hall.--Mr. H. C. Biron. 194
CHAPTER X
THE CHURCH AND THE VARSITIES--PARSONS OF MANY
CREEDS AND DENOMINATIONS
Dean Wellesley.--Dr. James Sewell.--Canon Ainger.--Lord
Torrington.--Dr. Goodford.--Dr. Welldon.--Dr. Walker.--The
Van Beers' Supper.--The Bishop of Lichfield.--Rev. R. J.
Campbell.--Cardinal Vaughan.--Dr. Benson, Archbishop of
Canterbury.--Dr. Armitage Robinson.--Varsity Athletes.--
Etherington-Smith.--John Loraine Baldwin.--Ranjitsinhji.--
Mr. Muttlebury.--Mr. "Rudy" Lehmann. 218
CHAPTER XI
IN THE LOBBY
In the House.--Distinguished soldiers.--The main Lobby.--The
Irish Party.--Isaac Butt.--Mr. Mitchell Henry.--Parnell and
Dillon.--Gladstone and Disraeli.--Lord Arthur Hill.--Lord
Alexander Paget.--Viscount Midleton.--Mr. Seely.--Lord
Alington's cartoon.--Chaplains of the "House"--Rev. F. E. C.
Byng.--Archdeacon Wilberforce.--The "Fourth Party."--Lord
Northbrook and Col. Napier Sturt.--Lord Lytton.--The method
of Millais.--Lord Londonderry. 236
CHAPTER XII
VOYAGE ON H.M.S. _HERCULES_
Sir Reginald Macdonald's caricature.--H.R.H. the Duke of
Edinburgh's invitation.--The _Lively_.--The _Hercules_.--
Admiral Sir William Hewitt.--Irish excursions.--The Channel
Squadron.--Fishing party at Loch Brine.--The young Princes
arrive on the _Bacchante_.--Cruise to Vigo.--The "Night
Alarm."--The Duke as _bon voyageur_.--Vigo.--The birthday
picnic.--A bear-fight on board the _Hercules_.--Homeward
bound.--Good-bye.--The Duke's visit to my studio. 252
CHAPTER XIII
YACHTSMEN--FOREIGN RULERS
Sir Reginald Macdonald's caricature.--H.R.H. the Duke of
Edinburgh's invitation.--The _Lively_.--The _Hercules_.--
Admiral Sir William Hewitt.--Irish excursions.--The Channel
Squadron.--Fishing party at Loch Brine.--The young Princes
arrive on the _Bacchante_.--Cruise to Vigo.--The "Night
Alarm."--The Duke as _bon voyageur_.--Vigo.--The birthday
picnic.--A bear-fight on board the _Hercules_.--Homeward
bound.--Good-bye.--The Duke's visit to my studio. 252
CHAPTER XIV
MUSICIANS--AUTHORS--ACTORS AND ARTISTS
Wagner.--Richter.--Dan Godfrey.--Arthur Cecil.--Sir Frederick
Bridge and bombs.--W. S. Penley.--Sir Herbert Tree.--Max
Beerbohm.--Mr. and Mrs. Kendal.--Henry Kemble.--Sir Edgar
Boehm.--George Du Maurier.--Rudyard Kipling.--Alfred Austin.
--William Black.--Thomas Hardy.--W. E. Henley.--Egerton Castle.
--Samuel Smiles.--Farren.--Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft.--Dion
Boucicault and his wife.--Sir Charles Wyndham.--Leo Trevor.--
Cyril Maude.--William Gillette.--The late Dion Boucicault.--
Arthur Bourchier.--Allan Aynesworth.--Charlie Hawtrey.--The
Grossmiths.--H. B. Irving.--W. L. Courtney.--Willie Elliot.--
"Beau Little."--Henry Arthur Jones.--Gustave Doré.--J. MacNeil
Whistler.--Walter Crane.--F. C. G.--Lady Ashburton and her
forgetfulness. 283
CHAPTER XV
NOTABLE PEERS--TANGIER--THE TECKS
Peers of the Period.--My Voyage to Tangier.--Marlborough House
and White Lodge. 303
CHAPTER XVI
MARRIAGE--SOME CLERICS--FAREWELL TO _VANITY FAIR_
My engagement and marriage to Miss Topham-Watney.--"Drawl"
and the Kruger cartoon.--"The General Group."--Field-Marshal
Lord Roberts.--Archbishops Temple and Randall Davidson.--The
Bishop of London.--Archbishop of York.--Canon Fleming.--Lord
Montagu of Beaulieu.--Lord Salisbury's cartoon.--Mr. Asquith.
--Joe Knight.--Lord Newlands.--Four great men in connection
with Canada.--The Queen of Spain.--Princess Beatrice of
Saxe-Coburg.--General Sir William Francis Butler, G.C.B.--Mr.
Witherby.--Farewell to _Vanity Fair_. 321
CHAPTER XVII
A HOLIDAY MISFORTUNE--ROYAL PORTRAITS--FAREWELL
Belgium.--Accident at Golf.--Portraits of King George V, the
Duke of Connaught, Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Lloyd George, Mr.
Garvin.--Portrait painting of to-day.--Final reflections.
--Farewell. 332
ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
PAGE
Mr. Charles Cox (Banker), 1881 47
The Marquis of Winchester, 1904 61
Sir Alfred Scott-Gatty (Garter King-at-Arms, 1905) 71
Lord Haldon, 1882 138
Admiral Sir Compton Domville, 1906 160
Miss Christabel Pankhurst 160
F. R Spofforth (Demon Bowler), 1878 232
Mr. Gladstone, 1887 239
Sir Albert Rollit, 1886 248
The Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Temple, 1902 324
The Marquis of Salisbury, 1902 326
IN HALF-TONE
Leslie Ward _Frontispiece_
James Ward, R.A. 2
James Ward's Mother 2
Miniature of my sister Alice and myself
painted by Sir William Ross, R.A. 12
My Father 14
My Mother 14
Cartoons from _Punch_, 1865 22
Sir William Broadbent, 1902 31
Sir Thomas Barlow, 1903 31
Sir James Paget, Bart., 1876 31
Gainsborough's Tomb at Kew Churchyard and Tablet to
his Memory Inside Church 35
My Brother, Wriothesley Russell, 1872 37
My Sister, Beatrice, 1874 37
Bust of my Brother, Wriothesley Russell, 1867 39
My Daughter Sylvia 39
John Everett Millais, R.A., 1874 55
C. R. Leslie, R.A. (my Godfather) 55
Lord Houghton, 1882 66
Fred Archer, 1881 66
The Duke of Beaufort, _cir._ 1895 66
First Lord Lytton (Bulwer Lytton), 1869 77
Mr. George Lane Fox, 1878 83
Lord Portman, 1898 83
Duke of Grafton, 1886 83
Sir William Jaffray, Bart. 88
Sir William Crookes, 1903 93
Sir Oliver Lodge, 1904 93
Sir William Huggins, 1903 93
Professor Owen, 1873 93
Thomas Gibson Bowles, 1905 94
Colonel Hall Walker, 1906 94
Colonel Fred Burnaby, 1876 94
Pellegrini Asleep, etc., cir. 1889 99
John Tenniel, 1878 105
Anthony Trollope, 1873 105
Sir Francis Doyle, Bart., 1877 105
"Miles Bugglebury," 1867 108
J. Redmond, M.P., 1904 113
The Speaker (J. W. Lowther, M.P.), 1906 113
Bonar Law, M.P., 1905 113
Henry Kemble, 1907 119
H. Beerbohm Tree, 1890 119
Gerald du Maurier, 1907 119
William Gillette, 1907 119
Fifth Earl of Portsmouth, 1876 123
Major Oswald Ames (Ozzie), 1896 123
Earl of Lonsdale, 1879 123
The Rev. R. J. Campbell, 1904 127
Sterling Stuart, 1904 127
Father Bernard Vaughan, 1907 127
Canon Liddon, 1876 133
Cardinal Newman, 1877 133
The Dean of Windsor (Wellesley), 1876 133
Dr. Jowett, 1876 135
Dr. Spooner, 1898 135
Professor Robinson Ellis, 1894 135
Buckstone, and other Sketches 140
Mrs. George Rigby Murray 144
A Study 144
The Hon. Mrs. Adrian Pollock 144
A Midsummer-Night's Dream 151
Grand Prix 151
The Beefsteak Club 164
George Grossmith and Corney Grain, 1888 179
C. Birch Crisp, 1911 187
Oliver Locker Lampson, M.P., 1911 187
Weedon Grossmith, 1905 187
The Forty Thieves: programme and photographs 189
Johnny Giffard; Alfred Thompson; Corney Grain; "Tom" Bird;
Corney Grain at Datchet; Pellegrini 191
Augustus Helder, M.P.; Madame Rachel; Lord Ranelagh; Beal,
M.P.; Barnum; First Lord Cowley; Sir H. Cozens-Hardy; The
Dean of Christchurch; Sir Roderick Murcheson 199
Lord Coleridge, 1870 211
Mr. Justice Cozens-Hardy, 1893 211
H. C. Biron, 1907 211
E. S. Fordham, 1908 211
Charles Williams-Wynn, M.P., 1879 215
Sir James Ingham, 1886 215
Lord Vivian (Hook and Eye), 1876 215
Sir Albert de Rutzen, 1909 217
Mr. Plowden, 1910 217
Canon Ainger, 1892 222
16th Marquis of Winchester, 1904 222
Archdeacon Wilberforce, 1909 222
Rev. J. L. Joynes, 1887 225
Dr. Warre Cornish, 1901 225
Dr. Goodford, 1876 225
Rev. R. J. Campbell, 1904 231
Sam Loates, 1896 234
Arthur Coventry, 1881 234
Frank Wootton, 1909 234
Fordham, 1882 234
"Dizzy" and "Monty" Corry (Lord Rowton), 1880 241
Campbell-Bannerman and Fowler, 1892 247
Gladstone and Harcourt, 1892 247
Lords Spencer and Ripon, 1892 247
The Fourth Party, 1881 251
Baron Deichmann, 1903 253
W. Bramston Beach, M.P., 1895 253
"Sam" Smith, M.P., 1904 253
Percy Thornton, M.P., 1900 253
Seventh Earl of Bessborough, 1888 261
Rev. F. H. Gillingham, 1906 261
Archdeacon Benjamin Harrison, 1885 261
"Charlie" Beresford, 1876 268
Admiral Sir John Fisher, 1902 268
Admiral Sir Regd. Macdonald, 1880 268
Captain Jellicoe, 1906 268
King Edward VII, 1902 270
Sir John Astley 276
"Jim" Lowther, M.P., 1877 276
Peter Gilpin, 1908 276
Earl of Macclesfield, 1881 276
Chinese Ambassador (Kuo Sung Tuo), 1877 280
Ras Makonnen, 1903 280
Chinese Ambassador (Chang Ta Jen), 1903 280
Richard Wagner, 1877 285
The Abbé Liszt, 1886 285
Kubelik, 1903 286
Sir Frederick Bridge, 1904 286
Paderewski, 1899 286
Sir Edgar Boehm, Bart., R.A., 1884; and the brass
on Sir Edgar Boehm's Tomb 290
Sir Henry Lucy, 1909 292
W. S. Gilbert, 1881 292
W. E. Henley, 1892 292
Rudyard Kipling, 1894 292
From Nursery Rhyme Sketches; Rt. Hon. "Bobby" Low;
Mr. Justice Lawrence; Danckwerts, K.C.; the late
Lord Chief Justice Cockburn; a Smile from Nature;
Henry Irving 297
Lord Newlands, 1909 306
Count de Soveral, 1898 306
M. Gennadius, 1888 306
General Sir H. Smith Dorrien, 1911 313
Lord Roberts, 1900 313
Lord Kitchener, 1899 313
Lloyd George, 1911 318
Asquith, 1904 318
Rufus Isaacs, 1904 318
My Daughter 322
My Wife 322
Joseph Knight, and a facsimile letter 326
Princess Ena of Battenberg, 1906 330
Sketches drawn in September, 1899, by Mr. A. G. Witherby 332
M. P. Grace, Esq., Battle Abbey 340
IN LINE
Cruikshank's Autograph 86
Facsimile of a Whistler letter 299
"Smile, damn you, smile!" 334
FORTY YEARS OF 'SPY'
CHAPTER I
EARLY DAYS
I come into the world.--The story of my ancestry.--My
mother.--Wilkie Collins.--The Collins family.--Slough and
Upton.--The funeral of the Duchess of Kent.--The marriage
of the Princess Royal.--Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the
Prince Consort.--Their visits to my parents' studios.--The
Prince of Wales.--Sir William Ross, R.A.--Westminster
Abbey.--My composition.--A visit to Astley's Theatre.--Wilkie
Collins and Pigott.--The Panopticon.--The Thames frozen over.
--The Comet.--General Sir John Hearsey.--Kent Villa.--My
father.--Lady Waterford.--Marcus Stone and Vicat Cole.--The
Crystal Palace.--Rev. J. M. Bellew.--Kyrle Bellew.--I go to
school.--Wentworth Hope Johnstone.
In the course of our lives the monotonous repetition of daily routine
and the similarity of the types we meet make our minds less and less
susceptible to impressions, with the result that important events and
interesting _rencontres_ of last year--or even of last week--pass from
our recollection far more readily than the trifling occurrences and
casual acquaintanceships of early days. The deep indentations which
everything makes upon the memory when the brain is young and
receptive, when everything is novel and comes as a surprise, remain
with most men and women throughout their lives. I am no exception to
this rule; I remember, with extraordinary clearness of vision,
innumerable incidents, trivial perhaps in themselves, but infinitely
dear to me. They shine back across the years with a vivid outline, the
clearer for a background of forgotten and perhaps important events now
lost in shadow.
I was born at Harewood Square, London, on November 21st, 1851, and I
was named after my godfather, C. R. Leslie, R.A., the father of George
Leslie, R.A.
My father, E. M. Ward, R.A., the only professional artist of his
family, and the nephew by marriage of Horace Smith (the joint author
with James Smith of "The Rejected Addresses"), fell in love with Miss
Henrietta Ward (who, although of the same name, was no relation), and
married her when she was just sixteen. My mother came of a long line
of artists. Her father, George Raphael Ward, a mezzotint engraver and
miniature painter, also married an artist who was an extremely clever
miniature painter. John Jackson, R.A., the portrait painter in
ordinary to William IV., was my mother's great-uncle, and George
Morland became related to her by his marriage with pretty Anne Ward,
whose life he wrecked by his drunken profligacy. His treatment of his
wife, in fact, alienated from Morland men who were his friends, and
amongst them my great-grandfather, James Ward (who, like my father,
married a Miss Ward, an artist and a namesake). James Ward, R.A., was
a most interesting character and an artist of great versatility. As
landscape, animal, and portrait painter, engraver, lithographer, and
modeller, his work shows extraordinary ability. In his early days
poverty threatened to wreck his career, but although misfortune
hindered his progress, he surmounted every obstacle with magnificent
courage and tenacity of purpose. On the subject of theology, his
artistic temperament was curiously intermingled with his faith, but
when he wished to embody his mysticism and ideals in paint, he failed.
On the other hand, we have some gigantic masterpieces in the Tate and
National Galleries which I think will bear the test of time in their
power and excellence. "Power," to quote a contemporary account of
James' life, "was the keynote of his work, he loved to paint mighty
bulls and fiery stallions, picturing their brutal strength as no one
has done before or since." He ground his colours and manufactured his
own paints, made experiments in pigments of all kinds, and "Gordale
Scar" is a proof of the excellence of pure medium. The picture was
painted for the late Lord Ribblesdale, and when it proved to be too
large to hang on his walls, the canvas was rolled and stored in the
cellars of the British Museum. At the rise and fall of the Thames,
water flooded the picture; but after several years' oblivion it was
discovered, rescued from damp and mildew, and after restoration was
found to have lost none of its freshness and colour.
[Illustration: _My great grandfather on my mother's side_,
JAMES WARD, R.A.,
_who died in his 91st year_.]
[Illustration: JAMES WARD'S MOTHER,
_who died at 100 all but a month_.]
As an engraver alone James Ward was famous, but the attraction of
colour, following upon his accidental discovery--that he could
paint--made while he was repairing an oil painting, encouraged him to
abandon his engraving and take up the brush. This he eventually did,
in spite of the great opposition from artists of the day, Hoppner
amongst them, who all wished to retain his services as a clever
engraver of their own work. William Ward, the mezzotint engraver,
whose works are fetching great sums to-day, encouraged his younger
brother, and James held to his decision. He eventually proved his
talent, but his triumph was not achieved without great vicissitude and
discouragement. He became animal painter to the King, and died at the
great age of ninety, leaving a large number of works of a widely
different character, many of which are in the possession of the Hon.
John Ward, M.V.O.
The following letters from Sir Edwin Landseer, Mulready, and Holman
Hunt to my father, show in some degree the regard in which other great
artists held both him and his pictures:--
November 21st, 1859.
MY DEAR SIR,
... I beg to assure you that not amongst the large group of
mourners that regret him will you find one friend who so
appreciated his genius or respected him more as a good man.
Believe me,
Yours sincerely,
E. LANDSEER.
Linden Grove,
Notting Hill,
June 1st, 1862.
DEAR SIR,
I agree with my brother artists in their admiration of your
wife's grandfather's pictures of Cattle, now in the International
Exhibition, and I believe its being permanently placed in our
National Gallery would be useful in our school and an honour to
our country.
I am, Dear Sir,
Yours faithfully,
W. MULREADY.
June 26th, 1862.
MY DEAR SIR,
... It is many years now since I saw Mrs. Ward's Grandfather's
famous picture of the "Bull, Cow, and Calf." I have not been able
to go and see it in the International Exhibition. My memory of it
is, however, quite clear enough to allow me to express my very
great admiration for the qualities of drawing, composition, and
colour for which it is distinguished. In the two last particulars
it will always be especially interesting as one of the earliest
attempts to liberate the art of this century from the
conventionalities of the last....
Yours very truly,
W. HOLMAN HUNT.
My mother's versatile talent has ably upheld the reputation of her
artistic predecessors; she paints besides figure-subjects delightful
interiors, charming little bits of country life, and inherits the gift
of painting dogs, which she represents with remarkable facility.
Although both my parents were historical painters, my mother's style
was in no way similar to my father's. Her quality of painting is of a
distinctive kind. This was especially marked in the painting of "Mrs.
Fry visiting Newgate," one of the most remarkable of her pictures. The
picture was hung on the line in the Royal Academy, and after a very
successful reception was engraved. Afterwards, both painting and
engraving were stolen by the man to whom they were entrusted for
exhibition round the country; this man lived on the proceeds and
pawned the picture. Eventually the painting was recovered and bought
for America, and it is still perhaps the most widely known of the many
works of my mother purchased for public galleries.
It is not surprising, therefore, that I should have inherited some of
the inclinations of my artistic progenitors.
My earliest recollection is of a sea-trip at the age of four, when I
remember tasting my first acidulated drop, presented me by an old lady
whose appearance I can recollect perfectly, together with the
remembrance of my pleasure and the novelty of the strange sweet.
My mother tells me my first caricatures were of soldiers at Calais. I
am afraid that--youthful as I then was--they could hardly have been
anything but _caricatures_.
Wilkie Collins came into my life even earlier than this. I was going
to say I remember him at my christening, but I am afraid my words
would be discredited even in these days of exaggeration. The
well-known novelist, who was a great friend of my parents, was then at
the height of his fame. He had what I knew afterwards to be an
unfortunate "cast" in one eye, which troubled me very much as a child,
for when telling an anecdote or making an observation to my father, I
frequently thought he was addressing me, and I invariably grew
embarrassed because I did not understand, and was therefore unable to
reply.
Other members of the Collins family visited us. There was old Mrs.
Collins, the widow of William Collins, R.A.; a quaint old lady who
wore her kid boots carefully down on one side and then reversed them
and wore them down on the other. She had a horror of Highlanders
because they wore kilts, which she considered scandalous.
Charles Collins, one of the original pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, her
son, and Wilkie's brother, paid frequent week-end visits to our house,
and the memory of Charles is surrounded by a halo of mystery and
wonder, for he possessed a magic snuff-box made of gold inset with
jewels, and at a word of command a little bird appeared on it, which
disappeared in the same wonderful manner. But what was even more
wonderful, Mr. Collins persuaded me that the bird flew all round the
room singing until it returned to the box and fascinated me all over
again. In after years I remember seeing a similar box and discovering
the deception and mechanism. My disappointment for my shattered ideal
was very hard to bear.
My imagination as a small child, although it endowed me with happy
hours, was sometimes rather too much for me. On being presented with a
sword, I invented a lion to kill with it, and grew so frightened
finally of the creature of my own invention that at the last moment,
preparatory to a triumphant rush intended to culminate in victory, I
was obliged to retreat in terror behind my mother's skirts, my clutch
becoming so frantic that she had to release herself from my grasp.
On leaving Harewood Square, my parents went to live at Upton Park,
Slough, where I spent some of the happiest days of my life. Always a
charming little place, it was then to me very beautiful. I remember
the old church, delightfully situated by the roadside, the little gate
by the low wall, and the long line of dark green yews bordering the
flagged paths, where the stately people walked into church, followed
by small Page boys in livery carrying big bags containing the
prayer-books. Leech has depicted those quaint children in many a
humorous drawing. There were two ladies whom I recollect as far from
stately. I wish I could meet them now. Such subjects for a caricature
one rarely has the opportunity of seeing. Quite six feet, ungainly,
gawky, with odd clothes and queer faces, not unlike those of birds,
they always inspired me with the utmost curiosity and astonishment.
These ladies bore the name of "Trumper," and I remember they called
upon us one day. The servant--perhaps embarrassed by their strange
appearance--announced them as the "Miss Trumpeters," and the
accidental name labelled them for ever. Even now I think of them as
"the Trumpeters." The eccentricity of the Miss Trumpers was evidently
hereditary, for on the occasion of a dinner-party given at their
house, old Mrs. Trumper startled her guests at an early stage of the
meal by bending a little too far over her plate, and causing her wig
and cap to fall with a splash into her soup.
The ivy mantled tower was claimed very jealously in those days by the
natives of Upton to be the tower of Gray's "Elegy," but it was in
Stoke Poges churchyard that Gray wrote his exquisite poem, and it is
there by the east wall of the old church that "the poet sleeps his
last sleep."
In the meadow by the chancel window stands the cenotaph raised to his
memory by John Penn, who, although the Pennsylvanians will assure you
he rests safely in their native town, is buried in a village called
Penn not far distant.
The churchyard always impresses me with its atmosphere of romantic
associations; the fine old elm tree, and the pines, and the two
ancient yews casting their dark shade--
"Where heaves the turf with many a mouldering heap,"
all add to the poetic feeling that is still so completely preserved.
When one enters the church the impression gained outside is somewhat
impaired by some startlingly ugly stained glass windows, which to my
mind are a blot on the church. There is one which is so crushingly
obvious as to be positively painful to the eye. It must be remembered,
of course, that these drawbacks are comparatively modern, and a few of
the windows are very quaint. One very old one reveals an anticipatory
gentleman riding a wooden bicycle.
The Reverend Hammond Tooke was then Rector of Upton Church, and a
friend of my people. Mrs. Tooke was interested in me, and gave me my
first Bible, which I still possess, but which, I am afraid, is not
opened as often as it used to be. My excuse lies in my fear lest it
should fall to pieces if I touched it. On the way to and from church
we used to pass the old Rectory House (in after days the residence of
George Augustus Sala), then owned by an admiral of whom I have not the
slightest recollection. The admiral's garden was a source of unfailing
interest, for there, on the surface of a small pond, floated a
miniature man-o'-war.
Another scene of happy hours was Herschel House, which belonged to an
old lady whom we frequently visited. On her lawn stood the famous
telescope, which was so gigantically constructed that--in search of
science!--it enabled me to my delight to run up and down it. Sir
William Herschel made most of his great discoveries at this house,
including that of the planet Uranus.
Living so near Windsor we naturally witnessed a great number of
incidents, interesting and spectacular. From our roof we saw the
funeral procession of the Duchess of Kent, winding along the Slough
road, and from a shop window in Windsor watched the bridal carriage of
the Princess Royal (on the occasion of her marriage to the Crown
Prince of Prussia) being dragged up Windsor Hill by the Eton boys. I
can also recall an opportunity being given us of witnessing from the
platform of Slough station, gaily decorated for the occasion, the
entry of a train which was conveying Victor Emmanuel, then King of
Sardinia, to Windsor Castle. If I remember rightly, the Mayor--with
the inevitable Corporation--read an address, and it was then that I
saw the robust monarch in his smart green and gold uniform, with a
plumed hat: his round features and enormous moustache are not easily
forgotten.
The station-master at Slough was an extraordinary character, and full of
importance, with an appearance in keeping. He must have weighed quite
twenty-two stone. He used to walk down the platform heralding the
approaching train with a penetrating voice that resounded through the
station. There is a story told of how he went to his grandson's
christening, and, missing his accustomed position of supreme importance
and prominence, he grew bored, fell asleep in a comfortable pew ... and
snored until the roof vibrated! When the officiating clergyman attempted
to rouse him by asking the portly sponsor the name of his godchild, he
awoke suddenly and replied loudly, "Slough--Slough--change for Windsor!"
During the progress of my father's commissioned pictures, "The Visit
of Queen Victoria to the Tomb of Napoleon I." and "The Investiture of
Napoleon III. with the Order of the Garter" (both of which, I believe,
still hang in Buckingham Palace), the Queen and Prince Consort made
frequent visits to my father's studio. On one of these visits of
inspection, the Queen was attracted by some little pictures done by
my mother of her children, with which she was so much pleased that she
asked her to paint one of Princess Beatrice (then a baby of ten months
old). Before the departure of the Royal family on this occasion, we
children were sent for, and upon entering the room made our bow and
curtsey as we had been taught to do by our governess. My youngest
sister, however, being a mere baby, toddled in after us with an air of
indifference which she continued to show. I suppose the gold and
scarlet liveries of the Royal servants were more attractive to her
than the quiet presence of the Royal people. When the Queen departed,
we hurried to the nursery windows. To my delight, I saw the Prince of
Wales waving his mother's sunshade to us, and in return I kept waving
my hand to him until the carriage was out of sight.
In after years my father told me with some amusement, how the Prince
Consort (who was growing stouter) reduced the size of the painted
figure of himself in my father's picture by drawing a chalk line, and
remarking, "That's where my waist _should_ be!"
I sat to my parents very often, and my father occasionally gave me
sixpence as a reward for the agonies I considered I endured, standing
in awkward attitudes, impatiently awaiting my freedom. In my mother's
charming picture called "God save the Queen," which represents her
sitting at the piano, her fingers on the keys, her face framed by soft
curls is turned to a small group representing her children who are
singing the National Anthem. Here I figure with sword, trumpet, and
helmet, looking as if I would die for my Queen and my country, while
my sisters watch with wide interested eyes.
My sisters and I often played about my mother's studio while she
painted. She never seemed to find our presence troublesome, although I
believe we were sometimes a nuisance, whereas my father was obliged to
limit his attentions to us when work was finished for the day.
I loved to draw, and on Sundays the subject had to be Biblical, as to
draw anything of an everyday nature on the Sabbath was in those days
considered, even for a child, highly reprehensible (at all events, by
my parents).
Even then I was determined to be an artist. I remember that one day my
oldest friend, Edward Nash (whose parents were neighbours of ours) and
I were watching the Seaforth Highlanders go by, and, roused perhaps by
this inspiring sight, we fell to discussing our futures.
"I'm going to be an artist," I announced. "What are you?"
"I'm going to be a Scotchman," he replied gravely. In after life he
distinguished himself as a great athlete, played football for Rugby in
the school "twenty," and was one of the founders of the Hockey Club.
He is now a successful solicitor and the father of athletic sons.
A very interesting personality crossed my path at this period in the
shape of Sir William Ross, R.A., the last really great miniature
painter of his time. He was a most courteous old gentleman, and there
was nothing of the artist in his appearance--at least according to the
accepted view of the appearance of an artist. In fact, he was more
like a benevolent old doctor than anything else. When my sister Alice
and I knew that we were to sit to him for our portraits, we rather
liked, instead of resenting, the idea (as perhaps would have been
natural), for he looked so kind. After our first sitting he told me to
eat the strawberry I had held so patiently. I obediently did as he
suggested, and after each sitting I was rewarded in this way. The
miniature turned out to be a _chef d'oeuvre_. It is so beautiful in
its extreme delicacy and manipulation that it delights me always. My
mother values it so much that in order to retain its freshness she
keeps it locked up and shows it only to those who she knows will
appreciate its exquisite qualities. Queen Victoria said when it was
shown to her, "I have many fine miniatures by Ross, but none to equal
that one."
[Illustration: _Miniature of my sister Alice and myself painted by Sir
William Ross, R.A., 1855._]
We visited many artists' studios with our parents. I am told I was an
observant child and consequently had to be warned against making too
outspoken criticisms on the pictures and their painters. On one
occasion a Mr. Bell was coming to dine; we were allowed in the
drawing-room after dinner, and as his appearance was likely to excite
our interest, we were warned by our governess against remarking on Mr.
Bell's nose. This warning resulted in our anticipation rising to
something like excitement, and the moment I entered the room, my gaze
went straight to his nose and stayed there. I recollect searching my
brain for a comparison, and coming to the conclusion that it resembled
a bunch of grapes.
My father was a very keen student of archæology; and I think he must
have known the history of every building in London inside and out! I
remember that once he took us to Westminster Abbey, there, as usual,
to make known to us, I have no doubt, many interesting facts.
Afterwards we went to St. James' Park, where my father pointed out the
ornamental lake where King Charles the Second fed his ducks, and told
our governess that he thought it would be an excellent idea if when we
returned we were to write a description of our adventures. The next
day, accordingly, we sat down to write our compositions; and although
my sister's proves to have been not so bad, mine, as will be seen, was
shocking. The reader will observe that in speaking of St. James' Park,
I have gone so far as to say "King Charles fed his duchess by the
lake," which seems to imply a knowledge of that gay monarch beyond my
years.
"Thhe other day you were so kinnd as to take us to Westminster
Abbey we went in a cab and we got out of the cab at poets corner
and then went in Westminster Abbey and we saw the tombe of queen
Eleanor and then we saw the tomb of queen Elizabeth and Mary and
the tomb of Henry VII and his wife lying by him and the tomb of
Henry's mother, then we came to the tow little children of James
II and in the middle the two little Princes that were smothered
in the tower and there bones were found there and and bort to
Westminster Abbey and berryd there. We saw the sword which was
corrade in the procession after the battle of Cressy and we then
saw the two coronation Chairs were the kings and queens were
crowned and onder one of the Chairs a large stone under it that
Edward brought with hin And we saw the tomb of Gorge II who was
the last man who was berried there. Then we went to a bakers shop
and we had some buns and wen we had done papa said to the woman
three buns one barth bun and ane biscuit and papa forgot his
gluves and i said they were in the shop and papa said silly boy
why did you not tell me and then to the cloysters were three
monks were berried then the senkuary were the duke of York was
taken and then the jeruclam chamber and then to Marlborough house
were Marlborough lived and then Westminster hall and then judge
Gerfys house and the inclosid at S' james park were Charles II
fed his duchess and then we came home and had our tee and then
went to bed."
[Illustration: MY FATHER.
_From a drawing by George Richmond, R.A._]
[Illustration: MY MOTHER.
1909.]
A visit to London, which made a far greater impression on me, was made
later, when I went to Astley's Theatre. Originally a circus in the
Westminster Bridge Road, started by Philip Astley, who had been a
light horseman in the army, the theatre was celebrated for equestrian
performances. "Astley's," as it was called, formed the subject of one
of the "Sketches by Boz." "It was not a Royal Amphitheatre," wrote
Dickens, "in those days, nor had Duncan arisen to shed the light of
classic taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the circus; but the
whole character of the place was the same, the clown's jokes were the
same, the riding masters were equally grand ... the tragedians equally
hoarse.... Astley's has changed for the better ... we have changed for
the worse."
Thackeray mentions the theatre in "The Newcomes." "Who was it," he
writes, "that took the children to Astley's but Uncle Newcome?"
Mr. Wilkie Collins and Mr. Pigott (afterwards Examiner of Plays) took
_us_; we had a large box, and the play--_Garibaldi_--was most
enthralling. I was overwhelmed with grief at Signora Garibaldi's death
scene. There were horses, of course, in the great battle, and one of
these was especially intelligent; limping from an imaginary wound, he
took between his teeth from his helpless rider a handkerchief, dipped
it in a pool of water, and returned--still limping--to lay the cool
linen upon the heated brow of his dying master.
Thrilling with excitement and fear, it never occurred to me that the
battle, the wounds, and the deaths following were anything but real;
but all my grief did not prevent me from enjoying between the acts my
never-to-be-forgotten first strawberry ice.
The Panopticon was another place of amusement, long forgotten, I
suppose, except by the very few. The building, now changed and known
as the Alhambra, was a place where music and dancing were features of
attraction. It was opened in 1852 and bore the name of the Royal
Panopticon of Science and Art. I believe it was financed by
philanthropic people, but it failed. _I_ remember it because in the
centre, where the stalls are now, rose a great fountain with coloured
lights playing upon it. There were savages, too, and I shook hands
with a Red Indian, with all his war paint gleaming, the scalp locks to
awe me, and the feathers standing fiercely erect. He impressed me
enormously, and in consequence of my seeing the savages, I became
nervously imaginative. I had heard of burglars, and often reviewed in
my mind my possible behaviour if I discovered one under my bed, where
I looked every night in a sort of fearsome expectation. Religion had
been early instilled into me; and, knowing the ultimate fate of wicked
sinners, I resolved to tell him he would have to go to hell if he
harmed me, and was so consoled with the idea that I went to sleep
quite contentedly. A burglar might have been rather astonished had he
heard such sentiments from my young lips.
In that strange "chancy" way in which remembrances of odd bizarre
happenings jostle irrelevantly one against another, I recall another
experience. Once I was going to a very juvenile party; I forget where,
but I was ready and waiting for the nurse to finish dressing my
sisters. Resplendent in a perfectly new suit of brown velvet, and full
of expectation of pleasures to come, I was rather excited and
consequently restless. My nurse told me not to fidget. Casual
reprimands had no effect. Growing angry, she commanded me loudly and
suddenly to sit down, which I did ... but in the bath!... falling
backwards with a splash and with my feet waving in the air. My arrival
at the party eventually in my old suit did not in any way interfere
with my enjoyment.
About this time my mother visited Paris, and we looked forward to the
letters she wrote to us. One letter mentions the interesting but
afterwards ill-fated Prince Imperial.
"I again saw," she wrote, "the little baby Emperor; he is lovely and
wore a large hat with blue feathers, I should like to paint him."
In 1857 the Thames was frozen over, and at Eton an ox was roasted upon
the ice. I remember it well. Another time on the occasion of one of
our many visits to Brighton, we saw the great comet, and a new brother
arrived:--all three very wonderful events to me.
The brilliance of the "star with a tail" aroused my sister and me to
leave our beds and open the window to gaze curiously upon this
phenomenon. Simultaneously a carriage drove up to the door, and my
mother (who had just arrived from Slough) alighted, and after her the
nurse with a baby in her arms. We were reprimanded severely for our
temerity in being out of bed, but we could not return until we had
had a glimpse of the new baby, who became one of the most beautiful
children imaginable.
In Brighton we visited some relations of my father's, the Misses
Smith, daughters of Horace Smith, one of the authors of "The Rejected
Addresses." Of the two sisters, Miss Tysie was considered the most
interesting, and although Miss Rosie was beautiful, her sister was
considered the principal object of attraction by the innumerable
people they knew. Everybody worth knowing in the world of art and
especially of literature came to see the "Recamier" of Brighton;
Thackeray was counted amongst her intimates, and we may possibly know
her again in a character in one of his books. I remember being
impressed with these ladies as they were very kind to us. Miss Tysie
died only comparatively recently.
Two years later, I met a real hero, a general of six feet four inches,
who seemed to me like a brilliant personage from the pages of a
romantic drama.
General Sir John Hearsey, then just returned from India, where he had
taken a conspicuous part in quelling the Mutiny, came to stay with us
at Upton Park with his wife, dazzling my wondering eyes with
curiosities and strange toys, embroideries, and queer things such as I
had never seen or heard of before. Their two children were in charge
of a dark-eyed ayah, whose native dress and beringed ears and nose
created no little stir in sleepy Upton.
I could never have dreamt of a finer soldier than the General, and I
shall never forget the awe I felt when he showed me the wounds all
about his neck, caused by sabre-cuts, and so deep I could put my
fingers in them. My father painted a splendid portrait of him in
native uniform and another of the beautiful Lady Hearsey in a gorgeous
Indian dress of red and silver.
Another friend of my childhood was the late Mr. Birch, the sculptor;
he was assisting my father at that time by modelling some of the
groups for his pictures, and he used to encourage me to try and model,
both in wax and clay. Some thirty years later, we met at a public
dinner, and I realised the then famous sculptor and A.R.A. was none
other than the Mr. Birch of my childhood.
When I was quite a small boy, we left Upton Park and came to Kent
Villa. The house (which became afterwards the residence of Orchardson,
the painter), was built for my father, who went to live at Kensington
Park chiefly through Dr. Doran, a great friend of his (of whom I have
more to say later on).
There were two big studios, one above the other, for my parents. The
house, which was covered with creepers, was large and roomy. It was
approached by a carriage drive, the iron gates to which were a special
feature. There was a garden at the back where we used frequently to
dine in a tent until the long-legged spiders grew too numerous; but we
often received our friends there when the weather was summery.
There was a ladies' school next door, and I recollect in later years
my father's consternation when the girls, getting to know by some
means or other (I think by the back stairs), of the Prince of Wales'
intended visit, formed a guard of honour at our gate to receive him,
which caused annoyance to my father and natural surprise to His Royal
Highness.
My parents were very regular in their habits, for no matter how late
the hour of retiring, they always began to work by nine. At four my
father would take a glass of sherry and a sandwich before he went his
usual long walk with my mother to the West End, and from there they
wandered into the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, and lingered at the old
curiosity shops. They were connoisseurs of old furniture and bought
with discretion. As great believers in exercise, this walk was a
regular pastime; on their return they dined about seven and often read
to one another afterwards. My father's insatiable love of history and
of the past led him to seek with undying interest any new light upon
old events.
J. H. Edge, K.C., in his novel, "The Quicksands of Life," writes of my
father: "The artist was then and probably will be for all time the
head of his school. He was a big, burly, genial man, with a large
mind, a larger heart, and a large brain. He was a splendid historian,
with an unfailing memory, untiring energy and industry, and at the
same time, like all true artists, men who appreciate shades of colour
and shades of character--highly strung and morbidly sensitive, but not
to true criticism which he never feared." Highly religious and
intensely conscientious in every way and yet so very forgetful that
his friends sometimes dubbed him the "Casual Ward." Brilliant
conversational powers combined with a strong sense of humour, made him
a delightful companion. His love of children was extraordinary. He
never failed to visit our nursery twice a day, when we were tiny, and
I have often seen him in later years, when bending was not easy, on
his knees playing games with the youngest children. His voice was very
penetrating, and they used to say at Windsor that one might hear him
from the beginning of the Long Walk to the Statue. In church he
frequently disturbed other worshippers by loudly repeating (to
himself, as he thought) the service from beginning to end. I remember
that on Sundays when the weather did not permit of our venturing to
church, my father would read the service at home out of a very old
Prayer-book, and when he came to the prayer for the safety of George
IV., we children used to laugh before the time came, in expectation of
his customary mistake. His powers of mimicry were extraordinary; I
have seen him keeping a party of friends helpless with laughter over
his imitations of old-fashioned ballet-dancers. His burlesque of
Taglioni was side-splitting, especially as he grew stouter. Although a
painter of historical subjects, he was extraordinarily fond of
landscape, and among those of other places of interest there are some
charming sketches of Rome, which he made while studying there in the
company of his friend George Richmond, R.A. Among his drawings in the
library at Windsor Castle, which were purchased after his death, are
some remarkably interesting studies of many of the important people
who sat to him for the pictures of Royal ceremonies. For the studies
of the Peeresses' robes in "The Investiture of Napoleon III. with the
Order of the Garter," my father was indebted to Lady Waterford (then
Mistress of the Robes), whose detailed sketches were extraordinarily
clever and very useful. This lady was a remarkable artist, her colour
and execution being brilliant, so much so that when she was
complaining of her lack of training in art, Watts told her no one who
was an artist ever wished to see any of her work different from what
it was ... and he meant it. My father had an equally high opinion of
her gift.
Perhaps the "South Sea Bubble" is one of the most widely known of my
father's pictures. Removed from the National Gallery to the Tate not
very long ago, this splendid example of a painter-historian's talent
remains as fresh as the day it was painted, and its undoubted worth,
although unrecognised by a section of intolerant modernists, will, I
think, stand the test of time.
I recollect many well-known people who came to our house in those
days; some, of course, I knew intimately, and amongst those, Marcus
Stone and Vicat Cole, who calling together one evening, were announced
by the servant as "The Marquis Stone and Viscount Cole."
Gambert, the great art dealer, afterwards consul at Nice, is always
connected in my mind with the Crystal Palace, where he invited my
parents to a dinner-party in the saloon, and we were told to wait
outside. My sister and I walked about, quite engrossed with
sight-seeing. The evening drew on and the people left, the
stall-holders packed up their goods and departed, while we sat on one
of the seats and huddled ourselves in a corner. As the dusk grew
deeper we thought of the tragic fate of the "Babes in the Wood." Up
above, the great roof loomed mysteriously, and as fear grew into
terror, we resolved as a last resort to pray. Our prayer ended, a
stall-keeper, interested, no doubt, came to the rescue, and on hearing
our story, stayed with us until our parents came.
[Illustration: _My father is represented with Millais on the left hand
top of the cartoon._ 1865.]
[Illustration: CARTOONS FROM "PUNCH."
1865.
_My mother is represented in the centre of the trio of representative
lady painters at the lower left hand corner._]
We loved the Crystal Palace none the less for our misadventure, and
the happiest day of the year, to me at least, was my mother's
birthday, on the first of June, when we annually hired a private
omnibus, packed a delicious lunch, and drove to the Palace, where we
visited our favourite amusements, or rambled in the spacious grounds.
Sims Reeves, Carlotta Patti, Grisi, Adelina Patti, sang there to
distinguished audiences. Blondin astonished us with remarkable feats,
and Stead, the "Perfect Cure," aroused our laughter with his eccentric
dancing. A great source of attraction to me were the life-like models
of fierce-looking African tribes, standing spear and shield in hand,
in the doorways of their kralls. A pictorial description of how the
Victoria Cross was won was another fascination, for in those days I
had all the small boy's love of battle. When we were at home I loved
to go to Regent's Park to see the panorama of the earthquake at
Lisbon, and I would gaze enthralled at the scene, which was as actual
to me as the "Battle of Prague," a piece played by our governess upon
the piano, a descriptive affair full of musical fireworks, the
thundering of cavalry and the rattle of shots.
On Sundays we were accustomed to walk to St. Mark's, St. John's Wood,
to hear the Rev. J. M. Bellew, whose sermons to children were famous.
We had to walk, I remember, a considerable distance to the church. I
can't recall ever being bored by him. He was a very remarkable man,
and his manner took enormously with children; he had a magnificent
head and silvery curls, which made a picturesque frame to his face,
and offered an effective contrast to his grey eyes. This, combined
with a very powerful sweep of chin, an expressive mouth, wide as
orators' mouths usually are, and an attractive voice, made him a very
fascinating personality. He taught elocution to Fechter, the great
actor, and afterwards--when he had retired from the Protestant Church
and become a Roman Catholic--he gave superb readings of Shakespeare.
At all these readings, as at his sermons, an old lady, whose
infatuation for Bellew was well known, was always a conspicuous member
of the audience; for no matter what part of the country he was to be
heard, she would appear in a front seat with a wreath of white roses
upon her head. Bellew never became acquainted with her beyond
acknowledging her presence by raising his hat.
I used to take Latin lessons with Evelyn and Harold Bellew (afterwards
known as Kyrle Bellew, the actor). Sometimes I stayed with them at
Riverside House at Maidenhead where their father, being very fond of
children, frequently gave parties, and I remember his entertaining us.
Here Mr. Bellew nearly blew off his arm in letting off fireworks from
the island. In those days there were few trees on this island, and it
was an ideal place for a display, though this affair nearly ended
disastrously.
The advantage of "archæological research" was very early impressed
upon me by my father, and I was taken to see all that was interesting
and instructive. We used to go for walks together, and as we went he
would tell me histories of the buildings we passed, and on my return
journey I was supposed to remember and repeat all he had said.
"Come now," he would say, pausing in Whitehall. "What happened there?"
"Oh--er----" I would reply nervously. "Oliver Cromwell had his head
cut off--and said, 'Remember'!"
I used to dread these walks together, much as I loved him, and I was
so nervous I never ceased to answer unsatisfactorily; so my father,
over-looking the possibility of my lack of interest in his
observations, and the fact that life was a spectacle to me, for what I
saw interested me far more than what I heard, decided I needed the
rousing influence of school life, and after a little preparation, sent
me to Chase's School at Salt Hill.
Salt Hill was so called from the ceremony of collecting salt in very
ancient days by monks as a toll; and in later times by the Eton boys,
who collected not "salt"--but money, to form a purse for the captain
of the school on commencing his University studies at King's College,
Cambridge. Soon after sunrise on the morning of "Montem," as it was
called, the Eton boys, dressed in a variety of quaint or amusing
costumes, started from the college to extort contributions from all
they came across. "They roved as far as Staines Bridge, Hounslow, and
Maidenhead, and when 'salt' or money had been collected, the
contributors would be presented with a ticket inscribed with the
words, '_Nos pro lege_,' which he would fix in his hat, or in some
conspicuous part of his dress, and thus secure exemption from all
future calls upon his good nature and his purse."
"Montem" is now a matter of history, and was discontinued in 1846,
when the Queen turned a deaf ear to her "faithful subjects'" petition
for its survival.
Amongst my school friends at Salt Hill, Wentworth Hope-Johnstone
stands out as an attractive figure, as does that of Mark Wood (now
Colonel Lockwood, M.P.). The former became in later life one of the
first gentlemen riders of the day. At school he was always upon a
horse if he could get one, and he would arrange plays and battle
pieces in which we, his schoolfellows, were relegated to the inferior
position of the army, while he was _aide-de-camp_, or figured as the
equestrian hero performing marvellous feats of horsemanship. He became
a steeple-chase rider, and coming to my studio many years after, I
remember him telling me with the greatest satisfaction that he had
never yet had an accident--ominously enough, for within the week he
fell from his horse and sustained severe injuries.
I did not stay long at my school at Salt Hill, for the school was
broken up owing to the ill-health of the principal. My preparation
thus coming to an end rather too soon, I was sent to Eton much earlier
than I otherwise should have been, and my pleasant childhood days
began to merge into the wider sphere of a big school and all its
unknown possibilities.
CHAPTER II
ETON AND AFTER
Eton days.--Windsor Fair.--My Dame.--Fights and Fun.--
Boveney Court.--Mr. Hall Say.--Boveney.--Professor and Mrs.
Attwell.--I win a useful prize.--Alban Doran.--My father's
frescoes.--Battle Abbey.--Gainsborough's Tomb.--Knole.--Our
burglar.--Claude Calthrop.--Clayton Calthrop.--The Gardener
as Critic.--The Gipsy with an eye for colour.--I attempt
sculpture.--The Terry family.--Private theatricals.--Sir John
Hare.--Miss Marion Terry.--Miss Ellen Terry.--Miss Kate
Terry.--Miss Bateman.--Miss Florence St. John.--Constable.--
Sir Howard Vincent.--I dance with Patti.--Lancaster Gate and
Meringues.--Prayers and Pantries.
I have the liveliest recollection of my first day at Eton, when I was
accompanied by my mother, who wished to see me safely installed. In
her anxiety to make my room comfortable (it was afterwards, by the
way, Lord Randolph Churchill's room), she bought small framed and
coloured prints of sacred subjects to hang upon the walls, to give it,
as she thought, a more homely aspect. These were very soon replaced,
on the advice of Tuck, my fag-master (and wicket-keeper in the
eleven), by racehorses and bulldogs by Herring.
Next I remember my youthful digestion being put to test by a big boy
who "stood me," against my will, "bumpers" of shandy-gaff; and for my
first smoke a cheroot of no choice blend, the inevitable results
succeeding.
Shortly afterwards I was initiated into the mysteries of school life;
I had to collect cockroaches to let loose during prayers; and of
course the usual fate of a new boy befell me. I was asked the old
formula: or something to this effect--
"Who's your tutor, who's your dame?
Where do you board, and what's your name?"
If your reply did not give satisfaction, you were promptly "bonneted,"
and, in Eton phraseology, your new "topper" telescoped over your nose.
I was at first made the victim of a great deal of unpleasant "ragging"
by a bully, who on one occasion playing a game he called "Running
Deer!" made me a target for needle darts, one of which lodged tightly
in the bone just above my eye; but he was caught in the act by Tuck,
who punished the offender by making him hold a pot of boiling tea at
arm's length, and each time a drop was spilled, my champion took a
running kick at him.
I learned a variety of useful things. Besides catching cockroaches, I
became an adept in the art of cooking sausages without bursting their
skins: if I forgot to prick them before cooking, I was severely
reprimanded by my fag-master, and I considered his anger perfectly
justifiable; my resentment only existing where unjustifiable bullying
was concerned.
Windsor Fair was an attraction in those days, especially for the small
boys, as it was "out of bounds," and therefore forbidden. I remember
once being "told off" to go to the fair and bring as many musical and
noisy toys as I could carry; which were to be instrumental in a plot
against our "dame" ... (the Reverend Dr. Frewer) ... On the great
occasion, the boys secreted themselves in their lock-up beds. The rest
hid in the housemaid's cupboard, and we started a series of hideous
discords upon the whistles and mouth organs from the fair. Presently
our "dame" appeared, roused by the concert, and at the door received
the water from the "booby trap" all over his head, and then, drenched
to the skin and looking like a drowned rat, he proceeded to rout us.
We were all innocence with a carefully concocted excuse to the effect
that the reception had been intended for Anderson, one of the boys in
the house. Notwithstanding that expulsion was threatening us, we were
all called to his room next morning, severely reprimanded, but ...
forgiven.
Old Etonians will remember Jobie, who sold buns and jam; and Levy, who
tried to cheat us over our "tuck," and was held under the college pump
in consequence; and old Silly-Billy, who used to curse the Pope, and,
considering himself the head of the Church, was always first in the
Chapel at Eton. Then there was the very fat old lady who sold fruit
under the archway, and had a face like an apple herself. She sold an
apple called a lemon-pippin, that was quite unlike anything I have
tasted since, and looked like a lemon.
At "Sixpenny" the mills took place, and there differences were
settled. A "Shinning-match," which was only resorted to by small boys,
was a most serious and carefully managed affair; we shook hands in
real duel fashion, and then we proceeded to exchange kicks on one
another's shins until one of us gave in.
I remember having a "shinning-match" to settle some dispute with one
of my greatest friends, but we were discovered, taken into Hawtrey's
during dinner, and there talked to in serious manner. Our wise
lecturer ended his speech with the time-honoured, "'Tis dogs delight
to bark and bite," etc.
In 1861 I recollect very well the Queen and Prince Consort reviewing
the Eton College Volunteer Corps in the grounds immediately
surrounding the Castle, while we boys were permitted to look on from
the Terrace.
At the conclusion of the review the volunteers were given luncheon in
the orangery, where they were right royally entertained.
Prince Albert, whom I had noticed coughing, retired after the review
into the castle, while the Queen and Princess Alice walked together on
the slopes.
This was the last time that Prince Albert appeared in public, for he
was shortly after seized with an illness from which he never
recovered.
From Eton I frequently had "leave" to visit some friends of my
parents, the Evans, of Boveney Court, a delightful old country house
opposite Surly Hall. Miss Evans married a Mr. Hall-Say, who built
Oakley Court, and I was present when he laid the foundation stone.
Mr. Evans, who was a perfectly delightful old man, lent one of his
meadows at Boveney (opposite Surly Hall) to the Eton boys for their
Fourth of June celebrations. Long tables were spread for them, with
every imaginable good thing, including champagne, some bottles of
which those in the boats used to secrete for their fags; and in my day
small boys would come reeling home, unable to evade the masters, and
the next day the "block" was well occupied, and the "swish" busy.
There were certain unwritten laws in those days as regards flogging; a
master was not supposed to give downward strokes, for thus I believe
one deals a more powerful sweep of arm and the stroke becomes torture.
In cricket, also, round arm bowling was always the rule; a ball was
"no ball" unless bowled on a level with the shoulder, but lob-bowling
was, of course, allowed. Nowadays, the bowling has changed. Perhaps
the character of the "swishing" has also altered, but somehow I think
the boys are just the same.
[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM BROADBENT, 1902.
_He was very angry and wrote to a leading Medical Journal to say how
greatly he disapproved of this indignity._]
[Illustration: SIR THOMAS BARLOW. 1903.]
[Illustration: SIR JAMES PAGET, BART. 1876.]
On the occasion of my first holiday, I arrived home from Eton a
different boy; imbued with the traditions of my school, I was full of
an exaggerated partisanship for everything good or indifferent that
existed there. I remember I discovered my sisters in all the glory of
Leghorn hats from Paris; they were large with flopping brims as was
then the fashion. But to my youthful vision they seemed outrageous,
and I refused to go out with the girls in these hats, which I
considered, with a small boy's pride in his school, were a disgrace to
me ... and consequently to Eton!
My regard for the honour and glory of this time-honoured institution
did not prevent me sallying forth on several occasions with a school
friend to anticipate the Suffragettes by breaking windows; although I
was not the proposer of this scheme, I was an accessory to the act,
and my friend (who seemed to have an obsessive love of breaking for
its own sake) and I successfully smashed several old (but worthless)
windows, both of the Eton Parish Church and also Boveney Church.
Although I have made this confession of guilt, I feel safe against the
law both of the school and the London magistrates.
In most respects I was the average schoolboy, neither very good, or
very bad. Running, jumping, and football I was pretty "nippy" at,
until a severe strain prevented (under doctor's orders) the pursuance
of any violent exercises for some time.
Previous to this I had won a special prize for my prowess in certain
sports when I arrived second in every event. I won a telescope, which
seemed a meaningless sort of thing until I went home for the holidays,
when I gave an experimental quiz through it from my bedroom window and
discovered the infinite possibilities of the girls' school next door.
Finally I was noticed by a portly old mistress who complained of my
telescopic attentions, never dreaming, from what I could gather, of my
undivided interest in other quarters, and my prize was confiscated by
my father.
During my enforced rest from all exercise of any importance, I spent
my time in compiling a book of autographs and in sketching anything I
fancied. My aptitude and love for drawing were not encouraged at
school at the request of my father, but I was always caricaturing the
masters, and having the result confiscated. It was inevitable, living
as I did in an atmosphere of art, loving the profession, and sitting
to my parents, that I should grow more and more interested and more
determined to become a painter myself, although strangely enough I
never had a lesson from either my father or mother.
The boy is indeed the father of the man, for just as I anticipated my
future by becoming the school caricaturist, so Alban Doran, one of my
schoolfellows (and the son of my father's friend, Dr. Doran), spent
the time usually occupied by the average schoolboy in play or sport,
in searching for animal-culæ or bottling strange insects, the result
of his tedious discoveries. I believe he kept an aquarium even in his
nursery, and was more interested in microscopes than cricket. The
clever boy became a brilliant man, distinguishing himself at
"Bart's," was joint compiler with Sir James Paget and Dr. Goodhart of
the current edition of the Catalogues of the Pathological series in
the Museum of the College of Surgeons. His success as a surgeon and a
woman's specialist was all the more wonderful, when we remember his
nervous shaking hands, which might have been expected to render his
touch uncertain; but when an operation demands his skill the
nervousness vanishes, and his hand steadies. He is noted for a
remarkable collection of the ear-bones from every type of living
creature in this country, and especially for his literary
contributions to the study of surgery.
When I was at home on my holidays I spent a great deal of my time in a
temporary studio erected on the terrace of the House of Lords. Here I
watched my father paint his frescoes for the Houses of Parliament.
Fresco painting would not endure the humidity of our climate, and
several of these historical paintings which hung in the corridor of
the House of Commons began to mildew. Other important frescoes were
completely destroyed by the damp; but my father restored his works,
and they were placed under glass, which preserved them. With his last
two or three frescoes he adopted a then new process called
"water-glass," which was a decided success.
Another holiday was spent at Hastings, where my father occupied much
of his time restoring frescoes which he discovered, half-obliterated,
in the old Parish Church at Battle. He intended eventually to complete
his task; but on his return to London he found that the great pressure
of work and engagements rendered this impossible. The dean of the
parish wrote in consequence to say that the restorations looked so
patchy that it would be better to whitewash them over!
The Archæological Society met that year at Hastings, and my father,
who intended to prepare me for an architectural career, thought it
would encourage me if we attended their meetings, at which Planché,
the President, presided. We visited all the places of interest near,
and I heard many edifying discourses upon their histories, while I
watched the members, who were rather antiquities themselves, and
thoroughly enjoyed the many excellent luncheons spread for us at our
various halting places.
_À propos_ of restoration, my father visited Kew Church in 1865, and
found in the churchyard Gainsborough's tomb, which was in a deplorable
state of neglect. Near to Gainsborough are buried Zoffany,[1] R.A.,
Jeremiah Meyer, R.A., miniature painter and enamellist (the former's
great friend), and Joshua Kirby, F.S.A., also a contemporary. My
father at once took steps to have the tomb restored at his own
expense, and as the result of his inquiries and efforts in that
direction, received the following letter which is interesting in its
quaint diction as well as in reference to the subject.
Petersham, Surrey,
August 24th, 1865.
MY DEAR SIR,
It is with much pleasure that I learn that one great man is
intending to do Honor to the Memory of another. In reply to your
note, I beg that you will consider that my Rights, as the Holder
of the Freehold, are to be subservient by all means to the
laudable object of paying our Honor to the Memory of the great
Gainsborough.
I am,
My dear Sir,
Yours very truly,
R. B. BYAM, ESQ.
Vicar of Kew.
To J. RIGBY, Esq., Kew.
To this _capital_ letter my father replied:--
Kent Villa.
DEAR AND REVEREND SIR,
I cannot refrain from expressing to you my warm thanks for the
very kind and disinterested manner in which you have been pleased
to entertain my humble idea in regard to the restoration of
Gainsborough's tomb, and the erection of a tablet to his memory
in the church, the duties of which you so ably fulfil, nor can I
but wholly appreciate your very kind but far too flattering
reference to myself in your letter to our friend Mr. Rigby which
coming from such a source is I assure you most truly valued.
Your most obedient and obliged Servant,
E. M. WARD.
The tomb was restored, a new railing placed around it, and a tablet to
the artist's memory was also placed by my father inside the church.
[Illustration:
THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH ESQ^R
DIED AUG^{ST} the 2^{ND} 1788
AGED 61 YEARS
ALSO THE BODY OF GAINSBOROUGH DUPONT ESQ^R
WHO DIED JAN^{RY} 20^{TH} 1797
AGED 42 YEARS
ALSO MARGARET GAINSBOROUGH
WIFE OF THE ABOVE
THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH ESQ^R
WHO DIED DEC^{MR} THE 17^{TH} 1798
IN THE 72^{ND} YEAR OF HER AGE
RESTORED AND ENCLOSED AS A TRIBUTE OF RESPECT BY E. M. WARD R. A.
SEPTEMBER 1865
GAINSBOROUGH'S TOMB AT KEW CHURCHYARD AND TABLET TO HIS MEMORY INSIDE
CHURCH.]
Some very pleasant memories are connected with enjoyable summers spent
at Sevenoaks, where my father took a house for two years, close to the
seven oaks from which the neighbourhood takes its name. Particularly I
remember the amusing incident of the burglar. I was awakened from
midnight slumbers by my sister knocking at the door and calling in a
melodramatic voice "Awake!... awake!... There is a burglar in our
room." I promptly rushed to her bedroom, where I found my other sister
crouching under the bedclothes in speechless terror. Having satisfied
myself as to the utter absence of a burglar in that particular room, I
started to search the house--but by this time the whole household was
thoroughly roused; the various members appeared with candles, and
together we ransacked the establishment from garret to cellar. In the
excitement of the moment we had not had time to consider our
appearances and the procession was ludicrous in the extreme. My
grandfather (in the absence of my father) came first in dressing-gown,
a candle in one hand and a stick in the other. My mother came next (in
curl papers), and then my eldest sister. It was the day of chignons,
when everybody, without exception, wore their hair in that particular
style. On this occasion my sister's head was conspicuous by its quaint
little hastily bundled up knot. I wore a night-shirt only; but my
other sister, who was of a theatrical turn of mind (she who had
awakened me), had taken the most trouble, for she wore stockings
which, owing to some oversight in the way of garters, were coming
down.
After satisfying ourselves about the burglar--who was conspicuous by
his absence--we adjourned to our respective rooms, while I went back
to see the sister upon whom fright had had such paralyzing effects.
There I heard an ominous rattle in the chimney.
"Flora!" said my stage-struck sister, in trembling tones, with one
hand raised (_à la_ Lady Macbeth)--and the poor girl under the clothes
cowered deeper and deeper.
Two seconds later a large brick rattled down and subsided noisily into
the fireplace.
"That is the end of the burglar," said I, and the terrified figure
emerged from the bed, brave and reassured. Retiring to my room I
recollected the procession, and having made a mental note of the
affair went back to bed. Early the next morning I arose and made a
complete caricature of the incident of the burglar, which set our
family (and friends next day) roaring with laughter when they saw it.
[Illustration: MY BROTHER, WRIOTHESLEY RUSSELL.
1872.]
[Illustration: MY SISTER, BEATRICE.
1874.]
In those days we used to sketch at Knole House, then in the possession
of Lord and Lady Delaware. My mother made some very beautiful little
pictures of the interiors there, and several smaller studies. She
copied a Teniers so perfectly that one could have mistaken it for the
original. The painting was supposed to represent "Peter and the Angels
in the Guard Room," and the guards were very conspicuous. On the other
hand, as one only discovered a little angel with Peter in the
distance, one could almost suppose Teniers had forgotten them until
the last minute, and then had finally decided to relegate them to the
background. This picture (the original) was sold at Christie's during
a sale from Knole several years ago.
Of course the old house was the happy hunting ground of artists; the
pictures were mostly fine although some of them were at one time in
the hands of a cleaner, by whom they were very much over-restored. A
clever artist (and a frequenter of Knole at that time for the purpose
of making a series of studies) was Claude Calthrop (brother of Clayton
Calthrop the actor and father of the present artist and writer Dion
Clayton Calthrop). I was then just beginning to be encouraged to make
architectural drawings, and I was making a sketch of the exterior of
Knole House when one of the under gardeners came ambling by wheeling a
barrow. He paused ... put down the barrow, took off his cap ...
scratched his head and said to me, "Er ... why waaste yer toime loike
that ... why not taake and worrk loike Oi dew!"
Another time when I was sketching in that neighbourhood, in rather a
lonely part, I fell in with a gipsy encampment. One of the tribe, a
rough specimen, of whom I did not at all like the look, was most
persistently attentive. He asked a multitude of questions, about my
brushes, paints, and materials generally--and seemed anxious as to
their monetary value. As he did not appear to be about to cut my
throat--and I felt sure he harboured no murderous intentions towards
my painting--I began to feel more at ease, and when no comments after
the style of my critic, the gardener, were forthcoming, it struck me
that perhaps I had a vagrant but fellow beauty-lover in my gipsy
sentinel. I wish now that I had even suggested (in view of his evident
love of colour) his changing his roving career for one in which he
could indulge his love of _red_ to the utmost and more or less
harmlessly.
When I was about sixteen I turned my attention to modelling, and in
the vacation I started a bust of my young brother Russell. I spent all
my mornings working hard and at length finished it. On the last day of
my holiday I went to have a final glance at my work and found the
whole thing had collapsed into a shapeless mass of clay. With the
exception of watching sculptors work I had no technical knowledge to
help me; but, not to be discouraged, I waited eagerly for the term
to end, so that I might return to my modelling. When the time came,
and my holidays began, I at once set to work again, taking the
precaution to have the clay properly supported this time. Allowing no
one to help me, I worked away strenuously, for I was determined it
should be entirely my own. My bust was finished in time to send in to
the Royal Academy, where it was accepted. I had favourable notices in
the _Times_ and other papers, which astonished and encouraged me, and
I went back to school tremendously elated at my success.
[Illustration: BUST OF MY BROTHER, WRIOTHESLEY RUSSELL.
1867.
_Exhibited that year in the Royal Academy, modelled by myself._]
[Illustration: MY DAUGHTER SYLVIA.
_Sketched 1906._]
Tom Taylor, then art critic of the _Times_, wrote to my mother,
saying:--
DEAR MRS. WARD,
... I must tell you how much Leslie's bust of Wrio was admired by
our guests last night--particularly by Professor Owen....
Later I started another bust of Kate Terry, but I was never pleased
with it, as it did not do my distinguished sitter justice, and I
resolved not to send it to an exhibition.
I did not follow up my first success in the paths of sculpture, for I
still suffered slightly from my strain, and I came to the conclusion
that it would prove too great a tax on my strength at that time if I
took up this profession.
The stage claimed a great part of my attention about this time, and I
became an inveterate "first-nighter" in my holidays. From the pit
(for, except on rare occasions, I could not afford a more expensive
seat), or when lucky enough to have places given me, I saw nearly all
the popular plays of the day; and when Tom Taylor introduced my
parents to the Terry family, I became more interested than ever, owing
to the greater attraction of personal interest. I grew ambitious and
acted myself, arranged the plays, painted the scenery, borrowing the
beautiful costumes from my father's extensive historical wardrobe.
The first time I appeared before a large audience was at the Bijou
Theatre, Bayswater, which was taken by a good amateur company called
"The Shooting Stars," composed chiefly of Cambridge Undergraduates. We
arranged two plays, and the acting of the present Judge Selfe was
especially good, also that of Mr. F. M. Alleyne.
One night, when I came down from my dressing-room, made up in
character to go on the impromptu stage, I complimented an old
carpenter of ours, waiting in the wings, upon the clever way in which
he had arranged the stage and the scenery.
"Oh yes, sir," he replied, very modestly, thinking I was a stranger,
"_I_ didn't paint the scenery, Mr. Leslie did that!"
In some theatricals at the Friths' house, when John Hare coached us, I
took the part of an old butler. On my way to Pembridge Villas, attired
ready for the stage, I remembered I needed some sticking plaster to
obliterate one of my teeth; so leaving the cab at a corner, I entered
a chemist's shop, where I was amused, because the assistant put me on
one side rather rudely for other customers who came later, and after
attending to them, addressed me roughly with a, "Now, what do _you_
want?" His rudeness was an unconscious tribute to my effective
disguise, and his manners altered considerably when I disillusioned
him.
At one time Miss Marion Terry, who was then about to go on the stage,
after witnessing my acting in a play of Byron's, suggested in fun and
raillery at my enthusiasm that we should make our début together.
Owing to her excessive sensibility and highly strung temperament,
rehearsals were very trying to her at first, and for this reason her
eventual success was in doubt. When one has seen her perform her many
successful parts with such exquisite talent and pathos, one feels glad
to realize that she finally overcame her nervousness, and that her
gift of acting was not lost to the public.
I knew the Terrys very well then, and I was in love with them all; in
fact, I do not know with which of them I was most in love.
Ellen Terry sat to my father for his picture of "Juliet," and Kate
Terry for "Beatrice" in _Much Ado_. I remember too that when Ellen
made her reappearance in the theatre, my mother lent our great actress
a beautiful gold scarf, to wear in that part in which she fascinated
us on the stage as fully as she did in private life. Among my
cherished letters I find the following notes written to me at school,
after her marriage to G. F. Watts.
1866.
MY DEAR LESLIE,
I am extremely obliged to you for your sketch and I'm sorry Alice
[my sister] should be "riled" that I wanted a _character_ of her,
as the people down here call caricatures. Please give my love to
her and to her Mama and to all the rest at Kent Villa--when you
write. Mrs. Carr and Mr. Carr (my kind hostess and host) think
the caricature is a capital one of _me_!
Polly [Miss Marion Terry] sends her love, and is awfully jealous
that I should have sketches done by you and _she not_!!
With kindest regards and best thanks, believe me, dear Leslie,
Sincerely yours,
ELLEN WATTS.
DEAR LESLIE,
I fulfil my promise by sending you the photo of my sister Kate,
that you said you liked! I _think_ it's the same. I hope you'll
excuse it being so soiled, but it's the only one I have--the fact
is, the Baby [her brother Fred] seized it, as it lay upon the
table waiting to be put into a cover, and has nearly bitten it to
pieces.
I came up from Bradford, in Yorkshire, on Monday last, where I
had spent a week with Papa and Polly, and I can't tell you,
Leslie, how cold it was. I intend going to Kent Villa, as soon as
possible. I've promised Alice a song of Mrs. Tom Taylor's and
have not sent it to her yet, "Better late than never," tho' I
really have been busy.
With my best regards,
Sincerely yours,
NELLY WATTS.
Those were delightful days spent with delightful companions. Lewis
Carroll was sometimes a member of the pleasant coterie which met at
our house in those days. My sister Beatrice was one of his greatest
child friends, and although he always sent his MSS. for her to read,
he disliked any mention of his fame as an author, and would abruptly
leave the presence of any one who spoke about his books. The public
at that time were in complete ignorance of the real identity of Lewis
Carroll. Later in life, when I wished to make a cartoon of Mr. Dodgson
for _Vanity Fair_, he implored me not to put him in any paper.
Naturally, I was obliged to consent, but _Vanity Fair_ extorted some
work from his pen as a compromise. He was a clever amateur
photographer, and in my mother's albums there are photographs taken by
him of several members of the Terry family, together with some of us.
* * * * *
Mrs. Cameron was famous in those days as an amateur photographer, and
she took photographs of all the leading people of the day. Watts and
Tennyson were among her intimates, and most celebrities of the day
knew her by sight. She was a very little old lady--I remember being in
a shop (where some of her photographs were on view) with my young
brother, who was a beautiful boy, when Mrs. Cameron entered. She
caught sight of Russell, and could not take her eyes from his face. At
last she said, "I want to know who the little boy is with you," and
seemed very interested. I told her who we were, whereupon she asked if
I thought my parents would allow him to sit to her. Of course they
were delighted.
In 1867 Kate Terry resolved at the height of her fame to marry Mr.
Arthur Lewis (of whom I have more to say later), and to retire from
the stage, apparently quite content to leave her glories. Then the
most famous of the Terry sisters, Kate received an ovation worthy of
her. The _Times_, in a long article, said: "It is seldom that the
theatre chronicles have to describe a scene like that at the New
Adelphi on Saturday, when Miss Kate Terry took her farewell of the
Stage as Juliet.... Again and again Miss Terry was recalled, and again
she appeared to receive the long and continued plaudits of the
crowd.... Let us close our last notice of Miss Terry with the hope
that in her case the sacrifice of public triumph may be rewarded by a
full measure of that private happiness which is but the just
recompense of an exemplary, a laborious, conscientious and devoted
life, on and off the stage, as the annals of the English theatre--not
unfruitful in examples of wives--may show."
_Punch_ was just as enthusiastic and published a long eulogy in verse,
two stanzas of which I quote below:--
She has passed from us just as the goal she had sighted,
From the top of the ladder reached fairly at last;
With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted,
And a fortune:--how bright!--may be gauged by her past.
May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her,
All fragrant with flowers be the path of her life,
May the joy she has given in blessings attend her,
And her happiest part be the part of "The Wife."
Although I was not intended to enter the theatrical profession, the
stage never failed to attract me; and once, when I was still at
school, I was presented with a seat in exactly the centre of the dress
circle at a theatre where Miss Bateman (who became Mrs. Crowe) was
taking the part of Leah. I remember this fine actress made a great
sensation, especially in one scene where she uttered a rousing curse
with great declamatory power; the house was hushed with excitement and
admiration; and you could have heard the proverbial pin drop, when I
... who had been playing football that morning, was suddenly seized
with the most excruciating cramp; I arose ... and could not help
standing up to rub away the pain in my leg, the curse then for the
moment echoing throughout the audience.
Another time, somewhat later, I was again to prove a disturbing
element. I was at the old Strand Theatre, in the stage box, and my
host was a personal friend of Miss Florence St. John, then singing one
of her most successful songs. Now I am the unfortunate possessor of a
loud voice and a still louder sneeze, which latter I have never
succeeded in controlling. In the middle of the song, I was overcome
with an overpowering and irresistible desire to sneeze ... which I
suddenly did with terrific force. Miss St. John was so disconcerted,
that she stopped her song, and thinking it was a deliberate attempt at
annoyance from her friend--my host--called out, "You brute!" After
that, I took a back seat.
Besides visiting the theatre in my holidays, I used to go sketching
into the country; and one summer my parents took an old farmhouse at
Arundel. This reminds me of another unfortunate propensity of mine,
and that is, to tumble whenever I get an easy opportunity. When we
were inspecting the house, we discovered a curious sort of uncovered
coal hole under one of the front windows, and my father jokingly
remarked, "What a trap for Leslie!" Three days later, when we were
settled in the house, my parents were going for a drive ... and as I
waved them a farewell, which precipitately ended by my disappearing
into this hole, my father's jest became a prophecy.
At Arundel I made friends with a brewer named Constable, who was also
a clever amateur artist. Sometimes he took me fishing, but more often
I watched him sketch in the open. An interesting fact about Mr.
Constable was that his father had been an intimate friend of the great
Constable, although, curiously enough, no relation. My friend told me
that whatever he had learned had been owing to his close observation
of the great artist's methods. I remember his water colours showed
little of the amateur in their strength and handling, for they were
masterly and forcible in touch, and perhaps more effective because
they were usually painted in the late afternoon, when the sun was
getting low, and the long shadows were full of strength and depth of
colour.
Vicat Cole, R.A., was also a friend of his, and he used frequently to
paint at Arundel.
Although I worked hard in the holidays at my drawing, I managed to
enjoy myself pretty considerably, and was the fortunate possessor of
many delightful acquaintances.
One of the pleasantest memories of my later school days was of a dance
given by Mr. and Mrs. J. M. Levy and the Misses Levy at Lancaster
Gate. The cotillion was led by Sir Howard Vincent, and many of the
smart and well-known men of that day were there; among them Sir Eyre
Shaw, the "Captain Shaw" of "Gilbert and Sullivan" fame. Patti, who
was a very intimate friend of theirs, was present, sitting in the
middle of the room looking angelic and surrounded by a host of
admiring men. We were each given a miniature bugle. Patti had one
also, on which she sounded a note, and whoever repeated it exactly was
to gain her as a partner in the dance. The men advanced in turn, some
blew too high, and others too low, until one and all gave up in
disgust. At last my turn came; I was trembling with eagerness and
excitement, and determined to dance with Patti or die.... I hit the
note!... and gained my waltz!--and the applause was great as I
carried off my prize.
[Illustration: MR CHARLES COX (BANKER) 1881]
In earlier days I went to a juvenile party at Lancaster Gate, and,
going down to supper late, I found myself quite alone. I calmly
devoted my attention to some _méringues_, while it seems that my
people, amongst the last of the guests, were ready to go. The ladies
were putting on their cloaks.... I heard the sounds of departure, but,
still engrossed in the good things, I ate on. Hue and cry was raised
for me; and finally I was found covered with cream and confusion
amongst the _méringues_.
I remember, _à propos_ of my being a "gourmand," that I was a great
believer in the efficacy of prayer. My sister and I used to rise very
early in the mornings after dinner-parties to rummage in and to
ransack the cupboards for any dainty we fancied. After a good "tuck
in," we would pray for the forgiveness of our sins, and then we would
fall to breakfast with an easy conscience.
CHAPTER III
MY FATHER'S FRIENDS
My father's friends.--The Pre-Raphaelites.--Plum-box painting.
--The Victorians.--The Post-Impressionists.--Maclise.--Sir
Edwin Landseer.--Tom Landseer.--Mulready.--Daniel Roberts.--
Edward Cooke.--Burgess and Long.--Frith.--Millais.--Stephens
and Holman Hunt.--Stanfield.--C. R. Leslie.--Dr. John Doran.
--Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall.--The Virtues, James and William.--
Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor.--A story of Tennyson.--Sam Lover.--
Moscheles _père et fils_.--Philip Calderon.--Sir Theodore and
LadyMartin.--Garibaldi.--Lord Crewe.--Fechter.--Joachim and
Lord Houghton.--Charles Dickens.--Lord Stanhope.--William
Hepworth Dixon.--Sir Charles Dilke.
Before I proceed any further with the reminiscences of my school-days
and after, I should like to recall a few memories of the men and women
who visited the studios of my parents. Artists of course predominated,
and amongst the latter were men who distinguished themselves in the
world. Many of them, through no fault of their genius, have lost some
of their shining reputation. Others, who were merely popular painters
of the hour, are forgotten. Again, a few who were somewhat obscure in
their lifetime, have gained a posthumous reputation, and still others
have to await recognition in the future.
It is an age of reactions. Just as the pre-Raphaelite movement
"revolted" against the academic art preceding it, so the photographic
idealism of pre-Raphaelitism was superseded by a reaction in art
resulting and undoubtedly profiting by its really fine example. I will
not go as far as to say Whistler gained by the pre-Raphaelites; but
his art assuredly became all the more conspicuous by contrast, and
perhaps his school is indirectly responsible for the latest reaction
in favour of raw colour. In the "back to the land" style of painting
which we find in favour with a few modern artists, abnormal looking
women are painted with surprising results, and these artists seem to
delight in a sort of blatant realism that becomes nauseous. With
passionate brutality they present their subjects to us, and their
admirers call the result "life." Let us have truth by all means, and
let us not, on the other hand, lapse into the merely pretty; but let
the truth we portray be imaginative truth allied to beauty.
That reminds me of the "plum-box" artist, who used to go round to
country houses when I was a boy, with a completed painted picture of
what was then considered the ideal and fashionable face, which
consisted mainly of big eyes, veiled by sweeping lashes, a perfect
complexion, a rosebud mouth, and glossy curls. The artist (one feels
more inclined to call him the "tradesman") then superimposed the
features of his sitter upon this fancy background, and the result
invariably gave great pleasure and satisfaction.
Nowadays it has become the fashion or the pose of the moment to decry
the works of the Victorians as old-fashioned, and in many cases with
undoubtedly good reason; but unfortunately the best work is often
included in the same category. In the rage for modernity, culminating
in "post-impressionism," "futurism," and other "isms," in art,
literature, the stage, and, I believe, costume, the thorough and
highly conscientious work of some of our greatest men has become
obscured; they are like the classic which nobody reads, and they
stand unchallenged, but unnoticed except by the very few. Perhaps
their genius will survive to-day's reactionary rush into what is
sometimes described as individualism, and the worship of personality
before beauty, which, if carried to excess as it is to-day, seems to
verge into mere charlatanism. We are a little too near the great ones
to see them clearly, and perhaps they can only be judged by their
peers. Sometimes I see the casual onlooker glance at, sum up, and
condemn, pictures which I know represent the unfaltering patience of a
lifetime, combined with a passionate idealism of motive. The abundance
of art schools, the enormous reduction in prices, the overwhelming
commercialism which sets its heel upon the true artist, to crush him
out of existence unless he compromises with art, all combine to render
the art and artist in general widely different from the men of my
early days. True, the Victorian came at a great moment, and now more
than ever, if I may misquote: "art is good ... with an inheritance."
Among the innumerable artists I knew during my later school-days,
Maclise stands out a massive figure and a strong personality. He
reminded me in a certain grand way of a great bull; his chin was
especially bovine; it was not exactly a dewlap or a double chin, but a
heavy gradation of flesh going down into his collar. In the National
Portrait Gallery there is a portrait by my father of Maclise as a
young man.
His work is to me typical of the man: he was a magnificent
draughtsman, a cartoonist of fine ideas. In the National Collection at
Kensington there are some beautiful pencil drawings by him of various
celebrities of the day, and they are perfect in line and study of
character. In the Royal Gallery of the House of Lords may be seen his
"Battle of Waterloo" and "Death of Nelson," which are extremely
masterly in drawing and composition. But in my opinion he lost his
charm of line when he attempted paint, for his colouring is
unsympathetic and the effect is hard. His crudity of colour is not so
noticeable, however, in the frescoes as in his oil-paintings.
Sir Edwin Landseer was an artist who, like Maclise, received large
sums for his pictures. He was considered one of the greatest painters
of the day, but I am afraid it is no longer the fashion to admire him,
although his best works must always hold the position they have
deservedly won. I wonder how many people remember that the lions in
Trafalgar Square were designed by our great animal painter.
"The Sleeping Bloodhound" stands out amongst Landseer's pictures as a
masterpiece. It was painted in two hours from the dead body of a
favourite hound.
It is curious that in many instances, especially of early work, his
colour was very rich, and that in his later work his feeling for
colour seems to have weakened.
Tom Landseer no doubt contributed largely to his brother's reputation
by his masterly fine engravings of Sir Edwin's pictures, which were
sometimes unsatisfactory in colour and gained in black and white.
Herbert, whose name was prominent through his fresco of "Moses
breaking the Tablets," was quite a character in those days. I remember
he always spoke with what appeared to be a strong French accent,
although it has been said he had never been abroad in his life. The
story went that, going to Boulogne he stepped from the boat ...
slipped ... and broke his English. Later in life he worked himself
"out," and his Academy pictures of religious subjects became very
grotesque and quite a laughing-stock. I am afraid this type of work
needs a watchful sense of humour and a powerful talent to preserve its
gravity.
Mulready was an artist whose character showed in strong contrast to
that of Herbert. He was the dearest of old men; I can see him now with
his superb old head, benevolent and yet strong. He painted that
indisputably fine picture, "Choosing the Wedding Gown," now in the
National Collection at the Kensington Museum. Although the subject
will not be viewed with sympathetic interest by many of the present
generation, its worth is undoubted. His work is completely out of
date, but I remember one curious fact in connection with his crayon
drawings, which hung upon the walls of the Academy Schools; when
Leighton visited there, he had these drawings covered over, because
they were extremely antagonistic to his own teaching.
David Roberts, who was then considered the greatest painter of
interiors, began life as a scene painter, as did Stanfield who was his
contemporary and a very powerful sea painter. Both men were Royal
Academicians, as was Edward Cooke, an artist of less power than
Stanfield, but of not much less distinction, imbued with the spirit of
the old Dutch painters of sea and ships. He lived to a ripe old age
with his two sisters, but perhaps the youngest in appearance and
manner of the four was his wonderful old mother, who died when she was
close upon a hundred.
Then there were Burgess and Long who painted Spanish subjects. Long
was best known, however, by his picture of the "Babylonian Marriage
Mart," and Burgess as a young man sprang into fame with his picture
called "Bravo Toro." Like almost every other artist, Long took to
portrait painting, and his pictures became a great financial success;
but his portraits were not for the most part successful from an
artist's point of view.
Most of the well-known artists of the day visited my parents, and
amongst them I remember Sydney Cooper, David Roberts, C. R. Leslie,
Peter Graham, Stanfield, Edward Cooke, Frith, Millais, etc., etc.
Stephens, the art critic of the "Athenæum," came with his intimate
friend, Holman Hunt; he assisted the famous pre-Raphaelite in painting
in the detail in some of his pictures, such as the Moorish temple in
"The Saviour in the Temple." Later, he wrote the catalogue of "Prints
and Drawings" at the British Museum. The last time I met Mr. Stephens,
he told me the greatest pleasure he could possibly have was to go
round London with my father, for there was not a place of interest of
which he could not tell some anecdote of historical or topical
information; and as an antiquary of some merit, the art critic was
evidently in a position to give his appreciation with the authority of
knowledge.
I think my father's closest friend was John Doran. To quote Mr.
Edge:--" ... Doctor Doran, known as the 'Doctor,' having graduated in
Germany as a 'Doctor of Philosophy.' He was a delightful raconteur, a
brilliant conversationalist, a man to put the shyest at his ease. He,
too, studied history and wrote some of the most delightful biographies
in the English language. The painter (my father) and the Doctor took
many an excursion together to old-world places celebrated for memories
quaint, tragic or humorous, and their rambles were perpetuated in
their pictures and books."
Doran began his literary career by producing a melodrama at the Surrey
Theatre when he was only fifteen years of age, and continued up to his
death to produce a series of interesting works, although he did not
write for the stage after his early success. He was editor of _Notes
and Queries_ and the author of "Table Traits and Something on Them."
Perhaps his best-known work was "Her Majesty's Servants." Among his
later works, "Monarchs Retired from Business," and "The History of
Court Fools" occur to my mind simultaneously.
The three following anecdotes from Dr. Doran's journal, will appeal on
the strength of their own dry humour and at the same time give the
reader a glimpse of the character of my father's Irish friend:--
_October_ 18th, 1833. In an antiquated edition of Burnet's "History of
His Own Times" it was stated that an old Earl of Eglinton had behaved
so scandalously that he was made to sit in the "Cutty Stool" (or stool
of repentance at kirk) for three Sabbaths running. On the fourth
Sunday he sat there again, so the minister called him down as his
penance was over. "It may be so," said the Earl, "but I shall always
sit here for the future ... it is the best seat in the kirk, and I do
not see a better man to take it from me."
_December_ 9th, 1833. Colonel Boldero told us after dinner a good
story of Luttrell that Rogers told him the other day. He was about to
sit for his picture, and asked Luttrell's advice as to how he should
be taken. "Oh," said Luttrell, "let it be as when you are entering a
pew--with your face in your hat."
[Illustration: JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS, R.A,, _Drawn by me from life for
the "Graphic" 1874._]
[Illustration: C. R. LESLIE, R.A. (MY GODFATHER). _Died in 1859._]
_December_ 5, 1833. Heard also at dinner a story of "Poodle" Byng.
Dining once at the Duke of Rutland's, he exclaimed on seeing fish on
the table, "Ah! My old friend haddock! I haven't seen that fish at a
gentleman's table since I was a boy!" The "Poodle" was never invited
to Belvoir again.
Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, also well-known writers of the day, were
constant visitors at our house. S. C. Hall was said to have suggested
the character of Pecksniff to Dickens, perhaps because he interlarded
his conversation with pious remarks, which may have sounded singularly
hypocritical to many people. As a child I regarded him with terror,
because whenever he called he would come to our nursery and behave in
a manner he probably thought highly entertaining to children, which
consisted of pulling awful faces. His mass of white hair, bushy
eyebrows and staring eyes gave him an ogreish look, and added to my
fears when he shook his fist at me in mock horror. Then he would
tickle me as hard as he could; and as I hated this form of play, his
exertions only moved me to tears, so that when I heard him coming I
invariably hid myself until his departure.
Mr. Hall began life as a barrister and turned to literary work,
establishing the _Art Journal_, and carrying it on in the face of very
discouraging circumstances. Eventually he was successful, and his work
had an extensive influence, I suppose, on the progress of British art.
As a writer his output was enormous; he and his wife published between
them no fewer than two hundred and seventy volumes. As an ardent
spiritualist he was very interested at that time in a medium who, I am
afraid, was an atrocious humbug. One Good Friday my father called, to
find Mr. Hall in a state of great excitement.
"You've just missed dear Daniel," said Hall. "He floated in through
the window, round the house and out again, and I don't doubt we shall
see the day when he will float round St. Paul's."
Mrs. S. C. Hall (very Irish), who had a great personal reputation as a
writer, was most attractive and altogether a very interesting woman,
being a spiritualist and a philanthropist. She founded the Hospital
for Consumptives in the Fulham Road, and persuaded her great friend
Jenny Lind to sing at charity concerts to gain funds for her
institution. My father painted both of them, and the portrait of Mr.
Hall is now in the possession of the latter's family.
Ruskin was on very friendly terms with them, and it was the Halls who
introduced us to the Virtues, who were the proprietors and publishers
of the _Art Journal_. James Virtue, who was a fine oar and President
of the London Rowing Club, was one of the most cheerful men one could
wish to meet; and as hostess, his wife, who, I am happy to say, is
still living, was equally delightful. His brother William Virtue
afterwards saved my life--but that is anticipating events somewhat.
Mr. and Mrs. Tom Taylor were another interesting and talented couple
who were friends of my parents. Tom Taylor was the art critic of the
_Times_, and at one time editor of _Punch_. He was also the author of
several popular plays, of which _Still Waters Run Deep_ and the
_Ticket of Leave Man_, in which Henry Neville played the hero, are
perhaps the most widely known. In conjunction with Charles Reade he
wrote some amusing comedies; as well as writing in prose and verse for
_Punch_ he compiled some interesting biographies, of Reynolds,
Constable, David Cox, and C. R. Leslie, R.A. At dinner his appearance
was remarkable, for he usually wore a black velvet evening suit. A
curious trait of the dramatist's was his absent-minded manner and
forgetfulness of convention. Sometimes when walking in the street with
a friend he would grow interested, and, to emphasise his remarks,
turned to look more directly into the face of his companion, at the
same time placing his arm around his waist. In the case of a lady this
habit sometimes proved rather embarrassing!
Mr. Tom Taylor was a man of unbounded kindness in helping everybody
who was in need of money or in trouble; his generosity probably made
him the object of attentions from all sorts and conditions of people,
a fact very soon discovered by his domestics, for one day Mr. and Mrs.
Taylor returned from a walk to be met by a startled parlourmaid who
announced the presence of a strange-looking man who was waiting to see
them. Her suspicions being aroused by his wild appearance, she had
shown him into the pantry, fearing to leave him in the drawing-room.
On repairing to the pantry with curiosity not unmixed with wonder,
they discovered ... Tennyson ... quite at home and immensely tickled
by his situation.
Mrs. Tom Taylor was descended from Wycliffe, and in her early youth
lived with her two sisters with their father, the Rev. Mr. Barker (who
was quite a personality), in the country. Laura Barker was brought up
in circumstances very similar to the Brontës. She was extremely
talented, and began her musical career at the age of thirteen, when
her great musical gifts brought her to the notice of Paganini.
Paganini, after hearing her play, was much astonished at her power in
rendering--entirely from ear--his wonderful harmonies upon her violin.
General Perronet Thompson, on another occasion, was so pleased with
her performance that he encouraged her talent by presenting her with a
"Stradivarius." Later she became an art critic in Florence, and the
composer of many popular songs. When she married Mr. Tom Taylor she
continued to publish her talented songs under her maiden name.
A well-known composer, whose name is probably merged in memories of
the near past, is Sam Lover, who will be remembered as the writer of
"Molly Bawn," "Rory O'More," "The Four-leaved Shamrock," and many
others. His career was a strange and varied one. Beginning life as an
artist, he won his way to fame in Dublin, where he became a very
popular miniature painter, and many famous men of the day sat to him.
His roving taste, however, led him gradually to abandon art for
literature. In this again he was successful, and came to London, where
he contributed to most of the magazines of the day, and wrote several
novels. After more successes he began to compose the songs so well
known to-day. About the same time he wrote ballad poetry, but finding
the output a strain, he prepared a series of entertainments which he
entitled "Irish Evenings," in which he embodied songs and music of his
own composition. These entertainments became exceedingly popular, and
the reputation he acquired led him to extend his horizon to America.
On returning, he turned his experiences to account, and finally
changed his profession and sailed away to become an English foreign
consul in foreign lands. Before he left England he said to my mother,
"Mrs. Ward, if I return, I know I shall find you as young as when I
leave you!" He has not returned, but his words come back to me, for
indeed she seems to have discovered the secret of eternal youth.
Felix Moscheles the painter, was a constant visitor at our house, and
he was the son of old Mr. Moscheles the great composer and pianist and
friend of Mendelssohn. Felix Moscheles was a chum of Du Maurier when
both lived in Paris, and he wrote a biography of this eminent _Punch_
artist and author of "Trilby." Inheriting some of the remarkable gift
of his father (quite apart from his talent as a painter) Felix played
the piano, but he was astonishingly modest about his undoubted talent
and would only play very occasionally. He is an old man now, but
active still, for I heard his name not long ago in connection with a
Peace Society. Moscheles' niece, Miss Roche, who is Mrs. Henry
Dickens, the wife of the eminent K.C. and eldest surviving son of
Charles Dickens, inherits the musical talent of her family, and is
also well known in musical circles.
_À propos_ of the Dickens family, I remember an incident in connection
with one of Mr. Philip Calderon's pictures, when I was going through
the Royal Academy (then in Trafalgar Square). I noticed an old Darby
and Joan looking carefully through the catalogue for the title of a
picture by the artist representing a nude nymph riding on a wave of
the sea, surrounded by a friendly crowd of porpoises disporting
themselves gaily around her.
"Ah," said the old gentleman, "here we are.... 'Portrait of Mrs.
Charles Dickens, Junior!'"
Sir Theodore and Lady Martin (_née_ Helen Faucit) used to visit my
parents. Sir Theodore was knighted when he had completed the Queen's
book, and his wife, when she left the stage, dined more than once at
her Majesty's table.
When I was still at school, Garibaldi visited England, and after being
universally fêted in London, and honoured with a banquet by the Lord
Mayor, suddenly announced his intention of returning to Italy. The
cause of the resolution was the subject of much controversy at the
time, as he would, by his departure, cancel many engagements and upset
the preparations the provinces had made to receive him. Garibaldi
embarked for Italy after a sojourn of seven weeks in England,
accompanied by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland in their yacht.
His son, Minotti Garibaldi, came to our house, and his visit recalls
an amusing episode in connection with one of my father's pictures. An
eccentric old art critic, a low churchman, who, as such, cultivated a
modesty in dress and a deep humility of demeanour that consorted oddly
with his rubicund feature (which had roused our housekeeper to remark
"Mr. So-and-so, 'e's got a nose to light a pipe"), was calling upon my
father to view his picture of "Anne Boleyn at the Queen Stairs of the
Tower." Anne Boleyn is represented in the picture as having sunk down
from exhaustion and fear on the lower step leading to the place of
execution. After remarking upon the masterly manner of the painting,
the old man paused, and looking up under his eyes he placed a
thoughtful finger upon his forehead and said in mournful accents,
"_The hutter 'elplessness_!" A little later young Garibaldi called
and was introduced to our pious critic, who, not quite knowing what to
say, but feeling he should rise to the occasion, made a spasmodic
attempt at tact and ejaculated "_'Ow's yer pa?_"
[Illustration: THE MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER, 1904.]
The late Lord Crewe comes to my mind now as one of my parents'
friends; he cultivated the society of artists and ... bishops! He was
very absent-minded, and there is a story told of him, which, although
far-fetched, is very typical. Suddenly recollecting his duties as host
of a large house party, he approached his guests one afternoon and
asked them if they would care to go riding, and finding several
agreeable, made arrangements with each one to be at the hall door at
2.30, when he would supply them with an excellent white horse. At the
appointed hour, guest after guest arrived booted, breeched, and
habited, until nearly the whole party had assembled. They waited, and
finally had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Crewe ride away, quite
oblivious, on the white horse.
My parents, after staying there some time, arrived home to find a
letter inviting them to Crewe Hall and written in a way that suggested
an absence of years. Lord Crewe's extraordinary absent-mindedness was
proverbial, and, since he was not aware of it, caused him to be
considerably taken advantage of. He used to dine at the "Athenæum,"
and usually at the same table. Another member came rushing in one day
to obtain a place for dinner for himself. All being engaged, the
waiter was obliged to refuse the extra guest, when the flurried member
pointed to an empty seat.
"Oh, sir," said the waiter with apologetic deference, "That's Lord
Crewe's."
"Never mind," said the urgent would-be diner. "Tell him when he
comes--that he's dined!"
It is to be supposed the waiter found his deception worth while, for
when Lord Crewe arrived, he was met with surprise and quiet
expostulation.
"You dined an hour ago, my lord," said the unscrupulous waiter.
"So I did," murmured the poor victim, as he retraced his steps.
I once remember his coming all the way from Crewe to dine with my
people. After dinner my sister Beatrice, who played the violin,
performed her latest piece for his benefit. Lord Crewe, evidently
tired after his meal, went to sleep and slept soundly until the
finish, when he awoke suddenly, applauded loudly and eulogised her
talent at some length.
Marks, the R.A., paid a visit to Crewe Hall; after which he composed
some very tuneful and witty songs of "the noble Earl of Crewe," which
set forth that gentleman's idiosyncrasies at no small length, much to
the amusement of all who heard them.
I wonder how many people nowadays remember Fechter the actor. I often
saw him when I was a boy, and thought his acting splendid. His love
scene with Kate Terry in the _Duke's Motto_ took London by storm. He
had a marked foreign accent that did not interfere in the least with
the clear elocution that he owed to Bellew's instruction. Fechter was
born in London and educated in France as a sculptor, but his
inclinations tended towards the stage; he made his début at the Salle
Molière, and achieved success as Duval in _La Dame aux Camellias_.
After acting in Italy, Germany, and France, he came to England and won
his laurels upon our stage. In conversation he was brilliant, and in
appearance gave one the impression of strength both physically and
mentally; I think his face is to this day more deeply impressed upon
my mind than that of any other actor I remember excepting Irving. My
father painted his portrait in the costume he wore in Hamlet and many
years after my mother presented the picture to Henry Irving; but she
still has the dress which Fechter gave her when leaving England.
Charles Dickens thought highly of him, as the following letter will
show.
3, Hanover Terrace,
Thursday, Twenty-fifth April, 1861.
MY DEAR WARD,
I have the greatest interest in Fechter (on whom I called; by the
way, I hope he knows), and I should have been heartily glad to
meet him again. But--one word in such a case is as good, or bad,
as a thousand....
I am engaged on Tuesday beyond the possibilities of backing out
or putting off.
With kind regards to Mrs. Ward, in which my daughter and Miss
Hogarth join,
Very faithfully yours,
CHARLES DICKENS.
Irving (when comparatively unknown to the London public) I first saw
in _Lost in London_, and not long afterwards when he played "Macbeth,"
I could not resist caricaturing him.
Sothern I remember, of course, in "Lord Dundreary;" and Lytton, his
son, also a successful actor in comparatively late years, and a
playfellow of my brother Russell.
W. S. Gilbert came often to our Sunday "evenings" at Kent Villa. Years
after, I recollect a story he told in the Club against himself. He was
at the Derby, and crossing over from the stand, he got amongst the
crowd who hustled and jostled him without the slightest regard for his
comfort. He remonstrated with them, and receiving a good deal of
impertinence in consequence, he lost his temper. When he at length
emerged from the crush, he discovered his watch, a unique repeater and
gold chain worth about two hundred pounds, had disappeared. The five
minutes' talk proved to be one of the most expensive he had ever
indulged in.
Although my father was interested in all sorts and conditions of men,
historians, as I have remarked before, possessed a supreme attraction
for him, and he sought the society of such men, as they in their turn
sought his, whenever opportunity presented itself. William Hepworth
Dixon, the historian, became friendly with my father shortly after our
arrival at Kent Villa, and in the company of Douglas Jerrold was
frequently at our house.
Mr. Dixon wrote a series of papers in the _Daily News_ on the
"Literature of the Lower Orders," which were precursors of Henry
Mayhew's inquiries into the conditions of the London poor. He took a
great interest in the lower classes and was instrumental in obtaining
a free entry for the public to the Tower of London. Afterwards he
became chief editor of the _Athenæum_. As a traveller he visited
Italy, Spain, Hungary--all Europe, in fact, as well as Canada and the
United States, where he went to Salt Lake City and wrote a history of
the Mormons. He finally met with a riding accident in Cyprus which
made him more or less of an invalid afterwards. His extraordinary
reluctance to enter a church is one of the idiosyncrasies that returns
to me; this must have puzzled my father, who was a very religious man
and a constant church-goer.
Lord Stanhope (formerly Lord Mahon) was another historian, and an
intimate friend of my father's. When the first Peel Ministry was
formed in 1834, Lord Mahon appeared as Under-Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, and during the last year of the Peel Ministry he held
the office of Secretary to the Board of Control and supported the
repeal of the Corn Laws. He subsequently pursued a somewhat wavering
course, voted with the Protectionists against the change in the
Navigation Laws, and lost his seat for Hertford at the general
election of 1852. Afterwards his lordship devoted most of his life to
historical research and wrote among other works "A History of the War
of the Succession in Spain." His portrait is amongst the many my
father painted of men distinguished in their studies; Bulwer,
Thackeray, Lord Macaulay, Hallam, Dickens, Collins, were also subjects
for his brush.
Sir Charles Dilke (the Dilkes were then proprietors of the _Athenæum_)
once came to dine with us, and was mortally offended because a foreign
ambassador was given precedence, as is etiquette as well as politeness
to a stranger amongst us. He took my sister down, and sulked and
grumbled to her all dinner time, venting on our high-backed antique
chairs his annoyance at what he imagined to be a serious slight to his
dignity and position.
I went with my father to Charles Dickens' last reading. He was an
amateur actor of high repute, and his rendering of the famous novels
was exceedingly dramatic. Wilkie Collins once wrote a play, called
_The Lighthouse_, for some private theatricals in which Dickens acted.
My father designed the invitation card, and the original drawing was
sold at the Dickens' sale at Christie's, where it fetched a high
price. At the last party given by Miss Dickens before he died, I was
introduced to the great author, and curiously enough, he said, "I am
so pleased to make your acquaintance, and I hope this will not be
_your last visit_." That evening Joachim gave us an exhibition of his
incomparable art. Lord Houghton, who was as absent-minded in his way
as his brother-in-law, Lord Crewe, was one of the guests. He fell
asleep during Joachim's recital, and snored. As the exquisite chords
from the violin rose on the air, Lord Houghton's snores sounded loudly
in opposition, sometimes drowning a delicate passage, and at others
lost in a passionate rush of melody from the player, who must have
needed all his composure to prevent him waking the slumbering lord.
About that time I made several slight caricatures of Dickens, which
have been not only exhibited, but published.
[Illustration: LORD HOUGHTON. 1882.]
[Illustration: FRED ARCHER. 1881.]
[Illustration: THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT.]
CHAPTER IV
WORK AND PLAY
School-days ended.--A trip to Paris.--Versailles and the
Morgue.--I enter the office of Sydney Smirke, R.A.--Montagu
Williams and Christchurch.--A squall.--Frith as arbitrator.
--I nearly lose my life.--William Virtue to the rescue.--The
Honourable Mrs. Butler Johnson Munro.--I visit Knebworth.--
Lord Lytton.--Spiritualism.--My first picture in the Royal
Academy.--A Scotch holiday with my friend Richard Dunlop.--
Patrick Adam.--Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Lewis.--Mr. George Fox
and Harry Fox.--Sir William Jaffray.--Mr. William Cobbett.--
Adventures on and off a horse.--Peter Graham.--Cruikshank.--
Mr. Phené Spiers.--Johnston Forbes-Robertson and Irving.--
Fred Walker.--Arthur Sullivan.--Sir Henry de Bathe.--Sir
Spencer Ponsonby.--Du Maurier.--Arthur Cecil.--Sir Francis
Burnand.--The Bennett Benefit.
After leaving school, I took a trip with some schoolfellows to Paris.
Our visit was not remarkably adventurous. I remember my interest in
the outside seats on the trains, our nearly being frozen to death
while indulging in the novelty of a journey to Versailles, and my
excitement when I thought I had discovered Shakespeare in the
_Morgue_, although second thoughts led me to the conclusion I was a
little late in the day.
My great ambition at this period of my life was to be able to study
drawing and painting, but my father was inexorable in his decision,
and I entered the office of Sydney Smirke, R.A., to learn
architecture.
Mr. Smirke was one of three talented brothers (the sons of the very
distinguished artist, Robert Smirke, R.A.), Sir Edward Smirke, the
City Solicitor, and Sir Robert Smirke, R.A., who achieved fame as an
architect and designed Covent Garden Theatre among buildings of note.
It is probable (I was told at the time) that Mr. Sydney Smirke would
have received a knighthood, had he not opposed Queen Victoria's desire
at that time that all Art Exhibitions should be restricted to the
neighbourhood of South Kensington. He had then decided with the
Committee who commissioned him upon the present site of Burlington
House for the Royal Academy, which was to be built to his design.
Among his best-known works are the Carlton and Conservative Club
houses, the Reading Room, and the Roman and Assyrian Galleries at the
British Museum.
While I was in Mr. Smirke's office, I longed more than ever to be an
artist, for the purely mechanical part of the profession did not
appeal to me in the least, neither did the prospect of an architect's
life commend itself. After a year during which I worked very
conscientiously, considering my adverse sympathies, with bricks and
mortar, Mr. Smirke finished his last work on Burlington House, and
announced his intention of retiring.
In the meantime I had visited Christchurch and Bournemouth, and had
completed a series of drawings of interiors. One of these--of the Lady
Chapel--was bought by Montague Williams, whose wife had then recently
died. My picture, which represented a woman placing flowers upon a
tomb, figured in the drawing, was the best work I had done up to that
period, and it probably possessed some sad association or suggestion
for him. I had wished to sell the picture to the Rev. Zacchary Nash,
the Rector of Christchurch, and he wrote to me, saying, "If you very
much wish me to buy the water-colour drawing, I will; but I dislike
all pictures, and consider they never rise to my preconceived idea of
the subject or object they are intended to represent."
The walls of his house were entirely without the usual ornamentation,
and I do not remember to have seen there a single picture, with the
exception of the usual conventional and handed-down portraits of
relations.
I was made a member of the Architectural Association, and exhibited my
drawings of Christchurch, which were so highly appreciated by my
father, and so pleased him by what he considered my advance in the
architectural profession, that I had not the heart to tell him of my
ever-increasing desire to leave it and go through the Academy Schools,
and become a painter. He had repeatedly said he would rather I swept a
crossing than be an artist, whereupon I decided upon the one outside
our house, in anticipation.
On my return, my father immediately exerted himself to find a new
office for me, and Mr. Smirke suggested a colleague of his, Mr.
Street, in the following letter:--
MY DEAR SIR,
... with regard to Leslie I quite concur with you in wishing him
to get into some busy and eminent office where he can see and
profit by all the matters connected with the carrying out of
architectural work. I have enclosed herewith a note to Mr.
Street, requesting him to tell me candidly whether he can readily
admit Leslie into his office, and I shall not fail to let him
know how highly I appreciate Leslie's qualification. At the same
time I must remind you that in an eminent architect's office,
each stool has its money value and very big premiums are
realised. What I shall tell Street will be that in taking Leslie
into his office he is taking an excellent draughtsman with taste
and intelligence to boot, and not a raw recruit--one in short,
who would be found useful from the first day of his entrance.
Yours sincerely,
SYDNEY SMIRKE.
My father in the meantime had spoken to his friend Mr. Edward Barry,
R.A., with a view to my entering his office. This interview resulted
in my calling upon Mr. Barry with specimens of my work, of which he
approved and upon which he complimented me. At the same time he warned
me that T-squares and compass, and not the paint brush, would be my
daily implements for at least five years. This was too much for me,
and I frankly told him it would be impossible, and that three
years--until my coming of age--would be my limit. Barry then expressed
his opinion that an artist's career was what I was fitted for, and not
an architect's office, and although I quite agreed with him I went
home with a heavy heart at the thought of my father's disappointment.
On my return I sought my room, and, after locking the door, I sat down
to consider the situation. Also, I found that--perhaps from the effect
of my excitement--my nose was bleeding, and I endeavoured to staunch
the flow of blood. Presently, before I had decided upon a tactful plan
of action, my father knocked at the door, and when I opened it, rushed
in, greatly excited to hear the result of the interview. A rousing
scene followed, and although I respected his feelings and was sorry to
go against his wishes, I instinctively clung to my decision to live my
life as I chose and to follow my own career. The same evening my
father consulted his friend, Mr. Frith, on the matter, and he kindly
consented to act as mediator in this affair of my future career. After
trying to dissuade me, and presenting an artist's life from its very
blackest standpoint, and still finding me full of hope and enthusiasm,
Mr. Frith at last said, "I don't mind telling you that, had you been
my son, I should certainly have encouraged you in your desire to adopt
an artist's profession."
[Illustration: SIR ALFRED SCOTT-GATTY, C.V.O. (GARTER KING-AT-ARMS,
1905).]
Finally my father was persuaded, and as there was nothing more to be
said, we shook hands upon my determination. Thus we buried the
long-cherished idea of my architectural career, of which I was
heartily glad to hear the last.
After the disagreement, Frith, to encourage me, commissioned me to
"square out" one of his pictures from a small sketch--"The Procession
of Our Lady of Boulogne." I received eighteen guineas when my task was
completed, but in my excitement at receiving my first cheque, I threw
it (in its envelope) accidentally in the fire. I was in despair when I
discovered my blunder, and, in my ignorance of paper money, went to
Frith and told him of the calamity. He chaffed me, and said, "You
know, Leslie, I'm not compelled to give you another cheque ... but if
you wish it I will." Whereupon he gave me my long-looked-for and
fateful eighteen guineas.
I was now free to face my future and to begin life as I wished; and in
the meanwhile I nearly ended it prematurely while I was on a visit to
my friend William Virtue, at Sunbury. At my host's suggestion, we
started with three friends for a bathe in the river, early on a Sunday
morning, the tide being high and the current strong. I was a fair
swimmer and very fond of the pastime, and so, when our return home
for breakfast was suggested, I thought to have one more plunge,
whereupon Bill, as we called him, being familiar with the current in
the vicinity of the weir, advised me to avail myself of one in
particular, which would, if I followed it, he said, carry me back to
the boat. I acted upon the suggestion, but upon reaching our boat
found myself unable to get a firm enough grip upon it, and, after
making several attempts, became quite exhausted, and then tried to
float on my back to give myself a rest. Then an article I had been
reading the night before headed "Precautions in case of Drowning,"
came to my mind, with the advice when exhausted to "Throw yourself
upon your back." But this precaution proved fruitless, as at this
moment an under-current sucked me down. Being by this time quite
helpless, I was shot up again like the imp in the bottle, only to be
washed under again, and then in desperation I called for "Help!" and
sank for the last time. In my case no past incidents lit up my brain
with one lightning flash of thought--no beautiful ideas surged up--as
one has heard told in novels. I only thought of the boat ... I must
get to the boat ... and when I sank I said to myself, "Good-bye."
My host, who was then in smooth water on the other side of the river
exclaimed, to the rest of the party, "Where's Ward?" and as he spoke
he observed the ring in the water where I had disappeared. Fearing I
was dead, he exclaimed, "Good God, how shall I break the news?" but he
plunged in and lost no time in rescuing me.
How it was done, he was scarcely able to say, but he found me obedient
to his directions, and, being a powerfully built man, he was able to
battle against the rush of water, whilst supporting me. I was
eventually dragged into the boat, and, wonderful to relate, I had
retained sufficient consciousness to know I was alive, while fearing
at the same time for Virtue, who, placing me in safety, had swum after
another of our party who had rashly gone to the aid of both of us, and
was in difficulties himself. Needless to add, my heroic friend was in
a fainting condition when we reached his house, but with the aid of a
little brandy, he soon recovered, and no harm came to any of us. In
fact, in the afternoon I had sufficiently recovered to walk to
Teddington, where I called upon the Edward Levys, who had taken a
house there for the summer. Feeling quite fit in spite of the episode
of the morning, I was sitting in the drawing-room regaling my hostess
with the little incident of my rescue, when she asked me to ring the
bell for tea. On either side of the fireplace a bell appeared to be
attached to the wall. One of these, as happens in old-fashioned
houses, was a dummy, and this one I attempted to pull; being at that
age when a young man does not wish to be outwitted, and finding the
bell was extremely difficult to manage, I gave it an extra hard tug,
and, to my consternation, pulled off the dummy handle and with it
masses of plaster which came showering down all around me. My feelings
on discovering my blunder were too deep for words.
Another lamentable accident happened to me when I was attempting to
coax my coming moustache with a pair of curling tongs--to curl the
edges! In carelessly handling the lamp (which exploded), and in trying
to blow out the flames, I burnt myself so badly that I lost every atom
of hair on my face, eyebrows, eyelashes, and the rest. Seeing an
advertisement a little later for hair restorer and moustache
renovator, I bought it in high hopes, and rubbed it well in (as
directions) before going to bed. When, the next morning I arose,
expectant, I was puzzled to find my lips swollen out of all
proportion, and my disappointment was not untinged with feelings that
can be left to the imagination.
About this time I received my first commission, through Mrs. Pender
(afterwards Lady Pender), who asked my father if I could be induced to
undertake a series of drawings for a friend of hers, Mrs. Butler
Johnstone Munro. Of course, I jumped at the offer, and lost no time in
making the acquaintance of my patroness, who was an eccentric old lady
of eighty, and quite an original character. Her brother, Mr. Munro of
Novar, had left her his collection of pictures of all schools, which
she prized greatly, and she wished me to make a plan and series of
drawings to scale, of the pictures in their frames exactly as they
hung upon the walls of her house in Hamilton Place, that it might give
her an idea how they should be placed in a mansion she was moving
into. The work took me a little over three months to complete, and
when it was done, I made sure of a handsome remuneration from Mrs.
Butler Johnstone, who was very wealthy. Alas! the five-pound note
which she paid me after my first day's work was all I ever got, for
she died suddenly while I was taking a summer holiday, and I was "mug"
enough not to send in a claim to her executors. Thus only the memory
and satisfaction of having studied some of the finest pictures in this
country was left me by way of compensation for my trouble. I often,
however, look back in amusement at some of my experiences while I was
working for this quaint old lady, who, I may mention, seemed to
consider me at her beck and call, and used to telegraph for me to come
and show her guests a portfolio containing an almost unique set of
water-colour drawings by Turner. Colonel Butler Johnstone, M.P. (my
patroness's husband) came into the room one day when I was starting
upon my commission; _he_ evidently had no sympathy with art, for he
said that he thought that I might be better occupied. It seemed to
him, he said, rather ridiculous to undertake such tedious work,
because when it was completed he couldn't see the object of it.
This was a little disconcerting, but I was not discouraged.
I remember, one summer morning, Mrs. Butler Johnstone arriving on
horseback at my father's house, and sending in a message by the
servant to inform Mr. Leslie Ward, that the "Honourable Mrs. Butler
Johnstone Munro" was waiting to see him, and, upon my hastening
downstairs, I saw at the front door, mounted upon a good, but aged
horse, my strange employer, shielding her wrinkled old face from the
sun with a white parasol, which I afterwards discovered she habitually
used whilst riding in the Park during the season. This call was to ask
me to accompany her to the Kensington Museum, and there to act as her
mouthpiece, she being desirous of making a proposition to Sir
Wentworth Cole as to her intention of making a temporary loan of
pictures to that institute. While we were driving to the Museum in a
hansom cab, I remember that a somewhat ridiculous _contretemps_ took
place. The old lady, in giving her directions to the driver, managed
to get her bonnet and cape entangled and dragged off, and I was
reprimanded severely for the vain attempts I made to act as the
"gallant" in assisting her to replace them.
My visit for six weeks, with my parents, to the first Lord Lytton
(Bulwer Lytton) at Knebworth, made a great impression upon my mind, as
I suppose I began to consider myself "grown up," and was rather
flattered on receiving so interesting an invitation. During my stay I
made a water-colour painting of the great hall, which was hung with
rich red hangings and a fine old Elizabethan curtain. I also both
caricatured from memory and drew a portrait of my host (for which he
sat), for his appearance proved an irresistible attraction to me. Lord
Lytton had a remarkably narrow face with a high forehead; his nose was
piercingly aquiline, and seemed to swoop down between his closely-set
blue eyes, which changed in expression as his interest waxed and
waned. When he was interestedly questioning his neighbour, he became
almost satanic looking, and his glance grew so keenly inquisitive as
to give the appearance of a "cast" in his eyes. Carefully curled hair
crowned his forehead, and his bushy eyebrows, beard and moustache gave
a curious expression to his face, which was rather pale, except in the
evening, when he slightly "touched up," as the dandies of his day were
in the habit of doing. His _beau ideal_ was D'Orsay, and he showed the
nicest care in the choice of his clothes. His trousers were baggy as
they tapered downward, and rather suggested a sailor's in the way they
widened towards the feet. I can see him now standing on the hearthrug
awaiting the announcement of dinner--dressed up "to the eyes," and
listening with bent, attentive head to his guests. It was typical of
Lord Lytton that he listened to the most insignificant of his guests
with all the deference that he would have shown to the greatest.
Replacing his hookah (for he smoked opium) he would be silent for a
considerable time, watching us out of his odd eyes, and when he spoke
it was in a soft voice which he never raised above a low tone. He told
many stories of "Dis-ra-eel-i," whose name he pronounced with slow
deliberation, and one strained one's ears to catch every word that he
said, they were so interesting. I wish I could remember them now.
AT KNEBWORTH.
[Illustration: _In an inquisitive mood. Sketched from memory._]
[Illustration: _Slight Sketch of Knebworth._]
[Illustration: FIRST LORD LYTTON (BULWER LYTTON). _Drawn from life._
1869.]
[Illustration: _Silent Before dinner. Sketched from memory_]
In Art he had no taste whatever, but he was especially fond of artists
with literary tastes, which perhaps explains why he "took" so much to
Maclise and my father. Maclise (whom he considered everything that
could be desired both as a personality and an artist) painted his
portrait, which is now at Knebworth. It is an extraordinarily good
likeness, but very hard in the quality of painting, and unsympathetic
in treatment.
When I was at Knebworth I first found myself in public opposition to
my father's dislike of tobacco. I do not think I have mentioned this
distaste before. When he gave a dinner at home, he usually persuaded a
friend to choose the cigars, and was very glad to escape from the
atmosphere of tobacco when they were being smoked by his guests. Later
in life the doctor ordered an occasional cigarette to soothe his
nerves; he smoked _one_, and that was too much for him.
_À propos_ of this detestation of tobacco, I suffered what I supposed
then to be one of the most humiliating moments of my life. When the
cigars were handed round to the guests after dinner, I took one and
began to light it, whereupon my father, who had never allowed me to
smoke in his presence, saw my cigar, and waved it magnificently down.
Considering myself "grown up," I was at the most sensitive period of
my boyhood, and I felt I must appear ridiculous in the eyes of all the
men at the table, when possibly the whole episode had passed
unnoticed, or if they had observed me, would not have given a moment's
notice to the occurrence.
There was a French cook at Knebworth who used to go fishing in the
lake for minnows. Lord Lytton was wont to damp my ardour when I
expressed a desire to fish, by informing me that there were pike, but
that nobody had ever succeeded in catching any. Strangely enough, from
the moment I started to fish, I was very successful. Never a day
passed without my making a good haul; and although the Frenchman
failed to catch them, he knew the secret of stuffing and serving them
for dinner.
Lord Lytton was in some respects rather curious, for he informed me
that if I went on fishing I should empty the lake. However, I went
down one morning and found the whole lake drained and the fish
destroyed. The only explanation which occurred to me was that he might
have regarded fishing as cruel, just as he considered shooting brutal;
for after once hearing the cries of a hare he had wounded he never
handled a gun again.
An American lady named Madame de Rossit was then acting as Lord
Lytton's secretary. She had her little daughter with her, a very
precocious child, who had been brought up evidently on the great man's
poetry. I remember a very painful evening when all the household and
the neighbours were present to hear the child recite "The Lady of
Lyons." Anything more distressing could hardly be imagined.
Hume, the spiritualist and medium, whom I mentioned in connection with
the S. C. Halls, constantly came, and Lord Lytton, with a view to
testing my psychic possibilities, arranged that I should work with the
planchette. He was, I think, making experiments more out of curiosity
than earnest belief. Our attempts were entirely without results. I was
evidently not _en rapport_.
My host was always attracted by the mysterious; he loved haunted rooms
and tales of ghosts. There was a room at Knebworth where a "yellow
boy" walked at midnight, and the house itself was full of surprises.
For instance, you went to a bookcase to take down a volume, and found
the books were merely shams, or you attempted to open another case,
and found it was a concealed entrance to the drawing-room. There were
some fine pieces of old oak in the house, nevertheless, and upon my
mother's expression of admiration for one old door he had it packed
and sent to her as a present.
In the grounds, there was a curious maze that we found just as
troublesome, but more picturesque. Then there was the beautiful
_Horace_ Garden, of which my father made a painting. Down a delightful
green vista of lawns, barred with shadows from the trees overhead,
stood statues of the Greek and Roman poets and philosophers, grey
against the sunlit scene. This garden was Lytton's idea, and it was
certainly one of the greatest "beauty spots" of Knebworth. The house
itself did not inspire me; but at night, when the moon shone, the
griffins on the front, silhouetted romantically against the sky, gave
a mysterious beauty to the building, in the glamour of the moonlight.
I will conclude my memories of Knebworth with Lord Lytton's advice to
me that no young man's education was complete until he had mastered
the entire works of Sir Walter Scott.
On my return to London, I sent my painting to the Royal Academy, where
it was very favourably received and well hung.
The _Telegraph_, coupling me with my father in this notice, said: "We
have already mentioned a masterly drawing by E. M. Ward, R.A., and we
would call attention to the work of something more than promise by the
Academician's young son, 'The Hall at Knebworth, Herts.'"
Needless to say, I was encouraged by kindly criticism, for having
chosen my profession in the teeth of opposition, I felt I had to
succeed, and was extremely anxious to gain the approval of my father.
I entered Carey's to take a preliminary course of instruction
preparatory to the Royal Academy Schools. These studios were well
known in former days as Sass's School of Art, where many eminent
artists had attended before they rose to fame. At the same time I
studied at the Slade School, where Poynter was then professor. I then
copied at the National Gallery the well-known picture of "A Tailor,"
by Moroni, selected by my father, who had a very high regard for that
wonderful old master. Now that everything was running smoothly I was
quite happy. I was at liberty to follow my own desires, with the
thought of the future before me, which I faced with all the optimism
of youth and an untroubled mind.
With these high hopes I was considerably enlivened by my first holiday
in Scotland with a Scotch school friend. Dunlop and I started on tour
from Edinburgh, where I was introduced to the Adams. Mr. Adam was a
solicitor who, with all the security of a comfortable practice and
successful life, was very anxious to bring up his son in his office;
but Patrick dreamed of an artistic career, and had other ambitions. He
read the lives of Constable, Turner, and David Cox, and, becoming
inspired by the example of these great men, and by the works of Sam
Bough (a painter of whom Edinburgh is proud), he rose at dawn to paint
before going to his father's office, where he regarded the hours spent
on his stool as so much waste of time, and longed for evening when he
could return to his beloved pursuits again. When we met, our
sympathies went out to one another, and we spent our time discussing
art. Together we visited the local galleries and steeped ourselves in
the beauty we found there.
At Holyrood Palace we were shown the room where the ill-fated Rizzio
was murdered, and where the sad scene of love, passion, and hatred was
enacted in so small a space, which was yet large enough to hold
destinies between its walls. The blood-stain was pointed out to me,
and I was informed at the same time that the episode of Mary Queen of
Scots and the unfortunate Italian was the subject of E. M. Ward's
picture of the year in the Royal Academy. (This painting, by the way,
was purchased by the late Sir John Pender.) It is to be supposed that
I appeared duly impressed.
When we left Edinburgh, my newly-found friend, Patrick Adam, suggested
we should correspond about Art; but although he became a successful
painter, and one of the foremost Scottish Academicians, I have never
met him from that day to this.
During our visits to the picture galleries, my friend Richard Dunlop,
who was a matter-of-fact Scot and not in the least temperamental or of
an artistic turn of mind (but a splendid fellow for a' that), became
distinctly bored, and after we had visited Mr. Arthur Lewis (who was a
very keen sportsman and deer-stalker to the day of his death) and his
wife, formerly Kate Terry, at Glen Urquhart, he retraced his steps and
left me to go on alone. My continual eulogies of the beauties we saw,
the exquisite colours and effects of landscape evidently became too
much for him. I am glad to say that he still remains one of my best
friends, and I always associate him with our mutual and equally valued
friend, Charlie Frith.
On the various boats in which I voyaged from time to time, I enjoyed
watching the passengers, and occasionally caricaturing people who
amused me. There was one pale curate who looked as though he might
have understudied Penley in _The Private Secretary_. He wore a long
coat and broad-brimmed hat, and his smile was always dawning to order,
whereupon charming dimples appeared in his cheeks. I watched him
shedding the cheerful light of his fascinating smile upon the ladies,
until gradually a change crept over him; the smile wore off, and
presently the sea claimed him. I always think a man or woman should be
economical with their expressions when they are apt to be victims of
_mal-de-mer_, for so few smiles at sea last until the voyage is over.
About this period I was fortunate enough to be invited to Cheshire by
some friends of my parents, to the house of Mr. and Mrs. George Fox,
who lived at Alderley Edge. My host, who was a well-known
_connoisseur_, possessed a remarkable collection of pictures. I
remember one by Thomas Faed (called "God's Acre," representing two
little children by their mother's grave). The painting was full of
delicate sentiment, a qualification perhaps rather despised in these
days; but the masterly loose handling and fine colour redeemed it from
any such criticism from myself. I fear the picture would not realise
anything like the considerable price given for it by my host, which, I
believe, was over two thousand five hundred pounds.
[Illustration: MR GEORGE LANE FOX. 1878.]
[Illustration: LORD PORTMAN. 1898.]
[Illustration: DUKE OF GRAFTON. 1886.]
My first evening at the Fox's is never forgotten, for I made an
amusing blunder in all the superiority and imagined importance of
nineteen years.
Harry Fox, the son of the house, was then twenty-one. On that
memorable evening I was sitting in the drawing-room when he entered,
and, attempting to be friendly and conversational, I said to him--
"Well, are you home from school now?"
My friend, who married an equally fine horse-woman, was a splendid
rider in those days (as he is now). He was always dapper in his
appearance, and alert in his bearing. _My_ hunting days began when I
visited Alderley Edge, and although I had ridden at Upton, Slough, I
was somewhat of a novice at the riding with which I here intended to
compete.
I followed the hounds upon a powerful weight carrier called the
"Count," and became a very good acrobat when I was riding him. The
horse over-jumped a good deal, but, growing accustomed to seeing me
come over his ears, would wait until I got on to his back again. I
jumped over everything, and because I had very little experience, I
did not profit by the example of some of the finest riders when I saw
them avoiding unnecessary obstacles.
One day I was riding the "Count" and when jumping a hedge, I lighted
on my head. If you can think you have broken your neck, I did at that
moment. Another rider following nearly landed on top of me.
"Are you hurt?" he called.
"Give me some brandy," I replied, stirring from what I had previously
imagined to be my last sleep. Instead, he cantered on. It was enough:
I could speak.
This callous behaviour roused me to such resentment that I tried to
rise--at the crucial moment the "Count" stepped heavily upon my foot.
I swore violently, and, anger impelling me to action, I mounted him
and rode away.
Riding one evening as the twilight was falling and the surrounding
country growing faint in the failing light, I rode my horse into a
bog. We soon found ourselves up to the knees and in an apparently
inextricable position. The situation was growing unpleasant when the
horse, instinctively recognising the danger, made a supreme struggle
for liberty, and, after some exertion, we emerged and reached home
safely.
I used to follow Mr. Brocklehurst, the then Master of the Cheshire
Harriers, and old Mr. Cobbett (the son of the great William Cobbett)
who dressed so exactly in the same fashion as his famous father, one
could almost imagine he had left Madame Tussaud's, with his snuff-box,
to take a day's hunting in Cheshire. Sir William Cobbett (the
grandson) still adheres as nearly as possible to that old tradition of
dress.
It was in Cheshire, at Alderley, that I met Edmund Ashton, an old
Etonian and a jolly fellow, who became engaged to Fox's sister. The
village was gay with decorations on the day of the wedding; on one
triumphal arch the local poet had evidently exerted his muse, for in
big letters shone the following couplet:--
On this day with joy and pride
Edmund weds his youthful bride.
Under the hospitable roof of Mr. Fox, a trio of us (Will Jaffray, now
Sir William, Harry Fox and I) formed a bond of friendship maintained
to this day, and which has always been one of the pleasantest facts of
my life.
About this time I settled to work in earnest and entered the R.A.
schools as probationer in Architecture, with drawings of a monument to
a naval victory, after which I became a full student for a study made
from the antique.
Old Charles Landseer (brother of Sir Edwin and "Tom" Landseer the
engraver) was then keeper. He was a quaint old gentleman, but I fear
his teaching didn't carry much weight. What I do remember about him
was that as he stooped to look over one's work the evident dye that
had once been sprinkled on the back of his head had remained there
until it became solidified and resembled old varnish.
There was an old student too who bore somewhat the same appearance,
and seemed privileged to remain for ever a student. In his case the
rust seemed to have spread to his clothes, so that I can remember the
peg on which he hung his coat was left severely alone, in fact, no
other student would permit of his hat or coat being near it.
It is a shame to mention old George Cruikshank in the same breath, but
while on the subject of hair dye he also toned his grey hair, but in
a perfectly harmless manner. What was comic in him was that up to the
last he wore a lock which, being suspended by a broad and very visible
piece of elastic, was evidently in his mind quite a success.
Among the students whose names come into my head as being prominent
students at the time were Ouless, Alfred Gilbert, Miss Starr, Swan,
Cope, Waterlow, Hamo Thornycroft, Percy Macquoid, and Forbes
Robertson.
I can remember the latter coming up to me one day in the antique
school, and evidently elated by the fact, saying--
"Ward, to whom do you think I have been introduced to-day?" And while
I was waiting to consider an answer, he said--
"_The Great Man_ ... and this day is the happiest of my life."
I congratulated him.... I knew at once to whom he referred and what
pleasure the meeting must have been to him, knowing the enthusiastic
admiration in which he held Irving. He became a friend of Sir Henry's,
and finally, fascinated by the stage and finding his dramatic talent
stronger than his artistic aptitude, clever as he was as an artist, he
abandoned painting as a profession, and went on the stage. The Garrick
Club, of which Sir Johnston is a member, possesses a portrait by him
of Phelps as Cardinal Wolsey. The only regret is that so great an
actor should be retiring from the stage, although he has indeed won
his laurels. It is to be hoped that his clever brother Norman Forbes
will carry on the family tradition for some time to come.
[Illustration: signatures]
Fred Walker, then one of the visiting artists at the R.A. schools, was
a man who possessed great individuality, a highly strung and
excessively nervous temperament, and, unfortunately, very bad health.
It was the custom of the students, with whom he was very popular, to
give an annual dinner, and about this time the toast of the evening
was "Fred Walker." When his health was drunk, I remember he got up to
reply, and found himself from sheer nervousness quite speechless,
whereupon he murmured a scarcely audible "Thank you," and collapsed
into his seat again. Du Maurier drew the character of "Little Billee"
from this artist. He died young, and after his death his pictures
fetched very high prices, especially some delicate and beautiful water
colours. "The Haven of Rest," now in the Tate Gallery, is a poem on
canvas, and it is also one of his most popular works, which will
certainly live. Sir Hubert Herkomer was undoubtedly influenced by him
in his earlier days.
Marks and Fred Walker were the first two Academicians who lent their
names to poster designs, and they were very much "called over the
coals" for it. Millais came in for a like share of condemnation when
he sold his "Bubbles" to Pears' Soap. In these days of advertisement,
when the hoardings are covered with every type of art, and really
great artists apply their talent to the demands of commercialism, the
censure levelled at Millais, Walker, and Marks appears rather more
like fiction than fact.
Another novelty of that period was the musical play which Arthur
Sullivan pioneered so successfully. My first experience of that
delightful form of entertainment was at the Bennett Benefit, given by
the staff of _Punch_ to raise funds for the family of one of their
then deceased contributors.
The musical version of _Box and Cox_ which was produced for the first
time, was entitled _Cox and Box_ and attracted a good deal of
attention. Sullivan, who had composed the music, conducted it himself;
Sir Francis Burnand wrote the libretto, and Sir Henry de Bathe acted
the part of the "Bouncer," with George du Maurier and Sir Spencer
Ponsonby as the lodgers.
Another musical play, _Les Deux Aveugles_, followed, in which Sir
Henry de Bathe and Du Maurier acted again with Arthur Cecil.
The _Punch_ staff performed in a play by Tom Taylor, entitled _The
Wolf in Sheep's Clothing_, and the cast included the author, Mark
Lemon, Tenniel, Shirley Brooks, Kate Terry, and Florence Terry (who
took the child's part).
The production was a most artistic one, and attracted a very
distinguished audience: everybody of any consequence in the world of
art, literature, and the stage, flocked to see _Punch_ behind the
footlights.
[Illustration: _From a life-size oil picture_ _painted by Leslie Ward,
1909_.
SIR WILLIAM JAFFRAY, BART.]
CHAPTER V
'SPY'
My coming of age.--The letter.--The Doctor's verdict.--The
Doctor's pretty daughter.--Arthur Sullivan.--"Dolly" Storey.
--Lord Leven's garden party.--Professor Owen.--Gibson Bowles.
--Arthur Lewis.--Carlo Pellegrini.--Paolo Tosti.--Pagani's.--
J. J. Tissot.--_Vanity Fair._--Some of the Contributors.--
Anthony Trollope.--John Stuart Mill.--_The World._--Edmund
Yates.--Death of Lord Lytton.--Mr. Macquoid.--Luke Fildes.--
Small.--Gregory.--Herkomer.--_TheGraphic._--Gladstone.--
Disraeli, etc.
On my coming of age, Doctor Doran sent me the following advice, which
at the first attempt I had some difficulty in deciphering. Later on,
however, I soon discovered that it was intended, to complete the joke,
that it should be begun at the end and from there read.
DORAN JOHN.
Yours truly ever,
Yourself find will you which in condition the see to surprised be
will you, anything yourself deny never and advice my follow you
if, fact in.
Everything in consideration first the yourself make.
Thing bad a always is which, behind be never then will you as
others all before yourself put.
Difference the all makes which, it like you unless, lamb the with
down lie or, lark the with rise don't. By done be to like would
you as you to do others till wait. Own your as good as be cannot
course of which, others of opinion the considering by distracted
be not will you then as own your but advice nobody's take.
To-morrow till off put can you what to-day do never.
Life through guidance your for advice of words few a you give me
let now.
Him cut to happened I although him for regard great a have and
years for him known have I. Morning very this himself shaving saw
I man a of photo the you send I herewith.
LESLIE DEAR MY.
On the morning of my birthday, which was to be celebrated by a dance,
I felt so ill and consequently became so depressed, I was obliged
eventually to pay a visit to the family doctor, who impressed me with
the seriousness of my condition and prophesied all sorts of calamities
after sounding my heart and feeling my pulse.
"You must be very--very careful," he said, shaking his head. "My dear
boy, I'm sorry to say it; but you must not dance to-night."
I was overwhelmed.
"But," I expostulated, "I came to ask you to make me fit so that I
might dance."
"You must give up dancing for a time," he said, with great firmness.
I sank into the deepest dejection; life seemed bereft of half its
interest. When the evening drew on and the guests began to arrive, I
saw my favourite partners carried off, and as I watched the crowd of
dancers enjoying themselves my dejection grew deeper. Heaven knows
what would have become of me had not my doctor's daughter arrived
late, being a very pretty girl, and, I knew, one of the best dancers
there, I threw discretion to the four winds, and went up to her.
"Don't tell your father," I said. "But will you have the next with
me?"
She laughed and accepted. I danced every dance after that.
At the end of the evening, Arthur Sullivan played a "Sir Roger," with
Chappell's man at the piano; I realized none of the dire effects I had
expected, and the next day felt better than I had done for months.
The capriciousness of one's memory is extraordinary (at least in the
light--or darkness--of one's usual forgetfulness). I remember my first
dinner-party perfectly; and my kind host and hostess had on this
occasion invited a particularly attractive girl for me to take down.
Most of the guests were elderly people, and some of them were hungry
people also. I had received an invitation from my hostess for almost a
fortnight previously, but on that occasion the dinner had been
postponed, and their usual hour altered for the convenience of a
guest. I, who had not been notified to that effect, arrived in
consequence half an hour late, to find the guests still waiting; my
inward embarrassment was great when I faced the pairs of hungry and
expectant eyes. There was one awfully fat parson who looked as though
food came before Church matters. I remember even now his expression of
intense relief. I hope he was satisfied. We had a most perfect dinner,
and I took down my partner. I felt my hostess's eye upon me; I do not
think the lady realized that the fault lay with herself and not with
me.
My first dinner-party at home was spoiled for me by an accident. I sat
next to Mrs. Edmund Yates, who was a beautiful woman, resplendent that
evening in a gorgeous gown. Everything had up till now gone smoothly,
and I felt that I was getting along nicely when my sleeve caught my
glass and swept it over--as Fate would have it--Mrs. Yates' dress. I
was terribly upset--so was she, and so was the liqueur.
Commissioned portraits were occupying most of my time in those days,
and I exhibited (at the Royal Academy) one drawing of my brother
Russell, and one of my sister Beatrice. The latter work was much
admired by Mr. "Dolly" Storey,[2] who paid me the compliment of
offering to buy it from me; but on hearing my parents wished to keep
it in the family, he offered me a very good price for any other
drawing of similar character.
Although I made a considerable number of portraits, I was always
caricaturing the various personalities--interesting, extraordinary or
amusing--who crossed my path.
At a garden party at Lord Leven's, in Roehampton Lane, I saw Professor
Owen or "Old Bones" (as he was irreverently nicknamed), and, struck
with his antediluvian incongruity amidst the beautiful surroundings of
the garden, and the children there, I resolved to caricature him.
Impressing his strange and whimsical face upon my memory, I returned
home and at once conveyed my impressions to paper. I "caught" him in
his best clothes, with the tall white hat, which made a contrast to
his florid face; it is hardly one's idea of a garden party "get up" as
will be seen by the boots. I suppose some eccentricity must be
forgiven in the light of his genius, for "Old Bones" was a man, and a
scientist, of prodigious activity. There was no end to his
works--especially their titles, of which, for instance, "On the
Archetype and Homologies of the Vertebrate Animals," is a fair
example; while "Memoir on a Gigantic Sloth," has possibilities. He
belonged to innumerable societies, geological, zoological,
chirurgical, and so forth; and he was, as _Vanity Fair_ described him,
"a simple-minded creature, although a bit of a dandy."
[Illustration: 1903
SIR WILLIAM CROOKES.]
[Illustration: 1904.
SIR OLIVER LODGE.]
[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM HUGGINS.
1903.]
[Illustration: PROFESSOR OWEN.
1873 _"My first" in "Vanity Fair_".]
A little before this, Mr. Gibson Bowles, then editor of _Vanity Fair_,
had become dissatisfied with the artists who were working for him in
the absence of Pellegrini, and, owing to a disagreement, was looking
for a new cartoonist. Millais, remembering my ambitions in that
direction (for when I saw the first numbers of _Vanity Fair_ I was
greatly taken with Pellegrini's caricatures, and, having a book of
drawings of a similar character, had thought that if only I could get
one drawing in _Vanity Fair_ I should die happy), called to see my
book of caricatures. This book contained drawings made at various
times, from my early youth up to that period; and when Millais saw the
sketch of "Old Bones," he was very taken with it.
"I like so much this one of Professor Owen," he said. "It's just the
sort of thing that Bowles would delight in. Re-draw it the same size
as the cartoons in _Vanity Fair_ and I'll take it to him."
I called with the cartoon, which was accepted--but was unsigned. I had
invented a rather amusing signature in the form of a fool's bauble,
but this did not meet with Mr. Bowles' approval. After a little
discussion he handed me a Johnson's dictionary, in order that I might
search there for some appropriate pseudonym. The dictionary fell open
in my hand in a most portentous manner at the "S's," and my eye fell
with the same promptitude on the word SPY.
"How's that?" I said. "The verb to spy, to observe secretly, or to
discover at a distance or in concealment."
"Just the thing," said Bowles. And so we settled it, and since then,
like the Soap man (this is not an advertisement), I have used no other
(with one exception, of which I will tell later).
Becoming a permanent member of the staff of _Vanity Fair_ and my dream
more than realized, I turned my attention to caricature
whole-heartedly and with infinite pleasure.
On the publication of my first drawing, Pellegrini called upon Gibson
Bowles (rather suddenly, considering his previous indifference and
silence), to tell him in flattering terms what he thought of the
caricature, and to inquire into the identity of the artist. _I_ in my
turn received the following letter from Mr. Arthur Lewis.
Thorpe Lodge,
March, 1873.
MY DEAR LESLIE WARD,
I've just got my last week's _Vanity Fair_. I presume the
admirable cartoon of Professor Owen is yours, as you said you'd
some idea of doing him for a trial of your skill. I cannot
refrain from sending you my congratulations on so successful a
commencement. Without flattering, I can tell you that I think it
almost (if at all) without exception the best of the whole
series.
I hope we may have many more of such quaint yet kindly
caricatures from your pencil.
Believe me,
Sincerely yours,
ARTHUR LEWIS.
I was extremely pleased to receive this flattering letter and
encouragement from a man whom I admired; whose opinions, as those of
an amateur artist of undoubted ability, were worth considering; and
who was entirely in sympathy with my choice of a career. Mr. Arthur
Lewis knew everybody in literary and artistic circles; at his house in
Campden Hill all the most delightful artists and _artistes_ of the day
came to amuse and be amused. There, in the garden, where one might
imagine oneself miles away from London, Mrs. Arthur Lewis (Kate Terry
of former years) entertained, and, in the summer time, gave charming
garden parties.
[Illustration: THOMAS GIBSON BOWLES (TOMMY),
_Founder of "Vanity Fair."_
1905]
[Illustration: COLONEL HALL WALKER.
1906.]
[Illustration: COLONEL FRED. BURNABY.
1876.]
Before his marriage, Mr. Lewis was noted for his suppers at Moray
Lodge, where he once entertained the Prince of Wales. It was from this
house, by the way, that the Moray Minstrels derived their name.
On Sunday mornings he was pleased to paint, for as he was a very busy
man, the week end was the only time he could spare for his favourite
occupation. One of his pictures, after being hung on the line at the
Royal Academy, was bought by a stranger from William Agnew for two
hundred pounds. Lewis told me with great pride that he was prouder of
that cheque than of any he ever received, and as a rich man he must
have been the recipient of large sums.
It was at the Lawsons' house that I first met my fellow artist Carlo
Pellegrini. Previous to our meeting, a mutual acquaintance had
jestingly and rather fiendishly accosted Pellegrini one day with a
remark concerning my work.
"Hullo, Pellegrini! You've got a rival."
"Oh, that boy," replied the caricaturist, "I taught 'im all 'e know!"
This was news indeed to me, for as well as owing my education in
drawing to the Academy Schools, I had caricatured from my earliest
childhood. At the time I treated the assertion as a joke; but in later
life, when the fiction was believed by journalists and set forth in
print, I rather regretted my former indifference.
An episode occurred shortly after the publication of my caricature of
the late Lord Alington, showing how easily such misunderstandings
might gain credence. A friend of mine met me one day. "My dear
fellow," he began, "there's a capital caricature in Sotheran's that
you could study with advantage--you should go and have a look at it.
You may get a few tips from it." I stared a moment to make sure that
he was not pulling my leg, then I understood. "My dear old fool," I
said. "Go and have another look and at the signature to it--that
particular drawing is mine."
Pellegrini was quite as individual in his outward appearance as he was
by temperament. In person he was little and stout, and extremely
fastidious. He always wore white spats, and their whiteness was ever
immaculate, for he rode everywhere, a fact which probably accounted
for his bad health in later years. His boots, too, were the acme of
perfection, and his nails were as long and pointed as those of a
Mandarin. He used to tell the story of his arrival in London, without
the proverbial penny, and how he wandered about the streets unable to
find a night's lodging, until, growing weary and desperate, he slept
in a cab. There were other stories of how he fought with Garibaldi,
having a charmed life while the bullets whistled past him, or of his
destined career of diplomacy, and of his Medici descent. One of the
most amusing characteristics of Pellegrini was the way in which he
related an anecdote. His expressive eyes, which always seemed to be
observing everything, would commence to flash before the words came;
and his English, which was ever poor, stumbled and tripped, for
although he was rather too quick to recollect slang terms, his grammar
remained appalling, but delightfully naïve. As the story progressed
his eyes would roll and flash, and, working himself up into a frenzy
as Neapolitans do, he would become extremely excited, until when the
crisis came, the point of the story burst upon the listeners' ears
with a bomb-like suddenness. His own description of how he would treat
his enemy was inimitable. First he created his subject, and then
imagined him lying in terrible agony and poverty by the wayside, and
dying of thirst.
"I go up to 'im and I say, 'You thirsty?' and 'e say 'e die ... 'Ah!'
I reply, 'I go and fetch you some water.... I take it and 'old it to
'is lips ... then ... when 'is lips close on the brim ..." (here
Carlo's eyes would flash and distend)" ... I take the cup away and 'e
fall back and die!"
In reality, in spite of his melodramatic description, I expect
Pellegrini would have been the first to help the sufferer, for he had
a tender heart and the kindest of dispositions.
Our meeting at the Lawsons' was the beginning of a lasting friendship.
I became fond of "Pelican," as his friends called him, and always
found his company refreshing. There are innumerable stories to tell of
him, some hardly polite, but none the less entertaining. I think his
quaint English added to the humour of his narrative, his naïve
self-glorification and childish conceit added not a little to the
entertainment of his hearers.
A friend once said to him, "Pelican, I noticed in the picture of
D---- (a Colonel in the Blues) that 'Spy' has left out the spurs!"
"Ah," replied Carlo, smiting his chest with a blow of conscious pride,
"_I_ never make mistake in the _closes_."
As a matter of fact, D---- had stood in a position in which his spurs
were concealed.
I scored off Pellegrini on another occasion, much to his amusement.
Weldon, "Norroy King at Arms," invited us to dine with him to meet
Sandys the artist, who did not turn up. Pellegrini, who had a habit of
sleeping after meals, partook of the excellent dinner, and then,
taking a cigar and the most comfortable armchair, sank into a profound
slumber, punctuated by violent snores. Weldon and I after attempting
conversation, exchanged looks rather glumly across his sleeping body,
when Weldon had an inspiration.
"I say, Ward," he exclaimed, "here's an opportunity, we may as well do
something to amuse ourselves--do take a pencil and draw him!"
So I drew the caricaturist, who, waking presently from his slumbers,
was immensely tickled by my sketch, and wrote across the corner
"approved by C. P." The drawing now hangs in the Beefsteak Club.
Another episode _à propos_ of Carlo's slumbers occurred in there.
I must mention first of all an extraordinary accomplishment of
Pellegrini's, which I do not remember ever having noticed in any other
man--the habit of retaining a cigar in his mouth while he slept and
snored. One day as he slept by the fire I watched him drawing in his
breath and letting it go in his usual queer fashion ... when the
cigar fell out of his mouth! Feeling that a substitute was needed, I,
in a spirit of curiosity, replaced it by a cork; the indrawing and
expanding continued as before; then he snored--- once--twice--thrice;
and suddenly the cork shot out, and, making a noise like a pop-gun,
flew with considerable force into the fire. Pleased with my
experiment, I rescued it, but it was rather too burnt to replace. Then
an irresistible piece of devilry made me dab the tip of his nose with
it. Stirring in his sleep, he brushed his face with his hand with the
action of one who brushes away a fly. I made another little dab in a
carefully chosen spot, with the same result. The men sitting at the
other end of the room began to giggle, and the caricaturist in burnt
cork began to grow interesting. Presently Carlo awoke, stretched, and
giving his face a final rub, stood up, accompanied by a roar of
laughter. Going to the nearest glass, Pellegrini saw his comic
reflection.
[Illustration: PELLEGRINI ASLEEP.]
[Illustration: _A looker-on at Wimbledon Common during a Volunteer
Review, 1867_.]
[Illustration: _A Ballet Dancer, Manchester Theatre. ("The Ballet of
Hens"), 1871_.]
[Illustration: PELLEGRINI "APE." _"My fellow, what I care! I say to
'im, 'you go to----'_]
"Oh!" he said, dramatically, "I do not accept apologize--you no longer
remain member 'ere!--write to the Committee--most unclubbable
that--you wait ... we shall see!"
I tried to pacify him, but he waved me aside. The next morning he
wrote me the following letter:--
Studio,
53, Mortimer Street,
Cavendish Square.
DEAR LESLIE,
Forgive me if I took the joke of last evening too much _au
sérieux_.
Ever yours,
PELLEGRINI.
During my first years on _Vanity Fair_ (or thereabouts) Pellegrini
was engaged in making an excellent series of caricatures of the
members of the Marlborough Club, in which the Prince of Wales was much
interested. His Royal Highness enjoyed Pellegrini's genius and his
company. The drawings were reproduced in the most costly manner, and
the collection was still unfinished when, owing to a disagreement,
Pellegrini refused to complete them.
The famous caricaturist numbered some eminent men amongst his friends.
Paolo Tosti and the late Chevalier Martino (Marine Painter in Ordinary
to the King) I remember especially. In the early days Pellegrini was
constantly to be seen at Pagani's, where there gradually gathered a
coterie of well-known Italians and Englishmen. In this way the
restaurant became the _rendezvous_ of interesting people, and Pagani's
undoubtedly owed its fame to Pellegrini.
In later years, illness barred him from many pleasant places, and kept
him a prisoner in nursing homes. He suffered from a variety of
ailments, and not the least amongst them was lumbago.
I was at the Fielding Club one evening when "Pelican" came crawling
in, looking white and ill; blue circles round his eyes accentuated his
look of misery.
"Come along, Pelican," I said, thinking to cheer him, for we
frequently played together, "come and play billiards."
"Ah!" he groaned, his hand on his back. "I cannot play billiard
to-night, my boy, I 'ave lumbago!"
Later the hospital claimed him, and it was sad to visit an old friend
whose sufferings were acute, in such changed surroundings at Fitzroy
Square.
The King of Italy decorated him, and when I came with my
congratulations, he said, "Oh! Don't! It come too late!"
There is yet another memory of him in brighter circumstances which
comes to me quite clearly across the years. One of my sisters was
staying at my studio in William Street, when the Neapolitan came in
full of his quaint humour. Looking at her gallantly, he smiled, and
said, with a soft sigh and with such child-like admiration as to be
irresistibly comical, "Oh, those beautiful cat's-eye!"
I remember the day was glorious and the season at its height. We were
going out, when he said, "I _must_ carry your sunshade." This was only
an excuse for foolery, for he took it and, walking with it, assumed a
mincing gait to the accompaniment of remarkably comic grimaces. My
sister, remonstrating, said, "Really, Mr. Pellegrini, I can't walk
with you like this."
"Very well," he replied, and crossing over with the same absurd
gestures, he walked on the other side of the road, twirling the red
sunshade all the way to Gunter's, where he continued his fooling by
trying to persuade the waitress to supply him with a liqueur (which
was decidedly forbidden).
While we ate our ices, he conquered the girl with high-flown and
exaggerated compliments, and finally had his way; and as for the
liqueur, success found him more or less indifferent to its
consumption, for the jest had been nearly all bravado.
James J. Tissot was an occasional contributor to _Vanity Fair_. His
work can hardly be called caricature; for the sketches were rather
characteristic and undoubtedly brilliant drawings of his subjects. He
was achieving considerable popularity (especially with dealers) by
painting lively scenes--usually in grey tones--of Greenwich breakfast
parties, modern subjects with a pretty female figure as the centre of
attraction. Tissot had a strong personality, and from the
psychological point of view his story is extraordinary. The woman to
whom he was devoted (and who figured so frequently in his pictures)
died, and Tissot, overcome with grief, perhaps with remorse, left
England and went to the East to seek distraction in foreign travel. In
Palestine he stayed and painted; and here he drew a series of
religious pictures illustrating the life of Christ. They were
exhibited at the Doré Gallery on his return to England, and showed an
extraordinary change of outlook. He became at first extremely
religious, and then the victim of religious mania. Later, he surprised
his world by becoming a monk, driven by his devotion to the memory of
the dead woman to the extremities which often arise when a strong
character is suddenly disrupted by great sorrow. Finally, he entered a
monastery, where he eventually lost his reason and died.
He used to say in his sane days, when talking about his work, and
about art in general, "If you feel the drapery or the hang of a
garment in a drawing is shaky, and your model cannot understand the
subtleties of the pose you require, get a cheval glass, pose yourself,
if possible, and sketch your reflection. Sometimes it is astonishing
how successful the result is."
Before I proceed any further with my recollections of _Vanity Fair_ I
think perhaps I might jog the reader's memory by a few reminiscences
of the early days of that paper, which was almost the first paper
which could be called a society journal. _The Owl_ was the first to
be published of that type, and out of this pioneer arose _Vanity
Fair_. In those days the eager public paid a shilling for their weekly
publications; and _Vanity Fair_ was founded by Mr. Gibson Bowles
(better known as "Tommy"), since a member of Parliament, and at that
time the best editor the paper ever had. He had the gift of the right
word in the right place; and it may be remarked that a dislike of
Dickens prevented any quotations from that well-known author from
entering the pages, and that he opposed the fashion of that period of
alluding to a lady of title with the Christian name as a prefix.
Among the earliest contributors were the late Colonel Fred Burnaby and
the late Captain Alexander Cockburn, a son of the late Chief Justice,
Lady Desart, Lady Florence Dixie (who was editress at one time), and
the late Mr. "Willie Wyllats." The latter, an even more brilliant
writer than many of the rising men of that generation, also wrote for
_Vanity Fair_ at that period.
The caricatures in _Vanity Fair_ were supplemented by very terse and
extremely clever comments upon the lives of the subjects portrayed by
the cartoonist. These were signed "Jehu, Junior," and were in
themselves enough to attract the reader by their caustic wit.
Looking back to-day it is strange to read in the light of great events
these miniature biographies of politicians now forgotten, of others
who left their party to go over, of statesmen, of judges who sat on
important cases and are now only remembered in connection with a
trivial poisoner, an impostor in a claim, of careers then unproved but
now shining clearly in the light of fame, and of others whose light
is extinguished--all within so short a lapse of time.
In those days I stalked my man and caricatured him from memory. Many
men I was unable to observe closely, and I was obliged to rely upon
the accuracy of my eyesight, for distance sometimes lends an entirely
fictitious appearance to the face. I listened to John Stuart Mill at a
lecture on "Woman's Rights"; and then as he recited passages from his
notes in a weak voice, it was made extremely clear that his pen was
mightier than his personal magnetism upon a platform. A strange
protuberance upon his forehead attracted me; and, the oddly-shaped
skull dipping slightly in the middle, "the feminine philosopher" just
escaped being bereft not only of his hair when I saw him, but of that
highly important organ--the bump of reverence.
His nose resembled a parrot's, and his frame was spare. In fact, he
was ascetic and thin-looking generally; but his manner and personality
breathed charm and intellect.
With Anthony Trollope I was more fortunate, for my kind friend, Mr.
James Virtue, the publisher, invited me to his charming house at
Walton, where I was able to observe the novelist by making a close
study of him from various points of view. We went a delightful walk
together to St. George's Hill, and while Trollope admired the scenery,
I noted the beauties of Nature in another way, committed those mental
observations to my mental note-book, and came home to what fun I could
get out of them.
The famous novelist was not in the least conscious of my eagle eye,
and imagining I should let him down gently, Mr. Virtue did not warn
him, luckily for me, for I had an excellent subject. When the
caricature appeared, Trollope was furious, and naturally did not
hesitate to give poor Virtue a "blowing-up," whereupon I in turn
received a stiff letter from Mr. Virtue. It surprised me not a little,
that he should take the matter so seriously; but for a time Mr. Virtue
was decidedly "short" with me. Luckily, however, his displeasure only
lasted a short period, for he was too genuinely amiable a man to let
such a thing make a permanent difference to his ordinary behaviour.
[Illustration: JOHN TENNIEL.
1878.]
[Illustration: ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
1873.]
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS DOYLE, BART.
1877.]
I had portrayed Trollope's strange thumb, which he held erect whilst
smoking, with his cigar between his first and second fingers, his
pockets standing out on either side of his trousers, his coat buttoned
once and then parting over a small but comfortable corporation. The
letterpress on this occasion I consider was far more severe than my
caricature, for I had not praised the books with faint damns as being
"sufficiently faithful to the external aspect of English life to
interest those who see nothing but its external aspects and yet
sufficiently removed from all depth of humanity to conciliate all
respected parents." Nor had I implied that "his manners are a little
rough, as is his voice; but he is nevertheless extremely popular
amongst his friends, while by his readers he is looked upon with
gratitude due to one who has for so many years amused without ever
shocking them. Whether this reputation would not last longer if he had
shocked them occasionally, is a question which the bookseller of a
future generation will be able to answer."
It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, for through this drawing
I received an offer from Edmund Yates, who was then starting _The
World_, to make a series of caricatures regularly for the forthcoming
paper. My father, who was anxious for me to continue my more serious
work of portraiture, advised me to do half the number requested by
Yates. When Yates heard my decision he refused to consider a smaller
number of contributions, and so the matter dropped. Previous to this I
had illustrated a number of his lectures by drawings of celebrities,
and I declined the extra work with some reluctance. Looking back, I
see the excellence of my father's advice that I should not devote the
whole of my time to work for reproductions, and I have often regretted
that I did not give more time to my more serious work. I never
realized that _Vanity Fair_ might one day cease to exist for me, or
that a period might arrive when, owing to the ever enlarging field of
photography, that type of work would be no longer in such demand.
My father was himself a caricaturist of no mean order; and one of my
most cherished possessions is a caricature which my father made of me
as a child, drawn on the day before I returned to Eton after a
holiday. In it I am represented as a most injured person, because a
very callous conversation is being carried on in the face of the great
tragedy of my life (at the moment), the ending of the holidays. Of
course I caricatured my father in due time for _Vanity Fair_; and he
was a delightful subject.
"For heaven's sake, don't let me down gently!" he said. And I didn't!
In consequence, friends complained of my want of respect, whereas my
father regarded the drawing with amusement, for he could always
appreciate a joke against himself.
Once, however, I remember an amusing incident in which for quite a
long time he failed to see any humour. My mother and sister, with my
father and me, were returning from some theatre, and we hailed a cab.
Getting in, my father said "Home" to the cabby, whereupon the man
replied, "Where, sir?" "Home," replied my father, a trifle louder.
"Where, sir?" answered the cabby, his voice mounting one note higher
in the scale. "Go home," cried my father, irascibly. Still the cab
didn't move, and the expression on the face of the driver was a study.
"Do you hear?" thundered my father. "No," replied the man. Then we
came to the rescue.
But to return to the subject. Dr. Doran (whom I had caricatured
shortly before in _Vanity Fair_) possessed the same delightful
magnanimity as regards a joke against himself, and I really found that
men of this type appreciated caricature. This drawing of my father's
friend caused me extreme disappointment when it appeared, for during
its manipulation by the lithographers it had suffered considerably.
The original now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery, to which it
was presented, I believe, by one of the trustees of that institution.
In January, 1873, the death of Lord Lytton (whose funeral I attended
with my parents, as I had also been present at Thackeray's) led to my
receiving a commission from Mr. Thomas, the editor of the _Graphic_.
Mr. Thomas, knowing that I was acquainted with the great author, sent
me a water-colour sketch of the Hall at Knebworth by old Mr. Macquoid
(the father of Percy Macquoid), in which I was to place a figure of
Lord Lytton. My introduction to the paper came through Luke Fildes,
who, besides making the drawing of Charles Dickens's "Empty Chair"
after his death, was then making the very interesting drawing of
Napoleon III. on his deathbed. Small, Gregory and Herkomer also helped
to make the _Graphic_, and I produced portrait drawings of celebrated
people, including Miss Elizabeth Tompson, Disraeli, Sir John Cockburn,
Millais, Gladstone and Leighton.
[Illustration: "MILES BUGGLEBURY."
_With praiseworthy ambitions but a failure in life._
1867.]
CHAPTER VI
CARICATURE
Cannot be taught.--Where I stalk.--The ugly man.--The
handsome man.--Physical defects.--Warts.--Joachim Liszt and
Oliver Cromwell.--Pellegrini, Millais and Whistler.--The
characteristic portrait.--Taking notes.--Methods.--
Photography.--Tattersall's--Lord Lonsdale.--Lord Rocksavage.
--William Gillette.--Mr. Bayard.--The bald man.--The humorous
sitter.--Tyler.--Profiles.--Cavalry Officers.--The Queen's
uniform.--My subjects' wives.--What they think.--Bribery.--
Bradlaugh.--The Prince of Wales.--The tailor story.--Sir
Watkin Williams Wynn.--Lord Henry Lennox.--Cardinal Newman.
--The Rev. Arthur Tooth.--Dr. Spooner.--Comyns Carr.--Pigott.
--"Piggy" Palk and "Mr. Spy."
During my long and varied career as a caricaturist, I have watched
some of the great men of the century build their careers, and as men
are often known, remembered and immortalized--especially abroad--by
some idiosyncrasy selected by the capriciousness of time, so I shall
always retain of certain characters odd, and even baffling,
recollections.
The caricaturist, I am convinced, is born, not made. The facility
which comes to some artists after long practice does not necessarily
avail in this branch of art; for the power to see a caricature is in
the eye of a beholder, and no amount of forcing the perceptions will
produce the point of view of a genuine caricaturist. A good memory, an
eye for detail, and a mind to appreciate and grasp the whole
atmosphere and peculiarity of the "subject," are of course essentials
... together, very decidedly, with a sense of humour.
I have met a considerable number of people, some interesting, amusing,
extraordinary, and delightful, and some, but not many (I am glad to
say), who, as subjects, were neither desirable nor delightful.
On the turf, in the Houses of Lords and Commons, in the Church, in
Society, in the Law Courts--in fact, everywhere, I have hunted for my
victim; and, in obedience to that inevitable eye with which I was
presented at birth by my good (or bad, according to some people)
fairy, I have found him in each and all of these places. At times I
have followed the dictation of my own fancy, but more often I have
been given a certain person or personage to stalk. Of course, not
every one lends himself readily to the caricaturist, for the ideal
subject is clearly one whose marked peculiarity of feature or carriage
strikes at once the "note" which can be effectively seized and turned
to account. The handsome man with perfect features and ideal limbs,
but nothing exceptionally positive about him but his good looks, is
sometimes, for example, a decidedly difficult subject. On the other
hand, every one is caricaturable--in time, and when one knows
him--whether on account of a swagger, a movement of the wrist, curious
clothes, or of an oddly shaped and individual hat. So a longer
acquaintance and a more extended opportunity for prolonged study
renders even the beautiful man (or woman) at length a possible or even
a very good subject. Here, however, the test of the caricaturist is
revealed, for while there are many who can perceive and hit off the
obvious superficial traits of those who present themselves as
ready-made subjects, the genuine caricaturist combines a profound
sense of character with such a gift of humour as will enable him to
rise above the mere perception of idiosyncrasy or foible, and actually
to translate into terms of comedy a psychological knowledge
unsuspected by those who uncritically perceive and delight in the
finished caricature.
The painfully ugly man who has some physical defect is almost as bad
as the man with no specially named feature; for one does not wish to
be malicious, and the portraying of physical defects is not a delight
to the caricaturist. His object is rather to seize upon some absurd
but amusing idiosyncrasy all unguessed by the subject himself, and
very often by his friends, for we grow unobservant of everyday
occurrence and familiar faces. But in spite of this, we must touch
upon defects, because, for instance, sometimes an accident resulting
in a twisted leg, a curious nose, an odd thumb, will not alter a man,
but are so characteristic that to omit them would only draw attention
to their presence. I could not have left out the cyst upon the
forehead of John Stuart Mill, or the warts upon the faces of Liszt or
Joachim. In the case of the latter I was profoundly disappointed when
he grew a beard, for the warts upon his face were as marked as
Cromwell's, and one was so accustomed to them that they seemed a part
of the man.
In connection with this question of portraying a man "warts and all,"
I might cite the beautiful bust of Liszt by Boehm. Here the sculptor
left out the warts, with, it seems to me, a failure of judgment which
affects the importance of the bust as art as well as its importance as
a true image of the subject. I do not mean that I should prefer such
physical defects over-emphasized in a portrait, for that would be
absurd. It is, however, essential that an artist should not be unduly
sensitive about such blemishes. Imagine, for instance, how little we
should recognize--and how little we should appreciate--such a
bowdlerized or expurgated rendering of the oddly-marked face of Oliver
Cromwell.
This reminds me of an early caricature of my own. It was drawn on
paper with a flaw which the lithographer took for a wart; and in an
excess of zeal the lithographer copied it minutely as such. The
subject, whom I had drawn from memory, came to ask me for an
explanation, saying, "My dear fellow, I may have other blemishes; but
_really_ I have not a wart!" I was obliged to explain that the flaw in
the paper upon which I drew the original had only shown it in one
light.
In the earlier days of _Vanity Fair_ I was very often given subjects
refused by Pellegrini. Bowles would say to him, "Now I want you to
catch So-and-so," and Pellegrini would reply, "I don't like 'im. Send
Ward--'e can run after 'im better." Thus it came about that I was sent
off to stalk the undesirable subject because I was younger, and I was
obliged of course to comply with the demands of the paper and pursue
Pellegrini's uncaricaturable subjects. As an artist, Pellegrini's
likes and dislikes were curious. He could find no beauty in a
landscape, so he informed me, no matter how well depicted. Whistler's
work he adored and Millais' he detested. He was a great personal
friend of Whistler's, and, curiously enough, because Pellegrini's work
was formerly greatly opposed to Whistler's, he spent a considerable
time studying Whistler's method of painting and admiring his work.
Pellegrini became so imbued with the great painter and his ideas that
he determined to abandon caricature and give his attention to
portrait painting. His intention was to outshine Millais, whom he
found uncongenial as an artist, and whose work he prophesied would not
survive a lifetime's popularity. One of his favourite recreations was
to discuss Millais and his success in relation to himself when he had
gained fame as a painter. One day, on this subject, after working
himself up into his customary excitement, he twisted a piece of paper
into a funnel-shaped roll, and said to me:--
"Now Millais' ambitions go in like this"--pointing to the big end,
"and become this"--turning up the smaller end. "And mine begin small
and go on...." Here he opened his arms as if to embrace the infinite.
[Illustration: J. REDMOND, M.P.
1904.]
[Illustration: THE SPEAKER
(J. W. LOWTHER, M.P.).
1906.]
[Illustration: BONAR LAW, M.P.
1905.]
When Pellegrini partially abandoned caricature and took up portraiture
he attempted to become a master of painting too soon, and, inspired by
Whistler's facility, imagined that it would be easy to overcome very
quickly the difficulties of a lifetime. Occasionally, of course, he
succeeded legitimately, as in the case of "Gillie"[3] Farquhar; but,
generally speaking, if Pellegrini had a sitter who was an admirable
subject for caricature, he was unconsciously liable to put what he saw
into his portrait. His successes were great; he was undoubtedly--when
he had a "sympathetic" subject, a genius in caricature. That pleasure,
or sympathy, is one of the main elements in the success of a
caricaturist. Just as a subject may offer great temperamental
difficulties, so it frequently happens that--for some inexplicable
reason--he will at once afford an opening which a practised
caricaturist will know immediately how to turn to account. It is this
element of chance which lends a charming uncertainty to the
caricaturist's art; and it is this element also which explains in many
cases the strange success or failure of an impression, the apparent
fluctuations of an artist's talent in preserving a likeness or
translating a personality into terms of comedy. Thus it often happened
that I was fortunate in my own choice of a man, and thus, on the other
hand, that when I was sent off in a hurry to seize the peculiarities
of a man, I found he required a great deal of study, and so was
obliged to leave out the caricature and put as many characteristics in
as I could.
The "characteristic portrait," although without the same qualities as
the caricature, is sometimes more successful with one type of man.
Nature is followed more accurately, the humour is there, if there is
humour in the subject, and the work is naturally more artistic in
touch and finish, and probably a better drawing in consequence. The
caricature done from memory is wider in scope; one is not distracted
from the general impression by the various little fascinations of form
one finds in closer study. In fact, I consider that in order that the
cartoon should have a perfect result, it must be drawn firstly from
memory. Of course, little details and characteristics can be memorised
by a thumb-nail sketch, or notes upon one's shirt cuff, and for this
reason I usually watch my subject all the time. I make notes, keeping
him under observation and making the note at the same time. The sketch
made in these circumstances is frequently useless in consequence; but
it seems to impress upon my brain the special trait I have noticed.
My caricatures were often the result of hours of continual attempts,
watching my subject as he walked or drove past me, or if he were a
clergyman, as he preached, again and again. Before I pleased myself I
would make elusive sketches, feeling, as it were, my way to the
impression I had formed of him. At other times I was lucky, and the
aid of inspiration led to almost instantaneous results.
A difficulty which caused me considerable trouble was the reproduction
of my work. In early caricatures I frequently aimed at a result which,
recognized, would not survive the process of reproduction, and so I
was compelled to destroy the sketch; later in life my work became
firmer and thus enabled the copyist to produce a better result.
Pellegrini seldom failed in his precision of touch, and was equally
careful to preserve a clean line, for he traced his first work
carefully on to the final pages to ensure a good outline.
It is extraordinary how deeply-rooted the idea is that a big head and
miniature body makes a caricature, whereas, of course, it does not in
the least. I suppose the delusion is the result of suggestion from
without, from sporting papers and such-like publications. I have had
drawings sent to me, and photographs and drawings copied from
photographs, requesting that I should convey my opinions of them to a
tiny imaginary body, in the case of an author the head to be supported
by one hand, with a book of poems or a novel in the other. In all
cases I was obliged to refuse because--except in the case of a
posthumous portrait--I never draw anybody from a photograph or without
having seen and carefully studied them. (There is only one exception
to this rule, drawn at the request of _Vanity Fair_.) For the great
point I always try to seize is the indefinable and elusive
characteristic (not always physical but influencing the outward
appearance), which produces the whole personal impression of a man.
Now a photograph may give you his clothes, but it cannot extend to you
this personal influence. It is accurate, hard, and set. When I have
not been required to make a caricature I may have a sitting, and make
a drawing, which is perhaps interesting to the uninitiated, but to me
impossible, because I have not illuminated that impression by the
inspiration I have received. So I tear it up and try again--sometimes
over and over again. Frequently one requires several sittings before
one becomes familiar with one's subject, for different days and
varying moods lend entirely different aspects to the same face. As a
result one becomes, as it were, _en rapport_ with the subject before
one. A first sitting, as far as actual execution goes, counts for
nothing; occasionally my editor has said to me--"Keep to the
caricature;" but when in the attempt to obey I have made the drawing,
I have frequently lost not only portrait and caricature but also the
spontaneity as well. Often when I have finished my work, I feel I
should like to do it all again, for, although a general impression is
in many cases the best, as a result of more frequent sittings we see
characteristic within characteristic.
The face of the man who lives or studies indoors is usually more
difficult to portray than the features of the one who is very much in
the open air, because the hardening effect of constant or very
frequent out of door exposure produces more decided lines. Just as a
soldier who has seen a campaign or two on active service begins to
show signs of wear, so his face grows in interest, and the furrows
more distinct; and in the same way an old admiral is more interesting
than a young sailor whose face as yet wears no history. So it is with
the weather-beaten hunting-man and the traveller with weather-beaten
countenance.
Tattersall's was a great field for me, for there is something quite
distinctive in the dress and gait of the truly horsey man, which lends
itself to caricature.
Lord Lonsdale, for instance, is quite a type, and I studied him
entirely there. He was, and is, a delightful subject, and the drawing
eventually fetched a considerable sum in the sale of _Vanity Fair_
drawings at Christie's. Again one of my most successful caricatures
was that of Lord Rocksavage (Lord Cholmondeley) as the result of
Sunday afternoon studies at Tattersall's. Americans show a good deal
of the open-air quality to which I have alluded. I suppose the effect
of climate and the method of heating rooms "across the pond" produces
that parchment-like complexion, and the strongly-marked features of
many typical American faces. I found William Gillette (as Sherlock
Holmes) very interesting to draw in consequence; but then, of course,
I must say he is an exceptional American or are they all exceptional?
So it was in the case of the American Ambassador, Mr. Bayard, who had
accentuated features, overhanging eyebrows, and deeply set eyes. He
had a peculiar charm of manner, but was terribly deaf. Shortly after
arriving in London, he was a guest at the Mansion House at a dinner
given to representatives of Art and Literature, and was invited to
speak. He did, but one thought he would never sit down. Having been
greatly applauded at one period of his speech, this gave him an
impetus to go on, but the guests grew wearied and restless, and in
consequence, rattled their glasses and clattered their knives and
forks. Mr. Bayard, who was really saying delightful things, took this
for applause and continued his speech indefinitely. Afterwards, the
Lady Mayoress, remarking upon the unfortunate incident, said to me, "I
am ashamed of those of my guests who behaved so badly during the
Ambassador's speech. I do hope you were not one of them." I was glad
to be able to assure her of my innocence, and that I was too engrossed
in Mr. Bayard's appearance to follow very closely his speech.
My best subjects are those who possess the greatest possibilities of
humour. I divide human nature into two classes (as a caricaturist, I
mean), those who are funny and those who are not. People say to me
sometimes, "So-and-so has a big nose--suppose you make it bigger," or
words to that effect. My reply is that a big nose made even bigger,
need not in itself be funny. The bald man usually insists upon keeping
on his hat, forgetting that his bald head contains a good deal in it,
is frequently much more interesting than a well-covered cranium, and
is nothing to be ashamed of.
The knowledge of human nature, of the foibles, and vanities of man
that come with one's study of caricature is extraordinary, one does
not come to know a man until he becomes a model for the time being and
disports himself in a variety of ways according to his character,
temperament, or personality.
[Illustration: HENRY KEMBLE. 1907.]
[Illustration: H. BEERBOHM TREE. 1890.]
[Illustration: GERALD DU MAURIER. 1907.]
WILLIAM GILLETT [Illustration: (_Sherlock Holmes_). 1907.]
There is the man one does not dare caricature in his presence, but
contents oneself with studying and noting carefully; and the man one
thinks one dare caricature and finds to one's surprise that he takes
offence; and the man who comes and says, "So-and-so is splendid, you
must do him. D'you know old Tommy What's-his-name? he's capital now,
ain't he?" and seeing one observing him, "Now I myself, for instance,
I've nothing peculiar about me. If you were to caricature me, my
friends wouldn't recognize me." Then there is another type who comes
to the studio and dictates as to the style of work one must adopt in a
particular caricature; and yet another to whom nature has been unkind,
and whom one lets down easily because one has a feeling of compassion,
as I have said, for people so burdened through no fault of their own.
One no longer feels surprise when they say, roaring with laughter,
"Very funny, and haven't you been hard on me!... but still it's not
bad as a joke!"
Others are very amusing; they come to my studio and settle themselves
down as though they were at the photographer's, then suddenly exclaim,
"Oh! I forgot. The photographer tells me this is my worst side, I must
turn the other towards you if you don't mind." I then thanked him for
the tip, as it was the worst I preferred; on one occasion a well-known
fighting Colonel who went by the nickname of "Pug" (being so like one)
called at my studio to see his caricature which he had been told was
very like him. He asked where it was. I said, "On the mantelpiece,"
which he had already scanned. "No! No!" he uttered; "that is not me.
No one could possibly take that for me. I was called 'Bull Dog' in my
regiment" (but he was better known as "Pug") "and that thing couldn't
possibly fight. You know it yourself. For heaven's sake do me full
face." As there was no getting rid of him I was compelled, with a soft
heart, to obey; and as I thought I saw a tear in his eye I drew him
again. He was much relieved, but I wasn't. In the first caricature I
had put the "Pug's" tail on to the crook of his stick which he held
behind him, as it so much resembled one. After this I had to keep the
profile drawing from publication. But the sensations one experiences
on realizing one's profile for the first time, are certainly
appalling. When I was a boy I never examined my features at all, I
just accepted myself, and got used to seeing my face in the glass as I
brushed my hair, and it did not strike me as being specially
offensive; I wished, I must say, that nature had been more generous,
but my wishes did not worry me or verge into vague longings after
extreme beauty, nor did the sight of myself alarm me until one day I
went to my tailor's, where the mirrors were many and large, with a
clever arrangement enabling the customer to view himself _en profile_.
In the course of the interview a personal view of my coat from the
side was required, and gazing into the mirror I glimpsed a sudden
impression of my face from the side.
I left the shop, extremely depressed, for I came to the rapid
conclusion _I looked the sort of person sideways that I should have
disliked if I had known him_.
It is sad to think few men know their own profile. I once had some
very unpleasant moments with a cavalry officer owing to our difference
of opinion as to the contour of his legs, and the set of his
trousers. He came to my studio looking rather like a musical comedy
colonel (although he was a soldier to the backbone), very smart with
his perfectly tailored clothes, very tight trousers, immaculate shoes
and very well groomed throughout, very typical of the sort of man an
actor would delight in as a model. His entrance to my studio was just
as full of dash, with great éclat he gave himself into my hands,
saying, "Do what you like with me, I don't mind anything. Have a good
old shot at me just for a joke--I'm a bit of a caricaturist myself."
After standing a little while he grew tired, and as is frequently the
case, self-conscious, and began to wonder why he came, and in
consequence became rather depressed. A spell of fidgeting seized him,
and he expressed a desire to see the drawing, which I informed him was
against the rules.
"Oh, damn it all, let's have a look," he expostulated, and to keep him
quiet I was obliged to show him my work.
"Hang it, I didn't come here to be made a pigmy of!" he shouted.
"You'd better put a bit on the legs--they're not like that!"
It was getting near lunch time, so I went on working for another five
minutes or so, when presently he wanted to look again. Remonstrating,
I said, "You'll spoil the drawing if you keep on interrupting."
But he insisted upon another glance to reassure himself; this time he
was angry.
"I'm not coming here to have the Queen's uniform insulted!" and
looking deeper into the drawing: "and my nose doesn't turn round the
corner like that."
I expostulated, and presently he stood once more. After the same brief
interval he bounced over again.
"I won't have the Queen's uniform ridiculed. My ears are not so large
as that--you must cut a bit off them...."
At this I retired to the sofa, tired out, and determined to settle my
recalcitrant soldier.
"Look here," I began, "I didn't ask you here to teach me my business.
I really can't continue under your instructions."
"Oh, very well," he said, changing his tone, "I'm sure we're both
hungry, and I think you'd better come with me and have a bit of lunch
at my club, and we'll settle this after."
I agreed, thinking perhaps he had been out of humour. We had an
excellent lunch and parted good friends. Before leaving he said, "I
have no doubt you'll see there was something in my suggestion, and
I'll come again to-morrow."
I finished the drawing, without further discussion, but he did not
leave my studio looking quite happy, and he carefully ascertained
before getting the address of the lithographers who were going to
reproduce the drawing. I heard afterwards that he lost very little
time in paying them a visit and begging them to cut a considerable
piece off the ears, which they informed him was impossible as they had
no right of alterations, and it would be quite against their
principles.
An officer in my unhappy subject's regiment said to me afterwards,
that the result was greatly appreciated at Aldershot, but that they
were all greatly disappointed to find that I had flattered him!
My caricatures are frequently described as "gross" by the wife who is
hurt by the pencil that points a joke at her husband's peculiarities;
or she says, "Why don't you do my husband as you did So-and-so!"
(referring to a decided and unsparing caricature). I have been described
as unkind; or sometimes when, carried away by a fascinating subject, I
have perhaps not sufficiently controlled my pencil, I have been accused
of "brutality." The truth is that in working one may not intend anything
personal, or for one moment imagine any one could take the result
seriously; but the finished work, made with a detailed, and possibly
inhuman devotion to one's own conception, strikes the beholder in a mood
entirely different. Very few of those who admire a caricature realize
that its satire lies, not in any personal venom, but in the artist's
detached observation of life and character. In the early days of _Vanity
Fair_ people viewed caricature as something entirely new, and in the
light of this novelty viewed it in the right spirit; later they grew
particular, and, as they frequently paid (from which I did not benefit),
an entirely new type of subject came to me; it was as though a spirit of
commercialism crept between me and my sitters.
[Illustration: FIFTH EARL OF PORTSMOUTH,
1876.]
[Illustration: MAJOR OSWALD AMES (OZZIE).
1896.]
[Illustration: EARL OF LONSDALE.
1879.]
A subject whom I strongly caricatured, pleased me by saying when
introduced to him, "No man is worth _that_ (snapping his fingers) if
he can't join in a laugh against himself."
I remember going to lunch with a very rich man (for the purpose of
studying him), who would insist on looking at my rough notes in spite
of my protestations to the effect that they were only notes, not
drawings. He became highly incensed.
"I may be stoutish," he exclaimed, "but I'm not a fat, dumpish figure
like that. Now wouldn't it be a good and a new idea if you were to
make me different. You see my friends know me as a short, round man,
it would be so funny and quite a novelty if you were to make me tall
and thin. Now you think it well over--it would be quite a departure in
caricature."
I intimated that I thought the idea was rather far-fetched and that it
was possible that his friends would prefer him as nature had made him.
"If you want to please me, you must make me tall," he said. "I'll come
to your studio and pay you a visit and perhaps buy some of your
work--if you satisfy me in this respect."
I told him I was not accustomed to be bribed in that manner and wished
I had not accepted his hospitality. There are people who think they
can do anything by bribery. They call at one's studio, and hint that
one shall paint a portrait of them and go as far as to point out how
it shall be done, and what the price shall be. Others, when one has
done a mere drawing of them, imagine that they have been tremendously
caricatured and complain bitterly.
If it had not been a question of time and money, I would not have
encouraged sitters in my studio at all. When I became pressed for
time, however, it was impossible to seek my subjects, especially when,
with the exception of men of definite public position, I was not
always sure of finding them. One interesting point in connection with
the men whom one finds only in such places as the House of Commons, is
the fact that one is then at the mercy of the lighting of the
building. This frequently accounts for bad portraits and
unrecognizable caricatures, for lighting falsifies extraordinarily.
Of course I had innumerable sitters who were delightful in every way,
and many who, if they were peculiar, were otherwise good sorts; but I
am chiefly concerned at this moment with the strange stories of the
exceptional cases that have astonished me from time to time. A
peculiarity of some of my sitters in which I have rarely found an
exception, is as to their professed ability to stand. I do not like to
tire my sitters, and I usually tell them I am afraid they will find a
position wearisome, which they deny, telling me at the same time that
standing for hours is not in the least tedious to them. Half an hour
goes by--and they start to sigh and fidget, and presently give in, and
finally confess they had not expected it to be such an ordeal--and
always with the air of having remarked something entirely original. I
have noticed, too, the brightness of step with which my sitters enter
my studio, and, after a long sitting, the revived brightness brought
about by the mention of lunch.
Bradlaugh, who was a willing subject, asked me upon entering my studio
rather breezily whether I wished him to stand upon "'is 'ead or 'is
'eels," so he quite appreciated the situation.
There are people who become nervous about their clothes. I have known
a peer object to spats because they did not look nice in a picture.
One man who was a noted dandy grew very concerned about his trousers.
After making innumerable efforts to persuade him to stand still, I was
obliged to wait while he explained about his clothes.
"My trousers are usually perfect, and without a crease," he said,
bending to look at them, while he bagged out the knees and found
creases in every direction. The more creases he saw the more concerned
he became and looked at them in grieved surprise as though he had
never seen them before.
A sitter who worried over his clothes came to me in the form of a
gentleman from Islington, who wore the most extraordinary trousers,
for which he continually apologized, and seemed quite oblivious of the
fact that I was drawing him in profile. Every other moment he would
turn full face to me with some remark ending with another apology for
his trousers (which reminded me of the first Lord Lytton's, they were
so wide at the foot).
"Please remember I am drawing you in profile," I would interject
occasionally, as he turned his face to me, and each time he would try
to remember, apologize for his nether garments, and his forgetfulness,
raising his hat and bowing to me at every apology. Why he was so
conscious of his clothes I do not know, unless he found their cut
necessary to Islington.
_À propos_ of clothes. After being at Tattersall's one day, I went
with Mr. Sterling Stuart to lunch, and afterwards we proceeded to his
dressing-room to choose a suit which he was to wear when I drew his
caricature. As he gave me a free hand I found one which attracted my
eye immediately; it was an old tweed with a good broad, brown stripe,
and I felt there was no question to which was the best for my purpose.
He appeared the next day in my studio looking the pink of perfection,
and as I surveyed him I suddenly realized with dismay that his
trousers did not match the incomparable coat. I drew his attention to
what I imagined was an oversight.
"Well, my boy! do you think," he said, "that the man who built that
coat could have lived to build the trousers too?"
[Illustration: THE REV. R. J. CAMPBELL.
1904.]
[Illustration: STERLING STUART
(_The Hatter_)
1904.]
[Illustration: FATHER BERNARD VAUGHAN.
1907.]
Not long after my cartoon of the Prince of Wales appeared, I was
passing by a tailor's shop and I saw a reproduction in the window.
Feeling slightly curious as to its exact object there, I went to look,
and on closer examination found that the ingenious tailor was using it
as a form of advertisement, and underneath was written:--
"The very best coat that I've seen the Prince wear
Was drawn by the artist of _Vanity Fair_."
The sensitiveness of people with a tendency towards corpulency is also
at times provocative of trouble. Sir Watkins William Wynn, who sat for
me on one occasion, was quite a portly old gentleman, and, presumably
in order to conceal his stoutness from my notice, he buttoned his coat
before taking up his position. As an inevitable result, a number of
well marked creases made their appearance in the region of his
watch-chain, and these I naturally included in my drawing. When he
subsequently saw the latter he refused at first to believe that so
many creases existed, but after I had finally convinced him of their
presence he went straight off to his tailor's and bestowed the blame
on him. No doubt the tailor profited in the long run; however, I
fancy, as a matter of fact, that I have been of service to a good many
tailors in my time. For many of the notabilities I have cartooned
seemed altogether unaware of their habilatory shortcomings till they
were confronted with them in my drawings.
Self-conceit is the keynote of the story of a noble lord who called
upon me at my studio with a view to my "putting him in _Vanity Fair_."
I was very busy at the time, and had consequently to suggest the
postponing his appointment till a later hour, whereupon he took great
offence and refused to return at all. But I was determined he should
not escape me, and I took the opportunity at an evening party to study
him thoroughly. When his caricature appeared he was so chagrined that
he dyed his hair, which was white, to a muddy brown, in order that he
should not be recognized.
An old gentleman of great position in the world who came to my studio,
had a very red nose. After the sitting, as he was leaving, he said
rather shyly:--
"I hope you will not be too generous with your carmine, as it might
give the public a wrong impression, and it is an unfortunate fact that
both my grandfathers, my father, and myself all have had red noses,
and all are total abstainers."
Another subject was restless to a degree, and walked about the room
instead of permitting me to draw him.
"Hope you won't keep me very long," he said, "I'm never still for a
moment, I'm always walking about my room. You'd better do me with a
book in my hand as though I were dictating to my clerk."
I was rather disconcerted, for this was not to be a caricature, but a
characteristic portrait.
"But," I said, "your friends won't know you so. Anyway, go on
walking."
I made little notes as I watched him, and after he had been walking
some time I began to hope that he would be getting tired, when he
stopped short and said:--
"No! You'd better do me with my hand on my waistcoat."
"Very well," I replied, "we'll begin again."
In this position I began a drawing of him, when he decided it would
not do.
"Oh, well," I said, "sometimes you sit down, don't you? And it seems
to me a very natural thing to do. Suppose I draw you that way?"
Mark Twain was another subject who came under the category of the
"walkers." I had a good deal of difficulty in getting hold of him, but
when I eventually caught him at his hotel, I found him decidedly
impatient.
"Now you mustn't think I'm going to sit or stand for you," he told me,
"for once I am up I go on."
The whole time I watched him he paced the room like a caged animal,
smoking a very large calabash pipe and telling amusing stories. The
great humorist wore a white flannel suit and told me in the course of
conversation that he had a dress suit made all in white which he wore
at dinner-parties. He had just taken his Honorary Degree at Oxford,
and he rather wanted to put his gown on, but I preferred to "do" him
in the more characteristic and widely-known garb. He struck me as
being a very sensitive man, whose nervous pacings during my interview
were the result of a highly strung temperament. The only pacifying
influence seemed to be his enormous pipe which he never ceased to
smoke.
When I think of all the good stories I have missed when I have been
studying these really humorous people, I regret that my attention must
be centred on my work regardless of the delightful personalities which
sometimes it has been my good fortune to meet.
I should like to be able to wind up my sitters like mechanical toys,
to be amusing to order. What a lot of trouble it would save!
A clever amateur caricaturist once wanted me to paint his portrait,
and during his sittings gave me his views upon caricature. He informed
me that he had no compunction whatever in doing a caricature upon the
physical defects of his subjects, and that if, for instance, a man had
... well ... a decidedly large stomach, he would not hesitate to
increase it.
After several sittings I made one of the best drawings and
characteristic portraits I have ever done, as he appealed to me as a
subject, for he was individual in his dress, and his hat had a
character which is rare nowadays.
But during the progress of the work, he was self-conscious and
awkward, which is a result curious in a man who had a clever gift of
caricature, himself. However, I did not exaggerate my work to the
extent of producing a caricature, and gave him more credit than to
expect me to flatter him. But it seemed that I expressed his bulk more
truthfully than was tactful, for it appeared he had undergone a
dieting process and considered himself quite sylph-like in
consequence. When the drawing was in the hands of the lithographers I
went down to see the proof, and to my surprise this man turned up. He
appeared to be very friendly, shook hands, and expressed the usual
polite banalities. I was a trifle puzzled, but I heard afterwards that
he went to the office the next day with his lawyer to look at the
drawing, and said to him:--
"Don't you consider this to be a most offensive caricature of me?" (He
imagined I was intending to insult him.)
This resulted in publication being forbidden, whereupon the
lithographers informed him that the drawing was already finished, and
all the expense of reproduction incurred. He accordingly paid what was
necessary, and it was never published, so I heard no more of the
matter.
Some time after I met his medical adviser, whom I told of this
extraordinary hallucination as to my intentions. He appeared amused.
"Oh!" he said, "he is really a very good fellow; but it's been a mania
with him to reduce his stomach, and he was under the impression that
he'd succeeded."
My methods of studying my subjects vary considerably, and the most
successful of my caricatures have been without exception those which
were made without the knowledge of the persons portrayed. After all,
this is nothing more than natural, for by watching a man unawares one
more successfully catches his little tricks of manner, and to some
extent his movements, all of which are carefully concealed when he
comes in the guise of a complacent sitter to the studio. And so, for
the purpose of frank caricature, one prefers to rely upon memory.
I have spent such a considerable time in public places of interest
that I fear I am quite well known to the police. Not infrequently I
have been detected in the act of obtaining my victims (by the pen),
for I discovered the following account in a newspaper: "An amusing
incident occurred one evening in the House of Commons Lobby in
connection with the caricaturist and a victim. I had seen 'Spy'
silently and patiently stalking a new member (Mr. Keir Hardie) with a
striking and tempting personality. The new member, however, was
nervous, having apparently an instinctive idea that he was being
pursued, for he moved restlessly about, casting suspicious glances all
round him. An evening or two after I was surprised to see 'Spy' and
his victim engaged in a friendly conversation, the artist taking
advantage of the opportunity to examine every detail of face and
figure. It seems that the new member thought he recognized a friend in
his pursuer, and not knowing what he was after, he went up to him
feeling that he had found refuge, and that here at least was one man
who did not want to sketch him. I need hardly say that 'Spy' took full
advantage of the chase, and not long after this the victim appeared in
_Vanity Fair_."
That reminds me of the time when Lord Henry Lennox came up to me in
the Lobby.
"My dear," he said in his usual characteristic manner, "you see that
little man over there--I detest him--he caricatured me and made me
appalling."
He took a violent dislike to Pellegrini, who had seized upon his
obvious stoop with a wonderful touch, and converted it into one of his
finest caricatures.
Cardinal Newman quite unconsciously placed me in rather an awkward
dilemma. At the time when I was anxious to stalk him I heard he was in
Birmingham; so I went to Euston Station, and had actually bought my
railway ticket when suddenly I caught sight of his Eminence upon the
platform. Here was an opportunity not to be missed! I saw him go into
the buffet and followed him. He sat down at a small table and ordered
soup. I took a seat opposite and ordered food also, studying him
closely while he partook of it. But I was not altogether satisfied,
and I felt anxious to see him again. So I travelled down to
Birmingham, and on the following day I called at the Oratory and asked
one of the priests there at what time the Cardinal was likely to go
out. Evidently, in spite of my protests, the priest concluded that I
wanted an audience with Cardinal Newman, for saying that he would
apprize him of my visit, he disappeared. My object had been to perfect
my former study by a further glimpse; and a personal interview was
really the last thing I desired. There was accordingly nothing left
for me but to bolt!
[Illustration: CANON LIDDON.
1876.]
[Illustration: CARDINAL NEWMAN.
1877.]
[Illustration: THE DEAN OF WINDSOR (WELLESLEY).
1876.]
My most comical search was probably one in which I was assisted by Mr.
Gibson Bowles. It took place in Holloway Gaol. The Rev. Arthur Tooth,
"the Man of the Mount," and that most celebrated ritualist, was in
durance vile.
"Awkward," said Mr. Bowles, "but we must certainly have him. Let me
see.... I'm the Secretary to the Persian Relief Fund.... Come along,
Ward."
What possible connection could exist between the Persian Relief Fund
and the Rev. Arthur Tooth I failed utterly to see, but apparently Mr.
Bowles made the authorities at Holloway see it, for we got safely
through, and I had the unique experience of observing the Reverend
gentleman as he posed behind the bars.
I found Mr. Bowles an invaluable second when studying my subjects, he
was so thoroughly a man of the world and withal so tactful and
resourceful that I was glad when we worked in company. It was a great
help for me, and I was able to employ my attention in observing while
he took the responsibility of conversations and entertainment of the
subject entirely off my hands. Sometimes I disconcerted my friends,
who were all unaware of the promptings of the caricaturist's
conscience. I was walking down St. James' Street one day with a friend
discussing the subjects of the day with easy equanimity when I saw
Brodrick the Warden of Merton (whom I had been hoping to catch for
weeks). I suddenly grew quite excited, and, seeing him turn a corner,
I rushed on in pursuit. My friend begged me to desist, and, finding me
deaf to his entreaties, left me. I followed Mr. Brodrick into a shop,
had one long look at him, and went home to complete a caricature that
came with immediate success.
On occasions, disguise has been necessary for a "complete stalk"--when
I was endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of Doctor Spooner (known to
fame as the creator of Spoonerisms), I started by means of
masquerading as a student in cap and gown, and as the renowned
gentleman's sight was very bad indeed, he was a pretty safe man to
tackle. My methods were, of course, well known to the real
undergraduates who aided me to the best of their ability; but on this
occasion one student in the front row nearly gave me away. Suddenly
turning round in the middle of the lecture, he inquired in a loud
stage whisper, "How are you getting on?"
"Hush! He'll see," I remonstrated.
"Oh!" exclaimed the undergraduate, "that's all right if he does. I'll
tell him you're my guv'nor!"
Mr. Comyns Carr, an old and valued friend of mine, always divided my
work into two classes, one of which he was pleased to term the
"_beefs_" and the other the "_porks_." He begged me, when I was
painting his own cartoon, to put him among the "porks." I promised I
would and did my best to prevent his face from becoming too florid.
But apparently my labours were in vain, or else the lithographers
failed me, for after the drawing was published, Comyns Carr greeted me
at the club with the words, "Oh, Leslie! I'm among the 'beefs' after
all!"
I regretted the fact, but unfortunately the fault was not mine. The
reproduction was limited to the number of colours, so that there was
no happy medium for the lithographers; if the reproducers wanted a
florid effect, the face appeared red all over, if the drawing was a
"pork" with a red rose in his coat and a faint colour in his cheeks,
they made the face all red and used the same colour for the rose.
OXFORD DONS.
[Illustration: DR JOWITT
(_Master of Balliol_).
1876.]
[Illustration: DR SPOONER
(_Dean, New College_).
1898.]
[Illustration: PROFESSOR ROBINSON ELLIS
(Professor of Latin).
1894.]
One of the difficulties of my position as a caricaturist for a
newspaper came home to me on the occasion of the visit to my studio of
a Queen's Messenger.
I was extremely busy at the time, and was, luckily for me, quite
unable to accede to his request that I should immediately make a
drawing of him, as he was shortly to appear in _Vanity Fair_. Making
an appointment for the next day he took his departure. I _called_ upon
my editor on the following day, and while in conversation I remembered
my engagement, and breaking it off suddenly, prepared to go.
"Who is your sitter?" said he.
I referred to the gentleman in question, who I imagined had been sent
to me from my editor.
"I won't have that man. I have made no arrangement. He's been
bothering me to put him in for years."
"What shall I do then?" I said. "This is very awkward for me."
"Tell him we've got too many Queen's Messengers already."
I hurried off and found my poor rejected sitter waiting with a thick
stick, the presence of which he began to explain before I could make
my apologies to him. He told me that he had bought the weapon, not in
self-defence, or with an idea of attack, but because he thought it was
most characteristic of him.
I then had to interrupt him with my excuses which was a most
disagreeable task.
"Oh," he said, "that's only an excuse for not putting me in. I see
it."
He flushed very red and showed a little temper, for he had been
endeavouring for some time to be placed upon the list of subjects in
_Vanity Fair_ and without success.
After some discussion, during which, in some sympathy with his
annoyance, I anxiously watched the stick, he slunk out of the studio
with an air greatly different from the spruce and upright demeanour of
his arrival.[4]
An awkward predicament in which I was the innocent arbitrator came
about through a very gross caricature by another artist (I do not
remember whom) of Mr. Pigott the censor of plays and a very old
friend; I believe it was unpleasant, for he wrote to me and said he
wished he had been put in my hands. I do not know whether I am wrong
in saying so, but it was rather odd his writing to ask my advice, for
he was strongly in favour of suing _Vanity Fair_ for libel. At all
events I called upon him and advised him to ignore the matter. He
reassured me by saying, "Well, I've already come to that conclusion
myself since writing my letter. I've seen my solicitors who gave me
the same advice, but I still wish I'd been done by you."
A friend of mine came to me once and said, "You simply must make a
drawing of 'Piggy' Palk, he's such a splendid subject--have you ever
seen him? I'm sure if you had you couldn't resist making a caricature
of him."
"Very well," I said. "Give me an opportunity of meeting him--what's he
like?"
"I must introduce you to him first, we'll get up a little dinner--he
shall be there--at the Raleigh Club. We'll introduce you as 'Mr.
Spy'--don't forget that he wears an eyeglass, because he's nothing
without it."
When the evening came I was placed on the opposite side of the table
to the young man, where I had a good opportunity of studying his
features, which were diminutive, with the exception of his ears which
were enormous. I waited and waited for the eyeglass to appear (for as
my friend had truly said, his face was nothing without it), and
finally got up from dinner full of disappointment. There were several
other guests who were quite aware of my identity, and all attempted to
help me in my object, but without success, a fact which created no
little amusement among us.
My host pressed his friend to join our party in his rooms, and
"Piggy," as his friends called him, to my horror, said that he had
another engagement; when, however, he was informed that there would be
attractive young ladies among the party, he altered his mind. On
arriving we were received by these charming ladies, who contributed to
the evening's fun by entering very completely into the open secret of
my visit. We had a piano and plenty of fun and chaff, and under cover
of the evening's amusement I took in "Piggy" Palk. I was introduced to
the most attractive of the ladies and enlisted her services on my
behalf over the eyeglass. My friend at once introduced "Piggy" to her,
and she induced him to produce the eyeglass. After some preliminary
conversation she began:
"Oh, Lord Haldon, I see you have an eyeglass, do you ever wear it?
Sometimes an eyeglass improves a man's appearance immensely, I should
like to see how you look in one."
"Oh, yes," he said, "I sometimes wear it!" And so he put it into his
right eye.
"Yes, it suits you very well. You don't make such faces as some people
do in wearing it."
He was flattered.
"Now I'd just love to see if you look as nice with it in the left
eye."
The obedient young man, mollified by her flattery, did all he was
told, while I made good use of my eyes, and the company were becoming
so hilarious that they could hardly conceal their merriment while the
girl went on.
"It's really wonderful how effective it is, and how it suits you
equally in either eye."
Thinking he had made an impression, "Piggy" took her into a corner and
made himself most fascinating, assiduously retaining the eyeglass all
the time.
"He seems to be getting on very well," said one of the guests to me,
in an undertone.
[Illustration: LORD HALDON, 1882.]
I was about to reply when Lord Haldon turned to me and said:--
"Do you know, 'Mr. Spy,' that it's very bad manners to whisper?"
So addressing myself to the lady, I offered my humble apologies and
regrets for my forgetfulness (much to her amusement).
When the caricature appeared he wondered "who the fellow was who had
seen him," and tried to remember when it was he had worn lilies of the
valley in his dress coat. I wonder he did not suspect "Mr. Spy."
CHAPTER VII
PORTRAITURE
Some of my sitters.--Mrs. Tom Caley.--Lady Leucha Warner.--
Lady Loudoun.--Colonel Corbett.--Miss Reiss.--The late Mrs.
Harry McCalmont.--The Duke of Hamilton.--Sir W. Jaffray.--
The Queen of Spain.--Soldier sitters.--Millais.--Sir William
Cunliffe Brooks.--Holman Hunt.--George Richmond.--Sir William
Richmond.--Sir Luke Fildes.--Lord Leighton.--Sir Laurence
Alma Tadema.--Sir George Reid.--Orchardson.--Pettie.--Frank
Dicksee.--Augustus Lumley.--"Archie" Stuart Wortley.--John
Varley.--John Collier.--Sir Keith Fraser.--Sir Charles
Fraser.--Mrs. Langtry.--Mrs. Cornwallis West.--Miss Rousby.
--The Prince of Wales.--King George as a boy.--Children's
portraits.--Mrs. Weldon.--Christabel Pankhurst.
"In portraits, the grace and one may add the likeness consists
more in the general air than in the exact similitude of every
feature."
_Sir Joshua Reynolds._
Of the study of portraiture I was always fond, and the prospect of
becoming a portrait painter appealed greatly to me.
Although Fate interrupted this good intention through the unforeseen
offer to work for _Vanity Fair_ (which, with my love for caricature, I
could not resist the temptation of accepting), I did not refuse
commissions to execute portraits, but as the number of cartoons that I
had undertaken to do for publication was considerable, naturally
private work had to make way for it. Finding it difficult to direct my
mind to both the serious and the comic at the same time, I was obliged
to select different days for each; in case I might put too humorous an
expression into the picture of a baby, or distort the features of a
mayor in his robes.
[Illustration: _The portrait of a well-known character who claimed
direct descent from the Stuarts. He wore gold buttons and spurs with a
red stripe down the side of his trousers, and was to be frequently
seen in Piccadilly in the seventies._]
[Illustration: _At a country dance near Manchester._ 1872.
PORTRAITS.]
[Illustration: BUCKSTONE.
"_New Men and Old Acres._"]
[Illustration: _See page 202_.]
[Illustration: _A Crusader at "Drury Lane"_.]
My father had an admiration for Ouless' method of painting a portrait,
and with a slight acquaintance already that artist gave me good
advice.
I was lucky in my first commissions for ladies' portraits, for they
were of exceptionally pretty women, viz. Mrs. Miller Munday and Miss
Chappell (Mrs. T. Caley), both hung in the Royal Academy. These were
followed by equally attractive sitters in Lady Lucia Warner, the
Countess of Loudoun, and (the first) Mrs. Harry McCalmont. A
presentation picture shortly afterwards came my way, of Colonel
Corbett of Longnor Hall (Shrewsbury), an extremely tall old gentleman
of ripe years. I painted the picture on a full-length canvas, and
after the first sitting or two he begged to be allowed to sit in a
chair for the head; the experiment failed, for in less than half an
hour the Colonel of the Shropshire Yeomanry, Master of Hounds, and
formerly Officer in "the Guards" was fast asleep.
"No more of this," he said, when I roused him, "I'll stand to the
bitter end," and he did, until the picture was completed.
It is a strange fact, though, that military men stand less well than
would be expected of them, and tire sooner. For instance, an officer
whom I was painting, sent his "soldier servant" to stand in the
uniform he was to wear in my portrait of him, for one employs a
soldier in preference to an ordinary model, because they are
invariably correct in their knowledge of a uniform and how to put it
on. The man showed signs of nervousness, which did not surprise me,
but when, after standing a very short while, he turned from a healthy
pink to a deathly white, I recommended a rest and a walk in the fresh
air. When he returned to the position again, he became faint, so I
offered him brandy. This he refused on the grounds that he was a
teetotaller, but as his paleness showed no signs of abating, I with
difficulty persuaded him to take a little stimulant. It seemed to have
the desired effect, for the blood circulated again, and I reassured
him, and continued painting without further complications. This was
not by any means my first experience, for on another occasion a very
tall and powerfully built man, an ex-soldier and "chucker-out" at a
music-hall, came for the same purpose, and after standing for a time,
from sheer exhaustion had to give it up.
But to return to my subject. When I was working for the _Graphic_, a
portrait in which I took much pleasure was that of Millais. The
sittings were most interesting, for in the course of conversation, I
gained a considerable insight into his character, and gleaned much
information as to his opinions, method of working, and views upon art.
Watts had been the idol of the Royal Academy students up till now, but
Millais was taking his place in their estimation, and although he was
well to the front as a portrait painter, the enormous competition in
this branch of art was scarcely evident yet. The time was approaching,
however, when the art student had to consider how he could best live
by painting. He was at first full of the noblest intentions, and would
frequently exclaim, "Art for Art's sake; that's my motto ... none of
your pot-boilers for me." Unfortunately, the day for these very
laudable sentiments was passing, and, when men were dependent on their
profession, something else had to be thought of. Hence the necessary
study of portrait painting.
I remember Millais mentioned his belief in the pre-Raphaelites and
their influence upon the young artist; but he considered it important
that the student should gradually abandon the influence for a more
masterly method of painting and a freer brush. This versatile genius
must have puzzled his adorers not a little by his erratic experiments
in style; his emulations of Reynolds in a modern portrait (of three
ladies playing cards) were in direct contradiction to his previous
work--the paint, I remember, was extremely thick, especially on the
necks of the ladies. A portrait of Irving followed the next year,
painted quite thinly. The students were puzzled and distracted, for in
the meantime they had all followed the previous lead, and were still
painting necks in foundation white laid on without discretion. Then
Millais astonished his coterie by painting "Chill October" in his best
manner.
I called upon him once on a matter of advice and discovered him
puzzling over his picture called "Cherry Ripe." Something was wrong,
and he could not place the fault, and he appealed to my "fresh eye" to
find it. It occurred to me that something in the drawing of the head,
which was covered with a mob-cap, was slightly out of drawing, and I
called his attention to it.
"You've hit it, my boy," he said. "That's just what I thought myself,
but I was not quite certain."
He paid me the great compliment of saying he had seen enough of my
work to know he could safely ask my opinion, and I felt extremely
flattered.
When Sir William Cunliffe Brooks commissioned him to paint the
portrait of his daughter (the Marchioness of Huntly), a considerable
stir was created in the art world when it became known that Millais
had received £1000 for the painting, for up till that time such a
figure was unheard of for a modern portrait. Sir William was delighted
with the picture, but when he saw the completed portrait he was
disappointed to find that his daughter's hands (which were most
beautiful) were covered with gloves. He accordingly returned the
picture, and expressed his desire that an alteration might be made and
the hands shown in all their beauty. Millais made a compromise by
repainting one of the hands ungloved.
Holl had discarded his pathetic subjects for portraits, and surprised
the art world with a vigorous canvas of the celebrated mezzotint
engraver, Samuel Cousins, which was followed by an equally strong
portrait of Piatti the violoncello player. Consequently, he became
quite the vogue and was until his death completely occupied with
commissions. I think that of his many successes the painting of Lord
Spencer was perhaps his finest portrait.
Holman Hunt (Ruskin's ideal painter) had no following as a portrait
painter; his portraits were hard, "tinny," and laboured, and became
singularly unpleasant on a large canvas, although his subject pictures
were conceived from a high standpoint, and for that reason will last.
Old George Richmond was a highly accomplished draughtsman; many of his
portraits in crayon were exquisite masterpieces,[5] and most of the
great men of the day (especially the clergy) were depicted at one time
or another by his refined pencil. William Richmond (now Sir William),
his son, inherited his father's talent but in a different manner;
foremost in my memory stands out a portrait of Lady Hood.
[Illustration: MRS GEORGE REYMOND MURRAY.]
[Illustration: A STUDY.]
[Illustration: THE HON. MRS ADRIAN POLLOCK.]
Ouless, the eminent portrait painter, like Millais, was a Jersey man,
and both were highly successful students in their respective days at
the R.A. Schools.
The painter of "The Doctor," now Sir Luke Fildes, exhibited a very
beautiful portrait of his wife, which established him as a portrait
painter at once, and it is unnecessary to say how many fine portraits
he has painted since.
Lord Leighton showed what refinement meant in his delineation of a
beautiful woman's head, and although his method of painting was
scarcely adapted to portraits, he showed great force in a head of
Richard Burton, the traveller.
When I was drawing Leighton for the _Graphic_ years ago, he amused me
by saying:--
"Every one has his prototype, and some people resemble animals. What
do I remind you of?"
When Lord Leighton compared his own head with that of a ram, I saw the
resemblance at once: his hair curled like horns upon his forehead, and
the general contour of his features was certainly reminiscent of that
animal.
I must not forget the late Sir L. Alma Tadema, another subject
painter, but one who did not often encroach upon the sphere of
portraiture. When he did, I often traced a certain resemblance in his
painting of the flesh to the marble he so perfectly expressed in his
subject pictures.
Seymour Lucas is, I consider, one of our few and consistent historical
painters who can mingle portraiture successfully with his own art.
Of course, Orchardson, Pettie, and Frank Dicksee are big examples of
aptitude in portrait painting by subject painters. Nowadays, however,
there is a new generation, and the average standard is in a marked way
higher, although _great men_ naturally only crop up once in a way. To
mention all the names of the good portrait painters would be a
hopeless task, for there are too many. Criticism would lead one into
so many long lanes without any turnings, and would also involve the
condemnation of some of the flights of the so-called art of the
present day.
Of artists who are no longer with us, I should like to mention the
late Sir George Reid, whose works are not sufficiently well known in
London, but who was undoubtedly a great portrait painter.
The late Charles Furse, who showed such power and who was gaining
ground every day, stood out as one of our strongest portrait painters;
unfortunately, death cut short his efforts.
The late Robert Brough was fast becoming (if he had not already
attained that position) another painter who deserves a place amongst
our ablest men.
But I must not forget to mention the President of the Royal Academy,
Sir E. Poynter, who exhibits many portraits.
When I was first beginning to paint, Mr. Peter Graham very kindly lent
me his studio, where I made my earliest studies in oil. One of my
first sitters was the uncle of my old friend, Edward Nash, of Rugby
and 'Varsity fame, who made the stipulation that I should arrange a
looking-glass in a position to allow of his watching me paint and to
prevent him falling asleep. I found the demand rather embarrassing,
for I was not accustomed to attentions of this kind, being new to
portraiture, and consequently feeling considerable restraint at being
watched at my work.
Another early victim of my brush, thinking he had given me a
sufficient number of sittings, suggested that I should promptly finish
it, as his doctor had warned him that he was in danger of lead
poisoning from the constant contact with oil colours; but when he was
reassured on this point he allowed me to continue.
During a visit to Crewe, I painted more portraits. I remember my host,
when a visitor called one day, said quite seriously:--
"Mr. Ward is getting on nicely with my picture. He is putting on the
second coat of paint."
Another time I was staying at a country house in Staffordshire,
painting my host in hunting-dress. I came down early one morning to
look at it, preparatory to a last sitting, when I discovered to my
astonishment my host's dog sitting up begging before his master's
picture. I think this one of the sincerest compliments I was ever
paid.
This was at the time when the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race was about
to be rowed. I am always interested in the chances of the rival crews;
still, my interest was nothing out of the common, and there was no
particular reason why one night I should have had a most vivid dream,
in which I saw the two crews racing ... until the Cambridge boat
filled with water and swamped. The dream was most distinct, and I
remembered it when I awoke, and related it at breakfast. My host's
house was in a rather remote part of the country; and the London
papers did not arrive until late. When they came, the first thing that
struck my eye on opening the _Daily Telegraph_ was, "_Swamping of the
Cambridge Crew at practice._"
When I became the owner of a studio myself, I was fortunate in my
choice of a landlord. Mr. Augustus Savile Lumley had built the very
fine studios in William Street, Lowndes Square, on his return from a
military and diplomatic career in Europe. He was an artist, and was
gifted in many ways, especially with great social abilities. For some
time he was equerry to the Duchess of Teck, and he had been connected
with the Royal Household for an indefinite period. During my
acquaintance with him he became Marshal of the Ceremonies. He was
considered a great authority on costume, and as such was continually
in request when the Prince of Wales (and other notable hosts)
contemplated entertaining on a large scale. In person he was
fashionable and correct, a _beau_ of the old school, who affected a
waist! After he was appointed Marshal of the Ceremonies, I recollect
his tailor sent in an exorbitant bill for his uniform, which he very
rightly refused to pay; and when his tailor sued him for the money, he
brought an action and won his case.
After Mr. Henry Savile and Lord Savile had died, he inherited Rufford
Abbey, and at his death Mr. Herman Herkomer, the portrait painter,
took his handsome studio in William Street, where he had painted
several portraits of the Prince of Wales, whose friendship he had
enjoyed.
During his travels and vicissitudes abroad, Mr. Augustus Savile Lumley
had met many foreign artists of note, and when his studios were
unoccupied, quite a coterie of foreigners gathered there.
Consequently, I had some interesting neighbours.
John Varley, McClure Hamilton, Archibald Stuart Wortley, and John
Collier were amongst the artists who then occupied studios in the same
building.
Archibald Stuart Wortley was accomplished in many ways. I made his
acquaintance at the Slade Schools when we were both studying drawing,
and when we met again at William Street we soon became friends. I
found him excellent company. It was just after his picture of
"Wharncliffe Chase" had come back from exhibition at the Royal
Academy, and he had completed a portrait of his sister (afterwards
Lady Talbot) and one of Lady Wharncliffe, his aunt, that he started on
his shooting pictures, which for some time he made a speciality of,
and with which he succeeded so well. "The Big Pack," and "Partridge
Shooting" were enormously popular, especially with sportsmen, who were
delighted to find that one of the best shots in England could show
equal dexterity with the brush in suggesting birds actually in flight.
But eventually, anxiety to succeed as a portrait painter led him to
give most of his time to this branch of art. Amongst his best-known
portraits were perhaps those of King Edward VII., Purdy, the
gun-maker, and his own mother. He founded the Society of Portrait
Painters, consisting of fifty members, among whom were and now are
some of the most eminent artists of the day. He was the first
President of that institution, which two years ago became a Royal one.
Under the Presidency of J. J. Shannon, R.A., I am glad to say it now
thrives, and I had recently the honour to be on the Hanging Committee
at the Grafton Galleries when the last annual exhibition was held.
Archie Wortley was very versatile in his tastes, and probably too much
so for the pursuance of a profession. Outside that he was a social
success, for he played the piano and sang, danced on the stage as a
rival to Vokes, was a clever mimic and _raconteur_, made an excellent
after-dinner speech, and shot pigeons so well that in his match with
Carver (the champion) he tied. He was a keen fisherman and a good
all-round sportsman. There were two things he could not and would not
do, and they were, to get astride a horse or to walk for the sake of
walking. Two of my happiest holidays were spent with him and with his
charming wife (formerly the beautiful Miss Nelly Bromley) in an old
Manor House on the north coast of Jersey, where he occupied his time
painting or shooting geese at night on the Ecrehon Rocks, improving
his garden, and felling trees. On the occasion of my first visit, he
welcomed me with the remark:--
"You will get no frost or snow here, old chap--none of that weather
that I know you left in London!"
A morning or two after I was certainly amused to find his small son
busily engaged in building up a snow man in the garden after
breakfast, and when I jokingly reproached my friend for his former
reassuring remarks upon the weather, he said:--
"Well, I'm astounded. Snow hasn't been seen on the island since Heaven
knows when!"
His son, Jack, who strongly resembles his father in features, and who
was then a jolly little chap, distinguished himself in later life as a
soldier, and comparatively recently married the daughter of Mr. Lionel
Phillips.
"Archie" came of a remarkable family; his younger brother is the Right
Honourable Charles Stuart Wortley, and General Sir Edward Montagu
Stuart Wortley was his cousin. The same relationship existed between
him and the present Lord Montagu of Beaulieu. In later years he was
suddenly bitten with the idea that he had business abilities, and
might make money. Accordingly, he gave up his painting and spent all
his time in the pursuit of business in the city, thinking he saw a way
to make his fortune at the period of the "boom" following the South
African war. Unfortunately, the tide turned, and many speculators
found themselves in a tight place--poor Archie among them. He had by
this time lost his connection as a portrait painter; everything seemed
to go wrong; and over anxiety affected his nerves and health to such
an extent that it gave way, and he never recovered from the shock. In
a very short time, he succumbed to a fatal illness, deeply regretted
by a large number of friends and acquaintances, for he was, to those
who knew him, the best and the most loyal of friends.
[Illustration: "A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM." _Drawn in 1886_.]
[Illustration: GRAND PRIX. _Presented to me by the Commissioners of
the Turin Exhibition, 1910._]
When I vacated my studio to move into another, John Collier took the
lease of it. This was at the time I first became acquainted with him,
when he had just returned from studying in Munich.
Tadema was a great friend of his father, Sir Robert Collier, the
eminent lawyer who begged him--as a further lesson of instruction--to
paint a picture from start to finish in the presence of his son. This
the R.A. was induced to do. The painting was on a large canvas, from a
female figure, and the title, if I remember rightly, was "The Model."
Sir Robert afterwards became the possessor of the picture.
When the latter was created a peer, under the title of Lord Monkswell,
he found more time for his pet occupation, viz., painting Alpine
scenery, of which he had such consummate knowledge.
There is one amusing story that his wife used to tell of him, and
that was her great difficulty in preventing him from using his best
cambric handkerchiefs as painting rags; when she thought to prevent
this extravagant habit by buying him common ones for that purpose, he
invariably produced the latter (when at a dinner-party)--of course by
mistake.
John Varley, a remarkably clever water-colour draughtsman and son of
the eminent member of the "Old Water Colour Society" of that name,
occupied a studio opposite mine, but, sadly enough, he contracted an
illness at the time, from which he died. Many of his pictures were
painted in Egypt, and were mostly of Eastern scenery.
The next occupant of this room was Mr. McClure Hamilton, whose
well-known portrait of Mr. Gladstone in his study was not only a fine
piece of work, but a wonderful likeness.
In addition to my fellow artists I had some very agreeable and
interesting neighbours in the vicinity of William Street, for General
Sir Keith and Lady Fraser lived close by, while just opposite was the
house of General Sir Charles Fraser. All three were charming people
and most hospitable.
Sir Charles, the elder brother of Sir Keith, was not only a
distinguished soldier and a V.C., but was very popular with the
ladies; and, being a bachelor, he delighted in giving luncheon parties
for them. On several occasions I was privileged to be invited. I never
refused such invitations if I could help it, for it was delightful to
meet the beautiful women who were always sure to be present.
It was so characteristic of him to be constantly raising his hat in
the Park that I drew him (as I knew him) in this very act, for _Vanity
Fair_.
At a party given by Mrs. Millais, I saw a lady whom I thought one of
the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I had the temerity to follow
her from room to room to catch another glimpse of her exquisite
features. I had heard of Mrs. Cornwallis West, but her beauty was even
greater than I had imagined. I promptly gained an introduction, and
found her, in addition, to be most fascinating and amusing. She sat to
me for her portrait, during which time she kept me in fits of
laughter.
"Professional beauty" was at this period a term commonly used,
although frequently inappropriate to the ladies to whom it was
applied, and photographers must have made a fortune by the exhibition
of the photographs of these society ladies then in their windows.
Frank Miles, a popular young artist of the day, whose drawings were
published in the form of photographs of pretty heads of girls, which
were to be seen then on the walls of every undergraduate's rooms, once
said to me, "Leslie, I know you like to see lovely faces. I have one
of the most wonderful creatures I have ever seen coming to my studio.
Come, and I'll introduce you."
At Miles's studio in Adelphi Terrace the next day, I met Mrs. Langtry,
who was then at the height of her beauty. To me her principal charm
was that of expression, and the wonderful blue eyes which contrasted
so strangely with her rich dark hair. Her neck and shoulders were
perfect, and I remember her extreme fascination of manner.
Another beauty who hailed from the island of Jersey was Mrs. Rousby,
whom I met first at Sir James Ferguson's (the surgeon). She came over
to England with her husband, who was manager of the theatre at Jersey.
She acted in Tom Taylor's play _'Twixt Axe and Crown_ in which she
made a great success, chiefly through her attractive appearance. Mr.
Frith (who was a relation of her husband, I believe) painted her
portrait as she appeared in the play. Her popularity was unbounded;
one could hardly pass a tobacconist's shop without noticing the
familiar features carved upon a meerschaum pipe; and her photographs
were everywhere.
I was constantly drawing her from memory and trying to represent her
as truthfully as I could.
During the completion of my oil painting of Miss Chappell (Mrs. Tom
Caley), the Prince of Wales visited Mr. Augustus Lumley, to whom his
Royal Highness was sitting, and Mr. Lumley, in the course of
conversation, mentioned my name. The Prince, with the tactful
remembrance that distinguished him, recollected my name at once and
expressed a wish to see my work. Unfortunately, I was not in, and Mr.
Lumley showed the Prince round my studio. On the easel stood my
portrait of Miss Chappell (who was then a very beautiful girl of about
sixteen, and was afterwards just as handsome in her womanhood), and on
the wall was pinned a decided caricature of H.R.H. The portrait, I was
pleased to hear, was admired, the Prince exclaiming, "What a pretty
girl!" Then he caught sight of the caricature of himself, and said,
"What a beast of a thing!"
Accompanying their father were the young Princes, who were amused by
the various properties of the studio, which included an old-fashioned
sword, whereupon one of the Princes (so I was told afterwards), I
think the present King George, drew it from its scabbard and attacked
the lay figure.
I was equally fortunate with my second portrait, having a very fine
subject in Lady Shrewsbury, who in those days was always a charming
hostess at Shipley, where I spent many pleasant days. Both these
portraits were hung in the Royal Academy.
Some of my young subjects have revealed the most astonishing
proclivities in the course of their sittings. I remember young Mark
Sykes, who is now the popular member of Parliament, came with his
mother to sit to me, and to keep her son amused, Lady Sykes told him
impromptu stories, which were delightfully imaginative and at the same
time so clever. During one unguarded moment when I was drawing, I
forgot to keep my young pickle under observation, and grew engrossed
in Lady Sykes' narrative; pausing with the mahl stick in my hand (with
which I had been keeping him in order) I listened to the story. In a
trice my young friend snatched the mahl stick and whacked me on the
head, effectively rousing me from my temporary interest in the story.
I never heard a boy laugh with more satisfaction.
Many child sitters came to me then. There were three little children I
was painting, and they, being motherless, were rather at the mercy of
various maids and governesses. On the occasion of one visit to me,
they had no one to escort them. Consequently, the eldest, a girl of
about eleven, arrived in a cab in charge of her two smaller sisters
instead of the governess who usually kept them all three in order
while I painted them. In the absence of this good lady, the two
children behaved themselves uncommonly well, and I was able to paint
them without interruption; but the child looking after them, having
been in the studio about an hour, suddenly said tersely, "I'm going
now ... I'm tired."
Then and there she carried off her charges with an air of great
authority, ordered a cab, and was gone.
Being a child lover, and believing I was well able to control
recalcitrant children, I was nevertheless unprepared for the behaviour
of one little lady who came with her nurse to be painted. After two or
three sittings, finding her somewhat weary, I thought to encourage her
by showing her the portrait.
"Now," I began, with the best intentions, "if you'll be very good and
sit _very_ still, I'll show you after this sitting what I've done."
I kept my promise and lowered the oil painting which was quite wet, so
that she might view it with greater ease.
"I told Mummie," she began, "I never wanted to come and sit for my
picture," and, making a quick movement, carefully obliterated the
whole of my work. My astonishment and chagrin were considerable, but,
after severe corrections at home, the little girl returned to
apologize and finish her sittings, and I completed the picture.
One time, when I was visiting Mr. and Mrs. Coope at Brentwood, they
commissioned me to paint two of their daughters; the late Mrs. Edward
Ponsonby and Miss Coope also partly completed a portrait of old Mr.
Coope, but gave him up in despair, and he, upon seeing my
bewilderment, sympathetically remarked, "The only artist who, had he
lived now, could have painted me would have been Franz Hals." But that
was before Sargent's day.
My hostess, Mrs. Coope, a very handsome and charming old lady, wrote
to me some time after my return to ask me to come down and make a
drawing of her little grandchildren, who were staying with her then.
When I arrived, I was shown into the nursery and introduced to a
little baby, who was entirely occupied with crawling on the floor.
After pursuing my erratic model all over the room in hopes of catching
her at a happy moment, and failing hopelessly in my quest, I gave up,
and was informed by the fond grandparent--
"She'll never sit still ... your only chance is to crawl on the floor
after her with your pencil and paper, and if you want to arrest her
attention, the only thing is to buzz like a bee."
So I buzzed, found the ruse successful, and made the sketch, which was
very well received.
I read of the death of Mrs. Georgina Weldon the other day, at the age
of seventy-seven. I recalled the days when she sat to me for the
drawing I made of her in _Vanity Fair_. Mrs. Weldon was a very
handsome and extraordinary woman, her life being chiefly spent in
fighting law cases in the Courts.
She was reputed to know more law (especially the law of libel) than
many barristers who had long been engaged in practice, and she
conducted her cases with great skill and eloquence, though not often
with success, especially in later years, when she seemed to become
almost a monomaniac upon legal matters.
Some eight years after marriage, Mrs. Weldon formed a design for
teaching and training, especially in music, a number of friendless
orphans. She started her scheme in 1870 at Tavistock House (once the
residence of Charles Dickens), and with her husband's consent, began
her philanthropic project with a number of the poorest and youngest
children. Many leading musicians of the day became associated with
her--Mr. Henry Leslie, M. Rivière, and M. Gounod among them.
Some of her friends and relatives could not understand why Mrs. Weldon
gave up her time and money to a work which they viewed with disfavour,
and their disapproval deepened when she developed an interest in
spiritualism. "One night," says the _Times_, "she was waited upon by
two strangers of professed benevolent disposition, who were afterwards
proved to be medical men on a visit of inspection (the keepers of a
private asylum); they tried to force a way into her house and carry
her off as a lunatic under an order of detention. She baffled them and
escaped."
Mrs. Weldon's first attempt to justify herself was by proceedings
against Dr. Forbes Winslow, in whose private asylum it had been
intended to place her. Baron Huddleston, however, who heard the case,
non-suited her, ruling that the statute of 1845 was a defence, and
declined to allow the case to go to the jury. From this finding the
Divisional Court subsequently dissented. Mrs. Weldon gained the
first-fruits of her long battle in July, 1884, when, after a ten days'
trial, she gained a verdict for £1000 damages against Dr. Semple, who
had signed the certificate of lunacy, and who was one of the two
"benevolent strangers." Mrs. Weldon afterwards got a verdict against
Dr. Forbes Winslow for £500 damages. A verdict for a like amount had
been given in her favour in May in an action against the _London
Figaro_.
In March, 1885, she was sentenced to six months' imprisonment without
hard labour, for a libel upon M. Rivière in certain reflections--made
in her publication "Social Salvation"--upon his career before he came
to England. In May of the same year coming from prison to the Court
under a writ of _habeas corpus_, she was awarded, by a jury sitting
at the Middlesex Sessions Court to assess damages, a verdict of
£10,000 against the composer of _Faust_, for a series of libels upon
her published in various French papers.
In all her actions Mrs. Weldon conducted her own case with a
brilliance that was remarkable, as was her English, which was
perfectly beautiful; but her reputation of fearlessness where the law
was concerned made one very careful of repeating in her presence any
casual remark that might lead to trouble. During the time she sat to
me I remember one particular day especially, when she arrived in high
dudgeon, complaining bitterly of a housekeeper in another studio into
which she had by mistake been shown. This lady had been impolite, and
had not treated her with the respect due to her position; and for this
slight she was prepared to sign a "round robin" to get rid of the
woman and persuade the other tenants to help her.
Not paying much attention to the story, although I regretted any
trouble that had occurred, I did not realize the identity of the
offending "woman," until, going into my mother's studio, she informed
me that on no account did she want to see Mrs. Weldon, whose voice she
had now identified. But, as Mrs. Weldon was leaving, my mother
inadvertently ran into her and was recognized. Having determined to
have a day _en negligée_, and to spend her time tearing up an
accumulation of old letters, my mother had made arrangements not to be
in to any models or visitors; her annoyance was considerable when Mrs.
Weldon knocked at her door in mistake for mine, and without looking
twice to distinguish her visitor, she had informed her that she did
not require any models that day. After explanations and apologies had
been exchanged on either side, peace was restored, as, incidentally,
was my visitor's equanimity.
Mrs. Weldon was engaged at this period to sing at the London Pavilion
at a very handsome salary. On one of these occasions, when I went to
hear her, I amused myself during an interval with making a caricature
of the conductor of the orchestra; when I had completed the drawing, I
noticed that my temporary model had observed my procedure, and a
moment later the attendant handed me a little piece of paper on which
was drawn a caricature of myself! and a note requesting me to send my
drawing for his inspection--which I did.
When Mrs. Weldon went to Brighton, she sent me a charming letter
asking me to go down there, but at the moment I was a little
disconcerted by the extreme publicity surrounding her movements, and
did not take advantage of her kind invitation. I remember her saying
to me, "They call me mad, and I suppose everybody is mad on some
point. My mania is vanity--I love compliments--as long as you flatter
me I shall be your best friend."
Miss Christabel Pankhurst, whom (as another lady looming largely in
the eye of the public) I drew for _Vanity Fair_, made quite an
attractive cartoon for that paper. She was a very good model, with
most agreeable manners. I studied her first at the Queen's Hall, where
her windmill-like gestures attracted my notice first. Her brilliant
colouring and clear voice were also characteristic.
I did not discuss the subject in which she was so absorbed, but
limited my conversations to generalities, lest by adverse criticism I
might disturb the charm of expression I found in her face.
[Illustration: ADMIRAL SIR COMPTON DOMVILLE, 1906.]
[Illustration: MISS CHRISTABEL PANKHURST, 1908.]
CHAPTER VIII
MY CLUBS
The Arts Club.--Mrs. Frith's funeral.--The sympathetic
waiter.--Swinburne.--Whistler.--Edmund Yates.--The Orleans
Club.--Sir George Wombwell.--"Hughie" Drummond.--"Fatty"
Coleman.--Lady Meux.--The Prize Fighter and her nephew.--The
Curate.--The Theobald's Tiger.--Whistler and his pictures.--
Charles Brookfield.--Mrs. Brookfield.--The Lotus Club.--Kate
Vaughan.--Nellie Farren.--The Lyric Club.--The Gallery Club.
--Some Members.--The Jockey Club Stand.--My plunge on the
turf.--The Beefsteak Club.--Toole and Irving.--The Fielding
Club.--Archie Wortley.--Charles Keene.--The Amateur Pantomime.
--Some of the caste.--Corney Grain.--A night on Ebury Bridge.
--The Punch Bowl Club.--Oliver Wendell Holmes.--Lord Houghton
and the herring.
"The pleasantest society is that where the members feel a warm
respect for one another."--_Goethe_.
It was in 1874 that my parents left London and returned to Windsor,
and I being obliged to remain in town, took rooms in Connaught Street,
and a studio in William Street, Lowndes Square. I also joined the Arts
Club, Hanover Square, and finding that dining alone had its drawbacks,
especially after the delightful family life at home, I frequently used
my club as a more sociable place to have my meals in. There was also a
pearl among waiters whose sympathetic and also clairvoyant sense
enabled him to tell by one's expression exactly what one wanted. If
one came in looking fit he would say perhaps, "Ah, yes! I think
so-and-so to-day," or if one came in jaded and weary, he would wheedle
one into a chair and say in tactful tones, just tinged with sadness,
"Leave it to me, sir." But if simultaneously another member burst in
with hilarious mood and cried, "Now then, Shave, what have you for
dinner?" the obliging creature would be waiting for him with a bright
reflection of his mood and suggest some quite appropriate and savoury
dish.
Shave was my mainstay in many a dark hour. I shall always remember the
only time he disappointed me. I had been to my godmother's funeral,
and feeling tired--the black coaches and all the inevitable solemnity
of death had oppressed me--when arriving at the door of my club, I saw
a very funereal looking carriage outside the door, which reminded me
very forcibly of the scene I had just left. Throwing off the growing
feeling of depression, I bethought me of my lunch, and, consoled with
the remembrance of the coming tact of my attendant waiter, I walked
quickly into the club. Not seeing him, I said to the hall porter,
"Where's Shave?"
"He's in that carriage, sir!" replied the man. "At least, 'is corpse
is."
This was the finishing touch! I had imagined men might come and
go--but that poor Shave would go on for ever. I discovered on
inquiring later that the sudden death was due to suicide after
depression resulting from some misunderstanding which I did not
inquire into, which must have affected his brain.
I belonged to the club shortly after Swinburne had resigned his
membership, and the following story was repeated to me. It seems that
he had spent an evening in the club; and he was about to leave when,
selecting what he thought was his hat from amongst the many, he felt
he had inadvertently mistaken another for his own. Replacing it, he
tried again. Several times he repeated the process of trying on in
hopes of finding the right hat, but all in vain. Growing excited, he
began to try on indiscriminately, without success; then, finding he
had lost his hat, he lost his head, and dashed the offending hats to
the ground in turn. At last, after a grand _finale_ of destruction, he
strode hatless from the club, leaving devastation behind him.
Whistler once came searching for _his_ opera hat. I was comfortably
ensconced, and did not assist him. Finally, roused by his persistent
search, I got up to help, and found to my chagrin that I had been
sitting on the hat, and that, in so doing, I had ruined the springs
and rendered it useless. He put it on, nevertheless, and although the
effect was "amazing" (his favourite expression), Jimmy accepted my
apologies most good-humouredly and philosophically.
One of the occasions of note at the club was an annual fish dinner
held at the "Old Ship," Greenwich, but when that custom ceased the
dinner took place at the club itself. It was at one of these
festivities that Edmund Yates, who had been very bitter against me
previously in his paper, made, I remember, a very kindly allusion to
myself. I had caricatured him, as he thought, with intent to hurt his
feelings; and he had publicly--and very unjustly--accused me of
artistic snobbery. He had said that I was in the habit of caricaturing
only those who were socially unimportant, and flattering noble lords;
but at this dinner I was sitting almost opposite him, and when he rose
to reply to a toast, he endeavoured to propitiate me by referring to
himself as "portly, but not quite so portly as the artist of _Vanity
Fair_ had depicted him." This I understood to be a tentative offering
of the olive branch. Later, when in prison for libel, he wrote his
reminiscences, in which he alluded in a more than friendly manner to
some drawings I had done for him in earlier days to illustrate
lectures that he delivered in America on Dickens and Thackeray.
The Arts Club numbered some very distinguished men among its numbers.
When I belonged, Val Prinsep, Marcus Stone, Phené Spiers, Louis Fagan,
Pellegrini, Archibald Forbes, Tenniel, Dr. Buzzard, Marks, and Tadema
were frequenters of the Club, as also was Charles Keene, who combined
an air of the sixteenth century very successfully with his idea of
modern dress. Keene used to smoke a clay pipe which was both becoming
and in keeping. These clays, of which he had a continual supply, were
among a number found in the Thames, where they had probably been
buried at some time, unless, perhaps, a pipe factory had existed in
old days on the banks of the river.
Another prominent member, John Tenniel, (so Linley Sambourne told me)
had never seen either Dizzy or Gladstone in the flesh till years after
his earlier cartoons of them appeared in _Punch_. It may be also new
to my reader that Sambourne gave the nucleus of the idea for his
famous cartoon "Dropping the Pilot" at one of the weekly dinners of
the staff, the original drawing of which, I believe, is in the
possession of Lord Rosebery.
When I left Connaught Street and went to live on the other side of the
Park, I became a member of the Orleans Club, and enjoyed the then
unique advantage of belonging to one where ladies were permitted to
dine. Here I made many pleasant acquaintances and spent a good time.
[Illustration: THE BEEFSTEAK CLUB.
_The Clubroom occupied from 1876 to 1895._]
Shortly after I joined the club a branch was opened at the Orleans
House, Twickenham; but, although it was a delightful place to go to in
the long summer days, and many a good cricket match was played there,
the attendance each season grew smaller until the club was forced to
close. I believe to-day the little Orleans in King Street, St. James',
continues to enjoy a considerable reputation for good food and
fellowship.
The late veteran Sir George Wombwell, a constant attendant, who was
known to be one of the smartest figures in London, and was always
immaculately dressed, unfortunately spilt one evening some coffee down
his shirt front, thereby spoiling his appearance for the supper he was
giving that same evening. Being much concerned, and as I was in the
club at the time, he consulted me as to what was best to be done. It
was too late to go home to change, he remarked. I thought a little.
What about billiard chalk? No, it wouldn't be sufficiently permanent.
Then, as luck would have it, I remembered there was a tube of Chinese
white in the pocket of my overcoat, so with this I completely
eradicated the stains. Sir George was so pleased with my success as a
shirt restorer that he invited me to his supper.
At this period I paid occasional visits to Theobald's Park. On one of
these, while Sir Henry Meux was away in Scotland, Lady Meux was
entertaining a few guests previous to leaving England. An idea struck
her before the party broke up, and she suggested a little farewell
dinner and a theatre afterwards in town.
"Where had we better dine?" she questioned. "Do any of you belong to
the Orleans Club?"
I was silent on purpose, but a tactless man at once said, "Leslie
Ward's the man; he's a member," so I knew I was "in for it," and as I
had received much hospitality at Theobald's, and as I was aware of no
rule that would interfere with our arrangement, beyond the one which
prohibited the introduction of actresses, I acquiesced.
"Capital," said Lady Meux, "we will dine there and I will stand the
dinner."
On the following day, upon arriving in town I hurried to the Orleans
Club. There I ordered a table to be ready for dinner in the private
room that evening, and to be nicely decorated with flowers.
When my lady guest arrived with her small party, which included a
parson, I was requested in the usual way to write their names in the
visitors' book. After this was done, we proceeded to the private
dining-room; but "My Lady," to my utmost astonishment, with a look of
disgust on her face turned to the door, saying--
"This won't do! We will dine in the public room."
Fortunately, as it was August, that was quite empty, so we dined in
comfort, having the room to ourselves.
A few days after, I received a letter from the club, saying that the
committee had met and considered that I should be asked to take my
name off the books immediately. I then wrote explaining that I was
quite ignorant of a rule which it seems had been (so innocently)
violated when I introduced my guest to the club. I received a reply
written in quite a friendly spirit, saying they had taken my letter
into consideration, and that I was reinstated.
Lady Meux was a hero-worshipper, and one of her peculiarities, which
in later years almost amounted to a mania, was the desire to leave
her property to a hero. Her difficulty in making a selection must have
been great. The popular generals or naval men who had distinguished
themselves held very high places in her esteem. Her sporting instinct,
which was very strong, was sometimes carried to extremes; for
instance, she once wished to test the courage of a nephew of her
husband's who was staying in her house, and engaged a professor in the
gentle art of prize-fighting to come down and try the boy. The man, by
way of a preliminary, knocked the boy about a little, which did not
satisfy Lady Meux, who urged the prize-fighter on to harder blows.
When the boy's blood began to flow, she was delighted, and considered
the ordeal was making a man of him; he made a very plucky stand
against his professional antagonist, and when his strength was just at
its ebb, the thoughtful lady let him off, and immediately gave him a
handsome present for the pluck he had shown.
On another occasion, a curate who depended upon her for the living on
her estate, was cruelly persuaded to allow himself to be used as a
sort of human firework display. He took his torture very
philosophically, and was first tied up in tarpaulin from head to foot,
and then covered with every imaginable kind of cracker, a large
Catherine Wheel forming a centre piece to complete the scheme. When
the fun began, he jerked and jumped, while the various fireworks
ignited and exploded with terrific effect. Afterwards, refreshment was
administered, and the company were so pleased at the courage he had
shown that the men asked him at once to come and have a drink with
them.
Actually, Lady Meux was a kind-hearted and intelligent woman in her
way; she used to organize "tea-fights" for the village children, and
many acts of a generous nature are to be attributed to her; although
perhaps her method of bestowing her gifts was sometimes a trifle
eccentric.
I was invited to stay at Theobald's Park with a sporting acquaintance.
The attractions of the surroundings of this country house were
somewhat unusual by reason of its menagerie, which contained a fine
collection of animals, including a valuable tiger, and a museum full
of old Roman curios, mummies, and innumerable curiosities, collected
by Sir Henry Meux, who was himself a connoisseur of antiquities. We
arrived, I remember, in advance of the rest of the house party, and
that evening, as we drank our coffee, our hostess told us rather an
uncanny story of a burglary which had happened shortly before. The man
had been arrested and was "doing time." (By the way, Lady Meux visited
his wife and befriended her during his imprisonment.) The next evening
we were sitting in the billiard room, when we were disturbed by the
loud barking of a dog.
"What's the matter, I wonder?" said my friend, as the noise didn't
cease.
A moment later, a great roar was heard, followed by most extraordinary
sounds, then on the top of this came the firing of a gun, then a
trampling and uproar, after which followed a volley of shots, and
immediately a sound as if every animal of the Zoo had broken loose,
the monkeys screaming and chattering above the trumpeting of the
elephant and the growls of the bear.
We jumped to our feet; my friend was horrified, and Lady Meux
shrieked: "There are the burglars!" and fled upstairs.
Abandoning our game of billiards, we prepared to seek the scene from
which such strange sounds were coming, when a footman appeared and
informed us that the tiger had got loose and had mauled the gardener's
boy.
"I have orders," he said, "to turn out the lights, lock the doors, and
forbid any one to go outside."
"How ridiculous!" said my friend. "I've had considerable experience
with tigers in India ... those orders are absurd ... turn up the
lights at once."
"No, sir; I daren't," answered the man.
A moment later, the gardener appeared with his clothing torn and his
arm all over blood.
"I've shot the tiger between the eyes," he said, "and effectually."
We were rather relieved, and after some instructions as to his
somewhat severe wound, finding we could be of no service, we prepared
to go to bed, when our hostess suddenly turned up in rather a
melodramatic looking boudoir gown, her hair dishevelled, and her face
white as death. We went up to her (as she paused in the doorway, with
her hand on her heart, she appeared to be suffering), and told her,
thinking to reassure her, that the tiger had been shot by the gardener
while mauling his son. When she realized the significance of our
words, she gave way to a frenzy of anger.
"What! You don't mean to say that horrible man has shot the dear tiger
that Sir Henry paid so much for! If he knew, he would no longer keep
him in his service--I shall dismiss him at once!" And with a final
burst of anger, she departed in a fit of hysterics.
When Lady Meux had gone, my friend, who was awfully upset, broke into
anger.
"What a heartless woman!" he said. "Why, the poor chap ought to be
well rewarded for his pluck, instead of which he will be dismissed.
What a damned shame!"
At that moment the footman entered again. "Perhaps you'd like to know,
sir," he announced, "the boy is still alive, and not so seriously hurt
as we first thought."
We were somewhat relieved by this news, and as the lights were out we
could not see to play billiards any longer, so we managed to grope
round and find some little refreshment and go to bed.
The next morning, as I was dressing I heard a voice outside calling my
name. Looking into the garden, I saw my friend, whose normal ruddy
colour had changed to a most deathly white.
"What's the matter?" I cried.
In a hoarse voice he besought me to come down, which I did. Taking me
to the managerie, he showed me the general scene of destruction;
bushes had been trampled down, some torn up by the roots, and
everywhere the signs of a great struggle met the eye. As we walked, he
told me how, going to the tiger's cage, he had looked for the body.
Seeing nothing but the broken bars, he looked into the sleeping
compartment where a live tiger had sprung at his face, which he had
withdrawn in the very nick of time. We were very puzzled by the fact
that the animal was alive and apparently unharmed, and as we paced up
and down by the cage, we tried to account for the tiger's reappearance
in the sleeping compartment. A reporter appeared a little later on
behalf of the local paper, but was ordered off the premises rather
peremptorily. As we walked, a groom accosted us, who informed us that
he was not one of the regular servants, but an odd man from
Newmarket.
"I don't 'arf like it," he began.
"What do you mean?" replied my friend.
"T'aint all right, you bet," he said, with a wink.
After some explanations, it transpired that the groom was trying to
tell us that we had been hoaxed, and the gardener's boy was as well as
we were and everybody concerned. I could not help laughing when I
realized how completely we had been taken in. The elephant, the dogs,
and all the menagerie, including the parrots, had been produced to
make the uproar and trample down the bushes. The gardener had attended
to the shooting, and all the servants were in the plot, and each had
been carefully rehearsed (under threat of dismissal) by their mistress
for the practical joke played upon her guest. The reporter, I may add,
was the _chef_ in disguise.
When I saw Lady Meux, who was pretending to be too ill and upset
(owing to the shock to her nerves) to come down, I congratulated her
upon her scheme, for I could not but admire the extraordinarily clever
acting she had displayed for the furthering of her plot; the tears,
the stage hysterics, and the way she had worked herself up into a
frenzy until I could not tell whether it was assumed or real, were all
marvellously clever. But when I asked her the reason of her plan, she
told me her object was to frighten our friend, who was becoming
addicted to the habit of taking more alcohol than was good for him,
and by dint of doing so, she hoped to startle him into reconsidering
his life, and by the means of a good shock, awaken his power of
resistance to what was becoming a steady habit. I never discovered
what our friend thought, and what the result was, but I know he was
really frightened.
As well as her leanings in the direction of warrior heroes, Lady Meux
had a keen sense of humour; she wished me to caricature one of the
guests who arrived in the house-party after the tiger affair. One
evening I was inspired, and did a really funny caricature of him, and
thinking she would be pleased with it, as a surprise I placed it on
the mantelpiece, hoping she would see it when she came down to dinner.
As fate would have it, my subject came in first; and when I arrived a
little later, it had gone, so I asked him if he had seen a caricature
of himself that I had done at my hostess' special request; as it was
not ill-natured, I had no hesitation in referring to it before him.
"Oh," he answered grimly. "I've put it where it deserved to go--in the
fire!"
My friend, Charles H. F. Brookfield, was lunching with Whistler one
day, when the artist complained of the scarcity of money and
commissions, and Brookfield, remembering Lady Meux had said she would
like her portrait painted, said, "Cheer up, Jimmy; I've an idea."
With his usual cleverness and tact, he persuaded the lady that here
was a genius waiting to do her justice, and the affair was arranged.
When Whistler saw Lady Meux in her pink satin, he was certainly
enchanted, but her sables inspired him with a desire to paint her
again, and her diamonds enhanced another dress so greatly that his
enthusiasm grew keener still, and with great skill he persuaded his
sitter to allow him to embark upon three pictures or even more.
Brookfield was so amused at the progress of the pictures which
Whistler painted at the same time, that he (Brookfield) made a clever
little sketch and caricature of the artist, his hair flying about in
his wild enthusiasm, attacking the pictures with an enormously long
brush. Two or three years ago, when some of Whistler's sketches were
up for auction, this little drawing was sold at Christie's as a
genuine Whistler for twenty pounds.
A host of amusing stories come to me with the mention of Brookfield,
some of which he told me himself with an incomparable drollery that
was entirely typical of the man, and others which are told of him by
his friends.
When he contemplated going upon the stage as a young man, many of his
friends remonstrated with him and endeavoured to persuade him to
abandon his decision. A near relation also wrote begging him not to
embark upon such a career, terminating his letter with a final appeal,
"I beg of you," he wrote, "not to go upon the stage--in the name of
Christ."
"I have no intention of acting under any other name but my own," wrote
the irrepressible young man in return.
When he had been upon the stage some time, he met by chance one of the
friends who had ranged himself on the side of the opposers.
"Hullo, Charlie," he said, rather condescendingly. "Still--er--on the
stage?"
"Oh yes," replied our friend. "And you--still in the Commons?"
I am indebted to a mutual friend, Mr. William Elliot, for the
following story of Brookfield in later years.
My friend met him one day with his wife in Jermyn Street; the next
time he saw him Brookfield remarked--
"It was so lucky I met you the other day, for it enabled me to tell my
wife something I have always been too shy to tell her before--that I
have become a Catholic." (Mrs. Brookfield had always been a Papist.)
"What nonsense," replied my friend. "How could my meeting you and your
wife start you on a confession of that nature?"
"Very simple," said "Brooks." "The moment you had gone I said to Ruth,
'What a pleasure it is to meet Willie Elliot--always the same--bright
and agreeable. All these years that I have known him I have only one
thing against him!'
"'What is that?' said Mrs. Brookfield.
"'He's a heretic!'" replied "Brooks."
A very typical story is told of how he wrote to the editor of _The
Lancet_ suggesting that they should publish a Christmas number, and
offering to write a humorous story entitled "My first Post-Mortem!"
Mrs. C. H. E. Brookfield is the author of several interesting books,
and I must not forget to mention Mrs. Brookfield, the mother of my
friend, whose personality and exquisite charm of manner were so
delightful. I had not the pleasure of her acquaintance in earlier
days, but, judging from portraits, she must have been extremely
beautiful, although it is strange that she should have been the
original of heroines in Thackeray's novels, the meek and mild "Amelia"
of "Vanity Fair" among them.
The Lotus Club was now a novelty, and I joined it, as did several of
my friends; and many an amusing evening was spent there. The
representatives of the Gaiety of that day, Nellie Farren, Kate
Vaughan, Kate Munroe, and Amalia were among the attractive actresses
who frequented the club. There were dances twice a week, and I well
remember dancing with Nellie Farren, who was the best waltzer of them
all. Kate Vaughan was delightful, but not such a good partner,
although, of course, her stage dancing was the absolute "poetry of
motion." Many were the pleasant hours I spent at that jolly club--and
I was young.
In 1876 the Beefsteak Club was founded by Archibald Stuart Wortley. I
was elected one of the original members. As a young man, I appreciated
the Beefsteak Club for what it was then--a gay and jolly place, more
or less Bohemian. In later bachelor days much of my time in the
evenings was spent there, and my constant attendance brought me into
contact with many of the most interesting and entertaining men of the
day.
Being a one-room club and also restricted to three hundred members
(the admittance of visitors being prohibited), it was always unique,
the conversation varying according to the different groups sitting
side by side at the dinner-table, and the members being selected
pretty equally from sailors, soldiers, actors, diplomats, legislators,
sporting men, artistic and literary men, and so on.
At one period, Friday nights were especially popular, and I think that
was because a member named Craigie (a retired army man) made a point
of never missing them. He was a great favourite with all, invariably
occupied the same seat, and by report missed only one Friday evening
during his membership. I remember that upon entering the Beefsteak
Club one Saturday evening, I was shown the chair in which Craigie
always sat. The seat was in ribbons.
It seems that on the only occasion that he was absent from his place
on a Friday a large stag's head fell plump on to it, piercing it
through and through.
What luck for our friend!
It was a _13_ pointer, and happened on a _Friday_ night too, so the
tables were turned against the old superstition.
Craigie's cheery laugh has, I regret to say, long been missed. Now he
is no more, so Friday nights have lost their special interest. The
Beefsteak is no longer the same late "sitting up" club, although it
still remains delightful, and while we regret the absence of the
retired editor of _Punch_ (Sir Francis Burnand), we hail the frequent
appearance of his successor (Sir Owen Seaman).
Just before my marriage, I was very much gratified by the extremely
kind way in which my friends "clubbed" together and presented me with
a handsome canteen of silver (quite an unprecedented occurrence, by
the way, in the Beefsteak Club). The presentation on that occasion was
made by Comyns Carr, who made one of his very appropriate and humorous
speeches. A friend writes to me, "Do you remember in your reply to
Carr's speech you started on a quotation from Shakespeare, 'froze up,'
and Biron got the book and read the passage? It was the end of 'Much
Ado,' where Benedick says, 'a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me
out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an
epigram?... in brief since I do purpose to marry I will think nothing
to any purpose the world can say against it,'--a happy quotation.
Wit-cracker for Joe Carr was admirably apt." I was also much indebted
to my friend Frederick Post for his pains in helping to select the
gift.
The premises previous to this were in King William Street, over
Toole's Theatre, which was pulled down when the buildings of Charing
Cross Hospital were extended. By an odd series of coincidences, all my
addresses seem to be either in a King or a William Street, or the two
combined. They were--
My Studio William Street, Lowndes Square.
Orleans Club King Street, St. James.
Fielding Club King Street, Covent Garden.
Beefsteak Club King William Street, Strand.
My Insurance Office King Street, City.
_Vanity Fair_ Offices
(at one time) King William Street.
One evening at the Beefsteak Club, I watched George Grossmith chaffing
Corney Grain.
"Oh, Dick," he was saying, pointing a derisive finger at Dick's
waistcoat, "you're putting it on!"
"You little whipper-snapper, how dare you!" said Corney Grain, smiling
down at his friend.
When they had gone, it amused me to sit down at the writing table and
make a quick caricature while they were fresh in my mind. A member,
observing my preoccupation, jokingly asked me why I was so busy, and
if I usually spent so long over my correspondence. Whereupon I showed
him the drawing which represented the two humorists as I had watched
them, a tall Corney Grain waving aside with a fat and expansive hand,
a minute and impish Grossmith.
He handed it round to the members gathered by the fire, who, having
seen the two men in a similar position shortly before, were much
amused.
"If I were you I'd draw it larger and have it reproduced--it's bound
to be popular," he remarked.
Taking his advice I went home and sat up all night making a more
careful drawing from my sketch, which I elaborated with colour
afterwards. I offered the drawing to _Vanity Fair_ which, under the
rule of a temporary editor (in the absence of Gibson Bowles) was
refused. This gave me an opportunity of selling it privately to
Rudolph Lehmann, who paid me twice as much as a previous bidder had
offered for it. I had several reproductions made by the Autotype
Company which I coloured myself, and eventually was £250 in pocket. I
have an autograph book full of the signatures and letters of
distinguished people who became owners of these prints, including
those of King Edward and the Dukes of Edinburgh and Teck. Thus I had
to thank the short-sighted editor for my success. I quote the
following from George Grossmith's amusing reminiscences, "Piano & I."
"I allude to the permission by Mr. Leslie Ward, son of E. M.
Ward, R.A., the famous artist, to publish the portrait which
appears in this book. Most people are under the impression that
it was one of the cartoons in _Vanity Fair_--it was nothing of
the sort. It was a private enterprise of 'Spy.' The first issue
was tinted by the artist, signed by him and by Corney Grain and
myself. Those copies are now worth twenty or thirty times their
original value. The origin of the picture was this. Dick Grain
and I were most formidable rivals and most intimate friends.
Hostesses during the London season secured one or the other of
us. The following words are not absolutely verbatim, but as
nearly as possible as I can get to the fact.
"_Mrs. Jones:_ 'Are you coming to my party next Wednesday, Mrs.
Smith, to hear Corney Grain?'
"_Mrs. Smith:_ 'Indeed I am, and I sincerely hope you are coming
to my party on Thursday to hear George Grossmith. Oh, Mrs.
Robinson, how are you ... etc.'
"_Mrs. Robinson:_ 'Delighted to meet you both. Are you coming to
my afternoon on Saturday?'
"_Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones, together:_ 'Indeed we are, who have
you got?'
"_Mrs. Robinson:_ 'Oh, I have engaged Corney Grain and George
Grossmith!'"
[Illustration: GEORGE GROSSMITH. CORNEY GRAIN.
"_Gee Gee_." 1888.]
Corney Grain grew so weary of signing my cartoon, which was sent him
by persistent admirers, that he charged ten shillings and sixpence for
every print upon which he placed his autograph, and the proceeds went,
I believe, to the Actors' Benevolent Fund. The coloured copies were
frequently mistaken for the original drawing, and at the Edmund Yates
sale one of the reproductions fetched £18 owing to that mistaken
impression.
Corney Grain, in return for my caricature, had a friendly revenge in
some verses which he sent to my mother on the back of a New Year card.
I produce them here with apologies for myself--
LINES ON LESLIE.
If ever he manages to catch a train,
It goes where he doesn't want to go.
It starts at three or--thereabouts,
But--really--he doesn't quite know.
If he's due down south, he's up in the north,
Say in Scotland--eating porridge--
If he's bound for Chester--or Bangor--say,
You'll find him safe in Norwich.
At junctions he's always left behind,
For he quite forgets to change,
And he's shunted into sidings dark--
"I thought 'twas rather strange!"
REFRAIN.
'Twill constant change afford
To travel with Leslie Ward,
Wherever he may roam, tho' he's quite at home,
He's always all abroad.
If he leaves the train for a cup of tea,
The train goes on without him;
He's left his ticket and purse in the rack,
And he hasn't a penny about him.
He forgets the name of his hotel,
Tho' he's often stayed there before,
He thinks it's the Lion or the Antelope,
Or the something Horse or Boar.
But he's sure it's the name of an animal,
That you sometimes see at the Zoo!
Which gives you a pretty wide field of choice
From a Rat to a Kangaroo!
REFRAIN as before.
If he's due on a visit on Monday, say,
His coat is being repaired!
On Tuesday he's awfully sorry, you know,
But his shirts weren't properly aired.
On Wednesday he was going to start,
But he'd lost his mother's dog!
On Thursday he really meant to come,
But he lost his way--in a fog!
On Friday the cab was a_t the door_!
But his boots would not come on--
But on Saturday he _does_ arrive--
And--finds all the family gone!!
REFRAIN as before.
_R. Corney Grain._
I am afraid there is something of truth lurking in that poem, for I am
reminded to tell a story against myself. One bitterly cold winter's
night I was returning from my club, I arrived at my front door, and
failed to find my bunch of keys. I searched my pockets without
success, and at last assured that I was indeed unable to get in, I
retraced my steps and wondered in the meantime what I should do. It
was one-thirty on a winter's morning, I was in dress clothes, and my
feet becoming colder and colder in the thin pumps that but half
protected them; snow lay upon the ground and the outlook was the
reverse of inviting. I bethought me of the Grosvenor Hotel, so
hurrying back, I called in there and explained the situation to the
porter, who informed me that a bed there for the night was impossible
as I had no luggage with me. I expostulated and offered to send for my
clothes in the morning, but he refused to admit me. My feelings as I
paddled back in the slush in the direction of my studio were
unmentionable, especially as I discovered I had only a half-crown in
my pocket. Under my arm I held the Christmas number of _Vanity Fair_
which seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and a fine sleet began to
fall. Presently I met a policeman to whom I appealed in my trouble. He
was very sympathetic, and appeared to have hopes of obtaining shelter
for me.
"Anything will do," I said, shivering with cold. "Have you a cell
vacant at the station? I'd rather spend the night there than walking
about in the snow."
He smiled. "Oh," he said, "there's a mate of mine who lives close by."
We found the house and rang the bell. Presently the wife appeared at
the window and called out, "What on earth do you want waking me up
this time of the night?"
The constable began to explain, but the snow and the sleet came with
an icy blast, and with a shudder the woman shut the window with a bang
that had an air of finality about it.
We turned away (I was disconsolate), and walked along the road
undecided, until we came to a night-watchman's shanty, where I saw the
welcome glow of a fire and an old man in occupation. The policeman,
who was evidently a man of resource, said:--
"I've an idea--we'll go to that chap and perhaps he'll put you up for
a while."
He explained my sad case to the night-watchman, who was only too glad
to admit me to a share of his hut and fire; endeavouring to make me
quite comfortable, he piled sacks of cement by the fire and arranged a
coat for my eider-down, which was white with cement, as was everything
in the place. In spite of my discomfort, I longed to sleep, but my
queer old host, excited perhaps at the unexpected advent of a
nocturnal visitor, embarked upon a stream of conversation of his
former life spent in the Bush. It seemed to show a distinct
ingratitude to sleep, and I tried to listen, but the flow of talk
lulled me, and in spite of myself I fell into a deep slumber. It
seemed only a few minutes after, when he woke me and informed me that
it was time to turn out and six o'clock. I rose, and putting my hand
into my waistcoat pocket with the intention of rewarding the watchman
for his kindness--_I found my latch key!_ Afterwards I endeavoured to
persuade my quondam acquaintance to accept the remuneration of my only
half-crown, but he refused it, saying, "Keep it, sir; you may want it,
for a cab," so I presented him with the bulky Christmas number of
_Vanity Fair_.
Going by the next evening, I looked into his shanty to give him his
tip, and found him deeply engrossed in the volume, and, on close
scrutiny, found he was not reading indiscriminately, but beginning at
the beginning (as one would a novel), preparatory to going right
through, and when I asked him if the literature was to his taste, he
said--
"Oh, sir; I've only got to the fifth page!"
I have always felt a trifle embarrassed over the latch-key story,
especially when Charlie Brookfield used to tell it at the club with
embellishments of a witty order.
An old member of the club was rather given (owing to loss of memory)
to telling the same story rather too often, but as he was at the end
of his life and had been so popular, few avoided him, remembering his
brighter days. Up to the last he was courtly and charming, but, after
telling a story, he would explain: "That reminds me of another story!"
Whereupon he would repeat in exactly the same words the one he had
just told. That recalls an only half-intentional score of mine off
Brookfield. Brooks had one day a new audience, and was proceeding to
regale it with lively tales. Before beginning he said to me, "Don't
you listen; you know all my stories." Now he _did_ tell some that I
knew; but his comic chagrin was tremendous when, meaning really to
make an inquiry, and only slyly to insinuate my foreknowledge, said:
"Hullo, Brooks; have you seen Sir Henry lately?"
About this time the Fielding Club opened, and was ably managed. A good
number of interesting men belonged, including Sir Edward Lawson,
Montagu Williams, Irving, Serjeant Ballantyne, Toole, and hosts of
others. Toole used to come to the club and play cards; I remember his
usual expression and comic way of saying, "_Cash here forward_," when
he was winning. He was inimitable, for his stock phrases were so
entirely his own.
There was a regular coterie that played poker there. Alfred Thompson,
Johnnie Giffard, Corney Grain, Tom Bird, Henry Parker, myself, and
others were devoted to the game. One member especially was extremely
lucky. He possessed a thorough knowledge of the game and his
opponents, and he had the most impassive face I have ever seen. No
trace of any expression other than that of calm impersonal enjoyment
ever escaped him. He was never known to get up from the table without
winning, and he made a regular income out of his "coups" at poker; but
as he cared nothing whether he won or lost, he finally ceased to play,
finding he had gained so much from his friends.
The club continued to be quite delightful until a number of the
"crutch and toothpick" element joined to watch the well-known "actor
chaps," as they called them, and with their entrance the club lost all
its charm and pleasant Bohemianism. Irving, among others, became aware
of the observing eye of these inquisitive youths, and discontinued
going to the club; others followed by degrees, and gradually the club
lost its popularity.
The idea of the Lyric Club, of which I was elected an honorary member,
was suggested by a small and defunct Bohemian club of that name. It
was opened on far more ambitious lines, however, having for its
chairman the distinguished sportsman and patron of the drama, Lord
Londesborough, who was well supported by a representative committee.
All went well for some time, and the entertainments, for which a
spacious theatre had been erected, were splendidly managed by Luther
Munday.
On the opening night there was a reception that went with a flourish
of trumpets, and shortly after Lord Londesborough gave a dinner at
which I sat next to Irving. Irving naturally gave life to the affair,
and I can remember a cigar that he gave me--I think the largest and
best I ever smoked.
These occasions were followed up by regular receptions when theatrical
performances frequently attracted the members. "The divine Sarah,"
Marie Tempest, Hollmann, and such geniuses brought large audiences,
and frequently these evenings were varied with the Guards' Band.
Everything was done, in fact, to make the club a success.
Now there was another idea, which, I conclude, emanated from the more
sporting members of the committee. It was, to take a branch club at
Barnes, where there was a handsome and suitable house and grounds well
adapted for the purpose. The place at last decided upon was not only
well adapted for cricket, lawn tennis, and other out-of-door games,
but, being so near London, was of easy access. The terrace facing the
river was also a capital place from which to see the Oxford and
Cambridge Boat Race, and a steamer from Westminster was hired to take
the members down. Naturally, perhaps, the most crowded meeting held
there was on the occasion of a final in the Army and Navy football
match, when many distinguished visitors were present.
As with the Orleans Club, Twickenham, this club was but a flash in the
pan. There came a day when it could no longer be kept up, and so it
was with that in Coventry Street (or Piccadilly East, as it was
called). Both branches of the Lyric Club, in fact, came suddenly to
grief, owing to a great misfortune which it is better not to recall.
First of all held on Sunday nights at the Grosvenor Galleries, the
Gallery Club was quite a place to belong to, and for some time was
decidedly select in its members. It was also at the time quite a
novelty, the best of music being heard and the best of musicians
giving their services. The same may be said of the entertainers, and
their entertainments. Smoke and talk prevailed during the intervals,
and so the evenings passed off cheerily.
When these Galleries of the "Greenery Yallery" period closed their
doors, we removed to the rooms of the Institute of Painters in Water
Colours where the receptions were held. I forgot here to mention that
occasional Sunday nights were graced by the presence of lady guests.
Paderewski played on one of these occasions to a crowded and very
appreciative audience.
Later on we found our home at the Grafton Galleries, in which suppers
were also given, and many a pleasant Sunday evening was spent there.
Like every club of the kind, however, it had its day. Perhaps it may
have been the difficulty of finding variety among the entertainers or
a want of funds to procure the best; but, whatever the reason, there
was obviously a falling off of the original members, and the Gallery
Club came to an end. Even so, it had been responsible for many
evenings that are well worth remembering.
I shall never forget one night at the Grosvenor Gallery when Corney
Grain and George Grossmith sat down at the piano together and sang and
played the fool. They were then at their very best, and I think that
was the night that Weedon and his brother gave their humorous skit on
the extraction of teeth. The title I cannot recall; but the
performance was so clever that the title doesn't matter.
In later days I joined the Punch Bowl Club, which was organized by a
very good fellow named Mr. Percy Wood. He was a man of education and a
thorough Bohemian: he had received a partial, but very incomplete,
training as a sculptor; but he disliked work, and in the summer time
led an idler's life. He would dress himself in old clothes, and go
round the country hawking, like a common pedlar. He seemed to consider
life under such conditions perfection; and yet he was always a
gentleman (if one may use the much misused term), and everybody
liked him. He was at one time engaged on a statue of the Prince of
Wales, who arranged to call at Mr. Wood's studio. Whether his Royal
Highness expected a distinguished company to meet him, or whether Mr.
Wood intended to receive his Royal Highness in such a way, I am unable
to say, but the Prince arrived to find a "gentleman in possession" at
the studio, and Mr. Wood's visitors' book that day must have shown
quite unprecedented signatures.
[Illustration: C. BIRCH CRISP.
_Published in "Mayfair."_
1911.]
[Illustration: OLIVER LOCKER LAMPSON, M.P.
_Published in "Mayfair."_
1911.]
[Illustration: WEEDON GROSSMITH.
1905.]
Our friend started the Punch Bowl Club (he had always been inspired
with the great idea of a real Bohemian Club) in Regent Street, and one
met a variety of good fellows and plenty of clever entertainers. One
of the foremost members was Mostyn Piggott, who was quite a leading
light. Raven Hill was very popular also. Our club room was situated on
the uppermost storey of a house of which the foundation must have been
rather "dicky," for one evening it descended into another, and when we
arrived, we found our room wrecked beyond recall. After this
avalanche, he started new premises over a motor establishment leading
out of Oxford Street. Here we had very spacious and very originally
decorated rooms, which were hung with a great number of Indian
trophies, for Wood was an Indian chief, and rejoiced in the title of
_Rah--Rih--Wah--Casda of the Six Nations Indians_--an honour bestowed,
I believe, only on two or three other Europeans, the Prince of Wales
(King Edward VII.) and the Duke of Connaught being the foremost
chiefs.
Sometimes he appeared dressed in his war paint, as an Indian chief, at
the large meetings which he delighted in organizing, when he brewed
the punch, while other members, dressed in the character, gave their
services as cook and waiters.
The club was run on somewhat similar lines to the Savage Club, and we
addressed each other as "Brother So-and-So."
These dinners were very successful until Wood's health gave way, for
they ended at a very late hour, and he never went home, preferring to
sit up all night. After his death the club's popularity waned; the
organizing personality that had previously supported it being absent,
amusements fell through, but before the end we had some very pleasant
evenings entertaining distinguished guests.
I was once persuaded to take the chair on the occasion of the visit of
the Lord Chief Justice, and when, with every good intention, I rose to
propose the usual toasts, to thank the Lord Chief Justice for his
presence that evening, and to extol his good qualities, I almost
forgot whether he was Lord Chief Justice or the Archbishop of
Canterbury. However, I managed to struggle through, and with admirable
promptitude the guest of the evening replied with real humour and
relieved me of some part of my duty. At the end of the evening, Percy
Wood came up to me and thanked me for so ably taking the chair, and
when I apologized for what I considered my inability adequately to
fill the post, he congratulated me, whereupon an artist who was
standing by, said, "What! That a good speech! It was awful rot!"
It was a singular coincidence that on this and the following occasions
when our guest was the Bishop of London, both men were total
abstainers, while we indulged in our toasts from the punch bowl. I
made a silhouette beforehand of the Bishop leaning forward as though
to make a speech, which appeared on the menu.
[Illustration: W. S. GILBERT AND MSLLE. ROSA.]
[Illustration: TOM KNOX HOLMES.]
[Illustration: _Played first at the Gaiety Theatre where the profits,
£600, were handed over by the Amateur Company to the Central
Theatrical Fund._]
[Illustration: CAPTAIN GOOCH. QUENTIN TWISS. ELEANOR BUFTON. LYDIA
THOMPSON.]
[Illustration: MYSELF. A. STUART WORTLEY. J. MACLEAN.]
Of the many well-known clubs I remember, I went to the Anglo-American
Club, where I was invited to meet Oliver Wendell Holmes. At the time I
was particularly requested to make a drawing of him for _Vanity Fair_.
I was introduced to him, amongst others, and was particularly
impressed by his kindly features; the first peculiarity my eye lit
upon was the prominent eyebrows. Crowds of listening people surrounded
him while he talked, and the opportunity of watching my subject
unnoticed at such close quarters, was a splendid one, and from my
observations I made one of the best caricatures that I have ever done
from memory.
When I look back it gives me great pleasure to think of the jolly days
and nights when, in March, 1878, many old friends met together for the
purpose of rehearsing for the unique _Amateur Pantomime_ given at the
Gaiety Theatre and afterwards at Brighton. Edward Terry, Kate Vaughan,
Nellie Farren, Amalia and Royce were then in their zenith, and John
Hollingshead was manager of the Gaiety; and it was after this
performance that we gathered for the night rehearsal.
The idea was originated by Archibald Stuart Wortley and William
Yardley, and nothing could exceed their energy in promoting it. I
won't say that such a thing had never been thought of before; as a
similar entertainment by amateurs had taken place many years
previously, in which Mr. Tom Knox Holmes had played the same part of
pantaloon. I believe, however, that that performance was not carried
out on the same scale.
Looking down the list of our theatrical company, I am reminded sadly
of the few members of it that remain, although, of the four authors
who contributed to its success, it is gratifying to know that Sir
Francis Burnand is hale and hearty.
It is interesting to recollect how conscientiously W. S. Gilbert
learnt his steps as the harlequin, how marvellously old Knox Holmes
(who was well over seventy) played the pantaloon, and what a perfect
clown Yardley made. "Odger" Colvile (afterwards the unfortunate
General Sir Henry Colvile) was marvellous in his leaps and bounds. All
this was the result of real hard work, and these men in the
harlequinade gave the whole of their mind to it as though it were a
matter of life and death. I mustn't forget either in this act that
Fred McCalmont, Lord de Clifford, and Algy Bastard equally
distinguished themselves.
Perhaps it is because the harlequinade required more rehearsing than
the pantomime burlesque itself (written by Reece, F. C. Burnand, H. J.
Byron, and W. S. Gilbert) that I mention it first; but, of course,
Captain Gooch, Quintin Twiss, Archie Stuart Wortley, I. Maclean, and
those who took prominent parts, were as good in their different ways;
in fact, some of them were already distinguished amateur actors. The
dancing of Ashby Sterry and Johnny Giffard I shall never forget: it
was too funny to be described.
I delighted in the various characters selected for me to play, and
when, as the "lightning artist," I drew Dizzy and Gladstone, I was
overwhelmed with applause and boos that resounded in every part of the
house from partisans of the two political leaders. So successful; in
fact, was this item of the programme, that I received on the following
day a genuine offer from a well-known manageress to take a similar
part professionally at her theatre (a fact that amused me greatly).
POKER PLAYERS AT THE FIELDING CLUB.
[Illustration: _A bluff._ "JOHNNY" GIFFARD.]
[Illustration: ALFRED THOMPSON.]
[Illustration: 3 a.m. "This game bores me." CORNEY GRAIN.]
[Illustration: "TOM" BIRD. _A bird with a "full" hand is worth two
with a flush._]
[Illustration: CORNEY GRAIN AT DATCHET.]
[Illustration: PELLEGRINI. "Can't play billiard to-night, my boy, I
'av lumbago. What you recommend to make the ''air grow?'"]
Much of my time was occupied before the curtain was raised in "making
up" some of the "Forty Thieves" as prominent people of the day. For
instance, Frank Parker's features adapted themselves to Gladstone's in
a strikingly useful manner, and in consequence the "make up" was at
once recognizable. "Willie" Higgins was Benson the convict, and so on.
At the end of the rehearsals many of us, being members of the
Beefsteak Club, adjourned there, and it was not until the early
morning that our party sought our respective beds. When I come to
think of it, the majority of us were fairly young in those days, so we
were all well able to stand the strain.
At one dress rehearsal, a scene representing a soldiers' encampment,
where we were seated at mess, and a group of us dressed as officers
ate a sham meal, I remember our enthusiasm was added to by the
hospitality of an officer in the company who produced real champagne.
Whether the effect lasted until another scene I could never quite
remember, but "Odger" Colvile (our young Guardsman, who was very fond
of theatricals, and had, I believe, a private theatre at his father's
place) displayed wonderful agility in the harlequinade, where, as the
policeman, he attacked the proverbial dummy, which at the rehearsal,
owing to an oversight, was missing. Looking round in all the
excitement of his enthusiasm in the part, he grew exasperated by the
delay.
"Where the devil is the dummy?" he cried, and looking round
desperately, his eye caught mine; without any warning he was on me,
caught me up, and for the next few minutes I saw every imaginable star
out of the heavens, he belabouring me with all the ardour which he
would have bestowed upon the dummy. He at last let me go, while roars
of laughter went up from the others--I would have laughed if I had
been able, but I never had such a time in my life, and was obliged to
reserve my laughter until I could get my breath, when I laughed as
heartily as the others.
The occasion of the Brighton performance was not the less amusing to
us, as after it was all over the company met together at supper at the
"Old Ship," which included several ladies from the Alhambra ballet,
who came down to add to the stage effect.
The following morning (Sunday) "Hughie" Drummond, one of the "Forty
Thieves" and a champion practical joker, got on to the balcony of the
Queen's Hotel, from which he was able to reach the hands of the clock
and deliberately altered the time from five minutes to eleven to a
quarter past. This, of course scared the people going to church, and
resulted in a general stampede.
While sitting next to Lord Houghton at dinner one evening at the
Beefsteak Club, I watched him make a lengthy scrutiny of the menu,
which made me anticipate a wonderful selection to come. He ordered a
herring! When the fish came, he regarded it stealthily for some time
and then suddenly picking it up by the tail shook it violently
(ostensibly to remove the flesh) and while I carefully picked off the
bits of herring that covered me, the absent-minded poet ate the
fragments that had accidentally lodged upon his plate.
He used to take out his teeth at meal times, and, growing accustomed
to remove them, he became occasionally rather mixed in his discretion
as to their removal. One day, on meeting a lady of his acquaintance,
instead of taking off his hat, as he intended to do, he plucked out
his teeth and waved them enthusiastically.
I remember the eccentric lord coming into the club one evening looking
tired and hungry. Over the mantelpiece a white paper gleamed. It was a
list of the Derby Lottery. Something stirred in his mind which was far
away on other subjects bent, and reminded him that he was hungry. He
scanned the Lottery list, anxiously rubbing his head as though he were
apparently shampooing it. At last he was heard to murmur in
dissatisfied tones, "Waiter, I don't see anything to eat there."
One couldn't help laughing at his funny ways, but he was a
distinguished man after all and very kind.
CHAPTER IX
THE LAW
The Inspiration of the Courts.--Montagu Williams.--Lefroy.--
The De Goncourt case.--Irving.--Sir Frank Lockwood.--Dr.
Lampson, the poisoner.--Mr. Justice Hawkins.--The Tichborne
case.--Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush.--The Druce
case.--The Countess of Ossington.--The Duke's portrait.--
My models.--The Adventuress.--The insolent omnibus conductor.
--I win my case.--Sir George Lewis.--The late Lord Grimthorpe.
--Sir Charles Hall.--Lord Halsbury.--Sir Alfred Cripps (now
Lord Parmoor).--Sir Herbert Cozens-Hardy.--Lord Robert Cecil.
--The late Sir Albert de Rutzen.--Mr. Charles Gill.--Sir
Charles Matthews.--Lord Alverstone.--Mr. Birrell.--Mr. Plowden.
--Mr. Marshall Hall.--Mr. H. C. Biron.
"The reason of the Law is ... the law."--_Sir Walter Scott._
The Law Courts held more possibilities for me than most "hunting
grounds," because I invariably found my subject without the difficulty
of "stalking" him, and with the advantage of wig and gown to add to
the individuality and relieve the conventionality of his
unprofessional habiliments. Another advantage lay in the fact that
when a barrister or a judge was conducting a case or presiding on the
bench, a host of peculiarities and idiosyncrasies became evident, and
I had the satisfaction of observing all unnoticed. In some cases the
very fact of being "on the spot" refreshed my memory, for on one
occasion I forgot the features of a certain judge, and felt I must
have another glimpse to recall them before I could revive my
inspiration. Oddly enough, I recollected him perfectly the moment I
set my foot upon the steps of the Law Courts, and, returning to my
studio, I completed the drawing.
I found my friend Montague Williams (who perhaps defended more
prisoners than any counsel of his day) an inestimable help when I
wished to find an especial opportunity of watching any well-known
criminal or legal character. Besides being a busy lawyer, he had a
considerable personal knowledge of the men with whom, during the
discharge of his duties, he had come in contact, and whom he regarded
with more sympathy and kindness as to their possible reclamation than
many men in his profession. He always found it necessary to believe
fully in the innocence of the persons he was defending; and as he was
naturally very excitable, he would work himself up to fever pitch,
bringing tears to his own eyes as he described with pathos and
righteous indignation the overwhelming injustice of the case against
his client. His enthusiasm usually impressed the jury immensely. I
recollect his saying once in an access of sentimental appeal: "Think,
gentlemen--think of his poor mother!"
The Lefroy case was a curious and very unpleasant affair; probably my
readers still remember the strange story of robbery and crime in a
railway carriage, and the long and continually iterated innocence of
the accused man whom my friend was defending. I went down (as I was
curious to see the prisoner) to the Law Courts with Montague Williams
one day. Lefroy's physiognomy was in itself almost enough to condemn
him in my eyes--for his bad mouth, weak face, and chin that seemed to
have altogether retreated, with the abnormal head with a very large
back to it, all gave me an impression of latent criminalism. As I
returned with my legal friend in the cab I ventured to say as much to
him.
"Good Lord, man," he said. "Look at yourself in the glass ... if
appearances went for anything you'd have been hanged long ago."
I had neglected to shave that morning, it is true; but in spite of my
omission I felt a trifle overwhelmed by my friend's verdict, much as
it amused me.
At the De Goncourt trial (one of my early recollections) I sat next to
Irving. I was busily engaged in making a sketch of Benson, who had
been brought into the witness box with his latest decoration of broad
arrows, and I remember that Irving congratulated me upon my drawing.
On another occasion I watched Frank Lockwood (as he was then)
listening to a case as one of the general public, pencil in hand,
ready to portray anything that struck him. The case before the court
concerned an accident to a pedestrian (a Scotchman) who was summoning
a carter or the company he represented, for damages. The carter
accused the plaintiff of drunkenness on the occasion of the accident,
when he alleged that the man was so drunk that he reeled up against
the wheel of his cart. I was amused to see Mr. Lockwood make a quick
sketch of a drunken highlander attired in a kilt reeling against a
cart wheel, with a glimpse of the Strand in the background, and send
it up to the judge.
In the case of Dr. Lampson, the poisoner, I passed notes to the
prisoner who mistook me for Montague Williams' clerk. Williams had
defended the man on a previous occasion, but this time the charge was
a grave one, for the accused was said to have visited a young relative
(who stood between him and a sum of money), and given him poisoned
cake which set up such violent symptoms that suspicion rested upon the
doctor. The death of the boy, following shortly after, led to the
arrest of Dr. Lampson, who was tried and found guilty.
One of the earliest cases I attended attracted great attention at the
time, owing to the sensational evidence which embroiled Lord Ranelagh
in a plot with a Mrs. Borradaile. This was due to the clever and
unscrupulous plans of a Madame Rachel Leverson, who successfully
obtained money in this way, and who was finally convicted of
misdemeanour and obtaining money by false pretences. The case made a
considerable furore, because during cross-examination the accused
appeared to divulge the fact that the aforesaid lord had bribed her to
let him look through the keyhole while her client underwent the
process of being made beautiful. The whole affair turned out to be a
fabrication.
One of my earliest caricatures for _Vanity Fair_ was that of Mr.
Justice Hawkins drawn from memory in 1873. He had the reputation then
of being the most good-humoured in the Law Courts and the possessor of
the hoarsest voice of any judge. He once said it was worth £500 a year
to him. The last time I saw Lord Brampton (for he became eventually a
law Lord) was after the opening of a Parliament, when the peers and
peeresses were waiting for their carriages, and there was a tremendous
downpour of rain. Standing with his peer's robes wound round and round
his body, the famous judge made a most grotesque figure, in tight
little trousers with his silk hat slightly on one side, an eyeglass in
his eye, and a big umbrella over all. He resembled a resplendent
hawk.
The Tichborne case gave Hawkins a chance to excel himself, and he
proved to be on the winning side. I sketched most of the principal
movers in this game of law, which was played round "the claimant,"
whom I recollect quite plainly as he sat at his table, which had a
half circle cut into it for his unduly large stomach to fit in. Of his
illiteracy (if poor spelling goes to prove it) I have a personal proof
in a letter which ends,
"_beleive_ me,
"Yours truly,
"A. C. TICHBORNE."
I once sat in the court, watching him, with pencil in hand ready to
jot down upon my shirt cuff anything I especially noticed, when he
caught my eye, called the usher, and spoke a few words to him. It was
duly intimated that my presence was "extremely disturbing to the
claimant."
The claimant's counsel, Dr. Edward Kenealy, Q.C. (and the one man on
record who was supposed to have ruffled Hawkins's temper), was said to
have believed in the claimant to the day of his death. Dr. Kenealy
made his name in the Tichborne trial. He was, besides being a lawyer,
a writer and poet (and an admirer of Disraeli) before the stupendous
case arose to give him a field for his powers. I remember him as a
little man with a wig that contrasted strangely with a sweep of beard
and a firmly set mouth. When he rose to speak he placed one hand under
his gown as though it might have been coat tails and used his right to
point emphasis at his opponent.
Some years afterwards, when I was walking near Brighton, I was very
much interested to see his tomb in a churchyard there, or rather a
very elaborate monument that had been placed there by the late
Guilford Onslow.
[Illustration: AUGUSTUS HELDER, M.P. (_A Proprietor of the
"Graphic"._)
1896.]
[Illustration: MADAME RACHEL. (_Made ladies beautiful forever. She
loses her case and is imprisoned?_)
1865.]
[Illustration: LORD RANELAGH. _Witness against Madame Rachel._]
[Illustration: BEAL, M.P. _Radical_
1869.]
[Illustration: FIRST LORD COWLEY.]
[Illustration: BARNUM. 1888. _Sketched at Victoria Hotel._]
[Illustration: SIR H. COZENS HARDY _on board a cross-channel steamer._
1900.]
[Illustration: THE VERY REV. THE DEAN OF CHRISTCHURCH, FRANCIS PAGET.
1894.]
[Illustration: SIR RODERICK MURCHESON _coming from a levee._
1868.]
Mr. Justice Mellor and Mr. Justice Lush, both Judges in the Tichborne
case, came under my pencil at the same period.
Justice Lush wore the oddest round wig with the suspicion of a dent on
the top. He always reminded me of a champagne bottle, with this
queerly shaped wig like a cork on his head, and his shoulders sloping
down like a bottle. As a judge Mr. Lush attempted humour. _Vanity
Fair_ labelled him "a little Lush," because when he was told that the
toast had been changed from "Women and Wine" to "Lush and Shea," he
said, "A spell of sobriety will do the Bar no harm, and a little Lush
may do the Bench some good."
Sir John Mellor was noted for his unwearied patience and extreme
impartiality on the Bench. When I caught him, he sat sucking his
little finger and listening carefully to the counsel for the claimant
stating his case as he watched the Court from under his heavy-lidded
eyes, over which his eyebrows slanted with sudden fine lines to his
big nose, while his humorous mouth seemed ready for a wry smile.
A trial with which I was indirectly associated, and which aroused at
the time a furore only to be equalled by the sensation created by the
Tichborne case, was the Druce-Portland case. For the benefit of those
readers who have forgotten the facts, I will give a slight outline of
the extraordinary story.
The fifth Duke of Portland was a very eccentric old gentleman. He had
several peculiarities that rendered the mystery surrounding him even
more involved, and his odd habits gave rise to the most extraordinary
rumours.
The reluctance to show his face or to hear other people was sometimes
alleged to have been the result of a fatal quarrel with a brother, and
it was said that the Duke, after the affair, retired more completely
from public life. He became more eccentric than ever; his servants
were taught to play the piano to him. He resented any recognition by
his servants and employees, and was accustomed to travel in a special
carriage built for himself hung round with heavy curtains, in which he
would travel to the station. The coachman had orders to come and go
without scrutiny or inquiry, and frequently he was quite in the dark
as to whether he conveyed his master or not. At the station the
carriage was placed upon a special truck, and so the Duke travelled to
town.
His hobby was building. Five hundred workmen were employed to build
and excavate museums, libraries, and a ball-room under the lake, and
all the plans and models were prepared by himself.
It is said that after making a fine collection of paintings, the
Duke's further peculiarity led him to destroy in a huge bonfire
several thousand pounds worth of them.
In his personal appearance he was remarkable for an excessively high
hat, a strange ulster and trousers that were invariably tied round the
ankles with string. He habitually wore a very old-fashioned wig, and
never stirred out, wet or fine, without a great umbrella.
In 1880, the Duke, whose habits had grown more and more unaccountable,
died, and immediately afterwards, his sister, the Countess of
Ossington, commissioned me to paint a life-sized portrait of him, and
shortly afterwards Mr. Boehm was asked to model the bust. I therefore
lost no time in having a cast of the head taken; a beautiful thing it
was, showing how refined the features must have been in life.
Lady Ossington then gave her ideas of how she wished the portrait
composed, and suggested that the Duke should be seated in his study
with plans of buildings or of gardens that he might be designing,
introduced as likely accessories, and, of all things, a sunset
appearing in the background of which he would never tire. A
considerable correspondence ensued between Lady Ossington and myself
and her written descriptions helped me considerably.
"Viscountess Ossington presents her compliments to Mr. Leslie Ward,"
one of the letters ran, "and sends him an Inverness tweed cloak that
used to be thrown lightly on when looking at plans before going
out...."
When all this was fully described, the valet paid me a visit and
brought with him his late master's clothes, his hat, stick, and wig as
well as the cape which was of characteristic cut, at the same time
informing me that the frock coat was always rather loosely made.
My great difficulty was to procure a suitable model to sit for the
clothes. At last I got the address of one, an old man from Drury Lane,
who, I learnt, had been a super. He called upon me in answer to my
letter, and I instructed him to come to my studio, showing him the
clothes he would have to wear. As it so happened, he came long before
his time, and was shown into the studio. He had evidently dressed
himself up ready for me, but very carelessly, in the late Duke's
early Victorian frock coat suit. When I arrived, there was this
elderly gentleman seated on the throne with his own clothes on the
floor. On approaching him I found him to be fast asleep and snoring.
Being naturally disgusted and annoyed I ordered him quickly to change
and be off. He wore a silly smile and with the Duke's wig on all awry
he fumbled away at his coat tails. He was trying to explain to me that
his change in coppers were in the coat. He could not have been sober
on his arrival, but when giving me to understand that he had only been
round (in this costume) to have a glass "at the pub," I confess it
inwardly amused me.
I was now obliged to procure the services of another model, and this
time a _real gentleman_ turned up. He was also elderly, and not
prepossessing in appearance, but nevertheless bore the traces of
better breeding than the Drury Lane super. He had a ponderous and
high-bridged nose of a purple hue which contrasted with his saffron
face, and his eyes were tearful with evident sorrows of the past.
When he had changed his rusty suit and knee-bagged etceteras for a
spruce frock coat and equally dapper trousers, he sat in the
gold-backed chair with the air of a duke while I prepared my palette.
As I commenced to paint, he began to talk and to relate his
experiences in the past. He had, according to his story, started life
as an officer in a cavalry regiment, and the love of gambling became
so irresistible that he lost fortunes. Now, he said, he was determined
to make amends for his folly in the past, and by the aid of his
sympathisers he knew he could redeem that social position which he
formerly held. That he must have decent clothes to start with, went
without saying, and those who heard his story, he was convinced, would
help him to procure them--of that he was sure. Had I any to spare? (Of
course I saw what he was leading up to), and so the talk went on in
this maudlin way till he had to be pulled up, and I had to remind him
what he was in my studio for.
Possibly there was some foundation for his story, for that he had
received a decent education there was little doubt.
Some time after he finished these sittings, he turned up again with a
young woman whom he introduced to me as his wife. She was anxious to
become a model too, but I fear by this time he was in little request.
It occurred to me that he must have related to her some very plausible
stories before they could have entered into matrimony.
Then, one morning, upon taking up the paper, I read a thrilling story
of how an artist's model had so cruelly treated his wife that she died
in consequence. It was a charge of manslaughter. This was the very
man, but although in his drunken moments he had behaved as a
brute-beast, evidence went to show that when sober no one could have
treated her with more consideration and affection, so he got off with
imprisonment, but died in gaol (it was said of remorse) shortly
afterwards.
Before quite completing the face, and as I had been told of the
extraordinary likeness that existed between the Duke and his sister,
it occurred to me that a few touches from Lady Ossington herself would
enable me to improve the portrait. I therefore, with some difficulty,
persuaded her to give me a sitting which really proved useful. Anyhow,
I received the kindest letter from her expressing her thanks for the
satisfactory way in which I had completed my work, and this naturally
pleased me, for it was no easy task.
Very shortly after, she wrote again, saying that although it was her
intention to leave the portrait to the present Duke to be permanently
hung in the Gallery at Welbeck, it had been arranged that it should be
temporarily lent for the approaching visit of the Prince of Wales. In
consequence of her anxiety for its safe delivery, I undertook to take
it down myself, and Lady Bolsover, who was there at the time, invited
me to stay the day. I was fortunate in finding among her guests a lady
whom I knew, who kindly showed me over the place, and thereby
satisfied my curiosity, especially when we came to the underground
passages of which I had heard so much. I must say that after Mr. Henry
Savile (his neighbour at Rufford) had related stories to me about the
Duke, the mystery existing in my mind was somewhat dispelled
concerning him. No doubt he was eccentric, but so much must have been
human in him that his interesting personality predominated. Although
he took little nourishment he seemed to have worked hard both
physically and mentally, and to have possessed tastes of a high order.
Mr. Savile would often see him with his trousers tied with tape, much
like the workmen on his estate, not only directing them in their work,
but like one of themselves using the spade, although they were
forbidden to recognize him by either touching or raising their caps.
Ages after the picture had passed out of my mind, I happened to be
dining with friends, when I was introduced to an American lawyer. He
was full of stories, as might be expected, and he told us one (of an
extravagant order) which he said would lead to a very big case in the
Courts of Law in which he himself would appear. The story was too
impossible to believe; in fact, I was rude enough to tell him so.
When the case came into Court I was astonished (as were many others)
to read the (to me) incredible story of the claim of a Mrs. Druce, who
announced that the late Thomas Charles Druce, an upholsterer of Baker
Street, had been none other than the late Duke. T. C. Druce was
reported to have died at Holcombe House, and it was alleged that he
had never been buried at Highgate Cemetery; also, according to report,
the servants at Holcombe House had stripped lead off the roof to
weight the coffin, to indicate that there was a body inside.
Other evidence was produced to show that Druce was alive several years
after his reported death; curious coincidences pointing to a
similarity of habits between Druce and the late Duke were sworn to by
many witnesses.
The employees at Druce's Baker Street Bazaar said that Druce would
never appear when an aristocratic or Royal patron asked for him, and
also that, like the Duke, he disappeared for considerable periods, and
was known to enter his office from an underground passage leading from
Harcourt House. Other significant peculiarities were mentioned--such
as Druce's habit of tying his trousers with string round the ankle,
the high hat and the old-fashioned wig; and photographs of the Duke
and Druce were published in the papers. But I became extremely
interested in the case when a point arose as to the date of the Duke's
alleged marriage with a Miss Crickmer; it was stated to have occurred
in the year 1816 (at this date he was only sixteen and a half years
old), and this question was met with a reproduction of my full-length
portrait of the Duke, which was stated beyond doubt to have been
painted during the period of the Duke's residence at Bury, when he was
Lord Tichfield. I regretted that I was not in Court and able to
contradict this extraordinary statement; but I felt assured that the
Druce claim would prove to be without foundation, and was not
surprised to hear eventually that the case had been quashed by the
opening of the Druce vault, where the presence of the body put an end
to the allegations of the Druce family.
An extraordinary incident which happened with alarming suddenness, and
which nearly brought me into unpleasant contact with the law, occurred
one night when I was coming home from my club. I usually preferred to
walk, for the exercise was beneficial to me after a hard day's work.
It was not conspicuously late, and I was walking along lost in thought
when a girl whom I knew as one of my models approached me and said
rather breathlessly, "There's a woman and two men following you;
they're dangerous characters, I feel sure--do take a cab--please!"
I was about to expostulate as this interruption was rather in the
nature of a surprise, but before I could speak, she begged me
excitedly to "Take a cab," and as a hansom was passing, hailed it and
began to bundle me in.
"Really," I began, "why all this excitement? What is the matter?"
At that moment a big woman who looked rather like the adventuress in a
Melville melodrama, as far as I could see (she was heavily veiled),
came up and addressed some very insulting remarks to the little model.
"Oh, good heavens!" I said, and got into the cab. The girl jumped in
quickly and called at the same time to the driver to hurry.
"What is all this?" I said in the cab as I saw her looking anxiously
out of the window.
"Let's go another way--she's following us," replied the girl, who
appeared to be shaking with fear.
"Oh," I said, "never mind. Let's drive quickly."
The other cab was following, and I wondered what I was "in for," when
we drew up at my studio--the girl appeared to be so terrified that I
gave her my key and told her to go in while I prepared to settle
matters. As I alighted, I saw two rough-looking men getting off the
back of the other cab. They looked such thorough blackguards that it
occurred to me the girl's fears were not without grounds.
Before I could pay the cabby, the woman alighted and started to abuse
me, while the bullies lurked behind.
Catching sight of a policeman sauntering up the road, I called to him
to rid me of my unpleasant companions, but at his approach the woman
changed her tune to a sort of snivelling self-righteousness, and said
to the constable:--
"This man's my husband, I've just caught him in the very act of going
off with another woman, he has deserted me cruelly."
The man looked from my face to hers in immediate understanding, and
said in conciliatory tones, which betrayed a strong Lancashire accent.
"Why doant ye go 'ome with yer wife?"
"You ass. She's no more my wife than you are," I said hotly--for I was
furious.
"I have the marriage certificate," broke in the woman with a
well-simulated sob.
"Look 'ere," remonstrated the policeman. "Come naow," and he tried to
force me into her cab.
This was too much for me.
"Look here," I said angrily. "We'll end this farce. I'm going to the
police station, and you shall come with me."
So we drove off in our respective cabs, by now the two men had
disappeared. At the police station, the woman still kept up her
foolish acting; after hearing my case, the inspector cross-questioned
her. "What name?" She thoughtlessly gave her own, not knowing mine,
and once again referred theatrically to the marriage certificate.
An expression of dawning remembrance passed over the inspector's face,
and after opening another book, he turned the pages until pausing, he
read quietly for a moment.
"Yes, I have it," he said. "You were imprisoned for violent assault,
fined, and were only released yesterday. You had better go about your
business."
The woman did not appear disturbed or non-plussed when she knew her
identity was exposed, but still dogged my footsteps. After my
experience of the evening, I refused to go home without a police
escort, and all the way my strange adventuress followed us, still
abusive, until at last, on nearing my studio, she disappeared. I found
my door open as the little model had left it when she had evidently
fled in her fear to her home.
I often wonder what object the woman and her two attendant blackguards
had in pursuing me. I am glad to think I escaped with a whole skin
from an incomprehensible adventure.
Another episode which resulted in my actually appearing in the courts,
this time not as a spectator, but as the plaintiff in a case which I
brought against an omnibus company, occurred some time back.
I happened to be returning from Queen Anne's Gate, where I had spent a
busy morning's work upon a portrait, and I was due at my studio to
meet another sitter. Having very little time to spare, I partook of a
hasty cup of coffee and some light refreshment in lieu of lunch, and
hastily jumped on to an omnibus going in the direction of Chelsea.
After a brief interval a lady sitting in front turned round to me as
we were passing Ebury Bridge and said, "Would you kindly ask the
conductor for me if he will give me my change. I've spoken to him
several times and without effect."
"Certainly," I replied, and called to the conductor.
"What do yer want?" he answered tersely, without turning his head.
"I want you to give this lady her change as she is getting down almost
immediately and says she has already asked you for it."
"_You've_ got her change," he replied to my astonishment. "I must have
given it to you by mistake."
Finding that I only had the sum of twopence halfpenny in my pocket, a
penny of which I was holding in readiness for my fare, I was not
deceived by this convenient way of shifting the responsibility of
fivepence on to my shoulders. But as his manners were so insolent to
the lady and to myself, I was determined to ascertain the man's
number. Of course he refused to give it me, and covered the badge with
his coat. My destination was coming nearer every moment, and in spite
of my having such little time to spare, I descended from the top of
the omnibus to the footboard, and the man's insolence increased when
he realized my resolve to proceed a little further until I gained my
point. I was considerably hampered with a parcel containing a
drawing-board in one hand and an umbrella in the other, but I tried to
tug at the strap which held the badge, at which the conductor turned
round suddenly and said:--
"No, you don't," and taking advantage of my having no available hand
to protect myself, pushed me off the omnibus.
I fell heavily on to the kerb, and in consequence hurt my arm
considerably. At the same moment a tradesman who knew me rushed to my
rescue and excitedly said:--
"I'll take your parcel ... you can rely upon me ... you know me, sir
... lose no time ... you catch 'em."
I got on my feet with some difficulty and attempted to pursue the
omnibus, but the conductor was pulling his bell violently and urging
the driver to hurry. Finding it impossible to overtake them, I hailed
a passing hansom and persuaded a policeman, who, for a wonder,
happened to be near, to accompany me. We drove quickly, catching up
the omnibus at its stopping place--Chelsea Town Hall--where we got
down. The policeman, taking the case in hand, produced the usual note
book, and proceeded to take the man's name and number (which had been
the "_casus belli_"). When asked to state the case, the conductor
said in unguarded tones:--
"The man's drunk, and he's got my money!"
I presented my case to the magistrate at the Westminster Police Court
then and there, and shortly afterwards the conductor was summoned to
appear; but the solicitor who represented the Omnibus Company asked
for time to call witnesses, so the case was postponed for a week.
[Illustration: LORD COLERIDGE.
1870.]
[Illustration: MR JUSTICE COZENS HARDY.
1893.]
[Illustration: H. C. BIRON.
1907.]
[Illustration: E. S. FORDHAM.
1908.]
When the second hearing came on, and I had as my counsel, Mr. H. C.
Biron (now the police magistrate),--by the way one of my three
witnesses was the late Sir Evans Gordon,--I was much amused by the
witnesses appearing against me. There was the driver of an omnibus
which had been immediately behind the one I was thrown from, who said
he had a full view of the whole incident. Under cross-examination he
gave his version of the affair.
"That man," pointing to me, "got off the 'bus by 'imself--nobody
touched 'im ... I saw 'im."
"What else did you see?" asked Mr. Curtis Bennett.
"Well ... I saw 'im tumble down."
"How would you describe this gentleman--was he carrying anything, for
instance?"
"No," replied the man, "but 'e 'ad 'arf a cigar."
"Funny that you should have observed half a cigar and not a large
parcel!" remarked Mr. Bennett.
"Can you describe him further?"
"Well, 'e 'ad a coat on and 'e 'ad long 'air."
Mr. Bennett smiled. "The gentleman in question is in court now--you'd
better look at him--I don't think we could accuse him of long
hair--you may stand down."
As I returned home that evening I heard the newsboys shouting
something almost unintelligible, and caught a momentary glimpse of a
poster bearing the words "Victory for----" Having a distinct curiosity
to see who the Derby winner might be, I bought a paper and saw the
poster "Victory for 'Spy,'" "'Spy' and the Conductor," "Result," and
so on, both of which amused me immensely, as I had not imagined for
one moment that the case would be brought into such undue publicity.
For some time after the affair of the omnibus, I was a considerable
sufferer from my arm, and was under a doctor, whose fees I could
probably have demanded in compensation from the company. I did not
wish, however, to pursue the matter further, since I had only brought
the action in the interests of others besides myself. The appeal
failed; and the conductor had to pay £5.
Although I have caricatured a very large number of men at the bar and
on the bench, I have not a proportionate number of personal anecdotes
to tell of my subjects, for as I have stated, they were chiefly the
result of studies from memory. As a result of my observations during
criminal cases I have witnessed, I drew Sir Henry Poland, Montague
Williams, Serjeant Parry (who was a great friend of Dr. Doran's and my
father's), and Sir Douglas Straight (who became an Indian Judge). I
was present not only at the farewell dinner given in his honour on
that occasion, but also at that given him on his retirement from the
editorship of the _Pall Mall Gazette_. In those days his great
intimacy with Montague Williams (whom he frequently opposed in Court)
gave them the nickname of "the Twins." After his return from the East,
Sir Douglas was made editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, a post he held
until a few years ago. He was an able man and a good editor. His
cartoon appeared previous to his becoming a judge.
Sir George Lewis never got over his, which was the outcome of a study
during the Bravo trial; and even when he was nearly eighty he admitted
as much to me.
A strikingly unconventional looking man was the late Lord Grimthorpe,
who came under my observation in '89; he wore a swallow tail coat, and
never carried a stick or an umbrella. He had somewhat the appearance
of a verger, although his was a strong, determined face. He was great
in church matters, and seemed never happier than when putting up the
backs of the Bishops during a debate in the Lords.
Sir James Ingham I studied, like most of my legal subjects, from
memory, but to make variety from the other magistrates, I caught him
in the adjoining yard and produced him in the act of deliberating in a
case of cruelty to a horse.
Sir Thomas Chambers, Recorder of London, was a favourite subject
(among the early cartoons), and one of my funniest caricatures. He was
a delightful kind of gentleman, but owing to a chronic affection of
his eyes, always carried his handkerchief in his hand to wipe away a
tear, looking all the while as though he had lost his best friend.
Sir Charles Hall, who followed Sir Thomas as Recorder of London, was a
great social success, and a favourite in Royal circles. He was as
popular at the Garrick Club as he was in country houses. I met him
first at Glen Tanar while on a visit to Sir William Cunliffe Brooks,
where I shot my first stag. He was an exceptionally fine rifle shot,
and "brought down" many there.
Lord Halsbury, a late Lord Chancellor, was another subject for whom I
have the greatest admiration, and he is one of the very remarkable men
of the day. His eye is as bright and his brain as clear as it ever
was.
Sir Alfred Cripps (now Lord Parmoor), was very amusing to study and to
draw, and my sketches of him fill a book. I believe he is in himself
quite as fascinating a person as his varying expressions in Court led
me to find him.
Sir Herbert Cozens-Hardy, Master of the Rolls, is another
characteristic subject. Three times I have done him in various
capacities for _Vanity Fair_.
Lord Robert Cecil I caught as he walked up and down Whitehall in wig
and gown, during the South African case upon which he was at the time
engaged.
Some of the judges were very tolerant of an artist taking liberties
with their idiosyncrasies. The late Sir Albert de Rutzen, the Bow
Street magistrate, was an exception. He was most strict, and always
had a keen eye for any one whom he suspected of sketching in Court.
During the Crippen trial, a lady who sat next to me, a personal friend
of Sir Albert's, warned me to be very careful not to let him discover
my object in coming to the court or to appear to be watching him for
the purpose of caricaturing him. As I was very intent upon obtaining a
nearer glimpse of him, I sent a letter of introduction to Sir Albert
and asked him if he could give me a few minutes to take a note of his
features. As he was very busy at that time he suggested I might return
another day about lunch time, when he would give me the time I
required. Perhaps he was rather forgetful, for when I arrived at his
rooms at the hour appointed I was told Sir Albert could not possibly
see me. But this disappointment did not deter me from carrying out my
object, and in due time the cartoon appeared in _Vanity Fair_.
[Illustration: CHARLES WILLIAMS-WYNN, M.P.
1879.]
[Illustration: SIR JAMES INGHAM.
1886.]
[Illustration: LORD VIVIAN (HOOK AND EYE).
1876.]
To go through the list, and to mention all the caricatures and
drawings I have made, would take so long that I can only mention a few
of the present-day barristers and legal celebrities, some of whom I
number amongst my friends.
Charles Gill, the famous K.C., whom I have known for years, I drew in
'91. He is Recorder of Chichester, and a brilliant barrister with a
cheerful and wholesome countenance. He now lives the life of a country
squire when he can find time to do so.
Sir Charles Mathews, whom I also number amongst my old friends, is one
of the kindest-hearted men I know, in spite of the fact that he could,
if it was necessary in Court, make the most cutting observations in
the least unpleasant way. He was, by the way, the bosom friend of the
late Lord Chief Justice, Lord Russell of Killowen, and is the Public
Prosecutor.
When I made a drawing of Mr. Birrell, I was much amused by his telling
me that Mrs. Birrell was particularly pleased with the portrait,
because it would be a continual reminder to him to pin his tie down,
which I had depicted in its usual place, somewhere above his collar.
I observed Mr. Plowden (who was not exactly an advocate of Woman
Suffrage) at a dinner held by one of the Women's Societies, where I
sat opposite to him, and was much amused to watch his face as a
speaker alluded to magistrates in a manner that can hardly be termed
polite. As Mr. Plowden was a man of humour, the reference evidently
appealed to him, if one might judge from his expression.
Lord Alverstone I met in a similar way as the guest of the evening at
the Punch Bowl Club, when I had the honour of being in the chair and
the pleasure of hearing the Lord Chief Justice sing the Judge's Song
from "Trial by Jury." It is noteworthy that he was a teetotaller and a
great Churchman. He was always willing to preside or give his
patronage to any occasion when he could aid athleticism in any shape
or form, for he had been a great athlete and runner in his day.
The present Lord Chief Justice, Lord Reading, (Sir Rufus Isaacs) is
one of the most delightful men I have ever met. He is, as everybody
knows, a great worker, and I remember he told me that, after his
strenuous sittings, he went away for three months' holiday every year,
and during that time, nothing, not even the lawyer's brief, could
induce him to remember that he was a K.C., or lure him away from his
well-earned rest. He thoroughly believed that only by this method of
holiday-making was he enabled to work as hard as he did at other
times.
Mr. Marshall Hall (to whom I am related by marriage) is one of the
most versatile of my legal subjects, for besides being a K.C. and a
late member of Parliament, he has the advantage of being a fine shot,
a good golfer, a clever mimic, and a wonderful judge of precious
stones, of old silver and of _objets d'art_ generally--of which he has
a very exceptional collection. As a _raconteur_ he is unsurpassed, and
in consequence most amusing company.
My friend, Mr. H. C. Biron, the magistrate, who is also a lover of art
and a delightful host, is still a bachelor, and lives in a gem of a
house in Montpelier Square, where my drawing of him is placed on the
walls. As the son of an eminent "beak," he was born into the very
atmosphere of the law, and the Starchfield case was perhaps the most
sensational that has as yet come before him.
Nor must I forget to mention the very popular K.C. member for
Cambridge, Mr. P. P. Rawlinson.
[Illustration: SIR ALBERT DE RUTZEN.
1909.]
[Illustration: MR PLOWDEN. _From an unpublished sketch._
1910.]
CHAPTER X
THE CHURCH AND THE VARSITIES--PARSONS OF MANY CREEDS AND DENOMINATIONS
Dean Wellesley.--Dr. James Sewell.--Canon Ainger.--Lord
Torrington.--Dr. Goodford.--Dr. Welldon.--Dr. Walker.--The
Van Beers' Supper.--The Bishop of Lichfield.--Rev. R. J.
Campbell.--Cardinal Vaughan.--Dr. Benson, Archbishop of
Canterbury.--Dr. Armitage Robinson.--Varsity Athletes.--
Etherington-Smith.--John Loraine Baldwin.--Ranjitsinhji.--
Mr. Muttlebury.--Mr. "Rudy" Lehmann.
Parsons of different creeds and denominations have been represented in
_Vanity Fair_ from time to time--Anglicans, Romans, Wesleyans,
Congregationalists and others. My method with a clerical subject is to
go to his church and watch him in the pulpit, but it is not always
easy to catch a Bishop, because he has not, so to speak, a home of his
own. I remember making an excursion to St. Botolph's to study the
Bishop of Kensington, only to find he was not preaching there that day
but at St. George's, Camden Hill. Back west I went and after the
sermon I waited outside the vestry door. Presently the Bishop came
out, bag in hand, and walked down the hill. I hastened on ahead with
the intention of doubling back and securing a good near view, but he
turned into the Tube Station. I followed and secured a seat opposite
him, and made the mental notes which resulted in the cartoon which was
published very shortly afterwards in _Vanity Fair_.
Now and again I have been put to considerable trouble in stalking my
man. I remember particularly well the peculiar circumstances under
which I studied Dean Wellesley of Windsor, who was rather an eccentric
looking old gentleman. I was staying at Windsor, in the Winchester
Tower, with some friends who were officially connected with the
Castle, and I learned that my best chance of seeing the Dean would be
in the early morning when he was in the habit of taking a
constitutional around the Round Tower about 7.30 a.m. I welcomed the
opportunity, rose early and went out. The Dean was already on the
scene pacing to and fro in the snow, supporting himself by an umbrella
in one hand and a walking-stick in the other. I did not follow him in
an obtrusive manner, but after pacing round two or three times, I must
have attracted his attention, for I feel sure he had never seen any
other individual taking such an odd constitutional at that hour. But
of course he could not suspect my object. As he walked, I looked at
him carefully, and especially observed his hat which, I had been
informed, would be turned down according to the direction of the wind.
On this occasion, it was turned up in front, although I am sure that
in walking round the Tower he must have been kept busy on such a cold
and windy morning. In due time the caricature (which I always regard
as one of my best) was published. Through the medium of my father, who
was a very old friend of the Dean, I heard that he was very annoyed at
the caricature.
Some time after, I was walking with my father in the High Street at
Windsor when we met _the Dean_!
"Let me introduce my son," said my father. "He is the culprit and is
responsible for your caricature in _Vanity Fair_."
"Oh indeed," said the Dean. "I'm very pleased to make his
acquaintance--I shouldn't have been, had any one recognized the
caricature as myself!"
An amusing sequel occurred a few days later when my mother met Mrs.
Wellesley, who told her that, thanks to the cartoon, the Dean had at
last discarded the awful hat she had been vainly trying to get rid of
for a quarter of a century.
I had another early morning experience in pursuit of Dr. James Sewell
(Warden of New College, Oxford). I followed him into the college
chapel and sat near his stall, but I felt I had not sufficiently
impressed his features upon my memory to make a perfectly satisfactory
caricature, so I inquired into his customs in hope of finding him
again. I discovered that he also was in the habit of taking an early
morning walk, and at 8.30 the next day I awaited him at a suitable
distance from his door. After getting tired of waiting what seemed a
very long time, I knocked at his door and asked the servant if Dr.
Sewell was in.
"No," he replied; "the Doctor started a _long_ time ago, but he went
out by the other door this morning."
I felt rather sold, but determined to keep my vigil at an earlier hour
the next morning. Accordingly I watched again, and this time saw him
come out in all the glory of his beautiful white collar and cravat
(which had earned him the nickname of "The Shirt"), and a red
handkerchief, as usual, hanging from the pocket of his coat tail. I
"stalked" him discreetly, and with success. After a final glimpse of
him, walking down one of the paths of the gardens of Oxford, I hurried
home to make a note of my observations.
During my frequent visits there, I usually stayed at "The Mitre," for
I liked the old place. The staircase was crooked with age and the
bedroom floors extremely uneven. On the occasion of one of my sojourns
in that charming town, I recollected with considerable pleasure a
standing invitation from Sir John Stainer, who had invited me, in the
event of my coming to Oxford, to dine with him and taste some
exceptionally fine old port that had been bequeathed him. I dined with
Sir John and tasted the port, and enjoyed a very pleasant evening.
Returning to "The Mitre" I went into the coffee-room before retiring,
and as I was feeling very fit and in excellent spirits, I entered into
conversation with other occupants of the room, one of whom dared me to
place a very ripe cheese that was standing on the table in the crown
of somebody's silk hat. Being under the impression that it was the hat
of my quondam acquaintance, I promptly plunged the cheese into it.
After some joking repartee, I retired to bed but could not help
noticing how much more crooked the staircase seemed than usual and how
the ceiling appeared to be falling. In my bedroom the floor was like
the waves of the sea, and I experienced considerable difficulty in
reaching land, but after the utmost perseverance I arrived at the bed,
where, holding on to the post to ensure my safety, I fell into a
perfect sleep. Imagine my surprise when the next morning I found
myself lying on the floor fully dressed, with one arm firmly
encircling the bed-post. Pulling myself together I realized that it
was eleven o'clock, and that I felt in excellent form and ready to
face anything the day might bring, since the effects of the old port
had worn off. At breakfast the excellence of my appetite was somewhat
marred by a paper with which the waiter presented me, which, on
opening, I found to be a bill from Foster's for a new silk hat. My
acquaintance of the night before had disappeared, and a total stranger
to me proved to be the owner of the damaged hat.
The same day I had the good fortune to meet one of my favourite
subjects, namely, Canon Ainger, at Dr. Warren's (the President of
Magdalen), where I was invited to lunch. I had depicted the famous
preacher in the pulpit after paying many visits to the Temple Church,
where I had divided my attention between his fine sermons and his
interesting personality. He quite entered into the spirit of my
caricature and congratulated me upon it.
About the period when a number of distinguished professors and
schoolmasters had appeared in _Vanity Fair_, I happened to be on a
visit to my people at Windsor, when I met Lord Torrington (a very
courtly old gentleman of the old school), who was calling on them.
Formerly he had been Lord of the Bedchamber to William IV. and
Governor of Ceylon, also a Lord in Waiting to the Queen, and had been
selected to escort the Prince Consort to England.
In the course of conversation my caricatures were referred to, and
Lord Torrington remarked to me, in fun, "You've had such a lot of
schoolmasters and professors in your paper. I do not think they're
particularly interesting. How should I do for a change?"
[Illustration: 1892. CANON AINGER (MASTER OF THE TEMPLE).]
[Illustration: 16TH MARQUIS OF WINCHESTER.
_"(Cap of Maintenance." Premier Marquis.)_]
[Illustration: ARCHDEACON WILBERFORCE. 1909.]
I privately decided that the suggestion was an excellent one, and as
it had not yet occurred to me in those days to ask my subject to sit
to me, I lost no time in observing him as he talked and made a mental
note of every trait and peculiarity. After his departure I immediately
made a caricature and sent it off to _Vanity Fair_.
The next time Lord Torrington came to Windsor he failed to make his
customary call upon my mother, who met him some time afterwards in the
neighbourhood.
"How is it, Lord Torrington," she asked after the usual polite
formalities, "that you have not been to see me?"
"Because, Mrs. Ward," he replied in deeply offended tones, "I
shouldn't be responsible for my actions if your son were in the
house."
"Then," said my mother, reassuringly, "I'll take good care if he is
there next time, that he shall be locked in his room!"
To which he replied, "Even that assurance does not satisfy me!" And
true to his word, he never called again.
I have always considered one of my best early caricatures to be that
of the Rev. Dr. Goodford, Provost of Eton, whom I stalked in the High
Street. I had remembered him, of course, when a small boy at Eton as
Headmaster. When he saw the caricature he protested rather indignantly
against my having depicted him with his umbrella over his shoulder--on
the grounds that it was not his habit to walk in this way. A short
time after the publication of the cartoon he was passing down the High
Street with his wife when his reflection caught his eye in Ingleton
Drake's shop-window, and he stopped suddenly to gaze in astonishment
at what he saw therein. Running after Mrs. Goodford, who had walked
on oblivious of his distraction, he exclaimed, "My dear ... 'Spy' was
quite right after all--I do walk with my umbrella over my shoulder."
In later days when caricatures made way for characteristic portraiture
I frequently met, for the first time, men whom I had "stalked" in
earlier days. On one occasion I called upon a dignitary of the Church
who had arranged to give me sittings. As I commenced to work he gave
his opinions upon artists of the day, and he referred to a caricature
of himself that had appeared in _Vanity Fair_.
"I can't think who did it," he said distastefully, "but it was a
horrid thing. I'll show it to you."
Calling his secretary, he asked that the offending drawing should be
found. The search, however, proved unsuccessful, at which fact I need
not say that I was greatly relieved. I suggested to the reverend
gentleman that I would rather he did _not_ discover it at all! "But
why?" said he. "It is the best I ever saw." It had been intended for a
caricature, and the Bishop's friends had been unanimous in proclaiming
it to be in every way typical, and not over-caricatured.
* * * * *
Some of my subjects had fixed ideas as to their own characteristics. I
remember I was bent on doing Dr. Welldon, then Headmaster of Harrow,
in profile, but he suddenly wheeled round on his heel and remarked, as
if in explanation, "I always look my boys straight in the face." I
endeavoured to persuade him to return to his former position. "You
must imagine your boys over there," I explained, pointing to a
distant spot on a far horizon, and the plan worked well.
[Illustration: REV. J. L. JOYNES
(Lower Master, Eton.)
1887.]
[Illustration: DR WARRE CORNISH
(Vice Provost of Eton)
1901.]
[Illustration: DR GOODFORD
(Provost of Eton)
1876.]
I took the opportunity of informing him that I sketched him in 1874,
whilst studying the game of football at "the wall" at Eton, for a
full-page drawing which the _Graphic_ had commissioned me to execute.
Mr. Frank Tarver refreshed my memory on all the points to enable me to
be accurate, and afterwards at his request the team posed and Welldon
was one of the group. Mr. Frank Tarver also wrote the letterpress
which accompanied the picture.
While Dr. Walker, Headmaster of St. Paul's, was posing to me in cap
and gown, he puffed a huge cigar, and I asked him if he smoked when he
was interviewing his boys.
"Oh yes," he replied, "not in class of course, but always in my study,
even when the boys are there. I smoke when the boys happen to come in;
as you see, a good big one, too!"
For many years, most of my time was employed either in making
portraits, stalking a possible caricature, or travelling to the most
likely or unlikely places to pursue a "wanted" subject for _Vanity
Fair_. My work greatly extended my list of acquaintances, and often I
found business and pleasure strangely bound together in one's daily
life and occupation, and sometimes a little incongruously.
On one occasion I was due to stay with my old friends Mr. and Mrs.
George Fox (now Mrs. Dashwood) in order to study the Bishop of
Lichfield with a view to making a drawing of him. The night before I
was the guest at the never-to-be-forgotten supper given in honour of
Jan Van Beers, the Belgian artist, an exhibition of whose remarkable
work at one of the Bond Street galleries was just then arousing great
interest. Van Beers was a delightful man and a clever artist, but
although he could originate and portray the most extraordinary ideas,
it is not by the weird and eccentric creations, but by his light and
humorous work, that he is still remembered. When I was talking of him
with Sir Alma Tadema, he remarked that it was a pity such unusual
talent should be thrown away on such frivolous and unworthy subjects.
The suggestion of the supper came in the first place, from Sir John
Aird, a patron of Van Beers'; and, as Sir John wished it to be a
unique entertainment, he felt he could not do better than leave its
arrangement to the originality of Van Beers himself.
Van Beers called on me some little time before the date, and asked me
if I could collect a number of both my own and Pellegrini's
caricatures, including those of several of the expected guests, so
that slides might be made from them to throw upon a sheet with the aid
of a lantern; and, after some difficulty, I found the right people to
do the work.
The supper from beginning to end was proved to be a gigantic surprise.
As the midnight hour struck, the very representative gathering, very
hungry and expectant, sat down at the long and charming decorated
tables. Everywhere the eye rested on the most dazzling arrangements.
Exquisite lights illuminated the room, charmingly assorted
glass-flowers diffusing the electricity, which at that period was a
decided novelty and only just becoming popular. Our sense of
expectancy was titillated to the uttermost by the alternating lights
thrown upon the scene from different angles, and the soup, which
seemed somewhat tardy in making its appearance, was welcomed. For a
moment all was in darkness, until suddenly a lurid glow arose in the
weirdest manner from the table, which was discovered to be made
entirely of glass covered with a very transparent table cloth. The
bright light coming up from beneath gave the assembled guests a
ghastly and weird appearance, accentuated no doubt by our increasing
hunger. When the general illumination appeared once more and
normalities were, so to speak, resumed, an excellent menu began to
make things go. Between each course there was a fresh surprise in the
form of a novelty entertainment--principally musical. From one corner
of the room came an angelic voice singing a selection from an opera,
which led to a discussion as to the identity of the singer who proved
to be Melba. Then came Hollman, the 'cellist, followed by Florence St.
John, who gave us a cheerful song from a comic opera. One bright
particular star followed another until by degrees everything glowed.
In the midst of the repast a monster pie was brought in and placed
opposite Alma Tadema (who was in the chair). He cut it, and to our
delighted astonishment countless little birds flew out in all
directions alighting here there and everywhere, as though to complete
the delightful scheme of decoration, whilst with one accord they
seemed to burst into exquisite song. Toasts followed and suitable
speeches, the artists joined the general company and were individually
thanked for the pleasure they had given. It had been arranged that the
caricatures should appear earlier in the evening, but owing to a
mistake on the part of the operator they arrived as the last item of
the evening's entertainment, and after such an excellent supper, in
which the wines were truly worthy of the perfect quality of the fare,
the assembly could hardly be expected to crane their necks very far
back in search of the caricatures of familiar faces thrown by the
lantern-slides upon the ceiling. And in any case, to my mind, the
effect was spoiled by the exaggerated angle at which they were
reflected.
After the coffee the party broke up about three o'clock. I had
arranged to leave London by the five o'clock train for Lichfield, so
had engaged a bedroom at the Euston Hotel in order to lose no time in
changing. I went to bed and slept soundly for over an hour, was duly
aroused, caught my train and arrived at Elmhurst, the residence of Mr.
and Mrs. George Fox, in time for early breakfast.
The Lichfield festival was being held at the time of my visit, and
there was a great gathering of the clergy and their wives. I attended
a very fine service in the Cathedral, after which Mrs. Maclagan (the
Bishop's wife) gave a big luncheon party to which I had been invited.
My main object was to make a cartoon of the Bishop of Lichfield for
Mrs. Maclagan, who was determined that a cartoon of her husband should
appear in _Vanity Fair_. She did her utmost to persuade him to give me
sittings, but he was very reluctant and not to be cajoled, so she gave
me this opportunity to observe him, and placed me near him at the
luncheon table. There were scarcely any laymen present, indeed I
believe that Mr. Fox and I were the only men present not "of the
cloth"; and nearly all the clergymen had come to the festival from a
distance. My name got mixed up with that of a decidedly important
parson who was announced as Mr. Leslie Ward--not altogether to his
satisfaction I fear.
Mrs. Maclagan being a perfect hostess, had chosen me an admirable
companion, a lady who started the conversation by asking me which
plays I had seen in London. I gathered she had been intending to go on
the stage, previous to her marriage, but she had become a Dean's wife
and devoted her talents to charity performances and "drew in the
shekels" for the Church. I had a very enjoyable lunch, a charming _vis
à vis_, and an excellent subject in view.
I prolonged my visit to await the return of the Dean of Lichfield, Dr.
Bickersteth, who was absent. As he did not return at the expected date
I gave up the idea and hope of seeing him for the time being, but on
my return journey, to my great delight, the Dean was on the platform
and _en route_ for some local station. I got into the same carriage,
and was able to take a good look at him. He was a very good subject,
and made an excellent caricature.
When I decided to give my attention to the Rev. R. J. Campbell I
studied him closely at the City Temple. On my return I drew him in
every sort of way but could not satisfy myself, for he had so many
gestures and different attitudes, and when he works himself up and
droops over the pulpit "fearless but intemperate" he looks rather like
a gargoyle. Not long after I had succeeded in caricaturing him to my
satisfaction, I met him at one of Sir Henry Lucy's delightful luncheon
parties, where, after the ladies had left the dining-room, I sat next
him, and in the course of conversation, gathered that he thought I had
hit him rather hard.
"Well, Mr. Campbell, the caricature was done before I met you," I
said, jestingly. "Had I known you I couldn't have done such a cruel
thing." On parting he said, "If you ever caricature me again I shall
expect you to be kind, so I needn't feel frightened of you in future."
When I sketched the Very Rev. Hermann Adler (the Chief Rabbi) I
visited him at his house. While I was engrossed in my subject, his
daughters came to see how the caricature was progressing.
"Oh, father!" they exclaimed, "it's just like you."
"How dare you! I'll cut you both out of my will," threatened the
Rabbi, in mock anger.
Cardinal Vaughan I "stalked" and made many a note of before he sat to
me. He usually wore an Inverness cape, and his finely cut features I
found both attractive and impressive, but I could always see the
making of a caricature in them.
I had stalked and sketched Dr. Benson, Archbishop of Canterbury,
before he sat to me at Lambeth Palace. When I was drawing his son, Mr.
A. C. Benson (then a Master at Eton), I showed him a little portrait
sketch of his father, which pleased him so much that I gave it to him,
but I have always regretted that I did not make an equestrian picture
as he seems most familiar to me on horseback.
On many occasions my subjects have been particularly friendly and
delightful in aiding me in my work, and sometimes extending their
kindness across the boundary of professional moments. I remember a
very delightful hour spent with Dr. Armitage Robinson--a subject in a
thousand--when Dean of Westminster. He was astonishingly well up in
Abbey lore, and together we visited chapels and crypts and strange
hidden places which I feel sure must be practically unknown to the
majority of visitors. When I heard he was leaving Westminster for
Wells I felt an artist's regret that anything less imperative than
death should have been permitted to disturb the impression of this
picturesque Abbot in the peculiarly appropriate setting of old
Westminster.
[Illustration: _Studies from memory._
REV. R. J. CAMPBELL.
1904.]
The finest and handsomest young athlete I ever drew as an
undergraduate was R. B. Etherington-Smith, known to his intimates as
"Ethel." He was rapidly making his mark as a surgeon, and his sad and
untimely death was deplored by every one who knew him.
Among the cricketers I first caricatured F. R. Spofforth--the demon
bowler--followed by W. G. Grace and C. B. Fry, whom I portrayed as a
runner. John Loraine Baldwin, the veteran cricketer, I introduced into
the series in his self-propelling invalid chair; he was a very fine
old man, and the founder of the "Zingari," and also of the Baldwin
Club.
Philipson, the distinguished wicket-keeper, I induced to stand in his
rooms at the Temple as though keeping wicket; and Ranjitsinhji I
closely observed playing cricket at Brighton, after finding it very
difficult to keep him up to the mark with his appointments.
If I were to mention all my subjects in their various professions, I
should fill more space than I am permitted, but among other well-known
cricketers whom I have portrayed and caricatured are G. L. Jessop,
Lord Harris, Ivo Bligh (Lord Darnley), George Hirst, F. S. Jackson,
and Lord Hawke.
But amongst my pleasantest recollections are those of the
university-rowing men with whom I came in close contact, for in every
way possible they extended their hospitality to me, and I shall always
remember with pleasure my visits to Oxford and Cambridge especially
during the rowing season.
When studying Muttlebury, known as "Muttle," while instructing his
eight on horseback from the bank, he provided me with a mount at the
same time, to enable me to watch him in the capacity of a coach. I had
a final glimpse of him, however, practising rowing on the floor of his
room. My visits were usually referred to in the _Granta_, and a
considerable amount of chaff was indulged in at my expense. On this
particular visit when I went down to draw Mr. Muttlebury the following
appeared under the heading of "Motty Notes!"
"Mr. Leslie Ward ('Spy' of _Vanity Fair_) came up on Monday to take
Mr. Muttlebury's portrait, which is to appear in _Vanity Fair_ just
before the Boat Race. The question how to make it most characteristic
will be a difficult one to settle. Certainly if our mighty President
is sketched in a rowing attitude, it would scarcely be a case of all
skittles and straight lines. Mr. Ward rode down with the crew, and is
said to have been much impressed with the romantic beauty of our broad
and rapid river, which he thought it would be quite impossible to
caricature adequately.
"He was also struck with the colleges, and catching sight of the new
buildings of Jesus from the common, said it was a fine house, and
inquired who lived there.(!)
"On Tuesday morning, Mr. Muttlebury submitted to the torture. Left
sitting."
[Illustration: F. R. SPOFFORTH (DEMON BOWLER) 1878.]
I very frequently travelled to Cambridge with Mr. "Rudy" Lehmann,
whose reputation as a rowing coach--both for his own University, as
well as Oxford and Harvard--is so widely known as to make further
comment superfluous. He was the originator of the _Granta_ and is on
the staff of _Punch_, for which journal one of his best known and most
amusing contributions was a skit purporting to be from the Emperor
William to Queen Victoria. As a man of letters he has made his mark.
He is the father of a very fine little boy who should make a
reputation as an oar, and follow in the footsteps of his distinguished
father.
When I arrived in Cambridge on one of many occasions after a visit at
Oxford where I had gone with the object of producing C. M. Pitman for
_Vanity Fair_, I discovered the contemporary number of the _Granta_
had again been on my track and chaffed me more than ever; as I was on
excellent terms with the authors of that publication, I took their
friendly "digs" in the spirit they were intended. Here is a further
specimen of their humorous prose:
"Mr. Leslie Ward has turned up again to gather his usual crop of
caricatures for _Vanity Fair_. Mr. Pitman[6] is to suffer first, I
understand. Last year I think I informed you how Mr. Ward borrowed a
cap and gown in order to attend the lectures of Professor Robinson
Ellis[7] whom he was commissioned to draw; and I have no doubt he will
go through adventures just as surprising on his present visit.
"On arriving in Oxford last Monday, Mr. Ward remembered that some
years ago he had breakfasted in certain rooms in King Edward Street,
with a friend whose name he had forgotten. He therefore concluded
that these must be the lodgings of the President of the O.U.B.O.
Imagine his astonishment after he had driven there, when he was
informed that Mr. Pitman had never occupied the rooms. Eventually,
however, he ran his victim down at 155, High Street.
"Mr. Ward's next proceedings were characteristic of his amiable
nature. At the bottom of the stairs he dropped his gloves, at the top
of the stairs he dropped his stick, and in the room itself he dropped
his hat. Having recovered all his scattered property, he took off his
coat, and in doing so distributed over the floor a considerable
fortune in loose gold and silver and copper, which for greater
security he had placed in one of the outside pockets of his garment.
Great and resounding was the fall thereof, but Mr. Ward, on having his
attention called to the fact, merely observed with an easy
carelessness that marks the true artist, that he thought he had heard
something fall but wasn't sure.
"On being asked what other celebrities besides Mr. Pitman he proposed
to draw, he declared that he had all the names written down on a piece
of paper. Up to the present, however, though Mr. Ward had looked for
it in the most unlikely places, this piece of paper has defied every
effort to find it. Is it true, by the way, that once when on a visit
to Cambridge, Mr. Ward who was staying at 'The Hoop,' wandered into
the 'Blue Boar' and insisted, in spite of the landlady's despairing
efforts to persuade him to the contrary, that he had slept there on
the previous night and wanted to be shown his room, as the staircase
had somehow become unfamiliar to him?"
[Illustration: 1896. SAM LOATES.]
[Illustration: 1884. ARTHUR COVENTRY.]
[Illustration: FRANK WOOTTON. 1909.]
[Illustration: FORDHAM. 1882.]
Returning in the train, from one of my visits to the "Varsity," I fell
asleep and passed the junction where I should have changed. I awoke,
hearing a noise overhead, followed by the disappearance of the lamps,
a fact that I did not pay much attention to, imagining they were being
replenished. These sounds were followed by a clinking of chains and
sudden jerks, which usually accompany the process of shunting, and
which I thought meant that another train was being coupled to the one
I occupied. A complete silence followed, and after a short interval--I
was alone in the carriage--I opened the window and looked out, and
discovered that my carriage and its immediate neighbours, had been
shunted into a siding for the night. I was feeling extremely cold and
did not care to risk a walk of an exploring nature, as express trains
kept flashing by and the night was dark. Presently I saw men with
lamps passing by some distance away, and by dint of shouting loudly, I
attracted the attention of a porter, who called out when he saw me--
"What are you doin' there? Get out of that!"
"I shall be only too delighted," I said, when he approached. "I've
been here for an hour."
I felt cold and simply furious. However, I followed the porter very
gingerly over the rails to the station, where I had to wait a long
time, and finally arrived in London at an unearthly hour. Since then I
have been very wary of sleeping in trains.
CHAPTER XI
IN THE LOBBY
In the House.--Distinguished soldiers.--The main Lobby.--The
Irish Party.--Isaac Butt.--Mr. Mitchell Henry.--Parnell and
Dillon.--Gladstone and Disraeli.--Lord Arthur Hill.--Lord
Alexander Paget.--Viscount Midleton.--Mr. Seely.--Lord
Alington's cartoon.--Chaplains of the "House"--Rev. F. E. C.
Byng.--Archdeacon Wilberforce.--The "Fourth Party."--Lord
Northbrook and Col. Napier Sturt.--Lord Lytton.--The method
of Millais.--Lord Londonderry.
Although from the year 1873, I had drawn all the cartoons in _Vanity
Fair_, and Mr. Gibson Bowles had procured a privileged pass for me in
the inner lobby of the House of Commons for the purpose of studying
the characteristics of my parliamentary subjects, the same facilities
were accorded me through Mr. Palgrave (Clerk of the Desk), where for
the two following years I was making drawings and portraits for the
_Graphic_.
In 1876 I returned to _Vanity Fair_, permanently and exclusively to
work for that publication, when Pellegrini and I shared our labours
pretty equally until his health gave way and he became a chronic
invalid, so that for some years before his death I was responsible for
most of the cartoons in the paper. Of course, actual sketching or the
use of the pencil in both assemblies was prohibited (for the privilege
of a pass was also accorded me in the House of Lords through the
courtesy of the Black Rod) but after careful observation I was always
able to go home and express on paper the result.
I must not forget that in 1903, after the bomb explosion in
Westminster Hall, that the number of people admitted to the inner
lobby was considerably reduced, in fact, from that time to the present
the strangers are few and far between, but although my permit was
limited to two days a week my name remained in the lobby-list until I
retired from the paper in the latter part of 1909.
In "the House" I found that generally speaking members were very much
occupied with the affairs of the moment, and usually quite unconscious
of one's observance; but when it came to the point of special study of
a subject for the purpose of caricature, it was by no means easy to
find him or to watch him under such circumstances as enabled me to
arrive at the knowledge necessary for my purpose and still leave him
unaware. However, I found more than one "kind friend at court" do me
good service. Amongst these Sir A. W. Clifford, Black Rod, was most
courteous and helpful in the House of Lords, and always ready to find
me a place--usually under the gallery. I came to know his face really
well, and caricatured him with faithful directness and in full
uniform. By great good fortune, Mr. Gibson Bowles was my editor, and
he would occasionally inveigle a subject of rare promise to my lair.
The Sergeant-at-Arms is always the man in power in the House of
Commons. I have a most grateful remembrance of much courtesy received
from the present occupant of that post of honour, Captain Erskine, but
in the days of which I now write, Mr. Gosset--always depicted by Harry
Furniss as a beetle--was in authority, and most kind in trying to
place me at the best point for observation, usually under the
Speaker's gallery. But quite the most desirable hunting-ground in the
House just then was his own room. There he held quite a court, and
among his intimates were many distinguished men whom nature and the
circumstance of dress had designed for the caricaturist's art.
Among them was Isaac Butt, M.P. for Limerick, a pioneer of the Home
Rule movement, and a most popular man, endowed with a charm of
frankness and simple good fellowship which endeared him to all who
knew him. He told most amusing stories, and as an advocate he defended
O'Brien and almost every Irish political prisoner of note. He was
described by "Jehu Junior" as the man who "invented Home Rule" ... an
attempt to dismember the Empire, and to found in Ireland a Commune of
Paris on a larger scale. When I observed him first I was struck by the
unusual formation of his ears which bulged in an extraordinary manner,
and also by his habit of fidgeting with an open penknife which he
always carried in his hand, and continuously opened and shut in the
same absent-minded manner in which some people fidget with a
watch-chain; the habit found its place in my caricature, and proved a
great surprise to the subject.
Among the Irish members I caricatured Mr. Mitchell Henry who led the
Home Rule Party in '79, but afterwards "ratted." He gave me three
sittings, but was afterwards heard to say that he did not know "where
the devil that fellow got hold of him!" I got to know him after
extremely well, and accepted his hospitality on more than one
occasion. He was very wealthy at one time, and up to the last
collected every relic of Dr. Johnson he could lay hands on. My father
had also taken a very great interest in anything connected with the
great man and had painted several events in his life, of which I
suppose the best known is "Dr. Johnson in the Anti-chamber of the Earl
of Chesterfield," now in the Tate Gallery. At his death I sold to him
a very interesting study from one of these pictures.
[Illustration: MR GLADSTONE. 1887.]
At the request of Mr. Bowles I went over to Dublin to make a special
picture of Parnell and Dillon in Kilmainham Gaol. I had letters of
introduction to both, and Parnell wrote to my hotel a very charming
letter of acquiescence in answer to my request for an interview, which
letter I greatly regret that I have had the misfortune to mislay. Then
I received a second letter in which he informed me that he had heard
that he would not be allowed to see me alone in prison, but that a
warder would have to be present the whole time, and under the
circumstance he was forced to decline my request. It was within the
bond of my contract with Mr. Bowles that I should not be required to
place the signature "Spy" on any drawing that was not the outcome of
personal observation of the subject required, so I gave it up, and the
Parnell-Dillon cartoon which appeared in _Vanity Fair_ was from the
clever imagination of Harry Furniss. I remember Parnell as a
carelessly dressed man with good features, a fine head with a high
forehead and eyes both striking and piercing, but not altogether
pleasant in expression. I was in the law-courts when the Piggott case
was on, and opposite to me was the celebrated Royal Academician,
Philip Calderon, who was studying him with the intention of making a
large picture of the court commissioned by the _Graphic_, but it was
never finished or produced as a sketch.
When the _Vanity Fair_ cartoons were put up for sale at Christie's the
only one of my series (curiously enough) that failed to find a bidder
was the drawing of Piggott, although it was one of my most successful
studies, from a sketch as he stood in the witness-box.
Gladstone and Disraeli I drew in black and white, of course many years
before, for the _Graphic_, and on subsequent occasions for _Vanity
Fair_. As a careful observation of the movement of my subject is
always necessary, one day in talking to Monty Corry I told him I was
on the look-out for an opportunity to complete my study of his chief,
whom I wished to observe at a distance sufficiently near and far to
get his gait. He said that they would be leaving Downing Street for
the House of Lords together at a certain hour, and he suggested that I
should follow them or walk on the opposite side of the road. At the
appointed time I was at my post and keenly watched them start,
Disraeli leaning on Monty Corry's arm. As they strolled towards the
House of Lords I followed along on the other side, mentally taking in
their movements and completing my impression of the great leader and
his secretary. Also at the request of Mr. Monty Corry, Disraeli's
valet gave me an opportunity of inspecting the coat with the astrachan
collar which seemed to hold a share in its owner's strong
individuality, and from these observations I made the caricature
"Power and Place" which appeared in due course in _Vanity Fair_, and
was published in a special number.
That the character of the man may be seen in his walk I have
frequently proved, though never more clearly than through the two most
distinguished statesmen of their generation; Disraeli walked, or
appeared to walk, on his heels as though he were avoiding hot ashes.
In strongest contrast was the walk of Gladstone, who planted his feet
with deliberate but most vigorous firmness as though with every step
he would iron his strong opinion into the mind of the nation.
[Illustration: "DIZZY" AND "MONTY" CORRY (LORD ROWTON).]
_À propos_ of caricature and movement, Lord Arthur Hill presented some
difficulty to the caricaturist because he was so charged with movement
that he never appeared to pause for a moment. His leading feature was
his stride which seemed, and was, of tremendous length. He also had a
very long neck and a curiously flat head, and he always seemed to walk
as though he saw a stout wall in front of him and was full of
determination to get through it. My caricature is just one long
stride.
Man's dress is very much more commonplace than it used to be, and
nowadays clothes seldom help out the artist, but in the days of which
I write the exaggerated styles or idiosyncrasies in some apparently
trivial detail of male attire made all the difference in the world to
the caricaturist, and many of the older peers, country squires and
occasional eccentric gentlemen retained the old-fashioned habits of
dress in spite of the wisdom or folly of fashion. Gladstone, of
course, was the making of many caricaturists, the lion-like striking
face in the setting of the high collar was a picture in ten thousand.
I drew the "Grand Old Man" over and over again from sheer interest,
his face had the strongest fascination for me. I watched it change
with the years; and year by year the unusual collar grew less in
dimensions and in importance to the caricaturist, as the character
pencilled itself about the features of the wonderful old face.
Also among clothes-subjects was Mr. John Laird, member of Parliament,
who was a superlative delight to the caricaturist, for his clothes
were unique even among the remarkable, his usual costume consisting of
a long-tailed frock-coat covered by a short pea-jacket which extended
only a little beyond his waist.
Lord Alexander Paget--the father of the present Lord Anglesey--known
to his friends as "Dandy Paget," was a very smart man of the best
type. He wore a hat with a very curly brim, and dressed in very loud
checks; but he could wear what he liked, for he always "looked right."
I stayed a week-end with him in Cheshire, and while there he obliged
me by showing me his wonderful wardrobe in which I never saw a more
varied selection, and I soon hit on the suit which I thought the most
effective for my purpose. This was the one with the biggest check of
all, and with the peggiest of peg-top trousers.
Also for rare habilatory peculiarity, the uncle of "the Dasher" (the
late Earl of Portarlington) was hard to beat. He was an old gentleman
who usually, in walking costume, wore a decidedly blue frock-coat
trimmed with deep braid, lavender-coloured trousers of a nautical cut
and patent leather boots, showing but the tips, after the
Bulwer-Lytton style. His hair was trimmed over his ears in the
Buster-Brown manner, and his moustache and tip well cosmetiqued. His
silk hat was of a build of its own, well curled. His tie of a
brilliant hue, a fancifully arranged handkerchief emerging from his
breast pocket, the gayest of button-holes, and grey kid gloves
completed an _ensemble_ wonderful to behold. One of the greatest
treats I have ever had was watching him pirouette through the figures
of a quadrille, in the good old-fashioned style, on the occasion of a
ball at Stafford House.
One curious anomaly, a Puritan Beau, I remember in Mr. Sturge, the old
Quaker, whom my eye always seemed to seek and find in the Lobby,
leaning upon his stick, his face shaded by a silk hat with an
extraordinary wide brim, and a white cravat tied carefully under his
chin. Day after day he was to be seen there, but when the Lobby list
was wiped out after the bomb scare, I missed my pet figure who came no
more.
The names by which some of the members were known were not without
significance. Mr. Tom Collins, M.P., had the reputation of being the
noisiest and most slovenly man in the House of '73, and was commonly
known as "Noisy Tom." Lord Vivian, whose caricature I believe to be
among my happiest, was dubbed "Hook and Eye." He was a well-known
racing man, and I frequently observed him on the race-course.
Then there was Mr. Edward Jenkins, M.P., known as "Ginx's Baby," after
his well-known book of that name. Mr. Adams-Acton, the well-known
sculptor, arranged a dinner in order that I might meet him, but I am
ashamed to say that I entirely forgot the engagement until some days
after. My father, being one of the guests, was extremely put out at my
non-appearance. "We waited for you a quarter of an hour," he said, "I
was so ashamed!" However, I made my excuses to Mr. Adams-Acton and
took further opportunities of seeing the well-known M.P. in the Lobby
of the House, where his intensely Shakesperian forehead marked him out
from the rest.
The Earl of Powis, irreverently dubbed "Mouldy" by "Jehu Junior," was
a delightful old peer of a period long past, and one of my favourite
studies. Viscount Midleton I frequently saw in the Lobby; he was
nearly blind, and his helplessness seemed peculiarly pathetic in "the
House," as he used to run up against doors and pillars when
unattended, but as a rule he was led by his secretary.
It was in '78 that I caricatured old Mr. Seely, M.P. for Lincoln, and
a great breeder of pigs. He was the grandfather of Brigadier-General
Seely, once Minister of War in the Asquith Government. It was "Jehu
Junior" who described my subject as "an amiable and decent person ...
and there is no reason in the nature of things why he should not have
lived and died happy and respectable. But he was returned to
Parliament for Lincoln." Years after when I saw Colonel Seely in the
House for the first time I recognized him at once because of the same
characteristic attitude, although he is very much taller.
A number of well-known faces recur in my memory from the background of
the House! There was Robert Dalgleish, M.P., another jovial and most
popular member, who wore the longest finger nails I have ever seen
excepting on a Chinaman: Lord Cottesloe, who was the son of one of
Nelson's companions in arms, and whom I used to watch with great
interest as he came down the steps of the House of Lords: Viscount
Cole (now Lord Inniskillen), whom I knew as a boy at Eton: also
Viscount Dupplin, known as "Duppy," who was always smartly dressed and
wore white ducks in summer; he was celebrated for his knowledge of the
Chinese language.
_À propos_ of the caricature of the late Lord Alington, one of my
earliest, a very old friend of mine who was something of a busybody to
me, "There is something about Pellegrini's work that you ought to
study." I said, "I don't want to study anybody's work, only my
subjects." "Well," he replied, "don't be offended, old chap, it's only
to your advantage that I am saying this. Go and look at Pellegrini's
cartoon of Lord Alington in this week's _Vanity Fair_. There is
something in that which you never get." My only answer was, "You old
ass, go and look at it yourself and read the signature upon it," which
happened to be my own.
Amongst strongly-marked and characteristic faces I well remember Lord
Colonsay (Scotch law), who had a most beautiful mop of shining silver
hair; also the Rev. Francis E. C. Byng, afterwards Lord Stafford, who
was Chaplain to the House of Commons from '74 to '89. He was a little
man with great natural dignity, glossy curly black hair and a very
prominent chin. He was a perfect study for the caricaturist, and I
believe anything but a stereotyped parson. The late Chaplain, the Rev.
Basil Wilberforce, Archdeacon of Westminster Abbey, sat to me a few
years ago for _Vanity Fair_; I had observed him in the House of
Commons, and in his beautiful and most interesting home in Deans'
Yard. His unrivalled stateliness of bearing was combined with unusual
lightness of movement, and he was a most impressive figure, especially
on occasions of state ceremonial. I remember watching him with great
pleasure in his place in the Speaker's procession as it passed to the
House for prayers. There was no man in London who had such a following
in the pulpit. As a subject he was most interesting and very patient.
His gown in the reproduction is the best sample of three-colour work I
had had done, and he was so pleased with my drawing that he bought it.
Of course I did not confine my secret observations to the House, but
made for my man anywhere that I could watch him. I caught Sir Henry
Rawlinson at a Royal Academy Soirée and finished the study at another
social evening at the Royal Geographical Society. In those days the
Royal Academy social gatherings made good hunting-ground, and it was
vastly entertaining to watch the orthodox social celebrities swarm
round the "lions." Occasionally it was still possible to meet those
who consider it a solemn misdemeanour if not a hideous crime to
portray one's friends and acquaintance in the spirit, or with the pen
of humour. I remember on one occasion just after I had published a
caricature which probably caused a little surprise to the unconscious
subject, I met a man who must have strongly objected to my observing
eye so over-full was he of righteous indignation.
"Well," said he, on the note that conveys that magnificent sense of
superiority which seems the mark of a limited intelligence, "have you
been caricaturing any _more_ of your friends?"
As a matter of fact the work of the leading modern caricaturists is
peculiarly free from vulgar offence. The art of caricature as the art
of any other form of portraiture is to portray the true leading
features through the mirthful marking of the obvious. Occasionally the
caricaturist draws on the extraordinary, for instance, Mr. Harry
Furniss, has immortalized the late Sir William Harcourt's row of
chins, but it is as guiltless of offence as Mr. Gladstone's collar
or Mr. Chamberlain's orchid.
[Illustration: "METHODICAL & METHODIST"
CAMPBELL BANNERMAN AND FOWLER.]
[Illustration: "BABBLE & BLUSTER"
GLADSTONE AND HARCOURT. 1892.]
[Illustration: "FAITHFUL & FADDIST"
LORDS SPENCER AND RIPON.]
Not long after I had caricatured Sir Albert Rollit he introduced me to
his pretty daughter in the Lobby. "Oh, I'm so pleased to know you, Mr.
Ward," she said. "You made that splendid caricature of my father."
"It is good of you to take it in the spirit which it is drawn," I
answered; "because it is a caricature."
One of the stoutest men I ever drew was Sir Cunliffe Owen, director of
the Kensington Museum, and head of the English Commission of the
International Exhibition at Paris in '72. When I dined with him there
I was astonished to see that he drank no wine--although his guests
were plentifully supplied--but under his doctor's orders he was
limited to one small tumbler of water. While in Paris I stayed with
Sir Cunliffe in the company of the members of the English Commission
in Paris as their guest. They gave me an amazingly good time, and I
made a sketch of my host for _Vanity Fair_.
It was towards the end of 1880, that I was asked by Mr. Bowles to
obtain a cartoon of the "Fourth Party" for _Vanity Fair_, and later on
it was claimed that the cartoon was proof positive of the existence of
the "Fourth Party." It is certain that Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr.
Balfour, Sir John Gorst, and Sir Henry Drummond Wolff came to my
studio, and that we had great difficulty in finding a seat suitable
for the accommodation of Mr. Balfour's sprawl.
I have naturally met many most distinguished soldiers, among them
Field Marshal Sir William Gomm, whom I met by the introduction of Mr.
Gibson Bowles. He had attained the age of ninety, looked years
younger, and was, in fact, astonishingly sprightly--a tiny little dot
of a man.
"What is the secret of your longevity?" inquired Mr. Bowles. "No doubt
you lived a careful life."
"Indeed, sir, nothing of the kind!" replied the old gentleman, who was
very much afraid of being mistaken for a prig. There was more than a
hint of the dandy about this vigorous nonogenarian. I was interested
to observe that he wore patent leather shoes of a decidedly dainty
shape, decorated with steel buckles holding enormous bows, and his
trousers were the most wonderful in shape I have ever seen.
Another great soldier I depicted was Sir Hastings Doyle, a remarkable
man in his day. He had the most charming manners, and is said to have
known no fear. His sitting-room was like a fashionable woman's
boudoir, and when the great general appeared I noticed his eyebrows
and moustache were darkened with cosmetic, and his cheeks slightly
touched with carmine as was frequently the custom then with many an
old beau.
Sir Bartle Frere I caricatured in the attitude which he frequently
adopted whilst lecturing at the Royal Geographical Society. He was a
man of remarkably mild appearance, and I was astonished to hear him
define the Zulu war as a celibate-man-slaying-machine.
[Illustration: SIR ALBERT ROLLIT, 1886.]
One day while I was at the Beefsteak Club, in conversation with
Colonel Napier Sturt, he suggested his friend, Lord Northbrook, as an
excellent subject for a caricature. I said that I had already observed
him in the House of Lords, and the Colonel responded that he was
sure that if I cared to see Lord Northbrook's pictures he would be
delighted to show them to me at any time, which would give me a
further opportunity of noticing him. Shortly after Colonel Sturt took
me to Lord Northbrook's to luncheon, and when we entered the house in
Park Lane, to my astonishment, Colonel Sturt said, "Let me introduce
my friend 'Spy' to my old friend 'Skull,'" his nickname for Lord
Northbrook.
This Colonel always posed as the poor younger son, being a brother of
the late Lord Alington. He affected a watch without a chain, the
old-fashioned key of which aggressively hung from his waistcoat
pocket.
My first cartoon of the Duke of Beaufort (for I drew him twice for
_Vanity Fair_) was anything but a complimentary caricature, and
represented him as I had seen him standing by his coach at Ascot. He
was the finest gentleman I ever came across.
I had never seen the second Lord Lytton before I walked into his room
at Claridge's Hotel. I knew a good many people who knew him, and I was
interested in seeing him, as I had heard so much of him years before
when visiting Knebworth. Although a much shorter and fairer man than
his father, he was not unlike him in feature, and had the same curious
light-blue eyes. He also affected the same cut of trouser. When I went
in it seemed to me that he was inclined to attitudinize in the
orthodox pose of a statesman, and I felt that he was not himself. When
I took my pencil out to make notes, I felt it wiser to drop it until
he was natural. He was very pleasant and affable, and when the time
came to leave I couldn't find my hat. "Oh," he said, "I think I
know--you left it in the other room--I'll get it for you." He was
going out and had put on an overcoat with an astrachan collar, and in
his walk I perceived at once the resemblance to his father; he had the
same stoop from the neck, and he took short steps. In this way I got
him into my head and went straight home and made my caricature.
I had satisfied myself with the caricature, but Millais, who was
painting his portrait at the time, said, "If you would like to have
another look at him he is coming to me to-morrow to give me a last
sitting, and I am sure he wouldn't mind you looking on."
This also gave me an interesting opportunity of seeing the manner in
which Millais painted a portrait, which to me was something quite
novel, for instead of placing his easel some little way from his
sitter he put it actually by the side of him, and instead of looking
straight at his model he walked to the cheval glass which was the
length of the room away, and looked most carefully at the model's
reflection in the mirror and making a dash for the canvas painted his
sitter from the reflection.
Old Lord Londonderry hearing that he was not to be allowed to escape
my eagle eye, sent me an invitation to visit him at Plas Machynlleth,
he promised that I should have every opportunity of making a
caricature, and at the same time he begged that I would not let him
off in any way. So in due course I went down to Wales, and well do I
remember the first morning of my visit. I came down a trifle earlier
than the hour announced for breakfast, and walked absent-mindedly down
the stairs and into the hall, and had said, "Good morning" before I
realized that I had stepped into the midst of family prayers. I felt
an awful fool. However, in spite of the episode I spent quite a long
and most enjoyable time at Plas Machynlleth. Lord Londonderry was a
most delightful host, he showed me his estate and took me to every
place of interest near, and both he and Lady Londonderry were so kind
that the pleasant time I spent there remains in my memory. While there
I made a drawing of Lady Eileen Vane Tempest, now Lady Allandale,
which was much appreciated by her mother. As Lord Londonderry had
expressed a wish that I should not spare him in any detail I drew him
taking snuff as was his habit, and even his gouty knuckles are
suggested in the caricature. His lack of self-consciousness and
refreshing sense of humour completed a personality that was for me at
any rate delightful.
[Illustration: THE FOURTH PARTY.
LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL. MR ARTHUR BALFOUR. SIR DRUMMOND WOLFE. SIR
JOHN GORST.]
CHAPTER XII
VOYAGE ON H.M.S. HERCULES
Sir Reginald Macdonald's caricature.--H.R.H. the Duke of
Edinburgh's invitation.--The _Lively_.--The _Hercules_.--
Admiral Sir William Hewitt.--Irish excursions.--The Channel
Squadron.--Fishing party at Loch Brine.--The young Princes
arrive on the _Bacchante_.--Cruise to Vigo.--The "Night
Alarm."--The Duke as _bon voyageur_.--Vigo.--The birthday
picnic.--A bear-fight on board the _Hercules_.--Homeward
bound.--Good-bye.--The Duke's visit to my studio.
In July, 1880, I received an invitation from H.R.H. the Duke of
Edinburgh to go for a cruise as his guest on board H.M.S. _Hercules_,
which he commanded, and which was the flag-ship of the Reserve
Squadron.
It was not an opportunity to lose, although one which had arrived by
chance. It happened that Admiral Sir Reginald Macdonald, a great
favourite at court and in society generally, was a victim of mine in
_Vanity Fair_. I had known him previously, and always found him most
cheerful and entertaining, but on the publication of the cartoon his
merriment frizzled away, and he became severe.
A letter arrived from him upbraiding me, and saying it was not the act
of a friend to depict him as a drunkard. In short it was quite a
furious epistle, and revealed him in an altogether new light.
I wrote at once in the endeavour to persuade him that his idea
concerning the caricature was entirely misconceived, but some days had
elapsed bringing no answer when one morning he dashed into my studio
with a most injured air, and so full of his grievance that he did not
observe his great friend the Duke of Hamilton, who was sitting to me
for his portrait at the time.
[Illustration: 1903
BARON DEICHMANN.]
[Illustration: 1895.
W. BRAMSTON BEACH, M.P.
(_A great runner in his day_.)]
[Illustration: "SAM" SMITH, M.P.
(_Radical and low churchman_). 1904]
[Illustration:
PERCY THORNTON, M.P.
(_A great runner in his day_.)
1900.]
"_Hullo_, Rim![8] What's up?" inquired the Duke, whereupon my victim
appealed for his opinion on my treatment of him; but he received only
chaff in place of the sympathy he expected and very soon he withdrew.
On the next day he called again as I was at my work, and his demeanour
seemed altogether calmer: "Here is a letter I have brought you to
read," he said. "It is lucky for you that opinions differ."
The letter was from the Prince of Wales and ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR RIM,
"I have to-day seen your excellent portrait in _Vanity Fair_, do
you think you could procure for me the original drawing as I
should so much like to possess it."
After reading the Prince's letter and being aware of Sir Reginald's
feeling in the matter, and also knowing that Mr. Gibson Bowles was the
owner of the drawing I thought it diplomatic to make an alternative
suggestion, which was to offer to draw a new sketch of him for
presentation in full uniform and cocked hat.
The idea pleased him, and when it was completed he took it himself to
Marlborough House. Not only did it meet with the approval of the royal
recipient, but the Duke of Edinburgh, who happened to be there at the
time, was so pleased with it that he wanted one done of himself like
it, and this led to the invitation for the cruise of which I am
writing. To quote Sir Reginald's letter to me he says, "The Duke of
Edinburgh considers your sketch the best drawn, and without exception
the most wonderfully like he ever saw, and in consequence he will be
very glad indeed if you will come for a cruise as his guest during the
following dates, etc...."
Previous to making a start I received instructions from Captain Le
Strange, A.D.C., who was to pilot the Duke's guests to Bantry Bay on
H.M.S. (despatch boat) _Lively_. In his letter he informed me that
Admiral Sir William Hewitt, Admiral Hardinge, and Mr. Wentworth-Cole
would be of the party on the _Hercules_; that he thought it would be a
most jovial one, and that if I were a fair sailor I should enjoy the
trip very much. He also said that H.R.H. had just taken his fleet of
eight ships out for the first time, and that they seemed to work very
well.
On July 10th, I started from Paddington by the afternoon train for
Plymouth, and discovered in my vis-à-vis of the railway carriage, Mr.
Wentworth-Cole. Captain Le Strange met us at Plymouth, and we dined at
Devonport, and were escorted on board at 11.30 p.m. Shortly after we
weighed anchor, the wind got up, and the yacht _Lively_ did full
credit to her name. Through Sunday and Monday it blew a big gale, and
Admiral Hardinge did not show up on deck until we steamed into Bantry
Bay, where I was relieved to see the ships coming in with us for I
hoped for steadier boards to tread. On Monday evening, the two
Admirals moved to the flag ship and Wentworth-Cole and I followed
shortly afterwards. It was the first time I had boarded a man-of-war
and the formalities of the quarter-deck were not less striking
because I was still feeling somewhat rocky. However, the sound of the
bugle seemed to pull me together, and the Duke, having received me
most cordially escorted me to his state cabin to which my own was
adjacent. It was evident that the comfort of his guests was to be well
considered, as by this time I knew that a picked marine had already
been selected to valet me, and information had leaked out that the
services of an experienced cook from Gunters' had been obtained.
By degrees I became acquainted with the Captain and Commander and
officers of the ship and I soon settled down.
On the following morning a trip had been arranged by H.R.H. for us to
steam to Glengariff on the _Lively_. The weather was very fine and
after an early breakfast on board her we set out (Mr. Mackenzie of
Kintale joining us). It must have been quite three o'clock before we
reached Glengariff, and sat down to lunch in the hotel. During our
meal a young American visitor anxious to see if royalty ate like
ordinary beings seated herself at a table adjoining ours, and fixed
her eyes steadily upon the Duke. She even ordered marmalade to make
believe it was her midday meal, but we were informed afterwards that
she had lunched. Evidently her interest had not diminished, as when
seeing us seated on the lawn drinking coffee, she refreshing herself
in a similar way, drew up close to our party with the same inquisitive
intention whilst taking it for granted that she also was a centre of
interest to us. The proprietress gave her a hint and she vanished.
By this time we were replenished, and, after a stroll to Cromwell's
Bridge, the owner of the hotel brought her book out for us to sign
our names in, and on our departure presented not only the Duke, but
each of us with a bouquet. Our host, Mr. Mackenzie, with his friends,
proceeded to Killarney, while we returned on the _Lively_ to Bantry.
The officers on board the _Hercules_ were most friendly, and willing
to help in giving me a good time. Every one was pleasant, and the
chaff came readily, especially when I was supposed to discover from
the stern walk where the rudder was. In time I became more accustomed
to the routine, and learned to know when I might venture on the
Captain's bridge, or pace the deck without getting in the way. Among
the many interesting men whose acquaintance I made on the cruise was
one Cole, a paymaster in the Navy and quite a character. He was a very
clever amateur draughtsman, and had accompanied the Admiral on several
of his cruises. His drawings brimmed over with humour, especially in a
kind of log-book in which he sketched the event of the day which was
greatly appreciated by H.R.H. He was full of fun and the favourite of
all, but owing to a peculiarly deep-pitched voice, and a somewhat
serious expression exaggerated by the fact that he wore blue glasses,
some one had christened him "the Sepulchral."
Whilst the Reserve Squadron was anchored at Bantry waiting for the
Channel Fleet to join us, much of the time was spent--when the Admiral
was not engaged on duty--in taking trips on the _Lively_ to various
places, or on fishing excursions. There was the inspection of the
coastguard station in the vicinity of Ballydonogan, and afterwards we
went on to a place called Killmakillog to fish for trout on Glanmore
Lake.
It was on the occasion of our trip to Waterville that a tramp, a rough
looking customer, approached the Duke with a letter which H.R.H.
passed on to me with the directions to give him half a crown.
The letter ran:--
_TO_ THE PRINCE OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND.
"May it please your highness,
"That having served in the 88th of foot during the Crimea War and
afterwards in the East India Mutiny--drink alone disqualified me
for pension.
"I pray you will help to live one of her Majesty's loyal
soldiers.
"DANIEL MORIARTY."
The terrible Irish famine was nearly at an end. To the Duke had been
allotted the mission of official inquiry and relief; but although much
had been done officially to relieve the general suffering, on our
daily trips we frequently came across cases of great distress, usually
where the peasantry refused relief outside their own homes. During one
round we came upon a particularly painful scene. Walking into an old
cabin which was apparently empty, we discovered through the dim light
which penetrated from a hole in the roof, the weird figure of a very
old man scantily clothed in the meanest rags. Stretched upon the floor
by his side lay a young boy in the same deplorable condition. The old
man spoke a few words of welcome in a feeble voice, and the miserable
lad tried to rise to come forward. It was the most painful scene I can
remember, and it would have taken the genius and human understanding
of Hogarth to depict in detail. Needless to say such a case of dire
distress was immediately relieved.
The Duke of Edinburgh was most kind-hearted, and he did much
personally as well as officially to relieve the distress in this
district. I was told on the best authority that he distributed within
a very short time over £200 from his private purse in individual cases
of extreme need.
When the Channel Squadron under Admiral Hood (afterwards Lord Hood)
joined us life on board became more ceremonious and eventful. Admiral
Hood gave a dinner-party for the Duke on board the flag-ship
_Minotaur_, and Admiral Hewitt accompanied H.R.H. During their absence
I was inspired to caricature the latter. When they returned, the Duke
took up my sketch, and it tickled his fancy immensely, in fact I had
never seen him laugh so much. Sir William was getting very stout at
the time, and I had noticed that he always fastened the bottom button
of his jacket leaving the upper ones loose, doubtless with the
intention to give an appearance of slimness to his waist. The effect
was ludicrous, and I had endeavoured to put on paper my impression of
it. I fear, however, that poor Sir William did not appreciate the
joke.
The next day the Duke inspected some of the ships, and I was
privileged to accompany him and found it a great opportunity to
increase my knowledge. The combined fleets lying at anchor made a
glorious naval picture. The ships were seventeen in all, of which I
remember:--
_Northumberland_, Captain Wratislaw; _Defence_, Captain Thrupp;
_Valiant_, Captain Charman; _Audacious_, Captain Woolcombe; _Warrior_,
Captain Douglas; _Achilles_, Captain Heneage; _Hercules_ (flag-ship),
Captain Townsend; _Lord Warden_, Captain Indsay Brine; _Hector_,
Captain Caster; _Penelope_, Captain Nicholson; _Agincourt_, Captain
Buller; _Minotaur_ (flag-ship), Captain Rawson; _Salamis_ (despatch
boat), Commander Fitzgeorge; _Lively_ (despatch boat), Commander Le
Strange.
I was introduced to several of the Captains, and among them were some
whom I was destined to draw years after as Admirals for _Vanity Fair_.
On the evening of the inspection the Duke gave a return dinner-party
on board the _Hercules_. Admiral Hood was, of course, the principal
guest, and I had the privilege of being placed next him at dinner. The
_Hercules_ having no band of its own, that of the _Minotaur_ was lent
for the occasion, and several of the leading officers were present,
notably Captain Heneage of the _Achilles_--known as "Pompo"--who was
certainly the _beau_ of the combined fleets. The immaculate appearance
of this distinguished officer in these days at sea was certainly one
of the distractions of the voyage, and as Admiral Sir Algernon
Heneage, he is still to be seen in the West End, an ornament and a
great favourite in London Society. Eventually he came to my studio and
I made a characteristic drawing of him.
As we were still waiting for the _Bacchante_ (with the young Princes
on board) to join us, H.R.H. arranged a fishing excursion to
Blackwater for an off day. Commander Le Strange was to conduct us. The
_Lively_ weighed anchor at 7 a.m., and we arrived at Blackwater at 10
o'clock. Unfortunately as a bag containing my fishing-rod, footgear
and other articles of wearing apparel appropriate to a voyage of this
kind had failed to reach me yet from Cork, I was altogether unprepared
for the excursion. The Duke hearing of my predicament, very kindly
offered to lend me a rod, at the same time he impressed me with the
fact that he valued it greatly, and that I must take great care of it.
It had been a birthday present given to him by the Prince Consort, and
bore an inscription in silver to that effect.
Mr. Mahony, the landowner, drove to Blackwater to meet us, and from
there took us to Loch Brine, where the fish were plentiful. He with
H.R.H. went out in a boat to fish leaving us to pursue our sport from
the bank. I scrambled on to a rock from which I cast my line, when
alas the rubber soles on my shoes played me false, and I was in the
water, and the rod in pieces. What was to be done? All sport was at
end for me! I turned to my companion who advised me to say nothing
about it, and give it to the coxswain to mend. In a weak moment I
resolved to keep my own counsel, but imagine my consternation a little
later, when the Admiral joined us for luncheon, and exclaimed, "You
are a nice fellow, breaking my rod!"
I had quite forgotten how water carries sound. Every word of the
discussion had been overheard by H.R.H. I was non-plussed and the
matter passed off without further comment. Then we all sat down to
lunch with a good appetite, but it was a poor day's sport for me, and
we returned to the _Lively_, and dined at 9 o'clock.
The next day Mr. Mahony and his family came on board; later in the day
we returned to Bantry, and shortly after the _Bacchante_ came into the
Bay. The young Princes lost no time in paying their respects to the
Admiral, who at once invited them to dinner. I sat next to Prince Eddy
who was a perfectly natural boy, and to my mind immensely tactful,
for he immediately commenced to tell me of the success of my latest
cartoon in _Vanity Fair_--which happened to be Lord Shrewsbury. On the
next day the combined squadrons weighed anchor and started for the ten
days' cruise to Vigo.
[Illustration: SEVENTH EARL OF BESSBOROUGH.
_"M.C.C. Cricket."_
1888.]
[Illustration: REV. F. H. GILLINGHAM.
_"A hard hitter."_
1906.]
[Illustration: ARCHDEACON BENJAMIN HARRISON.
_"Canterbury Cricket."_
1885.]
The naval evolutions and drill were exceedingly interesting to watch
by day, and, on the second night out, came the great excitement of a
"Night Alarm." This proceeding might be described as the supreme
episode of naval drill. It may come at any moment, and although I was
let into the secret it seemed to arrive with startling suddenness to
me. We were at dinner when the alarm was given. "There's not a moment
to be lost," said the Duke. "Stick to me and we'll go down." A
fleeting impression of the blue jackets and marines turning out of
their hammocks like one man, then in a flash every officer gave his
word of command--All hands were at the guns--Every man in his
place!--Lights out! and so on.
On Saturday the weather turned stormy, and I found that even a
man-of-war didn't glide smoothly through a rough sea in the Bay of
Biscay; and, although I managed to put in an appearance at Church
service on Sunday, I thought it more discreet to remain in my cabin
during the gale; but on Monday the Duke, finding that I didn't appear
at the luncheon table, sent for me, and with difficulty I dragged
myself to my place.
"Now," said he, "I am going to be your doctor, and you must take the
prescription I give you. It is the only cure for sea-sickness." So at
his suggestion I drank one glass of champagne and presently another,
but when it came to the third proposal I politely declined, for
although the first two glasses had a most comforting effect "yet
another" would have proved the last straw. "Very well," said he, in
mock sternness, "when you want medical aid in future don't come to me
for it." But I was better.
We continued our voyage with three incidents on the way. A man
overboard--the funeral of a stoker on board the _Hector_, which was
impressive, the court-martial of an offender on the _Defence_, and a
sudden dense fog that came on suddenly when the ships were
manoeuvring and crossing one another. Every light was ordered out,
and I went on the bridge where I found both Sir William Hewitt and the
Captain. The former, who realized the danger of the situation, and who
was always ready with chaff, said to me:
"You had better go down to your cabin and get a wicker chair ready for
emergency. There will be no life-belt for you in case of a collision
as there are only just enough for the crew and of course they come
first."
I needn't say that the precaution didn't recommend itself to me. I
thought to myself if the ship goes down I shall go with her; but the
fog cleared off quite suddenly, and although three of the ships were
lost to sight they turned up in the morning.
During the cruise I heard on all sides how highly regarded the Duke of
Edinburgh was as a seaman and a commanding officer, and he was
undoubtedly much liked by those with whom he came in close contact. To
his guests on board he was kindness itself, and he could be most
entertaining. He told us his experiences of boyhood, how he had been
treated just as any other middy, and subject to their backslidings
also if one might judge by the account of severe punishments which had
their place in the stories. He talked much of Russia, and told us how
well the palace was guarded, that none but members of the Imperial
Family were allowed to enter by the principal entrance, and that on
one occasion he, being unrecognized by a sentry was challenged, and
that he had to beat an ignominious retreat, and go round by the
equerries' door. Not only were his experiences and travels most
interesting, but he had an extraordinary good ear for dialect; with
him a good yarn lost nothing in the telling, and he could hit off a
type in a very few words. When he had an half-hour to spare in the
evenings we would play a game I introduced of "drawing consequences,"
which is played in much the same way as the ordinary schoolroom game,
except that one fills the required space with contributory drawing in
place of the usual words. H.R.H. came out well under its inspiration,
and the combined results of our drawings were occasionally very
amusing.
One evening he produced a crystal and inset was a very tiny portrait
of Dowager Empress of Russia, which the company mistook for a
miniature, and thought it marvellous that any human eye could see to
produce it. I at once detected that a photograph was behind it, and
that it was in fact a very minutely reduced and tinted photograph. I
am afraid I destroyed the general illusion. The Duke smiled, he was
very sincere in his love of art, and particularly proud of the talent
of his sister the Princess Royal--Empress Frederick of Germany, whose
pictures he spoke of in the highest terms, an opinion which I had
heard frequently endorsed.
On Thursday we sighted the Spanish coast, and on Friday there was a
big drill and evolutions; and on Saturday the Fleet arrived in Vigo
Bay at 12 o'clock. Of course the two flag-ships were the centre of
interest, and on our arrival there was the usual demonstration in
connection with naval events. The Duke received visits from officials,
and in the afternoon gave me his first sitting. It was a splendid
evening. H.R.H. gave a big dinner-party. The _Minotaur_ band came over
to the _Hercules_, and there was a fine display of fireworks ashore
and the bay was illuminated by the flashes from the search-lights, and
the general appearance of the Fleet enlivened by the movements of
boats and pinnaces going to and fro between ships and shore.
In celebration of his birthday (August 6th) the Duke had arranged a
picnic for the Princes and their middy friends, Mr. Dalton (the
Prince's tutor) Cole, who as usual brought his sketch book with him,
Wentworth-Cole, and Commander Le Strange were also of the party, but
the presiding spirit was the Duke in his best form, full of fun, and
most anxious that the boys should have a good time.
On our journey out in the pinnace I remember that Wentworth-Cole was
the victim of a practical joke instigated by me for the amusement of
the Royal Middies. He was wearing a hat with several ventilatory holes
on the summit of the crown. It suddenly occurred to me that these
would make suitable receptacles for matches; so, when he was engrossed
in the scenery, I found an opportunity of filling them up, in which
occupation Prince George lent willing aid. When a chance came I
lighted the heads of the matches, but hearing a titter, Wentworth-Cole
turned round, discovered the plot, and saved the situation.
It was a real picnic. We arrived in the steam pinnace at a most
picturesque island some miles out from Vigo, and there in a rural
setting, and on a particularly rugged piece of ground the baskets were
opened and we sat down to a capital luncheon. The coxswain, who was a
very handy man, was of the greatest use in every direction on this
occasion.
By this time the seigning nets had been cast in the bay near at hand,
and the Princes and their shipmates were anxiously awaiting the
opportunity to set to work.
In the meantime we all strolled down towards the sea, Prince Eddy and
I remaining in the rear of the main body, while he on the Q.T. and
boy-like, found the opportunity of taking occasional puffs from my
pipe.
On joining the others Prince George, after noticing its unusual shape
politely asked if he might look at it. Evincing curiosity in its
condition and with an air of a connoisseur he passed several pieces of
dried grass through the stem and thoroughly cleaned it out, then after
filling the bowl with tobacco and lighting it he tested it well by
taking some good whiffs. Afterwards he returned it with the remark
that it was now fit to smoke. The little episode amused me greatly as
it was so completely natural.
By now, finding that the nets were ready to be manipulated we, one and
all, tucked up our trousers and hauled them in, the Duke being the
most energetic of the lot. It was warm work but not wasted, for the
haul was a fine one.
During the afternoon a couple of bull fights in an adjoining field
gave us a good show of a non-professional bull fight, also we saw some
interesting types of Portuguese, who were entered with the other
incidents of the day in Cole's sketch book. He was also clever in
portraying those big-eyed, dark, and picturesque peasant girls.
I think that must have been the last of the very delightful excursions
on the _Lively_, which ship, of pleasant memory, came eventually to a
bad end, as she struck a rock and went to the bottom.
We stayed some time in Vigo Bay, and made several delightful
excursions there. When on board, the young Princes did their best to
kill any chance of monotony. There was a bear fight I am not likely to
forget. I was in the habit of returning to my cabin for a _siesta_
after luncheon, and on this particular occasion I think the officers
on board were occupied on duty. The Princes came to pay the Duke a
visit, but only to find that he had gone ashore, and things were
generally a little on the dull side. I was the sole occupant of the
cabin, and as they peeped in they saw me in my berth asleep, so passed
on to the adjoining one (Mr. Wentworth-Cole's) in search, no doubt, of
a bit of fun. Presently I got the full benefit of their inspiration,
which took the form of squeezing the contents of a very large sponge
from their side of the partition on to my head. It was a thorough
"cold pigging" that I received, that effectually wakened me from
slumber; but I rose to the occasion, and in my turn sent back the
sponge. This ended in a rough and tumble which, of course, they were
inviting. Cole (of the pencil) came along in the thick of it, and
eventually made a caricature of the scene in the Duke's book. It
represented the little bear, the middle sized bear and the big bear at
play, and he called it "A Bear Fight."
It was not until we were homeward bound that the Duke succumbed to
the ordeal of a second sitting for his portrait. He was an interesting
subject; I made two drawings of him, the portrait which he had
commanded, and which I understood was intended as a birthday present
for the Duchess, and I also made a water-colour drawing in similar
style to that which had pleased him of Sir Reginald Macdonald: which
represented him at full length in Admiral's uniform.
After I had thanked H.R.H. for all his kindness and hospitality and
the cruise was at an end, I said good-bye, and returned to London with
Wentworth-Cole.
When I arrived in London, amongst the first letters I received was one
from H.R.H. containing a handsome cheque in payment of the portrait.
Some little time after I was at work one morning in my studio in
William Street, Lowndes Square, when the hall porter announced "a
gentleman to see you, sir," and in walked the Duke of Edinburgh
carrying a parcel under his arm, which proved to be a photograph of
the Duchess, which he suggested I should study and left with me, for
he was most anxious that I should make a drawing of Her Royal
Highness, and suggested that later on her time would be less occupied,
but I gathered that the proposal had escaped her memory.
CHAPTER XIII
YACHTSMEN--FOREIGN RULERS
Sir Reginald Macdonald's caricature.--H.R.H. the Duke of
Edinburgh's invitation.--The _Lively_.--The _Hercules_.--
Admiral Sir William Hewitt.--Irish excursions.--The Channel
Squadron.--Fishing party at Loch Brine.--The young Princes
arrive on the _Bacchante_.--Cruise to Vigo.--The "Night
Alarm."--The Duke as _bon voyageur_.--Vigo.--The birthday
picnic.--A bear-fight on board the _Hercules_.--Homeward
bound.--Good-bye.--The Duke's visit to my studio.
Some years before my cruise on the _Hercules_ I had caricatured a
young man of whom "Jehu Junior" prophesied a career of no mean order.
Lord Charles Beresford has performed all that was expected of him, but
it is difficult to recognize in him to-day my subject of 1867. When he
came to my studio I was struck by his characteristic stride, and asked
him to walk up and down my studio while I endeavoured to capture some
impression of his rolling gait, curly hair and jolly laugh. He was
willing to be made fun of, and his excellent company aided me in
arriving at a result which may best be gathered from the following
letter, which I received from him on the completion of the caricature.
"Fairfield, York,
"1876.
"MY DEAR WARD,
"The _Vanity Fair_ cartoon is really the only caricature that I
know that ever was in the least like me, I think it quite
excellent. I know it is the exact way I stand and I am generally
smiling profusely. All my friends were delighted with it, and at
Osborne they all said it was capital. I hope you were pleased
with it yourself; I am sure you ought to be.
"Yours very sincerely,
"CHARLES BERESFORD."
[Illustration: 1876. "CHARLIE" BERESFORD.]
[Illustration: ADMIRAL SIR REGD. MACDONALD. "R.I.M." 1880.]
[Illustration: 1902. ADMIRAL SIR JOHN FISHER.]
[Illustration: CAPTAIN JELLICOE. 1906.]
At this time I heard a story of Lord Charles, who was always known as
"Charlie Beresford," and who played many a practical joke. There was a
very stout and good-humoured lady who was a general favourite in
society and especially with young men. On one occasion she happened to
be leaving an evening-party when Lord Charles escorted her to her
brougham, which appeared a tight fit for her, and being prompted by a
sudden fit of devilment he seized the linkman who was handy and thrust
him into her carriage. Directly the door was closed, the oblivious
coachman drove off, and what happened afterwards must be left to the
imagination.
In that year I went down to Cowes for the yachting week, as it was
quite the best opportunity for following up the types of well-known
yachtsmen, and I passed many amusing hours in the gardens of the
Squadron.
Amongst the most frequent visitors was Lady Cardigan in gayest attire,
and usually accompanied by a much-beribboned poodle, the colour of
whose furbelows matched her own. I greatly appreciated her
hospitality, for she had an inexhaustible fund of good stories which
secured many an extra point through her wit in the telling. Just then
Prince Battyany was renting Eaglehurst, and I have a very pleasant
recollection of being taken to a garden-party there by Lord and Lady
Londonderry on their yacht the _Aileen_.
The next time I went to Cowes was on the occasion of the German
Emperor's first visit, when the little place was naturally
overcrowded, and in consequence I had unusual difficulty in getting
into the Squadron. On previous occasions I had had no trouble in
being "put up" for the club, but it seemed that every one was full up.
I was extremely disappointed as the proprietor of _Vanity Fair_ (Mr.
Gibson Bowles) had particularly wished me to make a representative
group of prominent members of the R.Y.S. I was in a quandary, so I
went to the secretary, Mr. Pasley, and told him of my predicament. He
said, "They're all full up, I am sorry I haven't the power to let you
in, but I will do my best for you. I will speak to the Prince of
Wales, he is sure to be here soon." We were talking at the gate of the
castle grounds when suddenly the secretary said, "Here he comes."
H.R.H. upon hearing of my dilemma, with his usual good nature sent a
message to tell me that he regretted I had not let him know before and
that I might come in whenever I liked, and at once if I wished. So I
received my pass in due course.
The late Chevalier Martino was of course "all there" as a guest of the
Emperor William on board the _Hohenzollern_. He was a Neapolitan, and
of a most impassioned temperament. I remember meeting him one night at
dinner. The conversation fell on the battle of Trafalgar, and,
forgetting the dishes which were before him he suddenly rose from the
table and started to recite the "Death of Nelson." During the
recitation he worked himself to such a pitch of emotion that at the
climax of the death scene, he fell to all appearance lifeless upon the
floor.
When I met him shortly afterwards, he said, "You must have thought I
was mad that evening, but I couldn't help it, I am an enthusiast."
[Illustration: KING EDWARD VII. 1902.]
He was a favourite with both King Edward and the German Emperor, and
was marine-painter in ordinary to our Sovereign. In the course of
further conversation he told me that he had been in the Italian Navy,
and that with his knowledge of ships he did not require to make more
than the very slightest notes preparatory to illustrating a naval
review. He was an interesting companion and told very good stories.
The Emperor was very sympathetic to Martino who, in consequence of a
paralytic trouble with which he was afflicted, found considerable
difficulty in rising from the table. He told me that the Emperor
would, with one arm, lift him to his feet as though he was a feather,
with a strength that was surprising. He always refused to exhibit his
pictures, but at his death many of them were collected for public
exhibition. His work was thoroughly appreciated by naval men as being
so absolutely accurate.
On one occasion, being invited by a member of the Squadron to dine
upon his yacht, I was struck by the beauty of the lady to whom I sat
next. The Admiral had an excellent _chef_ on board, and consequently
we were served with a particularly good dinner, but I appreciated his
hospitality rather less when he passed me drawing materials with which
to depict the lady. I paid her a polite compliment, but wasn't to be
"drawn" in this way in return for my dinner.
Lord Albemarle, whom I have portrayed, is a notable yachtsman, and
also a clever caricaturist with a great feeling for drawing and
sculpture, so he spends much of his spare time in his studio. He
served his country in the South African War, as Lieut.-Colonel in the
C.I.V., and is Lieut.-Colonel in the Scots Guards (retired), as did
Mr. Rupert Guinness, who was also one of my _Vanity Fair_ series, and
who took me over the Royal Naval Volunteer training ship (the
_Buzzard_) on the Thames embankment, which he commands.
Of course, in these sea-days I very frequently enjoyed sailing with my
more intimate friends. I had great times with my old friend, Harry
McCalmont, who was a whole-hearted sailor, as was his father before
him. He was always very much to the fore at Cowes in the yachting
season, and it will be remembered that he built the _Geralda_, which
eventually became the royal yacht of Spain. He afterwards presented me
with her white ensign, and it was on her deck that I portrayed him in
a large oil picture which I painted some time before his death. He,
like Lord Albemarle, served in South Africa and was in the Scots
Guards. I spent many delightful hours too, with Charlie Brookfield on
his little cutter, sailing here and there from one point to another,
around the Isle of Wight.
When Sir Thomas Lipton first built _Shamrock_, it was obvious that he
should appear in the series of _Vanity Fair_ celebrities. He sat to me
in my studio when, during conversation, he told me of his implicit
belief in the uses of advertisement, which he considered the
corner-stone of success.
I have been particularly fortunate in my opportunities for observation
when at work on the Royal yachtsmen, among whom was King Edward
himself. The Prince was always most kind and courteous, and when I had
the honour of receiving a sitting from him, he did not forget to
inquire after my father, whose health was not all that could be
desired at the time, and later on when my father died I received the
following letter of sympathy:--
"DEAR MR. WARD,
"I am desired by the Prince of Wales to write and let you know
how sincerely sorry he is to hear of the terrible affliction
which has fallen upon you, and to assure you that you have his
unfeigned sympathy in your sorrow.
"He had known your father so long that he could not help letting
you know what he felt on this sad occasion.
"Believe me,
"Yours truly,
"FRANCIS KNOLLYS."
In many indefinable ways the King never missed an opportunity of
showing his kindness for which I was always grateful. When I made a
portrait of him as Prince of Wales I received a letter of
acknowledgment from which I may quote the following extract:--"The
King thinks the portrait an excellent one, and there is nothing in it
to alter."
Some years after when he had begun to show signs of _embonpoint_, a
fact of which he was fully aware, I had the honour of a sitting, and
he said laughingly:--
"Now let me down gently."
"Oh, but you've a very fine chest, sir," I replied.
He laughed and shook his head at me, as though he found my aim at
diplomacy more entertaining than convincing.
Queen Alexandra also sat to me at Marlborough House, where I made the
drawing in black and white for _Vanity Fair_, but when I took it to
the editor he decided that it must be coloured, as were all the
previous cartoons. The Princess of Wales, as she then was, had been
so kind in giving me sittings that I dared not suggest more, so I
attempted to colour my sketch from memory, and in my anxiety to get
the flesh tint I spoilt it, as I found it impossible to obtain the
clearness of colour over the pencil work, and in trying to do so I
ruined the sketch. Later on I met the Prince (Edward VII.) and he
asked me what I had done with the drawing of the Princess. On my
informing him of the fate of the sketch, and the circumstance of its
destruction, he said, seeing my concern and embarrassment: "Well,
don't worry yourself. No one has yet succeeded in making a
satisfactory portrait of the Princess--not even Angeli," although one
or two successful portraits have been painted of Her Majesty since
then both as Princess of Wales and Queen.
One of my very early caricatures was one of her brother, the late King
of Greece, done from memory. Comparatively recently, Prince Louis of
Battenberg (a handsome subject), whom I had studied beforehand at the
Admiralty, came to my studio, and he brought the Princess Louise and
Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein to see the result with which
they expressed themselves much pleased, and the drawing is now in
their possession.
In 1875 I was interested in making a study of the Prince Imperial at
Chiselhurst, and I have a very vivid recollection of my introduction
to him, which took place at a dance given by Lord and Lady Otho
Fitzgerald at Oakley Court. I had been invited with the other members
of my family, and it chanced that my dress clothes were in the hands
of my tailor, who failed to return them at the promised hour. Leaving
word that the parcel was to be forwarded immediately I went down to
Windsor to inform my sisters that there was but a poor chance of my
being able to join them. They were almost weeping over the news as my
father and mother were away from home and they were relying on my
escorting them to the ball. However, at the last moment the parcel
arrived, but on putting on the coat and waistcoat I discovered that
they were not mine, but were undoubtedly intended for a person at
least twice my size.
Everybody was in despair, but my sisters said, "You must go!" So I had
to swallow my pride and entered the ball-room awkwardly enough as I
had buckled back my waistcoat as far as I could, but with the coat
there was nothing to be done but take a lappel over each arm and do my
best to conceal the ill-fitting garment (which I could have folded
twice round my body) by holding it out of sight. I kept well in the
background through the early part of the evening, but after supper I
felt bolder, and decided to dance at any price.
In the ball-room I felt a fool indeed, like "Auguste" at the circus,
and on asking one fair lady for a dance noticed her furtive glance
sweep over me; I hastened to explain the reason of my unfortunate
plight, at which she took pity on me and gave me a dance. I was young
then and took a pride in well-fitting clothes, yet it was under these
most trying circumstances that I was presented to the Prince Imperial
and, with both my arms fully occupied, pride of speech and ease of
demeanour were far from me at that difficult moment.
Lord Otho being a prominent member of the R.Y.S., the burgee of that
club usually flew from the flagstaff of Oakley Court. _À propos_ of
this Captain Bay Middleton, one of the guests, who could never resist
a practical joke, persuaded the Prince Imperial to accompany him, in
the small hours of the morning following the dance, to the summit of
the tower, where he, having procured a towel hoisted it in place of
the R.Y.S. Banzee. The Prince thought this was a great joke, but I
never heard that the owner shared his opinion.
Shortly afterwards I was driving along a dusty road _en route_ to
Ascot Races when I passed Lord Otho's coach with the Prince Imperial
upon it, but as I was covered with dust I certainly did not expect the
latter to recognize me. However, when we met by appointment at Charing
Cross to travel to Chiselhurst the first thing he said, with a smile,
was, "Why did you cut me the other day on the road to Ascot?" Of
course I had nothing to say.
On the journey the Prince talked most interestingly, and I gathered
that he felt sanguine as to the belief of his ultimate succession to
the throne of France. From his charm of manner and general
conversation I could quite understand his popularity with his brother
officers in the British Army. He did not strike me as being
particularly smart in dress or general appearance, although he wore
his hat well tilted on one side, and he clicked his heels in French
fashion, as he had evidently been taught to do from boyhood.
On arriving at Chiselhurst we drove together to the residence of the
Empress Eugenie where he gave me every opportunity of studying his
characteristics, and upon the publication of his cartoon I received a
letter of appreciation with a signed photograph of himself which is
still unfaded, and which I greatly value.
[Illustration: SIR JOHN ASTLEY
(_The mate_).
1908.]
[Illustration: PETER GILPIN
(_Gentleman Trainer_).
1908]
[Illustration: "JIM" LOWTHER, M.P.
1877.]
[Illustration: EARL OF MACCLESFIELD.
1881.]
I have drawn and caricatured and made portraits of the numerous
foreign rulers, who have visited our islands from time to time. When
Don Carlos (the Pretender to the Spanish throne) came to England in
1876 I visited him at Claridge's, where he was staying, to study him
for _Vanity Fair_. I found him a very picturesque and striking figure
in his uniform, which he put on for me, including the Order of the
Golden Fleece. He was very obliging, and offered to lend me his
uniform to use for further details, also the Order, which he begged me
to treasure with the greatest possible care, as he stated that it had
been handed down in his family for generations, and was, of course, of
great value to him. I promised to be very careful that nothing should
befall it, and when the uniform and the Order arrived I sought for a
model, preferably a soldier; and incidentally asked Colonel Fred
Burnaby if he knew a man big enough to wear it. He very kindly
permitted his soldier-servant, who was a very fine man to stand for
me, and when he came to the studio, and had donned the uniform I
entrusted him with the Order of the Golden Fleece, and cautioned him
to handle it very carefully. Taking it up to fasten round his neck he
straightway dropped it on the floor, where it broke in half. When it
snapped in two imagine my horror. It was with difficulty that I
restrained my anger. On finding it broken I hurried off with it to
Hancocks, the jewellers in Bond Street, who promised to mend it to the
best of their ability. On the return of the decoration I could detect
no flaw; it appeared exactly as it was, but the accident was costly.
Needless to say I soon returned it and was thankful to hear no more
about it.
An amusing _contretemps_ occurred when I was sent by my editor to
"stalk" General Ignatieff, who was at Claridge's Hotel. I had thought
the best plan would be to stay there for a day or two, in order to
obtain good facilities for studying him, so I arrived with my
portmanteau, and endeavoured to ascertain something of the habits of
the general. My curiosity resulted in old Mr. Claridge politely
ordering my bag to be removed. When I informed him of my identity and
disclosed the reason for my interest in the General's movements, his
reply was somewhat as follows:--
"I know there is such a person as 'Spy' because I can show you a lot
of his cartoons in my room, I do not doubt your word, but I have no
proof and would rather that you went." But he was considerate in
giving what information he could as to his whereabouts, and after
saving my hotel bill I managed to catch my victim on his way from
Hatfield.
In 1877 my editor was anxious to procure a drawing of Midhat Pasha for
_Vanity Fair_, and as there was a great difficulty in obtaining an
interview, I was smuggled into his presence by Mr. Gibson Bowles, who
had an official appointment with him. The Pasha, it will be
remembered, had just been exiled from his own country and this
opportunity offered me every facility for making close observation of
him who was, at the same time, ignorant of my identity or purpose.
I was fortunate in the case of Mooh-ton-oolk, Sir Salar Jung, Minister
of the Nizam of Hyderabad. Sir Salar was received with great
acclamation in England on account of the excellent service he had
rendered to the English in the suppression of the mutiny. He also did
much to break down caste prejudice. I attended his wonderful
breakfast at that residence in Piccadilly which is now the Bachelor's
Club. Sir Salar had brought with him to England his curry-cook who
provided us with innumerable curries, of which very few were familiar
to me although I enjoyed them considerably, more than that I was much
interested in the distinguished company who were present. Following
the breakfast my eminent host gave me an opportunity of making a
sketch of him.
Some little time afterwards I accepted an invitation to dinner, which
was given on a magnificent scale at the "Star and Garter," Richmond,
and organized for him by a mutual friend, a lady whose husband owned
the house that Sir Salar Jung temporarily occupied.
Over a hundred guests sat down to the banquet, which was arranged
should be followed by a dance. It chanced that I drove down in a
hansom and a violent thunder storm came on so that in spite of all
precautions the front of my dress shirt became hopelessly splashed
with mud. As it was too late to retrace my steps I decided to buy a
dicky (this appendage being a novelty to me), and fix it over the
damaged shirt front. Twice after I imagined it was safely fixed it
flew up with surprising suddenness, and when my hostess asked me to
help her with the dance that she had arranged should follow the dinner
that evening, I felt more than a shade of embarrassment as I feared
the dicky might betray me and my movements were therefore cautious,
though with an additional pin I managed to secure it and all went well
in the end.
H.H. Ras Makunan, K.C.M.G., who was cousin and heir-apparent to the
Emperor Menelik of Abyssinia, was also a warrior and a sportsman, and
represented the Emperor at King Edward's coronation.
He was persuaded to make an appointment with me at my studio, and
arrived at the early hour of 8 a.m. with his attendant, previous to
breakfasting with the officers of the Horse Guards at the
Knightsbridge barracks.
Before his visit I had been given the tip to have in readiness a
bottle of good port wine, but upon pouring out a glass I was told that
he judged it wiser to delay any refreshment until after breakfast. In
the meantime small boys had collected at the entrance to my studio,
being attracted by the Royal carriage waiting at the door. When they
saw the chief occupant enter it they simply stared in amazement with
open mouths. Finding a second interview necessary, which was arranged
for at the Westminster Palace Hotel, I called at the appointed hour,
but being kept waiting for a very considerable time sent up a
reminder. Sir John was very angry at the delay, and after persuading
the Ras that it was not the custom to treat gentlemen in such a manner
he came out from an inner room (where he had been busily occupied
sorting coloured silks) and did his duty to me, in fact sat in quite a
stately manner, holding his long gun characteristically. During the
process of sketching him I was given the hint not to make him quite as
black as nature had painted him.
A kind of levee (if I may say so) was occasionally held by Cetewayo
when he visited England and was housed in Melbury Road. As I wanted to
see him I procured an invitation to one of these receptions.
[Illustration: CHINESE AMBASSADOR.
KUO SUNG TUO.
1877.]
[Illustration: RAS MAKOUNNEN.
1903.]
[Illustration: CHINESE AMBASSADOR.
CHANG TA JEN.
1903.]
The deposed monarch who looked quite jolly and robust shook me by the
hand as though I might be some one in authority. My visit afterwards
bore fruit in _Vanity Fair_, for I represented him as I saw him,
nearly bursting through his light grey tweed suit with a kingly
headgear of black velvet enriched with gold braid and a golden tassel
attached.
On leaving this country I was told that his chief ambition was to take
back with him some good specimens of our best sporting dogs. Well-bred
fox terriers were procured, therefore, but when shown to him he feared
they would not be strong enough, for it was for hunting he required
them, "for hunting the man," so I believe bloodhounds filled their
place.
In the case of the Shah of Persia it was different, for when
eventually I gained an audience at Marlborough House he received me
with courtesy, and I was somewhat embarrassed on seeing him desert (at
all events _pro tem._), several gentlemen, great authorities on the
latest improvement in guns which were being shown him at his especial
request. I was directed to the window and His Majesty evidently
anxious to assist me, ordered the curtains to be drawn further apart
that I might see him in a good light, he then came so close that I
could focus only his nose which certainly was _the_ feature in his
face.
After making my obeisance I withdrew in favour of those I previously
stood in the way of; and from the slight sketch I made and, relying on
my memory for the rest, I eventually made my picture.
Having already studied the Viscount Tadasa Hayashi, a distinguished
Japanese Minister at the court of St. James', and wishing to depict
him in evening dress I persuaded him to come to my studio and to
bring with him his star and ribbon. With the characteristic courtesy
of the best of his race he appeared most good-naturedly in the early
morning, dressed as though he were going to an evening reception, and
thoroughly entered into the spirit of his portrait and my work.
Among the large number of Ministers and Ambassadors I have depicted, I
may mention the names of Counts Munster, Paul Metternich, Mensdorff,
Messrs. Choate, Bayard, Hay and Whitelaw Reid, and last but not least
Count Benckendorff.
The latter (whom I have frequently had the pleasure of meeting at the
Beefsteak Club) amused me greatly when he came to my studio by saying,
"It is a simple task you have before you, you have only to draw an
egg--a nose--and an eyeglass and it is done."
CHAPTER XIV
MUSICIANS--AUTHORS--ACTORS AND ARTISTS
Wagner.--Richter.--Dan Godfrey.--Arthur Cecil.--Sir Frederick
Bridge and bombs.--W. S. Penley.--Sir Herbert Tree.--Max
Beerbohm.--Mr. and Mrs. Kendal.--Henry Kemble.--Sir Edgar
Boehm.--George Du Maurier.--Rudyard Kipling.--Alfred Austin.
--William Black.--Thomas Hardy.--W. E. Henley.--Egerton Castle.
--Samuel Smiles.--Farren.--Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft.--Dion
Boucicault and his wife.--Sir Charles Wyndham.--Leo Trevor.--
Cyril Maude.--William Gillette.--The late Dion Boucicault.--
Arthur Bourchier.--Allan Aynesworth.--Charlie Hawtrey.--The
Grossmiths.--H. B. Irving.--W. L. Courtney.--Willie Elliot.--
"Beau Little."--Henry Arthur Jones.--Gustave Doré.--J. MacNeil
Whistler.--Walter Crane.--F. C. G.--Lady Ashburton and her
forgetfulness.
I was a privileged member of a select audience at a rehearsal in 1877
at the Albert Hall with the intention of studying Wagner and his
eccentricities, while he was conducting one of his own operas,
therefore, I was not as surprised as I might have been when I observed
him waving his baton and growing more and more excited, dancing on and
off his stool, until finally losing his head he grew very angry with
everything and everybody, and gave up evidently in fear of one of
those nervous attacks to which he was subject. Richter then took the
baton and conducted magnificently.
Under very different circumstances I studied Dan Godfrey the
bandmaster, a very different type of musician, when he had just been
promoted to the rank of lieutenant. An officer on guard invited me to
breakfast after I had watched him conduct the band in the quadrangle
of St. James' Palace, to enable me to examine his features more
clearly.
Arthur Cecil, the actor, loved music and was a born musician in
addition to his interest in the stage, and was for some time in
co-partnership with Mrs. John Wood at the Court Theatre. He was the
first Baron Stein in _Diplomacy_. During his fatal illness at Brighton
I visited him in the nursing home, and his first words to me were
uttered in complaint of his food, for he dearly loved his food.
"What do you think they gave me to-day?" he said. "A boiled mutton
chop." When he was convalescent he gained permission from his doctor
to go, with his nurse, to reside at the Brighton Orleans Club, and
whenever the menu was put before him, he selected the choice dishes
dear to his heart (or his palate) that had been forbidden him a very
short time previously. His greatest pleasure, however, was to be able
to play the piano again, and that he did before me in the private
hospital, his first selection being some music from his favourite
opera of "Hansel und Gretel." Owing to his indiscretion during
convalescence, he caught cold which caused his death prematurely, for
he was under sixty.
After many times acting as an amateur he joined German Reed's company
at St. George's Hall, and from there went to the Haymarket Theatre,
after which he had a distinguished career as an actor in comedy. He
was very popular both at the Garrick and Beefsteak Clubs. Of course
Sir Frederick Bridge was an acquaintance of his, for Arthur was
devoted to sacred music. Although it is quite ten years since I
portrayed Sir Frederick he appeared just the same when I saw him
recently at lunch at our mutual friend, C. S. Cockburn's house. He
has, I think, officiated at innumerable historical ceremonies,
including the Jubilees of '87 and '97, as well as the Coronations of
King Edward and King George. He told me the following story, in the
terse and witty manner which is so characteristic of him.
[Illustration: RICHARD WAGNER. 1877.]
[Illustration: THE ABBÉ LISZT. 1886.]
"In '87, just before the Queen's Jubilee, a good deal of alarm was
experienced in consequence of the Fenian outrages, and the very
frequent discoveries of clockwork bombs in black bags. Previous to the
Royal visit, the Abbey was closed to the public and the utmost
precautions were taken by the officials to ensure the Royal safety, by
the order of Colonel Majendie (another of my victims) the Chief
Inspector of Explosives. Every portion of the choir stand was
examined, and even the organ pipes and every corner of the Abbey was
subjected to vigorous inspection. The day before the Royal ceremony, I
called a rehearsal of the band, and after their departure I remained
in the organ loft to look over my music for the next day, in the
company of a young pupil, who interrupted me when I was engrossed in
my music, by calling my attention to a strange noise.
"'Listen, Doctor,' he said, 'don't you hear a ticking?'
"'Ticking!' I shouted. 'Where?'
"Jumping out of my seat, I listened intently, and sure enough, I heard
a faint sound that was strangely ominous, and in the corner of the
loft I saw that fateful sight--_a little black bag_.
"I confess I behaved very badly, for instead of waiting to be blown to
pieces for my country, I left the loft as quickly as possible and
hastened into the Cloister, where I met an old servant. He was a
comfortable looking old creature with a glass eye.
"'Graves,' I said, 'go up into the organ loft and fetch a little
black bag that you will find in the corner.'
"'Yes, sir,' he replied, and ambled off unsuspectingly. Then I waited.
I do not know what I expected to see--a headless Graves returning in
some gruesome but faithful remnant trying to perform this last
request--but I breathed again when he reappeared safe and sound--with
the bag--which contained an alarm clock, ticking away very merrily. I
discovered upon inquiry that a cornet in the band had bought the clock
for his wife on the way to the rehearsal, and how he had escaped
detection, with the bag, and run the gauntlet of the fifty policemen
who were guarding the Abbey I never quite knew. If a rumour of my
discovery had got into the papers, I do not think the Queen would have
come to the Abbey; as it was, I might have made my fortune by giving a
nice little account of it to the Press.
"That is my only experience of dynamite. Graves died safely in bed a
short time ago, and when I sent a wreath to his funeral, I thought of
the episode of the bag, for to the day of his death, he used to say,
'You very nearly blew me up that time, sir!'"
Quite recently Sir Frederick has married again for the third time.
[Illustration: KUBELIK. 1903.]
[Illustration: SIR FREDERICK BRIDGE. 1904.]
[Illustration: PADEREWSKI. 1899.]
Most people are unaware that the late W. S. Penley was a clever
musician, and had a remarkably fine organ in his house which he
delighted in playing; also that he was a choir boy. I saw him in his
inimitable and famous part in "Charley's Aunt" several times, and one
could hardly realize he could have worn a serious look or had a quiet
side to his character. When he stood to me in my studio, I was
attempting to catch a certain expression that I knew was very
characteristic of him. I ran backwards and forwards, to quickly seize
the look and convey it to my paper, and staggering backwards once too
often in my forgetfulness and interest, I went head over heels over my
rug. Penley did not stop laughing for some minutes and said when I had
recovered (and he had!), "I shall not forget _that_, it was too
funny--and when I play the part of an artist, I shall put your little
accident and incidental business in."
But not very long afterwards he retired from the stage and death
claimed him before the opportunity came.
I have always been treated with the greatest possible kindness by
members of the theatrical profession, and I cannot speak too highly of
the aid they have given me when occasion called for it.
It only seems the other day since I caricatured Sir Herbert Tree in
1890, when he looked a slim young man with a remarkably sleek figure.
I think it was in the _Red Lamp_ that a lady who had seen Tree's first
performance in the part prophesied his enormous future, and told me
she considered he would win a position on the stage that would rival
Irving's, but no doubt the same idea entered other heads.
Quite recently Sir Herbert presented me with his book, which is quite
unique amongst the literary efforts written by the members of his
profession, and is well worth study, as he jokingly impressed upon me
at the time, adding that no man should consider his life completed
unless he read it before he died. Which reminded me of Bulwer Lytton
who told me that no young man's education was complete who had not
read Scott through and through.
I first met Max Beerbohm quite a long time ago when I was at the
"Mitre" (Oxford), when Julius Beerbohm happened to be staying there
also and he invited me to dine with him, adding:--
"I want you to meet Max Beerbohm, my half-brother, because I should
particularly like you to see some most amusing caricatures that he has
drawn, and which I think you will appreciate," and I did. "Max" has
now a world-wide reputation in caricature and in letters; then he was
an undergraduate and invited me to lunch in his rooms, when he showed
me many of his humorous sketches.
The Kendals I have known since I was a boy, and I was first introduced
to them at the house of the late Mr. Augustus Dubourg, then an
official in the House of Lords, and joint author, with Tom Taylor, of
_New Men and Old Acres_, in which they played. Their retirement from
the stage, which was not advertised in any way or accompanied by the
usual "benefit," was one of the greatest losses, in my opinion, that
the stage has known, for Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson), who was a
sister of Robertson the author of _School_, etc., is one of the most
beautiful and consummate artistes England has ever produced. William
Kendal himself, would even now, almost fill the part of a young man on
the stage, for with him years do not tell us a tale of age.
If I were to relate all the anecdotes that I have heard of Henry
Kemble (or the "beetle" as he was known) I might yarn for ever. For
instance, on one occasion the tax collector called on Kemble for the
Queen's taxes, "Quite an unusual tax," said Kemble; but after much
discussion he found he had to pay. "Very well," he said to the
collector, "I will pay just this once but pray inform Her Majesty
from me that she must not look upon me as a permanent source of
income."
Some of Charlie Brookfield's stories were very funny. He also drew a
series of caricatures of Kemble as a special constable, in which
capacity he was enlisted in a time of riots. There is a story "Brooks"
used to tell of Kemble. He and Kemble were returning from a theatre
one evening when they observed a large crowd gathered round the
Mansion House. Dismissing their cab, they prepared to join in the fun,
if there was to be any, and on approaching, found Sir Charles Dilke
was speaking from a window. As they had arrived somewhat late and the
speech was nearly over, their interest was not excited, nor did they
comprehend the gist of the matter. Here and there rough-looking men
commented aloud with decided emphasis, sometimes for and sometimes
against the speaker, when Brookfield, in a mischievous mood, thought
he would add his comment to the next remark.
"What abart the dockers!" he roared, choosing his words quite at
random, with his hand to his mouth, in loud imitation of his audience.
"Yus--what abart the dockers," shouted a navvy next to him, and
immediately pandemonium followed, Brookfield's hat being squashed in,
his coat ripped up, and a few minutes later, two very dishevelled
actors emerged from the _melée_, wondering vaguely why "the dockers"
had proved such a sore point!
When I made my drawing of Sir Edgar Boehm, the famous sculptor, I
depicted him working in a characteristic attitude upon his bust of
Ruskin, which was in the rough clay and half finished. He was engaged
also at the time upon a bust of Queen Victoria, to whom he was
"Sculptor in Ordinary." Imagine my surprise when I received the
following letter from Sir Edgar:--
"Feb. 2nd, 1881.
"DEAR MR. WARD,
"... Did you hear that the Queen when she saw your excellent
portrait of me was under the impression that Ruskin's bust was
meant for one of herself! till some time after the mistake was
pointed out to H.M. I have heard it now from three different
people who know, else I should not have believed that we could be
for one instant suspected of being disloyal....
"Yours sincerely,
"J. E. Boehm."
Very shortly after the deaths of Boehm, Millais, and Leighton (who
died within a very short time of one another) it interested me to
visit their tombs in St. Paul's, and I was almost staggered when I
beheld on Sir Edgar Boehm's tomb a crude reproduction in brass of my
_Vanity Fair_ cartoon! Some time after I met Linley Sambourne (who was
a particular friend of his), and when I asked him if he knew who was
the designer, he replied, "His son--I thought you were aware of that.
Have you never heard that Sir Edgar said that he should never give any
friend his photograph in future, but always send the Vanity Fair
representation of himself instead."
The sketch of George du Maurier I made for him while he was busily
engaged at his drawing-table illustrating _Trilby_.
[Illustration: SIR EDGAR BOEHM, BART., R.A. 1881.]
[Illustration: _From the brass on Sir Edgar Boehm's tomb in St. Paul's
Cathedral. The idea evidently was suggested, though without my
knowledge, by the cartoon here reproduced._]
I also made a caricature of his son, Gerald du Maurier, for _Vanity
Fair_, who told me that Dana Gibson in his early days had such a great
admiration for his father's work that he had founded his own largely
from its study. When the two artists met many years after in London,
du Maurier, who was not only a great artist but a man of singularly
sweet and generous disposition, paid Dana Gibson the compliment of
telling him that if, as a student, he had used him as a guide the
follower had certainly outstripped the leader. The story reflects the
modesty and generosity of George du Maurier, but, of course, it does
not follow that this view is taken by the public.
Rudyard Kipling, being thoroughly accustomed to studios, was at once
at home in mine, and was so engrossing in his conversation with Oliver
Fry (the then editor of _Vanity Fair_) that it was all that I could do
to stick to my sketch, and not give myself up entirely to listening to
his interesting and amusing stories. I watched him, however, and took
him in his most humorous mood.
In the case of the late Poet Laureate, Mr. Alfred Austin, I required
but a tiny scrap of paper to take my notes. It was at his charming
house, Swinford Old Manor, which is surrounded by the garden that he
loved and in which we strolled. His dress was that of a country squire
and not that of a long-haired poet. He stood but a few feet high.
William Black, the novelist (who was also small in stature), was very
modest and cheerful. I represented him in waders with a large salmon
rod, for being a Scot he was an expert with it. His deep-red
complexion and dark eyes surrounded by thick-rimmed spectacles
conduced to the making of an effective cartoon.
Mr. Thomas Hardy was not talkative as a sitter, but he was pleasant.
In appearance he did not present the idea of the typical literary
man: his clothes had a sporting touch about them.
I believe that one of my most popular character-portraits was that of
W. E. Henley, the poet who looked more like an Australian bush-ranger
than a follower of the winged Muse. He was brought to my studio by Mr.
Charles Whibley, the well-known writer. In consequence of his lameness
he sat, and he told capital stories of Whistler and other interesting
characters.
Mr. Egerton Castle posed splendidly in his rich brown velvet fencing
costume with foil in hand, and looked so self-confident and certain of
victory that one might have thought that he was concocting a plot for
a new story of romance.
I must not close this note on authors without a word of tribute to the
old-fashioned charm and courtesy of Samuel Smiles, who presented me
with a copy of his famous book, "Self-Help."
I find that my earliest recollections of the stage are also the
keenest, and the acting I saw in my youth seems to have made the most
lasting impression. The stage world was, of course, much more limited
in its dimensions in those days, and the few representatives of genius
were nearer and, perhaps in consequence, seemingly greater than in
later years, when of all the ministers of delight it must be
acknowledged that the actor gives most pleasure to the greatest number
of people.
As a youth I was fond of attending first nights, and continued to be
present at them whenever I had the chance, until by degrees I came to
the conclusion that although a first night was amusing in many ways I
preferred not to risk a failure, but to wait for the play that I knew
was worth seeing.
[Illustration: 1909. SIR HENRY LUCY.]
[Illustration: W. E. HENLEY. 1892.]
[Illustration: 1881. W. S. GILBERT.]
[Illustration: RUDYARD KIPLING. 1894.]
The Sir Peter Teazle of old William Farren will always last in my
memory, and I recollect it from my youth.
Of course I used to enjoy, of all things, the old Prince of Wales's
Theatre under the management of Bancroft and Mrs. Bancroft, whose
truly great acting, especially in the Robertson plays, was indeed a
delight. Earlier than that, too, I remember how deeply I was impressed
with the acting of the elder Boucicault and his wife in those vivid
dramatic representations of Irish life, _The Colleen Bawn_ and _The
Shaughran_. In private life the feelings of this old and distinguished
actor on the subject of Home Rule were identical with that of Redmond
at the present time, and he did not hesitate to express them.
Sir Charles Wyndham, our veteran actor, of whom we are most justly
proud, seems to have one leg in the past and the other in the present,
so unconscious of the passing years and full of life and power does he
still seem on those occasions on which the public have the opportunity
of watching this favourite of several generations of playgoers. The
peculiarly low-pitch of the voice with its pleasing upward gradation,
the finished manner, the sympathetic attraction, all these qualities
have ever belonged to Wyndham. Of course, I saw him many times in
David Garrick, the play through which he is best known, but there are
many parts in modern comedy wherein he stands alone, for instance, in
_Mrs. Dane's Defence_, the play in which Miss Lena Ashwell won her
first laurels.
I consider myself particularly fortunate in being able to count Mr.
Leo Trevor among my friends. I caricatured him for _Vanity Fair_ in a
straw hat and the Zingari colours. He is the cheeriest of good
fellows--his bright and happy smile is particularly characteristic of
the nature of the man, who, in spite of the fact that he is so much
sought after, always remains unspoilt. The public probably knows him
best through his most popular play, _The Flag Lieutenant_, which,
coming as it did just after the Boer War, appealed to the sympathy and
patriotism of all. The author was particularly fortunate in being able
to portray his creation of the Major through the genius of Mr. Cyril
Maude. Under the mirth and mirth-provoking art of this gifted actor
there always runs that magic touch which has been defined as "serious
without being earnest!" In character parts, especially those
associated with the typical old gentleman, he is of course,
incomparable, but whether he is cast for an old or a young or a
middle-aged part he can always draw the smiles and the tears of his
audience. Of course, when sketching him I was most anxious to catch
his characteristic expression which can only be caught through his
smile.
When Mr. William Gillette sat for me in dressing-gown and pipe, I did
not have to request him to smile, for a serious and contemplative gaze
was quite in keeping with his _róle_ of Sherlock Holmes. During our
conversation he asked me if I could recommend a good tobacco, because
the brand he smoked on the stage burnt his tongue. I suggested "Log
Cabin," and at our next meeting asked if he had acted on my
recommendation, and if he found the result satisfactory; but "Log
Cabin," in spite of its merits and mildness, was not suitable for
dramatic service as it took too long to light.
Like another successful actor of modern times, Arthur Bourchier began
acting when at Oxford. After he left the University he used to play
as a member of the company known as the "Old Stagers" at Canterbury
during the cricket week. When he talked of taking his hobby seriously
and becoming a professional actor he was considerably chaffed by his
friends; but he got the best of the laugh, as from his first
appearance on the legitimate stage he did well, and was not long in
proving himself one of the most powerful actors of the day.
My old friend, Allan Aynesworth, was another amateur who went on the
stage with full confidence, although he had less experience than
Arthur Bourchier. However, he made a great success, and won for
himself a foremost place in the esteem of the public. He is a beau
ideal of "an officer and a gentleman" with a touch of the hero thrown
in. I understand that besides being a popular actor he is an excellent
producer of plays.
When I started to sketch Charlie Hawtrey he looked almost glum, and
the only thing to help me out in conveying a humorous impression
seemed to be his characteristic habit of stroking his head with his
hand. I asked him to think of something funny, and the result seemed
to work so well that I begged him to share the joke, but he left it
secret under the pretext that it was too silly to tell.
With the Grossmiths talent seems hereditary; the younger George
Grossmith, son of the original G. G., is already a fountain of fun for
modern playgoers, and my old friend, Weedon Grossmith, is an actor who,
whenever he has had a part to suit him, has proved himself to be an
inimitable and a thorough artist which, by the way, he is in more senses
than one. One of his best parts is the _Duke of Killiecrankie_, in
which his witty and delightful personality gets full play.
H. B. Irving, through his very strong resemblance to his distinguished
father, seems almost to be a link with the past. He has inherited Sir
Henry's charm of manner and the sunny sudden smile which one remembers
so well, also his immense power of concentration. He is a keen student
of facial expression, and like the late W. S. Gilbert seeks his types
in the criminal law courts. One whom experience has convinced of the
truth of the phrase, "New times, new manners," may be permitted to
make the comment, "New times, new plays." Outside the shadow of his
great father's great, but somewhat gruesome plays, it is difficult to
say what his son may not accomplish.
Writing of H. B. Irving reminds one that W. L. Courtney was a don at
Oxford when H. B. was an undergraduate there, and that the
distinguished writer and critic had a great opinion of the young
actor's talent. Courtney has a particularly dry sense of humour, and
he is so engrossing in conversation that when he does go to the
Garrick or Beefsteak Clubs late at night, few other members who happen
to be there will leave before him.
Another excellent fellow, who for a time was an amusing and clever
actor, is Willie Elliot. He has a natural gift for story-telling and
his Scotch stories are inimitable. As an actor, he was for some time
quite a success, and created the part of "Deedes, the gifted author,"
in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, afterwards played by "Charlie" Little, and
he was also strikingly good in the _Little Minister_. The late C. P.
Little was a most delightful creature who is best described as
Society's Impressario. When Little left the stage he started to
chronicle the doings of Society, and was so much in it that he became
a part of it. His entire attention was concentrated on the
constitution, influence, and the events of Society, and he knew every
detail relating to its proceedings, manners, and whims. In his unique
part he was a complete success, and always an acquisition.
FROM NURSERY RHYME SKETCHES, 1867.
[Illustration: "_The father gone a-hunting._"]
[Illustration: "_The mother gone to buy a skin To wrap the Baby
Bunting in._"]
[Illustration: RT. HON. "BOBBY" LOW _amused by seeing himself with
others in the Ministry represented on the stage at the Court Theatre
in a burlesque called the "Happy Land." I sat next him._]
[Illustration: MR JUSTICE A. T. LAWRENCE (_A study_).]
[Illustration: DANCKWERTS, K.C. (_Study_).]
[Illustration: THE LATE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE COCKBURN. (_Sketched in
Court during Tichbourne Trial._)]
[Illustration: A smile from Nature. (Study.)]
[Illustration: HENRY IRVING _as "Shylock._"]
Mr. Henry Arthur Jones usually rode to the theatre, and as I found him
conducting a rehearsal of the _Bauble Shop_ in riding-kit I sketched
him in it with a hunting-crop in one hand and a book of the play in
the other, which reminds me of another subject who wished to be
painted in "boots and breeches," and turned up at my studio in a pair
of the latter that had evidently been worn in earlier days, for they
appeared to irk him somewhat round the knees. After he had been
standing for a considerable length of time, I asked him to rest, as I
always prefer to give my sitters as little trouble and fatigue as
possible. But he did not move, and finally when I asked him again he
remarked rather ruefully:--
"Either I shall have to go on standing for ever or I shall fall over,
for I'm paralysed by these breeches." So I had to treat him like a lay
figure and liberate each limb and rub it until the circulation was
restored.
Another sitter was an undergraduate in training for the 'Varsity
boat-race. I have found men of this rowing calibre usually wonderful
sitters, being perfectly fit; this particular young man was in
excellent form, so much so that he completely outstood me and said
when I, at last, begged him to have a rest:--
"Why I can go on standing all day without fatigue!"
The following is an amusing but somewhat embarrassing contretemps
which befell me at an afternoon party. I was greeted on arrival by my
hostess's young and effusive daughter whose father I had just
cartooned in _Vanity Fair_ and who introduced me to an old lady,
exclaiming:--
"This is Mr. Leslie Ward.... I should say the great Mr. Leslie Ward!"
whereupon the old lady raised her lorgnettes and gazed severely
through them at me, and then turning to the young lady remarked
somewhat ironically, "I think perhaps in future you'd better label
your guests." I felt inclined to sink into the floor, especially when
I viewed the embarrassment of my young hostess, and then the cold gaze
of the lady.... I have often wondered since whether I had caricatured
her husband.
Artists have not been entirely ignored in _Vanity Fair_; Gustave Doré
was a willing victim, and gave me good opportunities of watching him
in a studio in London while at work, but eventually I represented him
as I first saw him, in dress clothes. I nearly fell over his sketches
on the floor, for they were so thickly spread about everywhere.
Somewhere about the same period I did Whistler, who was an excellent
subject, but his unlimited peculiarities lay more in his gesture and
speech and habits. I never went to a social function at which he was
present without hearing his caustic, nasal little laugh,
"Ha-ha-ho-ho-he-he" raised at the wrong moment. For instance, when a
song was being sung in a drawing-room, or when a speech was being made
at a public dinner. At the same time there was something quite
irresistible about the fascination of the man. He lived in a house in
Tite Street on the Chelsea Embankment where there was a charming
garden, and every one who had the opportunity breakfasted with him
when invited, although the menu usually consisted of a sardine and a
cup of coffee. His wife, who was the widow of Godwin, the architect,
was a charming woman, and he simply adored her; in fact he so much
felt her death that he was never the same high-spirited man after.
[Illustration: handwritten note]
_À propos_ of public dinners, I am reminded of Walter Crane, whose
name I always shall hold in grateful memory, because he saved me from
that most detestable task, at least to me, a public speech. We were
invited as representatives of art to the Company of Patten Makers, the
Lord Mayor being present, and I was suddenly told in the middle of a
pheasant course, that I should be expected to speak, a piece of
information that agitated me considerably, but was much relieved when
Crane, who sat next to me, took the burden off my shoulders, and
saved the situation very cleverly indeed.
F. Carruthers Gould, with his bushy eyebrows, I frequently came in
contact with in the precincts of the House of Commons where we were
both engrossed in making mental notes of our subjects. I have a great
admiration for his work in which he has expressed the views of his
party with admirable spirit in some of the finest cartoons of the age.
Many people are unaware he was originally a member of the Stock
Exchange, but he was not born for that business, although in it he saw
ample opportunity for caricature. It was there that he made a
startling cartoon in which he represented the Members of the Stock
Exchange as the animals coming out of the Ark two by two, in a truly
humorous manner, and this made his reputation. I have always admired
the way in which he introduced birds into his caricatures, and on one
occasion remarked to him how beautifully, and with what thorough
knowledge, he drew them; and he then informed me that he was the
nephew of the great ornithologist, Gould, and had been brought up
among birds from his earliest youth. His political cartoons are most
humorously conceived and carried out, although we know which side he
favours in politics.
A stray anecdote occurs to me, as I write, of the very artistic but
eccentric Louisa Lady Ashburton, a gifted lady who knew most of the
really great literary and artistic people of her age, and counted many
others, such as Watts and Carlyle, her intimates. My mother, who knew
her very well, painted several interiors of her residence, Kent House,
Knightsbridge, in one of which a striking portrait of her figured. But
my story is chiefly concerned with the exacting old lady from whom I
received a letter through her secretary (previous to my introduction
to her), saying, "She had taken a fancy to a pencil-sketch of mine, of
a child that she had seen, and that if I would lunch with her, at a
day and hour mentioned, we could discuss the possibility of my making
a portrait of her little grandson." The day arrived and with it a
thick fog--for it was in November--I called upon the lady at the time
stated in her letter, and was informed that she was out. After waiting
some little time, I took myself off for a short while; had lunch
elsewhere and returned about three o'clock, and was more fortunate
this time, for I was announced into the dining-room, where I found
Lady Ashburton and her lady secretary at lunch, to which they had just
sat down. I was much astonished, after being requested to take a seat
at the table, to receive rather a strong glare from my hostess, with
the query, "Who is he?" to her secretary.
"This is Mr. Leslie Ward; don't you remember the letter I wrote at
your request asking him to lunch to-day?"
Whereupon the forgetful lady remembered, and asked me promptly to have
a glass of port. Afterwards we went to the drawing-room, where the
little boy was sent for and I was requested to begin the drawing there
and then, and upon my remarking that the light was too bad owing to
the fog, and that I should be very pleased to make a mental study of
the child before I began my portrait upon a brighter day, she observed
that she quite understood from me that I had come to make the drawing,
and said it was perfectly easy to draw by lamp-light, so I wasn't
allowed out of the house before I had started. Then I found her
ladyship, although considerably advanced in years, was still a student
of drawing, for she produced the cast of a head and was getting ready
to copy it. I was straining my eyes in attempting to draw the little
boy, while she was endeavouring to place the cast in position and
soliciting my attention to her work at frequent intervals.
When finally the pencil sketch of her small grandson was completed, as
it was after a second sitting by daylight, I received the most
delightful letter of appreciation and thanks from her ladyship, which
I have kept to this day. Soon after my mother urged me to attend a
special exhibition at the School of Art Needlework in which she was
interested, and the first person I saw on entering was old Lady
Ashburton. I went up to her and began to thank her for her welcome
appreciation of my small drawing, and again she looked at me with
astonishment and wonder. "Who are you?... I don't know you," she said.
This time I did not hesitate to enlighten her. "Oh," she smiled in
remembrance, "Go and find Miss Phillimore; I want to speak to her."
CHAPTER XV
NOTABLE PEERS--TANGIER--THE TECKS
Peers of the Period.--My Voyage to Tangier.--Marlborough House
and White Lodge.
In 1880, the new premises of _The Daily Telegraph_ were opened in
Fleet Street. It will be remembered that the paper was originated by
Mr. J. M. Levy. When he had made _The Daily Telegraph_ a great
permanent institution he retired from the toil of journalism and left
the control and organising power to his son, the present Lord Burnham,
who maintained its reputation, and at the time of the opening ceremony
of the new offices in Fleet Street it was undoubtedly the most popular
newspaper of the day. The Prince of Wales and Prince Leopold were
present among the very distinguished and representative assembly to
honour Sir Edward Lawson, and assist at the celebration of an
interesting occasion.
When the guests began to move about and conversation became general, I
had opportunity to observe the different people, and my eye was
immediately attracted to old Lord Houghton (Monckton-Milnes). He had
come on from a state banquet, and was dressed in the uniform of a
Deputy-Lieutenant which was ludicrously ill-fitting, the tunic rucked
up in many folds, whilst the trousers, which were much too long, hung
also in folds; on his head he wore a black skull cap, which seemed
strangely at variance with his patent leather boots, and he carried a
very long stick with a crutch handle. As he moved to and fro among the
guests, his odd appearance was accentuated by the occasional contrast
of the immaculately groomed contingent, and on this occasion the
poet-peer was truly a figure of fun.
I was not alone in my observations, as while I was still gazing at him
the Prince of Wales came up to me and remarked what a splendid
opportunity was before me of making a good caricature of Lord
Houghton, and that I should never have a better. Immediately after and
quite unaware that the subject had already been broached, Prince
Leopold came to me with the same suggestion.
After the royal party had returned from supper, I noticed the Prince
of Wales and Lord Houghton in deep conversation. Lady Lawson, having
been let into the secret of the intended caricature, found me a
convenient place near one of the pillars, where I watched him
unobserved. Of course H.R.H. was amused to see our manoeuvres.
Meanwhile, Lord Houghton was, judging from his expression, telling a
wicked story to the Prince, and leant forward so that it should not be
heard by those near. As he approached the point he became convulsed
with laughter, and drawing still nearer, in his eagerness to make it
understood, he slid to the end of the chair, and was about to whisper
it to the Prince when the cushion, which was not fixed, gave way, and
he fell to the floor with his legs in the air. The Prince of Wales
picked him up, and looked at me, as much as to say, "Here is your
chance." So that I went away with two ideas in my head, one of the
entry in the wonderful uniform, and the other of the episode of
falling off the chair. I made my caricatures in full colour and
presented them in due course to the Princes, the Prince of Wales being
very much amused to find that the same idea had occurred to them both,
and I received a letter of thanks and full appreciation. Not long
after, on going into the Beefsteak Club, I found the sole occupants of
the room were Prince Leopold and Whistler, who was monopolising the
Prince's attention by reading aloud extracts from a letter he was
concocting, with the intention of administering a sound snubbing to a
tradesman who had sent in an exorbitant bill. Jimmy, who was priding
himself far more on his literary composition than the creation of one
of his masterpieces, was chuckling over the pungent satire and barbed
phrase with obvious appreciation, but the Prince was looking a little
bored, and, by way of changing the subject, he turned to me and said
that he had only just received the caricature of Lord Houghton, and
how delighted he was with it.
An altogether very different type of peer was the old Marquis of
Winchester, hereditary bearer of the Cap of Maintenance, whose office
it is to carry the Cap on state occasions, such as the Opening of
Parliament. On the last occasion on which Queen Victoria opened
Parliament in person, I recollect this Marquis, who was the last
remaining representative of the old Georgian type of beau, and of most
picturesque appearance, make a striking figure in the group. It was
the only occasion on which I was present at the ceremony, and I
remember that as the Queen was going up the steps of the throne, she
slipped.
In the early spring of 1882, having a troublesome cough which I could
not shake off, I was ordered to take a trip to Tangier.
It was indeed a novel idea to me, having travelled so little, to see
so primitive and interesting a place as it had been described to me,
and with a portfolio of unfinished _Vanity Fair_ cartoons to complete
while away, I set off on a P. and O. for Gibraltar. I arrived there in
a dense mist, which, however, passed off in a few hours.
I had a letter of introduction to Colonel Whitaker, who was in command
of the Artillery at this time, and having ascertained that there was
no boat to take me to Tangier for two or three days, I promptly
presented my letter, which was answered with equal promptitude,
inviting me to dine at the regimental mess on the following evening.
I, of course, accepted, and had a thoroughly good time. Next day I
called upon him at one of the charming villas on the Rock, to thank
him for his hospitality.
Anxious to be in the warm and sunny clime of Africa, I now lost no
time in getting on board a paddle-boat of sorts for my destination. I
didn't like the look of the morning, for it was not one that I had
pictured to myself as being appropriate to the occasion. When we were
under way, I noticed a depressing-looking group of Moors huddled up
together, who, as the vessel proceeded, grew very ill indeed, and this
didn't enliven matters. On arriving in the Bay of Tangier, the
passengers were landed in small boats, their baggage being seized from
them, regardless of instructions, by a collection of officious Moors,
who followed them with the porters to their respective hotels.
[Illustration: LORD NEWLANDS. 1909.]
[Illustration: COUNT DE SOVERAL. (_Late Portuguese Minister_). 1898.]
[Illustration: M. GENNADILTS (_Greek Minister in England for 30
years_). 1888.]
The proprietor of the Continental, Ansaldo by name, was quite a
personality and looked after his visitors with the greatest interest,
especially those who were likely to make a prolonged stay in his
hotel. Evidently anxious to make me at home, he immediately introduced
me to a young doctor who was permanently staying in the hotel, and who
"knew the ropes," and he was quite a good fellow and very useful in
showing me the way about.
My disappointment regarding the weather led me to inquire of him if it
was at all usual to see such dull skies in Tangier, and how long the
drizzling rain was likely to last. The answer came promptly, "Wait and
see," and I did for a week, when the sun appeared in its full glory
and everything was _couleur de rose_ for a long time to come.
Having a letter of introduction to Mr. White (the Consul), I lost
little time in calling upon him, and after ringing at the bell of the
Consulate and giving instructions for its safe delivery, I was shown
into the drawing-room. He was evidently occupied at the time, so I had
to wait. At last he came in, and to my astonishment handed me the
letter back, saying, "I think there is some mistake."
Being much puzzled as to what he meant, I took it out of the envelope
and read as follows (as nearly as I can remember):--
"DEAR MR. WARD,
"Mind when presenting the letter of introduction to Mr. White you
make out that you are an intimate friend of mine, and be careful
in speaking of me to call me by my Christian name, Maughan,
pronounced like Vaughan. He is a good chap and will be useful to
you, especially if he thinks you are a great pal of mine,"
etc....!
Imagine my feelings, which were indescribable; with awkward apologies
I beat a hasty retreat. Afterwards I had the face to send Mr. White
the right letter, the result being that while I was sketching in the
market-place next morning, he politely came up to me, and later on I
received an invitation to dine at his house, so all ended well.
Having made a "_faux-pas_," there was nothing now left but to forget
it, so, under the guidance of new acquaintances, I sallied forth in
pursuit of pastures new. The Socco or market-place first of all
appealed to me as a subject for my water-colour brush, and from the
hill (taking it all in) I made my first sketch which, on my return
home, Sargent happened to see and complimented me upon. The
picturesque groups of women in strange straw hats, and the Moors in
their Jhelabs, the camels, snake-charmers, and the ebony-coloured men
from Timbuctoo, were all something to feast one's eyes upon. Again,
the occasional saint (mad-man) and the strings of blind beggars were a
novelty to the stranger's eye.
In the town, what struck me first was the persistent way in which
these blind people followed one about in pursuit of coppers; many of
them I was told had their eyes simmered for some quite paltry offence
and in consequence were doomed for life. An occasional leper, too, one
came across, but he was despicable beyond description in the eyes of
his fellow-creatures.
Becoming by degrees used to the first impressions, and beginning to
generalise on the surroundings, the desire came upon me to see
something of the country, and for this purpose the hiring of a barb or
mule was indispensable.
Mr. Harris (_The Times_ correspondent) and my doctor friend were
extremely kind in showing me round at first, and with their aid and
advice I soon got to know my way about. The latter escorted me in the
evenings to the different haunts of vice, the Kieffe dens, where men
were lying sometimes unconscious from excessive abuse of the drug
(which was smoked in a small pipe), or to a rather low Spanish music
hall of a not refined or elevating character; and to while away the
time, I learnt to know how these people enjoyed their leisure hours.
I have no desire to bore my readers, with detailed descriptions of the
various weird and picturesque ceremonies that constantly engross the
attention of European visitors in Tangier, although I feel sorely
tempted while speaking of them to go on. "Sumurun" and "Kismet"
illustrate them far better than I can do, and there are many
well-written books on the subject.
My companion now suggested what he thought would best give me an idea
of the surrounding country and coast scenery, viz. a ride to Cape
Spartel[9] Lighthouse. I assented, and we hired the mules.
The view all along the route was certainly very engrossing; but at
certain altitudes, looking down on the sea, I felt as though I must
fall over into the abyss below, it being so precipitous! However, we
reached our destination in safety and I was well rewarded by the
panorama that surrounded us. After dismounting and taking refreshment,
a Moor approached with what appeared to be--rather uncanny--a
full-grown scorpion. After marking, with a piece of stick, a circular
line on the ground he proceeded to cover it with red-hot ashes, and
when this wall of charcoal was completed, to place the wretched
scorpion within the circle. Naturally, it did its utmost to escape,
but, growing weary in its attempts, arched its tail over its back and
stung itself to death. This was termed suicide, but I fear the
scorching was the cause, although it retired well into the middle of
the circle first. The performance, although curious, was distinctly
not edifying.
About now I was lucky enough to make the acquaintance of an English
merchant--Mr. Stanbury--from Birmingham who annually visited Morocco.
He knew the country and the people and could speak their language, and
not only was he a useful travelling companion, but a very nice fellow
to boot. As he was starting on a business visit to Tetuan, and invited
me to come with him, I took this exceptional advantage of joining him,
as I heard it was a place that an artist would revel in.
We were most unlucky in the day we selected to start, for it rained
incessantly. I wore a common Moorish Jhelab, which, being full of
grease, protected me from the damp. A soldier and muleteer accompanied
us, and notwithstanding that we were well mounted, our journey was not
all my fancy pictured. It is about a sixty-mile ride, and although we
plodded on, the ground was so heavy that it was useless to attempt to
get into the town that night. We therefore stopped half-way at the
Fondak where the cattle are housed, at four in the afternoon. The rain
showing no signs of ceasing, we put up for the night.
After being served with hot coffee and brandy from a primitive bar, we
lay down on straw mats which apparently had not been shaken for
months. My friend, as the time went on, being evidently used to an
emergency of this kind, calmly went to sleep; I, on the other hand,
being attacked by an army of fleas, did not get any rest before two
o'clock, when I fell into a deep slumber from which I found it
difficult to awake. As we had to make a start at three, I pulled
myself together, but in the hurry left my gold wrist-watch behind me.
The annexe adjoining the bar was occupied by the proprietor, his wife,
and a coffee boy.
We were soon in our saddles, escorted as before, and entered the gates
of the city, where the consul with others were in readiness to receive
us. We entered a mansion, and I was puzzled to know whether it was a
hotel or the Consulate, as the consul conducted us there. He was an
Eastern of sorts, that was certain, and one who was evidently
acclimatized to bad drainage, for I nearly choked as I was shown my
room. Upon realizing the absence of my watch, the soldier lost little
time in going back for it, but not finding it, brought back the
proprietor of the Fondak as a suspect.
Next morning I rose feeling very "chippy," but being somewhat
refreshed after partaking of a light breakfast, proceeded to the
outskirts of the town with my sketch-book, where I discovered some
picturesque bits.
On returning to my hotel I found a summons to give evidence in a case
of alleged robbery. The law court to which I was taken was presided
over by two picturesque elderly judges in the purest of white robes
and equally clean turbans. Our party was fully represented. The man
professed complete innocence of having even seen the watch, so
meanwhile he was kept under surveillance.
The effect of the poisonous atmosphere I had imbibed in my lodging
began to tell on my health, so I determined to get out of it and cut
short my otherwise interesting visit.
I was now on my homeward journey, and having conveyed my instructions
to the escort, viz. that if he should fail to extract a confession
from the man (who then had his arms bound with cord), he was to
trouble no more about him and leave him at the Fondak. About this the
soldier seems to have taken no heed and was obdurate, and upon
arriving there, arrested the coffee-coloured coffee boy as well, and
marched the two of them into Tangier. Although this annoyed me and I
tried to remonstrate at the time, I was powerless in the matter. On
arriving in Tangier, however, very tired, I was only too glad to
dismiss them from my mind and give orders that they should be at once
liberated, while I came to the conclusion that the woman was the
guilty party after all.
After the first ten days of North African air, my cough had gone, so
that I was quite able to appreciate the change of scene, the white
buildings, the coloured people, the superb vegetation, the mosques
(but not the mosquitoes, as the latter worried me terribly); and by
degrees the fascination of the climate, the atmosphere of romance and
adventure surrounding the interesting race amongst whom I was living,
took hold of me. My artistic sense was being constantly appealed to,
and everywhere I saw a picture awaiting my brush. The Arabs and Moors,
in their picturesque dresses, were to me extraordinarily attractive,
with their magnificent physique and bearing, and especially the
letter-carriers with their finely moulded ankles and feet with perfect
straight toes. At Tangier I was fortunate enough to behold two of the
most beautiful pictures I have ever seen. I was walking in the bay
one evening, watching the sun set like a ball of fire, dipping into a
sea that shimmered with a thousand opalescent reflections as the
wavelets rippled to my feet, when I came upon a group of swarthy,
naked fishermen hauling in their nets, which were full of leaping fish
that scintillated iridescently. With strong fine movements the men
drew them in, some standing in the water, others on the shore, their
bodies wet with the water that rolled off their mahogany skins in
pearly drops. At each movement of their superb limbs, the play of
muscle attracted my eye, and as they turned, their bodies bathed in
the amber light, I saw a multitude of scales from the fish clinging to
their bodies, like so many sequins, gold in the sun and silver in the
colder light from the east. Spellbound, I watched them falling into
groups and alternating attitudes, which in themselves were
magnificent--an Arabian Nights dream and an ideal composition for the
painter who could depict the movement, colour, and light of a scene
that few men are lucky enough to behold. I shall never forget it and
never see such beauty again, for it is well-nigh impossible that
nature should repeat such perfection, with similar conspiracies of
light, shade, and shadow in exactly the same manner.
[Illustration: GENERAL SMITH-DORRIEN. 1911.]
[Illustration: LORD ROBERTS. 1900.]
[Illustration: LORD KITCHENER. 1899.]
Another scene I was privileged to witness from the balcony of my room
(which looked down on some rocks in the bay), where I was "lazing" in
the sun one morning, when I became aware of a picturesque group of
Moorish ladies who, with their maids, were preparing to disrobe by the
sea. The process was interesting because it was so astonishingly
beautiful; after removing their outer garment and yashmak, they
appeared in robes of every imaginable colour. Garment after garment
was divested in this manner, and each one more bewilderingly brilliant
than the other, gorgeous orange, green, or scarlet, contrasted with
the cool sea and the hot African sky, the rocks looming darkly in the
background, the soft sand at their feet; and presently when a bevy of
beautiful brown ladies stepped into the water, I saw a real Alma
Tadema picture without the inevitable marble, and all the added charm
of movement and the sky and the sea.
When my visit of five weeks was at an end, and professional duties had
to be thought of, I prepared for departure, and, accompanied by the
brothers Duff-Gordon and Ansaldo (the hotel proprietor), I journeyed
to Gibraltar, where Ansaldo had formerly been a big "boss," and was
still very popular. As the first race-meeting was being held, I
accepted his invitation to witness the sport, where he offered me
hospitality in his refreshment tent. At the end of a very jolly day,
Cosmo Duff-Gordon and his brother joined me at the hotel, they having
returned from the bull-ring in Algeciras; and the next day we were
homeward bound on the P. and O. for England.
* * * * *
One of the smartest figures in Society was Lord Portarlington, known
to his friends as "the Dasher." I drew him--and there was plenty of
him--smoking his very unusually large cigar, and not forgetting the
gardenia, which was in proportion.
_À propos_ of the choice of riding in a four-wheeler or a hansom, "the
Dasher" on one occasion played heavy lead in a cab drama in which the
third person and I took part in addition to the cabman and the crowd.
We were leaving the Beefsteak Club together one night when "the
Dasher" suggested that as we were all going the same way he should
give us a lift, so he hailed a four-wheeler and we drove off. He
directed the driver to go to Grosvenor Place, but the man mistook the
way and drove on. Lord Portarlington got up to direct the cabman, I
tried to stop him, fearing his weight was too great for the springs to
bear, but I was too late--they all gave way and over we went. The
third occupant was a long thin creature, whose boots I distinctly felt
on my back as he wormed his way out through the open window, which for
the time being was in place of the roof; then I felt myself being
hauled up and extricated just in time to see the cabman dragged from
under the horse, which directly he was freed from his harness bolted,
taking the greater part of the crowd in his wake. Meantime, Lord
Portarlington remained a prisoner in the cab; just then a man came up
to me not knowing I had been a victim in the accident, and looking at
me very earnestly as much as to say, "This is a sad case indeed," said
in a hushed voice, pointing to the overturned cab, "Do you know, sir,
there is somebody in there!" At last by the aid of several pairs of
strong arms acting in concert Lord Portarlington was dragged out, but
he felt the shock badly, and was laid up for two or three days.
It must have been at the end of the 'eighties when my drawing of M.
Gennadius, who has now been Greek Minister for over thirty years, was
published. He was quite willing that I should have ample opportunity
for observation, and we dined and spent a pleasant evening together
at his club.
In 1890 Prince George of Wales gave me the honour of a sitting at
Marlborough House. His Majesty even in those days was a good sitter,
and, like most naval men, was patient withal. He was very natural and
genial in his manner, and I remember we were walking round the room
and looking at the pictures by way of a little break in the monotony
of the sitting, when Queen Alexandra (then Princess of Wales) came
into the room to know how the sketch was progressing.
It was through Mr. Augustus Savile Lumley and my father that I first
became acquainted with the Duke of Teck, whom I had the privilege to
meet on several occasions. As he had learnt that the authorities on
_Vanity Fair_ were desirous of publishing his portrait, and also one
of Princess May in that journal, he called at my studio to talk the
matter over, and eventually it was decided that I should visit White
Lodge for the purpose of receiving sittings from both.
On the first occasion I hailed a hansom to drive down there, and it
was a coincidence that while directing the driver the nearest route he
stopped me and said, "I know the way, sir--I was for some time second
coachman there!" This was substantiated shortly after when I had
related the fact to Prince Adolphus, who went out to see him.
I found on entering that Princess May was prepared to sit, so Fraülein
Bricka, her former governess with whom I had corresponded, took me
into the drawing-room and presented me to her. The Princess, whom I
had previously seen, was at once charming in her manner, and although
I am sure those sittings were not a treat for her to look forward to,
she showed admirable patience throughout.
I was not, however, fated to start my drawing under good auspices. On
that occasion I had anticipated a sitting from the Duke of Teck and
not from the Princess May, and I had brought with me blue
rough-surfaced paper which I use for men's drawings, and which I knew
would be difficult as a foundation for the unusual delicacy and
brightness of the skin and complexion of my subject. I confided my
difficulty to Fraülein Bricka, and suggested that I should immediately
go into Richmond and bring back the paper suitable for the purpose,
but she thought that as the Princess was prepared to sit it would be
better to make the best of the materials I had at hand; and as she was
so anxious that everything should go well, I fell in with the idea.
On the occasion of the first sitting the Duchess paid an early visit
to see how the drawing progressed, and after a few observations
invited me to luncheon. Occasionally the Princes came in to break the
monotony of sitting for their sister.
The Duchess of Teck was a great favourite with the people wherever she
went. She had great natural dignity, sympathetic consideration for
others, and that charm of manner which puts every one else at ease. I
remember on one of my visits, H.R.H. had most kindly invited me to
luncheon on the occasion of the last sitting which I eventually
received from the Princess. I expressed my regret, and hoped I might
be excused on the plea that I had to go down to Newmarket, and she
with her usual graciousness at once assented. When I had finished my
last sitting the Duke came into the room, and, not knowing that I was
not able to remain, said, "Well, Ward, you're going to stay to lunch
of course." I replied that I regretted I was unavoidably prevented,
which H.R.H. was aware of.
"Very curious," he said, "since the Duchess has asked you to stay to
luncheon that you refuse." He went into her boudoir and came out
completely in understanding; and slapping me on the shoulder, said,
"Poor Ward. Poor Ward, I quite understand. I'm sorry you can't stay."
The Duchess followed him in. "You refused to stay to lunch," she said,
chaffingly, "but I am not going to let you off altogether. What shall
it be, you have only to say." So I thanked her and suggested some
sandwiches and a glass of sherry.
I proceeded to pack my paints and brushes, "Never mind about that,"
said the Duchess, "Prince Francis will do it for you, and the Princess
will help him." I attempted to protest, but the Duchess pointed to the
table saying, "I command you to sit down and eat your sandwiches and
drink your wine," and by the time I had refreshed myself, my
paraphernalia was packed.
As I left the family came into the hall to see me off, and as I was
getting into my cab the footman put into my hand a packet of
sandwiches with a direction from H.R.H. that I should eat them on the
way.
I was never pleased with the result of the drawing, and to my horror
in the end the printing was extremely unsatisfactory, and in spite of
the complimentary press notices that appeared I have always believed
that the sketch of the Princess was a failure. I felt the
disappointment the more, as there had been so much willingness and
kindness to help me make a successful drawing, and also I always
feared the Duchess shared my disappointment. She came in one afternoon
just towards the end of the sitting and looked for a long time at the
sketch, and then in her kindest voice said, "If I may make a
suggestion, Mr. Ward, the drawing is not pretty enough for the
Princess. It may be, perhaps, that I, like most mothers, have an
exaggerated idea of the good looks of my children, but I admire my
daughter very much, and I do not think at present the drawing does her
justice."
I was entirely of her opinion, and the strong points of the picture
should have been the colouring and the charm of expression.
When Prince Charles of Denmark (the present King of Norway) and his
elder brother first made their appearance before the British public, a
similar reception to that with which this chapter opens was given at
_The Daily Telegraph_ office by Lord Burnham. I, having that morning
received a sitting from Prince Charles at Marlborough House, had the
honour of meeting him again in the evening, when he presented me to
his brother, the present King of Denmark. I had already met their
father, who was Crown Prince of Denmark at the time. He, like all the
Danish royal family, had the great charm of simplicity, and talked
with very great pride and affection of his family, and he told me of
all that he had seen in England, Dr. Barnardo's home for boys had made
the greatest impression upon him.
On one occasion, when I was at work upon Prince Charles's portrait at
Marlborough House, we saw a dirigible balloon sailing by outside that
roused some discussion as to their possible utility in the future.
I remember his then saying with a laugh, that before long such things
would be no novelty, and that many of us would be flying about in the
air in the near future.
His words often recurred to me during the time I was making the
_Vanity Fair_ cartoon of that enthusiastic airman, Mr. Hedges Butler,
who stood for me in the car of his balloon, which was suspended from
the ceiling in my lofty studio, and remained in it all the time I
painted him.
CHAPTER XVI
MARRIAGE--SOME CLERICS--FAREWELL TO _VANITY FAIR_
My engagement and marriage to Miss Topham-Watney.--"Drawl"
and the Kruger cartoon.--"The General Group."--Field-Marshal
Lord Roberts.--Archbishops Temple and Randall Davidson.--The
Bishop of London.--Archbishop of York.--Canon Fleming.--Lord
Montagu of Beaulieu.--Lord Salisbury's cartoon.--Mr. Asquith.
--Joe Knight.--Lord Newlands.--Four great men in connection
with Canada.--The Queen of Spain.--Princess Beatrice of
Saxe-Coburg.--General Sir William Francis Butler, G.C.B.--Mr.
Witherby.--Farewell to _Vanity Fair_.
Among my lady friends during my bachelor days there was one who was
always telling me that I ought to marry and settle down, and in time I
began to think so myself. One day she informed me that she had found
the very girl. I was introduced to her, found her exceedingly
attractive, and shortly we met again at a luncheon-party. On this
occasion it was arranged that the whole party should drive down to the
Ranelagh Club, and it fell to my happy lot to escort her. I remember
on the road we discussed the types we each preferred, and although
neither fulfilled the ideal of the other it was quite a satisfactory
afternoon, and we met again frequently, previous to my visit to my
friend, Freddy Bentinck, at Brownsea Island. I had a glorious time
there, but when I got back to town and failed to see the announcement
of my marriage in _The Morning Post_, I hastened down into the country
to find out the reason, only to discover that my engagement had been
broken off. My future bride was much admired, and exceedingly popular
with her many friends, and adored by her very discreet parents, and I,
alas, was financially--no catch. In the circumstances I could only
accept my _congé_, and although it was some time before I was given
the opportunity of meeting her again, we were always good friends.
Some years later fate decreed that my old love and I should meet
again, and we found ourselves alighting from the same train both bound
on a visit to the same country-house in Herefordshire. This unexpected
event proved too much for us, and this time we determined to ignore
the opinions of our relatives and "so-called" good friends of former
years, and within a few months we married.
The ceremony took place at St. Michael's, Chester Square, and the Rev.
Canon Fleming, who was a very dear old friend of all of us, especially
of my mother, officiated with the aid of the Rev. John Labouchere,
Harry Newton being my best man. The reception was held at the Hans
Crescent Hotel, at which there was a large attendance of friends.
Amongst the many beautiful gifts we received, a canteen of silver
presented to me by members of the Beefsteak Club was prominent, and in
the face of fifteen years of happiness even my most pessimistic
friends are bound to admit that I have not made the failure of double
harness that they anticipated.
[Illustration: MY DAUGHTER.]
[Illustration: MY WIFE.]
During the latter part of our honeymoon we joined my wife's people at
Monte Carlo, where rather an amusing incident occurred _à propos_ of
my cartoon of Kruger. Mrs. Raby Watney (my wife's mother) received a
letter from her brother, Mr. Marshall Hall, in which he said that a
drawing of Kruger, which had just appeared in _Vanity Fair_, was much
appreciated, and that the reproduction, enlarged and reflected on a
screen, appearing nightly at the Palace Theatre, was creating quite a
sensation. He added, "Tell Leslie he mustn't allow himself to be cut
out by other artists." So Mrs. Watney wrote back to him, "Look at the
signature, 'Drawl,' and read it backwards."
As I have said before, it is my rule never to place my signature "Spy"
under a drawing I have not made from observation of the subject
himself, but so anxious was the editor to publish a cartoon of Kruger
that to test my powers of imagination, and with the addition of a
description of his personal appearance from one who knew him, I made
it and sent it in to the office.
But the most amusing comment of all occurred in the reviews of the
bound volume of _Vanity Fair_. As usual they were most polite and
complimentary to "Spy," who was declared to be quite up to his
standard, but they added, "We must confess the best drawings in the
volume are by a man who signs himself Drawl," and one paper proceeded
to describe the new caricaturist in full, and among other details said
that he was a Dane.
On our return to London we looked about for a house and found it very
difficult to find a suitable one with a studio attached, so eventually
we decided on a house in Elizabeth Street, and I to keep on my old
studio at 177, Bromfield Place, Pimlico Road, which I had occupied for
fifteen years.
In June, 1900, there appeared in _Vanity Fair_ the drawing of
Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, whom I sketched in helmet and khaki, with
a suggestion of Oom Paul introduced in a boulder in the background.
This cartoon, on account of the subject, beat the record for
popularity, and its sale exceeded that of all other cartoons in
_Vanity Fair_. Later on, when the Commander-in-Chief came to my studio
to give me a sitting for the drawing which appeared in _The World_, he
told me that copies of this _Vanity Fair_ cartoon had come to him from
all parts with a request for him to sign it.
In the Christmas number of _Vanity Fair_ Lord Roberts was prominent
again as the central figure of "A General Group," which contained
portraits of Sir Redvers Buller, Lord Kitchener, General Hunter,
General French, General Pole-Carew, Sir George White, Lord Dundonald,
General Baden-Powell, Colonel Plumer, Sir Frederick Carrington, and
General Hector Macdonald. It was a difficult subject to imagine, but
it worked out satisfactorily as I was familiar with nearly all in the
group.
About this time I made my mental notes for the _Vanity Fair_ drawing
of Archbishop Temple in St. Paul's Cathedral. The prelate had then
become almost blind, and had to be conducted to and from the pulpit.
Some years later I went to Lambeth Palace to sketch the present
Archbishop (Dr. Randall Davidson). I was received by his charming
wife, and when I got into conversation with the Archbishop he talked
to me of his old friend, and said, "One of the best portraits I have
ever seen of Archbishop Temple is that one hanging on the wall; I
don't know who did it." "Oh, I'm so very pleased that you think that,"
I replied, "because you will find my signature there, and I did it
entirely from observation after a visit to St. Paul's."
[Illustration: THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY, DR. TEMPLE 1902]
At the official residence of the Bishop of Stepney, 2, Amen Court, in
the precincts of St. Paul's Cathedral, I sketched both the Bishop of
London and the present Archbishop of York at the time when each ruled
over the see of Stepney. When sketching Dr. Winnington-Ingram again,
as Bishop of London, for _The World_, he came to my studio, and was
extremely friendly and entertaining as a sitter. It was about the time
of my marriage that my drawing of Canon Fleming appeared in _Vanity
Fair_. Of course I knew his face very well indeed. He was the
kindest-looking of men, and the cartoon eventually came into the
possession of his family.
It was through my old friend, Archie Stuart-Wortley, that I first knew
John Scott-Montagu, now Lord Montagu of Beaulieu, his first cousin and
great pal, and we spent many delightful days together, at the Palace
House, Beaulieu, and in his delightful bungalow on the Solent. John
was a brilliant and most versatile young man; it was difficult to say
what he could not do, and there is very little about which he does not
know something. At one time he will be absorbed in engineering, at
another in commerce or in literary work, or may be political. He is a
very fine shot, a keen fisherman, in fact, a good all-round sportsman
and a most entertaining companion. He has driven a railway engine, but
although now absorbed in plans and buildings for the development of
Beaulieu, and also in the building of another beautiful house on the
Solent for himself, he is, of course, always tremendously keen on
everything relating to _The Car_. His brain power and energy are
amazing. I have drawn him and also his wife, who is a daughter of the
late Marquis of Lothian. She is an accomplished musician and a
charming hostess. I always think of Lord Montagu in connection with
the difficulty of conveying a correct sense of height in these
full-length _Vanity Fair_ cartoons. For instance, to insure a clear
impression of his moderate height, in my drawing I lowered the head
considerably below the margin of the paper upon which it was drawn,
while in its published form the printers had placed it on a level with
the margin, thereby giving the impression of increased height, and
consequently of a decidedly tall man.
Naturally the proportion of a figure being relative to the space
surrounding it, I took good care in the case of Major Oswald Ames, who
is something like 6 feet 8 inches, to make his head almost touch the
margin; the same rule applied to the feet, and with the aid of a
miniature chair in the background the effect was produced.
I conclude I was fortunate with sketches of the late Lord Salisbury,
as a lady, a great friend of his, said that a grease paint picture I
made of him, in Cyril Maude's dressing-room at the Haymarket Theatre,
was quite the best she had ever seen of that distinguished statesman.
In 1902, I made another, after watching him again in the House of
Lords. It happened to be on the easel one day when Lord Redesdale came
to my studio, and he, being struck with it, complimented me by asking
if I would part with it, so that the original is now in his
possession, and by his permission is reproduced in this book.
[Illustration: THE MARQUIS OF SALISBURY, 1902.]
[Illustration: Letter of Appreciation]
[Illustration: Dinner given to Joseph Knight by the Dramatic Profession
At The Savoy Hotel June, The Fourth, 1905]
As regards the present Prime Minister, I was on the look out for him
one day, and he did not appear in the Lobby. A member of parliament
came up and asked me who I was looking for. I told him I wanted Mr.
Asquith, cautioning him, of course, not to let him know for what
purpose. He said, "I'll soon have him out," upon which I suggested
that he should tell him an amusing story. Consequently I got quite a
successful caricature, and not long after the cartoon was published it
was, with his approbation, reproduced in colour on the menu of some
important Liberal banquet at which he was to be present.
It was with very great pleasure that I designed the menu for the
complimentary dinner given by the members of the Dramatic Profession
to my old friend, Joe Knight, at the Savoy Hotel on the 4th June,
1905. It contained a portrait of himself for which he sat. He was one
of the oldest of the dramatic critics, and had been an art critic, and
an intimate friend of Rossetti. He was a very great favourite,
especially at the Garrick and Beefsteak Clubs, and he had a fine
library which was distributed at his death. A characteristic habit of
his was while relating a story to his neighbour at the dinner or
supper table to place the palm of his hand before his mouth as though
speaking in secrecy, but his voice always thundered out the words so
that every one in the room could hear, and there was no secret after
all!
One of the nicest men among the many hundreds who have been willing
subjects is Lord Newlands. I was struck with his considerate and
charming manner to all he came in contact with, even to an old
charwoman. It was interesting to hear him talk of his old friend, Dr.
Jowett, Master of Balliol College, whose memory he regarded with the
deepest respect. My early caricature of him seemed to have pleased him
so much that he not only gave a good sum for it at the sale of _Vanity
Fair_ cartoons at Christie's, but also commissioned me to make a copy
of it. As Henry Hozier he was secretary to Lord Salisbury, 1878-80.
Amongst the many prominent men in connection with Canada that I
cartooned were Sir Wilfrid Laurier, perhaps the most striking
personality of all the colonists that came my way; Sir Walter Blake,
who over here became a prominent member of the House of Commons; the
late Duke of Argyll, a delightfully intellectual and kind-hearted man;
Lord Minto, whom I depicted in Canadian riding-kit, who was a
gentleman to the backbone and a thorough sportsman; and Lord Grey,
whose distinguished career is so well known.
Of the Duke of Connaught, whose retirement, when it comes, is sure to
be felt in Canada with regret, it can only be said that no one of the
Royal Family could have filled the post better, and that a more
popular successor to the post of Governor-General could not have been
selected than Prince Alexander of Teck. Of course I mention all these
as having been victims of my brush at one time or another.
Shortly before her marriage, I went to Kensington Palace to make a
drawing of Princess Ena of Battenberg (now the Queen of Spain). I was
in some difficulty at first about the regulation of the light upon my
sitter, and to soften the effect I pinned a large sheet of brown paper
over the lower part of the window, but it was suggested by her mother
that, perhaps, some drapery would be equally serviceable and more
ornamental from the view of those outside. I am afraid that being keen
on my work I had not considered the appearance of the Palace windows
as no doubt I should have done.
The young Princess was a very handsome girl, with a wealth of
beautifully silky fair hair, a lovely complexion and fine eyes full of
fun; she was also particularly bright and natural in her manner. At
one of the sittings I met the Princess Beatrice of Saxe-Coburg; I had
not the honour of a presentation, but she entered into conversation
with me. She was most charming, but although I gathered she had
unusual knowledge of art, it was not until after she had left the room
that I was informed of her identity. I regretted not having known at
the time that she was the daughter of the Duke of Edinburgh, as I
should have liked to have told her of my enjoyable cruise with her
father.
So highly did the Princess Henry of Battenberg value her niece's
criticism of my sketch, that when the young Princess disagreed with
her over the suggestion of a slight alteration in it, H.R.H.
good-humouredly gave in.
I have the pleasantest remembrance of the character drawing of General
Sir William Francis Butler, G.C.B., which I made for _Vanity Fair_ in
1907. The General was one of the Empire's very big men, and it will be
remembered that prior to the Boer War he was very sharply criticised
for certain pessimistic prophecies in connection with the war which
annoyed everybody; but events justified every word he uttered. He
married Miss Thompson of "The Roll Call" fame, and he was very much
struck with a proof print from a drawing of her that I had done for
_The Graphic_ at the time she painted "The Roll Call." It chanced that
he sat to me on my birthday, which was in November. I usually left my
studio at sunset in time to get a walk, but that afternoon I lingered
until dusk. Presently there came a ring at my bell, which I answered,
and seeing some one at a distance from the gate the visitor asked me
if Mr. Leslie Ward was in. I exclaimed, "Why, General! Don't you know
me? You've been sitting to me all the morning." He said, "Here is a
little parcel which I should like you to accept, it being your
birthday," and hurried off. I took it into my studio and found it
contained a pair of extremely handsome silver candlesticks of the
Georgian period. My subject had a stern countenance but a kind heart.
Not long after, I began to realise that my long association with
_Vanity Fair_ was about to come to an end. When Mr. Gibson Bowles
resigned his connection with the journal, in order to take an active
part in the political field which had always attracted his keenest
interest, I could not have contemplated a more delightful successor
than Mr. A. G. Witherby as my chief, for I again received every
encouragement to succeed in my work. Not only is he a very clever
caricaturist and draughtsman, but he is equally clever as a writer; in
addition to which he is a good sort and keen sportsman, and when he
decided to part with the paper it was a great blow to me. I shall ever
remember the kind hospitality I received from him and his wife during
his proprietorship of the paper.
[Illustration: PRINCESS ENA OF BATTENBERG. _Drawn at Kensington
Palace, May 1906, just previously to her marriage with the King of
Spain._]
In early days my father cautioned me against giving more than half of
my time to work for reproduction, and experience has taught me the
wisdom of the warning. I think after all he was right, and I regret
that for nearly forty years I devoted too much time to the work on
_Vanity Fair_. As a society journal it was certainly for a long period
a publication of unique interest, and I venture to prophesy that,
when the history of the Victorian Era comes to be written in true
perspective, the most faithful mirror and record of representative men
and the spirit of their times will be sought and found in _Vanity
Fair_.
CHAPTER XVII
A HOLIDAY MISFORTUNE--ROYAL PORTRAITS--FAREWELL
Belgium.--Accident at Golf.--Portraits of King George V, the
Duke of Connaught, Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Lloyd George, Mr.
Garvin.--Portrait painting of to-day.--Final reflections.
--Farewell.
Sometimes as the late summer comes round, my wife and I prefer to take
our holiday or part of it abroad, when the change of scene and living
is a possible attraction.
Five years ago we had been told of a quiet and charming little
watering-place in Belgium, not far from Ostend, called Wenduyne, and
having in advance booked rooms at the hotel recommended to us, we
arrived and found it most comfortable. I took no work with me, not
even pencil and brushes, for I was determined to have a complete rest.
We were pleased to learn that the golf links at Le Coq were quite
handy, and we lost no time in taking the tram there and inscribing our
names as temporary members. These links are beautifully kept up, and
in the vicinity of the Club House are gaily decorated with flower
beds.
[Illustration: _Drawn in September 1899 by Mr. A. G. Witherby. What
was mistaken for the gout was a broken bone in the foot._]
Mrs. Oakes (my wife's cousin) and I soon arranged to play a game of
golf. The nailed boots that I had been wearing during the morning were
new and uncomfortable, so I changed them for a pair of canvas shoes
with india-rubber soles, which were well adapted to the course in dry
weather. A sudden storm, however, made its appearance, and the rain
fell in buckets, saturating the ground completely. We were soon wet
through, but knowing there were but two holes more to play we decided
to continue to the bitter end, which shortly came. I made a bad shot
and placed my ball awkwardly. In my endeavour to move it, and at the
same moment of striking (and I conclude the india-rubber soles of my
shoes were the cause) my foot slipped and I fell helplessly to the
ground. My companion, in ignorance of the serious consequences of the
fall, urged me to try and rise to my feet, when I found that my leg
was badly fractured above the ankle. In time, but not before I was
exhausted, a chauffeur turned up with a private motor-car on a road
near at hand, and I was borne off by some cottagers and placed inside,
while Mrs. Oakes, who had been in search of aid, escorted me back to
the hotel.
After being jolted two or three miles over the rough, cobbled road, I
was deposited on a sofa until surgical aid came. Fortunately I was
soon in very competent hands, although the pain I underwent during the
setting of the fracture I shall never forget, for it was agonising.
My wife returned to the hotel to find me safely installed in the
proprietor's (M. Machiel's) private sitting-room, which he most kindly
gave up for my use. She nursed me for some time under the surgeon's
directions, until I urged her to enjoy the remainder of her visit and
procure the services of a hospital nurse from London to relieve her.
It was over a month before I was allowed to stir, and when the time
came that I might be wheeled on to the balcony of M. Machiel's villa I
breathed again. The surgeon, whose temporary villa was adjoining the
hotel, was a well-known town-councillor and scientist in Antwerp who
must have weighed twenty stone. When giving me permission at first to
get up, he invited me to waltz with him, which gave me hopes of my
permanent recovery, but I did not accept the invitation.
On returning home, after the kind attention I received both from M.
and Madame Machiel and the officials at Ostend who saw to my comfort
before boarding the boat, I found every aid awaiting me at my studio,
where I remained in the experienced hands of Dr. Reginald Ingram, who
attended me until I was convalescent.
The press cuttings sent me while abroad concerning the accident amused
me, as I was reported in some papers to have broken both my legs,
while among the kind letters I received was one from Hermann Vezin,
the actor, who was lying on a bed of sickness from which he never
recovered. I reproduce here another, and amusing, communication which
came from an anonymous friend after the accident I have just
described. It invites me, as will be seen, to "smile" in spite of all.
[Illustration: SMILE DAMN YOU SMILE! ]
My studio on the ground floor at Buckingham Gate made an excellent
hospital, but I was still prevented from doing any work for some time.
When _The World_ approached me after my decision to terminate my
connection with _Vanity Fair_, the inducement was that in addition to
the same remuneration which I had received from that paper, I was
permitted to retain the rights of my original drawings. In
consequence, I was able to send a collection to the Turin Exhibition
at the request of Sir Isidore Spielmann, for which I received a Grand
Prix.
My second drawing of the present King was published by his permission
in _The World_ in 1910; it was but a short time before the death of
King Edward, for a paragraph in reference to it appeared in _The
Morning Post_ opposite the announcement of the late King's death. I
knew on the best authority that the Prince was a very fine shot, so I
represented him in shooting-kit grasping his gun. H.R.H. took the
greatest trouble to sit in order that every detail of the picture
should be perfectly correct; indeed, on the occasion of the first
sitting he not only changed into a complete suit of shooting-clothes,
but he permitted me to choose the suit I thought best for the drawing.
He told me he always shot with a hammered gun, and preferred it to any
other, and that he made a point of wearing a red tie when shooting. On
reminding him of boyhood days and the circumstances of my cruise on
the _Hercules_, he remembered the incident perfectly. Not long after,
I received the honour of sittings from the Duke of Connaught. I had
been presented to H.R.H. at St. James's Palace by Sir Henry De Bathe
at my first levee, and not having a Court suit of my own, I hired one
for the occasion. When I returned to my cab after the levee I was
horrified to discover that through careless tailoring my black velvet
breeches had split across my thigh, the accident evidently having
occurred at the moment I made my obeisance. I was naturally very much
concerned at this ill-timed catastrophe, and could only hope that it
had escaped observation.
When the Duke of Connaught was sitting to me I told him the story. He
laughed, and related an incident that occurred on another occasion. An
old and seemingly rather eccentric military officer was advancing to
make his bow, when the Lord Chamberlain noticing something rather
strange in his apparel attempted to draw his attention to the fact,
and to prevent his advance. Other royal attendants made similar
efforts, only to be waved aside by the old gentleman, who obstinately
refused to be stopped. It was then that the Duke noticed that his
sword, every button, in fact, and all the gold upon his uniform was
covered with yellow tissue paper which he had obviously forgotten to
remove.
I sketched the Duke in undress uniform, and while the portrait was in
progress the Duchess and the Princess Patricia came to look at it, and
the Princess, who is herself a clever artist, seemed to take an
especial interest in my method of work. On my next visit H.R.H. told
me that the Duchess had been so much pleased with the portrait that
she would like to possess the original. It was then arranged that the
drawing should be sent out to Canada, but at my request it was first
lent to the proprietors of _The Graphic_, who reproduced it in colour
for the special Duke of Connaught number, which was published shortly
after the Duke had accepted office as Governor-General of Canada.
_The Graphic_ also reproduced in colour a drawing that I did of Sir
Colin Keppel, in Admiral's uniform; he, it will be remembered, took
the King and Queen to India.
When the honorary degree of LL.D. was conferred on Mr. Roosevelt,
Oxford made quite a fête day of the occasion. At the ceremony of
installation I went down to observe the ex-President in all the glory
of his robes and red gown.
Another interesting portrait I painted about this time, also within
the fine setting of official dignity and circumstance, was that of
Archbishop Bourne in his Cardinal's robes. I sent it to the 1911
exhibition at the Royal Academy, where it was alloted a very prominent
position.
It was at the request of _The World_ that I made the drawing described
as "His Majesty's Servants." It was a group picture of the most
prominent actors of the day, including Tree and Bourchier, Weedon
Grossmith, Willard, and H. B. Irving, etc. Among a number of very
interesting subjects which appeared in _The World_ was Captain Scott,
and I think I was about the last artist to whom he sat before he
started on his fatal expedition.
One of my drawings of Mr. Lloyd George also appeared in _The World_;
but my best caricature of the much discussed Chancellor of the
Exchequer was published in _Vanity Fair_. He was so pleased with it
that he selected it as a frontispiece for his biography, which
appeared shortly after its publication, and when this cartoon was put
up for sale with some other original drawings it fetched a very high
price.
I occasionally made a drawing for _Mayfair_, the only Society journal
that I can recall having succeeded in any way on the lines of _Vanity
Fair_, although in this paper any accentuation of characteristics
seems out of place. The fact is the object of _Vanity Fair_ was most
distinctly the entertainment of the public, while that of _Mayfair_ is
rather purposely for the satisfaction of the individuals.
In 1913, I was commissioned by _Mayfair_ to make a drawing of the
distinguished scientist, Sir John Murray, who died recently. He was a
splendid subject, and had a most picturesque head. His portrait, which
was exhibited in the New Gallery, was painted by Sir George Reid, and
is one of the most striking in my memory. Mr. Bowie, the well-known
Scottish A.R.S.A., to whom I recently sat for the portrait exhibited
at the Royal Society of Portrait Painters, which has been so well
noticed, also painted a very life-like portrait of Sir George Reid.
Mr. Birch Crisp, the well-known stockbroker, who was responsible for
the Chinese and Russian loans, was one of my recent subjects in
_Mayfair_. He sat several times in spite of the fact that he is an
extremely busy man and rarely to be found out of his office. He was
very interested in my work, and has made a representative collection
of it, which hangs in his beautiful house near Ascot.
Another of the most interesting of my later-day subjects was Mr.
Locker-Lampson. His cleancut face with its strongly-marked features
shows the determined character of the man. A good story is told by him
in connection with the General Election of 1910. He was due at a
political meeting in the neighbourhood of the Fen district, and being
already rather behind time, his car was at top speed when they turned
an awkward corner of the road--and passengers and car were suddenly
in the water. Mr. Locker-Lampson scrambled to the bank, left the car
and proceeded to the local vicarage, where he borrowed the parson's
coat and spoke that night at three meetings. The next morning all the
village turned out to the scene of the accident; there was the
stranded car and from a pole attached to it a banner waved in the wind
bearing the words "Locker's In," and he got in all right by a big
majority.
Last year at the request of the staff of _The Pall Mall Gazette_ and
_The Observer_, I made a portrait of their editor, Mr. Garvin. Owing
to a family bereavement I was not able to be at the presentation
dinner, to my regret, as I had very much enjoyed the opportunity of
meeting and drawing this very distinguished man of letters.
As I conclude this book, so, incidents during my professional career
of forty-three years seem to arise, but I must not try the patience of
my readers by referring to any more.
It strikes me that the average standard of portrait painting has now
for many years past been in the ascendant, but that snapshot
photography has to a great extent interfered with the old form of
coloured caricature, which was for so long a feature of _Vanity Fair_,
although the increase of illustrated journalism has both aided and
encouraged the development of many a clever caricaturist.
Again I hesitate to mention names lest I should leave out some of the
best, and, _à propos_ of this, I have always found it wiser when asked
the questions, "Who is the best portrait painter of the day for men?"
or "Who do you consider paints women best?" to reply in joke, "Why, of
course, I am the best for both men and women." Thus one does not
commit one's self; as I have invariably found when I have mentioned a
name that the answer has been, "Oh! do you really think so? I can't
bear his portraits, he has just painted me and my wife, and we have
had to relegate both the pictures to the 'Servants' Hall.'"
The illustrations in _Punch_ stand as high as the names of its
excellent artists, and of course caricature portraiture plays its part
prominently there in black and white, as it also does in many of the
magazines and evening papers.
"Poster" work is in a strong position, too, in this manner, and here I
must again refrain from individualising its chief exponents.
One word also in praise of the Royal Society of Portrait Painters, and
the work of its members, of whom it is only necessary to read down the
list to realise how representative it is, and where I am proud to have
contributed my latest portrait in oil--that of Mr. M. P. Grace, the
present occupant of "Battle Abbey," my ambition now being to devote a
far greater portion of my time to strict portraiture.
[Illustration: _From a life-size oil picture_| |_painted by Leslie
Ward, 1914._
M. P. GRACE, ESQ., BATTLE ABBEY.]
Praise is as acceptable to an artist as to any other worker, and in
addition to the kindly tributes of my personal friends I should like
to express appreciation for those I have received from strangers. I
was particularly gratified to receive the following letter:--
"Nov. 19th, 1904.
"_My dear Sir_,
"As a reader of 'Vanity Fair,' I much desire to take the
opportunity of wishing you many happy returns for your birthday
on Monday, and of sending you a few cordial and sincere words of
greeting for that occasion. I suppose you will receive many
such messages from friends both known and unknown, whilst others
not caring to trouble you will at least think upon your name with
much respect, and with such thoughts will couple expressions of
good will.
"This is, of course, quite as it should be, and, personally, I
would assure you of my very high esteem and regard. I thank you
most sincerely for the pleasure your cartoons ever gave me, and
for the successful part you take in making 'Vanity Fair' such a
splendid publication. I read much, owing to indifferent health
precluding my indulgence in vigorous exercise of any kind,
thereby necessitating my leisure being spent in quiet and
instructive pastimes--such as a study of art, literature, and
music.
"I would express in all sincerity my fervent hope that every
happiness and joy this world can possibly give may be yours to
enjoy, with an entire lack of all that tends in any way to cause
trouble or promote pain. Particularly do I wish you excellent
health. Nothing, I feel sure, adds to or detracts more from life
than the physical state--hence my remark. May all good luck and
fortune attend you, and permit you to continue for many years yet
your splendid work as an artist. Somehow I feel that words are
quite inadequate to express all that is in one's heart to say. I
can only ask you, therefore, my dear Sir, to accept my poorly
expressed words as _heartfelt and sincere_, and believe them to
come from one who takes the keenest interest in yourself and your
fine work.
"Can you kindly oblige by replying to the two following questions
for me:--
"1. Where may a brief and authentic sketch of your life and
career be found? I much desire to have the opportunity of
perusing such.
"2. Also may I enquire where a _good_ portrait of yourself may be
procured? I am anxious to have a good one for framing, as a
slight personal 'memento' (if I may so call it) of one whose work
greatly interests me.
"Wishing you again many happy returns, offering you my sincerest
congratulations, and hoping you are well,
"I am, my dear Sir,
"Very sincerely yours,
"A READER OF 'VANITY FAIR.'
"LESLIE WARD, ESQ., 'SPY.'"
So kind a letter I naturally preserve with gratification.
POSTSCRIPT.
In March last, and for the two months that I spent in the Empire
Hospital, Vincent Square, I received from Mr. Jocelyn Swan and Mr.
Reginald Ingram the best surgical and medical skill that man could
wish for. The hospital itself, which is for paying patients (excepting
during the war, in the cases of military officers), and which contains
a number of comfortable private rooms, is perfectly managed. Then it
was that a combination of Brighton air and a delightfully conducted
nursing home hastened my convalescence and quickly gave me the desire
to work again.
One of the principal consolations of convalescence I found, as soon
as I was well enough to receive them, lay in the visits of my friends.
It was with particular pleasure--for we had not met for a long
time--that I saw Sir Willoughby Maycock by my bedside at the Empire
Hospital. I was also much honoured and gratified by receiving a visit
from the Duchess of Argyll, who, on learning of my illness, expressed
a wish to see me.
During convalescence I made up my mind to write an additional chapter
of this book, and indeed I went so far as to cause search to be made
for the notes upon which the chapter was to be based, and for the
material which I had prepared before my illness. Unfortunately,
however, notes and material alike had disappeared--irretrievably; and
I am forced to conclude without the chapter I had planned. I should
like to append here a note which really bears upon the pages dealing
with my school-days at Eton, and which to my mind has considerable
historical interest. It refers to the Brocas at Eton.
"Sir John de Brocas was a Gascon Knight who became an officer of
Edward the Second's Household, and settled in England. His third son,
Sir Bernard Brocas, was a great favourite with the Black Prince, and
Master of the Horse to his father Edward the Third. He was also a
friend of William of Wykeham, sat in ten parliaments for Hampshire,
and chamberlain to Richard the Second's queen. By his second marriage
(in 1361) with Mary, widow of Sir John de Borhunte, he became
hereditary Master of the Royal Buckhounds, a post which his
descendants held until 1633, when they sold it. He owned a lot of
property in and about Windsor and Clewer, whence comes the name the
Brocas Clump, etc., but his chief estate was at Beaurepaire, near
Basingstoke. He died in 1395, and was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel,
Westminster Abbey."
Finally, I see that in telling the story of Craigie at the Beefsteak
Club on pages 175-176 I have omitted to mention some members who
almost invariably accompanied him and helped greatly to make the
Beefsteak meetings so agreeable. I should not like to appear forgetful
of Lord Hothfield, Sir George Chetwynd, Mr. 'Johnny' Morgan, Colonel
Walter Dally Jones, and Sir J. K. Fowler, of all of whom I have such
pleasant memories.
I must now conclude with thanking my friend Charles Jerningham, 'The
Linkman,' for his introduction (after persuading me to write my
reminiscences) to Mr. Spalding of Messrs. Chatto & Windus. From him
and others in this old firm of publishers I have received every help
and courtesy. I now say farewell, and hope that the good public will
forgive what shortcoming there may be in "Forty Years of 'Spy.'"
INDEX
Adam, Patrick, 81
Adams-Acton, John, 243
Adler, Very Rev. Hermann, 230
Agnew, William, 95
Ainger, Canon, 222
Aird, Sir John, 226
Albemarle, Lord, 271
Albert, Prince (the Prince Consort), 11, 30, 260
Alexandra, Queen, 273
Alington, Lord, 96, 245
Allandale, Lady, 251
Alleyne, F. M., 40
Alma-Tadema, Sir L., 151, 164, 226, 227
Alverstone, Lord, 216
Amalia, 174, 189
Ames, Major Oswald, 326
Argyll, Duke of, 328
Ashburton, Lady, 300
Ashby-Sterry, J., 190
Ashton, Edmund, 84
Ashwell, Lena, 293
Asquith, Mr., 326, 327
Astley, Philip, 15
Austin, Alfred, 291
Aynesworth, Allan, 295
Baden-Powell, Sir R., 324
Baldwin, J. L., 231
Balfour, A. J., 247
Ballantyne, Serjeant, 183
Bancroft, Sir Squire and Lady, 293
Barry, Edward, 70
Bateman, Miss (Mrs. Crowe), 44
Bathe, Sir Henry de, 88, 335
Battenberg, Princess Henry of, 329
Battenberg, Prince Louis of, 274
Battyany, Prince, 269
Bayard, Mr., 117, 118, 282
Beaufort, Duke of, 249
Beerbohm, Julius, 288
Beerbohm, Max, 288
Bellew, Rev. J. M., 23
Bellew, Kyrle, 24
Benckendorff, Count, 282
Benson, Archbishop, 230
Benson, A. C., 230
Bentinck, F., 321
Beresford, Lord C., 268, 269
Bernhardt, Sarah, 184
Bickersteth, Dr., 229
Birch, Charles, 19
Bird, T., 183
Biron, H. C., 211, 216
Birrell, Rt. Hon. A., 215
Black, William, 291
Blake, Sir W., 328
Boehm, Sir Edgar, 289, 290
Borradaile, Mrs., 197
Bourchier, Arthur, 295
Bourne, Archbishop, 337
Bowie, John, 338
Bowles, Gibson, 93, 94, 103, 133, 236, 248, 270, 330
Brampton, Baron, 197
Bricka, Fraülein, 317
Bridge, Sir F., 284
Brodrick, Mr., Warden of Merton, 134
Brookfield, Charles, 172, 173, 182, 183, 272, 289
Brookfield, Mrs., 174
Brooks, Shirley, 88
Brooks, Sir Wm. Cunliffe, 143, 144
Brough, Robert, 146
Buller, Sir R., 324
Burnaby, Col. Fred, 103, 277
Burnand, Sir Francis, 88, 176, 190
Burgess, J. B., 53
Burton, Sir Richard, 145
Butler, Hedges, 320
Butler, Sir W. F., 329, 330
Butt, Isaac, 238
Buzzard, Dr., 164
Byam, Rev. R. B., 35
Byng, Rev. F. E. C., 245
Byron, H. J., 190
Calderon, Philip, 59, 239
Caley, Mrs. T., 141, 154
Calthrop, Claude, 37
Cameron, Mrs., 43
Campbell, Rev. R. J., 229, 230
Cardigan, Lady, 269
Carlos, Don, 277
Carr, Comyns, 134, 135, 176
Carrington, Sir F., 324
Carroll, Lewis, 42
Castle, Egerton, 292
Cecil, Arthur, 88, 283
Cecil, Lord Robert, 214
Cetewayo, 280, 281
Chambers, Sir Thomas, 213
Choate, J., 282
Churchill, Lord Randolph, 27, 247
Clarence, Duke of, 260, 265
Claridge, Mr., 278
Clemens, S. L. (Mark Twain), 129
Clifford, Sir A. W., 237
Clifford, Lord de, 190
Cobbett, Sir William, 84
Cockburn, Capt. A., 103
Cockburn, C. S., 284
Cole, Vicat, 22, 46
Collier, the Hon. John, 151
Collins, Charles, 6, 7
Collins, T., 243
Collins, Wilkie, 6, 15, 66
Collins, Mrs. William, 6
Colonsay, Lord, 245
Colvile, General Sir Henry, 190, 191
Connaught, the Duke of, 187, 328, 335, 336
Connaught, Princess Patricia of, 336
Constable, Mr., a brewer-artist, 45
Cooke, Edward, 52, 53
Coope, Mr. and Mrs., 156
Cooper, Sydney, 53
Corbett, Colonel, 141
Cornwallis-West, Mrs., 153
Corry, Monty, 240
Courtney, W. L., 296
Cousins, Samuel, 144
Cozens-Hardy, Sir Herbert, 214
Craigie, a member of the Beefsteak Club, 175
Crane, Walter, 299
Crewe, Lord, 61
Cripps, Sir Alfred, 214
Crisp, Birch, 338
Cruikshank, George, 85
Dalgleish, Robert, 244
Darnley, Lord, 231
Dashwood, Mrs., 225
Davidson, Dr. Randall, 324
Delaware, Lord and Lady, 37
Denmark, King of, 319
Desart, Lady, 103
Dickens, Charles, 15, 63, 65, 103
Dickens, Mrs. Henry, 59
Dicksee, Sir Frank, 145
Dilke, Sir Charles, 65
Disraeli, B., 240
Dixie, Lady Florence, 103
Dixon, W. H., 64
Doran, Alban, 32
Doran, John, 19, 53, 54, 89, 90, 107
Doré, Gustave, 298
Doyle, Sir Hastings, 248
Druce, T. C., 205
Drummond, Hugh, 192
Dubourg, Augustus, 288
Du Maurier, George, 59, 87, 88, 290
Dundonald, Lord, 324
Dunlop, Richard, 80, 82
Edge, K.C., J. H., 20, 53
Edinburgh, Duke of, 252, 253, 258, 262, 264
Edward VII, King, 11, 19, 100, 127, 148, 154
187, 253, 270, 272, 273, 274, 303, 304
Elliot, William, 173, 296
Ellis, Prof. Robinson, 233
Erskine, Captain, 237
Etherington-Smith, R. B., 231
Eugenie, Empress, 276
Evans, Mr. and Miss, 30
Faed, Thomas, 83
Fagan, Louis, 164
Farren, Nellie, 174, 175, 189
Farren, William, 293
Farquhar, "Gillie," 113
Fechter, 62
Ferguson, Sir James, 153
Fildes, Sir Luke, 107, 145
Fitzgerald, Lord and Lady Otho, 274, 275, 276
Fleming, Canon, 322, 325
Forbes, Archibald, 164
Forbes-Robertson, Sir J., 86
Fox, Mr. and Mrs. George, 82, 225, 228
Fox, Harry, 83
Fraser, General Sir Charles, 152
Fraser, General Sir Keith and Lady, 152
French, Sir J., 324
Frere, Sir Bartle, 248
Frewer, the Rev. Dr., 28
Frith, W. P., 53, 71, 154
Fry, C. B., 231
Fry, Oliver, 291
Furniss, Harry, 237, 239, 246
Furse, Charles, 146
Gambert, 22
Garibaldi, 60
Garvin, J. L., 339
Gennadius, M., 315
George V, King, 260, 264, 265, 316, 334, 335
George, D. Lloyd, 337
German Emperor, the, 269, 270, 271
Gibson, Dana, 291
Giffard, J., 183, 190
Gilbert, Sir W. S., 64, 190
Gill, K.C., Charles, 215
Gillette, William, 117, 294
Gladstone, W. E., 240, 241
Godfrey, Dan, 283
Gomm, Sir William, 247
Gooch, Captain, 190
Goodford, Dr., 223, 224
Goodhart, Dr., 33
Gordon, Sir Evans, 211
Gorst, Sir John, 247
Gosset, Mr., 237
Gould, F. C., 300
Gounod, M., 157
Grace, M. P., 340
Grace, W. G., 231
Graham, Peter, 53, 146
Grain, Corney, 177, 178, 183, 186
Gray, Thomas, 8
Greece, King of, 274
Grey, Lord, 328
Grimthorpe, Lord, 213
Grisi, 23
Grossmith, George, 177, 178, 186
Grossmith, jun., George, 295
Grossmith, Weedon, 186, 295
Guinness, Hon. R., 272
Haldon, Lord, 137, 138
Hall, Sir Charles, 213
Hall, Marshall, 216, 323
Hall, Mr. and Mrs. S. C., 55, 56, 79
Hall-Say, Mr., 30
Halsbury, Lord, 214
Hamilton, Duke of, 253
Hamilton, McClure, 148, 152
Harcourt, Sir W., 246
Hardie, Keir, 131
Hardinge, Admiral, 254
Hardy, Thomas, 292
Hare, Sir John, 40
Harris, Lord, 231
Harris, Mr., a Times correspondent, 308
Hawke, Lord, 231
Hawtrey, Charles, 295
Hay, Col. J., 282
Hayashi, Viscount Tadasa, 281
Hearsey, General Sir John, 18
Heneage, Admiral Sir A., 259
Henley, W. E., 292
Henry, Mitchell, 238
Herbert, J. R., 51
Herkomer, Sir Hubert, 87
Herkomer, Herman, 148
Herschel, Sir William, 9
Hewitt, Admiral Sir W., 254, 258, 262
Higgins, 'Willie,' 191
Hill, Raven, 187
Hirst, George, 231
Holl, Frank, 144
Hollingshead, John, 189
Hollmann, 184, 227
Holmes, O. W., 189
Holmes, T. K., 189
Hood, Lord, 258, 259
Hope-Johnstone, Wentworth, 25
Houghton, Lord, 66, 192, 303
Hume the medium, 79
Hunt, W. Holman, 4, 5, 53, 144
Hunter, General, 324
Huntly, the Marchioness of, 143
Ignatieff, General, 278
Imperial, the Prince, 17, 274
Ingham, Sir James, 213
Irving, Sir Henry, 63, 143, 183, 184, 196
Irving, H. B., 296
Jackson, F. S., 231
Jackson, R.A., John, 2
Jaffray, Sir William, 85
Jenkins, Edward, 243
Jerrold, Douglas, 64
Jessop, G. L., 231
Joachim, 66
Jones, Henry Arthur, 297
Jowett, Dr., 327
Jung, Sir Salar, 278, 279
Keene, Charles, 164
Kemble, Henry, 288
Kendal, Mr. and Mrs., 288
Kenealy, Dr. Edward, 198
Kensington, the Bishop of, 218
Kent, the Duchess of, 9
Keppel, Sir Colin, 336
Kipling, Rudyard, 291
Kirby, Joshua, 34
Kitchener, Lord, 324
Knight, Joseph, 327
Knollys, Sir F., 273
Kruger, Paul, 322, 323
Labouchere, Rev. J., 322
Laird, John, 242
Lampson, Dr., 196
Landseer, Charles, 85
Landseer, Sir Edwin, 4, 51
Landseer, Thomas, 51
Langtry, Mrs., 153
Laurier, Sir W., 328
Lawson, Sir Edward, 183, 303
Lehmann, Rudolph, 178, 233
Leighton, Lord, 52, 145, 290
Lemon, Mark, 88
Lennox, Lord Henry, 132
Leopold, Prince, 303, 305
Leslie, R.A., C. R., 2, 53
Leslie, R.A., George, 2
Leslie, Henry, 157
Le Strange, Commander, 254, 264
Leven, Lord, 92
Leverson, Madame Rachel, 197
Levy, Edward, 73
Levy, Mr. and Mrs. J. M., 46, 302
Lewis, Arthur, 39, 43, 62, 82, 88, 94, 95
Lewis, Sir George, 213
Lichfield, Bishop of, 225, 228
Lind, Jenny, 56
Lipton, Sir Thomas, 272
Locker-Lampson, G., 338
Lockwood, Colonel, 25
Lockwood, Sir Frank, 196
Londesborough, Lord, 184
London, Bishop of, 325
Londonderry, Lord, 250
Long, E. L., 53
Lonsdale, Lord, 117
Loudoun, the Countess of, 141
Louise, Princess, 274
Lover, Sam, 58
Lucas, Seymour, 145
Lucy, Sir Henry, 229
Lumley, A. S., 148, 316
Lush, Mr. Justice, 199
Lytton, Lord, 76, 107
Lytton, the second Lord, 249
McCalmont, Fred, 190
McCalmont, Harry, 272
McCalmont, Mrs. Harry, 141
Macdonald, Sir H., 324
Macdonald, Admiral Sir R., 252
Machiel, M., 333, 334
Mackenzie, Mr., of Kintale, 255, 256
Maclagan, Mrs., 228, 229
Maclean, I., 190
Maclise, Daniel, 50, 77
Mahony, Mr., 260
Majendie, Colonel, 285
Makunan, H.H. Ras, 279, 280
Marks, Stacy, 62, 87, 164
Martin, Sir Theodore and Lady, 60
Martino, Chevalier, 270
Mary, Queen, 316, 317
Matthews, Sir Charles, 215
Maude, Cyril, 294
Melba, Madame, 227
Mellor, Mr. Justice, 199
Mensdorff, Count, 282
Metternich, Count Paul, 282
Meux, Sir Henry and Lady, 165, 166, 167
Meyer, Jeremiah, 34
Middleton, Captain Bay, 276
Midhat Pasha, 278
Midleton, Viscount, 244
Miles, Frank, 153
Mill, John Stuart, 104
Millais, Sir John, 53, 87, 112, 113, 142, 143, 250, 290
Millais, Mrs., 153
Minto, Lord, 328
Monkswell, Lord, 151
Montagu of Beaulieu, Lord and Lady, 325, 326
Moriarty, Daniel, 257
Morland, George, 2
Moroni, 80
Moscheles, Felix, 59
Mulready, W., 4, 52
Munday, Luther, 184
Munday, Mrs. Miller, 141
Munro, Mrs. Butler Johnstone, 74
Munroe, Kate, 174
Munster, Count, 282
Murray, Sir John, 337
Muttlebury, Mr., 232
Nash, Edward, 12, 146
Nash, Rev. Zacchary, 68
Neville, Henry, 56
Newlands, Lord, 327
Newman, Cardinal, 132, 133
Newton, Harry, 322
Northbrook, Lord, 248
Norway, King of, 319
Oakes, Mrs., 332, 333
Onslow, Guilford, 199
Orchardson, W. Q., 145
Ossington, Lady, 199, 200
Ouless, W. W., 145
Owen, Sir Cunliffe, 247
Owen, Professor, 92, 93
Paganini, 58
Paget, Lord A., 242
Paget, Sir James, 33
Palgrave, Mr., 236
Palk, "Piggy," 137
Pankhurst, Christabel, 160
Parker, Frank, 191
Parker, Henry, 183
Parnell, C. S., 239
Parry, Serjeant, 212
Pasley, Mr., 270
Patti, Adelina, 23, 46
Patti, Carlotta, 23
Pellegrini, 93, 94, 95, 96, 112, 132, 164, 236
Pender, Lady, 74
Penley, W. S., 288
Penn, John, 8
Persia, Shah of, 281
Pettie, John, 145
Philipson, the wicket-keeper, 231
Piggott, Mostyn, 187
Pigott, Mr., the Examiner of Plays, 15, 136
Pitman, C. M., 233, 234
Planché, J. R., 34
Plowden, Mr., 215
Plumer, Colonel, 324
Poland, Sir Henry, 212
Pole-Carew, General, 324
Portarlington, Earl of, 242, 314, 315
Portland, the fifth Duke of, 199, 200
Post, Frederick, 176
Powis, Earl of, 243
Poynter, Sir E. J., 146
Prinsep, Val, 164
Ranelagh, Lord, 197
Ranjitsinhji, K. S., 231
Rawlinson, F. P., 217
Rawlinson, Sir Henry, 246
Reading, Lord, 216
Redesdale, Lord, 326
Reece, 190
Reeves, Sims, 23
Reid, Sir George, 146, 338
Reid, Whitelaw, 282
Ribblesdale, Lord, 3
Richter, Hans, 283
Richmond, R.A., George, 21, 144
Richmond, Sir W., 144
Rivière, M., 157, 158
Roberts, David, 52, 53
Roberts, Lord, 323
Robinson, Dr. Armitage, 230
Rocksavage, Lord, 117
Rollit, Sir Albert, 247
Roosevelt, T., 337
Ross, Sir William, 12
Rossit, Madame de, 78
Rousby, Mrs., 153
Royal, the Princess, 9, 263
Royce, 189
Ruskin, John, 56
Rutzen, Sir Albert de, 214
St. John, Florence, 45, 227
Sala, G. A., 9
Salisbury, Lord, 326
Sambourne, Linley, 164, 290
Sargent, J. S., 156
Savile, Henry, 204
Saxe-Coburg, Princess Beatrice of, 329
Schleswig-Holstein, Princess Victoria of, 274
Scott, Captain, 337
Seaman, Sir Owen, 176
Seely, Brig.-Gen., 244
Seely, Charles, 244
Selfe, Judge, 40
Sewell, Dr. James, 220, 221
Shannon, J. J., 149
Shave, a waiter, 161, 162
Shaw, Sir Eyre, 46
Shrewsbury, Lord, 261
Shrewsbury, Lady, 154, 155
Smiles, Samuel, 292
Smirke, Sir Edward, 67
Smirke, Sir Robert, 67
Smirke, R.A., Sydney, 67, 68
Smith, the Misses, 18
Smith, Horace, 2
Smith, James, 2
Sothern, E. A., 63
Spain, Queen of, 328, 329
Spielmann, Sir I., 335
Spiers, Phené, 164
Spofforth, F. R., 231
Spooner, Dr., 134
Stainer, Sir John, 221
Stanfield, Clarkson, 52, 53
Stanhope, Lord, 65
Stephens, F. G., 53
Stone, Marcus, 22, 164
Straight, Sir Douglas, 212
Street, G. E., 69
Stuart, Sterling, 126
Sturge, Mr., 243
Sturt, Colonel Napier, 248
Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 87, 91
Swinburne, A. C., 162
Sykes, Mark, 155
Sykes, Lady, 155
Taglioni, 21
Tarver, Frank, 225
Taylor, Tom, 39, 56, 88
Taylor, Mrs. Tom, 57
Teck, Duke and Duchess of, 317
Teck, Prince Adolphus of, 316, 317
Teck, Prince Alexander of, 328
Tempest, Marie, 184
Temple, Archbishop, 324
Teniers, 37
Tenniel, Sir John, 88, 164
Terry, Edward, 189
Terry, Ellen, 41
Terry, Florence, 88
Terry, Kate (Mrs. Arthur Lewis), 39, 43, 62, 82, 88, 95
Terry, Marion, 41
Thackeray, W. M., 15, 18
Thomas, Moy, 107
Thompson, Alfred, 183
Thompson, General Perronet, 58
Tichborne, A. C., 198
Tissot, J. J., 101, 102
Tooke, Mr. and Mrs. Hammond, 9
Toole, John, 183
Tooth, the Rev. Arthur, 133
Torrington, Lord, 222, 223
Tree, Sir H. B., 287
Trevor, Leo, 293
Trollope, Anthony, 104
Trumper, the Misses, 7, 8
Twiss, Quintin, 190
Van Beers, Jan, 225
Varley, John, 148, 150
Vaughan, Cardinal, 230
Vaughan, Kate, 174, 175, 189
Vezin, Hermann, 334
Victor Emmanuel, King, 10
Victoria, Queen, 10, 11, 13, 30
Vincent, Sir Howard, 46
Virtue, James, 56, 104
Virtue, William, 71
Vivian, Lord, 243
Wagner, Richard, 283
Walker, Dr., 225
Walker, Fred, 86, 87
Ward, Beatrice, 36, 62, 92
Ward, R.A., E. M., 2, 10, 13, 20, 33, 34, 35
63, 69, 70, 80, 106
Ward, Mrs. E. M., 2, 5, 11, 17, 37, 59, 159
Ward, George Raphael, 2, 4
Ward, R.A., James, 2, 3, 4
Ward, M.V.O., the Hon. John, 3
Ward, Russell, 38, 43, 63, 92
Ward, William, 3
Warner, Lady Lucia, 141
Warren, Sir T. H., 222
Waterford, Lady, 21
Watney, Mrs. R., 322
Watts, G. F., 41, 142
Weldon, Mrs. Georgina, 157, 158, 159, 160
Weldon, W. H., 98
Welldon, Dr., 224
Wellesley, Dean, 219
Wentworth-Cole, Mr., 254, 264
Whibley, Charles, 292
Whistler, 48, 112, 163, 172, 298, 305
Whitaker, Colonel, 306
White, Sir George, 324
White, Mr., Consul at Tangier, 307
Wilberforce, Archdeacon, 245
William IV, King, 2
Williams, Montagu, 68, 183, 195, 212
Windt, Harry de, 175
Winslow, Dr. Forbes, 158
Witherby, A. G., 330
Wolff, Sir H. Drummond, 247
Wombwell, Sir George, 165
Wood, Mrs. John, 284
Wood, Percy, 186, 187
Wortley, A. S., 149, 150, 175, 189, 190, 325
Wyllats, Willie, 103
Wyndham, Sir Charles, 293
Wynn, Sir W. W., 127
Yardley, William, 189
Yates, Edmund, 105, 106, 163
Yates, Mrs. Edmund, 91
Zoffany, 34
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Spelt _Zoffanj_ on his tombstone.
[2] "Dolly" Storey, G. A. Storey, A.R.A.
[3] "Gillie" Farquhar is a brother of Lord Farquhar, once a smart
society man who knew everybody and whom everybody knew. He travelled
and then went on the stage. His conversation was amusing, and his
individuality was marked by a keen sense of humour. Arthur Cecil and
he were great friends, and as they both became stout were called by
their friends "the brothers bulge."
[4] The Queen's Messenger to whom I refer possessed the nickname of
"Beauty," for as a young man he was strikingly handsome, but later
in life he was no longer sought after for his good looks.
[5] A crayon portrait of my father by George Richmond is one of his
finest accomplishments.
[6] C. M. Pitman, always known as "Cherry" Pitman.
[7] I had followed the Professor continually in order to get his
manner of walking.
[8] R.I.M. (Initials of Sir Reginald Macdonald which became his
nickname).
[9] Where the late Duke of Fife was wrecked.
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| Transcriber's Note:- |
| |
| An entry was added to the Illustration index for the |
| illustration on page 35 which was apparently missed during |
| original production. |
| |
| A number of illustrations have been shifted from the middle of |
| paragraphs to convenient nearby spaces and the page numbers in |
| the index have been altered accordingly. The FACING PAGE heading|
| in the index has been changed to PAGE. |
| |
| Some punctuation errors have been corrected. |
| |
| The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed. |
| |
| Page 122, going changed to getting. |
| before getting the address |
| |
| Page 147, perparatory changed to preparatory |
| preparatory to a last sitting |
| |
| Page 235, met changed to me |
| when he saw me |
| |
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